Individual D

From suntimes.com

Noting that he was going to meet with Senate Candidate 5 in the next few days, Blagojevich told Fundraiser A to reach out to an intermediary (Individual D), from whom Blagojevich is attempting to obtain campaign contributions and who Blagojevich believes is close to Senate Candidate 5.

Blagojevich told Fundraiser A to tell Individual D that Senate Candidate 5 was a very realistic candidate but Blagojevich was getting a lot of pressure not to appoint Senate Candidate 5, according to the affidavit.

Blagojevich allegedly told Fundraiser A to tell Individual D that if Senate Candidate 5 is going to be chosen, “some of this stuff’s gotta start happening now . . . right now . . . and we gotta see it.”

So it appears that 8th of our state's last 9 governors is headed to a lengthy prison term for corruption, or as the paper is calling it "personal enrichment." Just goes to show this state is so fucked up you can't win. How could Blago be so crass with his judgement considering the Ryan debacle that preceeded him? Once again the chief of staff is going down with the ship. Maybe Harris will get to share a cell with Fawell and they can compare scars....

Call from an old Friend

Why didn't I see this day coming? I knew in my heart as you stood there that day so many years ago, so smug as you outlined all the things he was that I was not, I knew that you were going with him to spite me, to spite yourself, to spite us really.

Your guilt had been building for weeks, you stood there with that albatross, looking strangely like a little girl in your mother's party dress. You stood there facing down a future doomed to the path of least resistance. I knew the challenge was too great for you, my uncertainty burned like vinegar in my throat and my fear was palpable. I had most recently realized the mortality of my body, and that of my soul.

You had just discovered the strength of your wings and were bound to roam to the extents of your newly defined world. I didn't stand a chance to entertain you in that state, I could feel the pull of the open road on your heart. Though pesky reminders of your beauty and vivacity refused to travel, instead clinging to me like an aroma of some faintly recognizable flower, it was hardly a fair trade for the sizable piece of my heart I soon learned was tethered fast to my reality of you.

The phone calls were a poor replacement for the way your head felt cradled in the hollow of my neck, my sentiments were obviously distastefully perceived by you. Your silence, my frustration quickly thereafter surmised, was even less appealing though proved more difficult, nay impossible for me to alter.

The first few weeks I pretended the end hadn't come, that my utter frustration with our separation wasn't such a source of contention as to cause you to elude me distinctly. As the time dragged by that first year I invented ways this treatment was deserved, I graphed the ways this fault rested with me, I charted alternatives, I plotted and story-boarded these out to their successful conclusions.

For the first few months of the second year I alternated between imagining your face in crowds to analyzing our last words to determine what end of the earth I had actually lost you to in order to develop the plan to search for your trail, knowing at the end of that trail I would find you~Broken hearted, dejected at the realization you couldn't capture the happiness you had experienced with me again in him.

For the remainder of the second year I told myself I'd come to grips with your decision and that I wouldn't delude myself with these childish dreams of your return while masturbating to the fantasy of your displeasure with the choice you had made. I quit my job and moved out of the old place, disconnecting that phone number made me cry. It's symbolism as the last means of your communicating with me was obvious. The day it was officially off, I drove by your parents' house twice.

Throughout the third year I woke up every day and told myself that was the day I wouldn't think about you, realizing every time that I had just done so. I started back to school, telling myself I had no reason whatsoever to believe you were not obviously living as happy a life as this world can provide and learned to say, I wish her the best. Deciding to say it was enough this year, I procrastinated on meaning it.

It was during this year that I wrote a short story about driving around the ghetto in search, my professor rather enjoyed the character sketches of the nymph named Shelley and suggested I draw this character out further. I complied and put together a collection of short essays detailing her relationship too hideous to describe but so lustful in the telling I was not to be deterred with morals and values but instead puked the story out onto the pages before me like oil running over the water. My guilt and my heartbreak fought for prominence, my soul was barred and my anguish was detailed.

During the fourth year I broke down and tied the knot to the next love in my life, the girl that hung my moon and pulled me out of the funk that was me. I was still a wreck but I was a wreck long before I knew you, that wasn't your doing. I was past the dull ache and loneliness that had plagued me for so long after your departure, I was over the what-ifs and could-bes that had haunted me from the first steps I took in your absence, I was confident, I was educated, I had my whole life in front of me. I had nothing but the world on a plate and the view was grand.

Now through all of this I had developed quite a dependence on mood-altering chemicals, party-scenes, and my computer. I lived like a madman partying for days and then digging into my little office and typing out the darkest secrets of my soul convincing my self that the process was cathartic, and the output was art. I went without sleep for days and weeks, I imagined little green men to provide feedback to my questions of method and craft, I had a spirit guide much of the time who took various forms such as people and animals that I'd known or admired. He told me the truth when no one else would, I told him my truths and he did not judge, he was never real in any sense of the word but I managed to hear his conversations with me as if he were a living being in the same room with me most any time day or night. He told me when I came across a repressed thought that was important to my well-being and recovery from the quagmire that I placed myself in, he breathed words of caution into my brain when I let my self-destructive bent take too much control of my automaton reflexes, he captured for me all of the lost bits of thought and intuition and gave them back to me in cohesive sentences and concepts, he saved me from the destiny I tried to choose for myself.

I found myself alone with him on many occasions as I attempted suicide in one form or another, he managed to stifle every attempt. I found myself looking up to him, looking for the strength that he possessed and for some way to usurp this from him. Use it to my own benefit, use it for my own means and ends. He knew all along my motivation, and he watched amused as I searched for his weakness, for his one shortcoming that I could exploit, I knew it was there, and I knew when I found the opportunity I would fuck it in the ass like a ten-dollar whore and ride it until I had extracted it's secret power or squeezed all of its usefulness into my veins and it ran through my body like a fresh smack high. He chuckled inside at my delusional goals, he laughed to spite me as I raked the carpets with my fingers seeking that one last kernel that continued to elude me, he pitied me but he never let me know it, he treasured me for what I illustrated to him as the alternative.

He was my sanity, and he was slipping away as I plotted against him.

Through it all there was the memories that I couldn't look through, the past that I kept hidden behind the curtains never to be seen unless the wind blew just right and brought to me a scent or a sound of what once was. Sporadically and unexpected these bits of the past blew through my existence and stunned me like a blow to the nose.

Why Bother?

I mean I know that we’re all proud to live in the land of the free, home of the brave, etc. etc. etc. How is it that every vote counts when the delegates were all spoken for long before anyone got the chance to go to the general election? The last time we all participated, a bunch of bumpkins from Ohio got to cast the deciding vote and then the candidates petitioned the courts to call it over before all the votes had even been counted. I could do without the hassle of figuring out where they are going to set up the machines and fighting the fucking crowds to get into a machine to vote for people that won’t ever do anything that really matters to me anyway. If I had to vote for a candidate that appealed to my values I wouldn’t choose the winner anyway, neither one of the big two parties represent the things I believe in, the parties that do represent the things that matter to real people will never be taken seriously nor get a chance to be heard by you Americans that are too simple-minded to think past the hot button emotion issues to realize that the big two are focused on keeping power and money in the hands of people who already have the power and money. I’m baffled how countries with a third of our population boast six times the political party representation.

Granny called me yesterday to tell me she hopes I’m not going to vote for Obama, I assured her I wouldn’t. If I wanted to vote for a big two candidate that represented the most humane position I certainly would, I cannot imagine voting for the republican offering to strengthen the oil and banking industries at the cost of jobs and prosperity for the individuals. The republicans of the 1830s really hit on issues that are important to me today, things like self-reliance and non-intrusive government are ideals of the past, turned out to be more profitable to push business interests and restrict individual freedoms.

I just don’t understand the mentality of the “Christian Coalition” buying into the republican dream of $10 oil in exchange for lip-service to the abortion thing. What the fuck business it is of mine what other people do? I don’t have to believe in your activity to support your freedom to pursue it. I had to explain to granny that my own religious views preclude me from joining into something as worldly and dirty as presidential politics.

I’m holding out for the acceptance of Gore Vidal’s interpretation of the constitution, the apathetic vote is the last vestige of the real American. When 2/3 of the eligible voters don’t bother then the constitution has a provision that renders it null and void. A new convention must be called and a constitution relevant to today’s America is to be drafted. Its much more civil than the blood-fueled coups of our allies. Just pitch all 537 of those fucks out of the district and bring in some intelligent chaps to reword the old document and revitalize the American spirit at the same time.

So when it comes time for the big vote, are you going to pander to the pressure and cast your lot for a big party candidate or are you going to stand for freedom and say “I’ll pass.”

How time flies

My little guy is getting to be a big boy! He might just crawl anyday now!

Wow, and I haven't even figured out what sport to push him into yet. What a terrible father I am turning out to be.

Dear Dad

Dear Dad -

I remember one time you told Joe Gatten that you had never participated in a full on barfight, I remember because you seemed a wee bit disappointed and because Joe offered to take you down to the local tavern and fix that right then! It wasn’t something that I set out to find, mind you, but I feel lucky that I found myself in such a situation and escaped unharmed. I wanted to tell you about a night I had in Tennessee.

The boys and I were hanging out a local pool hall, it had a tavern in the back but we were in the pool hall, the pool room occupied the short end of a reverse-L shaped building where the short arm fronted the street and the tall end of the L was the tavern. The front door was just left of the joint in the L and there were about 12 pool tables in that front room. “The boys” consisted of Pete Sammons, and Paul Berier (we were known as the three amigos due to the 3 P’s) and Rex, he was my Team Chief in Korea and had arrived in TN just a week after me.

Now its important to point out that a week before I left Korea all my friends were leaving, I had arrived behind my class as I had taken extra leave to attend Papa’s funeral and stayed a week after them in exchange, I had proven to be an adept pugilist when one of my “buddies” that I had known since our time in El Paso had imbibed to excess and tried to fight some locals. This was a common drunken activity for McCormick, though usually he saved the bravado for the streets of Seoul in the wee hours of morning when the risks were lessened by the abundance of American servicemen and MPs. I refused to allow him to pick a fight with the indigenous personnel in the middle of the night in our little hamlet in the western corridor of ROK, the town was infrequently visited by servicemen and I knew from the antics of another of my less composed friends that picking a fight with one single Korean in this town would empty the houses into the streets and result in GIs running for the city limits sign in a hail of bricks and bottles. I intervened as McCormick attempted to cause trouble and forcibly placed him in a taxi. The cabbie quoted us the late-night rate (which was double the normal $5 ride after midnight) and my friend began to protest vigorously, illuminating his ignorance by peppering his monologue with derisive comments and racial slurs. I paid the cabbie up-front and asked him to kindly disregard our ill-mannered cohort, at which point my friend’s threats found a new target in me and for the remainder of the ride home he pontificated on how once we returned to post he would dole out the ass-whipping, that I had prevented him from extolling on the Korean, to me personally.

I felt little threat from McCormick, he was thin but lanky. He was an experienced fighter, but he was not necessarily a winning fighter. I had seen him struggle with slower and smaller men in the streets of Seoul. I intended fully to walk away from the impending confrontation, for a number of reasons the least of which is that the Company’s Executive Officer had attended our evening festivities and shared the taxi (This was very contrary to protocol, and out of respect for him I desired to refrain from participation in an altercation with another enlisted soldier while we had all had a few drinks together. The XO would not have been in attendance if we were not all “Short Timers” that he would not have to continue to oversee on a daily basis.)

Now the road onto post was gated at night and our party had to enter a pedestrian gate to the right and then cross the street back left immediately behind the gate. The XO and I made the breach first and I turned to cross the blacktop unaware that McCormick had not been dissuaded by our fourth. I was blindsided and thrown to the pavement. Before I could react our fourth had regained the scene and removed McCormick further down the street and around the supply building. The XO took me down the direct path to the enlisted barracks to ensure the Quonset hut that served as our Quartermaster was between McCormick and I. The XO was trying to reassure me that there was honor in not fighting and I was not hard to convince, I had no desire to jeopardize my impending return to the states or my rank and position for the opportunity to exact revenge on my acquaintance. Unfortunately just as I made the door to my barracks I heard McCormick shouting disparaging words using the family name and I let the door fall back closed, politely asked the XO to excuse himself and headed up the sidewalk to where it joined the street to face my “friend”. McCormick and I stepped behind the NCO club with a gent from San Diego, Pvt Obzut, that had been running interference for me until this point. As McC came at me I used his momentum to pull him over the top of me and we landed with him on his back and I commenced to unleash a flurry of right handed jabs into the upper left quadrant of his face. After an indeterminate amount of time he was able to dislodge me from the advantageous position that I held and immediately our friend smothered the two of us and declared the event complete. He walked McCormick away and I begrudgingly went to my room. He wouldn’t learn though, he arrived 5 minutes later and sucker punched me as I opened the door expecting to see Obzut. I didn’t take this lightly and brought him into the room and took him back to the floor, as we went down I heard his head contact sharply with the wood frame of my army bed. Another flurry of rights bloodied his nose and further exacerbated a cut below his left eye, then my room-mate (Another one who had come through Ft. Bliss with McCormick and I, and strong as a brute) broke up the ruckus and escorted McCormick out of our room. The next day McC came by to apologize and I was glad to see I had left considerable evidence of our confrontation for him to take home to his family, while I remained unscathed. Except a stinging cut inside my lip from the sucker punch, I had no visible reminders.

When I arrived at Ft. Campbell the story had been told and my reputation preceded me. I had a scrapper reputation from the only fight where I had ever thrown a punch, I had no-where to go but down. I certainly didn’t plan to pick fights every weekend as McCormick had done, but I had to admit it left a certain feeling of satisfaction to have so easily handled him.

So one night, within my first 60 days at Campbell, we were at the pool room, Berier and Sammons were both struck with amorous admiration for a waitress and Rex and I had made friends with a few of the bouncers, we were recognized by most of the staff whenever we entered and we were treated well. In a little TN town where not everyone was happy to be sharing the land with those of us being all we could be, it was a refreshing place. The first sign of trouble was when Rex abruptly laid his pool cue on the table as I was lining up a shot. I knew from the look in his eyes as he made his way down the opposite side of the table and started towards me that there was action behind me. I dropped my cue on the table and turned toward the action. A large Native-American person (And I mean 6’+ and probably over 250 lbs) had one of the bouncers in a headlock and was delivering blows to his back/kidneys. I don’t know if it was my youthful reaction time or exuberance that allowed me to slip between the pool tables a step or two faster than Rex but I arrived at the scene first and proceeded to engage the assailant in a chicken wing (my arms through his and locking his limbs behind his back) expecting to assist the bouncer in regaining control of the situation efficiently.

Turns out that this big boy had many friends and before the bouncer could stand up another patron attempted to continue to dole punishment on him. As Rex stepped into that void I found myself alone with the gargantuan that I was holding. I explained that I was going to release him. That it was over, that we should all calm down and have a good time.

My words fell on deaf ears, once freed the gargantuan turned on me with a vengeance and took a swing that would have most likely knocked me out had I not been fused with lightning quick reflexes from the years of close order drill and PT. I ducked and his roundhouse slipped harmlessly over my head, the momentum of his punch rotated his body beyond the 12 o’clock position where his left shoulder would be pointing directly at me, bad for him. Seeing the opening I drove into his midsection like a defensive-tackle intent on the blitz and took the both of us to the floor. His weight advantage gave him a false sense of security as he was able to come up on top of me and had me pinned to the floor.

The surrounding scene was pandemonium, no WWF wrestling ring, no sanctioned hockey game ever came close to the chaos that I could see in my peripheral vision. Half the room was alive with the exchange of blows and exclamations of disgust and some of pain. The heaving crowd was being tripped up by my feet and those of my opponent, he was being pushed heavily from behind and had to stabilize himself with both hands on the carpet on either side of my head.

Knowing that once he was able to regain his balance he would put his big meathooks to some other use much less agreeable to me, I managed to get my arms inside and began to deliver the fiercest series of blows just as fast as I could provide them directly to the nose area of the gargantuan one. I heard a bottle break and a spray of glass and beer cascaded over the two of us. After what seemed a lifetime of punching for all I was worth I sensed more than saw a figure come bounding off of the nearest pool table and dislodge my counterpart with knees to the ribs and fists to the back of the head. Regaining my feet I went for the gargantuan again but found that my savior this night was Berier and he was clear headed enough to turn me around and drive me toward the doors. I had eyes on Rex and Sammons making the same beeline from another angle and the four of us exploded into the night while the waitresses were warning us to flee as the local police department was in route.

I was driving that old YJ Wrangler as this was after my old CRX was interred in Arkansas. The big tires barked as I hit second gear turning onto the highway behind Berier’s pickup, the parking lot looked like a Christmas Tree when I chanced a peek into the rearview mirror, police cars had blockaded the parking lot entrance and were mustering in force as we sped back towards Ft. Campbell.

Once back on-post we picked glass shards from a fairly severe cut in Rex’s head, it turned out the glass and beer explosion resulted from a direct hit to his noggin.

I wish I could say I never found myself at odds with anyone ever again but that isn’t the case, it was a violent occupation and there were high levels of stress that got vented inappropriately from time to time, I maintained my honor, I never fought when there were other options, but sometimes you have to step into the mix and make a go of it, that is why soldiers travel in groups. You never knew when you were going to have to prove your loyalty against some ragtag group of local rednecks.

From the vantage point and wisdom of years it’s now a nice sidebar to the time I spent in the service; hope you can enjoy the story.

Love,
Pirelli

Liar's Poker

A flurry of activity as I strive to keep up with the demand. Washing glasses in the little sink trio, stocking napkins and matches and straws and stirs, dispensing with care the spirits as they are requested from the throng. Throng, indeed, just the old Mexican man and me here tonight. The younger crowd having all made their way to the dance floor down the stairs in the back room, evidenced by the flood of orders being bellowed at me over the half-door that serves as a waitress stand. I can pour six pitchers in two minutes, off of two taps mind you, which is impressive I guess. Couldn’t keep up with demand if I had six arms and twelve taps though. Once the tables are filled it slows down, the Mexican man and I get back to our game during the lull. The Budweiser clock, hung off kilter above the cash register, says it’s three o’clock. It’s been hanging askew since before I learned of its existence, it always says three o’clock. The Clydesdales continue to draw the old wagon around the inside of the globe, ceaselessly climbing and alternately descending; and the manager thinks it adds something to the decorum. Nothing that the gaudy rack of cheap cigars on the counter doesn’t detract from, I always think to myself. The rack sits next to the magnificent shelf filled with bottles. Three rows high strategically placed in front of a mirror to make the stock look doubly impressive, spanning the length of the back of the bar down to the make-shift waitress window. All the finest liquor available at your fingertips, with thirty-two brands of beer in the coolers below and the well of mystery tucked inconspicuously out of sight. The well contains the off brands, nameless bottles of lesser quality that are used in the mixed drinks unless the customer orders a highball off the back shelf. The highball bottles from the back shelf are topped off the night before with liquor from the well, but no one seems to notice. The Mexican man says he has six aces. I have to call he‘s been bluffing all night. As he starts to count the ones in the serial number of his dollar I see the lines on his face illuminated by the intense fluorescent lights hanging over the shelf of bottles. Dark trails running through his brown face. Eyes that have seen the inhumanity of man stare up from underneath an old felt cowboy hat wrapped in a hatband of eagle feathers and beads. He tells me he is short one and slides his dollar to me across the onyx black Formica of the bar. Gouged in spots and peeling away in others, Jorge always talks about replacing the

Formica top of the bar, when the landlord is around. As I deal out another pot the old man picks up where he left off in a story about the old days. He thinks he once rode with Poncho Villa. They’d been holed up in a secret hideout last I heard; now they were divvying up the loot. He and Poncho never quite saw eye to eye; all the old man’s stories depict a selfish, ruthless Poncho Villa. He remembers the last time Jorge threw a party in the back room as he adjusts his hat. Heroic in the face of certain peril he had fought off two at a time before things were brought back under control, he remembers it differently than I do but I don’t say anything.

Commotion erupts at precisely three o’clock with the apparition of the manager in the waitress’s half-door. Blood was trailing down his chin, beckoning me to call the police. 911 what’s your emergency? No emergency really, it’s me again, things are really rolling tonight, and the toughs brought friends. Shots fired, the radio’s squawk around town, though no one said these things. Code 2 they come with lights flashing. Up from the stairs come fighters circling around the two shirt-and-tied, good-old-boy, redneck types that pass for security who are manhandling the group outside. Stepping around the commotion, open the door, pushing them out. We fan out in the parking lot, circle and regroup. Two more rush out, three try to re-enter. Jorge emerges to confront the mob, retreat and evade. Lock the doors. Bum rush stance and one last attack, doors ripped out of hands and flung open wide, our line pushes back. Outside you heathens, this party’s over, or something to that effect was muttered under breath. The sound of breaking glass draws a quick silence that is broken as quick with a glancing blow to a nose. Fists fly and faces cringe. Squad cars arrive; police wade through the mess - As the worst of the fighting is being brought under control the old man walks up to me, throwing me a quick jab to the forehead. Shouts go up as I stumble to regain my footing. Touching the tips of my fingers to my forehead I can feel the blood trickling down. The old man is being cuffed and led away. The young ones cheer his virility; he shoots me a wink that says ‘see you next time,’ as the cops push him into the car.

Operation Homefront

Well winter has been tough and the garage has sat cold for much of it. I originally had the idea for blogging a while back but couldn’t devote time to something for which I had no focus. Finding some acquaintances online and discovering a couple of blogger networks clued me in that one of my passions, writing about stuff, was being lived out through blogs worldwide and it didn’t matter much to anyone either way but it was putting useful stuff on the internet all the same so I figured I should start up my own little slice of cyber space where I could espouse on my two favorite things; stringing words together into sentences with rhythm and working on mechanical leverage devices in the garage that I call home. Its got a living quarters attached that my wife calls the house but I still think of that area as the living quarters attached to the garage.

Like always when I set out with the best of intentions my true nature and my real world responsibilities constantly threaten to overwhelm me but I do in earnest intend to offer differing bits of entertainment, trivia, and sometimes useful information. But sometimes I succumb to my baser functions and just have to point and make fun when I see a train-wreck So please extend a little latitude as I allow my prankster roots to show and look for a place in project homefront;

Dateline; Carpentersville, IL – Heated debate has surrounded this town since the expected well-surge from elections last held has fallen short of community expectations. The debate around population control, illegal immigrants and those that harbor them have eclipsed the real business of this bedroom community nestled in the Fox River Valley. While Pirelli isn’t a serious enough blogger to subscribe and quote the reams of articles available on this topic I do commit to making weekly trips to the local library and updating everyone on the back story bits as I can find them.

On occasions in the past current rumor states that one of our village trustee’s spouses was treated for broken ribs and fact indicates a restraining order was issued in 2005 and later withdrawn by the victim. In Springtime 2007 during the inauguration of the local village board there was an apparent incident which is being described as both a consensual sexual affair, and a drugging and raping of this abused spouse by the 30 year old son of a political ally to the wife-beating trustee. Documents released documenting an interview with the spouse several weeks later where she looked to amend her statement from “I don’t know how I ended up naked on the patio” to “I must have been drugged to have ended up on the patio naked.” Show that she was being morally supported by one resident known to the board as opposed to wife-beater’s political positions and a woman named Linda. (There is a board trustee and political opponent of the wife-beater named Linda but the distinction is left unmade by the available document as posted by a wife-beater supporting website.

Sometime between the discovery of his wife kneeling in front of his ally’s son, and performing the old Lewinski if we are to believe the innuendo in the newspapers, and returning his son from little league on a May 2007 afternoon Mr. Humpfer went all Consenco on Mrs. Humpfer striking her in the legs and jabbing her in the pelvis/hip with an aluminum baseball bat that his son testified to carrying into the residence prior to the incident, which contradicted Wife-Beater’s testimony that he doesn’t recall a baseball bat being in the house. Remembered though that he had just returned his son from little league, strange that there wouldn’t be a bat isn’t it?

Anyway, Mrs. Humpfer didn’t alert authorities right away that her husband was a bat-wielding, wife-beating lunatic in his off hours from being an “Admirable” and “Good” Board Member. (Quotes from propagandists that spoke in support of the wife-beater at the 3/18 Carpentersville Village Board meeting). Sources differ on how the official police report was filed and Pirelli won’t let you down with the backstory promise, but on Feb 29 the conviction on four counts of misdemeanor domestic abuse was returned by a judge at the requested bench trial.

At the aforementioned board meeting, which followed a week of crazy debate in the press about the Village Board President’s ability/authority to engage the village attorney about removing a convicted wife-beater from a public board, comments flew in the local blogosphere. Debate raged as to who has the authority to police the politicians, attorneys were consulted all around.

All an attempt to highlight Wife-Beater’s public positions and achievements (some of which were controversial to say the least) prior to the exposure of his wife-beating lunatic hobby. During the 2007 election cycle, similar disgruntlement from wife-beating supporters indicated that enough time had lapsed between the ’05 rib breaking and the ’07 election cycle that the Wife-Beater was absolved of his responsibility for the breakage and mending of his spouse’s ribs. Even though no charges were filed and the restraining order was later rescinded voluntarily, supporters pointed to the references by Democratic rivals as attempts to smear an honorable man, who it couldn’t be proven by public documents had ever more than one time broken bones in his spouses body and this had been over 23 months prior to the election at hand..

Wife-Beater showed no remorse for his actions or the pain inflicted by his hands upon his family at the village hall last night, he stated his intentions to continue to occupy the board in spite of his being a convicted wife-beater facing a lengthy stay in a local penal facility. Debate never materialized around how exactly a local politician can be charged with misdemeanor counts for abusing his wife with a bat when state law clearly defines any assault with a weapon as a minimum Class X felony.

So, life goes on. The next big crime was reported to the citizens at village hall by Judy Sigwalt who indicated that an attempt on her life had been perpetrated by a man who had been allowed into the board room and made comments during the public session. I just don’t understand the Carpentersville Police Department allowing this to happen, I thought there were laws in place to protect victims from harassment by their violators until the trial and incarceration of the bad people. Judy said there was a police report filed, so how come there is no arrest record of charges related to attempted vehicular homicide being reported in the local “police briefs” section of our plethora of newspapers? I’ll have to get my FOIA request downtown pronto and get back to you on this one.

So I guess the moral is that Domestic Violence, which is heralded by many as an anti-virtue because of the manner in which it only festers into public view in the most heinous of circumstances and is routinely not reported by victims who feel more attached to a dysfunctional family unit than they do to their own safety and has been the target of many eradication efforts at both the grass-roots and government supported levels, is an acceptable night-time hobby for a Carpentersville Trustee provided they have shown some degree of acumen with numbers and didn’t hit their spouse very hard with a baseball bat and they have a strong track record of perceived racism through their work against Hispanic culture, language, and immigrants (not always clear if his concern is illegal immigrants or all Hispanic immigrants and that sense of entitlement for them to think they need to buy taco’s from people that don’t have a headset on).