The Ancient of Weeks

THE SUFFERINGS OF ST. HOLIDAY - PART 15 - TALIBANNED

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

Two bearded men with turbans stand on the porch of the home of Show Low's pre-famous poet and all-around holy man, St. Holiday. They ring the door bell.

St. Holiday: Who now? Not another process server, I hope. O why do they persecute me? Should I open the door? Of course, it might be a supplicant with tithes in hand. (The door bell rings again)
St. H: OK. OK.
(Opens the door to find the two young bearded men wearing robes, turbans and name tags).
First Bearded Man: Peace be to this house!
St. H: Who are you? (staring at their name tags)
Second Bearded Man: I am Talib Yasser, and this is my missionary companion, Talib Omar. How are you today?
St. H: I'm sick, and I'm sore. I'm tired and I'm poor. Besides that, I'm doing pretty good.
Talib Omar: Are you the one everybody calls St. Holiday?
St. H: The one and holy, in the flesh.
Talib Yasser: So you're the one who started it all - making righteousness hip and trendy!
St. H: Well, I can't take all the credit. It all started in a small town in New Jersey...
T.O: (Cuts him off) How humble of you. I'd like to hear more. Some other time.
St. H: It's truly the untold story of what a diet of bean and cheese burritos can do for a man and a nation.
T.Y: How rare it is for us to find another member of the Holy Sapiens, living in partnership with the Divine.
St. H: Oh, I'm just a member of the poor, resting class, longing for a happiness that resides only on the frontier of my imagination. Who are you guys? I notice you both have the same first name.
T.O: Huh? Oh, Talib; that means "student." We are representatives of the Taliban, going door-to-door in your neighborhood, sharing the good news of Islam. Could we have a few minutes of your time?
St. H: Well, I'm in the bowels of a personal crisis right now. Could you come back another time?
T.Y: Perhaps, we can help you.
St. H: Do you organize closets?
T.Y: That's your personal crisis?
St. H: It will be when the little wife gets home. If she sees the mess I made, I'm doomed.
T.O: This is not the preferred form of martyrdom. We can show you another way.
St. H: I think you're barkin' up the wrong dog, to quote an old saying.
T.Y: We're giving free cookies and a t-shirt to anyone who will hear our short message.
St. H: Cookies? What kind of cookies?
T.Y: Goatmeal and raisin.
St. H: Yum! Come on in. Let me go shut that closet door before The Lovely One comes home.
T.O: Let me ask you, St. Holiday, what is it you really want in life?
St. H: A Red Ryder BB gun would be nice.
T.Y: That's it?
St. H: Well, how about round-the-clock protection and the long-lasting relief I deserve? That would be good.
T.O: I think we can offer you something greater.
St. H: Are you really with the Taliban?
T.O: Si. I mean, yes.
St. H: I thought you guys were all hiding in caves in Afghanistan. What are you doing in Show Low?
T.Y: We are forerunners of the Taliban's new world outreach program. Our imam, relying on the words of the blessed Muhammad, peace be unto him, recognizes that the Taliban has become too parochial and therefore, misunderstood. We have gotten bad press in the West.
T.O: Yes, ignorance must be fought!
St. H: How do you do that?
T.O: House by house; one person at a time.
T.Y: You know, Holiday, you can't believe everything you hear from the mainstream media. They hate us for our freedom.
St. H: I kinda like those robes you're wearing.
T.O: It's how we express our personal style, our individualism.
St. H: Nice! They have a timeless quality with a touch of glam. Menswear with an edgy distinctiveness.
T.Y: Thank you. Our women also dress fashionably.
St. H: You two speak English so well.
T.Y: Thank you. In our cell, I mean, in our mosque, we study your language every day.
St. H: So, where are the cookies and the t-shirt?
T.Y.: Those items will be sent to you from our homeland, after we collect a small fee from you for shipping and handling.
St. H: Oh, then you'll have to wait for The Lovely One to return, because she doesn't let me have any money.
T.O: You have no money?
St. H: None. The Lovely One says I've been blinded by my hatred of money. Besides that, she says I always give my money away to people in need.
T.Y: Well then, we won't be taking up much of your time today. Thank you for your kind hospitality.
St. H: Wait. Don't go. Aren't you gonna share your message with me?
T.Y: It may be too late for you. It appears your wife has a leash on you.
St. H: What do you mean?
T.Y: First of all, she controls all your money. Secondly, you allow her to drive.
St. H: You don't allow women to drive cars?
T.Y: Certainly not. Our women have no desire to drive.
St. H: Is that true?
T.O: Absolutely! Islam is all about keeping our roads safe.
St. H: Safe roads! That may be a doctrine I can get behind, especially the way the Lovely One drives.
T.H: Holiday, we're sure you recognize that this was meant to be a man's world.
T.O: Yes. Imagine your wife saying: "I agree with Talib Holiday on everything, and I always do whatever he tells me."
St. H: That's impossible!
T.Y: All things are possible to him who believes.
St. H: She threw a glass of water at me the other day.
T.Y: Did you cut her hand off?
St. H: Well, no....... not yet.
T.O: Then you are far too permissive with her.
St. H: What else do you teach?
T.O: We're sure you realize, St. Holiday, that there is change in the air. My companion and I, and many like us, are traveling thoughout pre-Islamic America, promoting war in this peace-ravaged nation.
St. H: War?
T.Y: Yes, war, a time for all of us to focus on life-taking activities.
T.O: Lives can be taken, and they should be. It is the will of Allah, the merciful and compassionate.
St. H: I've always preferred peace.
T.O: Well, we have been encouraged by the high levels of excitement for militarism in this country, much of it driven by hatred and bigotry.
T.Y: Refreshing!
St. H: Oy, gevalt!
T.O: We hope to see weapons taken out of storage, loaded and used to full advantage, allowing war to reach those most in need of it.
St. H: But that would mean wide-spread death and destruction, misery and desolation.
T.Y: A new reason to smile!
St. H: Wait; let me try to wrap my consciousness around that. Maybe I'm missing something.
T.O: You must not surrender to craven cowardice and fear of conflict.
T.Y: War brings peace.
St. H: Peace brings peace.
T.O: Infidel! Don't make me throw my shoe at you!
T.Y: Calm down, Omar. Holiday, we can give you new rules to live by.
St. H: I already have some of those.
T.Y: Like what?
St. H: Like 'Never shake hands with someone coming out of the men's room.'
T.Y: That's good, but we can teach you even more.
St. H: How do we begin?
T.Y: First, you will need to be circumcised.
St. H: Wo, wo, wo! That's a deal breaker right there.
Y.O: Hey, Holiday; we don't make the rules; we just enforce them.
St. H: But I'm already circumcised.
Abdul: Then you'll only need a booster. Just a few nips.
St. H: (In a defensive posture) No nips! No nips!
T.O: It's a very small matter.
St. H: Hey, you don't have to insult me.
T.O: No, not that! I mean the holy operation is a small matter.
T.Y: Maybe we can get an exemption in your case. Let me call the imam. Perhaps he'll issue a fatwa.
St. H: A fat what?
T.Y: A fatwa.
St. H: What's a wa?
T.Y: It's not just a wa; it's a fatwa.
St. H: Why is it fat? Are there thin was?
T.Y: No thin was; only fatwas!
T.O: Don't make me moon you!
T.Y: Hey, Omar, butt out! Holiday, a fatwa is Arabic for a religious ruling.
St. H: Look, Talib Omar and Talib Yasser, I've learned a lot during our interview, but truthfully, I'm not your guy. I've got to get back to that closet, because The Lovely One will be home soon. I also have to fix her predatory blender.
T.O: OK, we understand. Paradise is not for everyone.
T.Y: May I use your bathroom before we go?
St. H: Certainly, it's right down the hall, second door on the right.
(Talib Yasser returns quickly from the bathroom)
T.O: What is it, Yasser? You look pale!
T.Y: His toilet does not face Mecca!
T.O: St. Holiday, we really must leave you now.
St. H: You'd better hurry. I hear The Lovely One pulling up the driveway.
(The two missionaries rush out the front door)

THE SUFFERINGS OF ST. HOLIDAY - PART 14 OR WITHERING HEIGHTS

2012-01-29T15:14:00.001-08:00

At home in the Manor of Manhood on Show Low's fashionable 8th Avenue.

St. Holiday: Hey, Babe, read this birthday card I just got in the mail.
The Lovely One: Not now; I'm busy.
St. H: Come on; it will only take a minute, and then you can ignore me again.
TLO: Promise?
St. H: Sure; I only want you to share in my outrage for a brief moment.
TLO: OK; let me read it. "Dear Father. We, your loving children, want to do something special for you on your birthday. So, we're having you put to sleep." How thoughtful! Maybe I can help.
St. H: Wait. Aren't you incensed?
TLO: Why? It's a gift the whole family can enjoy.
St. H: See; this is why I weep at night.
TLO: You're not going anywhere.
St. H: I know; I know. My disciples need me more than ever.
TLO: And you haven't given me access to your off-shore accounts yet.
St. H: Ah, my Cayman stash. My true insurance policy. If I die, it all goes to charity.
TLO: What about me?
St. H: You get my literary estate.
TLO: Your literary estate! What? Your books?
St. H: No; they're for Jenna. You get my divine poems and my George & Georgie cartoons. All yours. And you can have my journals, too.
TLO: Look, buddy boy, when you croak, I'll build a big bonfire in the backyard and burn it all - your divine poems, the cartoons, the journals, and everything else I can't spend.
St. H: What?! You wouldn't treasure the sacred art of my pen?
TLO: You know what they say: "Pack it up, and throw it out. Burn it up, and do without."
St. H: But it may all be worth millions someday!
TLO: Yeah, right, like your Conan the Barbarian comic books.
St. H: Here I am, caught in the middle of a custody battle between life and death, and my affairs are unsettled.
TLO: Then I would suggest a balanced approach. Get me a ton of money, and I'll promise to take care of your precious literary estate.
St. H: You know, babycakes, the vain things of this world are no longer my top priority. Now you're my singular focus. And Holiday said, "Let there be love." And there was love, and He saw that it was good.
TLO: And Raelene said, "Let there be cash." And there was cash, and she saw that it was good.
St. H: I feel like I'm stuck in a magic lamp. Just rub me, baby, and I'll give you three wishes.
TLO: Can I have one wish, if I kick you instead?
St. H: Ugh! Me love you long time. Maybe eat more popcorn. Make you happy.
TLO: Ugh! Me heap unhappy with lazy husband.
St. H: Hey, I've been working day and night! Keep this to yourself, but I've been creating a new movie genre, called the Eastern.
TLO: Another plan so crazy it just might fail.
St. H: You know, you're making me lose faith in humankind. I may have to return to my home planet soon.
TLO: Like I said, you're not going anywhere. Besides, you look good for your age - almost lifelike.
St. H: It's that Mary Kay soap. Listen to this line from my obituary I've been working on: "leaving his children bereaved." Nice, huh?
TLO: Very poetic.
St. H: It's the striking internal rhyme, the resonance of eave and eave. I think it will be well-received by my public.
TLO: Well, like I keep saying, you're not going anywhere. Besides, we need some relics to revere once you're really gone.
St. H: Relics? Like what?
TLO: I don't know ... A piece of the true finger. The Shroud of St. Holiday. The tooth of truth.
St. H: That reminds me. I want you to invite my dentist to my funeral. I want him to see the tooth that got away and moan his loss.
TLO: He'll never come, not after the way you screamed at him the last time you had an appointment.
St. H: What are you talking about?
TLO: You were yelling, "Drop your weapon!"
St. H: Didn't you see that needle he had? It looked like something a Visigoth would carry into battle.
TLO: You scared the patients in the waiting room. They all fled at the sound of you.
St. H: I saved them. And no one returned to thank me. I lead a thankless life of sacrifice.
TLO: Would you sacrifice for me?
St. H: Why? What else do you want me to do?
TLO: I asked you to fix the toilet, but you pooh-poohed that idea.
St. H: I've been paralyzed by thought. You don't know what it's like, being yoked to the great oxcart of mystery. Everyday, I'm irresistibly drawn into a trancelike state to peer into the dreamy domain of the blessed. It's the burden I must bear. Yet, it seems like I'm always pursuing truth with a stone in my shoe and a cramp in my calf.
TLO: O, holy husband; you are without beginning of thought or end of words. You used to work around the house, keep things maintained.
St. H: Hey, I've already solved all the world's problems, and I'm still in my jammies. And you know what they say: past performance is no guarantee of future results. I heard that on TV. Speaking of TV, I could use a little quality time with the remote.
TLO: What about the proffered birthday gift from your loving children?
St. H: Tell them, thanks, but you've already made arrangements.

THE SUFFERINGS OF SAINT HOLIDAY - PART 13 - OR THE POET GROWS OLD

2011-10-10T20:18:00.000-07:00

Saint Holiday takes a short break from painting the bathroom for the Lovely One and comes to her as she watches a Netflix video in the office.

St. Holiday: Did anyone call for me?
The Lovely One: No.
St. H: Not even my kids?
TLO: No one.
St. H: How about your kids; did they call?
TLO: No one called for you.
St. H: Did someone call for you?
TLO: Why?
St. H: Well, I'd like to know if they asked about my condition.
TLO: What, your laziness?
St. H: No! What the radiologist discovered. You know, my symptoms.
TLO: No one called.
St. H: I thought you mentioned the radiologist's report on Facebook.
TLO: I did.
St. H: And no one called after that?
TLO: Don't you have painting to do?
St. H: I've got to wait for the primer to dry.
TLO: You could start on the other bathroom in the meantime.
St. H: It's all about sequence, my dear. All things must be done in their proper order. Sequence; that's the word.
TLO: No; the word is consequence. And that's what you'll face if you don't get something done around here.
St. H: Wait. I need to find out something first.
TLO: What now? Can't you see I'm watching a movie?
St. H: Yes, sweetie. I need to know what you wrote on Facebook about my condition.
TLO: Go read it.
St. H: I don't have an account. Too many people wanted to befriend me when I had an account, so I cancelled it.
TLO: And now you complain because no one calls you?
St. H: Babe, please, have mercy on my rotten soul. Just tell me what you wrote on Facebook about me, and I'll go back to my labors.
TLO: If I must.
St. H: So, did you tell them about my pulmonary nodule?
TLO: Yes.
St. H: Did you mention that it is well-marginated?
TLO: Yes; but I don't know what that means.
St. H: Neither do I, but it sounds severe; it sounds emphatic, wouldn't you agree?
TLO: I don't know. It could be a positive thing. I mean, would anyone want a pulmonary nodule that is badly-marginated?
St. H: Then there may be a chance for me?
TLO: Not in your case.
St. H: Oh. Did you happen to give the dimensions of my well-marginated, pulmonary nodule?
TLO: Of course; just like you told me. 1 centimeter by 8 millimeters.
St. H: How big is that, anyway?
TLO: Huge. You must be in great pain.
St. H: Always. Who, who will ever know my anguish?
TLO: Who can take the sunshine and dip it in a dream?
St. H: You mock me. I'm just a poor ploughboy in a parking lot, and you mock me. Where is the radiologist's report?
TLO: There, under my Coke.
St. H: Let me read it. What does this mean? My aorta is ectatic? Does he mean ecstatic? Ectatic, what's that? Did you write that on Facebook?
TLO: No.
St. H: You left that part off?! Maybe that's why the kids aren't calling. Nobody cares about a well-marginated, pulmonary nodule that may or may not be malignant. But an ectatic aorta! That's getting to the heart of me. How could you leave that out?
TLO: Well, I'm sorry. I did make mention of the osteopenia and the dextroscoliosis, if that's any comfort to you.
St. H: Yeah, that should have been enough to draw some interest. Did you also reference the degenerative changes to my spine?
TLO: I'm sure I did.
St. H: Wait; what's this? "The heart and pulmonary hila are otherwise unremarkable." Unremarkable? Why does he have to insult me?
TLO: That's not an insult. It just means there's nothing wrong with them.
St. H: Well, we know that can't be true. My remarkable heart is broken. What is left to live for?
TLO: You need to finish painting the house for one thing.
St. H: I wanted to climb the Seven Summits before I die, but now I must honestly confront my dustbin destiny. I guess I could become a clown and make balloon animals for five year olds in the last weeks of my miserable life. It's either that or recover Jerusalem from the infidels and establish myself as king.
TLO: Either one sounds promising to me. Look, Mahatma Holiday, have some hope.
St. H: Once I had hope. I caught up with him after a chase, tackled him to the ground, and held him with my knee on the small of his back. I tied his wrists together and put him through the third degree. As it turned out, hope had jumped the border and was in the country illegally. I had to let him go. I haven't seen him since.
TLO: I guess I can't expect you to lift yourself up by pulling your own hair. No, I'll have to pull it for you.
St. H: Oww!
TLO: That's nothing. If you don't get the painting done, I'll send you off to a labor camp.
St. H: I was just preparing to rise to the occasion, but the indifference of the world has weighed me down.
TLO: Perhaps, future generations will have the good taste to appreciate you more than your contemporaries.
St. H: Maybe. But today, I'm just a chalk outline of myself on a dirty asphalt road with a pothole where my butt would be.
TLO: Always with the melodrama.
St. H: Well, here I am in Deathcon 2, and nobody cares. I try to get a little sympathy in this world, but it's like trying to sell pork sandwiches to Jewish vegetarians.
TLO: What do you expect from your kids, anyway?
St. H: They could at least help me pick out a good nursing home, where I won't get diaper rash and where I can play with clay in a supportive environment.
TLO: I thought you were He-Ra, Prince of Power.
St. H: No, I'm like an old, dusty, flickering fluorescent in a rusty fixture. My body is betraying me, and I'm trapped in a life of stoic endurance. I'm gettin' woiser and woiser all da time.
TLO: Look, you should rejoice in the present, for tomorrow will be the future.
St. H: How wise of you. Wait! Your eyes! A reason to go on living! O rapture! O joy! A tremor of pleasure!
TLO: The terrorists have won. Could you please get back to work on the bathroom and let me watch my movie in peace!
St. H: I will, but first I have to balance my blood sugar.
TLO: You'd better leave my chocolate alone.
St. H: Is there anything I can get for you, my love?
TLO: Maid service would be good.

THE SUFFERINGS OF ST. HOLIDAY - PART 12

2011-08-17T17:57:00.000-07:00

The lowly Saint Holiday, at home with Himself, suffering the torments of the darned in his lonely cottage, while the Lovely One cavorts with her beloved boys in the sunny decadence of the California gulag.

Saint Holiday: She left me again!
Himself: Can you really blame her?
St. H: Here I am, facing the final phase of my miserable life, alone.
Himself: I warned you not to over-estimate yourself.
St. H: What do you expect from a product of public education?
Himself: It's not just your educational deficits. You should have anticipated the inevitable strains of an intercultural marriage. A man from New Jersey and a woman from California ... there were bound to be dislocations.
St. H: Yeah, not to mention the alarming deterioration of my good looks. Once, I could stare long and approvingly into a mirror. Now, the magic is gone.
Himself: Not only that, you have been underperforming.
St. H: Hey, what do you mean by that? I thought you were on my side. I lost my super-strength, when she trimmed my bushy eyebrows.
Himself: You looked like you were playing a part in Dune.
St. H: Despite my shortcomings, I am tall.
Himself: Well, your privileges have been suspended for the time being.
St. H: How Long?
Himself: Indefinitely. You can turn in your happiness at the next window. Move along now. Next!
St. H: Wait a minute! Aren't I the law around here?
Himself: You are hereby repealed. Move along. Next!
St. H: What's to be done?
Himself: I don't know. Tax the rich, I guess.
St. H: I shall walk the earth with a shoulder bag and flute and have adventures like Caine of Kung-Fu.
Himself: What's keepin' ya?
St. H: (Glaring at the cat) I think I should make a small, ritual sacrifice first. I need to throw off the shackles of my feline oppressor.
Himself: If you do, the Lovely One will hunt you down like a cockroach in the kitchen.
St. H: Perhaps I should do a risk assessment first.
Himself: I would recommend that highly.
St. H: I feel like a suppository.
Himself: Wash your face; comb your hair; shave; put on some pants!
St. H: You sound like my mother.
Himself: Why are you talking to me, anyway?
St. H: It's either you or the cat.
Himself: Choose the cat for a change. I need a break from all your whining.
St. H: He'll just badger me for tuna. Besides, I feel interactive. I need you.
Himself: Man! I can. not. wait. for the Lovely One to come back home. You're driving me crazy.
St. H: Someone slashed the tires of my soul. I'm so tired.
Himself: Why? You never do anything.
St. H: Last night, I dreamed I was working.
Himself: Well, there you go. No wonder you're tired. You should take a nap.
St. H: I'm afraid to. What if I dream I'm working again? I'll be even more tired.
Himself: You know, as your closest friend, I think I should tell you: I'm worried that your laziness is getting in the way of your slothfulness.
St. H: Well, do you have any advice for me?
Himself: Yes; whatever you do, don't do it.
St. H: Do what?
Himself: Whatever you do.
St. H: Oh.
St. H: Why does she always leave me? I love her!
Himself: Love will only get you so far, fella.
St. H: But all you need is love, right?
Himself: Hey, that song was written by a millionaire. All you need is love, when you already have everything else.
St.H: You may be too cynical for me to associate with.
Himself: All I know is you're not likely to be type-cast as a he-man and forced to play the hero in a string of action films. You'd better come up with something realistic, if you expect to win her heart again.
St. H: Well, you'll be pleased to know that I have been thinking of giving crass materialism a try.
Himself: Thank Heaven! At least, I think so. Tell me what you mean by crass materialism.
St. H: You know, living to accumulate things, money, property. Acquisition as the prime directive.
Himself: Let me encourage you. I'll venture to speak for the Lovely One, too. Go for it!
St. H: There's only one thing holding me up.
Himself: What?
St. H: Those Holy Scriptures. You know, like "Thou shalt not covet." Or, "Set not thy heart upon the vain things of the world." Or, "Seek not for riches, but for wisdom."
Himself: Come on! You're a lawyer; find a loophole! Rationalize! Justify! Lie to yourself!
St. H: That should be easy enough to do...
Himself: Exactly! Money and stuff! Stuff and money! Monetize! That's the keyword. Monetize!
St. H: But will you still respect me?
Himself: Do you really need self-respect when you have money?
St. H: Like Keith Richards said, "If you want to reach the top, you have to start at the bottom."
Himself: That's start at the bottom, not stay at the bottom.
St. H: I need to nurse my infirmities first.
Himself: That's you. You're either nursing your infirmities or chasing peasant girls. I'm pessimistic about your capacity for real change.
St. H: Here I am, facing the terrifying prospect of mental disintegration and you have no pity.
Himself: I've been somewhat concerned about your darker tendencies.
St. H: Like what? My cannibalism?
Himself: No, not that. Your hypochondria, for instance.
St. H: Oh, well, I'm sure that's a by-product of my amoebic dysentery.
Himself: Didn't your new psyche prescribe something for you? Something to help you with your unhealthy attraction for comatose women?
St. H: Yeah; she said she wants to stabilize my brain chemistry, before she begins her psycholytic therapy.
Himself: Well, that sounds like a good plan. Did you take any of the new pills yet?
St. H: No, I haven't even picked them up from the pharmacy.
Himself: Why the heck not?
St. H: I looked up the side effects. Nausea, dizziness, lethargy, sweating, dry mouth, gas, abnormal vision, insomnia, nervousness, loss of appetite, constipation, extreme confusion, agitation, tremors, palpitations, seizures, increased heart rate, eye pain, mania, vomiting, migraines, hives, irritability,
decreased urination, hallucinations, stomach pain, shortness of breath, severe ringing in the ears, unusual bruising, decreased libido...
Himself: Well, you don't need that last one anyway.
St. H: True, but what about all the other side effects?
Himself: Hey, you want to be happy, right?
St. H: Yeah.
Himself: Then suck it up; listen to your psychiatrist. All those side effects will make you forget your depression. You'll be too sick from everything else!
St. H: Maybe you're right.
Himself: Of course, I'm right! Now get on down to that pharmacy.
St. H: First, I need to add a few lines to that screenplay about my first marriage. "Crazyland" - A tale of procreation, poverty, genius and betrayal. Johnny Depp can play my part. It may take me to the top.
Himself: This is what happens if we leave Afghanistan. When are you going to publish "The Crossing?"
St. H: First I need some monks to illuminate my manuscript.
Himself: Hail, holiday!
St. H: Why don't you capitalize my name when you invoke it?
Himself: That would be a crime against humility.
St. H: Oh. OK. You were were saying?
Himself: Hail, holiday! Arizona's very first epic poet in its long, distinguished literary history. Your poem, sir, is destined to take its place next to the Iliad, Odyssey, Aeneid, Paradise Lost, Mahabharata, Enuma Elish, The Fairie Queen, The Ramayana, and The Epic of Gilgamesh.
St. H: I accept your adulation, most humbly. We are left to inquire: where does civilization go from here?
Himself: Why doesn't everyone think like you? Shake thy wattles and roar!
St. H: You know, who needs the Lovely One when I have you!

THE SUFFERINGS OF ST. HOLIDAY - PART 11

2010-11-11T05:58:00.000-08:00

At the Monasterio de Santo Holiday, a future destination for pilgrims, hen fanciers, corn lovers, and supplicants seeking miraculous healings.

The Lovely One: Who's there?
Saint Holiday: It's me, Holiday.
TLO: Are you sure?
St. H: Check out my cape and tights.
TLO: How is my holy husband today?
St. H: I'm nearly ready to acknowledge my frailties.
TLO: What's keepin' ya?
St. H: I don't feel strong enough yet.
TLO: What have you been doing?
St. H: Circumnavigating the house.
TLO: Sounds like Magellan or, what's his name? Head of a Cow - who would name her kid, Head of a Cow?
St. H: Cabeza de Vaca. I don't know. Maybe the mother was drunk when he was born. Maybe she drank a lot of wine as an anaesthetic for labor, and when the kid was born, she said, "He looks like the head of a cow." And that was it. The midwife wrote that name down on the birth certificate, and the kid was stuck with it.
TLO: So, you were out circumnavigating the house?
St. H: Yeah, you know what they say, "Solvitur ambulando."
TLO: Who says that? Cicero? Caesar?
St. H: Someone without a car.
TLO: I live in fear that God will take you from me, because you know too much.
St. H: Really?
TLO: Yeah, I always expect to see you descending a mountain with two tablets in your arms.
St. H: That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.
TLO: Don't let it go to your head.
St. H: Yes, my queen.
TLO: You may kneel and kiss my ring.
St. H: Yes, my queen.
TLO: So, why were you circumnavigating the house?
St. H: Two reasons, actually. First, I had to visit the shrines of all the woman who dumped me.
TLO: You have shrines for them?
St. H: Yeah. Nothing fancy. Just piles of rocks and bottles, a few weedflowers and pine cones and some other odds and ends that remind me of them.
TLO: Where?
St. H: Out where we bury the dead animals.
TLO: That's really strange, Holiday.
St. H: It's something to keep me humble.
TLO: Doesn't constant poverty and failure do that for you?
St. H: It's just not enough anymore.
TLO: Tell me about these shrines.
St. H: Well, I erected one to The Beak.
TLO: The Beak?
St. H: Yeah, that's what my dad called her. I can't remember her name now after all these years. She had a big nose, so my dad called her The Beak. I was a teenager. She was the first of many to dump me like a soiled diaper. It hit me hard.
TLO: Who else?
St. H: There's a shrine for Ta Hoo Flung Dung.
TLO: Let me guess. Your dad also named her.
St. H: Yeah, he had a knack for that. She was Chinese. There was a culture clash. Her parents opposed me. We didn't have a chance. Losing her was a crushing blow to my young heart.
TLO: I don't think I want to hear about any others.
St. H: Good. I'm feeling plenty humble already.
TLO: You erected shrines for every one that dumped you?
St. H: No, not yet. I ran out of rocks. I think I'll have a load of rocks delivered, so I can finish.
TLO: You said there were two reasons for your circumnavigation.
St. H: Right. I was working out the plot for my next book, "To Hell With St. Holiday."
TLO: Sounds like a good idea.
St. H: It's an adventure story about my descent into Hades like Odysseus.
TLO: You are the deity of epic writing.
St. H: You are my one great fan and the inspiration for all my work.
TLO: Really, from whence do your ideas flow?
St. H: Probably from my near-life experience.
TLO: We should bury you in the Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey.
St. H: Thanks, but could we wait a while?
TLO: Why do you keep looking at your arms?
St. H: I'm searching for cancerous lesions.
TLO: Find any?
St. H: Not yet.
TLO: Look harder.
St. H: What's obvious is my advanced sarcopenia.
TLO: You're making that word up.
St.H: No. It means age-related loss of muscle mass.
TLO: Well, the Gandhi look kinda fits you.
St. H: I'm disintegrating. What you see before you is the desolating work of heartless time.
TLO: Maybe if you changed your diet ...
St. H: Like how?
TLO: Well, maybe if you dined exclusively on the boiled testicles of young bulls for a while. Just a suggestion.
St. H: Where's the barf bag?
TLO: It's an alternative therapy I read about. Maybe it will work on parcosenia.
St. H: That's sarcopenia. And we will never know if it will work, because I will never try it. I would rather continue my involuntary personal erosion program.
TLO: You know, Holiday, I've been thinking that there must be more to life than having nothing.
St. H: Yeah, if I could only break my losing streak ...
TLO: How long has it been going on?
St. H: Almost sixty years now.
TLO: Well then, it's time for change.
St. H: I am the change. I'm the penny on the sidewalk, tails up. I'm the quarter rolling into the storm sewer. I'm the nickel stuck in the road tar. I'm the dime swept up by the street cleaner. I'm the ...
TLO: Alright! I get the picture. Have patience with yourself.
St. H: Yes. You're right. Rome wasn't sacked in a day.
TLO: Maybe you should just try to be contented as a charming, devilishly-attractive man with towering intellect and unimpeachable integrity.
St. H: You make a good point.
TLO: But then again, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if you were ugly, stupid, ill-mannered, and rich, RICH, FILTHY RICH.
St. H: How do you really feel?
TLO: It's time for you to move beyond mere hyper-masculinity.
St. H: Would my adoring disciples still recognize me?
TLO: Why not go back to school and study to become an investment banker?
St. H: Back to school? I was only a fair student. I couldn't have done much gooder.
TLO: You could work on Wall Street and get mega-bonuses quarterly.
St. H: I'm kinda proud that I've managed to go 60 years unindicted.
TLO: Well, they never caught you. Stop and think for a minute; who is keeping you from success? Who?
St. H: Who put the bomp in the bomp she bomp she bomp? Who put the ram in the rama lama ding dong?
TLO: See, you're never serious with me. Always joking.
St. H: Baby, Misery threw me in the back of an old truck and is driving wildly down a dusty, washboard road. My motto is: if you're going to be miserable, you might as well enjoy it.
TLO: I thought your motto was: nobody move, nobody gets hurt.
St. H: Only when I have to work.
TLO: O God, make it stop.
St. H: Have you been drinking pretty-water again?
TLO: Why do you ask?
St. H: 'Cause, Baby, you got hot and cold running beauty!
TLO: Your Jedi mind tricks will not work on me this time.
St. H: What have you been writing?
TLO: It's a story I hope to sell to Ladies Home Journal.
St. H: What's it called?
TLO: "I Married a Self-Made Hundredaire."
St. H: You did? Who? Oh. Ouch.
TLO: Maybe you've been infected by the Stuxnet Worm, and it has compromised your industrious systems.
St. H: Just you wait, babycakes. Something good is going to happen for us. Soon, a headline in the NY Times Book Review will say: "Bidding War Begins for St. Holiday's Astonishing Poetry."
TLO: You've been drinking Fool-Aid again.
St. H: If I have no hope, I'm hopeless.
TLO: No comment.

DID YOU DID OR DID YOU DIDN'T DID IT?

2010-09-20T09:31:00.000-07:00

At the residence of St. Holiday and his lovely wife, appropriately called The Lovely One. He enters the office, where she is busily immersed in her genealogical work.

St. Holiday: I speak to you, my chosen one.
The Lovely One: What now?
St. H: I need you.
TLO: Don't get your hopes up; I'm busy.
St. H: Shall we engage the senses, my love?
TLO: I'm in the 1860 Census right now.
St. H: Not census, senses.
TLO: Something stinks. Does that count?
St. H: Nick!
TLO: It's not Nick. Stop blaming the cat. It's you.
St. H: Me? How could it be me? I smell like a flower in the morning dew.
TLO: Well, you should take a shower, Mr. Flower. You're in full bloom today.
St. H: I just had a shower.
TLO: When? Before the yard work you did?
St. H: Yeah, but I've only done the Planning Phase, Part One, so far.
TLO: You mean you didn't whack da weeds?
St. H: Listen to you. You sound like Tony Soprano.
TLO: So, you only planned to whack da weeds, and didn't actually do it?
St. H: Hey, fail to plan, plan to fail. You know the old maxim.
TLO: Let me get this straight. You went outside, stood in the weeds, and thought about them?
St. H: I didn't think about them. I thought about cutting them down.
TLO: Oh. Then why do you stink?
St. H: Nick!
TLO: Stop with that! Nick is innocent. He's always innocent. Let me see the bottom of your shoes.
St. H: (Lifts his shoe). There's nothing there. Oops.
TLO: Ah ha! Used chicken food. And you've tracked it all over the house.
St. H: I didn't mean to.
TLO: That's why they call it manure; 'cause men step in it and walk it into the house.
St. H: Really? Is that the etymology?
TLO: Must be.

FECUNDITY!

2010-08-09T07:36:00.000-07:00

Mine eyes have seen the glory

of the coming of the corn!

I will gather up the harvest

even though I'm old and worn.

They'll be pumpkin pie for breakfast

and beans at dinnertime.

My crops are growing strong!

Glory, glory, Ange Ercoli! Glory, glory, Ange Ercoli!

Glory, glory, Ange Ercoli! My crops are growing strong!

This stalk of corn has SIX ears growing on it so far.

Six! That's almost unheard of.
I've got alien ships, hovering overhead,

having traveled many light years,

just to make crop circles in my corn patch.

But I stand out there with a broom every night

and chase them off. Will I have enough strength

to hold them off until harvest?

That's the question. I could use some help.

Perhaps, I'll falter, wax old and croak,

a crumbled heap of pre-retired manhood,

gone the way of all fish.

My hens will miss me when I'm gone.

They and The Lovely One will eat the corn

and remember me in passing.
The weeping widow will be heard to say,

"Ole Holiday sure could grow the corn.

Too bad he's not here to taste it. Pass the salt,

boyfriend."

THE HARVEST BEGINS

2010-07-17T09:46:00.001-07:00

I'm going to need some good squash recipes.
Everything is growing like crazy, but there were signs of a gopher this morning, so I'm on the warpath.

Look at my corn! Just look at it!

GARDEN UPDATE

2010-07-12T09:52:00.000-07:00

To satisfy the aching curiosity of my growing fanbase, we are posting more photos of the Angelo Ercoli Memorial Garden, taken only this morning by The Lovely One. As you can see, there is a Hallelujah Chorus of the Very Corn of Love, reaching skyward for more of the monsoon rains that began last week. I have mulched the corn with golden straw in an attempt to minimize weed growth, retain moisture and promote beneficial microbial activity.
And then, there are the Squishes of Love, Crookneck & Zucchini, flowering and setting veggie fruit as if they had a contract with Safeway. The secret is in the songs I sing to them. "When you wish upon a squish..."

Moreover, in another raised bed, we have the Pumpkins and Potatoes of Love, lush and luxurious.

And then thar be beans, me boys, Bush Beans of Love.

Two rows of can-alopes. Yes, we can; yes, we can.

Tomatoes grown from seed from the best tomatoes we ate last year, doing mighty fine and so rambunctious, we have to keep them in cages.

Another shot of the corn we got. I hope they don't get arrested for stalking.

A close-up of a Crookneck.

A close look at a Zucchini performing its miracle.

There will be pumpkin pie at the Monasterio de Santo Holiday.

Another of the global elite.

Onion flowers. I will collect the seed.

Squash flower.

A closer look at a Can-alope plant on a mulch of pine needles.

Now you know the power of the Bright Side.

THE ANGELO ERCOLI MEMORIAL GARDEN

2010-06-29T18:46:00.000-07:00

My grandfather on my mother's side, Angelo Ercoli, was born on July 17, 1899 in Pisa, Italy. He died on June 28, 1964 in Willingboro, New Jersey. He changed his surname to Ercol after he immigrated to the United States in 1921. I remember him well. He taught me about gardening. He was the steward of a large and productive garden situated on the back half of his property in Beverly, NJ. His garden had a path through the middle, and on either side of the path, supported by a sturdy fence, were grapevines, which gave us large bunches of purple grapes every year. He loved to grow asparagus and tomatoes and raspberries. When I was young, he taught me how to hoe his spacious asparagus patches. I was skinny and weak, and invariably, my mother would have to take me to Dr. Coopersmith afterwards to treat my strained back. I did not have the courage to tell Pop Pop, as I called him, that I was hurting, and so I would continue to hoe beyond my strength. Many times, he would take the hoe from my hands, as he stood next to me, and show me again the proper way to perform the task. He had the good sense to maintain a compost pile in his garden into which he threw his scraps and trimmings. He would have a load of cow manure delivered to the back of his garden every year, and I would help spread it around. I enjoyed his company and attention. He was very, very strong physically and stern, but he always treated me well. He taught me how to bend and cover his fig tree for the winter. I owe him a lot. So, I have named my garden after him. It is not nearly as wonderful as was his garden, but I think he would be pleased with my efforts. Here are some pictures of it, which were taken by the Lovely One this morning.

THE SUFFERINGS OF ST. HOLIDAY, PART 10

2010-06-20T06:16:00.000-07:00

At the home of the Husband-Elect in Show Low.

The Lovely One: By the pricking of my thumbs, something crazy this way comes.
St. Holiday: Cometh the hour! Cometh the man! Permission to approach your presence, Ma'am!
TLO: You may approach.
St. H: Permission to speak, Ma'am!
TLO: You may speak.
St. H: Hi, babe! Oh! Your smile! It could guide a plane to the runway.
TLO: You should get a job at Grimm's Fairy Tales.
St. H: No, really, my queen. Your beauty shakes me up and makes me fizz.
TLO: That's not my beauty; it's all the apple cider vinegar you drink.
St. H: The power of positive drinking. Oh, Wonder Woman! Lasso me, and make me tell the truth!
TLO: The truth is, you have no money, no name recognition, no star-power and no genial benefactor.
St. H: True, but I have momentum!
TLO: In what direction?
St. H: Toward you, my Queen. You make me wanna say "Cheese!"
TLO: Did you choose inadequacy, or was it thrust upon you?
St. H: Baby, I do a Triple Lutz and a Double McTwist for you every day, and still, you ignore me.
TLO: I don't ignore you all the time. Only when you're here. At other times, I give you lots of attention.
St. H: Then why do I have Attention Deficit Disorder?
TLO: Maybe you should go to the Gulf and cover yourself with oil. They'll mistake you for a dolphin or something, and the environmentalists will try to save you. Then you'll get lots of attention.
St. H: Yeah, but then the President will ignore me.
TLO: True. A crude awakening. By the way, Happy Father's Day to you.
St. H: Thanks, but I've given up on Father's Day. Too depressing, waiting all day for some acknowledgement from the kids, vainly hoping for a phone call, perhaps an email, and then going to bed with a broken heart with tears rolling down my cheeks and soaking the pillow. It's too much. No, I'm pinning all my hopes on Husband's Day.
TLO: Don't hold your breath.
St. H: That reminds me of your classic comment to me yesterday: "I hear you breathing in there. Stop it!"
TLO: I was actually referring to your loud sighing, but it came out wrong. Still ....
St. H: I feel a double-dip depression coming on. I should vacuum.
TLO: I yield the floor to you.
St. H: You know, I flirted with greatness once, but she sneered at me, mocked me with a cruel laugh, turned her back on me and walked off with a Garbo wiggle.
TLO: You need to nurture your inner child.
St. H: I don't have an inner child. I have an inner octogenarian with hemorrhoids, toothache and a late social security check. I'm gray, and I'm proud! I'm gray, and I'm proud!
TLO: Delusions of grandpa. How did this happen to you?
St. H: My father abandoned me in 1993.
TLO: What do you mean "abandoned?" He died!
St. H: He had no right! Selfish. And he left my mother in charge of everything.
TLO: Look, Harvey ben Harvey,
St. H: At last, the story can be told.
TLO: You should go for a walk.
St. H: That smacks of pedestrianism.
TLO: Really; go for a walk.
St. H: I'm in no shape to exercise right now. Besides, I have a leaning disability.
TLO: Then go weed your Angelo Ercoli Memorial Garden.
St. H: I can't. I'm preoccupied with your beauty.
TLO: Holiday, the reward center of my brain is crying for mercy. Don't you have something better to do than to waterboard me?
St. H: I can see the headline now, "Charismatic Deadbeat Troubled by Loneliness."
TLO: How do I put you out of my misery?
St. H: You could remand me to the custody of Hershey's.
TLO: I must warn you that I am considering a fresh round of sanctions to persuade you to alter your course.
St. H: Why are you always annoyed with me?
TLO: There is only one reason.
St. H: Only one reason? Well, if there's only one reason why you're always annoyed with me, I can fix that. I can make an adjustment in my character. I can amend my personality, whatever it takes. Tell me, please, what is that one reason?
TLO: You're annoying.
St. H: He absorbs abuse like leaves soak up sunlight, and yet, never a complaint escapes his lips.
TLO: You complain constantly.
St. H: I've been thinking lately that perhaps I should sacrifice my career to stay home with you.
TLO: Holiday, You're like the T-1000 in "Terminator 2." Look, I'm closed for repairs.
St. H: Can I plea bargain with you?
TLO: Ix-Nay! I'm busy. Go count your liver spots or something.
St. H: I guess I am obligated to die. There's nothing left. I hope to do my duty well.
TLO: Don't make me throw my glass of water on you.
St. H: What a joy to be at the epicenter of your love!
TLO: Where's a predator drone when I need one?
St. H: I wonder if my life in this world is the hell I earned in a previous life. The tedium, poverty, frustration, headaches, longings, insomnia, ulcers, discontentedness, failures and all the rest of my general day-to-day misery. What did I do? What laws did I break? Whom did I harm? When will it end? And the worst thought, am I earning another hell here?
TLO: The answer to your last question is yes.
St. H: I'll put an ad in the classifieds: "Free to a Good Home, well-meaning hypomanic, neurasthenic man in an advanced stage of collapse."
TLO: They'll come running for sure.
St. H: However, you should know, my Lady, that I would rather abdicate my claim to the throne than give up my relationship with you.
TLO: I urge you to reconsider. We need a Time-out Room. With multiple locks. For me.
St. H: Maybe I should go back to work on my latest novel: "The Last Station of the Cross Wife."
TLO: That's mo' bettah. Sounds bankable. Go for it. Quietly.
St. H: I've been chasing my prime, but it won't let me catch up. Actually, I'm in the prime of your life.
TLO: Are you threatening my sanity?
St. H: How to appease the angry Gods? Maybe if we sacrifice your virgin cats.
TLO: Touch my cats and you'll feel the pain of my Vulcan Death Grip.
St. H: Then let us speak of this no more.
TLO: By the way, stop trapping my cats in your Irula rat traps.
St. H: It wasn't me. I was set up by the mob to take the fall. I'm innocent until proven poor.
TLO: I can see that I need to do a better job communicating with you.
St. H: Oh the weight of misfortune! What should I do?
TLO: I don't care. Just don't frighten the hens.
St. H: I feel like a dusty cotton field, stripped bare of cotton by a hundred ill-dressed slaves, singing negro spirituals and leaving behind only bare, brown bushes of sticks.
TLO: Can't you just sit quietly with your Etch-a-Sketch?
St. H: What if I had a Sarah Palin endorsement?
TLO: Won't help. Go read a mortgage or something.
St. H: I am man. Hear me whimper.
TLO: Why don't you write a poem?
St. H: I am divorcing my muse.
TLO: At the height of your powers?
St. H: I'm switching over to cave drawing exclusively.
TLO: Freshness the whole family will love.
St. H: True artists are usually not appreciated by their contemporaries. I'm looking to influence future generations.
TLO: That's you, pulling the envelope again.
St. H: I didn't want to tell you this, but I think it's all due to a loss of neuronic activity in my left ventrolateral prefrontal cortex. However, I feel a rapid emergence coming on.
TLO: Let me call BP for a containment cap.
St. H: Did I get any mail today?
TLO: Only your notice to appear before the local Death Panel.
St. H: I knew I was on the shortlist.
TLO: Well, is there any reason to keep you alive?
St. H: You're harshing my buzz, woman.
TLO: If you keep bothering me, I'm going to put you in the Raelene Spanking Machine.
St. H: You treat me like a Nazi collaborator.
TLO: Maybe you're eating too much raisin brain for breakfast.
St. H: (Singing) I never give up.
I never give in.
I never surrender,
unless I begin.
TLO: O my shrieking heart.
St. H: How can I earn the coveted five-star rating from you?
TLO: You could try practicing your soliloquies.
St. H: Really, Babe. It seems like I'm always auditioning for you. Why don't you give me the darn part already?
TLO: I feel a psychotic episode coming on. (She reaches for her glass of water.)
St. H: My heart's on fire for you, Beauty McLove!
TLO: Holy heck! Here Monkman! Have some holy water!
St. H: Aaah! You cursed brat! Look what you've done! I'm melting! Melting! Oh, what a world! What a world! Who would have thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness?

THE SUFFERINGS OF ST. HOLIDAY, PART 9, OR, IT BEGINS WITH AN ACHE

2010-01-14T15:43:00.000-08:00

At the Throne Room Door in the residence of His Holiness the Pop.

The Lovely One: Holiday, when are you coming out? You've been in there all morning.
Sweet St. Holiday: (singing) I'll be in here for a while.
But I'll be leaving with a smile!
TLO: Are you alright?
St. H: Don't come in here! There may be catastrophic seismic activity!
TLO: What the heck are you doing in there?
St. H: The daily ordeal of ordinary manship. It's a story of triumph and a cautionary tale, too. This is the life I must live; this is the fate I must foot.
TLO: What?
St. H: It's Saturday, so I'm sitting.
TLO: I ironed your futuristic purple jumpsuit for you.
St. H: Well, thanks, but Babe, I really don't want to talk through the door, when I'm trying to develop The Grand Unified Theory, especially while I'm gracing the Throne.
TLO: Theory of what?
St. H: Of plausible hope.
TLO: The Grand Unified Theory of Plausible Hope?
St. H: Sure. Can we discuss it later. I should not be stifled at such a time.
TLO: No wonder you have an innate inability to connect with other humans. You're always in the bathroom.
St. H: I have forsaken the world.
TLO: It forsook you a long time ago.
St. H: That may be true of the real world, but not of the ideal world.
TLO: You may have over-estimated your value to modern delusional thinking.
St. H: Hey, don't dump me down the drain yet. I still have a few bubbles left in me.
TLO: Come on! Get out here. I want to spend time in the Great Man's company.
St. H: OK, OK; I'm coming out. Don't shoot.
TLO: O what rapture!
St. H: I emerge!
TLO: It's about time.
St. H: As you can see, I am in the form of a human.
TLO: Where is Cooper?
St. H: I know not. Am I my kitty's keeper?
TLO: Yes!
St. H: He's probably in his catbox, engaged in the discipline of natural mystic transport, as was I until rudely interrupted.
TLO: I need your help.
St. H: OK, but let me ask you, how come you never ask me what I'm thinking?
TLO: I don't want to know.
St. H: Why not?
TLO: I have a hard enough time processing what you say. Why compound my confusion?
St. H: What if I stop speaking? Then will you want to know what I'm thinking?
TLO: Like that's possible.
St. H: What do you mean by that?
TLO: You can't keep quiet for a whole minute, unless you're in the Throne Room, developing the Grand Unified Theory of Plausible Hope. How are you ever going to keep quiet long enough for me to wonder what you're thinking?
St. H: How long would it take?
TLO: I don't know. Two, three weeks.
St. H: Three weeks! I'd have to be mum for three whole weeks before you'd wonder what I'm thinking?
TLO: Is it so important to you that I ask you what you're thinking?
St. H: Well, I guess I need to know that you really care.
TLO: You want me to care about what you're thinking?
St. H: I want you to care about me.
TLO: So, if I ask you what you're thinking, that shows that I care about you?
St. H: Well, yeah.
TLO: OK, Holiday; what are you thinking?
St. H: I'm thinking that you trespass on my privacy too much.
TLO: What?!
St. H: Oh, your beauty! I must lower my gaze!
TLO: Holiday, stop it; I need your help.
St. H: Call 911. I'm caught in the singularity of your loveliness!
TLO: I want to talk with you about your career goals.
St. H: Baby, I just survived the horrors of Neverland. Do we have to talk about my career right now?
TLO: This seems like a good time.
St. H: But my blood-chocolate level is not elevated enough. Besides, I was just getting ready to announce my retirement.
TLO: From what?
St. H: The past. At least, that part of the past which is pre-present. I may also retire from the future, if I can ever reach it.
TLO: Great, but the present is now, and now I have a few things for you to do.
St. H: Argh! I'm tempted to violate syntax and say something wildly ungrammatical.
TLO: That would be gutter ibberish.
St. H: Why do you torture me?
TLO: There's no greater pleasure.
St. H: I gave up a life of boundless promise long ago. I've been trampled on the slow track.
TLO: You act like you hold all the patents on failure.
St. H: I hate to break this to you, but even a brilliant man with a glorious dream can be wrong about something on occasion.
TLO: Holiday, the sink is clogged up.
St. H: Let's move.
TLO: Why should we move just because the sink is clogged?
St. H: It opens the wounds of my troubled past. I am the product of a broken house, as are my children.
TLO: Holiday, you must not surrender to these dark thoughts. You must defy your fears! You must defy your limiting beliefs! You must redefine yourself within your own consciousness!
St. H: Today?
TLO: Yes! Now! Come out of that dark cesspool of corrupting energies!
St. H: I'm not in the bathroom anymore.
TLO: Do you suffer from mental illness?
St. H: No, I've learned to enjoy it.
TLO: Holiday, every time you speak, the Lord rolls His eyes.
St. H: Then I must go to the Oracle for direction.
TLO: Can't you do anything for me?
St. H: How may I accommodate you, O Lady of Perpetual Work?
TLO: The sink.
St. H: Didn't we cover that already?
TLO: It's still clogged.
St. H: Haven't I mentioned my terminal illness?
TLO: You mean terminal stillness. You're not dying; you're just lazy.
St. H: Ouch. And you wonder why I weep at night.
TLO: Look, you can't get by on your looks alone anymore.
St. H: I shall die alone ... in the dark ... with a load in my pants.
TLO: And we'll put you in your final resting place.
St. H: How can I have a final resting place, when I haven't had a first one yet?
TLO: You, sir, are the patron saint of slackery.
St. H: I'm like a child on the Titanic, pleading for a place on the last lifeboat.
TLO: Well, when you get back to shore, how will you earn a living for us?
St. H: What's the problem? I have a six figure income.
TLO: Yeah, if you count the two digits to the right of the decimal.
ST. H: Look, Sugar Booger, I've got big plans. Two major projects.
TLO: Would you share them with me?
St. H: Sure. First of all, I'm going into a joint venture with La Leche League to create a new brand of milk chocolate.
TLO: I won't ask what you'll name it.
St. H: Darn! That's the breast part!
TLO: What's your other bright idea?
St. H: I'm developing a line of distinctive headwear for saints. My recent in-depth study of the marginalization of contemporary saints has established an urgent need for holy headwear, something of singular power to distinguish the sanctified and to set apart the pure in heart.
TLO: You mean, like a miter?
St. H: Even better! It's like a cross between a baseball cap and a turban, with appropriate insignia, of course.
TLO: Naturally. But is there really a large market for holy headwear? I mean, how many of you saints are left in the world?
St. H: True. We are a rare phenomenon, indeed. However, there are probably quite a few on the very verge of sanctification, like you, for instance.
TLO: That's very nice of you to say. In light of my elevated status, perhaps you'll unclog my sink for me?
St. H: What if I get work rash?
TLO: I'm willing to risk it.
St. H: I shall do so, my lady, gratis. However, my offer is void where prohibited by law, and other restrictions may apply.
TLO: Do you really think you can do it, or should I call John Orio?
St. H: I think the process is amply covered in "The Manly Man's Manual," which I authored.
TLO: So let it be written. So let it be done!
St. H: Welcome to a world of love, baby!

ST. HOLIDAY PLOTS HIS NEXT MOVE

2009-12-27T08:00:00.000-08:00

St. Holiday: I believe you to be a goddess. Am I wrong?
The Lovely One: You're wrong to think that sweet words will cause me to give up this chair, the only piece of furniture left in the house.
St. H: For once in my life, I had a brief burst of hopefulness.
TLO: Go get a cinder block from the backyard.
St. H: I can't; I used them all in my latest project.
TLO: What now?
St. H: Well, I found a use for all your empty Coke cans.
TLO: Go ahead, make my moment.
St. H: First, may I say that you have awesome powers of desirability?
TLO: Your Jedi mind tricks will not work with me, O Be Gone.
St. H: You win this round, Supergal, but I'll be back!
TLO: Wait. I want to hear what you did with the cinder blocks and my empty Coke cans.
St. H: Well, you know how I have no use for uselessness and only time for timelessness?
TLO: I believe you wrote those maxims in your book, "Guide to Saintly Living."
St. H: You read it!
TLO: I got as far as the first page.
St. H: Well, if you'd read a little further, you would have also found this holy axiom: "Make no small plans. They have no power to stir men's souls."
TLO: Thus saith the Harv.
St. H: Actually, someone else said it before me, but it is my sacred duty to gather truth like a chipmunk munks his chips.
TLO: The meds aren't helping, are they?
St. H: (To himself) There he stood in lonely majesty, oft-neglected, but always ignored.
TLO: (To herself) She sinks into a stupor.
St. H: I think you only keep me around as a conversation starter.
TLO: I just love the way you can string a complete word together.
St. H: I'm just a step above inflatable to you.
TLO: And a step below emeritus status.
St. H: I was hoping you'd give me tenure. Here I am, having just barely survived an extinction event, only to be slighted and negated at home.
TLO: Well, you're like a savings bond; you take sooo long to mature.
St. H: How do I reconfirm my manhood with you?
TLO: Check in your pants?
St. H: After all my hard work, I was hoping to have a momentary feeling of competence today.
TLO: So, are you finally going to tell me what you were doing outside? I've got to finish my entry for the Publishers' Clearinghouse Sweepstakes.
St. H: OK. First, I erected a sign in the front yard.
TLO: What, did you put the house up for sale?
St. H: No, the sign is part of my comprehensive, revenue-inducing stratagem. It reads, "Donations Accepted, For a Limited Time Only."
TLO: A limited time only? How long will that be?
St. H: I was thinking fifty years.
TLO: Wherever Wisdom shines her light, you manage to be somewhere else.
St. H: What do you mean? Don't you think the phrase "For a Limited Time Only" will create a sense of urgency in the donor? You may be sitting in the presence of a great man and not even realize it.
TLO: That's really pid, too pid.
St. H: Well, I'm laboring under the staggering handicap of being old, insane and male.
TLO: And there's no help for it.
St. H: My mind is an empty stage in a condemned theater.
TLO: And to think that I was just about to hand you the reins of our marriage while I get some rest in the back of the wagon, so to speak.
St. H: O, there's too much joy. I'm about to fall over.
TLO: So, are you going to tell me about my Coke cans, and all that malarkey about uselessness and timelessness and no small plans?
St. H: Yes, we did get side-tracked. Here's the story. I expect that in two or three thousand years, mankind will have entered another Dark Age.
TLO: That long? I think the Dark Age started a few years back.
St. H: Not as long as you're in the world, my moaning star. And may I add that you are in high shine today, Hallelujah. Can I get an Amen?
TLO: Forever and ever, Ramen. You should have been a Baptist preacher.
St. H: There are moments, dear lady, when the truth in all its glory wells up in me and wants to burst forth!
TLO: And here I thought it was just gas and bloating.
St. H: (To himself) There he was again, standing in the flooded basement of soul-sapping desperation.
TLO: Alright already! What can you possibly do about some Dark Age three thousand years from now?
St. H: O human, the solution is so simple!
TLO: Ich bin ein beginner. Won't you share the solution with me?
St. H: Yes, I shall try to dock my prolixity and ecstatic volubility to answer the call of the tribal Queen. The very physics of the universe require this of me, and the sun and the moon and the stars require that I love you.
TLO: She waits, O Saintly One.
St. H: By the way, I'm a little weary of being pigeon-holed as just a holy man.
TLO: I think you're the only one on earth who thinks of you as a holy man.
St. H: Still, it needs to stop. I merely gather the metaphorical wood and light the metaphorical fire for the masses.
TLO: Well, come on, baby, light my fire, and tell me about the blessed Coke cans and cinder blocks.
St. H: Well, with prophetic foresight, I recognize that mankind is quickly degenerating, and in two or three thousand years, there will be a famine of truth on the earth. So, I took a pile of your empty Coke cans and opened them up and flattened them out and cut them into nice, rectangular metal plates. Then, I engraved my poetry on the plates. That's why I've been so busy. Next, I dug a deep hole in the yard, and I took the cinder blocks and positioned them in the hole to form a box. I put the poetic plates of truth in the box, covered the box with a stone lid and then filled in the hole. In two or three thousand years, some ignorant, degenerate, idol-worshiping savage will discover the plates, share my poetry with the masses, and truth will once again burst forth among mankind. Great idea, right?
TLO: It sounds familiar somehow. Tell me, how will the ignorant, degenerate savage read your poetry?
St. H: Hah! I thought of that! I forgot to tell you; I also buried our Webster's Dictionary in the cinder block box, all wrapped in plastic to preserve it. Smart, wouldn't you say?
TLO: Duh, how will the ignorant, degenerate savage read the dictionary?
St. H: Uhhh, I failed to consider that. See, this is why I need you. I guess I'll have to draw some elementary pictograms on more Coke can plates and bury them with the poetry as a key to help them decipher the truth. I'll be in the backyard for a while.
TLO: What are you putting on your hand?
St. H: Oh, it's the glove Mrs. Jackson gave me, when I was pulling weeds at Neverland.
TLO: Let me see that. It's so dirty. Why, it has sequins all over it. Wait a minute. Is this what I think it is? It is! This is Michael Jackson's other glove! Are you crazy?! Don't you realize what this is worth? This is the Holy Grail of gloves! We can sell this on eBay! Why did you get it all dirty?! Idiot! Michael Jackson's other glove! We're saved! We'll sell it and use the money to buy new furniture and a new refrigerator and some food and some clothing and some dinnerware, and .. and... everything! O, Holiday, you've saved us.
St. H: Well, baby, I'm in the saving business.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

2009-12-22T07:06:00.000-08:00

2009-11-28T07:55:00.001-08:00

2009-11-27T07:52:00.000-08:00

Click on the Pic

2009-11-26T18:22:00.000-08:00

THE SUFFERINGS OF ST. HOLIDAY, PART 8, OR RETURN FROM NEVERLAND

2009-11-26T06:25:00.000-08:00

At the door of the former residence of Show Low's pre-famous, buck-truth poet.

St. Holiday: Babycakes!
The Lovely One: Crazycakes!
St. H: Are you glad to see me?
TLO: I am nigh-overwhelmed.
St. H: Aren't you gonna let me in?
TLO: Where have you been?! I came back from Brandy's, and you were gone, and the house was overrun with skinny, ommming immigrants. You had everyone in here but Mother Theresa.
St. H: Oh yeah, Basutop and his family. Where are they?
TLO: They had to leave. Your "friend" extends his deep regrets, as he said, but there was no more food in the house, the utility company shut off the gas, electric and water, there was nothing of ours left to sell, and our mortgage company began foreclosure proceedings. How could you let that happen?!
St. H: Ouch. I hope they're not mad at me.
TLO: Holiday, they cleaned us out and left us destitute, and you care about their feelings?!
St. H: Without charity, I am nothing.
TLO: With charity, you have nothing.
St. H: Well, look on the bright side: it will be easier to clean, easier to move ...
TLO: Easier to divide up in our divorce.
St. H: No, baby! What are you saying? I need you! Don't cast me off like the others did, please!
TLO: It's hard not to. Holiday, I need some stability, some security, some food! How can I have that when you wander away to heaven-knows-where, doing-heaven -knows-what? Where have you been?!
St. H: Well, it's a long story. I thought you had abandoned me, so I hitchhiked to California to find you and beg you to come back. I got a little lost. But then Michael Jackson's mother found me, and took pity on me and said she'd help me, but she made me pull weeds at Neverland, and she only let me wear one glove, and she wanted me to get all this facial surgery, so I ran away, chased by a band of predatory lesbians, and just when I thought I was in the clear, I was kidnapped by this bunch of immigrant Russian gangsters, who sold me to a Mexican Bible cartel, but I stole Emperor Palpatine's Sith cloak and was able to escape through the back pass ...
TLO: Oh brother!
St. H: It's so good to hear you say that again.
TLO: In some countries, you'd make a good kebab.
St. H: What do you expect from the son of a non-Yiddish-speaking millwright?
TLO: If you were four feet shorter, you'd be in the circus.
St. H: O, who will soothe my sorrows?
TLO: You certainly are no stranger to domestic tragedy.
St. H: Every vestige of normal life for me has been suspended since early 1951.
TLO: You just operate on a delay, I guess.
St. H: Won't you let me in the house, sweetheart?
TLO: What happened to my See's dark chocolate-covered almond clusters?
St. H: Did you ask Basu?
TLO: He said the great Shiva does not permit him to eat dark chocolate.
St. H: Did you ask each of his family members?
TLO: They all denied it. Are you going to deny it, too?
St. H: You sure are beautiful. You have an hypnotic effect on me.
TLO: You are such a slug in the mud! You did eat my chocolates! Again! Every time I buy something special for myself and hide it away, you come along and steal it.
St. H: I'll go to my room now.
TLO: No. Give me one good reason why I should ever let you back in the house.
St. H: Cause I'm the cure for all what ails ya, baby.
TLO: You're the cause for all what ails me! And don't wink at me; it's so, so Cyclopian!
St. H: Do we have any Thorazine left?
TLO: No; you get nothing. And you can have seconds.You probably ate my chocolate-covered dried cherries, too, didn't you?
St. H: Are they missing?
TLO: How can I tell? The refrigerator is gone. I had them in the bottom drawer. I bet you found them and ate them all.
St. H: Is there any way we can be reconciled?
TLO: You must be under the influence of the Eye of Sauron.
St. H: I mean well.
TLO: What ever emboldened you to eat my chocolates? Haven't we had this discussion before? More than once! You are an habitual offender, always sneaking around and thieving.
St. H: You are so stark, raving nice.
TLO: I think your approval ratings have taken a nose-dive at home.
St. H: Ah, the sweet air of blissful domesticity!
TLO: Never let the truth intrude; that's your motto.
St. H: Little Sweetie, won't you take me back, give me one more chance?
TLO: Why?
St. H: To nurse me back to full recovery after my soul-crushing descent into the abyss of misery and woe.
TLO: You exaggerate more than anyone in the history of the universe.
St. H: You wouldn't say that if you knew what I've endured lately.
TLO: Poor baby! I bet you really suffered on the peekaboob coast!
St. H: Honey doll, the women there are morlocks compared to you. (I don't mean you, ladies.)
TLO: What did you just whisper?
St. H: I said I was in Hades, that's all.
TLO: Yeah, right.
St. H: Babe, look at me. Besides being handsome, brilliant, gifted and courageous, what do I really have going for me?
TLO: Not wealth, that's for sure.
St. H: Plus, I was passed over again for the Sexiest Man Alive title. Forty years in a row! They gave it to that scraggly pirate. I'm not taking it well.
TLO: You're surprised?
St. H: What do you mean?
TLO: Well, maybe you should catch a flight to the Balkans for that new treatment.
St. H: Thanks for reinforcing my rotten self-image.
TLO: You're always crying for attention. Why don't you just hire a personal stalker?
St. H: Hmmm, I never thought of that.
TLO: You only think you're a failure. You haven't been officially declared a failure yet.
St. H: Who does that?
TLO: Me. You're officially a failure.
St. H: Ow. Here I am, the artist no one understands.
TLO: You have a right to my opinion. You have a talent for invariably veering into spectacular blunders.
St. H: I've never really recovered from fatherhood.
TLO: You did get a hefty dose of that, you pop phenomenon you.
St. H: Loverdoll, I'm a desperate figure of a man, a victim of the Great Recession. Let me back into your heart. And into your bathroom. Please! I've learned my lesson. I'll change. What sayest thou?
TLO: Well, despite everything, you are a perpetual fountain of good humor. Will you promise to replace the chocolates you stole from me?
St. H: I'll double your losses.
TLO: OK, we have a deal. You can come back in.
St. H: Let's seal the deal with some sweet patootie pie!
TLO: No kisses until I see that chocolate.
St. H: Hey, it sure is empty in here. They did leave us a chair, though.
TLO: Yeah, the one you pulled out of the dumpster.
St. H; I guess all my kids called while I was away.
TLO: Not even one call.
St. H: Are you sure? Did you check the voicemail?
TLO: No calls.
St. H: But it's Thanksgiving! They must be very, very busy, or something.
TLO: Or something.

MICHAEL JACKSON'S MOM GETS CUSTODY OF ST. HOLIDAY

2009-08-04T20:55:00.000-07:00

Reveling in his unique status in the wide spectrum of what some might term normal, the Son of Harvey, fresh from his long engagement with the poor resting class, was thrust into the public eye today (Ouch!), when he was caught on paparazzian cameras walking side-by-side with Michael Jackson's mother. Exiting a Los Angeles courthouse, they were singing, "My momma don't dance, and my daddy don't rock 'n roll" in beautiful harmony. When the holy man suddenly broke into a crazy, solo jitter, stopped, pointed at his shoes and said, "Sears, twenty dollars a step," the crowd of curious onlookers broke into hysterics. According to informed sources, America's Grandmother discovered the underfunded saint, sleeping in a Cash for Clunkers bin. She asked him how he felt, and he replied, "Like my donor liver is stuck in traffic." She asked him if he had a home, and he said, "I would, if the nasssty Bagginses hadn't stolen it from usss, wouldn't we, Precioussss?" Sensing that the gentle soul was a cracker who had fallen through the cracks, she decided to give him refuge. "Saints are people, too," she is reported to have proclaimed. He is already scheduled for cosmetic surgery.

DEM OLE CATBOX BLUES

2009-07-16T06:53:00.000-07:00

St. Holiday: Thunders of Thor! Where's a cat burglar when you need one?
Basutop Maharamen: Your cats have perfected the process of elimination.
St. H: What would that be like?!
Basu: I think it's time for you to clean that catbox out again.
St. H: Can't you do it for me, Basu? It looks like the Kraken was here.
Basu: You know, we've talked about this, Holiday. That kind of labor is only performed by the Untouchable Caste. They do dead bodies, catboxes, messy stuff like that.
St. H: How about diapers?
Basu: Women only. There's a strict rule.
St. H: That makes a lot of sense.
Basu: Yes; I am on a higher social plane and must not defile myself with such things.
St. H: What in samheck! Basu, who are all these people in the house?
Basu: They are mostly family and friends.
St. H: The place looks different. Oh, what happened to all the furniture? The couches, the TV, the tables?
Basu: Uncle Sabib took care of those for you to save you the trouble.
St. H: I don't know, Basu. Things aren't working out the way I thought they would.
Basu: Perhaps you should move out, Holiday.
St. H: What? I move out?
Basu: Well, there's only one of you, and there are forty-two of us.
St. H: But I pay the mortgage on the property.
Basu: And we think it only fair that you continue to do so. We would not want to deprive you of that honor.
St. H: Honor?
Basu: Yes, the honor of supporting this great people. The glory can be all yours.
St. H: Maybe you're right, Basu. My poll numbers have been sliding lately. Americans are beginning to tune me out.
Basu: Perhaps there is a re-education camp we can send you to.
St. H: Yeah. I'm so outdated. I might as well dress in plaid and play tiddly-winks in an Avocado Green room with Harvest Gold drapes. Mors ultimum. I feel shovel-ready.
Basu: You may be in the early stages of depression. I urge you to leave this place, and go find your smile again.
St. H: That sounds familiar. I do have a friend in Jemez, who just had surgery to remove part of his intestines. He puts a semi-colon after his name now. Maybe he could use my help.
Basu: Yes! Why stay here and suffer further erosion of your psychological well-being?
St. H: I'm so misunderstood, Basu. If she would just give me one more chance. Just one more chance. She loved me once.
Basu: Why did she marry you in the first place?
St. H: Because I could reach things.
Basu: She will one day see the error of her wandering ways.
St. H: What if she returns after I am gone?
Basu: You can leave a forwarding address, and we will tell her where to go.
St. H: You think of everything, Basu. Where would I be without you at this time of crisis, when I'm grappling with my deficits?
Basu: I shudder to think.
St. H: I guess I should pack my bags.
Basu: No need. We have already done that for you.
St. H: You anticipate my every need. Then I guess there's nothing left to do but make my way back to the rural underbelly and put the finishing touches on my failed life.
Basu: Let me get the door for you, Holiday.
St. H: Basu, what if my children call?
Basu: You know that never happens. Have a safe walk to the bus stop, Holiday. Don't strain yourself with those bags.

ST. HOLIDAY ENGAGES PERSONAL SERVANT

2009-07-05T16:15:00.000-07:00

The doorbell rings at the residence of St. Holiday, who opens the door to a thin, dark-complexioned man with a bundle in his arms.

St. Holiday: Hello. Are you the fellow who advertised on Craig's List?
Basu: Yes sir. I am Basutop Maharamen. Only my mother calls me Basutop. Everyone else calls me Basu.
St. H: Well, come on in, Basu. Have a seat; you look very tired.
Basu: Thank you, sir. I am tired. I've walked a long way.
St. H: No car?
Basu: No, sir. I, uh, need the exercise.
St. H: Can I get you a drink of water?
Basu: Yes, thank you, sir. That's very kind of you, sir. May Kali bless you, sir.
St. H: Here you go. Let me take that bundle from you. It's OK; I'll just set it over here. Really; it's OK. It will be alright. Nothing will happen to it. What's the matter? Why won't you let me relieve you of that?
Basu: Well, sir, this is all I have, and I always keep it close to me.
St. H: Well, then, if you feel more comfortable holding onto it, it's fine with me.
Basu: Thank you, sir.
St. H: Hey, you don't have to call me sir. Just Holiday is good.
Basu: Yes, sir. Yes, Holiday.
St. H: You said your last name is Maha ...?
Basu: Maharamen. It means "prince of noodles" in Hindi. I am considered a very good cook. I come from a caste of very good cooks. I will cook for you, Holiday. You said in your message that you wanted a cook?
St. H: Well, actually I can cook, Basu. I'm just lonely really. My wife left me, and I'm all alone here, except for these cats. Oh, are you allergic to cats? I can put them in another room.
Basu: No, I love cats. I have a very tasty recipe for cat, if you'd like to try it sometime. The secret is in the curry.
St. H: Well, no, I'm a vegetarian.
Basu: It's OK. I know many dishes with noodles and rice.
St. H: Rice is nice.
Basu: Yes, it is nice. And if the cats happen to die, we will not have to burn them and put their ashes in the river. That would be a waste. We could prepare them with curry, and other people who are not vegetarians could eat them.
St. H: That would save me the trouble of digging holes for them. Let me ask my wife the next time she calls. I've heard her say she wants to stuff them and keep them on the mantle after they die.
Basu: So, you need company?
St. H: Well, you know, ever since my wife left me, I've been an empty-nester. That means that I have to do everything myself, like clean out the cat box, do laundry, wash dishes. I'm not really used to so much domesticity, if you know what I mean. I'm more of a cloistered thinker, one who likes to ponder the eternal verities, a member of the leisure class, caste, as you would call it.
Basu: I understand. You are wanting help with all these things.
St. H: Exactly, Basu. I need help with the mundane necessaries of life. Like pulling the weeds in the garden, for instance, and feeding all the hens and the duck and the wild birds. And the house needs to be painted. The windows need to be cleaned. And look at my carpets.
Basu: I would like to help you, Holiday.
St. H: That's great, Basu. There's only one problem. I don't have any money to pay you.
Basu: That would be OK, Holiday, if I could live here with you, or maybe on your porch or in your backyard. I could serve you, and you would not have to pay me anything at all. Just allow me to stay here and eat from the meals that I cook or that my wife cooks.
St. H: Your wife?
Basu: Yes, Holiday. I have a very devoted wife, who always stays with me.
St. H: Where is she now?
Basu: She is waiting in Holbrook, under the freeway bridge, where we have been living.
St. H: You're kidding me! Under a bridge? Why didn't you bring her with you?
Basu: She had to watch the children, while I came to see you.
St. H: Children, too?
Basu: Yes, sir. I have some children. Not too many.
St. H: How many?
Basu: There are only six. Four sons and two daughters. Our seventh child is not due for three more months.
St. H: Wo! How long have you been living outside?
Basu: What month is this?
St. H: July.
Basu: Only five months; since that big snowstorm in February. Our car broke down, and we didn't have money to fix it.
St. H: Well, Basu, I can't let you and your family continue to live outside like that, but I don't have much room here.
Basu: Holiday, you are very kind. When I asked for directions to your house, they told me you are a holy man, a saint.
St. H: Well, I don't know about that. Although, I do use the Royal We sometimes.
Basu: I and my little family do not require much room. In New Delhi, we had only a small shack. You live in a great castle.
St. H: Look, let me show you our spare bedroom. Over here down the hall. Will this be big enough, Basu? I mean, you don't all have to stay in here.
Basu: There is plenty of space in this room for my family.
St. H: Well, then, why don't you call this your new home. Raelene has all her stuff in here, but there's nothing much worth saving. Just throw it all out. The trash man comes every Wednesday. Especially all that Mary Kay stuff - get rid of it. And all that debris on the desk and in the closet, you can just throw it out.
Basu: Sir, may I give these things to my uncle, Sabib? He has a little shop. He would come and take these things, if I call him.
St. H: Oh, sure. Give him a call.
Basu: And, Holiday. We don't require beds. We sleep on the floor on mats.
St. H: Do you think your uncle, Sabib, would take this bed, too?
Basu: Certainly, as a favor to me. He would also take away this desk and this rocking chair, if you want to get rid of them.
St. H: That would be very good of him, and it would create more space for your family.
Basu: What about all these movies and these shelves?
St. H: I don't need those, Basu, except for the 24 series. I like those. The rest you can give to Sabib, if he will take them. There's a lot of them, though, maybe three or four hundred. Would he want to be bothered with all those?
Basu: I will beg him, Holiday. He might do me the favor, because I am his nephew.
St. H: That's wonderful. It's hard to be saintly, when I have so much stuff cluttering up the house. Maybe Sabib will take some other things. I've got boxes of stuff in the shed.
Basu: I will ask him.
St. H: Thank you, Basu. I'm beginning to like you already. Say, you look a lot like Gunga Din with that turban on, though you're wearing more clothing than he wore.
Basu: Gunga was my great grandfather. His full name was Gunga Dinner, and he was also a great cook, besides being an accomplished water bearer.
St. H: I'm sorry about how things turned out for him.
Basu: He did have a hard life. Nowadays, I look at his picture, and I say "You're a better man than I am, Gunga Dinner."
St. H: Well, I'm excited that you can come to help me. When do you think you can move in?
Basu: Well, it took me two days to walk here. So, if I walk back, that's two days, and to walk back here with my family will probably take at least two more days. That's four days from today.
St. H: Hey, I have an idea, Basu. Let me drive you back up to Holbrook and bring your family back tonight. I've been very lonely lately, and I just don't want to wait another four days for some company. It would be great to liven this place up some.
Basu: That is so kind of you, Holiday. may I ask one more thing?
St. H: Sure, Basu.
Basu: Do you have any bread? My family has not eaten for a few days, and the children are very weak, and because my wife is so pregnant, it's hard for her to catch the little animals any more. They're too fast for her now.
St. H: Oh, Basu, I'm glad you mentioned it. Of course. I have some bread. Let's get going before the sun goes down.
Basu: You are a true holy man, Holiday.
St. H: Well, I want to be someday. Wow! The Lovely One is going to be so surprised when she comes back! I'm sure glad my friend, Johnny, recommended Craigs List.

HAZMAT UNIT CALLED TO SHOW LOW HOME

2009-07-04T17:17:00.000-07:00

Responding to calls from several concerned neighbors, Show Low's elite Hazmat unit, donning vapor-tight suits and self-contained breathing apparati, rushed to the city's famous landmark known as the Monasterio de Santo Holiday this afternoon. After closing fashionable 8th Avenue at both ends and cordoning off the property, the highly-trained agents broke down the door of the residence to gain entry, expecting the worst. However, to their surprise, instead of a rotting body in a pool of noxious putrefaction, they found Show Low's notorious and reclusive extrovert, St. Holiday himself, sitting alone at the kitchen table and weeping into his bowl of pungent beans. He appeared to observers to be physically unfazed by the nauseous fumes emanating from his home, though he was emotionally distraught over the loss of his beloved wife, who abandoned him recently to seek respite and refuge in California. Out of respect for the couple's privacy, details of this latest separation will not appear in this publication until tomorrow's edition. As a precaution, officers shut off all pilot lights at the residence and opened the windows to ventilate the rooms. When the air has cleared, and neighbors can return to their homes, a crisis intervention team will attempt to counsel with the sorrowing holy man. As an added measure, Meals-on-Wheels has been asked to provide him with some less-combustible food.

LEFT IN THE DUST, TO ROT AND TO RUST!

2009-07-03T12:13:00.000-07:00

The venerable St. Holiday, alone, talking to himself again.

St. H: Great! Now there'll be no one to discover my body.
St. H: The cats will probably be snacking on you, when the police are finally called to investigate because of the awful smell emanating from the house.
St. H: I should throw the cats outside, so there'll be something left for the viewing.
St. H: Yeah, get 'em out of here before they fill that catbox.
St. H: Stinkin' cats!
St. H: What do they know of human suffering?
St. H: Nothing. They only think about themselves.
St. H: Constantly. Nonstop. All the time even. Feed me! Pet me! Brush me! Give me treats!
St. H: I know. I want to say, "Stop being so selfish. Think of me!"
St. H: You're stuck with 'em, buddy-boy.
St. H: Crom. Where's Alfred Hitchcock when you need him?
St. H: She didn't leave you anything in the fridge.
St. H: And nothing in the cupboard.
St. H: And nothing in the pantry.
St. H: Man, I'm doomed to a slow, agonizing death from starvation.
St. H: You could go to Walmart.
St. H: No way! It's the first of the month. The place will be packed with welfare recipients.
St. H: I hate crowds. I hate stores. Better to starve.
St. H: (Singing) Soon I'll be free.
There'll be no more chains on me.
With my body in the ground,
I'll be heaven-bound.
St. H: How can you be free, when you're bound?
St. H: It doesn't mean tied up. It means headed in the direction of heaven.
St. H: Right. Are you sure that's where they're going to send you?
St. H: That's true. I could be headed for the Hot Place.
St. H: Maybe you should count on it after all your shenanigans..
St. H: Hey, I've got some good points.
St. H: Like what? You feed the birds?
St. H: Yeah. And I call my angel mother regularly. That's gotta be worth something.
St. H: That's it?
St. H: I used to cook dinner for the Lovely One ... in the old days ... when she was still with me.
St. H: Man, how could she leave you like this?
St. H: I just couldn't satisfy the woman.
St. H: She's like those cats.
St. H: Exactly.
St. H: At least she didn't have something like a catbox.
St. H: Omigosh! I can hear her now: "Holiday, clean out my wifebox!"
St. H: You know, the next time a kid comes up to me and asks, "Mister, what happened to you?" I'm going to lean down and whisper in his ear, "Women!"
St. H: Why do they treat you this way?
St. H: Hey, don't blame me. I had an uncle who drank.
St. H: O brother!
St. H: O my stars!
St. H: You're starting to sound like her now.
St. H: Hopefully, the government will step in and save me.
St. H: They'd better hurry. You're heaven-bound, remember?
St. H: Yeah! But with my luck, I'll end up in the depot, waiting for the heaven-bound bus, staring at black and white reruns of Lawrence Welk shows forever, and there won't even be a men's room to throw up in.
St. H: Just your luck!
St. H: You remind me of "the decay of that colossal wreck" in Ozymandias.
St. H: You're right. Let me wrinkle my lip and give a sneer of cold command. OK.
My name is St. Holiday,
Ding of Lings.
Look on my writings, ye Mighty,
and repent!
St. H: Shelley's version is better.
St. H: My Helpme has gone!
St. H: Don't you mean, "Helpmeet?"
St. H: I'm a vegetarian.
St. H: O yeah. You need a plan. What are you going to do?
St. H: Nothing. I need to ensure my anonymity.
St. H: Maybe after you do an honest day's rest, you'll think of something.
St. H: How 'bout world domination?
St. H: Will you be up for that at your advanced age?
St. H: Well, you know, I don't believe in sudden moves, but I am starting to feel a rush of revolutionary rage.
St. H: Do you realize you're talking to yourself?
St. H: I have no one else. She left me like a flushed toilet.
St. H: (Singing) I will dress in pants
that can not reach my toes,
take an old tin cup
and strike a pauper's pose.
St. H: Death! The final frontier.
St. H: My whole life was a series of disasters.
St. H: And then your troubles began.
St. H: Enough to make my mind run in reverse.
St. H: I'm starving already. O here's something.
St. H: Beans! It's what's for dinner!
St. H: That'll put some wind in your sails, ole boy!
St. H: With soy hot dogs.
St. H: Pure wind power. Maybe Obama will give you some tax credits.
St. H: Yeah! St. Holiday's Mega-Thruster System.
St. H: Remember, "no sudden moves."
St. H: Well, it's unavoidable now. A man's got to eat.
St. H: She even took the chips. No buffer now. Bean me up, Scotty!
St. H: You'll be weaponized.
St. H: They'll have to send in the Marines.
St. H: And Special Forces.
St. H: Maybe then you'll get some mainstream press coverage.
St. H: I'll recapture my long lost youth.
St. H: It'll smell like dairy air in here.
St. H: Remember The Jar?
St. H: O that was so wrong, Holiday. You're going to hell just for that alone.
St. H: It was debilitating. Poor Bobby!
St. H: Wrong! So wrong! Don't glory in your wicked past.
St. H: I think I must be the victim of random genetic drift. It's the only explanation.
St. H: That could be it. That might explain your long series of failed relationships.
St. H: I do have a singular knack for driving my loved ones away.
St. H: Raelene did say she'd come back.
St. H: I don't know, man; she even took her pillow.
St. H: And her computer.
St. H: And most of her clothes.
St. H: And the chips.
St. H: Almost everything except the cats.
St. H: There's precious little life left in me now.
St. H: (Singing) I'm fading fast;
I may not last.
You'd better call the doctor.
I'm turning blue
and wheezing, too.
I never should have mocked her.
St. H: Har, me mate! Thar be beans!
St. H: Chef Boy O Boy.
St. H: One last meal, before I resume my journey deathward.
St. H: Although, these beans may save you.
St. H: True, but Heaven help the villagers downwind.
St. H: Grab the attention you deserve, my man!
St. H: Vegetarian. I've heard that's an old Indian word, meaning "bad hunter."
St. H: I only wanted a little respect!
St. H: Some days, wealth, wisdom and good looks are just not enough.
St. H: Hah! Like when did you ever have any of those?
St. H: I was gearing up. OK, OK, so I've been condemned to a simple life.
St. H: She knew that when she hooked up with you.
St. H: It's not like I pulled the proverbial wool over her eyes.
St. H: She knew you were a loser before she married you.
St. H: It was plain to see.
St. H: She can't say you deceived her.
St. H: No way. I was obviously a lousy bum from the beginning.
St. H: (Singing) She left me and went West.
She said she thought it best,
because my looks and manners are annoying.
So, now I am well-offed
and can not have the soft,
that all the other husbands are enjoying.
St. H: Life is ebbing away.
St. H: And still no one to discover my bloated corpse.
St. H: Maybe you should call the kids and put them on notice.
St. H: I've been doing that for years. They don't care.

THE SUFFERINGS OF ST. HOLIDAY, PART 7

2009-06-20T06:08:00.000-07:00

In the sanctuary of the Monasterio de Santo Holiday.
The Lovely One: Wo! Your toenails look like Fritos. Either put on some socks, or let me trim those for you.
St. Holiday: Have at it, my deary. Just don't get snackish on me. Hey, we could develop a new line of chips called Toenails.
TLO: Not appealing.
SH: I don't know; it's making my mouth moist.
TLO: Let me get you a gag. I suddenly feel like gagging.
SH: Baby, I may have to postpone my quest for perfection.
TLO: But you were so close!
SH: I know. The announcement will send shock waves.
TLO: You were weaving wonders of superhuman fire.
SH: I know, I know. And I was poised for future feats.
TLO: So, you didn't get that job with the new administration?
SH: No; they said I appeared to be confused and disoriented.
TLO: Were you?
SH: I don't know. They were using enhanced interrogation techniques on me. I may have overstepped my bowels. My Belly Reuben count is high.
TLO: You mean bilirubin. And how would you know?
SH: I heard Sanjay Gupta talking about it on TV. The symptoms he described match mine exactly.
TLO: You have the symptoms for everything.
SH: I'm dying.
TLO: Promises, promises.
SH: Ouch! Hey, if you're going to clip my nails, try to leave some toe behind.
TLO: Shut up. That didn't hurt.
SH: Then why am I writhing in agony?
TLO: You always exaggerate.
SH: I've always heard that blood should stay on the inside.
TLO: In your case, there's an exception.
SH: I'm hemorrhaging.
TLO: If you'd trim your Fritos more often, this wouldn't happen.
SH: I can't reach them anymore. I'm old. In fact, just this morning I was younger. I need you.
TLO: And I'm here for you, pruning away.
SH: Just be careful; try to stay away from the nervous system.
TLO: So, we won't be supported by public donations?
SH: No; they dismissed me with a gesture of contempt, saying something about my "hokie yass," whatever that is.
TLO: What did you say in response?
SH: What they always say: "Don't blame me; there was a lack of oversight."
TLO: Is that all you told them?
SH: No; I told them it wasn't my fault, that I had inherited my problems from the previous administration.
TLO: What job were you applying for?
SH: Poetry Czar.
TLO: They have czars for everything nowadays.
SH: I know; we should open a used czar lot.
TLO: Ha! At least they didn't take away your sense of humor.
SH: No. Like Braveheart said, "They can take away our lives and our liberty, but they can never take away our sense of humor."
TLO: Braveheart said that?
SH: Maybe I'm thinking of Mel Gibson.
TLO: So how do you feel about being rejected again?
SH: Like King Kong is chasing me, and I've come to the edge of a deep chasm, and my only chance for survival is a rotting rope bridge, stretching to the other side.
TLO: Well, I'm relieved you're taking it so well.
SH: Yeah, I'm only trembling on the verge of a breakdown. At least I got a high score on my senility test.
TLO: Does that mean you're senile?
SH: I'm not sure. I only know I got a high score, and that's good enough for me.
TLO: At times like this, you should cling to the positive.
SH: The past is stone, the future clay.
TLO: That's powerful. You are my Poetry Czar. Can I quote you?
SH: I guess so. Though I'm not sure I made that up. There's such a noisy menagerie in my head, I never can be certain of my sources. That dental hygienist really jarred things loose the other day.
TLO: It was only a cleaning.
SH: No; there was more going on there. She came at me with her chisels like I was a block of stone.
TLO: I was so mortified when you were yelling, "Help, help!"
SH: And yet, you never came to my rescue. You just sat there and watched as I was being tortured.
TLO: It was just a teeth cleaning.
SH: Without gas!
TLO: You don't need gas for that.
SH: No, the hygienist needed gas. She was out of her mind with hostility towards me.
TLO: You shouldn't have said, "Don't you like men?"
SH: She was killing me. She managed to find every raw nerve in my mouth, and she played on each one like they were harp strings. And you just left me and went to have a cozy chat with the dentist.
TLO: I couldn't stand all your yelling.
SH: You abandoned me at the time of my greatest agony.
TLO: What did you want me to do?
SH: Throw your body over mine to protect me from that woman! Wrest the chisel from her grip! Call the police!
TLO: It was just a simple cleaning. You hardly have any teeth left in your head, and you made such a big deal of it.
SH: And what was the first thing the dentist said, when he finally responded to my screaming? "You sure bleed a lot." Well, yeah! Your assistant has been stabbing me for an hour!
TLO: You made her cry.
SH: She made me cry and bleed and endure unimaginable pain.
TLO: She said she wouldn't be able to sleep that night.
SH: Well, I haven't slept since the Nixon administration.
TLO: You should curb your excesses.
SH: Maybe so, but I'm not going back to that dentist without a Mossad bodyguard.
TLO: To change the subject, what are you going to do to get us out of debt?
SH: I'm writing a book, The Last of the Po' Chickens, the tragic tale of a group of backyard hens that would not stay out of the garden.
TLO: Our hens haven't bothered your garden since you erected that stockade around it.
SH: Not yet. But I see them walking the fence line and plotting.
TLO: So you think this book will save us?
SH: It's bound to, especially with my innovative marketing idea.
TLO: What would that be?
SH: On the cover of each book will be the words, "Pre-read, so you won't have to." People will want to buy a book that will save them time.
TLO: I'm blinded by your brilliance.
SH: Ow! Careful! That's human flesh you're twisting around!
TLO: Hold still; it's the last one.
SH: Between you and that dental hygienist, I suffer head to toe.
TLO: It will all be over soon.
SH: I know. I'm headed for a stunning conclusion. Which reminds me, I've had an idea lately that may double my lifespan.
TLO: No, please, I can't take any more. Have you no pity?
SH: What if my head were transplanted onto a baby's body?
TLO: Male or female?
SH: Hmm. I hadn't thought about that.
TLO: Either way, I guess you'd have to be nursed.
SH: I had thought of that.
TLO: You would.
SH: You know, the whole operation is just a concept at this point. I'll need to study it out. I don't even know whether it's possible to do it. I have a lot of questions.
TLO: This is the most bizarre idea you've ever shared with me.
SH: Well, there's a lot going on in my mind lately. And I've been very emotional. You're aware that tomorrow is Father's Day?
TLO: Of course I am. That's always your hardest day of the year, isn't it?
SH: Yeah. It's like being tied to the mast and flogged and having to forfeit my rum ration.
TLO: You don't drink.
SH: Maybe I should start.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YOSHIYAHU!

2009-06-04T16:53:00.000-07:00

My Bicentennial son, Josiah Nathan Van Sciver the magnificent, born on this day in 1976, is best approached with reverential awe. I capitulate to the inevitability of his reign. He has the advantage of certain genetic enhancements, which have made him a true Person of Quality, giving rise to a cult of almost religious hero-worship among intellectuals, workers and students. If he were a video-game, he'd be the most downloaded in history. He is not. However, he is a triple-nominee for the You Go Award. He owes most of his personal growth to his angel mother and to the principle of motion. He is a child survivor of ghastly, inhumane conditions, and has been rescued from the very brink of the abyss by his wonderful wife, Sarah, the princess. Now he is thirty-three, which is, appropriately, the product of two prime numbers. His rare mind bubbles with truth. He is a wizard with computers. When asked why he has devoted his life to this technology, he responds, "It beats poaching elephants." His insightful sense of humor is seldom restrained. I am his father; there is no one else to blame. Finally, it should be recorded that Josiah would look a lot like the Mona Lisa , if he were a woman, a little younger, if he had a face like hers, and if he had a smile like hers. Happy birthday, son! Carry on the revolutionary struggle, and be sure to enforce the code of tribal honor at home. I love you.