Posts – Valkyriesjourney

The Mosh Pit

Posted on December 9, 2020December 10, 2020 by admin

Firetrucks, ambulances, and police cars lit up the darkness with flashing blue and red and yellow lights. This was the second incident in two weeks that a nightclub had been destroyed by fire killing a combined total of more than 100 and injuring almost 300 others. Most of the victims were teenage fans in Rhode Island and Chicago, February, 2003.

“Uncle Mark, that would be so awesome!” Jeffrey was jumping up and down in the kitchen.

“Wait! What’s awesome?” Mom grabbed the nearest phone extension and asked, “Mark, what’s going on?”

“Well Mary, I was just telling Jeff that the night you both will be staying at my place after visiting USC and UCLA there is a concert at a small venue in Ventura, CA, which is closeby.” Mark went on, “‘The Used’, will be in town, have you heard of them?”

At that moment, the news flashes of last year’s night club tragedies flooded her brain. “Ummm, Mark, are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Absolutely,” he confirmed, “I have personally attended concerts there in the past two years and there were never any safety or security issues.”

Mary was taking her 17 year old son to visit two California universities because he was so adamant about attending their local university and she needed him to appreciate firsthand what different schools had to offer. She was always modeling independence to her kids. “I have a life…get your own!” was her mantra. But now Mark had introduced a concert at a small night club, just like the two that burned the year before. This would be an opportunity for Jeffrey to experience a “potentially dangerous” situation in a relatively safe environment, with supervision.

“Mom, please. I’ve agreed to visit these schools – so can you agree to this one concert?” Jeffrey pleaded.

Jeffrey thought the sun rose and set on her brother, Mark. Pure Idol Worship. She sensed Mark was smiling as he waited for her decision, and he knew ‘The Used’ was Jeffrey’s favorite rock band.

“Ok, as long as you come with us Mark.”

Chuckling, he said, “You are going to have a great time, Mary. I promise.”

On the extension they could hear Jeffrey’s exuberant, “Yes! Thanks Uncle Mark!”

On the drive to L.A. Mary was ruminating about how she could be old enough to have a son in college – people still commented that she looked just like her high school photos – and crossing into California, she had to stop at a Quick Mart to buy a pair of “cheaters” because she couldn’t read the road map. After touring USC and UCLA they met up with Mark and he drove them to The Majestic Ventura Theatre. For the past six years Mark worked mixing music for NBC’s hit TV show, ‘ER’. But Mark was always very ‘chill’ about it and stayed under the radar. He was wearing all black attire in the LA style setting off his dark hair and dark rimmed glasses.

They stopped at a local outdoor burger joint to get a bite to eat. Suddenly, Jeff’s eyes opened wide and he quickly looked over Mary’s shoulder.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Mom, do you see those guys walking over by that taco stand? That’s them! ‘The Used’!!

“They gotta eat too, you know”, Mark said, unimpressed.

Jeff was totally starstruck. He proceeded to describe each of the band members and who played which instrument. His favorite was the bass player named Jeph.

“Who spells their kid’s name Jeff with a PH?” Mary asked.

Jeff replied very matter-of-factly, “Mom, he changed it legally when he joined the band.”

At that moment she had been trying to overlook the band member’s multiple tattoos and piercings when she realized that legally changing the spelling of a name is as permanent as those marks and metal.

As they finished eating, they discussed how Mark was familiar with this venue and they arranged a meeting place after the concert outside in front of the building. As they entered, each person had to show their ID for a wristband, yellow for Under 21 and red for Over 21. Mary then realized how few fans over 40 there were and that the women were wearing all black like Mark, with flashy, spangly tops, tight skinny pants, heels, and heavy dark makeup. Their hair was teased and sprayed high on top of their heads. Mary’s jeans, yellow oxford shirt and sneakers screamed, “Mom from out of town!”

Suddenly Jeff said, “See you guys later” and disappeared into the crowd. It felt like the time she had handed him the car keys and just said, “Have a good time!”

The year before they all attended an anniversary party for Jeffrey’s dad’s aunt and uncle in San Diego. After dinner that night Jeffrey and his 14 yr-old sister, Michelle, wanted to go visit Uncle Mark since they were only about an hour south of where he lived.

Dad had said, “No, you are not driving to LA tonight. We have a 9:00am breakfast and right after that we have to head home.”

Mom viewed their request differently. Jeffrey was a good driver and had a good sense of direction and Michelle was intelligent, more mature than her brother, and not a risk taker. They were only driving an hour away to Mark’s house and then back. She was open to her kids expanding their surroundings and welcomed this opportunity to experience some independence, together. She needed them both to know they were trusted and also close enough that she or Mark could be with them in 30 minutes if necessary.

Mom’s only admonition was, “You both better be up, dressed and down in the lobby at 8:30am happy and cheerful with your cousins. Here are the keys, have a good time!”

Jeffrey and Michelle were back by 4:00 am and waiting in the lobby at 8:30 for Mom and Dad to join them.

There were no seats in the auditorium. Everyone just stood in front of the stage until they filled the room.

“Let’s go to the bar and grab some bar stools. I have a broken toe and do not want to stand all night,” said Mark. The bar was a raised area at the back of the room completely enclosed by a chain link fence. Only red wrist bands were allowed past the fence. They each got some beers and settled in at a sticky table and waited for the show to start.

The house lights went down. The spotlights went up. Screams and howls suddenly erupted obscuring the opening TWAAAAANG! of the lead guitar. The crowd started moving. Well, not moving, more like bouncing.

“What are they doing?” she asked.

“That’s called ‘pogo-ing’”, Mark informed her. “They are so close together that they can’t dance, so they just bounce straight up and down like they are jumping on a pogo stick. That area up front near the stage where everyone is tightly packed is called ‘The Mosh Pit’. Then Mark reached in his pocket and handed her a pair of earplugs. “You’re going to need these”.

Mary became mesmerized by the crowd’s behavior. She watched some guys take off their shirts and were waving water bottles in the air to douse those all around them. The girls were frantically trying to keep up with the guys.

When Mary took a quick bathroom break she found a teenage girl crying and slumped on the floor. Her hair was plastered to her head, and make-up was running down her face along with her tears. She was wearing one impractical high heeled sandal. “I lost my favorite shoe!! And I think I broke my ankle!” she cried. Mary grabbed some paper towels and helped her wipe away her tears, gently finger-combing her hair off her face, and then found the nearest bouncer to carry the girl to the back office.

A short time later and another beer Mary was getting curious and feeling a little brave. “I want to go down to the Mosh Pit,” she announced.

Mark looked at her like she was nuts and pointed to his toe. “Nope, not going in there tonight, you are on your own”. She chugged her remaining beer, handed Mark her purse, tucked her hair behind her ears, and proceeded through the fence and down to the dance floor.

She walked around the perimeter of the crowd. Some people were leaning against the walls, catching their breath. As she got closer the pogo-ing looked more like body slamming. Several people would jump up simultaneously with the intent to crash into each other while airborne, then land on their feet and do it again. As Mary moved closer to the far side of the stage she could see the die-hard fans who were being pressed into the half wall of the stage by the crush of the crowd. They were willingly pinned there, unable to move. And there he was. Her son. Right in front. Singing his heart out, hands held high in the air like everyone else around him, wearing his black band T-shirt.

Watching him hold himself against the stage’s half-wall cast her back to when she bought Jeffrey’s first baby shoes. Mary took in a sharp breath. Little ten-month old Jeffrey was standing in front of the mirror, arms raised to hold on to the half-wall, while he leaned over to admire his new white shoes. Mary was so pleased that he was now walking and wanted to encourage him in this new kind of autonomy.

Now she had a target. She headed into the melee, holding her breath because of the stench of all those unwashed, sweaty, and slick bodies moving so close together in the fug tinged with the scent of marijuana. It turned out that pogo-ing wasn’t all that difficult. One couldn’t fall down because all the vertical bodies were pressed together like mismatched crayons shoved together in a box. She managed to progress toward Jeff one bounce at a time.

Through this pandemonium she could see the curly, sweaty hair on the back of Jeff’s head. This reminded her of his baby nickname, ‘Buckethead’, because he always woke from his nap with sweaty, matted curls.

The Mosh Pit at The Majestic Ventura Theatre

She kept bouncing nearer and nearer to her son until she was right in back of him. She wrapped her arms around his chest from behind. He quickly turned to see who it was and uttered one word never heard in a mosh pit,

“Mom?!”

The band continued to play as everyone stopped moving and stared at Mary. The crowd slowly parted.

“Get that mom out of here!”

“That Old Lady needs to leave!”

Hands propelled her through the stream of bodies until she was once again on the perimeter of the crowd. She skulked to her safe place behind the fence and climbed back on her barstool. Mark had a fresh beer waiting for her. She hung her head over the glass.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

She swallowed hard and cried, “They kicked me out of the mosh pit!”

Mark laughed so hard he almost fell off his barstool.

After the show they met Jeff outside the theater at their pre-arranged spot and he wrapped his arms around Mary from behind and whispered in her ear, “You are the coolest mom ever! I will never forget this day!”

At that moment Mary experienced a brand new feeling. Relevance. She felt relevant in her son’s life. She thought that was pretty remarkable considering he was a typical 17 year-old kid and she was 42.

She looked over at her brother and mouthed the words, “Thank you.” She was grateful for Mark’s help encouraging her to let Jeff, now known as Jeph, enjoy another unique experience, safely.

Nightingale

Posted on December 9, 2020December 10, 2020 by admin

As the helicopter whirrs vertically from the rural fire station’s landing pad Mr. Carson vows this will be his last Medevac flight to the Mayo Clinic. The plastic oxygen mask irritates his grey, whiskery skin but he knows it is currently the only reason he is in a helicopter instead of a hearse. The bright sun pierces through the cockpit window and he feels like he is being drawn closer and closer to its bright light. He briefly experiences the classic “life passing before your eyes” moment.

Timothy. Where was his son, Timothy? He remembered the anxious urgency in his voice as he called 911 on his ever-present cell phone, and then felt the blessed relief when they placed the oxygen mask over his nose and dry, cracked lips minutes later. He thinks about the bits of conversation between the two uniformed and gloved EMT’s and Timothy while he lay in his recliner facing the A-frame window overlooking the woods and the mountains.

“How long has he been running this fever?” they asked him.

Timothy tried to clear his throat, “I don’t know, I just returned this morning. I have been at my girlfriend’s since Saturday afternoon. I brought Dad back from the picnic and then went to her place.” Timothy resumed his ragged pacing around the living room.

“You mean he has been alone for two and a half days?” the EMT asked incredulously as he scanned the scene. There were a number of wadded tissues on the floor next to the recliner and a half empty bowl of congealed and crusty soup.

“He wasn’t sick when I left him,” Timothy replied defensively. “He was perfectly fine at the picnic.”

“Are you referring to the Town’s Memorial Day event on Saturday? The one that got rained out and moved 150 Veterans inside the fire station garage?” The two EMT’s exchanged rueful glances. “Since yesterday we have responded to three other calls of older men with high fevers and severe, sudden pneumonia symptoms. Your dad here is number four.”

The EMT stood up and called a “Nightingale” request into his crackling radio. “Affirmative,” was the distant reply. “Buckskin Station, do you copy?” “We copy, thanks” the EMT replied.

Mr. Carson craned his neck to make eye contact with his son. What he saw was not guilt or fear, he saw utter desperation, he saw Timothy’s sudden realization that his father would no longer be able to help him ever again. No longer would he bail him out of jail for DUI, no longer would he pay Timothy’s $15,000 back taxes so he could keep his customized truck, no longer would his dad grant him a favor like attending a crowded event on a rainy day so Timothy could gain credit at work for “Bringing a Veteran to the Picnic”.

Timothy told the EMT that he was too upset to make the two hour drive to meet his dad at the Mayo Clinic that afternoon but he would be there tomorrow morning. The EMT nodded and said, “We will let them know.”

As they wheeled his gurney to the Medevac helicopter, Mr Carson strained to speak through his oxygen mask, “I love you, Son!” Timothy waved and responded, “Ill see you tomorrow, Dad!”

Mr. Carson noticed the sudden drop in altitude deep in his gut and he knew his final ride was almost over. After one quick breathing treatment he felt more relaxed as he lay propped up in his isolated room in the ICU. Whatever drugs they were giving him were helping his anxiety over being alone and unable to speak because of the breathing tube in his throat. He longed for a cigarette and a glass of whisky, his nightly routine, as he drifted off to sleep. He dreamed of Timothy, a colicky and difficult baby. A boy uninterested in sports with few friends who eventually dropped out of college. He reminisced of the good times they had when he bought his son the bar, Night Moves, until Timothy lost the bar after a long night at a poker table. He dreamed about the day Timothy arrived in Arizona, intending to take care of his dad after his heart attack, but he also knew Timothy was there because he lost his house in Iowa and his girlfriend had asked him to leave a short time after that. At 55, Timothy never did marry, he was unable to communicate with any woman ever since his mother died of cancer when he was 23. Mr. Carson was always concerned about him and was always there for Timothy through the duration of any of these incidents.

Suddenly, Mr. Carson felt the bed shift down and realized someone was sitting on the bed next to his hip. He hazily tried to open his eyes but felt as if they were taped shut. He felt his cold hand being squeezed by a warm hand, surprised at the contrast of this sensation. Then he heard Timothy’s voice floating somewhere above him. He couldn’t understand the words but he felt comfort hearing and sensing the deep timbre of his son’s voice. He tried to slow his breathing so he could hear more clearly but the machine continued to pump air in and out of his lungs with soft “whoosh, whiish, woosh, wiish”. His son must have brought up coffee from downstairs because he could smell the strong scent of fresh coffee mingled with the hazelnut creamer his son preferred. How he would love a sip of that right now.

Timothy stood up, squeezed warmth into his father’s hand one last time, and told the nurse he was going to check in to his hotel and come right back. “Call me if anything changes”

As Timothy was walking past the bed, Mr. Carson caught the scent of his son’s aftershave. Suddenly he was gripped with the realization that his son was leaving and it scared him. He tried to inhale through his nose to catch the scent again.

As Timothy opened the door to his hotel room his phone rang. The nurse informed him with regret that his dad had passed away. Timothy inhaled sharply and continued to listen as the nurse gave him instructions to return to the hospital to sign required paperwork and retrieve his father’s personal effects.

Timothy quickly returned to the hotel’s registration desk to explain his situation to the manager, insistently requesting a refund for his unused room, emphasizing how he was distraught after just being notified of his father’s death. Refund in hand, he drove his truck to the hospital and signed all the necessary paperwork. He completed the request to have his father cremated and his ashes delivered by FedEx to his cabin in the woods. He nodded to the nurse and grabbed the package containing his dad’s clothes, dog tags (which Mr. Carson never removed), his watch, Swiss army knife, cell phone, moneyclip, wallet, Marlboro cigarettes (which Timothy promptly tossed in the waste basket), and his upper denture. As he returned to his truck in the sunny parking lot he checked his watch to see it was only 12:30. His final thought before heading out of town was that it was fortunate that he had only missed one day of work at the real estate office. He silently drove home, alone.

Finklestein Five

Posted on December 9, 2020December 10, 2020 by admin

Exposition: A tale of two men. One, a privileged, white, father of two, killing five children by chainsaw while ‘protecting’ his own kids and his library DVD’s. He is acquitted of all charges and given his freedom. The other, a poor, teenaged black youth, is focused on getting a job and dealing with the repercussions of the outcome of the trial. Originally I thought this was set in the deep south in the 1960’s. When Emmanuel “stepped into his patent leather Space Jams with the laces still clean and taut as they weaved up all across the black tongue” (3) I realized that this story is set in present day in “Valley Ridge, South Carolina”. (2)

Conflict: Emmanuel wants to minimize his blackness because he is faced with outright and blaring racism every time he turns a corner, walks through a mall, or boards a bus.

Climax: The repetitive cry, “Fela St. John! Fela St. John! Fela St. John!” (26) and then “he saw his own brain burst ahead of him. Hardy red confetti.” (26)

Falling Action: Emmanuel’s blackness dropped to 0.0. Is that because it really doesn’t matter in the big picture of things and only society defines a person’s race, religion, disability, or ethnic background?

Resolution: The author deconstructs race and the concept of blackness by accentuating Emmanuel’s self-interpretation.

Emergency

Posted on December 9, 2020December 10, 2020 by admin

I have never used LSD or any other hallucinogen. After reading Johnson’s story, Emergency, I know I never will. Because the un-named protagonist and his buddy, Georgie, are both high on some cocktail of pills throughout the story, many of the experiences that occur may or may not have happened. When the narrator wakes up in the truck (assumingly somewhat sober) he states, “Or maybe that wasn’t the time it snowed. Maybe it was the time we slept in the truck and I rolled over on the bunnies and flattened them. It doesn’t matter…a problem was already forgotten, and there was nothing on my mind. I felt the beauty of the morning”. This depicts the frame of mind of the narrator not being concerned about anything. Something horrible could have happened or something beautiful, it didn’t matter to him either way.

Johnson also showed how the tension could increase in a situation. “We’ll just get him prepped and sit tight. Orderly! ‘Do you mean me?’ Georgie said. ‘Should I get him prepped?’ Is this a hospital?’ the doctor asked. ‘Is this the emergency room? Is that a patient? Are you the orderly?”. The reader can feel the doctor’s frustration with the orderly with the doctor’s staccato questioning.

I could really taste the pills he was “chewing” even though I typically don’t ‘chew’ pills or vitamins. Especially the capsules in the dissolvable plastic. “I stood around looking at charts and chewing up some more of Georgie’s pills. Some of them tasted the way urine smells, some of them burned, some of them tasted like chalk”.

I could not personally relate to any of the experiences in this story but the author used such good descriptions that I was at least able to envision what the activities the characters were going through. The story was disturbing and at times completely unbelievable such as when the orderly returns from prepping the patient with the hunting knife that was in the patient’s eye, in his hand, thus turning the room full of specialists dumbfoundedly silent.

I think incorporating an unexpected situation into a story does encourage the reader to pay close attention to the narrative. I may give that a shot in a future fiction story of my own.

A Good Man is Hard to Find

Posted on December 5, 2020December 10, 2020 by admin

Flannery O’Connor’s story, A Good Man is Hard to Find, is written mostly in the third person point of view. She uses the present tense telling this story and the reader is welcome to ride along in the car with the family.

In the first scene, the father, grandmother, and two children are reading different sections of the newspaper while the mother feeds the baby on the sofa. I found it interesting that the author names and describes the father and the children but does not name the mother, grandmother or the infant. She brings the reader in closer to the scene with the dialogue between the characters. The reader may pay closer attention to the dialogue of the characters who are less ‘developed’. These dialogues are written more in a second person which adds somewhat of an intimacy to the characters personalities. I also noted the apathy the parents had toward the children by basically ignoring them. This seems to be the origination of the cycle of disrespect in each family member. It also serves to create a narrative distance between the characters.

The details of grandmother’s preparations for the trip, hat and gloves and oversized valise, accentuated her shallowness, pretentiousness, and hypocrisy. The car ride itself was generally peaceful and the children calmed down to listen to a story from the grandmother about how life was so much better in the days of her maidenhood. The year 1955 is very evident in the car because there are no seatbelts and no car seat for the baby. This era is also apparent in the grandmother’s comments about the “cute little pickaninny” and “Little niggers in the country don’t have things like we do” as if stating a fact, not a derogatory opinion.

The scene at Red Sammy’s BBQ was interesting in several ways. First, Sammy was described in great detail from his paunch to his clothing. He also has a name. Not so for his wife who is un-named and minimally described. Surprisingly, the mother plays an active role at the jukebox while Bailey says nothing throughout the meal, distancing himself from everyone and the grandmother attributes it to “trips made him nervous”. All is written in the third person until Sammy’s wife comments to the little girl, “Would you like to come be my little girl?” in the second person POV, as well as the grandmother’s“ “Aren’t you ashamed!” at her granddaughter’s snotty reply to the woman.

As I read further into the story and met the Misfit and his boys, I realized that we were privy to the Misfit’s thoughts as well as his dialogue. That is more of an omniscient point of view; allowing the reader to note the thoughts of each character. That change in POV swayed me because it seemed much of the dialogue was directed in a “you should” sort of message leading me to see a second person POV.

The horrifying final scene first made me think of lambs going peacefully to slaughter. Bailey was in shock and not at all able to grasp the seriousness of their situation. After those first shots the grandmother began to unravel. This is where the omniscient point of view changing to make a point became more evident to me. I could follow the grandmother’s thoughts and words as well as the words of the Misfit.

ADDITIONAL THOUGHTS:
The grandmother was right, they should have gone to Tennessee. But is was all the cat’s fault. I found the foreshadowing of the grandmother considering ‘to pin a spray of flowers to her dress so that anyone finding her dead body would know she was a lady’ very telling of her pretentiousness. Another example of foreshadowing was the grandmother calling attention to the family cemetery…hmmmm.

O’Connor’s use of the omniscient point of view seems the easiest way to write. You are not limited by one character’s perspective and can explore the backgrounds of each character. But then again, by limiting the perspective into a first person “I” POV the author can set a scene and control it through the narrator’s POV, like Catcher in the Rye.

The Knowers

Posted on December 5, 2020December 10, 2020 by admin

Exposition: Tem and Ellie loved eachother very much. They seemed to be married forever, with two married children, one grandchild and another on the way. Early in their marriage there was an opportunity to find out their own death date on a machine by typing in your Social Security Number.

Conflict: Ellie was all for it, Tem was not. Tem attempted to forbid her to go but she foiled that by saying, “Oh Honey, that’s just not in your character.”

Rising Action: When Ellie returned (with the information she sought), she tried to protect Tem with a sort of ‘band aid’ shielding him from all the details. But he insisted to know what she knew.

Climax: As Ellie realized the gravity of the situation, she was in possession of a life changing piece of information that could ruin one’s life, Tem waited, raging, barely controlled and miserable. Ellie was his life…if she died, he died too…so to speak. As Ellie spoke the month and the day, Tem refused to let her continue.

Falling Action: Thus the following years of their life together sort of tumbled along as many marriages do. Kids, baths, schools, “the stillbirths and the car accidents”, more importantly, “smelling the back of Tem’s neck in the middle of the night”

Resolution: Ellie paid close attention to the minute details of her life. Her infinitesimal and immortal orgasms. “Cooking dinner together, cleaning up while listening to their favorite radio show, and drying the dishes with a warm and damp green dishcloth.”

“Why had it never occurred to me that it might be something that would kill Tem too?” I am sure Tem may have considered this possibility all along, but like a bandaid, covered it up so I would not be exposed to his fear and uneasiness.

I also contemplated the possibility that there was a bureaucratic mistake. The machine was malfunctioning, maybe I typed in the wrong Social Security number, or maybe after all this time I had mixed up the digits…where would the new boundaries of my life be? As Ellie and Tem crawled into bed with six minutes left to the day, Ellie thought about these possibilities while she curled up to Tem and again blissfully inhaled the back of his neck.

Cronyism is Alive and Well in Trumpland

Posted on July 28, 2020July 28, 2020 by admin

Once upon a time there was a report written by a team of lawyers supervised by Washington Wordsmith and Special Counsel for the U. S. Department of Justice, Robert S. Mueller III. Supervised is the more appropriate description of Mueller’s activity during the two years developing this chronicle. “The report is 448 pages long, contains about 200,000 words, and over 1,100 footnotes. About 11% of text is redacted.”¹ When asked for specifics Mueller was often unable to answer reporter’s questions satisfactorily, thereby leading viewers to wonder if Mueller penned any of the massive missive personally.

The taxpayers are owed an explanation. MSNBC says the Justice Department estimated the cost of the investigation over the course of two years to be around $32,000,000!²Could those $32,000,000 have possibly been spent to upgrade the inner-city community centers or improve the education programs in disadvantaged school districts? Great selfless idea. But it would seem closer to the truth if they just filled a rocket with $32,000,000 when this all started and then blasted it off to Mars. That would have saved Americans two years of listening to the whining, crying, and carrying on that our country was forced to endure every night. The release of this report ruined many reputations, lives, and families. In light of recent events, which will be explained, let’s take a look at four of the major layers.

MICHAEL FLYNN, 61
“Trump’s former National Security Adviser Michael Flynn pleaded guilty in December 2017 to lying to the FBI about his contacts with Russian Ambassador Sergey Kislyak while Flynn was part of Trump’s transition team.”³ On June 24, 2020 charges against Michael Flynn were dismissed. “As far as Gen. Flynn, he’s a great hero, he’s a great gentleman,” Trump told Fox News on Thursday night. “What they’re doing to that man, they destroyed that man, but he’ll come back. He’s going to come back.”⁴ Does that sound like ‘cronyism’? Is the Pope Catholic?

PAUL MANAFORT, 71
“In March 2019 President Trump’s former campaign chairman Paul Manafort was found guilty of tax fraud and conspiracy and was sentenced by a federal judge to 47 months in federal prison. On May 12, 2020 he was released from prison to serve the remainder of his sentence in home confinement because of concerns over COVID-19. He was scheduled to be released from prison November 4, 2024.”⁵Because Manafort is quietly following the rules of his home confinement he may never see the inside of a prison cell again. That man should explain to Michael Cohen how ‘cronyism’ works.

ROGER STONE, 67
Longtime Trump friend, Roger Stone, was slated to begin a 40-month prison sentence on Monday, July 13^th. “Stone’s charges were for lying and witness tampering.”⁶ On Friday, President Trump came to Stone’s aid and commuted his sentence. Roger was faithful to Donald for over 30 years. Their relationship is a textbook example of ‘cronyism’. Representative Adam Schiff(D) said on ABC Sunday, “And the president through this commutation is basically saying, if you lie for me, if you cover up for me, if you have my back, then I will make sure that you get a get-out-of-jail-free card. Other Americans, different standards. Friends of the president’s, accomplices of this president, they get off scot-free.”⁷Isn’t that what Trump has been referring to all along? Can anyone even count how many Attorneys General and Inspectors General Trump has rifled through these past three years? This isn’t like, “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.” This is more like, “If Daddy’s happy, everybody’s happy.” ‘Cronyism’ is the standard in Washington.

MICHAEL COHEN, 53
And then there is the younger and cockier Michael Cohen. One day before Roger Stone’s sentence was to be commuted, “Michael D. Cohen, President Trump’s onetime lawyer and fixer, … who was released from prison in May on a medical furlough, was stunned when … federal marshals stepped in with handcuffs and took Mr. Cohen back into custody.”⁸Granted, this could have been some absurd form of white-collar prisoner exchange; Cohen goes IN to prison while Stone remains OUT. “Mr. Cohen’s return to jail was the latest twist in a case whose dizzying ups and downs have prolonged the legal woes of a man who once said he would take a bullet for Mr. Trump. [Instead Cohen] turned on his former boss and implicated the president in federal crimes.”⁸ Thus breaking ‘cronyism’s’ Cardinal Un-Written Rule – You scratch/watch my back and I’ll scratch/watch yours. As soon as Robert Mueller tightened the screws on Cohen and he started singing about the illegal exchanges he made for the President, the jail doors opened up and swallowed him whole. After serving 12 months in prison Cohen was able to take advantage of the Covid-19 compassionate release program and in May 2020 began his home confinement. But Cohen couldn’t/wouldn’t follow the rules of this game and follow Paul Manafort’s example. He started singing again, this time about his soon to be released “tell all book” about the inside workings of Donald J. Trump. “No engagement of any kind with the media, including print, tv, film, books, or any other form of social media/news.”¹⁰Suddenly the jail doors quietly opened again and down the rabbit hole Michael Cohen slid. Stranger things have happened. Look at poor Jeffrey Epstein. With the FBI there is no splitting hairs.Can you imagine Cohen’s legal fees? No wonder he is writing a book!

A book is de rigueur these days to raise capital, that and Go-Fund-Me. Maybe graduates should pay off their student loans by writing a book. Michael Cohen’s book will eventually be released, even the President can’t stop that. Look at John Bolton⁹ and Mary Trump¹⁰, currently on their Trump-Tell-All book tours.

Obviously, three of these Trump cronies are older, white guys, thus making Cohen look like a wet-behind-the-ears freshman who has yet to learn the ‘cronyism’ system. They are all elitists and entitled, in their own minds anyway. Money MAY also be involved… Note to self: fact-check money. The subject of ‘cronyism’, on the other hand, the fact checking has been done and the proof of ‘cronyism’, regarding President Donald J. Trump, stands as a well-known, and somewhat tolerated, fact.

REFERENCES

¹https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mueller_Report Retrieved July 12, 2020 AND
“How to make music out of the Mueller report redactions”. The World. Public Radio International. April 19, 2019. Retrieved July 12, 2020.

² https://www.cnbc.com/2019/08/02/robert-muellers-russia-probe-cost-nearly-32-million-in-total-doj.html

³https://www.vox.com/policy-and-politics/2019/4/18/18411170/mueller-report-release-doj-trump-mcgahn-flynn

⁴ https://www.politico.com/news/2020/07/11/trump-flynn-campaign-353315

⁵https://abcnews.go.com/Health/trump-campaign-chairman-paul-manafort-released-home-confinement/story?id=70642927

⁶https://www.vox.com/policy-and-politics/2019/4/18/18411170/mueller-report-release-doj-trump-mcgahn-flynn

⁷https://abcnews.go.com/Politics/week-transcript-12-20-admiral-brett-giroir-md/story?id=71739520

⁸https://www.nytimes.com/2020/07/09/nyregion/michael-cohen-arrested.html

⁹ https://www.denverpost.com/2020/04/17/michael-cohen-home-prison-sentence/

¹⁰ https://www.justsecurity.org/71370/top-experts-bureau-of-prisons-blocking-michael-cohen-book-about-trump-violates-first-amendment/

¹¹https://www.cnn.com/2020/06/17/politics/bolton-book-what-we-learned/index.html

¹²https://www.yahoo.com/entertainment/judge-lifts-restraining-order-mary-224650380.html

“The Fourth State of Matter”

Posted on July 28, 2020December 10, 2020 by admin

Jo Ann Beard has written a heart-wrenching account of her life during the week of November 1, 1991 when one of the first school campus shootings occurred. Even the sub-heading of the title puts one on notice to “Be braced”, “A week in the author’s life when it became impossible to control the course of events.” At the time of the incident she was employed by the University of Iowa as the Managing Editor of an un-named space-physics periodical. She was living with her three dogs, one of them seriously ill, and her husband had just recently left her. This essay was published four and a half years after the shootings and was featured in “The New Yorker” on June 24, 1996. It was also included in 1997’s “Best American Essays”. Jo Ann Beard personally included “The Fourth State of Matter” in her own collection of essays, “The Boys of my Youth.”¹

I am struggling with Jo Ann Beard’s reason for writing this story. Did she write it for the public or did she write it as a personal essay? Initially it seems that she wanted to put some emphasis on the individuals who were killed since very little was said about them in the papers or on the news. But copious amounts of information is available about the gunman². It is as if she wants to set the record straight by speaking for the people who can no longer speak for themselves.

But then again, Journal Therapy allows a person to write down, dialogue with, and analyze their issues and concerns. The practice allows people to be reflective, introspective, and intentional about their writing.³For a traumatized person to re-tell their point of view of a story can be cathartic for healing the negative memory they have experienced. Maybe she had been working on that for a while.

As the narrator, several of the victims were her co-workers. The shooter contributed articles to the periodical she edited at U of Iowa. It suddenly switches to Third-Person only for the “reporting paragraphs” where the newscaster is speaking and also the “reporting” of the actual incident as it happens (possibly recreated by a witness or taken from a police report). She has researched verifiable facts and uses those facts by foreshadowing events throughout the essay: She mentions the letter the shooter wrote to his sister in China “I have most of all detested cunning, fawning sycophants and dishonest bureaucrats who think they are always right in everything” referring to the unfairness of his essay not being selected for a prestigious award. Wikipedia² confirms these facts as well as noting this incident followed the recent news about Tiananmen Square protests in China by Chinese students. The shooter did not want to return to China and the prize money for this award would have helped him stay in the United States. And she also mentions that “Inside his coat on the back of his chair was a .38-caliber revolver and a .22-caliber revolver” while he is in the office earlier the day of the shooting.

The structure of this personal narrative was laid out in layers in scene after scene. No two scenes seemed very closely related. One involved the dying, old collie. Another is the fact that her husband has left their home and disappeared from her life, only to re-connect by phone when he needed something. When her friend hears his pleading voicemail messages she gets serious.” “You’re living with this crap?” I tell her, ”I need to call him back because he is suffering.” “You call him back and I’m forced to kill you,” Caroline says.” Also, the spare bedroom, home to the husband’s abandoned belongings, has suddenly been taken over by a “family” of squirrels. At the same time, the author leaves her upstairs bedroom – partly because of the nightly fracas in the spare room and partly so she can sleep downstairs with the dying dog who needs to be taken outside every 2 – 3 hours. Thus, she can barely make it to work each day because of her extreme exhaustion. “I’ve called in tired to work” And then she adds the incident on Nov. 1^stand its aftermath which is so over and above devastating that it leaves all of her previous issues in the dust.

I previously mentioned the process of creating layers of scene and information. I have a twisted rose-vine in my backyard. While you can look at the 20 foot expanse of the vines, you can also see the individual strands and flowers blooming on one strand but not on another. Likewise, in this braided essay, we are presented one scene at a time but the author deftly guides us through the twisting vine of her story to present bits of the scenes while technically in a completely different scene box. i.e. The blackboard in the office is a catalyst for communication – for the author and her co-workers, and for Bob’s female colleague from abroad who stops in two months after the incident and breaks down crying when she sees his writing all over the chalkboard. After this woman leaves, the author cleans off the blackboard only to find the smudges of the woman’s hands on Bob’s scribbling. After her dog falls down the stairs the author draws the collie on the chalkboard but only puts X’s for the eyes. Later, when she draws them in as their brown, beautiful almond shape her friend, Chris says, “That’s better.”

I enjoyed her choices of unique and creative language. She uses quite a bit of foreshadowing in the first few paragraphs, mentioning the squirrels, artfully describing the Milky Way as a smeared, chalky blackboard which becomes significant in her work environment. Also, her work has exposed her to the night sky and all its components. She spends her time looking at the stars and planets and naming the ones she is familiar with. She uses the anonymous blinking lights of Mars which will at a point refer to blinking emergency vehicles. I loved the analogy/metaphor of the “space physicists poking their heads into the fabric of the sky, listening to the sounds of the universe.” And unfortunately, the metaphor that their “lives are ticking away on alarm clocks getting ready to go off, although none of us are aware of it yet.”

Her expressions of emotions run the gamut throughout this piece. First, her obvious and heartbreaking love and devotion for her collie. She will do anything for this good old dog. ”She even expressed some humor during these cold, dark days. Her personality shines through when her friend brings her zucchini from her garden. “”Don’t try to give me zucchini.” I say. And then, “I’m leaving and I’m never coming back,” she tells the dogs before she walks out of the house. That’s very funny, especially because it triggers her Labrador into fits of howling. And I could feel the catch of hope in her throat when she hears her husbands voice on the message machine, only to be dashed by his next message…”I’m fine now.” Finally, her unbelievable sadness of her new reality without her friends and co-workers.

The author’s inability to put down her suffering dog is a universal feeling among pet owners. I find her hesitancy very believable. Her friend Caroline says, “You’ll do it when you do it.”

Even though she denies being a physicist, the author has an excellent grasp on the detailed complexities of the solar system, the Milky Way, and the working definition of theoretical-plasma-physics.”“Plasma is blood,” I told him. “Exactly,” he agreed.”

I am doubtful about the squirrels. I am left wondering if they are yet another metaphor to describe the upheaval in her life and in her home. I think they are symbolic of the utter chaos in her life that she cannot control. Therefore, she brings in a professional to help her deal with them. I am encouraged when she actually does DO something about this situation because she doesn’t seem to want to make the decisions necessary to fix all the other issues in her life. Interestingly, they do not kill the squirrels, they only remove them from the house and fix the hole so they cannot get back in. And then, after the shootings, it is TOO quiet in the house and she wishes they were back. “But they never come back once they are gone”.

I am also doubtful about what a high-level enabler she is with her husband. I do believe she loves him, but she encourages his cries for help by answering the phone when he calls and letting her emotions take over when she is with him. Although I was impressed that he showed up when the bad news hit the fan. Whether she wanted/needed him there or not.

All in all, I found this essay a fascinating read. Living in Arizona at the time of the shootings I remember very little about the incident. Which is why I am glad she wrote this article for The New Yorker. But, by submitting it to The New Yorker she told her story and she sold her story, she also exposed her soul, did she sell her soul?

¹Beard, Jo Ann (1997). “The Fourth State of Matter” (https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1996/06/24/the-fourth-state-of-matter) The New Yorker.

²https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/University_of_Iowa_shooting Accessed June 29, 2020

³ https://www.goodtherapy.org/learn-about-therapy/types/journal-therapy#:~:text=Journal%20therapy%20allows%20a%20person,and%20intentional%20about%20their%20writing Accessed July 6, 2020

The Fork in the Road (version 2)

Posted on July 28, 2020July 28, 2020 by admin

In my life, I have considered a fork in the road a life changing decision. That has always been a universal truth for me.

While “What a Fool Believes” by The Doobie Brothers, blared from the record player I was sitting with Fred, my boyfriend of two years, on the couch in my dorm room opening the mail. This was early in the Spring Session of 1981 and I was a sophomore in college at Illinois State University in Bloomington, IL. The Doobies were my choice; Fred was still haunted by John Lennon’s death several months before and he was stuck on playing the “Double Fantasy” album that was released shortly before Lennon’s death.

These were the days of snail mail only, no email, no cellphones, no internet. The previous fall Ronald Reagan was the Grand Marshall in our Homecoming Parade, one month before he was elected President of the United States. I recall the building excitement of getting caught up in political drama. I remember when John Anderson lost the Republican California Primary to Reagan, left the GOP and ran as an Independent for President. My Dad was voting for Reagan and I was determined to NOT vote like an old, conservative, white guy. I boycotted the parade and voted Independent in my first Presidential Election. On the day Reagan was inaugurated Iran released the 52 American hostages after 444 days in captivity now that Jimmy Carter was formally out of office. Little did we know that it was only a matter of weeks before Reagan himself would be the target of an assassin’s bullet. He survived as did Pope (now Saint) John Paul II when he was shot in a motorcade two months later. At the time “charting your own course” could be was rife with danger.

We had just received our Fall 1981 Schedules from our Academic Advisors. Fred, being a Liberal Arts Major, had gotten all the classes he had registered for in the next semester. As I perused my schedule, I noticed an asterisk next to my requested CS101, Computer Science 101, business class. It referred to more information to follow by mail.

That was strange, “What do you think that means?” I asked Fred.

He looked and me and replied, “Dunno, did you get anything else in the mail?” He passed me the can of Pringles he had been slowly devouring.

I ruffled through the opened and discarded envelopes in a pile on my couch.

“Wait a minute!” I exclaimed, “What’s that one with the pink slip in the window?”

“Pink slips are usually not good news,” Fred said shaking his head. “Open it.” he insisted.

I pulled the pink slip out of the envelope and read out loud: “We regret to inform you that all CS101 classes have been filled. You have been placed on a waiting list with 150 other students.”

The Academic Advisory Board offered the following options:

“1. Stay on the waiting list; if you are contacted to join the class, please do so, if you
are not, you are welcome to register for CS101 in the Spring of 1982.

2. Take CS101 at an accredited community college over the summer and register
for CS102 for the Spring of 1982. Ascertain that the credits can be transferred.

Transfer your curriculum to another college of your choice and complete your Business degree there.”

“What the ….!” I jumped up from the couch and started pacing the room. I started ranting about how CS101 and 102 were required business classes and 101 had to be completed before 102. Summer school at Elgin Community College was NOT in my plans. “They even suggested I leave ISU and go to another school!” I cried. “What the hell?”

That night I opened a beer and called my parents on the phone. I explained the situation to them in a rather whiny tone.

“It’s not fair!” I cried.

My mom reminded me, “Terri, the University of Illinois WAS your second choice you were accepted to. You were the one who chose ISU because they had 15,000 students compared to U of I which had 45,000.” She then took a drag from her Viceroy cigarette, the ever-present pack always on the kitchen table.

I agreed with her, “The size difference was overwhelming to me at the time and I guess I chose the safer option.”

My dad was on the phone extension in the living room. He had always been my biggest fan. “Valkyrie” using his nickname for me, “You have always been more capable than you let on. I think now is the perfect opportunity to challenge yourself. I have always expected more of you because I have confidence that you succeed when you really want something. Sometimes you take the easy option. This situation is perfect to take it a step further and move outside of your comfort zone. I know you have the confidence in yourself to make the better choice.”

My mom instantly agreed, “Honey, you know we will support you in whatever you decide but your dad is right, you absolutely can continue at U of I and get your degree there.” In the pause I could hear the ice clinking in my dad’s martini glass.

A week later I completed my transfer application for the Fall Semester 1981 at U of I and was accepted within the next month. I was able to register for the courses I needed, in the order I needed them, and it seemed to me that everything was all set. Looking back, I realize that this decision was just the tip of the iceberg of my expanding my life experiences and charting unknown waters in the journey of my life.

All of this happened in such a blur because of the deadlines for registration; I looked at Fred one day while we were playing Pac-Man at the pizza place and said, “I just realized something.”

Fred lifted his eyes to meet mine, not saying a word. At that moment I suddenly noticed that the perm Fred had gotten over the holiday break was growing out and getting frizzy. I had encouraged him to get the perm to ‘control’ his very wiry and unruly blond curls.

I said, “Baby, I am moving an hour away from here in September. We won’t see each other every day like we do now.” I was pouting.

“You JUST realized this today?” he asked incredulously. “It never occurred to you while you were sending in your transfer request or registering for your classes that you were gonna live an hour away in Champaign and not here in Bloomington with me?” His heavy sigh hung in the air between us like a sudden raincloud. “That is the only thing I have been thinking about since you got that damned pink slip.” The intensity in his blue eyes made my skin prickle as if in a warning.

I looked at him and grabbed his hand. “Wait, I am not leaving you, I am only leaving this screwed up school. This has nothing to do with us. I am not leaving US!” As I was pleading my case, I realized that I completely didn’t factor in this relocation issue and now I needed to get a dorm room at U of I before I got put on that wait list. Obviously, I was still only thinking of myself. I was oblivious to the big picture…and Fred knew it.

For the rest of that Spring Semester I spent more time at Fred’s second story, walk-up apartment than my own dorm room. One thing that always pops into my head when I think about his two room apartment was that on the wall of his living room was the iconic Farrah Fawcett poster with her flowing, feathered blonde hair wearing that skin tight, red swimsuit with her noticeably erect nipples straining the fabric of the suit. That poster turned out to be the largest selling poster ever in the history of poster sales. He loved it, I thought it was very distracting. We had also learned to cook together, each taking turns burning something, which was evident by the scorched bottoms of pots and the acrid smell of burnt garlic bread.

That summer we returned to our hometown, St. Charles, IL, and tried to see each other as often as we could but he drove an 18-wheeler flatbed bagged-concrete delivery truck every day and I worked as a waitress most nights. Having my days “free” I was able to catch up on the latest episodes of “General Hospital” and the drama of Luke and Laura. After spending every day and night together for the previous two months this separation was excruciating. We did not get much sleep that summer because the only time we could be together was from midnight to 6:00am. We spent a lot of time in that cherry red Monte Carlo. Occasionally we could catch a movie together, like ‘Ordinary People’, and ‘The Blues Brothers’ just to get out of the confines of the car. Suddenly it became time to leave for school and neither of us were prepared for our inevitable separation.

We planned for him to come to Champaign that first weekend because he had a car and I did not. It quickly became apparent that our visits were further complicated because I lived in a dorm room with two other girls and he had no place to stay. Hotel rooms were in neither of our budgets. He would drive for one hour, stay for the day and for dinner out and then return to Bloomington that night. Those visits became less and less frequent for many reasons.

At ISU I had pledged a Business Fraternity, Delta Sigma Pi. I looked up the Upsilon Chapter at U of I and found they were having a Welcome Back Picnic the second Saturday after classes began. As I walked through the entrance the sweet scent of freshly mowed grass welcomed me into the park. I found a boisterous group with a ΔΣΠ banner near the volleyball courts. A friendly guy with an easy smile ambled toward me and noticed I was wearing the ΔΣΠ pin on my DeltaSig T-shirt.

“Hi, I’m Bill Harris, DSP President,” he said as he reached out to shake my hand, “Were you here in the Spring? I know I would have remembered your face.”

I think I blushed, or maybe it was the warm September sun as I replied, “I am Terri Cross and I just transferred here from the ISU Business School and Delta Sig’s Iota Chi Chapter. I wanted to look you guys up and see if I could join Upsilon as a Legacy Member.”

Little did I know as Bill guided me across the sandy path that I had just met my future husband. Another leap outside of my comfort zone just created a decisive challenge for me. Again, the fork in the road had changed my life like a sharp right turn.

The Fork in the Road

Posted on June 13, 2020December 10, 2020 by admin

I have always looked at a fork in the road as a life changing decision. That has always been true for me. I was a sophomore in college at Illinois State University in Bloomington, IL. It was the Spring Session of 1981. I was sitting with Fred, my boyfriend from my hometown high school, on the couch in my dorm room opening the mail. (These were the days of snail mail only, no email, no cellphones, no internet.)

We had just received our Fall 1981 Schedules from our Academic Advisors. Fred, being a Liberal Arts Major, had gotten all the classes he had registered for in the next semester. As I perused my schedule I noticed an asterisk next to my requested CS101, Computer Science 101, business class. It referred to more information to follow by mail. That was weird, “What do you think that means?” I asked Fred. He looked and me and asked, “Dunno, did you get anything else in the mail?”

I ruffled through the opened and discard envelopes in a pile on my couch. “Wait a minute!” I exclaimed, “What’s that one with the pink slip in the window?” “Pink slip are usually not good news,” Fred said shaking his head. “Open it.” he insisted. I pulled the pink slip out of the envelope and read out loud: “We regret to inform you that CS101 has been completely filled. You have been placed on a waiting with 150 other students. You have the following options:

Stay on the waiting list; if you are contacted to join the class, please do so, if you are not, you are welcome to register for CS101 in the Spring of 1982.
Take CS101 at an accredited community college over the summer and register for CS102 for the Spring of 1982. Ascertain that the credits can be transferred.
Transfer your curriculum to another college of your choice and complete your Business degree there.”

That night I talked it over with my parents on the phone. They reminded me that the University of Illinois WAS my second school I was accepted to and I was the one who chose ISU because they had 15,000 students compared to U of I which had 45,000. The size difference was overwhelming and I chose small. A week later I had completed a transfer application for the Fall Semester 1981 and was accepted within the next month. I registered for the courses I needed, in the order I needed them, and it was all set.

All of this happened in a blur because of the deadlines for registration and looking at Fred that day over lunch I said, “I just realized something.” Fred lifted his eyes to me not saying anything. I said, “Baby, I am moving an hour away from here in September. We won’t see eachother everyday like we do now.” I was pouting. “You JUST realized this today?” he asked incredulously. “It never occurred to you while you were sending in your transfer request or registering your classes that you were gonna live in Champagne and not Bloomington?” he sighed heavily. “That is the only thing I have been thinking about since you got that damned pink slip.” I looked at him and grabbed his hand. “Wait, I am not leaving you, I am only leaving this screwed up school. This has nothing to do with us. I am not leaving US!” I felt like I was pleading my case, true I completely didn’t factor in relocation and now just realized I needed to get a dorm room at U of I before I got put on that wait list.

For the rest of that Spring Semester we spent more time at Fred’s apartment than my dorm room. One thing that always pops into my head when I think about his two room apartment is the Farrah Fawcett poster on the wall of his living room. He loved it, I thought it was very distracting.

We went back to our hometown, St. Charles, IL, for the summer, both picking up where we left off at last summer’s jobs. We tried to see eachother as often as we could but he drove an 18 wheeler delivery truck every day and I worked as a waitress most nights. It was time too leave for school much too soon. Fred helped my Dad pack our station wagon for our trip to Champagne and then he packed his Chevy Impala and drove off in the other direction.

We planned for him to come to Champagne that first weekend because he had a car and I did not. Also, our visits were complicated because I lived in a dorm room with two other girls and he really didn’t have a place to stay. He would drive for one hour, stay for the day and for dinner out and then return to Bloomington that night. Those visits became less and less frequent for many reasons.

At Illinois State I had pledged a Business Fraternity, Delta Sigma Pi, in the spring of my freshman year to the Iota Chi Chapter. After transferring to U of I as a “Legacy member” I looked up the Upsilon Chapter and found they were having a Welcome Back Volleyball Game and Picnic the second Saturday after classes began. (There was not a football game scheduled at home that day) I walked into the park and found a large group with a ΔΣΠ banner. A nice looking guy walked over to me and noticed I was wearing my ΔΣΠ pin on my DeltaSig T-shirt. “Hi, I’m Bill Harris, DSP President. Were you here in the Spring? I don’t remember your face.” I think I blushed, or maybe it was the September sun, I replied, “I’m Terri Cross and I just transferred here from ISU Business School. I was initiated a year ago at Iota Chi and I thought I’d look you guys up and see if I could join you as a Legacy Member.”

Two months later I mailed Fred a “Dear Fred” letter. Five years later I became Mrs. William Harris. Again, the fork in the road had changed my life.