The real reason they burnt them witches or, "Subsequently Toast'

                               Those familiar with my online writing know that I began writing a fairly common media/net blog and in time gravitated to the questions of technologies impact on societies and people. After several years I came up with a model that seemed to generate data that matched that of the real world.

                                     However true this may have been I realize now that all my efforts were struck superfluous because of a fatal flaw. Being convinced of my own intellectual superiority I did not give a damn whether anyone read the stuff, or understood it.   

                 Incomprehensibility seemed to be not my problem. But now, after starving and going cold and hungry more times then I care to remember I've changed my ways. Oh I still don't care whether you understand this – but it is now of vital importance that you pay me large sums of money. 

 

Not for selfish reasons do I make this request, but for the good of the world. When I think of how you can do this I'll let you know but for now, readiness is all.

Getting back to the show..

                        Technology empowered a few in the beginning and the rest, to a lesser extent, over the long run.

What I probably did not stress enough was the notion that when natural processes are confronted with technological pressures there is often a complete breakdown of the original, organic, system. A good example of this is the origin of the great American dust bowl in the nineteen thirties.

                                              It had been for millennia the great American Prairie, a place where a top soil a few inches think held together enough moisture to feed first the Buffalo for the Indians and then the cattle drives for the cowboys. In the twenties it was converted to “Quick wheat” farm as and by the thirties it was the home of some of the most nightmarish dust storms ever to hit the planet.

It is not only plants that do not respond to over utilization, humans do not as well. A good example of this is the British industrial revolution where overcrowding, overwork and poor sanitary conditions lead to epidemic diseases.

                                          In the Capitalist model this doesn’t happen because the workers, faced with the negative stimuli of death and suffering, would move out – this, of course begs the question when it is the employers best interest to see to it that such a thing never happens.

                            In other words while in the ideal the worker sits down and rationally decides whether to work in place A or Place B, in the real world his choices are somewhat more limited.

In socialism the case is not much different. There instead of capital being the determinant it is the central committee what is essential is that in neither case is it the worker. The worker rather serves circumstance and opportunity, which in turn are factored by technology.

                                And another way to look at market determination is to disregard both the capitalist and the central committee and consider a wider context. Not ever capitalist is a heartless exploiter and there are those who would wish away hard times, but it cannot be done.

To place this in terms of a cruel joke the fat and ugly girl rarely gets a date despite her abilities as a cook and sense of humor, where as the pretty girl does regardless of her social flaws.

     

                             Now to the subject of todays missive. In Salem Massachusetts, in the seventeenth century, under the gavel of judge Hathorne, Nathanial Hawthornes grandfather, several people of various age and sex were burned alive at the stake for the crime of witchcraft. The laws mandating the use of this punishment were explicit and long standing and had been around for hundreds of years. In other parts of the colonies the use of hexes, spells, and incantations were recognized as criminal punishable offenses and could lead to time in the goal.

                                    The reason why this happened has been debated many times. Some claim the cause was organic, a form of ergot on rye bread – nonsense – it has never occurred again. Others like to suggest s degree of sexual frustration. Again, why then? Besides which, the Puritans were pure in some ways but fairly liberal in their sexual relations. It was considered the norm for instance for a couple to sleep together prior to marriage to see if their sexual attraction was mutual.

                                 Realizing the burning at the stake is now rare, we may seek an equally rare cause. My study of criminal justice has led me to the believe that our use of punishment is a dark vestigial holdover from and equally dark and unenlightened era. The use for lynching for instance had much more symbolic use then practical. It was mean to “scare the blue devils away.”

                         In truth much of what masquerades as justice is superstition meant to say to the devil “We don’t like you.”

                     (Suffice to say as to whether the devil actually hears I will leave to the theologians to decide.)

                                 Sometime justice is just vengeance given an acceptable outlet. Sometimes, whether fair or not we fight to preserve a good thing. On a larger scale we beg of God to intercede for us and to help us. We pay God via sacrifice, usually someone elses.

 

                     The Salem story is simple when understood.

                             English history goes like this. There’s the dark ages which end in the coming of cities and William the Conqueror, then comes the plague which wipes out a sizable portion of the population , then comes a period of a labor shortage when peasants could in effect, name their salaries, then came the central state when gradually year by year the government took  back wealth via taxes and such.

                            The Puritans choose this time to go to America where land was cheap and food was plentiful and there were no king’s men making sport with the daughters. All was good for awhile, until the secular humanists of the day decided they wanted in on the action. The Puritans lived inland, farmed, and spent all day Sunday in prayer. The new comers drank and sang songs and worst of all danced in public! Even worse then that it became obvious that here were a lot of newcomers, a seemingly endless supply.

                                        And what if the Germans should hear of the new Paradise? Even worse the Italians (who everyone knew breed like mice?) And why had God, who had a special place in his heart for White anglosaxon protestants turn his back  on his chosen people?

There could be only one answer. Remember these folks were not worldly – they considered worldliness a sin, a crime, the road to hell even. The answer had to be that their society had been betrayed by witchcraft. Yes the purveyors of evil were among the flock and as we would burn away a cancer so it was decided to burn away the cancer of demonology.

                         The real tragedy and the one that continues to this day is the so called witches bought into the argument. I don’t want to hurt any ones feeling or insult anyone’s god but there is no devil –hence no effective witch craft. The issue has been settled.

                          I am tired. I am tired both literally and figuratively. Once again though we must state that courage is of vital import if one is to survive in these ignorant and superstition ridden times.

                   The people who died did so because the fear of being alone was greater then the fear of death. C’mon let’s give death it’s due. Some say it’s not the worst thing that could happen. But it’s bad enough.

    Yet, in the final analysis it was a economic thing, you see. and like most attempts to influence the gods of commerce it was an excessive in futility

                Uh we like think ourselves civilized but game of life knows no such rules . You are savages, as likely to exterminate a whole race or religion as to light a candle.

              It's all a matter of pushing the right button.












a

Krazy Kat's Po Jamas People

                            Although America’s great contribution to the arts has long been recognized as Jazz music, and there’s never been a major American painter there have been several major illustrators.

              Some suggest that it is incumbent on capitalism to dumb down art - to make it comprehensible to the masses, to keep the cost of production down and most importantly to deny the masses the universal truths that might inspire them to cast off their chains and toss the overlords into the bottomless pit of hell. They point to television as an example of this. The US has been in a depression for thirty years but would guess from watching television. 

           Nevertheless   starting in the present and going back in time there’s “Pop” Art with Warhol and Liechtenstein, artist that removes the concept of skill from the creative process. In the thirties there was Disney and The Flieshman Bros. animators of radically different visions. And in the years 1900 to 1920 there was Gardener McKay, best known for Little Nemo in Slumberland and George Herriman known for “Krazy Kat”

                  Herriman was a Midwesterner who came east and got his start in Coney Island drawing billboards. He was surreal even before the term was invented. The main characters are a “Kat” of indeterminate sex who is in love with a mouse, “Ignatz” who responds by throwing bricks at the Kat (Much in the style of a Zen Master.)   The third major character is “Offisa Pup” a none too bright police dog who insists on preserving Kat’s virtue despite all her desires to shed it.

               Herriman was a favorite both of the  French surrealists and even Pablo Picasso.

                                                   Kat speaks in a Yiddish dialect  and in addition all of them speak in a strange patois that borrows from the then contemporary minstrel shows and even cowboy slang.

                          Quite often no one knew what the strips were about. They were considered part of the “Flapper” culture along with cigarettes and bootleg liquor. Stylish collegians would meet in “Krazy Kat Klubs” to imbibe such stimulants and other things on occasion.

                   In some regards it can be compared to the R. Crumb comix in the late 20^th Century

 

Post Revolutionary blues

                        Here’s a story of something that happened to me yesterday. It may seem trivial but it may also reveal how the greatest evil cloaks itself in a mantle of goodness and purity, much like the devil himself, who dons his priestly vestments as he introduces innocence to his domain.

              In explanation as well I remind the reader that while the obscure, the contested, and the elaborate may be stated with little risk of contradiction (especially if no one knows or cares what you are saying) to see that which is right in front of your face is never easy for reasons too serious to mention here.

                    This can be reduced to the axiom- “It takes a genius to see the obvious.” Picasso said it took him a lifetime to paint like a child. It has taken me forty years to speak of my own experiences.

                          Over the years I’ve gotten into the habit of logging on from different places. The origin of this is at least as much necessity as convenience. Beerfarts would not ordinarily be4 my choice as an idea; website – but it has grown on me, and I admire the effort that some of you put into posting on topics that, at the least, effect us all.

                           I  am at present living in a small academic community. I had remembered it from many years ago as safe – but my criteria for safety seems to have undergone a sea change. Is it the world which has changed - or is it I? That is the great question each of us must ask. This seemed so mellow, so laid back. Now there is an edge to it - one that is by no means pleasant.

I                recall my first impression three years ago. It was the downside of the last economic fiasco which, as always, seemed to hit Long Island particularly hard. And in coming north to the woods I felt like Boccaccio or some other medieval poet retiring to the forest to escape the plague. Maybe that wasn't so off base after all. Maybe the difference between twenty years ago and now is everyone else is living in the fear – the fear that their little hideaway will be discovered by the hoi polloi.

                        As I said Beerfarts is not my number one thing to do. The trajectory of many an artists life is to be a success at thirty, then take that as encouragement, and then to go steadily down hill from there.

                                The reason why can be easily explained. It is not how you say something that gets you paid – It’s what you say. At thirty one is stupid enough to be led around by the nose, as time goes by we get obnoxious, set in our ways and convinced that we know better then the man who writes the checks, Result? Poverty.

                            Thus while polite white (and now black) men send off their intense missives from “the sun room”, or “the breakfast niche”, my intense missives are sent off from the public library, or the local “all the coffee you can drink for a dollar” hamburger joint.

                             Lest I appear unrighteous I wish to God I knew what magic words would result in being paid, what bandwagon to jump aboard. Only recently has it begun to occur to me that there are gatekeepers who’s sole occupation is making sure people like me - you know, ethnic’s , mixed breeds, not our kind of people, decidedly do *not* climb aboard despite our stated willing ness to ignore “the facts”..

                                    Ah, the facts. So I had a few lines blurb style that I thought would fit in to the ranting section. It was short and nonsensical. I’m using the wi-fi over by the large print books in the library. I boot the index page, which as always has a tasteful nude. To me a naked woman is not the end of the world. I’ve seen them, even touched them and what is more a photograph is not the real thing.

                               There are, after all, around the world, countries where the sight of a woman's breast is not considered sinfull nor even a step to sexual perversity. The United States is not one of these countries, apparently.

                                 What can I say? Over the years I’ve become somewhat blase’ about the subject. I hardly notice, but there are other’s who do not feel the same way. In Europe a topless beach is attended by children and they do not become traumatized, but I’m not in Europe I’m in the backwoods of New York State where they ride around in four by fours and brush off long hairs at fifty mph and think it’s hilarious if you fall down. We're talking about rednecks blowin off freaks  - something that was supposed to have ended with Easy Rider.   It's seems in these tough times to had a resurgence.

                                 Back to our story - When I attempt to load in the Beerfarts cover page it’s a little slow, all I get is the text, and I wait and wait, a few minutes go my and I decide I’ll use the regular cable connected computers to log on, since I need to do some printing anyway. Hence I walk over to the other computer station.

                              I just about log in and boot up that version of the web site when I’m aware of a man in back of me. His head looks like a red radish and he’s waving his hands and jumping up and down. What’s double weird is he is so conditioned as to never disregard the sanctity of library silence so he’s screaming quietly.  “I want you out!”

                      I don’t know at first what he’s talking about. I had thought that he was someone that was marginally retarded and was given a no work job at the library as result of his parents contributing to the local political party, He had never really said much, leastwise to me. That may be true but actually he’s the librarian and it is a hot day and he is very upset, he has seen the devil's daughter and boy is he pissed.

                        I try to explain that they should not get the wrong idea, that it was just a cover page and I apologized profusely. As the expression goes – I need this gig - I count my pennies. But it was not good. The man was apoplectic. He could barely get the words out of his mouth. What would this poor bastard tell his mother when he went home for his meat and potatoes?  

“I caught one ! I caught one! Jesus Christ I caught a pervert!”

                    And so this dinky headed inbred with his community college education finally summoned up the courage to approach me after three years of smarmy hand wringing and what does he say?

                         “There’s children present!”

I could not argue with that.

This was not the time to argue. Librarians are not known for being champions of free speech after all.

                   Later on I found myself thinking back to the days when I worked in Criminal Justice. There’s ws a show called “Miami Vice” which was a misnomer. Actually it should have been Miami Narcotics, or Miami Homicide, ( in reality there certainly was enough of those), but Vice? No America is too puritanical a country to deal with that. For puritanical read “Childish”, because that’s what I was dealing with this afternoon.

                         The chap was offended because he had seen a picture of a naked lady and so be blushed . Well he should of I suppose – I wonder what in his shame filled soul the voices told him to do?

                            I never worked Vice. Nobody liked to work Vice. Prostitution is an ugly thing not because the woman sells her body, which is bad enough, but the process by which women are encouraged, finessed and massaged into become whores is an ugly thing.

                             Crooks are not dumb, neither are pervs. Lower class thieves seek targets of opportunity, but upper class one will, attend auctions, charity events, and so one because they obvious want to see where the money is.

                                A truly disturbed mind has all the time in the world to workout it’s plans for satisfaction. I will find a way so that it can come into constant contact with the object of it’s desire and no one can dare suggest he is other then a saint. He can become a youth counselor, a priest, a teacher, a store owner who’s good appeal only to children.

                             There’s a saying to the effect that we ought judge a man not so much by what he does as by what we doesn’t do. I must say, some of the cops I got to know were very good at interrogation - and often they were interrogating you when you didn’t even know it.

                               In psychoanalysis one technique for getting the patient to open up is to notice those subjects that the patient doesn’t like to talk about and approach them tangentially. What does the average cop do? He goes by instinct. He just mentions a subject casually. If the response is minimal he let’s ity go, but is the response is nervous. or sometimes even explosive. I don’t miss the work. Unless you are extraordinarily stable it’s easy to take the work home with you like one long chess game after another.

I                             n fact I came to this small town to get away from all that. Conan Doyle, in the voice of Sherlock Holmes, was quite right. Statistically you are more like to be the victim of a crime. In the city, but for the unspeakable wickedness, the sheer evil you must go to the small town. That’s where you find schoolteachers skinning their pupils and father’s who shoot their whole family and then themselves.

                          Any connoisseur of crime will tell you it is the long years of isolation in the otherwise empty countryside that breed the most vicious diseases.

But I love the countryside. I love the mountains. I love the clear blue skies. And I love not getting hassled by speed freaks. Still one must take caution. Where ever we walk we must watch our steps.

Because sin hangs heavy on the borderline and the biggest sinner is likely to throw the biggest stone, first.

The Hour of the Evolution

-*The HOUr of the evolution*/n.

;It seem like more an more people are gra-sdj f  ²Û

Û² Name: CORE MAFIA ²Û

Û² Serial because you know you don’t was as Û² ²Ûbecause ypou dpn’t wana get excwuded from what’s realy happening.

                                   The Tamlinmediaco has been on;ine sionce july 1995. Eighteen years. In the past, periodically I’d review the various iterations every few years of so, but I’ll resist that yemptation today.

                         Suffice to say, given our remit, there were some dodgy moments and these moments of risk have not ceased to appear. It was the blues musician, “Son” House who put it succinctly.

                            “I’m gwine git me religion

                              I’m gone jine the Baptist Church 2x

                            Ahm gone become a Baptist Preacher

                             so I don’t have to work.”

 

              Actually Son, if I’m not mistaken. also was a Pullman Porter. He was the carry bag man on the railroad. But there is a subset of the blues culture comprised of those torn between the paths of righteousness and the lures of Satan, Prince of the Earth.

Oh dear me. What’s a po’ child do do in the snar e of de debble?                        Who is the devil? The Israelis know and the arabs do too.  

              The devil is a woman. Why else would a self respecting businessman leave his wife and family for a chick younger then his daughter? Because she’s the devil.

              And the devil , like the gods we find more acceptable, promises eternal life. Sex is part of it but the bigger part of it is the gul maketh the toad as a tadpole. She makes him feel young. He tied of himself.

                            He has learned the game – pretty much he has learned how to play – how to cheat the corners – how to take advantage of the innocent - how to hide his winnings; how to say just enough to lead the sucker on. But not so much as to create actual obligations. All this our win boy has learned - but it’s not enough – it’s not enough to wash the blood off his hands.

                                        And so he falls in love.

                                          Isn’t that wonderful?

But think of it from the wife’s perspective. She has a lifetime invested in loving this dude. For her the oddsof a younger lover are not on the map. And what does he say?

“I’m sorry. I just don’t love you anymore…

               If a man if willing to do this, for the sake of his c@ck, do you really think he’s going to be faithful to you?

I suppose he might attempt to convince you this is so- that he is interested in the higher, more ethereal truths. Classically the story they give out is “I didn’t really love my first wife” and in fact there’s many cases where the second wife does have more in common with tubby then the first.

                           Okay let’s make a quantum leap through the singularity to beyond the looking glass.

               Once upon a time there was a kid from Brooklyn. People from that part of New york city, especially the white ones, tend to be of mixed ethnic heritage, because there’s so many different neighborhoods packed so tightly. Like most, in time he moves to suburbia.

                         He wants to make a life for himself but he soon discovers he has no avenues of admittance to the fabled corridors of power. (It was C.P.Snow who coined the phrase incidentally.)

He decides he needs an act, a premise, some bizarre story that will set him apart from Joe Blow. He takes the name of his favorite TV character and calls himself the Alien Life Form.

                     Alf is something like an American version of Thedoctor – emphasis on the definitive article, mates. He knows he’s not educated, he has no connections, let alone talent in any field. All he has is a hunger. Unlike most stars though he knows what his hunger is. It is a hunger to be loved – to be thought a part of society.

                      He imagines a best friend, sort of a Tom Sawyer fellow, a rich Wasp, and names him Tamlin. The story evolves. Other characters come an go. TheALF has seen him himself as waiting for someone to take him out of his miserable life for so long we begin to believe he has begun to believe his cover story himself. And he seems to know things. His understanding seems to make sense.

                            Other things happen. Call it coincidence or call it luck but

TheALF seems to have slightly prophetic abilities, nothing specific but disturbing anyway. What is more we begin to get hints that something happened in ALF’s life that shattered his sense of who his was – something so awful that afterwards he could never be the same person again.

                       The years go by. The parallels between the ALF and Tamlin and Zonker and Doonesbury are made explicit. The web page comments on the developing web. I comments on the fact that the big companies seem little interested in moving things along – quite the opposite.

                   The page is published on the average three times a week. The hope was to create an ongoing novel – one that would interact with current events and at the same pursue it’s own plot action.

Then disaster strikes. A major motion picture is made about an average guy who thinks he comes from outer space.

                               Main character also has curious abilities. Main character seems to have suffered traumatic incident which provoked break with reality.

Of course we have to get idea from somewhere and to prove these things is very difficult, but it hurt, and I stopped doing it. And in some honesty a part of the reason why was when I have a major idea about how to do something I want to work it in it’s fullest and most complete way. Frankly I am not interested in what some clutz thinks of my idea.

                                                                          I was furious at first but later, much later cooled down. The movies I think was called Starman or something. Ironincally the actor in it established a firm online that would “Review” other peoples scripts. What a haughty bastard. Is that like “Droit de seignior? “

                               Another case I want to work up a product that would be sort of an online whole earth catalog only mixed together with “The Medium is the Massage” by McLuhan and Quentin Fiore. At the same time I’m in correspondence with a nationally syndicated television critic. I’m not a heavy tv watcher, nor am I what is commonly called a media critic. Although I went in depth into the Time Warner story before the buyout – wondering why TW was sitting on it’s hands.

My actual main hobby is the effects of technology on myth, or how we succumb to the technological myths in the absence of religious or social ones.

                     Anyway though here I was trying to develop a product, one which would benefit from it’s association with a relatively big name. Plus in the 80’s there was some commotion on CD-Roms and Director coding – which went no where because the speed was too slow and the amount of data limited. I felt that with compression and online thingy could work. Obviously the difficulty with anything like this is the revenue stream but that could be worked with. Other aspects you don’t need to know about.

           So I’m writing these “Quarterly reports” which are essential blueprints or flow charts of the greater project and they have sections which would have comment one by me – the idiot, ishtam, then a photo or two or a movie, then the rational explanation by the wiseold man with the famous name.

                               Much of it was current events (that old standby) but one section I was excited about was a letter from a sensitive new jersey Mafioso who is complaining to his don about the Russians moving in and this and that, and really what he wants is someone to talk too who understands him.

To this end he’s going to engage a “bookwriter person” as an amanuensis. His correspondent, uncle Nick (the devil) tells him to sit tight and he’ll be visiting the little guy soon.

                       In fact the reason I am writing this today is because the actor who played Tony Soprano died this week at 51. God the dude was so young, huh? This is a case where I saw the thing but I don’t know If I could have done . I’m part Italian and am so tired of seeing the portrayal of Italians as mobsters.

                        Would we accept the portrayal of other ethnic groups in this way? And Italian American directors know that if they want to make money they got to bring out the deese and don’ts. Long ago ethnic humor, mostly dialect driven, was okay – we’re speakin 1900 – 1930. The audience was largely immigrants.  

   

               I saw several episodes however, never being completely comfortable. I would have felt better if a sizable contribution were made to some fund sending Italian Americans to college.

                        The critic begged off saying the Sopranos was about family. That’s a lot of bullshit.. That’s like saying Stephen Fetchit is a comic character - he is but that’s not the whole story.

In conclusion one can only say caveat emptor. Justice is slow and clumsy. And I know I’ve nicked more then my share of musical ideas – indeed practically every song I write owes something to some other song.

                                  I for one think that more of the things done “on spec” are heeded then we are aware off – yes they get tossed in the round file but not before they get reviewed to see which way the wind is blowing.

                              There are not that many saints in the world.

                        I had a good friend named Al, he was a shrink with multiple degrees. You realize that an artist such as myself, we begin in childhood and in some regards we retain that connection to youth though out our lives. It’s like being born a king. You just always have it as part of you. It cannot be severed.

But death is who knows where and only a fool forgets that. What I remember Al saying to me was “keep on going,” and so I say the same thing to you in whatever you do.

Keep on Going

And long live the revolution

   addendum:  don't like wearing my professorial cap but as to "La Mer" a toon covered by Bobby Daren. Bobby did some nice things   but he began as a Vegas Act   and did not  do justice to this song

             "La Mer"  (the Sea) was written in 1946, by Charles Trenet, a homosexual who also wrong "I wish you love" among many other french standards.  I keep insisting that  no song, no person, no love can be properly understood without a knowledge of it's context and context can not be put into words!   Joy, tears, sorrow, strength  these thing cannot be communicated via any verbal language.

     In short the tune should be played slowly and solemnly  to indicate that one is aware of the reality within the illusion

             La Mer is about the endless.   both the nation and the man we may suggest knew what sorrow was. France had suffered a humiliating  defeat in the second world war  and had to be rescued by "le roast beef's"

and yet she had to go on. I recall one time  Sigmund Freud and his father were walking the streets of Vienna and some gentiles came along and Sigmunds father, as was the custom, stepped into the gutter to allow the gentiles to pass. Sigmund was furious.  He was not a weak man. Several of his sons were soldiers  who advanced to become officers in the  Austrian Army ( and then to be cast out of the country in the 30's)

    but life goes on    - there are levels of human  ugliness I daresay we never experience   - cruelty beyond imagining   - sorrow without cause     pain with out end till death brings release.

            But let no one judge you but yourself

more fun with dogs on holidays pt 2

Axe me my pinion bout itand there’s one food stuff we absolutely one hunnerd percent must not even think of at all cutting back on at all. The pro cat conspiracy naturally does not agree with me and is spreading already in this day an age vicious rumbas.

In a effort to set the record straight then we mush proceed. And therefore let us go forward with the most extreme case. I was over my friend Mikes house. He’s a good catholic and has never been known to sin without great remorse - which makes him a good test subject. We was in his kitchen when I noticed that the blender was filled with a yellowish fluid and appeared to have the paw opf a cat sticking out the top.

“Michael” I said, “What have you done?” At fust he looked innocent like but in a few second he broke out to a big wide wicked grin.

“I like ‘em raw” he said.

“Sure,” I said, “a little cat sushi never hurt one, but yo got the paws and every thin and who knows what da what da what dem paws……been walking on.”

Mike didn’t say nothing. He just acted like he was considering what I had said. Serious like. You know.

“And there’s that cat brain fever you gots to bile the brains udderwise they releases chemicals!”

Then as if to emphasize the awesome gravity and synchronicity of the situation a cats floated up against the blenders side an looked right at Micheal. It’s wasn’t angry or vengeful.

It was beyond those sort of considerations, IT was like it said “I’ll get you sucker if it takes a million years.”

It’s like my momma used to say “ALF, there’s three things to thing on when eating,. You gotta cook your food, you gotta chew your food and you gotta know where your food comefrom.

Be it a gumbo, a ratatuie, a cat kabob or just fried cat flanks theres no excuse for failure to properly prepare this all American favorite - Wild cat stew.

It’s easy, It’s fun and it’s delicious

If you’re ina hurry you chop off the head firgt, otherwise you skin the cat. Most people find the legs a little gamey]]]]]]]Policy Statement. So they can be chopped off too., Then you take out the insides – the heart, the lungs, the stomach etc and you wash the carcass down with salty water.

What I like to do personally is let the cat meat soak in cold salty water over night, but that’s not necessary. Take yer taters too, cut them into one inch square cubes and then soak them in water for between one to three hours.

Place the vegetable in where the belly would be, put a quarter inch of peanut oil in the pan, add garlic and salt and pepper to taste and cook at 350 degrees for about fifty minutes. Times vary. The recipe itself has many variations. Some like strips of bacon strips wrapped around it others like[cheese.

& Don’t throw away them legs just yet – next week we go to the barbe –Q!