OBSERVATION
The act of winning is unimportant. Every time I have been confronted with people trying to win at some endeavor, they get crazy. Each time I have been faced with crazy, crazy has won. The only conclusion that can be drawn is that pursuing the act of winning, is just crazy.
Dessert
Forget the plums in my brandied mousse
I prefer the prunes, they make me loose
Lou Reed's John Cale
(Five sentence practice)
John Cale’s alias was Waldo Jeffers. They were insanely jealous in their love for Marsha Bronson, their summer separated college sweetheart. Unleashed libidos caused them to make all arrangements to cheaply ship themselves by bus to Marsha. The large heavy crate arrived. Marsha and her friend Sheila Klein, excitedly attempted to open it. Failing in their first attempt, they thrust a long, sharp hedge trimmer through the top of the box, and in the same lunge, through John’s head. Where’s Waldo now?
Boarding the bus, I’m palming two quarters, which immediately shoot forward spattering the fare box. Behind me, a large rank man throws a dollar, surprising driver Tony, and blasting through me by rushing to the rear. In seconds there is a first report, then a second, bam, bam, and while glaring intimidation at me, John is kicking his way out the side door. The triplets cry wildly while Martha sits slumping, dead. Controlling my shock, I see John silently leave his babies motherless.
I’m in Control!
Ear to receiver, I heard the phone ring. Alex picked up about when I imagined his ringtone spouted “Caissons were rolling.”
“Raisins,” I said.
“Don, what do you want?”
“Listen, the USDA is stealing raisin production to keep prices inflated.” I tried to remain ardent without sounding frenetic.
“Don, stop, it’s two a.m.”
“No, really! Since 1937. Check the Horne vs Department of Agriculture brief going before SCOTUS.”
“DON, STOP! Think about last year. You bought a sub-prime mortgage and now it’s underwater. Who did you blame; Wall Street, your local Loan Officer, yourself? No, you blamed the eight banking cartels that own the Federal Reserve; The Morgans, the Rothschilds, and the Rockefellers, among others. Then you said the Saudi Royal family owned them all. Can you think rationally? As far as USDA crop actions, you weren’t even born in 1937.”
“But, I’ve been talking to Harold and…….” I was cut off.
“If you mean your knight-errant Harold Weisberg, he died in 2002. Accept it. In spite of being the driving force for the Freedom of Information Act, proving the Warren Commission liars, and raising award winning chickens, he was mortal; and still dead. Move on!” I paused for a moment. Bad choice of words, Harold was dead alright, although he still remained my inspiration. Alexander lived completely within the DC circus and held me to his standard. Off base as usual, though, my determination remained.
“You know the bureaucracy can be extralegal. Government control of 47% of any private crop is overzealous and unconstitutional, especially when there is no payment guarantee. That’s an illegal ‘taking’.”
“Two minutes Don.”
“Legislated thievery is no fairer than Iowa Governor Branstad alienating my voting rights through my DUI and felon disenfranchisement. You do know all felons vote Democratic?”
“Inalienated? Funny. The Feds guarantee voting rights.”
“Never happen. States Rights dominate Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Alimony; loosely protected under State Constitutions.” I wanted to get one fact accepted.
“How does this relate to raisins?”
“Due to ‘Citizens United’, corporations are now legally people, people with unlimited PAC money. With early government, there existed the Vine of Liberty, a purpose that intertwined faith and life, producing the sweet nectar of justice, not the existing, poisonous black Bryony.”
Tired and still groggy, Alexander tried to cut me short, “At two a.m. you decide grapes are a disenfranchised voter base, and dump your raisins of wrath on me? ‘Sweet nectar of justice’, ‘poisonous black Bryony?’, you’re one lousy poet.”
“You know it’s about corporate money buying our government and bleeding a nation’s financial security through corruption. You’re Secretary of State; you know what’s going on! Speak out!”
“I won’t, it’s my ass. The publicity will put me out on the street, stripped naked and forever out of favor.”
We each reached our patience limits.
Frustrated, I blurted, “For Christ’s sake General, get some balls and do it anonymously!”
(http://reason.com/reasontv/2013/07/18/usda-v-horne-farmers-fight-for-their-rig)
(Griffin vs Branstad – ACLU)
Had to write a story that contained the four following items
Burger Flipper
Fixing a machine
Igloo
Battle won.
Wally Tets, kneeling on hard tile, looked up from his repair on the Softee machine, and rested his eyes. Refocused, he looked around the restaurant kitchen and noticed the fry-cook. Wally looked at him full in the face. Flipping burgers, the kid was lost in a millennial moment, disinterested, conceivably wondering how he got this sidetracked.
Wally thought back to when he was a dishwasher in a supper club. What a dead end job. He constantly got his ass chewed for whistling and for once cutting the lettuce with a knife. The worst part was the ’52 Chevy he bought from the owner. Fired the day after the Chevy debt settled, the owner called Wally’s stepdad and said he never paid for it. When the place folded a few years later, Wally danced a little Irish jig, cursing out the previous owner the whole three and a half minutes.
A hissing cold vapor washed over Wally’s thighs. He had found his leak. None too soon; for the sixth time, the manager returned to check on Wally. A royal pain. Also for the sixth time the manager would remind Wally how important that the Softee machine again produce the “Magic Igloos”. Wally sighed, got out his torch and soldering supplies. Heating the area where he chalk marked the leak, he remembered the fuss people always made over the “Magic Igloos”, undeservedly he thought. His Igloo recollection pictured a large dome of soft serve with gumdrops, pecan and almond pieces, Maraschino cherries, coconut, the new colored M&Ms, and doused with fudge, caramel, rhubarb or strawberry sauces. Finally, there were Midwestern “jimmies”, also known elsewhere as sprinkles, and the whole bowl dusted with powered sugar snow. He remembered his taste impression was that of eating a real Igloo, bland and topped with acid rain. Wally had his problems.
The leak was fixed and the refrigeration system recharged. Old Softee was humming like grandma baking pies. It was an after-hours call and the labor total would reflect well on Wally’s commission. The manager reappeared and signed the bill, but indicated a check would be mailed later.
SOB, Wally silently spat. No check meant a delayed commission. Fuming, he collected his tools and headed out the door. On the way to his truck he remembered which car was the manager’s. SCREEAATTCCH! Battle won.
Wally was the real SOB.
Two stories written as assignments
Radio - Gardener – Bank – 666 (Galumphing)
Erle Stanley, once a Navy radio operator sweated profusely over the crystal based transmitter. The service trained Gardner was hidden from general view in the bank by hiding under a desk in the Lone Arrangers office. The robbers were slow and confused about where the real cash was, but time was short. The “A” and “B” class batteries from the portable tube type radio weren’t correctly powering the transmitter. It’s 1960 for Christ’s sake. Nobody's monitoring Morse code!
Bricolage. Writing about the ordinary items around you.
Roots of Jazz - Spoon
I walked into Doug’s man-cave, dragging bags of picnic supplies. I always bought the cheapest products because Doug, in spite of his, I’m “gonna” and I “wanna” mouthing of help, never delivered.
A stench like a bloated homeless person just pulled from the river, assaulted my senses. I ran into the kitchen, retching what breakfast hadn’t been digested. What to do? I stuffed a sweet baby gherkin in each nostril and tied cheesecloth across my mouth in an attempt to deter the assault.
I peeked around the corner and took in the scene. A liter and a half bottle, of Canadien whisky lay empty. Was Doug dead? He was lying, clad only in his briefs, atop his bean bag doughnut chair. I checked for a pulse. Crap, he was still alive.
Like a dead whale, Doug’s sphinctered blowhole had let loose during his blackout. I decided to get him out of his rectal swamp. I returned to the kitchen and took one of the cheap plastic picnic spoons to start the cleanup. As these cheap spoons are known for, I put a slight paper-like cut in his outer sphincter while cleaning.
Doug flew up like he was sitting on Old Faithful at eruption time. Vocally he was yodeling up and down several octaves of the blues pentatonic scale.
Scat singing was born.
The act of winning is unimportant. Every time I have been confronted with people trying to win at some endeavor, they get crazy. Each time I have been faced with crazy, crazy has won. The only conclusion that can be drawn is that pursuing the act of winning, is just crazy.
Dessert
Forget the plums in my brandied mousse
I prefer the prunes, they make me loose
Lou Reed's John Cale
(Five sentence practice)
John Cale’s alias was Waldo Jeffers. They were insanely jealous in their love for Marsha Bronson, their summer separated college sweetheart. Unleashed libidos caused them to make all arrangements to cheaply ship themselves by bus to Marsha. The large heavy crate arrived. Marsha and her friend Sheila Klein, excitedly attempted to open it. Failing in their first attempt, they thrust a long, sharp hedge trimmer through the top of the box, and in the same lunge, through John’s head. Where’s Waldo now?
Boarding the bus, I’m palming two quarters, which immediately shoot forward spattering the fare box. Behind me, a large rank man throws a dollar, surprising driver Tony, and blasting through me by rushing to the rear. In seconds there is a first report, then a second, bam, bam, and while glaring intimidation at me, John is kicking his way out the side door. The triplets cry wildly while Martha sits slumping, dead. Controlling my shock, I see John silently leave his babies motherless.
I’m in Control!
Ear to receiver, I heard the phone ring. Alex picked up about when I imagined his ringtone spouted “Caissons were rolling.”
“Raisins,” I said.
“Don, what do you want?”
“Listen, the USDA is stealing raisin production to keep prices inflated.” I tried to remain ardent without sounding frenetic.
“Don, stop, it’s two a.m.”
“No, really! Since 1937. Check the Horne vs Department of Agriculture brief going before SCOTUS.”
“DON, STOP! Think about last year. You bought a sub-prime mortgage and now it’s underwater. Who did you blame; Wall Street, your local Loan Officer, yourself? No, you blamed the eight banking cartels that own the Federal Reserve; The Morgans, the Rothschilds, and the Rockefellers, among others. Then you said the Saudi Royal family owned them all. Can you think rationally? As far as USDA crop actions, you weren’t even born in 1937.”
“But, I’ve been talking to Harold and…….” I was cut off.
“If you mean your knight-errant Harold Weisberg, he died in 2002. Accept it. In spite of being the driving force for the Freedom of Information Act, proving the Warren Commission liars, and raising award winning chickens, he was mortal; and still dead. Move on!” I paused for a moment. Bad choice of words, Harold was dead alright, although he still remained my inspiration. Alexander lived completely within the DC circus and held me to his standard. Off base as usual, though, my determination remained.
“You know the bureaucracy can be extralegal. Government control of 47% of any private crop is overzealous and unconstitutional, especially when there is no payment guarantee. That’s an illegal ‘taking’.”
“Two minutes Don.”
“Legislated thievery is no fairer than Iowa Governor Branstad alienating my voting rights through my DUI and felon disenfranchisement. You do know all felons vote Democratic?”
“Inalienated? Funny. The Feds guarantee voting rights.”
“Never happen. States Rights dominate Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Alimony; loosely protected under State Constitutions.” I wanted to get one fact accepted.
“How does this relate to raisins?”
“Due to ‘Citizens United’, corporations are now legally people, people with unlimited PAC money. With early government, there existed the Vine of Liberty, a purpose that intertwined faith and life, producing the sweet nectar of justice, not the existing, poisonous black Bryony.”
Tired and still groggy, Alexander tried to cut me short, “At two a.m. you decide grapes are a disenfranchised voter base, and dump your raisins of wrath on me? ‘Sweet nectar of justice’, ‘poisonous black Bryony?’, you’re one lousy poet.”
“You know it’s about corporate money buying our government and bleeding a nation’s financial security through corruption. You’re Secretary of State; you know what’s going on! Speak out!”
“I won’t, it’s my ass. The publicity will put me out on the street, stripped naked and forever out of favor.”
We each reached our patience limits.
Frustrated, I blurted, “For Christ’s sake General, get some balls and do it anonymously!”
(http://reason.com/reasontv/2013/07/18/usda-v-horne-farmers-fight-for-their-rig)
(Griffin vs Branstad – ACLU)
Had to write a story that contained the four following items
Burger Flipper
Fixing a machine
Igloo
Battle won.
Wally Tets, kneeling on hard tile, looked up from his repair on the Softee machine, and rested his eyes. Refocused, he looked around the restaurant kitchen and noticed the fry-cook. Wally looked at him full in the face. Flipping burgers, the kid was lost in a millennial moment, disinterested, conceivably wondering how he got this sidetracked.
Wally thought back to when he was a dishwasher in a supper club. What a dead end job. He constantly got his ass chewed for whistling and for once cutting the lettuce with a knife. The worst part was the ’52 Chevy he bought from the owner. Fired the day after the Chevy debt settled, the owner called Wally’s stepdad and said he never paid for it. When the place folded a few years later, Wally danced a little Irish jig, cursing out the previous owner the whole three and a half minutes.
A hissing cold vapor washed over Wally’s thighs. He had found his leak. None too soon; for the sixth time, the manager returned to check on Wally. A royal pain. Also for the sixth time the manager would remind Wally how important that the Softee machine again produce the “Magic Igloos”. Wally sighed, got out his torch and soldering supplies. Heating the area where he chalk marked the leak, he remembered the fuss people always made over the “Magic Igloos”, undeservedly he thought. His Igloo recollection pictured a large dome of soft serve with gumdrops, pecan and almond pieces, Maraschino cherries, coconut, the new colored M&Ms, and doused with fudge, caramel, rhubarb or strawberry sauces. Finally, there were Midwestern “jimmies”, also known elsewhere as sprinkles, and the whole bowl dusted with powered sugar snow. He remembered his taste impression was that of eating a real Igloo, bland and topped with acid rain. Wally had his problems.
The leak was fixed and the refrigeration system recharged. Old Softee was humming like grandma baking pies. It was an after-hours call and the labor total would reflect well on Wally’s commission. The manager reappeared and signed the bill, but indicated a check would be mailed later.
SOB, Wally silently spat. No check meant a delayed commission. Fuming, he collected his tools and headed out the door. On the way to his truck he remembered which car was the manager’s. SCREEAATTCCH! Battle won.
Wally was the real SOB.
Two stories written as assignments
Radio - Gardener – Bank – 666 (Galumphing)
Erle Stanley, once a Navy radio operator sweated profusely over the crystal based transmitter. The service trained Gardner was hidden from general view in the bank by hiding under a desk in the Lone Arrangers office. The robbers were slow and confused about where the real cash was, but time was short. The “A” and “B” class batteries from the portable tube type radio weren’t correctly powering the transmitter. It’s 1960 for Christ’s sake. Nobody's monitoring Morse code!
Bricolage. Writing about the ordinary items around you.
Roots of Jazz - Spoon
I walked into Doug’s man-cave, dragging bags of picnic supplies. I always bought the cheapest products because Doug, in spite of his, I’m “gonna” and I “wanna” mouthing of help, never delivered.
A stench like a bloated homeless person just pulled from the river, assaulted my senses. I ran into the kitchen, retching what breakfast hadn’t been digested. What to do? I stuffed a sweet baby gherkin in each nostril and tied cheesecloth across my mouth in an attempt to deter the assault.
I peeked around the corner and took in the scene. A liter and a half bottle, of Canadien whisky lay empty. Was Doug dead? He was lying, clad only in his briefs, atop his bean bag doughnut chair. I checked for a pulse. Crap, he was still alive.
Like a dead whale, Doug’s sphinctered blowhole had let loose during his blackout. I decided to get him out of his rectal swamp. I returned to the kitchen and took one of the cheap plastic picnic spoons to start the cleanup. As these cheap spoons are known for, I put a slight paper-like cut in his outer sphincter while cleaning.
Doug flew up like he was sitting on Old Faithful at eruption time. Vocally he was yodeling up and down several octaves of the blues pentatonic scale.
Scat singing was born.