The secret morgue

At about the same time last month that reports began to surface of a killer fungus wiping out tornado victims in Joplin, Missouri, CNN reporter Gary Tuchman was stopped by police on a public road while trying to find the “secret morgue” where it was said these victims’ bodies were being stored. Tuchman and his crew were told to go away and not come back.

One blog comment I read speculated (I think jokingly) that reporters were being warned away from the morgue because the elite had not yet finished feasting on the bodies there.

Ba-da-ching! We’ll be here all week, folks.

Another commenter pointed out to those decrying police state violations of the constitution that there is no democracy and we have no rights, so get over it.

In his novel Lila, Robert Pirsig places the individual one link below society in the food chain. Society, Pirsig says, is a living, breathing organism, equipped with a nervous system, an immune system and so on. Police are agents of the immune system and, in that sense, it seems to me that our society contracted one hell of an auto-immune disease on or about 9-11. Healthy tissue is being devoured.

Sure, the fungus might be some Monsanto gene splicing program run amok. Or it might be the result of unsanitary living conditions. Nothing new in either case. But a secret morgue? And police preventing the press from entry to said morgue?
Oh, Canada.

A reader named Bob used the feedback form today to comment on my 06/11 post about old girlfriends:  “I enjoyed your essay on contact with old girlfriends.  Some time back I intercepted a letter addressed to my wife from the most serious girlfriend I didn’t marry.  I hid it like I once hid my cherished copy of Playboy (Sep. 1966), until I summoned the nerve to open it in private.  The excitement and dread I felt when I pulled it from the mailbox was instantly deflated.  It was some sort of lottery ticket chain letter, not the confession of undying love, or a secret love child, I had imagined.  I’m fifty one and I find that when I reminisce it’s not about missed business opportunities or investments, but missed chances to make out or fornicate.  I’m elated to know I am not the only one.”

Well, Bob, you put it a little crudely there at the end, but no, you’re not alone. (And after googling the September 1966 issue of Playboy, I must say also that you have excellent taste.)