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Visual Orphans® Volume One Issue Two Tuesday, April 15, 2003 Editor/Columnist: Graphic Design: Columnists: Sister Eye Ride, Gwen
Behr |
Table of Contents: Quote of the Day This Week in History From The Inkwell Word of Mouse The Clan of |
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Quote of the Day: "Someone's
opinion of you is none of your business." |
This Week in History: 1873- Colfax massacre in 1919-
Emiliano Zapata, Mexican revolutionary, ambushed. |
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From The Inkwell By Dear
Long Tall Susie, or Current Occupant~ It is
fifteen past the hour of one, on a Tuesday morning, sucking on a cough drop,
I begin thinking of the story that I want to tell you. Once upon a time, and all
good stories start with "Once Upon a Time," there lived an angry
little cowboy named Cactus Jack, who lived at the edge of the forest in a
place called Tejas. While he was growing up, Cactus
Jack read a whole bunch of Old West comics, until he was old enough to read
Louis L'mour, and Shane. Under great
pressure from his Nazi-supporting family, Cactus Jack began to dream of being
the president of the Disunited States of ShameriKKKa,
which he told to his rich father, who was then the head of the Central Intelligence
Agency. "Give
me a few years, and I can promise you an election, or two," his father
said, and eventually Cactus Jack's dream came true. It did not take long for
Cactus Jack to pay back the debts that he had with the oil and electricity
barons that had loaned him the Lear jet and fancy telephone shaped like a
dollar sign. At this point in the story, it is important to introduce a
conflict, a quest, or something to add motion to the narrative. No fairy tale
is complete without a villain, so Cactus Jack's old buddy and his famous
father's archrival, Sad Ham stomps onto the stage, from stage right, making
sure not to trip over any landmines that may have been set, while he was
sleeping. Yawning, and stretching his arms, Sad Ham blinks his eyes under the
hot lights. He scratches his belly, and the audience gasps in horror at his
ugliness. Cactus
Jack, his heart filled with false courage and adolescent rage, glares at Sad
Ham. Knowing that all of the Good Guys win against some of the Bad Guys,
Cactus Jack begins to taunt and threaten Sad Ham, hoping to get Sad Ham angry
enough to want to draw his pistol of mass destruction. "Better
stop that, right now, or I am going to pound you," Cactus Jack
threatens. Sad Ham looks at him through sad and weary eyes. "There is
nothing that you can do to me, today, which you did not do to me, yesterday
and fourteen years of the day before," Sad Ham replies, with a look of
discern written across his face. "You
are not playing fair," Cactus Jack says, as he dramatically crosses his
arms, and sits down in a huff. "You are supposed to let me win, or I am
going to take all my toys home, and you will not be able to play with
them." "You
are such a tease," Sad Ham retorts, while pulling off his pajamas and
slipping into his military uniform. "If I did not know any better, I
would say that you are looking for a scapegoat on a silver platter to take
home to your daddy." "Oh,
yeah, well my dad is richer than your dad, who was born a goat, but had that
operation that turns you into an Indian. Cactus
Jack and Sad Ham have us worried. Everything is happening too quickly with an
almost sterile precision. Cactus Jack, with his posse of well-armed bullies, strolls
into "I have been framed,"
Sad Ham exclaims. "These vigilantes are just upset with me for changing
my stocks and bonds from their bank to another. They are simply acting the
fool, this bunch of Mafiosos let loose against the
world."
Nobody can stop Cactus Jack when he throws a temper tantrum. He will
stomp, kick and scream for hours on end, even threaten to hold his breath
until he turns blue. He is a nightmare to take out into public, with his
childish tyrannical tirades and unpredictable behavior. None of his family
ever volunteers for babysitting duty. "We hate
everything French, now. There will not be any more French fries, toast, wine,
bread or kissing, in the name of Freedom, American-style. God bless AmeriKKKa."
The amount of nationalistic-based racism is amazing because of the
depth and sheer force that perpetuates the dissimulation of disinformation.
Beginning with a fresh and exciting Caesar Fell Swiftly salad, Ignorance will be served with a side dish of Fear and Injustice, as
the main course for the evening.
"You cannot blame people for being ill-informed on the truth, in
these matters. They are simply repeating what they are hearing and reading in
the Real World."
"I am thinking that we need to send the Statue of Liberty back to
the French, with an apology note attached to it. We are not mature enough to
practice concepts that we do not understand, like "We
are looking forward to that Wal-mart sweatshop that
will be on the <to be continued> |
Word of Mouse By
Sister Eye Ride Do you remember when you were a child?
It was an exciting day when you knew you would be going to an amusement park.
It didn't matter what the name was (for me, the fondly remembered Kennywood)-- you knew that you were going to spin, twirl,
go up and down, eat ice-cream, and generally laugh at everyone and
everything. Well, being BiPOLAR
is like being at an amusement park, against your will. You have no special
desire to go up and down, nor to laugh, or to cry, or spin,
or twirl. But it happens. It is not amusing
to those of us with this disorder. It develops. It happens to hundreds, thousands,
practically millions of us worldwide. BiPOLAR disorder is not imaginary, it is REAL.
It is invisible, until you have interacted with someone having this disorder.
You may encounter an individual racing and screaming about his/her shoelace not tying correctly. You may
encounter a friend who is so severely depressed, he contemplates suicide, or worse yet, tries it...succeeds, or does not. We are everywhere. We are every
age. We don't know your color, we don't care about
your background. A site that is helpful, is Pendulum Resources.org. Already this tells you
that swinging is not a sexual thing, and it isn't a
picnic. Meds. Guinea
Pigs. What do these have in common with 'tweaking'? Well, some meds
work. Some do not. Since we are so different bio-chemically, one medication
that works well for Sue, will not affect Peter, or Paul at all. Then,
there is ECT. If the medication pendulum does not
provide sufficient relief, we can electrocute your brain. Sound
drastic? Sure it is. Drastic times can call for drastic measures. What do I think? Originally
diagnosed as clinically depressed, an SSRI, buproprion (Wellbutrin) became
my saving grace. However, over time, this medication's side
effects (including migraines) left me seeking yet another 'grace'. Ah, back
to guinea pigs, tweaking, and our different biochemical make-ups. The current
regimen for me is known in
the BP world, as a 'cocktail.' It is a mix of this and that. Kind of like
what my brain is. Mixes of thises and thats. I take Risperdal (1/2 mg. twice daily), Paxil
(30mg. /20mg. in morning and 10mg. at night), Clonazepam
(0.5mg up to 1.5mg daily as needed) and Ambien
(5mg. each night) for sleep. Weeeee. Up and
downers for my ups and downs. Side
effects? YEP! Can't sleep, can't wake up, too happy, too sad. Plateaus?
YEP. Some days, no event strikes a mood. Tweaking? This is my current therapy,
which is not to say it will still work next month. ECT? No
way. Not for me. Fear?
Always. Will it end? Probably not.
Can it be controlled? Most likely.
It requires you to understand yourself, and to communicate as often and as
much as necessary to friends, and family, and caretakers. It requires
medication. It requires at the very least, HOPE. I still have HOPE, believe it or not. |
The
Clan of By
Gwen Behr Before continuing on, spend a moment to take a deep
breath and remember that cliche your dad would
always rant... In the tri-county area my Father
is infamous for what he would bellow at my four older brothers and I,
"You jackasses don't know how easy you have it growing up in Thrice Johannes would rhetorically ask, "What are
we?" German would be first imitating Father's voice, secondly Italian
mimicking our mother's mannerisms and gestures complete with the Virginia
Slim Menthol 100 (never smoked just held), concluding in English over
Americanizing each syllable as we gallivanted about like John Wayne. "When we're slightly bad and the ownership shifts
to Mother's guilty blame we are dagos," Hanaas
would chime in speaking Italian acting like he was
in a Florentine Cafe. The Twins would jump up and goose-step around the living
room chanting, "When we are good and Father is proud without a reason of
shame, we are Specimens of German Perfection!" Yes, you guessed it! In Deutsche. "You boys are examples that cocks make a person a wanker! You have it all wrong!!
We are nothing more than five ungrateful Kraut-Dago Mutts!!!"
using English I would always finalize as I lit a ciggie
or recline the recliner if not already in the position. I did this to evade
the situation, if a family argument ensued I would
pretend to sleep. Behr Household Law #51: NEVER wake Gwen from the recliner
unless you want to be torn apart. Behr Household Law
#50: A) Gwen is a psycho bitch, B) Gwen suffers severe nightmares and sleep
terrors, C) all at fault of her brothers from when they set her hair on fire,
while she was sleeping... Silence would fall over the room. Along came that tension
only a Ginsu knife could cut. I always prayed that
Father never found out what we were doing. Behr Household Law #1) NO LAUGHTER
#2) NO FUN, "There is work to be done you freeloading jackasses!"
If he did and Lady Luck was in our corner, we would end up digging our own
graves before he slit our throats with one of those aforementioned Ginsu knives. This August will make Johannes 29 and last February made
me 25. For more than 10 years I can recall our
"Mocking Father" skit, and am sure it began at a time that I cannot
recall. I have never asked any of my brothers what their thoughts were during
those funeral silences. There have been countless hours
wasted with beers and illegal drugs that are chalked
up to "Sibling Bonding" with Lars, the youngest twin and brother
with whom I am closest. We vented often about all kinds of rampantly running
with scissors insanity that went on in our childhood and were
subjected. Still, those silences never came up. There is only one tie
stronger than being siblings, and that is being fellow comrades on a POW
camp. Most often we would joke about
the war that began in 1990: Father V. Refuse Receptacle. That was the year
air quality was at the worst and the drought peaked. The County decided to
allow the "Rural Housing Tracts," i.e. farms, one gratuity garbage
can per house built on each
property, $25.00 per month per additional, and instilled a $40.00 fine per
week for not using refuse service. The thinking was by minimizing the burn
piles' sizes, air quality would rise and fire hazards would decline. In
actuality, that never happened. The County in turn needed to employ more
people, the employment rate rose along with our taxes and the welfare rate
declined. ("Free garbage service my ass!" has
been muttered by all the farmers since). Seven people lived in our house,
we needed two garbage cans at least. Father insisted and created a Behr
Household Law #2054: the household's refuse was NEVER to exceed 1 can, and NEVER
reach the burn pile! Even though one can was not large enough to accommodate
our house size, he would NOT pay for that second can, "It is the
principle, something you jackasses need to learn!" Every Wednesday his
five faithful children, numerous brothers, nephews, nieces and friends would
congregate at our house always with a lame reason. Each Wednesday we would
watch this community pillar, this ingenious German immigrant maim himself and
many times a voyage to the ER was needed. In latter
years dubbed, "Field Trip!" Mother traveled extensively, her "checking in"
rings quickly changed from sporadically to faithfully late Wednesday evening
or early Thursday morning. Simultaneously two things occurred. "How is
school?" changed to "Did your Father get the trash out, did The m One of Lars and my personal favourites
is "The Rake." There is only a nine month difference between myself
and The Twins, majority of the people think that Lars and I were the twins.
After all, we were partners in crime. Even to this day as I write this
narrative! We found ourselves in a wee bit of a pickle. It was the last
Friday night of the summer vacation before Lars' senior year in high school. So! Of course, Lars and I had to get stupid drunk.
Saturday morning Father busted us. We rolled in about Jump to the following Wednesday afternoon. I was ordered to make dinner. Fully knowing that the trash was not done, I hung around the kitchen window. Lars
walked in and told me to take some drinks out, look
busy, The Moron was readying the refuse. I professed my sisterly love. Lars
told me to eat feces, only not so becomingly. I sprayed him with the sink
house just as Father walked in the kitchen. He yelled, "Jackasses! Outside! Help me, NOW! Quit destroying MY house!" "Heil Hitler!" Lars
smarted off, I laughed, and in unison we goose
stepped outside trying our hardest to rein in our laughter. "Lars, it is
true that the immigrants learn curse words first," I had to smart off, too. You
know, why should Lars get all the fun? We stood outside and watched Father, our Fearless Leader
jump off his truck's tailgate into the trash can. He
began to screech like a prepubescent girl. Once he was able to form audible
words, it was: Help Me! [insert all the curse words
you can think of] I am sodomizing my own ass with the rakes! Jackasses! Help Me! Why do you stand like ignorants! You dumbass
dagos! Help Me! My balls! My
ass! ..... Lars and I just looked at each other, non-chalantly shrugged our shoulders, and tipped the garbage
can over. Miraculously we did not break out in uncontrollable laughter as
Father's head hit the tail gate, his blood reaching
the gravel drive first. Uncle Martin drove The Fearless Moron to the ER, 25
stitches above his eye. After the safety of being alone in the kitchen, knowing
there were no narcs around [i.e. brothers], our
laughter burst out and ceased after our stomach muscles could take no more. I
asked, "Hey Lars! I tipped Hitler's Moronic Twin over on purpose,
you?" "That's the most ignorant question you have EVER
asked me, Gwen!" Our eyes locked and we exclaimed in unison, "For beating
me with the rake!" It was unspoken that the rake's sodomy was not
suitable enough punishment. Father always told us, "What comes around
goes around." That day we saw it: he was ass fucked by his own anger. We
love it! A few months ago all five of us
talked about the pros and cons of being first generation Americans, both
parents being European immigrants. In short the cons: not speaking English
when we started in school, having insane parents, and at times being blacklisted. The
pros: at times being considered exotic, every summer we were visiting family
in ...Maybe our Father is right about being fortunate for
growing up in |
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orphans@razee.com
303/832-1472