Wednesday,Apr 26 2006, 05:30:57 AMTHE DNA BUG

The DNA Bug (1998)

 

The low hum of the sophisticated electronic equipment that
filled the small lab no longer annoyed Professor Adams.
Occasionally it would set his teeth on edge but not with the
fingernails on blackboard edge that had almost made him change
careers. It was the simple sixty cycle hum of electricity and the others found it no
more difficult to adjust to than the low noises of the
refrigerator in the corner of the lab. For Professor Adams it
had been a difficult struggle. Now its persistent grind on his
nerves was forgotten and he was glad. Now he could gaze through
the eye piece and match DNA strands isolating the sequence that
he would use to build his better bug.

 

"Doctor Adams," Sharon Talbert called his name and he looked up.
"The sequence on plate Z-7 seems to  be what we've been looking
for."

 

He hurried to her station. It was all on the moniter. 

It was, as she had said, the sequence
required for the project to move into phase three, three of a
four phase operation.

 

"Thank you, Sharon. You've accomplished what might well be a
world saving achievement." He took her hand. "I will write in
the report that it was your work, my dear, that established the
Saddam indicator. You've isolated a single human being's DNA
sequence at a level that allows for phase three to begin. His
right hand was gently holding her right shoulder. Now he reached
down and firmly took her right hand in his. The handshake was
firm and sincere. "You've helped save the human race."

 

Later that night Doctor Adams worked alone. Everyone had left a
few hours before. This is the way he liked it, alone, the lab
humming about him, the DNA sequences reflecting from his mind
and imagination on the computer screen. He almost had it.
Another adjustment or two and...There! It was done. He had, at
that very moment, created a virus that was locked into the
sequence found by Sharon. To all other DNA sequences the virus
would be as invisible and meaningless as a few atoms dancing on
the air; but to that single DNA code the virus would become a
living nightmare. It would dissolve, it would rend, it would
consume and destroy.

 

It had all started three years before when his paper, "Unique
Characteristics of Individual DNA Coding", was published by JAMA
and two months later a second paper, "Targeting  Unique DNA - A
Methodology for Establishing a DNA Assault", was published in
Scientific American. The papers dealt with the possibility of
isolating a specific DNA and then designing a biological
delivery system that would allow doctors to reconstruct or
adjust DNA sequences in a particular individual.

 

The military didn't hesitate. Within weeks he was working under
a federal grant in a private laboratory that was paid for and
staffed by secret federal security group. It had a code 
name. It was referred to as Plus One.

 

At first Doctor Adams manipulated the DNA of individual
Chimpanzees. He quickly developed virus that would give a single
chimp, out of hundreds of chimps, the flu. None of the other
chimps would even get a runny nose or develop a weak caught. To
the other chimps the virus was non-existent. But for the chimp
for whom it had been programmed, the flu, or whatever other
virus he constructed for that individual chimp, there was no
escape. The virus attacked with a directed, absolute ferocity.

 

Shortly after proving the validity of his work a small packet
was delivered to him. It contained an eyelash, four strands of
black hair, one finger nail shard and a tiny envelope of dried
sweat, now a fine, white powder. He matched the DNA from the
samples and it was obvious that they had all come from the same
human being.

 

He looked through the electron microscope and adjusted his
equipment. The virus was ready. It could be swallowed, breathed
in, rubbed on the skin of any other human being on the earth but
to the individual from whom the samples came it was a charging
rhinoceros of a virus...it would blow the cell structure of that
one particular individual into ruptured ruin, the essence of the
cell running out of corrupted cell walls like so much snot. A
thousand tons of the virus could be released into the
stratosphere and it would be as meaningless as the air too all
the humans of the earth...except for that one individual. There
would be no place to hide. This programmed DNA bug would
eventually find him and kill him. There was no way out for that
targeted individual.

 

He had heard John Starbuck, his senior planner, talking quietly
over the phone when John thought that he was alone. The
conversation had been one-sided and he had only heard part of it
but he had heard enough to know who the target was. Privately he
had begun to call the Bug, Saddam's Bug. The overheard phone
call had suggested that the CIA had paid several million dollars
to several people close to Saddam for the samples that he had
received. Several samples from a variety of sources were
gathered so that they could be cross referenced. Who ever did
the gathering must have had excellent contacts because all of
the samples had come from the same individual.

 

This method of eliminating a given person was full proof without
being even slightly dangerous to anyone else. The DNA sequence
had to be exactly right for the DNA bug to be activated. Without
the individual DNA sequence the virus would be meaningless.

 

Chapter Two

 

His Arabic was excellent. He looked the part, dark flashing
eyes, curly black hair, a burnt brown complexion. He looked like
he had spent his life in the desert. He hadn't, not really;
though for the last eight months he had spent hours each day,
beneath the cooking heat of a tanning light. Now he was leathery
and brown. It was time. Charley Simon was prepared physically
and mentally to do what must be done to deliver the DNA Bug to
Bagdad. Plus One had determined through the same contacts that
had delivered the biological samples that Saddam was in Bagdad
and would be there for at least ten days. He would deliver the
shirt button size atomizers to seven different contacts in the
Iraqi government and he would release 30 small balloons upwind
from Bagdad; each of the balloons would be carrying twelve grams
of desiccated virus in a slow release spray can. It would be
dispelled on the winds of Iraq, across Bagdad and through the
windows and ventilating systems of the palaces and, eventually,
into the nose and mouth and onto the skin of Saddam Hussien.

 

For Saddam there was no hope.

Tuesday,Apr 25 2006, 02:41:07 AMBEYOND CHAOS - THE FIRST AND LAST VIBRATORY WAR

 

BEYOND CHAOS - THE FIRST AND ONLY VIBRATORY WAR

By Clifford Latta 08-27-05

Sang Wong Harbor Imports had been alive with customers; they seemed to cover items with their squirming bodies and grabbing hands as they searched for the right wireless phone. Wireless was a world-wide rage as it was in this part of Kansas. Several Chinese firms had made manufacturing improvements which dramatically lowered the cost of cell phones allowing them to ship many millions of wireless phones, to the countries of the world, to be sold at bargin-basement prices through outlets like WalMart and BiMart and half a dozen other international conglomerates. They were cheap to make, could be sold for a handsome profit (even to poor peasants) and provided everyone who wanted one, immediate wireless, vibratory connection with anyone else with a cell phone.

China and India and all the poor nations of the world had embraced cell phones.  The Africian nations, with between 15% and 45% of thier population infected with the AIDS virus, had become a world wide leader in cell phone ownership. The dying did not have to be quite so alone.

John Squasmyer put his pen carefully next to the ruler which, of course, was properly located next to the paper clip magnet and cellophane tape dispenser. He leaned back tapping his front teeth lightly with his right index nail and stared at the mathematical equations he had drawn on the ceiling five years before when he accepted the professorship. He had taken a substantial reduction in pay to move from the private sector making six figures tweeking the application and use of wireless for Sang Wong Harbor Imports. He liked teaching so the decision hadn't been that difficult and now, several years later, an aging mathematician with an unusually ‘fresh’ mind, .he was staring at an equation scrawled on the ceiling above his head,  He would always cherish the scrawling episode: he was smoking some excellent homegrown, had ingested 30 or 50 or 200 Liberty Caps and now the mushroom-world filled his world with geometry...magical, almost understood equations and charts and graphs, filled the air about him...became the air about him and then he remember the sensation of being hit in the solar plexus. He thought he was having a heart attack and grabbed a chair to steady himself but his hand passed through the chair and he fell against and into the wall. He didn’t know what would have happened had he continued to fall but he didn’t for his accute sense of balance and extraordinary reflexes allowed him to swivel his body so that his left foot twisted foreword and slammed into the front of the stereo which, it turned out was as solid as it always was, plastic and glass and electronic components exploded in every direction and John entire body twisted to the left spilling him into the shattered stereo and sucking his tingling arm from the structure of the wall. He watched the wall fill in as his arm pulled free. John had laid on the floor amidst the electronic debris and stared at the ceiling. He knew immediately what had happened. His insight was, he always believed, due to the ingesting of an unknown number of Liberty Caps. The epiphany would later become his renowned mathematical multiverse postulation that any given space would contain all possible vibratory arenas and that the shifting of a vibration at one, correlated level to another correlated level was always followed by a shift of the entire spectrum resulting in a totally independent reality; that is, all possible vibratory worlds are occurring simultaneously in any position. Of course, the mathematics was highly speculative and, declared by many, 'imaginative' and limited by existing, well understood postulates. Now John stared at the ceililng and once more understood and appreciated the profound nature of his equation. He had taken several hands full of Liberty Caps, ate his remaining nine peyote buttons, smoked a bunch of good dope and now he began to fullly understand.  He knew the human race was being attached by beings from another dimension. He knew that our reality had been attacked, through the vibratory string theory implied in his scrawlings on the ceiling. He knew that beings from another dimension, from another multiverse, were sending some sort of vibratory ‘bombs’ around the edges that separate the realities and, as he stared at his ‘shrum’ equations he, and most likely only he, understood that all of our wireless ‘stuff’ from radios and t.v.s to cell phones and computers to military stuff beyond guessing...all of them polluting the vibratory world with their intrusions and some vibrations, by the unknowable emensity of their vastness and volume, had started to seep into another world where, who knows, what harm they might have caused. John knew that our reality’s wireless excess had elicited the response that was now ending human civilization and, probably, human history. John knew it. He also knew that the folks in the other reality would know that they had been successful for the vibratory seepage would stop and, after all, for whatever reason, that’s what they wanted....what they needed for them to maintain that which they deemed important.

John looked out the window of his apartment on the third floor of the campus math buildings, an apartment built especially for him because of his awesome reputation, and watch his world fall apart.

It had started two days ago when small fires began to appear in mid air all over the planet. Just small two or three inch balls of fire exploding into being and then disappearing with a low humming sound. In that instant of fire they would ignite any burnable material within several inches...just enough to set the world on fire. Five hours after the first fire ball exploded into being people started going violently insane. It was deduced, within a couple of hours, that the insanity factor was greatest where the radio and television reception was the best...so those in subways and metal buildings and behind tangled ropes of wire and metal mesh and just any place with bad reception didn’t go quite as mad or, perhaps, not mad at all. Of course, by the time such observations were made it was too late. Everything was on fire everywhere and people were killing and eating their friends and relatives.

The first, last and only vibratory war ever experienced by the human race was over in two days without us firing back a single shot and the results of that war continued to escalate as everything civilized, everywhere on the planet continued to dissolve.

ZZXCXZERTFGHF turned to 12mnrm3’1KJJ, knobbed his specalum long and thoughtfully and groppeted, "I do believe we were successful. The kammadine of our speculatories has stopped. Pray, Oh, 12mnrm3’1KJJ, that we have not inflicted to great a sadness on those behind the wall’s edge. We had no choice, it is known, for the sqaweless cannot be eaten with melted cheese...and they were melting our cheese with all their twadels." The cherbered to each other and had another piece of sqaweless with ‘unmelted’ cheese. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, good.

The end

Tuesday,Apr 25 2006, 01:24:02 AMFAT OF THE LAND

THE FAT OF THE LAND

by

Clifford Latta

 He didn't look like a representative of another planet. He was
human and had been a wino and a bum. Of course, his original
appearance, dirty and stinking, it was said, helped cause the
initial confusion. He wasn't the sort of person politicians and
their bosses, the king makers, were used to dealing with. When
he told the mayor of Pinkerton, Montana, that the top of Hanikan
mountain would be vaporized on June 12, at 10 a.m. the mayor
gave him a fiver for wine, winked at his sheriff, and said, "Mo
likely, Jim-bo, it will be the top of your head that will
vaporize." After that event, when he told the governor of the
state that Sidney's barn and back 40 would also be vaporized the
governor, the attorney general and a handful of other
dignitaries scoffed but it was a nervous scoffing. After the
vaporization, which was an awesome display of unearthly power
and a mighty big forward step on Jim-bo's part, the process for
the Great Shangri-La Accord was in place and success assured.
Success is seldom without struggle; however, 'might is right'
and 'truth will prevail.'

  Sir Jim Bo was the title he finally chose. It is said that the
title was chosen over 'His Imminence', 'The Grand One' and other
elegant but ostentation forms of address. 'Sir' had a dignified
and respectful feel to it without going too far. It is also said
by chroniclers that once Sir Jim Bo demonstrated the awesome
power of his righteous connection with the Squeelians the Great
Shangri-La Accord and Sir Jim Bo's worldwide dominance were
guaranteed. After all, how could it be otherwise?    The human
race, from the Eskimos of the North through he great
civilizations in the middle to the folks living at the tip of
Chili and beyond, were, for the most part, meat eaters and could
easily and quickly relate to what the governments of the world
quickly defined as the only two choices offered by the
Squeelians through Sir Jim Bo. The rapidity of humankind's
governments agreeing on an absolute course of action had no
precedence. Their collective effort, automatic after the
absoluteness of humanity's relative position to the Squeelians,
was established.

 "Squeelian" is as close as human linguists could come to
reproducing the sounds that came through Sir Jim Bo to the
people of the planet. The fact that no one on earth, not even
Sir Jim Bo, ever got to see them didn't hinder the Great
Shangri-La Accord. Certain psychics were able to establish some
inkling of their physical appearance. Though vague it
immediately became quite clear that, on its face, if your Master
is an unspeakable thing it is probably best that you never,
ever, under any circumstances see your Master. Just so with the
wonderful Squeeliens.

 There were only two definitive choices offered by the
Squeelians and mankind's choice was predetermined. Chickens and
cows were treated well, fed well, had music piped into their
domiciles for one reason and one reason only; it made good,
productive, monetary sense. Treat your flocks and herds right
and you'll get more for your investment.

 We, the human beings of this planet, have come to spiritually
understand the cosmic implications of our symbiotic relationship
with the Grand and Glories Squeelians. After all, that
relationship could be 'the opposite side of the coin'. It is
that 'opposite side of the coin' that give us 'pause' and allows
us, from our most advanced thinkers to the primitives that still
inhabit the earth, to raise our voices in almost worshipful
adoration of the Grand and Glories Squeelians, Mystic Invisible
Who Bring All Good Things.

 Yes, there are the malcontents. We've all read about them. A
few of us have even been caught in, or a part of, their efforts
to "sever the cord", as they call it. Thank god, they are few
and loosing ground daily. At first there were hundreds of
thousands of them, maybe, even, millions, and it was rumored,
tens of millions, even hundreds of millions of humans who were
simply 'trapped' by their own egos and sense of anthropomorphic
godhood. Once those antiquated notions were overcome and a far
larger, far more reasonable consciousness was manifested we
found our evolutionary niche; a niche much bigger and much
better than any puny earth bound niche. We became part of the
Glorious Squeelian Family. The joyous Accord's acquiescence, "We
Be Your Chicken!" was soon the corner stone of all of humanities
activities. Surprisingly soon it was easy to say: "We be your
chicken!" 

 

Chapter 2

 Jim-bo hadn't had breakfast yet and it was almost 6 p.m.. His
favorite 'breakfast dumpster' had already been hit.  Some
scalawag had taken the best, usable food and walked all over the
other stuff. That wouldn't have been a total catastrophe had
there not been dog shit on the scalawags shoes. There was just
something about the smell of dog shit that made Jim-bo want to
spew. So, no breakfast

 The "lunch/dinner dumpster/series of garbage cans" were also
ravaged by the owner of the dog shit shoes. Another calamity.
Would it never end, he wondered, picking at his runny nose with
a long, dirty finger nail on the index finger of his left hand.
IT was his bugger hooker. When things weren't going well in
one's life things like shit and piss and sweat and blood and
snot and buggers became axiomatic. Body odor? What was that? Ask
someone walking close to Jim-bo and they could immediately
identify and describe the intrusiveness of foul body emanations.
But to Jim-bo, such considerations had long since lost meaning.

 

Chapter 3

 

 "Damn, dang dog shit, donut," Jim-bo grunted sniffing deeply at
the hard, broken donut. "Can't eat this dang, dog shit donut,"
he proclaimed aloud, holding the donut up like some mysterious
icon, high above his head, head thrown back to view it. His
greasy hair hung almost to his waist. Every once in a while,
every ten months or so, he'd reach around behind himself and cut
it off with his ever sharp knife.

 He started to reach into a dark corner of the dumpster where
the dull, reflected sunlight that found its way into the dark
alley, through the dumpster overhead door and into the corner,
seemed to reflect like a golden sun off a surprisingly healthy
looking orange. "Damned nice find," he whispered as he reached
for the brightness. Something smacked him in the head. "Whoa,
now," he cried trying to catch his balance. It didn't work. He
feel heavily into the garbage his hand instinctively reaching
for the top of his head. Then he realized that the blow hadn't
been on the outside. That he had been slammed on the inside of
his head. "Good, god, I'm done for," Jim-bo whined, thinking
back with a quickness that would have surprised him at any other
time, to the day of his fourteenth birthday when his dad handed
him his birthday present, a bottle of Jack Daniel's - his dad
was a drinkin' man and, no doubt, believe such a wonderful gift
would be shared - had grabbed at his head, screamed, "Good, god,
I'm done for," and died on the spot. The autopsy had reveled a
brain turned to semi-solid cheese by alcohol with a nice big
blow out toward the front part. They couldn't tell exactly where
the rupture occurred because his brain was mushy and kept
falling through the coroner's fingers.

 Jim-bo was now lying in the garbage, terror making him froth at
the mouth; an intuitive clinging to life making him overcome the
fear to evaluate the situation. Then another 'slam' drove him
back into the garbage again.

 He could hear radio stations, all abuzz with static, inside his
head. Nothing he could understand but, no question about it,
there was stuff being said inside his head. Another, lighter
'slam' and Jim-bo resolved himself to the intrusion. Either he
had gone totally insane or God was trying to say something to
him. It just wasn't radio signals. It was something much, much
bigger. It so filled him that he could feel the message in his
toes. He couldn't understand any of it, but he could feel it
simultaneously at every point of his being.

 "Squeelian, Squeesilian, your are we be to be Squeesilian."
Bits of Shakespeare, from high school, started falling into
place, "That is the question. What is the question? To be or not
to Squeelian," Something was wrong. the words were melting into
each other. Another light slam and Jim-bo began to relax. He
wasn't dead and he didn't feel like he was going to die. In
fact, Jim-bo hadn't felt this good in years. He relaxed, his
head on a piece of old watermelon, rejected earlier by him. "Not
good for eating," he had though earlier. Now he thought, "Nice
pillow."

 The static began to coalesce. "Cluck, cluck, shecan. Cluck,
cluck,  techecan. Cluck, cluck, chican. Squeesilian, squeeze.
Cluck, cluck, chicken. You are there, chicken, oink, pig, moo
clow, moo conow, moo cow. You are there? Name pees?" Jim-bo was
still frightened but this was beginning to feel like a game
show. He looked around suddenly. Paranoid. He had been in
dumpsters for a long time now. Maybe, Candid Camera had somehow
moved into the head of folks and he was now being viewed by
millions of people. Nothing. Just the persistent barnyard talk.
"cluck, cluck, oink, oink, moo, moo, you be our chicken." The
words were beginning to become clearer. Very definite now: "YOU
BE OUR CHICKEN!" There was a searing flash of pain as the inside
of his head surged with demand. THEY WANTED AN ANSWER. "YES," he
screamed, eyes running with tears of pain, "YES, I BE YOUR
CHICKEN." The pain ceased. The agony was gone. His hunger,
remembered for an instant, replaced with a sense of wonderfully
satisfying fullness. He felt superb. Better than he could ever
remember or imagine feeling. He instantly knew why. He had said
the right words. He softly whispered them again, "I be your
chicken." And the ecstasy filled him. Better than anything.
Better than god.

 Now all humans know Sir Jim Bo's story and have experienced the
agony and bliss so easily inflicted by the Squeelians. There is
a familiar children's rhyme that goes, "When the Squeelians are
good, they are terrific; when the Squeelians are bad they are
horrific."

 The Shangri-La La Accord turned this old mother Earth into
Heaven. As we all know, they eliminated sickness and disease;
they increased our I.Q.'s so we could know more; they gave us
undreamed of technology; they opened the macro and micro worlds
to our exploration; they increased our average life span to 234
years without a day of it as an old person; they made close to
perfect specimens; they filled our plates with rich, tantalizing
foods and encouraged us to eat, eat, eat...eat and drink...drink
and eat...GAIN THAT WEIGHT! PUT ON THOSE POUNDS! GOBBLE THAT ICE
CREAM AND CHOCOLATE SAUCE! SCARF DOWN PEANUT BUTTER AND CHEESE!
They gave us so much and asked so little in return. We all know
the rest of the story; when we weigh fifteen pounds over our
optimum weight we make a simple, non-intrusive visit to the
"Fat-O-Land" chamber (located on every other street corner), sit
quietly in a comfortable chair (while reading, listening to a
favorite radio show or watching a movie) and in twenty five
minutes the process is over...and we are back to optimum weight
and we look like we're twenty one again...and again...and
again...for a couple of hundred years. We don't know precisely
what they do with our fat but it has something to do with food
and fuel. Who cares? When they take those unwanted pounds and
give us back our youth, who cares what they use it for.

 Like the rest of you, I bless the day the Squeelians socked old
Sir Jim Bo in the head with their "You be our Chicken" message.
Heck yes, I'll be their chicken for perpetual youth, excellent
health, genius abilities, space travel, yata, yata, yata...heck
yes.

 

 

The End.

 

Monday,Apr 24 2006, 06:50:22 AMPolitical Stuff - articles, letters, observations

Open Letter To the Secretary of Defense

As our side so aptly declared in Afghanistan, "The night belongs to us".

We ruled the night because we had the technology to see, and thereby act, in darkness.

If there is actually warfare on this continent our foe will face the most highly armed civilian population in the history of the world.

We will make a formidable front line civilian defense...but we will fail if the night belongs to our foe.

Therefore, it is in the interest of freedom to provide America's civilian front-line with the high quality, night vision equipment necessary to defeat the enemy.

We don't need the cheap, first generation, monocular night vision scopes. They are better than nothing but certainly inferior to the night vision equipment with which an invading foe would assuredly be equipped.

In fact, hostile forces already in the country can purchase, through the mail, the best night vision equipment, body armor, semi-automatic weapons and the book detailing how to make them fully automatic, explosive materials from dozens of different sources, heat sensing equipment (easily made from Radio Shack items) for locating people inside buildings, books detailing how to make a silencer for you weapon and what ever else a dedicated enemy might find useful in his assault on us.

We must also develop a night time warning system of some sort or we may all die at the hands of those who have purchased all their equipment legally, through the mail. Assassins with night vision equipment, silencers, high powered rifles, heat sensor equipment and the best communications equipment available, could start on the coast at sunset and by morning killed thousands of people...with out taking a shot in return. A kid with a single shot 22 could kill most of us.

We need third generation, head-held binocular night vision scopes if we want to be reasonably efficient as a front line defense.

We, the front-line defense, need many tens of thousands of high quality star light, binocular scopes. If we don't have them we will die quickly during the night and not be the powerful force that is potentially in place. To not use the folks already in the area, ready to serve, would be a terrible, bloody mistake. We are willing and capable, even anxious, to do what we must to save our families, our community and our country.

Sincerely,

Grey Wolf

[If this letter is made public, for any reason, please, use my pseudonym, Grey Wolf; I want to remain, at this precarious time in our history, as anonymous as possible. Thank you.]

 

OLD FASHION CASTLE STORMING: BRING PITCHFORKS AND TORCHES

The Frankenstein Monster must be stopped. It knows no boundaries. It is without pity or sensibilities of any sort.

The Monster can't help it: It's a monster.

The CEOs who are devastating the life savings of so many certainly are monsters. Those 'savings' are the bucks saved over a life time in preparation for what one hopes will be a comfortable future...not knowing that monster greed would one day rip away most or all of those savings.

The public employees are guaranteed, in their retirement fund, that no investment will return less than 8% a year. If they invest in Dumbluck Corporation and it's loses 2%, the taxpayers will pick up the tab for the 8% plus the 2% minus giving the public employees retirement fund 10% right out of our pockets. If Dumbluck makes 17% they get to keep all of it. That's the best deal I have ever heard of anyone voting for themselves. They are also guaranteed regular wage increases. If they appear to be passing on a wage increase or some perks, they aren't; they will pick up the missed wage increase and perks, plus whatever the package calls for, in some future negotiation.

The Eugene County Commissioners, poor, underpaid, fat cats with their public cars, expense accounts, assistants and secretaries and 30%, at least, above their salary in great perks, voted themselves a repugnant, horribly timed 31 percent wage increase.

A technique used by devious individuals to increase their personal salary is to point at someone else's hugely, overblown salary and say, "Gee, our county is bigger, even though we have fewer people, so we should be paid a higher salary than that other county that has more people but is smaller." The reply, from the smaller, more populated county, is, "Gee, our county is smaller but our population is larger so we should be paid more than the other county." And, within a relatively short period of time, the bigger county will demand more because....and on and on and on right into the grave. This attitude is insanely myopic because it must lead to disaster.

Bureaucrat, who have never really worried about paying a bill or worried about the health costs that come with being a parent or worried about college for the children or worried about tires for the car, or worried about....well, you know the rest of the worries, assure us they understand. They don't! They can't! Not with a steady salary, lots of wonderful perks and a job that just goes on forever.

When we weren't looking, or paying attention, or however it occurred, they took control of their own salaries. How propitious for them.

The inevitable happened, as it does with all special interest groups; over the years those running for union offices had to promise more and more to get the votes of the members. So, over the years, the public servants became public employees and now those very servants that use to do our bidding expect, no demand, that we do their bidding. They demand that we pay higher everything, every time they meet.

Poor folks have always had to storm the castle to kill the monster; tear down the walls of the citadel, break the tortured out of the Bastille. There has always been a Robin Hood, Lone Ranger, Zerro, the Scarlet Pimpernel...masked men who stood up to the Frankenstein monster. All those heroes understood that monsters don't, no, monsters can't walk away from their monster activities. What they have is consolidated power and that is never given back. It must be taken.

I don't want to get out in front on this one. I have before and it has cost me dearly; my time, my energy, my personal money and, as the Frankenstein monster knew would happen, I  ran out of money and eventually disappeared. The citizens, who were watching me, began to believe that something really important was happening...and it wasn't...it was an illusion. Ten years later I went to a County Commissioners meeting and they same Commissioners, for the most part, sat on the same chairs behind the same desks and the audience, almost completely changed from those with whom I went to meetings, attempted to force the same, sane behavior on a monster.

Folks from all over Oregon, even out of Oregon, should meet in front local court houses with pitchforks and torches. We must tell them that cancer can not be allowed to live in healthy tissue because a cancer will always grow until the host begins to wither and then both the host and the cancer will die. But, you know what, the cancer doesn't even care, right up to the end...except, perhaps, for those last, few moments when the cancer sees itself (that is, its children, its homes, its future) beginning to die..

Can't those who stumble about, arms outstretched, grabbing everything in sight, see what they are doing? Some do, I suppose, but they would be traitors if they spoke out against their own best interests, their health plan, dental plan, eye care plan, retirement plan, or the 'every day that is possible to take off with pay' plan. Meanwhile, I've had to sign a contract with the power company to make payments on the last couple of months of my electric bill.

The utilities? I own them and yet I endlessly pay more. They need the money, they say. Sure, they do.

Someone or some group should call for the 'Storming of the Castle', with pitchforks and torches. It is time. Warn them. Let them know that they have become a terminal cancer and that they can not kill us and our children with out killing themselves and their children. They will not die peacefully, isolated from the rest of us.

Listen all you CEOs, politicians, bureaucrats, public employees, at every level, if you can't be made to see this that the very nature of your powerful, special interests are killing your neighbors with tax burdens that are sucking them dry, destroying the lives of many in the private sector, and leading, perhaps, much sooner than you think, to a real storming of the castle with pitchforks, guns, bombs, hatchets, battering rams and a lot of really angry people then it will mean the end of American and, dominoes falling, the end of civilization as we know it You must be made to see the damage you are doing to your friends and neighbors and also to yourself and your children..

...and yata, yata, yata. Nothing will change. The motion, like a wave, is already generated but I must make one last plea for sane behavior by those who control things. I'd like my children and grandchildren to have an opportunity to experience some of the marvelous adventures I've had during my life but instead, I'm afraid, they are going to die soon. I'm really beginning to despise those responsible. Their blind selfishness is going to kill my family.

See you on the County Commissioner's office building steps when ever some one with courage and vision asks me to be there...and I swear to God I will bring my pitchfork and torch.

Grey Wolf  (greywolfdrums.com)

An old time radical who is watching the actualization of his life-long nightmare. There is nothing unexpected...except, perhaps, for the nonexistent effort, from within the castle, to bring sanity to the monster's activities.

 

THE DECLINE OF ETHICS, MORALITY AND HOPE FOR THE WORLD

How did the wonderful, American family life, so much a part of my childhood, cease to be a part of our culture. Was it t.v.? Was it drugs? What single part of our modern life separate us from each other like a sharp knife slicing through Jell-O? What object prevents mothers and fathers from passing on their ethics and morality to their children? When did my family, in those good, old days, share their individual experiences? When did my mother and father have an opportunity to say to me, both directly and indirectly, "Clifford, think about this..."?

I remember dinner, the family meal. We had breakfast together, too, but it was a rushed meal as my dad and we children were getting ready to leave for the day. Breakfast was about eating and getting to work and school. But dinner was much different and the microwave ended dinner.

It all started when we started to replace meals with easy foods like the 4 minute potato and we human beings, basically simple creatures who follow the path of least resistance, could not avoid the tendency to use the microwave.

When the microwave became a part of our household we ceased to have evening meals together. When the family no longer ate together there was no longer the opportunity for my parents to share their values with the children. When we no longer sat down to dinner together my parents ceased to have the opportunity to feed us their ethics and morality along with the evening meal. When my dad and mom and my brothers and sister and I were able to stick a microwave dinner or a potato or wiener into the microwave, at each person's convenience, and have a meal in minutes there ceased to be a reason for dinner. My mom was no longer the prepare of food. The microwave took over that job. The problem is, of course, the microwave has no ethics or morality to feed a person along with the food. Hence, the death of a crucial element in our lives, the evening meal was, perhaps, pivotal in setting the stage for the death of our culture and maybe the world.

 

GREEN GRASS, BLUE SKIES

By Clifford Latta 03-17-06

 

Even when I was in prison this life of mine was a Green Grass, Blue Skies experience.

Technology has been on the move for a hundred plus years in an inexorable march toward utter, absolute, complete destruction. Once the technological march starts the end result is absolutely predictable.

A small degree of modern technology is insinuated here and there in this or that primitive culture. Like a fire these small insinuations send out sparks starting fires everywhere. Eventually the culture is on fire and there is no going back. The fire destroys the past. As cultures become dependent on ‘progress’ (consumption) all past options disappear; all that was known about nature and what it provides is soon lost; never again will the people be able to actually use the plants, insects, animals, dirts and muds, lichen, and the abundance learned over a culture’s life time of growing. Survival skills will become a fading memory. All that will be left of the evolved harmony between humankind and Nature will be a black hole. Once having lost the past we can only go forward, moving with the automated mindlessness wrought by an absolute dependence on ‘things being done for us’.

 

Hello Lars,

There’s a lot we don’t agree about but, then again, I do agree with you on many fundamental issues...like abuses by the public employee system and unfair taxes.

About ten years ago I was Chairman of Tax Payers In Control. Mabel Royce and I wrote the three enclosed Initiatives. The problems that we were addressing are still problems and the Initiatives still point toward something that needs to be done.

I’m sending you this material in the hopes that you will read it and, hopeful, agree with the direction that we were attempting to take the state of Oregon. You know folks; you have a forum; you have an adgenda...the truth and fairness in governement. Perhaps, you can make use of this stuff. I’ve done all I can do. Please, use any and all of this material any way you choose.

I’m now 67 years old and too tired to attempt to resurrect this effort; perhaps, you will be willing and able to help bring our ten year old ideas into the present political arena.

More than ten years ago Bill Sizmore told me to give up the efforts of Tax Payers In Control unless I had someone willing to pay me a salary. He said, "You’ll run out of money and fall to the wayside." That is exactly what happened. I ended up thousands of dollars in the hole and we fell apart as an organization. It must be noted that we were all amateurs, willing to take on the giant bureaucracy because we despised what was going on...and those of us still somewhat involved continue to despise the inequities of a political system apparently unable to control itself. It is the inability of the political system to exercise control that makes it absolutely necessary to impose controls.

I pass this material on to you, Lars, hoping you can make some positive use of it.

Namaste.

Clifford Latta (Grey Wolf the Drum Maker)

 

Monday,Apr 17 2006, 04:50:10 AMA LIFE TIME OF POETRY AND STUFF (more coming)

SAFE SEX

You've been my friend as long as I can remember.

You've always been there when I needed you.

You've picked me up when I was down.

You've fed me and clothed me and asked nothing in return.

You've bandaged my wounds and rubbed my neck.

You've done my work for me without complaint,

And many times you've given me pleasure.

You've touched me and I responded.

Yes, we've had our secret, erotic moments,

Always good, sometimes great,

Occasionally stupendous.

And now, with death in the air,

One of your greatest gifts to me

Is the fact that you don't have anything I don't have.

 

We've always worked well together,

Me and my right hand.

Oh, I like my left hand alot

But we've never been intimate.

 

The End 

 

THE VOICE OF INSIGHT

Discovered June 24, 2002

 

Rene Descartes - Philosopher: "I think, therefore I am."

Charles "nothing" Simon - Writer: "I think, therefore I think I am."

Grey Wolf - Drum Maker: "I don't think, therefore I don't think I am."

Kaleb Gardner - Age 13: "I don't think, I know I am."

 

Homework Blues

Clifford Latta  1994

When is enough enough?
When should I call it quits?
Will all these school books
Actually frazzle my wits?

Perhaps, you can tell me,
‘cause I don’t know,
When will overdue homework
Make me move to Mexico?

Will algebra and geology
Actually erode my brain?
Will Imaginative Writing
Actually drive me insane?

Hey, I get good grades
And college is a lot of fun
But the piper must be paid
Before this race is won.

The class movies are great,
The class lectures are fine,
But the piper’s price
Is found in the written line.

You open one of these books
And what do you see?
Lots and lots of words
Bigger than “you” and “me”.

They go from here to there,
They traverse time,
They can stumble awkwardly
Or compose a delicate rhyme.

These clever, little words
Weave their magic in the air,
They spin tales of mystery
To our delight and despair.

They point toward vast distances,
The edge of the Big Bang,
Impossible Quantum Mechanics,
The harmony of Yin Yang.

These little, black words,
That are ever so bright,
Can bring glorious sunshine
To a dismal night.

But when it’s 2:30 in the morning
And I’ve eaten more than I’ve read,
I sometimes get hungry for knowledge
In the form of “book bread”.

Now here’s what I do...

I take my homework books
And bake them ‘til they are done,
Then I tear off their covers
And eat them one by one.

And as I’m enjoying the written word,
Stuffing myself with knowledge,
Picking a vowel from between my teeth,
Masticating the consonants in ‘college’,

I ponder my present dilemma,
I question my present choice,
So much hard work
For a single, small voice?

Now here’s what I know...

When it is fed the right food
A small voice can become,
An inexorable force,
A multiplication of won.