"I Think, Therefore I Ant."
July 12
This
Week’s Featured Album:
Family Band Vol. 1
With
The Hoitt Orchestra Featuring
Donna Boser
Liner Notes.
The Family Band:
Donna Boser – Vocals, tambourine
Clyde Hoitt – Squeezebox
Petunia Hoitt – Fuzz Guitar, tuba
Clyde Hoitt Jr. – Banjo, bagpipes
Ernie Hoitt – Drums, cat
And David Cassidy – Electric Guitar, vocals
Side One:
1. Last Night I Abducted David Cassidy (Bosser)
2. Beat David & Lock Him In The Basement (Bosser, C. Hoitt)
3. Oh My God What’s Happened To Me? (Cassidy)
4. Tell Me You Love Me, David – Or Else (Bosser)
5. Break His Legs And Then His Spirit (Bosser, P. Hoitt)
6. Make Love To Me, David – Or Else (Bosser)
7. The Defiled Partridge (Bosser, Cassidy)
Side Two:
1. Sodomy Medley (Bosser, The Hoitt
Orchestra)
2. Donna’s Love Slave (Bosser, Cassidy)
3. We Tie You In Chains Because We Love You (Bosser, The Hoitt Orchestra)
4. I Wish I Was Dead (Cassidy)
5. Dreams of Revenge {In D Minor} (Cassidy)
6. David’s Crying Again (Bosser)
7. We Got No Choice, We’re Gonna Have To Kill David (Bosser, The Hoitt
Orchestra)
I always figured that if we were going to
do an album that it would have to be special. My brother-in-law, Clyde,
thought that a Pro-Vietnam war album was the way to go, but that seemed too
controversial for me. That’s when I came up with a “can’t lose”
concept: I would abduct David Cassidy and convince him to perform and write
songs for the album. Initially he was resistant, but a crowbar to the head
helped turn him around.
I’d loved David since I first saw him and
had always hoped to collaborate with him. And golly, now I was getting my big
chance!
The first days of recording (in our remote
cabin in Minnesota) were difficult. After we released David from the burlap
sack all he would do was cry. Oddly enough, the more we beat him the more
reluctant he was to help. In fact, he actually seemed ungrateful for the
opportunity. He just kept rolling up into a fetal position and whimpering,
“I’m scared” and “please don’t kill me.”
It almost looked like the record might not
get made. I was at my wit’s end about what to do. Luckily a few more weeks
locked with the dogs in the basement really helped David to finally come
around.
Oh we had such fun! Although David proved
to be kind of a moody fellow and he had a bit of an attitude. One minute
he’d see an open door and be all smiles, the next I’d be forcing him to
make sweet love to me and he’d get all weepy and nauseous. He certainly
wasn’t anything like the delightful Keith character from the Partridge
Family TV Show and I found that disappointing and so had to apply discipline
in order to get David to stop being such a wet blanket. As we kept telling
him, “We
Tie You In Chains Because We Love You” but truth be told, I don’t think
he ever got it.
Clyde was convinced David was queer and he
and the boys had a go at him, but I don’t think David enjoyed it nearly as
much as they said he did.
Of course you can live in the most remote
cabin in the world but eventually some nosey Nellie is going to hear the
screaming and call the police. (Although I really don’t think they had to
gun down my sister Petunia just because she came at them with her fuzz guitar.
But they claimed self-defense and once a cop does that, well, that’s the end
of that story.)
At the trial, David had the gall to call us
monsters and claimed he never loved me. Heavens to Betsy! He also called me a
fat bitch! I was shocked. And after all I did for him. Clyde had wanted to
break his legs and toss him in the wood-chipper but I wouldn’t hear of it.
Oh sure, eventually I was going to bury him alive, but that wouldn’t have
been until the spring. And yet there he was in the witness box saying I was an
evil woman who’d traumatized him for the rest of his life. The nerve of that
scamp!
Those Hollywood musicians really don’t
appreciate their fans.
Donna Bosser
(1975 Shakopee Prison for Women)
Cover photo: Yousuf
Karsh. © 1974 Abductee Records
Tom Cruise Insanity Watch
Today: High
(Check Back For Daily Updates)
Holmes Meets
The Cruiser’s Cult Pals
Oh it just keeps getting stranger and
funnier. The new Scientology drone known as Katie was shipped off to Spain by
her nutty overlord/fiancé Tom Cruise to spend some quality time with his ex,
Penelope Cruz, in order to, of all things, receive her approval and
learn how to procure men for her batty husband-to-be.
Cruise organized the cozy
get-together/barbecue/human sacrifice at the sinister Scientology Centre in
Madrid. Ms. Holmes screams could apparently be heard for miles.
Not only did Holmes have to meet Cruise's
girlfriend of two years there, she also had to meet all Cruz's dead-eyed
disciples, who had flown in for the night.
The evening from hell kick-started with
everyone dancing to Warner Brothers “Looney Tunes” and ended with Holmes
watching Cruise give Cruz a huge hug and scream "I tell everyone in the
media I love her and you will too!" at his ex.
According to a Cruz insider, "You
could almost see the hurt in Katie's puppy dog eyes while she looked across at
Tom, who sacrificed a puppy dog in Penelope’s honour.”
Cruz and Holmes were then forced to hug. Tom
then hugged Katie. He then went off to vomit and to channel the energy of the
aliens who will soon make him their silver headed Gamma Ray God.
It's also been revealed that the 16 days in
late May when Cruise and Holmes vanished were spent at a Scientology detox
centre in Canada where the controlling Cruise really gets to practice his
bullying skills as he berates recovering addicts and future Scientology
drones.
Oh, and that $8.8 million rock on Katie's
finger was selected by a Scientology adviser, not Tom, for it’s
"spiritual powers."
Cruise is on the record as saying he’d
prefer not to have anything to do with Katie’s hands, “or any other part
of her body, for that matter.”
Your
Horoscope:
Aries: No one would
ever question your integrity. Your hygiene on the other hand, is an entirely
different matter.
Taurus:
Saturn’s pressures leave you feeling like a victim of the Spanish
Inquisition. Which can be better described as a dead Protestant.
Gemini: Your parrot finally talks and its first words are: “Bwa!
Polly thinks you’re an asshole.”
Cancer: The heavens are playing a tune reminiscent of a
Hollywood movie. Probably some lame Celine Dion crap. Poor you. Taking a
screwdriver to your head might make it stop.
Leo: If you say what you think you run the risk of being unpopular. If
you don’t speak up you will be ignored. Ponder on that Descartes.
Virgo: Your botulism can best be describes as a severe, sometimes
fatal food poisoning caused by ingestion of food containing botulin and
characterized by nausea, vomiting, disturbed vision, muscular weakness, and
fatigue. Have a nice day!
Libra: If you want something to happen just sit on your couch and wait for
it to come to you. (Now that’s good advice!)
Scorpio: That kid from Starbuck’s is spitting in your latte.
Sagittarius: If you feel a ship has gone out to sea without it it’s
likely because it has. Nice deducting, Sherlock!
Capricorn: Hehehe... It’s time you found out. For the past week you’ve
been brushing your teeth with hemorrhoid cream.
Aquarius: Enough with the “knock knock” jokes. Even the kids are
rolling their eyes.
Pisces: Well, well, look who finally got out of bed.
The Lingering
Disinterest
of Mrs. Wallham
Several
of Mrs. Ellen Wallham’s closest friends had recommended Dr. Bell as their
psychoanalyst of choice, should she decide to pursue her recent interest in
finding the root of her lingering disinterest.
Mrs.
Wallham was initially reluctant to enter therapy.
Her
anxiety regarding the field of psychoanalysis stemmed back to when her
daughter Alexa, at the tender age of seven, began referring to her as “mommy
shit box head.”
An
amused Mr. Wallham and his rather furious wife sent their only child to see a
prominent child psychologist and Mrs. Wallham had been quite dissatisfied with
the results. Alexa had grown into a monumental disappointment and Mrs. Wallham
remained convinced that Alexa’s six months in 1979 with Dr. Tamal Shakamanth,
were squarely to blame.
Nevertheless,
Mrs. Wallham was bored, Alexa was in rehab, her husband was simply that and
her recent interest in finding the root of her lingering disinterest was,
well, taking root. She decided
that she had nothing to lose and called Dr. Bell’s office to book an
appointment.
Mrs.
Wallham was immediately impressed by Dr. Bell. She was greatly relieved to see
that unlike Dr. Tamal Shakamanth, the good doctor did not wear flared
trousers, gold chains and was refreshingly white. There were no lava lamps,
beanbag chairs and hookah pipes. Mrs.
Wallham was soothed by Dr. Bell’s conservative suit and by the charming
opulence of his office. As well,
Dr. Bell’s manner was pleasing. He
spoke warmly, clearly and slowly in a low, forgiving and hushed tone designed
to lull his listener into a tranquilized sense of calm.
Mrs. Wallham admired the doctor’s sensibility and saw a little of her
own father in him. She thoroughly
approved.
During
their first session Mrs. Wallham told Dr. Bell about her interest in finding
the root of her lingering disinterest and more. Mrs. Wallham was so very
relaxed lying on his couch and found herself opening up to the doctor and
began telling him things that surprised even herself.
Not because of their content of nature, but only because she had never
allowed herself to consciously feel, let alone verbalize everything that she
had stored away for the past sixty-some years.
At the end of her first session, Mrs. Wallham shook Dr. Bell firmly by
the hand, offered up her heartiest of congratulations and arranged for 10 more
sessions.
The
following 10 sessions flew by in what seemed like a week, which was not
entirely surprising since it was in fact, only 2.
Mrs. Wallham was aware that she was perhaps going a bit overboard, but
frankly didn’t care. It was
bliss to talk of nothing but yourself for 45 minutes everyday and have a man
as cultured and intelligent as Dr. Bell hang on her every word. It was
expensive yes, but she trusted the doctor implicitly and was convinced that
his examination of her lingering disinterest and other disorders was going to
pay massive dividends to her, her family, and quite possibly the field of
mental health. After all, if Anna O could do it, why couldn’t she?
And Mrs. Wallham, or Mrs. W., as she sometimes imagined herself named
in the medical journals, was a complex woman, convinced her lingering
disinterest was much more than what it appeared.
For
the next five months Mrs. Wallham unleashed her dreams and demons within the
walls of the good doctor’s office. She spoke at length not only of her
lingering disinterest, but also of her husband’s many shortcomings, the
crude manners of young shop girls and the health benefits of orange peppers.
She bitched, moaned, confessed and never felt better.
Not cured, but better...
Mrs.
Wallham arrived at her Tuesday afternoon appointment and was somewhat
surprised when she entered Dr. Bell’s office and found it occupied by both
the doctor and a boy approximately 10 years of age.
Mrs. Wallham was embarrassed initially; in her 5 months of treatment,
she had never walked into a session in progress. She then remembered that
Livia Seezer, Dr. Bell’s competent secretary had told her the doctor was
ready to see her. She looked at
the two in confusion, Dr. Bell asked her to have a seat and explained.
“Mrs.
Wallham,” he began, “I realize that this is a tad unusual, but I would
like to introduce you to my son Hamish.”
Hamish rose from the small ottoman he was perched on, walked over to
Mrs. Wallham, politely shook her hand and said hello.
Mrs. Wallham smiled graciously, complimented the boy on his choice of
socks and was surprised when, subsequent to their exchange -- he failed to
leave the room. Rather, he returned to the ottoman and fished a pad of paper
and pencil from his knapsack.
“Mrs.
Wallham, I hope you won’t mind me saying that I feel we’ve developed a
very synchronistic, positive therapist/patient relationship.”
Mrs. Wallham was listening to Dr. Bell but was still watching Hamish as
he scribbled some notes on the paper. Dr. Bell meanwhile seemed to be awaiting
her reply.
“Uh...no.
Of course not doctor,” she finally managed. “In fact, I’m
quite...should he be here?”
Dr.
Bell clasped his hands together and sat back in his chair. Hamish peered up from his notes, put his pencil away and
clasped his hands together as well. Dr.
Bell spoke very carefully, placing weight on each individual word.
“Mrs. Bell, I have a favor to ask of you.
A serious favor and I will understand if you choose to say no.
Please do not worry that some sort of...judgment, or change in our
relationship will result in a negative answer.”
Mrs.
Wallham shifted uneasily in her seat, it suddenly felt rather uncomfortable.
“Oh my!” was her only response.
“Precisely!”
agreed Dr. Bell. “Now my son Hamish, is in grade 4 and has been asked
to hand in an assignment about the person he admires most.
Naturally, that person is me.” Dr.
Bell tilted his head slightly, allowing the light from the window behind him
to frame his sensibly thoughtful face. “I
discussed the thesis with Hamish and we both agreed that if he was truly going
to get to the essence of me and write an appropriate homage, he must be
allowed to see me at work, helping people.
What I would like from you, is signed approval to allow Hamish to
observe today’s session. I know
it’s a breech of ethics, but I have a hard time saying no to my son.”
For the first time in her 5 months with him, Dr. Bell laughed.
“Of course that’s my problem, not yours.”
Mrs.
Wallham seriously doubted his last statement and for the first time in the
doctor’s office felt herself at a loss for words.
She certainly didn’t want some ten year old child observing her
therapy, but at the same point she was afraid of hurting Dr. Bell’s feelings
and flattered that he had chosen her for Hamish to observe.
Dr. Bell smashed that last illusion quickly.
“Hamish himself asked to observe you. I allowed him to review the
case histories of all my patients and he was most intrigued by your fear of
dust and need for restrictive undergarments.
Isn’t that right, son?” Hamish
nodded and smiled. Dr. Bell
continued. “So...what do you
think?”
Mrs.
Wallham hated herself for doing it but she somehow felt she had no choice.
She figured it was worth it to indulge the good doctor for one
session...besides, she didn’t plan on saying much.
Mrs. Wallham had been getting quite explicit in her last couple of
sessions and had been planning on pulling back a little anyway. She decided
that this was as good a time as any to refocus her attentions on her lingering
disinterest. She lay back on the
couch and started quietly. “I was very disinterested this week. Nothing seems to...” Dr.
Bell cut her off immediately. He
was out for bigger game this session. With
Hamish at hand taking notes, Dr. Bell was not going to settle for vague
notions of lingering disinterest. He
wanted to blow the kid’s socks off.
“That’s
very interesting, but I would like to return to last week’s session in which
we discussed your fear of manual masturbation.”
Mrs.
Wallham thought she was going to be ill, but couldn’t be sure if was out of
embarrassment or emotional recall. Hamish giggled slightly. “Hamish!” said
the doctor in a stern voice. “You
must never laugh...no matter how funny the patient is. Mrs. Wallham’s fear of masturbation is not to be tittered
at. It is to be understood.
You have to ask yourself -- why fear?
Is it a mask for desire? Does
this phobia extend to other areas? Is this symptom merely an underlying cause
of far greater emotional problems? You
have to think, Hamish. Not
judge.”
Desire?
Did he say desire? This was too much for Mrs. Wallham to bear.
She sat upright and crossed her arms over her shoulders. “Dr. Bell I
must protest.” Dr. Bell looked
over at Hamish eagerly. “Did
you hear that son? The vehement
protest? Not to mention her body
language. What does that mean to
you?”
The
room fell quiet for a moment as Hamish looked Mrs. Wallham over closely.
“That she’s upset?”
Dr.
Bell sighed, looked at Mrs. Wallham and shrugged.
“No Hamish...I think it might mean more than that... Mrs. Wallham, I
think this might progress more smoothly if I filled Hamish in on some more of
your personal background. You
don’t mind...?”
Mrs.
Wallham felt faint. She lay down
and closed her eyes and tried to block out the sound of Dr. Bell filling young
Hamish in on all the lurid details. She
had never realized that he was so calculating, that he was so clinical in his
analysis of her thoughts, she had only mentioned her distaste regarding
masturbation in passing. When he
was finished, Dr. Bell had the boy leaning toward the theory that Mrs. Wallham
was, among other things, an obsessive compulsive, passive aggressive and a
victim of social stratification -- systematically taught to fear touching
herself and at the same time longing for what she was supposed to keep her
hands off of. The whole theory
was nonsense; Mrs. Wallham felt herself getting angry but did not act. The 45
minutes would be over soon enough and she was in no mood to encourage further
debate on the subject.
Dr.
Bell, on the other hand, had an entirely different point of view. “I would
like to probe this issue in more depth,” he calmly stated, “I would like
to hear of your first understanding of masturbation as a concept. When did you first become aware of it?”
That
was it. Mrs. Wallham had heard
enough. In all her life she had
uttered the “M” word four times and heard it from others perhaps another
ten. And now, here, it was being
bandied about like a maid’s first name.
She decided to put an end to it. “Dr.
Bell, I no longer feel comfortable discussing this.
To be honest, I considered it a trivial matter to begin with and think
it would be more productive if we were to move on to my lingering
disinterest.”
There
was a long pause as Dr. Bell furiously scribbled a note down on his pad.
He sat forward, scratched his chin, looked at Mrs. Wallham, looked to
Hamish and then spoke. “Hamish, this is what we in the profession call
resistance...and this is important. There is something lurking behind this
resistance, something significant. We
are close now, son. We are
turning the key, and I want you to be the one to open the door.”
Dr.
Bell rose, picked up Hamish and sat him down in his seat. He handed Hamish his notes and pen and took a seat on the
ottoman. “Mrs. Bell, I would
like Hamish to conduct the rest of the session.
We are very close to some kind of a breakthrough and I think it would
be beneficial for Hamish to really get his feet wet, so to speak.
Hamish? Do you think you
can handle this? Remember when I
let you prescribe for your mother? Well,
it’s no more difficult than that. Just
listen...just listen.”
Hamish
appeared confused, but it was obvious that he didn’t want to, or was afraid
to, let his father down. He bravely picked up the pad and looked at Mrs.
Wallham. For her part, Mrs. Wallham was mentally reorganizing her schedule in
light of her newly available hour every weekday afternoon. She had been swindled, bamboozled. This man was a sham, not a shaman. A con, not father-confessor.
It was Dr. Tamal Shakamanth all over again. She felt her face go flush with shame. She was a sucker, all right.
She was about to get up, slap Dr. Bell in the face and storm out when
Hamish spoke.
“I
think it might be valuable to get back to your lingering disinterest.”
She
paused. There was something about
his voice.
(to the top)
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