My encounter with Tobacco Control

Handy reference article to read while smoking without the slightest bit of guilt for one’s habit.

Churchmouse Campanologist

Earlier this year I met someone who works for a ‘tobacco addiction group’.

That’s not a group of smokers getting together for high tea, rather the opposite.

This person works in Oxford in an organisation which is part of or affiliated with the Nuffield Department of Primary Care Health Sciences in the Medical Sciences Division.

I asked her why she was working there, and she responded by saying what a strange question that was. She then replied, ‘I want to help people’.

I said that was a strange response, considering how many smokers have been hindered rather than helped by the likes of her and everyone else in Tobacco Control.

Before I get into detail, my British readers will be wondering if this woman has ever met Debs Arnott from ASH. No, she hasn’t but has ‘heard of her’.

This woman really does live in a bubble along with the…

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Repeat Something Enough And Everyone Will Believe It

File this along with the ‘men are bad, women are good’ dogma. Suddenly feeling a craving for a bacon sandwich. Makes the case that hysterics ought to be barred from watching television as it increases one’s chances of developing further hysteria by 20%. LOL

Frank Davis

H/T Jonathan Bagley for the following video of Professor David Spiegelhalter, the next President of the Royal Statistical Society, and a couple of blog posts by him.

It’s a nice little video, making a simple point, and without using any mathematics, all in less than 5 minutes.

And it seems that this bacon-causes-cancer business is a recycled idea, given that Spiegelhalter wrote the following in 2007 (he wrote some more later):

On 31st October 2007 the World Cancer Research Fund (WCRF, a charity/umbrella organisation “supporting research into the role of diet and nutrition in the prevention of cancer”) issued a press release to advertise their comprehensive report on the influences of nutrition and physical activity on cancer, “Food, Nutrition, Physical Activity and the Prevention of Cancer: a Global Perspective”.

As well as the actual report and the press release, the WCRF also released 10 “recommendations for cancer prevention”. The report…

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Beer vs. Martinis

This time of year is my worst/best time. I’m about to have a birthday and that’s not the whole story however. The story is how my birthday hasn’t generally been the happiest of events but rather an opportunity to skewer me and not in the way that I like.

Axel did his level best to rewrite history for me. However, I suppose that four years wasn’t quite enough. The worst part is that he knew this which is why he obliquely refers to it in the letters of reference he wrote for me. (Sorry. These letters are for serious inquiries only.)

Axel told me that “the Han” had had 13 years of me and therefore Axel was committed to giving me at least 13 years to reverse what the Han had done to me.

By the way, by no means do I wish to disparage The Han as a people. This one glorious narcissist asshole had baggage which I can not possibly comprehend, to include The Rape of Nanking, for which, his mother was just barely spared. My sympathy for the downstream effects of the megalomaniacal delusions of my national (and probably some hereditary too) forebears was of no consequence however. He was determined to break me as revenge for what happened to him, which, in a nutshell, brought down a Los Angeles area hospital.

I was under the delusion that my own experiences of abuse meant that we had a commonality of experience which would transcend his bitterness. To make that notion slightly clearer I will say that we both felt that Norton Simon and John Dewey were the enemy, among others.

When the two of us went to the museum in Hong Kong of “The George Washington of China,” I was convinced that not only were our mutual theories correct but that this commonality would transcend his pain such as to finally, actually, start to trust me. I was under the impression that if I were to behave and otherwise demonstrate loyalty that eventually my reward would not only be trust, but well, things like sex, which was nearly completely absent from our marriage not for my lack of trying, would resume.

To be fair, the emergence of yet another player in our drama in the form of a genuinely evil Venezolana witch could not have been anticipated by him. I’ve had this discussion with Axel and other people who I have trusted numerous times and I am still entirely convinced that the two of them—the Han and the witch—were not in cahoots.

The removal of my watch on the streets of Caracas however could well have been orchestrated. Although the event itself was traumatic, I was relieved to be rid of the thing.

Rather, it was my femaleness and blondeness which infuriated both the Han and the witch separately but not collectively. That lack of collusion didn’t stop the Han from taking advantage of my weakened state thanks to her ministrations however. Those ministrations were not “magic” but rather actions below what “civilized” persons are capable of anticipating. I’m not sure what it says about me in that I not only “got” what she was doing well in advance of the Han, but it infuriated him that he hadn’t figured it out first.

To give an example, I had wondered why, upon visiting the property prior to our purchasing it, that there was no significant biting insect problem. I assumed that this was because frogs, birds, toads, and bats had handled the issue. However, shortly upon our arrival, the Han and I were beset by festering insect bites. I therefore, developed my own dual-purpose insect repellent/astringent which kept the issue under control. However, it was I, as usual who discovered what the witch had been doing. It went like this.

I heard the corrugated roof on the abandoned restaurant that we were living in, pending the completion of the house which the Han had been building and designing but never came even close to completing in six years, vibrate.

Suddenly, a whole lot of lizards ran toward a spot where the wall met the roof. It was quite the sight to see. Just then, I saw a black rubber tube insert itself and in came a plague of insects. Not magic at all really.

On another occasion, I happened to smell the “recipe” for attracting and breeding said insects. I’m not going to share it here. Suffice to say, that her single-amputee diabetic son lost his other leg in the process upon which she reportedly allowed him to die of thirst.

In other words, “stooping too low” was not in her lexicon. I truly do not wish to perpetuate her methods by publishing them. They were so beyond what a First-Worlder could ever grasp anyway that they’ll sound like fiction.

The fact that I was even able to anticipate and imagine what they were made the Han afraid of me! I think that I’ve just proven that my own traumatic life experiences had eclipsed his, being that as a member of a privileged class all his life he had been effectively sheltered from the vagaries of war and politics which had shaped his generation, whereas I had not. I therefore knew that there was no such thing as stooping too low.

When we had first met—the Han and I—I had assumed that he was just slumming. I didn’t for a moment expect that he was “serious” about me (“a Hollywood blonde”) until he greeted me at the airport from my return from a technical writing conference, in his Rolls Royce with a diamond and emerald Rolex. I assumed that this gift meant that he was “serious” even if I was a little bit afraid of this thing which was more like a handcuff than a pleasure to wear. But at least I then thought that he was “serious”.

When he asked me to move in with him shortly thereafter, I thought, well, OK, obviously he’s serious. I don’t fully understand him, and there was an 18 year age difference, but, such has never stopped me before (my maximum thus far for a serious relationship is 30), so, OKAY!

I moved in.

It was to be an evening out shortly thereafter, where I was making up my face (I was more into makeup in those days than I am today) and suddenly a vodka Martini appeared, in a beautiful glass, perfectly mixed. I looked up to see this man who was apparently really serious about me toasting me in the manner he had acquired from watching Dean Martin. I just loved Dean Martin.

Wow! I felt so glamorous and “grown up” which is a funny thing for a woman who is already professional successful and 37 years old to feel.

An hour or so earlier the Han had greeted my emergence from his Roman tub with a pearl necklace—no not that kind. However, it was the Martini which had really done it for me because the necklace was just stuff. The Martini however was communion.

I had been a vodka-on-the-rocks-with-olives girl before. The Han converted me to vodka Martinis. I still like them even now. I have also always been a beer girl, the good kind, that has history, depth, and craftsmanship attached to it. In fact, my affinity for beer was part of what inspired us to bank in Germany, particular in November, for the Urbock season. It was, for us, Porcini in Italy in October, White Truffles in Italy in early November, Urbock in Germany for my birthday in November, and other delights like German game, organ meats, wurst, and chestnuts.

However, just to make sure I didn’t enjoy myself too much, the Han would subject me to cat-and-mouse unfulfilled sexual seduction, waking me up in the middle of the night to interrogate me (as always), abandoning me in strange places like truck stops either deliberately maliciously or supposedly “absent-mindedly”, and otherwise making sure that even a vacation from the duality of The Garden of Eden/Depths of Hell which was our farm wasn’t too relaxing.

The reason why we were able to travel at all was because the witch didn’t dare go against the family of the farmhand, while the farmhand bunked at our farm, and so, while we were gone our animals were actually safer than they were while I was there. It was just me who the witch despised. To prove it, I took a couple of vacations alone never once being unfaithful even though in my nearly sexless marriage I could have felt “entitled” to something. I was far too consumed with pain to even consider it. Rather, I merely toured and observed, in my own peculiar way.

This didn’t stop men from approaching me however my sadness cooled their ardor. I remember a particular Frenchman attempting to engage me in conversation. He wanted to know whether I was travelling for business or pleasure, and I said, “neither”. His next guess was, “a funeral?” and I said, “yes, something like that.”

The next thing he said still haunts me. It was this:

“I think that you are older than me, yes? I think also that what you need is a rich man.”

I didn’t respond except to think to myself: ‘Yeah. Right. How does that compute? I can’t possibly afford another rich man.’ I was wondering at the time whether the Han would even pay my bills with my money when I returned or whether the plan was to not just abandon me but abandon me in debt as all the credit cards were in my name. It kind of put a damper on my tourism. However, this particular trip was necessary for the “set up” which was to occur later, such as to trick a banker into believing that I had consented to a particular transaction. I’m not going to reveal the con game here.

On the plus side, I discovered that French television had a host of exotic porn offerings after hours in my hotel, with my personal favorite genre being the Eastern European versions.

I also did a fair share of eating and drinking as usual, taking advantage of my own peculiar karma of stumbling on fantastic farmer’s markets throughout the world but especially Europe. I just love fine dairy products, cured meats, pickles, and wine. Engaging with someone who is either the producer or closely related to that producer makes the experience extra special for me.

Whereas Venezuela had a host of decent vodka offerings available, both imported and domestic, as well as olives and vermouth, good rich beer was not available in my experience. Therefore, upon my escape, one of the things I craved as compensation for the loss of all the creatures I loved, my life as I knew it, and my dreams, was good craft Pennsylvania and New York beer.

I probably overdid it a bit. Taking up smoking cigars helped this habit from getting too far out of hand because they do still serve as a fine distraction from other oral fixations.

Moving to Southwest Florida and watching the love of my life suffer and die (as did most of my animals in Venezuela) has strangely gotten me back to being more of a Martini person albeit I still do enjoy a good beer once in a while. In fact, Florida has some excellent microbrews. However, unlike beer, a Martini doesn’t “bloat” me and I want to appear more slim and appealing.

I wonder if I were corseted would I be able to enjoy beer without bloating? I’d like to find out. Meanwhile, I drink my Martinis and watch my waistline magically reappear while I weep for the wondrous vacations from horror and tragedy the Han and I enjoyed as my way of compensating for the loss of the love of my life who wanted nothing more than to help me transcend and move on past my PTSD.

I’m trying Axel. I’m trying. It’s just difficult when I am so defined by my pain.

The Solution!

Thanks tofor telling it like it is:

The reality is that Western civilization is unique among the great civilizations of the world in that it was founded upon dissent rather than consensus, that it alone fostered the idea of individual liberty, and that it rose above all others because of this. And so the egalitarian collectivists whose dissent was permitted because of such principles hated it for this, and strove to tear it down, not for its sins, which were replicated on some scale by all other civilizations, but for its virtues, which were antithetical to their loathsome principles. For the last half century the West and all it stands for has been under attack from a relentless propaganda campaign designed to shame it out of existence. It is high time to shrug off white guilt and make not just America, but the entire West great again.

Reproduced with permission.

Here’s how we take back our countries.

Manly he-men need to start fabricating kissing booths right now, to be placed in all heavy pedestrian traffic areas for all future elections, to include primaries, in all Western States in danger of Cultural Marxist and “Refugee” infestation. Make them pretty, with flowers, and pretty colors. These booths need to radiate approachability.

Here is the signage:

Kissing Booth (Ladies only!)

Price List:

Regular Chaste Kiss: Donation $10

Special Passionate Kiss: Donation $20

Deluxe Passionate Kiss, with Dip:
Your original, unmarked, absentee ballot
(must show ID!)

We’ll need a few female volunteers milling about swooning, wiping the men’s sweaty brows, offering them sandwiches, cookies, lemonade, showing customers how it’s done, etc. The parties ought to be dressed up sort of like this:

Yes! Yes! Yes!

Bring in the crowd by having handsome men patrolling the perimeter, talking up all the bitter and ugly ladies, telling them that it’s OK, that here’s her chance to do the right thing, etc. Hand them flowers. Get down on one knee. Ham it up. Be sure to get everyone on video.

Have big strong females standing by, observing the action, in case any prospective customers go batshit postal. If there’s guff, offer them a hankie for their ‘Proud Strong Female Tears.’ Whatever it takes.

To the side, have volunteers at tables “helping” absentee ballot donors complete their ballots properly, sealing envelopes, and making regular deliveries to a mailbox. When the ballot is delivered to the mailbox, and only then, the lady can have a kiss.

After the kiss, present her with a “Free Deluxe Kiss. Bring back one of your lady friends and if she donates, your next kiss is free!” coupon.

Meanwhile, married and attached men can start setting the terms now with their female significant others in terms of what to do with that absentee ballot when it arrives in the mail. Hint: You get to complete it for her.

This is how it’s done.

Bodice Ripper Politics!

If anyone can recommend a germ-resistant chap stick for these heroes of our various Republics, Monarchies, et al, please step up.

Why Do Wealthy Wives Leave?

Under the assumption that what every woman wants is to be tightly bound in love to a man she admires, while dripping in “security,” why do so many of them leave?

A consistent refrain among men with whom I have been meeting, for quiet discussions so far, nothing settled, has been their despair with regard to women who “could have had it all” and left, with a chunk of money, assets, and even fracturing whatever tree of honor and loyalty may have comprised the man’s wealth in the first place.

I also get offers to engage in casual play assuming that such would “center” or balance me in some way. Thanks. I can hook myself up and not have to shower or inspect myself for lice afterwards particularly not by a creepy man and his creepy women who want to WUV me with swarminess or “play”. I want it all or nothing and by “all” I’ll even offer one-sided exclusivity if that’s what he wants only that he doesn’t hold back, because this is life or death, boys. Oh boys. Who the Hell thinks I want a boy after what I’ve been through?

“Let’s play.”

What? Jacks? Tiddlywinks?

What I want I will ask for, beg for, but only if I find you worthy. Asking me for the job just gets you fired on the spot. Clear enough?

Any “seductive” or “feminine” behavior is also a complete no-go. For example (in a sing-songy voice):

“I think I know what you want. Wanna play?”

No you don’t. Fuck you. No. Not that way. Here’s a parting gift for you. A trophy! Yay! Be sure to tip the hat check girl on your way out.

“Do you want someone to talk to? How about I hold your hand and stroke you softly while gazing at you with big puppy dog eyes?”

No. Beat it. Scram. Watch out for the foot. Oops. Sorry was that your sad little waggy tail?

I’m also continuously told how “intelligent” I am which I have to wonder whether this is what all men tell all women who they want to see stripped naked, spread-eagled, bent over, etc., not that I’m adverse to such a scenario; however, here’s a tip guys: I don’t care to hear about your problems. The mommy-who-wants-to-wipe-your-tears door is down the hall to the left. I want to be unzipped, broken, and shredded into pieces—literally or psychologically—your choice. Let’s negotiate the How so that I can see that you will survive the process, because I cannot bear for another love of mine to not survive. I can negotiate whatever it is that you would like from me in exchange for the service of breaking me. Try me. Generally however it takes at least three meetings, which may seriously impact your schedule, so, if you don’t have time for me or are afraid to have me come drive to meet you, then, next? Have a nice day. No fucking giggles during any of those meetings otherwise I’ll assume that you’re already psychotic and can’t finish what you start. See ya! Wouldn’t want ta be ya!

Get used to it: It is impossible to fully connect with me in one or two dimensions, i.e., email, Skype, chat, carrier pidgeon, etc. It takes years to fully figure out that I am 100% truthful to the best of my ability (gaslighting does throw a monkey wrench in the process and I apologize but you can help me with that, really, with your guidance and authority not your fucking rationality.) I have physical evidence. Come take a look at my world, go through my stuff, or let me do a little “Show and Tell” for you. It’s all true. This blog has a few tiny warps in the truth only to protect the innocent. The whole truth is available only in person and only if I think you can handle it. By that I mean that in no way do I wish for my madness to be contagious.

Or like this guy says:

I make my terms for meeting pretty darned clear and refuse to engage in play-acting submission either rhetorically or—heavens no—”cam”. Tentative tentacles in my direction without even the slightest bit of consideration for my terms makes me want to take a shower under a firehose followed by a nice sandblast for good measure. Ick.

We meet we talk we touch; we meet we talk we touch; repeat as necessary until terms for the first scene are negotiated. Easy peasy. And you guys are supposed to be better at business than we are? Sheesh.

It is not as if I am going to be explicit as to my terms in writing nor would I expect his to be–on the internet! Do I want either of us to get into trouble with the authorities? No. Do I want to find myself in a padded cell or dismembered at the bottom of a ditch? No. Do I want another damaged human being in my wake (entirely unintentionally I might add and you can ask my living priors if you like about that, I have no secrets)? No! Think of this as championship boxing, with no referee (only a safeword or safesignal) and I don’t physically resist because if I did someone could get hurt, unintentionally. Let’s see where this goes. You want to go ask your Mommy if that’s OK?

Afterwards, if it goes well, then I’m going to want it regularly, and will do whatever I have to do to earn that service from you.

In the best case scenario, such would result in me being tightly bound to the man who I love who loves me. Heck, I’m willing to just be tightly bound and he can make a judgement as to his love for me down the line. How about if you’re so intelligent, and I’m so intelligent, we negotiate a way to make a no-escape clause for me? Who better than us to come up with such a device?

If such would occur, I would want some easily distributable declaration of that love (ideally recorded on tape, written and signed, and even notarized would be nice, and I’m not referring to the will or “stuff” or any of the things that women think is Love or a video of some ceremony, etc. I’m going to need regular renewed vows on demand, how about that? Ditto from me, as you like it) such that in the event such a man were to die but somehow my own exit plan were to go awry, the creepy scavenger females which probably surround him won’t be able to get anything but money from me. I walk/talk/write/breathe that I want Love, and that’s what I’m going to take with me, and no amount of manipulative, soft, delicate, “Love” from a woman is going to make me just throw all that away and say to her, “No. You’re right. He didn’t Love me but you do (you manipulative bitch.)”

I think that there’s a whole lot of wisdom to just leaping upon the funeral pyre of the man one loves. I wish that there was a way for me to have done that without strong men or women physically barring my way. Would I have done that? I don’t know. Probably not. Because manipulative women made Axel’s life a living Hell in the end and he took some of that Hell out on me such that for a moment there I was forced to doubt his love for me. However, thanks to the letters, the tape, my memories, and witnesses, I know what utter scum those women are. All of them. I know just how much he loved me. Nothing can take that away.

Traditional marriage vows say, Love, Honor, and Obey. In the end, when Axel descended into madness, I was unable to Obey. That’s because I would rather die than have yet another piece of flesh ripped from my body but to survive the ordeal. I didn’t believe that he had it in me to finish the job. If there is nothing left of me that a man wants, please, let me go. I’m ready. I’ve lived the life of twelve women, at least. Probably more like 50.

If I am of no use then fine, please, toss me in the incinerator. I don’t want to go through this again. If you don’t want to leave me anything in your will, that’s fine too, please put in a hidden rider somewhere that allows your best buddy to off me in good conscience, or leave me a cyanide pill. Don’t fucking trust my fate to the God who you don’t believe in. Consider my future crimes, in your eyes, to be a capital offence. I’m ready to meet my heavenly judge. My conscience is clear. God made me with a faulty compass but God can set it right if Man cannot. True North is to God. South is into the Earth which is also to God. To the Left is to God but darker. To the Right is to God but lighter. But if you don’t know which way is North and which way is South how would you know right from wrong, sucker? All we can do is our best through systematic point plotting. It’s known as Trigonometry. Eventually, with enough intersecting planes, we’ll get a pretty good idea of it, even if we have to smash up a few planes within that prism once in a while. Here. You can have my mallet.

Why on earth would a wealthy man even want an “intelligent” woman? How on earth is he going to trust her? Of course, a “stupid” woman, easily led by other manipulative women (and men who act like them) is no bargain either.

I think an awful lot is the difference between rational thinking ones and intuitive ones. I’m a whole lot of both, with my rationality unfortunately taking a beating in Venezuela. What kills me is how many of these guys want to convince me that there is no God and therefore I should strive for peak longevity. Doing what? Trying to be God? Huh. That explains a whole lot.

The obsession with life-extension has completely overwhelmed Love in these men, is how I see it. No wonder their women left them and went mad. The purpose of a woman is to…

Knock out my teeth, cut off my finger tips, and make me into your beach ball, but don’t fucking play with me. This is serious. This is not a game. Oh, and by the way, GOD is LOVE.

You idiots would rather that all women just Obey the Government, Honor You, while you be God. What kind of an authority on anything does that make you?

If I have to I can find my own way to God without your help. My compass is in better working order than yours even without grounding and positivity. I’ll just spin Left and Down my way to God.

Come on Mr. Milankovitch. East is Up.

[[Lighting up.]]

Carlita the Ragdoll

Carlita was the name of a beautiful Himalayan Persian Siamese mix known as a “Ragdoll”.

She chose me by leaping upon my uncovered shoulders while I was walking about Griffith Park. This was our second encounter about a month apart. However, the first encounter made such a strong impression upon me that I kept my eyes peeled for her. She was so soft and affectionate but not in a swarmy or annoying way, but rather as delicate as the finest silk, she breezed around me like a wind. However, I noticed that her fur to either side of her feathery tail was matted. Not having any experience with puppies at the time, I didn’t recognize the significance of this matting. Rather, I was distressed that anyone in this lofty neighborhood would be so inattentive. Given that it was a supposed hotbed of intellectualism, liberalism, and non-pretension, this careless lack of care of such a beautiful animal, made my skin scrawl.

I mentioned her existence to the Han to whom I was married. He took to accompanying me on my walks after that.

I have done a lot of walking in my life. I think that one of the reasons that I married this Han was because not only did he want to but he was bowlegged and therefore had a very fast walk.

Poor Axel could barely walk without agony however, his heart, head, and chest were made of legends, even with two dislocatable shoulders (as did my friend who married the sour pumpkin).

Carlita’s claws were intense however I stood the pain well enough. My major concern was that this valuable cat probably belonged to someone therefore, I wanted some sense of certainty that she wanted to be rescued.

The Han agreed to carry her on his shoulders and engaged in some Jeet Kun Do such that Carlita was repeatedly encouraged to dismount should that be her decision. This was just one of the many moments that reassured me that the psychopath who I married did indeed have character and we were suited for each other. If a Nemesis could be called “suited” then I guess that we were.

We brought her into the Dragon’s Lair, down the Fibonacci stairs, and into the woody bathroom where I had been forced to recover from my second genital injury so severe that the steam had destroyed the television which had been my only diversion. Fortunately, this particular injury had not required stitches. Merely a week in a tub with salts of my own design, which resulted in a complete recovery and then some, sufficed.

For this cat, I filled the room with soothing smoke then grasped her about the waist firmly while the Han cut away the matted fur. She wasn’t happy about this but submitted to it, with the saddest yowling.

Afterward she rolled about on the thick plush silk runner, and then jumped on the Han’s head and licked it.

The next time Carlita leaped upon a shoulder it was his, and he rebuked her. However, when I walked to see what was the matter, calling her name (she would always answer me when I called her even when I was forced to abandon her for a month at La Posada, which reinforced the legend of Altamira de Cáceres that I was La Bruja Del Norte y mientras La Bruja Del Oeste intenta a matarla nueve veces), I saw the fire, at two O-Clock, at another redwood house in the eucalyptus. The son of a different technical writer and doctor combination had had a kitchen mishap. That was to be one of two kitchen fires to occur on our street during our residence there, ignited by young men without maternal supervision.  Carlita kept a watchful eye out for cataclysmic events of all sorts, adored leche de cabra, but could not abide their proximity.

Much later, Carlita was La Reína de los Catorce Lobos.

Carlita was also La Reína de los Pollos, never attacked them, but had to be dissuaded from lizards in favor of mice by a song. She also loved my diamond ring and watch. A Roomba prototype also amused her. A paper ball on a string was also a delight.

When I was forced to leave Venezuela and cut off our psychic connection, I yowled. Fortunately, Owls, Turtles, Spiders, Lizards, Raptors, Parrots, and Coyotes continue to comfort me while the plague of cardinals and crickets both seem to have abated. Toads have also renewed their interest in me, tentatively. I miss the Kingfishers and my own waterfowl. Turkeys still figure prominently but I suspect that something like a peacock will be making an appearance soon.

Cats, on the other hand, don’t move me. Carlita can’t be budged from my psychic Cataclysm.

For what it’s worth, the Han’s sister, before she died (probably murder) was friends with the sister of the father of the Crow. One of my rivals for the heart of The Nisei was a prop-mistress with a license to handle firearms. The father of the Nisei was a No No, not to be confused with The Nomo for whom a sushi roll was named, and then adopted for my dietary restrictions by the same restaurant which invented it, as a favor to The Nisei.

His father, the No No, was probably interned at Lake Mono.

Axel didn’t care much for crows because they tormented his favorite type of raptor. This one:


Ruby Ruby Ruby

Kill Kind

Milk Honey Sesame Seed

Bursting Draining Bitching

Sharp Teeth

Choked with a plug of wood

The Paralyze Tree


Mocha’s Great Big Tounge Licking my Face Clean in the Dark Room

The Hoist

Ruby broken into pieces

I’m so sorry

All I had were emeralds

The red and white polka dotted dress was still trapped in the Dragon’s Lair

The tide finally went out all the way

I hope that you made it to Portugal

The cocktail was filled with the dead

We could not sail with her

She was still in Spain





I was surprised I found El Caballo y El Caballero

He flies on Sal

I am still trapped in the Bay of Musketeers. Or maybe it’s the Salt Marsh.

La Rochelle/La Roche/El Moro

Who will throw the first stone?

I was trying to create something beautiful

A spell in Costa Rica

Carlos Del Ray

Folded paper filled with pork

The witch cackled

The trees wept

Rolled away lost

I open my hands

Nothing to hold nothing to lose

It worked! I cannot remember her name

Please take it all

I don’t want another thing

Suck it all out

Set me free

Cooking with gas

Pressure Building

I wonder if the Octagons at Fort Ross release Gualala?