Archives - June 2004

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June 29, 2004


Here is one Debra Lafave, arrested today for having sex with a 14-year-old student:

TAMPA, Florida (AP) -- A 23-year-old middle-school teacher was charged with having sex with a 14-year-old student in a classroom, at her apartment and, once, in a vehicle while the teen's 15-year-old cousin drove. Detectives said that the cousins provided matching statements incriminating Debra Beasley Lafave and that the 14-year-old described Lafave's apartment and her tattoos and birthmarks.




Now, as some of you may know, I have spent the better part of a 20-year career dealing with sex offenders. Sending them to prison, trying to "rehabilitate" them, trying to get help for their victims, trying to change policy and even legislation to keep them from offending against others. I'm sure this young woman, if indeed guilty of the crimes, is no better than any male sex offender I have met. There is often a double-standard involving female perpetrators; male victims are given attaboy's for landing an older woman in bed, while female victims the same age are looked upon as truer victims (but not always). As many studies have shown, especially the exhaustive studies done by psychologist Jan Hindman, that victimization is as much a mindset of the victim as it is the actions of the perpetrator. Maybe even moreso. For example, one child can get horribly assaulted, with severe physical injuries, and grow up with his/her mental status and emotional health relatively unscathed. Then, a child the same age can see a flasher and have irreparable emotional damage. The difference is in the mindset and emotional makeup of the victim and most importantly, the reaction of those around them AFTER the incident takes place. What would be worse; a child being abused and telling an adult, only to be slapped in the face and called a "whore," or a child telling an adult and encountering a support system that provides comfort, support and a re-establishment of trust? Often the worst emotional scars from abuse occur in the time after the event, not in the event itself.

So is this 14-year-old kid a victim? In a legal sense, yes. In a moral sense, yes. If he were my kid, would I be angry? Yes...

But as I take a gander at this chick, I just have one big question to ask myself:

Where the hell were teachers like this when I was in junior high?

I mean, for God's sake, look at this chick! All of my junior high teachers were more than a few stops past Frumpsville, if you know what I mean. And I couldn't get any nookie from anyone in the eighth grade PERIOD, much less from a 23-year-old employee of the school. I want to grab that punk-ass 14-year-old and slap the crap out of him for being such a lucky little bastard.

So there you have it: the double-standard.

I am ashamed. I am human. Sue me.


June 28, 2004

Chemical Warfare

I fulfilled my pledge today: wiping out the offending yellow jackets that stung me the other day. Better late than never. I was prompted to rain massive Dursban death upon them by the most innocent and helpful of our invertebrate friends, a hive of bees that took up residence in my apartment out back. I hesitated to kill them, but when my tree guy told me a few days ago that he had seen that hive up there last YEAR, I reasoned that there's probably a gallon or two of honey inside my WALL out there, so I had better do something. So, being a cheapass, instead of calling an exterminator, I bought a $3.99 can of Wasp and Hornet Killer from Target and went to work.

I approached the hive with all caution. I know I can run faster than most bees, but I still didn't know if they were the dreaded Killer Bees or not (we have those in Texas, dangit) which may be able to fly at supersonic speed. I doused the hive and walked away. But by then, the blood lust that lay dormant in all males took over, and I went hunting for any more of their six-legged cousins I could find. Under one of my metal awnings, I found the hive of dreaded yellow jackets. As I was standing there, I felt like Sigourney Weaver in Alien 2 when she stepped into the lair of the Queen. But like her, I didn't back down, even in the face of certain death. I sprayed those mother f*(&^ers and ran like hell.

Now, I remember the day when wasp sprays actually KILLED those bastards. Instantly. One molecule, and they dropped like a ton of bricks. Now, thanks to the namby-pamby EPA and their tree-hugging legions, one cannot buy any decent anti-insect chemical warfare weapons of mass destruction. So I sprayed these suckers, and they flew all over the place. I guess that they will just die of CANCER in a few months.

Of course, I could have done it the old-time Texas way, the way my dad did it when I was a kid. In those days, when we found a wasp nest on the house, we told dad, who waited until nightfall. Then he'd come get me and we would go to the garage and prepare the implement of destruction: an old broom. On the stick end of the broom, he'd wrap a bunch of newspapers. Then, he'd douse the paper in gasoline. Keep in mind that my dad usually did this with a cigar in his mouth. Then we'd go...the great white hunters, skulking through the yard. My job was to hold our Deluxe Radio Shack 7-D-Cell flashlight on the beasts. He'd light the torch with a POOF of petrochemical delight and hold it under the nest, searing the wasps to death and catching the paper nest on fire. If the fire got out of control on our wood-shingled house, my second job was to get the water hose ready. In the mundane life of a mild-mannered boy, wasp-killin' was good fun.

I'll inspect the hive in a few days to see if there's any activity. Then I'll take a sample of the dead ones and send them to Texas A&M to have them autopsied; if they're the dreaded Killer Bees, I'll call the newspapers, stick myself in the face with a red ball-point pen a few hundred times, and get some free press:


Sci-Fi Writer Finds Story Idea In Own Back Yard


June 23, 2004

Out of the blue

As the interest in my books wane, and the hit counters on my book pages drop, and the royalty checks diminish to the point of "why bother to deposit the damn thing," I have found myself in a slump of sorts. Not a depression by any means, a chop off my ear and O.D. on cough medicine thing, but just a blue funk. I guess the same kind of funk that all writers go through at one time or another. It ebbs and flows like the tide, highs and lows and long, long quiet waters in between. But as usual, an angel falls from above, a comforter...someone to get my emotions back on track and remember why I do what I do.

I received an email today from someone I don't even know, someone I didn't even know was reading one of my books. It isn't a newspaper reviewer or a friend; it is just a regular person who found the book in one of any of the strange ways people find my books. She graciously allowed me to print her email in its entirety:

I feel that I must write to you right away because I have unfortunately just finished the story of Noah, The Wanderer of Nowhere of Late. I say unfortunately because Noah has become a part of who I am, his stories moved me in ways I didn't think possible, and I am sad to lose him. I honestly don't remember a time in my long history of reading great literature that I laughed, cried, became so angry, and so infinitely moved by just one story. The story of Noah is timeless and heart-wrenching, in all the right places. I have to admit that I was skeptical of reading this book because, well, it is about an elephant, how would I ever relate? Well, you certainly proved me wrong, and you did so by the first ten pages.

Noah's quest mirrors the journey we all wish to take throughout our lives on this earth. We want to experience life, we want to see the vast globe, we want to share our wisdom with those who will listen. There were times when I honestly didn't think I would get through it...when he was banished from the Forest Between, when he lost Caleb, when he met Moses, William, Augustus, Miss Sophia, and then lost them all...and don't even get me started on finding Benjamin in the was endless, these emotions your writing evoked. There were SO MANY wonderful gems in there that I would read them over and over, some sentences, just so I could absorb it all fully. Noah was SO wise, his countenance so strong, his spirit so incredibly vulnerable and, in the end, unbreakable.

I cried SO HARD through the last third of this book that I am honestly surprised I was able to keep it together emotionally, at all, in order to run my household. I also have to tell you that I was able to literally fly through this book in less than a week and a half, and that's while taking care of a very active one year old. I COULD NOT PUT THIS BOOK DOWN.

You have done nothing short of brilliance with this novel and I commend your creativity for it. With Noah, I have welcomed a very different kind of hero into my life. I have since started a new book, and I am finding it hard to get Noah out of my head in order for me to move on...that must sound a bit silly to you. I have since started reading the diaries of Anais's all very romantic and incredibly destructive. It takes me back to those college days of hoarding DH Lawrence and Edith Wharton as though I were the only one who knew about them at the time. Oh, those silly school days when we knew everything.

What I loved about In the Way That Elephants Do is that it was so completely different from anything I have ever read before in my entire life, it was daring and original, and it has given me faith that there are writers out there, like yourself, who don't wish to mimic the obvious. My only regret is that my favorite college professor, who I am sure would have embraced this novel, has recently passed and I will never get to recommend it to him, he would have loved it. I have recommended it to anyone and everyone who will listen to me go on and on about this wonderful elephant.

Thank you, Mr. Kilpatrick, for sharing such a wonderful story with us.


Amber Collins Aaseng

Wow. Thanks, Amber. Thanks for giving me a swift kick in the arse to get me moving again.


June 22, 2004

I Know

Yeah, yeah, yeah; I'm still around. Busy writing. Be back soon.


June 15, 2004

Pig What?

Those of you who have read L.A. Stalker might remember a part in which one of the pervs had a fetish for Barbie dolls. Some readers may have thought I was just making up this little deviance; Mr. David splashing the pages with tidbits of his own twisted mind. Well, en route to find other stuff, I found a web site catering to this unusual fetish called Pygmaliansim. It has another name but I can't remember it offhand. Basically, it is the eroticism of dolls of all kinds, including mannequins. Often the dolls are portrayed in sadomasochism scenes. I believe the practitioners of the fetish are really getting off on the "helplessness" of the dolls; they are symbols for the women or children they WANT to do these things to. Here's a pic from the site, which is a Yahoo! group:

I found no fewer than TEN groups devoted to the love of Barbies. There are apparently other dolls equally as attractive to these guys as Barbie herself, and it even seems there are specialty dolls - with boobs and such - that cater to the fetish. This is Annie Fannie:

Here is a doll for the Goth fetishist:

(Even if I were a pygmalianist, I think I would be SCARED of that one). And this one is evidentally quite popular, they call her Britney (maybe it's a Britney Spears doll?):

Of course, she is sporting the ever-popular schoolgirl look, complete with stockings and a plaid skirt.

And here is the saddest one of all, a poor antique Swiss Miss doll:


These pics are some of the only R-rated ones on this particular site; the rest I couldn't show here. There's even a site devoted to Barbie Bukkake. If you don't know what "bukkake" is, you'll have to look that one up yourself. Sorry. The site owner has pics of himself doing the deed with everything from a Raggedy Ann to a store mannequin. It's funny, but none of the dolls seemed to be enjoying it.

I guess he ain't no Ken.


June 14, 2004

Patience my arse

In a strange bit life imitating reality...well, maybe that's not it. Maybe it's a case of fiction becoming reality. Maybe not that, either. What it is, is a cartoon coming to life. A popular cartoon in the 70's, duplicated a zillion times on posters, coffee mugs, and T-shirts was one of two buzzards sitting on a fence in the hot, dry desert. One turns to the other and says, "Patience my ass; I'm gonna go kill something." I had one of the posters in my bedroom when I was a teenager.

I read a little article that tells the tale of one buzzard in England who has lost his patience, it seems:

Angry Buzzard Terrorizes English Country Road

LONDON (Reuters) - An angry buzzard is terrorizing a quiet English country road by dive-bombing passing cyclists, newspapers reported on Friday. Paul Taylor, 71, said the bird of prey used its beak and claws to rip a three-inch gash in his head as he cycled along the stretch of road near Holsworthy, in Devon, western England.

"I thought at first it was a lorry passing and the wing mirror had somehow caught my head," he told the Daily Mail. "Then I saw the buzzard swooping in front of me and suddenly there was blood pouring down my head and face."

Last weekend 22 cyclists taking part in a long distance competition along the road -- the A3072 -- suffered head injuries or had gouges taken out of their helmets by the same bird, according to the race coordinator.

The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds suggested the bird was probably nesting nearby and was defending its chicks. "We would suggest that people avoid the road for a few weeks, but if cyclists do want to use it we would advise them to paint a pair of eyes on their helmets," a spokeswoman told the Daily Express. "That will put the buzzard off."

Paint a pair of eyes on their helmets? What kind of slack-jawed limey crap is that? How about a tennis racquet upside his avian ass? Maybe a 12-guage... (just kidding, all you PETA fans out there).


June 12, 2004

Tales From The Road and other assorted stuff

Like I said earlier, I went on a week-long road trip to Washington. Stopped here and there on the way. Stopped a couple of times in Memphis, home of The Kang. Went to a restaurant there recommended by several locals. It was called The Rendezvous. Located in an alley, yes, an alley across the street from the Peabody hotel at the edge of downtown, the place had been there since 1946. Seems this place is famous for its ribs. We waited about a half-hour for a seat, a long wait for a Tuesday night, but the place was hoppin'. I'm not a big rib fan, especially pork ribs (down here in cattle country, we eat BEEF ribs) but I had to sample a couple. These ribs were unusual in that they were dry; they weren't covered with a sloppy slurry of barbeque sauce like most ribs are. They were covered with a very savory crust of spices.

I think one of the spices was heroin.

I can see now why the place is so popular. You couldn't shove these ribs into your face fast enough. And the iced tea was some of the best I've ever had; a really different flavor that I couldn't identify. Maybe it was cocaine. Must have drank a gallon of the sweet stuff.

So onto the road we went. I observed something that is pretty universal all across the country.

Why do all roadside businesses, who cater to travelers, have the stinkiest, filthiest, nastiest, most disgusting restrooms on the planet? You walk into a huge service station/fast food combo place, where ten employees are milling around. You go into a restroom there and find that it quite literally has not seen a mop in two years. I'm not talking normal dirtiness; I'm talking grunge that has built up on the floor and walls and porcelain for years.

Why can't one of those employees slop a bleachy mop across the floor once in a while? At least once a MONTH, for crying out loud. Even places thad advertised "clean restrooms" didn't deliver. There's no excuse for this; they have the staff and the money to clean the damn things once in a while, if not daily. For my next road trip, I'm investing in a pair of rubber boots to wear into the mother &^%!ers, or I'm just gonna take my leaks on the side of the road.

Another observation: Would you trust your life and health, or twenty years of child support payments, on a seventy-five cent condom you bought from a men's room vending machine? I don't care if it glows in the dark or is festooned with ticklers of every description; my willy would only get top-shelf prophylactics if he were in the marketplace again.

Went to a horse show tonight. The Arabian show at our Equestrian Center. Fort Worth has one of the finest equine centers in the world, I hear. A state-of-the-art facility with stables and arenas and all things horsey. Not being into horses myself (unless they are between a bun with lettuce and tomato), I really don't know much about them.

If you've ever seen one of those dog shows on TV, just replace the dogs with horses and you can imagine a horse show. So I sat in the audience while rich people showed their prize Arabians, which I must admit were quite spectacular, while judges in evening attire (imagine a woman in a sequined gown and high heels trudging around on a floor of sawdust, sand and horse shit) survey the animals. The Champion Stallion phase had five horses led around by their handlers (who weren't riding them, they were walking with them, just like the dog handlers do) who had a whip in one hand and a rein in the other. One woman was so rough with her horse that I was secretly wishing it would kick the shit out of her. Unfortunately, this horse won the championship. Then came the Western Arabian contest, which is evidently a sub-class of the breed. These 22 horses were ridden by their handlers. They had beautiful hand-tooled saddles tricked-out with silver, and the cowgirls and cowboys were in western wear with lots of rhinestones and sparklies. Overhead, they played the soundtrack to The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. I'm not kidding.

Watching the women ride was enlightening. I understand now why women like to ride horses so much.

But that would be another blog entry.


June 7, 2004

1/2 of a movie review

Went to see Troy last weekend. Had a bit of a problem; the transformer blew because of the electrical problems and all the projectors went out. The Greeks were just storming the beach and then...screen saver.

So here's my 1/2 of a movie review about what I saw.

Muscles and loins. Sweaty, bulging muscles. Shiny loins. Muscelly loins. Sweaty loins.

Did I mention loins?

Chicks who like gladiators will dig it. Dudes who like gladiators will love it.

The plot? Since I can't go to the airport and catch a redeye to TROY tonight, I pretty much figured out who wins... Acting?

"Is there no one else? Is there NO ONE ELSE?"

The best Arnold Swartzenegger lines money can buy, I guess.

If you see the film, note the scene early on when Paris caresses Helen from behind; I think they used an arms-and-hands double for Orlando Bloom. Big, muscley veiny arms and manly man hands. On the Elf Warrior? Not. Tell me if I'm wrong after you see it.

I'll wait for the DVD to finish the movie. I'll save my rain check for something else.

Does anybody know where I can rent a gladiator costume?


June 6, 2004


Lot of stuff going on in my whirl, so this will be a multi-purpose blog entry today.

First, happy D-Day. For you youngsters who don't know much about it, June 6, 1944 was the day the allied alliance launched the invasion of Europe to free the continent from German occupation. Sure, Italy had already been invaded by the allies, so it wasn't the absolute invasion of the continent. It was, however, the first assault against Germany itself. The goal of invading Italy wasn't to attack Germany proper, but the invasion of France on D-Day was the beginning of an actual assault on Germany itself. I won't go into a blow-by-blow of those days; tune in to The History Channel to get a better analysis than anything I could do.

So that is a nice segue into my next topic: my trip to D.C. for the World War II Memorial dedication ceremony. Did you see it on TV? I was there, brudda. Me and about 200,000 other folks, many of whom were actual veterans of the war, and many widows and widowers of those veterans who have already passed away, and by the children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren of those veterans. I guess I was one of those. My grandfather fought in both the Atlantic and Pacific theaters in the U.S. Navy.

The Memorial: Spectacular. As it damn sure should be. It sits between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument, representing the three entities in our history that preserved the nation: Washington who defeated the British, Lincoln who defeated the breakaway Confederacy, and the veterans of WW II, who fought a war against incredible odds against two of the most barbaric imperialist nations in all of history.

The Audience: Heart-rending. Remember that the youngest of these vets are in their 80's; a thousand of them die every day. Many, many were in wheelchairs and walkers. Some looked like they were days away from death; but by God, they were going to attend this ceremony no matter what it took. Kind of the same attitude they had back in 1941. Many of the guys had their original uniforms on. Others who couldn't fit in or had lost theirs, sported modern replacements. Two guys that stand out in my mind: The first was a vet wearing his original leather "bomber" jacket, complete with a hand-painted P-38 Lighting fighter on the back. He had been a "forked-tail devil" pilot in the war. This guy had been the terror of the European skies in his youth, flying one of the most feared and formidable fighters of the war. Now he was in a walker, barely weighing a hundred pounds. But I could imagine this man at twenty, full of piss and vinegar both in a dogfight with the Luftwaffe and in the bars of London on R&R. The other guy I remember was an ex-paratrooper with the 101st Airborne Division. Ever see Band of Brothers? This guy was one for real. He was wearing his original uniform, complete with his cherished jump boots. I don't know who was having a better time; him, or the current day young paratroopers who were having their photos taken with him. Also of note were the huge numbers of "Waves" and "WAC's" that were there; women who served in the military auxiliary forces during the war. These pioneers set the stage for women in the military, and for that matter, women in traditional mens' roles in general.

The Ceremony: LOOOONNNNNGGGGG. Imagine the longest graduation you have ever gone to. Multiply it times five, and add sun beating down on your head. The music was fantastic (1940's tunes), the History Channel documentaries were great, and the accommodations were okay considering the huge numbers. Plenty of medics and security. And porta-potties. Free water. The thing that could have been skipped was the goofy song-and-dance stuff between 10am and 2pm, which was the beginning of the actual ceremony. See the next paragraph for my explanation on why this part of the festivities even took place (they had to make sure the gay show-tune crowd was appeased - oh, bad David, bad David!!! ). Got to see a few presidents and Tom Hanks and Tom Brokaw. Bill Clinton drove right past me on my way out; he was in a Suburban and I thought he was about to spit some terbacky juice out the window. I waved at him, even though I dislike his ass. Seemed the thing to do.

Washington, D.C. - Liberalism at its worst. I won't go into a long diatribe about this. Just suffice it to say that this town has carried multiculturalism, political correctness, and every other bonehead liberal philosophy to near-comic levels. All I could think of was Kurt Vonnegut's short story Harrison Bergeron the entire time I was there. If you haven't read this, you need to.

The Trip: Long road trip. But pleasant. Stopped in Graceland on the way there and on the way back. I'm not an enormous Elvis fan, but I've always wanted to see what Graceland was like. A rather smallish house, compared to modern houses, with the most tacky decor you could imagine. Even by tacky 1970's standards, it is BAD.

Elvis himself is a tragic figure. Basically, a boy who never grew up. Maybe he wasn't allowed to grow up, or maybe he just didn't want to. Whatever the reason, this boyishness only adds to his allure. Speaking of allure; Elvis can still attract the women. I must have seen 500 teenage girls at Graceland. And not your bookwormish, poor-reality-testing young girls; I'm talking hotties (I think that is the current term). Hundreds of them, still in awe of the King, even though none of them had even been born before he died. Amazing.

Maybe I'm just jealous.

Okay, enough of the road trip. Next topic: President Reagan.

All I'll say about him is that he was the first president I ever voted for: 1980. My first national election at age 19. You can hold whatever opinion of Reagan you want, but I see him as a guy who could get things done, even though you and I don't necessarily agree with everything he got done. His passing marks the end of an era, both a Hollywood era and a political one.

Next topic: Weather

Has been good since the power got kicked on Friday. I discovered I need to invest in a portable TV set for viewing in the tornado closet.

Writing: haven't done much, but did manage to write a few scenes - in pen and paper - during the power outage.

Bloggers: Been having withdrawal as Sugarmama takes a hiatus, and Trailer Park Girl is having technical problems (I see that her site is back up today, though). Thank God DaGoddess is still at it; one-third of the Triumvirate is still in place.


June 4, 2004

Tornadus Interruptus

Sorry I've been non-blogging for the last few days, but I had a little technical problem down here, namely a 100-mile-wide superstorm that swept through my little hamlet on Tuesday night. It produced 40-80 mph sustained winds for about forty minutes. A few tornadoes dropped down here and there as well. 500,000 people were without power in Dallas County, and about half that in my county next door. A few hundred thousand are still without electricity. Mine got turned on at about 4pm today. I spent most of Tuesday night in the closet listening to the air raid sirens wail around me. Since the power was out, the last thing I saw on the TV was the weatherman saying "You should take cover immediately" then zilch. Darkness. I had a portable radio, but the corporate mother f*)&%ers wouldn't break programming to tell us what the hell was going on outside.

A 50-foot cottonwood tree was blown down in the street in front of my house, blocking the street. Another tree fell in my back yard. A tour through the neighborhood the next day revealed another few dozen fallen trees and thousands of limbs and bushes and roofs and other such debris. To make matters worse, another superstorm went through on Wednesday night, knocking even more power lines down and stifling the utility crews, some of whom came all the way from Georgia and Kansas to help out.

I had plenty of flashlights and lanterns and such (I have a fetish for flashlights), and my water is gas-heated, so I could see and take a shower. But the main problem was that the air conditioning was out. My pals Sugarmama and Trailer Park Girl would have done just fine in the 80+ and humid air in my house, but me, being the consummate wussy, was in a living hell. And I just got finished throwing away about $500 worth of food from my stinky refrigerator.

So, that's life in the Lone Star State. I'll blog about my trip to D.C. tomorrow after I get this place cleaned up a bit. Oh, and a side note: while I was inspecting the fallen tree in my back yard, I noticed that a hive of bees has taken up residence in my apartment out back.

They're probably Killer Bees.


June 1, 2004

Road Trip - II

It was a long drive to D.C. - Dallas-Little Rock-Memphis-Nashville-podunkland in between-Washington. Virginia was beautiful. Since I did 1/2 the driving, I noticed some things about drivers east of the Mississippi. First, truckers stay to the right. The law says they have to there, and they do it. Unlike in Texas where they dominate ALL lanes of the highway. If they move into the fast lane to pass, they get their ass right back. Come to think of it, all the drivers did this; you didn't see any of that passive-aggressive hog-the-fast lane driving there. It was very refreshing.

Stopped in Memphis. While I was there, I had to visit the Holy Grail of white trash tourist destinations: GRACELAND. The home of Elvis.

I'm no big Elvis fan, but I must admit his life was intriguing. So is the aura of Graceland. I just had to go.

Graceland is the name of the estate Elvis purchased when he was really young..

Road Trip

Just dropping by to make a quick note. I've been out of town the last week, in case you're worrying/wondering/stalking, and I've been offline. Where did I go, you ask? Washington, D.C. to the dedication ceremony of the World War II Memorial. An amazing experience. I'll blog about it shortly.

This was a road trip - 3,200 miles by car round trip - so I'm pretty wasted. But we all had a good time, and I even got to stop by a place I've always wanted to go (twice as a matter of fact; once on the way, and once on the way back): Graceland.

The spiritual home of THE KANG, baby.

More to come...


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