(Note: The first part of the introduction to this series of posts is located here. Maybe with the next installment, the actual series will begin. Or maybe the whole thing will be all “Introduction.”—STDPM) In 1989, Mike Gunderloy, about whom I’ll have more to say…
I don’t remember whose grandmother it was I went with Graydon to help fix a leaky tap. It might have been his or Wanda’s but that’s not important. That she was the last white woman living in her Ninth Ward neighborhood somewhere far up St….
Below are headlines and subheads of several nineteenth-century wire stories that appeared in the local press of a small Midwestern city.
Oh, for the days when educated people referred to the mentally ill as “lunatics!” Or, better yet, when unfettered Gilded Age capitalism dismissed the need for beefed-up building codes to protect society’s most vulnerable! The latter point is enough to make the most antediluvian Tea Partier or misguided Paulian libertarian pine for the return of an imagined sepia-toned past of American greatness when our nation was unshackled by the burdens of intrusive government regulations.
Of course, all of this clown ass-ery nonsense brings to mind a quotation from American journalist Franklin Pierce Adams (1881-1960): “Nothing is more responsible for the good old days than a bad memory.”
I hate graffiti. I don’t see the art in it. At it’s best it’s a cliche urban fake ghetto expression. Mostly it’s just selfish, juvenile and costly. OK, I’ll admit that some bathroom graffiti amuses me, because let’s face it, a cartoon penis is always funny….
Bob Johnson has been getting treats all day. Varmints are inside due to a wintry blast of rain and snow.
They are bugging the crap out of me.
I’m throwing treats at the problem. That’s what’s going on. I have to write about what’s going on, you know.
It’s a tremendous responsibility, and rowdy critters do not help. (But let’s not forget there’s a big prize package at the end of the rainbow. We’ll all be driving new pickups before it’s over.)
Anyway, Bob Johnson is shocked he doesn’t get a treat every five minutes. I tried to explain to him even I don’t get a treat every five minutes.
Last summer, while the rest of the country was celebrating Independence Day, waving flags and shooting off fireworks, I decided to do something terribly unpatriotic: I dug out a picture of my Great Grandparents, Sicilian immigrants, who came to this country around a century ago,…
You lie in the tub reading the new book of poems and think: there is no ink black enough for this man’s words. This is not the tonic you require but you read on with the compulsive satisfaction of a cigarette, trading time for the the pleasurable release of smoke. You glance at the medicine cabinet and try to remember when the half becomes the whole, the moon white promised antidote to enveloping darkness. You lay the bleak but beautiful book aside and sink into the amniotic warmth, listen to the random minor notes of the solar lantern wind chime, a perhaps unwise impulse purchase of a man on the cusp of unemployment but the tones are soothing, the intermittence dissolving time in a minor key.
I had an idea for a piece about rubber bullets, but the topic seemed problematic after I thought about it for a while, and who needs more problems?
Not me. I’m just going to Spotify the crap out of some tunes and pretend the 21st century hasn’t turned into a gigantic creepshow.
I’d like to thank the four people who read and commented on last week’s installment of Sworn to Fun: The John Hicks Story. Soon to be a major eBook or whatever they’re called.
Okay, fine, it’s not fair to bring up rubber bullets and leave you hanging. Here’s what I was thinking: If someone shoots rubber bullets at you, you should be able to shoot rubber bullets back at them. And since rubber bullets do injure people, let’s make it paintballs. But everybody on both sides gets a paintball gun and the same amount of ammo.
Join the Fair Play for America Committee. Demand a level playing field. Nobody likes a blowout. Write your Congressperson today.
With all the trouble going on these days with housing mortgages, protesters on Wall Street, and fat cat bankers, it’s no wonder that people are worrying about the future. Maybe we’ve lost sight of the basics? Did people really need houses with 4000 square feet,…
Coco Robicheaux passed away Friday evening. Much has been written about the man, his music, his artistry, his character and his seemingly mythical background. Much more will be written. Many of us spent yesterday between tears and laughter, blaring his music through our homes to let him know we’re here thinking about him. I double checked my files to be sure that I hadn’t lost the 40 minute live set I recorded on my phone at Mimi’s a couple months ago. I regretted never having given him the eagle feather I had told him I’d bring when I saw him next. I remembered that the ancients believed there is a four day window between the time the soul leaves the body and its transition to the higher realms. I’ll have to light a candle for him today so he sees it along the way.
sometimes I want to flee
the concrete land they made for me
through the weed grown ditch
the overgrown ravine
into a jungle
with mountains on the other side
where men with no uniforms
want to kill me with sticks and stones