Expat From Hell

Out Shat

2012-02-06T09:00:00.001-06:00

Don't you just love it when the underdog gets a win?
When seemingly all is lost, forever
The odds are stacked against them
Everyone thinks the game is over, and suddenly

An unsuspected blow is struck
For the little guy.

I was driving through the Texas Panhandle this past week
Stopped by a tiny cemetery on a forsaken country road
To pay my respects to a former colleague and friend

Now selling his shower curtain rings in another land

Found myself in the tiniest of rural villages
The sign said the population was 100, but
I scarcely could find any souls nearing that amount
Then again, such is the grandiose of exaggerations,

Otherwise known as

Texas.

Then again, something was curious about this place
Even the town's name seemed strange.

Mobeetie.

I mean, how in the world could such a name get applied?
In the middle of these high plains
Littered with more animals than humans
Nowhere, no less

So, the inquiring and twisted Expat mind inquired
And, lo and behold, the world suddenly changed
Again
The downtrodden got their last licks in, it appeared

My uncle once told me that,
If you wanted to find Texas
You should drive to the east until you smelled the cow patties
And then drive to the south until your wheels stopped in them.

So, here I am
Cruel ironies of life as they are
Wandering around this tiny town, wondering
How in the world, indeed.

Seems that in the 1870's during the heyday of this place
When the population swelled to upwards of 400
The townspeople had to decide how to name said location
Since there was a picturesque creek nearby, what if....

We call the place Sweetwater?
Perfect.
The vote carried, the application went forth
To the capital far to the south.

Unfortunately, weeks later
The arriving news was not so good to the locals
Seems that the name was already taken
By some upstart village in another part of the state.

Alas, some of the more enterprising decided
Perhaps they should consult with the locals
Those long ago displaced to somewhere beyond those hills
Presently working on building a casino over there

Someone gathered the requisite courage, and
Met with one of the wiser counsels of said tribe, asking
How, pray tell, was the word "Sweetwater" articulated
In the local vernacular?

And the answer,
After some thoughtful native American silence
Came oh so carefully:

Mobeetie.

The paler-skinned folk jumped from the campfire with glee
Almost running back to the little village with the news
Application amended, quickly run off again to Austin
For the new-and-improved civic appellation

As Texans are wont to do,
Pride and particulars get swirled together
Often with much of the fecal landscape
Until the concoction is difficult to discern

Between truth and, well,
Less than truth.

Such is the life's burden of this writer
As he continues to ply his wares in this odd vocation
Amongst the locals who share such environs
And the tales and lore of the surrounding landscape

And this, my friend
Is how true culture is developed

Many years later, the story goes
Someone, perhaps as inquisitive as yours truly
Decided, once again, to verify the story
And re-convened with the local Comanche

To establish the definition
Of the town's fair name
Only to be told, with what I am sure was the tiniest of
Ocular twinkles

That the true meaning of Mobeetie, after all
Was not what might have been once conveyed

Perhaps some native American guile
The slightest indentation of tongues in red cheeks
The glint of eye beneath all that paint
Winks askance around the campfire circle

It appears that Texas has the ability to
Not only influence the most recent of arrivals
But seems to have also permeated the land and its peoples
For centuries and generations past

You see, the real meaning of this word
As it appears, now so incredibly appropriate
To what has, then and now
Been so aptly applied:

Buffalo shit.

Flying Fish

2012-02-03T15:34:00.001-06:00

I was on the road again yesterday,
Up thar in the Texas Panhandle.
Or, as they say in any other part of this state,
"up yonder".

Meeting with farmers, I was
Or so I intended
Since there was a meeting up there
On the windblown flatness of that area

Panhandle, right
Should be more like Pancake.

One of my colleagues in the shower curtain ring industry happens to be
Engaged in such an agricultural pastime up there
So he graciously invited me to attend
One of these festive occasions of higher learning

I think maybe it was right when I came into that town
Or such as it was, thinking
"Towns" conjures Expat imaginings like Los Angeles or San Francisco
Whereas, the same meaning attaches in Texas to anything

That has a water tower looming over it

So I pull into the parking lot, knowing that I am where I should be
Since the lot is full of pickup trucks.
Get out, gather my shower curtain rings and brochures
And scuttle my way into the meeting hall

Probably at that point you can see my gills a-flappin'
Eyes a-rollin'
Gasping for air like the bloated grouper that I am
The ultimate flying fish, once again

Out of his water.

Sat in the back as the folks gathered,
First to eat lunch, you see
That being the ubiquitous chicken fried steak
Covered with, of course, that second-most-valuable West Texas commodity:

Gravy.

And, there I am, standing in line
Talking to the nice lady standing in front of me
Carefully timed answers of "yes, ma'am" and "no, ma'am"
As I had no idea what she was saying in between.

She just smiled at me,
I imagined with some degree of pity
She could probably see my scales a-startin' to dry out
Thinking that what was on my plate now was going to pass for

Fish flakes

So, we all gathered back in the hall
Waiting for the speaker of the day,
He of the seed company, from far away over yonder
Past the river, beyond the red dirt

In that strange no-man's-land of Oklahoma.

Presently, the lecture began
The guy talking about this kind of seed and that
About growing seasons, about soil, about moisture
And the best kinds of each category to avail yourself of

When he got to lint yields
(A term that cotton farmers apparently use a lot)
This Expat immediately locked into the concept, seemingly
And looked down upon his stomach

I don't know why, but
The first thing that crossed my mind was
To check my navel
Perhaps that was what the proffered yield was all about.

But, you will be relieved to know
I did so silently, still trying
To fit in with this non-fish-bowl culture
Treading water as it were, sliding my plastic fork through this here gravy

Chewing on something that was batter-covered and fried
Hoping it wasn't one of my fingers, or the napkin.
Waiting to ask a pertinent question somewhere along the way
Trying to find a handle to just, for a moment, pull myself up

To the level of education that permeated this crowded room
Oh, that's cake in these plates here?
I needed a new fork, since the one I had
Was covered in 40-W white gravy

Should have put it in my crankcase before I left town.

Well, the seminar presently came to a close
I didn't get a chance to develop a question to ask
Maybe except, "what the hell am I doing here?"
But decided to keep that, with my own personal lint yield

To myself.

However, I did learn at the close of the meeting
That all in attendance would be getting
Educational credits
Two hours' worth, actually

To be used in their own advancing education
Of the art or science or skill at said cotton farming
About producing the ultimate in lint yields
While getting the maximum use of small quantities of water

So, there I was, standing in the parking lot
My company shirt untucked, as I had previously measured aforementioned yields,
A certificate of "education" clenched in my hand
Against the Panhandle winds that blow constantly

Keeping my gills a-flexing in and out
Still trying to find that familiar element

Wondering now if I should send this to my alma mater
Out there in Califor-ny
To see if they can apply said education to that of my other
Scholarly accomplishments of so many years ago

Wondering, if they ever can match this piece of paper
With all those other loose and lonely transcripts out there
In sunny Los Angeles
That, when they finally pull out that 35-year-old file drawer

To find that creased and dog-eared file down there
Amongst the other scandalous and apostate graduates
That have drifted far and wide
Away from the friendly confines of the Golden State

Into worlds of ag shows and John Deere-green hats
And wind-blown farmers and their trucks
All that gravy and square-cut white-frosted cake
Shower curtain rings sitting on La Quinta dressers

Gasping and bug-eyed Expats, knowing
They are so far out of their waters
Still trying to find a place to fit in
A question to ask, an answer to understand

So, I wonder
When that file drawer finally slides itself out
There in Orange County
What, in the funny world that I now inhabit

What that file will contain

In terms of lint yield.

Whiff

2012-01-24T15:14:00.000-06:00

There is something altogether painful about this, don't you think?
Missing entirely.
After giving so much effort to the process.
And yet, well...

The photo says so much
Conveys so much feeling

In the vernacular, it's known as a "whiff".
Probably related somehow to the sound of all that effort
Going to naught, in the end
And, indeed, the sound of something slicing through all of that

Nothingness.
A vacuum of energy simply dissipated

Having played and enjoyed sports for most of my life,
I have experienced the terrible sensation of the whiff.
And it is so very painful to endure
Especially after the fact, when said effort has been thus expended.

In later life, a similar experiences play themselves into other arenas.
Having developed somewhat of a blogger following
It was very strange to find my most recent posting
Going unnoticed, relatively

After the effort of putting together something I thought so terribly clever
So worthy of pensive comment from near and far
And yet, like the poor fellow in the above-captioned photo
The feeling the same, day after day, sans comments

Therein lies a blogger's whiff

Recently, a couple of trade shows have bestowed similar effect
On the good shower curtain ring salesman herein
While pensively awaiting in his booth, he
Finds so many good folks passing his way

Engaging in a passing conversation about the weather
About the fair in question, even
About the good product in front of them
A business card taken, a brochure, a promise of a later phone call

But in the end, the sounds and efforts the same
Aren't they?

Whiff

Commenting recently on this phenomenon was my colleague
He brought in from the West Coast to assist the Expat
In the latest of our agricultural fair forays
He, like yours truly, about as far a fish out of water as I

Born and raised in Maui, he
Found himself looking like he had landed in Mars
Just like his flip-flopped faux-Texan colleague
There we were, together, Hawaiian shirts ablazing

In the middle of Louisiana.

Perhaps a fashion whiff, if you will.

But, in the end,
I wonder if such efforts aren't worth it after all
Truly, failures line the clouds of experience
That eventually provide something far more durable

Than even success, perhaps

That of experience

Knowing that this is just a part of life,
Maybe to be enjoyed for it's own gift, it's own contrast
To that of whatever was expected
By the best of our own flawed efforts

And then, to be kept
Treasured, even
With those fine experiences that contribute
To the wisdom of knowing that life is full of

Both

And, while the process may be painful
Standing there in that wayward booth, w
Watching the crowds thin
The sales day come to an end

And with that, the possibility of any receipts
Only to realize that

Maybe

There was something else going on after all.
Besides whatever game I perceived in question.

There was my colleague, now good friend
Now introduced to the finer aspects of carnival fare
For the first time in his life
Placed before him, by an ever-generous blog writer

That most American, most rural of country delicacies
Defiant of all health and medical condescension
Enduring ages of circus, of carnival, of sporting events
Affixed - maybe literally - to the heart of this nation

And, yes, while the day's whiffing was hurtful
Lasting, even, while it meshes with other internal scar tissue,
There, tucked inside those other impressions
Is something that will always make my crinkled face smile

In the midst of this latest whiff

Was, maybe
Just the faintest of another kind of whiff

Of powdered sugar....

Life is strange, so very funny
Even in the face of a whiff, no?

I Miss George

2012-01-18T12:26:00.002-06:00

Oh, come on.
You have to admit it.
You miss him too, don't you?
I know I do.

Sometimes.

I mean, now that we are all deciding who among us
Should take the lead this time of year.
Remember when he was around?
He really knew when to step up.

Those around him said he always wanted to be our leader.
Maybe even President some day.
He just knew when the time was right, and then
There he was, right out there in front.

Yeah, I do miss him.
And I never even voted for the guy.
Just kind of admired his cojones, I guess.
Always had that Wild West kind of dialogue, remember?

Talking that dead or alive stuff.

And when the enemy attacked us
When we least expected it
I thought at the time we were doomed
Caught unawares, yet again.

And then, seemingly out of the rubble
There he was again
Shouting out for all to hear
That he was going to get those bad guys

Just wait and see.

Parading around like he did
Like a bully peacock
In front of his adoring wife
His brothers, even his animals

All seemingly just loved the guy.

Yes, we just don't have that kind of charisma around us these days.
Like him or not, you always knew that he was around.

He fancied himself a good speaker
An able teacher
Even wrote a book, somewhat late in his career
I bet you can't even remember the title, huh?

Funny, after all of that bluster
Records show that he didn't fare too well in school
Almost flunked out
And then, suddenly, there he was again

Riding out in front of the pack

Others looking on, envious
Tempted, I'm sure, to compete
Even try to overtake him
Secretly talking, plotting, behind his back

Wishing he were no longer among us.

I guess they got their wish, finally.

There are times like the present
When souls like his are missed
Like a solar flare-up, a super nova
They are bright and shining among us

And then, just as suddenly
They are gone

So it is in this moment
That, grating and obnoxious as he could be
The essence of that kind of presence
Leaves a great vacuum when removed

So, just take a minute, indulge me here
Give the guy a thought or two
Remember when we all just kind of let him lead us
Out of the chaos, the wreckage

The fear
Of what our culture was becoming

In the end, of course
He might have been a bit misled, but
There were moments - remember?
When we really thought he could pull it off

I will always remember him
Seemingly riding off in a cloud of dust
Out there in the Wild West
Promising yet another great victory

Assuring us of protection
Of safety
Of a better world ahead
Safe from those heathen enemies out there

Yeah

I miss ol' George.

Liminal Latitude

2012-01-16T17:54:00.000-06:00

First, click on the song above.

Thomas Newman is perfect for this recollection...

I am never prepared for this when it happens dear friends.

Somehow, with people like us, it just appears.

Just reaches out from somewhere and grabs you

Pulls you in.

It does seem to attach itself to places here and there, though.

Funny how this last time was in the middle of Kansas.

There I was, just flying through the countryside

On my way to the next show,

This time in faraway Topeka.

When I entered the Flint Hills.

They should have posted a sign somewhere, saying,

Beware!

You are about to enter a liminal space

A previously undefined time and place

From which you may return, indeed

But

You will not be the same then

As I looked around from my perch inside the truck

All around this starkly picturesque place

And it kind if hit me

And then it covered me up

Took me away

More or less a hostage going somewhere else suddenly

There are places - times - regions

That tend to do that to wayward minds like ours

To threshold dimensions, kind of suspended out there

Or in here, I am not altogether sure any more.

Between something real, tangible,

And something else

So there I found myself
Knowing full well I was traveling north
Soon to reach Emporia, the home of my good friend

She of the permanently liminal and rectangular space

Known as Kansas

But, finding myself suddenly
In some other kind of reality
I was far from there, and far from anywhere
With which I was familiar

There in the Flint Hills

I have written in the past about hallways,
About darkness and dark places
About those who dwell there
And about, even more strangely

The odd sense of comfort I find when I am there
Whether it is in dreams
In deep contemplation, or
As it was this past week

As I roared up Interstate 35, and
Without paying any additional tolls
Found myself yet again,
In that grain-covered hyperspace

Very comforting, peaceful
Suspended between places like it is out there
You can't always travel there deliberately

Sometimes it travels to you

Like when you are sleeping
I can hear those dogs barking again
See the light of the torch, just around the corner
I know she is out there again.

Wondering now, if in the future
When I have the opportunity to venture north again
Whether it will still be waiting in that odd wedge
Between cities, farms, roads

And another dimension

As I found myself coming off the Interstate that day
Gliding up to the toll booth,
Fishing through my pockets for my wallet
Anticipating the first meeting with that

Keeper of all Kansas prose

It seemed odd that there was a fee attached
To the experience just now abruptly ended
I stared blankly into the face of the attendant
She told me the price, and I

Had to shake myself a bit, since
It seemed such a terrific bargain
To once again fall into such a tranquil place
There amongst the barest of regions

That, suddenly
Were altogether fruitful
Pleasant
Inviting, even

And there's a cost attached to this?

I wonder if Cheryl saw the glint on my face
Almost embarrassed to admit, that
So close to that part of Kansas
Was another, entirely different, place

Funny, indeed
As I returned from Topeka a few days later
And upon the border with Oklahoma
There in the darkest of winter nights

Inside that non-descript truck
Besides the glow from the dashboard
Was another beam of light
That was, after all, a reflection

Of another light
From another place
Parked just back there, in those hills
Where, once again,

I was transported into yet another hallway
With those same dark and darkened souls
Who more or less live there, and wait
For us mortals to chance upon them

And visit for a while.

Only to return, abruptly enough
With something different about us now
A strange emanating light
But one, unlike those in this dimension

That doesn't extinguish easily.

Nocturnal Omission

2012-01-04T16:45:00.000-06:00

I haven't been sleeping very well these days.
Something about the garbage in, garbage out concept, perhaps
Joe threatens to buy a Tazer and keep it beside the bed
Seems that I have become quite the vocal midnight rambler of late

Probably it's the wicked combinations of things that captivate me in this world
And then, when mixed together, when all is at peace at night
Just, well...
Combust

I am a political junkie
A voracious reader
Love all kinds of music
Transfixed by languages of all types

When it's all mixed together (think chorizo con huevos)
It tends to do what it wants with me
Wherever it wants
Whenever it wants

Much to the chagrin of those loved ones
Sleeping, likely
Within earshot

Have been reading a terrific book these past few days
And, as good writers are wont to do
Transport me nightly to another time and place
In a word, to the frozen shores of Plymouth

Or thereabouts

It is there, when I am in the midst of sleep
That I can joyfully converse with Roger Williams, who being fond of languages
Had to escape to an island once to avoid the angry Puritans
To begin what would someday become Providence

All the while conversing with the locals, in their own language
Me - of course, since it is my dream after all - standing right there beside him,
Shivering in my flip flops

Only to, suddenly, have Elmore James stop in for a little diversion
His original composition of Dust My Broom,
Only to be replaced, mid-verse, by that Little Ol' Band from Texas
Which is quite the rousing rendition

But hard to keep your wits about you,
When listening to "think I'll write a letter to China"
And trying to simultaneously converse with Massasoit over there
On that snowy island

Then, suddenly, as we talk of God and country
And all the good things that we are supposed to be here for
Here she is
As if coming from the clouds above

Telling me that we all have fallen,
Far short of the glory expected of us
But that, soon, all will be redeemed
And we can move on to better things

And I can't help but think of Frances McDormand adding to each phrase,

"Doncha know..."

Tagged, like discounted merchandise, to each of her quaint little exhortations,
All the while, turning to what I think is my side, asking

"What say you about all this religious freedom stuff, Roger?"

"Do you really think she can carry Iowa?"

"No, I don't get the accent either, sir."

Yes, I know
Something is really wrong with me
The holidays are now fading quickly into the past
And it's high time that I got myself into a new groove

Time to pack the shower curtain rings into the truck
And head down the road again
Try to put all these nighttime companions into another trunk, maybe

Or is that dangerous?

Because, you never know
Since I am heading to Topeka next week
If they might be lurking up there, too,
Just waiting

For the right moment, the right timing

The right turning of the page
To maybe join ol' John Brown
Start something a-brewing with the Kaw tribes of Bloody Kansas
And get dear Roger involved over here at the same time

Hey, why not?
It's my nightmare.

Sorry, folks
It sometimes just strikes me funny
That all this stuff just boils around in my head
And when I least expect it

It just pops out.

At least next week Joe can table the Tazer
Sleep peacefully for a few precious nights
While her dear Expat goes back on the road
Maybe screams at his new-found friends from the friendly confines

Of a La Quinta in eastern Kansas
Far from those who sleep peacefully here in the Lone Star State
Who blissfully cannot any longer hear
The timeless, ageless, sans frontieres banter

Of your dear Late Night Goofball
Conversing with the saints of the written word
Or the television
The vinyl
The radio
The DVD
The 8-Track Tape, even

And, sauteed together in this poor corrupted brain
For the pure wee-hour entertainment
Of yours truly

Excuse me, now

"What was that you were saying, Mr. Hussein?

Tiring of the conversation with your couch companion here?

Excuse me, Roger,

How's your Arabic these days?

Hopefully better than your Kaw."

Christmas with Uncle Expat

2011-12-29T15:36:00.001-06:00

Yes, all of my children, nieces, nephews, etc. just dread this day.

It doesn't happen every year, you see.
For the simple reason that I am not a Texan.

Last year, I decided I preferred to wear shorts to the Christmas meal,
So Joe, the kids, and yours truly, all made like Joni Mitchell (in the song "California")
And went home.
Ate dinner with my parents, my remaining dysfunctional brother, and his offspring,
Enjoyed not having to worry about freeway closures due to ice and snow.

My California relatives are a very finicky lot,
Don't eat most of the foods that you and I take for granted.
And, since I really didn't want to have chicken fingers and french fries for my holiday meal this year,
We opted for the closer-to-home alternative
We communed with the other side of the family tree.

The Texans.

It may surprise you to know that I get along quite nicely with my in-laws,
Even though I agree with them on virtually nothing.
We, many years ago, mutually concluded to live and let live,
And have maintained a healthy respect for one another ever since.

For my side, I have agreed to accept the "y'alls" and "yonders"
And gravy over everything
Including the driveway.
Out there by the ornamental windmill in front of the house

And the "Rick Perry for 4th Member of the Trinity" sign

For their side, they have graciously accepted my Left Coast extremism,
Upside-down theological views,
Hatred of the Dallas Cowboys,

And year round application of flip flops.

On the other hand, I have an impressive gaggle of nieces and nephews,
Not to mention my own two offspring,
That are also included "at table" at these Lone Star round-ups.

For what it's worth, I take my relationships with these of Generations X, Y,
And other chromosome-deprived factions
Rather seriously.
They know this, and shudder at the fact in advance.

Clearly aware that Evil Uncle Expat is actually preparing for their next visit.

I watch their Facebook postings, commenting where appropriate.
Thoroughly check out their YouTube referrals,
Including the ones where one of my nephews plays in a band.

Follow up on their commentaries regarding news, sports, politics, friends,
And Kim Kardashian.

Ready, at the table, for not just the turkey, mashed potatoes,
And ubiquitous gravy.

I am ready for them.

Not that I am some sort of perverted Cousin Kevin (remember the rock opera "Tommy"?)
No.
I actually love these people.
Cherish the all-too-little time I have with them.
Make the most of the little crevices of attention that I can squeeze from those moments.

Ready, at any moment, to discuss why one nephew has two female lead singers in his band.
Full references to my fond recollections of Heart, The GoGo's, and Fanny at the ready.

Or why another chooses to study abroad this coming semester -
In that particular country.

Wondering how yet another (a budding anthropologist) has been impacted by her very serious and astute study of indigenous tribes on a faraway continent.
Or if her second language acquisition (she is now fluent in Portuguese) has given her additional insights on her own culture,

Here in Lone Star land.

Maybe even if my own dearest female offspring (pictured above, with her father), has been positively impacted in her chosen profession in The Big Apple (she is a fashion designer there)
By the haute fashions all around her this year in the Dallas area.
(aka: The Big Road Apple).

Alas, my dear wife, Joe, is an extremely creative sort.
She has prevailed upon my in-laws to - literally -
Shuffle the seating assignments this year.

We actually drew numbers this time around.
To determine our seating locations at the holiday meal.

Matched them with the randomly-selected places around two large tables
Where she had surreptitiously placed the matching numbers,

And sat accordingly.

I was placed between my dear wife and my mother-in-law.
Not that I would complain at all with this arrangement, since I am quite amicable with both.
However, we do see each other on occasion, share meals together.
Splash in the gravy far more frequently than with the other guests here.

So, I guess my annual questions will have to wait.
My YouTube references will be forced to the back file for now.
All of those deeply-researched political and cultural ideas, about this country and that.
My pro-and-con discussion of the recent passing of Christopher Hitchens.

Or the passing of Tony Romo.

Should sit on the sidelines for yet another season.

Including the suggestion that I might trade in my relaxed-fit Levi jeans
For something possibly from Cinch.
Along with some 100% ostrich full-quill footwear from nearby Cavender's Boot City.
Something that would fit more appropriately with the above photo.

Perhaps that, too, should do like the Dallas Cowboys
And wait until next year.

In any case, I deeply love and respect my family here in Texas.
They are a funny bunch, and so incredibly diverse.
Growing older year by year, gathering wisdom in their own unique ways.
Hopefully for many years to come, gathering around a table to share

Within striking distance of yours truly.

Communing with those who think about them often here
Missing them from time to time, wishing so often that they were closer
Contemplating, reflecting on what they would think of this or that,
Waiting, looking forward, to the next possible occasion where

Those drawn numbers might line up properly, and
The poor, unsuspecting soul who draws the short straw
Gets to spend the next few minutes
Not only wading in brown gravy

Gathering said wits,
Circling those mental wagons all around

For what will be - to be sure - another soul-searing conversation
That will surely allow all of this good food to grow cold, while one

Fends off those pesky introspections
Those ridiculous suggestions
The jokes that makes one sputter dressing all over the table
Ah, yes, just your luck, dearest relative of mine

To have to spend this year's holiday meal
With Uncle Expat.

Crabby Appleton

2011-12-21T14:54:00.000-06:00

It's Christmas!

That's what my mother used to say in rejoinder to whatever

My brothers and I would offer in terms of hostility or negativity

During the month of December

Back in the good old days of my California childhood

Oh, of course, Mom

I will promptly change my attitude

Just give me a minute while I try to find that handle

And stop acting like the character pictured above

So, here I fall again.

Spent the early part of this week in far South Texas

Sold a few shower curtain rings, so I

Decided to take a less-intense day today

Went for a walk, around my fair neighborhood

It's strange actually venturing out for a walk around here

Especially if you leave where the houses are

And dare to walk out among the main thoroughfares

Out there in the traffic

The world, as it were

Especially in North Dallas, where

Anyone who isn't securely wrapped in an SUV

Is assuredly strange, or perhaps even

Homeless

I walked a few blocks, crossed under the freeway

Looked carefully up in there for tell-tale sofas or blankets

But, no, there are no such residents in this here zip code, friend

And made my way over the Western side of the suburb

I haven't shaved today, and am still a little tired

From the 600 mile trip yesterday - leaving Santa Anna's stomping grounds

Heading back here to my home

So I also wore some comfortable clothes, which included

My army-issue pants
An old t-shirt from a beachside bar in Southern California
A hoodie that my son gave me from The Fillmore East in New York
And my oldest, dirtiest athletic shoes

While I always try to eat right, I cannot resist

Having all the Coke I can drink for only $1

So I sat under the Golden Arches for a while

And enjoyed my low-down-ness in there

Started to walk back toward Wal-Mart

Trying to jump-start myself out of this muck

And get into the spirit of the season

Almost got myself killed while walking across the entrance driveway there

Seems that yet another SUV driver could not operate

Both vehicle and cell phone, while

Paying attention to the rare pedestrian who

Dared cross in front of her while she was

Running such seemingly important errands

Entered into the land of the Walton family

Bought some soap and some aspirin

Since I require so much of both this time of year

And headed toward home

I erased myself from the ubiquitous LinkedIn today, too

No longer interested in what corporate worlds are up to

Or in building an even stickier web of such personalities

Reflecting lately that those who know me can find me

Elsewhere

Maybe even walking around the suburbs

Wearing my worst clothes

Peeking under bridges, maybe to find

Someone who appreciates where I have been

Or where I am going

Dancing around wayward SUVs

Muttering to myself about my 99 percent-ness

Still paying homage to Ray Kroc and Sam Walton

And carrying around their bags of stuff

Heading into neighborhoods where Santa-shaped electronics

Cost more than my annual earnings

Thinking about shower curtain rings now dangling

Down there in South Texas

At least being a bit thankful that I have

Something to do during the day now, mostly

Someplace to go, on occasion

Someone to talk to, now and then

So, there you go, Mom

I think I may have licked this, at least

For the time being

No Crabby Appleton for me today, no

Not anymore

After all, as they say

It's Christmas!

Merry Christmas to all of you, dear readers.

May you find this season to be all you hoped for, and

Enjoy those whom you cherish the most

Eat, drink, be merry

For tomorrow you may have to go for a walk

In North Dallas

Tulsa Toodle-oo

2011-12-12T15:18:00.002-06:00

I attended a Farm and Ranch Show this week.

In Tulsa.

Yes, me.

In Oklahoma, just to the north of my house.
You know, where I live in North Texas,
Drove that direction, and set up my little sales booth
Right in the building behind this guy in the picture.

Who I think is maybe Toby Keith
Or perhaps Gene Autry
No?
The bass player in Devo?

Such exhausts my supply of Northeastern Oklahoma lore.

Actually had a presence at this show, selling my stuff.
Standing there

Looking like I knew what I was doing
Most of the time, anyway.

Oh, I knew a thing or two about my shower curtain rings, but
My surroundings, well

That's another story.

The booth inhabitant next to me was quite friendly
He looking like the opening scenes in Bonanza, or
Like he just drifted in from North Fork
After having a run-in with The Rifleman.

Asked me if I was going to the exhibitor dinner that first night
That they were going to feature the Tulsa State Fair Champion at the meal.

"Oh, I will look forward to meeting him", I said.
He looked at me like I was an idiot
Or, worse yet,
Maybe even a Californian.

"We're going to roast him", came the heavily-accented reply.

"Oh, like Dean Martin?", said yours truly.

Another withering look comes my way.

"He's a Duroc Barrow, ya know!"

"Didn't Ralph Nader once say that those things weren't safe on the highway?"

I don't think I am going to make friends very quickly here.

Anyway, here's what happened to said dinner subject:

When I arrived there, I finally understood what he meant.

The next day, I met another exhibitor.
Looked like he had marched right out of a Michael Landon television episode.
I glanced around behind him to see if Laura Ingalls was nearby.

Said he was a Mennonite.
Which are quite well-represented in these parts, it seems.
They are quite agricultural, you see.
Can fashion all kinds of things on their own.

Incredibly practical
As was obvious from the wares he was selling

His wife was there, too, as were a couple of his children.
Never had a chance to meet the spouse, as
She sat very quietly on the other side of the booth.
Occasionally the children would run up and down the aisle.

The mother would run after them, shouting their names - I think
Which I learned were mostly fashioned after Old Testament characters.

When First Chronicles was finally corralled, it seemed
That little Lamentations would take off in the other direction.
Leaving the 19th Century version of June Cleaver looking quite bewildered
American Gothic pitchfork in hand, ready to pounce on the next

Wayward prophet

Where the hell am I?
What century is this, anyway?

I watched on Saturday, as school was out in these here parts
Local youth coming to visit the show,
Checking out the exhibits and the auctions
The fancy new farm equipment.

You know, scoopers and flippers
And balers and barn owl figurines
Funnel cakes and spurs
John Deere things on four wheels

Or fourteen

The kids were dressed for the occasion
In their finest footwear
Trace Atkins chapeaus, Taylor Swift hairstyles
Jerseys proclaiming their favorite institutes of higher learning

All beginning, of course, with the local favorite vowel:

O

Followed by either - U or -State
Or, in my case,

- No! Not another one!

Don't you all ever consider going to ANOTHER school somewhere?

Many would stop and talk to me.
Ask about the shower curtain rings,
While staring at me like I was in the zoo.
And always, it seemed, asking me

To repeat myself.

Since when am I the one with the accent?
Since when did I decide to live in the city?
Or in this particular century?

The exhibit across from me sold miniature water towers and windmills.
How do I know this, you might inquire?
Because I actually asked.

Can you picture this?
I wander across the aisle,
Perilously-low-IQ visage pasted on my front side
"Howdy", I do my best to imitate a male version of Minnie Pearl.

"Say, does that windmill up there actually work?"
She looks at me like I am Minnie Pearl incarnate.
"Naw-o" (Oklahoma dialect has two syllables for almost all negative and affirmative exclamations)

"It's or-na-MAY-en-tal!"

Geez, lady.
So this means that people want to purchase this just for looks?
Like maybe put it in their front yard or something?
To, what, attract others?

Before I turned and slithered back to my 10 x 10 cell,
She called out that they had larger versions of said windmill
If I was interested, maybe
In something more like eleven feet tall instead.

I kindly replied that it would not work for me
Unless it could actually pump water

Into my jacuzzi

Traveling back to my hotel, I thought a lot of my experiences
Over the past couple of days
So many stark differences between us here in this
Melting chili pot of cultures and lifestyles

Yet, so very close to each other
Only, literally, miles apart.

I went back to my room
Turned on the television
Watched the Republican debate and thought
Candidates, you all really have your work cut out for you

Trying,
I'm sure your absolute very best.

To represent all of

US

Grrrr

2011-12-07T09:31:00.000-06:00

Oh, hell.
There it is again.
Tugging at my leg.
Sometimes catching a little bit of flesh, if I let it linger.

Ouch.
Hey, knock it off there, Fido!

Particularly at this time of year, it comes around more often.
Loves those shades of red and green out there.
Twinkly lights, happy crap to rot your teeth.
A little insulation around that torso for you.

Like many, this also causes reflection of the year just past.
As I tend to over-indulge in such activities, I don't need any help with that.
It just invites Spot here to come back and get the leg again.
And he doesn't seem to need an engraved invitation.

Seeing relatives, friends left behind by the passing years.
Catching up is always a risky well-digging process.
Not always sure what will come up there,
Either from me or from that other person standing with the cup of egg nog.

Giving me that goofy, disinterested look.

No, I don't do that any more.
Don't live there.
Don't stay in those kinds of places.
Shower curtain rings, yes, that's right.

Tulsa. Amarillo. Shreveport.
Here's my Holiday Inn card.
Right next to my 7-holes-punched hamburger ticket.
But look, at least I don't spend so much time on the couch any more.

Not counted among the unemployed,
Technically.
Not counted among those who have given up
In so many ways

Oh, that sound?
Never mind him.
He always seems to tag along this time of year.
I have more or less gotten used to carrying him.

These lines here?
Around my eyes? My face?
That is survivor tissue, good friend.
Thicker skin, even.

The fact that I have gotten showered, dressed
Put on something nice and clean to come visit here
To stand in front of you, and not
Cower at home on the sofa

Is testament to the survivor tissue
And Rover here is beginning to get the picture.
He tugs and pulls and growls
But I no longer have to shake my leg so much

Or fear his stealthy approach
Even his menacing stares
And that ever-so-familiar yank on the pants
That says - damn the season - I am back to bring you down

Not anymore, dear doggie.
You can hang on all you like.
I have some living left to do here
Even if it is on a different level than I could ever

Have imagined

I can still look in the mirror, and
Lo and behold
There is a living soul staring back at me
Still standing, breathing, even with

A shower curtain ring dangling from his belt loop.
Right there
Just slightly above
That growling animal that wants so much to

Take me back to the couch

No, this season will be slightly different than
Those of recent memory
This time, there is a sense of climbing
Out of holes, out of darkness

And, while not quite into searing light, at least
Into something that resembles,
The field, the road, the path ahead
Climbing back into the truck, turning over the engine

And moving forward.

I will honestly and candidly spend the remainder of this season
Marveling
In wonder
In awe

That somehow, this Last Train Home
Occasionally moves over smoother and straighter tracks
Into relatively peaceful valleys
That ease into holidays

Family
Friends
Reds and greens
Familiar tastes and seasonings

And, while the tugging on my leg here continues to remind me
Of past treacherous grounds
At the very least, I am encouraged
That I am not shrinking back

Or, more importantly
Being toppled

Still standing, so many years
And shower curtain rings
Later

To tell about it

Hoping that your holidays find you standing
Even smiling
And, maybe once in a while
Shaking that damned thing off your leg.

Warmest Texas greetings to all of you.

EFH

Four Hundred

2011-11-19T14:58:00.000-06:00

I know, hard to believe, isn't it?
This is my four hundredth blog post.
Not sure if it's something to celebrate, but
It is a nice round number.

Blogging is sometimes a difficult art form
You never know if you are really getting it or not
Certainly not - in my case - from the measurement of followers
If that's the case, then this is a dismal failure

Somehow I have to look beneath the surface a bit here
Take assessment of what's going on inside
When I scroll through all of those pictures on the title page, it seems
To form a picture of itself, after a while

Sure, I would like to have more of a following
But I have a hard enough time following myself, so
I really don't spend that much effort looking backward these days
Just, as Mr. Miyagi used to say,

"Wax on, wax off, Daniel-san"

I feel certain that this is a preparation for something
For what, I really do not know now
Other than, there is definitely a sense of perspective growing
And that, without the benefit of counsel, is a surprise in itself

And makes me wonder, even miss at times
The benefit of counsel here with me

When I was growing up, there always seemed to be
In each story that I immersed myself
Some sort of wise sage, some kind of support personality at hand
To give out guidance and wisdom at just the right time

It is, as I reflect back on these myriad postings, that I
Wish there was something to that effect in my own life here now
Rather than just abiding with those that lurk in my memory

And wondering if you feel the same at times

That our society has lost that sense of wisdom
Of turning to advisors, not those who are paid to do so
Not lobbyists, not psychotherapists, not even friends or family
But those odd characters that seemed bound to their books

Their stories
Their episodes
Their trilogies
And then,

To you

Your story
Your destiny
Your expanding soul

Always found comfort with this guy,
Especially after living in his own homeland for so many years
Taking deeper appreciation and understanding from his
Patient guidance of the ever-compulsive American child

In all of us

Would that we had more Mr. Miyagis in our world today

And, then, I wonder
How much different life would be, if
I had really taken the advice of this guy, and
Driven with my heart, instead of my eyes...

I still, on major decision points, reflect
On what good Luke Skywalker would once do, after he
Heard from this good counselor, and
Held onto the wheel of his vehicle with a far different perspective

And then, in quieter moments, seeking
That who would guide us in those quieter inner circles
To take stock, calm our inner voices, and
Listen for the grasshoppers at our feet

Finally, lest you run off too quickly
And grab the first soul to offer you guidance, remember
That those around us aren't necessarily the wisest of characters
And can often take us into the chaos

Of their own worlds, rather than
Those sacred places where we'd rather go, so
I do apply a sense of discernment before
Moving into those relationships that would satisfy

The strange hole that develops in one's soul, when
You know the sense of story growing within, yet
Feel that you are moving through this alone, while
There must be a factor of wisdom that is required,

But not necessarily all the time, no?

Tread lightly there, grasshopper.

Ball Handling

2011-11-16T15:54:00.000-06:00

Careful, there.

You don't get very many touches, you know.

And, you will have to share this with others when you get the chance.

Maybe a lot of others.

I recently met a man who was getting on in years.
Long in the tooth, as they say.
He was interested in working with me selling shower curtain rings.
Lived in a rather rural part of the country.

He was a bit taciturn, you could say.
Didn't share my views on religion.
Or politics.
Or sports.
Or food.

But he did grow up - many years ago
In Los Angeles.
Isn't that funny?

Suddenly we were talking the same language.
Of oranges and sunshine and freeways
Earthquakes and factories
Dodgers and enchiladas

Found something in common, after all of that struggling.

Having a chance to share the Earth together, as it were.
Talked to him a few days ago, said he wasn't feeling well.
Had to get some medical attention.
Promised me he would be back in action soon.

Crabbed at me to get him some literature on the products.
Told me to hurry up out to his part of the world to visit.
That we had lots of things to talk about.

I promised him I would be out soon.

The next day I got a telephone call from one of his friends.
My old friend has passed away that night, hours after our conversation.
He was gone, just that fast.

No more touches.

Saw some dear old friends this past weekend.
It had been many years since we had been together.
One of the children was getting married.
Quite the occasion to reunite.

In the very best of autumn settings.
Clouds parting just in time.
Sun smiling warmly on the young couple.
And the happiest of old friends

In the seats behind.
Holding together that which we share

One more touch, we all had - as one.
Another opportunity to handle the ball this way.
Maybe to pass it in the right direction this time.
To others who could appreciate the chance.

I looked around the audience, missing another friend.
Inquired as to his whereabouts, and that of his dear wife.
The answer was he could not attend this time.
His canine companion of many years was ailing.

Having the contentment of such a relationship at home,
I completely understood my old friend's choice.
While he was sorely missed, as was his spouse
I knew, smiling inside, that he had made a good decision.

To handle that ball that was passed to him
One more time maybe, tenderly, lovingly
To a creature that had made surely a great contribution

To his heart
His soul,
His family
His world

And I, reflecting on these past days, can now see
That my touches have been so incredibly fortunate,
And can only hope and pray for more of the same
Because, you have so precious few here

Make the best of them, dear readers
Keep your eye out for them
Savor them when they fall into your hands, and

Pass them along

Carefully

As if it could be your last

And the remembrance of you, I pray will remain
With those to whom you have passed it along
This time

In their own hearts and souls
And the lingering memory,

Of your careful ball handling

Your sense of the moment

Your attention to others sharing this with you, and

Your pass

Corporate Impervious

2011-11-10T12:06:00.000-06:00

Please don't call me again.
Why? Because it is too painful to talk with you anymore.

It has been years now since I wore those kinds of clothes.
Spoke that type of language.
Flipped the remote from PowerPoint slide to slide
Lived in that part of the country

Please don't ask if I can speak that foreign language.
Please don't ask if I remember that particular industry.
Please don't ask if I would mind living on the West Coast.
Because I know what happens after this.

Someone changes their mind,
Some department changes direction,
Decides to wait for another holiday to pass
Another reference to check in

I have to get back to selling shower curtain rings, you see
I have to climb back into this truck, and drive to
Another place, far away
And speak yet another strange and foreign language

No, I can't see the ocean from my house
No, I can't find those kinds of foreign foods in my town
No, I can't imagine anymore what it's like to do that kind of job

Why?
Because it hurts too much to put myself in that place again.

The reality is where I am now.
What I am doing.
What I am thinking.
What I am saying.
What I am writing

Here.

It is a different person than the one you see on that resume
You found still lingering on the Internet somewhere.
Or dangling on LinkedIn
Or implied on Facebook

Now, I am so far removed from those places
I have too many sore spots to cover from those years
Have to wrap myself up in some strange anonymity
Cover up with fluffy Klonopin bandages

Beer sutures

Tell a new therapist that maybe I am not depressed after all
But rather resigned to live what's real
Instead of what's just imagined in my head
Past, present, and future

Instead of what you promise with your phone call
Your request to speak in that foreign language again
Your demand to clear my schedule next week, so that
I can be teased with wearing shorts and flip-flops again

Out there

In that strange land that I had almost forgotten
That funny language and odd characters that only dance in my dreams now
The business of meetings and presentations and expectations and reports
Of departments and chimneys and subordinates and superiors

That isn't a part of my life anymore
And, as I wrap my bandages about me again this morning
And venture forth in my new reality
I would prefer that you please stop teasing me

Leave me be here
Let me drive this truck
Let me eat out of this plastic basket
Let me spend the night in this L-shaped building

Let English - such as it is here - be the language of my dreams
My dear spouse be the companion of my evenings
My few remaining friends the dots on my weekend calendars
My air travel be as infrequent as those pesky holidays

Someday, I might be able to remove these bandages
Someday, you will be able to see who I really am
Someday, it won't hurt so much to take your call
Someday, I will have enough strength of character

To tell you, plainly and simply
That I prefer what I have found here, in this place
With these people
With this life
With this world here

And, finally, with all the grace and peace I can muster

Say:

No, thank you.

Two weeks ago, I was contacted by a recruiter.
Who asked if I was interested in returning to the industry that I had served in for most of my career.
To work with a company owned by the Japanese, where the leaders would require that language be spoken.
After two hastily-arranged two-language interviews in my home town, I was asked to clear my schedule for the following week.
The company's home office was in my home state, near the beach, and would be wanting me to visit there.

You can only imagine the scenarios and ideas and dreams that emerged during those few days.

Suddenly, an e-mail appeared after I had cleared the week requested.

The company had changed their direction, and would be stopping the search.

Unsold

2011-11-04T16:50:00.001-05:00

For a precious few days, this stuff is pretty popular.
Sits in the best place in the shop
Gets the most attention
Plentiful, colorful, attractive

Seems like this kind of exposure will go on forever
So much camaraderie, bountiful
Stacks and stacks, boxes and boxes

And then, suddenly
It ends

At the dawn of a new day, the packages
Are yesterday's
The value has been re-examined
And lowered

You are to be moved, if you
Don't intend to move on your own
You cannot repackage yourself
You are, after all

Still the same flavor
Still in the same box
Associating with the same kinds around you
But, very likely

Your price needs to be different
Adjusted
Discounted
Lowered

And, even then
With your new location
Over there, less in the spotlight
Precariously close to the exit

Your heavily discounted price
The piles of your kind in a comparatively
Unattractive basket
Maybe even an old box of sorts

You might not sell after all
You might just have to be
Shipped out
Returned to sender

It makes one wonder
Who decided that sales would be so incredibly high
That all of this product would just, as they say
Fly out the door?

When, in the end, only a portion
Was so very fortunate
And all the rest, well
Remains the burden of someone to

Relocate

Maybe put it in a larger container
Maybe sell it as two-for-one
You know, cut the value in half
Make this a bargain

After all, when you strip off the package
Peel off the wrapper
Bite into the item itself
It will still taste the same

It will still do the job as advertised
Those many days ago
When seemingly
All was so much more positive

Oh sure, if the product could talk
I remember those good old days, when
I was over there in the main part of the shop
Getting all the attention, all the looks

Some of my best friends were being picked up
Put in predominant places, right there in the spotlight
In cut glass bowls, decorative
Something with the season in mind

But there were so many of us, now that I think of it
It seemed too good to be true, that
Everyone would find a home
A place to shine, a place to put forth one's best

The reality is that the exit is so much nearer now
You can see it, right over there
We are all so much quieter now
All tucked in this box together

We get looks now, but they are far rougher
Bags of us tossed here and there
Flipped over
Sometimes just dropped on the floor

Left behind

Maybe another sticker slapped on us tomorrow
One that brands us as even cheaper
Less of a seasonal attraction, even than before
Tied together with others just like us

The dreams of some fool, who really thought
That all of us would have a place to work
A place to do what we were designed to do
Rather than

Where we are here now

But the opportunity remains now for us
Not necessarily to be stars of the show, you see
But rather, in this new place
With this kind of experience, knowing

The highs and lows of this longer-than-expected life
The ups and downs of good locations, bad locations
Attractive shelves, unattended boxes
High values, bundled bargains

We are older, wiser, if even a little
Dustier today
But, we all wonder
If, while our packaging remains the same

That, just perhaps, deep down inside
We have developed something new from all that's happened
And now, when you peel away the wrappers and packaging
There is something unexpected, maybe

Substance.

Psychosexual

2011-10-30T14:22:00.003-05:00

I was stuck at the border this past week.
So many borders, now that I think of it.
Actually at a convergence of borders.

Checking into a nearby hotel, only to find
That the nearest place to get food was one of those places
Where what is being sold, so to speak
Isn't necessarily on the menu

The big baseball game was on television, and I
Really didn't want to watch alone, so
I ducked into this place, trying always to
Keep my eyes affixed on the nearest plasma screen

Funny, the distractions that this life provides
Often come in bunches, don't they?
Here I am, genuinely interested in the game, and
Others, those employed by said institution, are

Rather more interested in providing a distraction
To said game

Then, on my right, sits a serviceman
He of Hispanic origin, from my own adopted home state
And also a supporter of the same baseball team

On my left, a black man
From the enemy city, clearly and vocally
Supporting our team's opponent

And I, sandwiched in between
Sandwich in hand
Sandwiched between
Baseball, brothers,
Bosoms

Races
States
Cultures
Psychosexual encounters

Maybe I should have stayed in my hotel room

So much of our personalities and souls like to
Venture into other territories, at times
Even dangerous ones
And then, hopefully

Live to tell about it
Be better, be more interesting,
More diverse
For the experience

Or, in some cases
Venture too far over there
And get burned
In sometimes many ways

Trying to explain this phenomenon
To yet another recruiter
This past week

Who, in their own native language, asked
What about this job interests you?
The art of sacrifice, I answered
Of being able to give something, when you arrive
That no one else can

Because

By venturing into other places
Other cultures
Other souls
You lose a bit of your own

You become, as it has been said

Bridge people

Spanning two factions, you
Lose a bit of one, and gain another
In the process
And find that, as a result

You cannot completely return home again

Lose a bit of your old self, and
Finding something altogether new
And indelible
In it's place

That few, outside of your experience

Will ever understand

Yes, it is very dangerous, even risky
If you venture too far over there, but
Oftentimes life presents these little bridges
To so very few of us

There it is again, and again
Time after time
Border after border
Edge after edge

After most of this game had passed
(Many games, I now see in retrospect)
I decided to head back to my room
And watch the remainder of my home team's season

In silence

Not having ventured, this evening, too far into another's space
Or culture
Or state
Or blouse

Just being there, being myself, knowing
That, sometimes, it is just not appropriate to venture
Past where you are, only to
Keep an eye out for when it may

Become quite appropriate

When someone calls, for example, and says
Say, can you still speak that language?
Can you still understand that culture?
Can you still cross that border?

It is always a risk, to be sure
Always an element of fear tucked there, but
One that many need to consider
While our own culture prefers to place mirages before us

Of false borders
Fake bridges
Silly outfits
That don't really sell chicken wings or beer

After all

They sell something else
They provide a foggy border, indeed
A murky and cloudy culture, watching
As I did a few nights ago

Of others, sitting in this border area
This departure lounge of sorts
Wondering who was going to take the leap
And if leaping was worth the effort after all

Funny to observe, as I paid my bill, and gathered my things to leave
Returning quietly to my own place
I noticed the bar maid slip a napkin to another patron
With her telephone number written on it

I could almost hear the celluloid canter
Of my childhood cartoon Saturdays
When that progenitor of this modern scourge
Would croon, with that little inviting lilt

Please, give this new country a try, big boy
Come right across this little bridge
Venture, like Pinocchio, into the land of eternal amusements
Not to worry if it is a real crossing or not

"Boop boop de boop!"

Half Empty

2011-10-24T09:22:00.001-05:00

So much anticipation,
Looking forward to seeing him.
My old friend, so many years removed, a former roommate in college.
It has been...what...ten years, at least?

Since I have last seen him
College, buried in decades past

Sitting there in the patio bar, enjoying the Northern California evening
Sipping on my own beer, just a little nervous
So much to talk about, so much to share
Really can't wait to see this guy again.

Finally, he pulls around the corner, parks his car
The knowing look, the edges of laughter
The warm and hearty greeting after so much absence

We embrace, sit down, he orders his beer
So many years have quickly passed, it seems
We, traveling our different directions, running at full speed

Now missing some things
Some teeth
Some spouses
Some jobs
Some friends
Some breath...

Suddenly I find myself sitting in the middle of this parking lot
Holding a tattered shirt, cut off from my friend just minutes ago
As he collapses in front of the arriving ambulance
Paramedics giving me a high sign of sorts, and then

Taking him away.

Sirens fade, covered up by rush-hour traffic, and I
Sit dazed, suddenly very very lonely
Wondering if I am going to be even more alone in this world
Soon

Poking, with surprisingly bad aim
Into my cell phone, trying to find this nearby hospital
To wonder if there is anything more I will be missing this evening.
Aimlessly, in shock, driving through this unfamiliar city

Arriving finally at the ER parking area.
To see those familiar attendant faces
They note my inquisitive, still shocked face
And answer in the affirmative

"He's inside", they say
"Just go right in there."

So our reunion - oddly -continues, reflecting
Laughing, reminiscing
One of us, still in a state of shock
The other, patched and tubed and IV'ed

Monitors on the screen above
Can measure blood pressure, heart rate,
But can't come close to calculating relief
Of a friendship that now continues, even this evening

In this place
Of all places

Over the rolling gurneys,
The hustle and bustle of attending physicians and nurses
Beeps and alarms and buzzers can't
Cover our laughter and recounting of stories

Through the oxygen mask
Covering my old friend's face
I can see the lines underneath that his stories have drawn
As I feel new ones drawn into my own face this evening

Over the next two days
Cancelled appointments
New errands to run
Changes in rooms, changes in prognoses

New doctors that we can giggle about
Poke fun behind backs, like those professors way back then
Those terrible musicians
That awful bar food

Now, the humor is a little more punctuated
Maybe with an undercurrent of gratitude
We are, after all
Whew

Still here

Still here to laugh
Still here to share
Still here to breathe
Another day, another story, another soul to connect

Maybe even the same old ones again

Flying home that evening
My business trip a shambles
My plans in a pile of papers in the trash
The beer not yet finished at that bar table across town

So much has been expended
So much has been given, gained, and lost
And yet, as I travel thousands miles away again
That good friend

That old soul, maybe
A little more wearied and worn out there
A little more tried and tested
Like our friendship, probably
Like our lives

Remains

Occupy Mayberry

2011-10-11T13:53:00.002-05:00

Excuse me, Sheriff.
Do you mind if I just sit here for a minute?
Just cross my legs in the dirt in front of your office.
Yeah, right here on the steps.
Try to work up a mean look on my face.

I am just not too happy these days.
Things aren't working out like I had hoped.
In fact, it doesn't appear too encouraging for a lot of people around here.
At least I have a little time on my hands, and

Well, if you must know the truth
I don't feel very well.
Just need to sit here and hope the world stops spinning
At least for a minute, maybe

I see that Gomer and Goober have closed the shop down the road.
Couldn't compete with the national chains.
Who refused to come to our city.
Said we didn't have enough customers, so they stayed away

Made us come to them.

And leave our own folks
Their little companies
Their sense of community
Of camaraderie, of friendship

Behind.

Floyd says things are looking pretty bad for him, too.
Not enough people here to keep him busy.
Not enough ears to listen to his stories.
Not enough hearts to care any more.

May not be open next year, he says.
Perhaps time to hang up the comb, the scissors.
Take some time on the porch to reminisce
About better days.

The bank called me yesterday afternoon.
Said they were taking my house away from me.
No more extensions of loans
No more help when things get tough

And, they said if I want to keep my checking account there
That was fine, but
Without any other assets
They would charge me to keep my money there

It's enough to make a man drink

Or, worse yet
Maybe take a room in here
Where the rent is better, and
They can't evict you

So, Sheriff, what say you?
Do you think you understand my situation?
Can you give me a break, down here in the dirt?
Understand that I just need to vent a little?

Get some things off my chest here
No, I don't really know if it will help any
Many of those around me just feel the pain
They can't put it into words very well any more

You know, when demons enter into pigs
The pigs just run off the cliff
Sometimes that's the only thing they can think of doing
Sitting here takes a lot of courage, you know?

Managing this kind of internal pain can take a lot of
Energy

So, what's that, you say?
You have your own troubles, too?
What?
Your girlfriend Helen has been let go by the local school?

Had to move away to a bigger city, huh?
Got a job as a substitute teacher
For half the pay
And no benefits

Seems that we are all affected, I guess
And, now what?
You also got a letter from City Hall, just today?
Saying you, too

Need to reduce your staff.

Wow.

Need to make the most of what's left
Try to keep things together
Revenues are running dry
Just like that creek over there

Hmmm.

Wonder how you are going to accommodate
Your own reduction in force, eh?
Sheriff?
Sheriff?

Counter Productive

2011-10-08T10:06:00.003-05:00

While I was loitering in the Texas Panhandle this week,
I found this place

Isn't it funny?
You are sitting at a table, minding your own business, and
Suddenly

You find something that just warrants a picture
So
I took the above

Just knowing, some days thereafter, that I
For sure
Would find something meaningful to write about
Relative to said photograph

So, for some days, it sat
Simmering in the back of my mind,
My emotions, my soul
And today, well

Here it is

Wondering, as I write, where we all tend to sit
In this arena,
This cafe
This diner of our lives

Do you have others who have come with you today?
Those whose company you might even prefer.
You can command a table over there, maybe
For two, or four

And enjoy the community of these,

And perhaps,
No others

Some, however, are a bit more daring
Maybe because they have no choice, but
There they are, up there in front
Sitting at that counter

Not exactly a table for one, you see
Because they can interact with others
Those who might come alongside,
In either direction
Left or right

Or, maybe
Who actually service the establishment, there
Hovering behind that counter

Kind of engaged, wouldn't you say?
With something or someone new, something challenging
Certainly not part of the ordinary
Whatever would drive a soul to engage like that?

Maybe you have been in that place, friend
Maybe you have sat at the counters in your life's past
Looking for something, someone new
To engage, to encounter, to interact

Maybe you are still there
Maybe you are still engaged
Others perhaps have joined you at either side
Wanting just a slice of your life's pie

Then again
Maybe you are not
Not any longer
Tried, engaged, tried again, no longer engaged

Now retreated
To perhaps another table
Maybe something farther away
Back there in the back, maybe

Where no one will approach you
Where it is a little more quiet,
A little less bustle
Some form of peace, away back there

In quiet, you eat your meal
Push your dinner around your plate
Once in a while, looking up, hoping
Someone might catch your glance

Then, when all remains as is
You return to your small enclosure
Wondering, as you look around
About that table of family and friends away over there

About that good soul engaged up at the counter
With a perfect stranger
Or two

Or is anyone a perfect stranger in this world?

Like you?

Like me, back here at this solitary table?

Or

Like those millions who can no longer afford
To come out here to the diners of this world
Who might prefer four more familiar walls
Maybe four more familiar bars

In their own cells
Somewhere else

Rather that take the risk
The necessary preparation
The energy of venturing out, to
See what the world has to offer today

Tonight
Down the street
Into the cafe
Into the world that awaits out there

Before you head back home again
Back into what is familiar
Comfortable
Not threatening, in any way

Here at the counter,
Life might begin
Or, at the very least

Will continue

Skinned

2011-10-01T15:38:00.000-05:00

Errors aren't just a part of life.

They are life.

I don't know about you, but perfect souls make me nervous.

Reminds me of my past life in Japan.
Over there, people drive as a hobby, not as a necessity.
Keep their cars in their little garages, nice and waxy clean.
Take them out on Sundays, just for the day.

Return them in the evening, after a leisurely run
Of course, with a new wash and wax before sliding back home.

That isn't driving.

There aren't any signs of wear and tear
Of road weary, white line fever fatigue
The risk of passing cars, watching for hazards
And yes, occasionally

Making an error.

Taking the hit
Dodging a bullet, or worse
Learning a lesson, catching a scratch or a dent
Letting the scar tissue heal, cover over
And the experience place a new mark

Inside
On your soul.

This past road trip, I drove down to the border
(see Laredo Left Behind)
And skirted the Rio Bravo all the way to it's end
While there, the inevitable happened

Moving from lane to lane, the sharp crack
Of a rock coming up from a gravel truck far ahead
Without a chance to dodge, to avoid
It hit where I could almost feel it strike

And for so many miles thereafter
See it
Remember it
Feel it so
Clearly

All the way through the remainder of the trip
I thought
Of what had happened back there on the border
And wondered what kind of lessons where inside all of that

Scarred windshield, covered with bugs
I rolled across the bayous and bridges
Into Louisiana, where
I swear I could hear all around me

The backdrop of a wheezing accordion

Spanish Moss hanging on the end of every sentence
Jambalaya and a mee-o my-o
Whooo-eeee who dat over dere
The Expat was in his element again

Coming home yesterday, before I crossed another border
I stopped for one last indulgence in that spicy culture
Bought a crawfish pie to eat on the way home
And held it in my hand

Warm, toasty, wax paper-surrounded
As the Red River approached
I bit into it without hesitation, knowing
That this was going to be oh-so good

And it was, chere
But it pushed out around the edges, and
Spilled all over my shirt and jeans
Driving and cleaning up are difficult simultaneous acts

But I was experienced in a new way then, you see
As I roared west across Texas
On my way home
Knowing that showers and laundries and windshield repairs

Could wait

I was battered and stained, but somehow
Felt the effort well worth the risk
As I left the interstate
And the FM radio stations became clear again

Wondering how those around me
Even in this North Dallas neighborhood, with cars
Tucked quietly in their sterile garages
Shirts cleaned and pressed, cutting sleeve edges

Rolling down slick concrete streets
Into valet-parked escorted stalls
Air-conditioned padded offices
Support all around, is that

Life
I wonder

So often nowadays

Today, heading into town for errands
Slipped quickly out of my road-weary truck
Heading into the local grocery store
Not thinking too clearly this early morning

Scraped my knee against the dashboard
Aging skin against my legs, reminded me
Of younger days of skateboards and Flexi-flyers
Watching my knee redden and shed

All of that innocence
And cleanliness
And clarity

So maybe life looks like that to me now
Cracked windshields
Stained shirts and jeans
Skinned knees

Wobbly but beating
Hearts

And I trust to you, dear reader
That it is far more attractive and interesting
Than that sparkling suburban opposite

Soon enough, you know
Emerging from the car wash
The laundry
The infirmary

We will all be as good as new

Right?

Or will we?

Will we then even want to be.

Laredo Left Behind

2011-09-24T14:46:00.001-05:00

Armando got a phone call a while back.

Didn't know who it was on the other end of the line, so late at night.

The voice said that Armando needed some protection,

And that it would cost him.

About 10,000 pesos

Per month.

Far more than he could afford with his current occupation.
Far more than he could afford
In so many ways
Beyond the money

So he closed his little shop.
Boarded up the windows.
Spray-painted se venta on the front, in bright red.

Like that would attract any potential buyers.

Made a couple of quick contacts,
Packed up his belongings.
Put his family in a van.
And was gone.

After many dark nights, many darker days
In strange and hostile places
He re-emerged.
In another place, not so far away.

But
Far enough.

He doesn't have protection in this new place.
Doesn't really need it, or so he's been told.
Kids are in a new school, learning a new language.
Armando's paycheck in a new currency.

He lied about that personal identification number he needed to get this job.
Just made something up on the spot.
He laughs to himself when he sees his paycheck now
With his middle name now his surname.

Not sure what these things are subtracted from his weekly total
But the trade-off is worth it, he believes.
No strangers driving through his new neighborhood at night
With those dark vehicles, darker windows.

Sometimes Armando quietly returns home
To visit his mother
Back there, on the other side of the big fence
It's pretty easy, if you know how.

Took a walk one morning while down there.
Went right up to the fence, peered through
To the other side, the other world
Like so many thousands do every day

Saw a strange sight on this sultry morning
Another peering back through, his direction
Seemingly right at him
Like he and this estrangero knew each other

Funny, the man seems so similar to Armando
Wondering what life is like over there on that side
Not wanting to look away
Without knowing

Shower curtain rings hang from his belt
A white muslin shirt, wrinkled
From a long ride from somewhere else
Crinkled eyes, dirty shoes

Just standing there, only meters away.

You see, he also got a phone call.
Offering protection from another
Larger entity.
Promising, threatening,

A different kind of security.

In return for his soul.

He said no thank you, knowing
That there would be no safety after this.
Taking his loved ones, his few possessions
Leaving behind what he was trained to do since his school days.

Crawling into dark places.
Living and breathing where there seemed to be no food, no oxygen.
Wondering if he could ever conceivably fit through that hole
In the fence leading

To the new life.

And, once in a while, he returns
Quietly, without anyone noticing
Checking in on those he left behind
Through Facebook, through LinkedIn, he sees

Those who took the protection
Paid the price
Stayed behind
In their own little shops

Today, this dusty hot morning
At the border, he stands
On the edge of something
A modern-day Lazarus he is, staring

At a rich man, over there
Measured in a different kind of wealth
Now.

One who survived,
Kept his soul intact
With little else, to be sure
And came through the eye of a needle

Now, we stare at each other
The slightest of smiles emerge from our faces
A discernible nod of our heads, together
Yes, I know you

Too

The following day, I left Laredo behind.
The images of that fence remain seared inside me here.
The sense of knowing the tribulation of those souls
Over there

Will stay with me
Or, rather
Will stay there
A piece of something indiscernible

Enduring, only because
I, too, left the offered protection.
And crawled through that little dark hole
Instead

And now can go back and visit,
Every time I return

To Laredo.

Ninna Nanna

2011-09-17T08:00:00.000-05:00

Once in a while, you need not try so hard, dear friend.

Let whatever has come across your path just wash on over.

Such was my experience today, when
Trying to accomplish so much,
Attempting to exceed my own lofty expectations
Arms mentally akimbo, an inner drill sergeant, waiting

Suddenly, something else comes along
Unexpected, of course

It might be like a joke, such as I heard days ago,
That set me to laughing, hard
Such that I had to be careful not to inadvertently change lanes
More importantly, not to forget those delicious punch lines

So that I could repeat the process later
For someone else unsuspecting

Today was different, however
While in the midst of my self-imposed diligence
Making telephone calls, sending e-mails
Working to satisfy that inner voice

With Pandora switched on, I suddenly found myself awash
In the pleasantries that come only from so very deep
Part memories, part new material
In the form of music

What is that coming up from within?
Do you feel it, too?
What is that, part tears, part joy
Something eternal, something perennial

Can you put yourself that place with me?
Feel that cool marble floor beneath your feet?
The architecture, the smells, the beauty of this building here?
Somebody who worked so forever hard to cradle this emotion here

I have never been to Sardinia, but suddenly

I have.

The pictures, like that above captioned
Just swim over my today-consciousness like good sangria
On a beautiful sunny day in some piazza somewhere,
With some good friends, loved ones, or

Maybe all of the above.

There it is again, my friend, did you catch that?
It always seems like so close, but often so far away, when
Just as suddenly it comes right up to you
And there I am, in the midst of it, again

In the middle of something I cannot explain
Nor concoct
Of a divine making, almost

Set the laptop aside,
Lay down the telephone, and
Just watch those images inside my eyelids
Of places that I have been, or places I wish to go

Praying, on some deeper level, that there are more lives yet to live
In places like that
Or accompanied with tunes like this
Something akin to the word "lullaby" in Italian, this title is

However peaceful and pacifying and Pacific it might be
There I was, this afternoon
Awash in some up-welling inner tranquility
Not worked up on my own, no

Not yoga-powered into some Tantric trance
Nor flavored with liquor
Nothing physically demanding at all
Just being alert, aware, and able to devote

A modicum of attention to whatever was passing by
Either on the by-ways of this physical plane, or
Better yet
On that Oz-like inner highway that transcends all of us

There I was again,
Thanks to dear Signore de Rosas

In another place

Another time, maybe

Another dimension

But, altogether available, and
I might say

Highly encouraging.

Bobo

2011-09-12T14:52:00.002-05:00

I know this image looks like Bozo the Clown.
It even says Bozo if you look closely at the front.
But that's not how I remember this particular toy.
I remember it, as do my family and friends,

As Bobo.

Bobo the Punching Clown.
Hit him, hit him again, again and again.
And he always, eventually, comes a-bouncing right back.
With that goofy smile still affixed on his face.

Go ahead, punch away.

A few years ago, in my last corporate job
I was asked to write a personal evaluation of my recent performance.
At the time, I was teetering on the sharp edges of the Peter Principle.
And hanging, a la Harold Lloyd, on another teetering edge of corporate security

Frankly, this job was not - and never would be for me - a fit, and I
Had erred grievously in accepting a golden-throated headhunter's pitch.
Having left relatively secure things at home, for a chance at
Yet another elusive company gold ring

When you're thousands of miles away from your home
Convinced that you need to pursue what's in front of you regardless
You lurch forward, continually, blindly,
Even if it might be

Into yet another cocked roundhouse
Conference room upper-cut

After writing this little self-perspective piece, and sending it onward and upward
My supervisor gave me a call.
Said the evaluation needed to be re-written.
"Be a little more self-critical", was the attached advice.

After two more thrusts into and onto the emotional down elevator,
The review was ready for final submission.
More like a slippery slope of that final chute
Into depression, but

It was better, so the dictate said
To have someone else upgrade you, rather than
The other way around, so
I let this become part of the record, as they say in the courtroom.

Go ahead, punch away.

I eventually bounced back, was sent to another country
Where the punching resumed
This time, as the cold dark nights of a far northern climate enveloped and suffocated me,
I sought medical help.

Now, waking each overcast and frigid morning.
I looked at a bottle of Prozac perched on my coffee table.
Deciding that such consumption could then be part of a record
Of both clinical, medical, and official depression

Fearful of that condemnation, I chose to abstain
Went to the refrigerator instead, often
Opted for something to help me sleep instead
So I could be rested for what assuredly would be yet more of the same tomorrow

Go ahead, punch away.

Years later, I find myself swaying back upward yet again
Having finally let go of the hand of that ticking company clock, falling
Onto some sort of awning, I guess
And bouncing into an unknown street.

Driving around these days, often wondering
About life as it swings toward you, sometimes high, sometimes low
Often coddling you, steadying your stance
Then, just as suddenly, a strike from the side or the rear

And down you go again.

Most of you know that I am in another world now.
Not anywhere near the edges of my competency any longer
But tucked comfortably, in far-flung rural outreaches of my home country
In a time and place where I find it easier nowadays to wobble upright

Looking, on occasion to those places and souls in my past
On the television
On Facebook
On LinkedIn

Where I once proudly, even arrogantly, pushed myself forward
Into prevailing winds of companionship, even camaraderie
Only to find that there was only so much room on that ledge
And that the "Bozo" stencil was etched on the front of my head.

Go ahead, punch away.

Now, it is far better to be aware
Of one's footing, such as it is, and be
Flexible, pliant, able to move to and fro
When the pushing and shoving finally come your way, you can

Move with the flow, even downward for a time, knowing
Even being assured, oddly
That you will most definitely, following those pesky Newtonian notions
Bounce right back, into

What life will bring for you down the road,
Your road, my road, any road.
Where my wish for you, dear reader, is:
Whatever, whomever, from wherever your punches may come

That they apply themselves to you in such a way, that as you
Glide gently down the other side of life's steeper slopes
You will smile, rest comfortably, gratefully at peace within,
Anticipating the simple fact that

You will indeed bounce back

And look at life with that same goofy, affixed smile,

Saying:

Go ahead, punch away.

Jerry's Red Dirt

2011-09-03T12:04:00.001-05:00

The truck with the out-of-state plates pulls around the corner, following odd directions
Go past the town three miles, and then turn to the north.
Drive for another half mile.

"How will I find your house?", asked the salesman with the odd accent.

"It's the only one there", the deadpan Oklahoma answer.

Coming through the gates, rattling over the cattle guard.
The dust swirls around, flying up and over the vehicle.
Circling, dissipating here and there
Into the hot, dry landscape all around.

Jerry's red dirt.

He tells the story of how this once supported healthy crops.
Wheat, soybeans, cotton, peanuts.
As far as the eye can see, every direction
A little bit of water now and then,
And the soil would do it's work.

Holding up the fruit of it's best effort from beneath.
Green sprouts, soon opening into sheaves of
Good grain, healthy and vibrant
Pouring seeds into the rich soil all around

Jerry's red dirt.

Cattle would shuffle over this same soil.
Looking for grass, weeds, outcroppings of whatever was suitable.
That came from the right combination of elements down in there.
Maybe a soft, cool place to linger for a while

A place to congregate together
Care for their young
Find some shade from the warm sun
Or the gusts that came from over the hill each winter

There in

Jerry's red dirt.

His gaze shifts outward, eyes narrowing
Crinkles against what soon will be dusk
Looks at the Expat, almost past him
Begins to speak of all this in past tense.

The crops are all gone now, sent along to market months ago.
To the grain silos, now emptying out over there in town.
All waiting for rain to replenish, to soften, to prepare for the next planting.

That never took place.

Last week, the last of the cattle headed into the truck.
Taken to the auction in the next county.
No longer able to sustain them here.
Best to make the best use of them in another place.

On another's plate, to keep the plates here full
For another season or so.

The eyes veer to the north, hoping maybe
For a hint of clouds, the slightest of breezes
Some comfort in the weather predictions
Of cold fronts and changes in pressure

But no, it's still so terribly hot
The Red River down in the next valley now runs dry
The canyon itself a testament to what once was
A ravine still waiting, seemingly forever, to do it's job

I smiled my best hospice smile
One reserved for bedridden grandmothers and terminal patients
I sympathize, but will never fully understand
One so completely invested

He who wakes every morning to look out again
See the desolation that goes as far as his eyes can see
Feel the dry skin on his arms, his neck, his face
Climb into his truck, maybe head into town

Coffee with a friend or two
Sharing the sense of desperation and concern
Strengthens and deepens the friendships out there
Those who have survived the downturns, the auctions

I close the door of my truck, fling the A/C switch over a few notches
Leave the radio off, not interested in tempering
Or the distractions from
The emotions that tear into me like chorizo con huevos acid

Eating their way into my heart and soul, as I
Flash back onto that kindly, weathered face
Who looked continually hopeful, but realistic
Of what it might take to survive here yet another season

Sitting in my motel room, a few hours later
Wounded from being in the midst of so much silent suffering
Closed shops, boarded-up offices, dirty and dusty trucks rumbling
Waiting for insurance payments and seed loans

Peeling off my sweaty company-logo shirt
Reaching down to untie my shoes, anticipating
The one porcelain place around the corner where water still flows
And I find myself looking, at the point of my shoes

One more time, upon

Jerry's red dirt.

In the Joint

2011-08-29T13:31:00.001-05:00

I sat in this little place a couple of nights ago
Contemplating my existence
Again.

A small barbecue restaurant in the eastern Ozarks, near the far northern reaches
Of the border of my territory.

I keep thinking of Linda Ronstadt crooning in the olden days,

"From Tucson to Tucumcari, Tehachapi to Tonopah...
drinking every kind of drink that's ever been made..."

Could say the same things nowadays, I guess.

As I linger at a quiet table, looking over a picturesque little river below the restaurant.
Wandering through the cole slaw and baked beans in front of me
Poking on my Blackberry with one finger, telling Joe that I had made it yet again
To another far-flung location.

And that I still love her.

Thinking as I tap the folded sales slip in my front pocket here
In my Hawaiian Jimmy Buffett Special shirt
Assured that I will at least pay for this trip
With today's work

And maybe even a utility bill here or there

I marvel at how far I have moved
Down the social rungs of career and social status
To land here, rather softly
In a place that no longer has pretense.

My business card says little more that this
No longer grand tales of accomplishment or authority
Of lines below of subordinate dotted lines or subjects
Just me and that truck parked out there, now.

And a couple of shower curtain rings to sell.

I wonder if Willy Loman ever had moments like this,
When, wandering into another McDonald's for a glass of $1 sweet tea
Crawling into another strange bed, with curtains drawn over outside neon lights
Slipping into a booth with a plate of another local's favorite food

I am at peace in this place, oddly.

A soft landing, indeed.
Into a place without pomp and circumstance
No suit coats or PowerPoint here, no
Organization charts or weekly meetings
Are far from this place here

Just, if you have a minute to talk, to share
With me and this stuff that I sell
Before another long drive ahead begins
Past Love's truck stops and local diners

Into the hills of the next county
A radio that jumps from jazz to country music
To NPR
Just like the mind that rolls around inside this head

Wondering how I got to this place, but
In the end
Rather pleased that I got here
Nonetheless

Now the handshake means something
Coming from here
Now the name exchanges accompany eye-to-eye stares
And friendships that are certainly not far behind

Home to a property that I no longer own
And no longer owns me
Home to a good soul that loves me for what I am inside here
Not for what I was, or

What I have become

And, funny enough in those strange places out there
Reflecting at the end of another surreal day
So far away from what I usually find familiar
That I have accomplished something here.

Not so much of what has been sold
Nor of what roads have been successfully traveled
Hands shaken, souls met
Business cards dealt out like so many aces and deuces

Rather, the soul that sits inside at that table up there
In that little barbecue restaurant
Comfortable in his quiet, new existence
Is finally, through all the twists and turns of what still

Churns inside

At peace...

In this joint.

Land of Forgotten Consonants

2011-08-21T19:17:00.000-05:00

I was in this place recently.

Attending a trade show, of sorts.
Which, in this part of the country, is more or less a free-for-all
Accompanied by substantial amounts of biscuits and gravy.
People that are indeed friendly, outgoing...

In their own way, of course.

Problem is, for this wayward blogger
They seem to lack the appropriate pronunciation
For me to gain any foothold
Of comprehension

I met a bus driver while there
Kindly enough, he was
I asked, ignorantly, where he hailed from

Of course, expecting a tersely-enunciated, West Coast answer
He responded, after an interminable delay.

"Waal, I'm from Blaaaaaah"

Dumbfounded, I asked my booth neighbor,
Wherefore art thou, I pray thee?
What in the hell did this guy just utter?

He answered, with the help from his pocket translator\

Blytheville

"Oh", I replied.
With a look much like certain Children of the Corn.
I repeated the place to myself, somewhat sotto voce.
While turning in my atlas to find indeed that this little town was not on Mars.

Taking extra care with those sharp turns of t's and h's
To myself, I formed the words, like any studious first grader.
Rounding out with the completion of the totally-pronounced French derivative
Of a suffix that means, "town".

Oh, yes, I am going there again tomorrow.
To a place even farther afield.
Well beyond the friendly confines of Texarkana
Past the sophistication of the state capitol in the state's midsection

Far beyond the birthplace of one of our recent presidents,
Who, of course, long ago vacated for lands that use
Such precious letters in our alphabet
And eat other foods that don't simply fall out of a frying basket

But, no, I stray from said subject.
Of tomorrow's journey
Into that odd place
Next to my adopted home state.

And, tomorrow evening, I will surely dine
In a place that flings plastic baskets
In your general direction
With anything inside from catfish to hush puppies to living room furniture

Wrapped in napkins,
Or the Little Rock Gazette

Caked in that flaky brown batter
Fried to perfection
Fraaaaaaaaahed show nuff....

Yes, there I will be again
Can you picture this in your mind, dear reader?
Sitting at a table for one
Looking somewhat lost, but surely amused

Crinkly half-smile across my face
Flapping my flip-flop nervously across my heel
Laminated dog-eared menu in my hand,
Looking askance around the little cafe

Wondering if Fred or Arnold Zipfel will soon
Traipse across the room in front of me
Eddie Albert pounding a pitchfork outside
Mr. Haney pulling up with his wagon with something to sell

No, these are parked in long-ago fantasies, stored
Simply to amuse me back underneath that balding pate
But now the moment of truth will soon arise,
As the waitress taps her worn down pencil on her pad

Thinking of a beverage, I will surely utter
Aaaaaaaaaaaaased teeeeeeee.

And, as surely as tomorrow afternoon will come
I will have arrived.

Oh, yes, please think of me.
As my shower curtain rings and I will soon traverse
That Red River
And arrive, soon enough

In a very strange land, that which
Occupies so little of our national conscience these days
But, surely enough, moves right along
In a hazy bliss that contains so little of what concerns us

Over here

In that land of forgotten consonants.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!

Mei Fun Mei Hem

2011-08-15T09:00:00.005-05:00

I love Chinese food.
All kinds.
All places.
Even in Oklahoma. Or in Phoenix.

Places where you would not expect Chinese to live
Much less to cook and serve to the public.

My life's rule is to never stick with the normal, the mundane.
So many days on the road, I refuse
To eat in a Denny's, or an Olive Garden.
Anything that taints the landscape with it's coast-to-coast sameness.

So, as I wander around the Southwest these days
I find various places to eat, to stay, to linger
That you wouldn't - couldn't - find anywhere else.

In Japanese, China is spoken as "chu-goku"
Meaning, "center country".
Even they recognize the place as somewhat of a progenitor
Certainly of culture, of language, of written characters,
Of cuisine.

It is always remarkable to me to find such establishments
In the most unlikely of places
And, finding such locations, tucked away
In some strip mall or around the corner over there

In some tiny town
I can't resist

Wandering in, happy to find a cool respite
Looking around the buffet tables, to find
Those dishes which I recognize, am familiar
Kind reminders of a past life far, far away

The noodles, the dim sum dishes
Yes, even the rice pudding, brings back
Memories of things that still make me happy
Using chopsticks in Oklahoma or Arizona or South Texas

While the cowboys at the next table basically just tip their plates
Like human skip loaders
Right into their mouths
Washing it down with all that Dr. Pepper.

Of course, there are some liabilities inherent
Knowing, from my years in the food business
That Chinese can make delicious concoctions out of
Things that we Westerners would simply throw away

And, while such delectables sit beneath that plastic shield
That shields little, I know
Sometime, well
Things happen

The following day, in the middle of yet another
Shower curtain ring presentation, said speaker
In the midst of yet another baritone delivery
Suddenly winces, grimaces, looks afar

It must be this heat, I am sure the audience thinks
Or the change in climate, down here
So far away from his home
Bouncing around in that truck getting here, for sure

Has set his plumbing awry

Ah, as I think to myself, it is not
Any of the above, of course
It is the price one pays for being just a little
Too exotic, at times

Taking a chance on that Singapore mei fun
An ice cold glass of that Tsingtao beer.
All instead of a double-triple-cheeseburger and fries
Or a fountain beverage of my choice.

No, thank you
I'll take my chances on the exotic
Across the ocean, or even
Across the street, knowing

That, at times
That good food, that reminiscent environment
Those few spoken words of Mandarin that I remember
"Please", "thank you", "delicious".

Are well worth the risk, as I
Excuse myself now from the presentation, maybe
A bit earlier than planned
To contemplate my life's choices

In yet another quiet and secluded location.

Great Expectations

2011-07-30T13:36:00.001-05:00

I travel a lot in my new job.
Most every week, I hit the road again.
And again
And again

My territory is large, including this particular state,
And the four surrounding it.
With each departure, I have
Expectations.

That each adventure will be a profitable one.
That new customers will be encountered,
Added to the list
Sold.

And, since this area is so expansive, that
I might also be able to
Enlist some help.

Recently, I have taken it upon myself to solicit
Through various cyberspace avenues
Positions involving sales in the nether regions
And working, together,

With yours truly

This past week's sojourn involved such an objective
As I moved out of this state, to find such help
From particular aspirants who had responded to my requests.

One applicant was quite strident,
In his insistence
That he was the perfect fit for this job.

Having worked for a competitor
For many years in the past, he felt
He could add significant value to this company
Enthusiastic and knowledgeable, he

Met every criteria.

I was excited to meet with him, but
Had another meeting along the way, with
One who was far less energetic, but was
Constant, regular, and always responsive.

I met the latter candidate first, as I was hoping
For a profitable week out there in the field.
Meeting these two aspirants

The man was right on time at our pre-arranged place
Ready to respond, had good questions.

Cutting right to the chase, we shook hands
And were gone from each other presence
In minutes.

Off I went to meet
The second - perfect - match for this job description
In another location

This person had said in our last conversation
That he would name
The appropriate place and time, when
I was proximate to his home town.

Funny, the feeling one has, when
As you approach such moments of trut
A pit in your stomach opens up, and
You see certain big events for what they really are

Images in my mind, as I drove closer
Of great sales, great accomplishments together
A grand relationship, of mutual benefit
To one another

With this ebullient and confident candidate

As time slowly passed
There was no phone call
No e-mail
No text message

No meeting.

Some hours later,
I ate alone in this young man's home town
Wondering, as I stared at my cell phone
What I might have missed in those energized conversations

What I was going to do as a result

Of my table for one, here
At an insignificant restaurant
In a suddenly very lonely town

Returning, later that evening
To tell Joe of my travels, and of the
Grandly advertised 21st century Willy Loman
Who never materialized

To be sure, there is now a serious, dedicated
New hire in another state out there, but
My great expectations have ended with this
This relatively empty net.

Such are the travails of the sales person
Who has such optimism when the truck door slams
And you ease onto another Interstate
Anticipating your first encounter

But, as often is the case
You return with stories of
Unanswered calls
Interminable minutes in lobbies and waiting rooms

Pushed off to indeterminate dates
Ignored by others, worse yet
Of promises made and not fulfilled

Such was my experience this past week
As I sat at a restaurant table in another state
And wondered, what are the lessons
As I looked again, and felt inside

This empty net.

Side Pocket Benefits

2011-07-23T10:53:00.005-05:00

I remember when I learned to shoot pool as a young boy.
Sometimes when it seemed there was no way to find a good shot
And it appeared that every direction had some hazard waiting
The best solution came when you just lined up your shot

And fired away.

Once in a while, to my pleasant surprise
Something would fall in

Side pocket benefits, I liked to call them.

Driving through endless hours of South Texas terrain
Through mesquite brush-lined expanses of nothing-ness
In between dusty hills, two-laned highways
Water-mirage roads rising up and down

Finally arrived at a little farm store near a crossroads
Between nowhere and nowhere.

A few shower curtain rings slide across the counter
Gonzalo takes a look, holds them up to his eye
"Ta bueno" finally comes from his twisted mouth

I ask if there's a place to eat around here, suddenly hungry.
"Aqui, Senor"

Sitting in my idling truck
Eating barbeque brisket tacos, wrapped in foil
Drinking a 16-ounce Mexican Coke.
Enjoying, in the middle of the hazards of my newfound trade

A side pocket benefit.

A few days later, a little farther down the road
Again, finding myself looking at a menu
That seemed rather unfamiliar,
The culinary equivalent of
Too many pool balls lying around

Thinking this was not the suburban Mexican fare of my home town
But, rather, and invitation to rear back
And take your best shot

I went to the sweltering restroom to gather my wits
My lunch companion ordered me a lemonade while I was away
Thinking a can of something familiar would await me,
I found a fresh-squeezed beverage from local lemons

And then, the door swung open
And out came a plate of my heretofore best shot

Entomatadas

Hand-rolled tortillas, stuffed with chicken
Covered in cotija cheese and onions

Another side pocket benefit to my latest risk.

Driving northward yesterday, I couldn't help but smile
Thinking that another of life's odd lessons
Learned, and then forgotten, on a pool table so far away
So long ago

Has suddenly found me again,
As I grope my way forward, thrust out again into a strange new world
Of sales, of new products, and indeed
Of new territories and new customers.

Finding, so often, pool balls of sorts lying all around me
Crowding in, calling out for another risk to take

"Give it your best shot", I hear them say.

And now, my sense of adventure just a little stronger
My skin slightly thicker
A little more pressure on the waist of my pants, for sure
A crinkled smile over the sweat on my forehead and face

I find myself collecting, yet again
Unexpected rewards in the midst of all this
Disarray and confusion, even fear

Side pocket benefits.

Salud!

The Expat From Hell

A Little Farther

2011-07-09T12:41:00.002-05:00

"Let's have a hand for that young cowboy

And wish him better luck next time
And hope we see him up in Fargo
Or somewhere farther down the line"

Somewhere farther down the line, indeed.

To tell the truth, I can count the times I have climbed onto a horse
On one hand.
And an amputated hand, at that.

I remember hearing some "expert" telling me, as a young boy
To pull back on the reins when you wanted the horse to slow down.

Maybe even say something nice in his ear.

Hell, for all I know I was pointing the wrong way in that saddle
Pulling back on what I was certain were reins
Only to find that I was most definitely not speaking
Into the poor beast's ear

I think about my past life, and wonder
How many times
I was actually convinced I was all a-saddled up
Ready to face the world

Only to find that I was pointing the wrong way
Barely a semblance of control, even
Demonstrating my agility with the "reins"
Showing how I could pass such sage advice

Into that ear.

Then, maybe at the end
Of what clearly was about eight seconds of elapsed time
Finding myself in arena dirt
Wondering what just happened

"This time he sure drew a bad one

One that nobody could ride
But by the way he pulled his hat on
You knew he'd be there for the fight"

In any case, all saddled up again, I am
Got this new horse all cleaned up and polished
Pointed in what I am convinced now is the right direction
And heading to points south on Monday morning

Being raised a stone's throw from the border all my life
Any time I head that way, I can only think
Of all things Mexican
In the most positive of lights, by the way

I know, current events aside
I still love the place, the culture
And, of course, the food
The ambience, even

The current job aspects gather momentum, as I
Figure things out, heading up and into
Not only more subjects whom to peddle
The aforementioned shower curtain rings, but

Even to appoint those to sell
In my stead, in locales far-flung
The shower curtain rings for me
Somewhat of a sales manager, becoming

Nevertheless, not forgetting
All the bumps and bruises
From past events, which found me
Thrown from so many horses

Even as I chanted the most refined of advice
Into the animal's ear

"And it's the classic contradiction

The unavoidable affliction
Well it don't take much to predict son
The way it always goes"

I wonder sometimes, how it has changed me
If those who answer my calls can see, or even sense
That this cowboy has seen his share of
Southbound sides of northbound horses

And, from this perspective, it makes
Things all the better, when you
Finally make that connection
Knowing, that after all is said and done

You are riding again

Sprained and broken fingers, now healed
Not altogether perfectly, but
Still rather able
To curl around the subject at hand

Be it a new customer
Be it a new sales member
Likely with gnarled stories like yours truly
Who can share, as the border gets ever closer

Those stories which have shaped, formed
And scarred us all.

As those mis-shaped ears hear the music
Getting ever closer, as that dear country nears

That crooked nose, forever misshapen, can smell
The scents of cocina Mexicana emanating

The stiff and arthritic fingers can, once again
Curl around this

And savor

What life has brought

Yet again

It's a delightful combination, dear friends
Of Bloody Mary mix and good cerveza
For what ails you
Both past and present

And I look forward to
Recounting the trials and tribulations
Of the coming week, as I
Find myself, once again

Pushing towards a border

"And it was his last chance to ride it

And now he'll have to move along
But he knows back in his mind that
He won't be away for long"

Lyrics (in italics) from Lyle Lovett's "A Little Farther Down the Line"

Shower Curtain Rings

2011-07-02T08:50:00.001-05:00

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn..." - Jack Kerouac, from "On the Road"

It's funny how the last few weeks have found me somewhat re-invented.

Gone are the Expat days, such as they were.

Now a new kind of Expat, one who is discovering a very different culture, out there

On the road.

I am the 21st century equivalent of the Shower Curtain Salesman.

An odd mixture of Jack Kerouac,
John Candy (boy, do I miss him these days),
Maybe some Willy Loman,
...and some slices of my former self.

Slices like the rolling suitcase that used to glide over glossy airport floors,
Those now replaced by gravelly, crunchy parking lots in front of Econo Lodges.

Slices like the linen tablecloths that used to undergird my meals
Those now replaced by red-and-white plastic covers, in no-name diners near Route 66.

Slices like the rat-a-tat West Coast rustle of my "elevator presentation" of yore
Those now replaced by far slower, enunciation-free, painstakingly slow elocution

That of the traveling shower curtain ring salesman, you see.

Now that I think of it more deliberately,
I am not sure that I miss the old days, to tell the truth.

Funny, but this seems far closer to life's truth
Waking up, looking out the window onto some highway
Wandering into a motel lobby for some Raisin Bran
Climbing back into my truck for another drive

There isn't anywhere farther to fall, actually.
Rejection from uninterested sales subjects isn't so painful
Anymore

Talking, simply for the sake of making a connection, seems appropriate
When you change the backdrop like this

Many of my new customers are farmers
Ranchers
Truckers
Mechanics

Frankly, they are far more real people than the ones I used to know.

The places where they live and work are actual communities,
With real people in them
With tangible and tactile things to do

To accomplish

At the end of their days, they can look out
And see the fruit of their handiwork
The miles traveled down the Interstate
The repaired and refurbished

Continuing their mechanical lives in peace

Sometimes the old tapes jump back up
And make me laugh.

Checking into a motel in Oklahoma last week
Standing at the counter, waiting
For a clerk, that I was certain
Would look like this

But no, a very kindly Pakistani woman
Brought me suddenly back to my Expat years
And instead of meeting her in some conference room in Europe
Here we were, my credit card between us,

In Oklahoma.

In a strange way, I am happy now
More settled on a new Earth
Maybe even finding a pair of boots, someday soon
To replace the flip-flops

Which do a terrible job of evading West Texas thorns.

And the shower curtain salesman
Climbs into his truck again
For Arkansas, for Louisiana
For the South Texas Coast (now there's a story in the making)

His brochures, his samples
His suddenly-wobbly-wheeled suitcase
Tucked away in the back
Alan Jackson singing through the stereo

Looking for his next Jack Kerouac adventure
Nothing more to evoke a yawn, a commonplace thing
But only, from now on, to become

A strange sort of mad.

For this new life.

Little Martha

2011-06-06T18:13:00.000-05:00

I used to watch him come and visit me.

He would sit there for hours, just staring at my little place
In the sun
Here.

Said he was getting inspired, getting a sense of direction on where to go.
With his life
With what to write.
What to play.

I really didn't believe him.
Actually, I just thought he liked being around me.
Sometimes he would bring his friends around.
Some of them were very strange, indeed.

Usually it was just him, though.
Coming for his little visits.

I heard later that he actually wrote a song about me.
When asked, he said it was about his girlfriend at the time.

People can be so fickle, can't they?
Why can't they just admit the truth?

Yet, sometimes they can do the most amazing things
In the spur of the moment, you know?

And, even though I have been gone from this place for so long.
Suddenly, there's a song out there

In everyone's head
In everyone's heart
On everyone's mind

And it's about me.

Such an odd legacy, as I stand here.
Watching quietly, so eternally in peace.
Waiting for him to come back
Maybe some day we can be friends again

Perhaps neighbors.

Little Martha died at age 12, in Georgia.
Not very much is known about her, except this small statue pictured above.
Commemorating her life.

Many years later, a young man would visit the cemetery,
And get inspiration for his songs.
The man was Duane Allman.

He wrote "Little Martha " in 1971
And died a few months later in a motorcycle accident.

Now, Duane is at peace, at rest.
Just down the path from Little Martha.

Who died in 1836.

To this day, at the close of Allman Brothers concerts
Around this country, around this world,
A song is played over the public address system

To thank the attendees
To give credence to those who have gone before us
To give us remaining some comfort, encouragement

All these years later, that
Inspiration can and is, indeed eternal
And we all can remember Duane Allman

We all can remember

Little Martha

Road Kill

2011-06-03T16:59:00.001-05:00

I am back from my road trip.
Already planning another for next week.
And another for the week following.
And on it goes, you see
Being the neo-road warrior that I have become.

Learned a few things about my trade
A few more about those wily customers out there
And, while I was at it, staring at the inside of the windshield for so long
About myself.

Working with people is a lot like singing
You often have to change your tone a bit to get your message across
Yes, that sounds strange, doesn't it?
But, it is the marketing inside of all of us that sometimes

Unbeknownst to each of us
That only dogs at times can seem to hear

I have tried this, and found that
If you switch from higher to lower, adjust your tones
Softer to harder, less acid, more palate
No sharp edges on those syllables, now

The listener will often change their own responses
Maybe that came from all of those years standing
In front of the amplifier, but
There's my latest truth

The newest uncovered rock.

So now I am back at home for a few days.
My son-in-law has come to visit Texas

Seems he misses the searing heat here
And the peace and quiet after all those years in Manhattan

Joe has traded places with him for a few days, so
It's the Expat and the Kid now
My New York daughter is a militant vegetarian

And, thankfully, my son-in-law is not

So, of course, that means that good Father-in-Law Expat must
Er, entertain son-in-law in a rather carnivorous way
Off we went today to the newest hamburger joint in town
The Heart Attack Grill

Ate from the above captioned menu

I know, I know
It's bad for you, well
So is frozen pizza
And Los Angeles air
And tap water
And Celine Dion music

And I am still here to tell about it
After consuming all of the above
In overly copious amounts

Order up, young son-in-law
This may be your only chance for a long time

Such a gimmick, this hamburger place
The ambience reminds me of Ozzie and Harriet days
Of malt shops and Travelin' Man
Wally Cleavers and Eddie Haskells.

Of course, the enterprising proprietor has simply
Changed his tone a bit, and
What do you know?
He is suddenly popular

Selling things that we have always known
Just making them a little more plain and simple
In a vernacular that we are used to hearing from doctors and such
But understandable nonetheless

Funny, how some small inperceptible changes
In a product that is so familiar, suddenly becomes
Attractive

There I am, in a hospital gown
Drinking a 100% butter fat malt shake
Chomping down a Single Bypass with bacon
Eating lard-cooked french fries, wondering

At my own susceptibility, of another who
Simply changed his tone
Changed his tune
And found a new customer

Makes me think a bit, today
For a while, anyway
About those tone changes that lie ahead for me
How soon, how adeptly I can move
With the flow

Of whatever lies ahead

And maybe repackage what others have always known
But just need to hear it
In another key

Well, the hour is late
I see the son-in-law has found his appetite again
It's off to the local taco stand
Frozen margaritas on this 99-degree afternoon

Why to the taco stand?
I don't know

Maybe it's the new tone in town

Road Trip

2011-05-19T17:58:00.011-05:00

You know, this could develop into something.

I mean, here I am...the Expat.
With humble West Coast origins,
Posted to foreign lands a number of times,
And then...

After a rather elongated absence, suddenly
Sent abroad again.

Well, not exactly.
I just received news from the favored employer that
I am to embark next week on my first road trip.
To a land of things unfamiliar to me

A place only known in the faintest of memories
Part of a new territory given to me, I have
Some responsibility for it's growth and success there

If you've never been there, well I suggest the following:

Yes, the flip flops will meet the pig fat, as it were.
A trip to Arkansas is on the calendar, my friends.

I will get to meet some co-workers
Visit with some new customers
Perhaps make a few of my own

Visit exotic places with names like

Little Rock
West Memphis
Texarkana

And, God forbid, partake of the local fare.

I should not disparage too much at this point,
After all, a President once lived there
And my adopted home state shares a border
Even a river

With the place

You can imagine that I am excited, in any case
To get on the road again
To ply my wares, get these cobwebs brushed away
And have a slice of bacon or two while I am at it.

Perhaps even meet a farmer or a truck driver,
The place being known for cotton, logging
The manufacture of a number of things

And the complete destruction of modern English.

Visit a few stores, those of the farming variety
With overalls, auto parts, feed and tack
All hung nicely on the walls
Next to the feral hog from last fall

Yes, I will fit right in, don't you think?
Flip-flopping my way into the store
Tipping my backwards beret back a bit
Inquiring with that ascerbic look

Where I might find the wine bar.
Or the fish tacos

Oh, yes, this should be good.
Another country for the Expat to visit.
Another culture to immerse into,
To grow in ways heretofore unknown

I am sure it will make things all the easier
If the chute of knowledge is lined

With lard

Stand by, good friends, for more postings
Tacked on the rough pine wall
Right next to the barn dance poster
And above the pickle barrel

Yee haw.
Load up the truck, granny.
Cue the Roy Clark banjo music, if you will

Frankly, I would rather head in
With a little of this...

And, as you can imagine

Yes, indeed.
This is gonna be good.

Still, It Writes

2011-05-17T16:45:00.004-05:00

Funny, after however long you may go
Some things just continue to work
Like they were always a part of you
Like they had never left

I had some errands to run this morning,
And stopped by the doggie day-care to sign in
My trusted MinPin for an hour or so.
Had to fill in some new information on the form

The attendant there gave me a pencil
Worn down, I assume by long use
Saw the old phone number there on the form, next to my name
As we have moved from the old house some weeks ago

Flipped the little utensil in my hand, to erase the old number
I thought: Man, it's been a long time since I rubbed out
Old information
Old tapes
Old

And no longer correct

But, even though it has been so very long
I still functioned as if I was back in grade school
Stroked that little rubber grate across the page
Brushed aside the refuse of paper and old scribblings

And wrote anew

An unsuspecting prospective employer
Chanced across my resume recently
Saw some of my job postings
Even noted my education, that being

Something not-quite-secular, you see

The interview, such as it was
Went into a rather strange mix
Of marketing, evangelism, politics
And I responded, much like

That little pencil at the kennel today

Just went across the page
Across the subjects, as if
I had never left, as if
It was third grade all over

So, I am working again
In a different industry, to be sure
With a different territory, that being
The one that lies - seemingly endless at times
All around this fair state.

But, visiting with potential customers recently
Found that the voice box still worked
The brain synapses clicked together
Moving from subject to objection to close

Like I had never left
Like I had always been here
Like writing with a pencil that was always a part of this left hand

Sure, the pencil is smaller now
With far less left to write
Eraser well worn, some scarring
Along the sides here

But, write it will
Long and straight, even erasing
When the strokes move incorrectly
And the lines are crossed

Nevertheless, when you wonder
If you will live to write another day, suddenly
The tool is placed in your hand, and you look down
Almost amazed, at how you grip this

Like you never left it

And, left arm cocked across the clipboard
You move as if the letters were a part of you
This product you are selling was something you've always done
And this is simply, well

Natural

I am back to work now, rising every morning
As if it has always been this way,
Wondering
Where these past months went

I suppose, when the next spare time comes
I should go back through these postings
Like some kind of odd journal
Of a road that simply, and almost endlessly

Went a new direction

And ended up, like this funny pencil

Here

His Best Shot

2011-05-07T09:00:00.004-05:00

My motto goes something like this:

If you ever have a chance, take it.

If someone gives you an opening, go through it.

You just never know what might happen.

And

It might be the only one you get.

Some years ago, I was in school.

Didn't like being in crowds, so I always sat in the back.

One day, during assembly period, there I was again.

In the rear seats of the auditorium.

Talking to some little guy sitting next to me.

"Ah, someday," I muttered, "I am going to get out of this place."

"Going to be a big baseball star. You just watch and see."

The fellow just listened, paying close attention to my words.

"Well," he finally said, "I would really like to be there for that."

"What do you mean?", I countered.

"Don't you want to play in the big leagues, too?"

"Nah. Not so much."

"But I would sure like to be there when it happens for you."

I didn't understand what the little dude meant.

Exactly.

Then again, I had other things on my mind.

Eventually, I graduated.

And, yes, I finally got a chance to play the game I loved.

For a lot more people.

You see, the economy had taken a turn for the worse,

And it was the only thing that I did well.

Soon I was playing ball, sent to the minor leagues.

Game after game, with no one really watching,

No one paying attention.

Then, one day,

The chance came,

The door swung open.

Somebody finally paid attention down here, saw me play my best.

I got a phone call, a summons to report

To the big team, in the big town.

There's my opening, I thought.

My chance to give it my very best.

I will make sure it makes the most impact

You can count on it.

It might be the only one I get.

Looks like we're headed east,

For a road trip, far away

To the big crowds and stadium

In New York.

Watch, you just wait and see.

If this is my only chance, then by golly

I am going to make a splash out there.

It's just too bad that the little guy back in school

Won't get his wish

To be there when it happens.

A true story.

Larry Miggins was a sports star in school.

After graduation, he signed a contract to play professional baseball.

Struggling in the minor leagues, the call finally came, his chance to play on the big club.

The St. Louis Cardinals.

A road trip to New York, to play the Dodgers.

At Ebbets Field, in 1952.

Being so close to his home town, Larry wanted to do his very best that day.

Finally getting his chance to bat, he saw the opening he had been waiting for.

He hit a home run in the third inning.

His very first in the major leagues.

The announcer, away up in the mezzanine area

His mouth open, his eyes transfixed

Watching his old school buddy trotting around the bases.

He clears his head, then his throat

To announce to the radio and stadium audience

Of the feat he has just observed on the field.

Larry only hit one more home run that year.

The following year, he was finished.

Out of baseball.

Wondering, I am sure, if he ever had made an impact

With the small opening,

That one chance

The sliver of opportunity he had.

Some years later, the little school friend was speaking

At commencement exercises at a West Coast university

Telling the graduates in the audience to never let go of their dreams

That some day, some time, you could be surprised at the opening -

And, more importantly, who might be watching.

You see, watching that home run in 1952 in Brooklyn

Announcing for the Dodgers up there in the press booth

And decades later, addressing the students at Pepperdine University in 2008

Telling the now age-old story of his school friend Larry Miggins

And his dreams of playing professional baseball

And making an impact, even hitting a home run

Taking the one small chance he had

The one sliver of opening

And, there now to tell the world of his story...

Was Vin Scully, thought by many to be the greatest of all American baseball announcers.

At the time of the commencement speech, he was eighty years old.

Sitting quietly in his home, somewhere far away

Thinking, perhaps, that his story and his victory was long forgotten

Forgotten from the ears of the prep school freshman

Forgotten from the crowds in St. Louis

Or the press boxes in New York

Or graduates from a far-away university 60 years later

Was Larry Miggins.

Tonto's Remorse

2011-05-06T09:00:00.050-05:00

Growing up in this country during the black and white television years,

I collected a rather strange aggregation of heroes

If you ever sat cross-legged in front of that radioactive box in those days,

You know very well what I am talking about.

It seemed that we had so many back then

And they had quite similar characteristics

Always riding to the rescue

Saving the day

At the last minute.

To make things right again

To re-establish justice

To give the injured their healing

And the evil their just due.

Always with the accompanying music

That went, almost, alongside them

Much like the trusty sidekick

That was always there at is side.

To this day, I can't associate

Anything else with that introduction

Of The William Tell Overture

But the pending entrance of my own special hero then.

Called the masked man,

Riding the white horse

Always in the nick of time

To save the day

Remembering, too, the end of each episode

When he would ride off into the vast beyond

Only to return someday, when

The need would surely come again

And I, forlorn and saddened, after a full

Thirty minutes of an episode, transfixed

Like the young boy in the famous Alan Ladd movie,

Almost wailing, at the box in front of me,

"Come back, Shane!"

I wonder now, if those heroes are too long gone

Feeling some of that sadness, that emptiness now

That would accompany me well into each Saturday, then

Following the grand rescue by the hero.

That if my country, my society, my culture, today

Has seen the last of heroes like that

And we have instead

Found ourselves reaching for those who pretend

With

Rather glaring deficiencies.

No longer with substance, for sure

No integrity, to their own individual characters

To who they really are

In fact, if the truth be known

A vanishing semblance

Of reality

A further dilution of the hero mentality

Morphing, slowly but surely

Into a somewhat diminished, even absent, reality.

Until now

We no longer discern between what is real

And what is not.

And now, like so many Tontos

We stand by, longingly, and watch those hills

To see, if maybe someday soon,

That trumpet will sound again

And he will ride again to the rescue,

Coming in the nick of time

To make things right for us

And put those others in the place that they belong

In the meantime,

I don't expect that outcome, truth be told

But at least I, and so many others in my generation

Hold the treasure of this story inside

Those legends, really not that far in the past

Of times, every Saturday

When heroes - while not truly real, were

Just enough rooted in reality to make sense

To little seven-year-old hearts, maybe.

Just enough, of all of us in those days, to relate

To our predicament, our state of mind

Our need

And, like so many, required the assistance

Of a trusty sidekick

A protector, an advisor, a friend

A Tonto

To prepare the way,

To preach that odd gospel of he who surely will come

To save the day for all of us

And make things right

More importantly,

As we watch that horizon now, knowing

Distinctly, the deepening valleys of

Emptiness inside of all of us

Our lands

Our peoples

Our culture

It seems, as time moves ever onward, that

That overture will not sound again, and

Will leave us wanting

Idle Tontos, the way prepared, impatient

For Silver to rear up, and gallop forward

The opening accompaniment sounding

The warning shots into the air

Coming, one last time, perhaps, to

Save us all.

I take comfort in that which is so well defined

Inside of me, tucked so far away and back there

Of days, of stories, of scratchy episodes

Of rescue, of redemption

Of that hero.

And, as the shadows lengthen, the time runs

Longer and longer since that last appearance

Becomes, in some strange contrast

Better and better preserved, inside here

Very distinct and clear, even

Of what is missing now

Not any longer available in the vernacular

Relegated to the closet of our national culture

Packed away and ignored in the minds of our leaders

Missing on the store shelves

Absent from the streets

Silent within the bleating media

Almost beyond reach, beyond recall

Beyond the current capacity for

Imagination

Yet, a few of us left

Becoming scarcer, thinning in the herd

Who keep this treasure alive

Far below our aging surfaces

Sometimes you can see, on the rarest of occasions

The light deep inside our wrinkled eyes

That glimmer of a hope once realized

Never forgotten

Oh, it can happen, good friend

And it has, so many times before

Deep in the hearts of those among us.

Ah, Neighbors

2011-05-04T10:06:00.002-05:00

Wow.

What a great day outside!

Have you been out there yet?

It's springtime in this part of the country, for sure.

Time to get the lawn mower out.

Throw out some mulch.

Get the grill dusted off and ready to go.

Get re-acquainted with the neighbors

After a long, cold winter.

It seems that the scenery has changed, too

The souls up and down the street

Seem a little lighter

The words just bounce a little out of their mouths now

Their steps are lively, going by the house

Maybe it's the birds, I don't know

Or the bright, blue sky up there

Or the clean air, now that it has warmed a bit.

Looks like the place next door is empty now, as well.

For which I am somewhat surprised.

I mean, it was a nice place and all, but

The folks inside were a bit strange.

Hardly ever came out to talk.

Kind of kept to themselves, you know?

Once when I was out grilling last summer, I saw

The old guy come over by the wall there.

"Hey!", I shouted, waving my grilling fork in the air.

"Want to come over for a shish-kabob?"

He just smiled, and ducked back behind his big wall.

His big wall, indeed.

Oh well, I thought.

Not everybody can be friendly all the time, I suppose.

Seems like the other night, though

They decided to have quite the party.

I mean, I am a pretty sound sleeper and all, but

The noise coming from over there....

Sheesh.

You would think he was having the entire army over there

For his little hoity-toity party.

And I checked around,

None of the neighbors here were even invited.

Don't you just hate snobs like that?

So, I wake up this morning, look over the wall.

Whoa.

What a huge mess.

And what in the world is that smell?

Holes in the wall, see over there?

And there?

Papers and stuff thrown all over his yard.

Doors open, windows broken.

Boy, I guess when this guy wants to throw a party...

Now, I hear he's cleared out.

He and his little family.

Just like that, in the middle of the night.

Probably the landlord got a little mad

When he saw what kind of party this guy was having.

And, sure enough

Now there's a sign out.

Too bad

It was such a nice place, too.

Had a nice view.

You could sit out and watch the sunset

Wave to the neighbors walking by

Enjoy the cool summer breezes

Now, we all have to wait

In anticipation of who

Will come next.

Once they clean the place up, I guess.

I hope the next family is a little nicer, though.

Maybe get up and come outside once in a while.

You know, open a window

Breathe a little fresh air

Hang with the folks around the area.

Say "hi" once in a while when they walk by.

Come hang out, have a burger.

Play some cards, have a beer.

Get to know the good neighbors

Like me.

Wouldn't it be great if the new people

Would actually come to our block parties

Let their kids play with ours

Not be so damned religious about everything

All the time?

I feel sorry for the landlord, though.

Not just all the damage clean-up

But for the story he's going to have to tell

To the prospective new tenants

About the last family that was there

And the reputation that the guy had

All over the neighborhood here

And his strange friends, who

Weren't too friendly to start with

I wonder where he went

That old dude.

In the middle of the night, just like that.

With his family, I suppose.

Wonder if he had time to gather up

All his stuff.

I feel sorry for unfriendly people like that

Those who just sit inside their four walls

Don't talk to anyone, hardly ever

Never fire up the grill, as they say

Life just isn't the same for those kinds of folks, you know?

I mean, what's to enjoy for them?

They don't have any friends,

No acquaintances that I can see.

Just living there, day to day

In relative silence, I suppose

No one knows them,

No one cares about them.

Probably wouldn't be recognized if he dared to

Take the time to come outside

What a crappy life

I do feel sorry for them

And now, just like that

They're gone.

And just look at that place now

I bet the old guy won't get his deposit back.

King's Complaint

2011-05-02T20:45:00.001-05:00

Life is good down here.
As they say, it is good to be king.

Just a minute, it looks like we have company.

Excuse me, who are you?

Oh, really?

And you are from where?

Well, well, well.

From the land up there, are you?

And you have done what?

My, you really think you have made an impression up there, huh?

And, might I ask, how have you left such an impression?

And you think that will do it?

Make a lasting impression, I mean?

Let me explain what I mean to you

As in, how many islands have you formed up there?

No, not those kinds of islands.

Not islands of people, Al Qaeda, or whatever you call them.

I mean like Mykonos, Patmos, Santorini

Yeah, those kinds of islands.

And, I have caused earthquakes.

All over the place.

And people remember, saying

"Oh, no, he's done it again

From down below"

Oh, have you now?

No, buildings crashing into the ground don't count, I am afraid.

Why not, you ask?

Well, because I do my work here for certain reasons.

Not necessarily to undo the accomplishments of man
But rather,
To make him understand his relation, in comparison
To me

And my accomplishments

You might say it is a privilege of rank.
To be here, doing these things.

And then, I gain the necessary subservience.
Kind of like, it is earned.

Oh, have you, now?

And for how long, do you think?

I have chariots buried here in the sea from Alexander.
Songs sung to me by the Spartans.
Odes written three thousand years ago, still here.
Have shaken the grounds from shore to Mediterranean shore.

And, to this day present, I am remembered.
Say the name, and people know.
Name the place, and those around will remember.

You will do well to listen closely, new acquaintance.
I know that you are new here in these parts.
But your finger-pointing and insisting and demanding
Of all the "accomplishments" you have supposedly achieved

Up there
In those devastated places
On those saddened and angry souls
On those confused and fearful masses

Your new "subjects" who you say will worship
Will revere
Yes, even remember
You forever

Those shaken grounds,
Terrorized peoples
Religious demands

Let's just wait and see, new neighbor

How things stand
After a few more centuries.

Down here, among the creatures of the sea.
We have a different pecking order.
And you, newcomer
Have some things to learn

Perhaps, as you reflect over the coming eons
You will understand that to make an impact
Such as you insist that you have made
Up there

You will realize
Upon arrival here
As your feet sink into that which is below you
Your impact above might indeed

Slowly

Become such

As that which now
Crumbles between your toes.

Foul Ball

2011-04-30T09:44:00.002-05:00

Like most toilets

Our national news seems to

Collect the very worst from us, and

Swirl them around, and around, and

Around.

Never quite getting rid of them, they

Continue to assault us with

Screams for attention, until

Finally

They are replaced by something newer

Dirtier

Even more profound.

No, this is not a political diatribe

God knows you get enough of that

From the aforementioned

Porcelain - or is it plasma?

Receptacle.

This here is a slice of our culture, now

On display for all the world to see

Entertaining as it might be

It is something for all of us to consider

You can say all you want about this man

But, in the end, you must admit

He is firmly ensconced, not only in the news

But in our collective national conscience, he is

Always swirling around the television

First, in financial matters

Then, in entertainment's own arena

Finally

In politics.

Here, my good friends, the lines have vanished

Between what used to be

Distinct separations between what is

Real, and

What is fantasy.

We can no longer discern the difference, you see

The lines are now a thing of the past.

Therefore, our culture now puts those

Who used to earn

Entertain

Exploit

Offend

Regardless of from whence

At whom

In the middle of our spotlight.

Before you cast aspersions on

This man's opinion, or worse yet

His own moral development

Think long and hard about what is

In essence

This perfect cacophany of American culture

He is, in that sense

Rather

Perfect.

Loud

Brash

Opinionated

Yes, even at times

Foul.

But, once again, think long and hard

It isn't something you haven't heard

From the seats behind you at the arena

Or shouted at the little ones unsettled in the shopping carts

Or in the church parking lots of this country?

I watched this man's speech recently

From Las Vegas, I believe

And, politics aside, found

It rather entertaining.

But entertainment, pure and simple, it was

Not well thought-out politics, or

Instructional in points of

International diplomacy, to be sure,

But

Tried and true...

American ism

Sorry, but the world sees us quite aptly encapsulated

In the behavior of a personality such as this

If you don't like us, well

How about a large dose of this?

His comments about our enemies

Seen and unseen, are

Instructive, to say the least.

Other cultures who have, in their own pasts

Thrust forward those

Who entertain and titillate

For the benefit of the masses, and

Rarely do much in terms of moving forward

The culture in question.

After all, this is what this culture has become.

Foul balls, if you know the game, are

Out of bounds

Not in play

Not to be considered a serious attempt

At gamesmanship.

Unless of course, you do

The ultimate American thing, and

Change the rules.

Perhaps my title is in error, as

I have failed to consider the other American trait

Of moving lines and rules around

Blurring them

Even removing them, to make

All things formerly foul

Now, as in so much of our little world here

Fair

Of Pens and Scalpels

2011-04-27T16:07:00.001-05:00

While in the midst recently, of

Pulling myself back together, getting

Life - such as it is - back in order.

Getting my "resume voice" ready to range

From octave to vocational octave

Trying to get that Human Resources and Recruiter-honed pitch

Just right

I will, as I have dutifully noted here,

Get myself immersed in one form or another

Of occasional distraction.

Sure, a ball game on television.

A walk around the neighborhood with the dog,

A good book.

And, wandering through the landscapes,

Real and imaginary, one occasionally

Steps on something transcendent

Real

Something you want to write down,

To remember for a bit longer

Than your usual stream of consciousness

Because it hit you, right there

Right where you live

Or where you have lived

Until very recently

I scuffled across such a literary land mine

Last night, while reading

And wanted to share this with you

For the benefit of those who know me, or

Worse yet

Have been confused by me

To give proper credit, this is from

The seriously-gifted Stephen L. Carter,

And his novel, entitled The Emperor of Ocean Park.

Far from finished with the work, I will remain

Forever indebted,

For the following characterization

That has changed his pen into something

Far more weighty

More impacting

Penetrating, like lancing a large boil

Inside here

Ah...finally

Someone who understands

And who is sufficiently gifted

To put this on to paper

Without further ado

I transcribe this with the deepest of gratitude

And submit this to those who are

More or less interested in what

Makes us tick

From the deepest of our inside places...

"...Depression is seductive: it offends and teases,

Frightens you and draws you in,

Tempting you with its promise of sweet oblivion,

Then overwhelming you with a nearly sexual power,

Squirming past your defenses,

Dissolving your will

Invading the tired spirit so utterly that it becomes difficult

To recall that you ever lived without it...

Or to imagine that you might live that way again.

With all the guile of Satan himself, depression

Persuades you that its invasion was all your own idea,

That you wanted it all along.

It fogs the part of the brain that reasons,

That knows right and wrong.

It captures you with its warm,

Guilty

Hateful pleasures, and

Worst of all,

It becomes familiar.

All at once, you find yourself in thrall

To the very thing that most terrifies you.

Your work slides,

Your friendships slide,

Your marriage slides, but

You scarcely notice:

To be depressed is to be half in love with disaster."

Crossing Cows (An American Hutu)

2011-04-25T09:00:00.002-05:00

Once upon a time in a land far, far away

It was said that the difference between tribes

Was determined by whether or not

You owned a cow.

Now, I am not an anthropologist, but

It does make one wonder if

Something this absurd could actually be true

And believed enough, after a time

To cause those to hate, and then,

To kill the other

But, then, considering the landowners at the time

Maybe it makes some sort of odd sense.

I mean, in Belgium these days, they cannot

Decide how to run their own government, much less

Anyone else's

Lines drawn in their streets, over language

Over traditions, maybe even

Over cows, or their version thereof

Perhaps their well-known ability to draw such divisions

Even in the sand

Did indeed traverse south to the lands where they

Once drew other kinds of lines

That between tribes

As you probably know, these groups now

Spend a great deal of energy killing each other

And have for many decades now

All, it is said, because they are from different tribes.

Or so they believe now.

When, in reality, it depends on whether or not

The cow is actually yours.

What scares me, from so deep within these days, is

Watching so many cows cross American streets now.

Cows that once belonged to me, or those like me

Now belong to another

Or others.

So many with their corrals and barns now empty

On this side of the street

With others, right over there it seems,

Bursting at the fence posts.

Wondering, in the midst of this fear, if

Someday we may take it upon ourselves, like

Those tribes so far away do, when

It is determined that those with cows are actually

A different tribe.

To make matters worse, I rented

Inside Job this past weekend

And once again thought of

Cows crossing streets

And, as the credits rose on the screen in front of me

Feeling that anger and resentment deep inside, maybe

I could be convinced that this issue is, after all

Tribal in nature.

As in, is it really about the cows?

Or is it about the tribes?

Oh, sure, once I was an American Tutsi, of course

With cows lowing and mooing and loitering all around me

You know, the local version

The car, the boat, the over-large house

And, one by one, the cows

Crossed the street

To another

And then, I suppose, I suddenly became

Of the other tribe.

Soon, it was more or less silent around here

The barns empty

The feed area bare

The pasture overgrown with grass

While others now, with so many cows

They cannot even count them

And now, by so many who are vocal and loud

Proclaim and insist that those who did the rustling

Are indeed those of a different tribe

My fear is that, as it has been done before

On this earth

That we will begin to believe this story

And that the issue will no longer be about the cows at all

It will suddenly become about

The tribes.

But, as you know, so much in this country

Is indeed about the cows

About how many we have

Or, as it seems to be these days

How many we have lost.

And how many they have

Now.

Chuck It

2011-04-22T14:18:00.003-05:00

I have always loved sports, ever since I was little.
It was my dream to play for the home town team,
That is, the one that plays baseball.

When I was in school, I got rather tall, so
A basketball team in a nearby city asked if I would be interested.
What the heck, I thought.
It doesn't look like my baseball career is going anywhere right now.

Before the first game of the season, I did something rather strange.
I broke the glass backboard behind the goal.
Someone said it had never been done before.
And that, as they say, pretty much put a stamp
On my basketball career.

I was gone from the team well before the season ended.
Decided to give baseball one more try, I did.
Wouldn't you know it, I got a chance.
A phone call from my childhood heroes.

Soon thereafter, I was actually wearing the uniform.
Took the field, got in a little practice.
Oh, I was in heaven, I was.

For the one game that I played.

Got sent away - far away - to rehabilitate
The team said I would do better in the minor leagues.
So, in the midst of my dream-turned-nightmare, I am stuck
Here on the other side of the country.

By the Pacific Ocean, I suppose
The weather is nice enough.
The people are friendly, but
Real baseball is so far away from here.

My career is going badly.
I don't think I am going to make it
Here.

Excuse me, but I have to go now.
The telephone is ringing in the other room.
These guys keep calling me from the studios.
"You are so nice and tall", they say.

"You would make a terrific cowboy!"

Sheesh.
That's all I need.
My family and friends will make fun of me until my dying day.
I just hope no one takes any pictures...

The above story is true.
Kevin Connors was born in Brooklyn.
Always loved his Dodgers, but
Got a call from a new basketball team forming

In Boston.

In the inaugural 1949 season, he wore the uniform
Of the Boston Celtics.
Broke a glass backboard in practice before the first game.
Was the first ever to do this.

Giving up on this sport, he finally
Got a call from home, from the Dodgers.
Signed a contract, moved back to Brooklyn.
What a thrill to be playing with his childhood heroes.

For one game.

Sent out west to "mature",
Kevin played on a minor league team in Los Angeles
Known as the Angels.
Did poorly out there, and soon

He was out of a job.

Started getting calls from Hollywood producers, who
Had seen his tall and rugged looks
At the local baseball stadium, and
Thought he would make a great cowboy.

His athletic hopes and dreams dashed, what could he do?
He answered the call
Went downtown
Wore the cowboy hat for a couple of features.

He is buried in Los Angeles now.
Not known for his basketball prowess, no
Not even for making it to the big leagues with the Dodgers
Nope.

On his tombstone, next to his real name
Is his nickname, from
Always asking the infielders to,
"Chuck it to me".

Chuck.

And, next to this inscription,
Not the position on the basketball team
Not the assignment with the baseball team.
The final, last-hope chance he took

With some producers in Hollywood,
That the final inscription shows
On this good man's gravestone

Chuck Connors.

The Rifleman.

Mop Up

2011-04-20T12:40:00.000-05:00

Last night, I went to bed early.

Cracked open a really good book, finished it, and fell asleep.

So much for heady plans for an exciting evening.

It certainly didn't turn out like we had planned.

These days, keeping costs at the barest of minimums,

Joe and I can entertain ourselves with very little.

Even a baseball game, our local heroes on television.

Problem was, by the middle of the game

It was virtually over.

The other team had scored a lot, and frequently.

Our guys had barely made an effort.

From that point, you could sense the air being sucked out of the stadium.

All the rest was just watching, as it were.

Just being there for the sake of the event.

Mixing it up with the community, the spectators.

While the players on the field, well

They weren't exactly giving it 100% from that point.

It was, as they say, time for

Mop up.

That time where you sense that, for now at least,

Everyone has more or less given up

Kind of surrendered to the outcome as it appears

Really just preparing for the next game.

Pushing that mop across the stage,

Dragging that rake across the infield,

Running the mower across the pitch

Pacing one's self, reserving one's precious energy

For what most certainly is another event soon.

Maybe even tomorrow, one hopes.

I mean, if you are a participant, you are obligated

To finish the game.

You know, get on out there, put forth the effort

Take your bows - and your lumps - when it's finally over.

Hurry on back to the changing room.

Get a shower maybe, clean yourself off.

Emerge, get some rest, focus on what's ahead

What is done here is done, no point in regressing.

Tomorrow will be better, for sure.

You will have that sharpness once again.

The pitches will slide right over the plate, better than before.

You will have that hand-eye coordination that seemed to elude you

Just now.

And if you are a spectator, well

Enjoy the camaraderie for a bit longer

Linger with your friends, your colleagues

Those around you, also happy for the opportunity

To just get out of the groove of their routines

For a night elsewhere, doing something different.

Even if it means simply watching - this.

Yes, we all have mops in our garages, our closets

For those moments when clean-up is the only option

But, clean we will, and most will do a good job of it.

Not to tear down the house, rip up the floor, no

Just to prepare for the next time around.

Clean it off there, don't miss a spot

For you never know when you will need this space again

For what it was really designed to do.

To be.

You know, the purpose for it's existence.

Sure, mop up is a difficult job.

No one likes to do it.

Few people enjoy watching one practice this kind of skill.

Most of the time it is done in solitary.

But, there we are, friends

Everyone knows how, has done it frequently.

With largely the same sentiment, I am sure

Just get this thing over with.

Get this instrument back into the pail

Take the whole mess back to the closet

Shut it up there, keep it out of the way

In the dark, maybe far away

Like in the garage.

And, as it dries itself out in there

Hopefully won't be needed again

Any time soon

And we can continue to use the floor

The field

The stage

The podium

For it's proper use.

That being

Competing

To impress, to impact

To win.

But, yes, once in a great while

Even the better teams

The great speakers

The most prolific of talent

Require what we all have tucked away somewhere

Now where did I put that stuff, anyway?

Oh, yes, now I remember.

Out there, very far from where I spend most of this life.

But, just in case, as it happens

When games go awry

The score just gets away from you, the game

Is lost before it is over

And, you know deep down inside

It is time to break out those instruments

To get things cleaned up, more or less

To use that rarely-used, but necessary skill, to

Mop up.

American Forensics

2011-04-18T16:21:00.000-05:00

It will never cease to bring out a laugh from me.

From the classic Monty Python and The Holy Grail.

There they are, the inquisitive Englishmen, asking of their perennial counterparts, the French

About the possibilities of entering this castle

As they continue their search for the elusive prize.

Well, if you've seen the movie, you know the outcome

The cessation of the argument, as it were.

Only the sound of the closure that follows...

Boi-oi-oinggg.....Moooooooooo!

As the cow flies up and over the castle walls,

In the general direction of the Englishmen.

Right there along with the flatulence francaise

Such is the deterioration of the American dialogue, of late

At least in this humble Expat opinion.

We seem to have lost our collective art, our skill, our resolve

To engage in something resembling a conversation at all

With the other

Particularly with those who do not share our opinions

It seems that as soon as we encounter the obstacle,

We, as they say here south of the Red River,

More or less load the steer.

Boi-oi-oinggg.....Moooooooooo!

I am a voracious reader, a real fan of the political process

But of late I have given up on so much of that

Only, it seems, because we have jettisoned

Like the poor cow illustrated above

Our reason, our ability, our stomach

For the opposite point of view, the other side

Even the dreaded French, as it were

To hear, to give a reasoned response, to even engage

Even the more seasoned, the more professional

The highly-remunerated specialists of the craft, around us

Can't seem to resist the launch,

And catapult the beef skyward so much of the time

Boi-oi-oinggg.....Moooooooooo!

And, of course, pity the poor opposite side

Crouching down below there, not knowing

What in the world to do with this kind of "incoming"

For sure

Is there a way to reply at all?

A road to reason here?

Anything but to turn and slink away?

Such is the dilemma we face here in the New World

Now appearing to be not-so-glorious in isolated greatness

Just a-flingin' cows over here, we are.

I have turned off the political programs now

Even turned away from the on-line postings of my favorites

Watching with some sadness the travails of our President

And those who don't agree

First, a speech by one

And then by the other

Even the financial community has no stomach for this

Down go those who bet on us

To resolve things properly

Of course, there are those out there

Who don't think there is resolve on our horizon

Who believe that we will continue to watch our culture erode

To the point where there will be no more dialogue as such

Where fans will no longer be yelled at, jeered

Even taunted by the opposing team supporters

No, now the cow flies again.

Beat senseless in a Los Angeles parking lot

Yes, while I will laugh at Monty Python forever, it seems

I will be far closer to the opposite emotion as I sense

My own culture losing it's way forward

And resorting to the only retort that it seems to have left

In it's own limited reserves of patience

Of tolerance

Of desiring something a little more varied out there

No, let's just go the easy route here

Boi-oi-oinggg.....Moooooooooo!

Wrecking Ball

2011-04-15T12:52:00.001-05:00

I am not a very good baseball fan.

Don't get me wrong, I love the game.
It is such a game of inches,
Of ridiculously long intervals
And then of mere seconds.

It can be all over in just a heartbeat
You can be sitting there in your easy chair
And suddenly, your team has won
Or, just as suddenly,

It's over.
And they have lost.

And the wrecking ball swings in low.
Right there where it hurts the most.

My favorite baseball team has had a good start
Won quite a few of the early games this season
It has been fun to watch them play
Even lately, the game tied in the last inning recently

I settled in to watch what I was sure
Would be a fitting finale
Only to observe, dumbfounded
An opposing player hit a home run

In the bottom of the ninth inning

Game over, just like that.

No
I just don't have the stomach for that kind of loss
Nor the heart
Nor the spine, I guess

And then, sometimes, it gets worse
The team leaves town,
Decide to play elsewhere instead
They tear down your park

And the wrecking ball swings in low

I am sure the fans of the Brooklyn Dodgers
Felt this very same way, when
Suddenly, many years ago
Their team left the city

For someplace else.

Heartbroken fans, of course
Scraping little piles of dirt into bags
Inside what was left of Ebbets Field
As if they could preserve little bits of their memories

From twisting their collective stomachs
Breaking their collective hearts
Bending, to the point of breaking,
Their collective spines

Of course, to an unsuspecting grade school kid
Out on the West Coast
A pleasant surprise, these newcomers
That would soon change his life forever

He would be taken out of his third grade class,
For a trip to the new stadium,
To see a ball game
On Opening Day

Today I received a phone call
From a courageous and rare breed
In the corporate world, to share
The bad news he had for me

Yes, this game had gone on, I thought
For far too long, but
The home team was able
And had played well throughout

Only to find, suddenly
The decision had gone the other way
And just as abruptly,

This game was over.

I will not be moving to the West Coast
The job has gone to another
And my little created edifice of life out there
Looks a lot like old Ebbets Field today

No
I insist that I do not have the stomach for this
Nor the heart
Nor the spine, as if
I have a choice in the matter.

Better I would be a creation of this sort

After so many tries,

So many seasons

Far more losses than victories

Slinking off the field yet again

To find another jet airplane going

Elsewhere

Then watching those wrecking balls

Swinging in, silently and low.

At the center of greatest comfort

Right there where it hurts the most

Oh, sure, there is happiness

In another house somewhere today

An offer sits in an in-box, in an unsuspecting laptop

A bottle of champagne for sure will pop tonight

Just not tonight here in Mudville, Texas

I am afraid

No, tonight I will wish

Again

To be just a little more

Pliable

Will watch silently, as if from a distance

As that wrecking ball swings in low again

Wondering, almost in some odd abstract sense of faith

What could possibly be built here next

And, how will I feel then?

Will the stomach still hold?

The heart still beat?

The backbone remain

To face yet another possible wrecking ball?

Just for the chance to hear, maybe only once more

Play ball?