The Rogue Voice


January 01, 2007

Editor's rant


By Stacey Warde

Anyone who’s spent time in the military knows the bitterness of watching a fellow soldier bang his head against his locker, letter in hand, screeching, “Fucking bitch! She dumped me!”
The best you can do is, tell him to get over it, he’ll get another turn; don’t worry. “Shit, let me see those pictures, anyway.”
So you pull the letter away from the poor bastard and there it is, photos of the new ex posing naked with her replacement boyfriend, flipping the bird, and looking downright mean and evil, and loving it.
And your buddy scrunches his face, contorting himself into all sorts of unnatural positions and states of mind until he looks like he’s about to explode, and all you can think to say is, “Damn, dude, she’s hot.”
“I’ll kill her,” you buddy spits. “I’ll fuckin’ kill her.”
Ah, true love.
That’s the sort of bittersweet love you’ll find in this month’s cover feature, “Love: Part I,” by publisher Dell Franklin. Find out how dreams can be as sour as they are sweet as Jerry Carter and Sally McCormick work out their love knots.
And be ready next month for Sally’s view on how sweet love turns sour in “Love: Part II,” as we follow the twisted linings of Valentine strings and hearts to the very bittersweet end.
In both episodes, you’ll find accompanying poetry from Celeste A. Barron. This month, read her own bittersweet, whimsical reflection, “Smitten,”.
Speaking of Valentines, we decided to try something different. We want to encourage the lovelorn to place their mating calls right here in the pages of The Rogue Voice. If you want to make an appeal to someone who may be just right for you in all his or her roguish beauty, we’re offering you a chance to do that. See the print edition or e-mail us for more details.

You might say we were struck early this year by the love bug. It’s only January and we’ve got more than one story that touches on love.
Rogue newcomer Dennis Cutshaw from Morro Bay tells of a harrowing dive, in which a diver is trapped and gets to thinking about his brother, waiting in the boat above the sea.
He’s been a prick to his brother, the diver realizes, wondering if he’ll ever see him again as he tries to free himself from a watery tomb. Enjoy his powerful account of two brothers who, despite their difficulties, love each other beyond words.
The love of a brother, or a friend, by the way, creates a bond unlike any other. You probably already knew that. But in case you’re wondering, just try to break such a bond and see what happens. We welcome Dennis to our pages and look forward to seeing more of his work.

Being rogues, we like most things that are stacked. We like odds that are stacked in our favor, for example, and we like stacking our racks with fresh stories, poetry and art.
Artist David Settino Scott has his own ideas about things that stack well as you’ll see in his “Stacking” series, which will be appearing in the months ahead.
Check out David’s theory of astronomy and money stacking in our “Letters” section.

We received a report that some Cayucos moms got upset over last month’s cover image of artist Mark Bryan’s “Cyclops Santa.”
Santa, as you know, is that enormous fable parents create to keep their children in line for the three months leading up to Christmas, one of the worst holidays of the year.
“You better behave,” frustrated parents will say, glad to have something to hang over their kids’ naughty little heads, “or Santa’s going to fly right over this house and forget about you.”
It’s one of the most abused and vicious forms of extortion ever invented. And parents, especially Cayucos moms, vehemently defend their right to use it.
Well, apparently the one-eyed Santa on our cover with his toy bag full of gunships, assault rifles and other weapons of mass destruction traumatized a few of the local kiddies. The Cyclops Santa isn’t exactly the kind of guy that kids want sliding down their chimneys at night.
Moms may want to know, however, that lying will do more to traumatize their children than pictures of bad Santas. And those “BLOW THE FUCKERS AWAY!” computer games they give their kiddies for Christmas have probably desensitized them anyway.

More than a few friends of The Rogue Voice last month complained about the change that has come over Cayucos.
What change?
The excessive money and expensive cars and enormous houses built out to property lines where once-modest homes kept yards, gardens and fruit trees—and friendly people.
Now it’s all HOUSE. MONSTROUS GHASTLY GHARISH HOUSES. And the people who live in them—EVEN WORSE.
Yes, Cayucos has changed and twerps like me with no money, no job and no luck live in squalor in the midst of ridiculous, disgusting wealth and personalized license plates. It’s L.A. in the country, Carmel-by-the-Sea-South. It’s definitely NOT Cayucos.
Anyone who has doubts can get another viewpoint on the subject from this month’s Rogue of the Month, Steve Tross, whose attitude can be summed up in the van he drives for his mobile auto service—a former police S.W.A.T. vehicle that he rigged to fix cars and trucks.
He’s an independent S.O.B. and not ashamed to speak his mind on things like the Cayucos makeover brought on by people with little imagination and lots of money, people who don’t know what a home is, but know how to cut corners and maximize profits.
“Property pimps,” he calls them.

With property pimps, comes misery for the poor. Just ask me or Dell, or any of the other folk in Cayucos you know who are scrimping to make ends meet. Most people I know are one paycheck away from the street.
Another Rogue newcomer, Michael Stamper, took off from an evening of driving “McKenna’s Wagon” to feed the hungry homeless in Washington, D.C. to join them in the cold for a sandwich and soup.
His short night on the street, as told in “D.C. wilderness," introduces him to the human side of poverty, madness, misfits and street theater.
Michael discovered us on a pass through the area before returning to his home in Melbourne, Florida, where he lives with his wife and writes. We’re pleased to have Michael with us and to introduce his story of rogues from the other side of the country.

Nothing grates quite like the sound of two vicious women screeching at each other.
Even men wince.
On a cold and wet New Year’s evening, a cab is worth its weight in steel, and not everyone’s gonna fit in one cab. So, you’re likely to see fisticuffs and jousting between bombshells fighting over limited rides on the street.
You’d think these beauties, dressed in low-cut dresses, showing off their feminine curves and wiles, wouldn’t have any problem getting a ride. But some do, and when they do, watch out! They’ll fight to the death, saying the most despicable things, until someone steps in and puts an end to it.
Cabby Dell Franklin writes about one of the worst but strangely most reliable cabs in the cabbie arsenal, the “A” cab (no longer in commission), which will never die but you never know when the radio, defogger and interior lights are going to work.
Dell recounts an amusing and painfully delicious New Year’s night, one most of us would try to avoid, in “Rainy New Year’s Eve in the ‘A’ cab.”

I guess all the drama and pain you’re likely to find in these pages could be avoided, if you just learned “THE SECRET,” one of the dumbest movies ever made.
If you don’t know THE SECRET, I’ll tell you: Don’t go near this movie, don’t waste your breath, another thought, or even a butt wipe on it. It’s not in the theaters for good reason. Its genius is only this: A lot of suckers like me got duped into watching it. It promises any dream, reality or tropical vacation you could ever wish for.
Tired of pain and misery?
All you have to do is learn the LAW OF ATTRACTION. That’s THE SECRET. That’s right, you create your own reality and attract everything that comes into your life.
The sad reality is, there’s some truth to this but it’s packaged in the hideous color of EGOMANIA, including the usual brew of greed, self-inflation, and desperation.
Do you want money? Just attract it with your thoughts; pussy, just dream the word, and it’s yours.
THE SECRET is a real burner—a nice way of saying this film should be torched; it’s full of the poisonous thinking that makes American culture so odious.
The “experts” shown in the film are the same sort of snakeoilers who sold us “Iraqi Freedom,” and “spreading democracy through police action, terrorism, and unilateralism.”
THINK, AND GROW RICH? Think, Dick Cheney and Halliburton. Think, Jesus Christ, these assholes have gotta go.
The best thing about THE SECRET is that it helps us identify the people to be most avoided in life. Give me the D.C. wilderness, love across the lake, a wet night in a taxi cab—anything but THE SECRET. §

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