dinner was smallish — about 8 — at iron star and then there were five of us at my house for a movie. then i went to flip’s and saw the artist Lance, brother of Todd, late of GSpot and Paseo. They’re doing fine, although they experienced the death in a motorcycle wreck of their father about 4 months ago. Hadn’t checked in with them in a while and it was nice to catch up.

my office is still in the midst of redecorating and I can’t really work there and I sure as hell don’t work at home.

But I blog.

I find time to do it more often than not.

I expose my life, my thinking, my humor, my associates and activities as well as sharing some political crap and the occasional funny thing I run into while scanning the news channels.

Higgins’ Laura, in her cups again challenged me at every turn, confronting each and every statement. She also asked me a civil question. She asked “Why?”. Why do I do this?

Hmmmm. Self Absorbtion? Nah!

Duh!

I’d like to think there’s more to it than narcissism.

I think there are times when I write well. No matter what any of you readers may think or understand, I’d write for the blog just this way if there are none of you or a host. Writing is a skill and must be used every day to hone the craft of putting words together. Of carrying a thought to conclusion. Of seeing what works and doesn’t in the way of metaphors and long sentences and short bursts.

Which really works best: long paragraphs or single sentence terse Hemingway-esque breaks for the white space readability?

I write what I know and all I really know is what I see and do and experience. There are no boring times, only boring people. There are no boring places, either.

This life I write is of my own creation. It is my art. It’s fictional as hell and full of lies and half truths and embroidery for literary effect. AND ITS TRUE TO THE BONE.

I am the grandson of Kerouac and the son of Hunter S. Thompson.

I’m a memoirist and this is my memoire to the world.

I am near Northwest Oklahoma City’s Proust in the midst of a Remembrance of Things Past.

Pass me a madelaine while I read you this passage from Faulkner or Twain, both of whom I have wrestled for half a century and know the smell of their sweat in the Deep South humidity.

The conceit of this is that all this lying and fictionalizing and shading somehow keeps me more honest about who I am and what I do. If I don’t like what I read, I look for some serenity and have a barometer of my emotional temperature. Which is a long way round the bush to say that this is how I can stay cool. I can observe my behavior and thinking and not just react to it. ]

The voices in my head that sometimes appear are fictional and real at the same time. I get conflicted easily and I really am a scared six year old boy at times. I defy any honest man to deny he knows exactly that fear of which I speak. I don’t know what women think, honest or not.

I think men are brave in exact measure as they are afraid.

For me, this is an act of bravery. Of a willingness to be honest with myself, if no one else.

Laura challenged me that same night about a statement I made: Wisdom is knowledge plus bitter experience.

It is better for me to be transparent than to do as I did previously, which was to shade who I was to fit the expectations of others. For me, this is wisdom gained through bitter experience.

The practice of deceit has a cost I am no longer willing to pay. Wisdom. Bitter Experience.

The truth is almost always better than a lie. Wisdom. Bitter Experience.

I must practice my art or lose it. Wisdom. Bitter Experience.

Knowledge, even knowledge of wisdom, does not become wisdom until you can live according to its truth and teachings.

All of us have been taught: A kind word turns away wrath.

It’s true. I’ve seen it work. I’ve done it and seen the result.

Very wise knowledge. Why do we still lash out?

Think about the times you’ve delivered that verbal gut punch only to later wish you’d toned it down.

If one’s goal is to be wise, it would be wise to universally adopt that practice.

Myself, I can’t do that if I’m off kilter.

Think there’s a connection?

There you go, folks. That’s it. That’s why I write this blog. This is my therapy. This is how I find out how to stay centered. This is my classroom for my life, not just my self absorption. This is where I learn my lessons. If I do something shitty, might as well get it out there. I don’t always like what I do and how I’m thinking. That’s a big hint. If you want to do what is right, first you must stop doing what you think is wrong. If I’m ashamed to put something in this blog, then I’ll have to stop doing anything I’m ashamed to do.

It’s just blogblah!!!

If it makes you uncomfortable, look away. I sometimes do.

I had a good time last night at the Edgar Cruz-Reuben Romero flamenco show at Galileo’s. The music was wonderful, the crowd excited and the dancers were beautiful. I was fascinated by the arched back and red costumes of the dancers — there’s a visceral sexuality about it despite the fact that the dresses come to the floor. The dancers’ hands were like birds flitting about, very beautiful. The music, driven by conga drums, very masculine. Of course, being as much a showman as musician, Cruz played Bohemian Rhapsody and the Mason Williams hit, Classical Gas. Their finale, Maleguena, powerful, and the denoument, Fire Storm, passionate and moving. A very large woman in a red dress sang the Spanish standard about getting lots of kisses, Bessa me mucho ( ? ), with the voice of an angel. Saw lots of folks I know, but sat with Higgins and Laura, The Oz and Sonic Sharon. Too bad for you if you missed it.

Anybody watch the State of the Union speech? I’m hoping that by next year, I’ll have learned all the words to the Horst Vessel song and Deutchland Uber Alles so I can join in the celebration of Der Feurher’s speech. Although I think my coloring’s all wrong for brown shirt and red and black accents, I really love those butch high topped boots.

It’s NOT Fascism if WE do it, you know.

Well, gotta pay some bills. See you at Paseo dinner and movie night.

I’m starting on a new story, this one about my grandmother. In 1969, I asked her about man stepping on the moon as the greatest technical/scientific achievement of all time. In her view, it was the electric light.

My lazy mind, free associating, thought of the movies Matrix and Terminator along with a host of others that sees a dystopic scientific future in which artificial intelligence takes over and oppresses humankind.

You don’t see much of what we think of as artificial intelligence, but if we define it as sheer and simple computer power — the artificial intellectual power to store data and to make many mathematical calculations very quickly — then there’s lots of it globally.

Sometime in the mid 80s, supposedly 1986 the year of the internet, we passed the Turing Point. Mathematician Alan Turing hypothesized that there would be a point at which there was more artificial memory than human memory.

My friend, The Gary, is getting his key to the 21st Century and is having trouble making his order, but he, too, will soon be wired.

I want the new Intel powered Mac, superfast screamer that it’s been described.

The number and sheer computing power of individually owned computers is beyond my capacity to imagine, except I know it’s a buttload.

There are starting to be attempts to get all those computers organized. Like, back in the day we used to talk about everybody turning themselves in with a single joint to destroy the unfair justice system or everybody hold hands and pray or send good vibes to Vietnam.

Now, we’re all supposed to consider giving up our screensaver time to listen for SETI or calculate Pi or something.

But what if you’re the guy that joins up and creates the dystopic A.I. that destroys humanity?

Wouldn’t that be a kick in the ass?

Most popular asshole in all of cyberspace.

You’d never get a Match.com date again.

Last night’s dinner — ALONE, thank you very much Pink Lady — was at a nearly empty Flip’s. As I ate some vermacelli and meatballs, a gay couple with an obligatory overweight girl in glasses caught my eye and ear. They caught my eye because they kissed. Now, I’ve been guilty of making out at a bar and didn’t think anything of it. I’m not so homophobic that I was shocked or grossed out by seeing two men kiss. It’s just that I was thinking how times have changed when two men feel free to kiss at Flip’s. There was a time when it might have started a lynch mob, even at Flip’s. Times have changed, but not all of us realize how much. Well, anyway, I also overheard one of the two young men’s conversation. It wasn’t as if I were eavesdropping, it’s the acoustics in that damn building, the worst in town. One of the men said to the obligatory “fag hag”:

“Oh, honey, everybody has baggage! Save that for Oprah.”

Pretty funny, I thought.

Having been duly warned, I’m through with the pussy comments. Now, it’s my pussy and I’ll pet when I want and as slow or as fast as I want.

Speaking of Sinatra, he’s been nothing less than simple joy to me since he came here to live. He’s so affectionate and funny and just very cool. He’s had fun exploring and has discovered he likes to sleep under my bed, near the heater vent. He has things to play with, food galore (although “treats” has not been something he’s discovered — YET! ) and is petted to a fare-thee-well. He’s pretty talkative (at least some large part of him is Siamese, a talkative breed) and has learned to say “where’s the cute chicks?”. At least, that’s what I think he says when I walk into the house. He likes music, especially “Old Blue Eyes”, and watches television from my lap. He plays with a “busy ball” in my round entryway and still has absolutely no interest in going outside for any reason. Soon, I’ll have white fur on all my black clothing.

I’ve barely worked in several days. First, they deconstructed my office for the purpose of putting in new carpet and now it’s covered in dropcloths while they paint. Why they didn’t paint before they put in new carpet is a mystery, but I’ll have new carpet and hunter green walls by the end of today. Meanwhile, my computer and phones have been FUBAR (ask your daddy what that means).

Tonight’s the State of the Union address by President Bush. I won’t be watching. Instead, I’ll be doing something REALLY fun. Edgar Cruz and Reuben Romero will bring their guitar virtuosity and flamenco dancing cabaret show to Galileo’s tonight. The last time I went to it, it was very big fun. Great music, great show and a crowd that got up on its feet and shouted “Ole!” from time to time. I’m really pumped up about it and can’t wait.

Just noticed that a former postal employee in Santa Barbara walked in and gunned down 6 or 7 people. The thing that caught my eye about this tragedy is that the shooter was apparently a woman. Pretty unusual.

Speaking of wierd news, a dominatrix was acquitted yesterday of manslaughter in the death of one of her bondage customers back east. She and her boyfriend supposedly dismembered the 275 pound customer and dumped his body parts behind restaurants. The prosecution’s problem is that she wouldn’t confess on tape AND they never found the body. The DA donned the zippered mouth leather hood the victim was in at the time of heart attack death for his closing argument in which he demonstrated the death scene. The judge stopped him and told him “that’s enough theatrics, counselor”. The jury deliberated two hours before deciding “not guilty”.

Sinatra’s having an affection crisis, so I’ll stop here.

Right now, I’m listening to Kat with a K’s CD mix and playing with her pussy. After making me wait for what seemed like forever, she finally gave it up. It’s totally under my sole control now. It’s very very affectionate and quite furry. It’s black and white with blue eyes and must be mostly Siamese. (Her mother HATES it when I do that!)

I’m toying with names.

My first name for it was Archimedes, perhaps familiarly “Archie”.

Kat provisionally called him “Bruce”.

He seems to like Charles or Charley.

I’ve also thought of giving him the name of my alter ego on the blogs, Laoco-on.

Or “merde”.

Sartre? Maybe.

Feel free to make suggestions, but I think that cats have a way of naming themselves and I’ll look for that and let you know what sticks.

It was just as well that I was fucked up last week because I couldn’t have done much work anyway. The building put new carpet in my office and they uprooted me, my computer and phone for two days and over the weekend.

Thursday was a nut squeezer for me emotionally.

Just about every woman from my sober past was on the phone, sending me an email, wanting to have lunch and I already woke up with one woman and had a date with a new person for dinner Thursday night. First date, new woman, yes, it’s stressful for me, just like everyone else.

Lunch Thursday was with privacy shattered Sharon and it was perfect. We gossiped about my hero’s newest romantic link and hated Bush with a frenzy over Cheever’s special of grilled beef with potatoes and asparagus (absolutely delicious!). She just sold a car and picked up the tab to make it perfect. Of course, there’s no such thing as a free lunch and it’s my turn next, without doubt.

As dinner turned into coffee, I realized I was learning something from the new woman on our first date. She talked about the demise of her last relationship. It was much the same view of her late lamented lover that my own late lamented lover expressed about me. She told me about excoriating the guy, listing all his faults and shortcomings, and then feeling so guilty about it, feeling terrible. That at the time she thought she was doing it out of love, but it didn’t work, it only made things worse. I could relate. I don’t know if I’ll actually date this woman. Nothing wrong with her, you understand, it’s just that I’m not much in the mood for dating right now.

Later Thursday night, I caught a little of open mic night at the G Spot and had a fairly OK time.

Friday’s highlight was eating dinner with The Gary and DanO at a new restaurant, the India food place that’s just gone in in Mayfair shopping center at 50th and N. May. I recommend it. Between Gopuram and Ajanta, in my opinion.

From there, went to Red Cup and almost went to see the new Woody Allen movie, but couldn’t quite get there. Saw a lot of my Paseo friends there, including SuzArt, Oz, Deb., and Rena and Kat. I skipped most of Miss Brown to You at GSpot, visited Isis, and went north to Flip’s. Saw Bri serving me coffee and watched the crowd for awhile.

The only thing I really have to mention about Saturday is the OU-Texas game on TV that OU won 82-72 in a big upset on ESPN. Go Big Red. Even called my Stillwater buddy, the webmaster and OSU fan still hurting over an OT loss by the Cowboys to Texas Tech and crowed a little in anticipation of Hate Week Feb. 8.

I missed the big bowling alley white trash birthday party for Massage Marcy, but Happy Birthday, grrrlfriend.

Right now, in addition to Kat’s pussy, I’m really hyped up about the filming we did all Sunday afternoon at my house.

I had a nude scene, a bedroom scene and a dream scene in which my eyes bleed.

I’m not sure everyone would like it, but I’m having very big fun filming The Oz’s movie.

The extraordinarily talented Amanda Joy plays a real woman who wakes up hung over in my bed and finds out how I quit drinking, then portrays a dream girl who tempts and tortures me while I’m tied to a chair. Then, there’s a dream sequence where I have a gun in my mouth, I’m crying, but I turn the gun and shoot a life sized cutout of George W. Bush instead of myself. Very satisfying.

All the participants seemed to feel it was a good shoot.

I have to go now.

Kat’s pussy is loose in the house and I don’t know what it’s doing.

And, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

Th-th-that’s all folks!!!

Happy Birthday to Kat with a K on Monday, her real 24th birthday.

The Saturday celebration at her house was big fun.

Lots of pirates, lots of ninjas and a helluva lot of good food and companionship.

The omlette party must also have been fun, considering the confetti egg breaking, sequin skirt flaunting and boob showing display of its only attendees that I saw that night.

And a shout out to the Stringents and Lisa Curl, whose last set I caught at Paseo Saturday night doing Lisa’s “I wish I was Japanese” cut off her new CD. Good stuff.

I suppose I should also mention the three girls in Isis who needed to know what was in a “John Long” and who insisted while smoking some apple tobacco in a hooka that they were “giving the energy” to the room.

But, my mind and heart were still at Kat’s at the time.

First to show up in a really good costume was Sonic’s Sharon (as opposed to privacy shattered Sharon), who appeared at the party as a short skirted pirate. Va Va and Voom.

Later, there would be ninjas galore — a red headed and armed tiny ninja, a silk and lace geisha ninja and The Evil One as a nasty ninja. Ladies, my hat’s off to you. You were charming and beautiful.

I couldn’t believe the food and Kat’s mom bustled around adjusting the groaning board as if it were her own party. In fact, Kat complained about the 58th picture she took of her mom and some chum, but not until then.

It’s not unusual for me to see The Gary and SuzArt, not even together, but there must have been something about the Tom Jones cover played at FiEGGsta that put SuzArt in another gear altogether because she was having big fun.

AWOL showed up drunk and was soon joined by a whole crew on the porch.

Holly and T combined for a keyboards and bass version of Happy Birthday.

It had to be a good party. The police showed up (after I left).

I stalked a Catholic schoolgirl until she caught me at it. Then, like a dog chasing a bus, I didn’t know what to do next.

Brian the chef shared a new concoction, but he was wound too tight for us to enjoy it.

It took me all day Sunday to calm down after my parting hug with the silk and lace ninja. She had flirty eyes the whole night and they haunted me the next day. I thought I’d tossed away my chance with her when she told me I was “on her shit list” and I asked her what I needed to do to get off. Guess she forgave me that one. Maybe it was my obsession.

‘Round Midnight, us grey hairs — Ned, Ed, Dave, Tony, e.g. — left for the comforts of our beds, but there was still a good bit of livliness in the crowd that went on in our absence.

So, happy 24th, Kat with a K. We love you. Even if you are keeping my pussy to yourself.

Still haven’t had much time to extoll the virtues of the mosaic show at LIT bar that opened tuesday night, but Brooks’ work, specifically including “Bucky … “, was a wonderful show and I do recommend you go. Look for the 9 mm bullets used in one of the better works and the lucid gold in several others.

Since then, I’ve been busy.

Wednesday was Paseo dinner and movie night. Dinner at Iron Star and a screening of ” ‘ Round Midnight” at my house just for three guys, but followed by some fun time in the wee hours. yeah, I know you want details, but you’ll have to suffer.

Thursday night, I went to G Spot and heard some good work done during open mic night — in particular an acoustic version of “500 Miles” that got the crowd singing along. From there to Flip’s and from there to bin 73.

Last night, dinner with my buds at Ajanta up on 122nd and Penn. (yeah, Larry P., it’s out of the bubble, but it was still damn good.) Then, we came to my house for a screening of “Broken Flowers”, the Jim Jarmusch film starring a deadpan Bill Murray, Sharon Stone and featuring a delicious bit of (almost) kid porn. The old friends made their way to their respective beds, but I rushed over to the GSpot for the last set EVER of Burschi Brothers on Paseo. Travis Linville was transcendent on his lead guitar. Wow!

Tonight is the fiEGGSta party, the omlette party, as it’s vernacularly known, but I won’t be doing that show, as glitterati as it might be. I’ll be feting Kat with a K at a birthday celebration because Kat’s more important to me than the glitterati I see among the Gang of 500 all too much. Besides, I WANT to dress up as a pirate. Or a ninja. I’ll decide before nine. I’ve been saying pirate, but I want a gold ear hoop and I’m not pierced and well, it’s just all so problematic from a wardrobe point of view… .

I’m in DanO’s lottery pool, but I want to assure you all that I’ll keep blogging even after I’m a milliionaire.

Thanks to John X for tracking this down:

By William Rivers Pitt
t r u t h o u t | Perspective
From: http://www.truthout.org/docs_2006/011706I.shtmll
Tuesday 17 January 2006

The dogmas of the quiet past are inadequate to the stormy present. The occasion is piled high with difficulty, and we must rise with the occasion. As our case is new, so we must think anew, and act anew. We must disenthrall ourselves, and then we shall save our country.
– Abraham Lincoln

Say “fascism” to anyone you meet, and you will conjure images of coal-scuttle helmets, of Nazi boot-heels clicking in terrible unison down Berlin streets during dark days that only a few remaining among the living remember. Each day, members of the generation that heard those heels for themselves go into the ground, taking with them whispered words of warning. I saw it for myself, they whisper before they pass. See this tattooed number? See this scar? It happened. It was real.

Say “fascism” to anyone you meet, and you will be greeted with the boilerplate response of the blithely overconfident: such a thing cannot happen here. This is the United States of America, land of the free and home of the brave. Ours is a nation of laws, of checks and balances, of righteousness and decency. Our laws and traditions stand as a bulwark against the rise of totalitarian madness. It cannot happen here. Thus we are indoctrinated into the school of our own assumed greatness.

“We must disenthrall ourselves,” said Abraham Lincoln, and so we must, because it can happen here. It is already happening. All the parroted recitations of grade school civics cannot erase the fact that a new order is rising. Call it “secret fascism” or “smiley-faced fascism.” Call it a quiet dictatorship. Call it what you like, but it is here with us in America today, and it is growing.

To be sure, there are no coal-scuttle helmets lined in ranks down our broad avenues, no Tonton Macoute savaging dissidents, no Khmer Rouge slaughtering intellectuals and herding citizens from cities to die by the millions on roads littered with skulls. The core strength of our new fascism is that it speaks softly. It does not present itself in such an obvious way that those who subsist on the dogmas of our greatness can point and say there, there it is, I see it.

This new fascism is not fed only by lies, though to be sure the lies are there in preposterous abundance. This new fascism is fed by myths, our myths, the myths by which we rock ourselves to sleep. This new fascism is in truth an elemental fascism, reborn today by a confluence of events; the diligent work of the few, in combination with the passivity of the many, have brought forth this new order.

The writer Umberto Eco, in a 1995 essay titled “Ur-Fascism,” delineated several core elements that have existed in one form or another in every fascist state in history: “Parliamentary democracy is by definition rotten, because it does not represent the voice of the people, which is that of the sublime leader. Doctrine outstrips reason, and science is always suspect. The national identity is provided by the nation’s enemies. Argument is tantamount to treason. Perpetually at war, the state must govern with the instruments of fear. Citizens do not act; they play the supporting role of ‘the people’ in the grand opera that is the state.”

Take these one at a time.

“Parliamentary democracy is by definition rotten, because it does not represent the voice of the people, which is that of the sublime leader.”

George W. Bush has all but gelded Congress in recent months, attaching so-called “signing statements” to a variety of laws, which state that the president may act beyond the laws whenever he so chooses. The United States, fashioned as a republic, has as its voice the congressional body. This is all but finished. To cement his victory over the parliamentary system, Bush has put forth one Samuel Alito for the Supreme Court, a man who believes in the ultimate power of the one leader over the many. The gelded congress does not appear able to keep this man from the high court, thus rendering the balancing branches of government into a satellite system of the Executive.

“Doctrine outstrips reason, and science is always suspect.”

The supremacy of religious fundamentalism within and without government carries this banner before all others. What is reason in the face of the zealot’s faith? Science has become a watered-down vessel for Intelligent Design, and the incontrovertible truths of empirical data are slapped aside. Spencer Tracy, in the film “Inherit the Wind,” bellows the warning here: “Fanaticism and ignorance is forever busy, and needs feeding. And soon, your Honor, with banners flying and with drums beating we’ll be marching backward, backward, through the glorious ages of that sixteenth century, when bigots burned the man who dared to bring enlightenment and intelligence to the human mind.”

“The national identity is provided by the nation’s enemies.”

This has been with us for generations now. Our nation defined ourselves through a comparison to the Nazis, to the Imperial Japanese, and then through decades of comparison to Communism. Terrorism has supplanted all of these, hammered into place on a Tuesday in September by the actions of madmen. We are not them, all is justified in the struggle against them, and so we are defined.

“Argument is tantamount to treason.”

All one need do to see this in action is spend some hours with the Fox News channel. Freedom fries. Why do you hate America? You are with us or you are with the terrorists. Watch what you say.

“Perpetually at war, the state must govern with the instruments of fear.”

The manipulation of this population by fear has been ham-fisted, to be sure, but has also been cruelly effective. We do not want the evidence to be a mushroom cloud. Weapons of mass destruction and al Qaeda in Iraq. Nuclear designs in Iran. Plastic sheeting and duct tape. Orange alert. Argument becomes tantamount to treason simply because everyone has been made to feel fear at all times. A frightened populace is easily governed, and governs itself; this lesson was well-learned in the duck-and-cover days of the Cold War. Those lessons have been masterfully applied once again. Today, the citizenry polices itself, and the herd moves as one body. Even the surveillance of innocent citizens by the state is brushed off as a necessary evil. Remember: you are being watched.

“Citizens do not act; they play the supporting role of ‘the people’ in the grand opera that is the state.”

Once, we lived by the glorious simplicity of the vote. Casting a ballot was the single most patriotic duty a citizen could perform, an affirmation of all we held dear and true. Today, we live in the nation of the vanishing voter. Power has been so far removed from the people by those with money and influence that most see voting as a waste of time. Add to this the growing control of the implements of voting and vote-counting by partisan corporations, and the rule of We the People is left in ashes.

We must disenthrall ourselves from the idea that our institutions, our traditions, the barriers that protect us from absolute and authoritarian powers, cannot be broken down. They are being dismantled a brick at a time. The separation of powers has already been annihilated. It is a whispered fascism, not yet marching down your street or pounding upon your door in the dead of night. But it is here, and it is laying deep roots. We must listen beyond the whispered fascism of today to the shouted fascism of tomorrow. We must look beyond the lies and the myths, beyond the dogmas by which we sleep.

*************
William Rivers Pitt is a New York Times and internationally bestselling author of two books: War on Iraq: What Team Bush Doesn’t Want You to Know and The Greatest Sedition Is Silence

Former teacher indicted on sex charges involving 14-year-old boy
ASSOCIATED PRESS

TOMPKINSVILLE, Ky., Jan. 18 — A former teacher on Wednesday was charged with having a sexual relationship with a 14-year-old boy who was found with her in a Mexico hotel earlier this month.
A county grand jury indicted 26-year-old Angela Comer on charges of third-degree sodomy, unlawful transaction with a minor and custodial interference.
Comer was the boy’s eighth-grade teacher until she was forced to resign in November amid allegations of an affair with the student.
Mexican authorities located Comer and the boy at a hotel just across the Texas border on Jan. 10, four days after the boy was reported missing. They were brought back to Kentucky last week.
Comer’s attorney, Johnny Bell, said he did not have enough information on the case to comment.
Betty York, the boy’s guardian, said her grandson, who will turn 15 in March, is a talented basketball player who stands 6-foot-2. He’s in temporary foster care, she said.

The child’s street name “Mojo”, you think? He must be charming. How do you foster care a six foot two inch 15 year old basket ball player who is making it with the teacher in a hotel room in Mexico? If she’s a teacher, you’d think she’d be smart enough to wait until there were some endorsement revenues to share. She really wasn’t having sex with the child, he’s just a boy from a poor home and a desire to make it — good — in a bad old world who she was trying to help along his difficult way, your honor. She was more like a mother than a teacher, your honor, and those kisses were merely familial, not familiar. She thought she’d dropped a candle down his pants, your honor, and was merely trying to protect the boy from serious burns and that’s why he appears to have his pants down while she is on her knees. I object to these irrelevant photos and inflammatory and prejudicial porn films, your honor. Here, I pound on the podium and strike what I hope is an heroic pose, chin high to hide my wattle.

From Peace House

On Sunday, January 22, the film, “Theologians Under Hitler”, will be
shown at the Church of the Open Arms at 4:30. The church is located
on No. Pennsylvania, on the west side at N. W. 31st. It is highly
recommended and said to be a very important film. Hope you can come.

Dear Friends:
On Sunday, January 29, there will be another Spiritual Walk For Peace around the Alfred P. Murrah Building site in downtown Oklahoma City.

This date marks the beginning of the international 64 day observation of the Season For Nonviolence, inspired by the 50th and 30th anniversaries of the assassinations of Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr. We will also be walking to show our support for the four Christian Peacemaker Team members held hostage in Iraq.

We walk past the Murrah Building site to point out the futility of violence as we search for nonviolent solutions to the problems facing us in the world today. Please join us.

Spiritual Walk for Peace

Sunday, January 29

2:00 p.m.

The Episcopal Center

(NW 9th and Robinson)

Thanks,
Tom