ACT YOUR OLD AGE

DESPERATION LOVES COMPANY

2012-02-13T19:14:00.004-06:00

MAN SEEKS SOMEONE who doesn't suck. There: a six-word personal ad that says everything I want on this Valentine's Day 2012. And spare me the snarky heh-heh and blow-job innuendos. This isn't about sex — if it was, I'd have hired a hooker and paid her to leave.

This is about Romance, kids. An old photographer friend used to say he loved first dates — the anticipation and anxiety, butterflies in the stomach, the first scent of her perfume in your nose. After that it's all downhill for the realists of the world, but it's the lifeblood of Romantics, the intoxicant that never grows old. In my perfect world I date the same woman one time, over and over again, and she's always a stranger at the start of lunch — questions waiting to be asked and answered, a mystery waiting to be revealed. Nervous energy, flutters of flirtation, a kiss on the back of her hand. Groundhog Day for Romantics.

It doesn't work that way, of course. She gets to know me, she discovers things she can't stand, she stops returning my texts and calls. In a way it's a perfect circle; the woman who was a stranger goes back to being a stranger. If it's timed out just right she leaves before the Big 3 holidays — Christmas, Valentine's Day, my birthday — and she doesn't have to shell out a dime for presents. That's the case this year.

I've shuffled through the online dating forums, looked at dozens of photos of women who say they're looking for That Special Someone, the Perfect Boyfriend, the Man of their Dreams. Some have winked at me; I send back digital winks while wincing. So this is what pitiful people do.

Truth: Being without someone this Valentine's Day is excruciating. Being with someone who doesn't like you is preferable to being alone and lonely on the day of red hearts and flowers; at least you get candy and a card, even if the sentiment comes from Hallmark and the sender is someone who's tired of your ass. It's the thought that counts, amirite?

So instead of dinner and flowers and the air of kind (or kinda) love in the air, VD 2012 is a decidedly different affair at the southside Apartment de Davis: a shot or four of vodka or tequila (or both!), a toast to the cat as he crawls across my chest and meows in my face. Maybe a brief flare of agony, but only after I'm good and drunk and willing to let my guard slip.

Even when it's just the cat here, I try to maintain some sense of decorum. I might let him see me shed a dozen tears, but he'd better not try to console me. Bastard knows better. Because he's the only witness he's the only one with the right to bitch about me being a morose asshole on Feb. 14, and because he's an indoor cat he won't be able to go out and peddle my sorry-ass story for catnip. He'll just clamor for tuna and I'll feed him and pretend it's dinner for two. Maybe I'll light a candle and put out placemats. And if things unexpectedly go south he'll have 140 pounds to nom on.

J'ai une âme solitaire. I am a lonely soul. My brave face says I like it this way.

MARS, VENUS & THE STRANGER

2012-02-10T20:19:00.000-06:00

LEGOS. That should do the trick. Red brick, blue brick, maybe make a window here.

I am alone in a two-bedroom, two-bath apartment, single bed with Ralph Lauren comforter in the front room (even those seeking enlightenment have a very few earthly pleasures). The master bedroom in the back of the apartment is empty, the vanity and big queen bed gone with the princess.

The Legos are the latest tool as I seek Zen after the storm. Focusing on the quiet, opening the hand of thought — this is my life now, not quite a scant year since the catalclysm that simultaneously wiped out my previous existence and gave birth to an alien being, a man akin to The Stranger in Clint Eastwood’s High Plains Drifter. At the climax of that movie The Stranger steps behind the outlaw Stacey Bridges, and as the outlaw realizes his fate, too late, he screams into the fire-framed shadows: "Who are you?"

Who are you, indeed. And why did you come here?

Red brick, blue brick, make the window bigger.

---

SHE WAS 23 to my 50 when we met, and it’s easy to say, "Well, there’s your problem, pinhead." She was 23 but young and guileless and I was 50 and cynical beyond anyone’s years.

But when we met and shook hands for the first time a loud bell rang several times in my head and chest, much like the shijosho, the gong struck thrice to start a period of zazen, the Zen Buddhism way to think of not thinking.

We were nothing alike on the surface, save for our mutual love of books. She was uninterested in most everything I know — news, politics, current events. Her tastes in movies and music did not surprise. She loved fashion and shoes and things I knew little about. None of that mattered. The bell resonated, obliterating my lifetime of choices.

Within weeks we were in love and I turned my back on everything that I had helped build in a lifetime of accomplishments. Within months we were living together in impossible bliss — Venus, Mars, The Stranger.

He was born with the bell, I realize now. Born by a fated handshake. I first made his acquaintance when Venus decided she really wanted to know more about "30 Rock" and Netflixed every episode. Night after night, three-four-five episodes at a clip, she and I watched "30 Rock."

As Mars, I am not a patient man. "Impatient" is far too polite a description — some have used the word "prick" to describe my personality, and they didn’t mean short for "prickly." I suffer no fools. I have always been this way.

And yet every night I sat down happily to watch TV shows I’d already seen, never feeling any kind of urge to say, "this one’s really interesting" or "this is a great scene," never feeling exasperated when she asked about some newsy reference made by Liz Lemon.

It was always just joy at seeing her experience something new. Most nights I’d ask if she wanted or needed anything, and if the answer was "no, I’m fine," within a couple minutes I would hear her soft voice beside me asking, "Honey, can I have a waffle?" Or bacon. Or cereal. She loved her cereal.

"Absolutely," I’d reply as I jumped up, genuine happiness in my voice and heart. Anything for her. No grousing inner voice, no resentment — just a selfless sweetness that was completely foreign to me.

One night the Republican candidates were debating on CNN before our nightly "30 Rock" fix and she turned from the screen to me and asked, "Now, which one is he?"

That’s Mitt Romney, I replied, without a trace of sarcasm — nothing but a gentle response from a guy who had breathed politics all his adult life. It never occurred to me to be a smart-ass with her question. She genuinely wanted to know the answer. I genuinely wanted to give it to her.

Every night The Stranger would be at her service, his mood always serene, his tone always a calm but canny imitation of my voice.

Who are you? The Stranger didn’t answer. He just smiled. And I smiled with him, a Mona Lisa moonface, not understanding what was happening and happy — too happy, as it turned out — to accept the mystery of his presence as Venus twirled her hair and smiled back.

---

SHE DUMPED ME, of course. Thanksgiving morning, just before she went to her parents’ house for dinner. They are lovely people, the parents of Venus, happily married and greatly admired by their willowy daughter. I’ve wanted to write them a note since the break-up to thank them for their kindness and obvious patience when their daughter brought home a man not much younger than their own years.

They said they wanted her to be happy, and she said she was happy, so they accepted the strange situation with a grace I’m not sure I could match, had the same situation been presented to me. Remarkable people they are, as befits the parents of a modern goddess. I miss them.

She was unable to say why she was leaving when she did, but I knew she knew I was too old for her. Early on she had convinced herself that age didn’t matter, and her conviction swayed me into abandoning every reservation I held, even as I tried to make her see that there could be no future between a middle-aged man and a woman less than half his age.

My friends shook their heads as I was absorbed into the sea foam of Venus’ creation. They suffered through months of my extolling her virtues and were kind enough not to state what they saw as the obvious: she would one day change her mind and leave me high and dry and feeling older than ever.

We went out a few times after the break-up, and we both acted like we were having fun. But neither of us is a good actor, and even if we had been worthy of Oscars we probably would have eventually seen through the charade. She was going out with me to not feel so guilty about dumping me. I was going out with her so she wouldn’t feel so guilty. In the end we both felt great guilt at trying to deceive each other.

At least once I found myself looking into her eyes, seeing the flecks of gold dancing in those huge, beautiful orbs, and our faces were drawn close in a kiss that felt as real as anything I’d experienced when we shared a bed and a home. Even now I know that wasn’t two actors playing their respective roles.

The Stranger accompanied us on our post-relationship dates. Venus would ask for something — a glass of wine, another DVD to feed the flat screen — and The Stranger would oblige, as happy as ever to serve the goddess of his dreams. But he vanished after our last movie night; I felt his sweetness spill from my eyes the minute I made it back to my apartment and closed the door. It took more than an hour for him to wash out with my tears.

---

AS A JOURNALIST I know the basics — what happened, when, where and to whom.

But the answer to why eludes me still. Not the why of her leaving — Aaliyah, as it turns out, didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about when she said age ain’t nothing but a number (but cut the dead singer some slack; she was 14 when she sang it, and the guy who wrote it, R. Kelly, was bedding her and closing in on 30. So maybe they were right after all, even if the number 14 can rightly get you 20).

No, I know why Venus left. And I think I know why she came into my life in the first place — because she is Venus and she needs to assimilate. She absorbed all of what I had to offer. Once that was done, I was done. She wasn’t malicious — truth is, I’m not sure she realizes that’s what she did. It’s just her legend and her nature.

That helps explain why there is no fury in me, no desire to yell and scream and kick the cat. Instead of raging at Venus for being capricious I am angry at myself for fumbling away my fate. Had I been more interesting, more captivating, I might not be alone.

What I don’t know, still, is why The Stranger existed in our relationship. My best friend and I once saw a couple in Target, the man weighted down with the things she was buying, and we turned to each other and mocked, "It’s That Guy." You know him — the man with a moonface and half smile, dazed at his great good fortune at being with his muse. He’ll do anything for her, including murder and mayhem, if she insists. Venus, thankfully, never asked me to kill anyone; I don’t know what my answer would have been, and that ambivalence says everything.

(That same friend likens what has happened to me to brainwashing and helpfully adds, "You didn’t even have to go to North Korea." Nice.)

The Stranger — That Guy — was nothing like anyone I’ve ever been. He was kind and thoughtful and selfless — the epitome of a great boyfriend. Had he been younger and smarter he may have been able to keep Venus enraptured for the ages. But because he came from me he was doomed to be lashed to middle age, doomed to be banished into oblivion with Mars.

I’m supposed to be glad he’s gone, but I’m not. I liked him. I miss him. He may have come from me but Venus gave him life. I never knew he existed in me until she brought him forward. Without her he is dormant, and no amount of meditation has resurrected him. That troubles me.

Troubling, too, is a complete lack of interest in anyone else. During the heat of the summer of Venus my friends would see an attractive woman pass by; I would give a passing glance and shrug. Don’t get me wrong — Venus is beautiful, but I’m not fazed by beauty. I simply no longer cared about any other women. Since Thanksgiving my disinterest has only gotten more profound. The idea of getting acquainted with another woman leaves me cold. This, it seems, is my last romance. Oscar Wilde would be proud.

---

I NO LONGER WATCH television when I get home. The apartment is stark and functional and silent, a place where fitful sleep and I meet every night. When Venus was here I would cook dinner most evenings. I haven’t cooked a meal since the day before Thanksgiving. The Stranger is gone and Mars has no one to cook for, and only a cat to feed.

Time for zazen. I have no bell to ring to symbolize the start of meditation, to think of not thinking. But I don’t need a bell. The one that sounded from last year’s simple handshake with Venus still rings in my head, its resonance now so loud I am deaf to all other sounds.

BETTER LIVING THROUGH CHEMISTRY

2012-01-11T20:11:00.008-06:00

"Insufflation of a euphoric depressant." A properly formal way to die, he thought, as he carefully printed the words on the Kate Spade writing tablet she had left behind for some reason. Yellow-and-white paper. Heavy stock. Nice touch. It added to the dignity of the moment. Then he got to chopping, being careful to keep his shirt and suit coat sleeves clear of the rock.

His kit was in the bedroom all ready to go -- he'd even bought a new spoon for the occasion, part of the Paradise flatware collection from Towle Living. They both loved that shit the first and last time they went daydreaming about a gift registry at Macy's -- just six weeks ago, that was, a Saturday afternoon trip that had him believing this was actually going to happen, they were going to be That Couple; she wasn't going to go all capricious on his ass and flit off into her own personal cone of silence. He was right for the next several days, right all the way up to the moment she refused to look him in the eye and told him he'd been right to be wary of her, the only way she really knew how to say goodbye.

He went back to Macy's the next day and plunked down $140 for the 77-piece flatware collection, spoon not sold separately but he didn't give a shit. It was so going to be worth the investment. Much classier than the Code Red can bottom he'd been using to boil up the black tar that always seemed to be floating around the apartment complex these days -- fucking vinegar-smelling shit with God-knows-what in it besides heroin, but as long as it gave him the nods he needed everything was copacetic.

But when he texted his dealer last night for a couple grams to christen his new spoon and make his peace, he got the no-go -- no tar this time, baby, china white was in town, an especially happy happenstance. He'd come to terms with the needle in the past month, even gotten to like the fetish of seeing the blood blossom curling into the barrel just before the plunge into euphoric oblivion, but for him, almost nothing was finer than snogging. It made him feel like a rock god. It didn't make him feel like a fucking junky.

So here he was now, a gram of whiter-than-white powder on the mirror, fancy-ass spoon for a fancy-ass wedding that was never going to happen tucked away in the now empty bedroom in his fancy-ass Dopp kit, the one he bought on a whim when every door in his mind was wide open, no heroin needed, and her sunshine poured in to illuminate rooms he never knew existed.

Happiness. He'd actually told his friends he was happy, that his search for someone cool was over and he was off the market, done. What in fuck's name had he been thinking, anyway? Couldn't blame it on smack; he'd stopped doing it the day she told him she loved him -- actually, she couldn't get the words out, so he said it for her in a half-questioning voice and she nodded in what he thought was grateful assent.

"You love me, Boogie," he asked/said that spring day, teasing her with the nickname he'd stuck on her -- "Boogie Wonderla," a handle she got after messing up while trying to type her favorite disco song on Facebook. Her real name was Nikki -- he loved saying it out loud, said it two dozen times a day, mostly in a delighted whisper -- but in lighter moments she was Boogie, and the look on her face when the L-word was broached made her nickname seem more appropriate.

She had fixed him with a shy gaze when he said it, the gold in her eyes as bright and sparkly as the real thing, and when she nodded -- a tiny up-and-down of her head -- he understood all the hackneyed crap about how the cogs of belonging click into place when the right person loves you. He finally felt like he belonged to someone, to some place, to some greater thing than the moment. Goddamn, but that was fine. Finer than fucking, finer than snogging, finer than the powder now laid out in three long rails before him, a Holy Trinity to take away the sins of his world.

He realized with no surprise that his hands and the debit card had worked automatically while he remembered and mused. She'd always had the effortless ability to pull away all other thoughts zipping through that big brain of his. In that way she was very much like heroin -- a feeling drug if ever there was one, a drug that took away active thoughts and brought him to the core of his emotions. Like heroin, she made him feel warm. Unlike heroin, she never made him vomit, and he only nodded off on her in the quiet of their room, after love expressed in words and so-sweet, too-sweet deeds.

He knew now -- too late, of course -- that he'd been pushing her instead of guiding her, using his personality to overwhelm her into doing things that she really wasn't ready to do. Within a week of the love convo they were talking about moving in together, and when she gently balked he bristled in fear and she immediately backed down and agreed with him -- moving in together was a wonderful idea -- and even as the niggling doubt settled into the back of his brain like a black tumor he still felt the sunshine flood his heart.

There were moments, hours, days, weeks of near-perfect bliss. She found her voice and used it to great effect, insisting there would never be another, that love has rung their bells and she was not going anywhere, ever. Great gulps of time passed where he honestly couldn't remember the person he used to be. He dug out an old Kris Kristofferson CD and sang one line of one song, over and over:

"Teaching me that yesterday was something that I never thought of trying … "

But she didn't want to be his teacher or his memory eraser. He gradually noticed she stopped being insistent about this Great Love. A mild disagreement was a big argument in her mind; she prefaced conversations by saying she didn't want to bicker. Then it was about control; she didn't want to be controlled, though he'd be goddamned if he could figure out how he was controlling her. She was the one driving everything in the relationship.

He made the mistake then of getting angry and accusing her of being capricious, of not knowing what the hell she was talking about. He saw a determined set to her face as she denied it. And then they went to Macy's, holding hands and laughing and looking at the things their friends would get them when they got married.

That night in bed, her lovely face relaxed in slumber next to his, he heard his soul speak: She will break your heart, dude. She will not mean to but she will.

His fault, all of it. He embraced that fact as his friends told him that she was a selfish bitch who deserved to have her stuff set on fire and rolled into the middle of the freeway. They'd been decent enough in the wake of the break, sitting shiva with his non-Jewish ass, feeding him the anger they felt at her, hoping it would settle into his brain and bring him hate. And it did. He banished them from his life without a thought to the decades they had known each other, because they were taking his side and he knew better. He'd taken his one chance at happiness and, in his wide-eyed, gee-whiz zeal, had caused it to flee. Good intentions, bad execution. If they were here now they would smack the smack off the mirror and get him to the hospital. Thank God they weren't here.

Bad trip down memory lane. He gave a silent curse at one teardrop that had escaped his left eye and splashed onto the powder as he chopped without thinking; with a flick of the card he sent that wet wad onto the carpet. He hated to waste it but he would never use it. There was no way he was getting all this up his nose. The Father, sure, and maybe The Son, but The Holy Ghostpowder was overkill. Even without the tear-clotted chunk he was looking at close to 900 mgs, more than 10 times his personal best, probably five times what he needed right now.

"Diacetylmorphine," he said in his best Hail Mary rosary voice. "Diacetylmorphine." He liked the way the six syllables rolled from his mouth -- "die-ah-SEE-till-MORE-feen." It almost sounded British, like something you'd order with blonde tea and a scone. He was partial to cinnamon scones because she was; BN -- Before Nikki -- he'd always thought of them as chewy, weirdly shaped biscuits with not enough flavor for the effort. Those dog days now over and dead, and with him firmly rooted in AN time, he kinda wanted a scone right now. But that would start some serious waterworks and he didn't want to waste any more emotion or any more product.

He had rejoined the ranks of the smackheads a week after she left. He only waited that long because his connection was out of town with his girlfriend -- motherfucker, being happy in a time of tumult, how dare he? -- and he'd made up for the lack of heroin with daily heaping helpings of tequila and bourbon and a couple-three-four Ativan. It didn't do the trick but it kept him in a stupor, and that in turn kept him off the freeway bridge he could see from his living-room window. Too messy. Too much chance of jumping onto the hood of a minivan driven by some mom, her 2.3 kids fucked up for life because heartbreak boy couldn't do the decent thing and keep his final moments to himself.

He gave one more scan of the note on the nice Kate Spade paper:

"This person suffered from insufflation of a euphoric depressant. Then she left. I know what I'm doing." He wanted to add a postscript after his signature but nothing else came to mind and he'd be damned if he quoted Neil Young or some such shit, like Cobain did before blowing his brains out.

"All about the Hamiltons, baby," he said, pulling a 10-spot from his wallet and rolling it into a tight tube. As he leaned down and hovered the tip of the homemade straw over the start of the first line, he thought about Nikki and how much she was the embodiment of Yeats' words, about how everything that's lovely is a brief, dreamy, kind delight.

"Here's to you, beautiful," he murmured, half to her memory and half to the powder. He made it through The Father and halfway through The Son before falling face-first into the Holy Ghostpowder.

LIFE AMONG THE DEAD

2011-09-24T19:30:00.000-05:00

I WAS 11 WHEN I decided to become a journalist. Lillian Street Elementary had a school newspaper and I was the editor -- in part because I was the best speller in the class, in part because no one else wanted the gig. That lack of enthusiasm among my peers was my warning, and like most warnings in life I ignored it and embraced the affirmation of being able to string together words into somewhat-coherent sentences.

At 14 I read William Manchester's "The Glory & The Dream," a two-volume pop history of America from the Great Depression to Richard Nixon's reelection, and I decided that I was right all along, journalism was the career for me. I would tell stories for a living and my words would serve to educate, to enlighten, to entertain.

("And there's no heavy lifting," as my younger brother would tell me years later. This came from a guy who drove a deuce-and-a-half truck and rolled dollies full of soda for a living, so he was eminently qualified to judge back-breaking jobs, and he nailed one of the beauties of journalism -- for all the potential pitfalls of being caught in the wrong place at the worst time, there is very little chance of wrenching your back while interviewing someone, or while banging out a stellar paragraph.)

I never looked back from those moments of clarity. Even the worst days of reporting -- live radio blurbs from a livestock auction market, late-night school-board meetings, feature stories on the latest centenarian -- were sips of sweet air in a stagnant world. As a journalist You Are There, witnessing history -- no matter how slight -- with a backstage pass.

Question a president? Done it. Cover a pope? Betcha. Dead bodies? Smelled 'em. Witness murderers go free and innocents condemned? Yes and yes.

As a club, journalism was fairly exclusive. You had to be smart; you had to be curious; you had to be willing to ask hard questions to people far above your station in life. You had to be an expert on whatever you covered, even if just for the day, and you had to get it as right as you could because you were creating the documents that future historians would use to retell their past, our present.

A lot of people wanted to do it but not many could, and those of us who mastered the trade viewed ourselves as magnificent heirs to the only constitutionally-guaranteed industry in the country.

(You have to remember that this was the 1980s and journalism was an honorable profession. An important profession. The only place to find out what was really going on in the world. Maybe there was cocaine, too. That might have inflated our self-important stance.)

And we had the wires -- The Associated Press, United Press International, Agence France-Presse -- those belonged in the hands of the few, not the many. Stories would pour into the newsroom and it was up to journalists to figure out what was important to the listener, the viewer, the reader. "The Daily Miracle," one of my editors dubbed it, tongue firmly in cheek. "Every single day, just enough news happens to fill the newspaper." She, like me, respected the duty to discern and discard. Not everything that happens is news, not every news story is worth publishing, and ignoring that truth would be akin to abdicating our throne and handing it over to the proles, who didn't have the strong hands and minds needed to keep order.

That's why journalists existed. We saved people from the madness of information overload. We knew there was great danger in knowing too much -- the adrenaline rush is enough to kill small children and weak adults. Jesus, we lived that life every day, but we were addicts. News junkies.

We decided what was news, and most of the time we got it right.

Sure, there were lapses. We loved sensationalism and strife. Forget liberal or conservative bias; our bias was rooted in controversy, and sometimes it showed in what we didn't cover. Science and business? Boring, unless it involved something freaky, like cloning, or Donald Trump.

Most times, however, we were Spike Lee -- doing the right thing, even when public opinion pointed another direction. Being popular wasn't important. Being respected was.

And then the most wondrous invention of the 20th Century killed us.

---

I HATE THE FUCKING INTERNET. When I die I want to be cremated so there will be no tombstone marking my days, but if there was one my epitaph would be the profane all-caps screed that started this paragraph.

But it's like Walmart. Hate it all you want but somehow your feet wind up shuffling the aisles, your eyeballs looking over shit you don't really want (and certainly don't need). The 'net is the biggest fucking Walmart in the universe, full of excesses that make the 48-roll pack of toilet paper look picayune. And even though I hate it, I wallow in it, rolling in the muck that killed my career.

It's full of wires -- The Wires, the places where most of the world's news is created. When the internet went mainstream the media decided to toss all its secret ceremonies online. Suddenly anyone with a dial-up connection and a browser could read all the news -- or only the news they wanted. Customized news feeds on Yahoo. Headlines on demand. Your daily horoscope, delivered via email.

(Previously undisclosed media secret: Old-school horoscopes would come in from an entertainment service, a week at a time, and editors would hack them to fit the available space. Every day I would wield the editing blade and cut 18 lines from the 12 horoscopes. Sample sentence: "Morning will be gloomy, but good news will come in the afternoon" might be edited down to "morning will be gloomy." Or perhaps I'd excise the gloom and focus only only the afternoon's good news. It all depended on my mood that day.)

With its mass the internet dulled the blade and made it as useful as a butter knife in a street fight. No one needed an editor; in fact, the more people marveled at the huge amount of information online, the more they grew to despise the strong hands that used to prepare and dole out the news in manageable, responsible fashion. The news business became an all-you-can-eat buffet. Quantity trumped quality on the internet.

And then: People stopped subscribing to the paper 'cause they could get it for free online.

And then: Newspapers sold online ads but didn't make as much money as good old print ads, so revenues tumbled.

And then: Layoffs. Buyouts. Furloughs. Smaller staffs, smaller papers, smaller readership, all to stay profitable.

Bombast also flourished on the internet. Where once there were people who sifted through letters to the editor or calls to a newsroom and weeded out the blowhards and fools, now there was this great unfiltered brew polluted with the nastiest poisons -- argumentum ad hominem from the anonymous and the asinine, invectives hurled without any nod to truth. Anyone could put anything on the 'net and millions did, and corrosion quickly ensued -- ha ha, all for the lulz, quit being such a pussy, whatev.

Nothing shocks anymore. There are fetishes out there that I never knew existed, and maybe they don't really exist -- maybe it's the married man pretending to be a lesbian blogger in Syria, only with porny scat and blood. Everything is fair game. Fact checks? Fuck. Run with it and let's see how it shakes out.

If the internet existed in 1973, Nixon's plumbers would have filled the blogosphere with snide nasties about Bernstein's womanizing and Woodward's piss-poor writing skills. They would have painted the Washington Post as a communist outpost. They would have rallied the proles into knee-jerk denial about any facts that made the president look bad, even a third-rate burglary at the Watergate.

What journalist can compete with that?

---

SO WHAT DID THE BRAINS TRUST do with the internet? We made it our new playmate. We succumbed to personal blogs by reporters, public comments on web stories, crowdsourcing by social media. Let's see what people think would make a good story!

The chef at Touch doesn't crowdsource his menu. He makes it. You eat it. If he asked the proles for cooking advice he'd be flinging bacon all night -- bacon, and something sweet.

Candy journalism, a mentor once told me, would be the death of our industry. Give the people what they want and it's candy, candy, candy.

"Sometimes you've got to give them spinach," he said. "They may fucking hate it, but it's good for them. They need it."

Spinach journalism. Being a watchdog for taxpayer money. Asking tough questions of the powerful on behalf of the powerless. Reading thousands of pages of government documents and creating a concentrate so people can understand what's happening in their name, on their dime.

There's no money in spinach, though. And most people don't like the taste. And they bitch about it when it's on their plate.

And there's no lulz.

Journalism is dead. It killed itself. The few journalists left are the thylacine of this century, doomed to cages where gawkers can poke them with sharp sticks.

We deserve that fate. We thought we were vital because we'd always been vital. We thought we were necessary. But instead of holding fast to our ideals -- instead of remembering the morality of why we mattered -- we acted like whores. First we gave away our secrets and work product -- for free -- and then we really spread our legs and invited everyone in for a bang.

Being a whore is horrible. Thank God there's no shame left.

A MONTH OF SUNDAYS

2011-09-17T12:54:00.000-05:00

Originally published July 5, 1992

AND STILL THEY are lost.

A month of wallpaper not hung, of college plans not discussed, of school-free summer not enjoyed.

A month without Sherrill Levitt, Suzie Streeter and Stacy McCall.

They have missed Firefall and the opening of "Batman Returns." They weren't around to marvel at last week's storms, which knocked out power to Levitt's house.

Levitt, a green thumb, missed the blossoming of her tangerine day lilies.

So much has happened since — yet time, which on one hand has advanced, seems on the other to have stood frozen. The cars in front of 1717 E. Delmar St. have not been moved; will they start? The lights continue to shine in the house, long after every other home in that central Springfield neighborhood has gone to sleep. The yellow ribbon still adorns the police van parked outside.

Too, time has halted for the community, which finds itself discussing, speculating, gossiping about the story. And waiting for the miracle, the news bulletin that the women are safe and coming home. But it has been a month of Sundays with no such bulletin, and now most utterances of hope are tagged with the growing belief that the lost will not return alive.

This has not stopped society from caring. Because Police Chief Terry Knowles is right when he says this is a story larger than the detectives and uniformed officers assigned to find the truth.

This is the community's story. Palpable proof is everywhere.

There are posters — tens of thousands of pieces of paper — affixed to windows and walls and poles. Of differing color and content (ones on Commercial Street, temporarily home for some of the city's impoverished, tout the $40,000 reward), the posters are daily reminders that the wrong has not yet been righted.

Then there are the voices on the radio: Janis McCall pleading for her daughter's safe return, police officers imploring the public to give up its secrets, avid listeners ruing aloud the crime.

Then there are the voices of the everyday people:

---

"KIDS USED TO BE able to walk up and down the street," Randy Carpenter muses, sitting in his office at the Boys and Girls Club on Boonville Avenue. "And now the kids are probably more aware of what's going on than some adults."

He knows this because he witnesses — the dozens of 6- to 18-year-olds who talk about the missing women. And because he witnesses, he changes.

"We're tighter now," says Carpenter, the club's director. "When people walk in the front door, we go right to them and find out their business."

Cindy Spychalski, the club's program director, nods in assent. "I've noticed fear in some of the kids. Last week, we let them go outside on the front sidewalk, and two girls stayed inside. They said, 'We don't want to be taken, too.'"

Children fearful of vanishing. Carpenter and Spychalski don't quite know what to think.

He says: "This city seems to be growing rather rapidly."

She says: "There's not much we can do if parents let their kids come down here alone."

---

"I LIVE ABOUT A stone's throw from that house, and I was out that night," Robin LaFlamme recalls. "I went to a wedding and got home about that same time. And it's really affected me."

The 22-year-old wipes a table at the McSalty's near Southwest Missouri State University; she's a waitress.

"Why go through life being afraid of people? It's such a shame, but we do," she continues. "I've lived here since first grade, and now I have Mace on my keychain. I sleep with a knife by my bed, and the cordless phone is right there, too.

"I look in my car's rearview mirror, to see if someone is following me. I lock my doors at night. I never felt afraid growing up, and now I'm always checking the windows. I will not sleep with them open. I never used to do that, but now I get freaked out."

You can tell LaFlamme that she has little to dread, that the community's awareness of suspicious acts has been heightened to the point where anything odd, no matter how innocent, is likely to be reported. But that is using logic and reason to blunt the psychological impact of an illogical event.

LaFlamme wonders aloud: "Where are they?" It is a question to which she gives daily thought, a question without answer.

---

"COME SIT."

George Parks waves his visitors out of summer's swelter into the shade of a porch near Division Street and Prospect Avenue. He's drinking a malt liquor, smoking a Marlboro.

"That is the strangest deal I've ever heard of," Parks says. "Three women gone, their cars and purses at home, the TV on, the doors unlocked. They got all those police officers investigating and they can't find out nothing.

"Three women," Parks says again. "One of 'em should have got away. That has me real puzzled."

Another porch sitter speaks. "Hope they find them, regardless of race, creed or religion," Mike Carlock says. It seems an odd sentiment, but let us explain the context. Carlock and Parks are black. So is the third man on the porch, Price Miller, Jr.

Carlock continues: "If they had been black, though, the police would have spent one day investigating it. It all depends on who you are and where you live at. A cousin of mine, Larry Long, died in the '70s — drowned in the pool at Silver Springs Park — and they spent one day investigating it. That's it. One day. You could look it up."

And when you do, you'll find that in June 1979, Long was 22 and one morning he was found floating facedown in the pool, clad only in his underwear, his clothes partially burned at poolside. And you'll find that the medical examiner was "uncomfortable" with the burned clothes, but went ahead with a no-foul-play ruling.

Carlock's claim — that police wouldn't investigate as vigorously the disappearance of three black women, or three women from a poorer neighborhood than Levitt's — cannot be proven, of course; nothing like this has never happened in the city. Neither would the police ever admit to any such bias. But perception becomes reality, and on this blast-furnace afternoon, Carlock's claim goes unchallenged.

"That's the real deal," Parks says.

"We blacks ain't got a chance, not only in Springfield, but anywhere," Carlock adds.

Miller, the quiet elder of the group, stands to leave. "Whatever. If it could happen over there, in that nice neighborhood, it could happen here."

---

"I EMPATHIZE WITH the mother of Stacy. You raise a child, put her through high school, and you think great things about what they're going to do. And now … "

Martha Wiseman lets the thought go silent. She is a legal secretary. She chooses her words with care. "This is a tremendous mystery. The police, as far as we know, are not finding any motive. There are no leads, no irate ex-husbands, as far as we know. All of which makes us worry and wonder: Is there some kook out there in the community?"

A tremendous mystery. Wiseman's phrase explains much about the public fixation. Despite the attendant tragedy, everyone loves a mystery, loves trying to unravel the shroud obscuring the solution. How many theories have you heard?

Wiseman sighs.

"I live alone, in a reasonably middle-class neighborhood. I have never been afraid. I'm not afraid now. But yes, this has changed me. It's changed everyone."

She again goes silent, searching for an apt analogy. She finds one.

"This is almost like it was years ago, when we went to war. Everybody — everybody — was of one opinion, that we should support our country. And now, everybody in this community is of one opinion, that we need to solve the mystery and bring the women home."

---

IT RAINED LAST WEEK, rained real hard, and the shrieking wind blew down many of the posters of Sherrill Levitt, Suzie Streeter and Stacy McCall. Those that stayed put are starting to fray and fade.

BRANSON AND BUST

2011-09-10T13:39:00.000-05:00

Originally published Dec. 26, 1993

BRANSON — Night paled into daylight over the Ozarks, but there was no sun this winter's morning. The sky stayed gray, the color of rue, and from it fell a meager mist, more annoyance than succor for the soil.

James Foley watched the drizzle from the window of his kitchen and lit another cigarette, tapped it against an ashtray already overflowing with squelched butts. Smoking way too much. Generics at that. But what the hell; life was rough right now, winnowed to spare, singular pleasures. A moment of quiet. A hot cup of coffee. A no-brand cigarette.

James inhaled.

The road had made him this way, he knew. The road and the responsibility. Used to be, he'd think nothing of gunning into nowhere — off to work the mule rides into the Grand Canyon, the lobster boats off upstate Maine.

Or the Navy. God, he loved that life. Four years of hoots and hollers. The most fun had been Australia. James and four buddies got drunk one day and packed two kegs of beer in dry ice on the back of a rented truck. A rolling party, until they passed out on private property and awoke to the sounds of boars and angry Aborigine land owners.

Yeah. Those were times.

But James had been in his 20s then, and now he was 33 and weighted down with duty. He looked older. Could have been the beard, or perhaps the wealth of life's experiences he peddled. Or maybe it was simply the fact that he was in Branson now, a place of uncertainties, and few things age a man faster than a precarious future.

Precarious: Like the floor of the house trailer James inhabited, which canted away from the door and toward the hills below, where other trailers lay plopped down amid the trees at the Oak Hills Campgrounds.

Precarious: Like the place he had just left — Reed City, Mich., between Big Rapids and Cadillac. Not even a 'burg, and certainly no garden spot. The Yoplait factory was the one sweet deal in town — paid well, good job security, but the only way to get hired was to have a parent, sibling, or shirttail kin work there, and James had no nearby relatives. None except for Margie and the kids.

Which is why he'd left Reed City, though "fled" might have been a better word. No work, no future. What was a fella supposed to do, if not flee? James knew that if he had stayed in Reed City he would have died — maybe not literally, but most certainly his will would have succumbed to the lack of hope.

So here sat he and Margie, snug in a 22-foot-long trailer. And here sat Douglas, her son of five years, and Christopher, their son of 18 months, so the trailer stopped being snug and started feeling cramped.

And here they were in Branson, where everyone knew there was big money to be made. Said so on the news up in Michigan. Must be right. "Land of hope," they called it.

James Foley hoped so.

CHRISTOPHER LOVED THAT squeaky oven door, and play with it he did. Open close open close SQUEAK squeak SQUEAK squeak. Inside the trailer it sounded like someone was killing a pig, the confines were so small.

A visitor stepping inside the Foleys' front door at that moment would have found, immediately to the right, two seats facing one another. James sat in the seat farthest from the door. Between the chairs stood a tabletop the size of a Samsonite, and one small step further in were the kitchen sink, stove and refrigerator. A half-dozen plastic red roses were in a bud vase next to the sink.

To the left of the front door was the sitting area — two couch-length benches covered with cushions. Above the benches were cabinets, and on the far end of the benches, a small color TV was on.

The aisle between the benches was exactly the width of a baby's bed. Christopher usually rested there of a day. Except when he was being his nickname, "Hands," and playing the oven door. SQUEAK squeak SQUEAK squeak.

"He's gonna snap that right off," James said. Margie reached over from one of the benches and made Christopher stop. He cried, but it wasn't as loud as the squeaking.

"That's for his vitamins," Margie said, settling a bottle into Christopher's mouth. "Gerber and milk. It's got all the iron and everything for him. They don't eat much table food at that age."

"He eats quite a bit," James said. "He eats more than you think." Then: "Honey, is that water still running?"

"Well. I'm gonna do dishes," Margie replied. She got off the couch and headed for the sink.

"OK," James said. But it wasn't, and his voice betrayed that. He'd forgotten to blow antifreeze through the lines while the trailer was parked at Margie's folks' house earlier in the winter, and the water pipes froze. Turned on the tap first thing when they hooked up at the campground and water spewed out the side of the trailer, soaking the kitchen carpet.

"You got the water running?" James asked again.

"Yeah, is this getting all wet?" Margie tamped the carpet at her feet.

"Because this, it's leaking," James said, pointing to nothing. "I can hear it blowing out the line."

"Then I won't do dishes."

"Go ahead and do the dishes." James lit another cigarette, sat for a spell in silence. Then he mused over the trip to Branson, the one they started Dec. 6.

They'd argued about going the night before. The next morning, James was ready to split.

"He told me I had 20 minutes," Margie said, smiling. "That he was going, and if I wanted to go I had 20 minutes to grab what I wanted and put it in the truck. But we had talked about it for a year-and-a-half, leaving and starting over someplace else. But we just never got to it. Because we had a lot of security there."

"But then again, we got to thinking," James said. "No work. We ended up getting in a lot of arguments because there was no work. And, you know, money got to the situation where, wait a minute, we've got to do something, no matter how drastic it is. We've got to make a decision."

So they did. But before they left, Margie had to see a doctor about her face. She'd gotten into a car wreck in Michigan, smashed her Caddy real bad and smacked her head on the steering wheel.

"Oh, I loved that car," Margie said. She rubbed her left brow. "I swear to God I broke this bone right here. It's still swollen. It's down a lot now. I couldn't even open up one eye. It was black and blue. I got blood in my eye from hemorrhaging."

The coffeepot was percolating. Cory brand. Margie got it at a garage sale for 50 cents.

IT TOOK THEM four days to make the trip from Reed City, Mich., to Branson. Four days, four people on $350. Some may have done more with less, but they probably were not driving a 1981 Chevrolet four-door pickup truck with 153,000 miles on the odometer and a 292 straight-six motor, hauling five tons of trailer, cargo and life.

James drove, of course. He knew motors, knew how to listen to the panting of the Chevy as it struggled up the hills, its speedometer maybe touching 40. Cars would pass noisily, drivers honking furiously and telling the Foleys to get that crap to a junkyard.

They left Monday afternoon, Dec. 6, and stayed that night at a roadside park near Holland, Mich. Along the way they spent $7.08 at McDonald's and filled their stomachs, but already James was starting to worry because the truck wasn't getting much more than five miles to the gallon and gasoline prices on the highway were higher than in Reed City.

The next day James and Margie played a game with the kids — spot the cheapest gas station. There went $1.27. There went $1.08. Forty miles outside of Champaign, Ill., they saw a sign: "AmBest Truck Stop 79.9."

"We're gonna go there," James announced to the family. "We'll drive there even if we've got to get there on fumes."

They got to Champaign, stayed the night and filled up the next morning. James knew they were lucky; they'd found cheap gas, the truck was holding up. Margie felt better sleeping on the truck stop lot than in the roadside park.

On the third day, just outside St. Louis, the Chevy's oil pump gave out, and James was terrified. Nothing he liked better than tearing into an engine, and here was the chance. But an oil pump cost $250, and suddenly they were skin close to being flat broke.

They stayed that night parked near Sullivan, put another $5 in the tank in Springfield and notched the gas gauge halfway to full. Only 40 more miles — but James hadn't reckoned on the hills between Springfield and Branson. He had to keep shifting down into first gear just to get the truck and its load over the next mound.

By the time they got to Branson, the truck had an eighth-tank of gasoline. The Foleys bought juice and smokes and counted out their money: two dollars.

NOT MUCH SURPRISED John Brown. He'd seen it all. Single moms, solitary men, families big and small. People seeking a taste of money in the new Nashville, whatever that meant. All Brown knew is there was a lot more traffic and a lot more people down on their luck.

He tried his best to avoid the former but the latter smacked him right in the face every time he stepped out the door of his house and walked the rows of his campground, the Oak Hills.

In ragged semicircles around Brown's house sat trailers and camper shells — row after row, descending the hill like California canyon homes after the fires. In roughly the middle rested a laundromat, and here the camp's residents gathered to smoke, swap stories.

They were all poor, and one agency even labeled them homeless, which upset the residents. "I've got a roof. I've got clothes and a place to sleep," one woman from Minnesota said at the laundromat. "I don't live in no box."

"No box," another agreed, and they all nodded.

Down at the end of the last row, Brown raked deep and straight lines into the gravel. Trucks had come here, time and again, and dumped loads of chat, so Brown could create flat terrain, could build more campsites for the hopeful.

John Brown knew the tremendousness of this time, and he intended to act on it. People came here, got jobs — but there was no place to put them. Wages too low. Rentals too high. It had been this way for a couple of years, but Brown had never seen it worse than this year.

Turned seven away last week. No room. So he was making more, each to rent for thirtysomething dollars a week, depending on whether the people needed a trailer. Most did.

He looked tough, sounded tough. He introduced himself as "Brown," stuck out for a shake a hand made from rocks and calluses. He looked tough, but showed his tender side every time he took in someone who didn't have money right away.

He only said "no" when he had no campsites to rent, and he hated to turn people away. Like the couple in the trailer with the six kids. Three, then triplets age 18 months. The dad hung Sheetrock, but even with steady work there was no way the family could afford the average $525 a month a rent in Branson. So it was a campsite and a small trailer Brown rented them.

Brown resumed raking. "People need a place they can afford to live. They working, and they can;t afford to live. Somebody's gotta help 'em. Guess that's me." He never took his eyes off the rake. "Time for me to quit pattin' myself on the back. Got work to do."

THE FOLEYS MET John Brown on Thursday, Dec. 10. He had one campsite for them, right by the office. After hearing about their two dollars he pointed them in the direction of several charities, which guaranteed the Foleys' rent and LP gas for two weeks.

First thing Monday, Margie went out looking for a job. First place she applied, she found one. Waitress at Shoney's. Come in tomorrow to train.

On Tuesday, Margie put on her makeup. She was 39. In her younger days she could have passed for Naomi Judd. But she can't sing.

"Can waitress, though," she said. "It'll be instant cash and everything, doing waitressing. I worked as a banquet server at the Hilton. I've worked at the Continental as a cocktail waitress."

"I had to turn down a job this morning," James said. He sounded glum. "Guy in that camper over there asked me if I wanted to hang some Sheetrock. Told him somebody's gotta watch the kids."

"That's gonna be my worst problem," Margie said from behind a mirror. "It'll probably cost a fortune. And then the transportation to get them there. And then I've got to get Douglas in kindergarten." She put down the mirror. "But I can't really do that until I have lunch money."

James said, "Least with you working in a restaurant, you'll make tips daily. That'll help out with gas, you know. And then I figure, shouldn't take more than two months to really get us on our feet. I mean, with both of us working — because I'll be able to get a job making anywhere between seven and 12 bucks an hour, and what you bring in daily will help supplement all the income. We can sock a lot of it away." And here his face lit up and he smiled through his beard until Margie matched his expression.

"Two or three months and just save every dime we can," James said.

"If we choose to stay here," she said, "we don't have utilities to worry about, all we have to do is babysitting and groceries and gas … "

He said, "Come spring, if we really like it here, we'll look into purchasing a house, rent to own, option to buy, you know … "

Margie held up a pair of white shoes, and they both giggled.

A new friend, a woman from the camp, had stopped by the night before and heard about Margie's new job. Margie told her about wishing she'd brought her pair of work shoes from Michigan, they might come in handy, and darned if the woman didn't bring a pair this very morning for Margie to wear. 'Course, they were 8s and Margie wore a 10, but it was the thought that counted.

"People are so friendly," Margie said, checking her face once more. "And I got a job! I used to always work, before I got pregnant with Douglas. I was in insurance for years with the military. I had three licenses. Worked right on the bases. And I did real good. I owned my own home. I had seven years left to pay on it. I had my own rental. I had a quarter-horse. A pig."

Margie kissed Jim goodbye, and then she was off into the cold mist to hitch a ride the six miles from the campground to Shoney's.

Inside the trailer, Christopher cried. Douglas was mopey and somewhere outside, playing with a jump rope the charity people had given him.

James fired up another cigarette. In one cramped corner the television played The Vacation Channel, and cheery people talked of the riches of Branson through the green snow of poor reception.

SEX AND THE MARRIED CANDIDATE

2008-01-19T16:17:00.000-06:00

On CNN, Wolf Blitzer wraps up the stumbling that passes for speech and introduces more "Ballot Bowl," a stupid and meaningless nickname for the cable network's political coverage on this Saturday. No one's dressed out for full-contact football or putting heat to hash, the only things that should happen in a bowl.

But wiser pinheads have thought this one out in retreats and meetings of the operating committee and top-dog managers. A bowl it is. Who are any of us to argue with the country's second-place cable news network? It isn't worth the effort to bitch. FOX News knows that lipstick-laden prompter monkeys are key to winning viewers and bad reviews. Screw the bowl nicknames. People would rather screw the FOX anchors, especially the ones with legs that would look comfortable around someone's neck.

Sadly, it's the only sexy part of this election. Sen. Slick McPretty -- the twanger known as John Edwards -- was blown out in Nevada. Four percent. One-tenth as popular as either one of the frontrunners. Even if he hews to his promise and stays in the race until the convention, Edwards is now nothing more than a handsome Dennis Kucinich, only without the integrity.

Hillary Clinton is not sexy, not even in a Mildred Ratched way. No dominatrix overtones -- no fun ones, at least, and we suspect she's allergic to latex and leather. Fun sex? Hillary doesn't know what that means, unless she's thinking about Bill's romps. She's a MILF without the ILF, a woman who would rather harp than hump.

Barack Obama is the sexy Democrat by default. Pitiful. He's got the cadence and the charisma, all right, and plenty of boys and girls want to get in his heart, brain and pants. But his cult of personality is sickening. It proves how easy it is to Jonestown a crowd. Otherwise-smart people fall for dope words like "change" and "insurgent" and before you can warn them, they're in line for grape Flavor Aid. Sure, it tastes bitter -- and the convulsions are a bitch -- but my, that man sure knows how to talk pretty.

The clot of Republican candidates is likewise bereft of sexiness. There is Ron Paul, the crazed great-grandpa who could use a syringe full of Haldol. He's the textbook visual to stave off unwanted erections or premature ejaculation.

John McCain was handsome before that whole Vietnam torture thing; now he's insane -- heroically insane, but still nutballs. Part of him remains in the Hanoi Hilton, shackled and beaten and cackling maniacally. Flashbacks of any kind are dangerous and cannot be tolerated from a candidate for the highest office in the land.

Phlegmatic Fred Thompson inhibits arousal wherever he goes, except with the hopeless political romantics, the dearly devoted who root for guys like Tom Tancredo and Duncan Hunter and actually believe them to be presidential material. They're like the mother who thinks the nice boy dating her daughter will be a fine husband, once he outgrows his affection for show tunes and Madonna.

Despite the presence of five men who claim he is their father, Mitt Romney looks and acts like he's never had sex. Perhaps it is his striking resemblance to a brunette Ken doll, which is not anatomically correct.

Rudy Giuliani is creepy sexy, a leer with a sneer. One can picture Rudy in a sweaty, submissive three-way with a female relative sporting a strap-on and a strapping prison inmate festooned with soot-ink tattoos. Rudy would be a bottom, of course. And he'd like it, beg for it, all the while whimpering and crying out for Mommy. He screams too much about security to really feel it in his boner.

No matter how repugnant, Rudy's sex chic is Vivid Entertainment compared to what Mike Huckabee exudes from his preacher pores. Lord, but one glimpse of that man sets off the crazy-ass alarms. If he wasn't an ex-governor running for president, he'd be prime meat for the fantasy scandal grill -- juicy, chockablock with wailing and tears and little boys. So easy to see. Too easy to see. He's got a son who likes to kill dogs and looks like an inbred lummox. Huckabee's wife, Janet, is a somewhat-handsome man. Huckabee himself likes to pardon dangerous prisoners, so there's that hint of beefcake lovin' in his personality.

It all reeks of Deliverance, and we've already had that once in the Oval Office. Dip a cigar, pardon a murderer. What's the difference, really? Both are perversions.

It's all Bill's fault. The flaccid campaigns, the lack of sexual mojo among the candidates -- all Bill's fault (especially true when it comes to Hillary). His shenanigans are legendary. George W. Bush screwed a country with his policies, but Bill J. Clinton screwed an intern with his cigar. Hell, anyone can have policies.

DOUG TV

2006-10-27T18:36:00.000-05:00

Here's what we've been doing -- a series of Internet-exclusive messages for a Missouri Senate candidate. Hope you enjoy what you see.

DougTV 1
"Doug in 100 Seconds"

DougTV 2
"Nip It"

DougTV 3
"Just the Facts, Ma'am"

DougTV 4
"Bully Puppet"

DougTV 5
"She's Against It"

THE ACID TUNNEL

2006-06-14T20:58:00.000-05:00

Originally published Oct. 12, 1995, in the Springfield (Mo.) News-Leader.

"Look at me," says 18-year-old Sin, a man with the sides of his head cropped close and a ponytail on top. "I quit school in ninth grade. I've been in juvie, been in lock-up. I can't go that far and wonder what the future will be like. It's one day at a time. I just try to keep myself alive."

He's in the Acid Tunnel, a catacomb in northeast Springfield layered with graffiti through the stoner ages.

Sin, a professed member of the Low Profile Kings street gang, is with Melt, a 16-year-old bud.

Both men have been coming to the tunnel since they were kids; in fact, older siblings first introduced them to the concrete yawn in the ground, which bends and twists and opens again in a distant farm field.

How did they get their street names?

Melt: "That's what happens when I'm trippin' on acid, man. I look in the mirror and my face melts."

Sin: "That's what I do. Sin."

Teens like Sin and Melt come here to get high, spray-paint a few symbols on the cool concrete walls, fume against the people who just don't get it.

It's a pretty well-kept secret, this place. Cops and school counselors shake their heads when asked about the tunnel's whereabouts. They know about some of the other underground hangouts, like Piggyland, a series of stormwater tunnels beneath Interstate 44.

"Man, that's for little kids," Sin scoffs when Piggyland is mentioned. "Cool people don't hang out there, except to tag."

The tagger's messages in Piggyland are indeed provocative:

There is no God but yourself
I'm happy high right now
I love to die for my own sins
Find the sun see the sign take yourself to the other side
I am I
The antichrist will deliver the damned
Feel the void

Inside the Acid Tunnel -- 10 feet high, 15 feet wide, a quarter-mile long -- there's more crude artwork than deep thoughts, more tribute to the Doors and metal bands Slayer and Pantera than to philosophy.

Melt and Sin feel at home in the Acid Tunnel. In some ways, it is their home.

"I ain't got no family at all," Sin says, "except for my little brother. My Mom don't give a damn. My father don't give a damn. My grandmother don't give a damn. I've been living on my own since I was 13.

"I got kicked out of my dad's house then. I still can't go back. He said I was hanging with the wrong people. I said I was hanging out with my boys, my family."

Inside the tunnel, as night falls and the city winds down, Sin and Melt regularly meet their friends--fellow stoners who smoke pot and paint the walls and muse aloud at questions with no immediate answers.

Asks Sin: "Like, man, if God created all of this, what came before? And who created God? And why do you think he created us?"

Here it is safe for them. Out on the streets, bangers from rival gangs prowl for them. Sin and Melt say they've been shot at several times.

"It sucks when you're walking around," Melt says, "and a car pulls up and 10 guys come out and stomp you."

Adds Sin: "You just gotta stick up for yourself out there. Friends gotta watch your back. Nobody else will."

They feel like they don't belong, never will belong, to the above-ground society. That's fine with them.

"It's all because we don't dress like Ward Cleaver,"Melt snorts, his intense green eyes flashing with mirth. "They won't let me back in school. So what?"

Sin picks up a half-empty can of black spray paint and starts to dot the walls with his tag. "If people don't like me the way I am," he says, "they can suck an egg. Like I care what they think, man.

"I can't change anything, so I don't want to, man. I don't know what happens next. Do you?"

Above him is a message in spray paint:

Will you find heaven?

SWEET WITHOUT THE BITTER

2006-06-12T10:45:00.000-05:00

Saturday was the day we remembered Chris Sifford, the journalist and political operative who died with Missouri Gov. Mel Carnahan and the governor's son in a 2000 plane crash.

Eidolons appeared at Hammons Field and we gratefully joined them, because for the first time since Sifford's death we were all together, we lucky few.

Old radio hands -- Wad and Libby, Daues and Griese, Smitty and Missy -- shook hands and clapped backs. The newspaper gang was there, too -- BK and CRKT and LAW and Nachos; Chick and SRK and ah, Ed -- mingling easily with JJ and Daues, the boys from TV.

Chick has gone grey. Ed's shaven face made us remember the days when he sported a partial beard and a pipe. CRKT reminded us that the Ed of those days was intimidating, almost terrifying. Ed responded with a cackle that we didn't realize we missed until we heard it.

There was not the expected outpouring of Cliffy anecdotes. This was good because the telling of tales was unnecessary, especially among spirits from the past. We remember what we lived. Imperfect memories, to be sure, but perhaps this is best. The blur of moving forward disguises rough passages.

Too soon the day was over. With fake nonchalance we said goodbye to the apparitions and pretended to face forward to greet the future.

THE GREAT QUAKE OF 1990

2006-04-22T21:43:00.000-05:00

Five datelines, five states, five dispatches, zero earthquakes

Dec. 1, 1990

BLACK OAK, Ark. -- The land surrounding Dennis and Sonya Saddler's blue, single-wide mobile home is flat as far as the eye can see.

In the distance, dust devils whirl, whipped to life by incoming storm clouds. Tornadoes have been known to tear across these fields in spring, and when they do, they're vicious because there's nothing to slow them down, just a few houses and a barn. In fact, it was just this past spring that a twister came at 4:30 a.m. and tore away half of the Saddlers' barn.

But Dennis and Sonya Saddler aren't worried about a tornado. Not right now.

"See it?" Dennis asks, pointing to the horizon. "See it?"

He's pointing to a small ridge -- it can't be more than a few inches high, and from here it's almost invisible -- that rings the west and north edges of his property. Warning flags used to be on the ridge, courtesy of a surveyor who knew what lay beneath the benign rise.

Dennis plowed the flags under. He's lived here all his 30 years. He doesn't need to be reminded that less than a quarter-mile from his home, the home he shares with his nine-months-pregnant wife, the New Madrid fault lumbers.

"Can't let it worry you, though," he says. "All you can do is get ready."

The Saddlers are experts at getting ready. They've been preparing for an earthquake every since Iben Browning announced a 50-50 chance of a major temblor along the fault this week. And we're not talking about a few jugs of water and a handful of granola bars.

"Got me a thousand-gallon water tank all filled up," Dennis says, proudly. "Got a bunch of chickens, a couple of hogs, some turkeys, a few guineas, some ducks, two deer already in the freezer. A bunch of canned goods in the pantry and a gas grill. Got some copper line in case the propane tank busts loose. Got a bunch of peroxide -- I mean, a bunch. That stuff works wonders, you know. Oh yeah, got me some bandages, too, and five cases of Budweiser."

Dennis' face breaks into a broad grin. "I'd say I'm ready. Wouldn't you?"

Part of the planning frenzy is because of the baby -- Jonathan Charles Saddler -- due this month. Dennis has even installed lightweight ceiling tiles in the baby's room in case the roof falls in.

Of course, if Dennis had his druthers, he'd have waited another year for Jonathan. With all this talk of an earthquake, coming just days before the baby, who can blame Dennis for fretting?

Sonya can't, though she's delighted at the prospect of being a mother. A substitute teacher, Sonya already has Jonathan' clothes lined up neatly in the closet. She's positive he'll enjoy the wallpaper, decorated with blue bunnies and bears. And she's sure happy Dennis is such a worrywart.

Life is pretty good for the Saddlers, save for the New Madrid fault.

"It ain't a'gonna happen," Dennis proclaims, popping open a Bud and handing it to his visitor. His accent is as thick as the clouds building up outside. "Though this fella Browning, he's no dummy, talking about the moon and the tides and all."

Sonya nods. So does Jimmy Cantrell, a family friend who's come from Harrisburg to talk. For the past several weeks, that's all the Saddlers and their friends have talked about -- how there won't be an earthquake, but ...

"I'm really not afraid. Really," Sonya says.

Dennis chimes in: "I'm more prepared right now than anyone else around. Come a quake, I'm gonna be sitting pretty. If the freezer conks out, I'll just slaughter a hog. If the tank freezes, I'll just build me a fire underneath it."

If the roads buckle? No problem. Dennis has fitted a Ford Pinto shell onto a Boss 302 Bronco frame and slapped on some monster-truck tires that come to his waist. If the rivers rise? No worry. There's a boat in the barn.

A power outage? C'mon. There's a battery-operated television, a couple of transistor radios and a police scanner with a battery backup.

The Saddlers have stowed enough goods to take care of themselves and their friends for a month. They don't have much cash -- Dennis farms, and winter is a slow time for that -- but the way they see it, cash won't be worth the paper it's printed on if the fault awakens.

So instead of furrowed brows and worried voices, the Saddlers' mobile home is filled with laughter. Dennis passes around some venison tenderloins coated in cayenne pepper breading and cracks open another beer.

"Yessir, I'm ready," he repeats. Only this time he leans forward to make a point, and his smile becomes a little tighter. Instead of laughter, his voiced is tinged with the determination of a man ready for just about anything thrown his way. He points to a corner of the living room, right next to his pregnant wife. A shotgun.

"I've got that and a buncha boxes of extra shotgun shells. Let them looters come on out. I'll show them what ready really means."

===

Dec. 2, 1990

BRAGGADOCIO, Mo. -- "Are you prepared?"

The Rev. Bill Luttrell's question, amplified by the thumb-sized microphone attached to his red silk tie, rolls across the pews inside the Braggadocio Baptist Church. There is a second of silence as 39 men, women and children ponder the three words, let them slide from their minds to their souls.

"Are you prepared?" Luttrell again asks, and one by one, the people begin to nod, begin to smile and say, "Amen."

They begin to understand. Luttrell senses this and presses on.

"I know there is much anxiety going on," he says. "I look out today and notice some people missing. One went to Sedalia. Another went to Branson. Many fear this thing called an earthquake. And by the way, if there is an earthquake during services today, as fast as you possibly can, get under these pews. They are oak and they will save your life."

Someone taps lightly on their pew. Several other people glance at the ceiling, at the glass chandeliers some 20 feet above, and mentally calculate whether they can beat the chandeliers to the green carpet. It would probably be a close race, especially for the elderly, who are the majority of the congregation.

Luttrell throws open wide his arms and gestures to the congregation. "We do need to prepare. The earthquake might happen. Will it? I don't know. But I'm prepared as much as I can be for the thing I know will happen. I'm prepared to meet my God. Are you?"

It is an intensely personal question, one that requires a thorough sounding of the heart. But the people inside this modest brick church have no problem with such soul-searching question. For the past several weeks, the men and women of this farming community, some 30 miles south of New Madrid, have wrestled with an agonizing dilemma, as talk increased of a possible earthquake along the fault beneath their feet.

The possibility of a killer temblor is no longer fodder for coffee-shop jokes. It is palpable now, as real as the dog-eared Bibles they clutch in their hands.

Yes, they have fear. Laverne Waldrop slept in her clothes Saturday night; she didn't want to get caught in her nightgown if an earthquake struck while she slumbered. "I felt a little silly this morning," she says. "But I'm nervous."

Yes, they have prepared physically. Waldrop has a survival kit in her car. Others -- including Luttrell -- have stockpiled food and water and supplies at home.

Yes, they have prepared spiritually, these faithful few. They have prayed to their God, searched Scripture for guidance and have concluded that flight would be folly -- as foolish as trying to bargain with the reaper, in Luttrell's words.

If Iben Browning's much-ballyhooed guess is correct, if there is a major earthquake sometime this week, Luttrell's reaper will most likely visit this community of cotton farmers and retirees.

So be it. The faithful know the earthquake will not be the work of Browning or any other person. The faith have put their trust in divine hands, and in those hands they feel safe.

"I'm depending on the Lord to take care of me," says Noel Dudley, who works for the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. "If he doesn't, that means he's called me home."

===

Dec. 3, 1990

FORT PILLOW, Tenn. -- The perfume of newness -- a blend of choice leather and fresh paint -- fills the air inide the West Tennessee High Security Facility.

That smell is especially pungent in the visiting room, a cavern 50 feet wide and twice as long, where dozens of brown contour chairs partially absorb the echo of voices as they ricochet off beige-painted walls.

In the center of the room, Warden Billy Compton stands at attention. An ex-Army man, his posture is always ramrod straight, even when he's trading pleasantries with the guards as they walk past.

Compton accepts a compliment on his prison, a $30 million, state-of-the-art lockup opened in April. It holds 587 of Tennessee's most serious felons. Death row may be at another prison, but Compton's facility contains plenty of murderers and those men branded "troublemakers" by the state.

This room is where the least troublesome prisoners get to visit with family. Its tile floor is waxed religiously, all the better to keep that fresh smell alive.

This is where the dead and dying might be warehoused if an earthquake erupts.

The prison sits about 45 miles northeast of Memphis, on the eastern edge of the New Madrid fault. Compton and his staff have devised a disaster plan that includes using the visiting room and the gymnasium as makeshift hospitals and morgue.

The prison was built to take the fault's best shot. Each wall was sunk into reinforced concrete, three feet deep and three feet wide on either side. Each pre-fab concrete slab was tested for sturdiness. The chain-link fence, fortified with rolls of razors, has two alarms with emergency backups.

If a quake comes, it may level everything else. The prison, in theory, should remain standing. The "in theory" part is what worries Compton. "They say it'll survive a violence quake, but I don't know," Compton says, patting a wall. "I sure hope it does."

On this day -- the date of a predicted major quake -- thoughts of a temblor come to the fore of Compton's mind. Nary a tremor Monday morning; Compton and several co-workers joke about quake forecaster Iben Browning's words as they walk from building to building, through steel doors that clang shut with a roar when caught by the terrific wind blowing outside.

Even the prisoners seem unconcerned. There are inmates like Joe -- prison rules prohibit the use of last names -- who say they've put their trust in God. "I think the whole thing was a hoax for some people to make money," says Joe, 46, stroking his gray goatee. "But if it isn't, it's not the work of man. It's God's work."

Then there are those like Charles, a 33-year-old Tennessee native. He's thought hard about Browning's words. There are few other things to do in prison. "I even thought about it until 1 or 2 this morning," Charles says. "But then I dozed off and when I woke up this morning, I wasn't worried anymore."

His relatives are concerned. They talked to Charles on Sunday night and told him to be careful and to not do anything "irrational." Translation: Don't even think about escaping if the walls come crashing down.

"Good idea, Charles," the warden interjects. "Keep that in mind. Don't do anything irrational."

Charles and Joe are in the minority among prisoners. Most of the men couldn't care less whether an earthquake demolished their enforced home. They know all about the hype, through television, newspapers and letters from home. Their relatives talk to them on the telephone and talk about how scary it must be, being locked in cages atop an earthquake fault.

But what are the prisoners supposed to do? Fret themselves into a frenzy, all because one man uttered the date Dec. 3? They have more important things to worry about, like making a good impression before the parole board, or keeping an eye out for enemies on the inside.

An earthquake they can handle, because when it comes, it comes, and no one -- not the warden, not the guards, not their dogs -- can do anything about it. The same cannot be said of their foes, who may kill them over something as trivial as a blocked shot during a basketball game in the yard.

Outside these walls, earthquake fever is rampant. Inside, no one's even running a temperature. "Sure, man, you have to think about it, just for the question of 'What if?'" says Willie, a 24-year-old from Tennessee. "But I got better things to go with my time."

===

Dec. 4, 1990

OSCAR, Ky. -- Pull open the screen door covered with dusty, yellowing plastic and step inside. Emma Mitchell feels like talking a spell.

We're in Oscar today, a wide spot in the road about 25 miles northwest of Paducah. The New Madrid fault lies just southwest of here, at the marriage of the Mississippi and Ohio rivers.

The place: Mitchell's Store, a century-old frame building that looks perilously close to collapse. White paint peels from every outside wall. Tree limbs and winter-dormant vines obscure the sign above the front door. If it weren't for the OPEN placard, it'd be pretty easy to assume the place had long been abandoned.

But way back in the back of the store -- past the two refrigerators filled with soft drinks, the glass candy counter, the rack with one bag of pork rinds hanging from a clip -- there sits Mitchell, barely illuminated by the glare of a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. She's 88 years old, a frail whisper of a woman bundled in a red-and-white blouse, two red sweaters and a pair of pants covered by a patchwork quilt. A walker is close at hand. Mitchell broke both her hips a few years ago.

"Go on, go on -- sit down," she urges. "I'm just trying to keep warm by the fire." Shimmers of heat rise from the stove. A couple of feet away is plenty close for a dose of warmth. But it is chilly outside, and the combination of Mitchell's soft, cracked voice, the darkness of the store and the pleasant smell of burning wood makes this a comfortable way to spend a Tuesday morning.

"I've lived around here all my life, and we've had lots of little quakes," Mitchell says. "But I'm sure happy this big one didn't come yesterday. It probably would have knocked down this old building, with me inside."

Little doubt there. The far corners of the ceiling are covered with sheets of cardboard, and whistles of wind leak through cracks in the wood walls. It looks like the leaning wall behind Mitchell is supported only by a 7-foot-tall stack of firewood chopped and stacked by her neighbors.

But some things are built to last, and Mitchell's store appears to be one of them. It's the last remnant of the old Oscar, a place that used to have a few more stores, a few more townsfolk. Today's Oscar is generally known in these parts as a handy stopping point for goose hunters roaming the Ballard County Wildlife Management Area just west of here.

A few hunters have come in since goose season opened in earnest on Saturday. They sit and chat with Mitchell, warm their feet by the fire and buy their essentials -- candy bars, cigarettes, a few cans of soda. Mitchell likes the company.

Her daughter wants Mitchell to live with her in nearby Barlow, but the storekeeper likes her independence too much to sell the place. Besides, Mitchell says, anyone who bought the store would level it to make room for something new, something with bright lights and neatly stacked shelves. That's enough to keep Emma Mitchell here.

"Unless an earthquake comes," she says. "But there's nothing I can do about that, except hope and pray to God that he lets me stay here for a little while longer."

Time to go. Mitchell waves goodbye. "Now, any old time you're back in these parts, come on back."

A few miles up the road, on Kentucky 473, is a sign too tempting to pass up: "Monkey's Eyebrow Bait House. Good and Duck Processing." The bait house is closed -- damn the luck -- but Aulton Freeman opens the door to the house beside it. He's wiry, 73 years old, wearing a camouflage shirt, blue jeans and a camo hat bearing the title "The Undertaker." On it is a flying goose.

"You just come from Emma Mitchell's? Yeah, I've known Emma for about as long as I've known anyone," Freeman says, apologizing for his low rumble of a cough. He learned last December that he had lung cancer. Doctors removed a golfball-sized tumor, and so far the cancer hasn't returned.

Freeman is well enough, however, to answer the obvious question. "Well, I was born and raised here, and my dad lived here, and he was 79 when he died," Freeman begins. "He's been dead 20 years, and here's what he told me.

"Two brothers -- John Ray and Dodge Ray -- lived here. One ran a store, the other, a blacksmith shop. There was a drive between their places. They come out one morning, and one says to the other, 'How are you?' And the other says, 'Well, the monkey has his eyes open this morning.' And from that, they got Monkey's Eyebrow."

Monkey's Eyebrow used to be a booming little place; you could buy anything you could in Paducah. But most people abandoned the curving two-lane highway for the four-lane interstate that cuts through Paducah. Now, the only visitors to Monkey's Eyebrow are the hunters and the curious.

This is a busy time of year for Freeman. He walks out to his processing shop and shows off his wares. For $3 a bird, hunters drop off their geese. Freeman's helpers pluck, singe, gut, wash and freeze the carcasses. Freeman processed 3,468 geese last year. He netted 784 pounds of feathers, which he sold for $5 a pound.

The season runs through Jan. 31, so Freeman expects plenty of cars and trucks to stop by in the next couple of months. Now that Iben Browning's Dec. 3 earthquake projection is history, maybe people will start talking about blinds and decoys instead of tremors.

"Oh, that earthquake stuff, all that crap, it's silly," he says. "I'm not smart, but I'm not so silly to predict an earthquake. Besides, the Bible says at the end of time, no man will know. Not even the angels will know. So why would a little peon like me know when it's going to happen"?

===

Dec. 5, 1990

FUTURE CITY, Ill. -- First and Broadway. It sounds so uptown, so chic, a place for swank boutiques and restaurant. Especially in a place called Future City.

Someone's trash is scattered in the intersection.

Poverty, not posh, reigns in Future City, an encampment of about 100 people on the north edge of Cairo -- that's CARE-oh. Most homes are ramshackle. Roads are covered with pea gravel. There are no curbs, no sidewalks. No future.

It wasn't always this way. Once upon a time, Future City was 10 times its current size, a boomer with cotton gins, stores and bars. But one by one, the stores closed and the people moved away. Now all that's left are retirees and those too poor to relocate.

"Kids grow up, they leave," says Lillian Thompson, 84. She lives in a decaying mobile home with Aaron Mohn. He's 55. He looks much older. They don't blame anyone for fleeing the squalor of Future City, a place where a white kitten, fur matted with filth, eats garbage next to a rusted sign: "$50 fine for littering."

Future City is where the New Madrid fault begins its serpentine path southward. The ground here is soft, sandy. A strong earthquake would probably turn the sand to soup; one county official says Future City would sink out of sight.

There is a sense that very few people would care. Future City is small, poor. It is also overwhelmingly black, and this is more than an insignificant aside. All along the New Madrid fault, racism is a reality.

When people worry about looting, they talk about "niggers" and "coloreds." In a New Madrid bar, a hand-lettered handbill featuring the face of Buckwheat offers bogus "Buck Beer." Asked about Future City, a sheriff's department dispatcher discourages a reporter from traveling there: "It's nothing but blacks and slums."

Ray Johnson, a resident, says no one cares. "This is the Gateway to the South, you know. I spent a couple of years on the East Coast -- New Jersey -- and a word I seldom heard was 'nigger.' But I hear it here."

Adds Thompson: "I don't know anyone here who doesn't want it to be better. But who's going to make it better? Not the people in Cairo. No, sir."

The chairman of the county board denies racism is the reason for the despair in Future City. Instead, Louis Maze blames high unemployment. One in every five Alexander County residents is out of work, he says. In Future City, unemployment is almost 100 percent.

"We all know the people in Future City. We get along with them well," Maze says. "And we've got a black treasurer and blacks in the sheriff's department."

Only an infusion of new businesses will save Future City, Maze says. "Factories can come in, they can give them jobs and those people can better themselves." But no one in Future City believes that will happen, and they don't seem willing to make it happen, either. The only solution, they say, is to wait -- wait and hope that attitudes change, that times get better, that white people along the New Madrid fault begin to think twice before automatically assuming an earthquake will create an army of rampaging black looters.

Aaron Mohn turns back to his black-and-white television and fiddles with the antenna wrapped in aluminum foil. Outside the mobile home, waist-high weeds sway in the wind. The kitten turns its attention to a mouldering Kentucky Fried Chicken box.

Originally published in the Springfield (Mo.) News-Leader

SCREAMING IN TONGUES

2006-04-06T16:20:00.000-05:00

The sun was still shining, though low in the sky, when the paramedics crashed through the doors of the emergency room with a doomed kid. His parents had found him crumpled in a corner of the garage, a plastic bag gooey with airplane glue covering his nose and mouth.

He was 10, maybe 11. Blue at the base of his fingernails but still warm. We lifted him onto the table and made a huddle around his stillness. A nurse cut away his shirt. Someone else's fingers prodded the boy's neck in search of a pulse, while someone else tried to find a vein in his arms to start an IV.

From my position by the boy's head I looked over the huddle to a corner of the ER. The boy's parents were there, hugging each other and staring at us through shiny eyes. Their lips moved but all I could hear then was the head nurse demanding my attention.

"Hold this," she ordered -- "this" being the tape around an IV she had just started in the boy's neck. I commanded my hands to quit shaking; they ignored me. The boy stared up at me through half-closed eyes. His eyes were brown. His lips were blue. Globs of glue still hung on the skin around his mouth and nose, like snot from an especially vicious sneeze.

Paddles were prepared and a shout of "clear" made me step back. The boy's body jerked.

"Thank you, Jesus!" his parents shouted. Then something that sounded like "Mechla ombida zeffernostis!" And then more words beyond my comprehension. Charismatics, someone in the huddle whispered, just before the boy got another jolt to the chest.

"YES, JESUS!" The parents were almost overcome with joy, seeing their boy move on the table. "ESLAM TEEKA BOPEDONIUS!!" And now his mother began to scream, a low siren that climbed in pitch and intensity before ending in a series of whoops and gibberish. Her husband joined her in mid-scream, like a nightmare "Row You Boat" singalong.

"Again," the head nurse ordered, and once more the boy jerked several inches off the table. Three sets of round red marks sharply contrasted with his pale skin. My nostrils flared at the smell of burnt hair.

We worked for the better part of a half-hour on the dead boy before giving up. As I walked out of the ER to smoke a fag I heard his parents still screaming in tongues, lapsing into English only to thank Jesus with great fervency.

PATROLLING THE EDGE

2006-02-27T04:21:00.000-06:00

WE ARE ALL the same. True bastards will vigorously deny the fact, swearing to their assorted gods that everyone is special, everyone is unique. They are full of shit. We are all the same.

Attend an autopsy. Watch the pathologist slice through the skin and blubber to the -- heh heh -- guts of the matter. Virchow's method demands the individual removal and examination of organs; you see the lungs, the heart, the engines that let us live. Kidney, liver, spleen -- check. I got 'em, you got 'em, the corpse on the table gots 'em, too. Or had 'em, until the pathologist got his stubby hands smeared with viscera.

I once had the pleasure of watching an autopsy with Wing, the legendary photog. The assignment was a profile of the pathologist, and even though editors didn't require us to witness the cutting of the flesh we swiftly decided that Goddamn right we had to watch an autopsy, we were required by the Higher Power of Journalism to see the bod, be the bod.

Path-Man was doughy, with pale skin and a warm yet creepy demeanor; he had a wonderful laugh explaining the delicacy required to remove the brain from its pan. "If you're clumsy -- HA! -- the brain falls apart on you." Not a bad bedside demeanor, as docs go. Too bad he only worked on corpses.

They wheeled in a large woman who had been found dead in her car. Carbon monoxide was the assumed cause of death -- COD to those who work with corpses -- and suicide was the presumption; but because she had reportedly been arguing with her husband, suspicion remained.

Path-Man and his trusty assistant unzipped the body bad and hauled the woman onto a steel table that boasted a flexible hose with nozzle, identical to the one in most kitchen sinks. Yellowish liquid leaked out of the corners of the dead woman's mouth; Path-Man took aim with the nozzle and hosed away the gunk like a teen washing stubborn mud from the fenders of a new-to-him car.

He and the assistant rolled her this way and that, began an external examination. White female, no obvious signs of trauma, some lividity in her buttocks and the backs of her thighs. Out came the knives.

Wing and I had both read about the Y-incision -- a cut from each shoulder joining at mid-chest, then descending to the pubic line. Path-Man's knife zipped through the woman's torso, the only sound being a vaguely wet parting. Virtually no blood, even when Path-Man deepened his wounds to the rib cage and sternum and pulled back the flesh and fat.

Path-Man chatted us up as he snipped cartilage to free the sternum from the ribs. "You remember the case where that guy claimed his girlfriend stabbed herself through the breastbone?" Clip-clip-clip. "Such bullshit. You can't stab yourself to death that way." Snip-snip. "I'll prove it to you in a minute."

He finished freeing the sternum and laid it on an adjoining surface, then picked up the biggest Goddamned knife I've ever seen -- the blade alone was almost a foot long, a Steely John with a sharp point.

Path-Man wielded his knife like a samurai, lifted it above his head with both hands, then thrust straight down into the sternum. "Didn't go all the way through," he announced triumphantly. "Don't tell me that girl pushed a little knife all the way through her sternum." He rocked his blade free, like a wood splitter pulling his axe from a stump.

He used the long knife several more times -- freeing intestines, cutting through organs, generally terrorizing his visitors. When Path-Man gestured with his knife he looked every inch the Mad Professor, eyes glittering at the gore on his blade. By now Wing and I were in a corner of the room, trying to keep safe distance between us and the instruments of dissection.

Maybe it was the way Path-Man removed her brain. First came the hairline incision, behind each ear and around the back of the head. Then the sound, almost like Velcro being taken apart, as he grabbed her scalp and brought it forward until it covered her face and exposed the skull.

He used a vibrating saw to cut through the skull, leaving a notch in the middle of the front for later alignment. When the skull was pulled away there was a faint sucking whoosh, almost like opening a jar of vacuum-packed peanuts.

I looked over at Wing, who fired away at the corpse, bouncing lights off her scalp, her belly, her feet. The yellow layers of fat in her splayed gut were striking, butter-pretty as spring jonquils. In fact, everything inside her body was beautiful, a colorful jigsaw that, once taken apart, couldn't be repackaged with such precision.

Path-Man dissected each organ, kept back a sample from each, discarded the rest. When the pathologist replaced the skull and pulled the scalp back off the woman's face, she was literally brainless.

Not quite four hours after it began, the autopsy was over. The woman's shell was returned to its body bag and wheeled out to the door to a hearse that would take it to a funeral home. The pathologist and his assistant hosed gore from the table and their blades, shrugged off their scrubs and, smiling, posed for a picture or two.

'THE MOTORCYCLE GANGS'

2006-02-22T20:18:00.000-06:00

In May 1965, HST penned "The Motorcycle Gangs."