MegaMillions Mega What-Ifs

Were I the Dictator of [sic] Amerika for just 10 minutes, I would have nationalized the Megamillions company, seized its assets, and awarded one million dollars to every tax-filing household in the country using the leftovers to help the homeless and ensure the government didn‘t screw-up the distribution.

It was that much money.

Among those on a potentially long list of people I’m thrilled weren’t winners are my one sister, Charles Manson, Nancy Pelosi, my boss who would not have resigned, Bernie Madoff’s wife, Warren Buffett, Angelina Jolie...and I’m sure you could make your own gratitude list.

Waxing on what could be and now what could have been seems the norm of pre- and post- lotto fever.

This illegal alien undocumented worker Mexican opportunist buddy of mine swore he’d buy rail cars full of wire cutters, night vision equipment and hiking boots for the folks back home.

If the guy behind Move On dot Org had won, I could have only hoped he’d have moved out, but then, I confess I only played for the inherent value of the Megamillions, getting what I deserved, which was a whole 'lotto' hope for a buck.

Flaunt That Holiday Hula Mr. President

As you and I spend buckets of our stockpiled money in the final dash to ring cash registers like Salvation Army beggars' bells for Christmas, please forget I'm a Catholic conservative, that President Obama' s a Democrat, and know that as un-Christian sounding and unsavory as this picture is, I'm so mad I'm shitting tinsel-trimmed, blue spruce pine cones.

Is Mr President taking the peoples' 747 (Air Force One) to Camp David (the Presidential retreat for which we pay Maryland) for Christmas, or back to be welcomed in the arms of the community he 'organized' (Chicago, Illinois)--the home state from which he was elected to Congress--to drop some Obama bucks on that devasted economy?

Naw...in order to make his Yule less cool [okay, frozen-cold] and ensure Michelle and the kids have a swell (of the ocean waves' variety) Noel, he's taking his air taxi--a 747, its crew and secret service and personal/Presidential entourage, all the way from Virginia to Hawaii and what's that gonna cost us taxpayers?

I don't wish him or anyone a lousy Christmas while the country's on its financial ass, but I'm hotter than spiced cider that he's so flagrantly flaunting it in my face and yours when suffering seems to be the commodity of the Season.

While the White House P.R. team engineers accountability for this poorly timed, festive, financial faux pas to (somehow) be hung on George Bush like a Boy Scouts' bag of mistletoe on a door frame, the 'first family' will be doin' the island booty-shake to strains of Don Ho on your nickel and mine as the Presidential poi party sways under Hawaiian skies.

He might have earned his first shred of respect from me had he taken Winnebago One to the projects and handed out hams to the needy even if it meant the wholesale slaughter of more pigs than the amount of pork in the Omnibus bill, but this latest gargantuan gaff is just our fearless leader's continued, demonstrative lack of good judgement from the same side of a brain that made the decision to hand an iPod to the Queen of England.

Downed Angel Rebound

Jim would be self-conscious to hear me describe him as a 2-legged angel with "Awww, shucks" humility and selfless energy to help and empower others, just the kind of friend one's always sought.

But Jim is unconscious, in ICU, and has been on a respirator since December 2nd.

Jim, my brother's best friend since before my birth, and who helped me through my brother's death, had just left a Louisville restaurant when a car ran a red light and, at 45mph--without any evidence of braking--stuck Jim's car in the driver's door.

His exercise classmates, his walking buddy, his fellow retired teachers, church friends, neighbors, his fishin' buddies, his golf cronies, and his life-long friends all suspect a cellphone may have been the secondary cause of carelessness that's left Jim teetering on the frail thread between this life and the next.

My grief week in Louisville was spent in daily contact with Jim, in his company on the phone and in person, with him and his family.

Our conversations included a 6S discussion, leading him to my writing and this site, and awakening a voracious appetite to express himself in this form albeit on legal pads with a pen, and with exhuberant zeal I pray he'll recover to enjoy.

Actions Do Speak Louder

Still in his business suit, Phil nursed a scotch at the small cafe table as Carly breezed in, announcing, "We need to talk!"

She emerged from the bedroom in sweat pants and a tee-shirt, and plopped into the chair opposing him.

"Finances... errands... chores... work.... Look, we're just not having any fun in our marriage any more, Phil, and I know I own half that responsibility."

Her whine continued and so self-consuming that she didn't notice the hand he slipped into his suit coat's side pocket to fondle the gun, finding the trigger.

The gun was out and aimed at her chest, specifically at her breasts, as he emptied it while she shrieked and screamed until the squirt gun was empty.

Her nipples reacted to the ice water, popping erect against the cotton tee, and he yelled, "TURKEY'S DONE!!" prompting her to leap across the table, spilling the drink, ending-up with two entwined bodies giggling, rolling and trading kisses on the floor and a $49 table in need of repair.

Precip

The drizzle is cold on my skin. Summer temps in the Arizona-Sonoran Desert exceeded 140 degrees Fahrenheit (in the sun) during summer months. The signal that Fall has arrived is falling on, and cooling the desert. Transformations are forthcoming from flora and fauna. Dusty gulches will gulp Nature's elixir, even flow with it. The desert has changed masks, will again become life-giving instead of life-taking.

[Twenty-seven minutes after this was posted online, I received the phone call that Jack--my brother, my hero--was dead.]

Double Take

It’s an understatement to say Craig wasn’t happy Marilyn was going to her sister’s, leaving him stuck at home to answer the door for trick-or-treaters on Halloween night.

About quarter-to-ten, he dumped the last of the candy bars into pre-teens’ pillow cases and sacks and promptly closed the drapes and turned off the porch light to signal he had had just about enough.

The bell sounded again about 11:45 and he opened the door with purpose only to find nothing but an orange and black Halloween bag in the vestibule.

He looked around and--seeing no child--stooped and had only raised the bag 6 inches from the concrete when he saw a severed human hand at the bottom, dropped the gory find and lurched to vomit on the grass.

Police assured him they were enroute and, when dispatch asked if it was a man’s or woman’s hand, Craig dared to take only the quickest glance, but long enough to recognize the ring he’d given Marilyn on the hand he had taken in marriage.

I Was One of THOSE Commuters This Morning

So the new car has such a fabuloso sound system that there are door-mounted tweeter speakers in front. There must to be 8 or more speakers in the stylin' new Joemobile.

So I made a 90-song mp3 disc for the car and road-tested it this morning.

I was in chair-dancing bliss.

Bill Withers’ “Lovely Day” piped up and I seat-danced with my assivo-massivo pounding the leather oblivious to odd looks from other commuters.

Forget that the volume was deafening and I was singing along at the tops and bottoms of my lungs, arms flailing fluidly and flawlessly to the beat and, yes, occasionally extending out of the open sunroof on this rainy day.

For my entire, 25-minute commute, twas Bill and I, over and again, until I exited my car at the workplace with an explicable smile and spring in my step.