The European Invasion

Due to a stagnant economy, staggering debt and a loss of alliance with the world, the United States found itself adrift and alone after gaffes and missteps in the Middle East. Large chunks of North American property were sold to newly allied Eastern European Bloc Allies for the purpose of oversea bases. One of them was several blocks from my house on a now razed National Park and historic mountain.

Construction began immediately, taking the form of a modern building of the Great Pyramids. Through high-powered binoculars one could see people dragging giant stones to create huge towers overlooking the land. And with these immigrating foreign soldiers came their families, their culture and their newfound imperialism. And their boxy vehicles and their grey skies.

It took four years for me to have my friend arrested in the lead up to the war, to save my parents' lives from rebel bullets, to fall in love with the enemy's daughter and to escape from my own country under attack with her.

Photograph by James Nachtwey/Magnum/TIME.com from the book "Inferno"

The Thin Black Duke

John Wayne wisely never performed in blackface, although he did portray Genghis Khan in The Conqueror--a performance many call his “yellowface” role (as well as his worst and his most unfortunate-the film's Utah set, 225 miles from a nuclear test site, is accused of giving 90 cast and crew members, including The Duke, cancer). Little do our minds know, but Wayne was a shapeshifter.

My dream last night--influenced heavily by weary eyes, emotional stress and honky tonk alcohol--took place in a newspaper montage of a 1950s black-and-white film, where spinning tabloids rocketed at the viewer, exclaiming what only 48 pt text could back in 24 hour news days. John Wayne, once again it seems, had passed, and only the print media could memorialize him. Unlike Frank Sinatra, whose death was informed to me by Matt Lauer, the written word would break the news.

The media of my dreams decided to pay scant attention to the slow drawing, slow drawl cowboy who was John Wayne. They were all blackface Wayne. Merely seconds after his death, casting calls went out for the actor who would best portray The Duke in his least talked about role: the blackface clown.

There were givens: Tom Hanks, Gene Hackman (one last great time, old buddy). Some oddities: Jamie Foxx, John C. O’Reilly. The role ultimately went to an unknown, whose sepia headshot he submitted of the blackface Wayne captured the idea: even then much like now, he really should just be very tan.

Who got it right, however? The New Yorker, whose black-and-white cover told the story. A nondescript clown in whiteface, standing before a brick wall of black, a big oval surrounding his booger lips. Us and the world we act like we know, symbolism regardless of race.

All Doors Lead to Doors

My locker held a locket, and the locket held nothing at all, and upon tossing it to the side I discovered the girl who would ultimately be the martyr of our grade, a soft-spoken pixie of advanced classes and a mainstay on a yearbook masthead. We would go on one date and talk about cannonballs and the importance of grafitti before being split by the choices of PE teams. She reminded me of an obvious fact--this all felt very after-school special, and I informed her that my train of thought was dependent on prior experiences. And then everything ended; I had to gather all my toys, blocks, anger and socks together and try to craft something that would make the exhibit something new. My rent was due and outside there was tear gas and sunshine. All these random thoughts made me a millionaire a million times over and a martyr just like a girl in a hallway who becomes a hero after vaporizing in a car crash.

Photograph by Thomas Wheatley/"Louvre Tiles" Paris, France 8/04

Hiram and His Visions

It's hard to find braille in prison. Hiram, a lifer without sight, is forced to run his fingers over the cinderblock walls every night to feel some sort of stimulation, allowing the cracks and divets, bumps and grooves to become misspelled words, jumbled poetry, drunken rants. It wasn't that hard to do anymore; he no longer had to close his eyes and concentrate--he could just stand there and absorb it. Each jumbled word was stoically written in capital letters on the black canvas of his mind's sight, except for the once in a while discovery of a risque patch of wall. Then it was cursive. Then it was stimulation. Then it was romance in the abyss.

Photograph by Thomas Wheatley/"Venetian Hostel Tiles" Venice, Italy 7/04

Such a Thing as an Enemy

I awoke on a black-and-white tiled bathroom floor, my left cheek numb, my right eye shut, my left arm missing. In the brief moment I was seesawing between conciousness and void, I saw the dress of my enemy; shirtless in jeans, brown prison boots and a ski mask with a blue bob. He stood in the doorway and breathed deep, white eyes as light as bone, a hairless cousin of a werewolf. The last time we met, he attacked me through the back door of my parents' house. He has stalked me through urban alleyways on a motorcycle and choked me in a four-star Venetian hotel. The demon in a dream is a recurring character, lying in wait for the changing of the seasons, plotting, training, scanning the blueprints of my mind.

Photograph by Thomas Wheatley/"Rong Rong's Glossies" Athens, Ga. 12/04

Two Channels on the телевизионный and Nothing's On

The only joy of Communism is never having to decide what the hell you are gonna do. You will wake, you will work, you will queue, you will eat, you will drink (intermittently, throughout the day), you will rinse, repeat and then die in your sleep. You will find this comforting and monotonous, and in the end you will forget about the parallels while breathing breath in cold air, avoiding the visiting COPS camera crew and plotting how your mail-order bride business will ever get past the recruitment stage. Like the Sun and the Moon, the circle will come all the way around again and the 80-way intersection called "choice" will always be a state away.

But fear not, young pilgrim, for your boat has been built. Make your own sail from contracts and quilts and never believe that choice is a curse.

Photograph by Thomas Wheatley/"Communist Statue Park" Budapest, Hungary 7/04

Phillywonk's Forgotten Entry

According to Thaddeus P. Phillywonk's "Maelstrom of the Animal Mindstorm," the only animals who are at ease with the size that God has bestowed upon them are whales and the long-extinct terradactyl. The rest -- giraffes, horses, elephants and panda bears -- are confused and in a perpetual frenzy of Lennie Syndrome, a debilitating disease named after the mouse-crushing numbskull from "Of Mice and Men." These animals know not what to do with their size or strength; they step on orphanages and antique stores by accident and are hostages to their own carnage.

Add Great Danes to the list. Bollagher, the beast in my care here off Prince Ave., is an off-yellow horsedog who is timid and lovable and clumsy and old. He has the gas of a deathbed Cubs fan and the odor of a bus driver's seat. Yet he is alive and wiry, curious and gentle, and romp dances upstairs every night in a bizarre ritual to remind himself he is indeed alive.

This morning, while charting out a story, he sauntered up next to me, his lips dripping with a mix of drool and water. He begged to have his neck stroked, to feel friction on an itch unreachable. Before I could make contact and ease his pain, his mouth opened and unleashed a burp consisting of half-digested dog food and canine innards.

I can't say this is his worst--my first night here he became a walking, barking whoopie cushion influencing me to leave a book of matches in every single room to which he can find access. He sleeps in the downstairs hallway lined with bookshelves, and when his ass starts rumbling, the pathway takes on a morbid smell of old yellow paper and fart. But he's worth keeping around. Not just for the cliche questions I get when I walk him ("How much he weigh?" "How old is he?" "You ride that thing?"), but for the fact that in his most frantic moments, you see the spectrum of animal emotion, and in the most calm, you see a giant with a heart. The see saw of the animal kingdom.

Photograph by Thomas Wheatley/"Bolly & Mabby" 11/04

The Daddy-Bought Tattoo on a Range Rover's Ass (long and on purpose)

On the way back from Savannah, stomach reeling from oysters and an early morning screening of "Air Force One," I drove the endless two-lane artery between Soperton and Athens, State Route 15. The road is an anthropological study, showcasing the highs and lows of small-town Georgia, from the quaint window-shopping hominess of Greensboro to the fried chicken shacks of Sparta. The main road connects the students of one of the most enlightened institutions of higher learning in Georgia to their southernly roots and homes. Yet it is a bleak landscape; the stores in between are all empty and the windows are all gone, the homes are lean-to's, and the city square of fair Sparta is downtrodden and alone.

15 was a caravan of Athenians en transit, a one-way snake of SUVs sliding up and down the hills, and on many, nestled in the corner of the rear window, was a smarky little square: a black sticker, with a large white "W," and below this an identifier, like the title of a superhero sequel, "THE PRESIDENT." You've seen this--the bumper label has been decorating Bush supporter vehicles for a little over a year. (The stickers and other Bush merchandise are designed and sold by the Spalding Group, a marketing and promotions company in business exclusively for Republican campaigns). The stickers become so commonplace you doubletake when a passing car does not have one.

The sticker -- which looks like a cousin of (see ripoff) of The W Hotel logo -- is more than just a pseudosophisticated (oh-so-sleek, oh-so-modern) sign of affection for a dunce. It adds to the Bush cult and is a step short of erecting a mighty statue of a serving president--something more acceptable in dictatorships and unheard of in modern-day democracies. Man has seen the tragic results of the overly self-inflated rulers of our day; it is for this we wait for our leaders to pass before we turn them into physical icons. Kennedy was loved when alive, celebrated once dead. Hitler and Stalin became sedentary action figures in their lands, their wayward ideals amplified in stone and steel. For a moment, it seemed like the world understood the danger of this practice, of minting coins with your own profile or giant statues of your hands grasping swords. We seat our rulers at desks to combine a figure of authority with a symbol of productivity. Without a desk, their chair would be a throne.

The cult of George W. Bush is something dangerous, however. Half of the nation has proclaimed him a hero in spite of no courageous act, a success when he is a failure, a visionary when he is blind. A president who hoodwinks the United States of America should be treated as a CEO who lied to the board and the stockholders, not as a first-night waiter who dropped an urn of ice water. He answers to no one and his supporters don't question it. He lets us relax at the subdivision shindig; while we are engaged in badminton, we trust him to watch the kids in the pool and the burgers on the grill. But the kids are drowning, and the meat's burned black, and no one seems to care. The grand plan for democracy in the Middle East has become the play-it-by-ear, "if-we-catch-'em-we-beat-'em" version of chase the tail.

Yet the stickers stick and the signs stand. One by one, these cars passed me, rushing past the havenothings and cotton fields and onto Athens. Deep down, how many of those motorists really support him, really stand for what he says, really feel that he deserves to not just finish what he started, but enact new changes at home and abroad. How many are spoonfed, Republican by lineage and not choice?

Today, there will be another election, and from what I feel, another mighty foul up. I've cast my virgin presidential vote and it is oddly unsettling. It is not so much a heartfelt vouch for a candidate I support, but a weapon against a fool, the sole offensive against the second rush of bumblery, croneyism and the barroom rhetoric that has driven an ideological gash in the nation's heart.

A ramble? Yes. A gathering of thoughts muttered and shouted elsewhere? Yes. A blind stab at hoping I'll eat my words? Of course.

Weaponry

My father had been receiving death threats and went through the usual course of action for any white, middle-aged male: call the cops, buy a Glock.

The suspect--who it seemed had a knack for doing this kind of thing with medical professionals--had called my father's office several times, threatening to shoot not only him but the nurses, the other doctors and then the rest of the 1,000-plus employees of the adjoining hospital. After six or so calls, enough was deemed enough. Three other doctors purchased Glocks, and an orderly who drives a mammoth safari vehicle bought a .45 powerful enough to shoot through the ancient fragile skin of an elephant. Complete with laser sight. Do not cross such white men.

He brought it home, marveled it at its Ronin-like beauty (black, lightweight, easy-to-clean with safety features galore) and placed it alongside his other sons, the guns in his closet. For the first time, my respectable, bespectacled father had moved past resembling a beat cop with a half-cocked sidearm and into an Austrian terrorist with demands.

On a rainy day, the family drove to a gun store lined with rifles and deer heads, staffed by men wearing Aviators. My mother, who is frightened by guns and hate speech, opted to sit outside the firing lane while he and I squeezed off $20 worth of ammo.

Pistols bring you the same feeling as any type of pill; it does what is intended, produces the effect you desire when you so desire it. The first squeeze is an apprehensive one, filled with images of the gun growing a brain and turning itself on you by a simple twist of the wrist. After that, it's just a process, the thrill on par with a scary movie.

Nothing happened with the crazed ex-patient. The threats stopped, and seeing as this man was a patient with records that listed his address, name--hell, even medical history--I never understood why they couldn't simply arrest him. But my father continues to go to this weapons depot, to stand in a dark alley with a two-dimensional paper threat 50 feet before him, where he triggers steel through air in a process that can now simply be called a hobby, brought to life by empty words from a fool with a scar.

Photograph by Thomas Wheatley

Report: 10,000 people in U.S. work in forced labor
The Associated PressLast Updated 8:23 am PDT Saturday, September 25, 2004

SAN FRANCISCO - At any given time, some 10,000 people in the United States are forced to work against their will under threat of violence, a new report found.

Their name: interns and movie theater ushers.

9.11.04 - Exxon Gas Station Country Music Jamboree - Cherokee, N.C.  

Blind Guides Need Not be Trusted...Trust Solar Power

After conferring with my confidante/nightwatchman/trail guide, Manny Toothjeans, I have decided to slap another slice of digital pie on this here screen of yours and yours and mine. Fatigue is still bearing heavy on my mind and spirit, so Liza Minelli and Pat Sajak will just have to take a raincheck on our long-planned gem-and-crystal swap. I returned from perhaps the most couple of days I've spent with complete strangers/new friends (His Blood Warriors, the motorcycle ministry I've been covering) in Cherokee, N.C., a picturesque and incredibly tolerant city to put up with "titties," Vince Neil and 10,000 bikers in a couple of days. I'm working on a 3,000 word recounting of my time with them, which feels too short to give it justice, but I'll do my best.

If you need to contact me, keep on sending souvenirs and knicknacks to the above address or wheatleythomas (at) yahoo (dot) com. Robots are lurking, hungry for data. In the meantime, I'm trying to piece together a more tangible means of viewing my photos. If you have an idea, please tell me. Other than that, I'm battling demons for the time being.

Send turkey bacon and Fanta. And in keeping with what I wrote up there, trust solar power.

Celebrate My Existence, Minions

It was twenty four years ago today that a redheaded dynamo entered this world.

Last night, my pops decided that it was a good time for an improptu cross country trip to San Francisco. So tonight, we head out for five days, familystyle. Feel free to give me a call, bellysplashers.

Returning to Humdrum

I'm back in body but not exactly mind, as the past two days I have not slept in the presence of snoring, international spirits and thieves I have tossed and turned due to jetlag. Within a couple of days, things should be on the up and up.

To encapsulate 28 days in the form of a couple of paragraphs would be quite daunting, especially for 7 am. However, I will say that Berlin has bees and bunnies instead of flies and squirrels, Hungarian women are not the Babushkas I expected and Paris is the dirtiest and most beautiful city in the world. We hiked the foothills of the Swiss Alps, stumbled along the canals of Amsterdam and waded in thermal baths with Magyars.

Most of these scenes can be viewed in the link to the right. More will be added as the days go on.

Off to Europe

I had hoped to post a bunch of photos and an entry before I left, but this is all I have to show. So be it. Expect more (hopefully) along the way. Click on the link to the right for photos (once again, hopefully).

Loafers will be evicted!!!