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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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/

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?

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

Flatheads I Have Known and Loved

It’s just rain… The kitchen window offered me clear perspective through opaque glass; my mood, while somber, was nonetheless inspired for its bleakness. I came to understand that day, that a small boy seldom has control of his destiny. I remember sitting at Aunt Louise’s home-made kitchen table, looking out into the grayness and noticing that even the large sycamore trees in the yard had been transformed into shapeless monoliths. Somewhere past them, obscured by the veil of dull film currently enveloping the property, would sit the dilapidated old barn where Uncle Joe kept his worms, fishing tackle and seining nets. From time to time, as thunderclaps threatened and the crackle of lightning caused the lights in the parlor to blink, I’d mutter under my breath. It’s not fair…

Of course, I could have turned the kitchen lights on, and if I had, I might have been able to better read the Superman and Marvel comics strewn across the table top. Even though it was mid-afternoon, it was more dark than light in the room. I could still see the pages and somewhere deep inside me, I knew they were illustrated in color… but today, they were as gray as my mood. Why turn on the lights and ruin a perfectly good snit? It isn't fair…

I mean, it could have rained two days ago while Uncle Joe was working, or yesterday when we all drove over to Glasgow to put the flowers on Grandma and Grandpa’s graves. Somehow, the rain would have offered some ambience to the occasion. But, no… it was not to be. As our station wagon went down the country lanes and crossed the creeks and rivers, in my mind I saw every flathead lying in every deep hole and I seined every creek for the crawdads which would enable me to catch those flatheads. Come get me, little man… All I could do was sit and look out the back window at where we had just come from; mentally I made a note to come back here someday and teach Mr. Flathead not to taunt me so.

Even as a boy, I knew the futility of wishing things were different. No one had to tell me that disappointment was part of the bigger picture— and no one tried. That didn’t stop me from feeling the despondency, however. After all, how many vacations does a small boy get? Hundreds of times I’d dreamed of putting on those huge rubber boots and wading into the creek with the seine, like I’d seen Dad and Uncle Joe do… I could do it perfectly, I knew I could… How many times had Dad and Uncle Joe promised me that next time, I get to hold one end of that seine? Today was going to be that day. It just isn’t fair, I tell you…

Chocolate ice cream, when combined with a little whole milk and some powdered malt, can be blended into one of the tastiest treats a small boy can ever receive, and surely can take the edge off the most well-developed snit. I know this first-hand, because the sound of that blender triggered some deep-seated Pavlovian response inside me. Silently, I froze in my position, not daring to look around. Any time now, Aunt Louise would walk up behind me, Here, Sugar… I made you a little treat, squeeze my shoulders and buss me on the neck, causing me to smile, even though I didn’t want to. It’s hard to look pathetic when you’re grinning.

Eternity is a concept unfamiliar to a ten-year-old boy. However, that blender raged for what certainly must have been at least an eternity. I could hear her singing softly to herself, so I know she wasn’t paying any attention to me. The refrigerator door had opened and closed several times now… could she be adding fresh fruit, perhaps some ripe persimmons? What’s taking so long?

Then, my heart sank. Aunt Louise might be pureeing turnips or green beans for Mrs. Caulfield’s supper… I could barely breathe…the thought very nearly stopped my heart from beating. Yea, that was probably it, she was more concerned about an old woman who lived a mile down the road, than she was about her own flesh-and-blood nephew. It didn’t take this long to make a hundred chocolate malts! Mine is but to suffer…

I heard the clop of Aunt Louise’s shoes as she left the kitchen. Well, that’s it… Now, the sickly feelings of despair were gone, replaced by the adrenalin of anger. How dare they treat me like this? Can’t they see how miserable I am?

My ascent from that kitchen chair was meteoric. I’m sure I left a vapor trail of steam as I made my way to my bedroom. It was then I heard the voice.

“Where you off to, Bubba? The rain’s lettin’ up… I thought you wanted to go fishin’.” Uncle Joe’s voice resounded in my ears as loud as the voice of God.

“R-right now, Uncle Joe? You mean it?” Don’t toy with me like this.

By now we were walking back into the kitchen. To get to the barn, we’d have to stop off in the mud room to get the rain gear.

“Well, in a few minutes, boy, but first…” he said, opening the refrigerator door, “you’d better drink this malt Aunt Louise made you… it’s likely to be a good while before you get to eat again.”

Through the walls I could feel my Aunt Louise smiling. To this day, I’ve never forgotten how it felt. The transformation was complete. Rain…? What rain?

Whirligig Destiny

I approached the scene slowly… carefully. Not having seen the sun in many hours, I couldn’t be certain of the time although dusk most certainly had to be approaching. The park’s canopy of hardwoods muted and filtered all but the most intrepid light rays that persevered to reach the ground, rewarding their efforts with pale gray shadows, sickly mutated twins of objects whose reflections they pitifully attempted to emulate. To harbor animosity toward the trees or, for that matter, the clouds, seemed ingenuous at best. It wasn’t their fault; really, they were just doing their job as best they could. But harbor I did, despite my realization that karma would eventually punish me, casting me headlong into the pit of eternal kismet with no hope of future self-determination. Such was the fate of wanderers and fools, and if I hadn’t yet been proven guilty of the latter, I most certainly had been convicted of the former and at some point would be charged with both.

Faded denim can look gray even in the brightest of lights, but today as I sat on the park bench, my legs blended in so well that briefly I thought I’d melted. When I raised my foot and pointed my boot at the far ridge, I detected a mournful mass that slightly distinguished itself from the surroundings in a pose that I recognized to be roughly the size and shape of my leg, thankfully reminding me that I had not melted at all and simultaneously making me wish I had. Suddenly, I realized that there could be no hell too severe for a man content to mortgage his existence for what might be.

I detected motion on that ridge and my purgatorial ministrations of self-pity temporarily tacked into the wind and rode the breeze, escaping, if only temporarily, their merciless captor. There could be little doubt that I’d soon go hunting for them, coercing them with traps of indulgence and snares of desire, ruthlessly haling them to do my bidding in the court of Purpose. But for now, they were free as my mood, weightless and bound for wherever. In the distance behind the ridge, suspended atop a moving object, a pennant fluttered and moved from left to right before disappearing. Then, another and another… Fascinated, I decided to investigate. As I walked closer, the ridge evaporated, exposing a landscape beneath; it was then that I first saw the carousel.

If I intended to remain cloaked in obscurity, my approach would need to incorporate all my skills attained during a lifetime of modified skulk. To show up uninvited and ostentatious would violate the ground rules of passive observation, immediately subjecting me to chance’s harshest penalty, scrutiny. No burglar ever traversed a victim’s backyard on lighter feet than my own as I made my way from tree to tree, pausing at each advancement to ensure that no one could see me. As I surveyed the remaining parcel, a complex formula emerged, a stratagem requiring me to make my way to and scale the trunk of the pin oak directly in front of the merry-go-round. There, I would satisfy all elements of the hunt and abound in the glory offered by concealment. Finally, with the blunted sound of the tired, over-used calliope grating upon my eardrums, I began my ascent, clumsily inching my way to a branch that offered me a veiled view of the whirligig’s aspects, the years of my life sourly reminding me of their accumulation and demanding acknowledgment.

Before my eyes, dull riderless horses and dolphins and unicorns whimsically danced up and down, impaled upon equally leaden poles, their vapid, staring eyes beholding the exact same panorama as the day before and the day before that, a scenario that would change only with the potential diversity of a rider. How many toddlers’ butts had occupied the sea horse’s back ahead of the unicorn’s dead stare? Why had grandma opted to watch as grandpa held Trevor in place? Did the menagerie ever wonder why the Philistines never offered a pat on the head or a soothing word or some grease-salve for the rash derived from decades of pole-burn?

It-no-longer-matters merged with pithy substance and one rider appeared in the outside row, an old man clad in denim jeans, boots in severe need of polish and a wide-brimmed hat that obscured his facial features, the type worn by gardeners and sailors and Ernest Hemingway, although I could conceive of no reason why Hemingway would ride this particular carousel. Alone, he straddled the back of a fine gray steed, apparently satisfied (judging from his lack of expression and movement) with his lot and oblivious to the potential of any perceived danger. He just sat… and with each revolution his features amplified until I discovered that he had a scar on his right forearm in precisely the same spot as mine. I watched as his broad back disappeared behind the elaborately mirrored and bejeweled gimbal upon which the device rotated.

After a brief sojourn behind the wheel, he appeared once again, this time with each animal occupied by his twins, each a bit larger than the last, and now each stared at my tree, their judgmental beams trained upon me and slowing the carousel under their weight. As it stopped, none moved but all craned their necks to keep me in view. Then I realized--I stared into my own eyes. The music slowed, then stopped and the lights dimmed perceptibly, finally going out with a squeal and grunt emitted from somewhere deep within the center column.

Discovered, I crawled down from the oak and joined the others, stepping up and onto the platform. Slowly, one by one, the riders left their mounts and without comment, walked away, not once looking back. With the departure of the last, the lights and music came back on and I began my destiny’s last ride, content that all the impostors were forever vanquished.

Calliope

Jai guru deva…
Simple thoughts cruise slowly by,
Dropping in to just say hi,
Inciting and inviting me…
Nothing’s gonna change my world.

Lennon paid the price to say
His piece was peace for all to play,
A million eyes watched us dance our way
Just him and me across the universe…
Nothing’s gonna change my world.

Endless rain, a million tears fall endlessly,
Beheld by all, yet blind to see
As doubt and trouble swallow me,
A million suns play calliope…
Jai guru deva… Om.


Bob Church9/23/06

May's Cruel Harvest

The snow mottled the Nebraska cornfield, a residual pockmark of white here and there contrasting the dull, uninspired rows of pale yellow stubble standing guard past the driveway, the ugly heads of misshapen children. Dreary winds of early March moved itinerant sagebrush slowly across the landscape, catching on stalks from time to time, pieces moving across a chessboard; Knight to Queen’s Bishop 4—checkmate.

Raw, today… Thelma Copeland peered out the peephole windows in the front door, stealthily checking out the porch. From the kitchen, she thought she heard Blackie barking on the front porch of the only home she’d ever known, so she’d made her way into the front room to investigate. Thelma’s husband, Luther Ray Copeland, had moved in the day after their wedding in the spring of 1918, the family farm a wedding present from Thelma’s father. Forty-eight years had passed and their ever-expanding family, seven children still living and grandchildren almost too numerous to count, had long since gone, but it was still home and it was all she wanted or needed. She glanced at the Co-Op calendar hung on the wall below the Crucifix. Below the photo of a tropical island cabana complete with palm tree, the words March 1965 jumped off the page and into her mind; an unnecessary reminder that time had become her enemy. Blackie’s harsh, dry, incessant yelps forced her back into the present. No one was visible on the porch, so she opened the door and surveyed the area visible through the screen door, the frosty breeze nipping at her bare arms.

A black Chevy sedan sat parked in their driveway, a four-door model unadorned except for the white markings painted on the front door, the ubiquitous seal of the great State of Nebraska. Seeing no one, she quickly made her way to the stairwell and opened the door to the cellar. “Bill… come upstairs, quick! We’ve got visitors!”

Luther Ray “Bill” Copeland bounded up the stairs, three at a time, the urgent tenor of his wife’s voice compelling him to hurry. Without speaking, he stepped into the mudroom adjacent to the kitchen and grabbed his hat and coat, quickly throwing his arms into the jacket and buttoning it up. “I already know who it is. They were in the south field yesterday. I’ll handle it, you just stay here.”

“But, I don’—“ As she stared at Bill’s large backside, she heard the back door slam shut. Thelma sighed deeply and walked back to her old wood stove, grabbing a kitchen towel along the way. Her bread needed to be checked, and as she opened the oven door, the cold fear emanating from her forehead evaporated in the welcome heat and aroma of baked goods.

********

“I thought I told you, I ain’t interested in selling my property.” Luther Copeland towered over the two smallish men, and although his hands were still sequestered in his coat pocket, his imposing posture left no doubt that he was not happy to see them.

The two officials from the Nebraska Highway Department glanced at each other briefly, deciding who would speak. “Well, Mr. Copeland,” the taller of the two offered, pulling his jacket collar up to cover his neck, “it’s gone beyond the point where there’ll be a sale, I’m afraid.”

“Fellas, you don’t seem to understand, I’ve lived on this land for nearly fifty years, and there ain’t no two government men going to make me leave. So unless you want the shit kicked out of you this morning, I suggest you get back in your fancy car and off my property.”

Resignedly, the tall man reached into his pocket and pulled out a blue-covered court document and handed it to Luther. “This here is a court order, Mr. Copeland. You have been ordered to vacate this property within thirty days. Your land has been condemned and will be sold at public auction, the proceeds of which will be credited to your account at the Gibbon Savings Bank. The U.S. government has dictated where the new freeway will be built, and has given us no discretion to change it. Since you refused to sell us an easement through your property, we were left with no choice except to take this action.”

Luther Copeland took the papers from the man and without stopping to read a single word, threw the document onto the ground at his feet. Then, without further hesitation, inhaled deeply, causing phlegm to pass from his nose into his throat, which he spit onto the papers. Rubbing his foot into them animatedly, he stared at the men. “This is what I think of your court order. Now get the hell off my property.”

Throwing up both hands in obeisance to Luther’s physical superiority, the men stepped towards their car. As the leader grabbed the door handle, he adjusted his glasses and paused to speak. “Okay, we’ll leave, I know better than to start trouble with you, but others will be back, I assure you. For whatever it’s worth, please know that I take no pleasure in this… I’m truly sorry.”

“Sorry’s ass… tell the sheriff that if he sends any more people out here, he better send body bags with them, because as of this moment, any son of a bitch that steps onto my property uninvited will need it. Today’s free, gents, but the next time won’t be.”

With that, Luther walked away at his slow loping pace, his eyes never once leaving the car with the seal of the great State of Nebraska inscribed on the door. Once it had cleared his property, Luther Copeland stepped back inside his house and calmly hung his coat and hat on the hook in the mudroom designated for that purpose. The scent of the freshly-baked bread cooling on the counter soothed him and reminded him of times when his children would have gotten their hands slapped for attempting to fondle it. Breaking off a hunk from the end, he popped it into his mouth without the enhancement of butter or jelly; Thelma’s bread simply didn’t need it.

********

The second week of May 1965, Thelma Copeland heard a knock at her front door at 128 5th Street, Kearney, Nebraska, where she now resided with her husband, Luther Ray. The smiling postman offered her a crisp, white envelope with her name and address in elegant, machine-printed lettering. One quick flick of a finger ripped the upper edge neatly, revealing an equally elegant, gold-embossed card requesting their presence at the high school graduation ceremonies of her grandson, Bobby Ray, in Aurora, Colorado.

What she couldn’t have known is that despite the joy she currently felt while thinking about the lad’s accomplishments, she wouldn’t be able to attend. Indeed, neither would Bobby Ray’s mother, Thelma’s daughter Betty, because another engagement would command their presence. What she also couldn’t have known is that her husband, Luther Ray, would die of a heart attack on June the 6th , precisely three days before the planned graduation.

The coroner’s report would list cardiac arrest as the cause of Luther Ray’s death, brought about by advanced diabetes. However, nothing on earth could have convinced Thelma Mae Copeland that the State of Nebraska didn’t murder her husband, a man who simply wasn’t cut out to live in town.

Everyman's Pasture Pastor

My senses are a little out of whack this morning. I can’t put my finger on it exactly, but something isn’t right. Were I an alarmist, I might be hell-bent for a neurologist’s office, knocking down anyone lacking the brains or dexterity to get out of my way. But, I am not, so here I sit like a dog patiently and obediently listening as his master performs a card trick. Then, precisely at the right moment, just as he reveals the Queen of Spades that magically disappeared from the deck, I look into his approving eyes and say, “Woof!”

Everything smells of sheep. The dandelions are suddenly more sheep than flower, each petal reflecting wool and the sound of a bell ringing off the yellow. But the thing that smells the most like sheep, is the very sun itself. When the sun goes behind a cloud, the smell of the sheep decreases, like standing on some old guy’s hearing aid, and when the sun comes back out again, the smell of the sheep is loud, like a clap of thunder inside a cup of coffee.

Tincup Filled With Cold Chowder

Shortly after I was born, and with my mom suffering from sundry complications I caused by my birth (read severe, uncontrollable depression here), Dad started taking off for the mountains to go fishing. Apparently, she was still too weak to kill him.

All my life I’ve known that there was a time every year during the autumn in which Dad disappeared for a week (or two) to go fishing on some hallowed grounds (hallowed waters?) in the very remote regions of America’s Icebox, a place so remote that you drove north (and west) from Denver until the paved roads ended and then you jumped on a freight train for another sixty miles before you jumped off at a mile marker, not a station, usually at an hour occuring before sunrise.

Like Gilligan, I envisioned my father with no phone, no light, no motor car; not a single lux-ur-yee. Then, on his return, he appeared as though he had just won an “I’m uglier than you” fight with Grizzly Adams. He’d walk up, expecting to hug me, with his face looking like it had been dunked in glue and then smacked repeatedly with a dead skunk.

Thinking back upon it, I doubt that Adam could have had the same relaxed demeanor and gleam about him after he got kicked out of paradise that Dad always had when he came home. His experiences in heaven he took to the grave with him, probably because he’d learned by then that the younger generation couldn’t understand the joys associated with crapping in the woods and not bathing for a week at a time. He would have been right, of course.

Dad went to this isolated island lake every year with his work buddies commonly referred to as “The Crew”. The Crew generation apparently had no problems with any of the vagueries of life in the wild, nor did they see anything wrong with “leech removal” as an expected après-bain experience. They drank and fished and played cards… not always in that order. From all indications, the only time that everything was finally all right with the world was that period of time when nobody could contact them and tell them to knock it off, enough is enough for Christ’s sake.

Okay, fast-forward about fifty years or so. Many (if not all) of The Crew no longer make the trip because of various disabilities including, but not limited to, being dead. But even twenty years ago, Mom was hesitant to let him go. I think she feared him dieing while in heaven and thus possibly escaping the judgment he so righteously deserved for abandoning her all these years.

As fate would have it, both of them went to their reward while in the company of civilized society. I’ve always thought this would have made Mother smile.

Litany of Punishment Too Bizarre To Escape Comment

I’ve given up my pursuit of learning the cello. Admittedly, what few attempts I may have made while an adolescent, while pluperfect, were less than vigorous. Frankly, the cello is an instrument whose tones I consider abhorrent if not totally repugnant, and any claims I may have made to attractive females regarding my interest therein were bald-faced lies designed to entice said attractive females to have sex with me. The fact that all such attempts were unsuccessful is beside the point.

No, the cello is no longer on my list of unaccomplished stratagems, but I’m still convinced that the ladies are suckers for musicians. With that in mind, I’ve decided to enroll in Banjo College. Wish me luck… with one finger missing on my left hand, I’m sure I’ll need it.

Olive Garden of Earthly Atrocities

So what’s up with breadsticks? Is it just too arduous a task to pick up a knife and cut a slice off a bona fide, full-sized bread loaf? You’re sitting at a restaurant, having been seated after the toy the teenager gave you finally started flashing and things start showing up, the gifts of vapid-eyed clones in white shirts. Glasses are soon filled with semi-clear liquid resembling water and a tri-fold, laminated document roughly the size of the original Declaration of Independence is offered before your eyes. Obligingly, you accept the tome in both hands, suddenly realizing that the colorful art-deco scrolling might better be understood with the aid of the spectacles parked neatly in your shirt pocket, a venue presently totally inaccessible without risking dropping the weighty menu across the elaborate place setting situated directly in front of you— to call attention to one’s self while still in the formative stages of meal-seating is definitely a social faux pas, an egregious assault upon the principles of decorum so laboriously drilled into you during the ubiquitous Be nice, God damn it! training received in one’s formative years.

At this point, having abandoned any hope of actually making an entrée choice, you opt to acquiesce to the server’s request, softly announcing in a voice loud enough for only her ears, “I’ll have what she’s having… without the onions”. Precisely at this moment—having successfully dispatched the server to the next position with your menu in hand— you survey the table, taking into account the plastic containers filled with blue, yellow and pink packets of sugar and quasi-sugar, lazy-Susan supplied with various salad dressing options, vase with faux-flowers only slightly more cheesy than the salad dressing, and a large sculptured-glass depiction of some un-named Greek or Roman god complete with arms hacked off above the elbows… when you see it. There, in plain view of a cross-generational audience, sat a basket of phallic symbols roughly the color of sunbathers after a week of relaxation on the nude beaches of St. Tropez—the breadsticks.

Worse, someone now picked up the basket and began offering the little dandies to the guests seated around the table. As I watched each person pick one off the pile, the basket approaching my position at a rate I found uncomfortably rapid, I had to decide whether to provender my love of all things doughy or acknowledge my repudiation of all things phallic not actually attached to my torso. It occurred to me that somewhere Dr. Freud was, no doubt, currently getting quite a laugh at my expense.

As the basket appeared before me, I merely smiled at the donor, a disinterested woman who expressed no aversions to the monsters having placed two upon her plate, and scotched back in my seat, allowing her the opportunity to pass the delicacies to the person seated to my direct left, even if I did have to nudge him to accept the basket without my intermediary assistance. If he was willing to touch them, that was his decision and I would accept it without comment, although I did lift my ass off the chair and move it slightly closer to the promiscuous harlot sitting to my right. Perhaps she understood my meager smile as I inched closer, but judging from the look of horror she emanated, I tend to doubt it.

Refusing to acknowledge my desire to ask the server for a slice of plain bread, I sat in silence and watched people spread butter on their somewhat-undersized erections and bite down, ripping a hunk off the stick and causing me to cringe in mercy-pain. Through it all, I maintained my poise although I did note those who seemed to take the most pleasure from the bread/penis-munching experience. In the future, I would take special care to avoid any situations involving shaking hands with them or standing at an adjoining urinal.

Apparently I do know what's up with breadsticks. Bon appetite!

Thoughts of You

To a phrase turned deep with thought,
And reveled more upon its death,
Sent fleeting into fevered moment
I salute its every breath.

For who but me is chance to learn
Thy graces placed at tribute’s breast,
Sacrificed as dual heartbeats
Come together— one beats best.

Eternal night shall too soon take us,
Robbing flesh of passion’s sprite,
Yet no death shall e'er overtake us,
Love’s beauty outshines darkest night.

To all the lovers in the world, I send my own.
May you never go a day without it.

Rainbows of Regret

This morning at 5:15 a.m., as I went outside to look for my damn dog, a vague hint of autumn filled the air. The slightest tinge of a chill hung in the air, the undeniable marker left by temperatures failing to achieve summer norms, the air in a room that just witnessed Billie Holiday sing Stormy Blues.

Immediately, memories cascaded across my horizon and I found myself huddled inside a cardboard box, the Colorado cool early morning air nipping at my neck. Feeling a hand on my shoulder, I opened my eyes in the offensive quasi-light offered by night’s cowardly retreat, revealing a shadowy form that would prove to be my father.

Piggly Wiggly, having not yet crawled out of the primordial ooze of merchandising, fell far short of its full eventual evolution into a 24-hour, full-service, supermarket/pharmacy/liquor store in late August of 1955. Therefore, apparently, any thoughts of an eight-year-old boy getting into serious trouble during a week of residence behind a dumpster at a food store in a town eight miles east of my own, only slightly impacted my father’s concerns for my welfare.

Admittedly, I was a bit confused as I stood there in my Cub Scout uniform, suitcase in hand, waiting for the bus to pick me up. Dad had dropped me off on his way to work, assuring me that if I were to be a man, I shouldn’t cry or get lonesome at Camp. Apparently, only a big baby or momma’s boy would express concern after being informed by an assistant store manager that he needed to move along, that the bus didn’t stop here anymore.

But, a couple of the stock boys took pity on me after a day or so and regularly brought me treats. Along with the older produce they threw into the dumpster, I managed to keep my belly full.

No, my week of 'adversity training' wasn’t a torturous experience. However, I did learn a few valuable life lessons that I shall take to the grave with me:

1) Never again will a raw carrot ever find its way down my pie hole.
2) One can learn to take a crap almost anywhere.
3) Brown paper sacks tend to further irritate an already tender bunghole.
4) If your father asks you if you want to go to Panhandling Camp, decline in a manner that cannot possibly be misconstrued as acceptance.

A Study In Pastel

“For the love of God, Linda, turn down that damn jukebox! I like Pearl Jam as much as the next guy, but enough is enough… Jeeeez…”

Linda stopped washing glasses long enough to stare at the fortyish man in the simple dark sport coat and blue shirt. The guy had been coming in every day for the past week or so, and she couldn’t remember him ever speaking to anyone other than to order his Glenfiddich double-malt-- straight-up… never with ice or a splash of water. Doesn’t he have any other clothes? He always wears the same thing… strange duck.

The cute blonde bartender wiped her hands on a bar towel and adjusted the band holding her ponytail in place while sashaying over to the volume control knob directly behind the cash register. That cuts it. He doesn't get to tell me how loud to play the jukebox... A quick counter-clockwise twist bathed the area in total silence as Linda silently sauntered closer to the stranger’s position at the bar.

“I’m going to keep this real simple, Nimrod, because I know you’re a simple guy… this is a neighborhood bar. Take a look at the people sitting around you. Some of them are good people; others, like that fat loser, Cecil, sitting at the other end of the bar, are real assholes… but they all have two things in common. Know what those are, per chance?”

‘Nimrod’ cocked his head and pushed his hand out, palm up. “Oh, I don’t know, let me guess… abominable taste in clothing and music, perhaps?”

Linda broke eye contact with the man and looked around at the others sitting at the bar. Everyone suppressed grins and several looked away, avoiding eye contact lest they instantaneously be turned to stone by Linda’s gaze. “Well, I was shooting for having a good time and unquestioning loyalty to their bartender, but I’ll give you that one…”

Spontaneous laughter filled the room as people began to vacillate toward Nimrod’s seat, introducing themselves and shaking hands. Beaten at her own game, Linda took a five-dollar bill from her tip jar and placed it in front of the man. “Here… go play some music.”

For the next few hours, the bar more closely resembled a homecoming than an assortment of casual acquaintances, as new friends told eclectic stories and laughed in counterpoint to the Irish Rovers, always led by Nimrod’s singing and dancing.

Sometime after midnight, the small fortyish man in the simple dark sport coat and pastel blue shirt checked in at the Avis desk and surrendered the keys to the Ford Taurus. After a quick
walk to the ticket counter at Grand Central Station, shortly past one a.m., he sat down in his window seat and stared into the blackness beyond. Very soon, his brief interlude completed, he’d be en route to the real world.

Michael Patrick Flannery laid his head against the rest and closed his eyes. When next he awoke, Father Michael Patrick Flannery would greet the Abbot and once again enter his world of silence.

Bob Church ©

Breakfast, Launch and Supper

There is almost certainly a purpose and meaning to the universe, even if it is complex and beyond my ability to understand. I take solace in the fact that for one fleeting second right before I die, I might gain an infinitesimal spark of insight.

Until then, I'll keep doing what I do every morning. I'll go outside with a half-bushel of rotten fruit--apples, peaches, cantaloupes, etc.-- and spend an hour or so tuning my launch strategies on my medieval catapult. At first, a couple of the neighbors were a tad nervous, but I put their fears to rest by explaining that I couldn’t possibly hit anything that close.

After a week or so, a few would stop by when they heard the whoosh of the giant arm hurl the projectile of choice into a precise arc with destination unknown. On more than one occasion, Mr. Watson, my 80-year-old neighbor showed up petting and caressing a chihuahua or kitten, imploring me with his eyes to relieve his burden. To his credit, he didn't actually ask me to experiment with the little guys, but I did detect a note of disappointment in his demeanor as he departed. I finally had to discourage him from coming over when he showed up dragging Mrs. Watson. I explained to him that my catapult's tension spring could never handle a two-hundred-pound payload, and if he didn't want to spend the rest of his life in prison, he'd better take his wife back home, put her back in her wheelchair and get the hell off my property. Some people...

Well, the cops are here again. I'll have to explain to them that they can't prove that the projectile in question was launched on my machine. "You got any fingerprints on that watermelon, Officer Lynch?", I'll ask him as I stuff my gloves in my back pocket.

Well, I gotta go... I sure hope Lenny the Leper will pick up the phone before AAA Bailbonds opens at 8 a.m.