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Wild Hares and Whimsy

There are no synonyms. Thus a Fable is not merely some species of the Fiction genus but its own unique being. A Fabulous Modern Fiction. And this is what a Post-Modern Fabulists should strive to evoke: That Aesopian quality of magic-in-reality where the strange and naked truths slip in from the edges of perception and rattle the reader into an altered state of consciousness, where they look at the world in a slightly different way then before, becoming aware of the subtle interaction between the tangible and intangible aspects of the Universe.

Many people toss about the phrase �Post-Modern� with impunity. So much so that it becomes widely regarded as a catch-all for that which is arcane, inscrutable or just plain weird. But here, I use the phrase to denote a relationship.

Technically, the Moderns wrote between the Wars, which means that the Post-Moderns were, by the easiest definition, those who didn�t get around to penning their poetry and novels and plays until after the war. I take as the beginning of the Modern Period the first production of Alfred Jarry�s Ubu Roi , on Dec. 10, 1896 and the end as July 1947, the first official sighting of a flying saucer, which put us in a different world altogether. So on the one hand, all literature and art in general made after the Modern Period (1896-1947) can be considered post-Modern. But this is simply a parenthetical convenience. Literary styles do not evolve with Darwinian regularity. They are fraught with mutation and improvisation.

Post-Modernism as an active relationship in art and literature seeks to do the same job as Alfred Jarry�s �Pataphysics, which, ��will be, above all, the science of the particular, despite the common opinion that the only science is that of the general. Pataphysics will examine the laws governing exceptions, and will explain the universe supplementary to this one� Pataphysics is the science of imaginary solutions��

Simply replace science with art and/or literature and we have a working definition of Post-Modernity. That I use Jarry as both the beginning of the Modern Age and a defining voice for Post-Modernism only underscores the chimerical quality of such literary conventions as schools and periods.

�The Universe Supplementary to this one,� is our own imagination, brought to life by the Fable. There may even come a time in the near future, as we move towards living in the time of Buck Rogers , when the Fable is more realistic then traditional Mimetic Realism. We already live in a world where computers and robots have become so common place we hardly notice them and where clones walk among us, at least in the in barn yards but no doubt, soon enough in the streets. If any age could bare the title of the Age of Imaginary Solutions, it is this one. Quite soon the gray area that separates that which is perceived as real from that which is perceived as imaginary will become so narrow as to make distinctions meaningless. Then we�ll all have literary jet packs and ray guns, which we use to fend of Monsters from the Id .

For all those who gnash their teeth and wail about the implicit Order of Universe and how they don�t like those weirdo stories because they aren�t Realistic, two things should be kept in mind:

1) The Orderly Universe exists only in our minds, illustrated by nothing but the devices we create in order to see the order we imagine and hope for; something said about our perception of the world rather then the world itself. And:

2) That �Realism� is a relatively new term, applied only in the last two centuries. Previously, all art and literature contained some aspect of the fabulous and not just the Classical Myths that form the foundation for our concept of Literature but also that dubious collection of fables most often mistaken for mimetic realism, The Bible .

Semantic arguments aside, those of us who reside in the Existential World must make do with language in order to shape and comprehend, as best we can, the context of our lives. For example, see Aesop�s most famous Fable, the Tortoise and the Hare. This fable is told to every child, implicitly underscoring the capitalist work ethic. I suppose the adults who teach this solemn lesson are under the presumption that children will identify with the slow and steady pace of the tortoise. Aesop certainly was. Never mind that kids love rabbits because they are fast and lazy and free. But the adults have on their side the italicized moral, laid bare before them at the bottom the page.

In Post-Modern Fables no such moral is forthcoming, at least overtly. No writer in his or her right mind would produce a novel in which the last line states the theme and subject so bluntly. Try to imagine Catcher in the Rye with the last line; thus, the inconsolable achieves nothing worthwhile. It sort of ruins the dramatic effect. But give Aesop credit, he was a teacher first. Besides, two thousand and a couple hundred years ago, audiences weren�t quite as savvy as they are to day. If you can imagine it, they were even less literate.

But here in the 21st century, we have both the literate minds and savvy intellects to reread the Tortoise and the Hare and choose which character to exemplify. If you�re in favor of the One World Economy and the Imperialist Monoculture of our Western Corporations, then the Tortoise is your herald, your sword bearer; your banner-waving hero. On the other hand, perhaps the expressionistic, bohemian rabbit is more to your liking, running circles around the plodding bureaucrat, dancing a salsa rhythm and shouting minority slogans in Spanglish. Before you choose, keep in mind, for better or worse the tortoise always wins.

This is also the major criticism of Post-Modern Art in general, that it leaves us floating in the stormy seas of uncertainty with a broken compass and a drunken captain. This is merely a manifestation of the fear that more and more people have today: that there are a growing number of individuals (mostly our children) who refuse to abase themselves before the idol of Law and Order. This fear that the status quo will crumble and plunge the world into chaos is a primal fear, right up there with starvation, premature burial and taxes and is a result of six thousand years of domestication under the tutelage of mentally constipated priest-kings. We�ve all been initiated into the secret desires of priests. As for divining the intent of kings everywhere we need not go back to historical sources, but simply turn on the nightly news and wait to see what excuses our President has tonight for bombing and pillaging.

That the fear of the failure of the status quo is an ancient fear in the human landscape should come as no surprise. But its recent appearance on the psychological radar screen of the masses is a result of several forces, the least of which is global terrorism. This new sense of evolutionary awareness can be attributed to the exponential growth of Information and its unlimited, constant availability.

We simply are no longer as provincial as Aesop and his audience because we are smarter. We are smarter because we have at our disposal more hard facts about the world around us and how it tends to function.

This sounds like a baseless assertion, I admit but it is a verifiable claim. All you have to do is take a stock count of hard, verifiable knowledge about the world. Keep in mind also, that I refer only to practical knowledge, like how to build an affordable, well-insulated house or an atom bomb as opposed to wisdom, which is personal, unverifiable and pertains only to why we should build one and not the other.

Personally, I feel that understanding this phenomenon is a lot more fruitful then running in fear and claiming the end of the world is coming just because you read it in the Left Behind series. One way to understand one another and communicate complex ideas is by poetry and metaphor. By Fable.

Contemporary examples of Fabulous Literature exist in abundance but mostly they slip bellow the radar of popular audiences, do the fact that they were not written by Stephen King. Some of these Post-Modern Fables may have been encountered on high school reading lists, such as John Gardner�s Grendal (a retelling of Beowulf from the monster�s perspective), Ray Bradbury�s classics Fahrenheit 451 and the Martian Chronicles, Sidhartha and Steppenwolf by Herman Hesse, various examples of the Hispanic school of Magical Realism such as Laura Esquivel�s Like Water for Chocolate or any of the works of Gabriel Garcia-Marquez. There are a number of others that have slipped into obscurity either because their subject matter is too spicy, the author ran with politically incorrect crowds or because the author�s ethnic last name was too hard to pronounce. Some little-known masterworks include The Hearing Trumpet by the Surrealist painter and writer, Leonora Carrington, as well as the works of Italo Calvino and Jorge Luis-Borges , just to name some of my favorites.

All of these and dozens more exhibit the Fabulist qualities of Poetic Concision and Sublime Magic.

The first of these qualities, Poetic Concision, is key to the Fable form. Images speak volumes while standing slender in the corner, quiet. Most of the Contemporary Fables listed above are 200 pages or less. Borges never wrote anything longer then a short story. And the reason is simple: anything more would be overkill. We do not need all the details about the child born with cloven hooves instead of feet. His presence is evocative enough. To explain such a reality with to much detail, especially in the form of pseudoscientific explanations for the genetic abnormality would ruin the dreamlike quality and spoil the point of the metaphor, which is that rational thought cannot contain the squirming, teaming verities of reality nor can it justify the alien forms of life that can be imagined and encountered. Like the elephant that walks through the room and is promptly ignored by all; this one idea says more about the human condition then all the works of Freud in volume.

Aesop never told a Fable that couldn�t fit on one page. More because he had to remember all of them as he lived in a culture with a strong oral tradition. And it is this lingering ghost of the oral tradition that is the parent of the Post-Modern Fable and also the reason for the persistence of the non-mimetic second quality.

Many Fabulous authors draw expressly on their ethnic folklore, which gives their work that implicit, magical quality. The rest just never learned to suppress their imagination. Ethnic literature and art; or more precisely, art that does not originate within the context of anglo-Saxon mythology and customs is typically non-Aristotelian in form and Pagan in flavor simply because no African or South American or Japanese or Native American or Indian story teller ever read Aristotle or the Bible, at least not until forced to by the Imperialists who followed the Missionaries around, trying to civilize everyone who looked at the world differently then they did. An aborigine does not know that he would be banned from Utopia simply because he does not color inside the lines. Ray Bradbury simply doesn�t care that he would be banned as well, he�s too busy having a blast, day dreaming

This quality of sublime ethnic magic seems to linger on, even after the advent of Secular Humanism and no amount of education can or should attempt to remove it. Oddly enough, in most countries that were once colonies of the Catholic Church, the ethnic symbolism has been reinforced, more so to win converts to the Vatican�s own jumble shop of Fables then for any practical purpose which just goes to show that organized religion isn�t all bad; the promotion of genocide, ignorance and overall fear of the unknown aside.

Dostoevsky once noted that Fairy Tales and Science Fiction stories are more dangerous then any political tract. And he was right. Where the Rights of Man spells out every Democratic Desire in purple prose, where every Vile Monarchist knows where to find it, the Fable merely hints. It lays truths between the lines, like a secret code, passed between co-conspirators under the watchful eye of the enemy censor.

In The Hearing Trumpet, a coven of little old ladies, with the help of a pack of wolves, a nest of bees and a freelance mailman named Taliesin, steel the Holy Grail from the descendants of the Crusaders and return it to the Goddess from whence the Christians stole it in the first place. While illuminating the pagan roots of the Christian Mythology, Leonora Carrington also admonishes the church for its historically cruel treatment of women, especially the elderly variety, as second class citizens. Compare this to Sinead O�Connor ripping up a picture of the Pope on Saturday Night Live. While more people witnessed the latter, Carrington�s book is still available with no admonishments or bans from the Left or Right. Meanwhile Sinead O�Conner was denounced lividly for weeks after the fact by nearly everyone and is to this day unwelcome South of the Mason-Dixon line or anywhere in the world where live those who think spirituality is inseparable from religion. Also Carrington manages to get her point across in 200 pages and fourteen illustrations. In contrast, the collected works of Stephen King, which run some plus or minus 600 million pages can barely manage to say anything meaningful or even coherent about society, life, death, the fear of one�s own mortality or anything at all. But hay, at least he answers all those pesky questions and leaves no room for personal interpretation, lest any of his fans be encouraged to think for themselves.

Perhaps it is this combination of Poetic Concision, and Sublime Magic that keeps Post-Modern Fables off the bestseller lists. That and the add agencies who just aren�t imaginative enough to sell Forbidden Fruit to Ma Kent. And Ma Kent, who doesn�t like mangoes or enlightenment because neither matches her sofa. And the Big Six Publishers with its seven circles of agents and editors all scratching each others backs to get a piece of the next John Grisham clone. As agent Michael Larsen wrote in a form letter to me once, �We can only make a living by selling books to large publishers.� Implying that Big Publishers only want front list authors. Worse then that, this money grubbing tells the next Bradbury, Esquivel, Hess and other mid-list authors, previously the bread and butter of the publishing business, to buzz off. �You have no home with the large houses,� bellows Corporate Moses from the mountaintop. �Nay, ye must toil in obscurity until you have the good sense to get in line and write a nice big thick-headed thriller.� (Counting the wad of cash he keeps stuffed in his beard, like locusts). �Maybe something with a plucky lawyer and his illegitimate daughter�s heartwarming attempt to come to terms with modern womanhood.�

As if sensing this trend subliminally, most would-be popular authors are unwilling to jeopardize their own status or sales with wild hares and whimsy. More�s the pity. Because literature will continue to suffer so long as the Fabulous is ignored in favor of pipsqueak voices whispering bland aphorisms and polite nods to the status quo. And what with the Grand Poobah�s over in the Bureau of Fatherland Security threatening a Police State to Rival the fearful daydreams of such egregious mid-listers as Orwell and Kafka , nothing is more valuable to our current culture then a writer who is willing to speak above a whisper.

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A Dish perfect for the Passover/ Easter Holiday: Cabraita

The thing about goat meat is it has to be prepared just right. Like all things worth the time and effort, it must be done with care, as there is nothing worse then poorly prepared Cabraita.

Fist, you twist the head off the goat. This is not so easy as it sounds, mostly because a goat�s head isn�t just screwed on. A goat is not a jar of pickles. No matter how you look at it. To break the goat�s neck quickly, straddle the goat, holding its shoulders with your knees. Take the right horn in your left hand, the left horn in your right. And� twist! If you twist with enough force you will hear a satisfying snapping sound, like dry twigs in a fire. If not, run quickly and jump the fence because you�ll have one pissed off goat.

Butchering a goat is very similar to butchering any livestock of medium size. The best way to cook goat meat is to broil it in a large pan, still on the bone with rosemary and basil, fresh from the garden, preferably. This usually takes a good two hours at least, at four hundred fifty degrees (Fahrenheit). After the meat is broiled it should be tender enough to pull off the bone like barbecued pork. Serve topped with cheese (mozzarella or some other queso blanco) on flour tortillas with pica de gallo both of which can easily be made while the goat is in the oven.

Tortillas are just flour, vegetable shortening and water mixed together, rolled flat and then heated on a griddle (cast iron preferably).

Pico is made with cilantro, onions, tomatoes and jalape�o peppers, minced together with a dash of lemon juice. A good Pico, like a good painting should follow the rules of color theory: it should be well balanced� your red (tomatoes) should never outdo your greens (jalape�o�s, cilantro) while your white (onion) should add a zesty dash and nothing more.

Goat tacos are best served fresh out of the oven, with sweet corn on the cob, refried beans and Mexican or Southwest rice on the side.

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Journal entry: 4-27-03

For the last few weeks I’ve been trying to get my new novel started. This usually involves a lot of looking through Google under various search topics related to the themes and ideas that I have scribbled down. The basic premis for this new book originally came to me way back in my freshmen year at the Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD).

It was fall and little did I know that I was alergic to artist’s pastells which is what we were using in my Life Drawing class, almost exclusively. So I had a sinus infection and went to the doctor, who prescribed hefty doses of antibiotics. So after a day spent walking aorund (Savannah in the fall is still quite warm) I was sitting in my dorm room doodling, blissed out on antibiotics. That’s where I first drew the All-Seeing Cheese, a wedge of swiss with an eyeball in the center, after the Great Masonic seal on the Dollar Bill. This strange bit of surrealism sparked an idea, involving a chef who dabbled in the esoteric, his daughter who reluctantly went along and a pair of giant lobsters who were the eternal guardians of the mystic cheese wedge. Did I mention I was on medication?

This became the basis for my most well received plot in my Comic Book Plotting Class (yes I have a degree in comic books., thank you). Later I wrote an 8 page script and then in my senior year, for my advanced Scriptwritting class, expanded the story to 32 pages.

Years passed. Four years, actually durring which time I wrote “the Tragic Circus” (for an excerpt, see bellow). But the story about the Chef’s daughter and her adventures in the esoteric had been bubbling away in the back of my mind since then and I decided I would tweek the plot and make it my next project. The All-Seeing Cheese, as fun as it was for a comic book, didn’t translate well into novel format. So it became an enchanted spice rack. OK, but not great… I’ve spent the last two monthes generating some raw material, about 25 pages of scenes and diologue, character sketches, etc. But I still had a few too many loose ends to make it work. All the characters were there, I just didn’t have anything for them to do. Then, one day while perusing Neil Gaiman’s site (neilgaiman.com) He happened to mention an article from March 16 about a talking fish. And there it was, the idea for my book. It fit perfectly, like finding that last puzzle piece under the sofa.

After two weeks of solid writing and reworking some of that rough material, I’m up to chapter six. The Chef’s daugther, Salome, has met the Talking Fish (a trout, so as not to be confused with Gunter Grass’s talking Flounder). So far she’s being wooed by an amorous Rabbi, has the hots for a bookish boy named Jonah who speaks only in open ended questions and I think one of her fellow waitresses at her Father’s restaurant is a lesbian and has a crush on her. She’s being very coy about it though.

And this is the fun part of writing: not knowing what will happen next. I mean, obviously I have an idea but the characters decide for themselves, sometimes making decisions that startle even me. Here I thought I was writing this story, that it was mine. Then Rabbi Cohen invites Salome over to the synagogue for sandwich’s, which I hadn’t counted on but ended up being a good way for me to sneek in some mythological exposition about Leviathan and talking fish. And it only took me eight years to do it.

For a good acount of the talking fish story, go here

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It’s really hard to know where to start. I have a lot of things I’d like to do with this site, including posting reviews of new books (by “new” I mean whatever I’m reading at the moment) sample chapters from my novel, “The Tragic Circus” as well as just a general account of my life as an unknown writer trying to become a published author. I want to do an informal book of the month recomendation as well as just ramble on about my theroies (all of them crackpot) concerning literature and the contemporary state of publishing and writing. So where do I start? Obviusly I’m handicapped for now with my own technical knowldege, or lack thereof so I suppose I should follow Rule #1 of writing: keep it simple.

To this effect, Im going to start with Chapter 1 of “The Tragic Circus.”

Ideally, I will have a comments section soon. But that really isn’t necesary until someone other then me is reading this so one thing at a time. If you do happen to stumble upon this blog, then welcome. Any comments, sugestions, etc, send to me at kkisser@hotmail.com.

The Tragic Circus
By
Keith Kisser

It is our expression that the flux between that which isn�t and that which won�t be, or the state that is commonly and absurdly called existence, is a rhythm of heavens and hells: that the damned won�t stay damned; that salvation only precedes perdition. The inference is that some day our accursed tatterdemalions will be sleek angels. Then the sub-inference is that some later day, back they�ll go whence they came.

�Charles Fort, Book of the Damned

-1-

Simon Said descends the staircase into the parlor, a scarf of some dubious tartan thrown around his neck; otherwise he is dressed quite dapper in pinstripe pants, scuffed wingtips and a red vest embroidered with gold Chinese dragons, which he wears over a black button down shirt. Over one arm he carries a lightweight black jacket suitable for this cool October night.
Someone once said of Simon, �You can almost see the gears turning in his head.�

This he overheard on his first day of kindergarten, whispered by someone�s mother to the teacher who nodded in agreement. And it�s true, under the unruly cowlick and behind the black-rimmed glasses there�s something alive and prismatic. Moving. The remark stuck with him since children at that age are little sponges. He remembers it every so often and when the mood strikes, tries to provoke the same gear spinning in others. Which is taking the long way around the barn to get to the point that Simon Said is a poet. That�s saying a lot of course, what with the deplorable state of contemporary poetry but everyone knew it from the moment he was born. Simon Said came out of his mother eyes wide open. Instead of screaming, he had a thoughtful look on his face. He was taking everything in. Making notes. Composing himself.

As if to dispel any doubts about the matter, when Simon was ten, he painted himself red and wearing nothing but a loincloth, raced through the streets of his neighborhood on his BMX bike, the one painted Haint blue with ceramic eyes attached to the front reflectors and a pair of antlers affixed between the handlebars. From a bow he launched arrows bearing cryptic poems written in a language of his own devising. Over rooftops. Into yards. Through windows. He nearly hit Misses Leary�s cat and elicited a smile from miss Elsie Samathrace, aged eleven and a half. She winked at him just as he strung an arrow and let it fly with a whoop and a war cry into the trellis of old Man Halibut�s prized tomato garden.

�Why�d you do it?� His father, Frederick Said, asked later as he escorted the young poet around the neighborhood to replace his arrows with apologies.

�To bring a bit of wonder to life,� said Simon. He did not elaborate.

On his twenty-first birthday Simon became a devout follower of Dionysus. While he dabbled a bit before, he baptized himself with a twenty-dollar bottle of French merlot at 8:23 A.M., on the 18th of May, the exact time of his birth. He spent the afternoon drinking Lady Saturnine, the old woman who lives at the top of the stairs, thoroughly under the table.

This evening, he�s on his way to a poetry reading at a caf� downtown (hence the vest of oriental design) when an existential shudder creeps up his spine. He pauses on the seventh step and looks over his shoulder at the Moon seen through the window on the second story landing. By the look on his face, you�d think he could almost hear the sound that satellite makes as it revolves around the Earth. A needle on a record, scratching out its orbit.

A soft breeze, warm for this autumn night, rushes in through the window, which stands open. Simon follows the breeze to the Fourier. He sucks in a breath between clenched teeth and whispers, �He�s here!� Just as the front door flies open.
Clouds scratch their ghostly finger across the full Moon�s face. Trees moaning, mingle their voices with a stiff breeze. Leaves race through a dark wood. A Jack o� lantern glowers as a toad plops into a pond, disappears.

Out of the unanimous night and into the parlor strides a bedraggled man. Long beard, head as bald as a melon, he wears a fur coat, despite the prevailing social opinions and a ragged pair of canvas sneakers. Strung from his jaw is a grin the size of a summer sausage.

Simon and the stranger stare at each other for a long moment.

�Can it be real?� The stranger exclaims. �Have I been away so long that you�ve gone and grown up and don�t even recognize me?�

Simon just shrugs. �Could be. Anything�s possible these days.�

�Soren!� Comes a muffled yelp from the direction of the kitchen. Standing in the Dining Room doorway, Frederick Said dries his hands on the apron tied around his waist and grins. He shuffles across the parlor, nearly trips on the antique throw rug and wraps his spindly arms around the man, laughing and says, �Simon! Say ahoy-hoy to your Uncle, Soren!�
The last time Simon saw his Uncle Soren was that fateful night, twenty years ago. Although so long since and he at such a young age, Simon recalls the scene in vivid color.

Simon, age three, sat on these same steps contemplating whether or not his head would fit through the banister rails when through the parlor stormed Uncle Soren, just barely thirty-five, wearing his big fur coat, muttering and twisting his jaw (still clean shaven at the time) into a wrinkled emotion that Simon would later know all too well.

Uncle Soren, in a fit of pique, announced, �I�m going out for a bottle of milk!� And slammed the front door behind him.
The family did not see him again that night or any night afterwards.

After one year, there were still no post cards, no letters, no voice on the other end of the phone confirming one thing or another. Just long sleepless nights.

After five years, the Family did not even wait to be dragged from a fitful dream in the middle of the night by a gruff, deductive voice on the other end of the line asking them to come down to the station to verify this tooth or that finger bone.

After ten years, the Said family slept with a reluctant soundness, thinking about him on obscure bank holidays, which were Uncle Soren�s favorite.

�He did so love Armistice Day,� remarked his older brother, Frederick, with a great sigh one November eleventh. But that was some years ago now.

Time, moving like an arrow across the face of the universe, arranges moments into meaningful patterns that always seem to move forward�

And now, here he stands. A few more wrinkles, a lot less hair up top and far more on his chin, offering a lopsided grin and a handshake to his nephew.

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Book News

Tom Robbins new book, Villa Incognito will be out on April 29th!

Just a reminder for those Robbins readers, who know full well what a jubilation day this is. And for those of you who have not read any Robbins, well, I pity you for your life is sorely lacking and you don’t even know it. A good place to start is with his arguably best work, “Skinny Legs and All” which has topical implications as it is about a Jew and an Arab who open a middle eastern restaurant together. There is much more to it of course, including an airstreem trailor that resembles a giant tin turkey and a collection of inanimate objects who talk, walk and when no one’s looking, wonder abut the nature of the cosmos.

I’m still figuring out this whole HTML thing so that’s why there’s no link at the moment. But when I figure it out, future recomendations will be linked to their coresponding page at Amazon.com. So use your imagination for now and picture it! A little glowing blue hypertext line and when you click it poof! you’re at Amazon. Til then you’re on you rown.

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Before We Begin,
A Little Bit of Left Leaning Agitprop

I know this technically has nothing to do with books but I feel that it is my duty to those who view this page (both of you, Hi Mom!) to let you know about a great site called impeachbush.net . I decided when I started this site that I wasn�t going to rant and rave about politics but frankly it is my duty as an American and an thinking individual to get as many people to help stop this man before he does any more permanent damage to the world.

Already, President Bush has squandered the largest Budget surplus in US History. He has started two wars that have significantly destabilized an already fragile region of the world and is gearing up for a third that could irrevocably alter not just our diplomatic relations with other countries but seriously undermine what little security we have left in this country. Under the Geneva Convention, our troops and President Bush as their leader are responsible for securing any cultural and historical sites and artifacts during and after a war. This makes Bush responsible for the looting of the Museum and destruction of the National Library in Baghdad. Thanks to president Bush, the world is missing thousands of irreplaceable cultural artifacts, records and books from the cradle of civilization. And what�s worse, he doesn�t seem to care. This all could have easily been avoided but instead he blithely dismissed warnings from the international community concerning the safety of not just the history but the people of Iraq.

We can�t let this man or his administration continue to misrepresent us. Besides, we impeached Clinton for getting some lovin� from a woman who happened to be someone other then his wife. What Bush has done and is planning to do is far, far worse.

So go to the above site, add your name to the petition to get this man and his barrel of oil drenched monkeys off our back!

We now resume regularly scheduled Bookishness.

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Welcome!

“No!” you cry. “Not another Blog!”

Yes, another one! But this Blog is different. Sure they all say that but then it turns out to be just a journal about some guy’s cat. (her name’s Lucy and she might appear from time to time but that’s not the point). The point is that I have a mission statement:

This spot will be for the promotion of Literacy in general and my own writting in particular. Though rather slim on content at the moment, I will post thoughtful and hopefully thought provoking items about the world of books and publishing, links to authors and book sellers, literacy advocates and free speach legislation; maybe even samples of my fiction.

Do bare with me as I’m new to the Blogosphere and haven’t quite gotten a full grasp of this computer literacy thing (some may soon claim I havn’t mastered conventional literacy yet either but I swear, I read The Crying of Lot 49 and I understood it!)