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HEY YOU! YES, YOU!!


However you may have arrived here, this is the old Not Not Silly Newsroom.

It's a long story -- hardly worth going into here -- but after this place was declared a Brownfield Site, we abandoned it for the NEW! IMPROVED!! Not Now Silly Newsroom.

Feel free to stay and read what you came here to read, but when it's time to leave go to the new place by clicking HERE.

Saturday, December 7, 2013

Headlines Du Jour ► Saturday, December 7, 2013

While you were asleep -- getting the nightly beauty sleep you don't even need because you're perfect just the way you are -- the Not Now Silly interns have been working diligently, wandering up and down the far less populated parts of the cyber-sphere, collecting nothing but the best headlines. When they are exhausted and can carry no more, they return in the hopes that I will finally feed them. However, that will only happen if I really like the headlines they brought back for you. Meanwhile, here's today's Headlines Du Jour.

ANOTHER EXCITING EPISODE OF COPS GONE WILD:


Drunk sheriff’s officer pulls over and
punches driver in road rage incident


TODAY IN LGBT NEWS:


Friday, December 6, 2013

Where The Sidewalk Ends, Racism Begins *

Where the sidewalk ends. If you're Black, you might want to stop right here.
Some day you simply must take a stroll southbound on the west side of South Douglas Road in Coconut Grove, Florida. Walk from Grand Avenue past Washington and Thomas Avenues and the Frances S. Tucker Elementary School

On your left Thomas Avenue jogs and Charles Avenue [on which the E.W.F. Stirrup House anchors the other end of the street, near Main Highway] ends; although Charles has an odd little western dogleg that can't be seen from SW 37th Ave, aka Douglas. Crossing Charles Terrace, a street that only runs two blocks west and not at all east, you can't help note the serene, stark beauty of the Charlotte Jane Memorial Park Cemetery on your left. While distracted you almost walk into a wooden fence as the sidewalk abruptly ends.

The wooden fence hides a cinder block wall that runs from this point west for two long blocks. The wall was built for one reason and one reason alone: to keep Black Coconut Grove out of White Coconut Grove. The sidewalk ends for one reason. Racism begins.


This wall represents the historic COLOUR LINE that divided the Black backyards on Charles Terrace from the White backyards along Kumquat Avenue. To heighten the sense of segregation, none of the streets along Charles Terrace were allowed to link to Kumquat Avenue or any of the White streets to the south or west.


The Coconut Grove Wall of Shame™ is not unlike the wall in my home town of Detroit known alternatively as The 8 Mile Wall, The Wailing Wall, or the Birwood Wall. A search on the Googalizer for the 8 Mile Wall turns up references, history, as well as tons of images. However, one has to go digging to find any images or references to the Coconut Grove Wall, the history of which is being buried like much of the history of West Grove.


Headlines Du Jour ► Friday, December 6, 2013

While you were tossing and turning in bed, trying to get your beauty rest, the Not Now Silly interns have been wandering through the vast reaches of cyberspace to bring back nothing but the best in Headlines Du Jour. Now that they've returned, let's get right to it.

SO GLAD WE ARE LIVING IN A POST-RACIAL SOCIETY:


Indiana University display used negative stereotypes to ask: Can Santa Claus be black?

Texas principal bans Hispanic students from
speaking Spanish to ‘prevent disruptions’


OY VEY, DETROIT, 'MERKA'S FIRST THROWAWAY CITY:


The Fading Yiddish Language I Grew
Up With is Still Alive in Metro Detroit


THE "O" IN GOP STAND FOR OLD:


GOP debunked on food stamps:
Everything they say about SNAP is wrong

Forget the nonsense about them breeding dependency.
Food stamps increase self-sufficiency, research shows 

YOU CAN'T PRAY AWAY A SUBPOENA:

Thursday, December 5, 2013

Headlines Du Jour ► Thursday, December 5, 2013

When newspapers are outlawed, only outlaws will read newspapers. If truth be told, I haven't read a newspaper in years and there was a time in my life, while working at Citytv, I was at my desk at 4AM and by 5AM had 3 or 4 newspapers read already. Yet, the headlines keep coming, which is why Headlines Du Jour keeps coming.

MORE DISPATCHES FROM DETROIT, 'MERKA'S FIRST THROWAWAY CITY:


Spinning off DIA from city could save both art and Detroit pensions

Detroit Thieves Rip Off World-Famous Photog Christopher Morris Twice In One Day

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Headlines Du Jour ► Tuesday, December 3, 2013

While you have been sleeping the Not Now Silly news team was slipping and sliding the cyber-streets to bring back nothing but the best Headlines Du Jour. So, put on your bathrobe and slippers, pour yourself a cup of coffee, and settle in with the news you can use.

SO GLAD WE ARE LIVING IN A POST-RACIAL SOCIETY:


Affluent, white residents of south Baton Rouge
propose seceding from city’s poor, black northern areas


Monday, December 2, 2013

Headlines Du Jour ► Monday, December 2, 2013

Welcome to another thrill-packed edition of Headlines Du Jour. Today I am adding to the format slightly. When appropriate I will be printing quotes from the articles cited to give more context and/or irony. Today there happens to be two such headlines that deserved more context. So, let's get right to the news while it's still fresh.

TODAY IN LGBT NEWS:


Florida Tea Party Leader Bashes Gay GOP Group

TEABAGGED ENOUGH ALREADY?

Sunday, December 1, 2013

Farce Au Pain ► Chapter One


Most writers regard the truth as their most valuable
possession and therefore are most economical in its use.
~~~ Mark Twain (1835-1910)


In their own country, they’re eating each other for lunch.
~~~Ronald Reagan (1911-2004),
speaking about American blacks, 1962


Truth is not only stranger than fiction, but in its own way,
truth is fiction, and time is money, and now is the time.
~~~ Headly Westerfield (1952 - )


“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times….”

His long fingers gripped my wrist.  I was surprised by how much strength he had, considering he was bleeding profusely. 

It was also surprising to hear Zachary quoting Dickens.  His interest in reading matter ran more to Sky & Telescope than the classics.  I tried half-heartedly to free myself, but he held fast.

“It was the age of wisdom, it was the age….”

He drew a deep, long, gasping breath.  In that moment his whole body went slack.  I’ve had almost 50 years to replay these events in my mind. Later, I realized, I could have escaped at that moment.  But, he held me as much with his hauntingly beautiful, clear, blue eyes — calm eyes. Eyes I can still see years removed.  They betrayed no pain, no panic.  Zachary’s body tightened, his grip returned.  In that moment of silence, I heard the blood on his left hand, which gripped my right wrist, make a squishing sound as small bubbles of air appeared where his skin ended and mine began.  I don’t remember looking away from his face.  I know I did though, because I can clearly picture that image, also burned into my brain.

He spoke again.

“…. of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity….”

So much blood. From the pool beneath him, individual streams followed the grout in the tiles, a red zig zag pattern slowly making its way to the drain. I look back on this moment—the pivotal event of my life—and it plays so slowly in my mind.  I can remember each sight, each smell, each sound echoing from the hallway, and each thought that crossed my mind.  But, I don’t know if that’s a trick of the imagination. I’ve had years to think about it and hypnosis to recall it. I’ve also had many psychiatrists to describe it to in the years since. None of it feels like real memories; it feels like watching someone else’s movie. But, at the time, my brain just shut down. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that his dying words were not even his own.

 “….it was the season of Light….”

I have a theory that I’ve developed in the decades since, due to nearly 50 years of intense psychotherapy.  With hindsight being 20/20, I think I now know what Zachary Harvard Weed was trying to tell me as he lay dying in my arms.

I believe he was telling me something about America in the deep dark ‘60s.  The country was not yet 200 years old.  Moral roots were still not very deep.  It takes centuries for those to develop.  Camelot had held court.  The Space Age dawns. 

“….it was the season of Darkness….”

Conspiracy theories.  The country’s black face is tired of turning the other cheek.  The white face is two-faced, can’t save face.

“….it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair….”

The edges of Camelot’s Round Table are squared off and moved into The War Room.  The Vietnam War is only interrupted by the commercials.

“….we had everything before us….

Zachary had everything before him.  He could have done anything with his life and now, at the all-to-early end of it, he’s spouting Dickens.  I didn’t know it then, but he was going to miss L.S.D., Bob Dylan, Peter, Paul and Mary.  The Times They Are A Changing.  The Beatles make Sgt. Pepper.  Goo Goo Ga Joob.  I am the eggman.  They are the eggmen.  I’m Tricky Dicky.  Zach would have been bemused. 

Or, I’m just putting words in his mouth. You can’t discount that possibility. Or I’m crazy. I wouldn’t discount that either.

“….we had nothing before us, we were all going directly to Heaven, and we were all going the other way — “

I finally found my voice. “No Zach!  I’m not letting you go nowhere!” 

“….in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insist on it being received, for good or evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.”

Our eyes locked.  His face broke into a huge grin.  I can still see that grin.  He began to chuckle.  He seemed amused by it all. 

“Who did this?”

“Why be serious when you can be delirious?”

Unofficially, those were his last words. I had heard him say that hundreds of times before. This was the first time it made any kind of sense, but it never made sense before or since. This is why it seems a fitting epitaph for someone who loved life the way Zachary did. Yet, it would never appear on his headstone. 

“Tell my story.  Remember.” His last official words.

His eyes clouded. 

Beginning at his feet—I know because my attention was diverted by the motion—he began to shake.  It rose up his body, and I followed it with my gaze, and only the small portion I was watching moving at any given time.  It rose to his head until only his wiry hair was moving.  Then nothing moved. 

I placed my hand on his shirt where a huge blood stain grew larger.

I brought my hand in front of my face. Then I panicked. Doctors say that’s when I had my first break with reality. It would not be the last. 

According to the evidence later brought up at trial, I stood and ran, placing a bloody handprint on the washroom door on my way out.  I sprinted down the hallway leaving bloody sneaker prints.  I reached the stairwell.  Taking the stairs two at a time, I propelled myself to the landing, grabbed the handrail and made the 180-degree turn by grabbing the handrail. Down more steps. Another 180 turn, another landing, the outside door, hit the crash bar.

All those bloody prints.  It didn’t take the police long to match them to me. 

Here’s something I do remember. The next thing I knew, I was outside.  I was still running.  I remember hearing the wind passing my ears.  My chest ached.  I ran harder. I hurt more.  The hurt eventually stopped.  The tears eventually stopped.  I eventually stopped.  There was no where left to run.  I was at a river.

As I started to walk back I collapsed. I fell to the grass and looked up at a street sign I didn’t recognize: Angling Street at Long Street.  Later I measured it.  I ran almost 5 miles.  I began on Evergreen, at Henry Ford High School, and ran west past Lahser, past Telegraph, past Beech, past Inkster, past Grand River Avenue, all the way to the Rouge River.  It seemed like only a minute had passed and I don't remember crossing any of those roads.

Then I remembered why I was running—I actually forgot for a moment—and I started bawling and sobbing.  That’s how the police eventually found me, curled up in a fetal position, covered in blood. Zach's blood.

But, this is not my story.  I am merely keeping my promise to Zachary. His last words were “Tell my story. Remember.” and I can’t tell his story without telling the story of Adrian Roland Thompson at the same time.  When I met them, they were already inseparable and they became my two best friends.  

I feel honoured to have been able to call them friends—to share their brotherhood.  They taught me more about life in the short time I knew them than I have learned in all the years since.  I’m honoured to tell their story. They are my dynamic duo.

© Copyright 2013 by Headly Westerfield

Farce au Pain
NAVIGATION

◄◄ Foreword ◄ • Table of Contents • ► Chapter Two - The Comma ►►

Farce Au Pain ► Foreword


This foreword has been written afterward.  I am reasonably sure all authors write their forewords afterward.  How else would they know what’s been left out of the book and needs to be stated in the foreword to cover their ass afterward?

I apologize in advance to the principals of this book, as well as the principles in this book.  On this page I am acting at the behest of my coffee-stained lawyer with the tattoos.  He has informed me that this is the very best way to stay out of court in all matters concerning Farce Au Pain, both now and in the future.  I hope Zachary and Adrian truly understand.  My lawyer has also suggested [read: insisted] on the wording. We argued over it. A lot. That’s why the following two paragraphs are the most edited in the entire book.

“What follows is a work of fiction.  I have, as the author, tried to create a real world, much like the one in which we live, for my characters to inhabit.  All the major characters are made up; just a figment of my imagination.  To infuse this manuscript with a reality all its own, and because it takes place in the clearly defined era of the recent past, the reader may recognize certain historical figures and events.  I hope I have in no way misrepresented those people and/or events.

“Any resemblance to persons either living or presumed dead is purely coincidental” and wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t so stupid in the first place.  Don’t sue me for your ignorance.

Notwithstanding (a lovely term tossed around by lawyers like so much confetti) the above statements: This book is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.


Headly Westerfield
December 1, 2013
© Copyright 2013
Farce au Pain
NAVIGATION

◄◄ Dedication ◄ • Table of Contents • ► Chapter One ►►

Farce Au Pain ► Dedication




This book is lovingly dedicated to Stephen Myles Feldman, Jeffrey Deeks, Mark Levine, Craig Portman, Kenneth John Wilson, Dean Donaldson, and Peter DeWolfe and erin; who are among my oldest and dearest friends, even as time and distance separates us. However, I shouldn’t leave out people important to me from all my decades, people like Jim Cox, Scoot Irwin, Kathy Hahn, Joey Cee, Michael and Diane Keefe, Max Burns, Mary O’Shaunessey; Sheila and Cindy Rubin, Terry Seissor, Rise Leeds, Eric Gilks and Lois Flaum. Then there’s Martin W. Herzog, Courtland Shakespeare and Stuart Raven-Hill, Stuart and Helen Smith, David Stringer, Jacqueline Quinton, Mike and Suzie Andrew, and Charles Coke. Some of you I have recently rediscovered; some I am still hunting for. However, for reasons that you may, or may not know, you have always been important to me.

A very special shout out to the denizens of NHOT, who have kept me sane over the last number of years during my continued battle with the malevolent forces of The Flying Monkey Squad, namely Mark Koldys and Ashley Graham, aka Johnny Dollar and Grayhammy respectively, if not respectfully.

And, to Keg who designed all of the Farce au Pain logos.

And, most especially this book is dedicated to Justin Zac Anthony Slootsky, Zachary Orion Slootsky, Kendall Elizabeth Chandler Slootsky and Leslie Ann Chandler, who are not only my friends, but also my family. A rare combination. While I have let my side down, you never have.

And, finally, to Adrian Roland Thompson & Zachary Harvard Weed without whose help and direct and indirect encouragement none of this would have been necessary.

Thank you one and all.

© Copyright 2013 by Headly Westerfield
Farce au Pain
NAVIGATION

◄◄ The Front Door ◄ • Table of Contents • ► Foreword ►►

Farce Au Pain ► Table of Contents

Farce au Pain

Dedication
Foreword
Chapter One - The Period

Chapter Two - The Comma
More to come . . .


Farce au Pain © 2013, Headly Westerfield

Farce au Pain ► The Front Door

Enter Farce au Pain here ►

Headlines Du Jour ► Sunday, December 1, 2013

It's that time of the morning again. As people begin to wake from their slumber, the Not Now Silly news team has been busy all night long. It has been gathering only the finest, shiniest, and most interesting Headlines Du Jour for your reading pleasure.

BEST HEADLINE DU JOUR:


Tennessee man shoots and kills wife
after argument over dead man’s shoes


►►► R.I.P. ◄◄◄