Puttering

I wrote the title of this post on October 9th, 2025. I will often start with just a title and maybe or maybe not a vague idea of what I might want to write about. Start with one word and hopefully it will begin the flow.

Seems what I wanted to say on October 9th of last year was so vague, by the time I decided to to put pen to paper as it were, well, the notion was no longer vague, it was gone. Only the title remained of a draft that never got off the ground.

This morning I thought I needed some maintenance time to clean out numerous posts I started but never finished. I was determined to be brutal and remove them without emotion. After all, they are only words I never respected enough to finish the thoughts they started. Cut em out, delete them, toss them to the wind.

I came to this empty post with the title as the only clue of what I might have had on my mind that October day of last year........ "Puttering"? Just what had I had in mind, I wondered.

I didn't wonder long. As my goal was to be brutal with my deletions of unfinished posts; the rule being finish the post or shit can it. I poured another cup of coffee, contemplated my navel a moment or two longer. I decided to do what I thought the title wanted me to do.

I assumed I meant a post about puttering in the real world; maybe wax poetic about finding little chores to finish around the house or yard. Or finally take action on some Mad Max idea I came up with while baked. Then I thought:

"You know what, I can putter with words too."

When I finished that revelation and let it sink in, I realized that my blog is really just a puttering receptacle. The over 2 million words I have written in the past 21 years are nothing but the result of the puttering I wrote to soothe my mind and help maintain my healthy ego. Just imagine the horror of not purging those 2 million words. I am sure my brain would have exploded 10 years ago. "Mind Puttering" may have just saved my life.

Here we have another result of my word puttering; a finished post that says nothing meaningful, wastes some time and uses up a chunk of bytes that may help clutter the Internet ether for forever and a day. In other words, I have written the usual nonsense and am now happy as if I had a brain. After all, it's about the words in the end, not the point they try to make; Right?

Mission Accomplished .......................................

_____________________________

Since I was such a slacker on this post, I will do my best to find some song that is just the opposite. A tune that is meaningful in some way. A song that stirs some emotions and tugs at either the Heart or the Funny Bone. Maybe a song that will surprise not only the 20 or so souls who read my drivel, but surprise me also. 

Or, since I seem to be sporting a lazy streak this morning, maybe I'll pick a song by some random means that is silly and makes no sense. Hmm .............. Let's get it on.

I have been waiting for an opportunity to use one of these songs with a post. The problem was, neither was a good fit in any of the usual posts I come up with. This post however, with no point to speak of, is perfect for one of them. Without any more fanfare, please enjoy (or not), "Detachable Penis", by King Missle. It was either this song or Denis Leary's, "I'm an Asshole". It was a toss up at first, so I flipped a virtual coin in the virtual world I live in sometimes. The Asshole song lost.

Sitting With the Dead

We didn't get much of a head's up. Mrs. B told us when we climbed the stairs out of the basement after a night of over indulgence. While we tackled eggs, bacon and home fries, Mrs B informed us of her plans for us starting at 11:00 AM over to Pumphrey's Funeral Home on Wisconsin Avenue.

Snake and I exchanged panicked looks. Before we came upstairs, we had dropped four hits each of Purple Micro Dot LSD. We were going to hang out down at the Federal Triangle in DC and laugh at the tourists all day. 

"But Mom", Snake began, we already have plans. "We sat with Gran Mama yesterday. Can't Uncle Charley take it?"

"Uncle Charley has an emergency. You two will fill in."

Mrs B stood with her hands on her hips and a no bullshit look on her face.

"You two live in my house rent free, eat free, and come and go as you please..... Call this your penance or call it whatever you want, but you two will put your suits on and spend time sitting with Gran Mama while friends and relatives stop by to view her body and pay their respects."

Snake and I had acquired vast experience with most of the popular psychoactive drugs. LSD was by far our favorite. We had been gobbling it up whenever we liked for a couple of years at that point. And we had dealt with many different challenges while high on hallucinogens. 

Neither of us had ever sat with a dead body while tripping though. 

Gran Mama's open casket was placed at the end of a narrow room. The walls were moving in and out in time with my breaths. At first, it was a tad unsettling. Once I got in sync with the movement of the walls, I began to relax.

Chairs lined both side walls. Snake and I took seats across from each other. That was our big mistake. We hadn't even warmed up the chairs we were sitting on when I could no longer look Snake in the eye. I turned away snickering and snorting. For his part, Snake just busted out laughing. It was off to the races at that point.

When tripping, Time is lost or gained, or just different than Time that takes place in Reality. I don't know how long we laughed, but Snake peed his pants and I was probably about to when Mrs. B came storming into the viewing room. Her face looked dangerously red and when she talked, her arms and fingers became hallucinogenic motions fused together looking like flapping wings that peaked with each angry point she made. I was transfixed. I was really, really wasted. I realized then, 4 hits of Purple Micro Dot was at least one hit over the line.

I think I managed to regain some control. I remember looking at Snake across the space between us. He was wiping his eyes and pointing at his crotch where a wet stain had made its presence known. I remember thinking that Snake also, had eaten one hit of Acid too many.

I cannot remember what Mrs. B said. All I could tell ,was she was angry and she looked like a quilting bee lady with blazing blue hair gone berserk. I remember becoming concerned. But then I began to laugh again. Snake began to laugh again.

Mrs B stop waving her hands. Her face seemed to glow redder and I was sure I could see her noggin expanding to a point where the inevitable cranial burst would cause her brains to end up in my lap.

"Have you two been smoking marijuana again?"

Her pronunciation of marijuana came out like she was spitting out something distaseful. Her angry glare passed back and forth between the two of us. Snake later told me he saw flames shoot out of her eyes. Her face was all rubbery and elastic. Her old lady print Sunday go to meeting dress was all askew like she had been running. She opened and closed her mouth many times but I never did make any sense of it.

I sat there transfixed and in awe of just how angry she appeared to be. I spoke up.

"No, No Mrs B, we are not high on pot. We are tripping. ........ You know what, I think Gran Mama's lips moved. Are you sure she's really dead?"

I broke out laughing again. Snake came out of his hallucenogenic daze for a moment and glared at me. I quickly backtracked.

"Uh, uh, no Mrs B, yeah , we smoked some pot I guess. ...... But we didn't know we would be coming here.

My reasonable excuse fell flat. She was having none of it.

Mrs B started in with one of her all time best anti drug rants ever. And sadly for all of us, Snake and I could not keep straight faces. With each salient point made by her, our laughter became louder until she finally kicked us out of the funeral home in disgust. We had to hoof it the couple of miles back to their house on Southwick St.

She did not speak to either of us for over a week. All communications came through either Snake's sisters, Mr B, or Uncle Charley.

Did I feel any regret, remorse, or guilt for my actions. At the time, I might have, but it was only fleeting. Anytime someone mentioned our performance in the viewing room, it often resulted in moments of gut busting belly laughs and occasional eye wiping. Mrs B's face was an awesome wonder to behold while trippin the light fantastic.

( @ 875 words)

_________________________

Music choice........ ?

Only one tune by one performer would do. Here is an old great Blue/Jazz tune, "St. James Infirmary" as performed in 1933 for a cartoon by Cab Calloway, the jumping-est, the jive-est, and hippest Bad Cat around in 1933.

And just because "St. James Infirmary" is such a great classic, please enjoy a more modern cover of it by Hugh Laurie. Yeah, that's right , the actor, Hugh Laurie. The man has some serious musical talent.

The Bridge

Mark stepped out of Home Room into the noise and confusion of a school hallway between classes. He did not hesitate. He now knew where his first class was. He turned right and merged with the kids heading deeper into John Hanson Junior High's labyrinth of tight hallways connecting cramped classrooms. The old school was busting at the seams lately what with all the new residential construction going on in Oxon Hill, Maryland.

Jimmy G and his crew stopped Mark near the boys bathroom next to the gym. Jimmy puffed up his chest and shoved Mark hard. His entourage of Elvis haired bad ass wannabe's tightened their circle around Mark. Their Ban-Lon shirts were seriously tucked into thin belted sharply creased Big Mac work pants that almost, but not quite, touched their perfect high top black Chuck Taylor sneakers. They were the local equivalent of ultra cool. They ruled the halls at John Hansen

"Jack here says you called me a punk. .... Right Jack?"

The cro-magnon buddy towering over Jimmy mumbled, "Uh, that's right Jimmy. He said you were a punk ass greaser."

Jimmy squinted at Mark and smiled. "So, what do you say asshole? Did you call me a punk?"

Mark had had his share of these new kid in school encounters over the last 7 or 8 years. He sighed and looked down at this scrawny excuse of a school yard bully. He could almost write the script for the next day or two in his life. 

Punk gets in the new kid's face and challenges him. New kid considers what to do. Does the punk have back up? If so, it won't matter if the punk is bad ass or not. His crew will have their way. Mark decided to speed the process along.The encounter was going to happen regardless. Sooner was better than later.

"Shit Jimmy, I guess I must have called you a punk ass greaser, if that is what Jack here said."

Jimmy's smile faded and his eyes opened up some. He had not counted on this answer. For a moment he was stuck for something to say.

Mark didn't miss this opportunity to press harder. "So what do we do now Jimmy? Get into a fight? And if so, where? I am the new kid. I don' know shit."

Jimmy hesitated. This moment of intimidation had not gone down as planned. He stepped back and poked a puny finger at Mark. "The Bridge - right after school. Your ass is mine."

Jimmy G and his small band of cronies shuffled away, occasionally turning and throwing dangerous glares in Mark's direction. Mark shrugged and headed to class.

"The Bridge" was found on the 1000 yard path that ran through a small strip of woods separating John Hansen Junior High from Oxon Hill High. It spanned Carey Branch, a small creek that spilled into the Potomac River a couple of miles away near Indian Head. It was also a gathering spot for the derelicts who attended both schools. They would gather, smoke cigarettes, sometimes drink, hassle the girls walking through and pick on whatever boy they felt needed it that day. It was often an unpleasant gauntlet for any student outside their clique.

Mark was one such student who found it unpleasant. But he used the path because otherwise walking home the long way would add 15 minutes to his journey. So far, all he had suffered while passing the bridge were some dirty looks, some smirks and a few "Hey New Kid, you suck dicks". Mark also used the bridge because he had learned that to walk in fear would only make his time here in Oxon Hill more difficult. Experience taught him that standing up and taking what came was the fastest way for any intimidation or bullying to stop. It had been his experience bullies did not long pick on people who resisted. Today was to be the day the bullies decided to mess with him. Mark was actually surprised it had taken them so long to tag him for attention. The new school year was in its 3rd week.

Mark was not immune to fear. He was anxious and uptight as he walked through the ball fields to the path that led to the bridge. His palms began to sweat the closer he came to Bridge. He accepted he might take a beating of some kind and was determined to get  it over with. His only problem was how to respond to Jimmy G's assaults. Jimmy was a true runt. Not a dwarf maybe. But if he didn't grow anymore, he would become one. Mark in all his five foot-eight grandeur, towered over jimmy G by 12" at least.

Still undecided about what to do as he came up to the Bridge, he needn't have worried. The decision was made for him. Jimmy broke out of the gaggle of Greasers standing around smoking cigarettes. Jimmy came fast, only giving Mark a second to set his feet. He smacked Mark in the mouth. The appropriate "Whoa's" and "You get him Jimmy" comments rose from the gaggle as they began to encircle the pair.

Jimmy had miscalculated. His blow barely moved Mark's face. Mark looked down at Jimmy. Instead of hitting him, he shoved Jimmy hard enough to knock him off his feet. The Gaggle went quiet and their circle tightened.

"I don't want to fight Jimmy. Fighting is stupid."

Jimmy stood up. "So you are calling me stupid, huh punk?"

Mark looked around. He noticed some bigger kids wearing the same Ban Lon shirt, Big Mac pants outfits hovering over the inner ring of Jimmy's friends. He assumed they were early departing high school kids who also used the Bridge as a go to hangout. They looked mean and ready to tear Mark apart. One of them shouldered his way through the younger punks and faced Mark.

"Jimmy's my brother asshole. He's a pain in my ass, but I won't let anyone hurt him." He dropped his head to Mark's level. "Got it  asshole?"

Mark did not respond. He knew that with all his previous experience as the "New Kid", this one was turning out to be nothing like he envisioned. For the first time, he was scared; really scared. There were a lot of kids sporting hair grease and Chuck Taylors here. They looked ready to live up to their reputations.

Jimmy's big brother moved in closer and again dropped his head close to Mark's ear.

"Look," he whispered, "let Jimmy rough you up some. You rough him up some. Nobody gets hurt after. Okay?"

Mark nodded his head, unsure that Jimmy's brother had that kind of pull over his salivating buddies.

Jimmy was wiping his hands on the dirty rear pockets of his previously perfect Big Mac pants. He once again charged Mark and in a flurry of fist flinging, managed to bloody Mark's nose. Jimmy retreated and grinned. "Whataya think now asshole? You gonna call me a punk again?"

Mark grinned also. The intimidating build up to this fight turning out to be such a minor altercation made him sigh with relief inside while outside he stood tall and did not cower.  "No Jimmy, I won't ever call you a punk again. ...... Now are we done?"

Mark started to walk through the crowd of Blocks. Someone blindsided him with a fist to his ear, knocking him down. Mark jumped up and spun around to see who had thrown the punch. Too many impassive faces, no one looked guilty; everyone looked guilty. Mark stood there a moment glaring at all of them and slowly backed the rest of the way out of the ring.

Life got easier for Mark after that. He had stood his ground and that had gotten him some respect. But what really turned it for Mark was when he tried out for the basketball team and was selected to play. The blocks didn't mess with the jocks as a rule. 

During B-Ball season, Mark was offered a membership of sorts in their crew. The only thing was he had to change clothes. They were not tolerant of the button down collar, wee-juns with tassles look. Mark bought a few Ban-Lon shirts and was already using Chuck Taylors, but he drew the line at wearing Big Macs. He always thought the huge pants legs looked stupid with spindly kid legs sticking out of them.

_____________________

This fight did happen and I tried to describe it as accurately as I could. All the rest was created to try and make what was but one of a million stories of bullies a little more interesting. The next year when we moved back to Bethesda, I had to deal with two more bullies, one of whom really hurt me. The other, well, he never messed with me again. But that is yet another story to tell.

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

_______________________________

For today musical interlude, I picked "Jeremy" by Pearl Jam. I did not know it, but they wrote this tune in response to an incident at a school I think in 1991. A bullied student stood in front of his class and shot himself in the head. 

Yes, no encounter with bullying in my experience made me feel this desperate. And no, I don't think I could know or comment on how desperate someone can become after incessant bullying. I do know and have experienced bullying in my life. I am guessing most of us have. Yet it still happens.

Never underestimate the capacity of Humans to be complete assholes.

Started this post 12 years ago.

Going Manic

Before the year 2000, I never thought about Depression.  I knew folks suffered from it.  I watched both of my parents deal with it as they approached the end of their run on the planet. Before 2000, I had not yet felt the crush of the dark pit as it wrapped itself around me.

It was in 2001 or 2002, I was talked into being part of the first run of Interferon based therapy for Hepatitis. The regimen called for a year of many painful self injections and pills that made me feel about as shitty as a human can feel. It was pure unadulterated misery for me. I lasted a couple of months.

Seems of all the nasty side affects, down at the bottom of the list in print so small, I had to read it with a magnifying glass; there it was.  11% of the trial patients experienced suicidal ideation.  Of course, I did not find this out until I had already attempted suicide.  Of course, being a rookie, a NooB, an inexperienced suicide hobbyist, I failed.  Half ass attempt for sure, but it certainly scared the shit out of me.  I dropped out of the program.

Ever since my run in with those bad pharmaceuticals prescribed for my hepatitis,  I have had to deal with on again, off again bouts of depression. Thinking back, I was probably depressive to a degree before the medicine, it was only after taking the meds,  the depression magnified and now dealing with it is a constant concern. I wake up many mornings and wonder if today is the start of another depression bender.

The up side........ yeah, there is actually an upside I think .............. The upside is that now, as if to balance out my life's biorhythms, the low notes are offset by wonderful high notes.  I get to experience the joy of mania.  Up is often really up; I'm flying, thoughts move so quickly I have trouble getting a handle on them.  But when I am able to grab one, my focus is impressive.  I guess even bad medicine can have a silver lining.

A friend asked me a few years back what did Depression feel like.  I am sure everyone has their own notion of what it is or isn't.  But I told him that for me it was like existing as nothing, or maybe a kind of non-existence with my eyes open.  Nothing matters.  Nobody cares, least of all me.  The out there world is a fantasy land that is maybe or maybe not just a figment of my imagination.

Hmm .........

And that brings up an entirely new subject. Is Reality nothing but a group figment of our imaginations?

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

_________________________

A song I have always felt was about what I called "being low" when I was younger was "Paint it Black" by the Rolling Stones. When I looked it up with google, they agreed. So enjoy this tune from the mid 1960's.

Times of Degeneration

Back in the early 1970s, college campuses were a melting pot of the possibilities of the Future mixed in with the traditions of the Past.  

The Hippies represented what was the Present and what was coming. The Pat Boone kids, with their clean cut hair-doos and their Ah shucks, the Lord is my Shepard attitudes were doing their best to resist the tidal wave of the rampant hedonism of the  Anti-American Pinko Commies who many perceived to be overrunning college campuses coast to coast. Free Love had been invented, but getting laid was still a crap shoot on any given night down to the Rathskeller.

New ideas and concepts clashed with the old tried and true Leave it to Beaver ideals Americans had been convinced were what had made America the greatest country on the planet.  Blacks were flexing their muscles. Future draftees were burning their draft cards while women began burning their bras and gays were slowly leaving their closets.  The stodgy what used to be was being replaced by the hip new what is coming.

The only common thread tying all the college kids together was they were all horny and looking to occasionally step away from reality or hedge their bets for an overnight lay by ingesting copious amounts of the Demon Rum or Satan's Weed; oftentimes both.

Flash forward to today. 

I cannot say the populations of college campuses break down now in similar demographics as they did back in the early 1970's. I can certainly attest to the notion that similar mindsets have bridged the five decades since I wasted time in college getting wasted. The issues of then are still not settled business among many citizens now and continue to be thorns in the side of the American experience.

The dates have changed. The mentalities have not. The Left still pushes us to tomorrow, the Right wants to hold us back. The Left likes Capitalism to a point. Most see it as a necessary evil. The Right seems to love Capitalism and its captains more than they love the country. These truths are a constant that have been with us since our beginnings over 200 years ago. 

A noticeable difference between the conversations of then and now are the levels of intractability our opposing views have attained. We used to have heated discussions and when people tired of arguing, they often found consensus or they walked away. Today, we don't have conversations, we shout at each other and seldom find common ground. Instead, we dig our heels in even when the facts tell us we are wrong.

Yes, the biggest difference I notice today is the lack of respect we give facts. We have begun favoring our own interpretations of facts or ignoring them completely. It seems our political realities are being framed by our political faith that all too often leaves little room for the facts we should be using to frame our plans or views in the first place. This leaves us with fewer workable bipartisan actions and more built up partisan acrimony.  The one reality almost all of us used to live in has now had to make room for other realities that only exist in the minds of the beholders. 

The words my high school English teacher wrote in my junior year yearbook seem so, so more prophetic now than they did when he wrote them in 1969:

" These are critical times. Degeneration is around the corner.  ....... WATCH! "

I think it is safe to say we have entered the times of Degeneration, yet many of us fail or refuse to see it.

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

_______________________

I had narrowed my musical choice down to four songs, three by Buffalo Springfield and one by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. One group provided members for the later group, so the musicality is very similar. It was a tough choice. I listened to all four several times each. 

What I did was, post all four. "Ohio" and "For what it's Worth" may be be the most famous of the four.  All four are great and always take me back to those days of upheaval in the 1960s and 70s that sadly seem to have reared their ugly little heads once again.

• "Ohio" - Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young  
• "Four Days Gone" - Buffalo Springfield  
• "Special Care" - Buffalo Springfield
• "For What it's Worth" - Buffalo Springfield

Post created from a very rough draft from February, 2009

92.1

Sanford, Maine is a small city close to me here in Acton. It has had a radio station transmitting at 92.1 on the dial for quite a few years. It has gone through more than a few changes; call letters, formats and owners over the 47 years I have been listening. But it is still there because of the impressive height of the tower that sits on a hill called Mt. Hope, overlooking the old mill town.

The big ass tower up on Mt. Hope, uh,Mount Rialto used to rock our socks off.  The disc jockeys spun every tune by hand.  Hard Rock, Jazz, Blues, Alternative and once in awhile even some cutting edge Country.  I remember a Merle Haggard set once.  Along with the opening line, "We don't smoke marijuana in Muskogee", while in the background the disc jockey sucked in hard on the mic, and in almost a whisper, "Sissssssss, ah that's some good stuff man."  

Immediately came the sound of lungs coughing as they expanded past their red line and drowned out the first few lines of the song. They might not be smoking marijuana in Muskogee, but apparently they did smoke marijuana up on Mt. Rialto.

Every night was a theme night.  Blues on Mondays I think.  Jazz owned Sunday mornings.  Alternative, mixed with Pop which mixed with AC/DC and Black Sabbath most daylight hours.  Tie a Yellow Ribbon around Ozzie while Steely Dan waits his turn.  Never knew what to expect. It was great.

The last DJ, Ken Ridley - R.I.P.

The radio at the bike shop was locked on the Mount; we didn't move it. I think it was around 1994 when a Massachusetts concern bought the station and began feeding music to Mount Rialto from somewhere deep in the Commonwealth. 92.1 is still pumping out music as an "oldies" station that has someone knowledgeable programming it. But 92.1 is just another spot on the radio dial broadcasting pre-programmed music without the fun that happens between songs when manic jocks lose their shit and go verbally postal. That was always half the fun of listening to live programming, the chance to hear someone say something outrageous that would twist the panties of any older generation who happened to be within earshot.

This gradual transformation and eventual extinction of the solo radio station pumping out tunes one song at a time at 10,000 watts is almost complete now. I thought we had hit rock bottom when the radio stations were bought up by tone deaf venture capitalists. Almost over night spinning platters were replaced by pre-programmed tapes punched up at corporate headquarters 200 miles away and 50 stations began playing the same songs at the same time.

As it turned out, rock bottom was still years away.

Now all our music is stored, cataloged, and broadcast out of the memory banks of millions of computers sprinkled around the planet through internet cables hanging on poles or buried in the ground. Radio waves now days are mostly reserved for talk radio that often spend their time spewing hate and discontent. There are some older all music stations hanging in there, but the heart of music radio has been torn out and now exists on the Internet. I-tunes, Sirius, Spotify and other music purveyors charge a per song fee or monthly fees to hear the music we used to listen to for free.

It may sound as if I am complaining. It may seem I am not happy about how the Past let me down with the Present it left me. There is no reason to complain, but plenty of reason for at least a moment or two to be nostalgically sad. I grew up on music pumped out of honking big radios filled with rectifier tubes that grew hot and glowed as music worked past the static to make us smile until we were out of range and had to fiddle with a dial to find a new station. I don't miss those days now so much as I appreciate they were there setting the stage for what would come into my life 60 years later. 

Later Gator ............................................

__________________________

Naturally or not, I am picking Merle Haggard's "Okie From Muskogee" 

( Orig - 2/7/2012 )

Gay Romance

I found a blog written by a writer who appears to carry some weight in the E-publishing world.  Her sidebar highlights her previous accomplishments, and her blog was just awarded some prestigious award as one of the best five resources for wannabe writers like me.

Her blog is full of suggestions, hints and generally upbeat rah rah rah propaganda about how anyone can write and write well.

She re-printed an article by an author who teaches creative writing at the college level. He is known for his romance novels and Hallmark Channel type mysteries.  His favorite style is the novella.

I was more interested in the information than checking out what he wrote.  It was not until I was ready to leave the blog that I noticed he wrote Gay romance novels.

"Hmmm", I thought ..... No really, that is what I thought,  "Hmmm."

Since I look at Life through the eyes of an avowed knuckle draggin male chauvinist pig, I rarely concern myself with the inner workings of the Gay culture.  I root for them and whenever possible vote for them to have the same rights as I do.  Other than that, I go my way, they go theirs.

The idea that there is actually a market for Gay romance novels never crossed my mind.  The notion did not disgust me.  It did not even cause me to titter, guffaw, or scowl.  What I realized is, there is so much under the Sun I am not aware of, I could live to be 200 years old and not be cognizant of everything worthy of knowing,  Or not knowing ....... whatever.

The various social groups, gender groups, racial groups, church groups, and political groups all have a public face that is all most of us outside that group ever see, or care to see. What goes on inside the group goes unnoticed for the most part. A glimpse inside often confuses or causes discomfort to someone peeking in. Most folks just blow it off. Some don't and become obsessed to the point of unhealthy fanaticism.

The fervent dedication many Evangelicals use to try to destroy the hard won normalcy of the LGTBQ communities boggles my mind. I guess they cannot or will not ever enjoy a moment when their panties are not in a bunch over something that is not their business. They cannot help themselves. Their futile silliness at trying to control the uncontrollable used to make me laugh. .................

Now it doesn't make me laugh. It makes me angry and reinforces why I hate organized religions.

 

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

___________________________

I sought Google's help in finding some music that might fit with this post. I typed in  "Anti Gay Music". What came up I could not, will not use.  

Instead, I typed in "Music About Acceptance".  The tune, "The Power of Two", by The Indigo Girls came up. I have always enjoyed their music. Their sexual identity was never an issue for me.This tune celebrates the power of a loving relationship without any gender baggage. If the Gay hating Christians didn't know beforehand, they would like this song. It is chock full of the good messages in Christianity with none of the hate. 

( First draft - 2/9/15 )

She Wears the BVD's

"She Wears the BVD's,"

"I Stand in the Street and Freeze." 

"It's Nobody's Business but my Own."

These are some of the fine lyrics I found on a fifty cent CD I bought over to Marden's some time ago.  I found it in a gaylord ( large cardboard bin) right next to the only check out open that moment.  Suddenly an image of the slogan, " I should have bought it when I saw it at Marden's" passed through that area I charitably call my mind.

Stark and sad images of  harsh lessons from my past popped up and reminded me that it was never a good idea to pass up a deal too good to be true, especially at Marden's. Missed some good shit in the past by telling myself, "I'll come back".  The good deals don't stay healthy out on the floor.  

I looked at the gaylord full of the 5000 or so CDs and decided they would not last. So I dove in. 

Maybe thirty minutes later and only a foot or so deep into the gaylord, I came up for air.  Had set aside 20, 25 CDs to take home.  I seriously considered diving back in when Reality tapped me in my pocket.  Nothing like a phone call from home to ruin any good buzz one has goin.  Damn.  I would have to come back I guess. Sadly I gathered up my paltry pile of bargain CD's and dragged my sorry ass over to the only check out counter open at that time..

The lady at the counter was soon underwhelmed by my purchases.  Only about a third of the pile had price tags.  Well Shit ..........  No bigger monkey wrench in the works exists at Mardens than plopping down anything without a price tag.  Days are ruined, Life sucks, and it is all because I had the indecency to not check the CD's for tags before I decided to buy.

I knew this to be a cardinal sin as I had on a previous occasion or two ruined some other Marden's employee's day, or maybe even their week.  I dutifully hung my head low and mumbled,"Sorry Ma'am."

Her piercing stare was all I saw as she reached for the loud speaker mike.  "PRICE CHECK AISLE 2".

Some moments passed as I endured scathing looks from customers and sales folks alike.  Only one sales aisle open and this flounder has not just one thing to price check, he has a dozen.  I know everyone hated me.  I deserved it.  I knew the rules.  My car was licensed in Maine.  Go to Marden's and keep up or go somewhere else like Job Lot.  Fuckin Texas Leaguer.  I know that is what everyone within eyesight was thinking.

Even with my eyes diverted to the floor, I sensed her presence.  Not so much saw or heard her; I guess I just knew an employee with pull was in my general vicinity and getting closer with every step.  A large and imposing figure blocked out my sunlight and said, "That damn CD box again."  Her withering stare was directed not at me but at the sales lady who actually bothered her while she was catching up on the latest harlequin romance to come in with the latest gaylord full of books.

At first, Sales Lady looked rebellious.  But Queen of the Counters was the big bad ass broad with the stare to end all stares.  She said, "Got a piece of cardboard?"

Sales Lady hesitated just a second too long for the Queen's liking.  "Well, do you?"  And then she looked down her nose as if to say, "What's the matter, don't understand English?"

Cardboard produced, the Queen took the 3 steps it took to reach the gaylord full of trouble I had dipped into.  Queen of Counters stapled a cardboard sign to the bin that read "50 Cents or as Marked".  Turning back to Sales Lady, "Got it?  ........ Learn to make a decision ferchrisakes. " And with a kind of a whinny, the Queen of the Counters cantered back towards the rear of the store.

Meanwhile, behind me, the only cash register functioning continued to back up.  At least I was at the front of it.  ......Poor bastards.  There's always someone and sometimes we have to be that someone, that guy, that poor bastard everyone in line will hate until they drive away in their cars.

I paid my $12 plus tax and hit the road.  As it turns out, there are at least 6 standout CDs from that gaylord.  "The Country Gentlemen" was my favorite. I saw them live , in person , up close with my brother in the mid 1960s at the Red Fox Tavern in downtown Bethesda, Maryland. Them, Flatt and Scruggs, and Doc Watson were responsible for my life long love affair with Bluegrass music. 

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

____________________

Naturally I had to pick a tune off that fifty cent CD. Here is "Nobody' Business" by The Country Gentlemen.

( originally written - 2/13/2021 )

Anticlimactic

We spend the first twenty or so years of our lives just winding our clocks up, filling our fuel tanks with knowledge and sensory overload.  At some point, usually later in that twenty year curve, we are spit out into the World to sink or swim.  

Of course this only relates to maybe 98% of the planet's population.  There is that 2% who have no clue or ever had to have a clue from their beginning to their end.  And many of those 2% are the progeny of earlier two-percenters who had no clue either. With each generation, they lose even more contact with reality.  But that's okay, we have places for them;  Monaco, Aspen, Palm Beach, the list goes on and on. There is still plenty of room for the rest of us to stumble around finding our way.

So most of us spend the first twenty years getting ready.  We embark on our journey to find whatever it is that will end up being our fate, our direction, our focus.  Most of us will enter into everything at the ground floor, from the social basement to the corporate/labor basement.  We have lots to learn still, but our basic tools are out on the bench and ready when we know how to use them.

Somewhere between the twenties and the forties, we settle in, build our careers, copulate to create our replacements, and concentrate on building some kind of nest egg, physical or otherwise.  The lucky ones find it close at hand. Like the girl next door, its a wonderful life here in Pottersville.  Some will hit the road and follow their dream or a stream of cash, dragging anyone hooked into their trip with them.  And for some who are left, they will search for that spot to settle into and never find it.  

Regardless, we all seem to have a pinnacle.  A point we reach where everything we did led to that point of our lives.  Anything that comes after is just biding time to when we finally depart in a box with a tag around our big toe.

So why do we anguish about how long we will be around?  We have no real control over this.  Accident, war, disease, self destructive behaviors all conspire to take us out at any given moment.  But we insist on worrying about the time we have left to continue taking up space. 

I have been through the run up, the pre-adult prep.  I have done the build a family, a life, create a replacement.  And now I am in a phase I just do not know what to think of.  Empty Nest syndrome doesn't quite cover it.   I have been used to that now for years.  For lack of a better word, I will call it what it is; I am retired. 

Whatever.

I thought about this awhile back on an errand over to Home Depot in Rochester. I had about forty five minutes behind the wheel to consider where and when my peak was. Had I passed it without a clue? It certainly was not in front of me anymore, but just in case, I ran through some previous high points and low points just to make sure.  None of them seemed fitting to apply the word Peak or Pinnacle.  My life just looked like a series of  minor bumps and dumps on the graph covering the time I have been around.

The notion of mortality; my mortality, visited for a minute.  Was there enough time left to find this pinnacle if it still actually existed?  Did I even care? If it was waiting out there for me to find it, could I step outside the comfortable box I have hammered together over the last fifty plus years long enough to even look for it?   The questions died unanswered. So I moved on.

We all look for climaxes. We look for them in our sex lives, our career lives, our marriages, our books, movies and music. Many of us it seems, look at Death as the ultimate climax.  Besides our birth, that is the only other event in our lives that really matters.  Instead of embracing the end of Life as a normal circumstance and not a climatic moment, we seek every measure we can to avoid it. We seek to put off that final breath, often leaving any quality of Life questions in the dust. 

I wonder.  I have seen death and it really doesn't seem to bother the person dying so much as those who witness it.  They are here and then the light leaves their eyes and they are gone.  All they leave are the memories they have created in those still living.  Some are lucky I guess to have left legacies that are recorded and examined from time to time by those who still walk the planet.  But for the most part, all we leave of ourselves is cached in the hearts and minds of the small circle we orbited in.

Death is anti-climatic and unpredictable. Is worrying about something I know is coming worth the time wasted fulfilling the worry? I decided no, it was not, is not, and never will be. 

It is Life that blows my dress up. I will continue on as if I have not peaked yet. This acid trip is not over.

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

______________________________________

Originally written, 2/27/2011. Found today, leaving me to wonder what caused me to leave it in the "languishing Draft" folder. Seems I let quite a few posts from back then languish. I must have cared more then what folks thought of me and what I wrote. ............ Nah. 

__________________

I decided to use a band name to search for my musical choice today. I dug deep and remembered this song from an album I bought out of the back of a music store van back in the summer of 1970. Paid $1.50 for it. Along with the early Fleewood Mac and John Mayall, Climax Blues Band turned me on to the Blues. It is odd that it took British bands to show me some of the best music ever created in our country. Anyway, here is a classic blues tune off the album, "Plays On". Here is  "So many Roads" . 

........ Shots of whiskey go well with this song.

A Conversation at the Kitchen Table

Not sure why I did not post this back on Dec. 13, 2011 when I originally wrote it. I didn't and so it goes. I did save it I guess so I could find it later; like a written time capsule of sorts. Here we are eleven years later and Life is still "Same Shit, Different Day". 

I was reading old blog posts about this and that.  For some reason focusing on angry political posts did nothing for me.  Some pissed me off.  Others I agreed with.  I gave my usual responses, but without my normal level of righteous indignation. A few caused me to stop for a second and really ask myself how I felt instead of kicking it into automatic knee jerker mode and ripping off a few hundred angry words.

The past few years have found me wondering why I see political situations in certain ways.  I ask myself if I had the strength of backbone to actually be the one who decides an outcome or direction to resolve one of the million, Ka jillion problems facing us at any given moment.  In that I have an over blown trust in my ability to handle what comes at me, I thought I could.

Ten seconds into this self induced ego boost, I realized I had no clue whether I had the intelligence to first of all, make a good decision, or second of all, the discipline to follow through with it.  My life has been sprinkled with moments of grand failure to perform as advertised.  Trying to not beat myself up and not end up in a weeping pile of crippling disappointment, I did not look very hard.  Still, some glaring moments of falling well short of the goal line still jumped off the index card I keep in my mind just for nostalgic moments like this.

I was about to fall into one of my loser, nobody likes me, I'm going to eat some worms routines and work hard to create for myself a lousy day.  My lovely wife and a conversation not three weeks earlier crossed my mind.  Suddenly all was right with the world.  Instantly my spirits were lifted as I replayed our brief encounter.

She was sitting at the kitchen table when I came home from the bike shop.  I had been beaten up several times that day by disappointment, frustration, and failure to have the right answer when the phone rang.  Nothing had gone right that day.

"Hey"

My wife stopped eating.  "Hey Yourself".  She looked at me.  "What's wrong?"

What is it with women; they can pull from the word "Hey" that something is wrong?  

"Uh, well, I had a shitty day at the shop.  Everything I touched turned to shit.  I feel like such a loser."

She dropped her fork on her plate, turned slightly in her chair and stared at me.  I wasn't sure, but was that the beginnings of a gleam in her eye or was she..........

"You are a loser.  But buck up.  You aren't as big a loser as you were this time last year."

She picked up her fork and shoved it under a piece of pot roast that had been basking in well cooked juices.  She took a bite and smiled at me.

When she's right, she's right.  That is what I am - not as big a loser as I could be or have been.  

It was indeed a good day after all.

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

__________________________

The music accompaniment for this post has to be " Loser " by Beck. 

US Route 301

Recent memories of the Florida I lived in back in the early 1960's included the many road trips my family and I made north back to Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Maine during the three plus years we lived in the Sunshine State. 

There was no I-95 yet, no awesome super slab to love life while smoothly cruising between 60 and 65 mph. No gliding down  gentle curving exits that ended at clean restaurants and immaculate gas stations with friendly and helpful attendants all wearing clean shirts and name tags.

In the South of the early 1960's, the fastest route north or south on the southern East Coast was US 301 or nothing. Every Podunk town large and small anywhere near it, insisted on being part of it.  And pretty much every town made you slow down while driving through. Speed traps were everywhere. 

Driving further North, the options increased but did not make the drive any better. The service went from surliness with a smile to no fooling in your face surliness as we got closer to the Big Apple. The New Jersey Turnpike was nice. There was a  Ho Jo's every 30 -40 miles or so. Because it was a feeder highway to New York City, the bumper to bumper traffic was intense all day and into the night. I witnessed amazing incidents on those trips. Horrific accidents, Traffic backed up so badly in New Jersey once, it took over six hours to make it to the George Washington Bridge.

Heading back to Florida in late summer 1962, we became entangled with thousands of KKK party goers on US 301 in southern Georgia. It was past sunset and I had been sound asleep in the back seat for awhile. My mom jammed on the brakes throwing me onto the floor. When I regained the seat and took stock of what was going on outside the car I saw two endless lines of red tail lights moving south at maybe five MPH. Most of the cars in front of us in the right lane were turning into a huge field covered in rows of flaming lanterns marking where to park. Men in hooded white robes holding flashlights, guided the Johnny come lately's into their parking spots.

Further in the distance up on a wide knoll, many yards apart were two large crosses on fire with people in white robes and pointy hoods milling around them. PA systems were blaring and the folks just getting out of their cars were in various stages of putting on their KKK outfits. Georgia Highway Patrol was everywhere, guiding traffic, answering questions or just jawing with good ole boy goobers in pick ups and beat up sedans.The tension in our car was enough to make me nervous and cause my 10 year old mind to imagine all sorts of awful scenarios. It was an awesome experience, but not in a good way.

We were hung up in that traffic snarl for over a half hour. Naturally in that time I had questions my parents deftly talked around. It was not until we got back home in Tampa that answers were attempted even though my parents were as dumbfounded as I was.

I would drive by one other KKK hoedown before we finally left Florida and resettled in the Washington DC area in the summer of 1964. The harsh and often brutal lessons from the race education I received over the three plus years I lived in Florida have stayed with me without forget and have always been easy to bring to the surface to remember. I learned about the evils of racism through witnessing it and experiencing it firsthand.

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

____________________________

Musical selection is going to be another "Google's Choice". I punched up "Music about US 301" and got zilch. Damn, I would have thought at least one tassled Buck Owens wannabe country singer had recorded a tune about US 301. I did find one. It was awful. 

So I punched up "music about KKK". Here is a nice reggae tune by Steel Pulse, "Ku Klux Klan"

It's a Dirty World

Like the character Charles Schultz highlighted in Peanuts, no matter where I lived, I held the title as the local Pig Pen. No one could find dirt, muck or mire as well or as fast as I could. If a group of us were out playing, I'm the one who found the mud hole to fall in. If we climbed trees, I climbed the tree covered in sap. Wearing anything new always ensured it would not be in an hour or so. My mom often did not dress me for those spiffier occasions until minutes before my entrance. And even then, I would find something to smear, spill, or rub onto that new Easter suit she had hidden until 5 minutes ago.

It always irritated me that my apparent magnetism for all that is dirt was beyond my control. I would consciously try to come home at least recognizable. But 4 out of 5 days, I couldn't. At some point, I just gave up. Destined to be a slob, I resigned myself to a life in slob-dom, I no longer worried about the mess I brought home after a day out there in the unforgiving world. I became used to stripping in the garage or out on the back porch before setting foot inside. 

I gave up wearing anything that would be considered going out clothes. Any new clothes I would wear found me anxiously waiting for that inevitable moment of defilement. My favorite pieces of clothing became my ripped and stained jeans, overalls and Tees.

Even with overalls on, I still found ways to defile the duds underneath.  Once I floundered with a small detail paint brush while attempting to hit a spot above my head.  I dropped it.  It fell inside my overalls.  By the time I managed to extricate it, it had traveled down my belly into my left pant leg.  I had white paint all over the inside of the overalls and on the outside of the clothes under the overalls.  I ended that painting session with paint on all my clothes, on my hands, in my hair and I think I might even had some paint drop in my mouth as the paint brush passed my mouth on its way to the top of my boot.

And now that I am retired and not as vulnerable to the evils of the Dirty World, my pigpen tendencies continue unabated. Instead of paint on my pants, grease stains on my tee shirt, I now employ the many and varied ways food can pollute my finery. Spilled coffee, dripping cheeseburgers, and soup running down my chin are all co-conspirators in the campaign Dirt has waged on me in my past and will continue to til the end of my days on this planet.

It's a dirty world out there. I better get used to it.

_______________________________________

Music for this post became a case of  "settling" for a tune, any tune , that insinuated some kind of connection to dirty, sloppy, or anything in between. I picked "Dirty" by Grandson, another new group I found because of my policy of tagging music to my posts. Solid lyricist, good pounding music. What more could I ask for?

original post start -12/28/2010

My Spot

This has become one of my favorite spots in the house. It certainly is not much of a spot. It is cold and drafty in the winter and in the summer, any biting bugs that are around tend to congregate here when I do. There is no chair, it is a standing room only spot. It took me 30 plus years to find this spot in my house. 

Often, when I am occupying this spot I am reminded of Carlos Castenada and his "Teachings of Don Juan". In this book of a personal journey to enlightenment, Don Juan takes Carlos into a shack with no furniture and tells him his first challenge is to find his "spot". He will know this spot when he finds it. Carlos spends hours trying to find his spot. Just as he begins to think Don Juan is just another loony tune old Mexican, he finds his spot. This is the point in the book I think when Carlos begins to shed his skepticism and began to accept the possibility of true enlightenment.

 When in "his spot", Carlos finds more profound meaning in his thoughts and the world around him. He feels that in this spot, he is safe. He is connected to the rhythms of the Universe. This spot was his and his alone. No one else would benefit from existing in this spot like he does. It was here his future connections to what is beyond conscious thought would take place.

Of course I have never expected anything so grand from any spot I chose to dwell in for any length of time. My spot has yet to release me from my worldly shackles. I cannot say that this spot has the power of Carlos' spot in that shack. It does however offer me a space I can create my own chaos free from the intrusive chaos and background noise out in the world existing beyond my window. It provides me with a safe haven as I bring order to the self inflicted chaos I have allowed to stink up the clutter that makes up my mind..

This spot is perfect because it is small. Small works well for me. Sometimes, the tighter confines feel almost like a hug.

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

___________________________________

My musical companion this post is "Holding Back the Years" by Simply Red. It has little to do with my spot  on the surface. But like my spot in the garage it comforts me and whenever I hear it, I smile and my mind always calms a bit.

Women Folk

Girls, Chicks, Ladies, Women ........Hell, Females in general.  Fascinating creatures.  Yes they are.

I have spent a lifetime observing them and I still do not understand them.  I have given up searching for that understanding.  I now just enjoy their company, their presence, their very existence.  

I have at times hated them or maybe just hated certain female thems.  I may have told myself after having my heart torn out, chewed up and spit out in front of me that women, all women, are evil.  That was but a knee jerk instant to relieve the resulting gut wrenching agony of the moment.  I have at times been totally clueless as to why I had pissed one or a group of them off.  But I guess what brain froze me the most were the occasional times I pleased them without knowing how, leaving me with nothing but a Mona Lisa smile to explain why. 

Regardless, The Ladies are a part of my life, your life, our lives.  They provide us with a rudder.  They balance out the meathead guy madness.  Women are more than a convenient foil to male stupidity.  They keep our planet turning at a reasonably sane rpm..

Women often occupy my mind. Maybe now more than when I was young, numb and on the hunt. Back then I didn't often consider what made them tick. I accepted they were a different species and all I wanted was to well, let's just say, my hormones ruled my actions. As I got older and my sinful lusts had waned to a degree, I began to try to understand them in earnest. I did not lose any sleep, but I did want to push through some of the mystery that had enshrouded them for the first 40 years of my life. I hit a wall, a frustrating wall. 

Some years ago, maybe 5 or so, my local corner of Maine was suffering through a brutal bout of the flu. The flu remedy shelves were empty at most of the local grocers and pharmacies.  My wife had been sharing the joy of that flu epidemic for more than a few days.  If anyone fit the description, "Death warmed over", my wife would have been the perfect role model.  

She got over the flu, then immediately picked up a bout of pneumonia and landed in the hospital for a few hours.  After a few dashes of nebulizing (sic), some intravenous injections of serious antibiotics and steroids, my daughter and I hauled her home to hopefully recover. She was positive death would have been kinder.

Over the years I noticed that my wife's road to recovery always seemed to lean on the feminine rituals she had accumulated during her life. Nothing puts one on the road to recovery faster than relying on things one used to do on automatic. I had left her on the couch barely alive.  I went to the garage to begin tearing apart my snow blower.  

I came back up to the living room.  On the couch sat my wife and my daughter facing each other.  They were both sitting up and passing back and forth a bottle of  skin cream. One would squeeze a splooge on their hand and then hand the bottle to the other.  While one rubbed the cream into an elbow or hand, the other squeezed another splooge out and hit some area they felt needed anointing.  My wife still looked awful but she was upright and smiling as she creamed herself.  She and my daughter were hard into a conversation about some TV show they both found hilarious.  Just two ladies sharing a moment as only two ladies can.  

I watched them silently.  I smiled.

Some things you accept without worrying about why.  And if it ain't broke, definitely don't try to fix it.

______________________________________________

The only tune that I could possibly use has to be " Fat Bottom Girls" by Queen

Words Are More Than Just Text

 

Part of the reason I like to write....... Or maybe, the main reason I like to write is that I truly enjoy the written word. I love combining words in such a way so I can connect with others and make sense. 

I do not like all words equally, what with many of them being beyond the comprehension of many folks like me. I do think all words carry equal weight. Words are either understood or not. 

There is no such thing as a bad word, just the poor usage of them. I should know. I often poorly use words, sometimes on purpose. Half the fun of playing with words is the combinations can be truly creative and awe inspiring. Or they can be nothing more than a moment or two of practice chords in front of my best audience, me.

Sadly, like guns, words in the wrong hands can also kill. Anyone who believes the old children's rhyme, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words shall never hurt me"; is living in a fool's paradise. Spoken or written, words have been directly or indirectly responsible for the deaths of millions over the ages. With too many examples in our past, I will only point to the run up to the insurrection of January, 6th to illustrate my point perfectly. Words, written or spoken with evil purpose are the most dangerous weapons humans use on each other. All too often, catastrophic physical violence follows words of evil intent. 

Words are ambivalent and peaceable when just hanging out as an unorganized mob with no plan. They have no power by themselves. When they are manipulated, they can pack more power than the largest bomb. 

Words also have the capability to inspire people to change their world for the better, change their lives for the better, and bring joy that makes the reader's hair stand on end. 

There are so many words to choose from, I will never ever be able to complain about not having a word at hand to fit the special need I might have at the moment. That word may not be present on command, but I know somewhere it lurks waiting for me to yank it from the shadows.

A thoughtful collection of words to me is mental artistry that can inform, convey emotion, dig deep into a soul and tear it apart, or lift it to blissful heights. A pleasing collection of stories, essays, or articles are a visit to someone's personal museum.  Each story another vestibule filled with words that will hopefully leave a reader pleased they entered in the first place.

Which brings me to the point I meant to start off with when I first began writing this post back in 2015. The words I planned to use were lost as soon as I thought of them and probably became nothing but a stream of consciousness love note about words in general. 

And honestly, since I have picked up this unpublished post that has sat gathering dust since 2015, I have no clue what my original point was and at the moment no clue what my future point is going to be. I just want to finish at least one of the 500 posts that languish in the back forty where old unpublished posts go.

Bottom line, I just really like messing around with words.It's not the product so much as it is the production.

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

______________________________________

Found a very nice tune to go with this post. Never heard of this band, Hawk Wilson or their tune, "Words". But the tune and video treatment seem appropriate. Hope you enjoy it.