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."

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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...

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?

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.

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.

Good bye Mom

This isn't funny or amusing, so go on your way if that's what you're expecting.

I got word today that my best friend's mother passed away. This was a woman who helped raise me and who I always affectionately called "Mom."

I think I've finally run out of tears. A grown man isn't supposed to cry.

Good bye Mom.

Goat Rustlers

Seriously, who in their right mind steals a fucking goat?

In my aunt's mind the answer is "Someone, I don't know who, but they're stealing my goats."

Once I stopped laughing at this dillusion and focused enough to cough and ask why she felt someone was stealing her goats, she'd already convinced me to go sit in the graveyard adjacent to her property and wait for the goat thieves.

Oh what the fuck, it might be fun.

So into the graveyard I went and hid behind a gravestone laughing to myself the entire time. I've come up with a bunch of ludicrous ideas in my time, but this one trumped all of them. Even I couldn't think up something this bat shit insane...

My 70 year old aunt sitting on a chaise lounge with a .12 gauge and me huddled behind a headstone waiting for someone to try and steal her goats.

You don't get much more redneck then that.

Golf Balls

This isn't one of my stories, but rather one that was related to me by a former co-worker who had been a member of the Honolulu police force.

Some guy had gone bat shit insane and barricaded himself in a house with weapons and was threatening to kill himself over some trivial matter.

That is not funny in the least, it's frankly very sad.

However about 10 hours into the standoff it became quite obvious to the boys in blue this guy was not going to kill himself and they were wanting to get home to their families. And this idiot was keeping them from their families. My buddy and a few of his fellow officers had taken up a position in a house directly behind the guy. In a bedroom to be exact. There wasn't a whole lot for them to do to ease their boredom of sitting there hour after hour while this guy went on about the brain police or whatever the hell his problem was.

One of the guys found some golf balls in the closet and apparently after 5 hours he'd had enough and decided to put an end to this silliness. Everytime the negotiator got the guy calmed down a bit this other dude would hurl a couple of golf balls against the house and yell "Go ahead and kill yourself you fucking pussy! DO IT! PUSSY!"

And the guy would flip his shit. Again.

The negotiator couldn't figure out what was going on. Every damn time he had the guy calmed down he would suddenly start screaming like a wounded Nar Whale and begin making random threats against society.

I don't mean to make fun of the mentally ill, but sadly if I was there I would've done the same damned thing. You have to admit that it is pretty damn funny.