Sunday, December 31, 2006

Oh, Woe Is Me!


Apparently, you are reading the ramblings of a vicious, unprincipled, politically ill-informed Socialist dupe. According to the talking heads on Fox News, I am personally responsible for all of our losses in Iraq, both human and fiscal. By some ideology that remains a little foggy in my mind (probably due to my low IQ and myopia), my lack of support for this president directly translates to military and political failure in the Middle East.

What can I say? Send me the bill. Oh, wait… you already did. Sorry, my bad.

So take my advice and stay away from here. Run while there’s still time. I’m a pox on this society and if I had any class whatsoever, I’d just go ahead and stick the barrel of the good ol’ Ruger Firehawk in the back of my throat and yank. I’ve already run Rummy out of office, along with DeLay, Foley and several other fine, upstanding, right-leaning pedoph—er, I mean congressmen. If I’d just had the good sense to go along with the winks and nudges of the majority of Real Americans, our troops would have adequate body armor and weapons to go door-to-door in Baghdad safely, rooting out all the Al Queda cells and more than likely, finally apprehending Osama Bin Laden.

Then, Halliburton and Daddy Dick could nationalize all the Iraqi oil and bring gas prices down a penny or two.

But, no… I had to insist that we bring our kids home. I supported and voted for a bunch of wild-eyed liberals and women who don’t have the balls to do what has to be done in order for the blessings of liberty to ring in the ears of every freedom-loving patriot in the world! Now, the wrong side is writing the checks, and they’re a bit more reluctant to blow up the desert and actually think that we could maybe spend some of those billions on our own people and bring some of our troops home, blasphemous bastards that they are.

So, as of the first of the year, I will no longer receive Channel 16, it is being permanently blocked to any registered Democrat. We simply can’t be trusted to hear the truth. I'd write back, but I simply don't have the heart to tell them that I destroyed the number 6 on my remote so that tuning to their channel was highly unlikely. "You want the truth? You can't HANDLE the truth!!"

Oh, and Happy New Year to the Bush twins... here's hoping they're sober enough to watch their father's impeachment hearings.

Saturday, December 30, 2006

Yet Another Hill In The Ha-Ha Landfill


Well, we’ve almost shot another year in the ass and lived to tell about it. Mankind’s ultimate demise continues to be no more than a reckless theory promoted by third world countries and other non-capitalists around the globe. Once again, although we teeter on the brink of chaos (according to ‘them’), America’s Wal-Marts still have the lights on twenty-four/seven, and a sub-culture of postindustrial Moorlocks inhabit them during those hours where they can remain unseen by anyone who doesn’t frequent monster truck rallies and stop in afterwards for a bottle of Pepto-Bismol.

As I stood in the checkout line at the pharmacy late last night to purchase a certain feminine pain reliever required by a seriously homicidal spouse, I was confronted by Ardeen, who simply couldn’t live without telling me that he lost his spleen to an industrial accident fourteen years ago and that he hadn’t been able to work ever since, and that rats absolutely hate the smell of moth balls.

Yea, I was a little taken aback, too, that a conversation of only two sentences (both of them his) could cover such a diversity in subject matter, but there it was. Before I could step into another line, his wife, Clindoris, stepped between us and informed me that ‘they’ now made Shake-N-Bake for squirrel. I was fascinated that apparently some fathers felt comfortable naming their daughters words they’d picked up from posters at the county OB-GYN clinic and subsequently mispronounced. In fact, I wanted to ask her which end of a possum was considered ‘pork’ and what other rodents now had their own seasoning products, just in case I found myself suddenly homeless or in the throes of a national ebola virus pandemic.

After she’d taken a moment to size me up, she asked me if I were ‘from these here parts’. Not wishing to sound impolite, I told her that I was from Nigeria. This brought the conversation to a close, for all intents and purposes, although she did look back over her shoulder after a momentary pause and ask me why I wasn’t black.

Yea, it looks like we’re going to make it to ring in the New Year, warts and all. So enjoy yourself while you can—and if you value your sanity, avoid Wal-Mart like the plague.

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

You Have The Right To Shut The Hell Up...


There's nothing like a family get-together to conjure up notions of yesteryear. For reasons I'm still trying to understand, I agreed to allow all my extended family to come to our Christmas celebration this year. My wife invited cousins, second-cousins, step-second cousins and not a few interested peripherals with bad table manners and a real zest for alcohol.

Of course, this offered the perfect opportunity to reflect upon some of the more intricate interpersonal skills required by all to keep total chaos at bay. Sadly, these talents tended to hide behind bravado produced by Uncle Tony's revelation that Bob really does have a secret stash hidden in the shed outside, and if he'd be good enough to bring it in (without Uncle Tony's help, of course), Uncle Tony just might be willing to forget all about the lawsuit he intends to file after scraping all the hide off his left arm, incurred while sticking said arm through the hole he'd just bashed into the side of my shed because he could 'smell the hooch'.

I took the day off work today so I could be there when the city trash crew came to pick up my Barca-Lounger. It was only two years old, but forty-eight hours of Uncle Tony left twin craters in the seat where his ass had been perched and an odor untouchable by generous applications of 409, Lysol and several different brands of industrial-strength products capable of ridding a funeral home of the aroma of death. In his permanent perch, Uncle Tony adopted a pose not unlike that of some Himalayan mystic where he saw fit to grace us with witticisms and advice previously unexpressed outside a barroom on Chicago's south side. It turns out that one is wise not to "fuck with pipefitters". Who knew?

Plus, as you can see from the photo, even in the last week of December in north-central Missouri, certain people are capable of retaining the tan lines previously known only to farmers and over-the-road truck drivers. We only know because he saw fit to rid himself of his beer-soaked "Pipefitters Lay Deep Pipe" T-shirt after a bastardized and unsuccessful attempt to goad some of the younger ladies into participating in a wet T-shirt contest. It was about this time that his semi-lucid recantations of doggerel morphed into a Jack Daniels-induced rage threatening to inflict heavy casualities upon the family's pet population.

Fortunately for us, the officers responding to my wife's frantic, screaming 911 call were willing to listen to him explain the intricacies of proper sod-laying or we might still be attempting to talk him back down to earth.

Yea, it'll be a shame not to have them all over again next year, but if my wife has recovered enough by then, we may go visit someone else... Uncle Tony, for example. Revenge is a dish best served cold.

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Snicker, Snicker... Snork!





No matter who you are or what you do, there are times when you just need to let it go. Forget society, forget family, forget all the lessons your mother taught you about being polite... just for one shining moment, simply release all your frustrations, inhibitions and fears unto an unsuspecting world. Be a pain in the ass to total strangers, provide the impetus for someone to look down their nose at you, create a spectacle that others can point at and laugh.

You won't get any awards for it, there'll be no medals for heroism and there's a good chance that you'll receive some unwanted attention from the legal community, but for a few hours you'll experience the incomparable bliss that few other human experiences can rival.

During one of his weekly excursions into the world that only drunks and drug addicts can ever know, my father pointed out to me that there are more old drunks than there are old doctors.

He lived to celebrate his 82nd birthday.

Friday, December 15, 2006

Just give it some thought, that's all I'm asking


I’m officially boycotting the game Rock-Paper-Scissors, for reasons that should be obvious to every thinking person. Literally, for the past fifty years (with a forty year pause for adulthood) I have played the game with friends, and thoroughly enjoyed both the temporary ego stroke gained from out-thinking and out-guessing one’s friends and the opportunity to slug the defeated opponent on the shoulder a pre-determined number of times. I even enjoyed the fights that often ensued after the opponent slugged me back, only on the mouth instead of the arm.

However, a closer examination of the game and its rules has brought to light a subtle although very important point—one of the basic assumptions made when playing the game is totally ludicrous. Everyone knows that Rock Breaks Scissors and Scissors Cut Paper; these assumptions are valid to the most discriminating observer. It is the third member of the triad that gives me pause: Paper Wraps Rock.

When Rock Breaks Scissors the poor scissors is severely injured and when Scissors Cut Paper the unfortunate paper is forever altered and possibly misshapen, but Paper Wraps Rock? What horrible fate befalls the ill-fated Rock? Being “wrapped”? Oh, boo hoo…

Do you see my point? You can’t simply wrap a rock and claim victory! There is no penalty for the rock or any physical discomfort whatsoever, unless you assume (and I think it’s a pretty far-fetched assumption) that the rock suffers from claustrophobia.

So, unless you’re a psychology graduate student studying the neuroses of inanimate objects and their contributions to pre-adolescent behavior, I might suggest that you join me in boycotting Rock-Paper-Scissors before someone decides to make it an Olympic event. If you don't, I can't be held responsible for the decline and fall of our civilization. It's up to you...

Sunday, December 10, 2006

Forbidden Love and The Intellectual Ceratopsian


I can’t remember exactly what stimulus dictated that I pursue her, I only recall being unable to resist. So majestic her bearing and military her posture, I might have mistaken her for someone else entirely since her kind are not known for such grandeur. When she raised her head, her frill projecting an allure certainly irresistible to guys on the make, she became the princess of her realm searching for her prince. As the excess cycads dropped at her feet, the look on her face might lead a disinterested observer to believe that her encephalization quotient was much higher than 1.0.

But, it could never work out for us. I am but a lowly triceratops and she a magnificent protoceratops. Maybe someday, in a time of greater enlightenment, inter-species marriage will be tolerated, but not now. I think they’re afraid that our kids would be goofy. I love you, horn face, with a love that could quite possibly outlast the Cretaceous Era or perhaps even part of the Jurassic with any luck at all, one can never be completely sure about such things.

Saturday, December 09, 2006

If Anyone Can, Genghis Khan




“Look out where the huskies go, and don’t you eat no yellow snow.” Frank Zappa

And as quickly as they came, they’re gone— dispatched. Bound for more exotic climes, no doubt, more ornate refuges, my words have deserted me. I assume they've gone somewhere they can now frolic without fear, cavort without hesitation and stick their heads into every foxhole they find. I believe—at least I hope—they’ve found a nice young writer who’ll give them a good home and nurture them in a manner respectful of their heritage, perhaps a playwright or even a poet. Forgive me, but I hope they won’t take up residence with a technical writer—the arid surroundings might threaten their delicate nature.

I don’t know why they left. I did my best, within my limited means, to offer them hope of opportunity. Perhaps they realize the futility of a future entrusted to me, and they’ve chosen to return my ring before consummating a marriage built on too little real substance. I shudder to think that I am little more than a one-night stand, but given their reluctance to come around these days, what else am I to think? Slam, bam, thank you ma’am?

I don’t blame them; I blame myself. They needed structure and I gave them parties. They expected a certain dignity of expression and I insisted upon flippant dreck. They longed for Ernest Hemingway and I settled for Monty Python.

Wherever they’ve gone, I wish them well. I must admit, it’ll hurt to listen to them being mutilated by local newscasters and politicians, but they made the choice, not I. If this sort of ignominy suits them, then so be it.

Maybe we’re just too different.

Thursday, December 07, 2006

A Christmas Quarrel


“Alms for the poor! Alms for the poor…” A fingertip poked out of his threadbare green glove as his pronated palm violated my personal space. I stopped, wondering if the other hand held a pistol or club inside the pocket of his filthy trench coat. His face, however, glowed in the half-scowl, half-grin that homeless men characterize when begging.

“Alms for the poor? Who the hell do I look like, Charles Dickens? We’re in Denver, dude, not London, and I hate to be the one to break it to you, but this damn sure isn’t the Eighteenth Century. I’m sorry, but if you expect me to give you some money, you’re going to have to be a little more original than that.”

The look on his face surprised me. I’d had many confrontations with beggars on my way to my office on 16th and Welton, but when first rebuffed, most would offer up a new ‘shtick’; something unique and usually accompanied by a streetwise mea culpa grin. Not this guy, he merely turned and started to walk away. This amazed me and left me feeling a little cheated. During the last ten years, I’d come to expect a little more from my morning walk to work.

“That’s right…” I taunted, “Walk away like the pussy you are. No wonder you couldn’t make it in the straight world. You give beggars a bad name! You’ll never be King of Wel—”

The force of his head hitting me in the solar plexus knocked me down and took my breath away. As I lay writhing on the sidewalk trying to remember how to breathe, he bent over me and I felt his fingers extracting my wallet from my pants pocket.

With his head very close to mine, he showed me a twenty-dollar bill and said, “I’m only taking this one, and you can be sure that while you’re up in your cozy little cubicle coming up with new ways to legally rob people, I’m doing it the old-fashioned way. Just remember that we’re the same, you and me, you just can’t admit it.” Standing up straight, he threw my wallet back down on my chest and smiled. “Here, Mr. Scrooge…” he added, a proper British accent now flowing from somewhere deep within, “I’m off for a spot o’ tea and a proper scone, I am. It wouldn’t hurt you to appreciate the Classics a bit, now would it? Give my regards to the Missus.” And he disappeared.

I suppose there’s a little Dickens in all of us, especially around Christmas time.



Bob Church©12/6/06

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

A few poems


I write very little poetry these days... here's why:


Extemporaneata

A warmth inside
yearning to be free
tingling at the precipice
there for you and me.

Come out and play, she called to me,
before the sun goes down
To pass on this would be a waste
of passion's sweet renown.

But, care you not, she asked of me
that I am spoken for?
I have come to set you free
together we could soar.



Appelations of Winter Fruit

“Will you do me a favor?” she asked,
lyrics sung above the din,
less clarion calls than soft, burrowing nuances
sent to touch that hidden spot,
that erstwhile need only she recognizes.

“Write me a poem…” she whispered,
more request than demand,
springing from desire, expectant… yes,
but worthy of so much more than I could
ever offer with my pale, lifeless tones.

“…doesn’t have to be flowery”, she added,
as though in afterthought,
already preparing the bins for a bleak harvest;
sallow sprouts of not-quite-verdant yield,
sporting buds of ill-formed tufts.

So I offered the only crop that I can grow,
in fields past their prime,
hoping that dry flavor of winter wheat
can somehow blunt

the bitter taste of disappointment.


Ambivalence

Castoff regrets, transitory sorrows… sugar-dipped troubles
Spread thinly across sallow lips of doubt,
Kissed… tempted by prodding, moist tongues of worry,
Yet yielding only to the stout staff of despair…


Twinges of Thought In Reckless Abandon

I become caught up in laminar flow,
That easy place to find when the world sails by;
Sweet, dangling sweetmeats of forbidden fruit—
Enticing, delectable, sometimes I almost think I can touch them.
Alas, it is not to be— not for me.

I float along in my own private oblivion,
Refusing to worry about the train wreck approaching;
Brown, sensible shoes of birthdays past—
Tight, dependable, sometimes I forget they’re tied together.
Sometimes I forget to tie them at all.

I gently go where I’m not allowed,
Trying not to touch the edges, coloring inside the lines;
Hall passes aplenty from a pad I stole—
Alone, available... quickly they line my pocket.
Now who’s the boss, asshole? Stop me if you can.

I get used to it too quickly it seems,
Forgetting to remember to think about thoughts;
Obituaries sent in letters from home—
Stark and putrid they line my footlocker.
Madness here, sadness there... sleep well, Uncle George.

I can no longer find any laminar flow,
No promise of ease, damn sure no freedom from pain;
Weekends are vortexed in pathways obscured—
Phlegmatic, arthritic, I stumble and balk.

Alas, it is to be—at least, for me.

Monday, December 04, 2006

Secrets of Life According to Patsy



Times come and go (as times are wont to do) and not so long ago, after an extravagant disbursement spent in the quest of insobriety and dalliance, there I sat—once again perched precariously upon the outer branches of yet another unfulfilling escapade; not drunk enough to pass out and blissfully forget my problems, but too messed up to look forward to being happy. Plus, I remembered that morning would bring another ripping hangover. All my friends had run out of money or patience and gone home to mama, the barroom lights had come up and Lester was sweeping the muck and swill off the floors; even two-toothed Marsha, having decided that Mr. Right wasn’t going to show up again tonight, called her husband to come pick her up.

Yet, there I sat. Actually, ‘sprawled’ would more correctly describe my posture. Both legs straddled the booth seat across from me and I half-sat, half-reclined with my back against the wall, one arm rested across the top of the booth and the other twirled the glass with three sips of honey-colored grog remaining in the bottom. The brew’s characteristic carbon dioxide bubbles had long since stopped rising and it was roughly room temperature, making it nearly inconsumable… emphasis being placed on ‘nearly’. Silently, I pondered whether or not to drink it. I didn’t want it, I knew it’d taste like crap, but I’d paid for it and therefore assumed an obligation to Saint Brigid, the Irish patron of beer. To drink or not to drink… that is the indigestion. Lifting my glass in resignation, I tossed my head back and poured the beer/backwash mixture down my throat, simultaneously casting caution to the wind and willing my gag reflex to subside. I don’t know what battery acid tastes like, but I’m sure it’d resemble the liquid now rushing towards my stomach, stopping only long enough upon my palate to bring my taste buds into full revolt.

Why can’t I forget you and start my dreams anew, instead of having sweet dreams of y— Lester unplugged the jukebox and Patsy Cline became a lingering memory. On one level I knew he had to close up, but on another, far closer level, I wanted to hit him with a tire iron. Why couldn’t he allow her to finish? It’s not like he has a life… he lives in a camper behind the bar, for Christ’s sake! If I were governor, I’d enact legislation that would make it a Class Two felony to cause any Patsy Cline song to be halted before its intended conclusion. For that matter, why not have her song Crazy become the official Missouri State Song?

“Well, thank you, Lester! I guess the thirty-four seconds it would take to let the song finish was just more than you could take, huh, buddy? You wouldn’t want to be late to the 2:16 pop-up camper Porn Whack-a-Thon, would you?”

“Fuck you, punk! Get out… now!” He growled, the broom held menacingly as though it was a Louisville Slugger and he might do his best Barry Bonds imitation upon my head. Lester snarled at me, brandishing his best wino-turned-bartender-because-it’s-cheaper-for-the-owner-to-make-him-work-off-his-bar tab-than-it-is-to-kick-him-out-for-the-next-thirty-days scowl and exercising the only form of authority he’d possessed in the last ten years.

“Jesus, easy on the vitriol, Lester, you know that if you smack me I’m going to get up and flush you head-first down the shitter, so why do you stress yourself out like that? Lighten up, dude, you’ll live longer.”

Lester didn’t have any teeth, but his jaws clenched unconsciously, chewing some non-existent piece of meat, as he confronted me. As quickly as it came, his raged subsided, for reasons unapparent. I doubt he really thought he was about to suffer a throne-dunking—my threats, more often than not, were just that, empty threats— and he once again resumed his duty, that of mucking the stalls. Stretching my arms and neck in preparation for my own departure, I watched him disappear into the kitchen.



“Good choice, Les…” I muttered, my voice only slightly above a whisper. “I’m sure your mama is very proud.”

“You really should be nicer to him, you know.”

The voice startled me, but I recognized the Southern twang, I’d heard it before. Looking up, I noticed across from me sat a smiling dark-haired beauty with the reddest lips I’d ever seen. Her short, soft-curled hairstyle screamed ’60s and two large ruby buttons covered the majority of her earlobes. I tried to re-focus, but her eyes held me hostage; deep-set and dark, they glimmered beneath extravagant painted-on eyebrows, the glamour signature of a by-gone era. This was no ordinary woman. Every detail of her appearance declared her theatrical demeanor and elegance. I’d seen her before but couldn’t put a name to the face.

“Who are you?” I stammered. Pure genius. Never in the history of mankind has anyone uttered anything even remotely so suave, appealing and erudite. Not only does liquor make me more intelligent, it also, on command, immediately renders me charming and glib.

“Well, Sugar, I’m whoever you want me to be.” Now, she batted her eyes alluringly and smiled, showing just a hint of teeth. “Do you like me?”

“Like you? Hell, yes, I like you. You’re… different, I guess.” Again, my inner genius presented itself.

My inane comment didn’t seem to upset her. A shrug of her shoulders transformed her into a blushing 5-year-old, a nervous giggler responding to a request from an admiring stranger.

“I’m glad. Could we go somewhere else? You spend an awful lot of time here.” A fingertip sensuously played with a lock of hair as her beguiling eyes implored me.

The hypnotic upshot of her words, rather than bringing me to action, seemed to have the opposite effect. My legs seemed mired in clay and I couldn’t have moved if I tried.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like Patsy Cline? Er, while she was still alive, I mean… no offense meant.”

“No offense taken. What a sweet thing to say… the part about looking like Patsy Cline, I mean. I dress—or undress for that matter—just for you.”

To say I was taken aback by that comment would contain no more understatement than the Pope being describe as a nice Catholic man. I readily admit to being simple— I am neither inventor nor philosopher; DaVinci, Shakespeare, Freud, Monet, Aristotle and even the Earl of Sandwich all rest snugly in their little earth beds, secure in the knowledge that I will never challenge their legacy in the human history of great thinkers. Befuddled as I became, I needed to press on. “You mean to say that if I asked you to drop your laundry, please forgive the vulgarity, right here, right now, you’d actually do it?”

“Of course I would. I’d do anything you asked of me.”

Not a moment’s hesitation. Suddenly I realized that Lester hadn’t paid any attention to her whatsoever, preferring instead to continue his glass-washing chores behind the bar. Lester never missed an opportunity to leer at a pretty girl. Something was definitely amiss.

“Well, don’t get me wrong, I’m happy that you’re here with me and I’m absolutely thrilled that you’re about to become my sex slave, but how did you get here? I didn’t see you walk in… and neither did Lester.”

“I came in when you did.”

“You came in when I did, huh?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’ve been here all night?”

“That’s right.”

“Right here… sitting in this booth. Right?”

“There can be no doubt about it. You’ve mastered the concept of my presence.” She folded her hands in front of her on the table, sitting up a bit straighter, the smile replaced with a non-committal expression, as well. Gone, also, was the sexy wench of my dreams. A stark transformation removed her lipstick, grayed her hair, added fifty pounds to her frame and my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Larrick, sat across the table from me. Reaching into the bag sitting on the seat beside her, she produced a theme paper and laid it on the table. In the scrawling cursive of an uncoordinated ten-year-old, I saw:

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bob Church
October 27, 1957


At least you handed it in this time. D+

The History of Spam

I think Spam is good. It tastes sorta like meat, but without bones and comes in a can. My mother says if I eat it and quit swearing, I can go outside and play ball with my friends.

People have been eating Spam for a long time, I think, but not for Thanksgiving. At least, not until Grandma goes home.

By Bob Church

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------



For one of the few times in a long and storied existence, words failed me. Momentarily, mysterious forces of time and space grappled inside my mind, inflicting punches to my ego and strategically placing satchel charges of plastic explosive upon my motor neurons, threatening to detonate them at the sound of the wrong word.

“Are you a ghost?”

No hesitation whatsoever preceded her answer. “Only if you are,” she pontificated, pissing me off mightily.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I bellowed. Then, realizing that I was shouting, I recoiled. Lester didn’t look up, apparently oblivious to my ravings at this point. A quick glance across the table surprised me once more, as the beauty had returned.

“Do you intend to keep doing this?” I whispered, “The ‘changing’, I mean… because if you do, we need to go somewhere else. Poor Lester’s heart may not be able to handle it.”

“Oh, I assure you, any changes that occur are a product of your actions, not mine.” Again, the smile re-emerged. “But, I wouldn’t worry too much about Lester, he can’t really see me. Here, I’ll show you.” Before I could react, she stood and lifted her sweater over her head with both arms, turning her body towards Lester and allowing her perky breasts to spring free from her brassiere.

“Yoo hoo… Lester! Look over here, big boy! It’s Patsy Cline, in the flesh, for your viewing pleasure!” Placing a hand underneath each breast, she rubbed them lasciviously, taking time to suggestively pinch the nipples and emit low-pitched moans and squeals. Still, Lester continued doing the dishes, oblivious to her presence.

As quickly as the performance started, it stopped. She sat back down in the seat, peered at me with an expression that I can only describe as piteous. “See? He can’t see me. It’s just you and me, pal.”

“Okay, but if you aren’t really Patsy Cline, and I know you aren’t because Patsy assumed room temperature over forty years ago, and if you aren’t a ghost, who—or what—are you? And why, of all the creatures on God’s green earth, did you choose me to show your tits to?”

Throwing her hands up in the air, exasperation as fresh on her face as drops of juice on the rind of a fresh-cut orange, she stood and shouted, “Wake up! You’re not fifteen anymore, for Christ’s sake! Do you think you can find anything even remotely close to your dreams sitting in this barroom? Would you really rather spend three o’clock in the morning in Lester’s company while he cleans puke off the walls than snuggling with some cute little woman who sees what a loser you are but is willing to sleep with you in spite of it?” Folding her arms in front of her, the age-old sign that a woman’s pissed and no longer willing to remain silent, she sidled out of the booth and stopped at the end of the table. Craning her neck towards me she paused and closed her eyes, as if suddenly recalling a painful experience.

“I’ve known you for a very long time,” she said. “You can be hopelessly dim, bewilderedly obtuse, and disgustingly contrary sometimes, but in spite of it all, when I least expect it, you surprise me with sweetness of which I didn’t think you capable. Just when I think you’re impossible, you unexpectedly wander into situations that expose your heart to unspeakable peril without once stopping to think of the consequences. I’m still not sure whether you’re hopeless romantic, itinerant dream salesman, two-night sideshow act or Albert Schweitzer. Honestly, sometimes I question whether you even know who Albert Schweitzer is, for that matter, but I digress.”

Placing the strap of her purse over her arm, she snapped it open and reached inside. After rummaging about a bit, she picked a set of keys from the bag and once again fixed her eyes upon mine. “In case you’re too drunk to figure out who I am by now, you may want to consider following me. When that door swings open and I walk out, if you aren’t close behind I can no longer be responsible for the consequences. Just remember, no life lasts forever.” With that, she pushed open the back door to the Red Dog Saloon and walked out.

I sat in place for a few seconds, watching the hydraulic closer hiss, keeping the door from slamming shut. Then, without thinking further, I bolted towards it, catching it just before it closed. In the darkness, the image of my Explorer sitting next to the back patio curb with the engine running startled me. Quickly, I walked to the passenger side door and opened it. There, seated behind the steering wheel, sat my roommate, Sue.

“Need a lift, sailor?” her soft, lilting voice asked. As I stepped in, I inadvertently looked into the back seat and saw Ms. Patsy Cline smiling back at me. As we pulled away, in the background I heard I fall to pieces, every time I hear your name and I understood. To this day, I don’t know whether or not the CD player was on.

Bob Church©12/4/06

Sunday, December 03, 2006

Alder, Pine and Leonard McAuliffe


My granny once told me that being common is no more a sin than being rich. In truth, it gave me a good many more brothers than rich folks possess, I suspect. No, I don’t regret it for an instant. I would have liked to experiment with some of that wealth, but no matter. I’ve got this sturdy old cabin, sufficient rations and a good bit of dry pine and alder stored. With any luck at all, I should last the winter if the snow doesn’t completely cover this shack and turn it into a coffin. I’ve built a safety hatch in the roof, just in case. If need be I can force it open, snow and all. Common folks learn to get by.

If unforeseen circumstances forced me to walk out, my mukluks and snowshoes would keep me more or less on top, especially if there was a chance for the snow to crust at all. Over the years, I’ve gotten pretty good at maneuvering in them. But where would I go, especially in the dead of winter? For a time I tried to get out and watch the sun rise, until it became more trouble than it’s worth. All the snow we’ve gotten lately, there probably ain’t been much sun, but that’s just a guess. It’s hard telling day from night in here since I put the boards over the windows. One hour is pretty much like another.

I’ve never been in prison, but I’ve done sixty days in this hole. If this isn’t solitary confinement, I damned sure can conceive of no other definition. The biggest difference between the convicts and me is that I chose this path; no one sentenced me to it… well, not in so many words, at least. At times when I get to feeling sorry for myself, I think everyone on earth had a hand in it, but I know better. Plus, the reasons don’t make a tinker’s damn worth of difference. I’m here, and here I’ll stay until spring or Providence-- whichever comes first.

The sound of the wind blowing reminds me of the sixty-cycle hum of the refrigeration system at the hospital. Twelve years of moving folks in and out of refrigerators tends to make a fella’ think of all sounds in terms of that place. Ten hours a day, the only noise I heard was rollers on the slabs, the metallic click of the vault doors and that damn hum. Pretty soon, my senses became as dead as the permafrost on the other side of those hinged hunks of stainless steel. The journey from there to here was short, if not particularly sweet.

A few days ago (weeks?) something walked across the roof. It was heavy and plodding, so I assume it was a bear, although I cannot tell you why any self-respecting bear would be out of his den in the dead of winter. I suppose there are common bears, too. Maybe Yogi was forced out, sentenced to wander the winter landscape in search of whatever fate provided. I think brother bear and I might have become good friends in another life.

On second thought, it was more likely a moose, or the abominable snowman. Everyone in the whole damn world has seen one except for me, and I live in the middle of Yeti Central. Hell, folks see the accursed creatures in Kansas and South Dakota, for God’s sakes, you’d think in eighteen years up here I’d see one! Is this irony or just plain ignorance? Maybe both, only time will tell.

How long does fuel oil last? McAuliffe left me two cans that he stole from those campers last summer. They were airlifted in by float plane and removed in a like manner, even if their trip was cut a bit shorter than anticipated. That damned guy would steal anything! No harm-- no foul, he figured; they’d survive for a few days without their fancy cook stoves. Of course, he stole their lantern, too, the very one I’m using to light the room right now. Thank you, Leonard McAuliffe.

Truly, I wish he’d survived. They spotted him running off into the woods. I told him they’d likely have high-powered rifles, but I couldn’t talk him out of making that second raid. I swear it was in the man’s blood! Truth told, I don’t know how he made it back to the cabin. When he burst through that door carrying those cans, he had a funny look on his face, almost a grin that seemed to say, Hey, lookie what I got! Then he collapsed on the floor, dead as a mackerel.

I dragged him outside and left him beside a big pine. I think he’d like that. It wasn’t the ideal solution, but it was better than one of those vaults. His funeral consisted of a bastardized rendition of the Our Father and what parts of the Hail Mary I could remember. Then, for a eulogy, I read the first few paragraphs of a story he liked in Field & Stream, about a hunter who mistook a mule for a cow elk. I’d have read more, but I was getting a little emotional. Plus, it was getting pretty dark and I don’t see as well as I used to. If he’s still there come spring, I plan to find a more suitable accommodation for him. It’s only fitting, after all he was a human being.

The light is going out. I’m either running out of fuel oil or going blind. Either way, this story is over. If you’re anything like me, you’re grateful there’s no preaching at the end.

Saturday, December 02, 2006

What's In A Name?


Prentiss Calder Biff-- The name held refined dignity. Certainly Prentiss' parents took great care in selection, given their abrupt surname. Biff didn't have the euphonic flow of McVicker, mother's maiden name.

The boy's father died in a freak accident during the harvest prior to Prentiss’ birth. A combine with stuck blades, it seems, shouldn’t be hammered with a crowbar by its inebriated driver.

After her husband's untimely demise, Freda McVicker Biff, by necessity, moved in with her inlaws. Her insistence on re-assuming her maiden name, along with her dogged resolve that the boy be called the formal 'Prentiss Calder' caused division within the family- there was a riff at the Biff's.

The controversy raged, until one day Prentiss Calder ran in from playing in the fields, covered head to toe in cockleburs and screaming in pain. The boy suffered mightily each time his mother extracted a bur from his blotchy red body.

After supper that evening (and several liters of elderberry wine), the boy's uncles decided that Prentiss Calder Biff was not a name for a lad who could withstand an attack of killer nettles. In a ceremony worthy of an apprentice knight, he was christened Sticker McVicker.

Cosmic kismet had spoken and the subject was not mentioned again. What goes around comes around-- a sense of humor is a lethal weapon.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

High Desert Sonata


“If you could just snap your fingers and make it happen, where would you like to be right now, Trib?” Louie “Panchito” Escovar took another long pull from the rapidly depleting bottle of Ripple Port and smacked his lips, savoring the rot-gut as though it were an exquisite vintage 1985 Chateau Lafitte Rothschild claret; which, of course, he wouldn’t know from a clarinet.

“Oh, hell, Louie, I don’t know…” John ‘Trib’ Banker replied, still staring at the stars, “probably on some tropical beach with my head parked between Sharon Stone’s legs, nuzzlin’ that cute little muff of hers and listenin’ to her beg me to let her ride the pork pony again—for the eighth or ninth time that night. Damn, I’ll bet she’s a maniac when she gets that motor runnin’.”

Reaching to his right, Trib grabbed the bottle from Louie, and drained it in one swallow. Belching loudly, he repositioned his pack under his head and crossed his legs. Their little section of the Sonora Desert southeast of Tucson offered clear skies, a crescent moon and the promise of a chilly night. “How about you? Would you like to be back in your Motherland drinking cactus juice, eatin’ chili and sneaking around the backroom of the local mancebía?”

Without any further hesitation, the small Chicano turned his head toward his much larger tormenter. “Sí, señor,” he began, faking an extreme Mexican accent, “sounds muy gránde… want me to see if I can convince your mama to come home with me for twenty pesos?”

Neither man spoke for a few seconds, staring straight up at the stars, as if time would magically swallow the insult if Trib ignored it. Then, feeling Louie’s eyes burrowing into his right temple, he extended his right index finger toward him, close enough that he could see it, but not so close that Louie might swat it away. Louie began to snicker, under his breath at first, then progressing into a full-bore horselaugh.

Then it was Trib’s turn to join in, filling the night air with the glorious sounds of two homeless men, each enjoying the satisfaction of being blessed with the other’s company.

Rolling on his side, facing away from Louie, Trib Banker pulled his jacket over him as a ward against the cold. “Fuck you, idiot… see if I let you have Sharon’s sloppy seconds.”

“That’s okay, puta…” Louie quipped, “as long as I got your mama, I’ll be okay.”

The men had neither beach nor cantina to warm them tonight, but with the richness of companionship they shared, they wanted for little.

Snot Haikus



Nose nuggets peek out
not yet quite ready to fall
get help from finger.

Not-quite-yellow stream
waits patient midst the pressure
soon to stain his shirt.

Mucus filled with germs
flies through air with swirling grace

and lands on her cheek.

Monday, November 27, 2006

Thy X Commandments for Everyday Life


by Geoffrey Chaucer

I. Thou shalt exalt in the presence of thy chosen handmaiden, and having done so, thou shalt not tarry, lest thou should be held bound by thy betrothed, rendering sundry welts upon thy countenance before seeking the counsel of barristers.

II. Thou shalt find pleasure in partaking of the fruit of the grape, and the malt and barley of the fields, and all libations which froth, even when chilled, except to the excess which doth arouse the ire of thy betrothed, lest thou shalt be grandly scorned and subjected to much misery.

III. Thou shalt be wary of the house of thy betrothed, not setting thyself in the presence of her glory during periods of cleaning, nor periods of unchosen words streaming from her lips, nor any periods which would put thee in path of flighted artifacts flung forthwith from her displeasure.

IV. Thou shalt take caution when gaining company of thy friends, thy acquaintances, and thy wagermonger, unless thy betrothed has not knowledge of thy activities.

V. Thou shalt not refer to thy betrothed, bespeaking condemnation of her cuisine, saying that her fare is not worthy of consumption by swine, lest thou shalt gain residence among their number.

VI. In the event that thy betrothed should look appealing to thee after a fortnight of revelry, thou shalt not break wind and force the bedsheets over her head, expecting her to share thy laughter.

VII. Thou shalt not remind thy betrothed that she is gaining voluptuous proportion, unless thy desire for the mysteries of the after-life beckons you, and then only if thou art prepared to suffer mightily before shuffling off this mortal coil.

VIII. Thou shalt, after encountering the wrath of thy spouse, accomplish all manner of penance necessary to maintain thy accustomed life position, at least while in her presence, groveling lowly and humiliatingly, beseeching her forgiveness and good graces.


IX. Should it come to pass that thy illicit nocturnal dalliances become aired before thy spouse, make thee not the mistake of returning home before the sun rises and sets twice; and then only to pick up thy clothing and golf clubs from the front lawn.

X. In the event that ye consider thyself of great courage and choose to ignore Numeral IX and return to thy abode while still possessing the aroma and lipstick smears of thy bawdygirl, cease all other ministrations of apology, calmly bend over and kiss thy ass goodbye.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Festooned Marg-- er... Serial Killers


In lieu of evidence to the contrary readily attainable, I have no other choice but to assume you are reasonably sane or at the very least, only marginally dangerous to yourself and others. Or at least, such is my assumption. So, if you are a serial killer, child molester, or any other form of social miscreant unfit for association with other humans, you are not welcome here. Please leave this site right now and I'll try to forget you were ever here. It would trouble me greatly to think that my little insignificant blog was inspirational to the likes of John Wayne Gacey, Theodore Bundy and/or Jeffery Dahmer.

When I think of those people (and I use the word loosely in deference to their parents and my desire not to insult non-human creatures by calling them animals), I wish we had the power to bring them back to life so that we could execute them again, and again, and again... We could sell tickets and give the money to the families of all those they whacked. I'd pay to see Jeff get the needle. I might even start a 'fan club' of sorts, an assemblage of other geeks and weird-o's who had the ticket stubs to prove that they'd witnessed every execution of Ted Bundy.

Now look what I've done. I'm totally off topic. Originally, I had intended to offer a discussion of my love for words, especially those that don't command common usage, such as festoon and margent, playing with them a little in my feeble attempt to educate.

Damn... I got nothin'. Sorry... my bad.

Saturday, November 25, 2006

Rock on...


I’m extremely disappointed, if not totally crushed. As I wandered through some of the more remote and cavernous recesses of my mind, in search for something of value (anything, really) to write about, a singular word presented itself again and again.

Chalcedony…

Chalcedony…

Chalcedony… Oh, how magnificent a luster it offered, as I envisioned it placed in lavish trial sentences, its beautiful melody gracing each offering. Certainly it must be of noble origin, an evocative predisposition perhaps, or a preeminent condition. Lacking the exact meaning, I felt free to experiment with structure.

The brazen queen, her voice resonating with chalcedony, commanded the messenger to his knees.

Chalcedonic shadows issued flawlessly amidst the grayness of protracted winter.

The warriors, drunk on power and insane with chalcedonous bloodlust, stormed the hill, vowing to take no prisoners.

Yea, one of those choices most certainly had to be the true meaning.

So, not wishing to perpetrate a persiflagate fraud, I decided to consult the dictionary. Immediately, regret streamed into my frontal lobes with the power of Hoover Dam breaking. Dam you, Merriam-Webster!

Turns out that my beautiful expression of power, grace, greed and all fashions of perceived glory is, in actuality, a rock.

A freakin' rock...

I fear there is no room in my head for more rocks, even if they happen to be precious stones of rhombohedral cleavage, tetrahedral crystal, conchoidal fracture and commonly pale blue or gray color with nearly wax-like luster.

I had such great hopes…

You Write...


From time to time, I get an e-mail inquiring why a reader can’t find my name on any volumes at Barnes & Nobles. After a reasonable time spent composing myself after I fall into a fit of convulsive laughter, I try to explain why, indeed, no such volumes exist. The exercise begins with the best of intentions, my explanation centering on this or that anomaly in my style, the politics of celebrity (or the lack thereof), my inability to attract a reputable agent, etc., etc., and at some point, my patience now ebbing at a rate challenging the speed of light and seeking a merciful end, I blurt out, “…and I just ain’t good enough!”

There… I said it. So, if you’re not an agent with a contract to offer me, you can stop e-mailing me with your thoughts on the subject of publication. I appreciate the thoughts, I really do, and I’m grateful that anyone reads my stuff, so, by all means, continue to let me know whether or not you enjoy reading my work. Hell, I’ll even take any criticisms you’re apt to levy; Lord knows I’m willing to take a look. Of course, I can’t make any guarantees that I’ll employ (or even understand) your suggestions, as my reserve of cranial mush is inclined to arbitrarily accept or reject input at its discretion, exclusive of my wishes. Just know that there is no greater joy for a writer than hearing from a reader who appreciates or connects with his/her work.

Okay, enough. Back to Saturday and another race with sobriety to see who reaches sundown first.

Friday, November 24, 2006

Nolo Contendere


The Thought Police picked me up today. I knew I was risking the ire of certain Administration officials who weren’t exactly pleased with the outcome of the Midterm elections, but I never dreamed that something so innocent could be punishable.

The bailiff brought me, still cuffed, into the courtroom where I was to be arraigned before the Honorable Judge Whitney Baird, magistrate for the Third District of All That Is Holy. A tall, gaunt, stern-looking man, he emanated condescension as he sat down and called the court into session. I had the feeling that I’d seen him before, but I couldn’t remember exactly where or when.

The prosecutor, a dark, swarthy man of a certain age (who closely resembled Alberto Gonzalez), stood and called criminal after criminal forward for his or her case to be heard. The offenses varied in gravity, from theft of a previously-happily married woman’s heart to the immoral electioneering charge against the campaign manager of the newest Democratic senator from the state of Missouri. I watched as one after another the charges were read, a plea was offered and each was found guilty and sentenced without any further discussion of the matter.

When the court clerk finally called my name, the bailiff jerked me to my feet.

“Your Honor,” the prosecutor said, his face now contorted into a pained expression, “Mr. Church is charged with violation of Article 38-A of the Personal Offenses Code, possession of an illegal smile with intent to distribute, a class B felony carrying a maximum penalty of two years in Purgatory.”

Judge Baird continued to look at the sworn complaint in front of him until, after a few seconds, he looked over the top rim of his bifocals and scowled at me. “You’re a Democrat, aren’t you?”

“Guilty, Your Honor!” I offered, in a voice unnecessarily loud and perhaps a bit more joyous than good sense might dictate under the circumstances.

“You disgust me…” he said, anger crawling out from between his clenched teeth with each word, like roaches who realized that the lights just went out, “How do you plead?”

“Guilty again, Your Honor!” I repeated, a smile representative of the exact offense for which I was being charged now plastered from ear to ear like a half-wit ten-year-old who’s just been told, screw the cavities, it’s Christmas and he could have more candy.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throw the book at you,” he challenged, his face now twisted into a sneer worthy of Jimmy Cagney during his portrayal of the young tough in The Public Enemy.

Suddenly, I remember where I’d seen him! He was the guy I’d seen Tiffany Trim get into the cab with on Fifth Avenue, after she left my apartment. Quickly, I put two and two together.

“Well, Judge, may I approach the bench… alone?” My smile persisted.

A quick motion of his finger and the bailiff released me from his grasp. “I think a man of your great compassion might be inclined to reconsider a penalty if a certain defendant knew where his wife really spends each Tuesday evening from five to nine p.m. and was willing to inform the whole court of her, um, love of French culture.”

I swear the man’s face turned seven different shades of crimson before all color disappeared. “Step back…and not another word, do you understand?” he growled, his eyes suddenly looking very sad and a bit teary.

Standing up, he declared, “Mr. Prosecutor, this is not an illegal smile! Have you never before seen a shit-eating grin? You are free to go, sir, with the apologies of this court.” The gavel slam was of sufficient ferocity to cause several spectators to jump. “Case dismissed!”

Never again will I question Karma’s ability to protect the clueless or punish the haughty… another reason why this smile will last until next election when the job is finished.

Thursday, November 23, 2006

Festivus, Quimbus and Other Latin Nonsense




Since today is the 384th anniversary of our holiday called Thanksgiving (although we didn’t celebrate it on the third Thursday of November every year until F.D.R. made it official), it made me think about holidays in general. In contemporary America, it would appear that all our holidays are becoming mere opportunities to market our bounty of crap more often than they’re observed in the manner originally intended.

Of course, this made me think of alternatives. The first concept that sprung to mind was Festivus, that wonderful holiday observed only by George Costanza’s family, with a few notable guests including Cosmo Kramer. Seinfeld blazed new ground in its satire of Christmas, due in part, I think, to the Jewish heritage of Seinfeld himself and most of the writers, including the genius of Larry David. Who can forget the aluminum pole erected in the living room to replace the Christmas tree on December 23rd, and the wonderful Festivus traditions of ‘The Airing of Grievances’, the opportunity for all to vent their hostilities, and after dinner, ‘The Feats of Strength’ are observed. Festivus is over when the head of household is wrestled to the floor and pinned. Then, at the very end, the celebratory rendition of the traditional slogan, “A Festivus for the rest of us!”

Someone please get me a hankie, I think I’m tearing up.

My father hated all holidays because of their commercial aspects. He invented a holiday called “Quimbus”, that we celebrated on the third Sunday of July. He hung a dead Christmas tree (left over from the previous December) upside down from the rafters of our garage, and required each of us to pay him for the privilege of witnessing it. He invited all our relatives and friends and the adults spent the day drinking heavily and bitching about rich people, taxes and the government in general. It was called “Quimbus” because once, at a Yuletide gathering, he tried to actually say “Christmas” and “Quimbus” emerged. Mom never let him forget it, God rest her soul.

Happy Day, Turkeys! Relax and enjoy your day, hopefully with family and/or friends. You could do worse… trust me.

Allacksusmohio


One of my writer friends (who shall remain nameless lest I incur her wrath for insulting her native state with impunity) lives at the merging of three major rivers, all of which have received Native American names, specifically, the Monongahela, the Allegheny and the Ohio. Now, I’m neither geographer nor historian, but I think the early settlers of the area missed a hell of a chance when they didn’t re-channel the flow of the Susquehanna and Lackawanna Rivers as well, forming a five-river confluence instead of the much more pedestrian three.

Had they the foresight and perspicacity to do so, instead of the perfectly adequate but decidedly Anglo ‘Pittsburgh’, they might have created Allacksusmohio, a tribute to both the land and the progenitors thereof. Now, I’m sure Fort Pitt was a fine military installation deserving of recognition for its accomplishments in the realm of defending the countryside against foreign invaders, but does that deem it worthy of having a great city named for it? Had others followed the same protocol, Lawton, Oklahoma may have become Silltown, Oceanside, California might be Pendletonville, and El Paso, Texas could be Blisstown. All wonderful places, I’m sure, I mean no disrespect, but you have to admit the names hold less by way of excitement.

Allacksusmohio… now there’s a name with some panache! Can you imagine some of the conversations? “Hi, Mom… guess what? Alex has been transferred to Allack—Allacksus—Allsusmo—that big city in western Pennsylvania where all the rivers come together!” or “Hey, Chad, are you going to go to the game this weekend down at Five Rivers Stadium? Denver is playing Alla—Allack—Allaquamista—oh, hell, the Steelers.”

The Allacksusmohio Steelers… the Allacksusmohio Pirates… the Allacksusmohio Penguins… just sorta roll right off your lips, don’t they?

Well, I’ll end this now… I need to write a letter to the Governor, asking him to sponsor a bill in the Pennsylvania legislature re-naming Pittsburgh, Allacksusmohio. Of course, then there’ll be the task of getting the money together to re-direct the river flow to legitimize the name change.
If you’d like to see some beautiful photos of the area, visit my friend’s blog. She’s a great poet and an even better photographer, even is she does live in a city with a name that’s not all it could be. I like her work so much I linked her to my blog, an act that she feared may be considered 'dirty', and I'm loathe to dispel her fears lest she think me unworthy of my reputation as the dirtiest old man in Randolph County.


I give you: http://jojanoski.wordpress.com/

Sunday, November 19, 2006

Maundy Sunday


I spent some time last night (after some serious ‘attitude readjustment’ time with Mrs. Walker’s best little boy, Black Johnny) rummaging through my Hall of Skulls room in the basement. As I ran my fingers over the placards identifying each and every one, it occurred to me that there’s little satisfaction in being king if there’s no one around to lord it over.

No matter… I no longer have time to spend with friends anyway. My blockbuster manuscript has been accepted for publication, pending final edits from my publisher. He feels there are too many clichés present in the text. At first, I thought he didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground and I refused to make the changes, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that two wrongs don’t make a right and there’s no point in crying over spilt milk, so I decided to be one of those guys who gets along by going along…all’s well that ends well. He assures me that all my blood, sweat and tears will be rewarded when my book is welcomed as a challenging and important work by cryptographers around the world. Can you feel my chest swelling?

Saturday, November 18, 2006

Once Upon A Saturday Morning...


Good morning, kiddies, I trust that you all slept well and awoke to the dawning of our new era of hope predicated by the recent midterm elections. Moreover, a quick look at the headlines offered by my browser’s affiliations with Reuters, The New York Times, Christian Science Monitor and various other news-gathering agencies would support that hypothesis (Fox notwithstanding, of course), on a general basis. Oh, there are still the national and local murders and scandals to address, after all, we are human… but, by and large the tone of the news seems suddenly more conciliatory and, dare I say it, hopeful.

It’s as though world karma were suddenly, magically, appeased. The morning orange juice tastes a bit fresher, the next-door neighbor now waits until 7:30 a.m. before starting his 700-horsepower diesel-powered chain saw, and you’ve even decided to try the green tea your wife has been urging you to drink for the last six years but you’ve steadfastly resisted due to your disillusionment with national politics and its inherent, all-consuming general torpor.

Yes, it’s true that the war in Iraq rages on, and that the current administration has asked Congress for another $175 billion to fund it while our seniors see their Medicare benefits diminish and our kids score lower and lower on their SAT math tests because we can’t seem to find a way to fund their schools properly, but our perceptions, as a nation, have changed. Our national psyche has been awakened and we now realize that it is not enough to wave Old Glory and stand on a battleship and proclaim victory two years before a war is even close to being over. If the midterm elections proved nothing else, they showed that the American people, even if slow to act and apathetic to politics, cannot and will not allow scoundrels to prevail forever.

In the Seventies, an old hippie buddy of mine used to tell me that times of dope and no money were better than times of money and no dope. Then, he’d grin and giggle, pleased by his ability to produce profundity in the face of dementia. It was no longer a value judgment question of whether he should or shouldn’t be indulging in his romance with cannabis, it became a position statement regarding quality of life and his response to everyday stimuli based on his analysis of the world. Are we so different? Aren’t we all grinning and giggling in the face of a national dementia?

Just a thought...

Sunday, November 05, 2006

No Story Today




I’d like to write something… I want to write something. Trouble is, I don’t trust myself to start a story because it would risk exposing the bitterness and resentment I feel towards a world that no longer holds any value in the most basic of principles held as paradigms of all civilized nations. The concepts of tolerance and acceptance in an atmosphere of non-belief, once hallmarks of our society’s quest for justice for all, gain no more than hollow recognition saved for pulpit benedictions and political stump speeches. Those who don’t accept our political and social views are now enemies when once they might have been candidates for change.

You’re either with us or against us, and if you aren’t with us, get the hell out has become our standard for both domestic and international diplomacy. The thin vernix of détente long covering our relations with the world has been pierced and a new child has emerged; a large, mewling creature with a disproportionately large mouth, healthy lungs and a nasty attitude towards anything it can’t immediately identify as a clone of itself.

How did we get here? I can remember only one event that qualifies as significant enough to change an entire nation’s outlook on the world and us: The attacks on the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. It represents the single most momentous event since the bombing of Pearl Harbor in 1941. On that day, our society exercised fundamental shifts in all aspects of our lives, be they political, religious, fiscal or social.

In our shock and horror, we watched as our nation tried to formulate a response. On September 30, 2001, I wrote an article called “Nineteen Days”, that contained the following passages:

Rage… frustration… grief…all emotions born of atrocity. Our ability to react within the acceptable parameters of statesmanship will determine our ultimate success as we try to unite the world against the true enemy, terrorism. If we allow ourselves to give in to our desire for retribution and vengeance, are we really any different than those who attacked us?

The definition of ‘appropriate response’ will define us as a nation. We will be judged by the powerful and the weak alike, and millions will formulate their perception of us based entirely on our ability to disseminate justice founded in humanity. Last night on CNN, I watched as the truest weapon of civilization of was unloaded in Afghanistan—thousands of bags of wheat with USA emblazoned in red, white and blue. Maybe it’s not enough, or maybe it’s merely a token or a ploy. Lord knows the cynic in me thought of that possibility. But, for the first time in nineteen days, I’m able to accept the hope of a peaceful solution. Isn’t that what, in our collective heart of hearts, we all truly desire?

Of course we must show the world that such hideous crimes will not be tolerated, and of course we must demonstrate our determination to hunt down and eliminate the criminals responsible. But don’t we also have the responsibility to show the world that we are capable of measured response? Literally, the future of the world may hinge on our next move. When the international community views an action, they will see the same televised accounts we see, and they’ll judge us, because perception is often more important than reality. If we skew the world’s perception of righteous indignation, our support could quickly erode into a scenario based on the World War II historical bunker mentality that pits Europe and America against the entire Third World. If that happens, God help us all.


It gives me no pleasure to say it, but I was right. We failed to bring the responsible parties to justice so we substituted a military response in a nation that shared only peripheral accountability, if any at all. Now, over five years later, we are the society that has changed, not ‘them’. By indicting an entire culture, we succeeded only in polarizing our allies and ourselves from the rest of the world. In 2001, we had no national debt and it is now over $3 trillion. Our GNP is weakened, we’ve become a debtor nation, and we’re mired in a no-win war in Iraq-- a war that no longer has the support of the American people, a war for which our leaders have no identifiable exit strategy. Our ‘all-or-nothing, win-at-all-costs’ posturing has forced our politicians into obstinate, pig-headed positions that have resulted in victories by the majority party with no cooperation among our representatives. The enmity and resentment currently present in the halls of Congress is palatable as well as reprehensible and sad.

We are a nation divided in all aspects of our existence and I see no solutions on the horizon. Maybe that’s why there’ll be no story today.

Saturday, November 04, 2006

The Affair


I’ll blow a bubble the best I can and perhaps more than one, who knows... The bus stinks and I’m trying to avoid making eye contact with the old lady sitting across from me. It's hard to do because she has those eyes that don’t focus on the same point. One eye is staring intently at the empty seat next to me and the other is vaguely pointed at me. Her legs are spread in the casual manner 'Hey, it’s comfortable and I’m old, so if you feel you have to look up my dress go ahead, I won’t make a scene or try to stop you. Maybe she’s staring at me because she knows I can’t stop myself from looking at her or perhaps she's receiving some vicarious ego stroke in the knowledge that, for whatever reason, someone is still willing to look at her legs. Just above her knees, I can see the clasps of her ancient garter belts holding up her nylons and when her legs open slightly, suddenly I want someone to gouge my eyes out with an icepick. She could be the lady lying on the ground next to a car wreck before the ambulance comes, dying and there’s nothing you can do for her, and she looks up with eyes askew and grins... and still you can’t avoid looking at her. So I’ll look away, blow a bubble the best I can and try to avoid the impulse to cover her with a blanket.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Enough is enough...


I’ve decided to stop watching television. Last evening, while stretched out on the couch with my feet resting on the ottoman, it occurred to me that even though the volume was adequate for me to hear the dialogue clearly, I felt like a dog watching a magician perform a card trick— I was mesmerized by the movements, but I had no idea what the words meant. I just kept hoping that someone would throw me a biscuit or whistle for me and open the back door so I can walk outside and take a leak.

Be they dramas or situation comedies, the ‘stories’ are a series of six-minute segments, each a story within a story that stops immediately before the climax, designed to tweak the audience’s admittedly declining attention span long enough to keep their fingers off the remote buttons. The message is clear: ‘Don’t change that channel or you’ll miss Misty’s confession to Chad that she’s having Brett’s baby’. I’m convinced that the Nielson people now monitor not only the shows that are most often being watched, but also the commercials. Since producers can’t serve two masters, the advertisers win, the viewing public loses and the story becomes mere filler to support the plentiful two-minute commercials.

Even sporting events are affected, with ‘tv-timeouts’ and other orchestrated game stoppages designed to allow Budweiser to sell us some more beer. God forbid that a player gets hurt bad enough to require a cart to haul him off the field, because there’d be time for an entire infomercial endorsing the benefits of colonic irrigation or no-money-down real estate investment. By the time the game resumes, I’ve either now forgotten or no longer care what teams are playing, much less the outcome.

So, you lost me, Madison Avenue. I know you don’t care because there are millions to replace me, but they’re not stupid either, they just have a higher pain threshold. Eventually, they’ll quit you, too, and then you’ll have to find another way to gouge us.

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Hot Cross Buns Which Yonder Bake, I Cannot Deign But Ask For


(or Hum Drum Yum-Yum)

Whereupon thence came a squire begging sustenance, I challenged him to square his bill with harlequance bound by honor in the field of trifling nobility.

“What say ye, varlet, accept the gauntlet of broader virtue set in fire or pander thy braided locks in honey-dipped farthings suckled far into the blackest night?”

“Swash my bloody buckles, I recompense no other than softest tresses set by noblest crests of scurried blather”, he called to me, his too-round swail of pig-oaf buttress offensive to my frenzied sight.

From my bearded scabbard flew the jaded wrath upon which all contrails of ne’er-benign fury rest until the frosted breath of inner sanctum’s purloined passion call them out to finer times set in nature’s breast.

Fierce swelter came upon his moistened brow, as once his trembling hands bid me naught but lustless swill from haggard bowels. “Are you not of grueling sort, quick to nescient plunder, caring neither more for men than zen?”

“What say thee? Beyond the reach of bended knees at rest in sodden mire thy countless sins abound, no more than ample treat I suspect and duly void ‘til once a votive plaint is heard on yonder echoed dale? Speak up, lest I once again curse thee to a place of sanction lacking all but licit charm!”

Softened clouds of envy cast upon him and gnarled his oaken stumps as once again his newfound crimson soul came flaming out of conscience held in strictest safehold. “I am but a nozzled lute, my liege, strung from none-fine gut and left to rot in torrents past— safe from none and from all, a gifted instrument by which thy pleasures flow, if a half-quaver out of tune and lacking holy tones of roundness.”

“Far-freaking-out!” I bellowed, “Come… sit… eat your fill, then we shall taunt each other once more.”


Then sated truffles once beaten passed from within, sent bounding upon the scales, free from rent and bother, curious of scented breeze and loftless curse, nigh to twice-baked pleasures scaffolded upon our ponce.

Monday, October 30, 2006

Your Time Is Up...

Recently, for reasons that elude me, I’ve begun to think about eternity and I’m not entirely convinced I understand the concept. Certainly, men have always contemplated the vague nuances of time and formulated theories (notions, really) of how its vastness may affect their lives. Then, having come to the conclusion that any amount of time larger than that immediately influencing their present existence becomes cumbersome, they begin to assign importance to smaller, more manageable allotments.

So, eternity, that omega of existence’ allocation, pops its head up with such frequency in the speech and writing of man as to lose any meaning save that justifying its use by the speaker. I suppose it serves of its own merit, giving benefit to a multitude of expressions rendered inept without it.

“From Here to Eternity”, for example… this duplicitous phrase provided the literary stimulus to create both a novel and a 1953 movie starring Frank Sinatra, Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr. However, what does it mean, in any literal sense? Sure, it’s flowery and sophisticated, evoking nebulous realizations of issues beyond our comprehension, but unless Eternity becomes a suburb of Los Angeles or maybe Pocatello, it is little more than thought provoking.

“The eternal struggle”… “Eternally yours”… So it can also accept both adjectival and adverbial importance? My, my, my— this is one influential word.

Of course, its definition only has value in context of itself and its brother, infinity. Both concepts seem to encompass both time and spirituality. Without that association, there can be no semi-concrete encapsulation of God. “Eternal Father”… “Infinite Wisdom”… pretty powerful stuff, wouldn’t you agree?

I think this is the point where I start to lose my way; this is where I begin to feel the slightest bit manipulated. I know I’m going to die one day— it’s simply a biological eventuality. I also know that in all likelihood, time, in its Einsteinian perseverance, will continue to ‘pass’, if indeed that’s what really happens since time itself is an invention of man. However, without the metaphysical linkage of eternity and belief in an infinite deity, I have no hope of eternal life. Of course, this hope is predicated on a vast and complicated belief system designed to take advantage of my fear of death and desire to never really pass out of existence. Is it only a side benefit to me that these exact same fears, coupled with the day-to-day fears that most people naturally exhibit, form the basis of religion as social control?

To a junkie, eternity can be attached to the quest for his next eight ball of smack. An expectant mother enduring the early pains of labor must certainly think that it will take forever for her baby to arrive. We all reach Heaven in our own way, in our own time, regardless of expressed truisms or inexact utterances of profundity.

A specious argument, you say? Perhaps, but personally, I cannot see how eternity could be any longer than 5, 641,793 earth-years (on the 12th day of July, of course)… but that’s just me.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

Granite, Gravity and Grace


There, upon the rock, facing the stream, Ricky sat. Knees scrunched up against his chest, arms wrapped across his shins with interlaced fingers securing and giving him balance against the northerly breeze, head perched neatly on top of his knees with eyes focused on nothing but the eternal passage of the swift current, he waited and contemplated. Somewhere, birds called to their mates and taxis beeped warnings to impeding traffic, Serbian women chattered in a complicated Croatian dialect while hanging wet laundry on the line, yet not a single sound nor extraneous thought penetrated his realm as it existed today; not rushing water, not thunder, not Elijah trumpeting his clarion call throughout the world.

The rock, huge and round and placed precisely on a promontory he’d selected and designated his own, felt soft and cool to his touch. No outcroppings or imperfections of any sort offended his fingers as they lightly traced the water-and-wind-burnished surface. How many birds, lizards, squirrels, chipmunks, snakes or other humans had shared his window into eternity? Had they shared his quiet awe of this majestic place? Why did the water rush by, seemingly ignoring the upper majority in support of the much smaller and less visually acute base? Do water secrets exist down there, protected from prying eyes by fathoms of froth and algae and legions of water plants? Maybe one day he’d dive into the icy race and try to hold on long enough to investigate, to ply his strength against the current, to search for any hand hold, to feel his lungs threaten to burst against the pressures of the depth and to know the exhilaration of impending doom.

Maybe… but not today. Today Ricky claimed his satisfaction just sitting and wondering if his rock loved him as much. After all, it’s hard to really know the emotions of a ten-ton hunk of granite eroded by eons of wind and water. Had he sufficient intellect to claim comprehension of such complexities, perhaps he wouldn’t be here at all.

Saturday, October 28, 2006

Bill of Rights Requiem

Congratulations, America, you’ve finally done it. The Bill of Rights is officially a dead document. I hope you sleep better now, safe in the knowledge that your government can now come drag you out of your bed and imprison you for as long as they see fit, not once ever affording you the opportunity to seek counsel or, for that matter, even telling you the offense for which you are being held. What’s more, they can, at their pleasure, force you to submit to all manners of techniques designed to make you tell them anything they want to hear.

In the name of ‘national security’, the current administration has effectively killed the concept of habeus corpus, the constitutional safeguard in civilized countries designed to protect individual freedoms against arbitrary state action. “Produce the body” it says… let the public see the accused, let us put a face to her/him. And once he’s been produced, then we, as citizens, have the opportunity to follow the proceedings by which s/he’s adjudicated, and judge for ourselves whether the law has been judiciously applied.

But no more. With the stroke of a pen, George W. Bush has countermanded over two hundred years of Constitutional observance in our country. Now, any citizen or non-citizen can be whisked off to some secret prison of the government’s choosing and held against her/his will for as long as the government deems proper, without being charged of any crimes, with no safeguards to the liberties guaranteed under our Bill of Rights.

In case you’re not a strong student of history, this is not anything new. We saw a pretty good example of this during the last century in Germany. It is now officially our army against the world, and I guarantee you that if someone doesn’t wake up soon, we are in for very dark days.

But it is our decision, or at least we’re led to believe that our votes still count, although after the recent debacles in Florida and Ohio an argument could be made that such is not the case. So when you pull the lever on that voting machine, make damned sure you know who and what you’re voting for.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

This just in...


When I awoke this morning and struggled into the bathroom, I suddenly realized that at one time I held the record for being the world’s youngest human.

And now I’m not…



not even close.

Monday, October 09, 2006

Happy Columbo Day!


I normally don’t make a big deal out of holidays, but today is an exception. There is a very special feeling I get when I think about the man we honor today. How many people can you think of who brought so much enlightenment to succeeding generations? Plus, to my knowledge, unlike a certain explorer whose name sounds similar, he didn't have to rape, pillage or kill anyone!

Happy Columbo Day, everyone!

Monday, October 02, 2006

Forbidden Fruit Feeding Frenzy


No story today, I’m afraid, my cranial soft tissue participants have called in sick. My parietal is not societal, my temporal lobe has lost its temper, my sensory cortex is nonsensical and my motor cortex is in the shop for maintenance. That leaves only my occipital and frontal lobes to run my brain stem and I just spilled a cup of coffee on my keyboard, so I think it best to just shut it down before I start trying to justify nonsense like the invasion of Iraq. I only wish the Shrub had been as considerate.

Sunday, October 01, 2006

Your Sunday Dictionary

Defiance is a commodity seldom rewarded and almost never emulated in a society content to preserve the status quo. How many times have I heard it? ‘Get along by going along.’ ‘Don’t rock the boat.’ ‘The meek shall inherit the earth.’

The very definitions of defiance apply a negative connotation: 1. Intentionally contemptuous behavior or attitude 2. A hostile challenge. If you are defiant, you are hostile. If you are defiant, you are contemptuous. Is there no common ground whereupon defiance could be considered commendable or, at the very least, illusory?

Am I the only one who doesn’t consider myself a radical because I choose defiance of a belief system that deems the invasion and attempted conquest of another nation to be acts of self-defense worthy, even laudable, by the majority of its citizenry?

Well, I’ll let you in on a secret. Are you listening? Move just a little closer— I can’t say it too loud for fear the Thought Police may be monitoring this correspondence. Here it is: The Emperor has no clothes.

That’s right, you heard me. He’s naked to the world, he’s been exposed and he’s the only one who can’t see it. Of course, the rest of the world is looking at this entire nation’s pink derrieres and shaking their heads. We are, you see, mirror images of him, and his reflection casts us as a collective Shrub clone; obsequious, contemptible, toadie cattle who support and endorse the most blood-thirsty regime ever to take up residence at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington, DC, 20500.

I hereby claim the title ‘defiant’, complete with all its negative images, and refuse to care what any of you think of me. I know of your contention that I am not a patriot, even though I spent nearly two years in Southeast Asia in defense of my country. That’s okay, too, because I know it gives you great satisfaction to don your blinders and wave Old Glory as you commit atrocity after atrocity and deplete our coffers of funds that could benefit our citizens.

Just don’t think I’m stupid enough to drink the Kool-Aid myself. I enjoyed a glass or two as a nineteen-year-old and I’m still trying to get the taste out of my mouth.

Saturday, September 30, 2006

Heavy Glower Before My Shower


It’s early morning, more night than morning really, at least in any real sense of morning in the poetic sense, with all the attendant birds chirping and sun rays bathing the earth. There is not a hint of natural light anywhere, not a glint of the first fresh glimmer that will truly mean morning has broken through night’s defenses and serves notice that it intends to expose night’s fraudulence before vanquishing all reminders of darkness’ mien. As sure as death and taxes, I know morning will, in its inimitable way, soon make its presence known, robbing me of sullen, dour inspiration and forcing me to deal with reality’s starkness. So I bid adieu to the ebony demons even now begging me to stay in their midst, imploring me to give them voice before they sleep. But don’t expect me to embrace the fairies and nymphs of brightness… somehow their wholesome innocence tweaks my suspicion and I envision a world of door-to-door Jehovah’s Witnesses waiting to ring my bell as soon as I step into the tub.

Friday, September 29, 2006

The Lessons Of A Ladle


The ladle isn’t pure silver, certainly, and may not be silver at all. Like as not, it’s some lesser alloy of tin, forged in the 1850’s or thereabout, close as anyone can remember, but it’s silver in color at least. It doesn’t matter, though. It manages to stay pretty clean, since I use it only occasionally, to dip water from a bucket when I get nostalgic for the old days. I rather enjoy the slight metallic taste it leaves in my mouth after I drink from it. It’s not a good taste or a bad taste, it’s just… there. Besides, it doesn’t last long, and I don’t stand there like a ninny thinking about it, but it’s there, nevertheless, and worth pointing out.

I think we tend to do that when we get older. All the little things mean more since we understand that there’s a certain finite quality associated with mundane events. Focus becomes centered upon the immediate rather than the far-reaching, and attention to detail reigns supreme. I think the kids would call that micro-management or microeconomics or some such micro-gobbledygook. It doesn’t matter what you call it, it’s the recognition that’s important.

Anyway, back to the ladle. This particular artifact is no ordinary hunk of metal. Countless sets of lips have enjoyed a cool drink of water while resting on one or another spot around the rim. Apparently, it’s home-made. The designer was careful to round the lip, curving it under around the outside, ensuring that the baby or drunk grandpa didn’t cut himself.

Plus, the metal yields to temperature. When dipped into a bucket of ice-cold spring water, it makes sure you pay attention and don’t drink too fast. This sort of thoughtfulness is rare among inanimate objects and should, rightfully, be acknowledged.

Even the handle is accommodating. Whoever pounded out the metal could have left it flat and sharp, and in all likelihood, no one would have complained. After all, it’s only a way to grasp the ladle, so why worry about how it’s shaped? I’ll tell you why. It’s because his granny, mama, daughter or granddaughter might have grabbed that handle, and he wanted to make sure it would be safe and easy to use. That’s why it’s concave, too, providing a spot to rest your thumb on top while dipping or drinking since the ladle itself can be a little unwieldy if filled too full or if hands are very small.

I came upon the ladle by way of inheritance. When grandma died, I was told that I could have my choice of anything on the porch by way of remembrance. We were all down at the farm, and the funeral was tomorrow. By the time a small boy got his turn to pick, all the pictures, antiques and ice cream churns had pretty much been spoken for, but I didn’t care; honestly, I had zero interest in any of them, anyway. As soon as I saw it hanging on the wall, on the same nail it had always hung on, I knew it was what I wanted. My only regret is that I couldn’t take the porch and nail along with it. Images of Dad and Grandpa sneaking out onto the porch rushed into my head, as Grandpa hurriedly grabbed his bottle of ‘corn’ from under a slat on the far side of the porch. I can still see his grin as he poured and offered Dad that ladle. They each shared a couple of sips, alternating until it was empty, then Grandpa would stare into it before swirling it in the air and shaking it to remove any evidence that may have inadvertently been missed. Then, he’d reverently hang it on the hook before heading back into the house… they couldn’t stay long or they’d lose their stealth capabilities and be picked up as a heat signature on Mom or Grandma’s radar.

Of course, I can’t prove it, but Grandpa told me stories handed down from his grandfather about Robert E. Lee himself drinking from that very ladle. It was during the early years of the Northern Aggression, and the general had bivouacked his troops in the woods adjoining the property. It was not an altogether wise move, Grandpa said, because our part of Missouri bordered Kentucky, and everyone knew those ridge-runners to be a treacherous lot; as many cow-towed to the Union as were loyal to Jeff Davis.

Even the cup has a personality all its own. The years have yielded a few bumps and dings and the outside feels rough and pitted, but the inner surface is smooth and glassy as a baby’s behind with only a tinge of white discoloration in a semi-circle along the section opposite the handle. I suspect it may be calcium left when water evaporated while it hung. If I was to compare it to humans, I would say it takes on the appearance of age spots; and as I look at it, I only wish I could age so gracefully.

Yea, it’s just a ladle. There’s no precision machining or coat-of-arms, not a trace of pretense. It contains nothing of intrinsic value to anyone but me and that alone makes it precious. For now, it goes back on the hook, waiting patiently to be of service. It’s not silver, it’s pure gold. Someday, I hope my grandson will understand.