The time has come to tell you all of an ending and a beginning....

On March 7th, Leslie and I flew out to Las Vegas to make a good, solid week of it. I know there are people out there who like Las Vegas, but I find the whole city exhausting. The traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard ("The Strip") is horrible currently, especially in front of Steve Wynn's new 2.7 billion-dollar (yes, BILLION) hotel which isn't finished yet. The hotels are monuments to themselves, as vain and plastic as the many Californians who make a quick weekend of Las Vegas on a regular basis. Because Las Vegas is a boomtown, you can spit and hit a crane. Something is being built virtually every moment of every day. Going hand in hand with that, because this is the gambling capital of the United States, if you look hard enough, you can find something - or more to the point, someone - that is simultaneously being destroyed. It is a city of extremes like no other I've ever visited in this country.

Leslie and I journeyed there with happiness in mind. We caught a flight out of Milwaukee on Frontier Airlines, an overly cute carrier featuring adorable rabbits, bears and wild cats on their tail wings and pilots and flight attendants who go out of their way to crack jokes right before takeoff. I don't mind this approach. If an enormous jumbo jet is going to plummet into the side of any given Rocky Mountain causing widespread destruction and a fireball rivaled only by Nagasaki, go down laughing. This almost made up for the fact that the snacks they offered being subpar. I'll stop now before I pontificate on the subject of their pay TV service.

After catching a connecting flight in Denver, we landed in Las Vegas on Monday afternoon. We had decided to rent a car to get around town for the week. As my inaugural rental in the Hertz #1 Club, they "upgraded" me to a Ford Escape, a smallish SUV that boasted abysmal gas mileage and a rather irritating repeating reminder that my seat belt wasn't fastened. For the balance of the week, I fastened the seat belt to itself and twisted it behind my seat. I don't wear seat belts. When I was younger, I hit a stone wall, spun around, hit a utility pole and flew out the back windshield head first. Luckily, I was thrown from the car, because it was crushed. I haven't worn a seat belt since that night, and I won't. And THAT is how I stick it to the man!

We stayed at the Las Vegas Hilton, former home of Elvis and current home -much to our mutual horror - of Barry Manilow. The absolute worst part of our stay in the Hilton was their insistence on playing Barry Manilow's songs in every square inch of the hotel as often as humanly possible. After three days of being pummeled by Manilow's syrupy odes, I felt like a fat, gassy Yenta. Leslie and I are still recovering from the sonic onslaught. On our trips to the Hilton pool adjacent to the 3rd floor of the hotel, we sunbathed and swam in the shadow of a banner on the side of the hotel featuring an 80-foot visage of Barry Manilow, as if we could stand the 6-foot version. The hotel also featured a Barry Manilow store, where you could purchase handbags and t-shirts that proudly displayed the bearer's love of all things Barry. As I passed this store daily on the way to the parking garage, I longed for a flame thrower.

Our room was on the 26th floor, and looked out on the mountains surrounding the city. I was amazed at how these enormous land masses just disappeared every day after the sunset. It was refreshing to have something natural as a view from the window. The king size bed in the hotel room had upon it a mattress pad which did not quite fit the bed or the mattress and made a nightly sojourn up my butt crack as a result. ..

(to be continued 3/16/05 11:25 PM CST)

Usually, I like to reserve this space for short stories, opinion and some of my songs, but I was inspired to write about something very special that happened to me this evening. Think of this is need be as a "male mea culpa", as I really don't know what else to call it.
As an American heterosexual male, I've always been physically attracted to women. It's hard to talk about this in anything but sexual terms, because, as any woman knows, testosterone often intercedes on behalf of true emotional connection. Having said that, I've always made the typical male mistake of mistaking physical attraction with emotional attachment. This has led me down a lot of incorrect trails in my life.
I came home from work today and fell asleep at about 5 PM. I slept for about four hours. In the interim, Leslie came home and accomplished some tasks while I was sleeping. Because of the type of work she does, she often tires early in the day, and at 9:15 tonight, she came to bed. I snuggled with her for just short of an hour as she fell asleep. Usually, when we snuggle together, the blood rushes to my waist, with obvious physical consequences. Tonight, something happened to me that has never happened before. As I held Leslie, I felt what could only be described as the purest form of love I've ever felt for another human being. As I held her in my arms, I felt my arms, hands, legs and chest melting into this beautiful human being, and I could only feel happiness. The best thing about it all, and this is the strange part, is that Leslie fell asleep, and didn't even realize how I felt.
Two Sundays from now, Leslie and I are getting married. Our journey to this point hasn't been easy by any stretch of the imagination, and we both realize that many hurdles still present themselves to us. Holding Leslie tonight gave me such an intense feeling of piece of mind and heart that I know that I'm doing the right thing. It's always been tough for me to picture my life after 40. When I think of Leslie, or hold her, or see her smile, I know that this is the person I'll grow old with, and THAT is the basis of my life going forward. I hope everyone else in the world finds that kind of happiness.

CONCERT REVIEW
Paul Thorn
Jen Chapin
Shank Hall, Milwaukee, WI


Ah, another night at Shank Hall taking in the music and the Guinness with Lovely Lady Leslie.

Let me first start off by saying that it is indeed ironic that I am about to write a lengthy posting about seeing a musician that hails from the deepest of Red States whom I actually admire. Two postings ago, I ripped Red Staters a new one about the hypocrisy of their moral values argument, but I believe that the best kind of music, when used properly and with great care, should bring people together.

Which brings us to last night's Paul Thorn show at Shank Hall. Thorn, from Tupelo, Mississippi, brings the colorful journey that is his life in story and song. I first caught him with a full band at last year's edition of Summerfest here in Milwaukee, and he impressed me immediately. His between song banter, although I was hearing quite a bit of it last night for the second time, adds an engaging dimension to his songs (all of which are available on Back Porch Records). This former tent revival singer, boxer and chair factory worker brings honesty-something in short supply in the current climate of recorded music- to his audience with his songs that touch mostly on gospel and blues. Thorn was alone with his acoustic guitar last night, and his songs lost nothing without the presence of a full band. It is rare these days that I can say that. I hope that Paul Thorn comes back to Summerfest this year. He goes so well with beer. If he comes to your town, check him out. You won't be disappointed.

Opening the evening was Jen Chapin, a singer/songwriter from Long Island who blends a jazz feel with quasi-poetic lyrics under a fairly strong voice. Chapin was helped out by Stefan Crump on upright bass (I hope I spelled his name correctly) and Jamie Fox on lead guitar (no, the other one). I was impressed by the musicianship of Crump and Fox, with Fox sounding quite a bit like fellow New Yorker Bill Frisell. Some of Chapin's lyrics were somewhat painful to listen to, with many lyrics crowding out any melody that she tried to get going. Her lyrical ideas more often than not went too far afield and distracted from some fine melodies underneath. With less pretention and more focus, Chapin could be a force to be reckoned with given the lineup she's sporting. What a shame.

First Warren Zevon, now this...

Hunter Thompson committed suicide today. Unfortunately, I can't say that I ever met the man. I've read almost all of his books, and caught his recent articles on espn.com.

As I read his final article last week, a typical offering about calling Bill Murray in the middle of the night about designing a new game that combined shooting and golf, I thought to myself that in this most horrible of times, in this cesspool of a country, where the will of the masses is being trampled by Bible-waving, redneck sheepfuckers in Red states, at least I can count on something. At least Hunter's still got it.

Is this the end of all hope as we know it? Did Armageddon not mention four horsemen, but rather a chemical-tinged scribe biting the dust by his own hand, that ushers in the end of the world? As the lemmings in America bumrush to the edge of that cliff like a Depression-era bank run, the wreckage of 9/11 behind them and fading in the distance, the carrion-like smell of rotting soldier's corpses from a needless war lining their path, with a cocaine-addled fratboy leading them, rattling the Ten Commandments in one hand and a tattered flag in the other, it is the duty of those people still left in America with a conscience to celebrate the pioneering spirit of the American Outlaw that Thompson represented to the literary community. Instead, all we get is an acceptance of voter theft, surveillance of our every move on highways both of information and automobiles and a blank check for big business to poison us all slowly, like an IV drip of Jonestown Kool-Aid.

Thompson represented the last of the writers influenced by the Beats, celebrating a time on America when you could jump in a car and drive the long, dusty, undeveloped highways, the wind in your hair, a drink in your hand and only the faintest notion of a destination. It was a time when only J. Edgar Hoover's FBI had you under surveillance and only then if you were a rabble-rouser, rather than every paranoid Christian freak on the street. There were no cameras at intersections, there were no Wal-Marts polluting the landscape and the signs hanging over businesses in any town were either neon or hand-painted. Hunter Thompson putting a bullet in his head is the ultimate sign that America can never hope to recapture the freewheeling spirit that it still futilely markets to the rest of the world. America is officially lost in a morass of gun violence, depravity and false gods in cheap suits. There is nothing left to conquer in this country. There is no hope for a brighter tomorrow on the other side of the hill. Manifest Destiny is just a buzzword for that cliff that the lemmings climb a little more every day. Goodbye America. It was fun while it lasted.

The New Reality: Blue Props Up Red

It has been over 3 months since the semi-believable results of the 2004 Presidential elections have been foisted on the American people and one question remains:

Where's General Sherman when you need him?

We are told by the media at large that the reason the Republicans won the majority of the votes in the 2004 election was because of something they keep calling "moral values". Let us set aside for a moment the fact that the American media seemed more concerned about fair elections in the Ukraine than in the United States in the last three months, despite overwhelming evidence that Diebold fixed this election for the Republicans in at least Florida and Ohio. Let's take a closer look at this "Moral Values" argument.

Let's start this analysis with these questions. Choose either Red States or Blue States as your answer:

1) Who has the higher rate of divorce and out-of-wedlock pregnancy?

2) Who ranks lower in education?

3) Which part of the country is the home to more predatory corporations (predatory corporations being defined as companies who routinely make it a practice of abusing their employees, either through reductions in basic benefits or not paying for overtime)?

4) Which part of the country has the higher percentage of depraved guests on "The Jerry Springer Show"?

If you selected Red States for all of the above answers, you obviously live in a Blue State. Unfortunately for you, you'd also be 100% correct. I say unfortunately because the latest studies of who gets more government benefits per tax dollars spent has Red States at the top and Blue States at the bottom. The undisputable conclusion drawn from this analysis is that those of us in the educated part of the country are propping up our so-called "moral superiors" in the Red States with our hard work, educated minds and - more than anything else - our tax dollars.

How is it that Red States, with their focus on Old Testament punishment and racist symbols such as the Confederate Flag, take the moral high ground from those of us who actually lead productive lives and have the nerve not to stand on street corners and proselytize?

Red States are afflicted by an inferiority complex. The North beat the South in the Civil War, The North had to come down and teach white Southerners how to be tolerant of people who weren't white Southerners, the biggest claim to fame of Dallas, Texas is the murder of an American President in broad daylight in 1963 (which has led in time to Dallas' women wearing more makeup per capita than women in any other city), and places like our vice-president's "home state" of Wyoming have shown what kind of tolerance they have for people of different sexual orientations . With a track record like that, you'd do anything to rally the ignorant masses at your disposal and try to recapture some kind of high ground. What better way than that tried and true anesthetic that we in the reasoning Blue States call Religion?

Our current president loves playing the Bible card, and having slept with half of the women in the South while he was drinking and snorting coke in the '70's gives him a unique window into the nature of the people who vote for him blindly. The most evil of manipulators know exactly which buttons to push. Our president-and mainly his handlers- know the buttons well. Those that use moral issues love to talk a big game in terms of superiority to those of us who choose not to prop up charlatans like Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson. The problem, as we see by the current moral, economic and environmental decay of the Red States, is in the follow-through of all of those well-stated -if not well-practiced- beliefs.

So for those of you in Red States, you'll have to excuse those of us in the Blue States for laughing at you when you claim moral high ground. Statistics don't lie, and when it comes to hearing you pat yourselves on the back for being "better" than we are, you would do well to learn that talk is cheap.

Fanatic

The crowd was only now beginning to build for the concert, but Jenna Quinn had been here all day, braving the biting January chill from just after Noon. She didn't seem to mind, as the severe cold took her mind off her left hand. Standing outside reminded her of the day she bought tickets to the show. She had arrived three days prior to tickets going on sale in order to be the first in line. On the first night she was in line, the police had actually shown up to ask what she was doing there,

"I'm waiting in line for concert tickets", she said, which was an odd statement given that she was the line at that point in time.

"Who's coming?", the cop asked, thinking it to be someone famous.

"Miles Roberts"

"Who?"

Rather than be frustrated with the cop not knowing who Miles Roberts was, it made her happy. That was one more person who wouldn't stand in the way of her someday forever being with her idol.

Jenna could still remember the first time that she heard Miles Roberts' voice singing just to her. She was up late one night. She had just finished studying for the night and a thunderstorm outside her dorm room window was not allowing for sleep. She grabbed her portable radio and looked for something to drown out the thunder. She was used to hearing the latest hits of the day, but she was looking for something a little quieter to help her sleep. She began to turn her radio dial to the left. It had almost run out of room when a voice pierced the darkness of her room. After hearing one line of Miles Roberts' song "Natural Love", a bolt of lightning lit up the walls of her room. She kept listening to his voice in front of a lovely , flowing piano accompaniment as if listening to the voice of God himself, her pupils and her heart dilating in unison as her head rested on her pillow. When the song ended, another song by someone else followed it, and then another, and yet another. She wondered if she would ever find out whose voice it was that had made her feel this way. At last she heard the DJ's voice deliver words that would change her life forever.

"...and before that we heard Miles Roberts from his debut album 'Night Songs', and that was 'Natural Love'.....".

She jumped out of bed and scrambled over to her desk. She fumbled in the darkness for the switch for the lamp on her desk, grabbed a pencil and paper and wrote down what she had just heard. She promised herself that she would find this album at all costs, which was strange for her, as she usually wasn't given to buying music on a regular basis. She somehow knew instinctively that this album would be something she needed to hear.

After classes the next day, she ran into her friend Tanya, who had a car, and convinced her to drive to the CD store in town. She asked the clerk if they had the Miles Roberts record.

"I'm not sure. It would be in 'ROCK' if we have it", the clerk said. Chain store CD clerks were always worthless when it came to information.

She went to the R's and frantically looked through the rack. She found it right in front of a reissue of Rockpile's "Seconds Of Pleasure". The cover had Miles Roberts' picture on it, with his name across the top, and the words "Night Songs" ethereally drawn at the bottom. She was immediately drawn to Miles Roberts' face on the cover. He had thick dark hair, somewhat tossled, with dark eyebrows to match. His face had a days's beard growth on his face, making him look rugged in a downtown poet-artist kind of way. He had the face of a musician. Miles Roberts did not have the face of someone you would trust with your tax return, but he'd be the first person you'd connect to the piano in the corner of the room.

Jenna turned the album cover over. The album contained 13 songs. There was another picture of Miles Roberts next to the song listings. He was leaning against a wall, a leather jacket in his left hand hanging over his left shoulder as he leaned, looking off to an imaginary point in the distance. Jenna was already happy that he didn't have a cigarette in his hand.

As she walked to the counter to purchase the CD, she held it with her left hand and gently stroked the CD case in a petting motion with her right hand, as if holding a recently-discovered buried amulet. She nearly tripped and fell over a discount cassette display because she wasn't paying attention. Tanya giggled at her as she stumbled, with Jenna soon joining her in spite of herself. They shared a capuccino at the coffee shop two doors down from the CD store and chatted after her purchase. She kept the small bag containing the CD on the table in front of her, never letting it out of her sight. As she sat at the table talking to Tanya about the upcoming end of the semester, she kept thinking to herself that she was being incredibly juvenile, but the excitement drowned out the self-reproach in her mind.

She had purchased the Miles Roberts CD on a Thursday. She went home that night, put the CD in her portable CD player, and began to listen. Every nimble piano note made her tremble inside. Every word that poured out of Miles Roberts' mouth seemed directed to her or related to her life situation. Unforced smiles beamed from her face at some moments, and at others she displayed a look of dreamy longing brought about by the feelings and moods of Miles Roberts. When the CD ended, she started it again, thankful that she had purchased an A/C adapter for her CD player. The same moods and expression enveloped Jenna again, this time going just a bit deeper. Five hours later, as Jenna listened to the record again, she did it staring at the pictures of Miles Roberts in the CD booklet. One photo of Miles Roberts showed him looking directly into the camera. Jenna pretended that Miles Roberts was looking her right in the eyes, telepathically singing and playing his songs to her. It was just the two of them, and they were completely in sync with one another. No one else in the world could disturb their moments together now. Between tracks five and six, Jenna made sure that no one would disrupt her moments with Miles Roberts by turning off her cell phone and unplugging her dorm room phone from the wall.

The weeks that followed moved like a blur. In no time at all, the posters in Jenna's dorm room had been converted from cute posters of animated unicorns and kittens with their paws playfully resting on a ball of yarn to different posters all showing the dark and mysterious visage of Miles Roberts. All of Jenna's spare time was spent researching the many wants, needs, desires and the other little wonderful ingredients that made up that one great mass of certifiable genius that was Miles Roberts. She joined internet discussion groups about Miles Roberts. She downloaded Miles Roberts wallpaper for her computer. Her computer design class web page became a tribute to the music, life and times of Miles Roberts. She learned that Miles Roberts was the son of Dale and Fred Roberts of Mission Viejo, California. She learned that Miles Roberts' favorite food was anything Italian, and that Miles Roberts' favorite restaurant was DeLucci's in his hometown of Mission Viejo. She learned that Miles Roberts' greatest influences were The Beatles, Carole King and jazz pianist Keith Jarrett. When she learned this, she decided to listen to music by these three artists, but she found that even after repeated listens, they simply didn't measure up to the groundbreaking sound that was Miles Roberts. She was a frequent visitor to Miles Roberts' official website, checking it almost hourly for any news or updates or announcements of new concerts added to Miles Roberts' already busy touring schedule.

Seemingly overnight, her grades and her focus on her studies began to slip. Suddenly it seemed that everything around her began to become less and less important. Papers were left incomplete, if commenced at all. She missed more than a few classes. She had less and less contact with friends, the better to spend her spare time listening to the increasingly-familiar sounds of Miles Roberts. Had it not been for the invention of headphones, the other people on her dorm floor would surely have gone slowly mad along with her.

She wrote home and told her parents that she wouldn't be coming home for the semester which ended a month from now. From recent visits to Miles Roberts' website, she discovered that he would soon be touring. It would be a short ten-city tour of the East Coast, but Jenna was determined to follow Miles Roberts to all of his concert dates. Her parents were distressed that she wasn't planning to come home for Christmas and the New Year. They hadn't heard from her since she left for Thanksgiving. She seemed out of it during that weekend to everyone who came across her, spending most of her time in her room with her headphones on, barely noticing the relatives around her who had come to town for the holiday. Jenna was too busy. There had been plans to make, and she wasn't going to let something as unimportant as turkey bog her down.

Jenna thought about all of this as she continued to wait outside the concert hall in Washington, D. C. It was the last stop on the tour. The tour had been through Burlington, Boston, Hartford, Providence, Albany, two spots in New York City, Trenton and Philadelphia. Miles Roberts was scheduled to take four months off after this show to work on his follow-up to the now-Grammy-nominated "Night Songs". As Jenna waited in a stiff Potomac wind for the doors to open, she smiled to herself. Tonight was the night. She had lurked in the shadows for nine shows, but tonight, in the nation's capital, this would be the place that she would finally introduce herself to Miles Roberts. She had been sending him letters for about a month now. At first, they were the usual fan letters. After her first two, she received the same autographed photograph from Miles Roberts' publicity department. Not content with that, she continued to write letters to him. She would only sign it "Love, Jenna", so as not to attract undue attention from anyone who might be reading her letters to Miles Roberts. That was not to say that anyone other than Miles Roberts was reading her letters. Of course Miles Roberts was reading her letters. And only her letters.

At the first nine concert stops, she just knew that Miles Roberts looked right at her as he sang his songs. She knew all of his songs by heart, and sang them along with Miles Roberts with her whole heart and soul. Something inside her told her that that simply wasn't enough. Miles Roberts, being generally shy by nature, never stayed after the show to sign autographs, prefering the relative safety of his tour bus and his bandmates to the group of twenty or so people who waited at the back door of his concert venues desperately wanting an autograph. Miles Roberts liked to relax and sleep after shows. Jenna knew this by reading it on his website, but she always held out hope that she would meet him after the show. After nine venues, nine misses. Her need turned slowly to desperation. Her desperation morphed almost overnight into anger. It had been three days since the show in Philadelphia. Another long wait by the stage door by Jenna had turned into yet another meaningless sighting of the back of Miles Roberts' head as he jumped onto his tour bus. She knew that there would be a brief pause beetween the last two shows, so she decided to lag behind Miles Roberts' bus by an extra day.

After the Philly show, she drove south and stopped at a hotel in Northern Maryland to rest for the night. Her anger and sadness melded into one, Why hadn't Miles Roberts acknowledged her as she followed him around on tour? He just had to know that Jenna Quinn was his biggest fan, and yet he showed no sign of even knowing of her existence after each show ended. Desperate times now called for desperate measures, as Jenna saw it.

One night before the show, she treated herself to an early dinner alone at the local steak house. She asked for a table for one in the non-smoking section as far away from the bar in the middle of the floor as possible, which at this time of the day was easier to get than at the peak of dinner hour, when the line was out the door. She ordered buffalo wings for an appetizer, and a 12-ounce sirloin for her entree. She knew that she had all night, so she asked Dave the Waiter to take his time bringing the entree. Carefully, she ate her way through her appetizer and then the rest of her dinner. She took her time with the entree, stalling as much as she could. She enjoyed watching the blood run from the medium rare steak as she carefully sawed every small bite with her steak knife. After some time, Dave the waiter brought the check and she gave him her credit card while still eating her entree. Dave the waiter brought the check and credit card back, thanked her for letting him serve her and stepped away from the table. Jenna told him that she wanted some time to finish her entree in the restaurant, as she had no place to store leftovers while traveling on the road. That much was true. She signed the credit card slip after adding a generous gratuity for Dave. Then, while no one was looking, she carefully took the bulky steak knife, placed it in her handbag and nonchalantly left the steak house. No one followed her to her car as she got in and drove back to her hotel. Desperation made theft look easy.

She saw a drug store that was still open on her way back to her hotel and stopped in to buy some isopropyl alcohol, sterile gauze, medical tape and an 8X10 padded mailing envelope. The clerk didn't bat an eye at the purchase as she paid for the items and left. She now had everything that she needed as she got back into her car.

She walked through the lobby with everything she needed. The desk clerk barely noticed her passing through to the elevators up to her room on the third floor. She reached her room, unlocked her door and threw all of her things onto the bed. She reached into her handbag for the steak knife she had taken from the restaurant. She took it into the bathroom and washed it off. As the hot water ran over it, taking with it microscopic bits of sirloin down the drain, she went across the room to the desk, where she had placed her notebooks upon checking in. She grabbed her favorite pen and wrote another letter to Miles Roberts.

Dear Miles,

Tonight is the big night. Your final stop on the tour. I've followed you all the way from Vermont to our nation's capital. It has taken me a long time to realize that you are everything I've been looking for in my life. It doesn't make any sense for us to be apart for another moment.

I have been looking into places where we can get married. We can settle on a date when I see you when I see you after your final show, but I've been thinking that Dale and Fred would want to be there, along with my parents, so I was thinking about someplace special to you in Mission Viejo. We could just go back to your place for the honeymoon. You could play your songs to me after I bring you breakfast in bed.

I only have one problem. Since I've never worn jewelry, I have no idea what my ring size is. As tradition dictates that it is the groom who chooses the ring for his wife-to-be, I have enclosed by ring finger for you to size. If I had my choice, I think white gold would be my choice, but I trust your judgment.

I'll see you after the show, my love. Our future lies ahead of us like the vast open road in your song "Sunset Desert". Someday we'll see those mountains in the distance, so beautiful. Like our love, dear Miles.

All My Love,

Jenna

She took the piece of paper, folded it in half and placed it in the mailing envelope. With a magic marker she carried among her possessions, she wrote "ATTENTION: FOR MILES ROBERTS URGENT!!!!". She underlined the word "URGENT" with three thick lines.

Taking the steak knife, she returned to the bathroom. She unscrewed the cap to the rubbing alcohol, and began to tear 3-inch strips from the small metal roll of medical tape. She stuck them to the edge of the sink in a short line, numbering ten in all. She unpacked the gauze and placed it next to the tape. She washed her hands in the sink with the hotel soap and dried her hands with a white hand towel. She placed a washcloth next to the sink and placed her left hand on top of it. she poured some alcohol onto the base of her left ring finger, and followed that by sawing off her ring finger with the steak knife. In her mania, she felt no pain as blood poured from the wound. She placed her left elbow at the edge of the sink and knelt down, putting her now-altered hand above her head. She poured more alcohol into the wound and quickly covered it with as much gauze as could fit over the wound. she then proceeded to tape it all in place.

Feeling slightly dizzy, she took her severed finger and placed it in the envelope and sealed it. It wouldn't be long now before Miles Roberts would be with her forever.

The January wind continued to blow as people waited for the doors to open. Jenna was the ninth person in line. She waited to savor every vocal note and every piano arpeggio from the great Miles Roberts. In short order, the doors opened. Her ticket was in her right pocket. Her left hand was covered with a glove and hanging at her side. Inside the glove, the gauze was completely soaked with blood from her still-bleeding hand. She stepped inside the theatre and handed the ticket to the box office attendant. They searched her and found nothing.

One minute after she arrived, an announcement was heard over the loud speaker.

"Attention please.....attention please....will Jenna Quinn...Jenna Quinn...please report to the box office.....Jenna Quinn, please report to the box office. Thank you."

Her heart and head raced as she made her way back to the box office. Maybe this would be the night that she got a front row seat. Maybe she would be escorted back stage to meet Miles Roberts after the show. All of these thoughts raced through her head as she approached the box office. She hadn't noticed the two police officers waiting by the box office.

"I'm Jenna Quinn", she said with excitement.

"Why don't you come with us tonight, Jenna. We need to take you to get some help".

Before she knew what was happening, and despite her protestations, the police had removed the glove from her left hand. They delicately handcuffed her with her hands in front of her, taking all of their might to restrain her. She began to kick and scream as they led her outside to a waiting squad car. The other concert patrons watched wide-eyed, never learning exactly what happened in front of them.

"We better get her to a hospital for her hand, Dan", one cop said to another, as they placed her in the back of the squad car with force equal to her kicking and screaming. The siren wailed as they took Jenna away from Miles Roberts for the last time.

I really have to get back to this.

Thus far this week, work has been going rather smoothly. My unit is losing one person tomorrow, but I think we'll adjust nicely. We're in great shape on my side of the building.
Tomorrow night, I take part in the mid-winter talent contest. I hope I do well. I have no idea what I'll do for my first of two songs. I've chosen a song called "Undefeated" for the second song. I love playing the chords in that song. It feels right.
Leslie's wedding ring arrived by mail today. All we need now is something to wear and we're completely and totally ready to get married. I have a hard time expressing just how right this feels. I'm reaching a point of peace in my life at long last. My time is upon me. Enter The Spencer!!!
http://www.buyblue.org

It's been a few weeks since I last posted, so let me bring everyone up to date with what has been happening in my life (before I take another crack at FINALLY finishing "Fanatic").
On Sunday January 9, Leslie and I went to The Coffee House, a localmusic and activism venue to experience their once-monthly "Living Activism Night" Leslie wanted to go to hear the musical act of the evening, Dorothy Scott, whom she had seen before. As a bonus, we met an extraordinary gentleman by the name of Ralph Bronner, who through the sale of soap and a touch of social responsibility is trying to make this world a better place (visit his website at http://www.drbronner.com for more information). Dorothy is a quirky singer who you can't help but like. She gives it her all on every song, which is a refreshing change from the type of product that's out there currently.
Next came January 13th, which was the big Project I Am show at Roshambo Coffee & Tea House. There were seven acts in all, and thanks to the help of a few close friends of the Project, not only were all of our sets recorded, but we were also filmed onto a DVD which should be posted shortly to the Project website. Perhaps next time, we can actually get paid.
I did my taxes, which should result in nearly paying off one of my three remaining cr4edit cards. Nice bonus.
The wedding plans have been solidified. We will spend a week in Las Vegas from March 7th to March 14th, with the big date being March 13th. Thank you God for my second wife. Hopefully I get to say that a few million more times before I die.
Today America gave a barely-reformed substance abuser the keys to the country's proverbial liquor cabinet. From all of us that didn't choose this "man" to be our leader, I ask the world to exhibit patience and a healthy dose of obstruction for the next four years until this nightmare is expunged from his seat in power.
Buy Sirius satellite radio...PLEASE! Our stock is getting killed.

I'm taking time out from a not-so-busy lunch hour at my desk at work. I didn't go home for lunch today. We're expecting roughly 7 inches of snow here in the next 24 hours. I decided that I only wanted to make the trip home once today. Poor Rocky. He probably has his legs crossed right about now.
We had a really good Project I Am meeting last night. I furiously played bongos after the meeting, reducing everyone to laughter. I've now been told that I will not be able to sit in front of Jennifer next Thursday when we play the Rochambo gig. Seems she doesn't want to laugh in the middle of her songs.
I had a jalapeno and black olive pizza for lunch. I'll pay for that later. I'm very thirsty right now. I didn't have a beverage to go with my lunch and this office has tap water that is so bad it would probably result in the growth of a third eye if consumed.
For now, I must return to working. There's monitoring to be done, people to lead and virgins to sacrifice.

I'd like to interrupt my usual creative posts with a vent about the credit card industry.
It seems that if you have an account with MBNA, when you pay your bill in full, you haven't REALLY paid your bill in full. Last month, I paid off the entire balance of my account (or so I thought) before the next billing period. Because I did it over two payments, they decided to charge me for every single day that I had a balance on the account. I got a bill in the mail for $8.20. Instead of help from their call center, I got condescending attitudes and two loads of crap from a call center employee and her manager. In response to this shoddy treatment, I would like to share with all of you a letter I just wrote them which will accompany my last payment to MBNA.

January 3, 2005

MBNA "America"
PO Box 15289
Wilmington, DE 19886-5289

To Whom It May Concern:

Enclosed is my last payment of $8.20 for the account referenced on the bill.
I would like to take this opportunity to tell you that MBNA is by far the absolute worst credit card company I have ever had to deal with. When I called your call center, I received, instead of help, an overly patronizing explanation and attitude from your call center employee and your account manager regarding this balance.
In the future, you should communicate clearly to your customers that even if the balance is paid in full in the span of your monthly statement, you’re still going to fuck them in the ass for every blood-red cent of interest you can squeeze out of them. I shall tell all of my friends and acquaintances, as well as the world at large with the help of a blog posting, that MBNA is nothing but a den of thieves cleverly disguised as a bank. I hope all of your jobs are outsourced to India and you all collectively end up in a welfare line in oh-so-exciting Wilmington, Delaware, whose motto should read “Speed Bump To Someplace Better”. Take your $8.20 check and stick it up your collective asses.

No Thanks,
John Paul Spencer

I feel better...........you?

Another late night of typing and musical appreciation. I am challenged in my typing not only by the darkness that surrounds me, but the bandaid on my right mddle finger.My hands tend to dry out in the cold of winter.
I must apologize to the readers out there who've been waiting patiently for an ending to "Fanatic". It really is developing, but my mind is lazy and undisciplined lately.
I've reached the letter "G" in my CD collection listening project. I've hit my mini-collection of albums featuring Steve Goodman. His music makes me reflective and happy all at the same time. I'm lifting a Guinness to my mouth and taking it all in.
Leslie and I had a great Christmas. We went to her sister Cindi's house in Elgin, Illinois for what always seems like too brief a stop. On Christmas Day, we spent the day at Leslie's sister Kim's place in Woodstock, Illinois. I got a lot of music this year for Christmas, as well as two shirts, a few gift cards that I turned into music, a book on astronomy, some dark chocolate and a book light for reading. I have another day off next Monday, then nothing until March. Herein lies the intrigue....
After tearing our hair out about going to Hawaii for a wedding, we decided to go to Las Vegas instead, based more on the airline reservations than on any other factor. The magic date is Sunday, March 13th, 2005, which is the fifth anniversary of the two of us meeting online. An aura of calm fills me and everything around me just thinking about it all. We finally get to seal the deal. I'm not quite the person I want to be yet, but just having Leslie in my life makes the journey to that place quite a bit shorter. We'll spend about a week out there with assorted friends and family until the big day. It should be quite a week.
Tomorrow night (later today by now) is a meeting/practice at Studio 305 for the big Project I Am gig on January 13th. I'm looking forward to that. I must keep playing and singing to survive. For now, A Guinness and Steve Goodman will send me to bed to lay next to Leslie with every happiness. I wish the readers the same.

I'd like to take this opportunity to let everyone in BlogreadingLand know that I have NOT abandoned this space. It bears noting that "Fanatic" has left me drained and a bit flummoxed. I promise to finish this story, plus another one which is in the bullpen, in short order very soon. All IS right with the world. I'm just a little mind-congested. This too will pass.
Oh yeah.......and Bush sucks balls!!! You knew that.

It was right about now....
1980. I was 14 and living in Philadelphia. My mother was falling asleep in front of the CBS Late Movie. Back then they didn't have a talk show in that time slot. They would just show old reruns of old TV shows like "The Saint" and "Harry-O". I could here the television from my bedroom. I was reading or laying in bed trying to fall asleep.
A news bulletin came across the television. It was the familiar voice of Larry Kane, a long time Philly news anchor. He came on and said John Lennon had been shot outside his New York apartment building and was reportedly fighting for his life at a New York area hospital. He repeated himself and sent us back to the CBS Late Movie.
I turned on the light in my room. I looked to my wall. On it were the posters I pulled out of my copy of the White Album. I looked at the picture of John; stringy hair, the famous round-rimmed glasses, the dungaree jacket and blank expression. I pictured him months later giving his first television interview with Yoko by his side, saying that it had been a long recovery, but that he was getting better. Yoko would say that the get-well wishes keep coming. John would say that the whole experience had strengthened his resolve to fight for a better world.
About five minutes later, Larry Kane came on again. John Lennon was dead. A suspect was in custody.
In my experience, kids tend to discover The Beatles between the ages of 12 and 14. I was in full-on Beatle mode at the time. I was, and still am, devastated by the loss of one of my heroes. It happened in December. For the rest of that month, the main Christmas song that was played on all the radio stations in Philly was "Happy Xmas(War Is Over)". That song still makes me cry. Every time I hear it, all those memories come flooding back to me. My brothers and sister, not understanding my sense of hero worship, made fun of me for being so sad for so long. I don't think I ever truly forgave them for that.
John would have been 64 this year. If only the world could recapture just a little bit of the love he left behind for all of us. It's a dark time in the world right now. There's no love out there. There's no peace being given a chance. For all of you who read this out there in the world, and for all of you who create rather than destroy, I pray that we all band together as one and shine the light of truth into the hearts of the seemingly heartless. Throw down your guns, live a little, laugh a little and be tolerant of one another. Go out of your way to make this a better place.

Cancel

It had been another one of those nights at the house. He and his wife had argued again. Money. It was always about money. For some reason, people who are good with money always pair off with people with no fiscal discipline. In this particular marriage, he was the one with the money sense.

This fight had been particularly bad. Jimmy was on schedule to get paid the next day, which was a good thing, as the rent was due three days from now. Doreen was between jobs, which was the way people politely tapdanced around the fact that she was unemployed. To add to the fact that Doreen was now suddenly not generating revenue into the house, any money within her reach disappeared as if scattered into the ocean like an urn full of ashes. As much as Jimmy tried to make ends meet, Doreen was foiling his every good thought with one of her own. Today, Jimmy had walked through the front door of their modest rented house and was greeted with a new television set. Doreen, unbeknownst to Jimmy, had decided to rent to own without telling him. He blew up like he had so many times before. How were they going to afford the payments on this, in addition to the payments on his truck, the rents, the utilities, the phone?

Doreen countered by telling Jimmy that as long as she was out of work, she might as well have something nice to watch. Jimmy vainly tried to explain that her energies should be focused on finding a job. Doreen began to nearly cry, following her tradition of not fighting fair to the utmost. Jimmy yelled that the television was going to be returned tomorrow. Doreen yelled twice as loud that it was staying. Jimmy stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him, the vibration on the paper-thin walls knocking one of Doreen's collecible plates off of the living room wall.

Seven hours had passed. Jimmy now found himself in front of a drive-up automatic teller machine. It was almost 1:30 in the morning. He had been here for fifteen minutes without completing a transaction. The screen welcomed him to the bank with the entreaty "PLEASE INSERT CARD" in big, green computerized letters. His wallet was in his lap, beaten and fat with business cards, photos he never looked at, his ATM card and assorted five- and one-dollar bills, which were stuffed into it in no particular order.

He sat with his truck in park, staring straight ahead, tapping his wallet on his right leg. He had been here before after midnight. He had trouble finding a place to think after he and Doreen quarreled. He had a recurring dream when he came here. He told himself that he was going to put his ATM card into the machine, take all the money out of the checking account and leave. He and Doreen had no children yet, so he would just leave and not look back. He would teach Doreen a valuable lesson about what is was like to really not have money. By the time her credit was irreparably damaged and she was living out in the street, she would beg him to come back, and he would say no. That would show her.

The plan only had one small obstacle to overcome. For her many faults and through her appalingly poor judgment, Jimmy loved Doreen. It wasn't a poetic love made of a young man and woman, full of life and happiness, running across flowery fields into each other's arms. I was a love of habit and comfort. They had been together so long that they would hardly know what to do with themselves if the other suddenly wasn't there. As much as Jimmy yearned for peace, far away from Doreen's impulsiveness and fiduciary recklessness, he knew that they were meant to be together. They had been together since they were 16, never leaving the town they grew up in, knowing each other as familiarly as their surroundings. Jimmy;s heart was out beyond the town and back in the living room with Doreen at the same time. Left to his own devices, he could never leave. Anyone who knew him would have a hard time believing that Jimmy would be in any other place.

Jimmy saw headlights in his rearview mirror. Another car would soon want to use the ATM. If he were ever to put his well-practiced fantasy into action, now was the time. He put his card into the ATM. It asked him for his PIN number. As always, he punched in 1-1-0-9. November 9th was his wedding anniversary. The gravity of entering those numbers struck him for a moment.

He pushed the button next to "RECEIVE CASH" and paused as the account choices appeared on the screen. His face turned sad and full of regret. Tonight, like so many nights before it, wouldn't be the night. He hit the button marked "CANCEL" and took back his ATM card. He rolled up his window and began the three-mile drive home. Doreen would be up and waiting when he got home. They'd both apologize, with Jimmy deferring his dreams in silence for another day.

Hey everyone!!
I haven't received a word lately (AHEM! you know who you are....), but the songwriting germs are beginning to flow. I'd like to share with you a song I just finished about five minutes ago. I was inspired tonight by the story of Les Harvey, a singer with an old band called Stone The Crows. One night, he went out in front of the audience and touched a live mike, electrocuting himself. The trouble was, the audience thought it was part of the act for a minute until they realized that he wasn't getting up. For songwriting purposes, I changed the venue from concert hall to circus tent, played with the plot line a little and before you know it, I had the following magnum opus.

Burn Clown Burn


The spotlight shines down on the entrance stage left

As the happy clowns take to the floor

Some faces have smiles; some faces have frowns

And their shoes are all size twenty-four

Then Buggles the Clown runs away from them all

To a little red car in the center ring

And then a flash of light, an explosion of flame

And the crowd begins to sing


CHORUS:

“The elephants smell, and the acrobats fell

Burn Clown Burn

We paid 20 bucks, and the ringmaster sucks

Burn Clown Burn

Who’d think that a car with such little tires

Could turn all at once to a funeral pyre

And there’s nothing so funny like make-up on fire

Burn Clown Burn”


Coming to Buggles’ aid, from entrance stage right

More clowns come to do the right thing

A fireman’s truck about the size of a deer

Rushes straight out into the main ring

They spray him with seltzer until the flames die

But Buggles just lay in a heap on the floor

But the crowd doesn’t see that poor Buggles is toast

They just start to sing like before

(Chorus)


I need to write more songs like this. I definitely see improvement. I hope everyone had a Happy Thanksgiving.

Related

Sun and Moon

And all things in the heavens

And all things that circle another

Like a stalker, like a groupie

Like the halo of a saint

Or the fire of the sinner

Like your mother or your father

Or your ancestors

Or your progeny

Or a brother or a sister

Whether in immediate family

Or the group called humanity

Like the senses of Man

Seeing the horrors of War

With the stench of carrion

Hearing a blood-curdling scream

Tasting powder and Death

Touching survival of the fittest

Like the wood

And creatures living life within

And the predators hiding in the shadows

And the snapping brush beneath it

Shielding insects below

Surviving deep within the Earth

Like the sweet taste of Wind

Drawing aromas of salt from the Sea

And chilling the homeless vagabond

Tearing tall oaks from their roots

Giving power to the powerless

Taking pain afar with a gust

And like myself

Existing from moment to moment

Feet planted on the ground

Mind and soul dancing in the clouds

Floating, elated

I stand with the universe related

Pardon this brief interruption from Storytime, whilst I tell of a brief sojourn into a Red state.
I spent a fun and strange weekend with Lovely Lady Leslie in Freeman, Missouri at the new and spacious home of Leslie's aunt and uncle. It is roughly a 9 1/2 hour drive to their front door. With Rocky in tow, we drove towards our destination. Needing fuel on the way down this past Friday night, we stopped in Lamoni, Iowa, home of Graceland University. I should have known that even the slightest reference to Elvis would lead to something weird, but I truly had no idea as to the extent of it.
As I'm filling the tank with cheap ethanol fuel (thanks to a federal subsidy), two pickup trucks sat in front of me. The driver of the truck on the right, which had arrived second, got out of his truck and addressed the driver of the other truck.
"I've got somethin' fer ya", the man said to the other man. He reached into the back of his truck and grabbed a large dead raccoon by the arm. He handed it to the other man, who then threw it into the back of his own truck. I looked at Leslie, who was sitting in the front seat of the car, and it was all I could do not to explode in laughter. When I got back into the car after closing the gas cap, we decided that we would avoid the local Subway sandwich shop, which was the reason why we had chosen this exit.
Saturday started off on rather unfriendly terms. Leslie's cousin's two dogs, her aunt's two dogs and Rocky were running around the property. Suddenly, Tucker, Leslie's aunt's Sharpei-Husky mix, made a beeline for the new neighbor's property. A short time later, the neightbor called to say that she had shot Tucker. After a long morning for Leslie's Uncle Mike, riding with the neighbor to the local veterinarian, Tucker was ok, his wrinkled Sharpei skin around his neck deflecting the buckshot into his leg. Leslie and I couldn't help but feel like the harbingers of bad tidings until we knew Tucker made it through his ordeal a little scathed but for the most part healthy.
For the remainder of the weekend. I just relaxed while Leslie and her cousins and aunt went shopping. Her cousins, aunt and uncle are quality people. Continued good fortune to them all.
We returned yesterday (Monday) uneventfully. I'm now listening to "Nashville Skyline" by Bob Dylan and relaxing. Sleep well, World. I have a long way yet to go tonight.

Embellish

When he had gotten on the plane to come to Chicago, he had been sweating profusely until the plane took off. As soon as the plane's front wheels began to leave the ground, he let his body be absorbed by his first class airline seat. New York City, much like Paris, London, Barcelona and Toronto before it, would now be a memory.

Had he remained in New York for just a few more hours, and there's no telling what might have happened. His intelligence and his senses, sharpened by years of confidence work on two continents, told him that the walls were beginning to close in again. As much as he had enjoyed the previous eight months in New York City, it was most definitely time for him to leave. The contacts he had cultivated, both charmed and fleeced, were on to him. Armed with a credit card from his final victim from the Big Apple and a masterfully faked driver's license bearing the same name that was on the credit card, Willie Cooper, now temporarily known as Jason McCormick, boarded an early morning flight to Chicago.

The martini he now began to consume had never tasted sweeter. He twisted the vent above him to let in some cool air to help him relax. The flight attendant was currently making his entree for the morning. He had ordered Eggs Benedict. He had never quite shaken his taste for breakfast cereal, but he simply couldn't be spotted eating something so plain in public. When he was working a con, he tried to shy away from such a middle-of-the-road dish, the better to impress those who surrounded him. To this day, it was the hardest part of maintaining the many fronts he had created. It was sometimes difficult to pretend he had eaten a lifetime of upscale foods which weren't really his taste, but he persevered.

He hadn't shaved since he left New York, and he had no plans to for the immediate future. He had always been amazed by how easily it was to transform his facial features by either shaving, growing a beard or purchasing a new set of eyeglass frames. The beard was coming back on. Or maybe this time, he would just try a nice thick mustache to blend in with some of the men in Chicago. He had about a week to decide between the two.

He decided that he would put on some weight to go with it. When he circulated within the young cliques of New York, he had to be careful to maintain his thin waistline, A little weight gain would be noted by his marks, making his job that much easier.

He was still trying to figure out what went wrong in his final days in New York to blow his cover. He prided himself on being meticulous in detail when working his cons. He had learned at a very early age that a systematic lie was nothing more than a collection of interwoven truths and half-truths, melded together to produce one large legend. It wasn't enough to speak Spanish; he would have to describe, in minute detail, an Andalusian village that tourists usually missed, from the size and shape of the buildings to the names and faces of people. He had to know the location of every crack in the sidewalk in New York City. A British accent was nothing without the sardonic wit of a lord and an encyclopedic knowledge of the royal family. His French accent could not be Quebecois in Paris, and vice versa. Somewhere in New York, his lastest story, and all its accompanying embellishments, fell apart, and it annoyed him. What really bothered him is that he had to leave New York so quickly. He was just beginning to enjoy the place.

As his plane floated over Lake Michigan towards its final descent into O'Hare, he began to formulate whose identity he would link himself to next. In New York, he had linked himself to the Carnegie family. "Like the Hall?" was always the first question. He had spun a tale of his journey to New York via the suburbs of Pittsburgh, where he had said he grew up. In truth, Willie had grown up in Aberdeen, Maryland, the son of a school teacher. In that environment, he couldn't help but learn a few things about the world and its people. He used his humble roots to his advantage, living the good life at other people's expense, as one person after another was relieved of their money, thinking that making a small loan to a millionaire- or even to a millionaire's distant cousin- would reap greater rewards later on. He left silence in his wake, his marks too embarassed to admit that they had been conned. New York was his first close call. People actually found out that he wasn't who he said he was.

He planned out the next two weeks in his head. He would get a cab to a less-traveled part of town and rent a room in a hotel. He usually started his research by reading the society pages of several newspapers. He had a copy of The New York Times in his carry-on luggage. His next identity would be gleaned by reading the section carefully. The next step would be research in a local free library, finding a place for himself in the well-healed family of his choice. He was never a direct descendent or relative. He was always a cousin or a nephew. It was always more believable than way, and much less easy to be discovered. The people who believed him would be skeptical at first, until his litany of facts from his week full of research convinced them. He would add his own touches later, inventing moments he had shared with more famous members of his newly selected families. First came the set-up, then came the embellishments.

He was always careful to make the family he belonged to not be a native of the place where he was going. In Paris, he was a Kennedy. In Barcelona, he was a Rothschild. In London, he was a nephew of the Spanish royal family. In Toronto, he was the cousin of a Scottish lord. In Chicago, the possibilities lay before him. Willie's next opportunity lay on the newspaper like a shiny bead buried on the beach discovered by a metal detector. Virtually everyone knew that something was there, but it took one patient person to dig it up to make it valuable.

The plane touched down in Chicago, and Willie was barely off the plane when he ehaded for a newspaper stand. He could invest in several local and national papers with which to read, learn and expand. He could even buy a Spanish language newspaper or, if one was available, a French language paper. This was probably not going to be found in Chicago, but he could at least give it a thought with a trilingual brain. His mother always wanted him to learn another language. Never being one to displease his mother, he learned two. It was shortly after he had entered his first year of college that his parents were killed by a member of a prominent Maryland family who was driving drunk. The killer got a few months in jail, while Willie got a grave stone to visit. Without his mother's prodding, college didn't interest him anymore. It was then that he took his knowledge, his wits and a small stipend from a trust fund that would come due when he turned thirty to fly to Paris. He was having fun at other people's expense. He didn't see it as ripping off the people who believed his stories. He saw it as ripping off the rich and powerful, his small taste of revenge on the wealthy for taking the lives of his parents. He would do this for two more years until his trust fund came due. Then he would retire from the vagabond life and point his life toward a more noble purpose. Until then, his world was an open book, or more appropriately, an open newspaper.

He stopped by a pay phone in the airport that had a telephone attached and wrote down the address of a cheap motel. He grabbed his bag, walked across the terminal and stepped through the automatic doors into a sunny April day. As a stiff Chicago wind tossled his hair, he hailed a cab and headed into another new morning.

Last

The first day of school was always so exciting. And why wouldn't it be? Summer was nearly over and the beaches were all closing. All of the friends he didn't get a chance to see over the summer would be at school. It was indeed an exciting time to be a ten-year-old.

There was only one problem for Danny Zembrowski. All day today, he would be last.

This was the one day of the year that he wished his last name were Adams, or Burns, or maybe, just maybe, he would let it go as far as Logan, but that was the absolute limit.

And yet, no. His name was Zembrowski, with a Z. In every class today, he would be called last, would have to take his seat last, invariably sitting in the far left hand corner of the room, behind the Watsons and the Youngs. He dreaded the time it took to get to his name.

7:15 in the morning, and homeroom was about to begin. His teacher, a lady in her early 40's, went to the front of the room to organize the children.

"OK, everyone. Settle down....settle down. My name is Mrs. Pitney and I'll be your homeroom teacher this year. When I call your name, come to the first row of chairs here and sit in the first available chair from front to back. OK? OK....Carly Adams......."

With that, Carly Adams, a freckle-face girl with curly red hair, sat in the first chair on the right side of the room. The long journey to the last chair on the left had begun.

"Marissa Block...."

He looked out the window and began to daydream. He thought about how satisfying the first kickball game would be at recess.

"Mary Bunning...."

He didn't care where in the kicking order he ended up, He just couldn't wait for that sweet moment when his foot first met the bright red rubber playground ball and sent it flying, and with it the last person in the outfield scrambling backward to try to get it. He was great at kickball.

"James Coughlin..."

"It's Jimmy..."

"OK, Jimmy...."

He didn't spare a thought for actual schoolwork. Why would he do that? He was so happy about seeing everyone again he could barely contain himself. So many desks yet to fill.

" Brian Daniels....."

Maybe a good game of freeze tag would be the thing to do today at recess instead of kickball. Hopefully, he thought to himself, he wouldn't have too much learning today. It was the first day, after all.

"Jennifer Durkin....."

Maybe today, just today they would play games in class just to waste the day. There's no telling where this day would lead. The waiting continued.

"Jane Evans...."

Hopefully he wouldn't see his brother David on the playground at recess. David often bullied him. He often wished that David had never been born.

"Miranda Fisher...."

Lunch would be fun too. He had a new lunchbox to show off in the cafeteria. His thermos was full of fruit juice. His mother would never let him have soda. She said it was bad for his teeth and his stomach. He liked fruit juice better than milk. He would drink it out of his thermos cup like his dad drinks coffee out of his mug in the morning.

"Christopher Foster...."

"Just Chris...."

"OK, Chris. Have a seat."

His mom had packed him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. they were always so good when she made them, because she would always take the crust off the bread.

"Stacy Gardner..."

There was an apple in there too. Danny liked candy bars much better than apples, but his mother always scolded him when he ate too much chocolate. The apple was a healthier snack. Danny didn't like being healthier.

"Ian Godfrey..."

Danny knew Ian. Ian had a really cool skateboard. Danny's mom and dad wouldn't let him have a skateboard. They said they were too dangerous. To compensate, they bought him a video game featuring skateboarders. Danny was only partially satisfied with that compromise.

"Susan Harrison...."

The number of kids in the back of the room was quickly thinning. Soon he would be the only one standing behind the row of desks waiting to sit down. Danny was beginning to shuffle from foot to foot, clearly wanting to be anywhere else but standing and waiting.

"Timothy Hawley...."

"Tim...."

"OK Tim...."

At least his teacher seemed nice enough. She was treating his fellow students gently, trying to get everyone's name right in her head. He thought that Mrs. Pitney was someone he could get to like.

"Linda Horvath...."

Linda rode the bus with Danny. She usually sat up near the front of the bus, never talking to anyone. She seemed smart, and shy.

"Michael Jameson...."

One thing Danny could always count on was a seat by the window. He suddenly felt sorry for Mary Bunning, who was stuck right near the sliding door to the room's supply closet. The one bad thing that Danny could see about his seat was that he would probably not be able to ever be the first one to leave the room.

"Elizabeth King...."

"It's Betsy...."

"OK Betsy. Have a seat...."

The heater was right underneath the window. That would probably come in handy in the wintertime. The windows at the school were a little drafty, so the heat near the windows would cancel that out. Danny didn't give this any thought at all. Ten-year-olds very rarely think about the weather unless either rain or snow is falling from the sky.

"Robert Marcus...."

"Bobby...."

"OK Bobby...."

Bobby Marcus was the biggest boy in the classroom. Everyone was a little afraid of Bobby, but he was really not much trouble. He was just big for his age.

"Alpa Patel...."

Alpa was easy to spot. She was the only Indian girl in the classroom. She always had her head in a book. She very rarely spoke to anyone either inside or outside of class. She always had fantastic grades.

"Greg Perkins..."

That first run at recess was always the best. It would turn out to be a race with all the other boys in his grade. Danny wasn't as fast as some of the other kids, but he held his own. He was better at longer distances, like when the kids have those fitness tests in the middle of the year. Danny liked doing the run with the blocks.

"Veronica Ralston...."

Veronica was the cute one. Danny only noticed or thought about that a little bit. He rarely talked to the girls. Veronica had long straight blonde hair. She had a nice smile for a new fifth grader. Only one row of chairs remained.

"Tyler Smith...."

Tyler always dressed impeccably. His parents drove him to school in a Land Rover. At parent-teacher conferences, his parents would always smile too much and dominate the conversation. Tyler took Ritalin and constantly had a worried look on his face.

"Michele Turley...."

Danny was getting nervous. The long wait was almost over. His brief shining moment in the spotlight of the classroom was about to happen.

"Henry Walters...."

"I go by Jimmy...."

"OK....Jimmy....Have a seat"

Henry went by his middle name. He realized at a very early age that he didn't like Henry.

"Shari Williams......"

This was the third year in a row that Danny would have to spend the rest of the year staring at the back of the head of Shari Williams. When Shari talked to Danny, it was usually some variant of "Shut UP! JERK!". Shari's voice got really loud when she got mad.

"And finally, Daniel Zembrowski...."

"Danny...."

"OK Danny, have a seat...."

The long-anticipated moment had come and gone, like so many other moments in the life of a ten-year-old boy. Danny would find himself in middle school a year from now. Would they still call the roll the same way? Would he still be last? He couldn't figure out exactly whether being last alphabetically was a good thing or a bad thing. The wait seemed like forever, but he always knew where he belonged when it came to his last name. A new school year was starting now. It only took a moment for the end to become another beginning.

I must have jumped ahead...I have no words in my inbox tonight, so I think I'll just go to bed.
Or maybe I'll continue listening to Nick Drake and wish I had another beer.
The weekend approaches quickly. I'm setting myself up for an early dismissal on Friday, allowing Lovely Lady Leslie and I a chance to travel to the Kansas-Missouri border to visit a few of Leslie's relatives. Beats my relatives any day of the week.
How about a song? Here's another entry from the Writ of Common Wisdom. There's a bit of a long story behind this one.
When I was younger, I lived in Philadelphia in the Overbrook Park section. It was still a primarily Jewish neighborhoodthen. We had a Jewish couple who lived a few doors down named Mary and Sam. Mary was, by all standards, a shrew. Sam was mostly in Mary's shadow. One day, Mary Died, and Sam began to come out of his shell and revealed himself to be a really nice guy. By that time, he was so old that any good he could have brought to the world had been pulverized under Mary's heels. One wonders how happy he might have been with someone not quite so domineering as a wife. This song is for all the Sams of the world. Rise up, Sams! The world needs you!!

Good Neighbor Sam


Good neighbor Sam doesn’t drive anymore

It’s been three years or four since they took his license away

And good neighbor Sam wears Coke-bottle glasses

The smile that he flashes tells you, “Have a good day”


Good neighbor Sam will tell you “Good morning”

And he’s not even yawning; he’s barely sleeping at all

And good neighbor Sam holds a rake in his hands

In this way he will stand ‘til the end of the Fall


And when the kids come out to play, you can here them say,

“Hey Sam! Sam hey! (HEY!)

And if their football should come his way

He’ll throw it to them underhand

He’ll throw it to them underhand

He’ll throw it to them underhand

And send them on their way


Good neighbor Sam bids the postman hello

He’s just lonely, you know, since Eleanor passed last year

But good neighbor Sam is far beyond pity

He’s got friends in the city, and a ton of good cheer


And at the end of a busy day, you can hear the people say,

“Hey Sam! Sam Hey! (HEY!)

And as the sun sets and fades away

He goes inside to watch TV

He goes inside to watch TV

He goes inside to watch TV

Then maybe hits the hay


Good neighbor Sam died Saturday morning

It came without warning; his funeral was today

But good neighbor Sam filled the whole church with laughter

Then seven days after, they took his TV away

This song is kind of dumb and requires a large Beatlesque arrangement to be palatable, but my heart was in the right place when I wrote it, so you'll not receive an apology from me. And with that I bid you good night.