STREWNFIELDS

2014-02-07T17:34:00.001-08:00

I made a decision to convert my Granny Lynch satire series into a screenplay. That is what I am working on now. I will complete Strewnfields after that project is completed.

2013-06-08T04:20:00.000-07:00

Strewnfields series will resume in the Fall of 2013. Thanks for your patience.

04/19/01

2012-05-26T04:09:00.000-07:00

Looks like Timothy McVeigh will go to his death in a few weeks denying other conspirators were involved in the Oklahoma City bombing. I read a quote from a psychologist that said McVeigh may be driven to take complete credit for the bombing even though it may have involved an unidentified group of others because this boosts his notoriety, feeds his need for attention through martyrdom. The shrink criticized that if other conspirators were involved, their discovery will be made all the more difficult once McVeigh is gone. I guess we’ll never know if Clean Phil was John Doe #2 or not. He certainly looks just like the composite sketch of the mystery person. Nobody really knows where Phil was this day in 1995, so I guess his strange resemblance to the sketch still gives rise to thoughts that he had something to do with what happened. It doesn’t help that Maddy swears she saw Phil earlier that April on the campus on the University of Oklahoma. She said when she called out, the person she thought was Phil ran off in a hurry as if to avoid her. Of course the government went back on itself and said John Doe #2— whoever the hell he was, they care not to learn— was not related to the case at all, that he was essentially injected into the investigation by mistake. But you have to wonder if they took that tact for the sake of tidiness. And besides, if McVeigh was willing to let the whole thing fall on him, why would the Government want to have any loose ends dangling that might change the culpability question and jeopardized their chances of frying the fucking bastard? Just what the fucking world needs right? Another fucking conspiracy theory. When Porch Rot let me go through Phil’s room and poke through his shit I thought for sure I might find something that might link Phil to what happen in Oklahoma City. I’m relieved to say I found nothing of the sort. Don’t get me wrong— it’s a good thing. Still when you have a thought like that floating around in your head for so long, it still seems hard to put it completely to rest. I still have this thought Phil was a person in the mold of a Timothy McVeigh or a Unabomber— that he may have been capable of great destructiveness without necessarily being noticed this way initially. He was quite bent on anarchy really if you read his writing and he was really quite clever too to be able to carry out a complicated plan. And of course the entities that governed the universe sanctioned anything he did. Fucking alien space creatures. Good fucking gracious.

04/18/01

2012-05-26T04:06:00.000-07:00

I tried to get sex this morning but was shot down without much explanation. I told Phebe right after that I wanted my guns out of Stash Skimington’s house. I told her I wanted them given over to Percy for safekeeping. She just started laughing. What, Percy gonna take up shooting little furry animals now in addition to playing cricket and tea drinking? I filled up with jealous anger all of a sudden. I just sort of went back in time to when we were teenagers fucking in the hay. I was on top of Phebe’s sister prematurely ejaculating with my noodle barely wet while Stash Skimington continued to pound himself noisily into Phebe like he could stay at it for a week. I always thought I liked Phebe’s sister better. Vera was always prettier than Phebe and had bigger tits, but when I finally had my chance to pork her, my mind somehow got all caught up in how Phebe was being taken care of nearby bent over the hay bale. All I wanted to do was pork Phebe after that. That’s all I could think about. Shouldn’t have written all that. Fucking pornography! The guns go to Percy’s, that’s all there is to it! Then I’ll go over there to see Stash then! Phebe says with attitude. I don’t want that fucker putting his mitts on anything that belongs to me! So then I go to Swami’s place on Montgomery Street to dig. I’m down about 4 feet in the hole and what do I dig out? A fucking antique Victorian Era dildo made out of carved ivory. Fucking thing’s almost a foot long! Swami announced he was utterly and completely astonished: A splendid most unexpected discovery of a lingam! How much do you think it’s worth? Oh, my, to the right person, this could be priceless! We had cricket practice later in the day. Fauntleroy seemed down in the dumps. He said Betty’s family came into his apartment while he was away and cleaned him out of most of his belongings. You could tell he’s having a tough time right now. Percy really didn’t need me to talk to him about letting Percy run the show. Fauntleroy didn’t seem to want to be there today really. I got home Phebe had Cinnamon Girl playing on the stereo. That’s the call for business of course, but I was nervous. Thought maybe I’d find Phebe bent over the coffee table with Stash Skimington pounding his meat into her again. But no, she was alone waiting for me plenty ready to go. It all ended like that time with her sister, though. It sucked. Where the hell is my Viagra---the splendid most unexpected discovery of a lingam! The pillow talk sucked too: There’s a guy writing about us, you know, on the internet, Phebe says. Stash told me about him today. He used to play in a band with Phil. He’s writing a blog about Phil’s disappearance. He identifies you as Phil’s ‘brother/cousin’ and me as your ‘wife/cousin’ and Phil as my ‘nephew/cousin’. He thinks we’re concealing knowledge about what happened to Phil. He really needs to be stopped!

04/17/01

2012-03-17T08:11:00.005-07:00

I’ve been home watching the baby today, keep getting one phone call after another. First it was Swami calling. He’s pissed as all can be that the bottle dig has been stalled out for days. He said he’s worried about Percy learning the awful truth that the dig has been going on without him.

You need to show up at the worksite and get busy like a beaver! I’ve been terribly disappointed by your malingering! Terribly disappointed!

I told him I’d show up tomorrow if he doubled my hourly rate of pay. I expected him to say, no deal, that’s thievery! but instead he said, ok, very well, so be it! But you must show!

Next Cupcake calls. She’s working this sultry bedroom voice with me. Look Joe, I want to apologize for the other day for the way things went down. The situation is: I have nowhere to put the camper right now. I know you said you wanted it moved right away but I just need more time to work something out. I’d just appreciate it if you gave me more time. Money’s been just a little short. If I could pay you rent I would. Maybe you’d let me do something for you.

Like what? What could you do for me?

I can bake. Do you like cupcakes?

Then Percy calls, complains his cricket team is in shambles. Says he’s been on the verge of disbanding it several times due to frustration with Fauntleroy. He said he can’t get along with Fauntleroy as the Captain and thinks he may need me making a firmer commitment to the team in order that I might help keep Fauntleroy in check.

I see how Fauntleroy behaves around you. It’s like he defers to you on everything. If you were at these crazy practices and you knew beforehand what I wanted, you could exert your influence so I could get the team headed in the direction I want. I mean, I’ll do whatever to help you too. You want me to store your guns at my house, I’ll store them at my house. But you have to tell Fauntleroy what to do for me. That’s the deal.

All I could say was I’d think about it.

I don’t know why I brought this up, but before I got off the call I asked Percy about Manuel Gonsalus. He’s one of my Dutch ancestors Percy listed in the research he did of my family genealogy.

Percy said he was amazed I finally read it.

You sure Manuel was really my ancestor? I ask. What’s the chance he was a normal Catholic Spaniard? What if he was really a Spanish Puritan like that one historian described him as?

Percy said he was quite certain Manuel was a Sephardic Jew, just like Luis Gomez was, except Manuel probably didn’t have the kind of political connections that Gomez had to be so overt about his faith. Percy emailed me a section of Smith’s Legends of the Shawangunk pertaining to Manuel’s grandson, Sam Gonsalus--- a colorful character to say the least--- for whom Sam’s Point is named. Sam Gonsalus is probably as controversial in today’s day as Tom Quick due to his legend as an Indian killer. This is what Smith wrote:

The traveler in the region of the Shawangunk has not failed to notice that remarkable feature of the mountain known as Sam's Point. Even when seen at such a distance that the mountain looks like a blue cloud suspended above the earth, this promontory stands out in full relief against the sky. The name has its origin in one of those quaint legends with which the vicinity abounds. The story as handed down by tradition, and still related by the residents of the neighborhood, is as follows:

Samuel Gonsalus was a famous hunter and scout. He was born in the present town of Mamakating; was reared in the midst of the stirring scenes of frontier life and border warfare, in which he afterward took such a conspicuous part; and was at last laid to rest in an unassuming grave in the vicinity where occurred the events which have caused his name to be handed down, with some lustre, in the local annals.

He lived on the west side of the mountain, a locality greatly exposed to Indian outrage, and his whole life was spent in the midst of constant danger. His knowledge of the woods, and his intimate acquaintance with the haunts and habits of his savage neighbors, rendered his services during the French and Indian War of inestimable value. He possessed many sterling qualities, not the least among which was an abiding devotion to the cause of his country. No risk of his life was too imminent, no sacrifice of his personal interest too great, to deter him from the discharge of duty.

When the treacherous Indian neighbors planned a sudden descent on an unsuspecting settlement, “Sam Consawley,” as he was familiarly called, would hear rumors of the intended massacre in the air by some means known only to himself, and his first act would be to carry the people warning of their danger. At other times he would join in the expeditions against bands of hostiles; it was on such occasions that he rendered the most signal service. Though not retaining any official recognition of authority, it was known that his voice and counsel largely controlled the movements of the armed bodies with which he was associated, those in command yielding to his known skill and sagacity. His fame as a hunter and Indian fighter was not confined to the circle of his friends and associates. The savages both feared and hated him. Many a painted warrior had he sent to the happy hunting-grounds; many a time had they lain in wait for him, stimulated both by revenge and by the proffer of a handsome bounty on his scalp; but he was always too wary for even the wily Indian.

In September of 1758 a scalping party of Indians made a descent into the country east of the Shawangunk. The warriors were from the Delaware, and had crossed by the old Indian trail leading through the mountain pass known as “The Traps;” their depredations in the valley having alarmed the people, they were returning by this trail, closely pursued by a large body from the settlements. At the summit of the mountain the party surprised Sam, who was hunting by himself.

As soon as the savages saw him they gave the war-whoop, and started in pursuit. Now was an opportunity, thought they, to satisfy their thirst for revenge. Sam was a man of great physical strength, and a fleet runner. Very few of the savages could outstrip him in an even race. But the Indians were between him and the open country, and the only way left was toward the precipice. He knew all the paths better than did his pursuers, and he had already devised a plan of escape, while his enemies were calculating either on effecting his capture, or on his throwing himself from the precipice to avoid a more horrid death at their hands. He ran directly to the point, and pausing to give a shout of defiance at his pursuers, leaped from a cliff over forty feet in height. As he expected, his fall was broken by a clump of hemlocks, into the thick foliage of which he had directed his jump. He escaped with only a few slight bruises. The Indians came to the cliff, but could see nothing of their enemy; and supposing him to have been mutilated and killed among the rocks, and being themselves too closely pursued to admit of delay in searching for a way down to the foot of the ledge, they resumed their flight, satisfied that they were rid of him. But Sam was not dead, as some of them afterward found to their sorrow. To commemorate this exploit, and also to bestow a recognition of his numerous services, this precipice was named Sam's Point.

04/16/01

2012-03-17T08:05:00.002-07:00

I reported to probation today expecting Cupid Boy would rake me over the coals for one thing or another, but I guess the shithead was out sick or something. I signed in, but then after a short while I was told I was OK to leave--- that I didn’t need to see anyone today. I felt like I was let off the hook or something. I thought about reporting to work digging at Swami Hard Salami’s archeology site, but then I thought about Swami laughing at me the other day for wanting to see Joe Dirt and I thought, screw that fucking bastard. So I hung around the farm all day. Talked to Tommy New Yawka next door for a while. He asked me if I could plow him up a garden. He gave me a big can of gas to fill the tank. So I put the plow on the tractor, plowed up Tommy’s yard for a garden, helped fork the pony shit from the Winter onto the soil. Tommy said one of the boys had his First Holy Communion coming up. He asked me if me, Phebe and Mookie could make it to the barbecue afterward. I didn’t know what to say. I said maybe if we were around that day. After that I went out to one of the hay fields and started plowing, don’t really know why. Phebe asked me about it later and seemed to get all pissed off that I had plowed a field without a plan what to do with it.

Funny you would care to do anything with the land you hope to sell soon.

I had the gas in the tank and the time to plow, what else do you want me to say?

I called Percy to ask him if he might hold onto my guns for me---said that I didn’t like that Phebe gave the guns over to Stash Skimington--- but Percy didn’t want anything to do with the idea.

I don’t need your guns. And it’s not like you’ll ever be free to have them again, he reminds me. What’s wrong with Stash making use of them?

For all I know that fucker tried to kill me!

Percy scoffed at that idea. Fucker.

Were you supposed to work for Dr. Hardik today or something? He started to tell me at the movie theater that you stood him up at one of his properties, but then he got all weird and denied all of a sudden that was the case.

What are you talking about, Percy?

At some point in the call I made the mistake of commenting on the Luis Gomez house in Newburgh. I admitted that it was surprising to me that one of the very first settlers here was openly Jewish. Percy said that the Dutch wanted nothing to do with the land that Gomez settled because it was near Danskammer, a place on Hudson the Indian’s performed what was perceived to be devilish ceremonies, now the site of the power plant.

Percy emailed me a bunch of Luis Gomez shit after the call, including this old verse that was once spoken of the Danskammer site published in a book by Marc Newman:

For none that visit the Indian's den
Return again to the haunts of men,
The knife is their doom, oh sad is their lot,
Beware! Beware of the bloodstained spot!

And then there was this excerpt by Benson Lossing from his 1866 book The Hudson:

From the gravelly height the Highlands, the village of Newburgh, and a large portion of the lower part of the "Long Reach" from Newburgh to Crom Elbow, are seen; with the flat rock in the river, at the head of Newburgh Bay and near its western shore, known as Den Duyvel's Dans Kamer, or the Devil's Dance Chamber. This rock has a level surface of about half an acre (now covered with beautiful Arbor Vitæ shrubs), and is separated from the main-land by a marsh. On this rock the Indians performed their peculiar semi-religious rites, called pow-wows, before going upon hunting and fishing expeditions, or the war-path. They painted themselves grotesquely, built a large fire upon this rock, and danced around it with songs and yells, making strange contortions of face and limbs, under the direction of their conjurors or "medicine men." They would tumble, leap, run, and yell, when, as they said, the Devil, or Evil Spirit, would appear in the shape of a beast of prey, or a harmless animal; the former apparition betokened evil to their proposed undertaking, and the latter prophesied of good. For at least a century after the Europeans discovered the river, these hideous rites were performed upon this spot, and the Dutch skippers who navigated the Hudson, called the rock Den Duyvel's Dans Kamer. Here it was that Peter Stuyvesant's crew were "most horribly frightened by roistering devils," according to the veracious Knickerbocker.

Percy said Gomez was not taken in with superstition about Danskammer the same way the Dutch were and he worked to learn the Indian languages and build strong trading partnerships with them. Percy said a lot of Rabbis back then encouraged respect for the Indians because it was thought they might be one of the 10 lost tribes of Israel.

04/15/01

2012-03-04T17:50:00.002-08:00

Since Percy had Fauntleroy, Swami Hard Salami and me captive in his car yesterday he must have thought it was high time to punish us for Joe Dirt. He gave us all a field trip to various historical places around Newburgh before dropping us off like, I don’t know, two hours later. Man that fucker loves to blab!

First was the Balmville Tree: a 300 year-old Cottonwood recently saved from the chainsaw by this intricate system of braces you see. The tiny parcel it occupies comprises the smallest state forest in America.

Then it was up to the Gomez Mill house, the first known Jewish homestead in America, dated to 1714.

Luis Moses Gomez was a Sephardic Jew who obtained an Act of Denization from Queen Anne to obtain 6000 acres here. He established a fur trading post at this home and was very successful. With the wealth he gathered, he helped build the Mill Street Synagogue in New York, the city’s first.

Then Percy takes us to the statue of George Clinton, the great native son, on Fullerton Avenue:

Not only was Clinton placed in charge of defending the Hudson at the highlands soon after the start of the Revolution, he was also appointed the first Governor of New York in 1777. Ruttenbur said Clinton was to New York State what Washington was to the country.

Percy said the Clinton statue was originally located in a square down on Water Street down near the river, where the whole area was leveled in the 1970’s as part of a huge urban renewal project. He said a famous painter from Newburgh named Chatterton had a well-known painting of the now extinct neighborhood called “Clinton Square”. At some point they moved the statue to the West End in the Colonial Terraces neighborhood, which has become the new “Clinton Square.”

Meanwhile Swami is lavishing all kinds of praise on Percy, his comedic partner and cheerleader, says he should write a book. Of course Percy has to point out that he is writing a book, and then he starts going on and on about his Crypto-Judaic research shit into families of Sephardic descendent driven into Holland after the Inquisition who ended up making their way to New Amsterdam as Dutchman generations ago.

You certainly sound like you know your sheet, as they say, Swami comments.

I sure wish someone thought I knew my sheet. . . Then again, that might make me sound like a Ku Kluxer.

Anyway, today we went up to jail for Easter. That’s what every good Christian family does you know—visits jail on Easter. I’m not sure why Phebe left me in the dark about this---seems she knew this before now--- but I just learned today that Rocky now has at least 20 years total to serve with the new sentencing on manslaughter.

Damn that sucks to think about.

Oh, yeah, and Rocky’s being sent way far away upstate now too.

Really sucks to think about.

04/14/01

2012-02-25T18:14:00.003-08:00

Phebe proposed this morning that Percy and I go to Newburgh to spend time with Fauntleroy, try to lift his spirits. So we headed out, picked Fauntleroy up, but next thing I know Percy’s picking up Swami Hard Salami too. I’m thinking, how did this asshole get invited along? Soon becomes apparent that Percy and Swami have been talking over for some time going out on a date together to see Along Came a Spider. I’m not happy at all, but I don’t want to say anything about being afraid to watch that shit. I hate that twisted psychological shit. Fucks my dreams up.

No, no, I want to see ‘Joe Dirt’ instead, I offer.

Percy and Swami just start howling with laughter. I almost thought Percy might run the car off the road he was cracking up so bad.

What’s so funny? I ask a bunch of times.

It would not be advisable to explain, Swami says, therefore it is not advisable to persist with that question.

Fucking asshole.

Dr. Hardik and I were talking the other day about going to see ‘Along Came a Spider’, Percy manages to explain as Swami continues to struggle to regain his composure, and Dr. Hardik asked if you would be going with us. I joked, “No, I’m sure Joe would rather see ‘Joe Dirt’ instead.”

And then all of a sudden Fauntleroy speaks up for me, killing their crap: If Joseph would like to see ‘Joe Dirt’, then that is the movie I think we should all see together. I would like to see ‘Joe Dirt’ today.

You want to see Joe Dirt? I say, I’m sitting right here, Fauntleroy. Fauntleroy and I get our turn at a chuckle. Percy and Swami were stewing quietly in disappointment all of a sudden. All I know I loved the look on their fucking faces when we walked past the door to the theater showing Along Came a Spider. Percy put out one of those Al Gore sighs of his. Swami shook his head from side to side bitterly, seemed to spend most of the movie making trips to the bathroom.

Yeah, I have to say, after all that, probably woulda been better off seeing Along Came a Spider.

04/13/01

2012-02-20T12:05:00.000-08:00

Here it is Good Friday, Friday the 13th. Betty passed away last night. Phebe and I brought some food out to Fauntleroy earlier. He was pretty stoic about the whole thing. I asked him about services not realizing there wouldn’t be any.

She’ll be cremated, he says. Dat’s all, Mon. Maybe you can help me sprinkle her ashes in the river someday.

I was trying to be on my best behavior, but I got into a loud argument with Phebe in the car on the way home, woke the baby up in the car seat. It all went back to when Cupid Boy told me he planned to file probation violation on me. After that I mentioned to Phebe she needed somewhere else to put the guns. I didn’t really discuss with her where they would go, just that they needed to get out of the house since I was back living there. I don’t know what I was thinking not staying on top of it.

You said to get the guns out of the house! She says.

You took my guns to fucking Stash Skimington’s?

We got back home and Cupcake was there giving me hell for keeping the gate to the lane locked up. How am I supposed to get to my camper?

I told her she needed to get the camper off the place. She was fuming. They won’t allow me to keep that in my neighborhood!

I was fuming too. You’re not welcome to keep it here any longer! This is my property, not yours! That’s that!

I got in my truck to go drive around for a while, tried to clear my head. Went into Probation Officer Barbie’s neighborhood, saw a bunch of police cars surrounding her house with the lights all going. Found out later on Barbie’s husband shot himself in the head. Someone interviewed on the news just now said it was a good thing the rest of the family was in a shelter, or else they might have been killed too.

Some fucked up shit right there.

04/12/01

2012-02-11T04:20:00.000-08:00

Percy keeps emailing all kinds of shit to me on the Revolutionary War. I keep reading the shit and then wishing I hadn’t. Every time I read something that tells me about how things really happened around here it pretty much wrecks the picture I had in my mind for my story and it’s like I have to start over again, forming the picture again in my mind with the new information being taken into consideration.

For a time Percy wanted to write about Washington’s Masonic activities while the Continental Army was camped here at the end of the war---The ‘Temple of Virtue’ that Washington built at Temple Hill in New Windsor and all that--- but he said he’s had to put that on hold while he works on his Crypto-Judaism in New Paltz shit.

Anyway, here’s a little of what Eager had to say about the Temple of Virtue:

On lands located by Haskins, and afterwards known the Duzenberry farm, during the Revolution, and while the army was stationed in that vicinity, General Washington erected a large temporary building for the several purposes of a Church for the army, a lodge room for the fraternity of Masons among the officers, and to hold public meetings as occasion might require. We have particularly spoken of this building, and certain proceedings had in it of an interesting character at the time, in the early part of our paper. We now remark, that when it was finished, the officers of the army named it “the Temple of Virtue.” Soon after completion the officers got up a Ball to grace its patriot existence the largest scale the condition of the country round, and their facilities for such a purpose, would admit of. All the youth and beauty, wit, wealth and character, from far and near, that could be collected on such a high and joyous occasion were there. Fathers and mothers were there, and considering the time, place and circumstances, it was an honor to be there, to grace a ball room, and thread the merry dance with, or in the presence of, the father of his country and the saviours of the land. Doubtless all enjoyed the spirit of the festival as if it were the celebration of a victory that established the Independence of the country.

The dance went on, and was continued till a late hour, when the hero general retired, and it was renewed, if possible, in life and spirit. But there is an end to all things, and so with the dance. The excitements of the night ended in a debauch with many of the officers, who finally conducted themselves in a loud and riotous manner, and the Temple forfeited its virtuous character. From that night the name was changed, and ever afterwards it was known as “the Temple.”

I blew off Swami again. He’s plenty pissed, I can tell. I had every intention of going to work today but Phebe laid into me for not listening to her earlier in the week when she asked me to be home today.

It’s Maundy Thursday, she says, I told you I need you to watch the baby while I help take care of things at church.

What the Hell is Maundy Thursday? I ask.

Holy Thursday, Jackass! She says.

Then tonight we heard Betty’s back in the hospital fighting for her life. Phebe went out to the hospital from church, didn’t come home until late. Not good for Betty at all.

At some point during the night a car that looked like Cupid Boy’s tried to go down the lane, but turned around and peeled out when confronted by a locked gate.

I have to get that Winnebago of Virtue the hell off the fucking place.

04/11/01

2012-02-05T12:58:00.000-08:00

I tossed and turned all night. I dreaded the thought of going to work for Swami on the dig again today. I was panicking over it really. I just called him and told him I was feeling a little sick. He mocked me: I have never heard of a husbandman as stalwart as you sequestering at home because of the sniffles! I kept thinking of that nightmare I had where I was digging down in Porch Rot’s filled well when Stash Skimington came along, shot down at me and covered it all up with dirt. I think what if Swami is just having me do all this digging so he’ll have a neat way to dispose of me in addition to maybe collecting some quaint bottles for the shelf? Along came a Creepy Asshole Psychiatrist Spider. If I wrote that up it might be like an Edgar Allan Poe story. I was thinking I was sort of kicked out of the military like Poe. Maybe then it’s there in me, the greatness.

I was talking to Percy on the phone after that. He knew already James Patterson was from Newburgh. Course he knows everything, doesn’t he? He said that I should know Poe invented the detective story genre, that’s why the top award in the genre is called the “Edgar”. Percy said when Poe was court-martialed from West Point his fellow cadets took up a collection for him of $170 to help publish the poems he had written there.

I’m thinking that probably hasn’t happened like that since then.

Percy went on to say that Dr. Hardik was praising me at Cricket practice yesterday. I guess Swami told Percy how impressed he was with my knowledge of George Washington and local events during the Revolutionary War.

But I know better, Percy says, all wooden rod stuck up the ass. You have so much to learn still!

Then Percy emails me the text of a letter George Clinton wrote to George Washington in 1776.

If you’re going to write a story about the chain being put across the Hudson, the first person you need to learn about is George Clinton. He’s not to be confused with Sir Henry Clinton, the British Commander-in Chief during the war.

“. . . or the Godfather of Funk,” he should have added.

Fort Montgomery, 15 July, 1776

SIR,
I received your favor of the 12th instant yesterday, at this place; previous to which, about nine o clock Saturday morning, the signal at Fort Constitution being given, and the masters of two sloops, which about the same time came to, opposite my house, having informed me that the enemy had attacked New York the evening before, and that they judged, by the report of the cannon, that their shipping had passed by, and were up the river as far as King's Bridge, I thought it my duty to put the neighbouring militia in motion and accordingly issued orders to three regiments, one immediately to march into these works, another into Fort Constitution, and the third to rendezvous at Newburg, on the bank of the river, about nine miles above Fort Constitution, with orders to march and reenforce that garrison, upon the next signal given.
At the same time I issued orders to all the regiments in my brigade, to stand ready to march on a moment's warning, and despatched expresses to all owners of sloops and boats twenty miles up the west side of the river, to haul them off so as to prevent their grounding ; that as many of them as were necessary might be ready to carry down the militia to the forts. The residue I ordered down to Fort Constitution, as I believe by drawing a chain of them across the narrowest part of the river, and fixing them properly to be set on fire, should the enemy's shipping attempt passing by, they would answer a most valuable purpose. Early in the afternoon of that day, I marched into Fort Constitution with about forty of my neighbours, and in the evening came to this fort, being nearer the enemy and better situated to discover their motions. Yesterday evening I was joined by Colonel Woodhull, with between two and three hundred of his regiment; this morning early, by Lieutenant-Colonel McClaghry, with upwards of five hundred of his ; and I hourly expect parts of two other regiments. When these join me, I will draft, out of the four, six hundred men, and employ them as your Excellency has directed. I have ordered the Colonels I have called in, to leave the frontier companies at home to protect the country against the Indians, should they be troublesome, and as many men out of each company as will be sufficient to guard against any attempts that might be made by internal enemies.

The men turn out of their harvest fields, to defend their country, with surprising alacrity. The absence of so many of them, however, at this time, when their harvests are perishing for want of the sickle, will greatly distress the country. I could wish, therefore, a less number might answer the purpose. I would fain hope the enemy mean, by their shipping in our bays, at present only to cut off the communication between the country and city, and prevent our obstructing the channel. Many of the militia may be called in in eight hour ; some in a much less time, should there be occasion for them.

Since writing the above, I received a letter from Colonel Hay, of Haverstraw, a copy of which is in closed. I will send a small party down there this evening, or in the morning, but don t believe I shall be able to continue them long, as the militia here will think hard to be carried there. The bearer, Mr. Boyd, who is well acquainted with this country, the fortifications here, and may be confided in, will be able to give your Excellency any further information.

I am, with great esteem,
Your Excellency's most obedient servant,

George Clinton.

P. S. I should be glad to know whether it is best to keep the sloops, &c., ordered down to Fort Constitution, there, as it may be attended with considerable expense, which, however, if they can be made to answer a good purpose, ought not, in my opinion, to be regarded.

4/10/01

2012-01-25T03:38:00.000-08:00

Went to work for Swami today on his archeology site on Montgomery Street. I feel so much better terming it an archeology site for some reason rather than an ancient shit-filled outhouse shaft. On the way through town I thought I saw the Mafia guy following me again but then he just sort of vanished. Whether he’s real or made up in my mind he’s creepy as all hell. Swami made a comment at some point that I looked stressed out. I said placing myself in direct contact with the excrement of people who lived in a different century sometimes does that to me. I didn’t mention I was facing a violation of probation. Last thing in the world I would ever do is share my problems with that asshole. Wait, that’s right, he’s my psychiatrist. Anyway, I was digging slowly. I was being paid by the hour, after all. Swami was standing over me anxiously awaiting treasure to emerge. Curious fucker. First bottle I found was about two feet down. I broke the neck off with the shovel. Swami made me know that was most lamentable. Very very lamentable. I’m thinking use the word fuck for once asshole. I told Swami seems to date only to the early 1900’s.

This wasn’t George Washington’s shit hole, that’s for sure. Maybe Geraldine Ferraro’s father.

I tried to instruct Swami on the local Revolutionary War history. Of course he knew of George Washington’s headquarters in Newburgh, but he seemed ignorant on most everything else that happened around here during the war.

George turned down being King of America not far from here.

Oh.

I told him Montgomery Street was named for General Richard Montgomery, the first national hero of America, who died in the Battle of Quebec. He said he never knew.

When I travel around Newburgh, Swami says, I can’t help but think how this place provided the literary foundation for one of the most accomplished writers the world has ever known. I so admire that man!

I have to say I was stumped: You mean Edgar Allan Poe? That was down the river though. He wasn’t here. He was thrown out of West Point.

No, no, I’m referring to James Patterson!

And then Swami does this spider imitation with his fingers on my neck with this creepy laugh.

You know: Along Came a Spider! They just came out with the movie!

Now I know how Percy feels. Now I’m fucking Squidward.

4/9/01

2012-01-25T03:36:00.000-08:00

Reported to Cupid Boy this morning, got a kick in the gut from the fucker. He informed me he was filing a petition in court alleging I violated the terms of my probation.

I protested of course, asked, How on Earth did I do that?

Stupid Boy rattles off a litany of items:

Well, let see, you violated the stay away distance requirement on the order involving your assault victim. You continue to possess firearms by fraudulently claiming they’re your wife’s now. You travelled outside the county more than 50 miles without permission. You failed to report to the office that same day! Let me stop, OK, before your direct admission to me to littering adjacent to a protected wetland!

That boy needs to find a new fucking girlfriend!

I’m holding out hope maybe the asshole is bluffing. He goes forward, he knows I can come back at him with his dirt with Cupcake and her fucking RV parked on my farm. Of course nowadays some people delight in having their dirty laundry aired in public. He could just say So What? I’m just thinking I have to get that fucking trailer off the place. Next thing he’ll say I’m selling drugs out of the thing, or using it to pimp out Cupcake or some other crazy ass thing.

Anyway, here’s a stupid thing that came into my head as a distraction:

No Farms, No Food
No Food, No Farts
No Farts, No Fools
No Fools, No Fun

I’ll have more time to work on it later. . .when I’m locked up in fucking jail!

4/8/01

2012-01-25T03:35:00.000-08:00

Swami Hard Salami told me a while back that “proximity is the biggest force to be contemplated when it comes to settling on a partner for fornication.” Yeah, that’s kinda interesting since I learn now his wife has been staying in India apart from him for like the last year!

I insulted the shit out of him today: Marital problems, Dr. Hardik?

Of course not! That is most impertinent! You should remember that modern electronic amenities make it possible to maintain high levels of sexual intimacy with a spouse, even at terrific distances!

So that was great. For the next hour working I had this picture of Swami jacking off in front of his webcam chanting oooh-baby to the little lady back in Delhi.

Phebe wasn’t happy I declined to go to church with her and the baby this morning. She said she’s worried about the baby growing up without a father or God, said I wasn’t doing much to help. I said let’s pray for a way to spring Rocky from jail then.

I’m such a dumb fucking heathen asshole.

4/7/01

2012-01-25T03:31:00.000-08:00

Met Swami Hard Salami at his property along the river on Montgomery St. this morning.

Before we start our excavation we need to consider preparations, he says, we should take assiduous care to screen off our treasure-hunting activity from surrounding residents. This must be the most super secret of endeavors!

Your ass is paying me by the hour I think you can take all the assiduous care preparing for the super secret endeavors you want!

Here is an itinerary I have taken the liberty to prepare for you: First, you shall commence to my property on Lander Street, load the abandoned belongings from the first floor unit into your vehicle. Secondly, you shall commence with said vehicle to the municipal solid waste management facility to deposit said abandoned belongings aka DUMP. Thirdly, you shall travel to the lumber yard where you shall purchase a lock, a gate, 7 panels of privacy fencing and a requisite number of posts. You shall then return here and use these listed materials to build a surrounding privacy screen and security zone to the excavation. This structure built will of course conform in every manner with convention and good taste.

Thought to say to Swami ‘I ain’t like Hill Country Cornelia--- I ain’t no transvestite and I ain’t no carpenter neither!’

I wish you’d go on a bit more Dr. Hardik with your itinerary. Maybe you could commence to a sixthly and seventhly step to flesh out more exactly the ‘conforming with convention and good taste’ part!

Anyway, by the time the afternoon rolled around I was just starting to dig the holes for the posts. Too tired and filthy for Cricket practice. I blew it off. Maybe if Phebe takes the baby to church tomorrow morning I can get freed up to resume the steps of my itinerary of frickin assiduous preparation for the shit-digging.

I’m thinking you have to be an asshole to use the word assiduous. That’s why the prefix of the word is ass.

04/06/01

2011-12-30T18:57:00.000-08:00

Swami Hard Salami called me this morning, asked me to meet him super secretly at his property on Montgomery Street before cricket practice. Seems Swami’s been obsessing on the antique bottles that might be buried in the old outhouse shaft I found on the property. Swami tells me I need to keep the matter a super secret from Percy. He wants me to dig out the shaft before Percy has a chance to get to it, take out any artifacts worth money and put back all the stuff that’s not worth anything to be dug up by Percy and his men’s group later as if for the first time. Swami said he’d pay me based on a percentage of what was found, but then I got worried there might not be anything worth anything there, so I asked to get paid by the hour. Now watch, there’ll be something found worth thousands of dollars. Anyhow, it’ll be nice to have some cash of my own. I’ll start the dig sometime this week if things dry out.

Turns out Cricket practice was rained out. I got time to chat with Fauntleroy for a while, waiting for the rain to end in a baseball dugout. I had the brilliant idea to ask him if he was one of them Rastafarians. He said no, he was one of them Secular Humanists. I have to say I was surprised, I told him I didn’t know Jamaica had Secular Humanists. He said sure, they live with magic elves in the mountain caves, Mon.

The more I learn about cricket the more I think it should just be given up for baseball. Wait, but that’s already been done.

They got more than 11 guys at the moment, so it looks like I’m gonna be a bench warmer. At this point I don’t think I give a shit.

And then I get a fucked up call from Cupid Boy after I got home. He says he went down the lane today looking for me at the Winnebago. Did you and your wife have sex back there or something? Because I found condoms strewn on the ground.

Uhm. . .yeah. . . as I recall that was. . .yeah. . . me and Phebe. . .littering.

4/5/01

2011-12-26T19:04:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Phebe half the fucking planet now knows I’m trying to write a novel about her namesake Phebe Reynolds in the Revolutionary War. First it was Percy who found out, and then he must have told Swami Hard Salami. And now even my fucking Probation Officer, Cupid Boy, he fucking knows somehow too.

Good luck, he says. Somehow I doubt you’re gonna become the next Ernest Hemmingway, but anything that preoccupies you from engaging in crime, I’ll have to support it.

I’m thinking Percy must have blabbed it to him. I think Percy feels bad for the guy. Seems like Cupid Boy’s always hanging around Percy’s neighborhood pounding on Cupcake’s door.

I know you’re in there! Why do you do this? Open up!

Percy tells me he takes him inside to quiet things, consoles him with cups of hot tea. What I understand, Percy tried to give the young fucker his honest opinion that he needed to move on, but the guy’s apparently not hearing it. The guy wanted to know if Cupcake’s been at her trailer on my farm anytime.

I think she has a stalker, one of these creep ex-boyfriends. I’m worried about her out alone on your farm on the nature walks she’s been taking there.

Little more than just springtime horniness at play with Cupid Boy, methinks. And people think I’ve lost my mind.

With all these people expecting me now to produce a historical novel about the Revolutionary War I better start working on it. That such activity will also preoccupy me from engaging in crime will surely count as an additional bonus.

Good fucking gracious.

4/4/01

2011-12-26T19:02:00.002-08:00

Phebe shared with Percy at some point recently that I’m writing a book based on her namesake, Phebe Reynolds. Percy was against the idea of taking liberties with her life story. He said at the very least I should provide some non-fiction historical account of Phebe Reynolds to go along with the fiction so people can see the difference. So he emailed me the chapter Philip H. Smith wrote in Legends of the Shawangunk. I figure I might as well add it in to this mess. Here it is:

Man is largely a creature of circumstances. Whatever may be his natural endowments we cannot shut our eyes to the fact that his character is moulded by his surroundings. The girl that has been reared in luxury and ease, the subject of assiduous care as though she were a tender and volatile plant, will acquire a softness and effeminacy that will lead her to lose self-control upon the slightest occasion. Her less-favored sister, born with like endowments, but who has been brought up amid the hardships and dangers of frontier life, when her fortitude is put to the test, will be found capable of performing acts of heroism that will put many of the lords of creation to shame. Among all the heroines of the border, whose deeds of hardihood and self-denial have been put on record, there will be found not one excelling in the sublimer virtues the subject of this sketch.
Phebe Reynolds was the daughter of Henry Reynolds, and one of a large family of children. They were residing, at the time of the Revolution, in a log cabin in the present town of Monroe, within the region of country infested by the notorious Claudius Smith band of outlaws. One night the gang surrounded Reynolds' cabin with purpose to effect an entrance, but found the windows and doors securely barred and bolted. They next mounted the roof, and two or three essayed to drop down the wide-mouthed chimney; one of the family poured the contents of a feather-bed upon the fire, and the robbers were forced to beat a retreat to escape suffocation.
Some time afterward a second attempt was made with a different result. Benjamin Kelley and Philip Roblin, both of whom were near neighbors of Reynolds, together with several others, went to Reynolds' house one dark night, and knocked for admission, representing themselves to be a detachment of the American army in search of deserters. After hurriedly dressing himself Reynolds opened the door, and then went to the fireplace to procure a light. While his back was turned to his visitors one of them struck him with the fiat side of his sword, and told him to make haste. This at once revealed the character of his guests. He made a rush for the door, but just outside stumbled over a log, and fell headlong. Ere he could recover himself the gang were upon him, and he was dragged back into the house.
When the struggle began, Reynolds called loudly for his son, then a mere lad, to come to his assistance. When the boy came into the room, one of the men seized him, set him down upon the floor, and told him if he moved even so much as to turn his head right or left, he would cut it off. This so terrified the boy that he sat as motionless as if he had been carved in stone. Mrs. Reynolds, accompanied by some of the other children, now came into the apartment; when she saw her husband in the hands of ruffians, she fell upon the floor in convulsions; and it is believed she remained unconscious through most of the ensuing strife.
After binding Reynolds, and wounding him with their knives and swords, they, in the presence of his family, proceeded to hang him on the trammel-pole of his fire-place. Having accomplished this, the members of the gang dispersed through the several rooms and commenced plundering, leaving him, as they supposed, in the throes of death.

At this time Phebe Reynolds was twelve years old, but large and robust for one of her age. She had become inured to the dangers and terrors of border life, and was resolute and fearless, particularly when her blood was up. Taking advantage of their temporary absence, Phebe caught up a knife and hastily cut the rope by which her father was suspended. She also threw the noose from his neck and managed to get him upon a bed.
It was not long before the ruffians discovered what had been done, and again they gathered in the room to murder Reynolds. The girl boldly confronted them with her knife, like a lioness at bay. They commanded her to go away, threatening her with instant death if she refused. She declared she did not wish to live if they murdered her father. They then menaced her with swords and knives; still she stood her ground courageously. Finding them determined to murder her father, she sprang upon the bed, clasped her hands tightly around him, and attempted thus to shield him from their bloody instruments. One of the men then took the rope and cruelly beat the girl; but she did not even moan, or wince, although she was marked from head to foot with broad, angry stripes.
Finding this to be of no avail, the marauders forcibly tore her away, and once more Mr. Reynolds was left hanging to the trammel-pole, while they resumed their work of plundering the house.
Again did the heroic daughter cut the rope, and was leading her father to another room, when his strength gave out, and he sank upon the floor. Again did the wretches discover what had been done, and they attacked him with their knives and swords as he lay upon the floor, and once more the brave daughter threw herself upon him, and endeavored to protect him; receiving on her own person many of the blows that were intended for him. In short, her clothing was saturated with the blood flowing from numerous cuts in her forehead and breast. Finally the robbers threw Mr. Reynolds into an old chest, and, shutting down the lid, they left the place, first destroying his private papers and setting fire to the house. They also rolled a large stone against the door, which opened outward, and told them they would shoot the first one that dared to raise the latch, with the design that the whole family should be burned up with the house.
Phebe now made her way to the chest, and, raising the lid, found her father, stiff and rigid, and apparently dead. With such help as her mother and the lad could give, the body of her father was lifted from the chest, and while this was being done, a low moan escaped his lips. She immediately pried open his teeth with a pewter spoon, and gave him a few drops of water. This seemed to revive him, and she gave him more while she proceeded to staunch the blood that was flowing from his wounds.
While thus occupied her mother was moaning and wandering aimlessly from room to room, and presently she noticed that a bed, a hogshead of flax, and some other inflammable material were on fire. The mother, appalled at this discovery, cried out, “Oh, Phebe, the house is on fire in three places!” “Why don't you put it out?” demanded the daughter. “Oh, I can't,” was the dismayed reply, “if it burns down over our heads!” “Then come and take care of father and let me do it.” The brave girl promptly dashed water on the burning beds, threw a drenched rug over the flax, and went back to her father.

While engaged in dressing his wounds, she told the lad to go out and alarm the neighborhood; but the boy did not dare to leave the house. She then, after doing all she could for the safety and comfort of her father, set out upon the errand herself. Although her person was covered with cuts and wounds, her clothing saturated with her own blood, and she had passed through a scene of terror such as few could have had the fortitude to face, yet she was so cool and collected that she noticed the crowing of cocks in the neighborhood as she passed along the road, and knew that morning was near.
The alarm spread from house to house. A body of men immediately assembled, and shortly after sunrise started in pursuit of the ruffians. The latter were followed into their retreat in the mountains with such energy that they were taken by surprise and four or five of them were killed. One of the killed was Kelley, the leader of the gang, who resided within a mile of Reynolds's house, and had passed for a Whig. He was shot by a young named June, who knew Kelley personally. It appears that June had been informed the robbers were at a certain place playing cards. When he approached their hiding place they heard him coming, and rose to their feet. As they did so, he fired into their midst; the shot mortally wounded Kelley, whose body was afterward found at a sulphur spring to which he had wandered and died. The remains were partially covered up with leaves and brush, and near by was the wedding suit of Henry Reynolds, tied up with a bark string. This suit Mr. Reynolds had preserved over fourteen years; yet he expressed a wish never to wear or see the clothes again since they had been on the back of a Tory. Only two of the ruffians escaped, and they were afterwards arrested in New Jersey. Reynolds would not consent to appear against them, probably on account of his Quaker principles.
While some of the neighbors were pursuing the marauders, others, including the physicians of the town, were attending to the injuries of the family. Reynolds, it was found, had been cut and stabbed in more than thirty places. An ear had been so nearly severed that it hung down on his shoulder. It was replaced as well as circumstances would admit, but the wound healed in such a way as to disfigure him for life. One of his hands was cut so badly that he never afterwards fully recovered its use.
For weeks Reynolds was on the brink of the grave; but he possessed a strong constitution, fortified by a life of temperance and regular habits, and he was once more restored to health. His wounds so completely covered his person that, as he lay bandaged, he more resembled an Egyptian mummy than anything else. His neighbors were very kind to him; they cut his wheat, gathered his hay, and even provided for his family.
When the physicians turned their attention to Phebe, it was found that the wounds on her forehead and breast were of a serious nature, and that her body and limbs were badly bruised and lacerated. Whenever she came within her father's sight, her bruised and bandaged appearance so affected him, that the physicians directed that she should not be allowed to come in his room; and instead of exacting fees for their attendance, the physicians filled Phebe's hands with coin.
Soon after this event Henry Reynolds removed to Sullivan county, where he lived to a good old age, greatly respected by all who knew him. There are people still living in Fallsburg and Neversink who have heard the facts related by Henry Reynolds himself as he exhibited his scars. Phebe became the wife of Jeremiah Drake, of Neversink Flats, and died in November, 1853; her remains repose in the little burial-ground, near those of her husband. Her posterity are among the most highly honored residents of the Neversink valley. One hundred years after the marriage of Henry Reynolds, says Quinlan, it is estimated that his descendants numbered upwards of one thousand.

---Philip H. Smith, 1887

4/3/01

2011-12-26T19:02:00.001-08:00

Phebe took the baby up to the prison today. I spent the time at home resting. Had this weird dream I had Probation Officer Barbie again and she asked me on reporting day if I’d shoot her husband for her. That was sure weird, because in the dream I wasn’t exactly objecting. I know there was some dirty talk involved. I’m not exactly sure the words now because Percy woke me up at that point with a phone call, asked how my head felt, said he understood perfectly if I didn’t want to play on the team anymore. Said I didn’t have to worry about disappointing him.

I’m not quiting the team, I say, me and Fauntleroy are a pockidge deal, Mon.

And then an hour later Swami Hard Salami stopped by. Said he wanted to see how I was doing with my concussion . . .also wanted to know whether I had reconsidered his $800,000 offer to buy the farm. Now there’s a concerned doctor for you still willing to do house calls.

I didn’t hit my head that hard! I say.

Fucker.

He said he has work for me tomorrow if I feel up to it. Said he would tutor me a little bit on cricket before practice. I may need to rename him Gandhi or something.

After he leaves I go back to the house for more rest, but then I hear a car drive onto the place and down the lane toward the trailer. I hike back there, spy through the trees and find Cupcake and this young guy I remember from Percy’s neighborhood hanging out at the Winnebago smoking a joint. I had in mind to tell them to get the hell out of there, but I held back for some reason. Looked like they were on the verge of getting it on. I felt like an intruder for some reason.

When Phebe got home I banged her hard.

Maybe I did hit my head that hard.

4/2/01

2011-12-26T18:59:00.001-08:00

I was heading to Newburgh for cricket practice yesterday and I noticed a car following me. Looked just like the one the Mafia guy was driving when he stopped by over the Winter and tried to shake me down for money with threats to Rocky in jail. I got to the park and started exercising with the guys and I noticed the car again in the parking lot near my truck. I noticed the guy looking out towards the team, just kind of stalking me. I was already feeling anxious. I had no idea who most of the guys on the team were. Lots of foreign accents all around. The team then started to do a jog. I was thinking Percy and I must be the only white guys. I know I’m really the only dumpy guy. I know I’m the only one who’s never played cricket before. I was worried as we jogged I was gonna have a heart attack or something I’m so fucking out of shape. Haven’t had a herd of cows to chase around in years. I was looking over at the Mafia guy not looking where I was running and I ran right into a metal pole. Must have been part of a soccer goal post or something. I lost consciousness for a little bit. Someone called an ambulance. Swami Hard Salami followed me over to the emergency room. Phebe showed up before long. I kept telling people I was distracted by the guy who was following me around, the Mafia guy spying on me from the parking lot. Everyone just kept saying the Mafia guy following me was just part of the experience of getting a concussion.

He’s real! The mafia guy is real! He’s been following me around all day!

At the time I was pissed off no one believed what I was saying, but I’m glad now Swami thought I was seeing things because I hit my head, not because I’m a nut. I’m not even sure now what to think.

You must think of your brain in this instance as a pickled cabbage in a jar--- a pickled cabbage that has been hurled most violently, inexorably, from one side of the jar to the other. And so as the cabbage has been---forgive my pun---JARRED most suddenly and bruised, it is not uncommon that hallucinations would occur.

Hallucinations to the cabbage?

Ha! Precisely!

3/31/01

2011-12-26T18:56:00.000-08:00

I ended up staying home from cricket practice yesterday. After that kid came around snooping I felt like I had taken a hoof to the abdomen. I called Percy and told him I wasn’t feeling well.

It’s all right Joe, Percy says, I can tell you really don’t want to be on the team. I’ll take you off the roster.

No, no, I reply, feeling again like I have to stay on the team if only to defy Percy’s desire to keep me off, you keep me on the roster. I’ll be there next time.

I just kept thinking how stupid I was staying quiet about Porch Rot filling in that old well on his farm, buying that story of his. I’m wondering now if the guy could have been a freaking serial killer or something. He wasn’t the dumb ass after all---I was. Asshole Redneck Detective, indeed. I’m wondering now if there was more to the story about Mexican Mike. The guy supposedly dies by accident on Porch Rot’s farm and days later Porch Rot is making moves on his woman? Maybe that slip into the shit lagoon wasn’t what it seemed, you know?

And then I keep thinking about my father’s accident, getting caught up in the PTO shaft of the shit spreader. In reality that could have been staged. There could have been motives behind it.

And then the loose bull even. . .sickening to think. . .

And then, maybe not. . .April fools.

03/30/01

2011-11-19T03:44:00.000-08:00

I was home babysitting Mookie today. While he was down for a nap I went on the World Wide Web and read up a little more on the game of Cricket. I still have no idea how it's played even after reading for a half-hour. I was feeling a little anxious about practice tonight, then something happened that completely blew me away. This young dude appeared at the door, said he was researching Phil Palfrey's disappearance for a book. He said almost ten years ago he was the drummer in Phil's REM cover band, Spanking Time for Frankenstein. The minute he said this I know the guy was Roy-Roy. I knew about Roy-Roy from my own research on Phil's disappearance. But somehow I didn't want to let on to the guy I knew who he was already or that I had been doing my own work on the mystery. I don't know. Maybe that would be fucking creepy.

I've been reading the stories about the step-father, Hiram jumping from the bridge, and Phil's old girlfriend Bedelia being found murdered in the well, and I thought, you know, what the hell happened to the dude? You know? Then the police came around asking me about Phil and Bedelia when Phil was in the band, I thought, you know, this might be the book!

Why did you refer to Hiram as Phil's step-father? I ask anxiously.

Because Phil always said his biological father was a Thoreau, 'like the writer of Walden'. When I first started looking into things, I thought it was you, but now I understand you're his brother.

I'm not his brother! I stammer like a freak I think that's just insane! Phil is my nephew by marriage, that's all! Well, and a cousin too. . .but, you know. . .

Well the police seem to think you're his brother, from what I can gather.

The police (stroke, heart attack) seem to think what?!!!

03/29/01

2011-11-19T03:42:00.000-08:00

I was spying on Phebe trying to spy on me this morning. She was on the computer looking through the files looking for my writing. Then she got up and I could see her going through stuff around the house looking for my disk hidden away no doubt. When she realized I was up she started to ask me about my Phebe Reynold’s story--- maybe she was trying to see if that was really what I’ve been writing all this time. She said I had to have a solid story structure and plot, otherwise it would be a waste of time. She said she reads so many romance novels she’s certain she could help me. She said that I needed at least two guys vying for Phebe’s affection. One would not be enough. I said I had two guys, don’t worry. Phebe said the problem with the Romeo and Juliet angle was that Phebe Reynolds selecting the Loyalist for her secret lover would be taken as an act of treason.

Not if Phebe Reynolds was aware her Loyalist lover was secretly acting as a spy for George Washington though, I say.

Oh. Well now. . .

By the way Phebe, I’ve been meaning to ask, how has your campaign running for the school board been going---running as Phebe Noonan?

Oh. Well now. . .

03/28/01

2011-11-19T03:39:00.000-08:00

Phebe’s pushing hard for me to do something about Cupcake’s trailer. She said as long as it belongs to someone else, she doesn’t want it on the farm.

If someone moved into that thing, she says, and you didn’t get them out right away, they’d have squatter’s rights.

And then Phebe surprises me, floats the idea of buying the thing:

We do have an insurance check coming to cover the loss of the other trailer, she says, and it would be nice to do some traveling someday.

I imagined her going on to say: and it would be nice to a have a place to exile your ass again out back when you get on my last nerve.

As tough as it was to live out there in the Winter, I kinda miss the seclusion. To go back there to camp in the nice weather might be a real treat. Don’t know how keen Cupcake is on selling though. . .

So I guess there was a cricket practice today. I didn’t know about it because Percy never made me aware. The fucker. I guess Fauntleroy put his arthritic foot down again, told Percy again that, Joseph and I, we are a Pockidge deal, Mon. Percy called me just before and listed some websites where I could study how cricket is played. He said I had to take it seriously to avoid being cut from the team. I did a little poking around on the internet but it looked like some crazy ass shit that didn’t make sense.

Swami Hard Salami called too. He’s all psyched up to get back into cricket. He was happy to hear I was on the team, said he has some jobs for me when I’m out that way. Goodie. Said his offer of $800,000 for the farm was still good if I ever reconsider.

No!

Phebe just looked over my shoulder before. I wasn’t aware at first.

That doesn’t look like a story about the Revolutionary War, she says.

I’d prove you wrong, but that would disrupt the creative process, I say.

I’m such an asshole.

I really have to be careful not to leave a way for her to sneak and read this shit.

03/27/01

2011-11-19T03:37:00.000-08:00

Back to watching the baby today. Phebe’s back at work. She’s plenty pissed at me for taking off yesterday, and then showing up later with Cupcake and her junky Winnebago to drag down the lane and dump off at the edge of Purgatory Swamp.

I find it real interesting, Phebe says, here you got all this talk of selling the place, and yet you let that girl dump a trailer on the place, junking up the place more than it already is.

I’ve been thinking a lot today about my lousy detective work. All this time Porch Rot had me believing it was Phil that was buried in the well. He did such a good job convincing me to stay quiet about it. And here the whole time he was covering up for the girl’s death--- whether it was Porch Rot or Phil who was responsible, I guess we may never know. I was thinking maybe Porch Rot wasn’t quite the dumb fucker I thought he was. He sure pulled off a good acting job. Who knew he had it in him? I’m still not sure which theory I favor more, the one that proposes that Phil Palfrey was the one who dumped the body, or the one that proposes that Porch Rot did. Then you have all these various scenarios related to the cause of death. Phil’s the only person left who might be able to shed light on things but I guess you really can’t assume he’s still alive.

I suppose at some point the forensics will come back from the girl’s remains and maybe they’ll know a little more about how she died.

Today would be a good day to get going on my Phebe Reynolds story, but I just spent the whole time the baby was down for a nap running Phil Palfrey’s name in a search engine. I guess maybe I’m like old Percy, using too much of my left brain.

I’m pretty sure the only reason the police went looking into that well was Stash Skimington tipping them off. No one has confirmed shit with me though but I can only think the tip came from Stash reading my shit that time.

I just keep thinking about what would have happened if I had followed through with trying to dig up Phil from the well to relocate him. I’d probably be facing life in prison. Good thing the frost was still in the ground. One time when Winter proved fortunate I guess.