Clean Up On Aisle Three, Cut Price Salvation, and Thar' Blows Joe (Reprise)

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With A Rebel Yell, Evening Falls (So Hard), And Major Ali Explains Things

Doing a day shift at the Tee Vee machine the other day I rode the 3:50pm train home from Union Station. The conductor is a guy named Frank, and his speciality is his boarding call at each station. Most conductors these days just use their radio walkie talkie to tell the choo choo driver it's ok to go, but Frank is serious old school. At each stop he leans out the door and gives a long loud ' alllaboooooooooooooooard....." fol owed by the most blood chilling 100% aged in the south ' yeeeeeeee hawwwwwwwww!' you ever did hear in your cotton picking life. I've ridden this train with Frank dozens of times, and until now never really considered how a black person might react to all the yee-hawing. Franks is a huge bear of a man, and I have no earthly idea if he has ever had a racist thought. Still.. given the history of race relations in this country, and given the fact that this train runs right past Antietam on it's way up to Martins burg .. I wonder. Of course if some of our Republican friends ran the railroad I suspect that all the conductors would be Johhny Reb yelling (and wearing pointy hoods).

In my nightstand I keep a report I received years ago from the adoption agency that placed me when I was very young The report reads like a blacked out highly redacted CIA document, but gives the only background information I have ever had about my birth parents. Every now and then I'm drawn to open the drawer and re-read the section about my birth mother. She is described as working as an usherette at the time of my birth, and being a 'sullen somewhat sad person'. The document offers no real clues as to her identity, and I've never tried to find her or my father. I doubt if they are alive still, but sometimes, when the evening falls just so, and the night is made of velvet ... sometimes I wonder about her. Was it as hard as I imagine to give up a child? Or did she steel herself, not let herself feel it.. never looking back? Was she pretty? What did her laugh sound like..or did she not have much reason for laughing. Sometimes, when the evening falls so hard....I take these coffee stained papers... and read them again.... Always before the morning, I fold them and place them carefully back in the drawer.


Last week my great CERT volunteers and I had a chance to participate in some cool training with a combination of Fire Rescue, Military, and Federal Secret Squirrel types for two days in Virginia. The military folks were absolutely wonderful to work with: patient, kind, funny, and competent as hell.I had the pleasure of working with combat vet named Major Ali, who swapped stories with me about stupid media types we have known. He told me a bout a dumb shit reporter who asked the Major how a battle was going one day in Sadar City as bullets whizzed over their heads pinning down our guys. Being a decent sort the Major just laughed at him and said: " What do you think Sparky?". I would have said: " I dunno, how's about you pop yer head up and take a look see...." I'm glad we have men like Major Ali serving our country, and it's probably a good thing I'm not the media liaison for anything. One time at a fire I was standing with my EMS crew watching flames shoot 50 feet into the air from the roof of an unoccupied townhouse, while our wagon and truck boys and girls worked to get a knock on the fire. A civilian tapped me on the shoulder and asked: "You guys got it under control yet...?" Stupid is as stupid does whether in Baghdad or Rockville I suppose.

The World Is Full Of Gods

Everything is made of water, and the world is full of Gods

Born in tears we vanish in smoke

The scientists say there's a ribbon of light half way to the stars

(they can make us remember things that never were)

We are all made of the same stuff, we begin and end in the same place

Heads full of vague memories

of Gods and ribbons

The scientists say that music is mathematics

the world is held together by notes, and strings, and harmonies

The lovers remember the melody

The children recall the rhythm

The dogs and dreamers remember the world as it was

as it really is

full of Gods slowly drowning.

Robert De Niro's Waiting ( Talking Italian), None Dare Call It Treason ( But I Will)

Okay ..here's what I think the 'O' man needs in this so called heatlh care 'debate': a bit more of the stick and a lot less of the carrot. This is what I would like to see:

As Senator Max Bacus makes his way to the door of the hearing room, he is intercepted by a smiling Don Rickles: " Excuse me Senator..can I just have a word with you.. on behalf of big pharma we'd just like to let you count your cash in private.. you know what I mean .. right this way". As Rickles guides Bacus through the double doors to the service corridor we see President Obama waiting with a hammer in his hand... " What's it gonna be Senator? The Public Option or the hammer?"

Speaking of dropping the hammer... the inter webs are a-buzz about the NewsMax editorial calling for ( or was it predicting) a military coup in this country against President Obama. Well Sparky..from where I sit, that there is treason pure and simple.... I didn't vote for Geo W Bush..( or his daddy, or Reagan , or Nixon..etc) but I didn't call for a coup. ( I suspect Dubbya would assume that a coup is a two seat sports car as in little deuce...). On a similar note, let me make one thing very clear: Glen Beck is just a top 40 Morning Zoo jock run amok who is in it for the money. They all are. None of those guys, Beck, Hannity, Limbaugh.. really believes most of the shit they say. Let put it another way: they mean what they say in the same way I meant it when I used to say that Pink Floyd was my favorite band. Yeah right... we are all just Ho's for the money... the only difference being that I never incited violence, racial hatred, or preached treason... (of course if I had maybe I'd be rich and on Tee Vee right now). I used to think I didn't have TV looks.. after all TV guys are just DJ's with better hair.. but after taking a look at the Glenster... well hell this guy has the wild eyed look of a chronic masturbator and Iborgaine addict.... It seems that the rant is all that counts these days. I actually watched about 10 minutes of Herr Beckenfurher the other night. He was railing on about Communism, socialism, and social justice.... and I thought: "Errr? social justice?? He's against it??" Well yes indeedy fuckie do my little snow fakes... in the Alice in Wunderland bizzaro universe of these jack booted jerk offs... up is down, black is white, and social justice is bad, bad, bad. The whirring sound you hear is Thomas Aquinas in his grave on spin dry. What the fuck is wrong with these people? Say what you will about Tail Gunner Joe, or Father Charlie... one was a drunk, and one a power mad true believer..... neither of them got into 'the biz' just for cheap blow jobs and free concert tickets. Hey Glen... come over here for a second... Don Rickles wants to see you..........

Big Daddy Boom Boom and The Children Of Light ( With Footnotes)

There is a fireworks store down the road from our condo in Myrtle Beach called "Big Daddy Boom Boom". I think that would make a great name for a swing band, and is the name I use for the old school God of the Yah-boobs. First a bit of background on our beloved home away from home in South Carolina. My wife and I were there for Christmas, and I noted that the only things open for business on Christmas day were: Pancake Joints, The Sex Toy & DVD shop, and Ammunition stores. I don't know about you friend, but nothing helps me celebrate our dear saviors birth like trying out a brand new pocket pussy while watching 'Super Shiny Butts Volume 12", eating a double stack with blueberry syrup, and firing my AK-47 at all the 'good parts' of the movie. Hoo wee buddy... hell yes... Bam Bam ! "Honey pass me some more lube and another pancake please..."(*) (**).

Anyway. here is my point: we live in country where at least a third of the people think we should base our common destiny on the 'information' they 'receive' from their imaginary invisible friend who seems to spend most of his time making lists and checking them twice. Years ago I read a book called "Your God Is Too Small" which talked about how most people have a childish conception of the divine that varies between a cosmic Santa ( he sees you when you're sleeping so get your hand out of your jammies!) and a Big Daddy Boom Boom who gets his rocks off smiting people. To believe in a 'God" who would punish folks who won't say the 'right' magic words, or get squiggly in the 'right' Jesus panties(***), or wear the 'right' special hat while facing in the 'right' direction..... to believe in such a 'God" is to reduce the almighty to the level of a cosmic Eichman: forever busy figuring train schedules for the damned. Any theology that says: "I'm in and you're out" by definition makes a Nazi out of the divine. A Big Daddy who spends eternity making people go 'boom' just because they fell in love with the wrong person(****), or had the poor taste not to be born in America.... isn't worthy of belief, let alone worship, or serving as the basis for a public agenda. The sad reality is that millions of Americans are in thrall to this ersatz version of 'Christianity' , are somehow convinced that God only speaks to Republicans.

It's easy enough to take shots at other peoples beliefs, so perhaps the time has come to put my money down and make my confession, Here is my credo:

I believe in a God who loves like a good father, who makes all that is seen and unseen.. the mother holding her sick child, the old man dying alone, the lonely and forgotten, all unseen, all dressed in 'rags of light', all his children gathered from east to west and age to age ... offering song in the morning, and blood on a Memphis balcony at evening time... I believe in a poor mans son who brings justice to workers, and eyesight to the blind. I believe in bread and wine like Melchizedek did, I believe in friends for the long road. and mercy in the small hours of the night...I believe in a Lord who is our brother and meets us in the cool of the garden at dawn.

And I believe that it will be a cold day at the beach when Jimmy Dobson, or any of those oily white boy George Wallace wanna-be's understand a word of the preceding paragraph. Perhaps one day they will, and then we can all go down to the river with sparklers and fireworks to sing a chorus of Boom Boom Hallelujah. I'm not holding my breath waiting for that day. Now if you'll excuse me.. I'm getting low on ammo and pancakes.

(*) Boom Boom: Why do all these porno movies have multiple volumes, i.e. " Big Swedish Titties Volume 16" Are there that many plot lines to explore? Does anybody ever say: " Yeah volumes 1-15 were crap, but Holy Jumpin' Jizz Rag Batman. volume 16 is the bomb!"

(**) Bang Bang: I used to hang out with a jeweler named Bobby who liked to lay around his big old house outside Detroit and snort smack while shooting a 357 into the ceiling. Take away lesson: never live upstairs from a junkie jeweler who packs heat.

(***) Wham Bam: Some Mormons wear 'special garments' as underwear, colloquially referred to as "Jesus Jamies". When I was in Salt Lake I heard the story of how some of the 'upstanding' men of the Church would wear their garments to certain types of 'entertainment venues', resulting in 'special stains".

(***) Poof!Poof!

Explaining September

They say we fall in love with the season of our birth

Maybe that explains September

Or maybe it’s something about the light, or the tress in the lane

Maybe it's about the slow release of summer... a dying kiss...a whisper

Perhaps September is about a vision of winter

Waiting over the horizon.... far off like a distant range... blue and shimmering in the long haze

Maybe September explains me, my distances, my sadness, my beautiful aches

Or maybe September is just for the tasting, the embrace, the memories,

Maybe just for the joy.

Longer Boats, Blue Jag Jag Off, and Knights in White Satin

I spent last weekend once again in the belly of the beast at my condo in South Carolina . We had a great weekend, perfect weather, empty beaches, and I was starting to think I wouldn't have anything to write about even though we were once again in the heart of Jesusland. Oh me of little faith; lo and behold on the last night of our stay we came home from dinner to find a 130 foot super luxury yacht moored at the fuel dock in our marina. Holy nautical overkill Batman! This thing was fucking huge, and incredibly beautiful. My best guess is that some scumbag banker made enough from our tax bailout to drop a cool 20 million or so on this bad boy. I noticed the ship was registered in Bikini Marshall Islands, which is an off shore flag of convenience registry for a boat built in Florida. It is also worth noting that the Bikini Atoll is where we ( or was it the French ) used to test H- Bombs. Maybe it would be fitting if we made these rich pricks actually live there for a year before they could register their super duper-look at the size of my dick- floating fuck pads there. I figure after about a year in the hot zone their balls will glow in the dark enough to help them find their way to the 'poop deck' during those dark nights at sea.

As my neighbors and I stood on the dock and admired this beautiful yacht, we were suddenly joined by a good 'ole boy in a blue Jag XK, who zoomed up and strode over to us. He loudly informed us that this gigantic personal cruise ship in front of us wasn't big enough for his tastes, he was looking for a 140 footer: and by the way he owns a fuel company, a port in Charleston, and a P-51 airplane One could only surmise he was also the proud owner of a tiny, tiny penis.The 'gent' in question then explained how he doesn't pay a "48 percent Obama tax". keeps his money offshore in the Virgin Islands, hates blacks and women drivers, and thinks we are all chumps, He snorted, said we could all kiss his ass,climbed back in his Jag and left. I turned to my friends and said: "I think we just met Joe Wilson's chief fundraiser...".

This man was full of hate, rage, and my guess would be plenty of 12 year old single malt. I felt that I was standing inches away from the angry red white and blue eyed face of the Republican Party circa 2009. Put a sheet on this rich twats head and you got yourself a Grand Cyclops..... except I believe that gig is already taken by a certain J. Wilson of Colombia S.C. Oh well, I suppose one could always start a chapter overseas... say somewhere in the Marshall Islands....... I'm sure there are plenty of extra sheets on board the yacht.