Saturday, June 29, 2013

What's Next for Dree RainCave

So, given that the last two entries about Ed Snowd Dree RainCave were fictional, I figure I best tell what really happened.

Dree RainCave had his new identity papers tucked in a compartment of his new cloth travel wallet which was belted around his waist.  He also wore a pair of ill-fitting sandals, some scuffed up jeans which looked like Sally Boutique's rejects-- there were patches all over them plus a thumbnail size hole developing in the "wrong place"-- also; a large floppy washed out pine green tee shirt which proclaimed the word NATIVE in large block letters, and a sombrero which his girlfriend Honey insisted he wear.  "You were born in Reynosa, Mexico" she reminded him.  "You were attending your sister's wedding in Moscow."  He growled at her.  A knock came at the door.  Three stone-faced guards stood stiffly.  "You ready in there?" the senior guard demanded.  "The bus is waiting.  Hurry."

Dree RainCave and Honey, now Mr. and Mrs. Julius Guzman if you please, walked through the door which slammed shut behind them.  The youngest guard indicated the way down the hallway to the winding staircase.  

Not a word was spoken by any of them.  The bus [which the guards all pronounced as buss with sort of an almost long u in spite of hours of English language laboratory practice] was empty save for the five of them and the driver.  It delivered the two passengers directly to the plane.  The three guards made a show of concern that the two suspicious Mexicans [all who stayed at the expensive transient hotel instead of hiding in the hallways and bathrooms were viewed with a collective air of suspicion] boarded the plane rather than eloping down the tarmac to nowhere.  Mr. and Mrs. Julius Guzman were shown to their first class seats.  The bus pulled away.  The announcement on the plane was given for the passengers to fasten their seat-belts.  The plane took off and our two adventurers promptly conked out until touchdown.

The International Airport was a hubbub of activity and pick-pockets on a calm day.  Mr. and Mrs. Guzman deplaned.  A bored-looking man named Stan separated himself from the shadows.  He motioned to them in Ameslam, "This way."  Dree and Honey followed his retreating back.  Just then an alarm interrupted the swirl of conversations around them.  Passengers scattered to the left and to the right.  Stan, Dree, and Honey walked steadily onward toward an unused freight elevator.  Stan withdrew a key from a pocket.  The elevator's ancient doors creaked open and the three friends walked in.  

The alarm continued its' high-pitched squeals as pandemonium reigned on the main floor.  A lone voice instructed everyone via the P.A. system to "stay calm and await orders."  Naturally, no one did.

The elevator bounced and rattled to a sudden stop.  The doors open, revealing the burning sun against a backdrop of truck-lots and junkyards.  Stan, Dree and Honey threw themselves into the back of an old pick-up truckThey barely had time to flatten themselves on the floor and throw some old smelly blankets over themselves.  The truck took off.  The driver expertly careened through lanes of traffic and out into the bowels of Down Neck.  

The truck lurched to a sudden stop.  Stan said, "Come on.  Hurry."  Dree and Honey jumped from the truck onto the street and looked around.  Slums.  Once again, they found themselves following Stan's back.  This time, they cut through a small park shrewn with steel wool and matches and garbage and then past a fountain that looked like it too-- like the park-- had seen better days.  Water gushed out.  A few kids were using the fountain as a pool and one was using it as a urinal.  Directly across the street from the park was a shack.  Stan led the couple down an alley stinking with heavy smoke and dog shit to a back door.  He worked the locks and with a final kick, the three gained entry.

Inside was an old mangy tomcat of an indeterminate color with one ear chewed off-- Dree regarded it with alarm-- and a few almost dead houseplants, a bed, a couch, an old television set, a kitchenette.  A partially opened door in the corner revealed a dingy bathroom and the location of the litter box.  "The cat's name is 'Majestic' although he doesn't answer to it.  He will keep the local rats from taking over."  Honey sighed.  She thought longingly of her home in Hawaii.  Maybe she could find a way to get away from here.  "Your clothes are in the closet there.  Burn what you have on in the backyard tonight.  No one will notice.  Try hard to blend in."  Dree nodded.  Stan gave both of them a thick wad of cash, mostly singles.  "If you run into trouble, use the Obama phone to call in," Stan indicated a beat-up looking cellphone.  "For crying out loud, don't call from in here and don't leave it turned on.  Call from the fountain at the park."  Dree nodded.  He knew this.  After all, he had insisted that everyone stow their cells in the freezer when they had come to visit him in Hong Kong.  "Food's in the fridge.  Welfare benefit card is by the phone.  Later."  Stan headed to the back door.  "And for crying out loud, stay off the fecking Internet."  Deftly, he scooped up the knapsack that Dree had stowed the four laptops in along with some toiletries and was out the door before Dree could protest.

The couple looked at each other.  "Damn," Dree remarked, "Who would have ever figured that we'd be hiding in New Jersey?"  Honey shrugged.  She headed to the closet to examine the rags she would now be expected to wear.

Majestic uncurled himself slowly from his perch on the space heater and lurched across the room and into the bathroom.  Scratching was heard then and soon the stinky evidence of his doings in there wafted out, curling itself around the two humans.  Dammit, Dree thought.  I'm allergic to cats.

                        ~ to be continued, maybe ~         

Wednesday, June 26, 2013

Dree Raincave Did Not Die

That last "story" was a tidbit.  A smokescreen.  Dree Raincave didn't land in a tropical paradise.  He is safe.  He is somewhere.  Even his girlfriend Honey doesn't know where.  Wait.  Do you hear that?  The sound of drums off in a distance.  Let's listen.

Narrator:  Dree RainCave is back in the news today after evading U.S. undercover agents in Hong Kong and a foiled drone strike at the Russian airport in Moscow.  Late last night, Dree was spirited out from the window of a secret lounge and taken by flying reindeer to his new home.  We cannot tell you where it is-- only that the natives are all short and slender.  Their leader is a large woman who keeps beating her husband over his bald head with a rolling pin.  It seems they are Arcadian transplants as she has referred to him as "Mister Klaus" several times and threatened his anatomy while doing so.
               The natives have gathered around Dree RainCave [One short person gave me a cup of what seems to be hot chocolate, whispered to me that the proper spelling of his last name is capital R-a-i-n-no space capital-C-a-v-e before dashing off into the writhing bodies dancing madly around a bonfire.  In the distance, reindeer could be heard jousting for the opportunity to be front-runners of an ancient rickety sleigh.
               This is Flop News reporting to you from the Frozen Nort-- Hey give me back my microphone you midget!  We don't have any money in the budget for a repl--

Elven Aggressor:  That's "elf" to you, media whore.  Dree RainCave has been officially welcomed into our community.  He will be given a private igloo on our property and a job inventing robotic toys at our factory.  Now shove off before I throw the lot of you into the ocean.

Narrator:  Hey!  Give me tha--

          ~plunk~      ~plunk plunk~                     ~plunk

Transmission fades out.  

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

The Death of Dree RainCave

It was another average day of an average life.  Dree woke up still sleepy.  A large bird of some sort-- he thought perhaps it was a macaw-- circled his hammock and settled on a nearby branch.  Something glittered on the bird's leg.

Dree tumbled out of the hammock and carefully picked his way down the hill to the lagoon.  He stepped out of his gauzy shift and tossed it on a nearby boulder.  "Morning love," his sexy girlfriend Honey said.  She motioned to his waiting coffee.  Dree leaned back again the boulder with his brew, enjoying the sight of her supple nakedness as she washed her long hair in the outdoor shower.  

"Join me Dree," Honey intoned, "there's plenty of water."  Dree set his cup down on the boulder.  He bolted for the shower spray.  "Got you!" he yelled.  He embraced her, breathing deeply of the hibiscus soap she used.  She flipped him over suddenly.  He landed on his back, feeling the wetness of the planks underneath him.

A red feather drifted downward and suddenly everything went dark.  The spray of bullets washed over the lovers.  Up and away the macabre macaw flew, mission accomplished.  

Monday, June 17, 2013

Merrily We Troll Along

When I first learned about trolls on the Internet, I was a bit prejudiced.  I allowed that to happen because of what I was reading.  I've since come to understand that either the stuff printed about trolls on the Internet is bogus or that the trolls themselves wrote it and thus the joke is on the rest of us.

Copyright trolls are a special breed unto themselves.  I have no love for them.  They are lower than catfish shit and cockroach vomit.  Anything positive that I post about trolls is never to be misconstrued as referring to copyright trolls.  I detest Big Hollywood.  The crap that is being done to the copyright laws is hideous.  But that is a topic for other blog posts.  
A troll is not someone who disagrees with me.  We all have our own agendas and opinions.  Someone who disagrees with me is merely someone who disagrees with me.  I am just another electronic face in the long sea of electronic faces.  I am no one special.  I don't possess any particular eloquence or expertise.  I'm not sure anymore that special little snowflakes actually do exist.  I think we are all just here on this planet, period.  Some of us are trying to kill each other off.  Some of us aren't.  Some of us don't give a damn.  If I'm going to call you a troll just because your agendas and opinions are different than mine are, then I am also a troll.  And then everyone is a troll.  And we are all trolling right along.  And the word "troll" becomes just another word synonymous with the word "human being."  So screw that.

Trolls with mad skillz are to be admired, not feared.  Trolls dare to be different.  They don't care much about assimilation.  Social mores are morass anyways.  Assmilation is the opposite of systems change.  There are many systems that need changing.  The suits, the radicals, and the trolls need each other in order to effect a revolution.  The battles have to fought from all sides and along all fronts.  The trolls, functioning as a collective radical shock jock, can scare the politicians by burning effigies of them at the State Capitol.  Then the rads can stage a protest-- now protests are called "actions"-- replete with banners and chanting and yelling and stuff which enrages the politicians.  Some rads will post nasty blogs and letters to any newspaper editor who will print them.  After that, the suits can sweep in during lobby days.  A politician would much rather deal with the suits.  But without the trolls and radicals, a politician is shiftless and will not deal with any sort of dissent or compromise.  

Trolls challenge the status quo.  They ask the questions that other people are too polite to ask.  If something is mockable, trolls with mad skillz will mock it.  Political correctness arose in part out of conformity.  That's the stuff of sheeples.  We all got so hung up on words that we forgot to take any real action.  We sat around drinking our expensive fake coffee-type drinks congratulating ourselves on the construction of our self-imposed linguistic penitentiaries.  Trolls blasted away at those restricting walls.  After awhile, some of us woke up and evolved into radical beings.  Out of 4Chan came Anonymous.  And that is very good indeed.  Encyclopedia Dramatica reminds us that to troll is to embrace  freedom of expressionYes indeed, the world needs more trolls with mad skillz.

The trolls on Twitter clearly do not always get along with each other.  I think that is okay too.  Why should we all have to get along?  Nathaniel Branden addressed the idea that "loving everyone" is spiritual promiscuity.  Striving to be all things to all people, to not be perceived of a threat to anyone, to be likeable-- all of that candy stuff-- is not natural.  Evolution requires both the hunter and the hunted.  When a member of a tribe becomes imbalanced, demanding too many of the resources that the tribe has worked to come into possession of, the tribe become in danger of extinction.  Demanding adherence to our ideas and our ideas alone without granting others the freedom to do their own research is the act of a coward.  The coward is a hoarder of resources.  The coward fears disagreement.  As human beings, some of us are going act against the agendas of others.  To expect that all of us are going to play nice together is best left back in Kindergarden.  The real world is far too varied to allow for multiple copies of the same dough made by one cookie cutter to bake in the oven of ideas.  Sheeples are the prime catch of dictators.  We don't need any more stinking dictators.  Some trolls rustle the jimmies of figureheads and potentates with regularity, reminding us not to take ourselves so damn seriously.  Trolls help prevent the rise of dictators on the Internet.

Trolls without mad skillz are merely uncreative socks engaged in mental masturbation as they hold conversations with each other in order to artificially beef up their particular causes and agendas.  The uncreative socks are attempting to hog the limelight and the resources.  It is not the trolls with mad skillz who are sitting home anxiously awaiting responses to their thoughts like attention whores.  It is the uncreative socks who don't have any other purpose in life.  Uncreative socks suffer from printed Brainerd diarrhea of the mouth.  Those who dare to disagree with uncreative socks or interject themselves into their fake dialogues risk wrath and fury.  The uncreative socks are empty and smelly, devoid of content, pissing all over themselves in fear.  There exists a small glimmer of hope for the uncreative sock who aspires to change.  If you are such, then learn how to be a troll with mad skillz!  

I am not against the proper use of socks.  The way that politicians have twisted privacy into being a polar opposite of security demands self-protection these days.  Anyone who is not a public figure that uses Fedbook without a sock account is a fool.  With the increasing emphasis on transparent wallet information in the mistaken belief that using our wallet names on here will force us to play nice and all get along, proper sock accounts become a necessity for intelligent people who do not want to be scooped up into the wiles of Big Data.  For Big Data benefits organizations and institutions.  It does not benefit us.  Enquire recently published an article about using Big Data to increase sales.  I am not interested in helping companies in that manner.  Consequently, I am myself a sock.  But I don't converse with my other socks.  That would render me into just another attention whore. 

People, next time you use the word "troll" as an insult, ask yourselves if you are just butthurt because someone else dared to disagree with you.  Ask yourselves if you might be an uncreative sock.  Ask yourselves if you are engaging in public mental masturbation.  Ask yourselves why we all have to get along, agree, be polite, play nice.  And then challenge yourselves to take more risks and be agents for change.

a troll doll with a blue head ripped off of a "rubber ducky" covering his left hand and arm
A young troll and his duck-head-- I took the photo and I altered it so shove off copyright trolls.  The rest of you, if for some weird reason you want this pic, right-click to save to your computer.  Hot-linking pisses off the blog space owners.  t.y.

sapphoq n friends   

Sunday, June 16, 2013

Lunching with the Dementias

Me:  My, there certainly is a crowd of you.

Dementias:  Yes.  Brilliant observation touched one.

Me:  Must you all speak in one voice like that?  It's creepy.  And the other people here are staring at you.

Dementias:  Oh please.  We are out wrecking the lives of loved ones and family members everywhere and you go all assimilation on us.  What kind of radical are you?

Me:  Hey!  That's not fair.

Dementias:  Get used to it.  There are lots of things about us that aren't fair.

Waitress:  Are you ready to order yet?

Me:  I'll take--

Dementias:  Diminishing daily functioning, short-term memory loss, behavioral challenges, motor vehicle accidents, amusica, expressive aphasia, urinary incontinence and a side of Death please.

Waitress:  Be right back.

Dementias:  Another scared one.  She won't be back.

Me:  You are rather brutal.

Dementias:  You are rather smug.  You don't know a thing about us, do you?

Me:  I know that with medications, the real misery is delayed.

Dementias:  Quite the bearer of hope, aren't you?  We bet you shared that particular gem with your loved one.

Me:  Huh?

Dementias:  Most of us are irreversible and you come with pills.

Me:  But meds can help functioning.

Dementias:  About as hopeful as the word "remission" when used in conjunction with the phrase "adeno-bronchial carcinoma".

Me:  But--

Dementias:  Repeat after me: No ifs, ands, or buts.  Where are you?  What season is it?  What month is it?  What is today's date.  Who is the President?  Count backwards by 7s from 100.  Your brain scans came back abnormal.  We are concerned.  The time to quit driving is yesterday.  Prepare to die.

Me:  You are impossible.

Dementias:  And you are a damn social worker type.  That stuff doesn't work well in actual living.  

Me:  What does work well?

Dementias:  Everything works for the first two weeks.  Attention to routines.  Safety-proofing the house.  Explore alternative living situations.  Get involved.  Join a support group.  Regular visits with medical professionals.  Remove the distributor cap.  Sell the car.  Divorce.  Become financially destitute in order to receive help.

Me:  But where is the hope?  There must be hope!

Dementias:  Research.  Clinical trials.  Distraction.

Me:  Distraction?

Dementias:  Yeah.  Distract us.  Play with us.  Befriend us.  Prepare to die.  We always kill the ones we love.

Manager:  Have you decided what to order yet?

Me:  No thanks.  I really must go now.  I'm not hungry.  And I think I left a cake burning in the oven.  See yas.  Wouldn't want to be yas.

Dementias:  Chicken.  There goes another one.  Too bad.  That one could have been a great advocate.
                     Roasted chicken with a side of burn-out.    And step on it Mister.  We don't have a whole lot of time to waste.      

sapphoq n friends

Five organizations.  Use your search engine if you need more.

Alzheimer's Association  
225 North Michigan Avenue
Floor 17
Chicago, IL   60601-7633
24/7 Helpline: 1.800.272.3900 
Office: 312.335.8700  
TDD: 312.335.5886
Fax: 866.699.1246

Lewey Body Dementia Association
912 Killian Hill Road, S.W.
Lilburn, GA   30047
LBD Caregiver Link: 1.800.539.9767 
Office:  404.935.6444
Fax: 480.422.5434

Association for Frontotemporal Degeneration (AFTD)
Radnor Station Building #2 Suite 320
290 King of Prussia Road
Radnor, PA   19087
Helpline:  1.866.507.7222  (Not staffed 24/7.  Plz. leave a message).
Office: 267.514.7221 

Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease (CJD) Foundation Inc.341 W. 38th Street, Suite 501
New York, NY  10018
Tel: 1.800.659.1991 

Office:  212.719.5900 

National Parkinson Foundation
1501 N.W. 9th Avenue / Bob Hope Road
Miami, Florida 33136-1494 

Helpline:  800.473.4636 (800.4PD.INFO)
National Headquarters:  305.243.6666

Office, toll-free: 1.800.327.4545
Fax:  305.243.6073

To reach us by phone:
LBD Caregiver Link: 800.539.9767
National Office (Atlanta, GA): 404.935.6444
National Office Fax: 480.422.5434

Please send all postal mail to:
912 Killian Hill Road, S.W.
Lilburn, GA 30047 - See more at:

To reach us by phone:
LBD Caregiver Link: 800.539.9767
National Office (Atlanta, GA): 404.935.6444
National Office Fax: 480.422.5434

Please send all postal mail to:
912 Killian Hill Road, S.W.
Lilburn, GA 30047 - See more at:

Monday, June 10, 2013

Here are the 12 suggested steps for people whose socks are out of control.  With no apologies to A.A. or any other 12 step program:


I admitted that I was powerless over my many socks, that I couldn't keep them sorted, and that my sock drawer had become a mess.

I came to believe that a Troll possessing mad skillz could restore me to sanitary.

I made a decision to turn my socks and my feeble attempts at humor over to the care of the Troll of my imagination.

I took an inventory of my sock drawer.

I admitted to Troll, to myself, and to one other sock-puppet the exact mess in my sock drawer.

I became willing to throw out some of the socks.

I asked Troll to remove the excessive socks but Troll handed me a wastebasket instead.

I made a list of all socks I had butt-hurt and thought about whether or not I was sorry; and whether or not to admit to being sorry.

I made direct amends to some of the socks I had butt-hurt except if they were dead. If it was a legal thing, I waited at least 8 years.

I continued to inventory my sock drawer and mended or threw out socks as needed.

I sought through the Twitter-Creek to discern the LULZ of Troll.

Having had a rude wake-up call as a result of these ideas, I kept spreading this message to other socks and to finesse my troll skillz.