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Tuesday, May 31, 2011

My writing

It just occurred to me that I have an easier time writing about myself in the past than in the present. Maybe this has to do with hindsight; I am brutally honest about myself and the things that have happened to me, but when I try to look at and articulate what is going on now I draw a blank. This could be because I haven’t had the same opportunity to process all the info on the table, or it could be that I haven’t had the training to detach myself from my current emotions in a way that makes writing about it flow.  
                I have begun to write stories about my past experiences; some will be on my blog some won’t be released until I get published. Also at the same time I will be writing fun stuff, Magic, torture, frustration, violence, compassion, and like, you know, the icky things in the world around you(or could be if we were in an alternate world). I think I will have a good time getting my stories out there, it may even be cathartic (holy crap I spelled cathartic on my own, no spell check), but my fiction is what I want.
                I want magic in my life I want the supernatural, and my hope is that the pursuit of it doesn’t change the joy I find from the words of others.
Chris McQueeney 11:59 P.M.  5/30/2011

Sunday, May 29, 2011

This life

This life that I have,
this confusing thing that I have been given
Why here
what now
Where will I go with this
life that I have
Living has
Life has responsibilities
where is the room
For me


Wednesday, May 25, 2011


     I have always had trouble sleeping, and this gave me many hours to think. One night nevermind got stuck in my head. And I don't mean just stuck, it was running around and around, spinning, diving, rolling through my mind like nothing had ever before. I'm sure this was my first deep thought, or thought stream. It started with the two words that make up never mind, and ended with the notion that all words are just sounds that have no meaning, and if words have no meaning...This has nothing to do with the written word, just the spoken one. This happened when I was seven. I had no way to express this to anyone in my life, and I was limited to the spoken word, have been limited to the spoken word until the last nine months. This idea that words are just gibberish assigned to things, ideas, or concepts, by people with the need to create, has never left me.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

The river under the bridge

The river under the bridge
This is supposed to be a research paper, and I attempted to do it the traditional way. I researched five different topics, and they were good, valid and poignant; maybe more appropriate than what I chose. After some soul searching and self- debate I decided to tell a story. I have decided not to include any sources, or quotes; some arguments need no outside backup, no validation from studies, or scholars. I could put them in my essay, but I would be playing myself false, my experience is source enough.
It was a hot day in the summer of nineteen eighty nine, the temperature somewhere in the mid-nineties, and my brothers wanted to go to the river. I was twelve, weighing all of a buck twenty soaking wet, with big ears, a gap toothed smile, and short for my age. Robert (step brother) was fifteen, middling height, with black hair, slightly stalky and was the down to earth one. Jacob was sixteen, slender, tall, with a wide smile, and a good natured wild streak.
Jacob and Robert had pooled their money together and bought a car, a faded red Chevy Cavalier, so we had transportation to go wherever we wanted; when I say we I mean wherever Jacob wanted, being the oldest he was top dog. The car was a new thing, Jacob had just got his license three days before, and my mother was leery about where we were going. We did what any self-respecting teen-agers would do, we lied. We told just enough truth to be believable.
Jacob told my mother that we wanted to go to the Star Ropes. The Star Ropes was just outside of Star, Idaho, about fifteen miles away from our home. It consisted of a rope hanging from a very tall tree that draped over the Boise River. My mom had been there before and thought it was safe enough; at that point in the river the water was fairly placid, so she agreed that was fine, but that we couldn’t go to the silver bridge. “Oh no Penny we won’t go there, it’s not safe” said Jake. And with that we got into the car and left.
Of course we were going to the silver bridge, we had worked that out before we spoke to my mother, and in fact we had been planning it for three days. The bridge was about the same distance as the Ropes, and we were able to pick up our friends on the way.
Imagine a small car loaded with seven teen-agers, the music blasting, the sun out, and we didn’t care that it was hot and we were crammed; we were going to the silver bridge. None of us were supposed to go there; it was not safe Jacob didn’t lie when he said that, like I said we told just enough truth to be believable. The sad thing was we probably didn’t have to lie, if we had just left without talking to my mother she wouldn’t have noticed, she didn’t pay close enough attention to what we were doing anyway.
The silver bridge was on the outskirts of Caldwell, Idaho, spanning the Boise River downstream of the ropes. The bridge is almost four hundred feet long, but only about fifty or seventy five feet of that is actually over the water. It is almost twenty feet wide, the deck is asphalt and the trusses are steel , and the beams look like a series of A’s and V’s held together at the top and bottom by eight inch wide steel bars. The bridge got the nickname “silver” because of the paint job, flaking silver paint over rust. The trusses are about fifteen feet high and the bridge is about twenty feet over the river.
To the north of the bridge the river is wide and fairly shallow, but on the south side the water narrows, deepens, and becomes turbulent, like a shoot without walls. The banks of the river are pebble filled sands with sparse trees and scrub brush, this part of Idaho is mostly desert, so even though the river has plenty of water the vegetation can’t grow far from the river.
We showed up at the river ready to jump, it would have been perfect except for one thing, or should I say seventeen things. Already hogging the best part of the bridge was a group of older kids. They ranged in ages from about sixteen to about nineteen and they were from Middleton. This group liked to call themselves The Lost Boys, and they thought of themselves as a gang. We could tell by the way they were acting that they were trouble, so we waited for them to move off before we started jumping.
Stand on the guard rail look left, look right, look up, don’t look down, ignore the taunting, and jump! Free-fall, time suspends, the air turns jelly like, and everything goes quiet. With a rush it all comes back, and impact, the water wrapping around my body like a chilly cocoon. Thrusting off the river bed it seemed to take forever to reach the surface, but I did and with a shout of joy I swam to the bank and ran back to do it all over again.
So consumed with my pursuit I didn’t pay any attention to what anyone else was doing; the day was hot, the water was cold, and I got to fly. Eventually my fun was broken when one of Jacob’s friends, Ken (I will call him Ken and I think that was his name but I’m not sure),came over to tell me that one of our friends had been hit by one of the lost boys, and we should check if he was all right. Why he came and got me, I don’t know, I was the youngest, the smallest, and I didn’t even know the kid that had been hit; I didn’t think of those facts, I suffered from the idiocy of youth, it didn’t occur to me to find out where my brothers and friends were, I just went.
 Hurrying we started walking to the far side of the bridge. About halfway across the bridge the largest of the Lost Boys walked past me in the opposite direction, while walking past me he stuck his elbow out and hit me in the chest. With the air that was escaping me from the impact of the blow I said one word and one word only, then continued on. The boy that had hit me was about six foot six, and one hundred and eighty pounds, he was nineteen, I was twelve, five foot three, and one hundred and ten pounds. By the time I had taken two more steps I had forgotten about the hit; oh, did I forget to mention that I also have A.D.H.D...
We reached the part of the bridge where the ground was only about six feet below the bridge, Ken said that the other boy had gone “over there to cry” as he pointed to the trees in front of us, so we jumped to the ground and started walking towards where Ken had pointed. For some reason Ken stopped about forty feet from the bridge, I didn’t notice. Did I say already that I suffered from the idiocy of youth?
From the other side of the river I heard a violent shout, “hey, that mother fucker called me a dick”! I’m not sure whether it took him all that time to figure out what I had said, or if he just waited until he had all his friends around him. Stupid me I didn’t know who he was talking about. I looked up to see what was happening and saw a whole row of people running across the bridge; I remember thinking that’s strange, what are they doing? The boy in the lead of the chase knocked Ken out of the way, still I thought what the hell are they doing? Still running the boy jumped from about ten eight feet away and while still in the air punched me in the face.
In the split second before his fist connected with my face it dawned on me they wanted to kick my ass, and they were all after me; until that moment it didn’t even enter my mind that calling that guy a dick would have consequences. Yes I was that na├»ve, I had no clue.
As his fist hit my face I spun and ran, I was about forty yards away before he had turned around, and I would have got away but I tripped over a piece of fire wood. The next thing I knew I was surrounded by the Lost Boys. It’s too bad that there is only so much room around a twelve year old boy, the lucky few, seven to be exact, got to kick me senseless while the rest cheered them on. On my left was the boy that first hit me to my right was a Polynesian boy, he was about five foot six and two hundred and fifty pounds. I remember every kick. I was only able to see the faces of two of them because I was trying to protect my face. It seemed to last forever, but probably only lasted for five minutes. The whole time I was begging them to stop, please stop.
The beating ended as fast as it began, one moment they were trying to pummel me to death the next they were running to their cars. I guess seventeen bullies can beat up a scrawny twelve year old, but they run from two teens with crowbars.
It would have made sense at this point to go to the hospital, because I was hurt, but child logic isn’t logic at all, we got in the car and went to the Ropes. My brothers treated me different after that day; they were impressed by how well I could take a beating, and how well I could keep my mouth shut.
My mother found out about the beating a month later; I made the mistake of taking my shirt off where she could see. What no one knew was that the beating had broken most of the ribs on my left side and crushed a section on my right. She made me strip so she could see. I was still black and blue from my neck to my knees; her response was “you’re grounded, I told you not to go there”.
This story is true. This wasn’t a fictitious tale spun to please. Had my mother paid more attention to what we were doing this probably would not have happened. Not just my mother, what about the parents of the boys that beat me, where were they? I know where they were, they were somewhere not doing their job. They failed to protect their children from themselves. Children are not capable of cognitive thinking at the level necessary to be in large groups unattended. Therefore it is my belief that no group of children should be left unattended for any reason for any length of time. You might say that this was one group of bad kids, and this kind of thing doesn’t happen often, if you think that you are blind, deaf, and dumb. Do you not remember your childhood, the bully and his cronies beating up kids, the pretty girls incessantly taunting the fat kid or the not so pretty girls? My example is on the extreme, this is why I think it can stand alone. You can provide the rest from your own experience.
Chris Mcqueeney 5/22/11

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

The creative juices are not flowing. Life is imposing it's tentacles into all of me leaving little left for He ment well. Day after day I get up and put one foot in front of the other, hoping that I won't step on any toes that people put in my way. They can't help it, my life attracts toes and my feet find them weather I want to or not. I jest, but at the same time I'm dead serious. The sad thing is that with a few simple changes the magnet gets turned around. I know this intellectually, I've experienced this at least a dozen times, when I open my self up to the aether and allow my self to accept the guidance and grace offered I do sooooo much better! My day was better than most, and it all had to do with a little willingness, and a tiny bit of suffering.
     Well Mage, this one is wandering, and at least for the moment is not lost. Ha ha I'm so full of my self sometimes.
He ment well

Sunday, May 15, 2011


I am weening my self down fron niccotine. I went from full flavors to ultra lite. At the store today my brain tried to bur lights but I didn't

Saturday, May 14, 2011

back yard murder

sunny day
the clouds cover my day
something so horrendous
 so blindsided was I
how one sided was the experience
oblivious bystanders watching
I see as if in slow motion
watch the bastard
dastardly squeezing life from
something so glorious
Who the fuck
puts catsup and mayo
on a hot dog
murder murder
murder of

Chris McQueeney 5/14/11

Friday, May 13, 2011

had a day

    Had a day. Emotional hang over, pain, bone weary. but life gives hope in hard times even though it is hard to see some times. Back to my part in my life. School goes well and I am suffering through thoughts of that life would be better If I had been Born in a different age or fantasy universe.
    Oh ya it was pointed out to me that I misspelled my blog name, and maby I should change it. I wont! I will not !  MyOb! If they don't like it to bad. Fuck um if they cant take a joke.

Chris McQueeney 5/13/11

Monday, May 9, 2011

I hope this does not offend
My brain does strange things some times
The filter turned off 
This hucksters rendition went
  From me to here
Drive thru tail for sale
Drive through tale 4 sail
Sail through a drive thru for
Drive through
Chris McQueeney 5/9/2011

Sunday, May 8, 2011


                The world is full of things that don’t work, or maybe a better way to put it would be that they don’t work well for long. When I say long, I’m talking twenty, fifty, or a few hundred years. Let’s take for example prohibition, lasting from nineteen nineteen until nineteen thirty three (Prohibition by Jennifer Rosenberg, In those fourteen years the volume of alcohol consumed per capita by American citizens increased; prohibition also created a huge illegal underground of rum runners and speakeasy’s. Slavery, now that is a good example of things that don’t work. Slaves were first brought to the colonial Americas in sixteen nineteen; 1857 Dred Scott Decision The United States Supreme Court decides, seven to two, that blacks can never be citizens and that Congress has no authority to outlaw slavery in any territory; in the Emancipation Proclamation President Abraham Lincoln decrees that all slaves in Rebel territory are free on January 1, 1863; 1865 the 13th Amendment to the United States Constitution outlaws slavery  (Posted by Sherol on August 12, 2010 in Black History, This disgusting practice lasted for two hundred and forty six years, but eventually good hearted and thinking people changed our country.
                What will our decedents do in two hundred years when they realize that those hard won changes were wasted on us? Have we not learned that the past can only help us if we allow it? No child left behind, the brain child of the George W. Bush administration, was implemented in two thousand and two. It is based on outcome-based theories education that high expectations goal-setting will result in greater educational achievement for most students (Pros & Cons of the No Child Left Behind Act, By Deborah White, N.C.L.B. is a collar around the necks of our education system and our teachers.  Every two years the children in my school growing up had a test, for weeks before the test the teachers would stress the importance of them, as if our future depended on filling out those hollow black outlined ovals. All those growing robots with their No.2 pencils fill those bleak ovals, never straying outside the lines, bleak and empty ovals deciding the worth of a child and teacher. Why do we hire men and women to educate our children and young adults, and then hamstring them with tests that limit the way they teach, why not allow them to teach, and not regurgitate sometimes flawed information.
                "Standardized tests can't measure initiative, creativity, imagination, conceptual thinking, curiosity, effort, irony, judgment, commitment, nuance, good will, ethical reflection, or a host of other valuable dispositions and attributes. What they can measure and count are isolated skills, specific facts and function, content knowledge, the least interesting and least significant aspects of learning” (Bill Ayers). I probably don’t agree with Bill Ayers often but in this he and I walk hand and hand.
 Having worked in many fields over the years, and having untold number of co-workers I have learned that just because you can take a test on the relevant material does not mean you can put it into practice. A few years ago I had a painting business and I needed help on a project. I hired two young men to help me with the work. While interviewing them the first told me he had not done well in school, but he was good with his hands, this was ok because for the first position I didn’t need an educated person; the second stated that he was an excellent student, and he had been reading up on paint application and procedure. This was the first job for both young men, and I had a feeling that they would both work out well; they did, just not how I thought. Within a week, even though they both worked hard, I had to switch their positions. The young man that worked well with his hands was able to problem solve with little direction; the other needed to be babysat, even though he worked hard, he could not make  what he read work for him.
Where in the standardized tests do they look for learning disorders? In the second grade my teacher and the principal decided that I needed to be in class with the special needs students based on my lack of understanding and a test I took at the end of the first grade. In those days special needs meant slightly to severely retarded. I still did not do well, and I was the only one not wearing a helmet! Luckily enough one of the teachers decided to give me a newer style of test that included an I.Q. section. I hit a home run. After learning this, my teachers decided that I wasn’t slow I was just a “problem child”. This wasn’t their fault; they were taught that the test is the answer and the guide, if the student doesn’t fit inside the box (or oval) they are not trying.
Ok I have painted a bleak picture of our education administration, and in some circumstances it is. It is for that small minority that I speak, the children that need to sit in round desks with oval backs and triangle tops. I have had teachers that taught from their own conscience; allowing their children to write outside the lines, and to question, not to accept everything at face value. With those teachers I grew. I am one of the few; they don’t make a box in my shape, or a test. As an adult I have a responsibility to my children’s future, also their teachers’. Without thinking and good hearted people leading the way, a good portion of our students and teachers will be left behind.
Chris McQueeney  5/8/11

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Standardised testing

Standardised testing,

 All those growing robots with their No.2 pencils
 filling those bleak ovals
 never straying outside the lines
square little chairs
with square backs and square tops
square leg pattern
Bleak empty ovals deciding the worth of a child
and teacher

Chris McQueeney, 5/7/2011

Friday, May 6, 2011

river runs

The cards turn, the river runs, and the chips change hands. Poker, an interesting sport. Got to watch people Jockey for position and act like the flop didn't hurt or help them. Is it a bluff, a lie, or a strategic use of misdirection? Well enough for now.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

A day I tell you

This has been a day, a day I tell you. The night is here and I'm ready for it. Sleep you are my muse, from you springs all of my creativity, when you don't visit the world is flat, the colors dim. Sleep well world I hope to see you in my dreams tonight 
Is it Sid, George or Harry?
                Although I spent little time with my grandfather, he left a big impression on me. He didn’t talk a lot, but what he said was very distinctive. Growing up in New Hampshire left him with a heavy accent. He didn’t park the car, he would “pak da caa”, and it wouldn’t be parked on the corner of Thirty Third and Third street, It would be on the “coina of Toity Toid an Toid stweet”. Grandpa was a large man, not large as in fat just large. At six foot four, and about two hundred and ten pounds he was a very imposing figure. Although he had big ears, and a large red nose, his appearance wasn’t comical, several women that I have spoken to, that knew him, said he was a very attractive man.
                Walking through the front door of my grandfather’s home, the first thing that would register would be the smell of Old Spice, and stale booze, which may set off disgust for some, for me it was comforting. The next would be the dim lighting, even with the lamps on it was never very bright, grandpa kept the shades drawn.  Grandpa sat in his easy chair about ten feet in from the front door, next to the entry way to the dining room. On the little table to his right his beer (Hams), and a glass of 7UP (with Seagram’s) sat within easy reach. In front of him and to his left was the Zenith console style TV, which he was very proud of, according to him it was the very first TV with a remote control.
                Grandpa was a kind of sadist. At random times as you walked past him, he liked to pinch, not soft but not hard enough to damage, if he got a reaction he would chuckle. He also liked to call me Christ-tapha, because he knew it would piss me off. One day two of my cousins and I got into a fight, knock down drag out, I don’t remember what started it, probably my smart ass mouth, they were intent on kicking my ass.  My aunts and uncles, mother, stepfather, and grandmother were yelling at me to stop. The whole time we were fighting, grandpa was laughing hysterically.
                Mom didn’t talk often of grandpa, but over the years she would tell us stories about him during WW2. One day a news story came on the TV about Pearl Harbor. Mom looked at my sister and I and said, “your grandfather was in Pearl Harbor, during the attack”, as we got older it changed to “your grandfather went to Pearl Harbor, after the attack, on his way to the south pacific to fight. Another day the story on the TV was about JFK; again mom looked to my sister and I and said, “Your Grandfather was on the PT109” and that that was “Kennedy’s boat”. That story didn’t change much over the years.
                I called him Grandpa Harry, my sister called him Grandpa George, his name was Sidney but you only called him that if he didn’t like you. After he died I went through his closet and found his Navel dress uniform, there were a lot of medals and ribbons attached to it. I don’t know if the stories my mother told us were true, it doesn’t matter. The truth is my grandfather was a decorated war hero, and his exploits were probably greater than the stories told about him.
Chris McQueeney 02/23/11

Monday, May 2, 2011


This is an essay I wrote for my wr-122 class. If I had my way ( and I will some day) it would be at least five or ten pages long. I was only allowed five hundred words. Having said that, this was fun, I mean really fun.
May 1, 2011
                I sit on my back porch in fear for my life. Fear consumes my every waking moment! You might ask what has me so fearful; you might ask, but you probably would not believe me. My days and nights are consumed with a dread so intense that it is hard to function. I go through my days acting as if everything is normal that the world isn’t overwhelmed with an evil so pervasive, so deceptive that the fabric of our, yes our lives could be consumed in an instant. Roaming my backyard this very instant is the source of my fear. A beast so mind numbingly evil that most hold them close to their hearts, deceived as to their true nature. I speak to you with anonymity for fear that they will find out that I know their true nature. Contrary to popular belief rabbits are pure evil. I did say you probably wouldn’t believe me.
                Let’s start with their appearance. At first glance the average rabbit is a fluffy ball of cuteness, but upon closer inspection the telltale signs of evil are apparent to the educated eye; the signs are many, but for now we will focus on three of these. First, the claws, if you were to shave the fur from around the paw you would see sharp hooked daggers better suited for disemboweling than digging. Next we observe the teeth, curved to better hold onto unwilling flesh, and sharp enough to cut through the toughest skin. Finally we come to the eyes, the portals to the rabbit’s truly evil soul, balefully pinkish red they glow with hatred for everything live.
                Having covered their deceptive appearance we move on to the rabbits habits. Only six months after birth the rabbit starts to fornicate. With only one breeding pair the coven can grow to eight hundred in nine months. Imagine that, eight hundred blood thirsty rabbits in the time it takes to carry a human baby! If rabbits had innocent intent they would live above ground, instead they live in darkened holes, holes that are constantly growing to provide space for their legions of progeny.
                Have you ever wondered why it is that on Easter so much focus is shined upon the bunny? Some would clame it is because of the children, to keep them occupied and excited for Jesus’s resurrection, this is not so. The bunny is associated with the death of Christ. Easter is only a thinly veiled form of fear worship and supplication, with offerings of decorated eggs and candy our forefathers hoped to avoid the apocalypse the bunny represents. Christ had much reason not to stay in the mortal realm where the rabbit held so much power.
                 I hold my fear close, tightly wrapped up and hidden; the world will never know from my actions the terror inside. I lay my offerings of egg and candy with a smile, I laugh and act happy when others speak of the affection they hold for the rabbit; for I know what evil lurks inside the beast. You have been warned! Don’t ever try to find me, if you do you will lead them to me. I pray one day enough humans will know the danger, but that day is not today. You have been warned!

Sunday, May 1, 2011

strange dayz

I had all these philosophic thoughts going through my head, then I looked at my phone. Bin Laden is dead. Puts things into prospective. All the arguing about the wars and our foreign policy, all the political wrangling, does not matter for this moment. The major thought in my mind is; you go Obama, hell ya.