Friday, June 29, 2007

News Flash Friday

In a rare show of solidarity and intelligence, the United States government has unanimously voted to change the 4th of July holiday to Independence Day and designate its celebration date as the first Monday of every July.

“We know that we are breaking with tradition by making such a smart decision,” says a Congressman who would only speak on a pay-as-you-go cell phone so as not to be identified, “but it really wasn’t our idea.”

“We received a letter from Lindy Lou from Idaho making the suggestion,” said a page between his paging duties.

“We wouldn’t normally pay attention to someone too young to vote and from such a backward area of the country to boot but her letter brought us hardened politico types to tears.”

After reading LL’s letter and wiping the dew from this reporter’s eye, the situation has become clear.

You see, Little Lou Lou suffers from an ailment that makes her wear her hair in tight pigtails. This causes all of the blood in her head to go to her scalp, thereby depriving her brain of oxygen. She normally only gets a good idea once or twice a year because of her disease. She figured this was one of them and wanted it acted upon before all of her brain cells died. She thought our governmental representatives would understand her predicament intimately. Lucky Lindy struck a chord with those hardened old codgers in Washington DC.

“We all know what it’s like to be brain dead, but this poor girl has been afflicted at an unnatural age, so we wanted to lift her spirits,” said a Representative who couldn’t remember his name for this interview. “Her deformity is so heart-breaking we enacted this new law before most of us realized we all agreed.” He shook his head in wonder. “I can guarantee this won’t ever happen again.”

This reporter urges you to write your Congressman, State Representative and Senator to let them know your appreciation for this uncharacteristic show of brilliance. We don’t tell them often enough when they do a good thing.

* * * This just in: The President has vetoed the bill. In a comment overheard by a carpet sweeper, the President is alleged to have said, “We can’t have none of this agreeing b*llsh*t. What would come next, d*mn*t?”

Monday, June 25, 2007


Sound reaches my ears through serous waves. I feel the vibrations more than I hear people talking. The words reach me as a dull hum that envelops me in a surreal haze. I wonder throughout the day if I am awake or if I am floating through a déjà vu experience; my elbows tingle, the skin on my lips comes alive as I breathe and my cheeks pulse with heat.

The juxtaposition of sensations makes me nauseous. I walk the landscape of an Escher drawing, spiraling in a topsy turvy world where up and down dance in confused order. My body disconnects from my mind and soul, the tenuous plasma chord which usually keeps me whole streaming off to nothingness. The realities I normally keep compartmentalized switch places and blend like crayon shavings melting on a piece of paper held over a light bulb.

My solar plexus throbs matching my racing heart beat. My eyes do not exist. My lungs constrict, tighten, full of phlegm. My mouth tastes of ozone, a dry thunderstorm brewing behind my teeth.

I want to close my eyes, to sleep, to dream, to be in a place more fully realized than this humid swamp I wade through.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Family Secrets

My brother has rusty nuts. We are so close that I know these kinds of intimate details about him.

My aunt arrived Sunday from Austria. After bringing her home from the Philadelphia airport, we sat around the dining room table having snacks and drinks and just chatting.

My father closed the sliding glass door behind him.

My sister-in-law asked, “How does your door slide so smoothly and quietly?”

My mother, in her usual helpful manner said, “You must clean the runners every once in a while.”

As we always do and to my mother’s utter chagrin, we ignored her sage advice.

My sister-in-law said, “Stan* (my brother) won’t let me use WD-40 on the door.”

“WD-40 will just make the runners gummy and sticky,” says I. I know about these things. I’m so wise and learned.

“You need to use graphite,” my father tells her. “It’s good for loosening things, especially rusty nuts.”

I’m sure you know the rest of the story.

*Not his real name, because I don’t want him to kick my ass.

Friday, June 15, 2007

Friday News Flash

The results of a new study released today by the U.S. of A.’s Department of Wildlife says that there is a definite link between Communism and an epidemic of walking fish on the eastern seaboard.

“Fish are coming out of the ocean in droves,” says an unidentified official, who wishes to remain unidentified. “They walk right up onto the beach and confer in small groups briefly before heading into town.”

The unidentified official, John Burke, says that card carrying Communists and their sympathizers living in coastal towns along the Atlantic Ocean are telepathically calling the fish and inviting them to walk right into their homes, join in the meetings and become fellow comrades.

“We are on a definite recruiting campaign,” said one Communist who does not wish to be named because he believes people will think he’s a kook. “We do not discriminate against anyone. We are a brotherhood. We even have a marsupial who has been a member for two years now.”

While this reporter was interviewing for this report, several fish, perhaps they were Stripers or Sunnies, I’m not sure, walked right passed me, as plain as can be.

They neighbors seem to be taking things in stride.

“We don’t care what they do,” says one homeowner, “as long as they don’t leave the fish standing on the porch too long. The stench can be unbearable. And it has nothing to do with them being Communists.”

Monday, June 11, 2007

My Dirty Little Secret

I have a shameful weakness. I hide my dirty little secret in an old case that belonged to a man who traveled around Europe looking for work as a painter. My secret fits perfectly, its edges brushing against the sides of the case and blending with the paint splattered in colorful drops like blood dripping from a cut vein or dew pooling in morning tears. My secret fits the sadness that emanates from the case as failed dreams seep from a broken heart. The man, the original owner of the case, only achieved success as a painter of walls, dabbing false flowers to create false visions. His paintings languished in the darkness of the unknown and were buried in obscurity, unappreciated by the mouths he had to feed. Those mouths needed feeding and his soul needed feeding and there was never enough for both.

Potentates from the city clambered for his talent in creating gardens upon their walls, intricate petals and leaves twirling in perfect imitation of nature. He poured his being into their dining rooms and parlors, leaving himself imprinted on their walls, brushing his identity on their living spaces. Once he had demeaned himself for their pennies, he would fill up his empty spaces with beer and schnapps and go home to pour his venom into those gaping, needy holes; worms of worthlessness dropped into those bird-like mouths.

He’d stick around long enough to blanket them in their inherited worthlessness before fleeing to the mountains. He walked and hiked his anguish into those ancient rocks leaving behind that rotten core that spoiled the good things in his life. Once he was clean and fresh and he could breathe again, he would stand in the sunshine and paint. All things forgotten except his brush on canvas. As he covered the canvas, he became whole and he thought he could go on again.

And he did go on again. He created a legacy that repeated itself until his death and from beyond the grave in the behavior of his children who carried on his cycle of anonymous pain and brilliance and chaos and genius and fractured dreams. He created the case in which I lock the fire of my inspiration, hiding it from the air and my consciousness like a dirty little secret.

Friday, June 08, 2007

Pass It On

Update 4.28pm 6/11/07: I hate to write a disclaimer, because I thought what I was doing was self evident, but this would not be the first time I have been wrong (in my assumptions – I’m not ever really wrong-wrong; D) Just in case you do not know Ann Coulter, the following is an extreme parody of how she attacks her opponents and detractors. I do not expect anyone to believe me or take my word at face value. Her behavior, her comments and her writing are well documented. My purpose in writing the following was to point out the ridiculousness of this kind of behavior. If you wish to know more about her and her kind, whether right, left, liberal or conservative, they are out there for you to see for yourself. I’m not trying to convince you. Make up your own mind. I did.

I read at She’s a Real Mother that Ann Coulter is really a man who has had a sex change operation.

This does not surprise me in the least. She is a disgrace to womanhood and not because she has strong opinions. Strong women have strong opinions. No, I say she can not be a woman because she defends her opinions with outright lies and slanderous attacks on other people.

So, the alternative is that she is a man disguised as a woman. Of course, this insults all good men everywhere.

What is the alternative? I can only conclude that Ann Coulter must be a sexless alien from the planet Zarcon. Oh gosh, now I’m insulting aliens. Well at least I can say for sure she is not human.

Pass it on!

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

My Brush with Fame

The last time I had a date, the kids of the dot com generation were just specks in their parents’ eyes. My love life resembled a dried out old man; cantankerous, crotchety and exuding an undefinable musty smell. People looked at me with condolement and tears brimming in their eyes. In an effort to stop the pity parties being thrown in my honor by well meaning acquaintances intent upon ignoring the disasters in their own lives, I agreed to go on some blind dates. Most, as you can imagine, would have gone better if I had poked my own eyes out. One date, though, stands out in my memory with fondness and not a little bit of stupefaction.

The meet time was set for six o’clock at night on the second concourse food court at the local mall. I dressed to impress in my pressed and creased, stove pipe, blue jeans, salmon orange golf shirt and boat shoes, sans socks. I looked hot, mostly because the air conditioning in the mall stopped working about four hours earlier and still hadn’t been fixed. While the sweat dripping from my gelled hair took away some of my swagger, I looked around with faked confidence for my date.

I spotted her easily; her eight feet, six inch height thrusting up through the after-work crowd. Her big round eyes, azure dyed hair, red beads, red shoes and strapless, lime green dress created a vision I never thought to behold in real life. I anticipated an interesting evening.

After sharing an ice cream sundae, we strolled through the stores on the first floor. She showed me her keen shoplifting techniques, introducing me to a few hand and wrist moves I hadn’t seen before. She bet me I couldn’t pocket some Twinkies™ while standing right next to a security guard. I showed her that challenge was a piece of cake. When we passed by a music and video store, she looked longingly at a picture of Ringo Starr hanging in the display case. While she tried to fend off a Hare Krishna, I snuck in the store and bought her the poster. Even though she used the rolled up poster to beat the religious devotee back to the airport, I think she appreciated my thoughtfulness.

We both enjoyed our evening together, but decided it was best not to move forward with a relationship. Even if we could have gotten past our reality differences (me being human, she being a cartoon character) she still wanted to try to make her marriage work.