How MANY ARE AWARE THAT God, Almighty can sometimes speak to humans? Not just “speak” but utter entire conversations, some diffused with expletives that would make even Richard Nixon blush. The occasion of the latter occurred to me recently, lasting for nary a full year, changing my life . . . emphaticly and for good.
What I’m getting to here, never mind how roundaboutly, is the fact that it was I who was responsible for the “blue corn” craze. One of the hottest culinary trends in recent decades has been the emergence of Blue Corn Tortillas, Blue Corn Meal, etc. In the summer of 1969, I was an apprentice actor/musician and lighting technician at the Orleans Arena Stage, in Orleans, Mass., on Cape Cod’s elbow. The campus was a summer home to two dozen theatrical trainee hopefuls from across the Northeastern US. One of my responsibilities was to build and paint the set for a production of Rogers & Hamerstein’s Oklahoma.
I was charged with completing the scenery scrims one morning and had a myriad of time constraints to work among . . . that had nothing whatsoever to do with blue corn or Oklahoma. However, I was in charge of providing the cornfields, which, on a flight of fancy the likes of which many 19-year-olds flew the coop when it came to logic and reason, are “as high as an elephant’s eye” I painted the fields of corn a bright blue, for no other reason than to be too tired to flee, but still different.
They at least were as as blue as my eyes. By 8:00 a.m., director Richard Smythies drove by the scrims crime scene cursing God and Man (Me); he repainted it himself over coffee while I slept.
Hence, thanks to zealous OU agriculture students who went to work, when hearing of this inspirarional anecdote of priceless ignominy: Voilà! A legend is born care of God My Father, Who Proudly Proclaimed My Name In Lights Across The Blue Corn Sky Every Night. My Fathers’ Love Has No Match this side of Heaven.
Classical music wafted from the distant stereo. An oboe solo sprang to his ear from a passage by a woodwind ensemble sparking speech.
“Like this music? Double-reeds have a primordial attraction… ‘n my genes I think, that fascinates me… nearly as much as you do.” She did not respond visually to his remark.
“Well, thank you just the same.”
Without reply, he smiled at her and their eyes met. He kissed her softly, then again with appetite. He felt a rush of hot new blood from his femoral artery stiffen his resolve to please her. She felt it too, and buttons began to lose their grip.
Finally, he had the opportunity now to observe her young body in the light of unperturbed abandon. She was mercifully hardware free; though never averse to new experience, he was not yet sure how to deal with the ring in clitring; the word ring, in general, in the same breath as woman, still brought a chill to his spine and warmed the engine of his getaway car.
Her breasts were perfect. They seemed to lead a life of their own independent of the rest of her; a buoyant, charmed life that anticipated her every move and appeared to avoid gravitational force. Her toned tummy’s altruistic curves posed a proud prelude, with liberal artistic epilation, to the coming fugue: a dainty, smoothly-shaven mons Veneris, full of grace and glistening, begged veneration. His face
glowed with a happiness now that illuminated his labors at this mystifying cleft; his smile met hers lip to labium; his tongue snakelike, scrutinizing, lingered at her inguinal altar, the vestibule of being… to worship, and wonder at the shimmering scissure before him – that this quaint little wattle could wield such worldly wallop – holding it in equal awe as he once beheld, with a similar grin, a vaster gash from a grimmer rim – the Grand Canyon of the Colorado – never mind his current view was superior, and considering the predicament of the human male who, expelled from it once, is by hormones doomed to spend the rest of his life trying to get back in; once there cannot wait to get out again, of this greater than the greatest of cats and quandaries, as she gasped her first sky-scratching of several more to come; then, bow to the wind, he simply lost himself in her soft sanctuary.
“I’M DISAPPOINTED!” Her voice sounded playful, but he was unsure.
“Disappointed!? Ha-ha.” He laughed, but he worried the ever-lingering doubt of the male ego, and finally bit the hook. “At what!?”
“At not seeing those catacombs. I know, of course, they’re not just catacombs, but I’m disappointed!”
“Aren’t you over disappointment, yet!? How old are you?”
“We can’t all be supermen; …women.”
“I’m hardly a superman. It’s just that I have had so much experience with failure, I’ve had to learn to deal with disillusionment, not to make it a habit. It’s a sad but true fact. The alternative is unacceptable. …Hey, Nikki. You want to see the catacombs?” She nodded as he continued, “Tomorrow, then… maybe. Not tonight, though. I’m going in tonight . . . alone.”
He continued, “I’ll know by then where I’m going, and won’t get you lost! I need the lay of the land I cannot get with you along. Sometimes we can be too good at what we do.” Her head nodded mute like a bobblehead doll.
For her part, Nikki had displayed remarkable restraint keeping mum throughout his speech, and not blurting the words that burned her tongue: ‘You ego-testical ASS!’
She had long seen the necessity for a strong, attractive, clever woman in a testosterone-driven perverse world of maintaining occasional politic silence and overlook certain offenses for the greater good. She also understood human nature. That within every human being, more artfully disguised in some than others but always present, lurked an asshole. Everybody had one. It was the ‘human’ part of the being, she explained; when given half a chance . . . and enough time, it would invariably appear.
He noticed in her an obsession to reveal truths about herself. She was a pathological truthist. He wondered if it was contagious. How she got into this line of work was a question that would linger like butterscotch, he reckoned, and doubtless boggle his mind more than was good for it at the moment. She was forthcoming enough to make him slightly edgy, at any rate, and more on his guard than usual.
“You take lovemaking to another level, Brant. You take everything….”
Brant interrupted her, “I take everything I’m capable of showing real gratitude for. Never more; sometimes — rarely, less.”
She resumed, seeming not to notice his outburst, “I never dreamed I would say this but, in another world, I could fall in love with you.”
He suddenly felt like an overweight skater pushed onto the thin ice of a first freeze.
“Your youth is showing. …And maybe a little gin. That’s very sweet, but…. frankly, I would not advise it. I’m a lone lion, Nikki. I’ve lasted this long without a loving woman always by my side, I must be doing something… right. I wonder what it is…. Sometimes I’d like to gag it.” He spoke quietly, almost as an aside, letting the words trail off.
“I thought you lived for danger.” Nikki’s speech had begun to slur, as she finally felt the effects of three Boodles and tonics she had begun to regret.
When his laughter – at her comment, not condition – subsided, he responded, “I live for the fugitive moments that danger allows. But, like all else, if you do that with an unclean conscience you risk life, limb, and frightful karma.”
“Still, I’m pleased you let that viper go. It was the right thing to do. I promised the bloke at the pet sho’… wh….”
Unbeknownst to Cobalt, the CIA and MI-6 were not Nikki Fairchild’s only employers. She also received income from the payroll of a British petro-chemical firm, World Interim Oil, that had massive economic interests in Africa. They had been appraising Masdar for the past year, studying its finances, etc., prior to a possible purchase offer or takeover bid. There were rumors in the intelligence community that a recent oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, that involved one of their offshore drilling rigs, had actually been intentional; an act of industrial sabotage designed to deflect world attention away from WIO’s cozy financial dealings with unsavory Islamist elements.
Her job was to kill him.
Everything I Had Heard About The Girl Of My Dreams Came True On Friday Evening. That’s When I Met The Woman My Mother Told Me About As A Boy, And Had A Remarkable Time With Her Rubbing Elbows, Noses… Until The Wee Hours Of The Morning. Then, We Had Fun And Walked The Brooklyn Bridge To The Promenade Before The Wedding, At Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, Largest Catholic Basilica West Of The Vatican, And Home To The Archdiocese Of New York, Timothy Cardinal Dolan, Bishop, Who Performed The Ceremony, With Over Two Thousand Guests In Attendance Including The Entire New York Mets Baseball Team, Some Of The Yankees, And Representatives From Seven Major Sports Franchises As Well As Stars From Stage And Screen, Dance, Opera, Literature, And Notables Of All Sorts,
In an extraordinary display of hubris, the American mainstream media is attempting to pull the wool over the eyes of its sheep. Last night, with its date having a curiously Satanic July 13 stamp, a jury in Sanford, Fl. reached a verdict of “Guilty” against defendant George Zimmerman, in the Trayvon Martin murder/manslaughter trial that has captured world attention. The network news this morning however reported the incident rather differently. In their version, Zimmerman was pronounced “Not Guilty,” leaving one to suspect that their intention, and indeed the intention of the government and their owners, is to incite racially-motivated violence in a simmering environment.
US troops — 3 Divisions of Army and Marine regulars — invaded Syria today, mainly Damascus, to do battle with Syrian forces loyal to Hafez al-Assad. The Americans are not there to oust Assad, who will remain regardless of the outcome, but rather are doing the bidding of Israel whose own forces are busy in a war with Iraq at the moment. As has been the usual case the American mainstream media is silent, though news organisations from all other Western nations are covering the conflict.
The San Francisco crash of an Asian Air Boeing 777 jetliner July 6 was a coverup of government murder and corruption linked to disasters as far back as Lockerbie. The intended victim, a 48-year-old Chinese national with a Ph.D in Economics, had been working with the SEC on the case against the Fedral Reserve for 5 years that would have provided sufficient evidence to end the Fed’s criminal monopoly, and was to soon testify before that commission in San Francisco.
The wreckage was left on location beside the runway and trumpeted by the media for nearly a week as a warning to potential future witnesses of the fate that awaits bearers of truth.
An asteroid, weighing 71,300 tons, will strike the Pacific Ocean 1,400 nautical miles WSW of Valparaiso, Chile causing an E.L.E. — extinction level event — on July 24, 2013 at 11:10 AM local Chilean time.