The Imaginary Integer

One vote. One nation. One dream. One spirit. One soul. Except — when, as a person, you’re only worth three-fifths. Who chooses the fraction? Who creates the integral definition of one human life over another based on decimals, point schemes, and not on whole numbers? We like to believe the world is as fair, and as ordered, as our parents promised us it would be. Two arrives after one. The opposite of amber is divinity. The soul of humankind is undisturbed, except by the precepts of intentional evil clinging to the moon to cleave the star. We live in a numeric world, where measurements are predictable, dreams are quantified, and dissolved in commandments, and end games are more than simple crucifixions.

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Pro GMO

As a two-decades long Vegan, I do my best to eat the right things, live the right way, and participate in the right fights. I am, however, confounded by the anti-GMO reactions of some people who claim to want to live a better, healthier, life. GMO — Genetically Modified Organisms — has been the prime directive of the food chain in America, and the world, for centuries. The anti-GMO-ers remind me of the anti-vaxxers who refuse to recognize the successful results of science, and technology, only because the facts do not support their paranoid worldview.

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The Age of Unimpressions

There was a time, not too long ago, when you could have a career impersonating celebrities. You could make your way, pay your mortgage, live a life — by not being just as talented as those you impersonated, but by being more talented than they — because you had to be at least as good as the star you were impersonating to faithfully match their power! In the 1960’s and 1970’s you would often see impressionists on mainstream, broadcast television. Frank Gorshin — of Riddler Batman fame — was so much more than a comic book character. Gorshin had the ear for sounding like other famous people. Rich Little was another staple entertainer of my childhood — doing impressions of stars of yesterday, who are all now long faded, or dead — but Rich’s talent was so great that he became just as famous as those he sounded alike.

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A Bucket of Bigots and the Long Con

The only problem with Hillary Clinton calling the hardcore Trump believers a “Basket of Deplorables” is that she was too kind, and she didn’t go far enough in her descriptors.

Instead of being insulted by her, or being embarrassed for being called out on the who, and the of what they were, and are, Trump voters took Hillary’s reality check insult, spun it around, and created a “Deplorables” cottage industry that thrives today; along with echoing “Lock Her Up” chants, and “But What About Her E-mails?” t-shirt logo longings.

Hillary should have stopped being kind, and just delivered the unvarnished truth unto us all. Those Trump voters were not “deplorables” — they were just your ordinary, everyday, street Bigot. They were a Bucket of Bigots! No baskets, no deplorables, need apply.

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Misophonia and the Agape Orifice

The longer you live, the less you know. I have always had “sensitive ears” — meaning that small sounds really drive me insane. That ear sensitivity can be helpful, though, in a radio career, or during audio production, because I can catch errors, and erroneous sounds, that others around me, miss. However, having “super hearing” is also a curse because you can hear dogs barking from far away, children crying two floors away, and every street sound echoes in your head all day, every day.

This week, I just happened to stumble upon the exact medical description of my Superpower Curse: Misophonia!

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The Sex Offender Registry: The Future Always Disappoints History

All our futures are carved by a history we did not live, and cannot share. There are some among us who are never able to recover from the trauma of childhood. Murder, death, illness, and sexual molestation, are all dark stars in the sky that look down upon us, and judge us for being unable to comprehend the constellation of their human conclusions.

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1984: Murder in F-flat at the Daily Nebraskan

1984 was an interesting time to be alive, because you felt, every day, as if you were living in the George Orwell novel of the same name. Reagan was president, and the world seemed to be collapsing around you — likely just as many of us feel today with another, repressive, Republican president. 1984 also happened to be the year I started writing for the Daily Nebraskan — the school newspaper for the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. I was a Sophomore in 1984, and I was writing a weekly, serialized, novel called “Murder in F-Flat” — in the wake of Mark Twain, and others like him — and the effort was curious, odd, joyful, frustrating, and purely delightful.

1984 was the dawn of the Personal Computer Age, and while we could save electronic copies of our writing, the work was stored on a fragile 5 1/4″ floppy disk that was kept in a sleeve because its magnetic surface was exposed to the elements. You wrote on the computer, printed out your articles, handed in the paper, and an editor retyped what you wrote into their computer. Yes, you saved what you wrote, but retrieving it later, was an issue then, as it is now; so when I discovered yesterday that the Daily Nebraskan archives for 1984-1987 were now online, I pounded my memory to try to remember when, and what, I wrote in 1984; and the key to the memory trick was my 1984 September 28 pay stub from the Daily Nebraskan. I remembered a check was cut for us every 30 days and each article paid $10.

My search began, and ended, in money — and now I present to you what I was able to find — four FIVE installments of “Murder in F-flat” by Dave Boles! I think a couple of episodes are missing from the online archive; I will keep an eye on that Daily Neb portal, and if the other stories flash into the now from the past, I will dutifully update this article! If you prefer a larger version to read, please head over to my Boles.com Periodicals Archive.

August 22, 1984
(UPDATE: 5-31-10 — I found the first installment!)

August 31, 1984
Too bad you can’t see the whole graphic logo for the column — and today, you’d never want a graphic byline, because your name would never index online as text — “Murder in F-flat” is stylized, and hand-drawn, and I wish I could remember the artist’s name. I just realized now, the pen doing the writing, is being held the wrong way, and is actually stabbing me, the author, in the chest. Murder, indeed! The opening reference to “last week” tells me at least one previous episode installment is missing, so we’re leaping into the story mid-stream.

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