Bob Bob Bobbing Along

Chapter I: Oh, I'm a riot!

There are two kinds of people in this world. Those I care about and those I don’t. O.K. … maybe three kinds. Those I have an emotional stake in – relatives, for example – those I care about and those I don’t. Maybe even four kinds. Those I have an emotional stake in, those I care about, those I don’t, and those I loathe or mildly dislike.

There are four kinds of people in this world. I don’t remember where I was going with that, but it’s true.

In my own circle of friends, some of whom I’ve known for 30 years, I’ve been “The Funny One.” I’m cynical, acerbic, yet passive-aggressive in my assessment of my peers. I’m the one who sits in the back with equally cynical friends and makes sarcastic comments about people I don’t care about. I’m the one they trot out at the parties to yuk it up. Like a monkey on a leash.

I remember one time I went down to Florida with a girlfriend to “meet the family.” And her friends. Oh! Her friends!

I guess the friends had already heard of me from somebody we knew in common. So, we’re chillin’ in their place and the lady says, “I hear you’re funny. Say something funny.”

Now, that will bring you up short right there. But the way she was sitting caused her hippie, New-Age caftan to ride up and I’m looking right at her cooter, pardon the expression. Sure, I could say something funny. But she wouldn’t like it.

In retrospect, I probably didn’t pass muster with the Florida friends.


Chapter II: I’m Cool

Oh, yes I am!

Thank God my family was tolerant! The grownups had no frame of reference for my peculiarities, but they jumped right in there and played along. Once he became a single parent, my father – the guy with the math degree – sewed the Star Trek emblems on my shirts, bless his heart. Try wearing a Star Trek outfit to school every day in the sixth grade and see how many people think you’re “cool.” It’s a number somewhere close to zero, I can tell you that.

He painted one of the walls in my room black so it would look like I had a window to space. It didn’t. It made the room look terribly dark and small. If I lived in it today, I’d have to up my medication. When I got old and moved out, it took four coats of paint to cover it up. He said he’d never do that again.

He didn’t say anything when I dressed in my Honor Band uniform and walked around the neighborhood with my baritone pretending I was musical and important. He never told me I didn’t look like John Phillip Sousa, but more like an organ grinder’s monkey. Which I did.

My mother – ever busy expanding her consciousness – encouraged my individuality. Never paid attention to it, but encouraged it, nonetheless. My father patiently endured my robust individuality.

We were a “differently functional” family.

By high school, my mother got me into a school where everyone was unique in their own special way. (You like that one?) For the first time, I wasn’t that one weird guy anymore. Even those who would be considered “jocks” were kind to me and demonstrated a solidarity with those of my ilk that you would never have seen in our public school system.

We didn’t have “Goths” back then, but we did have “Punks.” And “Geeks” and “Dweebs.” Some of them were the nicest people I’ve ever met. We all got along like the lion and the gazelle at the watering hole. Or snakes and mongooses … mongeeses … at the watering hole. Or cats and dogs, Abbott and Costello, salt and pepper or the chicken and the egg at the watering hole.

I miss that watering hole.

Oh! My music! It took me years before I “came out,” musically speaking. So, I’ll lay it on the line.

Yeah. I like Paul Whiteman’s orchestra. I like Billy Murray. I like music from the ’20s. I wish I could Charleston or Jitterbug. I’m not going to apologize for it anymore. No one could punish me more than I’ve punished myself.

Unlike my contemporaries, I didn’t like “Kiss.” The first time I saw the name “Led Zepplin,” carved into a desk at school, I thought, “That could never fly!” Ask me sometime about the day John Lennon died.

Once, in an effort to “fit in” I asked my sister what I should say when people asked me, “What’s your favorite band.” She told me to say, “Hall and Oates.” I still don’t know if she was having fun at my expense. She also liked that Cassidy kid from “Hardy Boys,” so maybe she was genuine.

Yep. I guess the bottom line is: I’m a real hep cat.


Chapter III: I’m Getting Old

When I was in my 20s, I was in shape. I had a six-pack. Or a four-pack, but you could see where the next two were going to go. Then, around age 28 or so, it looked like I was going to top 130 pounds. I didn’t step on a scale again for five years.

I put up a valiant fight between 30 and 35. Then I surrendered. And here’s what I found:

After 35 or so, your body works like an oil lamp. Like wicks, your legs draw all the fat up into your stomach. Where it stays. Your legs are now little sticks and your middle bulges here and there. And then here again. And then there again.

All the muscle from your arms is likewise depleted and, apparently, deposited, once again, in your stomach. Or that part of your stomach that breaks right and left, making and end run around your spine and meeting once again in the back.

Your weight increases by about 40 pounds. Since you have no muscle tone in your extremities, you resemble a sock puppet stuffed with a bowling ball.

Then you hit 40. And, you know what? You don’t care anymore.

Yeah, I went to a gym a couple of times. Back when I was a virile 22-year old. Except for the virile part.

I paid for a year’s membership, but the first time I went, my trainer, Staff (that’s what it said on the back of his shirt), installed me into one of those machines that wadded me up into a knot and then stretched me back out again. To me, that’s not exercise … that’s a taffy pull!

Then he spent the next 45 minutes looking at himself in the mirror while I strained for all I was worth.

Now, back in those days, I was about 120 pounds and had the figure of a rope. Staff, the jackass, had me in that machine making me do un-natural things and would look up every few minutes and say, “Oh ... let’s take some weight of.” Yeah. Let’s take some weight off. Jerk!

O.K., so my muscles are like steamed clams. Nothing I can do about that. And, to top it off, I probably had a mullet at the time, too. Doesn’t get more pathetic than that.

Does it?


Chapter IV: I Had my Dream Job

I am not now, nor have I ever been a stripper. In fact, I could probably make a living wage by have people pay me *not* to take my clothes off. Once I suit up in the morning, the meter is running.

But, all of my jobs have been dream jobs. I dream about them all of the time. I often wake up screaming. Why, in my dream just last night someone was quizzing me on how to typeset, use a stat camera (and what does PMT stand for?), do layout, paste-up, burn a plate and print whatever it was on an old AB Dick. 1980s technology. I always said I could do that job in my sleep, and I think last night I proved it.

But, after all my printing and engraving experience, I finally landed a job as an editor in my early 20s. Yessiree! I edited TV listings. Not the most glamorous job, I’ll admit. In fact, for the first few years, the most creative thing I got to write was something along the lines of, “Featured: Swimwear for the overweight.”

Then, in the third year, I got to participate in a gargantuan effort to rewrite the entire movie database – more than 30,000 movies – for our company. That was something like 10,000 movie descriptions just for me. Perhaps you’ve seen my work. Now, that was as close to Nirvana as I had ever come in the workplace up to that point in my life.

Quick break for Deathwatch ‘94 when I moved back to Tennessee to wait for my grandfather to die.

Then I came back and hit corporate Atlanta like a fragile swallow slamming full speed into a towering building of glass and steel. Except I made it through! Without bashing my brain and falling to the sidewalk and being swept up by the maintenance guy who walks around the building sweeping up dead birds so clients won’t see them and be put off – sorry … corporate … “off put” – by the disturbing symbolism. I’d never even done that well in “Red Rover.”

I’d made it! I was moving on up. I finally had a piece of the pie. “Weezy” was my watchword. I had the word “Creative” right in my title. The Company even spent 80 bucks to put it on my business cards. The Company charged clients 12 times as much for my time than I ever made typesetting, statting, layouting, paste-upping, burning or printing. There was no turning back now.

Brainstorming sessions … production meetings … meeting really important corporate client people … my own office … wearing a tie. Then they closed the Atlanta office and I finally fell like that sparrow to be swept up by that guy. Our “emerging market” never emerged.

Then freelancing.

Oy! I’m sure I could make more money on Peachtree dropping my drawers. (More like Cheshire Bridge, but more people have heard about Peachtree, so I’m sticking to it.)

I lived the American dream and then it kicked the crap out of me. But, I’m sure that on those sultry summer nights when I’m living under the bridge, I’ll raise my broken bottle of Mad Dog and toast the life that could have been. And then I’ll laugh and laugh. Not in a funny way, but in a way to get me medicine.

… I just noticed I screwed up my own metaphor. I said the bird was a swallow and later said the bird was a sparrow. At least you can see I never write anything on a lark.


Chapter V: I’m a Real Lady Killer (not in the literal sense)

Dating stories. Can’t be of much help there.

I can tell you what not to say.

On a first date, never explain how a woman has done you wrong but you really want kids, so, in an ideal world, you would get married, have a baby and the woman would die in childbirth. Chicks don’t think that’s funny. It’s more of a second-date line, maybe. (I hope no one is reading this. I’m such a jerk.)

When a chick says, “Do you still love me?” Never begin your response with, “I’m glad you asked me that …”

If, during an argument, your partner says, “Don’t patronize me,” don’t reply, “O-kaaay …”

If you’re trying to impress a girl, never say, “I’ve seen you walking in this neighborhood for a while. Seems like you’d be skinnier by now.”

“Does this make me look fat?” The no-win scenario. Even I have learned to keep my yapper shut on this one! But if I’m in a playful mood, I might say, “No … it brings out your eyes … like one of those stress heads you squeeze.” That’s just the way my Puckish sense of humor works.

I guess it’s playful comments like these that earn me such responses as, “I don’t want to know you. Not even as a friend,” and, “Good luck in the future.”

I’ve gotten back some of my own. I accompanied a girlfriend to the gynecologist once. I don’t know what she was doing back in that little room, but I was sitting in the waiting room about to wet my pants. I finally asked for the Men’s Room. Well, they didn’t have a “Men’s Room.” They showed me to a restroom and, in an act of manly defiance, I left the seat up when I was through. That’ll teach ’em.


Chapter VI: I See Old People

My Grandfather was hard to offend. I once made a trophy with a figure standing with his back in the front as if he were peeing and engraved a plate that read, “Emory Department of Urology: Best Specimen.” He took it to town, went through the courthouse, the county library and shops along Main Street showing people and saying, “LOOK WHAT THEY GIVE ME!”

On the other hand, he loved to try to embarrass me in public. For example, he took me to Andrew Jackson’s home, The Hermitage, when I was a kid. We took the tour with a bunch of other people and stopped outside Old Hickory’s bedroom, all peering in wonder across the velvet rope while the tour guide drew our attention to the ornate bed. Grandpa looked at me and said really loud because he couldn’t hear well, “HOW ‘BOUT THAT! HE’S GOT A CANOPY *OVER* HIS BED AND I’VE GOT A CAN O’ PEE *UNDER* MINE!”

Very embarrassing to a 10-year-old.


I stayed in Tennessee with Grandpa during the last year of his life after my grandmother died. My aunt was there during the day to see to his medicine and feed him, I was there to lift him and drive him. After supper, she left (“Did What’s-His-Name go home?”) and I stayed with him at night in case something happened (“Because someone has to tend to me all the time, sure enough!” and “Someone needs to be here in case I have a fit”).

This, I lovingly refer to as Deathwatch ’94.

Every time my butt hit the toilet seat that year, here he’d come. Rattle, rattle, rattle went the doorknob. And, every time, I’d hear him go to the kitchen and ask my aunt, “WHO’S IN THE BATH’OOM?” (He always talked loud because he couldn’t hear.)

Who’s in the bathroom? There are only three of us in the house and he’s talking to one of them!

Then, back he’d come. Rattle, rattle, rattle.

“YOU IN THERE?”

“Yes!”

“YOU ‘BOUT THOO?”

“Yes!”

“CAUSE I NEED IT!”

So, I’d cut my visit short and go to the kitchen and prance around with my knees together while my aunt laughed at me.

A few minutes later, he’d come out and say, “NO LUCK!” And my aunt would laugh even harder.

I swore he was doing it just to toy with me. Surely he couldn’t have to go for one of his unsuccessful bowel movements *every single time* I had to go in for one of my more successful ones.

Then, one day my father came to visit.

My father is in the bathroom with the door closed. I’m in a bedroom, my aunt is in the kitchen and my grandfather walks down the hall.

Rattle, rattle, rattle. “WHO’S IN THE BATH’OOM?”

My father comes out and my grandfather says, disappointedly, “OH. I THOUGHT IT WAS ROB-UT.”

I have never seen my aunt laugh so hard.

U.S. Peanut Butter Industry in a Jam

ATLANTA, Ga. (AP) – Atlanta-based Centers for Disease Control and Prevention today outlined a strategy to address a recent salmonella outbreak affecting the U.S. The outbreak, traced to a Peanut Corporation of America processing plant in Blakely, Ga., has sickened over 500 people in 43 states and may have led to the deaths of seven people nationwide.

In a press conference held this afternoon, James “Skippy” Robertson, head of the CDC’s Department of Infectious Peas and Nuts, stated, “This is a very sticky situation. Salmonellosis, the infection caused by the salmonella bacterium is a very serious, very dangerous illness.”

“Now it has tainted our supply of peanut butter and peanut paste,” he continued, “prompting the recall of hundreds of products. A variety of products have been affected, from peanut butter crackers, to doggie snacks to Thai food which relies heavily on peanut paste. Unwitting restaurateurs continue to spread the bacteria like some modern-day Thai Food Mary. We must find a way to stop the spread of this disease or this crisis will certainly be jarring to the peanut butter industry as a whole."

He stopped short of suggesting that President Obama release some of the country’s peanut butter reserves as the demand for peanut products increases.

The plan released by the CDC to eradicate the peanut-borne menace is two-fold. The first tier of defense is one of education. The public must be made aware of the danger and adjust their lifestyles accordingly.

Dr. Simon Reese, Director of Goobers and Goobernatorial Studies at Emory University, said in a statement released by his office this afternoon, “If we all adhere to a few simple guidelines, the whole crisis will be over in a jif. When confronted by an unknown or unfamiliar peanut, one would do well to remember the cautionary tale, ‘Found a Peanut,’ written by Jack Schafer in 1958.”

Said Dr. Reese, “In Mr. Schafer’s musical allegory, arranged to the tune of ‘Darling Clementine’ and sung by schoolchildren across the U.S. for generations, the protagonist finds a peanut ‘just now.’ Upon cracking it open, he – or she, the text is unclear – finds that it is rotten, but eats it anyway. What follows is a fanciful tale wherein the protagonist dies and embarks on an archetypal journey to Heaven and hell, evocative of Dante’s ‘Inferno,’ before realizing that it was all a dream and is confronted once again by the choice of eating – or not eating – the peanut.”

“If you ‘find a peanut,’” he said, pensively, “don’t eat it.”

The Federal Drug Administration and the World Health Organization have joined with the CDC in implementing a second tier of defense against what some are already calling a Peter Pan-demic. With Federal funding, scientists at Johns Hopkins have identified a possible antidote capable of eradicating the scourge of salmonella in our lifetime.

The makers of both Smucker’s and Bama jams and jellies have pledged to incorporate the cure into their products and have committed to running their factories 24/7 for the duration of the crisis. As more and more Americans fall prey to this sickness, we might expect the call, “Would you please pass the jelly?” to become a rallying cry of the afflicted and a call for good health.

In the event that the CDC’s strategy does not work, Australia’s Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd, pledged 40 million tons of Vegemite to help jump start America’s hard-hit sandwich spread industry. This represents one third of all Vegemite people in Australia won’t eat, either.

Facing possible Federal charges, Peanut Corporation of America has retained the law firm of Pennington, Bennington & Johnson to represent them in any lawsuits resulting from the poisonings. Lawyers at PB&J have released a statement, reading in part, “It wasn’t our fault.”

Former U.S. president and sometime peanut farmer, Jimmy Carter, could not be reached for comment before press time. A spokesman for the Carter Center in Atlanta was adamant that this outbreak would not affect the introduction of President Carter’s new “Nut & Yahoo” candy bar due out later this year. The spokesman reiterated Carter's position that he can take no immediate action, saying the threat, “Is real. But, due to a conflict of interest, our hands are part tied.”

My Funny Valentines

Thanks, Jo, for your inspiration. I normally let Valentine's day pass unmarked. Unmarked like those police cars that you don't notice, but can pull you over and ruin your life, anyway.

So here are some Valentines that I would like to see. Are you listening, Hallmark? (I may add more later, I don’t know.)


Valentine 1

When Cupid takes me in his aim
To work his cursèd craft,
It seems I never get the point —
I always get the shaft.

So, if you’re like me, a pitied fool,
A lad without a lass,
I’m sure you’ll share this sentiment,
CUPID, KISS MY ASS!


Valentine 2
[Thanks, Jo!]

I’ve been dodging arrows left and right,
Thank you, Mister Cupid.
Eventually, you’ll strike your mark
’Cause, frankly, I am poopèd


Valentine 3: From a Terminal Patient

Won't you be my Valentine?
You know you hold my heart.
And, tho I now lay supine
I pray we never part.

If that day should ever come, my dear,
Please give me one last hug.
I'll shed a final, parting tear
And then you pull the plug.

Valentine 4
I give to you my heart, my love,
My spleen and liver, too.
I'll close my eyes, praise God above,
Then you can have those, too.

Goodbye! Take care, my sweets
Be good to your new owner.
Merry parts and merry meats,
From me, your organ donor.


Valentine 5

In the never-ending race for love
I don't know why I bust my ass.
Everyone knows, push comes to shove,
Nice guys *always* finish last!


Valentine 6

"It's ewe I love," the shepherd cried
As he gave a sheepish grin.
"I've loved before, God knows I tried,
You won't believe how long it's been!"

"Run away with me, my darling!
Let us flee this fulsome flock.
Enough, now. No more quarreling.
By hook or crook, I'll have you walk."

"People won't understand our love.
I know I shouldn't give a damn.
But it's not a thing I'm really proud of,"
And, so he took it on the lam.


Valentine 7: For An Australian

I’m A for T in love, you see,
I hope we two are never parted.
It’s plain to me, you’re dinki-di.
A bit more choke, you would have started!
***
RESPONSES

Gaya

Of Valentines I write tonight
I dread that fateful day!
For everyone whose partnered up
Gets candy, cards and lay(ed).

Wives, girlfriends get their roses
And their cards say “I love you”
They get taken out to dinner
And lots of chocolates too.

But those of us without a mate
stand out like a sore thumb.
We try to act like we don’t care
Our true feelings we keep mum.

I hate the day with all my Heart
It’s a Hallmark, schmaltzy ruse.
It makes us single, unmatched types
feel and look like fools.

Of Valentines I’m cynical
cause I’m single, through and through.
I may not get no roses
But to my own Heart I’ll be True!


Becca

On this day, I’ve called to ask
Your help with a minor task
This question may be a little bold
But I realize now, I’m getting old
I’ve searched the net far and wide
And can find no woman to be my bride
So I’d like for you to have my son
In your oven, I’ll put my bun
Your inconvenience will be minimal
I’ll cover every doctor bill
Well, that’s what I want, what’do you say?
Oh, and Happy Valentine’s Day.


Bob

I saw a girl I used to know
Then I went and chased her.
“Don’t run away! I’m friend, not foe …
You can use my turkey baster!”

“Come back to me, my One True … Like.
I only want to procreate!
I need someone to bear the tyke …
Come back before you ovulate!”

“I sense some hesitation.
This has ever been my doom!
I didn’t make a reservation
And you have a private womb.”


Jo

Of Valentine’s Day, I’m cynical, too.
Mated or not, it belongs in the loo.
I want to yell, “There is no Cupid,
Accept it, all you Stupid!”

Roses and candy and dinner out
What the hell is that all about?
Most of us sit home and stew
While hubbies scratch their heads and haven’t a clue.

When I think of my mate
It is so easy to berate
When I dream of roses
All the while he dozes.

No, partnered is no guarantee
Of champagne and brie.
Nor even of getting laid tonight.
Single or married, we can all agree
Valentine’s Day is oh, so trite.


Sandy

Glad I am when Valentine’s Day passes,
A day fit for camels, and donkeys, and asses.
Roses shed petals, they droop and they slump,
Department store chocolates stay on the rump.
Candy hearts with rude sayings beneath
Are carcinogen-laden, and will break your teeth.
After some thought, I have now come to grips
That Cupid’s arrows have poison-dart brew on their tips.

My Ride of Passage

I didn’t know she was a prostitute. I don’t to this day, to tell you the truth. All I knew was there was a lady in distress and, damn it, I’m a gentleman.

I was headed to my grandmother’s house to do my laundry. I was in my 20s, and a grandmother’s house is the best place to do your wash when you’re that age. If luck is on your side, a grandmother might provide wash-’n’-fold service while you are going through the fridge and watching her cable.

So I was garbed up in sweats and a tie dye because, deep down, I’m some sort of counter-cultural, hippy troublemaker out to stick it to the man. And, since I didn’t have any clean drawers (on my way to do laundry, remember?) I went commando. ’Cause that’s just the kind of rough-and-tumble maverick I am. Grrr!

Just at the entrance of my subdivision, right by the bus stop, an anxious young lady frantically flagged me down. I can never turn my back on a frantic young woman. It’s a character flaw.

“Oh … are you going up to Glenwood? Could you give me a ride up to the Mrs. Winners up on the corner of Austin and Glenwood?” Now you can get a Street View of my neighborhood from Googlemaps and you’ll know why she was so anxious.

The bus must be late, she was obviously in a hurry and I was going right by there on my way to the Interstate, anyway. What harm? What harm, indeed.

“Hop in!” I said.

She got in.

She was a skinny black chick, might have had orange hair. Heck, it’s my story ... she had orange hair. She had an unsavory – one might say “used” – body odor not quite masked by the cinnamon gum she rolled around her mouth like a particularly beloved cud. I don’t like cinnamon.

She was definitely not Penthouse material. Waffle House? Maybe. Whore house? Sure. Nut house? Without a doubt. But not Penthouse. She couldn't even have made the back page of Hustler if she stuffed her bra and won the lottery.

She did have a nice set of choppers, though. Must have just had her teeth floated. When she smiled, you could barely see the back where the bit goes.

“Oh … Thank you!” she said, “Oh … I was at that house on the corner and they wanted me to do things. Nasty things. Things with their dog. And I don’t do that stuff.”

I’ll admit, I was taken aback for a moment. I was thinking along the lines of, “Nice day, isn’t it? I like a day when it’s nice, don’t you? Nice days are good. It’s good to be nice.” But I recovered quickly. I’ve been around, after all. I’ve lived in New York. I’ve seen things.

“Not an animal lover, are you?” I asked. I’m smooth like that.

I stepped on the gas a little.

“Oh … thank you so much for stopping,” she said as suggestively as you could say such a thing. Then she reached over and touched my pee-pee. Right through my sweats where you could feel every contour. Real friendly girl. But I couldn’t have that. Not on laundry day. And we were driving by a church for God’s sake!

We made it to the Mrs. Winners in relative silence. I really didn’t know what to talk about after that. My thoughts were for the future. After all … she touched my pee-pee. I had to marry her now, didn’t I?

I stopped the car. This is where we part, mon cherie, I thought. Of all the cars in all of the world, you had to hop into mine. Farewell.

“Can you take me up to Columbia?” she asked, skankily.

Sigh. Only one major intersection over. In the opposite direction from the Interstate, but in the interest of goodwill, I thought it would do no harm. This was my first prostitute, after all, and I wanted to make a good impression.

So, now we’re at Glenwood and Columbia. Google it. It gets worse as you head toward town. Maybe you can see the Atlanta skyline from the Street View. Pretty, isn’t it?

Not from where I was sitting.

I looked for a nice, warm, whore-friendly place to pull over – a nice corner with lots of Southern exposure – when she asks to go to the *next* major intersection.

I’m so nice.

At Glenwood and Candler (Google *that* one!), she wants to go further. Wants me to take her “some place” to meet “somebody.”

Something in the back of my naïve little head said, “Danger. Drive no more.” So I pulled into the first driveway I found. She got out and ran without so much as a “By Your Leave” and didn’t look back.

She might have known the neighborhood better than I did. I didn’t know until later that I had pulled into a Police Station.

That was years ago. But sometimes, on cold winter nights, I wonder, where did she want me to go? Who did she want me to meet? And would she touch my pee-pee again?


__________

Thanks, Cog, for helping me work through my pain. That’s the most action that little Plymouth Duster ever saw. Next time ask me why I can’t eat tuna.

A Little Verse for Wear

Despite being a crappy year overall, bringing in large part misery, destitution and hopelessness, we still managed to reach great heights of creativity, thanks to you, my e-friends. We even joined forces on several occasions to produce profound, poetic dialog expressing our suffering, our joy and our inebriation.

With the kind permission of the authors, I present them here in one convenient location. Come with me as we remember 2008 in verse.

_____

October 4

In late September, I was stung by a hornet and posted an account of my experience – complete with video. My Australian friend, RinklyRimes, read it on The Bobliotheque, where I write as ReidAndwright. She responded with this verse:

Oh dear! Reid cannot play the cornet!
He’s been bitten by a hornet.
He was on his way to play
But at home he had to stay.
“Come at once!” The leader cried
“Without the cornet we’ve no pride!
Without the twiddly bits you play
We’ll be laughing-stock today.”
“I’ll send you a video of my arm!
That hornet did me lots of harm!”
“Wear a bandage and a sling!
We need you like anything!”
So brave Reid struggled and did his best
And the orchestra passed the test!
Which doesn’t make much sense I know!
But I just thought I would say ‘Hallo!’

I respond:Hornet, you don’t know with whom you’re dealing.
Bite me again! This time with feeling!
I don’t mind the pain, the swelling …
Go ahead, it’s your death bell knelling!
That sting will be your final gaffe;
This verse will be your epitaph.

Now old Reid can play his horn
And forget the sting that tragic morn.
And, though he died before his time,
The bug lives on in Rinkly’s rhyme.
Thanks for stopping to share your poem.
I squashed the bug. Now, that’ll show ’im.


October 22

Sandy posted the following on her blog and drew me into her fairy-tale world:

Frogs don’t become princes
the moment they’re kissed;
Prince Charming’s not real.
He doesn’t exist.
The mythical knight
Who sets bosoms aflutter
Just might not like you
As much as his mother,
If he holds you close
And begs you to stay,
He might be married,
He’s probably gay.
If he pledges his troth
And vows to be true
He’s likely to have other
Girlfriends than you.
Though you’d swear to the heavens
He’s a prince born and bred,
He’s not Prince Charming
But Charles instead.

Which prompted:

And what of the princess?
Pray tell me that.
She’s brassy and needy
And vulgar and fat.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel!
Hey! Are you there?”
“Not tonight, Charming,
I’m doing my hair!”
And what of that beauty
Asleep, white as snow?
Kiss her awake?
“No” always means “No.”
And that peasant girl
With slippers of glass?
She came in a pumpkin …
She ain’t got no class.
Even that Mouse!
I don’t care who you are …
I’d still chat her up
At the ol’ Minnie bar.
O! Where is that girl?
I know what sells!
I can’t wait no more,
I’ve got Disney spells.
So I can’t get a date
With a girl on a whim.
There’s plenty of fish …
It’s not all that Grimm.
I thought your verse
Was a little bit slanted.
It’s not just the guys …
Girls, too, are enchanted.


November 6

Late one night – on the East Coast, anyway – Lucky posted a lovely blog in verse:

My Page was old
it had to go
I have some stories yet untold
Of Maternal woe
and Teenage foe
and Republicans who are so slow
I need to write
of all my plights
and be creative in the nights
And light and funny
I shall be
with all my typed verbosity
The pressure’s on
soon comes the dawn
I’ll dream of punchlines on the lawn
My hat is old
my teeth are gold
for now my story
is yet all told. ...
I’m pledging to write more blogs and soon. ...
It’s been awhile. …
Go look at the moon!

Exhausted, I posted what I thought would be the end of that night’s exchange and bring welcome sleep:

This one sits at a bar
This one has a little scar.
This one … I don’t know what you are.
Oh, what a lot of blogs there are.

I should try to get some sleep.
Maybe I should count some sheep.
Oh, why do I stay up so late?
One more blog ... it’s worth the wait!

It’s one a.m. and, what the deuce?
I’m sitting, writing like Dr. Seuss.
I hate to sit and waste a rhyme,
But, what the hell, it’s on your dime.

So, I’ll cruise along on this course,
Encourage dialogue and discourse.
If you don’t like what I have to say,
I’ll change my mind. What the hay?

But when SueFancypants – wide awake on the other side of the world – came back with this, I knew sleep would elude me:

There’s no moon out here
So while I wait
I shall have another beer
And I’ll sing an Aussie song
so my waiting won’t seem so bloody long...

Waltzing Matilda
Somebody killed her
Found her in the grass
with a stick up her arse

I couldn’t resist:

Poor Matilda and her arse.
That Jolly Swagman, what a farce!
He didn’t know what could go wrong
When he grabbed her by the billabong!

He got her jumbuck, then he toiled
In its fleece. His Billy boiled.
With a sneer and scornful frown
She didn’t half tie his kangaroo down.

Matilda, damn! She’s on the rag.
She grabbed him by the tucker bag.
You’ve got to give Matilda cred ...
His foreskin’s nailed upon the shed!

Swagman said, “Now, what the deuce?
“Won’t someone come and cut me loose?”
And his cry may be heard as sweet as angels’ choirs
“Won’t somebody please come and bring me some pliers?”


December 16

Just as we were all doing our last-minute Christmas shopping and baking, my friend Cog’s Nisant was having a bad day, so did what any true friend would do. I offered to recite Chaucer and cheer her up. Alas, she said hers was more of a Poe mood, so I did the next best thing:

I know you’re nodding, nearly napping
So I’ll tread gently, not too loud.
What is that? A gift you’re wrapping?
Not for me! I’m Poe, but I’m still proud.

Cog, always sharp as a tack, didn’t miss a beat:
There I sat all weak and weary,
Finishing the last cold beer-y,
Scanning channels through eyes tired and teary
When suddenly there came a rapping.
Violently knuckles tapping,
Pounding on my chamber door.
Tis some idiot and nothing more.
As I lectured on visiting hours,
He presented me with flowers,
Only daisies – what a bore!
He sat there begging for affection
Barely hiding his erection.
He was here with plans to score.
To our relationship he was no devotee,
And I demanded he leave me,
Else he be an amputee.
He wants a whore and nothing more.

Which, in turn, engendered:

Ah, the silken, sad uncertain rustling
Of each Christmas wrapper bustling
To – wait! – you strike me to the core!
I knew I should not be pushing daisies,
But I was tired and late and lazy!
I see you’ve been down this road before.
So I turned ’way, my flowers wilted.
Spurned and scorned, rejected, jilted.
And so I sought some seamy whore,
Swearing, sotto voce, “Nevermore.”
That’s the saddest thing you ever saw, sir.
I told you we should stick with Chaucer.
_____

These were the highlight of my year! Thanks y’all, I had fun and I look forward to more collaboration in 2009. Let's see if we can popularize a new kind of blog. The Blog Poem, or Blow ’em.

Christmas Card 2008

No matter where you are,
No matter where you’re roving,
Find yourself a friendly bar
And share my Cheer and Loathing.

Join me in a Yuletide drink
As I raise my glass to you.
I’ll toss one back, give you a wink,
And then you hoist a few!

Have a Merry Christmas
and a Happy New Beer!

Ring in the New Year!

I didn't tell my friend, N-, this story when she lost the stone from her wedding ring (at least I think I didn't because I'm sure she's sick of hearing about my grandparents), but here's a good story.

My grandparents got married in '32 when my grandmother was fresh out of nurses training. They were young, it was in the depression, and my grandmother's wedding ring was a narrow silver band ... probably cheap because of the times.

Of course, as she got older, her fingers got skinnier. And more claw-like, although that is not germane to the story. One day when she was in her 70s, her wedding ring came up missing!

She had been doing laundry, yet it was not among the towels in the linen closet, nor was it in the cellar by the washer and dryer.

I was heartbroken at the very thought, but Grandma, stoic that she was, didn't seem all that concerned. Grandpa, with a personality much like mine -- jackass on the outside, sentimental on the inside -- went and bought her a brand new GOLD ring, similar to the first, but a little smaller so it wouln't slip off.

And what did my stoic, pragmatic, non-sentimental, septuagenarian Grandma do? She got down on hand and arthritic knee and crawled the length of the clothesline searching through the grass until she found her original ring!

She wore them both for the rest of her life, but she wore the cheap, silver depression-era ring closest to her heart. So the new one would keep the old one from falling off.

Or so she said.

... O.K. I can tell I'm on the buildup to my "moment." I last saw her on or around Christmas after her stroke 15 years ago. And she died on New Year's day. Every year on New Year's, I have to lock the doors, pull the shades and have my "moment." It's not pretty.

I am glad to have the family who are still with me, and I miss terribly the ones who have gone on. What passes for my heart goes out to all those who lose a dear one over the holidays.

And that, Santa, is why I hate Christmas. That and your damned songs.

[See? Grandpa was such a character, you never hear about Grandma.]