I know that sometimes I come off like a left-wing sheep. If it's liberal, I'm for it. Truth is, I would probably be Republican if Republicans acted more like Republicans.
When I heard about the Supreme Court's unfortunate eminent domain decision, my first thought was, if Thomas and Scalia voted for that, I'm gonna be pissed.
To me, that would have proven, once and for all, that it's 1984, and two plus two really does equal five.
Fortunately, they voted according to their principles on this one, and the liberal judges showed just how bad the left can get.
If KC is any indication of how things work everywhere else, the use of eminent domain is Democrat dumbassedness with devastating muscle. Our idiotic Dem leaders, like Mayor Kay and Crony Kohn, think that it's government's duty to step in and fix everything. Kay in particular has been clear that she wants to boost economic development so that more tax revenue will come in so the city can offer more social services. So, like insecure sluts, she and the city's so-called leaders cut into the tax base to give unbelievable deals to anybody in a suit willing to take a chance on the urban core. Meantime the budget's been shrinking while lawyers and developers have gotten rich.
And as if it isn't enough to steal taxes from us poor and give it to them rich, they'll even condemn the property of our fellow citizen to give it to the fat cats so they canb build an ill-conceived albatross that no one will ever want to visit because it's contrived.
This is my biggest problem with Democrats. They think the government can solve everything. When, in a lot of instances, the best thing is for government to just get the hell out of the way.
Ugh. I'm not being very articulate here.
I'm just glad Rehquist, Thomas and Scalia voted the way they did. A lot of times I think they're dicks. But sometimes you need a grumpy conservative around to keep things in check. It's just too bad they didn't win this time.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
on the campaign
I've got some Nashville readers, so I can't resist sharing this. I read in my monthly leftist rag (actually, Allie read it to me, since I'm off the news wagon for a while) about your buddy Bill Frist:
Looks like he's drifted a fair sight from his school learnin'. Not very gentlemanly.
(Frist) continued to stockpile campaign-commercial footage by touring the Sri Lanka tsunami disaster zone in a helicopter, at one point ordering a photographer to "get some devastation in the back."
Looks like he's drifted a fair sight from his school learnin'. Not very gentlemanly.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
rock n roll high school
Download this post and save it to a disc. This is the birth of a superstar. Jake Miller. Lead singer of the Paras.
The Paras were the final band to play at the Goshen High School Battle of the Bands. My grandma and I showed up late, so we only caught the last three acts. When we arrived, the Aviators were on the stage. They were a sort of dark, grinding rock band with a lead singer who seemed to have a Chloraseptic deficiency. The Aviators were followed by a band with an acronym name. I guess you'd call their music emo -- sort of slow, pre-suicide punk.
Then the Paras took the stage and everyone went nuts. Jake Miller was wearing his trademark red cardigan and pencil-leg cords and a thin tie. He jumped up and down, shook his moppy hair and the girls screamed. When he sang, his voice came out sort of British like. A little snotty, like Johnny Rotton.
Afterward, Jake said that God was on the Paras' side. A friend of his mom said, "If I didn't know you, I'd think you were on drugs, they way you were moving up their."
"That's how you're supposed to be," he said, a little annoyed.
Grandma and I went home before the votes were tallied, because we're old. We just knew that the Paras were the best band there, that it'd be nothing short of a scandal of Olympic-figure-skating proportions If these future titans of rock were to be denied their rightful place in the annals of rock history. But then, they were the last band. Folks could have cast their votes earlier for the dreaded Aviators.
But later, Jake called...
The Paras won!!
Meditate on these pictures, folks. Soon, all the kids will be stealing this band's music:
more grief
Right before I left for Elkhart, I had a conflict with a friend of five years. It was over a thoughtless and hurtful action on my part. I regret what I did. But I did it, so all that was left to do was to own up to it, apologize, offer amends to the extent possible, and, hopefully, grow in the relationship. But these efforts on my part were not received, and for now the relationship is on ice, and the longer it stays on ice the less likely it is that it will be revived.
This person has played a very important role in my growth as a person, and I refuse to sever myself from that past, even though the friendship no longer continues. Still, it brings up a slew of emotions -- more accurately stories that I'm continually concocting to manage the appropriate pain. Like most such stories, they're essentially insane: conversations I could have had or presumably would like to have at some future date, and they vacillate from absurdly Christ-like forgiveness to the most mean-spirited revenge.
These stories mask layers of truths -- more stories, really, just one's I'd rather not face. Religious types would likely sum them up in single words -- pride, ego, fear -- but there are also histories I have yet to pay for. As I said in an earlier post, I've been something of an intimacy assassin in my short time on this planet, and there are dozens of people with whom I've shared very close moments who are now exiled from my life. In some instances I banished them amid conflict, others were simply part of lives that I wanted to escape, so I just broke off without a word. So, I suppose, it's payback time.
A weirder story, one that might get me in trouble for sharing it here, because it would gloss over even uglier parts of myself, is that I did the thing I did to give fodder to stories that would mask feelings that were looming on the horizon. I'm in a between place, a hard spot for a guy who prefers things to be fairly well mapped out. With a new editor, the status of my manuscript and contract are less certain than when I began. And even if it were all going as planned, the process of this current book is temporary, and "what's next" draws closer and closer, despite its uncertainty. Harder still, the beginnings of "the next" all point to a long, difficult trudge through things I've pretty much chosen to ignore, or store in easily managed myths. I think I knew on a subconscious level that my trip to Indiana would be a painful one, regardless of how wonderful it is to be at Grandma's house in the springtime. And maybe I knew that the pain would be the sort of pain that reveals no story at first, but just is. So it's not out of the realm of possibility that I did what I did to end my five-year friendship so as to have something to channel the pain toward, an incident and an Other to blame.
It certainly worked that way. Each day, almost as soon as I woke up, I started writing my nutty stories about the lost friendship in my mind. At times I would pray for the other person to have everything I want (mostly peace of mind), which is an old tactic for battling resentments that I learned in AA, and that would give me relief. But the stories would kick up again after a while, and I'd find myself swimming in poisonously obsessive thoughts.
It wasn't until that last day at Grandma's, when I opened up the box full of letters, that I realized I'd been wasting so much of my trip in addiction to my drama. And realizing this, I felt for a moment what was under it: Full-on grief. Grief for the most recent stage of my career; grief for the spotless success story I thought I was living but no longer am; grief for my grandpa's death last year; grief for my dad's death 29 years ago; grief for my mom's three divorces; grief for the threads of disease that shoot through so much of my family; grief, grief, grief.
And I guess that it's only now that I'm coming to terms with this that I can feel the poison of my resentment dissipate from my body and soul. And, better still, I feel a sort of tenderness that can only come after emerging from a period of darkness. Possibility disguised as certainty. I'm a new man! Come and get me while I'm still soft!!
Ebony's been talking a lot about lately about the idea of death being necessary for change -- that the central myth of our civilization and culture, the sacrifice of Jesus, tells us that we must all die to… I'm not quite sure what. I've died a bunch of times, of course, and I'll die plenty times more. And the rebirth pretty much feels the same each time: The way I feel here in O'Hare Airport, waiting for my plane back home, where I can start working again in that maddeningly thick Kansas City soil.
How do I feel?
The better question is, Will it last? Not the feeling; feelings never last. But the new life borne on the feelings. My life's history seems to show that it never really does. I've gotten better, sure, but I've always stumbled.
And, sorry Jesus, but I'm not going to cut off my hand.
This person has played a very important role in my growth as a person, and I refuse to sever myself from that past, even though the friendship no longer continues. Still, it brings up a slew of emotions -- more accurately stories that I'm continually concocting to manage the appropriate pain. Like most such stories, they're essentially insane: conversations I could have had or presumably would like to have at some future date, and they vacillate from absurdly Christ-like forgiveness to the most mean-spirited revenge.
These stories mask layers of truths -- more stories, really, just one's I'd rather not face. Religious types would likely sum them up in single words -- pride, ego, fear -- but there are also histories I have yet to pay for. As I said in an earlier post, I've been something of an intimacy assassin in my short time on this planet, and there are dozens of people with whom I've shared very close moments who are now exiled from my life. In some instances I banished them amid conflict, others were simply part of lives that I wanted to escape, so I just broke off without a word. So, I suppose, it's payback time.
A weirder story, one that might get me in trouble for sharing it here, because it would gloss over even uglier parts of myself, is that I did the thing I did to give fodder to stories that would mask feelings that were looming on the horizon. I'm in a between place, a hard spot for a guy who prefers things to be fairly well mapped out. With a new editor, the status of my manuscript and contract are less certain than when I began. And even if it were all going as planned, the process of this current book is temporary, and "what's next" draws closer and closer, despite its uncertainty. Harder still, the beginnings of "the next" all point to a long, difficult trudge through things I've pretty much chosen to ignore, or store in easily managed myths. I think I knew on a subconscious level that my trip to Indiana would be a painful one, regardless of how wonderful it is to be at Grandma's house in the springtime. And maybe I knew that the pain would be the sort of pain that reveals no story at first, but just is. So it's not out of the realm of possibility that I did what I did to end my five-year friendship so as to have something to channel the pain toward, an incident and an Other to blame.
It certainly worked that way. Each day, almost as soon as I woke up, I started writing my nutty stories about the lost friendship in my mind. At times I would pray for the other person to have everything I want (mostly peace of mind), which is an old tactic for battling resentments that I learned in AA, and that would give me relief. But the stories would kick up again after a while, and I'd find myself swimming in poisonously obsessive thoughts.
It wasn't until that last day at Grandma's, when I opened up the box full of letters, that I realized I'd been wasting so much of my trip in addiction to my drama. And realizing this, I felt for a moment what was under it: Full-on grief. Grief for the most recent stage of my career; grief for the spotless success story I thought I was living but no longer am; grief for my grandpa's death last year; grief for my dad's death 29 years ago; grief for my mom's three divorces; grief for the threads of disease that shoot through so much of my family; grief, grief, grief.
And I guess that it's only now that I'm coming to terms with this that I can feel the poison of my resentment dissipate from my body and soul. And, better still, I feel a sort of tenderness that can only come after emerging from a period of darkness. Possibility disguised as certainty. I'm a new man! Come and get me while I'm still soft!!
Ebony's been talking a lot about lately about the idea of death being necessary for change -- that the central myth of our civilization and culture, the sacrifice of Jesus, tells us that we must all die to… I'm not quite sure what. I've died a bunch of times, of course, and I'll die plenty times more. And the rebirth pretty much feels the same each time: The way I feel here in O'Hare Airport, waiting for my plane back home, where I can start working again in that maddeningly thick Kansas City soil.
How do I feel?
The better question is, Will it last? Not the feeling; feelings never last. But the new life borne on the feelings. My life's history seems to show that it never really does. I've gotten better, sure, but I've always stumbled.
And, sorry Jesus, but I'm not going to cut off my hand.
Monday, June 27, 2005
grief
This morning I found in my grandmother's closet a box full of letters from the mid-1940s when my grandpa was serving as a conscientious objecter to World War II. I felt intense emotion upon seeing them, no specific emotion I can name, just a fieryness of sorts in the soft part of my gut just below the solar plexis. I later told my grandma how I felt, or tried to, and she said, "I know."
It's hard for me to accept feelings without clearly defined stories attached, the kind that are specific effects of this or that cause: a stubbed toe; an insult; a sad ending to a book. And of course these feelings I felt this morning had a cause, and, obviously, a long, mysterious story. But the incident immediately preceding it was the mere opening of a box and finding pretty much what I expected to find. Indeed, I espected to feel thrilled at unearthing such a treasure.
I've never done grief well. My tendency is to just shrug off loss and move on asquickly as possible. My past is scattered with relationships that flourished for a while before I simply let them die, turned away and never looked back. It's like I've continually divested myself of intimacy, and I feel sometimes as though I'm a gennocidaire, an eradicator of my own history, usually for reasons too stupid to recall. And I've been on the receiving end, too, quite recently in fact, excised with a machette slice of words over an incident that's bad, sure, but, in my mind, not worth nuking five good years, so I know that it hurts, but I do it anyway, probably will again.
And then there's death. My first response is usually, Oh well, what can you do? And I figure that ought to be enough. Shed a few tears (but more than likely not), share a few stories, and that's that. It's not like we don't expect one another to die.
But then you open up a box and you realize they're gone. Just that: gone, a presence in and of itself, like no matter where you turn the goneness will be there, because it just showed up, just then, when you didn't think it would. And it's just the feeling, no story through which to control it, name it, give it a reason to be. Those are the feelings that seem like they might never go away.
It's hard for me to accept feelings without clearly defined stories attached, the kind that are specific effects of this or that cause: a stubbed toe; an insult; a sad ending to a book. And of course these feelings I felt this morning had a cause, and, obviously, a long, mysterious story. But the incident immediately preceding it was the mere opening of a box and finding pretty much what I expected to find. Indeed, I espected to feel thrilled at unearthing such a treasure.
I've never done grief well. My tendency is to just shrug off loss and move on asquickly as possible. My past is scattered with relationships that flourished for a while before I simply let them die, turned away and never looked back. It's like I've continually divested myself of intimacy, and I feel sometimes as though I'm a gennocidaire, an eradicator of my own history, usually for reasons too stupid to recall. And I've been on the receiving end, too, quite recently in fact, excised with a machette slice of words over an incident that's bad, sure, but, in my mind, not worth nuking five good years, so I know that it hurts, but I do it anyway, probably will again.
And then there's death. My first response is usually, Oh well, what can you do? And I figure that ought to be enough. Shed a few tears (but more than likely not), share a few stories, and that's that. It's not like we don't expect one another to die.
But then you open up a box and you realize they're gone. Just that: gone, a presence in and of itself, like no matter where you turn the goneness will be there, because it just showed up, just then, when you didn't think it would. And it's just the feeling, no story through which to control it, name it, give it a reason to be. Those are the feelings that seem like they might never go away.
Saturday, June 25, 2005
overheard
I know this won't translate into blog, but I was at the QuikTrip today, and the old man in front of me was buying a case of Old Milwaukee. He was a scruffy old guy, clothes a little ratty, and he says to the cashier, "And five Quick Picks," adding, in a bored, almost annoyed voice: "Might as well get rich." I kinda hope he did, though he's probably better off not.
howard dean
Some stuff still gets through, despite my news fast. I just heard about the Dean comments on the GOP last night. My initial reaction to the polarizing generalizations about Republicans: "Right on!" And to Biden and Polosi's distancing: "Whatever!"
Ebony was over yesterday and he pulled Dean's Daily Show interview up on the laptop. Seems to me he's on the right track -- Dean, that is, though Ebony's doing pretty good, too. He's working up some good simple messages, especially about morality. He even said something like, "The Democrats' message is 'Love Thy Neighbor.'" or "Do until others as you would have them do unto you." And I liked when he said, "Last time I checked, the Bible had something like 3,000 references to the poor, and none about gay marriage."
Which is all good in my book.
The real issue, though, it seems to me, is that the current Republican leadership isn't really Republican. It's just greedy, lying, mean-spirited cronies all wrapped up in shiny patriotism and suburbanism. They must be stopped. The key is reframing the debate. Karl Rove is the top debater in the country. I think Dean is onto the right counterplan/kritik (forgive the jargon, please) to smoke his ass.
Frankly, I think Dean's more of a Republican than Rove et al. He's certainly right of center. Don't believe me? Read this. That's conservative, if you ask me.
BTW, I also like that Dean got a dig in about the Republicans' unwillingness to renew the Voters' Rights Act. I mean, for God's sakes, how much more proof do you need that the the GOP isn't Grand, ain't like they were in the days of Old, and they sure as hell don't Party? This was the party of Lincoln, the Emancipation and the 14th Amendment. Right! Their current mutation was spurred by racism, straight up. Goldwater, Nixon -- they cashed in on hate at Warren and never looked back.
Ebony was over yesterday and he pulled Dean's Daily Show interview up on the laptop. Seems to me he's on the right track -- Dean, that is, though Ebony's doing pretty good, too. He's working up some good simple messages, especially about morality. He even said something like, "The Democrats' message is 'Love Thy Neighbor.'" or "Do until others as you would have them do unto you." And I liked when he said, "Last time I checked, the Bible had something like 3,000 references to the poor, and none about gay marriage."
Which is all good in my book.
The real issue, though, it seems to me, is that the current Republican leadership isn't really Republican. It's just greedy, lying, mean-spirited cronies all wrapped up in shiny patriotism and suburbanism. They must be stopped. The key is reframing the debate. Karl Rove is the top debater in the country. I think Dean is onto the right counterplan/kritik (forgive the jargon, please) to smoke his ass.
Frankly, I think Dean's more of a Republican than Rove et al. He's certainly right of center. Don't believe me? Read this. That's conservative, if you ask me.
BTW, I also like that Dean got a dig in about the Republicans' unwillingness to renew the Voters' Rights Act. I mean, for God's sakes, how much more proof do you need that the the GOP isn't Grand, ain't like they were in the days of Old, and they sure as hell don't Party? This was the party of Lincoln, the Emancipation and the 14th Amendment. Right! Their current mutation was spurred by racism, straight up. Goldwater, Nixon -- they cashed in on hate at Warren and never looked back.
Friday, June 24, 2005
an affair to remember
Back when I was pushing my skinny, beDockered ass around City Hall, the rumor was that he's boinking her. And one of my favorite memories was when I was interviewing a department head who accidentally referred to the lucky lawyer as "Herb Crone," and we both laughed histerically. But despite shouting "Holy shit!" twice during the first two paragraphs, my favorite part of David's story was Steve Glorioso providing a (lame) definition for patronage. Dude. You are patronage!
But seriously, Herb and Kay are premium Grade-A Kansas City dumbasses. I penetrated Kohn's lair just once during my time at the Pitch. He has a corner office on a high floor of One Kansas City. I was there to interview him about a young lawyer in his firm who was running for city council, but at one point he bid me to come by the window and check out the view. "We need to do something here," he said to me, or something like that, in a tone of voice like that of one engaged in a friendly argument.
It was an odd moment. I rarely got apointments with high-level cronies like Kohn. I usually had to mug them at public meetings, so there was hardly ever any banter. But here he was pulling me aside to make a point about our ailing downtown.
I've thought about the moment often. It says so much about our city. Few in the city's inner circle of leadership knew what to do with the Pitch. I think their preference would have been to dismiss it as hedonistic tripe, and a few of them did, but even the most disdainful among the Kay club had to admit that we carried a young demographic they had no clue how to reach. And, frankly, most of the time had no interest in reaching. Except when it came to the revitalization of downtown. My sense is that they were sincerely baffled that the alt weekly would continually shoot arrows at their revitalization plans. So there were a few of these awkward "Heh, heh, c'mere son" moments (not just with me, but with other reporters and editors on staff).
I have no idea what impression the exchange left on Kohn, if it left any at all. But for me it remains a defining moment in KC dumbassedness. I fantasize sometimes about responding, "No, we don't need to do anything here. Just let downtown rot."
There's an old saying, do what you love and the money will follow. I don't see why this couldn't apply to cities. KC loves to be a homey place, with big yards and porches and nice stores conveniently located nearby. KC loves places that sprout up with hardly any help from the city -- "Restaurant Row" on 39th St, River Market, Crossroads. All the big projects -- every last one of them -- have failed. They're like marketing blogs; no one wants to visit.
So we're gonna have this big, stupid arena with no tenant. H&R Block will have offices downtown (thanks to tax breaks), as opposed to office 20 blocks south on Main (thanks to tax breaks). And we might have a phony, tax-assisted entertainment district to go along with it (where black folks will be turned away for the style of clothes they wear). And it'll probably pull in a few Johnson Countians who are too scared to brave the 'hood and parallel parking arounf 39th St. or west Westport. But the life of the city will remain those areas that just happened on their own.
So here's my arrogant advice: Scrap the stadium and downtown deal. Chip off a few million for infrastructure improvements and small business loans for burgeoning commercial corridors like St. John Avenue, Troost, parts of Prospect. Declare KC a gay-friendly haven from the rest of Missouri (and really dig in on this one -- go national -- have renegade marriage-a-thons at City Hall -- wave a pink Rebel flag). Then market the city as a cozy-yet-cosmopolitan, cheap-yet-luxurious city that'll more than likely never face terrorist attack. And that it's a great place to raise a family, so long as you don't have kids in public school (hence the gay angle).
But what do I know? I'm certainly not schtoofing the mayor.
But seriously, Herb and Kay are premium Grade-A Kansas City dumbasses. I penetrated Kohn's lair just once during my time at the Pitch. He has a corner office on a high floor of One Kansas City. I was there to interview him about a young lawyer in his firm who was running for city council, but at one point he bid me to come by the window and check out the view. "We need to do something here," he said to me, or something like that, in a tone of voice like that of one engaged in a friendly argument.
It was an odd moment. I rarely got apointments with high-level cronies like Kohn. I usually had to mug them at public meetings, so there was hardly ever any banter. But here he was pulling me aside to make a point about our ailing downtown.
I've thought about the moment often. It says so much about our city. Few in the city's inner circle of leadership knew what to do with the Pitch. I think their preference would have been to dismiss it as hedonistic tripe, and a few of them did, but even the most disdainful among the Kay club had to admit that we carried a young demographic they had no clue how to reach. And, frankly, most of the time had no interest in reaching. Except when it came to the revitalization of downtown. My sense is that they were sincerely baffled that the alt weekly would continually shoot arrows at their revitalization plans. So there were a few of these awkward "Heh, heh, c'mere son" moments (not just with me, but with other reporters and editors on staff).
I have no idea what impression the exchange left on Kohn, if it left any at all. But for me it remains a defining moment in KC dumbassedness. I fantasize sometimes about responding, "No, we don't need to do anything here. Just let downtown rot."
There's an old saying, do what you love and the money will follow. I don't see why this couldn't apply to cities. KC loves to be a homey place, with big yards and porches and nice stores conveniently located nearby. KC loves places that sprout up with hardly any help from the city -- "Restaurant Row" on 39th St, River Market, Crossroads. All the big projects -- every last one of them -- have failed. They're like marketing blogs; no one wants to visit.
So we're gonna have this big, stupid arena with no tenant. H&R Block will have offices downtown (thanks to tax breaks), as opposed to office 20 blocks south on Main (thanks to tax breaks). And we might have a phony, tax-assisted entertainment district to go along with it (where black folks will be turned away for the style of clothes they wear). And it'll probably pull in a few Johnson Countians who are too scared to brave the 'hood and parallel parking arounf 39th St. or west Westport. But the life of the city will remain those areas that just happened on their own.
So here's my arrogant advice: Scrap the stadium and downtown deal. Chip off a few million for infrastructure improvements and small business loans for burgeoning commercial corridors like St. John Avenue, Troost, parts of Prospect. Declare KC a gay-friendly haven from the rest of Missouri (and really dig in on this one -- go national -- have renegade marriage-a-thons at City Hall -- wave a pink Rebel flag). Then market the city as a cozy-yet-cosmopolitan, cheap-yet-luxurious city that'll more than likely never face terrorist attack. And that it's a great place to raise a family, so long as you don't have kids in public school (hence the gay angle).
But what do I know? I'm certainly not schtoofing the mayor.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
alethea
My woman is named after a character from Kung Fu, played by Jodi Foster. We watched the episode tonight. It aired while Allie's mom was pregnant with her. Her parennts were both big fanns of Kung Fu. Inspired by this episode late in the first season, they decided to name their first born after the show's young hero. Might be the best Kung Fu episode ever. Could we have expected less?
How perfect that Alethea, the one I watched "Alethea" with, should become a journalist.
Alethea is Greek for truth, and is also the name of the Greek goddess of truth.
In the show, Foster's Alethea testifies truthfully about what she saw. But both she and the jury draw a false conclusion from it. She ultimately realizes that the truth was a lie and vice verse. All reporters have experienced this at one time or another.
In the end, Alethea says to Kung Fu Caine, "I love you."
"I have never loved anyone more," Caine replies.
Episode 10: Alethea
A very young and precocious Jodie Foster co-stars as Alethea, a girl believing she has witnessed Caine, who she had just befriended, kill a stagecoach driver during a robbery. Of course, Caine is innocent but her testimony sends him to the gallows, whereupon she decides to trust his word and "lie" about what she saw in order to spare his life. To prove his innocence to Alethea and thus turn her "lie" into a truth, Caine hunts down the real killers. A flashback story at Shaolin temple concerning Caine's childhood loss of innocence to a benevolent lie mirrors Alethea's predicament and makes for a wonderful tale about the difficult transition children are forced to make from a untainted world of absolutes to an adult world of ifs and maybes.
How perfect that Alethea, the one I watched "Alethea" with, should become a journalist.
Alethea is Greek for truth, and is also the name of the Greek goddess of truth.
In the show, Foster's Alethea testifies truthfully about what she saw. But both she and the jury draw a false conclusion from it. She ultimately realizes that the truth was a lie and vice verse. All reporters have experienced this at one time or another.
In the end, Alethea says to Kung Fu Caine, "I love you."
"I have never loved anyone more," Caine replies.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
punk
So Iget an e-mail this morning from Geoffery:
You know you're broke when a broke-ass kid from the 'hood is telling you to get a job!
get a job soon please!!!!
white Journalist who are 36 years old can't be broke
unless you like the sterio type that all writers are broke and horrible finance people
You know you're broke when a broke-ass kid from the 'hood is telling you to get a job!
evangelist sandra nura iv
I received an e-mail yesterday from Evangelist Sandra Nura's Nigerian attorney, Barr Mike Igbaji. I will soon have $6 million to give to charity.
I responded:
Dear Josephine,
I recieved your mail with all the contents well understood and I have been in contact with Evangelist Sandra and she confirmed that what you said is true. I will want you to froward the following informations to me so that I will proceed to the Bank and change the beneficiary to your favour to enable that Bank release the funds to you.
Your Full name and contact address,
Your private phone and fax numbers,
A scan copy of your international paspport or national driving license for proper identification.
As soon as you send the above informations, I will immediately proceed to change the beneficiary to your favour. Do update me as soon as you recieve this mail.
Yours faithfully,
Barr Mike Igbaji {SAN}.
I responded:
Dear Barr Mike Igbaji,
I too have received your mail, and all the contents are well understood. As I told Evangelist Sandra Nura, my full name is Josephine Dwayne Miller. My address for all legal correspondence is:
Missouri AG Office
Supreme Court Building
207 W. High St.
P.O. Box 899
Jefferson City, MO 65102
Private phone: 816-241-4549
Fax: 573-751-0774
I do not have a passport nor national drivers license.
I am eager to receive the $6 million so I may beging helping Widows, Motherless babies and the less previledged around me.
I have not heard from Evangelist Sandra Nura in some time. Is she well? I so miss our chats.
Lastly, sir, what is your favorite song? Mine is "Two Tickets to Paradise," by Eddie Money. Are you familiar with this hymn?
Yours very legally,
Josephine Dwayne Miller
arrival
The manuscript arrived today, all marked up and with a long letter from the editor. His suggestions to improve the book are on point, and I'm eager to dig in and have the final draft to him by mid-August. The letter began with two pages of the most direct, informed and sustained praise I've ever received. Reading it in the parking lot of FedEx I was so overcome with joy that I began weeping, and I bawled the whole way home. I need to send a letter of gratitude to an old friend. I'll report more early next week.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
tomorrow!
Got the good e-mail today:
Hi Joe,
Thanks for your note. In fact, I'm Fed Exing out the manuscript and
editorial letter to you today; you should have it by tomorrow. I'm also
ordering the payment due on delivery of the draft.
It's a great read, and I don't think the manuscript requires too much work.
Let's talk if you have any questions.
All best,
Editor
Plus he e-mailed my agent:
Generally, I think the manuscript is a great read. The kids come alive, reveal themselves as compelling and distinct personalities, and the story is very engaging. With great agility he is able to stay close to the central narrative while explaining some thorny and complex issues about race and education. I've suggested some cuts and think he needs to be careful about how he interjects himself into the story, among other suggestions, but, really, Joe has done a great job. I hope you agree.
Comes at a good time. I was panicking all weekend. I had it all worked up in my mind that the editor's earlier nice comments were made when he was still in the earlier chapters of the book. I wrote those parts more slowly than the latter parts (some of which, truth be told, I wrote real fast, so as to hit my deadline). So I was just convinced that as he neared the end he'd start to hate it and ultimately reject it and that I would die friendless and utterly destitute.
Indeed, when I got the editor's e-mail this morning, my elation was tainted with a suspicion that he's lying, which is absolutely absurd.
BUt then, I know I'm not alone in the self-doubt department. Don't all we strange creatures do this kind of fretting from time to time.
Hi Joe,
Thanks for your note. In fact, I'm Fed Exing out the manuscript and
editorial letter to you today; you should have it by tomorrow. I'm also
ordering the payment due on delivery of the draft.
It's a great read, and I don't think the manuscript requires too much work.
Let's talk if you have any questions.
All best,
Editor
Plus he e-mailed my agent:
Generally, I think the manuscript is a great read. The kids come alive, reveal themselves as compelling and distinct personalities, and the story is very engaging. With great agility he is able to stay close to the central narrative while explaining some thorny and complex issues about race and education. I've suggested some cuts and think he needs to be careful about how he interjects himself into the story, among other suggestions, but, really, Joe has done a great job. I hope you agree.
Comes at a good time. I was panicking all weekend. I had it all worked up in my mind that the editor's earlier nice comments were made when he was still in the earlier chapters of the book. I wrote those parts more slowly than the latter parts (some of which, truth be told, I wrote real fast, so as to hit my deadline). So I was just convinced that as he neared the end he'd start to hate it and ultimately reject it and that I would die friendless and utterly destitute.
Indeed, when I got the editor's e-mail this morning, my elation was tainted with a suspicion that he's lying, which is absolutely absurd.
BUt then, I know I'm not alone in the self-doubt department. Don't all we strange creatures do this kind of fretting from time to time.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
hip hop high school
There's this high school in a mid-market city in the American Midwest where kids smart enough to read Paulo Freire and Jacques Derrida's On Grammatology graduate without knowing how to construct a coherent sentence.
Some recent news from Hip Hop High:
The school's administrators decided that it would save money by firing the music teacher, thus leaving the students with not one creative course offering. They informed said teacher that he must leave.
But then someone higher up the Hip Hop School District food chain told the administrators that this was against the rules -- in Missouri, fortunately, it's forbidden for high schools to offer no music, art or theater classes.
So they went back to the teacher and said, "Wait a minute. You can't leave. We need you."
But, they decided to put the teacher on job target -- the classification of a person on the brink of being fired.
To avoid being fired, the teacher will have to establish a gospel choir. The teacher will not be allowed to teach a class on gospel choir, but will be required to assemble this beast as an extracurricular activity. Such activities tend to not do so well at Hip Hop High, where the drop-out rate is around 70 percent, and the few kids who stick around after school are literally being fought over by the few teachers who lead extra curricular activities.
________________
The administrators at Hip Hop High have decided, in their effort to improve test scores, that students in Home Economics will no longer learn cooking and sewing but will instead read and write about cooking and sewing.
Somehow I have a hard time believing that kids who don't want to read to begin with are going suddenly take a shining to books about cooking and sewing.
________________
I would like to know how many teachers have quit Hip Hop High this year. I've heard that it's a lot. Some teachers have simply walked out midday, no notice. From what I understand, one younger teacher was totallytornn up about the prospect of leaving. She told one of her colleagues that she's been unable to sleep because she fretted about leaving behind all the students, whom she'd grown quite attached to. But she simply coouldn't stand the administrators anymore. "It's a toxic environment," she said.
________________
Hip Hop High's problems go to the very top, where the vanity of adults, not the needs of children, is the driving force.
For instance, Hip Hop Public School District has a contractor who runs its debate league. Every year, the debate league folks give a presentation to the board of directors sharing all of their wonderful success stories.
Not this year.
Hip Hop School District is in a budget crisis, and everyone is so freaked out that the administrators told the debate folks that they didn't want the elected school board members to hear good news about a program, persumably to not allow any political attachment to an inexpensive incredibly beneficial program that might have to be cut to save the incredibly expensive salaries of ineffective administrators.
________________
Hip Hop High has a parental advisory committee full of decent hardworking folks who only want good education for their kids. This organization is so disrespected by administrators that, in one famous incident, the superintendent refused to shake the hand of one particularly active and well-respected parent.
Recently, the parents decided to address one fundamental problem in the district -- that officials at schools often refuse to answer the schools' phones. They sought to bring this perfectly reasonable complaint to the attention of the school board, but the superintendent threw a hissy fit and tried to forbid them from doing so. This man, who earns more than $150,000 a year and gets a free Lexus to drive, wasn't upset by the appalling fact that parents are unable to even contact the schools where their kids spend their days. He was pissed off that anything that might make him look bad would go public.
Some recent news from Hip Hop High:
The school's administrators decided that it would save money by firing the music teacher, thus leaving the students with not one creative course offering. They informed said teacher that he must leave.
But then someone higher up the Hip Hop School District food chain told the administrators that this was against the rules -- in Missouri, fortunately, it's forbidden for high schools to offer no music, art or theater classes.
So they went back to the teacher and said, "Wait a minute. You can't leave. We need you."
But, they decided to put the teacher on job target -- the classification of a person on the brink of being fired.
To avoid being fired, the teacher will have to establish a gospel choir. The teacher will not be allowed to teach a class on gospel choir, but will be required to assemble this beast as an extracurricular activity. Such activities tend to not do so well at Hip Hop High, where the drop-out rate is around 70 percent, and the few kids who stick around after school are literally being fought over by the few teachers who lead extra curricular activities.
________________
The administrators at Hip Hop High have decided, in their effort to improve test scores, that students in Home Economics will no longer learn cooking and sewing but will instead read and write about cooking and sewing.
Somehow I have a hard time believing that kids who don't want to read to begin with are going suddenly take a shining to books about cooking and sewing.
________________
I would like to know how many teachers have quit Hip Hop High this year. I've heard that it's a lot. Some teachers have simply walked out midday, no notice. From what I understand, one younger teacher was totallytornn up about the prospect of leaving. She told one of her colleagues that she's been unable to sleep because she fretted about leaving behind all the students, whom she'd grown quite attached to. But she simply coouldn't stand the administrators anymore. "It's a toxic environment," she said.
________________
Hip Hop High's problems go to the very top, where the vanity of adults, not the needs of children, is the driving force.
For instance, Hip Hop Public School District has a contractor who runs its debate league. Every year, the debate league folks give a presentation to the board of directors sharing all of their wonderful success stories.
Not this year.
Hip Hop School District is in a budget crisis, and everyone is so freaked out that the administrators told the debate folks that they didn't want the elected school board members to hear good news about a program, persumably to not allow any political attachment to an inexpensive incredibly beneficial program that might have to be cut to save the incredibly expensive salaries of ineffective administrators.
________________
Hip Hop High has a parental advisory committee full of decent hardworking folks who only want good education for their kids. This organization is so disrespected by administrators that, in one famous incident, the superintendent refused to shake the hand of one particularly active and well-respected parent.
Recently, the parents decided to address one fundamental problem in the district -- that officials at schools often refuse to answer the schools' phones. They sought to bring this perfectly reasonable complaint to the attention of the school board, but the superintendent threw a hissy fit and tried to forbid them from doing so. This man, who earns more than $150,000 a year and gets a free Lexus to drive, wasn't upset by the appalling fact that parents are unable to even contact the schools where their kids spend their days. He was pissed off that anything that might make him look bad would go public.
attention shoppers
I'm on a radish kick lately. I've been having radish and hummus on toast sandwiches everyday. Problem is they're not my radishes. They're store bought.
The more I grow food, the more I dislike the stuff the got in stores. It's too perfect. Like archetypes or ideals, symbols from dreams. Not real.
From a recent batch, these mutant fellows popped out. What made them this way? Are they two seeds that fused together? No two seeds of mine have ever fused together. In my mind, these are ghosts of the perfection machine. We Americans are so damned fussy.
I cut off their tops and stood them up side by side, like a couple in the mall. Then I photographed them. I thought about adding googly eyes in Photoshop. Instead, I beefed up the saturation to make them look nuclear.
My biggest struggle has been root vegetables. For the longest time I thought it was because the soil is too dense. I've been thinking of adding sand. Then I talked to the lady at Longview Gardens and she said it's a fertilizer thing. I will get this root thing down. All else is going gangbuster. I have officially found my green thumb.
Few things make me happier than gardening. I am pondering an essay about my struggles with root vegetables, which will be interwoven with anecdotes about my settling into this neighborhood and my relationship with Allie. But I am afraid it is too corny and obvious of a metaphor. I've even contemplated a sentence about my routes through the neighborhood becoming more and more intricate and satisfying. I keep discovering new things, feeling more and more at home, healthy, thriving.
Sometimes life is too faky, like totally contrived fiction.
father
This is a self portrait by my father. It hangs in the hallway of my grandmother's house, where it's hung for years. When I was a kid it really freaked me out. It is a scary picture, expecially when viewed by a litle boy who has been spanked by the young man it represents. Now when I look at it as an adult who has outlived my father by ten years I see youth -- lots of potential, a bit of self confidence, but also a whole lot of fear and awkwardness. I wonder what drove my father to paint.
On my birthday Friday, my grandma e-mailed me a photo of another painting my dad painted.
Technically this is the worst painting of my dad's I've seen. It seems hastily made, not very sophisticated. But there's a lot there. The harlequin aspect of the face reminds me of my own image of my dad at that time. The man pictured here seems at once kind and loving and mean and punishing. The red is very bloody, painful.
The picture doesn't appear to be have been drawn from a place of intimate familiarity with the subject. It's more like an archetype from a dream. It's too stark to connote love.
I'll never know for sure, but think my dad was scared when he painted it. This Christianity stuff must have been new to him. He knew he wanted it, but I don't think he really knew with the knowing of true faith and grace.
My grandma says she will bring this out to me when she visits in August. In an e-mail to me, she wrote, "It seems to speak so strongly of the black and white dialogue you are involved in, I think you may like it. "
I want it. And yet I don't want it. Where would I hang such a thing? I don't want to sound ungrateful or unsentimental, but how could I live with this face staring at me?
Yes, this is an important image in my life's story. And it ought to be archived someway. But still. I find it unsettling, like some of the letters my dad wrote in the last months of his life, when he was anguishing over the question of whether or not to remarry. This face seems to be saying both "Yes, get married" and "No, it's a sin."
How exemplary of what a difficult challenge being fundamentally Christian sems to be.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
i'm convinced
...and I've been convinced for quite some time. I have no doubt whatsoever that our president is a false prophet, and that he may well be The False Prophet. I wish the Pope were younger too:
Pope fears Bush is antichrist, journalist contends - Church - journalist Wayne Madsden - Brief Article
WASHINGTON DC -- According to freelance journalist Wayne Madsden, "George W Bush's blood lust, his repeated commitment to Christian beliefs and his constant references to 'evil doers,' in the eyes of many devout Catholic leaders, bear all the hallmarks of the one warned about in the Book of Revelations--the anti-Christ."
Madsen, a Washington-based writer and columnist, who often writes for Counterpunch, says that people close to the pope claim that amid these concerns, the pontiff wishes he was younger and in better health to confront the possibility that Bush may represent the person prophesized in Revelations. John Paul II has always believed the world was on the precipice of the final confrontation between Good and Evil as foretold in the New Testament.
Before he became pope, Karol Cardinal Wojtyla said, "We are now standing in the face of the greatest historical confrontation humanity has gone through. I do not think that wide circles of the American society or wide circles of the Christian community realize this fully. We are now facing the final confrontation between the church and the anti-Church, of the Gospel versus the anti-Gospel."
The pope worked tirelessly to convince leaders of nations on the UN Security Council to oppose Bush's war resolution on Iraq. Vatican sources claim they had not seen the pope more animated and determined since he fell ill to Parkinson's Disease. In the end, the pope did convince the leaders of Mexico, Chile, Cameroon and Guinea to oppose the U.S. resolution.
Madsen contends that "Bush is a dangerous right-wing ideologue who couples his political fanaticism with a neo-Christian blood cult."
COPYRIGHT 2003 Catholic New Times, Inc.
COPYRIGHT 2003 Gale Group
further adventures of a white trend in the hood
The invasion continues:
Saturday
I'm at the local thrift store, and a young gentleman is trying to sell the proprietor a pair of clean Nikes. He must be about 18, with a sizeable 'fro. He looks down at my feet.
"Excuse me sir," he says. "Where'd you get those?"
"Bob Jones, downtown."
"How much?"
"Like, 25."
Afterward, Allie: "That's awesome! I think you're right. This is really going to catch on." (Which is critical for her, because she turned me on to the shoes and would therefore be the rightful inner-city trendsetter.)
Monday
Geoffery looks at my feet and says, "You need to move to Grinnel, Iowa. Everyone there's wearing them things." (Since visiting Grinnel, Geoffery has been referring to it as "KKK Town." On the way back from a debate tournament in Milwaukee, they stopped off at the town's Dairy Queen. Upon seeing the vanload of black kids, Geoffery says, the whole town went silent and stared.)
"Nah man," I said. "You need to get you a pair of these."
"I can't wear those. That'd be like wearing flip flops."
"Flip flops! Now you're just exposing your own country-ness." Then I told the story of the Brooklyn kids I saw at a debate tournament wearing flip flops -- two years ago.
"Yeah, but that's Brooklyn," he insisted. "I'm talking the 'hood."
Me: ??????
"Seriously," he went on, unfazed, "how you expect to wear those and be robbin' stores and jumping fences and stuff
"Geoffery, when's the last time you robbed a store and jumped a fence? These shoes are for the masses. The thug-free majoriity. Just wait. Everybody's gonna be wearing these next year."
Saturday
I'm at the local thrift store, and a young gentleman is trying to sell the proprietor a pair of clean Nikes. He must be about 18, with a sizeable 'fro. He looks down at my feet.
"Excuse me sir," he says. "Where'd you get those?"
"Bob Jones, downtown."
"How much?"
"Like, 25."
Afterward, Allie: "That's awesome! I think you're right. This is really going to catch on." (Which is critical for her, because she turned me on to the shoes and would therefore be the rightful inner-city trendsetter.)
Monday
Geoffery looks at my feet and says, "You need to move to Grinnel, Iowa. Everyone there's wearing them things." (Since visiting Grinnel, Geoffery has been referring to it as "KKK Town." On the way back from a debate tournament in Milwaukee, they stopped off at the town's Dairy Queen. Upon seeing the vanload of black kids, Geoffery says, the whole town went silent and stared.)
"Nah man," I said. "You need to get you a pair of these."
"I can't wear those. That'd be like wearing flip flops."
"Flip flops! Now you're just exposing your own country-ness." Then I told the story of the Brooklyn kids I saw at a debate tournament wearing flip flops -- two years ago.
"Yeah, but that's Brooklyn," he insisted. "I'm talking the 'hood."
Me: ??????
"Seriously," he went on, unfazed, "how you expect to wear those and be robbin' stores and jumping fences and stuff
"Geoffery, when's the last time you robbed a store and jumped a fence? These shoes are for the masses. The thug-free majoriity. Just wait. Everybody's gonna be wearing these next year."
kansas city bomber
This Racquel Welch vehicle isn't the best if you're looking for a KC hit. The film begins with Welch's character, K.C. Carr battling Big Bertha Bogliani in a roller derby showdown. The loser has to leave Kansas City. Forever.
Welch loses.
From there, it's your standard story of cream rising painfully to the top. Welch is clearly the best rollerderbier on wheels. She rolls into Portland a little shy and apprehensive and immediately lands on the shit list of Jackie Burdette, who has been star of the Loggers for six years. Jackie get's pissy, starts drinking and they fight a bunch. KC gets snared by her pig boss, owner of the Loggers, and he starts trading away all of her friends on the team cause he wants her all to himself.
Jealousy. Such poison.
All the while our hero KC is naive and friendly, until things get really bad and she has to do some axle stomping. No doubt the entire Matrix series was inspired by the dramatic final slo-mo shot.
(As an aside: Is the current resurgence in roller derby games the same as it was in the 70s? Is it like pro wrestling on wheels? Man, that's like the weirdest thing I've ever seen. Just this mass of skinny-suited bodies rolling along, beating each other up.)
Welch loses.
From there, it's your standard story of cream rising painfully to the top. Welch is clearly the best rollerderbier on wheels. She rolls into Portland a little shy and apprehensive and immediately lands on the shit list of Jackie Burdette, who has been star of the Loggers for six years. Jackie get's pissy, starts drinking and they fight a bunch. KC gets snared by her pig boss, owner of the Loggers, and he starts trading away all of her friends on the team cause he wants her all to himself.
Jealousy. Such poison.
All the while our hero KC is naive and friendly, until things get really bad and she has to do some axle stomping. No doubt the entire Matrix series was inspired by the dramatic final slo-mo shot.
(As an aside: Is the current resurgence in roller derby games the same as it was in the 70s? Is it like pro wrestling on wheels? Man, that's like the weirdest thing I've ever seen. Just this mass of skinny-suited bodies rolling along, beating each other up.)
Monday, June 06, 2005
evangelist sandra nura iii
In my mailbox this morning:
Dear Sister Joe,
Calvary greetings to you in the name of our Lord
Jesus Christ. I am very gratefull for you response. I pray that God in
his infinite mercy will grant you the strenght to follow this up as the
Bible made us to understand that it shall come to pass that those that
work in the vineyard of the lord will be remembered by him. As you have
shown your full interest to do this good work of faith by forwarding
your contact informatons to me, I will forward them to my personal
attorney immediately for him to proceed to procure all the legal
documents that back up this transfer and I believe that he will be
contacting you soon. May the good God bless and keep you as I wait to
hear from you soon.
Below are his contact informations in case you
want to contact him yourself,
Name: Barrister Michael Igbaji
(san).
Address: Equity Chamber, 20 Burma Road Apapa Lagos
Nigeria.
Phone: 234-803-7155756
Email:
barr_mikeigbaji@corporateattorneys.com
Yours in Christ,
Evangelist
Sandra Nura.
To which I replied:
Dearest Evangelist Sandra Nura,
You will note, I am sure, that I am continuing our conversation via a different e-mail account. This is because last night I had a prophesy that the Devil has caught wind of our plan to do right by the widows and motherless children, and will stop at nothing to stop it. Angels spoke to me, evangelist Sandra Nura, and said that the devil at times enlists demons to use the Internets to do evil deeds. Satan intervenes in the form of a sheep bearing great gifts for the good of humanity but he is really a wolf from West Africa who will steal not only souls but all worldly possessions from unwitting and well-intentioned believers.
Bur we are safe here at this Yahoo! for Indians (subcontinental)[I opened a Sify account, like hers]. Praise God!
I could not help but noticed that you addressed me as "Sister" in your last message to me, whereas you greeted me as brother before. And I am so heartened that you finally understand that the Lord has blessed me with both parts!!
Oh my dearest Evangelist Sandra Nura, how I cherish these exchanges we have. But when, sweet sister, will we be able to pray together?
You have given me your lawyer's number, which I will call as soon as I figure out how to call Lagos, Nigeria, on a dime. But why, if we are to be bounded together on this mission, can we not truly work together, and leave the law out of it, especially the lawless law of Lagos? Can you not simply send me the $6 million? I will have to get a PO Box to facilitate the exchange. As I said, Lucifer is hounding us, and I don't want him coming by because I'm afraid his feet will scorch my rugs, and I just had them cleaned.
Lastly, Evangelist Sandra Nura, what is your favorite song? Mine is "I Feel Love," by Charlie Rich. It was the theme song for Benji!!!
Yours forever and ever,
Sister/Brother Josephine Dwayne Miller
Then I wrote her lawyer:
Dear Barrister Michael Igbaji,
God has guided Evangelist Sandra Nura to me to ensure that her fortune on $6 million will save the widows and motherless babies. Please send the money to me as soon as possible.
Yours In International Law,
Josephine Dwayne Miller
Dear Sister Joe,
Calvary greetings to you in the name of our Lord
Jesus Christ. I am very gratefull for you response. I pray that God in
his infinite mercy will grant you the strenght to follow this up as the
Bible made us to understand that it shall come to pass that those that
work in the vineyard of the lord will be remembered by him. As you have
shown your full interest to do this good work of faith by forwarding
your contact informatons to me, I will forward them to my personal
attorney immediately for him to proceed to procure all the legal
documents that back up this transfer and I believe that he will be
contacting you soon. May the good God bless and keep you as I wait to
hear from you soon.
Below are his contact informations in case you
want to contact him yourself,
Name: Barrister Michael Igbaji
(san).
Address: Equity Chamber, 20 Burma Road Apapa Lagos
Nigeria.
Phone: 234-803-7155756
Email:
barr_mikeigbaji@corporateattorneys.com
Yours in Christ,
Evangelist
Sandra Nura.
To which I replied:
Dearest Evangelist Sandra Nura,
You will note, I am sure, that I am continuing our conversation via a different e-mail account. This is because last night I had a prophesy that the Devil has caught wind of our plan to do right by the widows and motherless children, and will stop at nothing to stop it. Angels spoke to me, evangelist Sandra Nura, and said that the devil at times enlists demons to use the Internets to do evil deeds. Satan intervenes in the form of a sheep bearing great gifts for the good of humanity but he is really a wolf from West Africa who will steal not only souls but all worldly possessions from unwitting and well-intentioned believers.
Bur we are safe here at this Yahoo! for Indians (subcontinental)[I opened a Sify account, like hers]. Praise God!
I could not help but noticed that you addressed me as "Sister" in your last message to me, whereas you greeted me as brother before. And I am so heartened that you finally understand that the Lord has blessed me with both parts!!
Oh my dearest Evangelist Sandra Nura, how I cherish these exchanges we have. But when, sweet sister, will we be able to pray together?
You have given me your lawyer's number, which I will call as soon as I figure out how to call Lagos, Nigeria, on a dime. But why, if we are to be bounded together on this mission, can we not truly work together, and leave the law out of it, especially the lawless law of Lagos? Can you not simply send me the $6 million? I will have to get a PO Box to facilitate the exchange. As I said, Lucifer is hounding us, and I don't want him coming by because I'm afraid his feet will scorch my rugs, and I just had them cleaned.
Lastly, Evangelist Sandra Nura, what is your favorite song? Mine is "I Feel Love," by Charlie Rich. It was the theme song for Benji!!!
Yours forever and ever,
Sister/Brother Josephine Dwayne Miller
Then I wrote her lawyer:
Dear Barrister Michael Igbaji,
God has guided Evangelist Sandra Nura to me to ensure that her fortune on $6 million will save the widows and motherless babies. Please send the money to me as soon as possible.
Yours In International Law,
Josephine Dwayne Miller
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