Wednesday, September 30, 2009


young negros
run the alleyways of this empire
cacophony of laughter
as mother's stoop
upon stoops
over tall cans
of american lager
gone to the horizon
are the unemployed fathers
gone dead
to the hot war torn
are countless brothers and sisters
and the rain falls
pound the streets
a black blue clean
open condom wrappers
wade to the gutter
cling to it's concrete sides
got them deep
open eyes
afraid of drowning
to blacks
to inbetweens
gone savage
to charges
to arm loans
to forty in thirty
101 percent equity loans
to thin plasma tvs
belvedere vodka
and esclades
amongst it all
hump shouldering
bleak it out
of end of job blues
the grill cheese stand
it thrives
and there is business men
an workaday stiffs
sitting with their children
or coworkers
smiling through
long strands of cheese
i can hear a marching band
as the sun causes my eyes to pinch
forehead to ruffle
the warmth feels good
the city is alive
underneath the dirt
is a heart that still beats hope
hope on!
beat on!
bicycle on!
negro dreamers
to the marching band drum

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

9/29-am pm

i had not always been so fat. like most, i have lost and rediscovered my weight over the period of a lifetime. my mother was a great fan of diets and so it began. at the age of three it was the grapefruit diet, then the no sugar diet, off to the all things blended diet we circled around weight watchers hearing the tales of woe how, 'people asked me how i kept my tan in the winter and i was embarrassed to respond, fridge light.' i moved through periods of great mourning. i sobbed the loss of ice cream, over sugar cereal, weep openly for the loss of birthday cake, 'this year let's exchange that nasty white carb for a good skim milk pudding.'
my childhood was lost to diet rite's and wheat thin crackers.
though we starved the weight was slow to come off. though we starved and i rode a bicycle everywhere the weight was slow to come off. every doctor talked of metabolism speed. it was the time of ronald regan and we were all innocent.
it was while studying he-man that i first came across my theory. it was not until i was an adult that i had the capital to chase down the answer. so let's us fast forward through the embarrassment of double rolls of adult size large t-shirts that hung past the knees. let's us move past lonely dances where i could only dance to the fast songs.
oh an appology to the toes of molly brown who were trampled during a pity slow song. oh molly of auburn eyes we can pull off the freeway to glance once more at your tender tanned moon face. those thin lips pulled back to reveal the youth of big teeth highlighting doe eyes with long lash bating morse code to the heart of burning young man.
ah molly, in a time of rap songs when we cheered hollard and sped through the seattle streets from dance class to theater to coffee shops where at 12-13 we discussed pop culture in latin. amazing how a dead language can be used to discuss such things as mario bros. or new kids on the block.
when we had to dance i would wear my father's shirts. his billowing bush pilot dress shirt made a sharp cut as it blanketed my huge stomach. i had a hard belly, a veteran of the war. looking down i could only see the tips of toes, bending was with the effort of loud grunts and reascending took a hearty sigh causing color to tinge the cheeks.
but we are passed that. we are moving to 21 when i came into a summer full of money. a recent car accident had left me with one broken leg and six thousand dollars cash. i limped from 14th and high to the eugene bus station. i gave the bag to the handler, took my seat on my way to alabama.
it was with serial numbers that i found my opposite. it was with the help of how long that i discovered how to trace serial numbers in order to find my opposite. it was the idea of a different universe, it was the idea of eternia and prince adam beceoming he-man that i stumbled upon the idea.
we are both the best and worst of ourselves. we are striving for the best of ourselves. but for every action there is a reaction. for every ounce we lose somebody gains. it was while dreaming of what happens to he-man while adam is adam that i stumbled on the idea of opposites. one person finds a sock when you lose it, one person finds an ounce when you lose it. when you feel like stuffing your face it's not because you have no will power, it's because your opposite is enacting theirs.
when talking of nature one always hears of the idea of balance. if you are in contact with your opposite and you discuss the idea of balance you two may come into that perfect balance and your lives will be exemplar in their ordinariness. if you do not know your opposite your idea of balance will actually be throwing the system out of whack, so that you come to become an extreme.
think of how great everybody say's jesus is. can you imagine how terrible his opposite is?
it was while studying the path of lost things that i discovered my opposite was in alabama. it was following this idea that i discovered that most hollywood stars keep their opposites in a studio village, a town called millwaukie oregon. it is here that they are given the mirror opposite life of the movie star in order to keep said star in shape and ready for action. it was this discovery that lead me to the only person who believes in the old adage, 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer', that person? oprah, her opposite gail is kept by her side so that they can test theory in order to find the perfect balance. oprah balloons in weight gail shrinks or oprah has to increase because she is the wage earner and gail shrinks because she has to. she has to have no money in order to cause the scale to shift so dramatically.
while many things have come to pass and many ideas have come to be proven it all started to unravel in birmingham alabama.
alabama is a true shit hole, for anyone that has a sense of civilized life. it is as if all the weight and uncultured life that shed from the gay man came sliding into this dump of a town. why i saw a man eating squirrel and a woman whose breasts hung out the bottom of her shirt.
children ran wild through the streets, their home made hair cuts flopping in the wind as they screamed and waved dead rabbits in the air.
it was amongst all this that i found him, and at that point in our life, he was fabulous. charles sterling was well on his way to a corporate position at the bank. he drove to work in a e class brandy colored with white leather interior. charles had a fresh hair cut and wore his tie with a windsor knot. the impossible knot whose secrets have only been revealed to the best and brightest.
charles sterling feet easily into a size 34 waist and his 195 lbs seemed to be molded to his 6'4" body. there was no wedding ring on his finger but while following him i discovered the town's princess cynthia mcelroy was long blonde thin and on his arm. cynthia was perfect with the kind of scent that caused your head to spin.
by god my gain was their gain. his life sparkled like the grease on the wrapper containing the pig tongue that i consumed.
by god in the south i ate. charles sterling, was later discovered, to be on a liquid diet in order to make a good impression on the men of birmingham calender. so as he lifted weights, ran sprints down the track and made love to cynthia i ate, lazied and masturbated my way through the streets and days of this town.
now, dear reader, you may be asking yourself 'how could i be so sure that sterling was my man?' and you would be right to ask such a question. but to get into the mathematics and science of human reasoning that chased the serial numbers that traced mileage to find the exact reverse of myself would be too copious an effort as to make one lean towards suicide. so unless you want to read the 32000 page opus 'the birmingham effect' i would lean on the old adage of trust me.
so i stalked charles i covered his track, walked his path lived his life like a shadow lives yours. by god when he starved i fought the balance of the scale of life and starved. it would be a test of wills and if we both were equals we would give up at the same time.
when cynthia came i would seduce a big fat broad or go get a prostitute and when he went to work at the bank i would go to work at my new job, credit union teller. as time passed, as summer days began to fall i grew ansy. the effects were subtle but not enough to show a true connection. i needed to speed it up, create something dramatic, provable...give him some of this damn weight for once!
so it was while he was whistling the night away, talking a walk along the pond that lined his property, that i handsome jefferson came up behind and clonked his head with a brick.
tied up in the hotel room chair, charles sterling, would meet his opposite. he had the face of angel slumped forward, dried line of blood down his forehead as i paced the floor wondering how to make such an introduction.

charles sterling could not keep his balance. so as the birmingham moon came creeping through hotel window it caught a glimpse of one of the town's shining stars leering over and crashing down while tied to a chair.
i could not contain the laughter that caused my stomach to jiggle chilling my flesh as the sweat cold shirt stains landed on new patches of skin.
'ah, so you must be wondering how you got here. so you must be wondering who i am. well let me start from the beginning.'
as i spoke from the rough draft notes, that would become my non fiction best seller previously mentioned, i could see a glimmer of understanding spring to light. he tapped his finger against the wood of the chair in what seemed ( to my amateur understanding of morse code) to be a message of congratulations.
as i graciously accepted the compliments of his tapping, i turned him towards the corner table where i had placed a delicious pile of pizza, soda, subsandwiches and blocks of cheese.
'what we are going to do, mr. sterling, is trade weight. you are going to consume that pile of food, then when you are done you are going to call up your beautiful girlfriend and break up following that you are going to quit your job and move to eugene oregon. if you refused to do that i will club you to death with this brick.'
he flops his neck about and waggles his fingers in protest.
'now, now, you see you have had the best of our connection. while you excelling, while you were gaining fortune, muscles and the company of beautiful women i was wallowing in the gutter. you see while you were gaining, i was just gaining weight.'
there was a cacophony of insects and wild hogs mating that rode upon the night and into one's ear.
charles sterling waggled and bopped from his position on the floor.
'yes i understand that you get certain bonus points for having to spend your entire life in alabama, i mean, by god i wouldn't bury an opossum here. well neither would you from the looks of the daily special board.'
god i am witty. i know that a woman must judged from the outside in. she must judge as if it is the father of her child. i don't blame her, if i had to be the one that got pregnant i wouldn't sleep with anyone whose bank balance i didn't get emailed to me every morning. i know, i know that it isn't all about money, but when you see a big fat mess like handsome jefferson your mind trails to a tiny handsome being teased on the playground, to having to play lineman in football to the wretched life of the overweight.
so while this sterling is living it up i have to wait for the woman that is the care taker. the woman who will take the time to look at the inside, to judge not the books cover but to read the contents in full. this is not the woman who has the beautiful breasts. this is not the woman with the flowing hair and fine clothes. the woman who understands the principals of pleasure. no, just like most of us can not afford a fine european car, most of us can not afford these women, and if by chance we were allowed an opportunity for one of these ladies we wouldn't even know what to do with them.
by god there is so much to think about.
charles sterling, lying on the floor taping out his fear of diabetes, his family history of high blood pressure all the while staring down the barrel of a large pepperoni and sausage pizza. this man he has lived his whole life with these options. he is the man who gets the fine european car, or whatever passes for said car in alabama. this charles sterling understands what it takes to be important to be thin, wealthy and ready for anything. maybe, in our union, there is a reason he has been chosen for his task.
as i am thinking a hoot owl crashes down through the window and grabs a footlong meatball sub. my mind wanders as i watch it move away down towards the invisible horizon line.
who could live in such a place. i stare at charles sterling. i study the perfection of his face, those piercing blue eyes like frozen steel, the close clipped auburn hair. if standing he would raise to the magnificent height of 6'4" slim, athletic, a man made for success. such a beast would be wasted if the scales were turned.
'i am sorry charles.' and with that i pulled his chair bound form from the ground and began to release his bindings.
when he had been released, instead of smashing my nose in, hollering for help or just rushing out the door, charles sterling stayed seated.
'you know, my friend, i am impressed with your study. as i was bound, i began thinking this is a man who has truly suffered the slings and arrows. this is a man who knows what it takes to survive. just look at him, he probably couldn't afford a stead dinner if you spotted him the potato.
'this sad sack of a man, why, he is my hero. handsome, you are the fullback for our team. without you clearing the way i would never have been able to score so many touchdowns or rush for so many yards. maybe you are right...'
we sat across from each other rubbing our faces, he were he had been clubbed and me dabbing the sauce from my chin. though the silence did not last for a high piercing scream came resounding through the broken window as a hawk appeared.
'it has to be too late for this,' i said.
'you know the slogan for birmingham?' he said, as the hawk grasped a piece of pizza and retreated to the night.
'no, what is it?'
'it's always the right time for a free meal', and we both laughed.
there was a general warmth between us, as if two halves of a broken quarter had finally been reunited.
'handsome,' he spoke arising from the chair and grasping my hand, 'i want to give you a gift.'
he held my hand helping me rise from the metal folding hotel chair. as our eyes met he placed his free hand on my shoulder.
'yes, this is going to be the year of handsome.'
'you can't mean...'
'shh, for the next twelve months we are going to switch positions. i am going to grow fat, i am going to grow slack at my job, by god i am going to live life as if i was the laziest man on the planet.'
as he spoke i could feel my heart leaping from it's cage in my chest and smashing against the yellow wall of warden fat.
'but what if you lose your way. i mean oprah was never skinny.'
he stood quiet. my knees began to buckle as he turned his magnificent profrile from the window and stared deep into my eyes. he stared so deep that if there is a soul, my soul began to stir.
'it's a risk worth taking.'
'you sir, are worth your weight in gold.'
'now we have a tradition in the south, that every deal is consummated by making love.'
i do not have to tell you, that charles sterling was a tender man. he was a man of passion but he is never overtaken and i swear by all that is holy he is a man who waits for his partner to be satisfied until he is finished.
while we lay there discussing the possibilities that lay before me there was a loud holler and the door caved in. i screamed as a shotgun blast screamed through the air and right into charles sterling's chest. i screamed and leapt for the window, falling two stories into a rhododendron. i lept from the bush just as the wild pig gnashed for my pants as i had stirred it from it's slumber.
from there i ran. i ran to the nearest tree and climbed all the way to the top so that if you were on a street in birmingham and looked up you would have thought there was an eclipse.
after two hours clinging to the tree in terror sleep, as it always will, began to creep in. i do not know when i feel from the tree but i do know i woke in the hospital bed my leg cast and a patch over my right eye.
i was told by the friendly gentleman to my right, that they had to pull the snake from the empty socket where once my eye had been. you see while i was unconscious a wild chicken had pecked out my right eye and in the absence of being filled by an eye the opening was taken by a small gardener snake.
'do you know a man by the name charles sterling?' i asked.
'oh yeah, terrible thing, shot by his fiance for having a gay fling with some foreigner. they think he was german, because apparently the german's have a thing for duct tape.'
'so what happened to him?' i said fearing the worst.
'how would i know?'
'well you knew the first part.'
we lay in battle. the ancient american game of the staring contest, the one honest way to break a man down. he stared with his rotten half filled mouth his eyes red, burning into the depths of you. he was a man on fire as the fire burned with in.
while he stared i mustered all i had to stare back. down an eye was a true disadvantage as i had learned the ancient art of the double twist, a hypnotic suggestion from the eyes that causes one to blink.
as we stared the time fell away, the scenery fell away until it was just his face framed by the black of concentration. it was at this critical moment that i felt the need to pass gas. the sound was near deafening, but the smell worse, as my body grew accustomed to the humidity and cuisine.
'by god, did somebody try to land a seven forty seven in here?' called the wino.
though he did not blink immediately, the smell burned causing a tear to fall and then finally he succumbed. ten hours later i had my answer and was looking for the first bus out of town.

3 in summation

i was not the first for charles sterling. it appears i was duped, as the south does not agree on every deal with sex. charles sterling was a closet homosexual and his fiance had had enough. though she left after the gun shot she did not kill him. charles sterling was a fighter.
when cynthia learned that charles had survived she hired a professional. this man was superior in the art of strangling, in the art of karate and in the art of knife throwing. it was under this umbrella that he arrived in birmingham.
it was told that she waited in their bedroom for the call. that she drove his treasured porsche to the hospital and that she screamed, not like a woman learning of her pending widowhood but as a woman disappointed that she wasn't.
it was here that charles sterling had had enough. he was tired of the double life. he was certain that the double life was ruining the life of your hero and so he made a decision.
the professional opened the door and saw the blood. the professional opened the door and thought the job was done. the professional made a phone call. the professional took his check (though it should be noted that since, he thought, the job was already done he only took eighty percent. as he was an honest man) and disappeared.
what he thought he had seen was actually an operation.
charles sterling was now on his way to hannah sterling. hannah sterling would heal. she would take her families fortune and her now growing plump frame off to florida. she would take her treasured porsche and cash from the home sale and buy a condo in florida.
hannah loved the beach.
it was during this brief period, that i received the postcard.
'enjoy your year cs' was all it said.
the year turned into three months, but what a three months.
it was during this time that i fell in love. it was during this time that she fell in love. it was during this time that i published the book that would make my fortune 'mirror image: how to make your life balanced by finding your balance mate'.
when the weight returned it was almost welcomed. when she did not leave it was most welcomed and 'so tonight, after all this my dear will you marry me?'
'oh my dear,' she says her hazel eyes staring deep into mine, 'oh handsome...'
she said before i blacked out.
i blacked out at 265 lbs obese but not disgusting. i woke at 386 two weeks later. it appears that hannah sterling was out in the atlantic partying. that hannah had consumed three shots of tequilla and copious amounts of cocaine and fallen into the water. charles/hannah sterling was dead.
'it must be an allergic reaction to the drugs,' said the doctor.
there was hazel eyes, she grasped my hand and said 'in for a penny, in for a pound, i do.'
there is hope at last.

Monday, September 28, 2009


'husben' she says
husband husbound has been thinks husben.
lips red lips going wet to her tongue near the dinner table while leaning against the wall. she got fresh paint on her toes, polish clear on her fingers and a ahhhahhahh baby on her arm. it's hungry she hungry we all hungry waiting for the silence, angry for consumption.
'lalalal' goes the wife translate to 'disappointment over dish not done. disappoint me over spill on the floor onto the weather to cold got to get a sweater.'
an he sigh
an there is the floor that he eyeballs amongst the spill, dirt and childrens things he traces lines in the linoleum creating another vision.
dream on! goes the has been.
hold on! hold that daughter strong. while hands make the shape of tide pools across her back.
ba ba bah! says the baby, already a woman already noticing everything goes wrong.
ha! squeals the son ha la ti da mama! goes the son spinning in circles waving his hands in imitation of jido.
there is the sun creeping like a theif blowing warm kiss across table atop plate down to hands down to fingers that smooth flat comforted.
wish on! goes the holy trinity moving through the house on their way to shopping center. mother son and holy daughter double strollered mother son and holy daughter secure in their chairs secure in car secure on road secure to their way.
orphan dad off to use his hands pack muling the mail day away.
hi hi says a neighbor to wave
he he goes the young the innocent the bicycle gang all ready for daredevilisim and garbage can smash.
the thud is not the crash of tin cans from the 80's the thud with the secure lid is sad as it lays on it's side the victim that doesn't complain and they screech to a stop staring down uncomfortable at it's ease angry that the lights don't go on waving tiny balled fists at the heavens for creating such safety against the violence of youth.
an there are miles for miles an there is weight an there is the ghetto the barking dog the affront of smell the shock window eyes of the foreclosed home and yawning open mouthed boxes some guarded by violent gnashing mouths of dogs and some easy left alone to be stuffed as he pleases.
he dreams
he sees visions of families
of great two story homes on the water
of the escalade
of their first loves
from the beginning it seems like a distant horizon line.
husband husben husbound has been
to the holy trinity
mother son and holy daughter
heavy lifting these catalogs
and gifts from home
they got freedom burning causing blood to boil
causing them to moan at night
from nightmares and passion
they got freedom burning
they got dreams
they got dreams
they got dreams
dream on!

Saturday, September 26, 2009

9/26-tiny dancer

he is lithe. an elder gentleman that floats more than moves across the stage. the crowd thrills to the spin of his tie as he holds his arms taught in pirouette. the partner flies through the air, towards him, her muscular legs straight toes pointed piercing the distance between them. there is a piano playing a singer singing about tiny dancers and they meet. there is a gasp as the passion of their bodies colliding eyes connecting washes over the audience.
it takes a moment, then as she turns away, as she walks away as someone tear filled eyes screams 'no!' the music stops the light fade. all dark you can hear the crowd weeping, gnashing their teeth screaming 'it can't end like this!', suddenly a spotlight. he is bathed in white, he is standing low, like a man broken, a beaten down 65 year old ex republican senator. he has lost his life, his love and the frustration, anger of the moment the impossible pain of being alone explodes out from him.
'ahhhh!', he screams launching his appendages from as if they are missles being launched only to hit the extent of his reach then slamming back towards his chest until he is a huddled mass collapsed into a crouch as a slow beat begins to fade in 'shwoop shwoop pitcha pitcha shwoop shwoop pitcha' and he rises.
'ba dat' goes the sound, then silence, then he begins again dancing, tap dancing with a great fury. he is pounding out the sound with a veracity of the starved man.
'bah bah' goes the music. he spins his gray hair perfectly still while he leaps onto garbage cans kicking them over banging the lid always keeping perfect rhythm with his feet. as he moves, as the music thumps the crowd becomes swept in begin to snap their fingers then clap then stomp until the theater is filled with the thunder of human sound.
'arrrrh!' he cries and moves towards the center, sweat pouring, once taught tie is grasped as if it were a snake. he wrestles it taps while shaking it squeezing knuckles white then in one brilliant motion he spins stomping his heel and in mid spin the tie is thrown into the air 'whoosh' the crowd stands to applaud and from off stage comes another sound the weeping of a broken lover.
she appears, he is now open collard and pounding his chest more animal than man as she come leaping, twirling towards him. she takes a chord and moves towards the sky, circling his head as he is frantic pounding trying to break the wood stage floor.
the move the crowd is soaring with them until it goes black for an instant, goes silent then before one could catch their breath the spotlight comes on and she is covering him he is still across her lap as she strokes his hair and then finally there is black and the crush of applause.

somewhere there is a man with a mustache, he is regular looking plain with glasses. this man, joe smith, is sucking a pencil studying the numbers.
'there is something fishy going on.' he mumbles across the pencil in his mouth.
'but is there enough for the news?' says another man only known as editor.
they are huddled near a computer monitor like parents over a new born. there is a sense of fear and excitement that cuts across their faces shaking the editor's old loose jowls.
'i am not going to lay my reputation on the line for a witch hunt', says a beautiful big chested brunette known as Lisa Koin, she is the anchor.
'there definitely is something but we need more time.' says joe.
'well we have to get the story out to own it,' says the editor.
'i have a fucking peabody i don't want to risk it on something that could or could not be complete shit. i say break it on cable.' says Lisa Koin her chest heaving as she runs a ruby red finger through her hair.
'brilliant!' calls the editor causing his huge stomach to leap as if startled.
joe takes the pencil from his mouth, turns it so that the eraser is facing the screen, taps the screen and says, 'this is our way in.'
all three peer in.
'what we will do is get ted from that damned left wing screecher's show and paul from that other's radio show. tonight we put it in the middle of the television show then run it across the breaking news crawler. tomorrow we use it as a seccond hour call in topic. then we watch if it's good tinder the fire should take care of itself.' says the editor.
'and if we're wrong?' says joe.
the editor's gigantic body began to convulse as laughter slowly fell from his billowing purple lips, 'we're never wrong, we just abandon the topic, or we find something in the response that we can also interpret into an attack.'
'well if i am talking about it, we know we got something. now if you'll excuse me it takes some preparation to win my time slot.'
as lisa koin took her perfume, hour glass figure and vivacious breasts out the door the editor turns to joe, 'so how do we frame it?'
they turn and begin to work.

3.-practice makes perfect

Friday, September 25, 2009


micheal mustoff is a collection of wires. well a wiry man, thin man whose full hair dances in the devil breeze of the santa anna winds. he is clean shaven, no glasses, fresh clean khaki pants and golf shirt. mustoff drives an expensive sports car. mustoff has the latest cellular phone. mustoff always has a beautiful woman on his arm. mr. mustoff has a never ending supply of money.
micheal mustoff a vegetarian and once president of National Association of Healthy Living is now considered a benedict arnold. in the words of the NAHL 'mr. mustoff is a turn coat, and in these halls he has another name...judas.'
judas mustoff is the creator of healthy ideas. healthy ideas is the company that invented the positive affirmation containers. positive affirmation containers are used in every fast food restaurant in the world, are used to cover every soda can and candy bar. they cover junk food, fast food, all the food that is considered unhealthy.
now you must be wondering what it is that they do?
well let me tell you, dear reader, the p.a.c. contains a few simple phrases like 'you deserve', or 'working hard? treat yourself' or 'every once in awhile is not so bad, especially for somebody who is always on the go.', when the container is open.
consider that you are on the go and have forgotten your lunch at home, well you just pull into the drive through get your burger and fries. when you pull over, ready to tuck into your meal you feel that small tinge of guilt over the damage you are going to do to your body. how your trainer or wife or whomever in your life would be standing right now at the window, or behind you waving one finger in your face saying 'tsk tsk' or just giving you the eye of general disappointment. you pause, bag on your lap, considering the pros and cons how when you get home, if you make it before your partner, you have to either eat your lunch or throw the bag away then when they come home and ask how your day was will you spill the beans? will you go to the garbage open the can and show them the offending trash, tell all through tears and then have to listen to all the rhetoric about 'you work so hard on this', or that 'a diet is hard, that is why nobody likes to do it.' or even in extreme cases how your partner grabs all your clothes, your 'skinny jeans' and throws them into the garbage or for even more dramatics places them in the fireplace and sets fire to them screaming in your face 'failure!'.
these images can make one stop, put the bag on the floor and go through the day hungry, just drink water. so that when they get home they can explain, they can get the pat on the back from the spouse/partner/trainer about how 'we hate to lose money but it's worth the lesson' and then you can high five, get a free session or make sweet love finally able to be on top and act like the dominate man that you are.
these ideas of reward would usually be enough to put the bag down, to return to work. but with mr. mustoff the bag comes playing a fun song, that in fifteen seconds from being handed off starts spouting affirmations of your purchase.
'hey buddy, mmm hmmm these fries smell good, you deserve to treat yourself.'
'let's crack open this bag and taste these golden, delicious rewards.'
'it's your life, your the man, open us up and take what you deserve.'
once the bag is open then there is the hamburger:
'hamburger? or ham delicious? you decide. if i had to be eaten, i'm glad it's by you, because you deserve it.'
the fries chime in:
'nothing goes better with that burger than these guys right here. dip and enjoy!'
followed by the soda:
'and end with a tasty slurp of your's truly. you're a man with a busy schedule, the man, the bring home the bacon man. a man like you deserves to feel full.'
and so they go, on and on cheering each bite and celebrating the trip from garbage can to the recycle factory.
'let us serve our righteous call, and make our way to heaven.'
now full or with a mouth full you call your trainer/partner/spouse and it's them with the tears. your a man 'damn it' your a man who likes his soda and hamburger, your a man who isn't going to eat 'any more rabbit food.' your the man who 'enjoys the view from the top and so tonight i'm going to take what i want.'
your the man who will leave the grease stains, the ketchup stains, your them man who slowly begins to spill out of his clothes. soon, instead of just a quick lunch you're making a pit stop for breakfast, for lunch, snack on the way home from dinner. soon enough you have the frequent fooder card that runs your name into the machine, the messages tailored fit, the p.a.c representative is using your life as a case study. soon men across the country are going to be hearing your personally selected positive affirmations soon enough they will see your picture on the container soon enough it will be your testimonials spouting from the drive through boards before the order is taken.
judas mustoff has a private jet. he goes to fiji for breakfast, lunch in costa rica and dinner in jamacia. mr. mustoff, micheal is never at home. he keeps an arms length from america, from his company his product his results, ruling from webcast aboard the plane. he notices, judas, the weight his employees are putting on. he notices the news when they talk about profit margins, how 'americans are eating at home less and less.', he notices the obesity rates sky rocketing.
'we never felt better,' they say and soon he is getting calls from other avenues. there is the p.a.c. for booze, for cigarettes, cable boxes and new cars. soon prostitutes and strippers carry speakers that transmit through certain fm frequencies their specials.
micheal mustoff reads the news papers. he knows that marriages are not crumbling but promiscuity is rising. he hears about the failure of the olympic sprinters to qualify. how the athlete's once solid frame is now starting to spill over split their lycra uniform. he hears the calls to asterisk the previous generations for drug abuse as home run records how world records all records are farther and farther ahead of the current leader.
there is the call to shorten the football field, to decrease the sports quarters, to make baseball four innings and the decimation of all classes but the heavy weight class.
he sees american farmers pushing aside all other crops save weight, corn, potato. how cattle, pig and chicken farms are exploding being overwhelmed by the demand of fast food chains.
mr. mustoff is shrinking as the countries waistline is expanding. he watches the news via satellite seeing the NAHL's headquarters burned, seeing vegetarians being forced to flee north to canada or south to mexico. he see's all this and somewhere above the pacific as the sun sets judas mustoff hangs himself.
there is a period of national mourning as he is laid to rest, in the brand new p.a.c. coffin that plays muzak while a soft voice confirms, 'you lived a good life, you were somebody special.'
it is at this nationally televised event that the signal is hacked, that a computer graphics genius had mustoff leap from the coffin as others leapt from their grave and began zombieing the attendants. it is this attempt at dark humor that caused the country a mass fatal heart attack that killed 65% of the country.
it would have killed the computer hacker too, if not for the fact his rifle was new from p.a.c and when he went to point it at his head he heard it say, 'hey nothing is that bad. let's go shoot some deer instead, kill dear and make sweet love to a beautiful woman. how about it?'

Thursday, September 24, 2009


'my name is bob, bob waywood, and i am an architect,' said bob waywood as he positioned her legs across his shoulders and stared down at what lay before him.
'if you were to make a documentary of me,' he thought flexing his pectoral muscles and staring down at her taut passion clenched lips, ' you would find a laundry list of pleased women. you see i please women, i take my time. as an architect i study the design of her structure, i use foreplay as a way to get up close and personal with all her hallways and byways. i study the safety of her entrance and exits. then when satisfied i pull her close and whisper sweet nothings into her ear as i make a mental blue print. when the blue print is finished i lay into her with the tenacity of a workaholic.'
bob waywood uses his free time to stretch and weight lift. he uses his free time to attend seminars and happy hours studying the mind, studying her designs.
'you see some women are simple spec design where one is satisfied just like the others, then there are the few that are unique, they may like their toes tickled while you wink and massage their colons. i will do whatever it takes to make the customer happy.'
'you see the architectural field is the last true bastion of customer service. we must give the client whatever he or she chooses in order to be paid. not only that, we have to solve all the problems that arise and meet the county code regulations along the way. we do all this with a smile and let's see your grocer do all that. why if i go into my local grocer and find one rotten apple tell them that they might want to check their produce i'm surprised if i am ever allowed back in. can you imagine, with such a lack of customer service skills, how any woman is satisfied with these men. i mean people have asked me, 'bob do you think homosexuality is nature or nurture?', an i think it's totally nurture. i mean if you aren't satisfied with group a then how are you going to stay away from group b? it's like two dissatisfied furniture store customers getting together and opening up their own shop. not only will they be happy but the staff they gather will be trained to make the customers of group b happy and those customers will tell all their friends that group b is the way to go and soon enough we have a whole community of business built to service group b exclusively.'
bob takes a moment to move the hair from her face with his left hand as he takes his right and messages her right above the anus. she is grinding and moaning with satisfaction.
'so it is up to us, so to speak, architects to deliver for group a. the straight life has to survive. what desperation must it take to drive one man to another? i shudder at the thought. now i know some will say 'ohh, i just love men,' but there are always lazy people among us. no, i'm talking about the man who tries his best but has never been taught true customer service. he's the mailman just walking through your yard and stuffing the mail into your box the back end of the envelope hanging outside the box while maybe the lid is still in the air. lo, to be his wife. he probably thinks foreplay is taking off his shoes or turning away to belch. it's this kind of man who claims that he is making love, and if you're a woman and you are told that this is love with a man, i mean what wouldn't turn you towards women? women are soft, they are kind, sensual they like to shop to organize to take their time with things. women enjoy multiple stimulation, the candle scent, the music, the massage the questions of their day. why if i was a woman just getting flipped and screwed and left for football i surely would not be straight.'
there is a rattle of jewelry on the night stand as he thrusts with full force causing her to gasp and claw the air.
' so it is up to me, so it is up to us architects to save the world. one by one we pursue these women from a list that is generated by nervous mothers and reverends. think how dire the situation when the catholic church turns to the architects and say 'please find it in yourself to make love to cindy s from wisconsin because we have seen her buying sarah mclaughlin albums.' they must reconcile the sin of premarital sex with the greater sin of homosexuality. though we do not force these women, oh no, quite the contrary. we give them the option we talk at bars we talk at library or coffee shops, we bump into them in a mall. we spend time with them seducing them caressing their hands cooking them dinner buying them something small that relates to something they had told us about at an earlier time. in truth we give them a glimpse of what true heterosexual love is all about. then when we arrive at the moment we make love to them giving them the greatest gift a man can give a woman, the orgasm.
'at the same time we are finding men, we are teaching them, talking to them at fantasy football drafts, over beers and baseball games. we are everywhere, living to the motto 'do good by keeping society structurally sound'. the fact is if you are interacting with an architect it is not fate that brought you together but the weight of your community leaders saying, 'save this woman/man from making a terrible mistake.
'i like to think of the words of christ 'let those with ears hear' we are the beginners tune that all can listen to and slowly understand.'
she is spitting cursing her body unfolding into orgasm, shaking feet beating against the sheets and soon there is peace.
'as quickly as we come to the site we retreat. once the work is finished, the building passed the final walk through and the customer paid with orgasm or in a man's case the final field test, we retreat. cindy s whose mind is focused on love with this man, her body tuned to the true pleasure of being with a man can no longer understand or enjoy her time with group b. it's hear that we introduce her to our 'old friend jack walterson or whomever', they hit it off, of course and as their friendship grows while waiting for our hero to arrive at group get togethers because our hero is locked up in the office with another huge project in amsterdam, we slowly retreat. when the tinder is laid and all is ready to spark the flame between them, our hero comes with the bad news...transferred.
there will be tears now, but soon maybe two weeks to a month there will be new tears, tears of joy watering the buds of a loving tree. i will wait until i get the call from jack about how he and cindy, he doesn't know it's just that something is happening and he doesn't want to be a jerk or ruin our friendship but 'really, shit, i feel something great could happen between us,' it is here that i give the blessing.'
bob leans towards her, this lady, kisses her deep, 'that was beautiful' she said.
'no you are beautiful, that was something more.'
'oh i have never felt this way, bob.'
'i feel it too, i think i am ready to take this to the next level.'
'oh me too,' she says propping her head on one hand while the other pulls his chest hair playfully.
'i think i want you to come to the bowling alley tomorrow.'
'but isn't that your bowling with buddies day?' she says a nervous smile on her face.
'well it's just me and tim but now i want it to be us three. i want you to be not just part of my life but hopefully to share in a life.'
'oh, i would love that, ah, this is...'
he kisses her, 'shh, i know. i know'

Wednesday, September 23, 2009


ed macaffy an angry man stared down at the smudge across the fender. 'damn you!' cried ed macaffy as he followed the finger print the three inches across gold pin stripe and midnight blue paint. the fury tinted his cheek and ground his teeth, his once pure pt cruiser now defiled. her head lights once wide with innocent wonder now appeared wide and approachable a real flousy of a car. his baby patty cruiser, license plate read 1 2luvpt now a advertisement for all the licentious men in town.
it was friday and he drove his bald head pounding from the wind that beat across it while he drove with his head out the window. patty, the once sweet vanilla aroma was now the smell of a pier hooker calling all the navy boys home. ed macaffy owner of a giant belly long straight arrow loafers, untucked button up and black pleated slacks pulled into the daily dive for happy hour.
'why that bitch takes all comers we'll see if that rubs both ways.'
he appeared near the lottery machines, crossing the carpet stain, past the empty booths up towards the bar.
there were two or three women there, the most beautiful could have been a transvestite so she would be left as a last option.
at first it seemed like divine inspiration. carla! CAR LA! he thought as he watched her smoked wrinkled fuzz lined lip curl into a small deliver small talk of hard times over her highball glass. she had blond but the roots hair, she had a loose not stuffed enough slump pillow body, she had two legs that dangled almost to the floor covered in panty hose and flats, she had the dress of a retail clerk and she had a vagina which is all that ed was after.
'i got your drinks darling,' he said.
the hours crept and he talked, she talked, they laughed as he secretly cursed patty, reveled in her body growing cold in the night. he thought of those big doe eyes, her down pout fender mouth and taught racing ass once so confident now growing nervous anxious wondering about her man.
ed didn't smoke, but carla did so out they went. he would do it. now he wasn't stupid enough to ruin the potential resale of smoking in patty but he would show her he didn't care that at a moments notice he could smoke in her. that carla was worth it, worth anything. he laughed hard at her stories glancing at the lights he twisted her playfully in the night watching their bodies reflect off the paint and he kissed her mouth! he kissed her right in front of patty, eyes open looking past carla's cheek to the fender where the street light highlighted the smudge the scarlet finger burning a hole in his heart.
it was too much, the smoke, the cheap booze, the terrible conversation how far would he have to go to prove this point? wasn't this far enough? he thought then turned it still glimmered, the wide smile of the guilty lover it trailed across the high arch of her wheel fender down down down to almost across her mouth. all the time burning, like a volcano first his body tremored then a bellow 'enough!'
who knows what happened with carla. there was a gasp but then nothing more as he strode to the fender screaming the whole way, 'why!' screamed it over and over rubbing the fender with his dress shirt sleeve. he was ferocious rubbing slobbering cursing calling tearing leaping tearing at his chest taking one shoe beating the tire.
wherever she went she returned. she returned with two drinks. exhausted he big bellied to the ground. exhausted he took the highball glass and placed it at the summit of his stomach. exhausted he didn't move when carla sat beside him placed her arm about him. she leaned into the car her hair brushing the fender and finger print and as she turned towards him her hair performed a miracle. it moved and brushed against the gold pinstripe against the midnight blue paint and rubbed it clean.
he took her face and brought it towards him. they kissed, and as he felt the wet strands, her hair that she had dampened in the woman's room soaped with hand soap, he broke down and cried.
later that night after they had drove to oak meadows off foster road, after they had parked next to teenagers, after he took her in the back seat after she screamed kicked writhed and orgasm. naked after all this carla spoke 'shit, patty he can fucking screw!'
an love began to blossom in their laughter.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009


'i write my best rhymes on the toilet,' thought robert carr. well, i should say me. i'm robert carr aka mr. fairweather aka king sheets aka busta right rhymes aka ptown kingballer aka the white mamba aka bobby blanco. i was born to this by mc frenzy who was begat by lord crisp who was begat by dj freckle face who was begat by joseph the record slinger who was begat by king tones who was begat by the one and only mc gold tooth. so you see my lineage is deep an correct.
check it
i got short brown hair
an crazy blue eyes
got fat stomach
you know i don't lie
it's from the money x2

i got sweet damn hoes
an a long ass benz
it got the fresh ass rimz
that attract all them
whateva you see
call me fred ass meyer
you one stop shopping
i need the money x2

got to collect my endz
i need the money
to detail my benz
gotta have the money
for my ill ass chainz
i need the money
to shine up my diamond ringz

an that is just off the top of my head. i take crazy long dumps until it feels like my legs are gonna fall asleep. i beat on the walls giving my neighbors no peace. then when i lay down my lines, i feel the blood rush like i'm owning all time. you know i hits the club, you know i perfect the beats, you know the bitches call out when they see me , 'oh it's bobby blanco, the king of the streets.'
everybody has something that keeps them alives. what was the old saying, 'the world is the snake that eats the dream and the dream is the snake that eats the world'? i think of that shit when i see the picture of the one snake eating it's tail. i think how you gotta take a lot of shit to get what you want.
check it, i was cold maxing at a club with my man dj fatso when this hella fine piece of ass comes breezing. i mean the smell of her caused my joint to do a back flip. i hollered up to her 'hey slim, hey birdie it's the man on the scene the king of ptown, white mamba bobby blanco the dopest mc.' she didn't flinch, didn't bat an eye an just kept heading towards her booth. now you know i won't let a bird get away i chase it with fierce lyrics until she decides to stay. i turn to my right i spoke in our code whisper dj fatso, hell yeah spin it slow.
dj fatso about a quarter a ton lumbers to the stand an proceeds to get it done. as the beats climb an the tempo unfolds i proceeds to the booth my greatest pimp stroll. i limp peg legged aviators cover my eye one white sweat pant pulled to about mid thigh got a diamond inspired fugazi pendant of home, picture of idaho homage to where i was born.
she is quite banging in her mini black thing heels two stories high an a deep cleavage pink sea. her hair is straight an it's framing that face a picture of beauty that i could never erase. so as fatso proceeds to set the stage i stare deep into her brown eyes to get her heart out it's cage.
hey sweet baby
you know this feelings so real
let bobby the ghost
become mr so real
now i'm gonna tell you a story
that ain't full of lies
about a pimp an a hustla
that came to realize
that love unlike life
is forever for two
so lets take a chance
on it being me an you
i was once for the hustla
an only the game
but now that i know ya
lemme turn all that page

she didn't turn over her head to come face to face, was to busy just staring straight out into space. was until her girls taped on her hand that she turned towards blanco an began to understand.
she was not a great fan of hip hop or sound, through a ruffle of paper an pen the answer resound. that this angel this beauty this girl of my dreams was deaf in her ears to all spoken things. so dj fatso he came an tapped the beat on her cheek i recleared my throat an began to speak. slow was how it moved from the front to the back retelling all i had spoken an avoiding the wack. an after all i had spoken all had been saved i gotta an email address from this beauty i craved.
so white mamba so blanco so king of the streets he writes her some sweet lines before hitting the sheets.
an as another day comes another day pass i take this heart to bed with dreams of waxing her ass.

2-bobby blanco an susan b. deaf!

Tuesday, September 15, 2009


as my wife just gave birth to a baby girl on the 8th my mind is a little scattered but trust i will return. coming soon: no fat chicks allowed! the saul mellow story, peg leg: harold conquers all! three some or how rick naljev lost his virginity...twice. so i think it will take a few days to get back on track, but, god willing we shall!
Publish Post

Wednesday, September 2, 2009


oh how they shouted, 'go peg leg go!' as i raced towards the finish line. the august sun unleashing it's final fury as it made it's great descent towards the horizon. neck and neck with the mighty gunderson, hero of the 100 meter dash, i could hear his breath pounding against the air a fury of a man and he was bearing towards the end.
let us take this to the beginning. my sweet mother dorthy had always enjoyed her races. she would wallop the couch and holler the television every summer while watching the races. i can still recall the tears and suicidal threats as ben johnson took down our national hero. 'oh carl the cheater won,' she cried.
my father was a football man and thus took these hours to fidget in the garage or go to the bowling alley. i, on the other hand, was too young to go anywhere so i just lay and listened. when old enough i would watch raising my innocent babe head towards the eerie blue glow of the screen. outside the birds would chirp a merry tune while inside a fury would be released against any and all that were not draped in the red white and blue.
'these colors do not run, indeed,' she hissed when the failures were multiple.
thus was the movie and soundtrack to my early summers born.
as i grew, my mother would take any chance to teach me the trade. her once lithe now plumped matronly body swinging knees violently towards the. her grey brown hair dancing before her eyes as she got into position screamed, 'bang' and made her way down the street.
'high knees and a good start those are the keys. when you run extend lemme see...'she would say and trail off as she manipulated my legs in a running motion.
i never walked proper, at the age of 12 months i took my first steps (so i am told) launching my knees toward the sky then elongated the leg out before me then bringing it back so the heel would kiss my buttocks. this would last for no more than three steps, each time i fell i would rise to starting position scream a baby's version of 'bang' and begin again.
as months turned to years the training began paying off. i was taking home sprint medals against sixth graders by kindergarden and by the time i was in third grade track offers had come pouring in.
'a runner has but one place to go and that place is eugne. in the bosom of modern running, that is where you will study.' with that i was an oregon duck. i do believe that i am still the youngest to ever accept an athletic scholarship from a division one program. there had been doubt when a certain russian power lifter had been discovered but by the time molly mckee had arrived to eugene she had become martin and it all was quietly swept under the rug.
it was under my mother's guidance and tutelage that i blossomed and under the strict demands of the oregon running team that i was preserved.
when, after my tenth year, i had won the state highschool sprint, distance and hurdling title for the fifth time, the school asked that i reduce my competitive races to just one arena my mother went a step further. she removed me from class and began home tutoring me with the idea that i could skip junior high and highschool altogether and end up in college next year.
'as talented as your legs are, my dear, your mind is the real jewel,' my father said.
'he must be challenged!' my mother conferred.
so it began.
i study in the shade underneath the family station wagon as my mother set up training courses. i studied while churning in the pool. i called out algebraic equations while leaping hurldes, quoted shakespear while high jumping and conversed in arabic inbetween baton exchanges.
'we work hard and we do it clean, that's our way.'
after ben johnson was caught for steroids my mother began writing him. she demanded that he give back the medal, she demanded that he go on television and confirm what america already knew, carl lewis is the greatest champion in track and field history. she flew into a complete rage when ben johnson decided to race the horse. she paced all night, she paced until the clock range four in the morning then cried out, 'aha!'
i leapt from the bed, but no one said go, i figured i must not have heard her right and went back to sleep.
thirteen days passed, then they arrived. television camera's from nbc showed up at our door step. there was a man in red tie and perfect hair who spoke in hushed tones towards my mother.
'is he here?' i heard her ask. the man's head nodded in affirmation, 'judas' she screamed. there was a harried motion of equipment, lights and overweight men as a figure burst into the was ben johnson.
'you betta hold your judas until the ticker tape lady.' he said pointing a finger at her chest. my mother was short but not small and when she came upon you it was if the clouds took the sun. a darkness came across mr. johnson and his eyes wide with emotion began to widen from something else, fear.
'you shake on it, you shake on it you damn cheater.' she said extending her hand.
'you watch what your saying.' he said extending a muscled black arm towards her. they shook.
when i came from the toilet there was my mother.
'your gonna race him, son and your gonna beat that son of a bitch for carl, your gonna beat that son of a bitch for track and your gonna beat that son of a bitch for the USA!' she said while extending a red white and blue track suit towards me.
i could hear the birds singing in between the motors of diesel trucks and the whir grind of cameras being put through their paces. i took the suit and changed. once outside i could see mr. johnson doing stretches and knee thrusts always head forward looking as a man determined to find land. the crew had divided the street into two running lanes and on either side the lanes were lined with spectators.
while i went through the motions of warming up my mother screamed and conjoled at the camera and host.
soon enough came the call, 'runners take your mark...get set...GO!'
it was the perfect start that gave me the lead my knees high legs extending heels kissing my buttocks. at ten years old i had the lead on a olympic champion, i closed my eyes to imagine the thrill of victory to imagine mr. lewis at home finally able to salute the flag he loved so much once again. in my mind i heard the star spangled banner blare and not the horn or the screams or the whatever machine it turned out to be that caused everything to go black.
it was the pain of seeing leg, the champion lead leg being amputated that caused my mother to slip into a coma, they don't say but i believe. it was the loss of the leg that caused the college to rescind the offer.
it was in the hospital that i received a tear stained letter from mr. lewis 'you tried, god bless you you tried.'
it has taken months of therapy. i began again, like a baby, three steps down, three steps down but with the aluminum below my knee i learned. i began to jog began to thrust my knees towards the heaven, kiss my buttocks with my heel again. the wind kissed my cheeks and ears as i raced towards imagined finish lines. i raced alone under the cover of night where no one could tell me no. i raced for her. my mother still motionless, her heart beating her heart waiting her body waiting to come back there was still more races to run.
so i am here, so i am running neck and neck for a second chance. the mighty gunderson. the hero of oregon track. i am running, straining metal against leg against ground i push and grunt and lean. i can hear his breath, can hear it and imagine mr. johnson his voice, 'later fool' before the black before i started over. the mighty gunderson begins to slip away, behind me and when i break the tape i can't hear them cheer, when i break the tape i keep going, i keep going in my tattered almost too small united states track suit. i can't see the new record as i keep going running two more miles running up the stairs running towards room 1324 where a woman is supposed to be in a coma.
'we'll get that son of a bitch yet.'
and i stop.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009


caribbean windsor had incredible auburn hair. it moved with a life of it's own as it bounced across shoulders, across neck, across back. her lips were always a wet red, full ready for attention as those chestnut eyes blinked back open waiting still waters deep and pure. caribbean was half black, half english with the taut body of a dancer she hangs now out her window...imagine her!
i am excellent, my stomach firm, tight against a black polo legs powerful churning naked underneath the end of shorts as i move from the shadows towards her window where she sits. the moon casts a loving gaze down grazing the white wood frame, grazing the forest green siding, grazing her mocha slim shoulders, those lips and smooth moon face.
'humbert, oh humbert' she calls down.
i race forwards trying to catch her call before the words crash against the lawn shatter and her heart grows cold.
'yes, my love?'
' if only i knew for sure, daddy believes in steven and i believe in you, oh how can we prove to him your good, your right, your the one?'
i hear a throat to be cleared see a form moving from the liquor cabinet towards the glass patio door close to where i stand, stood as i leap in the rose bush, thorns biting into shirt, shorts and skin.
'honey is that you?' called the figure now leaning out thick dark nose hanging right above the spot i bleed.
'yes daddy.' she says.
'who you talking to?'
'ah, just the man of my dreams,' as she said this she blew a kiss across the night sky.
it took all my strength not to erupt from the rose bushes, flower inbetween clenched teeth to ask for her hand.
'that's funny i didn't hear steven pull up.'
the monster! i shook my fist causing the bush to rattle.
'whoo what is that terrible smell?' he said nose moving ever closer to my old spiced skin and clothes.
'oh daddy can't i at least have my dreams?'
'your right darling, lemme go make sure your mom is still having the dreams that feature me!'
the both laughed and in the space of three breaths i could hear his feet climbing the stairs and the bedroom door close.
'let me tell him, let me ask for your hand!' i cried
'not yet,' she said. her long lashes beating the rhythm of my heart.
there was the call of a cat being tread upon. there was a sound of a lone dog bay and then there was this:
'my father has always had a deep admiration for the yodel. it was the one thing that could, can turn his heart...'
'by god, bring him here and let me clear my throat!'
she sucked her teeth then spoke, 'it has to be official, if you could win the blue ribbon at the idaho fair then there would be no way he could deny us.'
the idaho fair. ever since it's inception the fair has brought together the best and the brightest for competition. there was my second place in the wing contest, pie contest and turkey call. why before i could walk i had been in competition, and ever since i began i had always been the bridesmaid and never the bride. while this year i had been training for the wood crafting ribbon and an outside shot at the cow milking event i now had another to add to my plate.
as the moon bare eyed us i made an oath.
'for you, for us, for love itself i will win that yodeling competition and your dads heart! now blow me a kiss for i have to practice.'
our fingers almost touched as she reached down to let the kiss fall lightly from her fingers. i grasped it, smothered it against my lips for a full twenty seconds i rolled around hold it ever tighter until my tongue had sufficiently slathered the inside of my palm.
no american could just leap into a yodeling competition and no man could just leap into the state fair quality of competitors, so i was off to see the only man who could help the german bear.
it was a terrible shack of a home, raccoons littered the front porch like drunken sailors at the pier. the bear's wife had placed a fresh pie against the window sill so it was her who saw me come running as she eyed pie to raccoons to field.
'humbert's a coming!' she cried as her hands clasped together. why in her heart there was joy for it could mean my mind had finally allowed the sunlight of her daughter's smile into my heart. luanne the bear's daughter was more man than woman. she stood a good 6'4" barefoot, could outrun any man in town and once (legend told) knocked a horse cold while it came barreling full speed towards her. luanne kept her hair tied back so tight that it pulled her skin causing her eyes to appear asian and her mouth to always hold a smile. she had no bosom's to speak of but would wear low cut tops and purple eyeliner with no lipstick. in a family of singers she could hold no note but did have talent with her hands. the shack was built by her father, while the daughter built a beautiful three bedroom ranch next door. the german bear would not move into the house out of shame.
so it was into the shed i came a running.
'bear, for love i must yodel,' i panted.
he stood before the fire, national team singlet covering a still lithe body. the man had wrestled for the majority of his life. when the bear was not yodeling or wrestling he was a boy scout to the point that he was an eagle scout and would always point out that only eagle scouts had walked on the moon.
'you are not moon.' he growled and began to pace the floor.
'what?' said i.
'only eagle scout been to moon, and if a man an eagle scout can get to the moon i figure that more difficult than teach you to yodel.'
this was good, but nothing is free in life. so as the moon, that had cast a tender light upon caribbean on one side of town cast down an angry eye while the bear paced. it was well known that in order to be taught by the bear one must first survive his attack. what age had taken in hair and physique it made up for with power. the german bear was five seven, a concrete block of a man with blonde hair kept clean. he would snap his singlet so that you could see the boy scout symbol tattoo on his back.
i smelled the pie and heard the laughter of a raccoon as i met the ground and he was upon me. there was the power of the arm across neck pulling closed my airway. i could feel the strain in my knee as he brought my foot across my back to meet my neck and finally there was warmth as he pressure pointed my arm pit causing my pants to go wet.
'give him the suitcase!' cried his wife
'no no only test no match,' came the response.
as if a storm had cast a mighty wind there came a dark cloud across the room and soon enough the weight had been lifted. i hacked, turned caught my breath as luanne had her father in the camel's back.
'not this too,' he called out with wet eyes.
soon we were both free men. soon we were both standing. soon we both held a slice of pie and after that we were singing.
steven moved like a villain, thought like a villain and even though all could be a summer's day in a gentle ponded meadow there he clung behind a tree casting a dark shadow.
it was during our third hour of practice that a text came to my phone.
'i need your letterman's jacket asap! xoxo car.'
while it was true i had been a superior athlete and earned many letters, that my letterman jacket not only had my last name, had the symbols for the sports and academics i had mastered it is also true that i did not have my lettermans jacket. the foolishness of first loves. it was during this time that i gave my jacket to my highschool sweet heart tootie and soon after abandoned her for another long legged majestic blonde suzy. it is true that the bruce's family motto is 'never look back, always forwards' so it is true that tootie was left holding the jacket while i ascended greater mountain tops.
'why?' i wrote back.
'steven has offered to let me wear his jacket while he and his barbershop quartet perform at the fair. my father was pleased, my father thinks it's very sweet for a gentleman to let his favorite girl wear his jacket. xoxo car.'
'but we haven't been in highschool for years.' i wrote and perspired while aiming for 'do ye do li do do do the deer'.
'you know my dad. please for me, can you dig it up? xoxo car.'
'anything for you,' i wrote back.
that night until the dawn broke i practiced. the german bear growled that he had never had such a student, 'by god what we could do with a month of practice...the idaho state auditorium, new york city, why even famed london! you must come back and complete the training.'
''thank you bear, thank i will.'
there was only one man who still knew where tootie lived, one man who could get the information we needed...slim the croation.
slim was slim thin as smoke in a top hat that covered his raven black hair. slim came and went with magic. he would throw flash paper and be gone or he would descend from thin air above your head. while discussing matters he took to pulling rabbits from his hat or quarters from your ear. if the discussion turned to energetic he would take to pacing swallowing swords or torches of flame. slim was a magician, an information man and a breeder of hens. it was with him that i talked now.
'you really think she'll hand it over so easy? after all these years?' he said tossing a dove from his sleeve.
'i have to try,' i said while ducking the flapping bird.
'i can give you the information but your going to need back up. she lives with a man, franklin the pipe bender, i am sure you need no introduction, and if you go alone you might as well send an obit to the paper.'
franklin the pipe bender had been a dear friend. it was only after he started dating tootie, after things got serious that he turned. he was a man of many passions, one a heart that loved too dear and the other defending and revenging those that he loved or had done his loved ones wrong.
it should be stated that i never did a thing wrong. that i left as well as one could leave when someone is threatening suicide and lying on the floor. it should also be stated that legend had it tootie had worn that jacket everyday that warranted wearing a jacket that heavy since my departure.
'who do di doo li whoo who whoo who would dear such an adventure?' i asked.
slim threw two cards into the air as they transformed into two goldfish that fell into a waiting bowl he smiled.
we did not walk so much as creep towards tootie's front door. the bear had placed a thin jogging jacket over his wrestling singlet while slim was contained in a small ring of fire. i meanwhile had not been home since last night so was still in the same outift.
the house was very quaint. a two story white washed home in the suburb with two matching suvs in the driveway. both cars had vanity plates one that said 'pip bndn' the other 'ms. bndn'
this was a surprise. had slim depended on faulty information and the bender and tootie become one?
'what do you make of that,' i said.
slim waved his hand until a pair of reading glasses fell out, placing them on his thin pale face he said, 'merely symbolic neither attend church or believe in marriage.'
this was true, ever since we had started dating tootie always told me of her anti marriage stance.
taking a deep breath we found ourselves at the door i rang the door bell. the german bear began to pace in a circle rotating his arms getting warm, getting loose while slim began to throw thunderbolts towards the concrete.
the door opened to a little boy.
'hello?' came the voice.
'is tootie here?'
without further information the boy called, 'mom!'
there was a rattle inside and then the door moved. there she was after all these years, her soft round features matured her slightly plump body curved into womanhood, a real stunner.
'yeah, hi tootie, it's me uh humbert, yeah i know it's been a long time...'
'oh, humbert how are you doing? oh my god what a surprise, what brings you here?'
'this may sound stupid but my mom just died and i had always wanted to bury her with my lettermans jacket and i wondered, i mean i know it's been a long time and i would totally understand if you...'
here she rubbed her chin stared up out over us around us to us and then spoke.
'no fine, great yeah, i think i have it up in the attic...sorry to hear about your loss, she was always such a nice lady. are you guys hungry?'
if tootie had only matured into her looks she would have been set for life, she would be placed at the top of mount desirable but when you included her ability to cook...she was perfect. franklin was one lucky man. we watched as her children performed shakespere, we cried as romeo lay before juliet as the juice from the steaks dribbled down our lips.
i called bravo to actor and chef with a half chewed corn cob clung to my hand. the german bear fell to his knees over the chocolate cake and slim produced a rainbow over the fresh ceaser salad and kalamata bread. by god, when thinking of that meal all these days later my stomach still calls out, and the tears sprout from my eyes.
as we shook hands and departed, as i gave a quick hug and departed with the jacket in toe, i felt as if a friendship had been made. if i was the type of person who could look back i would not mind coming again for lunch or any other meal. it was too bad that tootie ended up going mad, being found shovel in tow digging up fresh graves in every cemetery in boise proper calling out 'my jacket, oh my sweet jacket.'
it was back home resting my vocal chords that the text came, 'tonight's the night, oh my love we shall prevail xoxo car.'
while trying on the jacket and looking in the mirror i thought of all it had been through. running my fingers across the body and inside across the fleece i came across a secret pocket. a pocket i had made myself so long ago. inside that pocket was a note, long forgotten or never known.
'dear humbert:
for so long i have admired you, yet been too shy to say. so know, on this last day of school i decided to sneak this note. i know we have spent most of our time together as friends, but i feel in my heart something stir, that there is something more there. i feel inside me a hole that only you can fill, i dream i dream and i see us together. oh humbert, i hope you find this, oh humbert i hope i can wait, oh humbert i hope i am not a fool.
fare joannis'
there came a great warmth in my chest. i leapt to my feet and paced the floor. fare had always held a smile for me, she came to hold my while i was down, it was with fare that i drove through the city side day dreaming about what's to come. i still remember the day that she left for australia. a summer away. she fell behind and was lost.
my heart pounded texts went unanswered as i turned the note over and over in my hand.
in the end it took thirteen seconds to find her on facebook. by god what a stunner. in the end she had been in a realtionship, life had taken her across many states only to bring her back again. in the end we met over coffee and in the end it took care of itself.
though i still yodel from time to time it is mostly to impress my wife...fare bruce. i have no blue ribbons but still fill like the biggest winner of them all.
i remember our wedding the german bear at my side, holding the candle while slim sat in back causing rice to rain as we made our way through the aisles.
sometimes life is more than a motto, and someday when i have a son i will tell him, a man in full is a man that can admire where he's been without forgetting where he is going.

*an addendum
shortly after finishing this last sentence humbert was clubbed by franklin the pipe bender. at first i was angry, but after hearing the story, how he had caused tootie to go mad and leave franklin to raise two children my heart softened. in three days we are going to celebrate our fifth anniversary. in two weeks i am going to have a son, humbert franklin. named for the man that brought us together.
one day he may wake from his coma, one day he may come to read this. one day he will understand.
one day tootie may come to her senses.
one day i may win powerball.
i just wouldn't hold my breath.