bring the noyz

Here's to The Wife!

After two long years of school and the most difficult exam ever, The Wife is now officially a Registered Nurse!

Yeah!

Wanna send her congratulations?
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- from the Daily Kos. . .


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"Aaron Spelling. . . died yesterday at his home in Los Angeles. He was 83."






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is how the subject line read on the electronic correspondence I recently sent to many in response to some devastating news:

The Back Room to close

I continued thusly. . .

. . . of a legendary era. . .

The month of July will bring many changes indeed, my brethren.

And like you, I wept upon reading the news.

The sad demise of The Back Room gives rise to the inevitable question of "Now where will those that still adorn themselves in ripped-up and sleeveless Molly Hatchet t-shirts go for entertainment and a couple of pitchers of cheap swill after slaving all day for The Man?"

That is a question for the ages, and not the focus of this correspondence.

We must reunite our forces for one last time, and with the last cheap tequila shot filled gasps of our dying youth, we must solicit sexual favors from strippers who are celebrating just getting off the day shift with enough cash to score a bump before hitting the town.

Just for the fuck of it.

It is the only thing to do. You know it is true. Just admit it.

Change is envitable. Accepting it does not have to be.

There are other much bigger changes in store for me, and my sweet family.

As I type these words I am looking down on an envelope which contains a copy of a contract to purchase a house. We are scheduled to close on July 7.

With an optimistic northwards look I will sadly be leaving behind my beloved South side after living south of the river since that sum'va'bitch Reagan was in office. They said he was a nice man and all, maybe his advisors were confused.

Our future new home lies to the north, near the edge of the city but certainly not sprawling on its fringes.

It's freakin' cool.

As Marley sang, "don't worry 'bout a thing, 'cause every little thing's gonna be all right"

- The Good Doctor Polymer Noyz
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I was going to write about something else. I was going to write the next chapter in our house hunting saga.

I was going to do so, and so I did. Until just a few moments ago. Then I realized that I could not possibly finish that posting today because the story I am telling has yet to be finally told.

So I will finish that one later.

Tonight I want to write about this:

Above the fireplace a large photograph hangs. It is a photo that dates from somwhere around the turn of the century. The last one, not the one that just happened. It is a photo of my triple great-grandparents. They appear old, nearing the end of their days. They do not smile, because no one had yet thought to say "cheese" prior to taking a picture.

Or maybe it was just the style at the time. Either way. . .

But still, they look serene, they look content. And yes, Mr. Walsh, I assure you that without ever having a limo to ride in the trunk they still appear as though life has been very good to them so far.

As I understand and somewhat drunkenly recall the story. . .

My great-grandparents took pretty much the only things they could carry, climbed on a friggin' boat and sailed from their old world to their new one. They then made it half-way across to the heartland of a fucking continent. They somehow miraculously managed to find each other and start something that continues to this day and courses through my hands as I type these words.

I have a history. I am but a brief link in the hopefully endless drama of my DNA.

Which comedian joked about how water created humans as a vessel to move it around? I can not remember.

But I digress. . .

They travelled half-way (okay, maybe one-third, or perhaps a very generous fourth) across the world.

They did it. They made it. It was just fine.

Why should I have anxiety about moving across town?
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Who'da thunk it? Certainly not I.

About an hour ago The Wife and I just filled out the paperwork to make an official offer for a 4 bedroom 2 bath house with beautiful trees oak trees and a very spacious yard. One of the current residents uses a wheelchair so that house has already been somewhat modified to accomodate an individual with disabilities. Not quite perfect for The Boy, but good enough to start.

Due to the hopefully expert guidance of our realtor, we think the house is priced a little high. So we offered a little low. That's just how the game is played. Hopefully over the course of the next few days we can meet in the middle.
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We need one. We want one. It is just plain fucking time for one.

We have begun to look.

Today the search continues, back into the old 'hood and other neighborhoods south-side.
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From the Department of News From My Ancestral Homeland:

Des Moines' well-endowed flood control
















I feel kinda sorry for those poor folks that live in the discharge zone.
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"Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit drinking." - Steve McCroskey

Not that I really tried all that hard. At the time it sure seemed like a good idea.

I'm not ready to make nice,
I'm not ready to back down,
I'm still mad as hell
And I don't have time
To go round and round and round

Yes, yes, I know. . . it's The Dixie Chicks

I quote them primarily in honor of my dear friend Bishop Groove, who if by chance is reading this stone-cold sober will wretch in disgust while intentionally forgetting that recently in a grassy 40 soaked haze I briefly convinced him that the album was worth buying because Rick Rubin produced it.

It was a very brief moment, but still. . . maybe next time.

None the less, the sentiment fits.

I am still mad as hell.

I don't even know where to begin. And that's just part of the fucking problem.

This morning while leaving for another day of teaching during the first week of summer school (ESY for the special educationally inclined), I stopped to check yesterday's mail. It was still fresh in the box.

A letter.

"A letter? In the mail? How shocking!" you are doubtlessly thinking to yourself right now, my dear reader. Well please spare me your fucking sarcasm 'cuz it's been about fifteen fucking hours and I'm still really not in the fucking mood.

It was from the State Board of Nursing Examiners (the BNE). It was about the fate of Ms. von Munchausen.

Wait. No.

I don't want to fucking do this. I don't want to think about it, and I don't want to write about it. I'm tired of feeling like I'm trying to slay a fucking windmill.

Or like I'm sounding like that one kid in the teen slasher films who knows about the killer but just sounds fucking crazy talking himself blue in the goddamned face trying to convince the other kids there's a psycho-crazy-assed killer outside.

But today's letter made it official. The System failed.

Government failed. It failed totally. It failed miserably. It failed most dispicably.

And it failed at it's most precious responsibility: protecting the children.

Yes, the children. You remember the children? You remember those same damn kids that the self-fellating politicians are always chattering on about saving, educating or protecting with each passage of their increasingly totalitarian and Draconion legislation.

I have long since lost faith in the regulatory and law enforcement agencies given the power and authority to put things right. They never found enough evidence of wrongdoing and outright fucking evil because despite press reports at the time, they neither really fucking looked nor asked those who saw. My screams for help fell on deaf ears.

The bastards.

But until this morning, one small glimmer of Hope remained, timidly standing on the edge of the Pandora's box that began this whole affair.

The BNE. The BNE will not fail us. They are quite hard-core. I have heard from other nurses that they are not to be trifled with. We know nurses whom they have stricken down for far far less offenses.

You may recall, my dear reader, that 2 fucking years ago, yes two fucking years, The Wife and I wrote a rather lengthy and highly detailed complaint outlining the crimes of Ms. von Munchausen against The Boy.

We sent it to the District Attorney. He is doubtlessly a good man, but in the interest of his legacy in his waning days, he chose to focus a large portion of his attention and his assets on catching the big fish apparently at the expense of some of the smaller ones.

So nothing happened. Even after my angry phone call. Ob-la-di, ob-la-da.

But the BNE, yes the BNE. They read, they called. They listened. There were meetings and subpeonas for records. There was a tone of guarded and cautious optimism in our cause.

Over the months the investigation more than doubled in size from our original complaints and involved literally tens of thousands of pages of documents on dozens of her victims, the children.

And quarterly, every three months since, I received a letter in the mail informing me that it was still a very active and ongoing investigation and I would be notified with the results at the end.

Well. . .

The results came today.

Fuck. Bitch. God Mother Fucking Damn.

The Bitch got off.

She got off with what a reassuring investigator described to a borderline irrational and quite angry caller this morning as the adult equivalent of something that "will go down on your Permanent Record".

Like that was a good thing.

Remedial Education? What the fuck is that? She has to take a fucking class!

And I am angry. And I am tired. And I am frustrated beyond words at the incompetence, ineptness, and inability of our governenment to do their damned fucking jobs.

And I fucking need for this to end.

But it won't end. It can't end because the memory of her nearly fatal attack on The Boy is still as fresh in my mind as though it happened yesterday. She gagged him with a suction catheter, a long narrow tube connected to a vacuum and literally sucked the air out of him until he stopped breathing. She hurt him. She hurt him bad. She hurt him with malice and cold-hearted reptilian intent. A few months prior to that she burned his arm with a curling iron and then lied to investigators and falsified documents to conceal her behavior. She has not been held accountable for her crimes.

Justice delayed is Justice denied.

And it's been accruing interest for two fucking years.

It is now 100% official that in the eyes of The Man this case is closed.

No, damn it no! It is not closed, but what options remain? I do not know. I am disheartened.

The Man is a Rotten Bastard.

And The Bitch, well. . . she can eternally fuck off.

As always, now and forever. . .

All for the love of The Boy.
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