tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60286219548628102112024-03-20T02:55:33.612-07:00Baseball, Blues & Bills"I am the Image of the Loser, the Man who doesn't care, the Man who didn't quite make it, the man who will drink a beer with a bum" - Charles BukowskiJoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-91162856575457940852023-05-08T11:41:00.001-07:002023-05-08T11:41:47.869-07:00<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u>Last Exit to Nowhere</u></i></b></span></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><i><span style="font-size: medium;">"Seeking only workman's wages, I come looking for a job, but I get no offers, just a "come on" from the whores on Seventh Ave." - Simon & Garfunkel</span></i></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>" My thumb goes up, a car passes by, oh won't someone please help a guy, hitchin' a ride, hitchin' a ride" - Vanity Fare</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Hitch-hiking and looking for a job. Two pastimes that took up a majority of my time back in the 70s.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The road had a loneliness that appealed to me. It gave me time to think, really think about what might lie at the end of my journey and all that had come before. Introspective demeanor, I guess. There is no shortage of stories in this blog about my hitchhiking adventures. My stab at poetry is littered with them. It was a time that was unique to my early manhood and has not nor cannot ever really come back.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxsZnqJpcqe5zKwl8dM73exGXbRUbHVbazyChG3oVtB_mN72jYQHYy_jVtRrx6bUlgK7GirGb7MR31jDcPUbnwCdmHAS_HHo96XmdADuxv84HgV8UA0FUp2Bb9tefAXQDpkavx8X3M_u6dUK51rBozsG1zarXRyje6svcloren75JdOIFaTgG-gYcC4A/s1200/kansas3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxsZnqJpcqe5zKwl8dM73exGXbRUbHVbazyChG3oVtB_mN72jYQHYy_jVtRrx6bUlgK7GirGb7MR31jDcPUbnwCdmHAS_HHo96XmdADuxv84HgV8UA0FUp2Bb9tefAXQDpkavx8X3M_u6dUK51rBozsG1zarXRyje6svcloren75JdOIFaTgG-gYcC4A/s320/kansas3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"The Road"</i></div></span><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">All I have are memories of the greatness that once was, the freedom, the angst, and the fear of tht long ribbon of blacktop heading to far distant places. What might hppen between this poin and that was a complete crap shoot. Getting rides from nice families, servicemen on their way home on leave, a van filled with smoke and long hairs pasing the bottle round, even a stolen car with a maniacal sledge hammer head that I was lucky to escape. Then there were the frequent unexpeced thunderstorms, the long line hitchers on an on ramp who arrived before you did and last but not leaset, the odd jobs I would find along the way.</span></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: medium;">One of the great institutions during the 70s was a company called "Man Power". Almost every town had one. Like WPA and the CCC during the depression, these joints doled out day jobs to wiling stewbums where you were promised a days pay for a days work. I a pinch it was alright, however, the work could be especially tainted with dollops of Upton Sinclair's "The Jungle" so you had to be vigilant. You were not guaranteed a job on any particular day, so you had to arrive early to get in line. I'm here to tell you, no matter where you are in the world there is nowhere quite as cold as 5 am in the morning in anytown USA. Having an empty stomach at the same time is no fun as well.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Jobs I performed ran the gambit from carpet installer to book bindery machine operator. The only saving grace being that at the end f the day you could collect your cash and finally get a bite to eat and then head on back down the road. It is the connective tissue of all Americans, the thing that keeps tethered together, for better or worse. Songs, books, and movies are filled with road stories, there just might be something to it.</span></p><p> </p>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-82252536629800775442023-05-07T14:49:00.000-07:002023-05-07T14:49:04.658-07:00<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>"It is well that war is so terrible, otherwise we should grow too fond of it" </i></b></span> </p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>- General Robert E. Lee</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i><u>The Hill</u></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i><u><br /></u></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This country celebrates and is based on war. In our short history as a nation, we have either started or gleefully participated in no less than 10 wars. Besides the use of bullets, we have declared war on a myriad of things: The war on drugs, The war on poverty, The war on hunger, The war on equal rights, and a boatload more that don't quickly come to mind. Being a kid in the 60s was to wallow in the celebration of war. It was the Centennial of the American Civil War, with parades and celebrations throughout the country. The media was overloaded with the war in the movies and television. The weekly show "Combat!" on ABC was one of my favorites. A show based on small platoon action mostly in Italy and later France and Germany. Lots of death, lots of "Amerikaner Dog". Is it any wonder that little boys everywhere had all forms of small arms weapons and used them in their everyday adventures?</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8diPBinZ4diNhnNkJpGnph3ZZNwPo_bmBnYTPbR9zp9KPFe9_TdFdgJS-VHeoMJQ366VRSkTrfpN3x9BhXWpoa5BfOYbvYxUSN1o4nDgpUCytKVOBySDWWfRiC4gmZsC6I0KHuOy2QuBqYERE2pWCGugkai12veVFXw1vdqH1nxATRUt4HeT1oYarOg/s1770/war4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1166" data-original-width="1770" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8diPBinZ4diNhnNkJpGnph3ZZNwPo_bmBnYTPbR9zp9KPFe9_TdFdgJS-VHeoMJQ366VRSkTrfpN3x9BhXWpoa5BfOYbvYxUSN1o4nDgpUCytKVOBySDWWfRiC4gmZsC6I0KHuOy2QuBqYERE2pWCGugkai12veVFXw1vdqH1nxATRUt4HeT1oYarOg/s320/war4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Little Johnny mowing them down</span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7OVxfGPx0BFiPlTlkB-gc_q_8hpuEJqPbctHux3CPuVef5ir9VK8DwHO_6_DM_rPDqOfDmAEdbnM0z04OWpPknIMeEvRj_98c4ZBtMZkGEyNzgAKCdvJUjFlVYPwKhKtbfrqK5sBQwy6vThtj8t1tGxy1tDEhH1FyW4kHT_Ks260PkReJKIVodaq81A/s1500/war2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="997" data-original-width="1500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7OVxfGPx0BFiPlTlkB-gc_q_8hpuEJqPbctHux3CPuVef5ir9VK8DwHO_6_DM_rPDqOfDmAEdbnM0z04OWpPknIMeEvRj_98c4ZBtMZkGEyNzgAKCdvJUjFlVYPwKhKtbfrqK5sBQwy6vThtj8t1tGxy1tDEhH1FyW4kHT_Ks260PkReJKIVodaq81A/s320/war2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV7WwvIYoS8ipmC061NYe0qHl_uEQ0S9keiNgGFRh2IsfTQ-fo3vZD7T-O8-oja-KOfSYdbX85hMAhCVXJUf9ct0eKGriciBTzWdN8xNz9lH85PaIX57WD0ACeJsvxOUVVLY0z06Fb0JvYfCHiyHfiFLMSmkjSQir03TK3lYIXFbLHTMpx6oEBGQrsVA/s1000/war3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="490" data-original-width="1000" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV7WwvIYoS8ipmC061NYe0qHl_uEQ0S9keiNgGFRh2IsfTQ-fo3vZD7T-O8-oja-KOfSYdbX85hMAhCVXJUf9ct0eKGriciBTzWdN8xNz9lH85PaIX57WD0ACeJsvxOUVVLY0z06Fb0JvYfCHiyHfiFLMSmkjSQir03TK3lYIXFbLHTMpx6oEBGQrsVA/s320/war3.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoWuJeOZQwD5DoKLGeNp6O-HQkXAecXnmrgsCBP7Kfvifhy-9riDm8nyecpnFg6mYchpueBNoL0cvN0govD1QmxY9Qh84EuQ6wWlFbW_goQPzv2bgxF8Pb0YlkMOenlyjf1mDkiCjf8-PknSY0Cqp1hJOFr1Dna6McIw6K6zpN13BtKH28LyYiJiCnmw/s950/war.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="950" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoWuJeOZQwD5DoKLGeNp6O-HQkXAecXnmrgsCBP7Kfvifhy-9riDm8nyecpnFg6mYchpueBNoL0cvN0govD1QmxY9Qh84EuQ6wWlFbW_goQPzv2bgxF8Pb0YlkMOenlyjf1mDkiCjf8-PknSY0Cqp1hJOFr1Dna6McIw6K6zpN13BtKH28LyYiJiCnmw/s320/war.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The very mention of "The Hill" fills me with thoughts of warm late summer afternoons when my friends and myself would go on neighborhood patrol looking for the "enemy", might be "Japs", might be "Krauts" whatever our imagination could come up with. Armed to the teeth we began our walk along the well-worn trail in between the houses on the adjoining blocks. It took nerves of steel and the ultimate in stealth to make our way without getting caught as we weaved our way over fences behind garages and lightly traipsed through gardens of begonias and tulips, getting caught and yelled at would abort our mission.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Pausing behind a garage we took a breather and then quietly looked around the corner to see if any old informants might be watering their lawns. The all clear given, off we moved in single file watching out for big piles of branches and other lawn debris that might slow us down. Late afternoon sunshine turned a golden hue as we approached our objective. A cool breeze caught our faces and braced us for the coming fury of battle. Strange, as a child I never remember really sweating, being cold, yes, but not sweating, don't know why this comes to mind it's just a thought to set my mind to a time more than 50 years ago.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The trail ended at an expansive area between two garages, our jumping-off point. Upon a short column of concrete and brick, it is here that another twisted saga of boyhood took place. Conveniently and cleverly called "The Worm Torture Factory". It was here that we turned the compost and found large, juicy worms and decided to pounce upon them with reckless abandon. To my knowledge, none that were involved ever became serial killers, that's as far as we took our baby boomer dementia. Looking back I can only feel disgusted that I would have the temerity to look upon a living creature with such callousness, my cross to bear.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As we peered through the smoke and "fog of war" we saw a small ridge known to all kid-dom as "The Hill". In reality, it was about 1 to 1 1/2 feet high, some hill, huh? It sat at the far side of an expansive suburban lawn, the owners of which, we had no idea. In our minds, it was shortly after D-Day1944 and our small platoon was slowly making our way inland from the beachhead looking for machine gun nests and enemy activity in general.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The late afternoon sun ducked behind a small cloud, giving us a moment's chance to dash down the driveway to "The Hill". We hit the dirt just as the Vickers Machine Gun opened up on us, shooting clumps of dirt just above our heads. Our boys responded with shots from their M1s and our Sergeant gave the krauts a short burst of his Tommy gun. We were pinned down. We needed to eliminate this installation before the main body came up. We all turned our heads to look at ol' Greenie, as he was the best crawler in the platoon. Slowly John edged his way to the end of the hill and as we kept up covering fire he made his way around until he was close enough to lobe a grenade into the midst of the enemy. The ensuing explosion showered us with dirt and bits of metal. We peered over the top. There stood ol' Greenie grinning from ear to ear looking down at the dead Krauts. We had lived to continue our patrol.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had probably the best of childhoods. my friends and I could conjure up any one of a multitude of games just using our surroundings and the things we had at hand. Life has held many treacherous turns in the ensuing 60 years. No matter what may happen, I have these memories that warm my heart and reminds me how wonderful it was to live my best life.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-7206348939717440142023-02-19T12:35:00.002-08:002023-02-19T12:37:52.749-08:00<p style="text-align: center;"><i>"</i><i>Cryin' won't help you. prayin' won't do you no good</i> </p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>When the levee breaks, mama you got to move" - Kansas City Joe McCoy</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p style="text-align: left;">It's hard to know what I'm talking about if you didn't live through it. Sure there is no shortage of print and other media explaining the times, probably one of the most famous episodes in American History, certainly the most flamboyant, until now.</p><p style="text-align: left;">We were all dancing on a warm summer breeze with nothing but a nice fat joint to pass the time with. Underneath, however, everyone had a gut-wrenching fear that the whole thing could explode any minute. Then Viet Nam ended, Nixon resigned, Manson was behind bars and everything settled back into a tense but placid normalcy. Most everyone I knew felt that we had dodged a bullet, we took the worst that could be thrown at us and come away somewhat unscathed. But the fear was still there and it crept along a little bit each day. Politicians regained control and oh so slowly began to tighten their grip.</p><p style="text-align: left;"> The "Free Love" generation was dead and buried, what's worse is that many of these same idealists switched sides, secretly they thought that they could change things from the inside. It seemed plausible, it might even work, but, and this is a biggie, they had no clue that a leather-chaired, wood-paneled boardroom at a prestigious law firm could twist you into a mold of their choosing, or the easy money that could be made after the super tight grip of the weasel special interest groups, lobbyists, sunk their fangs in deep. They thought "What the heck, I lived on alfalfa sprouts and yeast for two years in a commune, I've done my comeuppance". The only problem was that by the time they got chewed up and then spat into the halls of Congress, they became far worse than any of their predecessors.</p><p style="text-align: left;">So that brings us to the here and now. My innards are tied up into knots and I don't think I've felt any emptier than I do now. The media and their belching screaming heads have compressed my world into this tiny area, and even here I feel that unless we get some help, and fast, we might be headed down a treacherous path where child molesters and flagrant liars rule the day. No t for me, uh uh. </p><p style="text-align: left;">On my back patio sits a large styrofoam cooler that contains a copious amount of bottled beer, long necks only, please. Digging in I pull out a new flavor Sam Adams. It goes well with how I feel and the time of year, I think it's called "Banshee Blue", guess I'll find out why. Taking a deep drink I walk into my living room and head up the stairs to the bedroom. There, in the top right corner drawer is Dad's sock drawer. The same place where my father hid all his illicit and fun shit, even the girlie mags he swiped from me vowing to chuck 'em but never did. Guess we had the same taste in smut. With the advent and advancement of the internet, there is no more need to hide mags in the drawer. Now the contents reside in a hidden folder deep within the dark confines of my own personal dark web. Dark indeed, I frighten myself with how far down the corridor my depravity has taken me. The brain, being the erogenous organ, happily views this nonsense even if nothing else twitched much anymore, "Big Lou's like you, he's on meds too"</p><p style="text-align: left;">The great bandaid of this world, medication keeps most everything in check, but there is no telling when the dam might burst and Redeeming Love would be all but lost by the fury of the flood waters. I crave redemption from my stupid life, from this stupid existence filled with trivial crap day in and day out, waiting for the other shoe to fall. One of my friends on Facebook posted a cartoon after one of my particularly vile venom-spewing whining outbursts, they seem to come more frequently these days. Anyway, he posted a cartoon of Homer Simpson's father saying nothing but shaking his fist at a passing fluffy cumulous cloud. Very apropos, Bravo!</p><p style="text-align: left;">I seem to have strayed a bit. Actually, I might be able to answer my own musing about yesteryear and now. There, in my sock drawer is a complete set of "Heroes of the Blues" cards drawn by that master complainer, Robert Crumb. They pretty much contain the answer to everything or at least point in a good direction. Produced by the Yazoo Recording Company, these cards are what I refer to when I think of "Make America Great Again". They were produced at a time when the Arts seemed to be having a revival and good old times recorded music was resurfacing thanks to the CD. Many hate the format but so much has become obtainable that was not earlier with vinyl, So, praise the Lord, I have been saved! Sometimes all it takes is an old sock drawer.</p><p style="text-align: left;">While I am at a high point on this emotional roller coaster, I'm going to cut and run and save the rest for another day, enough spewing for the moment. Adios.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzcOnr8eKJwoJY6hnef4Qh4tb_LqKod84d1ew2dcnXcnkXGq85Xf0dZLUTkBsHj5xgvF9UM4U4_yieGUp241BR7nx_1gjBEsEhBhINUudJF21Tg9rsDUAHKO4tif7sPfizW-f_pAhrOj4lIzXXim0k3g45Vo9SsYK3-RICHhezWRX-MOX3SbYWFKOQMw/s393/heros.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="393" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzcOnr8eKJwoJY6hnef4Qh4tb_LqKod84d1ew2dcnXcnkXGq85Xf0dZLUTkBsHj5xgvF9UM4U4_yieGUp241BR7nx_1gjBEsEhBhINUudJF21Tg9rsDUAHKO4tif7sPfizW-f_pAhrOj4lIzXXim0k3g45Vo9SsYK3-RICHhezWRX-MOX3SbYWFKOQMw/s320/heros.jpg" width="244" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-32079224737991211762022-09-13T09:20:00.000-07:002022-09-13T09:20:26.097-07:00<p style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u>Journalism 101</u></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u><br /></u></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">There was madness in any direction, at any hour. You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastical universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. And that, I think, was the handle–that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting–on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high water mark–that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back. ~Hunter S. Thompson</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">(Book: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas)</span></p>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-12829008525766958742022-08-23T07:47:00.010-07:002022-09-28T19:47:20.725-07:00<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u>Kansas</u></i></b></span></p></blockquote></blockquote><p> <span style="font-size: medium;">There is something I just can't put my finger on when it comes to my thoughts about Kansas. Kansas, all of it. From the beautiful hill country of the east to the flatter than flat sublime beauty of the west. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I spent some of the best years of my life there. There are plenty of stories about how I wound up there, they are sprinkled throughout this blog, seek 'em out if and when you find the time. I was blessed when there was no reason on earth that I deserved a blessing, from anywhere or anyone. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There is a FaceBook Group "Kansas Sunrises and Sunsets" that features amazing photography from its members. Seek them out for a treasure trove of beauty.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimjim8karucpPbeBvLRTZtc-X5l4GthtLCZPvPt4OvgZ0m7EBEZznJV7EnKvT_DseecoY0jJI3XTKN0oC7NNJjKzliE2aoFcnyTR6P95kICLwAMWj-__8GB6umjyet5Gk4IL-uFOhFFyoNhCNJSuuOT-yRa6hpGs9zw4dvOPu-xTL_1GByYqguSJEtJQ/s960/298402528_858268118477091_5245820682672104025_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimjim8karucpPbeBvLRTZtc-X5l4GthtLCZPvPt4OvgZ0m7EBEZznJV7EnKvT_DseecoY0jJI3XTKN0oC7NNJjKzliE2aoFcnyTR6P95kICLwAMWj-__8GB6umjyet5Gk4IL-uFOhFFyoNhCNJSuuOT-yRa6hpGs9zw4dvOPu-xTL_1GByYqguSJEtJQ/s320/298402528_858268118477091_5245820682672104025_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCOzS8o625Yg3Ec4gYSAlTAWaj1l7TdQlDbhQgCHV24su89BGs7j1zm_N_5OCVYGeR4n2oz32an2xxHB7AcFiaCYmChjS_z1AJkscB-tJ7kmcGhsPh8T8uEaq8-i4DKBrrkMvoHqxHCZu9F6csDzCHNuSoHXciuXFjysZXr-SIqc-PfRWYY8r6NpOeg/s2048/298507494_10229356131630330_4599516077445634504_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCOzS8o625Yg3Ec4gYSAlTAWaj1l7TdQlDbhQgCHV24su89BGs7j1zm_N_5OCVYGeR4n2oz32an2xxHB7AcFiaCYmChjS_z1AJkscB-tJ7kmcGhsPh8T8uEaq8-i4DKBrrkMvoHqxHCZu9F6csDzCHNuSoHXciuXFjysZXr-SIqc-PfRWYY8r6NpOeg/s320/298507494_10229356131630330_4599516077445634504_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz54_ydVsD77tw-xiF7hQGMa2VP8LrH7onlTQq0eIZx3EQnfB9YhiHYktDNe4RID5YBU3CoWGkOD-_Stc-BU5_V1mm7X8er2iqV-Ux-Onjm5i1Pf1Uizvb8o09e-pe0lWUn7fOn0llMbwKCldcxSpod22MfsEpJe-PadWhrAwjZaGAsJc9Z2lb_gpjFQ/s720/298619069_10228060142312795_8997536668885969319_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="787" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDmTWtO7YybgUcf_Wseqc-SZ4_O4XsUhtECLBPJWJs3JCoyFtgQxnJOkfzymDoWMW42dJMMuy0ndMhEztdw5SuC_S4UllqX75sCmH6ZDwocSs5QeDUq_5d-MbR6etv9Jb8zusEVFcuo2Eg31pVSHMPplw31QD0btys5dt4vu9_PUkrxLG8qFAIXP9QKQ/s320/300428486_148246434555137_4625436464926552139_n.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyuzXnypl8Hq9ghqP2dEXR-UKyN2I4pZ1jHwtpmpoFSs30gN7DnKUSACmSOQ6GBgytyKJ7xoxeQKnwxq0Ea0_8KcKLrsTPgkdoRYMd0q-BOH20neLVLaHO6igttqtBSS3nQlybrrgL7rCddZQrLaTT_TH6gL7Wbb1EqpN4GikR5H9SfK1rdHJ43XozNg/s960/sunflower.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyuzXnypl8Hq9ghqP2dEXR-UKyN2I4pZ1jHwtpmpoFSs30gN7DnKUSACmSOQ6GBgytyKJ7xoxeQKnwxq0Ea0_8KcKLrsTPgkdoRYMd0q-BOH20neLVLaHO6igttqtBSS3nQlybrrgL7rCddZQrLaTT_TH6gL7Wbb1EqpN4GikR5H9SfK1rdHJ43XozNg/s320/sunflower.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJF_LjzautbBc2Iv-DFA12uxDtHdX-7CX8FCGcUTDRDXxpbD8GtwTVtndgGl1ms_S7nahN-Nfb5O4UvOwWRuVEvKlTR214SCU7qDbhEolMZliuHXUIy0gt2SSNFT6cb-62pppKfMZkOXf4xzlluFeRUje4GGfSgdZHfKmK34v4r4ywp67TDCd1ouHySw/s1280/sharon.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJF_LjzautbBc2Iv-DFA12uxDtHdX-7CX8FCGcUTDRDXxpbD8GtwTVtndgGl1ms_S7nahN-Nfb5O4UvOwWRuVEvKlTR214SCU7qDbhEolMZliuHXUIy0gt2SSNFT6cb-62pppKfMZkOXf4xzlluFeRUje4GGfSgdZHfKmK34v4r4ywp67TDCd1ouHySw/s320/sharon.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Sharon Springs, Kansas</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyU20rCswMUbOQR5vTRZziZfI1nklHt-Ijyf0BgfEdJBiJwoZuhQroNDjtDjFHXPPee6lmEAtcORzhtPHSBzriNuRdP0OlSFcM-l7W-HFF8geF9Bolp416RWLyVvDdfpcKnXnu4tFZEgXL6DHVtuGK5GPeyoS4sSRuGmDi92SiadLxJwgNyZjFVsz5YQ/s2048/marion%20kansas.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1933" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyU20rCswMUbOQR5vTRZziZfI1nklHt-Ijyf0BgfEdJBiJwoZuhQroNDjtDjFHXPPee6lmEAtcORzhtPHSBzriNuRdP0OlSFcM-l7W-HFF8geF9Bolp416RWLyVvDdfpcKnXnu4tFZEgXL6DHVtuGK5GPeyoS4sSRuGmDi92SiadLxJwgNyZjFVsz5YQ/s320/marion%20kansas.jpg" width="302" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Downtown Marion, Kansas</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQahHhxE864n9fUhoCLwueyWoM6l8WaSjSxmXmj7VsJZbCDcatu7GPa0zlV9TQFY_PzYApuHlQHZCpDyMpA3pqoaMdVJQibEDAHfKos_a3WkW-NVgMnFKmRGvlyDqMC9bIth0Dv2UbyreX5geCEiy-OJBS2NarNsYLI40FzfEjC1-Vo2b2ugSV1KEPBw/s1920/knorado.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1102" data-original-width="1920" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQahHhxE864n9fUhoCLwueyWoM6l8WaSjSxmXmj7VsJZbCDcatu7GPa0zlV9TQFY_PzYApuHlQHZCpDyMpA3pqoaMdVJQibEDAHfKos_a3WkW-NVgMnFKmRGvlyDqMC9bIth0Dv2UbyreX5geCEiy-OJBS2NarNsYLI40FzfEjC1-Vo2b2ugSV1KEPBw/s320/knorado.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-67728200133369135152022-07-15T07:07:00.004-07:002022-07-15T09:32:17.103-07:00<p style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u>January 6th</u></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u><br /></u></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I sent a Tweet to Officer Harry Dunn of the Capitol Police:</span></p><div data-block="true" data-editor="6po4v" data-offset-key="ahb94-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #0f1419; font-family: TwitterChirp, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="ahb94-0-0" style="direction: ltr; overflow: hidden; padding-bottom: 2px; padding-top: 2px; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="ahb94-1-0"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>"Watching your comments MSNBC leads me to believe that no matter how hateful and vile "They" are, "We" are larger in numbers and stronger than any of</b></span></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="6po4v" data-offset-key="e3079-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #0f1419; font-family: TwitterChirp, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="e3079-0-0" style="direction: ltr; overflow: hidden; padding-bottom: 2px; padding-top: 2px; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="e3079-0-0"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>"Them" could ever be. Thank you for being an inspiring voice."</b></span></span></div><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="e3079-0-0" style="direction: ltr; overflow: hidden; padding-bottom: 2px; padding-top: 2px; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="e3079-0-0"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="e3079-0-0" style="direction: ltr; overflow: hidden; padding-bottom: 2px; padding-top: 2px; position: relative;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Justice and accountability are all that I want. I want to be freed of the gut-wrenching hatred that I have for the former president, members of the far-right congress, and the thugs not yet rounded up. The poor hapless bastards languishing in jail right now are the tiniest of fish in a huge cesspool pond. Trump continues to spout lies and has and will continue to abandon those who have been rounded up.</span></div><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="e3079-0-0" style="direction: ltr; overflow: hidden; padding-bottom: 2px; padding-top: 2px; position: relative;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="e3079-0-0" style="direction: ltr; overflow: hidden; padding-bottom: 2px; padding-top: 2px; position: relative;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Jefferson Davis spent 2 years in a cell in Fortress Monroe, in a small room with an armed guard and a candle that continually burned. At the very least Trump and his minions deserve a similar fate.</span></div><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="e3079-0-0" style="direction: ltr; overflow: hidden; padding-bottom: 2px; padding-top: 2px; position: relative;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="e3079-0-0" style="direction: ltr; overflow: hidden; padding-bottom: 2px; padding-top: 2px; position: relative;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It's ironic that those wishing to "Drain the Swamp" have created a far more toxic and fetid waste dump. The conspiring senators and congressmen who whispered in the back halls of congress like pox-spreading lepers will be caught and prosecuted then be summarily stomped on by the Capitol Police and the millions of idiots who have finally seen the light. And please, sweet Jesus, throw in Rudy, Sidney, Pillow Guy, and anyone else you deem fit to feel the wrath of your terrible swift sword.</span></div><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="e3079-0-0" style="direction: ltr; overflow: hidden; padding-bottom: 2px; padding-top: 2px; position: relative;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="e3079-0-0" style="direction: ltr; overflow: hidden; padding-bottom: 2px; padding-top: 2px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix9uN_ojNWBYgAlIDpyeV9zr8eoOdV7eeMSUd3H3gti35F7yXglLCwZDkxdTtgUdrSug5D5e5_DFEJfIXlgYKKLkGF4u_rKoq3L8gs5wnjUKPPGfgfhBPwFlU34Aihy8jveu15WS-Jo85D2n5OKfcBSLNbV-kW86OmmM2A0eWMb_JvlnqvKJ0-_HtRgQ/s750/H3257-L40395434.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="750" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix9uN_ojNWBYgAlIDpyeV9zr8eoOdV7eeMSUd3H3gti35F7yXglLCwZDkxdTtgUdrSug5D5e5_DFEJfIXlgYKKLkGF4u_rKoq3L8gs5wnjUKPPGfgfhBPwFlU34Aihy8jveu15WS-Jo85D2n5OKfcBSLNbV-kW86OmmM2A0eWMb_JvlnqvKJ0-_HtRgQ/s320/H3257-L40395434.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Dear Lord, hear my prayer. May the enemies of this great nation flee before your righteousness and retribution, may they be rounded up and soundly stomped and their pulverized remains be spread like dead and decayed seeds to the four corners of the globe. Let your Kingdom bring forth a new age of prosperity, love, and forgiveness for all time, and please cast into hellfire and damnation Donald J. Trump. Dear Lord, hear my prayer"</span></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-26641815181626054282022-07-12T16:30:00.006-07:002022-07-12T16:34:08.892-07:00<p style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u>Fearless</u></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The summer of '72 was a watershed moment for me. I, among millions of other baby boomers, would be heading to the polls for the first time for a Presidential election. People who claim to have info on such things said that, as a group, we could actually elect the next president, IF we got our collective act together. Like countless others, I was a long-haired wasteoid with about as much interest in politics as I was interested in calculus. They were both loosely concerned with ways of crunching numbers, and they both lay inside the realm of total button-down types, whom I didn't understand at all. My father was a Nixon man, had always been. He believed wholeheartedly in the "Dominoe Theory", And why not? The collection of hacks who were pushing this shit down their throats scared the bejabbers out of them. They were of the generation who fought Fascism and won. But they also knew something far more insidious was on the horizon, Communism. So it's natural that they wanted to hold close to their bosom all they had fought for, suburbia, baseball, shopping malls, middle-class splendor, and Fizzies instant bubbling soft drink. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGYP3sauZ80lUWpB9takIyUahpT9q5A_0eTF2s0mHlPc9fRJLyZ_sbtDQF3YLtli_CJ9b-U80WHsbVB4G5-2IAadF5YtjHIbadB6fE2ogUNFJ6hxMFeLRxLvB2aYgDH5HCLdNdsgIK970tdd69_WGysv3ZFYJOdLEYyjk-Ot_AyZDPNf3mR0mljcacA/s640/fizzies-drink-tablets%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGYP3sauZ80lUWpB9takIyUahpT9q5A_0eTF2s0mHlPc9fRJLyZ_sbtDQF3YLtli_CJ9b-U80WHsbVB4G5-2IAadF5YtjHIbadB6fE2ogUNFJ6hxMFeLRxLvB2aYgDH5HCLdNdsgIK970tdd69_WGysv3ZFYJOdLEYyjk-Ot_AyZDPNf3mR0mljcacA/s320/fizzies-drink-tablets%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Now, correct me if I am wrong, but don't these "Tabs" kinda look like they might have a drop of something on them. That, if ingested, and with the right brainwashing might lead you in a horrific way of voting for the Nixon/Agnew ticket. The Army had been experimenting with this for years. Isn't it just quite possible that they were targeting me and thousands like me? My father worked on Madison Ave. in an advertising firm. Remember the series "Ad Men" well, that slimy shit was pretty much true. Anyway, one of his clients were the treacherous bastards who manufacture Fizzies and I remember a kitchen drawer jam-packed with these mind-altering tablets. He encouraged my friends to try 'em. WTF! was my old man really trying to spike my generation into voting Republican? It was a place I would revisit many times while on wild drunken binges and sacred Peyote sabbaticals.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Summer of '72. Going to summer school as I didn't graduate due to flunking Political Science, which was a BS course as I was supposed to be taking US History II. They brought some hot-shot college professor in and he did the big switcheroo and delved into politics and the primaries that were underway. Naturally, I didn't give a hangman's damn about politics and promptly cut most of the classes, so I wound up in a nearby college taking the summer school US History II course. I was certainly more than qualified for the course and wound up giving lectures on mid-nineteenth-century stuff. The professor finally asked what the hell was I doing in this makeup class, so I told him.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So I spent my summer in school a couple of days a week. The rest of the time I was apprenticing in a film development company in mid-town Manhatten which specialized in putting together the final touches on the commercials for the fat cats on Madison Ave. I can thank dear old Dad for this job. Honestly, it was an ok job, the folks were nice and a couple of gorgeous young women worked there, not to mention all the tail-walking down the street during lunch hour. It was during one of these lunch hours that I met Kathleen. She was on 5th Ave passing out flyers and stuff for George McGovern. With my libido in full gear, I approached her, struck up a conversation, and before you could say "Bob's yer Uncle" I was a member of the team and spent my lunch hours hanging out with Kathleen. I had just turned 18 and I believe she was 21. Actually fooled her into thinking I was some sort of hot shot playing in a band and all. Total crap. But I had a couple of dates with hr during the course of the summer and got a real treat when she allowed my perverted ass to enter her apartment. She lived in Fort Lee, NJ, and the mess she and I made of her pad when we "got it on", well, it looked like a couple of feral cats had escaped being tied up in a gunny sack and had run amok. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYgyJo9zY54wCZK9R8nJFhQwRZ-EnH8DS4ES6h3pAnlVS2vq2QJtyVf2GtOs12wXnoFF4_NizaMlQ1-jOCOlaWwAlWjaBigpeX2LfojRQTyFkZ1fgy-98Wd43BxoH8nWayONG0oQnCqRb-q-05DwwrypC5spPNrXm5T4tJO8iyTh03p99hkZO-kQ_zeA/s630/2638401_0.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="630" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYgyJo9zY54wCZK9R8nJFhQwRZ-EnH8DS4ES6h3pAnlVS2vq2QJtyVf2GtOs12wXnoFF4_NizaMlQ1-jOCOlaWwAlWjaBigpeX2LfojRQTyFkZ1fgy-98Wd43BxoH8nWayONG0oQnCqRb-q-05DwwrypC5spPNrXm5T4tJO8iyTh03p99hkZO-kQ_zeA/s320/2638401_0.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Courtesy of my personal collection</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There was another gal I met on the commuter bus I took every day to the city. She lived in Hackensack, was 23, beautiful, and just over a tough breakup from her then-fiance. Wouldn't you just bet that ol' Trouser packing Pud, the cute long-haired freak took advantage of that situation? Thinking back, I cannot realize how the hell I pulled this shit off, I had zero experience with doing this kind of demented and lascivious tap dance around women. I can only chalk it up to the alignment of the stars, planets, and whatever else you want to throw in there. Indeed, I was a reckless, devil may care miscreant humping anything including cored apples and fresh liver. This reckless abandon would serve me well later on in this decade. I was attending my own brand of summer school and I was the teacher, student, and curriculum master all rolled up into a neat little unstoppable package, roaring down the highway with a joint, a can of cheap beer, and an 8 Track blasting Ten Years After in my father's early 60s Volkwagon 3-speed Bug. This was the real American dream and the window for grabbing it with all your might was getting ready to close.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">How come my parents let this crap slide on by? Well, for one thing, my Mother and Sister were at the shore house for the summer and my father worked all day, played golf, and spent a 3 day weekend, every week, "down the shore".</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This summer seemed to last forever, so much more was in store.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sunday nights were reserved for friends coming over and hanging out. I loved my early 70s/ late 60s music. Cool nights in the backyard with fellow denizens of the deep and their girls, all friends. I had met a girl a couple of blocks over, her name was Betsy, long dark hair in pigtails and a smile that could melt the coldest heart. This one particular Sunday I was standing in my driveway conversing with some friends, music blaring.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/to-RVV_3anw" width="320" youtube-src-id="to-RVV_3anw"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Up the driveway walked Betsy. Regardless of all the luck, I had had that summer, she lit me up like a champion pinball player hitting special after special. I don't believe we ever made love, she was so much better than that. She was for hanging out with, talking with, holding hands, and kissing. Some of my closest friends hung with me that night. One, in particular, my closest friend, Ralph, had a shell of a VW Bus that he was installing a new engine in and redoing the insides to make it a sweet magic carpet ride on the road. He had plans to finish it up by mid-August and then head to the environs of Montreal where a camping ground existed by a flowing river. Supposedly the hash and wine flowed from on high like a gift from the Gods.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The summer was winding down. Summer school was over and my apprenticeship had ended So I bid farewell to Kathleen and my bus buddy, Linda. If you want to know the truth, I think they welcomed the short interlude but were just as pleased to be shed of me. I would see more of Linda, Kathleen is just a fond whisper of long ago. I don't seem to forget women I have cared for in the past. I recently got back in touch with a gal I had met in Kansas and she was floored by the fact that I even remembered her, much less took the time to track her down. I had to remind her that my heart is permanently tattooed on my sleeve. It's just another facet of my mania. I'm an absolute psychotic when it comes to women, all it takes is one little thing to knock me out. I told a story somewhere on this blog about how I was being treated by a female physician, not much older than me, and just as sweet and caring as all get out. Anyway, when she would enter the examing room, instead of closing the door with her hand, she would lift her leg and close the door with her booted foot. Sounds like no big deal, right? That sent me into delirium! I thought it was so fucking cute I had to take a firm grip on myself to keep from grabbing her and kissing her. I could see the headline "Middle-aged maniac runs amok in Medical Office. Tazed to bring him down, more at 6." I swear I'm fucking nuts. I've been addicted to a few bad things in my life, smokes, and barbituates, but the worst is women. I know it's immature and I should keep it in its proper place, especially due to the fact that I now look like the incarnation of Aqualung.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">See? I can't even write a story without going off on some drug-addled tangent about women and door closings and all the other shit clouding my mind. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Summer was winding down and thus far it had been as memorable as any I had ever experienced. I now spent most of my time at Ralph's house down in Scotch Plains. Ralph was a master woodworker, having learned from his grandfather who was amazingly skilled. Along with Ralph was his buddy, Fred. Fred was a few years older than us but knew how to put cars together. So the two of them labored over the microbus for a week, full time. I was like the quintessential bag boy getting coffee and food at various times and keeping the joints going. We smoked a powerful amount of grass, one of Fred's other talents, a master procurer of weed. It was also at this time that I became a true, dyed-in-the-wool California cowboy. Ralph and Fred both were both Hank Williams freaks like no other and they also played a steady diet of the Grateful Dead's "Working Man Dead". Those, mixed with Dead offshoot "New Riders of the Purple Sage" was like a gigantic whiff of amyl nitrate, roaring up my back and instantly transforming me into an early version of the molted slimy individual I am now.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/zO-JEcuHrU4" width="320" youtube-src-id="zO-JEcuHrU4"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The day dawned hot and sticky. Fred, in his Cadillac, Ralph, a friend, and I piled into the microbus and headed to Canada. This was long before you needed a passport to go into Canada. However, the agents guarding the back to the USA side were notoriously rough on longhairs in their zeal to find illicit drugs. Knowing full well of this, Ralph had built a secret compartment in the van to hold our pound of weed, it seemed impregnable. We boiled on over the border and straight into the hinterland. There was no turning back now. The van was a dense cloud of Mexican weed, I rolled down the window, and Fred, tailing us, blasted his horn and motioned to pull over. "You fucking moron, what's wrong with you!" Fred had jumped out of the caddy and came running at us. We stood with a look of bewilderment. "You're getting half the Province of Quebec wrecked! They'll lock us up for God knows how long!" We stood still not uttering a sound, though I thought I heard a bit of weeping coming from our third guy, Pete. I'd have to keep my eye on him, if things got bad he might cave, I had to be ready for that eventuality. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The next couple of weeks were a blazing blur of miles on the road, bummer hash deals gone bad, gangs of French-speaking Quebec City toughs trying to rip us off and dump our bodies on the side of the road. I remember bits and pieces. For instance, hanging around the old Expo World's Fair Park, drinking high-power Canadian lager. That coupled with the black tar hash we did score turned us into a pack of howling desperate ugly Americans who were shunned at every turn of the corner. I had peeled off from the group and entered what I thought was an eatery. In actuality it was a barber shop, I thought the barber pole looked like a candy cane. I stumbled in, hair to my shoulders wearing a cowboy hat. Two men were clipping hair, All four stopped and stared at me. Did I drag something in behind me? They began to babble at me incoherently and I turned and ran for my life, I forgot to open the door and slammed into it, fell back, and desperately tried to regain composure. I saw myself doing hard time up on the Great Slave Lake building dams and cataloging walruses. I scrambled to my feet, smiled, mumbled something about the evils of socialism, and high-tailed it out of there. "Where were you, we thought you'd been dragged away to jail or something?" Pete inquired. "We've got to get the hell out of here", I whispered, "There's a couple of Sweeny Todd bastards hot on my trail, if they get us, we're toast."</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After that, all I remember is that we were speeding down a four-lane highway singing loudly to Hank Williams songs on the 8-track. In the back of the bus was a framed photo of Hank himself. He was smiling as if he approved of our reckless behavior. The next few days were filled with camping fun in various locales with various Canadian characters. All were treated to real American madness as the smoke and beer flowed freely. Many a night I crawled back to my tent twisted and totally spent. We limped back to the border and made it across with little incident. The officers gave us a bored look and waved us through.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yea, it had been a mighty enjoyable summer, from beginning to end. Even McGovern got the Democratic nod at their convention. This was in spite of that old hack, Humphrey trying to throw a wrench into the proceedings by g attempting to go back on the "winner take all delegates in California" deal. His troubles came to naught and he was stomped out of existence by the McGovern juggernaut. However, there was a foul stench in the corner of the auditorium. A vision of things to come, the spawn of Satan, George Wallace was busy making deals with Prince of Darkness. A deal was struck and the fruits would be seen on into the future. Wallace had awakened a truly sick and demented "Populist Movement" in America. These were the working men of the country who didn't like the government and surely didn't trust them worth a tinkers damn. Within this disgruntled mass were shreds of conspiracy theorists, white nationalists, Hell's Angel's dropouts, and maybe even a couple of old ballplayers from the "Dead Ball Era". We would all get a taste of this rancid cookie soon enough.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><p></p>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-18409298880088953282022-05-05T06:04:00.000-07:002022-05-05T06:04:21.204-07:00<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b><i><u>The End</u></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;">The depression and anxiety attacks have taken their toll. I no longer, well, I haven't had any love of any sort at home for almost 20 years. I wish I could start a new life but my health stands squarely in my path and leaves almost no choice. I've pretty much had it. My stomach is in constant knots and I feel like there is someone or something screaming to get out. Screaming and clawing and I am exhausted from fighting it. I really have no place to go, so I've packed a small backpack and a few key items of my life including my tattered and much-loved copy of "Catcher in the Rye". I slipped out the backdoor like a thief into the night. Tears stream down my face as I picture my boy, Jack the dog, sleeping peacefully. My soft footsteps kick up debris as I trudge down the road.</p><p style="text-align: left;">An empty train station is no place to try and compose yourself at 3AM, so I stand and wait for, I guess, the first commuter train of the day. I quit smoking years ago, but I have never craved one more than right now. It would play hell with my lungs but it might calm my stomach down. Plenty of time to think as the dawn starts to break. It's always lonely and fucking cold early in the day. I'm shivering, my face streaked with tears, I must look quite pleasant with my swollen eyes and gaunt complexion, if I'm not careful I might get tossed from the train for looking like a vagrant.</p><p style="text-align: left;">The train was warm, at least. It was almost totally empty and I sat with my hands clasped just staring at them. I had a vague idea of what I wanted to do. One thing I did know, was I wasn't coming back again.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>I got the key to the highway</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Packed and bound to go</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>I'm gonna leave here runnin'</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Walkin' is much too slow</i></p><p style="text-align: left;">Yup, gotta learn that song on my resonator before I leave this earth. That was the one thing of consequence I took with me besides my harps. It's like dyin' with your boots on, I wasn't goin' down without 'em.</p><p style="text-align: left;">The Newark station was empty and depressing as hell. A couple of homeless folks slept under newspapers on a couple of benches. I made note of what section of the paper was covering them, lest I need some warmth in the future. I purchased a seat on the Denver bound Greyhound, intending to jump ship at Goodland, KS. I knew I'd have plenty of time to think about what the fuck was so great about Goodland. First off, I'd passed by it thumbing my way West a couple dozen times and 2nd it was so far out on the prairie I could stand in a wheat field stark naked and no one would probably notice, perfect. So began a couple of days' jaunt that would take me smack dab down I 70, a road I probably knew better than any other.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>The wheels on the bus go round and round</i></p><p style="text-align: left;">I used to listen to my baby granddaughter sing that song. There were no cute babies on this bus, to be sure, it was maybe 1/2 filled with a conglomerate of poorer than most senior citizens. Poor bastards, this country sure did right by them. While I was here by design, these folks had little to no choice. We bumped and wheezed over the road stopping in every podunk town along the way. If you want to get a look, and I mean a good look at the real America, this is your best bet. Most of the towns were 1/2 closed down it seemed, with blank movie house marquees tired old cafes, and of course corporate America's answer to paradise, 7-11, Dunkin Donuts, and a McDonalds. Loads and loads of pork and unhealthy flab wandering around. The bus pulled back onto the highway, I leaned in towards the window and then noticed something scrawled on the seat in front of me</p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Fuck You</i></p><p style="text-align: left;">Most of the music I owned was stored safely inside my head and I hummed to myself as we rolled along. I'm sure my 2000 + CD and LP collection were at this point scattered to the four winds or in an old dumpster somewhere, such was my tired old life.</p><p style="text-align: left;">I wrote a poem once about chicken and dumplings in Abilene, Kansas, and after the bus parked I went in search of some. "Drake's Bakery" seemed like a good place as any and as I entered I saw that I was correct. Even though it was still fairly early the place was almost filled with farmer types settled in for their morning grub and cup of mud, "jackpot" I thought as I sat at a counter stool. Soon I was treated to something far better than chicken and dumplings if that was possible, a big plate filled with biscuits and sausage gravy. That's the way to go if you're going to croak from being an obese but poor old man. I went to wash up after breakfast and looked at myself in the mirror. "Jesus, I look like pure shit" my frazzled brain spat out at me. Bags under my eyes, a 2-day stubble of snow-white whiskers, and a look in my eyes that told me I was nearer the end. Where was the beginning? I wept as I realized what the fuck I was doing, I had come here, at least in another day, to breathe my last on this earth. Not a religious man, I prayed for my children, grandchildren, and wife, that they would not suffer too much from my cowardly act. I saw no other way out.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>*This is getting too dark, even for me. Suffice it to say there are only 2 logical (?) endings for this twisted saga. 1) I get to Goodland, KS., check in to a Motel 6, purchase a gun in town, wait for the paperwork to go through, pick up the gun, load it, and stroll to the field between the Motel and the Interstate, face the setting sun and blow my brains out. 2) Same as above only instead of suicide I fire 6 shots in the air, and the police come and find me in a crumpled sobbing state, long story short I wind up in a psych unit in Topeka, Ks. From there it just becomes a story of shadows and phantoms. I just don't have the nerve to finish the story, if you want to know the truth. </i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>The above story does have a few truths in it, however, after 35 years of marriage my wife and I are in damn good shape, all things considered.</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-2902526338030256702022-04-07T15:37:00.001-07:002022-10-04T11:24:37.255-07:00I Could've Had Religion (WNCR Cleveland Radio Session / 1973)<iframe frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://youtube.com/embed/xKtNB7TMC7Y" width="480"></iframe>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-32349322908048861532022-04-07T15:33:00.000-07:002022-07-10T13:12:09.355-07:00The Prodigal Son<iframe frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://youtube.com/embed/QkW62H08Swg" width="480"></iframe>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-62455912458864760632021-05-29T07:46:00.001-07:002021-05-29T07:46:53.824-07:00<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u>The Age of Grub Hub</u></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>This used to be a quiet neighborhood, with lots of kids having fun, block parties. yards kept neat and clean, you know, pride. That notion has gone the way of covered wagons and Howard Johnson's restaurants. As folks have retired and moved away and other friends have left this mortal coil, they have been replaced by a new breed of neighbor, the ones that don't give a rat's shit about anything, especially the upkeep of their property. I am now surrounded by 3 houses, all rental properties which are run by no account slum lords. Roofs covered with moss, yards filled with weeds have become a stomping ground for all sorts of chipmunks, possums, and raccoons. I sit on my patio with a bottle of "Devils Cut" Jim Beam and a war surplus flame thrower and try my valiant best to keep them at bay. It's a losing battle. </b></span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The purpose of this rant was I just noticed yet another Grub Hub delivery to my neighbor across the street. They get all their meals this way and it's hard to imagine who the hell is living there, it's either a pack of deranged meth heads or the last remaining visage of Marjorie Taylor-Greene's "America First" build the wall fan club. Either way, no one inside can be more than a portly pile of hardened arteries swimming in a sea of styrofoam take-out containers. I'll keep an eye out and let you know.</b></span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgKOEoi7_lZb1s7HwAOgbHW_02TMrrcOtJelQsoxCQ5aonkXJTEdK3UAeURAMZfW1haa-5eXyOfbGntJ6XnRC041NtpCODt7IaxMfB551-7QXPAlEjTL7KvAw-HHXVfmUvwiosyykERTh5/s960/191608430_10104320470230082_8724214513971019996_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgKOEoi7_lZb1s7HwAOgbHW_02TMrrcOtJelQsoxCQ5aonkXJTEdK3UAeURAMZfW1haa-5eXyOfbGntJ6XnRC041NtpCODt7IaxMfB551-7QXPAlEjTL7KvAw-HHXVfmUvwiosyykERTh5/s320/191608430_10104320470230082_8724214513971019996_n.jpg" /></a></span></i></div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi79szN1Ct23AxYRqdVIv-ljfP9IJUNe2gzCqWGpn9S7nXz22iAoVybYUjShZz-zsJX6jPxyVTU0DFQ3r5YEEYrvm45QaCnOWGpOLhYzmPuhoF5A9MtiRBKhSduOFgeK8FZGOtvvbv-T_oU/s2048/c7f6f4_8195418.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi79szN1Ct23AxYRqdVIv-ljfP9IJUNe2gzCqWGpn9S7nXz22iAoVybYUjShZz-zsJX6jPxyVTU0DFQ3r5YEEYrvm45QaCnOWGpOLhYzmPuhoF5A9MtiRBKhSduOFgeK8FZGOtvvbv-T_oU/s320/c7f6f4_8195418.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></span></i><p></p>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-50539866070375113642021-05-28T12:28:00.003-07:002022-04-02T13:13:03.371-07:00<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><b><i><u>And They Called It Puppy Love</u></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b><i>Well, it had to happen eventually, sooner or later the Gods would intervene and I would be allowed to once again broadcast my show. Years ago I disappeared from the airwaves due to situations beyond my control. in the ensuing time my mentor, Joe, has worked feverishly to patch things together once again. Now, without further interruptions, Harmonica Joe's Back Porch is being re-launched at 7PM EST Sundays & Tuesdays. The format will be the same, that is, Blues sprinkled with a healthy dose of "Roots", "Country" (Alt, Bakersfield, Honkey Tonk), and classic Rock.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLlOG3l9z1UJcfHRwMckdmLyLVQ_BD7BHzSD_N2KXc5ql9pkTg7NWZK2WSAaYia3lM79XefBG_IDXQVfM_wAbagDViLPuPBtq5I9mJuznK97zOI25poJXrnVyrZci163or3pSX4mJwe_Rl/s960/18034171_10214346262589940_4185544890349330557_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLlOG3l9z1UJcfHRwMckdmLyLVQ_BD7BHzSD_N2KXc5ql9pkTg7NWZK2WSAaYia3lM79XefBG_IDXQVfM_wAbagDViLPuPBtq5I9mJuznK97zOI25poJXrnVyrZci163or3pSX4mJwe_Rl/s320/18034171_10214346262589940_4185544890349330557_n.jpg" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /><i>DreamStreamRadio.com is the place to tune in for this smorgasbord of good music and a cheesy, so-so radio host.</i></b></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>When I first heard the Blues it certainly was puppy love. I had acquired a harmonica earlier that summer from a dude I met during a road trip from Jersey up towards Montreal. He showed me a few tricks and presented me with a Hohner Marine Band, key of D. I didn't know much about the Blues except the tunes that came out of British rock bands, who revered the format. </i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>My puppy love blossomed into a full-blown lust festival. The first time I heard a Muddy Waters album and heard the amazing sound of Paul Butterfield on harmonica, well, there was no going back. You'll hear that love on my show twice a week. If you have a moment, tune in, I would certainly appreciate it!</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>Please note that currently, as of April 1, I am on a short sabbatical, mostly searching for edible cannabis and Devil's Cut Bourbon. You see I need these things in order to operate smoothly and in a coherent manner. Things are coming together soon. Check my shows' FaceBook page "Harmy's Back Porch", adios til then.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></p>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-61101838165029889052021-05-19T07:09:00.005-07:002022-08-26T15:43:44.217-07:00<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <b><i><u>Baseball and the Blues</u></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">After all, that's the name of the blog, ain't it? Well, there are bills as well. However, I'm loathed to speak of that subject, mostly because I see the creditors peeping through the blinds and furiously setting their Robo callers to my phone number.</span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">When covid first reared its despicable face, I decided to retreat back to my childhood for just a bit. The '60s as a kid were a pretty safe time as I remember so why not drop back by for a spell? I was already ensconced in comic books, and have been for years. However, on a trip to my local shop, I spied something I had not seen in at least fifty-plus years. Packs of brand-spanking new baseball cards stared up at me through the glass counter. Something was very wrong though, where I had paid a nickel a pack all those years ago, the price now appeared to be four dollars a pack! Not only that, you got far fewer cards per pack and NO fucking gum. What the fuck?! I caved and bought a pack.</span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Another big difference between now and then is the sheer number of different cards and sets of cards. Not only in baseball but basketball and football AND hockey as well. There once was 1 set of cards for the season, stretching from early May to early September, probably 500 cards in all. That was it. If you didn't get the first few numbers in the series by early June, you were just plain out of luck.</span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">I cannot believe how many different sets of baseball cards there are right now. Only 2 companies exist at this time, Topps and Panini. In the late '80s, there were at least 6 that I can remember. Those were the days when yuppies first realized you could turn a quick buck investing in old cards. After all, everyone's mom threw 'em out, so with that mindset, the card companies churned out millions of cards to meet the high demand. What resulted was the "Junk Wax" era. These days, complete sets of cards from this time frame are cheap as dirt, think "junk bonds" and the crash of '87 and you'll get the idea.</span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">There is a boatload of guys like me out there who started collecting again due to the same reasons mentioned above. This has resulted in an all-out war between grown men all scrambling to retrieve cards to resell on eBay and other sites. Fast money means cruel tactics. Even the media has begun reporting after the Target chain discontinued sales due to a strong-arming incident at one of their stores where a gun was pulled and the entire area went into lockdown. When the going gets weird, the weird resort to violence. This can also be seen as a commentary on our society as the "Trump Populist" movement gathers steam and barrels through the heartland picking up all sorts of obese cowboys and Lynyrd Skynryd Confederate flag wavers. Myself, I politely step to one side and let the inevitable death juggernaut steam on by. card collecting reminds me of a great time in my life, a time when all that really mattered was what I was going to spend my$.25 allowance on. </span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">All you fucking angry midgets can stay out of the playground! </span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">To wit: </span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja-Sdm_t9c8SfEnKy-Afm-8zZSBER_y3Z1POrN7gZV2jFTmFDIhKovmFqzBLGJsSXb9Ob_mK1B0905keJSV80V3YbpRA2YcwfyM9J0jL1d8-FecfV8TAqe_v-FbdY0mUuM0RBo2Iqym2LD/s560/21bwbb_fgc4166h_box.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="560" data-original-width="420" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja-Sdm_t9c8SfEnKy-Afm-8zZSBER_y3Z1POrN7gZV2jFTmFDIhKovmFqzBLGJsSXb9Ob_mK1B0905keJSV80V3YbpRA2YcwfyM9J0jL1d8-FecfV8TAqe_v-FbdY0mUuM0RBo2Iqym2LD/s320/21bwbb_fgc4166h_box.png" /></a></i></div><i><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4_7Dfg8m8KUpv1CobXHrOKCimtJuUnV4t2Dd3eD6j0jGtlsl4YdhxtXKTpV7uxXzuoDyiOVIrEyqXRxipHwcfOY52s1pSayQyzTRgX4lsdhw4Pewx9AOY_KEbZ_P7p0U1cpEzpTiatUp9/s1800/21pandiakfotl_bf_61c0q7bo1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1792" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4_7Dfg8m8KUpv1CobXHrOKCimtJuUnV4t2Dd3eD6j0jGtlsl4YdhxtXKTpV7uxXzuoDyiOVIrEyqXRxipHwcfOY52s1pSayQyzTRgX4lsdhw4Pewx9AOY_KEbZ_P7p0U1cpEzpTiatUp9/s320/21pandiakfotl_bf_61c0q7bo1.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGaQHL05tu5WD1Rs3fzZiqNY7Mq7AVs38ey4e60lz2F68y-rxpyi9jTKBtTvPQA0dwu0ueFQsOYRfJ_40x8pdGWlxObuY90l7yAUSpmMydVTze2_DH5BkJoYkHG2-q4xOtbdjPipLrItD/s265/21t1bb_fgc004192_h_box.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGaQHL05tu5WD1Rs3fzZiqNY7Mq7AVs38ey4e60lz2F68y-rxpyi9jTKBtTvPQA0dwu0ueFQsOYRfJ_40x8pdGWlxObuY90l7yAUSpmMydVTze2_DH5BkJoYkHG2-q4xOtbdjPipLrItD/s0/21t1bb_fgc004192_h_box.png" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVbcFl8BAESYuLVD0vXUHE6Qw67y1qV0067BBiu4XBPjlfUOZzhxnod13Ej0KexF7m4oFphIR6InU9E1CXsnrc2OTFvWNm-2xTDRQ9QLXURz1b02Bt19jlPWANeODJnX8R1cPUzrjaCoFU/s373/21tass_fgc4072h_box.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="373" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVbcFl8BAESYuLVD0vXUHE6Qw67y1qV0067BBiu4XBPjlfUOZzhxnod13Ej0KexF7m4oFphIR6InU9E1CXsnrc2OTFvWNm-2xTDRQ9QLXURz1b02Bt19jlPWANeODJnX8R1cPUzrjaCoFU/s320/21tass_fgc4072h_box.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnL9Souqv-X3tkzC7aIltb5G9_nnN3LihtQ_SpZYfB-XhuC90AmHF26WS8czsurW2rb48prKN4fkUsggLagNVTFslVKcaHz3EPWhzlYn3GS_wBsNc915JZgpL26Olo7X0n3wWJLNr3tDmg/s560/21thbb_fgc4134se_fgc4137ea_vbx.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="560" data-original-width="424" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnL9Souqv-X3tkzC7aIltb5G9_nnN3LihtQ_SpZYfB-XhuC90AmHF26WS8czsurW2rb48prKN4fkUsggLagNVTFslVKcaHz3EPWhzlYn3GS_wBsNc915JZgpL26Olo7X0n3wWJLNr3tDmg/s320/21thbb_fgc4134se_fgc4137ea_vbx.png" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYhx3SB4tkeraP8I2HJNAZJ7iycxXWKsTWykfR_9MpC51TbBTrHM_2xe4FbrMTo3Il-TmH3kpJjbCXKzrx8bRolEgtOyF-uZ0AFIFgZBgB4IMIq1TMkdnnuQ9ihQMUYn6aC8e5pCpjuHu_/s445/51K80Xf695L._AC_SY445_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="445" data-original-width="275" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYhx3SB4tkeraP8I2HJNAZJ7iycxXWKsTWykfR_9MpC51TbBTrHM_2xe4FbrMTo3Il-TmH3kpJjbCXKzrx8bRolEgtOyF-uZ0AFIFgZBgB4IMIq1TMkdnnuQ9ihQMUYn6aC8e5pCpjuHu_/s320/51K80Xf695L._AC_SY445_.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD66J0xjM40m16s5kiJlyAUFKmTkRdNhs3BpfXB5Og2AlHFwdEzckDmnPGS3KJFrOievDxMrQhfji5cku2X42QhdgOSMynFyQZ0RXCwdr2FIwcjh26QSLh8cP-4OvnGWhxLft0ldzjy7je/s612/4938e9eb-340d-44f3-a510-486b1414db80.978bdbc2cc7f2cd6a6cb8bd95ab1be6f.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD66J0xjM40m16s5kiJlyAUFKmTkRdNhs3BpfXB5Og2AlHFwdEzckDmnPGS3KJFrOievDxMrQhfji5cku2X42QhdgOSMynFyQZ0RXCwdr2FIwcjh26QSLh8cP-4OvnGWhxLft0ldzjy7je/s320/4938e9eb-340d-44f3-a510-486b1414db80.978bdbc2cc7f2cd6a6cb8bd95ab1be6f.jpeg" /></a></div></i><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>and this is just a small sample of stuff thus far released in 2021</i></div><p></p></blockquote></blockquote><p style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></p>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-71890069977715157832020-11-05T16:06:00.001-08:002020-12-19T12:20:27.778-08:00<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <b><i><u>No Shave November</u></i></b></span></p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p><i>It lasted a total of two days before I caved. The stress of nothing but snow-white whiskers, the itch,</i> <i>and the continuing ballot-counting became too much to bear. One thing that came out of this election that I can get behind was the legalization of grass in NJ, I didn't believe I'd live to see the day. Of course, by the time one is finally able to step into a store and purchase some product may be quite a while. In the meanwhile, I will continue to survive on opiates and generous amounts of Makers Mark. After this hideous example of America doing its duty at the polls, I am more convinced than ever that I need to seriously hole up with a powerful blast of internet speed, several large-sized vials of percocet, and a couple of cases of bourbon. The percocet was no problem in scoring across the mighty Passaic River in downtown Patterson. The brothers are happy to oblige an aging, unbalanced white man with a ponytail screaming rhetoric from Malcolm X. The bourbon, that's a sick and twisted saga of ignorance and injustice.</i></p><p><i>I was speaking of No-Shave November, got sidetracked a bit, which is way easy to do these days when my gelatin-like brain, living on little sleep, lots of caffeine, and otherwise the last ounces of adrenaline I can muster, are being fully used trying to make sense of what this country is going through. Not since the Civil War has this country been so divided and as one historian put it, I believe Shelby Foot,'The Civil War is still being fought today and we are still in danger of losing it". Naturally, all this really means is that the hacks and bag men who used to slither about in the halls of Congress are now front and center howling about Socialism like a crazed lunatic on the corner of 42nd and 8th Avenue. Meanwhile, in the deepest bunker of the "Peoples House", President Trump, his legitimate and illegitimate offspring along with bat shit crazy Mayor Rudy are hunkered down taking maddening swipes at anyone who dares enter with anything but good news. One staffer is quoted as saying "The President reminds me of a rabid cornered wolverine protecting her young at all costs". Grim.</i></p><p><i>So, No Shave November continues on with nothing left but the ashes of a country which once was, a case of bourbon which is now severely low, and a pile of 2020 Baseball cards that still need to be categorized.</i></p><p><br /></p>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-23973013135224230572019-08-07T08:22:00.004-07:002019-08-07T08:22:44.765-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><u>Goose Lake Park Festival</u></i></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">One of the many 3-day post-Woodstock events. This one was marred by over 200,000 concert goers showing up and basically stoning themselves into oblivion. When the smoke cleared, the promoter was indicted for promoting drug sales and there were over 160 arrests. Alvin Lee said of Woodstock, it was the pinnacle of our popularity and the beginning of the end for us as a band. In other words a blessing and a curse.</span></div>
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Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-61735563473177664132019-07-14T12:26:00.003-07:002022-04-02T13:23:25.031-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><u>Easy Rider - 50th Anniversary</u></i></b></div>
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<span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh I'd rather go and journey where the diamond crest is flowing and</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Run across the valley beneath the sacred mountain and</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wander through the forest</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Where the trees have leaves of prisms and break the light in colors</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">That no one knows the names of</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And when it's time I'll go and wait beside a legendary fountain</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Till I see your form reflected in it's clear and jeweled waters</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And if you think I'm ready</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">You may lead me to the chasm where the rivers of our vision</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Flow into one another</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I will want to die beneath the white cascading waters</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">She may beg, she may plead, she may argue with her logic</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then she'll know the things I learned</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">That really has no value, in the end, she will surely know</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wasn't born to follow</span></div>
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<span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">On July 14th, 1969 a lexicon of movie lore was born. Dennis Hopper, Peter Fonda, Jack Nicholson. Whoever saw it that week would never forget it.</span></div>
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Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-45177669364581931712019-07-04T16:52:00.868-07:002022-09-16T06:13:46.668-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><u><i><span style="font-size: large;">The New York Metropolitans - An Alternate Dimension</span></i></u></b></div>
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<b><u><i><span style="font-size: large;">Forward - Tricky Tray</span></i></u></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><u><i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></u></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><u><i><span style="font-size: large;">New York, June 2018</span></i></u></b></div>
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I guess it just had to come to this. After all, I had just spent the bulk of the last week or so hunkered down in front of the damned box watching this year's collection of miscreants blow save after save. Could yet another season be wasted with nothing left to do but watch old "Rat Patrol" reruns and experiment with edibles and the latest micro-brewed sensation? It was turning ugly, plug-ugly if you will. I had taken to barricading myself in the bathroom and snorting mashed Percocet, washing it all down with a new bourbon with a name I can't recall. Every so often I would take my dog for a walk in the park, slinking out, packing major heat, babbling like an incoherent escapee from Bellevue. If some poor bastard was unlucky enough to meet me I would slobber a greeting like "Give me your fucking liver".Yea, ugliness, and paranoia come easily to an addicted baseball fiend, especially when his team has been on the skids since 2006. It had come to this.<br />
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The gathering was a strange mix between that of a Ladies Teamsters meeting, without the tobacco haze, and an Oklahoma Farmers Wives for Trump Club. I felt amazingly out of place and super vulnerable to any kind of evil shit that might go down. My wife clung to me for dear life. Little did she know that I was too toasted to help anyone do anything. "So THIS is what the fuck is going down while I'm sleeping?" Just a matter-of-fact tone to my voice. My wife clutched harder.<br />
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The line to get into this fiesta was a hopeless clusterfuck of a tangle. All you could do was muscle in and try to blend with the fuckers as they shuffled in through the "Friendly Portals" of the " Soldiers and Sailors Memorial Library and Horse Trough".<br />
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Entering the auditorium there were scores of super long tables and surrounding this stuff, ringing the entire perimeter, were the prizes to take a chance at winning. These old bats loved it, a "Tricky Tray" is what it's called. There were zero tricks and no fucking trays that I could see, so much for fucking descriptive names. We sat down, pretty damn alone, the denizens knew what we were about and kept their distance. My wife commenced doing what you do at these things. I sat looking all around, gawking as if I had found a diamond in a globular of peanut butter stuck to the floor. The strength of the edibles kicked into high gear, and the whole situation slowed to a crawl. The women walking about were uniformly rotund and vaguely reptilian. I forced myself to look away whenever one approached. I didn't want to be hexed and fall into their evil grip.<br />
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Pulled out a phone, and tried to remember how the hell to work it. found the MLB app. and watched the pitch count and texted an account of the Phillies, Mets game. I swear if I could figure out what my damn Apple ID was I could get the live MLB feed on the phone. No such luck, I'm a stupid man on a smartphone. So I sat and read the game, text by text, line by line. I watched the WHOLE GAME like that and, to make it worse, they blew yet another lead and lost!<br />
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Year after year with only a bright spot, what? every 10 years or so? How did this stinking curse begin? How had it been fed to stay alive all these years? I rubbed my palms on my eyes, I had a lot to think about...................<br />
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Legends are born out of necessity, the necessity to explain the unexplainable, the necessity to make sense of the nonsensical, and the necessity to allow us to sleep soundly in our beds. At the core of any legend, no matter how small, a kernel of truth resides.<br />
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Many times, I had visited the Flushing Bay area of Queens and had heard, just a few times, a tale of such utter depravity that I had to try and find out for myself what lay at the bottom of this fetid and festering cesspool of a story. The most recent incident occurred at McFadden's Bar and Grill, a watering hole for the Mets faithful underneath the rear of centerfield. Like many others, I was drowning my sorrows even before the upcoming ball game had begun, knowing full well what a harrowing nine innings of watching this team might put forth on my psyche. A grizzled old fan with a face filled with more cracks than the Bronx- Queens Expressway sat by me quietly nursing his beer, a lifetime of bad breaks and misery hung above his head like an oily cloud. He mumbled a low guttural string of words that I could barely make out. I leaned in closer, not wanting to disrupt the flow, "Bone meal, bodies, tomatoes gonna kill us all". That was it.<br />
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My research has taken me to the depths of the 7 deadly sins laid out by the almighty himself, not Trump, but a bigger more powerful fucker than even him. These eyes have seen debauchery like none other I have ever experienced. BDSM, black magic practice, shape-shifting demons, bestiality, human sacrifice, body desecration, alternate dimensions, and a plethora of tomatoes, all varieties of all shapes and sizes.<br />
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There is a scratching, light but constant at my door, the sound of labored asthmatic breathing. I had better down this last pint of Jack, mash up some more Percocet, and finish this fucking weird tale before whatever it is out there consumes me.<br />
<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-decoration-line: underline;">1 - It's in the sauce</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Deep in the bowels of the New York Public Library is a small room where an old lady lays claim to all the deep, dark secrets contained in the many dust volumes and notebooks from eons ago. Her name is Miss Timmons, once a kindergarten teacher, she gave it all up for her real love, being a sentinel for all that truly needs to be guarded against prying eyes, lest the secrets are revealed and society, as we know it, would crumble. Slim, about 4'8", 95 lbs. soaking wet with grey hair in a bun, her glasses dangle at the end of a chain against her faded calico blouse and matching skirt. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">To find your way down there ain't easy, a multitude of locked doors and secret panels bring you down as deep as the sewer system. Dank, musty, and filled with the smell of old parchment and intrigue, Miss Timmons enters this sacred portal by a series of dumb waiters only recently revealed to me. Her digs are an old wooden teacher's desk and wooden chair, a desk lamp, and a Select Typewriter completing her meager surroundings. A 1934 calendar adorns the wall, the significance of the year? I have no idea.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I had heard about her through my researching of old book stores, patrons spoke of a master Jedi-like librarian who held the key to a lot of scary shit, but no one had cracked the code on how the hell to get to her. I spent weeks loitering around Bryant Park, trying to get a glimpse of her leaving work. I was beginning to be mistaken for one of the panhandlers who hung out, as I was always there. One night my luck paid off. she ambled out, in the middle of the night it seemed, and walked down 42nd street with not a care in the world. I think she noticed me following her, and, after a few blocks, she turned and cast a frightening pair of coal-red eyes in my direction. I was stopped dead in my tracks then, she disappeared. The next night I accosted her again, Once again she turned and fired those eyes right through me, in a guttural voice she growled "Quid Vis?" It sounded Latin "I need to know what you know" I pleaded, "Please" She came closer and pressed a piece of paper into my hand, the hair on my arms stood on end. "Bring me these things tomorrow night and speak to NO ONE!" She paused "Jetzt geh weg!!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><u>2 - The Tam O' Shanter</u></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><u><br /></u></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">On the corner of 29th and 8th, on the outskirts of Soho, was home. I believe it was called a cold-water flat at one time, that term was an injustice, and it was far worse. However, it was affordable and a place to gather my thoughts as I continued to fall down this abyss of a rabbit hole. It was only affordable as I had a deal with the landlord, the owner of a seedy old man bar on the street, The Tam O' Shanter. I did the grunt work. I mopped, swept up, did the disgusting cracked old dishes, and, in general, helped keep the place one step above the chaos. It was one of those places that served a buffet lunch along with your drink. You can imagine what that was like. A petrified corned beef swimming in grease with undercooked potatoes and a wilted beyond repair head of cabbage. Actually, not too many of the "regulars" ate it as it would impede the flow of the cheap whisky and gin with which they plied themselves. I lived on the stuff mostly as I got the choicest chunks of fat. You see, I was also the Chef.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I climbed the stairs after my run-in with Miss Timmons and flicked on the single bulb on the ceiling of my room. It cast a pale glow about the dingy dump which contained a bed, desk and chair, sink, and a tiny refrigerator That held a small army of roaches who only entered there because they wanted someplace warm to relax. I took the crumpled note I had been given, sat down on the edge of the bed, and examined it. "Dammit!!" I took a breath and re-read it, "Where the hell am I going to get this shit?" The note simply stated:</div><div style="text-align: center;">6 pigeon eggs</div><div style="text-align: center;">Chock Full O' Nuts coffee can (empty)</div><div style="text-align: center;">Package Kahns Beef Franks</div><div style="text-align: center;">6 pack of Rheingold Extra Dry beer</div><div style="text-align: center;">2 Beefsteak Tomatoes, almost rotten</div><div style="text-align: center;">1 ounce dried psilocybin mushrooms</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This was some serious shit, what the hell did she want this stuff for? Do I actually want to go through with this? I took a long pull from a bottle of Old Grand-Dad and figured I had come this far, the story had to come to light. Besides if everything went South, I'd still have the shrooms. I lay down and began to formulate a plan for gathering together this odd cornucopia.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The day was half gone by the time I cleaned up downstairs and set the delicious buffet out. It was surprisingly easy finding many of the items, I didn't think many even existed anymore. Obviously, the tough one would be the mushrooms, but I had a friend who knew a guy who knew a guy that might be able to help me out. By the time I scored some down by the Bowery I came to realize that the fucking things were grown all over the city! I grabbed a cab and headed back to the "Tam".</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><u>3 - Chief Squawking Bird</u></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><u><br /></u></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span>He stood gazing out over the waters of the bay. In the future, it would be known as Flushing Bay replete with its chop shops and land that would be used for the 1964 World's Fair. A new baseball stadium was planned as well, but all of that was far into the future. His name was Squawking Bird and he was Chief of the Maspeth tribe that lived hereabouts on the shore of this bay. His original name was he who squawks like a bird, derived from the sounds he made when his mother would paddle his backside when he was a young boy. Far across the bay, he could see wisps of smoke rising from the hearths of the small settlement on the southern tip of the island. "These strange human beings are not of this earth," he thought. "They destroy as much as they try to replenish, if not more". The bay from which sustained their life from the food they caught was already showing signs of depletion, a strange sickness had already ravaged his village killing many with strange puss-filled boils all over the skin. He was afraid for his people, he was afraid for the earth.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span>A few months later, Squawking Bird and the remnants of his tribe would journey west to join other tribes in the nation and try and put some distance between the strange invaders and themselves. However, he had one last task to perform. On a small hill, not far from the village was a place where the grass was lush and the trees, plentiful. It offered a wonderful view of the bay. This place was the last resting place of all those who had died in the past, the recent and distant. Alone, facing the setting sun the Chief voiced a prayer into the wind which would carry it across the hilltop down to the bay. He prayed that this wonderful, peaceful resting place should never be disturbed and to punish any who should desecrate it. If indeed, it was desecrated. then a curse would fall upon the place until it was restored to its former self. Not just any curse, but one that would rain down terror and bad luck unbounded followed by short periods of seeming peacefulness and prosperity only to be dashed again into the bowels of the underworld. Even the old Chief had no idea how many centuries into the future this curse would wreak havoc.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span>The urban sprawl would reach this peaceful area and it would become part of the county of Queens, New York. This began happening almost as soon as the Native Americans had pulled up stacks. The town located there was named "Vlissengen" and was a Dutch settlement ruled over by New Netherlands. Soon, the locals started calling it "Vilshing". Later it was anglicized to "Flushing". </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u>4 - The Ghost of Toe Blake</u></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span>It was a pleasant enough walk up to 42nd street that evening. Still lots of folks wondering about including the usual cast of stew bums and 3 card monte hustlers. With my sack under my arm I hurried into Bryant Park towards the back of the library, I suddenly realized that the library was closed and I had zero ideas on how to find the old sea hag. I passed a bench where an old man with a rumpled brown fedora and tattered overcoat sat. As I hurried by I glanced at him and he raised his head and looked straight at me. His eyes were like two huge saucers that gave off a shimmer like sunlight on a lake. I felt something dry crack in my throat then an incredible itch in my midriff and I felt something pull me to a door behind some shrubs. The hag, Miss Timmons was there and pulled me inside and slammed the door shut.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span>A dim bulb cast its faint glow on the surroundings She grabbed the bag and peeked in, "Good, Come". We descended several flights of stairs, it had obviously been quite a long time since anyone had descended here. as the steps were thick with dust and cobwebs were everywhere. "What's happening to me, my stomach is killing me", "Quiet!" was all I got as a response. I felt like at any moment the ghost of Jimmy Hoffa and a pissed-off Toe Blake might appear, I grit my teeth and followed her down. We finally came to the bottom and turned to go down a long corridor. I half expected to see burning torches attached to the walls like on all those inane TV detective shows. Nope, just more dim bulbs</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span>We reached the end of the corridor and entered another dimly lit room. My head was throbbing and I had a painful itch in my midsection. I was feeling delirious and quite apprehensive at this juncture, but I had bought the ticket and was going on the ride. "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro" or something like that. She motioned to a chair and said in a guttural, almost surreal voice, "Sit" The room was no bigger than a small-sized living room I guess. I sat in a wooden chair by a wooden table, old and worn. There was an ancient-looking stove and a small washbasin. That was it. I had a ton of questions but I kept my mouth closed while Ms. Hag pulled items from the bag and set them on the table. She filled a pot with water from the sink, then filled it with the hot dogs. She turned to me and spoke, "You don't understand what's happening do you?" Before I could utter anything she continued with a voice as cold and lonely as the side of the road in a rainstorm. "You've come to be informed, this place contains secrets, many of them, some good, many bad." She turned and stroked the wall, for the first time I noticed it was a wall of huge carved rocks, there was wetness and glaze to it. "This is what is left of the old Croton Reservoir that stood here many years ago. No one comes down here, but this is where one learns about secrets. The items you brought, they will be made into a meal and drink that, once ingested, will begin to reveal the questions you ask of it." Her eyes had that saucer-like look that the old man had on the bench. She turned to the stove and picked up a glass jar next to the burner, inside was a salamander. I swear it was staring at me. She pointed to the reptile, "He will be your guide, he will sit upon your shoulder and tell you what you are witnessing. Do not remove him, under any circumstances! For if you do you will be lost and I may not be able to get you back." I tried to speak, but could not, my midsection was on fire from a bizarre itch and I felt sick. She placed a bowl and mug in front of me. "Eat and drink it all!'. I could taste all the weird contents that I had supplied, but the most overwhelming taste was that of the mushrooms. I finished everything and now began to get amazingly dizzy, the room was spinning, I could no longer feel my legs and I "felt" a luminous rope come out from my solar plexus. I looked down, screamed, and then I passed out.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u>5 - If You Lived Here You'd Be Home Now</u></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u><br /></u></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: x-large; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzRopMRtEJHm__lXyUSPsoLb-oWDVetX8USrvFXjCFwaxENLP-rZbLK6-mOHSayg38vhljW64eMpEnKZx5TImagYGHdkCB3gSky2t_YeAb6XC45dbBrn4DjfYhh-_aIaGzz8d678r9hhEp190BGLgP3_xL926vzelAcWaPt_AgxeOEGjJJcu3yB4nfvQ/s638/A-7486121-1573780073-5988.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="638" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzRopMRtEJHm__lXyUSPsoLb-oWDVetX8USrvFXjCFwaxENLP-rZbLK6-mOHSayg38vhljW64eMpEnKZx5TImagYGHdkCB3gSky2t_YeAb6XC45dbBrn4DjfYhh-_aIaGzz8d678r9hhEp190BGLgP3_xL926vzelAcWaPt_AgxeOEGjJJcu3yB4nfvQ/s320/A-7486121-1573780073-5988.jpg" width="301" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: x-large; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">*Drawing by Roger Hane</div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My head felt like it had been seriously stomped by some dangerous thugs from a Trump rally. As I came to I began to notice my surroundings, I realized I was lying on my side and viewing a landscape being raped by a Back Hoe and some other monstrously huge equipment, all were belching choking clouds of exhaust and moving some serious dirt. Then something truly fascinating happened. A tiny voice on my shoulder told me to stand up. Paralyzed as I seemed to be, I couldn't move a muscle. Again the voice spoke "Just think it you idiot" I could visualize myself standing, and so, due to a miraculous feat of time and space, I was viewing the scene from a standing point. "Now quit thinking and watch" I heard or felt a voice say.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">In front of me was a giant hole in the ground, beyond, to my left was a body of water. I heard airplanes taking off and landing, fucking loudly! I zoomed in upon the men standing at the side of the pit. Two of them in construction gear, hard hats, etc. And the lone figure standing nearby was wearing a fedora and topcoat. My hearing felt like a huge trumpet had gone from my ear to the men standing there. I heard them quite clearly. The fedora man was speaking angrily, "Why the hell are we halting?", one of the workers answered, "Mr. Moses, we have found a whole shitload of bones here. I think we should report this to someone at city hall, it could be some sort of ancient burial ground." Moses hissed through his teeth, "my schedule won't wait for that, take the fucking bones, grind 'em up and use 'em for fertilizer, might be good for the grass of the infield." The construction workers shrugged their collective shoulders and the work forged ahead. I felt dizzy again and collapsed.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Struggling to my feet I tried to make sense of the surroundings. A large room, more like a cavern loomed in front of me. A large oak table sat in the center around which a covey of demon-like figures sat. Their features gradually came into focus as did my surroundings. This was some sort of subterranean war room. Who the hell were these people? Rudy Guliani? Mike Lindell the pillow guy? Reddy Kilowatt? Mr. Zip? There was one thing for sure whoever these nefarious swollen weasels were, they were up to no earthly good. The faces came into focus, it was a who's who of early Mets royalty. Joan Payson sat and was busy filing her claws, M. Donald Grant, the money-grubbing gigolo sat next to Mrs. Payson playing pocket pool with his hands in his trousers, one down sat a harried-looking man who looked as if the hell's Angels and the Baskerville Hounds were hot on his heels, William Shea, the man who brought the NL back to NYC by forming the now-defunct Continental League. At the head of the table sat a man who made Beelzebub look like Elmer Fudd, it was none other than the main architect of almost everything built-in NYC and its environs, Robert Moses. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Jesus Creeping Shit," I thought, if these lunatics see me I could get the rack or worse. They were, however, oblivious to me. The little voice in my ear spoke again "Quit thinking and listen".</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">There was murmuring and then Moses rose and spoke. "This place, deep under Shea Stadium must be kept secret at all costs. We will meet here when a crisis arises and decide our course of action." "Holy shit, we're under Shea Stadium!" I could hardly contain myself. Grant rose and spoke to Moses, "Ok, Bob, enough of this cloak and dagger shit, what are we doing here?" Payson and Shea nodded their heads in agreement. "There is a delicate situation that has developed I'm afraid" Moses continued, " We dug up, what appears to be an ancient Indian burial ground while laying the foundation of the stadium. As you are aware we were already behind schedule and fast approaching our budget, if we contacted the historical dept of the city of New York, Lord knows how long those pencil necks would have taken meticulously digging and cataloging all the shit down there, it could last years. All our work and fortunes would be in a giant shit-filled puss ball and set adrift." "Get to the point for chrissakes" moaned Grant. "It's just this, I took the bones and had them ground to powder they are now part of the fertilizer of the infield." "You savage thug!!" Payson screamed "We built our stadium on top of a fucking burial ground? This isn't good" She sunk back in her chair looking for all the world like a dejected Richard Nixon after his "Checkers" speech." The point" Moses continued after gaining a measure of control, "is that strange, eerie shit has been happening. Christ, one worker fell into cement that was being poured around a stanchion. The poor bastard is now a part of the infrastructure. It took every favor I had to sweep it under the table. Anyway, I found this Indian shaman" Mrs. Payson whispered "I think I'm gonna hurl" "The Shaman told me that there isn't much we can do, he is familiar with curses, the poop making the rounds in the Indian Nations is that this is a well-known curse and could be devastating to the team or teams playing here. He ventured to say that there will be periods of unending agony, followed by miraculous joy, just to make us think it is over, then WHAM! back into the black hole, we go." William Shea rose, "What the hell are gonna do?" "Well", Moses mused, "not a lot can be done we just have to wait it out and see how crazy it gets. It's a giant shit sandwich and we all gotta take a bite." Groans and even weeping could be heard from the quartet of conspirators. They rose to go, Moses interjected, "I'm doing research on possible counter curses we could perform. The military is working with a mind-altering substance that we could feed the patrons so they might not see anything" "Or they could see dive-bombing black kamikaze bats coming from all directions, I vote we sit on this and meet at a later date after we have digested it" Grant said in a low almost indiscernible voice. They filed out. Again, I lost consciousness.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u>6 - With Apologies to Pearly</u></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u><br /></u></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">Indeed, it is time to bring this lurking, jerking cesspool of a short story to its logical and somewhat tragic end. I have spent months trying to get to this point, fearful of what my fevered brain might unlock to spill forth. It's not an easy time, for me or for my country. We are in the throes of a crisis not seen since Senator Charles Sumner was caned on the Senate floor by Senator Preston Brooks of South Carolina, a blood-sucking vile secessionist. Just when you thought you might finally be left alone the night is shattered by a deep guttural growl from somewhere in Florida, and one can hear the jackboots marching to the strains of "Dixie" or "Free Bird" whichever shingle of shit is easier to swallow.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> I have taken to sitting on my front stoop with my WWII-era flame thrower, a sack of edibles courtesy of Gov. Murphy, and enough "Devil's Cut" Bourbon to alter the outcome of several super bowls. Yes, it's not the best of times, nor even the worst of times and as Churchill so eloquently said "It is not the end or even the beginning of the end, but the end of the beginning". So there is still time kids, don't cower under the sheets it's time to turn on, tune in, and get into some serious fear-mongering!</div><div style="text-align: left;">But what of the curse? Does anyone really give a damn about something that is so far removed from the world today that it belongs on the back pages of the local Penny Press right below "Wanted: Tyrant to dismantle democracy and burn it all down. No experience is necessary. Call 555-1212 and ask for Rudy" Not yet anyway. So I'll try and piece together the ending of this laborious project and bring this steaming pile of lies and innuendo to rest.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlCZSpATlUniVR_2mAxpmMlk-G87khJD7hMe046ADe2ydSR_porAYTSXwOxGw4dLHZoSlCTpc2bFpKVmIPW8gDr4dPGO8HY_3JVlqXXiyggO1vOCOiRRZtRfKMFux_agvAdBjQ6FVFE2U3zphH34vdCzpqh8qGIhuZtJAA0i0v6NoO9SbJlzAi5KcePQ/s266/images.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="189" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlCZSpATlUniVR_2mAxpmMlk-G87khJD7hMe046ADe2ydSR_porAYTSXwOxGw4dLHZoSlCTpc2bFpKVmIPW8gDr4dPGO8HY_3JVlqXXiyggO1vOCOiRRZtRfKMFux_agvAdBjQ6FVFE2U3zphH34vdCzpqh8qGIhuZtJAA0i0v6NoO9SbJlzAi5KcePQ/s1600/images.jpg" width="189" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Painting by Ralph Steadman</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>I felt the warm sunshine on my face, I wiped away the seeming tons of cobwebs and dead bugs from my hair and body. I felt like the windshield of a cross-country trucker. I sat up and viewed my surroundings, I began to focus and I saw I was outside on a park bench. It was Bryant Park, behind the library. As the usual crowd of indiscriminate stew bums shuffled about I began to try and catalog my thoughts. What happened anyway? It seemed so vivid. had I somehow become so blindly stoned that I fell and slept on this bench? No, something else was happening. Bit by bit I started to recall the happenings of the previous evening. "The old crone, Miss Timmons, she'll explain". The thought of her vomited up my spine and exploded into my brain. "The door, it's right over there", I rushed to the supposed place I had entered and gave her my satchel of mojo medicine. Nothing was there but a brick wall. I followed it and saw no door of any sort. "WTF!" What is happening? I felt sick to my stomach like I had last night. I turned and made a beeline for the Tam O' Shanter, my home sweet home.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I gave the owner a month's rent in advance and a little extra as I told him I would not be performing my duties for a while. I went upstairs locked myself in the room and began to wrestle with this twisted saga.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Patrons downstairs would later say that at times heard they hysterical laughing along with periods of loud cursing and threats to parties unknown. I would occasionally slink down to the bar to purchase a case of cheap Old Milwaukee beer and then slither away, muttering about socialism and the raping of young boys at the Vatican. So they tell me anyway. Apparently, the effects of the potion I drank took several days to clear up and in that time I relived my nightmare over and over, After each time I scribbled down all I could remember. When I finally checked out I had a large cardboard box stuffed with napkins, notebooks, and scraps of paper all with notes jotted all over them. I had a lot of work to do. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This brings us to the present and my seat in front of this desktop in the corner of my cluttered kitchen. Two mangy cats screeching to be fed and a seriously paranoid yellow lab who jumps and recoils at the hint of a banging at my door. Even now, he is slinking away from a steaming pile of vomit from his most recent road kill. I'm still waiting for the Trump canvasser to return with his pinhead posse to make a serious example of me to show all their buddies at the next Klan rally. This all stemmed from a visit I received months back during one of my more "unstable" periods. When I realized they were MAGA Republicans I threatened them with a large bug zapper and told them that it was only a matter of time before the ghost of Alger Hiss showed up on the golf course at Bedminster, NJ, and did some serious divot digging.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The curse has grown in size and scope throughout the years. In 1964 Joe Pignatano, the bullpen coach, started a tomato patch that grew in size and fame in a short amount of time. These plants produced a bumper crop of delicious tomatoes year after year. These same tomatoes, grown in the soil laced with pulverized bones of the Squawking Bird National Curse Trust were supplied to the team for their before-game feasts. Huge slabs were thrown on burgers, sandwiches, and Lord knows what else. Visiting teams left town with a big paper shopping bag filled with these evil beauties. Even the Diamond Club restaurant overlooking the field had a special "Bullpen tomato appetizer" Tomatoes in Chef Pierre's own special vinaigrette. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG32UF5VCJKkxMfm9zC1rXdZJz7kMpUDWVp0lyN9qdVLcX5-IBDkm0Xg_e5Gffp3o4ISITvQA5z1Q1GZSzuRwsuGfhXSsg312ovXo3XTUrzK5-tTLgYxpcPtR2rJxX_7hvNsdpvkLfHS2KTla4p3ckY2rpVG5DzVJwFS1lMhoS_gaCeVuAUHo6qG_kxA/s612/E1T6D-jWUAchezd.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="473" data-original-width="612" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG32UF5VCJKkxMfm9zC1rXdZJz7kMpUDWVp0lyN9qdVLcX5-IBDkm0Xg_e5Gffp3o4ISITvQA5z1Q1GZSzuRwsuGfhXSsg312ovXo3XTUrzK5-tTLgYxpcPtR2rJxX_7hvNsdpvkLfHS2KTla4p3ckY2rpVG5DzVJwFS1lMhoS_gaCeVuAUHo6qG_kxA/s320/E1T6D-jWUAchezd.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Baltimore Orioles started their own patch, lovingly attended to by Earl Weaver. The seed came from Shea tomatoes. So the curse has been and still is spreading even as we speak. There is no telling how much evil treachery has gone down as a result of this simple fruit being ingested. Come to think of it, I'm sure old Rudy Guliani partook of some as he attended quite a few games. Makes sense to me, look at what a worthless bagman he has turned out to be. The New York Metropolitans team history is littered with tragedy. Its fortunes rise and fall like an old wooden roller coaster. Stranger shit has gone down in this world, I know, I lived it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">*NEWS FLASH*</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On August 7th of 2022, a virus has been seen in Southern India spreading like wildfire. The name of this virus? The Tomato Flu/Virus. And so it goes. </div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u><br /></u></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>
Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-51962639983135916672019-06-18T07:45:00.004-07:002022-04-02T20:10:04.833-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><u><span style="font-size: x-large;">The Lizards are Wallowing</span></u></i></b></div>
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They wallow, like ancient dinosaurs at the watering hole in the ever-drying Serengeti plains. Huge bellies stuffed into slacks that are belted AND with suspenders. Two things that probably drive me the most insane about old dudes are pants that have a belt and suspenders and guys who walk around with both hands clasped behind their back. I find these practices particularly loathsome as the perpetrators remind one of the castoffs from a Nixon Now! convention.<br />
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They wander aimlessly, usually destroying all in their path, oblivious to all others who may wish to shop where they strafed and destroyed. Hair disheveled, fingers gnarled, nails untrimmed, 3-day stubble which looks for all the world like a goat's ass poking out from their chin. If indeed, they buy anything, it is accompanied by a grumbling bitch about the state of the world and recorded music. Reaching into the pockets of their multi-stained britches, they throw a few weathered bills at you. If change is needed, an old ziplock is produced filled with greasy, filthy coins.<br />
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This is the stuff of fevered dreams after 35+ years of retail, in one form or another.<br />
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Why post now after so many years of absence? Well, for one thing, there are few if any recreational drugs in my life, not by choice but by the reality of an old man with no connections. Forty years ago, no problem. Nowadays, what with COPD and the overall titanic strength of 21st-century marijuana strains I have a tough time dealing. Edibles are king, they do create an almost opiate-type haze that makes focusing and researching the dark recesses of my brain relatively easy.<br />
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So, what to expect? I dunno, till I score some cannabis gummy bears it's anyone's guess.<br />
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*Lizards courtesy of Ralph Steadman</div>
Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-90205754883465346492015-08-01T09:10:00.002-07:002019-07-13T21:49:54.804-07:00A Spectacular GiftOne should never discount the wealth that can be found inside the cover of a really excellent bathroom reader. Sure, magazines have their place, but quickly become dated. There's been a landslide of books published dedicated to read whilst doing one's "business", these, however, are generally of poor quality and I for one quickly get bored with their inane bullshit. The perfect reader must be:<br />
1) Soft Cover<br />
2) Covers a subject you have an intense interest in<br />
3) No long, drawn-out stories<br />
4) Stories can be read again and again, gleaning new information or revealing something you have not thought of the last time you read it<br />
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and finally:<br />
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5) The author has to know how to actually write and turns a great sentence.<br />
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Such a book recently fell into my hands at an unexpected time and from an unexpected source.<br />
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A dear, old friend of mine, whom I had not seen in years came back into my life recently. I forgot how much I admired his skills as a writer, a storyteller, and just overall great friend. I am so much richer for having once again connected with him. He was actually an usher at my wedding.<br />
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We are huge baseball and hockey fans, both loving the same teams and the overall sport they contend in. We can spend hours discussing, yelling and laughing about our two lovable teams and the dynamics of each sport. Recently he dropped by to watch a ballgame and handed me a book, not realizing it was my birthday, which made the gift all the more treasured. It was a rare, used book. It could not be purchased new and he had to scour the dusty, dank recesses of the internet to find it. To wit:<br />
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This book is a true diamond in the rough! A baseball card lovers Holy Bible of crazy, unknown players who plagued the game in the '50s and early-mid '60s. Cards from my time, when I feverishly bought a pack at a time for $.05 each. The memories are overflowing and satisfying and the writing mixes the factual with the dry wit of the authors' poison pen. </div>
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Bill "giant chaw in the cheek" Tuttle, Roger "Hapless NY Met" Craig. Ryne "Coke Bottle Glasses" Duren are just a small sample of the hours upon hours of great stories to be discovered and relived in this book. Not only that, but one of the most important requirements for a first-rate bathroom read is:<br />
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6) One's "Business" is performed smoothly and effortlessly when this book is in your hands!<br />
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Vive la Brooke!Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-78460843440396075282014-10-05T10:34:00.002-07:002019-07-13T21:50:28.105-07:00Squeezing Bourbon out of a barrel board....the "Devil's Cut"The crowds are gone, the season, over. What is there for next season to draw the dollars through the turnstiles? A-Rod? Hardly. Maybe a big offseason signing? Doubtful, besides the day of the huge money free agent is coming to an abrupt close. Youth and the farm system are what a team has always really needed, now more than ever. But the dolts traded all their talent off the farm for the big strapping knuckleheads who produced about as much as a lurching rabid squirrel produces goodwill among homeowners.<br />
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So what now? When the "House that Ruth Built" was torn down, they sold it off piece by piece to anyone with a few bucks and perhaps a few steroid shots. They even took dirt from the infield and sold little bags of it to those who would wear it around their necks like some sort of Bronx Mojo. No there is nothing really left. Even bobbleheads have run the gambit, they've retired so many numbers and erected so many plaques that monument park is threatening to swallow up the infield and proceed into the cheap seats and overpriced hot dog stands.<br />
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So.....what now? Steiner Sports, the demented purveyor of all things dealing with Yankee memorabilia have already shredded Jeter's dirty socks and sold them off. Maybe they secretly bought up a shitload of Robinson Cano Seattle bobbleheads to place on 2nd base on opening day 2015 and then sell them off?<br />
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No, they have something much more insidious planned. In conjunction with a secret Chinese laboratory for hair restoration, they are applying the slimy salve to Derek Jeter's nether regions in hopes of reaping a plentiful crop of long luxurious pubic hair to then be harvested and woven into watch chains. You laugh.....<br />
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**Note - As of 2019, Robinson Canoe has joined the dubious ranks of Mets 2nd basemen. No bobblehead has been issued......yetJoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-61081224399300454992014-08-31T14:14:00.002-07:002014-08-31T14:14:40.121-07:00Top 10 Books that have never left you:Meaning that the stories they tell and the books themselves have always been close at hand.<br />
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This was an interesting post on FaceBook, here is my list, do you have one?<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">10 books that have stayed with me:</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">1. </span><a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=115946728419025" href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Catcher-In-The-Rye/115946728419025" style="background-color: white; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-decoration: none;">Catcher In The Rye</a><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">2. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">3. Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail 1972</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">4. Mr. Lincoln's Army</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">5. Glory Road </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">6. A Stillness at Appomattox </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">7. The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">8. The Complete Sherlock Holmes</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">9. Grapes of Wrath</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">10. Wild</span>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-40633259559186166992014-08-28T18:59:00.003-07:002014-09-01T07:01:16.210-07:00Addendum to "Follow Me Boys"Friends posted a picture of a battalion of Federal reenactors at Harrisons Landing in VA the scene of the 1st rendition of Taps that was ever heard. The plantation, "Berkeley Hundred" was where the event took place out on the Va. peninsula. Summer on the peninsula is brutal with heat soaring over 100 at times and humidity at 1000%. We were not disappointed, it was freaking hot! <br />
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The reenactment was really just a period encampment with camp life, guard duty, various mail, chow, pay calls and drill, drill, drill. It was where a very close friend of mine David "Duke" Culberson (R.I.P.) told me that in all his years reenacting he had never heard anyone gripe in 1st person like a real soldier any better than I!<br />
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<br />Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-26113794559569956032014-08-20T09:48:00.001-07:002019-07-13T21:46:44.190-07:00"Follow me boys! Do you want to live forever?!!"Some of my happiest and most thrilling moments came during the 10+ years that I reenacted the American Civil War. I won't go into the why's of it all, suffice it to say that it's a way for grown men to play SERIOUS "Army" like we did as kids, at least me anyway.<br />
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As I grew into the hobby and learned more of the minutiae of the common soldier and soldier life I became more and more determined to have as realistic a kit as possible, right down to the hogs hair toothbrush. I spent untold amounts achieving this and, in the end, I was about as good as one could become.<br />
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My friend, Jason Wickersty, and I at an Antietam reenactment. This tintype was taken near Boonsboro, MD. by period photographer Robert Szabo.</div>
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Through it all I was able to meet some amazing people, form a few lasting relationships, start a business which lasted about 5 years and, to an extent, changed the way the hobby purchased authentic goods. I saw many battlefields and historic sites and was able to partake a small part in the movie "Gettysburg", filmed right near the field itself.</div>
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Hamming it up on the set of "Gettysburg"...shot through the neck with a ramrod...always the clown</div>
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Pointing across the field to where the Rebels would soon appear when the filming for Pickett's Charge began.</div>
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Of course, the above pictures only prove obvious, that I am a ham and first-rate idiot, but a lovable one...at times.</div>
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For a brief story on my 1st major reenactment click here: <a href="http://baseballbluesbills.blogspot.com/2011/07/seeing-elephant.html">Seeing The Elephant</a> This was the 125th anniversary of the "Overland Campaign" of 1864 featuring the Battles of the Wilderness and Spotsylvania (Laurel Hill and the "Muleshoe").</div>
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The next year saw the 125th anniversary of the final battles on Lee's retreat from Richmond (Saylor's Creek) right before the surrender at Appomattox. This reenactment has stayed with me because of one singular scene. As the brigade (3 to 4,000 full strength) marched off to the first fight, I caught a glimpse of the immensely long line and what a real brigade on the march may have looked like. With flags flying and drums and fifes playing I had an amazing "moment". One's time in reenacting is filled with these brief, magic moments...if you are lucky and attend the right events. You cannot force them to happen, they just pop up on you and for that second or two you are outside looking in and in awe.</div>
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My unit, the 3rd NJ, firing a volley after crossing Little Saylor's Creek. I was the left general guide for the battalion and am pictured holding the guidon with the small American Flag. My counterpoint, the right guide, and I would move out in front of the battalion to help keep the ranks straight as we marched in line of battle. This job, historically, was given to the 2nd Sgt of the rightmost and left most company of the line...hence, me on the left.</div>
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The recent 150th anniversary of the Battle of Shiloh, TN also provided some excellent pictures too. Though I had retired before this event and thus, did not attend (I did attend the 130th), I love the pics I have seen of it and will share one here.</div>
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Damn, I wish I had gone. These Federal soldiers portrayed Western troops extremely well!</div>
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Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-37955673307929055432014-08-16T22:24:00.001-07:002019-07-13T21:45:15.594-07:00Two Hats are Better than NoneThey sit on the table by my computer. My two straw cowboy hats. Both screaming out loud to be on the road, to be far away from the hurt and confusion, the place where I feel like a renter and an enemy....at best.<br />
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Both are classic in style and I can get lost in another persona when I place one of them on my head. The problem is: how do I get out of here without hurting the ones I love and which hat should I wear? Granted, the first question is a bit more important than the other, but they both weigh heavily. I guess it is due to the fact that when I look at the hats (and I pass 'em many times a day) I am reminded, constantly reminded, how much I hurt inside.<br />
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Should I spill my guts on these pages for the world to see? I've been hemming and hawing over it for years now. Never really saying, but always hinting. What happens then? I guess fucking what was always going to happen, what was meant to happen, I just haven't had the fortitude to face it. I will draw the curtain open upon the last act of my life's play. That's what it really comes down to, I cannot fathom that this is it, the last act. The old show business idiom "Always leave them wanting more". Does this apply?<br />
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Saturday night at my job in the bookstore, an intriguing long-haired cashier, who happens to be an old man. Give me a fucking break. Ringing up the sales, trying to sell memberships, making small talk with the unwashed minions. Without fail a well-groomed, tanned exec and his trophy wife plunk down their beach books. Speaking in low voices, but just loud enough so that I can hear, they carry on about going to the Hamptons and the parties and the sand and surf and "wasn't it a shame about Robin Williams" and all the other bullshit that dribbles out of their mouths like a chaw of chewing tobacco run amok.<br />
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A manicured tanned hand pulls out a wad of bills, fat enough to make even a rich man grimace, casually tossing a couple my way. I make change noticing that his fucking shorts are even ironed for chrissakes. Am I just jealous? Probably. Do I want to roll in the mud "doing" his wife? Yup. Fuck it.<br />
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What was the final of the Mets game? No one knows, no one really gives a shit. It's Saturday night and I will be going home to a woman, who after being together for over 30 years, don't really care for me anymore. That's it. Pure and simple.<br />
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I do so wish life were like the movies. My wife and I would each have an epiphany and, teary-eyed and blubbering, fall into each other and face the world as friends and lovers. That is what is supposed to happen. But it won't and the longer I wait for it to happen, the darker and more painful my world becomes.<br />
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So my two hats wait patiently, and as long as my head doesn't grow or shrink they will fit for years to come.<br />
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<br />Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028621954862810211.post-71400961197974026262014-07-04T08:43:00.000-07:002019-07-13T21:44:35.869-07:00Forward to Brook Zelcer's Book: The Little Book of Yankee Evil<i><b>"He Who Troubleth His House Shall Inherit the Wind" Proverbs 11:29</b></i><br />
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The "House that Ruth built" is gone, replaced by a sandlot and parking spaces. The "House that Steinbrenner built" is now next door to that sandlot and is, indeed, inheriting a vile-smelling wind.<br />
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In the summer of 1962, I sat with my father in the Polo Grounds watching the new national League franchise New York Metropolitans create their own special brand of stink. No one mentioned or commented that just across the Harlem River sat the aforementioned edifice of the powerhouse Yankees, however, it was nigh impossible to not catch a whiff of some unexplained toxic funk that permeated the field and stands when the wind shifted from the east. Sometime around the middle of the game a lurking, jerking small animal crept in from the outfield, vomiting and howling like a banshee. A rabid weasel had been deposited on the field and it was not only vomiting but molting as well. There was a note attached to its underside on Yankee stationery which read: "Welcome to New York, scumbags".<br />
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The bar was in the basement of a building, a late 70's local watering hole for the long-haired elite of Lawrence, Kansas. The place was jammed and as I walked in I was engulfed in a blue haze of marijuana smoke. A paper bowl was shoved into my midriff and I was pushed towards the bar where sat a multitude of ripe watermelons all injected with liberal doses of grain alcohol. I sliced off a huge hunk with the buck knife that had been stabbed into the bar. "This blade being here might be trouble with this dangerous bunch," I thought. I turned to watch the TV that everyone was transfixed too.<br />
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The Royals were playing the Yankees for the umpteenth time for the American League pennant and had lost out the previous years. This year seemed to be different and the buzzing and growing fervor of the crowd meant that good things were happening. The Royals won that night, clinching the American League Pennant. Pandemonium reigned as the Royals celebrated as if they had won the World Series (this would prove to be their swansong as they fell easily to the Phillies in the series). In the bar it was a drunken rampage, fueled with grain alcohol, cheap beer, and homegrown 2nd generation primo pot. The crowd spilled onto the street screaming deliriously and waving their arms like lunatics just escaped from the asylum. I sat alone watching the highlights. I shall never forget my glee in seeing George Steinbrenner throw up his hands in disgust as he sat in his private box, then he stalked off like a spoiled child. His chief thug, Billy Martin, was wondering, I'm sure if he would be fired yet again for not kissing the boss's ring. It was better than winning the game, the air shifted from the east and was fresh and sweet.<br />
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The "Little Book of Yankee Evil" may be just that, little, but it is huge with its meticulous research and thought-provoking prose. The anecdotes are true and the eye-opening tales of the evil they discuss might make you give up on baseball altogether and join the local dart-throwing team. Not since the infamous Gangs of New York and the Five Points has this city known such treachery, such arrogance, and, yes, such evil. A motley collection of ward wheeling hacks and molesters that will invade your sleep each night.<br />
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Fear not, there are enough skeletons in all of baseball so to make any organization not feel left out. Bon Appetit.<br />
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<b><i>Order your copy here: <a href="http://www.lulu.com/shop/brook-zelcer/the-little-book-of-new-york-yankees-evil-newsprint-edition/paperback/product-23667671.html">Little Book of Yankee Evil</a> This is the original version, the update with my forward will be published in the future and I will alert you when that happens.</i></b><br />
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<i><br /></i><i>* Note - The 2nd edition is now available</i>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734260287018148087noreply@blogger.com0