Somewhere in Kenya, a Village is Missing its idiot. . . .
It’s the headline for a bumper sticker being sold by The Patriot Depot, a conservative action group of some kind. When I first saw the headline I didn’t get it. Then when I did get it I almost laughed. It’s not bad. The Patriot Depot argues that Obama can't prove he was born in America. “According to Obama's Kenyan (paternal) grandmother, as well as his half-brother and half-sister, Barack Hussein Obama was born in Kenya, not in Hawaii as he claims.”
I’m familiar with the story, but have not looked into it. It’s getting significant attention on the Internet. It would seem to me that if President Obama was born in Hawaii he would want to get rid of the story that he was born in Kenya in the simplest way possible.
I’m trapped between taking injections of Temgesic and B-complex vitamins which help the pain, which I like, and the fact that they put me need of so much sleep I feel drugged, which I don't like. Sometimes my naps last four hours. The rest of the time I can’t come awake. I have finally realized that my primary care VA doctor is not taking care of the injury in the lower back, but treating the pain cause by the pinched sciatic nerve in the lower back. Two, three weeks ago when I was at the VA for a cat-scan of the knees I was smart enough to have the lower back scanned. My primary care doctor let it sit there. She saw in on her computer, but gave me more pain-meds. Tomorrow night I’m going to the VA again to get both knees shot up so I can walk. So the knees will be fine, but the pain radiating down from the back will be the same. I’m going to talk to them.
After a four-hour nap this afternoon I went to bed at 8.30 and slept two hours more. Dreamed that I, or someone, just got out of the hospital. I’ve dreamed it before. In the dream I meet an old friend. I don’t know who it is. I take him to lunch and ask what he’s doing, what he’s been doing. I can’t remember what he said. The name of a young lady-friend comes up, as usual. I can’t recall who she is. What’s she doing now. He tells me. The same as last time. I can’t remember what he tells me. Her name, maybe it was Mary. Memory recalls Mary Lusitano from grade school some 70 years ago. Homely with a big nose. She was the same in junior high. Then I lost track of her, then I ran into her in Huntington Park working in an ice cream shop. Maybe. Or bagging groceries. We were both teenagers.
This is real life now. Mary was still pretty homely, her nose was still too big, but it wasn’t so big proportionately as when she was in grammar school, and she wasn’t so homely either. The primary difference, however, was that now she had very big, what I imagined to be, very beautiful breasts. It was exciting to see her. Them. I was smitten. I tried some small talk. She didn’t go for it. The breasts were really something. I was a good looking young man. I tried some more small talk. Didn’t matter. She wouldn’t bite. It was as if she understood that I wasn’t really interested in her, that I really wanted to talk to her breasts. This evening, recalling that afternoon so many years ago, so many decades ago, I feel it yet again. The sense of loss.
Irene spent a couple hours this afternoon folding, stuffing, sealing and stamping 120 Eisenhower-ad insertion requests to the advertising managers of 120 campus newspapers. I’ll take them with me to the other side tomorrow on my way to the VA hospital where I will stay overnight. To date the ad has run in the Ohio State Daily. As of now we are booked to run in two more papers this coming week, but these ads are not run until they’re run.
A couple kids from the frac, the neighborhood, or who used to be from the neighborhood before they moved to a different one a couple years ago, have been run down by the Federales and the Mexican army. The two boys are now 23 and 24 years old. They were nice boys. It looks like they hooked up with a group that has a reputation for brutality and are suspected of being connected with maybe 14 murders and various kidnappings for ransom. Their photos are in the newspapers. During the arrest the soldiers seized 17 high-caliber weapons and 14, 660 rounds of ammunition. The last fellow they kidnapped, and who was released yesterday, says that he was beaten, tied up, had one finger on his left hand cut off, and his family threatened.
Meanwhile, I have just heard that in the incident up at the corner where the young son of the cantina owner was kidnapped a couple, three weeks back, where the unarmed guardia tried to protect the boy from his assailants and who was beheaded for his gesture of responsibility and courage—that the kidnappers beheaded him while he was alive using a chainsaw.
I do not think I noted here that the boy himself was released unharmed perhaps two weeks ago.