Left coast and midwest cousins

The blood letting generated through emails the last few days by the Steeples clan and in-laws would fill volumes on the Character of Man.  While I have no interest in dragging fellow in-law Carol into the current morass, she is noted for her quotation, years back, that the in-laws are the glue that holds the Steeples clan together.  Even a princess like Carol may not be on the mark all the time, since the Prince of Darkness arose from among the in-laws.

Bob here, the Prince of Darkness, who some might assert has stepped in it (A mid-western expression that you folks on the left coast may not fully appreciate).  My casual use of the term madam was at least descriptive of an entrepreneurial position which has received considerable press of late, and little useful definition.  In the wild-west (ie: left coast), brothels, in a female starved culture, were in great demand, compared with the more conservative mid-western culture, where there were no brothels between Kansas City and Denver.

In Kansas, as Dorothy and everybody knows, we were all law abiding, God-fearing, gun toting, sod-busters, who were wedded to the land and one good woman at a time.  Given this historic background, it follows that I might not recognize a brothel if I saw one.  As the baby in the family, and one of the youngest cousins in my own clan, I was middle aged before I discovered that I was protected, for my own good, from acknowledging these more adult carryings-on.  Like Dorothy, I discovered that when in Seattle we are not in Kansas any more, but had arrived in the Land of Oz.

Given the volume of fascinating reading, and the world-wide mailing it has reached, cousin Lois and I received a call from our New Jersey son-in-law.  He was laughing his a _ _ off after reading several days of salacious barbs among his wife’s distant cousins.  As my daughter had married an offspring of pure blooded Sicilian immigrants, he wanted to know if I had mischaracterized any of his ancestors back four or five generations.  Knowing that the Italian-American Club in my area is alive and well armed, I assured him that, for my money, all his blood relatives, in-laws, friends, and associates were pure as the driven snow for as many generations back as might require redemption.  While I am a little suspicious that this is not the case, it certainly makes sense, given the circumstances, to join the deniers.

I figure that if the Steeples clan and the Italian Mafia were to join forces, the Prince of Darkness would be counting the days.  That union could provide worse consequences than sketching a likeness of Mohammed.  Knowing that my daughter has been brain washed into believing that the Italians are the good guys, I pray that my Italian son-in-law is convinced that I have not out-ed any of his kin.  Such Italian families have tentacles, like malicious e-mails, that reach around the world.

Knowing that fellow Kansas City in-law, Rick, is salivating like Pavlov’s Dog while awaiting the next e-mail, I am somewhat reluctant to draw upon any wisdom of the ages, particularly any gems with an odor of religion.  As I cast the first stone (a reference Rick will immediately appreciate), I must admit that I am well within seven generations of my most sinful elders, and can attribute my own grievous sins to my ancestral fathers’ transgressions.

With this cleansing, I will nevertheless volunteer that select, known ancestors, with high level responsibility to minister to Baptists, were entirely unable to keep their flocks in check (Rick: they sinned).  One minister’s wife, I learned in old age, allegedly had a relationship with the choir director.  The upshot of this church scandal was a sudden vacancy in the ministry (get out of Dodge), and a cousin with an unknown lineage.  I reluctantly admit that this particular cousin is one of the more delightful and entertaining of all the cousins in the clan.  Somehow she was able to overcome her questionable pedigree.  The Steeples clan, unlike my own, may well be beyond reproach for the past seven generations.

I must confess to a certain sense of satisfaction with the morass I have created, with some assistance from the evil cousin Lois.  The Steeples cousins now include a very large contingent of old folks, suffering from disease and infirmity, and who seem to have diminished interest in life energy (Rick: Eros Religion).  The vigorous responses generated assures me that the cousins are alive and well, and that when prodded by a barb or two, return to full consciousness.  The deeper breathing and emotional stimulus may well extend their longevity, encourage them all to take their pills as prescribed, and await with renewed vigor the next epistle from among the Steeples cousins and their in-laws, for better or worse.

And for better or worse, the data and information generated is sufficient to produce a fascinating novel entitled the Blackstone Hotel.  My characterizations of madam, and hotel owner, are by all accounts at least 50% accurate.  Hotel ownership is confirmed, as shown on the old calling card displayed below.  The other 50% would require detailed and careful definition of the broad array of services which may be provided by any madam worth her salt.


            Rather than to reject out of hand the honorable occupation of a madam, as the left coast cousins have done, and contrary to prevailing presumptions about most mid-westerners, I would suggest that the positive contributions and social niceties of a madam may well enhance and secure the lives and well-being of her charges.  The discrete performance of such duties should be raised proudly as a testament to any individual with the prerequisite finesse and cunning.  To succeed in this set of broadly defined managerial duties, without public notice, is a commendable accomplishment.  To at least a few, this pinnacle of achievement is vastly superior to, … say working as a clerk at Walmart.  Only the most delightful of grandmothers would be suitably capable and equipped by character to fulfill the demands of such a noble calling.

Unlike the left coast kin-folks, and as one who has worked with both pimps and hookers, I might not be so quick to reject the use of madam-like talents.   While some may reject the role of a madam as a tawdry enterprise, both cousin Lois and my own encounters with the accused lead us to commend and support all the delightful qualities asserted by the left coast cousins, whose great grand mother was undoubtedly an inspiration to all her descendents.  She protected her offspring well beyond the grave.

At the same time, intimate acquaintances may be reluctant to reveal all the wrinkles and warts in their past.  Cousin Lois, in spite of her evil appearance to some, is also engaged in a cover-up, much like the west coast cousins, to protect the reputation of her kin-folk.  What she has shared in private, the Prince of Darkness will not reveal in public, to protect their good names.  It seems that we are all living in the Land of Oz, and the absolute truth, (which only Kansas City Rick adequately recognizes and deals in), may never be known, and possibly should not be known.

To join forces with the left coast cousins, I would suggest that one capable, thoughtful, sensitive, alert, fully human, and fun-loving madam in a well located and professionally operated brothel might accomplish more good for society in her lifetime than all the psychotherapists in a city the size of  — – – – – – Kansas City.

In the final analysis, I know that any proper madam maintains a master list of all the Johns who ever visited her establishment.  The public display of names on her list may well be as fatal to ones well being as offending the Sicilian mafia.  For my own interest, and that of my father, who lived in Seattle for decades, has anyone found the book?

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