Tuesday, December 29, 2009

A moment of clarity; a moment of eek.

So, I'm standing in the storage-slash-coffee room, looking for a pile of notepads in order to follow the mandated "note taking" protocol, and then I had this moment of clarity.

I have to admit, moments of clarity are kinda cool, but usually badly timed.

At that moment (and that would be 2230 hours) it occurred to me that I HAVE MADE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE.

And apparently, I said it out loud. It was one of those, "Did I say that out loud?" moments.

I did.

If only I had been alone.

It would have been far better had I been alone.

Monday, December 28, 2009

There's a hole in the bucket of my contentment.

Boom.

Did you hear it? Did you, from the far-off spaces you inhabit, hear the sound of my head literally shooting off the body, like a Mercury rocket heading for the once-calm reaches of outer space?

Boom.

I didn't even get the warning Ka. I just got the freakin' Boom.

I missed the Ka.

It's funny when shit hits the fan; you would expect that it would go EVERYWHERE. But it doesn't. It's aim is true, it's course unwavering.

Most of you know what I do earn the bread that feeds the body that stores the soul that lives in the house that Jack built. And I can tell you that between the two day storm that dumped between 14-24 inches of snow on the beloved Northern State, and an idiot from Nigeria who wanted to use another plane like a lawn dart, and a boss who would fit in well in the Federated States of Micronesia, because of his micromanaging, I have had just......about....enough.

And when I got to the mental end of "just......about....enough..."

Boom. Without the Ka.

A little hope as I go into the New Year.......

I hope the 3rd degree burns the idiot from Nigeria has on his d**k are painful and, if there's a just Allah in Heaven, it falls off while the nurses point and laugh. I say that not out of racial or religious intolerance; it's just that his little stunt opened up a whole can off whoop ass on my weekend. And thank you to the passengers and crew that saved the airplane.

That my snow blower continues to run like a champ, but I don't have to use it four times a day like I did on Christmas.

And that I don't go into a sarcastic rant to my boss, who has always treated me with respect and kindness, and that I know is a good man that wants all the same things I want. But I swear to GOD if he comes into the office and requests to peruse my notes, I will attempt to lure him to the window.

And now, the Boom recedes to a faint echo on the horizon, and life is restored to its former glory.

"Glory" being a relative term. Like "Fine." And "Level."

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Yes, Virginia, there is a Sanity Clause.

It began to snow on Thursday evening; and by early Christmas morning, it was a right mess. A huge blizzard, covering virtually the entire Northern State.

Fortune was with us, though.....we had prepared an emergency plan to cover everything, including what would happen if a huge blizzard closed every airport in the state.

Forethought; it's not just for breakfast anymore.

And the, the idiot on the flight to Detroit sparked not only fireworks, but every fear that every American has; leading to kneejerk reactions and paranoia and rage and God knows what else.

And it was at that point I wished that the blizzard was the worst thing in my life.

But the moments between work were wonderful; I received many interesting prezzies; some specifically desired (SNL Season 5, the last of the original cast) and some were surprises (a replica of Booth's derringer that shot Lincoln), and some were just laughingly strange (a calender featuring the Girls of Dakota; for those that know me, it's pretty much the last thing you would think to give me).

Michael Crichton and Edward Rutherfurd were also represented.

My culinary skills were put to the test, and came through with flying colors; the beef AND the chicken were perfect, and the conversation flowed and the kids were darling and for those moments I felt like I was of the solar system, and not just a comet flashing by.....

I took a nap after that, knowing that after the nap I would have to arise and use the mechanical snow throwing device to clear the way for my car to get to the street; I did, and I have to say that I have a crush on whoever invented the snowblower.

I hope your day was well, and warm, and filled with laughter and song and food and lovely prezzies; in this strange world we live in, we are in perpetual need of a day of celebration; and I would suggest one every six months, without fail.

Love to you....

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

My Annual Gush.

Yesterday, I said to my co-worker Kendra that my life is a series of unfinished conversations. Hence the title of this e-rag.

Kendra is a lovely lass; she makes me laugh and seems to listen to me when I talk; but she gave me the look that 22 should give to 48, when 48 is either waxing nostalgic or mourning the loss of some conversatee.

Actually, it was both.

As I've said before, the social networking sites have jump started a lot of those unfinished conversations; but with every re-beginning, there is the side effect of remembering conversations that have ended.

Yes, you know what I mean.

I think about Barb; I always miss her around this time of year, and every time I hear "And We Danced" by The Hooters.

I think about Ed; The eternal pirate with the crooked smile..the only seeming flaw to his matinee idol look.

I think about Dave; I can still hear him at the piano, seamlessly segueing from one Christmas Carol to another, his hoarse laugh at my lowjinks being the best kind of reward.

I think about my Mother, Elizabeth; and how I cannot, cannot, CANNOT get that cookie recipe right; but even the slight modification doesn't stop the flavor from zapping me back to the warm kitchen of my kidhood, listening to that whooping laugh of hers I miss so much.

I think about all the friends I've collected over the course of almost forty years, and how they've shaped me in ways I cannot begin to understand or repay; whether it was the overwhelming kindness of taking me in when I literally was living in my car, or the simple kindness of a pair of warm socks on a cold, wet day. The warm hand of friendship in a crowded pub, or the light hand of something else, on a walk down Washington Street in the light snowfall.....

I am literally defined by the people that surround me, every waking day of my life, whether they be here in the North, or thousands of miles and decades of years away; whether we've spoken last week, or the last week of the last decade.

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.
For you have shown me great kindnesses, and love; and I have returned it as best as I can.

Here's to another year of conversation.

Monday, December 21, 2009

Waiting by the tree for the Fat Man....

As I sit alone on the top of the building on the seventh street near the expressway in the little city in the middle of the northern state I notice that the National Weather Service is suggesting a blizzard that is set to hit this area on Christmas Eve.

This shall make my life temporarily complicated.

And I'm not even travelling.

But the gifts are wrapped, the house has been swept clean; let the remembrance begin..

As you well know if you read this drivel at the end of the year, Christmas is a time for remembrance; and I find it particularly gratifying thanks to my favorite social networking site.

This year has been a time of great re-acquainting: the march of the Exes; a few unfinished conversations that began again after a long silence; apologies offered, if not gratefully received, at least accepted. And love re-ignited, if at a lower flame than the original conflagration. As I've said before, it's the coals of the past that can keep us warm through time.....

I'll finish the baking soon, perhaps this evening, and I'll finish the shopping for food, and Christmas will be a slide rather than a run; and I'll be back at my desk at Midnight.

I hope Santa is good to me.

And, I hope Santa is good to you all. Merry Christmas to you all if I don't see you...and I'll talk to you soon.

Sunday, December 20, 2009

Mullings between the darkness and the light.

I was recently watching an episode of COLD CASE, and I found myself in one of those moods where you begin to envy fictional characters, which is just silly.....

I envy those moments at the end of the case, where they see, for just a moment, the ghost of the victim; and the victim is usually smiling just before they fade out.

I kind of wish I had the ability to see the spirits of those that have gone before me, for a number of reasons that can all be qualified as further evidence as to my egotism. I would like to know, first of all, that they are all right wherever they are. I've known a good many people in my life, and some are gone, and all deserved a better place than the one they left. I would just like to know that they are. Secondly, (and here's the ego) I would like to know that they watch over me, and occasionally wish to say hello.

I tend to say hello to them all the time. They're never really that far away.

I think it would be nice to know, for sure, that there was something else after this; I don't necessarily want a vision of a Christian Heaven, with clouds and golden streets and choirs of angels with harps and such; and I'm not sure I could really deal with the whole, WHAT DREAMS MAY COME psychedelic fever-dream version of heaven; but if there could be a heaven where I live in a cabin by a river with a fire in the fireplace and the smell of leather bound firsts, where it's perpetually early fall but the golf course is always available.

Nah. That would probably bore me to afterlife.

I'd even accept reincarnation, I suppose, as long as I had a say in what was the next incarnation. No snakes or consumable flora and/or fauna. But frankly, the ride has been fairly interesting, and I wouldn't mind having a second go 'round. It would be really interesting to be able to traverse time, and be reincarnated in a previous era. I'm saying that knowing that all civil war re-enactors are grateful for modern toilet facilities. I don't think I would be really long-lived in the middle ages....unless I could be a jester.

So.

I suppose that in the end, the ghosts that call upon us bring another measure to the mystery that is life and it's end; death is there....to keep us honest, and to constantly remind us that we are free. Free to make the choices that make us what we are.

In other words; the more you complain, the longer God lets you live.

Have a good day, y'all.

Monday, December 14, 2009

Put it down, and step away.

I know that it's possible to have my heart broken, even in this day and in my age.

I can remember the heartbreak of youth; it was kind of like a knife to the gut; an actual, physical pain that lingered all through the waking hours, only to dissipate in the mists of Morpheus.

And the scar would remain; in fact, they remain to this day, and I look to them and point and say, "these scars I received on St. Crispin's Day." And the people of my generation, who attended those times with me will smile and nod and lift a glass to the times when we cared enough to have out hearts broken; and the youth that surrounds me will roll their eyes and wonder why anybody would care so much in the first place.

And my answer will always be the same: I care because I care.

But I've noticed that in my age, when my heart is broken, the pain is duller. And it only lingers in the mists of Morpheus; and it lacks a certain energy.

And it's less of a scar, and more of a bruise.

Yes.
It's easy to have your heart broken when you use your heart enough.

And even that dull pain gives me proof that I'm alive.
Which is not something I've been able to prove beyond a reasonable doubt.

It's not often you want to thank somebody for the heartbreak.
And simultaneously want to punish them for it.

It's a long road.
I'll just keep walking.
And enjoy the memory of the company.

Fair enough?

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Signs.

I think it would be really nice if we could tell 'em by their limping.

I'll explain.

Years ago, I ran across a lovely Irish lass; she was a sturdy, red-haired, heavy drinking girl who stole my heart for just a little while. She gave it back to me some time later, and it was one of the few times that the heart was not the worse for the experience.

One of the things that she left me was an Irish Prayer, and it went something like this:

May those that love us, love us.
And for those who do not love us, let God turn their hearts;
And if He cannot turn their hearts, let Him turn their ankles;
So we can tell them by their limpin'.

On this day, in this time of year, in this fallen city that the Gods of Warmth have forsaken, it would be nice to know them by their limpin'.

In fact, we should be able to tell them by their limpin', by the fact that their pants are on fire, and it would be really nice if they were made of glue.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

What is the proper measurement?

It's cold.

Actually, it's warmer now than it was when I arose from my winter's nap this morning. This morning, it was -11.

Now, it's 8.

The sun is shining reasonably shining, and there is no wind. The blizzard that smacked most of the Midwest didn't really reach this high up, and for that, I'm grateful, but it is proof that my buying a snow blower is keeping the really bad weather at bay.

I must apologize for the inconsistency of my writing these days; my thoughts and observations have developed a kind of tedium in my imagination, and if they're tedious to me, I would not dare to release them upon my unsuspecting readership....as diminished as that has become, lately.

I remember in my past that this time of year was a kind of respite from the rest of the year; that we all worked toward this moment...that no matter how much work had been piled upon our heads, there was always going to be this sizable block of time where we would be responsible to no other persons but ourselves, and no other things but what we deemed truly necessary.

Like food. And drink. And old friends. And family.

And to add to the glory that was this time of year, there was an occasional light snowfall to provide natural beauty.

And best of all.....people would buy you presents.

These days, the busy becomes busier; the intensity only becomes more intense; and that respite that becomes even more necessary as we eld, disappears like the lights in the distance. The meat we adore in our youth we cannot tolerate in our age; the old friends have dispersed over a wide area, conspicuous in their absence, but remembered in the cards and letters; and the snow falls like a cartoon ten ton weight.

At least there are still presents.

I'm grateful for the presents.

I'm grateful for a great many things. I'm grateful for the friends that can see me as I was and as I am, simultaneously; grateful for the faceless voices of affection from across the world; grateful for a family who successfully mixes the velvet glove and the iron fist to my everlasting benefit; for the past that has made my brain what it is; and for the future that still (despite my best attempts at the contrary) hold infinite promise within its repetitive shell.

Stay Calm and Carry On.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Philosoship of a Friendophy.

Some books are like old friends; you can go back to them, and pick up just where you left off, and the story doesn't change in the passage of time. Like good friends, you can see yourself in the reflection of the book; the best stories, of course, are the ones that touch deep within you, where the empathy lies. And the most obvious parallel between a book and an old friend is, you can easily find both, no matter how much time has passed.

I recently re-read a book that thoroughly delighted me when I first read it, well over a decade ago: It's title is BUNNY BUNNY and it's written by Alan Zweibel, and it's about his delightful relationship with Gilda Radner.

Their relationship was uncomplicated in the long run. It started out as two terrified people, coming together to get through the early stages of their work at SNL. Eventually, the love became deep, and intimate, on every level but the physical. Through career ups and downs, multiple marriages, and the cancer that finally claimed her, their relationship remained strong, virtually unchanged from the first days until the end; intimate in every way, but the physical.

One of my favorite moments of the book is when Zweibel is donating blood to Gilda, and the nurse asks him if he would like to write a note to Gilda, because she liked to know who was donating the blood. Zweibel wrote: "Dear Gilda: I knew I would get some of my fluids into you one way or another."

I laughed and cried simultaneously the first time I read it.

I think I'm being honest when I say that I don't have too many friends; I have acquaintances, certainly, but very few relationships that involve that kind of trust and affection that creates the kind of intimacy that exists between the two people in that lovely book. And the really fascinating part of it is that if I was asked to isolate the moment that those relationships began, I wouldn't be able to do it.

How does a bond become so strong without my actually noticing?

Okay, frankly, I don't care. I am grateful for the relationships.

Because, those relationships, those friendships both recent and age-old, are the blanket that keeps me warm in a world that can be quite cold.

And if they go, it's like a circle of Hell that Dante never considered, for it would have been too horrible to contemplate.

Friday, December 4, 2009

Yup. Was a hard night, my friends..and then, the day began...

Good afternoon (which is to say, good evening) and welcome to my fever.

Yes, the fever has returned, and this time, it's not taking any prisoners.

Here are some of the highlights:

An image of Abraham Lincoln, swearing at a T-bone steak. This comes from my college days, when all things strange and questionable went into my system, just to see what my system would do.

The punishment for all crimes is dependant on how well you play an old-style, no electronic scoring pinball machine.

Bradbury's Mars. With the dark and golden eyed.

Wells' Food of the Gods.

Endless reruns of a season in Hell, playing Ebenezer Scrooge, twice a day, six days a week....

Oh, GOD! The nightmare of me taking up a Cuba Libre and a Marlboro. That's still number one on my psyche's hit parade.

And, finally, everybody who ever meant anything to me, disappearing before my very eyes, pleading for help...and the last image of the eyes, unforgiving for my failure.

Music from the 80's; I only recognized snatches of the music, but I distinctly remember "Rock Me Amadeus" and "I Love the Dead." After that, it all blended together.

After all that, I went to work.
I envy the daywalkers.
Fevers really suck when you're awake and it's night.

Generally speaking, I'm feeling very badly about everything.
But I just can't seem to get a grip on it, just now.

Perhaps I need some of that sticky stuff you can put on your hands to help you catch a football.
Or velcro.
Or hot glue.
A nail gun.

To paraphrase Dylan Thomas:

"Bartender, I'll take 36 shots of pure grain vacation, right f**kin' here."

Thursday, December 3, 2009

As elusive as chimney smoke and as near as a memory....

The danger on the rocks has surely passed. The cold, or whatever it was that took up residence in the various empty places inside my skin has diminished somewhat, and although I wouldn't mind just.....not......doing, I must prepare myself for my adult duties.

The snow has continued to fall here in the North, just a little here and there, since yesterday, leaving slightly more than a dusting and slightly less than an inch on the ground. The grass is covered, and the wind has picked up, so it's pretty cold outside. I know this, because I did a hurried version of decoration on the front porch earlier this morning; a little wreathing, a little garland, a few twinkly lights all about, and voila! My house is easily identifiable from Santa Land.

I did some shopping online yesterday, and I pause to wonder at just how much the world has changed since I was younger. I used my first computer when I was about
21; since then, they've added such features as a hard drive, a modem, and really cool graphics. And now, I can actually do all my shopping from my dining room table.

The future is way cool.
I do miss the jet packs and flying cars though.

And Astro.

Soon, my world will be filled with the sights and sounds and aromas of Christmas; the smell of fresh Shortbread, right out of the oven. The sound of wrapping paper being cut, and mangled, and re-cut because I suck at wrapping. The sight of my darling wife dressing the tree in the theme du anno.

And everybody is looking forward to the Christmas feast. I'm thinking of actually trying a plum pudding this year.

Of course, there will be meat. And poultry. And potatoes that have had a very serious accident.

But for now, the visions of sugarplums must dance in my head; I've got to go make the money to afford this lavish end-of-year lifestyle.

Toodles.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Down, but can still hear the Referee's count.

I have this work ethic handed down from my Father; even though you may be feeling a little under the weather, you still need to give it the best you got.

Damn it.

I've been ill for about three days now, but didn't really know it until yesterday, when I went to work and about six hours in began to see bats in my peripheral vision. Bats in the Periphery are the universal signal for "you had better go home and lie down." It has always been that way with me; and I have ignored the signal at my peril for the last three decades, when the first bats appeared.

So, I came home, had be a cocktail of Nyquil on the Rocks (that's a lie, for people that know me; I take the pill variety of Nyquil, because the alcohol content of the liquid tends to affect me badly) and lay me down to sleep.

And now, it's noon.

And I'm thinking that I feel better, and now the best part of the day, the MOST productive part of my day, is past.

You see the problem here?

I'm pissed about that. I'm actually pissed about sleeping in.

What is wrong with me?
What have I become?
Where is the life of which late I led?

Thursday, November 26, 2009

I don't know if using a recycled post is ecologically sound, or just creatively lazy. Happy Thanksgiving!

This is a re-run, but is touched with love. Touch it yourself; it'll rub off.

Thanksgiving is upon us, and it will soon be time for the traditional flying Bullwinkle balloon through the streets of Manhattan, football games (three this year, spaced evenly apart throughout the day) and of course, food to consume until you cannot sit upright and must lie down and prepare for the second helping. And of course, if you've a mind to, you can physically and mentally prepare for the social phenomena that is "The Day After Sales."

Interesting thoughts on the subject of Thanksgiving:

If Ben Franklin had gotten his way, and made the Turkey our National Bird, would we be eating Eagle on Thanksgiving?

I'm curious about stuffing. If it's made on the stove, can it truly be stuffing? And if it's authentic stuffing, why do people who have a phobia about eating things off the floor have no qualms about eating bread out of a turkey's ass?

I do believe that people think that Cranberry sauce is SUPPOSED to look like the can it came out of.

A traditional staple on the North Dakota table is Lefse. I really don't see the excitement. It's a potato tortilla.

Oh, and don't get me started on Lutefisk. Here is the Dictionary definition:

A traditional Scandinavian dish prepared by soaking air-dried cod in a lye solution for several weeks before skinning, boning, and boiling it, a process that gives the dish its characteristic gelatinous consistency.

Yup. I'll have me a big bowl of that.

Somebody asked me yesterday about which wine I would serve with the Turkey. I recommended a white wine, and around our house (although I don't imbibe) we prefer a nice Riesling. I did mention that it would all depend on the way the turkey was cooked. Riesling for a roasted turkey; Beer or Jack Daniels for a deep fried turkey.

It's interesting how many house fires are created by those people deep frying their turkeys. My brother-in-law fried the turkey last year, and he did it marvelously, but I gots to tell you, it looks frightening.

Okay, wrap it up......

To all my friends, their families, my family and their friends, to all that are serving in the desert, and to all that served before that; to the thinkers, and the dreamers, and to those who use their powers for good and not for evil, I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving, in the hope that through the contemplation of the good, contemplation can become application.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

This is one of those posts to read and release. Nothing socially relevant here....move on.....

As most of you who follow along regularly know, I am a fan of Disney. I watch Disney Channel programming regularly, because I have always been a fan of cartoons, and I enjoy some of the live action things as well.

Not so much the one about the singer leading the double life; I find it....soulless, somehow.

I was watching something called SONNY WITH A CHANCE....a little trite, not cleverly written, and with the exception of one character, a little over the top with the facial contortion....but I can forgive that.

And then, on came Christina.

I worked with Christina many years ago, in an outdoor drama in Indiana that doesn't exist in it's original form anymore. She was a fresh-faced kid finishing up her degree at some Midwestern University and was more than ready to take on the world.

She played the Mother of one of the characters.

Now, keep in mind that my brain is like a time machine; I can move seamlessly through every moment of my past, and actually put myself RIGHT THERE AT THAT MOMENT, able to feel every nuance of emotion I felt then.....I can actually make it real.

It's not a talent I would recommend to everybody. It can be quite....painful.

Christina is playing a Mother.
Christina is at least a DECADE younger than myself.

And every single moment of my life came crashing onto the shore of my present, and I....was....old.

Now, I have been accused of having an "old soul". I've been accused of that since I was about sixteen years of age. I took many things to heart, I learned many lessons, and through the observation of society I created a philosophy for myself that involved empathy and assistance. Perhaps understanding that protecting other people was a keystone to living a rich life was what drew people to my "old soul".

I don't mind having and "old soul".

I object to being reminded that I'm over a decade older than the fictional Mother of a fictional character on television.

Ow. OW OW OW.

Monday, November 23, 2009

If it's Monday, it must be like Thursday, but without the television schedule....

I've been looking back at some recent posts, and I'm almost embarrassed to see just how morose I've become.

I would say that, if I didn't believe that it could get....even....worser.

There are some bright spots in the mist, however. I'm very fond of food, and this is the season that food becomes a primary focus in my existence. Poultry in copious amounts both roasted and deep fried is good for the soul. I also begin my yearly attempt at burying my loved ones in baked goods. Oh, and there's this little store in Vermont that will invariably send me several hundred dollars worth of candy.

I get these little bags of licorice that looks like coal for my nieces and nephews. I like to think that it's an incentive to be better in the coming year. Besides, last year the parents of all those nieces and nephews (technically, they are my GRAND nieces and nephews, their parents being my nieces and nephews, but that makes me feel older than I actually am, so live with the discrepancy) were all willing to take my life over the fact that I gave the children FLYING SCREAMING MONKEYS!

I love FLYING SCREAMING MONKEYS!

I especially love that you have to CAPITALIZE it. For EMPHASIS.

Now, the drawbacks. The mist, so to speak.

'Tis the season for the wackos to come out of the woodwork.
'Tis the season for the weather to change, which makes my job harder; I've just come up with a communication plan for extreme weather, and I can't wait to try it out, but at the same time, I'm not.
'Tis the season where I miss my family just a little more than usual.

So, yin and yang.

Oh, and by the way.....I've been tobacco free for a year. So, my life insurance is now affordable, rather than almost not affordable.

Still have that cholesterol issue, though.
But, according to everything I've read, you do HAVE to die of something.

Friday, November 20, 2009

Nine Years On....

It was a Monday, back in '00.
A sunny day on the West Coast, not too chilly for late November.
The drive up the coast to Morro Bay was lovely, to a little chapel behind a nice bookstore just off the main street.
About 20 invited guests.
Eric Sandeen, my best friend of old, was the best man.
He still is the best man, by the way.
Judy, my wife's sister, was the honor guard. We had a hard time...she wouldn't except Matron, and she laughed at Maid. So, we made her guard.
Chris came up from L.A., and he brought as a surprise, Brian, whom I hadn't seen in almost a decade.
Shed a tear at that.
In a manly way.
The ceremony was non-denominational.
And quick.
I think.
Can't remember much of it, except that the minister had only one leg.

When we arrived home, there was cake, and champagne, and a couple score of people to help celebrate, which we did until the wee hours.
Remember, my day started at 5am, so the wee hours were like....seven pm.
We had a dinner of take out.
I think it was steak. Roast Beast. Something.

Surrounded by a family of hers, and an adopted family of actors, taking a break from the opening of A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
My family couldn't make the trip.
It was MONDAY, fahcryinoutloud.

And as the sun set on the day, I thought to myself...
"Can a day go better than that?"


The answer is.
Nope.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Some of it's magic...

Many years ago, I sang this song to a girl named Emily.
The song spoke to me in my youth; and it speaks to me in my age.
I hope Emily is well.



Tuesday, November 17, 2009

How can I stop feeling it?

I was watching Rachel Maddow.

I love Rachel Maddow.

She reminds me of my friend Regina.

But tonight, Rachel Maddow scared the crap out of me.

She did a story on this phrase that's showing up on bumperstickers, and t-shirts, and teddy bears: Pray for Obama: Psalm 109.8

Now, before you all start running for your King James, here it is.

Psalm 109.8 says, "May his days be few; may another take his office."

Okay, there's nothing I can write here that does justice to the horror that this level of crazy inspires in my soul; anything I can possibly come up with would pale in comparison to what comes in Psalm 109.9:

"May his children be Fatherless; and his wife a widow."

Crap.
Scared.
Out of.

I don't want to live in this country anymore. It's become dark, and mean-sprited, and xenophobic, and Canada is only 150 miles away. And I'm sure they'd welcome me with open arms, eh?

Monday, November 16, 2009

And in the dark of the night, it comes to me...

I always wondered what the rules were; and a Knight of the Realm was kind enough to provide me with the rules to live by.......

Live to serve King and Country.
Live one's life so that it is worthy of respect and honor.
Live for freedom, justice and all that is good.

Never attack an unarmed foe.
Never use a weapon on an opponent not equal to the attack.
Never attack from behind.

Avoid lying to your fellow man.
Avoid cheating.
Avoid torture.

Administer justice.
Protect the innocent.

Exhibit self control.
Show respect to authority.

Respect women.

Exhibit Courage in word and deed.
Defend the weak and innocent.
Fight with honor.
Avenge the wronged.

Never abandon a friend, ally, or noble cause.

Die with valor.

Always keep one's word of honor.
Always maintain one's principles.
Never betray a confidence or comrade.

Respect life and freedom.

Die with honor.

Exhibit manners.

Loyalty to King, country, and honor.
Loyalty to one's friends and those who lay their trust in thee.


So.
Go thou, and do likewise.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

The Ballad of John and OH NO!

My much missed friends continue to drive the nails into the coffin of my self-image by posting photographs of our recent get together in the wilds of WI.

I don't begrudge them the photos, mind you; the rest of the photos (the ones minus me) are a welcome break from the realities of my current predicaments. It was a great weekend (read: DAY) and I have not laughed so hard or so long for a long hard while. It's nice that they captured all the singing, cake and sandwich eating, running through the forest in my four wheeler, "does that fire look on-purpose to you?" glory.

But it depressed me to see the chin. And the bald spot. And the other multitude of sins.

And yet, I ate a lot of cake.

So, lately I've been pretty miserable. I'm not sure as to the exact cause, but I will attribute it to a decided lack of interest in anything. I understand that they produce narcotics to mitigate this feeling, but you know me and drugs.....if you manufacture, I will imbibe. And then, proceed right to addiction, and I've been down that road and although the weather started lovely and the landscape was..well, pretty cool.....I did not, as they say, stick the dismount.

I would rather be miserable and in charge than happy and hooked.
I gotta be me.

My point is.
And I DO have one.

I was dragging my morbid and tired old body home this morning, at around the time you are were getting out of bed, and I was thinking that sleeping is the only real hobby I have anymore, and how that can't be good.....

And the radio begins to play Journey.
Don't. Stop. Believin'.

And all of a sudden, I'm in 116 Gries Hall in Marquette, Mi, it's 1981, and we're singin' at the top of our lungs, in proper harmony, and Steve Perry sings so high I think the top of my head is going to fly off of my body......

And emotional memory kicks in, and I'm smiling like an idiot, swaying to the music, got the sunroof open and the tune cranked up to eleven. And it's cold, and it's morning, and after this song is over, I'm going to smile until I forget, but for RIGHT NOW, RIGHT THIS FREAKIN' MINUTE, I've got a 34 inch waist, a full head of hair, theatre is more than a distant memory, and I'm living for this ONE moment.

And I begin to think about golf.
And how, in golf, you can suck out loud for seventeen holes; you can put the ball everywhere but in the cup, and the only thing you're thinking about is tying your clubs to the railroad tracks, and taking up knitting.
But on the eighteenth fairway, you take out a three iron, and you hit the ball so well it winds up nine inches from the cup. A perfect layup shot.
And you think, "if I could put three of those shots together, I could par a hole."
And then, "If I could put a couple of par holes together, I could, perhaps, go pro."

And it's going to be that one three iron shot that brings you back to the god forsaken game next week at the same time. Just for the hope of it.

So.
If I can have one minute of this week where I don't think about how the years are spilling out before me like some hopeless brick road.....

Sing on!

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Biding my time, sans tobacco and wine....

In November of 2007, I began writing here. It was actually on the 10th, but Anniversaries tend to escape me; except for my wedding anniversary, which escaped me once, but a well-placed comment (written on a two-by-four) amended that particular flaw.

I began writing here after living through my first set of seasons in the North Country; it wasn't really that I was unprepared for the seasons, having cut my teeth in the Mitten, but I did find that I was missing something, somehow.

It began with dreams, actually; I began having dreams where I woke up crying. And this went of for several days. And a few friends of mine suggested that it was because I was mourning the death of my creativity. So, I began to write here, in an effort to give my creative side an outlet.

Most of the time, in my humble opinion, I missed the mark.

I told you I was humble.

There are some things I have written that I'm proud of; I would occasionally create a sonnet that makes sense and is structurally sound; I couple lines of dialogue that didn't make me cringe; support for friends; explanations for the obvious.

But mostly, and lately mostly, it's been a struggle just to sit down at the computer and pretend that the words are there.

So, little by little, it has become more and more about less and less.

But I'm a patient man. And yes, I can hear you laughing at the thought. I can wait until the moments become words and the words become phrases and perhaps, just perhaps I can get something together that spans more than the size of this particular post.

Until then.....I'm saving up my creative pennies.

And going into my little dance.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Here, There, and Everywhere.....

I just came from a place.

There's no way I can point to it on a map; because even though this place I went to was on this physical plane of existence (and for those of you who weren't there, and for those of you who are so tremendously curious that this narrative could not possibly continue without the knowledge of the pinpoint on the map, it was a little town between St. Paul MN, and Madison, WI.) I can only consider the physical address to be a doorway, so to speak.

For what was beyond that doorway encompassed all space, and all time.

It is very rare you actually get a chance to travel back in time to good places.

There is so much to transmit based upon that brief sixteen hour tour. Suffice it to say that when I arrived, I was embraced; I ate far too much food, and fed my starving soul with a healthy dose of chicken soup and laughter that rocked Valhalla, and made the Gods themselves jealous.

Oh, and I did my impressions of Joe Cocker and Bob Dylan.

I found my inner Rock Star.

I discovered the sister I never had bakes a wondrous cake.

My other brother can cook something other than pizza.

That my tall brother is moving in with another sister of my past; and his sunglasses make him look like Bono.

And my southern sister can make me laugh so hard, I have to stand next to a table; for sitting down would have caused me to rupture something, and standing up would be nearly impossible; hence, the table.

We made phone calls; we heard voices from the past. We talked about books, and movies, and work, and not. We skirted around the issues of the past unpleasant; resolved some feelings; and did I mention the weather was lovely?

I may never stop smiling.

Such a thing to be cursed with......HA!

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Are they closet doors, or Home Depot Origami?

I wonder why you never notice the lack of doors until you actually put up doors.

It's true.

I was putting up some closet doors this morning....

Okay, perhaps I should start at the beginning.

The choosing of closet doors is, apparently, a delicate matter. It isn't just one of your holiday games, as T.S. Elliot would later write. There are an almost infinite number of configurations to the actual closet door. There are two fold, three fold, sliding, mirrored, unmirrored, plain, louvered, moulded, plastic, wood, plastic wood, solid, foam core, shimmy shimmy cocoa bop.

I kind of felt like the Robin Williams character in MOSCOW ON THE HUDSON, fainting in anxiety at the amount of choices of coffee he was presented at the A&P.

I didn't faint.
I will admit to some respiratory arrest, however.

What if I choose....unwisely?
Will the guardian of closet doors make my face melt?

Okay, so I chose some closet doors. And I stuffed them into my car (which I thought was actually a large car, until I had to put something into it...but that's a story for another time) and brought them home...did the three cat two step to try to get them inside the house, which is up the stairs and down the stairs, and through two doors and oh, DAMN I stepped on something that meows......

Long story short.
Too late!
You never realize how many of your opening don't have doors until you spend some time putting up doors on one of your openings.

This story was funnier in my head.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

And apparently,

I've already blown it.

You see, that's the trouble with my schedule; I live at night, and one little bump (like a change of clocks that nobody really notices because they're asleep, but those of us that work at night feel it keenly) screws up the internal clock so's I don't know just what day it is.

So, I posted twice on the first, and none on the second.

It's enough to tick me off on a Tuesday morning.

I'm assuming it IS Tuesday.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Random thought early Monday, is anybody awake to read this crap?

In the government, to Err is human, to forgive is not our policy.

Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you're wrong.

There is a great need for sarcasm font.

As a driver I hate pedestrians, and as a pedestrian I hate drivers, but no matter what the mode of transportation, I always hate cyclists.

How the hell are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?

I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.

Was learning cursive really necessary?

"Do not machine wash or tumble dry" means I will never wash this ever.

I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars teams up to prevent a jerk from cutting in at the front. Stay strong, brothers!

While driving yesterday I saw a banana peel in the road and instinctively swerved to avoid it...thanks Mario Kart.

I find it hard to believe there are actually people who get in the shower first and THEN turn on the water.

Bad decisions make good stories.

I hate leaving my house confident and looking good and then not seeing anyone of importance the entire day. What a waste.

You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you've made up your mind that you just aren't doing anything productive for the rest of the day.

And with that......

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Annnnnnd....we're OFF! And, we're also writing.....

Is it November already?

Ahhhhhh, crap.

Last year, I got involved in something called Nablapomo, or Polloloco, or something; it translates into getting creative people to commit to creativity for an entire month. And last year, I managed to write every day for a month.

Last year, I worked normal, human hours.

This year, I work Vampire hours.

And yes, like a Vampire, it sucks.

So, I'm not too sure if I'll be able to keep up the pace.

But, I'll try.

Consider this Day 1.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

And my dentist loves it, too......


Hi. I'm Clemo.
I'm addicted to Candy Corn.

Actually, I'm addicted to many things, but Candy Corn is the most harmless of my addictions. That, and Stephen King. But Candy Corn doesn't either scare the crap out of me, or make me angry for paying good money for badly written crap.

I do, however, get mad when I buy badly manufactured Candy Corn.

I KNOW it has the consistency of sealing wax, and it has enough sugar in one serving to stun a herd of buffalo. In its favor, it looks like corn. Kind of.

That's why Halloween season is one of my favorites; oodles of Candy Corn just laying around stores, ready to jump into my shopping cart.

And the day after Halloween......HALF PRICE CANDY CORN!

What's not to love?

Monday, October 26, 2009

Plavel Trans.

I've been asked the questions a couple of times, and I guess I'll answer it.

The answer is yes. I will be travelling next weekend.

This weekend, I'm going to have dinner with Garrison Keillor. Me and about 500 other people. But I'm near the stage, so I'm hoping to get the Wobegon Nod. They're broadcasting A PRAIRIE HOME COMPANION from Bismarck on Halloween, and since I've been wanting to see a performance of the show since I was in graduate school, I'm looking forward to it.

The following weekend, I'm going to walk down Amnesia Avenue with my head held high, and spend quality time with some old friends.

So, to those old friends, I say: from the looks of things, I'll be able to get away, but only for a brief time. I should be able to clear Bismarck by early Friday morning, and be where I need to be by Friday night. And then, I'll have to leave again on Sunday morning.

Right now, I'm on the reserve list, and should the small epidemic of H1N1 spread among my brethren, I may have to adjust my schedule....but for now, let me just say that I'm looking forward to it.

So.

See ya.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Back when I was a man....

One of the continual surprises of my life is the memories that other people have of me.

I don't get to hear about them very often; largely because I'm always pretty sure that I don't WANT to really know about them. You hope, as everybody does, that those memories that people have of you would be of good quality, but you fear that in a previous incarnation of your current personality, you were, in essence, and a***ole.

I'm connected enough with myself to know that I have a***olian tendencies.

I'm a gentleman enough to know when to apologize for it. Sincerely. My own a***olian quality can bring tears to my own eyes.

This is all brought about by a couple of encounters with old friends; old girlfriends, brought back into the sphere by the dreaded Facebook. And I instigated those connections, because I have memories of them that are so dear, they are actually kept in a small, solid gold box on the mantle of my memory.

Memories are often coated with the fairy-dust of forgetfulness, as well; the bad tends to be muted somewhat, in favor of the good. It's the good that shines out...so perhaps the metaphor is better as Bon-Ami, rather than fairy-dust. The Bon-Ami clears away the tarnish, leaving the shine.

I have always been at my best when my heart is full. I don't think that's uncommon, really, at least among the people with which I populate my world. I can't think of a single friend of mine that's phoned it in when the chips were down, or walked away when there was blood or sweat or tears flowing.

One of those people that recently fell back into the Clemorbit has recently shared a story that I find uplifting; and would probably be more uplifting if I wasn't a party in the story....and still more if I could remember it. But, apparently, I had a conscience and sense of right and wrong, even when I was in my "blackout" period.

It goes something like this:

We went at each other like unfriendly cats.

We really had no reason to do so, but it was one of those things; maybe it was a territory thing. Maybe it was that our individual scents reminded us of people who did us wrong in a previous life. Maybe the look in your eye at that particular time made me think that you were a jackass. Maybe you thought I tanked an audition reading we had done together. The initial reason is only prologue.

We did not care for each other.

And our lives revolved around that no-man's land; we went to the same parties, but never in the same room. We went to the same table at lunches, but never the same end, or even the same side. We would acknowledge each other's presence, but in a kind of grudging way that indicated to everybody in the surrounding area that if we were to touch, we could very well annihilate everything around us.

And then, he broke up with her, and she was devastated.

It was the kind of devastation that you try to hide, but like the floodwaters behind the dike, that sadness would seep out through the well-hidden seams of her outward appearance.

And on one particular day, after that breakup, I was walking past an office, and there she was, sitting between two desks, head down.

I walked by.

Stopped.

Sighed.

And walked back.

I didn't say anything; I just sat down next to her. There are times to speak, and times to keep your mouth shut. A broken nose and several chipped teeth have taught me the difference.

And I sat there for an hour, as she put her head on my shoulder and cried.

After that, I walked her home through the Illinois evening, and she talked it out. And I nodded my head, and occasionally asked a question to clarify, and let her vent.

The hug she gave me when we came to her house would have cracked a rib if it had been December instead of September. And she tried something else, but I gently extricated myself from the encounter. Gently. With a kiss on the forehead.

And I walked away.

For the next two years, we still went to the same parties, but still wound up in different rooms. She met a very nice fellow, and turned out to be very happy for the extent of our mutual orbit. But there was no feel-good-movie-of-the-year bond between us.

But apparently, the memory stayed fresh until a few days ago, when she jump started my memory of the event.

And I bask, briefly, in the glow of someone else's memories of me.

One more chit. I may get into Heaven yet.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

"Dance Again," spake Pablo Cruise......

Stop me if you've heard this one......

There comes a time when you get caught between what it is, and what it was; and it's so dark in that place that you can't even begin to see what it should be.

And it gets almost comfortable in that place; to the point where you can almost stand the complete lack of sensation of any kind.

Immobilized by gravity.

And then, you hear a song.

And that song brings forth first, a grin. And then a laugh. And before you know it, you're dancing across the room.

And you know that as soon as that song ends, you'll be back in the limbo between what is, and what was; and that blindness to what should be will return like an acquaintance that you don't like very much, but can't seem to tell to f**k off.

But the memory of the song will get you through to another day.

And maybe, just maybe.....

Play on.

Monday, October 19, 2009

I can offer naught but my prayers.....

I feel a profound sense of sadness today. And, I wish I were kidding.

For those of you that don't know, I was born just north of Eight Mile road in Detroit. It's not ACTUALLY the city itself, but much of the identity I have come to embody comes from that frustrating and star-crossed city.

It's been a hard year for the City of Detroit.

The mayor indicted and convicted for perjury; and probably getting away with far more.
The lifeblood of the city, Chrysler, General Motors, and Ford taking a hit that may not be recovered from. Ever.
The highest unemployment rates in the country.
A crumbling infrastructure.

And those things that under normal circumstances give the people at the very least hope, those sporting events that in the past have brought a city together, have been a source of disappointment; in some cases, devastatingly so.

The Red Wings giving up a 2-0 series lead to lose in seven.
The Pistons not making the playoffs for the first time in over a decade.
The Tigers and their monumental collapse.
And the Lions....sigh.

And now, with the news of three deaths during the Detroit Marathon, I'm wondering what EXACTLY that the Divine has against the residents of my hometown?

So, if you've got the time sometime today, if you could say a little prayer for the people of Detroit, and those families who lost loved ones on that strange and saddening Sunday, I would appreciate it.

And so, I'm sure, would they.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Dreams, and realities.

My dreams tend to be repetitious.

And rarely so comfortable as to produce the wish to remain in dreamland.

Now, we all hear the stories of the "Actor's Nightmare." A fellow named Durang wrote an extremely humorous short play surrounding that idea. You know what I'm talking about; even non-actors have this nightmare. You're on a stage, you can't remember rehearsing the play, and yet there you are in front of an audience, unsure of the blocking and completely void of any idea as to the text of the play. And just when you think you've got a handle on it, somebody else comes in and starts a different play.

And most of the time, you're naked.

You don't mind waking up from a dream like that.

My dreams are usually the college dreams; the ones where you can't remember your class schedule, and you continue to blow off a course, knowing that you need THAT particular class in order to graduate. I find myself more often than not walking the halls of some academic building I don't recognize, trying to find a classroom I should have been attending since September, and here it is, finals week.

Waking from that one brings a kind of relief I don't often find in wakefulness.

But sometimes, I do hunt down my diplomas, just to be sure.

Sometimes, in the night, I am visited by the ghosts of friends past; perhaps it's my overindulgence in the works of Charles Dickens, or my affinity for the redemption of the human soul. It's good to see the faces again, and it really hits me in the dead of the night how much I miss those folks.

Alas, usually we wind up talking about something that has nothing to do with anything. I can remember talking to my old friend Ed about horse racing, even though I'm fairly sure that we never attended any such event. At those times, I sure wish the spirits would send a little something about the near future that I could use.

Perhaps if we talk about horse racing, they could send me a winner.

I don't dream so much anymore. On any level. Waking or sleeping. My sleep patterns are becoming more and more unusual, and the fact that I live most of my life in the dark doesn't help matters much.

It's starting to get very lonely out here.

Perhaps it's something I can grow out of.

Or, perhaps the ghosts of the past can give me some advice.

Until then, it's me and the computer and the phone and MSNBC.

Good night and good morning.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

A drizzly morning on the frozen prairie.

I don't trust readily.

There have been times in my life when I really wanted to trust that what was being spoken to me was the truth; but, alas, there wasn't enough truthiness in the speaker to justify my casting aside the layers of distrust; and, oddly enough, I find that I was correct in NOT casting aside said layers, for the speaker was lying like a one legged liar in a lying contest.

I have found that anybody that ever called me "talented" was selling something. And, it's still happening.

But I'm not falling for it. I've learned all sorts of lessons, and one of them is, if I was truly talented, I would be working. I'm not working, ergo, no talent for it. Let be be the finale of seem.

Perhaps it's more the truth to say that I never had a head for business. I never could play the game, because I couldn't develop the schmooze as a tool to the overall well-being of my career. I liked conversation on a wide variety of topics, but not about me. I find the topic of me to be quite dull.

The irony is that I spend a lot of time writing here about it.
So, maybe I AM a liar.

Now, I'm going to have to re-think my entire self image.

Hell of a thing to have to do on my one day off.

Perhaps I'll just tell my self image to f**k off and have a sandwich.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Funny how the mind works.....

Single thought on a Sunday morning:

I see a lot of commercials, and before I go any further, I should say that I had all the respect in the world for Billy Mays and his ability to sell anything.

That being said, I was watching a commercial that still contains Billy....I believe the object was the car device that turns your phone into a hands-free device.....and there's a moment when he gets a call that his producer needs him at the studio for a production meeting...and he says, "No problem, I'll be there in twenty minutes...."

Now, my mind goes in the weirdest directions; and in this case, it became Billy as an undead zombie, showing up at the production meeting to eat braaaains.

PA's running around screaming.

Cut to zombie Billy, cleaning up with a little OxyClean.

Yeah. It's probably funnier in my head.

Rosebud's a SLED!

Thursday, October 8, 2009

She said it so much better, but I have two cents to throw in....

I have this friend who recently suffered the loss of her faithful companion, Emily.

I never had the opportunity to meet Emily, but by all accounts, she was a good dog; she treated her owner well: exercised her regularly, made sure she was warm in the wintertime, and generally kept my friend company for a good many years.

Mark Twain once wrote about what he expected when he met St. Peter, and one of the things was that you were to leave your dog outside;

"Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out, and the dog would go in."

My friend was recently writing about how people deal with her particular grief. The people who offer advice have clearly never had a dog as a companion. There's a bond between a dog and his companion (I cannot bring myself to say, "owner,") that goes beyond that of a cat, or a bird, or a lizard.

You can own a lizard. Why you would want to, I have NO IDEA.

I guess I've told you that to tell you this......

My first dog was a poodle named Ginger. It was actually my Mother's dog, she met her, fell in love in the blink of an eye, and named her after the color she swore the dog was. I always thought the dog was white, but that's not a very good name for a dog. Unless that dog winds up as Editor of the Daily Planet.

Ginger was a good dog. She was a tomboy who always resented when my Mother would take her to the groomers and get that weird poodle haircut, complete with ribbon. Ginger hated that, I could tell.

Ginger liked chasing rabbits, and baseballs. So much so that Ginger almost got killed by a swinging baseball bat. She survived it, but had a strange smile after that. Oh, did I mention that I almost beat the bat swinger to death? But that's another story......

The greatest gift that Ginger ever gave me was the ability to cure a stomach ache. When I would suffer from that particular malady, I would often be forced to lie down someplace in the hope that it would go away before I died. Ginger would come up on the bed, and curl up next to my stomach, and the mere touch of the warmth of the dog would be the absolute cure-all.

We were forced to say goodbye to Ginger the summer before my senior year in high school. I went to the vet with her. I've not been able to go to a vet's office since.

That was 1979. There have been other dogs, cats, and various other creatures (but no spiders and lizards), but there's not been another Ginger. In thirty years.

The last thing I'll say here is that I was back to visit my father last January, and he asked me to do a little cleanup of some of the things that remained of my brothers and I around the house. I was going through my younger brother's dresser drawers and came across Ginger's collar.

Cried like a baby.

I get it. I've always gotten it. And those who DON'T get it are missing something vital.

Hugs to you, my friend.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

It's not as bad as you would think. Unless you're prone to thinking bad things. Oh, CRAP, I'm screwed......

It was a long night, children; filled with quiet and chaos, rain and snow. I was a locust short of a plague.

To my mind, things in my life either have to slow the f**k down, or speed the f**k up. I'm too tired at this point to decide on THAT course of action.

I haven't got any perspective right now. I don't have a point of view. I've been living with someone elses point of view, and the sad part is that I don't seem to know that person who has projected that point of view.

Rudderless is only good for the young, or young at heart.

I am neither.

And haven't been for quite. Some. Time.

But it's getting to the point where I am going to disappoint somebody. And again, I'm not sure whom I am going to disappoint, but I'm very sure that it's going to happen.

And I haven't the strength, patience, or days left in this silly game to try and figure it out, or take the lashes of consequence, or even continue writing this particular sentence.

Okay, I finished the sentence, but I'm NOT spell checking.

NYAHH!

Monday, October 5, 2009

Full of Empty.

Random thoughts:

I knew that the Tigers would break my heart; what pisses me off is that they actually forced an EXTRA GAME in order to do it.

(insert classic Historiclemo grumble here)

The Lions finally had to give up that one-game winning streak. Ah, it was a glorious day last week, though. If only the party could have lasted longer.

(insert classic Historiclemo resigned sigh here)

Sometimes, the only thing you can do is send good thoughts.

(insert classic Historiclemo scrunching-up of the face, sending thoughts)

It's come to that time of year again; when I go to work in the dark and I go home in the dark, as well. There's an upside to that: I don't need to know where my sunglasses are.

(insert cool Historiclemo photo of sunglasses here)

I hope you are all well today; it's raining, and the possibility of snow before the middle of the week is 80%.

I've got my tickets to see THE PRAIRIE HOME COMPANION here in Bizzytown on Halloween, and I hope to get to meet Garrison Keillor...I sprung for the floor seats.

Is it wrong to dream of planet sized cookies?

If it isn't, can I have one?

And finally, every time the weather turns to cold and rainy, I can't help thinking back to those halcyon days, standing on the shore of Lake Superior; thinking about the future, both immediate and far-flung; smiling to myself at the silliness of standing on the shore during a howling gale; and looking forward to the warmth of the tavern.

I'm smiling juuuuuuust thinking about it.

Love to you all.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

Resistance is Futile, Christopher Robin!




We are Borg.
Pooh will be assimilated.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Little victories, little joys.

Raining and cold today; perfect weather to stay inside with a cuppa joe and some old Beatles albums. With a little BNL thrown in to bring me nearer to the 21st Century.

I was up early. With three cats (the older two have taught the younger one some very bad habits: "See here, Kid, if you punch him with your paw right in the kisser around 0530, he will get up. He can't help himself.") They have me well trained, indeed.

Yeah, I wandered down the library for the semi-annual Friends of the Library Book Sale. I love book sales, and would attend when even if it meant getting up out of a deathbed.

Well, not MY deathbed, but A deathbed.

Why would I be in somebody else's deathbed? Mind your own business.

The city library in Evansville, Indiana always did a great book sale. It was two days long, and they would take over the mall, set up table after table after table of books in the halls of the mall (mallhall) and set 'em up. I have to admit it was like Filene's Basement, but the things you would find.....amazing. What some people consider a toss away, I consider a treasure.

This year, I found first editions of Patricia Cornwell's first novel featuring her Kay Scarpetta character. Made the trip worthwhile. Some people just don't know what they're giving away.

A first edition of PT Barnum's Autobiography for a dime.

Jeepers Creepers.

Found a couple of other things to replace paperbacks in the library....eighteen pounds of books for nine dollars. Heaven is a place with Vonnegut and McMurtry, Twain and Asimov, Laurie King and Mario Puzo.

What I find funny is that Rowling sold like a billion books, and yet you don't seem to see many at the tables. Guess people just hold on to those.


Change of subject.

ESPN writes that, "It's October 1st, and the Tigers control the AL Central." This bothers me, because to my mind, they don't. They're up three with four to play. If they win today, it's a done deal until they visit NY in the middle of next week. THEN it's over. But the magic number is 2, and they can still break my heart.

Okay, gotta go. NEVER IS ENOUGH is playing and I need to dance in my library.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Value. Heart. Soul. Need.

I was reading recently about a couple that got married in a re-creation of the bridge from Star Trek: The Next Generation. The entire wedding party were in dress uniform, and I believe that the minister was dressed like the President of the United Federation of Planets.

In the pictures, everybody is smiling. Huge big smiles.

And it made me smile, too.

But I began to wonder as to how two people sit down to discuss the beginnings of their lives together, and say, "Hey....you know what would be cool?"

I'm not judging here; I am a fan of Star Trek in all its incarnations. TV, film, animated series, books, graphic novels, old generation, new generation, space station, delta quadrant....I watched them all. And actually have several props, a tribble, a uniform of my own, and a teddy bear that's been assimilated into the Borg Collective. I made regular trips to the late, lamented Star Trek: The Experience at the Hilton in Vegas.

But I began to ponder the attraction of this story, and how people relate to it so much that they get married in its thematic wake, they have huge conventions every year, and they actually produce things like phasers and tricorders and uniforms that nuts like myself can buy.

I'm really painting myself into the nerd corner, aren't I?

Aside from my penchant for science fiction (and I'm not limited to Roddenberry; I was also fond of Babylon 5, and the works of Asimov, Bradbury, as well as the twin masters of Verne and Wells), I think the whole thing boils down to one simple thing.

We are looking for something better.

In this day and age, when the lines have been smeared a little, and the hats are no longer white and black and the ally we talk to in the morning is in possession of a TNT suppository when the sun goes down, we are desperately in need of heroes.

I would be the most unenlightened fool on the face of the planet if I didn't recognize that our heroes are all around us; I work with more than a few of them. I've seen the work when they didn't think I was watching, and I've seen them work in those shadows that are required in this day and age, but I can tell you it is something to see......

We need our heroes. We need white hats. We need selfless service and hi-yo silver and the man who walks in shadow and knows what evil lurks.

And that's why we are drawn to things like Star Trek, and characters like Horatio Caine and Horatio Hornblower; why we still read Sherlock Holmes and Perry Mason, and we root for Jack McCoy. Why we hope that our leaders take a page from Jed Bartlett; and why we all strive to be Cyrano.

We need justice in our happy endings; we need right to overcome wrong.

And I hope the next leap will be the leap home.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Nightscapes and Dreamares.

It happens to me from time to time. Come to find out, it's been happening since before I had the ability to comprehend it.

According to dear old Da, as a child I had a tendency to fall into nightmares while seemingly wide-awake. He tells a story of sitting in a rocking chair, attempting to get me to sleep....

He was pretty sure I was awake at the time.

And then, all of a sudden, every muscle in my body tensed up. I looked over his shoulder, my eyes as wide as saucers.

I screamed, "Here it comes!"

Now, my Father is a logical man. He doesn't believe in things that go bump in the night. But that night, I actually spooked him. He was afraid to look over his shoulder.

He told me that story periodically for many years; usually when I was trying to avoid being embarrassed in front of a girl I was dating. It was his version of "naked baby on a bear-skin rug." I knew the story, and I can vaguely remember the nightmare, although the image I thought I saw that night changes with every thought of it.

What I didn't know was that for awhile, my Father thought I was mentally ill.

Not that it would surprise me. I have quirks that sometimes overcome every logical instinct I have.

Now, everybody has a little OCD in them; my tendencies lean toward not being able to tolerate dirty dishes, and my books have to be alphabetized by author, and sorted by publication year; I can't eat potato chips that are bent and twisted.

But I think there is something more.....because there are periods of time when it all becomes too much.

It starts with an insatiable desire for information of any kind. I will find myself in front of a computer, randomly typing subjects into Wikipedia. Reading history books. Stocking up on documentaries. Ordering books by the metric ton.

I can't turn the brain off.

And then, the flow of information becomes too much to bear, and I feel like I'm going to drown in a sea of a million voices, all asking my opinion.

And that's when the insomnia really begins.

And this happens about every six months.

It's been happening more and more as I've aged; and in the old days, I suppose I could poison myself into a fitful sleep, but those options are no longer open to me. I've tried pills, but they leave me a little groggy, and when I'm groggy I can't enjoy the thrill of my current employment.

I'm hip deep into the phase right now; and it's taken all I can muster just to write these few words; apparently, the thirst for knowledge that leads to drowning in it does not include the sequential sharing of the information.

And it makes me feel slight sad; like a glutton at a banquet when the table is bare. A kind of self-loathing that never seems to stay behind; in the circle that is my life, I know it's gonna come around again.

And sometimes, I just can't bear it.

Friday, September 25, 2009

Random quotes to fill time; it's kind of like a mental vamp.

"I'm losing my soul, Didi." -Joe vs The Volcano.

"Millions of people every day are paying thousands to get out of debt." -Random commercial.

"As good as the Colts were in the first half, that's as bad as they are right now."-Random MNF commentator.

"I make deceptively shallow serving dishes for Chinese restaurants."-Woody Allen, GOD.

"BURMA!"
"Why did you say "BURMA"?
"I panicked."
-Monty Python.

"Women. Can't live with 'em.....pass the beer nuts."-Norm, CHEERS.

And a hearty good afternoon to you; hope I didn't waste too much of your time.

Monday, September 21, 2009

A new Darwinian Theory.

On a very long drive up to the northern part of ND, my mind wandered to the real questions that bound the wide world.....

Where do we come from?

And then, like a Darwinian flash of lightning from the blue sky of the northern part of ND....

We are descended no from the humble ape, but from the noble cartoon.

Before you begin to scoff, I ask you to keep an open mind as I attempt to put my faith in the theory into coherent print.....

First of all, consider the Lord's Prayer:

Our Father, who ART in Heaven,
HAROLD be thy name....

Okay, first of all, take the word ART as the first clue, and a particularly keen one, but when put together with the name Harold....well, it's conclusive. HAROLD AND THE PURPLE CRAYON is the new bible for the new age.....a young man who creates the world with a purple crayon. Why purple, you ask? Well, each faith must have its mysteries......

Have I piqued your interest? If so, there will be more to come as I sort through the piles of information, looking for a cartoon Rosetta stone in an attempt to make sense of it all.

Or, it could just be another sign of apocalyptic madness that seems to be enveloping me as of late.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Relative age.

Over on one of those social networking sites, I recently took one of those quizzes.

It was called, "What's your real age?"

There are some things we are not meant to know. But what the hell, let's give it a try.

Answered all the questions, with brutal honesty.

And come to find out, my actual age is 34.

I've actually taken thirteen years off of my real age. Kind of makes me want to go out and get some stuff to take the grey out of my beard. I would leave the grey in my hair, of course, because it's distinguished and I'm not in my twenties anymore; I've earned the grey, I'm going to keep the grey.

But the thing is, there were a few people who had the nerve to be shocked at the results. Now, granted, I've always been a bit of a cynic, and that can make one feel and look older, but since I've moved to this land of fried food in abundance, I've been watching what I eat (except when I'm on vacation) and I stopped smoking almost a year ago....although in my heart I know I'll one day go back to it....because I miss it so......and I go to the gym often enough....so why can't I be 34 again?

34 physically.
Aged mentally.
Except where cookies and cartoons are concerned.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

We interrupt this program for the following announcement....



This is Pip.
Short for Pipsqueak.

He runs like the wind.
And has a voice that sends shivers down your spine.

Oh, and his pointy ends are becoming very pointy indeed.

Untitled rant. Again.

The things I choose to care about.

Stop me if you've heard this one before; it's gotten to the point where, in lieu of anything original, I'm repeating myself in a kind of strange "who cares?" kind of loop.

Once again, I don't know why I care about the things I care about. It's been brought to my attention that there are many who don't give a crap about what I give a crap about. And I suppose that's fair; there are many things that other people care about that I don't give a crap about.

So.

A simple request:

Could we PLEASE, as a society that fancies itself as being at the forefront of cultural evolution, could we PLEASE act civilized?

I'm reminded of a fellow I used to work with; and make no mistake, I liked this fellow, I found him to be a great conversationalist and a fine leader of men, but he epitomized the very idea that there is no such thing as "getting even."

He was a master of the practical joke; I'm talking old school stuff; the fake spider in the coat pocket, the snake in the locker...the chewing gum that turns your mouth black.....and for some reason, he could actually bring forth laughter through those old school jokes.

Until people decided to "get even."

And it would escalate. It would escalate until it wasn't funny any more. It would become sad and cruel and paranoia inducing. And what started between two people became a team-wide saga that would polarize a company of people into multiple camps, multiple plans, and multiple fronts of this practical warfare.

Does this sound familiar to anybody?

When did the society around me begin running around like a street gang in Compton? When did turning the other cheek become cowardly? When did we become so impatient that the simple act of listening to dissenting opinions become too difficult?

Yes.
I know the answer.
Thus it has been, and thus it shall always be.

Until somebody says "no more."

Something sticks in my mind, and I'm not sure where it comes from, but I leave you all with this thought:

Never doubt that a small group of determined individuals can change the world.
Because that's the only thing that ever has.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Rise again.

I have a difficult time with the images of yesterday.

You see, I was on the other side of the continent at the time, plying my trade in the sunny climes of California, and have only those flickering images on a television screen to echo the collective nightmares of my countrymen.

And then I went to work with an organization that uses the tragedy as a rallying cry.

We'll debate my idiocy at another time, and it'll be a short debate, because I think we're all in agreement. Let's just say that yesterday was a non-stop parade of paranoiac visions, and fearful watchmanship.

The lyrics of a song kept running through my head; and I went searching for a video of it, and I found one; it's not a good one, but it's the only one I could find of the original artist. It begins with a sea story from an old sailor, and ends with a lovely song called THE MARY ELLEN CARTER. I hope you can enjoy it.

It's what I want to share with you today; and it's the thought I will take with me when I go into whatever passes for dreamland these days.

Rise again.


Friday, September 11, 2009

9/11

I have something in my eye.

And I think it's a great idea to go silent on this day.

So I will.

But I have something in my eye.

Seems I have something in my eye every year at this time.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Waaaah!

Have you ever had one of those days, when your eyes feel like two poached eggs stuck into your face, and narcolepsy seems like a pretty decent career plan?

Welcome to my world.

I watch a lot of television these days; though not, apparently, as much as my friend Kizz. She is the keeper of the clicker, as far as I'm concerned, and I tend to rely upon her to keep me up in American Pop Culture.

You see, my interest in Pop Culture tends to fade out around the time that Skynyrd's plane went down.

But I tend to watch USA network a lot. I like that stuff.
And PHINEAS AND FERB.

But these days, I am forced by my employment to watch a lot of cable news.

Yeah, I know....I've mentioned this already. Sue me.

Most of the people I work with are satisfied with FAUXNews. So, I occasionally watch it. But I favor MSNBC. But I'd like to think I watch with an open mind and a clear eye.

Clear Eye For The Bored Guy.

Anyway, my only opinion I can now base is this: It would be tremendously funny, if it wasn't so scary.

In other news, we have chosen a name for the newest arrival; I have decided to call him Pip. I've been fond of Dickens for a majority of my adult life, and it's short for "Pipsqueak". And when he grows out of it, he becomes just Pip. I have Great Expectations.

He's cute.
But his sharp ends haven't gotten terribly sharp. Yet.

So, to sum up.....

Cute Cat.
Need rest.
Want hot fudge sundae the size of Texas.

Monday, September 7, 2009

Labor Day, Waaaay Early.

THE RAMBLE YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ WAS CREATED IN ONE STREAM. THE AUTHOR APOLOGIZES FOR THE LACK OF COHESIVENESS OF DESIGN, THE OVERUSE OF SEMI-COLON, AND THE UN-FOOTNOTED HISTORICAL REFERENCE. AND THE BOREDOM.

I'm sure most of your know this, but Labor Day was conceived as a kind of appeasement to the labor unions; but there was always a kind of fear that a Federal Holiday dedicated to the laborers of the nation would be too closely aligned with the same holidays afforded to other laborers in other countries, who celebrated it around the first of May.

I'm sure somebody can blame this on our current President.

I've railed in the past about socialism and communism, and the people that rant about our "move toward that evil light." Frankly, I've gone from irate, to flat out angry, to completely stunned by the McCarthian techniques that make even Karl Rove turn red in embarrassment.

Glenn Beck is an idiot.

He rails like a madman on a street corner, against the coming of the end that only he, apparently, can see. And he typifies, in all of his youthful, born-again, holier-than-thou vitality, everything that has been wrong in this country since the boil festered in '00. He sees not with a perspective of distance, but with a perspective of a schoolyard dispute, where there is no fairness, no sense of good sportsmanship, no such thing as "even." There is only, "ahead."

And once again, I'm reminded of the Witch-hunts of the 50's when McCarthy stood up in a press conference announcing that he had in his hand a list of 186 card-carrying member of the Communist Party working in the United States Government.

Legend has it in the same press conference, he referred to the list as being 186 names, and 218 names, and by the end I'm pretty sure it was 268.

And he was probably holding a copy of his bar tab.

And this country wept and bled for far too long until a few patriots stood up to the little bully, and pointed out that Witches can be nice, and Giants can be good.

Vampires are always evil, though. Bloodsucking garbage eaters. T'was always true.
Tangent. Sorry. I'm just tired of vampires.

Our history is filled with the element of Socialism, that were, at the time, completely acceptable and even lauded in some circles. As I've said before, most honest religions are based on the simple premises of Socialism; all of the humane services, like Goodwill, the Salvation Army or the Red Cross, are based upon these premises. We have labor unions that were once decried as Communist, but are now accepted and even supported by most of the working men and women in this country.

And, at one point in this country, the National Socialist Party was a very strong third party in this country, and continued to be until the Haymarket Riots and the LA Times Bombing brought an end to the positive movement, and the party was labeled as thugs and murderers.

But the world has moved on, and there is a chance for real change...as long as those that have knowledge and have been silent move forward and speak.

The truth is always based upon perspective: Mr. Cheney sleeps well knowing in his heart that he personally kept us safe for 8 years. Mr. Historiclemo sleeps fitfully knowing that Mr. Cheney is also responsible for ignoring the information that could have prevented the thing in the first place, but I'm satisfied with the feeling that his kind will not come again....for another three years, at least....

My hope is that logical discourse is still possible; that hearts and minds remain open to possibilities; that the wise can lead the foolish; and that the wise can see that they are, in fact, the foolish.

My hope also includes oreos.
And milk.

Sunday, September 6, 2009

Sunday Morning, 0310.

I traded love for pennies,
Sold my soul for less;
Lost my ideals in that long tunnel of time.
I've turned inside out, around-and-about
And back and then...
I found myself right back where I started again.
-Jim Croce, "Age"

I was recently interviewed in order to be deemed worthy of.....okay, there's only so much I can say here, but let's just say I was interviewed in order to be granted advanced access to certain......files. It's all very interesting and weird, and frankly I would sleep better if i didn't have to worry about such things, but it's my lot in life and I'll live with it like I've lived with every other twist and turn that's come up on this road.

Run-on sentences can be your friend.

It was the interview itself that made me consider the road itself. And how long and winding it's been. You know, when I listened to McCartney sing that song so many years ago, in the arrogance of youth, I thought the old Beatle was full of sh*t. Now, with the arrogance of age....except my long and winding road doesn't have a haunting melody or millions of dollars of residuals connected with it.

The thing in the interview that set my off was the question of employment. The situation is unique in this employment, because you literally have to be able to track your own movements, going back a decade. And in that time, in fact, since I graduated from college (the first time), and actually since my second year of college, I've only been unemployed for......three months. And those were the months that required my focus on moving all of our worldlies from West to North.

You'd think it would have been harder to tell them all about the theatre jobs; two months here, six months there.....but no, they were reallllly interested in the three months of unemployment. And why I decided to stop working. And whether I got fired, or quit. And how I paid for my life in those three whole months.

It was easier to pay for those three months of unemployment than it was to pay for most of the almost three-decades of employment.

Some things are evident:

I never really suffered fools gladly; it has become abundantly clear that in my youth I at least made the attempt. Now, my mantra seems to be, "the hell with it."

Three months in twenty six years. If I spread those out, it comes to, I think (I'm very bad with numbers), three days of vacation a year. Owch.

I was a go-getter in my youth; I could easily go from a job on one end of the country, and whip my way to the other side for another job with no long term effect. NOW.....I need a vacation just to get through your average MONDAY.

I need to re-think my relationship with time.

Other than that, I'm good.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Through the magic of Sirius Radio.....

My Mariner is magic.

It drives like a dream in a snowstorm, it has climate control so I don't have to fiddle with the fan constantly in summer and winter, it plays my Ipod, and through the wonders of Bluetooth, I can talk to people through my radio, apparently.

But the Sirius Radio is the best.

My playlist includes a Comedy station, Radio Classics (The Shadow and Jack Benny have continued to be my favorites), and various specialty music channels.

Which lead me to today's time travel story.

I was running a few errands; you know the kind...the stuff that you wished you didn't have to do, the adult stuff that usually includes handing over a portion of your annual income to somebody for something you wish you didn't have to have done, but what the hell, it's all a part of growing up. And off I went...

Usually, I have it on the Radio Classics channel, but today I decided to run the errands with the sounds of the 1970's as my soundtrack.

Now, before you run down the music of the 70's, remember that the decade was ten years long, and the music didn't start to suck in that decade until around 1977. At least, that's what this Motown boy thinks. And I think Bob Seger and Ted Nugent will back me up....and if not, then the Smokey Robinson and the Miracles will go all Supremes on your ass.

So, it's ironic that the time travel device for the morning was The Bee Gees.

Don't get me wrong; I was not a friend of Disco back in the day. I was a card carrying, t-shirt wearing member of DREAD; which stood for Detroit Rockers Engaged in the Abolition of Disco. The truth was, there was nothing interesting about the music itself; it was like music for the remedial dancer. Much like the music today: who gives a crap about the lyric, as long as you have the beat handed to you on a silver platter, and you can thinly disguise public sex acts as choreography.

Hey, the first dance I ever learned was the Jitterbug. I've always been a snob and a prude and a purist. Sticks and stones my break my bones, but please don't throw them.

The music argument is a side issue, though. The truth is, the song that came on was Too Much Heaven. And I can admit that I wasn't crazy about the song when it came out the first time.....too repetitious, annoying vocals, etc.

But Tammy liked it.
And I liked dancing with Tammy.

And as I went down the street, dwelling upon the issues of adulthood, I was basking in the memory of childhood.

A darkened basement on a October Friday night. The cares of the school week over, the weekend ahead. An impromptu party that began with a bonfire, and ended up in a dance with Tammy. A tiny redheaded girl with green eyes, a brilliant smile, a laugh that I enjoyed like crack cocaine. And perhaps, the first girl I ever really danced with.

Very few things in adulthood can compete with the inebriation of a moment like that.

When I arrived at my destination in the here and now, I was grinning like a fool without a care in the world.

And again, as is so often in my memory-soaked life, the echo triumphs over the voice!

Monday, August 31, 2009

In the Very Dark places. Temporarily.

I have this fear.

Okay, I have a LOT of fears, but they are usually little fears. I'm not fond of insects. I have a fear of what's IN the dark. And, having been homeless once upon a time, I have a fear of being that again.

I have larger fears; the biggest one being something happening to any of my loved ones.

But the biggest fear? That would be easy to explain, and probably even easier to understand.

I have a fear of winding up like my Mother.

As most of you know, for the last few years, my Mother has been in an assisted care facility, in the throes of the disease named after Alzheimer. She no longer speaks, and rarely makes any discernible noise whatsoever, rarely opens her eyes, and is about two thirds the size of what she once was; and seeing as she was 4'11" to begin with.....dinky.

Now, most of the people who know me, and some of the people who love me, would probably say just about now that the whole "not speaking" thing would serve me well, and they would encourage me to follow the regimen, illness or no. And I could use a nap.

But to lose that ability to creatively think would be death itself. Death without a chance of Heaven.

I've often been chastised for my self-image; self-described as "too much brain and too little looks." And I stand by my assessment, although I thank you for your comments. So, the idea of losing my mind is the largest fear that I have.

I mean, REALLY losing my mind. Not the fake losing my mind I've been doing since '97.

I have to tell you.....every time I forget just a little thing; every time I go to the store and forget an element of the list; every time I lose just a little piece of the museum that is my memory......I break out in a cold sweat and wonder.....

So. You're all under standing orders. If there ever comes a time when I require your services, I will give you all a code phrase, and then you will all draw straws and the short straw will move me to Oregon.

The code phrase will be...."Where's the rest of me?"

And I'll thank you in advance, because I may not be able to do it when you get here.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

I've been one poor correspondent, I've been too too hard to find....

So.

Yesterday...or, was it earlier today? I can never be certain. This living life in the dark thing is reallly starting to mess with my senses. Which could lead to an interesting shift in reality; I will keep you posted. Because, as you all well know, reality is dictated by perception.

And don't tell anybody, but for some reason, this morning as I got off work, I thought I would take a quick jaunt into San Luis Obispo for some coffee.

The problem was, San Luis Obispo is about two thousand miles away, and I thought that it was 2005.

I'll keep you posted. But madness may be in the forecast; with humidity.

Anyway.

When I woke up this morning (read, 5 pm) I was greeted by the newest member of the Historiclemo household; a small ball of fur pretending to be a kitten.

Of course, the reason I was up at 5 pm was not because it was time to get up, but because my alarm clock was in the form of one seriously hissing cat. Yes, there is trouble in the ranks; but it's to be expected.

He's a cute little fellow. All small balls of fur pretending to be kittens are cute. And we were well prepared for the arrival.

But, as T. S. Elliot said so well:

The naming of cats is a delicate matter;
It isn't just one of your parlour-type games.

I'm afraid this kitten is going to be stuck with some name like Gizmo, or Fluff, or some such. I think we should take the time to name him.

We made that mistake with the last one. We decided to give him a noble name, and by the time he'd matured, he had at least two others. His given name is Sebastian. His most-often-used name is Baby. His true name is Painintheass. Pronounced "Pain-yass."

Again, as Elliot said,

You may think at first I'm as mad as a Hatter
When I tell you a cat must have three separate names.

Yes, he looks like a Fluff.
And he shows some Gismotic sensibilities.

But honestly.....I think he looks like Winston Churchill.

And I'm holding out.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Thus speaketh the Walkin' Man.....

Moving in silent desperation;
Keeping on eye on the holy land.
A hypothetical destination;
Say, who is this walkin' man?

The lyrical strains of James Taylor always reminds me of fall.....

And we're getting to it.

It's been a lean summer up here in the great white north; not very hot (praise God) and downright chilly on some of these days. But here comes fall, faster than you can say Jack Robinson.

I love fall.

The leaves change color very nicely up here.

Corn. Especially the candy kind. I am a fiend for candy corn. I don't know why, and I'll admit to some revulsion, but I can't help it. And don't judge me; it's a minor fixation, and it beats the other fixations I've had in my life by a damn sight.

Fall is the pause between what seems to be the frenetic quality of summer, and the depression of winter. It's one of the two times in the course of a year that you can actually see change; it's the seasonal equivalent of the moment just before you doze off, and sleep the sleep of the pure.

That chill in the air is invigorating; it's a taste on your tongue that cannot be matched by ice cream, but creates the same exhilaration.

It's a time for reflection; a time to see where you've been, and where you're going, and in some cases, it's a time to realize that without a major course correction, you're going into the rocks there, Odysseus.

It's a time for new television; but I usually hate new television and stick to new episodes of old television. Old television is like the fall; it's a comfortable blanket, without those silly sleeves.

It's the season where Football, the World Series and Hockey all meet up for a smorgasmaboard of sports yummy-ness. Thank goodness for DVR.

So, as we move into September (and I realize that it's still about a week or so away, I look forward to the sensory gluttony to come.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

It pleases me to not.

A lot of strange goings-on betwixt the little grey cells these days.

Okay. I wrote that previous line in the dead of night. And now, the sun is out and the sky is blue, and I can't for the life of me figure out what my original intention was.

I would like to have an intention stick.

Not an intention STICK, mind you; as if I would bang random people about the head and shoulders with my intention STICK. I mean I wish I could have an intention actually ADHERE itself. For a while.

I wonder what it is about the human psyche that allows for the dancing of demons when the sun is gone. And I also wonder how I came so far down this road, only to be stuck living in the times of the dancing demons, and largely asleep when the nourishing rays of the sun chase the blues away.....

My blues are actually more toward the blackish, these days. It's a feeling that I can't.....quite....shake. Even in the good times, they sit in the darker corners and wait. They even have one of those weird number systems, with a big sign that says, "NOW SERVING NUMBER ___".

It's kind of like the kid in Bloom County, with his closet of anxieties.

Except, mine don't limit themselves to the closet.

And they don't look like the Giant Purple Snorklewacker.

They look like me. That other me.

The me nobody likes.

Including me.

My usual weapons of wit, humor and sarcasm (when all else fails) have deserted me. They sent me a brief postcard from someplace called Siesta Key.

I need a vacation.


Parabola is a great word. And under-used.

I'm going now.