The Shame of It All
So this is where the years wind up? This is where it ends?
The man crouched on the stool atop the stage touches the strings with delicate if resilient fingers, but the tattered Marshall on which his boot rests beside him doesn't care. The Marshall likes it loud, just as the Gibson connected to the amp does, and just as the old rocker who cradles the classic guitar to his breast does. And just like the other two, the aged amp still works fine, which it proves by ejecting the single chord through the “business end” of it’s speaker like a well-tuned cannon’s blast. The lonely chord reverberates through the practically empty room, an amplified clarion call of Axeman, Gibson and Marshall, but the few paired-up people in the bar are inattentive, all but one. In the harsh glow of the footlights his fingerprints and sweat streaks besmudge the guitar’s fire-burst design, soiling it, the same as the man’s blue jeans are soiled, and the boots beneath them. His hair is long and unwashed, and his beard, and his shirt tails hang too long as well, (the tails left untucked so as to hide the unwelcomed paunch above his biker belt). The man appears very comfortable in his place upon the stage, comfortable being spotlighted in the skuzziness surrounding him, glowing in the raunchy smells and dim lights made dimmer still through his dark glasses, and through his hazy, three-quarters of the way there drunk.
He steals a moment to read the room. He could take that single chord he’d opened with in a myriad of directions. His catalog is extensive, overflowing with both self-written and cover songs, but he waits before continuing, counting heads. He’d drawn seven people. Seven. Not so long ago he’d drawn 17 thousand. Or maybe it was “so long ago,” considering how the world had changed in that seemingly short amount of time? In any event, this must be where it all really ends, he thinks, all of the rehearsing, and travelling, and playing. He is down to an audience of seven.
Hidden behind the glasses his eyes pick out the only one in the tiny audience who is paying attention. He begins to play nothing in particular to that one, just old finger exercises he’d invented long ago when learning to play, tricks designed to impress, but “nothings” which also allowed him the freedom to take flight in a million different directions, just as the single chord had. It is an old game to him, showing out, a game he plays very well.
She is young, the one paying attention; dark eyed and olive skinned. Big, frizzy hair and sandaled feet stick out either end of a long, shapeless, hippy-looking dress. He can imagine her with actual flowers in her hair, can remember other girls just like her, in other times. She is the sort he used to easily have. He wonders if he still can. Looking at her, he decides on an old song, but a goodie; a song that the girl might even have heard before, written by his favorite songster, way back when. Even if the songs are dated, you can never go wrong playing Kris. Once the song is decided the man in the spotlights begins searching for a jumping off spot from his riffs and rips. Finding one, his transition is seamless into a finger-picked intro in the key of E.
He has chosen the song for her because she has reminded him of it, she has the “look” of it, so he is disappointed when she throws back her drink and stands, but she doesn’t leave, as he half expects her to. On the contrary, she makes her way over to the one step stage, climbs aboard, and without asking for permission pulls the microphone from it’s chrome stand. Intrigued and up for anything, the man slides into the opening chord, nodding her along with him into the song.
She must be Capricorn, he thinks. Her voice is deep, sultry, much smoother than Janice’s, reminding him for some reason of silent snowflakes touching down in a wooded, gray, and wintry world. She keeps it simple, which he appreciates, singing the song as it is meant to be sung, though her lyrics are not quite right;
Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waitin’ for the trains
I’s feeling nearly faded as my jeans
Bobby thumbed a diesel down, just before it rains
It rode us all the way to New Orleans
She is good, so he tones and tunes down, allowing her room to work.
Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose
And nothin’, don’t mean nothin’ hon’ if it ain‘t free
He joins in where she needs a push, his harmony mixing nicely and naturally with her melody, even though his voice is unamplified. His fingers fill in the breaks, running free at the song’s high point while she lays low, a soft and mournful hum in contrast to the bedlam which Janice’s crescendoes had made famous at this point in the song;
La la la, la da la da, la dee la dee la dee la…
His smile remains inside. An experienced poker player, he knows when to bluff. Hers is on the outside, where he can see it, glowing brightly as the song nears it’s end. They have found something, this old man and this girl; a connection that only music or lovemaking can allow two strangers to share. He wonders if one might lead to the other?
When the final notes tinkle from the amp, in that briefest of moments before the spatter of unexpected applause, while respectful silence still reigns supreme, the two of them share a look, both seeing something fascinating in the other, and wondering “what could have been?” The startled few at their seats, they who have only now realized that they had just unwittingly witnessed one of those special, unforgettable moments in life that are oh-so difficultly found, rise and begin to clap. As she hands him back his microphone he notices her wetted cheek, and longs to swipe it away with a hopeful thumb.
“Thank you, Dad. I‘ve always wanted to sing that with you.”
With that she walks away, leaving him suddenly older, sober, and even more alone.
“Dad?”
Can this be where the year's wind up? Is this where it all ends?
Not on your fuckin’ life, it’s not. The guitar man lovingly lays his smudged instrument down atop the well-travelled amp and leaps a little too exuberantly from the one step stage, so that he is forced to limp hastily through the maze of tables in his pursuit...
(For my friends, TheEnigmas... "words, words, words of shame.")
Memorial Day May 29th, 2023
Enshrined for all posterity
mine benediction for reverence,
whereby conflict resolution
ameliorated courtesy peaceable solutions.
An adulation, concatenation, encapsulation,
gratification, introspection, et cetera
encompassing poignant episodes of mein kampf.
Flagrante delict adulterous sordid behavior
automatically linkedin with Lothario;
an unscrupulous seducer of women,
based upon a character
in The Impertinent Curious Man,
a story within a story
in Miguel de Cervantes'
1605 novel, Don Quixote.
Hard to fathom where yours truly
got (seedy – CD) drive and moxie,
after willingly assenting
to pledge sacred marital agreement
courtesy justice of the peace
and Magisterial District Judge:
Henry Schireson
925 Montgomery Avenue,
Suite 100, Narberth, Pennsylvania
19072-1913.
He subsequently and immediately
pronounced myself and the missus
as newlywed groom and bride
freshly minted husband and wife
July twenty fifth nineteen ninety six
until death do us part.
A couple years later,
we acquired our first computer
then snazzy top of the line
state of the art COMPAQ presario
running on Windows 98 operating system,
a belated wedding anniversary present,
whereat wide-eyed, I quickly disc hoovered
plethora pornographic websites
expending energy and time crafting
which hashtagged electronic ejaculations recognized
now as crude sexually explicit
classified personal advertisements
forsaking welfare of marriage and fatherhood
to mine innocent beautiful two little girls.
I blatantly, egregiously, indiscriminately...
whiled away hours shucking off
essentially grievously ignoring
paternal and husbandly duties
instead prioritizing re: cultivating,
cavorting, frolicking, inviting...
romantic (née dangerous) liaisons.
These days majority of time spent online
constitutes crafting anecdotes of mein kampf,
albeit reflecting categorically imponderable poetry
and/or stream of consciousness prose
veritable anonymous readers
probably roll their eyes
at mine trademark double entendre,
yet bard arse (with shaky spear) knows
how inapropos I consider ogling attractive girls
for instance while grocery shopping
with the missus at Trader Joe's,
nevertheless job of this punster
his wordplay accidentally doth impose
so please pardon moi harmless
momentary lapse of rhymed reason
as mine handy dandy
blue veined ribbed slimy fleshy hose
does double duty in tandem with magic wand,
lifelike snaky entity that actually grows
particularly necessary when
burst of fiery secretion flows
intense spray powerful enough
to pulverize knees and elbows
subsequently witnessing yours truly to doze,
an ideal juncture to figuratively close
silently wailing analogy to Moby Dick
regarding how yesterdays
prurient laced introductions
to rhyme in retrospect embarrassingly blows.
Herewith to enliven anecdote ever further,
I inject humorous tidbit
just gimme moment to unload and reach
into psychological metaphorical knapsack
particularly blue slimy hose, my keepsake
to forcibly remove dingleberries
birthed courtesy emergency pit stop
without means and ways to clean derriere,
a feeble and futile attempt.
Haint no fallacy
yours truly subsequently secured
more powerful giant accouterment,
while clinging for dear life
perched atop ledger
or edge er domain of clawfoot bathtub,
(ah how convenient and timely
smallish size Jacuzzi getup to appear)
and lemme figuratively
continue (closing) pathetic riffraff
(apropos of nothing) riffling around
mostly strewn with random tchotchkes
and odd bubba's zayda's knickknack
such as ahh... look here hocked wares,
acquired ready to receive paddywhack
giving dog(gerel) bonafied chops.
Without warning be alert
and on outlook for non sequitur
verses asinine blather to blurt
plus quite juvenile grown man here
averse to prick thought processes of her/him
who might peruse frivolous inane gibberish
cuz precious effort ye exert
to comprehend written contents
alluding to metaphorical little squirt.
I chose to memorialize, alas and alack
atypical/unusual fond memory -
argh, a sudden nostalgia attack
many... countless years gone back
livingsocial at 324 Level Road,
elapsed good times, I can never buyback
Gambone builders demolished complex edifice
currently repurposed mansion manse courtesy
vinyl city as Stella's Way
boyhood address above,
frequently seen dramatically transformed
into aforementioned place name, which property
originally christened Glen Elm,
(within national registries)
yours truly cannot easily callback.
Noggin houses storied detailed information
though I experience exercise in futility
searching Internet, said webbed wide world
absent information when Leipers lived
circa early nineteen hundreds, though
if mine perchance eyes espied absent estate...
slack jawed stare would repeatedly
sow sadness weighing me heart
heavy as coalsack
accompanying sorrow with
attendant flood of tears,
would make an immediate comeback
impossible mission to stopper
feeble, futile and lame counterattack,
where sentimental reverie would
carry me far away to Old Virginny,
for no particular rhyme nor reason
e'en attempting to write
recollections might trigger
tsunami immanent grievous childhood memories
recollecting watching silent home movies,
while chomping on crackerjack
when I had real teeth,
boot the Missus axed me to enliven herself
regaling humorous instances, thus I cutback
to... hardy potty times, the major drawback
x amount of time elapsed
summoning special occasions
(surgeon general's warning
such mental revisitations)
fraught with onset, where perilous flashback
will moost likely
violently grip cerebral cortex
analogous to puny chap (me)
knocked unconscious courtesy
searingly robust fullback,
nevertheless impossible mission
to restrain waterworks I intend to hijack,
and hoop fully succeed tamping tears
strong suggestion as encouraged by hunchback
from Notre Dame Dublin
known within these neck of woods
as storied Paul Bunyan
also alias Philanderer,
(especially among superficially
prim and proper, but
actually debauched women folk),
whose services regarding payback
best abide, adhere, and afford
to pay forward credo fore playbook.
Said burly lumberjack with severe scoliosis,
nonetheless quite self evident
his outsize implement,
(ye need not axe further questions)
extinguishing problematic residue
iterated further within mine playful ramble.
Book Four - Part 8 - Rhyming Evil - Chapter Three
Monday – June 25th
The Squad Room – 8:36 a.m.
“This week, we will be involved in severe weather preparedness week. All of the Twenty-Second is on alert. Every police officer on each shift will respond to the triple air-raid signals to assist in getting every person in the downtown district over to the new weather shelter that was completed last week. It’s taken twenty months to complete, and it is designed to hold up to 42,000 people, with a floor thickness of five-hundred feet. The concrete flooring has steel flooring between every fifty feet of depth of concrete poured; so, in the event of an earthquake; that building can prove to be the safest place to be in an emergency. In time, the object is to have every resident in Montie during an emergency, to be placed inside that building.
“There are dozens of stations within the building containing fresh water, and dozens of port-o-potties on hand. Of course, we have no way of really knowing if the building will hold up or not, but the mayor and city council members don’t want another surprise like the one that happened when the president was here.
“When you hear the air-raid signals, each of you have your set area to go to, to get every employee, or shopper, to the building in a timely fashion. We have four hours to get everyone there. The workers and residents have no idea when it will begin, but we do. Ten to two. That’s your heads up for today. Tomorrow, that time will change.
“For this reason, during those hours, stay within your designated area I have mapped out for you. The other two shifts will also have their assigned areas as well. We need to pull this off with the least number of problems. Those we do not get to the building within that four hours and let me make this clear; not 2:01 or 2:02, but precisely at two, those people would be considered casualties, or for all intents and purposes … dead. Let’s concentrate on getting them there, alive.
“When this is over for the day, routes will run as normal. If there are no questions, then get out there and stay safe, and keep our streets safe.”
As teams separated, Spinelli walked up to Baker.
“I found this taped to the front doors this morning when I came in. Captain Page is with the mayor, so I’ll just pass it over to you.”
Baker looked at the envelope in Spinelli’s hand.
“Who did you relieve?”
“Taylor. He said he didn’t see a soul around last night. The only way he’d miss someone is if he went to the bathroom.”
“Okay, thanks, Spinelli.” Baker took the lightweight envelope from his hands and walked to her office and sat behind her desk.
This wasn’t Freddy. On the front were cut out words pasted. ‘For the person in charge.’ It was sealed shut.
“Oh, please, don’t let this be a problem.”
Already knowing the envelope was contaminated (Spinelli wasn’t wearing gloves), she opened it, turned it upside down and shook it until a single folded sheet fell out. Before doing anything else, she opened her bottom right-hand drawer, and reached inside a box for two latex gloves, and slipped them on, then she unfolded the letter.
It started out: Do you like to fiddle? Doesn’t matter, here is your first riddle. From me to thee, watch for an old wall to suddenly fall. Hey diddle-diddle, such an easy riddle.
At the bottom there were more words. You can be sure more riddles will come. You have until Friday to figure this one and others to be sent. And remember this …someone down the road will die My, my, my, how time will fly. The key is to get the riddles solved with little to no strife. Once you do, you may be able to save a life. Except for the riddle itself, it was signed with the letter R, and not unlike all the other letters that were cut and pasted from newspapers and magazines.
Rather odd riddle, she thought. What wall will fall? And by Friday? Baker had no idea who was playing this guessing game, but the last line made her raise her eyebrows. Someone will die. Just not this Friday.
She got on her cell and punched in 23. The other end rang twice.
“Crime Lab, Huey Marx here.”
“Hello, Huey, this is Baker.”
“Hey girl, how are things?”
“Never better, I hope.”
“Uh-oh, what’s up?”
“I have a letter I’m going to drop off in twenty for you. Feel free to read but run it through for prints. The envelope isn’t any good.”
“Alrighty. If anything is there, I’ll know soon enough.”
“Thanks, Huey. See you shortly.”
Downtown Montie – 10:00 a.m.
The air-raid signal went off as scheduled, and eighty-two police cars, five ambulances, and the Montie Fire Department went into action. Things were running like a well-oiled machine. Or was it?
While people were being evacuated from stores, the courthouse, city hall and the like; crosstown, a small device on a timer was attached to the back of a burned-out wall from the textile mill. The device, (according to instructions found on the Internet) would be strong enough to blow a roof off of a house. The wall would be a cinch, and it can be detonated by remote timer once in place. The person who left it there could only marvel at the things you can learn on a computer these days. The timer was set to off in ninety-six hours—Friday noon.
It was by noon when Baker got her answer from Huey. No prints on the letter.
By 5:50, the Chief Fire Marshal, Stan Henley, the head administrator for ambulance services, Captain Page and Baker were all called into the city council chambers.
They found out that if today had been a real evacuation, 113 lives would have been lost. They were all volunteers who agreed to hide in various places, such as storage closets, under desks, and in the backseat of cars.
They would do it again tomorrow.
The Baker-Manning Home
111 Homestead Lane – 6:23 p.m.
After a casual, put-it-together-yourself evening meal, Baker and Ed sat outside in the back yard, sipping from glasses filled with white zinfandel, and discussing their day.
“I have two assignments that need to be turned in by Friday. Three pages typed on the Monroe Doctrine, and the other paper, with a self-analytical look at the O.J. Simpson trial.
“I’ll be so glad when I can get over to Brighton University and start tackling real books. Within a year online and at Brighton, and I’ll be caught up enough I can take my bar exam either in January or February of next year.”
“Not that far away. This year is breezing by. Before too long, you’ll be coming home with a law-degree and a shingle to hang on the front door saying attorney-for-hire.”
“Does have a good ring to it, but I think a real office would be better than working out of the house. Enough about me; how did your day go what with the air-raid signals I heard?”
“It went great. Had a prank letter come to the Twenty-Second today, and a hundred and thirteen people died by two this afternoon.
Ed practically choked on his wine.
“Say that again? A hundred and thirteen people! What happened? I didn’t hear anything in the news about this.”
Baker grabbed a Kleenex-tissue from a box from a portable stand to her left, and laughing, handed it to Ed.
“It was our first day of testing the air-raid signal and defense measure put in place and our reaction time in saving lives. We got everyone to safety, except for the hundred and thirteen. They were people who volunteered to hide on us on purpose. We’ll be better prepared tomorrow.”
“What about the prank letter?”
“Hold on. Be right back. It’s still in my purse.”
As Baker crossed the backyard patio area, the front door opened as Stevie walked in.
“Hi, mom.”
“Hi, Stevie. Did you and Ellie have a fun time at the lake?”
“Yes. We spent the day at the lake in her dad’s speedboat. It was pretty cool.”
“I’m glad you two enjoyed your time together, but if you want, Ed’s out back, and I’m about to go back, if you want to join us.”
“Okay. Let me shower, change clothes and make a sandwich and I’ll be out then.”
Stevie headed to his room and Baker went back outside and handed Ed the strange letter she received today.
“I let Satch read it after our city council meeting earlier tonight. He agrees with me. Besides no prints, it makes no sense.”
Ed read the note three times.
“An old wall will fall. I’m guessing a building is coming down soon, or already has. And if my guess is right, each clue you get will get you closer to whoever it is that will die; and guessing again, when you get the last riddle, your job will be to know who and when. But you are right about this one. It’s as vague as it can get.”
“Hi, Ed. What’s vague?”
“Hey, Stevie. Oh, just a riddle your mom got at work today?”
“Are you telling me, I’m here with the two greatest minds since Sherlock Holmes and Perry Mason, and you two haven’t figured out a riddle?” Stevie grinned at Ed and winked at mom.
“Probably doesn’t mean anything anyway.”
“Maybe, maybe not, Jan. Come Friday, you’ll know if this was just a harmful prank or not.”
Stevie asked to see the note, then read it twice and said, “You know, right now there’s only a couple walls I can think of that are still standing, that are old I mean. The old diner out on 60, and that one wall from the fire at the textile mill.”
“True, Stevie,” agreed Baker. “That wall is to be torn down sometime next week. The only reason it hasn’t come down sooner; all the paperwork involved between Albany and here. Pure bureaucratic BS is all it was. They even sent their own fire inspector down here. Just another way to waste taxpayer money.”
“Mom? Are we watching a movie tonight?”
Baker looked at Ed.
“There’s a movie in the DVD as I speak. Might be a bit hokie, but they were stupid-funny when I was growing up. It’s that new Three Stooges movie.”
“What are you two waiting for? I’ll get the popcorn started, mom.”
“All right. I’ll pour the cold drinks,” grinned Baker.
“I’ll watch the movie and eat all the popcorn!”
Stevie yelled out, “I heard that, Ed! Not gonna happen. At least not by yourself!”
The Last Way
What left is there for me to do?
And now, the end is near, all the years I have worked, all the plans I have made, doesn’t mean anything any longer.
So, I face the final curtain before all goes dark around me. And in the last moments my friends, I’ll say it clear, that you full well understand, so that before you, you will know I’ll state my case of which I’m certain.
Yet, for all that I have done, there is but one thing I have lacked, one thing I have longed for, and it has been within my grasp, only to slip away like a feather blown away in the breeze.
I’ve lived a life that’s full, yet my heart and soul remains empty. I have traveled the world ten times over, traveled each and every highway, yet she alludes me like a filmy ghost staring back at me through a mirror, but one thing you or anyone else cannot say is wrong; I did it my way.
We both know I’m not perfect, but then, who is? I have regrets, but then, too few to mention. After all, now doesn’t seem to be the time to really look back and make any amends.
Throughout my life, I did what I had to do. In the beginning it was just to keep from drowning. but as time traveled, I realized I saw it through without exemption.
It was then, when I was finally within reach of all my plans and goals, where I planned each charted course, being smart enough, not to waiver or fold for fear of failure, but rather take the time to take each careful step along the byway, and more, much more than this, no one will ever be able to say, I didn’t do it my way.
Now, in these final hours or perhaps minutes ... yes, there were times, I’m sure you knew what was going on inside me, but you never questioned my motives. Especially when I bit off more than I could chew. You would just stand off to the side, nodding your head when I gave you something to do and you went on about the business at hand.
But through it all when there was doubt, I never relented, did I? I never backed off or down. I ate it up and spit it out. I faced it all in my life and still managed to come out on top because I stood tall in the face of what I was up against.
I have pretty much run the gauntlet in life. After all, I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried, but when she went away, I vowed I had had enough. I’ve had my fill, my share of losing, and swore I would never let love invade my being ever again. Once was more than enough for me.
Yet, even after what, almost fifty years? If she were to walk back into my arms, I wouldn’t say a word. And yes, I would take her back that quickly for I never stopped loving her.
Still, as tears subside, in a small sense, I find it all so amusing because, just imagine it if you will. With all I have accomplished in life; to think, I did all that, without hesitation. Oh no, oh no, not me because I vowed a long time ago, I would do things my way.
Now, I am here in my last moments of life, and I ponder life’s big prank on me, for what is a man, what has he got to show for all he has done, knowing when the light goes dark one last time, you become nothing more than a memory.
Let’s face it, if not himself, then he has naught and perhaps that is the last deciding factor before life is snubbed out.
To say the things he truly feels, whether believed or not, but know these words are not from one who kneels. I have been knocked around and knocked down until it came my turn. When it did, suddenly the world changed for me. For the records shows, I took the blows and yet, I did it my way.
Your last official act is to follow the directions in the envelope and make absolutely certain everything written is followed to the letter. You must find her for me. Tell her I am sorry. And that all I have remaining, is hers.
It is my way of saying ... each heart beat I have, beats for no one but her.
Now go. I need to close my eyes and sleep, perhaps for the last time.
Sign Here
Little does the general pubic know, there's a little more leniency to paperwork than one might think. I'm talking about music industry papers, the ones that say who owns what, what money goes to whom, and when it ends. It can mean a variety of things; cash flow, tours, marriages, ground rules for heroin use on the bus, all of that. Like all productive citizens of American society, these musicians tend to keep their records with whomever owns them. It's a simple and straight forward system, but you always have a paranoid few to complicate things.
In truth, the record labels are like banks, there's a lot of people out there that would rather stuff their mattresses or walls with bills, for musicians its ownership papers, even more so their masters. This isn't so much of a problem today as we have reliable computers, which I will get to later. Unlike those redneck hoodlums stuffing crumpled money stacks into their drywall, the paranoid rich musician has a more classy approach, a spacious closet or two for a strongbox or locked filing cabinet. If he or she has some extra capital to spend, they may add a fireproof wall or two, a CIA esque keypad for the final touch.
For outsiders this may seem a reasonable approach. In many ways it is, but in many others it isn't. Context is important in these matters, so is that fateful September the 5th 2002, the bloody Sunday for the aging hair metal act. I'm not talking about a warehouse fire that destroyed hundreds of master recordings, this is a different tale of woe, but similar in many ways.
I'll never forget those words. I was watching house hunters when these tough guy bastards decided it was better to give me a false sense of security. The doorbell rang and I answered the door.
"Hey ya there Bush!"
I was down on the floor in an instant, an instant upper cut to the face, no challenge for a fight, nothing. I could've gotten through a few of them if I thought twice about it. My next door neighbor never lost her cat in the evenings, there was little to no chance it was her. I was paying for my judgement lapse with a broken nose pressed to the tile, one guy holding my frail hair, another my neck, both pulling me outside and smashing my face down on the front step.
No one said anything to me until I was chained up to a light post by my pool. By the time I opened my eyes again, several guys had made their way into my house. I could hear those gremlins clunking their boots up the stairs to the master bedroom, the master master bedroom. It would only be a matter of time that they reached the second bedroom. I didn't see the scene unfold, but I can imagine it well enough in my head, several guys that look like they're straight out of Afghanistan busting in there, looking around, and seeing this random kid cowering in his crib.
"Aw crap!"
Stevie V came out second. They spared him a beating. He yelled and complained about the whole thing anyways. He was thrown to the ground and chained behind me on the pole. They at least had the decency to not give his kid the restraints. This didn't make it better for Stevie though. The guys watched over him in the living room until the whole thing was over. I thought my friend was going to have a heart attack.
They could've been punting him across the kitchen like a small dog for all he knew, but that was unlikely. In reality, his anxious fatherly instincts were creating a scene from a grimdark comedy. Three year old Greg was eating a half emptied bowl of cheetos on the island. He watched the last half of a house renovation in New Jersey. The backdoors of the new place were rebuilt using Romanian hardwood. "A feature to extinguish the auburn tones of the fairy garden". I heard all of it fizzle out from the open windows.
The man who'd given the misleading greeting came up to me. His name was Larry del Davis. What he really is is a dollar store Barry Manilow, and that's saying something. To call him that might even be a disrespect to Barry Manilow now when I think about it. Larry was to the soft rock scene as James Corden is to Hollywood. He was everywhere, despite no one wanting him. Larry sucked up to every business head in music. I could argue he was one himself at this point. Rumor has it he's known for starting law suits with local musicians in Florida. The Crime? Having a chord too similar to something else bringing in more money. A forgettable snitch: that's all you need to know about him.
I used to wipe my ass on a banner with his name on it at my concerts. The guy just seemed too boring and docile to do anything about it, but I was dead wrong. They carted out every filing cabinet I had to the poolside. I knew they had no reason to wreak most of it, but they'd do it anyways. What got them riled up had little to do with me. I'd just done a favor for a friend and forgot about it. He was the front man for a popular hair band called Lionheart. They were ahead of their time in late nineties, the firsts to sign a contract they they'd retire from touring by year 2000. It was a popular, but futile feat to be repeated by acts such as the legendary Motley Crue.
Futile is a dismal term to describe a legal contract, but it's the one that fits. A musician signing a paper that they'll never tour again is like a meth head signing a paper to renounce his addiction. In the long run, it doesn't mean much of anything. A band as big as the Crue doesn't fade from the limelight in a graceful manner, they crawl along well past their sell by date. To call it a crawl is an understatement. Coming out of retirement is a curse wrought upon anyone who fails to die young, something Larry cast on all of us.
The infamous Lionheart contract had its original stored at their label. A secretary plucked it out five months later and gave it a go through the shredder. While this was a conundrum, Lionheart was thinking ahead. They wanted to make a statement with this thing. Both the drummer and front man had suffered decades of severe alcoholism on the road and wanted a real official end to it all. A copy was sent out to every guitarist, producer, drummer, aunt, second cousin, dog, and label exec that helped them through rehab. There were a dozen of them in total, one at my place.
As could be predicted, Lionheart's message didn't go over well with many fans and higher ups. A classic eighties act didn't simply disappear from the face of the earth, neither did their demand. I’ve always believed the whole set up was about intimidation. It didn't matter if a lost copy still existed somewhere.
I don't remember the paper in question being burned, but I'm sure its ashes joined the others as they blew into my pool. Everyone had invited themselves to the midday cookout. Piles of documents melted into the outdoor fire pit. It soon became more of a raging blaze. There was enough smoke to set off the alarm in the house and burn a hole through the screen surrounding my porch. I better remember Larry's excited lips flapping about. The guys he brought did all the work, but he had his fun. He'd found a little league bat in the front closet and went to town with it.
"You hear that Bush? We're all screwed! Every last one of us!"
The small stick of wood came pounding down on a broken filing cabinet. It put a good dent in its side. It would've been more impressive if he opened the thing, but the job was done already. Each lock was drilled through and torn from its frame. I'd never seen him smile as much as he did until he said those words. Those feeble arms shaking as he swung. The bat kept swinging hard against the metal, it twanged long and shrill. By the fourth blow it snapped along the middle grain. It's new twin rattled onto the pool deck. Larry held the other half. He stabbed it in the air a few times before chucking it into the pool.
After the first shedder was fired, it was all over. At least six other raids occurred that day. Three were easy break ins as most celebrities have several houses they don't live in. The other half didn't go down without a fight. At 12:31 pm in Houston Texas, the lead singer of Lionheart was having a verbal dispute with his wife. It had something to do with him using the wrong laundry detergent from what I was told. What's important is that they ignored the knocks on the door for a while. When the couple realized these people weren't going to leave, it all escalated. The wife, who'd just snorted five lines of coke, scaled three floors, dumping industrial bleach on the front entrance. Further confusion arose when the men wouldn't move. Soon the scene became a game of what headless chicken could run in the right direction. The drugged out couple jumped right on them the moment they got through the door. A guy got bit five times in the leg before he got to the papers. In the end, the deed was done, despite burning eyes and crazy dead weight being thrown and hog tied in the living room. The front man had no clue what they'd taken until a week later, assuming the event to be a swatting.
Two hours later, another posse entered the residence of Lionhearts drummer. The door was wide open. He wasn't the type to think much of those things. It's important to consider that he lived in Hawaii. The theives had gotten to his papers by the time he'd sat up in bed. Years of hearing damage gave him the illusion the curious noises were coming from outside. The vision of a large tree monitor came to mind. He locked all the doors from a remote on his nightstand to keep the bastard out. Six men were locked inside the house with no working keys. They called the island bonfire off and burnt the second to last contract with a lighter. The drummer was dead meat when they discovered him upstairs. They woke him up from his continued nap and made him let them go.
The last victim was a friend of mine. He was the only one who knew what was going down before it happened. When the dreaded knock came to the door, he was in the back of my studio. With two hands he ripped out an old macintosh computer and made a beeline for the back door. He made it to the ravine before the others started after him. The plan was to crawl into the woods and hide it in a tree. This scheme ended when his foot snagged on a rock. His entire body and computer went in a painful tumble down the ridge. By the time anyone caught up with him, he'd bounced over several tree stumps before landing in the stream bed. What was left of the macintosh lay strewn about several feet away. The battle was over, and some label exec in New York was having a good day.
By 2006, the boys were back on the road again. The tragedy of all this is that they'd still be doing it without the raids. I think people just want to kick someone else into the dirt. The charade lasted at my place for five hours before anyone left. My hands were numb by the time they uncuffed me. By the early evening, Travel Channel had played through a full season of Ghost Adventures. I begged the kid to change it to something else, but I have no skill in the area of telepathy. My backyard devolved into a charred warzone in the matter of an afternoon.
I have little memory of the exchange that caused all of this. It was a mere unremembered favor for a few musicians I'd toured with a decade ago. I don't even know their real names, most of their fans don't either. Larry sat beside me as the others let us go. He lit a cigarette and gave another to me, which I took. My fingers couldn't feel the thing as he passed a lighter under it.
"Jeeze, you really took that like a champ didn't you?" he chirped.
"If you don't get off my property, I'm gonna break your nose into splinters."
"No need for hard feelings. I'm doing what I'm paid to do, just like you. I can't believe I got to do this, standing right in front of you, wow, todays been such a rush."
Larry got up and observed the light pole I'd been tied to seconds earlier.
"Is that stained glass?" he asked.
I nodded.
"I've been trying to find something like that. They're beautiful aren't they? I saw one selling for a thousand at an auction last Thursday, it was in the design of Starry Night and supposedly hung in an office at the empire state building at one point."
I blew a few drags before pressing the but onto the pavement.
"I'm going in for a beer," I muttered.
"Holy shit, is that Stevie V? You cut your hair. I've been standing here forever and didn't even recognize you."
"Where's my son?!" gasped Stevie.
With that I left and never spoke to the man again. Sometimes I still think about him when the pool is illuminated at night. I changed the lamp shade long ago, but its color against the while tiles remains similar. I wonder what an innocent menace like him is doing nowadays. After that thought, I remember he once implied to have AIDs in order to collect sympathy donations from other rich rock bands I thin conclude he's not worth my headspace. I shut off the lights for the night and move on.
These years just get more tiring. People like to say it got bad after the eighties, but it was always like that. Everyone goes down the shitter eventually, no matter how many times they say they like you. To make things worse, I can't help but have a beer with these fiends. No matter how many times they trash my house, I'm their breed. It's my passion to play games with them until I lose, not like there's anything much better to do these days.
Ain’t that a Bitch!
We can't all have good opinions; otherwise, how would we know them at all.
A Quadruped once said,"...", nothing at all!
But they sure were sweet when they lay their head on your knee after licking the tears off your ruby red face.
At that moment, in that place, they were there for just you, and they knew it, and they love you no matter what you do!
It's these silent moments when the only warmth in your world is that mutts soft furry curls slid over your hand.
It's the unblinking stare and the total demand of your attention to heard you away from the wonton feelings that got you so low.
It's that you won't freeze when it's 20 below zero on a three dog night in your tiny house you built; but failed to prioritize insulation, but dammit!
You felt it sure looked cute in the shade of green you painted it. The one that the last of your building funds got alloted to. The one you got when you should have gotten new pink panther sheathing foam to line your tiny walls with.
It's those little things like puppy breath and them breathing little barks and ruffs as they are chasing their dreams. It's their little pup-paws up in the air, without a care ,or a thought of gravity. Chasing cars in their subconscious.
I couldn't bare the tragedy
of some of this lifes flaws
if it weren't for that little brindle brown puppy with huge f-ing paws;
my Mr. Buster Brown.
And later actually his litter brother
My dog Jax
Who is "Jaxon pollock Brown" and
Now I have little Paw Paw too.
They're My boys, my friend, my dogs to the end; they are family and I'll be damned if they didn't save my life through the toughest times yet.
So follow me when I say
forgive me please
Dont forget I mean not to be rude.
I'm not normally so braisen to say;
With so much attitude;
That your opinion (no one asked for)
is more than welcome to
join the food i had for lunch
down the drain and flushed.
It's what I do
with all the shit I process
Though what to do with you, Deficating from where your mouth is,
To really screw the pooch.
"Ain't that a bitch; I got this."
I say; handing you tissue.
Fell Empty: 3 Stars for The Mother, a Critical Review
The Mother, directed by Niki Caro, fell short of meeting action expectations and felt empty of dramatic emotional connections leaving the film in nowhere land. It’s redeeming quality, giving it 3 stars instead of 2, is the compelling acting, though Jennifer Lopez carried the majority of the weight. It will quickly be forgotten in the minds of viewers, and it makes me appreciate streaming services, as I didn’t have to make a separate purchase and own the movie for years to come.
#moviereview #filmreview #review
{Originally reviewed for Letterboxd @SheExclaimed}
Book Four - Part 8 - Rhyming Evil - Chapter Two
The Weekend in Montie
Hot. It’s supposed to be hot. It’s July. As people were either at Standing Room Lake swimming, boating, or sunning, other people were on vacation. Several older folks who did none of the mentioned, stayed indoors and enjoyed their air-conditioner.
Other people were active doing something. Playing volleyball, tennis, jogging, having breakfast or a lunch depending on the time, shopping for that one item on sale or a present for an upcoming birthday or wedding anniversary. Yeppers, people were out just doing stuff.
Devon had the weekend off and took his wife, Vanessa, and his daughter, Jenny, to Vermont to see Vanessa’s mother.
J.W. went to the city park, parked his rig, leaving his badge and gun in the glove compartment and locked everything and took a walk until he found a park bench, and just be a people-watcher. Later, he laid out on the grass, and started reading a book titled, “The Doll Maker.” It was supposed to be a frightening story. His kind of read.
About an hour into his day, J.W. spotted a vendor selling hot pretzels, popcorn, and hot corn nuts, and cold drinks. It was the pretzels that informed his stomach he was hungry.
Closing the book, he walked over and with only one person in front of him, waited his turn to order.
Too late to react, the man in front of him turned around too sharply, and being surprised, lost control of both his drink and his pretzel covered with mustard. Both tipped forward where the pretzel pressed against J.W.’s blue polo pullover; the cold drink spilling over the lower part of his shirt and jeans.
“Oh, my God! I am terribly sorry! I feel like such an idiot!”
J.W. just stood there in shocked silence.
The man grabbed several napkins and began to pat down J.W.’s stomach and jeans. J.W. backed away.
“It’s fine. I’ll go home and put these in the wash.”
“Nonsense. This is my fault. Look, I live a block from here. We look to be about the same height and weight; you can change at my place and wash your clothes there. That way, we can hopefully, get the mustard stain out faster.”
J.W. knew he should have declined the offer, but the guy was right about the stain. Wait too long, and the shirt would be ruined, if it weren’t already.
J.W. walked with the man to the Blake Manor Apartments. Just as they made their way to the front steps, “How rude of me, again. My name is Michael Collins.”
“I’m John Roberts, but everyone calls me, J.W.”
Once inside Michael’s apartment, he took to his bedroom as J.W. followed. and went through his clothes, and threw a pair of blue jeans, and a white button-down polo shirt on the bed.
“Change your clothes so we can get the messy ones in the washer. Do you drink coffee?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“Good.” Michael closed the bedroom door giving J.W. a bit of privacy.
As he was changing, he noticed a few photographs on Michael’s dresser. Michael and an older couple together, probably his parents. Another of the three of them, but with another man, maybe his brother. They were all smiling. There was another one of Michael and a woman, too young to be his wife. Maybe a sister, or girlfriend.
Michael’s take-charge attitude impressed him. He never could stand a man who acted like a wimp. Whether he was in a relationship or not.
Suddenly, J.W. found himself drawn to Michael, but he paused that thought. Michael was probably spoken for. After all, he is a very good-looking man. The door flew open.
“Great, you’ve finished changing. Let me get your clothes in the washer. Coffee’s ready in the kitchen. Cream and sugar is on the counter. Help yourself. I’ll be with you shortly.”
After two more pots of coffee and endless conversation, J.W. found out the woman in the photo was his sister, who had died two years ago from breast cancer, and the man was a former boyfriend, who moved and taken on a new job in California. It was more important for him to further his career than it was his relationship, was how Michael put it. J.W. was right about the other picture. They were his parents.
J.W. went on to explain why he came to Montie. Between the loss of his parents (years ago), who had suffered heart attacks within seven months of each other, two other best friends, one to drugs, the other, a motorcycle accident, and then the loss of his best friend and lover. He felt he needed a change, a new climate, a new everything.
J.W. and Michael were fast becoming friends, and after J.W.’s closed were washed and dried, he thanked Michael for his kindness.
“At least allow me to repay you for today. Have dinner with me tonight.”
J.W. accepted. As he was headed back to his rig, he thought, “Amazing what mustard can do (the shirt was ruined, but the yellow part was gone) for a person’s day.”
Out at Standing Room Lake, another couple had finally come to terms with each other. A happy, and excited Johnathan Prescott heard the words, I love you, and yes, I will marry you, from Dianne Andrews.
Dianne felt with all her heart this was the right things to do, to start a new chapter in her life with a good man.
Although not Montie; in New York City, at Seventy-Second and Polk, at the Squire-Inn Restaurant, Patrick was having dinner with Cliff Potter, who, of all people to run into in the Big Apple, also lived and worked in Montie. Cliff managed Baker’s Supermarket.
They met at one of the exclusive gay spas across town, and both instantly recognized one another. It would have been impossible not to, since it was Cliff’s Boxer that Patrick and Terry managed to save, who happened to be one of many animals shot by Fred Creasy and Bertram Ballmate. Patrick would have never guessed that Cliff was gay. He had an oval-shaped face, tear-dropped shaped eyes. His hairline was receding, and he had a small scar above his right eye, just to the right side. But when he smiled, Patrick couldn’t help but warm to what he was finding out to be a considerate and passionate man. Funny, too. All those attributes that were in Daniel, now sat across a table from him. But could this go further? Time would tell.
Back in Montie, as the weekend would draw to a close, Stevie and Ellie actually said, “I love you,” out loud to each other for the first time. They began talking just not about dating, but college, their career’s, possible marriage, and family.
Baker and Ed did their best to answer his questions on marriage, of being a father, and all the other things that create the ups and downs of life.
“Sometimes it’s all trial and error, and when it doesn’t compute, delete it, and try something else until it does work. Just don’t run off half-cocked into believing you can do everything on your own, because the truth is, you can’t. Every marriage takes two bodies, two minds, two hearts to make it work. It takes honesty, truth, and respect. When any of those break down, then it’s time to reinvent your own life’s wheel.
“Your mother did that, and I’m damned glad of it.
“Just know everything that happens, everything we do, is done on purpose and for a reason. God secretly, I suspect, has our roadmap for life pre-planned, therefore, I don’t believe anything that happens, happens by accident. It’s just that sometimes, we don’t know the reason, or the outcome, until we act and react.”
“Bub, all Ed’s saying is just do the best you can. It’s all anyone can ask of you; especially of yourself. So far, you have done better than good at being a good you.”
Ellie was at home pretty much hearing the same thing. “We learn from our mistakes and grow because of them.”
And somewhere in a charming and quaint city of Montie, a poet of sorts, was embarking on a journey, which at the moment wasn’t sure how it would end, but the poet would see this adventure through to its finish, no matter how it may end.
forNever hold your peace.
Luckily injectable anything is something I've built a physiological tolerance to.
The dose they gave they acted as though would normally put out a horse, so they leave me to the coma they think I'm in with what reminds me of a nicotine pouch attached to my left boob.
The world's different when you're supposed to be knocked out and get to view things from a 3rd person perspective.
They- whoever "they" are , leave the car.
I hear a door shut from afar and peak open the eye they left smashed against the driver side passenger door.
Nobody's in sight.
My legs are itching, toes tingling .. Feels like a fire is being stoked underneath me.
Fuck this charade its time to bounce!
They really had confidence in whatever they gave me , they left the child saftey locks off.
I can feel my heart beating in slow motion which is weird since I don't think I've ever ran this fast in my life.
The road's pebbles bury themselves in my bare feet but this barley phases me.
My toes get caught underneath my stride from some pothole my tunnel vision left out ; the fall came at perfect timing as the road was turning sending me into a shrub filled ditch.
An exact replica of the car I just ditched turns the corner going the way I came.
My in laws face pressed against the same window mine was , except I don’t think they're going to be getting up when they're left in the heat with the windows up.
My bloody knee has already scabbed up, my energy is gaining , and my gut is telling me to keep running in the opposite direction.
My gut also told me to not " speak my mind " and to " forever hold my peace ".
Guess I'm gonna have to bail that stupid mother fucker out of this mess so I can get a couple things off my chest.
Interpretations
It's interesting to me that you don't like dogs. I myself have the disposition of a dog... A dog-cat to be more precise. Let me tell you about the best and only dog that I have ever had, my girl Roxy <3
Let's start again....
I don't particularly like dogs. That is negative experience speaking. Growing up, we had three: a Husky mix named Husky, and a pure-bred German Shepard with dwarf legs named Stefania. Stefa for short; and a Shepard Retriever Border Collie mix, named Mela, Italian for Apple, named so for no other reason than alliteration (in our family we were all M).
Husky was a biter with a sense of humor, no malice apparent in his nature. It's just that whenever he met a passing stranger, from behind, he could not resist "the temptation" of nipping them in the butt. An Alpha-Beta thing? (Father was Alpha of the pack.) If Hushu, as was his nickname, scented food, he went stupid and would bite right through a hand. He did this twice; once during a rare visit to Grandma, and once to my sister. Both bites drawing considerable blood, piercing right though top and underside of the hand that feeds.
Stefa, was a runner during her "time of the month." She was never spayed and never pregnant, and never leashed. She was a patroller of the house but would lose all sense of duty from time to time and had to be retrieved from somewhere in the neighborhood with a dazed look in her eye of procreaterial confusion. In short, she also, went stupid.
Mela was mostly Border Collie in DNA, and separation anxiety plagued her like a long-lost ancestral hound. She could not be left alone, or she would claw and jaw at everything in sight, especially doors and floors, to try to get out of the room or house or yard. I flatter myself to think it was to find us, but most likely she just wanted out. Left for more than ten minutes, she went stupid.
But my Roxy, was a gem. She was very intelligent. Too smart for me I would say. I got her in a time in my life when everyone frowned at my decision to "tie myself down." I was isolated in the woods in the family log cabin and bear were coming right up to the doors so that I felt very insecure at every point of exit, not being able to see around the bend of what was in fact a very expansive solid wood dwelling. Wildlife had kept its distance because of the scent of dog in the past. Years had passed, and raccoons, bears, skunk, and even ground hogs got bolder and made themselves known as co-tenants of the property.
So, I did what needed to be done. No, I did not get a gun. I went to the pound and adopted a dog.
I was looking for a pit bull boxer mix that I was going to name Igor. And I found one.
My heart sank when I heard the bark. The most ear jarring yelp, one that I knew would agitate the cats who I had adopted two years prior from a shelter as feral adults, who were otherwise Bomb Proof. But this yelping nobody could possibly stand. In the compartment next to this idealized silver pit mix, was what I said I didn't want: a female German Shepard mixed with what I was told was Ridgeback, but later came to believe was actually Whippet, because she never ever had that doggie odor, even in the rain. And what a bark. Stellar. Adoption was near certain. My niece Molly would confirm for me if this was the "right dog," because I had conspired to myself that this dog would be partly hers since she is so keen on dogs.
When this dog was led out to me, alone, she showed respect and a docile-ness that was aristocratic. To revise any misconstrued imaginings, she looked like a fox. Red fur, with a little burn around the ears and muzzle, and tip of the tail which puffed accordingly. She was lithe and tall, with a narrow skull and frame of body, and exquisitely soulful amber eyes that betrayed a sadness, and a longing, the origins of which I understood in a short while.
I should note that her name was Roxie on the certificate. If anyone knows me, you know that I have picked up many a rock in my lifetime and turned it over and over, peering at its inner essence, to draw out with paint and brush one of myriad of faces contained within... it was like a Sign to me. This was The Dog.
When I returned a second time, sure that I would indeed take her home, I brought Molly. It was agreed wholeheartedly. I asked Molly if we should maybe change the spelling of the name, as I knew she had been keen to rename, and this would be a good compromise. I did not dare change the name itself, because it was Perfect, and also because my lady was already 6 years old. It seemed unconscionable to change the sound, but the spelling was irrelevant to her though pertinent to us. Of course, Molly wanted a y; so she became Roxy. And when Roxy saw Molly, she came alive with a spark of joy that I seldom ever saw in all the years of her life. I soon understood why.
The pound knew of her full backstory. She had been owned by an elderly Missus who had passed away and left the dog to her son and his young family. The family had a little girl. Right about Molly's age. The family was at the time of abdication struggling with a newborn and having financial difficulties. Roxy was not lost. She was surrendered to the pound. Severed from her family, holding out hope... of a change of heart, or change of circumstance... She had been there only six days. The county required eight to check for distemper and other potential health or aggression issues.
I took Roxy home two days later and found to my astonishment that she was fully trained. Truly a gift. Sit, stay, heel, beg, paw, even roll over. She always asked to go out, abhorred soiling anything and was a veritable Princess. No, a Queen. Aloof as can be to me. Like a cat-dog someone might be prompted to quip. Yet whenever she sighted a little old Lady or a little girl age 6, she was beside herself with dog gone enthusiasm and that spark was back. How I loved to see her like that!!
Here is the heartbreak of the tale. Roxy enjoyed road trips and walks and tolerated me as new Master. Yet when I would say "Time to go home, Roxy," she would look about us so forlorn and lost that I stopped using that phrase. This it was clear was not home.
When I moved to Michigan, something in her broke altogether. True she was getting older, but 12 is hardly old. Life expectancy should have been 14 or even 16 years had her heart been in it. Soon after the move she lost her hearing. She began to get spells of vertigo so bad that made her look rabid, rapidly circling her own tail, heart racing unable to calm or sit down. It was like she had subsequently lost her mind and went mad. She was put on medication and that unparting sadness perpetuated her being. She began to lose her eyesight and control of her bladder. I made the wretched decision to have her put down.
I have every respect for her and for the comfort she brought to me as the smartest, most disciplined, attentive dog I have ever seen. I also know that she never loved me.