Free Speech effort could bring legal action

PODUNKY, WI (May 16) A local man may face charges in the wake of a disturbance this morning at the Podunky Early Learning Center.

Ray Anderson, a self-described "underemployed writer" led more than 50 kindergartners in an impromptu "Free Speech" march around school grounds-an activity not permitted under district guidelines.

Chanting "Poop, poop, butt, pee, all our speech needs to be free," Anderson marched the giggling group across the school playground three times before officers Skeeter Mayhew and Clyde DeBuskey, known collectively as the Podunky SWAT team, arrived and subdued him with tazers, pepper spray, and Snuffy, the unit's half-blind 17-year old K9 enforcement animal.

"We felt it was the only way for us to ensure the safety of those children," said Podunky Chief of Police Snuff Zuckerman. "That, and the boys have been getting itchy to try out them new tasers on someone other than each other. Whoo boy, that sucker looked like it hurt!"

While admitting that the suspect was unarmed during the incident, Zuckerman further defended the use of force by his officers, noting that Anderson has been known in the past to employ a rapier like wit and acid tongue.

"My boys mental well being was at stake right there," Zuckerman said. "That guy could've hurled a pun or epiphet at them, and how would they have defended themselves?"

Anderson was whisked away to an undisclosed Dane County Mental Health facility for evaluation. As he was being straitjacketed and placed into an ambulance, he was heard to shout, "I've got yer bathroom language right here, mother (expletives)."

A district official speculated that Anderson was responding to attempts by school staff to discipline his son, the notoriously potty-mouthed ringleader of a group of profanity-spewing "jackals" who had been, in the officials words, "burning up the ears of the innocent with their frequent use of bathroom language."

"Thou shalt not speak with thy tongue of the devil on these sacred grounds," said Phinneas Jebediah Brown, who has been the district's Dean of Standards for 28 years. "If thouest speaketh aloud of thine private bodily matters, thine tongue shall be besotten with stings as if of 1,000 wasps. It is longstanding district policy."

Zuckerman had scheduled a press conference and pot luck supper "up to the old Buechner place by the stop and go lights" later today to announce whether the village and district would pursue legal action against Anderson.

Anderson has not been a stranger to controversy since moving to Podunky in 2005. He was involved in a well-publicized scrape with a local dental office in November, has publicly disparaged God and the cable company, and took school officials to task following a cancelled field trip last fall.

"Here in Podunky we have a name for a fella like that, and that name is trouble," Zuckerman said. "I'm hoping the DA throws the book at this guy, or at least a heavy glass vase or big rock or something."

I got yer "bathroom language" RIGHT HERE....

I'm surprised it took this long. I almost made it to the end of the year.

Alas, I'm finally enraged at Isaac's school, and in full, hit-the-mattresses belligerent dad mode.

Isaac is an intensely smart, hyper-sensitive 6-year old. While he has no qualms about speaking his mind, he is generally socially gracious and appropriate. Ours is an open and honest relationship. If he does something wrong, he comes clean. He has neither the inclination, nor really even the capacity, to tell lies at this point in his life.

His teacher loves him, and has had nothing but effusive praise for his intelligence and social skills.

Now I'm not so blinded with love for my firstborn that I cannot admit that he can be a wildass screaming hellion on wheels at times. But he is by no means a disciplinary problem. It is usually quite simple to correct his behaviour with a positive suggestion. He gets this.

So imagine my surprise yesterday when he came home with an unsigned form letter in his backpack, informing us in the haughtiest possible tone that he was being disciplined for using "bathroom language" in the lunchroom; and would we please discuss this with him, provide a list of 5 "appropriate topics" for lunchroom conversation, and sign and return the form.

Thus for whatever heinous filth he ostensibly spouted, he was held out of recess yesterday, and will be seated seperately from his friends at lunch today.

Problem is, Isaac has no idea what he said that was wrong. No one told him. They swooped upon him, told him he'd said "something nasty", and made him write his name on the form. And when he told me this, tears in his eyes, I instinctively knew he was telling me the truth.

I must have read the note over a half dozen times, trying to get a handle on it. In my mind, "bathroom language" runs the gamut from "washcloth" to "cocksucker". My guess is, somewhere in the middle; Isaac probably giggled and said something horrible like "poop" or "butt" and some overworked, overzealous lunchroom paraprofessional freaked out and decided to make an example of him.

But since the form is absolutely generic, and no one assumed responsibility for it, I can only assume that to be the case.

As for whose lofty standards he has officially defied, I do not know. Again, they did not tell me, and there is no documented guidance on the matter. I consulted the school district handbook, searching for some definition of "bathroom language" and the corresponding sub-section that lists the resultant mandatory minimum punishment. Alas, there was nothing there.

Did he say "shampoo," "nutsack," or "fuckwad"? Your guess is as good as mine.

After consulting with LSW, I crafted a moderately cheeky response on the back of the note, requesting a definition of "bathroom language." I also pointed out that the generic nature of the note made it difficult for me to really address the specifics of the offense.

I offered a suggestion that the lunchroom staff should really learn to lighten up, and noted that as a parent, I think the whole thing was handled very poorly on the part of mysterious, unnamed school personnel.

Additionally, I'll be joining Isaac for lunch today. And if anyone tries to tell me that we need to sit on the segregated "bad kid" side of the lunchroom, you will probably see me on the news tonight.

In handcuffs. Spouting easy-to-define "bathroom language."

"Get your motherf*cking hands off my godd*mn peanut butter sandwich before I rip off your head and sh*t down your neck, a**wipe!"

Cat Scan Fever

As I lay on my back with some sort of radioactive ink pulsing through a hole in my arm, slowly advancing toward the humming, donut shaped monolith that would in seconds unleash millions of bolts of God-knows-what-exactly into the inner reaches of my delicate human shell, I suppose I should have been focusing on thoughts profound and humble.

Apparently, profound and humble are beyond my reach, even in the most extreme circumstances.

Instead--quite honestly--I found myself wondering why there are no actual cats involved in a CAT scan. Imagine how pleasant that could be! I closed my eyes and pictured lying on the table with a half dozen felines crawling over me, purring gently and eyeballing me in their curious and knowing way.

Afterward, I presume, they'd put their paws onto an ink pad and create some sort of cryptic message on rolled parchment which their mysterious human keeper would translate, passing on a simple, unimpeachable verdict: live or die. The cats have spoken.

By the time this splendiferous vision was complete, the procedure was over, and I was sent on my way to await the (humanly interpreted) results in 2 or 3 days.

Driving home, I recognized that my wildly skewed vision of the medical profession is part of my DNA. My mother--87 years old and suffering from arthritis, the aftermath of multiple debilitating strokes, serious depression, near blindness and the cruel, inexorable onset of dementia--still firmly believes that the practice of medicine is more ancient alchemy or black magic than modern science; and that it can somehow produce a single, magical elixir that will turn back the clock 40 years and ease all her many woes in one fell swoop. Toss together some bat wings and a pinch of ginger root, mutter some old Latin incantation and, presto, good as new.

"Oh, I just wish they'd just give me something," she'll say vaguely after another disappointing doctor visit, wherein, as far as she was concerned, the incompetent mortal did not accurately interpret the sacred book of spells and potions on her behalf.

So today, direct kin to her dizzying old country logic, her son lies on a metal table and considers the healing power and mystical properties of cats. In the vision, most were Siamese, as I recall-arguably the wiliest breed of them all.

I'm not sure where this will all lead, but I'm stocking up on ginger root and Latin pronounciations just to be prepared.

Floss is Boss!

I am an adult. Have been for a number of years.

Yet I'm amazed at the number of times I can still be made to feel like a squirming child.

Good example this morning. I went for my 6-month checkup at the dentist. I don't much like going to the dentist, though not for the same reason that most people don't like it. I don't fear the drill, or the pick, or even the goddamn FM-lite that the hygienists invariably prefer.

No, for me, it's fear of "The Question."

I lay back back in the chair and tense up, waiting for it to come. Sometimes, we get the dance out of the way early. Other times, I have to sit and squirm and sweat until near the very end. Regardless of when it comes, it still comes, every time.

"Have you been flossing?"

The short answer is: no. I don't floss. Never cared for it. I've tried, but there's something I find really grotesque about wrapping my teeth in thread and wrestling it around until it comes out shredded and bloody.

Now, this is not to say I have bad oral hygiene. I do not. I brush several times a day, very thoroughly. If a stray bit of pulled pork or curry chicken decides to linger behind, twisted up between a couple my molars, I will mercilessly eradicate the invader with a sturdy toothpick.

I like having teeth. I have no intention of ending up as a gum-flapping, sunken-cheeked Grandpa Jones.

But I do not floss. I do not like it, Sam I am. I am the Anti-Flosser.

I don't dispute the benefits. I don't deny anyone their God given right to floss. It's just, I've tried it, and I don't like it. It doesn't work for me. It's gross and painful and I usually end up with a little strand of floss stuck in my back teeth that I have to work out with....a sturdy toothpick.

The little slice of wood that could. Note that it's a toothpick, not a strand of angel-hair, mint-flavored floss, that comes with a Swiss Army Knife.

Fine and dandy, that's my position. But can I realistically admit this-straight up-to my hygienist, or my dentist? Tell them while they're lurking over my prone body with sharp metal tools in their hand, interrogation light shining into my eyes, that I have a fundamental distaste for one of the central wellness tenets of their ancient profession?

You're damn right I can't.

Instead, my brain races, searching for a tepid excuse, a mea culpa, the right words of atonement. I can't lie, what with my receeding gums and plaque-coated teeth having ratted me out before I've even had a chance to speak. Yet I can't come clean, can't just up and say, "Christ-on-a-crutch, will you people stop asking me that goddamn question every time I come in here; don't you know by now that I do not FLOSS!?!?"

They might tut-tut me if I do that. And the only thing I like less than flossing is when someone shakes their head at me and says (more or less) "tut-tut."

Like I'm 10 goddamn years old.

So I meekly blurt out some half-truth, along the lines of, "well, I floss OCCASIONALLY..." after which I run on and keep talking myself into an embarassing corner..."I mean, I know I should do it regularly, it's the right thing to do, it is, it really is, I mean you tell everyone this, who questions it unless they're a deranged gargoyle? I should floss and cut down on my sugar but you know you get busy and...."

At which point, the hygienist sighs deeply, hastily makes a note in my file, and roughly shoves the pick and mirror back into my mouth. I slowly hyperventilate, tell myself that it's OK, the question has come, it won't come again for six months, just calm down.......

I am an adult. But sometimes, you wouldn't know it.

This Mortal Coil

Here's a stark look at life after 40:

Inexorably, the Vista medicine cabinet has accumulated a host of prescription medicines, sprays, powders, and potions. Better living through chemicals. Synthetic oils for our decaying human engines. We have unwittingly become our aging parents.

I went to the doctor yesterday. I've been battling a chronic bout of sinusitis/bronchitis seemingly forever, and in an all too typically stoic male way, had pretty much resigned myself to this as a way of life. My holistic, self-prescribed treatment of ibuprofen, cold beer, and a heaping dose of denial had been good enough to keep me modestly comfortable for short stretches.

I already have allergies and asthma that require too much thought and time to manage properly, so adding an extra layer of respiratory distress was simply more than I cared to worry about. It became just another cross to bear, another annoying little blip on daily life, like a dropped cell phone call or an overripe peach.

But even I have my limits, and so, like a naughty schoolboy sent off to the guidance counselor, I broke down and sought professional help. Because, you know, I need more prescription medications in that cabinet.

To make a long story short, after receiving a stern lecture on how A MAN MY AGE needs to take my health more seriously (thanks, doc) I'm on an extended course of powerful antibiotics to hopefully clear this up once and for all.

Oh, and there was also this: my chest X-ray detected abnormally swollen lymph nodes. I'm scheduled for a CAT scan next week.

Now, this could well be a simple reaction to infection. Or, it could mean that I have one foot squarely in the grave, the other resting on a banana peel, and I better think about cleaning my hard drive post-haste.

Either way, this is why I never like going to doctors; they always seem to find something wrong with me.

Sing us out, Johnny.

("The Dirty Mac" perform at the Rolling Stones Rock 'n Roll Circus, December 1968. That's Eric Clapton, John Lennon, Keith Richards and Mitch Mitchell, children. I would argue that there has not been that kind of firepower assembled on a single stage since....)

Stolen Car

I had a dream last night in big bold VistaVision. I generally don't remember my dreams, but this one left its mark.

I dreamt that my sons--who, you may recall, are 6 and 4--stole our car and went joyriding, then hit a deer, and fled on foot.

Most notable was the fact that, upon being informed of this (in the dream) LSW and I merely shrugged as if this were nothing new, and went back about our business with an "oh well, they'll turn up" attitude.

Aside from the admittedly amusing vision of the two jackals at the wheel of my Subaru, I think this reveals a lot about how I subconsciously view my children: conniving thieves who exploit the power in their number to do as they please, when they please. And I am helpless to stop them.

Wait. That doesn't sound like a dream at all. That sounds uncomfortably like real life.

* * *

With baited breath, we sat up late hoping the good folks of Indiana would complete a shocking Obama come-from-behind win and pound the final stake through the Clinton's cold, calculating hearts.

Alas, it was not to be. At least, not yet.

It was interesting watching the immediate post-mortems after Mrs. Clinton's speech to her supporters, in which the MSNBC pundits practically swooned in their attempts to call it a valedictory, and claim she was reaching out to bridge the gap with Obama and start the "healing process."

I saw the same speech, with my own eyes and ears, and saw none of that.

Apparently, Rachel Maddow and I stand alone on this point. She was the only dissenting voice on the panel (predicting "more scorched earth politics"), and while her colleagues were coldly dismissive of her opinion, I thought she was right on.

Vampires are hard to kill. And Hillary is one big, mean vampire. Our garlic necklaces aren't working. She ain't going down until we bring out the torches and good sharp sticks.

* * *

On a note loosely related to both of the above, gas prices here jumped 14 cents per gallon overnight.

Maybe I want to ENCOURAGE the jackals to run off with the Subaru. If they total it, I can spend the insurance money on a hybrid. Oh, and to pay their bail.

Old McVista Had A Farm, EIEIO.....

Sometimes, I wish I were a farmer.

To be up before the dawn, toiling on the land, raising food and making an honest living. Farming is a noble calling; in essence, perhaps the most noble of them all. Being a steward of the earth, providing sustenance for the world. What could be more honorable than that?

Mine is a wholly different oeuvre. I struggle to get up by seven to get the kids out the door for school. Deep down, I'm still 16 years old-if I could get away with it, I'd pull the covers over my head and stay in bed until noon every day. I sit and stare at a computer screen all morning, trying to think of funny or insightful stuff to say and, more importantly, people who might pay me for it. I burn a lot of electricity, drink a lot of coffee and waste a lot of time. No one is getting fed from what I do.

And Willie Nelson is unlikely to host a benefit concert for writers block sufferers anytime soon.

Still, I imagine there are farmers out there who would envy my lot in life. There's little risk of my ever getting kicked by an angry cow, and I don't lose productivity during heavy rains. My lap top doesn't get jammed up, forcing me to reach inside and risk having my arm torn off.

There's more common ground between us than you might realize. Neither of us gets paid diddly squat. And, both farmers and I have to shovel a tremendous amount of shit sometimes. It's just that their's ends up fertilizing the soil, while mine ends up wrapping fish or lining a birdcage.

* * *

A couple of my loyal readers "tagged" me last week. I'm flattered. But after consulting with the Nitro Vista legal department, it's been suggested that I pass. We're still reeling from my recent semi-nude 'Vanity Fair' cover, and my handlers are putting a bit of a muzzle on me as a result.

We simply can't have the flagship of the Nitro franchise embroiled in any more controversy.

I hope you'll all understand.

* * *

We spent much of the weekend toiling in the yard (hence, I suspect, my infatuation with the farming life) and I'm here to report that it looks like we'll have a banner year for for Creeping Charlie and prickers. Dandelions are off to a slow start, but coming along nicely. I 'spect we'll be tending a bumper crop by weeks end. And those spidery vines with the sharp thorns and burrs that stick in the kids hair? Robust and plentiful.

Imagine what I could do with 40 acres!