red onion

I'm sure this didn't reach CNN or MSNBC, but there was a respectabily sized protest on January 15 to accompany Bush to his $2000 a plate dinner at the D-Day Museum in New Orleans. We were all 150 to 200 of us. God its hard to give a shit writing about this right now. I just talked with a couple of friends of mine, I'll call Lisa and her boyfriend John, who are struggling monetarily. Then to add to their misery, her daughter, Brenda, has a brain tumor. She has a beautiful, sweet daughter, who doesn't deserve this. We talked nearly our entire visit about just about everything but the tumor. I brought over a big box of pepperment tea for Brenda. John is into any aspect of history ever known, including our theoretical origin from the aliens, and the presence of the talk of aliens in ancient literature. He read a part of the Bible to me, from Genesis, that was pretty trippy, and seemed to, at least, allude to aliens. All the while we are in front of a fire in their backyard in the twilight, warming ourselves from the heat generated by the red hot coals. I lost myself in the fire and felt more like listening than talking. Besides, it can be hard to get a word in edgewise talking with John, who is a nervous energy type, constantly moving and pouring out historical accounts, supposedly from Sumerian literature, of aliens breeding with humans. I already believed this to an extent, being a fan of Shirley McClain, having read "Out on a Limb" many years ago, and the Seth books all of my adult life. The nature of reality, according to Seth, would greatly displease Pat Roberts. His prattle about aliens reminded me of a dream I had not long ago, in which some of us would have a chance to leave this planet and start fresh on some other planet.

Lisa did say that they saw a picture of the chromosome that carries the defective gene that caused the brain tumor in Brenda. The defective gene has a cross on it. Then I got to thinking about illness and disease as sacrifice, and has it come down to our young having to sacrifice their future because we as adults are fucking up so royally. Then I am reminded of how almost everything makes me sad these days; either that or I am joking to ward off the melancholy. Even at the protest, I noticed a roach dying in the gutter right where I was standing with my 80 something year old friend, Becky. We were surrounded by barricades, so I couldn't put it out of it's misery. Every now and then I'd look down and see it's tiny legs waiving helplessly in the air. Then I'd turn my attention back to Becky, who was cursing Bush in creative, unique ways. She said we need to send him through the back door of the universe, and she said this really loud when everyone else was pretty quiet, and it made everyone laugh. When I asked her what the back door of the universe was, she said the asshole of the universe.

This personification of the universe, giving it an asshole, made me laugh. She motioned for me to bend my ear to her, and whispered that war is Bush's glory hole. "What is a glory hole?" I asked. "Pussy", she said.

This interesected somewhat with my theory that the perpetrators of this war, and the people who want to fight it, are repressed homosexuals who long to love other men. Their women are angry and their inner female is deformed. I had a dream, yes, another one, right before the war, in which the men wanting to fight this war were making passes at each other, and their women were deformed with horns growing out of their hips.

Think about it. Rumsfeld, Cheney, Wolfowitz, Bush, Perle, all closet cases. It's very sad, because some good loving with other men would cure what ail's them.

I looked down at the roach, and it was still.