Warning! Code Alert! Secondary Meaning to "Daisy Chain"

All this talk about a "New Pearl Harbor," I thought I'd better get right with the old Pearl Harbor first. On a recent trip to Oahu for a family wedding, a group of us spent a day doing the military sights. The Arizona was a mixed bag for me. On the one hand, the sheeple watching couldn't have gotten any better than while waiting for a turn on the skiff (or would that be called a launch?) But hearing Ernest Borgnine over-emote on the audio tour nearly drove me mad, as he had some facts, and all of his emphasis, wrong, but hey, it's my problem if I find dumbed-down McHale's Navy television gloss unsuitable rather than reassuring, given the gravity of the tour, and the present, repetitive circumstance, just reinforcing it's me and a few others against a marching 250-million strong sleeping phalanx--so what the hell?

Nonetheless, water was forced from my eyes, even before imagining the fate of the drowned and burned--nearly half the dead that day were on that one vessel. Then, as the women went shopping, the men continued on to the museum and The Missouri. Here is a picture of me wearing my Special Researcher tin-foil hat, sure I'd find something intriguing below decks. I'm with my Scott County cousins: beefy Dan, who has 200 acres in sod; Terry, who does community college stuff with seeds, even travels to the Ukraine on weighty seed business; and dear octogenarian Uncle Fred: horseman, gentleman farmer and retired builder--successful enough to haul 27 of his personal offspring and their descendants to a destination wedding in Hawaii. Ian Meyer must come from such good root stock as well, I'm sure.


Unfortunately, touring the Missouri, this magnificent ship of peace, built too late for action, was spoiled by an overbearing Dyke docent who kept going on about its firepower and its role in the first Iraq war, all the while saying, "You have no idea," how it was in the old days, and "You can't imagine" blah, blah, blah. I can image the fatalities using the 50-centimeter bore guns for a turkey shoot, as Saddam's forces left Kuwait on the single highway to hell out.

At least she was doing her part in spreading gender non-conformity--big time, which felt balancing after all the heterosexual privilege dished out and regurgitated at the wedding. Our $28 guide must have been channeling Lucy Brewer, the first woman in the Marine Corps, who disguised herself as a gung-ho man serving in the Marine Detachment aboard the USS Constitution during the War of 1812. Life is so unfair when it comes to lesbians--they get to do everything. I could disguise myself as Diana Ross (Pick grapes....sow oats.....pull taffy....those are the moves for Ain't no mountain high enough, ain't no valley low enough, ain't no river wide enough, to keep me from you!) and serve on a USO resupply wig ship, like in the old days, the days when a drill Sargent could knock a raw recruit around a bit, unlike the hands-off present. Well, dykes can't decorate, and I am a curious yellow.

Hey--wait a minute!

There's no red square flag in the U.S. Navy signal flag code!
They're not using the chelsea hankie code, are they?


Quick! Run!

You know, you've got to keep propelling the propaganda. Hit em over the head.

Originally published on February 15, 2007 on stevenwarran.blogspot.com

Fisters! Bloggers!

Originally published March 15, 2007 on stevenwarran.blogspot.com
jstapula@gmail.com

Boy, can he fist!

Off to the Dillingham Ranch for a fortnight, to a family wedding.
In keeping with the enormous pattern of luck ruling my life these days, efforts at costuming the big day were very successful. At six-feet tall and 200lbs, I am fat--do you hear?--fat, but I'm also a perfect 44 regular. I went to our local toy Macy's where I found this light-weight, black velvet Claiborne jacket for $31. (I swear to God.)

So feeling able to afford extravagance, I grandly waltzed into what passes for Southampton's best men's shop these days, and announced I wanted to buy the best white dress shirt in the store, which tickled the elderly European clerk, who directed me to the most sublime cotton shirt I've seen since my days of wine and roses turned into calender tics of Tang and philodendron. Made by a designer unknown to me, Robert Graham, his discrete initials can be found riding the cuffs, while his name and a ducal coronet are beautifully embroidered at the neck, to the interior only, where my hot chakra blasts will destroy them in short order. Worn with an open collar, together with a fine-fitting pair of old raspberry Polo slacks and new espadrilles to be purchased last-minute on the island (the something new of tradition,) no one will ever guess the hard rows of BCO turnips I have only recently been hoeing.

I said hoeing.

But the most amazing aspect to the shirt is a gratuitous label hidden at the bottom of the embroidered placket, itself a hiding device for the buttons in the front. Reading Knowledge Wisdom Truth and riding my dangerous base energy sector, I think I'll be safely covered. Tis grace that will get me through.... Not bad for $175 bucks.


To any BCO regulars who stumble this way, tis grace that will get us all through.

My Board Crewcial.Org Enthronement



knucklehead posted this on Mar 12th, 2007 at 03:21:25 am This is one sexy killing machine...


Goodnight sweet prince.

stevenwarran posted this on Mar 12th, 2007 at 05:06:30 am You know Knucklehead, you really are a ruffian, as proved by your rejection of my considerate apology and entreaty of peace. I hope you check up your food chain before you launch any attacks on me. I have powdered the pretty pink bottom of the likes of Nathaniel Philip Victor James Rothschild, on occasion, while he enjoyed spats of mushroom eating such as with the young Tamsin Greenhill, for instance, and I don't think one could go much higher up on the international oligarchic menu plan than that. I just might march down to Saint Luke's Place and pound on his door and wake his servants and implore their protection from your rough low faction of domestic spookdom. You know, servants have as extensive a network as anything you CIA/Blackwater people have come up with, and I can promise a major scandal where heads will roll!

Buttered roll, my dear!

And having failed to assist me in my attempts to post gay porn on your web site (I could take you places you've never been before, let me assure you) you shall gain no advantages devolving from your brief, now concluded, intercourse with me. Pray, avoid any disadvantages.

Good day to you, sir.