Chess For Sex

Chess for sex is so much better than strip-poker. It's a blending of the intellectual with emotion, competition with the carnal. Even though i lost, i really won, because chess-partner took mercy on me and let me have the consolation prize: which was the same as the winning prize. And it was great. I found myself driving to her house with an excitement and glee I had not expereinced in some time. And I also find myself taking online chess lessons, now, because i don't know if the mercies will be extended next time i lose.

Chess For Sex

Monster Under the Bed

When I was a child, I experienced a common phobia regarding the "creature under the bed"...when getting into bed at night, I'd turn out the light and run across the room, jumping onto the bed, careful not to get my vulnerable, little-girl feet next to the opening beneath it. This was so nothing could grab me.

Now that i am an adult, my phobias are much more mature.

Now, when i go to the bathroom at night, i always turn the light on so i don't sit on the toilet in the dark and not see the awful creature that wants to reach up and grab my genitals when i sit down.

Monster Under the Bed

Door Christians

Well here's my latest little adventure...I'm one of those people who has to have a certain amount of control over my environment to be happy. When that gets disrupted, it fucks with my Chi, as I like to say. As a songwriter, I often spend long hours working on tracking my music in my home studio. I was in the middle of recording a new song and had already started over twice, and really had it going good this time when....

...there was a knock at the door. My dog, Giz, went to barking, ('Cause it fucks with his Chi, too) and I stood up quickly, tried to lay my guitar down, ripped the headphone plug out, tripped over the guitar cord and muttered an impressive selection of profanities. I checked through the window--some dude and a younger girl. Seemed harmless enough, but hell, the recorder was still on and I HATE being interrupted!

I opened the door and said "Yes?"

Referring to a card in his hand, he says, "Are you Jud? Jud Ba-eely?"

First of all, i am female, and i don't know many females with the first name, "Jud." I wanted to say, "Do i look like a Jud to you? But instead countered with: "No, Jae Baeli. (I gave emphasis on the pronunciation of my last name, Bay-lee). "Who's asking?"

He said, "I'm blah-blah from the First Baptist Church, and--"

I could feel the steam forming in my ears. This makes me so mad. It's like door to door spamming. I kept wishing for a delete button or a block-this-person switch, or even a trap door beneath my stoop. I said, "Do you have any idea how rude it is to just drop in on people? I'm in the middle of something and you have really fouled things up."

He says, "I'm sorry. We were just wondering if you attend--"

I interrupted him again. "I was in a training session with my sex slave, and about to make an offering to Satan, so I don't think we need to continue this."

The look on his face was enough to give me some satisfaction as I closed the door in his face.

I guess this makes me sound awful, but I really hate that shit. I don't want anyone cramming their religion down my throat. If I want to go to church, I can find it--it usually has a huge steeple on the building and lots of singing inside. I'm no pagan or anything, but it's just such a rude thing to do, in my opinion. And knocks on my door have a way of scaring me. My heart rate climbs and my blood pressure soars. Not sure why. So as is the norm in these situations, I began to shake, and then I couldn't continue recording because I was so shaky. I am so mad, now.

So there's a part of my "dark side" for ya. I'm probably going to burn in hell.

Door Christians

Jenfu

The Internet can be such a treasure chest. Amid my brief excursions into dictionaries and reference materials for my writings, i stumble on little gems that make me feel so fortunate. Not a Fountain of Youth, but maybe a fountain of comfort, entertainment, moments of peace or camaraderie.

One of those pearls is an online journal by a young woman with the moniker, JENFU. I read her entries, and i feel inspired, hopeful, understood--jealous; i feel i want to know what she looks like, to put a face to the writing, i want to be her best friend. I eat through her entries, and think, "God, i wish i could write like that."

"It isn’t that late, not much past nine, but it feels late. It feels like it could be any time after midnight, when things just stop and the background expands, and it is you, standing on a dark street against that dark backdrop, and everything in the world narrows down to you, alone, under the streetlight, your arms moving through the yellow light as if you’re underwater, and the only possible sounds are the scrape of your heels on the sidewalk as you shift from foot-to-foot, the rasp of fabric against fabric, your hands skating down your arms to clasp your elbows, pulling your body heat back into you, your breath, and the wind that flies up the hill, hits the street with a thud, and goes clattering down the sidewalk, down the other side of the hill." (Jenfu)

If i could grasp that intimacy, the vivid, picturesque quality of these vignettes, i could be a best selling author. (well, that is is the right folks saw it and offered me a contract). If my tortured prose could only spill out of me in that way, i would finally believe in myself.

As much as this is impressive serious writing, i find this next piece, RINGU, absolutely hilarious. I almost peed my pants, reading it.

http://jenfu.net/archives/000231.html

**addendum. Since reposting this here on blogger, i figured out that i can't access those blogs from Jenfu. I'm just sick! I spent a long time googling her (and i bet she didn't even feel it). Seems she's off the map as far as her older stuff. I have some print outs but can't find some of them--to include "Ringu." I might have to hunt down her email and ask her to send me some stuff so i can quote her some more. She's been my favorite blogger for about 6 years. I only had one book in print back then. Now i have twelve. And...I'm STILL not a best selling author, because the right folks haven't seen them and offered me a contract. Dream, on dreamer.

Jenfu

Breath of Life

I am fascinated by the unknowable. Some people spend their whole lives saying "I Don't Know" to those esoteric questions that arise. Me, i like to explore the issue and come to some sort of conclusion. It's that propensity i have to bring order to the chaos. That's another reason why all my bathroom accouterments are neatly stored in transparent shoe bags on the wall....

One monstrous "unknowable" is the question of when our souls enter our bodies. When does a life become something more than a tumor on life support, and instead a human complete with its own soul? I've spent a great deal of time turning this one over in my head and listening to the input from other deep-thinkers. I've come to a conclusion; a sort of encapsulation that i believe sufficiently explains this enigma so that i can move on to more important things like finding lost socks.

I think that the soul enters the body when a newborn takes its first breath. I think the decision a soul entity makes to take on that particular body of that particular human is a decision made from a position of higher consciousness. There are specific karmic lessons to be learned by belonging to that body,in that situation, with those parents, in that location, with those specific circumstances. In the case of a newborn that might die, that soul may have decided that the best lesson to be had for all concerned was for the parents to lose the child. And perhaps that soul only needed the experience of being an infant for a few hours or days or weeks. As difficult as this experience might be on a human level, we cannot impose our human limitations, weaknesses and spiritual blindness on something as beautiful and wise as a Soul.

Breath of Life

Dreams, Nicole Kidman, & The Path Not Taken

I actually remembered a dream his morning, First time in, what? A year? Two? A long time. Anyway, I dreamed that LS and I were in Eureka Springs, and she was at the corner of my desk, using my phone, and that corner of space, like she tends to do. . . and she was trying to get hold of Nicole Kidman, who was in town. It was like an assignment-as if she was working for a local paper or something. She wanted to interview her. She had the number to her hotel room. I said, "You can't just call her up-she probably doesn't even answer her own phone."

"Why not?"

"I'm sure she has 'people' who do that for her."

Never mind, she was determined that she was just gonna ring up Nicole Kidman. And damned if she didn't. I sat there in disbelief, listening to her interview her, jotting notes on a folder and scrap paper on my desk-which irritated me. Wasn't it important enough for her to bring her own paper? And why was she using my desk anyway?

It felt competitive. And I immediately swore that I would not only interview Tom Cruise, but in person, at a coffeehouse downtown. I remember being all excited that I could be in a town where celebrities walked around just like everyone else, and I could sit and get "Sightings" pictures to put on my website, and do reviews of businesses and take lots of photos. . . all for my website. It was exciting and fun to me. . . but back to Tom Cruise. There really was a sense of competition there. Like, we had broken up and were living in separate residences, but here she was again, in my office--my SACRED SPACE-(looks a little like "Scared space. . .or scarred space. . . mmmm. . . interesting Freudian possibilities there. . . )

But she was monopolizing my peace, my time, and then doing something impossible, which always makes me mad--that she has this magic way of making things happen.

I know part of this dream came from my research about Eureka Springs, and looking at some board postings where people said celebrities visit there a lot. They don't like to mention names, but gave initials, and one was TC-- I thought Tom Cruise, and then later a poster verified this (among others) so I was thinking about how cool it would be to be in this little café by the street, people- watching, taking notes, writing. . . and seeing someone like Tom Cruise or whomever walk by. I thought about how cool it would be if someone like that would just sit down at my table, and we'd have a relaxed, normal conversation, laugh it up and then move on with our day. . .

I have never met anyone famous. Well, let's see. . . Linda Ellerbee. . . Sara Hickman. . . Nanci Griffith--I guess that's the extent of it. But LS has met all these loads of famous people. Hell, she HUNG OUT with some of them. Like Ellen Degeneres. Ellen even called her at her mom's house several times. And LS was invited yearly to a party at the home of Anne Rice, where all kinds of famous people mingled. And there was meeting the members of Heart. . .and it seems there are many more she told me about...

So, am I jealous? You betcha. Somehow my life path never led down the walk of Fame, or even on the adjacent street. And does it matter? No, not in the grand scheme of things. It really only matters that I have made some sort of mark on the world, other than of the SKID variety. I'm not star-crossed, or obsessed with famous people. I just think it would be cool to meet them. And having met all kinds of people, including famous ones, would mean I had LIVED; that I had been to places and crossed paths with all kinds. I feel so inexperienced. And that makes me feel ashamed, at my age.

Back to my nocturnal movies...at some point, I dreamed also that I knew what Jenfu looked like (the writer who posts a journal online, with whose writing I am completely infatuated). She looked like Kristen Hall (the singer) except thin. Mmmm. Is this me, imagining? Visualizing? Doing that thing I can't seem to EVER do?

So what does this mean, this event of events-this DREAM REMEMBERED? Is my brain doing better? Is it coincidental that it comes on the heels of a relationship change and a decision for LS and I to move either-to-Eureka Springs-or-Little-Rock- and-that's-final? I really do hope LS is able to find what she's looking for or missing in her life. I'd hate to think she'd end up in the French Quarter, half a nation away (well, not really, but it feels so). I really do want her in my life. I really do cherish our friendship. Obviously, she needs mental stimulation of the social variety frequently, and is "bored to tears" by me and my geekiness; and I am much too idiosyncratic to cohabitate with anyone. . . unless they demand nothing, are bothered by nothing and stay gone at least half the time.

May as well live alone for crappin' out loud.

Dreams, Nicole Kidman, & The Path Not Taken

One Thing After Another

The bird, the partner, the dog, the Fed Ex lady, coffee...

Status quo.

My cockatiel, Bingo, lives in a huge "condo" cage with every toy and snack and luxury a bird could want. But she begins to shriek as soon as daylight hits the windows, her nocturnal sleeping clock disengaged by sunshine. My usual groggy reprimands, like, "Bingo, hush" and "Bingo, shut up!" and "Goddamn it, Bingo!" don't help. But you know, i just always hope i won't have to get up. She wants out of her cage so she can perch on my shoulder, leave lots of poopie on my shirt, bitch at me to scratch her head, then bitch that I'm not doing it right, then jump down and pull all the cigarette butts from the ashtray and drop them in the floor along with paper clips, my lighter, and that pill I'm supposed to take each morning. Then she must punch the edges of all paper products with her beak, and eat all the pencil lead, (if there's any to be had), try to climb on my coffee cup for a drink, to which i say "It's hot" and she tests the side of the cup with her tongue just to check my story...

So forgive me, if I'm not too keen on getting her out of the cage.

But the shrieking. Lord God in heaven.

The only thing I've found that cures it (aside from avian homicide, or the free-for-all i just described) is to take her from the cage and put her in a dark closet or the other bathroom. The darkness makes her think it's time to go to sleep. And i have some peace so that i can go back to bed for a few more hours... I do that, and return to bed.

Just after slipping into dreamland, Giz, my mixed breed dog (the guess is half spaniel, half chihuahua) climbs up to the bed and starts to invade my personal space. Meaning, he walks up the length of my body and lies down on my chest. And whines. I ask if he has to go out- and i get that excited keening sound as he catapults himself off me, leaving another series of toenail scratches on my skin. I get up and go to the door, avoiding the dido movements all around me as he revs up for the trip outside. Another phobia, though, is of wet grass. So he goes to the edge of the walk, and squats about 3 inches away from the grass...on the concrete. I call to him sharply, and his flow stops as he darts back down the walk. "Oh no, you're not coming inside until you go--" I have to drag him toward the grass, but he still won't go.

So i go back inside and get my shoes and leash, and return, snapping the leash on his collar, and walking out into the wet grass, calling him. He finally goes, but not after a sniffing trek through the grass and back around to the pine bark--an acceptable compromise so that i can go back to bed finally. My partner is awake, and there begins some witty banter, at my expense, the details of which escape me. Finally, i just said "Stop aggravating me--i want to go to sleep." We do. A few minutes later, Giz starts making that awful sucking, "sick" noise in his throat that always wakes me up; a precursor to some ugly warm mess on the rug that i have to clean up. I rushed over and called his name, as if to scold him for this thing he could not control. He darted out from under his little sleeping tent, and i had to coax him to me so that i could drag him into the bathroom...i had to drag him since he doesn't like tile or linoleum floors. Another of the mysterious traumas he must have suffered before i adopted him from the Humane Society.... Now both children are in separate bathrooms. I set about cleaning up the mess. Done with the cleaning, my allergic rhinitis sneezing fit arrives on schedule. I have one or two every morning, but only after i am up and around, so now i'm looking for Puff's Plus with aloe. I have to get up and go to the bathroom to blow. I grab a peanut butter bone for Giz to let him know he's not really in trouble just because he made another bile stain on the carpet...he holds the bone in his mouth, stares at me uncertainly, moving toward the open door. I tell him it's okay, he can go.

I know i won't be going back to sleep now, so my first impulse is to make coffee, but both sides of the sink and both counters are full of dirty dishes. I unload the dishwasher, fill the carafe and then discover there aren't enough fresh beans in the grinder. Well, i love fresh ground coffee beans...and besides, that's the only way I'll get coffee out of them, aside from eating them whole, which i prefer not to do. So i have to grind some. I hate the noise- and maybe my partner will too (since said partner is still asleep) So then I'm sitting down with my beloved coffee and checking my email when Fed Ex knocks- Giz goes crazy barking and whining as always. He is traumatized by knocks on the door, too...The package is for my partner who is still in bed. I toss it on her legs and go to my office, where i close the door and hope to get this written.

And how was YOUR morning?

One Thing After Another

Stood Up Like a Chump

I spent two days preening myself. I plucked, and shaved and used cleansers, emollients, lotions, oils, facial masks, lotions for puffy eyes. I wore a $300 suit, and was so excited about the evening. It was to be a double date with my best friend and her new girlfriend.

Then i got stood up.

Humiliation. Sadness.

New Year's eve and i felt like a big fat chump. So the last thing i wanted the next day was to tag along with my best friend and her girlfriend. I just wanted to crawl in a hole and stay there.

I climbed in bed, covered my head and slept.

Stood Up Like a Chump

Krispy Kreme Persuasion

So there was this whole big box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts on the counter.

And she said she didn't really care for custard filled doughnuts, and that's what was left. That box was taking up lots of counter space, just to house that one custard filled doughnut. And it's not like I'm not on my way to Wal-Mart to buy Metamucil and Slimfast. I have to do that because I have to fit my fat ass into some nice clothes for our relocation information trip to Eureka Springs in a couple weeks. And I can't show up hoping to apply as a resident for this small, quaint, crime-free little burg, and look like some freakin' Jabba the Hut wannabe. And since I'm going on this crash diet, why the hell should I deny myself that last custard-filled Krispy Kreme? They're only the best doughnuts in the world. And if it sits on that counter any longer, it'll spoil, and what's that--? 30 cents down the drain? That wouldn't be frugal at all.

And I've been up all night and need my energy for the trip to Wal-Mart.

And the box was taking up so much room on the counter.

Krispy Kreme Persuasion

LP Wallpaper

When compact discs became the norm for music media in 1983, I was excited by it, the possibilities of them lasting longer, being easier to store and sounding better....but remember being so disappointed that the days of those large albums were coming to a close...

...once in an apartment in Oklahoma, i attached all my vinyl record collection to the wall with Funtac, corners touching, so there was this kind of checkerboard effect of the album covers...and when i wanted to listen to any music, i'd walk over to the wall and pull the disc out and put it on the turntable. No more hunting through stacks of albums and scattering them on the floor and being fearful of stepping on them. I t was an interesting art piece and functional too. I'm always impressed and pleased by anything that is both utilitarian and artistic. It wouldn't be the same to use the CD's because obviously, they are in a hard plastic box and you'd have to really squint to appreciate the cover art.

Ah...nostalgia.

LP Wallpaper

Mind-Numbing Meaningless Morning

I sense that I am slipping into that space between the wall and the airbed. Instinctually, I shift to the middle of the twin space. I look at the clock, because I have to look at it. I need to know what time it is. I need to get my bearings, do the math, calculate how long I've been asleep.

Let's see... one-thirty seven. . . I went to sleep. . . when? I recall looking at the clock when I went to sleep, trying to memorize the numbers, so that I could do these calculations when I wake up. . . it was almost two? Three? Four? I hate when I go to sleep when it's a time that end in :57 or :59, because I tend to remember that part, and not the primary number--of what hour it is. Then I don't know. It could be anywhere within three hours. I think it was two fifty-something, though. That means I've been asleep-- um. . . longer than normal. I need to get to work on the book.

And my back is killing me. The muscles are taut and sore. From mowing yesterday. I look at the book at my bedside. Wish I could have read more of it before I nodded off. I smell the ashtray and wish I had emptied it the night before. But at least I made myself get up, close the window and brush my teeth. Many times I go to sleep with the window open. I should stop smoking, I think, for the hundredth time.

I feel a snippet of the dream. I assume the one I had just been having-- remnants of an object. They're important in order to bring back the rest of the dream. . . but the harder I try to concentrate, the more they slip away. I hear a dog barking, and the image that was materializing just zips away. Gone forever, I know. I wonder if Justice is awake yet. Whenever i think of her, i think of that word Sneebs. She uses it interchangeable for many things. It can be an endearment: "Hey, Sneebs." It can be a greeting, "Sneebs!" It can even be a commentary on the softness of a blanket..."Oooo, sneeeebs." It can be a temporary replacement word when she can't think of the right one. "I was trying to get the thing out of the..the...sneebs." She has a language all her own. I am endeared by that.

Then I'm aware of my bladder. So I get up and go pee, and look down at the trash can. I need to empty that. And there's a hair on the bathroom floor. I hate that.

I rinse out the uglies that have taken up residence in my mouth with the generic antiseptic mouthwash, and think about how good the coffee will taste. But I'm afraid the mouthwash might spoil it. I'm always afraid the mouthwash might spoil it. But then, that leads to poor dental hygiene--to avoid rinsing.

In my office, I peek in the coffee grinder and know that there's not enough for six cups. I have to grind more. I have to wince, and allow my ears to be accosted by the sound of grinding beans. But it smells good, so maybe that's why I can stand it.

I notice the candle that has burned away and want to light it but my lighter is too big to fit into the glass. I go through the house looking for matches, or something that will light it. I find a taper candle and use that, adding the tall candleholder to my desk--it doesn't have glass around it so I can light it with anything. Maybe it will be tall enough so that the cats won't catch their tails on fire. Justice is always afraid of that. But they could knock this one over. But it'll probably go out. So it's probably okay.

I go fill the carafe, pour it into the coffeemaker, dump the contents of yesterday's filter in the trash over the old cigarette butts (thank god, or the trash would smell. . . so the coffee grounds serve a purpose, even when spent). I put a new filter in the basket and measure out three scoops, counting two, four, six. I'm glad nothing distracted me, because I know if there had been any sound, I would lose count, and I would have to pour the contents of the filter back into the grinder and start again. I switch the coffee maker on, and sit down, leaning to look at the cable modem, see if it's online yet. I recall how it was offline for many hours yesterday, and I didn't get to check the tracking on my package. It's online.

I open the browser and check mail, seeing that Shelia has written me back so I have to open that first. I read her mail and write a response. My hands hurt, so I put topical analgesic on them, and don my fingerless gloves that make me look like a street person.

I check in with Jenfu, read her recent stuff and wish I could write like that. I print out some of her stuff and resolve to study it.

Do I need to pay any bills? Am i forgetting something? Is the mail here? I go check the mail. Nothing, and return to my desk.

The candle has dripped onto the desk. Oh well. It's just wax. But I realize the kitties could have gotten into it while i was gone. Stupid. I should not do that. But I like candles so much and it helps deodorize the room.

Then I see that I need to take some Tylenol and my synthroid and my vitamins. That means I need something on my stomach.

I go to the kitchen, on the way telling myself I should put that ironing board up and take out the trash. I notice that the sink is full of dirty dishes again. How did that happen? The mess disturbs me and I have an overwhelming urge to clean but I just don't feel like it. I stare into the cabinets, the fridge. Nothing simple. I decide on applesauce. I pour it in a coffee mug and grab a spoon, then put the spoon back and get a plastic one, because I can't stand the thought of hearing that metal scraping against the cup. I let the dog out and in, glaring at the dirty dishes again. . . the dirty countertop. . . the floor needs to be swept and mopped, too. . . I give Giz fresh food and water. I return to my office with my applesauce and a beef jerky strip.

At my desk, I take that first sip of coffee. Ahhhh. I have trouble opening the jerky package, mad at the soreness of my fingers, the way they feel swollen and fat. I use scissors to open it instead.

Giz is staring at me hopefully.

I check the tracking on the package, and think about how I need to research this brain thing of mine-- why I don't remember my dreams anymore. I do some searching in google, and peruse a few pages, signing up as a test-subject for some program they'll email me.

My coffee has gotten cold before I had a chance to finish it so I put it on the coffee maker warming plate. Maybe I should move all the coffee stuff to the kitchen again, I think.

My back hurts.

Justice comes to the door, saying "Sneebs."

Mind-Numbing Meaningless Morning

Alien Tummy Tuck

Just checking my hair. No apparent reason, just throwing a passing glance in the mirror on my way to turn on the shower, and saw some little blemish on my face. Closer inspection revealed nothing of consequence. But then i looked closer in the looking glass...(Alice never had a trip like that through the looking glass) closer...until i could see the pores on my skin, touch the bags under my eyes and saw how loose the skin was....my skin had become loose somewhere along the way. Not the skin of my 20's,or even 30's, but the skin of someone growing older... someone who could hear the mortal ticking of the clock...The puffy skin of my eyes was tight enough... if i got rid of the puffiness, it would just be another patch of loose skin.

Then i started wishing i was not 41. that i could invert the age or something But that would make me 14, and i'm not sure i'd want to be 14 again. When i was 14, I lived in a big blue split level house in the country, and the windows in my room were ground level. There, i used to spend hours writing in my journal, and playing with my Johnny West collection, and hiding in a cubbyhole under the stairs, the entrance of which was under the shelf that served as a desk in my room. That was like my little sanctuary.

During that time, i also saw a UFO from the backyard, and managed to get a picture of it, but no one believed me. That photo is in storage somewhere.

I have forgotten most of the details of that time in my childhood. Various therapists over the years have been convinced I'm blocking some trauma; some child abuse. My parents were way too apathetic to be abusive. Theirs was a sin of omission.

Maybe what i was blocking was that i was an abductee. I have that photo to prove there was opportunity...maybe I was TAKEN. Maybe i could get those aliens to abduct me again, and forego the anal probe and just do a tummy tuck to tighten all this loose skin i have.

I watch the skies, ever hopeful.

Alien Tummy Tuck

Cruel and Unusual

Not so long ago, i considered myself a liberal, but i find that my take on things is moving a bit more toward the middle. Take this captured terrorist thing: I could not believe my ears when i heard the ACLU was blathering about how we should not extract information from the terrorists by any effective means. Seems there's concern that we may be stepping on their "rights."

Well, my opinion is that since they are not Americans, they should not be afforded the same rights as Americans. They are treasonous. They are a threat to the safety and well-being of life as we know it. They hate us. While i believe that compassion has its place, i don't feel that this situation is one of them; at least not the kind of compassion that prevents us from protecting ourselves. Yet, at the same time, i don't believe it's right to use torture as a first line of defense in gathering intelligence. But there has to be a hard line drawn somewhere.

Imagine my disgust and dismay when the ACLU further stated that the new idea to use Truth Serum to extract information was considered "Cruel and unusual punishment." Never mind that the American Military and the American government used that very same Truth serum to extract information from our own soldiers and operatives. Never mind that the military and/or government also injected plutonium and uranium into the veins of 12 human Guinea pigs in the 1940's. The same government who infected 400 African-American men with syphilis, under the guise of treating them for "bad blood." These are just some of the incidents we know about, and I'm confident there are others.

I mention this only because there is an inherent hypocrisy in "maintaining" compassion that does not exist in the first place. I'm not sure this is even the point. The point, to me, is that we must be a nation that never throws the first punch, but finishes the fight with a vengeance when the punch is thrown at us. There is no shame in self- defense. I say, try every humane way (including sodium pentathlon) to extract information about terrorism activities, terrorist cells, strike intelligence, etc., and if that doesn't work, get creative. Get mean. Do what it takes. These terrorists are not one of our own. Why should we treat them with more respect than we often treat Americans? In general, when we're talking about the ability to destroy entire cities and cripple everything in our nation, including our freedom, all bets are off, Skippy.

Cruel and Unusual