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A Farewell To Comics

    Tonight, for the first time in twenty years, I am no longer a subscribing member of any comic title currently in print.  I know that might sound a little silly to most people, but think of it like this.  For twenty freaking years I have made a monthly trek to the local comic book shop and picked up the latest issues of the handful of titles that I was reading.

    Twenty years.  And now, tonight, I am officially done.

    As with any good tale detailing the end of a love affair, I might as well start at the beginning.  It began with a death in the family.  Well, maybe I said that incorrectly.  It actually began with "A DEATH IN THE FAMILY." 

    In 1988, DC Comics did the unprecedented.  They opened a telephone poll allowing readers to call a 1-900 number and vote to either save the life of Batman's sidekick, Robin, or have him whacked.  At the time, Robin wasn't the original Boy Wonder.  He was an edgier, problematic kid named Jason Todd.  10,000 people called the hotline, and at the end of the story, Robin got blowed up.

    But nobody really dies in comics, right? 

    Except this time, for all intents and purposes, the kid was dead.  (Yes, yes, I know they brought him back in some convoluted bullcrap in 2003, but that's an eternity in the comics world.  AND it was never their intention when they first killed him off.)  "A Death in the Family" was the first graphic novel (several seperate single issues collected in one book) that I ever read, and it hooked me completely. 

    Let's face it, they called the guy the Dark Knight Detective.  They had my number from the word "Go."  Looking back, it was a WONDERFUL time to be fan of comics.  A whole host of incredibly forward-thinking books had taken the medium lightyears past the days of four-color superhero's saving the day in the blandest fashion possible. 

    The writers and artists working at that time were unlike anything that every existed before. 

    Alan Moore's "Watchmen" and "Swamp Thing", Frank Miller's "Batman: Dark Knight Returns" and "Batman: Year One", Mike Grell's "Green Arrow: The Longbow Hunters," and the first US printings of Koike and Kojima's seminal "Lone Wolf and Cub" series were all new to my young eyes.  To this day, I challenge any critic to read any of the above bodies of work and not come to the conclusion that comics are a valid and true form of literary expression. 

    That was just the start.  In the years to come, after those books had come and gone, there were new people to carry the torch.  Neil Gaiman's spectacular, awe-inspiring "Sandman"; Jeff Smith's "Bone"; Garth Ennis's "Preacher"; Paul Chadwick's "Concrete"; Don Rosa's work on "Uncle Scrooge"; Alan Moore's entire ABC run; Frank Miller's "Sin City" and "300"; I could rattle off a dozen more titles who will shine and live forever, immoratlized in never-ending reprints and glossier, fancier editions. 

    But all of those books ended.  In their place, nothing has come to fill the void. 

    Sure, there's been some.  I enjoyed Brian Michael Bendis's "Powers" for a long time, until it bored me.  I LOVED "Walking Dead" until I realized that Kirkman was just going to keep on killing the main characters in whatever awful fashion he could think of, in place of actually taking his storyline somewhere.  I also enjoyed Kirkman's "Invincible" storyline, until I just got sick of seeing the same things happen over and over again.

    I thought I had a winner with "The Boys", a series by Garth Ennis about a group of agents possessed of superpowers who work to keep the secretly-horrible superhero community in check.  I particularly liked the one where they hid a bomb inside the asian hitwoman's vibrator.  That showed promise.  But, again, it just went on and on without really going anywhere.  

     In recent years, Hollywood has taken notice of the rich material mined in comics.  Particularly, the work done by the masters.  Alan Moore's "Watchmen" will premier next month.  Frank Miller's "Sin City" and "300" were monster successes.  Once technology reached the point where computer animation can flawlessly replace entire sets, allowing actors to exist in a world identical to those conceived in the artists minds who produced those comics, it was a match made in heaven. 

    Still, I know plenty of people who are rabid fans of "300" who would never consider actually picking up the graphic novel and reading it.  That's a shame.  The book, as it usually is, was better. 

    Back when I was younger, there was a guy named Doug Slack who was producing a book called "Slacker."  I loved that book.  It was funny, timely, aggressive and sweet.  If anybody deserved a shot at the big time, it was Doug.  He wrote, drew, produced, and published the entire series all on his own.  For me, and the millions of other dreamers who thought how great it would be to actually MAKE our own comic, Doug actually did it.  And it RULED.

    I met him at the Philadelphia Comic Convention back in the nineties.  He told me he was thinking about doing a "Predator" story to submit to Dark Horse Comics, to see if he could break into the big time.  By 1998, "Slacker" was done.  From what I could find, Doug never did get that break. 

    My whole problem with the Comic industry is that you can take a guy like Brian Michael Bendis, who is VERY TALENTED, and make him a success based on the excellent work he did as an independent creator.  But then he gets swallowed up by Marvel, and they suddenly have him writing every book on their roster.  Now, he is stretched so thin, everything begins to get watered down.  Everything becomes simply, boring. 

    You can also take a person like Alan Moore, the single greatest writer in the comics medium who has ever walked the face of the planet, and he becomes so disgusted by the mechanics and corporate methodology of DC Comics, that he opts to become a recluse and abandon the medium.  It is a sin that Alan Moore is simply written off as a "problem child."  No, he's not.  He's a rabid devotee of the craft of comics and refuses to let you bloodsuckers whore his creations. 

    As I write this, DC Comics is preparing to kill off Batman.  Again. Wait, I'm sorry, it was Superman they killed off before.  Batman, they just crippled and replaced with one of his sidekicks.  Then, in a big whoop-de-doo, they brought Bruce Wayne BACK!  Wahoo!  

    And now, they are at it again.  Sometimes I wonder what exactly goes on in the minds of the corporate offices that control DC Comics and Marvel Comics.  "We'll undo years of continuity where Peter Parker was married to Mary Jane, simply by saying it was a dream, or a time traveller, or an alternate reality."  (That really happened this year.  Or something like that, I couldn't quite follow it.)  "No, no, I've got it!  Bruce Wayne became a superhero when his parents were gunned down in front of him, right?  Well, get this!  Bruce Wayne's DAD faked his death, becomes a bad guy, and comes back to KILL him!  Awesome!!!!"  

    That also, actually happened.  Or rather, it's about to, according to the BBC.  You can see the link here. 

     The comic book medium exists as a vehicle to do much, much more than simply tell superhero stories.  It has risen to the heights of the pulitzer-prize with Art Spiegelman's "Maus" stories, telling the tales of an Auschwitz survivor.  It has documented it's own evolution and validity in Scott McCloud's "Understanding Comics" books, where he makes the astute observation that if you consider comic books as "Sequential Art," then you can call bloody paintings on cave walls and hieroglyphics the earliest comics known to man. 

    As I write this, the end of my twenty year ongoing readership, it does not end my passion for the artform.  It does nothing to lessen my appreciation for the craft, or the work that I've already read.  It is my hope that some young kid is preparing to shock the world once more.  When that happens, I will be the first to call up my friends at Brave New Worlds in Willow Grove and tell them to add the book to my "pull-list."  No one hopes that happens more than I.      

    However, I am not sure that it will happen in print.  As the internet continues to become the source of entertainment content for the world, we'll see less and less young talent appealing to the corporate giants like DC and Marvel, and more simply putting it on their webpage, unrestrained. 

    Twenty years.  It just ain't what it used to be, folks. 

New Poems Added To Poetry Page

    I added 4 new poems to the Enemy Poetry Page.  It is located to your right, much, much lower than dear Irene would have it, but that remains beside the point.  Oh look, there's an ad to your right as well, which I sure would think kindly of you for clicking. 

  

Getting Organized!

    I really don't know how many pages Typepad will let me have.  I know there's a certain limit to space, and I'm sure I'm gonna hit it any day now. 

    But until then...I'll try and get as organized as I can.

    I added Part 7 of the Way of the Warrior Series Page, as well as a few other posts that were pertinent.  I also changed the page's file name so that it appears first.  Danny N., a Deputy Sheriff, left me a comment that reminded me that there are people in the field who might need a little boost.  A good friend of mine is going through a tough time on The Job right now, and I found myself saying many of the things to him that I've written here, many of the things that I truly believe.  There may be others of you who I've never met who need the same thing.  I feel you, guys.  The Enemy is here. 

    I'm adding a page for Freemasonry, with the three parts of the series. 

    I'm adding a page for an older series I did called Modern Hip-Hop: The Rape of Civilization.

   Finally, I created a brand new page, for Officially Endorsed Enemy Products.  It will include Movies, Books, Games, and Music.  It's still under construction, as I imagine it always will be.  It's not a list that I ever really intend to finish, if you catch my meaning. 

    In other news, I continue to do research for the Gaslight and Gunsight Novel.  I recently came across something truly horrific.  They called themselves Unit 731, a secret section of the Japanese Military in WW2.  They specialized in biological research, conducting the most gruesome experiments conceivable on their victims.  Infants, children, pregnant women, and everything else you can possibly imagine were ripe for their knives, viruses, and flame throwers. 

    And the sickening part?  General MacArthur pardoned them and the US offered them amnesty so that we could receive the benefit of their research. 

    You can read about it here: Unit 731

    These boys are going to play a part in Gaslight.  I'm still working out the details, but I have to admit, it breaks my heart to find out the horrific lapses in morality that my beloved country has partaken in.  

    (Grrrr....as I write this I've had to reload the new WOTW page twenty times.  It's not taking.  Typepad..from hell's heart I stab at thee...)

     I have also removed a lot of the ancilliary blocks from the left hand side of the blog.  There were several loose affiliations mentioned that didn't really add anything to the content.  I hope it looks cleaner now.  Please keep clicking those ads! 

    UPDATE: I can't get the new pages to post, and before I chuck my computer out the window, I'm going to shut down and try again later.

    "I wish you would chuck it!"

    Shut up, Aunt Jane. 

Way of the Warrior 7: Matthew 5:34, and the Death of Jesse James

But I tell you, Do not swear at all: either by heaven, for it God's throne; or by the earth, for it is his footstool...And do not swear by your head, for you cannot make even one hair white or black.  Simply let your 'Yes' be 'Yes', and your 'No' be 'No';  anything beyond this comes from the evil one. (Jesus Christ, as quoted in the New Testament, Matthew 5:34)

    I often joke that the way I know someone has just lied to me is that they utter the words, "I swear to God", or "I swear on my Mother's soul", or whatever it is that they really shouldn't be swearing on.  I once had a pregnant girl point at her protruding belly and she said, "I swear on the unborn life of-" and I stopped her. 

    That kid's gonna have it rough enough already.

    In every interviewing school or book they will tell you the same thing.  The truth rings like a bell.  When you hear it, it makes sense.  You can see it.  You can feel it. 

    "You're lying.  I can smell it on you."  (Andy Sipowickz, NYPD Blue)

    When someone is telling you something that simply doesn't add up, no matter how emphatically they are saying it, no matter how much you might WANT to believe them, you simply have to take a step back and say, "This just doesn't sound right."  And then, even when you are exhausted, you have to dig down deep within and go at them.  Hard. 

    When I was still a young cop, I was investigating a guy for an assault.  He had fled the scene, and the victim was no peach, but still, a crime had been committed.  I chased him around for about a week, trying to talk to him.  I left messages.  I waited for him outside his house. 

    One day I called and said that if I didn't hear back from him, I was just going to file charges.  He didn't call me back, but his wife did.  "Officer, I can tell you for certain that my husband didn't do this."

    "How so?" I said.

    She told me that their second son had died of a complicated illness.  It had nearly destroyed their family.  They held walkathons in his memory to raise money for research and treatment.  They had websites and foundations dedicated to that lost child.  

    Her husband had sworn on the life of their dead child that he did not commit the crime.  "So it's pretty obvious, officer.  He could not have done it." 

    I told her I heard what she was saying, but I still needed to talk to her husband.  The next day he came in.  He was wearing a tee-shirt emblazoned with a photograph of the dead boy, with his name and dates of birth and death printed on the front.  

    We talked.  He repeated his oath to me.  He pointed at the smiling face of the dead little child on his shirt and swore on the boys soul that he hadn't done the crime. 

    The son of a bitch was lying. 

    By the end of the conversation I had a written confession.  All it cost me was a promise that I wouldn't tell his wife that he'd done it.  All it cost me was a little bit of my faith in humanity. 

    Since I came back from out West, I've been watching a lot of cowboy movies.  I've never been a big fan of Westerns as a genre, but several Westerns rank among my favorite movies of all time.  For instance, I can't tell you one John Wayne movie I've ever sat through, but Tombstone and The Wild Bunch are two of my all time favorite movies ever.

    I can't watch The Magnificent Seven without constantly comparing it unfavorably to Seven Samurai (of which it is derived), but I think Yul Brenner in Westworld (playing essentially the same character) is a revelation. 

    So when I got home, I fired up the ol' Netflix account and ordered a bunch of Westerns that had come out recently that I figured I'd give a chance.  The Assassination of Jesse James By the Coward Robert Ford came first. 

    And by the time I watched the final scene, I was thinking of writing this piece. 

    The next time somebody lies to me, and they follow it up with these words, "I swear to God," I am going to look them in the face and ask them a very serious question.

    Do you know how the outlaw Jesse James died?

    After the Blue Cut train robbery, Jesse's brother Frank quit the gang.  Most of the other gang members had been arrested or killed.  Jesse was forced to start taking up recruits from the local towns, including two brothers named Charlie and Robert Ford. 

    Robert Ford was obsessed with Jesse.  He read all the dimestore novels about Jesse, spent hours daydreaming about Jesse, and finally had his chance to ride at the side of his hero. 

    Ford didn't have the "ingredients" to be like Jesse, however, and ultimately, made a deal with the governor and the sheriff to murder Jesse James.  The Ford boys were living with Jesse at the time.  On April 3, 1882, Jesse's wife, Zee, was in the kitchen cleaning up.  Jesse's two children were outside playing. Robert convinced Jesse to take off his guns so that the neighbors wouldn't catch on that they had a notorious outlaw living among them, while he strapped on a shiny new pistol that Jesse had gifted to him only two days prior.

    Jesse saw that one of the pictures hanging in the living room was dusty, and as he climbed a chair to dust it off, Robert Ford drew his pistol, cocked the hammer, and shot Jesse in the back of the head.

    The body of Jesse James hit the floor, blood leaking from the back of his shattered skull.  Zee heard the shot and came running in, screaming when she saw her husband.  Robert Ford's gun was smoking, and he holstered it, needing to sit down to calm his nerves.

    "Did you do this?" Zee screamed.

    And do you know what Robert Ford answered?

    "I swear to God I didn't."

 

    

    

Part 3: Freemasonry Revealed!

    I put out the call for any questions about Freemasonry and the Enemy Blog Nation has responded! 

    I'd like to qualify my answers by saying that I am certainly no expert on Freemasonry.  I have done a fair bit of reading and research, and have tried to give the most informed answers here, but I reserve the right to be dead-wrong.  If that happens, I assure you that it is a mistake made of sheer misunderstanding, and that it was unintentional. 

    Also, I don't pretend to speak for anyone other than myself.  This is my take on being a Freemason, as it pertains to me. 

1.    Is this a men only secret society?  Do they admit women?  If not, why not?

       In America, only men can be Freemasons.  I've heard that they have a couple floating around Europe, but I would imagine it is not the norm. 

    There are several masonic-affiliated organizations for women.  One, the Eastern Star, meets at my lodge.  I don't know much about them, other than that they do degree work for their members, have rituals, and really kick ass in terms of fundraising.

2.    Is it a secret society or a society of/with secrets?

    I can appreciate the distinction between the two.  I would say that Freemasonry is clearly a society with secrets, in that we don't hide our membership, or our meeting places.  We are a properly registered organization.  That all being said, we have many secrets that are not shared with outsiders.

3. What do you DO at these meetings?

    It depends what type of meeting it is.  A general ("stated") meeting occurs monthly, where the body of Master Masons meet to discuss lodge affairs and vote on new members.  Sometimes a guest lecturer is invited to discuss a wide variety of topics.  

    Extra meetings are held for the new members to receive the requisite degrees that will make them full members.  There are three degrees in Freemasonry: 1st Degree (Entered Apprentice), 2nd Degree (Fellowcraft) and 3rd (Master).  

4. What is the stated purpose of the society?

    Hmm.  Tough one.  One fact about Freemasonry is that there is no singular unifying body.  Every state is goverened by it's Grand Lodge.  Many states vary in how they approach and practice Freemasonry.  Thus, what you read on the internet about how things are done in Utah will be very, very different from how it is done in Pennsylvania.  

    Freemasonry is one of the largest charitable organizations in the world, but it is not a charity.  All Shriners are Masons, therefore you can count every Shriner Hospital as a part of the Masons charitable efforts.  Thousands and thousands of children all around the world have received free state-of-the-art health care at Shriner Hospitals, all thanks to the Masons.

    A large portion of Freemasonry is dedicated to self-preservation.  Very little is written down in The Craft, and older members must constantly educate younger ones, ensuring that the ritual and meaning is passed down properly.  Freemasonry only exists because generations of men have made sure it stayed strong and healthy.

5. How do new members get in?

    They have to ask a Mason if they can join.  No one is ever asked to BE a Mason.  You have to come to us.  Once that occurs, a vetting process begins, culminating in an eventual vote by the body.  It is an ancient a democratic process as ever there was one.  It is a process by which the term "black-balled" has been derived. 

    There is no hazing involved.  There is absolutely nothing offensive or comprimising.  There is a process which all masons must pass through,where the candidate receives the degrees that he needs to be a Master Mason.

    Once a Mason has received his 3rd Degree, he can choose to simply continue as a member of his lodge and move through the chairs that exist there.  He can also choose to join one or more of the affiliated Masonic bodies, such as the Shriners, or the Scottish or York Rite.  I am a York Rite Mason, having just joined the Royal Arch. 

6.  Why do you feel safe there?  What signals the difference between the inside-world and the outside one?

    All meetings are held in a secure manner.  The main difference is that once you are inside, everyone is on equal footing.  You are all there for the benefit of Freemasonry, and for one another in general.  The reason that Philadelphia is called "The City of Brotherly Love" is that "Brotherly Love" is one of the highest-held tenents of Freemasonry, and the city's Masonic roots run very deep. 

    I know that I can go to any Masonic Temple anywhere in the world and find fellowship.  I know that any Mason can come to my lodge and be greeted and treated as one of our own. 

    I remember my first night walking up to the lodge's front door.  A man following me asked where I was headed.  I pointed to the door.  He nodded, clapped me on the back, and said, "You are going in the right direction."

7. Were you a kid during the "Mud Incident"?

    I think I was in 9th or 10th grade. 

8.  Are there grounds to being excommunicated/voted off the island?  Can one be kicked out of Freemasonry?

    Yes.  You can be suspended and even found to be unfit to remain among your Masonic bretheren.  I haven't ever heard of it happening.  To be honest, that doesn't really surprise me.  You don't often hear about a Mason being caught up in anything notorious. 

    I'd like to think that is because those who participate in Freemasonry are better than that.  I'm sure at some point along the way there has been, but for the most part, it doesn't happen.

9.  Do a lot of people you know belong to to this Secret Society? 

    Before I joined, very few.  As far as I know, I am the first of my family (Both extended and otherwise) to join.  It was something I was always curious about, and one day I ran into a colleage who was wearing a Masonic ring.  I asked if he was a Mason, and I asked how hard it was to join.  He gave me some of the information you see here, and before I knew it I was bathing in the blood of a virgin sheep and...AHHHH, just kidding.  Wanted to see if you were still paying attention. 

    Now that I am a member, I am often surprised by just how many people belong. 

10. Do a lot of people know that you are a member of this Secret Society?  What is their reaction when they find out?

    People are mainly curious.  I've never been asked any off-the-wall questions about it.  I don't hide my affiliation, in fact, I normally wear a ring of some sort.  The ring's emblem is turned to face me, and I find myself looking at it from time to time, reminding myself to be as accurate and true as the tools of the men who fashioned Solomon's Temple. 

11. Why don't the Masons and Catholics get along?
    You can read a long history of the Catholic Church's vendetta against Freemasonry HERE.

    As to why it exists...I can't really say.  I can tell you that as a Mason, I am committed to the bright light of truth and free thought.  If the Catholic Church has a problem with that, well, I am sure you are more than capable of coming to your own conclusion as to why.

    I believe it was George Clinton who said, "Free your mind and yo ass will follow."  Who am I to argue with the man who wrote Atomic Dog?

This last question was mine.  I asked it of the Mason who introduced me to The Craft, and who signed my petition to become a Mason.

12. Have you benefitted as a person from being a Mason?  Are you a better man for it?

    His answer was yes. 

    My answer is yes.

    As I said initially, I'm not a convert, I'm not a salesman, and I'm not here trying to woo anybody into signing up.  I am simply a man, who is trying to do better.  I feel that being a Mason is helping me get closer to where I want to be. 

For more information about Freemasonry in the Pennsylvania area, visit the website of the Grand Lodge of PA HERE.

For a list of famous Freemasons thorughout history, you can visit HERE.

This is the last of the Freemason posts for now.  If you have any other questions, email me at BtheEnemy@comcast.net. 

 

    

Part 2: Knights Templar, Yesterday and Today

     When I was a kid, my dad hired a mason to come and do stone work on our house.  The mason pointed, grouted, and built a foundation for a new front deck.  My dad, ever the spendthrift, graciously offered this mason my services free of charge.  Of course, no one ever asked me about it.  

    I came home from school one day and this very large, very gruff man, barks at me to take his wheelbarrow and make him some "Mud."  

    "Mud?" I asked him. 

    "Mud," he told me.  

     All right, I thought.  If you say so.  And I went into the back yard barn and grabbed a shovel.  I walked to the wheelbarrow and began digging an enormous hole in the ground.  I plopped piles of dirt and grass into the wheelbarrow merrily.  The mason was on a ladder, carefully setting a stone in place. 

    I took the hose from the outer wall and sprayed the dirt for several minutes, letting it disintegrate into an enormouse gelatinous soup of perfectly suitable mud.  "It's ready!" I shouted.

    The mason came down off his ladder and walked over to the wheelbarrow to observe what I'd done.

    To this day my father still talks about the ensuing shouting and outrage.  Suffice it to say, I was banned from the worksite because, if I recall, "Any idiot who doesn't know that 'mud' means 'concrete' is a danger to himself and everyone else." 

    And that, ladies and gentlemen, was my first experience with being a mason.   

    It is safe to say that mysteries abound within the study of Freemasonry, even from those who are among its numbers.  Many aspects of the rituals remain unknown, or open to speculation.  There's a couple things we can basically guess at, but others that everyone stands around and says, "Dunno" about. 

    Which, of course, leaves much of it open to interpretation.

    I had to make some decisions when I began this piece.  What, exactly, did I want to talk about.  Obviously there are some things I can't discuss.  Can't really have a secret society if everybody goes around blabbing all the secrets, now can we? 

    In the first part, I opted to tell you that I am a Freemason, and what it means to me.  One of the things I struggled with finding the words to say is that the study of Freemasonry, and my participation in it, has helped me do some cours-correction during a difficult time in my life. 

    The reason I struggle to tell you that is that it just sounds so damn hokey.  It's like prisoners who are in jail and find Jesus.  They come out thumping their bible, Jesus this and Jesus that.  I don't trust it.  It's like an alcoholic who becomes obnoxiously sober, hurling venom at anyone who takes a sip of beer.  I can't get with that. 

    I am not the type of person to embrace an outer remedy, or a pre-conceived, pre-packaged way of life.  That's more like Scientology.  It's just not my way.  

    For me, and this strictly goes for me and me alone, being a Freemason allows me to be a part of something that I consider, for lack of a better word, wholesome.  In my life, which is so often dominated by drug addicts, dead bodies, child molestors, and more, it is one piece of my mind that I can keep pure.  And sometimes I relish the opportunity to go there and shut the doors and just be safe.  Not safe from the world outside.  Safe from the world within.  

    Like I said, I struggled with finding a way to say that, and if it doesn't make sense, I apologize.   

    What I did think I could do was filter some of my research down to you.  I opted to use only materials that were available to anyone, including books, the internet, and documentaries.  To be honest, if I had a question about Freemasonry I would turn to the internet, the same as anyone else. 

    One of the most fascinating aspects of The Craft is it's alleged connection to the Knights Templar.  In fact, Freemasonry has it's own body called the Knights Templar.  They are quick to point out that they don't mean THOSE Knights Templar, but there are enough connections to be drawn for my investigative mind to go, "Hmmm." 

    The first thing we should do is get our historical understanding straight.  Sit up, class.  Get your pencils ready.  

    The history of Freemasonry can be broken into two parts: Operative Masons, and Speculative Masons. 

    Since the dawn of time, people have sought to build things, whether they be buildings, statues, temples, or fortifications.  It probably seemed like a good idea that if you were having a house built that you wanted to sleep inside, you'd want it built by a person who knew what they were doing.  Thus, the creations of a guild of Masons. 

    Given that the privilege of reading and writing was not available to much of the public, other ways were developed of ensuring that if a person said they were a Master Mason, it could be proven.  Secret words, handshakes, signs and many other forms of recognition were created to enable a Mason to travel around the country freely.  They allowed him to work, instantly accepted as a trustworthy craftsman. 

    The signs and signals were not given out lightly, and if you possessed them, you had better have been able to back it up. 

    Because it was such a harsh task to erect enormous buildings and temples, and that the results of sloppy work could be disasterous (Uh, sorry Mr. Emperor, but the roof just collapsed on your children), it was imperative that these secrets were guarded with the very life of the one who possessed them.

    Human beings being what they are, it is not unlikely that there were many people who sought the payments and freedoms accorded to the Masons, without wanting to go through the toil and sacrifice that it required.  Kind of like today.  You have many people who represent themselves as being able to do all sorts of work on your house, but never went to school, or came up through the union. 

    This system lays the very foundation for Freemasonry as we know it. 

    One benefit of being an Operative Mason during this time was that Masons were one of the only class of people allowed to travel freely from city to city.  By virtue of the need to have them working at any given job site at any given time, the rulers of the kingdoms didn't want them tied up at the gatehouse. 

    This plays a very significant part in our story.

    Over time, during the 16th or 17th Century, arose what we now call Speculative Freemasonry.  It was a group of men who adopted the system created by their Operative brothers, but instead of physically building temples for kings, they built a sort of temple within each member.

    For some reason, Freemasons stopped focusing on stonework and bricklaying and began focusing on character and solidarity.  No one is truly certain how or why this happened. 

    But I think I have an idea.

    In 1096, after the First Crusade, the Knights Templar were created to protect Christians making the pilgrimege to Jerusalem.  The Catholic Church officially endorsed them over thirty years later, and the Templar began expanding rapidly. 

    And then they had a moment of genius.  The Templar Knights created what has come to be one of the earliest forms of banking known to man.  They erected temples all along the path to Jerusalem, and allowed travellers to deposit money.  The traveller would be given a code that they could take to any of the other temples, and withdraw that same amount of money...for a small fee.

    The plan worked staggeringly well.  Amazingly well.  It worked too well.

    They amassed SO much money that King Philip the IV of France had to borrow a ton of it to finance his war with the English.  Let me tell you something about having a King in your debt.  It's not a good thing. 

    King Philip and Pope Clement V conspired against the Templar Knights to have them outlawed and declared heretics.  Once they were officially considered enemies of the church and state, guess who got to divy up their wealth?

    And that is exactly what happened.  Templar Grand Master Jacques de Molay, under forced interrogation, signed a "confession" against the body, and a witchhunt began.

    54 Knights Templar were burned at the stake between May 10-12, 1310.  On March 18, 1314, De Molay and another Templar dignitary were the final two to be executed via burning.  Prior to his execution, De Molay recanted his confession and declared the innocence of his brothers.  He laid a curse upon the King and his descendents.  He ordered both the King and the Pope to appear before God and answer for their crimes before the year was out.

    Oddly enough, both the King and Pope were dead before the end of 1314. 

    Oddly enough, the House of Capet, which had ruled strongly for 300 years, collapsed during the next 14. 

    Not all the Knights Templar were caught or killed.  Many escaped.  This is where it gets interesting.  There is some study to indicate that the Templar infiltrated the ranks of the Operative Masons and used their signals and passwords to get away from the persecution, travelling to distant lands.  They hid within the body of Freemasonry.

    By the mid-1700's, Freemasony was incoroporating the symbols and traditions of the Knights Templar. 

    Again, there is no historical evidence to prove that the Knights Templar combined with Operative Masonry and together formed Speculative Freemasonry as we now know it.  It is the nature of secret societies that things remain a mystery to even those within the folds.  It can only be understood by years of research and analysis.  By unpeeling the layers of history. 

    I wish I'd started earlier.  Perhaps my son will get the benefit of my beginning the research, if given the chance to join the Youth chapter of Freemasonry.  I think he will enjoy it, and perhaps someday he too will join the ranks of the many who have wondered if by becoming a Freemason, we have upheld the honor and glory of the ones known to the world as the Knights Templar. 

    I believe they call the Youth Chapter the Order of DeMolay. 

Part 1: Freemasonry and Me

    If you asked me why I became a police officer, I will give you the standard answer that basically talks about "Helping my community," or "Protecting and Serving." 

    Yeah, that's pretty much true.

    On another level, I might also add that being a police officer is a good job for someone without the benefit of an advanced degree, although some police officers certainly possess them.  I know police officer's with Master Degrees.  I know police officers who are also certified lawyers.  And I know lots of other police officers just like me who have a good ol' High School Diploma.  I am working toward improving that (over 30 credits at my Montgomery County Community College, thank you very much.), but in between work, family, Agent Provocateur, The Enemy Blog, and a million other things, it can be difficult to squeeze in. 

    Also, and this is just between you and I, it kind of strikes me as odd to be in a college class learning about being a police officer when I already am one.  I think I'd rather learn how to be a biologist, or a dentist. 

    "Why don't you learn how to be a writer, smartass?" 

    Hey.  Who invited my Aunt Jane here? 

    But as I was saying, those are all my public answers.  The stock responses left over from the years I spent interviewing for police jobs in front of selection panels. 

    Honestly, a closer answer would be that I just like arresting bad guys.  Somewhere inside me there's still a little kid who wants to go out and play cops and robbers.  In fact, just recently, a County Detective made me crack up.  We'd spent hours on a stake-out, through daylight, nightfall, and near hurricane-conditions.  We stood outside for another hour, dealing with a crowd of unhappy pedestrians.  After that, we jumped into another car to go execute a warrant for a completely unrelated job.  

    Outside of that location, we're hiding in the shadows, standing on a slippery hill.  We can hear the entry team out in front of the house.  We are watching the side door, thinking that at any second the bad guy is going to come bailing through it, and we'll be in a fight.  He looks at me and grins, "Isn't this cop shit awesome!" 

    And of course, it is. 

    But there's another side to why I became a police officer as well.  I never trusted them very much.  They always kind of made me nervous.  Their power, their authority, their ability to take away a citizen's liberty, or even life, always left me feeling cold and vulnerable.  

    On some level, if I am being completely honest with myself, I became a police officer because I was afraid of a group of people having more power than I did.  I thought that at least if I was on the same level as they were, I would be better able to protect myself.  And also, being a student of history, I felt that as a cop I could ensure that things were done correctly, and prevent many of the abuses of power that I'd seen and heard of. 

    I am extremely gratified that during the course of my police career, I have found many of my fears to be unfounded.  On a whole, police officers and police agencies are extremely concerned with the preservation of citizen's rights.  On the whole, every effort is made to ensure that we are correct in our dealings with the public, and that they are given the best service we are able to provide.  

    I doubt the same can be said for many other governmental offices, and in fact, I routinely despair of the red-tape that exists in all levels of the judicial system and litigation involved, but for the cops, we are doing our jobs and doing them well.  

    Many of the answers to why I decided to become a Freemason can be found in the above paragraphs.  It is impossible to be a student of history and not come across the enormous impact Freemasons have had on the development of the free world.  It is also impossible not to stumble upon the near-frenzied screams of "New World Orders" and conspiracy theories that abound surrounding the discussion of Freemasonry. 

    As I sat outside of the closed door at Doylestown Lodge #245, about to be initiated, I waited, and wondered.  Whatever awaited me within that door had been in existence for centuries.  Whatever the ritual or ceremony I was about to partake in, it would be much the same as the one George Washington underwent.  

    It is, by far, easier to tell you what Freemasonry is not, than what it actually is.  First of all, it is not a religion.  There is no specific religious instruction, and no claim of any particular deity.  There is a general acceptance of the existence of a God, although whether you think that means the Christian, Jewish, Islamic, or Glycon the make-believe Roman snake deity, they don't say.  It isn't asked.  Whatever God you take with you into Freemasonry is the one they are talking about.  

    Freemasonry is not a cult.  It is also not a political organization.  There has never once been, in my experience, any effort to rally the bretheren to partake in any political event.  There was no mention of the Presidential Election, no support offered by the body to any candidate, and no Freemason representation at any of the voting polls. 

    Basically, it's a club. 

    I would tell you that it's a way of life, except there is no specific instructions.  No format to follow.  Most of the literature you will read about being a Freemason tells you that it is important to be "A Good Freemason."  But they don't tell you how.  They don't say, "A good freemason wakes up early on Sunday, mows his grass, eats a few fruits and grains, and goes to church.  On Monday he toils in the field, builds a tree house, and never drinks alcohol." 

    They don't tell you any of that.  What they do say is much more simple, and much more complex.  A good freemason, is simply, a good man. 

    When I meet another Freemason, I have higher expectations of him.  When I see a Masonic emblem on the back of a car, I am confident that the person driving that car is someone I would invite into my home, let near my children, and trust to do work.  There is no great sacrifice in being a Freemason.  It is not like meeting a brother-in-arms from the Gulf War who you know was exposed to mustard gas, as you were.  It is not like meeting a detective from another state who you know deals with the same crimes and pressures you do. 

    It is more like meeting someone you know, before you know them.  It is a brotherhood, and I am glad to be a part of it. 

    In the next few entries for this particular section, I will talk more about Freemasonry, both in general and how it pertains to me.  If you have any specific questions about The Craft, post them as comments, and I will answer them to the best of my ability.  

        

Bonafide Hustler Making My Name

if you come around here, I'll make 'em all day/

i get one done in a second if you wait/

sometimes I think sitting on trains/ every stop I get to I'm clocking that game/

everyone's a winner now we're making that fame/

bonafide hustler, making my name...

all I wanna do is (BANG BANG BANG)

and (KAAA CHINNNNG)

and take your money..."

(Paper Planes - M.I.A.)

    The Enemy Blog was selected to be part of a new advertising program done by Six Apart Media, the company that runs Typepad.  Typepad, in case you don't know, is the company that provides the blogging services for The EB and thousands of other blogs.

    I got the email last night, telling me we'd been chosen.  I felt pretty honored.     

    I am not exactly sure how the program works.  They sent me a link to create an ad space but I don't know where to put it on the page, or how to.  I hope it isn't some big obnoxious pop-up that will make you nuts. 

    Regardless, once I figure out how to actually put the code into the EB, I will officially be on my way to becoming a professional blogger.  The EB is quickly closing in on 19,500 hits and when it hits the 20 thousand mark I am going to have to take a step back and ponder exactly what it means to me that you guys have stuck with me through so much.

    I know I say it all the time, but your comments and emails really are the fuel that drives this for me.  I've made some good friends, some bad enemies, and been able to spread my ideas and philosphies to a larger audience. 

    A friend of mine who works for a state law enforcement agency recently wrote me to ask if he could use a portion of the Way of the Warrior Series for a class he is teaching to his agents.  Obviously, I did not hesitate to say yes.  My personal position has always been that if just one person finds something in The Enemy Blog that they can use, then it was all worth it. 

    I've never made any restrictions about re-publishing what I write here.  Except for that one time I found an Enemy Blog quote on a coffee mug, attributed to "Anonymous."  Grrrr...that still frosts me. 

    So, to everyone who reads the EB, thank you.  To everyone who contributes, I invite you to continue as we push forward toward the realm of becoming a professional organization. 

    Also, I have notified Human Resources that we are now accepting applications for Guest Author.  If you, or someone you know, would be interested in submitting an editorial to the great and glorious annals of Enemy Blog history, please send your inquiry to BtheEnemy@comcast.net  That includes reviews of movies you see, music you hear, or thoughts on politics, etc. 

    And in celebration of our upcoming ascention into the pro-blogosphere, and our 20,000th hit, I am going to let you in on a little secret.  A little glimpse into my private life that I am going to be writing about in the near future. 

    Ready?

    The Enemy is a member of an official secret-society.  Shhhhhh.  That's right.  I'm part of the group that secretly controls the world.  I'd keep checking back if I were you.

    

Format Issues

    Hello all, it's your Friendly Neighborhood Enemy. 

    We've been having some format issues lately.  Sorry about that.  Some of the type was pushed off of the page.  I finally realized that I'd been writing and viewing the page using Google Chrome, and that when I switched back to IE, it allowed me to see what everyone was talking about.

    I apologize.  The Enemy Blog's IT person has been whipped soundly and chained up next to the boiler until next Tuesday.  There is a hair shirt being prepared which he will wear once he is released, and it has been treated with a solution of cranberry and fermented fig in order to remind everyone, everywhere, of the naughty misconduct he caused all of you by hiding my precious, sentence ending words.

    (I think I watched too much Monty Python on the flight back from Vegas.)

    Anyway, it's fixed.  Sorry. 

    

The Enemy: Coast to Coast

November 7, 2008

0300 Hours

PA

    Agent Provocatuer wakes me.  We are up, dressed, and out the door within fifteen minutes. The journey has begun.

0500 Hours

Newark International Airport

    You can get up the Jersey Turnpike pretty fast when you stand on the gas pedal.  While Newark is much cheaper to fly out of than Philly is, the parking situation is kind of wonky.  We spend a little time trying to figure out where exactly we are supposed to go for "Economy Parking."

    A lot of people complain about airport security, taking off their shoes, etc.  I personally don't mind.  Airport staff is no joke, though.  The woman directing the line is barking at everyone to get their ID out, get into the first available spot, stop dilly-dallying.  She gets us all corralled properly, and we are soon through security and into the terminal.

0730 - 1330 Hours (East Coast Time)

1030 Hours West Coast Time

Vegas  

    This is my fifth time in "The Meadows."  My father moved to Henderson three years ago.  This is my first time coming out since then.  It has been nearly a year since we've seen each other. 

    Of course, that doesn't stop him from working that day. 

    No big emotional airport greetings for my family.  I called him when I landed.  He told me good.  I asked him how far away his work was.  He told me he couldn't really get visitors.  I told him I'd see him tomorrow.  

    It was AP's first time west.  She spent long periods of time staring out the window at the jigsaw-shaped farmlands.  The long stretches of desert and canyon, changling colors like formations of different clays.  There were no roads, no houses.  I told her that I thought it was impossible.  We were just up too high to see them. 

    Flying into the city, I am always excited to see the pyramid of the Luxor.  I've never been to that casino, but after the endless stretches of mountains from the air, seeing a black shining pyramid in the desert signifies that I have finally arrived.  

    It was forty degrees in Newark, cold, windy and rainy.  It is seventy degrees in Vegas.  The sky is pure blue, stretching across what appears to be this entire part of the world.  Pennsyvlania's landscape is made of hills and trees, constantly curving.  Nevada is practically flat, with only a few palm trees planted along the road way.  The city is surrounded by mountains, guarding it like the walls of a fortress.  

    Since the very first time I laid eyes on her, I have loved this city.  It both hurts me and heals me to be back in it. 

1200 Hours

Las Vegas Boulevard

    It is hard to decide what to show AP first.  I want to show her everything.  The gondola's of the Venetian.  The dancing fountains of the Bellagio.  The moving statues of Ceasar's.  We enter the throng of people along The Strip, sipping two-feet tall frozen drinks as they walk or the photographers setting up their tripods.  We pass clusters of people wearing colorful tee-shirts emblazoned with advertisements for Girls At Your Door In Minutes. 

    We come to the Bellagio's placid pool.  A crowd has gathered.  The speakers suddenly hum and crackle to life with the opening chords of "Luck Be A Lady" by The Chairman of the Board.  Frank starts singing, and the high-powered jets of water begin shooting into the sky in time with each note of the song. 

2230 Hours (West Coast Time)

0130 Hours (My Time)

South Point Casino

    AP collapsed in bed, exhausted from the hours we spent walking.  The last time I was out, it was earlier in the year and I got extremely sunburned.  You don't realize you are sunburned until you are standing near the pirate ships of the Treasure Island show and they start firing cannons, sending giant flames out over the crowd.  The heat from the cannons on your skin is enough to make you wince.  Now, in the cool November night, the heat is welcome. 

    I am so tired I can barely see straight.  I write a quick note on the Enemy Blog, and collapse as well.

November 8, 2008

1230 Hours

Henderson, NV

    Many people have already arrived at my dad's house.  It is very impressive.  We spend time sitting by his pool, talking, visiting with the relatives as they arrive from other parts of the country.  My family from Alaska arrive, some who I've not seen in fifteen years.  There are children I've never seen before.  Wives and girlfriends I've never met.

    AP tells me that now she understands why everyone says I look just like my father. 

    He is loud, boisterous, vulgar, charming.  He tells crude jokes at my expense, then claps me on the back and laughs loudly.  We argue about politics, we argue about the different ways we each remember certain events. 

    He tells AP a story about when I was a child and our dog woke him up by biting his wrist, dragging him into the hallway, where he found me laying on the ground turning blue, choking.  His voice cracks and his eyes turn red. 

    He is my father and I wish he didn't live so far away.

November 9, 2008

1100 Hours

Hoover Dam

    Although this is my fifth time in Las Vegas, I've never really ventured much outside the city.  This is also the first time I've ever had a rental car to use.  AP's father is a master welder, she grew up with an appreciation for the precise arts of metal work.  When she told me she wanted to see the Hoover Dam, I suddenly realized that we could spend the whole day travelling, seeing things I'd always wanted to, but had never thought I would.

    We set out for the Dam, which is only thirty minutes outside of the city, planning to drive from there into Arizona and see the West Rim of the Grand Canyon.  The canyon is only two and half hours away from the Dam, off of the same stretch of highway.   

    What could possibly go wrong?

    The Hoover Dam is a staggering feat of engineering.  It bespeaks of mankinds ability to use our wit and gumption to harness the forces of nature and use them to our benefit.  While you can take tours during the day and explore the inner-workings of the dam (for additional fees), I would suggest that you try and see it at night.  One thing about Nevada is that they love to light things up in the dark.  Las Vegas is the only city you can see from outer space, and there is good reason for it.  When God said "Let there be light!", this part of Nevada took him seriously.

    And so our journey began.  We left the Dam with three-quarters of a tank of gas, no water, and a general idea of where we were going.  The West Rim of the Grand Canyon does not have a street address to plug into your GPS.  And if it did, the thick cloud cover was preventing me from getting any phone signal to work it on. 

    No bother, I thought.  When we stopped for gas, we could always ask directions and make sure we were going the right way.

    That is, if there was anywhere to stop. 

    Approximately two hours later, driving at seventy miles an hour, we have passed exactly no gas stations.  There are no stores.  There are no people.  We haven't seen a traffic light.  There has only been miles and miles of endless Arizona desert.  Our gas is getting low.  I am starting to wonder what people do in an emergency out here.

    Apparently, I live in a much more populated area than I thought.  The multiple towns making up the infrastructure of the counties surrounding Philadelphia aren't small at all.  They are glorious, never ending sprawling networks of places you can get gas, water, food, directions, a newspaper, or even a landmark to tell someone where to come get you.

    US 93, connecting Nevada to Arizona has none of that.  There is simply, nothing. Not even wildlife.  I saw two birds, and two dead coyote carcasses on the side of the roads.  It suddenly dawned on me just how daunting a task it was for the pioneers who braved to settle the West.  I have no idea how they survived. 

    Gas was beginning to get low.  I joked to AP that I'd heard something about being able to get water from a cactus tree.  For a city-oriented person like me, it was hard to conceive that it was about to be a real possibility that someone could break down in the middle of nowhere, with no one to call for help. 

1630 Hours (Nevada Time)

1730 Hours (Arizona Time)

Grand Canyon West Rim

We finally found gas. 

The Meadview Arizona Business District is located about 15 miles from the Diamond Bar Road entrance to the Hualapai Indian Reservation, who control the West Rim.  There are signs for gas, food and lodging on the highway sign.  

They aren't exactly lying, I suppose. 

The Business District itself consisted of a church, multiple trailers, and one local store, with two analog gas pumps in front of it.  The attendant who came out of the store to see that I was operating the pump correctly had a gun on his hip.  His hair was cut unevenly.  A cowboy, complete with hat, bandana, and sunglasses, cruised past us on a four-wheeler.  The attendent smiled.  I paid the gas and got me and AP the hell out of there.   

Diamond Bar Road is also somewhat misleading, in that you would expect them to actually have a road.  What they have is dirt.  Twenty miles of bumpy, ridged dirt that shakes and vibrates the car as you carefully navigate winding turns around enormous mountains.  There are multiple parts of this area designated as open range.  Twice, AP and I drove past several bulls sitting on the side of the road, staring at us in mild-annoyance.  I became decidedly grateful we didn't have a red car. 

Upon finally arriving at the West Ridge entrance (paying a $20 parking fee, and then $30 per person for the cheapest package), we learned that Arizona is an hour ahead of Nevada this time of year.  Darkness was already setting in on the horizon. 

There are two points to view the Grand Canyon from.  A tour bus picks up passengers at the gift shop and drives them first to Eagle Point, named for a rock formation that looks like the back of an eagle spreading its wings.  Eagle Point has the skywalk, a large glass bridge that you can walk out over the canyon on (for an additional $25 per person.).  

We skipped the skywalk and went ahead to Guano Point.  

The bus driver told us that the last bus left at 1800, and we had to be on it.  As I stepped off the bus onto the canyon, the sky was quickly growing dark.  But not from nightfall.  Thick, black storm clouds were forming over the far end of the canyon.  There are no rails along the ridge of the drop.  One false step and you will quickly learn whether or not a person passes out while falling to their death.  

AP and I quickly tried to take some pictures, but it was impossible to tell if they would come out.  Suddenly, lightning flashed behind us.  For a moment, we stood there, looking out over the canyon as darkness descended, and the sky lit up like furious thunderbolts thrown by the gods.  

I climbed onto the highest rock at the highest peak of Guano Point.  Winds swirled around me, whispering in my ears about the majesty of the canyon; the ancestors of the Hualipai who secured this land for their descendants; the settlers who first saw it as they passed through the desert.  What I have seen is as the men before me saw it.  What I have seen is what those that follow will as well.  The Enemy will come and go, but this place is forever.  

November 10, 2008

0230 Hours

South Point Casino

It is late.  I have decided to spend my last night in Las Vegas playing blackjack.  I've been typically lucky in small doses for the little that I have played.  Normally, it is because I play with great discipline.  When I am winning, I quit.  I am very committed to not losing more than a certain amount, especially when it is profit. 

Tonight, I am one with The Force. 

Eight times I have pointed to the shoe of cards and told the dealer what card to give me.  Eight times, I have been successful.  As the evening progresses I begin calling what the dealer's hole card is.  My chips begin to grow.  As the stacks of red $5 chips become unwieldy, I cash them in for green $25 ones.  As my pockets get swollen, I begin cashing them in for black $100 ones.  Each time I think I am done, I am able to double-down and beat the dealer, giving me more red chips to stack, play with, and turn into larger ones.  

Finally, I have $400 in my pocket, and decide that the last few green chips are gone, I am finished.  I stick to this, ending my last night in vegas winning back most of the money that I spent during my trip.  That, my friends, is how you do it in this city. 

1230 Hours

Henderson, NV

It is time to say goodbye.  My father and uncles decide to have a last minute round of teasing me about Obama.  I become a little irritated by a few of the comments, then even more irritated by my father's insistence that I "Calm down" and "Chill out."  There is nothing worse than trying to calm down while someone is insisting you calm down.  

Finally, an idea occurs to me that brings me great joy.  I feel quite calm indeed. 

I excused myself for a second to use the bathroom, which happens to be next to the computer workstation.  My father's limited computer abilities are well-known to me by his regular phone calls to me asking me how to defrag his computer, remove his temporary files, or update software.  It is like trying to explain to a blind person how to disarm a bomb.  

I return to the table, smiling, and tell everyone goodbye.  "Why are you so happy?" my dad asks.  

"I left you something to remember me by," I tell him. 

He looks puzzled, but hugs me affectionately and tells me to tell the kids he loves them, and he hopes to see them over the summer.  

As we leave, he sees the bright shining smile of President-Elect Barack Obama desktop wallpaper sitting proudly on his computer screen.  His loud curses rang in my ears as he hollered at me to change it, while AP and I left in a hurry.  

Winning, in Vegas, is everything.