You once saw this chick with wild, fiery-red curls sitting at the stop light of Magnolia and Pine. You marveled at her hair and her shiny, silver 1963 Stingray, not sure which you liked more. Perhaps it was the feeling it gave you. She had the top pulled back and "Boys of Summer" cranked, pumping out of the cabriolet, as she puffed out a series of tight smoke circles in the air with her Marlboro Red. You knew it was a Marlboro Red because the white and red pack, wrapped in cellophane, sat on the dash, staring at you. You were tempted to lean out the window and grub for one, forgetting you quit smoking ten years ago when you were young and dumb and free and dating old what's-his-face. Yeah free. You remember that feeling. She felt like the silver-bullet train of freedom to you, in those two minutes and thirty-two seconds at the corner of Magnolia and Pine. You re-lived life before marriage and mortgages, before diapers and daycare, before disillusionment and divorce. The light turned green, that girl in the '63 Stingray with the crazy red curls popped the clutch and stole across the intersection, leaving you in her wake with your memories. You released your foot off the brake of your SUV, littered with lost Barbie shoes and yesterday's half-eaten PBJ, and once again contemplated leaving. Sighing, you knew you can never escape yourself. Instead, you stuck your hand between the seats, fished out that half-eaten PBJ, and thought who needs freedom anyway.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Vacancy
Need lurks in the corners of her closet
Trying on a ball gown, a clutch, a stole
Pretending she is anything but herself
Waffling between the here and the there, of fame and anonymity
Jimmy Choo heels, borrowed Yurman, Prada on loan
Insecure steps on the red carpet she walks
Courage in a bottle, a pill, a man, she requires
For tonight's masquerade, her anonymous task, she selects a numbing mask and
Free-flowing Vodka Gimlets to quiet her nerves
Desire harpooned that summer in Cannes
This chameleon, playing charades, she does pretend
Silk straps off her shoulders fall
Passionate promises, poor choices provoked
His smell on her she cannot escape
It’s a shame they will never know his name
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Reflections in the Water bowl
Cleaning out my car, I ran across a horoscope I tore from the Orlando Weekly a little over a month ago.
Aquarius: (Jan. 20- Feb. 18) Here's a preview of the accomplishments I expect you to complete in the next four weeks. Number of karmic debts paid off and canceled: one. Bad habits replaced with good habits: two. Holes blasted in your theory about why you can't do more of what you love to do: 300. "Necessities" lost that turn out not to be necessities: one. Psychic wounds successfully medicated: one. Confusing messes that evolve into interesting opportunities: two. Romantic obstructions eliminated: one and a half.
Interesting time for a telling horoscope.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Ivory Peonies
Somewhere in the dark corners of my mind
The places we go to hide
I wish I were four and still a child
You say grow up, be a little more mild
I never asked you to stay and wait
In fact I think I warned you I'd be late
Flowers only bloom in the spring you see
And it’s been winter for eternity
Explains the cold shroud around my heart
And you thought i was just playing tart
No babe, but dessert sure is sweet
Yet haven’t you learned that I ain't
I made you a pie, you baked me a cake
We spent that whole winter down by the lake
Trying to fix, to forgive, to forget
Strangers out of season, frozen with regret
I told you I did, I warned you I would
Get bored with gardening in the cold wood
He thawed my ivory peonies one magical night
Now from you I run with fright
Back to the comfort corner of my mind
Very safe place to go and hide
I'll pretend I'm four, a prodigious child
I can't hear your screams, your call of the wild
Some say a cold-water death can be euphoric
For your sins, I know you will burn for it
You and your dreams, now locked in a hard cell
I hope I haunt them from my cold watery hell
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Change
“It’s coming.” Said you
“What’s that?” Said i
“Change.” Said you
“Change? Change has come and gone and come again. It’s the only constant. You’ve been busy. Haven’t noticed.” Said i
“But I’m afraid of change.” Said you
“The hardest part is waiting. With change you skip-the-line. It’s a VIP pass straight to the ride.” Said i
With desperation you looked at me
I could see adequate fascination in your deep blue eyes
You questioned my actions
An intensity only you could deliver.
Remember the only constant in time is change
and only change is constant
I warned
Trying desperately to make you understand
the future is not something I can tell
nor do I know if I can give
what you want
if I only knew what it was
And if I did know these answers would I relinquish them so willing?
So time lingered
as predicted
adequacy became waning
as I warned
Parting company was easy, no hard feelings
except for a slight loneliness we had both dealt with before
with others we cared only too little about
It’s too bad we felt this way
for we too
remain constant
as changes always do
Monday, August 3, 2009
GLITTER GULCH
Out-of-date neon signs, long past retirement age, line Fremont Street. Their colored bulbs radiate an unwavering glow on the downtown Las Vegas streets. It is close to seven o'clock but the day's heat clings to the air, stinging her eyes, as she exits from the back seat of the of the Town car. She gives a wave to the driver and quickens her pace entering the Horseshoe through one of the revolving doors lining the entrance. The cigarette smoke hangs in the air, like a cirrus cloud, causing her to wince. The room is low ceilinged and buzzes with ample fluorescents and gambling euphoria. Tourists, digging for gold, clutch metal coin buckets in the crooks of their arms as the clink of their booty echoes. They are permanent fixtures, screwed to row-after-row of slot machines. That's Sin City, she thinks.
Benny Jr. insists that you can still 'smell the chips' in the Old Vegas Horseshoe, on account of them being the same since Grandpa Binion opened the place in 1951, forcing the other houses to change from sawdust joints to classy, carpeted casinos. Benny always tells her, 'they don't make em like this anymore.' Roxy wishes he would change the forsaken, threadbare carpet, but old cowboys seldom change.
"Would you radio Benny and let him know I'm here and will meet him in the Steakhouse?" She says brushing past Amanda the thin, freckled clerk at the registration desk. She checks her watch; three minutes until seven. She learned over the years you did not make Benny wait, you waited for Benny.
"Sure thing, Roxy." Amanda calls after her as she enters the elevator she hears the ting of a slot machine bell, a lucky winner screams at a jackpot win.
She presses the button for the twenty-fourth floor giving herself a once over in the floor to ceiling mirrors that adorn the elevators antique interior. Her lips are shaded Dangerously Red, matching her dress, complete with a low-plunging neckline and killer curves, all courtesy of Benny. She steps off the elevator and into Binion's Ranch Steakhouse where Benny is waiting at the vintage mahogany bar. He slides his rocks glass across the bar and signals to the bartender, Petey, for another. She checks her watch again, noting it is one minute after seven o'clock. Her stomach muscles tighten as she gauges the expression on Benny's face. He smiles at her tipping the brim of the cowboy hat covering his jet-black hair. The tension releases in her gut and a sheepish grin spreads across her face.
"Rox, the usual?" Petey asks polishing a wine glass.
Roxy nods and turns her attention to Benny planting a kiss on his left cheek. "Hi baby, sorry I'm late."
Benny retrieves her Chardonnay off the bar and takes her by the elbow leading her to their corner table overlooking the Vegas valley. Her breath catches in her throat as she gazes out over the cornucopia of shimmering lights. Benny and the Vegas lights brought her from Dallas and they are the reasons she remained after leaving she stopped performing each night on the strip.
Roxy hangs her purse on the back of the chair and takes her place at the table. "Benny, you said you had something important to talk to me about." Benny, opens his mouth to speak, their lanky waiter, James, brings over their salads.
"Mr. Binion. The usual for you. Caprese salad and the Pear and Gorgonzola for you madam. Your porterhouse and lobster will be out soon." James says sliding the dishes in front of them.
Benny stacks a thick piece of mozzarella on top of a ripe, red beefsteak tomato and slices into it. "Wanna bite?" he asks.
Roxy shakes her head and pushes a candied walnut around the plate with a fork. Her palms are sweaty. James returns and slides the tables candle towards Roxy. He places a steaming, twenty-one ounce Porterhouse, Au Gratin potatoes with a crisp, golden-brown crust, a bright orange Australian lobster tail, and a heaping mound of sautéed baby asparagus in the middle of the table along with two extra plates. The flame catches her eye, it orange, blue and white colors dancing the white wax. Benny prepares her plate, selecting tender morsels from each category. The converging smells assault her making her light-headed. Roxy reaches across the table and grabs her glass of ice water. She takes a big gulp, stifling the urge to vomit. She pushes her plate out of the way.
"What's the matter?" says Benny.
"Oh, it's nothing. I haven't been feeling too good lately. I'm not too hungry anyway. Didn’t you want to talk to me about something?" Roxy says changing the subject.
"I do. We'll get to that." Benny signals to James. "We need a bottle of champagne and two flutes. Bring only the best in the house for my girl here." James returns and pours the bubbly into two glasses. "We've been together for some time now ya know Rox," he pauses reaching into his pocket, "I'd like you to marry me." Benny extracts a golden ring topped with a three-karat diamond from its velvet home.
Roxy gasps, exhaling as she reaches for the ring, the dancing flame exhausts itself. "It's beautiful." She says admiring the brilliant stone.
"Sorry uh, boss, I don't mean to bother you but uh we got a shark we took outta the pit. It ain't his first time neither." Bruno the head of security for the casino interrupts.
"Bring him on into the kitchen. I'll meet you there." He turns to Roxy, "I gotta show a friend some cowboy hospitality. I'll be right back."
Roxy stands. She feels her ears grow hot the fire spreading over her face. "Benny, I'm warning you…we have been over this a thousand time…"
"Roxy, sit down, shut up, and don’t' move." Benny exits.
She hears Benny's booming voice over a clatter of pots and pans, followed by a man pleading. The pleading turns into a wail of pain before silence. Two Horseshoe security guards pull the sobbing man through the dining room. He clutches his hand in a blood soaked linen.
"What did you do?" Roxy says in a whisper a look of horror on her face. "What did you do?" She says again raising her voice.
"You know we don’t play with fish in my house. If I were Grandpa Binion that fish would be two feet under in the middle of the desert, instead of missing a finger." Benny says as he dips his linen napkin in water to extract three dots of crimson from his shirt.
Roxy looks out the window at the glitter gulch below. In the distance, she sets her eyes on a thunderstorm bypassing the valley, illuminating the black horizon with flashes of lightning. Her eyes go wide. She looks at the ring on her finger, up to Benny and back down to the ring and takes it off.
With a slow, trancelike movement, she bends gathering her handbag. She pauses, touches her abdomen, and drops the ring into her full champagne glass. "Mr. Binion, I have to let you go." She says as she backs away from the table before fleeing from the restaurant.
She does not stop for Benny's angry cries. She does not stop on the stairs for twenty-four flights. She does not stop during the two-mile walk down Fremont to her apartment. She does not stop through an hour of frantic packing or through eighteen hours and twelve hundred miles of desert driving. She does not stop until she gets to her Mother's door, and rings the bell.
"Mama, I'm home." She cries, bursting into tears.
WRITER’S BLOCKS
It is no secret; Authors such as John Updike, Earnest Hemingway, and George Bernard Shaw sat down every morning, without fail, and wrote. Some counted pages, some counted words. Some stopped mid- sentence, mid-process, mid-flow when they reached their daily goal. Others did not. James Thurber said, "Don't get it right; get it written." How did the literary geniuses do it, when getting started is the hardest part? Since the beginning of Creative Writing 2001, I have discovered a brave new world in fiction writing. What I think, I thought I knew I did not. I knew nothing. Writing is damn hard and the line between art and cliché is as thin as the line between love and hate.
Realizing the only way to start is to start. We are a conflicted group. How do you start with the constant barrage of interruptions? The tea calls from the cupboard. Make me. The cat purrs. Scratch me. The dishes pile. Wash me. The phone rings. Answer me. It is procrastination. Finally, you sit down to write and nothing happens. You want to smash your computer into smithereens, bash your head on a gritty sidewalk…anything would be less painful. Then you get an idea. A glimmer of hope emerges. You are tossing it around when your critic shows up. He tells you it sucks and so do you. You tell him he is not welcome, that is he who sucks, not you. You are a writer, an artist. You toss him out, but he is a persistent bugger. Joe Schuster chair and associate professor in the Communications and Journalism department at Webster University believes: "The fear is the disease, the block just the symptom."
Shuster among others believe in order to combat block a process must be employed. Free write, journal, blog; write anything and everything that comes to mind. Go ahead; explore and experiment. Write about the things you know, research what you do not, but keep in mind that research does not replace experience. The blank page is not your prison; it is your playground. There is more reality in fiction than you think. Use everything; nothing is sacred. Be furtive, no one is looking. You have an immense power called revision. Earnest Hemingway said, "All first drafts are shit." Hemingway is right, but do not let it stop you. Through first drafts, I have learned as much about myself, perhaps more, as I have about the process.
If we look at art as our design and craft as the execution, how do we bridge the gap? How do we take a killer idea, a rambling of free writes and shape them into a gripping narrative? Art defined is as the creation of beautiful or thought-provoking works, produced through creative activity, skill or the ability to do something well using a set of techniques in a particular field or a superior skill that is learned by study, practice, and observation. It is the process or product of deliberate arrangement of elements in a way that appeals to the senses or emotions encompassing a diverse range of human activities, creations, and modes of expression. A craft defined is a profession or activity that requires skill, training, experience, or specialized knowledge to produce or create something with skill and care. As artists, we break out our drafting tools. We study the process. We invest time in learning how to structure a story and design a grabbing plot. How to use point of view and show character nuance while creating time, space and place details that ignite the five senses. We evoke theme using metaphorical comparisons, symbolism, and allegory. We strive to manufacture tense conflicts; crises converge, and offer resolution in blinding twists.
Writing is damn hard. Good writing is even harder. Learning the art of storytelling is not simple, but it does have a formula: read, write, revise, and repeat…read, write, revise, and repeat. So, if you are going through Hell now, keep going because writing is less expensive than therapy. In the words of Joe Schuster, "I can learn to write badly until I learn to write well."
Sunday, August 2, 2009
....And Nostalgia Creeping In
Do you remember the time when you glanced at me
…and I swear I could see right down to the bottom of your soul
…and it felt so good
a moment captured in time, when all was good and right
…and you knew it too, you felt it same as I
and we thought it might last, we said it always would
but moments like these seldom do
for fear he captures our souls and he whisks us away before our very eyes
before we can recognize that life is too short to let these moments pass us by
…but so often they do
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
In the Shadow of the Queen
In the Shadow of the Queen
I hear Sam’s music long before he comes tearing around the corner in his 356 Speedster. My stomach, doing flip-flops, stops mid-flop, as he zips past my house pulling into the neighbor’s driveway. I remind myself to breathe. Grabbing the magazine at my feet, I flip to my horoscope and feign interest. Careful not to give myself away, I peep over the top of the magazine. Looking in his rearview, he tousles his sandy hair, grabs the low-raked windshield and the camel-colored bucket seat, and swings his lean body out of the cabriolet. As he turns towards me, I pop the Seventeen back over my eyes. He rounds the front of the car and pauses to buff the Porsche’s emblem. It glistens and twinkles in the summer sun, almost as much as his golden tan.
“Hey Elle,” he waves. “I’ll call you later babe.” I throw my middle finger in the air and crank ‘The Boys of Summer’ tune playing on my boom box. He shrugs, sauntering up to her door.
“Damn her,” I curse under my breath. My ears begin tingling, heat crawling up my face. He has blown me off twice this week, cancelling our standing M&M (Main Street and movie) binge, to whisk her off to God knows where.
What does he see in her? I am his best friend. I introduced them. Why am I am getting the shaft? I try to focus on my horoscope, hoping the growing tension in my head will subside. It says the change in my love life that I am hoping for, is right at my fingertips. My heart starts pumping. I throw the magazine on the ground and grab the baby oil, smoothing it up to my bikini line.
Violette Salisbury. Her name sounds as if someone combined Barnie with a slab of beef. All she needs is a side of mash potatoes and we have a full meal.
“She’s named after the famous French ballerina Violette Verdy,” Sam told me one afternoon. Sounds dramatic to me.
Violette Salisbury and her mother moved to Kings Mountain a few weeks ago, from Los Angeles – the Valley she called it – after her parents’ divorce. She told me her Dad was some big shot movie producer in Burbank, whose hands had the uncanny problem of wandering up in his production assistant’s skirts. Her mother had more than enough of her husband’s indiscretions, and the Silicone Valley, to last her a lifetime. Learning her childhood “summer cottage” on Moss Lake was on the market, she made long-distance plans to purchase it. Sight unseen she bought the property and high tailed it back east, Violette in tow, to lick her wounds in the comfort of her Alma Mater. This landed the Salisbury team of two, and their foofy Pomeranian duo, to flank my house to the east sharing a common sidewalk.
My Timex beeps, jolting me out of the thoughts in my head and signaling me to start baking my backside. The two lovebirds exit Violette’s house. Violette is giggling and chewing on a piece of her flaxen hair. Our eyes meet.
“Oh my God Elle!” She says running over to me. “Like, thank you so, so much for introducing me to Sam. He like just asked me to go with him to Denny Hagedorn’s big bash. I was so totally worried about moving to this podunk city at the end of the school year. I thought, like I wouldn’t make any friends and would just have the most boring summer vacation ever. You totally fixed that.”
My jaw dropped. Sam, my Sam, was taking her to the biggest social event of the school year. The Sam that hid beneath the willow trees creating mythical lands and creatures with me, best buddies since we were nine years old. The Sam that set rabbit traps in the cotton fields, plunged from the rope swing and sunned on the banks of Moss Lake with me summer after summer. He had gone with me to Denny Hagedorn’s big year-end bash since Denny had moved to Kings Mountain in the sixth grade.
My heart was a freight train going downhill. I wanted to burst into tears but refused to do to do that in front of Violette Salisbury. My nostrils flaring, I managed a smile matching hers. After all, I was in drama club.
“That’s terrific Violette. I’m sure I’ll see you there.” I said. “We’ll have to hit the shops in downtown Charlotte to look for dresses before the party,” I lied.
“Perfect,” she purred. “Ok, well, were off. So, like, I’ll talk to you soon?” She rocked back and forth on her heels, making her golden mane swing back and forth, causing me to hate her more.
“Mm hmmm.” I was tempted to stick my foot out as she walked by, but I knew that would create issues between Sam and I. As it is now, he seemed oblivious to my pain.
“Cool,” she said. She walked to where Sam was waiting in the car before turning and calling out over her shoulder, “I can’t wait.”
Next, Sam did something that blew my mind. He got out of his precious Speedster, walked around to the opposite side, and opened her door. Never, I mean never, had I seen him do that. That is when I knew: My days of sun and Sam would be over from this point forward.
I bolt upright in bed. My heart is pounding as if it is going to leap out of my chest. My breathing is erratic. My cotton jersey sheets cling to my sweat soaked skin. I start laughing making my sides clench into tight balls of iron. It was all a dream.
The clock flashes eleven. The sun is waxing its mid-morning peak. I throw on my bikini and run to the kitchen to devour a bowl of Special K.
Grabbing the phone on my way to the door, I dial. “Dude! Are you up yet? Get over here. You and I have a date with the rays and bottle of baby oil. Ugh, and I had the worst dream ever. I’ll tell you all about it when you get here.” I say. “Hurry up.”
In the yard, I plop down on my towel and crank my tunes. The Eagles, Hotel California, is playing on the radio. The lyrics make me laugh. As I am sloshing on my baby oil, I look up to see a shiny Mercedes Benz turns the corner. A forty-foot Atlas Van Lines truck follows. The Mercedes pulls over allowing the truck to pass. The truck driver downshifts to a stop at the neighboring house and backs into the driveway. The blood drains from my face as a young, buxom, honeysuckle blond and her mother exit the Mercedes.
Running into the house, my mouth tasting of vomit, I hurl myself on my bed and start crying.
intoxicating...
…as your hand grazed my incandescently illuminated flesh
lips parted
…waiting
…anticipating
my next…
and just as soon as I came…
I left
in search of another
…high
yours too had worn off
bittersweet succulence
engraved relentless
in clouded memories
i took your moment and made it mine
…feeling nothing
Friday, June 26, 2009
satisfaction...
“Meow…tasty little tweety,” thought the kitty as he licked his lips. Swatting the toy mouse across the heart pine floor, he yawned. Like the king in his castle, he sauntered to his favorite spot in the golden sunroom. Sunlight streamed through the bay window, warming his silky fur. He plopped down, lifted his leg and began to lick his…paw. Satisfied, he drifted off for a cat-nap to dream of far-away lands full of field mice.
Blogger Labels: satisfaction,lips,heart,castle,lands,mice
Friday, June 5, 2009
Casualty of War
They said it was a game. I had never played it before.
“You take the golf ball and throw it on the ground. If it hits the other person, they’re out.” Lizzie’s sister said it so matter-of-factly. She was older. She was the expert. With trepidation, I gingerly accept the golf ball. I was “it” first. No basic training, not even a “boot,” catapulted into a boondoggle operation. Game on; we scatter like rats, scampering for our lives, when the cook enters the kitchen. My operative: get to base-camp (the front porch) and through the beaten zone (the rest of the yard) without encountering a bouncing Betty (said golf ball) or the Viet-Cong (Lizzie’s sister). I sprint towards the back of the house to hide beyond the berm. Emerging cautiously from the boonies, I scale the perimeter towards the left. No good, possible spider holes detected. I adjust my sights and focus my recon to the right of the hooch. Bingo, I was scott-free, feeling like a skilled boonierat.
Enter armed enemy sapper. Red Alert. Rock and Roll, she fires a shaped charge, no hesitation. I watch in slow motion, my thoughts the dead march. Analyzing my potential moves, one-by-one, I turn each one down. I was trapped. Her ammunition bounces off the drive-way hitting me square in the mouth. Man down. Blood everywhere, I’m screaming somewhere inside my head and for real. I’m not sure which of the two was louder.
When Lizzie’s father comes storming out of the house, he yanks me inside commencing the bomb damage assessment. I can feel it. They are gone. A million dollar wound. A check in the mirror confirms the worst…my two front teeth: FUBAR. I was a casualty of war.
Part Two: Porcelain Shrapnel
Slow motion moments. Eyes fluttering, nauseous, groggy, foggy. Just keep them closed. Where am I? That smell, I recognize it. It’s antiseptic, sterile with an indefinable mixture of cleaning fluids, anesthesia, rubbing alcohol and metal? Sit up? No, lay chilly. Just keep them closed. Damn, where am I? Cotton mouthed. Thirsty. Lost in the past, my thoughts pierce my stupefied state shrieking silently, “Are they still there? Chipped? Cracked?” Running my tongue along the marred porcelain, I bolt upright, roaring, “Get my fucking husband!” The nurses, dressed in their standard-issue clinic fatigues, shoot each other a knowing look of alarm. They’d known this was coming. Their fugazi patient awake, kicking and screaming, “Get my fucking husband! Now!”
“Uh Ma’am, please. Please stay calm. We, um, we had a little problem with your procedure,” the doe eyed physician’s assistant putters. She’s a predictable hooch-girl with hair cut into a too-neat bob. My personal space alarm goes off…ehn, ehn, ehn. She was the first one I wanted to put in a Glad-bag, just because she was there. Restraining my inner hell-fury, I fire my best die-bitch-die look instead.
“I know. I knew you were going to freak out,” in walks my husband, the moment’s knight-in-shining armor. “The anesthesiologist came out. An hour ago. He told me everything. I’ve been calling all over town. I found a guy who can fix it. I scheduled an appointment for tomorrow morning. It’ll be ok,” Cookie spews, a torrential rain, breathless. “So, while he was taking out your trach tube,” he continues the after-action report, breathing a little more regularly. “You came out of unconsciousness quicker than expected. You bit down on the tube, hard, nearly taking off his fingers. They went flying into the air. You almost took-out the head nurse. You sure-as-shit freaked out the anesthesiologist; he may require therapy.”
Huh? I freaked out the Bac-si? He’s going to require therapy? I festered. Kill, kill, kill! I couldn’t wait to get my hands on the anesthesiologist, the orchestrator of my current cluster fuck. The reason I was lit-up. Oh I was going to give it to him. Porcelain shrapnel was only the beginning of my wrath. Fester. Fester. Who was I? What had I become? Fester, fester, fester. Why couldn’t I think clearly? My thoughts were rumbled, my mind racing. I’d known something was going to happen.
“Oh just sign, honey,” the intake nurse had crooned just four hours earlier. “We never had anyone have any problems with that. That’s just a legal formality, you know?” Sign I did. How could I resist? She afflicted me with intonation so silky, so smooth. Wooed me with her syrupy-sweet disposition; quelled my rightful concerns over the contents of the medical liability waiver and release forms. If I had a clacker or some foo gas right now I would have buckled the co-cong, but I felt like I was going to hurl.
And let’s face it; I really wanted the damn things anyway. Having been inflated for nine months and sucked dry for thirteen, I was overdue. Tired of them flapping around like two deflated water balloons, compulsion drove me. I needed an upgrade. Now, for the second time in my life, I was a casualty of war.
My scars are well hidden. I have two of them, one on each side. They are not very large. You would never know they were there, unless you knew me intimately. Even then, not unless I told you. Of course, you would wonder. It’s obvious they must be somewhere. But you wouldn’t ask me unless we shared a couple shots of tequila and swapped war stories. Some don’t like them. Some think they are expertly crafted. It’s a matter of opinion. Running my fingers across my battle wounds evokes vivid wartime memories. I have a feeling they won’t’ be my last.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
my life in middle management - rip suburbia
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
left, right or center?
Being a tad more liberal-minded than my extended family, doesn't bode well in the land of urbania. Catch, convert, capitulate...the heathen....she that escaped suburbia! The random email assault pelts my overstuffed inbox. The latest a forward originating from my far-right "Aunt Bunky," department of justice extraordinaire, passed on to Grammy before slithering uninvited through my personal electronic box. I've got mail. She's learned though...Grammy that is...discovering how send to "undisclosed-recipients" will prevent my disparate opinion from reaching her country-club-clan. What can I say? It was an election year and they started it. I simply made use of "reply all," lobbing the antagonist viewpoint to their campaign right back in their court. Truthfully, it was mostly for shits and giggles, to spark healthy debate. "Oy vey!" Grammy didn't partake in the giggle part...it was shits all around. Branding me the wayward lefty, promptly becoming family non-grata, from a political perspective.
-----Original Message-----From: Grammy: Sat, 25 Apr 2009 12:13 pm
THIS IS SO INCREDIBLY WELL PUT AND I CAN HARDLY BELIEVE IT'S BY A YOUNG PERSON, A STUDENT!!! WHATEVER HE RUNS FOR, I'LL VOTE FOR HIM. OUTSTANDING.
DIVORCE AGREEMENT
Dear American liberals, leftists, social progressives, socialists, Marxists and Obama supporters, et al:
We have stuck together since the late 1950's, but the whole of this latest election process has made me realize that I want a divorce. I know we tolerated each other for many years for the sake of future generations, but sadly, this relationship has run its course. Our two ideological sides of America cannot and will not ever agree on what is right so let's just end it on friendly terms. We can smile and chalk it up to irreconcilable differences and go our own way.
Here is a model separation agreement:
Our two groups can equitably divide up the country by landmass each taking a portion. That will be the difficult part, but I am sure our two sides can come to a friendly agreement. After that, it should be relatively easy! Our respective representatives can effortlessly divide other assets since both sides have such distinct and disparate tastes.
We don't like redistributive taxes so you can keep them. You are welcome to the liberal judges and the ACLU. Since you hate guns and war, we'll take our firearms, the cops, the NR A and the military. You can keep Oprah, Michael Moore and Rosie O'Donnell (You are, however responsible for finding a bio-diesel vehicle big enough to move all three of them).
We'll keep the capitalism, greedy corporations, pharmaceutical companies, Wal-Mart and Wall Street. You can have your beloved homeless, homeboys, hippies and illegal aliens. We'll keep the hot Alaskan hockey moms, greedy CEO's and rednecks. We'll keep the Bibles and give you NBC and Hollywood .
You can make nice with Iran and Palestine and we'll retain the right to invade and hammer places that threaten us. You can have the peaceniks and war protesters. When our allies or our way of life are under assault, we'll help provide them security. We'll keep our Judeo-Christian values.. You are welcome to Islam, Scientology, Humanism and Shirley McClain.
You can also have the U.N.. but we will no longer be paying the bill. We'll keep the SUV's, pickup trucks and over sized luxury cars. You can take every Subaru station wagon you can find.
You can give everyone health care if you can find any practicing doctors. We'll continue to believe health care is a luxury and not a right. We'll keep The Battle Hymn of the Republic and the National Anthem. I'm sure you'll be happy to substitute Imagine, I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing, Kum Ba Ya or We Are the World.
We'll practice trickle down economics and you can give trickle up poverty your best shot. Since it often so offends you, we'll keep our history, our name and our flag. Would you agree to this? If so, please pass it along to other like minded liberal and conservative patriots and if you do not agree, just hit delete. In the spirit of friendly parting, I'll bet you ANWAR which one of us will need whose help in 15 years.
Sincerely, John J. Wall Law Student and an American
P.S. Also, please take Barbara Streisand & Jane Fonda with you.
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DIVORCE AGREEMENT – Amended Version
Dear righty’s, antiquated regressives, advocates of the dark ages, war mongers, fascists et al:
In response to your divorce agreement, we’ll agree with the following amendments. Yes, we have stuck together for far too long, putting up with your narrow minded, self-serving ways and chaotic decisions for much longer than we should have. Your desperate adjustments over the last eight years, seemingly driven by special interests and greed are more than we can handle. It became evident in the last election process, when you had trouble clearly branding yourself and even more difficulty identifying with our newest population of voters. In a word, your antiquated and we are far too different to remain united.
Here is an Amended model separation agreement:
Our two groups can equitably divide up the country by landmass each taking a portion. Basing the division on the electoral state each party won should make that relatively easy. We understand you don't like redistributive taxes, however you find so many ways to hide behind corporate tax loopholes, were not sure why. We do wonder how you feel about public education? We agree to keeping the liberal judges and the ACLU. We’ve decided to hang onto women’s suffrage as well. Since we’re not crazy about guns and war, please take the firearms, the cops, the NRA and the military. We’ll be glad to keep Oprah, Michael Moore and Rosie O'Donnell, since we do welcome those that voice controversial opinions, as we tend not to follow the flock. Along with the OMR trio we choose Oliver Stone, Sean Penn and Robert Redford and all those that give without attending a plated-dinner black tie event. We demand you take the Royal Family of the country of Texas (we’ll throw in Texas too…in exchange for California and Florida), officers Koon, Powell, Briseno, and Wind (ask Rodney King), Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold of the Columbine massacre.
You may have all the uncontrolled capitalism your little heart’s desire, the greedy corporations including Enron, Haliburton, AIG, GM, & Ford and their respective CEO’s. Please take Big Oil, Big Pharmaceutical and the failed Wall Street fat-cats looking for handouts to supplement their overzealous company spending, unfettered expense accounts and bankruptcy bonuses. We’ll take open-market and free-market economics along with Microsoft/Bill Gates, Apple/Steve Jobs, Berkshire Hathaway/Warren Buffet. Take Wal-Mart & the Waltons, we’ll take Target, Ross, Marshalls & TJ Maxx. You can have Wall Street…we’ll take the Internet. You can have your beloved homeless, homeboys, hippies and illegal aliens. We’ll send the homeless and the homeboys to Area 52. The hippies to Camp David and the aliens to states that border Texas. And since your taking the military we’ll put those funds towards patrolling the borders of California & Florida and the borders of the states that border Texas. Oh Gee…you got us…it’s going to be oh so tough giving up Greedy CEO’s and Rednecks, but as long as you’re asking, by all means. In all fairness, we’ll throw in the KKK too. We’ll trade Hot Alaskan Hockey Moms for Victoria’s Secret (we like our miracle bras) and the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Models. As far as the Bibles go, you only get the Old Testament for NBC & Hollywood. If you want the New Testament too we’re going to need ABC, CBS, FOX (except the News), Broadway & Bollywood.
We’ll make nice with Iran and Palestine if we feel like it, seeing as invading and hammering places that threaten us doesn’t get us very far. Seeing as you still believe the mumbo jumbo about our way of life being under assault keeping the aforementioned right is at your expense. Since you would you like to keep your Judeo-Christian values we were wondering if you would you like a few more Crusades to top them off with? We’re not really into the whole organized religion thing, however remaining open-minded, we’ll take Islam, Scientology, Humanism and Shirley McClain (after all she is selling jewelry these days). We’ll take the U.N., we’d rather deal with that expense than the headache and expense of war.
By all means, do us all a favor keep the SUVs, pickup trucks and over sized luxury cars…while you’re at it you can keep the high gas prices too.
Go ahead, continue to believe health care is a luxury and not a right. We sure as hell hope your Greedy CEO doesn’t find someone half your age to do two times your workload, leaving you struggling to find an insurance company that will accept you. And if they do accept you, we certainly hope you feel the crunch to your wallet when you realize it costs the equivalent of a small mortgage payment every month. Take The Battle Hymn of the Republic and the National Anthem. We happen to like Imagine and John Lennon along with the Beatles & Bob Dylan, Jerry Garcia, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Bob Marley, Jim Morrison, Ravi Shankar, James Taylor, Jackson Browne. By the Way…Charles Manson is all yours.
Of course you want to keep practicing trickle-down (er voodoo) economics, however it hasn’t “trickled-down” in the 50 years it has been in practice, stimulated the economy or grown anything but the size of the deficit. But that was your intent, wasn’t it? And by now we’ve come to realize that no matter what actually happens in history you’ll creatively mold it to fit your idealistic and historical opinions?
So if you would agree to our amendments, please pass it along to other like-minded liberals and conservatives. And by the way which ANWAR are you referring to? The 2007 Hindi Movie or the Alaska National Wildlife Reserve?
P.S. Absolutely. We’ll take our ‘Funny Girl’ and with Fonda comes Turner. You can keep Barbara Bush and J. Edgar Hoover…we’ll throw in Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity too.
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