Impecunious Laugh Vacuum

This morning I was specifically sought out (through e-mail) by the Handbag Test Panel, an altruistic group of intrepid consumer advocates interested only in insuring that the general public-at-large carries only the finest creations by Burberry, Dooney & Bourke (forgive me if I swoon), and the inimitable Kate Spade (Kate Spade… would that be little Katie Spade, Sam Spade’s daughter, the cute little blonde girl who captured America’s heart with her enthusiastic, if slightly out of tune, rendition of Over The Rainbow at the Founder’s Day Pageant in May of 1944?) *SIGH*

Apparently, all I had to do was supply them with a little background information (for demographic marketing purposes only, of course, and none of the data would ever be passed along to others), including a full financial sheet not unlike the one I filled out when purchasing my last home and a love offering of only $24.95 (to cover shipping and handling), and I would be the proud recipient of my choice of one of their fabulous creations. Be still my foolish heart…

Alas, it can never be. My wife’s arm/shoulder shall not be adorned with the sleek leather/composition magnificence of one of their designers’ priceless creations, because this sort of promotion is prohibited by law in my state. Oh, the humanity…

But life goes on… this, too, shall pass… “Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile” (or so The Bard of Avon would have us believe… Love’s Labor’s Lost, Act 1, scene 1, 72-79… check it out).

No, it’s going to take some time to get over this one. Perhaps a little ‘golf therapy’ might help, accompanied by several hours spent at The Nineteenth Hole in search of solace and multiple pints of Guinness Stout…

In Consideration Of Circumstance

Here in the stillness of this eternal night, little entropic reactions are beginning to occur; annoying mostly, but omnipresent, nevertheless. Considering my present state, I suppose it is a benediction. Not so much feeling as presence, a sensate awareness of change is surging throughout— an attack of sorts… an onslaught of vascular invaders intent upon domination.

Alas, even embalming fluid is transient. Very soon, it too shall be gone, and the last blessing with it. Death was easy, eternity promises no such covenant.

...all about a Monday morning

I don’t care who says that time travel is physically impossible, the guy seated third from the right in The Last Supper is me. I can't figure out how DaVinci painted it fifteen hundred years later and captured my image so perfectly, though. Maybe he knew about time travel, too. In retrospect, if I had it all to do over, I think I would have had him draw me to look a little more like Christopher Walken.

******

I have absolutely no idea why B.B. King and his band decided to burn my house down (with me still in it)... but as a blues fan, I’m pleased that they brought their instruments along with them. Their music helped pass the time as we waited for the paramedics to arrive. There’s something special about the dulcet tones of “The Thrill Is Gone” while one is being loaded onto an ambulance gurney.

******

Knucklehead State University (College of Braggadocio) is proud to announce an addition to its spring semester course offerings:

Hyperbole 101
Instructor: B.R. Church, W.G.A.D. Meets T, Th, Su (2:30 a.m. to 6:15 a.m.) at Denny's

Requirements:

a) Extremely twisted sense of humor
b) Ability to perform complex tongue-twister exercises while mildly intoxicated
c) Poor eyesight or facility to overlook instructor’s somewhat-grotesque personal habits
d) Willingness to contribute large sums of money to instructor’s relief fund. (Note: Attractive females may have any or all requirements waived, dependent upon attitude, at instructor’s discretion)
e) Like a thousand pencils or something


Sample discussion text:

At the doctor’s office:

“Mr. Church, your blood tests show that your cholesterol, lipids, and electrolytes are all fine… but I am concerned about your highly elevated chutzpah levels. Kindly crawl off Nurse Buffy, and we'll discuss it."

******

This morning hasn’t started out great for me. I’m dizzy, I can’t feel my arms or legs, my mouth is dry and pasty, my tongue’s numb and I can’t see my hand in front of my face… plus, judging from the wetness, I’d take 8-to-5 that I just peed my pants.

I’m starting to believe that hindsight is always 20/20, because if I had it all to do over again, last night I wouldn’t have drunk that second bottle of furniture polish.

******

To every thing there is a season, or at least, so Ecclesiastes proclaims. For the past six years is has been our time to kill, our time to cast stones it would seem.

Evidently there is no price too dear for our avaricious appetites, no sacred trust inviolable in our quest for vengeance, no commandment so stringent that we will not forsake it to mollify our sense of political outrage.

Statesmen, if they exist at all, now cower in the weeds of political expediency, waiting until the air is once again sweet enough to lift their heads and determine which way the winds blow. Once-stalwart beings capable of balancing justice and mercy with equal fervor now surround themselves with like-thinking accomplices intent upon forcing their ideology down the throats of others suffering the shock and horror of their presence.

Negotiation skills are taught in a classroom accompanied by car bombs and air strikes, as if a point of view is best heard in the wake of screams. Ecclesiastes also said there is a time to mourn and a time to weep. These days, the tears could fill a dry ocean bed or turn the deserts green... with no end in sight.

Advanced Studies

Some of you may be interested to know that I’ve decided to go back to college. I’m entering a graduate studies program at Knucklehead State, majoring in postmenopausal debauchery.

By the time I receive my PhD, I hope to find myself in a unique position within the senior community, a counselor capable of assessing and treating some of the more misunderstood problems of senior citizens.

I’ve already enrolled in my first course:




Psychology 511 Sexual Assessment and Evaluation (6 hours) – Broken down into two successive teaching blocks, detailing male and female perspectives in determination of hormonal and/or attitudinal assessment.

Female— Examines in depth, the questions “Is it really hot in here or am I merely flashing?”, “The bastard is boinking my best friend!”, “Why don’t I feel sexy anymore?”, “My hussy neighbor is nothing but a tramp!”, “Why does he insist on playing with himself?”, “If he passes out while having an orgasm, should I call the doctor?” and “Fellatio—Teeth In or Out?”

Male—Topics for discussion: "Once A Month Is Not Plenty, Thank You Very Much", Advanced Methods for Keeping Your Balls Inside Your Shorts, "How Much Crotch Scratching Should Be Tolerated?", Strategies For Boinking The Tramp Next Door, "Why Does She Bitch When I Play With Myself", "Of Course I'm Going To Play Golf Today, Why Do You Ask?" and "I’m Sorry, But She Just Isn’t Sexy Anymore."


Hopefully, this will help prepare me for the more advanced courses in Bacchanalia, orgiastic party planning, drunken revelry, Satyrological Behavorial Analysis and Saturnalia. One day soon, you'll be able to say, 'I knew him when'. Stay tuned...

By the way, in reference to the picture, is that a Gibson on that guy's Johnson?

Writing Outside The Box

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

That afternoon the sheep crossed the creek in front of my hook. They were so close that their shadows fell across my bait. I practically caught trout up their assholes. —Richard Brautigan, Trout Fishing In America, 1967, Houghton Mifflin Company (by permission)

If you asked me to define edgy writing, I wouldn’t hesitate a second to answer. “Richard Brautigan”, I’d say. His work should grace the library of every edgy writer. Every morning, one should wake up and pour him/herself a Brautigan tonic as a bracer, slugging it down to shock a lethargic, post-somnambulistic system like astigmatism making itself at home behind your optic nerve or sprinklers going off in a park where John Dillinger’s body lies in repose.

Feel the burn… understand the hunger, own the desire to move the elephant into the living room. Smelled of sheep… do you remember how Grandma smelled when she leaned down and forced you to allow her to kiss you, smiling and cooing, cool fleshy flaps of skin suddenly smearing spit all over your cheek as every atom in your body struggled to bolt? You can’t capture the odor except in the context of the universality of common experience. Brautigan’s brilliance created similes that gave anthropomorphic qualities to plants, rivers, the sun… he related human experiences in the context of the natural world, at a level that requires supernatural realization. He creates a world of ‘could have been’ or ‘might possibly be’ or ‘if x then why not y, even though y doesn’t exist on a plane that some humans accept as real’. He bounds, undaunted, into a twilight world of what the word-snobs call ‘quasi-reality’, the ‘almost real’. And by doing so, he slips the fetters binding other writers with cold, hard reality. He expands the possibilities, linking the grace and poetic beauty of the great masters with the stark, in-your-face slap of everyday living. His elixir alerts you to the burn that makes you edgy. Enjoy it with gusto; wallow in its sensitivity and immerse your mind in his pool, suspend your disbelief.

Reality. What is it exactly? Most people accept a more-or-less universal concept of it, but no one has license over it. The five senses don’t adequately explain reality in total. My reality may not exist for you at all, and that’s okay. Reality’s domain is different for every creature, every plant, every breeze that blows. Some kids grow up thinking that if they don’t get knocked around at least once a day, daddy doesn’t love them. A large number of humans have never seen a skunk or a double-bladed timber axe or a coffee cup, yet they still have a concept of their use if their other senses get involved in the process. Helen Keller could not see, hear nor speak; yet she created a world of beauty for herself, within herself—then she shared it with us. Helen Keller was one edgy lady; her reality existed on a different, higher plane.

I’ve heard good writing described as ‘capturing life on the page’. For the most part, I’d be inclined to agree with this assessment, especially when uttered by creative writing professors or others qualified to make such assertions. Further, I’ve been taught that the singular quality that links all good writing is its ability to make the words ‘jump off the page’. Obviously, there would seem to be a contradiction at work here.

Given the inability of any act to accomplish two different events simultaneously due to the Einsteinian subscription to the limits placed on the natural world, one must assume that if something can jump off the page, it cannot, by definition, be captured. So, given my perceptional difficulties with the concepts, I choose to ignore the contradiction and commit myself to capture life on the page and jump on it, no matter whether or not it offends your sense of reality and/or fair play. Yes, the elephant can come inside my house, so long as he promises not to drink my beer or harass the toilet/tiger.

And From The Hordes Came One

Foreward: Here Come The Jesters, One, Two, Three

“And swap two asses for one who harasses? I think not, you slathering sot!”

From amid the gathered, an anonymous voice challenged, “That’s right, vilify with civili-tie, just know the bile from your simpering smiles best reveal those scenes you steal.” A confused dance accompanied the declaration, carrying the entire troop past the throngs of now-bewildered masses; that is, until one drunken centurion mistook a tiger for a street corner harlot and gave his life as bounty for an ill-conceived attempt at coitus interruptus. Throughout the marketplace, merchants, consumers and those inclined toward more creative (if injudicious) methods of removing goods from their rightful owners paid little attention to the bartering, accustomed as they were to life in the souk.

“A dollywomp for the Judean!” The intensity and clarity of the voice stopped all conversation save low murmurings from adjacent characters non-integral to the scene and best described as low-wage extras supplied by Herod’s seemingly-inexhaustible caches of individuals content to receive a few orts in return for their promise never to form a union. Of course, no written documentation signified their acquiescence given their First Century customary lack of writing skills, but dominion accepted is dominion warranted, so the point became moot in any case. No one except one born of noble blood would dare speak in such tones without worrying of society’s penalties for such effrontery.

“Who… him?” The fat trader reacted quickly, grabbing an underfed member of his entourage and thrusting him to a position of prominence at the front of the mob. “Is this the one you want? Personally, I thought him to more closely resemble a Tunisian, but if you say he’s a Judean, then so be it. Of course, such a capable earner could never be allowed to do service for anyone else without a much more generous bid than I thought I heard… what was it, four dollywomps you offered?” Light shone off the now-grinning pasha’s teeth as he waited for a response.

For his own part, the grotesque effendi seated atop the slave-drawn litter carefully fanned himself, concerned that he might over-react to the commoner’s insolence and order him beheaded. Plus, the hummus and baba ghanoush he’d eaten during the midday repast now sent gas pains coursing through his abdomen with the fury of some giant anachronistic jet turbine that would not be invented for another two thousand years, threatening to fill his pantaloons with flatulence and/or worse, forcing him to focus on his gastric infirmity rather than the task at hand. Still, he had a reputation to protect so he decided to press on. “What are his skills, this Tunisian Judean?”

The question seemed a fair one, judging from the number of turbans nodding within the crowd, and the trader noticed it, too. “Well,” he began, gathering his hands to his chest in the manner of a Christian preparing for prayer (which, of course, he was not), a position he often used when attempting to promote an air of worldly scholarship (which, of course, he also could not) designed to give the impression that he knew what the fuck he was doing and could not be cheated, “are you speaking of his performance art or his abilities as a tradesman?”

“Start anywhere you like,” the elder yawked, waving a fine red linen handkerchief dismissively, “but I warn you, for one dollywomp he’d better be pretty damn talented.” He then proceeded to blow his nose on the crimson square before tossing it to the crowd. Leaning to one side, he cupped his hand over the ear of the strapping eunuch standing next to him and whispered, “Fetch me some tincture of witch hazel, a little Devil’s Tongue and maybe just a pinch of Job’s Tears if you can get your hands on it… I think I feel a cold coming on. Have you ever had a summer cold? No, of course you haven’t, slaves don’t get colds… never mind, just do as I say.”

Grabbing the Tunisian Judean’s cassock in the area that would have been his lapels if it had been the twentieth-century and he’d been wearing a western-style suit jacket, the merchant gritted his teeth and whispered to his charge, “I don’t give two shits what you do, but it’d better damn well be spectacular!” before tossing him forward, where the man landed on his butt causing the audience to titter.

Not ten feet from him, Pusillanimous Pilot stared down. “Do you have a name?”

Looking up, but not yet bothering to rise, the man nodded. “Yes, I have a name.”

Pilot began to chortle loudly, causing the simpering hangers-on to erupt with their own brand of derisive laughter; then raised his hand, signaling them to be silent. “You’re a funny guy, pilgrim, so… if you’re in the mood, I mean… would you mind telling me what your name is? You know… just for old time’s sake?”

Without looking up, he offered, “I am known by many names, but I prefer Art… or Artie if you choose, that’s what my friends call me.”

Unfinished and Untitled...

... and if you're capable of completing the first paragraph/sentence without first poking both your eyes out with an icepick, you'll understand why. I don't really know why I do this, it really shows very little regard for my readers' sensibilities and even less for the 'rules' of good writing. I am, at my lowest common denominator, a pusillanimous reprobate incapable of even a modicum of respect for others, a low-grade fever, a contemptible pustule filled with bilious vitriol. And those are my good points...

Once upon a time, in a land that never really existed but I wish it did because it would make it far easier to provide details in a story rather than pulling them out of my ass and just hoping that they might sound conceivable to a discerning potential reader, there lived a loosely-bound group of genetically-linked hominids capable of most all the mental and physical characteristics available to other members of their species, but who, through eons of diligence and practice, became specialized with speech patterns emphasizing broad speculative interpretations of available data interspersed with factoids only peripherally aligned with any subject being discussed, resulting in overly-long, nearly-imperceptible, exhaustingly-inarticulate sentences that went on and on and on… except when they needed to fart, of course, which was pretty often given the fact that they ate a diet composed mainly of a chili-cheese mixture embellished with corn chips and wrapped in flour tortillas, washing it down with a warm stale beer called Swillyesbutstilltasty.

Now, for all their social unacceptability and borderline sociopathy, they also possessed an innate kindness that forbade them to drown kittens or beat puppies, although the occasional flushing-of-goldfish was permitted as punishment of and object lesson to a disobedient child. This disavowal of violence and general amity and harmony with their neighbors, naturally, led to their rejection by the local Republican Party, forcing their representatives to minority positions in the area legislatures and virtually prohibiting the possibility that a member of their band ever be elected President. In fact, so apathetic was their population and so anti-establishment was their voting base that special laws had been enacted to summarily prohibit participation in the legislative process in any way unless and until they could prove that they subscribed to the State doctrine of Going-Along-To-Get-Along (refined from the previously-popular but highly politically incorrect Don't-Say-Shit-Even-If-You-Have-A-Mouthful).

Did I mention the name of this fascinating yet highly flawed group? Sorry, sometimes in my frenzied fervor to feed you festive fonts of alliterative details, I tend to forget the formalities and fail to identify my foragers. Let’s call them… Etruscans. Yes, I realize that there was a real civilization by that name, native inhabitants of ancient Etruria who influenced the Romans (who had, in recognition of this influence, suppressed them in typical Roman fashion until about 200 BC), but it’s the only one I can think of right now, so it’ll have to do.

There were lots of monsters living in the area immediately contiguous to the Etruscans, too. Ranging in size and intelligence from massive to miniscule, although the two indices were not in every case proportional, these beasts provided daily challenges to Etruscan existence.

We Now Return You To Your Regularly Scheduled Programming...

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. In fact, had armed intruders burst through the door and sprayed my heart, spleen and pancreas with a barrage of small arms fire, my last thoughts would have been 'Thank God! Where have you been and what took you so long?'

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 flashes of marketing genius.

Even sporting events are affected, with ‘tv-timeouts’ and other orchestrated game stoppages designed to allow Budweiser to sell us some more of Auggie Busch's finest elixir. God forbid that a player gets hurt bad enough to require a cart to haul him off the field, because there’ll 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 beat me, Madison Avenue, I give up. I know you don’t care because there are millions to replace me, and I'm the wrong demographic in the first place, 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. Meanwhile, I'm off to the bingo parlor... at least there I anticipate diminished expectations.

Jury Duty

Yea, yea, yea… call me out, just because I’m twenty lousy minutes late for court. I’m sorry that I kept the wheels of justice from getting greased just because some jerk in a Mercedes took the last parking spot and I had to try to park in the handicapped parking area. I tried explaining it to the meter maid, but she wrote me the damn ticket anyway. Like towing my car is really going to help me be on time, right? So, it’s really the city’s fault that I had to walk from the satellite parking area, causing me to be late.

Sometimes I get so disgusted by what I witness that I just want to crawl into a hole and shovel the dirt over myself. Sitting in the jury box this morning, I watched the expressions of the audience and the other jury members that I could see without becoming conspicuous, who listened to the lawyers and the testimony being offered. Suddenly, I wondered if I were the only one who wasn’t speculating as to what the judge wore underneath her robe.

Juror #4 definitely undressed her as he sat there, his gaze fixed and his cold black pupils beginning to dilate. I couldn’t see his crotch, but if I could, there’d be a tent where no tent should be under such circumstances, you can take that to the bank. I think the guy is either Italian or maybe Greek, and he’s got longshoreman’s hands, but manicured. Who knows, he might be a made guy for all I know, especially if he’s Italian. I considered asking him what he thought of the judge, when we take a break, but thought better of it. It’s best not to antagonize those guys.

Why would a woman want to be a judge, especially a fine-looking specimen like Judge Caruthers? Fortyish, but definitely assembled in a nice petite little package, she wore a purplish-brown (puce?) blouse that stuck out the top of her robe and screamed ‘respect me, you sumbitches!’ I like that, too… ballsy chicks are cool. I think she’s had Lasik because she doesn’t wear glasses, even when she picks up some papers and reads them… and that’s okay, too, because it shows that she doesn’t want to look like a dork in front of the assemblage, not that she’d necessarily look like a dork in glasses, but you know what I’m saying, right? After all, she’s a judge, not a second-shift assembler on the transmission line at General Motors, is she? The public scrutinizes her constantly, so her looks are important, especially to Juror #4, apparently… I may speak to him about it when we go to lunch, he’s embarrassing me a little. I’m not afraid of him, I’ll bet he isn’t such a bad ass without his heat, and I know he had to pass through a metal detector as he came to court. It’s not right for a juror to be removing the judge’s bra and panties while testimony is given (although I'm convinced the judge probably has a fine rack) even though the DA’s opening statement proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that the bastard did the deed.

The defendant’s sister is hot, too, if you’re into the grunge look. It isn’t my thing, necessarily, but it works for her. Personally, I can take it or leave it, that’s all I’m saying, know what I mean? I can tell by the way she looks away when we make eye contact that she wants me. Have you ever noticed how pent-up sexual tension can do that? Some women try to make you think that they’re really not interested when really they are… I’ve had some actually cross the street as we waited at the bus stop, just to keep from taking all their clothes off and accosting me as we stood there. That really would have been embarrassing.

Oh, look, now the defense attorney is objecting. Yea, that’s right… stand up and make an ass of yourself in front of the entire courtroom. Uh-huh, sure… it calls for speculation on the part of the witness… sure it does, you weasel. What? Sustained? Oh, come on, Judge, we’ll be here all freaking day if you allow him to keep doing this… let’s just get on with it, okay?

I wish I had a mint. My stomach is a little upset from all the sausage I ate this morning. I really need to quit going to buffets, especially for breakfast. Eight or ten link sausages would have been plenty, but when they’re sitting there in the pan and I can have as many as I want, sometimes I just can’t help myself. Judges with cute puce shirts under their robes are like that, too, I guess, according to that lecher, Juror #4. I’d like to break wind, but the schoolmarm sitting next to me would probably have a heart attack if she heard it. She’s a prissy one, and ugly as a mud fence. I’ll bet she’s never farted in her entire life. Who would want to wake up next to her? If you open up the drawer of her bedside table, you’ll find Mister Sure To Please and a lifetime supply of AA batteries. Maybe he can defrost her enough to leave a little moisture on the sheets, who knows? Stranger things have happened, I’m sure…

Wait! What’s that? A continuance? Saints be praised! Now maybe I can make it to the bathroom before my bowels explode! Plus, it’ll give Mr. Wonderful, Juror #4, a chance to calm down a little, too. Honestly, some people just don’t know how to conduct themselves when given a position of responsibility. It's just despicable, and it makes me feel a little ashamed…

I wonder what they’ll be serving for lunch.

Touch

Touch

Touch it… it’s real… it can’t hurt you.
Feel the oh-so-subtle current that flows into your fingers…
know its somber acceptance of what must be,
even as the skin warms under your touch.
Share its desire to meet you in our special place,
the wilderness we share that is ours alone,
so that when our journey ends, and end it must,
you’ll glimpse eternity and smile.

Can you feel my heart? Merely touch your own
and you’ll know the truth.

All The News Anyone Could Possibly Expect

(UPI) Nkhata Bay, Malawi— Tired of the killing and general lack of respect that humans show for each other, Nhaba-Tsibutu, the large cape buffalo grazing on swamp grass at the edge of the village, made a plea for greater understanding. Then, realizing that his efforts were mistaken for an act of aggression, he charged into a local market and trampled everyone incapable of outrunning him, thereby making it a self-fulfilling prophesy.

(Reuters) Jiangsu, China— The Hang Fang Porcelain Works, makers of the once-famous “I Wish I Were Dead” coffee cup, will suspend operations on March 1, 2008 because of slow sales and the decline of the US dollar. When contacted for comment, President Bush said, “I really don’t give a shit… I already got me one.”

(UPI) Hadleyburg, Ohio—In January 2008, drinking in local rock quarries declined by nearly 40%, according to Hadley County Deputy Sheriff and Officer of Community Relations, Purcell Purser. While admitting that reasons for the sharp decline are not well-defined, it is concluded by law enforcement and other community leaders that strict enforcement of drunk driving ordinances and the fact that the weather has been colder than a well-digger’s ass may well be driving the reduction.

(AP) Ypsilanti, Michigan—Local mother Juanita Carlson tossed and turned all night on Sunday, wondering what her son, Willie, is eating while away at school. Willie, 19, a freshman at The Michigan Millinery Academy, received his mother’s blessing and approximately $4,000 worth of comestibles and preparation utensils when he moved into his off-campus apartment, but Mrs. Carlson fears that he may not know where to find the cooking oil, which she mistakenly put on the top shelf behind the large box of trash liners. Also, Willie hasn’t contacted his mother since the late night hours of January 1st, when he called and informed his mother that “this shit is fucking incredible”, before the line immediately went dead. Compounding the situation, last night Willy’s landlord called Mrs. Carlson, informing her that a terrible odor even now emanated from Willy’s apartment, and that if she didn’t call Willie and tell him to clean it up, his next call would be to the police. Apparently, the line wasn't the only thing in the apartment that had gone dead.

Death Therapy

Have you noticed that you’re starting to get telemarketing calls on your cell phone now? I am now convinced that telemarketers are no longer paid by the number of sales they achieve from their efforts, but by the amount of time they can keep a prospective customer on the line. In fact, I don’t think they’re really representing specific companies at all, I think they’re all shills for the phone company—the longer they can keep you on the line, the more the phone company charges you.

I got a call last night that went something like this:

“Hello?”

“Hey, how are you tonight? This is Larry, down at Merle’s Hardware, and I see that you recently bought some merchandise from us. I’m calling to follow up and make sure that you’re satisfied with your purchases. Would you mind answering a few questions for me, it’ll help us determine customer satisfaction levels and ultimately keep our prices low. Plus, as your reward for helping us out, we’ll be sending you a nice gift.”

“I’ve never stepped foot in a Merle’s Hardware store.”

“I see here that you used your MasterCard for your purchase. Could you please confirm your number and expiration date for me so I can make sure that it’s really you? I wouldn’t want to inconvenience the wrong Bob Church.”

“I don’t have a MasterCard, and even if I did I’d sooner allow you to strap me down and pull all my teeth out with a pair of Channel Lock pliers without the benefit of anesthetic before I gave you the number.”

“Wait… oh, I’m sorry, I was looking at the wrong line on my monitor, I’ll need your Visa card number.”

(After a short pause to recompose myself) “I’m not giving you my Visa card number.”

“It wouldn’t have been an American Express card, would it?”

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear… there isn’t a Merle’s Hardware store within a hundred miles of my house, and I certainly wouldn’t drive that far to buy hardware.”

“Well, Mr. Church—do you mind if I call you ‘Mr. Church’, I assure you I respect you and your time— let me ask you this, if there were a Merle’s Hardware store close to you, what credit card would you be using for your purchases and what is its number, including the four number identifier code on the back?”

“Please don’t force me to be rude, I don’t want to descend to your level, but I’m not giving you any credit card numbers.”

“Uh-huh… I understand totally, many people feel that way until they know that tonight only, I am authorized to offer you $50,000 worth of building materials for only $500 if you’re willing to put it on a nationally accepted credit card such as MasterCard, Visa, American Express, Discover or major department store. That’s a tremendous bargain, Bob, one that you’d kick yourself for tomorrow if you fail to act tonight.”

“I’m going to dress up like a drunken doctor in a Superman costume with a burrito stuffed into the crotch of his tights and give you a proctology exam.”

“Let’s assume for a minute that there was a Merle’s Hardware store close by, what card would you be using?”

“I fully intend to hunt you down and kill you.”

“From our conversation, I’m guessing Discovery, am I correct?”

“I’m going to find you, rape you and your wife, kill your kids and set your house on fire.”

“Say, that’s swell, scooter, I understand... but you can’t claim the fabulous prize I’m about to offer you without a credit ca—”

--CLICK--

Dimple-Cheese Delicacies

Lately, I’ve felt the need to remain incognito, regardless what situation might arise. Trust me, my friends; this is more easily alleged than executed… or something to that effect. The semantics of the wording is totally unimportant in this case, and while I could have just as well (and correctly, I might add) written, “…more easily said than done”, it would risk sounding trite or banal, would it not? Now, look what you’ve done… you’ve forced me off point. But it won’t work! Do you understand me? No, sir! Regardless of your insidious motives, I shall remain true to my quest… and you can take that to the bank, Mister! Wake up and smell the coffee!

Oh, my goodness… I just re-read the previous paragraph and I see that I used exclamation points to punctuate four out of the last five sentences. My God, how amateurish! Oops… sorry, there’s another one. I’m so ashamed. I fear I’ve become so single-minded in my attempt to illustrate my zeal that I’ve temporarily stomped on the Principle of Exclamation Point Economy! Help me, sweet Jesus!

It is, precisely, times such as these, that a lesser writer might give in to temptation and (gulp) edit. (Excuse me for a second… I need a sip of coffee…) (There… that’s nice. I recently switched to a different brand of Colombian, not so much because my current brand was failing to please, but because the brand I’m now using is a little closer to eye level on the shelf and requires less expenditure of ergs in the task’s execution. Overall, I’d assess the experiment as a success, although I have no support for the theory except personal observation, therefore violating the premise of scientific method and rendering any conclusions necessarily vacuous, or at the very least, questionable. I hope the scientists among your numbers can, in time, learn to forgive me for my sloppy execution of time-honored protocol. Did I mention that the new brand also carries an asking price of nearly double that of the old? Never mind, the point is moot in any case... I'll just give up breakfast to make up the difference or, perhaps, start drinking Ripple instead of Boone's Farm... I need to give that a little more thought.)

Anyway… I tried not to attract attention today. This might be a good time to point out that if you’re a novice and still trying to learn the art of disguise, forget about camouflaged wetsuits— I tried wearing mine to the mall, and people could still see me, even when I crouched and attempted to remain very still. I think next time I’ll leave the rubber duckie flotation device at home.

In the words of the esteemed Donny Baker: I gotta go…

An Hour To Reflect

An Hour To Reflect

I read her Twain in a hot tub…
at least, I do until my glasses fog up.
She likes that, she says,
somehow it makes her feel good,
hearing the words from me.

She says he’d be proud,
hearing me read.

Light stuff, mostly; short stories,
essays, extracts from Adam’s diary… and Eve’s.
Corruption in Hadleyburg, monetary bequests,
conversations on that new-fangled telephone…
she snorts from time to time when I get it just right
and Sam shines across the page.

She says we’re kindred souls,
and I still don’t know whom she meant…
I guess I should have asked.

A sip of wine or coffee, depending on the time of day,
and birds repeating my words in the background,
I pause to reflect and watch her face from the side,
and wonder aloud… “Enough?”

“No, read me that poem again,
the one he wrote after his children died.”

She says post-mortem poetry is the sweetest of all,

and I finally understand why I love them both so much.

‘Tis Marshly Voravé

*This poem is not recommended for those inclined to sit and stare incoherently. If you, or anyone you know intimately (and by intimately I refer to societal intimacy, not necessarily physical intimacy, although I certainly approve of that, too, so go for it if you take a notion), has previously demonstrated a predilection for said catatonia, I must insist that you read no further.

The Management

‘Tis Marshly Voravé

Muskrim and pelgrave, we dwimble…
Farthing bare for soot so afoot,
Flash sodden! Crash noggin!
Twit! Twat! Twut!

Paramour and belgrade, we gimble…
Nonce put merkin’s rare agog,
Cinch plodden! Brash scoggin!
Nit! Gnat! Gnut!

Plethora rare and bodkin’s sweet hare,
Ambience miffed only to pout,
Kenny loggin’, Marbury doggin’!

Shit! Shat! Shut!

A Breakfast Conversation

Henry Ballard sat semi-tranquilly at his kitchen table, staring into the infinite space his mind created where cupboards, cereal boxes, dishes and a pantry might ordinarily inhabit. His fingers tapped ceremoniously in response to a tune heard only by him.

“You know, Trudy…” he began, now staring across the table, “if it weren’t for you, there wouldn’t be anyone in the entire world I could count on.”

“Now, Henry, you know that isn’t so.”

“Oh, stop right there, my dear, I’m calling bullshit! It is, too, so! You know it and I know it… the whole damn world knows it, they just won’t admit it because they want me to die so they can take my money!”

“Why do you say that? John and Becky come to see you every week, and sometimes they even bring the kids.”

“Yea, John and Becky… I keep hearing about the great lawyer and his trophy wife,” then leaning closer, he continued, “you know they’re trying to put me in a home.”

“I’ve never heard them mention it.”

“Well, you better wake up and smell the coffee, sister, because times, they’re a-changin’,” Henry bellowed at Trudy, setting his eyes upon her and cocking his head slightly, “and, by the way, may I say that you’re looking a little peaked, this morning, have you been sleeping all right?”

“You know I don’t like it when you get worked up like this, Henry. Why don’t you eat some toast… it’ll make you feel better.”

"Trudy, they say I'm losing my marbles."

"Oh, pshaw... you're fine, my darling, maybe just a little too hard on your family. If I were you, I wouldn't give it another thought."

Staring at Trudy, Henry smiled, one of those closed-mouthed, eyes scrunched, self-conscious grins he’d developed to acknowledge when someone had successfully called his bluff.

"Yes, I suppose you’re right…” the bluster gone and his voice suddenly transformed into a mea culpa squeak as he grabbed two slices of bread out of its protective plastic wrap, “a body needs to eat. Thanks for reminding me.”

Placing the two slices of bread in the available slots, Henry pushed the handle down and Trudy’s heating coils turned cherry red.

The Spears Enigma

Try as she might, poor Britney could never grasp even the most rudimentary aspects of the group dynamic. Fortunately, as fate would have it, she was raised in a family capable of instilling in her a highly-honed sense of resentment for authority.

Tree-House Gothic

The very term, ‘tree-house’, in this case could only be termed ambitious. The stark enclosure, constructed of the most rudimentary materials--particleboard, previously used two-by-fours, nails picked up off the ground at construction sites, and a few sheets of tin serving double duty as roof and siding—looked much as it did the last time I saw it, fifty years ago. Oh, it’s true that the tin gave testimony of the abuse heaped on by Colorado weather, choosing to give up several electrons of galvanizing and revert to its elemental oxide color. That’s the thing about tin, I think; much like its human counterpart, it can’t be trusted to resist the cold without help.

Sitting tucked between three foundation-limbs nearly twelve feet off the ground (or so I assessed it without actual measurement or knowledge of trigonometric calculation—I tended to daydream a good bit in math class), it persevered the last half century with grace uncommon to most of us. I found a long, straight stick and prodded inside the opening (I’d call it a doorway except for the fact that it had never contained an actual door), and hooked onto the two ropes with intertwined knots that dropped down and formed the basis of a ladder.

How many kids had crawled inside it? How many teenagers seeking refuge from their parents’ judgmental eyes had rolled fat joints between these walls? How many teen-aged boys saw their first real, live bare titties up here? How much semen produced by Hustler photos or Mary Elizabeth Bradley’s hand-jobs stained the floor? Would the lantern Uncle Willie gave me still be there? Hell, would the rope even hold me as I tried to climb it?

One look at the aged hemp left no doubt that the rotting process sufficiently altered the rope’s integrity so as to render it ineffectual as conveyance to the Kingdom, so I returned to my truck and produced the aluminum ladder and extended it skyward. Once in place against the threshold, a quick tap insured its viability and I began to scale the rungs, my senses preparing for my entrance and my mind savoring the anticipation. I couldn’t help but compare my steps to those of Egyptologist Howard Carter as he first entered the tomb of Tutankhamen at Luxor. Are the treasures unsullied by human hands? Will the curse I set into motion fifty years ago still strike dead anyone attempting to enter? Will the floor collapse and deposit my ample ass back onto the forest floor?

I ambled onto the tin floor on hands and knees, carefully testing each movement and noting how much the enclosure had shrunk since my boyhood. Other than some debris deposited by the wind along the back wall, there was only one artifact still present—a torn poster now faded by weather and age, but still hung in precisely the spot I had nailed it so long ago. A smiling cartoon clown, wearing a pointy fez and oversized shoes, posed in a fashion no doubt designed to pique our interest and beg our parents to take us. Underneath, in letters too large to ignore, came the proclamation:

Ringling Brothers-Barnum and Bailey Circus
Denver Coliseum, July 16-20, 1960

A few minutes wasn’t too much to ask of myself as I luxuriated in the rich memories of Dale Irthum, Cheri Duval, Dick-licker Ambrose and the night I convinced Laurel McFadden that she couldn’t get pregnant the first time. Suddenly, I felt the enclosure shake and creak. Perhaps the wind gusted a little harder than I’d anticipated or possibly the ghosts felt threatened by my presence, I couldn’t be sure. Either way, I filled my lungs with the same slightly lean Rocky Mountain air of my youth and backed down the rungs of my ladder.

1960… in a tree-house…

Your Daily Moment of Zen

Your Daily Moment of Zen (turn your sound up)

Have you ever wanted to be someone (or something) else? I've always thought I'd be pretty neat to be a bird. And it wouldn't have to be an exotic bird, either. I wouldn't tax the Creator's patience by insisting He make me a Blue Crown Conure or Patagonian Nanday. I'd settle for being a common pigeon. Yea, a pigeon...

Sure, pigeons are a pain in the ass sometimes, given their propensity toward crapping all over everything in sight and, yes, it's true that they're known to carry some pretty nasty diseases, as well. But they can be useful. Say, for example, you're trapped behind enemy lines in Nazi Germany and you need to get a message to the Allied commanders so that they can come get you... what better way to do it than with a carrier pigeon? Not even the Nazis are cruel enough to shoot down a harmless pigeon.

Yes, there are lots of good reasons to be a pigeon. But maybe the best would be that if I were a pigeon, and got a little too drunk and felt the need to take a squirt on Ben Franklin's statue in the park, maybe I wouldn't have had to bail myself out of jail this morning.

I'm just sayin'...

Hand-Me-Down Mirth

I’ve only been on one safari, but the experience remains indelible. I think some of us lack the gene that hardwires us to accept the shock of death and disembowelment, so when the giraffes attacked and ate our indigenous guide, Nkwanu, the entire scene left me with nightmares.

Like most people I’d come to believe that giraffes are harmless herbivores. In hindsight, perhaps it wasn’t prudent to roll Nkwanu in acacia sap and fresh mimosas leaves, and then tie him to a 12-foot extension ladder on the side of the Land Rover.

My bad...

Hints Of Spleen In Our Best Tureen

The two chookyes, bellies full and not a little sleepy, decided to call it a night. Stretched out on the warm desert, chookye style, with their back legs trained behind them and to the sides, knees bent luxuriously, they rested with heads on their forearms, rubbing their midsections slowly back and forth across the soft sand.

“Are we reticulated?” said the first, his chookye voice even squeakier than usual, the result of spending far too long in the baneberry patch.

The larger chookye opened one eye far enough to form a slit, failing to clear his transparent nictitating membrane, so puny his effort. “I don’t know… I guess I’ve never thought about it. Let me consider it and I’ll get back to you.”

No sounds sullied the moment save those created by friction between their bellies and the sand, the chookye version of Brahms. A full ten seconds passed before the senior chookye re-closed his barely-open eye and replied, “No, I don’t believe we’re reticulated. Somehow, I think that someone would have mentioned it before this.”

Again the lunar stillness fell over them in its fullness, emphasizing their contemplative aspects and soothing their all-too-overwrought chookye dispositions. Both chookyes, their species lacking the anatomical capability of sighing, continued to bask in the glow of their surfeit tummies, nevertheless.

At some point (it’s very difficult to quantify time in the desert night, and even if attempted, its significance would likely be pooh-poohed as unnecessary), junior chookye moved his torso slightly, allowing five or six gas bubbles to escape from his anal orifice and reverberate, announcing their arrival with a hearty staccato.

“Excuse me.” said junior, his voice revealing his embarrassment. Chookyes are nothing if not polite.

For his part, senior felt no obligation to reply further, his lack of response tacit acceptance of the apology, albeit totally unnecessary. Choosing instead to proceed with the more intellectual discussion of Junior’s previous question, senior offered, “Actually, the subject of our potential reticulation means squadoosh to me. I know of several creatures with true reticulant characteristics; a python, a giraffe or two, a shark and even a gecko, but chookyes they are not. I suggest you concentrate on something of greater substance.”

Whether or not junior chookye felt chastised by senior’s admonition, or for that matter felt anything at all, will forever remain a mystery. Handy as nictitating membranes may be for keeping sand out of the eyes, when shut they function only as an impediment to wariness. This night, under the desert moon, the forces of kismet stampeded the chookyes along with a herd of frightened praluks, the hooves of which brought about the demise of both junior and senior.

And this, my friends, is the way of the world. It’s neither terrible nor tragic; it’s just the way the chookye crumbles.

Plumbing Is As Plumbing Does

Plumbing Is As Plumbing Does

I once knew a man who held a great love for the finer things in life. Such was his affection for art and literature that he often obsessed over works of prose and poetry. Not a day went by that he didn’t revisit his tomes of the great poets and revel in the wisdom, beauty and extravagant splendor of the written word.

Fortune smiled upon him in all ways. Born of wealth and excess, he lived in a villa on the outskirts of Thunder Bay, where he could watch the iron freighters and cast them in roles of importance during his daily one-act plays. The Pride of Chesterton became the blasphemous king and the Port Bainbridge sufficed as his indolent and reclusive queen. Together, they filled his hours with the industry and dignity of toil as he watched the longshoremen work their magic while he read them sonnets and quatrains from afar, all entirely relevant and with their behind-the-words meaning never in question.

One day, he decided to change his world. After all, what good was poetry if he kept it locked inside him? So, he decided to replace all his plumbing with the works of the great masters. At great expense, his water softener was transformed into Carl Sandburg and his kitchen sink became Elizabeth Barrett Browning. He now drew his water from The Iliad, complete with its tendency to taste like bitter Greek wine.

He took out all the pipes and replaced them with Gerard Manley Hopkins, while he transformed the water heater into Shakespeare. Needless to say, this greatly displeased all the other fixtures. Lying in a heap at the far end of the basement and out of the loop, they became greatly alarmed. What will become of us?

The man was greatly pleased, at first, content with his transformational powers and satisfied with the enhanced ambience about the house. But then, while trying to draw a glass of Leaves of Grass from the Sonnets From The Portuguese he noticed that the two forms tended to stick in his throat and muddy his palate; when he finally managed to get them down, he immediately experienced gastronomic distress from the powerful libations and ran headlong for the Ralph Waldo Emerson!

While feverishly attempting to pull down his pants and position himself, he suddenly realized that he could never relieve himself on Ode To Beauty!

Our story ends with his ringing the buzzer to his neighbor’s apartment, banging wildly on the door and in full voice demanding entrance, his pants still unbuckled. Unfortunately, his neighbor had recently replaced his plumbing, too. Upon feverishly pulling open the bathroom door, our hero was devoured by the Tiger, tiger, burning bright toilet replacement.

The moral to the story (if not already evident) is simple enough… if you simply must be eccentric, first get to know your neighbors.

The Boy Who Wanted To Do Something Pretty Spectacular

Note** Some of you may have seen this before. I apologize for the redundancy.




The Boy Who Wanted To Do Something Pretty Spectacular


Author’s Note:

I’ve always wanted to sit down and write a story about a boy who either could do or wanted to do something pretty spectacular. I’m still a bit torn about which to write about, although I guess either one would do just fine, since it’s pretty likely that very few people will get to read the story in either case. Dad used to tell us stories at camp-outs when we were kids. I’m pretty sure he was making them up on the fly, because he seemed to get some of the details mixed up when he changed scenes. I do know for a fact that none of them were written down, so, apparently, strict adherence to the truth isn’t a concern for storytellers. Maybe it’s better if I told a story about a boy who wanted to do something pretty spectacular; that way I wouldn’t be bound to facts and I could just make it up as I go along. Of course, no one would believe it, but that’s okay, because as I already told you, in all likelihood, no one will ever read it anyhow.

Okay, so that brings me to the original stumbling block. I have to invent a kid. For the sake of argument, let’s just say that the kid was a white kid who lived in a medium-sized suburb of a large Mid-western city, maybe Kansas City or Oklahoma City, or even Denver. I’m making him white because I’m white and not nearly clever enough to conjure up a black, Mexican, Arab or Oriental kid, although I suppose I could pull it off if I made him a Pollock or an Italian, I grew up with a fair amount of both of those nationalities. My kid’s parents probably aren’t professionals, because those people tend to watch their kids pretty close, making them go to soccer camp and piano recitals and all that sort of shit, and since they live in walled communities, none of their kids will ever grow up stealing cherries off the trees of the cranky old lady who lives across the alley (the one who Mom says has a pacemaker and a colostomy bag). This kid’s dad doesn’t necessarily have to be a drunk, but if he is, so much the better, it adds to the texture of a boy who wants to do something pretty spectacular.


Let’s review… we’ve got a non-ethnic white boy living in a lower middle class Midwestern suburb who stems from non-professional parents and prefers to steal his fruits and vegetables from gardens throughout the neighborhood. Now we need to superimpose him upon a historical setting capable of providing him with stimuli that might allow him the possibility of doing something pretty spectacular. Upon reflection, I think such a boy might find the ability no matter when he was born, but for the sake of argument and because I’m too lazy to do a lot of research, I choose 1960—been there, done that. It was a time of burgeoning societal sensibilities, a time when geo-political influences were changing rapidly as the American landscape transformed from strictly structured post-war military/farm society to egalitarian melting pot, with all the confusion produced by the melding process.


We don’t know whether our boy is smart or stupid, ambitious or lazy, kind or cruel. Maybe we’ll let the story reveal these character traits. I’m told there are really only three or four stories ever written and all the rest are variations on a theme. If I were a philosopher perhaps I’d challenge the premise, but since I’ve already stated that I’m lazy, the point is moot and, ultimately, unimportant. This story is not about me, after all. I could never be confused with a boy who wanted to do something pretty spectacular.


Last, understand that I don’t sit down at my writing desk with pre-conceived notions about where the story will take our hero. I have no axe to grind other than the one I live with on a day-to-day basis, that indefinable nexus that makes every one of us unique, our amalgam of experience. Therefore, since I profess no particular political or societal preference, I am free to examine all with impunity. If I can stay neutral, our boy will show us his world picture exclusive of my interference upon the process.


Okay, that’s the strategy, such as it is. I’ve been taught that the world hates a vacuum, however, I have no choice but to take a minimalist stance. I’m aware that no publishing house would want to hear this, and that’s okay. Again, I’m writing this for me, it’s merely mental masturbation. It gives me great comfort to know that a lot of very rich people are missing out on my story. Perhaps they’d understand it, perhaps they wouldn’t, but by not giving them the opportunity to read it, I’m flexing my intellectual muscles a bit; extending the middle finger of my right hand proudly into the air, I proclaim my independence. My little story and I will languish in anonymity, not once giving a tinker’s damn about you, your welfare or your bankbook. Sit on it and spin, ‘Murika… sit on it and spin.

******


"Is not.”


“Is, too…”


“Nuh-uh”


“Nuh-huh”


“Prove it, Shit-For-Brains.” Jacob Claiborne (just ‘J.C.’, please) Peavey adopted much the same stance for the current challenge that he did for all challenges, namely calling his adversary’s bluff in all matters open to conjecture. J.C., slightly larger and more inclined towards physical manifestations of anger when confronted, seldom passed on any opportunity to intimidate a foe… or a friend.


“Make me…” Henry Blythe (Cushy) Danvers’ eyes got larger as he spoke, knowing full well that J.C. could beat the shit out of him any time he liked. He also knew that J.C. would not, not if he ever again wanted to fondle another pair of soiled panties belonging to Dana Danvers, Cushy’s fine-ass older sister. More negotiator than warrior, Cushy had been putting up with J.C.’s particular brand of crap since the 4th grade. Now that middle school burgeoned on the horizon, the two spent more time together than they did with their respective families.


“Know what, Cushy? One of these days you’re gonna give me some lip and I ain’t even gonna hesitate before I beat you to a pulp.” J.C.’s upper lip curled as he spoke, accentuating the cleft palate scar extending from his lip to his nose, the scar that caused him to lisp just a little on words like ‘these’ and ‘some’ making them sound like ‘theethe’ and ‘thumb’. Nobody made fun of him anymore, though, not if they didn’t want to fight.


“Oh, relax, J.C., you know I don’t mean anything by it. I just get tired of you trying to back me down about everything. Aren’t we friends? Don’t I always do just about everything you ask me to do? Lighten up, man, I ain’t your enemy.”


J.C. and Cushy sprawled out under Mrs. Dunleavy’s hollyhock bush, pulling off leaves and using them for makeshift whistles as they tried to stay cool in the oppressive heat offered by an August afternoon. Occasionally, a gust of breeze rustled the leaves and provided respite from the thermometer.


“Seriously, have you ever seen one up close?” J.C.’s query ignored the previous dialogue, concentrating instead on today’s topic of conversation, pussy, and everything associated with it.


“Sure, lots of times.” Cushy offered without hesitation.


“Other than your own, I mean.” J.C. corrected.


Cushy started to get upset, but hearing J.C. giggle, just wrinkled up his nose and gave J.C. the finger.


“Oh, so now you want to screw me, huh? Figures… I’ve been wondering how long it’d be before you got around to it, Queer-bate. But I warn you, you’ll never go back to hamsters, I’ll guarantee you that!”


“Hey! You two dirty-mouthed little bastards better shag your ass out from underneath that bush in a damn-sure hurry!!” Mrs. Dunleavy’s voice, both shrill and loud, caused both boys to wriggle their way to the backside of the bush, whereupon they crawled to an opening and started to run toward the alley, jumping Mrs. Dunleavy’s back fence before running in the opposite direction of home. With any luck at all, maybe she hadn’t gotten a good look at them, she was about half-blind.


“Come back here!” she roared, waving her cane wildly and affecting their flight in no manner whatsoever. “I’m going to call the police if I catch you back here again!” Shaking her cane at them, she pulled a towel out of an apron pocket and dabbed at her brow as she started her trek back to the house. The colostomy bag in the other pocket began to warm even more as she felt her bowels evacuate. Judging from the added weight, it would soon be time to dump it. Insolent little bastards…

******


“You’re late, Jake, go upstairs and wash up before supper.”


“Don’t call me Jake, my name is J.C., and if I go upstairs to wash or do anything else, it’ll be because I decide to do it, not because you told me to do it.” J.C. Peavey seldom got along with his older sister and never obeyed any orders she gave him.


“Okay, make it easy on yourself. It’s your ass if you make Dad mad. I’m just trying to help you, little brother. Excuse me for living.” Ethel Marie (Spoonie) Peavey, nearly three years J.C.’s senior, enjoyed her self-appointed dominance over her younger brother, imposing her will upon him at every possible juncture.


“Well, first of all, there’s no excuse for you living. Why don’t you go shack up with that idiot boyfriend of yours and hatch a couple of moron kids? Then you’d have someone to boss around besides me.” BAM! Take that, Spoonie.


“Jake, one of these days you’re going to say something hateful like that to the wrong person and you’ll cease to be my problem. Until that happy day, you’ll do me a favor by staying as far away from me as humanly possible. I don’t want to talk to you, look at you… I don’t even want to know you’re even on the same block as me.”


“Oh, Jesus, Spoonie, don’t get your panties in an uproar, you know I didn’t mean it.”

“You never mean it, but it still hurts, and I’m sick of it… and you!”

The fast-striding specter of Spoonie Peavey leaving the room, accompanied by the slamming of doors and audible screams, became J.C.’s reality. Of course, he’d seen the performance before, so today’s matinee only served to strengthen his resolve and bolster his confidence. However, he’d have to do a little sucking up before Dad got home… Spoonie couldn’t ride J.C.’s train, but she could damned sure derail it.

J.C. jumped onto the kitchen counter, took the lid off the cookie jar and examined the contents. After extracting a particularly large chocolate chip version, he sniffed it just to make sure it hadn’t gone bad since last night when his mother had baked them, and took a large bite. They weren’t as good as they were right out of the oven, but the sweetness would help condition his mind for the thought process yet to come. Okay, Spoonie, how do I have to kiss your ass this time?

******


“Mom, what would you do if you wanted to do something pretty spectacular, but didn’t know how to go about it?”


Adele Peavey looked up from her copy of Women’s Day and stared at her son, her face a mask of bewilderment brought on by her son’s question. “What?”


J.C. picked up a piece of toast and bit into it. “You know… if you wanted to do something to impress people, something spectacular, what would you do?”


Setting the magazine down on the kitchen table, Adele Peavey paused before answering her son’s strange question, wondering where he was going with this. “Well, whatever I’d do probably wouldn’t be the same thing you’d do, Jake. We’re different people. Don’t you think you should decide something like that yourself?” Focused on her son now, she sipped her coffee to hide her uneasiness with the subject. Her relationship with her son up to this point in his life had been pretty typical of most mother-son interactions, she supposed, or, at least, so the quizzes in her magazines might have rated it.


Now J.C. set his left arm on the table and placed his head on his bicep as he peered out into the kitchen. Adele couldn’t see the boy’s expression, but she knew her son well enough to know the wheels were turning. “Yea, I suppose…” he said, his voice now soft and dreamy, “but I don’t know where to start.”


“Why don’t you start by looking up the word ‘spectacular’ in the dictionary? Maybe that’ll give you some ideas.”


His head didn’t move. “I guess I could…” he said, picking up the spoon sitting in his cereal bowl and absent-mindedly stirring his oatmeal, “but I think I already know what ‘spectacular’ means.”


“Oh, yeah? Well, then, what does it mean?”


Without hesitating, J.C. Peavey replied, “It means that you can do something so well that people think you’re really cool.”


“Then you don’t have to worry about it any more… I happen to think you’re very cool.”


Turning his head slightly toward his mother, the boy grinned. “I don’t think you count, Mom, you’re required to think I’m cool… I’m your kid. But maybe there’s more to being spectacular than being cool… strangers might think you’re cool without being spectacular.”


“Then, there must be more to it, huh?”


“Yea, I think so. I overheard Jimmy Wellborn talking to Ben Covington about his date with Spoonie last Friday night.”


Uh-oh. “Oh, really… well what, pray tell, did Jimmy have to say?”


“Ben asked him if he got lucky, and Jimmy laughed. Then, Ben asked him if she was good, and he said she was ‘spectacular’.” Adele Peavey grabbed her son by the cloth on both his shoulders and lifted him to his feet. “Okay… time for school,” she said, grabbing her son’s sack lunch and handing it to him as she shoved him out the back door, closing it behind him. Quickly, she walked to the staircase and hollered. “Ethel Marie… you get your fanny down here immediately!”


J.C. Peavey walked toward the front gate, paper sack in tote, irremovable smile revealing all his front teeth. Inside, Spoonie, even now, would be defining ‘spectacular’ for their mother. Sometimes, things just work out.


Bob Church ©8/20/07

Sweet Rogue Wind

Last summer, I collaborated with a colleague on a song called Sweet Rogue Wind. We had in mind a ballad maybe sung by a country singer just strumming a guitar, with no accompaniment, but with minor modifications it could just as easily work for a woman as well. Anyway, since I don't know any musicians, it never left my word processor, but here it is for your scrutiny:

Sweet Rogue Wind

Sweet rogue wind, won’t you sweep away my troubles,
take me way down yonder where the water lilies grow,
Love’s sweet twin, please hold me up, don’t let me wander,
carry me to goodness, it’s the only way to go.

(refrain)
Tenderest of mercies, won’t you lay down by my side,
snuggle up against me as you share my final ride;
sweet rogue wind, won’t you sweep away my troubles,
take me way down yonder where the water lilies grow.


Through the fog I travel, passion glowing in my eyes,
It lights my way past roads that fork, ‘midst dark and stormy skies;
Carry me to that water town and lay me on the bank,
then one last time, with words that rhyme, I’ll give that girl my thanks.

(refrain)
Tenderest of mercies, won’t you lay down by my side,
snuggle up against me as you share my final ride;
sweet rogue wind, won’t you sweep away my troubles,
take me way down yonder where the water lilies grow.


Sweet rogue wind, won’t you tell her that I love her,
that I’ll put no one above her no matter where she roams;
cover her with all your grace, now please don’t let me down,
slow or fast our passions last, wherever love is found.

(refrain)
Tenderest of mercies, won’t you lay down by my side,
snuggle up against me as you share my final ride;
sweet rogue wind, won’t you sweep away my troubles,
take me way down yonder where the water lilies grow.

Karen Heywood and Bob Church©7/30/07

Eighty and Eight, Pure and Straight

Eighty and Eight, Pure and Straight

How stark the black and white,
wrong or right, dark or light…

Is it just the keys,
playing what she sees,
pretty as you please…

or is every single note
that someone else has wrote
a message to connote?

Lingering concert scenes,
imparted messages
forgotten soon as seen,

black and white, so pristine…

is that all the music means?

All Is Well (Or A Deep Hole At The Very Least)

Thinking all was lost, I closed my eyes. Lost for days in a veritable plantation of ennui, the lush overgrowth of tedium threatening to choke me, with no breeze of inspiration to cool me, I made my peace with the Muses and prepared for the end. Unused thoughts, some even worthy of transcription, slowly inched through my mind and a ticker of similes and alliterative double-entendre beamed across the bottom of my screen, mocking me with their clarity. The intensity of their presence imperiled my near-dead corneas. Irony forced my lips into a grotesque sneer, stretching wide, encouraging clenched, near-gray enameled dentition to capture the rays one last time before forever accepting the inevitability of what might come after.

With my last reserves of inspiration depleted, the stirring nigglers of scampering brain farts popped their last pops and offered themselves as sacramental offerings, teetering on the precipice before falling into the void of eternal oblivion. I mentally Crossed myself while simultaneously cursing Melete, Mneme, Erato, Polyhymnia and the other goddesses whose names I couldn’t remember and possessed no resource to research.

Einstein’s quandary being what it is, I have no knowledge of specific timeframes, but at some point I felt cool zephyrs of metaphor across my face and heard the whirr-r-r of adjectival chopper blades break the silent doldrums. Then, I felt the touch of Roget’s Raiders as they lifted me onto a large conjugation and whisked me away. I would live to fight another day, maybe, hopefully, in another way. The daughters of Zeus never abandon their pups, even if they do understand the sweet ecstasy of privation.

Virtuata Pianissimo

Note: If you'd like to see this as a poem, go to The Ink Pot. I'd appreciate hearing from you about which you like better... thanks.

A tattered white windsock hangs in the branches of a barren tree beside our picnic table, its green and orange tentacles suspended by thin branchlets that form a trapping web, the last fading remnants of a bygone time, crepe arms spread at unnatural, grotesque angles. Upon first glance, with only a bit of reflection, I imagine an octopus grabbing onto narrow wisps of coral, stubbornly defying the current and all nature’s relentless attempts to pull it into deeper waters.

Perhaps that octopus/windsock and I are brothers, each seeking refuge from the current—or maybe we merely exist as passersby in a previously charted course of neither design nor consequence. These days, it is difficult to discern.

Honestly, it no longer matters. For whatever reasons, we are here… and, at least for the time being, this is enough.