M. Newman's Blog, page 2
May 17, 2013
Cannibalism In The Colonies
A few weeks ago, in Jamestown, Virginia, the first permanent English settlement in America, the cannibalized remains of a young woman were discovered. Little is known about the identity of the woman, whom investigators named Jane.What is known is that she was one of 300 battered and hungry settlers who arrived in the colony in mid-August 1609, two years after it was founded, aboard one of six ships that had limped into Jamestown after being caught at sea in a hurricane. The fleet had been scattered, its leaders shipwrecked on Bermuda, provisions brought from England ruined, and settlers injured.
To make matters worse, the colony was wholly unprepared to support them. From the very beginnings of the Virginia colony, the English had struggled to feed themselves, relying instead on trading for corn with local Indians or taking food by force.
By the summer of 1609, however, the Indians were no longer willing to supply the increasing numbers of colonists with food, and by October a full-scale war erupted. Indian warriors sealed off Jamestown Island, trapping hundreds of men, women and children within the palisade of the fort on starvation rations with little hope of relief from outside.
As winter set in and the starving colonists became increasingly desperate, many of them went into the woods in search of snakes and wild roots in order to satisfy their hunger. Many of these hapless souls were wiped out by waiting warriors. In desperation, those left behind devoured their horses, dogs, cats, rats and mice, and when these ran out even their boot leather. But worse was yet to come.
Starving settlers dug up corpses from their graves and ate them. Some colonists, who died in their beds or were killed seeking food beyond the palisade, were taken up and eaten by those who found their bodies. Sometime during the winter, 14-year-old Jane died, was eaten and then discarded in a trash pit.
The ravenous Englishmen looked greedily on those alive who still had some meat on their bones. According to the records of George Percy, the colony’s leader, one settler murdered his pregnant wife “as she slept on his bosom,” then “ripped the child out of her womb and threw it into the River and after chopped the Mother in pieces and salted her for his food,” for which “barbarous” and unnatural act he was tortured to extract a confession and summarily executed.
Jane’s fate, and that of the other cannibalized victims brings into focus one of the darkest periods in Virginia’s early history. But it also reveals the enormous challenges that Europeans faced and the sacrifices they made in establishing colonies in the New World. During the early phases of colonization, far more colonies failed than succeeded. Failed colonies rarely lasted more than a year.
The unfortunate settlers had arrived in America with little knowledge of the land they were to colonize, let alone the particular practices of the native peoples of coastal Virginia, but with a full awareness of the fearsome reputation of many Indian peoples encountered by Spanish, English and French adventurers in the previous century.
From the first voyages of Christopher Columbus onward, the image of New World Indians as vicious man-eaters became etched on the European mind, shackling them with persistent fears about Indian cannibalism. A whole body of thought emerged over the causes of native cannibalism. Was cannibalism a sign of wanton depravity or was it an innate characteristic of a degenerate people; a consequence of environmental factors such as the extreme heat or cold?
Ironically, despite their deep fears about the depraved habits of the natives and their endless debates over its causes it was the English who were forced to resort to cannibalism.
To make matters worse, the colony was wholly unprepared to support them. From the very beginnings of the Virginia colony, the English had struggled to feed themselves, relying instead on trading for corn with local Indians or taking food by force.
By the summer of 1609, however, the Indians were no longer willing to supply the increasing numbers of colonists with food, and by October a full-scale war erupted. Indian warriors sealed off Jamestown Island, trapping hundreds of men, women and children within the palisade of the fort on starvation rations with little hope of relief from outside.
As winter set in and the starving colonists became increasingly desperate, many of them went into the woods in search of snakes and wild roots in order to satisfy their hunger. Many of these hapless souls were wiped out by waiting warriors. In desperation, those left behind devoured their horses, dogs, cats, rats and mice, and when these ran out even their boot leather. But worse was yet to come.
Starving settlers dug up corpses from their graves and ate them. Some colonists, who died in their beds or were killed seeking food beyond the palisade, were taken up and eaten by those who found their bodies. Sometime during the winter, 14-year-old Jane died, was eaten and then discarded in a trash pit.
The ravenous Englishmen looked greedily on those alive who still had some meat on their bones. According to the records of George Percy, the colony’s leader, one settler murdered his pregnant wife “as she slept on his bosom,” then “ripped the child out of her womb and threw it into the River and after chopped the Mother in pieces and salted her for his food,” for which “barbarous” and unnatural act he was tortured to extract a confession and summarily executed.
Jane’s fate, and that of the other cannibalized victims brings into focus one of the darkest periods in Virginia’s early history. But it also reveals the enormous challenges that Europeans faced and the sacrifices they made in establishing colonies in the New World. During the early phases of colonization, far more colonies failed than succeeded. Failed colonies rarely lasted more than a year.
The unfortunate settlers had arrived in America with little knowledge of the land they were to colonize, let alone the particular practices of the native peoples of coastal Virginia, but with a full awareness of the fearsome reputation of many Indian peoples encountered by Spanish, English and French adventurers in the previous century.
From the first voyages of Christopher Columbus onward, the image of New World Indians as vicious man-eaters became etched on the European mind, shackling them with persistent fears about Indian cannibalism. A whole body of thought emerged over the causes of native cannibalism. Was cannibalism a sign of wanton depravity or was it an innate characteristic of a degenerate people; a consequence of environmental factors such as the extreme heat or cold?
Ironically, despite their deep fears about the depraved habits of the natives and their endless debates over its causes it was the English who were forced to resort to cannibalism.
April 16, 2013
Nazi Villains, Jewish Heroes
April 19, 2013 will mark the 70th anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. As many readers know, Poland was invaded by the Nazis in 1939 and most of Poland’s 350,000 Jews were forced into a ghetto in the city of Warsaw. Living conditions in the ghetto were miserable and, in the ensuing years, especially 1943, 300,000 of those Jews were deported from the Ghetto and most of them met their deaths in concentration camps.
In response, several Jewish underground groups, numbering perhaps 750 people, with limited weapons -- pistols and explosives -- fought back. At the outset of 1943 they fired on German troops who were rounding up Jews. The Germans retreated.
For a while the Germans held back, but on April 19, 1943 the first night of Passover, they attacked. Their intention: liquidate the Warsaw Ghetto. Many believe that the Germans attacked that night to send a message that Passover, the Day of Liberation, should be transformed into a Day of Destruction. The Jewish fighters, led by Mordechai Anielewicz, resisted, stunning the Nazis, killing and wounding many soldiers.
Over the next few weeks, the Jews battled valiantly. Fighting fiercely, the Jewish Fighters declared:
“Amid the din of artillery, amid the rattle of the machine guns, amid the smoke of fires and the dust of the murdered of the Warsaw Ghetto ... We know that though we may all perish in battle, we will not surrender. We are gasping for the revenge and punishment of our common enemy. Long live freedom. Death to the torturers and tormentors. Long live the battle to the death against the Germans.”
And so they fought. The Germans planned to destroy the Ghetto in three days but the brave Jews held out for a month until the final battle, on May 19, at Mila 18 Street, headquarters of the Ghetto Fighters. These brave men and women held out much longer than the actual nation of Poland did after the Nazi invasion. Even after the Ghetto was destroyed, its buildings burnt down, Jews hid in the ruins ambushing German soldiers.
The Warsaw Ghetto Revolt was among the first against German occupied Europe, inspiring other uprisings.
Now, in time for the 70th anniversary, the Museum of the History of Polish Jews, that has risen up in the heart of the vanished ghetto, ringed by Holocaust memorials and shabby communist-era apartment buildings, is holding an event entitled, “Critical Mass, 1943,” paying tribute to the brave Jewish heroes. Those fighters will be honored in ceremonies to be led by Polish President Bronislaw Komorowski.
The brightest star at the ceremony will be Simcha Rotem, born in 1924 and one of the very few remaining survivors of the uprising. Also known by his nom de guerre, “Kazik,” Rotem served as the head courier of the underground, most of whom were killed in the fighting, though a few dozen managed to escape the ghetto through sewage canals, with Rotem himself leading about 40 others out that way to the city’s “Aryan” side.
Immediately following the end of the war, Rotem took part in the Beriha organization, that helped European Jews immigrate to Mandate Palestine, despite the restrictions imposed by the British Mandatory policies (White Paper of 1939). Although his twelve-year old sister was murdered in the ghetto uprising, his parents and another sister survived in hiding and, in 1947, he and the surviving members of his family immigrated to Mandate Palestine. He now lives in Jerusalem.
In response, several Jewish underground groups, numbering perhaps 750 people, with limited weapons -- pistols and explosives -- fought back. At the outset of 1943 they fired on German troops who were rounding up Jews. The Germans retreated.
For a while the Germans held back, but on April 19, 1943 the first night of Passover, they attacked. Their intention: liquidate the Warsaw Ghetto. Many believe that the Germans attacked that night to send a message that Passover, the Day of Liberation, should be transformed into a Day of Destruction. The Jewish fighters, led by Mordechai Anielewicz, resisted, stunning the Nazis, killing and wounding many soldiers.
Over the next few weeks, the Jews battled valiantly. Fighting fiercely, the Jewish Fighters declared:
“Amid the din of artillery, amid the rattle of the machine guns, amid the smoke of fires and the dust of the murdered of the Warsaw Ghetto ... We know that though we may all perish in battle, we will not surrender. We are gasping for the revenge and punishment of our common enemy. Long live freedom. Death to the torturers and tormentors. Long live the battle to the death against the Germans.”
And so they fought. The Germans planned to destroy the Ghetto in three days but the brave Jews held out for a month until the final battle, on May 19, at Mila 18 Street, headquarters of the Ghetto Fighters. These brave men and women held out much longer than the actual nation of Poland did after the Nazi invasion. Even after the Ghetto was destroyed, its buildings burnt down, Jews hid in the ruins ambushing German soldiers.
The Warsaw Ghetto Revolt was among the first against German occupied Europe, inspiring other uprisings.
Now, in time for the 70th anniversary, the Museum of the History of Polish Jews, that has risen up in the heart of the vanished ghetto, ringed by Holocaust memorials and shabby communist-era apartment buildings, is holding an event entitled, “Critical Mass, 1943,” paying tribute to the brave Jewish heroes. Those fighters will be honored in ceremonies to be led by Polish President Bronislaw Komorowski.
The brightest star at the ceremony will be Simcha Rotem, born in 1924 and one of the very few remaining survivors of the uprising. Also known by his nom de guerre, “Kazik,” Rotem served as the head courier of the underground, most of whom were killed in the fighting, though a few dozen managed to escape the ghetto through sewage canals, with Rotem himself leading about 40 others out that way to the city’s “Aryan” side.
Immediately following the end of the war, Rotem took part in the Beriha organization, that helped European Jews immigrate to Mandate Palestine, despite the restrictions imposed by the British Mandatory policies (White Paper of 1939). Although his twelve-year old sister was murdered in the ghetto uprising, his parents and another sister survived in hiding and, in 1947, he and the surviving members of his family immigrated to Mandate Palestine. He now lives in Jerusalem.
February 19, 2013
Gym Class Isn't Just Fun and Games Anymore
Hello readers. It's been quite a while since I've posted anything in this space. Coaching high school basketball during a hectic but successful season has made it difficult to find time to write but today I managed to spare the time to comment on an article in the online edition of the NY Times entitled "Gym Class Isn't Just Fun and Games Anymore," which discussed a trend to incorporate academics in physical education classes. Happily for me, the Times chose to print the comment. Here is the comment:
"Incorporating academics into PE class is nothing new. For years, high school teachers have been discussing anatomy and the physiological benefits of exercise (among other topics) while leading their students through calisthenics and teaching them various sports skills. I am bewildered by the comments of those who do not approve of this practice. These are physical education classes with the emphasis on "education," not recess; students receive credit for these classes and can not graduate without having successfully completed them; and they take place in schools (institutions in which children are supposed to be learning) not playgrounds where kids can go to play without being bothered to learn.
I would also like to make the point that they are physical education classes not "gym" classes. "Gym" is the location in which these classes are taught not the subject matter that is presented. English classes are not referred to as "room 104 classes" and history classes are not called "room 323 classes"
The writer is a retired NYC physical education teacher."
For those who are interested in reading the Times article, here is the link:
http://www.nytimes.com/2013/02/19/edu...
"Incorporating academics into PE class is nothing new. For years, high school teachers have been discussing anatomy and the physiological benefits of exercise (among other topics) while leading their students through calisthenics and teaching them various sports skills. I am bewildered by the comments of those who do not approve of this practice. These are physical education classes with the emphasis on "education," not recess; students receive credit for these classes and can not graduate without having successfully completed them; and they take place in schools (institutions in which children are supposed to be learning) not playgrounds where kids can go to play without being bothered to learn.
I would also like to make the point that they are physical education classes not "gym" classes. "Gym" is the location in which these classes are taught not the subject matter that is presented. English classes are not referred to as "room 104 classes" and history classes are not called "room 323 classes"
The writer is a retired NYC physical education teacher."
For those who are interested in reading the Times article, here is the link:
http://www.nytimes.com/2013/02/19/edu...
December 2, 2012
The Sand Creek Massacre
November 29 marked the anniversary of the Sand Creek Massacre, one of the most brutal atrocities of the Indian Wars if not of the entire history of the American military. Shortly before dawn on that day in 1864, a U.S. Cavalry unit, led by Colonel J. M. Chivington, a Methodist preacher acting on orders from Governor John Evans, attacked the Cheyenne and Arapaho peoples at Sand Creek, Colorado, slaughtering nearly 500 unarmed victims. The unsuspecting victims, mostly, women, children and old men, were asleep beneath a white surrender flag when the troops attacked.
Fighting between white settlers and Native Americans had been going on since the 1850’s when the gold and silver rush in the Rocky Mountains brought thousands of white prospectors to the area, dislocating and angering the Cheyenne and Arapaho who lived on the land. As tensions increased, the Indians began attacking wagon trains, mining camps and stagecoach lines with increasing frequency, leading Governor Evans to send a militia led by Chivington to subdue the Indians. Chivington launched a campaign of violence against the Cheyenne and their allies, which included the Arapaho, Sioux, Comanche and Kiowa, attacking the Indians and razing their villages. Naturally, the Indians went on the defensive warpath. Evans and Chivington reinforced the militia and after a summer of lost battles, the Indians were ready for peace. As a result, their representatives met with Evans and Chivington at Camp Weld, near Denver, on September 28, 1864. Although no treaties were signed, the Indians were under the impression that peace had been attained. However, on the day of these “peace talks,” Chivington was told by his superior officer, General Samuel Curtis, that “I want no peace until the Indians suffer more...no peace must be made without my directions.”
Unaware of Curtis's telegram, the Cheyenne Chief, Black Kettle, and some 550 Cheyenne and Arapaho having made their peace, traveled south to set up camp on Sand Creek under the promised protection of Fort Lyon. Those who remained opposed to the agreement headed North to join the Sioux. Although he knew that the Indians had surrendered, Chivington led his 700 troops, many of them drinking heavily, to Sand Creek and positioned them, along with their four howitzers, around the Indian village. The ever trusting Black Kettle raised both an American and a white flag of peace over his tepee.
However, Chivington ignored the symbol of peace and surrender, raising his arm for attack. With an easy victory at hand, cannons and rifles began to pound upon the camp as the Indians scattered in panic. The frenzied soldiers began to charge, hunting down men, women, and children, shooting them unmercifully. A few warriors managed to fight back allowing some members of the camp to escape across the stream.
One man, Silas Soule, a Massachusetts abolitionist, refused to follow Colonel Chivington's orders. He did not allow his cavalry company to fire into the crowd.
The troops kept up their indiscriminate assault for most of the day, during which numerous atrocities, such as mutilating and scalping the dead and killing pregnant women and children. were committed. One lieutenant was said to have killed and scalped three women and five children who had surrendered and were screaming for mercy. It was reported that some of the soldiers cut out females’ genitalia and attached them to their hats and saddles. Finally breaking off their attack they returned to the camp, killed the wounded, plundered the teepees and divided up the Indians' horse herd before leaving.
When the attack was over, as many as 150 Indians, most of whom were old men, women and children, lay dead. In the meantime, the cavalry lost only nine or ten men, with about three dozen wounded. Black Kettle and his wife followed the others up the stream bed, his wife being shot in the back and left for dead.
Black Kettle’s wife, although shot nine times, somehow managed to survived the attack. The survivors, over half of whom were wounded, sought refuge in the camp of the Cheyenne Dog Warriors (who had remained opposed to the peace treaty) at Smokey Hill River. Many of the Indians joined the Dog Soldiers, deciding there could be no successful negotiations with the white men and were waging war against them. Indeed, the Sand Creek Massacre is cited as a critical cause of the Battle of Little Big Horn, as many Cheyenne warriors simply devoted their lives to war against the US.
The Sand Creek murderers returned to Denver, exhibiting their scalps, to receive a hero's welcome. Initially the battle was reported in the press as a victory against a bravely-fought defense by the Cheyenne. Within weeks, however, eyewitnesses came forward offering conflicting testimony, leading to a military investigation and two Congressional investigations into the events. Silas Soule was eager to testify against Chivington. However, after he testified, Soule was murdered by Charles W. Squires, a murder believed to have been ordered by Chivington.
The Congressional investigation determined the crime to be a “sedulously and carefully planned massacre.” Chivington was denounced and forced to resign but neither he nor anybody else was ever brought to justice for the massacre.
Fighting between white settlers and Native Americans had been going on since the 1850’s when the gold and silver rush in the Rocky Mountains brought thousands of white prospectors to the area, dislocating and angering the Cheyenne and Arapaho who lived on the land. As tensions increased, the Indians began attacking wagon trains, mining camps and stagecoach lines with increasing frequency, leading Governor Evans to send a militia led by Chivington to subdue the Indians. Chivington launched a campaign of violence against the Cheyenne and their allies, which included the Arapaho, Sioux, Comanche and Kiowa, attacking the Indians and razing their villages. Naturally, the Indians went on the defensive warpath. Evans and Chivington reinforced the militia and after a summer of lost battles, the Indians were ready for peace. As a result, their representatives met with Evans and Chivington at Camp Weld, near Denver, on September 28, 1864. Although no treaties were signed, the Indians were under the impression that peace had been attained. However, on the day of these “peace talks,” Chivington was told by his superior officer, General Samuel Curtis, that “I want no peace until the Indians suffer more...no peace must be made without my directions.”
Unaware of Curtis's telegram, the Cheyenne Chief, Black Kettle, and some 550 Cheyenne and Arapaho having made their peace, traveled south to set up camp on Sand Creek under the promised protection of Fort Lyon. Those who remained opposed to the agreement headed North to join the Sioux. Although he knew that the Indians had surrendered, Chivington led his 700 troops, many of them drinking heavily, to Sand Creek and positioned them, along with their four howitzers, around the Indian village. The ever trusting Black Kettle raised both an American and a white flag of peace over his tepee.
However, Chivington ignored the symbol of peace and surrender, raising his arm for attack. With an easy victory at hand, cannons and rifles began to pound upon the camp as the Indians scattered in panic. The frenzied soldiers began to charge, hunting down men, women, and children, shooting them unmercifully. A few warriors managed to fight back allowing some members of the camp to escape across the stream.
One man, Silas Soule, a Massachusetts abolitionist, refused to follow Colonel Chivington's orders. He did not allow his cavalry company to fire into the crowd.
The troops kept up their indiscriminate assault for most of the day, during which numerous atrocities, such as mutilating and scalping the dead and killing pregnant women and children. were committed. One lieutenant was said to have killed and scalped three women and five children who had surrendered and were screaming for mercy. It was reported that some of the soldiers cut out females’ genitalia and attached them to their hats and saddles. Finally breaking off their attack they returned to the camp, killed the wounded, plundered the teepees and divided up the Indians' horse herd before leaving.
When the attack was over, as many as 150 Indians, most of whom were old men, women and children, lay dead. In the meantime, the cavalry lost only nine or ten men, with about three dozen wounded. Black Kettle and his wife followed the others up the stream bed, his wife being shot in the back and left for dead.
Black Kettle’s wife, although shot nine times, somehow managed to survived the attack. The survivors, over half of whom were wounded, sought refuge in the camp of the Cheyenne Dog Warriors (who had remained opposed to the peace treaty) at Smokey Hill River. Many of the Indians joined the Dog Soldiers, deciding there could be no successful negotiations with the white men and were waging war against them. Indeed, the Sand Creek Massacre is cited as a critical cause of the Battle of Little Big Horn, as many Cheyenne warriors simply devoted their lives to war against the US.
The Sand Creek murderers returned to Denver, exhibiting their scalps, to receive a hero's welcome. Initially the battle was reported in the press as a victory against a bravely-fought defense by the Cheyenne. Within weeks, however, eyewitnesses came forward offering conflicting testimony, leading to a military investigation and two Congressional investigations into the events. Silas Soule was eager to testify against Chivington. However, after he testified, Soule was murdered by Charles W. Squires, a murder believed to have been ordered by Chivington.
The Congressional investigation determined the crime to be a “sedulously and carefully planned massacre.” Chivington was denounced and forced to resign but neither he nor anybody else was ever brought to justice for the massacre.
October 15, 2012
Down By The River
“Don’t worry, honey,” her maid of honor told her. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon. There’s a lot of traffic in this part of town.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Abbie agreed. “There must have been an accident backing up traffic.”
Almost as soon as she said that, a grim-faced police officer entered the church and requested a meeting with the bride.
“I don’t know of any easy way to tell you this, ma’am,” the cop said. “But your fiance was killed this morning in an automobile accident. Please accept my condolences.”
She blanched briefly but after the initial shock wore off, Abbie thanked the officer, made a short announcement to the guests and quietly left the building.
“Oh, what a terrible shame,” said one teary-eyed bridesmaid to her shocked companion. “I just can’t believe it.”
“It’s a tragedy alright,” the young man replied. “Totally senseless. But what really amazes me is Abbie’s reaction.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, really, it was more a lack of reaction,” he explained. “Except for a brief, weird little smile, she just turned and left...she just showed no emotion.”
“She’s probably in shock,” the bridesmaid said.
At the funeral, several puzzled guests commented on her bizarre behavior.
“I don’t understand,” said one black-clad young lady to her boyfriend. “She hasn’t shed a tear. One would think that she didn’t love him.”
“Abbie always was a bit unusual. Who knows what’s going on in her mind,” he replied.
What was going on in Abbie’s mind at this time, was mild annoyance at the mourners who were openly displaying their grief. “I wish they would stop crying,” she said, half-aloud. “What will tears accomplish? I suppose I can’t say anything though.” Of course, several people sitting nearby overheard her unintentionally audible statement and stared at her with undisguised disgust.
To Abbie, the ceremony only served to illustrate the absolute pointlessness of it all. “What was the purpose of his life?” she wondered. “After a short time, few people will ever even think of him. Eventually, nobody will even know that he’d existed. Life goes on for the rest of us and then we die.”
She took one day off then returned to her job at the advertising agency. Although she was a respected copywriter at the firm, there was nothing urgent that required her presence.
“Ms. Mercer,” said the company president, who rarely ventured into her cubicle, “what are you doing here? Why don’t you go home?”
“Why Mr. Evans? What would that accomplish?”
“Suit yourself,” he said.
The following Friday evening, Mr. Evans summoned her to his office. This was an extremely rare occurrence and caused her to wonder if she’d done anything wrong.
“Ms. Mercer,” he said, “I’d like to begin by offering my sincere condolences for your loss and my appreciation for the dedication you exhibited by returning to work so promptly.”
Before she could thank him, he continued. “I would also like to assure you that what I am about to say has nothing to do with that unfortunate event.”
“Uh-oh,” she thought. “This sounds like I’m about to be fired.”
But she was mistaken, as she discovered when he continued.
“As you surely know, Ms. Mercer, I am not the sort to let emotion influence my business decisions. Actually, I had come to this decision several weeks ago but had to run it by the board. Since you began at this firm, I have been quite satisfied with your work and believe you to be capable of great things. Therefore, I have decided, and the board have agreed, that beginning immediately, you will be promoted to the post of assistant vice president of copywriting, move into your own office and receive a raise in pay commensurate with your new position.”
She somehow was able to disguise her shock and simply say, ”thank you, Mr. Evans. I hope I won’t disappoint you.”
“I’m sure you won’t, dear. Now have a nice weekend.”
She stopped at Marty’s Liquors on East 10th Street and bought a refrigerated fifth of orange-flavored Smirnoff with which to celebrate.
“Enjoy,” said the acne-scarred young Puerto Rican behind the register as he rang her up and flashed a lecherous grin.
“Thanks,” she replied without any enthusiasm and left the store without another word.
“Shit,” she screamed when, as she entered her St. Mark’s place apartment, she tripped over one of the cardboard boxes containing his things. She’d packed his belongings the day after the funeral, placing the box by the door and meaning to bring it to the Salvation Army but, somehow, had not gotten around to it. “How sad,” she mused, “that he’d lived here for more than a year and all his possessions fit into a couple of cardboard boxes.”
She removed her coat, kicked off her shoes and headed for the kitchen, grabbing a 5 ounce water glass and filling it nearly to the top with vodka.
“Mmm,” she said, after taking a healthy swig. “Pure perfection.” She carried the glass to the bathroom, sipping frequently as she undressed and ran a bath. By the time she stepped into the tub, she had emptied the glass and was feeling pretty good.
An hour or so later, dressed in a tee shirt and shorts and slowly working on her second glass, she finalized a decision that she’d been thinking about since she’d left work.
“Hello Mr. Evans,” she said to the answering machine in his office. “This is Abigail Mercer. It’s 8:00 on Friday evening and I’m calling to let you know that I won’t be in on Monday. Thank you so much for the promotion but... I quit.
“Now I really have something to celebrate,” she told herself. “It’s too bad I have no one with whom to do so.” She drained her glass and said out loud, “oh well, it’s easy for a pretty woman to find a party friend in this town.” She changed into a pair of tight jeans and a silk blouse, making sure to leave enough buttons unfastened so as to arouse curiosity, and headed for the bar at the corner of her street. One perk of living in the East Village is that there is a great bar on every corner.
She’d been there many times before but rarely unaccompanied. She had a nodding acquaintance with some of the regulars and knew that the live music was often good and the bartenders were generous. The prospects for a festive evening were excellent.
“I’ll have a vodka and orange juice, Jack,” she told the bartender.
“Coming right up, doll,” he replied. “Oh, Abbie, it’s you. I’m so sorry for your loss, honey.”
“Thanks, Jack, but it’s okay; shit happens.”
He let her remark go by without making a comment, while thinking that it was a rather strange thing for her to say. “Well, anyway, this drink’s on the house.”
She had a great time, as she had expected. The bartender treated her munificently, charging more than half of her drinks to the house, sort of as a way of offering his condolences. It was a happy crowd with lots of people that she knew. The band was great, blowing her away with their blues-tinged cover of Neil Young’s “Down By The River,” one of her favorite songs.
Shortly before closing time, a young man sat next to her at the bar. “How ya’ doin”,” he asked, flashing a somehow familiar-looking grin.
“I’m good,” she replied, while trying to figure out how she knew him. It eventually dawned upon her that he was the clerk from the liquor store earlier this evening; somehow, however, he had become much more attractive.
“You lookin’ good, mami,” the clerk told her as he craned his neck to peek at her breasts. She received his attentions with a queer mix of revulsion and titillation and only offered him an ambiguous smile.
“Yo,” he said, placing his hand on her leg and leaning close. “I got some awesome weed up in my crib not far from here. Wanna come?”
She shrugged her shoulders and stood, rather unsteadily. “Sure,” she said. “Why not?”
He hailed a cab and they rode a few blocks to a run-down apartment near the East River. He chuckled at her facetious remark about his “riverside castle.” He turned on the lights and she was so startled by the sight of scores of cockroaches running for cover that she stumbled into his arms. He laughed good-naturedly at her fright.
They didn’t even smoke the dope...just somehow ended up unclothed in his bed, caressing and clutching and climaxing quickly. He seemed to derive much more enjoyment from it than she. He fell asleep pretty quickly and she quietly disentangled herself from the web of his gangly limbs. She showered and dressed but just before leaving, she heard him snoring and glanced at his naked form. Suddenly, she was submerged beneath a wave of disgust. Unable to contain herself, she reached into her purse and removed the .22 caliber derringer which, since the day that she had moved to New York City, she’d carried for protection. Without uttering a word, she strode to the bed and calmly put it to the head of the sleeping man. The weapon emitted a little “pop” as she squeezed the trigger; a fair amount of blood and a bit of his brain sullied her silk blouse and his body twitched before he died.
Splattered with his blood, she stared, for a few seconds, at her handiwork then shrugged her shoulders. “He was an insignificant little bug,” she proclaimed to the heavens. “He will not be missed.”
She was answered by a booming bass voice that seemed to emanate from above and reverberate throughout her head. “But how are you any different,” the divine speaker demanded accusingly. Unable to think of an appropriate refutation, she merely nodded her head, fell to her knees beside the dead man’s bed and let loose a piercing scream that originated deep in her belly and rose up through her body, finally entering her tortured head to drive out and replace the authoritarian bass that had questioned her. It was at the bedside that she was discovered hours later, still on her knees, hands securely covering her ears as that scream which had diminished to a pathetic whimper escaped from behind tightly clenched teeth.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Abbie agreed. “There must have been an accident backing up traffic.”
Almost as soon as she said that, a grim-faced police officer entered the church and requested a meeting with the bride.
“I don’t know of any easy way to tell you this, ma’am,” the cop said. “But your fiance was killed this morning in an automobile accident. Please accept my condolences.”
She blanched briefly but after the initial shock wore off, Abbie thanked the officer, made a short announcement to the guests and quietly left the building.
“Oh, what a terrible shame,” said one teary-eyed bridesmaid to her shocked companion. “I just can’t believe it.”
“It’s a tragedy alright,” the young man replied. “Totally senseless. But what really amazes me is Abbie’s reaction.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, really, it was more a lack of reaction,” he explained. “Except for a brief, weird little smile, she just turned and left...she just showed no emotion.”
“She’s probably in shock,” the bridesmaid said.
At the funeral, several puzzled guests commented on her bizarre behavior.
“I don’t understand,” said one black-clad young lady to her boyfriend. “She hasn’t shed a tear. One would think that she didn’t love him.”
“Abbie always was a bit unusual. Who knows what’s going on in her mind,” he replied.
What was going on in Abbie’s mind at this time, was mild annoyance at the mourners who were openly displaying their grief. “I wish they would stop crying,” she said, half-aloud. “What will tears accomplish? I suppose I can’t say anything though.” Of course, several people sitting nearby overheard her unintentionally audible statement and stared at her with undisguised disgust.
To Abbie, the ceremony only served to illustrate the absolute pointlessness of it all. “What was the purpose of his life?” she wondered. “After a short time, few people will ever even think of him. Eventually, nobody will even know that he’d existed. Life goes on for the rest of us and then we die.”
She took one day off then returned to her job at the advertising agency. Although she was a respected copywriter at the firm, there was nothing urgent that required her presence.
“Ms. Mercer,” said the company president, who rarely ventured into her cubicle, “what are you doing here? Why don’t you go home?”
“Why Mr. Evans? What would that accomplish?”
“Suit yourself,” he said.
The following Friday evening, Mr. Evans summoned her to his office. This was an extremely rare occurrence and caused her to wonder if she’d done anything wrong.
“Ms. Mercer,” he said, “I’d like to begin by offering my sincere condolences for your loss and my appreciation for the dedication you exhibited by returning to work so promptly.”
Before she could thank him, he continued. “I would also like to assure you that what I am about to say has nothing to do with that unfortunate event.”
“Uh-oh,” she thought. “This sounds like I’m about to be fired.”
But she was mistaken, as she discovered when he continued.
“As you surely know, Ms. Mercer, I am not the sort to let emotion influence my business decisions. Actually, I had come to this decision several weeks ago but had to run it by the board. Since you began at this firm, I have been quite satisfied with your work and believe you to be capable of great things. Therefore, I have decided, and the board have agreed, that beginning immediately, you will be promoted to the post of assistant vice president of copywriting, move into your own office and receive a raise in pay commensurate with your new position.”
She somehow was able to disguise her shock and simply say, ”thank you, Mr. Evans. I hope I won’t disappoint you.”
“I’m sure you won’t, dear. Now have a nice weekend.”
She stopped at Marty’s Liquors on East 10th Street and bought a refrigerated fifth of orange-flavored Smirnoff with which to celebrate.
“Enjoy,” said the acne-scarred young Puerto Rican behind the register as he rang her up and flashed a lecherous grin.
“Thanks,” she replied without any enthusiasm and left the store without another word.
“Shit,” she screamed when, as she entered her St. Mark’s place apartment, she tripped over one of the cardboard boxes containing his things. She’d packed his belongings the day after the funeral, placing the box by the door and meaning to bring it to the Salvation Army but, somehow, had not gotten around to it. “How sad,” she mused, “that he’d lived here for more than a year and all his possessions fit into a couple of cardboard boxes.”
She removed her coat, kicked off her shoes and headed for the kitchen, grabbing a 5 ounce water glass and filling it nearly to the top with vodka.
“Mmm,” she said, after taking a healthy swig. “Pure perfection.” She carried the glass to the bathroom, sipping frequently as she undressed and ran a bath. By the time she stepped into the tub, she had emptied the glass and was feeling pretty good.
An hour or so later, dressed in a tee shirt and shorts and slowly working on her second glass, she finalized a decision that she’d been thinking about since she’d left work.
“Hello Mr. Evans,” she said to the answering machine in his office. “This is Abigail Mercer. It’s 8:00 on Friday evening and I’m calling to let you know that I won’t be in on Monday. Thank you so much for the promotion but... I quit.
“Now I really have something to celebrate,” she told herself. “It’s too bad I have no one with whom to do so.” She drained her glass and said out loud, “oh well, it’s easy for a pretty woman to find a party friend in this town.” She changed into a pair of tight jeans and a silk blouse, making sure to leave enough buttons unfastened so as to arouse curiosity, and headed for the bar at the corner of her street. One perk of living in the East Village is that there is a great bar on every corner.
She’d been there many times before but rarely unaccompanied. She had a nodding acquaintance with some of the regulars and knew that the live music was often good and the bartenders were generous. The prospects for a festive evening were excellent.
“I’ll have a vodka and orange juice, Jack,” she told the bartender.
“Coming right up, doll,” he replied. “Oh, Abbie, it’s you. I’m so sorry for your loss, honey.”
“Thanks, Jack, but it’s okay; shit happens.”
He let her remark go by without making a comment, while thinking that it was a rather strange thing for her to say. “Well, anyway, this drink’s on the house.”
She had a great time, as she had expected. The bartender treated her munificently, charging more than half of her drinks to the house, sort of as a way of offering his condolences. It was a happy crowd with lots of people that she knew. The band was great, blowing her away with their blues-tinged cover of Neil Young’s “Down By The River,” one of her favorite songs.
Shortly before closing time, a young man sat next to her at the bar. “How ya’ doin”,” he asked, flashing a somehow familiar-looking grin.
“I’m good,” she replied, while trying to figure out how she knew him. It eventually dawned upon her that he was the clerk from the liquor store earlier this evening; somehow, however, he had become much more attractive.
“You lookin’ good, mami,” the clerk told her as he craned his neck to peek at her breasts. She received his attentions with a queer mix of revulsion and titillation and only offered him an ambiguous smile.
“Yo,” he said, placing his hand on her leg and leaning close. “I got some awesome weed up in my crib not far from here. Wanna come?”
She shrugged her shoulders and stood, rather unsteadily. “Sure,” she said. “Why not?”
He hailed a cab and they rode a few blocks to a run-down apartment near the East River. He chuckled at her facetious remark about his “riverside castle.” He turned on the lights and she was so startled by the sight of scores of cockroaches running for cover that she stumbled into his arms. He laughed good-naturedly at her fright.
They didn’t even smoke the dope...just somehow ended up unclothed in his bed, caressing and clutching and climaxing quickly. He seemed to derive much more enjoyment from it than she. He fell asleep pretty quickly and she quietly disentangled herself from the web of his gangly limbs. She showered and dressed but just before leaving, she heard him snoring and glanced at his naked form. Suddenly, she was submerged beneath a wave of disgust. Unable to contain herself, she reached into her purse and removed the .22 caliber derringer which, since the day that she had moved to New York City, she’d carried for protection. Without uttering a word, she strode to the bed and calmly put it to the head of the sleeping man. The weapon emitted a little “pop” as she squeezed the trigger; a fair amount of blood and a bit of his brain sullied her silk blouse and his body twitched before he died.
Splattered with his blood, she stared, for a few seconds, at her handiwork then shrugged her shoulders. “He was an insignificant little bug,” she proclaimed to the heavens. “He will not be missed.”
She was answered by a booming bass voice that seemed to emanate from above and reverberate throughout her head. “But how are you any different,” the divine speaker demanded accusingly. Unable to think of an appropriate refutation, she merely nodded her head, fell to her knees beside the dead man’s bed and let loose a piercing scream that originated deep in her belly and rose up through her body, finally entering her tortured head to drive out and replace the authoritarian bass that had questioned her. It was at the bedside that she was discovered hours later, still on her knees, hands securely covering her ears as that scream which had diminished to a pathetic whimper escaped from behind tightly clenched teeth.
August 27, 2012
How Long Would You Like To Live?
A recent article in the New York Times stated that since 1900, the life expectancy of Americans has soared from 47 years to nearly 80 years. Obviously, this leap in longevity can be attributed to new discoveries and medical interventions as well as better hygiene and nutrition. Further developments on the horizon open the potential for even longer lives. Some experts predict an eventual increase of several decades to the average lifespan. Others forecast more modest gains. The United Nations forecasts that over the next century, life expectancy in developed nations will approach 100 years.
Over the past three years, David Ewing Duncan, the author of the Times article, polled nearly 30,000 people, asking the question, “how long would you like to live?” To make it easier to tabulate responses he provided four possible answers: 80 years, currently the average life span in the West; 120 years, close to the maximum anyone has lived; 150 years, which would require a biotech breakthrough; and forever, which rejects the idea that life span has to have any limit at all.
He made it clear that participants should not assume that science will come up with dramatic new anti-aging technologies, though people were free to imagine that breakthroughs might occur — or not.
The results: some 60 percent opted for a life span of 80 years. Another 30 percent chose 120 years, and nearly 10 percent chose 150 years. Fewer than 1 percent embraced the idea that people might avoid death altogether.
How long would you like to live? We would love to read your response, with, perhaps, a reason for that response, in the “comments” section of this blog. Again, the possible answers are: 80 years; 120 years; 150 years; or forever.
Over the past three years, David Ewing Duncan, the author of the Times article, polled nearly 30,000 people, asking the question, “how long would you like to live?” To make it easier to tabulate responses he provided four possible answers: 80 years, currently the average life span in the West; 120 years, close to the maximum anyone has lived; 150 years, which would require a biotech breakthrough; and forever, which rejects the idea that life span has to have any limit at all.
He made it clear that participants should not assume that science will come up with dramatic new anti-aging technologies, though people were free to imagine that breakthroughs might occur — or not.
The results: some 60 percent opted for a life span of 80 years. Another 30 percent chose 120 years, and nearly 10 percent chose 150 years. Fewer than 1 percent embraced the idea that people might avoid death altogether.
How long would you like to live? We would love to read your response, with, perhaps, a reason for that response, in the “comments” section of this blog. Again, the possible answers are: 80 years; 120 years; 150 years; or forever.
August 13, 2012
Blame It On The Colonel's Wife
A weary Colonel Strada returned to the bunker, his face caked with mud and his camos stained by blood; not all of it his own. Despite deathlike fatigue, the Colonel allowed himself a moment of quiet celebration. Tonight, he and three of his men, emerging from the city’s sewers like a pack of murderous amphibians, managed to kill no fewer than ten enemy soldiers, and in the process, recover seven assault rifles and a significant amount of ammunition.
“It’s a shame about Rokeach,” he mused. “He was one of my best men; but casualties are a necessary cost of war.”
Strada had been the leader of the little rebel army in their fight against the evil conquerers from the north since the General had been captured six months ago. Intelligence informed the rebels that the General had been tortured mercilessly but that he had steadfastly refused to give up any secrets. His body had not been recovered and Strada refused to be addressed as “General” until the death had been positively confirmed.
The invaders, insisting that “the superior citizens of our great but overpopulated nation are entitled by Providence to seize any land on this continent for their free development and therefore it is our manifest destiny to annex and civilize our neighboring lands,” had stormed the country five years ago, assassinating the King and effortlessly disbanding the army. Within weeks, the country had a new leader, appointed by the Supreme Ruler of the Motherland. He was a mean, ugly little man who insisted on being addressed as “el Presidente” and was protected by a large and powerful army. Two Nazi-style police forces did his bidding: el Policia Criminal coldly enforced the dictator’s draconian laws, arresting and/or beating the hapless citizens for even the most minor infractions; las Fuerzas de Seguridad struck mostly at night, detaining the rich and powerful, murdering many and “deporting” the rest. Before long, the remaining countrymen had become little more than slaves. Whatever wealth they had possessed had been seized by the invaders and they were forced to work for meager rations and cruel punishments. Most had been evicted from their homes (which had been taken over by the “pioneers” from the Motherland) and were now living in a run-down ghetto whose streets were littered with half-starved, homeless wretches as well as the occasional corpse. A strict curfew was instituted and any citizen discovered breaking it was subject to vicious beatings and detention.
Paralyzed by fear, most of the surviving citizens had sheepishly accepted their fate, dutifully reporting for work each dawn, busting their humps until late at night and obediently saluting their oppressors at every turn.
But Strada and a handful of other brave men and women refused to be cowed. Weeks after the occupation began, they formed a secret army which carefully planned and enacted a ruthless guerilla war. Strada quickly gained a reputation as a brave but brutal terrorist leading a campaign of bloody mayhem, assassinating top military and government officials and performing impressive feats of sabotage. Critics complained that he lacked even a spark of humanity and conscience but his people worshiped the ground he walked on. Early in the campaign he moved to the top of the invader’s “most wanted” list after he had masterminded the blowing up, with powerful home-made bombs, of the newly-built Police Academy. The mangled limbs of the scores of cadets and instructors who were killed in the blast could be found hundreds of yards from the site. The rebels suffered no casualties.
*****
Strada collapsed onto the pallet on the bunker’s floor and fell asleep instantaneously; but shortly, his eyes popped open and, in a panic, he unsuccessfully attempted to grab his gun as two muscular arms rolled him over.
“Relax baby,” a familiar voice whispered. “It’s only me.” The panic-stricken Colonel did relax as he coupled soundlessly with Lisa, his beautiful cinnamon-skinned woman.
She was a heroine of the insurrection. At the age of 15, she attached herself to the colonel’s unit and quickly proved to be an invaluable member of the rebel force. Fighting alongside Strada and the others, she showed herself to be a fearsome warrior, often finding herself embroiled in hand-to-hand combat and always coming out the victor. However, her greatest value was in her ability to use her wiles and good looks to insinuate herself into high places and coax information from the enemy. She was rumored to have poisoned el Presidente’s top general, a playboy type who was hopelessly bewitched by her charm and beauty, by pouring into his wine, from a specially-made hollow ring, a powerful venom.
Perhaps it was because of their camaraderie on the battlefield or because of their mutual respect for each other as warriors, or maybe it was just good, old-fashioned sexual attraction; but whatever the reason, it was inevitable that the colonel and the teenager would fall in love. It took nearly two years of repressed urges before they would surrender to their desire but finally the older man and the girl became lovers.
In normal times Lisa’s parents probably would not have approved of their young child sharing the bed of a grizzled guerilla fighter but attitudes were different in these desperate hours. Not knowing how many days were allotted to any of them, how could they deny to their daughter love’s full joy? The two parents bestowed upon the lovers their sincere blessings.
Obviously, in their situation it was not possible to acquire a government-sanctioned marriage, but after a quiet private ceremony and an exuberant party, Lisa proudly took Colonel Strada’s name and the couple became acknowledged as husband and wife.
*****
“Honey, we need to talk.”
“Uh-oh,” Strada thought. “No good can come of a conversation that begins with that sentence.”
“What is it, darling,” he responded, warily.
“I’m sick of this war. It’s time that we stopped,” she said.
“What?!!” He exploded like one of his homemade bombs. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“They are afraid of us now. I’m sure that if we declared a truce, we could negotiate a fair and lasting peace.”
“Peace,” he repeated. “Could we ever have peace between us after what the invaders have brought down upon us? The only possible peace can come from total victory.”
“Fool!” she cried. “Do you really believe that our hundreds can achieve victory over their hundreds of thousands? The only victory we can achieve is peace.”
“We will never give in,” he insisted. “No matter the odds, we will continue to fight for the welfare of our people.”
“The ‘welfare of our people!’ What nonsense. That is just the alibi of one who has come to love the bloodshed more than the principle. The only way our people can possibly benefit is if we put an end to this horrid war.”
The debate raged for days but Strada was stubborn as a stone, refusing even to listen to his wife’s arguments. Weeks passed and he remained unmoved even as she swore an oath to deny him her body until he petitioned for peace.
*****
“Colonel Strada,” his top Lieutenant beseeched, “you must call for a truce and negotiate a treaty with the invaders. I beg of you; all the men beg so.”
“What are you saying, Lieutenant? What’s come over you men? This is treason.”
“Forgive us, Colonel, but our women, having agreed to take part in your wife’s crazy scheme, have withheld sex from us for weeks and have vowed that the boycott will continue until we attempt to make a pact with the enemy. This is a torture we could never have imagined. Anyway, we have accomplished all that we can on the battlefield. Now is the time for peace.”
“I never would have believed it would come to this,” the Colonel muttered in disgust. “Who could predict that a revolution would be crushed by an army of crossed legs?”
*****
The party could not be described as anything but jubilant. Drunken soldiers and their affectionate women praised the Colonel and his wife for their wisdom in deciding on peace. Many acted as if they had actually won the war and driven the invaders from their land. The Colonel could not help but wonder if they were happier about the (in his opinion, bogus) prospect of peace or the opportunity to once again have sex. His doubts were reinforced by the frequent sight of amorous couples unable to contain themselves, lustily screwing in what they mistakenly believed were hidden corners.
“Let me have it, honey; make me scream with pleasure,” Lisa begged in their bunker later that night. But no matter what seductive tricks she tried, she was unable to arouse the Colonel who merely rolled over and closed his eyes.
*****
Strada approached the castle slowly, waving a white flag in the air. “This is totally against my better judgement,” he muttered. “It will not end well.”
He was met at the entrance by a hulking giant in a brown uniform.
“Come with me,” the giant ordered after subjecting him to a thorough frisking.
*****
“Ah, Colonel,” so we finally meet.” El Presidente sat arrogantly in a throne-like leather chair behind a massive mahogany desk. “What can we do for you, sir?”
Strada stared at the little man, amazed that such a Lilliputian could wreak havoc on his once proud country. “I have come to discuss a possible peace between our two great nations,” the Colonel replied, rapidly spitting out the words as if trying to avoid their poisonous taste.
“Two great nations,” the little man repeated sarcastically. “The only greatness in your country is the beautiful space that it affords my people. Peace between us would only curtail our necessary destiny. Frankly, Colonel Strada,” he continued, “I am quite shocked that you have come with this petition. I see it as surrender and will act accordingly.”
Before Strada could even question what those actions would be, the little man called for his guards and had him taken to a cell. “You pathetic fool,” he called after the prisoner. “How could you believe that I would dare entertain such an idea? There will be no need to compromise when, with you out of the way we have finally defeated your rebellion.”
Later in the day when the guards came to take him for interrogation, they found him dead in his cell thanks to a cleverly concealed cyanide tablet that he’d had the foresight to carry.
*****
As the dictator predicted, the uprising died with the death of its leader. The Colonel’s wife, struggling with feelings of guilt and loneliness became sloppy in her role as a femme fatale. Often drunk and no longer crafty when attempting her seductions, it was just a matter of time before her identity was discovered. El Presidente’s Minister of War, an influential member of the inner circle who, she thought, was a significant conquest, looked into her eyes and said, “thank you for a wonderful lay, my dear but I don’t believe that I will be giving you any secret information. You see, I know who you are and you are under arrest.”
The following Tuesday morning, just after sunrise, she was blindfolded and escorted to the gallows. She was not given the opportunity to speak before the noose was placed around her neck but that was fine with her as she had nothing to say. The executioner bellowed, “Now!” in a strong voice, and with no further warning, the trap door sprang open; in an instant the once-vibrant and beautiful revolutionary was transformed into a swinging bundle of clothes.
It would be generations before a new leader arose and the conquered citizens finally drove the invaders from their land.
“It’s a shame about Rokeach,” he mused. “He was one of my best men; but casualties are a necessary cost of war.”
Strada had been the leader of the little rebel army in their fight against the evil conquerers from the north since the General had been captured six months ago. Intelligence informed the rebels that the General had been tortured mercilessly but that he had steadfastly refused to give up any secrets. His body had not been recovered and Strada refused to be addressed as “General” until the death had been positively confirmed.
The invaders, insisting that “the superior citizens of our great but overpopulated nation are entitled by Providence to seize any land on this continent for their free development and therefore it is our manifest destiny to annex and civilize our neighboring lands,” had stormed the country five years ago, assassinating the King and effortlessly disbanding the army. Within weeks, the country had a new leader, appointed by the Supreme Ruler of the Motherland. He was a mean, ugly little man who insisted on being addressed as “el Presidente” and was protected by a large and powerful army. Two Nazi-style police forces did his bidding: el Policia Criminal coldly enforced the dictator’s draconian laws, arresting and/or beating the hapless citizens for even the most minor infractions; las Fuerzas de Seguridad struck mostly at night, detaining the rich and powerful, murdering many and “deporting” the rest. Before long, the remaining countrymen had become little more than slaves. Whatever wealth they had possessed had been seized by the invaders and they were forced to work for meager rations and cruel punishments. Most had been evicted from their homes (which had been taken over by the “pioneers” from the Motherland) and were now living in a run-down ghetto whose streets were littered with half-starved, homeless wretches as well as the occasional corpse. A strict curfew was instituted and any citizen discovered breaking it was subject to vicious beatings and detention.
Paralyzed by fear, most of the surviving citizens had sheepishly accepted their fate, dutifully reporting for work each dawn, busting their humps until late at night and obediently saluting their oppressors at every turn.
But Strada and a handful of other brave men and women refused to be cowed. Weeks after the occupation began, they formed a secret army which carefully planned and enacted a ruthless guerilla war. Strada quickly gained a reputation as a brave but brutal terrorist leading a campaign of bloody mayhem, assassinating top military and government officials and performing impressive feats of sabotage. Critics complained that he lacked even a spark of humanity and conscience but his people worshiped the ground he walked on. Early in the campaign he moved to the top of the invader’s “most wanted” list after he had masterminded the blowing up, with powerful home-made bombs, of the newly-built Police Academy. The mangled limbs of the scores of cadets and instructors who were killed in the blast could be found hundreds of yards from the site. The rebels suffered no casualties.
*****
Strada collapsed onto the pallet on the bunker’s floor and fell asleep instantaneously; but shortly, his eyes popped open and, in a panic, he unsuccessfully attempted to grab his gun as two muscular arms rolled him over.
“Relax baby,” a familiar voice whispered. “It’s only me.” The panic-stricken Colonel did relax as he coupled soundlessly with Lisa, his beautiful cinnamon-skinned woman.
She was a heroine of the insurrection. At the age of 15, she attached herself to the colonel’s unit and quickly proved to be an invaluable member of the rebel force. Fighting alongside Strada and the others, she showed herself to be a fearsome warrior, often finding herself embroiled in hand-to-hand combat and always coming out the victor. However, her greatest value was in her ability to use her wiles and good looks to insinuate herself into high places and coax information from the enemy. She was rumored to have poisoned el Presidente’s top general, a playboy type who was hopelessly bewitched by her charm and beauty, by pouring into his wine, from a specially-made hollow ring, a powerful venom.
Perhaps it was because of their camaraderie on the battlefield or because of their mutual respect for each other as warriors, or maybe it was just good, old-fashioned sexual attraction; but whatever the reason, it was inevitable that the colonel and the teenager would fall in love. It took nearly two years of repressed urges before they would surrender to their desire but finally the older man and the girl became lovers.
In normal times Lisa’s parents probably would not have approved of their young child sharing the bed of a grizzled guerilla fighter but attitudes were different in these desperate hours. Not knowing how many days were allotted to any of them, how could they deny to their daughter love’s full joy? The two parents bestowed upon the lovers their sincere blessings.
Obviously, in their situation it was not possible to acquire a government-sanctioned marriage, but after a quiet private ceremony and an exuberant party, Lisa proudly took Colonel Strada’s name and the couple became acknowledged as husband and wife.
*****
“Honey, we need to talk.”
“Uh-oh,” Strada thought. “No good can come of a conversation that begins with that sentence.”
“What is it, darling,” he responded, warily.
“I’m sick of this war. It’s time that we stopped,” she said.
“What?!!” He exploded like one of his homemade bombs. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“They are afraid of us now. I’m sure that if we declared a truce, we could negotiate a fair and lasting peace.”
“Peace,” he repeated. “Could we ever have peace between us after what the invaders have brought down upon us? The only possible peace can come from total victory.”
“Fool!” she cried. “Do you really believe that our hundreds can achieve victory over their hundreds of thousands? The only victory we can achieve is peace.”
“We will never give in,” he insisted. “No matter the odds, we will continue to fight for the welfare of our people.”
“The ‘welfare of our people!’ What nonsense. That is just the alibi of one who has come to love the bloodshed more than the principle. The only way our people can possibly benefit is if we put an end to this horrid war.”
The debate raged for days but Strada was stubborn as a stone, refusing even to listen to his wife’s arguments. Weeks passed and he remained unmoved even as she swore an oath to deny him her body until he petitioned for peace.
*****
“Colonel Strada,” his top Lieutenant beseeched, “you must call for a truce and negotiate a treaty with the invaders. I beg of you; all the men beg so.”
“What are you saying, Lieutenant? What’s come over you men? This is treason.”
“Forgive us, Colonel, but our women, having agreed to take part in your wife’s crazy scheme, have withheld sex from us for weeks and have vowed that the boycott will continue until we attempt to make a pact with the enemy. This is a torture we could never have imagined. Anyway, we have accomplished all that we can on the battlefield. Now is the time for peace.”
“I never would have believed it would come to this,” the Colonel muttered in disgust. “Who could predict that a revolution would be crushed by an army of crossed legs?”
*****
The party could not be described as anything but jubilant. Drunken soldiers and their affectionate women praised the Colonel and his wife for their wisdom in deciding on peace. Many acted as if they had actually won the war and driven the invaders from their land. The Colonel could not help but wonder if they were happier about the (in his opinion, bogus) prospect of peace or the opportunity to once again have sex. His doubts were reinforced by the frequent sight of amorous couples unable to contain themselves, lustily screwing in what they mistakenly believed were hidden corners.
“Let me have it, honey; make me scream with pleasure,” Lisa begged in their bunker later that night. But no matter what seductive tricks she tried, she was unable to arouse the Colonel who merely rolled over and closed his eyes.
*****
Strada approached the castle slowly, waving a white flag in the air. “This is totally against my better judgement,” he muttered. “It will not end well.”
He was met at the entrance by a hulking giant in a brown uniform.
“Come with me,” the giant ordered after subjecting him to a thorough frisking.
*****
“Ah, Colonel,” so we finally meet.” El Presidente sat arrogantly in a throne-like leather chair behind a massive mahogany desk. “What can we do for you, sir?”
Strada stared at the little man, amazed that such a Lilliputian could wreak havoc on his once proud country. “I have come to discuss a possible peace between our two great nations,” the Colonel replied, rapidly spitting out the words as if trying to avoid their poisonous taste.
“Two great nations,” the little man repeated sarcastically. “The only greatness in your country is the beautiful space that it affords my people. Peace between us would only curtail our necessary destiny. Frankly, Colonel Strada,” he continued, “I am quite shocked that you have come with this petition. I see it as surrender and will act accordingly.”
Before Strada could even question what those actions would be, the little man called for his guards and had him taken to a cell. “You pathetic fool,” he called after the prisoner. “How could you believe that I would dare entertain such an idea? There will be no need to compromise when, with you out of the way we have finally defeated your rebellion.”
Later in the day when the guards came to take him for interrogation, they found him dead in his cell thanks to a cleverly concealed cyanide tablet that he’d had the foresight to carry.
*****
As the dictator predicted, the uprising died with the death of its leader. The Colonel’s wife, struggling with feelings of guilt and loneliness became sloppy in her role as a femme fatale. Often drunk and no longer crafty when attempting her seductions, it was just a matter of time before her identity was discovered. El Presidente’s Minister of War, an influential member of the inner circle who, she thought, was a significant conquest, looked into her eyes and said, “thank you for a wonderful lay, my dear but I don’t believe that I will be giving you any secret information. You see, I know who you are and you are under arrest.”
The following Tuesday morning, just after sunrise, she was blindfolded and escorted to the gallows. She was not given the opportunity to speak before the noose was placed around her neck but that was fine with her as she had nothing to say. The executioner bellowed, “Now!” in a strong voice, and with no further warning, the trap door sprang open; in an instant the once-vibrant and beautiful revolutionary was transformed into a swinging bundle of clothes.
It would be generations before a new leader arose and the conquered citizens finally drove the invaders from their land.
July 30, 2012
Texas GOP...SMH
In case you hadn’t heard, the Republican Party of Texas has issued their 2012 political platform and has come out blatantly opposing critical thinking in public schools throughout the state. On his television show, The Colbert Report, Stephen Colbert recently brought to national attention this astonishing little tidbit: a plank from the 2012 platform of the Republican Party of Texas reads, “ We oppose the teaching of Higher Order Thinking Skills (HOTS) (values clarification), critical thinking skills and similar programs that are simply a relabeling of Outcome-Based Education (OBE) (mastery learning) which focus on behavior modification and have the purpose of challenging the student’s fixed beliefs and undermining parental authority.”
Yes, you read that right. The party opposes the teaching of “higher order thinking skills” because it believes the purpose is to challenge a student’s “fixed beliefs” and undermine “parental authority.”
So, if a child is of the “fixed belief,” for example, that 2 + 2 = 97 or that Stalin was the first president of the United States, educators ought not correct the little genius lest he (God forbid) change his “fixed belief,” thereby undermining mom and dad.
The party platform gets worse when it comes to prohibiting thinking critically about science or the scientific method. Take the section on "controversial theories," :
“We support objective teaching and equal treatment of all sides of scientific theories. We believe theories such as life origins and environmental change should be taught as challengeable scientific theories subject to change as new data is produced. Teachers and students should be able to discuss the strengths and weaknesses of these theories openly and without fear of retribution or discrimination of any kind.”
Alternative beliefs such as creationism are now cleverly invited into the curriculum as so-called science or theories to debunk the purportedly false notions of the theory of evolution. But if critical thinking is not to be used in the classroom, how would these beliefs be examined for evidence?
The party also opposes early childhood education, sex education (they call for abstinence-only sex education), and multicultural education, but supports “school subjects with emphasis on the Judeo-Christian principles upon which America was founded.”
Based on the above, it seems a fair conclusion that the Republican party in Texas doesn’t think much of public education. Unfortunately, this notion isn’t limited to the GOP in Texas but is more commonly being seen across the country by some of the most strident of “school reformers.”
And it doesn't stop at education. Prohibitions against thinking critically or scientifically comprise just one of 30 pages of the anti-Enlightenment thinking seen in the Texas GOP platform document. Here is some more of its chilling content:
Trying juveniles as adults
Emphasis on faith-based drug rehab
Opposition to the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child
Flat-rate income tax
Repeal of the minimum wage
Opposition to homosexuality in the military
Opposition to red light cameras
Opposition to the Employment Non-Discrimination Act, because firms should be able to fire people for what they consider "sinful and sexually immoral behavior."
Continued opposition to ACORN (even though it has not existed since 2010!)
Opposition to statehood or even Congressional voting rights for the citizens of the District of Columbia
And no-questions-asked support for Israel because, "Our policy is based on God's biblical promise to bless those who bless Israel and curse those who curse Israel and we further invite other nations and organizations to enjoy the benefits of that promise."
It seems as if the Republican Party (and perhaps the Democrats, as well) have devolved into poster children for irresponsible leadership. Disagree? The Texas GOP came out against critical thinking. Case closed.
Yes, you read that right. The party opposes the teaching of “higher order thinking skills” because it believes the purpose is to challenge a student’s “fixed beliefs” and undermine “parental authority.”
So, if a child is of the “fixed belief,” for example, that 2 + 2 = 97 or that Stalin was the first president of the United States, educators ought not correct the little genius lest he (God forbid) change his “fixed belief,” thereby undermining mom and dad.
The party platform gets worse when it comes to prohibiting thinking critically about science or the scientific method. Take the section on "controversial theories," :
“We support objective teaching and equal treatment of all sides of scientific theories. We believe theories such as life origins and environmental change should be taught as challengeable scientific theories subject to change as new data is produced. Teachers and students should be able to discuss the strengths and weaknesses of these theories openly and without fear of retribution or discrimination of any kind.”
Alternative beliefs such as creationism are now cleverly invited into the curriculum as so-called science or theories to debunk the purportedly false notions of the theory of evolution. But if critical thinking is not to be used in the classroom, how would these beliefs be examined for evidence?
The party also opposes early childhood education, sex education (they call for abstinence-only sex education), and multicultural education, but supports “school subjects with emphasis on the Judeo-Christian principles upon which America was founded.”
Based on the above, it seems a fair conclusion that the Republican party in Texas doesn’t think much of public education. Unfortunately, this notion isn’t limited to the GOP in Texas but is more commonly being seen across the country by some of the most strident of “school reformers.”
And it doesn't stop at education. Prohibitions against thinking critically or scientifically comprise just one of 30 pages of the anti-Enlightenment thinking seen in the Texas GOP platform document. Here is some more of its chilling content:
Trying juveniles as adults
Emphasis on faith-based drug rehab
Opposition to the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child
Flat-rate income tax
Repeal of the minimum wage
Opposition to homosexuality in the military
Opposition to red light cameras
Opposition to the Employment Non-Discrimination Act, because firms should be able to fire people for what they consider "sinful and sexually immoral behavior."
Continued opposition to ACORN (even though it has not existed since 2010!)
Opposition to statehood or even Congressional voting rights for the citizens of the District of Columbia
And no-questions-asked support for Israel because, "Our policy is based on God's biblical promise to bless those who bless Israel and curse those who curse Israel and we further invite other nations and organizations to enjoy the benefits of that promise."
It seems as if the Republican Party (and perhaps the Democrats, as well) have devolved into poster children for irresponsible leadership. Disagree? The Texas GOP came out against critical thinking. Case closed.
July 16, 2012
And People Actually Voted For These Guys
A bill in the Wyoming legislature this past February ( Bill #HB85) called for the establishment of a “continuity task force” to study the possibility of the United States disintegrating and leaving Wyoming to fend for itself, making it necessary for the state to secede from the Union. Lest you think that this is a ridiculous notion, read what Rep. Lorraine Quarberg, R-Themopolis, had to say:“I don’t think there’s anyone in this room today what [sic] would come up here and say that this country is in good shape, that the world is stable and in good shape — because that is clearly not the case. To put your head in the sand and think that nothing bad’s going to happen, and that we have no obligation to the citizens of the state of Wyoming to at least have the discussion, is not healthy.”
Thus, representative Kermit Brown offered an amendment to the bill ( adopted by the legislature) to prepare the state for possible secession, authorizing a task force to consider implementing a draft and establishing a standing army, navy, marine corps and air force, and to consider purchasing an aircraft carrier. Wyoming is, of course, landlocked. Although the bill was defeated by an unimaginative majority of legislators, 27 representatives did vote for it. Maybe it would be best for all of us if Wyoming does secede or at least saves up the money for their legislature to purchase a map.
Thus, representative Kermit Brown offered an amendment to the bill ( adopted by the legislature) to prepare the state for possible secession, authorizing a task force to consider implementing a draft and establishing a standing army, navy, marine corps and air force, and to consider purchasing an aircraft carrier. Wyoming is, of course, landlocked. Although the bill was defeated by an unimaginative majority of legislators, 27 representatives did vote for it. Maybe it would be best for all of us if Wyoming does secede or at least saves up the money for their legislature to purchase a map.
July 4, 2012
Fun Facts for the Fourth
Happy birthday America! Today is the 236th birthday of the U.S.A. In actuality, July 4, 1776 was the day on which the Declaration of Independence was approved by the Continental Congress.
Interestingly enough, it took awhile for the nation to celebrate the landmark event.The first real 4th of July party was held at the White House in 1801 and the day was not officially declared a national holiday until 1941. Since then, we have been partying hard. An estimated 68.3 million cases of beer are sold on Independence Day around the country, making it the biggest beer-selling day of the year.. Last July 4th approximately 78 million Americans had barbecues, consuming, among other things, about 155 million hot dogs.(In today's annual Nathan's Fourth of July hot dog eating contest, Joey Chestnut downed 68 hot dogs in ten minutes to win for the sixth consecutive year.) $211 million has been spent importing fireworks to the United States from China. More Americans are celebrating than ever. In 1776 there were 2.5 million people living in the newly independent country. On this July Fourth there are an estimated 313.9 Americans.
Only on United States president was born on the Fourth of July: Calvin Coolidge in 1872. Three presidents died on the Fourth: John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, both, coincidentally, in 1826 and James Monroe in 1831.
Following are some famous Fourth of July birthdays:
1776-United States of America.
1810- P.T. Barnum, circus magnate.
1826-Stephen Foster, song writer (Oh, Susanna, Swanee River)
1872-Calvin Coolidge
1900- Louis "Satchmo" Armstrong.
1902-Meyer Lansky, gangster.
1927-Neil Simon
1930-George M. Steinbrenner, owner of the NY Yankees.
1938-Bill Withers, R&B singer (Lean on Me).
1943-Al "Blind Owl" Wilson, guitarist/singer (Canned Heat)
1943-Dave Rowberry, rock musician (The Animals)
1998-Malia Obama.
For the baseball fans: There have been three July 4 no-hitters:
in 1908 Hooks Wiltse of the New York Giants no-hit the Phillies 1-0.
In 1912 George Mullin of the Detroit Tigers no-hit the St.Louis Browns 7-0.
In 1983 Dave Righetti of the New York Yankees no-hit the hated Boston Red Sox 4-0 (I was at that game).
One more sad and hard to believe fact: in a 2010 Marist poll, only 74 percent of respondents knew the country from which we won our Independence. 20% were unsure and six per cent named countries other than England.
Happy Independence Day! Party hearty but safely.
Interestingly enough, it took awhile for the nation to celebrate the landmark event.The first real 4th of July party was held at the White House in 1801 and the day was not officially declared a national holiday until 1941. Since then, we have been partying hard. An estimated 68.3 million cases of beer are sold on Independence Day around the country, making it the biggest beer-selling day of the year.. Last July 4th approximately 78 million Americans had barbecues, consuming, among other things, about 155 million hot dogs.(In today's annual Nathan's Fourth of July hot dog eating contest, Joey Chestnut downed 68 hot dogs in ten minutes to win for the sixth consecutive year.) $211 million has been spent importing fireworks to the United States from China. More Americans are celebrating than ever. In 1776 there were 2.5 million people living in the newly independent country. On this July Fourth there are an estimated 313.9 Americans.
Only on United States president was born on the Fourth of July: Calvin Coolidge in 1872. Three presidents died on the Fourth: John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, both, coincidentally, in 1826 and James Monroe in 1831.
Following are some famous Fourth of July birthdays:
1776-United States of America.
1810- P.T. Barnum, circus magnate.
1826-Stephen Foster, song writer (Oh, Susanna, Swanee River)
1872-Calvin Coolidge
1900- Louis "Satchmo" Armstrong.
1902-Meyer Lansky, gangster.
1927-Neil Simon
1930-George M. Steinbrenner, owner of the NY Yankees.
1938-Bill Withers, R&B singer (Lean on Me).
1943-Al "Blind Owl" Wilson, guitarist/singer (Canned Heat)
1943-Dave Rowberry, rock musician (The Animals)
1998-Malia Obama.
For the baseball fans: There have been three July 4 no-hitters:
in 1908 Hooks Wiltse of the New York Giants no-hit the Phillies 1-0.
In 1912 George Mullin of the Detroit Tigers no-hit the St.Louis Browns 7-0.
In 1983 Dave Righetti of the New York Yankees no-hit the hated Boston Red Sox 4-0 (I was at that game).
One more sad and hard to believe fact: in a 2010 Marist poll, only 74 percent of respondents knew the country from which we won our Independence. 20% were unsure and six per cent named countries other than England.
Happy Independence Day! Party hearty but safely.
