Tales From The Desert>Post Trip Talk-Act Two: A Postcard Home

Jeepers, Creepers Junior!

What does one say to one who wants to know everything, but shouldn’t know everything? However, since you’re such a conspiracy-driven man such as yourself who believes there is more than meets the eye or perhaps can read between the lions of this of this mere postcard, what do you believe I am actually telling you within the words that I am scrawling on this colorful piece of cardboard? Scratching your head are you? Good!

Well, in translation, I’m having a great time, glad to be here!

The MishegasMaster

Tales From The Desert>Post Trip Talk-Act One: The Near Ill-Fated Ride Of United Airlines (Ted) Flight 1448

I don’t fly often, but when I do, it’s usually reserved for vacation trips or performances that take longer to get to than one day. As many of you dear readers know, last week I headed west to spend time in the Valley Of Golden Happiness with The Arizona Babe & Rex Pater Homo.

Usually, when I fly, my flights are without incident; with the exception of the occasionally late passenger or crying baby and that’s about all. But not last night, oh no! Not last night, one of the most hellacious flights I’ve even taken in my short life.

I was dropped off at the airport three hours early by Rex Pater Homo, as he had to be elsewhere that afternoon. The regular route to the airport was being repaved, so he took an alternate route. We kissed and hugged each other goodbye, as I went to get my citrus-colored duffle bag checked in.

I waited silently as the airport lounge slowly began to fill up with other passengers. I watched and listened as others went about their little affairs, chatting on cell-phones, tapping away on laptops, munching down on food, sipping drinks and general stupid chit-chat.

Round about the time that my flight time was getting closer to departing, that’s when our troubles began. As the plane landed and deplaned passengers, while the rest of us lined up to get on board the plane.

We were stopped dead in our tracks when it was announced to us, that the plane we were about to board had mechanical failures and therefore, they were trying to make a decision as to what to do with the few hundred of us.

At first it was suggested they fly us to Denver, San Francisco or Los Angeles, with the hope that we could all make connecting flights from there. They also suggested “swapping” out planes, but that was quickly squashed. Then when push came to shove, our flight was completely cancelled leaving us in the dark for approximately one hour.

Needless to say, many passengers were upset, including me. To blow off a little steam, I blew out short frazzled riffs out of my new horn that I had picked up earlier in the week and called friends and family to pass the time. One hour later, after they told us our flight was cancelled and had taken off all of luggage off our plane, some bright person at the top decided that we would make the flight after all, even if the plane wasn’t working properly.

So our luggage was reloaded on the plane, as well as the rest of us and off we taxied down the runway, which took us a total of 10 minutes. Once we were in the air and the situation seemed to settle down, everyone seemed to relax.

It wasn’t more than an hour into flight when our plane met with turbulence and the plane shook violently as if it were breaking apart, it sure seemed that way as I had a clear view of the wings from where I sat and they looked as if they would snap off as easily as a tree branch.

I overheard a passenger say that he saw one of the plane engines sputter and wheeze as we flew over the mountains. I even heard a little boy sing “For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow,” though I wondered to myself if the boy knew the seriousness of the situation at hand.

The entire plane became suddenly quiet as if everyone was thinking the same thing that I was. Death had never felt closer for me than last night.

I wept for nearly an hour after that incident, but I’m sure the guy next to me couldn’t understand why as he kept staring at me. But then again, grown men aren’t supposed to cry, now are they?

The rest of the flight went without incident, until a stewardess made an announcement on the public address system to tell us we were nearing our final destination and also there might be a possibility of an emergency landing. This is what she said, just as we were flying over Lake Michigan.

I never felt so scared in my life.

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Nude Woman In My Room Above The Crazy Music

Well, here we are and guess what??? We made it! Happy Friday, one and all and let me tell you, bloggerpeople, this week seemed to drag on forever! Yet, thankfully it is here, the sweet juicy little capper for the week. And speaking of which, I will be off for a full nine days from this blog as I will be "going home" to the Golden Valley Of Happiness. In light of that, I'd like to leave you with a long poem. I hope all of you have a good gentle week and I'll see you all around the blog-fire in nine days! And remember my dear readers, always, always, enjoy!!!

Nude Woman In My Room Above The Crazy Music

I am the wail of a soul

A Wednesday in Octobers of long ago

I am getting high in my room

On a new song so frail

After listening to the great men of jazz

I can never hear myself creating riffs for long

The ability to tell a story within their throats

Rollins, Galliard, Bird and Jones play off each other so brilliantly

Once valiant

Now fade away like flowers in a vase

The love they brought to our place

From which I might not recover

I am singing a new song so frail

Its riff, skinny ribcage reveille

A single outward howl

A lonesome echo go

Telling me to get lost inside myself, to learn the quartertones

Between the shoreline and the city

But to tell you the truth,

I don’t shout out images

Or scurry madly like a coked-out mouse in a daze

There are no artificial ingredients, no funny names to disguise

The true character of all of our voices combined

This is what sets all of those words free.

Supposedly.

I hear those men

Like they’ve heard me

I like the smiles, the fresh new sounds

They’ve given me

If I had never met them

Heard the crystal of their phrases.

I’d be another unknown Joe

Wailing below the sea

Writing squalor

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Universalist

Well, here we are and surprise, surprise! Poetry on a Thursday afternoon! I always like to treat you my readers extra special and today is one of those days. So sit back, relax and kick your feet up and enjoy a poem on me! And remember my dear readers, always, always, enjoy!!!

Universalist

Watching you breathe

Tenor saxophonist,

Floating notes on air

Sewn up quickly, twittering body movements

Tales From The Desert>Act Four-Ordering A Pizza In The Middle Of The Desert

Sometimes the simplest of habits or routines we take for granted, like say; riding on a bus; waving goodbye to someone you love, CD burning, cassette duplication, Internet service, good clean water, having the freedom to say what you like or do and above all, ordering a pizza.

Depending on where you live or who you know, some of these very basic needs which we rely heavily on, might be useless elsewhere. Where I live, thankfully we have all of these things, especially having the ability to order a pizza at any time of the day.

Yet, when I traveled to the Golden Valley Of Happiness a few years ago, this was not the case. As it happens, my parents, the most honorable, Rex Pater Homo & The Arizona Babe live out in the middle of the desert and for some years didn’t have a “true address.”

What does having a "true address" mean? Well, it simply means that the post office will more than likely recognize where you live.

Unfortunately, for my parents they had to fight tooth & nail in order to get the post office to recognize their given address as assigned to them by the city within the Golden Valley Of Happiness. This craziness carried on for about three to four years until they were formally recognized by the post office.

In the meantime, letters that I was sending to them were being returned, bearing the familiar red-stamped “Return To Sender-Address Attempted, Unfound.” My parents felt all along that it was a decision between the city and the post office and not have the burden placed on them.

Sometimes governmental agencies can get so petty and stupid, all in the same breath…imagine that! And that’s exactly what they did when they passed along the bureaucracy onto my parents. They didn’t deserve it. It took several months to straighten the situation out, but in the meantime, sometimes the mail would manage to slip through.

A few years ago during that time period, I tried my best to do what I take for granted in normally in suburbia and the city and that is ordering a pizza.

I was kind of getting tired of home-cooked food, which is always a surprise, in light of the fact that I absolutely LOVE & ADORE The Arizona Babe’s home-cooked meals, but as it happened, I just had a taste for fast food pizza and so I began looking in the local Golden Valley Of Happiness Yellow Pages.

I found a Domino’s pizzeria close by and called them up, and attempted to order a pizza. When I gave them the address, I was told, that “you don’t exist.” I retorted, “What do you mean we don’t exist? We’ve been here for a few years already.” Well, according to the pizzeria’s computer database, my parent’s address didn’t exist and you know how it goes if a computer doesn’t recognize you.

I called a few more local pizzerias and received the same run-arounds. By this time, I was getting really frustrated and angry with being out in the desert, just because I couldn’t get what some Americans call “basic desire.”

After some strategizing and a few deep breaths, I phoned a few more pizzerias and was told the same mantra over and over; you don’t exist!

Finally, I found a pizzeria that actually recognized the address and told me that they could deliver, but I waited for them to drop the ball and tell me they were mistaken and you know something? They didn’t! I had that pizza within 45 minutes, hot and fresh.

I give that company, Jimmy John’s a great deal of respect as well as my business now whenever I order a pizza; after all, if a company is willing to go all out for a customer in the middle of the desert, shouldn’t everybody?

Fuck Domino’s and all those other pizzerias; they don’t stand a ghost of a chance when it comes to a reliable pizza joint like Jimmy John’s.

Besides, where the hell else can you walk into and get free smells?

We Interrupt This Blog Series To Bring You A Special Report: The Strange Case Of The Identical Phone Number!

“You’re innocent when you dream…” Tom Waits

My dear readers, strange as this sounds I am interrupting my own blog to bring you a developing story that began inside my brain nearly two nights ago as I slept…

It’s kind of funny how sometimes you dream BIG bunches of crazy scenarios and then they never develop into anything...well, at least that’s what happens for most people, but not me, oh no! My dreams always become some form of reality and whether I like it or not, some actually teach me a lesson about madness and etiquette all rolled into one.

It was late Saturday night/early Sunday morning when I finally rolled myself into sleepy-land and into my dream state. I dream like anybody else, except this time, the dreams were a bit more bizarre than normal.

Dream Number One: A Jerry Springer-like television program in which other men of other religions acted as Santa Claus and were invited to talk about their experiences. Knowing a bit about playing the role of Santa Claus in a suburban shopping mall in 1986, I was pleased as punch to blab to all in the universe about my experiences.

Dream Number Two: This one details several officers surrounding a house in the suburbs with their guns drawn. It plays out like every bad hostage drama you’ve ever seen on television or in a film. I remember being there as a witness, when I am mistaken for one of the bad guys and taken into custody. Of course I am released moments later when the cops realize they have the wrong guy and I only look Middle Eastern and I’m not actually Middle Eastern.

Dream Number Three: It plays out like this: I’m in a cab somewhere, traveling to someplace, I get out in the midst of madness and I leave behind my cell phone.

Then reality sets in. Early Tuesday morning, as I am rudely awakened from an otherwise restful slumber, due to the accidental sound-off of my radio alarm clock; I look at my cell phone and I see I’ve missed two calls. One is from my good friend Beatrice and one is from an unknown caller, who has a Texas area code.

It’s approximately 12:30am when I call the unknown Texan back. I ask him why he’s called me. He tells me that he’s calling to tell me that he’s found my lost cell phone. No! Quit! Sweet Jesus! I tell him I haven’t lost my cell phone and he seems bewildered as me and hangs up.

I call Beatrice and we chat for a while about cheese soup and teabagging each other before she tells me she has to go cut the rug and feed her kitty, so I say okay and I finally roll back into sleep-land once more.

It’s now about 5:30am when my radio alarm clock goes off and I zoom in and out of sleep and wake up closer to 6:15am. The “Smart Quiz Question” of the hour has been asked and of course I miss it, as I flip through my CDs to find one that will keep me popping before I walk out the door for the day and into the world.

Fast forward to 9:30am when I happen to look at my cell phone and see I’ve missed a phone call. Turns out as I listen to the message that a fellow named Brad calls me up and asks me; yes you’ve guessed it, “I understand you have my lost cell phone.”

I am beside myself at this point, because I still don’t know what is going on until I call this guy up and he tells me that he lost his cell phone which just happens to have my same telephone number.

I tell him that I’ve had my phone number for nearly three years, so it’s impossible. He tells me that he’s had this number for six weeks, a Blackberry, you know, one of those fancy-schmancy phones that not only takes calls, but fetches your email all at the same time, oh to dream! But anyway, Brad’s at a convention in San Diego, California and he’s a sales rep for a computer software company in Chicago, for a company headquartered in Toronto, Canada.

At first I am very understanding and sympathetic toward Brad, but when I let a buddy know of the situation, she suggests I call my wireless phone service to let them know and also to make sure that nothing from his phone is charged to my phone account, so I do.

Three phone company representatives later, one explains to me that it might be an error on the part of the company that issued Brad’s phone; in other words it’s a Canadian phone number, with a local area code.

“How can that be?” I ask the guy. He can’t figure it out either. Along the way I have asked for a written apology from the phone company, but all three phone representatives tell me the same thing, “I apologize for the inconvenience,” nothing more and nothing less. Big corporate companies that do nothing but apologize for inconvenience and toss it back in our laps like a hot potato or a bad disease.

I hate big business.

Meanwhile, Brad has called me a few more times and I realize that my life has to go on, whether or not he has my phone number. When I speak to him again, I suggest to him that we have a duel and that the loser should change the phone number in question. He doesn’t seem amused.

Then another one of his pals calls me and doesn’t leave a message, so I call him back and I ask him if this is about the lost phone. He says yes and asks me if I have it! I laugh and tell him, “No, you’re calling my cell phone which I’ve had for three years,” to which the guy who identifies himself as a co-worker of his, says, “Well I really could care less if he finds his phone or not, I was just checking” and hangs up.

With friends like him, who needs enemies?

Since this afternoon, I received one more additional call, probably from another one of Brad’s friends. I suspect I will continue to receive more.

This is really starting to get annoying…

And now we return you to you’re regularly scheduled blog. “Tales From The Desert” will resume tomorrow as planned.

Tales From The Desert>Act Three-Trinkets From The Traveler

Since the beginning of time man and woman have collectively inherited trinkets, small or big. The first trinkets could have been a rock, a handful of grass, leaves or a piece of fruit. Travelers often bring back little gifts or trinkets from a place where they have either previously visited.

They tend to buy these things commonly called souvenirs or mementos, as a way to remember a particularly happy or harmonious time spent, wherever they have traveled to. Sometimes, they will bring home these remembrances to family and friends.

When I first began taking family vacations, mostly throughout the Midwest as a teenager, I would pick up little things like snow-globes, tee shirts, mugs, ball-caps, key chains, you know, the usual rubbish. And as always, one of my friends wanted what I had, so I would promise to get them something similar next time I traveled to that particular place.

I suspect that’s how trinket shops sprang up across the universe to sell their mutant wares to suckers like me. A cheap plastic toy made in China no doubt often breaks in a matter of moments if it played with or picked up more often than normal; so what to do? Buy a whole boxful of the said junk.

When I began traveling on my own in the middle 1980s, I didn’t often pick up too many things to bring home, other than newspapers, magazines and maybe some extra camera film. As I grew older and made more friends, dating women and stayed on friendly terms with my family, I brought home stuff for them.

Lord only knows as the MishegasMaster, having traveled the world from throughout the USA to Canada and England, I’ve picked up lots of little trinkets for family, friends and girlfriends and of course, myself.

When I lived with roommates, I used to buy them little gifts, as they felt like extended family to me. And believe me, people love getting stuff, even if it’s small, meaningless and miniscule too.

Strangely enough, it’s the thought that counts. Have any of you noticed that not many people do that sort of thing anymore, that is bring you a trinket when they least expect it. Writing postal cards is also considered a treasured gift, far more than the trinket itself.

Some people even appreciate the stories you bring back when you’ve returned from your journey and of course, stories tend to age like fine wine or natural cheese.

It is often said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder or that one man’s junk is another man’s treasure.

Travelling is like that sometimes.

Tales From The Desert>Act Two-A Walk In The Desert

In the desert, things can get kind of crazy, if not hectic if you don’t know exactly where you are going especially in light of the fact you’re not sure where you had just come from.

It was December 24, 2001, when I the first of the Mishegasmaster clan to visit my parents, The Arizona Babe & Rex Pater Homo in their new digs within the Valley Of Golden Happiness. I came initially to spend my 39^th birthday with them and sometimes, when you’re out in the middle of nowhere, you tend to get a little stir-crazy, so I decided to take a little walk to see what I could see.

So, off I went into the desert, past an ice-skating rink, where the Phoenix Coyotes practiced at one time and walked along an empty stretch of highway. The sun was still beaming happily in the sky and I was at leisure’s pace, down that beautiful stretch of road.

On my back was my old purple battered backpack, that had seen better days and looked as if a black bear had mauled it just to see where all my goodies were hiding, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Finally, I happened upon a recently built shiny mall that had mostly closed shops and a few fast food joints hooked upon them. I stopped in one of them, took a few bites, wrapped up the rest, loaded up my pack with food, filled up my water bottle and headed back.

By this time the sun had set in the sky and I headed on back, but I was confused, as I really didn’t know which why to go. Then I saw it; the friendly cactus! This was the cactus that my parents had previously told me about, that if I found this cactus, I could find my way back almost any time!

And so, I decided to take a shortcut through the desert. Unlike now, the desert at that point was bare, just sand, brush and cactuses. As I looked to my left, I saw a barren highway, while to my right; I saw newly constructed buildings, with more being built each day. There were no bright lights in the desert back then, only the light of the silvery full moon.

And I kind of liked that. Very romantic and sentimental it seemed. As I got to the middle of the desert, I suddenly heard a noise that sounded like the roar of a Harley-Davidson, which I thought was kind of odd, considering there were virtually no vehicles on the road that night.

Then, I saw a fairly large shadow that I didn’t think twice about. Although physically I was approximately one half hour away from my parent’s place, it took me only five minutes to make a quick dash there.

I never looked back. Only when I returned was I informed that a mountain lion had wandered down from the McDowell Mountains a week earlier and was terrorizing the city.

So much for free reign of animals; they were after all kicked out of their homes. And that’s a shame when you think about it. A darned shame.

Tales From The Desert>Act One-The Arizona Babe's & Rex Pater Homo's Big Move To The Golden Valley Of Happiness

There are times in a fellow's life that can become extremely complicated. Difficult, rough and almost terrorizing in some aspects, which is usually followed by a drastic change, a change so drastic that it can affect one’s whole aspect of thinking and livelihood.

It’s no secret how close I am to my mother, The Arizona Babe and happy that Rex Pater Homo is my father, but almost five years ago it was kind of a different story when they decided to move away from the area they raised all five us children, myself, Naomi, Louie, Benjy and Joey.

My parents are at that age that we all get to eventually, hopefully, if we play our cards right and that’s “retirement.” But The Arizona Babe isn’t really retired; nope! She still teaches in the Golden Valley of Happiness, while Rex Pater Homo just enjoys life, as free as a bird.

A few years back after The Arizona Babe called it quits at her regular job as a special education teacher in the western suburbs of Chicago and Rex Pater Homo retired early from his job as a clinical pharmacist at the now-shuttered Glenview Naval Airbase in Glenview, they determined somehow that winters in Chicago were exceedingly difficult.

Who can disagree? I’ve lived through many of those winters as well, most notably, 1967, 1979 and 1999 and in that order! Believe me, it’s no picnic trying to drive on snow and ice that cover terribly bad potholed roads. There have been a few times I did consider moving elsewhere, because even though I love the Midwest, winters here can be cruel, if not difficult and exceedingly harsh.

Well, both Arizona Babe & Rex Pater Homo decided to do something different; they decided to rent an apartment and become temporary snowbirds in the Golden Valley of Happiness. They did it twice, making the 2,000 mile trek two years in a row by car before they decided to live there permanently.

When they told us the news of their decision, I along with my brothers Benjy & Joey were devastated, more so, since it was a shock to our systems. Only my brother Louie encouraged them. As for Naomi, I never did find out what her response was; frankly I didn’t care.

The move was difficult for them, as witnessed by myself and what my mother, The Arizona Babe said. There was a lot of scrambling, a lot of throwing away of things, a lot of donations and a lot of things that I had to carry around in my car that summer because I was unable to bring it into my apartment, due to the objections of my roommates, with the exception of furniture.

Most of all there was a lot of hard feelings between us, particularly between me and my brother Benjy. Benjy had been warned about the impending situation and did nothing to help himself out, specifically to pack his things up like his valuable vinyl records and cassettes that were being thrown out by a contractor my parents hired; the contractors instructions to via my parents; throw everything away, junk or non-junk.

Little did I know this when I had to come in and move some of my belongings that I had stored in their basement for so many years. I eventually sold my records since I had no room in my car and they looked as if they were going to melt into one big vinyl pile anyway.

My parents did sell their house to a fairly young couple and off they moved to the Golden Valley of Happiness. The rest of us, (with the exception of Louie), were in a deep state of sadness as if we had lost our beacon of hope. And we did temporarily.

Secretly, we pass by the house in the midnight hour, hoping to see the old happy ghosts we once played, ate and slept with. Sometimes we do and sometimes we don't. We wonder at times if it's all a mirage.

Yet we all recovered. My parents seem happier than ever and we as their grown children have gone onto bigger and better things.

The Arizona Diamondbacks won baseball’s World Series that year.

Things happen for a reason.

In seven days, let happiness begin!

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Myriam

Well, here we are, the second Friday of the month and what a easy week it ended up as. I sure hope all you folks in Blogcity had a good week as well, this the sweet capper for the week! Well, with Valentine's Day just ahead of us this coming week, I believe this poem will suffice for today. And remember my dear readers, always, always, enjoy!!!

Myriam

She is

Of

Divine

Unawakened

Flesh

Fallen in my soul

I want so much to help her up

But I’ve already

Let her go

Although it seems better

Inside my heart

It is so much worse

The Innocence Mission: Still Fighting The Good Fight 42 Years After The Fact

I was barely two and a fourth years of age when the invasion first occurred so long ago. My older brother Louie was three and a half years. My sister Naomi had just turned six a few months previous, while Benjy was on the way and Joey didn’t arrive until later.

On the other side of the world, the invasion had been in the planning stages since 1956, when two field operatives first met at a churchyard fair. After deep philosophical discussions and an offer with no monetary benefits attached, other than lots of booze and girls galore that they could score with, the two field operatives joined forces.

They continued to build their resources and added another operative several months later and became a trio. The trio then planned and executed a variety of strategic moves even though they were missing one key element; timing.

Timing is everything in the universe and nothing like timing will mess things up if the plan comes back in an untimely fashion, yet at that point everything else seemed to be in house order.

But then, without warning, the war began!

The smaller battles were easier to win at first. Then came the harder stuff; the carpet-bombers, the mid-range missiles, the land mines hidden along the road and throughout the fields and worst of all, the air raids in the night or the surprise attacks in the pre-dawn hours.

There were upsetting defeats along the way that was for certain. They also at times, had to pull back their troops. Sure, there were criticisms along the way and that’s when the operatives used colonels, captains, generals to help them strategically find their way to beat back time and defeat the ensuing enemy.

A few years later, one more operative joined up with the trio, who then became a foursome that won battles more steadily; more on an even-keeled pace. And it only got better until, one day a friendly force came into the picture. And of course, good friends always talk and soon their talks became philosophical, so much so that one of the men from the friendly force was asked to join them on their mission.

What to do about the other operative? They gave him the boot and the rest as they say is history.

42 years later, the mission is on-going, two less operatives in the world, but their spirits reign free over all of mankind. And that’s a beautiful thing! God bless you John, Paul, George & Ringo; we couldn’t have made it without you!

In And Out Of Holes We Go: Oh To Have A Virgin…NOT!

“You say she's a virgin. I'm gonna be the first in. Her fellah's gonna kill me? Oh fucking will he.…” Dr. Jimmy, The Who

What is the real use of saving virginity for marriage, when it is so not trendy anyway? Seems to be quite fashionable all over the globe, spread out by an old wives’ tale that seems to imply that you’re not good enough for a man/woman if you are so an individual who has lost “IT.”

Ministers preach abstinence although with the way some priests are behaving these days, you kind of have to wonder. Still, teenage girls and boys take verbal & contractual vows, promising their parents they won’t take part in the “DIRTY DEED.”

Some religious people are like that too, although with as much as they preach the gospel, it certainly doesn’t always happen that way, even as some spread around that fictitious lie around about how the Virgin Mary was knocked up by God through artificial insemination, not a miracle as others would have you believe.

Hell! Young children begin asking their parents where they came from at an early age and parents make up something to fend their child off easily, hoping the answer will suffice for that given moment, meaning when the appropriate time arrives, that they won’t give them a silly answer like “the stork brought you” or “we found you in a rose petal.”

When did the act of making love become so wrong? In other countries other than the USA, it is accepted as the norm and is not treated as shameful, evil or otherwise bad like it is here.

Why do parents and societies insist that both sex and foreplay, (i.e. petting, touching and kissing) is so immoral? Animals do it in front of people all the time and they could seem to care less. Humans however, enjoy the guilt they carry regarding “IT.”

Making love is the most beautiful act shared between two people who like each other very much and want to show their appreciation for them. Why save yourself for marriage when it’s better to get a “feel for” or have a true “hands-on” experience with the act itself?

Virgins, both men and women tend to be uptight, they see the world through their selfish eyes only and do what they want to do; in other words, it’s either “my way or the highway.”

Sure after the “first time” some still behave like that, but the majority of people don’t. They become over-eager and want to do IT anyway, anyhow and anywhere they can just to improve upon their skills.

But then there are folks who have had a truly bad experience; take my friend Bill for example; Bill was in his late 20s when he lost his virginity. He was dating a woman one and a half times. The night their “event” occurred, everything fell apart. She yelled at him when he told her it was his first time and he wanted it to be special.

She felt like shit Bill said and told him that it wasn’t special for her, as it was extremely painful. Bill said he cried that night and he never forgave her when they broke up several months later.

What broke them up was the fact that he met a kinder and younger woman than her who was around his age, who told her about his experience. From what he said, his new girlfriend made sure that every time they “did it,” that the experience would be more enjoyable.

So the moral of the story, dear readers, is: What’s the point in saving yourself for one person, when in the long run, you might have more difficulties down the road of passion? Fucking isn’t so terrible; it’s the person who doesn’t fuck and saves themselves for the right person that will have major complications later.

If at first you don’t succeed; try, try again.

If not, try masturbation on for size; that can be a handful too.

American Yarnprose>Barnyard

I was born out of a train-whistle...

Thistled-bird frozen out for dinner but chirped a new Ford.

Stagnant water beside the slaughter.

Time ago it seems, a guy with a tie threw a pie in the sky near a brickhouse of a field that swallowed pills.. green, blue, red, orange, purple, purple, purple, purple!

"No," he said merrily.

Merrily the cat crawled like a roach, squashed by squeaky gym shoes pinned to a bulletin board of thick-inch glasses, smoking frop all day.

All night, candlesticks-a-plenty, all rhyme, no crime, spent my last dime, ate a lime, spit out the rime, a fellow asked me for the time.

I said no sons or daughters beyond this point are leashed.

Not without a frog license of building code standard.

One thing.

Two acme.

Three grasshill.

Four floor.

Number five.

Whatever!

Where Is Al Capp’s Spirit When We Need It Most?

We live in a frightening world. A world whose authority figures believe its population would be far safer if it did away with honesty, traditions and community.

Censorship plays a far stronger role in societal norms than ever before; the mere suggestion of bodily functions as natural as spring water is forbidden by most conservative media (not liberal as the conservatives decree), that is most media that holds a gun propped against its head in order to “make nice” to a general population.

Watching the Super Bowl last night with a group of friends showed me just how much we as citizens of this great nation could be affected by such nonsense.

Hell! Even the advertising executives at Budweiser got away with “the streaking lamb” commercial and yet, The Rolling Stones get a word censored from their lead-off song “Start Me Up,” which they performed at halftime during the big game, but oddly enough their last song, “(Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” was completely left alone. I guess Janet Jackson has everyone scared.

It’s not the first time they’ve been censored. Way back in 1967 during an appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show, the lyric line from their song with the same title “Let’s Spend The Night Together,” was changed to “let’s spend some time together.” Whether or not it the lyric was censored, I’m sure it didn’t stop girls everywhere from having massive multiple orgasms, thinking about the Stones and “them.”

But then there are crazier ideas; crazy in the sense that tradition gets stamped out because it offends a particular group of people, even though the tradition has been around for decades.

I couldn’t believe my ears when the CBS News radio network reported much earlier this morning that some English (as in England) schools are getting rid of a long time favorite; hot cross buns. And why are they doing this? Well, they don’t want to offend all the Jehovah’s Witnesses that attend their schools. They’ve also asked portable vendors to stop selling them to schoolchildren as they emerge from the building when class is over for the day!

Of all the insane ideas! What’s going to happen next? American Jews decrying police personnel who wear badges that are shaped like the Star of David? Baptists boycotting BMWs because the car’s symbol looks like an upside down broken cross? Whatever happened to freedom of choice?

Now I understand why Al Capp was the way he was, he didn’t believe in the bullshit like most Americans sit and swallow every single day of their lives. Where is Al Capp's spirit when it is needed most?

American Yarnprose>Ornamental Copulation

The sun has peaked its yellow butt out of the tushy-feel clouds.

Jesus was an anarchist...

A CEO in wolf’s disguise...

Vaginal feel slippery orange peel slop against the tops of my fingertips...

Sleepy carnivals

Twirling copterblades ready for takeoff in gloomy summer sky...

Oh!

How she is flying, flying so high...

And yet she comes, crashing

Crashing softly in nestled woods.

Dead.

On impact.

Slammed into ground.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSmoldering.

Remains.

S----------------------------------------------------------------------------C---------------------------------------------------------A---------------------------------------------------------------T---------------------------------------------------------T-----------------------------------------------------E-----------------------------R---------------------------------------E---------------------D

wwwittthhhout

(shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh)

sound

Pain Is A Lingering Pill, Taking Its Sweet Time To Dissolve.

“What galaxy did you arrive from,” the skeptical first words out of my new vocals teacher’s mouth, Miss Tequila Moonshine-Autumn, 2003

Being a music student in my adult years, as opposed to my formal education while in high school and college, you tend to learn a few things along the way, what to do and what not to do. I learned a lesson the hard way while taking classes at a local music school.

I had just finished a long and fruitful two years with a particular vocals teacher whom I was quite fond of and suddenly, when I learned she was leaving, I had to hunt for a replacement teacher who I thought would be comparable; little did I know what I was getting myself into when I discovered Tequila Moonshine.

Tequila’s profile on the school’s website seemed like she was fun, open-minded very creative and experienced with music; it sounds like a personal ad on Yahoo! doesn’t it?

It’s always difficult to replace a teacher that you love and admire so much with someone less than what you realize might be up to par from before.

The first day, we got off on the wrong foot; got signals mixed, but eventually we fixed it up right. I was more interested in putting my poetry to music created for more at that point and though now I know how wrong that was to take advantage of a teacher’s abilities like Tequila, I didn’t see that so clearly during our time together.

What was supposed to be a good learning experience began feeling wrong. Tequila roughed me up mentally, resulting in many crying spells, coupled with frustration because I didn’t understand how a teacher could be so mean and difficult when it came to teaching.

I eventually told Tequila and she fixed the situation, but it only worked for a little while. We had our moments, both normal and intense and my guess that Tequila wasn’t used to someone like me. Tequila did say later that she never knew what it was going to be like with me from week to week.

Lord only knows I tried making the situation work and Lord only knows Tequila made an effort at first too, I can’t say I could blame her for anything at first, but it did come back to haunt both her and I in a most extraordinary and cruel way.

Tequila’s behavior from normality seemed to shrink as she slowly began to build an invisible fence between us. She distanced herself from me, even as I tried to invite her to shows of mine; right away, Tequila had an excuse for everything; it all seemed so strange to me at that point, but slowly I began to see the pattern.

Tequila even went as far as making outrageous claims that her boyfriend (if
she even had one at that time) was an ex-FBI agent and she made me promise that
I wouldn’t repeat back other things to anyone else that he supposedly told her
things like that there was some secret plan to attack Chicago with a nuclear
bomb, around the time of 911.

Tequila constantly remarked that I enjoyed self-deprecation, but I always wondered what she was up to when she was behaving like a pathological liar trying to psyche me out.

Tequila made more outrageous claims and I became more skeptical of her. Tequila wanted out and I wanted to make it work by sticking it out.

When I finally gave in to Tequila’s mad behavior and started a search for another teacher, it turned out the teacher I picked just happened to know Tequila and of course they probably spoke at length about me. Lo & behold and quite predictably, the prospective teacher told me she didn’t have time in her schedule for me.

When I saw Tequila the following week, she demanded to know why I hadn’t told her I was looking for another teacher and I just thought that she was being a little over-reactionary in the sense that I owed it to tell her I was. I only wish I could have told Tequila that I felt like I was in high school again and I felt backstabbed.

When the music school's program director confronted me one day in the hall, she told me what Tequila Moonshine had said and I remarked, “Oh! You don’t know the half of it,” as I explained to her everything that Tequila didn’t bother to tell the program director. Suffice to say, I picked a different direction, which I’m much happier with now.

There are days when I find old lesson tapes that I recorded with Tequila Moonshine and listen to them and sometimes in the middle I have to stop and put on something else for they are far too painful to hear.

I see Tequila Moonshine’s name in local music listings from time to time and I often wonder what would happen if I decided to show up one day to one of her shows? Would she freak and have someone throw me out of the joint? I haven’t bothered to answer that question as of yet.

And perhaps I never
will. Pain is a lingering pill, taking its sweet time to
dissolve.

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Menage A Flintstone

Well, here we are, the first Friday of the month and what a busy week it ended up being for me. I sure hope everyone of you kiddies out tand about in Blogston also had a good week,this being the solid capper for another busy weekend! Well, I think this little poem will suffice for today. And remember my dear readers, always, always, enjoy!!!

Menage A Flintstone

I don’t often escape my own sunsets

The awful tragedy

Of jumping from hole to hole

Maybe I’m a cliché and I don’t even know it

Left behind in room 211

In the no-brainer motel