Chapter 8

Chapter 7

Chapter 6

Chapter 5

* We now return you to your regularly scheduled fairy tale already in progress....

We interrupt this Fairy Tale for this Special Report!

I apologize to those of you who are awaiting the continuing adventures of the no-legged prince. But I had to share with all of you the display of religious wackiness I witnessed this past weekend. This act of holy instability took place at, of all places, a high school graduation party! The experience rattled me some much I was compelled to draw the above picture and tell you this story.

As a preface to this essay, I really have no feeling one way or the other about religion, people of faith or God. People need to have faith in something, whether it is God, a rock, the government, or Regis Philbin. Most people need to believe that there is a higher power or some purpose to get us through the rough times. What I do mind are the people who twist that leap of faith into a scare tactic. Who use it to FORCE individuals to conform or to believe there is only one way of doing things; God’s way. When in turn they are robbing the sons of Adam and daughters of Eve of the gift God bestowed upon them in the Garden of Eden, free will.

It was Sunday afternoon; the BF and I were invited to attend his little brother’s (we’ll call him “T.J.”) high school graduation party. Now, the family (for the most part) does not know the relationship between the BF and me. Also, they are very religious. I was not aware just HOW religious until that Sunday, but I digress.

As we pulled up to the house, cars were neatly parked in a row along side the driveway. The house is a natural wood siding and the lawn manicured within an inch of its life. As we walked to the back of the house we saw a huge white tent with streamers and balloons attached to it that say “Happy Graduation.”

After making our way through some miscellaneous relatives we are greeted by T.J. Who, like many teenagers, was happy to see us until something shiny caught his attention and then he ran off. The next to greet us was the BF’s STEP-dad. Not his real Dad, he had passed on sometime ago, but his STEP-dad. The way you would describe this man is the same way you would describe “Hannibal Lechter.” With one major difference, Hannibal Lechter had a sense of humor. I could feel the rumblings of the under lying volcano inside him when he shook my hand. And he went in to hug his stepson like he had only read about it in books or seen people do it on television. After we fumbled through some semi-friendly small talk with the STEP-dad we made our way to the tent. There we met up the BF’s mother; we’ll call her “Obsessive Annie.” She’s a frail looking woman running around the tent stirring food pans, re-stacking plates and making sure everything is in its PROPER place. The BF walked over to say “hello” to “O-Annie” and she immediately put him to work setting up her PERFECT spread. A few minutes later, the BF managed to rip himself away from K.P. duty to say “hi” to his grandparents who were sitting in a lawn chair semi-circle just left of the buffet. They greeted us with genuine smiles, kisses and hugs. I was even invited to a family reunion that was to take place in two weeks at the American Legion. The invitation consisted of Grandpa Norm asking me if I liked Heineken, I said “yes.” “You’re in.” he replied. These people were a sharp contrast to our hosts. They were FUN! Along with the grandparents were the BF’s middle brother (A.J.) and stepbrothers.

The BF’s brother A.J. has been featured on this Blog before. He was the one who had the head-on collision with the U.S. Patriot Act. He knows, loves and supports both of us in our relationship. The stepbrothers (we’ll call them “Jack” and “Mac”) had no idea about our relationship or so we thought. Turns out they did know and didn’t care. They still loved their stepbrother no matter what and accept me without question. When I had met all the people I wanted to meet, I suggested the BF take me on a tour of the house.

When we walked into the house through the crystal clear sliding glass door, I felt cold. It wasn’t the chill from the air conditioner but that same feeling you get when you walk into a hospital room. The house on the inside was as sterile as the house on the outside. There was NOTHING out of place and everything was cleaned until it glowed. There was Jesus memorabilia riddled through out the house, much like the knick-knacks you would find in the home of a long time fan of Elvis. It was hard for me to imagine four boys (sometimes seven with the stepsons) laughing, playing, and living under this roof. Because on each wall there were “happy” family photographs neatly framed with biblical quotes praising the sanctity of a man’s family. And if you stood very quietly and leaned in closely to any of those pictures you could hear the screaming. When we completed the tour of “the house” it was time to eat.

I was fully prepared for the prayer before the meal. I was not prepared for what was about to happen next!

After we finished eating “O-Annie” ran around to each of the brothers handing out sheets of legal paper with something scribbled on it. Apparently, it’s a tradition in their family when one of the brothers’ graduates from high school each member of the family writes a little sentiment in his yearbook. Sounds like a nice tradition, doesn’t it? Soon after, “O-Annie” handed the papers the other brothers quickly began plotting ways of putting their own spin on the speeches, shortening them, or getting out of speaking all together. While the boys were huddled around the picnic table like a gang of thugs planning a job, the STEP-dad came in behind the two stepbrothers and put a firm grip on both their shoulders. He spoke to brothers about how they should carry themselves while giving their speeches. “Mac” spoke up and said he wasn’t a very good public speaker. The STEP-dad shook his head and told the boys it was their choice to speak or not. But STRONGLY SUGGESTED it was in their best interest to speak. Here is where I should have kept my mouth shut but in the face of great adversity and this SCHMUCK I couldn’t. I jumped in and made a humorous comment to the effect that; if the boys chose not to speak they could find their bags in the hall. Everyone at the table laughed, as for STEP-dad did NOT. A few minutes later, STEP-dad got everyone’s attention to begin T.J.’s graduation party ceremony.

Each of the brothers stood and gave their speeches with the urgency of someone whose hair was on fire. “O-Annie” stepped up and gave a tearful speech about seeing her youngest go on to the next phase in his life. Then it was STEP-dad’s turn, here’s where it gets ugly.

STEP-dad swaggered up to T.J. grasping a book in one hand and patted him firmly on the back with the other. He turned to the crowd, and gave us all a look as if he was a hunter, we were the prey and we had all fallen into his trap.

Now, there are three things I thought in my entire life I thought I would NEVER hear at a high school graduation party, Blood of Christ, Book of Lambs, and Eternal Damnation. But I was about to hear all three in the next few minutes.

STEP-dad started off slowly speaking about T.J.’s accomplishments but without warning slipped into the kind of preaching you would only find in backwoods southern tent revivals! For a good twenty minutes or so STEP-dad stood in front of all of us and told us how we were going to Hell unless we give ourselves to the Lord Jesus Christ! How he was going to heaven, we were not because we were all SINNERS! THEN he got louder and began to scold us for the way we live our lives! At one point I actually looked for fire and brimstone to start falling from the sky. I swear to all of you it took all I had not to walk out and start packing T.J.’s things because I was not about to leave that kid with this Holy Commando Nut Job another minute. But out of respect for my BF, his brothers and the GOOD members of his family I slipped off my glasses and sat quietly. For some reason things don’t seem so bad when you can only hear them. It became increasingly difficult for me to hide my disgust. So much so that T.J. noticed it while STEP-dad was having his baptismal tantrum. Finally STEP-dad wrapped up his little tirade with a prayer, flipped a switch in his thick head and said with a huge grin “Time for cake.” I looked at BF as if to say, “I am NEVER coming back to this house again.” But being the calm gentle soul that he is, he smiled, looked at me and said, “Let’s have cake.”

Soon after everyone finished desert the party began to break up. Various relatives, the BF and I made our way to our cars loaded down with tin pans filled with left over food. On our way out I told T.J. he is more than welcome and stay at our house any time he wants. We agreed he would stay with us this weekend. We made arrangements to meet up with A.J. and the stepbrothers later on that evening to have a few drinks. As we drove away I looked at that cold uninviting house, looked at T. J. waving at us from the driveway and gazed at my BF who was sitting in the passenger seat and I was amazed. I was amazed that despite living with a Baptist Extremist and a compulsive cleaning machine in a place where individuality is left on the doorstep. Something good came out of that house, seven some things to be exact.

As a side note, when the BF and I got home there was a message left on the voice mail. It was my mother. She wanted to know what weekend we were free so that she and a friend could come up to see a drag show.

Chapter 4

Chapter 3

Chapter 2

A Fairy Tale...Chapter 1

Kiss my Patriot Acts!

Come December 31, 2005 sixteen provisions of the Patriot Act are set to expire. Among them are:

Sec. 217: Allows the government to eavesdrop on electronic communications if ONE party agrees, without judicial oversight.

Sec. 220: Allows nationwide search warrants for electronic communications.

Sec. 225: Provides immunity from lawsuits for people cooperating in an intelligence wiretap.

Sec. 215: Allows a special judge to issue an order for "any tangible thing" that is sought in connection to a foreign intelligence investigation.

Just to name a few.

Believe it or not I have read most of the Patriot Act, for reasons I will disclose shortly. And I am here to tell you my countrymen, women, and children; this document has more holes in it than an octopus’s bowling ball. It is the most vague piece of writing since “Waiting for Godot.” Forty-five days after September 11th the U.S Government with this piece of legislature, under the cover of darkness declared marshal law. I mentioned earlier that I had read most of the Patriot Act. A lot of you right now are probably thinking to yourselves, “Why?” Because someone close to me was thrown into jail for forgetting to clean out his backpack.

It was a little over a year ago when one night, while the BF and I were watching TV, when his cell phone rang. I was his mother sounding a little more frantic than usual. It seemed that his younger brother, who was flying home from college in Florida (a Christian college mind you) was arrested at the Atlanta airport. The reason being, an attempted act of terrorism.

You see, the BF’s brother (we’ll call him A.J.) had decided to go camping with a friend from college (once again a CHRISTIAN college) before flying home to upstate New York. When the camping trip had ended, A.J. gathered up the rest of his things from his friend’s house and went off to the airport. A.J. forgot he had left his penknife from camping in his backpack, which would be his carry-on onto the plane.

When they got to the airport A.J. checked in his bags and proceeded to his gate with the backpack. Once he reached the gate a security guard was there to search passenger’s bags. Now remember, A.J. still doesn’t remember he left his 3-inch penknife in the side pocket of his carry-on. A. J. walks up to the guard when it was his turn and handed him the bag. He noticed sitting on the floor next to the guard was a small bucket full of knifes, nail files, mirrors and other objects that could be used as weapons. Just then the guard reaches into the side pocket of the backpack and pulls out A.J.’s knife.

The guard turned very serious and asked A.J. if the knife belonged to him. “Yes” he said. After seeing the bucket he didn’t think twice about the knife. A.J. figured he would chuck the little penknife in the bucket and send young college student on his way north. But that wasn’t the case.

The guard called his supervisor over to the baggage search area and whispered something in his ear. They both looked at A. J. sternly. The supervisor leaned in began giving the third degree (loudly) right there in the middle of the airport. After about 10 minutes of being interrogated, the two guards dragged A.J. away to a back room in the airport. There they began yelling even more and banging their fists on the table in front of A.J. “DID YOU THINK YOU COULD GET AWAY WITH THIS, BOY!?”, the guards shouted over and over. At this point, he wasn’t sure what was going on or what was going to happen to him. But there was one thing for sure A.J. was scared.

After what seemed like an eternity in that room the two guards grabbed A. J. and took him off to a waiting police car in front of the airport. A.J. eyes began to well up with tears. Of all the things to happen, he didn’t expect this. The guards shoved him into the back of the police car and slammed the door. A.J. was being taken to jail for a penknife that he forgot about in his backpack. Once at the Atlanta jailhouse, A.J. was searched, fingerprinted, and told strip down in front of a group of strangers to put on an orange prison jumpsuits.

With his one phone call he called his mother. He was in tears explaining what happened. His mother in turn called the BF to tell him what happened, that’s when he told me. Immediately, I called a friend of mine who worked for the federal government and explained the situation. They took down A.J. information and said they would check back with me if there was anything they could do. But they said with the Patriot Act in place, the police in Atlanta were within their rights to do what they did. It seemed under the Patriot Act A.J. fit the lose description of a terrorist male, early twenties, and a religious affiliation. Apparently, a twenty-year-old boy who is an honor student at southern Christian college is a red flag in the “War on Terror.” A.J. ended up spending the night in the general population of the Atlanta correctional system until his mother could bail him out the next day.

A.J. was released to the custody of his mother but was ordered to appear in court in 2 months. Eventually the charges were dropped and A.J. was cleared. But he’ll never forget that time in Atlanta. A time when the government that he trusted, didn’t trust him and a law that was supposed to protect him didn’t.

Welcome to George W. Bush’s America, A.J.

Do you know anyone like this?

Here’s something you don’t hear every day….

The story I'm about to tell you is, for the most part, true. Well, really only one part of it is true. It seems that none of my family can get or give my any of the facts of this little piece of folklore. But there is one fraction of the tale they can all agree on. When my family moved up here from the back woods of Pennsylvania, they received a free horse with the purchase of their first TV. It was a pony actually, but still, it was free! Here’s come the fiction…

When my family moved up here from a little hollow in the woods called Artemus, Pennsylvania they didn’t have much, mainly because they didn’t start out with much. My grandparents made their way to upstate New York with a few belongings, 6 kids, a car with no brakes, bottle of ‘shine and a dream. Of course the dream at that time was hoping the law wouldn’t catch up to them, that’s another story. You see my Grandpap (Luther) fancied himself a gambler. So did everyone who played cards with him because as soon as he sat down at the table they knew it was only a matter of time before his money was their money. While Grandpap was out drinking and “playing” cards Grandma (Helen) was home with children. But their measly savings began to sink like a rock, Grandma, being the survivor she was went to work. Now Grandma was a tremendous cook! She could make virtually ANYTHING! Soon she landed a job as a cook at the local Country Club. It was hard work but it was good money for the day and being from hillbilly country more than enough to support her family. Living on a farm Grandma knew how to make use of ALL the parts of an animal and make it stretch (ya know what I mean?)

With all the money Grandma was making she decided to put some money aside (more like hide it from Grandpap) and save up for something nice for the family. Now being a modern workingwoman of the 50’s she decided the family needed a television. If only to shut the children up so she could get some peace and quiet.

As I recall my grandmother telling me her version of this story, this was to be their first television. But my mother and aunt claimed they had one before moving up here. Now I have seen Artemus, Pennsylvania, the house they use to live in and the two-seater outhouse to go with it. I’m thinking Grandma plotted those kids in front of a window and told them THAT was television. What did they know? They use to play in manure piles for fun and rode pigs.

Finally the day came when Grandma saved up enough money for the new TV. One bright shining morning before work, she hopped into the car with no brakes and motored off to town to make her purchase. As she rolled into the parking lot she saw the big shiny sign of the appliance store “Herman Bros.” She went into the store and looked around. Granted Grandma didn’t know much about modern conveniences, her washing machine still had a ringer. So she asked a young man behind the counter to help her pick out a television set. He showed her BOTH models they had for sale that day. Grandma chose a 5-foot tall Zenith cabinet TV with a 9-inch black and white screen. It was beautiful! Herman Brother’s was having special on that particular set that day, a free gift and home delivery for only $75. Grandma was so excited she could hardly contain herself. She paid for set, grabbed the receipt, and ran off to the Country Club. She spent the rest of the day with a big grin on her face. She could hardly wait for the children to see what she had bought them. The best part was it was paid for out right, it was theirs and no one could take it away.

Herman Brother’s had said they would deliver the TV and the free gift around 10am the next day. So that morning Grandma lined up the children in the front yard for the big surprise. Grandpap was still sleeping off the “card game” from the night before and would miss the big unveiling. The children began to squeal as they saw a big truck coming down the road, with a cloud of dust behind it and the words “Herman Bros.” emblazoned across the side. The truck got closer and closer until it reached the front of the house and stopped right there in front of Grandma and the children. A burly old man jumped out of the front of the truck walked up to my grandmother to have her sign the manifest. She quickly signed the paper and stepped back to where the children were standing. As the man unlatched the back of the truck the whole began prancing as the man was opening a giant Christmas present. As the door on the back of the truck opened they saw it, the big, bright, shiny new 5-foot tall Zenith cabinet TV with a 9-inch black and white screen. And right behind it was the horse (or pony.)

She couldn’t believe it! The free gift was a HORSE! Now you have to remember this was upstate New York in the 1950’s, most of the area was farm country. In most of those homes a horse was a welcome gift. But my Grandmother was in shock! Not only did she get a free horse with her big, bright, shiny new 5-foot tall Zenith cabinet TV with a 9-inch black and white screen, she signed for it! What was she going to do? What was she going to tell my Grandfather? My Grandmother being a cool cookie under pressure did what any sensible woman would do in her situation. She hid the horse in the cellar.

It took my Grandpap 3 days discover they had a TV in the house and a week to discover the horse. They did have him convinced at one point that it was just a big dog but all it took was for the horse to kick him once and that was that. Grandpap quickly sobered up and found a local farmer to buy the horse. The children were disappointed for a bit but my Grandma explain to them it wasn’t really sensible to have a horse around the house. The children pouted for a while and sobbed as they watched their horse ride away in the back of an old hay wagon. Then they noticed it was 4 o’clock, it was Howdy Doody time and all was right with the world.

RAGING GRANNY!

To be honest folks...I have no idea why I drew this.
But she does look fierce, huh? Huh?
Well, maybe not. Slightly disgruntled?

Just scream.

I did this at work the other night. Sometimes being there is like drowning. You WANT to scream but you can't. I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels this way. Hmmm?

Our thoughts are with you UNITED Kingdom.

Flaming Nerf Ball!

I drew picture above after a former co-worker told me about a game he used to play when he was kid, Flaming Nerf Ball. The game itself is a twisted version of extreme soccer. The object of the game is to kick this blazing sphere of unnatural fibers into the other team’s goal before it goes out. At the time he was amazed how long the ball would stay burning. They could play “Flaming Nerf Ball” for a good half an hour or so before the ball’s flame would even think about dwindling.

While he was telling me this story I was thinking to myself, kids now a day don’t play things like “Flaming Nerf Ball.” The children of today are all about bike helmets, knee pads, round corners, no sharp objects, sharing their feelings and soft sand underneath their fire proof wooden outdoor recreation facility. We played on playgrounds with iron pipe jungle gyms and concrete to break our fall. I believe we are better people for those experiences. Most parents today are raising a generation of pussies! While kids around the world are playing in rumble of a building ripped open by the latest car bomb to be rolled into the street. We here in America have our children going to therapy and self esteem camps. Who do you think is going to have balls enough to take on the world market? The kid who had to endure looting, bombings, oppression, and strife in his small impoverished village. Or the kid who can’t add without a calculator and for some reason breaks down in tears and babbles something about his parents who really never loved him every time he sees a cocker spaniel.