My cousin's birthday is coming up, and I can't think of an appropriate gift for her. I've already given her my ear listening to her troubles, numerous shirts she's cried all over, and my heart went to her long ago, so I don't have much left. The best I could do is write her one of my dumb stories.
It's late at night and the goats are braying in the backyard. Wait a moment... goats don't bray, they bleat. Maybe it's the donkeys making all that noise. Hee hawing and shit while pretending to be goats. Never trust a donkey. They may be donkeys wearing goat's clothing.
Those donkeys are sneaky little fuckers..
But what do I know? I don't keep barnyard animals in my backyard. They would just annoy me until I started shooting at them which would nullify having them in the first place. I can just imagine the scene...dead animals all over the yard and me standing there with a gun looking somewhat dazed trying to figure out what the hell just happened and what the bloody fuck I'm going to do with these carcasses. The garbage man isn't going to haul them away and I can't eat them. Who in their right
mind would eat a donkey? A really sick twisted mother fucker, that's who.
I let these thoughts drift from my head like the forgotten piece of my barn that a donkey just hee-hawed and gleefully dropped kicked into the Nether regions of my yard. Donkeys have no regard for anything.
Jesus.
I have donkeys on my mind. I know they're evil. Apparently they can posses you and force you to write about them instead of just shooting at their annoying asses. No pun intended.
I'm trying to write a story for my baby cousin and I keep babbling about donkeys. Maybe I'm just trying to delay the fact that I have no idea where to begin and not a clue where it's going to end. That's not unusual, I never know how my stories are going to end up...they just kind of happen and end up somewhere that surprises even me.
Anyways...
It's late at night and the goats are braying....I mean bleating. That's just what goats do. They're pretty much useless unless you like goat milk and who the hell likes goat milk?
Baby Girl is lying on her bed wide awake wishing for sleep, but all the previous day's troubles are running through her head making sleep impossible. So much drama and so few hours in the day.
Staring at the ceiling, her mind is a constant whirl of activity. Sleep seems an unobtainable goal.
She spies "Dog" on her dresser. He's just an under stuffed stupid piece of fuzz and fluff with big floppy ears and an unimaginative name that a cousin gave to her. It doesn't matter. She needs someone to talk to and she was told that Dog is a good listener. He doesn't talk back, he just listens and keeps secrets very well.
Unlike donkeys. They don't listen very well and then try to kick your head across the yard like a soccer ball in some sort of perverted Mayan game.
Dog listens to her lamentations, silent as always. It probably doesn't help his vocal skills that he has no mouth. I tore it from his face when I was small. Why? I have no idea. Probably because it was there.
Baby Girl keeps whispering to Dog and slowly the sweet shroud of sleep overcomes her sneaking in like fog crossing a winter's landscape. Baby girl is fast asleep and Dog is keeping a silent vigil.
He can't help it, the poor fucker has no mouth.
Lost in the fog of forgetfulness and fantasy she dreams she's older. Not old, but older then she is now. No one is telling her what to do and she has a handsome prince by her side.
Dog frowns.
He knows that life doesn't work out the way we want it to. Sooner or later a donkey is going to come curiously clomping across the landscape to kick your dreams as hard as he can. It's inevitable.
Suddenly the scene changes and she's surrounded by 3 screaming children and she's all alone. They're all hers and her prince has disappeared. She loves them all dearly, but she wonders "Is this my life?" This is it? What happened?"
Then she sees Dog sitting forlorn and lonely on a dresser. She grabs him, curls up on the bed and once again whispers her secrets in his floppy ear. And Dog listens...
Wake up Baby Girl...it was all just a dream.
Dog listens and he speaks softly. You have to listen very close, but if you try hard enough you can hear him. Deep inside you know the right answers to every question and Dog knows that. Hold him close, talk to him, listen to your instincts and Dog. He will never lead you wrong.
He's a pretty smart little guy and he's there to protect you when I can't.
And he hates donkeys. God, does he hate donkeys.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Grandma
This is one of my not funny nor interesting posts, I'm just going to occasionally use this as a place to get things off my chest. If you want to read it, knock yourself out. If not, move on to the next post, because I'm sure I'm rambling on in it about something that makes little to no sense which more fits my writing style.
This is a confession about the worst thing I ever did.
My grandmother and I always had a very special relationship. I never understood why, but I was her favorite. The whole family knew it. She even admitted the fact to me when I was about 9 years old, but she told me not to tell my cousins. I don't know if it was because I was always around or because I was such a charming little guy. Somehow I suspect the former much more then the latter.
I was the only grandchild my grandmother made a quilt for. And a turtle. I wish I knew what happened to that turtle...it was big enough for a 2 year old to sit on. My mother, in her infinite wisdom, gave my turtle to Goodwill when I was 4 years old. It only exists in pictures and my memory now. My quilt, I still have. If I cast my eyes to the side I can see it laying on my bed.
Unfortunately I left it in the care of my mother when I left home as a young man, and she didn't treasure it near as much as I did. For years she put it at the foot of her bed and let her stupid cats sleep on it. They tore it up. I finally rescued it about 15 years ago before it was completely ruined. In a couple of days the quilt will be sent off to my niece who I know will treasure it as much as I do.
Anyways, enough about quilts. My grandmother was more like a mother to me...even as far as her beating me with a 2x4 while screaming "You're an evil, evil child." I have no idea what I did to piss her off so bad, but whatever it was I probably deserved the beating. And it wasn't that bad of a beating, I was laughing the whole time thinking how ludicrous the whole situation was. A 5 foot nothing old lady hitting a 6 foot tall 12 year old with a 2x4. And calling him "Evil."
I have so many wonderful memories of Grandma. She always stood up for me when my overprotective mother wanted to prevent me from doing something dangerous like playing baseball. Grandma never missed one of my baseball games, not a single one. She knew the names of all my teammates and wanted to hear all the stories we told on the bench. Obviously as I grew older discretion became the better part of valor and I wouldn't tell her exactly what we were talking about in the dugout.
Grandma and I also used to plant a garden every year and every summer morning it was my job to weed it with her. I hated it. But, boy did I love the fresh carrots and my never ending supply of raspberries and strawberries. I spoiled many a meal growing up because I was stuffed full of the bounty from Grandma's garden and was to full to eat dinner. And every night without fail Grandma would pull up a chair by my bed and read me a chapter out of the Bible. That got really boring about time she hit Kings.
The years went by and I grew. Grandma got old and arthritis crippled her up. It was now my turn to watch over the woman that had given me so many happy memories. She was fiercely proud and I did my best to respect that when I went to take care of her. She had a wheelchair, but she hated the damn thing. She used it as a walker rather then sit in it and have someone push her around. I like to think that she loved that I was the only one who would give her the dignity of getting around on her own without falling all over myself to keep her from doing something she wanted to do on her own.
Which brings me to the worst thing I ever did in my life...
It was a Friday evening when I stopped by and my mother and her sister asked me to sit with Grandma for a bit while they ran and did something. I figured it would be only be an hour or so, so I readily agreed. I had a date that night.
An hour later my mother and her sister were still trying to figure out just what the hell they were going to do and I angrily said "Y'all know I do have plans tonight?" As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. I looked over at Grandma and saw the sorrow in her eyes. I don't think she was as disappointed in me as much as she was in the fact that her own body had abandon her and that her little boy had to keep an eye on her.
The last time I saw Grandma was when she was in the ICU. Others in the family had been to see her and told her how wonderful she looked. I, on the other hand, walked in and said "Grandma, you don't look so good." She smiled and said "I don't feel so good."
A couple of hours later Grandma was gone.
My only regret is her hearing me bitch about the amount of time my mom and aunt were taking. In the end I tried to give her what she treasured most...her independence.
This is a confession about the worst thing I ever did.
My grandmother and I always had a very special relationship. I never understood why, but I was her favorite. The whole family knew it. She even admitted the fact to me when I was about 9 years old, but she told me not to tell my cousins. I don't know if it was because I was always around or because I was such a charming little guy. Somehow I suspect the former much more then the latter.
I was the only grandchild my grandmother made a quilt for. And a turtle. I wish I knew what happened to that turtle...it was big enough for a 2 year old to sit on. My mother, in her infinite wisdom, gave my turtle to Goodwill when I was 4 years old. It only exists in pictures and my memory now. My quilt, I still have. If I cast my eyes to the side I can see it laying on my bed.
Unfortunately I left it in the care of my mother when I left home as a young man, and she didn't treasure it near as much as I did. For years she put it at the foot of her bed and let her stupid cats sleep on it. They tore it up. I finally rescued it about 15 years ago before it was completely ruined. In a couple of days the quilt will be sent off to my niece who I know will treasure it as much as I do.
Anyways, enough about quilts. My grandmother was more like a mother to me...even as far as her beating me with a 2x4 while screaming "You're an evil, evil child." I have no idea what I did to piss her off so bad, but whatever it was I probably deserved the beating. And it wasn't that bad of a beating, I was laughing the whole time thinking how ludicrous the whole situation was. A 5 foot nothing old lady hitting a 6 foot tall 12 year old with a 2x4. And calling him "Evil."
I have so many wonderful memories of Grandma. She always stood up for me when my overprotective mother wanted to prevent me from doing something dangerous like playing baseball. Grandma never missed one of my baseball games, not a single one. She knew the names of all my teammates and wanted to hear all the stories we told on the bench. Obviously as I grew older discretion became the better part of valor and I wouldn't tell her exactly what we were talking about in the dugout.
Grandma and I also used to plant a garden every year and every summer morning it was my job to weed it with her. I hated it. But, boy did I love the fresh carrots and my never ending supply of raspberries and strawberries. I spoiled many a meal growing up because I was stuffed full of the bounty from Grandma's garden and was to full to eat dinner. And every night without fail Grandma would pull up a chair by my bed and read me a chapter out of the Bible. That got really boring about time she hit Kings.
The years went by and I grew. Grandma got old and arthritis crippled her up. It was now my turn to watch over the woman that had given me so many happy memories. She was fiercely proud and I did my best to respect that when I went to take care of her. She had a wheelchair, but she hated the damn thing. She used it as a walker rather then sit in it and have someone push her around. I like to think that she loved that I was the only one who would give her the dignity of getting around on her own without falling all over myself to keep her from doing something she wanted to do on her own.
Which brings me to the worst thing I ever did in my life...
It was a Friday evening when I stopped by and my mother and her sister asked me to sit with Grandma for a bit while they ran and did something. I figured it would be only be an hour or so, so I readily agreed. I had a date that night.
An hour later my mother and her sister were still trying to figure out just what the hell they were going to do and I angrily said "Y'all know I do have plans tonight?" As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. I looked over at Grandma and saw the sorrow in her eyes. I don't think she was as disappointed in me as much as she was in the fact that her own body had abandon her and that her little boy had to keep an eye on her.
The last time I saw Grandma was when she was in the ICU. Others in the family had been to see her and told her how wonderful she looked. I, on the other hand, walked in and said "Grandma, you don't look so good." She smiled and said "I don't feel so good."
A couple of hours later Grandma was gone.
My only regret is her hearing me bitch about the amount of time my mom and aunt were taking. In the end I tried to give her what she treasured most...her independence.
Friday, April 2, 2010
My Brother
Heh. Just kidding, I don't have a brother.
But apparently there's one person in this world that didn't know that. I have a feeling he must of been a shut in playing with sock puppets in ways I'd just rather not even think about.
"Hello Mr. Sock. How are you?"
"Oh my! What is that you have for me?" comes back the answer in a falsetto voice.
I told you I'd rather not think about it, because everything degenerates downhill after that dialog and I want to sleep tonight without dreaming about talking, spitting, dick sock puppets. That's just wrong on so many levels.
In my hometown I was pretty well known. My picture was in the paper pretty often because of my involvement in sports and my grandfather was the minister of one of the few churches in town and I was forced to take an active part in church activities. On top of all that I'm 6'7" and I don't blend into a crowd very easily.
So one day, I went into a grocery store and bought a 18 pack of rot gut beer. Mr. Sock Puppet sells it to me even though I thought everyone in town knew I was underage. I'm ecstatic and go bumbling out of the store with my booty.
My buddies and I retreated to....oh hell, nowhere. We were proud and drank our beer in front of everyone.
But all good things must come to an end and since the last ruse went so well, we ("We" meaning my friends. I don't remember agreeing to any of this)decided it was a good idea to head back to the same store and send my dumb ass back in. I was half lit, so when presented to me as "That's the only way we're getting more beer" it even sounded like a good idea to me. I was highly gullible and stupid at 17. I grab another 18 pack and walked a little less surely up to Mr. Sock Guy's check stand. And by "A little less surely", I mean to say I wasn't walking so good. Unless you consider a healthy young man using the aisles and the opposite 50lb bag displays of dog food as pin ball bumpers as walking normally. If you do, I was golden.
Sadly, most people frown on that kind of walking unless you have some sort of disease, which unfortunately I didn't. I was listing hard to the starboard side due to the heavy burden in my right hand and that caused me to flail and use the vegetables and whatever else was handy to steady myself.
He rang me up and then asked suspiciously "Didn't you just buy a bunch of beer?"
I looked at him, the picture of underage teenage drunken innocence, and said "Nah, that must of been my brother. That dude's an alcoholic. I get this all the time."
Then he took my money and I stumbled out the door.
For a dumb assed kid I had a pretty smooth mouth on me.
And I presume that when his shift was over, he went and put socks with drawn faces on all his extremities and had a puppet show. I really don't care to hazard a guess on that last part.
But apparently there's one person in this world that didn't know that. I have a feeling he must of been a shut in playing with sock puppets in ways I'd just rather not even think about.
"Hello Mr. Sock. How are you?"
"Oh my! What is that you have for me?" comes back the answer in a falsetto voice.
I told you I'd rather not think about it, because everything degenerates downhill after that dialog and I want to sleep tonight without dreaming about talking, spitting, dick sock puppets. That's just wrong on so many levels.
In my hometown I was pretty well known. My picture was in the paper pretty often because of my involvement in sports and my grandfather was the minister of one of the few churches in town and I was forced to take an active part in church activities. On top of all that I'm 6'7" and I don't blend into a crowd very easily.
So one day, I went into a grocery store and bought a 18 pack of rot gut beer. Mr. Sock Puppet sells it to me even though I thought everyone in town knew I was underage. I'm ecstatic and go bumbling out of the store with my booty.
My buddies and I retreated to....oh hell, nowhere. We were proud and drank our beer in front of everyone.
But all good things must come to an end and since the last ruse went so well, we ("We" meaning my friends. I don't remember agreeing to any of this)decided it was a good idea to head back to the same store and send my dumb ass back in. I was half lit, so when presented to me as "That's the only way we're getting more beer" it even sounded like a good idea to me. I was highly gullible and stupid at 17. I grab another 18 pack and walked a little less surely up to Mr. Sock Guy's check stand. And by "A little less surely", I mean to say I wasn't walking so good. Unless you consider a healthy young man using the aisles and the opposite 50lb bag displays of dog food as pin ball bumpers as walking normally. If you do, I was golden.
Sadly, most people frown on that kind of walking unless you have some sort of disease, which unfortunately I didn't. I was listing hard to the starboard side due to the heavy burden in my right hand and that caused me to flail and use the vegetables and whatever else was handy to steady myself.
He rang me up and then asked suspiciously "Didn't you just buy a bunch of beer?"
I looked at him, the picture of underage teenage drunken innocence, and said "Nah, that must of been my brother. That dude's an alcoholic. I get this all the time."
Then he took my money and I stumbled out the door.
For a dumb assed kid I had a pretty smooth mouth on me.
And I presume that when his shift was over, he went and put socks with drawn faces on all his extremities and had a puppet show. I really don't care to hazard a guess on that last part.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Serenity
This is something I wrote when I found myself with a lot of time on my hands. I tried to write something interesting and describe the quiet place I retreat to in my head when life gets to me. It quickly degenerated into me thinking about a girl I hadn't thought of in years and then me trying to make the story funny. I failed.
I'll never finish this, but it does have it's good points:
Like an old photograph, yellowed, faded by time and dog eared from so many years of staring at it longingly, I find myself looking at the familiar path home. It seems a lifetime since I gazed at this scene and at the same time it feels I was here just yesterday, but maybe that's just forgotten fragments of a melted dream.
The mind can play tricks on a person and I'm not one to fall easily prey,no matter how enticing the illusion might be, so I check myself before I go any further.
It's an early mid May morning by the feel of it. The sky is blue and welcoming the promise of a beautiful day filled with joy and wonder. I'm sure somewhere close by young boys are planning grand adventures as I did as a child. First they'll do their chores and then they'll head off to the sweet freedom of childhood...rowing their boats, fishing, jumping in the now warming water of the lake, skipping stones and dreaming a thousand dreams before they're called home for dinner much to their chagrin.
I take a deep breath of the morning air and smell the faint scent of the familiar pine trees mixed with the smell of my beloved lake. Maybe I really am home. Finally.
I take in the scene before me and soak it all in. On either side of the drive is a red brick wall standing 10 feet tall and maybe 20 feet long off in either direction. In front of the brick are red roses reaching out to greet the morning sun which is now just beginning to bathe them in warm light like a mother casting a loving smile on her newborn child.
There is a brass plaque on the left hand brickwork that reads "Serenity Oaks" and between the stone walls lies an asphalt drive. It all seems so real, maybe I really have come home after all this time. The drive is lined on either side by majestic
Oak trees, probably 20 or 30 on either side, reaching high to catch the warming life giving rays of mother sun and then stretching across the drive to touch the arms of their brethren forming a protective tunnel. Silent sentinels that have watched over and protected this place for years untold.
I start a slow walk down the drive taking it all in...the smells, the textures, the light that slowly filters in from the tree tops and the faint sound of a breeze passing over the tops of the furthest reaches of the guardians of the drive. It's all so familiar.
Much like the age old tales of passing through a dark tunnel drawn towards a brilliant light I notice a bright light ahead. A light full of love and promise but much more solid and identifiable : Home. My home.
The house that graces Serenity Oaks doesn't belong in the wilds of north Idaho,
it more resembles a small southern plantation. It's nothing grandiose, but it's still spectacular after passing through a dark tunnel of ancient oaks and not what you would expect to see on the banks of the Pend O'Reille river. (To call it a river at this point of its journey is a huge understatement...it's 3/4 of a mile to the opposite shore, but that pales in comparison to what is called the lake... 30 miles in length and depths that plummet to over 1000 feet.)
My wide eyed wonderment is interrupted by the barking of the charging dogs.They are raising a horrible din that an intruder has made his way upon their domain and I stop in my tracks. As they come into view I recognize the lead dog...it's my beloved Banshee, my childhood friend. Oh, she and I went on so many grand adventures together. She's a small little thing, but she was always my protector, my confidant, and dare I say it, my closest friend.
I yell at the top of my lungs "Ban-shee" and pat my thighs wondering if she'll recognize me after all this time. I have little to worry about. She quits barking to conserve her energy and doubles her speed to come charging into the arms of her boy. She always thought I was her boy instead of her being my dog and who knows, maybe she was right.
Banshee, the little dog with a heart bigger then the tall oaks that line the path. She took it as her solemn duty to protect the entire family and she never wavered in her sacred oath. Lord, I've missed her something fierce.
She was followed quickly by the others: Beau, Mouse, and Nancy.
Sweet little Nancy.
The last time I saw her she had a horrible growth on her eye that caused us all great concern, but the red growth was now gone and she'd grown into a beautiful girl. She was now bigger then the others, but she held back quiet as a mother's prayer while I greeted my other puppies.
I looked to her and called her over. She cautiously made her way to me as the others slowly backed away somehow sensing there was a penance to be paid. As soon as she was near I grabbed her in my arms and as a tear fell down my cheek I whispered
"I'm sorry baby girl, I am so sorry" She whimpered softly, shuddered, licked my cheek and let out a couple of happy barks, then went prancing off with the others with her tail wagging as if it had fresh batteries installed to lubricate the mechanism. A huge weight has been lifted from both our shoulders and she bounced around joyfully with the other pups happily joining in their frolicking. They ran in circles around me nipping at one another's heels barking with Nancy stopping every now and then to look up at me with a smile in her eyes knowing finally that she was wanted and remembered.
Like the pied piper of canines I slowly make my way towards the house while the joyous menagerie continued to circle around my legs.
I go on and climb the front steps of the house, slowly the French doors open, and she appears.
Tonya.
My little Pisces girl. Yeah, that's an inside joke between her and I, and no I'm not going to make you privy to that information. There's certain things that should remain between two people and this is one of them. However I will share this: If God created a girl in his dreams, he would've waved his magic "I am God" wand and made Tonya.
Or Diane.
(Ah, Di...did I ever tell you that I loved you? If I did I meant it. You know that already, but it's still nice to hear it once in a while isn't it?.)
Sorry, I get a little confused about the women I'm canonizing sometimes, let me continue...
I'd almost forgotten how beautiful she was. Almost, but not quite, I could never forget.
A thousand poets writing in a thousand languages for a thousand years could never come close to describing her beauty. Her curly hair as black as midnight holds all the stars in the sky captive, the sunlight reflects off her loose curls that shimmer down to her breasts. Her dark eyes twinkle with the intensity God intended only for the sun and as she smiles the flowers wilt in shame for they know they could never posses such powerful beauty themselves.
Tonya.
I've only had brief glimpses of her on my long journey and most of those in long forgotten dreams leaving me in waking hours to only recall fragments of her porcelin white skin that's as smooth and cool to the touch as fresh dew on the ground. The tears of the moon touched her gentle skin and recalled a forgotten memory painting a picture of long lost dreams. She was kissed by the gentle lips of the one true God and every pagan God that man has ever sworn an oath to. No one else could of granted her such beauty, nor could any other woman have ever worn it so gracefully or naturally. It was part of her being.
I loved her long before I was born, she is the embodiment and meaning of the words beauty and grace and she wears them like a crown. How could I have ever been so fortunate to not only meet this displaced angel whom God had so clearly smiled upon, let alone make her mine?
Oh well, it wasn't a time for asking questions. I run to her and bury my head between her breasts. We hold one another tight for what seems an eternity and then she whispers in my ear "Welcome home."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Maybe I really am home. Or is this just a dream? There's only one way to find out...
I chomp down on her breast like a prize winning trout striking at a Lucky Lewey lure that's baited with stink bait.
"OUCH", I scream as she hits me in the head hard enough to make me see a remarkable replica of Hailey's comet behind my closed eyes. It's a good thing she's wearing a bra because there's a fair to middlin chance I could've done some real damage the way I went after the bait. Unfortunately, I wasn't so lucky and make a mental note to wear protective head gear before I go striking at a random boobie again. Astronomy is interesting, but I prefer to witness it with my eyes open and without my ear swelling to thrice its normal size.
I think to myself "OK, maybe this isn't a far flung fantasy". If it were a simple dream her breasts would be spouting high octane vodka and her lady parts would shoot out chicken fried steaks on demand, kind of like a duck laying an egg. Except there would be far less feathers involved and only a minimal of quacking.
Pity.
I'd already imagined taking her on the county fair circuit, lighting her tits on fire like gas lights so she looked like an avenging arch angel and having customers place a plate between her legs to receive a chicken fried steak. A living, breathing, flaming vending machine that expelled vittles from it's cooter. A man could make a fortune with a gimmick like that as long as he didn't get arrested for lighting a naked woman on fire at a county fair. Something tells me deep inside that might be frowned upon in most places.
Unless it's in the deep south and the woman is black. I hear tell that's actually the highlight of some fairs....they give a Bic lighter to the wee ones and for a quarter each they play a rousing game of "Light the Nigger on Fire."
Anyways, we each have our own individual ideals about the perfect mate, mine just happens to have vodka filled boobies and expels chicken fried steaks. Don't judge me.
But I digress...
I'll never finish this, but it does have it's good points:
Like an old photograph, yellowed, faded by time and dog eared from so many years of staring at it longingly, I find myself looking at the familiar path home. It seems a lifetime since I gazed at this scene and at the same time it feels I was here just yesterday, but maybe that's just forgotten fragments of a melted dream.
The mind can play tricks on a person and I'm not one to fall easily prey,no matter how enticing the illusion might be, so I check myself before I go any further.
It's an early mid May morning by the feel of it. The sky is blue and welcoming the promise of a beautiful day filled with joy and wonder. I'm sure somewhere close by young boys are planning grand adventures as I did as a child. First they'll do their chores and then they'll head off to the sweet freedom of childhood...rowing their boats, fishing, jumping in the now warming water of the lake, skipping stones and dreaming a thousand dreams before they're called home for dinner much to their chagrin.
I take a deep breath of the morning air and smell the faint scent of the familiar pine trees mixed with the smell of my beloved lake. Maybe I really am home. Finally.
I take in the scene before me and soak it all in. On either side of the drive is a red brick wall standing 10 feet tall and maybe 20 feet long off in either direction. In front of the brick are red roses reaching out to greet the morning sun which is now just beginning to bathe them in warm light like a mother casting a loving smile on her newborn child.
There is a brass plaque on the left hand brickwork that reads "Serenity Oaks" and between the stone walls lies an asphalt drive. It all seems so real, maybe I really have come home after all this time. The drive is lined on either side by majestic
Oak trees, probably 20 or 30 on either side, reaching high to catch the warming life giving rays of mother sun and then stretching across the drive to touch the arms of their brethren forming a protective tunnel. Silent sentinels that have watched over and protected this place for years untold.
I start a slow walk down the drive taking it all in...the smells, the textures, the light that slowly filters in from the tree tops and the faint sound of a breeze passing over the tops of the furthest reaches of the guardians of the drive. It's all so familiar.
Much like the age old tales of passing through a dark tunnel drawn towards a brilliant light I notice a bright light ahead. A light full of love and promise but much more solid and identifiable : Home. My home.
The house that graces Serenity Oaks doesn't belong in the wilds of north Idaho,
it more resembles a small southern plantation. It's nothing grandiose, but it's still spectacular after passing through a dark tunnel of ancient oaks and not what you would expect to see on the banks of the Pend O'Reille river. (To call it a river at this point of its journey is a huge understatement...it's 3/4 of a mile to the opposite shore, but that pales in comparison to what is called the lake... 30 miles in length and depths that plummet to over 1000 feet.)
My wide eyed wonderment is interrupted by the barking of the charging dogs.They are raising a horrible din that an intruder has made his way upon their domain and I stop in my tracks. As they come into view I recognize the lead dog...it's my beloved Banshee, my childhood friend. Oh, she and I went on so many grand adventures together. She's a small little thing, but she was always my protector, my confidant, and dare I say it, my closest friend.
I yell at the top of my lungs "Ban-shee" and pat my thighs wondering if she'll recognize me after all this time. I have little to worry about. She quits barking to conserve her energy and doubles her speed to come charging into the arms of her boy. She always thought I was her boy instead of her being my dog and who knows, maybe she was right.
Banshee, the little dog with a heart bigger then the tall oaks that line the path. She took it as her solemn duty to protect the entire family and she never wavered in her sacred oath. Lord, I've missed her something fierce.
She was followed quickly by the others: Beau, Mouse, and Nancy.
Sweet little Nancy.
The last time I saw her she had a horrible growth on her eye that caused us all great concern, but the red growth was now gone and she'd grown into a beautiful girl. She was now bigger then the others, but she held back quiet as a mother's prayer while I greeted my other puppies.
I looked to her and called her over. She cautiously made her way to me as the others slowly backed away somehow sensing there was a penance to be paid. As soon as she was near I grabbed her in my arms and as a tear fell down my cheek I whispered
"I'm sorry baby girl, I am so sorry" She whimpered softly, shuddered, licked my cheek and let out a couple of happy barks, then went prancing off with the others with her tail wagging as if it had fresh batteries installed to lubricate the mechanism. A huge weight has been lifted from both our shoulders and she bounced around joyfully with the other pups happily joining in their frolicking. They ran in circles around me nipping at one another's heels barking with Nancy stopping every now and then to look up at me with a smile in her eyes knowing finally that she was wanted and remembered.
Like the pied piper of canines I slowly make my way towards the house while the joyous menagerie continued to circle around my legs.
I go on and climb the front steps of the house, slowly the French doors open, and she appears.
Tonya.
My little Pisces girl. Yeah, that's an inside joke between her and I, and no I'm not going to make you privy to that information. There's certain things that should remain between two people and this is one of them. However I will share this: If God created a girl in his dreams, he would've waved his magic "I am God" wand and made Tonya.
Or Diane.
(Ah, Di...did I ever tell you that I loved you? If I did I meant it. You know that already, but it's still nice to hear it once in a while isn't it?.)
Sorry, I get a little confused about the women I'm canonizing sometimes, let me continue...
I'd almost forgotten how beautiful she was. Almost, but not quite, I could never forget.
A thousand poets writing in a thousand languages for a thousand years could never come close to describing her beauty. Her curly hair as black as midnight holds all the stars in the sky captive, the sunlight reflects off her loose curls that shimmer down to her breasts. Her dark eyes twinkle with the intensity God intended only for the sun and as she smiles the flowers wilt in shame for they know they could never posses such powerful beauty themselves.
Tonya.
I've only had brief glimpses of her on my long journey and most of those in long forgotten dreams leaving me in waking hours to only recall fragments of her porcelin white skin that's as smooth and cool to the touch as fresh dew on the ground. The tears of the moon touched her gentle skin and recalled a forgotten memory painting a picture of long lost dreams. She was kissed by the gentle lips of the one true God and every pagan God that man has ever sworn an oath to. No one else could of granted her such beauty, nor could any other woman have ever worn it so gracefully or naturally. It was part of her being.
I loved her long before I was born, she is the embodiment and meaning of the words beauty and grace and she wears them like a crown. How could I have ever been so fortunate to not only meet this displaced angel whom God had so clearly smiled upon, let alone make her mine?
Oh well, it wasn't a time for asking questions. I run to her and bury my head between her breasts. We hold one another tight for what seems an eternity and then she whispers in my ear "Welcome home."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Maybe I really am home. Or is this just a dream? There's only one way to find out...
I chomp down on her breast like a prize winning trout striking at a Lucky Lewey lure that's baited with stink bait.
"OUCH", I scream as she hits me in the head hard enough to make me see a remarkable replica of Hailey's comet behind my closed eyes. It's a good thing she's wearing a bra because there's a fair to middlin chance I could've done some real damage the way I went after the bait. Unfortunately, I wasn't so lucky and make a mental note to wear protective head gear before I go striking at a random boobie again. Astronomy is interesting, but I prefer to witness it with my eyes open and without my ear swelling to thrice its normal size.
I think to myself "OK, maybe this isn't a far flung fantasy". If it were a simple dream her breasts would be spouting high octane vodka and her lady parts would shoot out chicken fried steaks on demand, kind of like a duck laying an egg. Except there would be far less feathers involved and only a minimal of quacking.
Pity.
I'd already imagined taking her on the county fair circuit, lighting her tits on fire like gas lights so she looked like an avenging arch angel and having customers place a plate between her legs to receive a chicken fried steak. A living, breathing, flaming vending machine that expelled vittles from it's cooter. A man could make a fortune with a gimmick like that as long as he didn't get arrested for lighting a naked woman on fire at a county fair. Something tells me deep inside that might be frowned upon in most places.
Unless it's in the deep south and the woman is black. I hear tell that's actually the highlight of some fairs....they give a Bic lighter to the wee ones and for a quarter each they play a rousing game of "Light the Nigger on Fire."
Anyways, we each have our own individual ideals about the perfect mate, mine just happens to have vodka filled boobies and expels chicken fried steaks. Don't judge me.
But I digress...
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Jailhouse Rock
I live in the land of Elvis, his ghost is inescapable down here, everywhere I turn it's Elvis this and Elvis that.
Yeah, I get it, Elvis came from this neck of the woods. Get over it already.
One thing that has always puzzled me is the lyrics to Jailhouse Rock. Has there ever been a more homo-erotic song written? I truly wonder if Elvis even realized what he was singing when he mouthed the words "If you can't find a partner use a wooden chair"
Was he advocating sticking a chair leg up your own ass for some sort of thrill? Seriously, "If you can't find a partner use a wooden chair." Uh, no thank you Elvis.
And the biggest what the fuck:
"Number forty-seven said to number three:
"You're the cutest jailbird I ever did see.
I sure would be delighted with your company,
come on and do the Jailhouse Rock with me."
That just screams prison rape. Apparently number 47 was noticing that number 3 had a cute little mouth and was intending to do something about it. Like shove his dick in it. That's just fucking disgusting. Is "Jailhouse Rock" some sort of fucked up euphemism for gay sex?
Yeah, I get it, Elvis came from this neck of the woods. Get over it already.
One thing that has always puzzled me is the lyrics to Jailhouse Rock. Has there ever been a more homo-erotic song written? I truly wonder if Elvis even realized what he was singing when he mouthed the words "If you can't find a partner use a wooden chair"
Was he advocating sticking a chair leg up your own ass for some sort of thrill? Seriously, "If you can't find a partner use a wooden chair." Uh, no thank you Elvis.
And the biggest what the fuck:
"Number forty-seven said to number three:
"You're the cutest jailbird I ever did see.
I sure would be delighted with your company,
come on and do the Jailhouse Rock with me."
That just screams prison rape. Apparently number 47 was noticing that number 3 had a cute little mouth and was intending to do something about it. Like shove his dick in it. That's just fucking disgusting. Is "Jailhouse Rock" some sort of fucked up euphemism for gay sex?
Song Writing
I've played guitar and written songs since I was little.
It always amazes me the poetic license I can take when writing lyrics. I can write the stupidest thing and somehow it seems to fit the song in some odd way.
I think I outdid myself today with the line "I saw a baby dancing in the rain."
Think about that for a moment and get a good visual in your head of a baby dancing in the rain. Picture that stupid dancing baby that was an internet craze about 10 years ago standing on your porch gyrating. In the rain.
Yeah. It's pretty fucked up isn't it? I'd be running for a gun if something like that appeared on my doorstep. I wouldn't ask questions, I'd just shoot the goddamn thing.
BOOM!
Dancing baby blood, guts, and internal organs all over the yard.
And no one would blame me.
Which brings me back to the line in my song. The whole dancing baby thing has created a horrible visual in my head. I think I'll change the line to "I saw you and that baby so I shot both of you. In the rain."
That's Shakespearean shit right there. It's got all the elements for a classic...drama (Someone standing on my doorstep), comedy (Blowing the shit out of some homeless waif standing on my doorstep claiming the baby is mine. Ok, maybe that's only funny to me), tragedy...err I don't actually see any tragedy here. A dead baby and some woman that I may or may not of had relationships with earlier are splattered all over the front porch.
Nope, no tragedy here at all.
S'cuse me while I get the Lysol and a garden hose.
It always amazes me the poetic license I can take when writing lyrics. I can write the stupidest thing and somehow it seems to fit the song in some odd way.
I think I outdid myself today with the line "I saw a baby dancing in the rain."
Think about that for a moment and get a good visual in your head of a baby dancing in the rain. Picture that stupid dancing baby that was an internet craze about 10 years ago standing on your porch gyrating. In the rain.
Yeah. It's pretty fucked up isn't it? I'd be running for a gun if something like that appeared on my doorstep. I wouldn't ask questions, I'd just shoot the goddamn thing.
BOOM!
Dancing baby blood, guts, and internal organs all over the yard.
And no one would blame me.
Which brings me back to the line in my song. The whole dancing baby thing has created a horrible visual in my head. I think I'll change the line to "I saw you and that baby so I shot both of you. In the rain."
That's Shakespearean shit right there. It's got all the elements for a classic...drama (Someone standing on my doorstep), comedy (Blowing the shit out of some homeless waif standing on my doorstep claiming the baby is mine. Ok, maybe that's only funny to me), tragedy...err I don't actually see any tragedy here. A dead baby and some woman that I may or may not of had relationships with earlier are splattered all over the front porch.
Nope, no tragedy here at all.
S'cuse me while I get the Lysol and a garden hose.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Tickle the Pickle
When I was 19 or 20 a buddy and I went on a road trip to Las Vegas from Idaho and then back again.
For the most part the trip was uneventful. On the way home we drove straight up US 95 and it being Memorial Day weekend we found ourselves in the middle of some small town parade. I figured "What the hell?" and rolled down my window and waved at the crowd. I may or may not have been blowing kisses, but that's really neither here nor there. We were in a cool car (My buddy's '65 Corvette, although it was hardly a classic car back then)...I managed to embarrass the hell out of him, but to be honest he was easy to embarrass. He threatened to beat my ass and leave me on the side of the road. Jeez, was he touchy about things.
Somewhere along the line we stopped at a rest stop and some unwashed degenerate walked up to my window and asked me "Have you ever heard of Tickle the Pickle?"
Now I don't know about you, but as a young man those were fighting words coming from another guy...especially when uttered at an Interstate rest area. I thought it was some kind of gay come on and I wasn't having part of it. I threatened to ram a shovel up the guy's ass.
He was like "Whoa dude...no! It's a children's book I wrote. See? My van's over there." I looked over and there in all it's glory was an old rusted out Ford Econoline van spray painted with "Tickle the Pickle." Typical child molester shit.
I finally let my guard down a bit and he spied a Perrier water bottle we had in the car. That thing had been sitting on the transmission hump of a '65 Corvette for at least 500 miles driving through the desert, but he apparently was really, really thirsty.
He offered me a deal: "I'll give you a copy of Tickle the Pickle for that bottle of Perrier."
I thought about it a moment and agreed...as long as he drank the thing in front of me. He gave me a book, I gave him the water and he drank it. There were water fountains there he could've drank from, but for some reason he really wanted that bottle of 120 degree water. He downed it in one big gulp like he was suckling from God's teet. I damn near gagged. It was 100 degrees outside and that bottle was hotter then the ambient air....it had to taste like carbonated damn near boiling water. Whatever, he seemed to enjoy it.
Freak.
When we left the rest area I read through his book. That dude was a fucked up unit. The book was about a pickle that ground up watermelon seeds to become invisible and fuck with hunters.
Seriously. Google it.
I should've just shot him and claimed I was afraid for the virginity of my anus. No one would've blamed me.
EDIT: Crap. I just googled it and all I come up with are the twisted things that originally went through my mind when he said "Tickle the pickle" to me. I swear to God I found copies of that damn book a couple of months ago.
EDIT X2: Here's a copy of the book: http://cgi.ebay.com.my/TICKLE-the-PICKLE-by-Arnold-Wolman_W0QQitemZ360222442137QQcmdZViewItemQQptZUS_Childrens_Books?hash=item53deee4299
It gives the publication date as 1973, but I came across this dude on the road in 1983 or so. It also comes as no surprise that his other books are "Tickle the Pickle meets God", "Tickle the Pickle meets Marsha the Mushroom", and "Pleasing mixture of mushrooms and poetry." I couldn't make this shit up.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Books/s?ie=UTF8&rh=n%3A266239%2Cp_27%3AArnold%20Wolman&field-author=Arnold%20Wolman&page=1
I really should've just shot that tree hugging hippie.
For the most part the trip was uneventful. On the way home we drove straight up US 95 and it being Memorial Day weekend we found ourselves in the middle of some small town parade. I figured "What the hell?" and rolled down my window and waved at the crowd. I may or may not have been blowing kisses, but that's really neither here nor there. We were in a cool car (My buddy's '65 Corvette, although it was hardly a classic car back then)...I managed to embarrass the hell out of him, but to be honest he was easy to embarrass. He threatened to beat my ass and leave me on the side of the road. Jeez, was he touchy about things.
Somewhere along the line we stopped at a rest stop and some unwashed degenerate walked up to my window and asked me "Have you ever heard of Tickle the Pickle?"
Now I don't know about you, but as a young man those were fighting words coming from another guy...especially when uttered at an Interstate rest area. I thought it was some kind of gay come on and I wasn't having part of it. I threatened to ram a shovel up the guy's ass.
He was like "Whoa dude...no! It's a children's book I wrote. See? My van's over there." I looked over and there in all it's glory was an old rusted out Ford Econoline van spray painted with "Tickle the Pickle." Typical child molester shit.
I finally let my guard down a bit and he spied a Perrier water bottle we had in the car. That thing had been sitting on the transmission hump of a '65 Corvette for at least 500 miles driving through the desert, but he apparently was really, really thirsty.
He offered me a deal: "I'll give you a copy of Tickle the Pickle for that bottle of Perrier."
I thought about it a moment and agreed...as long as he drank the thing in front of me. He gave me a book, I gave him the water and he drank it. There were water fountains there he could've drank from, but for some reason he really wanted that bottle of 120 degree water. He downed it in one big gulp like he was suckling from God's teet. I damn near gagged. It was 100 degrees outside and that bottle was hotter then the ambient air....it had to taste like carbonated damn near boiling water. Whatever, he seemed to enjoy it.
Freak.
When we left the rest area I read through his book. That dude was a fucked up unit. The book was about a pickle that ground up watermelon seeds to become invisible and fuck with hunters.
Seriously. Google it.
I should've just shot him and claimed I was afraid for the virginity of my anus. No one would've blamed me.
EDIT: Crap. I just googled it and all I come up with are the twisted things that originally went through my mind when he said "Tickle the pickle" to me. I swear to God I found copies of that damn book a couple of months ago.
EDIT X2: Here's a copy of the book: http://cgi.ebay.com.my/TICKLE-the-PICKLE-by-Arnold-Wolman_W0QQitemZ360222442137QQcmdZViewItemQQptZUS_Childrens_Books?hash=item53deee4299
It gives the publication date as 1973, but I came across this dude on the road in 1983 or so. It also comes as no surprise that his other books are "Tickle the Pickle meets God", "Tickle the Pickle meets Marsha the Mushroom", and "Pleasing mixture of mushrooms and poetry." I couldn't make this shit up.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Books/s?ie=UTF8&rh=n%3A266239%2Cp_27%3AArnold%20Wolman&field-author=Arnold%20Wolman&page=1
I really should've just shot that tree hugging hippie.
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