OBAMA/BIDEN OR DIE!

EMERGENCY! PLEASE VOTE FOR OBAMA/BIDEN NOW OR ON NOVEMBER 4TH!

TEN GOOD REASONS TO VOTE DEMOCRATIC BLUE MY FRIENDS:

1. WE NEED TO GROW THE MIDDLE CLASS!

2. THEIR PLAN FOR HEALTH CARE WILL WORK!

3. TAX CUTS FOR 95% OF AMERICANS WILL HELP THE SHRINKING MIDDLE CLASS & ALL WORKING PEOPLE!

4. IT`S TIME TO END THE WAR IN IRAQ NOW!

5. THE FEDERAL DEFICIT IS RUINING THE ECONOMY-WE MUST SHRINK IT JUST AS BILL CLINTON DID!

6. WE HAVE TO STOP OUTSOURCING JOBS, & CREATE JOBS HERE IN THE U.S! OBAMA HAS A PLAN FOR THIS!

7. THINK AL GORE IN TERMS OF THE TYPES OF NEW JOBS THAT CAN BE CREATED IN ENERGY & THE HIGH TECH INDUSTRY!

8. OBAMA`S IDEAS ON IMMIGRATION ARE RIGHT!

9. WE MUST BEGIN TO IMPROVE OUR IMAGE IN THE WORLD! OBAMA/BIDEN CAN DO THIS, BUT IT WILL TAKE MUCH TIME! WE HAVE TO STOP THESE ILLEGAL INVASIONS INTO SYRIA!

10. THE ECONOMY WILL GRADUALLY IMPROVE, BUT IT WILL TAKE SOME TIME! THE KEY IS BY LETTING THE LOWER MIDDLE CLASS DO A LITTLE BETTER. THEN THE WHOLE ECONOMY WILL START TO PERCOLATE! THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED LATE IN BILL CLINTON`S SECOND TERM! THIS IS WHY I STARTED TO DO BETTER THROUGH THE U.S. STOCK MARKET!

MCCAIN/PALEN ARE WRONG ON THE ECONOMY, WRONG ON THE WAR IN IRAQ, & WRONG ON ENERGY!

VOTE OBAMA/BIDEN ON NOV 4TH, OR EARLIER!

A TRUE TALE OF WOE-GHOUL(S) OF THE OLDE WEST

A TRUE TALE OF WOE-GHOUL(S) OF THE OLDE WEST by John G. Kays

“I saw trees growing and changing like puffs of vapour, now green; they grew, spread, shivered, and passed away. I saw huge buildings rise up faint and fair, and pass like dreams. The whole surface of the earth seemed changed-melting and flowing under my eyes. The little hands upon the dials that registered my speed raced round faster and faster. Presently I noted that the sun belt swayed up and down, from solstice to solstice, in a minute or less, and that consequently my pace was over a year a minute; and minute by minute the white snow flashed across the world, and vanished, and was followed by the bright, brief green of spring.” The Time Machine-H. G. Wells

This is a true tale of woe. The particulars are undeniable shards of indicia, yet the rub of this perplexing interlude is subject to pendulums of speculation. If I had any notion of what was about to happen to me this Hallows Eve, I would have chartered a flight to Bermuda, cashed in my 401 K, or what is left of it, and taken an early retirement, a leave of absence from this ignoble planet that we call home. Yet the human race craves to hear my wrenching tale, while even knowing that their fates are carved as pumpkin fur party. Eek! Gadzooks! Yet wait, here crawls a freak, a ghoulish effigy, a Badman out-of-time-me sees a puff of fancy, a pipedream, my chummy compadre? Doomed, doomed, thus quivers my throat!

`Twas a crisp clear autumn day in the year 2008, the month was October, the day was the 31st. An infrequent breeze did coarse through the room, and openings in the blinds saw whisking palms gently swaying. Merrily, I lit a candle to a newly carved Jack-O-Lantern smiling wryly and arranged decorative, fresh candy bowls for the trick-er-treaters who would chance my abode this very eve. Eagerly, I unwrapped my HP Pavilion dv9000 notebook from the Fed Express package and began to set up shop for my wireless laboratory that would soon take me to new places. Green light go, all systems tilt-a-whirl, knobs on eleven! The antenna waves began to function and I surfed the net for spine-tingling stories to pass some idle hour.

I peered into the notebook and this scene came forth: it was the parking lot behind a humble mall in Dallas, Texas, known as Northtown Mall. The focus is on a yellow 1966 Ford Mustang, the best model ever, and one that resembles my very own, used to drive around the town in my youth. It was closely parked to one of the entrances to the mall towards the back of the building. Why was I seeing only vehicles in the lot from the 1970s, such as Pintos, Ford Broncos, or Pontiac Firebirds?

Screen fog clouds then the ‘camera’ trots swiftly into the mall, then pans into the AMC Northtown Six Theater, an earliest version of multi-cinema complexes that now crowd our American landscape. You should know, I was gainfully employed as an usher for the Cubs-share of my latter days in high school (1967-1971). The eye then races down (I do not know what it is) the lobby (replay The Shining again for reference) past the refreshment stand and into screen IV where the feature that is playing is Phantasm, considered by most to be a classic, with its campy antics of flying metal blades and the spooky Tall Man mortician cruising in hearses, snatching teens, and turning the dead into dwarf zombies in order to take over the world.

Now skip back to a young man munching corn and hugging a soft drink-grimacing to the shenanigans of supernal simulacre. He is a thin lad with flowing chestnut locks and coke-bottle glasses as thick as the iron girders of the Empire State Building. He is wearing a navy blue sports coat, white wrinkled dress shirt, bell-bottom blue slacks, and cordovan weejins lacking socks. As I witnessed this on the notebook canopy, my mouth opened in awe, this was me back in time. I was watching myself at the premiere of Phantasm, March 28th, 1979, at Northtown Six Theater. The specifics of the event began to flood back into my mind, Goosebumps popped up in my craggy joints.

This was a chronicle from my life. It was real, I actually did attend this movie at this now defunct mall, that is at present an abandoned shell for dubious flea markets and traveling carnivals with one star ratings. But folks, I had just gone back in time some twenty-nine years to a frivolous, yet pertinent event from an earlier chapter in my life. A pitch of fever for vagaries, a trance came over me, what would happen next? I watched Phantasm once again on Netflix to put meat on the bones of memory.

The laptop curtain blurred and cleared prodigiously in my chamber, the commotion desisted and I observed some relevant entries in the bottom right hand corner of the flatface. It read: May 25th, 1871, Abilene, Kansas. I recognized this as the last stop on the Chisholm Trail, a frenzied cash-in cowtown where law and order had taken a vacation to Saskatchewan! Frame the scene, two men approach each other with harried mugs. The drunken one sputtered: “I`m just taking in the town.” The other blasted, “Take those pistols off. I arrest you.” Lo and behold, this was Wild Bill Hickok, I recognized his countenance from rusty photos!

The young, spunky stranger pulled his firearms from his scabbard and quickly rolled the guns over in his hands and stuck em in Wild Bill`s face. He curses the legend as a long-haired scoundrel, then he says, “This is my fight and I`ll kill the first man that fires a gun.” Oddly, the two made up, shook hands, patted their respective backs, then paced to the Apple Jack Saloon fur an eye-opener. I grimaced as the screen fogged up big time. Cognizance filled my brain, I pulled impacting data from storage-this was John Wesley Hardin`s infamous Border Roll on Wild Bill Hickok. The event seemed real; the cobwebs of time dissipated, sheen returned to the dusty memory.

Several hours went by and I doled out trick `r treats to costumed revelers ambling from door to door. Nervously, I festooned my condo with orange and black streamers, to take the edge off, you see, but the shocking revelations, the recollection of the cyber-loop, echoed through my brain and bones (which shook with the timidity of a skeleton dance of death). After much gloom and off-the-map marveling, I returned to my experimental chamber for encounters unexplained-a diminishment of cowardice pushed me forth to my station (a refuge for unspeakable chimera).

I deposited my paperback copy of The Tommyknockers on the nightstand and turned down the chiming clocks ringing on The Dark Side of the Moon vinyl platter. I returned to my spanking new notebook and read a ghost story or two-one on theSOP.org about the Bell Witch put me in a moony mood, so I fetched a steaming kettle of green tea and fixed my eyes on a short story, Berenice by Edgar Allan Poe in a yellowing, though lovely, antediluvian volume. Mysteriously, fog began to appear on the edges of the screen; did I have extra pork-barrel options in this box that I was unaware of? Data in the bottom right hand corner displayed Friday, August 1st, 1873. Locale: Albuquerque, Texas. Clarity returned to the screen.

I could make out a Blacksmith Shop; one man was getting off a horse with a double-barreled shotgun in hand. The other cowpoke was cocking a pistol and aiming it towards a man down the dusty street who was sporting a knife. The man with the blade uttered: “Hands up, you son of a bitch!” The ornery dudes commenced to plug `em with six-shooter balls and buckshot. The man tumbled to the dirt stone dead and bleeding from countless orifices. The killers fled nonchalantly and my display began to obfuscate yet again. Later I was able to piecemeal exactly what I had seen.

The electronic partition clouded for a moment than began to rewind rapidly. Scenes changed dramatically as people, trees, and buildings whipped back through time and got younger. Finally, focus emerges and on the right hand bottom of the screen digits are noted: El Paso 8/19/1895. I can see we are in front of the Acme Saloon on San Antonio Street-downtown El Paso. The time on the screen is 11 PM and a cantankerous looking cowpoke walks through the saloon doors, and begins to pull a pistol out of his side holster. A drunken man with a mustache who is playing dice gets up, wobbly, tossing dice down the spit-clean bar and utters to his compadre, “Brown, you`ve got four sixes to beat.”

The man with the silver star pinned to his vest walked four steps through the smoky pallor and pointed the pistol to the back of the woozy gambler`s head and fired. Down tumbled the loner, a gaping wound to the back of the head. The limping lawman pumped two more slugs into the fallen cowboy then calmly left the scene. The screen began to mist as the drama was told. A chilly draft wafted through the room. Strains of Stan Jones` classic Ghost Riders in the Sky piped through the Altec Lansings. “Their brands were still on fire and their hooves were made of steel, their horns were black and shiny and their hot breath he could feel…Yippee-yi-ya, yippee-yi-yo, Ghost riders in the sky.”

I was still soaking this all in. My eyes danced over to the mantle while the clock struck midnight. Antique photographs of ancestors leered out at me as if they were still alive. And there was a shot of me from around the time of the ‘Phantasm incident’ at the old familiar mall called Northtown. Troubling too was a cowboy menagerie on the mantle-a pistol-packing outlaw shootin` straight at me! My eyes turned back to the shroud where steamy vapors began to part; scenes transformed rapidly-buildings disappeared, old men morphed to garland-bearing youth, Starbucks vanished in a puff, and Wal-Marts vaporized to desolate prairies.

As the notebook began to clear up I indexed the data in the bottom right: High Noon, Sunday, August 27th, 1995-El Paso, Texas-Concordia Cemetery, to be exact. A little scuffle was taking place, and I could hear their words. These citizens had a disinterment order to confiscate the remains of one John Hardin, and return him to his hometown of Nixon. But the historian Leon Metz got an injunction signed by a local judge restraining the digging up of Hardin`s charnel remains. After a few minutes the parties dispersed; the Nixon bunch were grumpy and cursing for the failure of their mission. Later I would find out John`s position on where he intended to rest all his days.

In a flash the apparition sprung out magically from the mini-computer veil and floated languorously around my condo like a busy bumble bee sniffing honey. Remember the fairies in Disney`s Sleeping Beauty, for this was the type of projection that I beheld. A day-glow green veneer emanated out of the ghost bubble eidolon. My jaw dropped, eyes bugged-out, and my face turned a slime green. Perspiration streamed down my cheeks and I quaked in terror anticipating otherworldly utterances from this gruesome umbra. The ungodly gaseous ghost got in my face (this petrified me to stone) and bespoke some words that warbled sinuously from some echo chamber of a Poe tale of horror. These creaky vocal chords sounded distant like white zombies in a New Orleans voodoo factory.

“I am what remains of John Hardin. I loathe every Yankee carpetbagger that ravages the hallowed grounds of Texas. I never killed but in self-defense. Though it is true, I once shot a man simply for snoring. Let my remains stay in El Paso until eternity! I have revealed these scenes unto you that you might see the truth instead of the legend. However, I am the greatest gunslinger that has ever roamed the Wild West. My story is wrought from Reconstruction, the darkest time in our nation`s history. Tell my tale to the world that people will see the travesties and contradictions that confounded me. I was a victim of Lincoln, that scoundrel! While yet it is true, fifty men bit the dust from my pistol lead, each of them Yankee lovin` devils got their just deserve.” He gave out a shrill laugh and disappeared into the ether. A screamin` genie out-a-the-bottle had just haunted me!

The next day I gathered my wits after fitful slumbers and noxious dreams put bags under my eyes and cobwebs in my crevices. The theorems of science were ‘closely watched trains’, but I needed badly to catch the metro daily express to sanity! I knew what had happened to me, so I will tell you. My notebook had turned into a conduit to the past. It was programmed into a time machine, possibly by the combination of technologies at the disposal of necromancing wizards. I wasn`t looking at an old movie, nor was this a reenactment of the glory days of the Old West. This was a Sherman and Peabody out-of-body experience where I had seen pivotal events in real time.

These did not look like dwellings derived from the movie sets of Hollywood, say culled from the days of Tom Mix or the early flicks of the Duke, Mister John Wayne. No motion cameras were around in the 1870s. My best conjecture is that these were real time-loops summoned by my modem and projected onto the notebook terminal. Please understand, these were not instant playbacks, but rather the actual action itself happening-live, you see!

This is very hard to understand. I`ll give an example. Remember, there is a distinction between a memory and the actual event. Think of the shooting of Oswald by Jack Ruby; what you have seen over and over again in the past forty-seven years is a film tape of the shooting. It looks real but it is not. The real shooting resides in a specific time slot: 11:14 November 24th, 1963, and in a particular space spot, the basement of the Dallas Police Department. In my case, I truly went back in a time machine to some salient events in the life of John Hardin.

Let me summarize exactly what transpired. First, I returned to my premiere viewing of the cult classic Phantasm. Second, I experienced the Border roll of Hardin and the famous confrontation with Wild Bill Hickok in Abilene, Kansas. Third, I was right there when the killers took down Sheriff Jack Helm-this was most ghastly indeed! Fourth, I was an eye-witness to the murder of John Hardin by the two-timin` Constable John Selman in El Paso. Fifth, I saw the altercation at the graveside of our gunman; this is divined from recent recollections, sundry newspaper articles, that are unsavory souvenirs of infamy and violence. Lastly (sixth), I had my own personal visitation by the sheer, translucent poltergeist of one Hardin. This was a historical event, I can swear on it! This was not a memory or made up, but rather a newly conjured banshee conceived from fresh advances in computer science. A new necromancy has emerged along the lines of H. G. Wells and his nifty Time Machine. This explanation can not be proved, but no other possibility can be plausible. Rebellion against science is unheard of, so immutable facts are for the offering.

Lazy days went by, and day to day obligations were performed. The trash was taken out, the dishes cleaned, the bills paid. Nervous palpitations began to spring up. Itches and sweating, clammy sensations, fears, unbalanced humours, denial, mood swings, and the questioning of science all played their hands. Nothing out of the ordinary, mind you, but one rainy night I looked into the crystal ball (the notebook) and saw a flashing bright orange pumpkin in flagrant animation and the chilly strains of John Carpenter`s Halloween theme went blasting through the speakers! I tossed up my hands, gesticulated in consternation and rattle chanted: “I better not ‘pal around’ with ghostly western outlaws anymore!” Nothing ever happened again for evermore.

A GHOST STORY OF JOHN WESLEY HARDIN

This is the actual GHOST OF JOHN WESLEY HARDIN! I am preparing a chilly, yet true account of his gossamer visits to me, by way of a modern machine that acts as a conduit to paranormal waves of spirited energy. Be prepared to read my story about one week before HALLOWEEN! You can be sure that he`s an apparition because you can see through him; transparency of his image is obvious. Ladies & gentleman, this is not a stunt, it is not hocus pocus, no charade my friend, nor has trick photography been harnassed to cajole you into believing that this is an otherworldly spirit. That it is honestly a ghost, you can bank on it! I chill at the prospect of more visitations, but no doubt, more will come to pass! This gunslinger, this murderer is restless, maybe angry, & wants to still preside on our times, for reasons unknown. I will peck out my story with fear & trembling but will truthfully chronicle the path of the reckless killer with keen acumen . But no use in stirring him up to the point of harrowing hauntings. Of endless campaigns or spooky encounters! SO PLEASE PREPARE YOURSELF FOR THE GREATEST GHOST STORY EVER TOLD JUST TWO WEEKS HENCE!

*If you haven`t already read my piece on Philip K. Dick`s, Flow My Tears, please do so now!

The Potatoes - Dig Their Okay Sound!

Boy this is very groovy art for this art cassette!

RING IN THE NEW!

I thought I`d post on my new HP Pavilian laptop, now that I finally am getting this little wireless machine going!
1. BARRACK OBAMA IS GOING TO BE THE NEXT PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!
2. Austin City Limits Music Festival totally ruled!
3. Best: Gnarls Barkley, Foo Foo Fighters, Jacob Dylan, Plant/Krauss, David Byrne, & Manu Chau
4. Let`s hope we can survive this deep recession caused by flawed economic principles of GB.