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greywolfdrums's Homepage http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums Thu, 12 Nov 2009 02:27 EST Thu, 12 Nov 2009 02:27 EST Zorpia.com Future Kings http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1892462 TOMORROW'S KING Clifford Latta - 10-16-97   POSTSCRIPT: Jackson Beigwort leaned over and kissed the aging, wrinkled brown cheek of his wife, Nora Beigwort. She looked like a painting he had once seen of a dying slave, a woman, old. Now his wife skin, always the color of hot chocolate, had begun to darken. She opened her eyes. "Jacky, I had a wonderful dream." She smiled broadly at him, her eyes seeing him, talking to him...then it was gone. She looked through him. She blinked once, twice, and a third time that opened heavy and pulled her back toward sleep. Her eyes opened: "Jacky..." she said like she might scratch an itch, automatically, devoid of consciousness, then she was back in her inside world and Jackson was on the outside. "Nora, lovely Nora, your children send their love. They asked me to say these words to you, 'Mother of Salvation, vessel from which we flow, know that your road is forever, starting with you. Your children, all 1593 of them, dream wonderful, powerful dreams for you. God Mother, good night.'. " She opened her eyes and smiled, "Jacky," she whispered, smiling right at him. "Hug the kids for me." She chuckled and died. It was easy. One minute laughing at her own joke and the next moment appearing to sleep. Jackson and Nora Beigwort, recent ancestors of slaves, had met at the synagogue in Brookland's Noriega Heights. They had converted to Judaism, got married by Feador, the local rabbi, and immediately began to gather cash to themselves until, in just a few years, they were , by far, the richest black conservative on the Earth. Jackson had his motto stitched into ostrich skin: "A hundred million here, a hundred million there - pretty soon we're talking real money." He did that as a 34th birthday present to himself. The following hear his wealth increased by $1.5 billion. Since then it had been ups and downs but mostly ups.   Chapter One He was hung over. Too much Champaign on his fortieth birthday part. Not really a party just the two of them. Nora had two bottles of Cooks Champaign on ice. She liked to drink inexpensive wines. Money, as most people view it, had long since lost any meaning to either of them. It had simply disappeared as a concept. Money had become a one-upmanship game for them. Each morning they'd play 'Investors' and try to correlate their dreams and thoughts and hunches and inclinations against the stock market. Then they'd call their stock broker and place their bets. Again, it was far more ups than downs. His favorite magazine was "Science News". The story almost escaped his attention. Had it things might be much different. "A frozen egg is thawed out, fertilized, implanted in a surrogate mother and a healthy child is born." "Dean Wilson speaking," came the familiar voice through the telephone. "Dean ol' bean, I need some info. Do you read Science News? Never mind. I know you do. Did you see the article about the frozen egg." He paused, "Never mind, I know you did. My question: Can you take five or ten thousand eggs from Nora, mature them or what ever it is that nature demands of these eggs and then freeze them?" He went on quickly, "Second question: How long will the eggs stay viable and will there be, if they are viable, a deteriorating effect with the passing of time?" "Chucky," - Dean had started calling him Chucky right after they had first met and he steadfastly refused to change it - "no prob, with the eggs. That's old science. The freezing aspect is new but well tested, first with animals then humans. We do it routinely. How long. For ever, as far as we know. So you got any more questions and when do you want me to start harvesting those Nora eggs so you two can establish an army of your children that will cut across generation lines. Am I reading this right?" Jackson sat back in his office chair with a woooosh. "Why don't you just kick me in the balls? How did you get all that from the tiny bit of material available in my questions?" "Chucky, you are a disgustingly rich man. Without feeling a single tinge of an awareness of 'money gone' you can away a billion hear and ten billion there. You are very proud of your accomplishments. From great, great grandson of a slaves - oh, yes, and great, great granddaughter of slaves; I'm not overlooking Nora - To mega billionaires. Not bad. And you and Nora are childless. New technology was available but the two of you just haven't wanted to deal with a surrogate mother and all the other shit. No kids. Good eggs, good sperm, bad womb, and now you find out we scientist can freeze eggs and sperm for ever and unfreeze it and make children. Why wouldn't you want to pass your wealth on to a non-existent army of progeny. Sure, I'll help. We'll create your army out of you and Nora. That works for me. You'll need a foundation to establish a self-perpetuating entity. How many kids were you and Nora thinking about?" Jackson rocked back and forth in his non-rocking desk chair. "We've given this a lot of thought. We're both 40. If we start with 20 fertilized eggs this year and then fertilize 20 more each subsequent year, we'll have 800 children when we're 80. And you know, science being what it is and the power of money, both Nora and I will probably live a very long time."   Chapter two "How time flies," thought Jackson as he rubbed the darkened chocolate of Nora's dead hand. He didn't think he'd be following her. She had just missed the train. A new strain of bacteria had taken up habitat in her lower respiratory system. It was one of those bugs that has evaded all attempts to destroy it. To kill it you had to kill the host. That was something of a comforting feeling. The bug was now dead, too. "I'm 120, look 50 and am moving toward whatever age I want to be. Dean ol' bean tells me the prion break-through is the last thread, the last tiny bit of fluff needed to make the entire picture 'clunk' together in a solid, scientific FACT. If you have the bucks, old age is a thing of the past. No longer do we struggle against decay, successful for the time being, now I, we, Dean ol' bean and I, will never die. We'll get younger and younger." He laughed a strong Hud-a-hud-a-hud-a, "When we reach thirty we'll catch up with the kids." Generations before Dean Wilson had begun a gradual rejuvenation program that had the kids all moving toward a common age of around 30. Jackson had endowed each of his children with a million dollars on their 18th birthday. They had wit, wisdom and money. They also had a family structured for support, learned early from the Jews. That was the reason both he and Nora had, independently of each other- they didn't yet know each other -, decided to embrace Judaism. From the ghetto they had watched, in that distant land of wealth and influence, families taking care of each other. "Hey, Abe, your boy Sammie doesn't have a job. Tell him to come by in the morning. He works hard, I pay him a lot of money. I'll set him up in business, too." Why go outside your own family, beyond your own world to give away something as wonderful as a good job with good pay and the opportunity to make a successful life. They had both watched their own, small ghetto world crush children, smashing their dreams from their weary minds and bodies. And when Woppi Goldburg, when asked about her Jewish name, replied, "Why'd I take a Jewish name? Look around. I wanted to be successful."   Chapter four The year was 2005 and the world was ragged around the edges. A few terrorist atomic bombs had made their mark. A short but devastating atomic exchange between India and Pakistan had made such a demonstrative, world-wide ecological impact the industrial leaders had to make business decisions...and the decision was to allow the human race to continue to breed for slave stock. Germs and viruses had taken their toll. Science moved in late but in time and absolute extinction of the species was averted. The collapse of civilization is finalized when the food delivery system and the garbage pick up system fail to work. The interruption of food the grocery story would be the predecessor of vermin and pestilence that come when the garbage begins to pile up. The poor didn't stand a chance. Cannibalism was a way of life. If you wanted to live you ate the dead. There was no other way, not if your were poor. Inside mountains the rich survived on lobster thermadore and Mumms Champaign; squab and crumpets; sherry and ice cream. Decades passed with those who needed to help restructure the world leaving for whatever time was required to take care of business then they, too, would return to their own mountains. There was 123 such mountains though some of them weren't inside of mountains; some were underground in various deserts; a few under the oceans. Elaborate bomb shelters built for the filthy rich by Bio-dynetical Products, one of Jackson's most successful ideas. Hollowing out a mountain was indeed an expensive process and the billionaires of the world paid many billions of dollars to have it done by the world's only privately owned mountain hollowing out business. 'Jackson's Mountain' was the best of the best. Jackson, Dean o' bean, their families and a select few, were brought together, from all parts of the world, just in the nick of time to avoid the 'Destruction on the Mother's Face". They lived well, inside Jackson's Mountain. They studied and prepared for the next phase. When the inhabitants of the hollowed out mountains that had survived began to emerge they were called the 'Controllers'. Because of their preparedness and unity they soon became The Controllers. They built a new world, from the ashes and corrupted earth, where everyone got along; where there weren't even any rules...except for one: Fuck up and you die. So now everyone gets along with marginal lives, enough to eat, more sex than you know what do with, a lot of high quality videos and other good stuff. The Controllers, of course, being the Chosen Ones on the Mother's Road to For Ever live a whole lot better and they live a whole lot longer. Their leaders Chnoraucky and Dean o' Bean are often seen laughing a lot.   The End Personal http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1892462 Sat, 28 Mar 2009 22:06 EST Black-Barty Winkum - A Boy With a Funny Name http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1827188 Black-Barty Winkum: A Boy with a Funny Name. Clifford Latta His name was Black-Barty Winkum with a hyphen between the Black and the Barty. When the teacher would call his name she would say, "Black-Barty Winkum" and the kids would always laugh when they heard it for the first time and Black-Barty would grin and raise his hand and say, "Here, mam" for, after all, that was his name. When he was very young , before he started going to school, his dad had told him that he had to wait a little longer to hear the story of how he got his name. He did tell him that he and his mom gave the name a lot of consideration before giving it to him and had finally decided that it was the right name for him and so he became, from a new baby with no name, a new baby with the name "Black-Barty" with a hyphen. One day, when Black-Barty, his dad, his mom and his sister, Mary Jay-June (his sister's name was another story) were at the beach making a wonderful sand castle just out of the reach of the waves, Black-Barty said, "Dad, it's time for you to tell me how I got my name." The family stopped their sand castle building. The story about Black-Barty's name was far more important than a sand castle no matter how nice or how big it was. The  sand castle was, after all, just a temporary bit of family fun...while his name was with him from the beginning of his life and would be with him until the end. The family sat down on a couple of large pieces of drift wood. His dad paused for a long moment looking at each member of his family. He smiled his famous smile, the smile with the built in 'wink'. Everything was sort of a joke to his dad and he was known for his keen sense of humor and his love for life. Some of the family's friends thought his dad acted too young, that he acted like a teenager; he'd always do kid stuff like riding his bike to fast or skating too fast at the skating rink; he'd ride a skate board and do it with a certain grow-up flair. The kids really liked him. "Well," he started, "It was this way, Black-Barty. You weren't born yet and we were having a wonderful, big block party baby shower for your mom...a traditional block party with everyone in the neighborhood invited. We put up barricades so cars couldn't drive down our street; we even had a band. Your mom was very pregnant with you; as a matter of fact, Black-Barty, you were born the very next morning. Oh yeah, it was also a costume party. Those who wanted to dress up could and those who didn't want to didn't have to. You know, very casual. We did, however, give a prize to the Best Costume." Dad looked over at mom and smiled a big smile just for her. "Remember, honey, Joe came as a roll of toilet paper and Douglas came as a note pad.holder." They both laughed. Mom said, "Everyone was writing stuff on the note books he had hanging all over his body." Dad laughed even louder, "Who was that who came as a hamburger?" Mom laughed, "Mr. Simson;" she said. "He was a burger with all the trimmings." She took dad's hand, "Remember, sweety, food costumes were big at that party. If I remember correctly we had a hot dog, a pizza and, what was it, a muffin?" "Yep," dad said, "It was a muffin." Dad looked at Black-Barty. "Here's where your name starts to come into the picture. The costume we all thought was the greatest was worn by a friend of yours and one of my very closest friends, uncle John. He came as Black Bart the old cowboy outlaw and he looked the part. He hadn't shaved for several days and he had a patch over one eye; he was wearing black leather clothes and he had two six-shooters strapped to his hips. He had big, black cowboy boots with studs in them. that looked almost like diamonds. Silver flashed from his ornate belt. He had a wonderful black horse that he'd borrowed from a friend of his who rode the horse in the circus and at the fairs, a trained horse with a magnificent leather saddle and everyone stopped to look at uncle John and the horse. The hamburger stopped to look; the pizza looked; the hot-dog looked and the roll of toilet paper and note books looked, too. Everyone stopped to look at Black Bart astride his majestic horse. "Well, later that night we were sitting around talking and I said, 'Black Bart, are you enjoying our block party?' And he said, 'Well, I'd rather call it a Black Bart Party,' and I said, 'Well it wouldn't really be a party, it would be a Barty.' And he said, 'Yeah, a Black Bart Barty,' and I said, 'A Black Bart Winkum Barty,' and he said, with a wink, 'Good name for your kid.' So, son, don't blame me; you talk to your uncle John about it; he's the one that came up with the idea but I'll tell you the truth, I thought it was down right cute, Black-Barty Winkum; it has a built in smile. You may not find it overly amusing right now, son, but I think later in your life you'll look back and think, "Thanks uncle John for the really cool name. What a fun time I've had with it. I've met a lot of people, you know, actually stopped and talked with them because of my name and my name has brought a lot of smiles into the world...and when I look back on it, it wasn't altogether unpleasant. If I had of been named Richard or Bob or Bill, all fine names, I wouldn't have met as many people or heard as many stories or shared as many winks with folks as they smiled and said, 'Black-Barty Winkum...now I LIKE that name.' Anyway, my boy, I think you will have to wait until your a little older to decide what you think of your name." As the years passed Black-Barty realized that his name had opened many doors and been responsible for the first words that would lead to good friendships and given him the opportunity to talk to a potential employer which would give him an increased chance of getting the job he wanted. Sometimes when someone said his name out loud like, "How's it going, Black-Barty Winkum?" People would stop and smile and sometimes he'd tell the story of how he got his name and by the time the story was told he'd have new friends and, maybe, a new girl friend or a new job. It was all quite exciting and it turned out to be quite a positive thing being called Black-Barty Winkum. Kids, the moral of this story is: We have to go with what we have. Like in a card game; you get dealt a hand of cards and you have to play them the best way you can. And, sometimes during a card game, the cards will start to look more attractive and you'll say, "Now these aren't bad cards at all." The End   Miscellaneous http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1827188 Sat, 09 Aug 2008 23:45 EST fThe Origin of Everything Human http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1827185 The Origin of Everything Human By Clifford Latta 07-22-08 They hadn't yet become gregarious. He stalked the night in pursuit of subsistence and, if able to take a female by surprise, propagate the species not from some grand intent but as a byproduct of pervasive lust. Two days before he had smashed the head of a small, furry animal with a lucky rock shot. It had been his first 'blood' food in many days. He had ripped it open, first drinking down the hot blood as it spilled from open places in the fur, then came the soft entrails filled with a variety of textures, smells and tastes. None of those things mattered. All that mattered was getting as much of the furry creature inside of his stomach as possible. Toward the end of his meal he started to feel something akin to satisfaction...a sort of awareness that a need had been resolved for the moment; not unlike his occasional rutting with mostly unwilling females of his species. He was naked. He had no tools or weapons other than sharpened sticks and stones. Fire was a long way in the future. He was the beginning of a species that would one day conquer the world, enslave the planet on which he was evolving and walk on the moon and, too, he would destroy millions of people without hardly trying. His meal finished, he sucked the last blood from the tattered, inedible skin on which the fur was so tightly fixed, twisted the small ball of skin and fur for the last few, precious drops of juices and, with a grunt, tossed what was left of the small, furry creature into the bushes. A week passed and he was able to only find a rotting bit of flesh left from some other animals kill; not enough to fill his hunger but enough to make him remember his last blood meal...the tattered bit of skin and fur tossed into the bushes. He didn't yet have a mind that would allow for speculation but deep inside the evolving creature was the beginning of a concept: Hope. Perhaps, caught in that bit of skin and fur was a missed shred of blood food; perhaps, with an even tighter 'twist' a few drops of juice could be extracted; perhaps, in that discarded remnants of a past meal there would be some substance. The substance that would eventually be wrung from that bit of fur and skin would shape the world. He was drooling when he finally found the discarded bit of fur and skin. His initial vague hope had become an expectation. He would find some more juice, a bit of flesh, a reward for his memory and search. The fur had rotted and been eaten, by small creatures evolved to take advantage of such meals, from the skin. All that was left was the skin and it had dried wrapped around several branches of a small bush. He twisted his precious find until it broke loose tightly holding the branches in place. In places it was transparent and he could see the branches and his hand through the skin. It was also very strong and as he tried to chew it the branches imbedded in the twisted, dry rawhide gouged at his nose and eyes. He broke the branches where they protruded from the rawhide but the parts of the branches that were caught 'inside' the twists of dried skin, held fast and couldn't be dislodged. Almost immediately his hope for juice disappeared. There was no blood food value in his handful of skin and branches. He threw the twisted lump to the ground and started to stumble away. One of the larger sticks in the skin stuck him in his ankle as he kicked at it. Bending over he grunted and groaned as he pawed at the trickle of blood that ran from the small puncture wound. It wasn't his habit to draw his own blood for a meal but should he injure himself and his fluids leak out he would consume all that was made available by the wound. On several occasions, with deep gashes caused by the events of his life, there had been enough juice to give him some relief from his persistent hunger. There was hardly enough here to taste but there was that small trickle. He picked up the skin with the offending stick in it and used it to mop up the trickle of blood. He licked it, running his tongue around the stick and into the folds of the dry skin. The stick stuck him in the roof of his mouth and caused another small wound. He grunted and threw the skin and sticks to the ground. He looked at it for a moment, stooped and picked it up. The skin was holding the sticks together so tightly that he couldn't pry them apart. In his years of struggling to stay alive, naked, cold, afraid, he had never considered being able to 'hold things together'. He sat on the ground and turned the skin and sticks over in his hands. He threw it on the ground and picked it up again. He tried to pull out the sticks. He chewed on it. He tried again to pull out the sticks. He sat there until the night faded into early morning. He looked more closely at the ball of skin and sticks. During the examination and the chewing and the throwing to the ground a small pebble had become caught in a fold of the rawhide where he had chewed it and it had become slightly flexible. During the continued process of holding and looking and chewing the area with the small stone had dried. Now the stone was held firmly in place next to a stick. Dried skin, a stick and a stone had become a single thing. He could throw it into the air or hard on the ground and they all stayed together as a single thing. Many days later, the small skin and stick and rock object grasped firmly in his fist, now an object of great consideration, of great contemplation in a mind not yet able to contemplate, he began to become aware of 'holding things together'. He sat down and pulled up a length of berry bush vine. It wasn't the time of year when berries might be attached but he knew the vine and had, on many occasions eaten the berries while cautiously avoiding the thorns. He remembered that when the vines didn't have berries the thorns were soft and could be eaten. But that wasn't why he had pulled up the vine. He looked at the foot long piece of berry vine for a long time. After half a day of looking at the vine and at his surroundings he reached over and tore two large leaves from a squat bush. He looked at the leaves for a long time. He laid the leaves on the ground and put the vine on top of the leaves. He looked at it for a long time. He then put his first and only treasure, the twisted piece of skin, branches and rock on the leaves. Again, much time passed. Finally, after many aborted movements and beginnings, he picked up the skin and stick and rock and pressed the end of one of the sticks through the side of a leaf leaving a small hole. Again time passed . Finally he picked up the leaf with the hole in it and the vine. Purposefully he pushed the vine through the hole. Processes were beginning to occur inside his brain that could only be called 'creative'. Finally he picked up the second leaf, quickly punched a hole through it and then, within minutes, wove the vine through the second leaf. He held up his 'creation': Two leaves held on a section of berry vine. "Holding things together" began it's evolutionary progress to clothing (things held together); tools (things held together); constructed shelter (things held together) and, of course, weapons, other than individual sticks and stones (things held together). With that first twisted hunk of skin, sticks and a stone began all things human.   Miscellaneous http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1827185 Sat, 09 Aug 2008 23:26 EST The End of the World 'Guarantee'. http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1802488 The End of the World 'Guarantee' A parable is the only way to approach certain observations: This one deals with the birth of the final, catastrophic disaster that will end civilization as we know it. When there were two people on the planet (Adam and Eve or George and Helen or Ug and Buggawug) they would argue and, because they had to, eventually comes to terms with the problems. Then a third person arrived. Now when the original two began to argue one or both would turn to the third person and say, "Do you understand what I am trying to say?" or "You agree with me, don't you?" or "Tell that person what you think." Well, the third person had to invest time and energy into problem solving for the other two so, either because of their inherent generosity or the third person's growing knowledge that the use of his time and energy to help resolve their problems kept him from his regular root gathering chores, an agreement must have been reached: "You help us and we'll give you some roots" or "If I help you, you must give me some roots." Either way our fate was sealed. With that exchange, "time and energy for roots", the first attorney was born and our doom guaranteed. From that moment forward the third person would only get roots if the first two people were having problems; therefore, it was in the best interest of the third person to promote trouble. When there were too few hassles the third person might scribble a simple ad on the sand so that the first two would see it: "Anything at all that you don't like about your mate, about life, about eating or pooping or coughing or copulating, get in touch with me, The Arbitrator." And from that moment forward we moved inexorably toward a divided, confused, complicated, horribly unjust world. Today, attorneys scoop billions of dollars from the top of piles of money to be used for the poorest of the poor, the sickest of the sick, the neediest of the needy...and right there, in the foreground, hands and arms deep in the pile of financial goodies are gangs of attorneys. They have always been the despised and ridiculed profession. They, too, laugh at the attorney jokes about attorneys being at the extreme bottom of the bottom cruising mud suckers. They have always been the personification of evil and greed but recently, with the worldwide problems they have helped to create, they have become, from a relatively obscure position, GIANTS of greed and corruption. Now they take billions and call it "just". How foul, how demonic, how lacking in character and fundamental morality. They should be killed, not rewarded for their slimy behavior. Oh yes, I started out with an End of the World â€˜Guaranteeâ€™: Because attorneys are now fundamentally woven into the fabric and to â€˜unwindâ€™ the attorneys would be to unwind the fabric only two possibilities exist; 1) The attorneys become â€˜good guysâ€™, realize the inherent evil, malicious, merciless nature of their craft and voluntarily â€˜change their ways' or 2) They continue to greedily consume, with an every increasing appetite, the â€˜wealthâ€™ of the world until everything gets totally out of balance and, following the laws of physics, violate the angle of repose causing everything, everywhere to collapse. Since they don't have the moral character necessary to give up their inexorable consumption the angle of repose will be violated and that's it, Ladies and Gents. Sorry about the bad news. That leads to the next paragraph. Attorneys are everyone's enemy and everyone else on the planet has the moral right to steal all their stuff and/or, if you want, kill and eat them. Now that's morality! Personal http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1802488 Sun, 11 May 2008 01:12 EST Are We "The Great Satan"? http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1802482 Are We "The Great Satan"? By Clifford Latta "Grey Wolf the Drum Maker" 08-26-07   When Muslims attempt to talk to Christians about God the Christianâ€™s lack of understand of God is generally profound. After a few meaningless attempts at superficial religious understanding the Christians generally want to talk about mortgages, car payments, movies, clothes, how the kids are doing in secular school and other mundane, absolutely non-religious subjects. The Muslim, steeped in religiosity from very early childhood, can not understand how the worldly things, about which the Christian finds compelling enough to take the place of God, have become so important to us. All one has to do is actually watch the TV shows made for children for fifteen minutes, changing the channel so you take in a good part of that which is being poured through the TV into the heads of our children, and you, too, will want to â€˜bring it all downâ€™. We have become wicked in our ways. Islam teaches itâ€™s children piety (a daily, movement by moment relationship with God...and even if the direction is, in some instances, obscene, it is still piety) and we teach our children perversion. The little girls on TV dress and act like little sexual tarts; the boys act like conceited jerks and the parents are generally morons. Our children get many hours of this evil, filthy, destructive behavior, as a role model, every day. Check out the names attached to the shows; read the credits; think about the people who are feeding our children this social and spiritual poison....I need not point more clearly at the culprits. They declare themselves.   If there is to be salvation from this tragedy called capitalism and TV it must come from within the ranks of those responsible. Watch the Disney Channel for it is a source of unabated filth in the guise of laughing and dancing and playing and having fun. Itâ€™s actually ALL sex and capitalism...trying to get their greedy hands into the pockets of the very youngest children while setting them up to be continuing consumers of junk products. Shame on you, you promoters of filth among our children...and us. We, the adults have our TV delivered to our front room in steaming piles of repugnant but entertaining garbage. We overlook the repugnant for the entertainment. We overlook God for Satan and Good for Evil. We have become the prideless products of our own corrupt, money grubbing system. If there is a solution, I donâ€™t know what it is because greed now runs our world; millionaires willing to destroy the planet itself to become billionaires: Why? On a planet where our intellect now allows us to examine specific genes and search for the underlying particle that holds physical reality together and to land on and take photos of distant planets and moons...while, on this same planet children die of easily prevented diseases and pregnant women get hacked to death with machetes.   Corporate America (now Corporate World) is the enemy. They have lost their humanity and embraced unrestrained greed; they have relinquished any pretense of godliness in their life to glut in excess and to promote an obscene disregard for the well-being of their species.   I am 71 years old and not a religious person and I am without hope: Please, someone reassure me...make me believe, once more, in the future. Personal http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1802482 Sun, 11 May 2008 00:44 EST MENU: stories, poems, thoughts, political stuff http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1797106 Zorpia.com/greywolfdrums Black-Barty Winkum - The Boy with the Funny Name (Way cool short story with big moral) The Origin of Everything Human (Essay about the origin of humanity's uniqueness.) End of the World 'Guarantee'. ( A short observation about attorneys and their dispicable place in the scheme of things.) Are We "The Great Satan"? (A very short philosophical observation about Modern America.) Police to Video/Audio Contact With Public (This is a Petition that would require police officers to wear a small video camera on their shoulder and tape all contact with the public that involves possible traffic tickets and/or possible misdemeanor and felony charges.) Directions to Rush Limbaugh Challenges (Part of the disgust I feel for Rush Limbaugth series) 79 YEARS AND 364 3/5TH DAYS (Short story with a strange, awkward reality...my most recent fiction...or is it fiction?) The Love of My Life (Wtitten much after the fact for the love of my life) A Giant Rush Warning (Part of the discust for Rush series) Letâ€™s Flush the King of Crap (Dito) Open Letter to Rush Limbaugh (Dito, again) Algebra - Not Now, Not Ever (Article written about the uselessness of studying algebra...and how algebra requirements prevent worthwhile students from getting a degree...NOT RIGHT!) Upchuck 101 (Way cool recolection of a Big Event in my life) "Truth?" - Written after the Clinton Impeachment Effort (Article about the terrible slap in the face of the American public by the Repubican Party....Shame on them!) Five (5) Alternate Energy Possibilities (Some simple minded observations about making easy, almost free energy) A Whole Lot of Me (Personal observation) Crestors (A GREAT movie idea) The Athiest and Other Army or Holy Shit (A short story about a single individuals efforts, that became collective, to stop the three main world religions from killing him and his family and all his friends) Content Warning to the Christians, Jews, Muslims and lots of others (Just what it says) Beachcomberâ€™s Credo (The way it should be at the beach) The DNA Bug (A short story written before all the recent happenings in Iraq) BEYOND CHAOS - The First nnd Last Vibratory War (A story about what happens to all those vibrations being created by all the wireless stuff...microwaves, radio, t.v., shortwave, low energy, high enegy....the million upon millioins of manmade vibrations that surround you as you read these words) Fat of the Land (A short story about aliens conquring the world with an offer that could not be refused) Open letter to the Secretary of Defense (A letter to the Secretray of Defense) Old Fashion Castle Storming: Bring Pitchforks and Torches (An article about the need for Public Employees to be more conscious of the needs of their bosses, the public...who have become the underclass with the Public Employees sitting on their heads) The Decline of Ethics, Morality and Hope for the World (A pessimistic article...but true?) Green Grass, Blue Skies (A personal observation) Hello Lars (a letter sent to Lars Larson, radio talk show host in Oregon) Safe Sex (Most insightful poem...a must read) The Voice of Insight (Sort of a cute observation) Homework Blues (A poem that I wrote while going to college when I was 51 years old...what a wonderful several years almost getting a degree...I need 8 credits in algebra [see article above] for my A.A.) The Man Wbo Made The Strongest Rabbits in the World. (One of my favorite short stories) Female Gray Matter - Itâ€™s a Matter of Survival (An article inspired by a female friend) The Year 2110 (A short story: It's a hundred years in the future, Islam won the war in the first part of the 21st century...and now the dead zone of America is being opened for all sorts of enterprises by the Islamic leaders) Glowing Planets (A short story written many years ago that talks about things that are just starting to happen) Killer Evolution (An article that goes hand-in-hand with the short story Glowing Planets...they should be read one after the other) The Fact that There Is No Hope is the Only Hope There Is (Again, pessimism...with just a dab of hope...where there is actually little hope for hope) Personal http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1797106 Thu, 24 Apr 2008 00:55 EST Police Officers to Video/Audio Tape Public Contact http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1797105 THE CONCERNED CITIZENS OF COQUILLE sponsor the CARL FOSTER BILL. Summary: The undersigned support a video and audio taping of all exchanges between the police and the public whenever a criminal investigation, be it a felony or misdemeanor, takes place. Full Disclosure: The undersigned citizens of Coos County herein declare by their signature support for a bill, designated The Carl Foster Bill, which will declare by force of law that police officers in Coos County will, whenever engaging the public in a situation that involves a possible criminal complaint, be it felony or misdemeanor, will turn on and engage a camcorder with audio, which will be affixed to their shoulder inconspicuously and safely next to their neck and a second tape recorder affixed at some reasonable place on their uniform. The engaging of this technology will secure and save a history of exactly what transpired during the exchange between the law enforcement officer(s) and the citizen(s). Such a recorded history will end, once and for all, a "he says she says" situation. By reviewing the video and audio tapes the exact nature of the exchange can be easily and legally established. This will prevent citizens from claiming events took place which did not and it will prevent potentially over zealous police officers from exercising excessive behavior. Everyone will win. The truth will be on the video and tape recordings. Had such a technological safeguard occurred during the Carl Foster arrest and subsequent horrendous, lifelong injury the absolute truth of what transpired would not be in question. It would have been recorded. Because the truth of what transpires during an exchange between the police and the public is what every good citizen wants, police officer and private person, everyone should be anxious to sign this petition It makes sense and would be a good law.. In advance, The Concerned Citizens of Coquille want to thank everyone who supports the Carl Foster Bill for you seek, as we do, the TRUTH in all situations that arise between the police and the public. Signature Personal http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1797105 Thu, 24 Apr 2008 00:52 EST For Rush Limbaugh challenge click 'all journals' http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1740119 To Whom It May Concern: Click on 'all journals' then scroll down until you find the three challange letters to Rush Limbaugh, the Great Liar and UnAmerican baboon. I hope you hear about this challenge, Rush, 'cause it may be part of your demise as  'Spreader of Manure'. By the way, it is an absolute cinch domino that a Democrat will be the next President of the U.S.A. and the Democrat Party will control, with votes to spare, both Congress and the Senate. Thank God!!! It will take years to undo the horror story put in place by the Republicans. It is my great fear (shared with many people, both Democrats and Republicans) that there is little difference between the parties and that they are, as it seems to appear, reflections of the same,  self-serving beast. As a little person all I can do is go forward on faith...mostly hoping and some praying that what appears to be 'evil aliens' controlling the world isn't so.   Miscellaneous http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1740119 Sun, 21 Oct 2007 17:40 EST 79 YEARS AND 364 3/5TH DAYS http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1738691 79 YEARS AND 364 3/5TH DAYS By Clifford Latta 07-07 It did have a metallic taste; that surprised him. He hastily pulled the 357 magnum pistol barrel from between his teeth. He was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom. He hadn't put it any very far,  just a couple of inches to see what it looked like, after all he had been considering this moment, at every increasing levels of awareness coupled with, what he had started to call, "temporal anxiety", for ten years now. The idea had come to him some time in his late sixties. He had been paying on his accidental death policy, with his daughter as his sole heir, for a little more than four decades: About $12 a month for a term life accidental policy that would pay his daughter $50,000 if he died before the bedroom clock struck twelve midnight. He would be, at 12 midnight, 80 years old and all that money, those many, many thousands of dollars that he had bet the insurance company against his life would be gone...and he would have lost the bet by still being alive. The policy would not pay on a suicidal death during the first two years; after that, however, suicide was perfectly acceptable. That was the dilemma faced by the old drum maker standing in the bathroom of his modular home, heavy 357 magnum pistol dangling at his side. He was a big man, stooped a bit now by age, but still large enough to fill a doorway so the big pistol didn't look awkward or out of balance. He walked into the bedroom, casually flipping on the light and television. He wasn't hooked up to cable or a satellite so his television provided him with movie accessibility. He'd watch a movie every day or so. He spent far more time on his computer. His web site was a huge winner. It didn't make him very much money but he knew that his daughter understood the potential of the business and, if she chose, she could make a lot of money and have fun, too. He was increasingly a hermit, joking with his few friends with whom he was in occasional contact, that he had become such a hermit that he no longer even talked to himself. He had been political with halfhearted efforts in several different directions. He had never made any money and had property through hustle and fluke. It wasn't much but for as little as he had to work for it, it was really okay. He had been thinking about his life a lot lately. He felt the years both physically and, more disturbing, mentally. He liked his web site, he even liked the sound of it: www.greywolfdrums.com. He could chant it like a advertisement and it had a pleasant ring to it. His blog at Zorpia.com/greywolfdrums was viewed by hardly anyone. That, he felt, was a shame. His  Journals contained some of his writings and he considered some of it good enough to elicit comment...but there had been few comments. When he started the blog he wanted to get some  movie ideas out into the world of possibilities.  Fame and fortune, he felt might then be eminent; though the fame part was incidental. He wanted to make a hunk of money, all at one time, to prove some sort of a point or another to himself. If he was successful, he argued to himself, he would be rich and happy; if he was unsuccessful he would be poor and still be happy. It was in his nature. He looked around. Not bad, he thought. Not a mansion or even a big house but for a modular it was very nice with a sun room and a fireplace. He and his grandson and daughter, to whom, ten years earlier, he had given the house just to get ownership out of the way, lived comfortably together. He actually didn't feel very poor and he was unabashedly happy, even when he didn't feel like being happy. It was in his DNA. He came from happy stock, he liked to say.  He turned the television off and turned on the radio. Art bell was talking with someone about abductions. When had Art not been talking about abductions, he thought. Now that there was ample evidence that aliens were on the planet and monitoring humans through implants Art's cutting edge commentary was informative and entertaining but hardly that consequential. He tapped his front denture with the gun barrel. The tap was far harder than he had intended and one of his front teeth cracked in half. It startled and scared him. The shock of the seemingly accidental blow to his mouth filled him instantly with fear. He hadn't felt fear until that very moment. All of a sudden, with the smack of the gun barrel and the broken tooth, he knew that everything he understood, every memory, every thought, every desire...all of him would soon be gone leaving behind a  pile of old garbage that would have to be dealt with. He had paid the cremation fees and taken care of the business part of it...but a dead, bloody body has to be unpleasant...unless you didn't like the guy. He looked  in the mirror at the old  man and laughed. It made him feel better.  The hand held mirror reflected back a new grin. The difference half a tooth can make was startling. I wonder how much different he'd look with the top of my head gone. He bent his head forward so he could look up from under his lowered brow and see clearly the top of his head. He stared at it until his vision began to waver and the hair on top of his head began to undulate; he raised the gun, put the barrel solidly in his mouth pointed up at the roof of his mouth tilted slightly toward the back of his head. His finger tightened on the trigger. Man, this is it, he thought. Then he remembered that the movie Titanic was on his VCR and he wanted to watch that bow of the boat scene again. He wanted to feel the sensation of flying again as he had, during a snow storm,  on a full moon night, standing on the front bumper of his partners Dodge van and zooming down the highway at about 30 or 40 miles an hour...with the headlights off. Now, that was a rush. He took the gun barrel out of his mouth noticing that he hadn't tasted the metal that time, at least he couldn't remember tasting it. His short term memory had become so bad that he'd loose a thought between the first word and the concept several more words into the thought. It was one of the most disturbing aspects of being old. His joints were a constant source of misery but his failing memory and mind were like hornets stinging him in his brain. Of course, he couldn't remember the pain for more than a few moments so it wasn't so bad...once he had accepted the repetitive nature of it...repetitive nature of it...repetitive nature of it...repetitive...what was I saying? He laughed his genuine laugh. He actually didn't have anything but a genuine laugh. When it was funny he laughed, sometimes really loud, not from rudeness but rather his scared eardrums. He knew he was loud, just not when. He had been watching Titanic and the movie started in the middle. He watched the television screen for a moment trying to recall what was happening in the movie; he noticed the time on the clock that he had placed on the television so he wouldn't loose track of time. That was something he just couldn't afford to do. Too much money was involved. The winning of a bet was involved. Passing on some sort of financial assistance to his daughter and grandson was involved. He had no savings to speak of; a couple of thousand dollars stashed here and there, in this bank account and that, here and there, but that was it. The house was mortgage free due to an actual accidental fire that had burned down his original house and burned up a huge amount of his stuff...which the insurance company paid for in an easy and generous way. The house represented $150,000 to $180,000, depending on the market, so that helped asuage his guilt but that wasn't cash money and the bullet in the head was cash money; enough to make a nice impression. Without the bullet in the head he would wake up in the morning, an old man of 80; he would have a cake with eight candle, representing the 80, 'cause who wants to eat cake after some 80 year old person has unintentionally spit all over it trying to blow out an 80 candle conflagration? Not me, he thought, I wouldn't even want to eat my own cake if I had to blow out a bonfire on the top of it. He's be 80 and feeling like shit as he had for some years now. If he died at 81 of natural causes he would be paying a nice chunk of money, that could really help his daughter and grandson, for one additional, crummy year. That would be a real bummer. It was 11:43 when he raised the 357 magnum and placed the barrel solidly between his teeth, pointing upward, angled back just a tad... Personal http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1738691 Wed, 17 Oct 2007 01:34 EST The Poetry of Love, Coming and Going http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1736406 The Love of My Life Love last forever when two people have been woven into a single fabric, even for a brief time, for that cloth  becomes fixed in the bigger fabric that is their life. The thread that is me, entwined so inextricably with 18 months with you, looks good on you...it fits. You, with gentle entanglements, reaching deep into me, into areas not visable - and your presence has pulled my cloth togethr. What had been wounded is made whole by the loving thread that is you. My cloth, older, more worn, not easily added to, has been strengthened by you. From my stronger position, far more comfortable with myself than I've ever been, I extend, across whatever distances that now seperate us, my eternal thanks to you, my friend. Personal http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1736406 Sun, 14 Oct 2007 02:16 EST Look out, Rush Limbaugh, here I come... http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1717639 A GIANT RUSH WARNING: Yours Truthfully, Cliff (Yes, you will drop over some time)Iâ€™m in the process of making a video for YouTube which will say a few things to you, and the world, which need to be said. It will be so funny and so right on that lots and lots of people will view it which will increase the pressure on you to respond...or be thought â€˜A COWARD". When you see the upcoming video, Rush, it will make you shit your pants. OOOOoooooOOOOooooOOOOOOOOoooooooooo here I come, Rush Baby with the poo poo pants. Miscellaneous http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1717639 Fri, 17 Aug 2007 01:33 EST ...like a toilet flushed turd... http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1717638 Letâ€™s Flush The King of Crap The Solemn Vow of A Liberal Who Listens to Rush Limbaugh: I will conscientiously refrain from purchasing any item or service advertised on the Rush Limbaugh radio show. By withholding my capital from the sponsors of the King of Crap, the Distorter of Truth, the Perverter of the American Dream, the Assassin of Honest Debate and the Un-American Voice of Hate, I dignify the time I spend listening to The Enemy. Let my buying power speak for me. Join me in this effort to demonstrate just how flawed Rush is in his assertion that almost all of his audience is supportive of his nasty, contemptible rhetoric. An â€˜Echo Headâ€™ might feel some joy at lifting his or her coffee to his or her mouth in a Rush cup or wearing a Gitmo T-shirt. I, however, want to puke in the cup and tear the T-shirt. Since I can do neither, I will withhold my dollars from any and all products associated with Rush. By the way, the space behind his back, where he brags about a half a brain being tied, is empty. I looked and Limbaugh is lying...there is no half a brain back there...which means, since he said, "Half my brain is tied behind my back...", that he has only half a brain. The other half, the half behind his back, must have gotten lost or been eaten by the dog. Join me and take up financial arms against this dishonest, un-American man. Clifford Latta - Grey Wolf the Drum Maker greywolfdrums@hotmail.com www.greywolfdrums.com Miscellaneous http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1717638 Fri, 17 Aug 2007 01:24 EST Rush, a Double Dare! http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1717637 TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: I must admit that being a Rush Limbaugh listener and a liberal Democrat has invigorated my aging brain. When I shout, "You Moron", at the radio that is good for me and stimulates me in many ways. With the Democrats in control I am experiencing a new kind of â€˜joyâ€™ as I listen to Rush implode as he stumbles along the cutting edge of stupidity. There are so many glaring instances of blind foolishness and, at times, incomprehensible ignorance that I must wonder if, perhaps, the ludicrous positions often taken by Rush are taken to simply stimulate anger and, thereby, enliven his talk show. Then he will say something or take a stand on an issue and it becomes absolutely clear, to everyone conscious enough to hear, that, as Iâ€™ve known for a long time, there is no other half a brain tied behind his back...what you hear is what he is. Can he really hate so much that is good? Can he really be in opposition to so much that is intellectual (pin-headed, according to him)? Oh, he memorizes a lot of information but regurgitates it according to some dismal inner need to support the insupportable. He is, in fact, unwilling to adjust his positions to the increasingly obvious. This morning when he jabbered something about global warming being 100% political I knew it was time to actually send this letter which Iâ€™ve been thinking about for years. In an attempt to force Rush into some sort of intellectual light I submit the following â€˜open letterâ€™ to Rush Limbaugh: "Rush, you endlessly violate the basic laws of survival by not adjusting your professed beliefs and principles to the evidence. Rush, you lied when you started the rumor that there is another â€˜half a brainâ€™ tied behind your back which leaves you with the remaining â€˜half a brainâ€™.. Rush, I raise the gauntlet of challenge and slap you across your conservative jowls. To prove you distort the truth and are a liar will be easy...as easy as one, two, three (everyone can hear the sound of a gauntlet on jowls). Rush, I dare you to meet me on your daily talk show for 15 minutes (more if you will allow it) on any Friday to respond to my questions and comments concerning the proceeding four days of programming. I will ask the questions that millions of listeners want to ask. I will point out to you and your listeners what I believe to be hypocrisy, demagoguery, distortions and lies by you during the proceeding four days. Rush, you will then have the opportunity to persuade me and your listeners that you are not a liar and that you donâ€™t mislead people. Rush, I double-dare you to accept this manly challenge. If you donâ€™t, I will understand. Your fear is predictable for you know, from what Iâ€™ve said in this â€˜open letterâ€™, that Iâ€™m hep to your game...and that if you do accept my challenge your â€˜echo headsâ€™ will become aware of a very different â€˜youâ€™. Increasingly, as science and common sense step in your face, your humor is becoming weak, repetitive and a gross over simplification of complicated issues. I find myself feeling sorry for you and, perhaps, even sorrier for those fanatical â€˜echo headsâ€™ who struggle to continue endorsing your twisted, myopic view of almost everything. Youâ€™ve been on top for a long time and as the ground beneath your feet begins to crumble and you begin to stumble and fumble I wait for the inevitable tumble... In fact, I sort of like you, Rush; my efforts are not personal but, rather, for the good of our country. Namaste (though, thatâ€™s a tough one). Sincerely, Clifford Latta - Grey Wolf the Drum Maker www.greywolfdrums.com greywolfdrums@hotmail.co Miscellaneous http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1717637 Fri, 17 Aug 2007 01:22 EST Algerbra - no, no, no, no, and NO!!! http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1717634 Algebra- Not now, Not ever!   STUDENTS AND OTHER REASONABALE PEOPLE AGAINST ALGEBRA   by Clifford Latta - "Grey Wolf the Drum Maker"   Statement of Fact: After a basic algebra course, compulsory college algebra is without merit and is, in fact, deleterious to the scholastic efforts of many college students. A student knows whether additional algebra and other advanced mathematics courses will be necessary to pursue a career choice. The student must be allowed to choose math if it fits in with his or her future plans or reject if it doesnâ€™t. At present, students who will never use algebra, or any other advanced math, are forced to devote huge blocks of meaningful study time to a totally meaningless subject. Not only is this fact blatantly obvious to the students but also to most professors and those students who have proceeded them. Ask any college graduate if they have ever used algebra and, if they arenâ€™t in a scientific field, they will probably say that not only have they not used it, they would be hard pressed to remember even the simplest algebraic equation. They will probably say that the study of college algebra has provided them with no usable skills and that it was a waste of time. Occasionally someone might say, "Algebra taught me to think logically." I would reply, "Allow me to take a course in Logic, instead of algebra, and I will get an A." Observation: When students do choose to follow a career into higher mathematics there are generally only two possible doors open to them upon graduation: 1) research and 2) teaching. The few math majors who successfully pursue their chosen field into research provide an invaluable service, mostly in the art of war (weapons and weapon delivery systems); however, for every researcher there are literally thousands of math majors who move into teaching. There are no math jobs in the business world (computer programs do all that). Research, mostly for the military, and teaching are generally the only careers open to them. The tinniest fraction of math majors have the ability to pursue research so they automatically become high school and college math teachers. It seems to me that the need of the military for research scientists is the underlying force that compels all students to be exposed to higher math and, in turn, leaves the country awash in math majors who must provided with jobs...and teaching is all there is. It seems unfair to subject hundreds of thousands of capable, hard-working college students to the absolutely meaningless, time-consuming pursuit of learing algebra so that math majors who donâ€™t go into research and donâ€™t secure employment at the junior or high school level can have jobs. Reasonable Working Proposition: Instead of having a required algebra math sequence, for all students graduating college, let algebra and other higher mathematics programs be electives. The student who is pursing a career that requires a math background will take the necessary courses. To not do so would be to fail. After all, by the time someone is in college, doing college work, listening to college counselors, and making college decisions, it is not unreasonable to believe they will choose wisely. A student can choose to take math or not take it according to his or her desires and needs. The student choosing to not take math will then have those countless, wasted hours now spent on math to learn communication skills, English, political science, psychology, sociology and other disciplines that will serve them well for the rest of their lives. Being proficient in math is no longer supposed to be a measure of oneâ€™s intellectual capacity and yet many students who are not proficient in math and have made career choices, based at least partly on that awareness, have their GPA seriously diminished by math grades. That translates into lost grants. lost scholarships. lost financial aid and an unfair disadvantage for many students based on the meaningless pursuit of a useless discipline. It is not fair! Valid Consideration: If learning algebra is an absolute waste of important study time for this writer who is an older, middle class, white male, how much greater must the waste of time be for a struggling young college student who may be having problems learning basic communication skills. The present, useless college algebra sequence might stand between a valuable, intelligent college graduate and a day laborer. There are students who will not graduate because of algebra. There are students who have had, and are continuing to have, their own self-image seriously damaged by their inherent problems with algebra. There are students who have committed suicide and others who are on the verge of suicide because of math anxiety. Algebra is an ongoing energy, time and self-esteem drain for many students. Hard-working students can not afford to waste their energy and time and they should not be forced to suffer humiliation, anxiety and self-hatred in the meaningless, mindless pursuit of algebra. This must be changed so future generations of students wonâ€™t be subjected to this very narrow-minded, blatantly wrong fiat. Petition: We petition for our freedom from a meangingless mathematical sequence. We petition for a curriculum which will accurately reflect our scholastic needs. We petition for a reevaluation of the motives that subject students, who will never use algebra in their life times, to the present, utterly meaningless, frivolous and sometimes deleterious required college math sequence. Statement to all Students: We are not against math, math teachers, or math as a career choice. We are, however, against the present policies that force all students to learn algebra. We know it is of no consequence to many of us now nor will it be in the future. Math should be fully represented in high school. All students should be exposed to high school algebra. That will allow them to get a feel for it, see if they like it, and see if it might fit in with future plans. When a student gets to college, math should be come a matter of choice. It is our opinion that there should be no math requirements for a liberal arts degree. To petition for and receive this reasonable change in the present structure of higher education will not be easy. The present policy seems to be written in stone...but it must be changed for it is wrong! -30- Miscellaneous http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1717634 Fri, 17 Aug 2007 01:20 EST UPCHUCK 101 http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1633331 Upchuck 101 By Grey Wolf    <dir></dir> When I was 12 or 13 I read an article in, I believe, Readerâ€™s Digest, entitled, I believe, "The Human Ostrich". It made a major impact on my adolescent brain. The story was about a man who could swallow a variety of objects and regurgitate them with great control...by size, weight, texture, and order in which they were swallowed. He said that he came by this talent by tying a small piece of potato on a string and swallowing it then practiced reversing the natural peristaltic motion while pulling the potato up, out of his stomach, on the attached string. "Why not learn this potentially valuable talent?" I immediately thought, heading for he kitchen where I cut a small piece of potato to which I attached a piece of thread. Swallow; slowly pull up while controlling the muscles of the stomach and throat to help push the potato up and out of the mouth; swallow; slowly pull up while controlling.....   In short order I had mastered the basic techniques of the Human Ostrich...and I was, at most, 13 years old.   When I was around 30 years old and in prison I used the techniques I had learned as a child to loose weight. Not some â€˜sickâ€™ eating disorder but a well structured, controlled program to limit my caloric intake. I lost 45 pounds in less than two months...and was never really hungry and never compulsive about my upchucking. I would, pretty much, upchuck all high caloric foods. I would eat so that the material I was going to upchuck would sort of be on the top of the stuff in my stomach. I use to joke that I could upchuck the pudding and stop as soon as the salad started to appear.   It was so easy for me to upchuck (and still is) that I had to be careful to not â€˜burpâ€™ and loose some of my meal.   When I was around 55 I picked up a bottle of VERY CONCENTRATED POISON and gulped down two large mouthfuls. I immediately realized that it wasnâ€™t the cough syrup that I thought I was drinking; it was a concentrated tick and flee poison. The instructions were very emphatic: "After it was mixed, one tablespoon per gallon of water, wear gloves and if you get it on you, wash immediately." I had just swallowed, perhaps, a quarter of a cup of the poison.   Instantly, without thinking, I followed the poison with a glass of water. I jumped up a down for a few seconds and then, leaning forward to open my throat and make the expulsion of poisonous water easier, I opened my throat, flexed the bottom of my stomach and pushed upward with my muscles, and expelled the poisonous water in a steady, even, easy stream...inspite of the gagging chemical quality of the poison. I was able to easily upchuck the first water followed by additional water and upchucking. [ Later, when reading the instructions should someone accidentally consume the poison DO NOT REGURGITATE. If the poison were to be aspirated ( sucked by accident into the lungs) the victim would probably die.] I didnâ€™t feel that I had it all and it was VERY POISONOUS so I went to the Emergency Hospital in Coquille. I took the bottle of poison with me. Once there and in the examination room the doctor began to hunt down the right treatment for the poison.   In about five minutes the doctor returned, on the run, with nurses in tow. Within seconds I had a tube down my throat into my stomach and the process of pumping my stomach began.   The doctor told me that the poison I had consumed was the most poisonous substance possible for a home owner to have...and that it was the same poison released on the Kurds by Sadam Husien. The way it works is that it turns a personâ€™s body fluids into a very tacky substance and the victim chokes to death on the spit that gets caught in the throat.   As they pumped my stomach into a bowl I found that I could string my spit from one side of the bowl to the other and that it had enough substance to hang there between the two sides of the bowl like a piece of string....so I made strings all over the bowl as my stomach was being pumped....and I had upchucked almost all of the poison within moments of drinking it.   Had I not been so comfortable regurgitating I might have aspirated some of the poison so knowing the tricks of the Human Ostrich may have saved my life. Soooooo, Iâ€™ve lost weight easily and, perhaps, saved my life as a direct result of that first small piece of potato on a string.   Grey Wolf Miscellaneous http://www.zorpia.com/greywolfdrums/journal/1633331 Wed, 10 Jan 2007 01:06 EST