Monthly Archives: July 2010

You’re so smart: You tell *me* what’s happening here

     Another ‘I have sinned’. Richard Tater (R. Idaho), ex-refrigerator-magnate turned corporate spud-‘farmer’, lured into ‘Public Service’ as State representative. Lasted two terms until this story broke…and broke his ostensibly clean Mr. Potato Head® image right down the middle, plastic nose and ears being fought over as souvenirs by Boise cub-reporters.
     What is it about politics that attracts men with the moral compass of rabbits in heat? Perhaps we should actively consider going back to the court-eunuch system. A figure-head Queen; (she needn’t be ‘hot’, and a retinue of ball-less pure-of-hearts working tirelessly on the managing of public affairs. I know, they would probably form Platonic relationships to the detriment of the commonweal. So scratch ‘castrati’. Sorry, bad idea; An army of Vienna Choir-boys falsetto-izing sensitive documents.

   Anyway, this is not the Question of the Day for this entry.
The truly-gripping question is whether English vocabulary was created pretty much at random, or conversely, was subliminally guided by deep phoneme archetypes. Such that a fellow by the name of ‘Tater’ had basically no fighting chance of being  the next Strom Thurmond.
    Read the poem and decide. I’m open to the theory that, as was ‘explained’ to me ten minutes ago by a  yarmulked true-believer window-installer: ‘Everything is determined by ‘Ha-Shem’, (aka ‘G-d’ in Heaven.)
The ‘evidence’ is indisputable:
Totter (didn’t rhyme)
Tutor/ Tudor
Oh, and ‘Stutter’. (God moves in mysterious ways.)
All I done was to assemble the facts and make them rhyme. The academic conclusion is anyone’s guess.


Richard ‘Dick’  Tater’s career is in tatters       
It teeters on the knife-edge of ‘family matters’

For ‘tighter’ he fell for his own baby-sitter      
Whose story (and tits) now have Twitter™ a-titter

He thought that he’d taught her the Art of discretion
But it seems Dick’s the one who’s now learning a lesson

His wife gets the keys to their Tudor Mac-Mansion
That’s only the start, till the judge signs the sanction

Oh and Debbie’s been busy making hay, bread, and butter
Dicky pays for her tutor; oops, she’s started to stutter

Recommended Reading

Chapter One
    I’ve been seeing Dolly lately. Almost daily, down at ‘The New Deli’. She seemed to have plenty of time to dally with the customers. So a couple days ago I asked her what her job was exactly, as she spread out the crocheted tablecloth on my favorite table.
“I’m their duly-appointed doily-hander-outer.” she sighed, dully. “Used to mend socks, did a good
business you know, but folks now-a-days be jus’ throwin’ ’em away.”
Dolly looked hauntingly wistful.
“Well, topologically, a sock is just a warped doily, Dolly, and so…um..” I mumbled, wondering myself what the relevance could be, but hoping it would cheer her up. And it must’ve, ’cause she SMS-ed me that very night:
“Darn sox. XOXO/ Dolly” on my clunky 1st-generation cell-phone.
I took my time pondering how to answer. Finally:
“Yes, they never stay together in the washer. Whassup?”
“I’m done here. Last straw.” she messaged me right back.
Ok, I didn’t want to feel responsible for her decision; I mean, I hardly knew her…at the time. Last Thursday. Jeez, that seems like ages ago now that we’re ‘itemized’.
“Mebbe they’ll buy more straws?” I asked, flubbing the question-mark three times on the stupid key-pad.
“Meet me across the street Ok.” she sent back.
No question mark, so I took it as an imperative, found two socks that kinda matched ,and ran the three blocks just so I’d be impressively breathless. Girls with die-for breasts like that, unless I’m wrong.
I wasn’t. She spoke conspiratorily close to my ear:
“Some guy calls, says ‘New Deli, huh,’? you-uns serve Indian?” she half-whispered into my cochlea.
“So?” I wanted more.
“So I’m like, ‘Sure, whatever.’ but he goes ‘Is that Indian or, you know, indian Indian?‘”
“Oy. So whadya tell him?” I wanted her, if only for the incense.
“I put him on hold and walked out!” Dolly bragged, tickling my ear.
“That was like, two hours ago?” I felt a need to time-stamp the events.
“Yeah, and I bet he’s hungry.” Dolly said, this time with her tongue in my ear. I got the message.
Chapter Three:
I’ll leave out chapter two. Lots of clever banter, innuendo, the usual routine, not too much fun to read as an ‘observer’. Inspires jealousy actually. So thank me for excising it.And fast forward to our ‘falling out’.
Chapter Four: ‘Falling Out’
    Yes, sometime near the end of the ensuing four hours of horizontal calisthentics my rickety bed-frame collapsed under the strain of our relationship. We wound up laughing in a pile of mismatched socks on the carpet, a project I’d been putting off for several months.
Oh, and by that time I knew she wasn’t a Jewess, although she’d given me the distinct impression… Here in Israel that’s 18 months in the slammer. Luckily it was only after I’d turned her on her tummy for ‘Act III’ that I’d seen the tattoo. A beautifully-drawn ‘Z’ on her lower back. Aha, a Zoroastrian. Zarathustrian? Zebra? Doesn’t matter, Jews don’t get tattoos. Says so right there in Leviticus. So I knew I had something on her. Which leads into the next chapter.
Chapter Five:
“We can either ‘mend’ the bed or mend our evil ways.” I said with a tired, spent, but
richly-invested smile, whatever that means…
“The bed” she cooed without thinking twice. “First things first.”
And so we took Elmer’s glue, ‘borrowed Dr. Neuman’s wood-filler, and after an hour of intensive sweat-equity, conscripted Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream. Thieves like us. The point I was most interested in making, over ‘Chocolate Chip Madness’ was to nail down who was the ‘mender’ and who, the ‘co-mender’. I gave in easily. Commendably
“Dolly, I owe you one.” were my exact words. Hands between her legs, she smiled: ‘Tomorrow’.
But dear reader, I had not for naught introduced the root-word ‘MEND’. No, as a long-time student of women’s issues, I’d cunningly placed my ducks in a row. Ready for the following dialogue:
“So, we’ll call our venture ‘D’ and ‘Y’ Socks 4 Success’ she stated the ‘obvious’... to her.
To wit: we were now, as DNA-co-donors,  committed to a joint enterprise, a reprise of her fabled sock-darning bizness. But with a gay name? I was ready:
‘DANDY SOCKS’? Meh, sounds like ‘pantaloons’.” What, there are enough ‘feigele’s in this town to make a living off of?” I was just warming up.
“I’m in, but only if we call it “Me ‘n ‘D’ Socks” Nobody has to know that you’re the chief ‘mender’, and I’m just your boy-toy ‘co-mender’.” Hell, all the local natives want is stockings without holes, in the end. It’s simple topology. And anyway, we can guarantee our work. A free ‘Re-co-mend’ if for any reason the hole returns within three months…”
“Three months is a long time.” Dolly said, doing her best to look business-like naked. All I could think of was three months of carefully or carelessly-knitted climaxes. ‘No head for business’, they always said about me. Mea Culpa.
“Darn socks.” I chanted, as Dolly inventoried my ‘Fall collection’ on the floor. A job, I somehow never guessed, best done nekkid.

Wu: So what’s the difference between a fantasy and a reminisce?
Me: Oh, pretty much the same as the difference between a duck.
Wu: This happened?
Me: Well, her name wasn’t Dolly. So nix the part about the deli and the doilies
Wu: Among other details?
Me: Ok, mebbe, but the socks. Yes, there were socks on the floor, I recall.
Wu: Wow, what a storied life you have!

For the Poet: Choosing a Pen?

Congratulations on deciding to make the world a more interesting and even ‘understood’ place.
Long ago, poems were recited, taught mother-to-son and father-to daughter, etc. and thus preserved orally. Today we have pencils, paper, keyboards and thumb-drives, freeing Ma and Pa to work thankless jobs instead of mumbling Beowulf on the castle floor. Progress.
And speaking of work-horses, it behooves us to stay abreast of the latest in technology.  Hence, today’s topic: Penmanship. As in, Bic’s® latest ‘Pens-4-Poets Value-Pak™’, which I recently had the fortune to try out, and am dying to review. So let’s get it on.

    Open the box and right off you’re hit by the myriad of dizzying options. These are not your Quickee-Mart scribblers; no, these are ‘serious tools for serious tools’. Each one has a specific function, and they are all space-age optimised with cutting-edge technology. Let’s be specific:
The ‘Iambic’ set is a great place to start. (The ad-copy boys at Bic seem to have fallen heavily for the ‘I Am Bic’ fortuitous coincidence.) Colour-coded, they each have built in pressure-sensors which actually ‘count’ accents. The sample lines for each one, on page three of the manual, are instructive:
Iambic bimeter: “I count to two”
Iambic trimeter: “I learned to count to three”
And so forth. Oh well, here’s the rest of the set:
Iambic quadrameter: “Today I learned to count to four”
Iambic pentameter: (three(3) supplied) “Today’s the day I’ll learn to count to five.”
Iambic hexameter: “Rejoice! Today’s the day I learned to count to six.”
And so forth… And not to worry. I tried to ‘cheat’ and yes, the pen stops writing if one ‘departs’ from the meter. As long as you’re using the ‘purple pen’, for example, no more illegal lines. But wait, there’s more, of course.

And I’ll already bet, Dear Reader, that you are planning on writing me a nifty ‘Ode to Sol’ in gratitude for my deciphering the sometimes-confusing Owner’s Manual, specifically:
Here’s where the Bic-boys© at their Wells Bardo, SD equivalent of Skunk Works went wrong, in my opinion…
The ‘Tri-Plus’ pen, confusingly  colour-coded just like the ‘Trimeter’ save for an additional length-wise stripe, incorporates their “Bic-Smart” IQ-tech™  features by default. That means that with it you can only write poems extolling the Trinity, tykes-on-trikes, a ‘troika’ (with Cyrillic font-support enabled), or basically any other theme, but on condition that it must include ‘the number three’. I suppose one could get used to it though.
The book goes on to explain each one:
Quad-plus: ‘Poems about college dorms, 4-wheel drive vehicles, The Four Seasons song lyrics, etc’. Hmm.. I tried to write ‘Three square meals a day’, in a poem as a plea for support for the homeless, and it ‘acted-up’, intermittently refusing to ink the page. Oh well. They do have a ‘Report bugs’ web-site, although I haven’t as yet tried it.
Penta-Plus asesses the degree to which the user is supressing ‘pent-up’ emotions’. How they do that? Go figure. Anyway, I actually liked this pen (it’s green. For envy, rage?) It quickly forced me to rewrite:
“I think that I shall never see/ A billboard lovely as a tree” as
“WTF!! I hate fucking billboards!”
Who knows? Maybe I’m the one with the passive-aggressive problem.
Hex-plus is fairly forgiving; Verses about Magick, unfair persecution, evil ex’s. Great for Emos, dumped spouses, schizophrenics. (Refills available from the web-site.)
And so forth… Septa– allows vignettes about the Phila transit system, but also, in my tests, writes perfectly on the ‘grass being always greener over the septic system’.
Octo-plus: By now you probably get the picture. Poems about ‘octopi’, obviously, but also anything to do with eye-sight and, luckily, ‘vision’, both literal and metaphoric. A great pen, all in all.
    One would think that by now the selection would have been exhausted. ‘But ‘one would be wrong’, as I love to say. Yes, each of these pens  come in three quirky ‘flavours’, somethng like quarks. This we discover only upon lifting the tri-layered box’s packing, much like the gift-chocolate pieces you get from family and friends for Hanukhah. Yes, although the top ‘layer’ is ‘Iambic-pentameter’, for example, one can also choose from ‘Amoebic-pentameter’ or ‘Anemic-pentameter’. Here it gets ‘interesting’, to say the least:
The ‘Amoebic-‘ set ‘cuts-out’ at the very first hint of anything concrete. Don’t bother trying to describe the Moon as a roughly-spherical rocky mass of orbiting eons-old ‘space-junk. Even ‘We are stardust!’ barely prints legibly. Have fun, but don’t be specific.
And ‘Anemic-‘ is even more proscriptive; these pens, probably best given away as presents to one’s friends and/or relatives in old-folk’s homes, work only as long as the writer’s compromised self-image screams silently from his whimpering lines. (ex: “I’ll probably never see a tree/ I’m weaker weekly; woe ist me.”)

 Bottom line: At $59,95, there is truly something here for everyone. I’ve already run the Dalmation-spotted ‘Doggerel-plus®’ pen out of ink, and enjoyed every barking minute of my experiments. And if I should ever tire of that much-despised form, ‘Kat-man-du-Plus’ is there in the box, waiting for ‘Ode to a Way-ward Pussy-cat.’

Choosing a proper pen for poems is no laughing matter.
give the Boys from Bic© a try, won’t you?

It’s ‘RACECAR’ For the Win! Nat’l Reverse-Spelling Competition: 2010

And now for something completely backwards…
1) I wish I had a daughter already…
2) Ezekiel Woy fathered my grandma when he was 78. So I got 17 years at least, pursuant to family tradition.
3) And as usual, ‘write a post for the amusement of my beloveds, M/F’

“I can’t believe you crashed and burned on ‘RADAR’, Allie.” Hannah rubbed salt into her older sister’s wounds.
Aliza, (or ‘Azila’, as she’d been calling herself during the long months she practiced for the event) was in tears, even without the sibling ribbing. Just 14, and used to winning anything worth winning with her slender hands tied behind her back, she’d spent night after night lying on her back halfway off the bed, hair resplendently laid out on the carpet, and with a book opened upside-down in front of her gorgeously-intelligent dark eyes. Little Hannah’s idea, reading a book in a mirror, hadn’t borne much fruit, and I’d wearied of my pointless hours spent ‘Rotate’-ing and printing out scans of word-lists in MS-Paint©.
   But hours before the televised finals, Aliza declared herself ‘YDAER’. Yes, ‘ready’ to take on all comers, and walk away with the crown. (She even planned to victory-lap off-stage backwards, the little sweetheart.)
And indeed it did appear she was in top form, starting with the (provably anti-semitic) Judges’ throwing ‘Dnepropetrovsk’ at her in the very first round. A small fist in the air, she proudly and confidently declaimed ‘KSVORTEPORPNED’, and gave the head ‘judgette’ a ‘looks-could-kill’ sidelong glance, luckily caught live on Camera 3.
    Four hours of knuckle-biting later, it was down to a sudden-death head-to-head tete-a-tete with the only other surviving candidate, a coke-bottle-glasses poster-boy nerd from some Princeton, NJ private school.  Most-likely a profound dyslexic, he repeatedly exercised his option of having the word, (and by now, ‘sentence‘, as per the Olympic rules) enunciated twice. The Aryan-pride Judges, moved by equal measures of pity and banal evil, made sure to throw him softballs. Like my own(!) sentence, ‘harvested’ from the bowels of the internet: “NOT WE, NOT WE, NEGRO ‘G’, DIRT UP ANI’S EVIL BUT TANGY GNAT-TUB; LIVES IN A PUTRID GORGE, NEW TO NEWTON”
The crowd gave him a full two minutes of applause for his duh-correct ‘backwards’ spelling, as I died inside for having ever posted it.
‘Aliza, my Aliza, dear fruit of my loins, vanquish this Beast.’ I caught myself mantra-ing as she stepped up to the mike for her turn.
‘Radar’ was all the Guest-Gestapo Judge grunted.
Aliza looked suddenly white, wan, and conflicted. The cheap clock on the wall registered only 5 seconds left when she began:
“Um…final-‘R’, ‘A’, middle-‘D’, ‘A’, leading-‘R'” she announced, obviously in a turmoil. The buzzer blew its awful buzz. Wrong?! By whose rules?
No time for pedantry here in Munich; ‘Herman’ took his place at the mike and effortlessly, without a trace of conscience, spelled “RACECAR” as the orchestra started their engines, the bouquet of roses for the winner was handed to the colourless ‘victor’, and Aliza, left with not much to do on-stage but look uncomfortable, ran back to where Hannah and I were sitting. We left by the rear exit before the song ended.
Only 14, and already scarred by Philistines, by the brute ‘just following orders’ crowd, the crass glossing-over of the paradoxical, as if ‘RADAR’ reversed is just ‘RADAR’, whatevs. I have never hugged her so long, or so huggingly. She seemed to brighten up a few miliwatts.
“There’s always ‘WORROMOT”, she sniffled, as we drove home in the Honda Civic.

‘Goal-posts’ The new Xanga Policy?

     Not sure if everyone got the e-mail notification on this. It’s bound to be controversial, so let me be the first to register an opinion (after conforming to the new rules), which require, and I quote:
“A brief statement of one’s Goals in writing the Post; be succinct but honest. As a serious blogging-platform, we must insist that our limited server-base be utilized by writers with identifiable and achievable aims.
Alternately, you may simply check one or several of the suggestions at the bottom of the new Edit/Compose page. Be aware though, that fraudulent statements will de-activate your account. ‘A Public Service’, for example, does not accurately describe two pages of illiterate, vulgar, and un-grammatical trashing of a fellow blogger. Your text will be read by our Xanga-bots, and in many cases, by one of our team of human readers, hired and trained just recently to distinguish sound fruit from toxic waste. Good Luck, and a more pleasant blogging experience. The Xanga Team

Ok, my goals here are:
1) to present a short ‘spoof’ poem, as a preface to serious speculation on possible advances in the virtual-‘playmate’ field
2) To briefly entertain my readers, none of whom likely have a more-than-academic interest in the subject
3) To enable myself to make sense of an amusing(?) incident from the past, thereby laminating it for posterity
4) To get onto the Front Page, so I can feel I am somebody, just like Steve Martin in ‘The Jerk’.
5) Oops, strike #4

Body of Post:
Bread and Puppet Industries, the parent company best known for its gaudy-but-tawdry ‘Sluts R Us’ mall-outlets, sent me this come-on advertisement. I have serious philosophical difference with the conglomerate, into which I shall wade following the poem they included: 

A Barby’s a dollar
She comes with a collar
You can pumper- all night for a -nickle
We got ‘white bread’ and ‘rye’.
They’re both worth a try
And a pita that’ll swallow your pickle

Pre-programmed with COY and COQUETTE
And you’ll need never ‘marry-an-ette’
She drinks from a saucer
Finished? Just toss her
For the money, they’re the best you can get

I suspect that within ten years or so, virtual lifelike ‘companions’ will be as cheap and available as hotel matches. List me as ‘fer-it’. Not, god forbid as a buyer, but as a beneficiary of the trend, which may take a sizable percentage of the superficial male population ‘off the market’. Women desiring a bond which includes their thoughts, emotions, quirks, and wisdom will specify ‘No Pets’, and yeah, that’ll be moi.

True Story:
Decades ago, back when the Blow-up-Doll was still in its infancy, I worked with a charming fellow named Groobie from Lititz. We were busily applying rough-sawn poplar siding to the interior an ‘Adult’ (sic) store. You know, a rustic background for their paraphenalia displays. And it seemed like every ten minutes we had to move the damned ‘balloon-with holes’ girl out of the way in order to work. One day at quitting time we’d had enough:
“Tomorrow. The basement. Polypropylene Pam gets it!” Groobie declared.
“I’m in, but who goes first?” I asked, thereby agreeing in principle to Groobie’s rough-justice plan. Yet that small detail needed to be clarified; neither of us had any experience, or desire, to slurp in another’s slurp.
“We’ll have to clean her up good anyway,” Groobie to the rescue,“…so big deal. Of course, you could always just lay her on her tummy?”
I felt like he was, as Father of the Idea, laying down the protocol.
“She goes that way?” I asked, naively.
“Of course.” he looked at me paternally.
“Hey, I’m no pervert!” I protested, but then we both laughed, and shook hands on the deal.
“See ya at 9:00”, Groobie, getting into his pickup.

She was gone by 8:00 AM. Some lascivious, demented, socially-crippled, defective husk-of-a-human had come in and bought her for $29.95.
We both tried to act non-chalant and un-possessive when Susie, the girl on the counter told us. Maybe she knew though. Women know stuff. And only a co-incidence that Susie forced me, that very night, to help her ‘try out her new muscle-relaxers’. They worked nicely. And no messy clean-up.
I feel I’ve accomplished my goals here.

First Step: Admit you have a Problem

Aaron brought his Aardvarck to the AA meeting last night. Finally admitted he ”had a problem‘. Finding enough ants. But that’s the least of his worries now that he’s out of work. Lost his job at AAA after they caught him selling crooked license plates under-the-counter, on-the-side. And behind the back of Max, who’d wanted that racket to be his alone.
    It really gets my goat though, that Aaron waited till the cat was out of the bag before taking the bull by the horns… but I’m way ahead of my story…
   Bjorn didn’t make it. Caught pnemonia on vacation rafting down the Dneiper River. They called a doctor but he didn’t answer. So yeah, Bjorn didn’t make it.
    And sad, cause Thursday was our ‘Special Night‘; my pet project, actually.
Come with an animal!“, We added to the direction signs. Had to take some of ’em down though. The signs. They led to the wrong conclusion.
Yes, ‘it was a dark and beastial night.’
Even before Lloyd showed up with the llama, which was interesting. I never saw such a boring llama in all my life. Well, the part I’ve seen of it. My life, I mean. Damn llama couldn’t even spit for us, not even once. Lloyd thinks he’s such a big shit and all. High up in L.L. Bean or somewhere.
   I was kind-of a hit with my zy-goat, though. Guess I have to call it by the commercial name Zy-Gote™, it’s a fully-virtual and uncanny valley-goat. So lifelike it’s sickening. Even poops.
Of course Lloyd questioned its legitimacy:
“Does that count?” he challenged me (us?).
“Sure, backwards and forwards, plus square roots and a log table.” I’d read the manual by hand. For six hundred bucks, you wanna know what’s in the Menu.
Anyway, the Zygote, available from E-toyz, Inc, plays the xylophone, quite well too. I set him up in the back, beside the coffee and donuts. “Llewelyn” was the default name the company suggested I call him. All well and good, I guess, although Xavier was my first choice.
You miss AAA?” I asked Aaron, working on my fourth step.
“Maybe, a little.” he confided. “It’s tough you know, but like we say: ‘One A at a time’
I gave him a hug…and a bottle of ants I’d brought along, even though, in the larger sense, ‘Ants are not the answer.’
We both know that.
All in all a successful meeting.

Wu: So what’s your problem?
Me: Somebody said I had a problem? This is just fiction.
Wu: That’s not how it works, guy. Something’s bothering you. You know, like Melville’s Mom beating him as a child with a plastic toy whale…
Me: Ok, I confess; guys who can’t trust the first letter of their own names ddrive me up the wwall. Happy?
Wwu: Thank you for sharing that.

Blogger to Logger to Ogre: A Ballad of Successive Loss

     Actually it’s a limerick-cum-ballad-cum-doggerel, but if I call it that in the title I’ll have too many Top-Blog slut-hits to count ’em all.
   This is a morality-play on a fellow who suffers having his first letter repeatedly chopped off. But you knew that, Clever Reader.

Our Hero, he called himself ‘Blogger’
(Which rhymes, not with ‘wager’  but ‘lager’ )
Now I’ll bet you a beer,
You’ll be glad you came here
To hear his remarkable saga(r)

He enrolled in community college
To further his putative knowlege
‘Be Blessed!’ in red ink,
the Prof scrawled, with a link
to a web-site with JPEG’s of ‘foilage’.

A year, which can seem like a moment…
Spent our Hero in parsing that comment:
Aha! it’s ‘Be ‘B’-less. -ed’
‘Logger’, I’ll be in-stead
Xanga of late makes me vomit.

So off to the forest he ventured
serving Nature, although non-‘indentured’
He felled the tall trees
Fighting mad seas of bees
But at least was not graded nor censured.

“I was hot with them Ballads.” he boasted
But it’s ‘All-ads’ now; the-site where I hosted
Guess things could be worse:
He’s  ‘A lad with a purse’?
Anyway; think my muse’s exhausted.

With an axe prolly made by a Tzarist
He chopped at King-Oak-of-the Forest
When it started to fall
It was anyone’s call
‘Can the tree or Our Hero run far-est?’

Well the ground was all rutted and muddy
‘Get the ‘L outa there!’ yelled his buddy
But a branch struck his crown
As the acorns rained down
He awoke feeling seri-ous-ly nutty

One glance in the pickup-truck mirror
And he knew that The End had come nearer
Neither Blogger nor Logger
‘I been ‘aug-ed’ with an auger?’
I’m an Ogre now; what could be queer-er?

And the Moral:

You can start-up your Page in the Black
But if  Creative and Sparkness you Lack
You will first lose your ‘B’
Then the ‘L’; sad to see a guy
Die without even an Ack

There once was a Blogger so Bland
They exiled him to some foreign Land
Where Page-views were banned
So he sat in the sand
And his only conjunction was ‘And’

This song has a point; (just don’t Blink)
I could time-stamp and furnish a Link
But the process is draining
see ya when it stops raining
Plus it looks like I’m all out of Ink

Shit happens, guys, even to Blake
Walden dealt with that, down by the Lake
But do watch yer ass
Them’re man-eating bass
You may wind up a-head, but with ‘-ache’

Wu: You’ll be back shortly with an audio version?
Me: How’d ya know?

It all hangs together, trust me

Xanga is useful for making some readable sense of one’s Life, in all its disparate facets.
    (And you thought, lately, sadly, but with good evidence, that our blog-platform was mainly a means for a couple hundred no-talents to demonstrate their infantility. This be true also, but ultimately it’s less than beside the point. I pray daily for some leadership from Xanga-Central, for them to exercise a bit of editorial guidance and to quit encouraging vulgar and derivative schlock. Hmm…

At any rate we have four subjects here:
1) Butterflies are free
2) Tomatos seeking vibrators
3) Soldiers being decorated
and 4) Travel advisory for yours truly
Photos appear after the text

1) Troubled by seeing only a few of my tomatos ‘setting’ fruit, I checked Wiki, without which life is not worth living. Specifically, ‘pollination’. Turns out the dear souls need ‘shaking’, to transfer the pollen from their throbbing male members to their heavenly tunnels of love. I didn’t know that. Bumblebees are the best at it, grasping the flowers and vibrating at a specific frequency, as if God Himself had briefed them on the challenge.
Here in Israel we manage to kill almost every living inedible creature with internationally-banned Methylene bromide. I haven’t seen a bumblebee in a coon’s age. Enter my Spam Folder: Vibrators are available for tomato-growers with a vega-phile  fetish.
I’ll probably pass on the purchase, and attempt to polinate them by hand, being kinda vibratory if I may say so, and with a track-record of pollination a bee can dream about. Wish me luck.

2) My Tiger Swallowtail mob, on the other hand, seems to be doing fine without sex-themed intervention. I’ve given 13 so far an early-morning push skyward. At my calculated infant-mortality/attrition rate, (un-assisted by protective netting), of 90%, that is the equal of 117 caterpillars who’d dreamed of metamorphing into yellow flying-machines only to wake up dead inside the belly of a stupid crow.

3) Speaking of defensive measures, my terribly-swift sword of a son is now fully operational; a marksman armed with munitions of all appropriate calibres. Ready around the clock to rain awful retribution on any fool unwise enough to doubt our resolve. Photo is from yesterday’s ‘gradution’.

4) And further Re: the sworn-enemies of the entire civilized world, not just Israelis, I received an advisory a day ago, warning me, as either ‘a high-profile businessman’ or ‘an ex-government agent’ (I won’t be specific) to avoid ‘tempting business or social offers’, to vary my daily schedule to and from the 5-star hotel, and to be aware of the increased likelihood of Islamic revenge attacks on us Mosaic infidels.
The US State Department seemed to relax a bit when I informed them that I have yet to walk from down-town Conestoga, PA to the Dew-drop Inn and back by the same route. Now to explain that I pollinate folks’ tomatos at 2 AM, having failed to find a butterfly in heat, and that in any unforseen event, my son can cover my inter-continental ass with his spiffy new radar-guided weapons.
See, I promised, It all hangs together.


The Fourth with Joey and Lana

“Go Lana!” Joey yelled at the top of his silly little lungs from our seats way up in the blue-lip seats.
    Joey’s Mom’ll never get it. A wadded-up five-dollar-bill and her maybe-once-coquettish look don’t buy much these days; certainly  not front-row-reserved  for yesterday’s Women’s World wrestling in the Bucky-dome.
“Take Joey along. He enjoys it so much.” she always tries the same mantra, as if it’s my problem what her kid enjoys and how much. The pudgy little guy, perhaps best described quietly and charitably as ‘backward’; he’d probably reap the thrill of his life rolling down a grassy knoll. Into the Grand Canyon? Don’t give me any ideas…
“Howdya know she’s Lana?” I asked the 13-year old, who’d been paying less attention to the scoreboard than to the Catholic school girls sitting beside him.
“Easy, she’s so ‘analog’, duh!” He had the nerve to look at me like I was dense.
“Um.. as opposed to…?” I asked the little guy, not sure if I was testing him or advancing my education.
“As opposed to your opposably digital thumb.” Joey made a little circle with his thumb and index finger, just in case I didn’t get it.
“Get it? ANALOG, GO LANA” he added, doubting my senile acumen.
Uh-oh. Now I was sure he was ‘backward’. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.
“Ok, but what do you people mean by ‘analog‘?”, my next question, over the crowd-noise. Lana was seriously  making mince-pie out of her luck-less opponent. Joey flashed on the ‘your people’, I guess, and explained, in a perfectly-faux Mexican accent:
“It’sa mean, to ou-r peoples, that when Lana pinch your banana, you feel somthing deep down en
la corazon.”
And with that he gave the sixth-grader sitting next to him a little hair-tousle. To which the poor child responded by quickly exchanging seats with her girl-friend, whose mustache had already shown signs of promise.
“That was a little forward of you, no?” I scolded.
“Yeah, must be the thin air up here.” Joey apologized.
Um, apology not entirely accepted. See, Oxygen to the brain, or lack of it, strikes different folks with different strokes. I was deep-breathing to keep the tunnel-vision within limits, but Joey? I’d assumed his brain could get along nicely on a couple random molecules a day.
    Lana was finishing off her victim, at least that’s how it looked from 35,000 feet. Had her on the ropes, draped over them actually, and was doing something vulgar if not technically illegal to the poor challenger, whose blue trunks were now almost at her knees.
“Oy, that’s ‘anal’, goddamn!” Joey pretended to cover his eyes.
“Lana always does this.” Joey with his play-by-play. “She’s the Princess of Analogy.”
“Is not!” I begged to differ.
“Is so!” Joey claimed to know better than I.
“Nope. ‘Analogy’ is a like, total misnomer. Word you’re looking for is ‘Anus-ology’ I went to college, Joseph.”
Joey looked at me with a pity beyond his 13 claimed years.
“Couple years in Boston studying ‘Analytic’ hoo-hah. The mathematically-ideal spherical Lana. None of us retards give a rat’s butt about your ‘City-Lana’ And with that he spat backwards over his shoulder, luckily dribbling down the crude concrete wall behind us. Whew. No un-foreseen laundry bills for the Sisters of Blessed Presumption.

    The judges were holding up Lana’s arm in victory. I looked at my watch. Any luck and I could get this enfant terrible back to his Mom before the fireworks in Fuller Park.
“Banal, you should check it out.” Joey  thoughtfully tipped me off as I reached over to open the passenger door. His Mom was already waiting to hear ‘how things went’.
“Sounds evil, but it’s the next big thing, trust me.” Joey, continuing. “Search it on YouTube, Johnny. ‘B-A-N-..”
“I know how to spell.” I thanked my little teacher, hoping I was telling the truth. Hmm.. ‘LANA-B’. Oh no, a sequel!