Tuesday, November 21, 2017

From Psyce With Love


The old man was always in a fever dream these days. Coming in and out and catching snatches of conversation. He was an agent or had been an agent. He caught that. He never forgot her coming out of the ocean that day. Completely perfect womanhood.  Was that his wife?  No, not her. But, she stayed with him for a little while. The old man was 80 or was it 90 years old? What was the difference these days. He slept and dreamed a dream of violence and hangovers and friend’s long gone or were they? They seemed more real than he did in a way. He was drifting off. Not becoming nothing or into nothing but just becoming just being.

The young nurse looked at the orderly and flashed a disgusted look at the old man on the bed. Well, that’s your job ya know. His ass stinks and that’s below my paygrade. She was a little shocked when the supervisor walked in. But, the older nurse just motioned both of them out of the room.

Are you Russian? She was wasn’t she? Did he love her? No, not love. But, he knew her. She was one of the many that he knew. Drifting now….Steel teeth? Damn, that was a ride. Who are you? I just can’t get it….

The doctor looked at the old man. Who was paying his bills? Nobody got doctors and nurses and round the clock care like this. Not in this facility. Private room itself must have cost a year of the doctor’s pay and the doctor was very well paid indeed.

The older nurse looked at the old man and remembered the stories. She was one of the few who actually knew a little of the old man’s background. She had  been young then but still a grown woman. He was quite the catch back in the day. The young nurse who looked so disgusted earlier at his shitty ass would have drooled all over him back then. Idiot.

The old man drifted…Coming awake now and feeling old wounds and stiff joints. He had made it though hadn’t  he? Of course he had “lived” and was now in purgatory. A soft chuckle followed by a coughing spasm shook his narrow chest. The hands that had crushed noses and fired the finest weapons and caressed  the most beautiful of women shook now in a palsy.

Almost over said the doctor. Another day maybe not even through the night.  You knew him then? He asked the older nurse. She of the high cheekbones and ample bossom and the greenest eyes he had ever seen. The doctor noticed how beautiful she was for the first time. Like a work of art. Weathered and chipped but still under all the years and wear.  Beautiful.

The old man saw a light. So bright and yet so easy to look at. So inviting. The old man was no longer an old man. He was fully himself. He walked up to the bar. What a place. So bright and the bartender was wearing a clean immaculate white jacket. What will it be sir?

The clock on the wall read 4:44 AM.  444 was the number of angels his mother used to say. Hello Love? He looks and there she is. His wife? Tracey? My God, she’s perfect. Sir? The bartender says what can I get you and your lady?

Martini. Medium dry. I’ll have mine shaken, not stirred

 

He’s gone…He’s finally gone the nurse thinks. That can’t be right. But, right before, just a moment before he had such an expression of joy and wonder. Call it says the doctor..Time of death 4:44 AM.

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Why I am not a Blue Blood Republican



I am southern. It’s in my blood which runs hot when I get excited and in my mouth when I’m not thinking and let my accent go completely cornpone. I’m southern from the way I feel the Alabama humidity in the summer to the way I drink sweet tea and remember my aunt’s cornbread from my youth. I’m Christian the same way I’m southern. My people are Irish descent and I remember my aunt’s on my mother’s side with all that red hair and my Great Grandma Couey and the stories of her and her little tambourine on the streets of New Orleans preaching to the people in the bars about the love of Jesus. She wore her hair in a bun and once when I was a child I saw her let it down and all this white hair hung to the floor and dragged on the ground.  My maternal Granddaddy was Dutch and Cherokee and my Paternal grandparents were Irish descent. Both sides are southern. They come from Blount County in Snead, Alabama and Etowah County in Gadsden and Altoona, Alabama. My Granddaddy came from Huntsville, Alabama. He worked the coal mines in Blount and Etowah County and that’s where he got “Black Lung.”  My mother tells the story of my grandparents getting two eggs from a doctor’s farm during the depression. They went back home and locked the door so they could eat  the eggs without anybody knocking then in the head for them. My grandmother would put water in the bottom of the ketchup bottle instead of throwing away the empty just to make it go farther. Even years later when the depression was long over and she had plenty of ketchup she kept that habit.

Understand that I have Zero in common with Donald Trump. He wouldn’t have given my family the time of day unless the bastard had a property he could foreclose on them for. But, they couldn’t have afforded a single room he owned so that’s a moot point. I heard a dear friend who I will always love say that Donald Trump was a “good man.” That hurt my heart. She comes from the same background I do. But, somehow she has fallen for the might makes right myth of the conservative tea party. I am sure that if you put Donald Trump or Bill Clinton or poor oppressed (sarcasm here) Barrack Obama in my  granddaddy’s shoes they wouldn’t have lasted a day. So, no they are not “strong men” in my opinion.

Abortion? I hate abortion. But, I also hate seeing children born into poverty and the conservatives then calling them thugs and drains on society. Make up your damn mind. Either you think all life is sacred and you feel people should have access to food, clothing, clean water and shelter or you don’t. What the conservatives are is pro birth. Pro life? Not so much.

Anyway, these are some of the thoughts I’ve had today and I just wanted to get them out there. I have been so disappointed at my conservative friends. Back when Obama was president they vilified, they cussed, they brought judgement on that Muslim loving, Kenyan born, American Hating traitor. They judged every time he or Michelle Obama went out in public. Michelle didn’t dress right or act right. Then along came Donny Trump. His wife posed as a naked model but she is still "all class" to hear the frozen few of the republican tea party church talk. Michelle Obama showed her shoulders and you would have thought the world was ending.

First Trump calls POW’s losers and he likes people that don’t get caught. Then he insults a former POW who has done more for his nation than Creep Trump will ever do. Then he takes a Purple Heart and smirks that ugly smirk of his and puts it in his pocket. Now, the folks who love the country and the military are really going to let him have it. I waited, I waited. I waited and waited. CRICKETS! Just crickets.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t like Hillary and there is much about the democrats and especially the safe spaces and the identity politics that I deplore. But, right now Hillary isn’t in power and Democrats are not in the presidency. So, right now I’m trying to speak truth to power. Sounds more noble than it is. I mainly despise Donald Trump and the hypocrites that speak up when it’s Obama but don’t speak up when it’s Trump. That’s the other thing. The democrats used to say to the republicans that they should respect the president. Now the shoe is on the other food and the republicans are saying it to the democrats. Both are hypocrites. But, right now the most powerful man in the world has a personality disorder and maybe even early stage dementia. I don’t know I’m just going by some stuff I’ve seen during my working career as a social worker. I’m not a psychologist and even if I were it wouldn’t be professional to make a diagnosis from a TV clip or soundbite. But, anyway that’s my 2 cents.

Peace.

Wednesday, September 6, 2017


Privilege is a loaded word these days. What does it really mean? I remember my maternal grandmother telling me that her family was called Shanty Irish back in the day. I remember her putting water in a ketchup bottle and shaking it up so it would go farther. She learned that trick in the Great Depression. My Granddaddy was a coal miner in Northeast Alabama. Privileged?

I worked for the army in Fort Carson, Colorado in the late 90’s and early 2000’s. I was at Child and Youth Services. Anyway, we had a little blond haired boy in a class. Must have been privileged right? Well considering he had Cerebral Palsy and couldn’t feed himself or get out of a wheelchair I’m not sure privilege would be a word he would understand.

I think about things like this sometimes when I hear the victim culture of identity politics. Everyone wants to be a victim now. It’s cool. It’s hip. I think about the black folks from the 60’s who couldn’t go to a lunch room or use a certain bathroom. Now everyone from a tanned white person to a dark Hispanic to an Asian teen wants to let you know they are either a person of color or ¼ African American. They are oppressed don’tcha know? I sometimes think I can hear the actual black folks who couldn’t go to a certain school or eat in a certain place or travel on public transportation. I hear them (in my own mind of course) saying “Now you want to be black?” “now you want to be a person of color?” Where was your skanky ass when a “Person of color” couldn’t apply for a job or go in a place to eat or shop at the latest department store or attend a concert?

I’m reminded of my own experience. I was born (and yeah it makes me uncomfortable to talk about it.) with a cleft pallet. I was reminded daily as a child that I had a scar by certain other kids. I guess the little asses didn’t realize I had a @#$% mirror and didn’t need their input. Now was I privileged? In some ways yes. I learned at an early age to have an inner toughness. I learned the value of talking to God and finding my own self worth. But, would I have traded places with the young black football player with perfect smile and the confidence to walk in a  room? But, I was privileged don’tcha know?

Not long ago I saw a pretty little Chinese/American college student slanging snot in an interview. She had started across campus and some jerk had called her an eggroll. Still, she needed a safe space. I thought “Honey, if someone had called me a bowl of grits (I’m southern) and that was the worse thing I had ever been called?” Well, anyway I have little patience these days with safe spaces and victimhood.

Look, I haven’t always been right. I haven’t always been brave or noble or strong. In my youth I hid behind beers and pot way too often.  But, I have learned to live and I have had a certain toughness instilled in me by life. No, I’m not fearless. I have often been full of self pity and angst. But, I have never needed a safe space and I have never been part of a “group” that would protest for my rights or make someone attend sensitivity classes for insulting me.

All I’m saying is be careful with  that word “Privilege” we all have some privilege over somebody else. I have the privilege of putting on a pair of glasses and seeing the world. Ray Charles would have loved that privilege. Lebron James has the privilege of making millions of dollars by putting a ball in a ten foot hoop. Many of us who work for a living would love that privilege.

So, no I’m not saying racism doesn’t exist. I’m not even saying that African American culture hasn’t been oppressed and held down. I’m just saying that  when you look at an individual human you should be careful of the word “privilege.” Some of us have been through battles that would have put you in the fetal position in the corner. Some others have been through stuff that would put me there. But, I’m tired of all this victimhood.

Finally, I’ll say this. I didn’t have a leave it to Beaver upbringing. My mother was 17 when she was pregnant with me and barely 18 when she gave birth. She  was not going to be mother of the year and we had issues. But, one day she  said something to me that contributed to my waking up. She told me “Steve, I made a lot of mistakes. “ I did some things that I  wouldn’t do again. I also did some things that I would do the exact same way. So you can lie there and feel sorry for yourself because of me or you can get up. It’s up to you. 

I got up.

Peace.

Monday, June 12, 2017

War stories from the front of life.


I worked once at Child/Youth Services for the army at Fort Carson in Colorado Springs, Colorado. A young child with Cerebral Palsy would be brought in by his mom. I and the staff looked on in a mixture of sympathy and uneasiness every morning. Because somebody would have to take time to feed the little boy. Because he couldn’t feed himself. He was a sweet child but absolutely dependent on others for his welfare and even for his physical life. Honestly? Nobody including yours truly wanted to feed the child. It was a little messy and it always made you feel  a little guilty and very uneasy because of not wanting to be tasked with the chore. To make it even more uncomfortable for me my wife Cindy was pregnant with our son and you talk about crazy thoughts. Not only did I now have to worry about cleft lips and pallets (Thank God he was born without blemish) if you think I’m being shallow then you would have to know me. I have a cleft lip and pallet and to say I was relieved when my child didn’t  would be a huge understatement.  First thing I asked the nurse when she announced we had a boy was “What does he look like and is his lip okay? “ She looked at me a little funny and said “of course, it’s perfect.” So, yeah I had a lot going through my mind that day. But, I digress. Again. As usual.

Anyway, little Rusty which was the name of the child with Cerebral Palsy would be brought in most days by his harried mom and left at the center and in need of breakfast. The other children were kind. They would at times assist for a little while. Although, they soon would drift off to play as is normal. Can’t blame them at all. I remember one day we had a field trip and Rusty was left just sitting in his chair. Well out of the way of staff and others. The kids were playing and the other staff was otherwise engaged. Big surprise huh? So, I took him and placed him in a swing and held him while I let the swing go back and forth. I also later made sure he was placed with the other kids instead of being left in a corner in an out of the way place.  See why I despise Donald Trump now? But, I digress and this isn’t going to be turned into a political rant.

I once read a story about how the Nazi’s had hung a small Jewish child in a concentration camp. The child hung there and someone said “Where is God?” Someone else answered  “He’s hanging right there.” I don’t know the exact thing the author was trying to say. But, I’ll tell you my answer. God was hanging right there. I Am was and is incarnated in every being and act that we do to one another. Not in anger or hellfire and brimstone. Just in perfect witness and acknowledgment.

I was watching a documentary once. The person narrating said that some Nazi’s had gotten away with it. They had grown old and died full and fat and had managed to escape. I don’t think so. They might have grown old and died but they didn’t escape. Not because I’m religious and not because I think an angry old man in the sky threw em into a burning pit. But, because I think the eternal witness will be heard. I don’t think physic scars and horror just goes away. We are just here for a few short frantic precious horrible days. But, that’s not all we are. Not at all.

So, no I’m not one who believes it’s just a sperm lottery. I’m also not one to buy into the just so stories of religious dogma. I personally have my own belief but this isn’t the time or place. I don’t think I’m ready to articulate that right now.

Why am I still a Christian even though many Christians would call me a heretic and say I can’t be a Christian since I don’t take the creeds and scripture literally? Some atheist would call me a space cadet and a deluded dummy. But, here’s one reason the Incarnation of God into man/ Christ works for me. It may not work for you and that’s fine. I don’t think one size fits all in this world. Maybe not in any world. But, consider this.

Love isn’t just rushing into a burning building to rescue someone you love or even someone you don’t even know. That’s a version of love but it’s not the deepest version. Real love is to run in to the building and realize that you can’t get the one you love out of the building. Real love then sits there beside the one you can’t save or take out of the building. Real love is staying beside the one you wanted to rescue and being there with them even unto death. Even if it means you have to die too. That’s what the incarnation means to me. That’s why I still self identify as a Christian after all these years and all this journey.  That’s what the cross means to me. A comforting fairytale I  tell myself? Maybe. Maybe it’s the absolute truth. Either way. It works for me. Right now. Right here.

Peace.

Monday, May 15, 2017

See ya at the movies.


I first started this blog as a way to talk about pop culture and my varied interest in books, movies, music and things that go bump in the night. I rarely have written about  those things. I tend to talk about life and faith and things that are of immediate concern. But, every once in a while I like to post  on things that are “out there.” I always loved horror. Books, comics, movies. I also have always enjoyed off the wall subjects such as ufo’s . I’m highly skeptical of U.F.O’s but I still enjoy the pop culture that goes along with them. Also, I’ve had a few incidents in my own life that I really can’t explain. So, who knows? The cosmos is infinite and some people think that everything that can happen will happen in another universe.

 

I’m Dracula and I welcome you to my house…Christopher Lee

 

My love of horror comes from an unlikely source or at least it was encouraged by an unlikely source. My mother who is very conservative and very much a product of her generation and  religion is, actually one of the first people I can remember sharing  the off beat movies with. If a vampire or horror  “Dusk till Dawn” movie marathon came on at our neighborhood drive in we were there. Christopher Lee and Vincent Price and Boris Karloff.  I remember the old Dialing for Dollars afternoon movie on local T.V. and the old Colossal Man or Monster movies would come on and even though we didn’t share a whole lot of interest that was something we would watch. I got in so much trouble once for trying as a child to make a James Bond movie the focus of an evening. Really wasn’t my fault. I was coming into my own and I saw a commercial with a Bond Beauty. Anyway, that’s a whole nother story.

I always loved the Rebel Drive In. That was in our neighborhood in Walnut Park/Gadsden, Alabama. My sister and I would put on our p.j’s and my mother and step dad would warm up the car and off we would go the few miles if that many to the drive in. Peter Cushing, Christopher Lee and a host of horror stars and starlets. Get a Chilly Dilly giant dill pickle or a hot dog from the concession stand and here we go. If it was summer take a lawn chair. If winter then at least it would be an Alabama winter which although it can be cold it isn’t always frigid.

 

I like quiet and seclusion.  This house, I think,

offers that…Jonathan Harker

 

I remember a scene where Dracula was finally caught out in the sun. Living Technocolor! I saw his body actually start to age and crumble and gloriously turn to dust right on the big screen. My young eyes wide and shoving popcorn in my mouth and guzzling soda (coke, in the south back then it didn’t matter which brand. It was all called coke.”  I saw a bevy of hissing beautiful  bossomy girls that were “Brides of Dracula” I saw bright red technocolor blood as Dracula bit into the neck of his fem fatale victim.  I loved it. I enjoyed the small screen dialing for dollars movies with the black and white desert as the corny high pitched sounds of  the 50’s and 60’s U.F.O.’s came into view. The square jawed scientist named Rick or Rock or Steve or Paul. The swooning fem fatale named Ann or Carol or Joan would be joined by the assistant scientist who would either be giving his life in the end or comedy relief or both.

I would find old horror comics in stores and immerse myself in ghost and graveyards and lurid tales of vengeful victims returning to drag  the killers off to their just rewards. I would read horror stories ordered from my Weekly Reader at Walnut Park Elementary. But, noting quite compared to those giant screen memories of movies that were already old. Played out on the drive in screen.

 

Dr. Paul Lindstrom….Now, the reason for this is rather technical, Carol, but to give you a simplified layman's explanation, it might be explained that, since the heart is made up of a *single* cell for all practical purposes, instead of millions of cells like the rest of the organs of the body, it's reacting in an entirely different manner to this unknown stimulus or forces behind this whole thing….The Amazing Colossal Man.

Manning…Perhaps it isn't I who's growing, but it's everyone who's shrinking!..The Amazing Colossal Man.

 

"No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone."….Shirley Jackson “The Haunting of Hill House.

My absolute favorite all time horror story made into film. Not the so called remake of the late 90’s. No, I’m talking the stark black and white early 1960’s version. It scared the yell out me as a child. Still holds up today. But, that one deserves it’s own blog. Maybe this coming Halloween.

Finally, one of the best lines of a “horror movie” and I think it’s in the book too. But, you have to see it to truly understand the sheer scariness of it…..

God God," Eleanor said, flinging herself out of bed and across the room to stand shuddering in a corner, "God God—whose hand was I holding?

 

See ya at the movies.

Peace.

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Rock and Roll Never Forgets.

I remember holding you while you sleep
Every day, I feel the tears that you weep
Looking out of my lonely gloom, day after day
Bring it home, baby, make it soon
I give my love to you...Badfinger



 
I play guitar. Well, to be honest I plunk and peck and at times put a tune together that actually is recognizable if you heard it you, might say “oh yeah I know what you’re playing." I play piano but not as well as I play guitar. My right hand knows what it’s doing for the most part when it comes to hunting the notes. But, the left hesitates in finding the chords. Anyway, I’m not a world class musician and I don’t play often where anybody else can hear me.  But, like most people my life has been defined by the music I grew up with. I always say the Eagles wrote the soundtrack of my youth.  But, as a child my mother sang country music all over the house. Now, by country I don’t mean Florida-Georgia Line silliness or the other pop country you hear today. I mean actual Country Western. George Jones and Loretta Lynn and Hank Williams and Patsy Cline and Porter Wagner and Buck Owens. Kitty Wells and Tammy Wynette.  My step father had an old Martian Guitar and he would wap out the rhythm.

I hated it. No, really I did. I  don’t now. Now it’s nostalgic to me. Now, I have learned to appreciate Patsy Cline and understand that Hank Williams was an absolute poet and genius. I love Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings and Emmylou Harris and Dolly Parton. But, not then. That was the music of my parents. The music of dances on Saturday nights when I would be going to my Grandparents house because I sure didn’t want to attend the square dance up on the mountain in Boaz or Albertville, Alabama or the fairgrounds in Attalla. But, I bet ya I can ( I won’t, but I can) sing and play or chord almost any country song you can name from about 1962 until 1970 or so. George Jones, Hank Williams, Conway Twitty, Tammy Wynette. It was in my blood but it wasn’t my music. My music was on late at night when I would have my radio on in my room and WLS out of Chicago would come pouring out of the magic box. James Taylor and Alice Cooper. BadFinger and Areosmith. Rolling Stones and the Beatles. During the day the Mighty 690 in Birmingham.

Later as I came to my teens in the 70’s I would gravitate to Foghat and Linda Ronstadt. Nazareth and Jackson Browne. The 70’s had a great mix of Motown and Southern California sound on the same stations. I know people my age can remember a station in Birmingham, Alabama. I can’t remember the call letters now but I can just name the format and people will say “Oh Yeah, the greatest rock station ever!” They played Album Rock! The complete album of your favorite band and they would take request throughout the week. The DJ would come on in that smooth late night voice and call out the order like a waiter. Tonight we have the latest FleetwoodMac followed by Houses of the Holy and  the new Nazareth. Some SuperTramp and Wet Willie. We have some ZZ Top and Jackson Browne and later some Dead and deep cuts from the Stones. We have some Ronstadt and Jackson Browne. Followed by an order of Yes and some Foghat Also Rumors and Hair of the Dog. Some more Black Sabbath and Zeppelin.

These were full uncut and no commercial complete albums and it went on all night long. That little station in Birmingham was even written up in The Rolling Stone! Which in those days was The source for all things cool and happening in music and cool entertainment. Doctor Hook even sang “Cover of the Rolling Stone” as a humorous homage to it.

I grew up and as I got a little older I discovered KISS and loved Hair of the Dog by Nazareth. I heard the Eagles and felt I had never heard better harmonies and the songs they sang seemed to be exactly what I was feeling. I discovered Pony Millers and Marijuana and the boy finds girl, girl finds other guy, boy drowns in beery smoky rock and roll night full of angst. But, hey it was crazy times and I was a little lost sheep to say the least. But, Eagles and Linda Ronstadt and Foghat understood. I also discovered southern rock of course. Marshall Tucker and Molly Hatchett and Wet Willie and The Outlaws. But, the greatest Southern Rock band of them all was and is and will always be Lynyrd Skynyrd. Simple Man and Freebird. I’ve heard Sweet Home Alabama so much over the years that I really get tired of hearing it. But, I tap my feet and sing along every time it comes on anywhere in my hearing. I hate/love that song.

I also started to really get into Willy Nelson and Waylon Jennings and Leon Russell. Jessie Coulter and Emmylou Harris and Linda Ronstadt.

But, music is a funny thing with me as I get older. I don’t listen to it constantly any more. I find my self bored if I am sitting around and just have a bunch of songs playing. I enjoy playing guitar or piano or trying to play. But, just to sit around and listen? Not so much. But, every once in a while it hits me. I put in some Queen or Styx and crank it up. I’m taken back to my youth. I can almost reach up and brush the hair out of my eyes again. I can almost see that certain girl walking down a hot paved road in rural Alabama wearing a halter top and shorts and my mind goes back and sixty years become 16 again. That’s the power of music. That’s the power of Rock and Roll.
 
Come back baby
Rock 'n Roll never forgets
Said you can come back baby
Rock 'n Roll never forgets...Bob Seger
 
Peace.
 
 
 
 

 
 
 

Thursday, April 27, 2017

Dog eat dog world.


So, I’m walking down the road after a rain and a person comes driving a little fast and splashes mud everywhere. “ Doggone it” I yell.  “Why can’t people be more like dogs?” That’s what we need. More dogs and less people. Well I look and see this incredibly big cat looking at me. This thing was at least as big as a mid sized collie. Now, it’s been over 30 years since I did anything other than an occasional beer. ;-) But, it’s like I’m having a flashback. I’ll have what he’s smoking I thought to myself. Then I started to laugh and I don’t know why. It’ wasn’t that funny but I started to really laugh and couldn’t stop. the cat does an Alice in Wonderland fade and instead of a big grin the last thing I see is a pair of big green cat eyes. Weird. I'm freaked but I figure maybe it's a flashback to my misspent youth. I'll talk with my doctor about it.  So, I get home and turn on ESPN and kind of drift off with the mindless, breathless chatter of the sports world in the background.

  I then decide after my nap that I feel like driving to town and since it’s my day off I’ll drop by Panera Bread and get some coffee and my favorite, a Blueberry Scone.  Well, I’m going to my car and my neighbor who’s a nice guy. Divorced,  has his teenagers over about every two weeks and a devout church going person. Just an all around nice guy. Anyway, he comes running out and he’s saying “Hey,hey, hey.” So, I think somethings wrong and he comes behind me and starts to sniff my butt. “What the hell?” I say and I push him away. “What is wrong with you?” Well, he looks at me and I hear a low growl in his throat and he actually snaps the air and backs away from me. I swear if a man had a  tail it would have been between his legs. So, I’m really worried now about his mental health. So, I decide that I will call 911 from my cell on my way to the coffee shop. I know, I know. Why am I leaving if I think my neighbor is having a break down? Well, he’s not dying right? I need my coffee and I work hard and I’m going to relax with a scone and the Bleacher Report app on my phone at the coffee shop.

 Okay, I admit it. Out of site out of mind. So, I didn’t call anyone. Besides, I mind my own business. So, I pull up in town and get out of my car and all of a sudden this nice looking young lady comes wiggling (it’s the best way I can put it) over to me. Now, I’m not a pervert and I’m old enough to be her fath…uhh, older brother.  But, she comes up and sniffs my manhood and actually gives my neck a bite. Not too hard but enough to leave a mark. Well, I see this cop looking at us and I  think “Okay, he’s going to come over and at least see which of us is the aggressor. Right? Well, he comes running over and hikes his leg up in the air and I actually see his pants getting wet from his crotch down his left leg. OMG! What is going on? Then a group of people start to run over and a young dude actually jumps up on me and takes a bit of my ear. Then the cop and the dude and the young woman are yelling at each other. “Hey, Hey, Hey,Hey.” They just won’t stop and I find myself running into the coffee shop.

Well, I look out and  the cop is now grabbing the young woman from behind right in public and she turns and playfully nips his chin and then he…. Well, never mind. I can’t go there. Lets just say at this point the world is insane.

So, I go  to the counter of the coffee shop and I ask the nice older lady behind the counter if she has called the police about the situation out side. While I’m talking I feel something at my butt and there are five people  3 women and 2 men sniffing my butt and growling at each other. All of a sudden there’s a movement beside me and I see another couple who are making the cop and the young woman outside look like a Sunday School class in comparison.

Then I look over and the whole place is bedlam. People are yelling at the top of their lungs. “Hey, HEY,HEY,HEY” They are biting each other and snarling and humping and sniffing and it’s bedlam.

I close my eyes and just start to slide down to the floor. That’s when I hear the sports announcer in the background saying something about game 7 of the NBA finals and how the Cubs were the victim of the first no hitter of the year….A Dream! It was a dream. Thank God. Whew.

So, I go to the bathroom mirror and I look fine except for a red mark on my neck that looks like…Nah, it can’t be.

Anyway, I’m glad I’m off and can relax. It’s a dog eat dog world out there.

 

Peace!