Requiem in Nothing-Flat…

…being a Piece In Honor of a Failed Relationship

I had lunch with a friend today.

He’s ending the year on a sad note – he broke up with his woman-friend last week, after dealing with manic-behavior, overspending, constant fight-picking, name-calling, and recriminations.

I’d seen this gal’s “MySpace” page – there wasn’t a single photo on it that wasn’t of her; the content was self-absorbed, and included continual bragging about the intensity-level, specific activities, and general satisfaction of her sexual experiences.

“You’re better off, pal,” began my commentary. I’m not known, either here or in real-life, to mince too many words. “You want ‘there-there’ and sympathy; call one of your women-friends. You called me for a dose of reality, right?”

“Well, yeah, Will. I did.”

I ordered another round of drinks.

Continuing, I said, “Are you familiar with a breed of dog called a ‘Rhodesian Ridgeback?’

“Vaguely,” he said. I could see I had his attention – which was, after all, the point.

“Well, every now and again, someone with more money than brains actually goes and buys one of these critters when it’s still a puppy. They’ve got a glowing owners and aficionados website, and a lot of ‘fans’ in the U.S.

Thing is, while they’re cute puppies, they grow up to be dogs. Most of the folks who buy these pooches don’t know from squat about their history – just that they’re exotic; look cool, and you can buy ‘em from puppy-breeding outfits or whatever.”

His attention continued. So did I.

“In truth, they’re bred in Africa to hunt lions. Farmers use ‘em to keep down everything on four-legs what kills their livestock – -and in Africa, that’s a lot of four-legged critters. They’ll also take down anything on two legs what doesn’t belong in the immediate area. See, they’re bred to ‘print’ on their owners and immediate family.

This works on a huge farm where even the mail has to be fetched – but in civilization, it’s another story.

They’re often sold as ‘making good guard dogs’ – -and so would a wolverine, or any of the large semidomesticable cats, if your only concern is that the critter (1) patrols the property, and (2) takes out anything that’s on it during said-critter’s hours of patrol. Get my point?”

“Well yeah, I suppose. But what are you really saying?”

“I’m saying you can never confuse a wild animal with a housepet. People routinely wind up being sued here in Oregon and all over the country because their fully-grown Ridgeback attacked everything from the neighbor’s dog to the mailman.”

I continued, “What you had there was a predator, carefully disguised as a girlfriend. She saw that you had something she wanted – then she moved in, made herself at home, hooked you with her not-inconsiderable sexual skill, and then proceeded to eat you, alive.”

His response was, while unprintable, was a comment of the barnyard variety. He followed that by ordering another drink.

“Next time you want to live large, go buy a Ridgeback. Only thing it’ll cost you is some dog-food and some insurance money when it goes back to its internal-wiring. Heartbreak is harder to cure.”

“Is it me, Will? I mean, what’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” I replied. “Don’t fall victim to the whole ‘self-improvement’ gig. It’s a way for unemployable psychiatrists to make money writing books with common-sense as the only theme. Most ‘self-improvement is just mental masturbation.”

I managed a laugh out of him, which was the point.

“You going to need a lift home?”

“Naw. Just sit with me a bit.”

I ordered coffee and some spinach-dip, and asked him about work. The combination of a little bar-food, caffeine and company lifted his spirits, sobered him up enough to drive, and made for a more-pleasant conversation.

As I saw him off in the parking-lot, I thought, “That’ll be $250.”

Therapists have it made. No malpractice; huge hourly rates, and they don’t have to do squat to make a living except talk to people.

I missed my calling.

It All Started With “Nippy”…

…Or, “Organized Crime In The Sleepy Town of Portland, Oregon….”

“Nippy” Constantino was dead.

Or, he had a severe headache, and was extremely sleepy.

The county coroner voted for ‘dead’, as Nippy (1) had just recently vacated a bar-stool and was flat on his back on the floor of his favorite late night hangout in the Park blocks, and (2) there was that nagging problem of the hole in his head, and the pool of his own blood surrounding said cranium. It was, quite literally, a dark and stormy night – October 23^rd, 1944.

Nippy was a colorful character.

Sent out West by one of the Five Families in New York, he ran the rackets in Portland. Starting in the twenties, he began by organizing the Teamsters, then making forays into the gambling houses on Third Avenue, and the drug-running operations which made their ‘home’ near the wharfs on the Willamette River.

Portland still had no permanent Salvation Army – but it had more houses of prostitution per-capita-population than any other city in the West – and boasted two (not one) ‘madams’, who ran prostitution for Nippy, giving him a cut of the operations while relying on Nippy’s minions for protection.

The local strip-joints which peppered downtown were so bold as to hold an organized contest every year, electing a “Queen of the Tassel”, who reigned unofficially for the coming year – all in flagrant violation of Portland’s nudity laws, as Nippy had virtually the entire police department on his payroll.

Life was sweet for Nippy by the time WWII rolled around – in his forties by then, he was too old for military service; he instead did his patriotic duty by keeping the shipyard-workers on Swan Island in fresh breast and thigh (as well as depriving them of substantial portions of their paychecks).

Nippy rode around in a Packard One-Eighty; chauffeur-driven, and usually had one of his ‘girls’ on his arm when he went to one of his favorite night-haunts. He was the undisputed King of the Rackets in Portland.

Enter Jim Elkins.

Shortly before he deprived Nippy of his ability to enjoy his ill-gotten gains on that barstool, “Big Jim” Elkins had come to Portland at the behest (some say) of Mickey Cohen to muscle-in on Nippy’s turf and take over. It didn’t take long before there was an all-out war between Elkins and Constantino.

The result was Nippy’s ‘headache’.

Elkins, with his mysterious out-of-state backing, rapidly collected more street-cred than Nippy ever had. He took the gambling and strip-joints to new highs; the drinking-establishments paid him good money for ‘protection’ – to the extent that decent people weren’t even seen on downtown streets after dark, and the city became known during the heady days of postwar America as the ‘place to go’ in the far west if you wanted an unregulated good time. Big Jim (by this time, having purchased a Cadillac) was never seen without the company of two enormous goons (they were literally known as “Big Jim and the Twins”, which also had a sexual connotation).

In the late ‘40’s and early ‘50’s, what happened in Portland stayed in Portland.

Nippy, as it turned out, was small potatoes. Elkins had vision – something Nippy lacked in quantity. However, as things turned out, Elkins’ success proved his undoing.

Seattle gangsters, most all of them either Teamster officials or relatives, decided it was time to organize everything in the Northwest. They approached Elkins and offered him a piece of the pie – but he’d have to do something he didn’t want to do: Get involved in prostitution.

Prostitution was the one thing which Elkins left strictly alone – he said many times that it ‘violated his moral code’, so he left the individual establishments to cut their own deals with local police – which they all did. The two main ‘madams’ of Portland’s prostitution establishments (who went by the nicknames “Big Helen” and “Little Helen”) did a thriving trade without a penny going to Big Jim and the Twins.

The Seattle mob, fronted by the Teamsters Union, wanted to change all that. It was 1955, the postwar recovery was in full swing, the entire city government was beholden to “Big Jim” Elkins and his goon-squad to one degree or another – there was just so damn much money to be made, that it was only a matter of time before Portland attracted the attention of bigger fish.

The Seattle mob (at the behest of Seattle kingpin Frank Colocurscio) sent two goons named John McLaughlin and Thomas Maloney to Portland to ‘negotiate’ with Elkins. Believing himself in some danger, he had their hotel room bugged; the two were recorded as saying they were going to “get rid of him.”

It was at this point that two of the Portland Oregonian’s best reporters, a bespectacled 36-year-old named Bill Lambert and 35-year-old Wally Turner, were contacted by Elkins.

Elkins knew that if he didn’t do something, and fast, he was going to (in his own words) “…wind up wading across Lake Washington in cement shoes.” Lambert and Turner transcribed hours of Elkins’ tapes, and began a year-long odyssey of unraveling the story of organized crime in Portland.*

Known as “Fishface and Bugeyes”, Lambert and Turner spent the year moving from hotel room to hotel room in cars rented and dropped-off by the newspaper daily in order to keep the Seattle mob from treating them to the same hospitality to which Elkins had given Nippy back in ’44. When they were done, Lambert and Turner blew the whistle on organized crime in the Northwest in a manner not seen this side of New York.

This, in turn, attracted the attention of an upstart attorney in the Justice Department named Robert Kennedy, who was busy investigating Jimmy Hoffa and the Teamsters, as well as other racketeers.

Kennedy subpoenaed everyone from Terry Schrunk, Portland’s colorful chief of police (widely known to be on Elkins’ payroll), on down to some rank-and-file police captains – and also dragged Jim Elkins and his goons to Washington for good measure to testify before Congress and the McClellan Committee as to the state of organized crime in Portland, Oregon.

When it was over, the spotlight was on Portland. Day after day, the Oregonian’s copy was full of fresh information by Turner and Lambert, who were living together along with their families in a safe-house in the West Hills. To try and clear his by-now-tarnished name, Portland’s district attorney Bill Langley called an investigation of organized crime in the town.

It became clear from day one that the real purpose was to sweep the whole thing under the rug, and get back to business-as-usual. Langley immediately hand-picked a grand-jury – which just as quickly returned an indictment – but it was against Turner, Lambert, and Elkins, for illegal wiretapping!

Oregon’s governor, Elmo Smith, decided that enough was enough – and used his power as governor to take the investigation from Langley and put the Oregon State Police and the attorney general in charge.

Within a few months, it was all over.

Langley was out. Convicted of a misdemeanor back in Portland, he left office; disgraced. Schrunk managed to keep his name clean (he was tried and acquitted on racketeering charges); he was re-elected as mayor of Portland until 1973.

Elkins did some time in the state pen in Salem, but was out in a few years (he died in 1968 under what some still say are ‘mysterious circumstances’).

1958 was a new year. The City of Portland had closed down most of the gambling dens and houses of prostitution; organized crime was a thing of the past.

Today, Portland is home to the likes of Gus Van Sant and Chuck Palaniuk; coffee shops, gourmet restaurants and art galleries. Most wouldn’t know that folks like Big Jim and the Twins, or Nippy Constantino, ever walked its streets.

Notes:

“Nippy” Constantino was shot in the bar of what is now the Brasserie Montmartre; the bar is still there, although extensively remodeled.

In the 1980’s, not far from Waterfront Park, a small grassy block was dedicated to Mayor Terry Schrunk. The plaque in what is now Terry Schrunk Plaza dedicates the block to him and his ‘service to the city.’

*Lambert and Turner both won the Pulitzer Prize for Reporting for 1957 – the first time this honor was awarded to the Oregonian.

In 1957, billed as “the story they tried to stop!”, the film Portland Expose was released by a no-name production company which made a lot of B-movies in the ‘50’s. Never widely distributed, it’s based very loosely on the events described above. (Look for Ed Binns as the kindly tavern-owner; Frank Gorshin playing a caricature of Elkins, and Jeanne Carmen as a burlesque-dancer.)

Reading:

Portland Confidential (Phil Stanford; Westwind Press – 2004)

The Enemy Within (Robert Kennedy; from Senate records – republished 1982)

Organizing Portland (Robert Donnelly; Oregon Historical Quarterly – Fall; 2003)

Scandal in Portland (Time Magazine; June – 1956)

A Very Bizarre Year In Review — 2007….

(Soviet-era New Year Postcard)

The first question – where do I start?

In January, we gave control of Congress to the Democrats; elected with a mandate to put an end to a lot of the nonsense which has passed for domestic and foreign policy over the past six years; they’ve done a good job (so far) of collecting their paychecks and sitting on their backsides – a national pastime of sorts for them.

This story, along with a lot of others, was buried in favor of the Amazing Chipmunk Shot of Britney Spears (it seems that getting in and out of a limo sans-panties is worthy of the front page, any more).

We have an astronaut who turned into a bit of an astro-naughty; chasing her married boyfriend across several states; a stripper-turned-weight-loss-advocate and model died of an overdose (maybe someday they’ll figure out who gets the kids – and the rest of the $800K her estate is supposedly worth); the last installment of a set of bedtime-stories written by a single-mom in her spare time went on sale.

All of these took front-page space from the Bush administration’s systematic dismantling of the Constitution.

There were some serious front-pagers – the Virginia Tech gunman; the bridge in Minneapolis; protests in Myanmar and the departure of Karl Rove. These, however, were overshadowed by the likes of Michael Vick (something which should have been relegated to a police-blotter) and Lindsay Lohan’s drunken escapades.

It seems that for every passing of a Kurt Vonnegut and a Norman Mailer, we get two double-helpings of Paris Hilton’s Day In Jail.

In retrospect, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, in a nation where nearly 60% of all high-school seniors can’t find the former Soviet Union on a map. I mean – when that knowledge won’t buy the next upgrade to their Nintendo system, there’s precious little reason for America’s Future to concern itself with the goings-on in the rest of the world.

Al Gore won the Nobel Prize? I can hear the question now – “What’s that?”

Alberto Gonzales, hung out to dry by his boss? “Why do I care?”

It’s said that society’s demand for information increases with the pace of society; that we actually demand a sort of information-overload to take our minds off of reality.

I’ll agree – reality is a scary thing nowadays; the sci-fi concept of a bomb-in-a-briefcase is now a reality; where we could ignore nations with chaotic governments in the past, because they only had access to weapons which were last in front-line use three wars ago, they now have nuclear weapons and the systems to deliver them – or sell them to someone who can.

It’s a sad day indeed when we’re more interested in Who Gets Custody of Britney’s Kids than the state of the nation – but a Bread and Circuses mentality isn’t exactly new – at least for failing empires.

Which, I fear, is what we are here in the Land of the Not-So-Free-Any-Longer.

2008?

No resolutions for me. Calendars are artificial-constructs; if I want to do something, I don’t look at one day as being any better or worse than another.

Life has become more than a bit strange. We’ve all been issued tickets for a King-Hell Freak Show, and the 10-in-one is open for business. Hunter Thompson once said, “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”

We’d better hope we can get our game on. It’s looking like another very weird year ahead.

The World’s Best Freakin’ Caesar Salad…..

All right. You asked.

A Caesar salad is one of the yummiest treats you can make for your guests if you know they’ll like it – they’re not for everyone; I’ve even met some folks who don’t like greens or garlic, if you can imagine that.

Still, what follows is the most-authentic Caesar that you can make. It’s up to you to follow the recipe and make your guests beg for more. Don’t be tempted to ‘skimp’ – because you’ll notice it!

The key here is fresh. Everything. If you don’t have fresh ingredients here, you’ll not only disappoint a lot of people, but you’ll also run the risk of messing with a lot of people’s health – one of the ingredients is raw egg.

Now, don’t freak out. I’ve been making this for years, and I’ve never had a case of food poisoning out of my kitchen. That’s because I’m (1) completely O.C. about cleanliness, and (2) equally so about using fresh-that-day eggs and never leaving anything in my kitchen past a pull-date. If you do the same, you’ll never have a problem.

Here we go:

Ingredients:

1. ½ cup Garlic oil*
2. 2ea. – small heads of chilled Romaine lettuce (nearly ice cold, but not frozen)
3. Bag of garlic croutons (you can make these yourself, but they’re cheap, so buy ‘em!)
4. 1/2tsp salt
5. ½ tsp pepper
6. 2 eggs – (these must be ‘coddled’ – or boiled in their shells for 1 minute)
7. 2ea. – medium lemons; for their juice
8. 10drops – or one demitasse spoon – of Worcestershire
9. ½ cup grated Asiago or Parmesan
10. 1ea. – chopped brine-cured tinned anchovy (optional!)
11. 1ea – bowl; large enough to hold all ingredients
12. 1ea – small bowl; large enough to hold dressing ingredients only.

Instructions:

1. Coddle your eggs by placing them with tongs into boiling water for one minute (no more; no less) Remove and let them come to room temp (do not refrigerate)
2. Remove the base ‘core’ of your Romaine heads and discard. Tear the Romaine heads in 1” or 2” ‘sections’ by giving them a good ‘twist’, and working your way down each head in succession. Place in large bowl.
3. Break the coddled eggs in the small bowl – then add the rest of the ingredients (except the cheese) at once.** Using a small whisk or a fork, whip the ingredients together until they’re at a nice, creamy consistency. You can chill this for a bit, but not much – the flavors are best if at room temperature.
4. After ingredients are blended, pour over the Romaine, add your croutons, and toss until thoroughly mixed.

That’s it! Now, serve it fresh, and you’re guaranteed some happy guests!!

*Garlic oil may be made by chopping ten cloves of fresh garlic, then roasting them until they’re toasty-brown, and adding these to a 6oz oil-jar (you can get them at specialty groceries all over the world; they’re the upright-jars with the stopper). If you don’t want to go to the bother, go here: http://www.garlicgold.com — they sell garlic oil by itself, and with the toasted garlic inside. I use garlic oil, myself – but to give my dressing a ‘bite’ and to overcome the fact that I don’t use anchovies, I usually drop a demitasse of the toasted-garlic in the dressing as well. You can get this stuff online, or if you’re fortunate enough to have a comprehensive natural-food market or a Whole Foods nearby, you can usually find it at those locations, also.

There. You have my secret. Happy now?

**You may, or may not, adopt the following variants: (1) Shave – don’t grate – the cheese, adding it as a topping after serving; (2) toss the cheese in with the salad; (3) grate the cheese, but top the salad after serving, (4) omit the cheese entirely. (Personally, I ‘shave and top’ – wait, that sounded altogether inappropriate. Forget I said that).

This is the most accurate Caesar salad you can make, unless you want to add a chopped anchovy to the dressing. Some Caesars are actually served with an anchovy on top. That’s a bit much for American tastes, so I omit the anchovies entirely. Regardless of how you make it – enjoy!

A Celebration for the Rest of Us…

(That’s my hand, swirling the flame on a Spanish Coffee….)

A lot of you have asked, “What do you do during this season? I mean, isn’t it a bit like being a fish out of water?”

It was – for a time, years ago. I’ve learned, however, that there are more folks like me than most might think, and the one thing we do this time of year is get together like everyone else does.

We just don’t cut down trees or sing carols.

Understand me – we don’t ‘hate’ Christmas – or any other ‘holy’ day – we just don’t celebrate ‘em.

Some folks of my persuasion adhere to the Roman celebration of the shortest day of the year, without the whole ‘feast of Saturn’ thing. (Some even call it ‘Festivus’, which is a recent contrivance from a T.V. show – personally; I don’t call it anything, because it doesn’t need a ‘name’ – it’s just a good excuse to get everyone together on the shortest day of the year – usually the 21^st or 22^nd – and have a party).

This is what I did this year, with four of my closest friends in real life. I fired up the grill (it was somewhat-dry last Saturday); the menu was steak, mushroom soup (a good midwinter thing; most of us Northwesterners are mushroom-snobs as well as coffee-snobs); I also made a Caesar salad (yes; I ‘scratch’ my own dressing!)

However, beforehand, there were two staples of my get-togethers: Roast garlic appetizers and Spanish coffee.

Now, you know your friends by whether-or-not they’ll ‘partake’ of garlic with you. Garlic, to me, is a food-group – one of the Indispensibles, with a whole lotta good things – plus, I love the taste of garlic. It goes in everything I cook, more or less – I do a garlic rub for the steak; there’s plenty of garlic in the Caesar dressing, and when you roast four heads of garlic in olive oil and serve it with a triple-crème Brie and artisan crackers – well, life just doesn’t get any better than that.

Unless, of course, you’re swilling Spanish coffee along with.

Now, a Spanish coffee is probably one of those concoctions which has little or nothing to do with Spain – the ingredients are more Mexican and Caribbean than anything else. However, they’re tasty – and good.

Here’s how:

• Well before your get together, go to the store and get some heavy whipping cream. Whip it into a nice froth before the party along with some sugar (more or less, to taste, so it doesn’t taste ‘flat’ when you sip it). Set aside in the ‘fridge.

• When you’re ready to start, take a glass coffee-mug, run a cut-lime around the rim, and then put the cup upside-down in a plate of sugar (avoid the large-granule stuff; it doesn’t work).

• Pour 151-proof rum to about the 1/3 point.

• Using a lighter or a butane torch, light it off.

• Swirl the burning liquid in the cup as shown; being careful to carmelize the rim-sugar, but not start a housefire.

• Put the cup on a solid countertop, and pour about ¼ cup of Kahlua.

• Add a dash of Triple-Sec.

• Finish by pouring strong, fresh-brewed coffee in the last 1/3^rd, leaving some room for some of your whipped-cream.

• Grate some nutmeg over the top.

These are probably the best cold-winter drinks I’ve ever had. I learned to make these years ago from one of the waitstaff at Huber’s Restaurant in Portland, Oregon – this is their signature-drink; they buy more Kahlua than any other restaurant in North America as a result.

The evening was grand – we discussed everything from history to politics to gay-rights to sports and back again. It ended far too soon; while we all celebrated the certainty that we are headed back to the Light, we also knew that there’s winter ahead of us.

Might as well start it off with a party!

Ho’; Ho’; Ho’;….

In the mists of time, my father bought a ho’.

Now, buying a ho’ is not a trivial matter. In selecting a ho’, it’s important to ensure that the ho’ is strong, with great endurance – it’s also important to choose one that’s got symmetry (a lopsided ho’ is not a good thing).

I remember seeing my father’s ho’; a treasure, certainly, as my father made use of his ho’ often, and with great enjoyment.

The time he spent with his ho’ was, he pointed out, ‘his’ time – and no one else’s business. I remember languid summer afternoons, usually on a weekend – Dad would take his ho’ out to the garden, where they would commune in ways a small boy simply wouldn’t understand.

I grew older –and, while my father’s ho’ grew older, also, with that age came a sort of beauty; a ‘patina’, if you will, exemplifying strength, character, and no small amount of hard use.

When, as I grew older and my father passed away, one of the ‘jewels of the kingdom’ as it were was his ho’.

Imagine my surprise when, per his instructions and with a lot of other things, Dad left me his ho’!

Now, the passing of a ho’ from father to son isn’t a trivial matter – there’s the concept of upkeep – it’s like caring for a family-member, in a great many ways, and then learning the Ways Of The Ho’, in a manner which, in turn, guarantees that The Ho’ And I Are One, just as with Dad and the ho’.

I remember clearly – there are some things which you remember just as clearly as if it were yesterday – your first date; your first kiss – and The First Time You Make Use Of A Ho’.

It was a warm afternoon – and I decided to take my new/old ho’ to the garden, and frolic a while.

I rapidly understood, in between the rhododendrons where no one else could readily see, why my father was so enraptured with this ho’. The two of us were one; time passed in a fugue state, and by the time I was anywhere near ready to return to the house, the shadows were lengthening and there was a late-afternoon chill coming on.

I had worked up a sweat – something I hadn’t noticed, because of the sheer joy of Being With My Ho’.

More time passed. My Ho’ and I enjoyed each other’s company – to the extent that I was spending regular time with my ho’, as the effect was at once calmative and envigorating.

I was nearly heartbroken one warm summer afternoon when, near the end of another session, my ho’ gave out entirely.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. My ho’ was old, and had already served one owner before me. Still – there was nothing to be done. I had to do something I hadn’t considered.

I had to replace my ho’.

I asked some people. The common suggestion was to visit a seedy fellow named ‘Homie-D’. I wasn’t happy about this arrangement – everyone knew Homie-D’s; located in one of the seedier parts of town, it was a location most people dreaded visiting. Homie fed people’s ‘habits’. And, as they knew they were going to feed a habit, they also never left without spending far more money than they’d anticipated.

I mustered up my courage, and went to Homie-D’s.

Past the front door, I walked straight up to an older lady behind a counter. Hesitantly, I said, “I broke my ho’.”

She, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate. She was busy straightening some magazines behind the counter; the ones with full-color photos, which, I’m embarrassed to say, I’ve partaken – as have all true Users of the Ho’.

“Aisle 12, with the garden tools.”

This hit me like a ton of bricks. She didn’t look up. Didn’t look around. Didn’t acknowledge my grief, or the trauma of losing a friend.

Just a reference; stated matter-of-factly, as to where I could Find A New Ho’.

Later, in the garden, I noted that the handle wasn’t quite the same – I’d hit it with some sandpaper, but the well-worn feeling would have to wait, until constant ministrations with my hands, stroking the shaft, wore it smooth.

It was too gaily-painted to be a real ho’ – real ho’s worked for a living, and did their jobs well. They didn’t need orange safety-paint.

I stripped the paint with a bit of acetone and a wire brush – and, after oiling it and sharpening the blade, I realized that, with a bit of effort at Breaking Her In and no small amount of luck, I, too, would have a true Heirloom Ho’.

I’m not too worried about who gets my ho’ when I’m gone. For now, she’s all mine.

(Double-entendre is one of my favorite writing forms. In the spirit of a little mirth doing a person good, please accept this – submitted for your approval and in the certainty that spring — and gardening weather — is coming again….)

Wishing You All A Happy Holiday…

…Regardless of How You Celebrate It….

You’re all aware by now that I don’t ascribe to a religion.

That aside, I have a lot of friends who do.

In fact, I have friends of nearly every belief-system – Christians, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, Wiccans, and a couple who hold to the old Native American beliefs.

Some of you just like the season – lights; presents; food; family; friends.

Those are all good things.

To each one of you — regardless of how you celebrate the season — I wish you a safe, happy, and healthy one.

Some of my own wishes for next year:

— I’m hoping for less war, and more peace.

— I’m hoping for more tolerance, and less intolerance.

— I’m hoping for less hate, and more kindness.

To call each of you ‘friend’ is my honor and privilege.

Thank each of you for being ‘you’.

Peace.

Urine and Cheerios (or, “Why I Don’t Believe in Christianity”)

(Mithras and the Bull – Pompeii)

“Our documentary sources of knowledge about the origins of Christianity and its earliest development are chiefly the New Testament Scriptures, the authenticity of which we must, to a great extent, take for granted.”

“The Gospels do not go back to the first century of the Christian era.”

(Catholic Encyclopedia, Farley ed., vol. iii & vi)

Set the wayback machine to around 300C.E.

That’s the farthest back we can go, and still find a manuscript of the Gospels. See, the Gospels simply can’t be traced any farther back than that — which is a good 325 years after a person they call ‘Jesus Christ’ supposedly walked the sands of the then-nation of Israel (mod. Palestine).

Christianity, it appears, slips into a 300-year-plus black-hole. Into the void steps Christianity’s true ‘saviour’ – a Roman emperor.

In 306, the entire of the Roman state was in serious trouble. A Roman general, Flavius Constantius, had wrested control of the Roman state after the death of his father, and set about to rein-in the rebellious provinces.

He grasped one thing which his predecessors did not – that the only way a polyglot state such as Rome would ever come together – with enough power to stay together – was if there was a Power above all else.

He rolled the dice, and declared himself a Christian.

Christianity was a far different religion than is known today. In reality it was a collection of religions – the notion of ‘god’ was actually polytheistic; there were numbers of ‘Christian leaders’ who worshipped a combination of ‘older’ gods, plopping the Christ-figure on top of it all and calling it good.

These factions were serving to divide the Roman state as only religion can divide a nation – and to Constantine, this would not do.

His vision of a reunited Empire under single control was running headlong into the early Church schisms, which made his task all but impossible. By declaring himself a Christian, and declaring the state religion to be Christianity, Constantine did what no other Emperor had the vision to do – he made one religion the religion of state; he banned all other religions, and then set about the task of codifying the religion in a book which everyone could read and understand.

In 324 C.E., when Constantine (along with several legions) put down the last of the Eastern rebellions, he sent several of the Church ‘presbyters’ (leaders) to Alexandria with the sole mission of making peace among themselves.

They failed at this task in rather spectacular fashion.

They spent the better part of half the year, writing “…in all, two thousand two hundred and thirty-one scrolls and legendary tales of gods and saviours, together with a record of the doctrines orated by them.” (Life of Constantine; 1891)

It became clear to Constantine that until he locked everyone in a room to get their story straight, his vision of a new Rome under one religion – and hence at peace with itself and capable of withstanding invasion from without — simply wasn’t going to happen.

He ordered everyone to the city of Nicaea.

In the summer of 325, Constantine got his wish. At the palace of one of his advisers, a man named Osius, Constantine’s Council of Nicaea began.

Osius himself stated that “…apart from Constantine himself and Eusebius Pamphilius, they were a set of illiterate, simple creatures who understood nothing.” This was the start of modern Christianity.

By all accounts, this meeting was a free for all of ‘wild texts’ which purported to support Jupiter, Hera, Zeus, and most of the other members of the Greek and Roman pantheon, with a ‘Jesus’ figure somewhere in the middle.

Up until this time, most Romans either idolized Julius Caesar and his descendants, or Mithras (the Romanized version of the Persian god Mithra.) Offerings to Greek gods which had been “Romanized” (Jupiter for Zeus, for example) were mainly limited to the Roman aristocracy. Caesar, the Roman ‘Saviour’ (from the Latin, ‘sower of seed’) and father of the empire had been worshipped by the Roman common people for centuries now; it would make sense to replace him with something – or someone – who could simply ‘own’ these attributes anew, creating an entirely new ‘god’ who would reunify the Roman state under one deity.

Monotheism, first invented by the Egyptians, was about to see its biggest day in the sun.

A year and a half later — presumably, with the approval of Osius, whose palace by this time likely resembled a cheap hotel — they had balloted-down the shortlist: Caesar, Krishna (the ‘saviour’ god of the Eastern peoples), Hesus (the great Druid god of Brittania), Mithras (the Persian fellow), and a couple of others.

Constantine knew that he had to provide a composite deity which would be accepted by the people. To mollify the Celtic peoples of the north and west, he choses Hesus, and Krishna to satisfy the eastern peoples of the Empire.

A ballot was taken, and using his title as Pontifex Maximus, Constantine declared these deities to be ‘one’. The corruption of their two names are used today – Jesus Christ (which isn’t a name, so much as an Occupational Title).

Now, if he could get the story straight, he’d be home-free.

He then made his famous declaration: “Search ye these books, and whatever is good in them, that retain; but whatsoever is evil, that cast away. What is good in one book, unite ye with that which is good in another book. And whatsoever is thus brought together shall be called The Book of Books. And it shall be the doctrine of my people, which I will recommend unto all nations, that there shall be no more war for religions’ sake.”

A good intent. Problem was, what happend was a lot like trying to herd cats or organize a revolution.

It took, if the records are to be believed, another two to four years to finally codify the four Gospels, and record them. Constantine himself paid for fifty copies (none of which survive to this day), which were sent to the fifty major cities of the known world with instructions that they be immediately copied. As to the rest, it was a muddied mess from the word ‘go’, and as late as 420, a church leader named Jerome wrote that the various Epistles were “…greatly interpolated to lend weight to the personal views of their authors.”

For all this, there are no ‘ancient’ Bibles. The earliest-known copy is a 346-page manuscript dating from ca.380C.E., and was likely a copy
generated from one of Constantine’s ‘masters’.

The problem is, it bore little resemblance to what is commonly-published today. In fact, it was so different (over 14,000 variations between it and the ‘modern Bible’) that most historians now disregard both documents completely, preferring to refer to it as an evolving work, based on an already-unhistorical document, created centuries after the last living person supposedly invovled in the events had up and died.

Added to this problem was the fact that full ‘accreditation’ was routinely granted to religious schools, giving them the same weight as real universities; this practice continues in the Western world today (you can go to Harvard University today and obtain a “Doctor of Theology”, just as you can at many universities throughout the Western world). This practice leant the same weight to a preacher as it did to an historian – something which has, in turn leant the weight of historic accuracy to the Bible, which as the reader can see, is clearly not a historically-accurate document.

Known to historians as the Sinai Bible, the document discovered quite by accident has created much controversy over the years, as it has contradicted much of the modern Bible, and is the ‘smoking gun’ to which scholars have referred over the years since its discovery in 1859C.E.

While there are many discrepancies (for example, the Sinai Bible’s Gospel of Mark begins with ‘Christ’ at the age of thirty; doesn’t mention Mary at all or the notion of ‘virgin birth’), the biggest issue with the Sinai Bible is with what historians call the Great Omission and the Great Insertion.

There are an equally-staggering 10,000 words added to the Gospel of Luke in modern-day Bibles than in the earliest-known (Sinai) Bible. These passages, which are bewildering to scholars, were added in the 15th century, taken from other ‘Gospels’ which didn’t make the ‘cut’ in the Bible which was approved by the Nicaean Council.

Whew. With me so far?

Now — the Omission is this: Missing from the original are the six words, “Jesus was carried up to heaven.”

Oops.

We can go on, but it’s really not necessary (there was the Vatican Expurgation of 1562, deleting passages which were deemed ‘inflammatory’; the Council of Trent, which removed similar passages, and so forth) – but those six words are the ‘bullet from the smoking gun’ — it’s literally the passage on which all of Christianity depends.

Christians believe that ‘Jesus’ was executed as an innocent man, and hence mystically took on the sins of the whole world – then he was raised from the dead on the third day after he was buried, and acended to ‘heaven’.

Paul, one of the original Apostles, said of this “…If Christ has not been raised, your faith is in vain” (1 Cor. 5:17).

Again — oops….

So, if the Bible isn’t historic – especially the New Testament — just what is it?

The Bible is a compendium of stories. Many are taken from ancient Egyptian texts (Psalm 104 in the Old Testament is an almost-dead-on-copy of the Great Hymn to the Aten, written by Pharoah Akhenaten several hundred years prior to the authorship of the Psalms); the Indian epic “Mahabahrata” supplied the verbatim text for 22 verses of the Book of Matthew – and on it goes. Christ, as it turns out, is the invention of the Council of Nicaea; his ‘acts’ are the simple adoption of stories from several ancient religions (for example, Mithra was crucified on a cross, bound in linen, rose on the third day after his burial in the third week of March – now called “Easter” after either the Babylonian goddess Ishtar or Astarte, or the Celtic equinox-festival, Eostar).

The simple fact – which serious historians admit readily – is that there simply is no record of the life of a person called ‘Jesus Christ’ before the fourth century — three hundred years after he supposedly ‘lived’.

As a trained historian, I deal in facts. Facts, to be established as such, have to (1) be consistent, (2) believeable, and (3) verifiable.

Christianity fails, and quite miserably, on all counts here.

(Submitted for your approval – the shifting of a paradigm without a clutch; the skewering of fable by an ugly truth – because the truth, regardless of how ugly, hurtful, or unkind – prevails)

My Own Private Heathen Idaho….

(…or, “Five Days and Counting”….)

Mark Twain was a genius.

His later work, of which “The Mysterious Stranger” sees a claymation video embedded herein, was about his own philosophy and Freethought/Atheism.

Now, going against the tide back then was formidable; we were only a couple hundred years away from hanging such people as witches, and there were a lot of folks in America back then who were still in favor of the practice.

I owe a lot to Twain. He wasn’t a good businessman, but he was a great writer. Alternately broke and rich as the world counted such things, he didn’t seem to mind.

In the end, there’s a parallel.

See, I don’t mind, either. My neighbor across the road, John, is the walking/talking/breathing epitome of Ned Flanders, the goofy Christian and neighbor of Homer Simpson. This time of year, you can see his house from space.

While I think it’s a waste of electricity, I’ve also taken to loaning him my ladder.

He wants to put up 10,000 twinkling Italian Christmas lights just like Clark Griswold, then have at it, Ned!

My attorney is another case.

He’s Jewish.

He wishes me Merry Christmas, and never gets the irony of it all, as he’s Jewish, I’m an atheist, and I still say Happy Haunakkah.

See, the way I look at it is thus: The world’s religions have, for all of their negative aspects (war, mind-control, and all those other things that their practitioners would just as soon we thinking-folks forget) never solved a blasted thing.

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They’ve come no closer to explaining things in an empirical sense than before they existed.

So, in the end, I don’t know what’s out there. Thing is, I cheerfully admit it. Thing about the Other Side is that they won’t admit it – they’ll just go on telling me I’m going to a place called Hell, because they ‘know it’s there’, and one book or another says so.

Me? I’m excited about life. The fact that I don’t know what it’s about doesn’t make me obsess over classifying, ordering, and ‘understanding’ it all. Some things can’t be understood, and Life is at the top of that list.

On balance, I’m happier than most religious types – I mean, can you imagine the stress of seeing your friends and knowing with all certainty that they were going to a place like Hell?

I mean – with all that certain knowledge, I’d be wasting no time raising a veritable army of ‘believers’ – and marching through – wait; that’s been done. Sorry.

Y’see, I’ve said similar things to my Believing friends; they all look at me strangely. Peeing in someone’s ethereal Cheerios is an unsettling thing; no one’s done that before, and they’re all of a sudden having to say, “My Cheerios are wet! Especially the one I was going to sell on Ebay that looks like Jesus! And you peed in them! That’s pee! Dammit! Oops! I’m not supposed to say that! Hey! Is any of this real? See what you’ve done? You’ve actually made me doubt!”

Now, peeing in Cheerios is only one of the services I provide for free to my friends — right along with helping with garden-work, loaning ladders and fixing the occasional flat-tire – – but it’s probably the most-disquieting and least-appreciated.

I say all that to say this – If you’re stressed this holiday, I actually feel your pain. Or your life-balance, whichever is larger.

Your mileage may vary.

This is life, after all….

The Demise of the Internet Feelgood Society…

…Or, “How Your Nose-Picking Ex-Friends Will Eventually Kill Off Social Networking.”

There’s a critical mass of sorts developing in social-networking.

The problem is pretty simple — as more and more people begin using social-networking sites, they become less and less exclusive, and more like real-life. We learned with Y/360 that eventually, all the lowlife from Yahoo Chat would find their way to set up a blog-page, and set about harassing, stalking, and Raising Hell, Generally. While customer care is more-or-less effective at dealing with most of this riffraff, the bigger problem is one of sheer volume.

Imagine this: You have photos from all of your snot-nosed buddies from grade-school, carefully arranged on a poster-board with the labels ‘friend’; ‘enemy’, and other such; the top three to five are lovingly enshrined in a little spot at the top, surrounded by Sharpie-drawn hearts and flowers.

Then, one of the snot-blowers from your ‘enemies’ list decides to gang up and beat the tar out of you on the playground — they didn’t like what you said yesterday; they didn’t like being excluded — or they’re just immature, mean, and dull-witted (sort of like the jewel in the cartoon, above).

Now, imagine this is going on not just at the grade-school level – but all over the country.

The police are overwhelmed. Suddenly, everything grinds to a halt – nothing gets done any more, and Life As We Know It ends, suddenly, abruptly, with no recourse.

This is what’s happening with social-networking.

The worst offenders are sites like Facebook. I know this, because before I killed off my own experimental page, I would get notes from people — “Joe Average has sent you a message” would appear in my email. Would they tell me what it was?

No. Again, they were like the snot-nosed booger-picker with the double-digit IQ in the cartoon — “I know something you don’t! Neener-neener! Neener-neener! YOU dunno what it is! Neener-neener!”

This sort of juvenile software development has been the bane of social sites like Friendster and the others which presaged Facebook — but the net-effect is the same; they’re all Pimpin’ for Eyeballs; other little booger-picking ‘tardboys with the snotty noses pressed up against the glass; staring down Who Knows What – but the advertisers want them to come, so they are bidden, in droves – and that little teaser in your inbox is but one way to make it so.

Just as many people would say things in chat which would have gotten them beaten in public or worse, it’s now possible to say things on social-sites which would garner one the same sort of attention — while the customer-care people are busying themselves with putting out the worst of the ‘fires’, the sheer mass of places like Friendster, Facebook — and Multiply, for that matter – mean that sooner or later, the seven-year-old who used to beat the snot out of you every single day for a month in third grade will eventually find you.

He’ll be in a position to contact you whereas in real life he would not – that’s the other large problem about social-networking sites; people who in real life would call you things like “Ma’am”; “Sir”; or “Boss” are now sending you semiliterate missives, ending with “Du U want be my frien?”, or “R U OK?”

Every user to whom I’ve spoken about this rather ugly little phenom has said the same thing, and been frustrated by it to one degree or another.

And, just like real life, this kind of unwanted attention will eventually drive the better users away. Little by little, the writers, thinkers, and other likeminded people will either gravitate toward a more-exclusive site, or set their filters – and their phasers – on ‘high’. We were all to willing to leave 360 for Multiply’s loving arms – until we learned the lesson that nothing’s perfect, and the same things happen whereever we go.

What’s to be done?

Nothing, as it turns out. Just as it’s evolutionary to categorize our acquaintances from our friends, and to remove our enemies as far away as possible, social-networking is going to doom itself – or ‘dumb’ itself – to the lowest common denominator.

Conclusion?

Let’s have fun while this lasts, folks!