bring the noyz

SOLVED!

"You can't really dust for vomit." - Nigel Tufnel, This is Spinal Tap

Well, now apparently you can.

On tonight's episode of CSI: Miami, they solved a murder by extracting DNA from vomit they found on a body buried in a peat bog in the Florida Everglades.

Cool. Fake forensic science may potentially solve the mystery of a fake drummer's death.

Or is it not so fake after all?

I didn't know Florida had peat bogs. And I didn't know that peat bogs preserved dead bodies.

I do now.

Wow! Sometimes, my poor misguided reader, I get the mistaken impression that you think TV is a bad thing.

Don't be riduculous. I'm at least two things smarter now than I was this morning.

It's such a fine line between stupid and clever.
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Inmate: Martha Popular at Prison Mess Hall

"Roman Catholic nun Carol Gilbert, 57, who is serving time in the same prison as the famous homemaker, says she enjoys eating with Stewart, although the setting could be better.

"We're not talking about a tea party," Gilbert's attorney, Sue Tyburski, told the Rocky Mountain News for a story in Saturday's editions. "We're talking about a big cafeteria setting with the terrible food."

Gilbert is serving 33 months on convictions of obstructing the national defense. . ."

A 57 year old nun in Federal prison?
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a friend indeed. A friend with weed is better.
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As an aside. . .

As you, my dear reader, may possibly be aware, many months ago The Good Doctor Noyz was informed that Uncle Walter had passed away leaving unclaimed millions in European bank accounts. As a service to you, my dear reader, I offer the following to refresh our collective memory:

from today's electronic correspondence

the plot thickens (or "whatever became of old Uncle Walter")

a shady proposal?

accepting Mr. Fritz

anxiously awaiting a response from Mr. Colin Fritz

apparently, arrangements are being made

more fun with spammers

late uncle walter update

curiouser and curiouser

so maybe i won't get my inhertance

uncle walter found. . . alive!

uncle walter lives. . . in denial

Months later, another proposal was received from an Arab dying of cancer:

another intriguing proposal

come ferry with me

Now, back to the business at hand. . .
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Recently, a blogmate almost rhetorically requested the assistance of the Good Doctor Noyz to respond to an email he received about a wealthy dead relative.

What type of cold-hearted bastard refuses the request of a friend?

Well, not me.
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Once in a great while a letter comes along that so captures the essence of a holiday that with the passing of time it becomes almost synomous for the event. The letter is so insightful, and so captures the spirit of the holiday that it stands as a symbol of the holiday.

"Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus" comes to mind as an obvious example involving Christmas. And I'm fairly certain that one of those epistles that Peter or Paul or one of those other old guys wrote to the Corinthians or Romans or whoever said something really cool about Easter.

"But," my dear reader I'm sure you asking the Good Doctor Noyz right now, "what about Thanksgiving?"

Well fear not, my dear reader.

The World's Greatest Robot Monkey Loving Private Dectective, Johnny Misfortune, has written just the thing to fit the bill. It was originally sent in the form of an e-mail. I have Golatron 3000 to thank for preserving these words of profound wisdom and passing them along to me.

On a more personal note, I would like to thank Johnny Misfortune for introducing me to the world of blogging when he showed me this literary marvel following a night of small town drinking now nigh on two years past. I have been a fan and regular reader of his tales of pirates, clowns, werewolves, and mayhem ever since.

As it is the time of year for such things, let's all pause and give thanks: for our families, for our friends, and for one helluva damn fine human being, Johnny Misfortune.
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From: Johnny Misfortune
Sent: Friday, November 24, 2000 1:46 AM
Subject: Let's all stop to give thanks. Or, whatever happened to Charlene Tilton?

Importance: High

While the rest of my family is rushing to stop the bleeding nose of one of our surly midget guests from soaking into our new indoor-outdoor carpeting (Yes, Grandma Jebens punched a midget again - or as we like to call them, "those ungrateful wee drunken bastards"), I thought I would take a quick moment to ask that we all pause and reflect on the true meaning of Thanksgiving.

I know, I know, you're all saying, "Pipe down, you pecan pie-addled idjit, we all know what the true meaning of Thanksgiving is. It's the holiday where we invite the neighbors over to ply them with corn on the cob (which our Native American friends called "maize on the cob"), cheap wine, Marlboro cigarettes which our Native American friends called "tobaccy") and turkey, lulling them into a false sense of security whilst our shiftless cousins sneak next door to steal their television. Also, it's the one day of the year where booze is free for all midgets and orphans. Unless they're from France."

But I think Miles Standish said it best, that first Thanksgiving ever when he said, "Gather 'round, our new Native American friends, so that we might better share our bounty - which we Puritans call 'small pox' - and eat yer food, and gaze in wide wonder at your woman-folk, unfettered as they are by the Old World invention we call the brassiere. Now go away boys, yer bothering me. It's almost kick off time in Detroit."

Nowadays, though, we're a little wiser and more civilized, of course, and so we would use the phrase "Stinkin' Injun" in place of "Native American."

And "patsies" in place of "friends."

But I think you know where I'm a gettin' at.

I'm talking about universal love and brotherness. I'm talking about taking some time to ponder the plight of the orphans and the midgets. And yes, even our primate friends - monkeys, gorillas, baboons or whatever that ape is whose butt gets all red when it's sexually aroused - Julio, you know what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the REAL spirit of Thanksgiving.

If Deon Sanders were still preaching in Dallas, I'm sure he'd flash some gold rings, throw some metal, oggle the women-folk and say the same thing.

I'm talking about spreading the love, people. I'm talking about taking the time to be the man who IS willing to give his life for his fellow man. I'm talking about taking the time to really, truly BE the Black private dick that's a sex machine to all the chicks.

'Cause that's what Thanksgiving is all about. It's all about spreading the love. It's all about not resorting to cannibalism moments after your plane-ful of soccer buddies crahses in the Andes, but rather waiting until you're really, really hungry. It's all about pausing amidst the ritual stuffing of our faces, gourging of the horn o' plenty and burning of witches that everyone indulges in every Thanksgiving, barely taking the time to stop and ponder why, in the overall scheme of things, we're celebrating this particular way at this particular time. Sure, everyone loves those goofy costumes the Pilgrims wore, and the next time we burn a witch in Grapevine, I'm bringing the popcorn, but let's turn down the Slipknot for a goddamn second Grandma and ease off the hookah and think about the meaning of Thanksgiving for just one second.

Break the word down into its component parts, split Thanksgiving down the middle, and what do you have? You've got "Thanksgi" and "Ving" And in that spirit, I ask that we all attempt to set aside our all-consuming hatred of the English and Bonnie Prince Charley for one second and extend the back-stabbing hand of friendship to our neighbor - no matter if that neighbor be a filthy Irishman, or a drunken midget or Grandma rocking out to Slipknot again when I told her to turn that goddamn shit down or even an ape with a sexually aroused ass (Julio) - and say, "Hey, buddy, YOU are all right."

Which is all my way of saying to you all, "I love you all like the brothers and sisters I wish I never had." And I mean that.

Maybe it WAS Tiny Tim (rumored to be both an orphan and a midget) who said it best, when he muttered, "God bless us ... each and every one."

Which is a lovely quote, true, but I think there's one that even better sums up the true meaning of this day of days ... It's a quote from Michael Caine as Homer Simpson in the film "The Cider House Rules" (the best thinly veiled pro-choice allegory with orphans where Charleze Theron gets naked since probably "Reindeer Games" or maybe "Mighty Joe Young.") where Mr. Caine imitates a pirate and tucks all the orphans into bed for the evening and says, "Good night you Princes of Maine, you Kings of New York. Sleep tight. ‘Cause tomorrow we sells the lot of ye to the glue factory. Arrr."

Amen, brother.

Okay, back to the turkey, you filthy injuns.

- Johnny Misfortune
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That was beautiful man, just beautiful.

I have lots to be thankful for.

Happy Thanksgiving to one and all from The Good Doctor Noyz, The Wife, and The Boy.
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The Good Doctor Noyz is again most humbly honored, and proud to welcome another into the expanding realm of his blogosphere.

Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming an all around interesting fellow , a kick-ass Iron Maiden song referencer, and my dear old friend, No. 6!

In a turn of events that I find even more humbling and most surprising, it appears that in The Village, nationally acclaimed columnist and best-selling author Molly Ivins is the "new number two", as the Good Doctor Noyz is given top billing as a Friend of The Village.

To you, No. 6, I say "thank you", raise my Lone Star high and say in a strong steady voice, "For those about to rock, we salute you"!
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The following is a true story. It will be long, potentially rambling, and I hope more than minimally entertaining. So my dear reader, as your doctor I recommend you do what I have just done: wash down a double dose of ibuprofen with a double vodka tonic. Then sit down, relax, and just let it flow. . .

Around noon today I find myself standing outside in the pouring rain. I look back through the window of my classroom and see the television that typically serves as a really big monitor for student computer activities. It's on the radar channel. I watch as the blotches of orange and red move closer and closer to our location on the map. I think it's pretty cool in a geeky way, if not a common sense one, that I'm standing outside in the storm while watching it on the TV radar.

"Why, oh why, oh Good Doctor Noyz," I'm sure you are asking yourself, "are you standing outside in the pouring rain watching the radar channel on television in your classroom"

Well, my dear reader, that is indeed an excellent question.

I am waiting.

I am waiting for a student with extreme autism of some infamy and repute (see here and here). He was not having the best of days.

By student I mean a twenty-one year old six foot tall two hundred some pound man. He is all muscle and has grown up in institutions. That means he's squirrelly. By autism I don't mean the cute Dustin Hoffman Rain Man kind.

A teaching assistant and I have already spent the last hour or so patiently waiting for him to decide that he was tired of lying in a pool of his own urine and change into some clean clothes.

This behavior was his response to a direction to start to work. He sits and feeds old school records into a paper shredder in the classroom. It is a vocational activity that is a well established part of his daily routine. When he is on task, he is an amazing and meticulous paper shredder. Very interesting to watch.

He is obviously not ready to shred paper.

He is, however, ready to go home. He screams something about "bus" and bolts towards the door. When my teaching assistant blocks his path, the student falls to the ground and begins jabbering nonsensically. You can sometimes make out words and phrases, but most of what he says is known only to him. He does this frequently when faced with opposition to one of his ideas. I consider this to be a symptom of an undiagnosed and therefore untreated psychiatric disorder. There are at least four or five people in that one body. Sometimes they argue. And sometimes one of them decides to piss on the other ones.

We wait for him to decide that he was ready to change his clothes. When I ask him to change his clothes he responds by throwing a chair at me. I dodge, but as it is difficult to accurately predict the exact trajectory of a chair when thrown by a very agitated individual with autism who is hardcore freakin', I do not get completely out of the way. AAAGH! A glancing blow below the belt.

One of the basic philosophies I have about working with kids with disabilities, particularly non-verbal or mostly non-verbal kids, is that all behavior has a communicative intent. Every action has a message. The challenge is to interpret the message. Once you figure out the message, you can begin to work on changing undesired or inappropriate behavior by teaching a better way to communicate the message. If you are only trying to change the behavior you are in effect silencing the individual. I am also a something of a disciple of gentle teaching. Liberal hippie crap, yes, but I will always lean towards the liberal hippie side and I've seen it work more times than you can shake a stick at. But I am beginning to digress. . .

So, the message I get is "When you throw a chair at me you are telling me that you are not ready to change out of your urine soaked clothes." I get that message a lot. A tossed chair frequently serves as an assistive technology communication device for this young man. The message changes depending upon the context of the situation.

He also has some verbal language skills. His screams of "no, no, NO! GODAMMIT!" punctuate the tossing of the chair.

Ten or fifteen minutes slowly tick by. Finally, with a little help he changes his clothes, sits down and works for about five minutes. Then it's time to go. His bus is here. He only comes to school for half a day. It's all he can handle and sometimes that's pushing it.

My teaching assistant and I grab a couple of umbrellas and go with the student out into the rain. We cover him with the umbrellas as best we could. We hop to make the fifty or so yard walk to the bus without further incident.

No such luck today.

About ten yards from the door, on a wooden walkway with waist high hand rails they built to make the steps of the backdoor ADA compliant, the student drops to his knees. The walkway runs the length of the building. It has a ramp in the middle. He points and screams at the bus, "The lady! The lady!" He wants the lady bus driver that brought him to school in the morning to get off the bus and come get him. I calmly ask him to get up. There is no lady bus driver on this bus.

Without getting up, the student starts kicking and swinging. He looks a fish flopping around on a wet boat dock. A very big, very irrationally angry, out of control fish. My teacher assistant and I step back out of range of the blows while leaning over as best we can to continue to shield him from the downpour with the umbrellas. This of course, exposes us to the rain.

After a few minutes of this, he tires and calms down. He curls up in the fetal position and starts crying in the rain. We continue to stand out of range, just in case. I frequently wonder what the neighbors think when they witness this sort of spectacle. At least so far he has not removed his pants. As they are now quite wet I begin to wonder how much longer it will be before the pants come off.

Waiting, still waiting. Patience is the most important quality. With this young man acting to quickly will get you attacked.

Waiting. He pulls himself up on his knees. Patience. . . don't say a word. The best analogy I can come up with is imagine having to defuse a ticking bomb everyday. Everyday the wiring changes so you don't have a clue which wire to cut first. The wire you safely cut first yesterday might be the one to blow you up today.

He's on his feet. I ask, "Are you ready to go to the bus?"

Wrong wire. . . BOOM!

He pushs past me and runs down the walkway away from the bus. Shit. I take off after him. He gets 10 yards or so and I pass him. I just want to stop his escape. So I stop. He can no longer go forward. My teaching assistant is right behind him so he can not run back. The student starts swinging as I turn around to avoid being struck in the face. Bam, bam, bam. He pounds on my shoulders, back, and ribs. Contrary to what you might expect, I back up and I move closer, into the blows. I've learned from past experience if you move away he just comes after you. I've also learned that it shortens his swinging distance and decreases the momentum and impact of his hits. Which is not to say it does not hurt.

I shout, "I'm okay!" to prevent my teaching assistant from intervening. I'm trying to de-escalate the situation by not getting anymore people involved. He is behind us both. The student can't go anywhere. The student will burn himself out in a the seeming eternity of a few seconds and fall down. It's part of the pattern, its just what he does.

He resumes the fetal positions and his crying.

Around this time I have a revelation. I must confess it is not an entirely new revelation, I have had it before, but not quite in this context. That really seemed to drive it all home.

I am getting paid the same salary as a special education teacher with the same years of experience who works at an elementary school teaching reading to cute third graders with learning disabilities at an affluent wealthy elementary school across town. I am getting paid the same salary as a special education teacher with the same years of experience who has been on and off a "growth plan" for poor job performance.

And I'm being assaulted by a grown man who doesn't mind lying in his own urine in the middle of the biggest "Wrath of God" type storm we've had all year.

I need a raise.

After another few minutes the Principal walks out, "Are you ready?"

"Well," I say, "he's soaking wet, it's raining and about sixty degrees. We can't let him lie here much longer." By this time a half hour or so has passed. If it were clear and seventy three degrees we would wait for as long as it took. The weather created a situation where we did not have the luxury of waiting nearly as long.

"Alright then," he replies, "let's do this."

In another minute we are joined by another one of my teaching assistants and the two biggest teaching assistants on campus. They also work with aggressive and violent kids with autism.

"On three. . . one. . . two. . . three. . . "

Everybody holds and safely secures a limb or other body part. Six properly trained men lift the student and we walk him down the walkway, across the playground, out the gate, up the steps, and into a seat on the waiting bus.

As we sit the student down in the seat he looks around at everybody and smiles. We just got played.

Yeah, I need a raise. And a hot bath. I'll bet I don't get either one.

Tomorrow I will be back, ready to do it again. It's what I do.
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screaming for vengeance?

No, not just yet. It's more like a polite request for justice.

This will go out in tomorrow's mail:
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Dear Mr. District Attorney,

It is my understanding that your office along with The State Child Protection Agency has an ongoing investigation into the actions of Ms. von Munchausen and her husband, the Physically Abusive Possibly Pedophilic Idiot, the co-executive directors of Ms. von Munchausen's so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs, a now defunct facility primarily for children in foster care with significant medical needs. The facility closed in March 2004 following multiple allegations of child abuse and neglect.

I am the adoptive father and legal guardian of The Boy, a former resident of Ms. von Munchausen's so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs. An incident on March 7, 2004 resulted in his hospitalization and initiated the investigation that lead to the closing of the facility.

In an effort to assist the investigation I wrote your office (letter addressed to an Assistant DA, dated 7/12/2004). The letter contained documentation providing evidence demonstrating a pattern of behavior indicating Ms. von Munchausen abused and injured The Boy on a continuing and ongoing basis. Additional copies of documentation are available upon request.

To date I have received no response from your office.

The Wife and I worked in varying capacities at Ms. von Munchausen's so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs. Through our experience in the facility we have knowledge and information that we feel is important to the investigation. We have expressed this willingness to provide information to an assistant DA of your office as well as to numerous State Child Protection Agency caseworkers and the Local Police Department.

Our offers of assistance remain unanswered.

Several former Ms. von Munchausen's so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs employees have also expressed a willingness to talk to caseworkers and other investigators. To my knowledge, not one person has been contacted by either your office or State Child Protection Agency caseworkers.

Approximately eight months have past with no apparent action. There is a concern that the allegations against Ms. von Munchausen and her husband, the Physically Abusive Possibly Pedophilic Idiot are not being investigated with the proper diligence required by a case involving the potential abuse and neglect of several children.

What is the current status of your office’s investigations regarding the actions of Ms. von Munchausen and her husband, the Physically Abusive Possibly Pedophilic Idiot towards my child, The Boy, and Ms. von Munchausen's so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs?

On at least two occasions Ms. von Munchausen physically injured The Boy and lied to conceal her actions (December 20003 and March 2004). Ms. von Munchausen falsified or created fraudulent documents to conceal her behavior. She provided false information and deceived State Child Protection Agency caseworkers, health care providers, therapists, and other professionals.

These two incidents are consistent with a pattern of behavior Ms. von Munchausen demonstrated from the time The Boy was placed at Ms. von Munchausen's so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs by the State Child Protection Agency in June 2001 until his removal by the State Child Protection Agency in March 2004.

Ms. von Munchausen’s actions seriously endangered and impaired The Boy's physical, mental, and emotional health and development and caused him significant harm.

I am a parent with a grave concern about the conduct of the people the State previously entrusted with caring for my child. I am neither a lawyer nor legal scholar.

However, it seems quite clear that Ms. von Munchausen’s actions are consistent with the offense of INJURY TO A CHILD and ENDANGERING A CHILD as defined by sections 22.04 and 22.041 of the State Penal Code. Furthermore, Ms. von Munchausen’s actions meet the criteria of CHILD ABUSE as defined by section 261.001 of the State Family Code.

Please take action to file criminal charges against Ms. von Munchausen.

Ms. von Munchausen needs to be held accountable for her injurious behavior towards The Boy. I trust that you will do whatever is necessary to ensure that The Boy receives the justice he so richly deserves.

The Wife and I stand ready and willing to assist your office. We look forward to speaking with you or your designated representatives.

I thank you for your time and for your prompt attention to this serious issue.

Sincerely,

The Good Doctor Polymer Noyz
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Politely smiling and nodding while anxiously waiting for the authorities to do something is finally over. As I'm not a vigilante (and o' Lo'dy wouldn't it be a whole lot easier if I was) I must goad, prod, persuade, harass and annoy those with the power to act until they do.

"You don't tug on Superman's cape
You don't spit into the wind
You don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger
And you don't mess around with Jim"

And you don't fuck with my kid.
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Today the judge asked The Wife and I if we thought that it was in The Boy's best interest to remain placed in our home.

"Absolutely." I instantly answered.

The judge asked The Wife and I if we agreed to keep and love The Boy "forever and ever". We glanced quickly at each other held back giggles at the almost childish sound of those words.

"forever and ever" sounds like an affirmation of love in middle school, like it should be written with different colored pens on an elaborately folded and discretely passed piece of notebook paper.

We were somewhat surprised at the complete lack of "legalese" in the question.

It took no time at all to answer, "Yes!"

In less than ten minutes, less than the time it took to complete one of the many forms, it was over. The judge signed the papers, posed for some photographs, and that was it.

The Wife and I are now one hundred percent officially and legally the parents of The Boy!

Tonight, as I write this, a relaxed exhaustion wraps itself around me.

Were it not for the deep exhileration and profound sense of joy it would almost seem anti-climactic for our labors of the past year and a half or so to end so easily and suddenly.

The first chapter in this story has come to the happiest of ends.
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Tomorrow morning the second chapter begins.

The saga of Ms. von Munchausen continues as she has another appearance before a judge in the form of a trial to determine if she will be allowed to maintain contact with one of her former children.

Like always, I will be there, calmly smiling in the back of the courtroom, taking notes. Only now, there is a difference. . .

Since the placement of The Boy last March, The Wife and I have done a whole lot of biting our tongues and simply smiling and nodding. Until this afternoon, The State retained custody and conservatorship of The Boy. Basically, we kept our mouths shut because we could not risk pissing somebody off and give The State cause to rethink their placement decision. We have watched and waited patiently for the past eight months because we did not have the legal standing to do otherwise.

Today that changed. The Boy is ours. Only ours. I have a receipt. (Yes. A receipt. In addition to the various legal documents they gave us a receipt. I thought it odd, it's not like we can return him if he doesn't match our decor.)

Tomorrow I sit in the back of the courtroom as the parent of one of one of Ms. von Munchausen's victims.

I will be silent no longer. It's time to speak up and act out.

Would you, my dear reader, act any differently if someone had systematically abused and neglected your child over a two year period? Damn straight you wouldn't.
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But that's tomorrow.

Right now, I shall go check on my sleeping child one last time before I go to bed and join him and The Wife in the land of dreams.

I have no doubt that tonight I will pause longer than is usual and just spend a moment looking at The Boy, Our Boy, as he sleeps.

As I do so, I will no doubt repeat the familiar refrain:

All for the love of The Boy.
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T minus 7 hours 30 minutes and counting. . .

Can't write, gotta clean the house. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and lots of friends will be here soon.

And remember dear reader, why we do it. . .

All for the love of The Boy.
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Strong words, yes. But true, quite true.

I had not yet begun to 'blog when America's children were lead to the brink of moral destruction by a nipple, so I am somewhat thankful that Monday Night Football has given me a second chance to rant and rage.

I'm quite certain that by now we have all heard the ruckus over this week's opening segment with Nicolette Sheridan and that football player dude.

Well, like most if not all of us, I've had fantasies about Nicolette Sheridan in far less than a towel since The Sure Thing came out. So really, what's the fuss all about?

Personal feelings aside. . .

To those that were upset and outraged:

You fucking piece of shit hypocritical bastards. Having a hard time dealing with a little sex mixed with your celebration of violence? Get the fuck over it. I trust that by now you have all called and written the NFL demanding the scantily clad cheerleaders stop gyrating and get the fuck off the sidelines.

And for the love of Jesus don't let little Timmy see one of them beer ads they show every commercial break. He might want alcohol with his sex and violence. Wait, what's that you're drinking? Ooooh. . . the wages of sin, indeed.

To the media networks that cave to pressure from morally indignant self righteous whiners:

You big fucking pussies. Are you really that afraid of being bitch slapped by Big Brother? Really now. How many millions of people watch Monday Night Football? How many people complained?

Get some balls you money grubbing bastards. Stop pandering to an angry few.

Please, dear reader, pardon my profanity, but it really pisses me off that a group of angry idiots are trying to get the government to decide what is appropriate for television, what ideas are acceptable. Excuse me? The government is going to decide? Now, I ain't never been there, but to me that sounds a bit like how they figure out what's gonna be on the TV in places like North Korea?

I have all the power and authority I need already to control what images come into my home on television. I neither need nor want the government to do it for me.

I have this nifty device called a remote control. If you don't like what's on televsion, well change the damn channel or turn the fucking thing off. No one's making you watch. If you don't want your kid to see it, well, do the same damned thing. Isn't that from Parenting 101?

I thought one of the lessons from 9/11 was about the dangers a group of fanatical religious fundamentalists can pose to a free society.

Moral Majority? My ass. A vocal minority more likely. Focus on the Family? Hey! Dr. Dickhead, sorry Dobson, focus on your own damn family and stop trying to mess with mine. Stop trying to decide what's best for me. Stop trying to decide what is or is not appropriate for me and my family.

Until that day comes, I can only conclude that you and your ilk fall into both camps of this posting's title.

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Thursday we finalize, er "consummate", the adoption of The Boy.

The Wife and I started this process in September 2003, with the state mandated class for prospective foster and adoptive parents (for tales brave adventure from the class see here and here).

At that time The Wife was not yet my wife, still just a girlfriend. We didn't have a plan. Hell, we didn't even have a clue. We didn't know who to trust.

We did, however, have a most definite goal: The Boy.

Ah, The Boy! A goal, yes. We were also blessed with the love and support of dozens of friends and family members. For that we are eternally grateful.

We learned from the class that being married would help. January 3, 2005 will be our first anniversary.

Now, around fourteen months after we threw ourselves into it, it has all come to pass. It should almost go without saying that there have been ups and there have been downs.

But throughout it all, we never wavered or lost sight of the goal: The Boy.

Which is almost ironic.

I recall the day back in June of 2001 when The Wife then girlfriend, came home from working her shift as a child-care worker at Ms. von Munchausen's so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs and told me that Ms. von Munchausen had brought home a new baby, only 10 days old.

I told her to quit right then, to leave, to walk out and don't come back.

The Wife then girlfriend had been contemplating quitting for months. She was fed up with Ms. von Munchausen, and felt powerless to stop her abuse and neglect of the children. She was powerless. Literally dozens of calls the staff made to the State Child Protection Agency went with minimal investigation and no impact. She stayed for the same reason most of the staff stayed, as a buffer to protect the children as best as they could. But you can only take so much before breaking. The stress was really wearing her down.

I told her that the new baby was a ploy by Ms. von Munchausen to draw her back and convince her not to quit.

Which, in a way, I suppose it was.

(And through her decision to bring in The Boy, Ms. von Munchausen began a chain of events which ultimately brought about her downfall. This, Ms. Morrissette, unlike a bug in your wine, really is ironic. Don'cha think? Heh heh heh.)

And it worked. The Wife then girlfriend did not quit. She stayed and took care of and loved the new baby.

Over the course of a year and a half, the new baby grew into The Boy.

She brought him to our home for the first time in March 2003. She placed him in my lap as I sat in this very chair at this very desk and worked on a monumental task. I had met The Boy, of course, but this was the first real time I ever spent with him.

It changed me.

I witnessed how this child who was allegedly blind attended to the computer screen as he sat in my lap. I witnessed how this child who was allegedly deaf not only responded to people's voices, but responded differently to different people's voices.

I began to see the potential that previously only The Wife then girlfriend saw.

The Wife then girlfriend and I realized that if this child with significant disabilities, The Boy, was going to have any chance at all to really learn and grow to his fullest potential it was with us. Period. We were it.

Sure, there were others who saw the promise of The Boy: therapists, other staff, and a nurse who remains and is just as much family to The Boy as we are. But none were in a position to act. It was literally up to us. If we did not act, no one would.

The Boy would remain as a curiousity in Ms. von Munchausen's so-called Home. He would continue to be so greatly defined and described by his deficits and disabilities few would ever see the beautiful child within.

(I still hear Ms. von Munchausen's grating voice echo with a snicker in my head, talking to visitors and potential donors, "he can't [insert verb here: see, hear, feel, know, etc.]. . . he doesn't have a brain. . .")

So, it's not like we really wanted a child. Cuz' really, at the time, we didn't.

We just happened to find one who needed us. Subsequently, he made us realize that we needed him.

For that we are eternally grateful.

And in three days time, The Boy will legally become what he has been all along: My son.
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If you want Arnold to become President. . . JOIN US!

Again, I repeat: no, no, no, not now, not ever.

Following on the heels of dubya's call for a Constitutional amendment to define marriage, a group of concerned citizens are trying to revive and keep alive Senator Hatch's plan to amend the Constitution to allow The Gropinator ("If you do not support me I will squeeze your buttocks until they pop like grapes!") the opportunity to run for President of the United States.

I may be making a broad generalization, but I think this smacks of hypocrisy.

Many of those that proudly label themselves "conservative" are promoting radical changes to the most sacred document of our republic to meet their social and political ends.

That is not a very conservative idea.
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Yes, for the blessed love of Mary, Mother of Jesus, please help me.

(or "take a brief peek into the mind of The Good Doctor Noyz")

A cold front literally blew through town today. The chill of Autumn finally hangs in the November air.

This evening at the house was going pretty much like any other.

Like last night, I was in the kitchen cooking dinner. The Wife was giving The Boy a bath.

The Boy has a very plush oversized bathrobe My Mother made (yes made! She even embroidered his name on it) for her new and sudden if not wholly unexpected Grandchild last spring. Very plush, because My Mother recognizes and demands quality. Oversized, because her midwestern farmer's daughter roots make her a very practical woman and she wants The Boy to get a couple year's use out of it.

As The Wife was taking The Boy out of the bath, she said something about it being cool because it's Fall, and she forgot to grab The Boy's robe to put on him when she removed him from the tub.

This is my thought process:

In the Fall forgot the robe. . .

You know where this is going, right?

Yes, that's correct. . . Straight to Bette Midler, because it's almost like

"in the spring becomes the rose".

AAAGH! Make it stop! For the past four freaking hours I've had that stupid song playing in my head. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over.

Except the whole song is not playing in my head because thankfully I don't know all the freakin' words. Which is hard to believe because the damn song has been around for-freaking-ever. Hell, you can't hardly go to a wedding without hearing it played near the end of the reception after the cake has been cut and everyone has gotten a little liquored up at the expense of the bride's father.

Does that make it stop? Does that make it less annoying?

No! Because the music is still playing. But in the places where I don't remember all the damn lyrics I hear Bette Midler mumbling. Yeah, that's a sexy sound.

And the recurring image to go with it: Kramer's Macaroni Midler!

So please, my dear reader, make it stop! MAKE IT STOP! Help me! HELP ME!
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but who?

Was it Arafat?



Or Ringo?



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This evening was a typical weeknight of domestic bliss at the ol' Noyz household. I was dutifully cleaning up the dishes following dinner as The Wife and The Boy adjourned to the bedroom to put away some laundry.

The televison was on. It is almost always on. I was born in a house with a television always on. As it's Wednesday, we were patiently awaiting this week's new episode of Law & Order.

Television is a guilty pleasure, yes I realize, that rots your brain and saps your creativity. But with three hundred plus digital stations of quality entertainment with CD quality audio! C'mon man, are you made of stone? How could you not be enticed?

And really, it's still healthier than spending my evenings leaning on a bar with a never empty pint glass in one hand and an always burning Camel Light in the other. Such was life before The Wife and The Boy.

So cut me some slack on the whole TV thing, won'cha?

If, my dear reader, you have concerns regarding my media consumption I must tell you that I am trying to get over my AM talk radio addiction by spending more time listening to NPR. Perhaps it's only post election burnout and so will pass, but it has (finally?) occurred to me that a reasonable person can only listen to so many ignorant and/or angry conservative white people bitch, gloat, or whine in varying degrees and combinations.

But I digress. . . back to the TV thing. . .

So while I'm in the kitchen I hear this commericial. I hear it because I swear some sorry bastard that deserves a punch right in the god damned mouth is hiding somewhere cranking a volume knob to eleven everytime a program goes to a commericial break to make sure we hear a word from their sponsors.

First I hear a bunch of old hippies singing this song about taking a load off Fanny, who ever the fuck she is. I don't know, don't care, but I think "Hey! Old hippie party music. . . this has potential to be cool. . . I wonder what type of car I am supposed to go buy."

Then I hear something about seeing "more bars in more places". The voice in the ad repeats the phrase several times. More bars in more places? That sounds like the campaign slogan of a candidate for city council that I could have really supported. Sweet!

More bars in more places means more competition which ultimately benefits the consumer with greater choice which leads to lower prices, i.e. . . better drink specials and happy hour deals. It's all about the free market, baby!

And that's a solid conservative value.

Cool! I walk around the corner from the kitchen into our living room for a view of the television so I can better witness where this new bounty can be found.

Damn those marketing sons of bitches! I've just been sucker punched by the media. It's a freakin' ad for a cell phone company!
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The fact that people take the time from their otherwise busy and meaningful lives to read the mostly late night rantings of a slightly-drunken (yes! but on what? alcohol, love, sleep deprivation) madman continues to amaze and humble The Good Doctor Noyz.

So, I thank you all. And I beseech thee in the bowels of Christ to keep reading.

It is even more amazing to me that on ocassion my ramblings are insightful (or inciteful, whatever the case may be) to move you, my dear reader, to "work with me people" or "c'mon baby, give me some more" and share your thoughts with me in return.

So, I thank you all. And I beseech thee in the bowels of Christ to keep commenting.

Recently, I received a comment from one her calls herself "sageness" but to me will always be "The Iglet". I love her dearly, and although she is not my child, her mother spent much of The Iglet's early adolescence and teenage years only half-jokingly suggesting I take and keep her.

She is my god-daughter. And she knows about the very bad people that put a chip in my head, oh yeah. The Iglet reminds me of the daughter I could have had were it not for the two hundred dollars I borrowed from a friend almost twenty summers past.

Ah, the sweet folly of youth.

The Iglet aka sageness, struck upon a great idea for world peace.

Yes, that's correct, you read that properly, your eyes did not deceive you, WORLD PEACE.

I am repeating her idea right here, in this forum, so that the world will be better informed of its Path to Salvation.

The Good Doctor Noyz proudly presents The Iglet's sure-fire guaranteed plan for WORLD PEACE that "could even start a revolution within feminism and pot-heads. THINK ABOUT IT!!"

Peace on earth:

Women: "Hit this and shut the fuck up!"

Men: "Okay"

Think about it.
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God! Don'cha just luv'em!

I have ever since I first read The Illuminatus! Trilogy way back during my first year at The University. If my parents had any idea what was in the book they gave me for Christmas that year. . .

So I've got a new conspiracy theory now.

Or, at least I would like to think it is a new one. It'd be nice to beat Drudge with something.

There's this big thing now about Arafat in the news. Is he alive? No, he's dead. Is he dead? No, he's still hangin' on.

Whatever. Right?

Cuz really, do we care?

Hell no! We're 'Mericans for Chris'sakes. If there's one thing we've learned from dubya it's that 'Mericans pretty much don't give a crap about them damn Ay-rabs.

So long as we can get the oil so's we can practice our God given right to crawl down an overcrowded suburban freeway in our freakin' SUV with the DVD player in the back so the kids can be numbed by Nemo while reinforcing the lesson that life happens on a screen and not outside the window.

But I digress. . .

Here now. . . briefly and slightly drunkenly. . . is my minor conspiracy theory about Yasser Arafat:

He's dead.

Period. That's it. The end. Arafat has left the building.

Yasser Arafat has been dead for many hours if not quite yet days.

Yes, my dear reader, while I do not wish that the Shadow of Death darken anyone's doorway, the conspiracy theorist in me wishes to shout out to the world" "Yasser Arafat is dead!"

Which is in a way exactly what I am doing now.

Assuming that's true (and please just bear with me for a few more minutes), where they gonna put him now?

You see, the answer to that question is the crux of my conspiracy theory.

Arafat's been dead for awhile now. The Palestinians and the Israelis are negotiating what to do with the body.

I've learned from NPR there's an Islamic custom about burying the dead within 24 hours.

I don't think it takes a degree in political science to begin to understand just how pissed off the Palestinians will be if the Israelis interfere with one of Islam's customs when it comes to one of their most revered leaders. You can't break tradition without expecting all Hell to break loose, right?

Well, apparently, Arafat wishes to be buried in Jerusalem. The Israeli's say, "no."

So officially, Yasser Arafat will remain alive for as long as it takes the Israelis and the Palestinians to agree on what to do with his body.

Unofficially. . . oooh, it's gettin' kinda stanky.

And that's my big current events conspiracy theory. I thank you for your time.
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(or "Terri Leo needs a good bitch-slapping")*

You can always tell the publishers of textbooks what they can and can't publish.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, The SBOE isn't actually ordering or demanding that the publisher make the changes. No. That would apparently be against Texas law. It's not like that at all. The publisher is doing it voluntarily.

Yeah, right. . .

In this scenario the Texas SBOE is little more than a wealthy and therefore highly influential john dictating to the publishing prostitutes how they gotta shake their moneymakers.

Please allow me a local colloquialism, but it freakin' chaps my hide that a politician (and therefore, by definition, an arrogant egotistical self-serving bastard; or bitch, whatever the case may be) is allowed to dictate the contents of a textbook to a publisher.

If that doesn't actually cross the line of censorship it certainly skates it with one leg and both hands in the air.

It sounds at though Terri Leo's delusional belief in the Great Homosexual Conspiracy is impacting her ability to make rational decisions.

I, for one, feel naught but compassion for Ms. Leo.

I hope she quickly refills and resumes taking her thorazine to get her paranoid schizophrenia under control before she attempts more decisions and further imposes her ignorant narrow minded view of reality upon children.
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* it's just an expression, not an incitement to act violently, it's just an incitement to act.
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Porn Video Shown To Third-Graders During Civics Lesson

Officials at a North Texas school say an Election Day civics lesson for some third-graders inadvertently included a sexually explicit videotape.

Some students at Johnson Elementary School in Southlake saw the video as they were leaving an auditorium Tuesday. School district officials said teachers had removed an unmarked tape from a video player and played a lesson on the three branches of government.

Afterward, a teacher returned the original video to the VCR. That adult video -- which included pornographic images -- began playing as teachers led students out of the auditorium.
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Okay, I know my dear reader, that we are all really sick of this topic and on some level are all relieved that it is finally over. However, I have a few more thoughts to share. I'll be brief.

Much as I tried, I could not bring myself to vote for Kerry. The lesser of two evils is still evil. Not that he's evil. It's just a metaphor. However, I am disheartened and disappointed, although sadly not surprised by the outcome of the election. (I am surprised it's over. I thought for sure the drama would drag on for a few weeks.)

That being said. . .

What the fuck just happened here? How? Why?

Granted, my animosity towards the reign of dubya turned personal last May, when the current regime turned the life of a friend and coworker upside down and caused her to flee in fear of her life.

But really now America, come the fuck on! How? Why?

This afternoon I heard an editor of "The New Yorker" magazine on the radio. He too, is quite baffled by the election results. But he had an interesting take, he reflected it back on himself. In essence, he took some responsibility.

He called it a "failure of the imagination" that he could not understand how the majority of people could vote for dubya. He also suggested it is a "failure of the imagination" for those who most strongly support dubya to villify and dehumanize those with differing viewpoints.

He's right, you know. As was Jon Stewart on "Crossfire".

Debate, discourse and discussion have been replaced by the fine art of screaming talking points at each other.

The marketplace of ideas is being put out of business by a philosophical Wal-Mart: mass-produced and mass-marketed ideas lacking in substance but slickly packaged and cheaply priced. Have an unpopular or controversial opinion? Not here you won't.

Is that what has happened? Is this what is becoming of us?
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My dear reader, I have a confession to make which I'm sure you will find as difficult to believe now as I did then: I was not one of the "popular" people in high school. I did not hang with the "in" crowd.

In fact, I can only remember one time when someone from the upper social strata of adolescence noticed me at all. Although her name escapes me (which goes to show how memorable it was) a cheerleader (yes, a CHEERLEADER!) spoke to me. It was during the Great American Smokeout back around what must have been 1983. This was back when it was okay for kids to smoke, the school had a smoking section, and a pack of cigarettes cost fifty cents.

I recognized then it was pity, not compassion that motivated her.

I was a ribbon she could pin on her oh so tight cheerleader sweater to show off to her friends.

But what the fuck did I care, I was a horny teenage boy (redundant, I realize). For one glorious day of my high school career hot chicks in short cheerleader skirts or tight jeans talked to me in the hallways and gave me candy in between classes.

[Yeah, and it really worked. Although tt's no longer a habit, or a daily or even weekly affair, I just came back inside from a smoke break. It's election night. I'm feeling a little tense.]

She used me for the day then discarded me. Although in my mind I knew better, in my heart I believed for one brief moment that she might have actually liked me for me. Foolish boy.

I watched with envy as the most affluent and the most popular drove the best cars, had the best toys, had the best parties and ruled school society.

I had the feeling, that somehow, I was being cheated, that despite my parent's teachings, opportunity and success had no real connection with hardwork, intelligence and creativity. Sure, sometimes you got lucky, but mostly it boiled down to "who's your daddy?"

It was a feeling of envy, yes, and also one of anger at the injustice and unfairness of it all.

Like all of us, I somehow survived the social trauma of being on the lower rungs of the high school caste system and went of to The University.

At The University I was introduced to a new caste system: fraternities. Although I was tempted by the bribes of gratuitious amounts of alchohol, I was not persuaded to purchase friendship.

And again I watched as the rich and the popular drove the best cars, had the biggest parties, wielded the most power on campus and seemed to get the best jobs upon graduation. Connection has its rewards as again it seemed to boil down to "who's your daddy?"

As the night drags on and I watch the election returns come in, those old feelings simmer up again. As I sit and I watch, I see a son of privilege with his daddy's connections and his granddaddy's fortune, a spoiled hard-partying fratboy telling half of America to fuck off with a smug snicker.


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"let the fray begin"

Hmm. . . let's think about this for a few minutes and ponder the lyrical wisdom of the The Good Doctor on the Drum Kit.

Prince Bytor, a "Centurion of Evil, The Devil's Prince". . . Bush?

Although I can't confirm it, it sounds reasonable, and somehow intuitively correct. Yes, I'll go with it.

Snow Dog, "ermine glowing in the damp night". . . ermine? What the fuck is that?

Oh, I see it's a weasel of northern regions. . . Kerry?

That could be right. After all, he is from Massachusetts. Some have described him as a "flip-flopper", that sounds pretty darn weasely. Okay, I'll go along with it also.

Will the land of the Overworld be saved again?
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This morning I attended a review hearing on the status of four of the children who formerly resided with Ms. von Munchausen at her So-Called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs.

Things did not go her way.

The Boy is not in any way involved in this drama. I go just to stay informed and because it humors me to see Ms. von Munchausen scowl and squirm before the judge. And I made a promise to myself when this mess began that anytime that woman was going to be in court I would be there mostly just watching, hopefully someday as a witness for the prosecution.

The four children involved were kids that Ms. von Munchausen and her husband, the Physically Abusive Possibly Pedophilic Idiot, either had custody of, or shared custody with the State Child Protection Agency.

Three of the children they basically just abandoned.

These were children they raised from infancy. They are all between ten and twelve. Abuse and abandon, the bitch and the bastard. They need to be held accountable for their actions.

They are not even trying to regain custody. To some degree in all the cases Ms. von Munchausen and her husband appear to be simply going along with the State Child Protection Agency's plan to eventually terminate custodial rights. This prevents information from the case files being read in open court. If they contest it, it gets discussed in court. Not contesting allegations keeps the family secrets secret. They are not doing it because they believe it best for the children. They are doing it because it is best for their reputation.

Ms. von Munchausen is fighting for the fourth child, a girl who her therapist reported is much better off and behaved when Ms. von Munchausen is not around. It is as though Ms. von Munchausen's presence is a toxin in the air. She poisons the child whenever she comes near. The State Child Protection Agency is moving to stop her visits with the child. Ms. von Munchausen is contesting this. There will be a trial in a few weeks to resolve the issue. There will be another trial this coming spring which should end with the complete termination of Ms. von Munchausen's parental rights.

All four of their young lives are in terrible disarray. They have lost the only home and family, however disfunctional, they have ever known. They have been moved multiple times since March. Three of the four will most likely have lifelong psychiatric issues. Ms. von Munchausen and her husband have permanently damaged the mental health of those children.

The fourth has significant disabilities like The Boy. Since her liberation from the evil clutches of Ms. von Munchausen she, like The Boy, is doing better than anyone ever imagined possible. The child cried when she last saw Ms. von Munchausen and then smiled when her new foster mother appeared in response to her cries.

One interesting detail emerged from the hearing. Apparently, several thousand dollars of federal assistance that was paid to one of the children over the years is missing. The judge ordered an audit of Ms. von Munchausen's finances and demanded an accounting of the missing funds. The hearing to discuss that has been scheduled for February. It is already on my calendar. That should be very entertaining.

It was over in less than an hour. My eyes seldom left Ms. von Munchausen or her husband, the Physically Abusive Possibly Pedophilic Idiot. I know they saw me. The courtroom was not so big and crowded that my presence would go unnoticed. But they never looked my way once. Not once.

Perhaps that is because out of the corners of their eyes they could see me smiling.
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