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Thursday, May 28th

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Editorial

Stop Making Sense: Reprise

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It is difficult to know where to start, to know where the most appropriate jumping-off place might be.  Instead, we will simply stand up, move to the popped-open door, gauge the height off the ground as being good enough, hook up the static line, check ourselves and the package, and just jump -- parachuting in with some stray facts and thoughts, ammo that will come in handy in the incessant political wars.

The pallets of ammo were too big to send in this trip, but the treasure-map directions to get to these word-artists' palettes are safe, they are right here, good as gold.  Meanwhile, not to worry, the enemy will never find the secret stash -- facts, truth, and logic -- as they've been overlooking them for decades, right under their noses, if they'd cared to look.  All this time, we figured we'd just not yet stumbled on the secret code or right sequence of facts to unlock their arm-linked, lock-stepped, right-wing minds.

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Testing, Testing...

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Our dear friend Reaper has been by, testing the limits, if any, of our deep, highly personal, and intimate relationship -- keeping an eye peeled to see if we will flinch, spook, or be thrown: More atrocities arriving in Afghanistan, as you know, more fallout from our going gunning-around in the world, eager to carve more notches in our gunbelts, always set to cowboy-up, war-whoop into this rodeo's lineup.  True, our Grange Hall dance card of death is all full up, from all our usual and growing carnage abroad:  We're dancing as fast as we can.

Something inside snaps. Then, dying time begins: men, women, kids, all ghastly.  Corpses get grimly abused, set on fire.  Body parts get saved as grisly souvenirs. Same old ghost stories.  Burn a holy book or three, keep the place and its people gasping. This is Reaper's Magical Mystery Tour! The soldier this time in the center, atop a momentary, personal pentagram of examination and crucible of soul-testing, had already been on three tours with Reaper Magical Mystery Tour Services, in Iraq.  How many rides, how many tours is enough?

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Time to Fall Forward!

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If you have not yet adjusted your clocks to Daylight Savings Time, from being out partying, or just plain forgot:  Greetings!  We are from your future!  We come in peace!  And, may we say, how remarkably lifelike you look for this hour!

On the other hand, if you already have your clocks all synched up, you already know that no one here has jet cars as yet, no street-corner teleportation chambers to Mars Base 179, and no take-charge robo-maids whirring around chasing Elroys or Astros, no aprons trailing behind, no doilies askew atop metallic heads.  Sorry, it's not that kind of future -- we'd need a longer head start than an hour for that.  Still, there's no reason to feel counted out or killed by the clock -- although, we shouldn't expect much from Daylight Savings Time, as there are no places for saving up daylight in time vaults, no Sunshine Savings & Loans as yet.

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Unsocial Media & Cereal Tech

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There is time for cereal-box gazing on weekends, an opportunity to let the cerebral rocks in our boxes clunk and clatter around at will:  Call it morning meditation, western-style, you could, something we all do while building a bridge back to this world in the daylight, still halfway mourning our lost dreams.

Today, a bald marketing message hogged a side of the box, hugging the spine of the cardboard rectangle, catching us square on.  We stared at the message for some time, steaming our eyes open with hot coffee taken in a huge mug, faces steam-bathed.  On the box, someone had cobbled a message, gotten paid real money for it, despite -- or, to spite? -- the deeply-flawed-dumbness of the thing.  Perhaps, while we were busy having the most important meal of the day, the cereal makers hoped to blow one right past us, have us not notice it was the least important message we'd see all day or all year.

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Pursuit of Daily Bread - Part 1

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Some thoughts arrive slowly, bogged down in the sticky dough of our daily distractions, and some arrive without any preparation or warning, not needing them, especially, not teasing or kneading them along, but appear, allied to the search for daily bread, a task in which we can all surely relate.

While shopping at the, uh, The StaveWay, we shall call it, this store -- a place within 20 miles of us, out here in the country -- an overheard snippet of conversation caused a long and lasting spark in the oven of the mind.  The unavoidable eavesdropping has given rise to even more thoughts, just as quickly as the first one popped up, too.  Here's how it started:

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Pursuit of Daily Bread - Part 2

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Having observed bakers in a grocery store complaining at length about their jobs, and in plain view of shoppers, it did not seem a safe way to inspire employee-customer relations -- but there you are, the deed was done, and it set me to thinking about much in this world.

Surprisingly, my mind handed me a matter-of-fact complaint to hurl back to the bakers, just in case I might be asked:  Nice you two guys have a job, so you have something to complain about here at your work, while the rest of us are shopping here for groceries, just trying to find our daily bread.

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Pursuit of Daily Bread - Part 3

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Ever since I happened onto that chance, overheard encounter of bakers griping about their jobs inside a grocery store, a drama held out on the sales floor as they lobbed their complaints back and forth, I have been mulling over some things, including the realization that unemployment is a death sentence in this country.  Let's just say I've had a lot of food for thought, from that one trip to the store, going after that daily bread.

There's no easy way around it:  It's a scheme of money on Earth, one we all are stuck using, to satisfy our daily needs and desires.  And, unless we are born into or win great wealth, or somehow escape the inevitability of working all our lives in order to live, we are dependent on jobs to keep us alive.  It's so simple and brutal a concept, I think we can forget how it actually and really is, lost inside all our attempts at living, it's gone in all our distractions.

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