"THE MAN IN THE WHITE HAT"

Now, wait a minute.  Wasn't the "man in the white hat" the cowboy hero of lore?  Isn't the "man in the white hat" supposed to be a John Wayne type, the uber-stalwart American?  The "good" guy?  The grizzled ruggedly handsome get-it-done-er who takes on the guys in the black hats and saves the day in the nick of time, riding in on his steed Silver, guns a-blazin', rescuing chillun and elderly women and sweeping the blonde-haired beauty with heaving bosoms into his arms as he rides off into the sunset, another good deed done, another day saved?

Fiction, of course.  Pot-boilers.  Spaghetti Westerns.  Real life, of course, doesn't work that way.  Real life is ironic as hell, sometimes.

There is a gargantuan manhunt underway for the second suspect in the Boston Marathon bombing, an attack which left scores injured (many "traumatic amputations"--that makes me wince to even type those words) and a few dead.  Boston-area police and SWAT teams and the FIB have already taken out one suspect, and now they are searching for another, the dude in the much-viewed pictures that have circulated on the Internet and have been shared copiously on social media (by the way, when did "social media" become a part of the lexion? seems recent)...the "man in the white hat".

I wonder...I wonder that if this is indeed a terrorist attack, which it assuredly seems to be, and if this youngish guy is part of the Martyr's Brigade or Al-Quyeesha or Muslims for Jihad or whatever the fuck they want to call themselves...I wonder if maybe he chose to wear a white hat on purpose?  I wonder if the white hat has a relevance in and of itself.  Maybe it's a matter of perspective.  Maybe he sees himself as a John Wayne-type.  Maybe he sees himself as a freedom fighter.  Maybe he views us Americans as infidels that must be terrorized and crushed like las cucarachas that we are.  Maybe he wore the white hat as a statement.  Not to get all Project Runway, here, but maybe he accessorized whilst he terrorized....

But, with all that said, if he truly is part of the team that detonated the bomb and maimed innocent people and killed a few, too, and brought us all smackdabback to 9/11?  All that said?  He'd be better off dead.

A flowering red bullet hole, stark contrast to the new white of the hat, would be a nice accessory, too.

A PRETERNATURAL SHOUT-OUT?

I don't think about my dad all that often.  Sometimes he crosses my mind, most times he doesn't.  I hope that I am making him somewhat proud wherever he is.  Through my jack-assedness I am not doing what I used to do for a career, but I am working two jobs--kinda working my ass off (quite literally, actually; I've lost ten pounds and feel trim).  He was always a hard worker; I think he'd appreciate the effort.

So, anyway, I don't think about my dad too much.  But sometimes I pause and think to myself, Damn, he's been gone for more than four years, now, and it kind of hits me in the stomach like a whooooof.

I took an order on the telephone yesterday at the pizza parlor for an address on West Coy Street in Hazel Park.  The manager on duty informed me that that street was out of range and, sure enough, when I looked at the map on the wall, the street was just barely out of our store's delievery range, two streets into the grayed-out area.  What the fuck, I said, I took the order; I'll take the delivery.

My dad grew up on Coy street.  I think he might have grown up on East Coy, but, regardless, it was his childhood street.  I delivered the food--got a thirty-cent tip; whatever, I made  sixty dollars on ten other deliveries--and got back into the car where, on the radio, "Let It Be" by the Beatles was playing.  Whenever I hear that song now, I associate it with my dad--when he was dying of cancer, I wrote a blog and hyperlinked "Let It Be" into it.

So, anyway, being on his childhood street and hearing the song...well, it got to me a bit.  I turned up the song as loud as I could (on the transistor radio dangling from my rearview mirror; don't ask) and allowed myself to be whooooofed.  I allowed myself to think about him and his life and his passing and his work ethic and his legacy.  I allowed myself to let the tears of our loss well in my eyes.  I allowed myself to miss the hell out of him and pray to him that I hope I'm doing all right by him.  I miss the son-of-a-gun; I really do.  He left way too fucking soon.

On the way back to the store, I stopped by the house to wipe my eyes and blow my nose and kiss my girl.  Because, I mean, seriously?  Who the hell wants to walk back into a pizza place with tears in one's eyes?  Pizza's supposed to be fun!

Happy Easter, Daddy B.  I miss you, man.

 

 

 

THE WRATH OF CEE-PEE THE CAT

Just sittin' and chillin' on a Saturday night, Meegie in the La-Z-Boy, me on the couch, a Madden game paused on the big-screen TV, Naomi preparing to go out, Ollie itching and shaking his head (he's got a stubborn fluid-buildup in his ear; I'm trying home-care, trying to avoid racking up a bill at the vet's)...and Cee-Pee (I call him Cee-Pee; his given name by Meagan is Cutie-Pie) was at the left side of the La-Z-Boy, just doing what cats do: observing the action and living in their own world.

Meagan said something to Oliver as he waddled across the living room, something like, "Poor Piggy [her moniker for Oliver], shaking that fluid in his ear...." and then Cee-Pee went into attack mode, hissing and swatting and clawing at Meagan's left arm.  He buried his claws in her arm and she started to wail and pull away.  It was like he was brawling with another animal, vocal as hell with arms flailing like a cartoon cat-fight.  Meegie pulled away and looked around the room with wide shocked eyes.  "What the hell was tha--?" and then Cee-Pee was on her again, almost climbing into the chair to claw at her.  Naomi's eyes were wide as saucers and Meagan's were clenched in pain.  "Oooooowwwwwwwwwwaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh-ooooooooooowwwwwwwaaaaaahhhhhh," she said, and Cee-Pee darted around to the other side of the chair, the side near the wall.  He lit into her again, this time clawing at her right side and burying his claws in her upper arm.  I arose from the couch, my X-Box controller grasped loosely in my right hand and, in slow-motion, intoned: "Noooooooo, Ceeeeeeeee-Peeeeeeee....  Whhhhhaaaaa tthhhhe fuuuuccccccckkkk?"  And then I lobbed the controller at him, not hard enough to inflict damage on the old deranged pussy, but to knock him off of his attempted matricide.  I pointed at the door.  "Get the fuck out, Cee-Pee," I said, and through the door he sauntered, like he had not a care in the world.

Meagan was shocked, as were we all.  (Except maybe for Oliver; unfortunately, he's seen that side of Cee-Pee before.)  After she got some Neosporin and some hydrogen peroxide on the wounds, she was perusing the Internet, looking for some information on what might make a cat go berzerk like that.  Jealousy, wanting food, territorial squabbles, anger at "owner"...who knows?  He was to be banished for at least the night but, as cats are wont to do, when the front door was momentarily opened a bit later, the gray streaked past the leg and into the house, whereupon he scaled the cat/dog fence in the hallway and escaped into the jungle that is Naomi's room, where he could reasonably be expected to be lost for days.  "Yeah, stay in there, Cutie-Pie," Meagan called after him.  "You stay away."

Cats...who needs 'em?  My joking reference to putting them in burlap bags and dropping them off an overpass onto I-75...remains a joke, of course, but this is what I don't like about cats.  They're always in their own little world, we humans just seem--to me, at least--to be nothing more than an inconvenient food-giver to them.  It seems, often, that cats could just not be bothered with us.  They rule the roost, they seem to say with their cocksure strut.  I know, I know, this is written from the point of view of a dog-person, but this Cee-Pee Explosion didn't help the Cause of the Cats in any way.

Maybe the kid is losing his mind.  He is, after all, thirteen-years-old now.  Or maybe he's just a prick with temper-control issues.  Either way, it was surreal and he better not do it again.

 

MOON

things get commercialized
what was once singular becomes, now, banal
once upon a time the First Climb to the Waiting Area
was something to be treasured, something to "gear up for"

--now they have ladders--

and still I see Climbers spitting on their palms and rubbing
talc into the Lifelines of their hands
(because it is/was a  Challenge)

--now they have ladders--

and now, in the Waiting Area, I see TVs and couches and
women with babies in papooses on their backs
abercrombieandfitches here and birkenstocks there
and trash in the Area and
Trash on the rocks near the ladder to the
First Climb to the Moon

things get commercialized and
things used to be a Challenge

--now they have ladders--

it reminds me of Everest and
I'll never climb it again

DREAMS OF DRINK

Gotta love those drinking dreams.  (The best part of them is waking up and realizing that I haven't.)

In this one, I was at a banquet of sorts--I think it was a reception for a wedding.  At my feet, under the table in a plastic bag, were two 40s of malt liquor, but I think, at that point, I'd already had a few because I knew I was drunk, but I was playing it off pretty well and nobody had noticed yet.  I excused myself to go to the bathroom and, when I got back to the table, my late father had pulled the bag from underneath the table and was pointing at it wordlessly.

Cut to the next day with me lying on the floor in the living room of some indeterminate house.  My head was throbbing and I knew I wanted More but I also knew that some disappointed person would be coming over with a pill for me to take, a pill that would make me violently ill if I were to take it while intoxicated.  Fuck it, I thought to myself, as I prepared to gain my feet to stumble to the fridge where some booze was surely waiting for me.  I'm a-goan get me some.

The door was squeaking.  The door was Squeaking.  The Door Was Squeaking!

***

Oliver is upstairs, whining intermittently, telling me, non-drunk me, that he needs to go Outside to empty his bladder.  I'm awake.  It was just a dream.  A dream slashed with shame, but just a dream nonetheless.  My head is throbbing, though, but it's only because I slept with two pillows, a luxury that I just don't need, and a luxury that wreaks havoc on my neck.

Using dreams.  What a cliche.  But they do occur and they do suck.  The Booze Beast flies closest, sometimes, at night, when the Id is awake and watchful and the Consciousness is on vacation.  It's always nice to awaken amid a wild flurry of feathers.  Kinda like a sock-it-to-'im type thing.

NOVEMBER 2ND, 2012

Four years ago today, my Dad passed away after a valiant yearlong-or-so battle with metatastic (not-fantastic) Stage-4 cancer that had started in the fluid of the lining of his lungs and then had spread to his bones, his blood, everywhere. Cool. Cancer is way cool.

Though his body atrophied and, at the end, he was frail as a bird, he had an inner strength that I admire to this day. He was damned stoic about his imminent death; the strong silent type.

I miss him.

Sometimes I wonder what he would think about the direction my life took. The way I let booze bust up my existentialism, the way sometimes I just feel like giving up. But I have a streak of stoicism in me, too. Or, at least, bullheadedness and faith. And hope. I think without faith and hope, a human being doesn't have much reason to draw his or her next breath. I, perhaps foolishly, believe that every day is a clean slate. That is a good attribute to have. The trick is believing that axiom.

And I force myself, sometimes, to just believe. What could it hurt?

I miss him. I miss my adult years of seeing him as more than a father, but also as a man, a man who was strong and selflessly provided well for his family and was a responsible hard worker which allowed him to trot the globe after his retirement. I was over at my mom's house today--she's another strong soul--and she had gone through some cards and whatnots of celebrations and parties and shit for my dad. It was kind of a trip down Memory Lane. I remember him not ever really wanting to play Trivial Pursuit, pretty much a B_____ family tradition at get-togethers, electing instead to read a book and do his throat-clearings and his harrumphs. He was always clearing his throat, something I find myself doing quite often, as well. The apple doesn't fall that far from the tree, they say. I'm not sure. I guess I never knew him well enough.

Which sucks. But that happens, sometimes.

The summer before he died (none of this "passed away" or "passed on" bullshit for me; he died) we kids and he went on a trip to Pennsylvania, the homestate of his kin. I can't be sure, but it seemed like he was in constant pain, though it would have taken a crowbar to pry that information out of him. We visited relatives and saw old family haunts and farms and workplaces and I am pretty sure that it gave him some sense of closure. It was well-timed, because in Spetember his health really began to hit the skids and by the beginning of November, 2008, he was dead.

It always angered me that he died just two days before the election of the first black President of the United States, because, A, he despised Cowboy Bush, and B, sfter his retirement as an executive at a Major Three car company, he was a hard-core Democratic volunteer. He'd had loved it. Maybe he's looking down, now, two days before a tighter-than-tight Presidential election, and rolling his dice in the Dem's favor. Whatever. I miss him. But I feel his presence sometimes, too, and it seems to me that he is looking down--or through or into or whatever--and lettin' loose with a few of his two cents. That works for me. I love you, Dad. Peace and love, man.

"Making the Bus Monitor Cry" So...a bus monitor is 68 years old. She has a belly. She is minding her own business. She is making sure the hooligans on the bus--the 12, 13, and 14-year-olds don't get out of line. A video surfaced on YouTube in which the viewer is grnated a ten-minute POV of Bully. A grandmother got bullied? Yes. The kids were like hyenas. Check it out on YouTube under the title of this blog. Four or five kids really "stuck it to her", for what reason I don't know. But I have a theory: They could. For more than ten minutes they made her life a living hell. They poked at her, they called her a fat-ass, they called her poor, they called her trailer trash, they made fun of her belly, they intimated that she loves her some Twinkies, some asshole brought up suicide...and she took it. She cried, sure, but what else could she do? If she had gotten out of her seat and (what I would have liked to see) grabbed one of the boys by the back of the head and slammed said head into the seat in front of him, she'd be now dealing with criminal charges. Yet the kids escaped. Not necessarily, which is a good thing. The Internet has blown the fuck up over this viral video. There was a collection set up to help K. Klein "go on vacation." I think it is over 600 grand, now. To which I say, good. And also, when I say the Internet has blown the fuck up, I mean that there are also hundreds of responses to the video. The word I've heard the most--and I echo it--is "disgusting". Kids are kids...all right, fine. I'd have never done it, but times have changed. (Thank you, Internet, and 4G cell phones. Thanks.) Sure, times have changed. But how is this acceptable? It. Ain't. The kids need a lashing. They need to somehow try to develop Empathy. The monsters can write all the apology letters they want...they committed an assault. I am sure the dicks in question thought that they were just playing a game. A game does not denote demoralizing another human being, nor does it imply that "ain't nothing gonna happen to me." Karma is a bitch, kiddos. It'll come back around. So save your fucking apologies that your parents made you write. Save them. At the age of seven y'all should know the Golden Rule. And if you missed out? You missed out big-time. On a happier note, because this disgusting display went viral, there was a collection set up for Frau Klein. The hope was to raise 5000 dollars for her to go on a good vacation. The support never stopped. The last I heard, the total of the incoming had exceeded 500 grand. That'll be a hell of a "vacation." She better get every cent. Peace. And if you feel the need to bully? Bully your own damned self.

OFF--I have been off my blog for a while, and so I was a little pissed when I came back to my page. Apparently, the "platform", the "set-up" I'm on, the "Blogspot" I am on decided to mix up the pallette. Why?! Now I feel like a damned neophyte again, trying to figger ou' how to scratch a "kat" symbol onto the fucking wall. Well, what's done is done. If I ever feel like commenting on this site more than once in a blue moon, I reckon I'll figure this shit out.

APATHY The place in which I work is located--smack-dab--next to an urgent care medical place. I was up for a delivery, so I was glad. I walked out the door and damn-near stumbled over a young woman sitting on the curb. She had painted her toenails blue. She had her head buried in her hands and I could not discern a breath from her. She was like a statue. "It's gonna be all right," I said to her. She was like a statue. I could not discern a breath from her. I took my delivery, thinking often of what I should say to her. It ain't my business, I know, but.... I came back to the shop and the statue was still there. She had not moved an inch; she had not shifted a bit. I began to think, is she dead? I think, actually, she was thinking the same fucking thing. Am I dead? Where is God? Why?! Listen: I am a dick. Through all medical no-no's, I survive. I am resplendant in being a fucking cock. But I could not just walk past a sufferer. That wouldn't be Christian, would it? You know how many people walked past her? Four that I could count. Where the hell did Compassion go? lse Obviously, the girl got some bad fucking news. She statued. But, you know, you can't go giving Love to every poor sufferer, right? Why not. Why not? Is there some kind of stupid motherfuckig quota on that? Love. Just love. And maybe not even love...just have some compassion. Have some fucking empathy. Sorry. It just pisses me off. What'd I say when I came back from the delivery? Something stupid like, "Are you okay?" I could have said much more. I coulda said, "It's a set-back. Be strong." Or this: "I have been through the wringer. I have faith in God and Jesus Christ. Also? I think I have blood cancer--I am bruising very easily. Look to the sky, sister. That is the only answer." Or I could have said this: "Ervin 'Magic' Johnson is AIDS-free, now." Or...I could have just walked right on by. Like most-everyone else. Or did they? She wuddn't dere, all de Milo, when I got back from another delivery. She was gone-baby-gone. Maybe a passerby had some compassion. Or maybe she up off her ass and went home. Where she could cry in silent privacy. --theend.

NATURFIED: IT starts like this: "what in the" Hell. Hell. Goblins and ghosts and everything ------most.

LOVE.. .love is. What am I supposed to say, here? What? Should I say that I love M___ more than anyone, ever? Should I say that I love her, till death? And, on that beam, should I BANG my fucking head against the wall for not "being there" for her?! Yes. Oh...yes. * I drink; therefore I am. * Through vodka and beer, I weaealed myself out of.... * I thought I had a big, caring heart. I am an asshole. * I am a dick. *

BLOGGIN'--THOUGHTS ON THE BRAIN...

The Detroit Red Wings lost, yesterday, to the Nashville Predators. The Wings lost the best-of-seven series 4-to-1. I think/know they got outplayed. To me, Nashville got a lot of lucky bounces and also it seemed like the Wings were lethargic throughout the whole fucking series. I think it this signifies the end of an era. Then again, we have all said that before.

(True, the Wings'll be good--again--next year, but, in my opinion, they'll not have the services of one of the greatest defensemen ever, N. Lidstrom. Thanks for the memories, Nic. Good luck and Godspeed.)

*

What's worse? A Clunk, a Clink, or a Clank?

*

(a Clank.)

*

once upon a time there was a door
all steel-made and Strong Like Boar

*

CLANK!

*

--What did the automaton say to the cop?
-I don't know, what?
--Like Pinocchio! When can we become real?!

*

What does "grew up fast" mean? As in, "She grew up fast" or "He had to grow up fast"? What does it mean? Of course it is a cliche. But what are people thinking when they utter those words? Is it a badge of honor? Is it reluctant praise? Is it a nod to the buoyancy of the human spirit? Is it anatomical? Is it mental? Is it spiritual? Yes. It is spiritual. I know what people are trying to say: They're saying that the person in question had to make actions and decisions and mental pros-ses-sees beyond their years. That sucks. They had an abbreviated childhood.

*

And then there are some? Who never "grow up".

*

Leave it at "grow".

*

Cats or dogs? I know that they both have their pros and cons. But, seriously, cats or dogs? I have been writing, here, for a minute. I looked up and Cutie Pie (I call him SeePee) was/is lying in the halldway, eyeballin' me. When I hold his gaze, he looks away. I think he and Mister Bubbles are a'scairt of me. For that matter, Oliver is, too. But the question remains: Which is better? A cat or a dog? Forever, I'll say "dog". Forever.

*

And, just like an evil wind, I look back at the cat...and he is gone. (Grammatically, do you see what I did?)

*td

Score one for the Dogs.

*

Seven million to six.

*

On to topics of more import:

*

Where would you, O Faithful Non-Reader, like to start? I have a litany of topics that could be discussed: legalization of marijuana, global warming, the (2000-year-old-constant) unrest in the Middle East, the death penalty, the science of prayer, altruism, the beauty of nature, random acts of kindness.

*

Life is oh-so cyclical.

*

And it trundles, falls down, gets up again.

*

I'm sure you've heard before, "Americans are pigs!" Have you ever really examined the geographical countenance of this great land? It kinda looks like a pig, and Maine is its snout. (No offense, Maine.) And Florida is a leg and hoof. (Offense intended, Jeb!) And, Cali? Unfortunately, you're the pig's ass. Kentucky and/or Tennessee are the pig's heart. Alaska is an afterthought and Hawaii is the pig's curlicue tail.

*

I should have mentioned further above: credit cards are evil.

*

"Imagine" is one of the best songs ever. It really is one of the best. Why would anyone want to kill John Lennon.

*

Why?

*

I am looking at a painting, right now, by Meeg's mom. (grammar) I have bad eyesight and I am sitting 9.73 feet away. It is a painting of a purple rose against a blue sky, interspersed with intimations of cirrus clouds. She painted well. She painted it very well. The flower Booms and I can see so much in it.

When I saw a black-and-white image of her mom from the '60s, I saw her mom as a hippie...better and she was...cool. I wish I'd have met her.

*

Why does Alaska have to be an afterthought? To that point, why must it be ravaged in the Pursuit of Greenbacks? So....

So I guess it ain't an afterthought. Drilling. Monetary versus Political versus Environmental.questions. I understand what I can understand, but I wonder: Whatever happened to the Love of Untrampeled Natural Beauty? I get the Economic boon (read: Oil) that could be surreptitiously garnered by creeping up on the last "American" frontier, but I also wonder: to what end?! Why would we rape Pristine? As humans, cannot we leave "well enough alone"?

This is the problem. As humans, we're destroying the planet.

I think I know what you're saying: "I didn't! It's the politicos! It's the (richer) businessmen/women!"

We're not otters. They are. We're not spiders. They are. We're not dolphins. They are. We're not chimpanzees. They are. We're not cockroaches?! They are. And us, too.

*

Cockroaches are our second cousins. They are! Second to us in this way: We'll destroy the world and--second--they'll own the planet...just like we used to do.

*

Whoops.

*

FOUR-TWENTY420FOUR-TWENTY

Yesterday was April 20th. I don't get the numerology. I know that it is code for...something. But I just don't understand why 420 became a code. Maybe someone with influence had just bubbled up on April 20th and had told the others, "What a hell of a day!"

And, then, maybe, the ideology had spread like wildfire.

Now, I'm not trying to be a buzz-kill, but I think that people ought to know--before we make this a national holiday--that the Colorado Columbine massacre happened on April 20th. Also, April 20th is Adolph Hitler's date of birth.

Groovy, man....

FUNNY STORY...

I know that my posts, as of late, have been, well, a little less than cheery. Here is a funny story.

I picked up a second job. That's not the funny part. I picked up a second job delivering food, this of the hot and cheesy variety. I had a delivery to a hotel. I went up to the room, received a ten-dollar tip and took the elevator back down to the main floor. I noticed the people in the lobby and I saw a delivery guy from a different company exiting his car, ready to deliver his company's cheesy goodness. I figured I'd be polite and open the door, basically a "hey-brother-we're-all-in-the-same-boat" gesture.

Now, this is the funny part. When I had entered the hotel, the door was on the right of the glass vestibule (it is a very large vestibule). What I learned was that the exit door was on the interior right side of the vestibule, kind of like a cyclical thing, a keep-the-humanity-flowing-correctly-type-thing. Now, I admit, I haven't eaten a whole hell of a lot lately and I was tired from recent poor sleep, but I can't really explain what happened next. I walked smack-dab into the glass wall of the vestibule. Mouth-first. Yes, I was bird-like. (You know? Like how birds sometimes fly into windows.)

I mashed my mouth into a glass wall. I mashed my mouth into a glass wall. I heard a gasp to my right, assuredly from the elderly lady lounging in a easy chair. "Oh! Are you all right?" she asked. "Yeah," I said, not turning around, "I'm just dandy."

In the vestibule, I said to the delivery guy, "Watch out for the walls." He was barely holding in guffawing laughter. And, really? Who wouldn't laugh? It's like the shit you see on America's Funniest Videos: Delivery-Bird Flies into Glass Wall. Hell, I was kind of laughing. It's just so fricking...ridiculous.

I walked into a glass wall.

Once outside, I spit a couple of blood-spits out of my mouth and made it to my car. I was laughing by the time I started my car and headed back to the shop. I thought to myself, Who the hell does that?!

I tested my two front teeth with my tongue. They were still there and not loose--good. (Oh, yeah, I hit that wall hard.)

On the way back, I thought to myself, What would have been a good response to the unseen woman who had gasped and asked me if I was all right? One response would have been, "Gosh! They sure do keep these glass walls clean, don't they?" I could have said, "Why do you ask that?" I also could have said, "Usually, I walk right through them."

I walked into a glass wall, walking speed unbroken.

I find that very very very funny.

WORKING TITLE

there is a thread to Life
i see a Purple woman screeching about Jesus and
God
Yaweh
pointing at me through the television screen. her
girl, Missus copeland, agrees
--they both point at me--

and all i have to say to them is
Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.

all i gotta say.

*

i changed channel and the thread of Conversation
minimized Not.
there was a show about
the Shroud of Turin
[seriously, it's that seamless]

*

'twas on charlierose
some dude was saying--
--and he was an art historian--
--
--was saying that the Shroud is. not. a. fake.
noshit. No! Shit!

*
movingon.

*

cut. away...

: "worst tornado season...ever."
yes, sheaths of Tornadic Death are not good things
the Clouds want us, now
we must be Brave.
okay, tell me how; tell me how i can be Brave when i see a
child torn to pieces in Oaklahomatellme.

more than one hundred tornadoes tore through the gut of
the country
this is two weeks after the Same.

wasalgorecorrect

wasalgorecorrect

wasalgorecorrect?!

of. Course.

*

and the polar bear does Dream.

*

i can't hammer a nail straight.
itry, ican't.

*
i'll take that over not
Realizing
what is going on....

*

i'mjoking:worlddomination

*
the faeries fly and the nymphs
fuck
and all we got is this
rotten Luck.

*

Here is a point. There are many threads of Life. Threads of Life. Who are we to say a fucking thing against *anyone*? Every person is a child of God. Truth. I unnerstan, I unnerstan.

Where's the Peace?

Do you know how sick I am of seeing all the crap in the Middle East?!  I'm done.  I'm done.  So fucking many Innocent women and children and men have died.  Right?!  Pull the plug?! We can't say a thing.

*

the night ended well
back to hubris
back to
Creativity

PRECURSOR...STAND...BIRTH. DAY.

You ever have that feeling? I have. I feel lucky. "That Feeling"?

Love.

Keep on the sunny side of Life.

***
keeponthe
sunnyside.
***

She is Meagan. She is the Sunny Side. She *is* the Sunny Side. I love her. I love her mind, I love her soul, I love her face, I love her breasts...I love everything about her.

She is Good.

She islikePitBull--she never quits.

She. Wins.

Friday The Thirteenth is her birfday, lite

***

The computer may want to fuck with me, but I know this: Meagan is cool as hell and I will love her till past the day I die. I. Love. Her.

Forever:

forevertheLove
Flows and then the Collide
forevertheLove
Flows and Then
forevertheLoveforevertheLoveforevertheLove
till
Amanda sings
*
Guess what? you don't love a genius without
receving some motherfucking
motherfucking horns
Horns.
*
horns.
*
there. is. only. ONE. meegie.
ONLY.
one.

***Funny,eh? The rules doan apply? Yes. You'd have to meet her. She's got all the Planes of Existence...in Her.

***

She is special and I love Her.

***

It is her birthday. She turned 29 today.

***

BEAUTIFUL SO HOT.
black sooty ashes
eyelashes in Perfect
formation
wide Beautiful eyes
BrilliantBlueGreenBLUE
strong mind gorgeous body
i love Her every Mecca every
inhalationof
Her
she's Meagan goddammit
she is...
soulful and Beautiful and strong and
Blessed and preternatural and
Creative and intelligent and
Meegie and Loved and
blessed and Blessed.
*
andLoved
*

***

It is Meagan's birthday!

PRECURSOR....STAND.

Think Positive.

Think.

I woan cry, I woan cry, no--well, yes. I'll explode like a Tear-Ball.

***

Stand By Me

How? she'd asked

it's the Soul, he'd said, It happens everywhere

How? she'd asked

lemme show You the Colours, he'd said, and she saw them--Them--blues and yellows and Greens and Reds

the Purples caught her fancy...she made them Dance like bubbles, she

shelaughedwithDelight

(she lay her hand over Her face as she laughed with)

Delightshe wasDelighted

**

the waves froth and

the mountains do rock and

she is loving and caring and good and she is

Excellent

she exudes Love that has no Quarter. She

has preternatural Heart

Loving and caring and good, yes, oh yes

the mountains froth and

the waves do rock and roll

*

"WHEN THE DEVIL KNOWS YOU'RE DEAD..."

The Ouji board "game" is (finally) outside. Maybe it is bullshit, maybe it is not. I just think more clearly, now. And the computer is working as it should. Is that a coincidence? I think not. There is a whole hell--HELL--of a lot of crazy shit that one wouldn't expect to happen...that happens.

I think I fucked with the Ouji board before. I think I was pompous. I think, now, I am not pompous. I think I also know the concept of "flying beneath the radar." I am not quite sure--I have never done this before--of the half-life of demons. I also don't know that, if I open the door, will they flood back in?

[And, yes, I am drunk.]

But, sometimes? Being drunk is beneficial. Have you ever had a book fly off the shelf, by itself, and land at your feet? And when you look down, you see that it is a book based upon the chillun of alkies? I swear to God, it happened. There have been Spirits, everywhere, in this house. Everywhere. I am not a parapsychologist--I understand their trade--but I do believe that there has been an "asshole spirit" in this homestead for the last...who knows? Weeks? Months? Months.

I think the Ouji "board-game" had something to do with it. Crazy, right? Maybe? Not.

We as Humans have No. Fucking. Idea of what lies Next.

***

I know this: For some people, Alcohol is the Devil.

I am one.

This is the "funny" part: Sometimes it is not just hyperbole.

***

My computer was not working earlier. It has done this shit in the past--just like today--where it flat-out refused to "boot-up." No shit. I often feel that way. But I am not a collection of uber-small electronics. Though all humans are electric. I was getting so fucking--FUCKING!--frustrated. (My life, as of late? Not so good. Only myself to blame.) I was looking at this laptop saying, "Just. Fucking. Work." It refused to work. I tried everything. I tried the power cord; I tried starting up and setting it down and starting it up...to no avail. My frustration reached Red Zone levels. I thought to myself, If this motherfucking computer does not start working, I'm-a gonna kick it out the fucking window.

The furnace kicked on. To me, it sounded like the Howls of Hell. I felt the Devil crawling over me, my mind, my Soul. Anyone who has worked with natural gas knows the sound. Pitiless. Overwhelming. Frooooooooozin-in-in-in-in. Sixty pounds of pressure? From gas, natural gas? C'mon. I used to do it, but I say this, anyone who deals with that Danger is a motherfucking Superstar. It is a snake; it can rear back and bite.

The furnace kicked on. To me, it sounded like the Howls of Hell. And I was inordinately angered at my laptop. There was perfect--I mean, purrrrrfect syncronisity, symmetry. When I last lay down the "lid" of the laptop, the furnace was howling from the basement. When the "lid" connected with the "computer"--the laptop--everything went silent.

***

I don't know what was more special. Me cracking another beer full in the face of demon-infestation or me realizing what maybe perhaps yes is the motherfucking reasons for the paranormal activities and the bad bad BAD BAD dreams that Meeg and I have felt for a long long time.

The Ouji board. I ain't joking.

***

Goodness gracious. It is true. There are parallel planes, all about us. Sometimes, it is scary.

***

I think this: No matter what, God looks after us. Listen: I know. Who am I? I have been known to inhale too may beverages and, thus, my Word means Spit. I also know this: The last three songs, on random, have said exactly what I was saying...before they came on. Stupid. Stupid? Oh, sure. I also know how...and this is going to sound Krazee....

***

I think it is a playing field, actually. Who're we?! We're secondary. I think that there is a war being waged, right now. I am not sure of whom the combatants are. I think, though, that it is bigger than the manatees and the squirrels and the deer and the humans and the ants and the spiders. I think, actually, it is the battle of the Ages. Personally, I think we are all pawns in a great chess match between Evil and Good. It sounds stupid, it sounds cliche, but I believe this is the last Battle.

***

I am not baptized. I went, through my parents' good grace, to a superior school. In that school, they emphasized writing and reading. (Also, I'm smart.)

***

I believe this is the last Battle.

***

"When the Devil knows you're dead, eH Pounces."

***

Oh! The Devil pounces. He has already taken out about three motherfucking paragraphs of mine--well-written--and the motherfucker wants more. Maybe? Maybe it is the computer. Maybe it is super-sensitive to "touch". I'm pissed. Apparently, none of my appendages can come within three inches of my computer keyboard. I am trepidatious...I doan wanna piss off either the Devil or his compatriots. I juswannatype.

***

I just wanna type because I am a typer. Verbal diarrhea.

***

With this motherfucking laptop and also all the damned psychic activity around here? I think I am doing okay. I do not want to call on the demons. I really really do not want to do that. But, they've had their fun. ENOUGH. ENOUGH! And then, the song on the shuffle? "People Are Strange," by The Doors. By Jim Morrison.

***

Jim Morrison. Great. Great "world-changer." Here is a funny fact: Four of my favorite artists fit this shit; three of them were the same age. Tell me it is a coincidence. Dead at the age of 27: Jimi, Jim, and Janis. As for Stevie Ray? Not quite sure of his age. Guess what? They all also have four syllables in their names.

You do the Math. (Not to mention: Three of their names started with the "letterJay.")

***

Um.

Son House. "Death Letter." Old-school Mississippi Delta-blues. Check it out. His style told the Beets and the Stones and Hendrix what the Blues meant.

***

I test Fate. Every day.

***

And the trains Howl in the Distance.

THE POMPOSITY OF WIG

Tell me: what is a judge? No, I know the standard answer: a man or a woman in a black robe who pwactices jurisdiction and jurisprudence. This knock-off dumbass Harper-Collins POS dictionary that I have defines a judge as "a noun." That about sums it up, for me. A "judge" is a "noun."

As I hold no respect for the intangible noun, I also hold no respect for a judge. May I retract the statement? Oh, no? Well, I'll do it anyway. The only respect I hold for judges is that they were intelligent enough to lie and scam their way into that position.

The Bible sez: "Judge not, lest ye be judged." (And, now, I guess I'm a hypocrite.)

Where do judges come from? Better said: Whence do judges come? What gives a human being the thought, the right, that they are holier-than, that they can "cast down from high" the ruling of the day? How arrogant does one need to be to see that as a career choice?

Where do judges come from? Are they ants, busily stomping in formation? Are they the queen bees, resplendent in fat and hypocrisy? Are they birds of a feather, always flocking together? Are they learned women and men? Yes. Does that and a law degree make them any better than the people they are trying? Uhno. Um...wellno.

No.

I understand that there are horrific cases and trials, situations in which people's wills and desires got the better of them and landed them in Jail and then...Court. I understand that. I just wonder why a single person can--pretty much--determine an other's fate. Cuz they have more degrees? Cuz they have more money? Because they blew their way to the top? I don't know.

Judges wield Power. No shit. Judges hold people's Lives in their hands. (Let us pray.)

Let us pray that the judges are sober. Who knows? They might not be. They're humans, after all, just as susceptible to the foibles as anyone else.

So why do we kiss their asses? Short answer: Judges wield Power.

It just seems like a slanted game to me.

There was a situation back in the early-2000s in which a professional basketball player was called in front of a Grand Jury (uh-oh! sound the horns!) to testify about any money he might have received as a college player. It was said that he lied to the Grand Jury. That's a bad thing, right? The only problem I can see if he lied is that he did it after placing his hand on the book of God. That's it. As for the blowhards on the Bench? Fuck off. Who're they? Were they back there in Time when the man in question was a little boy in an urban city? Were they there to pick him up when he fell down in a junior high basketball game? Were they there when he was in college, not allowed to even work for money while the NCAA made billions of dollars off of collegiate sports? No. They were only there when he was a professional, who had millions of dollars with which they could caterwaul for. Like a bunch of fucking dying hyenas.

***

What is a judge? I'm sure, back in the 1950s a judge was a respected member of society. "Oh! Look at Daniel O'Hare! He's become a Judge! Be smart, little Bobby, and soon you could become one as well!"

[Don't look here, see....]

***

And judges are still respected. I just don't know why. Who in the hell respects a kid that pullllls wings off of flies? Who in the hell respects a kid that ozones ants through a magnifying glass? Don't we--haven't we all looked as those kids as weird? As though they were living out a God-complex?

***

What is a judge? What is a judger? (caststones) What is a judgement?

***

Don't we all put our pants on one leg at a time? (Yes, but not judges. They're preternatural; they're superhuman.) Oh, no, they're not!

***

Back in the day--maybe just in England, maybe not--judges used to wear white powdered wigs. (And the barristers did, too.) How do you think the accused took the verdict? Coming from a fucking dandy megalomaniac, how do you think the accused took the sentencing? I'm sure he would have been thinking, "C'mon, me and you. Outside. No witnesses. No lights. No weapons. Just me and...you. I'll stuff your Power right up your ass with the wig."

***

The Pomposity.

RYAN LEAF: A SOB-STORY

I am watching ESPN, earlier, and, on the crawl at the bottom of the screen, I see that Ryan Leaf was arrested in Montana on charges of burglary and drug possession. I think to myself, Yeah, that's about right.

And the thoughts continued to his "legacy": Coming out of college into the NFL, who is better? Ryan Leaf or some dude named Peyton Manning? Well, that has been answered, eh? As a professional football quarterback, Peyton Manning had a better career.

Ryan Leaf has often been said to be the "biggest bust" in NFL draft history. I agree.

I was all ready to pile on. I remember his childish blow-up with a reporter (who was just doing his job). I remember the bazooka God gave Leaf...that he wasted. Hypocritically, I was all ready to say, "See? The dude is...not prepared to lead a team of NFLers."

Then I Googled Ryan Leaf's name.

His life has swirled into the toilet. In 2008, as a quarterbacks coach for Texas A&M, he had a problem. He was accused of robbing a player's home. It turned out that Ryan Leaf also had received about a thousand pain pills from pharmacies in the area...in about an eight-month span. In 2009, he plead guilty to eight felony drug charges. And, last year, he had surgery to remove a benign tumor from his brain stem.

I retract my statement. Dude needs some help. As a practicing psychologist, I think that much of his troubles may stem from being the odd-man-out in the Manning-vs-Leaf Draft Debate. I think, psychologically, to be nationally skewered and dissected takes a huge toll on a psyche. I think that his trials and tribulations in his short-lived NFL career threw him into a tail-spin.

I think I should not pile on.

In his defense, he had a friggin' gun for an arm. (And Swiss cheese for character. And oatmeal for a brain.)