Optimist Prime

Ecclesiates 1:9-10 "The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun. Is there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath been already of old time, which was before us."
I have grown weary of pessimism. I do not speak simply of our country, but of my own will.
It is an age of technological warfare, and unsophisticated jargonistas who vie for our attention and hardearned wages, and our freedoms. An age where there is neither time nor talents to be wasted on the minutia of trinketries and compulsive speculation, brought on by overeducated - underwitted legalists, wishing to steal a few more precious moments with conjecture and assurances. The charlatans!
But it has been going on forever.
We yell at each other. We hurl insults about uncertainties - about things that we do not understand. We learn to hate. We refuse to remember history, and compassion, and adventure, and laughter. We rely upon our kneejerk reactions that have been injected into us by those overeducated - underwitted legalists, as some sort of fix-all elixir. It pains the veins, but its a vaccination and they tell us we need it to get along with them and others. And for lenghty moments, we forget our people - our families.
My solution: simplify! We have to get back to work. I am not talking wages in financial gain, but in life sustaining love for what some call the Unknown, and for our families and beyond.
Ecclesiastes 5:18-19 "Behold that which I have seen: it is good and comely for one to eat and to drink, and to enjoy the good of all his labour that he taketh under the sun all the days of his life, which God giveth him: for it is his portion. Every man also to whom God hath given riches and wealth, and hath given him power to eat thereof, and to take his portion, and to rejoice in his labour; this is the gift of God."
So, I will smile, eat and drink. I will love my Lord, my wife and my daughter. And I will think most fondly of and pray for each of you.

I'll Take a Manhattan - Hold the Cherry Juice #3 (redux)

Hic est nonnullus magis feces ex preteritus

When you're above the reality and the clouds, the very existence of the sky takes on a different meaning. You tread lightly over a snowy field of cauliflower. Underneath lie the ants busily prepping themselves for a chance in the clearing to display their work.
And then you notice the blue. So subtle; from newborn baby blue over which a light mist is blanketed, and you raise your eyes to a surprisingly ominous darkness.
Fly!
Fly very high and far, and through the atmosphere - so empty!
So empty.
Unleashing your Soul Burning brightly - as a sun's.

I'll Take a Manhattan - Hold the Cherry Juice #2 (redux)

More debauchery from meus rabidus preteritus. Commodo utor.

And a strange lonely woman with greasy hair and a filthy knee length knaki winter coat followed my brother and I onto the train.
Her clueless eyes stared blankly into our nonsensical conversation.
I laughed inside and made unnecessary facial gestures to make her change her look - to no avail, and Danny thinks "She's kind of sexy."

The Parable of Aged-Fellow and the Altars of Many Faces

Surely, one must realize that our world - that is to say "human existence" - is a life dedicated to the preservation and evolution of convenience; a means by which this happens of course is through the very means by which one may read this essay, though quite antiquated by the rapidly approaching end of human contact. One can not go about the day without gawking at the expediency and clarity of applicable technology at everyone's senses - most of it not for the sake of betterment mankind, but of entertainments, personalized and bejeweled in apathetic discourse and avarice.

Formerly, part of the human fold was the respected aged-fellow, who spoke truths and tales to the young and naïve in the hopes of carrying them on to the next generations. He reminded them of the cycle of life, and warned them of the coming apathy - to steer away from the many faces. He spoke these in a soft deliberation and calmness – each word chosen wisely, a picture, animated and colorful to remember the darkness, which to some was the light. He taught the significance of the bonded tribe, of battles won and lost, of love and hate, of learning and ignorance, but as time progressed, the latter of each became more significant and more revered, and the aged-fellow, dribbling and weathered felt their cold embrace of indifference.
Sadly, the means by which it was shared - in a patriarch's voice or in gnarly-scribed text - with one's hands and experiences became far too difficult in both understanding and construct. And the darkness was vilified and made human, as though defeat were possible.
So they were built. Altars, made by the hands built by the hands of man to make light of the darkness; they were raised in parasite-filled palaces encrusted with millions of shining, tiny, glass trinkets and cheaply bred sycophants, designed to bleed the aged-fellow, who in turn was ushered away, placed in the wilds that no one ever visited, and left to rot. The altars of the many faces were traded for souls. They were given life through malleable roots, dressed in authority and jewels to breed more sycophants. They were sent to the comfortable asylums of the young and naïve, and were placed in little palaces constructed of regurgitated wood-pulp, abdicating the place where once sat the aged-fellow.
The tribes became smaller as the tales of old were altered and tailored for each. The tribes gathered daily. They knelt in front of the altars of the many faces, basking in the cool neon glow. They knelt on the soft tissues of animals they could not catch, and ate food they did not make. In provocative imagery, the altars of the many faces reminded the tribes of how insignificant and foolish the aged-fellow was. It instructed them to not miss a moment of discipleship; and so it came to pass that the altars of the many faces, reproduced and reproduced again. They were placed throughout various chambers of the asylums where the aged-fellow once visited.
“The fool.”
The altars of the many faces advised each tribe, now separated into small and separate selves, which were found in even smaller sterile chambers, to find and place worthless baubles as sacrifices around the chambers and themselves. The selves ostracized and separated from each tribe. They were ushered away. And the young and naïve selves were given authority in so much as they sacrificed their souls to each altar of the many faces.
The aged-fellow wept.
And so 'twas the altars of the many faces became brighter and more beguiling; the more the faces spoke, the more the young and naïve selves desired. Their commands grew more boisterous as demand called them to be. And with the same souls of the young and naïve selves, who were of certain no different, more were bargained for as the desires of each altar, for greater attention, became louder. Were one to move, the altars jealously noted, the less time could be devoted to them; this displeased the envious altars of the many faces. And they grew smaller, becoming prized idols, and they were lovingly embraced and worn as clothing by the young and naïve selves, who divided from each other - senses numbed by the neon glow.
And the aged-fellow watched.
All around the young and naïve selves, life – once spoken of in truths and tales by the aged-fellow - teemed wildly, but they could no longer see it nor did they desire to. Life now appeared to them as in a dream, where the realities, displayed by the altars, showed it untamed and dangerous; a place where the darkness lurked. It was most assuredly only seen from a safe and uncaring distance.
The aged-fellow, alone in the reality teeming with life, nestled in the wood, his face and hands, made by experience, furrowed, and his hair, the splendor of his struggle, a peppery-white. His eyes now dull; he built an outlawed fire for warmth, with a light, acrid smoke and flitting orange fire-flies that cracked from the fire billowing boldly into the sky.
“The fool.”
The darkness – far older and far wiser than the aged-fellow – witnessed this and came to pass over the reality; and never having enough to consume, the darkness took the outlawed fire, the wood, the teeming life, and the aged-fellow.
The altars of the many faces showed the passing darkness. It fascinated the young and naïve selves, who were assured by the altars that the darkness was yet another dream no different from the others they had seen.
But the darkness – far older and far wiser than the altars – witnessed this foolishness and came to pass over the young and naïve selves; and never having enough to consume, the darkness took the division, the neon-glow and the altars of the many faces.
Now in the wild reality, the young and naïve selves sat chilled by the northern cold. They discarded the altars, whose many faces were no longer. Finding warmth the closer they got to one another, they mourned and longed once more for the aged-fellow. The ashes of his outlawed fire fell coldly between their soft fingers.
And the darkness – aged and wise, and never having enough to consume took the young and naïve one by one.

Bear Attacks

There are those among us who are born to wear dungarees that have seen better days, and those who are not. Some of us enjoy the subtleties of a gentle decline in the fabric through everyday wear, while others seem to find a certain macabre pleasure in the deliberate practice of rapid erosion with either stone, brick or razor. And in the American culture, where immediate gratification and avarice are key, many aspire to purchase with plastic currency, pre-torn/worn and thusly ruined accessories and are willing to pay exorbitant amounts to so so.
Still others are simply in possession of these decrepit articles purely by accident; statistics show, there are an inordinate amount of dungarees that are being mangled by the common North American black, brown and grizzly bear (otherwise known as Ursus horribilis). Of course, as a result of these attacks the wearer of said article, generally is consumed, and what remains are used as bear markings, known as scat, which in turn warns fellow dungaree wearers not to tread unawares near those locations. It should also be noted that those who do indeed escape these horrific bear attacks, tend to suffer greatly with tragically frayed dungarees, which though very trendy in the fickle American Xer-subculture, are subsequently and prematurely rendered completely useless after only one wash cycle.
In a scientific case study provided by four regional community colleges - Spring of 2010, it was proven in at least 5 known triple-blind, double gold standard cases that bears became receptive to not digesting nudists. The case study involved interviewing nudist camp attendees, streakers, and exhibitionists. After interviewing two hundred fifty-seven nudist candidates, 5 overall were selected to have hidden cameras secretly placed in their environments. During the two year intensive study, no bears were seen, though one nudist was described as having "a very frisky kitten."
The lack of bear and bear-like activities, according to Rachel McCutchin, a recent associates degree recipient in veterinary sciences, proves that not wearing bluejeans in the presence of bears is a stunning discovery.
McCutchin then went on to say that should an actual bear approach any individual, that though the traditional methods of "lascivio mortuus" or "playing dead", may still be effective, dropping ones dungarees was by far the best means of deterring a bear attack. To prove that fact, McCutchin expressed her heartfelt gratitude to her alma mater and simply stated, "I am going to the Appalachian Trail, with my bluejeans and a camera."
That was some two months ago, and we are still anxiously awaiting physical proof from Ms. McCutchin.

I'll Take a Manhattan - Hold the Cherry Juice (redux)

Recently, I have had the ridiculous idea of backtracking some ideas of my debaucherous times in the city of NYC. Many of these moments are faded memories hidden behind some foggy residue of hedonism and what I like to refer to as Bohemianism. This is no attempt by myself to relive or glorify my past, but perhaps to gain some insight as to where my attitude on life came from. Many of these unremarkable pieces have no titles, and to stay true to their form, I will not label them, nor will I alter them entirely. Enjoy.

Incidentally, my handwriting is so bad that I may, though certainly not embellishing on what is original, may have to by no choice, have to alter some of the original context. Not editing, but guessing.



If you fall down from a glass ceiling, you break a metal floor.
Devil's eyes, an angel's heart can claim - no serenity.
Eventually, the persistent screams become surreal whispers.
Lies determined truths by judgemental farces,
and the burning steam is cracked by icy myths.
What is the person who should live though dead?
Where does my temporary casket lie, but in my broken bed?
Buried in some joke of freedom, I laugh myself to tears.
I burn my flesh on fuel call knowledge and ignorance.
Stand with me o' my favorite nightmare of bliss.
She calls out lovingly, baring no kiss for me.
Oh, wound myself on broken years and healing tendons.
I laugh through freedoms eyes, becoming a haunting burden.

She smiles - her blinding white and sharp death.
The blood of "years gone by slowly", eroding her like acid.
Squirming, I watch liquid love pour from my soul.
Harmless though devastating, I pour it into her,
and she reels, licking her salty lips hungrily.
It is my soul that she wishes to devour.

Books Can Be Fun

As a writer, and one that is trying to write a classic, is not easy. It takes moments of great solitude. It takes a butt made of lead. Fingers that are not as addled as the brains. It takes putting words to a page and then making sure that each one has meter and rhythm. It takes research like reading classics and knowing what those authors wrote in order to grasp how a neo-classic is written.
Which bring us to our story:
I am the co-owner of a cafe and bakery in the suburbs of Pittsburgh Pennsylvania. We are busy people, especially now with our beautiful daughter who is entering the "twos" with gusto and a will that I can only describe as angsty. in our minimal time, I write, exercise and make humble attempts to hop on the motorcycle for a romp into the windy roads.
One fine weathery day, I had to forgo a more lengthy ride into the hills of West Virginia for one closer, and to kill two birds with one stone - seeing as how I had just finished reading a book on hiking the Appalachian Trails and needed another, I adorned my black leather jacket, my "brain-bucket", goggles, boots and red bandanna, which fit snugly below my nose.
My wife asked in her winsome and cautiously caring way that I stick to the byways and not the main thoroughfare, as drivers today tend to be ignorant of other drivers - especially motorcyclists. I love the country roads and proceeded to swoop and careen precariously through the valleys and hills, enjoying my romp.
I managed to find my way to a distant and well-stocked used-bookstore and found what I was looking for and proceeded to leave. I do not possess a carrier on my motorcycle to carry such things - at times I wish that I did, so I stuffed the book and bag down the back of my trousers.
Nothing unusual.
My return trip had started off a ripping good time, sweeping in and out of turns and then finally finding myself stuck behind slow moving technofruits, who endanger everyone surrounding them. I decided to take a familiar and usually barren steel-belt, riding parallel to the Ohio River. There are rarely any uniforms on this particular stretch so I allowed the machine to pull hard.
I passed several vehicles and noticed two miles ahead the white spectacle of a white car in uniform and proceeded to slow to what now was a very legal crawl. Alone in front and behind, I watched as the officer's vehicle pulled onto the roadway directly behind me.
I monitored my speed very carefully as I entered my hometown's limits.
35 miles per hour.
Dragging.
I pulled up to a traffic light and then was accosted by three more uniforms. With lights flashing they blocked the road - both ways. I raised my hands. One stocky fellow stepped quickly out of his tan police sedan and pulled his revolver, and another with his hands on his holster approached.
"Turn off the bike!"
I did.
"Turn the key!
I did that too.
"Now - keep your hands where I can see them."
How fast was I going?
"Put you hands on the hood of the car! And I'll explain!"
Isn't this a little extreme for speeding.
"Where are you coming from?"
"Robinson."
They removed the book from my pants. They grabbed my wallet and reached in my jacket for my phone.
And then I "patted" down.
Can they do this for speeding?
"There was a holdup in Aliquippa. The guy was on a motorcycle wearing a black leather jacket, a helmet and a mask."
They opened the pages of my book - flipping through it in haste.
"Sorry, I'm an avid reader."
"Hey, your Rock's brother-in-law! Coffee business must be tough."
Ensuing laughter.
Pre-deficant in my trousers.
"Ah - he's a good guy."
Laughter continues.
"Sorry about the mix-up, sir."
No problem - seriously!
My mother-in-law always tells us that we seem to always have these inexplicable adventures. Not that I recommend this particular one to anyone,but if there is one thing I can tell you it is that stories are not recounted by people who sit and watch TV, proselytizing the end of the world, or by people who need to satisfy a narcissistic urge to tell others about their every excretion, or by sadistic "game players" - they are written by doers with smooth rear-ends and calloused feet.

A Franc for your Nothing

Those moviephiles who enjoy viewing the classics, will no doubt remember the dialogue between Ric and Ilsa:

A franc for your thoughts.
In America they'd bring only a penny, and, huh, I guess that's about all they're worth.

More than likely Humphrey Bogart was thinking nothing, and that sounds like a bargain that might be too good to be true. Get a penny for doing and thinking absolutely nothing.
Men are often asked this question when there are those remote and welcomed silences between partners.

What are you thinking?

No stereotyping about either sex; however, ladies can not wrap their minds around the concept of "nothing".

Nothing.
What do you mean "nothing"?

One would not call the man's mind, at this point, a black hole - after all a black hole is something.

You must be thinking something.

As if coming out of a trance:

uh-uh.

It has been said that Buddha searched for nothingness or emptiness. Guys have been doing this forever. Perhaps Buddha was raised by women who could not allow him to embrace this ideological behavior pattern exclusive to men - along with others like autogenitaliodisplasia, rancid hyper-dyspepsia, and belching, and quite probably all three at the same time.
To allay any fears or suspicion, let it be said that 99.9% of the time that a man states that he is thinking nothing, you may rest with a great deal of certainty that nothing is exactly what he mauling over, but even that is thinking something.
Never mind.
Have you ever heard yourself blink? Isn't it glorious?

My Enlarged Prostrate

I have long feared that my sins would return to visit me, and the cost is more than I can bear. Benjamin Martin "The Patriot"

These words strike and ring more disdainfully to me more than they ever have.
As I watch my daughter grow from infant to toddler and beyond, I can not help but pray that she does not do all of the selfish things or experience all of the selfish and self-indulgent arrogant philandering and behavior that I dished out.

I listened to a young man just the other night, brashly speak in front of his fiance and my wife of exploits that pale by comparison to my own; I sat quietly, and later my wife asked why I was so quiet gently stroking the dewy glass of beer at our table, and with a simple glance from my sad eyes, she knew.

My past is racy - and I am not proud of it, though I must admit I was then. Like an unstoppable hormonal rage, I played the roll of biker, rocker, and playboy, as if the ramifications of any and all my actions amounted to nothing. I hurt people, mostly women.

Without going into too great of detail, I can tell you that I have sewn my wild oats and scorched the earth behind me. I have seen many tears. I have had stalkers. I have nearly been run through with a kitchen knife. I fell from grace and after 9/11 it hurt.

The culmination of all of my sins hit. I became reclusive, not wanting to associate myself with anyone, disappearing back to a land where I was infinitely successful. I believed that trying to off myself was a good idea. I believed that sleeping around with reckless abandon again was the only way of reclaiming my lost youth, and that led to alot of additional anguish.

Stupid. Sad arrogance.

It has been said that to reminisce and to be discouraged by our past is a waste of time, and I believe it to be true, but as old pictures come to the surface from some long forgone box and explanations droll onward, so to does a personal history - living, breathing coolly on orange embers.

My daughter, not even two, giggles at the lion's mane of hair, the rage of my unwrinkled youth, the people in some of those pictures.

She does not know yet of my successes and losses, and my rotten ways - about which, though I fear the day, must tell her. And explain why people tick one way and tock quite another. I must tell her of the wrongs in my addictions. I must tell her why I can love her mother - my wife the way I can and do. And why her mother and she are the most important people in the world to me.

I am not proud. What is there after all to be proud of? I have lost whatever was gained then, and was stripped to nothing, and because of that haughty history, I stand apathetically as a sociopath, not remembering people's names and not wishing to get involved in their pursuits. I make jokes to cover my iniquities; my "funny" is a grossly exaggerated defense mechanism. I force myself into pseudointellectual profundities to cover my stupidity. And exercise to cover my flabby sloth and miscreancy.

I ask for your forgiveness.

The Last Whimsy

Try, if you will, to imagine yourself soaking up the warm summer sun. Bask in its bright yellowy-orange glow. Feel those tiny little hairs on your arms, rise and change, as your skin begins to absorb all of those wonderful rays and that vitamin D that is so essential to your vitality.
Now imagine, an obscure idea tickling your fancy - an idea that is both desired and dutifully needed in order for you to fulfill your paternal or maternal instincts. The end result comes to you in a flash and the searing imagery burned into you retinas as though you had stared at photograph or stone-emblazed tombstone for too long - its remaining shadows however are those of a child's warm smile and a wife's satisfaction and wanton desire.
Imagine you want to - nay must rise and begin to tinker with this whimsy that has covered you like a wet leather strap.
You begin. The fervor strikes you. Your wallet shivers under the might of parasitic consumerism as your feet lead to an ominous blue and white sign with a name that strikes fear and admiration into any novice craftsman. You see it in the back of the store in brilliant white - a deep-welled tub, sparkling in virgin faux-porcelain. You demand it, a surround, paint, brushes, fixtures, primer for the paint, more brushes, ceramic tile, knives, more PVC, more copper, blue tape, screws, 2X4s, sand, safety goggles, Band-Aids, grout, three more floor tiles, new blades for the new knives. Imagine vultures viciously claiming rights to your hard-earned greenbacks, clutched tightly in your fist.
It only takes 15 trips.
The wet leather whimsy begins to tighten.
Hammer in hand; you strike at various places in the wall. You remember to shut the water off before you destroy everything.
You confidently convince your beloved and yourself that it will only take a few short days to complete the project, and decide to shack up with your in-laws while the project goes through its phases - and you are eternally grateful, assuring them that all will be over with before they know it.
You crawl under the crawl space a cool but dirty and dark space barely big enough for you and your breath. You feel as though you are in the KuChi tunnels of Vietnam. And fear grips you in the dark.
Pounding from above.
Imagine you are the one to enter this cave, with light and equipment and saws and hammers, buckets, and wrenches. You imagine the deep rich fulfillment of pride, which though you place the thought of it "begetting the fall", resides in your new found handimannerisms. You imagine the end result - happy toddler, proud wife, a personal and uninterrupted soak -and you smile.
Days turn into nights and back into days. The sun outside has become an oppressive orb of heat and frustration.
You remember the words of the neighbor contractor, his words still clinging in the air that it would take weeks and not just a few simple days. The old tub weighs no less than a white bull-rhinoceros - you swear as you push it out the door.
Days turn into night and back again, but no sleep for you.
You laugh as that wet leather whimsy tightens as it dries in the sun, and you remember that the Natives used this as a torture to death device.
You remember that you were writing a pseudo-intellectual fable - timely, poignant and pretentious with its French lilt, and well placed adjectives. You remember that motorcycle in the garage, now covered in gypsum dust - those miles you expected to squeak out before riding season ended.
You laugh and nothing is funny.
You help yourself to a cigarette and yet you do not smoke.
You swear and your words hang in the air as though in a Dagwood Bumstead cartoon, because we all know that it is not about Blondie.
The whimsy tightens.
One more time into the crawl space.
One more time to the home and hardware store to open your wallet one more time.
One more time to sleep on the floor in your in-laws place, for which you are eternally grateful. And in order for the baby and you to sleep peaceably the carpet is your domain.
You return to the job. And you do it again...
Rinse and repeat.

The job is done - sort of. Your body and mind (should you still have one) return - sort of.
The baby takes a very happy bath with bubbles and splashing and angry screams as you pour water on her head and it gets in her face.
Your turn.
You consider the idea of the whimsy and make a decision to reconsider doing it again - in the far, far, far future. And you soak.

The Rabbit and the Bricklayer

Once upon a time, in the little town of Le'Oiseau Bleu, lived a hardworking bricklayer named Robert LeMaçon. Now, Robert, being very a very busy bricklayer, decided to plant a vegetable garden out of necessity to his family and a fascination for the way things grew.
So it was in the smallish field behind his smallish home in the smallish town of Le'Oiseau Bleu that, after work he removed the grass and rocks, and tilled the soil until it would become fine and soft. He built even rows of black soil mounds, and sowed the few seeds he bought with his meager pay to grow a smallish garden. He watered the soil diligently everyday. He eagerly waited for the greens to pop through the well tilled soil.
His lazy neighbor, Monsieur Cheval Ane laughed, as Robert LeMaçon, the bricklayer had attempted a garden of this sort before.
Now, it came to pass with the sun gently beginning to warm the Earth that through the soft ground came sprouts of green in neat little rows on top the soft, black soil that Robert LeMaçon had created.
He pointed to the little sprouts with great excitement and exclaimed to the family du LeMaçon, "Nous aurons les haricots, les carottes, le chou frisé et le chou. Ne voyez-vous?"
La femme du LeMaçon smiled at her husband and went about her business tending to everything else that Robert did not obsess himself with.
One day after working in the hot sun, Monsieur LeMaçon came home to see a tiny rabbit belonging to Monsieur Cheval Ane in his garden. Robert was enraged to find that Lapin had eaten the top green leaves off of his bean plants, his carrots, his kale and his cabbage.
He stomped forward with his angry feet, and then he yelled, "Sortir de mon jardin, bébé lapin stupide!"
The rabbit, Lapin, quickly took to foot and ran through holes in Robert's old wired fence. And as Lapin took to the path behind Robert's house, with his belly full of delicious greens, he laughed and laughed.
That evening, skipping his evening meal with much protest from his wife, Robert went to task repairing his fence and building a stone wall, all the while smoke poured from his nostrils in anger.
When he finished, he stood rubbing his sore and calloused hands together, and noticed that Lapin had fortunately not eaten all of his plantings and he was no longer angry. His plants would surely be safe and grow well.
The next day, Robert awoke and looked out at his garden as the sun rose. And in the corner of his proud little garden, hiding behind the remains of green tops of his beans stood Lapin, only the rabbit had grown twice its original size.
Enraged, Robert sent out Chien.
“Tuer ce lapin stupide!”
Chien beared its sharp yellow teeth, and quickly ran towards Lapin. But Lapin was very smart indeed and found a spot in the stone wall through which to escape. Chien, with all of her speed hit the wall. Defeated, she howled and whimpered back to Robert.
Robert set to task repairing any holes in his stone wall. He dug a deep trench surrounding the garden and poured water into it, hoping that Lapin could not swim.
Robert’s neighbor, Monsieur Cheval Ane yelled angrily at him for making such noise and for trying to keep Lapin out of his garden.
“Mon Lapin devraient être autorisés à être dans votre jardin! Quelle injustice!”
Lapin belonged to the lazy Monsieur Cheval Ane, who never worked. His property was overrun with weeds and pieces of his house had fallen. The house smelled of fetid fat. And Monsieur Cheval Ane refused responsibility for Lapin.
“Lapin est le vôtre. Pourquoi devrais-je nourrir Lapin? Lapin est de votre responsabilité!”
Monsieur Cheval Ane raised a fat fist at Robert and went back into his house.
Monsieur LeMaçon considered his neighbor and no longer wondered why Lapin would rather stay elsewhere.
Robert was covered with mud. His back, legs and arms were sore, and his yard had become significantly smaller and made filthy by flattened green grass because of the moat he had constructed; however, his remaining vegetables were now free to grow. And he smiled.
But that night, the very clever Lapin, had gotten into the garden as Robert slept. Lapin ate his beans, carrots, kale and cabbage to his heart’s content and with his stomach full, fell into a deep sleep on the very soft soil.
Robert awoke early that morning for work. The sun had yet to show its face and the lights in his neighborhood were still dark. He put on his boots and walked out the door. He looked over to his garden, and saw the black silhouette of Lapin sleeping on the soft soil where once stood the efforts of his garden.
Lapin had grown two times three times four times his original size. He had become a very fat rabbit indeed.
Robert slowly walked up to Lapin, so as to not scare him away. But Lapin, full of vegetables that did not belong to him, could not awaken. Robert, the bricklayer, quickly built a wall of mortar and stone around Lapin, and topped it off with an enormous capstone with two large points on top to keep Lapin from ever escaping.
“Si vous ne pouvez pas empêcher de ne pouvez pas entrer le lapin, je le garderai dans”
As the sun slowly rose to greet the town, the capstone with two large points, cast a shadow on Monsiuer Cheval Ane’s property that looked like Lapin.
And like the shadow moves across the land and disappears – so too will Lapin.
-Fin-

Responsibility Dialogue

What’s the cure for this disease?
You’re asking me?
Yes. And stop answering with a question. That really drives me nuts. Do you understand?
Well – wasn’t that a question?
Yes, but…
You get to answer the questions with questions. So why can’t I?
Because – I am the one who is supposed to be asking them, right?
Right? What gives you the right?
Can you just answer the question?
Which one?
The first one. What is the cure for this disease?
You’re asking me?
Look.
Where?
Stop it.
What?
You know what?
I…
What’s the cure?
I…
I…
… don’t know.
What do you mean you don’t know? You started this whole thing.
Did I?
Yes.
They did. Not me.
So, you’re not responsible?
No – No.
So. Who is then?
Responsible?
Yes. Who is responsible?
These questions are hard.
Life’s hard.
Yeah, but…
It just keeps getting harder.
How?
Take some responsibity.
Responsibility?
It used to be the norm.
Responsibility? Getoutahere!
No seriously. When men were still men, and not these namby-pamby, pantywaists obsessed with six-pack abs and designer enemas, men did such brazen activities as honing up to it.
Honing?
A little archaic – true, but it meant bearing the brunt and ramifications of what they had done – both good and bad.
Bunt and ramming – I don’t get it.
Ah! A good example would be your general lack of understanding.
I blame the teachers.
Why?
I don’t know. Maybe my parents.
Why?
Well they were the one’s responsible for teaching me.
Teaching what?
These are hard questions.
Life’s hard.
Getting harder?
Yep.
What about your type 2 diabetes?
Fast food restaurants. McDonalds, KFC… I am hungry.
Restraint. Try it.
Retrain?
Restraint - it means to wait or to hold back. And this case I am refering to your need for instant gastrological gratification.
My what? Man am I hungry. Can you spot me a few dollars?
You have no money?
No money. Right!
Why?
Those evil credit card companies. They...
They what?
They keep taking it.
Well - you know that big screen television.
The one that hangs in that rat shack you call a home? Yes.
I bought it. And now...
ANd now what. Who bought it?
I did.
How did you buy it?
This credit card.
And you bought it?
Yeah.
With whose money?
Well - mine eventually. I mean - come on, it's a monster HiDef television.
So?
I have to make the payments, and if I want to watch the dang I have to get HiDef capable cable or satellite. And that costs -
So?
That cable company they keep threatening to shut off my cable programs if I don't pay - so I pay, and then I have to pay for my TV.
Why did you get such a big and expensive TV?
The neighbors -
The neighbors? Really?
Yeah.
Your neighbors just got foreclosed on.
Those greedy banks! Taking property that does not belong to them.
Really? How do you figure?
Ummm.
Your neighbors signed a note saying "in good faith" that they would pay to the bank a monthly fee called -
A mortgage.
Right. And they defaulted.
Well, their rate jumped.
Adjustable rates do that. They chose to get in at a nice low rate, in the hopes that it would go even lower. It did not pan out. They too much house and invested in a gamble and lost.
Yeah, but...
You ever go to a casino?
Yeah. Vegas baby!
Who always wins?
That depends.
The house always wins.
But...
Always! When you gamble you are taking a chance against "the house".
And they always win, right?
Right. Those people who lost an entire life savings on Wall Street?
Hmm. I lost a lot too.
There are those little words near where you place a signature that state that there is no guarantee that you won't lose it all.
I did not see those words.
Small print.
Yeah. Alot of small print.
Didn't read them did you? Well - had you read them you may have realized the risk. And perhaps realized that there are no guarantees on Wall Street, at your job if had one, and you home and...
Stop!
Do you understand what I am saying to you?
Yes!
Tell me.
I am fat, because I am a lazy food junky who has never held anything heavier than a 40. I am broke and in hock becasue nothing I have I bought with my own money. I don't have a life because I am in so much debt that I can hardly see straight. I lost my money in stocks and am a big fat baby becasue I was too dang gone stupid to understand the small print.
Should I feel bad?
No. It's my fault.
You are responsible?
Yeah.
It'll be okay. By the way, I have this bridge you see and it...

For America - It's not GW's fault, not Clinton, Reagan, the other Bush - nope it's yours. You spent, you trusted, you lounged, and it all grew like a mold, until it encompassed the country. There is an old saying from a great book discounted today because it's hard and mean. It says that if you can not take care of you, someone else will. Thank you America, someone else is now in charge and it is no longer you.

The World According to... Six

In an age of such great access to intellect, one may come to believe that reason and wisdom would follow short in tow - that these two characteristics would surely accompany freely this age of automated know-how. It would only make sense to fully compare this age to the great enlightenment or another renaissance, perhaps as late as through the 1700's and well into the 1800's, during a much romanticized Bohemian period in Western history, and perhaps even further back to Descartes, during a time when doubt and reason walked hand in hand.
In this age of freely passing information, stand rhetoric and inflammatory conjecture as a high art; a void of mostly emotional argumentation with rarely a shred of fact, history or empathy. Media driven "town-criers", who are no more than self prophetic doomsayers, display themselves, often as opposing authorities. Their power is as strong as the people's lack of will to contest it. Their facts are as valid as their admirer's ability to cast away bias.
It has been said however, that history is written by the victors and that truth is theirs to be had - regardless of validity. In a republic-democracy, in which the power is to belong to the people, that same sad truth remains. Napoleon Bonaparte once said, "History is a set of lies agreed upon." Generally, in a government of the majority, truth is a matter of greater percentages. The greater the majority, the greater the slice of truth. The minority, in this case, struggles over the scraps of that percentage, and should their hearts beat loudly enough, continue to drum their axiom until a very fickle people hear that cry.
As a general rule, those who gain power and wishing to remain, go to the youth, as they are seen as the most naive and willing to succumb to those who present them with gifts of truths that they deem valid. Where as the older generation, only a bit wiser are portrayed as curmudgeons who though desiring the same care and gifts are not as maliable - or forgiving. Nor are they as subject to populace opinion, which in a leader's view may be subject to sedition should they be standing is direct opposition of that particular truth.
One need only look to history to catch glimpses as to the power of controlling the truth.

He alone, who owns the youth, gains the future.
All propaganda has to be popular and has to accommodate itself to the comprehension of the least intelligent of those whom it seeks to reach.
Adolf Hitler

In an age and land of free and quickly accessable information, one must guard and live The Truth. Descartes would have us question every aspect of our surroundings and those in authority, and those protecting that authority by delivering those truths.
Believe not without question, because even one's own heart is a vile snake, bent solely on preservation.

With This Ring...

It's a funny story - how I asked for my wife's hand, and to extend it further it probably should be done by guys around the globe in a similar way; my wife is a beautiful, intelligent and busy person, and for her to take the time to witness my imperfections and obvious lack of social graces, and still agree to marry me is a blessing.
The circumstances leading up to the actual nuptials are nothing out of the ordinary. Man meets girl. Man does not want a relationship. Man calls girl. Man goes out just as friends. Man likes girl. Man kisses girl. Girl kisses man. Man loves girl. Man becomes consumed by girl. Man screws things up and begs girl to take him back only after man purges self of stupidity. Girl takes back man anyway. Girl goes to Pike's Peak. Man wrecks motorcycle in West Virginia. Man realizes he has an amazing woman to say "I love you" to. Girl falls asleep in man's car. Girl drools. Man realizes that this is his perfect woman after wiping the side of her mouth. Man asks her to open glove box. Girl picks up expensive frilly box. Man explains. Girl accepts. Man continues to be stupid. Girl still marries man anyway.
I explained to a politico friend of mine, who is mauling over getting married, that there is no perfect time. There is no perfect person. What there is, perhaps, is a longing or willingness to finish what one starts. Another is to give of yourself what you can, and to witness how beautiful something that - at times - may not be so pretty can truly be.
My desires in this relationship are pretty simple and I witnessed them in my great uncle, as stories were told of how he bathed, washed, preened and held his slowly dying once glamorous wife; I want to go to sleep with my wife's hair itchily in my face every night. I want morning breath to come from her wide open mouth. I need her occasional frustrations. I need her tears and anxiousness. Because I love her tenderness. Because I love her faith. Because of her "duck on the water" style and grace. Because of her tender care for our daughter. Because she kisses me. Because I love her.
Marriage is not a fairy tale. It's not a disastrous sitcom theme. It's two lives that have somehow come together as one, and better.


wedding ring gh uid 3

Needs and Wants

Words, like their macromonious state - language, can be tricky. The English vernacular generally is considered to be one of the most difficult to learn, and to be sure the native speakers, particularly in what is currently considered the "Rust Belt" find it rather an inconvenience to use its proper grammar or usage, instead taking on monosyllabic utterances, and "texting"; however, to the defense of technologically savvy individuals, it has indeed taken an otherwise useless branch from the tree of linguistics and produced a fruit of its very own - indeed a hybrid, quickly digested in its expediency and protected by the thick skin of its convenience and in some cases privacy.
There have been, in most recent years, some general changes to the language of some concern. The concern is perhaps not so much for the very usage, but the etymology and the source.
The words "need" and its synonyms have usurped the decision making power of "want" and its synonyms.
"Need" is defined as a necessity; indeed its very usage is a matter of sustenance and consequence and should either be preceded by or followed by a descriptive, narrating the issue further.

The doctor said if I want to live a healthy lifestyle, I need an operation.

She needs to pay more attention if she wants better grades.

In the preceding instances, the reader is introduced to two legitimate concerns. In both circumstances, the reader is given options solely dependent upon actions of the people in each sentence. The person in each does not "need" to do anything, and there are proposed repercussions to their actions or inactions.

This wall needs to be level.

She needs to have her head examined.

In many cases, the word "need" can be used without expounding; however, a reader can be left with a number of questions, rendering the entire sentence useless. It must be addressed that the second sentence in these examples can be colloquial - interpreted as a matter of her questionable sanity.
There is a more insidious matter in the prescribed usage of the words. Indeed, the word "want" expresses a desire; it may be added that "want" can be used in all degrees of desire, but has been substituted in many cases by "need" and vice versa.

I need to get to work.
He needs a new pair of American Eagle dungarees.

The English language in these examples is implicatable of the future welfare of the subjects involved. In the first example, the subject obviously would undergo certain problems should he fail to apply himself to his duties, and again can either be preceded or followed by an explanation:

If I want to keep my job and get a paycheck, I need to get to work.

The speaker knows well that he has options - either choosing to go or not. He understands that there are consequences to his actions.
The second sentence is more concerning than the first, as it deals mainly with consumerism, more so than an underlying obligation as in the first. This form of market-grammar is a means by which corporations both large and small use their goods as necessities to live by. Market-grammar explains a scenario of being without a particular product rendering the consumer very unpopular, and more nefariously rendering him dead.

You need to ask your doctor about Lipitor.
I need an aspirin.
I need a new cell phone.

The issue not being entirely without understanding, is incorrect in its strength - a gross exaggeration. This, as most businesses will know, is a means by which the consumer focuses and breaths. The consumer is made to believe that he or she can not do without. He is made to believe, through his patterns of language distribution - in both passive and active forms, that what is before him is not only a privilege if deemed so, but an absolute right.
Though large corporations are the ones to typically use well crafted marketing techniques, it is not limited to mere commerce but to politics and human sexuality.
By monitoring one's active and passive linguistic mannerisms, one can indeed exercise the capabilities of strength and accountability, not to mention a sense of controlled being. This can be achieved through active engagement with other people, reading, and performing acts of trial and error.

Financial House O'Cards

I am not a big newspaper reader (I do love the comics); however, there are always a few news items that catch my eye, even though I know that I personally can do nothing about them - now is that really true?
Yes, it has been said that we elect to office those who are like us. So I want you to remember the majority rules for later on.
The first story last week that happened to pop off the pages, was that of Prime Minister Wei of China and the U.S. economy. As it turns out the majority of the "Lord only knows how huge the deficit really is" has been lent to us by the Great Red Dragon - China. Wei in a statement had said in words that were far more stern that the USA had better get its financial house together.
Sounds like a threat.

So?

So? Heed this warning John Q. Consumer, They own over 70% of our assets.

So?

So? You like your house, and your car, and your moronic big screen TV, and your Hollywood? Well how about your amber waves of grain, your purple mountains majesty above the fruited plain? I hope you're not allergic to MSG.
Calling all loans! Calling all loans!
Let's imagine that John Q. Consumer is a real guy. Let's imagine that John wants to have all of the finest things in life: big house in the suburbs, fancy sports car, big screen TV with HiDef, designer clothing. John has all of these things in his possession, and he is proud to have them all; chicks love his clothes and his car and that house - why, he seems to have it all together. Of course, he did not have all of the money up front, so he purchased them using credit.
Credit comes from those who have the means to pay for that stuff.

So?

It's not John's stuff.

What?!

Who paid for it?

Well...

Not John. Nice job he has, but not that nice. Who paid for it?

The bank?

That's right! The bank! You remember those evil monstrosities that the government just butted-up to stay operational, whether they needed the support or not? They are the mob who own John Q. Consumer's stuff - not John. John is tending to them and using them as "pride leverage", believing that his stuff represents him.
Let's say that John gets sick or loses his job.

That's entirely possible.

Yes, it is. John has no equity in any of these possessions; however, he still has the obligation to pay for them.

So?

So, if you were the bank who gave John the money or the ability to hold these things, would you be willing to let him slide without him paying you. Let's say he owes you $50,000.

Wow! That's a lot of money.

Well?

I trusted him to pay me back, and he had better do it. That's not his, it's mine.

Right.

Well, ol' Johnnie boy had better scrape together some cash or I am taking the stuff.

Banks do it all the time. The problem there is that banks (And mind you I do not sympathise with banks and usury), in order to recover their losses from a deadbeat...

That's not nice.

What?

Deadbeat. That's not very nice. John lost his job.

He owes you money. He has some very nice things that are yours.

Deadbeat!

To recover their losses banks must either collect whatever assets he owns and the items under contract. Unfortunately, in this fast paced consumer society, where bigger, faster, harder are king, those items that have been in his possession have lost value. For example, that big screen television,is antiquated the moment he plugs it into his wall. And that American sports dream, devalued by at least 40%the moment the front tires hit the road, because as it turns out that GMAC loan at 0% APR for 60 months is designed to make you think the car was a steal, when in fact it crushed the marketability of John's hunk of crap under insurance, and resale value.

Didn't the government just give like a gazillion dollars to the Autoworker's union, GM and GMAC?

Yes.

That's my money too.

Technically - China loaned us that money.

Will we have to pay it back with interest?

Usury.

John needs a job. Now!

Well, John is comfortable. He makes more money now, being on unemployment. He still has his house, because the government thought that it would be a shame to foreclose on him, and the bank did not want his big screen TV, and John, using the money he got while in bankruptcy court, bought himself another car - used from GMAC financing at an incredible APR.

Holy crap!

My point is this: The financial mess in our nation while going deep into the White House, actually takes root in its people. You see, we elect those like ourselves. Spending freely, not expecting to have our legs cut out from underneath us, because our jobs are secure, and our egos unwavering. We have not a problem in the world, so we'll make promises to one another, and break them because that's what we do. And Prime Minister Wei will get his, once we get ours and so on -
Today's news is more entertaining - as it turns out our credit rating has just been slashed. I hope you're ready for hyperinflation and more taxes.

Do you think we'll be able to get out of this mess?

Usury I do, but I am not sure this time.

For the Actor in all of Us!

Some people look at me, and think "There goes Matthew Perry - you know, Chandler from Friends."
I get that alot.
The weirdest celebrity mix-up was the time a bicycle messenger in NYC once wrecked his chariot and approached me with blood covering his hands and arms.
"Dude! Are you alright?"
"Are you Conan O'Brien?"
"You're bleeding."
"Yeah. You're not Conan?"
"Do you want me to call someone for you?"
"Man, you looked just like Conan."
He road away only to confuse himself into believing that my brother, Daniel, is Whoopie Goldberg. I, in no way shape or form, look like Conan O'Brien, who is a very rich, seven-foot tall, red-head; I am not. Now, I do share some physical attributes to Matthew Perry, Jake Gillenhall, Robert Deniro and that guy who does Cafe Kolache - I get him a lot.

Then again, maybe some people look at me and don't think anything. I like that.

The World According to... пять

Maybe I am showing my age. I am up there after all, in an age of unrepentant misunderstanding of young people.
I recall a place in time, years ago, when I was in my late teens and early twenties and my parents were in there late thirties and mid-forties; a place in my own history when I thought that I had all the answers - university graduate, working overseas, making big bucks, racing motorcycles - being a man.
Now in my forties, still a man, things have changed. I realize that my folks, now in their sixties were wiser than my punk self, and deserved a lot more respect and less aggravation. They still are. We do not see eye to eye on a great many issues, but there is at least one issue that at least my father and I can agree with.
Men do not wear girlpants!
Maybe boys or young men in this time period are simply androgynous and that is sad.
I have listened to the strong, disgusted voices of girl-pants wearing counterparts complain that real men no longer exist and that our culture has become inundated with effeminate, emotionally driven girl-boys, who cling to pop-culture and fashion like the silvery, splintered duct tape to the vinyl of an old bar stool found in a crappy thrift shop.
Maybe my age is showing, but men do not wear girlpants.
A younger friend and associate was wearing them. He may as well have spray painted them on his lower being. They displayed his midriff every time he breathed or moved. And this is a hairy kid.
After throwing up several times, and instructing him to lower his shirt to cover his backside, I felt compelled to ask him why.
"Why are you wearing those girlpants?"
Proper answer:
"I had a date last night, and I didn't want to get arrested getting here."
Done.
"Why are you wearing those girlpants?"
"They accentuate my curves."
Wrong answer.
Needless to say, there was a great deal of laughter that ensued.
Understand, I am not a fashion model. I don't want walk up and down a cat walk puffing my lips, exposing my belly, all while wearing girlpants. Girls wear girlpants. It's one of several reasons I simply buy, if I need jeans, Wrangler's and not Levi's. If a person wants have his bottom hanging out of his dungarees and a boot-cut to show some sort of retrofruit fashion ideology, the latter is a good choice, as they have about a thousand expensive variations of this androgy-style available.
Please understand this -
Men do not wear girlpants.
They wear what they want, but girlpants are not on the list.
Now a kilt - ah, now that is an essential in men's wear!

The Reality of Snomagedon

The news was poised for action. Talking heads were posted at any location where an accident could be caught live on the Action News cameras. Edwin R. Murrow award winning filler for approximately a week before the snow had a chance to develop.
Environmentalists across the nation were poised - pointer-fingers at the ready and signs of doom painted on feces stained bedsheets ready to flash fishermen and big business. All shouting about the evils of mankind - in particular big business.
Sadly, the news media, the people who point out that we actually have seasons, and Washington DC, went for the most part unscathed as snow from two major strom systems converged on our area.
And what a storm!

I haven't ever shoveled like that and with such veracity!

Small business owners across the region ended up shutting their doors over concerns for the safety and impossible passage. Among those small businesses were the owners of Cafe Kolache in Beaver, PA.

Kristi and I stayed awake throughout the night. We didn't want our bakers to risk crashing or getting stuck in the snow. We thought about opening later in the day, but it just would not have been prudent. Our Saturday evening performance was cancelled. We were even worried about our home, fearing that we might lose power and heat and - well we have a one year old.

The total accumulation after the two storm cells passed through, blanketed up to and beyond the thirties in inches and for most those who spent the first wintry evening shovelling, the next day was not as arduous as it had been for those who waited for the first storm to end.
The total loss - economically at least in the region has been estimated at well over $1 billion dollars in lost revenue. And those numbers sunk in more deeply for small business in the region including Cafe Kolache.

We're still reeling from it. It's going to take some pretty significant traffic to make up for the loss, especially after such a lack luster year. The blizzards and a crappy economy have really hit us pretty hard.

As one can imagine, even hearing the rumors of another snowfall brings a sense of dread to a great many in the region. Much to the dismay of those who need to continue to get to work day in and out - winter is not done with the region.

We can't close again. Even if it means Kristi and I coming in to bake at 3:30 in the morning - we just can not chance it. It's just getting harder. And she keeps telling me to keep my head up, and she's right - after all, we believe that our shop really is a warm hole in the wall where people can congregate. If we can't get there, neither can they, and that is just not an option.

Small business has taken a number of hits, from taxes to minimum wage increases from both local and federal agencies. With the president promising to help small business across the country, many owners are considering the idea yet another terrible storm in an already discontented winter.

Snomagedon

Saturday, February 13th
SNOMAGEDON

This is a transcript taken from a conversation found after Old Earth was abandoned. It is between a man, Travis and a woman, Jane Doe. Neither of them could be found after. May they rest in peace.

Crap!
No seriously. What in the world is going on Travis?
Where are you? Are you not at a window?
No! Ah jeez!
The world honey... it's just gone. (sobbing.)
Honey? What are you talking about?
Four horsemen schtuff... Oh my -
Travis? Travis?
(Sobbing)
Travis?
Oh no! (violent scream and scuffle) Wh - Why?
Trav - (Crackling over the phone.)
So much I just wanted to say to you. Now -
Travis, please -
No sense, baby. Just no sense. What have we done?
We'll be okay?
I hope, but - (the phone crackles) Why do we have to be so far apart? I can't tell you how much I love y- (crackling)
I love you too. I do.
It's getting closer now.
I don't understand. What is (crackling)?
(static) - really piling up now. Can - hardly?
I'm going to my window! Travis, can you hear me?
(static)
Travis?
I don't want to have to say goodbye, but -
But what? I'm opening the curtains my love! Stay with me!
Don't (static)
Travis? Trav? I'm coming to you!
No! Stay there you'll d - (static)
I'm already dead!
NO!
(the line dies)

This cheezy dialogue brought to you by an overanxious Western Pennsylvania, during the February 2010 Snow Storm.

Magic's a Piece of Cake

Fred Marcuso stood before a large bathroom mirror. The sink in front of him was clean and dry, with the exception of a sparkling green bowtie. He picked it up and gingerly flipped it through his fingers, then placed it around his neck.
“You look gawd awful!”
Fred Marcuso glanced back at Marni, his wife of eighteen years. She struggled to cover herself with a skin tight black skirt. He smiled. She had finally returned to him and embraced his inequities.
“It’s our daughter’s sweet sixteen birthday party and you – you want to do magic?”
It is our last sweet sixteenth.
Fred pulled a single long-stemmed rose from beneath his green cumber bunt and presented it to her. He pursed his lips together.
“What will the guests say? Look at the stupid leprechaun? What’ll he pull from his bottom now?”
Marni disregarded his gift and nonchalantly stepped on it. Fred Marcuso smiled.
I have been practicing.
“Emily does not care about magic. It’s her birthday and –“
Emily Marcuso looked on and laughed, partly in hysterics and another in embarrassment at her father.
“Come along Emily. Guests should be arriving at anytime. Let’s leave David bloody Copperfield.”
“Can we lock ‘im in the room?”
Fred Marcuso sadly stood alone. His eyes suddenly drooped. A melancholy that was veiled behind the silly smile lay revealed. In front of the mirror again, he began performing - pulling from the sleeve of his right arm, a multicolored cord. The faster he pulled the longer it seemed to become. At his feet, there formed a perfect coil of rope, the length of which was impossible to tell.
An easy trick.
One of the five-thousand sunny faced pink and white balloons – a pink one – caught Fred Marcuso’s eye as it wafted skyward. Loosed from the crowd. He spent money he did not have and time he had too much of, for this day. Emily would hopefully not forget it.
Fred Marcuso’s posh little neighborhood looked empty. Foreclosures. People lived beyond their means. They, including the Marcuso’s, waited for banks to retrieve their properties like old trees await the axe.
Fred Marcuso stepped out of the bathroom and straightened his jacket. Guest began arriving. Their house filled with hormonal teenagers. Spin the bottle. Truth or dare. He reminisced about his pock-marked teens. So very lonely.
An older motorcar drove into the neighborhood and parked. Fred watched as the woman, Linda Smythe pulled the visor down and checked her smile. She played sincerity like a well-worn violin.
Sigh.
“You invited Jenny Smythe? Why?”
“I felt sorry for her.”
Sorry? I cannot imagine.
The Smythe family did not need to live in a posh neighborhood. The Smythe family did not need a fancy motorcar. Mrs. Smythe never lusted over Lewis Smythe’s boss. Jenny Smythe respected her father, and Lewis Smythe loved his family.
Marni approached the motorcar. She wiggled over to Lewis and kissed him on the cheek, then hugged Linda and Jenny.
Fred Marcuso watched. A violin smile accompanied his bright green tuxedo.
Fred Marcuso, magician, had everyone sit as he began his performance. The kids – eager for spin the bottle – rolled their eyes. Suddenly, out of his brilliant-green top hat, he pulled an enormous rabbit, and then some clanging, and then –
“Flowers for Emily!”
Fred Marcuso’s act was nothing short of amazing. He performed a supernatural feat of levitation, and proceeded to eat a sword which he later produced from his bottom without ripping his trousers.
“Now, if my lovely Marni would please come to the stage and lie on this magic table.”
Marni Marcuso reclined on the table, and Fred lofted a bright green blanket over her. He performed a magic incantation, and then dropped a napkin over the blade of his sword, where it became two separate pieces – proving it to be quite sharp indeed.
“Oh.”
Fred Marcuso took a drink from a small metal flask taken from inside of his jacket pocket. He whispered into Marni’s ear, and proceeded to drive the blade through her and the table, as though it were a piece of birthday cake. Marni, oblivious to it all, continued to display her permanently wretched smile –and would forever more.
Fred Marcuso, father and magician, stepped through the separated torsos and bowed.
“A split personality!”
A nervous laughter and applause ensued.
With a broad, satisfied smile, Fred Marcuso dropped dead.

Interview with Big Feather

The white man has a thing that we call "Fire Story", which they attach many hairs of the great beasts from this into the walls of their enormous caves. Many of these white man caves have more than one Fire Story, because the white man tribes all live separately in smaller caves, where maybe one Fire Story tells one in great moving paintings of rape and another tells of how white man and man of many color beat the kolunka out of another group of the same, but wearing different war dress and paint... and maybe another Fire Story paints a moving picture of how a white man can please his woman, but only if he takes the medicine from a giant beast.
I think that we, the Invisible People, invented this, but the white man made it easy to sit on their fat hides. Hides made of what we hunted for food, and hides for our teepees.
We were a proud nation. We enjoyed the hunt for totonka, and our villages would often walk into the dangerous lands of many nations, but we were the Invisible People, and the nations to which we warred at times could not see us. The totonka could see us. Their herds moved in the night... sometimes to the northland, sometimes to the southland, or to the east or to the west, and we followed them. Other nations followed totonka also. The totoka would leave enormous kolunka on the plains.
At night, we would gather totonka kolunka and set it to fire, and then as we sat eating what we hunted, we would tell stories to one another speaking loudly through the fire. I told the stories of the great totonka that was born of the mountain spring, and others about giant fish.
I can not understand white man Fire Story. We tell our Fire Story outside until the morning when the fire dies, but white man, who lives in caves of many smaller caves, brings in the totonka kolunka, does not set it to fire and listens to its story.

The World According to... Vier

The failure of a country can be found in every corner of its governance, regardless of political persuasion, and in the case of our very own – a supposed democratic republic “for the people”, one may discover the flaws and lack of moral character can be found in the overeducated, overpriviledged, underintelligent, misinformed and misguided citizens.
The citizens of this nation are encouraged to pick a side in an argument, knowing what the topic is, but having not a single clue as what is either at stake and or what the details are – as placed in layman’s terms, as opposed to lengthy, duplicitous attorney jargon, which is made to be confusing purposefully for other attorneys who are indirect opposition to the proposal. These proposals are designed give those who possess the knowledge to understand them the keys – so to speak to the “short bus” driving the rest of the country. The opposition is usually left in those little rural bus shelters to watch the bus careen dangerously down a poorly built civilian roadway, paved with potholes and fat, lazy and overpaid union/parliamentary bought off to be apathetic to the bus driver and his intellectually challenged passengers who can not understand the meaning of caveat emptor, and cry foul when they are at a loss.
Ignorance, but at least we can vote!
And so it was that this year the people of this great land were coaxed once again into buying the touchy-feely jargon of empty promises of high ideology, while the public continued listening to the losers and the winners “mediatrics”, and left to wonder who in the world is right and what difference does it make.
In an era of “Hope and Change”, which seems more like “Demise and Repetition” have we not seen that these elected nobles and their posse of pundits are just the same administrative species pretending to be saintly caregivers for who they believe to be illiterate, incompetents, satisfied as long as they sit complacently in front of glitteringly sensationalized sexboxes made of greed-driven, perversions, just as their predecessors.
And I judge.
I am as full of blame as the preacher who curses an entire people in their tumult, casting the first stone in spite of his very own sin.
And yet we continue to vex and vilify those who oppose us, as though their words are blasphemous on the Holy Ground, and glorify a team of reprobates due to the colors that are on their badges, with no regards for consequences and reason. We refrain, if not revolt against a logic that was never taught; we are the artists who refuse to learn from the masters and are altogether apathetic to detail a sky that is centuries old, which we believe is falling though it clearly remains as unchanged as it remains uncertain. And we take the small red placebo from the left hand, instead of the enormous pill in the right, in spite of its healthful outcome, because the left is easier to swallow.
The driver remains on the road made shabbily by his own hands.
Are we a people who can not remember the past without being reminded of it?
I fear the answer is “no”.

Twins

She was not such a homely girl that she could not find at least one lover in the city of New York, and I knew her fairly well, so I could verify that I knew of at least one that she had managed to fall in and out of love with, to top it off, I knew that Lisa had become pregnant. Given the means to pry just about any kind of information out of any person, gave me the assurance that I could do the same with Lisa - that is to say pry the name of the donor; however, that information was either forgotten or simply placed safely into the recesses of a faint memory.
Lisa indeed was pregnant, and impovershed like the rest of my Bohemian clan - ragtag actors, singers and musicians. She did not for certain, unless a man was willing to come forth and claim the children, possess any means by which to support a family, let alone herself. And, by the way, I do mean children - twin boys to be precise.
It was August 30th, 2001 when she was to give birth to two bouncing baby boys, and she was not about to rid the world of its entitlement to them, nor could she herself tend to them, so on that day, in the hospital located on the East 40s, she gave birth to Amhal, who came first, and Juan - obviously second. Sadly the boys were immediately adopted, as per her request, and perhaps even worse was the fact that Amhal and Juan were adopted by two different sets of parents.
After September 11th, I lost track of her for a good while, until the winter of 2003 when I happened upon her in a bar in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Lisa had finally gotten an income and an apartment nearby, which was nice - she said.
I asked her if she had any word from Amhal and Juan.
"I was able to contact them both through their parents."
"That's great and..."
"Well, they're only two you know..."
Duh.
"I asked for an occasional update from both sets of parents, and the boys..." She started to cry. "They're so beuatiful..."
I felt a man-tear coming on.
"Both parents were so generous with me, allowing me an opportunity to see them in person. I didn't know what to say. Wow!"
"What did you do?"
"I only had enough, at the time to see Juan, who was the closest, in Daytona. Ah, he is so beautiful. A really happy family."
"And what about the other?"
"Like I said I only had enough to cover for Juan. Besides - once you seen Juan, well you've seen Amhal."

And that was the last time I saw her...

The Birth of an Epiphany

"Odd, how it all came to this."
Try this. Ask yourself how you arrived at this point in your life - that's right, take out a piece of paper and pencil and sit - I dare you. Write it all out backwards, starting with the moment that you are living in right now and then yesterday and then the day before and so on, or if you would like to know how you arrived at this place in your life, which is a far more reflective means to this exercise and perhaps more instructive, you will most certainly discover some memories that are truly worthy of the commode; as well, you will assuredly find true moments of grace and Lord knows what else.

I sat with some friends at my daughter's first birthday, one of whom is very pregnant, and my wife and I were marveling at the fact that she, her husband, and her two year-old were able to come, and yes they did get an invitation. My wife reflected on how beautiful she looked. Baring all that weight, having to wobble awkwardly instead of walking, all seemed a little uncomfortable; I was sure that the beautiful white-toothed smile she had on her face was really her just crunching her teeth together in pain.*
I silently wondered how it had all come to this. Of course the understanding (physically) is that two people continued to love one another, in the latter case enduring the pregnancy and subsequent birth of a second child, but the question is how and not the how to.
In our case - meaning my family including my wife and currently enfevered daughter. I can not say that there is a direct line, at least one that I can see, because quite frankly, in my minds eye, I had taken more detours than a downtown construction zone. But in the Divine eye, who is to say but the beholder, in which case what difference does it make, suffice it to say that we are all brought into our current episode (if you will), with a very tangible past.
... and for those who do not believe in a Divine Truth, revealer, redeemer, God - you do not know my daughter's story, nor do you recognize my own.
In truth, I lived a racy, reckless, playboy lifestyle. My experiences in WVU, Japan, Pittsburgh, and NYC were in some circumstances tasteless and bawdy and in all cases quite edgy. It was during this time, particularly while enjoying some fame and recognition, not to mention a lot of money for a punk, particularly in Japan, that my ego had grown in a size that would leave Godzilla grasping for breath, and after playing what I had considered to be a "Token Gaijin", I left for Los Angeles to pursue action, and left shortly after to hang out in NYC, because if one can make it there one can make it anywhere. As it turned out, I managed to get a few great stage gigs off-Broadway - for all know it was off-off-off-off Broadway. At one point in time I recall being confused for late night talkshow host Conan O'Brien by a passing bicycle messenger, who wrecked and walked bleeding back to me only to sadly discover that I was indeed not the person he was hoping for. Things got a little crazy, and I lost track of why I had gone to that Big Apple, and shortly after 9-11, as the firefighters who perished in my neighborhood were announced to be gone forever, I guess my brain and my heart left with them, because I did not give a damn about my purpose and a few years later, defeated, I left - for home.
...to be continued.

*a bouncing baby boy!

A Dog's Life

Originally printed in "The Bridge" Winter 2008

“Madison!”
It’s a crisp winter’s morn. The scent of burning wood clings to the air and white puffs of steam exhale from my mouth. Quiet. Madison is running at full speed – chasing down the ever elusive rabbit that has burrowed a hole between three neatly groomed yards, and…
Crash! Into the only thing preventing her from actually catching that rascally varmint – our chain link fence.
Of course, I simply can not find it amusing because it’s two freakin’ thirty on the coldest morning ever, and I am in my backyard with my eyes half closed, looking like a cross-dressing Eskimo, whilst my beloved softly slumbers as warm as a baby nestled softly against her mother’s bosom. Meanwhile, my eyelids freeze into an involuntary gunfighter stare, and I am thankful that no one else is outside to join me in the madness.
I mutter to myself, “This whole global warming thing’s a real killer.”
On this fine morning, when the air outside of our cozy home is at balmy zero degrees Kelvin, “Maddie”, our rescued mutt needs to visit nature, which in my defense, she could very well have done earlier, like when I was awake. To be honest, next time, I may be tempted to simply let her hold it – or whatever. Surely, there would be the inevitable mess, and clean-up, but look on the bright side, she would more likely clean it herself.
Eww!
She would be the perfect dog and I mean it. Kristi and I both agree that she would be, if not for the fact that every inch of our house is covered with one inch blond hairs. Sticky rolls are a joke. And vacuum sweepers simply die off.
Maddie herself however is clean. She should be after all the nether-regional licking she performs.
At 35 pounds, Maddie is not a large dog, yet as my wife and I settle for the evening, tucked neatly into our bed, Maddie usurps the royal queen in its entirety, leaving us with a leaf’s worth of cover and 2 pillows. To this day, I still cannot explain how she, from a species inferior to our own, does this.
Mind you, owning a dog is not like an old black and white Lassie rerun, where that simpleton, panty-waist Timmy is rescued by Lassie, every single episode – no.
I softly imagine Lassie as a pit bull or velociraptor.
But it is a privilege and I love my dog.
Well, it’s naptime. I am wearing black, and she is extraordinarily cuddly this evening.