K. Categories

K. Site Notes

I’m the author, I’m pk: WordPress is our host. WordPress writes (and rewrites) the code: I’m sometimes helpless flotsam.

Up top there’s my graphic, a scan of me fishing on Jan’s lake in her canoe, my grandson Benjamin and daughter-in-law, Nathalie also aboard. Just below that is a menu of categories. The categories are preceeded by a Home button. Home restarts the blog at the latest post. Then the categories begin their hierarchical cascade: first come my two main original distinctions: pk Teaching and pk Personal: initially a very rough distinction: I’ll define in a moment.

Next come Stories and Quotes. Then K. Site Notes. Stories had originally been a subdivision of Personal: another story section branched within Teaching / Society / Social Order / as “HierCon”: abbreviating human hierarchies in conflict with anarchist Christian conviviality. (Maybe my troubles started when I tried to merge both as one toplevel category: pk Teaching / pk Personal / : Stories /
The same happened to Quotes. Quotes began as a subcategory of pk Personal: then I moved it to the top line of the category menu.
Last comes K. Site Notes: of which this post is one example.

Lately WordPress is making free with my categories, irresponsibly and arbitrarily adding to the top menu. Bear with me while I straighten it out.

Below I’ll map the hierarchy and comment. That’s before I try to “fix” anything: first know what I had meant.

pk Teaching didactic apart from any of my professional specialties

Don’t expect pk Teaching’s didactic, not that the didacticism is orthodox. I make free with science and with the humanities.

Teaching down one Society and its Pathologies
Teaching down two Social Epistemology
Social Order
Social Survival
plus miscellaneous scholarsip
featuring Thinking Tools

Thus, if I tell a story of finding my sixth grade dance partner, I categorize it as Personal. If I teach the steps to Amos Moses, or expatiate on dancing as healthy, that goes under Teaching. My menu pages follow the same structure, or did, till WordPress rebelled.

Down, down in the logic of the Personal:

pk Personal Who’s pk?
pk Overview
pk Writing
Feedback, Mail
Fiction spreads from novels to satires.

The Society and its Pathologies sections get very complex vertically as well as horizontally; but the point of the categories is to clarify organization, not to confuse. It’s backfiring in our face, I’ll work on it.

Categorical Humor

I’ve been writing comedy since 1948. There are jokes even in my categories. They’re serious jokes: take them lightly, take them seriously, don’t take them literally. For example: / Society / Social Epistemology / I put Theology as a subcategory of Cosmology, I put Religion as a subcategory of Theology. I put god as a subcategory of Religion … though next week I may change the order.

This scheme got me into trouble immediately. In the 1990s I put my most important teachings, my most important philosophies among my Thinking Tools which then became a subcategory of Scholarship: not an order most people would use. But: see what I did, guess why I did it: and you may teach yourself — deeply — about the same things.

I mount this 2015 07 28. I intend to redate it daily so it will always come up on top: until I fix the damn category menu, make it behave and not confuse.

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pk Army Stories

Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: Macroinformation.org & Knatz.com / Teaching / Society / NoHier / Examples / Army /

You can’t understand my army stories properly without a few pk basics. From a religious standpoint, I was a conscientious objector. From a secular standpoint, I adamantly oppose coercion. pk’s humor is to expose the contradictions in the society: freedom can only be defended spontaneously. Once defense is coerced, whatever is supposedly being defended is already lost. We should instantly suspect that we never had it: gulls at the magic show once again.
I was a conscientious objector as an individual with a conscience: as part of trying to be a Christian. As I’ve said elsewhere here, I didn’t believe Christians had a right to defend themselves. If Hitler wants to walk over us, our role is to turn the other cheek. Hitler will get his; we will get ours. Interfering with destiny is vanity. I however lived in the United States. The United States does not recognize conscience from individuals; only from groups with political clout. And there are very few Christian groups with any political clout. And I wouldn’t join them if there were. I am not a joiner. I stand apart. I am pleased to stand alone if no one stands with me.

Separation, story still to come

General Comments

As you may see, I am only beginning to fill in the outline. What I see (and you can’t, not yet) is that once again, as usual, I’ve cleared my throat with the less important stories, the background, but stopped short of the most important parts: the Cuban Crisis; Separation; General Comments …

This file begins the first and last parts. The middle is chronological. Links will activate once I enter stories in the relevant sections. One of my basic army stories is told in Semiotics Scrapbook.

I am not now a conscientious objector. Have I joined the majority in rejecting the Commandment against killing? No: I merely reject the Commandments. Or see them as irrelevant to human behavior. It would please me greatly to see everyone kill everyone, even if I get killed too. I would die gladly if I believed others would swiftly follow, cleansing the earth: at least reducing our part in the garbage..

Hierarchy vs. Conviviality Stories

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Typing Orders

Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: Macroinformation.org & Knatz.com / Teaching / Society / NoHier / Examples / Army /
@ K. estimate early 2000s

It happens again and again. I’ve been drafted into some shit job. No pay. No vacations. No advancement … And the bureaucrat with pay, vacations, and advancement sees that they can get me to do their job for them as well as my own slave job.

Short version: Bea’s job was to type the Orders. Bea got me to do it for her. Bea soon asked me to train Mel to do it too. I noticed that the code was actually a highly abbreviated form of English, that once you surmised that the orders said in effect, “Hey, Fort Dix, this here is Whitehall Street Induction Station. Today we’re sending you thirty new government inspected male humans“, obscurity clarified. I saw it right away. I could guess the code and type it before Bea so instructed me. And that’s how I tried to teach it to Mel: via comprehension. Mel didn’t like it. He just wanted to be told Now type an A, now type an B, now copy the contents of this box: [this box] … I watched Bea glower at me as I did this. I occurred to me: she’s been doing this for years. She never knew what it meant! she’s been doing it Mel’s way! She memorized the A, then the B, then she knew to copy whatever the little box said.

Uh oh. Bosses can’t stand to have their stupidity exposed: not even to themselves.

Oh well, then they shouldn’t draft anyone but other idiots.

Bea took me off the job and went back to training Mel herself.

Fuller version:

At Whitehall Street Induction Station, civil service worker, Bea, was in charge of the typing pool. A half a dozen privates, fresh out of basic training, all of us drafted the same couple of days, all of us with birthdays within a few days of each other, all of us just graduated from college, all of us English majors, all of us draftees, are put under Bea to type up forms in quadruplicate, processing that day’s draftees. Name, address, date of birth, blood type, intelligence score, record of felonies … One other private had been added to the typing pool just a month or two before the rest of us arrived in a lump: Mel. Mel was RA: regular army. He’d enlisted. Anything that was done to him, it could be argued: he’d asked for: he was a volunteer; not a draftee. Of the new arrivals, I’d gone to Columbia, Jake to Cornell. That’s two Ivy League graduates right there. Phil had gone to Ursinus, a small college I’d never heard of, but, judging from Phil’s individuality as a reader, thinker, and poet, which I came to appreciate before too long as our friendship developed, Ursinus wasn’t too shabby a little college. Maybe it was on some sort of a level near Colgate or Amherst or Hamilton … Mike had gone to CCNY: knew a little something. And the others? God. Queens College. Some fashion design school: that sort of tripe. But not Mel. Mel was your typical peace-time recruit: solid in his lack of ambition as well as in his ignorance and lack of abilities. Jake had both the highest batting average and the lowest ERA in the Ivy League for 1960; Mel … could eat lunch. What Mel could not do was learn how to fill out the forms in quadruplicate so that they passed the next check point: Sgt. Lyons’ perusal to see if the name was in fact the guy’s name, if it appeared within an inch and a half of the Name box on copies 3 and 4, if any of the data was in any way related to the candidate. I’m going to fast forward to the Chase as it were for a moment. Mel had seniority over us intellectuals. Sure enough, after the minimum time, Mel was promoted. In the old army, he would have gained a corporal’s stripe: one stripe short of buck sergeant. In the new army the new version of E4 was Spec4: Specialist Fourth Class. A minimum amount of time later, Mel’s universal incompetence was rewarded and he was promoted to recruiting. In the typing pool Mel had always gotten the maximum number of three days passes and so forth. No one much cared if he took three hour lunches. His work was not missed.

[Specialist: what a riot: the price wears a blue garter, now the courtiers have to have a blue garter. This guy cuts out your tonsils, that guy cuts off your appendix: specialists! So the society’s military branch which can’t tell a pawn from a bishop classifies by “specialty”, making it impossible to tell a profession from a con racket.]

Bea’s job was to type the Orders of the Day and to forward them to Fort Dix aboard the bus that carried that day’s load of kleptocracy-fodder. Bea had had the bright idea of training Mel to type the orders for her. Gee, he can’t type the simple forms; maybe he can type the complex orders! It took Mel a long time to find the J or the D or any other key on the typewriter. Once he found it, there was an at least 50% chance that that’s the key his finger would in fact contact and depress. These depressions were interspersed with Mel screaming aloud, “I want to hold you ha – n – d.” I might have come to enjoy the Beetles far sooner in the early sixties if I hadn’t heard them first via Mel.

I’ll flesh in more details on some occasion when I am less pressed to take care of other Knatz.com matters. But:

Notice: Does It Matter? Does Anything Matter? Is there any difference of any importance between whether we live or die? Whether we live well or abominably? Between a great love, a great meal, a great movie … and, say, torture at the hands of the Inquisition?

In theory, the boss is supposed to know more than the employee, the general is supposed to be more competent than the private … The teacher is supposed to have a better command of the subject than the student. But these generalizations are frequently untrue in a kleptocracy. Any of the dethroned aristocrats might have better manners (regardless of their crimes) than the butchers, bakers, and peasants sending them to the guillotine. The deposed Lama might be vastly wiser than the Communist functionary who can now push him around. The twelve year old Jesus may have understood the Torah as well or perhaps even better than the adult rabbis who were testing him. The Orthodox (Anything) that refuses to play Major League Baseball because they play on the Sabbath might be a better homerun hitter than the faithless League’s official Best. Newton, just washed up on Pango Pango, may understand the motions of the sea better than government cabinet his drenched body is dragged before.

Nature tests us from moment to moment. The king of the hill doesn’t stay king for more than an hour or two. Once the lion has drunk at the water hole, other creatures should get a turn. But not in kleptocracy. In kleptocracy, this property is mine: you stay off it. You stay off it whether I’m here to mind my property or not. My minority somehow got the rest of you to pay taxes to hire these bozos, put them into uniforms, arm them, and have them watch my property for me while I’m off in Florida marlin fishing. In kleptocracy, the young have to die so the old don’t have to be competent. Neither France nor Germany kept track of the talents of the soldiers sent to their doom in the trenches. The Kaiser had no accurate inventory of his population’s abilities. He only had the Church’s and the Capitalist’s and the Army’s version of who was a priest and who was an industrialist and who was a private. The private could be a Kepler, a Homer. What does the Kaiser care?

Hierarchy vs. Conviviality Stories

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Heaven in Residence

/ Cosmo … Theo /

When I was a kid, Sunday School age, we’d hear references to inquiries about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. Invariably it was understood, kids not famous for understanding, adults neither, though the latter are regularly cast as teachers, parents, leaders, nevertheless, invariably it was understood that the querry was idle, unanswerable: we on earth, mortals, don’t know how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. It was sort of like those similes in the Bible about camels and eyes of needles. Kids in Rockville Centre, Long Island had no more experience with camels and desert sewing than we had about pin heads and dancing angels. So it made me guffaw in college when I first heard of some medieval wag answereding practically, Well, bring me some pins, put out a cast-call for dancing angels, and we’ll start counting. Har, har. That answer makes sense. These Biblical conundrums weren’t supposed to make sense. Making sense was cheating. What would the world be like if people ever thought anybody in authority was making sense.

Well, it influenced me, once I knew the response of that nominalist, pissing off the Church-Realist majority.

Now I was baptized, as I’ve mentioned before, by my godfather, the bishop of Brooklyn, in his Episcopal Church. But once we’d moved to Rockville Centre and my father, all hungover every Sunday morning and wanting to sleep late, our mother too probably not in much better condition, my sister and I were allowed to walk ourselves to Sunday School if we chose the Presbyterian Church right around the corner. We had to cross only one trafficked street that way and my sister was trained to hold me back while she looked left and right. And, let me assure you, the sign may have said “Presbyterian”, in parentheses it was understood to mean “Protestant”, but at base, every inch, every micron, was Church-Realist majority, and not a shred nominalist. The Realists you see said that only God was real. You just got raped? buggered by a red hot poker up your ass? evicted? demoted for honest testimony about the mayor? No, no: none of that really happened: only God is real. The only thing real is infinitely loving, perfectly blissful, perfect, perfect, perfect. Ignore experience; believe.

That’s the theology that any authority will gravitate toward, no matter how secular seeming. Lincoln freed the slaves, without actually freeing a single slave: and when the Allies came upon the death camps the soldiers stood there, outside the barbed wire, staring. Inside the matchstick-legged Jews, breastbones showing, shoulder bones like wishbones, stared back. For three years the Allied soldiers stood outside the barbed wire, keeping Hitler’s detainees detained. No one can live in a world like that, not out loud, not in their minds they cant. No, no: that’s all illusion: only God is real.

thanx bristoljewishcommunity

So: How many angels can dance on the head of a pin? Bring me some pins, bring me some dancing angels, and we’ll start counting. No, this is alien. No church can tolerate such practicality. No church does. And schools don’t either, neither Sunday Schools, nor state schools, nor universities. The monopolies are near absolute.

But never mind, be that as it may. I want to report how I’ve changed my view of a parallel question. Once upon a time I used to ask How many Christians are actually in heaven? And I used to answer, Simple, go to heaven, identify the Christians, start counting. But no longer. I no longer believe that it’s that simple. For one thing, the residents of heaven may not actually be in residence!

It’s like you can’t count American citizens merely by situating yourself in Brooklyn and starting to count. Some American citizens are in Afghanistan, in Paris, on a cruise …

Jesus we are told in the gospels was killed, and buried, and after three days rose again. We are further told, by priests, over and above the gospels, that Jesus went to hell for three days: then Jesus proceeded to heaven. Realize, we are told this by people we have no reason to believe actually went to heaven and actually counted. Regardless, if Jesus went to hell for three days, to atone for his sins, how long is St Augustine going to have to spend in hell to atone for his? How long you? or me?

How would we confirm any of this? Well, here we are, on earth, mortals: we think we can count what we see. Let’s accept that, for the moment at least, as true.
And hell. That’s no problem: every one of us knows what hell is like: every one of us knows some parts at least: so we can count some parts at least …
But how many of us have been in heaven? for sixty consecutive seconds?
That’s not so easy to count, there are problems.

I know the problems better than most. I know the problems well enough to be near certain I don’t know them all. Not just particular problems, whole classes of problems. I see lots, but they may be, the whole classes as well as the individual problems, infinite.

Goodness is infinite? love? mercy? How about complexity is infinite?
We didn’t know what we were talking about before, we don’t now either: even though we may be better and better and better at it. Bravo Russell who, referring to math, said, “We know how to talk, but we don’t know what we are talking about”.

Back to our task: I take an example: It’s a familiar myth that babies come from heaven, isn’t it? Let’s accept it, for the sake of argument. Shirley MacLaine remembers past lives, right? Queen of Egypt … Whore of Babylon … ? Some people remember being in heaven before they were born. I do. Almost. Sort of. Can’t altogether swear.

Apropos, I must explain. I remember things people say I can’t possibly remember. Experts havn’t looked in my head and started counting: no, purely on faith, they simply contradict me, say I’m imagining things. Now I do imagine things, I imagine things all the time, that’s what I do, I’m a write, a novelist, story-weaver. I remember lying on my back in the bassinet, wanting to get up, at least to elevate my head, look around, being unable to to, crying in frustration. How old might I have been? Six months? a year? I tell the experts. They don’t look in my head, don’t start counting. No, they just contradict me. No, no: no body remembers anything from that far back.
I remember being with my sister in the basement of the house in Jamaica. We moved when I was three, Beth was four and a half, or five. Middle aged, Beth tells the story: we were in the basement, it was dark, we were like making movies, looking at magazine pages from the light of a toy machine gun I had … And I say, No, it was a toy tank. It had a big key. I turned the key, the tank shot sparks from its guns. Beth says you can’t possibly remember that! But admits it probably was a tank.

Experience has long been the same. The woman says And then my female body told me, and the priest interrupts her. No, No, that was Satan! And then Satan told you …
All atheists? It doesn’t matter: the peasant says, I was hungry so … and Stalin interrupts him and says, The historical dialectic was telling you you wanted revolution!

Anyway, I could be wrong about remembering heaven before I was born. Just because I remember the bassinet, the sparking tank reliably doesn’t mean that I remember heaven reliably. I could remember back to six months but not before six months: remember life but not before-life.

But I’m not wrong about remembering heaven as an adult. God gave me a little peek at heaven when I was twenty-one: he was chastising me, but then he also gave me a little pet: told me my last chance was now just coming up; it hadn’t already been spent and wasted. That pet was a little taste of heaven, a small reminder. Small? It was bigger than the grand canyon, bigger than that great red storm cloud on Jupiter.

this’ll need more than one draft

Some guys in jail, in jail in Jesup, that’s Georgia, guys from East New York, Booklyn, Gee, my grandfather lived in East New York, it was all Germans then, if I was saying that God had given me a glimpse of heaven, like a promise, a foretaste; I said, Yes, exactly, God takes me into heaven for fractinos of a second, to long moments, to recharge my batteries and relax a moment. How do you think I get along so well in jail? a smile on my face? surrounded by morons? wife-beaters and gang-bangers from East New York? The guard had recently asked something similar: How come you don’t look all beat to hell? like you’re supposed to? like everyone else? I answered the guard only with a smile, but I answered the friend of my zip-gun warring bunk mate with words. Yes. God whisks me to heave to recharge my batteries. A microsecond of heaven can correct a life-time of torture.

All that begs another question: if God has whisked me to heaven then, and then, how come I’m in Sebring FL right now? not heaven at all, except among memories.

Maybe he’s mad at me now. Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe he’s forgotten. got sick. or busy.
Maybe it’s like Hirohito after Hiroshima. Thousands of Japanese soldiers were salted over this and that Pacific island. The war supposedly ended in 1945, but no one told these Japanese: self-sufficient: bunkered in. They weren’t in Japan; but they couldn’t be taken out of Japan no matter where they were, no matter what year it was. Find one in 1950, he’s still shooting at you: but no ammo: he’ll die to get his hands around your throat.

Iwo Jima
a compatriot, after Iwo Jima
thanx albumwar2

Society Social Epistemology Cosmology Etc.
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Sabotage the Rule

/ HierCon / Non-Conviviality Local /

Sabotage is the rule, not the exception. Justice, fair play is the exception.

People select the good news about themselves and broadcast it. People simultaneously make an obstacle course of the bad news. People cheat: till the news is edited down to what they want. Group fiction is the best we can hope for, don’t expect it to be honest: don’t trust what the Christ killers write about Christ getting killed.

The Watering Hole

I’ll scribble scrapbook style, then tighten it up. My Watering Hole story follows in the wake of my YMCA stories. Tribal dancing tramples getting along dancing. Dancing is a basic survival activity: healthy, recreational … procreative: males and females meeting, trying this and that pairing. But majority power-plays can bolix everything.

Hierarchy vs. Conviviality Stories

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Dance Nicknames

Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains:
Knatz.com / Personal / Stories / Theme / Dance /

This post is temporarily in limbo as I separate anti-social dance memories from trivial dance stuff, such as nicknames. The nicknames also belong among all pk nicknames.

Mr. Smooth
2011 10 21 I learned of a new nickname for myself last evening at a line dance session: a dance compliment: and to some extent a social compliment, made by a new “friend” who doesn’t know me yet apart from the dance floor. But whatever Bobbi calls me in future, if she calls me at all, she’s already called me Mr. Smooth: and in the hearing of the friends who passed it to me (Carole specifically). I hope you find the story interesting, I find it delicious!

I have to introduce a couple of the characters:
First there’s me. My dancing caused a sensation in the sixth grade. But I pretty much stopped dancing when my partner was hired by Frank Sinatra to dance in his act in Las Vegas. (Doralee was fourteen at the time.) I learned to my embarassment that I couldn’t dance with other women. Doraleee read my mind, I didn’t need a strong physical lead. Also, by that age my dancing, which had begun pre-pubescent sexy, had become pubescent erotic, then puberty-burdened obscene. Jazz fan fashions and other reasons mixed in. In any event, I stopped: until a few years ago: at age sixty nine. I worked on my lead, I worked on a couple of steps … and I became famous again.

I learned line dancing, was invited to teach it, was made dance director in general of a social …
And now, though I remain persona non grata politically, and socially, I’m welcome, sort of, by some, as a dancer.
Currently the welcome seems to be winning against the shunning. (But don’t call the end of that race until I’m dead: and things can still change, post mortem.) [2013 06 09 Currently the dancer is definitely winning, people who’d been sabotaging me are now pretending they’re my great friends: I don’t contradict them.]

Also: there’s Jan, my beloved. Jan is a great dance partner, wonderful to look at, wonderful to hold. But she doesn’t line dance, won’t learn a single step to a single one. (2011 end of October: she did! 2013 12 22 She’s since explained: her balance isn’t what it was: she dances with courage only when she can hold onto something: someone: me.)

Then there’s my likewise beautiful friend Carole, who does line dance, and who ballroom danced with me all summer while Jan was in Nova Scotia: kindling rumors which Jan has wisely ignored. (Carole minded like hell, but bravely smiled through them.)

(Life Magazine gave Carole a full page in 1953 in her high school cheer leader outfit! Carole’s daughter, a beauty with her own professional modeling portfolio, said, when I met her this summer (on Jan’s trusting me to myself), “If it were me, I wouldn’t leave him alone for five minutes.”)

That’s a basic enough cast. Now, enter Bobbi.

A couple of weeks ago at the American Legion the band started to play the Boot Scootin’ Boogie. They did not announce it as a line dance, a few couples started to jitterbug. I took a position well away from the jitterbugging couples and started the line dance. The two styles don’t mix on a crowded floor. A few line dancers joined my line, there was still room for both styles.

I noticed a blond — goodlooking! — dancing by her table as she looked at me. She clearly didn’t know the dance but was trying to imitate it. I beckoned her to the floor. She stayed by her table, but still danced. I went and got her, led her to the floor, resumed the dance, and sort of led her through it. She picked it up amazingly fast!

I brought her back to the floor for the following foxtrot. She told me her name was Bobbi, widowed one year, and she gave me the name of her husband’s company, the surname prominent.

I told Bobbi that I had a regular dance partner but that though she got the lion’s share of my dances, I tried to save some for my other friends as well: if she’d be my friend under those circumstances, we’d dance plenty in time.
Bobbi seemed to accept that. Last Wednesday evening I introduced Carole and Bobbi. Carole and I urged Bobbi to come to the line dancing: last night. She did.

I came in a minute late. I saw Carole on the floor, and Lisa, and right by them, Bobbi. What a row of great looking gals! (All of the regulars are above average in health and looks, several damn cute. (Hell, they’re dancing: what exercise is more healthful, invigorating, rejuvinating?))

As we were leaving Carole and Lisa told me: as I’d come in, Bobbi had said, “And here’s Mr. Smooth.”

2015 update
Bobbi disappeared for a while, but a couple of weeks ago there she was, looking cuter than ever. She reports that she’d moved away but now she’s back: Lake Placid sure is a nice place to live if you like semi-rural. Sebring, just north, isn’t too bad.

Pretty Man
2015 07 21 Jan is in Nova Scotia, Carole is here though ill, and abracadabra, here’s Susan, newly at the post. A woman I’ve seen before but never spoken to takes hold of me and starts dancing. “I’ve seen you lindy,” she explains. Toward the end of the dance Buddy Canova plays Pretty Woman. The usual suspects are solo jigging, rock n’ rolling in a big oval. There’s that cute gal, new to me. I pluck her from the oval and claim her as my partner: big oval, one couple. At the end it gives me great pleasure to salute her with a deep bow, times to the last beat of the song. “Thank you”, I announce formally to Elaine.
And Elaine says, beat beat, “Thank you! Pretty man!”

That really tickles me. I am old, I feel old, I look ancient, decrepit … impoverished: except on the dance floor. The other evening Susan was aghast when I told her Jan had just turned eighty-four. She looked at me with new intensity. “Well, how old are you?” “Seventy-six, about to be seventy-seven.” (I don’t know, it’s a stretch, but Susan might be fifty: she has a sixteen years old son living with her.) So: dancing: I guess it doesn’t show: or is overridden by something else that does show.


2012 12 06 New nickname, last night. I’m at the dance, Jan still has a cough, so my favorite dance partner is absent. Carole, my other favorite dance partner is there, but Bill, her boyfriend, at least of the moment, can’t stand her dancing with me, pouts, so I hardly dare invite her: fortunately for me she signals me when she’s ready. Well, the band started to play Blue Spanish Eyes, Carole is bent over in converstation but not with me, with some gal seated behind me. Oh, I recognize the voice, Jean, a new acquaintance, good looking gal, OK dancer, old friend of Bill’s, unmistakable rumble of a voice. I wedge an arm between them, “Girls, there’s a rhumba playing.” And they go right on gabbing. The song ends, I missed dancing with both of them, was so miffed I didn’t seek elsewhere, the hall full of widows.

Minutes later I’m still sitting there, fuming, and Jean prods me, “OK, Bug, let’s go.”

Bug! That’s cute!

I’ve been called Gnats all my life (identical pronunciation to Knatz): Ignatz … insect names, rodent names …


Crowded Dance Floor Rights of Way

I now see clearly that all the dances I’ve been to in Highlands County are run by morons, too stupid to know when they sabotage good sense. I still go: to dance with the women, not to reform our institutions. That’s my life’s work, but I’m retired: till God will let me cash my whip scars in for real tender.

If the dance floor is empty enough it doesn’t matter if the first dancers to arrive are doing a line dance or are ball room dancing. Just stay out of each others way. Ah, but when the floor fills up, it’s different. Whoever is running the dance should declare territories. If the line dance wa first on the floor, then line dancing should have priority: the ball room dancers should stay out of the way.
Better yet, the music provider should say, “This is a line dance: line dance has sway.”
If the administration doesn’t organize the activity, and there’s an accident, the injured should sue. But of course the court will be as stupidly run as the dance.

The other night Carole and I heard FrankE playing Play That Funky Music, White Boy: to which we routinely dance Amos Moses. People were already dancing. When Carole and Dorothy and I arrived I started the Amos Moses: too late realizing that Trish was already dancing several women to Amos Moses. I and my new arrivals should have followed them. But it was alright, there was room for all.
But many a time I’m there first, others arrive and free dance, right in our line of dance! And the administration doesn’t stop them!
So: I let myself get run over. I rely on my acrobatics, not altogether lost at 76 1/2, not to get injured, nor to injure. So far, so good.

pk Nicknames
Dance Nicknames
Stories by Age by Theme by Others
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Double-Bound Honor

/ Epistemology / … / Semantics /

Bill Cosby is on the hot seat for chemical rape, repeated: slip the girl a ‘lude, fuck her brains out (while she’s not responsible for what you or she does), dump her in the street: or, try to make a deal: Here, Honey, I’ll give you money, you forget this ever happened.

Actually, nothing ever happened: you were out on ‘ludes!

Here’s what I wanna know: Say you’re the woman: Cosby rapes you, but now he pays you! What’s incumbent on you in the deal?
The girl took the money, spent the money: now it’s twenty years later: does she owe Cosby her silence? !!
Doesn’t she owe it to us not to be silent? Doesn’t she owe it to God? !!

Oh, but here’s something there’s no doubt in my mind about: Cosby’s degree of guilt with the rapes has no bearing on how great a comic artist he is at portraying families! and family problems: comic and humanitarian, wise, something positive, a force of good. Macbeth gets the throne not by waiting for Fate but by murdering King Duncan! OK. Now say he reigns for thirty years, say he endows a chair at Edinburgh to recommend definitive rules about regicide … Say forty years later he’s found out, found guilty: guilty of regicide … That will have zero bearing on the quality of his endowment at Edinburgh!!

next part of draft will scrapbook:

It’s easy for a rapist, a murderer, to bully a good kid, a normal kid, into an omerta that serves the murder and not the kid.

My mother was of a type that would wash the dishes for you, scrub the stoop, think she was being a Christian, after you’d raped her.

But why pick on my mother: everybody’s the same. to some extant.

The Nazis didn’t just betray the Jews (and the fags, etc): the Nazis’ betrayed the German people! At the German people’s emphatic invitation the Nazis’ betrayed the German people!
Then the Americans join the Allies, join the bombings, call the Nazis bad names … What were we doing to protect the Jews (and the fags) in 1932? in 1933? We weren’t protecting them in North America, we certainly weren’t protecting them in Germany! let along Poland, Czechoslovakia …
And why should anyone be surprised? What? the people who bought power by genocide? the people who blabbed about freedom, democracy, while limiting suffrage, property transfers …

Say you’re a Ruskie. Say Stalin stripped you of everything, murdered your whole family, sent you to a gulag: now say Stalin gives you a kopek, and a crumb. Say now Stalin begs you — commands you — not to tell …

But you know, we don’t need to call up the Civil War, or the Commies, or the Nazis, or Mao, or the Inquisitional Church, to address screwings: we could begin and end with God. He makes you crazy over your son’s foreskin … he makes you crazy over your menstrual flow … Now he says you owe this, that, and the other thing to him?

Owe this, owe that, but mostly owe:

Omerta !


Don’t tell! Don’t contradict … the liars!

Social Epistemology Social Semantics
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