More Deaf Kids

 " Yeah, it's kind of a folkadelic, rodeocore, easy listening, black metal, late sixties vibe...pretty sure you'll love it."

The two pasty, zit faced punks were sweating profusely. The full body, Care Bear pajamas must have been made of 100% polyester. They looked itchy. The one that was speaking was the slightly taller of the two.

" I mean, it's destiny man. We are gonna cut this demo and...uh, yeah. It's gonna happen. So we, like, need the ten thousand dollars, then we'll play the song for you. 'cause you know, we want you to know you're getting your money's worth."

On the other side of the lobby, huddled outside the office of business banking specialist Sheila Grating, a security guard  and the branch VP Quentin Ovputtig were looking on.  They were not really clear on what was happening. The porcine VP pressed the security guard, Odell.

"Did you let these clowns in here? What the fuck are they doing?"

"I think they's robbin' us boss!"

"Robbing us! Ha! Sure looks like a robbery! Just get them the hell out of here, will you?" 

Odell shrugged and obediently stalked over to the taller Care Bear. Neither of them appeared to be armed with anything other than the guitars they were carrying. And a lot of chutzpah.

"Hey, Hiya Sonny. Listen, ya'll can't come in here raisin' a ruckus like this..."

"Hey yerself. Nice uniform, man.", said the smaller Care Bear.

"Uh... yeah, thanks. Look man, I'm gonna have to ask you fellas to go now, or we gonna have call 5-O, ya dig?"

The first of the pair replied, "Whoa! That's bogus dude! Ya know the sign outside said come and talk to us about the loan to fulfill your dreams and fit your means. We thought thats what you did here."

It hardly lasted longer than the blink of an eye, but just that instant Odell was stunned like he had been whacked with a board. There was still that part of his brain that was determined to get these two little freaks out of the bank. And keep his job. He didn't really want to call the cops. They seemed harmless kids really. This was probably some fraternity stunt. Still, the response took his breath and the moment he recovered he could only hear his own voice blurt out "Say what now?"

The smaller Care Bear with an eye for private security apparel cried out, "Yeah! We were just talkin' with Julie here about one of them loans. Right over there, see? Nice girl with the gap in her teeth....wave Julie!" He waved at Julie and went on, "She's really doing a great job. You should probably promote her. Hey! That reminds me... if I wanted to get that job at the bank, like McDuck, ya know? The guy who counts all the money? What kinda college do ya gotta have for that?"

Odell's head was spinning, the room was spinning. This was getting out of control fast. Care Bear number two was prattling on like John Cooper Clarke on a meth binge. And then he heard it. The great, blustering bellow of that pompous ass. Ovputtig was waddling their way. He was a large man and when he waddled it was no ordinary waddle. It was like Porky Pig with a really extreme case of inflamed hemorrhoids.

"Chatham! I told you to get those idiots out of here! Do it now, or I'll...uhnn...aaaoggh....gaack!....", and then he hit the floor. Quentin Ovputtig, the legendary president of the Gurnee, IL chapter of the Society of Norwegian-Americans, had collapsed from a mild heart attack. All four-hundred-twenty-two pounds of him. Too much salted herring. Over at her teller window Julie shrieked in terror.

Care Bear number one unclipped the sling of his guitar and leaned it against the counter at Julie's window. "It'll be okay Julie, I know what to do. Everybody stay back! I know CPR!"

In a flash he was atop Ovputtig, alternately performing chest compression and mouth to mouth while everyone else looked on in disbelief. Thankfully there was at least one person back behind the counter who had enough wits about them to phone 911. Care Bear number one's pajamas were brown, a light brown like Fozzie Bear. You could still see the shit stain in the seat.

He continued his resuscitation efforts for several minutes, periodically checking for a pulse. A worried murmur began to rise around him from the bank employees looking on. Odell had steadied himself and remained at his side. He sure didn't care much for Ovputtig, but he didn't want to see a man go out like a bitch. Finally, after one of his checks Care Bear called out victorious, "WE HAVE A PULSE!". The squad had just arrived at the front door.

A strange thing happened then. Instead of climbing off of the mound of a man Care Bear number one continued to...apply mouth to... mouth. Like, a really long time. By the time the EMTs got to him Care Bear was french kissing the VP like a sophomore with a new pack of breath mints. They had to drag him off of the man before administering any further aid.

Care Bear number one stood aside. He wiped his mouth with a pajama sleeve. "Uh, yeah. You're welcome! So... anybody still wanna hear the song?"

It seems they then left the bank without further incident. The EMTs found a card on Ovputtig with a note and a phone number.

it was good for me. call me

Kevin

That was in Gurnee, IL on Thursday. They have ditched the Safari van, last seen in a U-Haul headed towards Chicago. My gut tells me they are headed for Markle, IN, but really they could be anywhere by now. I don't know their true mission. I'm sure it's about more than a record demo. These Deaf Kids from New Guinea are a menace. The little bastards terrify me and until they are found I'm not sure any of us are safe.

A Camper Van Beethoven shout out for Springfield, Ohio

 This is offered entirely tongue-in-cheek, with my most sincere apologies to David Lowery, author of the original Take the Skinheads Bowling

Take the Haitians Bowling

Every day, I get up and pray to Kama-la

and she increases the dollar's value to exactly none

Everybodys baggin' up their lunch these days

Last night there were Haitians on my lawn

Take the Haitians bowling

take them bowling

Take the Haitians bowling

take them bowling

Some people say VPs all do the same

Some people say your policies are lame

Theres no word salad that answers anything

Take the Haitians bowling

take them bowling

Take the Haitians bowling

take them bowling

I had a dream last night, but I forgot what it was

I had a dream last night about you, my friend

I had a dream - you were cackling spastic

I had a dream - you were down on your knees

I had a dream - it was about kittens

Take the Haitians bowling

take them bowling

Take the Haitians bowling

take them bowling

Well, on a final note, we must ask of those of you who would like to help please send your check or money order (payable to CFRRF) to:

Clinton Foundation Reject Relief Fund

PO Box 1369

Springfield, OH 45501

There is something happening here, but you don't know what it is

 Last night I saw Bob Dylan perform live. It was a first. It may well be the first and only, though if the vigor on display last night is any indicator don't bet on it. Perhaps more fragile, but at the age of eighty-three the man still has the chops. Being part of the Outlaw Tour, sharing billing with John Mellencamp and Willie Nelson, the performance was missing many of Dylan's most beloved standards. Like a Rolling Stone and Tangled up in Blue were both conspicuously absent, but if you are Bob Dylan you can play whatever the hell you want.

Now you might be thinking that this is shaping up to be a concert review. You will be disappointed if that is your want. This isn't entirely about Bob Dylan. I could easily write about him exclusively, but this would require a book. A book I could write, to be sure, but will not. It has already been done countless times over. There is nothing that I could ever add about the man, his work or any individual performance that could render the justice it deserves.

I can recall, as I expect most in my age bracket do, a childhood being entertained with toy cars. Matchbox or Hot Wheels, or any of a number of knock offs of same. In most cases this was brought to us as a vicarious extension of our fathers' enthusiasm for cars. Like most boys of my age I embraced this and did spend many hours imagining going places in one vehicle or another. While for most this eventually translated into a grown up enthusiasm for the real thing, I never did get bitten by that "car bug". I have owned a few vehicles that I can honestly say I enjoyed, but only a few. 

I never actually spent any time thinking about this, until quite suddenly and for no apparent reason, earlier this year I had an epiphany. I finally understood what it was that I had most enjoyed about playing with those cars. I finally understood what made certain ones favorites, while others were only sacrificial vessels for mock demolition derbies. It was their color. I didn't know a Volvo from a Mustang or a Camaro from a Jaguar. Those were names that were stamped on the bottom of the car. They meant nothing to me. Metallic Plum, Pearl White, Candy Apple Red... these were the deciding factors that determined whether or not a car might be kept in pristine condition, or carelessly tossed into a bucket of also rans.

There is an extraordinary and unique beauty in finding an innocent liking for something for nothing more than it's color. Maybe it's subliminal, or maybe it's something more primal. Perhaps it's nothing more than some optical trick our brains are trained by, yet we can all quite readily cite which is our favorite color or colors. It's like being right or left handed; you don't choose it, it just is. 

I can say the same thing for my favorite Bob Dylan songs. I could apply a lot of thought to it and find an answer for why certain songs are my favorite, but I never have. I have simply accepted that I like the song because I do, not because someone told me to. Just like I enjoyed certain Matchbox cars for their color, even though I didn't know this at the time.

One of his great standards that was included in last night's performance is one of those songs. In fact he closed his set with this song. Ballad of a Thin Man. I have always loved this song. I never knew or questioned why. I never before had asked "What is that song about?" I have always simply appreciated it for it's poetry. The version that I know best is the 1965 studio version featured on the album Highway 61 Revisited. I know it as a somber, dirge-like ballad chronicling the disillusionment and misfortunes of the woebegone Mr. Jones. Last night's closing act was neither somber nor dirge-like. It was charged and it seemed... angry, somehow.

Bob Dylan has long been known for delivering widely varied renditions of his songs. This was certainly in evidence with last night's show, including a spirited performance of Chuck Berry's Little Queenie. But last night's rendition of Ballad of a Thin Man had something special. There was a fury to it, a fire in it's delivery never imagined. I could hear it play over and over in my head on the ride home. This morning, for the first time, I asked the question: What is that song about?

I would never presume to know what is in Bob Dylan's head. That is a fool's errand for any mortal man. Sadly I must report that Mr. Dylan has not made himself available to share his thoughts. I may only present an aggregate of many years of  sporadic reporting around the question and the consequent speculations that have followed. It seems that the "Mr. Jones" is generally attributed to a Jeffrey Jones, following the publication of his article in a 1975 edition of Rolling Stone magazine, in which he seems to attempt to "out" himself as the Mr. Jones. When asked about this Dylan only said "there were many Mr. Joneses at the time". There does seem to be a consensus, and absent any outright refutations from the man himself, we are safe at least in concluding that the ballad expresses Dylan's disdain for journalists.

Some have extrapolated this to a broader disgust with a media and establishment class of the 1960's and their inability to grasp the counterculture. Others have further posited the notion that the ballad is an expression of contempt for the obtuse questions from those unable to understand or appreciate the man and his work. Both of these may be true. For argument's sake let's say they are right, for either or both counts. In that light I am left to wonder if the uncharacteristic ferocity of this performance is somehow telling. With the current state of media and establishment both it is not a great leap of faith to think that the ballad, once rendered as a sorrowful lament, can now be seen as something more. Expressed with more amperage, with more volume, it can easily be taken instead as a stinging indictment. The man who told us that the times "they are a changing" is also the man who told us something else. Another lyric from last night's show that still echoes in my head.

I used to care. Things have changed.

Truth number one

 Better that a man should believe nothing than believe that which is not true

Yes, but what about the Deaf Kids from New Guinea?

 It was the first time I had ever been to Madison, Wisconsin. It was one of a number of similar stops throughout the upper Midwest. I had heard some reputation of the university there, but otherwise had no expectations before arrival. A road named for fish hatcheries was not a good omen.

As I crawled over broken glass on my hands and knees I became aware of a couple things. There was blood running down my face and I could not tell if it was my own. A cursory examination of my scalp revealed a couple of minor lacerations. Probably also from glass. I also became acutely aware of a tremendous double earache, accompanied by a persistent, high pitched ringing. Blast concussion. The damned thing must have gone off really close.

I was still able to hear sounds around me, though it was muffled like being underwater. Over the piercing ringing there were the chaotic sounds of alarms, distant sirens and screams. There seemed to be screaming from any direction. Screams of anguish, pain and terror. There was smoke in the air and a myriad of flaming debris lay all about the scene. Billowing plumes of black smoke rose from the sickening fume of burning plastics. The smoldering remnant of a wiring harness was in my path, only steps ahead. Through my blood and sweat soaked vision I could read the code on the red wire: 01A0000719.

The ringing was maddening, my ears and head feeling like a great bell that had been rung by some vicious strike from a ball bat. Beneath the merciless din, the muted chaos all about, there was another sound that arose from beneath. It was the rapid coursing of my own pulse, pounding like a syndrum slowly dialing up it's tempo. Breath! I had to remind myself. Sucked in a deep breath filled with acrid, black particulate, petroleum fumes and something metallic. Copper. It tasted green.

I began to push myself up from the ground, brushing away glass and other debris before placing any further weight on my hands. I discovered that I was right upon the edge of where asphalt met the concrete curb. I placed my hands forward with my fingertips extended into the concrete. I was momentarily paralyzed by what I saw. A ghastly soup of automotive fluids, blood and water spilled down the curb toward some distant forming pool. After a moment I had absorbed what I was seeing and gasped, pushing myself up to my knees. I felt an onset of nausea and a veil of red began to cloud my sight.

Breath! You have to remember to breath! For some reason Noonday Underground's Barcelona began playing in my head. The red fog faded and for the first moment since I had found myself on the ground I could look all around. Across the road there was a large building, a warehouse or garage of some sort. It looked to have been about twenty-thousand square feet, one of those steel buildings. The first two thirds of the building was just gone, as if vaporized. A ball of fire blazed in a space one might guess had been the front entrance. The gaping maw of the rest of the building displayed a jagged mouth of loose wires and pipes; the security fencing that had lined the front of the property was ripped away, the edges hanging like the loose threads of a ripped sleeve.  

Strewn all across the road and up and down the block for as far as one could see there was a field of wreckage. There were bits and pieces of many things unrecognizable from their source. Scraps of metal and plastic; fragments of wood and fabric; an eyeglass case and someone's garage door opener. And body parts. There were a few arms identifiable. In other places there were only blood and pulp where something human had once been. It was a theater of the surreal.

Still resting upon my knees I turned to see the arrival of the the first fire and EMT at the scene. The sirens whirred until mute and were replaced with the staccato of radio chatter. There were still more sirens in the distance. I rose to my feet finally, still feeling a little wobbly. 

Directly across the road, maybe ten feet from the opposite curb there sat an overturned minivan or SUV. I think it was a Buick. Seated a few feet away from this, in the middle of the street, there was a young woman, probably in her early twenties. She had a wild, auburn mop of hair that floated all about her head. This was all the more pronounced by the blanching of her face. She had gone white as a sheet and her mouth was moving... only no sounds seemed to come out. Her arms were raised in front of her to chest height. Both of her hands had been severed and blood streamed from the shattered stumps. Barcelona played on in my head. I don't remember thinking about doing it, only moving toward her and kneeling down to her side.

"Hey! Gotta hold those arms up sweetheart. I'm gonna help you. What's your name kid?"

Her mouth continued moving, but even if I could have heard I don't think any sound came out. She was wearing a lightweight, fleece hoodie. Without objection I peeled this away from her and ripped it into a couple of lengths for tourniquets. It was crude, but within a couple of minutes I had each arm tied off as tight as possible. She was clearly in shock and still required assistance holding her arms up.

"That's gonna keep you from bleeding to death kid. There are squads coming. I'll stay here with you until they come to help, okay?"

For the first time I received something like an acknowledgement. It was very weak, but she managed a nod. I continued to try to keep her conscious, offering words of encouragement.

"You're gonna be okay kid. See? There's more squads arriving now. Stay with me here."   

They were just getting a hose on the blaze across the road. I could still hear more distant sirens approaching as I looked upon her mask of disbelief. Her eyes were hazel. And blank. I grew increasingly concerned that she would pass out. I remembered the advice that when you have a heavy bleeder it can be vital to keep them conscious.

"Hey! I'll try this again... what's your name sweetheart?" For the first time I realized that I was shouting at her, otherwise I could not even hear myself. It occurred to me that her hearing had been likewise effected. Still holding her arms up above her head I crouched down to meet her at eye level, repeating the question. "Can you hear me? What's your name sweetheart?"

Her eyes remained a million miles away, but her lips moved again. "R..ra..Rachel! I'm Rachel!...". I had awakened her from her cocoon of shock, her breathing quickened and I could see a panic come over her.

"Okay Rachel... I slowed up the bleeding, but you gotta work with me here, okay? You gotta keep those arms up, okay?" Her mouth hung open, but she only nodded. This was good. Just hold on until the paramedics get to you. Barcelona played on in my head. "Just hang on Rachel. They're gonna take care of you."

She nodded again and after a moment she spoke. "Yes..., but what about the deaf kids from New Guinea?"

I heard the words, yet they made no sense. She was delirious. In the interest of keeping her awake I indulged her. "The deaf kids? What New Guinea? What do you mean Rachel?"

It was getting louder. There was a helicopter hovering above now, searching a spot to land for evac I assumed.  Rachel's face gained some expression, a pained look as she struggled to muster her voice.

"N-not... deaf kids...theee Deaf Kids... don't you know?"

I didn't know, and I may never know. Barcelona finally ended it's play in my mind, to be replaced by nothing. This ordeal was nearly over and I no longer needed that safe zone. I could only shake my head no. Rachel continued.

"They were right there!... white van...", she lowered one of her arms to gesture toward where the building had been. This was making even less sense to me. This girl had just lost both of her hands and might still bleed to death. And she was worried about deaf kids from New Guinea and a white van. It had to be delirium.

A trauma squad pulled up from the other end of the block, stopping a mere ten feet from the overturned Buick. In a flash two EMTs were hustling out of the vehicle, kit in hand. They rushed to her side, wordlessly brushing me aside as they began to measure her vitals and tend to her shattered forearms. I could only stand there. There was nothing else I could do to help this poor girl. And I could not tear myself away. I had to stay and watch, to be certain that they had bound her wounds and were taking her away to the hospital. I don't understand why, I just had to do it.

One of the techs had given her a healthy shot of morphine, or whatever they use these days. I could see her body relax as it took effect. Her pallid face flushed with some color, some animation returned to her eyes. For just a moment there was that flicker. Her eyes met with mine as we prepared to say goodbye to one another for all time. Then she called out to me.

"Deaf Kids from New Guinea! They were in that white van and then..."

... and then, nothing. They clamped an oxygen mask over her face, loaded her up on a stretcher and then whisked her away into the back of that ambulance.

There is a rule in disaster scenarios. First come the squads, next comes the fire department, and third is always the cops. News cameras are then sure to follow. About the time that ambulance pulled away with Rachel the first police vehicles began to arrive on scene. This was the time for me to leave. I don't talk to cops and sure as hell don't talk to anyone from TV news.

I don't know what ever happened to Rachel. I hope she's okay. I'm sorry she lost her hands. I heard some rumors that she had been employed as a sign language specialist. I heard some other rumors that she was part of a church that was preparing for a mission trip. To the island nation of Papua-New Guinea. Of course that is only rumor. Nothing that I can substantiate.

I can only contribute two other minor details to my account of this "incident".  Among the many and varied pieces of debris at the scene there was one piece never accounted for in any way. A Peavey cymbal stand. All by itself, sitting perfectly upright not more than fifty feet from the blast. And finally there was this. A recording from that afternoon at the Dane County Sheriff's dispatcher's desk, a phone call from a citizen's report. Two "suspicious individuals" of uncertain age or gender were spotted traveling eastbound on I-94 at a high rate of speed in a red 2004 model GMC Safari van. No license plate recorded. Distinguishing characteristics: individuals were seen wearing full body Care Bear pajamas.

I don't know if any of it means anything. I may have suffered a mild concussion and hallucinated the whole exchange. Perhaps Rachel does not even exist. But those Deaf Kids from New Guinea? I'm not so sure...

The Bar

 Heroes come and promise things

Heroes fail and fall estranged

while the bar is ever lower set

and still the bar is never met

Preachers come and they will teach

of lofty goals that are out of reach

They pray eschew this earthly realm

and trust while others are at the helm

The answers will come to those who seek

and all reward shall come to the meek

A faith freely given embraces the hope

to be found within this passive cope

Hope and trust are fragile things

When they fail they may fall estranged

and the elusive bar that was never met

will still surely be lower set

Violence never solves anything?

To open here it needs to be said that I am not advocating for violence. The title poses this as a question. It does not offer the phrase as a statement, because to do so would be to perpetuate the falsehood. "Violence never solves anything", as a statement, is intended as an ideal. Every time I hear this phrase I am reminded of a scene in the film Fury. In this film Brad Pitt portrays a tank commander in the waning months of the second world war. During a brief respite from combat he and his crew are making themselves guests in the home of German civilians. Pitt's character seizes the teachable moment and in one of the most profound lines of cinematic history he states to one of his subordinates: "Ideals are peaceful. History is violent."

One of the best tools available for determining the truth of something is an examination of it's source. It is with this method alone that the assertion of violence never solving anything is refuted. Go back and examine the recorded history. Pay close attention from this point forward. In both cases you will learn that those who most often spout this line also happen to be those who have a cadre of hired thugs surrounding them for protection. And enforcement. If violence never solves anything, then why are the aforementioned hired thugs heavily armed? I guess we are meant to assume that this is all merely for show.

Even if none of those weapons are ever unholstered, the very fact that there are goons wielding them suggests two distinct possibilities. The first of these is that if goons were hired and given these arms, then this must have been done with the thought that arms might be necessary to enforce the rule. Armed enforcement is violence. Secondly, the hiring and arming of thugs would suggest that the hiring party is aware of some activity for which they may need to defend themselves from some response to their provocations. The two possibilities are not mutually exclusive.

The ideal is that there would be no wars. The reality is that war is a constant, only varying in scale. If anything less than the ideal is to be considered a problem, then war is a problem. Problems invite, indeed sometimes beg for solutions. If there are two warring parties and one prevails over the other by violence, then the war has ended. Problem solved. At least the problem of the war itself. Seldom ever are wars resolved to the satisfaction of their justifications. Anyone who has had a steady pulse in the last thirty years can see this quite plainly.

What does it mean to solve something? The answer varies somewhat with context, but according to Oxford:

 find an answer to, explanation for, or means of effectively dealing with (a problem or mystery)

Violence will find no answers, nor will it give any explanation, but it will most certainly deal effectively with certain problems. When something is deemed effective it is done so by a pragmatic evaluation; not any moral considerations. For good or ill, makes no difference, a bucket of water is effective for dowsing a fire in a waste basket. This renders no judgement upon the character of water; it merely recognizes that it is effective for the purpose. Thus we may likewise state that violence does, in fact, solve most things. I will venture to say further that it always has. Stating this as an historical condition can in no way be construed as an incitement to, nor an advocacy for violence. It is the simple acknowledgement of the status quo.

Pacifism is an ideal. It may also be a creed by which to live. I don't discourage it; it is laudable and, if practiced consistently it may well contribute to a greater peace. It is also woefully ill equipped to survive any collision with unpleasant realities. 

Civilization is an ideal, a confidence game that works as long as you can keep enough people convinced. Once the end of that tassel becomes frayed the whole thing can come unraveled faster than you might think. I can recall some cinematic hyperbole which suggested that we are but 72 hours from cannibalism. Under the most extreme conditions this might well prove to be true.

Civilization, or perhaps better stated in this context "society", presumes to usurp the individual's right of self defense. This is true not only in the physical sense. We are assured that the lofty institutions of Law and Justice are the pillars that support society, and that these are the civilized means of resolving disputes. It is from this primarily that the trope "violence never solves anything" originates. These are ideals. They are ideals that may work, yet they may only work as well as their weakest link: the human beings who exercise that authority in the name of the state. It is ostensibly (and often cited as) in the name of the people. That is another falsehood. Society manifest as the State does nothing for people, only to people.

When these institutions fail to deliver, as agreed upon in a social contract, there are to be mechanisms in place to assure correction and restoration. When these mechanisms fail it is not by some accident. Rather, this occurs only by some malfeasance on the part of those tasked to administer the remedy. We have long since crossed that Rubicon, transcending the miscarriage of justice into a state of maladministration. These institutions have not only failed in their stated purpose; they have further been perverted to an ill purpose.

When the very institutions designed to serve as a shield are co-opted by malefactors, who would instead wield them as a sword against those they were meant to protect, they no longer serve as part of a republic. They have become extra-constitutional, criminal enterprises. This is not law to be obeyed; it is tyranny masquerading as law to be defied. It is the time for the governed to revoke their consent. This is not a call to violence. Defiance may take form by any number of peaceful means, though these are not always an effective remedy.

One can rest assured that there will be violence. Whether inflicted out of exasperation, or incurred by provocation, it will happen. This leads us to a state that is best described in a passage from Thomas Paine's Common Sense:

"We fight not to enslave, but to set a country free, and to make room upon the earth for honest men to live in."

Of course if violence never solves anything, then all those feds could put down their guns and we could just talk this whole thing out. Right?