Musing Myself To Death

Yes, We Did

2008-11-05T17:16:00.005-06:00

Coming soon to a country near you...

Tuesday, January 20th, 2009

Your Civic Responsibility

2008-11-04T00:02:00.002-06:00

Just do it.

Today.

No excuses.

On Poverty: Invisible Men (Blog Action Day 2008)

2008-10-15T10:35:00.045-05:00

In response to this year's Blog Action Day 2008's serendipitously appropriate Poverty theme...

Poverty effects us all at some point in time, and on some level, in our lives, undetected or not.

We can deny it, make it invisible, hide from it, but it is a constant companion; poverty is a human condition.

It also comes in many shapes, sizes and forms both literal and figurative.

It may even oppose its most commonly inferred definition at times.

Indeed, poverty is not necessarily a financial compromise. But, more often than not, it has its obvious and intuitive connections.

Hardly rare is the hand-in-hand-out nature of income hardships and psychological anguish. Their paths often cross punitively ... even amongst the privileged and most well-to-do. Current economic conditions enforce this reality as our cable news screen crawl headlines remind us of violence towards individuals, and those near-and-dear to them, as they struggle up the careerist chain of command.

We are all in this moment.

Together.

Inextricably.

Now, I admit to being personally "impoverished" of late.

I am lacking in a resource called Time.

I frequently find myself unable to write the lengthy blog posts I used to indulge. Thus, I need the occasional aid of others to help fill in for me (similar to when comic strip creator Bil Keane "goes on vacation" and has Jeffy fill in for him... only someone might end up dead in this case...).

Witness below, a sort of "Suicide Note From The Soul" taken from an (*) anonymous chatroom board posting.

Found herein, a bit of insight, summing up at times crassly but sincerely, the 'poverty of the soul' many of us can succumb to as we get overwhelmed with the 'modern day drudgery' of work-life balance and its complications.

It is a periscope, a rant and an alarm, from one person's personal experience with their particular brand of poverty (I am guessing the author a male nearing his mid-life years - appropo as a modern day Jacob Marley, from one's future "passed" to another future's potential).

Despite its explicit nature, and purposefully politically incorrect tone, there are, indeed, some damningly insightful truths here. If you are unsympathetic or disagree with the sentiment the charges should still not ring hollow; most will relate to it as an expression of frustration with hypocrisy resulting in the questioner's despair.

It is not completely without hope...

(* Aside from a few spelling and grammatical corrections I have left the original content of the note in its intended format.)

~~*~~

Subject: Just my thoughts about life, and yes, I am tired of it...

What is life?

Why are we here?

When we are young we wake up every morning to go to school so we can gain knowledge to go to a better school. Then we stress out and study day in and day out so we can get accepted to college, so we can study a subject that 70% of us won’t even use the day after we graduate. Yet we still go to college and we study so hard, trying our best to get the highest grade we can so we can get a job, so we can start learning everything we can in order to be able to work in a corporation.

Then we start to advance, slowly, but we advance, with 3-6% increases in our yearly salary, waking up every morning so we can go to a job that we don’t like, and go on retreats that do not benefit us and that we dread, taking tests that qualify us to do more and not get paid as much as we should for it.

Why are we here?

Are we here so we can go through the daily routine of this dreadful, anxiety filled excuse for a life, so we can buy a house and stress about being able to pay the mortgage?

Are we here so other people can tell us what to do?

I mean no matter what position you have in a company, you will always have a supervisor, unless of course you own the company, but even then you probably have to report back to the people who lent you the money so you can open your own company. What you thought would be the beginning of a great thing, that you will actually have time for yourself and your family has now turned you into someone you never wanted to be. You are now the person that looks at the bottom line every day, the person that you hated when you were working for someone else, that is you now.

You now start to understand the decisions that your supervisors made because you have to make them yourself, and your employees feel about you the same way you felt about your employees.

Now this situation is for the lucky ones who actually get to do what they like, everyone else is either stuck at a job which, if it is not a dead end now, it will lead to one eventually.

Most people don’t even like what they do, so why do they do it?

We live in a society that dictates that you have to have a job, and it doesn’t matter if you like it or not, you must keep it because everything costs money these days, and one cannot be self sufficient anymore.

So let’s start from the beginning and see what happens:

You are born, your parents hope to raise you well so you can go to school and get good grades for the next 12 years, after which they push you to go to a good 4 year college and get a degree, one that will probably end up being useless to you because after you stress yourself and study until your brain can no longer work, you graduate and get a job. When you start this job you will go on an orientation, which is in simple terms, more learning, studying and testing. After this is all said and done you start to learn everything relevant to your position, which involves more late night cramming. You then need to work your ass off so you don’t have to be called into your bosses office, since if you do, it means that you are not doing your job and you might get fired, something that you don’t want to happen even though you hate your job and you can’t wait for the day that the place burns down.

Now you are in a rut, a routine that you hate which is broken every once in a while by a company retreat or a promotion, one that makes you oh-so-very happy because with this promotion you get a 5% raise in your salary, but you also get a 30% raise in your work load, but hey, you are getting an extra 2-4k a year now, so what the hell.

Now somewhere along the line you will meet someone, if you are lucky, you love each other, if not, you just have kids together, either way, there are kids involved, which brings us to another rut.

Now every day when you get home from your daily grind you spend your time at home, running the kids around, making your spouse feel good about her self, pushing your kids to get good grades so they can get into a good college, so they can get a good job, so they can lead a life, well, like the one you hate right now.

So far, am I on the right track?

Well, all of what I am writing right now is based on years of observing, listening, and experiencing this exact same thing.

Is this what we all wanted?

Is this what we dreamed of when we were kids?

What ever happened to those dreams we all had?

Why don’t people do something to change their lives around?

I don’t know why, and I honestly stopped caring a long time ago.

I have given up on mankind, plain and simple.

We are living in a world that those who have nothing will stay with nothing, those who have too much will always have too much, and those who are in the middle, well, if they are lucky they will stay in the middle, but that is not a guarantee.

We live in a world that you cannot confront anyone anymore because if you do you will either get sued, get fired, or get the lovely “American smile” which is the basic “oh no problem, I am so sorry, I will work on it” and then they turn around and talk shit about you.

Another thing that can happen is that if you voice your own opinion people will just hate you.
People don’t like to think that someone thinks different than they do, so when someone like that comes along, they usually shun them away and make them feel like shit.

There is also the sensitivity issue, in which case a person is too sensitive to hear the truth, and all they do is fuck shit up all day long, and when you try to explain to them nicely, they ignore you, and when you tell it to them like it is, suddenly, they are a victim of verbal abuse. And there is usually some idiot who will always come to their help, which enables them to keep acting the way they do and never change.

I am sorry, but what ever happened to the days that when someone did something stupid you could just tell them that they are fucking up and get it over with?

Since when did society become so sensitive?

WHY THE FUCK CAN'T PEOPLE TAKE THE TRUTH ANYMORE!?

We are living in a society that requires you to walk on egg shells, a society that frowns upon people being who they really are because, god forbid (and yes I said god (little "g"...) and if you have a problem with that then you can fuck off) you are different from everyone else, and that you might have an idea that doesn’t conform to what we usually do.

Why do I have to be nice to people that are assholes to me!?

Why do I have to be a different person around people I don’t know?

Is it because we don’t know each other?

Well, what if we get to know each other and the real me comes out and they can’t handle it?

Would it not have been better to be myself right off the start?

At least they would have known who I really am and not wasted their time with me.

Why is it that every time someone tells somebody what they think right to their face, that they are the bad guy, but when they tell them that they are doing a great job and go to the boss and rat them out suddenly they are doing a good job?

Since when do we like liars?

It is complete and utter bullshit that people cannot handle the truth.

I tell everyone that I meet, if it is at work, school or anywhere else, if I do something to piss you off, tell me, I can’t read your mind, and if you don’t tell me I will probably just keep doing it.
I also tell them that I will do the same to them, and they are happy when I tell them that, but when I fuck up they go behind my back and talk to everyone else about it, and when I tell them they are fucking up, well, now I become an asshole.

I respect everyone, but when you disrespect me, it doesn’t matter if you are a man or a woman, I will disrespect you right back.

For instance, I worked at a restaurant, the owner's wife (at the time I didn’t know who she was, not that it mattered) had asked me to help her throw away a tree that was dead. After looking at the tree, which was green, and far far far far far far far far far away from being dead as possible, I mentioned to her that the tree was not dead. We then proceeded to talk about the tree being dead or alive, and I finished it off by saying, “Look, I work here, I will do what I am told, but the tree is not dead.”

Well, the following day the GM (General Manager) approached me and told me that the subject had come up that I had treated her without too much respect because she was a woman. After hearing this I had thought in my head, “No, I treated her without respect because she was an idiot, being a woman had nothing to do with it, and for comedic purposes, completely coincidental.” (and yes I actually think like that).

Keep in mind that out of the 6-7 weeks that I actually worked at this place, almost every morning was spent with the GM outside talking about things that went wrong (by talking I actually mean lectures of how I am fucking up, surprisingly enough it was something different every time).

About a week after the tree incident the GM took me outside and told me he had to let me go, at which point I told him that if he hadn’t done this today, a week from now I would have quit anyway, and we went our separate ways.

Now, to stick up for the GM, which he is a great guy in my eyes, he got caught in the daily crap grinder which is work. The restaurant was bought out by another company, and since he worked at this place before, he was promoted to the position. He worked day and night (literally) to do everything he could to satisfy his new owners, which took a large toll on his marriage, which I hope that he had managed to fix, since I really don’t wish him any harm what so ever, in fact, I hope that he succeeds in life, and maybe learn to breath every once in a while.

Moving on…

People today have this amazing trait, and I have noticed this with several people, they would meet someone, no matter who it is or where they met them, but they will take their business card, promising that they will call them and do business with them, and never call back.

Now I understand if you meet someone and it is just for the night, hell, we all did that. We are out at a bar, or sitting around drinking coffee, whatever it is that we are doing, we meet someone, conversation comes up, and you talk to them, it is more of a selfish thing since all we really want to do is pass the time. This is completely fine, and again, we all do this.

But my question is why do people feel the need to lie to other people and promise them that they will call them. People, this is a spur of the moment thing, you do not have to feel obligated to call this person just because he is as selfish as you are trying to pass the time until they need to go do something else.

Look, just do what I do, talk to them, be nice, more important, be yourself, and when it is all said and done, get up, say good bye, and leave. No commitments, no empty promises.

Now there have been occasions where I have met someone incredibly interesting that I thought could benefit me as a person, professionally or socially, in which case we did exchange cards and we did keep in touch.

But for the average day to day meeting of new people for the hell of it, it doesn’t matter.

I think that the one thing people hate the most is being disrespected, and being lied to is a form of that, so this is where the whole “do onto others…” thing that our parents taught us when we were kids comes into play.

As far as life goes, I used to hope that people actually try to do something about what they didn’t like in their lives and enhance what they liked. But today, I think I am starting to realize that people would rather be safe then happy.

Most people would rather live their lives in the rut, doing the same things day in and day out, hating every minute of it, just because they know what will happen next.

People are scared to do what they like, or think they like, because it is not what they are used to.

They are not used to feeling content with themselves, and such a feeling of happiness is something that they fear, because it is different then what they are used too.

The fact that people do what they do for a crappy paycheck is pathetic, since they can do something they like for the same amount of money.

Actors say that life is a stage for us to perform on every day, and no matter what happens, the curtains will still go up tomorrow.

Artists say that the world is a canvas, and that we all paint our own picture.

Philosophers say that this is the only life we have, so might as well make the most of it.

Not many people get better lives out this type of advise, but for those select few, I am sure their lives are truly amazing, as for everyone else, I think the least they should do is try, because if they don’t, well, their lives just suck.

And if you ever wanted a catchy chick-flick-type quote from me, well, "the clock never stops ticking, so you might as well enjoy the second you’re in now, because the next one is completely different".

See what I mean?

Pass this whole message on to anyone you know, don’t be afraid. And if it effects anyone, I mean even one person, at least I know that my life was not for nothing other than the daily grind.

~~*~~

We are all poorer because one of us is impoverished somehow.

Exactly What Is A Post Turtle?

2008-10-12T02:23:00.006-05:00

While suturing a cut on the hand of a 75-year old Texas rancher whose hand was caught in a gate while working cattle, the doctor struck up a conversation with the old man.

Eventually the topic got around to Sarah Palin and her bid to be a heartbeat away from being President.

The old rancher said, 'Well, ya know, Palin is a post turtle.'
Not being familiar with the term, the doctor asked him what a post
turtle was.

The old rancher said, 'When you're driving down a country road and
you come across a fence post with a turtle balanced on top, that's a post turtle.'

The old rancher saw a puzzled look on the doctor's face, so he
continued to explain. 'You know she didn't get up there by herself,
she doesn't belong up there, she doesn't know what to do while she is
up there, and you just wonder what kind of dumbass put her up there
to begin with.'

Jesus & Mark Wrapped In Plastic

2008-10-09T16:54:00.004-05:00

Photograph by Geoffrey Kroll (New York City, 2007) www.krollphotography.com

Financial "Fail-Out" Plan

2008-10-08T13:01:00.003-05:00

The following a letter from activist Michael Moore on the what's about to become the largest robbery in American history...

~~*~~

Friends,

Let me cut to the chase. The biggest robbery in the history of this country is taking place as you read this. Though no guns are being used, 300 million hostages are being taken. Make no mistake about it: After stealing a half trillion dollars to line the pockets of their war-profiteering backers for the past five years, after lining the pockets of their fellow oilmen to the tune of over a hundred billion dollars in just the last two years, Bush and his cronies -- who must soon vacate the White House -- are looting the U.S. Treasury of every dollar they can grab. They are swiping as much of the silverware as they can on their way out the door.

No matter what they say, no matter how many scare words they use, they are up to their old tricks of creating fear and confusion in order to make and keep themselves and the upper one percent filthy rich. Just read the first four paragraphs of the lead story in last Monday's New York Times and you can see what the real deal is:

"Even as policy makers worked on details of a $700 billion bailout of the financial industry, Wall Street began looking for ways to profit from it.

"Financial firms were lobbying to have all manner of troubled investments covered, not just those related to mortgages.

"At the same time, investment firms were jockeying to oversee all the assets that Treasury plans to take off the books of financial institutions, a role that could earn them hundreds of millions of dollars a year in fees.

"Nobody wants to be left out of Treasury's proposal to buy up bad assets of financial institutions."

Unbelievable. Wall Street and its backers created this mess and now they are going to clean up like bandits. Even Rudy Giuliani is lobbying for his firm to be hired (and paid) to "consult" in the bailout.

The problem is, nobody truly knows what this "collapse" is all about. Even Treasury Secretary Paulson admitted he doesn't know the exact amount that is needed (he just picked the $700 billion number out of his head!). The head of the congressional budget office said he can't figure it out nor can he explain it to anyone.

And yet, they are screeching about how the end is near! Panic! Recession! The Great Depression! Y2K! Bird flu! Killer bees! We must pass the bailout bill today!! The sky is falling! The sky is falling!

Falling for whom? NOTHING in this "bailout" package will lower the price of the gas you have to put in your car to get to work. NOTHING in this bill will protect you from losing your home. NOTHING in this bill will give you health insurance.

Health insurance? Mike, why are you bringing this up? What's this got to do with the Wall Street collapse?

It has everything to do with it. This so-called "collapse" was triggered by the massive defaulting and foreclosures going on with people's home mortgages. Do you know why so many Americans are losing their homes? To hear the Republicans describe it, it's because too many working class idiots were given mortgages that they really couldn't afford. Here's the truth: The number one cause of people declaring bankruptcy is because of medical bills. Let me state this simply: If we had had universal health coverage, this mortgage "crisis" may never have happened.

This bailout's mission is to protect the obscene amount of wealth that has been accumulated in the last eight years. It's to protect the top shareholders who own and control corporate America. It's to make sure their yachts and mansions and "way of life" go uninterrupted while the rest of America suffers and struggles to pay the bills. Let the rich suffer for once. Let them pay for the bailout. We are spending 400 million dollars a day on the war in Iraq. Let them end the war immediately and save us all another half-trillion dollars!

I have to stop writing this and you have to stop reading it. They are staging a financial coup this morning in our country. They are hoping Congress will act fast before they stop to think, before we have a chance to stop them ourselves. So stop reading this and do something -- NOW! Here's what you can do immediately:

1. Call or e-mail Senator Obama. Tell him he does not need to be sitting there trying to help prop up Bush and Cheney and the mess they've made. Tell him we know he has the smarts to slow this thing down and figure out what's the best route to take. Tell him the rich have to pay for whatever help is offered. Use the leverage we have now to insist on a moratorium on home foreclosures, to insist on a move to universal health coverage, and tell him that we the people need to be in charge of the economic decisions that affect our lives, not the barons of Wall Street.

2. Take to the streets. Participate in one of the hundreds of quickly-called demonstrations that are taking place all over the country (especially those near Wall Street and DC).

3. Call your Representative in Congress and your Senators. (click here to find their phone numbers). Tell them what you told Senator Obama.

When you screw up in life, there is hell to pay. Each and every one of you reading this knows that basic lesson and has paid the consequences of your actions at some point. In this great democracy, we cannot let there be one set of rules for the vast majority of hard-working citizens, and another set of rules for the elite, who, when they screw up, are handed one more gift on a silver platter. No more! Not again!

Yours,
Michael Moore
MMFlint@aol.com
MichaelMoore.com

P.S. Having read further the details of this bailout bill, you need to know you are being lied to. They talk about how they will prevent golden parachutes. It says NOTHING about what these executives and fat cats will make in SALARY. According to Rep. Brad Sherman of California, these top managers will continue to receive million-dollar-a-month paychecks under this new bill. There is no direct ownership given to the American people for the money being handed over. Foreign banks and investors will be allowed to receive billion-dollar handouts. A large chunk of this $700 billion is going to be given directly to Chinese and Middle Eastern banks. There is NO guarantee of ever seeing that money again.

P.P.S. From talking to people I know in DC, they say the reason so many Dems are behind this is because Wall Street this weekend put a gun to their heads and said either turn over the $700 billion or the first thing we'll start blowing up are the pension funds and 401(k)s of your middle class constituents. The Dems are scared they may make good on their threat. But this is not the time to back down or act like the typical Democrat we have witnessed for the last eight years. The Dems handed a stolen election over to Bush. The Dems gave Bush the votes he needed to invade a sovereign country. Once they took over Congress in 2007, they refused to pull the plug on the war. And now they have been cowered into being accomplices in the crime of the century. You have to call them now and say "NO!" If we let them do this, just imagine how hard it will be to get anything good done when President Obama is in the White House. THESE DEMOCRATS ARE ONLY AS STRONG AS THE BACKBONE WE GIVE THEM. CALL CONGRESS NOW.

Scare Bear Market

2008-10-08T12:59:00.002-05:00

Hey, everybody!

Look!

It's your children's financial future...!

What We Meant To Say Was...

2008-10-07T13:36:00.005-05:00

Well, yeah, somebody sure as hell is going to "come" this economic crisis. Namely the douche-nozzle profiteers who got us all there in the first place.

Please never, EVER tell me there's not enough money for social programs or national infrastructure for this country EVER again.

Thanks.

Nice going, Last-Eight-Years-of-Hypocrisy.

November 4th couldn't get here fast enough (he says confidently that the American public will finally come to it's senses...).

The End Is Ne'er

2008-10-06T13:28:00.014-05:00

The great irony of posting this latest "fun with numerology prophesy" circulating (circulatin'!) the Christian internet sites is that half of you might take this quite seriously ... while the other half will get a good chuckle out if it (albeit with a hint of wide-eyed fear as you're snickering away). I am of the latter group (despite my Catholic upbringing), and just for the record, I intend to be quite happy in this supposed "Hell" where apparently I'll be hanging out with the likes of Jimmy Hendrix and Kurt Vonnegut...

(Should "The Number 44 Prophecy" come true please add "Rush Postage" to my delivery, by the way.)

On the other hand, if Barack Obama and Joseph Biden (you know, that other V.P...) is elected this November does that mean that people who come up with this kind of voodoo will finally just ... go away??

~~*~~

The Number 44 Prophesy on McCain/Palin

Peg and I have just returned from our Sunday AM service. As you know we have been involved in 90 days of Hosting the Lord’s Presence, and it’s been
powerful in a personal way. We knew there had been lots of warfare because
when we got home, we were tired and needed a nap. The Sunday AM celebrations
have been just worship with some intercessory prayer, but no preaching or
teaching. This morning after an extended time of worship, Dutch Sheets, our
pastor, shared an exhortation, as he called it. During this, Peg and I both
were about to explode in our spirits.

I believe you are aware that Dutch was used by the Lord to call prayer
before the 2000 Bush election that was so close. He said this morning that
this election is perhaps even more critical than 2000 because of the Supreme
Court. If the right political posture is not elected, we stand to lose
decades of progress and the repercussions are enormous. Last year, Chuck
Pierce and Greg Hood (both prophets) prophesied that in 2008, we are not
electing a president but the vice president. Dutch said he could get no
release in his heart to back Huckaby even though pressured by many in the
body of Christ. Huckaby is a good man and a strong believer, but he was not
God’s choice. Dutch also told us that he knows a man who gave McCain a
prophetic word that McCain had made a vow to God when he was at the bottom
during his POW days, and now God was calling in that vow. McCain was visibly
moved by this word.

Dutch was traveling to Texas on Friday and when he landed in the airport,
his wife called and told him to get to the TV asap. He watched McCain
introduce Governor Palin and said he began to weep, even though he knew
nothing about her. (I experienced the very same thing, and we have had
reports of many others including Newt Gingrich.-RS. I experienced the same
thing!–cb)

(ed. - Heh! Funny, so did I! Only for a completely different reason...)

He asked what the significance of this 44-year-old woman was and
he saw the clock said 4:44. He asked the Lord what that was and the Lord
said, “Ezekiel 44:4.” “He brought me by way of the north gate to the front
of the temple; so I looked, and behold, the glory of the LORD filled the
house of the LORD; and I fell on my face.” (NKJV) Note: North gate
represents Alaska.

A few years ago Dutch and Chuck Pierce went on a 50-state tour prophesying
over each state as their part in God’s purposes for the U.S. At the meeting
in Texas that evening Dutch was relaying his experience about the Governor
to Chuck who said, “Do you remember what the word was the Lord gave us for
Alaska?” The Lord had shown them that Alaska is the alpha and omega state.
It’s the place where things begin and end. You may realize that some of the
Alaskan islands are on the other side of the International Dateline, meaning
that the day begins and ends in Alaska. The Lord said that Alaska is a
gateway for the Ancient of Days to come into the nation. The Lord told Dutch
(while in Alaska) to tell the people of Alaska to look forward into their
destiny… Alaska has an assignment to open doors and a place where prophets
and intercessors were trained. It turns out that the Governor who was raised
in a Pentecostal Church, according to our newspaper, founded the prayer
movement in Alaska.

We will be having the last of our 90 days in a major gathering on September
11. The significance of this is that Chuck Pierce had prophesied that there
would be 7 years of war, and September 11 marks the end of that time and the
entering of the 8th year. Someone said that 44 = 4+4 or 8.

Dutch asked why he and Chuck were in Texas for this announcement and the
Lord reminded him that the word for Texas was that it is a prophetic state -
that the Lord’s purpose for Texas is this prophetic function.

Dutch then decreed Sarah Palin will enter the White House. Now, if you don’t
know him, he is cautious, has his feet on the ground, and never goes off
“half cocked” when it comes to prophecy. He said that he believes as of
Friday, the U.S. has come into a new level of alignment with the Lord and
His purposes. By the way, the Governor will be the 44th Vice President. He
continued to declare that she will be the Margaret Thatcher of America
including that she would be President one day. Many other things came forth.
I literally thought I would explode because the Lord had shown me many of
these same things yesterday.

I believe we especially need to rally prayer for the family and children of
the Governor. They will be targeted by the enemy, and I believe we need
special prayer for the oldest daughter.

Please take this seriously in your prayers

~~*~~

Enjoy your "last days", good citizens of planet Mirth; our number just may be up...

(Postscript: Just to add fuel to the fires of hell - according to a recent CNN poll - 44% of Americans believe Sarah Palin would make a good president... I kid you not.)

A Quote From Ronald Reagan...

2008-09-30T19:12:00.013-05:00

"A moment I've been dreading. George brought his n'er-do-well son around this morning and asked me to find the kid a job. Not the political one who lives in Florida; the one who hangs around here all the time looking shiftless. This so-called kid is already almost 40 and has never had a real job. Maybe I'll call Kinsley over at The New Republic and see if they'll hire him as a contributing editor or something. That looks like easy work."

From the REAGAN DIARIES ------ entry dated May 17, 1986 (Edited by David Brinkley and published by Harper-Collins)

I believe the expression "rolling in one's grave" comes to mind...

Top 10 Surprising Sarah Palin Facts

2008-09-26T13:07:00.007-05:00

After John McCain snubbed David Letterman for a show appearance last Thursday night (while appearing with Katie Couric for a Q&A only a few hours later!) seems the old cuddly & curmudgeonly TV host had a little fun at the Republican ticket's expense (his guest that night, instead, was Paris Hilton who, coincidentally, had been 'snubbed' by the McCain campaign, too)...

With Lake Lucille as the backdrop, ten residents of Wasilla, Alaska delivered David Letterman's Top Ten List:

TOP TEN SURPRISING FACTS ABOUT SARAH PALIN

10. Sometimes Sarah calls McCain "Grandpa"

9. She stole that sexy librarian look from me

8. Recently passed legislation to build a bridge to Funkytown

7. Does great impressions of Tina Fey

6. Favorite meal: Moose nuggets and beaver jerky

5. Working on a "Knight Rider" spin-off about a talking snowmobile

4. Favorite book? The Late Show Fun Facts -- available at fine stores everywhere

3. Once spent a week in the hospital after attempting to put lipstick on a pit bull

2. To improve her foreign policy experience, she recently went to the International House of Pancakes

1. Only person I know who's not afraid to go hunting with Dick Cheney

Vote MikeCaine/Palin!

2008-09-11T17:41:00.013-05:00

On second thought a MikeCaine/Palin ticket doesn't sound so bad after all..

Reckless!

2008-09-11T17:13:00.009-05:00

Speaking of "framing debates"...

Isn't it strange how The Dems have not seized control of their own "swift boating" tactics? And why not; politics is an ugly, ugly sport.

Word of advice from George Lakoff and others amongst the Clan of Chomsky: take control of a word to describe your opponent.

Say it over and over again until the general public has no other choice but to accept it as "reality".

Own it!

May I suggest:

"RECKLESS"

...to describe everything about McCain and his "Camp-Pain". His callous disregard of a former respectable self (one that now panders to right-wing ideology, religious Backwardism (no, Colbert! I get credit for this one!), environmental irresponsibility, economic naivete, and the most outrageously insulting choice for a Vice-Presidential side-kick in Sarah Palin!?!

Not even the most cynical of us would want this self described "lipsticked pitbull" so close to a 72-year-old presidential nominee.

Please be advised: as of today there are 54 Days left before this country wields one of its most mighty privileges.

Use it responsibly.

Vote with your intellect this time and not your baser instincts.

Happy Holiday, Dick Cheney!

2008-09-11T12:30:00.013-05:00

I think The Onion got it spot-on in their latest issue as we "celebrate" the latest, and now, 7th Annual Parade of the Neo- Cons' pride and joy, September 11th (sincere apologies to the thousands who died unnecessarily and their families now serving as involuntary shills for modern day political cynicism).

Witness even recently at the RNC the Twin Tower images still serving as the word 'Fear's' double exclamation points!! Nice touch, Rudy; we can always count on you as the Arch-Angel of Tuneless Trumpet blowing on this one.

Ironically, so much of the Right defines their brand of 'Conservatism' as that which our most important values and lessons must hearken back to "better days" (read: until recently the 1950's (throw in most of the 19th Century while you're at it; we want to make sure African-Americans have been handily dealt with, too...) when we had the last great reasons to be afraid including the good old standby spectres of Communism and 'Nuclear War' (c) 1939), and those better days have now been notoriously rechristened.

Why has September 11th, 2001 been translating as better days for so many of one particular political party? Do I really need to elaborate on the tired abuse of symbolism as a form of helping frame a candidate's debate on his (or her) worthiness to lead a nation?

Naaaah, mostly charred, building-dusted, bloodied old-hat this one.

Better we just get our gift shopping done early, everyone; I hear there's another attack on our sensibilities brewing in November...

Seven Songs For Seven People

2008-06-12T13:27:00.027-05:00

I've been 'tagged' to post my current seven favorite songs (and forward to seven others to do the same - you know the drill) ... but, this, I'm afraid, is a nearly impossible exercise for me as I listen to far too much music on any one given day (seven degrees of several song separation-anxiety?). Alas, I never tend to linger on any one given song for longer than can be afforded, and this for good reason:

There's just too much out there waiting to be discovered!

It's a curse, I tell you, forcing bitter irony straight into your ears.

That said, I will give this the old-college-try purely to see what I come up with... here are the rules first:

"List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they're not any good, but they must be songs you're really enjoying now, shaping your spring. Post these instructions in your blog along with your 7 songs. Then tag 7 other people to see what they're listening to."

So, here goes (and feel free to do the same even if you haven't been tagged officially):

~~~~*~~~~

7.) "Fistful of Rain" by Warren Zevon (from 'Life'll Kill Ya') - I imagine the old bard was well aware of the sickness that would soon take him when he wrote this inspirational and lovely grab-life-by-the-horns- before-it-fucks-all-this-beauty-and-poetry-up song (May you and Vonnegut be sitting together somewhere-upon-high toasting to all of this grand foolishness).

6.) "Nothing Is Innocent" by Over The Rhine (from 'The Trumpet Child') - I thought I was listening to Amy Winehouse when I first heard this stunner as it's all about addiction and falling down all done in that perfect retro-bluesy chanteuse-style. Imagine my surprise. Would do a fading diva-genius proud.

5.) "The Booklovers" by The Divine Comedy (from 'Promenade') - I was introduced to this on WMBR 88.1 FM in Cambridge, Mass. and it just rocked my literary-crashes- into-musical world. Just goes to prove reading a good book inspires great thinking and outrageously fine songwriting:

Happy the man, and happy he alone
who in all honesty can call today his own;
He who has life and strength enough
to say ’yesterday’s dead & gone
I want to live today’

4.) TIE: "The Funeral" and "Is There A Ghost" by Band Of Horses (from 'Everything All The Time' and 'Cease To Begin' respectively) - I love this band (of horses...) and not because NPR harps on them. They rock in a longing, sentimental way without being too longing and sentimental. You can actually feel cool about feeling all mushy inside.

3.) "Rickity Tikity Tin" by Barbara Manning (from '1212') - Oh, my! Doing wicked and sinister things never felt (and sounded!) so delightfully good!

2.) "The Commander Thinks Aloud" by The Long Winters (from 'Ultimatum' EP) - When it first dawned on me that this was a tuneful exploration about the space shuttle disaster it broke my heart. Such a beautifully crafted song that puts you right in the seat of catastrophe and turns your tears to vapor as you enter the atmosphere realizing all hope is lost - but wasn't it all such an amazing trip...?

1.) "Soul Meets Body" by Death Cab For Cutie (from 'Plans') - Yeah, I know, their big hit! song but you know what? This was the perfect companion for when we moved from the colder climes of the Northeast to the liberating and welcoming city of Austin. It just summed everything up so very perfectly. Love it and appreciate them for putting it to 'tape'.

~~~~*~~~~

Dare I include some runners-up? Sure! But, I'll keep it reeeal short:

"Meet The Witch" by Big Dipper (from 'Craps') - We all 'knew right from the start there would be a hill', didn't we?

"Everybody Knows" by Blake Hazard (from 'Little Airplane') - Nobody oozes sexuality and longing like the great-niece of F. Scott Fitzgerald. Love her and John D. in The Submarines, too!

"Fix You Up" by Tegan & Sara (from 'So Jealous') - I sent this catchy, uplifting little gem to someone when they were experiencing some, ahem, marital 'growing pains'. They thanked me profusely for the eye-opening pick-me-up message.

"Into My Arms" by Nick Cave (from 'The Boatman's Call') - What can I say? This was our Couples' Dance Song at our wedding. A brilliant master at his most wistful and tender. Soulful, devastating.

~~~~*~~~~

Okay, 'nuff fer now - but thanks for the brain-tease, Glenn; that was an enjoyable albeit troubling jaunt (and not entirely accurate!); there's just too much great music out there...!

(Oh, did I mention that I'm listening to Television's "See No Evil" (from 'Marquee Moon') right now and totally rocking out!? ed. - Sheesh...give it a rest, pal.)

Barton Creek Beast Barks!

2008-05-27T01:23:00.019-05:00

A rather large and bizarre, otter-like creature was spotted in Austin's Barton Creek Springs over this last Memorial Day Weekend:

Evoking absolute terror in several local swimmers that day the beast was eventually captured by one intrepid aquatic animal expert who happened to be perusing those riparian shores...

After wrestling the biological anomaly back to river's edge calm was restored to the area, and the beast was whiske(ere)d away to a nearby 'Lab'oratory for further observation...

Once safely secured it was determined that the toothy specimen was at least ... part alligator!

(OK, this entry is utter crap-nonsense but I hadn't posted in a while...)

Mother's Day Proclamation

2008-05-11T22:31:00.014-05:00

Unlike many of the corporate "Hallmark Holidays" that Americans are abused by yearly (may Valentine's Day and its ilk forever be banished to the dustbin of history!) the origins of "Mother's Day" here in the U.S. was actually based on a more noble cause: an anti-war statement against the carnage of the American Civil War.

The following poem by Julia Ward Howe was written in 1870 as an early call to celebrate Mother's Day and asked that women take on more responsibility in shaping the politics of their country (given the current political landscape its as relevant as ever...):

Mother's Day Proclamation

Arise, then, women of this day!
Arise, all women who have hearts,
Whether our baptism be of water or of tears!

Say firmly:
"We will not have great questions decided by irrelevant agencies,
Our husbands will not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caresses and applause.
Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn
All that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience.
We, the women of one country, will be too tender of those of another country
To allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs."

From the bosom of the devastated Earth a voice goes up with our own.
It says: "Disarm! Disarm! The sword of murder is not the balance of justice."
Blood does not wipe out dishonor, nor violence indicate possession.
As men have often forsaken the plough and the anvil at the summons of war,
Let women now leave all that may be left of home for a great and earnest day of counsel.

Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead.
Let them solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means
Whereby the great human family can live in peace,
Each bearing after his own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar,
But of God.

In the name of womanhood and humanity, I earnestly ask
That a general congress of women without limit of nationality
May be appointed and held at someplace deemed most convenient
And at the earliest period consistent with its objects,
To promote the alliance of the different nationalities,
The amicable settlement of international questions,
The great and general interests of peace.

--Julia Ward Howe (1870)

Happy Mother's Day!

Homesteady

2008-05-08T03:53:00.049-05:00

As promised(!), now that the furniture is mostly in place, remaining boxes put into "storage" (read: stuffed away in the Garage somewhere...), the lawn freshly "weed whacked", the cats having made peace with the dog (sort of ... nah, let's just skip that last one all together), and the rooms freshly painted, here are some recent photographs of our new home.

~~~~*~~~~

Enjoy the intoxicating stench of "new house scent" at your own risk...

The Front Yard area (some bastard won't move his car from our Driveway. Wait. Damnit, that's my car...).

The view from across the "Boulevard" ... Avenue, actually (aka - our swell neighbors, The Kroll's house).

The Front Door and Living Room area (a Triffid-like creature invaded this frame despite my protestations).

The Stairway to many wondrous rooms above (complete with dueling Chat Noirs! Pouvez-vous voir les chats?).

The Living Room proper (there is no bird in that cage, by the way; we think that one of the chat noirs must've gotten to it).

The Dining Room table with the lovely Triffid-bouquet from my dearest Mum!

The Kitchen area (smallish but, goll-dang-it-all, can we cook up a Texas-sized storm in here!).

Out back is the Backyard Porch and Deck area (complete with swing chair and cat-doormat!).

And, there's a Bamboo Garden with another raised swing chair so the mosquitoes can't reach us (pffff...).

Oh, look! Loki's in the Bamboo Garden ... eating something foul no doubt.

In the Backyard there's a tomato garden a-bloomin' (a-fruitin'??) and one raised-lumber enclosure in progress... don't even get me started about the "lawn"! Hey, do you know how hard it is to grow grass in Texas!?

Xeriscaping: 1

Flora: 0

Loki helps with some of that lawn irrigation... (n.b. - she's buried one of the cats right where she's doing her business...).

Speaking of cats, let's go Upstairs, shall we? Watch out for them kitties, though! I swear to god Marley will trip you while Anubis pushes you from behind to encourage your rapid downward momentum...

The Master Bedroom (yes, the dog sleeps with us ... we fit comfortably in the crate and she lets us out in the morning ... most days).

The Office (and Cat Room)...

... functions as the Guest Bedroom, too (don't mind the Cat Room part ... seriously, we keep the litter box downstairs).

The "Entertainment" Room (fishtanks are more interesting than television sets).

Exit through the Entertainment Room's French Doors and out onto the upstairs Deck (see the catnip plant in corner...? I kid you not).

The Zen-like Treehouse Deck (bamboo canopy shields us from the onslaught of incoming egg attacks from our neighbors).

~~~~*~~~~

Well, that pretty much completes the tour (aside from the two-and-a-half Bathrooms; I just always thought photographing toilets was a touch ... gauche, ya know?).

Ah, Home, Sweat, Home (as always a constant work in progress).

Ya'll come down and visit us sometime, ya hear?

Giants' Teeth (or, The Sky Is Falling)

2008-04-04T08:42:00.025-05:00

Giants fought above our normally peaceful neighborhood today. Two, maybe, three. Or, more!

Chicken Little has found redemption in the skies above Austin.

Thousands of jumbo-sized teeth fell from the sky in a brutish, unforgiving torrent.

It went something like this, I'm guessing...

<<<CRAAACK!>>>

Thor with his mighty Hammer smites his younger, mischievous sibling, Loki (ed. - with apologies to our own mischievous little canine...), into dizzying, but only momentary, submission. A severe jar-rattling bludgeon to the choppers.

"Bumpety-bump-bump-bump-bump...ker-plunk!"

Those pocked molars busting loose and dancing all over my car's sun-roofed top. The tarred shingles. The front lawn. The bird bath. The street. BAIR's Paper Supply across the way. And especially all madly pachinko-ing throughout the pecan tree branches.

Odd for this time of year (Just, please... please don't shatter the windshields!).

<<<WHAAACK!>>>

Retribution is swift and merciless; another well-placed blow lands squarely and heavily only this time a hail of Thor's incisors & bicuspids trundles down in a furious, chaotic sheet of broken bone and spit.

<<<BOOOM!>>>

Good Christ, here it comes (Oh, I just know I'll be banging dents out of the SAAB's hood for weeks!)...

"Tink. (pause) Tank (pause) Tunk. (pause) Ba-dunk."

Their mouths finally run out of teeth ... what follows are all apologetic tears for 5, maybe 10, minutes more. Heavy, drenching, blinding tears.

(((R))((U))((M))((B))((L))((E)))

Two giant brothers amble off into the distance somewhere to console one another ... (perhaps over San Antonio?) ... but, inevitably, and certainly once their new teeth are again grown into place, will come back this way...

...all a fragilis-dentata-piss-and-vinegar-spewing-mad.

Angry with each other?

More likely ... furious at the world.

Rock Out With Your Caulk Out!

2008-04-01T23:17:00.015-05:00

Gotta love a new and stressed out home-owner.

So, there we were at The Home Despot (aka - The Home Desperate, aka - Wall Mart, aka - Stalag 13, aka - New Shrine To The Pathetic And Overly Obsessed Property Slave... etc, etc, etc!) picking up our new and profoundly over-priced stove, refrigerator, microwave oven, washer, drier, insert random household appliances here...

I'm very tired. Let me stress (and I do mean stress...) the word "very" for you, okay?

VERY!

Its been a long day of closings, title fees, mortgage notes, insurance papers, real estate agents, appraisal forms, legal documents, check passing and everything else that goes along with the purchasing of a new home.

And then some.

My mind is spinning on how fast money is funneling out of my bank account. And this little man, this chattering little weasel-like creature, "Clint", is trying to sell us (by us, I mean my wife, Heather, myself, and the several dozen or so pink, blue, and green faeries fluttering madly around my head...) warranties upon warranties for each new appliance. As if three months pay wasn't enough already, all right?! If this guy were taking blood samples he'd screw the whole intravenous tube and needle thing and go straight for a sapping spigot and 10 gallon bucket!

Shortly into his pitch Mary Lou Jesus-Camp saunters up to explain even MORE great deals to be had!

And I've...

I've had enough.

'Don't our new bathrooms need to be silicon-ed or something???'

Heather, this is your show now. Have at it with these clowns.

And without so much as batting an awkwardly bent eye-lash I just blurt out, "Hey, Clint? Can you just show me where your caulk is?"

Sounds like...

Stops them both dead in their tracks (at least they've finally shut-up!).

Mary Lou turns beet-red. Her priest is going to have a rough confessional next week...

Clint fails terribly in suppressing his did-he-just-say-what- I-thought-he-just-said! shit-eating grin.

"Ummm, you mean our caulking? That's two rows down in Aisle 7."

I fail to find the humor in any of this.

At all.

I leave in a head-shaking huff.

Although, immediately afterwards, it does ticklishly get me to thinking, "Wouldn't it be great to just drop trow right about now and waddle over to Aisle 7 with my shorts wrapped around my ankles screaming, 'Hey, where's your caulk! Where's your goddamn caulk, you bastards! I need to find some caulk badly! Right here, right now!'"

The moral of this story is...

Well, there is no moral. Morals have gone completely out the window, in fact.

But, I did find the "caulking" in Aisle 7 just like Clint had told me it would be.

And, also, you can be damn sure that the next time I wander into The Home Depot I'm not going to take any prisoners: "Hey, can somebody tell me where you fuckers stack your Penis Guns around this douche-colony!?"

That oughtta hold the little bastards...

Man In A Night Time Mirror

2008-03-23T19:24:00.011-05:00

When I met the man he stood about 5'11" but was much younger.

Down a darkened hall he stared back from inside a mirror.

All words written and spoken in Gaelic here. A small, lost town on the edge of a forgotten, pinprick of a place.

No one home.

Whole place to myself. With eggs! And milk! Bread and freshly churned butter!

And as darkness crept in and then turned into oblivion I woke up and walked down an empty-house hall. Floors answered back with every covert and careful step.

Naked.

Except for maybe my pretenses.

There he was, too.

Alone.

Naked.

Except for his pretenses.

Staring back down over eighteen years or so of darkened hallways.

We startled each other. Because no one was supposed to be home. But there we were ... facing off. Stuck in night's glue.

I discovered you down a hallway.

In a mirror over a decade and more ago. Staring me into eternity, or now. Whichever came first.

Now here I am.

Memory as time machine.

God, if I only knew then what I know now (you foolish cliche-whore!).

Stay right there, lad, stay right there.

Frozen in time.

In that night felled, cottage mirror.

Afraid.

But still safe.

Pet Peeve Hypocrite!

2008-03-21T16:17:00.011-05:00

OK, so maybe, just maybe... she's one of the greatest dogs ever?

Join the Dogster community

Meet The Mouth

2008-03-03T17:08:00.024-06:00

Dog owners are different than cat owners.

Every dog owner will make you painfully aware of that fact.

They say, "Well, we've had 'Cerberus' for 3 years, 6 months, 2 weeks, 10 days, 12 hours, 13 minutes and 53 seconds."

Cat owners will defer, "We think she's about 2 or 3 years old..."

Dogs exude personality.

Cats exude independence.

Dogs know words.

Cats: "No words."

If cats do "know" words... well, then they sure as hell understand the art of feigning ignorance.

Loyalty.

Obedience.

Love.

Expression.

These are words associated with dogs.

Cats?

Loyalty (to no one...).

Obedience (Pfff. Riiiiiight...).

Love (of sunny spots and tongue baths maybe...).

Expression (as long as that expression involves a middle finger...).

There is always a BIG story behind a dog. Usually weeks in the making if not months.

Cats have stories, too. Very detailed ones. But chances are if you asked a dog to recite his or her story he or she would do it in a most excited and immaculate manner. Woofing in gregarious detail all the way!

Cats, on the other hand, would write their story down somewhere, hide it from everyone and wait until 'The Mothership' touches down before revealing their ultimate truth... (you think I'm kidding?)

Let it be clear: I adore cats.

Let it also be clear: I adore dogs.

Can there really be such a strain of humanity??

You usually don't find this happy medium in most people.

You're either one, or the other.

Period.

Dog Owners might say: "Cats = Terrorists, Dogs = Patriots".

Cat Owners might say: "Dogs = Short Bus To English As A 2nd Language Class, Cats = New York Times Sunday Edition Crossword Puzzle".

So, where does that leave us 'lovers of both'?

Dogs = Dogs.

That's great!

Cats = Cats.

Why, that's great, too!

Are we then Patriotic Progressives? Folks that are willing to negotiate with the terrorists after weeks of scholarly review? Or, just undeniably neurotic...?

Whatever. Meet The Mouth.

"Loki" (after hours of naming-rites debate between Heather and myself!).

She's a black lab mix. We're thinking a touch of Chow or Pyrenees thrown in perhaps judging by the kinky hair around her ears and the pudgier than normal snout for a normally pure-bred lab.

Did I mention she's black? Matches 'The Coven'! (ed. - oh, go get yourselves on some meds pronto, you obsessives!)

I found her ... (rather she found me!) ... at the local Austin pet shelter, "Cause For Paws."

I just couldn't say, "No."

Isn't that how the excuse usually goes?

She had me at, "Woof." (complete with jowly head-cocked, mushy brown eyes all a-drooping...!)

(sigh!)

Indeed. Stricken was I.

We are now the proud owners of one very high energy, completely time consuming bundle of canine joy. It's been awhile for me, admittedly. I grew up with dogs and loved their undying companionship. The way they would hop into your arms when you came home at night. The way you could just tell they would die inside every time you left the homestead - even for a second!

No difference here.

Loki is only a puppy, maybe 3 or 4 months at most, and she dies inside every time you have to "crate" her for the night (merely to save the cats mind you) or leave the house for even just a moment.

She hates any activity shy of full-on buddy-buddy companionship. When she finally has your undivided attention... she then promptly pees everywhere (Chorus Of Cats be heard: "Heathen!").

That's how excited she becomes: "Oh, joy of joys, love of loves, be still my beating little puppy heart! My saviors, my companions, my pack! Once again reunited! May I christen you with the fresh bowl of water I just drank about an hour ago now??"

I am not a squeamish person. Albeit, I am no fan of full-on feces coverage either, but I can handle the fairly minor, messy "inconveniences" in life.

Urine?

Ha! What's a little body-processed H20!?

Vomit??

Hell, I used to do that all the time in college!

Poop!

Poop!?

What kind of word is "poop" anyway!? A word for faeries! Faeiries poop!

I can handle a little "poop". Why I can even handle a lot of "POOP!" (read: you should see some of the jobs I've held in my life...)

Loki is a factory full of it all.

Not so much the vomit part, really, but certainly the other exiting doggy doings to be sure.

We're beginning to feel like a maid service, in fact. We've mopped the house so many times in the past week that it's either extremely clean, or we've merely scrubbed all that puppy urine so deeply into the wood floors that the yellow shine is simply an illusion.

And that MOUTH!

Anyone want to suggest how to handle a clacking maw full of fanged, chewing, non-stop gnashing-toothy chomping action?! Please do advise! Heather has nicknamed her "The Alligator". When next we meet the holes in our shoes aren't some fashion statement for warmer climes be assured... furniture, rugs, plants, pecans, metal(!), pillows, molding ... gulp! The Cats!!

"NO, LOKI, NO! DOWN! HOLD! HOOOOOOLD! HOOOOLD!"

"Hold", our special power word for ... for everything she's not suppose to be doing, really - quite effective!

It's like a spiritual mantra all of a sudden. "Hold" will bring peace & calm to our universe on most occasions. When it doesn't work properly "Cookie?" or "Walk?" sometimes will suffice.

Without going into too much more detail (again the whole "people-who-go-on-and-on-about-how-extraordinary-and- wonderful-their-doggies-&-kitties-are-thing" happens to be a personal, ahem, pet-peeve of mine...) Loki is whip-smart, gentle, heart breaking-ly loving & lovable, criminally cute and has a bark that mimics both a feral coyote and a stray minke whale when she's lonely, and one that quickly evolves into a deep, throaty, window-rattling "BAW-ROOF! BAW-ROOF!" when she's acting all tough.

"Ha! Tough, eh? You think you're so tough, is that it? Try scrubbing crap out of a rug at 2:30 in the morning sometime, dawg! I'll show you tough!"

In short, though, we're tremendously proud and truly happy to have our new family member with us, and hoping that she'll be ... hold on a sec.

"NO, LOKI, NO! DON'T YOU TOSS THAT CAT THAT HIGH IN THE AIR! HOLD! HOOLD!! HOOOOOLLLLLD!!!"

Apologies, gotta run.

Must peel cat off ceiling...

Winds Of Change

2008-02-26T15:12:00.009-06:00

Outside.

A bluster is going on.

It's late and the bags full of leaves I've stowed for some future pick-up vehicle to arrive are making a racket outside my window.

"Do you smell something burning? There's a fire somewhere." she says, registering concern for this type of event for the first time.

What is it?

What's this smoke in the air.

Thousands of acres burn somewhere.

Thousands.

What changes are coming?

Change Is A Foot

2008-02-15T13:58:00.017-06:00

Or, two even.

Sometimes much greater distances.

Simple steps, though, that add up to many feet.

Miles even.

I helped our neighbors, The P.'s, move out of their diminutive-on-the-outside looking abode this week. Its right behind our house. Same color. Same style. Same builder. Different folks inside.

Looks can be deceiving; nothing is diminutive when it comes to moving peoples' lives. Babies, boxes, books, beds, bikes, beer-making kits, barking dog, plus myriad minutiae and a multitude of memories. Lots and lots of memories to carry away. The heaviest things to lift and then to watch move away with a jack-o-lantern colored UHaul in tow.

They're off to the great city of Chicago (imagine if New York City had an affair with Boston and birthed a pleasant land of in-betweens - only with lesser legendary baseball offspring ... may those black socks rest in tattered pieces "Shoeless Joe") to begin new lives.

New lines of work.

New turning points.

Goodbye, Austin, for some.

For others, like ourselves, change is a new neighborhood. A new piece of property in the same city. Ownership and all of its powerful symbolism: "No, we don't rent. We own." Any questions? So, put that in your peace-pipe and smoke it.

There's a certain arrogance you can't deny when you enter the rich kingdom of property ownership. No longer down with the serfs.

Nobility.

The American Dream now one large multi-scoop ice-cream soda with two colorful straws dipped into each end.

Now ... start sucking.

It's not all bad.

It's something called an investment, right? It ensures you have something to turn around and sell to make even more money later on down the road.

Remember when property was for living in, though? Growing up in? Calling it a home? Is this notion really that so far removed from current reality? I rather enjoyed growing up in our modest Indian Village abode. Three bedroom, two bath, Cape-style home. The house never was sold for profit ... until AFTER the divorce.

"The times they are a-changin' ", as a far superior muse once observed.

But we adapt.

Regardless of the missteps and the painful downfalls that may result when an entire nation decides to self-induce-amnesia while speeding along the Capitalist fast-track. Some of us don't survive it, but most go on to change the rules, adapt s'more and redraw the schematics of falling down and getting back up all over again. So we can inevitably repeat the process ad infinitum only perhaps more creatively next time...

(Right now? Witness the many Fallen trying to get back up.)

Not us, though.

No strong ARMs to wrestle, no double-real-estate-agents to drag to criminal court, no sub-titles nor 'left or right' liens to contend with. Everything checks out. Just a house. Plain and simple. Needs paint. Needs minor repairs. Needs warm bodies to adjust its temperament. Once those things are in place we begin the...

We begin the what exactly?

The waiting game? The actual "living" that everybody talks about but never truly knows when they've actually arrived there? The having-it-all aspiration? That American Dream-thing again?

But, the "what" exactly I know not? Admittedly, I'm quite perplexed behind all of the property ownership hullabaloo at times.

Sure, now we can FIX the property up. We can add the additions, grow the gardens, and paint the painterly color schemes without answering to anyone but ourselves, the professionals and the Home Despots of the world.

Ahhh, the sweet smell of ... cash flow!

True this is what we were all inculcated with when we were 'growing up'. We weren't "adults" until these basics were acquired, right? Prince & Princess Charming's entitlement? Glorious regal castles? Two carriage stables? And the impish garbled burblings of many tiny serfs' feet yet to come that eventually may inherit the joint...?

Unless they decide to sell it. And move to tonier castles in bigger kingdoms, of course.

Ah, America. Dog! Fetch me my slippers!

I am not really property ownership averse - although, I once claimed Socialism as my political point of view many awkward and naive twenty-something-ago years past (Billy Bragg have you married and passed the torch-song to a younger squire yet?) - but I do have my issues I suppose.

No doubt I am settling into the notion of ownership in the real (estate) sense. I can't wait to set the cannons up on the parapets, wave the coat-of-arms banner and have the unalienable right to shoot the god-awful snot out of any bastard trespassing on my gulldarn land (sniiiiiiiiiiif! Puh-chaw!).

But, I won't easily forget the walks through Nagog Pond Woods when I was a kid with fellow naifs Steve, Tim and Chris either.

Nor will I forgive certain lack of foresight.

Swimming, unmolested, by any site-lines to civilization's encroaching progress. Forest trees, pine-needle bed footpaths, reservoir clean water, the acrobatics of birds, and the challenge of watching many mysteries unfold.

Feeling far away from the human numbers. Tucked away in the comfortable silence of country woods! Truly free. Or, a reasonable facsimile thereof.

A special spot carved out of sand and smooth, black-lichened rocks.

A rope swing.

A shouting contest, "How many is a duck!" belly-flops and hysterical laughter.

Soaking wet, white trunks and a tender, nubile beauty tanning herself on a flat, sun-baked stone, giggling, "Your underwear! It's blue!"

"I know! I like blue! Do you?"

Bronze skin gives way to roses and cherry-red blush.

Quietly now, like the shushing breeze on that rippled water, "I like blue..."

A swim to the island half way across the lake. The black, slithering serpent that swam right towards us as we crossed, head and tongue bobbing and flickering ferociously as it deviled its way on the waters surface.

Then seeing it, rather suddenly and surreptitiously ... submerge. Six feet away from our splashing swimmers set. Sliding under our bellies. Scaled-skin fanning at our legs and toes. Sparing us the shock-inducing nip as we invaded its secret waters...

"Holy, shit! Did you see that!? Did you see that!?! It's right underneath us! Swim! Faster! SWIM!!!"

Then one summer...

The first Castle appeared.

Too close to our Spot.

Too close to our Rope.

Too close to our Island.

Too close to our serpentine swimming stretch.

Too close!

Just too damned close.

A fence and a sign followed.

A complete stranger's Verboten pushing itself mercilessly into our previously respected boundaries. Telling us that the path we took every summer to get down to the Pond was no longer an option.

MAnifest DestiNy EnSueS.

The Pond was no longer a private swimming hole to young men and women, nor to their fancies and flirtations.

It was instead:

"Gorgeous lake front views at competitive rates!"

...to the elite and uncaring.

A marketing scheme. A dreadfully branded and off-limits picture-window-view estate for four, maybe five, people at most.

Perhaps a yapping rat-terrier, or some spoiled Pomeranian, "appreciated" those trappings, too...

The rest of us ... us peasants?

"Let them eat Lake!"

We watched one of the many things magical and inspiring about being youthful, full of whimsy, and spirited dissolve away in just under the course of a year.

Change was afoot elsewhere, too, in our little home town.

Growing up fast indeed.

Real fast!

More than a foot at a time as those oh-we'll-put-better-zoning-rules- in-place-next-year town hall promises fell into thousands of uncontrolled, unconscionably developed acres.

The Minute Man Historical Trail devolved into "Minute Mansion Heights".

Pacy's Egg Farm & Sweets begat "Pacy's Luxury Condos & Suites".

The Acton Drive-In Movie theatre became ... ugh ... Digital Equipment Corporation (DEC). Job opportunities, you bet, but at what cost ultimately? (ed. - DEC has since declared Chapter 11 and said building has been unoccupied for the last ten years... now a delightful spot for graffiti adverts!)

And, naturally, Nagog Pond followed suit and became what you'd already guessed ... a memory.

~~~~*~~~~

I will raise a glass to our new home here in Austin, Texas.

I will revel in its powerful meaning, its commanding rank, and its elitist, all-important symbolism.

But I will also pray that it never stood to bury the memories of anyone's most important years.

Alamo-ny (Super "Bowel" Bet)

2008-02-08T18:26:00.000-06:00

Payback's a GIANT bitch, ain't it?

Serves me right for betting on "A Sure Thing".

Where were the Patriots that night I wonder? I thought I saw them all come out on the playing field in Arizona last Super Bowl Sunday!?

WTF?!?

Well, you see, cowboy logic applies here (no, not Cowboys' logic ... that's a whole other tragic storyline):

'Better taste them words before you spit 'em out!'

In short, I lost a bet to Mr. Air Force Major David Lynch himself (I'm still in shock! Honestly.) ... and now I'm getting my comeuppance.

So, without further adieu, here it is, as promised, my Super Bowl series of photo humiliations and uber fan roasting.

Remember The Alamo ... Try To Forget The Super Bowl!

Oh, looky here! I actually resemble a Giants fan in this next one!

"I ain't gonna drink no more, but I ain't gonna drink no less! Yee haaaw! Would love both d'em Manning Boys in mah lap rawt abawt now (ed. - and there's nothing wrong with that)! Yummay!"

Sobering, isn't it?

Here is an unsullied view of The Alamo (San Antonio, TX) just to cleanse your eye palettes.

But! There is one consolation in all of this; while you New York Giants fans are whoopin' it up in sub-zero temperatures back in the Northeast...

The Riverwalk (San Antonio, TX), February 2008 - Brrrrrrrr!

...this Pats' fan is enjoying a toasty 82 F degree February. That's right, suckers, FEBRUARY! This is how we spend winter around these parts (Oh, shhhh. Listen, outside. Crickets!).

OK, well, better luck next year less-than-perfect-Pats.

BoSox spring training starts any day now.

In the meantime, Go... Celtics? Bruins? Revolution?

Did I miss anyone??

Godpseed You! Black Emporer

2008-02-07T13:53:00.003-06:00

Former Massachusetts Gov. Mitt Romney is suspending his campaign.

I no longer trust men (or women) who speak in grand, sweeping, idiomatic statements, and grandiose politic-speak in general. Frankly, I never did in the first place.

'Amerika aller Überschuß spricht den Kommandanten!'

Call empty speech for exactly what it is: empty speech.

Mitt Romney is one of those types.

He swept his handsome arms forward and swore to the American people that, with halos and sunshine in his election to run this busted country, all would be well.

Indeed, witness our last eight years of this once beautiful experiment from opportunistic men who promised similar, great change and "compassion".

In fact, I loathe men of this calibre.

Romney portrays life in the scheme of some god-still-firmly-anchored image. Surely, God has created Man in his image: a broken, forgotten, composite of Himself in tatters. A sculpture Da Vinci might have abandoned for a cool glass of water...

Mitt believed that by waving a magic wand the United States of America (Inc.) could be healed and renewed with his leadership.

I, for one, celebrate the ending of your campaign, Sir; one more self-obsessed, proselytizing, liar running this country would surely have meant the end of us all.

May your better counterpart, John McCain, excel in his desire to find an exit from this exit-wound suffering country.

~~~~*~~~~

(CNN) -- Mitt Romney suspended his bid for the Republican presidential nomination Thursday, saying if he continued it would "forestall the launch of a national campaign and be making it easier for Senator Clinton or Obama to win."

"In this time of war, I simply cannot let my campaign be a part of aiding a surrender to terror. This is not an easy decision. I hate to lose," the former Massachusetts governor said.

"If this were only about me, I'd go on. But it's never been only about me. I entered this race because I love America, and because I love America, in this time of war I feel I have to now stand aside for our party and for our country."

Romney made the announcement Thursday afternoon at the annual Conservative Political Action Conference in Washington.

With Romney out, Sen. John McCain is locked in as the front-runner in the GOP race.

~~~~*~~~~

Quote: "I simply cannot let my campaign be a part of aiding a surrender to terror."

Lest we forget, you Scoundrel, it was your Grand OLD Party that allowed the greatest terrorist act on this country to occur.

Enough said.

Have a nice life in obscurity.

KO-OPerative (A Spy In The House Of Love)

2008-01-31T09:20:00.000-06:00

Physics proves that matter can neither be created nor destroyed, ultimately, but it can be really fucked with. Altered beyond recognition. Ashed to ash, dusted to dust. Powdered and scattered to the elements. Where it might be reabsorbed into something new and different.

Admittedly, I have many times before in my life had the desire to set something on fire. Mostly as a way of constructive yard maintenance, however, and not in the obliterative and malicious sense.

Fire is an act of cleansing; it permanently "disappears" something. It consumes and then disintegrates its host. Completely. If done correctly... if not it still leaves an ugly mess.

It is also making a most powerful statement when fire is applied to something whether it be an inanimate object or a living, breathing thing.

Arson is most painfully demonstrative to this point.

Arson is the ultimate Dear John/Jane letter:

"Farewell, my Love, I will forever be gone missing from you and everything else in this life and on this planet. Permanently and for good."

Finito.

Caput.

Sayonara.

Poof!

Gone.

KOOP 91.7 FM is a local community radio station based here in Austin, Texas.

KOOP is much like my old radio "alma mater" M.I.T.'s WMBR 88.1 FM in Cambridge, Massachusetts; a place that allowed complete strangers to wander in from the area and help grow a set of beliefs, enjoy great benefits of independent broadcasting and create and listen to outstanding music, commentary and news. It was a privilege to be a part of such an organization. We made it work ... for free. We were all volunteers. We did it for no financial gain whatsoever (or any expectations of such a payout - ever) but out of unadulterated, and often times unrequited, love.

It seems there was a spy in the house of love here at Austin's KOOP-FM back on January 5th, 2008.

Paul Webster Feinstein, a twenty-four year old station volunteer, became upset the night before.

Upset over something that might stun the average person. It went like this: The station "goes dark" after a certain hour and begins an automated playlist of music programming for its overnight internet "broadcast" services. This is a necessary function of most non-profit, understaffed community oriented radio operations.

Feinstein is a jazz lover. He produced a show out of KOOP called "Mellow Down Easy". A jazz show.

Not heavy metal. Not punk rock. Not rap. Jazz.

Miles.

Bird.

Ella.

Billie.

Sarah.

Dizzy.

Stan.

Monk.

Louis.

Duke, Benny & The Count.

All their own unique brands of gorgeous, smoky, contemplative, after hours rhythm and fire - the good kind. Lovers of the mystery and beauty of the soul.

Feinstein, the dubious jazz lover, apparently had his hands in the creation of the KOOP overnight playlist. Jazz music was his vision for the station at these hours: 'This is what should be played here off normal broadcast hours. You see? Trust me on this...'

Somebody else, probably the Program Director, didn't trust him enough on his decision making though or just thought better of it. The playlist was changed to another format as a result. So, let's move on then shall we?

But this infuriated Feinstein.

So inconsolably enraged was he that he poured an entire canister of gasoline over two of the control room mixing boards.

Then set fire to flames.

Up went scores of peoples' hard work. Peoples' passions. Peoples' dreams. An estimated $300,000 dollars worth of damage resulted to the station. KOOP had to relocate to another facility to continue its mission.

For the third time.

Yes, this was the third time in two years KOOP had caught fire... one caused by an electrical malfunction the other ruled "accidental".

But this third time ... this must have been the hardest hitting.

"I'd sooner catch fire than lose my desire."

-- Gino Vanelli, Jehovah & All That Jazz

I no longer question a person's motives like I once did. I once thought all people could be reasoned with.

I have learned over the last half a dozen years alone (and a lifetime...) that human rationale is on vacation. Some folks are plainly just shutting down. They refuse to take in any more information (I gather) or responsibility for their behavior. All this stimuli, this media, this multitasking, this careerism, this scheduling of parenting in, this worldly weight, is becoming too overwhelming for our still too primitive, delicate bags of water selves to keep up with. The conscience mind seems to instead simply go blank with all the overload. Some now irrepressible part of us suddenly is taking over and uncontrollably rebels against our better judgment.

We set fire to flames without even raising an eyebrow.

This has made me cautious with many of my fellow species to the point of passivity in many circumstances. No, not being a "Wimp", per se, but now, more than previously, treading ever so carefully around the even slightly suspect acting John & Jane Doe's of the world. Remember the days when you settled a school yard argument with a bloody nose and a few tersely chosen words. Not now. Now we use Guns. Gasoline. Gargantuan acts of grossly gratuitous gumption. Preemptive retaliations for our oxy-moronic times!

Paranoia? Perhaps, but nothing in need of serious medicating (yet...) I assure you.

The following is one example (of maybe more than a few) that might help clarify my stance...

I have been the victim of unprovoked road rage before. I suppose, and blatantly working against my defense here, I must have been driving too slowly in the fast lane ... for the 110mph fastly approaching from behind lunatic in the Camaro one afternoon while on Route 128 near Dedham (Dead'em?), Mass.

The driver took it upon himself to pass me in a madly screaming, finger-raising huff, swerve wildly in front of my car and then slam on his brakes to, in all likelihood, speed-trial (and at that point premeditatedly) murder me.

Fuck up your ass hat mad dash joyride did I?

I am an excellent defensive driver, and it is for that reason alone I am now sitting here and writing about this episode.

Events like these make you view things very differently the moment after they happen.

One minute I am the average driver on his way home from work. The next moment I have discovered to my horror that an absolute stranger wants to make road kill out of me. Why, I had no idea that I had signed up for the Army Reserves during wartime! If that be the case, then why on earth are the guys on the supposed same team trying to frag me now, too!?

But this belies the point somewhat.

In a similar act of unthinking aggression Paul Feinstein premeditated a murder of sorts. By setting a radio station on fire, a community radio station, he set out to kill something. A place that is built by people who believe in an ideal and who love something, and are passionate for its representative free spirit. He, for whatever insipid reason, wanted to kill that off.

That was unwitting on his part I suspect, though, and is what I find so damned-ably frustrating (I'll get to this in a moment)!

He committed this act for a very stupid reason.

Dumbfounding and incredibly stupid.

In an act of revenge over a music playlist decision.

The number one rule (are you listening, Mr. Feinstein?), the number one lesson impressed upon me from my media classes all throughout college was this one simple notion: "Never fall in love with any one piece of audio tape, film footage, written word or story idea; it will most likely end up on the cutting room floor." The idea being: mourn briefly any loss, then move on even more quickly!

If you are genius enough to thwart this viewpoint ~ go for it!

Gasoline, my friend, is not genius... you are a shame to the industry.

Oddly, Feinstein had no prior criminal record nor had he registered any psychological trouble of any kind before this outburst. In fact, most of his peers, in both academic and social networks, spoke of him very highly.

What possibly could have happened to have him set fire to his flames?

A crime of passion..?

Although his punishment should fit the crime (fines & jail time, no doubt) I hope he also receives a type of counseling human society hasn't seemingly invented yet. A counseling that works itself around the premise that we have all been mysteriously traumatized somehow (for Americans, that bugaboo 9/11 again and its ilk perhaps? No, much deeper than that...this has been a long on-going affair I believe) and, as a result, become unthinking cows. A therapy that might, in theory, pick one's psyche apart, find its modern alien invader, excorcise it (cast it out!), then reconstruct the mind to a new stage of blissful enlightenment (any ideas on how to do this, class?).

My, my now.

Suggesting some 1950's era study in social engineering should ensue again are we? A smidge of brainwashing perhaps? A form of mental torture that's not really torture? I understand there's a position in the U.S. Department of Justice opening up shortly...

(ed. - we're now told that "waterboarding only feels like torture", by the way... Huh?!?).

Not quite.

Rather this uninvented therapy would merely tweak the knobs of our own mixed-up mixing boards. It would simply instill the same sense of passion we have for committing completely witless acts, into a sense of appreciating those same actions' for their far reaching consequences (does the concept of reciprocality mean anything to anyone?).

Not remorse for a past action, either, a foresight to undermine acting upon self centered, ideologically reactive behavior (not to suggest quashing any revolutionary mindset, mind you, but redirecting its ill-used, bastard-child energy form we frequently see on display).

Because when dear Mr. Paul Feinstein set fire to KOOP-FM earlier this month more than just a radio station went up in flames.

(Of course, I think I might be asking for too much...)

~~~~*~~~~

The following is the Associated Press report on the incident:

Man Sets Station on Fire Over Playlist

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Austin, Texas (AP) -- A volunteer at a community radio station set fire
to the station because he was upset that his song selections for an
overnight Internet broadcast were changed, police said.

Paul Webster Feinstein, 24, has been charged with second-degree
felony arson for the Jan. 5 fire that caused $300,000 damage to the
studios of 91.7 FM KOOP. He faces from two to 20 years in prison and
a $10,000 fine if convicted.

Feinstein told investigators that he was "very unhappy" about the
changes to his playlist, said Austin Fire Department Battalion Chief
Greg Nye. The songs were intended for an Internet broadcast that
occurs when the station is off the air.

"He had a dream of a career in radio and was very disappointed about
where it had led him," Nye said.

An attorney for Feinstein could not be reached for comment.

Station president Andrew Dickens said Feinstein had been in a dispute
with another volunteer about what kind of music should be put into a
digital library for the Internet program.

Feinstein was a jazz fan and his Internet program was called "Mellow
Down Easy," Dickens said.

"We knew there was a disagreement, but I would characterize it as a
little clash of personalities over types of music to be played and
not a big blowout," Dickens said.

Feinstein, who had volunteered at the station for about a year, quit
a week before the fire, saying he was going to do other things,
Dickens said.

"He seemed like somebody who was young, enthusiastic, had a life, was
a professional and was educated," Dickens said.

Nye said Feinstein acknowledged making a copy of the station key and
then waiting for the station to clear out on the night of Jan. 5.
Feinstein poured gasoline on the control panels in two studios to
start the fire, Nye said.

The fire department's trained dog smelled gasoline at the scene,
tipping investigators to the arson, Nye said.

Nye said Feinstein had no previous criminal record.

The fire was the third the station has dealt with in the past two
years. The first was ruled accidental. The second was caused by a
malfunction in a heating and air-conditioning unit of a nearby
business and forced the station to move.

This month's fire knocked the station off the air for 19 days. It
resumed broadcasting last week in donated space.

"We are kind of worried that people will look at us like a bunch of
idiots," Dickens said. "This is really just one of those out-of-the-
blue situations. Who the hell would have thought somebody would have snapped?"

Intermission

2008-01-30T17:34:00.000-06:00

Please amuse yourselves with the following link while I decide what my next (overly-obsessive!) topic of blogging might evolve into (if you put your face REEEEAAAAL close to the screen you may even feel its gentle, loving laps):

"Screen Cleaner"

Have a nice day...

Best Seat In The House

2008-01-23T16:52:00.000-06:00

There's an expression that goes:

"If you want the best seat in the house ...

... move the cats!"

Here's to the "Best Seat In The House"!

~ Happy Birthday, Heather ~

From All of Us!

p.s. - You only missed being a Capricorn by this much! ;^)

(You can visit the Best Seat In The House and wish her a Happy Birthday here)

Time Travails

2008-01-16T01:04:00.000-06:00

Grateful for having survived yet another year of time travel...

...never as easy as it seems.

"Aging seems to be the only available way to live a long life."

--Daniel Francois Esprit Auber (1782-1871) Long Lived Composer

(Happy Birthday, Eleanor Marx!)

Strangers To Kindness

2008-01-11T01:12:00.000-06:00

I run at night because the night is quiet.

Mostly.

Minds in a restless day-state are more-or-less fast asleep dreaming of their stresses for the next day's foray into being a careerist. I run at night because my own day-state sometimes leaves me frantic and unable to make much for 'following one's breath' either. I am no better than the rest. I do not claim to be. But I am unique in that I seem to be the only one who runs at night. Late night anyway.

My routine begins with warding either Anubis or Marley, our black feline companions, away from the front door as I exit. Marley occasionally makes a mad-dash for freedom if the doorway is left open for too long, but doesn't get much past the first garden twig; she gets caught up submissively in a world of so many new and wondrous scents it renders her inept of all movement. Nostrils flaring, eyes eclipsed-full moons, heaving happy chest. An easy catch.

Anubis, on the other hand, is so daft a light breeze confuses her. I never worry about her doing anything too brash. Brashness requires at least a smidge of intellect. She does, however, jump up-and-down at the window after I leave, just like a little dog, feigning curiosity: "Where'd Ee go!? Where'd Ee go!? Where's Ee go!? (pant-pant-pant!)" Sometimes her little buck teeth hit the floor if she loses her balance in mid-acrobatic leap. Doink!

When all is clear I firmly seal the door behind me and begin to stretch out using the front yard walkway area and fence gate.

Right leg up and bend. Hold. And down.

Left Leg up and bend. Hold. And down.

Legs akimbo. Elbows touch the cement. Hold here. And up.

Hands and legs in 'arrest me' position. Hold. Deep breaths follow.

A few more variations of these then it's off towards a newly invigorated sense of physical well being... in theory.

Duval Street is a perfect two mile ribbon down to the University. And back ... that makes four. On a night like tonight, the air is crisp, the stars are more bright than they deserve to be (given that we live in a semi-major metropolitan area), and it is dry out like late winter leaves. These and pecan husks crumple under my feet as I run. No one would ever mistake me for an assassin or a sniper; nature's detritus betrays me every time.

Crunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunch...

I am running at a faster clip now-a-days and that gives me slightly less time to think.

Just past 51st Street I'm passing Flightpath Coffeehouse and already anticipating tomorrow mornings espresso fix. By 45th Street, and if the light is green, I have a steady rhythm and the days events begin to unfold.

...What did I do well, what could I have done more efficiently, how can I make this project come together fluidly, who do I need to contact by no later than mid-afternoon the next day, what files can I throw out or recycle for use later...

... hmmm, did I take the recycling out, damnit, tomorrow's recycling day ...

... oh, crap!

... the light is yellow, run faster ...

... made it, now where was I ...?

Woooooaaaaaah-sa!!!

The college-aged man in brown pants and white indie-rock 'T' shirt jumps back off of the sidewalk as I'm about to bowl him over. He's been talking to someone kneeling on the cement path. A woman. Maybe in her early twenty-somethings. A friend? His date? Someone who's hurt herself?

No. Judging by the non-verbal language...

...a stranger.

She has two large, weather-worn plastic bags next to her. This is where she has decided on spending the night.

"No, no! It's okay. My fault." I urge. The man jumps back onto the walkway as I make a wide detour onto the grass.

There's a party going on at one of the houses close by. A half dozen or so people are milling about, conversing, drinking... doing what normal people do late at night when they're not sleeping.

No matter; I'm off again in no time thinking not much more of the encounter other than, "I think I've seen that woman somewhere before..."

And then quickly back to...

...was the proper session folder in the FTP transfer or not, it's going to take another seven hours to move all those files if I didn't remember to put the right session in there, and so on and so on...

By 38th Street I've just passed the sunflower yellow house that Heather and I have been aching to have a look inside of:

"3905 Duval Street.

For Sale.

Inquiries Please Call..."

Must remember to grab a flier on my way back...

Over a slight rise, down a respectable slope, onto the edge of campus in about a quarter mile, then, by using the Double Dave's Pizzaworks parking lot as my turn-around, I can start to head back again.

That "respectable slope" is now a full bore HILL!

To 38th. Then 3905. No flier bin. No fliers. No dice. Oh, well, we'll just have to schedule an appointment to see it on Friday evening.

Onward.

41st Street. If I took a right turn here I'd be at the local H*E*B supermarket just 'round the bend a bit!

Here comes Mother's Cafe & Garden (it's all vegetarian fare and they recently built on a new dining addition after a fire last summer). La Dolce Vita & Hyde Park Grille on my left, Pronto Food Mart & Gas station on my right, the Lynx Apartments, the...

"Hey! Are you the runner? The running man?"

Wha?

It's the kneeling woman. The stranger. Across the street now. I've made it this far back already ... and she's calling out to me.

"You're that runner from earlier, right?"

I am compelled by forces unknown to jog across the street to her. My mutinying legs assuming a conscious role now and coercing me to acknowledge, "Yes, I'm that "runner guy"."

(Ever tell your body to do one thing (as in continue heading in the direction you were already headed in!), and then it just suddenly refuses to cooperate? This was happening right then. But, as I'm not a coward, nor would I refuse help to anyone in need, it didn't quite irk me the way it might have back in 7th Grade like when one of those freakishly large football jocks would, point at you out of the cosmic lottery, and command,"Hey, Asshole! Get over here! Now!" And, irregardless of pride...you would.)

"What's up? Are you hurt?"

"No. I'm not hurt."

I can take all of her in now.

Where as before she was cast in shadows and merely some omit-able anonymity, some other being aided by a friendly companion; therefore, she was safe, I figured, so I could, in good conscience, move forward. In that afterwards she could be relegated to a plaything of the imagination. Not fully formed. Still a storyline with words to fill in the blanks at my leisure ... but certainly not yet flesh and blood.

But now?

Now ~ I'm committed.

She offers up a puzzle piece when I arrive,"Hi, thanks for coming over. I'm kind of stuck out here. But let me just say right off: I'm not homeless, but I am without a home right now ... but definitely not homeless. And I'm not a freak. You know how some people say they are not homeless but are and are, like, total freaks? I'm not one of those people. I'm not crazy."

"Ah," it dawned on me,"I thought I'd seen you before." I had. I had seen her walking around the neighborhood and recently, too. "Are you a student?"

Here she begins to remind me of the sum of many anybodies.

She has shoulder length billowing, brown hair like my old work colleague, Anna S., she has a straight, delicately curved nose, like my friend, Merry M., she has pleasantly smooth cheek bones like my pal, Jenn G. Her clothing, her manner of dress, are what some might describe as "granola": a white Mexican-weave hooded jacket and brown corduroy dress with the occasional tiny beige, or yellowish, flower randomly stitched into it.

She is your friend, your neighbor, your house-mate, your girlfriend, your everyday noticeable young thing without a care in the world.

Only this one has been wounded. Maybe, irreparably.

"No, I'm not a student, but I'm from Austin. I've lived here all my life. Then somebody came along... and he made me homeless."

The way she invokes this word "he" just breaks me,"My, God, what happened?"

(Who was her "he". Or, what was her "He"? What "he" just shows up and then inexplicably and monstrously makes somebody homeless?)

"It's a long story. Nevermind." She looks suddenly afraid and, emotionally, begins to fold up like a fan, her face a paint-by-numbers tell-all of fucked-up (don't make me recount all of those ghastly details!), horror-show memories.

"Do you need some money?" This was not the typically pithy and patronizing free-pass sort of a question that you might think it was; when I ask her this I am insinuating that it be enough cash for food, clothing, maybe even a night's stay somewhere. Not spare-change (I have nothing on me at the moment anyway; I don't normally run with my wallet or cash...).

Also, let it be clear, I am no "Do-Gooder" (someone who takes in every stray, that is) nor am I a push-over.

But something is resonating with me here...

"No, I don't want any money." Gently rebuffed, sincerely spoken in reply, "I don't need money."

"How can I help you then?"

"You see I just need a place to crash for one night. One night and then I'll go to P.S. 8 (ed. - Hope Lutheran School nearby, I assumed at the time, that must run a shelter...) in the morning. I just cannot go there at night."

Theft?

Violence?

Rape...?

They call these places "shelters".

When I'm considering her request I hesitate, because its complicated (those of one generation before me will damn me; those of my own will mostly accept as common sense).

When I was younger the option of taking in another person was de facto; it could just happen without consequence. And it did. Particularly while traveling in Europe when I had the option of freely paying for some down on their luck wayfarer's expenses. Or, happily taking them in when I had a place to offer. And there were many. Not just skint travelers but lost ones... but, now, you don't make decisions like this without your Partner. You have a pedigree of distrust built in after so many years, as well. You are the "Don't Trust Anyone Over Thirty" crowd to boot: I have family matters, valuables (not just things, but projects I have worked on for years. The loss of those in any manner would be devastating...), and foresight enough to know that "one night" eventually turns into, "Listen. I think you really ought to leave now."

It's complicated.

It's difficult.

I'm still troubled by Life v4.0...

"OK. I understand. I'm on my way back to my place. It's about a mile down the road. I'll see what I can do." I promise her.

"Really?"

"Really. Hang in there, okay?"

"I'll try."

Once again nature's chorus strikes up along side me...

Crunchcrunch

crunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunch...

~~~~*~~~~

I am at a stage in my life that I think better of being duplicitous, or lying, to anyone anymore. If you say something ... simply mean it. Day light hours grow shorter. Life becomes less of an excuse as you watch your peers, friends, colleagues begin to fade or just outright disappear.

I am not lying to this woman. I intend to make good on my promise; life is too short to do otherwise.

I am developing my plan in earnest as I cover this last mile back home: what do I have to help this person return her to at least a somewhat recognizable state of dignity? Most of us just want that, honestly, if you think about it. Throw me in prison for a lifetime and all I would ask for in return would be this one little shred of humanity: Dignity.

I have many things I can offer: clothing, blankets, foodstuffs, things that I no longer use or need but that would serve someone else quite well ... as if I were giving to Good Will - only to direct effect!

I begin to create an extensive mental list.

And as I approach 53rd Street (aka - home-base) ... it is getting late. As in: forget about it late.

But I convince myself to stay the course; it's the right thing to do, right?

At home.

Inside.

Collecting self.

Breathing.

Assessing.

Heather is long asleep.

OK, enough thought ... Go!

First to raid the closets.

Gathering things. A red, white, and brown South American weave blanket. A brown, floppy-eared ski-hat. Blue knit gloves. A warm, maroon pullover. Warmth is good. It's cold out there despite it being the Southwest. Yes, winter in Texas is cold for the Uninitiated!

Now into the kitchen.

Empty bottle: fill it with fresh filtered water.

A deliciously fragrant, ripe Fuji Apple.

And the coup-de-grace: whipping up a crunchy, organic peanut butter and strawberry jam triple decker sandwich with Ezekial cinnamon & raison-style bread! All packed in resealable plastic bags with hefty napkins!

Excellent.

Let's do this!

I'm driving my runner's route back this time around. Passing 51st and again reliving thoughts of espresso tomorrow morning at Flightpath, halting only briefly at the 45th Street intersection for a now only blinking red-light at this hour, and finally cruising ever so slowly down the pavement so I don't miss ... so I don't miss?

What was her name?

I don't even know her name.

But there she is dutifully kneeling exactly where I had last left her. Head bowed. Defeated. Lost in whatever thoughts are conjured up in such a hapless state. Headlights illuminate the unplugged, electric ragdoll pose.

Pulling over, windows automatically roll down from this heated, leather interior car. Privilege.

"Hey! It's me again."

"Who! What do you want?" she is startled.

"It's OK; it's me 'Runner Guy'."

"Wow. I didn't really expect you to come back. I thought you were just being nice ... thank you."

"No, why would I do something like that?" I am unloading the goods from the passenger side door now.

"Everyone else does." (I bet.)

"I'm not everyone else."

And I begin to present my offerings.

"Here." Bottled water at her side.

"Oh! Is that vodka!?" She says in disgust.

"No! My, God, no. It's filtered water." I correct.

"I'm sorry I can't take this. It will make me want to pee and I have no where to go."

"Are you sure?" I'm confused, "OK, here."

I begin to place the South American weave blanket by her place.

"Oh, my God! Where did you get that!?" Again an unexpected reaction: shock, dismay, anger, "That's exactly the same blanket that I had stolen from me at the shelter."

"It's all good. You can have this one to replace it then. It's just like the old one..."

"No, I can't take this. It's freaking me out!"

"All right...", head cocked, brows furrowed, my batting average is not going too well here, "I made you a sandwich."

"No. Uh-Uh. It probably has peanut butter in it." She wrinkles her nose in distaste.

"Huh? Right. You probably have a nut allergy. I should have thought about that." She is silent but keeps her face scrunched up like I've just offered her castor oil, or poisonous toxic sludge.

"What about this apple?"

"No. I don't like fruit. I can't take this."

"Hat?"

"No."

"Gloves, pull-over? It's cold out."

"No, no."

"Are you sure? I mean I don't mind if you take these from me. I'm giving them to you."

Silence.

Deep breathe.

Stretch.

Relax.

I'm becoming agitated but trying not to show it.

It's late.

The effort.

The downright rejection of everything so far.

In defeat I start to load the Good-Gone-Not-So-Good-Will back into the car.

I do not hold any ill feeling towards this woman as I am beginning to realize that something much, much more profound is going on here. A much deeper, critically overloaded psychology is at work.

I agree that I am a foreigner to her psyche's condition but by no means am I a stranger to mental illness.

~~~~*~~~~

New York City was host to my own Faith shattering falling down many years ago.

(Briefly in telling now, though...)

On a good day I was a simpering, exhausted, broken wreck of a young man. I would sleep all day if I could.

On a bad day...?

Bad days were simply unmentionable.

Depression forced me into my own private hell long before it was a la mode to be depressed. I had no idea what "Depression" was at the time, nor its causes or its effects and, therefore, had no recourse for fighting the good fight against it ... until many troubled months later.

Prozac was only just hitting the streets back then. The science out on the drug at the time was nebulous (and negligible) and many of its users were killing themselves off in seeming droves. Bad press in general, but it did claim to aid in restoring brain normalcy. The medical and psychology communities could only agree to disagree over the entire mess.

I was skeptical, to say the least, and chose not to ride that train.

Instead, a tried-and-true tricyclic, Desapramine, was my selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor of choice. From a magical land called "The Foundation" on the Upper West Side.

Ironically, the drug had intensely frightening side effects.

A 20mg dosage made me dread daylight because my head would swim all day long as if I were looking through two one-gallon fish bowls in front of my face. I was useless at work and running out of dead aunts and uncles as excuses not to show up anymore.

I'll spare you the sordid details of one night (a restaurant dinner birthday party for a close friend) when I mistakenly mixed alcohol with the supposed remedy... social disaster needless to say.

At night I had a downright fear of sleep all together; the nightmares were caustic, terrifying and unending. An anguished cerebral cinema-carnival-del-terrore occurred as soon as I shut my eyes. Unstoppable railway roof rides. Screaming witch heads erupting from swampy playgrounds. Laughing, chortling, beckoning deformities everywhere filled my dreamscape.

Depression was a mercilessly fierce companion that seemed hellbent on my complete psychic deconstruction. The mind in upheaval against itself. Uncanny. What calls for this response in an evolutionary sense? Are our danger receptors so worn and dulled from under utilization in this modern age that we no longer have instinct for a landscape gone all sally-up Shit's Creek? Broken impulses... muddied, oppressive malaise resultant.

Rock bottom was not far off.

Eventually, a little girl showed up.

At least a part of her did.

In the morning most of all.

She would greet me, her voice would, by saying in a best Minnie Mouse falsetto, "Helllloooo, Dennis!" or "Gooood-morning!"

Never anything more.

That is ... mercifully no "instructions" followed.

But a voice as clear as if someone had put headphones over my ears and spoke into a hidden off-site microphone. Madness.

Whatever benevolent Power That Be that might have once existed ... was surely dead now.

I had prior suspected that It ("He"?) just loathed us all anyway and went off in some cosmic, disgruntled huff. Now, though, an unquestionable late stage rigor mortis had set in. The universe was beginning to stink.

(n.b. - These disembodied voices are known as "auditory hallucinations" in Psychology parlance and the chemical in vivo in Desapramine had a marked history, unbeknownst to me at the time, for exactly these types of side effects... for a powerful read on depression/mental illness and its heartbreaking effects on people you may want to look into William Styron's (1925-2006) compelling novella, 'Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness')

Long story short.

I lived.

Survived it, really.

I showed up some time later out the ass-end of the whole ugly experience largely a little less for the wear but, dare I say, Enlightened as a result.

And here I was, in the present this late night evening, enlightened, standing over a tragic and depleted young soul who systematically turned down every offering of kindness I had brought back to her ...

~~~~*~~~~

... because it wasn't what she needed.

At all.

It wouldn't truly help her.

And, frankly, because she wasn't used to many random acts of altruism, I suspect, it made absolutely no sense to her.

The kindness of strangers writ so small that it was practically invisible to the naked eye.

"Wait. Can you just talk to me for a minute?"

"Yes, of course. Of course." It was the very least I could do at that point.

"I just need a place to stay. A couch to crash on. Just for one night. These people at the party? They said they would give me their porch but then they started to get all sexy with each other. I saw them through the window. They were getting sexy. Or something. I dunno. But they never came back out again."

And then the truth stumbled awkwardly out, "I'm sorry. I can't take you in. I have ... family. I would under different circumstances. You'll have to trust me on that..."

Silence.

Oxygen, where did you go?

"I understand your situation." she conceded finally, "One woman offered me a place up the road at her apartment. Maybe if you could just give me a ride up the street?"

That I could do.

"Sure. Sure, I can do that. How far up the road is it?"

She was silent as she waved "up yonder".

"Here, I'll clear off the front seat. Come on."

But she would not move.

Unplugged.

Electric.

Ragdoll.

Her instincts were shouting at her perhaps: 'Don't you dare get into that car with a stranger! Even a seemingly kind one. Just Don't Do It!'

Shutting her down, or in low power mode. Defense mechanism engaged. Files overwritten.

Then again maybe there was just nothing at all registering.

This, sadly, was becoming the classic 'going nowhere and fast' scenario. I had to design an exit strategy at that point. So, it went like this...

"Listen, I run this route every night (ed. - Truth!). This is my loop. When you see me, if you ever need anything, just ask...(ed. - Sincerity!)"

"OK, thanks. I understand your problems."

My problems? Do you? Well, you just might, I suppose...

Within another moment "tail lights fade", as the song goes.

I drove myself back Home.

Didn't even get her name...

~~~~*~~~~

Home.

With my sad-sack loot in a haphazard bundle on the floor.

I guess I could find use for this stuff again.

But isn't it so that once you have tried to give something away it has been somehow spiritually severed from you? Beneficially void? Decreed no longer worthwhile by its owner? Pity the poor unwanted, unused merchandise! What a waste. All this junk we collect. And never bothering to use it, but hold on to regardless! What is that!? Pack rats the lot of us. Haven't we learned our lesson yet about holding onto to so much value in all of those material goods? The notion of nostalgia, no doubt, playing tricks on our sensibilities!

But, otherwise...

Poof.

It could all just disappear one day if "he" shows up...

Ah, but look there! The PB&J sandwich I made!

Unwrapping it at once like some unexpected and prize birthday gift. Drawing in all of its sugary, jammy, peanut buttery glory.

Just one bite and then I'll ... and then I'll devour the whole thing!

You're goddamn lucky, Mister, you know that? You're goddamn lucky...

Sure enough ... if that wasn't the best damn tasting Peanut Butter & Jelly sandwich I had in a very long while.

Indeed, damn lucky.

Super Two's Day

2008-01-08T00:00:00.000-06:00

On this "Super Tuesday" primary election day the American masses will begin their long, intrepid march (in earnest this time!) to deciding which presidential candidate, within the current 'two party system', will be better suited for running the country come January 2009. Here are the party choices:

Will it be this ass...?

Or this one...?

Godspeed, America, may the best ass win.

How Green Was My Burial

2008-01-01T14:12:00.000-06:00

"Well, there you go. Right there. A Baltimore Oriole."

Peter McHugh might remind you in looks of a modern day Saint Nicholas only with a much more controlled, and neatly trimmed beard. Today he's traded in any would-be red-suit for a greenish-gray chamois-shirt, and tough khaki woodsmen pants, though. Seated on a tall, sturdy stool in his Maine woods home kitchen he blows the smoke from a thin cigar up into a stove pipe chimney vent. Whoosh! up it goes sucked into the netherworld.

"See him there? In the branches near the shed?" He points.

Outside the near-invisible glass of a newly installed, sunny bay window addition stands three separate bird-feeders in the garden area. One for seed. One for suet. And one for ... more suet. It looks like a tiny house of worship complete with steeple, this last one. A church for God-fearing-birds. Only they get to eat a concoction of protein-rich, holy-lard for breakfast and lunch instead of some ordained wafers. Beating little hearts in this unforgivably frigid season. "More, more, more!" is their chirping chants, "or we'll freeze to death."

A winged, orange and black feathered visitor is taking advantage of the winter-time buffet.

But there's another matter at hand. A grave matter...

"Just last week we had another call," Says McHugh, recent Green Burial advocate and proprietor of Cedar Brook Burial Ground: A Green Cemetery in Limington, Maine, "Ten Muslim folks want to be buried side by side on our land. A Somali family. It's all very sacred to them. Keeping the family together."

"I see. So you have enough acreage to bury entire clans no matter the Faith do you?" I say with a wink.

"Sure, by God, whoever wants to sign up is welcomed here." He rejoinders. "We had a family from India who inquired about doing a funeral pyre before the burial. We're still checking with the Limington Fire Department on that one..."

Just then a fire-red cardinal lands on the snowy stonewall next to the "Church of Suet" to seemingly ingratiate the notion.

A giant human bonfire. Somewhere tucked away on 150 acres (2.1 acres, specifically, dedicated to the cemetery) of York County's pine forested land off of Boothby Road.

Boothby Road?

Not the Ganges River?

What gives here?

"Oh, yeah, as long as we have the bodies buried 413 Feet away from 'The Pond'," The Pond is a man-made pool excavated back in the early-1980's next to the McHugh homestead, "and off-set the same from the main road we'd have enough for about a thousand people. It's all G.P.S. (Global Positioning System) plotted. You'll be able to see all the burial spots on-line."

By the way, he has another side business that might seem an odd fit alongside this newly established one, as well...

"The Christmas Tree Farm will remain on the rest of the land away from the cemetery." He assures in his thick, salt-of-the-earth Maine accent.

McHugh's not alone in this novel venture in his native state, either, as another green burial cemetery is planned for Orrington, Maine several miles north of Limington (there are perhaps slightly over a dozen nationwide so far). Orrington's site is still in the planning stages, Cedar Brook is currently taking reservations.

So, what's the appeal here these "green burials"?

For starters about an $8,000 dollar price tag less than your average traditional funeral service for one!

You see, green burials are exactly as the name implies: Green.

Green as in good for the environment. And, that equates to sustainable practices for land use which, believe it or not, are far more sustainable on that green in the wallet, too.

Putting it in the plainest possible language: nothing is done to the body before burying it in green burial practices.

It is placed in a standard four-foot-deep (Six Feet Under is a mere myth...) by four-foot-wide by height-appropriate-foot-length plot site in its natural condition - unsullied, if you will - leaving it to naturally decompose on its own. That is, no embalming with those toxic formaldehyde fluids, nor any other expensive, harmful chemicals, necessary ... or permitted.

The beauty of the nitrogen-cycle in full, untampered with, effect!

In fact, use of any unnatural, non-organic substances (e.g. - dyes in burial clothing) on the corpse is downright discouraged all together; it's a totally green process remember? McHugh has been a long-time steward of the land around his property. He would not want any harm done to the plant-life, deer, pheasant, moose, bear or many other wildlife fauna frequently passing through his acreage so he prefers anything done here au natural.

As for other cost effective measures by going (going, gone...) green it also means many of the peripheral services normally attached to the more traditional funeral can be done away with completely, too.

Although a local funeral director is available (by referral through Cedar Brook), one is certainly not necessary, cutting out any associated costs right there. Relatives of the dead may arrange the actual funeral service to their liking, of course, but even the coffin isn't mandatory. An eco-friendly sheet, or wrap, will do just fine. But, nonetheless, a $30.00 pine-box model "coffin" is available if desired. That's right. You read the price correctly. Thirty dollars (U.S.) for a human-sized, pine-wood floored and cardboard-sided container. All 100% bio-degradable (pssst! it's the same thing they use for cremations basically)!

In fact, enviro-concern goes right down to the headstone; it's recommended that the memorial be a locally exhumed, surface level, engraved rock to serve each individual shrine.

Now for some potentially more morbid stuff to consider...

If there is one very sensitive, but major, cost-saving issue that needs to be seriously addressed in the funeral planning stages, however, it's this; if a family, or friend(s), decides to take on the transportation responsibilities of the remains - and, yes, it is completely legal to drive across the state, or state-lines, with a human cadaver! - they must make absolutely sure that the body is properly stored for whatever the calculated length of the travel time is. This is an imperative consideration ... and, quite frankly, is mostly thinking ahead in regards to the family's emotional comfort zone. Driving "Mittens" the cat to a resting place is one thing, hauling dearly departed Uncle Bob or Aunt Betty anywhere is entirely another concept...

(n.b. - For a far more detailed guide on green burials you may want to read up on author Mark Harris's informative book, 'Grave Matters: A Journey Through The Modern Funeral Industry To A Natural Way Of Burial', the resource Peter McHugh has referenced almost exclusively for his understanding of the green burial process).

Otherwise, once you've determined your plot location and made any other basic burial arrangements with Mr. McHugh your wish for how you would like to honor, mourn, and/or celebrate, the deceased's passing is absolutely up to you.

"One family of Harley (Davidson) motorcyclist enthusiasts called inquiring about the possibility of alcohol consumption and loud music involved at the service," recalls McHugh with a smile, "I laughed and said 'Sure, as long as I'm allowed to join in'."

He's kidding, of course, as McHugh mostly prefers not involving himself in any more funereal affairs than he's already taking on.

Bodies on the land: no problem.

Bodies in the house... not exactly his cup of tea.

Okay, so, perhaps having an entire pack of Harley riders roaring up on their smoky Hogs would not be such a green thing but, hey, when you consider that the departed is literally being laid out to pasture with no other added caustic frills it kind of makes up for the rest of it, don't you think?
Oh, and if you're at all wondering ...
Naturally, Peter and his life- partner,
Joyce, have already planned their green burial: alongside the Joshua Small Cemetery (a 19th century burial site long ago willed to the property and now historically preserved) lies a large, gray boulder with both his and her name already engraved on it's sides. This is their very own earth-delivered tombstone.

A clear, green conscience as a sort of fore thought for the after-life, eh? Indeed, how eternally peaceful is that.

For more information on Cedar Brook Burial Ground: A Green Cemetery visit Peter McHugh on-line at:

http://greencemetery.blogspot.com/

Oh, My My!

2007-12-22T18:31:00.000-06:00

"My My"

Lyrics by Menomena

What if all my enemies were dead
and i could forget everything they said
could I be then who I really am?
What if I sold everything I own
And ran away from everyone I know
could I make another place my home?
And if I let go all of my ghosts
who would I dump over the months?
What if everyone is right?
Should've taken their advice
But I can't change my mind
And if I let go all of my ghosts
who would I dump over the months?
(What if everybody else is right?
should've taken more of their advice)

Gabcast! "My My" by Menomena

From: Friend And Foe (Barsuk, 2007)

Red Light! Green Light! (Or, Who Goes There?)

2007-12-18T17:20:00.000-06:00

(On awkwardly praising, while simultaneously damning, the internet age...)

That's the name of the game as we age.

Red Light, Green Light.

A game we played in youth to test boundaries and to demonstrate how to control power, and exercise judgment, within our circle of companions.

Back turned.

Green Light! (eyes closed)

Go! Menacing, amiable, horde of our peers fast approaching from behind but without question with us from the start.

Red Light! (eyes open)

Stop! We spiiiin around darned-quick. Players all remaining. Standing still some. Moving others...

Caught you!

Back to the starting line!

Back turned again.

Green Light! (eyes closed)

Go! But this time. Some mysteriously run off in another direction.

With our backs turned, and our eyes closed, we might argue having not even noticed them slip away ... right?

Red Light! (eyes open)

Spinning around once more.

Stop! Yes, confirmed. Some have, indeed, disappeared out-right . A few, maybe even most, are still playing, though.

Take a deep breath, now ...

... and follow my lead - if you dare:

Turn your back around. One. More. Time.

Green Light! (eyes closed)

Go! Wait. What's this? Some of those numbers that had strangely disappeared ...

Red Light! (eyes open)

... are catching up again. How is that?

Stop ... hey! when did you start playing again?

Time-travelers! No fair!

We all make choices as we're playing along: Do we wish to remain in the game or is it our curtain call for this day, this decade, this lifetime?

As we age... it becomes an insidiously loaded question.

While we're wondering just what happened to the "run-offs", the now future 'Him or Her' of a former life, or the ones that didn't exactly jump right back in, if at all (ed. - guilty as charged...), something can occur that throws you for a complete loop.

They pull the ole 'rabbit out of a hat trick' and make things oh-so-very interesting. Without so much as a clarion they suddenly reappear.

It's a lot to allow in when the Fates fortuitously indulge 'Today, its just gonna happen ... meet so-and-so again', isn't it?

So much Newness spanning (and spinning from!) so many years (Who goes there!?).

"How have you been?"

So much to digest.

"Wow. Really?"

So much to contemplate.

"You are? You do?"

So much to consider.

"That's great! So..."

(Or, conversely, "Woah. Really? They did? When? That's ... that's tragic.")

We will, for the most part, happily welcome them back regardless of consequence; it's our sincerest will and desire after all...

But first,

"So, are you here for the long haul? Or, just stopping by for a quick visit?"

Tag!

You're 'It'.

(Yellow Light... eyes wide open)

Dreaming Of A White-Out Christmas

2007-12-13T23:02:00.000-06:00

"BOSTON -- Hundreds of schools closed and businesses let their employees out early Thursday as a winter storm blanketed the Bay State, canceling flights and causing a treacherous evening commute.

Snow started falling early in the afternoon, and accumulations were expected to reach as much as 1 foot in some areas of western Masssachusetts to as little as 2 to 4 inches on Cape Cod."

Enjoy your 'White Christmas', New England!

Save some of that white stuff for our visit in about a week or so... (we'll actually get to wear winter clothing again ... Well, I'll be!)

Living In My Father's Shadow

2007-12-13T15:56:00.000-06:00

(Throwing caution to the wind on this entry the author warns; a very personal recounting ensues...)

Shadows.

These are things that persist ... all the doo-dah-life-long-
day.

These are things that loom up and stretch out from the Past.

These are the things that I reflect upon about this time of every New Year dawning ...

They're not all bad.

But, still, they typically have shades of gray.

Even when they might have had a relatively positive influence in our lives. A set of principles derived, a lesson learned, something gained.

Or, not...

Shadows.

They can even have a smell to them.

Fading, or wilted and rotted, roses.

They are beautiful ... if delicately pressed.

They are coarse dust if pressed too hard.

They skulk.

They linger.

They shimmy and skitter up and down walls in back corners.

They're imposing.

They disappear when you turn on bright lights ... or when you shut those lights off completely.

I prefer a dim gloaming, myself.

Showing just a little Shadow.

It'll be fine.

It's what makes you interesting. If anyone's paying attention...

It's Your Past speaking up on your behalf. Why you are what you are. Why things turned out the way they did.

In essence ... it's your 'Essence'.

~~~~*~~~~

I had no "Dad" ... most of the time. Occasionally he would prove otherwise, but mostly...

I definitely had a 'father', though.

He co-existed, for the most part, alongside an old classical guitar, in a perpetual self medicating ritual of alcohol consumption and nurturing one very courageous, oxygen-depleting, pack-a-day cigarette habit. He hid himself away in a back room most days. Sunlight may have had it out for him we gathered. We'd hear from him occasionally if we got too loud.

There is more.

Much more.

But at the risk of writing a novel(!) or accidentally making the man sound evil or that I loathed him (he was not, and I did not) you'll have to take my word on the complexity of the situation for the moment.

In short he could be brash when he was upset and prone to stupid outbursts (physical and verbal) when he was really on a tear. But these were just that: outbursts.

(n.b. - perhaps, in another post, I'll recollect the kinder, gentler moments, too...)

Consistently, though, he was distant ... let's just make that understood.

He is a Shadow now much like all those exhaled clouds of smoke that yellowed the 'TV den' walls. Those vapors that did Museum-of- Science-Display-Case-Of-Horrors type things to his breathing apparatus.

A Shadow, too, in some wrecked cobalt-blue colored automobile.

"Rescuing" himself one night, no doubt. Long divorced. Long unemployed. But not retired. With a failing heart and apparently not enough common sense to call 911.

The result? A once sturdy engine-block hood crumpled into a fifty-five mile-per-hour front-end redesign. A near perfect letter 'U' shape gave the car a bull-horned look.

American automotive prowess blended into a forced osmosis with an even sturdier Oak along Route 119 in Littleton, Massachusetts.

Metal.

Glass.

Wood.

Flesh.

Died behind the wheel probably before actually making contact. Cardiac arrest. Swerved off the road. Met Fate. Proved, or Disproved, Catholicism in one masterful, fell swoop.

Damn near lucky he didn't take someone else with him.

~~~~*~~~~

Days later.

At some automobile accident graveyard.

A blue tarpalin sheet covers the entire car, shroud-like, it is so bloodied and damaged. The same shroud covers this memory.

"You may not want to look. Hasn't been cleaned up yet. It's still pretty bad inside.", warns the Massachusetts Towing Authority man.

'But I have to.'

Brother Mike is there, too.

The steering wheel practically faces the driver side door and is nearly pushed up against the seat-back.

No one lives through this.

'I need to get his wallet on the passenger-side floor. Someone, something, took it from his shirt coat pocket and callously launched it onto the carpet in front of him.'

The stench of gasoline permeates everything. The passenger seat saturated in an earthy, dirt-red colored fuel of a human kind. Something lacerated his throat. He leaned to one side to drain himself out.

Sparkly-green glass shrapnel litters the soaked-through fabric everywhere.

Blood diamonds.

Liquid.

Dark.

Dirt.

Red.

Undefined.

Now mine to own.

To keep.

Until another generation needs to know.

~~~~*~~~~

"Dennis, for God's Sake, answer the phone! It's your Mother! You need to call me! Right away..."

New York City.

Uptown Manhattan, more specifically.

August.

1991.

A phone message. Left on my home answering machine.

Another Shadow now, too.

('Damnit, Mom, I'm at work! Why didn't you call me there or just leave a message!? What can be so important!?' thinks aloud in best 'Monday Morning Quarter Backing-style'...)

Parallel-a-verse.

"Hello, my name is Dennis. I'm calling to follow up on your advertisement placed in our magazine, The Review: Latin American Arts & Literature. I understand you had placed the ad in last June's edition of The Review. I'm wondering whether your advertising needs are being thoroughly met? We want to hear your feedback. Please give me a call back at your earliest convenience at..."

Parallel-a-reverse.

"Dennis. It's your Mother again. Why haven't you called me? Didn't you get my message from earlier? Call me. Please! PLEASE! It's very important."

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Hi, this is Jo Anne from the So & So Art Gallery returning your call. We're very disappointed in your service. The printer's ink in your last edition? It's all blurred. You can hardly read the copy! Utterly undecipherable! Nobody can read this! Now, I'm trying to keep my composure but it's inexcusable! It's bloody terrible! We want our money back. We won't be using you again."

Click.

Must check my messages.

Dial home phone #.

Punch personal code #.

Press check messages #.

Wait...

Tone.

"Y.O.U. H.A.V.E. S.I.X. N.E.W. M.E.S.S.A.G.E.S..."

"OK. I understand if you can't answer your phone right now ... but it's about your father. He was killed today. In an accident. A car accident. Your father is dead. Please, Dennis, call me..."

'Mom...

What!? Why...?

Why didn't you call me at work?

Why were there a half dozen messages on my answering machine when I called home tonight? I told you my WORK number! Call that in an emergency! Call that! Goddamnit!'

All day long: Messages left to the ether.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Hello? Is this Jo Anne? Hi, it's Dennis from The Review again. You know what? Go fuck yourself. My Father is dead. Did you get that, Sweetheart? Fuck you and fuck everything about your pretentious Upper West Side art gallery. How's that for composure, you miserable sow?"

Click.

Professionalism: 0

Dignity (or, the perceived execution of it at the time): 1

~~~~*~~~~

New York City.

Park Slope, Brooklyn, more specifically.

Later that evening.

Shadows.

In my bedroom.

Alone.

Blathering idiot.

You didn't even hear your roommate on her side of the apartment while you were shouting at the walls.

"(Cough! Cough!)

" she hints.

"Die. My Father is dead. I'm in agony. And this was a man I hardly knew. Please, just leave me alone... so I can figure this all out."

'Why is this so important?', I ask this over and over again, 'If he wasn't there, if you hardly knew this hidden man, why is this act worth so many damned-ably draining troughs of tears?'

~~~~*~~~~

Shadows.

Foundations are usually born from these.

Solid Foundations.

The things we reference as guide posts in our time of need as "Adults".

Answers!

'What would my Father do? How should I respond to this or that situation? How will I ever make it out of here unscathed, unbeaten, un-phased, or simply alive and in one piece? A father would know, wouldn't he?'

I'm still waiting.

Making 'A'-List, Checking It Twice

2007-12-08T20:19:00.000-06:00

'The Current' (on 89.3 FM in St. Paul, MN.) is a very respectable "independent" music radio program produced out of Minnesota Public Radio (one of my old "alma maters"...). For what it's worth it's a public radio sponsored show so you know it's got at least a little bit more 'cred' than the average commercial "alternative rock" station anyway.

They're asking their listeners to vote for their favorite music from this year, 2007.

So, I did.

And, you can play along, too - go ahead and click the "I Voted" icon and it will jettison you off to their website - you could even win an Apple iPod Touch if you're lucky...

By no means is this a complete list of my favorite albums of 2007 (there was so much good music this year!) but the rules allow you only 20 picks out of nearly 600 choices ... their selection is fairly comprehensive to boot so it was a bit rough for me ... but here's what it came down to this year - these are not in any particular order:

Don't take my word for it ... go ahead and give some of these fine bands a listen if you haven't heard them already!

Also, I am very curious as to what some of your favorites are this year, too, so if there's anything you think I should know about please leave it in the COMMENTS section; I am a new music hound...!

"It's O.K."

2007-12-05T20:55:00.000-06:00

"That everything is not O.K."

-- Black Cab from "Altamont Diary"

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like ....

2007-12-03T19:08:00.001-06:00

Every year Austin's Zilker Park puts on one of the most over-the-top displays of holiday lights and life-size seasonal diorama scenes I have ever witnessed a city create before. Seriously, not even New York City does Christmas like Austin!

Thousands of people flock to The Trail of Lights Festival each December to walk around the mile long path and 'ooo' and 'ahh' over the millions of lights hanging from the trees, fencing and lamp posts. It's quite a show.

They really, really, really must like Christmas around these parts. Come see for yourself. Visit sometime and behold the spectacle of exactly how festivity can be done up to the X(mas)th degree ... just don't move here (says the hypocrite) because with any more people...

./~./ It's beginning to look a lot like Hooouuston! ./~./

Viewing North from Zilker Park toward Downtown Austin, Texas (December 2007).

Seasonal (AA)ffective Disorder

2007-12-02T14:21:00.000-06:00

Go ahead.

Just you try it!

Just try and compare your Christmas music collection to mine!

I dare you! Even if you have me beat by one CD, LP or cassette tape (which you don't...) do you have an entire iPod solely dedicated to Christmas music? Huh? With over 6,000 Christmas related songs on it?? Well, do ya, bub!?! Huh!?

Not just the typical mundane trappings either but rare, obscure, underground, way off the charts type of stuff...

Audio ornaments such as aliens singing Christmas carols, preachers imploring little kids to abandon Santa Claus and accept Jesus into their hearts or find themselves in hell on Christmas morn (cheery!), pornographic Christmas carols (e.g. "I Want A Blow Up Doll for Christmas" by Arnie Aardvark <--- yikes!), a CD dedicated entirely to every single song ever written and performed about Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer (don't even get me started about the Auld Lang Syne compilation somewhere in my ill in the head gotten booty...), canticles strummed on rubber bands, a complete album about Santa Claus getting high on reefer, jingles produced by electric energy companies branding themselves as merry power providing Christmas elves!?!

Hey, did you know that Jesus Presley has a Christmas album out? Well, hell yeah, he does! "Christmas With Jesus Presley", of course. Duh!

Every spoof, mockery and re-imagining of just about any traditional Christmas tune possible can be found somewhere in my Christ-Massive collection! And the madness won't just end one day soon either I assure you; the music labels capitalize on lunatics like me and put out new and more bizarre compilations every year that I simply MUST have in my possession!

You wouldn't believe what they'll do to innocent holiday verse now-a-days! Punk it out, Hip-Hop it up, Rock'N'Rollify it, Outsider it to death, Steel Drum Caribbeanize it, Indian Trans-Raga-morgrify it, belch it, spank it, laugh it, yodel it, tap-dance to it! Some even get R2-D2ed, remixed, reconfigured, lounge-cored, melted, warped, mash-upped, H-Bombed, acid-dropped, and on and on it goes!

Somebody, please ... spike my eggnog with Zoloft!

Yep, it is my annual end of the year addiction.

This is my Christmas crack(er).

My sugarplum wine.

My candy co-caine.

My Holiday Seasonal Affective Disorder! H.S.A.D?

Santa has his milk-and-cookies, I have an entire CD rack collection given totally over to Christmas music (my "O-CDs"...)! That's close to 500 holiday CDs, folks (and that doesn't include MP3 downloads, fyi...).

Ho, Ho, Hooowwwhat the Fudge du Noel!?!?!

Indeed, I am a Christmas Music-aholic-agist. A bon-bon-afide musical Noelaphile!

Oh, go ahead - laugh! You wouldn't be the first...

My wife thinks I must have been Santa Claus in a past-life - no, really, she tells her friends and co-workers this... "Oh, hey. So, you're, ummm, you're Heather's, ahhh ... you're Mr. Kringle, eh?"

My neighbors must think I'm Satan's Claws in the present-life; I start playing my music amped-up around early November.

And the happy white-coat wearing people will tell me whatever I want to think in my future-life, "Yes, Supreme Elf Commander, Santa sends his sincerest regards and once again regrets he won't be needing your services this year. He thinks you should stay right here - with us ... at 'Santa's Southern-Based Mass General Office' - where it's warmer and ... safer."

Ha!

But, I am not alone in my affliction.

Hear me loud and midnight clear on this fact: There. Are. Others!

A Cult of Christmas Carol Connoisseurs!

A former colleague of mine actually piqued my curiosity about this whole sordid holiday affair many jingle-belled seasons ago. Several years back when I worked at Monitor Radio in Boston a fellow named Mike W. used to make Christmas themed CDs for everyone as gifts. Wonderful idea (he still does it to this day, too, by the way)! He has a huuuge Xmas CD collection, apparently, although I haven't seen it personally. But you know what the real scary thing is? He now comes to ME to find out what's making the latest Xmas music rounds! He's, in essence, passing the garlanded torch off to old Den Kringle and saying, "Here, bud, all yours. But, as I do still enjoy making these CDs every year, I'll tell you what ... would you mind being my official Christmas Music Archivist? Can we work something out? Do we have a deal?"

Oh, Holy Night, how did I ever find myself as lead magi in this Christmas Pageant?

Since that time, way back when, I have converted at least one other person to my secret double-life as one of Santa's Little Helpers. Admit it, Troy L.! You are shepherd-hooked! You have been sacked by Santa's bag, my friend, and are now being specially delivered to The Island of Misfit Boys!

Real funny story, too, this one...

After introducing Troy to the wondrous, and non-stop escapades, of Christmas music hunting I caught him absolutely red-handed (red-suited?) one day inside of Somerville, Mass.'s 'Disc Diggers' used-music shop ... and get this ... with a ceiling-high stack of Christmas CDs! And here's the real elf-kicker: he was accumulating this over-stuffed stocking of goodies ... in the middle of July.

Man, were you sheepish that day! Don't deny it, "Tiny Tim", you've been officially crippled. I remember how you turned beat-red and could barely look me in the eye after that. Why, I know not... no need for shame! This is a terrific hobby! Albeit, not the most sanity inducing sport, per se, but it's still relatively harmless for the most part (most harmful to the wallet...).

And, hey there, guy ... you know what I was there looking for that day ...?

Mmm-hmm.

Shhhhh!

Ahem, onward 'Ho'.

So, what gives? Why this humdinger of a holiday hang-up? Just what exactly are its elvishly evil origins, pray tell?

Okay, ready for your, "Awww, that is just ssssooooo cute!" moment?

Here goes...

I, like many of you, grew up watching the classic Rankin/Bass, et al. animated Christmas TV staples every year: "Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer", "The Year Without A Santa Claus", "Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town", "Frosty, The Snowman", "A Charlie Brown Christmas", and my all time favorite, "The Little Drummer Boy".

Really?

"The Little Drummer Boy"?

Now, that's odd. 'That was your favorite?', you may ask.

Usually the other shows qualify as the favorites!

Especially with the likes of Snow Miser and Heat Miser having at it all Christmas Cabaret-style (why the Evangelicals never went after these two like they did, Tinky Winky, the wee Purple Teletubby, I'll never know), or the Winter Warlock's revelatory song-and-dance number, "One Foot In Front Of The Other", also with the nasty Burgermeister Meisterburger lording over Sombertown denying toys to all the sad little tots!

Or, Rudolph, of course, with his dentistry obsessed pal, Herbie The Elf! Those were the favorites!

Nope, not for me. Drummer Boy. Hands down.

And here's why...

The Harry Simeone Chorale's devastatingly beautiful score to that particular animated classic brought me to tears every time I heard it. It certainly didn't hurt that I totally identified with that poor moppet of a kid having only his talent to offer as a gift to the New Boy King... it was a no-brainer.

I became so enamored with the The Little Drummer Boy's main theme song that I had my mother sing it to me in order to fall asleep at night, or while driving around in the car while looking at Christmas lights in my old home town, and, yes, even one day in 90 degree heat sitting outside of a bank in the middle of summer, "Mom! Sing me the drummer boy song!" And when she did my eyes glazed over like I had just been hooked up with some wickedly potent sedative.

I was simply in, well ... heaven.

Now at this juncture some might want to argue that I'm just another foolhardy shill, some idiot foot soldier, for the Christian Right's Brigade against the supposed "War On Christmas".

Not quite. If anything a spy in their House, maybe, as I wouldn't mind winning the fun back in Christmas from those moribund bastards.

First of all, let it be known, I am a total Recovering Catholic. Yeah, yeah, yeah the whole guilty Mary Mother of God thing in overdrive now settling to a lowered, less noisy drone. Currently that translates into 'God' and I fist fighting more often than actually caring to find peaceful common ground in acceptance of one another's existence.

The Christians, as a rule of thumb, would probably just assume write me off as a ... as a Democrat, I suppose. Please!

I used to know a kind and loving dude named Jesus Christ while growing up.

Alas.

Sadly, the perversity of adulthood's more reality-based trials, and American politics in general, has all but drove a stake into those youthful and tender belief systems.

(BTW, thanks a lot, you self righteous deplorable toss-offs! Sometimes trying to cram doctrine down throats has an equal and opposite effect...go figure.)

Nah. Christmas music to me is merely an affable reverberation, a cordial echo, now making its rounds from a past manifesting itself in equal parts joyful and pleasant reminisces, and cynical and sinister revoking.

Case in point: When I used to host a radio show a number of years back at M.I.T.'s WMBR-FM community station my annual Holiday Music Show would get more than a few irate listeners calling in with the usual, "Yeah, my kids were listening to your holiday special when FEAR's "Fuck Christmas" came on ... do you really think that's necessary?"

Oh, but surely I did.

Making sense of what became of a formerly religious holiday now gone terribly commercial, and politically awry, was never more important to me and, arguably, the very mission of that particular show. I did warn my audience, in fact, it was an adult-themed special from the beginning. I was merely utilizing a formidable musical arsenal awash in as much sardonic wit I could find to get the message out to anyone listening in ... kids or no kids (perhaps, importantly, that they were ... except for the whole swearing thing).

Ho-Ho-Ho! Lumps of Rock-N-Coal anyone?

I digress.

So, let me reiterate - there are seemingly endless legions of Xmas Tune Obsessives out there like me scouring record store bins, listservs, peer-to-peer (P2P) networks and other obscure, cranberry-and-popcorn strung corners of the internet looking for the latest musical fiXmas offerings. I have found any number of websites specifically designed to humor this very pursuit that pretty much prove my theory. As far as I can tell most of these resources do not subscribe to any cause deus celebre either. It's purely for the warped fun of it all.

A reliable enough explanation as to why may still elude me for the rest of the initiated, but allow me one other speculation on my own behalf...

Yes, there was my mother's rumpa-bump-bumping all along the way, but I think what drives me to dig through all of this Christmas music rubble is, indeed, something more profound than a mere drummer boy and the beat of his humble drum.

I am no doubt searching for something.

Searching for something substantial that has a long time ago gone astray. Not entirely the absence of the Divine, but more of an absence of the Innocence left behind in childhood. The whole notion beaten to a sad cliche at this stage but resonant to me (and many others, I'm sure...) none-the-less.

Perhaps, too, found in that sickly-sweet marzipan-ed pile of compact discs, tucked away some place in this manger of fading vinyl LP records, or wrapped up some how in my tinselly tangle of now obsolete cassette tape, is a twinkly lit path leading back to some long abandoned Salvation.

Could it be through this one very eccentric obsession an Epiphany awaits?

One that may even lean towards finding a reason to Believe again?

~~~~*~~~~

(And now for your very special holiday treat just for making it all the way down to the bottom of this post ... Christmas music!! Did you really think I was going to let you off that easily?)

Below a personal favorite amongst all of the thousands of odd musical Christmas gems I've collected over the years! Originally discovered on 'The 365 Days Project' website - a service dedicated to turning out one rare (free!) song per day culminating in several eclectic holiday tracks around the month of December:

Song: "Merry Christmas, Elvis"

Singer: Michele Cody
Year: 1978
Album: The 365 Days Project

Happy Holidays, Everyone!

Our Town In Five Acts

2007-11-29T23:04:00.001-06:00

Tonight I am driving.

And, as is my wont, I am observing, too. I am on the way to downtown Austin, our town, to meet Heather.

Characters from all sorts of stories, plays, and even the motion pictures, appear on almost every street corner.

No animated screen-crawls nor any rolling film credits appear before them so it is left up to my own devices to tell their tales.

Here is what I have found out so far...

North Lamar Boulevard & 29th Street:

You are both standing on the corner next to the traffic light waiting for the WALK sign to grant safe passage.

One of you, a twenty-something woman, wears a blue overcoat. Your wickedly fluid brown tresses nearly cover up your entire shoe-gazing stare. I can just barely see your face but one feature stands out: a frown so cartoonishly curled downward it would make for a fine inverted Dali's mustache.

When you finally reveal that you do, indeed, have eyes they are opaque and haunted.

Your partner: a wildly gesticulating young man in a black pea coat and kafia scarf wrapped around his neck. He holds a heavy looking book bag in his left hand and empty night air in his right. He gestures like he's a balancing scale, mockingly teetering back and forth with a fierce expression. You shrink into yourself because there is cold and then there is being frozen to death. His lips recede back into one last open mawed, bare-fanged snarl.

As I pull away he is holding the heavy bag up high and his now clenched, empty hand down low.

The scales have been absurdly tipped.

I am wondering... is that her heart you imagine gripping so heavily in your right hand?

Frankly, Scarlett, Rhett doesn't give a damn.

Colorado Street & 7th Avenue:

You are alone.

A long, red, dirtied winter coat has chosen you, not vice-versa. Perhaps you have somehow picked the silver-haired wig that is carefully propped on top of your head, though. You're being fussy with it as both your rickety hands constantly brush its uncooperative locks back behind your ears. You do not want to hide your face, your identity. Everyone must know it's you, it's you ... the one and only!

You hold out your hand and stare into something. It must be a mirror - I cannot see it - but I know you can. You are looking right at You, and You is looking back and straightening her hair. And You is smoothing something into her grooved and weather worn mask. Beauty reflects back from a very distant past. You once had all the good looks that God's Good Earth could grant you. It was most likely your undoing; it made you carelessly forget about Time.

Time would not forget about you.

You walk by the front of my car tip-toeing and elegant in high heels. You are not wearing high heels; you are wearing human feet.

There's no business like show business, Ms. Monroe.

South Lamar Boulevard & Barton Springs Avenue:

I have never seen a person strike a cellphone onto the side of his skull so forcibly and then kiss it like he were kissing a lover for the first time in many ages. I can see your lips move as you shout into the receiver, "I love you! I love you! I love you!"

You are smiling through your tears as if the clouds, in some act of farcical improbability, just burst Rose petals.

Tonight there is Forgiveness in the Universe.

Because somehow, Jack Dawson, the Titanic just missed that iceberg.

West 5th Street & Baylor Street:

OK Go. No, wait. Stop. Hold on a sec. OKOKOKOK! Gogogogogogogogogogo! But hurry up; traffic's coming!

Zooooom!

That's a pretty cool lookin' contraption you got there, fella! And, speedy, too! But what happened? Something denied you movement in your lower half. Now you're reliant on this motor-driven, four wheeled, road warrior's chair to get you around in. Your big belly is pushed up against its handle bars making steering tough. A river of mutinying white hair abandoned your head awhile back to take on new life as a grizzled, unruly beard. Gravity makes for a great punchline, doesn't it?

You're aged but, strangely, ageless.

A Christmas wreath is hung on the back of your chair! Hey, you are celebrating the holidays with somebody this year, right? Right?! Please, tell me that you're not alone in this world, on these nights, in that chair?

Zoooom! (eeeeerrrt!) "Wait for me before you go again, okay?" She gently admonishes you as she pulls up alongside on her own four-wheeler, hair tied up in a proud little, gray bun.

How you found each other is a miracle.

Kris Kringle and Mrs. Claus on their modern-day sleighs bringing good cheer and hope this holiday season.

Duval Street & 53rd Street:

You have just finished reading what sounds like a very inspiring book, Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. You describe a chapter wherein the writer discovers that every city has its own Word. A friend tells her about this curiosity. For example, the city of Rome's Word is "Sex".

Gilbert gets to wondering about what her Word might be.

Now, so do you.

You can't find it at first and this is frustrating. But for whatever enigmatic reason you recall the last scene in the third and final act of Thornton Wilder's classic play, Our Town.

~~~~*~~~~

The now deceased, Emily Webb, is in the Graveyard waxing nostalgia over her 12th birthday. The theatrically symbolic "Stage Manager" is by her side.

She is overcome by tears because she realizes now just how much she took for granted in youth and how fast life goes by, "We don't even have time to look at one another." She observes aloud to the Stage Manager.

Resigned Emily eventually declares that she is ready to go back to the grave but not before asking, "Doesn't anyone ever realize life while they live it? Every, every minute?"

The Stage Manager responds. "No. Saints and poets, maybe; they do some."

~~~~*~~~~

Then you suddenly find your Word.

"Well, maybe I'm not a saint but I do remember when I used to write poetry all the time back when I was younger. Maybe not so much anymore but it's still how I see the world everyday: through poet's eyes."

Poet.

Well done, Heather, and on this particular evening how poignant the serendipity of it all!

Not even Hollywood could come up with a better ending than this...

A Heed Of His Times

2007-11-29T14:43:00.000-06:00

"No one can terrorize a whole nation, unless we are all his accomplices."

-- Edward R. Murrow

Greatest Bumper Sticker Ever...

2007-11-24T03:35:00.000-06:00

Spotted in Hyde Park, Austin, Texas (Friday, November 23rd, 2007)

Happy Turkey Day

2007-11-22T10:14:00.000-06:00

Can you find the turkey in this picture?

How about in this one?

HAPPY TURKEY DAY, EVERYONE!

One Fine Day In The Middle Of The Night

2007-11-18T01:06:00.000-06:00

In my old neighborhood of Indian Village the D. family had a shed in their back yard next to 'The Swamp'. 'The Swamp' was soupy woods mostly and offered an amazing, messy playground for us young boys to romp around in whenever we were bored ... which was often in the suburbs.

A long dirty cement drain pipe, just perfect for single filed troopers to crawl up and clog their noses with moldy dust, and god knows what else, snaked itself down from the road a few hundred yards up a weed and vine entangled hill. It emptied its effluence after rainstorms into a small pool at the mouth of the conduit. That pool would often harbor crayfish and other pincered and antenna'ed alien life forms put there undoubtedly for our amusement.

'Check for ticks!' was a common exclamation upon exiting this mysterious and murky land of skunk cabbage, shoe sucking quick-mud, curly prehistoric fiddlehead ferns and voracious sock clinging burrs. The more bloodthirsty parasitic denizens of 'The Swamp' would contentedly start consuming you alive if you sat in one place for more than a few minutes time.

One of youth's most poignant and impressive lessons: sit still too long and the world will begin to devour you!

~~~~*~~~~

'The Shed' was used to store wood - it was a woodshed.

Every summer the woodshed would inevitably get infested with mice. The tiny gray and black rodents would hide under the heavy cord of dried cut logs stacked there in preparation for the long New England winter months. These unwelcomed pests were nesting inside the wood and making a mess of it to the point of ruination so the argument went.

In that event, Douglas D. would dutifully go out to the Shed by order of his parents with a flat iron shovel and 'slam' mice. He did this without so much as a twitch as he struck each rodent square on its back, crushing its spine and then watching it convulse until it finally broke its lease on life. Perhaps another blow was delivered to end any unnecessary suffering.

Though his tactics were severe Doug was neither cruel nor sadistic; he was merely professional in his demeanor. I think he may have even been paid a small allowance to partake in this gruesome undertaking. A quarter per mouse maybe? Decent wages for the time.

One early Fall evening my brother, and I went with Doug out to the Shed (purely as observers mind you!) to hunt for the wilier mice: the ones that would only come out after dark. Doug had a large lensed plastic flashlight with him to illuminate the way down the grassy path to the Shed. Once inside we would all sit quietly in the corners of the structure in total darkness. At the first instance of any scurrying sound the light would dilate the gloom and the slaughter would commence. A good night would normally harvest him between three and five kills. His practiced accuracy made him extremely lethal. He usually met that quota easily.

When that evening's run of mice were finally done away with and disposed of we entertained ourselves by reading the penciled prose offerings left on the old shack's inner walls. There were several years of limericks, initialed hearts with arrows piercing them and crass iambic pentameter to leave young boys in stitches for a very long amount of time.

There was one particularly memorable piece of foolish poetry scrawled on one side of the wall closest to the Shed's sliding door. It was written in a crooked penmanship and given the title One Fine Day In The Middle Of The Night.

It went something like this (and there are several variations but the following verses are considered the most common):

~~~~*~~~~

One fine day in the middle of the night,
Two dead boys got up to fight.
Back to back they faced each other,
Drew their swords and shot each other.

One was blind and the other couldn't see,
So they chose a dummy for a referee.
A blind man went to see fair play,
A dumb man went to shout "hooray!"

A paralysed donkey passing by,
Kicked the blind man in the eye.
Knocked him through a nine inch wall,
Into a dry ditch and drowned them all.

A deaf policeman heard the noise,
And came to arrest the two dead boys.
If you don't believe this story's true,
Ask the blind man he saw it too!"

~~~~*~~~~

Scholars have since dissected this doggerel and given it credence as a legitimate folk poem. Those same scholars have described it as a "Ballad of Impossibilities" as it follows no reason in its rhyme. Nonsense poems such as One Fine Day... date as far back as the mid-19th Century and were originally collected from children's playgrounds and schoolyards on the British Isles.

Whatever the academic merits it was mostly just a form of wild entertainment for us lads.

In fact, after invoking each stanza aloud we would play-act out how these actions might transpire in spite of their defiant opposition to one another. Our lofty imaginations failed us time and again as we could never quite muster decent enough visualizations that would do any adequate justice for the poem.

But Doug was so humored by this contradictory brain-teaser that he laughed himself pink.

Impossible!

Ludicrous!

Ridiculous!

It was a deliciously devilish riddle that could never be divined! No solving this one any time soon...

What a hilarious hoot we had!

~~~~*~~~~

Of course, I simply had to memorize this subversive in~verse for myself in order to enlighten the elementary school masses of its outlandish nature. Once my ability at recall was proficient enough I recited it to friends at recess time, in the cafeteria lunch lines and during gym class. The Two Dead Boys Town Crier! Gleeful bemusement would surely follow each performance. Soon afterwards many of the schoolyard rank-and-file were all merrily repeating its phrases. Subsequently the boys' bathroom stalls were eventually vandalized with its various black inked interpretations ... only the word fight was replaced with fuck and the word swords replaced by dicks... you get the picture.

It was a small victory of sorts for me, though; to think I was aiding in the propagation of a cultural phenomenon! Hoo-Wah! Score one for the viral nature of human language!

Cool...

But then something really frightening happened that changed everything.

~~~~*~~~~

One fine summer day several months later, in what would become Doug D.'s darkest middle of the night, he was in a terrible motorcycle accident.

The front wheel of his bike sideways'ed on a patch of "Caterpillar Grease" (a mash of road- crossing gypsy moth caterpillars crushed into a dangerous and slippery pulp by passing cars) while speeding up Route 2 on the way home from high school one day. He tumbled several terrifying times down a long stretch of highway pavement before finally coming to rest in a busted heap.

He broke his arms.

He broke his legs.

He broke his back...

But he was still alive.

However, the operating surgeons added a painful *asterisk to that state of being alive by inauspiciously declaring that he would never be able to walk again.

~~~~*~~~~

After several weeks in the hospital Doug was brought home. He lay immobile on his back for what must have felt like an Eternity to him. He was supported by a pulley-and-rope contraption for a bed that a team of medical specialists had designed for just such a god-awful occasion.

His parents grimly looked after him. They would provide sporadic news to the neighborhood of any improvement in cautionary spurts.

After a while even his closest friends became afraid to visit him because he had been such a strong and athletic kid. Now everyone had to pose themselves some fairly dreadful questions: How could this happen? What could one possibly say to a young man who had so much going in his favor, so much life to live? How was anyone supposed to process meaning through this unholy perversion of youth on display; a broken teenage body simply defies all comprehension. This was supposed to be the prime of your life!

Impossible!

Ludicrous!

Ridiculous!

Doug... how will you ever 'slam' mice again? Was this payback from the animal kingdom's belligerent rodent deity?

What's going to happen to you now?

We beseech thee, Powers That Be, bring us your Virgin Mary's Face In A Piece of Toast moment! Reveal to us your small, but Faith restoring wonder.

We beg of you.

And then something really amazing happened that changed everything.

~~~~*~~~~

It wasn't long before Doug would prove to all of those nervy doctors with their sanctimonious prognostications just how completely and totally off base they had been.

One fine day after a year and some odd middle of the nights later ... I was riding my bike up the street. As I passed the D.'s house my eyes played a dirty little trick on me...

Because right there in front of me ... was Doug D.

In his driveway.

Standing.

Damnit, standing!

All by himself - standing - in his driveway.

Yes, albeit in a bulky and clumsy looking back brace but he was standing! On his own! With a goddamn broom in his hands! The son of a gun was sweeping his driveway! Sweeping his driveway like some animatronic theme park character in stilted robotic movements - but sweeping as sweepers will do when they sweep with fully operational spines.

Impossible!

Ludicrous!

Ridiculous!

"Hi, Dennis!"

"Doug!"

One fine day...

"Doug, you did it!"

...in the middle of the night...

"You solved it!"

...one dead boy, at least, did get up to fight.

"YOU SOLVED THE RIDDLE!"

Why The Squirrels Aren't Fat Here

2007-11-17T16:02:00.001-06:00

There are pecans in abundance here in Austin.

They fall from the branches as if the trees were playing "War" with you.

Duck!

Here comes another one!

"Fweeeeeeeeee! THUD!"

The squirrels aren't fat here in town because there is plenty of food to go around for them. The ground is littered with nuts!

Enough nuts to bust a nut over!

They could eat until they exploded if they chose to ... but they don't.

They are not gluttonous because they know there will always be enough to eat.

Squirrels are pretty smart...

So, what's your excuse, America?

Peace On Earth Good Will Toward Men

2007-11-17T00:51:00.000-06:00

Somebody was murdered outside our house tonight...

*

Sad.

Yes very sad.

Don't know who it was.

Don't know why it happened.

Don't know where or when it occurred.

It is a complete and total mystery to me.

Maybe outside our yard.

Maybe outside of Hyde Park.

Maybe it happened outside of Austin.

Maybe it happened outside of Travis County.

Maybe it happened outside of the State of Texas.

Maybe outside of here.

Maybe outside of the Midwest.

Maybe outside of the United States.

Maybe outside of all of Northern America.

Maybe it happened in a different country all together.

But it happened.

Right here.

On this planet.

Murdered.

And that will always remain a mystery to me.

Tug Of War (A Scene Exercise)

2007-11-14T15:26:00.000-06:00

The final assignment in my screenwriting class was simple enough: create a short scene demonstrating a character, or characters, in a state of "preparation" while "lying" to somebody.

The writer could come up with the setting, characters, dialogue (regional dialects encouraged), etc. on their own but had to follow those two simple guidelines (along with the proper formatting of a screenplay, too, of course. That part probably doesn't translate too well on this blogsite but it won't take away from the storyline...).

The scene I chose to develop is based on a short story I've been working on called "Floorboards". It might be described as a dark comic "horror" fable. Easy enough genre to write for film anyway (horror, that is) so I decided to give a whirl at translating one of the "Floorboards" backdrops into a screen act.

Below, in screenplay format, is the result.

First a little background to establish some context: The story takes place in the present day. Through the process of "mountain top removal" a West Virginian coal mining company has blasted a local hillside apart to begin extracting its precious mineral ore contents. While leveling these particular mountains something ancient and unpleasant is unearthed in the process.

Millicent Dubreaux is a young farmer's daughter who has lost her parents several weeks back in a slurry flood disaster brought on by one of the removal operations. She has been taken in by her aunt, uncle and cousin, the Beckette's, who live nearby but have not decided what to do with the Dubreaux family house yet.

While on a walk one late afternoon near to one of the former peaks Millicent stumbles upon a certain infant something and decides to keep it as a "pet". Somewhat containable as a 'pup' at first it has since grown to, let's say, a rather disproportionate size.

She has taken it back home and hidden it in the basement of her parent's old farm house under the floorboards.

You might say the story is an "eco-terror" of sorts, I suppose...

The actual short story's version of the scene happens much later in the tale but for the class assignment the instructor recommended the writer use an opening sequence that would normally begin a film.

A quick screenplay reference key follows for the uninitiated:

EXT./INT. = Exterior/Interior (location in which a scene takes place),

CONTINUOUS = event is happening at the same moment in time as the previous action,

OS = Off Screen (a character who cannot be seen but may be heard),

POV = Point Of View (a camera direction that signifies a character's perspective),

ALL CAPS usage signifies a SOUND EFFECT insertion, a CHARACTER introduction or dialogue heading ID, or a scene SLUGLINE.

Final note: a well written screenplay never employs the TO BE verb in any form during its scene descriptions (its okay in dialogue, naturally; wouldn't get very far without it otherwise now would we?).

No worries; it'll all make sense once you start reading...

The scene is titled: " "TUG OF WAR"

FADE IN:

INT. DUBREAUX FAMILY'S KITCHEN - EARLY MORNING

MILLICENT DUBREAUX, 12, a pretty brown haired girl in a dirtied white floral sundress stands near the sink of an old country house’s kitchen. A battered coal miner’s hat hangs on a door peg. She skins a large rabbit and empties its entrails into the sink. She merrily hums an OLD TIME COUNTRY SONG as she guts the hare.

INT. BASEMENT UNDERNEATH KITCHEN FLOORBOARDS – CONTINUOUS

POV something large, hairy and bulbous in the dark stares up from under the slats in the kitchen floor at Millicent and emits several HIGH PITCHED CHITTERING SOUNDS.

INT. KITCHEN – CONTINUOUS

Millicent drops the skinned rabbit and its innards into a bowl then places it into a bucket with a rope attached.

MILLICENT

Just you hold on one minute, ya hear? Patience, patience. You’re in such a fuss!

INT. BASEMENT UNDER FLOORBOARDS – CONTINUOUS

The shape shuffles agitatedly as it SNORTS and WHINES. It knocks over a shelf of metal tools with a LOUD CLATTER. Millicent gets on her hands and knees and stares down through the floor slats. Her hair dangles below the boards.

MILLICENT

Hey, now what did I jus’ tell you, Apple Pie! Be! Patient! It’s gonna be ready in one minute. I’s removin’ the skin like you likes it. Gosh, I hope you didn’t break anything too valuable down there.

EXT. COUNTRY HOUSE – CONTINUOUS

A light blue 1950’s era pick up truck drives up a dirt road driveway. The truck pulls up to the country house and stops. ABIGAIL BECKETTE, 21, an attractive strawberry-blonde haired woman grabs hold of a bag of groceries inside the truck’s cab and exits.

INT. KITCHEN – CONTINUOUS

Millicent walks over to a trap door set flush in the kitchen floor near a back corner. As she makes her way toward the door strands of white silky threads begin to float up from between the floorboard slats. The silk strands brush Millicent’s legs as she walks.

Goose bumps rise on Millicent’s legs.

Millicent giggles while she walks towards the trap door.

MILLICENT

Stop that! You know how that tickles! Silly!

Millicent slides back two large bolt-latch mechanisms on the trap door and slowly opens the hatch. The hatch CREAKS open revealing a long, dark, dusty hole.

MILLICENT

Breakfast time!

A HIGH PITCHED SQUEAL echoes from the hatch opening’s darkness below. Millicent lowers the bucket with the skinned rabbit into the hole.

The country house’s FRONT DOOR OPENS and CLOSES.

ABIGAIL (OS)

Millie! It’s just me. I’m back already! I think I got everything. Milk. Eggs. Butter. Flour. Sugar. Lordy! Everything is getting so expensive now.

MILLICENT

(whispering)

Aw, shoot! Shhhh, you have to be quiet now, Mister Floorboards, do you hear me! Shush, now! I mean it.

A long, simpering MOAN comes out from the dark shaft.

MILLICENT

Abbie, is that you?

The rope in Millicent’s hands suddenly goes taut and the bucket violenty yanks from below the hatch. Millicent almost topples into the opening. VORACIOUS CHEWING SOUNDS emanate from the hole as Millicent struggles with the rope.

ABIGAIL (OS)

Miss Millie! What in the Sam Hill are you doin’ over there, young lady?

Abigail stands in the kitchen doorway holding the bag of groceries with a look of deep concern on her face.

MILLICENT

(struggling)

Uh, hi, Abbie. I’s tryin’ to pull the laundry bucket up from the basement. It seems to be stuck on something’ down there but I’s OK! I think I got it all right.

Abigail places the grocery bag on an old pastel green colored kitchen table next to the doorway. She starts to walk toward Millicent.

ABIGAIL

What? Girl, now why you tryin’ and bring up laundry like that for? My goodness that’s jus’ plain foolish. Here now, let me help you.

MILLICENT

Nooooo! I mean, I’s OK Abbie! Everythin’s fine. Sometimes a girl’s gots to do things by herself. Please! This ole cat climbed this tree and she’s gonna get herself down.

Abigail stops and shakes her head. She turns back to the grocery bag.

ABIGAIL

Alright, jus’ don’t go hurtin’ yourself and breakin’ everythin’ then.

Abigail puts the groceries into a bulky old icebox refrigerator. A large, black, spindly insect’s leg arches itself from up out of the hatch door and gently caresses Millicent’s hair. Millicent grabs hold of the spiky limb and frantically pushes it back down the trap door.

Abigail turns back to Millicent as she continues to grip the now slackened rope.

ABIGAIL

You know I’m going out tonight with Raymond, right, Millie? With you’re Ma and Pa gone and no one to baby sit you’ll be on your own again tonight. I won’t be long. I can promise you that. Ray’s folks gotta telephone, too, should you need to reach me. Do you think you’ll be all right?

MILLICENT

(sweating)

Oh, heavens, yes, Abbie. I ain’t no baby! I’ll be jus’ fine. Lots to watch on that TV.

The rope goes taut again with a sudden pull and Millicent nearly falls over and into the opening once more.

ABIGAIL

Millicent! What is going on over there?

MILLICENT

Almost fell, silly me! I tried an’ pull too hard again! Heheh! Abbie, you just go on and have yourself some fun tonight. I’ll be jus’ fine. But can you do me a big favor, though, like right away? I believe I left the laundry soap out by the linen lines in the back. Would you be so kind as to go and fetch it for me? I done dirtied my favorite dress and it needs cleanin’ now, too.

ABIGAIL

You sure you’ll be all right then tonight, Millie? I just feel so terrible having left you alone most of the week already.

Millicent nods adamantly.

MILLICENT

Yes, Miss Abbie. Very. Very sure.

ABIGAIL

OK, Sweetie. You’re a little doll you know that? Where are those soap flakes now? By the linen line you said?

Abigail exits the kitchen through a back doorway.

INT. BASEMENT UNDER FLOORBOARDS – CONTINUOUS

FLOORBOARDS, a mammoth pony-sized black spider looks up through the wooden floor slats at Abigail as she leaves. The creature makes SLAVERING NOISES as she passes directly overhead and then exits outside.

INT. KITCHEN – CONTINUOUS

Millicent peers down into the slats rope tightly wound in hand.

MILLICENT

You in big trouble, Mister! Let go of that bucket right now!

The rope immediately goes slack and the bucket hurtles out of the trap door opening. Millicent falls on her backside.

MILLICENT

Oof! Watch it, ya Big Oaf! Don’t you get no stupid ideas down there neither ya hear? I heard you slobberin’ up a storm!

Millicent kicks the hatch of the trap door shut and then crawls over to draw the bolt-latches closed.

MILLICENT

People are off limits! Especially my cousin Abigail!

FADE TO BLACK

The screenplay class instructor gave fairly glowing kudos to this particular scene so I decided it was worth a posting.

Happy New Year,

Dennis

Polar? Barely...

2007-11-13T19:42:00.001-06:00

Hang in there, Big Guy...

Photograph by Arne Naevra ~ "Polar Meltdown"

...help should be on the way in about a year from now.

Literally Eating My Words

2007-11-11T19:19:00.000-06:00

I've heard of immersing yourself in a good book before, but now the question is what's immersing itself good in our books?

No need to dust for prints; the evidence is strewn all over our bedroom bookshelves: powdery paper silt. Pulpy yellow shavings. Droppings in the shape of all the letters of the alphabet... written as some sort of ransom note perhaps?

Whatever they may be they're having one hell of a book club meeting and literally clubbing our books while their at it!

They're eating our words!

And just look at all of these empty little cocoon sacks weaved to the bottom of each binder! Leaving behind your brood to finish off the next chapter are we?

So, after a bit of on-line research (the bestseller buggers have already eaten the hard copy sources I'm afraid...) we've discovered our culprits!

Seems the volume of our slightly more than satisfactory library is being periodically checked-out by a horde of super slavering cigarette beetles!

"The cigarette beetle (Lasioderma serricorne) is a small, light-brown flying beetle that commonly infests books. The beetle's larvae are one of the types popularly known as bookworms, with eggs laid on the spine of a book and along the edges. Immediately upon hatching, the larvae tunnel under the binding cover, especially down the spine area. The insect then proceeds to tunnel up to 10 centimeters into the paper text, where it pupates into an adult beetle. The adult leaves a round exit hole, as well as powdered paper on the shelf. One of this beetle's favorite foods is dried flowers and spices; these should not be brought into the library."

Massachusetts had it's material munching moths to meddle with now Texas has its book brunching beetles to battle! Irony? Not in our beloved Austin! We're educated here. We are devotees of knowledge! Unless, maybe ... it's a right-winged plot!?

Literally, literature lunching larvae.

Who woulda thunk? Bookworms! Mother Nature has a sentence of humor! And, it'll take more than a bit of manual labor to undo this problem we think.

And, worst of all...

The wicked little weEvils are carnivorous to boot! That's right: Flesh consuming. They have been feasting every night on my apparently woody tasting softcover sheath! I know because I'll find one or two browsing into my skin when I wake up in the morning. Y'ouch! Kind of stings.

It's a mystery as to why.

Maybe I've been reading too much lately and these tiny gnawing nasties are now nipping at all of my tome anointed knowledge? Will I, too, break out in a fuzzy bookworm pupae parade and watch my own spine collapse in on itself as the pages of my life flutter to the floor? Themes there's a possibility...

But hold on just one minute! They don't seem to pester Heather at all! Or, at least she claims she hasn't had a run on with them ... and she reads far more than I do! Period!

Clause and affect: I must be text by some cursive!!

Now, I'll admit I've been called bookish before but never ... wooden!

Well, maybe... just maybe.

I am made of wood! There's a novel thought in the abstract for you! (Essay, chap, do you copy me?) <-- cheap shot... A modern day Pinocchio perhaps? Neo-Gepetto's puppet-boy fashioned from some hybrid tree stalk of lore?

And if so ... what type of wood am I made of exactly?

Wood of...? Alder? Apple? Ash?

Wood of...? Balsa? Beech? Birch?

Wood of...? Cedar? Cherry? Could?

Wood of... Could?

Wood of Could?!?

Would of...? Could have?

Would have, could have ... should?

WOULD HAVE, COULD HAVE, SHOULD HAVE?!?

Damnit. Lost my tract of thought! Guess I shouldn't have written off these bugs so easily; they've gotten deeper inside my head more than I opused for.

Alas.

I think I'll go outside and roll around in a pile of celebrity gossip magazines.

No doubt that pulp oughtta throw the little bastards off my tale! Or, I'll be fiction to eat my own words...

Paranoiarmal (A Poem With Many Faces)

2007-11-08T19:31:00.000-06:00

When I was a boy I saw many strange things
Like a woman in blue with her leprosy skin
Awoke in my room by her visits some morns
Through the bars in my crib this image was born.

S.S.Watertown Faces of Ghost Crewmen at Sea - December 5th, 1924

A "cat" once appeared in my bedroom with me
As I fought off a fever of a hundred and three
She squirmed and she spun by the corner in dark
One flick of the light then she'd disembark.

B-29 Bombers over Korea with Face of Christ in Clouds - June 15th, 1950

A family of trolls made of sticks from a tree
Lived by the side of our house's chimney
Though the curtains were drawn I saw what they did
Making shapes out of branches to scare little kids.

Viking 1 Orbiter Photograph of the "Face On Mars" - July 25th, 1976

Bouncing and bouncing on a mattress I'd leap
'Til the springs on that bed grabbed hold of my feet
I screamed and I screamed but it wouldn't let go
But loosened its grip when my Mother came home.

World Trade Center's Face of the Devil in Smoke - September 11th, 2001

A teacher once queried in class at my school,
"Volunteer for reports on goblins and ghouls?"
Later that night after assigning myself
A toy came to life and walked off my shelf.

Piece of Toast with the Face of the Virgin Mary - November 23rd, 2004

My brother was neither denied nor immune
A Man in White suit appeared in his room
Held by the feet at the foot of his bed
White sir would declare, "You scream and you're dead."

Mallard Duck with Ingested Face of Space Alien - May 21st, 2006

No longer a boy, old spooks left behind
Still one spectre lurks from the hand of mankind
A mushroom of sorts keeps me up through the night
The only true shadow that's kept on my light.

Trinity, New Mexico's Face of Mankind - 5:29:45 a.m. July 16th, 1945

A Better Ewe Through Somnambulism!

2007-11-07T09:17:00.000-06:00

This relationship has got to end!

My all night affair with Night, that is.

I blame the 24 hour news cycle that I was introduced to back in my sleep formative twenty- something years when I first began my stint in public broadcasting. I did more Overnight shifts on 'Morning Edition' than I care to remember or care to admit. It's an impossible hour these after midnight rounds. I pity nurses! This is the time for sleep, or romance, not terror. These particular 12:00am to 8:00am shifts kept me wide-eyed and wide awake especially, too; news, as we all know, can be so terrifying 24 hours a day (yes, I was working in radio when September 11th occurred ... the one "good" thing about 9/11? At least it happened during normal day time hours...).

Mostly, though, the hard hitting news that occurred on those early shifts back in the day revolved around the Russian-Chechnyan conflict and the Serbian (ahem, former Yugoslavia) genocides. Clinton was in office so this country was reluctant, and sparing, when it came to military involvement. Hey, we were too busy basking in all of that internet boom wealth glory to care what was going on in other countries anyway... wait a minute. Since when did the U.S. ever care about other countries?

Not the point.

I am a bonafide insomniac.

I cannot sleep at night. Hardly a wink to be unseen anymore... one black sheep too many amongst the fence-leaping herd messing everything up for me.

It doesn't matter how hard I work during the day or how much stuff I have to do the next day I remain as diligent a night owl as ever. In fact, another little night owl, a screech owl, sometimes reminds me of this with her hooting not far down the street from us.

Arguably, my insomnia makes the house much safer in terms of break-ins or fires; I am full-time security guard and primed smoke detector.

I have tried everything to win back regular sleep hours short of taking those sanity impairing cortex softeners advertised all over Time Magazine and rags of that ilk. I just can't give into Lunaticesta, Ambienocide, or Razorem as I have heard any number of nightmarish (get it..?) stories about people who go absolutely ape-shit batty on that crack.

For example.

One associate of mines' aunt, currently submitting to the popular Ambien "sleep aid", gets up in the middle of the night and writes emails to her relatives. No problem with that, per se, only these emails are all written completely unawares and often in a very abusive tone, some using language that would even make the Sopranos blush. So far outside of reason and reality are these messages that she finds herself profusely apologizing for their content every day after each new creative nocturnal transmission. The prompting for an apology usually comes in the form of a delicate, but obviously unnerved, REPLY ALL message from her kinsfolk reminding her of these sleepmailed indiscretions:

"My goodness, Dearie, we had no idea we were all a bunch of worthless cocksuckers..."

"Heh, sorry, gang, it was just the ole Ambien talking again! Tee hee!"

Yeah, I believe Linda Blair had a similar problem and it ended up with the murder of two priests...

So, I try to remedy my own dream deprivation instead with 3 to 5 mgs of an all natural orange flavored sublingual Melatonin pill (or the more potent liquid version milked from the teat of some poor bastards adrenal gland I assume), or Valerian Root capsules (holistically recommended from another sleep deprived friend of mine), or reading, writing, and even, yes, the occasional stint with late night cable television movies. I have never been much of a fan of horror films but that's apparently what TV programmers assume anyone staying up past a certain hour is very interested in. As a result I know more about the Australian Wolf Creek serial killings than ever before, that the European Hostel experience for some can be not so pleasant at all (downright hostile!), and just down the road from us here in Texas apparently there were some pretty nasty chain saw massacres... brrrrrrr! I shutter to think at all of the frightening characters dreamed up out there to, not ironically, keep us awake at night.

Heather, for the most part, is mercifully tolerant of my insomnia. Although, I'm sure she misses companionship at some moments during the evening she also understands that me rolling around all night in a state of anaphylactic shock-like convulsion (allergic to sleep?) does her no good for maintaining her own circadian rhythm balance. She knows I will eventually show up, tip-toeing into the bedroom at whatever ungodly hour, to finally make peace with my cerebral cortex. I am up at a relatively normal morning hour to boot given the circumstances (excluding weekends sometimes; it can all catch up to me then to be sure!), and this is most troubling. I am just waiting for a total psychic melt down to come calling any day now due to lack of enough sleep. Even without the prescription medications am I still opening myself up to that ugly sleepmailing habit practiced by my friend's aunt?

Uh, oh...

"Dear Cats, I will never, ever, ever fucking feed you again! Ever! Miserable fucking Fuckers!"

Oh, sorry kitties. Sleeptyping again I see... tee-hee! Kissy-kissy, winky-winky!

So, here's what I've started to do to fight back ... and it seems to be working. For the moment.

But, first, some background: I usually row Crew in the early a.m. from late Spring to about mid-Fall every year. I have been doing this since my college days and most recently (when I lived back in Boston) with B.U.'s Summer Rowing program. Rowing the Mighty Charles River was a sure fire way to correct a lot of things, not just sleeping schedules. It's a good 'gut check' method for one and it rids the body temple of all sorts of otherwise nasty toxins (which the Charles will happily replace with one good boat-tip if you're not careful, btw!).

However, with the sun and the heat here in Texas this last summer I was rendered nearly immobile as it was so damned-ably oppressive (high 90's everyday - not like New England heat either which tends to be muggy and tolerable - Texas heat is desert heat and it is scorching and top-heavy). I used this oven-on-high-climate excuse rather successfully to convince myself not to pick up my normal sculling and sweeping exercises on Austin's own Town Lake (now Lady Bird Johnson Lake after LBJ's late great environmentalist wife) much to my, and Heather's, chagrin. I've paid dearly for it as I'm not my normally spry and fit self at the moment... (you may have heard of the phenomenon "The Freshman 15"? I think I just experienced "The Texas 20" over the last 3 months...).

But that's about to change!

And, here's the kicker: I have taken up (drum roll sfx here) running again!

I might also proudly point out that I'm using this form of exercise, to somewhat decent effect, in combating my insomnia, as well.

You see, I run at night.

Late night.

As in around midnight late.

Extreme Somnambulism (in extremis)! Only I'm very much awake while I'm jogging along...

Duval Street opens itself up as a nice, quiet 6 mile stretch down to the university from our place and that's a pretty good jaunt for starters. Well, I run only about 5 of those miles back and forth all together. That's FIVE miles of a Marathon race, though (I ran the 100th Boston Marathon back in 1999 to the drub-tacular tune of 5 hours 50 minutes... I run my current five miles in about an hours time. Is that bad? Probably. Ugh, terrible, actually!)! Indeed, I am still at my lumbering pace stage right now, but, to my credit, I start out at a good enough clip - its just when I realize that I have to run back that I begin to resemble one of the gorier cast members of Dawn Of The Dead (Ooooo, another late night horror flick!).

Am I worried about being thugged-upon one of these daring runner's nights outs? Not really. I figure if anyone jumps me they'll get, what? My shorts? Please. I don't even carry my keys with me. Worst case scenario ... I run home naked. Not like that hasn't ever hap...

Moving on.

It's still early in this little anti-insomnia crusade of mine but I have high hopes. I'm feeling better already lately, if not a smidge sore, and I have even begun witnessing significant strides towards sleep cycle normalcy starting to creep in. I almost fell asleep 2 hours after I finished my run the other night! Woo-hoo! Take that, Mr. Sandman, in your face! (Wait, he's supposed to be on my side, right?)

I'll try and promise to occasionally keep you posted as to my progress. In theory, this will actually help motivate me to continue my running routine. Else wise I have a feeling if I end up succumbing to inertia again ... (sigh) ... that will be just one more reason to keep me up at night.

Now, in the meantime, if I could just rest my head down for one minute and qwerty!67huji8k 7yh6gtfr 54ed3ftgvy6njhhhhhhhbfg tv54279 g3 048HJ34HTY 6GGGGG39...zzzz.

Don't Talk To Strangers (Just Listen In On Them Instead)

2007-11-02T00:25:00.001-05:00

I have never met either of you before but I came to know you both very well this afternoon without having even exchanged a single word.

I am a voyeur (auditeur?) of sorts ... in a purely non-dysfunctional way, of course; eavesdropping is sometimes just forced upon us by indeliberate means and uncontrollable environments.

Our ears are natural receptors and translators for audio of all kinds. Human language, English language, my language just makes it harder to not absorb try as you may. If only the rest of us had voice scramblers to protect ourselves from the other unintended listeners' personally referenced, personally calibrated, personally tuned-to-their-own-current-radio-me ears and, therefore, entirely unfair!, speech transmission decoders.

Listening by accident does sometimes make for a good story, however.

My "meeting" begins while I am sitting at a favorite Hyde Park cafe outside in the patio area during lunch time. You and you're companion, rather oddly, are sitting at separate tables. But you certainly are engaged in a very animated conversation with one another, and you certainly do seem to be enjoying one another's company. I gather you know each other from before today's lunch date.

I think he likes you.

No.

He adores you.

But I know your type. Although, he might not yet in his experience.

Everyone likes you.

Everyone.

You are quirky and smart, you are attractive, you are energetic, you are of a certain highly sought after pedigree, and as a result the world is yours to do with whatever you please. You are very lucky. You, much to everyone else's disadvantage, know this, too. Assuredly, you do, because you're playing a certain game so very well today.

When you're counterpart asks you how you'll be spending your holiday vacation time you indulge his curiosity by offering your plans in painful detail.

"Well, I met this guy in one of my study groups. He has this place that you can't even get to unless you are flown in. It's on an island somewhere. I forget where but his family owns a resort there."

Your companion is silent. Perhaps a single engine of his own ego-plane just sputtered after receiving this information. But playing his next cat-and-mouse move ever so slyly he rejoinders,"Really? Sounds like he's got a lot of personality. So, he's your new Sugar Daddy?" Touche! Avec l'esprit!

"Ohhh, you know. I'm not so sure."

"What? Confused about whether you like him or not?"

"I dunno. Not really." You giggle your uncertainty, "I'm never sure about these things."

He's hooked again; chances suddenly renewed!

You have him.

Right where you want him.

Because you have been here so many times before, you artful dodger, you! This is your home field and you already have the play book memorized. You needn't cheat at the rules nor steal the opponent's game-plan. You don't need to; it's always been the same old strategy of jockeying yourself into position using that well-worn catalog of stock routines. Then simply: let the contest begin!

'People. They're just so predictable!'

Indeed, we are.

Your cellphone rings. You answer it very chipper because Caller ID says its OK to answer very chipper.

But...

"What?? Who is this?" Oh, come on, you know who it is, "You're sooo funny! (pause) You've been trying to call me for the last six hours every way you can, haven't you? (pause) Well, I wasn't at my house. (pause) Maybe I didn't want to talk with you for twenty minutes..."

Forward march.

The conversation ends with a definite, "Maybe."

Back to the quarry at hand, though, "Oh, just some guy I met last weekend."

"THE guy? Island resort guy?"

"Nooo! Someone else. Hey, are you going to be here for another thirty minutes? I gotta run out and do something real quick! Will you watch my stuff? I promise I'll only be gone for maybe thirty minutes tops! Pleeeeease. I'll give you a dollar if you watch my stuff for just thirty minutes."

Your rates are the lowest of wages with the highest pay-off at stake.

He agrees. Of course, he does. Everyone agrees with you in your familiar Commedia dell'Arte. The same imaginary promise lies in wait for every single interested male or female who agrees to tread water for you: 'I will somehow, somewhere, some day get my due. Just be patient. Persevere!'

Maybe they will, too. Most likely, though...?

Now at this point, I must admit, I am curious. Not about the girl; I know her already. I've held her company for many years beginning back in my more puerile days when I played that game, too. No need to peek; I already know exactly what she looks like, shy of perhaps hair and eye color.

Nope. I want to see the Host.

Ah. Just as I suspected. You're good looking but not Good Looking. You've got decent floppy sandy colored hair. You're probably in a band. Or, in film school. Or, write poetry. You're arty. This makes you interesting. I'm being serious. You and I could be friends, I'm sure. But right now you're your own foil.

She is not sure what circle she wants to play in, ultimately, because she is new to her version of Planet Austin - you can pretty much bet on that. Her aura strongly suggests privilege. You can hear it in every finishing school intonation of hers. While she's busy discovering the different class-types, colors, creeds and breeds of humanity in her brave new world of youth and freedom you are the perfect categorizable and, therefore, representative muse for her.

Hello, "Sensitive Art Boy". Welcome to Princess's shadow box.

There's more. You're kind and gentle. You look like you can get broody and dark. That's NEAT! You're tolerant ... but also suspect. And you should be. I can tell you know better. But Mr. Lizard Brain is only hearing one word right now, "Tits!", and you've been nothing but Holy Sacrifice ever since.

This is a good thing.

No, I am not being sarcastic nor cynical.

Really. It's a good thing.

I loved playing this game, in fact, because it allowed me to finally home in on that precious concept of non-unrequited Love (in my mind's eye different than just requited Love...).

You, too, will eventually bore of this game if not become outright abhorrent of it, Art. The darling faces become reptilian and vague, a soup of pretty colors running into a puddle of nondescript grays.

Flirting is one thing, abuse is something entirely different...

Yes, I have been a Dollar-An-Hour Waiter myself (my rates are adjusted slightly lower to reflect the market at the time ;^).

It was fun, in truth, because soon after, when I finally learned the power of feigned indifference, suddenly that sad-sap's mantra of "Out Of Your League, Dude." became completely irrelevant and one, instead, of "Total Possibility." You see, beauty is its own beast when ignored, wanting in undivided attention it becomes turncoat against its wielder in their desperation.

The art of manipulation (induced by male or female!) works both ways regardless of looks, stature or anything else the TV Shows and "Culture" Magazines (or your very own brainwashed best friends!) school you to believe. It takes a long while to make a craft of it, truth be told, so one cannot expect miracles their first few test-runs out. Albeit, with a little patience... but I digress.

The Austin Chronicle was a good read today so I was able to watch the rest of the drama unfold much to my mild entertainment. Predictably, the half hour turned into forty minutes, then into fifty and then slightly over an hour went by.

She eventually returned, and he had dutifully not moved an inch.

(I believe the contract allowed him a full two dollars and change now!)

"Oh! Soooorrry! Were you waiting a long time?"

(Honey, you tell him! Try this syntax on for size next time: "Oh! You were waiting a long time! Soooorrry!" )

No love lost, though, naturally. Faithful servant to the bittersweet end.

After I finished my last drop of Americano (a Triple shot with just a splash of skim milk and brown sugar) I began the retreat back to my office. As I got up to leave the pretty creature caught my eye and smiled.

'Hi, Princess. Yes, I know you're there. We all do.'

But it was floppy haired, Art, that I turned to and winked at.

'Have fun, man; these are some of the best years of your life!'

Happy Halloween, Red Sox Nation!

2007-10-28T22:19:00.001-05:00

The Headless Hoarse-Man says...

CONGRATULATIONS, BOSTON RED SOX - 2007 WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS!

RED SOX 4, ROCKIES 3

(Game 4 - Sunday, October 28th, 2007)

Quoth The Raver: "Evermore!"

2007-10-26T16:02:00.000-05:00

Every year, for the last three Halloweens, I have developed a tradition in costume of resurrecting The Ghost Of Edgar Allen Poe.

Although, I have not tested this formula here in Austin it was a very popular event in my old neighborhood of Somerville, Massachusetts.

Poe was born and raised in Boston, but settled in Baltimore, Maryland eventually out of disgust with his native hometown (Heh, just like us!). His grave site, near Baltimore, is visited by the mysterious Man in Black every year on Poe's birthday (January 19th - a fellow Capricorn!) whom leaves a bottle of Cognac and three red roses at his tomb in a wildly excellent tradition.

My tradition of summoning the great poet and storyteller of Gothic fame became very popular in Somerville, indeed, and not just because Poe was a famous Massachusetts' native son.

First of all, my garb was fascinating to the kids in its Victorian-style black suit, mascaraed thin mustache, white face paint, a cane & top hat, a black Raven resting on my shoulder, a Tell-Tale Heart pinned to my shirt-coat, and a little Black Cat hanging from one of my jacket pockets.

I would greet doorbell-ringers in a flamboyant and exalting display, "WHO DARES RING THE BELLS, THE BELLS, THE BELLS OF THE GREAT EDGAR ALLEN POE?"

If any of the younger trick-or-treaters didn't know who I was I'd challenge them by offering, "Well then, would you like a trick, a treat or a POEM!"

Now, you'd think kids would just run screaming in terror at the very notion of being offered to be read a poem on Halloween night. You'd think! But, I had more requests for poetry readings than you might imagine! In fact, as the tradition went on the kids that would remember me from Halloweens' past would insist, "Where's our poem!" when they returned to the house. And, of course, Mr. Poe would oblige them with either Annabelle Lee, The Bells or The Raven (the Classics!) and for the sake of brevity the most merciful reads.

Last year one young girl did go as far as requesting The Cask of Amontillado (she even pronounced it correctly!) - sorry, Sweetie, there are other kids piling up at our doorstep - no can do. Although, I couldn't honor the request I did give her an extra dollop of goodies for the sentiment. Head of the class!

I remember in particular one father and his little girl would come to the door and they just seemed to absolutely adore the tradition. She was so sweet and shy, tentative but unafraid, and always dressed as a Faerie Princess in pink with white angel wings. Dad was most excited as he seemed to like the idea that some nut in the neighborhood would actually uphold such a tradition. He gleefully announced to his Princess on one visit, "Looook, honey, there he is! He's here again, it's Edgar Allen Poe!"

I was a sort of minor celebrity I must admit.

That year I had rigged a giant black spider (and called it Boris...) to cover up my bucket of high-end Halloween treats. Strung up via a semi-elaborate system of pulley's and strings I would command my contraption in forte voce, "Up! Up! Release the candy, Boris, let the Princess have as much as she'd like!" And up the wiry little bug would go on its spindly thread lifting a black veil off of the booty-filled treasure pot.

"Oooooh, loook at thaaat!", Dad would gush easing her out of her initial trepidation, "Go on, honey, it's OK. It's Mr. Poe! You know he wouldn't hurt you."

Verily, Mr. Poe would never hurt anyone especially someone as precious as the little pink Faerie Princess.

The real Mr. Poe probably loved children; they were, after all, his future audience (especially on High Street every Halloween!).

Mr. Poe hurt himself, though.

To the point of death, in fact.

He drank himself to his grave (n.b. - agree most theories).

A fate not unfamiliar, nor uncommon, to many a tortured writer's soul. Life was beautiful but it was dark and cold, too. He suffered loss like all of us do. His wife, Virginia, passed away during their love's brief tenure together and it resulted in some of his undoing. And because he had the power of words to lead him through his grief I can only imagine that made him all the more sensitive to humanity's great plight: the awareness of one's own Mortality, now given damningly eternal tangibility by all of that poetic prose of his.

Don't hold on too tightly; it will all be gone sooner than you might want to fathom:

"Quoth the Raven - Nevermore."

See? It's all right there in black and white!

Many of us hoard money away in anticipation of the Grand Inevitability (some solace that!) as if this will ward off Death some how. Edgar hoarded words. He kept them saved in the vault of his fevered mind but would withdraw them, regardless of penalty, for every daring receiver's benefit. I believe, despite his dark sensibilities, that he ultimately admired mankind. Why else would he want to share such shadowy secrets and perverse passions with them?

'Here is what I have discovered, Dear Reader, now take Thanatos' Wisdom with you and change yourselves for the better. Live life fuller, I command thee!'

Well written dramatic "horror" should do just that (although, Poe might argue quite differently that what he wrote were mere horror stories).

~~~~*~~~~

When I was in elementary school a favorite English teacher of mine, Mr. Bill O'Shea, introduced his classroom to the morbidly wonderful imagination of Edgar Allen Poe. In the days leading up to Halloween, Mr. O'Shea would close the curtains and turn off all of the lights in our school room's back area and read to us each and every short and long selection from Poe by flashlight. He loved the author and he loved the season of Halloween and all of its questioning of the Western status quo belief systems.

Bill O'Shea gave each reading a special performance, too, tapping his foot in rhythm on the tile floor during The Tell Tale Heart, miming animated vitality into Hop-Frog, the lopsided dwarfish jester, who would exact his revenge on his tormentors by dumping hot oil on them from the rafters above! Bill would scream out imitating the revelers as they were being doused in the sticky scolding misery that was their ultimate doom. He would yowl loudly the remonstrances of the walled-up, brain eating Black Cat (don't get any ideas, Anubis!), and on and on would he channel fresh life into the great artist's gloomy tales ... it dually scared the crap out of the entire classroom.

It entranced me.

My love of stories and words was given bold new light (or dark...) back then. Mr. O'Shea had created a tremendous fan out of me and I wanted to share Edgar Allen Poe with everyone from there on in.

So, it was with no small amount of pride and pleasure that I found myself glowing one year when the Faerie Princess and her Dad came back for their annual visit. As they were leaving the mocked up Melancholy House Of Usher, Princess's Dad looked "Poe" square in his painted visage, and earnestly revealed, "This means a lot to her, thank you. No, really. And, it means' a lot to me, too. Thank you."

No, thank you, Edgar.

But, most of all, thank you, Bill O'Shea; you make Mr. Poe, and me, very proud.

Happy New Year... Evermore!,

Dennis

Little Orange Cat

2007-10-26T01:43:00.000-05:00

Below is an audio commentary I produced for NPR's "Living on Earth" program.

It is a story and an experience shared by Heather and myself from one October evening in 2005 outside of Burlington, Vermont.

It is about losing something small and precious, but gaining something significant in return.

Little Orange Cat Commentary

Written, produced and read by D.Foley Somerville, MA. - November 2005

Nostradamus's Gentler Side

2007-10-25T17:15:00.000-05:00

"KER-CHUNK!"

(pause)

"RollRollRollRollRollRollRollRoll...."

(pause)

"Pah-Thud!"

That is the sound pecans make when falling onto our roof and hitting the ground outside here in Hyde Park. It happens all day and all night long - but not in any mind rattling way. It is a very pleasant sound, in fact.

It is the sound of Autumn in Austin.

You can pick these nuts off of the earth in abundance around these parts and eat them right from the shell. There is never a shortage of Pecan Pies in town.

Should we ever find ourselves in a far away new city in the future I predict this will be a sound I will miss.

Lord Vader Sees The Light

2007-10-24T13:11:00.000-05:00

Just thought this was funny, that's all...

~~~~*~~~~

(CNN) It may be politically popular in the heart of Red Sox Nation, but that probably didn’t make the admission any easier for Yankee fan Rudy Giuliani.

The former New York City mayor acknowledged at a Boston news conference Tuesday he is rooting for the rival Red Sox to win the World Series.

“I’m not saying that just because I’m here in Massachusetts," the Republican presidential candidate said to applause and laughs. “If I’m in Colorado in the next week or two, you will see I will have the courage to tell the people of Colorado the same thing.”

He said that, as an American League fan, he always backs the team from the Yankees’ league.

Giuliani was in Boston to pick up the endorsement of former state treasurer Joe Malone, in the backyard of challenger Mitt Romney — the former governor of Massachusetts.

On Wednesday morning, the New York media took Giuliani to task for his team turnabout. In front page placements, the New York Post called the former mayor a "Red Coat," and the New York Daily News proclaimed him a "traitor."

~~~~*~~~~

Welcome aboard, Captain... that other ship was sinking anyway.