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“Parting Words from Moristotle” (07/31/2023)
tells how to access our archives
of art, poems, stories, serials, travelogues,
essays, reviews, interviews, correspondence….
The battle is over
By Roger Owens
For the greater part of a year, my wife, Cindy, and I have been dancing with the Devil as we battled the specter of her breast cancer. I include myself, because all caregivers to cancer patients should be included, for the perfect reason that it is our battle as well. No less than a war correspondent or an unarmed medical corpsman is subject to the same enemy fire as any soldier, are those of us who care for cancer victims we love vulnerable to the destruction of the afflicted. Arguably the greatest war correspondent of modern times was Ernest Taylor “Ernie” Pyle, and that great soul was killed at the very end of the war in the Pacific, at the battle of Ie Shima (eeyayshima), at a time when the area was believed to be safe. Pyle was speaking to a regimental commander when enemy machine-gun fire ended his storied life. We all take risks, and losing a friend in combat is as common as dirt.
The long march
By Roger Owens
Much is written about the vagaries of war, the battles, the heroism, but I have chosen today to focus on some of the more mundane realities of war. Mainly, the constant marching, the privation, the drudgery. Earnest Taylor Pyle was maybe the most widely-known war correspondent in the modern era, and a perusal of his columns, such as “Digging and Grousing,” reveals some of that odious, behind-the-scenes labor without which wars could not be fought. (I know; we can only wish it were so odious that wars were not fought, but there you have it.) “Digging out here in the soft desert sands was like paradise…the ditch went forward like a prairie fire…a plain old ditch can be dearer to you than any possession on Earth.” (E. Pyle, 1943)
The lighter side of cancer
By Roger Owens
Attention on deck. Our interim action report today will start with a subject near and dear to my heart: boobs. That’s right, titties. Tatas , tits, bazoomas, gaboonzas, breasts, bosoms. The top hamper, headlights, hooters. Jugs, melons, cans, knockers, yabbos, tetas grandes! I like ’em. Love them in fact. I like to look at them, see them move, touch them. Most guys do. Guys have code to talk about them when their wives are present: “Look at the nuts on that dog,” to a buddy, refers to a fine set going by at the mall when the wife might not appreciate a more direct comment. Even gay guys can appreciate a shapely rack. Some guys like them so much they want to get a pair for themselves, and, thanks to modern medicine, they can have them!
The other shoe
By Roger Owens
In 1861, before the start of hostilities in the American Civil War, both sides held their fantasies, those delicate, oh-so-vulnerable baskets into which we are forevermore enjoined by our mothers never to put all of our eggs. The Johnnies said the Union boys didn’t have the sand for one real fight, let alone a real war. They didn’t have the honor, the pride that would sustain the Southerners through the few months it might take to kick those invaders from the sacred soil of Dixie. The Union fellows told each other they had the vast advantage in manufacturing, which would provide the railroads, the cannon, the powder and shot and food and horses and rifles, and those Rebs wouldn’t have a chance. Many of the Union boys were from the cities, and they saw themselves as legion. How many Rebs could there be, after all? Just a bunch of farm boys. Neither side listened to their mothers, as so many generations have not, to their everlasting regret. So, as the shooting started, each side marched smartly off to disaster, figurative baskets of eggs clutched uselessly in their hearts and minds.
By Roger Owens
In Windows 10, you hold the power button down for 15 seconds, then release. Press it again and begin tapping “F11,” until you see the boot menu. You select “Troubleshoot” from the menu, and then click “Advanced Options.”
By this point you feel a little smug; that feeling gamers report when “reaching the next level,” that sort of thing. You are now confronted with options including one known as “System Restore,” and when you click on that, you get to chose from a few dates in the not-too-distant past at which time, in your fondest dreams, your system had not been corrupted by God only knows what virus, power surge, plague, disaster, war, famine, or election gone awry that might have had illicit cyber-congress with your hard drive and impregnated it with some vampiric succubus.
