Early morning on a deserted highway approaching Taos, a sparrow lost its life when it hit my left shoulder, sending my left hand off the motorcycle's grip and into the air much like the pose of a bronc rider; had it hit my right throttle/brake side I'd have entered Valhalla with clean leathers and a birdie perched on my unsore shoulder.
Another trip riding 'tail gunner' in a group of 7 bikers, we wound through softly banked curves of Highway 60 by the copper mining towns of Globe and Superior enroute to Tombstone (the 'back way') when my right cheek immediate hurt and burned like that of lit cigarets that sometimes strike us in the face. I leaned toward my right rear-view and saw a bee's ass pumping into my cheek, just below the zygoid, his rhythm as if to say, "oh YEAH baby," and I ended his life with a smack...and was the only one not laughing when we stopped for lunch as I got hit with stares at the red, golf ball-sized knot on my face appearing like I'd taken a surprise punch.
Enroute to an annual biker's event, three of us were in pace with the 80-mph flow of a crowded I-10 West when what looked like a beer can came flying up from the left side of the biker to my front and left, striking the toe of my boot, careening up and over the quickly-ducked head of the biker behind me, striking a pickup's hood ornament and flying to a harmless crash landing in the grassy median. The lead biker pissed and moaned he'd lost a 4-lb footpeg he'd had since '73 and mounted on subsequent scooters refusing acknowledgement that he'd nearly broken my leg, killed the biker behind me and could have done the same to the pickup's occupants save for lucky ducking and deflection.
Lotsa UFOs hit us bikers--cups, bugs, bolts, stones, beer cans, small carcasses, big loogies, cigaret butts--and we know it's an assumed risk, but when a marble-sized stone flew through the open driver's side window of my car on the freeway and struck my flabby left cheek the other day, I regarded it as a sign and still seek its meaning.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Awaiting the Reprise
The tender touch of your hand raced my heart in the Spring of life, when youth was on us both and I returned from war.
Summers' passions melded sealing friendship with the love as we grew from scratch through fickle changing winds and howling storms of raising children to be remolded on occasion, stronger yet spirited.
Fall found us 'lone again, Nature changing us and leaves with colors floating onto earth we trod together then, but now a little slower stepped hastened only when our children's children danced upon our feet-tops.
Our love that's lasted to life's Winter baring trees and drifing snows has still not brought a single chill or stranded us in search of want throughout a home we built on love's foundation, with walls of understanding and forgiveness, patient teaching and order, joists of gratitude and thanksgiving, shingled and shielded with prayer.
Piles of calendars spent cannot stack up to your presence in this one day with me, our moments in the now, gifts of love's unshrouded simplicity that may not see another sunset.
The resting place we've picked among the stand of vibrant poplars can only, one day coming soon, hold just a bookmark in a history to be left behind as we go just one last level up to a Heaven already sampled these shared 62 years, to another life with you bettering mine past limitless imaginations.
Summers' passions melded sealing friendship with the love as we grew from scratch through fickle changing winds and howling storms of raising children to be remolded on occasion, stronger yet spirited.
Fall found us 'lone again, Nature changing us and leaves with colors floating onto earth we trod together then, but now a little slower stepped hastened only when our children's children danced upon our feet-tops.
Our love that's lasted to life's Winter baring trees and drifing snows has still not brought a single chill or stranded us in search of want throughout a home we built on love's foundation, with walls of understanding and forgiveness, patient teaching and order, joists of gratitude and thanksgiving, shingled and shielded with prayer.
Piles of calendars spent cannot stack up to your presence in this one day with me, our moments in the now, gifts of love's unshrouded simplicity that may not see another sunset.
The resting place we've picked among the stand of vibrant poplars can only, one day coming soon, hold just a bookmark in a history to be left behind as we go just one last level up to a Heaven already sampled these shared 62 years, to another life with you bettering mine past limitless imaginations.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Salty Tears of a Silent Mourning
A whale lost its friend and trainer, a trainer lost her life, heartbreaking and terrible to lookers-on, grieving coworkers and family.
The public outcry seems to be categorized to jeers of 'served her right,' and 'free captive animals,' and 'cruelty to animals.'
PETA gets the stage, despite their middle names of "Ethical Treatment" when: average-Joe out-criers probably don't have icthyologists on retainer to look-in on their home aquariums or zoologists checking their gerbils or herpetologists giving in-home iguana physicals; when 47 cats are discovered in a feces-covered house from a do-gooder saving felines from euthanasia for lack of adopting families; where lifelong consequences reverberate from parents whose priorities put pet care above that of child rearing and discipline in healthy, structured environs; complainers driving polluting hunks-o'-junk held together with bumper stickers often decrying PETA sentiments.
It's the same PETA who demonstrates and pickets rodeos, ignorant of the fact that rodeo animals (like SeaWorld's aquatic stars) are higher valued than their equals, with special diets and dedicated medical staffs and labs to ensure their best health, both physical and psychological.
I hope I'm not a PETA target for my mixed-breed Chihuahua because she knows about four 'tricks' and responds to a dozen or so commands to include 'singing' along when I burst into a certain song or howl at passing sirens to encourage her harmonies.
A whale lost it's friend and trainer and a trainer lost her life...a mammal that may well have been slaughtered long ago by countries who hunt them...a whale who couldn't give a shit about PETA during this majestic creature's own time and expression of mourning...a kind soul, perished and gone, who would probably have forgiven without need of understanding.
The public outcry seems to be categorized to jeers of 'served her right,' and 'free captive animals,' and 'cruelty to animals.'
PETA gets the stage, despite their middle names of "Ethical Treatment" when: average-Joe out-criers probably don't have icthyologists on retainer to look-in on their home aquariums or zoologists checking their gerbils or herpetologists giving in-home iguana physicals; when 47 cats are discovered in a feces-covered house from a do-gooder saving felines from euthanasia for lack of adopting families; where lifelong consequences reverberate from parents whose priorities put pet care above that of child rearing and discipline in healthy, structured environs; complainers driving polluting hunks-o'-junk held together with bumper stickers often decrying PETA sentiments.
It's the same PETA who demonstrates and pickets rodeos, ignorant of the fact that rodeo animals (like SeaWorld's aquatic stars) are higher valued than their equals, with special diets and dedicated medical staffs and labs to ensure their best health, both physical and psychological.
I hope I'm not a PETA target for my mixed-breed Chihuahua because she knows about four 'tricks' and responds to a dozen or so commands to include 'singing' along when I burst into a certain song or howl at passing sirens to encourage her harmonies.
A whale lost it's friend and trainer and a trainer lost her life...a mammal that may well have been slaughtered long ago by countries who hunt them...a whale who couldn't give a shit about PETA during this majestic creature's own time and expression of mourning...a kind soul, perished and gone, who would probably have forgiven without need of understanding.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Morning Rash Hour
I put my Goldwing's front wheel just off the track of the bike in front, a brand new, red BMW-1100 motorcycle as we both spotted the 405 freeway's brake lights and dove for the Sepulveda off-ramp because, even with its single-laned roadway and many stop signs, I'd arrive at my West LA office ahead of the freeway's morning worm sprint.
Now on Sepulveda and two bike-lengths behind the BMW, I could see it was so new that it still bore California's temporary, paper license tag from a dealer.
Out of nowhere, a Mercedes roadster with the top down roared-by crossing the double yellows to lead, driven by what could have been a starlet or Miss America, beauty that neither of us bikers missed peering into her rear-view mirrors from behind. 'Beamer-guy' was so taken that, for 4 or 5 miles, he'd pull alongside death-defying double-yellowed head-on death to flirt with her causing the heart-throbber's 'hottie' to brake or accelerate away.
Montana Street's stop sign fast approached where the road split into two lanes (one, a right-turner under the freeway) and--all of a sudden--'Beamer guy' slowed to a stop beside her flipping up his helmet visor to flirt until his bike toppled over from forgetting to put his feet down onto the ground from the bike's pegs.
The bike formerly known as brand-spankin' new BMW was badly dented and scratched as he climbed out from under to kick its saddle repeatedly, only to watch his dream girl (and I) speeding off, laughing at the guy who had fallen so completely, so fast and so hard for her.
Now on Sepulveda and two bike-lengths behind the BMW, I could see it was so new that it still bore California's temporary, paper license tag from a dealer.
Out of nowhere, a Mercedes roadster with the top down roared-by crossing the double yellows to lead, driven by what could have been a starlet or Miss America, beauty that neither of us bikers missed peering into her rear-view mirrors from behind. 'Beamer-guy' was so taken that, for 4 or 5 miles, he'd pull alongside death-defying double-yellowed head-on death to flirt with her causing the heart-throbber's 'hottie' to brake or accelerate away.
Montana Street's stop sign fast approached where the road split into two lanes (one, a right-turner under the freeway) and--all of a sudden--'Beamer guy' slowed to a stop beside her flipping up his helmet visor to flirt until his bike toppled over from forgetting to put his feet down onto the ground from the bike's pegs.
The bike formerly known as brand-spankin' new BMW was badly dented and scratched as he climbed out from under to kick its saddle repeatedly, only to watch his dream girl (and I) speeding off, laughing at the guy who had fallen so completely, so fast and so hard for her.
The Goosed Gander
Lovemaking in their bed ended by mutual abdication months ago but they lay on their sides, sheet pulled over lithe, bare midsections, his arms enveloping her in nude spooning, his lips close to Annelle's ear in the hi-rise condo’s master suite with hanging silence awaiting puncture.
She heard him sigh and inhale, as if ready to speak.
“Don’t,” she whispered, “I know…about the two of you…know everything,” and an awkward arm reached backward for the nightstand's lamp.
As careful as his timing and excuses and showers and visits to the Penthouse had been, Annelle had that clairvoyance a woman gets when her spouse has been unfaithful, but, how could she have…
“The very first time Tanya invited me up for coffee, she seduced me...got crazy wild and we’ve been lovers ever since, even laughing in bed at the videotapes I shot of you two from the closet when you thought you were oh-so-sly,” and her gutteral laugh surfaced.
Kyle unwrapped from his clinch, rolled away stunned as Annelle rolled over propping an elbow on his pillow to go eye to eye, wearing a wry smile as she delivered the quietus: “Tanya sold the Penthouse and we leave Tuesday for her new job in L.A.--Nite-nite,” and a lamp tumbled loudly onto the floor.
She heard him sigh and inhale, as if ready to speak.
“Don’t,” she whispered, “I know…about the two of you…know everything,” and an awkward arm reached backward for the nightstand's lamp.
As careful as his timing and excuses and showers and visits to the Penthouse had been, Annelle had that clairvoyance a woman gets when her spouse has been unfaithful, but, how could she have…
“The very first time Tanya invited me up for coffee, she seduced me...got crazy wild and we’ve been lovers ever since, even laughing in bed at the videotapes I shot of you two from the closet when you thought you were oh-so-sly,” and her gutteral laugh surfaced.
Kyle unwrapped from his clinch, rolled away stunned as Annelle rolled over propping an elbow on his pillow to go eye to eye, wearing a wry smile as she delivered the quietus: “Tanya sold the Penthouse and we leave Tuesday for her new job in L.A.--Nite-nite,” and a lamp tumbled loudly onto the floor.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Perfect Retirement: Old Soldier for Hire
I'll kill Somali-coast pirates for you or die trying.
You provide the turret and sighted, twin-50 caliber machine guns, a mechanic for their maintenance, and enough ammo for practice and sustained firefights.
All I need is a private bunk, 3 squares, good coffee, and just enough stipend monies for port calls to buy a bottle, rent a woman, and load-up on smokes and replacement clothing; satellite internet would have me scream, "BO-NUS!"
Should I perish in the process, heroically or from old age or the effects of said bottle and cigarets, you may wrap me in Old Glory, and commit me to the deep six with the playing of 3 songs via .mp3: Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings (Leonard Bernstein), The Navy Hymn (USNA Choir) and any respectful rendition of the USA's national anthem.
My references succumbed to the accuracy of my handiwork, but you'll find my military record and commendations deptict a soldier whose actions "reflected highest credit upon his unit, the United States Army, and the United States of America."
Should my demise occur before the U.S. fiscal bankruptcy follows moral bankruptcy into the crapper, somebody else can have my Social Security while you, your crew and cargo enjoy the sense of security I provided for a mere pittance and my opportunity to feel worthy as I went out with a bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang
The Soft-Shoe Veteran's Parade
Eight or nine or it coulda been 12 men shuffled along the polished tiles of 7-West's lock-up ward in terry-topped slippers buffing those tiles as they slid along, my brother's own funky pair among them. The amount of daily Thorazine injected into a single one of the men could bring down a Kodiak bear, yet, kept them manageably in-check like chessmen.
Hollow stares sunk in ashen pallors of washed out skin from the lack of outdoor exposure added nothing to group's matched uniforms of faded-lime pajamas with wispy thin seersucker-striped robes barely moving in the slow parade to nowhere, a procession that would last more than 30 months up and down and up and down the VA hospital's generically-sterile corridors.
I was thirteen when he shipped-out to Viet Nam, remember him with 2nd Lieutenant's bars on his epaulets drawing salutes from the enlisted cadre of trainers following his commissioning ceremony, those bars the prize of any committed ROTC (Reserve Officers Training Corps) student.
The brother I hugged too long and so hard when saying goodbye wasn't the wounded one the military returned 43 years ago, for war would forever change him and find me struggling to get to know a guy I still loved without limit.
Through it all, he was my hero and knows he still is despite invisible scars of invisible wounds that still paralyze by day and haunt by night through a pharmaceutical haze.
Hollow stares sunk in ashen pallors of washed out skin from the lack of outdoor exposure added nothing to group's matched uniforms of faded-lime pajamas with wispy thin seersucker-striped robes barely moving in the slow parade to nowhere, a procession that would last more than 30 months up and down and up and down the VA hospital's generically-sterile corridors.
I was thirteen when he shipped-out to Viet Nam, remember him with 2nd Lieutenant's bars on his epaulets drawing salutes from the enlisted cadre of trainers following his commissioning ceremony, those bars the prize of any committed ROTC (Reserve Officers Training Corps) student.
The brother I hugged too long and so hard when saying goodbye wasn't the wounded one the military returned 43 years ago, for war would forever change him and find me struggling to get to know a guy I still loved without limit.
Through it all, he was my hero and knows he still is despite invisible scars of invisible wounds that still paralyze by day and haunt by night through a pharmaceutical haze.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Catalyst to the Misanthrope
The treetop flourishes. Its leaves clump in boughs of green as darkest waxen jade from coded, subterranean prioritization.
Incongruous, it's middle branches are listless and restless, abuzz but without seeming sustenance; the middle's form with unsure function spreads superior to ten or so lower branches spotted with fruit.
At its distal tip, the longest and sturdiest of lower branches brandishes a lone fruit whose wind-whipped and sun-exposed skin shows the toll and exhibits withering's onset.
Among a grove of like others, it is a tree who seems to have lost its season, thinly holding a decomposing once-prized fruit whose fate is a looming impact on ground that holds the invisible taproot with a toxicity causing imbalance.
The grower's finger slides across a button and drapes slide shut with a damped whir, obscuring the panoramic window's view from far above and away.
Incongruous, it's middle branches are listless and restless, abuzz but without seeming sustenance; the middle's form with unsure function spreads superior to ten or so lower branches spotted with fruit.
At its distal tip, the longest and sturdiest of lower branches brandishes a lone fruit whose wind-whipped and sun-exposed skin shows the toll and exhibits withering's onset.
Among a grove of like others, it is a tree who seems to have lost its season, thinly holding a decomposing once-prized fruit whose fate is a looming impact on ground that holds the invisible taproot with a toxicity causing imbalance.
The grower's finger slides across a button and drapes slide shut with a damped whir, obscuring the panoramic window's view from far above and away.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Blades in the Pink: A Fashion Statement
On my 178-pound frame of 20 or so years ago, I was told I looked pretty spiffy in my Ralph Lauren blush-pink Polo, leaving none of my masculinIty in question by anyone.
Johnny Weir represented the USA, my stars 'n stripes and his, last night in Men's Figure-Skating at the Olympics.
The black bustier cross-laced in pink and complementing arm-stripe...with the pink fru-fru on your shoulder did...well, exactly zip/zilch/nada...none of that worked for me, Johnny, except on the cheese grater of my irritability's last nerve.
One of my distinction-adorned diplomas is embossed with "San Francisco" on it, where I was schooled, previously lived and worked; the correct understanding from that should be that mine doesn't come from the hater place, isn't a gaydom or anti-gaydom statement about Poor Pink Johnny or male ice-skaters but of one's poor attire selection.
I wasn't happy your routine went poorly, Poor Johnny, nor did I wish you ill, but my snarling disdain for your choice of skate-suits caught me wondering if judges from less tolerant countries would raise eyebrows at the effeminate appearance of your outfit, regardless of your public or private gender preference.
Soul-searching revealed that the root of my irritability was that I didn't feel like you were representing all of us in our country, whose green combat uniform I donned in the '70s, one I'd gladly loan you for tonight so I can see your skating beyond the ear-splitting volume of what you just might wear.
Johnny Weir represented the USA, my stars 'n stripes and his, last night in Men's Figure-Skating at the Olympics.
The black bustier cross-laced in pink and complementing arm-stripe...with the pink fru-fru on your shoulder did...well, exactly zip/zilch/nada...none of that worked for me, Johnny, except on the cheese grater of my irritability's last nerve.
One of my distinction-adorned diplomas is embossed with "San Francisco" on it, where I was schooled, previously lived and worked; the correct understanding from that should be that mine doesn't come from the hater place, isn't a gaydom or anti-gaydom statement about Poor Pink Johnny or male ice-skaters but of one's poor attire selection.
I wasn't happy your routine went poorly, Poor Johnny, nor did I wish you ill, but my snarling disdain for your choice of skate-suits caught me wondering if judges from less tolerant countries would raise eyebrows at the effeminate appearance of your outfit, regardless of your public or private gender preference.
Soul-searching revealed that the root of my irritability was that I didn't feel like you were representing all of us in our country, whose green combat uniform I donned in the '70s, one I'd gladly loan you for tonight so I can see your skating beyond the ear-splitting volume of what you just might wear.
I Won't Willingly Give Up Writing for Lent
It's Ash Wednesday (a day I years ago nicknamed "Smudge-head Wednesday") signifying the beginning of Lenten Observance in the Roman Catholic Church.
I've already smoked and drunk coffee, today, so those are out for suffering an entire season of sacrifice.
Chocolate would be fudging and beer is a bust because I seldom indulge and almost never over-indulge, there.
Abstinence from sex isn't viable and we're just not gonna go there (unless self-imposed celibacy is offered-Up for daily....never mind, sorry God.) .
Meatless Fridays may be a strong contender...except I've failed there in seasons past with a cheekful of burger, saying "Shit" and blowing onion and burger bunned mush outta my mouth once I realized what day of the week it was.
I may just have to get back to you on this, which--dammit!--now takes procrastination off the table of consideration.
I've already smoked and drunk coffee, today, so those are out for suffering an entire season of sacrifice.
Chocolate would be fudging and beer is a bust because I seldom indulge and almost never over-indulge, there.
Abstinence from sex isn't viable and we're just not gonna go there (unless self-imposed celibacy is offered-Up for daily....never mind, sorry God.) .
Meatless Fridays may be a strong contender...except I've failed there in seasons past with a cheekful of burger, saying "Shit" and blowing onion and burger bunned mush outta my mouth once I realized what day of the week it was.
I may just have to get back to you on this, which--dammit!--now takes procrastination off the table of consideration.
The Long Longing Season
Band members' uniforms hang in mothballed bags in countless thousands as college footballers are without excuse for homework and class attendance as on-field workouts endure the climatic season's preempt from winter-slammed stadiums.
NFL'ers are in their healing season, nurturing injuries of relentless body-crashes; some require surgery while luckier peers vacation or languish with family at home reacquainting with those starved for attention by rigors of road-trips and home stands demanding all.
It's rumored pitchers have startled landing in Spring training locations, needing longer runways for takeoff into a blue-skied season targeting more than 150 games that may define a career or its end in only 20 to 30 appearances. Close on their cleats, the fielders will follow to put oiled leather to grass and dirt, and accelerate their eyes to match 100mph ball speeds and coordinate bat speed to make a magical crack that will later bring cheering fans to their feet.
While basketball rules TVs and sports pages, radio's talk-jocks continue as pitchmen who sustain me and us through the barren season, talking life into baseball and football with stats and potentials and personalities of what's to come and what was.
Even the patriotic splendor of Winter's Olympiad provides only temporary scratches of my sports' itches as my head continues to sport a random rotation of all the caps representing my allegiance to teams that will hoarsen my voice once baseball's reborn and football follows.
NFL'ers are in their healing season, nurturing injuries of relentless body-crashes; some require surgery while luckier peers vacation or languish with family at home reacquainting with those starved for attention by rigors of road-trips and home stands demanding all.
It's rumored pitchers have startled landing in Spring training locations, needing longer runways for takeoff into a blue-skied season targeting more than 150 games that may define a career or its end in only 20 to 30 appearances. Close on their cleats, the fielders will follow to put oiled leather to grass and dirt, and accelerate their eyes to match 100mph ball speeds and coordinate bat speed to make a magical crack that will later bring cheering fans to their feet.
While basketball rules TVs and sports pages, radio's talk-jocks continue as pitchmen who sustain me and us through the barren season, talking life into baseball and football with stats and potentials and personalities of what's to come and what was.
Even the patriotic splendor of Winter's Olympiad provides only temporary scratches of my sports' itches as my head continues to sport a random rotation of all the caps representing my allegiance to teams that will hoarsen my voice once baseball's reborn and football follows.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Yellin' Up the Stairs
"Honey, couldja please bring her little stuffed panda instead of that talking doll for the drive...?
"Weather channnel says Austin's got rain moving toward your mom's so you may wanna grab that little rain shell...?
"Hey I think I mighta put her diaper bag in the linen closet..."
"Oh, and grab our umbrellas.
[ loud thunk...THUNK]
"JEEZ, what was THAT?!"
"Jim, if I could re-MEM-ber who her bio-LOGICAL FATHER was, I BET he'd be UP here HELPING," and he cleared both landings, 3 stairs at a time, yelling, "Here comes Daddy, Lissa!"
"Weather channnel says Austin's got rain moving toward your mom's so you may wanna grab that little rain shell...?
"Hey I think I mighta put her diaper bag in the linen closet..."
"Oh, and grab our umbrellas.
[ loud thunk...THUNK]
"JEEZ, what was THAT?!"
"Jim, if I could re-MEM-ber who her bio-LOGICAL FATHER was, I BET he'd be UP here HELPING," and he cleared both landings, 3 stairs at a time, yelling, "Here comes Daddy, Lissa!"
Sunday, February 14, 2010
'67 Lanikai
Twas you first told me it was love that built the Taj Mahal. And now, I'm telling you.
It couldn't begin to hold my heart's amount of love for you, still, after these decades, gone.
And the gardens of that Taj Majal built on love?
They could never yield a sweeter and fairer more tender blossom than the one whose stem God placed in my undeserving hands.
No edifice or landmark could ever hold a candle to the passion, desire's ravaged hunger I felt for you the day you knelt at Lanikai...used your hands to write in the sand...took two flowers from your hair and placed them gently down...then looked up...to whisper, "Yes."
It couldn't begin to hold my heart's amount of love for you, still, after these decades, gone.
And the gardens of that Taj Majal built on love?
They could never yield a sweeter and fairer more tender blossom than the one whose stem God placed in my undeserving hands.
No edifice or landmark could ever hold a candle to the passion, desire's ravaged hunger I felt for you the day you knelt at Lanikai...used your hands to write in the sand...took two flowers from your hair and placed them gently down...then looked up...to whisper, "Yes."
Friday, February 12, 2010
Eighty-Proof Looking Glass
The martini stem stood sweated and translucent after perfectly timed gin-swirling in the ice-packed shaker; this new kitchen's first toast would--once and for all--wash down any regret Cliff had for not spending the same money on a new 'Vette or Shelby Mustang.
As the old joke went, it would only take one martini to do the trick and it would probably be the fourth one...tho' the humor was lost within himself knowing a guy could always return a car but be stuck with this room Paula Dean could only deem "Gour-gasmic."
"Woops, olive stabber," Cliff mumbled as he began opening drawer after superglide drawer in an intensifying search for..."Gotcha!"
The wooden skewers' home would change in that moment.
So what if the new refrigerator had the capacity to feed the Green Bay Packers and Chinese Army as he "Oomphed" swinging its massive door with the sacrosanct shelf holding his olive stuffings' choices-- almond, jalapeno, garlic, bleu cheese, pimiento--and the eventual green orb lucky enough to be selected for the occasion.
Now two years later, Cliff wished he had drunk himself into oblivion that day, too, denying that the deadly combo of a Wall Street collapse, the IRS and an ill-chosen 2nd mortgage could snatch away all but disjointed memories and deliver him to his present circumstance at General's ICU, in his final hours, dying of cirrhosis and for one last drink.
As the old joke went, it would only take one martini to do the trick and it would probably be the fourth one...tho' the humor was lost within himself knowing a guy could always return a car but be stuck with this room Paula Dean could only deem "Gour-gasmic."
"Woops, olive stabber," Cliff mumbled as he began opening drawer after superglide drawer in an intensifying search for..."Gotcha!"
The wooden skewers' home would change in that moment.
So what if the new refrigerator had the capacity to feed the Green Bay Packers and Chinese Army as he "Oomphed" swinging its massive door with the sacrosanct shelf holding his olive stuffings' choices-- almond, jalapeno, garlic, bleu cheese, pimiento--and the eventual green orb lucky enough to be selected for the occasion.
Now two years later, Cliff wished he had drunk himself into oblivion that day, too, denying that the deadly combo of a Wall Street collapse, the IRS and an ill-chosen 2nd mortgage could snatch away all but disjointed memories and deliver him to his present circumstance at General's ICU, in his final hours, dying of cirrhosis and for one last drink.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
My Dollars and Sense Don't Add Up
Maricopa County's Sheriff Joe (Arpaio) is the one with a tent city jail --replete with neon "Vacancy" sign-- housing prisoners who wear pink underwear, work chain gangs, and who saves the county millions of dollars denying air conditioning, coffee and cigarets to inmates dining on green citrus and bologna to match.
I'm on my pre-dawn, gasoline-wasting dash to buy smokes, my income tax appointment weighs on my mind; I'm bothered throwing a bucket of my cash into the chasm of [sic] capitol-D "DEFICIT."
An indigent-looking guy excavates the pocket of his grunge jeans and pulls out bills and coin, meticulously counting to make $6.10USD for a pack of smokes.
Taxes...smokes...welfare...taxes...smokes....
Okay, Gov. Brewer and President B.O.: Sheriff Joe's is a model that's economically worked so why the hell should we give healthcare assistance and free money to smokers?
After plunking down my bills barking "Marlborough 72s, the mini- ones," to the clerk, I step into the dark, uwrapping and lighting-up, and I realize how gawd-awful it would be to have an addiction I couldn't assuage.
I'm on my pre-dawn, gasoline-wasting dash to buy smokes, my income tax appointment weighs on my mind; I'm bothered throwing a bucket of my cash into the chasm of [sic] capitol-D "DEFICIT."
An indigent-looking guy excavates the pocket of his grunge jeans and pulls out bills and coin, meticulously counting to make $6.10USD for a pack of smokes.
Taxes...smokes...welfare...taxes...smokes....
Okay, Gov. Brewer and President B.O.: Sheriff Joe's is a model that's economically worked so why the hell should we give healthcare assistance and free money to smokers?
After plunking down my bills barking "Marlborough 72s, the mini- ones," to the clerk, I step into the dark, uwrapping and lighting-up, and I realize how gawd-awful it would be to have an addiction I couldn't assuage.
Monday, February 8, 2010
My 6-Sentence Treatise & Truisms of: The Cellphone
Getting a cellphone means your friends have your tacit permission to hit your number anytime in a 24-hour period regardless of your work or sleep schedule.
Expect the basic cost of your plan to be far afield of your first bill as your face contorts then and every succeeding month when it's time to pay the taxes, fees, surcharges, and on-demand services you wonder who authorized and accessed.
Your grandmother wouldn't approve of the filth contained in the text messages, pictures and video sent, again, the handiwork of...friends.
Parental controls that eased your conscience are easily overcome by your kid's classmates who have expertise in ways to run-up the bill and ignore you when you try to reach him or her which was your 'out' for justifying the extra monthly outlay of $50+ in the first place.
Crazy folks who ditty-bop down sidewalks talking or screaming aloud now enjoy the safety-in-numbers of camouflaged anonymity due to the large number of bluetooth users also appearing to talk or scream to no one in particular (and raise your opened cellphone as we did with BICs at concerts if you pronounce it camel-flajjed).
All the telephone numbers you know by heart will irretrievably dissipate into other grey matter as you become solely reliant on your little buddy to dial a name for you.
Expect the basic cost of your plan to be far afield of your first bill as your face contorts then and every succeeding month when it's time to pay the taxes, fees, surcharges, and on-demand services you wonder who authorized and accessed.
Your grandmother wouldn't approve of the filth contained in the text messages, pictures and video sent, again, the handiwork of...friends.
Parental controls that eased your conscience are easily overcome by your kid's classmates who have expertise in ways to run-up the bill and ignore you when you try to reach him or her which was your 'out' for justifying the extra monthly outlay of $50+ in the first place.
Crazy folks who ditty-bop down sidewalks talking or screaming aloud now enjoy the safety-in-numbers of camouflaged anonymity due to the large number of bluetooth users also appearing to talk or scream to no one in particular (and raise your opened cellphone as we did with BICs at concerts if you pronounce it camel-flajjed).
All the telephone numbers you know by heart will irretrievably dissipate into other grey matter as you become solely reliant on your little buddy to dial a name for you.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Sportsomaniacal Sunday
Super Bowl means de facto USA holiday.
Streets and freeways will see few cars, and the markets will have emptied shelves of beer 'n chips 'n hot dog buns into carts doing death-defying zig-zags through parking lots.
There are the pitiably unfortunate few who have emotional umbilicals to New Orleans and Indianapolis, unfortunate because they are muted from radio and TV and internet and cellphone access to the game during their shifts.
And I can sense the angst of those at incommunicado workplaces awash in the blackout, acting out with pacing, chain-smoking cigarets, aimless wandering through their environs, ready to pounce on unsuspecting customers to get updates whilst those very customers secretly revel in their ignorance of the enormity of this sportsomaniacal Sunday, committing sacrilege by venturing out during the telecast.
Vegas' big bettors are at invitation-only, overcrowded venues with the biggest of big screens, among lavish spreads of food and flowing beverages, while private parties and sports bars, nationwide, train all eyes toward an event others would term 'just a game' (and are wise to whisper).
In its "Countdown," ESPN is loudly hammering the hype anvil more than 8 hours from a game they're not showing, for which they'll need permission and payola to even highlight--yet, the sum of whose controlled hysteria will cause vilification of the poor schlub who, Monday morning, asks, "Who won?"
Streets and freeways will see few cars, and the markets will have emptied shelves of beer 'n chips 'n hot dog buns into carts doing death-defying zig-zags through parking lots.
There are the pitiably unfortunate few who have emotional umbilicals to New Orleans and Indianapolis, unfortunate because they are muted from radio and TV and internet and cellphone access to the game during their shifts.
And I can sense the angst of those at incommunicado workplaces awash in the blackout, acting out with pacing, chain-smoking cigarets, aimless wandering through their environs, ready to pounce on unsuspecting customers to get updates whilst those very customers secretly revel in their ignorance of the enormity of this sportsomaniacal Sunday, committing sacrilege by venturing out during the telecast.
Vegas' big bettors are at invitation-only, overcrowded venues with the biggest of big screens, among lavish spreads of food and flowing beverages, while private parties and sports bars, nationwide, train all eyes toward an event others would term 'just a game' (and are wise to whisper).
In its "Countdown," ESPN is loudly hammering the hype anvil more than 8 hours from a game they're not showing, for which they'll need permission and payola to even highlight--yet, the sum of whose controlled hysteria will cause vilification of the poor schlub who, Monday morning, asks, "Who won?"
Saturday, February 6, 2010
On the One Hand, Valentines
I miss those running love notes we hid in unsuspected places and your eyes delicious as big, brown, warm, molasses cookies inviting me to kisses like I had never known.
I miss your Oregon farm-girl roots and earnestness, our ::blush:: sexual... uhm... well, suffice to say a chemistry so obviously and lasciviously legend.
Ya know, I miss your folks and their place on the hilltop among the almonds and vineyards of California's central coast and even your little brother's musings when he had smoked too much pot.
I miss your wacky spelling of your first name and remember my crush on you in junior college, never dreaming we'd date and I'd fall so effortlessly for you, as naturally as a raindrop.
I miss holding you, saying I'll love you forever, and--decades later--confess today is without exception.
Fact is, I miss all five of you in different ways at different times, but see that it isn't love alone I miss, but a certain something in your 'someone-ness' that loved me back, and how, before discovering an eventual beyond.
I miss your Oregon farm-girl roots and earnestness, our ::blush:: sexual... uhm... well, suffice to say a chemistry so obviously and lasciviously legend.
Ya know, I miss your folks and their place on the hilltop among the almonds and vineyards of California's central coast and even your little brother's musings when he had smoked too much pot.
I miss your wacky spelling of your first name and remember my crush on you in junior college, never dreaming we'd date and I'd fall so effortlessly for you, as naturally as a raindrop.
I miss holding you, saying I'll love you forever, and--decades later--confess today is without exception.
Fact is, I miss all five of you in different ways at different times, but see that it isn't love alone I miss, but a certain something in your 'someone-ness' that loved me back, and how, before discovering an eventual beyond.
Either 6 or It Isn't: No Half Measures
Let's see. There's 6-packs, six-pence of lyrics fame, 6-sixty-six from Hell, 6-cylinder motors, motorcycles with 6-speed trannies, Motel 6, 6-inch these and those, and more you'll know I omitted.
There isn't Motel Half-Dozen, not half-dozens of beer, a renown musical lyric to "sing a song of half-dozen pence," half dozen-speed transmissions in motorcycles nor are there cars with half-dozen cylinder engines.
I would't stay at Motel Half-Dozen or buy a Ford with a half-dozen under the hood just as I wouldn't respond to a half-dozen beer commercial, nor would I find appeal in a knife with a half-foot blade.
And I'll never, ever, be at work at Half Dozen A.M. unless Scott promises gourmet coffee and at least a six-pack doughnuts.
If you're nodding then I think I've demonstrated how comfy we are in our 6s and in doing so, proven that a rose by any other name just might be a pansy, at least, until I can saunter into the grocer's and ask, "Where can I find a 6-pack of eggs?" without getting a look like I'm a half-(dozen?) wit or resident alien.
There isn't Motel Half-Dozen, not half-dozens of beer, a renown musical lyric to "sing a song of half-dozen pence," half dozen-speed transmissions in motorcycles nor are there cars with half-dozen cylinder engines.
I would't stay at Motel Half-Dozen or buy a Ford with a half-dozen under the hood just as I wouldn't respond to a half-dozen beer commercial, nor would I find appeal in a knife with a half-foot blade.
And I'll never, ever, be at work at Half Dozen A.M. unless Scott promises gourmet coffee and at least a six-pack doughnuts.
If you're nodding then I think I've demonstrated how comfy we are in our 6s and in doing so, proven that a rose by any other name just might be a pansy, at least, until I can saunter into the grocer's and ask, "Where can I find a 6-pack of eggs?" without getting a look like I'm a half-(dozen?) wit or resident alien.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
The Standout's Find
At the close of his wearisome day sampling hundreds of CDs to give the big break to a hopeful, unwitting composer's work, Tony whistled while walking down the deserted tile hallway toward the elevator, the percussive taps of his Ferragamos a rhythm out of sync with the tune.
He fired the 760Li's massive 12-cylinder engine intentionally squealing the tires as he left the garage and tapped-off the sound system choosing the company of random thought over the radio's music he may have published.
One more forgettable, makeshift meal standing at the island of his loft's kitchen witnessed Tony's spirit's rise, inexplicably, as he hummed while hand-scraping his plate into the disposer and depositing it into the dishwasher with practiced precision.
In his sleep, his legs scissored endlessly between the crisp percales, enough movement to finally to stir him groggy, rolling to his side, facing the window. Hazy pinpoints of light through San Francisco's wee hours fog could never rouse him but this night's bolt of realization brought him from restlessness to full alert as he reached over to jot a few notes on the nightstand's tablet.
Tony's whistled melody in the hall...hummed in the kitchen...was it, the one, the next great artist, the CD he'd ruin his desk to find--a revelation much like the print editor slogging through manuscripts then nagged by style and substance hours after reading a snippet of a stack-buried submission that would, for some unknown writer, find him cloaked with acclaim for crafting America's next best-seller.
He fired the 760Li's massive 12-cylinder engine intentionally squealing the tires as he left the garage and tapped-off the sound system choosing the company of random thought over the radio's music he may have published.
One more forgettable, makeshift meal standing at the island of his loft's kitchen witnessed Tony's spirit's rise, inexplicably, as he hummed while hand-scraping his plate into the disposer and depositing it into the dishwasher with practiced precision.
In his sleep, his legs scissored endlessly between the crisp percales, enough movement to finally to stir him groggy, rolling to his side, facing the window. Hazy pinpoints of light through San Francisco's wee hours fog could never rouse him but this night's bolt of realization brought him from restlessness to full alert as he reached over to jot a few notes on the nightstand's tablet.
Tony's whistled melody in the hall...hummed in the kitchen...was it, the one, the next great artist, the CD he'd ruin his desk to find--a revelation much like the print editor slogging through manuscripts then nagged by style and substance hours after reading a snippet of a stack-buried submission that would, for some unknown writer, find him cloaked with acclaim for crafting America's next best-seller.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Misdirected (or, Barking Up the Wrong Pant-leg)
Granted audience by a mere [ahem] clerical error, a Catholic-basher had the Pope’s ear and undivided attention. Trying not to roll his eyes, the pontifical gaze focused on the man’s forehead as the litany of Church ills progressed, both in volume and sheer number of contemporary criticisms.
Afterward, in the hallway leading to his apartment, the Pope started a chuckle that inflated to full-blown hysterical laughter, doubling him over and forcing his hand to a wall for steadiness. His clerical entourage rushed up, assisting the Pontiff to steady himself and pick up his mitre.
Tears of laughter still in his eyes, he told the priests, “That poor fool thought his suggestions would help us change a church that’s been evolving for over two thousand years.
“So I told him I’d pray for him, issue a Papal decree granting him 2000 years to found or find a church of his liking, which is when it suddenly struck me he may not ever have been a Roman Catholic; and that, dear brothers in Christ, is what caused me to--how do they say on the internet—'L-M-A-O' and nearly go ass-over-elbows.”
Afterward, in the hallway leading to his apartment, the Pope started a chuckle that inflated to full-blown hysterical laughter, doubling him over and forcing his hand to a wall for steadiness. His clerical entourage rushed up, assisting the Pontiff to steady himself and pick up his mitre.
Tears of laughter still in his eyes, he told the priests, “That poor fool thought his suggestions would help us change a church that’s been evolving for over two thousand years.
“So I told him I’d pray for him, issue a Papal decree granting him 2000 years to found or find a church of his liking, which is when it suddenly struck me he may not ever have been a Roman Catholic; and that, dear brothers in Christ, is what caused me to--how do they say on the internet—'L-M-A-O' and nearly go ass-over-elbows.”
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