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October 22, 2009

One Thousand Six Hundred and Sixty-One Views

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Gryphon

Into

Into the darkness we lightly creep.

“Beware of the ledge,” she whispered.

“The pit is exceedingly deep.”

ces

Iran Amok

(New York Times, Saturday June 20, 2009)

After one week, protesters are still in the streets in Iran protesting the outcome of the presidential election.  Watching CNN yesterday I saw videos of crowds in the streets.  There was rock throwing and I saw people bloody.

There are reports of dead people, but unlike the little boy in Sixth Sense, I didn’t see any.

There are also reports of tear gas being used against protesters and in one of the videos someone was shouting, “They are using real bullets!”  All of this is unconfirmed.  Control of the media in Iran is, of course, near absolute.  Videos came from unnamed sources uploading them to the Internet.

The protests are over the disputed election results between incumbent Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and Mir Hussein Moussavi.  Just as I learned how to spell Ahmadinejad’s name without looking at my notes, they go and throw another one at me.  Oh well, that is the price of being a half-cocked blog commentator.

Moussavi and his supporters are claiming the election was a fraud and that Mir is the rightful winner.  Mahmoud and HIS supporters (not to mention the Ayatollah–which I will in a second) say, “Uh Uh!”

Head Holy Guy Ayatollah Ali Khamenei gave what was called a “sermon” on Friday.  In the “sermon” he declared the election valid and warned of violence if protestors continued to demonstrate in violation of government prohibitions–which they did and there was.  The Head Holy Guy (it’s easier than typing out his name) said a bunch of things including; foreign agents are behind the protests, that it would be the responsibility of the protesters if violence ensued because they continue to defy orders and demonstrate, and the protests “means challenging the elections and ‘democracy.’”

Let’s take these one at a time.

1. Of course he is going to claim it’s the fault of foreign agents.  This accomplishes two goals, first, it is a refrain of Iran’s familiar song that others, including the Great Satan, are out to get them, and that no one of the Ayatollah’s blessed subjects are evil enough to have come up with this on their own.  The second goal, is to make the oppostion leader, Moussavi, look bad because it makes him the dupe of foreign agents at best and completely complicit at worst.
2. Yes, it is the responsibility of the protesters if violence comes about from their defiance of government orders to cease and desist the demonstrations.  So what?  Who says that is not what they want in the first place?  Mumbling and privately bitching isn’t going to get what they want.  By inciting the government to crack down on them they focus world attention on their issues and Moussavi could very well end up a martyr to the cause, and
3. “. . . challenging the elections and democracy?”  Kindly give me a break please.  Challenging the elections is prima facie.  That’s what it is all about.  They had an election.  The protesters say it was rigged and are “challenging” it–by marching in the streets.  It’s a given.  But, “democracy?”  No one is really fooled into thinking that Iran is run anything like democratically.  Their elections have always been a sham.  The sitting president is nothing more than a stooge for the Head Holy Guy and his inner council.  He serves completely at the pleasure of the H.H.G. who can and does “dictate” policy by decree.  The president gets to choose not only how many seats each “party” gets in the “parliament,” but he even gets to say who can and cannot run from any party.  If the HHG and/or the president don’t like you, then you don’t get to run.  There is no democracy here folks.

Well, the last I saw there were still demonstrations in the street and there were videos of fires burning in the streets of Tehran and guys were walking around with bloody faces and I saw some rock throwing.  That was about 14 hours ago.  A lot could have happened in the past 14 hours including a crack down a la the “Chinese Soultion” implemented in Tiananmen Square back in the late 80s.  I don’t know what the latest is, but I will soon turn on the tube and find out.  It’s Sunday morning here and I am sure George Snufflupagus has something to say on the subject.

But I DO know this–Whatever shakes down the incumbent president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is bound to suffer.  You don’t come out of this without hurting like hell.  Mahmoud was riding pretty high there for a while and he may have political capital enough to keep from it becoming a total rout.  He was the “Pretty Boy” of Iran for quite a while.  Strutting and Preening he stomped heavily on the earth in West Asia.  But, now his own people are protesting in the streets in opposition to what they claim is his stealing an election.  And if the republic clamps down on them, he is going to look even worse.

Not, that Iran has a great reputation around the world as it is, you know?  This gives the Iran’s old enemies an open invitation to put them down even more than they already did–which they are already doing . . ..

I am sure the first Ayatollah, Ruhollah Khomeini would be rolling over in his grave if he hadn’t been pulled apart by his mourners during the funeral.

doc

Late Last Night

Late last night I heard the highway calling me.

“Hey Boy! What you been doin? I ain’t seen you in a while. I’ve got some fine fine things to show you. When you comin back? I miss you Ol’ Son!

“I can take you down some long moonlit roads without a soul upon them except for the night birds overhead and the creatures that scuttle under the bushes.  I’ve got patches that have never seen the sun and others that have never seen a speck of shade.  Man! I got a million places you’ve never seen.

“What? Yeah, I’ve got some cities on my way that you’ve never seen before either. But if you don’t mind, I’ll drop you off at the outskirts. I don’t truck with streets and boulevards and avenues. Parkways make me puke.  They’re just not in my league, ya know? Oh, you just go ahead and take your time. Go gawk at the freaks and Lonely Hearts in the middle of millions. I’ll be waiting for you here by this bush.

“Lil Country, I can show you highways and byways and roads and you betcha I can take you all the way home. Remember those roads? Weren’t they fantastic? What say we stroll down a tree lined road outside Asheville? Smell the pines? Isn’t this how you remember it? Wow! See that squirrel?

Remember Albemarle County and the roads winding up the Blue Ridge? I got some wonders, I tell ya.

“I bet I know what you’d like. How about if I drop you off at the foot of Harris Creek Road? Warn’t THAT a road, Lil Country? You know it. Many’s the night you walked the length of that road back into the woods and swamp. Did it a lot of nights near blind too, huh?

“Hey! Stop crying, ok? I know you miss it. Damn, Boy, I’m just asphalt and paint. I can’t hold you and tell you that I love you and keep you from being afraid. I’m just a highway, Ol’ Son. Nothing more or less. All I can do is take you there and bring you back. What you do along the way is up to you.  Is it MY fault if you get yourself stuck in one place?  I think not.

“Stop it now, ok?  Alright then, I’ll take you back. Go ahead. Open your eyes. Better now? Maybe next time we can do it for real.

“Don’t be a stranger.”

g.

Gone Door Knocking

Beautiful Saturday here.  The Sun is shining.  I did some grocery shopping and went out to lunch with mom and roommate.

I’m also going to take a walk around the neighborhood, knock on a few doors of old friends and introduce myself to a few neighbors that I haven’t visited before.

I’ve got a post in the Drafts that looks to be pretty good.  I’ll try to put it up today or on the morrow.

Put the coffee on.  I’m on my way.

While I’m out, feel free to look around the house.  My door is always open.

Loni, mind if I knock you up?

(I’ll bring the scones)

g

Late Last Night

Late Last Night

Late last night I heard the highway calling me.

“Hey Boy! What you been doin? I ain’t seen you in a while. I’ve got some fine fine things to show you. When you comin back?

I miss you Ol’ Son!

“I can take you down some long moonlit roads without a soul upon them except for the night birds overhead and the creatures that scuttle under the bushes. Man! I got a million places where you’ve never seen the sun rise.

“What? Yeah, I’ve got some cities on my way that you’ve never seen before either. But if you don’t mind, I’ll drop you off at the outskirts. I don’t truck with streets and boulevards and avenues. They’re just not in my league, ya know? Oh, you just go ahead and take your time. Go gawk at the freaks and Lonely Hearts in the middle of millions. I’ll be waiting for you here by this bush.

“There was many a dark night that you walked me half crazy and if it weren’t for the white stripe down my side, you’d have wandered off and got yourself killed.  And I don’t ask no thanks, nope.  Yeah, I know that there was many a time I almost got you killed too, but let’s not talk of that, ‘k?

“Lil Country, I can show you highways and byways and roads and you betcha I can take you all the way home. Remember those roads? Weren’t they fantastic? What say we stroll down a tree lined road outside Asheville? Smell the pines? Isn’t this how you remember it? Wow! See that squirrel?

Remember Albemarle County and the roads winding up the Blue Ridge? I got some wonders, I tell ya.

“I bet I know what you’d like. How about if I drop you off at the foot of Harris Creek Road? Warn’t THAT a road, Lil Country? You know it. Many’s the night you walked the length of that road back into the woods and swamp. Did it a lot of nights near blind too, huh?

“Hey! Stop crying, ok? I know you miss it. Damn, Boy, I’m just asphalt and paint. I can’t hold you and tell you that I love you and keep you from being afraid. I’m just a highway, Ol’ Son. Nothing more or less. All I can do is take you there and bring you back. What you do along the way is up to you.  Is it MY fault if you get yourself stuck in one place?  I think not.

“Stop it now, ok?  Alright then, I’ll take you back. Go ahead. Open your eyes. Better now? Maybe next time we can do it for real.

“Don’t be a stranger.”

c.e.s

I Believe

I believe that there is nothing more alluring than the smile of a pretty woman.

I believe that a valley in the fall is one of the greatest gifts of nature.

I believe that the same valley in the spring is pretty special too.

I believe that there is untapped love within me.

I believe that my children and grandchildren are the most beautiful creatures on Earth.

I believe in sunrises.

I believe in the divinity of Jesus Christ.

I believe in sunsets just as much as sunrises.

I believe in the stars.

I believe that though there is untapped love within me, that there is a good chance that it will never be tapped.

I believe that when I die that my spirit will move to a better plane of existence.

I believe that Virginia is the best state in the union.

I believe that the United States is the best country on Earth.

I believe that the United States is seriously in need of help.

I believe that government needs to stay not only out of my bedroom but also out of my pocket.

I believe in sweet mouth-closed kisses.

I believe in deep, passionate, breathless kisses.

I believe that baseball is the Game of the Gods.

I believe in the laughter of children.

I believe in innocence.

I believe that humans are intrinsically good.

I believe that auto-eroticism is better than no eroticism.

I believe that today is screwed up enough by itself without having to worry about tomorrow.

I believe in progressive rock, classic rock, bluegrass, and classical music.

I believe in a bunch of other stuff too, but,

I believe that is all I will do for now.

Strange Doin’s In Savanah.

The following is an excerpt from chapter 2 of my novel “Notes from the Road.”  If you care to see the brief prologue “Departure,”  here is the link

Chapter 1 Prologue: Departure

2

Strange Doin’s in Savannah

Had my head ever hurt worse than this? Yes, one morning after getting my skull cracked outside a titty bar in Newport News by a gang of drunken bikers who didn’t like the way I was eyeing their bikes. But this one was a close second. There were bikers this time but they were “friendlies.” There was also a wicked combination of Ritalin, Atavan, grass, tequila, and Wild Turkey over a period of ten days.

Jesus! Ten days??

Is that how long I’ve been locked into this ride? No. It’s been longer than that. It’s been three months since I left Hampton and ten days since I’ve been holed up in the Barstow Quality Inn where I started in on the alcohol/chemical ride. I think subconsciously I’ve been searching for the perfect Lethal Dose, but it keeps eluding me. “Why?” would be mere speculation.

The real ride began in Savannah. That’s where I was when the text message came. I should have thrown the damn cell phone into the Savannah River before I read it but I didn’t have the guts. And what the hell was I doing in Savannah in the first place? After nearly fifty years of setting lofty goals and trying desperately to win love from others I had fallen flat on my face a good half dozen times. I’ve been called and felt like a loser on more than one occasion, but final judgment on that charge is still pending. Now here I was in Georgia binging for the past seven days in a river-front hotel. For the final three days of the seven I had the distinct impression that I was being savagely pursued. But, by whom or what?

By my creditors? Nah, fuck ‘em. Let them try to see how much blood they can squeeze from a turnip. By the law? Wrong again. Except for a couple of petty misdemeanors (before I left Virginia) I had long since paid all my debts to society, and I would be damned before I let myself get a federal rap for fleeing across state lines to avoid prosecution—not when all I had to do was be back in Virginia by court date and accept a slap on the wrist, a fine, and unsupervised probation.

Then from whom or what? From Myself? That one is a more recognizable possibility. And yet no matter how far or how fast I run and come to a place where it appears that I have eluded my “pursuer,” I eventually come to a point where I can feel relentless eyeballs boring into the back of my skull. No matter how far or fast I’ve gone and no matter how quickly I glance over my shoulder to catch a glimpse, it is always only myself I see looking back.

There is no such thing as paranoia. All your worst nightmares, if allowed, will come to pass. You must in the end stand your ground and come eyeball to eyeball with your demons even if it is only into a Mad House Mirror that you gaze.

Ye Gods! What means this soliloquy? All this introspection by that point in Savannah was mere psychoanalytical, pseudo-academic bullshit, because there at the eastern terminus of Sherman’s Bloody March I was far from doing battle with any demons. Indeed, I was whole-heartedly feeding their fetish.

When I left Hampton there was a raven perched on the gutter of the bus terminal. I locked eyes with him and as I stepped aboard the bus he croaked at me. I wouldn’t bet the farm, but I’m pretty sure he said, “Nevermore.” When the bus pulled out and I began my own flight, I looked out the window and saw him rise from his perch on jet black wings and begin to follow the bus.

Here in Savannah, I figured I was many miles ahead of him on my first day. But it had been a week now. How many miles per day can a raven fly as the crow flies? The croaking black bird knew where I was, of that I was sure. Yes, I was sure and equally so that he knew that I knew. He was riding a stiff-tail wind. The time had come for action.

So I called Jerry.

Jerry and I went way back—more than thirty years. We met in high school and immediately hit it off. My older sister, Deidre, taught me how to use illegal drugs—marijuana and hashish at age eleven and mescaline and LSD at age fifteen—but it was Jerry who introduced me to the blessing and the bane of my adult existence—alcohol. We had many a hell-raising and life-threatening experience both during and following high school.

Road trips became our specialty. One memorable trip was a brain-bending jaunt from Norfolk, Virginia to Providence, Rhode Island and back in less than twenty-four hours. The purpose of the trip was merely to freak out a mutual friend who was not expecting us. The trip was in winter and by the time we returned our airport rental car it was nearly a wreck. For old times sakes during the trip I practiced liquor bottle hook shots over the sides of bridges from the moving passenger side of the car.

After high school he followed his father into bail-bonds and I followed mine as a welder into the shipyard. Our times together began to come less frequent and by the age of thirty we had drifted apart.

As I entered my forties, I began becoming involved with the law from the offender point of view and all as a result of my love/hate affair with alcohol. Drunk in Public offenses were handled by sleeping it off in the city jail and the payment of a fine. When offenses were connected to the operation of a motor vehicle however, I naturally turned to Jerry’s professional services as a means to get out of jail. Thus we renewed our relationship.

Now here it was late afternoon on the seventh day and we were sitting at the hotel bar. The bar was one of those upper-middle class businessman establishments—lots of chrome, glass, and blonde wood. I was on my fourth Glenfiddich. We were watching women on the River Walk through the large plate-glass window. The bartender had gone back to the storeroom. Jerry was trying hard to cop a feel off the crack-whore waitress every time she walked by, but he was on his fourth Jack and Coke and was failing miserably.

Advice on Dying

Advice on Dying

 

• No matter how hard you try, you always do it by yourself.
• Don’t worry about whether or not you are wearing clean underwear. When the moment comes, you won’t give a shit.
• If someone cares about you at the moment, that’s pretty cool.
• If no one cares for you at the moment, it won’t make you less dead.
• Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.
• If you believe in God, the possible consequences are better than if you don’t.
• If you wait too long to wash it out, the color won’t be what you expected.
• If you have warning try to do something spectacular at the moment e.g. make it the climax of a passionate public speech, tell a fantastic story and say at the end “if this is not true, may God STRIKE ME DEAD!” etc. You’ll be remembered.
• Don’t leave a mess.
• Don’t give a progress report during the event. People REALLY don’t want to know.
• If you really want to piss people off, don’t die.
• You can’t have life without it, so stop bitching.
• Bringing it on intentionally is way uncool. It is impolite to go where you have not been invited.
• Dying while having sex may sound like fun, but the other person is sure to be really bummed out.

 

Benjamin Franklin said,
If you want to be remembered, write something worth reading or do something worth writing about.

That’s about all for now.

ciao

It’s Going to be a Long Day

I woke up this morning, pulled on my clothes and shoes and walked outside to greet the day.  The sun was not up yet.  It was still more than an hour away.  But the moon was a crescent in the lower quarter of the sky and the stars were bright.

The air was chilly.  I walked out to the curb and the empty road.  Down at the corner a traffic signal changed colors for no one.  I pulled out a cigarette just as Death walked around the corner about 30 yards ahead of me and came down the sidewalk.  By the time he got to me, I had it lit and was taking my first long draw of the day.

I nodded to him and he nodded back and then turned to look in the direction I faced.  He rubbed his hands together and blew into them.  His warm breath created vapor that escaped through his fingers.

“You know,” I said, “before I met you I would have imagined that your breath would be too cold to create vapor even on the coldest night.”

“That’s what you would have got for thinking-always your biggest mistake.”

“Says you, weasel.  But I suppose you’re right-at least some.”

“More than some.  So what are you doing out so early?”

“Work today,” I said.  “Gotta get ready.  What are you doing here?  You’re not here to ‘gather’ me.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Nothing really.  Just a hunch.”

“‘Hunch’?” he said, pushing his hat up on his forehead.

“Yeah, a ‘hunch.’  More like a feeling than anything else.  But I wasn’t surprised to see you come around the corner.  Nice night, eh?”

“A little cool for me.”

“I like it a little chilly sometimes.  Gets the blood pumping.  Makes me feel alive.”

“Is that some kind of crack?”

“Don’t be sensitive.  I was just saying.  You didn’t answer my question.”

“I have a pickup down the street a couple of blocks.  I saw you come out and thought I’d say hi.”

“What makes you think that I’d want to see you?  I would have thought that the last time would have given you a clue that I don’t like you very much?”

“There you go thinking again.  Just kidding.  Well you just got lucky last time.”

“‘Lucky?’” I said, flicking my cigarette butt into the street, “You screwed up is what happened.  It wasn’t my time to go but you showed up anyway and acted like a fool when I pulled through.”

“You should have died.  What can I say?  The way your ticker was seizing up, you didn’t stand a chance.”

“Well, I’m standing here today to tell you that I obviously did stand a chance.  Besides, aren’t you supposed to get some kind of advance order from somebody higher up before you just show up in the ER demanding that someone has to go with you?  What was that, anyway?”

“Look.  It was an honest mistake, he said.  “I had been watching you for a while and you were bound to kick off soon.  Gimme a break.  The way you were living, you were a mortician’s dream.  So I jumped the gun a little.  I was trying to show the higher-ups that I had initiative.  How was I to know that you had someone talking to the boss behind my back?  You can believe me though when I tell you that I really got chewed out over it.”

“You know,” I said, “I really don’t care if you got chewed out or not.  You should have been demoted or fired if that’s possible.  I mean, here I am lying on a hospital gurney with electrodes and needles sticking on and into me, in the worst pain I ever felt and you walk up to me in grey flannel and a fedora and tell me it’s time to go.

“I knew it was a heart attack.  By that point in the game I was willing to do anything to get rid of the pain, including dying.  Then all of a sudden there you are telling me that’s exactly what was going to happen.  FINE!  ‘Let’s go,’ I thought to myself.  I resigned myself to it.

“What do YOU do?  You cock your head to one side and roll your eyes toward the ceiling with a quizzical look and put your fingers to your lips.  You dart a couple quick glances back at me and then back to the ceiling.  After a minute you take your finger away from your mouth and turn your attention back to me.  ‘Oops!’ you say.  ‘See ya later.’  And you walk out of the cubicle.

“Next thing I know, I’m lying in a hospital bed in CCU with some tubes coming out of me feeling like I’ve been crotch kicked by a roving gang of feminists.

“‘Oops!’ is all you had to offer?”

“Yeah, well, what can I say, he said.  “I’ll do it right next time I see you.  Promise.”

I pulled another cigarette out of the pack and started to light it.  He took the lighter from me and lit it for me while I cupped the flame.

“Smoke up,” he said.  Look I got to go, appointments to keep, ya know.  See ya later.”

He turned and walked on up the street.

I stood silently watching him and smoking until he was out of sight.  It was then I realized that he didn’t give me back my lighter.  I started to shout but instead crushed the finished butt on the sidewalk.

“Damn, it’s going to be another long day”