Incarcerated

I have been a card carrying member of Facebook for well over a decade. As loose as I have gotten on FB, I have never been tossed in FB jail. Yet after only 5 months on Twitter, I am incarcerated in their lock up for the next 12 hours. 

What a bunch of nancies. Twitter is not only not worth the trouble, they seem to be populated and run by a snobbish group think mentality that quashes the free exchange of ideas and insults. I'll take Facebook over Twitter any day.

Rather than close my Twitter account in a huff, I will sit out my punishment and get along with my day best as I can. The emotional damage caused by their insensitivity will eventually heal I am told. But come on, 12 hours? That is inhuman.

"@TheGoodLiars @joncoopertweets That's hilarious. Ruining the sanctity of the golf course. He should be drawn and quartered and his head put on a spike. Good thing they were not in Saudi Arabia, they might have done just that."

I thought the offending tweet was the one I indicated I would like to live long enough to piss on Trump's grave. But no, it was a tweet that was in response to a video about heckling Phil Mickelson at the recent Saudi owned golf tournament at Trump's course in New Jersey. 

My sarcastic remark was aimed at the commentator on the video. But the bots Twitter use picked it out as a personal attack using violent language. Actually I thought and still do think it was funny and fuck Twitter for allowing this kind of over sensitivity wash out any substance from the platform.

So, anyway, I sit here licking my wounds early Sunday morning and wonder who else can I piss off today. That would really make my day.

Wish me luck ..................................

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I have been waiting to include one of my favorite Blues tunes. David Bromberg's version of "Send me to the Electric Chair" is a classic.

Enjoy.

We Only Respect the Dead

I have been an anti war proponent since I can remember. I was born to a military family during the Korean War. There have been precious few years in the ensuing 70 years of my life that I have not seen the USA in one armed conflict or another. Small or large conflicts, the USA has been more than willing to sacrifice some of the brightest and bravest of this country to the petty political goals of cowards.

I was taught though to respect our armed forces, just not necessarily respect the civilian leaders who arbitrarily sent them into harm's way. I hate war, but not as much as my career Air Force father hated it. He had lived it and knew what a total waste of humanity it was. He justified his continued presence in the Air Force as an anti-war position. If we appeared ready to respond to threats, there would be none. Sadly, he later admitted that if there were no real threats of substance, our political leaders would come up with some. The cowards in civvies just loved to sit around the big war board moving military pieces like it was a game to them. In reality, that is all it ever is to them.  Playing war is so much more fun when people actually die.

Among many of the reasons my father chose to retire after 31 years was the use of the military as a preemptive political tool.

To make matters worse, our leaders over the years have consistently and conveniently forgotten the veterans who came home alive. It's as if any respect leadership had was pre-deployment, when deployed, or if they were dead. Any respect or consideration was totally gone once the survivors came home. Which left only the dead to revere publicly.

Vets began to really start to complain in numbers in 1932 with the rise of the "Bonus Army". Right up through the Vietnam War, Iraq, Afghanistan and beyond, they have had to fight for the help they should have never had to even ask for. It has been 90 years and little has changed. Vets die for us and then the ones who survive are forgotten. We only respect the dead vets, not the live ones who we feel all they deserve is a "Thank you for your service" once in awhile. It's a fuckin shame how we treat our military veterans.

The politicians use them, abuse them and then they toss them away. It is easy to lay some flowers, cry some tears for the dead and then go home feeling uplifted and patriotic.  Actually doing what needs doing and supporting those veterans who made it home seems to be the hard part for the GOP especially, to get behind. Don't get me wrong, Veterans have always sucked hind tit in both parties interests. But in recent years, it is primarily the GOP who have consistently blocked legislation aimed at helping Veterans.

What an insensitive, unpatriotic despicable party the Republican Party has become. I am ashamed to even consider them fellow Americans. Fuck the GOP.

Later .....................................

____________________________

The first tune for the post is actually from across the pond. The same issue for vets exists there as it does here. The group is Ferocious Dog. The song is "Broken Soldier".  Next up is "Broken Boy Soldier" by The Raconteurs

You don't have to enjoy them, but hopefully they will fire you up.

The End

After 15 years of research, some Japanese astronomers have concluded that our planet and the solar system it calls home is 2,000 light years closer to the black hole at the center of our galaxy. Add to that, we are traveling 16,000 mph faster on this journey than previously thought.

I am immediately reminded of my toilet as a floater swirls around to make its escape. It seems to spin faster as it approaches the point of no return. With our astronomical time set to run out sooner than expected, I wonder if we might want to pack our bags and be ready to re-locate anytime soon.

Notice the image to the left. It is full of nonsensical lines, numbers, cosmic names and odd angles drawn in just to impress us. Never mind them. The important one is the "We are here" notation. That yellow circle about an inch or so from the center of the Milky Way is us. Again, it seems to me someone should be sounding an alarm of some kind. 

I just performed an intensive and exhaustive two minute investigation trying to find out how long we have until our floater, the Earth, is flushed out of existence forever. It came as no surprise to me that there is no real information of substance out there that specifically addresses "How much more time does our planet have before the evil black hole gets us."

One answer purportedly from an actual astronomer indicated we have nothing to fear. Not everything will end up in the black hole. Another answer indicated it won't happen at all. But in case it does, it will be one day later than Forever when it happens. ............ All this deflection and misinformation and no one can tell me when we can expect the end. I was of a mind they don't want to let us know because it is going to happen soon. 

I happened to mention this whole Black Hole/Milky Way issue with my neighbor. He keeps his ear to the ground better than I do in the dark corners of the catastrophe culture. He smiled at me, put his hand on my shoulder.

"We're fucked dude. The End is scheduled for a week from tomorrow. I hope your bags are packed and you will be wearing clean underwear. They don't let folks into Heaven wearing dirty skivvies."

I have never known my neighbor to be wrong about anything. My advice would be to play it safe and instead, buy new underwear for the trip. Depending on the old undies can let one down.

Keep it 'tween the ditches .................................................

______________________________

I woke up this morning and immediately began to hum the REM tine, "The end of the World as we know it".  I assume the dream I was enjoying just before my eyes popped open had something to do with "The End".

Buddy and the Pastor - A Brief Encounter

"You are a fornicator, a man of low morals and ungodly ways......." Pastor Angers stood legs spread, back straight blocking Buddy Dilkens and his weekly 24 ounce Papst Blue Ribbon can of beer from making a safe and quiet exit from the Tradin Post. Buddy moved to the side attemping to squeeze his way by the good pastor. Preacher Angers stuck his arm out. He was having none of it. Buddy was in his cross hairs. His massive bulk seemed to shrivel under the pastor's righteously indignant glare.

Buddy regarded the small man who stood his ground in front of him. Not many men would dare. His shoulders drooped and he sighed. "Yes Preacher Man, I am surely a sinner, a fornicator and a disgrace in the eyes of the Lord Jesus. No amount of penance will save me from the fires of Hell".

Buddy smiled. 

 "Now that I am lost, all I can do now is enjoy it while I can before I meet the Devil. ........ Excuse me Preacher, I have kids at home tearing something a new asshole." He pushed past Pastor Angers and walked out into the torrential rain bouncing off the parking lot.

Pastor Angers flung one final barb. "You know God took your wife because of your sins."

Buddy stopped. He straightened his back and turned to face the pastor. The rain ran down his face in rivulets adding to Buddy's already fearsome image. The pastor's asshole puckered some and he swallowed hard. But he held his ground and his lock on Buddy's hard cold glaring eyes.

Pastor or no, the old Buddy, the Buddy who raised Hell 24/7 when he was younger; the old Buddy would have beat that pastor down. But that five year stint in stir for manslaughter and the love of a good woman had worked their magic on Buddy. Buddy's eyes softened, he grinned and said,

"You have yourself a nice day Pastor Angers and when you get a chance, please go fuck yourself."

Buddy turned around, headed to his pick up, got in and drove off. Meanwhile the pastor who was not used to being spoken to in such an ungodly and uncivilized manner stood staring at Buddy's truck disappearing in the hard rain and for once was caught with nothing to say. 

Meanwhile, the usual crowd of good ole boys who always congregated here at the Tradin Post at days end on their way home, broke out in loud laughter. Some even slapped their knees.

(Orig -11/6/11)

________________________________

I started this short fiction piece in November, 2011. I wrote the first paragraph and left the room allowing the piece to languish for 11 years. When I located it today as I was trying to toss out the drafts that had absolutely no hope of ever being finished, I almost tossed this one. I have no idea where I intended it to go when I first wrote it. I re-read that paragraph and decided I needed to at the least finish it in some way, some how, if only resulting in a story covering a small snippet of time. 

Keep it tween the ditches ..................................

___________________________

Music for this, hmm ........................... Found a fairly new indie artist, Sharkorama, who began creating music in his basement during the Covid invasion. "Righteous Indignation" is the name of the song. 

Another Disturbing Dream

 

A decent night's sleep has become somewhat of a rarity for me now that I hail from the older than dirt community. My normal sleep patterns recently are short fitful slumbering moments interrupted by glazed eye, foggy brained semi awake moments while I sit in the kitchen sipping water or head to the bathroom to drain that water I sipped earlier. And always in those foggy moments, I am wondering if this is going to be another night of shitty sleep.

Last night however, I struck preemptively. Somewhere between 10 and 11, I shut down the TV, took off my glasses and consciously made an effort to fall asleep. And fall asleep I did. Five hours later at four o'clock AM, my bladder woke me up. 

Excellent. Five plus hours of uninterrupted dreamless slumber. My eyes were wide open. My brain felt clear and ready to take on the day. .......... But why get on with the day when I seemed to be on a good sleeping roll? So I laid down and was asleep again in minutes.

So much for dreamless slumber. The extra hour of sleep I paid for with a dream that woke me up kind of gasping for breath. 

I won't call it a nightmare. It was only the last moments of the dream that bothered me. But it was that final climax that forced the memory of the rest of the dream out into the ether where dreams go to be forgotten. I sure would have liked the finale to be the part I forgot.

It seems in this dream it was not clear if I was an active participant , just a witness, or maybe a disembodied presence who happened to be in the area. Regardless, the scene, from what I can recollect took place in a school, community, group home where everyone, men mostly, were dressed in red. It was a community of workers creating food for others.

The last scene I remember ...... Oh, I just now remembered I was indeed an active participant. I drove the delivery truck that delivered the raw resources for the food the red people turned into prepared meals. ......... I backed into the loading dock. I lifted the roll up door. Red clothed workers hustled right in to unload. Their supervisor I assume, stood on the loading dock and said something to the effect, 

" Ahh, Looks good driver. Good job".

Since I had picked up this load blind by just hooking up the already loaded trailer, I had no clue what the load looked like. It had seals on the locked latch. I turned to look in the trailer, ........... Piles of rotten vegetables, what looked like buckets of puke, and almost next to me, dead human bodies piled five high on a rugged looking skid. The smell was overwhelming. My nausea was instantaneous.

That is when I woke up. 

With dreams like this, who needs nightmares?

Keep it 'tween the ditches ................................................

_____________________________

I came up with a tune duet for this post.  "Dream Weaver" , by Gary Wright. His song is certainly a happier tune than my dream.

And then I found a long lost Fleetwood Mac tune, "The Green Manalishi" . This song was recorded when Peter Green was the heart of the band and before they sold out to became just another Pop band.

___________________________

Compiling My Own Truths

The day I heard Kellyanne Douche-bag stand in front of the media and defend her president's serial lying with an inference that out there in the space that is filled with facts and non-facts, there exists facts that will support any kind of deviation from the accepted factual norms. With a straight face, she insisted that "Alternative Facts" did indeed exist and because they existed, her president was not a liar. 

I immediately thought of the atom; that basic building block upon which every physical thing in the Universe depends on for their structure, their purpose, their existence. Within the atom there are three even smaller objects known as subatomic particles. They are the electrons, the protons, and the neutrons. The protons and the electrons do most of the real work it seems, while the neutrons just buzz around getting in the way. Protons and Electrons represent facts and non-facts. And Neutrons represent Kellyanne's "alternative facts". They orbit around the nucleus at astounding speeds. Their purpose is still a mystery as are the Alternative Realities conjured up in the toilet stalls of the Trump White House. 

This revelation happened a few months into Trump's only term as president. Like many anti-Trumpers, I had not yet become hardened to the day in, day out flow of bullshit that oozed out of Trump's pie hole. I could not believe my ears. I was outraged. This is not the kind of Texas Leaguer crap I expected from a national leader. It cemented my contention that short of assassination, I would accept almost any effort that successfully removed that clown from office.

Looking at that one news conference now five or six years later, I have decided that it was a pivotal moment in the distribution of news around the World. From that one stupid and wrong assertion that real facts had twisted twin facts that could be used to destroy the facts most of us considered the truth, well, today, facts just do not matter to a sizable minority of Americans anymore. Uncomfortable truths can be be discarded and/or ignored by relying on any deceit or deception they want to come up with for themselves.

Not happy with the truth, create your own truth and live happy as if you had a brain. The Right has always tended this direction, but nothing close to the new psychotic need to "own the Libs". And almost as automatically, the Right does not even bother looking for the truth anywhere but in the fantasies that bubble up from the cesspools they know as their minds.

As I wrote earlier, the acceptance of "alternative facts" into our conversations has dramatically changed how we view and use what we see and hear to help define our place in the scheme of things. And as much as I hate to admit it, some good has come out of the resistance of the Right to any information not conjured up on their side of the aisle. It has made me a better observer of current events, policy changes, and the crazy behind the scenes BS that muddies the events unfolding in government. I now will often look for supporting information on claims, events, etc that are loudly being denied by the Wingers.

I have also begun to compile a list of my own truths. Not "alternative facts", but truths I have decided are true. They are what I base on my opinions on. 

• Many, many people claim we live in a Democracy. I do not think we do. More than a few poli-sci folks with letters after their name agree with me. I am of the opinion as many others are that this mess we call US Democracy is actually a Constitutional Republic. In my opinion the only true democracy in my life is the annual Acton Town meeting where everything is decided one person, one vote.
• Trump lost the election and anyone who disagrees with that truth is an idiot or some slimy evil Winger slug who doesn't deserve any consideration from me.
• Jan. 6 was an insurrection and the people caught up in it are traitors and should be punished more harshly than they have been to this point.
• In groups, humans tend to project their worst character flaws. Exclusion, deception, bias, lethargy, ambivalence and hate all seem to take deeper root in a group think scenario; making all of them harder to root out.
• Looking for the Good in people needs to be tempered by having a sense of the Hate that may lurk just under the surface. Never assume all people are Good and never assume all people are Bad. 
• Of all the hate, discontent and useless whining over the petty issues of Humanity, the absolute top tier issue our stupid race should be addressing is Climate Change. If we do not address that, none of all the stupid shit we waste time on will matter. 
• The Planet does not give a hoot what we do. It will continue on with or without us. It does not care what we do to it. But not caring what we do to it is flirting with disaster.

The list is far from complete. And I can see at least a couple of these first entries as candidates for later reassessment. Regardless, I am going to find my own truths now with the idea that I can back them up with reasonable logic.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ..................................

_____________________

Music for this post .... Hmm. Give me a minute.

Found this by mistake. "Hopelessly Hoping" by Crosby, Stills and Nash should fit okay. Not perfectly , but then who cares. It is a great tune..... Timeless.

Bowie and the Whacko Red Head - Redux

I have been messing with this story off and on since my first rendition published in my blog on 3/27/2010. It's over 2200 words long. Here it is again, only this time some names have been changed.

The events are true. The people were/are real. The dialog I created to well, I guess add some girth to the tale and to convey the basic truths of that incident as I remembered it. Hence the tag "Fictional Truth".

Anyway..............

_____________________________________

I did not appreciate how close to the edge I was flying back in 1978 when I was driving Rock n' Roll bands from one end of the continent to the other. I had been on the road pretty much non-stop for two years. The mind numbing miles built up. One hall began to look like another. I often had to check my itinerary the morning of a stage call to remind me what town I was in.

My time behind the wheel became a blur of interstate super slabs interrupted by nightmarish back ins to backstage loading docks controlled by surly stagehands. Good sleep was a rare luxury. Food, while plentiful, was always the same leftovers found in Green Rooms across the nation or the classic gut busting fare served up in truck stops.

I was on the David Bowie tour in the spring of 1978. We were on the last leg; the whirlwind leg. The bunched up series of shows on the East Coast meant travel distances dropped but the strategies to make it safely in and out of a city grew ever more complicated. The East was where I had learned the ropes of driving. I was back in my element. I could get 6 or 7 trucks to Madison Square Garden without much hassle as long as everyone stuck together. I could back into holes many drivers from west of the Big Muddy considered impossible. In other words, When I came East, I could be a star.

We had three gigs left. Providence, Boston, and we finished with two shows at Madison Square Garden in New York City. It was in Providence this comedy began for me.

A small crowd of groupies and sycophants were hanging out in the lobby of the Howard Johnsons in Providence when I stumbled through the carousel door to check in. How these fans seemed to know where to go always puzzled me. But they were always around.

Whacko Redhead was parked on one of the over stuff chairs near the front desk. Her tapping feet barely made it to the floor. I only noticed her because her red hair was a couple of feet long and looked like it had not seen the business side of a comb or brush in years. On her head was a Red Sox cap. Our eyes met. Mine stopped at her face. Her stare went right through me. Kinda scared me if you want to know the truth. I smiled weakly and continued to stumble my way to the front desk. I checked in, got my key and directions to my room.

Maybe two minutes after throwing my gear on the bed and collapsing next to it, someone knocked on the door. Not happy in the slightest, I dragged my sorry butt off the bed and opened the door.

"You're with the Bowie Tour aren't you?"

There, in all of her maybe 5 foot grandeur stood Whacko Redhead. Her feet apart like an umpire and her hands on her hips. She pushed past me and came into my room.

"Call me Red...... So what do I have to do to get backstage?" She plopped on my bed.

By this point in my Rock n Roll career, I had grown tired of the groupie scene and frankly, somewhat disgusted with the transactional aspect of sex for access. The easy sex for backstage passes had gone stale for me. Add in the fact that I was dead on my feet, my mood was not all that agreeable.

"I don't do backstage passes anymore. I'm tired. I need some sleep. Please leave." I continued to hold the door open like she was going to obey me. 

Red did not get up off the bed. Instead she began to tap her feet again like in the lobby. "Well then", she started, "I am sure one of you drivers is horny enough to cough up a pass. Who should I see?"

Her direct manner and her piercing blue eyes cut through me hard. I began to chuckle. "Well, Earl is perpetually horny. He's always ready for some head."

Red did not bat an eye. "Which one's Earl? Not the 400 pound whale with the whiny voice and scraggly beard?"

"That would be Earl."

"Uh, no thanks. I picked you". ............... So, what's it gonna take?"

"Darlin, all I want is some sleep. Even if I had the urge, I don't think the engine has the fuel." But I closed the door and walked back into the room.

That was my first mistake.

At age 26, we guys always have the urge and the fuel even if we don't think we do. And this is something all the women seem to know. An hour later Red and I were saving the planet by taking a shower together. That sleep I thought I needed, traded in on easy sex for a backstage pass. But I did learn her given name was Angie and she was an ER nurse with a couple of days off. And suddenly this fling had turned into something more. At least it felt that way. 

I lost track of Angie, the tiny red cyclone, during the show that night. She made an impression on the crew, but oddly, not a bad impression. Came time for load out and there she was, sitting on one of the speakers waiting to be loaded on my truck. When they grabbed that speaker, she hopped off and walked over to me at the back door of the trailer.

She reached around my waist with one hand and pulled my head down with the other. After planting a screamer of a kiss on me, she backed up. "Well, I guess that's it then. You are off to Boston now."

"Yeah, I guess so."

And then I made my second mistake.

"How'd you like to go to Boston with me?"

I don't think I had even finished talking and she had the passenger door of the truck open and was scrambling up the looped footsteps. By the time I had climbed in behind the wheel, she had a doob lit and was passing it over the dog house to me.

The Old Boston Garden was at worst a two hour drive from Providence. Once there, I figured I would finally get that sleep I needed. It was possible my head could be on a pillow by 2 AM and with stage call not until 8 AM, I might get 4 hours of solid shuteye.

Angie had other plans. On the way out of Providence she insisted I stop at her apartment so she could grab some clean clothes and maybe gussy up some. Since finding Boston Garden should be no problem for the other drivers and the fact they had over 8 hours to find it, I cut them loose with a call on the CB radio. I pulled into her apartment complex around midnight. I didn't pull out until 6:30 AM the next morning. And again like so many times before, I made stage call with only minutes to spare. Buford, the head engineer on that tour was not impressed. Damn women.

I got my trailer unloaded and then headed to the Holiday Inn in Somerville, north of Boston. After a quick romp in the sack with Angie, I headed for the shower and left her parked on chair thumbing through the itinerary for the tour. As I toweled myself off, there was a knock at the door. I wrapped the towel around my waist and opened the door expecting one of the crew or a hotel employee. There standing in all their Parental intimidation glory were Mom and Dad. I had forgotten that I had invited them down from Maine to see the Bowie show and hang with all the cool people backstage.

I didn't move. I didn't say a word. I just looked at them. In the meantime, my dad's eyes had gotten bigger. My mom's eyes had become slits. I turned around and sitting there in a hotel room chair, buck naked, was Angie. Her eyes had grown big also. She jumped up and quickly began to gather her clothes.

I stood there saying nothing. What was there to say?

Mom finally spoke. "Well Mike, are you going to invite us in?"

"Uh, yeah, come on in." I stepped out of the way just as Angie made a beeline for the bathroom with her clothes clutched so to cover her naughty bits.

Mom and Dad come into the room. Mom's eyes were still slits. Dad was grinning from ear to ear. He said, "So, all those stories are true huh?" Mom shot him a hard look of disgust and then began to scan the room for a safe place to sit.

I heard the shower kick in. Good, Red was cleaning up. I turned to my parents, “Folks, make yourselves comfortable. I'm going to get dressed. Be out in a moment." Mom and Dad just looked at me. They still had not sat and that grin on Dad's face was beginning to unnerve me.

Once I was dressed, I came out of the bathroom and was relieved that my parents had figured out where to sit. It seemed to take the edge off the situation that had started so badly. I began. "So this is kinda awkward......"

Mom immediately interrupted. "Awkward? Christ on a crutch Mike, you invited us down. You know how hard it is to get your father to go anywhere, and when we finally get here, you are shacked up with some whore."

"Mom, she's not a whore. They are called Groupies. And besides..........." I can't finish. Mom was not listening. She had made her decision.

Dad piped up and said, "Well I for one am glad we came. She seems a delightful young lady."

Mom turned and stared at my father. "Delightful? Why do you say that? Because she was naked?"

"Why yes dear. Because she was naked. All young ladies are delightful when unclothed."

I can tell my parents were getting primed for one of their daily spats. It always started the same way. One baits, the other bites. I spoke up. “Okay that’s it. Stop right now. Let’s head to the Garden. I’ll leave Angie here. She won’t mind.”

My mom could not resist a parting shot as we moved towards the door. In a loud voice she warned, “Don’t leave any valuables here Mike; they might not be here when you get back.”

Red popped her head out of the bathroom door and stuck her tongue out. Dad smiled at her and said, “Nice to have met you.” Mom tugged on his arm, glared at Angie and we left.

Thankfully, the following hours at the Garden were so special for my parents and myself, the incident at the motel became but a footnote to one of the most bizarre days I had while driving Rock n Roll.

Since it was near the end of the tour, David Bowie had a catered high end meal set up for the crew. Chefs with big hats cooking while waiters wearing white waist coats served food that was absolutely some of the best I have ever eaten. Mom and Dad got to sit down with us. As it happened, David Bowie sat at our table and talked with my parents. He chose our table because their elderly presence was so out of character for this business. My dad was able to hang out at the Sound board while Buford ran his sound check. Both of them ended with respect for the other. They were both geeks. Dad asked questions that Buford had to strain to answer. Geeks just love that kind of shit.

It turned into a good day. If I had had a plan to begin with, I could not have come up with a better series of events to completely impart just how insane the Rock n Roll business was. My parents begged off when I suggested staying for the concert. The meal, meeting David Bowie, the sound check and of course Whacko Redhead was excitement enough for one day. They drove me back to the motel. As I got out, they both insisted they had a wonderful and if nothing else, an interesting time. They drove home to Maine.

I still had to deal with Angie though. She had been cooling her heels at the motel for 5 or 6 hours. Even though she could have robbed me blind during our previous two days together, my mom’s warning skittered through my mind as I walked to the room. What is it about moms and their ability to weasel their way into our minds? It must have something to do with that bonding during pregnancy. After all, they have nine months to implant whatever insidious control device they want.

With this floating around my mind, I opened the door of the motel room. The mess I left was straight now and a fully clothed Whacko Redhead laid passed out peacefully on top of the bed covers. The king size bed wrapped around her like an acre of pasture wraps around a cow. Her red hair seemed under control now. Her eyes closed, she was the perfect picture of calm. I crawled on the bed beside her and was asleep the second my head hit the pillow.

________________________

There was only one tune I could, would, should use with this post. "Under Pressure" - One of the finest tunes David Bowie or for that matter, Freddy Mercury of Queen ever recorded. Hope you enjoy it. It still makes the hair on the back of my neck stand tall and hard. ....... Rock On.

__________________________________

(Original - 3/27/10) (This one - 7/24/2022)

Hotter Than a Fart on a Griddle

So, it's hotter than a fart on a griddle here in Maine right now. While it never hit 100'F here in Acton, supposedly in Sanford, 260 feet lower and only eight miles away, I was told it hit 104'F. 

I cannot remember ever experiencing three digit temps here in Maine. Once when I stopped at a truck stop near 99 Palms, California in the 1970s, the fuel jockey told me it was 108'F. ............ Anyway, we Mainers cannot feel smug any longer. The summer is not being friendly this year, not even here.

Side Note - The image on the left is a heat wave warning sent out by my local healthcare clinic. I know Heat Index is a combination of humidity and temperature, but when it says 100'F+, it is damn hot. 

I was relying on anecdotal evidence supplied me by locals regarding the purported 104'F a few days ago in Sanford. I cannot verify it with any official report from any one who might be construed as an official source. Does not matter. It has been damn hot now for a week and I think it's time for us to secede from the USA and ask Canada to embrace us. I bet we would have a ten degree temperature drop at the least just for becoming Canadians. Besides, even with their current strain of political madness they contracted from us here in the States, I would rather feel their political heat than ours at the moment.

Yesterday my wife had a second shoulder makeover. She is now resting somewhat comfortably numb, her arm safely contained in a sling, and a nerve block that is, as it was last time, slow to give up its grip on her. BA now has pounds of titanium, embedded in her body. 

It is funny, but I did not consider what all that titanium, screws and other hardware would mean when at the airport trying to catch a plane. With all the paranoia regarding what someone might smuggle on board, does all that metal in both shoulders mean strip searching the next time she tries to board an airplane?

Unanswerable questions like that often come to me when I sit calm and befuddled after consuming some especially fine Sativa, Indica or a hybrid of both. And more often than not, I quickly file that unanswerable question in my overflowing madness file my inner man trips over on a regular basis.

So, its Saturday. It's hot. And I am even less ambitious than I usually am. Take it easy out there and....

Keep it 'tween the ditches ........................................

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I knew right out of the gate what tune would work for this post. The past week of humid Hell brought me back to my summers in the late 1960s existing in the sweat dripping Hell that is Washington DC area in the summer. I put up hard earned allowance money for a forty five of this tune. I even went on a waiting list. The record had not even been distributed yet. I think it cost 50 cents.

There is another Lovin Spoonful tune that dovetails well with this song. So I am offering both "Summer in the City" and "Daydream". They go together like dog shit and new shoes. ( Not sure where that came from..... Oh Well.)

Lovin Spoonful is one band I wished had survived longer than it did. Truly talented. That's what they were.

Wake n Bake

 It is 4:30 AM Sunday morning. An hour ago, I made the mistake of not immediately going back to sleep after my usual Dark Thirty bathroom break. As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and stumbled to the kitchen, I told myself I just wanted a drink of water. Nothing worse than waking up with a parched palate.

My second mistake was shaking the insulated pot holding the remnants of yesterday's coffee. Hmm, enough left for at least one cup. While the microwave was having its way with my day old coffee, I went into the office and cranked up the computer. I guess I had finally made a decision. Awake it was, good bye sleep and that very cool dream I should have been eager to get back to.

And then I committed the final mistake that ensured my day was going to be interesting. I found a roach on the stove. Not a wiggly alive roach. We don't have them here in Acton, or at least not in our house anyway. I'm referring to the smoking kind of roach.

I am still a tad hazy from just waking up. I ask myself, 

"Who left that on the stove?"

I picked it up. I studied it. I realized it looked damn familiar. Yet, I was still wondering who would leave it on the stove? I wouldn't leave it there. 

I headed back into the office and sat down at the computer. I figured the only way I would know if it was one of mine would be to spark it up. 

Made sense at the time.

Now it is  4:30 AM. The Sun is not even up and I am righteously baked. Reminds me of college.

Damn good thing I am retired. 

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Music for this post was an easy find. "Wake n Bake" by Simplified. Nice tune.

Only Commies Do That

On July 7th, this Commie, Pinko, Loser Libtard celebrated his 76th wedding anniversary. ............ His 76th wedding anniversary. Imagine; he has been married to the same woman longer than I have been alive. Only Commies do that.

But you know what? There is not a White Wingin Fake Patriot on the Right or the Left who is worthy to polish his or his wife's shoes. No US president in my lifetime has walked the walk like he has. Not Ike. Not JFK. Not Johnson, Not Ford. Not either Bush. Not Clinton, and certainly not Nixon, Reagan or Trump. They are all nothing but low life's when compared to Jimmy and Rosalyn Carter.

He and Rosalyn have lived such exemplary and full lives that Jimmy's tenure as President is but one of the many life accomplishments their lives have been filled with. I sometimes think they finally came into their own long after he was President.

I am amazed at how long my wife and I have been able to refrain from killing each over the almost 42 years we have been married. However, nothing astonishes me more than Jimmy and Rosalyn's ability to stick it out together all those 76 years. They were the perfect "Leave it to Beaver" couple from the 1950's. They lived the post WW ll dream. Life was and is still good for them. But they earned it. Every bit of it.

I have never really read a thorough bio on Jimmy Carter. And I am not claiming that reading a Wikipedia piece on his life is in any way complete. But after reading it, I am even more impressed with his life before Presidency than I was. He never rested. He was always looking for that next challenge. And once he entered politics, Rosalyn proved indispensable as he rose through the ranks of Georgia politics to burst onto the national arena as governor of Georgia in the mid 1970's. Movie script shit right there I tell ya.

So Happy Belated Congratulations to the Carter's from Georgia on their 76th wedding anniversary.  Our world is the better because of you. There is no doubt in my mind about that. But it makes sense I would think that since  I'm a Commie, Pinko, Loser Libtard just as much as you ever were.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ......................................

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Hmm. What music fits this post? .......................... Seems there are quite a few tunes and covers of tunes about peanuts. I found the original song I loved as a child. From 1957, please enjoy "Peanuts", by Little Joe and the Thrillers.

Can Spiders Hear You Scream?

I was punching out the beginning of a hopefully wry and funny post about Donald Trump, his licensed products, and how stupid his minions are for buying into his scams. Then my wife came into the office. She was all done up in her ready to go to work attire. She had her CPA satchels and bags hanging off both shoulders. And best of all, she had that serious "you asshole" look on her face.

"Just to let you know; another one of your eight legged friends is in the bathroom. He only lived because I saw him between the shower curtains while I was showering. When I was ready too hunt him down, he was gone. Get him out or he dies the next time I see him."

"Uh, if I am correct, most spiders we see are female." I grinned. 

All I got was a terse, " That's as it should be. Might be a good idea for humans also ..... Get it out, I have to go. See you later." She turned and left the office.

Hey, a man has to find his fun where he can. 

There are two areas of the house that my darling wife will not tolerate spiders; the kitchen and the bathroom. I would say she is not exactly afraid of them. She just hates them. And she will pull out all the stops to kill one. I, on the other hand, love the little bastards. Over the years I have cherished their existence in any home I have lived in. I did and still do what I can to protect them from the evil humans who would do them harm.

As I was on the hunt to find this animal who had had the audacity to break the morning calm and bathroom routine of my darling significant other, I wondered if Spiders could hear. I remembered someone telling me they couldn't. They did not have ears. I vowed to embark on a ten second trip through google-land once I had the offending spider in custody.

It was a very short hunt. Spiders look like they should be blessed with intelligence, what with all the eyes, the awesome set of mandibles and other scary rigging. Sadly, they are all show and no go. Slaves to instinct and tradition, they are single minded to a fault. If a spider decides that existing between two shower curtains is cool, that is where you will most likely find them next time you look. And this particular type of brown spider I have learned loves living in and around sinks. A bath tub is just a big sink. Our little criminal must have thought she had hit the jackpot. 

I spent more time finding a glass and stiff piece of paper than the time it took to trap my little friend. I took a moment for a mug shot in case she fails in her effort to learn to live in the wild and reappears in the future. I also spoke to her about how stupid it was to test my wife. You don't win when engaging my life partner in battle. I even showed the little bastard my scars. (Okay, Okay, that was bullshit, but the spider couldn't tell. She didn't know a scar from a pimple ferchrisakes) She did seem impressed. I think I saw her blink.

Once Ms. spider was safely behind glass, I took her down to the garage and released her into the Wild. It is a jungle down there. And there is a sink to cozy up to. But she better be careful. That sink has been occupied by one of her kind forever.

Back in my office, tuckered and tired from that exhausting safari to rid my home of a dangerous predator, I was feeling heroic when I googled;

"Do spiders have ears?"

It turns out spiders do not have ears. But they can hear just fine. The listen by feeling sound vibrations through the infinite number of hairs that cover their bodies. Pretty clever set up I think. 

So yes, spiders can hear you scream. But don't be a nancy. Talk to them nice. They might just not eat you that night.

Keep it tween the ditches ..................................................

BTW - I emailed my wife a confirmation pic of the spider under arrest. A man has take his fun where he finds it.

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I need a tune that represents spiders. This should be interesting. ....... 

Actually finding a good tune was not too much of an issue. There are too many tunes with "spiders" in their title. I had to check quite a few until I found Rainne and her song, "Spiders". The video is kind of cool too.

April 5th, 1968

This should have been just another away game like so many others I would experience while a student at Charlotte Hall Military Academy in the late 1960's. But it wasn't. That day was a singular experience I would revisit time and time again over the next 54 years. 

It was the last game of the season. St. Albans Prep in Washington, DC was the destination. The lacrosse team stepped off the team bus around noon I guess. We enjoyed a great feed in a fancy dining hall with white gloved waiters serving up the food. Sort of like Charlotte Hall, but more intimate and fancier; certainly quieter. 

I realized sitting there that I could have gone to St. Albans, but I chose Charlotte Hall instead. What the Hell was I thinking? Then I remembered that I hated the snobby St. Alban punks I knew from my neighborhood in Bethesda. I had chosen the right place. I would not have lasted at St. Albans given the size of the chip I was hauling around at the time.

The normal chatter that filled the air was absent that day. Instead, a somber mood had settled over everyone. Most of the talk seemed to be about the shooting of Martin Luther King the day before and the rioting that exploded almost immediately coast to coast. 

We found the locker room, changed into our uniforms and were directed to the field. The team benches faced easterly. Almost immediately it seemed everyone was looking to the southeast. In the not so far distance, multiple plumes of smoke were billowing skyward. Coach DiMaggio quickly refocused everyone to the task at hand; he said in effect,

" Nothing to see there guys. Nothing you can do. Let's play some lacrosse." 

Mickey Dimaggio was a very single minded man when it came to his interactions with the K-dets. He did not change topics, he did not lose sight of his points, he made you stay focused, often with a wack from his lacrosse stick or a sharp tug on your helmet. Damn, I miss that man.

His attempt to refocus me only partially worked. The whole time I sat on the bench, I would spend more time staring at the smoke billowing up to the southeast just a few miles from my nation's capitol. It upset me. 

I think that day and the turmoil that followed bothered many people. And as it turns out, now here in 2022, it seems we still haven't learned. The same hate and discontent from back then has just been repackaged in a cloak of different verbiage, while the heart of the hate and discontent still remains solidly embedded in our collective souls.

That is what really makes me sad.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ........................................

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Only one group came to mind when it came to picking a tune for this post. Please enjoy the group, "War" and their excellent tune, "The World is a Ghetto".

Why Are You Proud to be an American?

On the TV this morning, the news media back burner-ed the endless stories of hate, death, and destruction they so love to cram down our throats day in and day out. Instead, today is all about America, Independence Day and thumping our chests while shouting proud slogans and setting off fireworks.

Morning Joe said he knew he was inviting snarky and hate filled comments. But he asked the fans on Instagram anyway;

"Why are you proud to be an American?"

I hate questions such as this. ...... Umm, I guess I just flat out hate the word "Proud". It is a word of worthless meaning usually and is often carelessly used in inappropriate situations. It is a word that can incite and lie. "Pride goeth before the fall" is a tried and true passage from Proverbs that indicates we should all be careful when using it in any way. We puff up our chests too much, we are often setting ourselves up for a huge letdown.

No better example of the danger of pride exists than when we use it in a nationalistic and chauvinist way like we do on July 4th; especially the last so many July 4ths since 9-11. It seems to me  many of our country's citizens have decided that over the top exhibitions of pride in one's country determines how much one loves the USA. 

Personally I do my best to not feel pride in myself. What pride I exhibit is aimed at individuals, friends, and family who have done something I feel they deserve my feeling of pride for them. As to Joe's question about being proud to be an American, well, pride has nothing to do with my feelings about my country. I love my country and that is enough. Being proud only invites trouble.

Have a Happy Fourth and watch those fingers ..............................................

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Now what music choice? An obvious selection would be a rousing tune from John Phillips Sousa. And today I feel obvious. Please enjoy and turn it up to wow, "The Stars and Stripes Forever". A proud song if ever I heard one. ...... Stick with it at least until the piccolo solo. Those girls rock!

An Outdated Cultural Depiction

My weekday morning routine, if you can call it that, often finds me in the kitchen around 10:00 AM performing some of the domestic drudgery I walked around the previous three hours but now I have to do it if we want to keep clean plates in the cupboards. I often will turn on the TV for back ground noise as I fuss around the sink, stove and kitchen table. I took notice recently of an old re-run of Bonanza that had found its way to my TV. And now it sports a new warning before the opening credits:

Warning- This Show Contains Outdated Cultural Depictions

Ferchrisakes, this was G-rated, every family in America loved Bonanza; Hoss, Little Joe and the gang whupping bad guys while they dealt with all the intricacies and difficulties of the late 19th century West on or near the Nevada/California line. Now, almost sixty years after the original shows aired, we might be offended by one of the least offensive and squeaky clean shows to ever grace the air waves.

I was fascinated by what could be the "Outdated Cultural Depictions" someone somewhere in the offices of Get TV felt deserved mentioning. I watched most of that episode, you know the one with the two nuns in a stage coach along with Hoss. They get robbed of all the money they had scrimped and saved to build a hospital for the needy in Denver.

While I watched this Horse Opera unfold, I failed to see any depiction that might offend anyone. The story was a gag reflex inducing tale of sacrifice for Lord, our God in Heaven that left one nun dead while the other regains her hospital money and a bright light breaks through the Ponderosa pines as someone rides off into the sunset.

I mentioned this to my wife who claimed she did not watch Bonanza as a child. Yet she was able to point out the obvious 'Outdated Cultural Depiction". Two words passed her lips.

"Hop Sing"

Immediately it dawned on me. The reason I did not think of Hop Sing was he was not in that episode. And almost as immediate, I realized as insanely unforgiving as the Cancel Culture was over the Past not spoiling our Present or our Future; it almost equals the zeal with which the White Wing Peckerwoods use to try to return that Past and force it into our Present. Between the two of them, we just cannot catch a break.

Yes, Hop Sing played a servant in the series. But, Bonanza was known for their, at the time, groundbreaking sensitive character portrayals that attempted to not denigrate, but to integrate. Native Americans were always treated with the best intentions of that period. The only nasty people on the show were all the bad white guys the gang at the Ponderosa tangled with on a weekly basis.

I know that the shows of my youth would not stand the scrutiny and criticisms of 2022 television. But warning people they may be offended is bush league stupidity. If the Past offends someone in the future, they need to get a grip and move on.

And folks don't understand why I am almost as pissed off with the Left now as I am with the Right.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ...........................................

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There is only one tune I can think of for this post.  Lorne Green singing the theme to Bonanza. Enjoy! 

Someone Else's Blues

It has been a week since I posted anything online. Not on my blog, Not on Facebook. Not on Twitter. I did not consciously take time off. It just happened.

I think my missing in action status was kicked off by a commercial NBC runs regularly hawking their kid's online news program, "Nightly News with Lester Holt, Kid's Edition". To add some beef to the ad, they offer several three or four second moments of children asking questions about current events. I cannot remember from one viewing to another any of the kid's questions or comments with the exception of one ten year old who looks straight at the camera and asks:

"Can you tell me what is going on?"

Every time I see this commercial now, I snarl at the screen, 

"Never mind the kids, please tell me what the fuck is going on first."

This is how confused, disappointed and really pissed off I am now. I feel myself wanting to just hide under a rock, spark up a Doob, and let the waning years left to me pass by as painlessly as possible. ......... Hmm.

So I crawled into a convenient hole and sulked these past days. The wound of a thousand cuts spread over forty years are so extensive, licking them is no longer an option. But then neither is caving and becoming the type of drooling minion the Right loves; one who does not complain or ask questions. Fear filled populations are easier to control. So the Right pours on the hate, pours on the lies, they never give up. They are relentless.

I often think the Right Wingers' brow beating ways and their use of outrageous made up Bull Shit has finally worn down my last nub. But as I said, that is the result they want. If they can't convert, turning me into another apathetic asshole works just as well, ........ maybe better. 

Contrary to the Right's claim only they are the moral, high ideal love of humanity group, they actually have no real interest in ideology or policy that works for our mutual benefit. They offer up vague slippery tongued promises of good times in the future if we will only follow them and submit to their obvious superior plans. But their plans in recent years have not lived up to their promises. All they want to do is to dial back the clock and rescind rights so many fought for these last 60-70 years. That is not a path forward. That is painful atrophy. Every major change they have forced down our throats always seem to only help the missions of a select few or fill the pockets of their leadership and good buddies in board rooms around the world. 

I know that this country I now have trouble identifying with went through these changes incrementally one fuck up at a time. While both the Right and the Left had a part in the madness, the Right was more enthusiastic and eager to put the screws to the majority of us who considered people by their content, not their looks, their sexual identity, or what religion they bent their knees to. 

Sadly it appears they may have their way, and are now poised for a successful takeover of the USA for some years to come. At best, I see us in the near future living in a Corporate Autocracy. At worse, we end up a Fascist state or even worse, a Theocracy. Those kind of evils have been hiding in the shadows forever. This may be their time in the Sun,

As Jackie, my good internet friend from Texas has said for years:

"We are so fucked."

The time needed to change the horizon we are heading for grows short. 

Later .............................................

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I know, I know ..... Music to whine by, complain by, face the evil heading our by. This may take some time.

REM's tune, "It's the end of the World"  covers things nicely I guess. 

But as a bonus tune I came across while looking for more specific to the point of the post music is "Someone Else's Blues" by one of my all time favorite musicians, David Bromberg, because I guess I have been waking up lately with "Someone Else's Blues".