John R. has coerced me into participating in National Novel Writing Month. Or Nano Wrimo, if you will.

I started off strong with three whole pages. Technically the daily goals are set in word counts. I do not dwell on technicalities.

Other events in the internet world have sidetracked me. My mother called in a state of panic usually reserved for blind people at an electric car rally. (They can't hear them, you see.) She was concerned because I was making fun of my little brother Luis on Facebook. Luis is in the Special Education program, and it isn't uncommon for him to check his various accounts at school. Also, under the Patriot Act, government institutions are granted access to social networking accounts, private or public, and use them in their investigations.

I'm no expert on these particular shenanigans. I've heard of cases in which prospective employers search social networking sites for information on a prospective employee, which is understandable. Employers can no longer rely on a dumb email address to tip them off. I recall a job application that had an email listed as something like "busty1117". My boss threw that one right in the trash.

The difference with state and federal dudes is that they can check any account, regardless of the privacy settings the user requested. It's legal, and not unexpected. Given my classification as unskilled labor, it may not matter as much to me, but I've seen the impact of such attacks based on what most people would consider standard college photos, and in truth, a growing trend among Disney child stars.

I digress. My mother had been contacted by the school saying my statements went "too far" and that she would be receiving a letter. My mother is a teacher and she sees school officials as actual authorities, like police or something. She's also fairly conservative herself. I asked her what I had written that had bothered her and she didn't actually remember. School administrators had read it to her over the phone, in a stern tone, no doubt. This is what I assume they read:

Hey little brother, I know I joke around a lot, and I usually avoid talking about my feelings. So here goes: I don't love you and never have. I hated you as soon as you were conceived, but I could only complain about you to anti-abortionists, since they believe human life begins at conception. It works out well for me, I sell them eggs and charge them for the price of an entire chicken.

But yeah, I don't care about your special needs or whatever because you're a jerk and that has yet to be proven as a part of your syndrome. Also, your dog is ugly and when I see his face I want to throw up, and I usually do.

Also, your little info box says it's almost spring break and that is a lie. You are a liar.


Too far? I say it doesn't go too far enough.

I find the administrator's need to confront my mother about what I've written on the internet to my little brother as a puzzling use of their resources. I imagine their is some appeal to charges of internet abuse. Actual verbal, physical, and sexual abuse is much more difficult to investigate and even harder to prove. Facebook harassment, however, is far more convenient. The site even has a little news feed.

I am happy that my writing is getting some attention. Finally! I get to be misunderstood in my own time! Every artists dream. If I keep this up, I may even get censored! Then I'll write a book about Luis. It will be like Marley and Me, that book about the dog that ruins everything. All I really have to do is replace the word "dog" with "boy" and "Marley" with "Luis".

I wonder if they'll make a movie about it. I wonder who will play me?

I'm considering riding my motorcycle to New Mexico to support the Obama campaign next weekend. Simply put, I received an invitation and I am interested. A long ride in pleasant weather, a chance to go somewhere I've never been, and a participation in Democracy.

Voting is important, yes, but the guys on top vote on stuff that we, as "the governed" scream about. I've lived in Phoenix, Arizona for my entire life and I'm all over the place. Yet, I have never ever seen my senators, or members of my congress, or any of my governors, face-to-face, hand-to-hand, in person.

So I assume they don't know my feelings about how I am governed. How hard have I worked to tell them?

Democracy rests on educating myself and my fellow citizens. If I choose not to vote but I don't even know what I'm not voting for, that is not freedom. That is a prison with no bars.

If I learn a bit, just a little bit, enough to perhaps feel that I might like or dislike it, even if my opinion has all the passion of choosing no onions on my In'N'Out hamburger, I have become an actor in how I wish to be governed.

My elected officials are the hands and the mouthpiece, but I, ha, I am the feet and I am the voice.

And now, I'm also the wheels. Only two wheels, but that's all I need.

If any other bikers interested in Phoenix are interested in going for a ride around the city, perhaps wearing shirts to support our political interests, let me know.

I mean all political interests. Republicans, Democrats, Libertarians, Calvinists. Any political philosophy is better on two wheels.

I intend to vote for Obama at this point, but I would have voted for McCain in 2000. I liked McCain. But it didn't matter, because I didn't vote. I figured the Republican nominee would win in Arizona like he usually does. I didn't care for President G. W. Bush then, but I'm not happy I was proven right. Great presidents bring America together, not divide us further. They should sit on high and cast their eye about like Sauron. Then point us in the right direction. We are the governed Americans, and as always, we will work the jobs and we will fight the wars and we will solve the problem.

We are the governed. Our elected officials are the hands and the mouthpiece, but we are the feet and we are voice.

I can only speak for me, I know, but I believe my hope is a shared one. Whatever happens in this election, and the next one, and the many more I see stretching out into the future for the United States of America, I will be ready.

Happiness is not guaranteed to any of us. But I will be free.

photo credit: David Malki at wondermark.com

Times are hard. Times are so hard that Stephen Hawking has gotten a part-time job making robo-calls.

Times are hard in Afghanistan as well. In response to the shutdown of Lehman Brothers on Wall Street, the world's largest producer of cocaine has been burning its own cocoa fields due to a massive surplus. It's known in high school economics as "creating false demand" and it's what the US does with crops in order to drive up prices. Finally, those terrorists are starting to embracing Capitalism.

Times are so hard that my collection notices include a polite request for a stamp so they can mail me again next month.

Times are so hard that Joe the Plumber is voting for Obama after business closures disrupt his hourly fix of Krispy Kreme.

Times are hard.

Blackwater, the mercenary corporation employed by the US, which gained notoriety for operating in an ethical black hole because they aren't under the jurisdiction of the US military or Iraqi security forces, has also felt the pinch. They've been forced to cut costs on fuel and ammunition by just firing a few shots into the air when they enter a villages, and then heading straight out. Most Iraqi villagers are pleased by this new display of fiscal responsibility by the mercenaries, and expect to see a rise in their own quality of life. The primitive peoples have a surprisingly astute grasp of financial theory. The consensus of tribal elders describe the loss of work time due to rebuilding their village and burying their children as "unsustainable".

Times are so hard that Dick Cheney asks for proof of insurance before he shoots you in the face.

Times are so hard, everyone invited to President Bush's global financial summit is expected to bring their own chairs. A potluck brunch is also planned, but reports that Russia is bringing its legendary Tundra Juice* have not been confirmed. >>>UPDATE: Nineteen of the G20 Industrial Nations showed up with only paper plates and plastic forks. The crisis was averted by Canada, who brought enough for everybody. "Socialist dummies," President Bush was heard to mumble through a mouthful of pancakes with real maple syrup.

*a concoction of melted snow, vodka distilled inside a live wolf, and chilled by the tears of Stalingrad's war widows, which never melt.

Republicans and their faith in self-correcting markets are widely believed responsible for the current financial "Nine Eleven". But I believe they were well aware and well prepared for the crisis. Evidence for this is right in our phone bills, in the fine print that reads "In the event of national and global economic collapse, a 7% tax will be charged to cover the cost of eavesdropping on your conversation."

The infamous "Gitmo" has moved to reduce the status of detainees from "enemy combatants to "those shifty brown fellows", which in Cuba allows for even worse treatment. Spokeswoman for the prison, Dr. Crimla Shimshanks, claims that it is an attempt to reduce costs by decreasing the amount of food, water, and vitamin C. Dr. Shimshanks stated that it meets the minimum requirements agreed upon in the Geneva Convention after the second World War. However, in a stunning display of independent jouralism, Presidential underdog candidate Jaclyn Backhaus discovered that she was referring to a different historical global conflict, determining the proper treatment of prisoners in the (ongoing) war between gerbils and guinea pigs.

When Jaclyn's running mate* confronted the Doctor with these facts and expressed concern that human beings cannot live on a guinea pig's diet, Shimshanks retorted "But look how shifty they are!"

*Jaclyn's selection for her running mate, The Road by Cormac McCarthy, was vaulted into the spotlight after being made into a film starring Viggo Mortensen. Support for the post-apocalyptic yarn about a man struggling to maintain his humanity while protecting his young son was a surprise to many who were expecting Ms. Backhaus to choose No Country For Old Men, an older book by Cormac McCarthy with more experience, although just as bleak.

BREAKING NEWS: Governor Palin wants to increase funding for Individuals with Disabilities Education Act for the first time since its inception. She would like to "Require states to demonstrate that their Special Needs education is based on "proven outcomes" and job placement after high school. I also support jobs for retards; I hear that the GOP is already accepting applications for the 2012 vice presidency.

(I was going to say Alaska is looking for a governor but I don't want to offend those guys. I may go there someday and Wasilla courts are very sympathetic to hunters who "accidentally" shoot people whose skin color is similar the color of a moose, or say, a black bear.)

In his 2000 campaign, John McCain gave a speech demanding that religious institutions show temperance and even tolerance towards other faiths, citing examples of both Islamic and Christian leaders whose vitriolic statements and calls to violence threaten human rights and civil liberties. I wish that that 2000 McCain was still running for president.

Oh, a friend who may identify herself if she desires told me a joke: What do Sarah Palin's mouth and her vagina have in common?

Answer: 1 in 5 things that come out are retarded.

Snap.

I also saw a t-shirt that had her picture on it and the question "Do we really want a vice president that has had a penis in her mouth?"

No, I didn't really see that. But I want to.

Times are hard?

But seriously folks, she claims the media is picking on her, but making fun of Sarah Palin is as easy as a high school student with abstinence-only sex education.

As much as I kid, I'm proud of her nomination by the Republican Party. Senators and church leaders alike envy her, my sources say. A Republican that doesn't have to resort to seedy hotel rooms and airport bathrooms to satisfy a fondness for penis? Perhaps there is hope for the party after all.

It must be strange for them, I imagine, to be fighting so hard against people who would accept that they are homosexual, and not actually hate them for it like the majority of their constituents.

A warning to all my Republican or socially conservative friends that are gay: I will still tease the hell out of you, and maybe even do a sexy dance at you. Jokingly, of course.

Of course, adults can make their own decisions, I guess. What is the saddest is the little kids in church and school, like when I was in Catholic school, who were already clearly gay.

You may be able to fool most people, but at the very least your girlfriend or wife knows. Oh, she knows.

But it's okay to be gay, even if you think it isn't. When human beings suppress their sexuality, especially males across the board from those celibate Catholic priests, to celibate Muslims, and incarcerated felons, they lose perspective. After a while, molesting altar boys or strapping on a bomb or violently raping another male might seem more possible to them than say, guys that have a willing sexual partner and maybe even an emotional relationship.

Where was I? Ah yes, times are hard. Times are so hard that the CIA is extraditing terrorism suspects to the Luxor in Las Vegas and water-boarding them the Bellagio fountains. It's surprisingly lovely, their cries for mercy and claims of just overstaying their student visas sync up nicely with the water spouts.

Times are hard, times are hard.

Airports have begun keeping people's shoes after security checks. Security has suffered in other ways, the police officers have been removed. The safety of each terminal is handled by the guy at the Starbuck's, who in between making lattes shouts out "Achmed!" He is authorized to tackle anyone who looks.



Times are hard, and if I write any longer I won't be able to keep running the refrigerate.

Okay, okay, I'm done. Back to babysitting. Times are hard for them too. Times are so hard the kids have to beat themselves.

How hard are things for you?

Some scientific study has determined that the evening is a good time to be creative. The worst times are right after lunch and about four in the afternoon. This correlates with my own experience accomplishing nothing before midnight. Ten at night is the prime time. It's late, but not too late, and most of the dullards are worn out form a hard day's babbling inanities. Quiet and peace.

Today was a good day. My two-year old nephew, Remy, had his tonsils removed last week and is recuperating more slowly than anticipated. His throat still hurts, but there's nothing wrong with his feet so I took he and Ender to the park. I hadn't taken them in some time because subjecting them to the summer heat in Phoenix is borderline child abuse. I have argued in the past that their smaller bodies lose heat much more quickly, but to no avail.

Back when people still watched television, I saw a penguin on tv that lived in Costa Rica inside a refrigerator. When it felt like taking a stroll, the penguin would don a little backpack full of ice.

Well, it didn't put it on itself, I assume whoever installed the doggy door in the fridge had a hand in it.

I'll try that next summer.

The twins found the only mud puddle in the entire park and ran through it with their toy trucks. They seemed genuinely apologetic for getting muddy. I told them that it didn't matter now; they were already muddy and they might as well enjoy it. Which they did. They're only two, so I don't think they understand me well enough to grasp the concept, but I assume once they saw I wasn't upset they figured it was ok. And it is. I don't mind them getting muddy if they don't mind me hosing them off in the backyard.

I foolishly failed to schedule an appointment with my wet-ware tech support (psychiatric nurse practitioner counselor lady) and the chemicals I usually ingest to adjust my neurotransmitters have run out. I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon. I feel okay at the moment. It's only been about 48 hours. The only difference I notice is that I am much less drowsy. I intend to request another pill to stop the drowsiness. You know, medicine for the medicine.

I've also been a bit more forgetful but this hasn't really complicated anything more important than the quesadillas I prepared for lunch.

So far so good.

Also of note, I have set up my little writing room. Compy is good to go; I have a table laid out with various journals. Perhaps another little table for the typewriter and I'll be satisfied.

The room is small, but much of the space is still free because I like to sit cross-legged on the floor.

I am pleased. It feels like I have a little pocket in this world to call my own.

Like those damned marsupials. Fortunate bastards; they have no idea how sweet they have it.

I'd like to endorse Barack Obama for president of the United States. And this isn't a racial thing, even though I hate all races, particularly the human race as well as some of the more devious aquatic mammals.

And I hope this election isn't marred by voter fraud. After all, so many angry, ignorant poor people have houses in multiple states, as well as a desire to undermine this great democracy.

Tumultuous times. This is that kinda now that nobody really yearns for in the storybooks or the movies. There are no songs about it. It's a warm day with wisps of cool breeze. A sort of dull roar, or just a trembling, in the distance or right beneath our feet. In this now, we poor humans who know only confidence in war or peace, stare out on a blank canvass and wait for inspiration.

I guess I'm not sure what to do either. In my new home, I am a guest. Somewhat by choice, since I lack the possessions to hold the space around me. This would be simpler if I were some other animal, a dog perhaps, and just marked my territory with urine. Got plenty of that. Then, after having done so, I would be thrown out into the yard with a bowl of water and a bleached lawn chair for shade.

A bee stung me the other day. I was riding my motorcycle, as I do, and I hit a bunch of bees. As insects go, they are a fatter more bumbly species and we struck each other like pebbles at a lover's window. One fell down my arm and into my glove, where she stung my wrist. Not much of a sting, more of a love bite. At the next stop light I shook out her broken body onto the asphalt. The sting stung, naturally, but home was not far and I rode the rest of the way before I gave my sting a full inspection.

No radioactive bee powers yet. Or maybe they're just not obvious powers. Perhaps I have a mighty sting, but only one use before it kills me too.

Perhaps I like flowers a little bit more.

Weather will be warm tomorrow, a little cloudy, but being outside in the afternoon will be downright tolerable.

My primary sources for political news are NPR and Youtube. What an age we live in.