Burned Toast and Coffee

Aliens, they’re a laugh a second

2012-02-15T08:57:00.000-08:00

Prompt……."Suppose aliens abducted you as you were walking in the park. Write a story telling about this experience."

*******

Do you remember that song about strolling through the park one day in the merry, merry month of May? It goes on to say, “I was taken by surprise by a pair of roguish eyes…

It turns out the roguish eyes in the song belonged to a young maiden and they lived happily ever after.

Why do I bring that up that song? Well that sort of happened to me. I was strolling through the park and I was taken by surprise but it wasn’t in the merry month of May and it wasn’t a pair of roguish eyes.

It was last month, January and I was taken by surprise by a pair of alien eyes and a pair of alien arms and a single space ship. I was abducted by space people.

No, they were not little, they were not green and they didn’t have bug eyes but they did have great big ears like Dopey from Disney’s “Snow white” and they wore dopey hats and dopey robes. They said they were from the land of Dope just beyond the 10^th Star of the Galaxy Organorous.

You may be wondering why a bunch of Dopians would want to abduct me and I wondered the same thing and then I found out the head Dopian was also wondering the same thing.

I distinctly heard him say. "He's no dope, why did you abduct him? He is of no practical use to us. Throw him out."

Good I thought until I looked out the window and realized we were somewhere in outer space. It dawned on me that “throw him out” might not be good for my health.

I said, “Wait!” I didn’t know what else to say. Wait was the only thing I could think to say but it was a brilliant stroke of genius to say wait because “Weight” was the name of the head Dopian's daughter.

However, her name was not spelled w-a-i-t, it was spelled w-e-i-g-h-t but he didn’t know I was saying wait to wait. He thought I was calling his daughters name because I knew her.

His ears wiggled and he said, “Do you know where my daughter is?”

Now I am not the swiftest watermelon in the patch but I knew I had better know where the beautiful Miss Weight was located because if I didn't, I was going to do a space walk and not the Michael Jackson kind.

“Absolutely,” I replied. “She was sitting on a park bench right back there where you picked me up. Now if you will take me right back there where you picked me up, I’ll point her out to you.”

His ears went to full wiggle and he did a little circle toe dance that was kind of fun to watch.

I said, “You should do a show in Vegas. You would be a hit”

His ears started wiggling again and he did a circle toe dance in the reverse direction.

He giggled and said, “I had to unwind.”

Then he slapped me on the back and said, “That’s a Dopian joke…get it?”

I laughed because I knew it was smart to laugh at jokes of the powerful. His whole crew laughed because they knew it was smart to laugh at the jokes of their leader.

They took me back to the park and as I was leaving Weight really was waiting and she came Toe Dancing up to meet him. First, she wiggled one ear and then she wiggled the other ear.

I have no idea if that had a special meaning because I wiggled my derriere out of there.

gsbatty/Feb. 2012

the cloud

2012-02-11T20:36:00.000-08:00

The cloud
was there, so was I
I can only wonder

Wonder about the cloud
I knew I was there
but why the cloud

I well, I
I come from not to far
and the cloud

Now the cloud
is different
the cloud has traveled

The cloud has been reborn
Time and time and time
Again

And there it sits
Over me
Why

why that cloud
it’s not a good cloud
it has the black below

the gray above
is that me
do I see a message

feel a message
it moves
it moves away

why
am I marked
an omen

maybe
If that cloud comes back
I’ll know

The Horseman

2012-01-31T20:22:00.000-08:00

We all have fond memories of our childhood. We remember those time times that were different and exciting or a time when we met someone special

The horseman was one of those special moments in my childhood. He was a tall lanky man with a haphazard short cropped beard and I was pretty sure his nick name was something like “Slim”. It wasn’t. It was “The Horseman”. Naturally I assumed he rode horses.

Of course the residents in the small Southern Utah never uttered the direct article “The”. They simply said, “Horseman, how the hell are ya”, “Horseman, how the hell is old ‘Cabby’ doin” or “Hey Hoss, goin fishin today?”

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I was with my mom and dad sitting in one of the three booths at Judy’s Café when he walked in. He nodded at my parents and squeezed my shoulder.

He was a pleasant man with a warm smile that divulged a couple of missing teeth. Judy had his breakfast ready as he slid onto one of the four stools at the counter. He bantered back and forth with four road workers sitting at the booth behind us. He drank a full cup of black hot coffee before he started on his ham and eggs with a side of hotcakes

He didn’t waste any time with his breakfast. He made small talk while he still had food in his mouth. I was sure my mom was going to say something because she always did when I talked with my mouth full but she just looked the other way. I knew his bad table manners would be a topic that I would hear about the next time we sat down to eat. Also I noticed that he didn’t remove his hat when he sat down to eat. In fact, nobody did except me and my dad. ‘No hats at the table” was a rule at our house and it was strictly obeyed. I decided that I was going to be real happy when I could enjoy a meal like they did.

The tall man left just before we did. As I walked out the door I heard him say, “Come on Cabby lets head for home.”

The horse was nibbling grass next to the café. It wasn’t tied to anything. It didn’t even have a halter on. I waited for the tall man to get a saddle and halter and put it on the horse but he didn’t. He just started walking up the street and the horse turned and walked along beside him.

One of the road hands walked out of the café and my dad asked him why the tall man didn’t ride the horse.

“Old Hoss?” he answered. “Hell he’s never ridden a horse. Says it’s cruel. That old horse Cabby is his pet. Just like a damned dog. Follows him wherever he goes. Some folks swear that they even sleep together but I don’t believe that.

We call him the horseman because of old Cabby being a pet. You know he lives 5 miles back up in that canyon. He walks down here 6 days a week for breakfast. Figger he has to leave about six A.M. to get here by eight. Says the horse needs the exercise.

Walks to church on Sundays and that’s near seven miles one way and that damn horse walks with him. When he gets to church he sits in the back by a window and Cabby stands outside with his head in the window. Folks say that old horse hears every word the preachers says and even laughs when the preacher comes up with a good joke. And that ain’t the best of it. When the preacher prays, folks say the horse says amen. Now doesn’t that beat all. Course I never heard him say amen because I don’t go to church but I’ve been tempted just to hear that horse talk.”

By the time the road worker was through with his story, the Horseman and Cabby had walked clean out of sight.

“Is that a true story?” I asked my dad.

“Beats me,” my dad said. “But I’ll never call a man a liar unless I know for sure. What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “But I sure would like to hear that horse say amen.”

2012-01-25T21:05:00.000-08:00

My Home Town

Beneath a mountain

above a lake

lies the town

I chose to forsake

It has left my life

But not my heart

Nor my mind

I dream

Of the small streets

Filled with love

Old friends of mine

They stop and say hello

How are you doing

How’s your uncle Joe

The words were real

Their hearts were true

When I think of what I left

My heart feels a little blue

Beauty

2012-01-22T13:30:00.000-08:00

whence cometh thou

Is it through
my eyes, my touch, my heart, my ears, my mind
another dimension
all dimensions

you cannot just be
how can I know thee

I must be you
I must let you be me

I must
climb for you…sweat for you
Feel your dirt…your rocks…your cold…your warmth
hear your winds sing the songs of life and love
hear your birds praise the universe above
hear your waters caress the earth below
rise to the sky and let it wrap round me
climb your mountains and make them me
lie in your valleys and feel them caress your skies

You must
feel
my aches…my pains…my breath
capture
my eyes, my ears, my mind, my heart, my soul

then

I will be yours
wherever you are, whatever you are

I will
see you, hear you, feel you, be you

you will be me, I will be you

We will belong

to the earth, the wind, the clouds, the moon, the sun and the stars,

The stars, the sun, the moon, the clouds, the wind, the earth,
will belong to us.

Having my Baby

2012-01-15T21:18:00.000-08:00

It has occurred to me that writing is just another form of creating a baby.

Every time we write something new, we have sired another baby or child. True to actual life, a lot these children are created and then abandoned.

An idea, a child, is created and then because the creator, the writer, has created more than he or she can deal with, the fetus is aborted.

We write half a page, half a chapter, half a book and then because we haven't planned properly or prepared ourselves properly, we are not fit to be the parents of what we have created. We lament that the child is not doing well. The child is not what we had hoped for but that is not his or her fault. (is the gender of an unborn article male of female?)

The fault lies in our inability to be master creators. We would like to be gods in the world of writing but alas, most of us are not
.
If, by some quirk of fate we are actually able to create a story or a book in its entirety, we are then left with the responsibility of raising our creation.

But as in human children, we need help. Someone has to clean up the poop. By "clean up the poop" I mean the story needs to be edited and proofed. Editing and proofing is like picking up the poop in your back yard. No matter hard hard I try I always miss a pile and it's the same way with writing.

When we write we know what we mean to say and it is easy to leave out words or use the wrong word in the wrong places and when we reread what we wrote our eyes see what we think is there
.
Have you seen the email that goes around where all the words are misspelled? It is very easy to read what is written and that is what we do with our own gibberish.

It is wise if you can beg or pay someone else to do the poop picking.

Once the poop is taken care, hopefully our child will move from grade school to high school where editors and agents may be lurking to grab the little bugger and make sure he or she (there's that gender thing again) stays on the straight and narrow.

If, and that is one big frigging if, (I have a love-hate relationship with the word frigging) it makes it with an agent and then a publisher, it may graduate from college and go on to bigger and better things.

Bigger and better things...like making money to support us in our old age.

Nanny State

2012-01-02T16:51:00.000-08:00

It has to make one proud to be part of a state that leads all other states in the creation of new laws

I live in the Nanny State (California) and our latest endeavor is to crack down on the populace for eating and driving.

That’s right…eating and driving!

The Nanny State can and will give you a ticket for eating and driving. That is the CHP (California Highway Patrol) has decided that eating while driving in the Golden State between 6 a.m. Friday December 30, 2011 and 6 a.m. Saturday December 31, 2011 could mean as much as a $1,000 fine if it impairs a driver's ability to operate a motor vehicle.

While there is no law saying someone can't eat while driving, a distracted driver is in violation of the law. Under California's vehicle code, a driver can be ticketed $145 to $1,000 for having "wanton disregard for the safety of persons or property."

There are a couple of things that grab my attention.

The first is the reference to “the Golden State”. That is the official Nickname of California (since 1968) and I think it refers back to the California gold rush of 1849. However I have been told that it may refer to the fields of Golden Poppies that cover the state each spring .(I have lived here 40 years and never seen a golden poppy…I guess they are something you have to go out and look for.)

I have to believe that while we may prefer to call ourselves as the “Golden State” others may prefer the name I have chosen for this article. Maybe we can keep our nickname by saying it comes from all the gold that state extracts from its citizens.

The second item that grabbed my attention is the date that the CHP chose to impose its food crack down. Why did they choose the day before New Years? I can only guess. I assume it’s because they feel they will be too busy with drunk drivers to worry about arresting or ticketing drivers that are caught eating but as I said, it’s an assumption.

If you should decide to spend some time in the Nanny State please be aware of our Golden rules:

· Do not drink and drive

· Do not text and drive

· Cell phone hands free only

· Do not eat and drive

I must confess that I am not sure whether the eating rule includes coffee and sunflower seeds. I guess it would depend on the whim of the CHPofficer.

You would be wise not to flip them off.

ECLECTIC

2011-12-31T14:07:00.000-08:00

One Friday evening, my wife, her mother and me were sitting in a small Buena Park restaurant called Salt & Pepper when my wife made what I thought was a very strange statement.

She just blurted out, “There is a very eclectic group of people in this restaurant tonight.”

I was surprised at my wife using the word eclectic and using it in a sentence. Maybe I was jealous because I love to solve cross word puzzles and eclectic would be a great word for a puzzle. Because I am the cross word nut, I am usually the one to come up with strange and fascinating words. Maybe I was surprised because I had no idea what eclectic meant. I had heard the word but I did not have a clue to its meaning.

I commented to my wife that I was surprised with her use of the word and then I asked her what it meant.

“Odd,” she said. “It means odd. There are a lot of odd people here tonight.”

“That’s a great word,” I replied.

She was right. There are always odd people at the Salt & Pepper restaurant and the oddest group there was probably our group. At least I am very sure that other diners looked at us and giggled under their breaths.

One of the reasons I like Salt & Pepper is the other people that go there to dine. The food is good and the service is excellent but I like the people. They are the people that I like to refer to as “salt of the earth” people. They are the normal type of people that make and made this country great. They put on no airs. They do not pretend to be anything but what they are.

I feel like I am one of them.

I feel comfortable.

I don’t feel odd.

However, I guess I could feel eclectic because once we arrived home I had to Google eclectic. The results indicated that eclectic is close to odd but I wouldn’t provide my wife with a win in a Noah Webster contest.

Noah Webster defines eclectic when it used as adjective and when it is used as a noun as follows:

· Adjective: Deriving ideas, style, or taste from a broad and diverse range of sources.

· Noun: A person who derives ideas, style, or taste from a broad and diverse range of sources.

So an eclectic person is one who uses a wide range of sources to form his opinions or beliefs. An eclectic person is not an odd person unless one considers it odd to form ideas from different sources.

Therefore, it was not an eclectic crowd at the restaurant. I refuse to call it an odd crowd because as I stated earlier, I was part of the crowd and I adamantly refuse to admit that I am odd.

The problem for me was to figure out where my wife heard eclectic and why she wanted to impress me with her new found knowledge by using it in sentence and also would I bet wise for me to inform her that she was just a wee bit wrong in her usage of the word?

I suspect that she heard the word on MSNBC because that is what she watches on the mind bending tube that we call television. She is deeply into politics. She wakes up and watches MSNBC. She watches MSNBC in bed at night.

I am not into politics. I think all politicians are crazy but I do have my political beliefs and I am very happy with them. It is not necessary for me to boor you with my beliefs. I am very happy to let you believe and vote as you see fit. I will believe and vote as I see fit.

However, my wife tries to get me involved in a political “discussion” on various occasions. Once in a while I will fall for the bait and then regret it. The “discussion” usually leads to several hours of silence between the two of us.

I am not about to accept some of the premises tossed around on MSNBC and she is not about to accept any idea that I may have so why should we go down that road? I am happy to let her believe as she wants. For some reason, the opposite does not hold true.

I have come to the belief that when someone is so adamant in their beliefs that they cannot let another person have any different belief, that person is beginning to go over the Kooky bridge. I sometimes wonder if my wife in her world of politics isn’t somewhere in the middle of that bridge.

So assuming that she learned eclectic and the miss use of eclectic on MSNBC I have chosen to let sleeping kooks lie and keep my non political mouth shut. I am happier that way.

Sgbeatty/dec-2011

I've Been Thinking

2011-07-31T17:33:00.000-07:00

I’ve been thinking

I’ve been thinking. I try to do that every now and then. This think is about clichés. I have noticed that a lot of people, including myself, talk in clichés. When I make a statement it is not uncommon to be answered with a cliché or to answer with a cliché.

One of my favorite clichés is “Opportunity doesn’t knock twice”. When I hear those words I always wonder, why not? If it came the first time, surely it could drop in the 2nd time. What happens if I’m in the shower and I don’t answer the door when opportunity knocks? It wouldn’t be fair if opportunity only knocked once. If that were really the case then no one would ever take a shower and then what a stinking world we would have.

I know it’s just a cliché and cliché’s are just a bunch of words tossed into a pot, stirred around and then extracted by a word witch or just to be fair a word warlock. But people really do believe them.

What would have happen if they stirred the pot and extracted, Opportunity doesn’t knock twice”? Would that change the meaning? What if the pot had popped out “opportunity only knocks once”? Would that change the meaning?

Or maybe they forgot to tend the pot and the words just kept popping out. Then the cliché might be “Opportunity knocks twice, three times or if you are not careful opportunity will come knocking every night like a love stricken teenage boy mooning over your giggling teenage daughter”.

You hear the knock and you scream, “Get the hell away from my daughter!” and it turns out to be that pesky old opportunity. Then the cliché could be “opportunity keeps knocking until you chase it away with a shot gun.”

No, I guess that really wouldn’t work. Clichés need to be short and to the point. Something like, “black dogs don’t talk”. You could fit that one into any conversation you want to.

Let’s say someone wants to borrow some money. All you have to say is, “They tell me that black dogs don’t talk.” You’re home free. Who in their right mind would challenge you and claim that, “black dogs do talk”? The statement is correct. Black dogs don’t talk. They might ask, “What does ‘black dogs talking’ have to do with borrowing a buck or two?” But most people won’t do that. People are afraid to challenge clichés. They do not want to admit that they don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.

I once said to a young friend of mine, “It’s tough to make ends meet”.

He thought for a minute and responded, “I guess when you do you can barbecue them.”

I thought for my minute and said, “No, I’m going to boil them.”

He changed the subject and I wasn’t sure if he was pulling my leg (there’s another one of them critters) or whether I was pulling his leg and I really didn’t want to ask because, as you know “black dogs don’t talk.”

gs batty/7-26-11

life

2011-07-06T22:24:00.000-07:00

is life really

a horse

a wheelbarrow

the rain

a child

maybe even

a chicken

looking at the sky

i wonder

Home-The Lamp Lighter and Chrysteel Acres

2011-06-26T19:45:00.000-07:00

Chrysteel Acres is a housing development created to house families of the steel workers that built Geneva Steel. Geneva Steel was a steel mill owned and operated by U.S. Steel corporation out of Pittsburgh, Pa. The mill was located along the shores of Utah Lake in Utah County, the heart of Utah. The mill was dismantled in the late 1900's. My father was a Steel worker and I grew up in Chrysteel Acres. This short story is a night extracted from my life in the house in Crysteel Acres.

Soft music drifts through the frost covered windows of the brick homes in Chrysteel Acres.
The shadows of Mt. Timpanogos sweep across the valley covering the house and the music. The image of the Indian maiden, Pocahontas, defines the peaks of Mt Timpanogos and is believed to protect the valley and the brick houses below and those that live there.

Most houses in the acres are perfect squares. They are walls of brick laid on cement foundations that jut from the earth and form basements beneath the hardwood flooring. Directly in the center of the front of the brick houses are cement porches with three steps leading up to their front doors. The steps have no rails or personalities. On either side of the steps are large square windows formed with one pane of glass.

Even though the homes are the same, they are not the same. They have their own personalities. Their windows are their eyes, the doors are their noses and the steps are their mouths. Each house takes on the personalities of the people I grew up with.

The red brick house on the corner emits soft music from a cello being practiced by a nine year old prodigy son of the dentist. He is accompanied by the teenage daughter of the ski lift owner that lives in the purple brick house in the middle of the block.

The music drifting from the home at 448 East 1010 South is coming from an RCA record player. The player is playing "The Old Lamp Lighter" by Sammy Kaye. The woman of the house rocks in her rocking chair as she knits another Afghan blanket to be given to another friend or relative.

She hums along to the music and sometimes even sings the words. She has a pretty voice but is self conscious if anyone dares to comment about it.

She is a heavy set woman with a beautiful smile. Her short cut hair has just began to show a hint of gray. As she works the needles with her hands and fingers, her lips seemed give her fingers silent directions as the player sings the words of the "The Old Lamp Lighter".

"He made the night a little brighter

wherever he would go

the old lamplighter

of long, long ago

His snowy hair was so much whiter

beneath the candle glow

the old lamplighter

of long, long ago"

The man of the house smiles as he watches his wife from the corner of his eye. He is of slender build with thick hair that was jet black when he was younger but now his hair is more gray than black. He combs it straight back but the only time you can see his hair is when he is in the house. He considers it bad manners to wear a hat in the house. When he is outside he always wears his welder's cap or a floppy Stetson style cowboy hat.

While the woman knits, if the man isn't in his basement workshop cutting and polishing stones, he sits in his easy chair and reads Zane Gray western novels. Sometimes he will drink a beer and sometimes a cup of coffee. Every so often he will get up and go to the garage and take a swallow of whiskey out of the bottle he keeps hidden there. The music follows him to the garage. I wonder if the music isn't somehow referring to the man I call dad.

"You'd hear the patter of his feet

as he came toddling down the street

His smile would cheer a lonely heart you see

If there were sweethearts in the park

He'd pass a lamp and leave it dark

Remembering the days that used to be

For he recalled when things were new

He loved someone who loved him too

Who walks with him alone in memories"

The couple have four children ranging from twelve to seventeen. Sometimes they grumble about the old music but they are not allowed to complain. The time after dinner is family time. The children do home work or read a book. The girls practice their crocheting or work on their needle crafts. The boys finish their homework and then read Zane Gray novels or other cowboy books that are on the coffee table.

The youngest boy looks through the frosted windows and watches the shadows created by the street light combined with the lights from the houses and sometimes the lights of a cars passing by. The shadows seem to him as if they are ghosts dancing across the snow covered yards. Once in a while a person walks by and the ghost shadows seemed to chase the walker and the boy would want to shout warnings but his mind would always catch him. The music would go on and the Lamplighter would walk with the shadows.

"He made the night a little brighter

wherever he would go

the old lamplighter

of long, long ago

His snowy hair was so much whiter

beneath the candle glow

the old lamplighter

of long, long ago"

The woman knits and hums. The man reads and dozes. The children slipped off to bed. The girls disappear to their bedroom up stairs to giggle and talk, the boys to their bedroom in the basement and continue their books. The basement is filled with the sound of the father's rock tumblers rolling and polishing his stones to a satiny sheen…swish…plunk…swish.

Their bedroom carries the aroma of fresh laundry hanging on the ropes strung from rafters in the basement laundry area. Always present is the foul odor of fuel oil that feeds the oil burning furnace. The pelt of a Utah Cougar watches them from their bedroom wall. They go to sleep listening to the sounds of the music falling from above.

"Now if you look up in the sky

You'll understand the reason why

The little stars at night are all aglow

He turns them on when night is near

He turns them off when dawn is here

The little man we left so long ago

He made the night a little brighter

Wherever he would go

The old lamplighter of long, long ago"

gs batty/June 2011

HOMELES - HUNGARY - PLESE HELP - GOD BLESS - 2

2011-01-27T07:31:00.000-08:00

Who are the homeless? Why do I care? Should I care? Can I help? Should I help? Do they want help or just money? Is giving them money good?...or bad?

Questions?...Questions?...Questions?...always questions.

What are the answers? Where are the answers? Are there any answers?

Do they have the answers, any answers?

I know I don't have the answers, only the questions.

I pulled in the parking place by the rear door of my business. A tall shaggy haired, unshaven man was sitting by my door as if he were waiting for me, but I knew he wasn't. I had seen him around the business park for the last couple of years. I had even given him a few odd jobs.

He used the door knob to help pull his tall, thin frame into a standing position.
I asked him a stupid question. "Are you homeless?" It was a stupid question because we both knew he was homeless. It was a stupid question because it embarrassed him

I have found out that the question, "Are you homeless?", creates a defensive and fearful attitude.

His answer was defensive. "I work for the businesses around here."

His brown eyes darted as if he was looking for a place to run.

"Can I ask you some questions?" I stuttered.

He grabbed his bicycle with three plastic bags filled with his belongings tied in various places, a guitar case hanging on the handle bars and a flat tire. He started to walk a way but decided to stop and tell me about an invention of his. He knew his invention would make him rich but he couldn't tell anyone about it because they would steal it from him.

When he started talking and saw that I was listening, he didn't want to stop.

He was going to be rich and give all the money to his children. He had a son that was a great baseball player. His son could pitch left or right handed with a hundred mile an hour fast ball. If his son wanted to play basketball he would be better than Kobe but he chose not to play basketball. He chose to sing. His son had someone who was going to produce his songs. They just needed to agree on the money side of the deal.

I listened and tried to ask some questions, but my feeble attempts to find out about the man with the bicycle only was landed on deaf ears. He had an audience and wasn't about to give up the stage. He went on and on about his son and his invention.

When I tried to find out anything about his invention, he only talked about the people that had tried to steal it.

I finally had to excuse myself and open my business.

Did I learn anything?

Only that this man lived in world of day dreams. Maybe the world of the homeless is really a "Walter Mitty" world.

Are they caught in a vortex of dreams, spinning in an endless eddy of despair?

Questions...questions...questions

I did learn something. I learned that I need to find a better of way asking my questions.

Next..."Three men in the rain...and the pizza"

HOMELES - HUNGARY - PLESE HELP - GOD BLESS

2011-01-03T06:26:00.000-08:00

may peace and love
find a warm place on your doorstep.
gs batty

He was standing next to a freeway off-ramp. It was a harsh day for Southern California. Temperatures in the forties, rain, and a brisk breeze were his surroundings for the afternoon.

Peace and love hadn't found a warm place on his door step.

He didn't have a door step.

He only had a place on a freeway off-ramp. I had a warm and dry place in my new pick up truck. I had worked hard for my new truck. It was something I had always dreamed about.

He had cold rain dripping off of his nose, and a sign begging for money...
...HOMELES - HUNGARY- PLESE HELP - GOD BLESS...

The sign wasn't printed nice and neat like you see the words here. The letters were crooked, some smaller than other, some misspelled. They were printed with a black marker on an old piece of soggy cardboard.

Get a job, I thought. Go out and work for a dollar like I have to.

But the rain, his shivering, his look of despair, touched something in me. I looked into my center console and it was full a change. I took a handful and rolled down my window. When he saw my window lowering he hurried over and extended his hand and I filled it up with loose change. I have no idea how much it was.

His eyes had a thankful look and he smiled and said, "God bless you. You're the first one today."

It was 3:30 in the afternoon. What is it that I hear people say all the time? Oh yea, "they make good money, 2 or 3 hundred a day. They're doing okay."

The light changed and I drove away. I thought about going back and giving more but of course I was to busy. However, I have had lots of second thoughts on the homeless.

Can they work?
Will they Work?
Is it better to look Away?
Are they Criminals?

Do you give a dollar or two, or turn do you you head?

This is the beginning of my series on:

Who are they? Is it possible to help?

Next....my first attempts on personal interviews and comparing the used clothing store with Bloomingdale's.

Coming....what does it feel like to stand on a corner (any corner) and beg?

Do you have any thoughts?...experiences?...leave a comment....

The Elephant Tree

2010-12-26T22:51:00.001-08:00

Early one hot summer morning I was walking through the woods. I came across a small babbling brook and decided to soak my weary feet in the cool water. I sat beneath a sprawling Oak tree next to the inviting water. I removed my shoes and socks uncovering my tired pink toes and began to dip them in the inviting water.

"Ahem" I heard someone say.

I looked but I could not see anyone.

"Ahem" the voice said again. "That certainly is not perfume I smell. In fact I smell a smell that is awfully stale."

I looked again but still there was no one to see.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I thought I was alone. Where are you?"

"Up here," the voice said. "Above you."

I looked up to see who was above me.

I coughed and sputtered, snorted and gagged because I could not believe who I could see in the tree above me.

Not a word did I say so the voice in the tree above me said, "What is wrong? Have you never seen an elephant in a tree?"

"Of course not," I replied. "Elephants do not belong in trees and are never seen in trees. Certainly you cannot climb a tree. How did you get in the tree?"

"I put myself here."

"How," I said. "I cannot believe that you could put yourself in a tree. But, if you did, why would an elephant want to be in a tree?"

"I did put myself in this tree and I did so to hide from the little boy that lives over that way," the elephant replied indignantly pointing through the trees with his trunk.

Then I heard a tiny young voice echoing through the woods, "Oh, Mr. Elephant, where are you?"

"Shush," the elephant said.

I put my shoes and socks back on my stinky feet and left the two friends to finish their game of hide and seek.

I walked back toward the place I call home until I came across another part of the little brook and decided that I still needed to soak my weary feet. I sat on a rock and looked into the tree above me just to make sure there wasn't another elephant in a tree.

I removed my shoes and socks and placed my weary tired feet into the cool water and sat and thought about the elephant in the tree.

No, I thought, you didn't see an elephant in a tree and I convinced myself that it was not true. I could not have seen an elephant in a tree. I was just tired. I must have fallen asleep and was dreaming.

As I relaxed and my feet began to feel better I heard the little boy's voice again,
"Oh, mister elephant, where are you?"

Oh, no, I thought. Maybe I wasn't dreaming.

I listened to his searching voice hoping he would go into another direction. But his voice got closer and stronger.

"Oh mister Elephant, where are you?"

Then he was upon me and he gasped in his surprise to see me dangling my bare feet in the running water.

He paused for a moment and then decided it was okay to speak to me. I am sure he thought I could be of no harm to him with my bare feet dangling in the water.

"Have you seen an elephant?"

"As a matter of fact I have."

"Could you tell me where he is?"

"I am not sure if I should."

"Why not?" He demanded. "It is important that I find him"

"I sort of promised mister elephant that I would keep his secret."

He came closer and said in a soft low voice, "If you tell me where he is, I won't tell him that you told me."

"That wouldn't be honest."

Well, maybe not, but I have to find him and I have looked everywhere."

"I am very sure you haven't looked everywhere. Have you looked under the rocks, or in the bottom of the brook or even in the trees?"

"That's stupid, I know you're teasing me because an elephant is too big to hide under a rock and an elephant is too big to hide in a brook and an elephant cannot climb a tree."

"Maybe and maybe not. He could be a magic elephant. Maybe he used his big ears and flew up into a tree."

He paused for a few seconds and then he took his shoes and socks off and dangled his feet in the water about 10 feet from where I was dangling me feet in the water.

"My mother told me never to get to close to strangers. Do you suppose this is far enough away? I am not to close, am I?"

"No," I smiled. "I am pretty sure you're safe where you are."

He was thoughtful for a few moments and the said, "I never considered an elephant flying with his ears. Do you really think they can do that?"

"It's possible. Elephants are not supposed to talk either, but mister elephant talked to me."

His eyes got wider, "Really, what did he say?"

"He doesn't like my stinky feet."

"Is that why you're washing them?"

"No, they were sore, but they feel better now."

"If you will tell me where he is I will give you half of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich."

"Do you have any potato chips"?

"No, but I have two Oreo Cookies. I will give you one of those."

I decided that was a fair offer so we struck the bargain for the cookie and then we went back down the path to find mister elephant in the tree.

"Is he really in a tree? How did he get in a tree?"

"It's true. He told me he put himself in the tree."

"Oh," was all the boy could say.

The boy and I walked side by side looking for the tree with mister elephant.

When we arrived at the elephant tree, mister elephant said, "Oh it's you mister stinky feet. I guess now I will have to call you mister squealer with the stinky feet."

"I guess that's true. I did show the boy where you were, but he was very worried about you."

"He sold you out for a cookie."

"Figures, he's probably some kind of politician."

"Hey elephant," a strange voice said. "What are you doing in a tree?"

"Oh, hello donkey, I'm hiding from the boy."

"It looks like he found you."

"No he didn't. The man with the stinky feet sold me out for an Oreo cookie."

"He must be a politician."

"I am not a politician. I was just concerned for the boy."

"You're it mister elephant," the boy said. "It's my turn to hide. You count to one hundred while I hide."

"I can't."

"You can't count to one hundred mister elephant," the boy and the donkey said in unison.

"Don't be ridiculous, I can count to one hundred," mister elephant said with disdain. "But, I cannot get myself out of the tree."

"Why not?" I asked. "You put yourself in the tree so you should be able to get yourself out of the tree."

"That is not necessarily true. Just because I was able to put myself in a tree doesn't mean that I can put myself out of the tree. It happens to cats all the time."

"This is not good," the donkey said.

"Let's call the fire department," the boy said.

"No," both the donkey and mister elephant yelled in unison.

"Why not?" the boy asked.

The donkey said, "Because of the press."

"What's the press?" the boy said.

"The press is the newspapers and the TV reporters," I answered.

"Are they bad?"

"No, they are not bad," mister elephant said. "But, they will tell the world about me in this tree and donkey on the ground and then someone will say donkey put me in the tree because I represent the Republicans and he represents the democrats."

"And then someone else will say it's not fair for mister elephant to be higher up than me," donkey said. "Then someone will put me in a tree."

"Then," mister elephant said, "They will put me higher up the tree until the branches won't hold me anymore and they will break and I will fall out of the tree. Then someone will blame donkey because he represents the Democrats. I would rather stay in the tree."

"What are we going to do?" the boy said.

"I'm hungry," mister elephant said. "And I'm thirsty."

"You can have my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and Oreo cookie," the boy said.

"I ate my Oreo cookie," I added. "But, I'll get you a hat full of water."

"Great," mister elephant said. "A baseball hat full of water, an Oreo cookie and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich are not what I would call a gourmet meal for an elephant!
All of that should last me about thirty seconds."

"Look at me folks I am an elephant. E-L-E-P-H-A-N-T…elephant. I usually get about a ton of hay per day."

"I wouldn't be so uppity if I were you," I said. "You put yourself in the tree. You only have yourself to blame. You do not want us to call someone that could help so you'll have to eat what we can give you until we figure out how to get you out of the tree."

Another voice entered below the tree. It was the boy's mother and she was very, very upset. "Young man, you were supposed to be home one hour ago. I was worried and upset."

The boy in his own defense testified that he was helping his friend, mister elephant. The mother was leery, very leery. "I do not see an elephant. I see a mangy old donkey, and a man with a wet baseball cap."

Mister elephant said from the tree above her, "Ma'am, do you suppose you could fix me a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?"

The mother looked up and saw mister elephant in the tree above her and fainted.

"Oh great," the donkey said. "Now we have an elephant in a tree and a dead woman under the tree. We better hope the fire department doesn't show up now. We will all be arrested for murder."

"Is my mother dead?" the boy gasped.

"No," I replied. "She just passed out. Sprinkle some water on her face and she should be okay."

The boy was very gentle. He did not sprinkle water on her. He took his shirt off and got it wet from the brook and slowly wiped her brow until she woke up.

She sat up and looked back into the tree. "Oh my God," She said. "There is an elephant in the tree. For lands sakes how did an elephant get in the tree?"

"I put myself here," said mister elephant. "How many times do I have to say it? Do you have any more of those peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? I am really, really hungry. But, I don't want any more of those Oreo cookies. I seem to be allergic to chocolate."

Then he sneezed and the whole tree shook.

Of course the donkey couldn't resist. "Now I suppose we will have to call the doctor? If the doctor comes then he will call the paramedics and they will call the fire department and they will call the police and the police will call the reporters and the next thing you know, we will have fifty news vans parked everywhere. Man, talk about an ecological disaster."

Mister elephant was becoming agitated. "Be quiet donkey. Why don't you take the boy's mom to make me some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? I think about three hundred should do it."

"That's the solution," donkey said. "We'll just feed him until his fat rear end breaks all the branches and he falls out of the tree."

"That's just fine by me," mister elephant snorted. "Just get me food, any food. But, I really want some of those peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."

The boy's mom took the boy and they went to find some food for mister elephant.
Mister elephant said, "Please hurry, my stomach's killing me."

I sat down by the babbling brook and said, "I've got a head ache and my feet are still killing me."

Mister elephant said, "Don't take your shoes and socks off. I don't want to smell your stinky feet again. Go somewhere else and practice one of your political speeches."

"I am not a politician," I yelled up at him. "I am a retired undertaker."

"Great," Donkey said. "Take your shoes and socks off and let your stinky feet kill him. When he falls out of the tree, you can bury him and we can all go home."

"Funny, funny, funny," mister elephant groaned. "I don't have to smell his feet; your jokes are killing me.

Just then one of the boy's friends came to the tree and started laughing.
"It's really true," he giggled. "There is an elephant in a tree, and an ugly donkey."

"Are you really a politician?" He asked me.

"I am not ugly," donkey said.

"I am not a politician," I groaned.

"Yes you are," mister elephant and donkey said in unison. "You sold out for one lousy Oreo cookie."

The boy's friend couldn't wait to tell everyone about the elephant in the tree, the ugly donkey and the politician. The neighbors had never had a politician in their neighborhood and certainly not an elephant in a tree so they all had to come to see the politician, the ugly donkey and of course the elephant in a tree.

And the word was out. The boy's friend told his mom. His mom called her brother who was a local newspaper reporter. The reporter came with a photographer and the evening paper had a picture of a frightened hungry elephant setting in a tree.

The headlines read: "LOCAL POLITICIAN PUTS ELEPHANT IN TREE".

Naturally the story was picked up by the twelve oclock TV news and by mid-afternoon there were news vans from every major news source in the world.

Nobody bothered to feed the poor hungry elephant. Everyone wanted an interview. Every person in the neighborhood was being interviewed on one channel or another all across America and the rest of the world.

Animal cruelty was being reported. Political tricks were being reported.
The donkey was accused of kicking his political rival into the tree.

The undertaker/squealer/politician was asked what office he held. He was asked to run for Governor and finally one group wanted him to run for president.

Everyone knew the "real" story and every "real" story was different than the other "real" stories and they were all wrong. However that didn't bother the news media because each and every one of them had a "scoop".

The Republicans accused the Democrats of demeaning their national symbol. The Democrats put an ad on TV disavowing the "ugly donkey" as their symbol. Their donkey was somewhere in main stumping for an election in that state.

The Republicans adopted the "elephant in a tree" as their new campaign slogan to show the entire world the cruelty of the democrats.

The Democrats accused the Republicans of campaign lies.

The elephant was still hungry and decided no one was going to bring him any peanut butter and jelly sandwiches so he decided to do what he should have done before the whole mess began.

He put himself out of the tree simply by jumping. He did what all tree jumper outers do. He put his feet over both eyes and jumped. He landed with a great thud but all the news people were so busy gathering news that they did not see or hear mister elephant when he landed.

Mister elephant walked away without a word to anyone.

I could hear him mumbling to himself, "I wondered if she made my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches yet.

The donkey walked behind him mumbling something about being called ugly.

I took my shoes and socks off and soaked my feet in the cool babbling brook.

And the News Media...you see them every night reporting on the political baloney (or would that be E.B. as in Elephant Baloney)

aroma of a man

2010-12-22T17:40:00.000-08:00

a smell,

not an odor

but an aroma

drifted across

nose

it was the

aroma

of a man

not of him

but

who he was

an aroma

what he did

it followed him

and

crowned his soul

it was strange to some

but

heaven to me

I loved that aroma

more

than just an aroma

it was the

aroma

of a man

it was the

aroma

of burning metal

it was the

aroma

of my dad.

gsbatty

wind traveler

2010-12-18T06:40:00.000-08:00

the wind

behind me

the sea below

a rock to hold me

from what?

I thought

the wind?

so cold to my flesh

yet so warm in my mind

the sea?

so wet to my skin

yet so warm in my heart

maybe my rock

holds my mind

in some deep crevasse

waiting to be

whisked

across the sea

can my flesh

follow my mind

to the sea?

maybe

the wind

can make me a sail

and transport

mind...my flesh... my soul

to somewhere

my heart

would rather be

gsbatty

garbage

2010-12-13T20:50:00.000-08:00

I spent a week writing the story. I waited three days and read the story I had written and to be honest it was really garbage.

I edited and rewrote the story and took took four more days. I waited another day and read the story aloud and it was still garbage.

I tried one more time to make something worth reading. That took another three days. I read it again and it didn't smell a whole lot better.

I repeated my effort three more times because a real writer told me that editing and rewriting at least six times is the minimum to create a good story.. I read it aloud three times and unfortunately I still had a lot of garbage.

I decided to write the story one final time and correct it for spelling and punctuation and then I read it again and wouldn't you just know it. It was still garbage

I loved it.

potatoes, jellybeans and google

2010-12-12T21:53:00.000-08:00

just some thoughts on potatoes and jellybeans without out the use of google.

have no idea why.

they are just there and I need to regurgitate them.

....the thoughts and maybe google ...but not the potatoes and jellybeans.

really, there is a reason why i'm thinking along the lines of potatoes and jellybeans. .

these thoughts were instigated by news stories.

sometime not to long ago, someplace in the USA, someone or somebody or some government bureaucracy banned potatoes from someplace claiming that we americans were getting to fat and potatoes were the cause (i think).

so a man that grows or sells potatoes protested by eating nothing but potatoes for 3 months or some period of time. he ate potatoes for every meal. he ate nothing but potatoes.

he lost weight. not bad.

i like potatoes...maybe it would work for me.

but, I have a better idea.

jellybeans.

pres. obama is going to sign a law that bans jellybeans in school lunches. the law will allow skittles but not jellybeans. i am not even going to try and figure that one out but it may be because pres reagan loved jellybeans. however, i do not want to accuse obama of being political when it comes to school lunches so maybe it is because he does not like jellybeans.

I have decided that I need to go on a jelly bean diet to protest the banning of jellybeans.

lets see, now I weigh 235. check me out in three months

critique

2010-12-10T08:55:00.000-08:00

do we or don't we?...

we don't...critique...

bloggers do not critique...we fawn... it's awesome ... it's wonderful...

bloggers do not write bad... (it seems)

we are all great writers and the world is on pins and needles wondering which great combination of words will flow elegantly from our fingers...

and we know that is a lot of BS...

we write...we post...we pray for readers and glorious responses...

and normally (actually always) we get some responses (but only from those we have responded to or those that are looking for responses) and our words are exalted as if they came from the fingers of Hemingway or Joyce...

and we know that is a lot of BS...

are we helping ourselves...each other...to learn and grow?...

is it possible that we could critique each other with a little more honesty?

No one wants to hurt someones feelings but do we grow if we believe no growth is necessary?...

As the British would say... Cor Blimey (God Blind me) and he has...at least as far as blogging is concerned...

I know most of us are not capable of critiquing what others or ourselves write as as far as proper grammar is concerned but we all know that when we read something if it is confusing but we say nothing... (this sentence confuses me)

No, we praise other bloggers. I guess we want to encourage them to write...

But, the real reason is that we want them to read our words and praise what we have written.

I took an Internet class on writing and got the same BS from the instructor.

"You are a great writer. submit...submit...submit and by the way take my next class...

Every avenue I have researched or followed is more interested in selling than in helping...

I did get one bit of criticism from the instructor...

stop using ...(dot dot dot)! It drove her crazy.

As you can see I didn't bother to take her advice...

...

...

looking to the past

2010-12-09T07:24:00.000-08:00

Cut and Dried

He was leaning on an old gate and lost in thought . He did not hear me. "Good morning," I said.

A little startled he turned my way with a smile and replied, "Good morning. Sorry I didn't here you. I guess I'm getting old."

"I didn't mean to startle you," I said. "Are you alright?"

"Never better," he said. "Just reliving part of my past. I used to live here. Our house was right over there by the big tree. It's gone now but I guess you can see that. My mom and dad are buried under that tree but their marker is gone too."

I never said anything. He had a deep voice that was interesting to listen to. I could see he had been a strong man and probably still was. His hands were gnarled like a working mans hands would be. His eyes were bright blue and actually sparkled when he talked about the house and his parents.

"The house wasn't much but they built it themselves. It had a pot belly stove in the living room and a wood burning kitchen stove. I used to love getting up and sitting in the warm kitchen with the smell of burning wood. My mother would make me a hot chocolate. Hot chocolate was real in those days. Real chocolate and real milk. Now days everything is fake."

He paused for a moment, his thoughts old and deep.

"I used to go fishing right over that hill. There was a little crick and a pond but somebody stole the water so that's gone to. Everything is gone or changed. That's the trouble with getting old, everything changes. Well I still got my memories. They can't take that or change it."

I wanted to stay and listen but I had to get home. I shook his hand and thanked him for sharing his memories and then invited him for a Sunday dinner.

"I might just do that, young man, I might just do that," he smiled.

I could see tears forming at the edge of his eyes.

Written for "Thursday Tales". The painting is by Yorkshire Artist Les Wilson

so I'm not a writer

2010-12-09T06:37:00.000-08:00

I am not a writer. I write my journal. It's nothing great, just some history for my kids to have in case they ever want to know who and what I was or where I came from or where they came from or maybe they may want to know what I remember about my parents.

The problem is my life is dull and was dull and will probably be dull until the day I die. I am just like everyone else. I am not a hero. I have never performed a heroic deed. I have never done anything to become famous. I have never committed a dastardly deed or heinous crime.

However I do have a few stories, same funny and some sad.

While learning to journal I discovered that I like to write stories. Some stories I write are based on truth with a little bit of the old "Artists prerogative " thrown in. Some of the stories I write are completely fiction. I like fiction the best because I can create anything, any place and any body and make my creation move at any pace I want to.

I do not create false truths about myself. I am not a yam like Popeye but my life is what it is. I was raised in Utah by good honest working parents. I was baptised Mormon but I do not follow the dogma as preached.

I believe in God and accept Jesus Christ as my savior but I have a difficult time categorizing one religion as better than the rest. I categorize people. They are either good or they're not good. I don't accept the black and white of religion. I believe in the gray and I let God do the judging.

I believe God is intelligent and therefore logical. I do not believe he will save me because I am a Mormon, or a Baptist or a Catholic or any other of the many religions that populate our world.

I believe I will be "saved" or "damned" for what I do and do not do.

I refuse to judge others by the color of their skin, their religion or the amount of money they have. I just try to accept people for what they are.

I ramble a lot with my thoughts and my writing. But rambling is okay because while I am rambling I am also writing. So after all maybe I am a writer.

Hope I get discovered before I die.

Eddy

2010-12-07T07:04:00.000-08:00

Eddy disappeared the top of his head with a hand gun.

Nobody wondered why.
Nobody cared.

When most people off themselves, it is done in a shroud of mystery.
“Why?” rings from and through their friends and family.
“There is so much to live for.”

Nobody’s voice rang out in horror for Eddy.

“So much to live for” did not apply to Eddy.

Eddy had nothing left to live for.

At least, that is what Eddy decided, so he shot himself and he did it with the efficiency that he used to have when he worked.

However, Eddy no longer worked but he had not forgotten efficiency. He simply put the gun to his right temple and pulled the trigger, blowing his mind all over a filthy alley and an emptty bottle of Thunderbird wine.

Eddy was a homeless drunk with no friends or family left to care about him. Whatever family he had left lived on the east coast. Eddy had left Boston some twenty years earlier to seek his fortune in the west. There were some second or third cousins living somewhere in the east but they either didn’t know about Eddy or they thought he was already dead.

His friends gave up on him a long time before he gave up on himself. They gave up on Eddy because he decided to drink himself to death and they did not know what to do so they just excused him from their minds.

Another drunk found him and called the police. After a short investigation they scooped him up and took him to the morgue. Eddie didn’t have any identification on him but he did have one of my business cards in the inside pocket of his worn out jacket.

The police called me.

I have no idea why he kept the card. I hadn’t seen or talked to Eddie in over two years. My last contact with him was when I took him to an Alcoholic Anomomous meeting and excused him from my mind.

I knew that if I stayed with him we would both end up in the gutter. I had clawed my way out and I knew Eddy had to claw his way out or not claw his way out. He was beyond my help.
But I was pretty sure he wouldn’t. His hurt was just too deep.

I had only been dumped by a wife.

He had lost a wife and a child.
But he did not lose them to divorce or separation.

He had lost them to the grim reaper.

He had lost them to death.

Eddy had been a hard worker with a young wife and a two year old son. They had just bought a new home with a pool and the worst thing possible happened. His wife lost track of the boy for a few minutes and he drowned in the pool. They were devastated.

But, that wasn’t the end of the heartbreak for Eddy. His wife committed suicide during the funeral of the boy. She told Eddy she needed to go home for something or some reason. She never returned to the funeral. When Eddy went to get her he found her lifeless body in the pool.

Eddy never recovered. He turned to alcohol to replace his wife and child. We all tried to help but his sorrow was too deep. He lost his job, his house and his friends. I was the last one.

He hadn’t changed much from the last time I saw him. He hadn’t been a big man to begin with and his diet of alcohol had taken away most of the weight he had. His face was gaunt and skinny and his flashing Irish smile and Irish grin that we all loved so much had left him long before the top of his head did.
But somehow Eddy looked peaceful.

I don’t know how God punishes drunks that commit suicide
but I believe in Eddy's case
God will show him all the mercy in his power.

directions to hell

2010-12-03T18:59:00.000-08:00

One of the most recent fads to hit America is the GPS system. Everyone has to have one. They do not need one but they have to have one. They need to keep up with the neighbors.

I have never felt the need to buy one. I have figured out how to maneuver through the cities of Los Angeles, New York, San Francisco, Seattle, Salt Lake City, Atlanta and the ugly city of Buffalo, New York.

I accomplished this by having a map and some common sense.

Oh yes, I have been lost and I have hovered around my destination for long periods of time. However, I have always felt that the lost and hovering times were my adventures. I've seen places that I would have never thought of visiting. I have seen the barrios and the ghettos of several major cities and believe it or not I am glad that I have. (probably more glad to be alive)

When I am alone, being lost is not a problem. I just keep searching until I find what I am looking for.

My troubles start when my wife is with me. She has a lot of trouble controlling the car when I am driving. That does not stop her from trying.

She has a habit of telling me where to turn and adds to the problem by using her finger as a turn signal. I used to get mad as hell but over the years I have learned to accept her directions and not pay attention.

But now she has acquired a "Droid" phone. When she acquired the "Droid" she discovered that it has a built in GPS system. I can thank my techie son for that little tidbit of information.

"Oh goody," she said. "We will never get lost again." I just rolled my eyes wondering what I was in for.

It is really ugly. I mean the whole scenario of my wife and me driving to new destinations is ugly. At least it is ugly for me. When we get into the car out comes the "Droid".

"Turn left", says the "Droid."

"Turn left here," my wife says, with her finger pointing left as if I don't know which way left is.

The really excruciating thing is the damned "Droid" has to tell me how to get out of my own neighborhood.

Sometimes, just to stir the pot, I will not turn or I will turn the wrong way. They both start jabbering a mile a minute. The "Droid" wants me to turn at the first street I come to. It seems very paranoid that I am going to get lost.

My wife is upset because I "don't listen" and wants me to make a U turn at the next corner.

If I am lucky we are on a street with miles and miles of no U turn intersections. Then I can go into the back neighborhoods where even the "Droid" can't find its way out.

I keep my mouth shut and smile inwardly.

A guy has to have some fun.

The voice in the flame

2010-11-10T20:04:00.001-08:00

The flames hypnotize me. I cannot keep my eyes off them.
They dance as if they are alive
but then they disappear leaving me gasping for fresh air.

On another day at another time they return to haunt me.
I become lost in them.

This time they seemed bigger.
There are more flames, more flickering and more jabbing
points of fire hissing at me as if they are alive and talking to me.

I stare and listen as if I could hear the lips of the flame
or read the words they are writing.

Why do they return?
I do not seek them. I do not want them.

They are not warm.
I hold my hands to them
but a cold winter wind blows through them.
My fingers become frost bitten.

Why? I scream.
I know the flames would talk to me if I spoke aloud
but they scare me.

Am I crazy?
No one else seems to notice them.
They are mine!
They are mine to keep.
They are mine to keep forever.

But, why would I want them?
Why would I want cold flames licking at my body?

Why would I want cold flames
leaving spots of frost bite where my heart used to be?

The cold flames are all that's left of you.

My desire is to destroy them as you destroyed me.

I cannot.
They remain to haunt me
.
Your cold and burning flames are jabbing ice into my heart.
I cannot put them out.

going green

2010-10-30T20:30:00.000-07:00

I'm going to jump on the crap wagon. I need to spread the fertilizer and get to be known as the "Green blog".

I have a great idea to green up the world. My idea is to save water and grow hogs to feed the poor.

Step one is to pass a law against all garbage disposals. We put all our garbage down the disposal and then run gallons of water to wash it on down the drain.

If we all put our food garbage in a "swill container" and had the city pick it up think of the water we could save.

Step two is for the state to create hog farms. The hogs could eat the garbage. We would create jobs in slaughter houses and the hogs could feed the homeless.

Hell, maybe I should run for Governor.