Disceptatio 10



Difficult to pronounce, yet so easy to read

Our Philosophy:

1. You cannot win a discussion, but a Fool will always try.

2. Truth is relative to the known facts.

3. Opinions are the birthright of every free Man and Women. Nevertheless, it does not necessarily follow that such opinions are correct.

4. The other guys are usually just as sincere in their beliefs as you are in yours.

5. Right and Wrong are beliefs, not absolutes.

Copyright.

Editorial copyright rests with the publisher. All rights reserved. The publisher is not free to offer clearance on copyright material published in Disceptatio. Clearance may be obtained from the appropriate author. The views expressed in Disceptatio are not necessarily those of the publisher, and no responsibility is implied or accepted. You are free to distribute Disceptatio in its entirety, but

PLEASE DO NOT SPAM

Disceptatio is published in the UK by the Electronic Dolphin

ISSN 1466-0245

Disclaimer.

The publisher, editors, or assignees of Disceptatio are NOT responsible for claims made by advertisers. Please use caution when answering an advertisement or submitting any form of payment. Advertisers may terminate, or move, and prices may change without notice.

The publisher and editors of Disceptatio DO NOT claim ownership of published jokes. Jokes are presented to evoke laughter and are NOT intended to offend any person(s). Some jokes may contain adult language.

 

© 2000 Disceptatio

DISCEPTATIO MASTHEAD:

CONTACT: NAME: E-MAIL:

Editor sherpa sherpa@

Associate Editor Jennifer A. Czaplewski Fubar8877@

Book Reviews Belle Lunceford mountain.book2@

Humour Svali svali@email.

Poetry Alan Webb alan.webb@jcu.edu.au

Kegels Korner Stan Kegel kegel@

Columnist Don Parker donparker@pcola.

The Rusty Hing Rusti Kanz c/o Editor sherpa@

Web Site

Web Maintenance sherpa sherpa@

ToolBox sherpa sherpa@

***********************************************************************

GUIDELINES for SUBMISSIONS

We will never publish a home or e-mail address unless instructed to do so by the author.

No payment will be made for any submissions published.

1. Submissions are invited on any subject, except pornography or adult material.

2. Submissions must be in "English", although they may be in your "National English" using appropriate grammatical conventions. Grammatical consistency and correct spelling are requested.

3. Articles/Poems should normally not exceed 2000 words.

4. Please submit in "Arial" font - 10 point, with single-spacing if possible.

5. Coloured text, graphics, and links may be used.

6. Author retains all rights. Full credit will be given.

7. Submissions may be sent to the appropriate Sub Editor or to the Associate Editor.

Associate Editor Jennifer A. Czaplewski Fubar8877@

Book Reviews Belle Lunceford mountain.book2@

Humour Svali svali@email.

Poetry Alan Webb alan.webb@jcu.edu.au

Kegels Korner Stan Kegel kegel@

The Rusty Hinge Rusti Kanz c/o Editor sherpa@

ToolBox c/o Editor sherpa@

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Item Page

FRONTISPIECE 1

MASTHEAD 2

GUIDELINES 3

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

WAFFLE ON by the Editor 5

REQUIEM by the staff 5-12

WISH YOU WERE HERE by Romona Hill 12-22

THE RUSTY HINGE by Rusti Kanz 23-25

MAGNOLIAS AND POLKWEEDS by Belle Lunceford 26-28

KEGEL’S KORNER by Stan Kegel 28-30

LUCID PETUNIAS by Alan Webb 30-40

CLASSIFIED Your Gateway to the Internet 40-43

Waffle On by the Editor

As you know, our beloved editor, Stan Walker has, as Shakespear put it – shuffled off this mortal coil. He will be sorely missed. While Stan himself would probably disdain my doing so, I can not help but recount a few of his virtues. He was, despite his rough exterior, a very caring and compassionate man, who, at least in my dealings with him in Disceptatio, always sough to be fair and even handed. He never made a decision on policy without first doing his best to determine that who would be affected, and really tried to minimize any adverse affect. I apologise in advance for the sparseness of this issue. Stan’s death came quite suddenly and we were not prepared either emotionally or editorially.

Since Stan Walker’s death was unexpected, there are a few issues that have not been able to be resolved. For one Stan lived in England, he was the only Disceptatio staff member who lived in Europe, thus access to his computer records, and programs, such as Adobe writer, letters regarding Disceptatio, emails, etc are effectively unobtainable (although I would be willing to make the ultimate sacrifice and go, if anybody wants to spring for plane fare!) and if you want answers to your letters, you’ll have to resubmit them to sherpa@

Don’t forget – Contacts, Submission details, and our Guidelines, plus full details and Profiles of everyone working for “Disceptatio” can all be found on our Web Site -

ENJOY.

I don't think it's very useful to open wide the door for young artists; the ones who break down the door are more interesting.

- Paul Schrader

REQUIEM

Jenna Czaplewski:

No one ever really knows what to say when a person dies. Everyone is sorry. Everyone hangs their head and tsk-tsk-tsks the passing, mumbling that he was so young or she lived a long, full life. Everyone hugs the loved ones, brings over countless containers of easy-bake quiche and casserole and promises that they’ve been where you now are and, truly, time will heal all.

And while death always stings worst those left behind, what almost hurts more is not getting to say good-bye. There’s a certain hole that’s created and stays open when you lose someone suddenly. And I’m sorry if that sounds cliché, but it’s true.

I have a rule for my family, my co-workers and my friends: never leave without saying good-bye. Whether it’s for an hour, until tomorrow or before the weekend, never leave without saying good-bye. It’s a hard and fast rule I have for one main reason – you never know what may happen and I never want to feel – or have anyone else feel – as though I missed my chance to say good-bye.

I guess I’ll just have to forgive you, Stan, for not saying good-bye. Godspeed, my friend, thank you for your confidence, your integrity, your humor, for taking a chance on a novice like me – thank you for you.

Don Barbera:

Do You Make A Difference?

It’s a funny thing about life – it doesn’t matter whether you choose to live it or not, it goes on anyway. It doesn’t care if you like it or not, it goes on without you. When you’re considering how to live your life, think about what would happen if you weren’t here. For many of us, the time-space continuum would barely waver if we were to disappear this very instant.

However, for a few, relentless time actually pauses for a moment to tip its galactic hat to someone who tried to make that difference and so it did with Stan. Few live the life that is theirs to live as we hustle about making a living, ignoring the fact that we only get to do this once. The very fact that Stan was involved with “Disceptatio” speaks of his desire to make a difference.

My question to those who live on is “do you make a difference?” Is the world a better place because you are here or would no one know you left without noticing the door ajar? Living quiet lives of desperation, we chase our tails trying to make a living and forget that life is about living to the fullest degree and that means taking risks, bumping our heads in failure and celebrating our personal success.

We have little to sustain us in this world than our family, friends and our beliefs, but if we have touched somebody, if we have made a difference in someone’s life, if we have lived life on our own terms – then we have made a difference. If not, then we are just placeholders spinning our wheels in the dark. Disceptatio made a difference. Stan made a difference. Yet, the question remains, do you make a difference?

Alan Webb:

The night’s blue dark

Today is not a good day to die

Like a stranger on the path

The garden gate is closed

And the honeysuckle flowers have fallen

Cold sunlight gives no comfort

Only the clarity of dreams

Where the moon howls at the earth

And white doves fly on wings of fire

So walk slowly into night’s blue dark

My friend

Your poem is unfinished

But the metaphor is complete

Its rhythm is a slow drum

And the space between is silent

The silence of waiting

I see the eyes of a child

Behind shuttered windows

Closing

Now closed to the animal inside

As in the winter’s air

The last breath sighs

It’s requiem

For what was

And might have been

Romona:

For Stan

You came into my life and left so soon, but I'm the richer for having known you . . .

I miss you, my friend - goodbye.

Romona

Stan Kegel:

What can you say at a time like this? One day we hear he has cancer. A few days later it is over. So fast.

I knew Stan only a short time. He had a vision of what an e-zine should be and was well on his way to fully accomplishing his goals when he was stricken.

We will all miss him. My thoughts are for the loved ones he left behind.

Don Parker:

STAN, WE HARDLY KNEW 'YA

With computers almost ubiquitous and e-communicating virtually a way of life in these technologically frenzied times I suppose it was inevitable that a relationship, such as the one I enjoyed with Stan Walker, would come about. Stan was a friend, a mentor, a boss and a sounding board (and sometimes all four), but I never met him face to face.

I spend a lot of time at my keyboard, writing for a variety of publications, and it was through one of those publications that Stan first contacted me. I don't recall if it was because of a magazine article or a column, but I remember receiving an e-mail from someone named Stan Walker. He told me he edited an on-line publication called Disceptatio, had seen some of my work, and asked if I would write for him.

Although I couldn't pronounce Disceptatio (I still can't) he made his offer irresistible by assuring me I would not be paid one penny for my time and further, he would reserve the right to edit anything I submitted. Of course I agreed immediately. I was then writing for at least three other publications which didn't pay either and it's my belief that one can't ever do enough free work.

He e-mailed me several back issues of Disceptatio and I was impressed by the eclectic character and by the different writing styles. I learned that although he lived in Shropshire, England, his writing team was scattered around the globe and columns, articles and poems were forever zipping across both oceans so they could be edited and eventually compiled into a finished edition of Disceptatio. It was an interesting concept and I was eager to become a part of it.

Stan and were in frequent contact and I came to admire his dry wit and droll sense of humor. He was a well-read man with wide literary interests and with an insatiable curiosity. I admit there were times I found some of his "Britishisms" mystifying, but this only served to confirm that the United States and Great Britain are indeed similar countries separated by a common language.

Initially, he suggested I write 250 words for him on a topic of my choosing and I agreed, little realizing how difficult this would be. I have spent years writing columns of 650-850 words and it's almost automatic to me. To suddenly try to shoehorn a column idea into these impossibly tight boundaries proved to be quite the challenge. My first attempt was gruelling and it must have taken me eight tries to come up with something that was only slightly less than wretched. After two days of cutting and pruning I finally submitted the result, but not before complaining loud and long about the anemic word allowance. Stan immediately agreed that I could write up to 2,000 words if I wished. Turned out he thought he was doing me a favor, figuring I would have an easier time just doing 250 words.

From that point on things became easier and I soon came to enjoy the freedom of rattling on for 1500-2000 words on any topic of my choosing. I prefer to stick with the slice-of-life genre, highlighting the absurdity of the human condition by commenting on what I see happening around me, but I also wrote a Christmas remembrance column along with some columns Stan suggested.

Like me, he was an admirer of the writings of Lewis Carroll and he thought a column that discussed the poem Jabberwocky might be interesting. While eager to comply I was at a loss as to what angle I should take until he hit on the idea of having me "interview" Humpty Dumpty who appears in Through The Looking Glass. That gave me the hook I needed and it turned out to be my favorite column.

Occasionally Stan would allude to health problems, but he was never very specific and when he told me he had been hospitalized for something or other I was concerned, but not worried. Then he told us he had been diagnosed with lung cancer and it was not long after that we received word of his death.

As with the passing of any friend his death has left a hole in my life, but this is more unsettling than usual because of the nature of our relationship. This was a person I only knew through the e-mail we exchanged, but I learned a lot about him, discovered areas of common interest, admired his talent and creativity and ultimately forged a warm (albeit electronic) friendship. But to then have that relationship come to such an abrupt end leaves me without the sense of closure I would have if I had met him or even gone to his funeral.

Stan was a unique individual and I regret that we never had the chance to spend several evenings sitting in a bar (or pub), foaming mugs in hand, discoursing on philosophical concepts great and small, defending and attacking the great writers, and eventually solving all the insoluble problems of the body politic before we staggered off to a satisfied sleep.

Rather than try to close with thoughts about my friend, Stan, that would probably become way too saccharine, I'll let Robert Louis Stevenson say it for me.

REQUIUM

Under the wide and starry sky,

Dig the grave and let me lie.

Glad did I live and gladly die,

And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:

Here he lies where he longed to be;

Home is the sailor, home from sea,

And the hunter home from the hill.

Elsie Roark:

In travelling the cyberhighway, we all know we take a chance. Who knows if the person we interact with is what they appear to be? On the Internet, we can be anything we please - who's to know?

Not so with Stan Walker. From the beginning, you somehow sensed that he was genuine - the real deal. How could someone be such a contradiction and not be the real thing? Let me give you an example. Stan was all for women's rights. He believed that women were indeed equal, and if they were more suited to the work place than the hearth, so be it. And yet, his manners were courtly, even old-fashioned, when it came to the fairer sex. As he told us, "My mother told me, treat all women as you would like your sister to be treated." Now, this is not a verbatim quote, but it sums up the essence of Stan and his belief in the way things ought to be.

He believed that kindness towards his fellow man was important, rather one agreed with his philosophy or not. While he would cringe at such descriptions as " a nice man", indeed, that was what he was. I will miss him very much, but I'll remember always our all too brief friendship.

Jean Goddin

Stan Walker, (or Ed or Clun as he also signed his emails) was a most

unusual youngish man. It is difficult to explain how someone you have

only met and known electronically can make an impression and create

memories in such a few months. But Stan did that with all of the people

I know about. He was intelligent, kind, generous, well traveled,

friendly and a father to a young lad. And even though for the time I

knew him online he lived "just outside of a small village in Wales" he

not only conversed with and brought together a group of people

electronically from all over the world, he managed to get them to work

together as a team to create an electronic magazine, Disceptatio. He

also issued an invitation to everyone that "if you are ever in the

neighborhood, please drop by and stay a while."

Stan was experienced in many areas and knew how to do many things, but he

wasn't totally computer literate. He knew what he wanted to do, knew

what computer tools should work to accomplish that, and when it didn't

work like he thought it should was able to find people who would help

and explain so at least he could understand what was going on even if he

couldn't fix it. He made people want to zap through the wires of the

internet and put his system right or get his software to work together.

He was a gentle man as well as a gentleman with strong opinions. He

could drop a pebble into a conversation and cause ripples of response

that would go on for days. His questions made people think about their

answers and sometimes about their underlying beliefs. And he was willing

to stand up for things he believed in as well as against things he

didn't believe in. Both of which seem to be talents that are

disappearing from a world where people are trained not to offend.

Before Stan would get one issue of Discepatio finished, he was already

planning and organizing for the next one or two. His visions were on

Tomorrow and the Future. The Internet gave him his window to the world

to get there and organize to make things happen. There is no doubt that

he will be missed by all who met him. I am also certain that those of us

who knew him however briefly have been influenced to make things better,

try for new things we wouldn't have attempted without his nudges and

questions, and will remember him always.

Vicki Grosse

Ed--

Thank you for the opportunity you gave me. You encouraged and believed

in me. You set a wonderful example in that you were never afraid to

speak your mind. You walked that fine line between honesty and

sensitivity.

We will miss you.

Rob, The Texas Ranger

Stan was truly a very dear and good friend, despite the fact

that we never met face to face.

"All the Constitution guarantees is the pursuit of happiness. You have to catch up with it yourself."

-Ben Franklin

 

[pic]

Many thanks for all your letters, I thoroughly enjoyed reading each and every one of them.

In my last column I talked about The Sandy Desert, and skirting the edges of five states.

From Melbourne, Victoria - Oodnadatta Track, South Australia, - Alice Springs, Northern Territory.

THIS IS THE RETURN TRIP.

Alice Springs Northern Territory - Bulia in Queensland - Birdsville, SW Queensland -Tibooburra, New South Wales.

[pic]

Road to Chamber’s Pillar

[pic]

Chamber’s Pillar

Before leaving Alice Springs en route to Bulia in Queensland, we drove out to Chamber’s Pillar. Located on a sandy track, roughly 90 kilometres return, this distinctive wind-blown rock can be seen from kilometres around, and was used as a landmark by the early explorers, as it is by travellers even today. Inscriptions at its base tell of notable people who have passed that way.

[pic]

Boulia Outback Queenslan. The Min Min light - a myth?

Myths and legends. Most of us love them. They stimulate the imagination which in turn creates dreams. I would not try to dispel them nor search for the final clue, because when the mystery is lost, so is our dream, and we all have a place in our hearts just to store dreams.

The Min Min light is said to move around, and often follows the traveller’s car for long distances hovering and dancing all the time. Nobody really knows when these lights started to appear, but the old people believe it goes way back in Time. Hardened old bushmen say it is dangerous to camp on the Min Min Ridge or surrounding plains, believing those areas to be its stamping ground, and those who have seen the Min Min light have even admitted to fear.

The lady in the souvenir shop said her husband had seen the Min Min light in 1974, but after that… well, nobody had. Tourists who didn’t see the lights, complained it had been a wasted trip, but the lady, protective of Boulia's own mystery, insisted it was because of the great increase in traffic that the lights were running shy.

We’ve camped on the plains at Boulia three times, and I’ve watched all night in the hope of seeing this phosphorescent phenomenon, but with no luck. Bill is a sceptic, if I ever saw one. “… you've got to consume a whole bottle of cheap red, first…” he suggests with a mischievous grin.

Lasseter’s Reef (gold) in Australia’s Red Heart. In 1897 Lewis H.B Lasseter decided to fossick for rubies in the western McDonnel Ranges, and in the process came upon an outcrop of quartz that ran for miles - a reef bulging with gold.

Lost and dying of thirst, had Lasseter not been found by an Afghan camel-driver, no one would have ever heard his amazing story. 'Gold, as thick as plums in a pudding,' he said, showing samples of the ore. Despite the fact that he'd noted the landmarks and on the strength of which men had been fired up to mount several expeditions, to date, the reef has not been found.

[pic]

Birdsville Hotel at 6 a.m. Just before we left.

Situated along a track of the same name, Birdsville is in the south/west of Queensland, a typical Outback town. A handful of people live there, and the main 'port of call' is the Birdsville Hotel; not only to socialise, but the food is good, too. You can get a good beef steak, (Kangaroo if you prefer it) served with a fresh salad, desert if you have a sweet tooth, and an ice cold beer or a glass of wine with which to wash it all down. All this, amid the ebb and flow of conversation with the gregarious locals - my word, who could want more.

The Birdsville Races are unique, and people come from everywhere. Places as far flung as Tasmania, Sydney, and Melbourne - even from overseas. This horse race is run once a year to help raise funds for the Royal Flying Doctor Service and Frontier Services Birdsville Hospital. Even if you don't win at the races, you can be assured of a real Australian Outback experience you will never forget.

[pic]

CHANNEL COUNTRY BYWAY - 'BIG RED' SANDHILL

'Big Red' is one of 1,100 sandhills in the Simpson Desert and at ninety

metres, is believed to be the highest of its kind in the desert. The sandhills

in the Simpson Desert run in a north/south direction for hundreds of kilometres

and are covered in spinifex or cane grass.

[pic]

'Big Red' from the top looking down.

[pic]

Sturt's Stony Desert.

Our 4-wheel drive barrelled and bounced along the Birdsville Track between Sturt's Stony Desert and the Tirari Desert. Stones, stones, and more stones! An eternal landscape of smooth pebble-like rocks as big as my fist, merged in the distance with a cobalt-blue sky.

At Lindhurst we turned off onto the Strezelecki Track, and this region was more in keeping with my idea of a desert. Massive grey sand dunes dotted with salt-bush, and in the distance, what looked like shimmering bodies of water. I remembered those old movies in which men lost in the desert and mad with thirst staggered toward these mirages, only to meet death, instead.

[pic]

Sunset at McMillan's Creek, Strzelecki Track

This particular place, we stumbled upon by accident, and as it turned out, was one of the prettiest. Majestic old river gums edging a creek, stood like gnarled old men on guard while they suffered the indignity of screeching cockatoos squabbling in their branches. Dead wood scattered below the trees was more than adequate for a good campfire, and pitching our tent was easy in the clean sandy soil. It's great to camp on a river bank, or beside a creek, but camping in a dry river or creek bed can be dangerous due to flash flooding especially in the Wet Season.

Long after the fire had burned out and we'd gone to bed, I lay awake with my thoughts. I listened to the eerie howl of a lonesome dingo merge with the sudden squawk of a 'very late' cockatoo winging its way home. This had been a good holiday, but it was fast coming to an end. Being detached from my own sphere of immediacy and from society itself hadn't mattered even the slightest; the wilderness had given me freedom, calm, and kinship. Small puffs of wind rustled the leaves on the trees stirring the acrid smell of smoke from the lingering embers of the campfire - I felt good within myself and breathed deeply - this was a wonderful way to end another day.

Breakfast over, and the fire properly doused, we were ready to leave. Bill got in behind the wheel, and I slid into the passenger's side. The road stretched endlessly, on and on, you could have sworn it was made of elastic. Then out of the blue, a sign bobs up beside the road. A sign written in white paint on a piece of corrugated iron designed to resemble an arrow. 'COLD BEER' you read, with a mixture of hope and incredulity. Then just as you settle into the fact that it might be a mirage, or someone's warped sense of humour, another sign shows up - HAMBURGERS. You exchange sceptical glances and faint smiles. No! Can't be! Not out here! HOT DOGS … BACON AND EGGS! But now you know it's not imagination, or some idiot's joke, and you both laugh, because you've just consulted your map… yes, the Mungerannie Hotel was here - the remotest hotel in South Australia.

Mungerannie. The ritual of putting up our tent completed, we sat outside to enjoy the evening's cool, but our peace was shot to bits when a group of Harley Davidson motorbikes roared to stop almost upon us. The black-leathered riders dismounted, removed their helmets, and somewhat dumbfounded, I realised these people were not what they seemed. After setting up camp, they gathered around our campfire - invited of course. Travel yarns flew thick and fast, and jokes evoking peals of laughter went on well into the early hours. It's not every day you get to keep company with 'Harley riders', especially a group like this one - all aged between sixty-five, and way, way over!

To Tibooburra. The road cruised over a series of low hills giving us an exciting roller-coaster ride, but it came to an end at Merty Merty Homestead. We diverged onto to a faint side track providing a passage through to Cameron's Corner, and the meeting of three states - New South Wales, Queensland, and South Australia. We photographed the marker, as we'd done at the geographical centre of the Australian mainland, and Poeppells Corner, where Queensland and South Australia met the Northern Territory.

[pic]

Tibooburra Hotel.

[pic]

Opposite side of the road. Fuel, café, and general store.

Leaving Tibooburra signified the end of the Outback. The Silver City Highway replaced dirt tracks, and both Bill and I drove with that 'let down' feeling one gets when a good time is done. We tried to temper this emotion by discussing plans for the next excursion, when Bill felt something was amiss. He pulled over to the side of the road, and hopped out of the vehicle. Who would credit it - a blow-out! After all the challenges of bush roads we'd overcome, now on a bitumen highway - THIS!

Bill set the jack into place and began the arduous task of changing the tyre. People stopped to ask if we needed help, they were also 'freshly emerging' from the outback, where, to offer help is an unwritten code - but Bill had everything under control and we were ready to resume our journey. Then a vehicle travelling the opposite way, shot past. It threw up a stone that struck our windscreen with such force, it caused a 'star' as big as a fifty cent piece. I was glad to be far enough away not get my ears scorched with the adjectives Bill muttered angrily, but at least, the windscreen repair patch he stuck over the damage held out until we got back to Melbourne and home.

[pic]

PALM VALLEY, CENTRAL AUSTRALIA (NOT FAR FROM ALICE SPRINGS)

The palm trees occurring in this area date back to over two million years. To aptly describe the road into the Palm Valley, 'torturous' would have to be the one. A 4-wheel drive, an experienced driver, and a sturdy stomach is required to withstand the ride.

Next month we'll take a look at the Kimberley region in Western Australia's far north and meet some of the locals. The Land of The Wanjana.

Travel well, and travel light.

Copyright ( Wish You Were Here and photographs Romona Hilliger 2000-03-06

"Don't go around saying the world owes you a living; The world owes you nothing; it was here first."

-Mark Twain

The Rusty Hinge by Rusti Kanz

Alcohol seems to be a problem in our society. No, not alcohol, per se The use of alcohol seems

to present a problem. The inappropriate use of alcohol, that is, seems to be a problem. It

ruins relationships and ruins lives. Yet, we, as a society, seem to be ambivalent about whether

or not this is a problem we really want to solve. In at least two areas, underage drinking and

drunken driving, we don't seem able to come up with a way to solve the problem. Maybe that's

because we're not sure they're problems we want to solve. They're both much too lucrative.

Let's look at underage drinking first. Unless we've had a bad first-hand experience with the

damage underage drinking can cause; many of consider heavy drinking in the later teen years as

a rite of passage to adulthood. We say we disapprove, but, in reality, we wink and look the

other way. In the United States, we have an established age under which any alcohol consumption

is considered illegal. That age ranges from 18 to 21, depending on which state you look at.

I am not sure how 21 came to be chosen, but, before the Vietnam era, 21 was the age of majority

In most cases, the age of majority was consistent with the drinking age. In some states, one

could drink beer and wine at 18, but had to be 21 to drink the "hard stuff." I guess they

figured that the alcohol in beer and wine was less alcoholic than the alcohol in whisky. When

the draft was put into effect in the 60's, the draft age was 18. Of course, the argument was

made that it is immoral to draft boys, so the age of majority, including that of drinking, was

dropped to 18. After all, how could one expect a person not old enough to enjoy a cold beer to

be old enough to send to war?

After the police action was ended, the age of majority stayed at 18, but the drinking age was

raised back to 21. Apparently, too many 18- to 20-year-olds were being killed in alcohol

related car accidents. Supposedly, being 21, the average person had sense enough to handle

alcohol appropriately. We wink at the 21 drinking age. For many years, the age of majority and

the drinking age were the same. Unfortunately, many kids still equate adulthood with being able

to drink. There is no training, as there is with driving. It's just, one day you cannot drink;

the next day you are supposed to have the maturity to handle alcohol responsibly.

Unfortunately, it is relatively easy for kids younger than 21 to drink. Some of us, as parents,

see nothing wrong with giving our 18-year-old a glass of wine with dinner on special occasions

(Hey, it's teaching responsible drinking, isn't it?) Some kids find ways to sneak into their

parents' liquor cabinet. Some are able to pass for 21 in a liquor store and buy it for

themselves. Some have older friends who buy for them. It happens. First we make the law

defining the legal drinking age as 21, and then we make it attractive and easy to break that

law. In this way, we give kids a mixed message.

To top it off, we, as a society, make a profit off underage drinking. First, the makers and

sellers of alcohol make a profit. Then the government taxes the sale of alcohol. In the United

States, the government is of the people and by the people, so, in effect, the people profit

through this tax. Finally, any youth so blatant and careless as to get caught by the police in

an inebriated state is fined several hundred dollars. Again, the people profit. The same is

true of our definition of inebriation. We set an arbitrary standard, usually .10. One can

legally operate an automobile at .09, but not at .10. Again, the fine is several hundred

dollars Whenever there is a fatal accident involving alcohol consumption, our politicians talk

about lowering the legal limit to .09 or .08. Of course this doesn't really deal with the

problem because, at least as I've noticed by reading the newspapers the last couple of years,

the most gruesome alcohol-related accidents involved blood alcohol levels considerably higher

than .10. Lowering the limit doesn't do anything to deal with the class of drinkers who cause

the worst problems. However, it does result in more people being caught driving "drunk" and

fined several hundred dollars.

An interesting point here is that, unless s/he is stopped and given a Breathalyzer test, the

average person has no idea what his/her blood alcohol level is. While we may have a pretty good

idea of what the stages feel like from stone sober to really looped, we really have no clue

where .10 comes in that continuum. Now, in a perfect world, that not knowing would have the

effect of keeping us a nation of teetotalers. Since we really don't know, we'd never take the

chance. However, this punitive approach doesn't seem to work that way. If we, as a society,

were really serious about solving the problem of drunken driving, we'd have breathalyzers more

readily available. We might require every tavern to install one. Then, as patrons leave, they

have to be less than .10 before being allowed to drive home. At the very least, patrons would

know whether they were legally inebriated and have the option to call someone to pick them up.

Breathalyzers could also be available in drug stores for home use. When giving a party, a host

could make it available to guests. There would be no question of who was or was not sober

enough to drive. Awareness might be more effective than punitive measures in preventing

inappropriate alcohol consumption. One effect of intoxication is poor judgement. The person who

is drunk often does not realize the extent of his/her intoxication. Having hard numbers takes

away the notion of whether a person "can handle it." Whether or not that person can handle it

is no longer the salient point. The blood alcohol level is.

Breathalyzers could be installed in college fraternity and sorority houses. It could be

considered an educational tool. Supposedly, a responsible adult is present in both locations.

Having students breathe into it before leaving a party would tell that student how dangerous

his/her binge that night was. The "responsible adult" would also have a clue, in hard numbers,

how dangerous that particular party was. Of course, maybe this is a really bad idea. After all,

we, as a society, make a lot of money off inappropriate drinking. Why rock the boat.

If you're going through hell, keep going.

- Winston Churchill

Magnolias And Polkweeds by Belle Lunceford

Hello,

This is a sad time at Disceptatio for all of us as we try to write our columns for this issue, but it would say little of our love for our dear friend, Stan Walker, if we did not make the effort to keep this little publication going. It meant much to him - as he did to us.

*************

For a time, memoirs fell out of favor. They were viewed as self-indulgent tributes to one’s self – not for serious reading. Now – well, everybody’s doing it, and the public seems tickled to have the chance to hear every story firsthand. So much so, in fact, that a well-known and prestigious writers’ conference this past year served up a week’s worth of lectures and panel discussions devoted solely to the writing of one’s life experiences.

Due to a bout of recurring insomnia, I just happened to be watching portions of this conference one night on Book TV. The lecturer/author of the moment was Joyce Maynard, a writer who had received a certain amount of notoriety by what many considered her betrayal of J. D. Salinger. The woman who leaned against a table on that stage in Florida seemed so vulnerable, even then, as she earnestly tried to justify writing a book that she had every right to in the first place. Ms. Maynard to this day seems apologetic for her talent, her experiences and her life. Not because she had an affair with a man old enough to be her father, but because that man happened to be an icon of literature that had decided to retreat from the very world that made him famous.

I’m led to wonder – in these days, when the personal fiascoes of celebrities are brought out for the world to examine – whether the price of fame would be worth it. The extra-marital affairs of presidents and princes are topics for discussion around every breakfast table. As evidenced by the proliferation of biographical TV shows so popular these days, as well as the multitude of memoirs and autobiographies that fill the bookstores, the public is indeed fascinated by the lives of the rich and famous. Is it because we would like to believe that underneath all the trappings of success, they are really just like the rest of us – flawed and ordinary?

*********

"No one can drive us crazy unless we give them the keys." - Doug Horton

********

At Home in the World, A Memoir by Joyce Maynard, printed in the United States by Picador USA, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010

ISBN: 0-312-19556-7

If the reader picks this book from the shelf expecting to get sordid details of the life of J.D. Salinger, they will be disappointed. Instead, the author tells a strange and disturbing story about her journey through life -- a life in which Salinger played an active role for one year. Although the time spent in his company was to have a profound effect on Joyce Maynard from then until the present, this is truly her story.

I was struck from the very beginning at how far from the norm Maynard’s upbringing must have been. Born to brilliant and charismatic parents, she was raised in a home where she was exposed to all that was academic, but little to prepare her for life in the real world. Her father, an artist and professor of literature, spent most of his daughter’s formative years in an alcoholic daze. Her mother, highly educated but never allowed to realize the potential of her mind and training, became instead what can only be described as a cross between Martha Stewart and Auntie Mame.

It was her mother who seemed to have the most influence on Joyce as a child, encouraging her to write. By her teens, Maynard was already a published author. At eighteen, she sold her autobiography - an earnest and grandiose dissertation on the meaning of life as seen through the eyes of a young girl growing up in the sixties – and published in the New York Times Magazine, complete with a picture of her on the cover. The second printing of At Home in the World contains a copy of this article, as well as a photograph of the magazine cover. I wonder if the author blushes when she reads it now.

It was this magazine article that set into motion the much publicized correspondence with Salinger, leading eventually to Maynard moving into his home for a time. (Note: Joyce Maynard recently sold the letters she received from J. D. Salinger at auction for a sum of money equaling a year’s salary for many. The buyer stated he intended to return them to Salinger, where he felt they rightfully belonged. Certainly an altruistic gesture, but one could question if it was really that important after all these years.) That she knew so little about life is evident when she describes a mental block so powerful she is physically unable to consummate the sexual aspect of their relationship. To her credit, Ms. Maynard finds the personal strength to overcome this and many other aspects of her life that stem from her unorthodox childhood. She finds happiness and certainly, success, and learns that the trials of life are just things that most ordinary folks cope with and move on. Welcome to the real world, Joyce. I wish you well.

*********

"I read somewhere that 77 per cent of all the mentally ill live in poverty. Actually, I'm more intrigued by the 23 per cent who are apparently doing quite well for themselves." - Emo Philips

***********

© Belle Lunceford 2000

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Belle Lunceford resides in the mountains of southeastern Kentucky, USA, and might truthfully be called a hillbilly. She shares her home with silent cats, talkative cockatiels and assorted small livestock (outside, of course), fills up a lot of bookshelves and generally lives the good life.

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The greater the obstacle, the more glory in overcoming it.

-- Moliere

Kegels Korner: With Stan Kegel.

What legal document must a police officer have before he can apprehend a

napping rabbit? Arrest Warren (By Gary Hallock)

Those who do not want to be counted have taken leave of their census.

(Pun of the Day)

He was accused of being hobo-phobic when he wouldn't go near the bum.

(Win Ben Stein's Money)

What is a mosquito's favorite sport? Skin diving (Teresa Corrigan)

Are dog biscuits made from collie flour? (Just For Laughs)

If you cut yourself, rub thyme into the cut, because thyme heals all

wounds. (Steve Jacobson)

Some power saws are a cut above the rest. (Pun of the Day)

A note left for a pianist from his wife: “Gone Chopin, have Liszt, Bach

in a Minuet.” (Bad Puns)

I call my pet amphibian "Tiny" because he's "my newt." (P. Jackson)

"What'll you do," the teacher asked, "when you are as big as your

mother?" "Diet," replied the young girl. (Mailman)

When a guillotine executioner is layed off he gets severance. (Pun of

the Day)

He got arrested when he followed the directions that stated: "Void where

prohibited" (Arthur Wohlwill)

It is easy to feed a horse because it is “in the bag.” (Jumble)

The Pun-Off is a farce to be reckoned wit. (Gary Hallock)

Abalone: An expression of disbelief (Tony Thoennes)

Why is a good writer like a criminal? Because they both prefer short

sentences. (Richard Crasta)

He is one of the town’s greatest natural athletes. He makes every broad

jump. (Bennett Cerf)

The things my wife buys at auction are keeping me baroque. (Peter de Vries)

The best way to lose weight is by skipping... snacks and desert. (Aiken Drum)

If Cher were to get cloned, would she be Cher and Cher alike? (Steve Sutton)

Copper Nitrate What policemen get paid for working overtime in the

evening. (Anon.).

A store for singles is a “meet” market. (Jumble)

What did Noah say as he was loading the Ark? Now I herd everything (The

Placebo Page)

They honored the French chef by giving him the quiche to the city.

(Win Ben Stein's Money)

If you're afraid o'stairs you should dance down them gingerly, Roger.

(Gary Hallock)

Apple Butter: A goat that hates MacIntoshes. (Johnny Hart)

Bushwhacking is a gory business. (Lars Hanson)

I once saw a tribal chief eat an entire Websters dictionary. We gave him

castor oil for a week but never got a word out of him. (Bradley)

Do stars clean themselves with meteor showers? (Hershy)

A harp is a nude piano. (GCFL)

I head about a chief who cooked and ate a Missionary. Within a hour he

threw up which proves that you can't keep a good man down. (Tony Thoennes)

Relief: What a tree does in the spring (Scrimshaw 6)

The moonshiner artist excelled at “still” life. (Jumble)

When the authorities shut down our nude beach, we held a funraiser to

recup our lasses. (Megan Waves)

A drunk was hanging on to a lamp post for support when an old lady

walked by and asked, "Why don't you take a bus home?" The drunk replied,

"My wife would never let me keep it!" (Carl Franklin)

Diets are for people who are thick and tired of it (Myrrdins)

Most weight lifters are biceptual. (Norm Gilbert)

Gross ignorance is 144 times worse than ordinary ignorance (John S. Crosbie)

Golf cart: a vehicle with a fore cylinder engine (Daryl Stout)

The carpenter varnished without a trace. (Win Ben Stein's Money)

I was winning the argument until she poured the quinine water over me.

Talk about bitter defeat. (Stan Kegel)

"I accidentally shot a hole in the ceiling.", said Tom aimlessly. (Bad Puns)

On my birthday, my friends Tina and Marge wanted to cook something

special for me, and they suggested Wiener Schnitzel. But it's not my

favorite, so I said, "Don't fry for me, Marge and Tina!" (Zdislav V. Kovarik)

Show me a really insulting telegram and I'll show you a barbed wire!

(Tony Thoennes)

Hangover: The wrath of grapes. (Alan B. Combs)

Fad: Something that goes into one era and out the other. (Bennett Cerf)

Have you heard about the woman who came over to look at her boyfriend's

unfurnished apartment? She was floored. (Richard Lederer)

He was a very clumsy lover, so the girl had to put him in her place. (Ed Hexter)

What do you call a prositute that talks alot? A conversation piece! (The

Placebo Page)

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You know, somebody actually complimented me on my driving today. They left a little note on the windscreen which said, "Parking Fine."

--Tommy Cooper

LUCID PETUNIAS by Alan Webb

Hello dear reader,

This month is just for poetry from living writers before lucid petunias ventures in coming

months on a historical journey into the world of Victorian poetry and even further back to the

odes of ancient Greece! The following poems are provided by a novice (Liz Tynan), a master

(Professor Duane Locke) and someone who is neither (me)!

The Novice

Liz Tynan is a journalist and works for the Australian Institute of Marine Science here in

northern Queensland, Australia. The following poem, Flutters, is her first published piece -

what a starter and what a great image: "slimy butterflies of the innards"!! In a few months

time I will be starting a series called The Coffee Shop "interviews" with living Australian

poets and I will be asking searching questions like - do you take your coffee with or without

sugar, and more superficial questions about creative inspiration. Liz will be one of my

interviewees along with some well-known established Queensland poets and artists. She is a

little nervous about it but I am sure, given the quality of her writing, she has an interesting

tale to tell and you will have the opportunity of reading more of her work. So here is a taste:

Flutters by Liz Tynan

What heart heard of, fleetingly,

Mind abdicated

Time makes ludicrous the palpitations of

The heart, which are gone

In an instant; an eternity;

An instant of skipped and slippery

Skulduggery

Masquerading as flutters

Slimy butterflies of the innards

Unnatural quests for specious glory

Spacious split seconds

Made huge by nameless fear

But all meaning is vacant and staring;

A corpse, hardly even flesh; not even flesh

Just matted and intertwined bones

And dryness

Withering and barren

Unthinking, meaningless

Without rock upon which (if it could have foundation)

A plinth would also wither,

Weighed down into the yielding sand

And become bonded to it

Its particles, its molecules

Melding with the intractable, harsh

Rock standing defiant

And timeless, or so it seemed

If only between the skipped beating

Of a suffering heart, so recently

Impressed with its smart, cocky assurance

Its own fragile security

An illusion

A trick played upon an unsuspecting

Unprepared stranger.

Blindness and longing in league

To belong to something that has all the

Inevitability of the withering stone

A stone which crumbles sightlessly

But crumbles in tiny, shattering particles

Until it's a pebble

Then a nothing, deprived of wholeness

Nothing but a negative sum of useless disintegration.

Time smiles at its cleverness

Not knowing it is a lie

Made by man to measure the motion of

A useless heart

Fluttering in the deadly breeze

Fluttering for a moment before

Annihilation and its denial

And palpitations that shake the ribs

And render the heartful

Fearful

The In-between

Well dear reader, I still have a long, long way to go before reaching anywhere near mastery of

the poetic - but I am trying! Here are a few of my efforts:

The last few pages are missing by Alan Webb

There is something wrong with the works

Dripping with perspiration

The spring tide recedes

Drop by drop into thin air

Humourless

Melancholic mist shrouds giant crustaceans

Quadrilled on ancient shores

Where penguins brace themselves

As fresh winds blow in from the north

Safe-harboured

The mooneyed luminaries

Atmospherically vacant

Kiss the Pope's toe and

Read Chekov in the dark

But some of the pages are missing

Like somnambulists

They promenade at midnight

Along the path of least resistance

While statistically

The trains still run on time

Perpetual motion hesitates

And the wall clock

Entropic

Slowly winds itself down

Hypothesis by Alan Webb

Each explanation, concise, to the point

Questions the mechanism of original animals

The antennal variation

The gill's description

Describes the line graph data

Not the one who names

No new definitions etc.

Overall, the message is the medium

The end of the beginning

One hypothesis or a range of impressions

With self-reference who can say

What is what and why

The behaviour of the written text

Conforms, regulates and interprets

Its own errors

Deep in estuarine thought

The hand that feeds, crab-like, signals

All salient points

With abstract methodology

Free from discussion

The results speak for themselves

As the semi-permeable tide

Seawater breathing

Exhales soft sipunculid dreams

Change by Alan Webb

Taut nipple buds blossom

Radiant flower thoughts

Their dappled green urgency

All too soon seeks fruition

The flush fades

Pale shadows move

Gravity fed, the snake roots finger

Dark interstices

Their thin skeleton skin cracks open

Uncertain ground

Freed from its mortal coil

The silvered ache shivers

While broken memories

Daily fall from Eden

The Master

I have included the resume of the Master, Duane Locke - it makes as impressive and interesting

reading as the works themselves - That is one heck of a lot of poems Duane!

Duane Locke

2716 Jefferson Street

Tampa, FL 33602-1620

E mail: duanelocke@

[Duane Locke, Doctor of Philosophy in Renaissance Literature, Professor

Emeritus of the Humanities, Poet in Residence at University of Tampa for

over twenty years, publisher of over 2,000 poems in over 500 print magazines

such as American Poetry Review, Nation, Literary Quarterly, Black Moon, and

Bitter Oleander, author of 14 books of poems, his latest being WATCHING

WISTERIA (to order see or call Small Press

Distribution-1-800-869-7553), cyber-poet, since Sept 1, 1999 has had 383

acceptances by online zines, photographer, listed in PSA's WHO'S WHO as one

of the top twenty nature photographers, painter, currently having a one-man

show of over 30 painting at the Pyramid gallery in Tampa, winner for poetry

of the Edna St. Vincent Millay, Charles Agnoff, and Walt Whitman awards, now

lives alone and isolated in the sunny Tampa slums. He lives estranged and

as an alien, not understanding the customs,

the costumes, the language, some form of postmodern English, of his

surroundings. The egregious ugliness of his neighbourhood has been mitigated

by the aesthetic efforts of the police who put up bright orange and yellow

posters on each post to advertise the location

in a shopping mall for drugs. His recreational activities are drinking

wine, listening to old operas, and reading postmodern philosophy.]

Tanna by Duane Locke

She is afraid

She'll hear clothes drop,

And the sound will arch its back.

She is afraid

To spin her finger at low tide in the mud,

For imagined dance floors might collapse

She is afraid

Her hands will turn into magpies

And have shadows.

She is afraid

To open the always closed window,

See the blueprint of her life bleached, limp on her driveway.

She is afraid,

Her mirror might disappear,

And she will be left without a lover.

The Long Street by Duane Locke

At the dead end,

A door with a soprano voice.

In front of the door,

Abandoned truck filled with wilted carnations.

At the open end,

A mute, a clock out of breath.

The Long Day and the Long Night by Duane Locke

At dawn,

Coral skin,

A cross.

At noon,

Coral skin,

A briefcase.

At night,

Coral skin,

A dead swallow.

Lost Tree by Duane Locke

Lost tree,

Tree with pale blue eyes,

Tree with freckled skin.

Lost tree,

Tree who migrated with the snow geese

At the time of red moss.

Tree, the hold you

Left in the earth

Cannot be filled.

Printed Girl by Duane Locke

Printed unclothed girl

Disappeared

In the snowfall from her cold hair.

The fish who black nets

On their fins

Freeze before dawn,

The polar air that blows from the page,

Frightens the herbarium

And its seeds of love.

Well dear reader, watch out for the next lucid petunias - its going to be…heroic!

Bye for now.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alan is currently a PhD student and tutor in the Department of Zoology, James Cook University, Queensland, Australia. He has been writing poetry for about seven years and has had work published in student and literary publications in Australia and overseas. His other interests include playing music (whistles and flutes), meditation and shamanism.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I know not whether Laws be right,

Or whether Laws be wrong;

All that we know who lie in gaol

Is that the wall is strong;

And that each day is like a year,

A year whose days are long.

The Ballad of Reading Gaol

Oscar Wilde

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ENDQUOTE by Babe Ruth (1895-1948, American Baseball Player)

Every strike brings me closer to the next home run.

We’ll miss you, Stan!

Disceptatio is electronically printed by Outofline Digital Images.

Compiled in Microsoft Word 2000 © and distributed in MS Word 6 ©

Finis.

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