Monday, March 31, 2008

First Bully

When I was five years old I would play with my little plastic soldiers under the overhang of my house roof next to my bedroom window. My green men were the good guys and my tan men were the bad guys. The plastic soldiers were the cheapest of my toys so I left them for weeks at this little play area. I was playing with them when Jerry walked up to me.

Jerry was a year older than me and I thought at the time to be much tougher. He was an "Air Force Brat" or so he called himself. At five I thought that was the kid division of the Air Force.
There was a small Air Force base near Kingsville to guard all the missile bases in the area.
I didn't like playing with Jerry because he was too tough on my toys but these were my cheapest toys so we started playing army together.

"Hey Bobby, you know what I do if we were in a real war with each other?

"No, what Jerry?"


Before I could do anything Jerry grabbed my throat skin and pulled it past my chin.
I was frozen in pain as I heard Jerry's evil laugh. I thought to myself;' If he ever lets go I'll do the same to him.'

He let go and I did the same to him. I was amazed how easy it was to pull the skin of the throat pass the chin. It must have been that we were kids. I realized Jerry was turning purple so I let go. He started bawling like a baby.

"Why are you crying Jerry? You're a Air Force Brat. I thought you guys didn't cry?"

I was a little worried about my country. If I could make an Air Force Brat cry then what could the commies do to him?

"Your in big trouble Bobby!"

"Why, you did it first?"

"You made it hurt more because you held my throat longer!"

"No I didn't."

I wasn't sure of that because Jerry had turned purple. He ran off crying and I never saw him again as he moved two weeks latter. I never played army with my soldiers again as I was afraid someone would attack me while I was playing. I just blew them up with firecrackers every 4th of July until they were all gone.

Next Post; Bully Karma

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Swing Vote

I'm a swing voter. So hard to make up my mind. I don't like the rich and powerful deciding who I get to vote for. I'm down to three choices now. It would be nice if we had a system of government instead of a system of bribery. Are the elections fixed? Of course they are, so why even vote? Well I look at it this way. The back room billionaires have decided that Clinton would run against McCain and Clinton would win. I don't like the idea they can do that. So when the Oprah Political Machine came along and said here's Obama, I voted for him just because the boys in the back room didn't pick him. I can't vote for the Queen of Dirty Tricks and who wants four to eight years of dirty jokes about her husband?

Obama runs against McCain; I vote Obama.

Clinton runs against McCain; I vote McCain.

Do I think Obama will make a good President? No I don't but at least he would be my choice.

Next Post; First Bully

Photo Freeimages

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

How Warm Was Your Cold War?

I've played a lot of the board game Risk, which makes me an expert in the history of the cold war. That doesn't really work does it? I grew up a mile from a missile base which gave me a lot of atomic bomb nightmares. No, I still don't have a right to write about the cold war. My father was sent to the Korea War. Well I wasn't born yet and he never saw any combat but I did watch a lot of Mash reruns with him. I remember the Cuba Missile Crisis and that church down the road wasn't going to let my family in their bomb shelter. It's not easy being part of the American Empire. Not buying that?

I guess my Cold War was nice and warm. My Father did indirectly work for the Department of Defense and The Military Nuclear Complex. Living off the milk and honey of the atomic bomb is all I know about the Cold War. Very warm and happy was my childhood with the exceptions of those atomic bomb dreams of my home getting nuked!

Next Post; Swing Vote

Photo freeimages

Pawnshops for Billionaires

The dark side of museums worldwide is the fact that so many are warehouses of stolen goods.
The best way to have a world class museum is to have it built in a current or ancient empire.
Lets say a little emperor steals the broken beard of Egypt's Sphinx and then he is defeated in battle and gives the stone beard to the next empire and they put it in a museum, not once thinking they should give it back to the culture it was stolen from. Does it still remain the the position of that now fallen empire?

Easy for me to say, I live in the current next fallen empire. My country has a few Pawnshops for Billionaires of its own. I know all about PFBs, you see I worked for one. The museum I worked for stole from four counties, two states, one city and one all American Empire. A Bully Billionaire ran the puppet show better than any Mafia Godfather could ever dream of.

I'm now poking the bear with a stick folks, so this would be a good time to start praying for the fool that is writing this blog. Blogger cut me some slack here, I'm trying to tell the truth without telling the truth. Google do me no evil. Bully Billionaire you're a big boy you can take it can't you?

Maybe I should have titled this post; How To Steal The Cultural Artifacts Of A City Without Really Trying. No, that title is too long. Maybe I should have called this post; The 200 Year Crime. The Bully Billionaire owns the land the museum is on and will never live to see the payoff of this Legacy Crime in or around 2114. How do I know this? My grandmother was a hairdresser and did the hair of a Lady Billionaire that owned the property the museum was on. The Lady Billionaire bragged how her family didn't sell their land to the city of my birth but had leased it for 200 years. Sometime in the 20th century the Bully billionaire had bought the land.

The city had built a transportation hub on their leased land. When that form of transportation fell out of favor the building for that hub fell to ruin. The Bully Billionaire had a business-hotel-shopping complex near the ruins of the hub so he and the other city leaders talked the citizens of the city of my birth into given him all the cultural artifacts of the city so he could turn the hub into a museum. The Bully Billionaire became a Begging Billionaire by proxy as the many divisions of governments were conned into given him millions of dollars in land improvements and artifacts.

Somebody should write a book about this. Maybe someone has.

Next Post; How Warm Was Your Cold War?

Photo GNU Free Documentation License

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Secret History

I believe the Earth is round. I believe men landed on the moon. I believe the 9-11 attack happened the way my government said it did. I believe the United States of America has many different kinds of secret nuclear powered aircraft and spacecraft.

I believe in the Great Firewall of China. I don't know if I believe in the Great Firewall of America.

I don't know if I believe in UFOs as spaceships from other worlds. I do believe that many if not all UFOs are UMAs (Unidentified Military Aircraft).

Project Orion by George Dyson.

The Hunt For Zero Point by Nick Cook.

Next Post; Pawnshops for Billionaires

Artwork for this post is Public Domain

Hidden History

Buffalo Soldiers are the legendary African American fighters of the United States Army.
The above photo shows the legend at the hight of glory. The caption below this photo shows the racism that these men (and one woman) endured.

The Spanish-American war was the first war after the American Civil War that north and south fought as one unified nation. Because the Buffalo Soldiers had fought in the American Indian Wars they were the best fighters in the Spanish- American War and I believe that is the reason African Americans were banned from direct warfare in World War One and World War Two.

How can you enforce the racist Jim Crow laws if your best fighters are the focus of those laws?
You tell a big lie the next war you have and you keep the lie going through another war.
The military leaders and political leaders of WW1 and WW2 said African Americans weren't good fighters. They ignored the facts of the Spanish-American War and the American Indian Wars.
They made up their own history out of racist lies.

I wrote this because I wanted to comment on Barack Obama's close relationship with the
Rev. Jeremiah A. Wright Jr. of Trinity United Church of Christ in Chicago.

There are plenty of unspoken truths about racism in our country without telling half-truth paranoid hate American rants.

I once worked for the headquarters of a church. I quit after two weeks because after every morning prayer the head of my department world say;

"Let's get to work God ******!"

You are known for the company you keep.

Next Post; Secret History

Photo Public Domain

March 22, 2011; I got it wrong on African Americans in World War 2. Thanks Spike Lee for setting me straight.

Saturday, March 22, 2008


My Grandfather English owned this Autograph Book. Another Christmas present, this time the year was of course, 1907.

Next Post; Hidden History


This is my Great Grandmother's Autograph Book she got for a Christmas present in 1885.

After looking at this and another family autograph book I'm thinking of writing some of my posts by hand.

Next Post; 1907

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Dragon Rings

I'm going green by seeing red.

I don't care what silly mindless games you play in the world.

I care about children in toxic towns cooking metals out of my country's E-waste so some heartless fat cat CEO can make a few dollars more. All my E-waste will go in landfills. I'll never donate to the death of children in another country. I don't care about the monuments you build to your ego that reach into the sky and dam your rivers. I care about Tibet and their culture you have tried so hard to destroy. I will not watch your games. I will not buy your toys for my grandchildren. I will never travel to your land till it is free.

China your people have been great for thousands of years, isn't it time your government stop acting like a spoiled rotten child that hates everything it can't have?

Next Post; 1885

Friday, March 14, 2008

George Flew

It was the spring of 1972 and I was all of 14 years old. I was almost done mowing the yard when I meet one of the sweetest souls I would ever know. The rain had washed him out of his nest and he would have died within a hour from the noon sun if I hadn't saved him. I turned off the mower and looked down at the featherless baby bird. His eyes hadn't opened yet and I didn't even know if he was male at that moment. Whatever the baby bird was I feel in love with the quivering mass of pink flesh. I picked him up and ran into the house.

"Mom I'm going to save this bird and return him to the wild!"

"Oh Bobby he's too small, if it is a he?"

"You'll see mom, I can do it. I've got a book on how to raise birds somewhere."

I found a heating pad, an old towel and Easter basket from the 60's. I put the basket by my bed and plopped the heating pad down in the basket. I looked at the little bird in my left hand and heard his chirps getting weaker.

"Hang on little bird."

"Bobby you need to finish the lawn."

My dad's voice boomed from the living room.

"In a minute dad, I've got a bird."

"He's got a what?"

Said my father to my mother.

"A bird Bob. He has a baby bird. The poor thing will be dead in a few hours."

I had very good ears and could hear whispers anywhere in the house as long as a door was open.

I plugged in the heating pad, wrapped the bird in the towel and gently put him in the basket.
I dug through my pile of books and found the book on how to care for a wild bird. In the book I found a recipe for baby bird food. Honey, bread and warm milk. I ran to the kitchen and began to warm the milk up. I got a slice of bread and tore it into little pieces. I hesitated before I put the honey in the mix. The honey jar was almost empty. It was the last jar of honey my Grandma English had bought for me. She died in November of 71. My heart ached at the thought of her death.

"It's for a good cause Grandma."

I said to my Grandma in hopes she could hear me somewhere in the afterlife. I put the sticky mess of food in a small bowel and found an eyedropper in a kitchen drawer. I ran back to my bedroom and gave the baby bird his first meal.

"Bobby you need to finish the lawn!"

"Yes dad I'm going to do that now."

I finished the lawn in record time. My whole life began to center around the baby bird.
Taking care of this little soul was a 24 hour operation as I set the alarm clock to wake me up every half hour at night to feed the bird. I was no longer depressed about my Grandma's death as all my joy in life came from the little bird making it another day.

In a few weeks the baby bird had become a sparrow and I named him George after the smallest of my classmates in school. Then I realized my problem, George didn't know how to be a bird.
I had to teach him how to fly. At this point I knew in my heart that George could never be a wild bird but I still held on to the fantasy that my little sparrow could live free.

I began to give George flying lessons. I would toss George gently straight up into the air and catch him as he fell into my cupped hands. I got him to flap his wings this way and then I started dropping him on to an old pillow. As he got stronger he would flutter to the pillow at a angle.

My parents told me I was spending too much time with George and now that he was older I needed to do other things. My family was building a cabin down at the Lake of the Ozarks in southern Missouri. I went with my family to the cabin with George in a small cage.

When we got to the cabin the three carpenters were finished framing the structure and had started to put exterior plywood on the unfinished roof. I let George out of his cage and he flew up to the open sky unfinished roof. George looked confused as he landed by a carpenter. The carpenter gently put his hand next to George and my little sparrow hopped on to his hand.
The carpenter came down the ladder and handed me George. That was George's first flight and his only free flight under an open sky.

The next week My cousin Jimmy drove me to the lake in his convertible. George rode in my lap tethered to a reel from a rod and reel. Around George's leg was clip tied to the fishing line of the reel. The top was down on the convertible on a beautiful summer day and George would hop-fly from my lap to the steering wheel of the car. He would make funny chirping noises as he tried to figure out why his perch moved.

When we got to the cabin we left George in the cabin tethered to the fishing line and reel.
Jimmy and I put his boat in the lake and took it for a quick spin. George would be all right for a few minutes in the cabin. When we got to the next cove the engine gave out on the boat.
I don't remember what was wrong with the engine, I just remember what happen because that engine gave out. Jimmy and I paddled for an hour and a half before someone gave us a tow back to our cabin's boat dock. When I got to the cabin I found George in a pile of short 2 by 4's let over from the construction of the cabin. My poor little sparrow had had a heat stroke. We had got to the cabin early in the morning when it was cool and didn't turn the air conditioner on because we were coming back soon.

For a week I took care of my crippled sparrow then I was told by my father I had to help with the cabin that weekend.

"You need to help put the sheet rock up this weekend with Uncle Jim, Jimmy and I."

"I can't leave George dad and he'll never survive the trip. I can't go."

"You're going, your cousin Cathy can take care of George."

After two days of nailing up sheet rock at the cabin I came back home. I went out to the family farm to pick up George and found that my little sparrow was dead. I took his body back home and buried him under my bedroom window next to my house. I'm 49 years old and I still mourn that small beautiful bird. My childhood died with George but when I'm sad at that lost friend, I just say to myself; "George Flew."

Next Post; Dragon Rings

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

The Light

Eleven days before Christmas 1975 and the last day before the winter break, I stood on the bleachers in the Kingsville High School gym looking down on the two teenagers playing Santa and Mrs. Claus.

"Mrs. Claus looks pregnant doesn't she Robert?"

Said Mike with a smirk. James stood behind Mike laughing at the sight of Clayton the school jock in Santa garb with his cheerleader girlfriend. Reta was thin and pretty with a pillow stuffed under the Mrs. Claus costume to make her look fat but it only made her look pregnant.

"I'm going home."

As I left the gym I saw the thin red haired freckled face James and the stocky dark haired Mike still on the top bleacher making fun of Reta being pregnant. Reta wasn't pregnant of course, she just made a bad costume choice. I was the class clown of the Seniors but I knew there were things you just didn't make fun of in a small town of 200. A young woman being pregnant was on the top of the list. Rumors spread like wildfire in Kingsville and a joke could become a false fact in gossip circles.

The last day of school before the Christmas break and after lunch the high school students could leave at any time. Before I left the gym I took one last look at Clayton as Santa Claus. He had just finished with the kindergarten children and now the first graders were taking turns sitting on his lap. I wanted to play Santa Claus and was jealous of Clayton. I was an only child and could count the number of times I was jealous on one hand. Clayton came from a large family and seemed like a very jealous person. If he knew how I felt would he enjoy my jealousy?

Time to go, I was depressed because I broke up with my girlfriend Gail. No that wasn't true, I hadn't had the courage to break up with her. She wanted to talk about our relationship and I was
sure she was going to break up with me. I stopped calling her and she never called me back.
I loved her but I couldn't bear the thought she didn't love me. I was such a coward and everyone knew it. When I was young a family member was murdered in a fit of anger and I vowed never to hurt anyone. I took many a beating because of that vow and I had fought back and hurt people.

I was a coward because I fought back and not because I didn't. I walked across the school grounds to my baby blue 69 Mustang. I got into my car and the moment my butt hit the seat I heard a voice in the back of my head.

"Put your seatbelt on."

This was just great, not only was I depressed and without a girlfriend but now I was going crazy.
Alright fragment of my own mind I'll put my seatbelt on. As I click the seatbelt together I realized I hadn't wore a seatbelt since I stop talking to Gail. I didn't want to think what that meant. I started up the car and before I pulled out of the high school parking lot, I thought about putting my shoulder belt on. On a 69 Mustang the shoulder belt was separate and was always a mess to fold back into place.

"I don't need it."

I said to myself but I had always talked to myself so that wasn't any crazier than I had ever been. I decided to drive to Warrensburg to buy a Christmas Tree. I took a left on Adractic and a right on Olive and drove the three short small town blocks to the other side of town. I waited for traffic to clear between Stahl's Aluminum Casting Company and Shull's General Store. I turned right onto 58 highway and drove out of town. A mile out of town I drove pass the missile base to my right that made Kingsville a ground zero in my cold war childhood. As I watched the missile base grow small in my rear view mirror, I thought about the Cuban Missile crisis and how it had given me so many nightmares as a child. My father worked indirectly for the Department of Defense and the Nuclear Military Complex. As a small child I knew duck and cover was a lie.

I drove past the farm equipment sales lot to my left two miles outside of Kingsville as I made made the first curve between my town and the town of Holden another three miles away.
I should have let my father pay for power steering as my baby blue car was a bear to turn.
Past the Salvage Yard to my left and then past Jeff's house to my right.

Jeff and I had been friends until I broke his nose in a fight. Jeff wasn't a big guy and I was the big guy any little guy could smack around. I lost count how many times Jeff gave me a bloody nose. After one day of Jeff smacking me around I woke up the next day with half my bed and my pillow soaked in blood. About two months ago we got in a fight over a drafting problem. It started out as a shoving match in the school's shop and then I realized how silly it was.

"Jeff I won't fight you."

"I never backed down from you and I won't now!"

Jeff said as he started slapping at me. I easily blocked all his slaps.

"Jeff I'll lay your nose on the side of your face if you hit me!"

"You don't scare me Robert! I'm going to kick your ass!"

Jeff slapped harder and I blocked faster. I was angry at all the nose bleeds he gave me. I wasn't going to do it I just wanted to scare him into stopping the fight.

"Jeff I will lay your nose on the side of your face if you hit me!"

"You're a coward Robert, nobody is scared of you!"

I put my hands down.

"I won't fight you Jeff."

With his open left hand he hit my right cheek as hard as he could. I smelled blood in my nose and saw red. Without thinking my right fist made contact with his nose. The sound of his nose breaking was horrible. As I pulled my fist back I saw that I had put his nose on the right side of his face as the tip of his nose touched his right cheek bone. Without thinking again I grabbed his jaw in my right hand and with my left hand set his nose. The sound of me setting his nose was worst than the breaking of it. I stepped back from Jeff and he didn't say anything as his nose gushed blood. He ran out of the shop to the restroom. Why didn't I just take the slap and walk away?

I rounded the second curve on the way to Holden. Dad had tried to talk me into letting him put a power steering unit on the car but I was too proud to take it. On tight corners I felt the strain in my wrists. Two large fields were on either side of me as I drove into Holden. In the downtown part of Holden there were farmers in bib overhauls standing on the street corners and a shoe shine man waiting for the few customers coming out of the barber shop that wanted a shine.
I snaked my way through Holden and as I left the town behind me I began to think about Christmas. I loved decorating the tree.

Eight miles east of Holden on 58 highway was a sharp turn that everyone of course called
'The Eight Mile Curve'. My foot was lead and with my powerless steering could barely hold the car on the road. A mile down the road I flipped my beautiful 69 Mustang end over end down a 15 foot embankment just before you came to a small bridge.

I was moving down a tunnel of light to a brighter light when my beloved pet sparrow George flew by me. A wisp of light was George but I was happy to see him. His death was the end of my childhood. He flew ahead of me into the brighter light. My two favorite dogs Duke and Brownie now guided me towards the light. I went into the light and found my Grandmother English waiting for me. Her dress was made out of the brightest white light and her hair was pure white.

"You must go back Bobby."

"Why , it's so beautiful here."

"Children and Grandchildren are in your future."

I awoke in an ambulance with the sirens blaring. A para-medic leaned over me and said;

"Don't worry you're not going to die!"

I touched the swollen blob in the middle of my face with my right hand and thought that it served me right for breaking Jeff's nose.

Next Post; George Flew

Monday, March 3, 2008

The Walk

I meet my Muse in the public library. Her name is Cynthia and she loves books as much as I.
We started a business to save the world one imagination at a time. I showed her the drawings that would help save the world. She showed me how to draw like a child. I erased my carefully crafted sketched realities without ego or fear and she drew over the faded graphite playground.
We took turns drawing on the same playground. I have never known so much joy in drawing as this sharing of two different styles of art. It was the dance of romance of pencil and eraser on a floor of paper.

We both left the library happy. I walked with her across the Country Club Plaza, a shopping district in the city of my birth. Kansas City Missouri was the domain of the Paper King but tonight he didn't own the city. Tonight it belonged to Cynthia and I. The coolness of the evening didn't matter as my heart was warm by the company of the woman of my dreams. Could she, would she feel the same way about me?

We walked into a deli and I ordered what she ordered because I couldn't think of anything but her beautiful smile. The yellow glow danced around her in imaginary fireworks. No! That can't be real! I must stay in this reality with her and not fall into the broken mirror reality of the car wreak. If I did die in that car wreak in 1975 and somehow found my way back to this life then I must stay in this life. I found my Muse and no reality broken by heaven or hell would keep the two halves of our dreams from becoming one.

We sat in the deli and talked. I hung on her every word. I laughed when she said moving her book collection was worst than getting a divorce. I told her I was in love with her or did I?
I told her I wrote a story about falling in love with her at first sight. I told her we were perfect for each other but I never said;

"I love you Cynthia."

I am the Fool that fought the Paper King, the bully billionaire of the city of my birth but I am a greater fool in matters of the heart.

We walked back to our cars to say goodnight to each other and I gave her the smallest of hugs.
I reached around her waist with one arm and gave her a small squeeze and she reached around my waist and gave me a small squeeze back. She said she wanted to show me a beautiful view near the library and we walked a few steps with our arms around each others waist. We let go of each other to make walking easier. I should have took her hand.

I stood with her in the cool night air on the top step of a beautiful mosaic stairway under the pillars of a ten story building. In the distance was a creek with the city lights shining off the water. I looked at the mosaic and it was a series of bars intersecting circles. All the mosaics I created for this blog made sense.
Then like a damn bursting a thousand visions flooded into my mind.
Vision after vision slamming into my mind.
I looked up at Cynthia not knowing how long I had been transfixed by the mosaic.

I walked her back to her car said goodbye and began my long drive home. She had created the perfect moment for our first kiss and the broken mirror reality made me feel worthless. I just want a normal life. Why did I have to have that car wreak? As I drove into the night I thought to myself;

"I'm 49 not 14, I should have kissed her!"