Mother's Day - 250 Words

I grabbed my coffee and headed to the cashier. Caleb scooted in front of me with two small containers of bait worms in his hands.

"Jeezum Caleb, take it easy. What's the hurry? You make me spill my coffee, I'll make you eat those worms."

Caleb turned towards me and grinned. Near impossible to get mad at a 12 year old boy holding worms and a fishing rod. I smiled too.

"What's this fishin thing dude? It’s Mother's Day. You should be home massaging your Mom's feet."

“Yes, Caleb should be home massaging my feet. But he can do that later.” Caleb’s mom stepped around me and dropped 2 singles and a quarter on the counter. “She looked at Marcy, the clerk and asked, “That enough? I gotta run or I’ll be late for work.” She headed for the door.

Marcy looked at Caleb and said, “No Michelle, it ain’t enough. We’ll straighten it out later.” Caleb’s face reddened and his grin disappeared. He grabbed his worms and followed his mom towards the door.

The $42 I had charged Caleb the day before for fixing his bike now seemed like gouging even after deeply discounting my efforts. Setting my coffee down, I said, “Marcy, whatever Caleb owes on the worms .....include that with my coffee.”

Marcy smiled. “You lookin to get me in trouble? Michelle finds out someone paid her way and she’ll kill both of us. She ain’t got much but Caleb and her pride. Thanks, but leave it alone.”

~*~*~*~**~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*

I am not sure why this became my Mother's Day Post. An encounter in a local 7-Eleven early this morning with a mom late for work on Mother's Day somehow got it's hooks in me. This was the result.

Sitting on a Cornflake

Yeah.

It's time for some good sour mash.

Or at the very least,

Time for some tolerable mash.

Ten, fifteen years of sobriety

More or less

Occasional reminders are nice

To relive that which is now lost.

Yeah.

Clean out the dust from the shot glass.

Pump up Spooky Tooth to WOW.

Pour a civilized shot.

Tip it back, taste the brown liquid heat.

Feel that heat down to my feet.

Suddenly it is 1976 again.

Karma

I am convinced now that we often end up getting what we deserve even if what we get seems to happen for no good reason.

Take for instance the picture of the expensive and almost new broken bike part. When it broke and left me without the means to finish the off road ride last Thursday, I went with the flow of it. Shit happens. Parts break.

A good friend who was riding with us bailed from the ride with me. I walked and he rode to his house which was nearby. He gave up his ride to give me a ride back to the bike shop. He also loaned me a spare wheel so that I could ride the following Sunday while my rear wheel waited for parts. That's what good friends do for each other.

From bad moments, good Karma has a way of smoothing out the rough spots. Being dense and stupid, I often do not realize or appreciate these good moments. This was one of them.

Saturday morning a few of us, my friend included, were going to do a quick road ride. Unfortunately, the pre-ride conversation turned into one of heated political debate. My friend took a stand. I took another. Ten minutes later I stepped off the edge and let my temper ruin the ride and strain the friendship. Instead of shutting up and riding, which is our basic rule, I chose to carry my chip hard. The ride only lasted 5 minutes. My friend went home pissed. I sat in the darkened bike shop and brooded.

I searched my mind for the reason I was so upset. Certainly this political argument was not the reason, but only the result. It finally dawned on me I have been wound so tightly of late, I needed to relieve some of the pressure. A struggling business can do that to a man.

Taking it out on a good friend is not the way to do it though. Why then have I consistently pulled this kind of crap over the years? It does not happen often, but I have a history of this going back as far back as I can remember. Unbridled and unreasonable anger followed by serious regret.

Okay, so I have established that I have it in me to be a total jerk. And what's my point?

Everything comes full circle.

My friend and I worked out our differences. I put the wheel he loaned me on my mountain bike. And what happens? The same part that broke on my wheel broke on his wheel while I was using it. Only this time we were miles from the bike shop in the middle of the biggest cloud of black flies in York County, Maine. As I slowly worked my way out of the woods and the black flies, all I could do was smile. There is always payback. I deserved this. This is what happens to jerks.

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

Melons Con Mucho Pecho

A long time ago I ran across this image while looking for some other image. I loaded it into my image file and moved on. Every so often when looking through my outrageous collection of useless images of whatever, this picture would pop up. Every time I told myself I needed to write a post about it. Or maybe use it for a lead in image for some of the fiction I come up with time to time. It was just too excellent to not at least post in some way, shape or form.

I remember produce crates with labels like this on them. As a young teen, I often unloaded train car loads of wooden produce crates holding the finest produce that came from out West or from the South. For a time during my trucking days, I delivered wooden crates of produce with similar labels to Hunt's Point in the Bronx. Hunt's Point is the largest wholesale food market in the World.

Now everything comes in plastic or cardboard. And it doesn't come from out West or from the South as much. Most of what we eat is like everything else we consume. It all comes from outside of our borders. Any double entendres that might exist on the labels are lost to us because they are printed in Spanish, Chinese, or Pakistani. "Melons con mucho pecho" literally translates as "Melons with much chest". It just does not have the same impact as "Buxom Melons". And sadly, by the time this foreign produced vegetation hits our stores, it has lost much of it's impact also.

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

Spring Snow

I was up with the Sun this AM keeping the momentum going of the out of character Spring clean up I started some days ago. As I stepped out into the open to face the jungle, an early morning snow squall dumped a token dusting of snow. Just enough snow to mark a nice contrast to the insistence of Life in the face of whatever comes it's way.

Anyway, just thought I'd share before I headed to the bike shop.........See Ya.

Everything in Moderation

I have never been one to practice the common sense of moderation. Historically, over indulgence, over the top infusion, and complete and utter fascination has been my usual approach to anything. Completely into it or I pass it by and ignore it.

Of course the many mistakes I have made because of this approach have necessitated I tone it down over the years. While the number of unfortunate or ill advised incidents have dropped in numbers, my tendency to jump in without looking still exists.

I only need to look at my last year's infatuation with straight razors. A costly and stupid use of my limited resources. I bought razors, strops, and wasted many hours learning all about shaving the straight edge way. Yet, when it came time for the razor to touch the face, I just couldn't do it.

It wasn't the thought of a very sharp and unprotected blade scraping my chin that stopped me. It was just the thought of being beard free. I have always detested shaving. So I spent most of my life not doing it. After many dollars spent and time wasted, I still could not shave.

Sigh....................

And now I am into something new. All of the warning sirens are blaring. And still I persist in pursuing my new obsession. I delude myself that what I am investigating is for the betterment of my business, but in reality, it is just me satisfying an uncontrollable itch.

Two words ..................... Storage bins.

Owning a bike shop and being a pack rat are mutually inclusive activities. Both help the other to exist by mutually supporting the other's existence. I need to have many small parts on hand to be the hero when a customer comes in with a small part issue. And I need the bike shop to hold all those small parts that will one day make me a hero.

My problem is one of storage. For years, let's say since I can remember, I have used what came my way for storing that which needed storing. Milk crates, cardboard boxes, candy tins, whatever container that was deemed disposable but still had possibilities I would snatch up and use for organizing and keeping parts large and small.

When I started my shop almost 11 years ago, I bought some cheap plastic homeowner drawers to get started. I figured if they lasted five years,I would by then be rich and famous enough to be able to purchase real storage containers of the ferrous metal kind.

It seems success does not automatically happen just because one has a business plan that tells them they will be successful and rich in five years. I found out there is some luck and actual work involved before the plan can work out. At five years, I looked at the cheesy drawers I was using and realized that they had not worn out yet, and it seemed my planned existence of money and fame had been delayed by at least a couple of years, so I chose to continue to use the drawers I started with.

Now 11 years later I have yet to find the fame, never mind the fortune. And instead of drawers that move in and out, I now have trays that do not stack well together. It is time. So I am chasing parts bins and drawers that will retrofit into the old spaces and are rugged enough to be willed to the next idiot who wants to run a bike shop after I am dead and burned.

Which brings me to my point I guess. Hard to tell now as whatever point I started with seems to have been shanghaied and is now slaving away for some other writer much better than I.

Moderation. That was my point. A simple concept that I have failed time and time again to follow. My recent fascination with parts storage is what fired the warning flare. But it was the 11 years of dealing with what I already had that really made my point for me.

We may not actively practice moderation, but often it finds it's way into our lives without our permission or knowledge. Circumstances and situations often force moderate behaviour on us. I have always lusted for fancy new steel drawers, but never was I able financially justify the hit to the business to tool up. What I had was still working.

See. I am a practitioner of moderation even if I don't want to be. So instead of fighting my urge to lose all sense when something new pops up, I should just go for it and let moderation find me later.

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

250 words - "The Stone"

He passed that stone ten thousand times over the years. Almost every time Stanley Goocher would say to himself, "That stone would look great in my new wall or maybe as a nice step in front of the outhouse. I'm going to grab that stone some day."

Bernard Jenson owned the ground the stone sat on. Bernard and Stanley had not spoken for thirty years. Word was it had something to do with a woman. Seems it’s always about some woman. That neither man ever married added to the mystery.

Stanley would not ask Bernard if he could have the stone. No. He would have to steal it.

One day coming home from the dump, Stanley pulled his pickup in next to the stone. Surprised at how large that stone was once he stood next to it, he figured it had to weigh at least 800 pounds. Wanting it more than ever now, Stanley’s granite lust turned to granite schemes.

The next moonless night about 1:30 AM, a pickup with no lights on backed up to the rock. A dark figure carrying a weak flashlight got out. They pulled some chain, some 2x10 planks, and a pry bar out of the bed. Ten minutes later, the stone was secured in the truck and headed down the road.

Next morning Stanley drove to work at the mill. Looking for the space where his rock should be, Stanley saw a large sign instead.

“You stole my woman. You ain’t stealing my rock.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Image taken by me. We don't have sidewalks to photograph, but we's gots lots of rocks to talk about.

The Phone Call

I never escaped an encounter with Snake unscathed. 38 years since the last time I saw him and it was as if we picked up right where he left off. Only now his frantically manic ADD personality was a tad slower but still as intense as it was when we used to shoot drugs, drop acid, basically consume whatever buzz was available.

For six years back in the late 1960s and early 1970s, Snake was probably the closest thing to a real friend as I have ever had. No one before or since connected with me like he did during those tough years when we were both trying to kill ourselves by over indulgence of every kind in the book.

Eventually his appetite for opiates overwhelmed our friendship. One day I woke up and decided this life was truly a dead end with me more than likely ending up in some alley or rat infested shooting gallery with pale lips and no pulse. I stuck my thumb out and hitch hiked back to Maine to detox in my attic bedroom while my parents sat in the kitchen blissfully ignorant of just how low I had sunk.

I stayed in that attic room for over a week, only crawling out to eat occasionally and use the toilet. One morning around 5:00 AM my father would have no more of it and he dragged my sorry butt out of bed and put me to work in the yard. I will forever be in his debt for doing that.

All of these memories I often looked upon with rose colored glasses were brought back into stark reality when I heard Snake's voice on the phone the other night. My first thought was why the Hell did I even pursue a reconnection? It started over 20 years ago I guess. I wondered as many of us do, what an old friend was up to.

Since Snake had seemed to fall off the face of the Earth, I figured he had finally over amped and was six feet under in some cemetery in Maryland. Unless he was nodding from a recent smack buy, Snake lived Life at several hundred RPMs past red line. He left totaled cars, wrecked relationships, and worn out welcomes wherever he went.

About ten years ago I became more creative and dug deeper by using Internet magic. But still no clue about Snake. I did find a mention of his sister when I spotted a donation brick on the site her old high school kept. She had married another loser friend from that era. The search it seemed, could yield positive results. But I stopped looking. I think I was afraid of reconnecting with a past I had no interest in reliving so graphically.

And then I joined Facebook.

Facebook is an insidious and evil network if you really want the past to stay in the past. But as I often do with something new, I dove right in and began searching for people I had not seen in 30 or 40 years. My search was underwhelming. I could only find three or four old friends from back then. It would appear that there is precious little information floating around the Internet regarding my contemporaries. Especially the ones who volunteered to fall into cracks starting back in the 1960s.

I can be a tenacious bastard when I get my teeth into something. Facebook whetted my appetite and left me jonesing hard for a fix. Come Hell or high water, I was going to find out what happened to Snake. I finally found his sister's phone number. Yes, she assured me, Snake was still alive. She had talked to him only last week. She told me he had left Maryland for points South several years ago leaving his wife to shack up with some woman he met in North Carolina.

Knowing that the two of them always had problems with each other, I figured it could not have been that simple. I wrote down the phone numbers she gave me and we said goodbye. As it turned out, it was that simple.

I could have called him as soon as I hung up. But I didn't. Something told me not to. But, the fact that I actually had found him yet had not talked with him became an itch only partially scratched to satisfaction.

I dialed him up a couple of days later and an  answering machine with a female voice took my call. I tried the second number and again an answering machine. Only this time it was Snake's voice telling me to leave a message. His voice had more gravel in it and his speech was less precise, but it was Snake. Of that I had no doubt. I left another message and continued my normal evening.

Classic Snake - he called at 10:45 PM. He was never one to be considerate of another's lifestyle. He was up. By God you should be also. I ran the batteries down on both remote phones talking or rather listening to him until 1:30 AM.

Seems Snake had somehow beaten the odds. Not only was he still alive and kicking, but when his mother and almost father died, he was left not a small inheritance, but a huge one. Many millions I guess.

He was retired. He owned things. He took long trips to the Caribbean. And he had become a hard core Conservative. That surprised me as Snake never did anything remotely political back in the day except go to the protests to trip on acid and try to pick up chicks.

As he talked, and he talked a lot, I noticed that ADD tendency of his was not subdued as I had heard happens as we age. It was worse than I remembered. The tangents he got lost in came like machine gun fire. It seemed he could only focus on one thing for about 10 seconds and then he was off on a tear about something completely unrelated. I was getting dizzy trying to keep up.

I did however manage to sift out some information. He had a heart operation at age 45. He was now packing some plastic where some valves used to be. He assured me they will last for 120 years. I can remember thinking, “ Hey that's cool, maybe there will be some salvage money possible after he croaks.”

His lump sum inheritance is only part of what he inherited. He has an annuity and stock that pays him 6 figures annually even in today's economy. He has stopped doing drugs, but still consumes massive quantities of alcohol. His bookie is in Maryland so he goes home every six weeks or so to settle up. There's a barmaid at the local bar with the biggest boobs he has ever seen.(That one dropped in right in the middle of his softball stories) He owns more property in Maryland and North Carolina than he can keep straight. He inherited the antique Porsche his mother bought in the 1950s, fixed it up and insured it for $160,000. He owns pick ups, SUVs, Harleys, and a host of other fun stuff I couldn't keep track of.

Then the first phone died. I was numb by that time so the conversation with the second phone was blur. I remember hoping that second phone would die sooner than later. All in all, I am glad I located him. I could tell he was sincerely glad to talk to me. Even though he was still as shallow as they come, his personality dug in making it impossible for me to not like the man. The man knows how to party. It's the one thing he was always good at. But I wonder if all that money has provided him what he was looking for?

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

Christian Whoppers

This morning I punched up various news sites to catch up on the events swirling around outside my insulated little world. Same old stuff I guess. The globe is warming. The globe is not warming. Health care reform sucks. Health care reform is a start. The Pope knew. The Pope did not know.

No matter what I read, there was a counterpoint somewhere that sought to negate the take I just read. And every one of these sites contends that what it is delivering is "news" and not opinion.

One of my favorite reads in recent days has been an occasional dip into the swirling waters of "Web Today", an interesting take on world events from a supposedly Christian perspective. They state that what they are spreading is news. And of course by claiming Christian allegiance, it must be so. Christians would never lie.

Or would they?

It appears that lying is okay if you follow Luther's notion. It has it's uses when done for the sake of God and religion. But if you lean towards Calvin and his admittedly black and white interpretations of the Gospel, then lying is never okay. Seems we are left to our own devices when it comes to deciding where lying falls in our ethical cookbook.

Unless of course if we are Catholic. Being a heathen, I am only a tad higher on the Catholic food chain than a good goat. But it is my understanding that the moral compass used for Catholics worldwide is found in the pocket of whatever Pope happens to be ensconced at the Vatican. And what is of particular interest to me is they have the dual code of ethics down pat. The one our politicians use pales in comparison. But then the Catholic Church has had at least a millennium and a half to get it's duplicity down pat.

I look at the various organized religions and am awestruck that people insist on following the clowns in charge. Not that my respect means anything, what with it being the respect of a heathen. But I would have had much more respect for the Pope had he owned up to the recent flareup of abuse allegations associated with his time as a regular Joe before he attained Vatican pointed hat status. Transparency I think would have served the Church better than their centuries old tendency to lie and cover up as they always have done. Even if he had no part in the cover up, it is a moot point now.

Many Christians whine about being subjected to ridicule and teasing. Well, when you follow clowns, maybe you deserve it.

Gotta go.....................

Fifty Eight

Fifty eight years ago this was an important date for me. I had no clue it was important at the time. Today, fifty eight years later, I am still clueless why I should consider it important. Especially now.

Fifty eight April 9ths have passed since I was born. 58 days out of 21,170 days(not counting those leap year days) that are somehow more special than all the other days I have taken up space on this planet. Out of those fifty eight special days, not a one sticks out or seems memorable. Some parties, presents, and cakes when I was a child. Some completely forgotten ones there in the middle. And now they have become nothing but a reminder I may be running out of them. It is safe to say I think, my Life bag is less than half full at this point.

I met a guy once who did not know when he was really born. He did not get a birth certificate until he was an adult. He had to have one to step out of the back woods life he had been raised in. The real world would not accept him without a piece of paper that confirmed he was indeed alive and had been born somewhere.

This guy was not even sure which state he was born in. It was either North Carolina or Tennessee. After much digging and contacting his relatives, they managed to pin down the year and the season (summer). He picked the state with the loosest rules. He chose July 4th, 1948 in the state of North Carolina. Of course this happened only after officious state bureaucrats had their specific forms filled out to their satisfaction. He told me it took a year or so to finally be given a birthday.

I can remember being so envious of this guy. He wasn't saddled with being stuck with whatever the creator gave him. He was able to cherry pick a date that suited him. July 4th. What a great day to pick. Damn easy to remember and folks don't get so mushy gushy over you because they are too busy waving flags, sparking off M-80s and firing bottle rockets through their neighbor's windows.

Time. A subject that has always fascinated me. Birthdays are a minor part of the idea of Time. A very minor part. And if truth be told, I am not convinced Time exists outside of our minds. But we did come up with it. Time has had a mostly positive affect on our growth as a species I guess. But in my mind Time is just a way for us to mark a beginning and an end of somethings existence. It puts comfortable borders on the Universe. It lends reliable prognostication and allows us to glimpse into what an existence can expect as it comes into being and then goes out of being.

Okay, enough of that shit. I could get lost for quite a long state of being over the subject of Time.

So anyway. This guy picked his birthday. It prodded me to find out if April 9th had anything going on that was noteworthy. I figured something important had to happen on at least one or two April 9ths besides my birth.

I was right. April it seems is a war mongering month. All kinds of killing, marching, invading, retreating, and blood letting happened in April. The one date I always bring up is April 9th, 1865. Grant and Lee made it official and ended the Civil War. Had the war lasted 3 more days, the Civil War would have been exactly 4 years long. Seems April is a good month to start wars and to end them. This makes sense as winter never loaned itself to really effective warfare. Not until later when weather played less of a role than it did back in the day. Winter was Licking Wounds Time. Spring was "get er done" time. Or fold em time. So it makes sense that most of the month falls under the sign of Aries and the watchful eye of Mars, the Roman God of War.

Being an Arian, I should be all gung ho about war and stuff. But I am not. I think war is a stupid waste of men, materiel, and yes, Time. I guess maybe the Moon was rising just so or the stars were out of whack just right, but I have always hated violence. I am a disgrace to the legacy of my month. Sure wish I could have picked a better date that suited my personality better. But there you are all of sudden eyes out of focus, you are covered in yucky stuff and strange people wearing white are goo gooing over you while the nurse in the corner fills in the blanks on some piece of paper that will later prove you are indeed alive and were actually born on this planet.

I hear the bike shop calling...........See Ya.............

Free Range Blogging

I've ranted. I've raved.
I've played. I've caved.
I've left. I've stayed.
I've diddled. I've fiddled.

I feel I have pretty much exposed myself on this blog in so many ways that the only thing I have left is posting nude pictures of myself. Of course, that might be considered or maybe placed in the Genre known as Horror. And I have already done some of that. Besides, nude shots would just ensure a smaller and more depraved audience in the future.

I had some political bone to pick earlier today. Some irritation emanating out of the Nation's Capitol. For minute or two I was really pissed off. By the time I settled in here a few hours later, damn if I can remember what it was. And it feels great. Backed up bile has a tendency to take me down negative roads with no forks.

I have finally embraced the notion we are all going to Hell in a handbasket, and I may as well jump on board and enjoy the trip. I know now to expect grand speeches that do not yield grand jestures. I realize finally that disappointment is the predictable response if one holds any hopes at all regarding our leaders and their promises. How can I be expected to look out for my fellow man when they aren't?

So I say screw it. Have some fun. Bake in the Sun. Or just Bake.

Hooters on Parade

The real part of Life has reared it's ugly head again. Bike shop madness and warm enough weather to be outside in shorts has my attention now. A re-roofing project in between work, riding, and well whatever else I can manage to cram into my days looks to be the normal existence for me in the foreseeable future. Anyway, I dropped the blogging ball and it looks like it is going to be another shaky period of erratic appearances.

Other than offering excuses for my slacker-ness, I did have some fun news to impart to any of you who enjoy the idea of topless women. About half of you have probably dropped interest at this point, but I am sure the guys are at least still paying attention.

On April 3rd, dozens of women and many men staged a parade in Tommy's Park in Portland, Maine. It appears there are some folks in our state who feel Society's double standard regarding male and female nudity is an important enough of an issue to stage a protest. A topless protest. A Hooter Parade.

I dunno, Early April seems a tad early to be thinking of baring one's boobs in Maine. But they lucked out. It was unseasonably warm on Saturday. Not an erect nipple in sight I guess.

This protest would have impressed me more if these angry citizens had been really exercising their right to be civilly disobedient. But alas, their bare boobs were legal. There is no state law against women going topless in Maine. Although I wonder if there shouldn't be one for some of the men.

All this begs the question or is it questions? Did Maine lawmakers screw up when they missed this obvious chance to legislate morality? Or do we have sensible legislators who know that Maine's climate and voracious insect population will keep the topless madness to a minimum? Or is that they just don't see the sense in passing a law about something that should be handled locally? I know Acton would and maybe does have a no loose boobs rule. Hell, not too long ago lips were flapping over the hot dog lady who hung out at the foot of Mousam Lake selling hotdogs while wearing a very modest bikini.

Regardless, I love it when people tweak America's uptight Victorian sensibilities. And what is even better is America can still handle this kind of protest. Although I am guessin the same kind of event in Omaha might do more than raise eyebrows.

I think more of the ladies should brave the elements and do the legal thing when the weather is right. For some reason the image of a topless female riding a John Deere lawn tractor puts a smile on my face. I might even slow down and wave.

Topless Parade in Portland Maine from Jared Anderson on Vimeo.

Boomers - Then & Now

Anyone who has more than a passing familiarity with my blog of the last, oh I guess, 6 months or so, might know that I have been on again, off again searching out the people I was young with thirty five years ago.

Using kind words to describe what they are now to what most were back in the day would be to say that they have mellowed. If I were to use the words that more accurately portray what many of my peers from yesteryear are now, well, many have become tight ass old farts who are too used to the comforts they have and now fear the change they supported back in the day. They have become their parents.

For many Boomers, there is no fire, no passion about anything but the material aspects of their lives or the prospects of change on those material aspects in the future. As their lives slowly march towards the Sunset, it's all about how comfortable can they be before they die.

I am not excluding myself here. I have also become comfortable I guess with my position in the scheme of things. I enjoy being isolated from most of the madness now sweeping the planet. I am concerned about the material aspects of my life and also concerned about their status in the future. My seventeen year old cathode tube TV is on it's way out. Lately it has been refusing to turn off when urged to do so by pushing the button. I need some new shoes, new glasses, and my teeth could probably use a tune up. I too would like to continue with at least the comfort level I have now.

At age 22 my peers and I were often seen protesting for change. Anti-war, Gay rights, Women's rights, Civil Rights. We were all about letting people live their lives as they saw fit.

Now my generation makes up the bulk of the population who are protesting against change or out of self interest, protesting for change directly affecting their lives. Without a consideration for what keeping the status quo may cost future generations, they assemble wearing silly hats and whine about how tough their lives might be if this or that happens. Many go so far as to hoping they can dictate how others live or don't live.

I have never been more ashamed of many of my old friends than I am now. Many of my Boomer peers have forgotten that one of the few constants in this Universe of ours is "Things will Change". Nothing remains the same forever. You can either get in front of it and help that change make the most positive impact. Or you can stand around with rifles on your shoulder whining about the change that will happen no matter what weapon you are packing.

I have never been one to seek rapid change. Maybe it is my conservative roots or the lessons of my own knee jerk ways that make me slow to accept anything new. But I always end up at least tolerating the change that comes my way. And often I embrace it. Well, that's not exactly true. I have never embraced Rap which became Hip Hop and the crotch around the knees look. But I tolerate it. And that is what a sizable portion of my population has lost. They have lost their ability to tolerate that which does not fit into their narrowing view of the World. Predictable maybe, but I don't have to like it. And I no longer have to like them.

A follow Up of sorts - In all fairness to one of the jokers who disrespected the man with Parkinson's at the Tea Bagger Rally in Ohio, I should at least recognize that at least one of those braindead idiots stood up, apologized and is feeling, I think, real remorse for his actions. He made no excuse. He blamed no one but himself.

I have to respect that kind of ownership. A tip of my hat to Chris Reichert.

Keep it 'tween the Ditches........................

Theocracy, Day 2

I just finished watching "The People vs. Larry Flynt." I have never had a deep interest in pornography. I have seen my share. And yeah, I even enjoyed it for awhile. But vicarious sexual gratification has never really done it for me. Apparently it does it for others and that's fine. To each his own. Pornography exists and will always exist.

I had never seen this movie. I had a passing knowledge of the case Larry and Jerry Falwell became embroiled in because of the news reports during the time the case was being heard at the Supreme Court. Larry won that case. And I was glad he did. First Amendment upheld and another theocratic assault rebuffed. Say what you will about Larry and his obnoxious lifestyle, but he is and was the only real defender of the First Amendment back in the 1980s when the "Moral Majority" was on the rise.

The "Moral Majority". As interesting a group as to ever come down the religious pike. Religious Zealotry packaged American style. These were the salad days of the 700 Club, the rise and fall of the PTL Club as Tammy and Jim Bakker bilked thousands of America's faithful out of money in the name of the Lord. Theocracy, meet US Capitalism. Great times I tell ya. Tammy and Jim started a 24/7 Christian TV network, created an American theme park dedicated to Jesus that clocked in as the number 3 theme park in America. Religion had always brought in big bucks. During the 1980s, it brought in even more.

Of course there were excesses. After all, humans with serious weaknesses were running things. Jim Bakker was caught with his pants down and his hands in the cookie jar. The secular government sent him to prison. Tammy continued to paste more makeup on. I am sure there were those folks who thought she should be arrested just for looking so awful, but she broke no laws other than unwritten ones about taste and class. Along came Jerry Falwell who was supposed to save Jim and Tammy Faye. Instead he took over and threw them to the wolves.

All this power mongering and loose money floating around was like stink on shit, so intertwined in all of this were the bankers and high finance gurus. Charles Keating, the mastermind of the Keating Five swindle was deeply involved with Jerry Falwell, particularly when Jerry sued Larry Flynt.

I only bring up this almost recent slice of our past to illustrate why theocrats should not be able to make secular rules. Let them run their religions as they see fit. Let them suck whatever they can from the folks who put them on pedestals. But zealotry tends to allow rationalization to replace common sense. Excessive behaviour is excused as being done for their own good. Zealots become blind to their own actions and their effect on those they have influence over. Let them write the law book and the next thing you know women are being buried in holes while the village throws rocks at their head.

It's almost 6:00 AM - Gotta go to the bike shop. See Ya...................

Theocracy

Today I am supposed to show my support for a World free of theocratic control. I promised Maui Girl I would be part of a blog swarm that will blanket the blogosphere with opinions and views as to why having religion and government intermingled is not a good idea. I am supposed to champion the Constitution and the clause that separates Church and State.

This is fine and all. I do think religion has no business sticking it's nose into the secular affairs of governing. Religion just muddies those waters. But I cannot in good conscience use the Constitution as my reason. There is serious debate as to exactly what the founders meant. I figure they purposefully left it ambiguous because of the pressures from the religious zealots back in the day. They didn't want to alienate everyone completely. No, the Constitution is out. A fine document, but in this regard, it lacks certainty and clearness of intent. It would appear most of them leaned away from any theocratic influence, but they did not clearly spell that out. Besides, common sense and historical perspective would indicate Theocracies are a bad idea. Worse political structure ever devised by Man.

Theocracies just scare the Hell out of me. Religious zeal allowed to run rampant and unchecked has a way of getting entirely out of hand. Basic freedoms we take for granted are at first limited and later eliminated. History and current theocracies in other parts of the World prove this out. Religion and government are a volatile mix. Life becomes black and white without the greys that are really what make up our lives. Dissent is not tolerated. Free exchange of ideas are stifled. Cultures under the harsh hand of religious law often move backward as the rest of the World moves forward.

There are no "Good Old Days". Mankind always does better when we move on. When a culture attempts to move backward or possibly worse, maintain status quo's that do not embrace the flexibility all countries need to grow, the culture becomes gentrified into two classes. Theocracies are a sure recipe for this kind of social structure.

Perfect Music

Most days I will listen to music and not really connect with it. Oh I hear it and enjoy it, but it does not hit that pleasure center deep inside. Once in awhile and occasionally, the moment and the music mesh perfectly. Right now is one of those moments.

As I have for the last month or so, I woke up at 2:30 AM and began my day. I would prefer to start my day around 5:00 AM or so, but well, if my body says it's time to wake up, I don't fight it anymore. Sleep is way overrated anyway.

Put a pot of coffee on. Went outside while it brewed and communed a moment or two with the pre dawn dark. Heard something stirring in the pucker across the road. Noticed the three day rain had finally stopped. Went back inside and poured a cup from that fresh pot of coffee.

Came in the office and punched up "Deja Vu", Crosby Stills, Nash, & Young's second album. When “Helpless” came on, one of those rare perfect moments happened. The song, my mood, the quiet of a house still asleep – all came together to create a moment of serenity for me. I forgot for a moment the baggage I insist on dragging around with me day in day out. I forgot the pains I wake up with every morning. All negative wavelengths were suspended for the forty minutes it took to play the album. Damn, I love those moments.

I had hopes I could stretch this special moment by punching up the predecessor band to CSN&Y, Buffalo Springfield.

Bummer Dude.

In the click of a mouse, that special moment passed. No Buffalo Springfield was embedded on the hard drive yet. I had the CDs. For some reason I had neglected to rip it to my library. Nothing shoots that special moment in the butt quicker than unrequited craving. So I fed the critters.

Back in the office, I found the Buffalo Springfield CD and ripped it into my puter. A couple of songs into "Last Time Around", something even more special than a single special moment happened. I ended up with a second special moment in a row. Twice in less than two hours, music and moment tied together to save me a little longer from facing my day. A very rare two fer dropped in.

Memories from back in the day floated in, floated out. Images of freaks shoulder to shoulder facing down soldiers with guns. The words "Almost Cut My Hair" blasted through and for a time I was once again young, numb, and full of cum.

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

Shoe Shopping

So I have two more days to pad my blog count for the month. I could Bush League it and post a Utube video. I could just write a few words of nonsense like I usually do and say see ya..................

Or tonight I could write about Shoe Shopping.

Apparently shoe shopping is an activity all humans with money in their pocket share no matter what culture, mindset, or outlook they may have. Everyone wears shoes. They're kinda like assholes - everyone has them, only with shoes most of us have two. I am sure there are some small indigenous percentage who wear no shoes, but I would guess most of humanity is shod in one form or another.

Scribbit is over in India at the moment. So she is doing a travel blog for a couple of weeks. One post was about shopping Indian style. A really great post that imparted just how different shopping there is than here. From the attitudes of the clerks, sexual politics of shopping there, and the commonality of shopping that exists everywhere. She pointed out a couple of ladies in Burkas gently lifting their head to toe coverings to peak at the gaudy rhinestone shoes they were trying on.

Generally if I take the time to read a blog post, I take the time to comment. If nothing else to let the blogger know that yeah, someone does read their take on occasion. I commented about how shoe shopping was probably pretty universal, but it was broken down by gender. That men and women approached it differently. A man is more likely to try on a pair of shoes and close his eyes or walk around to get a feel for the fit. Women on the other hand more often than not look for the first mirror available to see how they look. From the huge numbers of monstrously non sensible shoes they will gladly put on their feet, fit is not the women's first concern. Figured I had covered it with my comment, I left.

I made the mistake of thinking about my comment later. I decided my comment only told a small part of the reasoning that went into purchasing new footwear. Men of course do care how shoes look. And most women, unless buying shoes for those fancy smancy Brou-hahas, will often buy for fit as well as looks. The difference in the male/female approach though is - a guy will decide the shoe looks good or bad before he even puts it on his feet. A gal will try anything on and hope it fits.

I won't get into the aesthetic parameters of shoe fashion. As far as I am concerned, feet are not the most handsome appendages we have, so why worry about how a shoe looks. They are all pretty damn foolish lookin in my opinion. Considering how foolish feet look and it's no wonder.

Now would be a good time to inject some education into this worthless post about shoes. But why spoil it now. Shoes have been around long enough that knowing when we started wearing them would do little to elevate the worthiness of this post.

I do remember as a kid hating shoes with a passion. I even used to toss them away occasionally and tell my mom, I lost them. Teachers take a dim view of students who show up shoeless in America. Parents take a dimmer view. Mine sure did.

But once I was in charge of my own clothing destiny in college, I did attempt to not wear shoes for a year while going to Towson State in the Bawlamer area. I was maybe 75% successful. Going to class barefoot was no problem. If someone whined, I stopped going to class. After all, I couldn't give in and toss my vows of shoelessness. One of them had to go. And it was damn sight easier to not go to class than to stuff my feet into a pair of Chuck Taylors.

You haven't lived until you can walk down snowy streets in bare feet. At the time I was sure I was just so cool. Now 38 years later, I realize I was a pretty stupid college student. Insisting on going barefoot was but the tip of the iceberg.


Onto another tangent..........................

FFF #26 - 250 Words - "Climax"

Not sure why I wrote another 250 words with this starter sentence from Cormac. I did really like the prompt though. "What do you see when you close your eyes?" So many possibilities. The great efforts of the others is testimony to that.

I have been tossing images of old tractors around in my mind for quite awhile now. And how can I mention tractors without mentioning chawin bacca? Besides nothin picks up my day more than a picture of a flashy red tractor.

“Climax”

"What do you see when you close your eyes?"

Jacob looked at the salesman and said, "What?"

"Sir, if you could, please close your eyes. What kind of tractor do you see yourself tilling that back forty with?"

Jacob tugged on his beard and looked this citi-fied stranger over. Out of his bacca pocket he pulled a half plug of Climax and tore off a healthy chunk with the five teeth he still had. He got the wad rolling real good and said, “Why dontcha close your eyes Bub and tell me what kinda tractor you see me on." Some bacca juice dribbled from the corner of his mouth and into his beard.

Sid said, “Why sure thing , Mr. …..”

“Name’s Jacob Blanchard.”

“Okay Jacob Blanchard, I’ll just do that.” Rubbing his temples Sid began.

“I see a field. In this field, a shiny new Farmall “Mogul 8-16” sits idling with a new double wide disc rig tagged on. I see you slide onto that shiny new black seat. Caressing the steering wheel with one hand and releasing the brake with the other, you smile your way through that back forty. You finish so fast you’re a half hour early for supper.” Smiling, Sid opened his eyes.

"Nice story bub but I din’t come for no tractor.” Jacob spit some well chewed Climax on Sid’s left shoe. “I come in to find out what fool parked in front of my dumpster. I’m guessin that fool would be you.”
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Later................................

FFF #26 - 250 Words - "Say Goodbye"

Cormac, the host of Friday Flash Fiction, provided us with the starter sentence this week - "What do you see when you close your eyes?" I did not give this sentence a thought until Friday morning as I headed to the bike shop. An idea popped in when I had no way to record it for later treatment. Usually when this happens, I can never remember the idea later when seated with fingers poised ready to pour it out onto the screen. But damn if I wasn't able to remember 90% of it and that I wanted to do it in 250 words. I'm becoming a big fan of 250 words. Constraining, but not so much you can't make a point. Short enough for the ADD types like me. And it's a hoot to try to do it in 250 words.

I am not sure why it is yet another violent rip and tear piece. Maybe it has to do with the current political atmosphere. Been watching too much of Glenn Beck and Hannity I guess. Anyway, I went where the sentence took me.

Another odd thing about this piece. As usual I wrote it first and then found the image. As well as the image fits, I almost expect Harlan Ellison to knock on my door at any moment with a knife in his hand.
_______________________

"Say Goodbye"

"What do you see when you close your eyes?"

Axle was not even thinking about closing his eyes. Not with that knife in Jack Top’s hand pressed so hard an inch or two under his left ear.

Jack Top grabbed Axle’s hair and roughly tilted his head back. "I said, what do you see when you close your eyes?" Axle knelt whimpering and losing control of his bladder. He looked up into Jack Top's eyes.

Axle had always been slow on the uptake. It took him a second, but he closed his eyes. Some seconds later they fluttered open. "Uh, nothing Jack Top. Don’t see a thing. Black I guess. Why?" Piss began to soak through Axle’s pants and into the carpet.

Jack Top closed his eyes. His free hand gripped Axle’s hair so hard he could feel some of it coming loose at the roots. “I tell you what Axle. When I close my eyes, I see red. Beautiful red everywhere. Nothin but red.” Jack Top then sliced Axle’s throat open from ear to ear.

Jack Top stood staring down at the wet red gash he had created under Axle’s chin. He watched the gushing blood drain the life out of Axle’s eyes. A look of serenity and calm came over Jack Top’s face. He sighed and closed his eyes again. His knife fell to the floor.

Rivet Head whispered, “If he ever asks me that, what do I say?”

Zip looked at him and said, “You say goodbye.”
_________________________________________

Image - Acrylic by Joe Machine of the Stuckists
___________________________________________

Edited out after David read it the first time - "He stared hard into Axle’s eyes as Axle knelt whimpering and losing control of his bladder."

Bowie and the Whacko Redhead

March 28, 2026

And another update of perhaps my favorite RocknRoll tale. I figured since I began adding tunes with every post several years ago, the least I could do was add a tune or two by the band I spotlight in the post.

And while I was at it, I would look for some glitches, blatant errors, bad grammar or sad punctuation. No matter how many times I re-read shit I have written, I find another something that breaks my rules, their rules, someone's rules.

<~~~~~~~~~~~~~>

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 2500 words long.

The events are true. The people were/are real. The dialog I created  to juice up the story and enhance the overall experience of those few days as I remembered  them.

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 run 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 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 towns left. Providence, Boston, and we finished with two shows at Madison Square Garden in New York City. It was in Providence the comedy of errors began for me.

A small crowd of groupies and sycophants were hanging out in the lobby of the Howard Johnsons 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 shit on the bed and collapsing next to it, someone knocked on the door. Not happy in the slightest, I dragged my sorry butt off that 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. The easy sex for backstage passes had gone stale for me. Add in the fact that I was dead on my feet and my mood was not all that agreeable.

"I don't do backstage passes anymore. I'm tired. I need some sleep. Please leave." And I continued to hold the door open.

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, Spanky is perpetually horny. He's always ready for some head."

"Which one's Spanky? Not the 400 pound whale with the whiny voice and scraggly beard?"

"That would be Spanky."

"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 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.

I lost track of 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, 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, in the worst conditions, no more than 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.

Red 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 split off 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 Red, 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 Whacko Redhead. 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 Red 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 Mom and Dad 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 interrupts. "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 Red 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 Red 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.

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

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I have been trying to pick a favorite Bowie tune.It's a tough decision. Any tune I pick will leave me wondering if that tune was really my favorite when I hear another Bowie song I did not pick.Fuck it. Here, ......... Looking for a virtual dart to throw in a virtual dart board with more than a few Bowie songs listed in no specific order.   He tosses the dart......... The fans hold their breaths, hoping he picks their favorite. A drum rolls off in the distance, a wolf bays at the moon. ............... The dart finds its target....... Here is ............ "The Jean Genie", from Bowie's 1973 album "Aladdin Sane".