One Love For Boognish

3:11pm: Autumnal Summonings
Much has changed, much remains the same
The Briskness of the season wafts in a certain melancholy nostalgia, and I savor the scenes of the past with a fond longing, My youth is at its peak, but never have I felt so out of touch with the innocent joy of yesteryear. Why is it the autumnal memories are more imbeded, heady and fragrant? What is it about 40-50 degree sunshiny days that soldifies memory deeper within the pith of my being?

7:44pm: I think about these things alot this time of year
What if you are a one skill worker who gets laid off in a field that’s in decline?

What if the execs of your company outsourced your job to a foreign country so they can have bigger houses, new toys, more influence?

What if your kid gets sick and you cant afford healthcare?

What if your spouse is sick and you cant afford childcare?

What if you are homeless or unemployed, because of a severe, legitimate mental illness that you cant afford treatment for?

What if you were born into severe poverty, or to abusive or neglectful parents?

What about Jesus’ commandment to care for the poor, to love thy enemies, to turn the other cheek?

What if you cant get a college education because you cant afford the outrageous tuition, cant afford to stop working, cant get a loan?

What if you had to break the law (steal or sell drugs for example) just to feed and clothe yourself and/or your family?

What if you lived in a shitty school district, and had to take the poor education that was provided, it being the only choice?

What if you were Gay and your Partner is dying in the Hospital, and you are only allowed to see or be with them during visiting hours? What if you had been with them for years, but are only given the rights of a friend?


I try to count my blessings.

5:12pm: The Man Who Saved the World by Doing Nothing

Ever heard of Stanislav Petrov?

Probably not – but you may very well owe him your life.

Petrov, a former member of the Soviet military, didn't actually do anything – but that's precisely the point.   

In 1983, Petrov held a very important station: As lieutenant colonel, he was in charge of monitoring the Soviet Union's satellites over the United States, and watching for any sign of unauthorized military action.

This was the Cold War era, and suspicions were high – on September 1st, the Soviet Union had mistakenly shot down a Korean aircraft it had believed to be a military plane, killing 269 civilians, including an American Congressman. The Soviet Union believed that the United States might launch a missile attack at any moment, and that they would be forced to respond with their own arsenal of nuclear weapons.

Several weeks after the airplane disaster, on September 23rd, another officer called in sick, so Petrov was stuck working a double shift at a secret bunker, monitoring satellite activity, when "suddenly the screen in front of me turned bright red," Petrov told BBC News. "An alarm went off. It was piercing, loud enough to raise a dead man from his grave."

According to the system, the United States had launched five missiles, which were rapidly heading into Soviet territory. The U.S.S.R. was under attack.

All Petrov had to do was push the flashing red button on the desk in front of him, and the Soviets would retaliate with their own battery of missiles, launching a full-scale nuclear war.

 "For 15 seconds, we were in a state of shock," he told The Washington Post. "We needed to understand, what's next?"

Though the bunker atmosphere was chaotic, Petrov, who had trained as a scientist, took the time to analyze the data carefully before making his decision. He realized that, if the U.S. did attack, they would be unlikely to launch a mere five missiles at once. And when he studied the system's ground-based radar, he could see no evidence of oncoming missiles.

He still couldn't say for sure what was going on, but "I had a funny feeling in my gut," he told The Post. "I didn't want to make a mistake. I made a decision, and that was it."

Luckily for all of us, he decided not to push that button. Later, his instincts were proven right – the malfunctioning system had given him a false alarm, and the U.S. had not deployed any missiles. Thanks to Petrov's cool head, nuclear war had been narrowly averted, and millions of lives were saved.

Unfortunately, Petrov didn't exactly receive a heroic reward from the Soviet military: Embarrassed by their own mistakes, and angry at Petrov for breaking military protocol, they forced him into early retirement with a pension of $200 a month. Petrov's brave act was kept secret from the outside world until the 1998 publication of a book by one of Petrov's fellow officers, who witnessed his courage on that terrifying night.

Since the book's publication, Petrov has been honored by the United Nations and presented with a World Citizen Award, and there has been talk of giving him the Nobel Prize. Still, the humble Russian scientist plays down his role in averting a nuclear crisis: "I was simply the right person in the right time, that was all," he said in the upcoming documentary, The Red Button and the Man Who Saved the World.

We've got to disagree with him. Sure, he may have done nothing – but in this case, it might just be the hardest thing to do.


Original story by Kathryn Hawkins

9:19am: Ahh, the crispy aroma of Freedom. Life is Precious Right?
( Lige Daniels )

( Read more... )


When I look at these pictures it makes me want to wretch. All these platitudes of "with liberty and justice for all" and "life liberty and the pursuit of happiness just disolve when I behold these ghastly images.

Lies. I was fed so many lies that made me "proud of my country".

and thats just the way it was, is, and will be.

4:25am: long time no see
its been 40 weeks since I last updated. I reckun thats been awhile. You got any biscuits wiff musturd? mmmm hmmmm. ahh, what can I say. I've been through 3 hand surgeries in the last 2 years.I started growing whats called Tenosynovitis on a flexor tendon, near the bottom joint of my right index finger. Foot still bugs me alot, especially after physical therapy exercises. Its better, but not best, and can still lay me up occasionally. I'm reliant on painkillers, which scares me, as I have seen first hand how they sap one's soul strait out of the mind and body. Plus the longer you are on them, the less they work.

Ah well, I'm not going to feel guilty about it. There was awhile when I was drinking heavily. I could have become an alcoholic, which is a common destiny for those with chronic mental and corporeal anguish.

I'm writing again, thanks to a small finger brace, created from molded plastic, keeps the bottom joint from hyper-extending, allows me to hold a pen, can type again too which keeps me my job, and thus that oh so precious insurance I could not ever forsake. It's the only thing keeping me from vast ocean of debt. Prob is, I only get about 10 minutes of typing or scribbling done before it starts to smart. At that point, if I take a break for about 15-20 minutes I'm good for another spurt. If I get so enthralled by what I'm writing and over do it, I have to wait at least a day. So breaks it is. I'll take what I can get. Sure beats the nerve wracking tortoise pace of writing and typing with my left hand, which takes months of practice.

Heres something I been working on:
Type ( TAD HOLLERITH AND THE CRYSTAL RADIO GANG CHAPTER 1 )

2:51am:

SKYBOY TRIBES

 

THE POD BOYS-

Live inside plant like pods that allow them to incubate in a vicious warmgoo, its nourishment provides a cut up dream state of several realms, like a inter-dimensional blender, allows glimpses of the furthest reaches SkyBoy understanding. Some have been PodBoys since the first. They are sometimes called Rifters of the Furth

 

THE FISH BOYS-

 The Fish Boys long ago decided to explore the vast oceans, rivers, lakes and ponds of Yorn and decided to stay, evolving a sonar like sense pattern and empathy with the sea creatures. They spend their time eating Grungos (sea fruit) and exploring the trenches, lake bottoms, riverbeds of the planet.

 

THE  CAVE BOYS-

The Cave Boys were a result of a recent initiative to explore the unknown cavern systems of Yorn. A group of 1000 volunteered and have been projecting maps to the same, and after eons, have still not ever scratched the surface of the numerous grottoes honeycombing the planet.

 

THE MOUNTAIN BOYS-

The Mountain Boys are few and far between. They are solitary types, who prefer to roam the endless mountain ranges and crags that lie in the far reaches of Yorn. Only a few have returned to tell tale of their introverted excursions and the vast mysteries they include.

 

SAILORS OF THE GLOBE-SEAS-

 There are bodies of globes (called Grungos, or “Sea-Fruit) on Yorn stretching out for thousands of miles. Each globe contains a realm, and is like a fruit a SkyBoy bites into to “taste” the realm. There are great rafts, ships and sail boats that explore these territories filled with tribes of SkyBoys. They seek out uncharted areas and collect their favorite globes. They are known for their extra carefree spirits and are prone to wild lilaceousness.

 

THE CLOUD BOYS-

There are a group of SkyBoys that have taken on the task of drawing clouds and writing stories about them. Several Tomes collecting these depictions are stored in the Archives of the Hall of Clouds. Very little is known about them, only what evidence that can be derived from their books, canvases, murals and frescoes.

 

THE SPAZZISTS-

Long ago, a large group of SkyBoy chums had in common an enormous fascination with Sonicality, what human’s call “Music”. They federated themselves into a blood-brotherhood devoted to the exploration, inspiration and creation of “Gorgeous Sound”. They called themselves the Federated Guild of Sonic Alchemists, saturated themselves with every song the Same contained, and familiarized themselves with every instrument that was known. Over the decades, centuries and millennia they soaked up as much as they could, but eventually they became bored on YORN, and decided to send out expeditionary forces who traveled to the realms of the Unreal and befriended a large, hidden tribe of aged Vivian Girls. This was eons before the Glando-Angelinian war. Some Vivian girls, for an unbeknownst reason, are not immortal after all. After millennia living as the naked, shameless battle girls, they slowly evolve into another form of themselves, splitting out of their little girl shells and becoming born anew. They now resemble human teenage females, and exhibit the common human personality traits that come with being a young woman. It is not known why these particular Vivian Girls change into beings so similar to humans. Cerulius T Skyboy, a learned scholar on the subject, provides the theory that whenever the Vivian Girls were created, it was decided by their creator that this sub species would also exist. Why has never been determined. Neither has any Sameness about their Creator ever been collected by any known SkyBoy. It was these girls whom the group of SkyBoys ran into in rural Abbienia, quite by accident in fact. Exhausted from a long Inter-Dimensional Journey, they took repast in the thick woods in which the Girls Dwelt. The girls discovered the SkyBoys in the midst of their hibernation, and were quite excited and intrigued by their presence. They had known boys of course, but never beings such as these. When the SkyBoys awoke they were parched and hungry, and with great hospitality The Neo-Vivians comforted and celebrated with the SkyBoys and they fast made friends. The Sonic Alchemists shared their fascinations with the Neo-Vivians, who became instantly enthralled. They also informed them of their plans to travel the realms and collect sameness concerning Sonicality, even going so far as to invite the girls along. Some stayed behind, but the majority of the girls agreed, and when well rested and well fed they departed to spread their sound throughout the multi-verse. They show up in my story A Little Boy Still Lost. The main character Martin discovers a group of them dwelling at a farm house in the middle of a remote forest. There he dwells with them and learns their ways. A reader of the story will become very familiar with the deeds and philosophy of The Sonic Alchemists. It is important to mention that there are two separate but complimentary divisions of Sonic Alchemists, one that are more like Musical Gypsy Nomads who travel from colony to colony, never settling down in one place for two long, each individual clan in this sub-sect has their own unique name, but they are know generally as “The Itinerants” . The other group is more community based, and set up simple but highly decorative settlements where they have located a “Special Area”  They then stay and get to know the energy of an area throughout the span of several seasons. One of their main purposes is to host the Itinerants during festivals, which they consider holidays. These groups are generally known as “Rooters”. Both groups recognized the need to spend as much time around the campfire as possible, sharing food, telling stories, singing songs, and above all laughing.  
It was something very atavistic among them, resurrecting old ways and exalting them every chance they could manage.

AND MORE TO COME CONCERNING.....

THE RAIL ROAD BOYS-

THE CYCLONE GANG-

THE BICYCLE BANDITS-

THE CAMPFIRE CHUCKWAGON CHOW CHEFS-

 

1:13pm: IF
[IF]

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

--Rudyard Kipling

2:41am:  

THE SKYBOY ADVENTURE SERIES

By Phineas T Bumblefub III

Sky boys: And the Hyper Dimensional Warp Coil

               And the Escape from the Children’s Prison

               And the Journey to the Baja Peninsula

               And the Boundary Waters Expedition

               And the Mississippi River Voyage

               The Electric Air Ship Adventure

               And the Hovercraft Brigade

               And the Peppermint Platoon

               In the Great American Taffy Pull

               Coney Island Riffraff

               Stone Pocket Days

               And the Secret of the Quartermaster’s Shed

               Meet the Mushmakers!

               And the Tomb of the White Salamander

               Journey to the Depths of the Cistern

               And the Raccoon Ruse

 

 

SKYBOYS AND THE HYPERDIMENSIONAL WARP COIL

            OR, THE ARRIVAL OF THE TRIBE

It all started when Jacob found an old trunk in his Grandpa’s attic. Inside was some kind of odd machine, but try as he might, he could not figure it out. However the more he studied it and the more he tinkered he discovered something extraordinary. The result was a visit from a cast of some pretty extraordinary characters. In this first book in the S.A.S the author introduces to the readers Jacob, our hero and his friends, the Skyboys.

 

SKYBOYS AND THE ESCAPE FROM THE CHILDREN’S PRISON

            OR, TAKING A STAND AND MAKING IT STICK

In a world eons away from Jacob’s there are Skyboys in trouble. Seems a few of them have got themselves imprisoned in Orphan’s Asylum ruled by the ruthless Headmaster Tweeg. Subjected to back breaking labor and continuous torture they make up their minds to escape. But How? Tweeg’s evil guard Hogs are the least of their worries. Can they find a way out, and manage to survive? Find out in this second edition to the Skyboy Adventure Series

 

SKYBOYS AND THE BAJA EXCURSION

            OR, RED ROCK AND BLUE SKY

This being the first volume in the much anticipated “Expeditions” Mini-series finds the Skyboys roaming the mountains of what will one day be western Mexico, thousands of years before the coming of man. They’re in search of the Giant Slug, Glug-Glug, who makes his home there. The slug is told to be an ancient being full of power and rich in wisdom. So with nothing but the shirts on their backs they set off to find him. But the journey isn’t so easy. There are many perils in the rocky, unexplored terrain, where saber tooth tigers roam and sentient boulder ogres devour anything that crosses their path. Nothing can defeat the bravery and curiosity of the Skyboys though, and when you reach the end of this exciting volume, you’ll find out why the journey was worth the danger.

 

SKYBOYS: LOST AMONG THE LAKES

      OR, A TALE OF DAUNTLESS PLUCK AND WHAT BECAME OF IT

In the land of the lakes live a tribe of natives who call themselves “The People of the Pines”. It’s the Skyboys job to seek them out and find a boy in their midst by the name of Sleeping Bear. It seems The Star Spirits have great things in store for him and who better than the Skyboys to deliver the prophecy themselves? But things don’t go quite according to plan. There’s a ferocious storm, with disastrous consequences. Canoes capsized, their sense of direction befuddled, they find themselves lost in a vast network of lakes and islands. Only by luck, pluck and intuition are they able to reach their goal. Find out how they go about it, and what the Stars have in store for Sleeping Bear in this second book in the “Expeditions” Mini-series.

 

SKYBOYS AND THE MISSISSIPI RIVER VOYAGE

            OR, RAFT RATS ON THE CURRENTS OF TIME

First introduced in the Hyperdimensional Warp Coil we return to the life of Cornelius the Interested, chief Archivist for the Skyboy Tribe. Seems he’s been doing some research about prehistoric North America and in the process has discovered something extraordinary. Excited, he tells his friends tales of Great River, that bisects the continent, from top to bottom. Cornelius gleefully proposes a field trip. Always up for adventure, the Skyboys fashion a great raft and push off early one summer morning. Their goal: Travel the entire length of the river, from beginning to end, collecting specimens and sameness along the way. The resulting journey is one that will go down in history as the wackiest, zaniest exploration yet. It’s the final and best volume in the “Expedition” Series and among one of the author’s favorites. Once you pick it up, you won’t be able to put it down.

 

SKYBOYS IN THE GREAT AMERICAN TAFFY PULL

            OR, THE CONFECTIONARY’S CONUNDRUM

You won’t want to miss this next edition of the sky boys adventure series. It will have you writhing on the floor spasmating with laughter. In fact, it’s so hilarious you might blub. It’s called The Great American Taffy Pull and has your favorite Sky Boys Winkie, Hoob and Dobro visiting a great candy contest on the planetoid Shmree. There they run into their friend Roj-bahj as he’s whipping up something that he’s sure will win the contest. But something’s gone awry, the recipe is stolen! It’s up to the Skyboys and their instincts to save the day. Winkie, Hoob and Dobro scour the immense festival grounds searching for clues, and taste testing along the way of course. They eventually get down to the bottom of the mystery, and you won’t believe which familiar character is guilty. Who could it be? Find out by picking up a copy of Skyboys in the Great American Taffy Pull today, Candy recipes included.

 

 STAY TUNED FOR SUMMARIES ON:

CONEY ISLAND RIFF-RAFF

            OR, SUMMER OF THE BOARDWALK BOYS

 

 

SKYBOYS AND THE PEPPERMINT PLATOON

 

SKYBOYS STONE POCKET DAYS

            OR, ATTACK OF THE WOOLY JELLYFISH

 

SKYBOYS AND THE SECRET OF THE QUARTERMASTERS SHED

            OR SEEK AND YE SHALL FIND

 

SKYBOYS MEET THE MUSHMAKERS

            OR, BILL BIX LETS LOOSE

 

SKYBOYS AND THE TOMB OF THE WHITE SALAMANDER

            OR THE SEACH FOR RODERICK MCMULLIGAN

 

SKYBOYS AND THE JOURNEY TO THE DEPTHS OF THE CISTERN

       OR, THE SEARCH FOR THE BEAUTIFUL SYLPH

 

SKYBOYS AND THE RACOON RUSE

            OR, A TALE OF THREE ROWDY RUFIAN RAGGAMUFFINS

 

AND LOOK FOR THESE TITLES AT A LIBRARY NEAR YOU:

 
THE CRYSTAL RADIO GANG

By Sir Arthur Blackberry

The Crystal Radio Gang:

            Meeting Mr. Tesla

            Wireless Anomolies

            The Dance of Electrons

            Harvesting the Boreal Auroras

            44 HtZ

            The Interplanetary Distress Call

            Taking back the Patent

            Spheres of Sound

           

THE DREAM INVESTIGATORS

By Alexander Teakettle

The Dream Investigators:

 Battle the Pontius Pirate

 The 777 Steps of Deeper Slumber

 The Book Of Lost Dreams

 Basement Days, or The Sacremental Cloud

Face Morgo, the Dream Devourer

Attack of the Waking Dreams

Engaging the Weavers

 

 THE YOUNG SPELUNKERS

By Cyrus B. Mongovian

 

The Young Spelunkers:

Mysteries of Mammoth

Limestone Pockets

The Boy Floyd Collins

The Great Gnome Rebellion

An Unexplored Passage

In the Bowels of the Underworld

The Underground Sea

 

AND BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR OUR BRAND NEW SERIES

 

THE LEMURIAN LADS

By Lord Bartholomew Gordon

1:24pm: SHUGGOTHS IN THE GARDEN

SHUGGOTHS IN THE GARDEN

An old, delirious man is bedridden with a bevy of maladies and confined to his small, dusty room. He receives few visitors and spends most of his time pouring over the many volumes of curious and quaint forgotten lore he had collected and always meant to read in his youth. His only connection to the outside world was a single window facing east and overlooking the large garden of his palatial estate, now overgrown and neglected with vines and other invasive plants. It is over this thick and tangled overgrowth that he greets the sun from his rocking chair every single morning he can get out of bed. Then one evening, while sitting in front of the window reading a crumbly, ancient tome he looks up and beholds something hideous and unspeakable. In the gloaming light, opposite of the setting sun hidden from him he vividly discerns some sort of hideous beast shambling through the thick tangleage of the garden. He could scarcely believe his eyes, and the terror of such a revolting sight caused him to slam down the shade violently and dive under the covers, where he experienced a fevered slumber full of nightmarish visions. Over the next few days he avoided the window. Eventually he chided himself for being so silly and took to sitting at the window (only during sunrise mind you) once again. He found though, to his disappointment, that his normal joyousness over the dawn was tainted by the dreadful image of the creature and the fear it summoned. He abandoned the ritual of sitting in front of the window, diving deeper and deeper into his books for comfort. Being insatiably curious however, he could not stay away for long. One lonely dusk he crept slowly over to the window and carefully drew the shade. This time he was greeted by the ghastly vision of two of the creatures wiggling their tentacles ominously in the garden! He shrank back from the windowsill and gasped, dropping his whale oil lamp in the process, which burst into a thousand shards and spilt flaming oil all over the floor, which he regrettably had to extinguish with his favorite bearskin rug. The event left his fragile mind scarred even more, and he avoided the window like the plague for several months thereafter. Once again though, the initial fear waned and his curiosity got the best of him. Over the span of years he gradually worked up the courage to spend longer and longer periods of time in front of the window at dusk, exposing himself to the monstrous beasts only in tiny increments, and always traumatized by their nightly appearance, for it seemed that the more he watched them, the more their numbers seemed to grow, until at each dusk the garden was full of them. Eventually, he conquered the side of his fear that caused him to flee, and sat fast in front of the window almost nightly, morbidly enthralled, muttering to himself in a language only he could understand. Oh, certainly he tried to tell others, the few unfortunate souls who felt guilty enough to visit him every so often, but of course they did not believe him, taking his ramblings about “revolting fiends” with “oozing tentacles, rows of jagged teeth, gnashing beaks, and piercing, cyclopean eyes” to be only the ravings of a very delusional old man who had always had an overactive imagination.

 

“Can’t you see them?!” he hissed in his young nephews ear, after jerking the boy towards the window violently by seizing his lapel. The boy of course saw nothing.

 

“You may not be able to behold their ghastliness, but they are there! They are there!”

 

The man took to sleeping during the day, awaking sullenly before twilight and seating himself in front of the window, where he would behold the creatures in silent amazement until the sun blotted out the light, and the moon allowed faint glimpses of a tentacle or two, here and there, or on some occasions a set of poisoned, dripping fangs.

 

“They’re calling to me, beckoning me to come!” He was known to tell visitors. “Like the chattering of a billion insects. Listen! How can you not hear that?!”

 

This went on for years until one day, his young nephew, the only visitor he had not run off with his fevered rants, found his great uncles room empty. On the nightstand he discovered a note scrawled in a spidery script on a piece of torn, yellowed notebook paper. It said only as follows.

 

My Dearest Cornelius,

 

My most dreaded day has finally arrived. I have abandoned this earthen shell to dwell amongst the Shuggoths (for that it what they are called). Everything I once owned is now yours. My only hope is that the invisible things of this world stay that way for you.

 

Farewell,

 

Your Great Uncle Albert

 

1:36am: Precognition

So I had this dream weeks ago about this old abandoned school on the shore of a lake. I'm out fishing today on the other side of lake Mendota near the Insane Asylum in the woods. I took a wrong turn down a dirt road that I have never been on and then all of the sudden: BAM. There's the school from my dream. Small buildings, 70's architecture with harvest gold, sickly orange and chocolate brown, some tangled swingsets and a busted up Basket ball hoop. I almost shit. I mean, it was exact! and I have never been down that road before. Plus it was getting dark and the cicadas were loud and it was creepy. An abandoned school overgrown in the woods that was part of the insane asylum complex up on the hill. I mean, who knows what kind of shit happened in there back when abuse was common. I got creeped out, turned my car around and left, but it will always stick with me. I whole heartedly believe that Precognitave Dreams are real. Too many people I know have had similar experiences. And hey, why not?

1:29am: The Summer Wind...

<lj-cut text="Old Friends, sat on the park bench like Bookends">

Hung out with my buddy Pete tonight, one of my oldest, longstanding friends. Friends like him come along only once or twice in your life if you are lucky. He's shipping out in a few weeks for the Persian Gulf to be an officer on a Naval Destroyer, so its gonna be along time before I see him again. He came over around supper time. We sat around shooting the shit while my hunny bunny whipped up a scrumptious meal of Roast Turkey, Corn Bread Stuffing, Savory Gravy, crisp green beans, and brown sugar sweet potatoes. We sat out back and partook soon after, enjoying gin and tonics. It had been threatening rain most of the evening but we had faith that it would blow over. He has lived in Madison for 5 years or so and has never really got out of town much so he wanted to drive around the north side of town, check out the infamous Mendota State Insane Asylum, a location for many a local ghost story. Near there, there's this little chunk of land that juts out into the lake, and we walked through the wooded paths smoking black n milds (an old ritual among us Kokomo Brethren). It gave me a taste of those great hikes of youth that sit in my mind so pure. The storm hit us a little, but cleared up right when we started tromping about. Guess our faith pulled through. We stood out on this small shelf of land, this sandstone mini-cliff that hangs over the water. The waves were being kicked up by the wind and as they slammed under us (I could feel it in my feet) big sloshes of cold lake jetsam sprayed before us. To our right, The Glorious City of Madison, the place where all my dreams incubate and come to fruition. This great green scholarly city where years ago I first came up to visit him and fell in love with the town. "I'm gonna miss this place" he said. To our left was one of those God-speaking-to-Moses sunsets, you know the kind, where the rays of the sinking sun burst through the clouds in golden sheets. The Sun itself looked like something between a hot campfire coal and a ripe tangerine. We made our way to the end of Willy street, stopping by Mickey’s, this old Inn-of-yore that has been converted into a bar. Strangely enough, I ran into my first roommate I had in Madison, a feisty roller girl by the name of Tatum Tantrum. Pete bought me a drink. “Whatya have?” inquired the bartendress. “2 Makers Marks on the rocks please” was Pete’s reply. When Pete drinks, he doesn’t fuck around. Mickey’s is interesting because it feels like your drinking in someone’s house that just happens to also be a bar. Many of the multiple rooms have a very “living room” atmosphere, complete with drapes on the windows, hardwood floors and the greatest feature: couches. We each laid claim to a couch and sat slowly sipping our whiskey and telling stories. He filled me in on some of his relatively recent visit to China, I told him some stories about two red-neck brothers I knew back in Kokomo. We then went over to his place where he grabbed a fancy Cee-gar and some cream sodas and stopped by the local BP so I could get some Capones and another Black n Mild. Not really having anything else better to do, we could think of nothing more important than heading back down to the Capitol Building, a feat of Architecture we both have always been in awe of. We walked around the grounds, sipping our cream sodas and puffing away until we found a bench with an incredible view of that lit up alabaster dome that I will never tire or get used to, no matter how long I dwell here. We then proceeded to partake of the smoke and reminisce. We talked of old times, women, war, religion, politics, travel and what the future might have in store. There we sat for a good hour and a half, doing what Pete has always called “Shooting the Shit”. After more staring in awe of the dome we came back to my place and watched our favorite scenes from The Big Lebowski. I gave him a giant stack of my writings incase he gets home sick while out at sea. I recall fondly two nights we’ve had like this previously in the long history of our friendship: One, when during our boy scout years we snuck out of camp and went down to the water front on the Tippecanoe river at Camp Buffalo and sat for hours on a bench, watching the moon and stars reflected on the ripples of the lake, talking about nothing in particular with long, powerful silences in between, listening to the splash of the water. The other was when we were up in a patch of woods up near Michigan City, running a Klondike for OA, and we found this little frozen pond out behind our cabin and walked out on the slippery dock, staring up at the stars till we had cricks in our neck and the bejeweled universe was all that remained. Being 16 we mostly talked about girls. Now, those are the times that I will never forget, and tonight we just added another.      I hope when he returns from his journey there will be many more. Good home cooked meals, cream sodas, stiff whisky, a fragrant cigar, and long, long talks. Its times like these that give some meaning to my existence on this planet and I couldn’t ask for a better person to share them with than my buddy Pete.

</lj-cut>

7:11am:

Can you take me back where I came from, can you take me back?

Can you take me back where I came from, brother can you take me back?

 

I used to sing in a band, if you could even call it that. We were really just a group of scruffy scalawags, ragamuffin Rascals interested in music and its beautiful tug on our souls. We had no musical education, past what little we had picked up ourselves, mostly loose chunks of chords and odd note clusters, dissonant fumblings of inebriated fingers across a cheap old Casio that one of us, I think it was Gary, had picked up at some shabby thrift store, you know the kind, a sort of scattered indoor garage sale. As a matter of fact that’s where most of us discovered our instruments, besides the few we already owned. (I recall fondly Dave’s Acoustic Guitar Big Blue) I myself owned this weird toy keyboard, this strange 80’s Japanese Monstrosity of a toy, a kind of mini-moog for kids. I got it for my birthday at the tender age of 7. But anyway, we had collectively gathered a bizarre, rag-tag cornucopia of salvaged instruments.

 

There was this old brick church on sycamore road, back in the thicket. It was Methodist, no, perhaps Lutheran, I can’t recall. This tiny congregation was mostly elderly and collectively, there was not enough money to even keep the place heated on Sundays, let alone pay the pastor. The Church folk hoped that the auction would save the church. It was the talk of the small town, in the local paper, The Dungleburg Chronicle, flyers for it were plastered all over town, on the Oak Glade Park Bandstand, telegraph poles and the crust-sun brick walls of the downtown district. The town felt sorry for the church and figured it wouldn’t be too much to ask to practice what they preached reaching down and digging deep into their barns, “out-buildings”, and wood sheds for the stuff they had abandoned, salvaging potential items, dusting off old farm implements, hand me down clothes and other such things. Us Miscreants thought we’d chip in too. Who knew, it might be an opportunity to get our hands on some more useful junk, and add to the already bursting pile that was accumulating in my dads garage. (It used to be a chicken coop, long ago. We called it “The Clubhouse”)

 

            So we borrowed Dave’s grandpas monstrous rust bucket truck (named Linda, after his 3^rd wife) and hurtled off into the early spring dawn, taking the long way on thin Gravel Country roads, sipping hard cider from a steel thermos, passing it back and forth, the windows all the way down, heat up full blast, and me and Gary and slim all hunkered down in the bed, hoods pulled tight, fingers numb (No one remembered gloves of course), passing that big thermos round, taking copious swigs and passing it in and out of the little window. We hurtled down cricket pass and up through Wahanakaha River Valley and pulled the clunk bucket truck up in the little gravel parking lot of that humble brick church. The engine coughed, sputtered and farted, then ferociously backfired, causing the small group of elderly early bird auction goers to glare the lumpy truck full of shaggy young men, full of hard cider and grinning sheepishly.

 

We hopped out, gravely crunch as our battered sneakers plopped on the ground. We then moseyed on over to the Auction tent (red, white and blue of course) and seated ourselves in the front row, all 6 of us, eyes sizing up the situation. I knew I had 30 bucks and Gary had a 10 dollar bill, Sid had a bucket of change and I thought, but I wasn’t sure what the other guys had. After a few minutes the mostly elderly bidders shuffled in.

 

The first few items were pretty lame. Up on the stage prattled Willy Joe Proudfoot, this strange town luminary who used to be preacher in another town down river. He was something of a local celebrity, speaking down at the Exhibition Hall in the town square often and had been lately considering  running for mayor. Anyway, he was up there on an unvarnished, home-made plywood stage, emitting this strange, almost alien conniption of words, speaking the bizarre tongue of Auctioneese, rattling off bids at an incredible rate. It was quite hilarious actually, and I had to stifle a giggle or two.

 

Like I mentioned before, the pickings were pretty slim. A crappy picture frame, an old plow, a box of rusty tools, engine parts (Still good folks!) and an old but fully functional Freezer. We were twiddling our thumbs, nodding off, staring into space, a few of us trying to ignore nagging hangover symptoms. I myself could have gone for a nice big cup of coffee. I was starting to feel like this was a waste of gas and that I’d rather be home in bed when a couple of hulking billys in greasy overhauls hauled up this monstrous contraption and it was unanimous, we were love struck.

 

We walked out of that auction and it was only 10 am. We had managed to become the proud parents of a 1938 Wurlitzer Church Organ, and it only ended up putting us out of 16 dollars. The reason we got it so cheap was the fact there was no delivery service available. It was our responsibility to haul it. Even between the 6 of us guys it was quite a chore to get that dusty hunk up into the bed of the Studebaker, but we did somehow. It didn’t matter whether it weighed a ton; the potential was endless with such a discovery. On our way back to Dungleburg we stopped at Liquor Land and got 2 cases of brewskies and a whole jug of Dr Mcgillicuddys, which many folk say tastes like Listerine, but all of us except Arthur thought it was delicious, warm or cold.

 

Spirits were high as we careened down the dusty farm roads, into wet woods and across the Cricket Creek. Then, out of nowhere we were blindsided by the cruel fist of fate, a ferocious, devastating blow. We heard a wet loud pop under the rusty hood and Dave, our helmsman slammed on the brakes and got her up on the gravel shoulder. He killed the engine as a great torrent of sickly colored steam burst forth from under the hood with a great, coughing whoosh, engulfing the truck in its stinking vapor

 

“It’s the fucking radiator again…” said Dave with a disgruntled sigh

 

We just sat there silently, trying to formulate a plan of action.

 

“Fuck!!!” Dave screamed and pounded his fist against the huge wheel. He sunk his head forward, dismayed. We all got out, the sun was warming the trees and it looked to be around noon. All of the sudden I remembered I hadn’t eaten anything for a couple of days.

 

“Well, we’re about 3 or 4 miles from Mandy Miller’s Family’s Farm” I said.

I had dated her for a couple of months my junior year of high school. The brief romance was rocky at best, but we managed to end it as friends. Every so often we’d call each other if we were bored and talk about the “Good Ole Days”, the various kids we went to school with and what they were up to now. I thought I was on good terms with her, even though we hadn’t spoken in months. It was an option at least. I knew her paw pretty well (at least I hoped) enough that maybe I could get him to ignore his Saturday morning chores long enough to help a few desperate friends of his daughters. So it was decided we would hoof it on over to the millers farm and implore their generosity. We were all set to head out on a New Born Spring Romp, with lots of rough-housing and crude clowning when Gary piped up...

 

“What about the organ?”

 

“What about it?”

 

“Well, what are we going to do with it?”

 

“We leave it of course” scoffed Luke

 

“We can’t leave it” said Gary.

 “What if someone came along and stole it, then we’d be sorry”

 

“What the fuck Gary? We’re practically in the middle of nowhere! What, is a farmer going to come along in his combine and take off with it? It weighs a ton!”

 

“Yeah, well those Billy Brothers cruise around out here and harvest junk and they have a wench on the back of their truck. If they saw that thing sitting in a bed of a truck in the middle of nowhere they wouldn’t think twice about helping themselves. You know they would.”

 

The Billy Brothers ran what they called a “Salvage Yard” which was in reality a big clearing out in the woods full of junk. They would drive all over Copper County several days a week, sucking down six-packs and scouting for prospects. There were rumors that the twins had a very loose definition of what was “abandoned” and were responsible for several missing items from farms in the area. There was no proof however, as no deputy would ever volunteer to search their heavily fortified compound. The investigation was still pending.

 

“So what the hell do you propose we do with it?”

 

“Um..I don’t know” said Gary quietly. “Why don’t we take it with us?” he barked after a long pause.

 

Sid rolled his eyes and head back and emitted a guttural sigh. “You’ve got to be shittin me”

 

“Ok Gary,” said Tom smirking

 

“Say we actually haul this thing the 4 miles or so to Little Miss Mandy’s place. Then what in gods green earth are we going to do with it?”

 

“Well….” Supposed Gary “Ivan could ask old man Miller if we could keep it in one of his side barns, just until we get the truck back to snuff”

 

I wasn’t sure how “Paw” Miller would react to such a request. He might help some unfortunated youngsters get the truck up and runnin’, but here he might draw the line. After all, I had sex with his daughter a few times, and I’m sure he knew it. But he had always liked me, and wished that me and Mandy would have stayed together longer. He never had a son and I think he regretted the fact. We went fishing once and he alluded to the fact. I was weighing whether I should protest to such a silly request when Gary pointed intently to the east. All across the edge of the horizon the sky was swollen with a slime of dark purple and bruised colored clouds.

 

“According to my calculations” grinned Gary

(This was in reference to an inside joke we continually batted around)

“… That storm is headed this way, and it looks to be a nasty one. We can’t leave the organ. It will get drenched and ruined. We have to take it with us now”

 

We all groaned because we knew he was right. So we hopped into the bed, Gary, Walt and I and helped our disgruntled pals get the organ out of the truck. The thing weighed a ton. None of us were very hearty guys. I could easily stomach the idea of dragging this thing a mile or so, it wouldn’t be so bad, that is of course if each man could carry his share. But 3 or 4 miles? This would not be easy. No, this would be a downright daunting and exhaustive chore. It would take all the gumption we could muster, all the SkyBoy know-how we could summon, all the what I like to call “Hooch Muscles” referring of course to that ability to perform startling feats when one is under the influence of certain fiery beverages. Plainly stated, it would take PLUCK, and lots of it, and I was trepid to wonder whether or not we had it in us and how it would hold up to the urgently grave task at hand.

 

“All right you pack of hyenas! 1,2,3 Heave!!!” bellowed Tom and the organ was barely a foot up off the ground.

We stumbled forward, grunting, sweating, second guessing, pacing ourselves early on, and worried about that final stretch that loomed. Above all this, we were acutely aware of the gnarled blob of a  spring thunder-fuck deluge encroaching quietly in the east. Was it possible to escape its impending doom?

 

Of course there was an expected amount of bitching and moaning at the current predicament, blended with the general verbal rough-housing, teasing and clowning around that imbued itself in all our endeavors. We tried to keep a perpetual conversation to distract us from the current predicament. It was a memorable one in fact, going off in untamed directions and hollow tangents. After the entire following adventure was over I often wished we could have recorded it, to listen and laugh about later.

 

It was around the last leg of the journey that things were beginning to become troublesome. The organ was sinking, getting perilously close to the ground. I could see it all in our eyes we were reaching critical mass. At any point someone was going to drop the ball and we’d all have to set it down. I and I’m sure some of the others knew that once that happened we would have to give up. There simply wouldn’t be able to muster enough strength to haul the accursed heap any farther.

 

“We got it guys,” said Tom “Just around the bend. Just imagine how much fun we’re gonna have with this thing once we get it breathin’ again and pump some juice in it? Imagine the melodic, the harmonic, the tonal epiphanies this thing contains!” he said desperately, trying to maintain tribe morale.

 

Tom tried his best to extinguish our hot, fed up minds and remind us of our quest. We picked up the pace and the sky darkened. A tiny mist of droplets began to stain the dusty organ. It was now or never. We were racing the rain.

 

The last couple hundred feet was both excruciating and somehow ecstatic, our wills stretched like salt water taffy, eyes on the prize. We made it as far as the miller’s front yard before finally collapsing, the organ plopping down in the newly squish-dampened grass. I did my best to dust the mud off the seat of my wranglers and went up and rapped on the millers screen door. Molly, Mandy’s youngest sister answered. She was probably 8 years old or so and quite the sassy little spitfire.

 

“State yer business!” she barked jokingly

 

“Is Mandy around by chance?”

 

Mandy glared out at the rest of us muddy Riff-Raff as they lay sprawled out on the lawn letting the droplets cool their hot skin and trying to catch their breath.

 

“Who wants to know?” She quacked, frowning.

 

I was a little patient, you understand. “Some of her friends, she knows em”

 

Molly stared up at me and shared a tense moment as she seemed to examine whether or not I was lying.

 

“C’mon Molly” I said “You know me…It’s gonna rain you know”

 

She pursed her lips and smiled. “Very well”.

 

She thundered up the stairs and screamed “MANDY!!! Your boy-that’s-a-friend is here!” she said mockingly.

 

Mandy crept down the stairs cautiously, squinting. “Ivan? What’s up?”

 

She looked at my mud encrusted clothing smirked. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

 

“Well, sort of”

 

Her eyes darted around me and she saw the boys and the organ. Her eyes widened and her brow furrowed simultaneously.

 

“I’m not even going to ask” she said, stifling a laugh.

 

I cut to the chase. “Our Truck broke down about 3 or 4 miles back”

I said sheepishly, with a Shit Eating Grin. “Think you could lend us a hand?”

 

“Yeah, “ she guffawed “How?”

 

“Well, for starters can I talk to yer Paw?”

 

She looked at me expressionless. “If its really important, I guess. Paw’s busy with the hay. He meant to do it last month but he didn’t.”

 

The whole lot of us then stomped back behind the big barn just as pa miller was reeling in Ole’ Bess (his tractor’s name of course) from out in the far edge of the property. As soon as I could see his face I could tell he wasn’t pleased. I began to have second thoughts on every end of this business.

 

Mandy’s mom died when she was 12. Everyone of us deals with greif in their own ways, and it affected Paw Miller by transforming him into a bit of a curmudgeon. He was known down at Jerry’s Barbershop as “Grump Miller”. He was an alright guy I suppose, though it took me a few months of dating his daughter to really warm up to him and get used to his gruffness. It was a defense mechanism. Behind his bull-dog shell was the heart of a teddy-bear. Still I had the unfortunate luck of witnessing some of his “swearing-coniptions” when his frustration had peaked. I was hoping today wouldn’t be one of those days. I crossed my fingers, an old playground ritual.

 

The crusty john-deer tractor grumbled up to us and he killed the ignition. He sat silent for a moment, staring at us, sizing us up.

 

“Looks like rain” said Tom, attempting smalltalk

 

The scraggly farmer looked up at the dim firmament and grunted sarcastically.

 

“No shit? You don’t say?”

 

Tom looked at the ground.

 

“Well now, to what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

 

After a moment of silent hesitation amongst all of us, I stepped forward.

 

“My Budie’s grandpa’s truck broke down the road few miles back. I was thinking maybe you could do us a favor.”

 

“What’s that?” he queried begrudgingly.

 

“Could you maybe haul us back to the truck and see if you could maybe fix it? We can pay you. Its not much but its something…”

 

He let out a long, wet burp.

 

“PAPA!” sqwaked his daughter, rebukingly.

 

“Sorry punkin’”

 

He sat staring at the steering wheel of the tractor. He clenched his eyelids shut.

 

“Boys, its gonna storm soon, in case you hadn’t noticed. Sides, I don’t have no parts anymore. Odds are I couldn’t help you there. I’m afraid yer just shit-outa-luh..”

 

“DADDY!!......PLEEEEEEAAASSSEEE” meowed Mandy.

 

One look into his daughters big eyes and his callousness melted. He was too tired to argue anyway. He let out an enourmous sigh.

 

“Tell yuh whut. You boys help me buck some these hay bales out of the rain in up there loft and I’ll let you sleep in there. I don’t have no room in the house for 6 filthy rascals like yerselves. Tomorrow morning I’ll haul yuh back to the truck and she what I kin do, but I’m not promising anything.

 

“Oh…well.. I….Uh” I looked at my brothers attempting to gauge their response to the proposition. My eyes darted around unsuccessful. In the end I went with my gut.

 

“Sir we’d appreciate that so much”

 

“Aight den. Let’s not waste anymore time shootin’ thuh shit. Mandy, go inside and check on yer sister. You three boys come with me, and you other go wait for us up in the loft of that barn. And by the way, don’t call me sir Ivan, you oughtuh know that by now”

 

No one moved, all of them avoiding eye contact except me

 

“Oh, Sam?”

 

“Whut Boy?!”

 

“There’s just one more thing….”

 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

Pa miller took one long look at that organ and about shat his britches. He took his hat off his scraggly head and grunted.

 

“Sumuvvuh gahwd damned beeitch.” He grumbled, nearly inaudible.

 

“He..He….yeah. So, think we can stick this thing in one of the Barns, you know…to keep it out of the rain. It’d be a shame if this thing got ruined in the rain.” I pretty much begged.

 

Sam Miller’s head wrinkled deeply, but he grinned smugly.

 

“I got just the thing”

We stood around confused.

 

5 minutes later the guy comes roaring, swerving haphazardly around the back of one of the worksheds in one of those little dirt-moving “cat” bulldozers. He puttered over, lowering the lift. We got the organ up on it and pa miller carefully placed it inside the Hay Barn on the empty concrete floor. I think he had been wanting to break out this beast for awhile but never had the chance. Maybe that was the reason for his rare demeanor.

 

“That ought to do it. Now hows about you fellars help me buck some this hay up into the loft. Our already tired bodys groaned, sore of such prospect but we kept our traps shut out of sheer gratititude.

 

After the chore was finished and everything was put away, the sky was looking quite nasty indeed.

 

“IM gonna call it a day boys” he said “back’s killing me. I gotta check on yer sister and rustle up some dinner. Say Mandy, you wouldn’t happen to remember what’s in the fridge? Why don’t you come on in with me and we’ll cook dinner.”

 

“Papa, theres some leftover chicken’ n’dumplings in the icebox” said mandy.

 

“How old?”

 

“Bout 3 days”

 

“Uggn” grimaced her pa. “Maybe”

 

“We got any uv them Dor-ee-toes?”

 

Mandy guffawed. “No daddy, you ate all the bags in the pantry”

 

“But what about the ones in the root cellar?”

 

“Those ended up in the pantry. Those are the ones.”

 

“Dagnabit” he grumbled. “Boys. You ever heard uv a kinda chip called a

Dor-ee-toe? It’s the best gall-darned chip on the planet” He rubbed his belly.

“I luv’em”

 

We all struggled to stifle laughs. He was just discovering Dorito’s chips, alot from the sound of it.

 

  “Yeah, I said, they’re good” said grinning

 

“Darn right they is. Whale, I’m uh-headin’ on back to thuh hoamsted. Night yall. Mandy-“ he looked at his daughter sternly “don’t stay out her with these boys (he looked at us even more stern) all night long. I’ll see you boys first thing in the morning. That’s sunrise for me. Better be ready”

 

He bid us adieu and moseyed briskly up toward the front part of the property.

 

All of us shared an awkward moment, shuffling about on the concrete floor. It was definitely getting dim in the barn.

 

“Are there any lights in here mandy?” I asked

 

“Yeah, I think so..I don’t come in here very often though, Why don’t you come with me and we’ll dig around for the breaker”

 

Tom shot me a smirk and I gave him a rotten look. Mandy and I had been apart for years. Somehow I knew I wasn’t going to get out of this night without some razzing about the whole thing. Whatever, I thought, they were just jealous. Those ruffians couldn’t keep a girl if they tried. Their idea of a relationship was a drunken foray with some floozy over a weekend. They didn’t understand a thing about women.

 

“Here you go guys” said Mandy, whipping off a dusty canvas tarp off a big mound of junk. There were several lawn chairs amongst a bunch of other shit, and the boys got up tired of standing and began wrenching the chairs out from the pile of crap. Mandy tugged on my sweat shirt and pulled me away from the crowd. I followed.

 

Mandy and I headed off toward the darker recesses of the barn. Silently searching, I knew not what for, she shifted and shoved boxes around until she apparently found what she was looking for, a tool box with one of those big old metal flashlight inside, she clicked it on, whirled around and shined it under her chin, grinning.

 

“Boo!”

 

I smirked. God she was cute.

 

“C’mon Iv, laugh a little”

 

“I’m tired. We lugged the Organ all the way here”

 

“Yeah, yeah

 

    TO BE CONTINUED.....

 

 

PLAN FOR FUTURE CHAPTERS IN THIS PARTICULAR STORY

The old Steve Canyon, Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers Comics

Mandy reveals that barn does have some electricity, a single 3 prong outlet, and a large light which she searches for its breaker. She and I go off separate from the guys, who lay around exhausted. We find the circuit breaker and flip it on. Before there is an awkward hug, between us which she initiates that sends mixed signals to both of us

We explore around as it gets dark outside due to the approaching storm,

We wander around looking at old stuff

One guy monkeys with the organ, assessing its repair

While he is doing that and the others are otherwise occupied Mandy and I explore a room of old dusty card board boxes. She digs through them with me, happy and care free at first until I happen on a box of stuff that was her mothers. Mandy gets a little weepy and we hugged, this time for a long time as I squeezed her tight. Im sorry we didn’t work she whispered, sniffling for air. I said, it was better for both of us and smiled. She dried her tears when she heard the other guys getting rowdy. Seems they discovered they could fix the organ when one of the guys just so happened to find some of the parts they needed while wondering in an adjacent junk room at the bottom corner of the barn. I asked mandy nicely if her dad would mind and she said hell no, her dad probably forgot about all those old tvs and radios before she was born. There had been a time shortly after he got married he bought them broken at an auction and was going to fix them up and resell them. “Its an investment” he told Mandys pursed lipped mother. 3 daughters later and he never got around to it. The parts were coated with hay dust.

The ritualistic imbibement of Tom’s flask of “Potion Tonic”

Mandy’s mothers Birds egg collection

There is talk of the want of some sort of beer. We all sadly recall that we had to leave all our celebration hooch in the truck as a sacrifice for the organ, which jim piddled with quickly and intently. We all decide that without the beer it would would be a long, boring, cold night. We made the silly decision, perhaps in the brief head rush of the potion that we should walk all the way back to the truck and haul the shit back to the barn, yes you heard me right, 8 mile round trip, all while the sky threatens to storm. We were not of our right mind, but we were young, and we were thirsty for that brew. Never mind our tired legs. We would keep nipping off of Toms potion on the way. It would give us hooch muscles.  Like I said, we were not of our right minds. It was already starting to get dark outside when we departed. Mike stayed in the barn, intently interested in getting the organ going and we snuck around the back of the property, shushing each other, general monkey business. Our legs weren’t sure if they were up for the trek, but the more we joked, the better we felt. Past a certain point it would have been stupid to turn back, even though it was already starting to sprinkle. By the time we got to the truck we had a moment of panic when Dave thought he had left the keys back at the barn, but soon found them buried in his jacket pocket. We got the stuff and turned around, wet, and at that point it began to really pour. We got soaked on the way home, walking as fast as we could. It was getting really dark as the sky peed all over us

2:39am: Stanislaus Hieronymous
The following is a fragment from the Introduction of Wilmer Bergenstein's Edition of Stanislaus Hieronymus's Childrens Classic rentitled here as “Two Jolly Chumeroos”:

Published originally under the title Chester and Ephraim: A Treatise Concerning the Infalibility of the Divine Doctrine of Electric Virtuosity”, the narrative contained in the following volume has long been exalted in the eyes of children everywhere, and ever since the glorious moment of it's first publication, about 1844, whereapon the angels wept with joy and the heavens themselves were rent in twain, it has been a constant influential advocate for chastity and temperance, not to mention liberty and forbearance in the poisoned mind of modern youth. Indeed, it seems few books for the young have afforded such amusement, such fanciful whimsy while all the while preaching against that oh so common insolence that so many vile heathen children are being plagued with in this very day and age. No book of its time was more effective in the instruction and regimentation of children, certainly no other book has existed that more truly and righteously invigorated the stale minds of America's young while all the while providing a lifting, stimulative phosphate of pure, unadulterated whimsy, leaving such an everlasting impression seared into the very core of the individuals who have basked in its glory.
The Story is intended to set within the reader forthwith the “proper-way-of-thinking” a profound yet simple philosophy developed by the author, his gift to all future mankind. It contrasts a sinewy, righteous country “lad” with a corpulent, insolent industry Barron's son, and shows how the latter, only by rigorous training and steadfast fortitude developed throughout the very fiber of his being into a a boy of the “right sort”. It is an admirable argument for the pleasures of simple existence, free from the trappings of vice, as well as the useful employment of the poor, for courage, valor, unquestioning faith and kindness to all living beings, no matter how unfortuanted and diseased.
The author of said work was he himself genuine in his extrapolations and enthusiastically found great satisfaction in what he announced plainly as “the call of the angels”. The book ought to continue in its enobling, tender mission. But, unfortunately as originally printed, the story is quite long, and the narrative is often interrupted with long soliloquies and demonstrative extraplatives extending over several hundred pages. These digressions sometimes convey scientific, geographical and metaphysical anecdotes having little to do with the core of the tale. Many of them concern themselves exhaustively with the “Electric Nature of the Everlasting Lord our Sovereign” Though interesting in their own right, they make the book far too complicated for the feebly inept mind of a modern child. To invoke what I consider to be vital and attractive the present edition has been created. Whatever was deemed unnecessary has been carefully excised, and I believe with all my soul that said child will in this form follow the lessons the boys learn with staunch resolve and and unflagging tenacity. Whosoever reads this thin volume will discover themselves rendered incapable of resisting the absorption of at the very least some of the sentiments set forth by Hieronymus's sacred pen and all the venerations he strove to inculcate.
Nay, I have not told the story to the extent of relating it in my own matter, but have trusted mainly on the expungery of all that has heretofore been deemed unnecessary and abstruse. I have preserved the text as close to author's divine purpose as necessity would permit me, and have retained to some degree all the book's characteristic features, namely the quaint flavor and structured originality the virgin text maintained.

Stanislaus Hieronymus, a hero among men, to whom we are indebted for Chester and Ephraim was born in the then tiny settlement of Niagara Falls, New York in 1801. He was an unusual individual from his youth and beyond. As a tender young fellow he was ridiculed for tithing his coinage unto the poor and leprous, and in his academic years, though he had inherited the wealth of a thousand kings from his father's successful whaling enterprise and could have lived in the soft arms of luxury, it became his unwavering ambition to fare sparingly and drink only water. The plainliness of his diet was, he thought, vigorously healthful, and it enabled him to spend more time assisting those who were in dire want, and less time strenuously squatting in some godforsaken lavatory, doubled up and bemoaning a severe bout of crampery. The needs of the piteous were ever before him his whole life duration, and after his death at the ripe age of 105, it was discovered that he had donated every last penny of his fortune to the lofty cause of Philanthropy.

As the years floated heavily past, the desire to marry and settle down in some quaint, remote setting was kindled within his bosom. But his thoughts and behaviors were considered so peculiarly queer that locating a potential candidate for the fulfillment of this desire proved to be quite difficult. The young ladies that floated in and out of his sphere of being were repulsed by his eccentricities and foul body odors. Finally it was arranged that he would acquire two feeble minded female street urchins from the local orphans asylum with the venerable volition of instilling within them the most lofty of intentions, so that they may one day develop unfailing fidelity and might one day develop into the flowery echelon of pure, unmitigated, indisputable potency. To this end he failed miserably. He had intended on accepting them on as wives, but they inevitably contributed to his infectious ailments with much disparity, filial discord and seemingly unabated strife, he having to endure the ordeal of them constantly running away and on more than one occasion filling his trousers with pungent cheese or some other fetid concoction all the while aggravating the already present and perpetual unruly conditions of ulceration of the kidneys and several lymphatic lesions whose manifestations plagued his physical body and gnawed away at his very wellbeing. The tragic end of the experiment ended with the beneficial discovery of what would one day be termed the “frontal lobe lobotomy”

Still, his experience with the girls could not affect his charitable deliniative perchlorinations, and after much soul searching he made the humble decision to take under his wing a young “road-whelp” to assist him with the growing and mantainence of his vast turnip crops. But his kindness proved ironicly futile upon the discovery that the boy had fled one Thursday morning, taking with him several rolls of valuable bank notes the author kept carelessly hidden in his stocking drawer along with a cured ham, a jar of pickles, 3 combs of honey and a large earthenware jug of rhubarb cider.

One lady who stimulated his interest told him plainly that she would not mate with him because he lacked the manners and affectations of a proper dandy-man. To remedy this defect he embarked on a lengthy tour of Austro-Hungarian empire and all its environs, tactfully apprenticing himself amongst the great masters of ballroom waltzing and elocutionary eloquence, yet in the face of all his intentions, upon his return the fair maiden still continued to reject him.

In 1877 however, he found his mate in a consumptive baroness whose tastes in many respects coincided with his own. She was willing to suit her ways to his, even thought he was in a constant state of expounding his theories and held steadfast to such extreme simplicity that he refused her any servants and firmly deprived her of her beloved harpsichord. “We have no inherent right to luxury,” he was often quoted as saying “ while the gullets of the poor long for bread”

Presently he delved into his turnip crops, pouring every ounce of blood that pumped through his ragged veins in devotion to the its success. Through hard work and good luck, he managed,between the years of 1874 and 1881 to double its profits every 16 months. He entertained no notion of societal convention, and refused any and all invitations to any sort of “ice-cream-socials” or pic-i-nic luncheons which he considered “blatantly degenerative and inherently foul” He was often seen eating rejected turnips from the same greasy brown paper bag he was known to carry the rest of his “prudent” possessions in. During the height of the great “Turnip Rot” epidemic of 1883 he lost, in addition to three toes to the gout, much of the fortune he had amassed. Yet still he maintained the farm as a source of employment for the poor, unworthy and “freakishly inabled”. Mr and Mrs Hieronymus adhered militantly to the notion of charity and were both devoted to the care and nurture of their laborers, often allowing the servants to look them directly in the eye, feast upon their table waste and on rare occasions, gratefully benefit from the religious instruction of the patriarch himself.

It was Mr. Hieronymus's unflinching opinion that even animals, by kind treatment and much instruction could in fact develop into “angelic beasts” and become much more improved in their gentleness and general disposition. In accordance with this idea he accomplished the remarkable. By no means other than a benign temperament and a benevolent empathy he managed to somehow over the course of several years tame a buffalo. He reared the beast from the time it was a calf, until it had swelled into a monstrous bull, all the while under his exclusive supervision and care. He would allow none to approach it or even behold it with any other set of eyes other than his own. Sadly, while traversing o'er the vast plains of North Dakota, in route to purchase a brick of opium from the nearest mercantile exchange, the bison bucked him, and by means of much murderous trampling and goring thrusts of his demonic, ravenous horns, killed poor Stanislaus Hieronymus on the spot. This tragic event occurred in the early autumn of 1906, a mere 67 weeks hence his centennial birthday. The utter shock and horrifyingly profound nature of the news dealt Mrs Hieronymus such a soul crushing blow she retreated to her bedroom, closed the thick folds of gingham bed curtains and never again allowed the light of the mocking sun to grace her grieving eyes with its healing glow. After 7 years thus spent in such a matter, she too died, and was thenceforth buried in the family mausoleum, side by side with the most glorious man who ever graced humanity with his presence, a man whose very golden feet kissed the unworthy soil of the earth and asked nothing in return, his words shining like a beacon, washing away the filth of all that was foul and putid, her husband, the beloved saint like figure of Stanislaus Archibald Hieronymus the Third, truly an angel amongst the horde.

5:13pm: KONG!

2:12pm: Quiet: Is a Feeling a Thing??
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2:05am: Quiet things

A farmer plowing his field…
A monk lost in meditation…
A baby staring at the ceiling…
An old man lost in wal-mart…
A deer nibbling berries…
A cat basking in the sun…
Under the porches of the world…
A big fat boulder…
An old womans humble apartment…
A locust shell stuck on a oak tree…
A candle lit catholic sanctuary…
A musty attic…
The shores of baja California…
The pine woods of Upper Canada…
A bear hibernating in the cave…



Words I associate with quiet
Warm, silence,



I remember as a child getting up early in the morning, a 6 am cold November. And I would grab my favorite fuzzy blanket throw it on the old cast iron 19th century register and wait for it to rumble up a warm blast of furnace air. It was a short moment of ethereal bliss, a moment of complete warm silence, a fetal quiet unsurpassed. Sometimes it would lullaby me to sleep and I would end up missing the bus


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2:14pm: THE FOG DOCKS
(a memory of an old scout campout)
I arose before everyone else. Birdsongs the morning, moist green eureka roof. Zzzzzip of the flap, clean cold socks from my pack. Boots on. Lace up. Sweatshirt sock hat, trusty. Crunch, crunch, crunch, down gravel trail down to the lake. Still kind of dark. Mist over the lake. Honking geese. Thick blanket, ground cloud. Out on the dock. Plip plop of fish.
Then the sun came, melted the buttery fog. Over the treetops, orange. Silver haze through the trees. Air laden with fragrance, thickness. Mist caressed my skin. Suddenly plunged into ITNESS. But it really had no name. I didn’t give it one at the time. I was too busy soaking. The dam. The sunrise. I didn’t need words. I was it and it was me. I wandered winding back to camp, pancakes, eggs, sausage aroma pulling me back

2:13pm: CONVERSATIONS WITH BILL
I drank coffee in a little diner on the rough side of town. They had good breakfast food there: fluffy golden flapjacks with fresh fruit, crisp bacon, juicy ham, eggs sunny side up, And the best homefries this side of the Mississippi. Early to bed and early to rise, then breakfast at the diner while reading my paper, talks with the locals, conversations about the weather, local events, high school sports. It was a short walk through the park back home where I would check the mail then write out on the patio for a few hours. Lilly would wake up around 10 and join me, we lay stretched out on the patio like cats in the sun, listening to NPR or K101 SmoothJazz, sunlight on eyelids, warm bird chirps, children playing in the park, Lilly’s pink lemonade. Around noon I would take a break, she would make a light lunch of grilled cheese, campbells chicken noodle soup, celery with peanut butter. I might work in the garden for a while while she knits or reads. Working in our little garden was peaceful and warm; I could feel my arms getting stronger and my skin getting tan. When I got wore out, Lilly and I would sit on the porch swing, watching the children play across the street, rocking back and forth, leaning our heads against each other’s shoulders. Around four o’clock I’d usually take a nap while she’d run her errands. When I got up she’d be in the kitchen cookin up some delicious creation. God, that woman could cook. Now the key to a good meal is not necessarily the ingredients, but more so in the way its prepared, the slow, tender care and LOVE that goes into it. Not to mention the fact she’s got a few tricks up her sleeve I still don’t know about. Lillys sly like that.

2:06pm: Old People
Old People
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2:03pm: Im still alive, just living more

6:27pm: from the circus last summer
Bruno the Bear, Sammy the Sword Swallower, Ezekiel the Polysentenarian, Horace the Horseman, Benji the Bengal, Sabu the Elephant Boy, Willie the Wildman, Jimmy the Giant, Greatest the Clown, The 2-Headed Lady, Louie the Lion, Theodore the Thin Man, Tom Thumb: The Greatest Man Alive, Douglas the Dog Boy, Fanny the Fat Lady, Frank the Fire Eater, Timmy the Tree Boy, Millie the Magic Mystic (sees all, knows all). Ornate carvings, safety nets, cages and intricate systems of harnesses, pulleys and ropes, the trapeze, Jim on the Balcony, observing it all silently. The old dusty circus organ in the corner, Disney paintings on the walls, outside, the circus festival is roaring, courthouse, Senger Dry Goods, foodstands, typical fair cuisine. Pretty girls, ladies and women everywhere. Scary clowns and happy clowns, sad clowns and fat clowns.

10:19pm: Glendale Apartments, 44 Pine Street, Building E
Isobel is cooking macaroni and cheese, Clarence is sleeping, Victor watches TV, Mary reads a Kerouac novel, Bob meditates, Frank mops the kitchen, Lisa is changing the litter box, bill watches birds on the balcony, Ruth is taking a piss, Seth smokes a doob, Patricia does tae bo, opal prays, Allison masturbates with a green vibrator, George sings in the shower, Cory slips on the rug, David shines his shoes, sandy brushes her teeth, Hal eats toast, Alan makes love to Gina, Gregg washes dishes, Erica folds laundry, Jenny wakes up

1:36am: Breakfast, brunch, lunch, linner, dinner, dreakfast and snacks in between
Lying in de bed. The bed is the most individual of spaces. We spend nearly 1/3 of our lives in a bed. A bed is an island of slumber. It is a place drenched in dreams. It is a log cabin in the Manitoban wilderness, a lifeboat on the seas of the south pacific, a tree fort in the red woods of northern California, a tent on the summit of mount baldy, a secret cave to hibernate within, passing the winter scribbling in notebooks and nibbling on caches of nuts, roots, and berries. Blackberries, yes, blackberries. Under the covers at night when I was supposed to be sleeping, there was open a wormhole to the enchanted land of make-believe where king Friday watched kindly. I was a jet pilot, an escaped convict, a grizzled hermit, an intrepid balloonist, a dinosaur hunter, a 200 ft tall robot, a stealthy ninja, a 200 foot tall robot ninja (hell,why not?). I would climb under the bed and stay in my cave for hours, the floor was brown. There were legos, dust bunnies, construx, crayon chunks, micro machines, pennies, GI joes, army ants, dried playdough crumbs. The mask’d bandito would pilfer some tasty treat from the “snack cabinet” (usually a couple Pringles or archway cookies[lemon or oatmeal]) then retreat quickly to the safety to the stronghold, carefully avoiding the Baron's minions.

11:16pm: Yield
!)
So I locked myself in my room
For damn near a month
Surviving off of nachos and kool-aid
Seldom emerging, vegetating
Sculpting the skyboys
And time to read all those books
Soaking and pouring
Steeping and draining
Straining
Evaporating
Raining
On a perfect little garden


@)
Alone amongst the tree line
Way up where the air gets thin
Cooking his stew
Sipping his brew
Lives the 92 year old child
He talks to the birds

#)
We once carved our names
On a log near the falls
Now grown over with moss
I went back there yesterday
Only the trees heard me weep

$)
I sent you a letter
But it boomerang'd
And now it lives
In the back of the bottom drawer
Been there for a year or more

%)
I rose early one morning
Before the world was awake
Carried the canoe down to the lake
Pushed off, gravel crunch
Whippoorwill
Floated all day
Yielding

^)
For just a little flash
I let go of the rope
Forgot it all, smiling

&)
Open the windows
And air out the house
Sunshinemeltyspringtease
A little T-shirt weather
To make the heart grow fonder
Sun on my neck
Windows down
That smell slightly
Floating on the air

8:53pm: Ren McCool was a merry fool, smoking on his popcorn cigar