Crowbar's Cover Blown!

Well, I guess it had to happen eventually....

Have you been wondering why your friend and mine, the infamous and ever-violent Crowbar, simply disappeared off the map for the last year or so? She didn't forget us, if that's what you thought - instead she's been in suspended animation, watching the landscape, and observing the Valerie Plame-ing of the Resistance Force.

It all started nearly two years ago and is a longer story than I am able to fully relate here. The thumbnail version is that one of the most virulent and destructive operatives of the Dark Side(TM) forces - otherwise known as a Probation Officer - had reason to begin to notice Undercover Operative Cake Wafit's activities. Every now and again we in the Resistance Force are compelled to run risks of exposure when the Friendly Neighbourhood courts require written documentation of our presence in a young woman's life. Obviously we would prefer to avoid committing anything to writing (she says as she types this little story out) but sometimes injustices of such magnitude are about to go down in Youth Court history that we are left with little option but to add our two cents. The two cents usually look something like this:

"Hey, we know your handy-dandy little pocket Gestapo, Probation, has told you this young woman is irredeemable evil incarnate and should never again see the light of day, but we've had a slightly different experience of her. Here it is, for your consideration....so maybe don't lock her up for the duration of written history, um-kay?"

So Crowbar employed this tool (in the cloak of her Cake identity) during a particularly egregious miscarriage of justice, being driven mostly to obscure the fact that the aforementioned Probation officer - we'll just call her Troll Doll - did not do her job. Barely noticed her job, in fact...

In the short term the Letter-to-the-Kindly-Judge strategy worked quite well. Miscarriage of justice aborted, young woman released, indefinite incarceration averted. Troll Doll, however, had noticed Cake Wafit on her toxic radar and held her personally responsible for the Court's newfound awareness that she was essentially phoning in her job and insisting youth be held in secure custody until she got around to offering an opinion on them. An interesting approach, but one that does not exactly meet the standard of 'acceptable reasons to incarcerate'. Perhaps she got in trouble back at the Dark Side(TM) Home Office - we really don't know. All we've been able to divine is that Troll Doll began to systematically dismantle any ability of Cake's to do her job.

First, she outed her. Started asking awkward questions about 'just who is this Cake Wafit, and why doesn't she report to me?' Started shipping young women Cake supports to prisons outside of this city (some more than 10 hours away) as soon as she found out that young women were calling Cake while locked up. Started telling prison staff that Cake was trouble, and insisting she not be allowed to participate in meetings pertaining to the many young women Cake interacted with.

It went on and on....suffice to say, it was more than a little disconcerting, and it certainly began to take a toll on the Resistance Force and our ability to sneak into the Dark Side's Re-education Centres unnoticed.

Some other changes compounded the problem. The Dark Side, in all their cleverness, decided to begin incarcerating young women in an inaccessible city several hours outside this jurisdiction. While the Dark Side(TM) facilities in this city are enough to make Winston Smith's skin crawl, those further afield are not only equally psychologically intense, but they are also unrelieved, in that no sane outside person has access to them. When you're locked in the enemy's prison and secluded with the enemy's thinking, it becomes more and more difficult to know that there is any other reality to be had. Cake - and people like her in smatters of Resistance Forces around the globe - would allow a little bit of sane-world to sneak in through the doors of the Thought-Control fortress. It wasn't much, but sometimes it was just enough to help the imprisoned remember that another world lived outside the walls, and they might join it again if only they could survive long enough.

None of this, of course, could ever be acceptable to the Dark Side, whose existence depends on being seen and obeyed as The Only Way, The One And Perfect Truth. Thus a great deal of Dark Side energy and time is devoted to undermining the influence of Resistance Forces, if not flat out eradicating them. This is best done by removing that all-important thing: Access. If'n you can't access the kids, you can't let 'em know they're not nuts, you can't help 'em hang on to who they are through the unrelenting weight of Dark Side Thought-Control. So put the kids somewhere that no one can get to them, shroud them in layers of concrete walls and kryptonite bureaucracies. This is actually a favoured tactic in penal history to ensure prisoner isolation and total control, and it is as effective now as ever it was.

It was effective within the Crowbar Resistance Force also. Between the Troll Doll's whisper campaigns and the new distance imprisonment policy for youth, Cake slowly began to see her cover erode. Suddenly people knew who she was when she showed up at the Dark Side Reeducation Centres, and they were loathe to let her in. Suddenly she couldn't get a (Dark-Side-Approved) pass for a young woman to come to a counselling appointment. Suddenly she couldn't get a call through to a young woman in jail if her life depended on it (through the Dark-Side-Approved Contact List).

We won't bore you here with all the many machinations that followed, or the past year's attempts to repair that which Troll Doll so effectively laid assunder. Suffice to say that our little Resistance Force was dealt what looks to be a near-lethal blow. Cake was outed, Con and Cult wandered about with no leader, no longer knowing if there's a Resistance Force to secretly fund or recruit people into. And Crowbar? That's the worst of it all. It seems Crowbar has had some kind of psychotic break and is languishing somewhere in defeat. In the past, when the rest of the force became demoralized, Crowbar got mad and laid waste to the Dark Side operatives in her path. Now she just looks up every now and again, shrugs and says, "Looks like they won". She might fiddle with her weaponry or gaze at it nostalgically, but she hasn't smashed anything in a long, long time.

What does this mean for us, kids? Is this the end of the Resistance Force Blog? No more communiques from Crowbar H.Q.? No more tales of intrigue and subterfuge?

Well I, the last remaining staff person kicking around Headquarters, am resolved to try to come back to you and let you know what I'm up to at least, but it probably won't be the same. None of the old activity occurs in here, the fax machine is gathering dust, and the days are less remarkable. Even so, I'll keep sending updates for as long as I can, and just hope that someday soon the front door will crash open and Crowbar will be towering in the doorframe, clutching a tire iron and a baseball bat, growling "Ok, enough moping - it's time to go get the fuckers".

Until that happens, I remain sincerely yours in exile.

House Arrest

It has been spring outside for many days
I have seen it through the window
observed it idly
As one observes a television commercial
without looking or seeing.
Every once in a while
a breeze comes through the window
straining for acknowledgement
I notice it, mark its presence and
file it with the rest of my irrelevant knowledge.

"It's Not Easy, Being Mean"

An excerpt from some feedback from an old friend encountering Crowbar for the first time:

Hey sounds like you`ve become a pretty angry women
lot`s o negative talk, what happen to peace and love?
to much heavy metal music ??

yes i agree with lots of what you say
but you sure seem like your down on men
some of us actally do not vote for/fund fascist (spiritual or political)
and even talk to women who are pro life and tell them they have the right to be
pro life FOR THEMSELVES!!

sorry but i`m getting really sick of people who continue to
pit one gender/colour/religion against another (hitler did it quite well)

you just end up preaching to the converted cause everyone who disagrees with you
just shuts off (i know you probably know all this shit but hey i just saying
what i think. blah blah blah


Crowbar's not your thing, huh? Well, I guess she is a bit of an acquired taste.. Anger is an energy, my friend, to quote the great and questionable John Lydon. :-)

It's too bad that what you saw in it was being 'down on men'. My heroes are Malcolm X, Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos, Audre Lourde....I believe in speaking truth to power, no matter who holds it.

You know, years ago I saw a speech by a woman in which she said,

"When I say 'women get raped', people nod their heads, agree, and say how terrible it is,
When I say 'women get raped by men', people get upset, say I'm male-bashing, angry and divisive.
But it's the same statement - one just has slightly more detail than the other. We're allowed to speak about violence against women as long as we don't say out loud who commits it. But what people has ever overcome a problem of oppression without identifying who the oppressor is?"

It's not about being angry (well, Crowbar is, but that's her personality :-) - it's about naming, in which there is great power, and is the only thing that will bring about change. Men can also talk about the power wielded by other men over women (and there's a number who do), just as a white person can be an ally by acknowledging and working against the impact of white colonialism world over. Change comes about when those who have power use it in alliance with and support of those who are denied it.

Cultural Accountability
Gender Accountability
Class Accountability

...such good things.

As far as preaching to the converted goes, the cool thing about Crowbar is it's intended solely as an anonymous venting space for me. It's the place I can say whatever the hell I want without worrying about who will or won't hear the message, because it doesn't exist to deliver one. It's not a political platform, or a public education vehicle, or anything, really. I do all that stuff during the day, and there I craft the message a lot more carefully (as, you're right, no one will ever work to end oppression unless they can first learn to accept that they might participate in it). Crowbar doesn't care what people think, or whether they listen (that's Cult's job) - she just smashes stuff.

All Hail the Smashy Smashy!

South Dakota - Go Fuck Yourself

I've come up with the solution to the abortion problem.

Thought it was complicated, didn't you? Think I'm being pretty arrogant saying I've figured out one of the most bitterly divisive issues in North American culture? Figure if we haven't all determined a solution in the decades of public debate, I probably won't be able to cook up a working strategy here, right?

You could be forgiven for thinking that.

But the solution to the abortion problem for women is simple.

Until women have an assurance that we will have free access to abortion - in perpetuity, period, end of sentence, full-stop - all straight women refuse to have sex. As it is the act of having sex with men that impregnates us, and men are telling us it's our own faults if we're impregnated, well, no problem. We clearly just can't have sex with them anymore.

Not with fuck-buddies, not with boyfriends, not with fiancés, not with husbands, not with affairs. That's it, nada, zilch.

I know, we've all heard similar things before, it's not exactly an original notion. It's been tossed out there in anger, as a "what-if", as a political statement, out of frustration. The thing that hasn't happened is an honest, with-a-straight-face proposal to women to seriously consider actually meaning it.

In the choice-less utopia Bush, South Dakota, et al are desperately trying to create with their legal battering rams (phallic imagery intended), the logical consequence of intercourse is us becoming pregnant and being forced to mother whether men do their part or not (financially, emotionally, childcare, etc). Men in North America are actively, deliberately working to block our access to alternatives to pregnancy. Politicians are legislating that we can't have abortions even if we might die without one, and simultaneously legislating the right of pharmacists to refuse to dispense birth control.

The logical result of these deliberate actions on their part is pregnancy on ours. If every act of sex potentially equals an act of forced motherhood, then hetero-intercourse is something we just can't do. We can't afford to. It's us who are left with the responsibility when an unwanted child comes into the world, it is overwhelmingly us who don't turn our backs on those children and walk away from them - otherwise we'd all just leave them on the steps of the White House in protest. We know women won't do this. Thus, if it cannot be us who get to choose if we breed or not, we must take whatever steps remain to protect ourselves. As so many men are legislating their own right to tell us what our futures can be, we are left with only one choice.

We can't have sex with them. Not with fuck-buddies, not with boyfriends, not with fiancés, not with husbands, not with affairs. Can't do it. Can't take all the risk and be left with all the consequence and none of the choices. If they take our right to choose away from us, and take our right to contraception we are forced to exercise the only choice they leave us with.

The choice not to have sex with them. Any of them. Ever.

Except - when they want to have babies. That's it. This means the first and only time we'll have sex with one of them is when he decides he's ready to be a dad and puts it in writing. Otherwise, he doesn't get any. If he wants to have sex 12 times in his life, he is doing so because he wants to have up to twelve children. Or, I guess, twenty-four if twins run in the family. We won't even do the math for triplets.

Observing how so many of them feel about being fathers now ("Aren't you on the pill?"; "Fuck that, it ain't mine"; "You decided to have it, not me"; "I'm not ready to be a father", and my personal favourite, just plain 'gone'), how many do you think are going to get laid under that system? There will be some couples who want kids, sure. There will be some men married to pro-life women. There will be some boyfriends with pro-life girlfriends.

But that's not going to add up to that many. And the rest of them get nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero. Because they've actively, and with intent, left us with no other way to protect ourselves.

"But wait!" the women of North America yell. "I like sex! That's not just deprivation for them, I don't get any under that plan either!"

I hear you, sisters. That's why we spend a tiny percentage of the money currently going into fighting for choice and buy vibrators for all of us. Vibrators for every pro-choice woman in North America (including the queer girls because they're predominantly pro-choice too). The tiny amount of cash wouldn't even be noticed in the face of what these battles are currently costing us. No, it's not exactly the same, and no, it wouldn't do in the long-term, but it'll cover us in a pinch.

And I'm willing to bet a pinch is all it would be.

How long do you think the men of North America will push for laws over women's bodies if the consequence is that they're not allowed to have sex anymore? Do you think men would overwhelmingly vote for laws that say they are not allowed to fornicate unless they plan to procreate? The Average-American Joe won't step up to the polls to support a law to restrict his sexual freedom, and that's what will be in effect if we exercise our choice to protect ourselves by ceasing to sleep with them. If no straight men get to have sex until they want babies, no husbands get to 'enjoy the marital bed', how long do you think it will be before THEY are demanding a woman get her right to choose back? How long before they are voting politicians out of office who are going to threaten their access to fucking?

Not fucking long.

The problem here isn't whether or not men will stop supporting anti-choice laws if they stop getting access to pussy as a consequence. Millions of 18 year old virgin males who can't find a girl to help them 'lose it' will fight each other to get to the polls. No, the problem is that it's unlikely that women would ever band together and do it. And why is that? I know why the pro-life women won't, but they're a relatively inconsequential percentage and thus don't figure in that greatly. It's the rest of us I wonder about. Why won't we?

No, seriously, why won't we?

Because those of us with nice, respectful partners see no reason to 'punish' them for something they haven't done? Unless your husband is on the front of a picket line actively agitating against his male counterparts who are writing these laws, there is still 'something he hasn't done'. Until all women stand together to insist that all sexually-active men take this on, none of us will be protected. When we lose the right to self-determination, we all lose it. Even those of us with nice, respectful partners.

Does your male partner go to pro-choice rallies and marches on the weekends? Is he waking you up, telling you to hurry up because you've both gotta go to the demo? Is he actively lobbying government and putting money into the pro-choice movement? Is he refusing to vote for any candidates or parties who don't have a vocally pro-choice platform?

No? Would he if he lost the right to have sex? He can't leave you for someone who will put out, if none of your sisters do either. And no, there aren't enough pro-life women to go around. When there is no where for them to turn, will choice become important to them too?

I think yes. I think no one truly understands choice until they know what it's like not to have one. To have your daily life be controlled by circumstances of someone else's doing, according to someone else's choice. To not be able to live how you choose, have orgasms when you choose, be close to another human being when you choose. Because, make no mistake, if men lost that, lost all access to that, lost a basic thing they consider simply part of their right to be human, well, choice would change in their eyes.

The Rabid Right keeps pounding the pulpit yelling that sex has consequences and all us baaaad women need to learn to take some responsibility. I propose that we do. I propose that, for ourselves and our sisters, we take ALL the responsibility that we are left with by default anyway, and we clarify those consequences. We remind ourselves and them that when you take a right for granted you may lose it, and when consequences affect one, they affect all. I propose that we remember that we have the power to make those consequences felt in a deeply profound and personal way, and I posit that it is the ONLY responsible choice they are leaving us with.

No choice for us leads to no choice for them. It's only fair, it's only responsible, and women, I guarantee you it would change the international complexion of the abortion question faster than you can say "hand cream".

It's All About Choices, People

Well September's here, the water's rising, the race war is heating up and all is apocalyptic with the world....

Are you wondering why the Red Cross wasn't in New Orleans, handing out water and food from their perennial water/food stations generally to be found in any disaster area? Crowbar was wondering too....how did it come to pass, exactly, that the streets of New Orleans were deserted of any disaster personnel, starving people basically had to forage - you heard me, FORAGE, not loot - for food, and parents watched their kids die? Even in earthquakes, tsunamis, floods, and volcano eruptions, the trusty Red Cross shows up to provide potable water and peanut butter sandwiches, but not in New Orleans.

Why?

Well, because the Department of Homeland Security wouldn't ALLOW the Red Cross into the famous jazz city. They insisted if the Red Cross were giving out food and water people wouldn't evacuate and those who had would - get this - come BACK. To an area under chest deep toxic water. They'd come back. That Red Cross must make one helluva sandwich.

So Homeland Security said no, they sealed a perimeter around the city, and kept all food/water aid OUT. For the 100000 people trapped, starving and dehydrating even while drowning, it must have been comforting to know that the Department of Homeland Security wanted to ensure they had enough incentive to evacuate, because we wouldn't want 'em to get too comfortable, right?

So you read that, right? You realize what that said, right? In case you missed it, it says, 'The disaster relief strategy for those too poor to evacuate the city, devised by the ever-so clever Department of Homeland Security, is to starve them out'. Not sure it says that? Read it again.

And hey, don't take my word for it:

http://www.redcross.org/faq/0,1096,0_682_4524,00.html#4524

Disaster FAQs

Hurricane Katrina: Why is the Red Cross not in New Orleans?

"Access to New Orleans is controlled by the National Guard and local authorities and while we are in constant contact with them, we simply cannot enter New Orleans against their orders.

The state Homeland Security Department had requested--and continues to request--that the American Red Cross not come back into New Orleans following the hurricane. Our presence would keep people from evacuating and encourage others to come into the city."

Hmmm. Do you think this would be the strategy if that was, say, Cape Cod floating under water? If those were rich white people sitting on rooftops FOR 5 DAYS without shade, drinking water, food, or medical needs? Do you think they would have sealed them off and left them in there with no civil authority, no aid and no plan to get them out? For 5 days? And then issued shoot to kill orders for those who had the energy and initiative left to scrounge up food or water themselves?

In case you missed what THAT says, it says, "Please sit and starve. Do not attempt to leave the city, or we'll turn you back. Do not attempt to get food or water on your own, or we'll shoot you. Just sit quietly and accept that civic responsibility demands that you and your children die of thirst, even if there are bottles of spring water in that building across the street. You can look at it through the window, but should literally be willing to DIE rather than violate property rights. If you don't die that way, you can go via a bullet from one of our guns if you do decide to attempt to save your life. See, we're giving you choices! We want you to feel empowered, after all."

Little Salt For Those Wounds?

Today I heard a Dark Side PURE EVIL operative say, "my memory's getting almost as bad as yours and I'm not even coming off crack" to a young woman in the midst of a painful detox. PURE EVIL immediately started laughing nervously as she realized; (1) I'd heard her say it; and, (2) just exactly how fucked up what she'd just said was. I don't think she intended to demean the young woman in that moment, or throw her humiliating situation in her face, but she accomplished both quite well. The young woman in question laughed along with her, 'ha ha, yeah, that's really funny...'. What else could she do?

Who's In Charge Of This Ship, Anyway?

Mission Update - Received from HQ Tuesday July 5, 2005 at 1700hrs:

Hi all, Cult Abandon here....

I know, I'm not usually the one sending you off communiques and updates, but we're running on a bit of a skeleton crew this week at Headquarters. Believe it or not, we somehow managed to get both Crowbar and Cake to take a week off. As you can imagine, without Crowbar around to be corralled, controlled, appeased, bailed out and cleaned up after, we require only a nominal staff presence to keep Headquarters in good shape. Crowbar (and her daytime alter-ego, Cake) in a shocking display of forethought, booked time off in order to allow me some time to craft some top-notch propaganda to recruit more unsuspecting souls into the Resistance Force. Crowbar has retreated to parts unknown to break things (she wouldn't tell us where but when she left she was whistling and had a whole lotta guns with her, so I'm guessing it involves target shooting) and Cake claims to be relaxing and enjoying some downtime out of pager range.

[Note: Cake isn't fooling anyone. She thinks we don't know it, but she's actually haunting the corners of Headquarters and moping around in the stairwell, trying to make sure no service users "need" her. The staff keeps shooing her off, but she continues to sidle back again, asking every crew member on their way in or out whether we've checked her office messages or not. The girl needs help.]

As for me, I'm a little amazed at the degree of organization around here. Usually I have to wait until the staff, Crowbar, and Cake are done with our main systems terminal before I can get anywhere near it. This generally means I churn out all our propaganda, media, analyses, speeches and presentations somewhere between 2 and 6 a.m. It's a longstanding pattern, albeit a bit annoying, but Crowbar just ignores my pleading for actual allocated time and growls out gutteral commands to 'get in line'. It could make a girl feel kind of under-valued, to tell the truth.

This time around, however, they all cleared out, left me some staff and a relatively tidy HQ, and full access to the Crowbar Resistance Force Mainframe in order to try to cobble together a work of art to sway the international masses. And am I using this opportunity to fullest advantage, you ask? Well, I'm sad to say that the last 5 days - all of which have been scheduled for writing for well over two months - have been entirely occupied by the simple day-to-day machinations of running a Resistance Force. Meaning: No. I haven't written a word. Well, correction...not a word of what I'm supposed to be writing - I've been throwing together a shitload of other stuff though, and would be feeling pretty good about it if it had anything to do with our current Mission Objectives.

But that's all about to change, friends and neighbours. We have one more Operatives meeting tonight, and from there on in, it's all about the propaganda. Well, from there until Friday, anyway. I'm sure nothing else will come up to distract me, right? Right.

Hmmm. How to get around this silo?

The Dark SideTM is messin' with us, my friends, messin' with us.

Today they managed, through their deviousness, to keep our hero Crowbar far from the downtown core for at least 3 hours. From 12:30 pm to 3:30 pm they conspired to have the leader of the Resistance Force driving around in circles aimlessly through back country roads and cutting across fields. Fortunately they were unable to jam up her sophisticated radio equipment, so she had loud music throughout the sortie, but they were at least successful in screwing up the GPS enough to have her guessing as to which county she was in.

You see, Crowbar sometimes needs - as a function of her work - to hit the highway at high speeds, heading in no particular direction, with a loud and aggressive accompanying soundtrack. Particularly on sunny days. Particularly after leaving jail. Today was a slight exception, as she was not technically supposed to be on any missions, and was thus freed up to chart her own course after a brief morning jail run. With a light heart and loud speakers she landed on the highway heading east. A few hours into it, it seemed a prudent time to hit an off-ramp, circle around over the highway and pick up the westbound lane to take her back to Headquarters and her waiting responsibilities.

This is where the true devilish nature of the Dark SideTM kicked in. Crowbar exited, crossed the bridge over the highway and discovered....the westbound on-ramp was closed. As was the eastbound on-ramp which would have allowed her to get back on the highway and continue eastward to the next exit, perchance to pick up a westbound there. Nope, this was the true definition of "you can't get there from here".

Well, there was nothing for it but to keep going, deep into farm country and points unknown. It's not easy to phase Crowbar, and she has an instinctively strong sense of direction, so she was not too put out by this little detour. Instead she bombed down some back roads, picked up some side concessions that appeared to be going in the right direction and generally pointed herself west. After about 50 kms on this track, she doubled back in search of the ever-elusive highway once more. Which she found. Only to discover that, while there was a bridge that would take her over it, there was once again no on-ramp that would lead her ON to it.

Curiouser and curiouser, she thought, as she did a U-turn in some farmers front yard, cast a longing glance at her unreachable highway, and headed back into the endless green fields.

Further down the country roads she went, marking territory mile by mile as she zigged, zagged and diagonaled her way into a tiny little industrial town where the locals stared at her car and muttered. Following those razor-sharp instincts once again, she finally worked her way back to the highway, now some 70 clicks west of where she originally exited and - ta da! - found an on-ramp.

Once back on the highway she pondered this interesting little turn of events. This was clearly a Dark SideTM plot, but to what end? Why did she need to be kept away from Headquarters for such an extended period of time? She examined our Nerve Center with a critical and cautious eye when she arrived back, looking for signs of infiltration and recording equipment. The Command Centre appears to be clean and no major events seem to have happened in the city while our fearless leader spun around in circles in points eastward, so we can only ruminate on what the possible purpose of our country run-around was. Oh, but there was one, of that we're sure. Never underestimate The Dark SideTM. There's always some kind of trickery afoot, even if you can't tell what it is. Crowbar knows this, and this is why she (like the Boy Scouts) lives by "Be Prepared".

"Rape & Get Drunk". Good times, good times...

You know, some people might think that it's because of my job that I looked at this graffiti today and saw the word "Rape". Others might look at this picture and confirm for me that I saw it because that's what it damn well says.

Interestingly, it also said "Get Drunk" immediately beneath this:

Ah, drunken raping. My idea of a fun Saturday night.

But How Did They Know?...

Crowbar Communique: Received Monday June 27th, 12:39 p.m.

I just received an email with the subject line, "Your VALIUM Prescription is Ready...".

I'm not sure how to feel about this. Perhaps it'll be clearer if I go break something.

CB Out.

HQ Staff Update: The Drums Are Getting Louder

There are dark rumblings afoot in the Resistance Force, my friends.

Often at this beautiful time of year, we, the loyal operatives of the fight for justice, find ourselves sorely tempted to say "fuck it all" and go sit next to water. It's not that we're not dedicated to the fight, it's just that it's easy to feel laid back and less pressurized when the sky is always blue and the beer commercials are in full rotation. Self-denial being our strong suit in the movement, instead of enjoying a cooler, some fake friends, and sweepingly heterosexual entertainments, we are, instead, gearing up for a showdown....

For a long time now we've known our local Boyz In Blue are the minions of The Dark Side (TM). For those who have never attempted to report a crime of violence against women, let us fill you in on what would be likely to happen to you if you did. There are two basic scenarios and our police response is a variation of one or the other:

SCENARIO A:

A seemingly sympathetic police officer will nod his head, look like he's paying attention, and by all accounts, make you believe that they really do think something bad happened to you and they want to do something about it. Then you will experience complete radio silence for an extended period, start to go a little crazy as you call and call, trying to find out what the hell is going on, only to discover that lovely Sympa-cop seems to have lost your phone number. Then one day you'll come home to a message on your answering machine telling you that although the Thin Blue Line really does want to stand in front of you, unfortunately there is simply not enough evidence that you were raped for them to go forward. It is only after you process your initial shock, devastation, and utter certainty that this is somehow your fault, that you will realize that Sympa-cop never actually interviewed the perpetrator, never had your rape kit sent for analysis, or spoke to any of the key people with information that he should have spoken to. Should you attempt to bring this to Sympa-cop (or anyone else's) attention, you will encounter a Wall of Silence, quickly followed by a strange metamorphis in your friendly, neighbourhood officer. Crowbar has some good secret agent tricks but Sympa-Cop has the ability to simply dissolve at will, to be quickly replaced with his chameleon-like counterpart, Officer Angry. Officer Angry will let you know in a hurry that he's sick of hearing from you, this file is closed, he has grave doubts that anything ever actually happened to you in the first place, and by the way, did you know YOU could potentially be brought up on charges?

SCENARIO B:

A seemingly sympathetic police officer will nod his head, look like he's paying attention, and by all accounts, make you believe they really do think something bad happened to you and they want to do something about it. However, over the course of your discussion (or perhaps in a subsequent one) you'll start to note a distinctive shift in Sympa-cop and his questions will become harsh, judgmental, interrogative....in short, he has begun the metamorphisis into Officer Angry. Before you know what happened, Officer Angry will be telling you you weren't really raped, that he knows you're lying, and that he could charge you with Public Mischief or Obstructing if you don't shut your stupid mouth and get out of his police station. You will sputter, protest, cry and think this is all some horrible nightmare, and Officer Angry will only find these responses infuriating. You will ask to be allowed to take a polygraph; Officer Angry will tell you they don't do that in these cases. You will ask to meet with his superior officer; Officer Angry will give you a phone number for someone who never picks up or, if they do, threatens you coldly when you phone them too. You will become completely convinced the media will want to know what's happened to you - Officer Angry will make it clear that they're cutting you a break by not charging you now but they "cannot protect you", should you choose to stir up further trouble. If you go that further step and call up your local newspapers you'll discover that they don't give a shit and the police response to your rape is not news. In fact someone calls them up with a similar story nearly every damn day.

You will reel around like a drunk who's been hit with a pool cue, completely unable to process that this is actually happening. You'll realize that when you tell your previously supportive friends and neighbours, a shutter descends over their eyes and their nods become cursory at best. At first this will baffle you, until it dawns that they also think you must have been lying if the cops did this to you - after all, police don't do that stuff to real raped women, right? You'll start calling social service agencies, community groups, police services boards and will slowly become aware that you are morphing in the public eye into "the crazy lady" with mental health problems who always shows up at every public meeting and starts the same old song and dance.

This is the reality of reporting sexual violence in our fair city and, sadly, this is a somewhat sanitized version. For years now the Resistance Force has been aware of the corruption in the walls of our cop enclave, but neither diplomatic missions nor multiple armed forays behind enemy lines have borne a result. In the meantime, still more women walk out of the police station looking like they've just been hit with a 2 by 4.

And so, as the sun streams down around us and the "normal" people barbeque and wear golf shirts, we in the Resistance Force are developing a new strategy....in the very near future there will be a quiet little gathering of some of our various force commanders and a handful of women who are ready to sign up for our humble revolutionary brigade. They're sick of this shit, sick of waiting for other people to do something about it, tired of protocols, meetings with Crowns, useless Victim/Witness offices, apathetic media and well-meaning, comforting words. They want action, a call to arms, a retaliatory strike, and they're not going to rest until they are heard.

Crowbar hears trumpets in the distance - perhaps far in the distance, but there, nonetheless.

Stay tuned for minutes from our summit meeting, and communiques from the front lines. This could get interesting.

The Dark Side Speaks (No, really!)

Weeeee're baaaaaa-aack...

I admit, faithful Resistance Force operatives, my energy has been fading. Drowning in a pool of seemingly insurmountable Dark Side(TM) power, I confess, I was starting to doubt the inevitability of victory for the Resistance Force. Weeks of silence with nary a communique from me and only ghostly cobwebs hanging in the corners of Crowbar Headquarters...it was starting to seem all hope was lost.

And then, suddenly, the unthinkable happens. You've heard the stories about the Cake Wafit identity, whittling away at The Dark Side (TM) from within, conducting her covert activities, practicing her subterfuge, and trying to ferret out those ever-elusive hidden agents who can be lured into the Resistance Force?

Well, tonight, in a world premiere, one of them speaks on Crowbar for the first time. Meet....Dark Side (TM) Double Agent #1 - The Man In Black:

Introductory rant:
I am a member of the Dark SideTM. However on most days can relate to Crowbar in some ways. I am a stormtrooper with a conscience and am not oblivious to the massive faults and inadequecies of a system that has failed many. The same system by the way that has also designed many "support systems" designed to "aid" those it has damaged and alienated. Idiotic rationales need to be challenged, mainstream thinking is equal to not thinking.

It's too easy to follow status quo.
No really it is!!! just do the following:

Don't ask questions..Don't see anything through anothers eyes...Those with power know better than the rest of us...Sit back and read The Sun...Find a place above some other group so you feel better about your own fears and inadequacies...Lock your door..Drop your eyes and don't look around...Advertise companies on your shirts, hats, and shoes, blend in motherfuckers...Watch pharma ads without recognizing there is something wrong...Let others live your life for you through reality TV...Be fearful,let it drive you..But trust your police..Trust your government..Trust your boss..Let them think for you...If something was wrong surely we hear the real deal in the newspaper?

Even as a stormtrooper I cannot commit to the above. I like to think I am influencing a system to be better. I like to believe I am a part of something larger. An unspoken knowledge there are others fighting for change.

Many a day with bleeding tongue I would much rather pick up a crowbar

--
Posted by Anonymous to Crowbar at 6/8/2005 10:50:44 PM

Is it real? Yes, kids, it is. For once, this is not some crazy identity Crowbar has made up to amuse herself and is, instead, the secret line to the Dark Side's inner machinations. He's in the meetings, he collects the paycheck and, recently, he snuck Crowbar past the sentries posted at the gates.

Now none of us can know how safe this really is. The Man In Black has been helpful so far, but what if he lets the cat out of the bag on the Resistance Force's secret plans for overthrow and potentially bloody coups? It's a risk we have to run. Crowbar's in, but her back is exposed.
Stay tuned for more up-to-the-minute (or week) developments on this new and unprecedented level of Black Ops. Oh yeah, and remember: Big Brother is reading us now.

Prison Diaries # 6 - The Value Of Arithmetic

Sometimes I think it's only the crashing volume of the music in my car that keeps me from screaming when I leave jail. I stand up with my last young woman, we walk out of the room we're in and less than 4 minutes later I'm in my car on the highway, screaming along to the lyrics and driving way too fast. Some days I wish I could drive straight into a wall.

I spend my days talking to skeletons. Long, emaciated faces and arms, skin stretched so taut it's translucent. Did you know your flesh is disposable and unnecessary? It's really just window dressing - you can still walk and talk without it. Your bones will keep moving.

Ever seen pictures of anorexia survivors? Or worked with them, as I also do? They have nothing on the rivers of girls being eaten alive by crack, the sunken eyes and brittle fingers of someone whose body is literally eating itself. One month I can see a beautiful, healthy young woman and a few months later she looks like she's been in a concentration camp. She smiles and the skin stretches obscenely over her face making her look like a laughing ghoul. It wrinkles up in all the wrong places because it's not attached to any flesh underneath. The knobs of her elbows are bigger than her biceps. Her hair is falling out and her eyebrows are gone. You could draw a line around the eye sockets in her skull, they stand out so clearly.

The best part of it all is when they start to tell me about the guys who don't want to be around them any more because they do crack. They'll start the same repetitive litany about how "he's told me he doesn't want me doing crack, he doesn't even want to take my calls any more. He says he doesn't like me when I'm on crack." Enquiring minds who want to know soon discover that buddy is the same fucker who got her started on crack. And he sells crack. But he really liked her and used to chill with her until she got 'cracked out'. Still more in-depth investigative reporting inevitably determines that buddy was also pimping her out. But he 'really used to like her, he just doesn't like her since she got fucked up and cracked out'.

Rudimentary logic tells us that buddy stopped liking her and stopped giving her free 20 pieces right around the time she became so physically demo'd by crack that she wasn't worth selling anymore. It gets harder and harder to sell her, the more she looks like that. She can't dance, no one but the street tricks will pay any real money to fuck her, and she may have gotten to the point where she has picked away at her own skin because of the crack illusion that there are little bugs crawling all over your body. Not attractive. But buddy doesn't like her anymore because "he hates crackheads", not because she's no longer a profitable 16 year-old he can pimp out of some low-rent apartment or motel. Hmmm, right. So now she's on her own on the street, potentially having been exposed to Hep-C, HIV, HPV and all the other fun little abbreviations, and she thinks the guys she used to chill with don't like her anymore because she's so fucked up. The rejection of "her boys" means she's pathetic, not that they have finished squeezing whatever they can out of her and tossed her aside like the disposable bones she now is. And she never even adds it up. See, I knew it was important for girls to learn math.

A young girl tells me about That Guy, the one who "doesn't want her using crack anymore". He 'helped her out, took her off the street, put her in an apartment, and kept her in every drug but crack'. Because "he really cared and didn't like to see me all cracked out". Okay. Except buddy just happened to be pimping her - oh, sorry, I guess she was "escorting" - out of this lovely little apartment, and had a sitter with her all the time, resulting in her not seeing the light of day for over a month. But "he really wanted to help me out". Really? He wanted to help? This is another reason why it's important for young girls to learn math. By pimping her out to all the respectable businessmen on long lunches, totalling a conservative estimate of $500 bucks a day, for an average of thirty days, he made $15000 dollars on her in that one month. She never sees a dollar of the money. But when she becomes so emotionally unstable that she's difficult to keep sedating with drugs and alcohol, she again becomes unsaleable (not to mention that she's a bit of a heatscore, being so far under 18). So he sends her back out to the street for the next vulture to come bat clean-up on whatever scraps are left of her. But he still manages to prove he 'really cared about her', because when she begs for his help to get out of town he "gives" her 140 bucks of "his own money" to get a bus ticket. The generosity is staggering.

But you know what really makes me want to punch people in the face? Really makes me pull out the crowbars and tire irons in earnest? Ignorant assholes who spout shit about crack whores or trash talk girls on crack. People who pontificate about these fucked up kids and how disgusting they are, or what little sluts these girls are. They do this even while they, or their friends & family, are the ones buying the sex that drives the industry of getting these 'little ho's' hooked in the first place. I've never figured out how it is that all the "respectable folks" in society manage to avoid admitting who's buying the girls. You think it's the "welfare bum" you also hate who's paying to have sex with teenagers? Here's a clue: he can't afford to pay for sex (or not on any regular basis). But your dad can. So can your husband. Particularly if he wears a suit to work. I'd talk more about this but I'm busy with my uncontrollable urge to smash things and start fires.

I spend my days talking to skeletons, and not the friendly Halloween-kind either. Funny, I didn't used to believe in haunting.

Crowbar, The Asshole

A few weeks ago I was standing outside a conference centre having a cigarette with a pile of other people. It was a beautiful day, sun shining, warm, in a busy downtown core. A man approached us, clearly homeless - bearded, filthy, alcohol-thin - with his hand outstretched;

"I'm hungry. Do you have any money? I'm starving." His tone was mewlish, resentful.

People around me shifted uncomfortably. He smelled worse than any human I've ever inhaled, and he seemed frustrated and angry already. I did a quick pat down of my pockets to see if there was any money in them (there wasn't) and said regretfully, "Sorry dude, I got nothin'."

He was already turning to the next person before I finished the sentence, but he said, as he did; "No, I got nothin'."

Fucker put me right in my place and it was fully deserved.

Plagerized Amusement

[I don't usually repost jokes, but this is an exception...]

Canadian Survivor

We've heard that CBC Television is developing a Canadian version of "Survivor", the popular TV show.

The rules are simple:

Each contestant must travel to Saskatchewan and go from Estevan to La Ronge through Weyburn, Stoughton, Carlyle, Moosimin, Grenfell, Indian Head, Regina, Moose Jaw, Swift Current, Maple Creek, Leader, Kindersley, North Battleford, Saskatoon, Humboldt, Yorkton, Porcupine Plain, Melfort, Nipawin, Prince Albert, Shellbrook and back to Estevan again, driving a Volvo with a bumper sticker that reads:

"I voted for Chretien, I'm from Ontario, I'm gay, and I'm here to take your guns."

The first to complete the round-trip alive is the winner.

"My Windows Look Into Your Living Room..."

I have a new amusement, friends & neighbours. Last night, while walking through the attic rooms that comprise Headquarters, my eye was drawn "across the way". Directly across the street is another old building that's been sectioned into a handful of apartments. They have an attic apartment too. Where a woman lives. A very large woman. A very large woman who likes to be naked. A very large woman who likes to be naked under very bright lights.

It's fascinating. I try not to stare but I don't know how to pull my gaze away. She cooks naked. She reads books naked. She folds laundry naked. All in front of large curtainless windows that face toward our house, a wall of windows she can clearly look in, too. All in bright overhead light.

I think if I could be that disinhibited I might feel less need of all the clubbing and the bludgeoning and the perpetual smashing. But you never know - I might just really like all those things.

What Do You Mean, I'm Not Touching You?

Today's Observation: Prostituted girls can't make contact when they hug.

They say they want a hug but then they step into your arms and barely touch you. They're like ghosts, and I never squeeze them because it feels like your arms will pass right through.

In 8 years of supporting sexually abused and raped women I've given and received a lot of hugs. You'd think all women who've been abused would develop a similar habit of trying not to be touched - surprisingly though, even those who've been sexually tortured or who would attack a stranger who laid a hand on them, can clasp you in a bear hug that'd crush your ribs. It seems to be mostly prostituted teenage girls who've perfected the art of hugging without touching; the ghost hug.

I only mention it because it happened 3 times in a row tonight in jail. Yes, today was a day of much badness.

Prison Diaries #5 - "Don't Leave Until I Sing To You"

"Don't Leave Until I Sing To You, Ok?"

A girl, sitting in a glass box, singing quietly so no one but me can hear her. "Wait, don't go yet, do you have to go? Can't you stay another 15 minutes, I want to sing you some of my songs." A little girls voice, acapella, perfect pitch, singing homages to treatment centres and prison cells. Song lilting up to the concrete ceiling in a cell built to mute things like songs and cheerful sounds. Did you know you're not allowed to whistle in jail, because it sounds like bird song and birds are free, so prisoners don't do it or let each other do it? But she's not whistling, she's singing and there's no one in this room but me to know it. A guard, standing outside, raps on the glass behind her, saying, "You gotta finish up, we need that room." She doesn't flinch, doesn't turn around at the pounding on the glass, doesn't even acknowledge he's there. Her song just trails off as she looks down and closes her book full of lyrics with bright yellow sunflowers on the cover. "Ok, I'll sing for you when you come back next week. What time will you be here? See me first, ok?"

"There's Something In The Walls, Do You Think I'll Get Out?"

A girl, jumping from thought to thought, disconnected: "Do you think I'll get out on Friday? I think I could get out on Friday, do you think they'll give me time served? My lawyer's coming, I'll only talk to you and my lawyer, people in here, they tell things to the government, I know how it works. But I'm not crazy, I'm fine, I know I'm fine. Did I tell you it's my brothers first communion next week? I'm so happy for him. No, seriously, do you think I'll get out on Friday? They make the walls creak in here on purpose to mess with our heads and make us think we're crazy but I know I'm fine, do you like my new socks? They have bears on them, so that's ok, and I'm not crazy, I was talking to myself but I'm going to stop because maybe they'll tell things to the government, the courts and keep me here even longer because they try to say I'm a headcase. Can they do that? I'm not crazy, I know I'm normal, I just talked to myself because they lock me up with no one to talk to and you can't say anything in here without getting sent to the hole anyway. Can they do that, keep me here longer? That's what I wanted to ask you, is can they do that? 'Cause I'm not crazy, I don't answer myself. Do I look fat to you? I think I'll get out, do you think they'll let me out? Time served, I could get time served, right? How much is two thirds? Did I tell you my lawyer's coming?"

"God Doesn't Give Us Things We Can't Handle"

A girl, crying, just got a test back. "I'm 15, I don't want to have a baby, I had everything set up to get my life on track when I get out. But my family says God doesn't give us things we can't handle so I can't have an abortion, they'd kill me, they'd never speak to me again. But I know they won't let me come home once they find out I'm pregnant. I was supposed to be starting my new life, and I really thought maybe I could make it this time, how can I have a baby? Where will I live? No one will help me, but "god doesn't give you things you can't handle", right? I really don't feel like I can handle this. I can't even take care of myself." [And I, the world's most devout atheist, say words I never thought would come out of my mouth, "I won't pretend to be religious, but I wonder if maybe that saying means God doesn't give us choices we can't handle." Fuckin' inspired - I don't even know where that came from.]

"Yeah, It's Time To Go. Maybe I Should Take Some Of Them With Me."

A girl going mad before my eyes. Curled up on the linoleum, sobbing, then laughing hysterically, then raging and punching and prowling the room like a caged tiger. One voice, then another, her face changing as different personalities speak using her mouth. Witnessing the complete disintegration of a person, madness, heading into violence, and suddenly I realize she has brought weapons into the room with her when she threatens to turn them on herself, and when she looks through me in fury it's like she doesn't know who I am. Me, feeling a moment of fear for only the second time in 8 years, but then it passes as I tell her to stop and she does. She describes her plan to kill herself later, starts to say goodbye, thank you for everything, you've done a lot for me. Hours later I don't know if she's still alive, according to the plan she should have done it by now, but I've heard nothing. Perhaps I won't, perhaps I'll read it in the paper with everyone else or maybe I'll get a phone call. Maybe I'll just never hear from her again.

Intercepted Mission Communique - Declassified

The following decoded and declassified communique from Crowbar to a Resistance Force Independent Affiliate was released to HQ Staff at 00:07 hrs, on 1 May, 2005.

Dear Ernesto,

Thanks for your latest shipment of Glocks and AK47's. They arrived in good order although we did get into some skirmishes with some of your delivery personnel. Where are you finding the people you get to deliver this stuff? The Hell's Angels?

And those AK's! Ernesto, you know I'd never complain but those things look about a hundred years old and smell like they were stored in a septic tank. Beggars can't be choosers and all that, but just once I'd like to fight with some weapons that *didn't* smell like the inside of someone's ass.

Ok, now that my obligatory grousing is out of the way, I've got lots of news to bring you up to speed on.

As you may know, members of the Resistance Force and a pile of their affiliates met this past week on the coast to outline a plan going forward. It was all very respectable (we met above ground, for a change), we were booked into lovely hotels, and the cookies they served on breaks were clearly catered (though nothing compared to The Cookiemaker's). That said, I'm not sure how I feel about what went down around the table. 100 delegates from around the country, each purporting to speak for the "grassroots" of the Force, called motions, tabled resolutions, and voted like good little puppets. I'm sorry, but it kinda freaks me out when the Resistance begins to look so much like the Dark Side (TM) that we can't tell whose meeting we're in.

The idea behind this little tete-a-tete was to hammer out some national positions on issues like prostitution, Restorative Justice, criminalization of women and poverty. Laudable goals, all. That said, it can't be avoided that some Resistance Force members obviously wanted a mandate to go forward in their own battles, and tried to sneak in several trickily-worded resolutions to facilitate this. Caucusing and amended motions abounded. What ever happened to just jumping up on the table, shouting out a call to arms, and charging forward to mow down the enemy? We've become just a little too diplomatic for that, I guess.

Sigh. Diplomacy isn't a bad thing, I suppose, but at some point all these Resistance Force contingents are going to have to recognize that, no matter how many times they go to the table, the Dark Side is just gonna spin 'em around, bend 'em over, and do what they want anyway. And Ernesto, I hate to say it, but this week confirmed my belief that more than one of our battalions has fallen victim to the Dark Side's most insidious and dangerous weapon, the dreaded CO-OPTER. The really sneaky thing about this nasty little small arms ploy is you can't see when you've been wounded by it. At least if someone sticks you with a switchblade you know you're bleeding. When you've been attacked and overcome by the 'CO-OPTATION' tactic you still think you're unharmed and fighting on the right side. It's just that all your allies start to sound like hotheads to you and you start thinking of ways you can marginalize the 'extreme' voices. Like I said, it's insidious, and ultimately a Weapon of Mass Destruction for a Resistance Force. Sadly, the only time those who have been felled by it tend to come up for air and realize they were under its sway is when they look up and notice they have actually completely lost the war. Although my "I-told-you-so" side sometimes craves to be there when this happens, I'm clear it would mean that the Resistance Force has met its end and the Dark Side will once again be all-powerful.

So did I, Crowbar the Bludgeoner, become one of those 'extreme' voices, you ask? Oh Ernesto, you know better. Even in the moments when my foot began to kick aside my papers and voting card in order to hop up on the delegate table, Cake and Cult took over and hauled me back down. I hate it when they do that shit, but sometimes I have to acknowledge that they know better in the moment. Cake generally held her own and came out of the summit sounding reasonable and cooperative (how the hell did she get so good at that?). Cult similarly had a few victorious moments where she was able to reshape the room using her so-hypnotic ways, but even she fell flat on her face at least twice when she attempted to introduce a little *too* much logic, and a little *too* much truth. Typical of those who have been wounded by THE CO-OPTER, the once-allies agreed with her completely that she was entirely right and then proceeded to act as though she'd never spoken. Our Cult rallied bravely several times, but finally she too had to walk away in disgust, leaving Cake in charge of mollification and strategic voting.

So what does all this mean to us, and our business Ernesto? Not much that we didn't already know. You and I both know we are a rogue arm of the Resistance Force, we know that our focus on logic, truth and weaponry is generally unpopular. This means that your job of smuggling the tools of the revolution to us here at Crowbar HQ will be that much harder, and our recruiting work at HQ will need to be far more strenuous. We've already begun looking to our non-traditional allies for support and will be organizing, in the coming weeks, a meeting of like-minded Resistance Force members who we can be sure have avoided THE CO-OPTER when aimed at them. This means we may have to bring our own alliances - those we had a hand in forming so many years ago - low. It's not what I'd prefer, strategically, but it's what I come closer and closer to accepting.

The translation? Look for a shake-up in Resistance Force power over the coming months. Don't believe anyone who tells you we want to halt the transfer of weapons. And Ernesto, do try and find some guns that smell like metal, or shoeleather, or even sawdust. We might have them close to our faces sooner than you think.

CB Out.

I Can See The Future!

Hi there Resistance Force Members!

It's been a while, as Crowbar has been away on a mission to further her attempts to solidify the Resistance around the world. We (the HQ Staff) happen to know that she has a draft update prepared to let you in on what all our various force contingents are doing. There's been a slight delay getting it to you, however, as we've all been very busy here watching the Senate Foreign Relations Committee duke out the nomination of one Mr. John Bolton to the United Nations. If you're not a regular CSpan watcher, may we recommend you take the time to watch some of the hearings?

John Bolton Senate Confirmation Hearings

If you haven't been watching any of this you may be missing the background on what is primed to become the US's next ticking time bomb in the UN. Might not seem real interesting now, but it sure does rise to the forefront when you consider he'll be the voice of the US on issues like North Korea, Syria, Iran and non-proliferation. Wanna understand why the next war happens? Watch Mr. Bolton now and get a preview.

That should keep you busy until we can decode and declassify Crowbar's communique over the next day or so.

The Resistance Force Rogue Contingent

Crowbar has decided that Bike Courier parties are her new favourite form of entertainment. This past weekend she had the great pleasure of wandering around one such bash while drunken urban warriors stumbled past her, asking cryptic questions like "what's the ratio?" and talking about wind resistance.

For the uninitiated, Bike Couriers are - unbeknownst to them - default Resistance Force members, simply because they do not function in any world but their own. The Dark Side(TM) doesn't stand a chance against 'em 'cause, like as not, they'll whip it out and take a piss on a PURE EVIL operative as soon as look at them. Couriers know no fear and have no concept of rules - their daily life consists of achieving ridiculous speeds while weaving in and out of killer traffic and trying not to get doored (the unwelcome experience of having the driver in a parked car open their door just in time for you to hurtle into it at top speed). They make their living by how much they can deliver, how fast, and how far. Couriers are a curious mixture of total independence and pack animal - interacting all day with only a bike, a dispatcher and hurtling projectiles seemingly intent only on killing them; and then gathering together at the end of it all to raucously celebrate the fact that they all survived to do it again tomorrow. When off-road, they can usually be found in large, somewhat impenetrable groups marked by low tolerance for anyone who doesn't appreciate the thrill of near-death experiences. Despite their exclusivity (I hear if the couriers accept you, you can make it anywhere - kinda like New York) they are easily located by the inevitable stacked pile of metal outside any place they happen to be drinking. 'Cause this is what they do - risk their lives, push their bodies to intolerable physical limits, gaze blankly at anyone who tries to tell them what to do, and drink. Hard.

Oh yes, and they party better than anyone else. At your average party a bunch of people sit around and get hammered, and only stave off boredom by being more and more entertained by their own inebriation. At a bike courier party, they do all the same stuff, but then they do Gold Sprints. If you're lucky, you'll manage to get the secret password to one of these events, and you can witness the phenomenon first hand.

A Gold Sprint consists of climbing on a bike that's been raised on blocks and trying to do 500 metres at the fastest possible speed. If you are a bike courier, you are likely to have a bike up on blocks conveniently located in the middle of your living room. You also likely have a huge board nailed to the living room wall where you can write up the top times as they are achieved. This past Saturday I learned:

• the average time for a Gold Sprint is approximately 35 seconds (although 28.41 won the night),
• that it's all about "how fast you can spin it" because there's no road, wind or friction,
• bike couriers take this activity very, very seriously.

The sprinter climbs on the bike, someone instantly adjusts the seat for their height, someone else straps their feet to the pedals and several people position themselves at the head and back of the bike. This is so they can hold the bike in place and steady while the sprinter goes for all they're worth (even with the back wheel raised, that thing's gonna move at those speeds). The sprint is timed to the millisecond and is probably more fun to observe than it is to do. Much to my surprise, I noted that no matter how poorly the rider is doing (even if they are drunkenly sliding off the side of the bike), the onlookers yell only encouragements, like "doing good! go, go, go! only 100 metres left!" I have to confess that my experience with crowds of drunken punk types is that they tend to insult one another for fun. Not, apparently, when it comes to serious things like Gold Sprint performance; it couldn't be more clear that an insulting shout would be totally bad form. Further, when the sprinters were trying to convince the women in the room to give it a shot, there wasn't a single sexist taunt to be heard. As there are very few female bike couriers (being predominantly a male phenomenon and definitely a testosterone crowd) predictability would seem to suggest that the obvious shots about 'being a girl' and not being 'tough enough' would be slung, but again, far from it. There was only encouragement as the guys in the room reinforced how fast the various female couriers are (all three of them present), and how well they figured they'd do if they tried it. Looks like the unspoken courier code in this crowd states that anything is fair game and no statement too inappropriate except trash-talking someone's cycling. Instead the rule seems to be: 'If you're willing to get out there and try, you get respect. Period." Too bad the rest of the world can't function that way.

Just in case you're unconvinced that a bike courier life is one of the most hardcore you can choose, confirmation came during one particularly entertaining Gold Sprint, by a guy who could still bike even though he could barely stand. Everyone was helping him onto the bike, strapping him in and telling him he could do it when someone said, "Dude, take out your teeth! Better intake." That's about when I realized that a lot of the guys had been removing dental work, and front teeth were literally disappearing before our eyes, thus allowing them to get more air for the sprint. I'm not sure I've ever been in a room with so many young guys in dentures - a final testament to the dangers involved in achieving speed for a living.

Our man on the bike grunted, "oh, yeah, good idea" and popped out an upper plate, while listing sideways on the bike. Then he held it up and slurred drunkenly, "Who wants the teeth?" Couriers are hardcore, but even they have limits and, in the absence of someone grabbing for them, drunk boy had to set 'em on top of the t.v.

He did pretty well. Beat his previous sprint by 6 seconds. He got tons of shouted support throughout his sprint and everyone was coaching him on, but they forgot to pay attention while they were putting his score up on the board at the end. Abandoned, he fell sideways off the bike and only a quick save by Crowbar stopped him from going through the aforementioned television. She doesn't do Gold Sprints, but catching toppling drunk people is a specialty.

More Reasons To Drive Fast At Night

Musical Appreciation Corner:

For those Tool fans who have not caught on yet, the song "Stinkfist" is an ode to anal fisting.

"It's not enough,
I need more,
Nothing seems to satisfy.
I said, I don't want it
I just need it,
To breathe, to feel, to know I'm alive."

While this might ick some of you out, our pal CB can't suppress the overpowering urge to scream, "I'll! Keep! Digging! 'Til I! Feel! Something!" at the top of her lungs when doing 130 after dark on the highway. And it's goooood.

The Demon Spawn that Never Was

Crowbar Communique, filed at HQ at 08:36 a.m. EST:

Re: Last HQ Staff Update ("Wherefore Art Thou, Crowbar?"):

You know, this kind of irresponsible posting by the usually professional Crowbar HQ staff could create all kinds of misunderstandings. Ok, it's true, I've been missing in action for about a week. It is also true that I have had little to say to anyone about my activities (I'm a spy, goddamn it - what do you expect, a billboard?). But it appears the staff didn't think very carefully about their choice of sightings to report on. Let's think - staff listed:

• 3 sightings that involved eating
• 2 sightings that involved moodiness
• 1 sighting that involved baby clothes

Is it any surprise that I received the following urgent communique from Resistance Force Independent Affiliate Tibby before the sun rose?

Subject: Wtf?
"Holy shit, CB! Just read your blog, are you pregnant?"

See, this is how unsubstantiated rumours get started. Crowbar? Pregnant? Perhaps I've never mentioned that Crowbar, like the Black Widow spider, devours her partners immediately after coitus, thus putting a bit of a damper on the line-up of clamouring suitors. For some reason, ardour appears to cool after hearing, "Well, I could have sex with you, but then I'd have to kill you." A few bodies in your backyard and suddenly everyone gets all 'nervous'...

No, friends and neighbours, our hero is not pregnant. Allow me to explain:

First, and most damning - the baby clothes. I could see how this could lead someone astray. Perhaps it will make more sense if I point out that one of the groups Cake Wafit does support work with is teen moms out of a local home for Wayward Girls (didn't think we still had those, huh?). This means that sleepers, receiving blankets, playpens and nursing pillows have all become a part of the Crowbar lexicon. Believe me, having chosen not to procreate and believing that baby showers are the tenth circle of hell, no one is more stunned than I about the ridiculous amounts of time I am now forced to spend sorting through baby clothes and pretending to have mushy feelings about miniature sizes. Hey, if it's important to my service users it's important to me but, truth be told, I feel pretty much the same about baby shopping as I do about the grown-up kind, i.e. if I can't get it at Army Surplus, it's a pain in my ass.

Next, the food. Okay, I know that one's weird, but also explainable...the grocery shopping resulted from guilt feelings about Resistance Force affiliates who cook for me, as my own highest culinary achievement is burning water. I felt I should do something to try to contribute, and thus found myself in a grocery store, buying salad in a bag. The other food forays are connected to my push to force myself to stop being the suckiest-friend-ever. I have done more sociable-type things in the last month than in the last year. Of course this means I have been notably absent in updating you - if I am keeping up with one thing, I must inevitably fuck up another - it's just the way it works in Crowbar world. Now, if the cycle holds, I will go underground for another 6 months until everyone hates me again and then start madly scheduling apologetic breakfast dates.

And finally, the moodiness. Right off the top I'll say "I am Crowbar". This is equivalent to saying "I am volatile". Mood swings are my stock and trade. That said, I cannot comment enough on the tractor thing. Crowbar loves to drive, Crowbar loves to smash. Put Crowbar behind the wheel of a vehicle so big it can crush insignificant little imports like bugs, and you have a happy revolutionary. Next I'm gonna hotwire the combine and drive over a police station. Wheeeee!
And yes, I stormed out of a meeting. But I was right. What was going on in that meeting was bullshit, and it's just lucky I didn't break out the napalm. All things considered, I think I handled the situation rather well and I did at least wait until our scheduled adjourning time before I tore out of the parking lot, so maybe Cake should stop telling tales.

So, you see, there are always rational explanations for everything and if certain HQ Staff members weren't a bunch of drama queens, you, the Resistance Force, would have found this out in due time. But noooooo, they have to go and post anxiety-provoking messages - you can bet I'll be holding a little staff meeting this morning.

Speaking of which, some of them are standing behind me now, kicking the ground with awkward, abashed looks on their faces. I think it may be conference time - ignore the screaming, please.

Wherefore Art Thou, Crowbar?

Crowbar HQ Staff Update:

We are disturbed by Crowbar's conspicuous absence. Daily we wait for a communique, a mission update, anything to tip us off to her current whereabouts and activities...and yet we get nothing. It's not unprecedented - Crowbar is known for pulling disappearing acts, but we do expect to hear from her at least once a week. Instead we have been receiving random reports from field operatives; reports that form no discernible pattern and no overarching picture of the nature of her current mission. If anything, we are baffled by the picture they present, and offer them here for you to form your own conclusions.

Recent Crowbar Sightings:

• Driving a tractor big enough to go over a small car. Our operative reports that the maniacal look of absolute joy on her face seemed to indicate...happiness?


• Eating calamari in a Jamaican restaurant. This outing contained no work context whatsoever and thus we have yet to determine its purpose.


• In jail for hours upon hours upon hours...this one we understand.


• Sitting in an apartment going through boxes of baby clothes, item by item. This activity undermines everything we think we know about Crowbar and her relationship to minor children.


• In a grocery store, buying salad. This is incomprehensible - Crowbar shops but once a year during the Christmas holidays to stock up on provisions, allowing her to barricade herself indoors until the "season" is over.


• Storming out of a meeting in pure frustration. This too makes no sense, as Cake Wafit doesn't allow storming. Crowbar storms out of meetings in her head regularly, but it's deemed totally unacceptable behaviour by Cake, and thus belies explanation.


• Having brunch. Crowbar? Having brunch? She's been known to beat people simply for using the word 'brunch'.

We are sure that there is some ribbon threading all these varied activities together, we just haven't figured it out yet. Usually Crowbar has a limited repetoire: rant, smash, work, smash, rant, smash, work, smash. We've come to rely on it and thus find ourselves sorely tested by this inexplicable regime of sociability and non-work-related pursuits. We have sent multiple coded messages to Crowbar through our various networks, requesting that she provide HQ Staff with a Mission Update, and we'll post responses here as soon as we receive them.

Of Group Hugs and Metallica

I've got a confession to make. I've just watched the Metallica documentary, "Some Kind Of Monster"....twice. I'm not sure what I originally thought would happen when I stumbled on it playing on one of those lovely movie channels. I guess I'd like to say that I sat down to invest a few minutes in it in order to laugh at Lars Ulrich and point and sneer at big, lumbering James. Since the Napster days I have had little but scorn and derision for the Metallica boys, and one of my "most-mailed" internet links takes you to this little gem at Camp Chaos: The Original Napster Bad. So maybe I just thought the documentary would be good for some Spinal Tap moments while I waited for something I was more interested in to come on. Or perhaps I was paying some kind of strange homage to the past, and my own personal hidden Metallica history.

As I've so cleverly foreshadowed above, I'm one of those people who are weirdly conflicted about Metallica. Years back (uh oh, I'm having a Grandpa Simpson moment) Metallica weren't really a metal band. I mean, I suppose they were but for some reason they didn't belong to the metalheads, they belonged to the punk rockers. When "Kill 'Em All" and "Ride The Lightning" were getting community radio airplay, the metalheads were wearing leopard skin spandex tights, hairspray, and yelling "Shout At the Devil". Perhaps Metallica defined the difference between "Hair Band" and "Hair Band with Curling Irons" but it seemed clear that Metallica belonged to our team. And they were embraced. Did I play "Seek And Destroy" on my plethora of repetitive late-night radio shows? Why yes, I did. Did I feel requests for "Ride the Lightning" were entirely appropriate amidst the Dead Kennedys, Bad Religion and ALL? Why yes, I did. And I observed that knowing who Metallica were, and liking them, seemed to set one apart in an indefinable, music kinda way.

So fast-forward a lot of years. Somewhere in there, the world figured out who a lot of the bands we were playing on community radio were, probably starting with REM. It seems weird now to even write 'REM' in the same paragraph as 'Metallica' but will you understand if I say that for some reason, back then, it wasn't? Slowly at first the bands started trickling out....REM, Nirvana, Green Day, Smashing Pumpkins....the trickle started flooding and the next thing you know, Tool was out there too, along with The Pixies and Nine Inch Nails and even Rancid. And a lot of people got bitter, because the music they always said was better than the mainstream crap had now become "the mainstream crap" and maybe they couldn't feel so coolly superior anymore. All I know is that I looked upon it and saw that it was good. I always believed that musicians I liked should, in fact, be listened by everyone and it only seemed positive to me that someone other than Mariah Carey and Dire Straits might actually get paid and stop renting.

But then I found out that the metalheads got Metallica. Not really being so down with the latest developments in head banging, I hadn't spared them much of a thought until the Black Album hit the scene, when I finally looked up to realize that they had washed into the world in the flood too. And I was bemused. I could also tell that, were I to say out loud that I liked "Enter Sandman", I would now somehow lose coolness points (fortunately I was well aware by that time that I had an "L" tattooed on my forehead regardless of what I listened to, so felt fine about admitting it). Having not paid attention though, I didn't quite understand when the coolness turnaround had happened. In fact, I'm still not sure I know when it did....

Audience Participation Moment

It seemed to go like this, to me:

"And Justice For All" = for 'edgy', nihilistic-types/still cool
"The Black Album" = for metal-types/not cool

Perhaps the cooler among you out there will tell me that it was oh-so-much-more complex than that, and involved Metallica 'selling out to a major label', or becoming 'over-produced', or some other such standard jargon used to explain the fall-from-coolness factor. Feel free to unlock the mystery in the Comments section. It all seemed rather arbitrary to me.

Regardless of the reason, it seemed something had forever changed with Metallica, and their rock god status in the 90's only seemed to further the divide. Then there was Napster and I went from being generally disinterested and non-commital to hateful and scathing. Not being one to study the people behind the bands I like, I knew little about Lars, James and the lot (I'd never even freakin' heard of Jason Newstead), but I knew I now thought they were money-grubbing prima donnas with egos the size of their amps.

All of which leads back to "Metallica: Some Kind Of Monster". What I expected to see was a movie glorifying a bunch of penis-bigger-than-their-heads, corporate-rock temper tantrums - good for a few minutes mockery, but ultimately obnoxious. Instead I was shocked to discover I had landed in the middle of Metallica In Group Therapy. I know that sounds like an SNL skit, but I swear, much of the film consists of the boys on couches talking about how they make each other feel hurt, uncared for, or disrespected. Basically what you're seeing is every painful "relationship-talk" you've ever had (including every hackneyed, cliched line short of "I'm going home to Mother!"), being expressed by a metal band to some weanie named Phil. Astoundingly, Therapist Phil has a pathetic moment all his own in the film, when he gets upset because "you guys are saying you don't need me. And I'm fine with that." Phil was so, so not fine with that.

I was still having trouble processing that this really *wasn't* going to end with them destroying the therapist's office and mounting his head on a pole at stage left, when James Hetfield started talking about his 'abandonment issues'. Bob Rock talked about "understanding" and "embracing" the process. Therapist Phil told them to treasure one another. I sat with my jaw on my knee, unable to turn it off when it came on the second time.

And here I sit now, listening to 'Sanitarium'. And it's still a damned good song. But I'll never, ever, hear it the same way again.

And by the way Lars? I downloaded it.

Put It Down! Put It Down!

Ah, police. Funny, funny police....

DEA Agent: "I'm the only one in this room professional enough that I know of to carry this Glock 40."
Glock 40: "BANG!"

www.putfile.com/media.php?n=03084899

For those who have difficulty downloading the video, the text explanation is kindly offered up by Snopes.com, our favourite internet "is it true?" site.

Bright Lights, Not-So-Big City

Crowbar Headquarters Staff Update

Hi all,

Back after a long weekend of fun and relaxation. Ok, maybe not so much fun...or relaxation. Maybe recuperation. Ok, hibernation. Oh whatever.

Anyway, we all had four days off and we took a calculated risk, deciding to leave Crowbar unsupervised in Headquarters throughout. She doesn't know this, but usually when we "claim" to be taking time away from HQ we work out a little system to take turns keeping tabs on her. It's not that we don't trust her, it's just that she's completely unreliable and untrustworthy. Leave her on her own for too long and the next thing you know there's a SWAT team coming up the front walk and a smoldering police station down the street. We've always managed to buy her out of these tight spots in the past, but one day our luck (or the EBF - Emergency Bribe Fund) is going to run out.

Even knowing this, we're all aware that she's got to be left on her own sometimes and, if we're telling the truth, we also thought it might be rather amusing to see just how far she'd unravel if left to her own devices with no spy work or Mission Critical Emergencies to distract her. Of course we wouldn't want to give you the idea that we find Crowbar's little hissy fits funny, or that we like to mock her - it's just that we do.

So what did she get up to while we were all away? Well, we've actually noticed an odd trend with her lately - for some reason she's been randomly throwing on the Con Allyerd identity, even when Con isn't needed. Twice in the last month alone we've caught her dressed up in knee-high black high heeled boots, short skirts and - get this - carrying a purse. The first time we took it as evidence of either some mission we hadn't been briefed on or signs of Crowbar's mounting psychosis, but either way we figured it was a phase. Then we rolled back into HQ this morning expecting to find all kinds of damage and some new police reports to doctor, and instead discovered that she did it again while we were away. Rumour has it (ok, so we did have her tailed while we were out of town) that she not only donned the Con identity, complete with boots and black miniskirt, but in top of it all she went to a casino. This is definitive Con behaviour. Places with lots of people counting money, machines that spit silver and velvet ropes separating the rich people are Con Allyerd's natural habitat. That's no surprise, but some level of duress is usually required to get Crowbar to don the appropriate identity, and even then she does so grudgingly. Con likes the lights, the bells, the unadulterated, grasping capitalism and the chance to feed on it....Crowbar tends to look for nooks and crannies to plant explosives. In short, we wouldn't expect her to be going voluntarily, and certainly not if there were no scam to pull off to bankroll the Resistance Force.

Perhaps it's some of Con's recent successes spurring Crowbar to let her stretch her wings a bit. We got news a few weeks back that one of Con's works of masterful spin brought close to ten grand into the Resistance Force coffers for the upcoming year. We would have thanked her but she was off somewhere pulling a bank job. Instead we've spent two weeks attempting to find ways to avoid the funder's requested photo op (Crowbar, as you can imagine, doesn't like having her picture taken - we got her out of it). As it stands, Con is clearly way out in front when it comes to pulling her own weight around here, so we're guessing Crowbar thought it only fair that she get a couple of nights out. Sadly, all reports say that CB managed to lose $60* bucks while Con was off in the Smoking Lounge chatting up Baccarat players, so apparently the clothes alone don't make the girl. Seemingly you need the Con attitude to be a winner in the big rooms - something Crowbar on her own doesn't have. In fact, proving the old adage "you can dress her up but you can't take her anywhere", we hear she spent a good portion of the night trying to find excuses to kick someone with those big, black boots, although Intel says she didn't and the EBF confirms it. That notwithstanding, from what we can tell, she actually had a good time and nobody got hurt, except her wallet.

[CB Note - I feel a need to interject briefly here: While it's true that no one got hurt, I want to go on record pointing out that some old lady hit me. You heard me, hit me. I stepped up to a slot machine to drop a quarter in and the woman at the next machine (who had her back to me at the time) spun around and physically smacked my arm away. I was so shocked I didn't even kill her. So it's a bigger thing to say "no one got hurt" than perhaps the HQ Staff realizes.]

Crowbar tells us the creepiest part of the whole excursion were the old people physically jacked into the slot machines - at first she thought the Dark Side had perfected some sort of One-Armed-Bandit life support systems. It seems people who are thoroughly addicted to slot machines tend to use these "Preferred Player" cards, which are like casino credit cards. You slot them directly into the machine, play credits stored on them, and can move from machine to machine whenever you want without cashing out...your credit is all on the plastic. Unfortunately, the casino has seen fit to attach these cards to a long spiral cord like a telephone cord that appears to clip on to your person, ensuring you don't move on and forget it in the slot machine. Apparently old people feel the left breast pocket is the best place to attach the alligator clip on the end of the cord. The visual effect of this, however, is that you can gaze down a row of 50 slot machines and see old person after old person with a cord running directly from their heart into the machine, thus making the slots appear like external pacemakers. It was like invasion of the bodysnatchers, except the seniors stayed connected to the pods by long yellow plastic spiral strings. It's hard not to wonder; if you walked along the row and just started unplugging them, one after the other, would they die? Is the only thing sustaining them the mounting hope that the next spin will be the jackpot, thus requiring them to stay hooked up to these things for hour upon hour, quarter upon quarter? Maybe that's a morbid thought...oh right, it's Crowbar; morbid thoughts are her stock and trade.

What we did learn from this latest adventure is that Crowbar definitely feels dark casinos full of obsessive gamblers are the exact, correct locales for her to spend Easter Sunday. Being surrounded by terrifyingly dressed seniors and acne-ridden teenage crimelord wannabe's appears to be her millieu. Her choice of timing for the outing did beg the question of whether more or less people go gamble away the mortgage payment on Easter? Do fewer people go 'cause gambling's a sin and they feel they should pretend to piety on at the weekend of JC's supposed resurrection? Or do more people go, banking on the notion that Christ coming back from the dead was surely the greatest odds-breaker of all time, thus the 'anniversary' of the resurrection is luckier than the rabbit's foot? Not being a frequenter of these establishments, Crowbar is still unsure, but we figure we'll run it past Con when she next flits in - if it has to do with money and when people are most likely to part with it, our beloved Minister of Finance will know the answer.

*No Resistance Force funds were lost in the making of this losing streak. All payments were drawn on Crowbar's personal embezzled accounts.