By Ryn Cricket

There’s a double standard that is both blatant and hidden.  What’s amazing is that it is still exists.  I was flipping stations the other day and I saw an ad for movie called, “Freshman Father.”  A boy being responsible for the baby he produced seems to be such a rare event it needs to be documented.   How many freshman mothers are there?  Any movies that aren’t negative about it?  Men get praised by society for being responsible, for women it just seems expected.  Being a single mother comes with a stigma –bad choice of men, irresponsible, etc.  Being a single father is a badge of pride, “Look what I can do!” (most likely, with a lot of help from his own mother).

It’s understood, that given the same circumstances, women make less money than men, but the burden of responsibility and finances somehow always seems to fall more heavily on the women, especially in a separated situation.  Who is responsible for doctors, medicines, shoes, school fees, lunches?  Who is most likely going to fall below the poverty level?

What’s even more interesting is how this has become so accepted in American life that no one complains or argues.  It’s just how it is.  My friend asked her lawyer why she had to pay the full expenses for her divorce when she was not at fault and didn’t even want the divorce in the first place.  The lawyer replied, “Because you are the responsible one,”  And then added, “I see it all the time.”

There is this epidemic of American men thinking they can just walk away.  “I don’t want to be married anymore, here –it’s your entire problem now.”  They would say to their wives if they had the guts to actually talk to them.  No apologies, no regrets, no conscience.  Their children may go so long without seeing them that they don’t even know them.  Often, these fathers not only don’t own up to their financial responsibilities, but also don’t even wonder what their own children look like, or how they are doing.

There are two little facts that might surprise you.  In 2008, 42% of all American babies were born to single mothers.  For some women, it may be their choice, and for some children, the fathers may be very involved.  And I am not implying that marriage is the answer, but lack of commitment is becoming the norm and not the exception.  The other little tidbit is that the number one reason for the deaths of American pregnant women is their mate.  Why do so many men resort to murder as the answer for wanting to remain single?

My anthropology professor said that it takes an average of six to eight adults to raise a child.  African tribal cultures really understood this, and all aunts and uncles were called “mommy” and “daddy.”  But here in our overly independent society, very often, one parent is the only one responsible which is a huge burden to that parent and a huge disservice to their children.

What’s at stake are the children and the following generations.  Who are the role models for the little boys?  Who are the ideals for the little girls?  Who are the real fathers and not the sperm donors?

My Grandfather:  John Edwin Leatherwood

By: Vincent Allen

Since I recently became a grandfather I frequently find my thoughts returning to my maternal grandfather, John Leatherwood, because he was such an enormous influence on my life before he died. Although he was an imposing figure, he was perhaps the most steadfast family man that I have ever known, and he still managed to be a ton of fun whenever it was appropriate.

Leatherwood, as his friends and co-workers called him, was the epitome of a weathered, tough, and scarred blue-collar warrior that had been forced to work hard all his life in order to provide for his family. By anybody’s standards, he was a large man, standing six feet two inches tall with a ramrod straight back and broad, strong shoulders.

He weighed well over two hundred and twenty five pounds, but there was never a time that he actually spoke about his weight because it was just not one of the things that he focused on during his life. He almost always wore a gun-metal gray worker’s uniform that had full length trousers and a button up short-sleeved shirt.

During the work week his shirts still had the white embroidered patch over the left breast pocket with his last name, Leatherwood, in red letters like the ones that were worn by mechanics and service station attendants. On the weekends, he dressed pretty much the same way except that the shirts would not have the name tags on them.

The natural expression on his face could best be described as a scowl, but old injuries made it seem much more menacing than it really was. He had worked in a bomber factory during World War II and had fallen victim to an industrial accident that scarred his face diagonally from the bridge of his nose slanting upward across his left eye, and it had also damaged and blinded him in that eye.

The damaged eye was scary to little kids and gave him the look of a really tough man, which he actually was in all of the ways that mattered.  He had also lost half of his right index finger in another work-related accident and jokingly referred to it as his nub. He always laughed at the smaller children in the family after he would perform a slight of hand maneuver that made it look as if he could make that half of his finger disappear. All of these physical imperfections combined with his ruddy complexion from working outside most of his life left strangers with the impression that he was not a man to be trifled with, and they would have been right.

If there was ever a person who gave credence to the old saying, “Never judge a book by its cover”, my grandfather was certainly that person. Despite his gruff exterior, he was the most devoted family man that I have known in my life. A large part of that devotion was consumed by the need to work hard all the time to earn a living but strangely enough I remember the other aspects of his devotion much more clearly.

As a young boy and his oldest grandson, he mentored me in all of the many crafts, skills, and trades that he had learned over the years. He taught me how to paint, how to use hand tools, how to do some simple car repairs, and how to install wood paneling. He absolutely insisted that I attended school and took my studies seriously. He did the same for my siblings, cousins, and other family members that sought his support, but somehow I always felt that I had a special relationship with him.

He never hesitated to help other family members when they were down and out. He did not give handouts, make no mistake about that, but instead he would provide exactly what the person needed to help them meet whatever challenge they were facing at the time. He provided food, shelter, and transportation to work for my mother several times during my younger years when her marriage to my father ended and she was left to support four children on her own. Without the help that my grandfather provided to us at the time, our situation would have been very dire and there is no way to predict what would have become of us.

He was just as strict as he was supportive and while his discipline was old-fashioned by today’s standards, he did not have to resort to those measures often. He expected that everybody knew right from wrong and that if you did wrong then you should have expected to get punished for it. He did not take any joy from punishing his grandchildren but he certainly did not shirk that responsibility either whenever it was appropriate. He was also just as quick and took enormous pleasure in rewarding good behavior which is a balancing act that I never fully appreciated until I became a parent myself.

Just because he looked scary and was serious about his family obligations did not mean that my grandfather lacked a sense of humor. He possessed a rapier-like wit which he would use when fencing with insults and teasing other family members. It was a rare occasion when one of us was able to get the better of him when trading jibes across the living room or dinner table. Each of us was tagged by him with a funny nickname that was usually the result of his observations regarding one of our least desirable personal traits. My own nickname was Harum-Scarum because when I was younger I would charge into things without thinking about them first which frequently resulted in some kind of accident.

His nickname for my mother was Queenie because of her sometimes superior attitude. Nobody in the family went unscathed when it came to my grandfather’s nicknames. I remember having fun when my grandfather was in a happy mood and would start to sing some of his favorite old vaudeville or country songs. He had a good voice that was loud and the tone was very deep but he carried a tune well and he would sing some funny songs when he was happy and he felt like it.

Some of the best times that I remember having when I was a boy were the hunting and fishing trips with my grandfather. He bought me my first shotgun, took me on my first hunting trip, taught me how to bait a hook, and was there when I caught my first fish. It was a dark, foggy, morning out in his small fishing boat on the lake at the Flying S Ranch when I hooked a small largemouth bass and reeled it in. We did not catch a lot of fish that day because the weather was bad, but I still remember it as one of the most fun times I had with my grandfather.

There is hardly a day that goes by when I do not think about my grandfather because of something he said or something he taught me about life and family. I am very fortunate to have been able to know my grandfather very well and even luckier to have lived with him and my grandmother during my teenage years, when his guidance helped me to make me into the person I am today. I very much want to be able to “pay it forward” and create memories with my grandchildren that they will cherish as much as the memories I have of my own grandfather, John Edwin Leatherwood, a giant of a man in all of the measures that really matter.

Kafka’s Letter To His Father

By Mark Kerstetter

In the wake of the incredible news of the existence of ten safe deposit boxes believed to contain documents by Franz Kafka, and that the public’s right to see these contents is being contested in court, news agencies around the world are asking: should we be allowed to see them? I don’t know anyone who would answer in the negative. Author John Banville told the BBC last week that even one or two new aphorisms by Kafka would be of “enormous” importance. In any case, we shall soon have, by court order, a list of the items.

With this new light on Kafka in mind, I decided to take another look at his famous letter to his father, with whom he had a tortuous relationship. Written in 1919, Kafka wrote that he hoped it would “reassure us both a little and make our living and our dying easier.”  The author gave it to his mother, who returned it.

The first four fifths of the letter are unremarkable, the kinds of complaints and accusations one would expect (Kafka’s situation is not unique), but the last fifth—from about the point that Kafka mentions his writing—is something else. The letter becomes a different type of text than it had been up to that point. Up to that point it is easy to accept Kafka’s stated intention to procure some sort of truce or peace with his father, even if the two couldn’t change who they, in essence, were. But from the point when the son mentions his writing, something changes, and by the end of the letter I find it extremely difficult to accept his stated intention. Was Kafka dishonest? No, I think he was profoundly troubled in mind, and perhaps too confused to see himself clearly.

His mother was right not to give the letter to her husband, if for no other reason than that Franz should have given it to Hermann himself, if he really wanted him to have it, if he really intended it to lead to a kind of truce or peace. It is quite possible that Kafka had one intention when he began and another by the time he finished. The final imaginary answer he gives his father, which concludes, “you are preying on me even with this letter itself”, along with his response to it, which includes the statement “not even your mistrust of others is as great as my self-mistrust”, is a picture of Hell. I see in my mind two demons each gripping the other’s face in its jaws. Can there be peace or reassurance in this? How can such a vision of Hell make anyone’s “living and dying easier”?

One turns to the Diaries for other material from 1919 that may help understand Kafka and the letter. The Diaries are difficult books, so full of bitterness and utter despair that a more distressing read can hardly be imagined. Many of the entries are such enigmatic little knots that I think only their author could decode them. There are only a few entries for 1919, fragmentary and condensed. But one of the fragments could not be more explicit: “…guilt and innocence, like two hands indissolubly clasped together; one would have to cut through flesh, blood and bones to part them.”

Throughout the letter Kafka insists they are both innocent—they are who they are. Yet the objection he places in his father’s mouth is obvious enough. Throughout the letter he levels one accusation after another on his father—the man is guilty. Then, towards the end of the letter, he puts all of the guilt on himself, even speaking as his father to do it. He thus condemns himself and his father together in an indissoluble dyad, and he makes this as explicit as a death sentence. This is the final, and real, intention of the letter.

One might argue that this was the most effective way to make his point, that indeed, as Kafka wrote, it was the truth, that it was logical consistency. One can accept all of that but stop short of the possibility of this truth resulting in a reassurance that could make their “living and dying easier.” No, it could not. Either Kafka was disingenuous on this point or he was suffering too terribly to see himself clearly on this point.

Perhaps a kind of third possibility is that he was suffering so deeply that only a death sentence could appease him. Yet if this is the case, who is he to impose this sentence on his father? It is incredibly egoistic. It is one thing to feel pain, to let yourself feel it and allow it to take its course and pass. Kafka’s suffering is something else. He wanted it both ways: he and his father are both innocent, they are who they are, they can’t change their nature; but they are both guilty in that in being who they are they cause each other suffering. In Kafka’s case his father causes him to feel guilty and there’s no effective difference between feeling guilt and being guilty. Thus Kafka creates the insidious paradox that they are both innocent and both guilty at the same time. He creates a trap for himself in that he can’t accuse his father without accusing himself, that to every degree of suffering he attributes to his father’s behavior, he must implicate his own guilt to the same degree. It’s The Judgment paradigm, in which the father condemns the son to death, except in this fantasy the son would almost have his father share in the vision. Father and son, indissolubly linked, would jump to their deaths together.

Almost, but not quite. In the end, I don’t think Kafka could really believe his father was capable of sharing in this vision. And therein lies Kafka’s hope for health. The only way out of a trap like this is to let pain be pain. His father was a brutish tyrant who caused him pain. He could not change. Period. Move on.

Franz Kafka was beginning to do just that toward the end of his life. With Dora Diamant he was finally able to envision a relationship other than the model set by his parents, a relationship based on joy and not constrained by convention. But he didn’t live long enough.

This simple truth, that pain is pain, is extremely difficult to accept. One learns to accept it only to have it slip away again. For a long time one is afraid one will never be able to hold the truth, and then, when one finally is able to hold onto it, it will still, at times, mysteriously slip away. One of the reasons for this difficulty is precisely because of its simplicity. We want to use all of the intelligence and energy at our disposal to work the problem. In a case like Kafka’s one must write the father off. It feels like giving up. Maybe it is. But sometimes it’s the only way. If you admit the man is who he is and can’t change, you distort that fact by saying he is “innocent” because of it; you then abuse logic by trying to insinuate your way back into a different kind of relationship based on the distortion. The only answer is to walk away.

Bystanders

by Alex Chornyj

In September of 2004 my brother Dave was driving back east on his Gold Wing motorcycle.  It was about dusk while on a highway in the interior of British Columbia  when he was rounding a corner that he was thrust upon a recent rock slide.  All of the safety nets in the world would not have prevented this occurrence.  The sheer massive extent in length and width covered the highway for a few hundred feet.  This was caused by a small earth tremor, but one still powerful enough to affect an avalanche of stone.

Dave’s front tire did not buckle and then roll his bike.  His motorcycle went airborne and as he later described the incident, in mid air Dave was able to flip his machine flat on its side.  Upon crashing back to earth in the span of mere seconds, which felt like an eternity, a strange sensation overcame his consciousness.  It was like the world was in slow motion.  He was able to ride his bike over this jagged terrain for a further two hundred feet approximately until it came to a stop at an embankment.  Thinking about this feat afterwards gave Dave more than a chill up his spine.  Besides still being in a deep state of shock from enduring this ordeal, there was this small significant fact remaining that there was no possible human way of explaining his still being alive.  Dave suffered no more injuries than a strained elbow, a sore hip and much confusion.  This mental state stemmed from his recognition about the miracle that had just transpired.  After being transported to a hospital by ambulance and while explaining the episode to an investigating police officer, a great many more people became perplexed.  The sheer magnitude of these intersecting intervals offered no plausible relevance as to the mechanics of the accident’s death defying results.  Dave’s machine was a complete write-off, but so should he have been at least more worse for wear.  He spent a few days in hospital at the request of a physician thinking rightly so that an underlying, unseen health crisis may surface.  No further dilemma was acknowledged, so on the fourth day Dave was released from hospital.  He was not one for flying, except on a motorcycle, so he spent the next three days travelling on a bus back home.

Upon arriving home, his brother Eric relayed to Dave that he had visited a friend a few days after his bike accident.  This friend Sara, happened to be a gifted seer and what she had to say with her clairvoyance was rather enlightening.  Sara saw Dave’s unbelievable survival assisted by two spirits.  One was a woman who she described as being  elderly with a kind disposition.  This lady, Sara said had just passed over prior to Dave’s accident.  This person turned out to be no other than his Aunt Pat.  The other entity was a dog rather small in size like a fireball, but with a big heart.  Sara stated that this creature who  had been laid to rest in the past year, was actually the same one Dave had given to his parents as a present some eleven years before.  The scene as so adeptly described by Sara had these two cosmic lights readily immersing Dave within this aura of peace, white  light, divine love and understanding.  The resulting effect was the reason for his feelings of transcendence through this timely experience.  It was as if Dave had passed through rings of time.  His awareness and priorities expanded beyond their narrow focus to capture meanings that had always escaped him.  Dave’s life had been spared by this esoteric intervention because he had a higher purpose to fulfill in his life.  This realization sparked changes to his total cosmic nature.  From one who used to only think inside the box, there was a complete reversal in his perspective and centering.  Dave began to evolve and all people near to him understood and had heard of how people who survive near death experiences gain a greater appreciation for life’s simple treasures.  There was no more taking things for granted or waiting until tomorrow for what could be done today.  A kindness surrounded his heart and spirit to the extent that this was reflected by a glow in his eyes.  Dave shifted gears and paths which brought him into contact with others who shared a common wavelength and insight.  In this way did he begin his ascent towards a summit which held much promise for him to realize this efficacious potential with the help of two bystanders.

The only thing that could possibly improve the following Boy Scout romp from years ago is to hear a personal telling from Vince in his booming baritone voice and fried-chicken like southern drawl. What follows is a light and fun read that you just may want to share with your kids.

Fearful Camping Trip

By Vince Allen

There are many times in life that are very frightening when they are happening in real-time but those same events can seem downright funny when you look back on them years afterward. As a youngster one of those scary nights happened to me and a friend of mine named David Bragg. David and I were the senior members of our Boy Scout Troop 650 from Midway United Methodist Church and because of our senior status we had a tendency to overestimate our wilderness prowess. That dangerous practice came to fruition one night when one of us had our personal space violated by a reptile, the campfire got out of control, and some local farm dogs decided that we were trespassing in their territory.

The weekend started out in the usual way with the Friday afternoon bus ride home from Douglas County High School with everybody’s spirits high and the different groups of friends laughing and making plans with each other for the upcoming weekend. The weather forecast was a good one and even though there was still a profound chill in the air at night because of the time of the year that only made it better for being outside, in the woods, being around a campfire with your friends.

My friend David and I decided that we would strike out as soon as we could after our Saturday chores were finished. So with our chores done and our gear properly packed according to our Boy Scout standards we set off down the gravel country road near our house in search of adventure.

Unlike most organized camping trips we did not have a particular destination predetermined, rather we had decided to just walk out into the country and find a good camping spot we had never seen before. As the old saying goes, “some things are easier said than done”, that proved to be the case for us that afternoon while trying to find a good camp site. Our enthusiasm for adventure carried us down that country road for many miles in search of the perfect camping spot only there just was not one to be found.

As the shadows started to lengthen we decided that we would settle for the next isolated spot that we could find away from any of the houses which had proven to be much more numerous on this road than either of us remembered. Finally we came to a spot in the road that was not close to anybody’s house and was heavily wooded with a new growth of young pine trees as if the property had been logged several years ago and new trees planted to replace them. The trees would provide great cover so that our campfire would not be visible from the road, which was a requirement for the spot since we did not have anybody’s formal permission to be there. Perhaps that minor violation of the Scout code was a contributing factor for the things that happened later that night.

We rested for a short time, drank some water from our canteens, and then began in earnest to clear us a good camping site without doing any damage to the property or the trees. The ground was covered in a thick carpet of pine straw from the trees and so in order to have a campfire we had to clear out all of the burnable material from a ten foot radius from the fire. We raked the pine straw outward from the center of the campsite until we had a ring that well exceeded the ten foot rule and we decided that surplus pine straw would make for a nice soft pad beneath our sleeping bags so we unrolled our bags on top these newly constructed wilderness beds and finished setting up the camp.

By the time we had finished preparing and consuming the evening meal it was dark and we were both pretty tired but having a good time being outside. The chill in the night air was kept at bay by our campfire and we were lounging on top of our sleeping bags talking about the things that had happened at school that week, our girl friends, our parents, and a variety of other topics.

Suddenly my friend’s eyes got very big and he had a strange, scared look on his face. He looked over at me and said, “I think that a snake just crawled up my pants leg.”

At first I thought he was joking but it soon became apparent that he was not. We feared that it could have been a Copperhead because they were fairly common in our area but since neither one of us could see it and David was too scared to move we really could not tell what it was. We knew it was reptilian because he said it felt cold and slim and was wriggling it way up his pants leg.

I urged him not to move as that might provoke a bite. I took off my belt and tied it snugly around his leg just above the knee so that whatever it was could not get too far up his pants while he struggled mightily not to move a muscle. A snake bite on the calf or shin could be survived if treated properly but if he was bitten in the groin that would be the worst possible thing because of the major arteries there.

My hope was that if the snake could not get very far up the leg that it would lose interest and crawl out in search of food after searching and not finding any inside my friend’s pants. I was scared for my friend and felt nearly helpless because anything that I might try could easily provoke a bite. My friend was terrified but he was also very brave to remain still for what seemed like an eternity but was probably more like two or three hours.

Finally the stress and anxiety was just too much for him and he screamed, “I can’t stand this anymore!”, and he jumped quickly to his feet and started stamping his foot and shaking his leg to try and get the snake to fall out.

Just a few seconds later a very large salamander lizard fell out of his pants leg onto the ground and quickly wriggled back under the pile of pine straw that was around the camp from our early campsite clearing efforts. We were relieved and very grateful that the snake had turned out to be a harmless salamander but it still scared us almost to tears the situation was so tense and stressful while it was happening.

Little did we know when we settled down to try and sleep later that night that the snake in the pants scare was not the only surprise that this camping trip had in store for us. After reliving the salamander incident and talking about it several times we drifted off to sleep as the campfire was getting low and the sky was filled with stars. Several hours later, I must have gotten too warm inside the sleeping bag because I had turned down the top corner and had my arm outside the bag.

As I rolled over my arm fell onto the pine straw beneath my sleeping bag and something burned my hand. I woke up to find that we were in the middle of a brush fire! Somehow the pine straw had been ignited by the campfire and now the safety ring of straw around the camp was literally a ring of fire. All of the pine straw in the campsite had already burned except for the straw that was directly beneath our sleeping bags, and by some miracle that straw had not ignited.

I shouted and woke up my friend David and we went to work in our attempt to put out the fire. We knew that if we could not get it put out quickly that it would get out of control in the pine straw and could severely damage the property and the wildlife that lived there. We did not have enough water to use to combat the fire so we stamped out the fire on ground with our feet except for the largest flames which we used out sleeping bags to smother them. So there we stood in the middle of our burned out campsite, sleeping bags ruined, and afraid that the fire and our shouting may have been heard or seen from somebody on the road.

With our nerves badly shaken from waking up in the middle of a brush fire that we had caused the decision to abandon the camp site and head for home was an easy one. Once we made certain that the fire was out for good, we rolled up our burned sleeping bags, packed the rest of our gear, and decided to walk back home even if it was the middle of the night.

Our packs seemed to be substantially heavier when we started walking back up the country road away from the burned campsite than they had been when we confidently walked that way earlier in the day. We were tired from the stress and the lack of sleep but that soon became the least of our worries. Apparently several of the homes that we had passed on the walk during the day had large, mean, dogs that they let out at night to guard their houses and property. We knew that we were in trouble when first one started barking, then another and then even more. Now we are standing in the middle of a dark, gravel road surrounded by no fewer than five angry dogs barking, growling, and even coming close to us and snapping at our legs.

David and I quickly got into a defensive position by instinct, almost as if we had been trained to do it. We got back to back and used our hiking sticks to fend off the dogs when they would get too close or try to bite us. Soon we figured out that getting out of there as quickly as we could manage would be the best thing for us, but we could not turn and run or the pack would have taken hunks out of our backsides as we ran down the road.

So we stayed back to back and began walking and swinging our walking sticks at the dogs who continued to follow us for what seemed like a very long time. We were very relieved when at long last we reached the end of what must have been the pack’s territory because they stopped following us and turned and headed back toward the house where they lived.

Both David and I were very glad to see our homes again early that morning when it was just barely starting to get daylight. We had been scared by a reptile, awakened in the middle of a fire, and attacked by a pack of dogs all on the same ill-founded camping trip. I recently found my friend David on a social website after being out of touch for over thirty- five years and the scary camping trip had remained one of his favorite stories and he too has been telling it for years.

Although I still and will always love camping, the lessons David and I learned on that fateful night have remained with both of us for years.

Editor’s note: Simon Tech  practices science by day and writing by night. Writing satire is his favorite form of composition. It is like setting a trap for human folly.

Tax Cuts and the Universe

By Simon Tech

A catastrophic tidal wave bearing down on the Pacific coast was vanquished by the quick passage of a tax cut engineered by the Republican leadership. In a move that short-circuited a Democratic filibuster, the minority party pushed the bill through, just as the mile high monster wave was about to crash over populated areas along the coastal rim. Republicans scolded their Democratic counterparts for standing in the way of responsible hydro-fiscal policies.

Tremors in the Bay Area subsided after the Democratic controlled Congress caved in to Republican charges of profligate spending. In a hastily called special session, the minority party oversaw the passage of a tax attenuation bill designed to fiscally neutralize the seismographic activity. Aftershocks, registering at 5.5 on the Richter scale, subsided within seconds of enactment.

A killer asteroid bearing down on the American heartland was pulverized in the nick of time by the legislative acumen of the out-of-power Republican Party. The maneuvering, intended to bring the Democratic Party back to reason, included a nationally televised 3D projection of the fire-breathing cosmic aggressor. The Democratic Party swiftly renounced all future attempts to use the tax code for the purpose of social engineering. The bill was unanimously passed and signed into law by a grateful president. Upon enactment the fiscal warhead promptly shattered the onrushing colossus into harmless dust.

Pope Benedict XVI last week delivered his most definitive statement and apology for the sex scandal that has been plaguing the Roman Catholic Church for the better part of  the last decade. Standing before thousands of priests in St. Peter’s Square on Friday, the Pope begged forgiveness and was quoted  by the New York Times as saying he would do “everything possible” to prevent priests from abusing children.

Bishopaccountability.org, a U.S. based organization that documents the abuse crisis in the Church called the Pope’s  remarks a squandered opportunity and asked for the Holy Father to “endorse and facilitate certain external measures that would increase transparency and advance justice,” including posting all abuse cases handled by the Vatican on the Vatican Web site and ordering “his bishops to cooperate fully with secular investigations, not oppose them.”

In revealing a new detailed explanation of the forces at work behind the scandal, the Pope said the Devil was behind the scandal, saying it had emerged now, in the middle of the Vatican’s Year of the Priest, because “the enemy,” or the Devil, wants to see “God driven out of the world.”

The Pope,  rumored to be a  huge fan of the late comedian, Flip Wilson, was reported to have been watching the “Best of” the comic’s 70s variety series just before making his “Devil made them do it” statements. One report also indicates Wilson’s Grammy award winning comedy album, The Devil Made Me Buy This Dress is a favorite in the Pope-mobile CD player.

This reporter’s repeated attempts at reaching the Devil for comment have as yet gone unanswered.

Editor’s note: Anthony Venutolo knows a thing or two about the printed word. An editor for a Pulitzer prize  winning daily newspaper, Ant writes to a different beat when he’s off his day job and penning for his growing following at the Basement.  Bukowski’s Basement that is. A master at the feel and rhythm of a not-so-bygone era, Ant weaves the kind of tales that conjure up  imagery of tough guys and even tougher dames who were routinely sideways with  the law, convention and main-stream ways.

Today he asks some very serious questions. This piece originally ran at Anthony’s blog.

WILL APPLE BURN OUR BOOKS?

By Anthony Venutolo

As writers (and creators) should we be afraid of Apple? While that may sound a tad melodramatic, it’s not that ridiculous of a question.
No doubt the iPod, iPhone and now, iPad all have been media game changers but does that give the company the right to take an aggressive stand as what type of content is appropriate for the devices.

OK, so CEO Steve Jobs (pictured) has said that his gadgets offer customers “freedom from porn.” That’s one thing. Porn is porn and there are lots of places to get it.

But there seems to be some grey areas when it comes to the company’s mission. When the the iPad went on sale earlier this Spring, Apple ordered European mags to cover the scantily clad models for their app editions. Is this censorship?

They also cracked down on certain dictionary apps that contained words deemed “objectionable.” Again, censorship?

What’s more, Apple also put the kibosh on a Pulitzer-Prize-winning editorial cartoonist. They have since rescinded the rejection once major media outlets cuaght wind — something that they are doing more and more and as a result, Apple been doing more and more backpedaling.

My biggest WTF moment happened when I saw that Apple removed the cigarette from the “Mad Men” logo branding on it’s iTunes page. Anyone who has seen the show knows that in the 1960s, cigarettes were a prevalent social convention and practically plays as a character on the show. Apple has since rebranded the page with the cigarette.

Still, the biggest cause for concern as far as writers and creators are concerned happened just this past week. Apple cried foul with the iPad version of “Ulysses Seen,” a webcomic version of James Joyce’s classic novel “Ulysses.” The company said it featured too much nudity. They also questioned an app edition of Oscar Wilde’s “The Importance of Being Earnest,” which pixillated a series of comic panels that featured two men kissing. While not my bag, they can’t mess with art.

And yup, then the proverbial backpedal came.

Both bans were reversed after considerable media outcry (Yet another reason the shrinking and fledgling Fourth Estate is needed now more than ever).

While most in publishing (newspaper and books especially) are quick to embrace these new forms of media, we, as writers also have to be aware that companies like Apple may be “policing” too much.

It’s one thing to oversee strict guidelines over quality control with regard to apps and such. It’s quite another to restrict creators from their creativity and alter their art.

While we are embarking on a new age of media and communication, as scribes we should also be concerned and aware.

Keep the words alive. At all costs.

We Know Nothing

by Aleathia Drehmer

What does one do with unforeseen guilt?  I sat, unsuspecting, in my nice suburban apartment content with my neighborhood, and somewhat oblivious to the generosity that fills my home.  I can say, beyond a shadow of a doubt,  that at that moment I had taken my existence for granted.  Something began to happen to me as I sat at my table folding small press magazines….something humbling and honest and heartbreaking.  I started to watch a documentary called “Into the Arms of Strangers”.  I didn’t know what it was about when I chose it, but the title was interesting and the picture sad and haunting.  I planned to more or less listen to the film rather than watch it.

It started showing me faces of German Jewish children from the beginning of Hitler’s reign.  In old voices, the stories of these children began to unfold.  They spoke about the Kindertransport in 1938—a grand evacuation of children from Germany to England.  I remember seeing this type of transport, though more covert, briefly touched upon in “Schindler’s List” and I could appreciate the effort and valor of transporting children out of Germany to save them, but the connection for me seemed to stop there. The enormity of the situation was never fully understood.

Sitting at my table, I began to listen to the voices of survivors whose parents loved them so much they sent them away. My heart swelled and ached at the thought of ever having to do that to my own child and the mere idea of it caused me grief.  These survivors recalled their tragedy so plainly and clear that it hurt just to hear their words. Some of them were so very small, but they knew then that their parents told them lies about how they too would soon follow them.  These lies they kept in their hearts like a hope.  For some it was the only way they carried on despite knowing the truth.

Soon, my fingers stopped creasing paper and I migrated from the table to the couch engrossed in this horror, this forced orphaning of over 10,000 children who were sent to a place they had never been whose customs and landscapes were nothing they had ever seen before.  They went to live with families they didn’t know.  They did not speak the language and could not be understood, but they recite memories of their grateful hearts for the chance to live.

It became harder and harder to think that any problem I have ever had in my life could amount to a single day in the life of these children, who went on to be adults, knowing their parents sacrificed themselves to keep them out of concentration camps. It became harder and harder to imagine that sort of bravery.  I thought about that burden and how its intricate heaviness must settle around their hearts like a stone as it now does mine.  It left me feeling helpless and empty and powerless to change the past. It left me unsure about the future in these times of war that have lasted the entirety of my child’s life.  Not one day has been free of it.

It made me think about the fact that much of this life is directed by a tentative navigation.  We are all ill equipped captains of our own destiny in these shaky political and economic times.  Life is something we have to balance and test and feel each day—to be conscious of its breath and how easily that breath could stop without warning. Life calls out to be noticed and respected.

This film showed me something about myself.  It showed me the characteristics of my own being that allowed me to survive my own personal ordeals in these last 37 years. I believe survival is achieved, in part, by knowing that somewhere in the world someone else has it worse off than me.  This has been a mantra in my life that I find sometimes falls quiet until I am reminded in the smallest of ways.

All my trivial thoughts were rendered into a sauce laden with compassion and sadness and mistrust of the world, but even with that present and heavy on my mind, I know that nestled in the folds of tragedy and sorrow there are treasures of heart and humility that can never be ignored.

Aleathia Drehmer 2010

By Suzanne Palmieri

I love online social networking. Maybe it’s because, though I come off as personable, I don’t like people. Peculiar? Not so much. I’m a sociologist and a writer. Both of these professions require a good amount of people phobia.

So of course there’s Facebook— the adult Myspace (though teens are finding Facebook and if it weren’t for Farmville and stalking old lovers, we grown-ups would all surely leave– right? Whatever.) And there’s blogging, and youtube. So many ways to wile away the hours of our lives. But Twitter? Until recently I just didn’t get it.

What’s the big deal? You post your status and then other people react or don’t react. Yawn, right? Wrong, apparently. Twitter has become a platform from which the most amazing things (both good and evil) can spring.  I mean, we’re treading dangerous territory when Ashton Kutcher’s tweets make national news. Sometimes I think Twitter was a concept thought up by smart, angry, nerd elves who wanted to play a joke on the world.  And look, we all fell for it.

The thing is, it really all depends on why you’re there. And it’s definitely a there, a place, believe me. Sometimes I think of it as a large room, like an emptied out dining hall at Yale or some other university, where everyone is meandering about holding a plastic milk crate in one hand and a bullhorn in the other. Every once in a while someone puts down their crate stands on top of it and yells 140 characters or less out through the bullhorn.  Then comes the still. The quiet wait for a response. If they’ve caught someone’s attention that person will stand on their own milk crate and yell back.  If it’s a catchy, witty little sentence many people take to their crates and voila! You’re a success! Or in the best case scenario you get an RT (or re-tweet) or even your very own # (or hash mark) which means you’ve become a trending topic.

But usually your tweet goes unnoticed, so you stand there and everyone walks on by, and you have to get down off your crate and keep milling around waiting for the next stroke of genius to hit you. OR you might get tapped on the shoulder by a fellow twit who will make a comment about your statement privately. That’s called a DM (or direct message) and can only be done if you are mutual followers.

The thing is, what you say out there is heard. And sometimes it shouldn’t be. For example, there are many aspiring authors who’ve fallen prey to the social networking dichotomy. I’m one of them. We are told we need a web presence, so we get one. And we’re writers, right? How hard can it be to throw out a good sentence a few times a day? Well, it’s NOT hard. That’s the easy part. The tough part is what happens while you network.

Editors and literary agents tweet too. And you can follow them and listen in on all of their conversations.

At first, it’s charming! Delightful, even, to hear those you admire come in through the static of nothingness and talk about their kids and spouses, friends and lunches. And sometimes you’re brave, and you reply…. And sometimes they reply back and even (OMG) follow you!

Addiction ensues. You race through your day typing 140 characters, thinking about other people’s 140 characters, listening to stories about how 140 characters change the lives of authors you know. How they tweeted and agents contacted them because their tweets were funny and asked for a rough draft of “whatever” the writer was working on. Or the dramatic events that unfold as an agent who knows they’re about to sign a follower teases them and all of twitterverse by dropping little hints here and there about their potential new client.

Slowly the hell of it all sinks in. As the green eyed monster grows, the bull horn gets heavy, the crate pinches your fingers. And then you start to notice that no one is working, that they’re all at lunch or posting blogs or … or…  tweeting! All freaking day. Because you’re not working any more either, you’re tweeting. And  it’s  become intertwined with who and what you are.

@twit Kidlet one in bath saying funny things.

@twit Can’t crack open these freaking walnuts!

@twit People smell in the elevator.

@twit Hide and seek NOT so clever with 1yearold.

@twit All that glitters is not god

@twit Gold. * Grimaces *

And then you find yourself waiting to hear back from editors, agents, literary magazines, etc and as you wait, tearing your hair out and eating nothing but Cherry Garcia ice cream, they are tweeting about how they just finished reading everything and how hard it was and “phew!” they’re done! But. Wait! Hello? My inbox is empty.

Fu@kers.  Stop tweeting and start paying attention. (I’m still tweeting. Do I have to stop? I suppose it’s hypocritical, right?) Fu#k. Okay I’ll stop if you stop. I can’t stop.

So I get fed up and throw down my milk crate, and scream sarcastically into my bullhorn.  (When did this story become first person?)

@twit if there are any literary agents interested in social media addiction, contact me!

Four seconds later.

DM in my inbox. From a literary agent.

Dear @twit,

It depends on the tone of the book. Why not send me a query?

Really? REALLY!!!!!!!!! You’re F@#*ing kidding me, right?

That’s a true story. Holy crap.

So, to keep myself sane, I’ve come up with a term for all of us. (Excluding, of course, the poets and writers and tweeters who are innocently throwing their beautiful words into the twitterverse for the sheer love of the written word)  The rest of us? We’ve all become Twitterfu#@rs. Now, Let the Twitterfu#@ing begin. Long live Twitterfu@#ing.