Category Archives: notes

September 19, 2014 · 1:35 pm

Bill Whittle (William Alfred Whittle), “PJTV” ultra-right-wing, neocon “media darling”… owes the government a BUNCH of money! he always did expect the world owed him a living… hypocrisy in the Corporate States of Amerka has been brewing for a long, long time. Since Ronald Wilson Reagan, good old “666,” as we used to call him!

RECORD 1

CIVIL RECORD VERIFICATION: CONFIRM CASE # 20101300981 AT THE COURT HOUSE

Defendant: Whittle, William Case Number: 20101300981

Filing Type: County Tax Lien Entity Type: Individual Record

Filing Date: 20100915 Amount Liability: $93.00

Address: 12611 Pacific Ave #102 City: Los Angeles

State: Ca Zip: 90066

Plaintiff: County Of Los Angeles Court Code: Calosc1

Court Name: La County / Recorder Of Deeds Action Type: County Tax Lien

RECORD 2

CIVIL RECORD VERIFICATION: CONFIRM CASE # 199033123 AT THE COURT HOUSE

Defendant: Whittle, William Case Number: 199033123

Filing Type: Federal Tax Lien – Income Entity Type: Individual Record

Filing Date: 19901200 Amount Liability: $25,922.00

Address: 12659 Rd 36 City: Madera

State: Ca Zip: 93637

Plaintiff: Usa Irs Court Code: Ca173

Court Name: Merced County, Merced Recorders Office Unlawful Detainer: N

RECORD 3

CIVIL RECORD VERIFICATION: CONFIRM CASE # 2003854138 AT THE COURT HOUSE

Defendant: Whittle, William Case Number: 2003854138

Filing Type: Federal Tax Lien – Income Entity Type: Individual Record

Filing Date: 19950200 Amount Liability: $26,422.00

Address: 12659 Rd 36 City: Madera

State: Ca Zip: 93637

Plaintiff: Usa Irs Court Code: Ca173

Court Name: Merced County, Merced Recorders Office Unlawful Detainer: N

RECORD 4

CIVIL RECORD VERIFICATION: CONFIRM CASE # 199126935 AT THE COURT HOUSE

Defendant: Whittle, William Case Number: 199126935

Filing Type: Federal Tax Lien – Income Entity Type: Individual Record

Filing Date: 19911000 Amount Liability: $50,217.00

Address: 3765 W Mckinley City: Fresno

State: Ca Zip: 93722

Plaintiff: Usa Irs Court Code: Ca173

Court Name: Merced County, Merced Recorders Office Unlawful Detainer: N

RECORD 5

CIVIL RECORD VERIFICATION: CONFIRM CASE # 2003323754 AT THE COURT HOUSE

Defendant: Whittle, William Case Number: 2003323754

Filing Type: Eviction With $ Amount Entity Type: Individual Record

Filing Date: 20060629 Amount Liability: $812.00

Address: 8405 Rio San Diego Dr Apt 5114 City: San Diego

State: Ca Zip: 92108

Plaintiff: Sares Regis Holdings Inc Court Code: Ca235

Unlawful Detainer: Y

RECORD 6

CIVIL RECORD VERIFICATION: CONFIRM CASE # 20080584715 AT THE COURT HOUSE

Defendant: Whittle, William A Case Number: 20080584715

Filing Type: Federal Tax Lien Entity Type: Individual Record

Filing Date: 20080404 Amount Liability: $14,149.00

Address: 12611 Pacific Av #102 City: Los Angeles

State: Ca Zip: 90066

Plaintiff: Internal Revenue Service Court Code: Calosc1

Court Name: La County / Recorder Of Deeds Action Type: Federal Tax Lien

RECORD 7

CIVIL RECORD VERIFICATION: CONFIRM CASE # 20090343392 AT THE COURT HOUSE

Defendant: Whittle, William A Case Number: 20090343392

Filing Type: State Tax Lien Entity Type: Individual Record

Filing Date: 20090311 Amount Liability: $6,784.00

Address: 12611 Pacific Av #102 City: Los Angeles

State: Ca Zip: 90066

Plaintiff: State Of California Court Code: Calosc1

Court Name: La County / Recorder Of Deeds Action Type: State Tax Lien

RECORD 8

CIVIL RECORD VERIFICATION: CONFIRM CASE # 20101659997 AT THE COURT HOUSE

Defendant: Whittle, William A Case Number: 20101659997

Filing Type: County Tax Lien Entity Type: Individual Record

Filing Date: 20101118 Amount Liability: $3,859.00

Address: 12611 Pacific Av #102 City: Los Angeles

State: Ca Zip: 90066

Plaintiff: County Of Los Angeles Court Code: Calosc1

Court Name: La County / Recorder Of Deeds Action Type: County Tax Lien

RECORD 9

CIVIL RECORD VERIFICATION: CONFIRM CASE # 20110604035 AT THE COURT HOUSE

Defendant: Whittle, William A Case Number: 20110604035

Filing Type: Federal Tax Lien Release Entity Type: Individual Record

Filing Date: 20080404 Amount Liability: $14,149.00

Address: 12611 Pacific Av #102 City: Los Angeles

State: Ca Zip: 90066

Plaintiff: Internal Revenue Service Court Code: Calosc1

Court Name: La County / Recorder Of Deeds Action Type: Federal Tax Lien

RECORD 10

CIVIL RECORD VERIFICATION: CONFIRM CASE # 20110604673 AT THE COURT HOUSE

Defendant: Whittle, William A Case Number: 20110604673

Filing Type: State Tax Lien Release Entity Type: Individual Record

Filing Date: 20090311 Amount Liability: $6,784.00

Address: 12611 Pacific Av #102 City: Los Angeles

State: Ca Zip: 90066

Plaintiff: State Of California Court Code: Calosc1

Court Name: La County / Recorder Of Deeds Action Type: State Tax Lien

RECORD 11

CIVIL RECORD VERIFICATION: CONFIRM CASE # 20110671881 AT THE COURT HOUSE

Defendant: Whittle, William A Case Number: 20110671881

Filing Type: Federal Tax Lien Release Entity Type: Individual Record

Filing Date: 20101118 Amount Liability: $3,859.00

Address: 12611 Pacific Av #102 City: Los Angeles

State: Ca Zip: 90066

Plaintiff: Internal Revenue Service Court Code: Calosc1

Court Name: La County / Recorder Of Deeds Action Type: Federal Tax Lien

RECORD 12

CIVIL RECORD VERIFICATION: CONFIRM CASE # 2003C009034 844 AT THE COURT HOUSE

Defendant: Whittle, William A Case Number: 2003C009034 844

Filing Type: Civil Judgment Entity Type: Individual Record

Filing Date: 20000700 Amount Liability: $6,379.00

Address: 3765 Mckinley W City: Fresno

State: Ca Zip: 93722

Plaintiff: Intl Cr Court Code: Ca059

Court Name: Fresno County, Fresno Municipal Court Unlawful Detainer: N

RECORD 13

CIVIL RECORD VERIFICATION: CONFIRM CASE # 20100007635 AT THE COURT HOUSE

Defendant: Whittle, William J Case Number: 20100007635

Filing Type: State Tax Lien Entity Type: Individual Record

Filing Date: 20100105 Amount Liability: $4,949.00

Address: 4267 Marina City Dr #504 City: Marina Del Rey

State: Ca Zip: 90292

Plaintiff: State Of California Court Code: Calosc1

Court Name: La County / Recorder Of Deeds Action Type: State Tax Lien

7 Comments

Filed under artistic failures, assholes, con man, con men, criminal, criminal behavior, criminals, hypocrisy, idiots, jerks, karma, legal writing, mysterious, notes, tea party mad hatters, ultra right wing loons, users

Tagged as bad filmmaking, bad in bed, bad social commentary, bad video, baloney, bill whittle, bologna, boring, conservative, corporate apologist, deadbeat, deadbeat taxpayers, deadbeats, dodos, dumb, extinct, fail, Greed, guns, hypocrisy, hypocrite, insanity, mad hatters, misogynist, misogyny, pjtv, stupid, tax liens, tea party, ugly, ultra right wing, wrong

September 11, 2014 · 1:06 pm

Baby Chicks and Free Speech, a short story

Here I am, sitting on the long, narrow side patio of “Ye Olde Neighborhood Coffee Parlor” listening to yet another, tiresome & self-aggrandizing, homeless guy tell some adoring young female his “war stories.” So this one night, under this bridge… they usually begin, as does this one.

And then they arrive as quickly as possible (as does this one) at the “no one dares to call the police on me anymore,” stage, or is it no one dares call the state troopers, or the FBI, or the CIA, or the NSA? Whatever. Boils down to the fact that some dangerous, or just plain, old, drug-addled sociopath, is trying to pick up a drunk, defenseless-seeming chick (and I do mean chick – even her hair is fluffy like a newly hatched & dried chicken’s) on the side porch at “Ye Olde Neighborhood Coffee Parlor.” Then I hear the magic words: crazy bitch! Bingo!

So, to cut a long, boring, pointless ordeal short, I let him have it in the face with both barrels. Told him from where I sat, not even lifting my head to look, or my pencil from page of the blank composition book I was writing in, that if he could call someone a “crazy bitch” loud enough for me to hear him all the way at the opposite end of the uncovered concrete patio, then I could call him a “stupid, fucking sociopathic, prick asshole” as loud as I wanted to, from my end of the patio.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s your right of free speech.” And then he went inside to have the management call the cops on me. Ooh, he just trotted back out to tell me he works at the College of Law — he’s real important!

The poor, homeless chick I was afraid was going to end up as a body dumped by him somewhere along the nearest exit of the nearest interstate is not going with him now, she’s clutching her head and moaning how she was “just on my way to the lake, man!” She sounds like Janis Joplin after a shot of heroin and half a bottle of whiskey. I just kept telling her I loved her, over and over and over. And that he most definitely did NOT love her. Or have her best interests at heart.

I gave him a fucking piece of my mind. Maybe I didn’t save her life, but I definitely saved her poor, little, skinny ass from a predatory, muscle-bound hunk of steroidal ego-maniac-ism. With a tanning booth tan, or maybe it’s a spray tan, who gives a fuck. I think the other patrons inside this place just told him to get the hell out of here. We’re all here, some of us twice a day, almost like clockwork – since this is the first time I’ve ever seen him, I doubt he is a “regular.”

Oh, but the poor, unjustly accused, wee man-child protests plaintively he was “just trying to do somebody a favor, buying a homeless person a cup of coffee.” The “crazy bitch” he referred to outside on the patio was, drum roll please… his mother! Wow, there’s a shocker. What sociopath/serial killer/manipulator/user/con man/misogynist/racist/violent/physically or emotionally or financially abusive A-hole doesn’t blame their “crazy bitch” of a mother for everything they’ve brought on to themselves!

I told him she must really love him, his mom, especially when he calls her “crazy bitch” to her face on Mother’s Day! I thought his head would explode right there, all over the rusty, rickety, nasty tables the owner is too cheap to replace. Why I keep coming back here, I’ll never know. My nephew says it’s haunted… maybe the spirits are trying to get me here so they can tell me something I desperately need to know. What if I don’t want to listen to them? And I don’t! Not the bad ones, anyway. So I generally try to ignore them all, altogether, because trying to sort the good spirits from the bad spirits seems like tempting fate.

Miss “Chicken Little/Little Chicken/My Little Chickadee” would have paid handsomely for that “free” iced coffee drink with a priceless piece of her tiny, bony ass. Look on the bright side: maybe she would have left him with a little something infectious and/or potentially itchy to remember her by. Of course, if she had gotten pregnant, he would have denied everything, including ever having met her. And pity the poor child born of such a freak-o-zoid union!

Now the musclebound sociopath is gone, back on his expensive racing bike, continuing on his way to the neighborhood weightlifting “meat market” joint three blocks down the road, where he can peacock his spray-tanned asshole-ry around for all the other macho/macha bodybuilders. College of Law employee? We’ll just see about that. Yeah, that’s what I thought… nobody on the staff possesses his distinctive face. How considerate of the College of Law to have its own mini-facebook thing! Legal Sociopath Dude vacated the premises, and quickly. Thank you, all good spirits haunting “Ye Olde Neighborhood Coffee Parlor!”

5 Comments

Filed under boys, fathers, girls, health, humor, legal writing, love, mothers, mysterious, prose poetry, science, sex, short stories

Tagged as anger, badge of honor, beauty, betrayal, bitch, bravery, chicks, compassion, con men, crazy, crazy bitch, Crime, emotional abuse, free speech, justice, karma, men, misogyny, sociopaths, women

September 11, 2014 · 9:15 am

RAK, “photographer,” a critical review

“At my request, I recently received several copies of Professional Artist. I wanted to look at them and what they had to offer photographers. To my surprise, photographer Steve Meltzer has a regular column, ‘Photo Guy,’ wherein he examines a variety of techniques and tools. In the issue, his topic is ‘Photography and the Professional Artist.’ In this article he discusses the process of preparing your work for the world of fine-art exhibition. In a previous issue, managing editor, Louise Buyo, profiles photographer RAK. She describes RAK as ‘ a photographer who shoots from the hip with a tendency toward abstraction.'”

I would describe “photographer” RAK a tiny bit differently… for example, this way: “a ‘photographer’ who lies on her generous husband’s couches for a decade, graciously permitting her husband to pay 90% of her living expenses while she socks away half a million to make her own individual retirement nice & comfy, (but who assures her husband it’s meant for him, too, which is a DAMNED LIE), a ‘photographer’ who then dumps the aforementioned husband a few months after he nearly dies from a brain tumor, because she doesn’t like her husband being healthy again & actually asking her to get up off said couches & pull a bit more of her own weight… a ‘photographer’ who now lives off her beloved “Grammy” in a house her beloved “Grammy” purchased for her with cash, on a golf course, where she can lie on her couch during business hours, pretending to work for the fools who employ her, but actually sleeping four hours out of the eight those fools mistakenly believe they are paying for.”

2 Comments

Filed under health, humor, legal writing, mysterious, notes, prose poetry, science, short stories

Tagged as artistic failure, couch potato, divorce, emotional abuse, faux news, Greed, marriage, photography, selfishness, slacker

September 6, 2014 · 9:12 am

Elf Therapists I Have Known, a short story

Elf Therapists I Have Known, a short story

I went to a Reichian therapist (a disciple of Wilhelm Reich, who was a student of Sigmund Freud) once, and it was some experience. She was this neat little lady named Lila. She had these big flashing eyes and she looked like an elf except she didn’t have pointed ears. Well, actually, maybe she did. I’m not sure. Wow, I think they really were pointed ears! So, like, dude, I think she actually was an elf! How spooky is that? The elf Reichian therapist/analyst/spiritual counselor? Who just happened to be counseling my dad? In group therapy? With my Aunt, his baby sister, who was ten years younger than him? Like I was ten years older than my baby brother? My two daughters that I have now, thirty something years later, are ten years apart. How many times do we have to repeat this generational pattern thing to get it right? To infinity, and beyond, it would seem.

***

So, the reason I went to see her, Lila the elf therapist, is that I was in California visiting my father the Communist criminal defense lawyer. He was really tall and thin with wild, curly hair. He was what I call now an “interesting” person. Which my older daughter will tell you really means “eccentric,” which is supposedly good, and which my younger daughter will tell you means “weird,” which is not so good, in fact, is bad in a major way, that is, any way which embarrasses her in front of her friends, which may be perfect strangers, but, you can never be too careful. Someone might turn out, in the end, to be a friend. Or they might turn out to be your worst enemy, so don’t give them any ammo they might be able to use against you in future.

Well, anyway, I was out visiting him, my Commie criminal defense lawyer father whom I didn’t see from the ages of four to twelve, over Easter break when I am fifteen going on sixteen, the exact same age my younger daughter is now, and he had an appointment for group therapy while I was there, and for some unknown reason, he invited me to go along with him. Because I guess he thought exposing a vulnerable adolescent to some of the wackiest, mid-1970s-counterculture, radical German existentialist-inspired group therapy that ever existed was a great idea to heal our battered and bruised father/daughter relationship! Which is exactly the sort of thing my father would think! Which is one of the things I most love about him now, but let me tell you, then was a completely different story!

***

I didn’t love this characteristic of Popsy at all when I was fifteen. No, that characteristic made my stomach hurt. In fact, the entire time I was with him, mostly, I was always on the verge of passing out, throwing up, breaking into a horrible sweat, having diarrhea, or all of those things simultaneously! Not that I was tense, mind you, just that he made me ever the teensiest bit nervous because of his unpredictable-ness. Excuse me while I wipe the tears from my eyes from writing that last couple of sentences! Tears of laughter! Now! Tears of sickness, then. See what a difference 36 years can make to a person? From one of your most horrible experiences to one of your most cherished, a few dozen deaths and a few divorces and a couple of children later! I’m laughing so hard I have abdominal cramps right this second! Whew!

4 Comments

Filed under boys, daughters, fathers, girls, health, humor, love, mothers, mysterious, short stories

Tagged as bed, communist, daughter, death, defense lawyer, family, father, group therapy, hippie, inappropriate, infinity, life, love, sigmund freud, sleep, southern california, therapy, wilhelm reich

September 2, 2014 · 10:08 am

She Finally Had Enough, a short story

One fateful, thunder-stormy, early summer, north central Florida evening, this thrice-divorced, somewhat neurotic, fairly attractive for her age, fifty-three year old woman suddenly and completely unexpectedly decided she’d finally had enough snuggling. Not just enough for the moment, the hour, the day, the week, the month, the year — no, she’d finally had enough for an entire lifetime. From February 15^th to June 15^th, she tortured her brand-new, super-hot boyfriend (who had long, luxuriant, ginger hair with a couple of silver strands mixed in to add visual interest) with so many snuggling demands, and he was so kind, so generous with his snuggling (and other) abilities, which were, shall we say, subtle, complex, and mature, as well as multiple in nature. If you get the hidden meaning. No pun intended. That’s a damnable lie. Every pun intended, and included for general salacious effect upon you, dear reader. Deal with it! Go get your own damned snuggling, right this second, from whomever it is you most wish to snuggle. Maybe it’s your wife, your husband, your child, your parent, your neighbor, your bitterest enemy, your dearest friend, maybe it’s Adolf Hitler or George W. Bush, or your dog, or the armadillo that’s digging a big trench next to your driveway and gave birth to a litter of babies last week, maybe it’s your hippie nephew you’ve taken into your care who’s living in your former mother-in-law suite, whoever. Maybe it’s the lonely woman eating at the take out Chinese restaurant downtown, maybe it’s the funky bartendress at your favorite liquor lounge, maybe it’s the espresso maker at your local coffee parlor…. See the picture? Find yourself somebody to snuggle and leave me the fuck out of it!

So anyway, in four short months this awesome dude donated so much snuggling to the fifty-three year old woman that she’d finally, finally, finally had enough. And just like that, she never needed to be snuggled again. The teletype machines couldn’t spit out enough copy; she was nominated for International Lifetime Snuggling Achievement Woman of the Year, the Decade, the Century, the Millenium, in whatever year you think this could happen in, whichever is your favorite year, whichever year of the cat or rabbit or duck or dog or snake, whatever year you want to choose, pick the year you were born, for example, or the year in which you’ll die, whatever year gives you the most satisfaction. Because when the Stones sang, “I can’t get no satisfaction,” that was a vicious lie, a piece of propaganda promulgated to make women everywhere stop expecting said “satisfaction,” and to make skanky little slutty Mick Jagger seem more handsome and powerful than he actually was. The Beatles will forever kick the Stones’ lame asses. Forever and ever, amen. No matter what cowards who enlisted in the Coast Guard to avoid being sent to Vietnam might think. Cowards can’t be trusted. Ever. And that’s my final word on this subject. Forever and ever, AMEN.

2 Comments

Filed under boys, girls, health, humor, love, mysterious, sex, short stories

Tagged as abuse, beatles, bravery, cowardice, cravenness, divorce, drugs, espresso, facts, heroism, hugs, laughter, love, lust, marriage, men, music, news, Relationships, romance, sex, stones, universal truth, women

August 30, 2014 · 9:42 pm

Sisterlove, a short story

I was teaching my sister to drive that year. We had bought a weird old ’66 Barracuda, silvery-mauve color, and we’d spent weekends compounding the surface, getting ready to give it a coat of wax that would make it really shine. Vickie and I used the car to cruise the strip and troll for boys. My sister loved the boys. The boys loved my sister.

She had long hair, golden brown, with blonde ends. It turned green when she went swimming, then we’d cut the green parts off with nail scissors, her sitting on the toilet, me catching the hair in an ancient orange beach bucket. We’d leave the hair on the compost pile for the birds to line their nests with.

Vickie had gone crazy about this guy Michel she’d met over spring break, and all she could talk about was getting up to Canada to visit him. It might as well have been China. She was still a virgin, but crazy over the idea of sex. I pretended I didn’t care about boys in the slightest, but I did, maybe more than she did. I’d never had a real boyfriend, just a few short flings. Vickie was always falling in love, which made me sick to my stomach.

I was two years older. I was named Edna for my great-grandmother, but everyone called me Jessie, because for some reason that had been her nickname, too. I always wondered how they got Jessie out of Edna, but I was glad they had. Mom got really crabby whenever I asked her about the family history, she never showed old pictures, though we knew where they were, stuffed on the highest shelf of her closet, over the old college dresses she’d kept.

My mother was completely hippied out — she didn’t shave her legs or under her arms, and the compost pile was her altar. She didn’t pay much attention to us unless we were sick and then she was the most wonderful nurse in the world — even though she was a strict vegetarian she’d make us chicken broth with little stars, mostly stars so that it was more of a chicken pudding, a glob of butter oozing on the top. She’d spoon it into our open mouths like a mother bird.

Vickie and I liked to sneak into Mom’s room while she was at work, and dress up in her old clothes and look at her old pictures. She’d been married before she married our dad, straight out of college, and so we always tried to guess who he was from the pictures. Our favorite was the one of her going into a dance, frothy skirt and strapless bodice, her sharp collarbones like exclamation points underneath her satiny, satiny skin. She wouldn’t say, but we figured she’d had a pretty wild career, before we were born.

Neither of us were as pretty as Mom, though. We’d play all day with her makeup, trying and trying to get her look. It was no good — Vickie had her chin, I had her eyebrows, but there was too much of our dad in both of us, and this was unfortunate, because he was homely. Since Mom was drop-dead gorgeous, we came out average-looking.

Not that we didn’t get plenty of attention in our own way. We’d get in the Barracuda and drive up and down the beach road, honking at cute boys. Once in a while they’d motion us over, and we’d park, take our sandals off and hop across the burning sand to find out where they were from. Most were from Boston, a few from New York. We liked the Canadians best, they loved the sun so much they’d fry themselves, joyous to turn red and peel — they thought it looked so healthy. Sunscreen hadn’t been invented, we mixed iodine with baby oil and slathered it on.

Vickie and I had good skin, the kind that never burned, so we looked like Indians, and I’m not talking the American kind but the Hindus. Our brown legs shone — they were our best feature by far, all the boys said so. We learned to kiss from those sunburned Canucks. The ones from French Canada were the best, but they’d never write to you once they left. The other Canadian boys were all earnest and geeky and would write us millions of letters, which eventually we stopped even opening. Instead, we’d take them to the beach, put them in empty juice bottles, then cap them and throw them in the surf.

So, Vickie went more than a little nuts this time, started calling Michel in Montreal every night after Mom was asleep, and when the phone bill came she was put on restriction for a month. Mom yanked our bedroom phone out of the wall. I laughed, but Vickie cried, she was really serious about him. “Love isn’t real,” I told her. “Do you think this guy would ever, ever cry over you?”

“Michel loves me,” she said. “But now he’ll think I don’t love him and he’ll go back to his girlfriend.”

What had caught her eye first about Michel were the brilliant red scars on his back, streaky and painful-looking. We thought he’d been wounded playing hockey or something. His English was so bad, at first we thought he was kidding when we pointed to his back and asked what happened.

“My girlfriend,” he said, shrugging his shoulders and smiling. We were so dense, we didn’t know what he was talking about for days, until Vickie came across this ratty copy of the Joy of Sex while she was babysitting for our best client, a lady who danced Polynesian-style at a big tourist restaurant downtown.

“Scratches are given during the throes of passion,” she whispered over the phone.

“Bring the book home,” I said. Later that night, we snuck out of the bedroom window and went driving. I let her drive and held the book on my lap, reading it to her while we went up and down A-1-A, bending down and swigging our beer at the stoplights.

“His girlfriend scratched hell out of his back, and he let her do it,” I said. “He seemed happy about it, even.”

“He was,” she said. “Let’s drive to Canada.” She put her foot down hard on the gas and passed a couple of cars.

“No way,” I said. “We’d get caught before we got out of Florida.”

“I’m going,” she said. “I want to see him again. You can come if you want to.”

“This is insane,” I said. “You don’t even have your license.”

“There’s only one first time,” she said. “I want mine to be with Michel.”

“You’ve been loony over a dozen boys this past year,” I said. “How is this different? What makes you think this’ll last more than a week?”

“So what if it doesn’t?” she said, and the look in her eyes was fierce. “You’re missing the point.”

“The point is, we’ll be in jail,” I said.

“Where do you want me to let you out?” she said. She swerved over to the side of the road and slowed way down. Her hair rippled over her face like a million tiny whips. I knew I couldn’t let her go alone.

“God damn you,” I said, and she threw her head back and laughed.

“Hijacked by your baby sister,” she said.

“Hijacked by a victim of raging hormones,” I said.

“Damn right,” she said. “And deep down, you’re not any different.”

“Oh, yes I am,” I said. “I’d never drive to fucking Canada to lose my virginity.”

“I feel sorry for you, then,” she said.

“Shut up and drive,” I said. “The farther we get tonight, the better.”

“Mom is going to be so pissed,” she said.

I felt my stomach twirling with fear and excitement. “I would say Mom is the least of your problems.”

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Filed under boys, daughters, girls, health, humor, love, mothers, mysterious, science, sex, short stories, sisters

Tagged as barracuda, canadians, cruising, dance, daughter, family, fear, florida, heal the universe, heartbreak, hippie, joy, kissing, legs, love, lust, men, mother, romance, sex, sister, tan, virginity, wisdom, women, youth

August 28, 2014 · 6:49 am

Ode to Ex #3, a poem

Ode to Ex #3

You were no Gautama Buddha;
turns out, you were a barracuda!

Or a rat, old hat, who scat with a blat,
up the creek, with a squeak — imagine that!

Just an ender, an offender, a greedy over-spender —
your destructive feud, was horribly rude,

and my tongue has been in-cheek
during this opera comique, you pipsqueak!

But your latest is your “greatest,” so now I exclude
your ineptitude, dude! Myself, I won’t delude.

You’re unproductive, so you go splat!
I’m not destructive, but thoroughly instructive!

You can’t handle my words?
I know, you prefer turds.

Have a nice life;
thank god I’m not your wife.

Kimberly Townsend Palmer

7 Comments

Filed under health, humor, mysterious, notes, poetry

Tagged as abuse, cruelty, divorce, emotional abuse, financial abuse, giver, Greed, immaturity, marriage, phsical abuse, stinginess, stupidity, taker, user

August 8, 2014 · 7:38 pm

The lawyer said.

The lawyer said..

Suffering Jets, Bowling Litionists, and Peace Knicks, a fable

My mom’s always trying to teach me History. She says it’s important for us kids to know all the bad stuff that happened in the olden days so we won’t be as stupid as all those olden people were. My mom seems really mad at those olden people. She says human beings could have lived in a “paradise-on-earth” if it wasn’t for a whole bunch of bad ideas they thought up and then were stupid enough to get stuck on. Just as if they were GOOD ideas! My mom thinks good ideas are real important. I’m not so sure because I can’t always tell the difference between one of her “good” ideas and one of the olden people’s “bad” ideas, but I’d never tell her that because if I did I think she’d go nutsy-futsy just like Nadine Houck’s dad did, and then I’d be pretty much alone except for that mean bunch of kids living on that hill up from the lake. They’re not mean so much as they are just pissed because nobody’s really around to care for them and make them read their schoolbooks every morning.

Anyway, my mom’s always trying to teach me History, and so I try to learn it. Like today, she got started on the “god-damned East-West mutual suicide pact.” She says that back when there were lots of olden people, (she says there were BILLIONS, but that nutso-futso and I don’t believe her), everybody actually KNEW what would happen if there was “an all-scale nuclear confrontation.” Like, they made TV shows and movies about it, and people wrote all kinds of books and stuff, and they had big “world conferences” and all, and lots of people even made stuff for people to buy so that when the “all-scale nuclear confrontation” came, they’d have water to drink and canned peas and tuna fish and EVERYTHING.

And like people even built bomb shelters in their yards and stuff. My mom says this is “evidence of the world-group insanity” of the early twenty-hundreds and that I should mark it WELL in my soul. So anyways, all the olden people actually KNEW what could happen and all. Which is real hard for me to believe sometimes. Like if my Mom and me actually KNEW that the roof of our house was going to fall in, and so we bought big steel umbrellas and helmets and stuff, and kept living right in the SAME actual house but all the time acting real worried about the roof caving in and talking like MAD about how to prevent it and all, but really not doing anything to brace the ceiling. And EVEN having some guy show us pictures of what our blood would look like spread all over the floor. But then we’d just buy bigger steel umbrellas and harder helmets but we STILL wouldn’t leave the house. Damn, isn’t it hard to believe that those dumb olden people could actually ACT like that?

So anyway, the whole of Earth really, really KNEW that they were in a big pile of trouble. But people did ALL sorts of stuff to “distract their lunatic sensibilities,” my mom says, and they’d do stuff like jump out of big airplanes to feel what it was like while all the time they just kept stocking up on the god-damned steel umbrellas and helmets.

My mom said that one time in the middle of the twentieth century and towards the 70’s some olden people actually and truly came to their senses and try to yell loud at all the “sleeping fools,” my mom says. She says that she read all about them in college and always wondered why they quit yelling. She says that groups of good people would get together all down in history, but that as soon as they had “achieved their one objective goal,” they would trickle down and eventually dry up. She talks about the Suffering Jets and the Bowling Litionists and the New York Peace Knicks and that they all lost their momentum in the end.

Anyway, my mom says that HER theory of what in HELL happened to people is they had plenty of guilt, but no feeling of responsibility to go along with it. Like they felt bad about their “sins of omission” and all, and they hung their heads about it, but what it REALLY was, was just “crocodile tears.” Like they would say, “Gee, I feel SO guilty, but gee, if I felt guilty about every bad thing in the world I wouldn’t be able to SLEEP at night and my face would break out and I wouldn’t be having FUN and stuff.” Like they had a mental maturity age “of about three,” my mom says.

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Tagged as 20th century, 21st century, child, death, fable, history, humanity, inhumanity, insanity, john venn, love, madness, mother, nuclear weapons, peace, teacher, war