Beaver Welch

I must really be feeling wounded to pull this out. Perhaps just a temporary malaise after seeing myblackass's contribution of a photograph of a bloated corpse on a related message board. Hopefully, his is judicial evidence, and not extra-judicial, and he posts it because he identifies with a fate in the electric chair, which is obviously his destiny. Everybody brings something different to the table and that's his gift.

I love the fact that I'm one-year old and I'm interested in the man with the camera.

What do you make of this copy?

The Welches spent their vacation in Wisconsin and Canada--and while there convinced a Canadian couple to come down to Rock Island on their vacation.

Mr. and Mrs. Robert Dixon of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, spent this week in Rock Island at the Welch home.

Convinced? Was it hard? Why?

The penultimate paragraph bears repeating:

"Steven is nicknamed 'Beaver,'" Mrs. Welch explained, :Partly because of the TV program and partly because he's 'busy as a beaver' all day."

I recall my report cards in the third grade were still issued to "Beaver Welch."

On edit: Feb. 11, 2009

The truth can be so elusive. That's why having good archives is important. On a recent dip into such I found the following two images from 1958:

In the first, where I thought I was so cute being intrigued by the strange man with the camera, in truth I was simply being purchased, bought off, with some sugary food substance. See the hand of the woman with the painted-on eyebrows, and the opened bag of mini-marshmallows ? Take THAT away, and then you can SCREW the man with the camera---give me more cookie! One in the hand and back em up on the tray, bar-maid!

And look at my hair. Do I seem to be the only one sweating? AT AGE ONE??! What's up with that?

Although, I must say, mother looks tastefully accessorized with that interesting bracelet and those clip earrings. And such humble, focused poses.

This leads me to another issue: We, the two of us---my mother and I---have agreed that our memories can sometimes be so divergent that we are both going to have to write independent history books of our shared experiences.

A case in point---I am convinced that somewhere along in my childhood I accessed knowledge held inside "my baby book" where a fascinating anecdote was recorded----my first word. According to my memory, my first word as recorded in that book was "fry-fries," said on the way to some of the beef-suet-soaked treats at the golden arches of McDonald's.

Now, this is a trick, because there weren't very many McDonald's around in 1958. However, if you do the research, you'll find that one of the first few was on 23rd Avenue in Moline, Illinois, "The Farm Implement Manufacturing Capital of the World"---Moline, that is. In 1900, the John Deere Company was the fifth largest corporation in America, and it has always been headquartered in Moline, since the 1960's in a beautiful Eero Saarinen-designed building, so don't go looking down your noses at Moline, mind you, because it's also home to Case and Caterpillar.

Now here's where it gets very tricky. On a recent trip back to the salt mine holding family material I could reasonably determine that my baby book is no more! Yes! It has been squashed! Suppressed! Not to cast aspersions loosely here, but Cui bono? Who might have an interest in seeing my early addiction training, um...altered? Ma-ma? Da-da? I say fry-fry.

Stevenwarran circa 1977:
Are You Man Enough To Straighten Him Out?

All He Ever Wanted Was to Learn Symmetrical Warfare

But No Man Ever Cared Enough to Teach His Sorry Ass

April 24, 2007

The Day my Juliette Balcony was Installed.
Erected. Raised. Whatever.

10am "Oh happy dagger....here is thy sheath!

Spring in Southampton!

My Berty, Reminding us: two fists for every asshole!
OK. It's up. What do you think?


We'll have to wait until tomorrow morning to take a proper picture in "the golden light."





Here's a fancy pair of wrought-iron gates from the Bradley-Martin house in Old Westbury: Knole by Carrier & Hastings. My fancy-pants lawyer friend who appreciates fine metal work can have them for a cool 12K. The original gilt is under the black paint. I'll have his initials crafted for the central cartouche, which are what again?


Chris is a hot 25-year-old who wants to come live out back at my place. I said sure, let's talk more tomorrow. I got him going.

THIS IS MY LIFE

THIS IS MY MIND

THIS IS MY CHRIST CONSCIOUSNESS

THIS IS THE AMERICAN MILITARY INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX AT
FULL FLOWER

WHO DO YOU THINK WILL WIN?

THIS IS WHAT I LIKE TO DO TO YOUNG MEN WHEN I GET THEM IN MY CLUTCHES

In honor of the arrival Wednesday of Bella Elizabeth Duque, a Taurus with a shock of dark hair like her father, Luis, who for three years was my live-in Hispanic (there needs to be a term for that.) Although Luis had lots of natural ability, I take some credit for classing up his act, and getting him married into a well-fixed local Catholic family. I had a wonderful experience standing up for him on the altar of our wildly overdecorated local church. The lighting was so superb I felt like I was in a movie.

Later, I crashed and burned giving the toast. Why did I think it was important to tell the gathered, "I want you to know! I never had sex with that boy! Luis. Luis Duque!"

As his "American father," I was forgiven. They are a very happy, growing family

Hillary Clinton and Steven WarRan: When We Were Young and Just Starting Out

Look what I found! Isn't this del.ic.ou.s fun! Except, I'm spotting a pattern here with me when it comes to women and cameras. Let's just call it deference, and stimulation. Making them feel pretty and ducking out of the way in the evidence.

At least I can get them going, unlike the moribund actors on the Pentagon stage. That comes from my taking a single (general) math and a single (general) science class in the ninth grade in total fulfillment of my public high school requirements, then taking 18 credits of theater and drama with the most sublime mentor and genius, a man who literally saved my life.

I can't remember, but I must have risked saying something borderline off-color here, but I do recall another picture of the two of us from that morning, which was published in the New York Post, where we both look saintly ahead, our eyes cast demurely down, attending to our work, so I must have made a quick amends.

Of course this won't do Hillary any good, and I don't care. I no longer support either side in our system of balanced corruption. I see the Republican fury during Bill's white house years for what it was: clear eyed, level headed envy, knowing what he was getting away with. Both parties must have ratcheted it down a couple of notches on the what-can-be-purloined - under-the-guise-of "public-good"-scale. Dubya is entirely a synthetic creation of recent vintage, and it should be easy to trace the guilty in his midst; his supporters only go back to Texas bundler days; corporate fatcats, crooks like MBNA, who beat out ENRON as top giver, and got to savage the bankruptcy laws as a result; then there's the Christo-Fascist terrorists, the fundamentalists who combined with neo-con seditiousness of the Zionists.

I never understood the enthusiasm for Bush until recently. What they were whispering amongst themselves at the beginning was: this man is a certified sociopath! We can do, or say, or take anything, and he'll still be able to keep a straight face and pull one over! We'll just back the truck right up to the treasury door, and load in! He is the most incredible actor in the world, you'd never know he was acting, because he's not--he doesn't know HOW to tell the truth! It's reflexive.

Now wait a minute--we're on my territory! And I say the opening number in this act is going to be By His Fruits We Shall Know Him, sung to the tune of the old white-cracker spiritual, The Old Rugged Cross.

Still believing blandly in the American Constitution and the rule of law, and really just dreading the alternative, like getting what we deserve, I say, show me. Let's see how honest leaders can get. Let them break down along the fault lines of their evil triumvirate where I can smell the sulfur emanating from the cracks, as the rapture-ready get in bed with the Zionists, claiming an end-times doctrinal necessity just discovered, as the country-club conservatives speak and snicker behind their palms.

We are of a different three kinds now. The foreknowledged, who are simply forsaken. The forensic, who must be forepassed, although foreborne will do nicely. And the force majeure, who gad about with foreplay--and that would be without foreskins, since the latest research finds circumcision reduces the rate of HIV transmission by 60%.
Hold Em