Along Came A Spider

Probably like most of you, I enjoy occupying my mind in the morning with a little reading material during my time in the necessary room. I have a small magazine container next to the throne where I keep the latest issues of National Geographic, Racer, Time, etc., depending on what strikes my fancy. Lately my favorite has been Walking Man's new book "Stink", which seems apropos. (It's a darned fine little book of masterful poetry and if you haven't gotten one, git yur ass over to his place and order it.) One morning a couple of weeks back I found myself sans-magazine and while sitting and staring at the wall I noticed that a small spider had taken up residence in the corner behind the door. We have a fairly new house and it was built pretty bug tight and I wondered how this guy was going to make a living in a place with precious little prey around. I decided I would leave him be and see how long he lasts. He built a little web just above floor level, over a small crack in the shoe molding which provided a retreat when he felt threatened. Over the course of two weeks, he actually did collect two bugs, a small fly and a mosquito. Pretty slim pickings if you ask me. I kind of forgot about him when I got some new reading material but yesterday, he again caught my eye. He looked pretty bad. He was now full grown, but emaciated and obviously nearing the end. I felt sorry for him. He had spent his entire life in a little corner of my bathroom with nothing to eat and no prospects. He had never seen the sun or felt the rain. He couldn't know that just outside my door lay a paradise of bugs and places to hide. I decided he deserved a chance, so I got him to crawl onto a piece of paper and took him outside. I didn't want to just place him in the yard because I was afraid that would be too much. Spiders, all insects for that matter, know their location by the overhead canopy. They actually navigate by the map they see overhead. This guy had seen nothing but a ceiling his whole life so I thought a spot in the carport would be perfect. I placed him on top of a small tool cabinet, near the back porch light, which always attracts lots of insects. I carefully set him down and watched like a doting parent as he slowly took in his new surroundings and tentatively took his first steps, moving one leg, then another. As I watched, from under a nearby flower pot, a gecko ran out and ate him.

We Don't Need No Stinking Awards

Over this morning's cup of coffee I realized that I had forgotten that some time ago I was given the dubious distinction of receiving some kind of award from that lovable blogosphere boob JadedJ over at A Banquet of Consequences. It appears the major consequence of visiting A Banquet of Consequences is an occasional "Oy Veh" moment and some kind of forgettable award that, according to the rules, you must pass on to some other unsuspecting innocent. The award rules also state that you are supposed to reveal ten things about yourself that no one knows. I imagine this whole award thing is supposed to make us all a little more human and bring us all a little closer together as a blog family but so far, all I've learned from it is that Simon has a fetish for Tom Cruz bondage dolls, JadedJ fantasizes he's Elvis Presley, and Punch, lacking any imagination what-so-ever, is Priscilla Presley. (Actually, the idea that JJ and Punch are an item and once sired a child seems pretty plausible when you think about it.) As to Simon, one can only wonder. So, in an effort to return some integrity to this award, here goes, ten things you always wondered but were afraid to ask: 1) Charleston is my real name. 2) I was drafted into the Army straight out of high school, was placed in Special Forces and trained as a forward air observer. This means that two of us were dropped behind enemy lines where we called in coordinates for artillery fire and bomb runs on the Viet Cong. 3) In this capacity, I was twice trapped behind enemy lines and engaged in close order combat. 4) I have killed eight people that I know of. 5) Upon returning home, I suffered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and was hospitalized for over a year in the "Nervous Hospital" to borrow a term from Sling Blade. 6) It was there that I found Jesus. 7) After leaving the hospital I entered the ministry. 8) I served as a missionary in Zimbabwe for five years helping with the AIDS epidemic. 9) While in Zimbabwe I contracted AIDS and have been slowly dying from it ever since. It's one of the reasons I am so concerned about public health care. 10) Not a single word of the above is true. Had you going, didn't I? So, there you have it. My soul laid bare. Now comes the difficult part, who to next curse with this dubious achievement? I know that Punch passed it one to MeanDonnaJean and that JJ and Simon have already caught it. I'm sure Peach has already gotten it as she has a shelf full of such things along with Enemy of the Republic and JennyMac. Walking Man tosses them off like dandruff. Hmmmm. I think I'll pass it along to my new friend Juan Pablo over at Vida de Juan Pablo. Congratulations my friend. You're it.

The Best There Ever Was

The other evening I was watching a television special on the 40^th anniversary of the Woodstock Music Festival. Two things struck me as I watched and listened. One, how miserable it must have been to be in a huge crowd for three days in the rain and mud with no toilets and no food, and two, how primitive the sound and most of the performances were.

The next evening my wife and I were listening to rock classics on Sirius-XM when she got up and put on a CD. The CD was Abby Road and I was reminded all over again, when it comes to rock, the Beatles were the best there ever was. Nothing of that era stacked up against them.

There were some seriously good musicians at Woodstock. Crosby, Stills and Nash, The Grateful Dead, The Band, Jimi Hendrix to name a few. But none them, in 1969, were anywhere near where the Beatles were in-so-far-as creativity both in the quality of their sound, their production and the songs.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the aforementioned bands and many others but, The Beatles were in a league of their own. By the end of 1970, they ceased to exist.

Four times they changed the music in their short career. I can’t think of another rock band or musician who has done that, not even Bob Dylan.

First, when they showed up as a four-man, harmonizing mix of everything you ever heard but never heard from rock n roll (1963). Second, Rubber Soul created a level of sophistication not heard before in rock (1965). Third, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band, exponentially took psychedelic rock and recording techniques to a different planet (1967). And finally, Abby Road set a production and musical arrangement standard that took the rest of the rock world years to equal (1969).

Many people, including myself, would argue that The White Album should be in that list as well. And maybe it should because, without question, it was by far the most open and diverse rock recoding of its time and maybe the most creatively diverse of any pop music recording ever. But I don’t think it changed the music. Not fundamentally, like the others.

I’ve seen The Beatles twice. Once, before they were the Beatles when they were backing a European singer named Tony Sheridan at the Star Club in Hamburg, Germany. And a year or so later in Barcelona, Spain in the bull ring. I believe it was just before their U.S. debut at Shea Stadium, but I’m not certain and too lazy to look it up.

If I had to pick a favorite, it would be Abby Road. It’s hard to believe that it’s been 40 years since I first curled up in my bean bag, took a couple of tokes, and drifted into the Sun King.

Pissing Monkey Redux

My friend JadedJ over at A Banquet of Consequences did a post the other day which featured a pissing monkey. If you haven't seen it, I'll spare you the gory details, just go over there a look. However, as the photo to the left illustrates, strange behavior isn't limited to monkeys. Or, maybe so, to one degree or another, but that's another subject. JJ's pissing monkey reminded me of an entertaining afternoon I once spent at an eccentric animal farm on the west coast of Florida called Noel's Ark. This was some years ago, mid 80s maybe, so I doubt the place is still there. It was actually a retreat for unwanted circus animals. Noel and his wife, both retired circus performers, couldn't stand the thought of the animals they had worked with being destroyed after they had gotten too old to travel with the circus so they bought some land and opened their animal retreat with the idea that it could also be a profitable tourist attraction. It wasn't. In fact, by all appearances, the place was just barely hanging on. It was a pretty motley collection of great apes, an old elephant and an even older, slime covered alligator with a fifth leg growing out of his back. The animals were caged in small, filthy, confinements. But to Noel's credit, they really cared for the animals and did the best for them they could. In one cage was an old, gray muzzled Chimp. He was lazily swinging in his cage when a family of tourists gathered to watch him. His arms could pretty much reach from one side of the cage to the other, and he had a grip on each side and was swinging back and forth. When he had everyone's attention, he got a big hard-on and began swinging more fervently than ever, his pecker clicking across the bars like a pencil across the back of a chair... clickity, clickity, clickity... grinning from ear to ear all the while. The tourists were horrified. Mothers covered their children's eyes as they quickly gathered them up and shepherded them away. The men straining to keep from laughing out loud. I followed them over to the gorilla's enclosure. He was a big silver-back and lived in a semi-truck trailer, the kind you see on the highway. One side of the trailer had been cut out and replaced with bars. The floor of the trailer was covered with food, feces and wet straw. There was a rope swing and a large truck tire for him to play with. When I arrived, he was eating a piece of water melon. I've never seen a human eat a melon with as much delicacy as that gorilla. Savoring every bite. Carefully spitting out the seeds. When people gathered to watch him, maybe a dozen or so, he turned his back on us. This didn't set well with some of the tourists, after all, they had paid good money and they wanted to watch him eat. Some of them had dry roasted peanuts and began throwing them at the great ape to get his attention. Some even picked up small pebbles and the like. Once or twice the gorilla glared over his shoulder at the taunters. I could smell trouble coming and backed away. Just it time too, as he soon grabbed the truck tire and in one giant motion, swept it across the floor of the trailer, spraying the onlookers with a grimy mix of water, straw, poop and pee. You could hear them wailing a block away. I was laughing so hard I had to move away for fear they would lynch me. They streamed towards the exit as the realization settled in, that, for a least the next hour or so, they were going to have to live with themselves covered with the worst kind of stink, on a hot summer day. Life has its rewards.

Easy Money... $1 Million for Mermaid Photo

The Southwest has UFOs. Scotland has the Loch Ness Monster. Now Israel has a mermaid? LiveScience reports that locals and tourists are flocking to the town of Kiryat Yam, Isreal, hoping to catch a glimpse of a mermaid who has been spotted doing a few tricks and disappearing into the water. According to Schlomo Cohen, one of the first people to see the mermaid, "I was with friends when suddenly we saw a woman laying on the sand in a weird way. At first I thought she was just another sunbather, but when we approached she jumped into the water and disappeared. We were all in shock because we saw she had a tail." Kiryat Yam is now offering $1 million to the first person to snap a photograph of the reported mermaid. "I believe if there really is a mermaid then so many people will come to Kiryat Yam, a lot more money will be made than $1 million," town spokesman Natti Zilberman said. Even if the mermaid ends up being a hoax, the town will be able to save the $1 million and continue to see a jump in tourism. PT Barnum pulled off a hoax like this years ago with a Mermaid in a jar, which ended up being a monkey torso and fish tail graft. Now, it looks like even municipalities are getting into the act. I can see it now... Schlomo and his wife are visiting Loch Ness, Scotland. The place is crowded with tourists. In the middle of his Gefillte fish lunch, the idea strikes him... "Oy! he exclaims. "Das est it! Das est it! I know how to make a million shequels! Vie get our own monster!" "Oy vey!" Ruth agrees. "Das est a vunderful idea."

Long Legged Mac Daddies

Another perspective:

Mr. C and The American Fascist Party

Mr. Charleston sometimes earns his living as an independent life insurance agent. We prefer to call ourselves things like, financial advisors, counselors, or even, asset analysts. Whoa! That last one sounds high falootin’ enough for the king. (Richard Petty, that is.)

It’s a hellish, but also rewarding, business. The rewarding part is when you really do help a family protect their assets or retirement savings. Or help them get a settlement from the thieving insurance industry who will screw you out of it given half a chance.

The hellish part is you spend an enormous amount of time on the phone trying to track down and set an appointment with people who have returned something in the mail expressing interest in what it is you are selling. They are called “leads.”

For a couple of years I worked the Georgia coast from St. Mary’s to Savannah and surrounding area. It was while tracking down an appointment in the “surrounding area” that I came across the professed President of the American Fascist Party. He was a “lead.” A sheet of paper. I called, made an appointment, and got directions to his house, which was somewhere between Swainsboro, Georgia and nowhere, as if Swainsboro wasn’t nowhere enough already.

About 25 miles north of town on a narrow county road, the pavement ended. Another 7 miles or so down the dirt road, long out of cell coverage, following sketchy instructions and my nose, past miles of nothing but scraggly woods and an occasional field, I came to a clutch of mobile homes. They looked exactly as you would expect. Dirt yards, clothes lines, cars on blocks, the ubiquitous BBQ grill and yapping dogs. As I pulled up to the one that appeared to be my destination, a run-down mobile home with a shed like room and porch built onto it and a large radio antenna on one side, any hope of a commission evaporated into the Georgia heat.

But what the hell, I was there and it was certain to at least be a change of pace. I paused before getting out of the car as I couldn’t decide which end of the Pit Bull to believe, his head or his tail. The issue was settled when a somewhat disheveled El Presidente came out to greet me and ran the dog off. He was average height and build. A lanky redneck.

On the way into the house, through the car shed past a honker 4x4 truck with no roof and a hound dog lying in a dirt hole, I noticed that EP walked with a limp. (Insurance agents take note of such things.)

The interior of the place was cluttered and grimy. Stuff piled everywhere, sofa and chair covered by dirty sheets... I wondered what the real fabric looked like... filthy carpet, or what was left of it. EP sat in the chair and motioned for me to take the sofa. I cleared enough space on the coffee table for my laptop. He offered me a beer. I thought, why not? I don’t usually drink when doing business but what did I have to lose?

As we talked I learned he had a few health problems and was on disability from the leg injury, but nothing that would totally disqualify him from coverage. He had no wife and family so I asked why he wanted life insurance in the first place. He said he wanted to leave something to a nephew who had helped him once. I wrote him a policy, with little faith it would be issued, and asked how he wanted to pay for it. He said he would pay cash as he didn’t have a bank account or credit card. Said he didn’t trust banks or the government and wouldn’t have a credit card.

Now insurance companies won’t take cash but they will take money orders but will only accept them for something more than monthly payments. So, if you pay in cash, you must pay quarterly. His premium came to something like $160.

After scrounging around for a while, he came up with the cash, a wad of cruddy bills, but I took it and wrote him a receipt. I told him I would get the first money order for him but in the future, he would have to do it himself. He said no problem, he goes into town about once a month and he could do it then.

I noticed a strange flag hanging on the wall and asked about it. He said it was the flag of The American Fascist Party. I said I didn’t know there was such thing and he informed me that he was the president of said party and had, in fact, run for president of the United States this past election. He said it was at an election rally that the FBI beat him up and injured his leg, which also precipitated his move from New York to East Bumfuck, Georgia.

No sooner had I shown an interest in Fascism than he produced pamphlets and flyers and a CD that would tell me all about it. They have a web site which includes a page of Fascist tunes. This is Salute to Benito. Play it while you read the rest of this post, it adds a certain ambiance.

I’m sure when we met he told me he was president of the American Fascist Party. However, now it seems his is the American Fascist Movement and the Party has been taken over by someone else, who also ran for president this past election. Just to add balance, I visited the Party website, or rather, a website about their website, and found the following as part of their credo:

As it is obvious to most, the current government system has become a gang of self-serving crooks who have sold out our great nation and betrayed the trust of the American people.

Most people in this country know that "everything is upside-down." A true Fascist government in America would change all this. The AFP recognizes the "balance factor" in which, individual freedom is balanced with equal responsibility. National strength, military, economic, and political is balanced with the need to use such strength wisely, and with restraint. Productivity is balanced with a need to protect the environment. If you agree with these sentiments, then congratulations, you may already be a Fascist! If you want to work against Communist treason and the U.N. dominated "New World Order," you just might belong in the American Fascist Party.

Crimini! I might be a Fascist! Their credo goes on to say they are not racist and that they don’t care what religion you belong to, etc. The credo is pretty much the same for both the Party and the Movement.

As I was reading through some of the information he gave me, I was gently quizzed about my thoughts concerning guns. I said I have one. In fact, I carry it in my car. He said to follow him, he had something he wanted to show me. He led me down a short, narrow hallway to a back room. The room was full of weapons. Racks of guns, swords and even a pike, lined the walls. Broken rifles and what-not stacked in the corners. A bookshelf loaded with ammunition.

To be fair, nearly all of them were antiques or collectables, but all in working order. WWII M1 rifles and carbines. A WWI Enfield and even a rifle from the Civil War. However, there were also a few modern Rambo looking semi-automatics and two Thompson sub-machine guns in perfect condition. I didn’t see anything more heavy duty like grenades or grenade launchers or the sort.

He was very proud of his collection, and rightly so. As I handled them with genuine interest he would give me the history of the weapon with asides on the corrupt and dictatorial governments of the time. I couldn’t tell that he was a survivalist or anything like that. He struck me as someone who, whether forced to by the government or not, simply lives outside of the system and pretty much doesn’t want anything to do with anyone. I also got no impression that the little mobile home enclave was anything other than an odd collection of outcasts like himself. Not a smoldering nest of fascism or the like.

I have run into many people like him over the years. I suppose it’s just one man’s way of being free.

By the way, his policy wasn’t issued.

I WON THE LOTTERY!!!

Well… not yet, but just you wait and see. Tonight’s the night! Finally, all those lottery dreams will come true. Will it be Porsche or Ferrari? Maybe both! Gotta give some to my family, and a few friends, and charities, and… my mom’s church, and put some away for the grandkids… Oh man, what I could do to the house… or maybe a whole new house, in the mountains. Of course, I can get to all that right after touring Europe. Might catch a few F1 races while there. I’ve always wanted to go to Budapest. Hell, I could even invite Punch and JJ to go with me, and Peach and Walking Man. All my friends!

The reason for this optimism? I have finally found my lucky numbers.

For years I’ve been looking for my lucky numbers. I’ve thought about what numbers play an important part in your life… your birth date… that’s three down, three to go. Lucky 16. That was the number of my childhood racing hero, David Ezell, at the local dirt track. Four down… The Tarot gave me one more… then there’s my wedding day... which one, and how lucky were they, really? Maybe divorce day? Kids birthdays? My fortune cookie. Shit, it gets so confusing.

But thanks to www.formalogy.com, the wait is over, and I get to share it with you! How can you pass this up?

“We have combined ancient numerology wisdom with modern logistical intelligence to calculate and generate individual numbers based on your first name, date of birth and specifics of the event. To cover all possibilities and variations, we came up with four different ways to help you find what you want. The universal algorithm for Lottery Numbers will generate your personal “winning” numbers for most common lottery types.”

Christ! They even have a lucky joke: “Stew: Did you hear about the cross-eyed teacher they fired last week? Lou: No, tell me. Stew: She couldn’t control her pupils!”

How lucky can you get? And it's free.

My lucky numbers for tonight’s lotto… 25 31 33 36 44 46. But wait a minute. Did I enter the right lotto date? Crap, I’ll have to do it again. This time I’m sure everything is right. My lucky numbers… 22 23 27 29 30 42!! How can that be? There must be some fuck up. I’ll try it again… 8 17 24 35 43 45! Dang, do my lucky numbers change by the minute? Am I going to have to take my laptop down to the Jiffy Mart, login, get my lucky numbers and buy my ticket the instant before the drawing?

I’m not taking any chances, I’m going to play all three numbers. What the hell, I may be unemployed and all, but I can blow 3 bucks. After all, it isn’t gambling, it’s an investment in my family’s future.

Watch for me on the news.

Dylan gets busted… right or wrong?

Here’s a news story I ran across on the web. It’s pretty funny, so please take the time to read it because this is an equal opportunity, interactive blog and there is a required response. (You wouldn’t want to fail me now, would you?)

(Warning: There are a couple of ‘reading impaired” bloggers in this circle, who’s names shall go unmentioned, as afterall, there is such a thing as blogger etiquette, however, I’m sure they will make themselves quite evident as they seem to bedevil this site with inane comments on a regular basis. Sort of like blue tail flies, they don’t really harm you, they’re just the old aunt you tolerate. If you get my drift.)

Anyway, the point is: Is there any fault to be assigned in this incident? If not, why not? If so, who and why?

Here is the article:

Talk about "a complete unknown." Bob Dylan was detained by police in Long Branch, N.J. last month, when a young officer failed to recognize him, police said. The officer proceeded to go to earnest lengths to ensure the hooded, disheveled, rain-soaked music legend was, in fact, who he said he was.

Long Branch, N.J., police officer Kristie Buble, left, says she encountered Bob Dylan wandering around the streets of Long Branch.

Dylan, 68, one of the most celebrated, eccentric artists in American history, was in the area on July 23 as part of a national concert tour -- a fact lost on 24-year-old Long Branch police officer Kristie Buble.

To hear the young New Jersey police officer describe it, the scene was like something out of one of Dylan's epic song-poems: It was pouring rain, Dylan was soaked and wandering alone, far from the traveling home of his entourage of tour buses.

When Dylan wandered into the yard of a home that had a "For Sale" sign on it, the home's occupants became spooked by his appearance and called police with a report of an "eccentric-looking old man" in their yard, Long Branch Police said. One of the occupants even went so far as to follow Dylan as he continued on down the street.

Buble said the man told her he was Bob Dylan.

"We got a call for a suspicious person,'' Buble said. "It was pouring rain outside, and I was right around the corner so I responded. By that time he was walking down the street. I asked him what he was doing in the neighborhood and he said he was looking at a house for sale."

"I asked him what his name was and he said, 'Bob Dylan,' Buble said. "Now, I've seen pictures of Bob Dylan from a long time ago and he didn't look like Bob Dylan to me at all. He was wearing black sweatpants tucked into black rain boots, and two raincoats with the hood pulled down over his head.

"So I said, 'OK Bob, what are you doing in Long Branch?' He said he was touring the country with Willie Nelson and John Mellencamp. So now I'm really a little fishy about his story. I did not know what to believe or where he was coming from, or even who he was.

"We see a lot of people on our beat, and I wasn't sure if he came from one of our hospitals or something," Buble said.

She asked for identification, but Dylan said he had none. She asked where he was staying and he said his tour buses were parked at some big hotel on the ocean. Buble said she assumed that to be the nearby Ocean Place Conference Resort.

"He was acting very suspicious,'' Buble said. "Not delusional, just suspicious. You know, it was pouring rain and everything."

Following her police training, Buble said she indulged him.

"OK Bob, why don't you get in the car and we'll drive to the hotel and go verify this?' " she said she told him. "I put him in the back of the car. To be honest with you, I didn't really believe this was Bob Dylan. It never crossed my mind that this could really be him."

Buble made small talk on the ride to the hotel, asking her detainee where he was playing, she said, but never really believing a word he said.

"He was really nice, though, and he said he understood why I had to verify his identity and why I couldn't let him go," Buble said. "He asked me if I could drive him back to the neighborhood when I verified who he was, which made me even more suspicious.

"I pulled into the parking lot," she said, "and sure enough there were these enormous tour buses, and I thought, 'Whoa.'"

Her sergeant met her at the hotel parking lot.

"I got out of my car and said, "Sarg, this guy says he's Bob Dylan,'" Buble said. "He opened the car door, looked in, and said, 'That's not Bob Dylan.'"

"So we go over to the tour bus and knock on the door and some guy answers and I say, 'Are you missing someone?'"

"Who's asking?'' came the reply, according to Buble.

"I was in full uniform, so I say, 'I'm asking! I'm the police.'"

Eventually, the police were shown Dylan's passport, which Buble said she looked at, saw the legend's name, and rather sheepishly handed it back to Dylan's manager.

"OK,'' she recalled saying as she smiled. "Um, have a nice day."

A police department source said Buble had taken her share of good-natured ribbing from some of the older officers.

"To really appreciate the story from our end, you have to see Kristie," one cop said. "She looks like a 16-year-old kid, next to this living legend. It was unbelievable."

Blog Censorship

The world is flat. At least that's the way the internet presents itself, right? The ultimate platform of free speech and expression. Then what's all this crap about "owner approval" of your comments to a post? In order to be neighborly and enjoy some banter with a fellow blogger, on some sites you not only have to climb through some kind of monkey-bars code drill, but then you're informed that your comment has been submitted for "owner approval." Owner approval? Am I worthy? Can someone explain this?

Another Hero Passes

I know there will be countless eulogies posted over the loss of this genius but I couldn't let it pass without acknowledging one of the greatest influences in my life. Sleep well Les. I'll miss you.

You Can't Make This Shit Up ... Part 2

A Jacksonville, FL woman who said she is Jesus Christ's wife was charged with fraud Monday when she tried to purchase a car with a bad check.

Emma Kim-Tashis Harrison, 25, walked into the Coggin Pontiac dealership on Blanding Boulevard looking for some new wheels. She settled on a vehicle that cost almost $70,000, (A $70,000 Pontiac?? WTF) but things hit a snag when she grabbed her checkbook, according to a Jacksonville Sheriff's Office arrest report. A representative from a bank in California informed the dealership's financial manager that the account Harrison supplied was bad. So were the names on the check. It was signed "Mr. and Mrs. Jesus and Emma Christ." Officers who detained Harrison found a host of credit cards and checks in her purse, some issued to Emma Harrison and others made out to Emma Christ. She said she doesn't work but owns "a traveling Web site that people just deposit money into," (I'll wager this has something to do with Punch) according to the report.

Investigators also discovered Harrison has never had a driver's license. She was charged with organized fraud, forging bank bills and uttering forged bills — all felonies. She remains in the Duval County jail without bail. And where was her husband in all this? She said Jesus Christ would return next week to sign the paperwork and pick up the car.

Time for a laugh

In the "It's the early bird that gets the worm, but the second mouse that gets the cheese" department, a few witticisms to, hopefully, make you smile.

I asked God for a bike, but I know God doesn't work that way. So I stole a bike and asked for forgiveness. I want to die peacefully in my sleep, like my grandfather.. Not screaming and yelling like the passengers in his car. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. But it's still on the list. Women might be able to fake orgasms. But men can fake a whole relationship. We live in a society where pizza gets to your house before the police. We never really grow up, we only learn how to act in public. Light travels faster than sound. This is why some people appear bright until you hear them speak. If I agreed with you we'd both be wrong. War does not determine who is right - only who is left. Politicians and diapers have one thing in common. They should both be changed regularly, and for the same reason. Children: You spend the first 2 years of their life teaching them to walk and talk. Then you spend the next 16 years telling them to sit down and shut-up. My mother never saw the irony in calling me a son-of-a-bitch. The evening news is where they begin with 'Good evening', and then proceed to tell you why it isn't. And finally… Sex is not the answer. Sex is the question. "Yes" is the answer. Having sex is like playing bridge. If you don't have a good partner, you'd better have a good hand. Men have two emotions: Hungry and Horny. If you see him without an erection, make him a sandwich. If sex is a pain in the ass, then you're doing it wrong.

Walk Gently On The Earth

Consider this… each time you step out of your house, something dies.

Each time you take a stroll in your yard or a walk in the park, something is killed or crippled. With each step you take, some small creature’s day goes bad. One second he’s just bopping along minding his own business, and the next… Wham-O! King Kong wipes him out.

Multiply this millions of times over and you should get a pretty good idea of the impact mankind is having on this planet. Our home.

Now this post is not about beating you up over your wasteful ways. I am certain all of my readers are earth conscious and are aware of the situation and are doing what you can. But I do want to dwell a bit on being ever mindful of the consequences of our actions, vis a vis, the earth.

I have come to understand that at least one law of phisics is absolute truth: For every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction.

I believe this law applies to every single thing we do, and even think. It applies to every system or industry we create. But because the reaction to our action is most often invisible to us, we have no idea that it even happened, much less what the effect is and its impact on anyone or anything, near and far.

For example, if you poke your finger into a balloon, it expands in all directions, but you can’t see it. The economy is no different. A New York trader negotiates a good price on bananas and the result is, some peasant farmer doesn’t make enough money to send his kids to school and, as a result, the children only learn how to pick bananas which produces more product than demand, driving down the price even further.

This same principle applies to our everyday lives. To some degree or another, everything we do effects someone, or something else whether we are aware of it or not.

Most primitive cultures knew this well. They knew what the earth gives up for us and thus, the earth became the basis of their spirituality. They paused before slaughtering a calf to thank the earth for providing it. They paused before eating to thank the earth for its bounty.

Thanking some sky god for giving us our daily bread is not the same as getting the blood of the pig you raised on your hands. We, as a culture, have become too far removed from the earth and it is the basis of our carelessness towards the planet.

I believe every school child should be made to visit a slaughterhouse. They should learn that animals are not just food items on a shelf. I believe the respect it would generate for the earth and all of its creatures will, in the long run, save us as a species.

Illegal Aliens... of the scaly kind

Florida has long been under assault by foreign invaders, human and animal. A lot of the invaders seem native because they have been here for all my life; water hyacinths, eel grass, mallaluca, armadillos, cattle egrets… but it was about 20 years ago, in St. Augustine, that I first really noticed tropical invaders when at night, the walls of buildings would be crawling with geckos. During the day it was brown anoles.

I remember thinking that these things aren’t supposed to be this far north, they will die in winter. However, the winters aren’t cold enough to kill them anymore and now they’re in my yard, 40 miles further north. I really must say I don’t mind the geckos, they eat roaches, nor the anoles for that matter except that they are larger and more aggressive than our natives and I’m afraid they will displace the homeboys.

But as bad as it is up here in Baja Georgia, down in south Florida, down around where Punch lives, near Tampa, it’s an all-out creature explosion. Down there, you can stick you finger in the ground and it will grow leaves. Careless people, many of whom I’m sure thought they were doing the humane thing, are turning loose their unwanted pets and they’ve proliferated to the point that the place is a zoo.

Add to that Hurricane Andrew blowing the whole frigging real Miami Zoo onto the Everglades and you’ve got the makings of a melting pot that’s boiling over. Case in point are the pet snakes that people turn loose. Snakes like Boa Constrictors and Burmese Pythons. Burmese Pythons grow to 20ft and weigh as much as 400 pounds! These bastards attack and kill alligators, the here-to-fore King of the Jungle.

The situation has gotten so bad that the National Park Service has placed a bounty on them and are issuing hunting permits to people with firearms to go track them down. A few weeks ago, a pet python in Miami suffocated a toddler. If the parents hadn’t arrived when they did, they would have found the tot in the belly of the beast, literally.

I’ve always been a live and let live kind of guy, especially with mother nature. I don’t harm anything that doesn’t harm me. Not even wasps and spiders if they stay out of the beaten path. I figure everything has it’s place and a right to be. And also, I’m fascinated by them. I enjoy watching their cycle of life.

But I’m not sure how I feel about knowing I could come across something that wants me for lunch. Although, as I think about it, all kinds of things want me for lunch. Things that I battle on a daily basis; mosquitoes, yellow flies, gnats and the occasional flea. It seems to me you have a right to defend yourself so I don’t flinch at killing the blood suckers.

But, I was once confronted by something that was dying to have me for lunch, and totally capable of pulling it off.

Along with a couple of friends, I was invited backstage at the zoo to watch the lions being fed. The building was like a cellblock, cages with bars and heavy wire mesh separated by a hallway. Lions were lazing about in their cages eating or just resting and I felt perfectly safe. At the end of the building was an empty cage and the zookeeper took us all down there.

He said this should be a fun evening as they were going to feed a large male that they had just gotten from the wilds of Africa. Seems he was hurt or something and they were going to rehabilitate him. So, we were anxiously awaiting the big event when soon, the lion came in.

He didn’t hesitate. The moment he saw us, in one leap, he cleared the room and, roaring, slammed head first into the cage door. The women ran from the building screaming. I damned near wet my pants.

That lion stared at me with a coldness in his eyes that I could feel in my groin. It was primal. To that animal, I was just another item on the menu. I even tried staring him down, you know, like you can your dog. Forget it. I tried a "I love all living things" vibe. He didn't give a shit.

Other than alligators, who mostly want nothing to do with you, and a shark or two, I’ve never confronted anything in the wild more dangerous than a dog. I have a friend who went to the arctic once, got caught in a blizzard, and holed up in a metal survival building. It’s a good thing too, because no sooner had he and his companion made themselves comfortable than something outside spent most of the night trying to tear the place apart so as to get in with them.

In the morning they found the bear tracks in the snow. Just another item on the menu.

Hummm, I wonder how long it will be before Python in green curry sauce makes the menu?

A True Gentleman

For those of you who knew him, nuff said. For those of you who don’t, stick around, for Gamble Rogers was the finest folk entertainer I’ve ever had the pleasure to see, hear, and know. I bestow upon this fine man the highest honor I know to bestow on someone… he was a true gentleman. Kind, considerate, and an entertainer of the first degree.

I first saw Gamble back in the folk coffee house days of the late 50s. He was a regular at a place in St. Augustine, Florida called the Trade Winds. The place is still there, having gone from coffee house to biker bar to contemporary tourist trap.

A few years back, I was the membership barker for the local public TV and radio station. “Where else can you enjoy programming like this? Only on public television. But we need your help. Go to the phone right now and call the number on your screen.”

For several seasons I would end the weeks long fund drives with a live variety show. A party. I would set up café tables and invite friends and whoever to join us for dinner and a couple of hours of entertainment featuring local talent, who all volunteered their time for the cause. On several occasions, Gamble agreed to perform. It was always the highlight of the evening.

He created an entire community of colorful characters for his stories. Much like Garrison Keillor. They all resided in make believe Oklawaha County Florida, somewhere south of Gainesville, around Micanopy.

Sadly, Gamble was lost to us in a tragic accident in 1991 when he drowned in the ocean trying to save a tourist in trouble. It was at Washington Oaks State Park a little north of Flagler Beach. The beach side of that park is now Gamble Rogers State Park. Such was the universal admiration and esteem for the man.

I was able to come up with a couple of videos that I’m sure you will enjoy. His audio recordings are still available at Amazon and on a web site hosted by the Gamble Rogers Folk Festival. If you like these videos, you will love his albums. I highly recommend them.

Gays, Fags, Lesbos, and Queers...

…call them anything you like but they have just as much right to their rights as anyone else. Make no mistake about it, this is not a moral issue. It is a civil rights issue. As my blog friends already know, Sunday’s are the day I spend some time with my mom by taking her to church. She (we) is a charter member of this little Episcopal church near our home here in Baja Georgia. All through my youth, I would attend church with mom and for a good deal of that time, we sang together in the choir. I love music and the Episcopal hymnal is a treasure of great composers… Bach, Handel, Mendleson, Schubert, Beethoven, to name a few. If you’ve never tried it, trust me, singing a J.S. Bach counter-point bass line is a real grin. When I left home and joined the military I pretty much left my church going days behind. In spite of all kinds of conjoling and entreatments, I could not be lured back into the fold. Mostly because I recognized all of it for the BS it is, but also because of the utter and complete failure of the priesthood, in all white folk denominations, to provide moral leadership during the civil rights movement. If there was ever a clear-cut, good vs. bad choice, that was it. And they failed us. About ten years ago, when I decided to again spend time with my now elderly mother by taking her to church I again joined the choir. It was a pretty pathetic little group but we had fun, in large part due to a terrific choir director. He was a great director and really fun and funny, “It’s get, not giit. Nevar, not neverrrr.” Rednecks that we are, we tried our best. Then came the ordination of a gay bishop. It drove a rift through the Episcopal Church of America. Many congregations, my hand waving, praise the Lord brother included, left the church over the issue and became part of an African Anglican group. One night we went to choir practice as usual and everyone had just gotten seated when the priest came in and announced that Tony, our choir director, was leaving. It turns out, that a group of our church’s leading congregates, two of whom were in the choir, drafted a letter to our bishop decrying the ordination of gays and stating that homosexuality is anathema to the Christian faith. Furthermore, they read this letter in a church meeting with Tony in attendance. Now, these folks didn’t know Tony was gay, if that’s any excuse. Tony isn’t stupid, he knows how many people feel about gays and he keeps it to himself. But he didn’t know what the word anathema meant so he looked it up when he got home.

anathema;

1. a person or thing detested or loathed
2. a person or thing accursed or consigned to damnation or destruction
3. a formal ecclesiastical curse involving excommunication
4. any imprecation of divine punishment
5. a curse; execration

My mom hated what happened as much as me. But what was she to do? She's 89 years old. Everywhere in that little church are family memories. A priest’s chair given by an aunt. The Baptismal font given by another. A stool made by my father. A stained-glass window with my father’s name on it. Her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren were Baptized there.

I was really pissed and let them know it. Supported by several others, I flat out told the entire congregation what I though of their despicable behavior. I must say, that those responsible were saddened and ashamed of having hurt Tony. But it didn’t change their minds.

After a lot of thought and prayer, mom decided to stick with the church, and I stuck with my mom. I’m doing this for her, not me. I had pretty much decided that when my mom passes away, I would formally withdraw my letter of membership. Then, the other day I saw this in the paper:

THE NEW YORK TIMES

Published: August 2, 2009

Only weeks after the Episcopal Church ended a de facto moratorium on promoting gay men and lesbians into the church hierarchy, church leaders in Los Angeles nominated two openly gay priests as assistant bishops on Sunday.

The decisions are certain to rekindle the hostilities between the liberal and conservatives factions within the Episcopal Church in the United States and between the church and the Anglican Communion, the generally conservative global network of churches to which the Episcopal Church belongs.

This fight is like any other. With each small victory the line is drawn a little higher. Like the civil rights movement, this is not a fight I’m going to back down from and I hope you will join me.

The idea that people, simply because of accident of birth, can be denied the right to marry, to adopt children, to have health care, emergency room visitation, and a host of other freedoms and rights all the rest of us take for granted is anathema to a civil society.

I’ll leave you with a little story told to me by a good friend, who happens to be gay.

Two gay friends who hadn’t seen each other in several years meet on the street. They’re so excited and engage in animated conversation. One leans close to the other and says, “I got some cosmetic surgery.” The other said, “What did you do?” The first one replied, “I got circumcised.” Delighted, the other said, “Oh show me, show me. I want to see.” So the first descretely took out his wanger and showed it. The other exclaimed, “Oh my goodness! You look ten years younger.”