Oh, How We Danced On The Night We Were Wed: The Story Of Mom & Dad's Married Life As Told By Their Third Child, The Mishegas Master

It’s morning here in Morton Grove, where I’m at the public library checking my email, as I still don’t have the internet at home. Why? Because I am waiting for another month to pass before I can get settled & get service, I think, anyway.

Looking at my emails, especially the ones from a Jewish dating service called J-Date are silly at times, kind of pathetic at best. Apparently, I was supposed to have set in stone, firmed up plans with someone to meet over coffee & I didn’t and she had to go and nitpick about it. Future wife material, you think?

Is that someone I want to even consider spending part of my time with on planet Earth? I’m not sure, if she is already behaving like this now, especially in light of the fact I’ve asked for a photograph twice & she’s made up excuses and not emailed one to me.

Well, as Mom & Dad say collectively and separately, there is always someone else. And they’re right, which is why I am turning my focus today toward my parents.

Tomorrow, Sunday, July 31, they will celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. That’s a major accomplishment in their lives and their children’s lives to say the least. I’m pretty proud of them, as I am sure that my siblings Naomi, Louie, Benjy & Joey all are.

Back when they married in 1955, times were probably a bit simpler; Dad & Mom were college graduates the previous month in June at the University of Illinois at the Chicago & Champaign-Urbana & campuses, respectively. So the fairytale goes, Mom met Dad during her Thanksgiving break from college in late November 1954 and began to date from that point onward.

It’s hard to imagine my Dad & Mom so young and my Dad with hair for that matter! And Mom being slightly more filled out in terms of body poundage than she is now. Pictures that I have of Dad & Mom back then look cool & cute.

There’s a photo I have of Mom posing on top of an automobile in shorts, while I have one of Dad standing alone in a leather jacket, with nothing but prairie in the background. I’m presuming the photo was taken in Oklahoma, because that’s where they first lived shortly after they were married, as Dad did his basic duty in the United States Army, while Mom worked a job as a secretary on the army base.

After Dad was finished serving his time in the army, that they moved back home to Illinois, specifically Park Forest, where Mom’s parents lived at the time. It was back home in Illinois in 1957, where they settled where my sister Naomi was born. Sometime later, a second child was born to them, Louie in mid-1960, while a second son, third & middle child Sidney (me) was born to them at the end of 1961.

A few years later, as the Beatles stormed America & Paul McCartney celebrated his 22nd birthday, Paul was pleased as punch (so he told me in 1990 during an interview at Soldier Field in Chicago) when Mom & Dad gave him a wonderful birthday present; a third son and eventually one of the greatest bass players in the USA like McCartney himself, my younger brother, third son & fourth child to my parents, Benjy.

In 1965, my parents moved to the all-American city of Niles back then, so Dad could be semi-closer to a pharmaceutical job he had back then, still only 30-40 minutes of commuting, without much traffic back then. In 1968, the Yippies ruled the world, well perhaps only Lincoln Park during the wild & rowdy 1968 Democratic National Convention in neighboring Chicago. It was in early August that year that the fifth and final child of theirs, also a son and youngest of course was born onto them, namely Joey, who has seemingly lived up to his name with some distinction.

In the 1970s, after Joey was old enough to go to school, Mom decided to go back to college and get a degree in teaching at Northeastern University in Chicago. I used to go with her; I was about 10 by then & used to hang out at the college radio station WZRD, while she was in class. By 1974, she was student-teaching and well on her way to getting her first & only teaching job for the next 24 years at Rhodes Elementary in River Grove.

It was sometime during the late 1990s when Dad decided to retire and eventually, Mom did too. During the winter season of 2000, they took on a new identity: snowbirds and drove to Scottsdale, Arizona, where they would spend the next few winters until they decided to move there permanently.

It’s been a few years since they left the Chicago-area and have lived there, enjoying their lives righteously. Mom still teaches, mainly tutors and home-schools, while Dad likes being retired. I still call them a few times a week when I have time or just feel like it. I try to get there at least once a year.

I don’t know too much about their marriage other than saying I lived in the middle of it, growing up inside the wonderful swirling haze of it all & that was the best part, being part of their lives then just as it is today. I love them very, very much.

Earlier in the week I was asked by friends what they planned to do for their 50th wedding anniversary. I said I didn’t know, probably hang out with each other and tell each other how much they love the other. That’s what parents, couples & lovers usually do.

They don’t expect much from their children in the way of cards, presents, etc. they will get phone calls of course, because it is in all of their children’s eyes a happy, happy time for all concerned. All my parents want is for their children to be happy and successful, which is all anybody should ever want to begin with.

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>The Seven Dirty Actions That You Can’t Perform In A Corporate Bookstore

Well, once again it's a Friday, the true capper for the week and time for another poem, dear readers. Considering what I did last weekend, that of performing/reading in a corporate bookstore setting, I felt the poem below would be most appropriate. As always, enjoy!!!

The Seven Dirty Actions That You Can’t Perform In A Corporate Bookstore

The living word
Is most absurd
If we don’t act upon it
Look over there
It’s a man in his underwear
Reading the paper and smoking a cigar
Listening to the sounds that he makes

Laughter-oh the madness, hear the soul of the city in his bellied echo
Listen-to the movement of listening
Look-around you
Learn-to learn the lust for the quest in question
Linger-falling all around the pointed finger straight at you
Lose-yourself inside a jaded soul once so fantastically plain
Love-yourself before living inside loving

Plants Between The Bedbugs: An Occupational Hazard>Act 14

Disclaimer: Judge not, that ye be not judged. He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone. Fiction can be that way sometimes. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely conincidental & should not be taken or misconstrued as such. Anyone who thinks otherwise, can probably be convicted by their own conscience.

It’s been a long hot summer here on Devil’s Island, but we’ve begun to see some relief. Even as the executions have subsided and the suicide rate is down, there are still few other problems existing, such as the continual gang-banger waltz patrols that have been stepped up and the consist breakdown of the “Electronic Eye” that watches all occupants of Devil’s Island morning, noon and night.

If the “Electronic Eye” had been working properly, it might have caught Broadcast Betty recently in the act of snooping around in the wee hours of the morning flipping on & off light switches in empty workrooms and inspecting them, as if she were looking for something, perhaps bits of scrap paper to broadcast with.

It must be noted that nothing is ever kept in secrecy for long here on Devil’s Island. In the last few weeks we’ve had 27 illegal raids, including two separate visits from the Federal Bureau of Investigation & the Central Intelligence Agency. In other words; someone’s been giving away the store.

Around the prisoner rumor mill, the word among prisoners is that a spy is loose on Devil’s Island. Not just one spy, not just two spies, not just three spies, not just four spies, but several spies. But back to the matter at hand; what to do one would think, right? Well, Upper Prison Brass has experience in this field and has much better methods of learning how to budget their finances and spend their money wisely, which is why they’ve decided to use “in-house plants” in place of their costly “Electronic Eye,” as they are just way too busy to monitor potentially harmless situations.

Let’s start with “Makeshift Mark,” never seen, but always heard. Makeshift Mark usually makes it a little too obvious when the situation presents itself, and only speaks when spoken to, sort of like a computerized robot.

Then there are The Teeter-Tauter Teething Twittering Twins (T5 for short), who make the Fraternal Goon Twins seem like saints! Often T5 's only purpose is to sabotage & pilfer any form of menial task performed by Roger Dogma. Roger Dogma, a very gentle & caring soul is often targeted by T5 more so than any other set of twins here on Devil’s Island, including the wild & wicked Sorcerer Sisters, The Barnaby Boys, The Tommy-Gun Twosome and of course, The Fraternal Goon Twins.

Why is Roger Dogma taken advantage of so much, you ask? Because on the surface he seems so innocent & pure and what more could a set of twins like T5 want, but to bend, shape & mold an innocent mind? And if T5 doesn’t get what they want from him, then off they go and put him through the mental torture techniques maze and apply the pressure. Surely Roger Dogma will give them what they want!

T5 were former crime-fighters equivalent to Starsky & Hutch in the outside world before Upper Prison Brass brought them into Devil's Island as part of a sweeping reform movement implemented by Upper Prison Brass that up until now has been virtually swept under the rug.

Along with T5, there comes the strange religious fanatic Priestess Paulette, one of Devil’s Island’s roving spiritual marms, who along with Matterhorn Melissa, plus Brimstone Bettina among others who have organized what is considered a secret, yet holy religious cult here on Devil’s Island, that target the weak & feeble-minded.

Even though these religious ladies appear sweet and loving on the surface, they are sneaky & fiendish underneath it all and will stop at nothing to reign supreme to their salvation, just as long as the price is right for the righteous rewards that await them once they have confessed sins to The Holy Father. What this group entails however, must wait for another time. Finally, there’s Dance-Man Darryl who if for no other reason enjoys stirring the dirt just for the fun of it, even if the results end in chaos.

But we are here on Devil’s Island, right? And things tend to go wrong around here more than it is realized, even if the intentions are purely innocent. So strong we remain. So silent is the expense of plants between the bedbugs.

American Yarnprose>Gring (The Smile)

MishegasMaster Note: This particular yarnprose poem was the first prose poem I wrote in what I have now referred to as my "Orson Welles Writing Period," on July 31, 1994, back in West Lafayette, Indiana, the city I lived in before returning home to the Chicago-area to began anew.

Gring (The Smile)

Smoke filled the room. I watched as her gaze met mine in the giggles upon giggles of storefronts meant for others. A fly gnawed happily at the discarded men’s magazine, but I suspected that it was more interested in the coffee stains left behind by a greedy yuppie and his less than adequate liberal-minded girlfriend.

The air smelled of comedy. At last the perfect setting. The final frontier. The place where I knew I had it coming if I tried to smoke that last big joint long enough. I didn’t know where I was headed, what I was thinking, what I was breathing. It was those eyes, staring blankly in the darkness. I could only sketch the outer features of her face, yes, such a lovely face. I could only imagine what was sculpted below, the gift of creation, the luck of the drawing, painted by DaVinci, no doubt.

I was drinking in the wonder, the passage of adventure. It came closer, dancing round my head, like the barnacled snake in the basket serenaded by the strange man blowing his reed for a few American dollars.

The cigarette smoke shrieked from her mouth as if to make a statement. A ghost in the human machine, an orange peeled by graying hands and yellowed fingernails, whatever the cause, I didn’t know the reason. She must have thought the scene was happenin’, the scene was so fuckin’ there, so ready, so ripe, so waiting to explode like that cheap dime store novel rediscovered by a whole new generation of tiny tots, too young to remember what it meant to be "fab" but old enough to know that Nirvana was just another liquid monster poured down the throats of those willing to swallow their poison.

I gringed to her. She gringed back. I watched the fly make lazy circles around the head of a gorgeous man in the men’s magazine, as if to make a statement, but then I was probably too intent on figuring out what it all meant. What if for one fleeting moment the fly was right and I was wrong? Was it worth it, just a few seconds ago, to gring at that chick?

I scratched at my sheepskin, so soft and velvety. The winded conversations were getting down right stupid now and you could tell that most of the guys and women in the room had their minds tuned to one thing and one thing only...


sex.

How in the world, they thought, would they get that buxom chick or handsome man home and in bed with them? "Hi, my name is Annie and I’m a Leo, I wanted to be a writer, but instead I
pick flowers and raise baby flies for a living." I didn’t think that the old "what’s your name, what’s your sign and what one does for a living" would work here and yet, that’s what I imagined the chick across the way would say to me. But she didn’t look as if she fit here. The noise lingered on, the beer-swilling yuppies sang off-key, and the politicos (mostly young Republican-types) argued about the latest Rush Limbaugh idiosyncrasy. The wallflowers bloomed here and even the misfits had a good time. I looked around again and saw she was gone, disappeared in the masses of humandom in this seething room. I was saddened, but knew the gring had meant something, even if for only a few seconds our eyes had met and the smoke had pierced my thoughts and left me with an imprint that holds me close and intact for times left unspoken in the weeded sand dunes of undiscovered modern Midwestern mentality.

Saturday Night’s Alright For…

On Saturday afternoon, after a morning round of chores and stuff, I tend to take naps, thanks in part to a wonderful woman now a source of good influence in my life.

Anyway, after awakening & feeling as if I was semi-coherent, I got ready on this particular Saturday evening to do something I haven’t done in a long, long time which was to go out and read poetry in a corporate bookstore setting.

I’ve always disdained that sort of thing, primarily because it’s like walking a fine line between what you can do and what you can’t do & in some ways, it’s like trying to please a bunch of stuffy theater critics on the opening night of a brand spanking-new musical.

It reminds me of the time I used to record and broadcast public service announcements for an FM radio station in West Lafayette, Indiana and had to find the proper voice between A.M. & F.M. radio, which made me sound a little too flowery and feminine, but that’s another blog for another time.

In the previous days before this Saturday, I received an email from the reading’s coordinator telling me among other things that he liked my blog and what I post on there is strong. A mishegas master like me always appreciates flattery like that whenever it comes around.

I could see that he was trying to make peace with me after months and months of verbal strikes against each other via email. So in light of that, I decided to ring him up and talk to him. We talked for about half an hour up to 45 minutes before he had to hang-up.

At some point during the telephone conversation, he invited me out to come and read at the new venue, whenever I felt like it, just as long as I would email him first before I arrived. So I did. And I told him I wanted to come and read the following Saturday, July 23 & so after a few phone calls & emails, we got it sorted out and so the time was set.

As the day approached I wondered to myself what I had planned to read. I couldn’t think of a lot to read, as I haven’t been really writing a lot of new poetry, mostly blogs & new fiction and it’s kind of discouraged to read longer manuscripts or works at this place, so I knew most of my blogs would be unsuitable for this open mic. Finally, I started going through my poetry folders and I found a few new ones that hadn’t seen the light of day other than being read to friends or blogged about, so I picked those.

It took a while to get there, approximately 30 minutes, but I was lucky; Saturday night traffic had died down on Golf Road, the one-shot deal road I was driving down to get to the corporate bookstore. When I pulled into the driveway I saw the reading coordinator who acknowledged me, as I pulled into a parking spot. When I walked over toward him, we made small talk and I stuck out my hand and said, “It’s good to see you again.” He shook my hand. That was a good sign.

And so I got there and found a place to sit. I was still teething and struggling with my toothache or gum-ache, not just sure which, but I had brought a toothbrush with my special liquid cocaine to soothe me quite adequately, I might add.

I waited my turn for my name to be called in order of appearance to read, kind of like a human delicatessen as it were. I was placed toward the end & had asked the reading coordinator earlier when we were outside if he could do that. He had apparently decided to put me toward the end anyway, which I believed was planned, but always as a parachute, in case situations didn’t exactly go as planned, you know stuff like that.

Overall, I believe the reading went well, though personally, I didn’t think the first poem that I read, which I had written about a friend who spent some time in an insane asylum was performed with much gusto. Everyone else seemed to like it, including a friend & co-worker of mine who did come to cheer me on.

The next set of poems was a trilogy of mice poems I had written based on my mice problem in my apartment earlier this year, when everyone I knew was made me feel bad; I lost a few friends over this or made me the butt of their jokes. In any event, those seemed to go over well, so I thought my humor hadn’t exactly died either.

The night was filled with potential. What I expected did happen. It was a little boring, a little predictable, a little stale, a little sweet, a little sour, a little funny, but hey, most events are if you don’t have a full focus or heart into it.

After it was over, the reading coordinator asked me to join them for dinner, as is their tradition after every reading they hold at a local restaurant in which they talk the night away.

At first I said I would go, but as the night wore on, I chose not to go and instead stayed and talked to my friend for a long time. After that, I wandered around the corporate bookstore and looked at all the pretty books and shiny CDs that cost much too much to afford for my pocketbook & instead got a free drink of tap water to fill up my water bottle and headed for home.

If I wasn’t feeling so terrible that night, as I had to pull off the side of the road and into a parking lot and brush my teeth with my liquid cocaine, I might have taken him up on his offer.

As I say whenever a missed opportunity comes along, there’s always next time.

The Mumblers Orchestra-A Concept Well Ahead Of Its Time

This past winter during a rather fertile time period in my life, I stumbled across a true creative yet oddball endeavor; a mumbling orchestra via http://www.craigslist.org/ the Chicago link in the artists section. I’d never seen anything like it before. To me, the concept was new, invigorating and perhaps the first collective mumbling orchestra of its kind.

I was already trying out for a conceptual sound orchestra based on hand movements & signals, not to mention my study of throat-singing, so I thought that I might fit in well with this idealism. The fellow who was initiating this concept was named Michael whose last name I didn’t know and just nicknamed him “Michael Mumbler.”

I received a couple of emails from him as part of a mass email campaign to the various folks who had corresponded. Within three or four weeks, a time was set to meet at a bar in Chicago, so we could all meet the other interested parties and do a little mumbling too.

From a January 8th email I received from him, he explained his idealisms and concepts for the orchestra: “It should look basically like a choral performance, but rather than singing, everyone will be mumbling. It's all pretty tightly scored, with sheet music & a conductor. (I'll conduct, though I'll probably be mumbling as well, as long as I can keep time & mumble at the same time.) The way it's currently scored, there are three styles of mumbling: plain, heartfelt, and angry. Each style has three volume levels: soft, medium, and loud. The "sextet" (which isn't titled yet - maybe it's called "drama for six mumblers") includes three baritones and three sopranos. (I'm separating these out by male & female parts, which may not be PC but I'll try it like that for now.) In each case, two voices make a chorus, & one is a soloist. Again, I want this to take only as much time as is absolutely necessary. I'm mainly very curious to see if the sounds we make as a group can remain interesting and entertaining for 20 minutes or so. My personal style of mumbling sounds something like Japanese (when angry) or Italian (when heartfelt) version of Yosemite Sam when he's swearing at Bugs Bunny. Your style can be whatever works for you; you just have to be able to start & stop on a dime.”

I could hardly wait until that Saturday in January rolled around & mapped out the location so I could get there on time and find a good parking space to boot. The name of the bar we met at appeared like a standard neighborhood bar called the Leadway Gallery, located on the corners of Farrugat & Damen in Chicago. So I walked about three blocks back to the bar and waited for a little while.

Pretty soon a young woman in her 20s that drove a red Saturn parked across the street from the bar and came inside. She asked me if I was here for the mumbling orchestra try-out and when I answered “yes,” she seemed relieved.

We began to make small talk. She told me a bit about herself. She had a music background she said and then asked me, “What’s your story,” to which I explained my musical roots & throat-singing studies. We both continued talking and waited patiently until a man with dark hair, a bearded face, long coat & hat walked through the bar doors. It was the orchestra leader, Michael Mumbler.

After exchanging introductions and informalities, he told us that he had corresponded with six other people. We were the only two of the eight that bothered to show up. From there we were set and off to rehearsal in the back room. Additionally, Michael told me he was from Seattle & drummed in a rock and roll band.

The mumbling consisted of, well mumbling notes on sheet music computerized out with varying symbols to depict the loud and softness of the mumbling tones. I had a ball with it. We rehearsed for what seemed like hours, when at some point it was wrapped out and it was promised that there would be another session in order. We exchanged phone numbers between the three of us and departed on exceedingly good terms that day.

Some weeks later I was wondering what had happened to Michael Mumbler and the mumbling orchestra project. His original intent was to get the orchestra together and then hold performances in varying venues around the city. There was also talk of different mumbling expressions. In any event I was excited by the possibilities.

So I called up Michael Mumbler and asked him what was going on with the project. He told me that because of other opportunities that had arisen he unfortunately had put the mumbling orchestra concept on hold. I was disappointed, but took it in stride that perhaps one day he would do it again & hoped for that phone call.

Fast forward to Thursday, July 14, 2005…on Thursdays I usually leave work early so I can commute to school for a voice lesson. For some reason on this day, I chose to drive down Skokie Boulevard in Skokie as a quick shortcut to the grocery store, followed by my usual route to school. A drive down Skokie Boulevard usually takes five minutes tops from Church Street to Dempster Street.

But not that day. No, traffic was reduced to a crawl and I couldn’t understand why. It took approximately 25 minutes to get to Dempster Street. In between that time, I flipped on WBBM-AM Newsradio 780 to see if I could catch any details as to why traffic was so slow in that area. As soon as I passed Dempster, I saw what all the commotion was about. I saw a red automobile flipped upside down and a crowd of people gathered on a sidewalk in from of the McDonald’s on the corner of Dempster & Niles Center Road.

The Skokie police department had blocked off the road between what looked like Bronx Avenue up to Skokie Boulevard. It was pretty safe to say a bad accident occurred, but I didn’t know what or how or when, until I got home later that night and learned the details.

Seems a young woman from Morton Grove by the name of Jeannette Sliwinski had some sort of fight with her mother, hopped into her car and decided to kill herself; a true to life death wish, if you will. Looks like she got what she had hoped for, but not in the way she wanted.

She apparently ran three red lights and rear-ended a car on Dempster, driving at 70 miles per hour in a 35 mile an hour speed zone, double the limit and ended up sending a man flying from behind the wheel of his car. The car she rear-ended flipped over and killed the other two passengers in the car.

What I read later about them was that all three men were all friends and played in varying bands in Chicago and all happened to work at the same place, Shure Inc., over on Touhy & Lehigh Avenues in Skokie. The three were just going to get lunch as routinely as it seemed.

Jeanette was lucky. Her life was spared yet will face a murderous memory for years to come. It’s hard to know what was going through Jeanette’s mind when she wanted to kill herself. I’ve known people that have attempted suicide and have saved a few souls from attempting to end their lives way too early.

I just remember reading about the car wreck story for days, but never made any connection to it, until over this past weekend when I read a letter in the letters section of the Chicago Reader, from music producer Steve Albini pouring out his heartfelt memories of one of the musicians who he formed a friendship with, a drummer named Michael Dahlquist, who was in a band called Silkworm.

It was the photograph placed alongside the letter that I recognized immediately; it was indeed Michael Mumbler. I went back to the two emails I received from him earlier in the year and re-read them silently. The second email I received from him was written exactly six months & 12 hours to the day before fate did him in dirty.

Michael had hoped one day the mumbling orchestra could be staged at the Cabaret Metro, a premiere night club in Chicago. Since that time I met with him, I’ve incorporated the mumbling concept into a few of my own performance pieces and will continue to do so for months to come.

His final email to me on January 15th read: This is a brand new thing, I've never done it before, & neither has anyone else as far as I know. I'm hoping it's a tremendous success right off the bat, but I'm trying to keep my expectations in check. It's probably more likely that it'll sound like total nonsense at first - but we won't know until we try it.”

Sadly, we’ll never get to know how the orchestra would have sounded like. My heart goes out to Michael's family & his friends' families who also lost loved ones.

As for Jeanette, I hope she gets life without parole.

American Yarnprose>Doob-Doob-A-Rama

Doob-Doob-A-Rama

Oh to think that the Indian music of old would drag wild horses away to my days of early Indian life and culture, unknown and unaware in that naïve life, when money meant an extra candy bar at the neighborhood drugstore or a movie at the local bijou.

A strange mystical Indian family sought to teach English to their young son Anil, aged 10, so they recruited me. Oh how I remember the wafting smells of body odor and soap and food all combined to make my boyish mouth water or vomit.

Around the house on wall so dully-prosaic, were beautiful painted portraits of swamis, yogi priests and great Indian chanting masters from the days of old, like Gandhi smoking his pipe gleefully, family photographs with ceremonial dress and attire, standing proudly, smiling faces with symbolic circles impressed on their foreheads. We called it war paint and labeled them as "dot heads" or whatever the going catch phrase was in those days. Most kids in my neighborhood had never seen a real Indian before, let alone one from India, other than the aforementioned Gandhi or Tonto, The Lone Ranger's "faithful Indian companion."

Oh, those images are fresh in my mind, the day my younger brother Benjy and I saw nine or 10 Indian men dressed in traditional Indian garb pile out of a late model Ford station wagon. Now mind you, my younger brother and I had an image of an Indian that went far beyond the stretch of the imagination. fueled by old stereotypical cartoons and cowboy vs. Indians movies, and thanks in part to my eldest brother Louie, an Indian was something like a genie, a magical sort of being, who sported a long flowing blue cape and silver turban with an enormous sparkling jewel, casting spells and granting wishes.

Oh, how I long for the days when Louie and I played "George Genie" beneath colorful cozies Grandma Lena had knitted. Beneath those cozies, lay our imaginations, so deep and wide and karmic. Genie conventions and often-violent episodes of spell casting ensued. I always feared the predicted lines of Louie, when he spoke in semi-fanatical character, "Poof! You are now Casper! You shall walk, talk, think and act like Casper!"

So, to Benjy and me, an Indian from India was nothing more than a genie with a beach towel wrapped around his head. Sitting on our front stoop, we made our matters worse, when we showed our naiveté as young Benjy blurted out haphazardly as those men emerged from that car, "Hey! Look! Genies!"

And with a look of rage etched in their faces, we were sure that we too, would be turned into Casper forever. We watched with silent eyes as the 10 Indian men quickly shuffled down the sidewalk and into the waiting sanctuary of the great Indian temple conveniently disguised as a townhouse.

Back inside the great Indian temple, I only imagined the faithful prayers being recited, pictures kissed and bent knees and bodies scattered on the floor. And back again inside that temple for English lessons with Anil, while watching with great astonished eyes as Anil’s "crazy uncle" as Anil put it, would sit up, legs crossed in lotus position, flap his crossed legs together like a grounded chicken and pray his heartfelt songs and meditate. How strange I thought it all was comings and goings by Indians at all hours of the day.

The one lesson I learned however, was that when you're a teenager in a semi-odd tenement that considered you a social outcast because you didn't play their plays, share eating habits or believe that newness means weirdness or half a dozen other sorry excuses for not being part of the "in crowd," then those great Indian house temples and strange and wonderfully old beat karmic energies are the best things to revel in.

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Apology For The Command Of The English Language On The Internet…Well Sort Of

Well, once again it's a Friday, the true capper of all the days of the week and time for another poem, dear readers & as always...enjoy!!!

Apology For The Command Of The English Language On The Internet…Well Sort Of

Typing broken English
On a computer,
Always an outbreak of laughter, (LOL)
Somber and deteriorating slang earthquakes
we rely on quick fixestrite tranquilizers and pacifying phrases
We can do something!
Global ethic vowel movement!
Halt hypocrisy!
Outlaw onomatopoeia!
Silence syllables!
And just write!

Is There A Need For An Alternative Press AKA The Chicken-Egg Question Revisited Once More-AKA A Little Writer's Lecture From The MishegasMaster

Is there a need for an alternative press or alternative media? It is a good question. A simple cop-out answer might be, "Truth is disbelief." This quote comes from a publication of mine entitled, "Provoking Thoughts, Questions And Writings" by Swami Harold.

In answering this question, I must draw on my own experiences as an underground editor. As a journalism student enrolled at Western Illinois University nearly 20 years ago, I was for the most part a happy student until I started to work for my college paper, the "Western Courier." As a beat reporter and regular staff member, I was covering student government meetings and writing other types of articles in general.

It wasn't until my last semester at WIU though, that I began to feel a need to do something with my writing. At the newspaper in which I was employed, I noticed a lot of improper editing taking place, not exactly censorship, but the stories were being re-written to fit the administration's and certain student groups purposes. It was in-effect a way also for the newspaper to save face.

Suddenly, from out of the blue, my stories started to be heavily re-written, including made-up quotes and quotes that were fused together from other places in the story. In the classroom, it wasn't any different. There were only a few journalism professors on staff and for the most part students, were taught to write like them (professors) or you wouldn't get ahead.

At the same time, I had begun to submit my poetry to the college literary magazine (Elements) and works that I had submitted started to be censored without my permission. A crucial word in one of my poems was spelled differently than I had originally meant for it to be. I was angry, yet angry enough to do something about it. It was at this point I began to search for an alternative.

In the spring of 1986, a short-lived Macomb-area fanzine appeared, entitled "Movement." While reading it through, I became slowly inspired to do my own. My thinking at the time was that it looked easy enough to do for a short time and it probably didn't cost that much to put out.

As I went about researching for my own fanzine, I discovered along the way that there were other types of alternative publications out there to draw from, particularly the underground newspapers from the late 1960s. The issues people were writing about drew upon oppression and the legalization of dope in San Francisco.

As I researched even further, I discovered there had been at one time quite a bit of activity in the alternative press scene in Chicago during the late 1960s. When it came down to publishing my first issue of "Cops Hate Poetry," I drew heavily from "Movement," "San Francisco Oracle" and "MaximumRocknroll, a punk fanzine originally from Berkeley (now San Francisco), California.

As I began to network, I learned that there were piles and piles of publications out there just like mine, yet put out for different purposes. The reason I had put CHP out was for my own thoughts to be heard. As I stated earlier, I had only expected for CHP to last at least two issues at the maximum. Quite the opposite occurred; the idea mushroomed.

Through networking, I had sent my publication out for review not expecting much. Before I knew it however, I started receiving a flood of letters asking for CHP. Eventually through time and space, I added a number of columns and other views for people to read and become inspired.

Elaborating further on networking, I have found that through networking, one can achieve their own goals eventually and find other views that you or somebody else might not have grasped onto before.

In answering the question, "Is there a need for an alternative press or media?" I'd say quite frankly, yes. It's extremely important to voice your opinion, to let others know what you are thinking and feeling, but at the same time, it's equally important to let others have their thoughts and feelings to be aired, no matter what you and one hundred other people may think.

As I have stated in many interviews I have given for CHP over the years during its six-year press run, you or the reader may not agree in unison, but hey! This is how the person feels, thinks, walks, talks and runs, so you have nothing to really complain about!

The people that do complain however; usually are the types that unjustly criticize without cause or reason. One can usually identify them as the kind of people who sit on their half-moons and do virtually nothing, but blab either online all night or on their slim-line cell phones, as if they felt ultra important.

In my own publication for example, I used to invite readers to submit their ideas, thoughts and comments on what I was doing and how it can be improved for the long term. It did seem to work as it was a nice run community of people I heard from & became in some instances, life-long friends with.

There will always be a need for an alternative voice, whichever way one will look at it. It's not a point of what one reads, but what kind of knowledge a person derives from the publication, whether it's mainstream, underground or on the Internet. If all else fails, start a blog & let your own voice be heard!

Come Forward Y'all To Meet & Greet...The Heckler!

Oh; to be a clown in the midst of performance. Oh; to lash out loud and roar with the crowd. Oh; to stand out alone from the rest of humanity and scream with disapproval as you are pitted between yourself, the audience and the main attraction…lo & behold!

Ta-da!

Come forward y'all & meet & greet that great two-headed monster, the heckler!

According to http://www.dictionary.com/, heckling is defined as “to try and embarrass and annoy (someone who is speaking or performing in public) by questions, gibes, objections or constant badgering.

In other words, the heckler is the one (or two-headed monster) person in the crowd who will try their best at attempting to mutilate, destroy, disrupt and generally wreak havoc onto a performer, speaker or writer; this in essence is their entire reason of existence.

Those that attempt to do so generally believe the individual is hurting them personally or wants to get back at them for being hurt by them in perhaps the most miniscule way, but they might not have even been hurt by them to begin with, at least not directly.

Sometimes the heckler will hackle others in order to protect their friends or colleagues and therefore shout, write, wave signs and intentionally disrupt with the meanest, most low-down and cruelest words they can think of in order to achieve success inside their minds. This tactic is similar to bullying, railroading & accusatory actions. It’s a vicious cycle to say the least, but where does it all come from anyway?

Well, one place it may directly have a connection to are feelings of abuse, mistreatment & perhaps the most hurtful action is violation of their own most basic humanistic rights & abilities to which that may pose a potential threat for them to function as a normal human being.

So who gets the blame in all of this? Is it the educational system? The media? Outside influences? Television? Films? Society? Nope, this time it falls directly upon the responsibilities of their parents; especially if the nucleus of the family as a whole behaves in a total dysfunctional manner or has split up over variable differences, either from divorce or disagreement or again, has been harmed or abused (raped) in any shape, way or form.

I honestly believe that their heckling is their personal cry for help because when they heckle, they are actually drawing attention to their inabilities to cope overall and therefore struggle publicly and helplessly when they cannot understand and therefore react to actions in a semi-unreasonable & irrational fashion. They need the attention; it is a temporary fix to their lifelong misery.

On the other hand however, they are naturally-born human ornamentations that give a performer, writer or speaker some comic relief as they stand up there or write to them and babble on either vocally, electronically or on paper with their disapproval. They do add value to performances and give the performer, speaker or writer a chance to reflect on their incoherent criticisms, whether they are real or imaginary.

In that sense & in my eyes, I appreciate the heckler. Value the heckler as dysfunctional beings that cannot handle realism as realism goes & instead live inside a plastic bubble that can and does pop from time to time, giving them cause to become caustic for no apparent reason. They are the very reasons some of us performers make it. It kind of gives the natural freaks a real run for their money.

So, hecklers, come one come all! I dare you to step forward and make yourself known to the world. It is after all your dysfunction that keeps guys like me in stitches

As You Sow Evil, So You Shall Reap Evil: An Occupational Hazard>Act 13

Disclaimer: Awareness is the key to stupidity. Fiction can be that way sometimes. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely conincidental & should not be taken or misconstrued as such. Anyone who believes otherwise, is probably looking for a needle in a haystack & will more than likely catch nothing but hay-fever...

I don’t speak of my own nightmares much here on Devil’s Island; they are painful and I don’t like dwelling on my own past for the regurgitation has an effect on me that eventually affects others. It is evident in my cell, what with Loud-Mouth Lucy being red-faced and teary-eyed every time I get upset. She’s a great cellmate let me tell you, but onto my greatest nightmare here on Devil’s Island.

A long time ago, when Devil’s Island was run by Old Black Devil, prisoner matches between unlikely males with the ultimate prize of being loved & exploited by Old Black Devil’s secret concubines, who would tease & torture them, before being passed over to Old Black Devil for one night only, were commonplace.

No one ever knew who would be called upon next. Then one day it happened to two of us. My self & “Sleepy Hank” were called before Old Black Devil to commit treachery. Treachery that included hurtful words exchanged between each other, staring contests & boastful stories. When Old Black Devil saw that we refused to obey, she threw us each into solitary confinement for 24 hours, thinking self-torture would change our minds.

Sleepy Hank’s crime to humanity was just plain sleeping too much. Old Black Devil considered Sleepy Hank not much of anything, mainly a waste of human flesh. Years earlier on the outside, he served in the military, later sent over to serve in the Vietnam & Gulf War conflicts & became shell-shocked & exposed to disease beyond comprehension. He was a victim of destruction, fashioned by mankind to kill in time of war, but expected to forget his murderous role for the government in time of peace.

For me, it did nothing. I didn’t budge. For Sleepy Hank, however, it changed him overnight. The next day after being released, I saw an evil inside Sleepy Hank that overcame me like the fumes from dead corpses whenever one would pass the Devil’s Island morgue.

In the days that followed Sleepy Hank attacked me with words so hateful and unbearable that doesn’t merit itself to repeat to you here. Those words however, are instilled inside me forever. Then the staring contests started. Everywhere I went, Sleepy Hank stared at me. Then the intimidation factor crept in and he began to follow me everywhere I went. I didn’t feel so safe anywhere, even in my own cell, as Sleepy Hank would sometimes stand out there for hours and stare at me.

Prison guards would always look the other way. Much like the Fraternal Goon Twins, Groggleman & The Abominable Snowwoman always looking the other way, yet only in the market to protect their own kind or kin. Sadly such was the life for prisoners on Devil’s Island.

Then one night it happened; Sleepy Hank spun out of control. He attacked me brutally when I least expected it. I was walking one night within the prison yard with the-then very much alive & bubbly Va-Va-Voom & Loud-Mouthed Lucy when all of a sudden, Sleepy Hank jumped me and took several swings at me & repeated the following phrase; “some call it sleep, but I call it creep” over & over again.

Blood poured down my face, especially from within my nose, I was sore and hurting, but did not move from the ground where I was now lying on. Sleepy Hank kept on swinging. Meanwhile, fellow inmates “Forecast Fernando,” and Captain Whackencracker came to my rescue, took Sleepy Hank and pinned him against the wall, as “Baby Billie” ran to the guard’s tower to get help.

Moments later, a crowd of prisioners gathered & formed. I could make out The Fraternal Goon Twins & Groggleman in the blurriness of my vision. They ordered everyone clear of the prison yard and told everyone to go back to their cells. Old Black Devil even called for a temporary prison lockdown until the situation quieted down.

Forecast Fernando gently lifted me from the ground and into a sitting position. Sleepy Hank was at first interviewed by The Fraternal Goon Twins and then it was my turn. I told them both everything that had occurred, with Sleepy Hank looking on angrily, making every effort he could to intimate me. Groggleman stood there and surveyed the scene. No one could tell which way he was going to swing. I knew one thing for certain; it didn’t look good.

Groggleman ordered Forecast Fernando & Captain Whackencracker to follow him to the interrogation room. For the next 40 minutes, the two were asked about what they saw & heard. Then it was Sleepy Hank’s turn, followed by my turn.

Then Old Black Devil emerged and said to me that surely I could forgive Sleepy Hank and just go on about my way. I exploded and gave Old Black Devil a piece of my mind. She disappeared and Groggleman reappeared.

From what I remember, Sleepy Hank’s last words were “I didn’t do squat,” shortly before they executed him. Much of this nightmare I have tried to forget. I was then that day, as I am now, grateful to those who helped & perhaps saved me from a fate well beyond the evil upon Devil’s Island.

High School Confidential: 25 Years Later & Who Cares!

I’ve often wondered what the purpose of high school reunions are? What’s the sole reason of getting together with people who didn’t care about you to begin with? Sure, reality TV shows us differently, but that’s TV and of course they are going to ham it up for the cameras.

High school was by no means a pleasant time for me. In fact, it was a terrible time. I don’t remember too much from those four years; just enough though to have a sense of who I was growing up to be. For some reason or another, it is supposedly said that these years are the best years of our life, but whoever said that was just plain ignorant!

Throughout my years in high school, I was labeled a weirdo, loser, zombie, creep; the list goes on. I never got involved in the usual stuff associated with high school with the exception in my freshman year (1976) as a member of the audio-visual department, owning a real live “elevator pass,” that occasionally I rented out. I had one solid friend and a bunch of pseudo friends that never did pan out in the long run.

The teacher’s union also went on strike in the fall of that year & I, along with a few other brave souls, marched with a bunch of organized students down to the administration building in support of our teachers. We waved our little signs and fists in the air, as one usually does at a demonstration when a leader or designated speakers state their purpose or intent.

Strikes were commonplace when I was in high school, as teachers would hold a strike vote and walk out every three years.

But anyway, such is life in high school when you get to pick your own friends instead of your parents picking your friends for you. I always felt uncomfortable during this four-year period, especially when I was constantly referred to by my teachers as either Louie’s or Naomi’s little brother.

My older brother Louie was a year or two ahead of me and I could never take the same class as him, even I signed up for it before him! My sophomore year (1978) was a blip on the screen, but in spring, 1979, that all changed. I joined a campus outreach program that brought in outside speakers to speak to students in an assembly kind of format. I also had my first poem “Death” published in the high school literary magazine, Opus. Creativity began to blossom within me, like rising dough in an oven.

But that didn’t last too long, for the fall brought me tragedy, terror and tears all within 30 days. My grandmother (Mother’s Mother) passed over the universe and into the next world; two high school (female) friends of mine were murdered for witnessing a drug deal, a crime to this day that has never been solved; one of my favorite high school teachers & leader of the campus outreach group I was involved with died from a freak oven-cleaning accident & the teacher’s union all went out on strike for approximately three weeks, this just as my senior year began. I opted to stay home and not cross the picket lines, as my own mother was a teacher (elsewhere) and decided to honor their desires.

I barely graduated from high school in spring, 1980, as I came in as student number 592 out of 600 eligible graduating seniors, but I didn’t care, I just wanted to get out of high school.

In 1990, when my first 10-year reunion came up, I thought about going, but it was such a weird time of the year to have it; in the middle of April & I, still a student journalist was covering a major music festival for three publications, including my college newspaper, a Yugoslavian magazine and my internship, which also included writing reviews of concerts & an occasional feature. The reunion was scheduled for the same weekend of the event, so I passed it up and opted for the music festival.

In 2000, my 20-year reunion I couldn’t afford it, as I was drowning in an ocean filled with debt & decay. Now, it’s 2005 and soon I’ll receive an email or postcard reminder for my reunion and how much I really want to see all of my high school buddies & how much they really want to see me.

Horseshit!

If any of them really wanted to contact me, they could have a solid effort to find me. Some have found me over the years, but it seemed kind of superficial. Some of my old classmates I still see from time to time & we say “hi” to each other in passing, but that’s about it.

In all honesty, my life began in mid-stream during college & it is those days and beyond which I truly relish.

Despite what television or Hollywood portrays this (high school) as the best years of our lives, haven’t got a clue as to what they were talking about. It is the most miserable, excruciating & painful periods of our lives when growing pains matter most, when cruelty is predominate and egos are vulnerable to personal attack.

What’s the point in seeing people who didn’t care about you to begin with, only to see the same people 25 years later and see them still treat you the same way? Even though that time in my life is over, the cruelty is still as fresh as this evening’s garbage heap. There’s no purpose, what-so-ever.

Dwelling on the past regarding people you attended high school with that didn’t care about you as an individual is pointless. Focusing on the present & future with those you devote your energies, spirits & love to, are fruitful.

Basic Fascism 101: Welcome To The Egress>Act 1

The smoldering remains of Submarine L-21 could be seen for miles beyond Pearl Dive Harbor. Chief Naval Commander Phillip “Christmas Tree” Jones stood close to what once was the docking area, surveying the damage & destruction wreaked upon what was his once shining prized beauty.

“Fascists,” he thought. “The fascists have struck again.

Yes friends, those evil fascists are out & about again, terrorizing and destroying anything and anybody that either crosses their path or see fit to wreak havoc. Why? Because the way a fascist thinks, he or she (as is the case) you cannot reason with. They have no brains whatsoever; rather their brains are in a vegetative state; a “brain-freeze” if you will. It is ignorance on parade as far as the naked eye can see.

But there is no such thing as a born fascist; no my dear friends, fascists are trained at a young tender age, almost instantly after being delivered out of the womb, the programming begins.

The instruction includes, but is not limited to: television, films, educational learning facilities (later institutions), storybooks, computer programs, the Internet, radio, newspapers, cartoons, electronics, house of worships & later down the road, at the age of seven, jobs, like washing cars or dogs, selling lemonade on hot sidewalks during the summer months without a permit, mowing the grass, babysitting the baby (sic) and a host of a lot of little jobs to be done around the house for mommy, daddy, grandparents and other relatives.

Later on, as the young trainee approaches high school and gets that basic burger-flipping or clothing store rack helper job, that’s when the fun begins. You get to learn all about the fun & exciting world of what to do as a young trainee and what not to do. As a teenager, one can go through several jobs in throughout their fine and dubious careers as pimply-faced kids disguised as young trainees with a mission; to act naïve and get paid for doing so little.

By the time the teenage trainee has reached college, they have a semi-decent pattern down-pat…sort of. As they make their way through college, jobs get more interesting, like say beer-runner, party stripper, cheap date (for both genders), whore, slave-monger, typist, newspaper deliverer, pizza boy/girl and if they’re really lucky a valuable internship that teaches them absolutely nothing other than how to dress for the real world and the valuable dos & don’ts of how to hit on the boss for a favor or two.

When they have graduated college, be it in four, five or 10 years, then they go for broke! The real fascism training skills that they’ve learned from the wee years to the me years really comes in handy, because now they must get a job the only way they have been taught how to, either legitimately through the newspapers, college job boards & the Internet or by the ways they’ve been taught by previous fascists who’ve gone before them, which is through political connections, family friends, special privileges and/or favors.

But even on their first new job, there may be further training skills these eager fascist might be required to learn, such as spying on others, intimidation techniques, learning to walk properly and stare down others while feeling the power flow straight to their bowels.

Even the most common of people have received their jobs through the good old fascist folks network; um, that is unless of course the family owns the company and just lets them muck it up after 50 solid years of good business. That indeed, is a good little fascist! They have been taught well!

Above all dear friends, please remember that fascism is kind of like a little club, although is some respects it seems more like a cult, where its members carry out what they are told to do. They will get the job done, no questions asked. We call them “pets.”

And finally, what are a fascist’s most longed for desires, you ask? Being paid well enough to lick, kiss or suck boot and/or face, as well as promises of food, drinking binges, cheap plastic travel mugs (that will most certainly be lost within the first week of employment) and last, but not least; love.

Love, perhaps is the most important of all those desires. It means that if you do your work correctly as all fascists seem to know how, then you will get the little pat on the head almost daily or a special privilege to share a dirty joke, goof off on the clock, talk to the boss about the “big game” on the tube the previous night, promote and actively push office betting pools or something just as sufficient.

Fascism is the way to go! I knew I never should have studied to be a journalist, a performer, throat-singer, songwriter or a poet! Fascism is way cooler than anything I could ever dream of being! Oh, how I long to be a fascist like all of my successful friends!

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Walking Along The Road With Chief Executive Chimpanzee

This being a Friday, the capper of all of the days of the week; (personally for me it's Thursday & Friday), I've decided to switch gears a bit and present to you poetry of mine on Fridays, dear readers. The interviews & the reviews will be back soon. In the meantime, enjoy!


Walking Along The Road With Chief Executive Chimpanzee

In the land of the free
Civil rights become budget cuts
In the face of a national spending spree
New wave politics without criteria
New wave politics, ship the liberal loudmouths off to Siberia, that way they can’t point out what the rest of its citizens can’t see
The erosion of privilege inside democracy
Heil Hitler to Supreme Court-elected Jesus (Our Savior)
Heil Hitler to Supreme Court-elected Jesus (love his behavior)
Heil Hitler to Supreme Court-elected Jesus (he’s doing us a favor)
This is the America you’ve always wished for
Well, God Bless y’all, you got it,
Now what will you do with it?
Repossess the airwaves; wipe human nature off the face of the tube
Bleep out every actor who utters a dirty word
(Bitch, damn, hell, poop or boobs-that’s Howard Stern swallowed in all one breath!)
This is the America you’ve always hoped for,
Reality played out for all the world to see
The laughing stock of Europe, Asia’s little fool, the Middle East’s big bad bully
We advocate denial to Arabs who want a homeland
Anti-Semitism is Anti-Arabism, why yes, but of course!
Why, you American pig-dog! Supporting the Jews!
Cash & carte blanche aid is something America loves to give out, but never expect to be repaid
Exporting thousands and thousands of jobs
It’s what we get when we assume the position of chief executive chimpanzee, in tirades of cooking the books at the expense of losing in an office gene pool mixed with foreign & domestic trade

News Of The Day: The Screaming Hasn’t Stopped. The Screaming Hasn’t Stopped.

It’s Thursday morning; 12:01 a.m., July 14; the screaming hasn’t stopped. The anger has not subsided. The outrage continues. What makes me feel this way? It’s love baby; it’s love.

I call my rabbi at approximately 12:22 a.m. and tell him what has happened. Thankfully, he’s still awake, just doing his laundry. I knew he would still be awake even at this hour. Rabbis never sleep; they just study the hours away.

I eventually fall asleep at 1 a.m. yet I wonder what real sleep is like. I get only 3 hours & 45 minutes worth. I am in a zombie-like state, get up & pour myself a bowl of generic corn flakes and soy milk & listen as the clock radio comes on automatically at 5:30 a.m.

I hop into the shower thinking about everything that transpired over the last six hours. It kills me to think that all this time it was something that I seminally expected to happen all along when my new “love” interest told me she had something to tell me nearly a month ago after meeting her.

I started to think about what it could be. I thought long and hard. Perhaps she was a victim of a brutal assault; or maybe it was a violent drug episode; or maybe she was dying from something she couldn’t control herself, like say an addiction. I knew one thing for certain; that I had to be strong for whatever it was that she was going to tell me.

The last few weeks seemed to have been going good for us. Just hanging out, going to the theater, getting to know and bond with her teenage daughter from a prior marriage. But it was still eating at me & I wanted to know what this mystery was, so I kept on her to spill her guts.

We had tickets to the theater last night, Wednesday, July 13; a musical production, opening night. At dinner she asked me to make her a promise; she asked me to remain friends with her in the event that whatever happens between us doesn’t exactly remain the same. So I promise. Before she spills the beans, I told her previously that I would stand by her no matter what.

Dinner was good. The champagne was good. The dessert was good. The musical was magnificent! It was easy to spot how great it was, as my date’s eyes were sparkling and shimmering with excitement; her mouth silently singing the songs in syncopated time and rhythm, squeezing my hand from time to time for comfort and assurance.

We talked on the way out of the theater and on the drive home. She asked me what album I’d like to hear. I chose the Beatles’ White Album, disc one. I tried keeping up a conversation, but I knew the time was getting closer when the moments moved faster. I sang most of the lyrics and pointed out track sequence and also historical facts about the album with nearly every song.

By the time we got back to her place, my favorite song came on; Ringo Starr’s Don’t Pass Me By; a blues song he had written in 1963, but didn’t get around to being recorded until 1968. I sang the song with full gusto, looking at her directly while singing it. When the song was finished, she turned it off and so the story of her life began.

Earlier in the day at work, I felt kind of weird. Had a tingly feeling shoot through my arms. The same kind of tingly feeling I had whence I had asked someone out nearly 13 years ago. Felt butterflies in my stomach that was already for the most part knotted up. I ended up falling in love with that woman too. It was at that time, my first real love of my life. That courtship lasted on & off for two years, but of course she broke it off. Says she was in love with me emotionally, not physically. Broke my heart.

That same feeling crept back up when she started to tell her story. There was someone else; a longtime romance that has smoldered into a four-year affair with a married man that she's known for 20 years, whom she just can’t seem to get out of her mind. I was crushed. Devastated. I cried. Broke my heart. She said she wouldn’t know if or when she would ever leave it behind.

There were some other things that were said, but much of it was a blur to me. I told her I would pray for her; get my friends to pray for her to get over it. She thanked me. I kissed her, still not wanting it to end. Hugged her tightly in the street and watched her go in to her apartment. I walked over to my car, unlocked it, opened the driver’s door, got in & started the engine, flipped on the air conditioner.

That’s when the screaming started.

Late afternoon now, 5:15 p.m.

Don’t know how I got through work today. I had so many plans for her & me, now I don’t. They are crushed, smashed to bits. It’s a fucking emotional ransom note on both sides. As far as I’m concerned, she’s still a victim being held by victim of circumstance that might never come to past. And I feel victimized by the victim holding the victim at bay by not saying goodbye.

When I spoke to her this morning, I told her I was hurting, just hurting. She apologized many times and didn’t intend for it to happen. I said nothing, just remained motionless on the phone. She was in a car wreck, this morning on the way to work. I said I was glad she was alright. She said thanks, yet it reminded me of September 11, 2004, another fateful day in my personal history.

She wasn’t hurt, but I still was.

What the heck do I do now? Do I help her out with her addiction or do I just take care of myself? Do I help her work past the differences or do I just say goodbye Mr. Chips? Do I pack up and go or do I just stand by and watch her suffer for the rest of her days on earth?

The screaming hasn’t stopped. The anger has not subsided. The outrage continues. What makes me feel this way? The screaming hasn’t stopped. The anger has not subsided. The outrage continues. What makes me feel this way? The screaming hasn’t stopped. The screaming hasn’t stopped. The anger has not subsided. The outrage continues. What makes me feel this way? The screaming hasn’t stopped. The anger has not subsided. The outrage continues. What makes me feel this way?

It’s love baby; it’s love. It’s love baby; it’s love. It’s love baby; it’s love. It’s love baby; it’s love.

Of Rubber Chickens, Glass Houses & Ku Klux Flintstone Wannabes

“We are the Goons Of Hazard/Glorified on your TV/We leave you in a pool of blood/’Cos we know we’ll get off scot-free”-(Goons Of Hazard) Dead Kennedys

“Have you seen that vigilante man? Have you seen that vigilante man? I seen his name all over the land”-(Vigilante Man) Woody Guthrie

Have you noticed lately how people are becoming more paranoid about their surroundings, cannot deal with their insecurities alone & need two or more people to face the world & change it according to their laws, even if it’s not really their laws to begin with?

The age of the vigilante has come around once again. Although this time, thanks in part to the supposed terrorist bombing on September 11, 2001 and sweeping changes within the world itself, the vigilantes dress alike. Some wear three piece suits with matching white shirts & ties, carrying briefcases & laptops. Some wear hipster clothing. Some wear revealing outfits, accented to highlight certain parts of their anatomy. It’s everywhere you thrive.

These self-imposed young upstarts or old farts (as the case may be) are programmed to behave like smoking guns or robots more so the latter, rather than the former. Yet, when no one is looking, they will slip in a few of their own rules & make them law. Some of these self-appointed vigilantes believe they are extremely clever, pretending to blend in within the crowd, but in reality are seeking to silence the creative minds.

This is nothing new, as the vigilante groups of old sought out the strangers & misfits who didn’t fit in well with the “in” crowd, in particular “their” crowd & often threatened, harassed, bullied & intimidated them. Sometimes they killed them.

Vigilantes travel in packs, usually three or more people & gang up on one individual they know they cannot lick on their own. Kind of like the Three Bears when Papa Bear spoke for Mama Bear & Baby Bear. It’s like the other two cannot make real decisions on their own, so they must consult with the Great Wizard Of Odds just to make it right. It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?

Maybe. Maybe they believe they are onto something & what do they do to try and ensnare the creative minds and the misfits? They put down plants, in a sort of “Dukes Of Hazard-style,” you know, two guys, with the chick in the middle, just a-batting her eyelashes and pretending to be naïve thinking that will work, but just toasts them in the long run.

Or maybe they just try to blend into the community, you know, pretending to be truly interested in a person’s welfare & well-being, when all they really care about is destroying a person’s ego. Cops, CIA & FBI agents are fine examples of this type of behavior. So are former reporter wannabes. You’d think by now they’d get a clue as to what actions they are emitting, but I guess not.

Being phony only lasts for so long until the mask unfurls and falls to the floor and reveals the truth of the matter unveils the evil vigilante! And the best part of it is you can see the phoniness curling between their teeth, as they spit out their words & sentences slowly and clearly like a trained commando or a hypnotized subject in a private trance session. They need each other for certain.

So hey! What do you say to another few more rounds of nipple-sucking for those vigilantes, for fear of going out on their own and leading their own productive lives as opposed to smashing the creativity that grows all around them? God-forbid they should work for positive causes & instead feed upon the trash-heaps of negativity. Evidently, fruitarian is not a part of their daily diets.

What Kind Of Pig Do You Think I Am: My Precious & Priceless Isis Penny

Life has handed me a lot of nickels & dimes over the past 20 years. It’s kind of like those folks who consistently use those 25 cent & 50 cent words & want to make it seem like they know so much more than you. Holy rollers act that way; you can see it through their brief epileptic smiles or wisps of anger in their eyes.

For others, it’s their anal-retentiveness that does them in. it’s just life after all; something that pays you off so you can pay someone else off who has to pay someone else off in order to keep their skivvies on and credit crystal clear.

But lately, over the last five years, I’m starting to see more and more shiny brand new pennies falling out of the sky and landing smack atop my head. It doesn’t smart as much anymore. In fact, I’m getting used to little cloudbursts.

And then there are those beautiful little copper one cent coins that I find on the streets & sidewalks. Whenever that happens, I always say to myself a little old cliché: “See a penny, pick it up, all the day you’ll have good luck.” It never seems to work with nickels & dimes. Sometimes I repeat this phrase with quarters. It works rarely, but thankfully it always works with pennies.

I haven’t quite figured it out just yet. Anyway, these pennies seem to come from somewhere, but where the main source is, I just don’t know. And in a way, I really don’t want to know, because these pennies are magical & show up to me usually as gems, gems of the human ocean that some call life. The last several pennies I’ve had fall in my lap have been worth every minute, but moreover; priceless.

Gems of the human ocean are like that. Take my great friend Isis for example; she came along when I least expected her to; when no pennies fell on my head, when it was nothing but shit & hard times & she brightened my world to no end, even though at first we were miles apart both physically & personally. Once we straightened out our differences, everything changed for the betterment of our world. We solidified together as a team, one big, beautiful old soul blended into one.

Lately however, that beautiful shining Isis penny has gone dull, making me miserable because she is miserable over what once could have been, should have been, hasn’t been and yes; I know about the fate of the “Woulda-Coulda-Shoulda” syndrome. It does take its toll and makes you smoke like a chimney when you think of all of the endless possibilities.

But all of those “What if” questions belong in the trash heap, just like all of the nay-sayers who told me to spend my Isis penny. Still, I said no & ignored them. My Isis penny is priceless & sweet & kind & a whole lot of other great things too. More than enough times than I care to count, my Isis penny whispered, “Please, please, please spend me on somebody else or at least spend me on something else worthwhile.”

Still I say no. Because for me to spend my precious Isis penny would be like throwing away a lifetime of shiny happiness & beautiful wisdom & shameless madness. No, my Isis penny is right where it belongs, within the chamber of my heart. And no one can get inside, not even for a million Rupert The Bear trading stamps, Hello Kitty puppets, pictures posed with George Martin or Rutles pins.

Terribly Terrible Bosses AKA I Am The Only Poet In The Bingo Factory

It's been a while my dear readers, since I've posted a poem on this very blog, but today, seems to merit itself. I've been thinking lately about the awful jobs I've held over the course of my lifetime & of course, I usually end up writing about it in one form or another!

We all at some point have had experiences of terribly terrible bosses who we fantasize about wanting to hurt or destroy them, just as they've mangled our egos to a point, where some of us need to get reconstructive plastic surgery or seek therapy.

Having said this, I'd like to present to you one of the longest poems I have ever written, four pages long to be precise. It seems a bit long as in diatribe, but it is worth the read. I've only read it once in public and even that was an event in itself, as it was at least 15 minutes long! Enjoy!


I Am The Only Poet In The Bingo Factory

Give me a “B” (B)
Give me an “I” (I)
Give me an “N” (N)
Give me a “G” (G)
Give me an “O” (O)

What’s that spell? B I N G O!

What’s that spell? B I N G O!

What’s that spell? B I N G O!

What’s that spell? B I N G O!

What’s that spell? B I N G O!

Before I begin work each day, I start with this daily prayer,

“Our Feinberg,

Who art in heaven,

Bingo be thy name.

Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done on paper
As it is in hardcards.

Give us this day
Our daily pulltabs

Forgive us our trespasses
As we rip off those who
Went before us.

Lead us not
Into plagiarism
But deliver us from four-play

A meager free space.”

I am the only poet in the bingo factory
Waiting inside
Thin walls of glass and cement
Just to punch the clock of conformity
That pays me fistfuls of money

Putting away my lunch in non-union refrigerator that for one reason or another, a former boss wrote a memo on its usage based on silly conversation I had with another co-worker who became coarse and hard-boned because she said it was “Her property.”

Going to the bathroom during timed eyebreaks and pondering poetry in the last stall, amid the shadow of the old Mexican laborer cleaning toilets and mopping the faded chipped floor, because he says “It’s so easy.” helping the overslept security guard decipher numbers on the screen, while listening to the giant bingo factory fan blowing out hot stale air.

Walking back through the old limping factory with a mug of green tea-back to co-workers who listen to talk radio of cheery voices and dumber-down mentality, me listening to Allen Ginsberg with much antiquity, wearing Italian glasses-paid for by my mother who didn’t want me to be fashionable on her buck.

Back inside my dry-toast office, boxfan blowing around hot stale air, me marking my daily report on makeshift draft table serving as desk, proofreading god-awful games-poke-hokey names with sexual overtones like: Hustler, Kiss, Something Fishy?, Your Pad Or Mine?, Four Play, Horny, Stud Puppies, Nice Pear and Choke The Chicken.

My desk with toolish remnants of my trade…grease pencils, magnifying glasses and paper clips, a file cabinet full of game folders. Magnets cover the front and people coming and going and giving me documents to look at to make sure they’re alright. Most of the time I catch the mistakes and then there are the times that I don’t and I get written up or suspended, for what I don’t know…Or the witnesses who never existed or the point-counterpoint texture lectures, twisted around the tongues and teeth of the bosses who refuse to acknowledge or believe that their buddies’ behavior is wrong! The hahaha-hohoho-heeheehee-teehee jokes I never understand and let’s not forget the ever-popular kissing ass, failing to recognize the fear of consequence that lays waiting in the dark, ready to pounce.

How my job has changed, but not really if I think about it….

When I was supposed to provide solutions to repeated problems whose creators refused to believe it or blame each other or point fingers or yell or scream or ream each other at long-winded meetings on Friday afternoons.

I work for tyrants who fire you if buy a 10 cent tea or pop without warning; who separate good friends; who hand out grocery store certificates on Thanksgiving; who give out company logo shirts as unique gifts; who issue holiday bonuses with the taxes taken out; who own Rolls Royces and BMWs; who have no windows inside their factory-for fear some bright worker might use their brain if they saw the outside world; whose smarter workers work in their offices and diss their bosses through gossips, poems like these and conversations; who make work feel more like prison; whose workers clomp forward like Frankenstein’s monster with lunchpail and newspaper in hand when the factory lunchbell rings and clomp back when it rings again to the great battered machines and worn out tables and desks that were bought second-hand; whose cafeteria that looks so blasé; hot in summer and cold in winter; dull colors splashed on the walls with framed posters of our products that put money in their pockets-not the workers.

$44 million annual profit invested in their homes, their cars and their thriftiness.

When it comes to the workers, the worker’s union-as lame as any union can be, not enough money to live on…no such thing as the living wage for a factory job. Slave to be killed, “Oh cool!” all my friends exclaim. The single most craziest thrill to ever want to work at a bingo factory.

All that for a little reward of green.

I am continents apart, I think-drifting off to that time in ’98, in L.A., that’s the night I met Tonight Show host Jay Leno and was asked about computers and my job. When I told him I was a proofreader in a bingo factory, I had never seen such great laughter and great joy emitted from man whose jokes smokestacked an entire nation and here he was laughing with me. “So, if you see a w, you have to make sure it’s a w?” he says with jowled laughter. I said yes…..trailing off endless possibilities. But they didn’t show it on TV...15 seconds of fame shot into obscurity...

Going back and forth to the bosses, some who would get much pleasure of raking me over the coals because they wanted to show me how much more dumber they were than me and they proved it…fought tooth and nail to tell me how right they were on paper. At least more paperwork for them, more frustration for me. I pointed out fact from friction, although fiction was not far from their truths.

And now I have someone listening to me, an ally in my corner, seemingly at long last.

Too little. Too late.

B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O

The factory bell bellows
It’s two o’clock
All the workers cheer and yell
And it’s time
To go home

The Botox Frankenstein Archival Series>Old Skull & Soundgarden Reviews

As previously published in this space were archival interviews I did with Old Skull & Soundgarden. For today's installment, I'd like to present to you dear readers, the actual reviews of both bands I wrote for Variety. I believe the Old Skull review was published, but I 'm not sure if the Soundgarden was. Enjoy!

Old Skull Chicago Lounge Ax (400 seats); $8 top ticket. Promoted by Old Skull. Reviewed Feb. 25, 1990

Kiddy acts appear novelish and most often a fad, but Old Skull dispels that myth quickly with rip-roaring guitars and an edge on melody that most music-bound kids don't even learn until their late teens. The crowd stood spellbound as 10 year-old guitarist and lead singer JP Toulon, nine year-old bassist Jamie Toulon and 10 year-old drummer Jessie-Collins Davis, unshackled their constructive forms of childish nightmares mixed with a heaping tablespoon of grown-up attitudes, concocting screeching industrial/punk, yet enjoyable sounds.

Much of the evening's material stemmed from the trio's Restless Records debut, "Get Outta School." The songs carry grade school textbook imagery, coupled with thoughtful, intelligent lyrics that realistically reflect some of society's greatest issues at hand, like the band's and pulsating, yet homey title track "Get Outta School," the slightly off-beat artless "Skate Or Die," the slow yet raunchy "AIDS" or the profound ear-leaping "Jesus Died On The Cross." The set's last song "Hot Dog Hell," created an all-out war of flying bits of raw hotdogs aimed at surprised audience members, who responded back by throwing hot dog pieces among themselves and at Old Skull.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Soundgarden Chicago The Old Vic Theater (1,400 seats) Jan. 14, 1990; 17.50 top. Promoted by Jam Productions. Reviewed Jan. 14.

The current tendency of heavy metal to sound and act like nothing more than mid-1970s constipated hard rock and roll is shattered by Soundgarden's fresh screaming rhythms and blistering raw guitar grunge.

Their nearly two hour sold-out set was well-received by the predominately teenage crowd, that behaved for the most part like a group of frenzied sharks, waiting for the first drop of blood to spill.

The crowd went out of control instantly, as lead singer Chris Cornell, who resembles a "hippied" John Cougar Mellencamp, unleashed Soundgarden's gut-wrenching yet likeable rip-roaring timbre upon the adrenalin-overdosed crowd. Much of the evening's material stemmed from the group's A & M Records debut, "Louder Than Love;" songs with cryptic messages, that carry little or no significance, like the slow, yet poppy "Loud Love," the screechy "Full On Kevin's Mom" or the intense "Gun," in which band members Cornell, guitarist Kim Thayil, bassist Jason Everman and drummer Matt Cameron played soldiers, marching across the stage in time to the beat.

At one point during the performance, Cornell dived headlong into the crowd while the band played on. He was passed around like a tray of food atop the crowd and eventually log-rolled himself back to the stage. Later, Cornell challenged the audience to come up onto the stage and dive, which resulted in an over-eager response of sweaty bodies attempting to appease their beloved heroes, only to be caught and dragged out by security guards.

Towards the end of their set, a member of the audience taunted and intimidated a security guard who attempted to stage-dive. The security guard then went after him, only to find himself dragged down into the crowd. The stage-diver was immediately ejected from the theater. The set ended without further incident.

A Letter To Isis On The London Transit Bombings

Dear Isis,

I’ve thought about you most of the day, since the time I awoke this morning at 5:30 am, Chicago time after learning the terrible news that your city was targeted for a series of bomb blasts, by evil terrorists. At last count, according to CBS Radio News, 40 people were killed & over 700 were injured.

The comparison to the bomb blasts of WWII are a tad ludicrous if you ask me & then there are the countless idiots & mad fools who are comparing these bomb blasts to 911, when there’s no comparison at all. A bomb blast is a dirty, scoundrellous attack on humanity and in this case, on the people of your fair city.

This morning, as I listened to the local radio newscasters while eating my bowl of Cheerios in bed, again were the comparisons of 911, with the references of soot & ashes on the survivors faces, but in all reality, a train or a bus blast, pales in comparison to a couple of jet planes flying directly into a couple of Manhattan skyscrapers, don’t you agree?

As for the soot & ashes remark, stated by local Chicago CBS radio broadcaster Felicia Middlebrooks; I think it was a pretty dumb remark to make, considering that firemen look like that after long & sometimes difficult fires to put out or chimney sweeps. It’s just an insensitive remark that should have not been said.

And then, after the news swam across the ocean and into America, suddenly every news organization decided to localize the story by putting in all of those “what if” sorts of questions & don’t you agree, Isis, that’s it’s a little insane to be asking questions like that, as if the future is really, hardly predictable except for a bad Arnold Schwarzenegger or Mandy Moore film?

Well, at least the terrorist alert has been heightened to orange in the United States, but only for mass transit here. Airports apparently are just too safe for terrorists to bother with. Interesting how that system works too. When Georgie (Bush Is A Tush) Jr. was running for re-election, it’s all we saw, were these heightened terrorist alerts & of course when he was re-elected, they stopped. I suppose the system works for only “real emergencies.”

And yes it’s true; we can’t go around being scared of everything, we have to go on living, but I sure as hell don’t need to hear this from my own president, my governor & you don’t need to hear that from Phony Tony (Blair) either.

Nice of him by the way, to come back home and check up on his people and then go back to a conference, a holiday in the sun of sorts for virtually every other world leader including my own, who are going to be discussing how to solve the on-going struggles of Africa and global-warming.

I think what world leaders really need to focus on however, is their own constituents, their own people, their own nations, not worry so much about some country like Africa, who we already give away so much money to both in foreign aid & other programs.

Yes, now of course I am concerned about the starving & the war-torn parts over there in Africa, but don’t you agree Isis; that it’s about time we focus on our own nations & try to clean up our own unsightly pockets of poverty, homelessness & other problems?

I understand completely that it is the responsibility of a world leader to address these issues, but I also think they need to work on their own domestic policies before they start handing out money to just anybody. They owe it to us; after all they were elected by the people, unless of course it was a dictator, a successful coup or the voting processes were monkey-wrenched.

I believe that Phony Tony (Blair) should have shifted the conference’s attention toward betterment of safety for their people, not worry about Africa’s plight; in fact, discussing Africa’s plight is miniscule when you know what happened in your city nearly 24 hours ago.

Well Isis, I know I am straying a bit here, but you know me; I always do. I hope you are safe and sound and your family is well, including your sister & her husband & all of you managed to stay out of harm’s way. I will try to call you tomorrow morning before I leave for work.

Love,

The Mishegas Master

The Legend Of The Thin Man: An Occupational Hazard>Act 12

Little is known about The Thin Man here on Devil’s Island, as he is about as mysterious as they come. He arrived on Devil’s Island one morning by way of summons from Old Black Devil herself who needed a new boy secretary. Seemed that Old Black Devil was always hiring new boy secretaries when she grew tired of them, much less no longer considered them eye-candy.

The Thin Man is a handsome man. Perfect hair & teeth. Sparkling eyes. The kind of physique almost any female prisoner could swoon for. And most do. Loud-Mouthed Lucy usually leads the pack, hooting, hollering, whistling & shouting at him with almost jet engine noise level; “Hey good-lookin’! What’s cookin’?” The Thin Man upon seeing her and others doing that always waves and smiles broadly.

I had previously met The Thin Man much earlier on the outside when we worked at the Elvis Outfit Agency. His job there was primarily as coordinator and researcher of all possible Elvis Presley & Costello likenesses & qualities throughout the world. His Black Elvis Terrorist period was perhaps his most creative & brilliant of the day, always dressing in black outfits & singing like both Elvises.

After that, like most others who worked at the agency, he burnt out and joined up with the Gus Hall Red Sweater Society. Up until Devil’s Island, I hadn’t seen much of him, let alone heard from him. And that became the strangest thing; his experience at the agency seemed to transform him into a Dr. Jeckyl/Mr. Hyde persona. He didn’t seem to act upon any of it until he arrived at Devil’s Island.

Once he arrived at Devil’s Island something or somebody set him off. Something that was boiling inside of his soul and popped outta him like a plastic turkey thermometer that tells cooks everywhere that the turkey they’ve been cooking is done.

On Devil’s Island, however most of the Upper Prison Brass wouldn’t tolerate that kind of behavior, so off they sent him at great lengths, mind you, to straighten him out. Upper Prison Brass’ weapons of mass diversion were none other than Chicken George, The Abominable Snowwoman & Groggleman. And what a job they did on him, harassing, bullying & intimidating The Thin Man, so much so, that The Thin Man was sent away for nearly a month to the Devil’s Island Insane Asylum, located behind the prison infirmary.

As it turns out, I was the only person to visit The Thin Man during his time inside. He spoke to others via the telephone bolted to the wall of the insane asylum and told me several stories of long ago shattered prisoners laid to waste inside the asylum, but carefully coded them, for fear of being watched, recorded & bugged.

While The Thin Man was incarcerated, he developed Zimmerman’s Syndrome, in which one believes they are a mega superstar folk-singer. At least two major symptoms characteristic of Zimmerman’s Syndrome is the voice changes several octaves without warning & his voice can carry tunes longer than expected. As a result, The Thin Man carries a guitar given to him by asylum staff and a head-full of songs he developed and wrote while sitting endlessly inside the asylum.

No one bothers The Thin Man anymore, not even Chicken George, Groggleman or the Abominable Snowwoman who all, at one time or another berated him in front of other colleagues & prisoners.

They usually keep their distance & usually even further, when The Thin Man breaks out in song without warning, little ditties with lyrics like these: “Last night I had a crazy dream/Dreamt I was livin’ in Groggleman’s scary terrorist regime/My own heart felt like it was on the outside of my body kind-a limp & a-thumpin’/When I realized it was just Old Black Devil & Groggleman in the next room just-a-yellin’ and a-bumpin’…”

Patriotism Never Seemed Finer Than Yesterday

The Fourth of July for me has always been traditionally a day to relax, reflect & to go watch fireworks with friends, that is, until yesterday when I made a very small, yet patriotic gesture for my country. I took part in the Evanston (Illinois) Fourth of July Day Parade by choosing to march with fellow graduates from the Evanston Citizen Police Academy.

Now dear readers, let me assure you that when I say patriotic, I mean patriotic, as in say like, serving your country once in a while in the capacity of being part of a courtroom jury or volunteering time for various charities or helping your fellow neighbor without them asking for your help.

So, after considerable amounts of time deciding whether or not I would march, thankfully I made the right decision to do so. When I arrived at the spot where everyone was supposed to congregate at approximately 12:30 p.m., of course no one knew where the actual spot was, including several policemen who were also in the parade (figures, I thought).

Initially, I started to wonder around the area we were supposed to be meeting in, but no one seemed to know either, no were they very friendly, kind of like those typical suburbanites who must know who you really are before they can open up to you; from the looks of the ravaged faces, some looked like Chicago transplants that were hard-edged & over-protective of themselves. Or perhaps a few secret cop-wanna-bees.

Whatever the case, I kept hanging around until the proper authorities showed up with their official-looking badges, cars & supplies. I decided that for the Fourth of July, my patriotic garb would consist of white gym shoes & socks, blue shorts & a red Che’ Guerra shirt, plus my ever-familiar trademark fish hat. That however changed when I received & donned my official Evanston Citizens Police Academy blue tee shirt & one size fits all blue baseball cap. I looked almost normal.

So, in the mid-day sun, I wore two tee shirts, a lightweight backpack that was leaking somewhat from iced water & people thought I was crazy, but I was cool with it. Besides, from the clouds that were perched above us looking rather dark, gray & stormy, I’d say the chances were 100 to 1 that it wouldn’t be too hot wearing two shirts.

The parade itself was supposed to kick off at 2pm. Our group was in the 19th place in the parade line, so we were scheduled to begin marching slightly after 2 p.m., but the closer the time crept up, the further our step-off time was delayed. Officers nice enough to recognize us as a whole apologized profusely & assured us all that we would be moving shortly.


After 25 minutes of wrangling between parade officials and the uniformed cops, we were about to begin. There was one slight problem however; the rains came in! Almost everyone was advised to either find some shelter inside a cop car or the police van that traveled behind us in case any of the marchers became tired, I’m presuming. A few sprinkles & then it stopped.

Then came the announcement; it was time to move. I had a choice and prominent position within the group; I was one of three persons holding the group banner! Even though it seemed like a small deed, I was proud to be part of this; patriotism never seemed finer until this day…that is until the rains came back in and poured upon us exceedingly hard.

For the next two miles, walking, smiling, waving & every once in a while shouting to the massive crowds on the sidelines, “Happy Birthday USA,” to pump up the people didn’t seem like a bad thing at all. I felt more like Miss America walking across the stage accepting an award, than anything else & this was slightly embarrassing…

Whenever we passed by a reviewing stand, the banner would twist around and pasty smiles would be invoked. People behaved rather silly; I guess it was expected; everyone remained calm & relaxed, even though we were soaking wet to the bone.

It was a parade, after all.

We all smiled.

It was a great day indeed.