BIG DON

To read along with “Let Me Introduce Myself” click here  to read along (it opens as a new window)

 To read Con Man! click here

To read “Seven mines ones six” click here

 To read “Five! Oh McGarrett!” click here

To read “Is Been Discovert” click here

To read “small fava” click here

 To read more of “small fava” click here

To read “da wethurs” click here

Now that you’ve gotten a taste of BDK read aloud, I ask you to offer your own voice and interpretation. Go to the Q&As and find a question you’d enjoy reading. If you’re interested, email me at fourthnight@gmail.com and I’ll give you details on recording the audio file. Whoever contacts me first gets first dibs on any particular comment (after the comment’s author, who gets first priority). Don’t be shy now. Let your inner BDK come loose.

*THIS IS A LONG POST SO HERE’S THE SHORT OF IT: A very funny and wise fellow named Don K’ Shayne has generously volunteered to be an advice counselor on this website. Ask him any question you want HERE. You won’t regret it. To see examples of recent questions and his answers click here. If you want to read more about the whats and whys of this, keep reading.

This month Fourth Night offers readers a unique online service. For the rest of this month, a noteworthy guest named Don K’ Shayne (aka Big Don or BDK) has volunteered, free of charge, to serve on this website as therapist, spiritual minister, sex mentor, online confidant, royal jester, and whatever else you wish him to be.

What kind of question? Perhaps you seek meaning in the giant chicken nugget rampaging through your dreams; perhaps you’re Buddhist and fear it’s in your karmic cards to reincarnate as a dung beetle; perhaps you’re an End Timer who wants to know, since consensus among pamphleteering soothsayers is divided, whether the Apocalypse will occur on May 21 or in 2012; perhaps you wonder if it’s abnormal that your nipples harden whenever the Pillsbury Doughboy is poked in the belly; or perhaps you’re just looking for a new stew recipe for your crockpot. Nothing is too strange or mundane.

Think about it. Why drain your bank account on an overpriced conventional psychotherapist when you can tap for free into the mythological wellspring and maniacal intellect of BDK? Why waste minutes scrounging for stamps and printing letters addressed to some magazine column hack when you can streamline the process at this real-time, one-stop wisdom shop.

I first received an email from Big Don on March 25 but passed over it in my bloated inbox, assuming it was spam. He sent me several more in the following weeks, all of which I passed over without reading for the same reason. Only upon glancing over the words “Con Man” in his latest message one evening did I go back and read the correspondence from the beginning. I instantly realized that something strange and hilarious and diabolically ingenious was going on.

So who’s Big Don? For one, he could be a she. But who am I to go snooping in his backyard? If Fourth Fiction taught me anything, it’s that truth isn’t always what you assume it to be – and if and when you do ever put your finger on it, it’s already gone and transformed into something else. So I take the BDK at face – or actually faceless – value as the BDK. You will too, I’m sure, when you get to know him firsthand. And to that effect, I’m appending below all of the emails he’s sent me. This is a good time for you to now go brew a pot of coffee.

As with Finnegan’s Wake, Big Don’s writing best coheres when read aloud and when given the right accent. Don’t be timid. Put some mustard on it. Perform, don’t read. If you do, you’ll enter the world of BDK and will soon be carrying his turns of phrase like contagious song lyrics that can’t be shaken off. You’ll be the weirdo talking and laughing alone on the street. And you won’t care.

After you read this, don’t hesitate to write in a comment to Big Don. He expects to hear from you. If anything, do it for the rest of us. If you want privacy (say, for instance, that the earlier Pillsbury Doughboy example applies to you) just comment under a pseudonym. I’m sure Big Don is an equal opportunity advisor when it comes to questions of identity or lack thereof.

In his first March 25 email Big Don had yet to fully come into his own, into his lilting literary voice. I initially intended to leave the email out of this compilation but changed my mind. His intro, while tamer in style, does wean one into his diction, something which he may have intended.

On occasion I interject commentary between the emails to clarify the context. And for those more intrepid readers, I’ve also inserted links, videos and photos that relate to some of BDK’s cultural references. If by including them I’ve robbed you of the joys of self-discovery, I apologize, but you can be sure there’s plenty more to dig through on your own.

So here he is, the one, the only, the big, Don K’Shayne:

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Don K’Shayne to me – Let me introduce myself – Mar 25

Con Man,

Dig this…

Now..what I gots to say may be hard to wrap yo mind around at firss, but you gots to hit the ground runnin an fall-in, cause I ain’t goin to short bus this shit for your sore ass. Dig?

No remedial motherfuckers allowed in dis here Cad-lac. Dig? Alright, sit yo ass down and hole on.

Now lookie here…

My name is Don K’shayne, but anyone, or anything, that knows me past a good morning knows me as the Big Don.

Ya welcome.

You more than anyone should know the sticky power of the un-clever nickname.

Everyone’s always grateful once they know me, not just Mister Wayne Newton. Dig?

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uUryeDLpY_c

Now lookie here…

I am what you call Inspiration. If I were to take on female form, I’d be wass you call a Muse.

Now, I pride myseff on my work anna I ain’t goin nappeal to your sorry ass through mere sexuality. Nah man, that shit’s too easy. I take pride in my craft so I likes to make my work more of a challenge, so to speak.

Ya see, I reside, currently, in your mind.

Dass right.

I have made my home inside that rocky calcium deposit you call a skull. I say currently, because I do not obey the laws a time or space as you do.

My tomorrow could be your yesterday or your day after next, dig? I can bounce around to any time I want since I am not bound to your seemingly linear eggsistanss. I come an go as I please.

So if I feel that my message ainna coming through yo hifi, I just FedEx my ass to the next mutha who may have a more welcoming ear. I needs a comfortable bed, ya dig?

I ain’t above sending yo un-listenin, un-interested, un-equiped ass back to the Sleepy’s store.

That being said, I on’t upack my bags til I know my word will be heard. Follow? Mind you, I don’t have belongings in the knick-knack paddywack sense of the word, I’s just making an example.

Now, keep up, son, I get deeper than this so take a deep breath and less dive on furrer.

Nah, look ahear…

I’ve been trying to get thru you, but damn if you don’t pay attention to the signs, man. Now, I know’s yous been awkappied with yo impenndin move and all, so I been trying to be payshunt.

Now, I think I should ansah your biggest queshun… why does my Imagination speak like an East St. Louis Pimp?

Firssafal, I ain’t YOUR muthafuckin Imagination. I AM Imagination, I am universal an shit. I come an go as I please. I blong to da people, you entiled muthafuck.

Second, I speak like I do cause it is entertainin as HELL to talk like this and I know for a damn fact it is fun as three hos in a bagga Jello to read. Am I right? Shit! How else am I to capture yo attenshun.

So. To my point, cuz I do have one.

So yeh ask. Why have I not juss appeared to yo ass?

Muthafuck, I tried! But issah hard as a mutha to compee in dis ere day un age gainst tellvision, innernet an all that. Dig?

You juss wern lissn! So I got this gee mail to tawk yo ass. Plus, muthafucks won’t let a muthafuck do dah twiddah.

So. My poin is. Be receptive. Keep an open mine. Lissen! An maybe, I’ll decide a sticka rown an help yo assout a bit mo wi

Till next time, keep an I open.

Big Don K.

You’re welcome…..

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo skull. Word.

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Don K’Shayne to me – Con Man! – Apr 7

 

Geevenin and shit…

Con Man, why you gots to make an abstract consepshul mutha like Supreme Maj-Nation work so damn harr fo yo abstrack inteleckshuns, man?

Eyes juss tryin elighten you an ennertain myseff, biggun!

That was one mutha offa prank with all em fo-letter karrackers writtin yo ass off! Fo sho.

Ennway. What’s goin on?

I’s juss inneressed inne gowins on o yo grey matter. Wass on yo mine my vertical brutha? Enquirrin mines wanna kno!

Man, diss aumatic spell check makessit a pissah to type like a muthafuck wanssa muthafuckin type!

So…. whirr muthafucks wasseye?

Rite! So looka hyuh!

Affer my lass temp at reachin fru you, I cided take a high 8uss from envadin yo mine.

So looka hyugh ….

Sin lass we spoke, rect that, sin lass I spoke to you cause I ain’t a gotten blip one on da gee mail, I susessfla iffultrayded tha mine offa lil mongrill mutt I sawr and I convinss it ta proseed an nestroy da signer shoes offis ownas gurl.

I dont say master n account I fine it be naproprat.

Enway….

Inner rage, she nugletted a see that er shoe dee-bree wa stroon bout inna eggsact replica uh Fra Fillipo Lipi’s Da Annuncia Shun.

Iss unnerstanble…  who looks forrat shit?

Fo reels…. dass how untouchable my shit is…. Werd.

Now… Magine iffa had axess to a human mine! Dig?

Think bout it… juss think….

Yous an I cood reck sum havoc on the unsuspecktin minds offa masses!

So… eyesah gone give ya seven days an accept my creativ invite fore I discard you an moov on.

Dig?

Respects!

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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Don K’Shayne to me – Sev mines one’s six – Apr 8

Snarky Marky Mark the Con Man!

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sj3joGzdyqk

Yessum. Wassup Issanbull?

Dis ere is day one. The begin o da end. Dee-a numero ooo-No.

Sept jours et tout c’est fini! Dig?

Lass chance to jump owna nite train to Magicville…. yessum, da countdown isaapawnuss!

Diggit Foo!

So looka hyuh, Con Con!

I caint compurr-end yo callous an contrariun stance to da magicul happenstans dat be my kolosall an cosmic colishun dat beelies common supahstishun!

WOOOOOO!

I bees legit man!

I ain no tiny dansah, Tony Dansa, Sancho Panza!

NAH surr!

I’s Voltron, Megatron, Optimus Muthafuck Prime all in one disembadeed concep!

I’s da Rocketman! Man! BALLAH!

Dig?

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1GAKOLOnfV4

I’s one hunned puhcent stone cold co-fuckin cane fo yo ninja brain!

Bruce Lee dis shut! HuWAHHH!!!

I juss wawnna Hoodini you mine open an break yerass free a awl dat edcashun dass keepin yer ass from truly goin Kraka-fuckin-Toa on dees muthas.

Ya kno? Co-labrate!

NO BULL!

I juss wanna work wiff yews, Istanbul not Conssansinopull!

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gi0Rt0slfy4&feature=fvwrel

Fo sho!

Sadly affur danite, I’s retirin da pimp voice, alees as fah as yer ass is concernt.

I gots six days a get thru you. An I gots to try all means nessary. Malcom X diss shit.

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M4DlfEQ7cyk&feature=related

Dats incluein droppin ma favrit modality a ma tonality an possibly speakin like a genlman.

It’s possible, but I find it strictly appalling.

DAMN! That even tayssed blan as fuck ritin it!

Doen gnore me fella! Less work agether!

Fellater!

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths a yo imagination.

Word.

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Don K’Shayne to me – Five Oh! McGarrett! – Apr 10

Anuffa day dat passes issa notha day without hearins frum da Con Man.

Iffa eye had feelins,  I’d be hurtin like a mutha.

Butteye ain’t sad. No not a bit.

Evens tho wees on McGarrett Five O on our countdown!

Nah I’s readying myseff fo nutha mutha offa missaventure.

Dassrite! Yurrs truly, the Big Don, has ackwired surrin innellekshal propahtees.

Dass rite baby!

The Big Don is doin it like the Jeffersons! An I ain’t tawkin bout stickin it to Sally in Monny Chello!

Hell No!

I’m talkin MOVIN OWN UP, baby!

TO A DEElux APARMEN in a sky high brain dass gone ennertain ole Big Don an my suggessionatin an resonay-tin.

Dig?

Ya see-  I had hurrd dat der wassa vaycansee at the house of Sheen not too longs ago, ya see. But if ole Miss Chief hadunna planta her fine ass in señor Charlie’s head fore Big Don culda inffatrate!

An lemme tell you she’s ain’t no angel for that Charlie and he’s a got it bad got it bad got it bad, he’s a red hot for teacher, baby!

Hoooo-wee!

Any a ways, ole Miss Chief hassa deecide to cum to Big Don hissef an ax fo sum cunsultin work as it be.

So I’s gone be occupie fer a hot ass minute. Miss Chief can be damn purrswaysuff. She’sa got de damn finess ass I ERR seen!

An Big Don’s a seen em all Baby! Dis ere ass issa purrfecly circular.

I means it baby! Damn Mursaydees Benz enginears could kalabrate der insrumentation on dat ass!

Fo sho! Youssa coulda derive pie to seven digiss jussa lookin at it!

FREE poin Wan fo Wan FEYE NINE Too!!

Aw hell! All eye know issa there’s got to be GOT TO BE a fine sissynine in that pie fo ME!

Hoooweeee!

So I’msa sayun chow fo now. But I ain’tsa forgots bout da Con Man for a secon.

No mo worrin bout dees lass few days leff on the seven I said youssa had leff. Enjoy yo seff!

Want SUM? Get SUM!

I’ssa be back, beleev dat!

Knows it!

- The BDK

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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Only upon receiving the above email did I realize that Don K’ Shayne was the real thing. I decided to respond in kind, and since Big Don reminded me of Fido, I emailed back in imitation of Fido’s style:

Constantine Markides to Don – Re: Five Oh! McGarrett! – April 10

a big dunkeschöen to the Big Don K’Shayne! are you my brutha from anutha mutha or my mutha from anutha brutha or maybe just my sista from anutha mista or more like my muse who’s here to abuse? damn yo, this mangy mutt is trippin’ on the depths of your imagination cuz he didnt browse his houndsnout through the first messages and thought he was just gettin’ some green eggs and spam, but now he knows you be the real ham, thank you ma’am! cause yo know about fido and his fellow fo-letter karrackers and about my being awkappied with impenndin moves and so on… damn, this blind ol’ dog is bitin’ at his chomps to find out who’s flashing these pork chops at him, at who’s the trickster conning the conman! i’ll tell you, yo, i’m glad you’re not hurtin’ like a mutha and dont take no e-ffense at my e-gnoring your e-mails cuz this ol’ mongrel has been yowling his words into the ragged night for twelve lousey years and all he’s gotten back is his Echo. and you can take that straight to your bedside Psyche. but even so, yo, un grande dogeyed pardonemwah for not responding earlier, i got outtrickstered that’s all, and that’s what makes the world go round and the big bang go boom so don’t retire yourself yet, my mind is open like you asked, i accept your creative invite, you’ve got my dogeared attention even if I’m missin’ the signs. so I’m just gonna curl up here with my bone at the doorway, listenin’ and waitin’ for your FedEx return.

p.s. and what’s this about the mine ya successfully iffultrayded? speakin’ of grey matter, you’ve got mine goin’ pop goes the weasel. e-word!

______________

Don K’Shayne to me – Apr 11 – I’s Been Discovert

Atlass! An I dont mean that big mussel mutha holin up the planet.

I means finelee! At lass!

Whitney Houston the Eegull has muthafuckin landed!

Done expeck this ere respawnss by fedex, man.

UPS, Con Man!

You PEE-ess! What can Brown do fo yerass?

Dig?

Now lookie hyuh!

Iss answa time!

As far as ma ginetick linage. I’s whatevess you needs my ansessree a bee.

Brutha, cousin, whassafuckevah! Tho all evidens says I’s a real mutha!

Whoooo!

Brutha’s good tho… fo starrers. No nee fo no Big Don, SuPREME Maja nashun jussayet.

Henneway, no nee fa pall gizin. I’s unnerssan sat na-days yews gossahav eyes like a, like a ka-million. Caint be too carful deese days, baby.  Dig?

Nah looka hyuh!

Henneway…. the mine I’s iffultrayded turnsoussabee a reel lame ass mutha.

Damn unimajnive reepubcan peessa shit.

So I’ssa goen Hall an Oass it an Say No Go!

Hells Naw!

Dat an that Charlie turn outta be a stray po-lah mutha! No helpun that.

So…. colabrashun! You goss sum ideeus or ar youss ready a rap yo surbellum rouns the Mine-a-mite dis ere Alfreh No Bull’s gown lawnch acher ass?

Dig?

Fo sho.

-The BDK

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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Don K’Shayne to me – small fava – Apr 12

Con Man,

Lissen… howsa bouts you doos Ole Big Dons a solid fava?

Sis kine uff mbarassin an all… buh here goes…

Iss cozee as hells uppin hyuh in yo skull an all but… well.. I’s tryinna warch my Dominikan novelas onna TV an all, but syo foe-ludge sis innerfurrn wissa reecepshun, chief!

Parsah wha caughts ma- tenshun bow choo was yo verricality brotha!

Yo melons a good spot furra nareul antunna. Dig?

So howsa bouts you do me a solids an gets you legs a displace yous a nearess barber?

Juss a trim ya hyah? Nussin drassic!

Issa Fo o Fo now. Iffa you cans get it fo 8 I’d preshate it. Dat Josefeena sho is a site ta see!

Mo affur ma novelas! Oh, an I’ds awso preeshate iffa you keps ma viewun habiss to yoseff, please.

Don’t git sassy…

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

______________

I replied, once again staying in character with Fido:

Constantine Markides to Don – Re: small fava – Apr 13

da-amn, don k’shayne! ya better live up to your name and tell your korean girlfriend marcy bo koo to also send me some lovin’ thanks my way cuz i done gone what you begged of me. you better have savored yer dominikanation fannylicious pootang cuz this ol’ mongrel’s tossin’ and turnin’ and yearnin’ for his mutthairs back. shee-it, homey, I’m tellin’ you and every mr bo’ diddly fo’ diddly mutha out there that my poor little corpus is itchy as all hell and on fire like them sorry ass souls stuck down there in hadesville behind old three headed cerbie. see, coupla hours ago i stuck my snout for too long into a vat of rye firewater and then got all misty in the head for what big ol’ don k’shayne asked of me and I went to a polish barber and just told him “yo bro shave me dawn just like i was the juicebox of a 21st century pawnstar” and now I’m just a bald little chihuahua whose burnin’ and turnin’ under the sheets. shee-it, without my furry flesh I’m just as naked and miserable as when my mamma squeezed me all blind and hollerin’ and drippin’ out of her udder. but shee-it, at least I’ll be able to swim like a muthafucka manana! sent to you live bedside from my bald ass depths of my epidermis nation. word.

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Don K’Shayne to me – Re: small fava – Apr 13

Koreens!? Whedju gits dat eyedee-us Con Man?

I likes er name tho!

Not dat Big Don dont dig on ayshuns, iss not data tall baby!

Issa juss dat ayshuns tenna be onna smalla side, an dey done calls me Big Don fa nuthin baby!  I nees a woman who can hannels hesseff rounsa creecha of sirrun mass.

Dig?

Wiff ayshuns Ole Dons gots to double up! Yunnersan?

Lass time I’s wiff ayshuns wassin Hon-loolass. I’s der soekin up da rays, yunnerssan, an deese two fine sissas star flirrin wiff Ole Don, ya see?

Dey wurrn sistahs inna Foxy Brown sense. Nah. Dey were sissas inna gin-neck mutha dawtah sissah sense, dig? Deys famly,  yunnerssan?

Hennway….. I done member days names… but I calls em Mooch Ass n Grassy Ass onna count one wassa hoola dansa an otha wan took ma favra sunglassa un daint giffum back! Dig?

Hennway…. I hain seen the new cutta yo foe-ludge owna counss I’s hain been ousside aday.

Big Don dones do rain baby…. an I curr hears dat thunners lass nite.

Ole Thor’s an I’s gots a grudge goes ways back. Lass thing I wants issa boltsa litenins and thunners frum Ole MaJoelamurr ruinins my nite.

Tho I ains bleevin you gossa lots a herrs cut owna counts da rucepshun own ma novelas wassa cepshunlee grizlee lass nite. Tho it cudda bins owna counts a you drinkin dat derrs farrwaters dat made thins fuzz up.

I’s diggin yo Sirrbus reffunce. Tho, dass wan uh ma innervenshuns dat got outsah cun-troll, ya see?

Issa nots errdays yous russponsible fo starrin a ho metholojuss.

Ewassa cup thousun years go, ya see, an I gots diss ideus fo a new arrissic mooment. I’s bin drinkkin heffalee backssen yunnersan? I ain’ts prouds offits, but dass wha whens down.

Henneways, I’d juss polish offa cuppa dozun botulls o lowcull medtrainin wine, ya see, an thins starr gowins fuzz like. Immajuss dublin and tripplin up in my mine’s eye, yasee?

I’s drunkass I’s err been.

I’s seein thins frum multpull purspeckiffs awla wonce, yunnerssan?

Juss enn, dis lil mongrull doggie no bigga yo arm came un starr likin on Ole Don’s face. He wussa sine mentsa keeps Ole Don’s in chek!

Hennaway…. ness day, I’s awokes witha one mutha uffa headayk….

Dat vurr day, I swo off gettins drunk. So…. to co-memmarays ma new soburr-eyeatee I’s cided a co-mishun an artissic repsentashun a whasseye saw. The artiss was purr good, buttee juss cudn acuralee potray wasseye’s sayin. So the harmluss lil doggie came a multi-heads monsser.

An a rest assay-say is hissaree..

It tooks me nutha cup thousun yurrs a finelee gets my vishun reelize.

 

Issa call cubissum deese days baby! How you like?

So… I’s hopes I’s enliesens you a bit…. esspannen yo whirl view….

Keep up yo howlins intoos a nite baby. It mites souns likes a eckos, but iss juss otha dirry ass dogs howlins back atchuse!  We’s juss farraway…. yunnerssan?

Keep dat leash loose baby….

-The BDK

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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Don K’Shayne to me – da wethurs – Apr 16

Con Man!

I cided a venshur outta yo mines a bits ons wessday an agins yesseday an enjoys sa nice wethurs. So I apollo geye fo nah been pressen a hewps wicho tasses, yu procrasinay lass minah mutha! Serrslee!

HoooWEEE!

Henneways… looka hyuh!

Assalway happuns onna firss day a nice wethurs, awlsa gurlies acided a sho a lil skin, yunnersan?

Sho wuss a seye dasee! Ains nuthin lika seye a fresslee shay legsa gits a creeaff juices a flowins!

Evwhars Ole Big Don turns darwarsa fine yun ting a struttin like sheessa puttin soussa fires!

I tell you wass! Da ladies aparels is come a lone ways since hot pants, Fuh reels!

Con Man, lemme tell yous, dis citiss chainge! Datsa downseye a bein a neeternuls ennitee a createevatee, da peoples an places da matters an arr nears an deersa yo harr starsa issapurrin!  Iss sad man!

But I ont gits chokes ups baby! Too muchsa do agits sadsabous times passin.

So withsa wethurs beinas nice sitiss I wenns walkabous lika hossrailyun!

I wenssa fines my ole somppin grouns.

I wens lookins fo Unner the Volcannus wers I ussago wiss my bud Maccoms whens hes visstins frum Vankuvass. But it was gones. Ginger man wasill crossa street, tho.

I whens lookins fo da Nackerr Narwall whers I gav ole Herma da ideus fo Queeweh,  but sa Nahwall’s gone too! I mussa done sonem rite do, cus deres Stahbuss errweres! HoooWEEE!

Thins chane too fass suhties fo Ole Don’s a hannel. Buh lika says, canssa get too nossagic, ess yu miss da magics o da pressen! Werd!

So… I’s juss wrinin a lets you kno, keeps yo eyes opens, an neff let yo creatif side go astrays, baby. You ne’ers kno whensa wethurs goins gets rainna an clouss yo vishun, dig?

Like tonite… diss wethurs da Suck!

Werd.

- The BDK

Ya welcome!

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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I warned Big Don that I’d be able to search his IP address if he posted a comment directly on Fourth Night. This was his response, in a comment on my website no less:

______________

Fido then jumped in (this time the real one, not just my impersonation of him):

Fido to Don – Comment: “Go For a Swim, Qaddafi” – April 17

da-AMN, the dankeschoen is in da dank house and s/he aint scared of no beware of the dawg signs! s/hee-it host, big don just dropped a big ol’ dookie in a plastic bag by yer front door and set her afire, and then don done gone pushed the ding-dong! easy there, host! don’t go turnin’ yer porch into a poopstoop! but here, since sniffin’ out troubles and snuffin’ out fires is right up my messy little alley, let me check her out… peeYUUU! smells like big don’s been eatin’ some big ol’ chile dawgs and i aint talkin’ bout my street slinking brothas and sistas down in that long suramerican pais, pah-lease! hellz, no point in checkin’ no IP addresses with the big don cuz he knows how to get all up and tweaky in yer head. he’ll just leave you insane in the membrane and barkin’ up the wrong bark.

now, Big D, you lend me your dogear and listen close, cuz this ol’ mangy mutt’s gotta tell you that last night i was out hangin’ with hairy host and his sassy sissa vassa visa and some hobolicious homies and HOOyah we were singin’ all yer emails out loud and laughin her up so hard that we near busted a coupla ribs and windows. da-amn, host can’t even keep up with you, yo, tho we gotta cut the brutha some slack cuz he’s sick right now in all sortsa ways, little sick in the heart, poor fella, little sick in the head, tho he’s always had a touch of that, and a little sick in the good ol’ fashioned flemmy way if ya dig what I’m hackin’ up. but really what I’m coughin’ here, big DK, is that you’re up in all kinda sistas and bruthas heads right now, ya hear? mr. dalvin klein, dig it or not, you’ve become some cult indie celebrity, or maybe i should say cult injun celebrity seein’ hows you yap like my ol’ misssissippi trippi granpy hucklyberry and jumbalaya jimbo except more blackface. hellz, yer so up in the broke ass depths of their minds that a coupla brothas think ol’ fido here is big don! cause you know how this here hound’s got a drop of cunnin’ stealin’ troublemakin’ blood in him, just like my bro coyote and loco loki i know how to subvert the moral code and pervert the oral code like doggone big dong, if ya doggie-style what i’m sayin’.

but shee-it i’m no big donkey. i mean, hellz, yeah, i got some chameleon blood mixed in with my dogblood so i know how to bust it out like the BDK if I wanna but the big con is from the big don, if you can double up what i’m sayin! Causa looka hyuh, lemme tellee, issa truth dat dis ole dog can sounda lika Ole Big Don if hes gots da yurnin fo it. Issa like in my geneticks tadoo dat, yunnerssan? Taint fa nuthin dat deys call me da tricksta, if ya ketch ma drift. Issa not dat fido is da ole don, issa not data tall baby! Fuh reels! Henneways…

whooWHEE! who needs wheaties when you got the early bird Special K! just one bite and yer down the K-hole, yo! hellz yeah, don’t call me fido no more, call me lazarus or shee-it call me hermes melville cuz i’m feelin’ resurrected as ishmael when he come whooshin’ out all smelly n’ jizzed up with whalejuice from the belly of the beast. it’s like i just come crawlin’ out of hibernation and am alive once more. free at last, free at last, thank dawg almighty, i am free at last!

whooHEEE, feels good, yo, to be howlin’ again into the moonnight! next time some questionarrio asks me to talk bout my personal hero, I’m puttin’ down Don K’Kong. hellz, I’m almost in the mood to go scramble up the empire state building like King D’Kong and start singin’ “Will the real slim k’shayney please stand up, please stand up, please stand up” except i aint gonna cuz i like my shady characters layin’ low.

word out from the BK. WOOF!

______________

After several days, I received the following email from Big Don. It turns out he had posted a comment but, as the website filter had flagged it, my approval was needed:

Don K’Shayne to me – Post ma Post! – April 20

Con Man!

I gossa cup a quessins fo yerass. Firssafal, how lons you gotssa takes sa gets my commens possed on yo commens on yo intermess page? Issa lie been fo days o somen! Moderashun? Diss aints drinkins an drivins baby! I dain’t reelize dassa fourthnight ments how longs issa take-a pose on you’s interness page!

Wha? Are yous all hungs ovars fromma passova sayda? Or is you is all flemma still frum yo illnassus?

NESS QUESSION!

Wha the fukisup wiss da weathus in dis city, Con Man? The weathus is da true con man coninuss awl!

Hots cold hots cold!

Issa maykin Charrie Sheen look wella jussed!

Why, I’s luvin the ladie’s leggie leg leggie show, fo sho juss da otha day! Now issa cole an gray as a golen gurl ree-runs!

Am I’s rite? Damn stray!

Nah, looka hyuh! Anna paya closa senshun cuz I’s abousa gess com-catus on yo ass.

Curran evenss.

How you feels bouss tha news outsa NASSA dass theys gots photos of a black hoe swallwins a star innis dyins lass momens? Coo photis too! Iss notta furss time dass happens, an idaint’s juss NASSA gots photiss like dass eitha. You rememmers Divine Brown anna Hue Grant?? HAAA! Dass right baby!

Alrigh Con Man! I’s goinna leave you bee fo now.

All this curran evenss hassa gots me a mite sleepa. I’s a gowenna curr up inna creviss tween da two hemsphurs o yo melon. Dig? I’s gonna nap.

Ya welcome!

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

______________

I received the above email on my phone while heading to an evening Arabic class. I said I’d approve the comment once I was back at my place. His reply:

Don K’Shayne – Re: Post ma Post! – Apr 20

Kool and da Gang!

Say hi to Aladdin and da ayatollah fer me.

That turbo headed mutha still owes me a harrum a hoes fer some ghosswritin I did fer his OPEC ass backina day.

Werd

______________

And here is the comment which, for whatever reason, I had to approve:

Don K’Shayne to me – Comment: “Go For a Swim, Qaddafi” – April 18

Dayums fo reals. Con Man! Dis houssisa danka danna chursh baysamens owna…owna ka’sina nite! Fo reels! Opens a winnahs or sumn.

WHOOO!!! Bingo!

Is you issa tryinna gro da mushroos in diss ere place? Truffuss sho are spensif!

I thins sombaees leff a rottin corrs in hyah!

So! Arr co-mewnikays issa owna vurge a goins veyeras? Coo! I’s ready fores a Don K Outbrakes!

Whip oucha paniceilins!

Gladda hear yowes kin foke apurrshate oursa co-mewnikays! They mussa be peepas a cepshunaw quawltees an inneleck.

Con Man, you gossa sassy sissa? I figurrs yo parens gave ups affer ey had you! No senn makin dat missake twice!! HASSARYE! HAAA!!!!

I’s juss playin wichoo Con Man! Shurree she a luvly hueman been like you.

Assafars as cuttin you slack. No wurrs baby! Big Don knows yous is all kines sa sick! Fo sho!

Remembess do, dass essacly the storrs you shoes be writins bouss baby! Ders aint’sa been a singa sickna a da hueman harr da hassen been worthiss a pen to papah. Dig?

So… reersa back… takes a deepass breff ans yous ee’rs had, and lonsh a biggus wads a flemmuge on the page baby! Lets it oussayewe! Coffit UP! WHUTHAW!

Let sat spitooey an illnuss fills up da page baby!

Fo reels. I aintsa goin a judge… naw! I hase a judge.

Tay you time. I’s a bee rouns.

Werd!

-THE BDK

ya welcums.

______________

Fido then replied to BDK’s post. You can read it HERE

After a lull, BDK emailed again:

Don K’Shayne to me -- Tornaduss -- April 29

Conn knee chee wah Con Man!

Done tinks you’s in da cleahs juss yet baby! The Big Don ain’tsabowssa figgeta bouss you yets!

I’s been busys. That Josafeenas really owdid heseff diss week on my novelas. She an Marias gotsintoo a scuffa ovah a tall tan rasclee mutha offa dude name a Faleepay. Those gurls really gots intos it too. Dey letsum do a lots a dem’s owns stunn work in tv derr in da Dee-Are.

I’s seen youssas poesed a notiss one yo innermess site nouncin a lil sum’n sum’ns goinssa go down owna forf a dis upcommin.

Whachu gots cookins Con Man? Is I is or is I’s ain’ts a gowenns a be surprised?

HOOOOOOooooo!!!! Didje see da messes made down Sout lass few days? Dats whass happens when Loki and Miss Chief bote gits loadeds on muscadine wine an corn watars, djesee?

Now, looka hyuh!

I’s tell you what Con Man… I’s gots to make dis ere brief. I’s gots ta broker a release fo ole Miss Chief. Seemsa while she n Lokis was owna tare, deys bussed up a cabnet o chochkiss an niknacks at Thor’s crib. I’s goinssa gots a lobbiss wit Odin hisseff!

Good thing I’s used to babe sit his ass backinaday.

Dass rite.

Laters on Con Man!

Stay juicy.

- The BDK

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

______________

On April 29 I wrote to Big Don asking if he’d let me post his writings and if he’d offer his ministerial services to readers. His reply:

Don K’Shayne to me – Re: Tornaduss – May 1

Con Man!

I’s honors an shit dat youss sallow me a make a mess ah yo innermess site.

It’s on baby! I’m down!

Ain’t no worries bout findin out who I am. Cause I ain’t lied to you. I’s the BDK! I’ve knowed yer ass since your verricality was floor bound an yous crawlins round on all fours baby!

I’s there whenchoo graduated from pickin yo nose wiff yo index an starred usin yo thumb!

Dass rite!

So done go fryin yo melon figren out who’s I be. Iss poinless.

Relaxan joy da ride!

Caint waita see ma posts!

Walk tall baby!

- The BDK

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

______________

If you’ve made it this far, you’ve got a comment or a question in you. So go ahead. Juss ass da Big Don HERE

Recommendation #1: Do not make eye contact with customs officials.

-Can I see your passport?

I handed it over, along with the customs declaration form. The man was stocky, thick-necked, and sporting a buzz cut.

-What’s your profession?

-Journalist. Well, writer. Novelist. Actually aspiring novelist to be precise because I haven’t yet—

-Please step over there, he said, while writing down the misspelling “aspiaring novelist’ on the form.

Recommendation #2: If possible, avoid telling a customs official that you are a writer or journalist. Above all, never say you are aspiring to anything.

After asking me if I had brought any cigarettes, alcohol, etc., he began searching one of my bags. I assumed he was looking for undeclared goods but he spent most of his time leafing through my notes and random bits of paper. It seemed an outrageous (although legal, as I later learned) invasion of my privacy but I put on a cheerful face. I had packed one of the military uniforms from my Cypriot conscription and I didn’t want to get on his bad side.

-What’s this?

He held up a glass jar inside which furry insects, or at least what looked like them, were packed in oil.

-It’s something my mom made… for strengthening hair. It’s a concoction of olive oil and fiddleheads (my mother later told me it was burdock root).

He held the jar up to the light.

-It’s what?

I repeated myself.

-What are fiddleheads?

-Green plants with curled heads. Edible. They’re good steamed.

He continued to stare at it.

-Is your dad bald?

-Not at all.

-Then what are you worried about?

-I’m not worried about anything. But, anyway, baldness comes from the mother’s side.

Recommendation #3: Do not correct customs officials unless necessary.

He didn’t answer right away.

-We may have to get this checked out, he said finally and set the jar aside. You grew up in Maine?

-Mostly.

-Where?

-Stillwater… Old Town. It’s near Bangor.

-How’d you end up there?

-My dad came to the states to study when he was 18. He eventually got a teaching position at the University of Maine in Orono.

-What does he teach?

-Sociology.

I could imagine the rigmarole he would have put me through if I’d mentioned that he teaches a class on political violence and terrorism.

-I’ve been to Orono a few times. It’s boring as shit. I went to UNH.

Life clearly was more exciting in Logan Airport, where he had the privilege of prying through arriving passengers’ belongings and life details while defending the Homeland. To be fair though, I can’t say I wouldn’t have enjoyed it myself.

He glanced at a few folded up newspaper cutouts on Sarah Palin. He may have interpreted them as fan clippings (which may have won me brownie points with him) because he asked no questions. It’s hard to say how he would have responded if I told him they were for some satires in which I had compared Sarah Palin to the Virgin Mary.

Next he retrieved a stack of cards bound by elastic.

-What are these?

-Frequent flyer cards.

-How many have you got—?

-Too many, I know. From now on I’m sticking with American Airlines.

Recommendation #4: Avoid saying things like “From now on I’m sticking with American Airlines” when two of the hijacked planes on 9/11 were American Airlines and when two of the planes also happened to depart from that very airport.

-Where did you say you worked as a journalist?

-In Cyprus. Nicosia, the capital.

-Are you Cypriot?

-Yes.

-Do you have a passport?

I’d hoped this wouldn’t come up. I’d always taken my father’s advice to never show my Cypriot passport in the U.S., not necessarily because one can’t be a national of two countries, but to avoid any hassle or trouble.

-Yes.

-Can I see it?

He didn’t seem to be at all bothered by my Cypriot citizenship. My army exit permit was also in a side pocket of the passport wallet but he never checked that. It didn’t really matter though since he’d be getting to the army uniform soon enough. In fact, the next thing he examined was my army boots. He pulled them out.

-Are these comfortable?

-No, not really.

-So why do you have them?

A number of possibilities flashed through me: “It’s my Halloween custom… It’s camouflage for duck hunting… I’m into the fetish scene.” But I knew that if he got a whiff of deception, I’d be in for it. Hence the most essential piece of advice, unless of course one is a criminal:

Recommendation #5: Do not lie to customs officers unless your lie is irrefutable.

-They’re my army boots. I had to do a three-month stint in the Cypriot National Guard.

I emphasized the mandatory nature of the conscription. I had once read online that anyone who has served in a foreign military could in certain circumstances be stripped of U.S. citizenship. Once again, he didn’t seem at all bothered. In fact, the questions he asked me in regards to my time there seemed more out of personal interest than procedural. I even seemed to have gained some respectability in his eyes. He took a brief look at my army pants, jacket and cap.

-I brought them in case I ever go hunting, I piped in, a bit too hastily perhaps. Although I suppose these are more suited for the dry tan-colored terrain of Cyprus than the dark green of Maine—

-Makes no difference. Camouflage is camouflage.

That I had served in the armed forces of another nation and was bringing my boots and fatigues to the U.S. apparently did not seem to even warrant a single question. It was my writing that concerned him.

-What’s this? he asked, pointing to a piece of paper in which a number of lobster claws that resembled the number four were sketched out.

-It’s for my website. I’m trying to put a logo together.

-Website. What for?

-I post monthly essays.

It was the start of the darkening of our relations. He apparently felt he was on the scent of something, because he started reading every note scrap he found, obviously trying to make sense of a possible Cyprus-hatched plot to attack America. This wasn’t just any old customs official. This was a Homeland Security Agent of the highest order, a Beautiful Mind of airport customs. It was entertaining enough. And what eagerness to read my work! Most publishers and agents lacked his good taste.

His demeanor and attitude grew increasingly severe the more he explored my scribbles. Apparently my writing seemed suspiciously seditious to him. He was coming across scraps of paper upon which I had been brainstorming novels and characters with phrases like “kill em off at end.” At one point he handed me a piece of paper upon which a red pen had leaked, giving it a look of violent subversion.

-What is this? I can’t read it, he said.

I could barely read the terrorist scrawl myself. It must have been about ten years old. It read:

we ingest we fornicate we expire

we eat we fuck we die

we dine we make love we pass away

such are the ways of the world

select your preference.

-I don’t know, I replied. Pseudo-poetry gibberish I wrote a decade or so ago.

My answer only seemed to intensify his distrust. His expression had hardened.

-So what work will you be doing in Maine?

-Oh, random jobs… maybe lobstering, carpentry, roadwork, anything to support my writing.

Recommendation #6: Do not tell customs officers that you do “random” jobs. It suggests vagrancy, shiftlessness, a questionable background. Pick one line of work and stick to it.

He held out a large plastic bag of ground tealeaf.

-What’s this

-Black tea from Western Kenya. Some kids were selling it on the roadside, it cost me 50 cents or something like that. I went there last year for some articles on the Archbishop of Kenya—

Recommendation #7: Never volunteer information. Brief responses translate to fewer questions.

-What kind of a newspaper were you working at?

-It’s called Cyprus Mail. It’s the island’s only English-language daily.

-What did you write about? Sports?

-Sometimes tennis. But mostly just daily Cypriot news stories—an army helicopter crash or a neighbor shooting a priest in the head or a cabaret scandal, that sort of thing—as well as national politics and—

Recommendation #8: Better to say you write about sports than politics.

Were you writing any editorials?

-No, not really. Just a few on the lack of public transport in Cyprus.

I’d also written some opinion pieces on European perceptions of the U.S., which I adapted from my Fourth Night essay, The View on America, but thought it best not to mention them. Ironically, they were primarily on misperceptions of the U.S. and the self-exonerating tendency, at least in Cyprus, to project blame outwards and see an Anglo-American conspiracy at the source of all trouble. But I had my reasons. I was slowly realizing that dealing with customs officers is like running coal stoves: the less you meddle with them, the smoother the process will be.

Recommendation #9: Anything in Customs that requires elaboration and/or even the slightest amount of intellectual application is best left unsaid, even if it seems to your advantage to voice it.

He paused to enter some data in his computer and then resumed his search. He soon brought out another piece of damning evidence for me to corroborate.

-What’s this mean?

He was pointing to the word “Creed,” which I had circled, under which was written “To hell with going to publishers – let publishers come to you.”

From the moment that Cypriot conscription proved to be no concern to him up until now, I had primarily felt bemusement at the entire process. Exasperation was now taking its place.

-Look, it’s nothing more than an idea for a project. You get fed up after a while with rejection letters and with publishers when you see what’s printed every year. It’s for a novel-related project I plan to initiate through my website to raise attention to it.

I was starting to lose respect for myself for even acknowledging his questions.

-You’re not going to be starting some underground thing are you?

-No, I’m not starting an underground thing! I snapped.

The craziest thing is that he was actually serious. In his mind he saw angry newspaper editorials in Cyprus denouncing the American infidels, he saw Greek Cypriot mullahs (who must have forgotten that they were Orthodox Christians) issuing fatwas to kill Americans, he saw shiftless “aspiaring novelists” coming to the U.S. to start movements with Credos that called for god knows what underground actions against so-called “publishers.” This guy could crack the terror codes. He knew what I was up to, all right. He had surely already checked my history for any connections to Bill Ayers and other such notorious ringleaders of international evil.

The search did not last much longer. The last thing he showed me was a list of the various publishers to whom I’d sent my fiction.

-What’s this? he asked, pointing to the word “Milkweed.”

-Milkweed? It’s a publisher.

He looked again at the sheet of paper. The answer seemed to satisfy him.

-You can pack your things back up. I’ve just got to go get this checked out and I’ll be right back, he said, holding up the jar of olive oil and burdock root.

As he was walking off he turned around.

-What did you say this plant was again?

-Fiddleheads. You’re welcome to confiscate it. You’d be doing me a favor. Look at it. Would you want to rub that in your hair?

He walked off.

It was then that I realized what he had been getting at with “Milkweed.” It was the ‘weed’ that had caught his interest. He was trying to flesh out a potential terrorism / drug trafficking connection. If the mujahideen had funded terror operations with opium, then did it not logically follow that I might be funding my underground subterfuge with grass?

I have been told that Logan Airport Customs is especially strict as it does not want to find itself with another catastrophic breach of airport security. But the outlandish search I underwent also surely had something to do with eight years of Bush. The wiretapping, the surveillance, the expansion of executive power, the jingoist and xenophobic paranoia, the undisclosed seizures and internments, the abuses of detainees, the Inquisitional approach towards interrogation, all of these have left their corrosive mark. The question, now that Bush and Cheney are leaving, is how long that mark will remain. One can always get rid of rust so long as one catches it before it’s too late.

The customs officer returned after a few minutes with the jar in hand. I had already loaded my luggage back into the cart.

-I’ve got some bad news for you. I’m sorry to say you’re going to have to take this with you. Here you go.

His delivery was deadpan. I took the jar and headed for the exit. The rust hadn’t gone through all the way, after all.

Constantine Markides

See last month’s entry, The Virgin Palin, for a precursor to this posting

IF ONE ACCEPTS the argument from The Virgin Palin that Sarah Palin is to the Republican Party what the Virgin Mary is to Christianity, and if one accepts that in earlier centuries iconography and paintings were a primary vehicle through which a largely illiterate public formed its views on the Virgin Mary, then it follows that one can explore what Sarah Palin means to the Republican Party by looking at images of the Virgin Mary from past centuries. If the transitive logic of such reasoning seems as dubious as its assumptions, it should be remembered that when dealing with matters of religion, or presidential elections for that matter, faith always trumps reason.

The Virgin and Child, Ambrogio Bergognone, about 1488-90

In the 1250-1500 wing of the museum, where the oldest of the museum’s paintings are on display, one encounters numerous images of a regal, saint-like Virgin Mary. As with Bergognone’s The Virgin and Child, Mary is often haloed and garbed in ecumenical robes. Admittedly, it is difficult to see the small town mom connections in these early paintings, which emphasize Mary’s saintly and queenly aspects. But if one considers the critic Marina Warner’s claim that the “regal role of Mary as the mother of the God-Emperor became a central and forceful symbol of power, which could be used to reinforce the authority of the Church on earth” then the unexpected coronation of Sarah Palin at the Republican Convention begins to make sense. A Hail Palin prayer is inscribed in the halo. While the designer ecclesiastical outfit worn by the Virgin runs into the thousands of dollars, he rosary held by infant America was purchased from the Minneapolis children’s boutique Pacifier for a mere $98, less than a quarter of the price of a haircut.

The Virgin and Child Before a Firescreen, Robert Campin,about 1440

Alongside the regal bejeweled themes, paintings from this era are also replete with images of the Virgin breastfeeding. While the Virgin Mary is exempt from the messy business of intercourse, labor, and childbirth, she does give suck, an act that reflects and emphasizes her humility. Here we see a true hockey mom before the days of hockey, a woman engaged in the most human and motherly of activities, breast squeezing. Campin’s painting fuses the earthly and the divine, the fire screen serving not only as backdrop to this humble motherly scene but also as a halo for the PTA mom cum saint. Note how infant GOP luxuriates in her embrace.

The Virgin and Child, Dirk Bouts, about 1465

Here again the Virgin squeezes her breast, this time aiming it directly at baby GOP’s face in a possible allusion to the future advent of the breast pump. Puffy-eyed from too much election coverage, infant GOP smiles with anticipation and waves to the camera as Joseph, aka Joe the Carpenter, says “Cheese.”

The Virgin and Child, Lorenzo di Credi, 1480-1500

In di Credi’s painting we encounter a plumper Jesus and womanlier Mary, reflecting the Roman emphasis upon the human rather than the divine. Considering the devotion Palin inspires among devout Christians and plunger-happy males, she may well be the culmination of this humanizing process by emanating at once the chaste, maternal qualities of the Virgin Mary as well as the this-worldly forbidden allure of a Mary Magdalene, thereby reconciling the two Christian archetypes of womanhood, virgin and whore. The bright colors of the Virgin’s clothing in the painting imbue a festive, energizing atmosphere to what might otherwise have been a subdued lactation experience. Not surprisingly, the color that predominates is blue, Mary’s color. While this may seem anathema to a Republican candidate, it should be remembered that in an effort to reach out with non-partisan brotherly love the GOP has adopted blue for its Country Music First banners. Besides, in an election where there are so many crypto socialists and pinkos lurking about in capitalist disguise, red is best left only for coloring in states on maps and painting lips on pit bulls. Note the glutted infant GOP, whose expression and stance suggests that, while he has had his share of milk, he is not quite ready to part with the breast. In the distance, across the Bering Straits, is Kremlin Palace.

The Virgin and Child, Giovanni Antonio Boltraffio, about 1500-1525

According to the National Gallery audio tour for this painting: “The healthy chubby Christ Child, wearing only a large band around his waist, turns towards us with large, sad eyes. He lies across her lap in a pose that anticipates the Pietà, when he will rest in her arms after the crucifixion. And here, the joy of the mother cradling her child is permeated with the haunting sorrow of one who will lose her son.” Weep not, Mater Dolorosa: the rabble may be lashing your son towards Mount Cavalry, but His sacrifice shall not be in vain. The resurrection of the crucified Republican Party is nigh.

Altarpiece: The Madonna and Child with Saints John the Baptist and Jerome, Parmigianino, 1526-7

Art critics once believed this to be a depiction of John the Maverick introducing Mother Palin as his vice presidential candidate at the 2008 Republican Convention. But the consensus is now that it is John the Mac-Is-Back, freshly emerged from his years of post-election soul-searching in the wilderness, proclaiming Queen Palin at her 2012 Republican Convention Assumption.

-Constantine Markides

Image Credits: makismakis. Makismakis is available for freelance work. Anyone interested should email him at: makismakismakismakis@gmail.com.

The Virgin Palin

WHEN JOHN MCCAIN announced Sarah Palin as his running mate, a number of Doubting Thomases within the ranks questioned his judgment. But the ensuing surge of blood into the Republican Party’s worryingly flaccid and impotent apparatus (a process referred to in politer circles as “energizing the base”), quickly brought these skeptics to their senses. They welcomed the “former” beauty queen (pfff, former!) and aerial wolf hunter with a zeal of outstretched arms that was surpassed only by the engorged manhood of the Pakistan President.

Unfortunately a few Katie Couric interviews, an ethical misconduct investigation, and recent geospatial revelations that neither Russia nor Putin’s head is visible from Wasilla or Anchorage have resurfaced the murmurs of doubt over McCain’s choice, but skeptics should heed the advice of Jesus—In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world—a sanguinity that was reflected in Palin’s Straight Talk Express response when asked if she was ready to be President: “Absolutely. Yup. Yup.”

Critics of McCain from the unpatriotic terrorist-palling left have called his choice of Sarah Palin as disingenuous, cynical, and opportunistic, asserting that the McCain camp has been sheltering her from the media (MILF Hunter and Bang Bros were both allegedly refused interviews) because her public exposure would reveal their naked political motivations. Father, forgive them for they know not what they say. If there were any motivations, they were divine in origin. Sarah Palin is to the Republican Party what the Virgin Mary is to Christianity. If this analogy seems farfetched, one needs only to glance into the latter history of Byzantium to appreciate how neo-Christian the G.O.P. really is. Let us be attentive.

In the first three centuries of its history, Christianity was a persecuted minority religion tolerated by emperors only for providing lion fodder at gladiator shows. Only in the fourth century, after Emperor Constantine’s Edict of Milan, was Christianity given legal equality with the pagan cults and eventually supremacy, thereby acquiring the privilege to wield the whip rather than suffer it.

Over the next century the Virgin Mary controversially made her admission into the theological limelight and into the hearts and, to a lesser extent, minds of the Christian flock. Although Mary is only peripherally mentioned in the Bible, the cult of Mary had entrenched itself by the time of the Council of Ephesus in 431, where a number of monks made it dogmatically official that Mary was indeed Theotokos, God-Bearer, or to put it more simplistically, the Mother of God.

The monks’ decision proved a professional blow to the fourth century patriarch of Constantinople, Nestorius, who vocally objected to calling Mary the Mother of God, as he felt the title carried blasphemous associations with the mother deities of paganism. “That God passed through the Virgin Christostokos, I am taught by the divine Scriptures,” Nestorius declared, “but that God was born from her I have not been taught anywhere.” Alas for Nestorius, education mattered in the intrigues of higher office no more back then as it does today, and the monks of Ephesus sided in the theological debate with his political opponent Pope Cyril of Alexandria. Nestorius was eventually dethroned for his heretical views, exiled to a desert monastery, attacked by raiding bandits, and his writings burned wherever they were found, Amen.

Theological squabbles aside, this status upgrade of the Virgin Mary was mostly a means of absorbing other groups into the Christian throng. It remains unresolved just how widespread the cult of Mary had been before the fourth century: many like the cultural historian Geoffrey Ashe claim there was a widespread Marian church existing separate from the Christian one, while others like the sociologist Michael Carroll, claim the cult of Mary fully emerged only in the fifth century. Regardless, most scholars agree that the new ecclesiastical relish for the Madonna was a bait and hook effort to expand the tribe, whether that involved assimilating the Marian Church into the Christian church, attracting pagan worshippers of mother goddesses to their persecution-free religion, or simply appealing to the urban and rural proletariat who found security and Freudian relief in a mother goddess during a time of upheaval and barbarian invasions.

Now fast forward a millennium-and-a-half or so, to another time of political upheaval and of new barackbarian invasions into the declining Republican Empire. Sarah Palin makes her apparition-like world debut (it’s a miracle!) in the new holy site of Dayton, Ohio beside a visibly uncomfortable hand-wringing John McCain, who was such a maverick that he did not even listen to himself when it came to his preferred VP choice, renegade Joe “Bush-Kissed” Lieberman. Palin at once set to praising the wounded angel Hillary Clinton, who had been felled from her deserving heights by another angel, the Fallen One, Barack Obama, whose middle name, lest they accuse us of not providing all the facts, beloved brethren, is Hussein…

In an admirable love-thy-enemy gesture, Palin praised St. Clinton for leaving 18 million cracks in the “highest, hardest glass ceiling” separating America and that special place where righteous dead Americans await to join us on Judgment Day, and then called upon women across America to join her in hastening the End of Days by “shatter[ing] that glass ceiling once and for all,” presumably with high-powered hunting rifles.

Just as the Virgin Mary brought around worshippers of pagan mother goddesses into the folds of Christianity, so too has it been written that Palin will bring around those spiritually eviscerated Clinton supporters into her loving embrace. As for those naysayers who obsess over how Palin’s opposition to abortion even in cases of rape and incest and her support of guns and drilling are not positions appealing to most women, it should be remembered that pagan devotees flocked to Christianity even though the chaste Virgin Mary was devoid of the sexuality of the mother goddesses (including the virgin ones like Astarte, Inanna and Ishtar who had intact hymens but were still promiscuous, thanks to a biological deus ex machina); therefore, why should Palin not attract the stray orphaned Clinton supporters even if they vote for her, as Jon Stewart has noted, “purely on gynecological reasons?”

Consider the following view on the Virgin Mary by another feminist, though not nearly as famous, Simone de Beauvoir: “For the first time in history, the mother kneels before her son; she freely accepts her inferiority. This is the supreme masculine victory, consummated in the cult of the Virgin—it is the rehabilitation of woman through the accomplishment of her defeat.” Geez. Well guess what folks, if you listen to that gotcha media and think Palin is bad for women, then you obviously think the Virgin Mary was bad for women, and Christians too, which means you think America is bad for the American people too which is what the bad guys want you to believe, and that’s darned scary, but you know what, not Dr. Henry Kissinger and not the great Ronal
d Reagan.

In his 1969 article “Virgin Birth” the anthropologist Edmund Leach suggests that the underlying idea in the Virgin Birth is the vast disparity between an omnipotent male and the mere mortal he chooses to impregnate, thereby symbolically reflecting the concentration of wealth and power that characterized Byzantium. Collins expands upon Leach’s ideas in Origins of the Mary Cult to develop a theory that sheds some interesting light on the inspired devotion that the vice presidential candidate provokes, even if his conclusions rely upon some suspiciously unverifiable Freudianizing.

Collins points out that the cult of the Virgin flourished in places like Spain and Italy, countries that were both heavily reliant upon agriculture—not surprisingly since agrarian regions are traditional strongholds of mother goddess worship—as well as characterized by a vast disparity between rich and poor. Unlike Ashe, Collins finds no evidence of a significant Mary cult during the first four centuries. In his view the cult emerged when the Church, which he claims was primarily constituted of the middle-class, spread outwards to incorporate the rural and urban poor. Such families, he claims, were ‘father-ineffective,’ meaning power was concentrated in the mother due to the economic enfeeblement of the males. In such families, the sons will initially identify strongly with their mothers but then realize as they mature that they must behave like men, which generates insecurity that in turn leads to the machismo complex.

All sons, Collins agrees with Freud, develop oedipal sexual urges for their mother that must later be repressed. In the ‘father-ineffective’ families these urges are even more exaggerated. How to discharge this sexual energy? Enter the Virgin Mother, whose worship allows for the acceptable dissipation of their repressed sexual tension. As for women, the Virgin Mary permits them to vicariously enjoy the fulfillment of their desire to not only have sex with their father, but also—bonus!—to have a child by him (after all, ladies, if you can’t have a penis, you may as well have a baby). The church grew in scope, the men exhaled with relief, the women sighed with satisfaction, and the Virgin Mary gazed out with beatific chastity from statuettes the world over, occasionally weeping tears of joy at the win-win situation.

In light of Mr. Collins’ blasphemy, let us redirect our attention to Sarah Palin, that twinkly-eyed, rouge-cheeked, nose-wrinkling, lipsticked-winking loin-igniter, that ravishing librarian who can just go ahead and permanently remove any books that she feels like removing, preferably one-by-one and slowly, that Drillmate Polar Bear of the Year whose mantra ‘Drill, Baby, Drill’ is sending adolescents from sea to oil-rich sea into nocturnal frenzies of terrestrial penetrations that often end with the G.O.P. promise of an ecstatic spurt of black gold, that protectress of family values and patron saint of hockey MILFs who has at last united and Viagrized the base of the Grand Old Party (newly energized as the Grand Old Prostate), consisting of evangelical Christians who uphold the virtues of chastity and abstinence, most of whom reside in the Southern and Midwestern states, a poorer region and more heavily reliant on agriculture than other parts of the U.S. like Sodom and Gomorrah.

So to those of you establishment types who have “better” ideas on what the McCain ticket should look like: thanks but no thanks. You can keep your pork barrel Candidates to Nowhere. God’s will has to be done in unifying people and companies to get a Palin and McCain administration in place so that this peace-seeking nation can stage a surge in our neighboring country of Afghanistan and lead us to victory there as it has proven to have done in Iraq, and it’s got to be all about job creation, too, so pray for that. It’s business time, guys and gals, so let’s get down to gettin’ business done.

How long has Palin been at this, like six weeks? That’s how doggone mavericky she is. Was the Virgin Mary, who helped to save all of humanity, an elite Washington insider who wanted to raise your taxes and take away your freedoms? Nope, you betcha she wasn’t. So stay thee away, Barack, God Bless Joe Six-Pack and Hail Palin! xo

Constantine Markides

To read about Mother Palin, click here

*makismakis is available for freelance work. Anyone interested should email him at: makismakismakismakis@gmail.com

THE UK has an efficient rail system with comfortable high-speed trains that run frequently and on schedule.  While last-minute ticket prices are unreasonably costly for long distance travel, one can travel inexpensively by booking a seat several weeks in advance.  In this sense, the trains operate much like air flights.  Should you book ahead and later decide you want to alter your travel date, you must pay a change fee as well as the difference in price between the old ticket and the new.  This pricing scheme benefits those who plan weeks in advance, but obviously disadvantages off-the-cuff travelers, who must either opt for slower and less agreeable bus travel or dig deep to cover those hefty last-minute ticket fares, which seem like little more than subsidies for the well-organized.

The human creature is remarkably adaptable, especially in economic matters, and though I had always belonged to the off-the-cuff grouping, I soon learned to plan ahead for all UK travel.  And as I was entitled to a discount Rail Card that gave me thirty percent off standard or advanced fares, I was soon securing train tickets at up to half the cost of bus travel.

On Easter Day, March 23, I traveled by train from London to Newark North Gate—less than two hours to the north—to visit my relatives for two days.  I had purchased the return ticket a week earlier for £29.70 (£14.85 each way), not the cheapest fare for that journey, but still around a third of what I would have paid on the day of travel.

One of the Rail Card provisions stipulates that the card-bearer must always display the Rail Card for the discounted ticket to be valid.  In other words, if you don’t have your Rail Card, the train conductor will charge you—not just for the thirty percent of the original ticket price that you saved, but for the entire cost of a new last-minute ticket purchased on board.  It may not sting as much as having one’s hand chopped off Taliban-style for theft, but it is similar in that, considering the nature of the crime and the extent of the punishment, the victim can’t help but feel he’s been done over.      

It wasn’t until I arrived at King’s Cross train station that I realized I had left my Rail Card back in my room.  The train wasn’t departing for another ten minutes so I explained my predicament to a ticket sales employee.  He said I had two choices: to purchase another Rail Card for twenty pounds or another ticket for fifty (and this just a one-way).  Both were out of the question, the latter for obvious reasons (fork over $100 for a short train ride I had already paid for?) and the former not only because my train was leaving shortly and I lacked the two requisite passport photos but also, and more to the point, because I wasn’t going to be milked for the cost of another Rail Card.  With steep change fees and a non-refundable ticket policy, the National Express had several times in recent months cashed in after I’d altered or cancelled my travel plans; the last thing I was going to do was bend over for them. I decided to return to my apartment to get the Rail Card and then take the next train out to Newark, hoping that the conductor might accept the expired ticket after hearing my sob story.

Before leaving the station, I decided to stop by the front carriage of my scheduled train to see whether the conductor might accept my ticket without the Rail Card.  To my surprise, the conductor, who was standing on the platform, waved me onto the train good-naturedly, although he did first warn me that on my return tomorrow his colleague may be less accommodating.  Fine, I thought, I would deal with that obstacle when it came. And surely with a minimum of effort—a brief email and a phone call or two to the higher-ups—I could secure some brotherly arrangement to ensure a penalty-free return.

Ten minutes later I was sending an email to Customer Services, explaining my situation (on some train routes, free Wifi is available).  The next morning I received the following reply:

Dear Constantine Markides,

Thank you for your eMail.

Unfortunately you cannot purchase/travel with a discounted ticket without showing your Railcard.

The Terms and Conditions of the Young Persons Railcard state: You must carry your Railcard with you and when asked by rail staff, you must show a valid ticket and valid Railcard, otherwise the full fare will be payable as if no Railcard and/or no ticket were held.

Once again thank you for your eMail and I apologise for any inconvenience caused.

Considering that I had emailed them precisely because of those terms and conditions, it was an exasperating response, akin to telling a junkie who has called in for an ambulance after an overdose that heroine is illegal.

On arrival I checked at the ticket counter to see if something could be done for my return leg.  As before, I was told I’d have to buy either a new Rail Card or a new ticket.

-Is there no-one higher-up I could speak to, I asked, anyone with the authority to issue a waver?

Unmoved, he looked at me through the booth pane with the detached weariness of one who has said all there is to say but is forced by circumstance to carry on the dialogue.

-It’s the rules, he said, quietly. And besides, it’s Easter Sunday.  Everything is closed.

-But what about tomorrow? I asked. Surely tomorrow I can call someone.

The corners of his lips lifted as he slowly shook his head.  No one was waiting behind me but our discussion had clearly come to an end.

I decided to deal in person with the conductor the next day, just as I had done at London’s King Cross Station.  The only problem was that the train was not originating from Newark North Gate; it was only briefly stopping there on route, which meant I had no choice but to board and deal with the consequences.  But I was confident I could convince the conductor, or at least work out some arrangement with him: I am usually capable of weaseling my way out of such predicaments.  It was arrogant posturing on my part and entirely unjustified keeping in mind my recent run-ins with the law, or rather with the rules.  After all, the rules of the game were different in this land: while smooth talk, charms and amiability may here as elsewhere get you a free lay, they won’t get you a pre-paid ride.

My seat on the return journey was in one of the rearmost carriages.  As it was a London-bound train on the evening after Easter, it took me at least ten minutes to work my way to the conductor’s carriage.  I had decided to approach him directly in private rather than wait to explain myself when he came checking tickets, since the presence of the other passengers, all undoubtedly versed in the fine print of the terms and conditions, might dissuade him from overlooking the absence of my Rail Card.

At the time I thought this the wisest course of action.  After all, just as statesmen who want to dispose of individuals or depose elected governments say We cannot allow a rotting apple to ruin the rest of the barrel or The virus must be cut short before it spreads, so too might the conductor have said, Innocuous as it may seem, allowing you to travel unpunished without your Rail Card may provoke discontent among those rule-abiding passengers who have from infanthood absorbed the understanding, which I should note permeates every one of our society’s private and personal institutions except of course for those delinquent ones that free societies by virtue of their very openness must ironically perforce tolerate, that one can only build a democratic edifice upon a carefully prescribed and adhered-to legal foundation, which must be defended not only by a vigorous judicial and legal class but also by a proactive general public who appreciates that even the slightest exception for something like a forgotten Rail Card exposes the good society to the mushrooming weeds of corruption and nepotism and therefore warrants civilized expressions of discontent, even outrage, although hopefully nothing more than that, for we would not want the public ire to snowball, however justifiably, into train riots, railway station occupations, mass internment, a coup d’ etat, civil war.

Had I better assessed the situation, I would have stayed put in my seat, seeing that with the crowded numbers on the train and the frequent station stops, it would be unlikely the conductor would manage to keep track of those whose tickets he had already checked and those who had recently boarded, especially if he was dispensing sermons along the way like the one above. 

I found the conductor behind the snack bar.  In a tone that was respectful without being deferential, I showed him my ticket and explained myself. He listened, taking stock of my words, and then pulled out his hole-puncher.  It had been as easy as I’d hoped it would be.

And then I made the error.  In my excitement, perhaps wanting to reassure him that I hadn’t just cocked up a story to save myself a few pounds, I told him I’d be willing to give him my debit card info so that they could later charge me if I failed to present them with proof of my Rail Card.  I should have just kept silent.  He paused, a look of troubled self-awareness coming over him as if the words ‘debit card,’ ‘proof’ and ‘Rail Card’ had snapped him out of a dangerous trance.  Although I didn’t realize it right away, it was obvious enough what was going through his head: Michael, hast thou forgotten the Rules and Regulations? O injudicious man, how now this folly? Honor thy rules and thy regulations as the Lord thy God hath commanded thee, that thy days may be prolonged, and that it may go well with thee, in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.

He put the hole-puncher away and pulled out a small fare booklet in which he began to run his finger down a column of train stations.  Even if he was merely obeying a deep rooted inner voice, his apparent change of mind seemed an act of malice, and the stooped gentleman with graying hair standing before me in the light blue shirt and red tie suddenly took on a sinister aspect.  Even so, I did not recoil at this sudden and unlikely incarnation of evil.  I assumed he was going to charge me the thirty percent of the ticket value that my Rail Card had saved me.  Fine then, so be it.  Let the devil have his seven quid.

His finger stopped its downward course and swept rightward along the page.

-Forty-four sixty-five, he said.

-What?

-That will be 44.65, he repeated in a flat tone.

I had heard him perfectly well the first time but I needed a few moments for the figure to sink in.  So the old goat was exhorting a new ticket out of me!  I stared at him wordlessly.  He waited calmly without meeting my eyes.

-Well, can I get my money back later if I show them my card? I finally said.

-The rules and regulations say that you have to have a Rail Card on you at all times, otherwise you have to pay for—

-The cost of a new ticket, I know, I know, I said, without hiding my irritation. Rules were made to serve men, not men to serve rules, I added imperiously.

The poetic force of my cliché had no apparent effect on him. He began filling out the ticket. 

-I find this astonishing, I went on.  What, you think I would go through all this trouble booking a ticket in advance that was invalid, just to save a couple of pounds? You actually think that—

-Wait a moment, he said, putting down the bill.

He walked away.  Again, I was confident I was about to be let off. He returned five minutes later.

-So that’ll be 44.65, he said, casually.

At first I thought he might be joking. The deadpan delivery would not have been out of keeping with British humor, which is the godfather of comedy precisely because of its variety and unpredictability, incorporating both highbrow and lowbrow, ironic understatement and outrageous slapstick, witty puns and nonsense.  I could have easily been in a British TV sitcom at the moment: all that was missing was the audience laughter.  In fact, considering how much of British humor emerged out of constrictive social conditions (i.e. the lewd and bawdy satire that one finds in films like Life of Brian is part of a larger tradition that developed in response to Puritanical stiffness and intolerance) I would not be surprised if the rules and regulations culture has contributed to the superb self-depreciation and irreverence one finds in British humor.

But seeing that he would not meet my gaze at all, I quickly realized that he was not just having fun with me.  Michael Kilburn was clearly no Michael Palin.

-Forty-four sixty-five eh? I said icily.  Fine then, I see how it is.

I was now sensing malice not in him but in myself.  But at the same time, I felt gratitude.  The end of the month was nearing and I had nothing in mind for my Fourth Night essay.  Petty vengeance is as good a spur as any for writing.

I was staring at his face intently as he filled out my ticket.  Outwardly he was impassive, but I could tell my malevolent smile had touched him.  It wasn’t enough: I wanted him to pay somehow too.  Malice is one of the most selfish of emotions: like greed, it is never satisfied with what it has.  I retrieved a pen and paper slip from my pocket.

-Could I have your name please? I said softly, while pointing at his name tag, which was facing the wrong way.

He turned it around but seconds later moved his body in a way that made the tag flip back around.

-I didn’t quite get that, I said.

He turns it around again, holding it up to me.  Michael Kilburn.  He then lets it drop again.

-I didn’t get your security number, I said.

-Oh no, not the security number, that’s not for you, he said, grinning unconvincingly, pleased with his little victory.

I was going to ask him why it was on his I.D. tag if it was not for me to see but decided it was enough for now. I continued staring at him as he finished filling out his ticket. His neck was a blotchy red, although I could not say if that was from my presence.  It’s not that I had no sympathy for him.  He was only doing his job after all.  But that was precisely why I resented him so much.

-How will you be paying? he asked civilly.

I handed him my debit card.

-The conductor in London, who let me on without any fuss warned me that other conductors might be less understanding, I said.  I now see what he meant.

He then mumbled something about having dispatched the station about my case but not getting permission from them.

-It’s up to you, not the station.  All you had to do was punch a hole in my ticket.

It was true and he knew it.  He handed me the new ticket and receipt.

-Happy Easter, I said, and walked away. 

It would be unfair to give the impression that UK train conductors are rigidly bureaucratic.  In my few other similar run-ins with conductors, they have always been fair-minded and exercised personal judgment in place of rules where it seemed reasonable to do so.  They also seem to be perpetually and genuinely in good spirits, despite being in the business of enforcement, not a role that can ingratiate them with the customers.  In this instance, Mr. Kilburn was in the unfortunate position of having to charge me close to $100 for an 80-minute train ride that I’d already paid for.  The fee seemed particularly ludicrous in light of the fact that three days earlier I had booked a roundtrip air ticket from London to Frankfurt for $45 (also ludicrous, but for the opposite reason).

The inconvenience was trivial, and I could never say I’d been victimized by a Kafkaesque bureaucracy, but I still couldn’t shrug it off.  Had Mr. Kilburn acted out of personal gain, with the goal of pocketing the money, I would have maybe digested the offense more easily.  At least there would have been some purpose—perhaps not commendable but understandable nonetheless—to his heisting close to a hundred bucks off me.  But fining me this way, in the selfless line of duty, seemed chillingly inhuman.  It was rule not by the iron fist smashing down upon the masses but by the iron finger sweeping unswervingly along the terms and conditions.

I worked my way back to my seat.  A half hour later Mr. Kilburn walked through my train compartment, only to again traverse it after five minutes. He did not check any tickets.  Had I stayed in my seat in the first place, I would never have been fined.

I again made my way to the front of the train.  I encountered Mr. Kilburn in the passageway between two train cars.  He looked away upon seeing me.  But the relief was evident on his face when I merely asked him for the National Express contact details regarding refunds.  Really I had just wanted one final chance to see him up close, to get one final perspective on this person who was taking the lead role in my next Fourth Night. He set off down the corridor, shoulders stooping, arms hanging limp at his sides, the palms facing back towards me, resembling an upright anthropomorphized turtle like the Looney Tunes character Cecil Turtle.

Suddenly all the malice went out of me.  I felt sorry for this man who was sandwiched like a buffer zone between a strict rule and regulation culture and barbarians like me who had not grown up in such a culture and therefore not internalized its values and requirements. He was the victim of both the bureaucrats who carved the rules into stone tablets as well as the infidels who wanted the tablets smashed. He was like the policeman who is ordered to quell an anti-war demonstration while the masters of war remain unmolested behind their walls and desks.

Mr. Kilburn fumbled about briefly in a compartment drawer and then returned with a booklet.

-This is who you want to contact, he said with a warm smile, drawing a neat square around an address and email.

He did not seem at all annoyed with me.  In fact, he was only too happy to oblige. This was all strictly in keeping with the rules and regulations. I was overwhelmed by a sense of shame and compassion, although it was obviously still not enough to keep me from dishing him back an undeserved ticket, this time in the shape of an essay.

I ended up sending my train tickets and a photocopy of my Rail Card to the National Express requesting a refund.  Three weeks letter I received a letter from them stating that although it is the responsibility of customers to have a Rail Card in their possession, they were ‘happy to be able to offer [me] a refund as a gesture of goodwill.’  They included a check for £35.

I was devastated.  I had already written and posted the first half of this piece and so this defiance of protocol from the bureaucrats themselves, the gatekeepers of the supposed rules and regulations zeitgeist that I had been writing about, suddenly threw the rest of my essay into critical condition.  How much easier it would have been to receive a polite referral to Terms and Conditions!  Then I could have gleefully sunk my teeth into them.  Instead I felt like a hell and damnation preacher who, in the middle of his red-in-the-face sermon, suddenly realizes he no longer believes in fire and brimstone.

Thankfully, however, the National Express had only included a check for £35 not £44.65.  The reason for this was mentioned in the letter: ‘Please note the deduction of a £10 administration fee from the original ticket cost.’ (that they only deducted £9.65 to keep the math simple seemed to be yet another unexpected bending of the terms and conditions).

At least there was a regulation dictating procedures on handling refunds, in this case involving a £10 pound administration fee.  In a gesture of goodwill they may have defied one of the rules, but at least they brought another one to bear upon it.  All was not lost for Lament for Michael Kilburn, although there was no doubt that from now on if I was going to be lamenting anything, it was that I had made such a big fuss over such a small thing.

Constantine Markides

That is why I was initially resistant about writing an essay that amounts, behind whatever literary veneer, to little more than an extended whinge, just with the sights turned 180 degrees onto the UK.  While culture-bashing may be palatable and even laudably dissident on home soil, there is something inherently disagreeable about swinging at national piñatas abroad. 

I didn’t nurture any misgivings for long.  In reflecting back on my time in the newsroom of the English-language daily Cyprus Mail, the many British expat grievances over Cypriot corruption, lawlessness, failure to comply with EU directives, and so on, that I would listen to and then relay to the next day’s primarily British readers now leave me feeling that there is a kind of Hammurabic justice, or at least aptness, in my furthering the intercultural dialogue and cross-fertilization of ideas-to use the darling rhetoric of arts and academia bureaucrats-by being a whinging Cypriot. 

Not that this is purely a petty act of eye-for-an-eye.  Ironically, my initiation over the last six months into the British zeitgeist of rules and regulations-the source of my whinge-has made it possible for me to more fully empathize with those British tourists and expats in Cyprus whose fulminations I was putting into print despite a growing sense that in doing so I was only stoking a fire that could use some smothering.  No wonder they were so outraged that laws and regulations in Cyprus mostly exist for show and tell presentations to the EU headmasters rather than for implementation in the classroom.  I have even grown to feel an unlikely solidarity with them in terms of our mutual indignation, even if our woes are of a polar opposite variety, like what one might expect if a nudist were relocated to a nunnery and a nun to a nudist colony. 

One also cannot deny that the hyper-civilized adherence of the UK authorities and public to rules and regulations makes daily affairs on the whole proceed more smoothly and efficiently while minimizing hazards and fraud. Consider the orderliness of the queues in the UK; in even the lengthiest ones it is rare to encounter complaining or signs of frustration: the loud sighing, the rolling eyes, the headshaking, the lips pursing at the wristwatch.  It is as if everyone in queue shares the tacit understanding that they are in the best of all possible worlds and that the only other option would be to savage one another in a free-for-all dash to the front, which aside from obvious unpleasantries would only gum up the process.

This respect for order and organization finds its apotheosis in the British Library.  The staff is unyielding when it comes to the rules-whether that involves providing the requisite documentation for acquiring a Reader’s Pass, complying with UK copyright legislation for photocopying books, or adhering to the no-bags policy in the reading rooms (the nearby men’s bathrooms are among the few places where you can see men urinating with a laptop tucked under their armpit)-but far from being oppressively bureaucratic, these rules somehow seem essential to the successful functioning of one of the finest research libraries in the world.

Nevertheless, smoothly as the ordered society may function, one of the inevitable by-products of a thriving rules and regulations culture is a suffocating sense that you can never stray from the straight and narrow path.  This is markedly the case when it comes to Health and Safety provisions (the capitalization advertises the commitment to protecting the public) where the end result seems to be that the entire population is protected not only from most every hazard but also from ever doing anything. 

I recently came across a 2004 BBC article online that described how a council in east London had imposed a ban stating that table dancers and customers at strip clubs must be separated by a ’36-inch no flesh zone.’  The judge, however, ruled against their request to ban nudity, claiming that wearing a G-string or nothing at all made no difference for “preventing of crime or preserving public order.”  The three-foot security barrier of flesh-free space, on the other hand, presumably (and mysteriously) made for safer streets.  If it were true that physical contact leads to disorder and violence, then one might expect nightly mass killings and looting in every city in Cyprus considering the innumerable Eastern Europeans and Filipinas who are pimped out in ‘cabarets,’ which like restaurants feature take-away and in-house dining (except that in cabarets take-away costs more). 

It would be unfair to accuse the British authorities of exercising undemocratic favoritism in enforcing the rules. According to an AFP article, the actor Daniel Craig was forced to wear a lifejacket as he traveled down the Thames during his October 2005 press unveiling as the new James Bond.  The not-so-tough-guy image that this presented of him was often later invoked by hysteric James Bond ‘purists’ to discredit Craig, who had brought to the role an emotional depth unrivalled by earlier Bonds (in their fanatical witch hunt, they even established a “Boycott Casino Royale” website).  They claimed that the life-vested actor bore little in common with Ian Fleming’s wooden-spoken, comically-suave literary creation (thankfully, they were right).  It was an unfair slander: it’s just that in the UK, not even James Bond is above the Health and Safety law.    

Alongside hardness of breathing and nausea, yet another adverse side effect of a heavy handed rules and regulation empire is an excess of bureaucracy.  There is of course a case to be made for bureaucracy, which ostensibly exists to minimize corruption by establishing proper legal channels through which business must be conducted.  But when you wriggle through one legal channel only to find yourself staring headlong into another one, and then another, seemingly ad infinitum, you sometimes wish you could just slip some crooked bastard a ten-pound note and get on with things. 

Several months ago, while in a filmmaking workshop at University College London, I tried to secure permission to film in the Waterloo train station and along London’s South Bank-the promenade flanking the southern shores of the Thames.  I had been surprised when I first heard I needed any such authorization, especially for the South Bank.  I was sure that those hordes of tourists milling every weekend along the Thames with camcorders hanging around their necks had not contacted any officials or filled any forms.  But apparently the bulkier semi-pro video cameras we were using would make us an obvious target for security guards.

I first called the train station.  After a few requests by phone, which in retrospect could have been worded differently (“Yes, I’d like permission to do some shooting in Waterloo”), a government officer phoned me back telling me in a cordial but nonnegotiable tone that filming in Waterloo that Saturday would not be possible due to the short notice (it was Thursday).  They still needed risk assessment forms, university insurance forms, and other paperwork, which still had to make the rounds before approval was finalized.  Two days obviously wasn’t enough for such a multi-tiered operation. 

I then tried securing permission for the South Bank.  This proved far easier and within an hour or so my request was approved.  But upon closer examination of the notification email sent to me-which involved a detailed map of the South Bank divided into cross-sections-I saw that I had only been granted permission for a small part of the Bank, the one-kilometer stretch falling within their zone of responsibility.  To film along most of the southern promenade in Central London, which had been the plan, I would have to go through this process another five or six times. 

In our hyper-tech era, which has even made television retro, writers can often feel more commonality with archaeologists, or with the things archaeologists dig up, than with artists more in step with the times like filmmakers. But as I gazed upon that South Bank map-with its grid of cross-sections and names of the relevant Councils, each of which I would have to contact and request permission from-being a fossil didn’t seem all that bad after all. 

It is of course easy to complain about legislation and fall back on predictable condemnations about the “nanny state,” a phrase bandied about mostly within the wealthier strata of society by individuals who themselves were often nannied as children and who take offense that a fraction of their privileges might be extended to the masses (in denouncing the nanny state, they also proclaim the virtues of ‘free market’ economies, the word ‘free’ being an abbreviated codeword for “free for thee but not for me,” where the underclass must contend with market discipline while the corporate overlords unfussily accept the generous taxpayer subsidies and bailouts that are masqueraded as necessary economic stimulus measures).  But in fact an essay of whinging grossly misrepresents my impressions of London, a city which blends internationalism with local culture and big city vibrancy with small town affability better than any other place I have been. 

The unswerving devotion to law and order may have occasionally provoked allergic outbreaks in me, primarily due to the change of climate from Cyprus, but it was nothing to warrant a Fourth Night whinge.  Not, that is, until the evening of March 24^th, when I met Mr. Michael Kilburn.          

The second part of Lament for Michael Kilburn is the May posting.

I’d been out of school for almost a decade and so it was inevitable for me to initially suffer from a minor identity crisis that comes from the déjà vu feeling of being caught up—albeit in this lifetime—in a Nietzschean cycle of eternal recurrence.  It was impossible to not feel that I had regressed in some fundamental way.  But phobias and flashbacks aside, I soon found that study in the U.K.—where instructors neither hold hands nor wield whips—was especially well-suited to us older sorts who are referred to, despite the lack of evidence, as ‘mature students.’

I had come to University College of London with prejudiced notions that the educational format would be stuffy and buttoned-up only to find that it was less formal than in the U.S. (i.e. the first-name basis between teachers and students is not one-way).  And any lingering ideas I may have still maintained about uptight British education were permanently quashed when the ‘Issues in Modern Culture’ instructor one day said: “For next week, aside from the reading, go out around London and try your hand at a bit of psychogeography.  You can do anything you want, but I’d prefer not to have to bail you out of jail.”

Psychogeography emerged as a conceptual term in 1955; its aim was to jolt urbanites out of their humdrum utilitarian routines and into fresh experiential states through radically re-conceiving urban spaces (this might involve something as innocuous as navigating oneself through London with a map of Paris).  The notion of psychogeography was bound up with the Situationist International, a movement of Marxist pranksters and theoreticians seeking to instill and invoke revolutionary sensibilities by “creating situations” as they put it.  One of the most notorious examples of such a situation (although it took place before the movement had announced itself) involved a man dressing up as a monk and then reading a pamphlet claiming God was dead from the pulpit of the Notre Dame during Easter Mass.  Defacing monuments in creative ways was also part of the situationist stockpile.

I wasn’t feeling all that up to defacing any monuments or committing any situationist acts of political subversion (although there was a tempting irony in the thought of it, seeing that the Foreign & Commonwealth Office, which funds all Chevenings, was sponsoring my course and that one of the conditions I had signed as part of my scholarship contract was that I would “not engage in political activities or in any other activities of a public nature likely to affect the British government adversely”).  I was however up for some psychogeographic sport.  So that Sunday evening, while out with a friend and emboldened by a few pints, I decided to give it a go at the London Bridge Train Station.

The first thing I did was request a one-way train ticket to Tripoli for the following Monday (“There’s no such place” – “No?  Are you sure? It’s on the coast in the South East…”).  But that didn’t seem to be going anywhere so I then tried posing a simple question to a number of employees in and around the train station: ‘How can I get to the Eiffel Tower?’  This proved far more fruitful.  As I had a micro-recorder on hand, I was able to transcribe all the interchanges, which I include below as a record of my psychogeographic edification:

TRANSCRIPTION FROM AN AUDIO RECORDING OF QUESTIONS POSED ON A SUNDAY EVENING IN AND
AROUND THE LONDON BRIDGE TRAIN STATION

STATION NIGHT MAINTENANCE

Q:  Excuse me.  Do you know by any chance the easiest way to get to—
A:  No, I don’t know.
Q:  —to get to the Eiffel Tower?
A:  No, I don’t know, sir.
Q:  The Eiffel Tower… I hear there’s nice views of London—
A:  I don’t know. Sorry.
Q:  Do you know who would know how I can get to the Eiffel Tower?  Do you know if it’s nearby here or how far away it is?
A:  Ask [inaudible].  He’ll know.  He has the book.  He knows everything.

STATION COFFEE BOOTH EMPLOYEE

Q:  Hello, do you know how I can get to the Eiffel Tower?  I hear there’s good views of London from the top.
A:  Um, which place? [nervous giggle] Which place?  What best views of London?
Q:  The Eiffel.
A:  What views?
Q:  From the top.  From the top of the tower.
A:  Tower Bridge?
Q:  No. Eiffel.
A:  No idea.
Q: You know how far it is?
A:  No.  I mean, I must have heard of it, but I don’t know where it is.
Q:  Or maybe that’s not the one.  I think it… or was it the Tower of Pisa?
A:  I have no idea.  I really have no idea.
Q:  All right. Okay. I’ll ask somebody else I guess. Great, thanks… But you think it’s nearby?
A:  I think it’s nearby here, but I’m not sure how to get there. That’s why. Sorry about that.
Q:  Okay, great. Thanks.

CASHIER IN STATION CONVENIENCE STORE

Q:  Do you know by any chance how to get to the Eiffel Tower from here?
A:  The Eiffel Tower?
Q:  Yeah, I hear there’s good views of London from the top.
A:  It’s not Eiffel tower here.
Q: There’s no Eiffel?  Really!  It’s not in London?  We’ve been looking for it all day.  They gave us the wrong directions…  So where is it?
A:  Paris.
Q:  They said there’s a tower here, with good views.
A:  Alton Tower.
Q:  Oh, Alton.  So it’s not Eiffel or Pisa…
A:  Two pounds ten please.
Q:  So is there a bus that goes from here?
A:  Certainly no idea. You need to call—
Q:  Does the underground?
A:  You need to call the TFL.
Q:  TFL?  What’s that?
A:  Transport for London.
Q:  And they can get us there?
A:  Yeah, yeah…
Q:  To the Eiffel tower? Okay, great.  Thanks.

CASHIER IN CONVENIENCE STORE OUTSIDE TRAIN STATION

Q:  Do you know by any chance how to get to the Tower of Pisa from here? No? You don’t?
A:  I’m new.
Q:  It’s an old tower, I think.  They’re saying it may fall soon.
A:  It’s my third day.
Q:  Oh, okay.  Great, thanks, thank you.

RECEPTIONIST IN COMPANY BUILDING

Q:  Sorry, we’ve been looking for the Eiffel tower all day and kind of thought it was along the river.  We’ve walked from Tower Bridge and we were wondering if it was near—
A:  I have no idea.
Q:  The Eiffel Tower.  It’s quite tall.  You should be able to see it really.
A:  Maybe if you go that way [motions to the right] it’s on the right hand side.
Q:  Okay. The Eiffel Tower might be on the water.
A:  [with growing confidence] Yes.  Because I’m first time here on this side.  That’s why I don’t know this area.
Q:  Ah, so the Eiffel Tower is on the other side!  We’ve been on the wrong side of the river, that’s why…  We’ve been asking so many people that don’t know. Okay. Great. We’ll cross the river then.
A:  Yes. I think so. If you cross the river, you know. If you go via the bridge, yes, you know, maybe it’s on the other side.

Constantine Markides

To read the first part of this piece about guard duty on the Green Line click here

AN ANTI-TANK gun exercise took place six weeks into my sentry duty.  There was some form of firing practice every month or two.  One might imagine conscripts would look forward to these trainings, if only for a change of scenery, but the only one interested in my outpost was me, and I was not even scheduled to go, since the military only trained three-month conscripts on rifles.  But my camp commander accepted my request to participate in the firing exercise, and so on the scheduled morning—a cold overcast one that prompted even more grumbling among those required to attend—I found myself jam-packed along with twenty-five other conscripts in the back of an army truck heading south-west of the capital.

The training was in the mountains, a forty-minute drive from Nicosia.  It had been steadily drizzling there and the dirt roads leading up to the shooting arena on the peak had mudded over and made further driving impossible.  Instead we had to slog all the equipment and ammunition by hand a half kilometer uphill through the rain and sucking mud.

Moments after we had assembled several of the guns and weighted the bases down with sandbags, the wind and downpour began.  We crammed under one of the shelters, shivering and soaked through, as most of had neglected to bring a rain jacket.  Beyond the slanting sheets of rain the sky was a uniform shade of gray and the hard patter on the aluminum rooftop was not letting off.  I at least had some whiskey in my water bottle (a strategy for making frigid night shifts more tolerable) and though it was no substitution for a rain jacket, it was the next best thing.

After a half hour it was decided to call the exercise off and so we began lugging all the crates of ammunition that we had just hauled up back down again.  We had transported most of them to the trucks when the rain abruptly stopped and it was announced that the exercise would resume.  To a mutinous outcry, this was followed by the Sisyphean order that we had to carry the crates back up the hill again.

Training exercises generally involved hours of waiting around and then several minutes of actual target practice.  It was no exception with the anti-tank gun, which I handled for thirty seconds at most.  Because of the rain interruptions, only four of the guns had been assembled.  The officers—which included my outpost’s camp commander, colonel and brigadier—were lined up imperiously on an elevation immediately behind the firing range.

I collected a belt link of ten rounds and waited my turn.  Eventually the directing officer called me up.  There was a conscript officer beside each gun who then took the belt clip and loaded it.  The directing officer, who was delivering his orders through a megaphone, then told me to bend down so that the other conscript could place the ear muffs over my head.  There were hundreds of 50mm shells scattered about the base of the gun—shells that dwarfed the standard 7.62mm assault rifle shells, shells that, with the ends sawed off, would make a fine slide for bottleneck guitar.  I realized that if I wanted a memento this would be my only chance.  So while leaning over I snatched a shell up from the mud and slipped it into my pocket.

There seemed to be a long moment of silence, broken finally by an order from the megaphone that may as well have been a slap across the face: “Take the shell out of his pocket…”

I didn’t want the conscript groping through my pockets so I retrieved the shell myself and handed it over.  “You think you’re real smart don’t you?” came the megaphone voice.

I turned around and looked up at the tribunal of officers staring down severely at me.  I shook my head.  Having just tried to sneak a shell under the direct scrutiny of a half dozen members of the stars and stripes club, I wasn’t feeling particularly clever.  There was nothing else for me to do but turn back around towards the gun and await my ejection from the training.  But instead he gave the order for me to aim and fire at the targets on the opposite peak.  To my surprise, he even made a muted comment of approval when I hit the center in my final burst of rounds.

As I was leaving, my camp commander called out my name.  I walked up to him.  “Why did you do that?” he asked, without giving me a chance to respond.  “For a souvenir?”

I nodded.

“Well then next time, ask, don’t take.”  He then held up a shell and threw it at the feet of one of the conscript officers nearby.  “Give it to him,” he told the conscript and then walked off.

A few days later a conscript from another army camp was sent to our outpost to assist with manpower for a few weeks.  It was the first time I had seen someone go to pieces in the army.  At boot camp I had witnessed a few episodes of kids losing it (screaming fits, weeping, hurling themselves against lockers) but it always blew over.  His case was less dramatic but more unsettling: he arrived garrulous and upbeat but after two weeks had sunk into a deep silent funk; I remember days when he seemed perpetually on his back in his bed, usually awake, grimly staring at the underside of the bunk bed mattress above him.

“Man, I can’t take it anymore,” he would murmur.  It seemed to be the only thing he would ever say anymore.  “And all these guns everywhere…  I’m losing it in this place.”

The deciding moment that broke his spirit was when all his furloughs were annulled for a week after an inspecting officer noticed an empty beer can in the trash.  He had simply not bothered to conceal the can under the other garbage.  It was just a run-of-the-mill punishment, but he had gotten used to slack living at his other station—medic barracks—where he used to be on leave four times a week and where a night’s sleep was never interrupted.

It surprised me to hear that our outpost was among the strictest in the National Guard.  Another of the conscripts who was at the end of his two-year term and who had been re-stationed here after ten months away told me that a year ago it was rare for anyone to actually go out and man the sentry posts and unheard of for anyone to wake up for the two am or four am shift.  That all had changed with the new camp commander.

“Not that I mind it so much,” he said.  “We used to just sit around, bored as hell, all day in front of the TV.  At least now you’ve got something to do.”

As for the depressed conscript, he returned again to his old station about the same time that I was discharged.  His cloudscape of glum gradually lifted as the time neared, resembling the steady return to health of a man emerging from an illness.  Despite the apparent authenticity of his misery, no one had much sympathy for him, first of all because he never had to do any sentry duty (there were ways of securing yourself a medical classification that rendered you “unfit” to carry a gun).  His only duty was to sit in the living room for a set number of hours per night as the outpost guard, which really involved nothing more than vegetating in front of the television and waking the others up fifteen minutes before their shift, something he was rarely able to do, since he usually dozed off.

It isn’t strictly correct to say that conscripts are discharged from the army at the end of their term, because even though army life ends, one is still obliged—up until the age of fifty, I believe—to return as a reservist once or twice a year for a firing range session and an occasional nighttime sentry duty.  Our camp commander began sending us one or two reservists on an almost nightly basis.  An army truck would drop them off at our outpost at about seven pm and return to pick them up at the same hour the next morning.  Each reservist would have to do a two-hour night shift—usually the 12 to 2 shift or the 2 to 4 shift—so that the rest of us had a six-hour interlude (instead of four hours) between our late night sentry shifts.  A few times our outpost numbers were high enough so that, with the bonus boost of two reservists, we had the delicious luxury of eight hours between night shifts.

The reservists, especially the older ones who had been conscripts over a decade ago, were always amused at how cushy the army had become.  For example, it used to be common practice for officers to beat the conscripts.  My cousin, who had been in the army over two decades ago, once described how one of the conscript officers had punched him several dozen times in the stomach because he had refused to insult himself in front of his peers.  The conscripts too had been of a more savage bent.  One of them, my cousin told me, once put an Agama lizard (known on the island as a “kourkouta”), which can grow up to a foot long, between two slices of white bread and ate it raw.  Another used to go around sticking his penis in the mouths of others conscripts as they were sleeping.

Sexual deviance and misconduct was perhaps one of the only aspects of army life that had remained constant over the last few decades.  Just over a year before I conscripted, a video clip began circulating on mobile phones depicting ten soldiers in a Nicosia outpost lined up behind their officer taking turns at sex with an older woman (married, with three children) on a bunk bed.  And while I was in boot camp, two teenagers in the second company gained notoriety after someone filmed one of them blowing the other in the barracks in front of several other conscripts.  The one had apparently taken the pillow of the other and said he would only return it if he gave him a blowjob.

According to the reservists, one of the most significant improvements in the army was the quality of the food.  Every day at around one pm and then again at six pm, a truck would drop off several pots of hot food—dishes like squid and potatoes, pasta and beef sauce, roast lamb, etc.  I couldn’t imagine better army food, and yet to my—and to the reservists’—astonishment, the conscripts never touched it; instead they would order expensive takeaway (at a risk, since it was prohibited) or would fry up nasty preservative-laden frozen burger patties.

Their argument for tossing the rations was that the insulated stainless steel pots were disgusting.  That was true, but there was a way to manage this problem: wash the pots.  So the first day I dumped the food and scrubbed the pots with soap and bleach and from that day on I had all the hot grub I could manage.

The other conscripts looked on with horror when they first saw me serve myself a plate of army food.  I was the butt of their jokes for several days, but I didn’t back down.  In turn I called them fools for needlessly spending money on inferior takeaway and frozen patties.  It had an effect on them.  I noticed that as time went on they began gazing upon my lunches and dinners with appraising interest.

It was after about ten days—when the pots were delivered with spaghetti and two boiled chickens—when the first of them succumbed to temptation. “That looks good,” he confessed to me as I carved out several moist slabs of chicken breast.

I extended my fork with one of the tenders impaled on it to him. “Try it,” I urged him.

He paused, obviously wracked with inner conflict.  Then, after casting a furtive glance about him, he reached for the piece and bit off half of it.  “My God,” he whispered, chewing slowly with a guilty ecstasy.  “It’s delicious.”  He ate the rest and then attacked the chicken, tearing off strips of it with his fingers.  “Don’t tell anyone,” he pleaded.

Within two weeks about half of the conscripts were eating regularly from the pots.  Every few days another conscript would yield to the steaming appeal of the rations despite admonitions from those remaining few who remained steadfastly opposed to even sampling the food, still citing their groundless arguments that the pots were filthy and disease-transmissible.  “But look at Markides,” the soon-to-be convert would say.  “Nothing’s happened to him yet.”

It wasn’t until about two weeks before I left the outpost that the leader of the opposition movement—the most outspoken reviler and disparager of army food—finally gave in.  I saw him one evening in the kitchen, serving himself from the pot.  Our eyes met briefly but neither of us said anything.

The army did not provide hot meals on Sundays, but a woman began driving up to our outpost every Sunday evening with jumbo containers of roasted chicken, pork and lamb, as well as beans, potatoes, rice, etc.  Her son owned a restaurant nearby and always had excess food on the weekends.  One of the inspecting officers came by one evening while we were eating in the kitchen.

“Where did you all get this?” he demanded, peering into the containers.  We explained.

The officer then launched into a brief sermon on how we should not accept food from strangers.  “There are some good people who bring us food and other things we need, but we should be aware that there are others who may want to harm us,” he stated solemnly (reinforcing Rule #7 under the “Sentry Guidelines” posted at both guardhouses: “Do not trust anyone”).

We all nodded through his paternalistic advice with full mouths.  He milled about in the kitchen until most of the others had gone into the living room and then again peered into one of the containers.  “Is that chicken?” he asked me.

“Pork,” I said.  “Help yourself.”

He nodded with an averted gaze and reached for a plate.

I don’t recall anyone in my outpost ever getting caught eating takeaway food, but I know that some officers would occasionally amuse themselves by using imaginative tactics to catch conscripts in the act.  I had heard stories how one captain once intercepted a kebab delivery boy, garbed his jacket and helmet, and rode the moped to the outpost, where he promptly doled out punishments along with the kebabs to the hungry money-in-hand conscripts.  Another captain, who had also intercepted the delivery boy, inserted a signed slip of paper with the message “Five Days Jail” inside each of the kebabs.

Ordering takeaway food in the outposts was generally tolerated (no kebab owners lobby exists, as far as I know, but I would not be surprised if some informal deal making took place between owners and officers seeing that conscripts are among the most dependable takeaway customers).  The only thing that was not tolerated—at least in my outpost—was absconding from sentry duty or leaving the outpost.

One of the reservists told me that his captain had once dressed up in black as an old lady, and came over to his outpost, stooped and hobbling, to catch him, literally, off guard.  That time he had been lucky and was not reading a magazine or playing a video game.  But he was less fortunate a few days later when he abandoned his sentry post for a drink at the bar down the street.  While he was having his beer his mobile rang, with the Caller ID listing the sentry post phone number.  When he answered, his captain was on the other line.

One night I snuck off for about an hour between my sentry shifts to a bar in downtown Nicosia to meet a friend who was leaving the next day for India.  I was surprised to find out later that, had an officer come by and counted the sleeping bodies, I would have likely been court-marshalled and punished with twenty days jail time (even a brief truancy carries a greater penalty than skipping sentry duty) because the reduction in force numbers endangers the outpost, and by projection the neighborhood.  Of course, war would have to break out—out of the blue, after a 33-year-interlude—for the charge to possess any real meaning but, never mind the real world, our job was to act out the lines given us, their job to ensure the show went on.

All things considered, I had it damn well.  I was getting out of the army two, sometimes three, times a week.  I had even been given a bunk bed in the chief sentry’s room, so my sleep was never disturbed by late night hooting or by the perpetual turning on and off of lights.  The captain had not objected to me bringing my laptop in and I even had a desk to work on in my free time.  I was eating better than ever, had no expenses, and was even given a monthly allowance of seventy pounds (whorehouse stipend for some).

Even my sentry duty—tedious as it could be—was in reality nothing more than a period of tech-free solitude and contemplation in a verdant setting.  There are two ways of seeing the world: one is by traveling widely, and the other is by staying put.  I stood sentry for two months in the same two posts, but the landscape was never the same.  Each hour of the day had its own peculiar set design and actors: a white crane looping across the late afternoon marshes; a strange owl considering me from its midnight perch; the call to prayer echoing in time lag from different directions five times per day; the big dipper angling certain nights over the Turkish spotlight; the Sunday afternoon bursts of uproar from the nearby racetrack as the gamblers urged their horses on; the cone-shaped pirouetting of strobe lights and the distant thud of club music on Friday and Saturday nights; the orchestral peeper frogs performing their daily matinee before sunset; the morning ululation of the Turkish sentry; the crisp clarity of the Kyrenia mountains after a rain; the olive trees emerging in beatific illumination under the climbing morning sun, inducing an expansion of spirit that no sprawl of development can ever effect; the bees that had made a subterranean nest inside the dirt-filled camouflage barrels, emerging in the spring during the midday hours and buzzing around my head, their maddening offensive sometimes so persistent and in my face that I would finally lash out with a sideswipe which, if on mark, was always followed by a pang of guilt as I watched the stunned insect crawl about on the ground, gathering its dazed senses, before flying off with a receding drone.

But sentry duty would not have seemed such a lark had my time not been so brief.  The anachronism and sheer stupidity of a two-year conscription, especially in its present decrepit castrated form, would have driven me mad.  It was this pervading sense of absurdity in the Cypriot army that generated such cynicism and ennui among the conscripts.

I often wearied of the constant complaints of my housemates, their shrill daily squabbles with the chief sentry (who organized the furlough schedule) over who was to get on what days.  I wearied of their torpor, their refusal to do the few chores demanded of them, which would have made life easier for everyone.  But then again, who was I, with my amusing three-month excursion in the army, to judge them when they had to give themselves over for two years—the last of their teen years, the period when one is most desirous of cutting loose from the world?

It was all fine and well for me: I had come into the army willfully, more or less at my own initiative, with much the same zest as an anthropologist might have heading out into the bush.  But for the rest of them their stint in the army was senseless coercion and servitude.  I was little more than a voyeur who had slipped into their world long enough to peek around and then step out again.

I think of them often, the ones I knew and the ones I did not know, all of them trudging to and from their sentry post several times a day.  They are there at this very moment, standing and sitting, alert for approaching officers, oblivious to the Dead Zone, waiting for that second hour to pass, counting down the minutes, counting down the months.

Constantine Markides

CONSECUTIVE DAYS of sentry duty took their toll, especially when the shifts were every four hours.  For days on end you might not get much more than three hours of continuous sleep.  You were also punished if you were caught sleeping before ten pm or after six am.  Although there was a designated midday “rest period” between one and four, it was generally only good for a short nap: unless you had the ten-to-noon shift, both lunch and sentry duty fell within those hours.  This restrictive sleeping schedule combined with the many hours of being on foot all day ensured you were never fully rested.  I assume the idea was to accustom soldiers to the sleep deprivation conditions of war, but the only thing the soldiers acclimatized to was the capacity to sleep through anything.  I am sure that if a grenade had exploded outside our window, only half of us would have awoken; the other half would have required a direct strike.

It was near impossible rousing most of the conscripts, especially for the two or four am shifts.  One conscript in particular was notorious for the death-state of his sleep and it would take several minutes of violent shaking and yelling in his ear to wake him up.  A friend of mine who finished his conscription a decade ago told me that one night while he was making the rounds of the sentry posts (he had been a conscript officer) he came across a sentry standing perfectly upright, holding his rifle like a staff at his side, fast asleep.  Another time a group in his outpost decided to have some fun by carrying one of the bunk beds, along with its sleeping corpse, out of the building; when the soldier opened his eyes the next morning, he found himself in the middle of a soccer field.

Some of the conscripts may have been innately deep sleepers, but even so, whoever requires a quarter hour of prodding to get out of bed simply doesn’t give a damn either about the in-house guard on duty trying to wake him or about the sentry waiting to be relieved.  Initially I didn’t mind waiting an extra five or ten minutes on the sentry post, but it soon became apparent that the ones who kept you waiting longest were often the ones quickest to complain whenever they had to wait.  It was startling just how abruptly your drowsiness could escalate into a seething resentment upon the conclusion of your two a.m. shift when you had to stay up there in the cold waiting for some bastard who once again was not budging from the warm nest of his bed.

Sometimes the sentry never came at all.  He would eventually simply mumble to the in-house guard to sign the Change of Sentry sheet on his behalf.  Upon doing so, the guard would then ring the other sentry and tell him to return to the outpost.  The signature was important because if the officer on duty came by and found an unmanned post, he could only punish the soldier scheduled for that shift, since the previous sentry, who must never leave a post unguarded, could claim that his compatriot had relieved him (as demonstrated by the signature).  After all, it wasn’t your fault if the sentry who took over then ditched his post and returned to the outpost to sleep.  Of course it was a sham claim, and all the officers knew it, but they had no proof with which to nail you.

Absurd as our sentry duty was, I resisted the first time I was told to come down from the rooftop post, balking at the idea of leaving a station unmanned.  But I soon realized that either I climbed down or I would shiver up there for another two-hour shift.  After fifteen minutes of depleting willpower, I eventually abandoned the post, although I did take the ammunition box to console myself that my dereliction of duty was done responsibly.

Two weeks after my arrival a patrolling officer caught one of the conscripts at three a.m. sleeping in his bunk bed when he should have been on the sentry post.  Later that morning, when we were all awake, a conscript at a neighboring outpost phoned to tell us that the camp commander was on his way (the outposts in our company had developed an efficient monitoring and information sharing network regarding the patrolling officers).  At once there was a flurry of activity as everyone began rushing around, tidying, making beds, shining boots, yelling for shaving cream, etc.  There was of course an easy way of avoiding such neurosis: just shave, shine your boots and tidy up in the morning so that you are always prepared for the unexpected visit.  But it was not surprising that they preferred this chicken-with-its-head-cut-off approach: resentful as they were at their imposed two-year service, they wanted to be upstanding soldiers as infrequently as possible.

The commander arrived minutes later.  He was in good spirits, though that did not keep him from punishing the delinquent sentry by canceling all his furloughs for the next ten days.  He moved horizontally down the line, addressing each of us personally (“Show me your nails, Petrou…  How many times have I told you to cut them? You could till the fields with those things!”  “Shakola, you’re a good looking boy, but you’re getting fat. Don’t you know you can’t order takeaway in the army…”).  When he reached me I stomped to attention and stated my name and rank.  He paused and then, before moving on to the next conscript, he uttered what was without doubt the oddest and unlikeliest thing I heard in all my three months in the military, a sentence which, coming from a high-ranking military man, I include with warped and sardonic pride for posterity’s sake: “I never had any doubts about you, Markides.”

Our commander, as well as our captain, had been making impromptu visits to our outpost with increased frequency to prepare us for the much trumpeted brigadier’s biannual inspection.  The inspection took place on a Friday morning.  We were lined up on the sidewalk in front of our house and the commander was in the midst of running us through a practice round when the brigadier arrived with a small entourage of lower-ranking officers.

After the usual formalities of stomps and salutes, the brigadier announced that he wanted us to enact a state of emergency, which would involve assuming our assigned positions in our bunkers along the Green Line armed with our rifles and with any other weapons that had been allotted to each of us (i.e. machine gun, grenade launcher, rocket launcher, etc.).  But just as the brigadier was about to issue the order, our commander gingerly reminded him that a fiasco might ensue if we conducted such a drill without first informing the U.N.

Clearly in an inspired G.I. Joe mood, the brigadier paused, pained by this reminder that we were still, technically speaking, in a state of conflict and that rushing to take combat positions under the gaze of the Turkish soldiers might lead to complications.  But he would not be entirely dissuaded.  As a compromise, he ordered us to collect from the outpost our weapons and ammunition, as if we were in a state of alarm, and to bring them all outside to our present location.

There were probably only a handful of us who had ever seen the inside of the weapons room, which was adjacent to the kitchen.  It took two minutes just to unlock the barred door.  Once we finally got it open, there was a frantic rush for the ammunition, although no one seemed to know what was what: “Are these G3 bullets or MG3?” “Hell, would you just hand that box over!” “Hurry up, you asshole!  Hurry up!” “What the hell is wrong with you, these are rockets not grenades!”

A full ten minutes must have passed until we were all again lined up outside, our weapons propped up against the porch railing and the ammunition spread out on the road.  We had been told that our outpost was the ‘lock and key of the neighborhood,’ the security of the surrounding area, but I suspect some of the neighbors had other feelings about the house of rowdy teens at the end of their road, especially after seeing the cornucopia of explosives and firepower in our possession.

The brigadier passed down the line, asking each of us questions about our weapons and the state of emergency procedures.  It was not long before he was thundering at us, while several younger officers at his heels were scribbling away in their notebooks.  But I could not blame him for the tantrum.  The chief sentry didn’t know how to work the walkie-talkie and one of the conscripts (the same one who had slept through his sentry shift) was unable to clip his cartridge onto his rifle after being ordered to take apart and reassemble his gun.

“It’s not going in,” he mumbled. “I think it’s broken.”

“That’s cause you’re putting it on backwards!” roared the brigadier, who came up to the conscript’s shoulder.  They were quite a duo.  The string in the left hem of the brigadier’s military pants had come loose and the fabric was hanging ignobly down over his boot.  The conscript still wasn’t able to get the cartridge on, and at one point, he even flipped it over and tried to jam it in upside down.

The brigadier turned to our commander.  “The Turks are gonna kill this one!  How are we going to protect this area when the Turks nail him with the first shot?”

“He was serving coffee at Headquarters before this,” our commander said.  “It seems they kept him there too long.”

The commander was in fact doing his diplomatic best to excuse our shortcomings to the brigadier.  The colonel, meanwhile, who was one rank above the camp commander but one rank below the brigadier, took it upon himself to berate the commander, as if trying to impress the brigadier with his intolerance for any slack leadership under him.  It was all part of the ritual and show, of course, but even so it is an ugly thing to see an older man being hollered at, especially by a craven mousy-eyed opportunist who milks everything he can out of a few stripes on his shoulder.  That said, the commander to his credit refused to pass the abuse on down the line to the captain or to make any obsequious concessions to the colonel, and he steadfastly remained on our side, defending our deficiencies and assuring the brigadier that all necessary changes would be implemented as soon as possible.

I assumed that we were going to be collectively punished with a five-day denial of furlough at the very least, but I was only partially correct.  After warning us about the dangers of drunk driving, drugs and speeding, the brigadier congratulated us on the improvements that we had made and awarded everyone in our outpost (and in our entire company, it turned out) with five complimentary days of leave.  After boot camp, it was naïve of me to have expected anything less.

It was a good thing for the brigadier that he had heeded the commander’s warning against ordering a combat positions drill; shortly after we had retrieved all of our weapons and ammunition, a U.N. helicopter passed directly over us.  The U.N. flew along the length of the Green Line several times a day, but this time they made a loop, passing over us twice before continuing on.  Obviously the open crates of rockets and grenades on the sidewalk, along with the rocket launchers and machine guns, had provoked their interest, but it was surely far less interesting to them than if we had all been armed and hunkered down along the Green Line, facing the Turkish sentries.

There was a good deal of hostility towards the U.N. in the National Guard, both among conscripts and officers.  One afternoon while we were cleaning our guns, one of the soldiers referred to the U.N. as the “second occupying power in Cyprus.”  I had heard this allegation a number of times, although no one ever followed that through by saying the U.N. should pack up and go.  So I suggested to him that he tell them to leave, but as I expected he did not respond.

Not that there are no grounds to criticize the U.N.’s handling of the Cyprus conflict.  A good case can be made that in trying to play the fair broker, the U.N. has in effect treated the invader and the invaded as moral equals, which has contributed towards solidifying the division.  But much of the enmity in Cyprus towards the U.N. (the hostility is not only within the National Guard) is of the knee-jerk variety, with roots in the much cherished sport of deflecting blame from oneself onto others.

U.N. soldiers often jogged or drove by our sentry posts.  They passed directly in front of the ground-level station, and though most would merely wave or nod in greeting as they went by, there were a number who regularly stopped to exchange a few words with me, as they rarely encountered a Cypriot soldier fluent in English.

Next to other peacekeeping missions, Cyprus is a kind of holiday resort for U.N. troops, but many of the younger soldiers, especially those with bowdlerized notions of war, were craving to be stationed where the bullets were flying.  One nineteen-year old who was with the British Armed Forces but presently under U.N. command told me he had recently been “RPG’d” (fired at by a rocket propelled grenade launcher) in Iraq.  He described the incident with the flush of pride you might expect from an adolescent detailing how he had just lost his virginity.

The captain of our company, who was generally friendly and civil with me as he was only one year my senior, once happened to drive by while I was talking to a pair of U.N. soldiers in a jeep.  I knew I was not permitted to interact with them, but I always found the prohibition brainless and even detrimental.  By the time he stopped the car and came storming over, the U.N. soldiers had already driven off, but he leaned out over the barrels and sandbags and called them back.

“Why were you talking to them?” he asked me with irritation, still staring down the road at the jeep, which was backing up towards us.  “What did they say to you?”

“Nothing.  Small talk.  They just asked how much longer I had left on my shift.”

He looked back at me.  “And what did you say.”

“Another half hour or so.”

He gave a sharp sardonic exhale and shook his head, as if I had betrayed essential information to spies.  The jeep with its blue fluttering flag pulled up next to him.

“What were you saying to my OP?” he demanded.

“Just being friendly,” the driver said.  He shut the engine off and he and the other soldier got out of the vehicle.  The captain instantly stiffened up and saluted them as they stepped out but they just came over to him and shook his hand amiably.  The handshake and smile seemed to dispel much of the captain’s suspicion.  Maintaining a hostile stance was simply no longer possible.  It is no surprise that armies limit chummy interaction between soldiers and officers: maintaining the authoritarian structure requires everyone to keep a cold distance from one another, and one way to do so is through carefully scripted official codes of conduct like saluting, stomping, and responding in a “brisk and lively manner.”

I found such formalities and military protocols to be the most challenging part of army life, not because they were difficult but because they were idiotic.  Anytime you were on sentry duty during the day and an officer came by, you had to stomp and then shout your name and rank followed by “I report to you, Mr. X, that I am serving as sentry on post X of outpost X.  I report to you that during the duration of my duty… [here you would generally just state ‘all is well’].” If the officer happened to be the camp commander or anyone of a higher rank, you then had to continue the spiel: “My mission at the outpost is to execute the duties of the sentry-observer for the surveillance, both day and night, of the terrestrial and aerial space from X to X, to collect every type of information, and to observe and report enemy activities.  In the case of an alarm I will… [yadda yadda, etc.]”

Now unless you imagine that you are an actor of some kind, it is impossible to stomp and shout any of this without feeling like a jackass.  The formalized style also hinders communication.  For example, one afternoon while I was on the rooftop post, Turkish troops began shooting at a nearby firing range.  Shortly afterwards an officer came by and so I recited my assigned mantra.  Since my role was to ‘observe and report enemy activities’ I was naturally supposed to mention that Turkish soldiers were firing at the range, but because I was so preoccupied with getting my script right, I forgot its alleged purpose, which was to report on what I had observed.  So instead of saying “the Turks started shooting a half hour ago” I merely said “all is well” (meanwhile, gunshots were popping in the distance).  If the officer had from the beginning just asked me if there was any activity in the north, I would have told him the facts without wasting both of our time with an elaborate recital of bullshit.

There was, however, one of these formalities that I enjoyed.  After sundown and until sunrise, you never had to recite anything, since you were theoretically unable to see who was approaching your sentry post.  You merely had to point your rifle at the visitor and call out ‘αλτ τισ ει’ which translates to “stop, who goes there” in ancient Greek (a curious way of querying since few people understand ancient Greek: it is like a travel agent asking someone who wants to book a ticket, “whither goest thou?”).  To give the person permission to approach your sentry post he then had to correctly provide you with the two passwords that had been issued to your outpost earlier that day. During this process you kept your gun aimed at him and would order him several times to halt and then proceed.

After a day of stomping to attention and belting your mission to every man of high rank who came by, there was something redemptive in having the opportunity to train your gun on those same officers and to subject them—in a cathartic reversal of fortune—to a comical string of commands as if they were school kids playing Red Light Green Light.

The final part of Manning the Dead Zone will be posted on November 4.