THE JOEY B

A Walk to Remember

2011-11-15T20:54:00.001-05:00

Tonight was my official last class at Flying Object. This week's prompt was a continuation of an in class exercise we did last week. We were to take the first page of a piece of fiction and continue on with it. Only three of us completed the assignment this week. One of my classmates chose a Eudora Welty story while the other picked The Dog of the South by Charles Portis.

And I... I also went the southern route. But as they chose fine, upstanding writers, I selected what I might least likely want to read. As I saw it, I was to put my spin on someone else's beginning. Perhaps it was serendipitous that I saw the collection of softcover Nicholas Sparks novels in the lunch room at work. I grabbed at the lot and came up with A Walk to Remember, a book which I believe was made into a movie starring Mandy Moore. If that's not an endorsement, I don't know what is.

And so it begins:

In 1958, Beaufort, North Carolina, which is located on the coast near Morehead City, was a place like many other small southern towns. It was the kind of place where the humidity rose so high in the summer that walking out to get the mail made a person feel as if he needed a shower, and kids walked around barefoot from April through October beneath oak trees draped in Spanish moss. People waved from their cars whenever they saw someone on the street whether they knew him or not, and the air smelled of pine, salt, and sea, a scent unique to the Carolinas. For many of the people there, fishing...

And which I continued:

...was both recreation and livelihood. The innumerable salt marshes and brackish creeks provided an abundance of shrimp and crab and in late Fall, six dead prostitutes as well.

The first one was found by Billy Swanson, out in his father’s motorboat without permission. He was fishing for reds and came across the body, or what was left of it, of a young, blonde girl hung up in the mangroves where the high tide had left her. The crabs had done a pretty good job on the body, but her dress was pulled up over her head and Billy lingered, at once repulsed at her condition and aroused by her nakedness.

Sheriff Thompson was eating a chicken salad sandwich from Pearl’s when Billy flung open the door.

“I found a dead lady out near Wells’ Creek,” Billy said.

The Sheriff put down the sandwich and looked at the boy, with his obvious erection, and decided that he’d have to keep an eye on him in the future.

“Don’t fool around, son,” said the Sheriff.

“Honest, Sheriff, she’s dead and the crabs have been eatin’ on her.”

“Boy, if you’re havin’ me on, I’m gonna nail your hide to a tree.”

Billy told the Sheriff where he’d seen the body and convinced him that the story was real. He grabbed Billy by the arm and dragged him out to his car, a black Dodge, and threw him in the front seat. He got on the radio and called his deputy, who’d been hiding behind the Piggly Wiggly sign on highway 21 catching speeders all morning.

“John, get your ass down to the dock at the marina. Billy Swanson found a body out in the marsh.”

“Sure thing, Sheriff,” crackled Deputy Paul’s voice over the radio.

After Billy showed them where the body was and they’d returned to town, Sheriff Thompson called the County Medical Examiner’s office and arranged a larger boat to go retrieve the body. There was no doubt she was dead, but the marks around her neck indicated she’d been strangled. It didn’t take the Medical Examiner to prove that. They brought the body back to the morgue and put her in the cooler until they could do the autopsy.

That was the beginning. Over the next several months, they found more bodies in the marsh. The first one turned out to be Charlene Walsh, who worked in Savannah. Ten days later a shrimp boat crew found the body of another girl, blonde, but not enough left of her to identify. Three days later an oysterman found the third, another prostitute from Savannah, named Jenny Shoemaker. That was when they decided they had a serial killer on their hands.

I'm fairly certain that I went in a different direction than Mr. Sparks. I don't believe there are dead hookers floating in any of his other books, but I haven't read Message in a Bottle, so I could be mistaken.

Rachel gave us all books and I received, in a cosmic joke sort of way that would only mean something to me, a book called Letters to Wendy's by Joe Wenderoth. Fucking hilarious, universe... I see what you did there.

As I said, it is my official last class, but there will be one more meeting, on Monday, November 21st from 5:30 - 7:30 where we will be giving readings of our work. So if you'd like to come out and see me possibly (undoubtedly) make an ass out of myself in public, feel free. The address is 42 West Street, Hadley, MA.

Our Past Future

2011-10-28T12:41:00.000-04:00

I need your help. I really, really need your help.

I'm working on a project that involves creating some objects representative of the future that we thought we'd be living now, when seen through the eyes of 1930-1960's society. I don't want to go into a lot of detail, because I want to keep it slightly secret agent, but I need some assistance getting started and this is where you can help.

The first thing I need... Drills. Old electric drills. A lot of them. They don't have to work. What I had in mind were these:

I also need old vacuum tubes.

If you see something like this in your basement and you want to get rid of it, or you're out someplace like an antique store, yard sale or flea market, PLEASE LET ME KNOW! You'll be a part of making a cool art project.

email me at bugman82773atgmail.com or text me at 413.271.4041 and let me know what you have or where you saw it. I will greatly appreciate it.

Work Stories

2011-10-23T14:33:00.000-04:00

This week Rachel gave us a prompt to write eight stories, each comprised of only fifty words.

I haven't really felt like writing. As easy as all of the other assignments have been, this one was difficult. It wasn't a difficult assignment, but the act of sitting down and writing was hard. There's so much going on right now and none of it seems like it's turning out right. Trying to be creative under these circumstances is nearly impossible. I don't play the tortured artist well.

So if writing is going to be work, I decided to make them all about work. Some are real... some are fiction... some are a mix. All I know is that I want to fling my macbook into the river right now so I'm not reminded of things.

I'm tired. I'm glad I don't write about my personal life in my blog any more. My life doesn't need any more editing.

Work Stories

Tim pulled on the gorilla suit and mask in the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror through the eye holes and wondered how much longer the “Going Out of Business Sale” would continue. Feeling his hot breath reflected at him, he picked up his sign and went to work.

A lady came up to the front desk and told me her friend hurt her finger in a deck chair at the pool. She had her hand wrapped in a towel and when she unwrapped it, the tip of her index finger was snapped off at the first knuckle.

Everything Ted touched turned to shit. We asked him to help unload the bronze sculpture from the truck. When we placed it, the pedestal collapsed like a house of cards. The rest of us just looked at one another and knew we could only blame ourselves for bringing him along.

The sun beat down on me and I picked up the sports bottle and took a large swallow. The Seagram’s Seven and Seven was the only thing that made calling BINGO on the pool deck tolerable. Their vacations to the beach were my misery, but they never discovered my secret.

There is a certain look to back roads in the south, where asphalt fades to a unique light grey. By day you count remains of the previous night’s armadillo casualties and note the occasional snake or gopher turtle. Once he’d even seen an alligator belly up in the hot sun.

“You’ve got a long row to hoe.” doesn’t make sense to anyone that has never had to do it. He gripped the rough wooden handle, conscious of the blisters forming at the crook of his thumb. From this vantage, bent over at the waist, the foreshortened rows stretched on forever.

Mornings before work he’d go for a swim. He wasn’t a strong swimmer, but he’d continue through the waves until they became slow swells and he couldn’t make out people on the beach. And on some mornings, it was all he could do not to swim to the rising sun.

Dad chopped that tree all day. It was a huge sweetgum, with big branches that liked to snap off in a windstorm. He cut it with an axe, as though a chainsaw was an insult to either him or the tree. With a final squeal of protest, it crashed down.

Happy Birthday Mom!

2011-10-21T08:55:00.001-04:00

Happy _ _th Birthday, Mom!

Best mom EVAR!

Welpa

2011-10-16T17:09:00.004-04:00

The prompt for this week was a little unusual. Rachel gave us a choice of two options. The first was to use the same word in each sentence of the exercise. The second was to make up a word and write about it, but never overtly define it.

I took a while to decide which direction I wanted to go. I was leaning toward the first option, but the idea of making up a word fascinated me. I read an article about the unit of measurement called the smoot today, and that made the decision for me. It seems that one Oliver R. Smoot, while performing a fraternity pledge prank at MIT in 1958, used the length of his prone body as a measuring stick. He and his fellow pledges proceeded to measure the length of the Harvard Bridge by picking him up and laying him down across the entire span. Each smoot was duly marked on the bridge. The marks are repainted to this day by MIT students. Incidentally, the smoot is 5'7" or 1.7018 meters and the bridge measures 364.4 smoots. MIT grads are wont to utilize the smoot anywhere they can and the smoot is a unit of measurement for both Google Calculator and Google Earth.

With the smoot as my guide, I decided to invent a word. I thought about making up a unit of length or time, but neither seemed to work for me. Then I recalled something that Superbomba Lucy Diamond-Philips posted on Facebook one time. It was just two words, but brought back all sorts of memories and the kind of universal good feeling that I ascribe to very few things in this world.

So I had the definition, just not the word. I wrote the entire piece out, but struggled for a while on the word. I translated the English into several languages, looking for words that looked authentic. I finally found something that I modified a bit and it sounded... real... to me. It had the soft, round, earthy sound that I was looking for. I had welpa, a word to describe something everyone knows, something that is fleeting, but unmistakable, something that stays with you your entire life.

Welpa

    “Some people can’t stand it, you know,” Stacey said. “Welpa. Some people hate it.”

    “Nobody I know,” he said. “It reminds me of the beginning of things.”

    “I hate welpa.”

    Ben stared at her for a moment. “You don’t like welpa?” he asked.

    There were things about her that he would never understand. In all the time that he’d known her, she’d never once shown any sense of nostalgia... any evidence that she’d ever lost something or someone she’d cared for.

    “It’s filthy and gross. It makes me want to vomit,” she said.

    It was plain to see that she was telling the truth. She did hate welpa. This wasn’t just her being contrary or trying to pick a fight. She did that at times. It was usually late at night when he was too tired to think. They would go around and around, Stacey growing more angry and Ben losing steam, but knowing that he couldn’t actually sleep until the disagreement had been resolved.

    Stacey sat back on the bench and folded her arms over her chest. Ben sat quietly beside her, unsure of what to say.

    They’d had this dog, Angie, when Ben was a kid. She’d been named after the Rolling Stones song, which was strange, because he never recalled his parents actually listening to the Stones. Angie got pregnant by some dog roaming the neighborhood and had three puppies. The first two were stillborn, but the third came out healthy. Angie nursed that pup and he grew fat.

On Sunday afternoon, Ben cleaned the box in the corner of the porch where Angie kept the yet unnamed pup. He ripped up the week’s newspapers into long strips and used them for bedding. He removed the puppy and lifted him up to his face. Its tongue curled in the shape of a “U” that seemed more natural than anything he’d ever seen. His eyes, just starting to crack open, were blue like the ocean and the ears were just flaps and wrinkles. The welpa enveloped him. He set the pup in a small cardboard box and removed the old newspaper, smeared with puppy poop, and put it in a big plastic garbage bag. He then wiped the floor of the box with a soapy rag and let it dry, before putting the newspaper and puppy back inside.

    Sunday night he came back and found Angie curled up with her legs hanging out of the box and the pup dead on the floor. She had eaten the top of his head, leaving intact the lower jaw and the tongue... the tongue that had been a perfect U, but was now flat.

    Sitting there beside Stacey, he recalled the welpa and the smell of the newspaper and the soap. And he remembered the way Angie jumped up and wagged her tail when she saw him, having already forgotten her pup.

Daytime Television

2011-10-10T23:21:00.002-04:00

This week's assignment was to write something from the perspective of someone we know. I thought about writing it from the perspective of one of my kids or my dad, but that just seemed like it would end up a little too self analytical. So I finally chose to fictionalize a family based on a real family that my dad used to see on house calls. As a kid, I used to go with him to this house, set in the middle of an auto salvage. It was one of the more bizarre experiences of my childhood... and that's saying a lot.

Daytime Television

“Carl!” she yelled. “Carl, come here!”

The sullen faced boy appeared in the doorway. “What?”

“Get me a Coke,” she demanded.

Carl turned and went into the kitchen. From where Carlene sat in the living room she could hear the fridge door open and cans rattle as one was removed from the plastic six pack holder. The door to the cabinet where the glasses were kept squealed open.

“Shut the goddamned fridge!” she said, and was rewarded with a ‘thud’ from the other room.

Carl returned from the kitchen with a glass of Coke in his hands. He stepped over his brother, Scott, who lay contorted on the floor, drooling. “Here, Ma,” he said, handing her the drink. Carlene sat in a flowered armchair beside a table covered in half empty glasses and an ashtray crammed with cigarette butts. She took a final drag on her cigarette and crushed it out in the ashtray, dislodging some of the butts already there.

“Pick that shit up,” she said to Carl, pointing to the butts on the floor. “And wipe your brother’s face.”

Scott had rubbed his face into the carpet where there was a pile of cat litter and it stuck to the saliva on his cheek. He hadn’t been right since he was born. Scott had muscular dystrophy and his hands were curled up on his forearms and back was shaped like a question mark. He was skin and bones.

Carlene turned back toward the dead console television with the smaller television on top. Rod Roddy was telling Elaine Norwood to COME ON DOWN! and a skinny bitch from Pasadena came tearing down the aisle. Bob Barker looked pleased with himself.

Carlene drank from the glass as Carl ran through the front door. She looked out the window into the yard, such as it was. The house was surrounded by junked cars, some stacked as high as the second story windows. A path led from the front of the house to the back of the salvage yard office made of old car radiators set into the sand. Everything in the house smelled of old, burned oil and grease.

Carl was halfway to the office when she shouted, “I want you back here by five o’clock!” He waved to her before disappearing through the back door of Martin’s Auto Salvage. She looked down at Scott and saw the cat litter still clung to his cheek and his tongue lolled from his mouth. She made a half-hearted attempt to get up, but realized she had nothing to wipe the boy’s face with and settled her considerable weight back into the chair.

“$2,301,” Elaine from Pasadena said to Bob. The Marine wearing his dress blues beside her had just bid $2300 and looked like he wanted to shove a bayonet into Elaine’s neck.

In the enormous, filthy fish tank on the wall adjacent to the televisions, one of the huge oscars emerged from the murk to place one eye against the glass. It looked at the boy on the floor, then to Bob Barker and then finally settled on Carlene, who was lighting up another cigarette. His gills pumped a couple of times and then with a wave of his fins, he settled back into the gloom of the tank.

Scott squalled a bit and she looked down at him on the floor. With her foot, she slid a bowl of dry Captain Crunch over in front of him. Scott immediately began pinching bits of cereal between his two hands and up to a mouth filled with crooked teeth.

Carlene turned her attention back to The Price is Right and saw that fool, Holly, trying to close the door on a dishwasher. It kept falling open.

“When are you gonna fire that girl?” she asked Bob. Carlene was convinced that Holly was just trying to get attention ever since the time her nipple poked out of her dress back in 1981. Bob paid no attention to Carlene and kept on going with the showcase showdown. Elaine was bidding on a brand new kitchen and appliances from Whirlpool and a Hoover vacuum.

“$4570,” she told Bob.

“$5100,” said Carlene.

Scott grunted and spit out bits of Captain Crunch, disgusted with Elaine’s poor estimate of the value of the showcase.

Carl hollered outside as he cut his leg on the rusty fender of a Karmann Ghia.

Elaine jumped up and down on the television because, despite the fact that she was not as good as Carlene in guessing that the actual value of the showcase was $5213, she was better than the Marine in his dress blues who had overbid.

And one of the fish, the female this time, appeared. She pressed against the glass and looked out the window at the junked cars and then at Bob and Elaine. She then stared at Carlene for a bit before she finally settled on Scott, who had given up on using his hands and now ate from the bowl like a dog, but kept his horsey-eyed gaze on the television. A single bubble emerged from her mouth. Then she swam back into the darkness, and remembered when she was just a small fish, and lived in the Amazon.

Female Marines in Afghanistan

2011-10-09T09:54:00.000-04:00

Via Pictures: A Picture Paints a Thousand Words

As much as I hate the thought of our military being used in "the war on terror", I can't help but hope that an image such as this one make some of the oppressed women in these countries wake up. Seeing a woman not only as an individual, not just chattel that passes from her father to her husband, not someone to be covered up because of male shame, not someone subject to the backward, superstitious nonsense of a misogynistic religion, but a human being that will carry a rifle and will fight to keep from being any of those things.

Maybe one day there will be an "Arab Spring" of sorts for women and they will stand up and refuse to be treated like this any more.

Jack... in progress.

2011-10-03T14:59:00.000-04:00

I'm of two minds posting this piece. It's my workshop piece and rough, but I think the process is just as important and interesting to see. It's an idea that's been running around in my head for a couple of months, but I haven't been able to get it on paper until now. I decided the class was the best place to work on it, as it isn't the kind of writing I normally do. It needs to be fleshed out a bit, but I'm getting down the bones here.

Jack

    The vidscreen pinged and Will slid across the desk to face it. He touched a button on the screen to activate the transmission and a face appeared. It was like looking at a younger version of himself in the mirror.

    “Hi,” he said, “You’re going to be a little disoriented for a while. Don’t worry, it will pass. My name is Will.”

    The face on the screen looked puzzled. “Where am I?” he asked.

    “You’re in a hospital, of sorts.”

    Will had known all along how hard this would be. That’s why they selected a relative to be a part of the awakening process. The ideal match was the grandfather-grandson pairing. What a family member might lack in the psychology department, they made up for with the ability to assist the patient with their sense of identity.

    “Was I in an accident? I can’t remember anything. I can’t even remember my name. It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

    “It’s John, but everyone called... calls you Jack,” replied Will.

    “Jack... yeah. I don’t remember the accident. Was I hurt badly?”

    “It was pretty bad, yes. You were in a hospital for a while,” said Will.

    Jack’s eyes dropped and he looked at his body. He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He examined his body for evidence of injury. “I don’t seem hurt.”

    “They fixed you up as best they could.”

    “I feel fine now,” said Jack. “Am I allowed to have visitors?”

    “For now, they want you to remain isolated and keep communication just between us,” replied Will.

    It was then that Jack noticed Will’s eyes. There was a golden ring where the iris would normally be. He started to speak and then halted.

    “My eyes?” asked Will.

    “Yes. I’m sorry. I’ve just never seen anything like them.”

    Will leaned closer to the vidscreen and the golden irises contracted. “It’s early 21st century technology. I had them done when I was about eighteen. They grow them in the lab now. Too much of a hassle to have them replaced now with bioprosthetics. I’ve gotten used to them.
    “Bioprosthetics?” asked Jack.

    “Prosthetics made from human stem cells. It took a long time for the ethical considerations to be worked out. They debated it for years in Congress until it became less of a moral issue,” explained Will.

    Jack paused for a moment. “Did they use bioprosthetics on me?”

    “No. You were a... special case,” said Will.

    “Tell me about the accident.”

    Will knew that this moment was why he had been chosen to do the awakening. He was to deliver the news that could only come from family. “It was a car accident. You were driving home for Christmas and a car lost control going the opposite direction on the interstate. It crossed the median and hit your car.”

    “I remember,” said Jack. “I remember hearing somebody crying. Were there other people in the car?

    Will looked at Jack’s face in the vidscreen, struggling to remember. “Your wife and boy, David were in the car.”

    “Are they ok?” asked Jack, growing frustrated.

    “David was in the car seat and didn’t get hurt. Your wife...” Will swallowed hard. “Your wife, Ann... she didn’t survive.”

    Jack remembered Ann. He recalled her voice, but not what she looked like. “Why the hell can’t I remember?” he yelled at the screen.

    “Like I said, it was a bad accident. You’ll remember more in time,” said Will.

* * *

    The vidscreen pinged and Jack rose from his bed to answer it. He’d still had no visitors. Two meals had been delivered by the small hatch in the wall. He’d taken a wholly unsatisfying shit on what he’d hoped was the toilet. There was no water in the bowl, but there was a button that, when depressed, eliminated his waste with a suction sound like an airplane lavatory. The vidscreen pinged again and he touched the button to answer. He saw Will’s face, his mouth smiling, but forehead creased with concern. Since their first conversation, he’d begun to recall bits and pieces of his life.

    “Why can’t I see my parents? Why are you the only person I’m allowed to talk to?” asked Jack.

    “Jack, there’s a lot you don’t know... a lot I need to explain to you,” said Will.

    “So start explaining,” demanded Jack.

    “After your accident, something happened. A lot of people died. Most people died.”

    “What do you mean, ‘most’?” asked Jack. “Was there some kind of nuclear thing? Terrorists? No, wait... let me guess. A meteor?”

    “No, Jack. No terrorists... no dirty bombs or meteors. It was germs. And not even bioterroism. It was plain old germs. It boiled down to overuse of antibiotics. There was a superstrain of bacteria that was resistant to antibiotics. There wasn’t much to do but watch people die.”

    “My parents? What about David?” asked Jack.

    “Your father survived and so did David. Your mother wasn’t so lucky.”

    “And you... You survived,” said Jack.

    “Yes. I survived. It affected my heart at the time. They replaced my heart with a continuous flow artificial unit. I don’t have a heartbeat. It was experimental then, but given the circumstances, many people got them. There were unbelievable advances in mechanical and electronic prosthetics. I ended up with an artificial pancreas, cochlear implants, a plastic colon, and replacement knees and hips as well as the eyes. Even my hair isn’t real. There are times when I wonder how much of me is really me.”

    “And I lived,” said Jack.

    “Yes,” said Will. “You did. You were in a coma when it happened.”

    “How do you know so much about me? Are you family?” asked Jack.

    “Yes, I am,” he said. “David was my father.”

* * *

    The vidscreen pinged and Will pressed the button. He had attempted communicating with Jack for two days, but Jack had refused to answer. They had monitored him and noted that he’d not eaten or even risen from his bed.

    Jack had dark rings under his eyes. “There are no mirrors in here,” he said.

    Will knew that the contradictions were starting to pile up in Jack’s mind. It was at this point that there was no script and he was unsure of how to proceed.
    “Why are there no mirrors? And how can I be your grandfather?”

    “Jack... I told you that you were in a coma for a long time, right?” said Will.

    “That doesn’t explain this. I can’t see my face, but I can sure as hell see my body. It isn’t the body of a grandfather. And it certainly isn’t the body of someone who is the grandfather of someone old enough to be someone’s grandfather.” Jack exclaimed.

    “Jack... coma wasn’t exactly the right word. You were in, what they called at the time, a vegetative state. You didn’t respond to stimulus and they were unable to record brain function. But you were special. You weren’t affected by the bacteria. And that made you very valuable scientifically,” said Will.

    “So they experimented on me?”

    “Yes... and no,” replied Will.

    “Well, did they or didn’t they?”

    “Do you remember how I said that there was a debate that lasted for years in Congress? It was finally solved by you, or rather, your case. When the bacteria began killing people, they decided to move those deemed “expendable” out of the hospitals. It was the early stages of the epidemic and they assumed that you would just die anyway. But before they could move you out, the bacteria swept through the hospital and you survived. They didn’t know why, but you did, so they took you to a research facility in Boston to study you.’

    “That still doesn’t explain things,” said Jack.

    “They discovered that you had a genetic mutation that had allowed you to survive. But the problem was, in order to isolate the mutation and be able to synthesize it... you might not survive the process. It went all the way to the Supreme Court until finally, a resolution was found. They digitized you.”

    “What do you mean, they digitized me? How is that possible?” asked Jack.

    “It wasn’t, or rather, they weren’t sure until they tried,” replied Will. The morality of utilizing someone who was in a vegetative state, that legally could be taken off life support and allowed to die, was a question that was only answered by making an electronic copy of your brain and storing it on a computer. David refused to let them use your body, so it became a matter of national security and they essentially commandeered your body for science. But you were saved here. They reconciled their decision to terminate your biological body by making an artificial intelligence proxy of you. You could live on.”

    Will turned off the vidscreen and went back to bed.
* * *

    Over the next few days, Jack refused to eat or answer the vidscreen. The first day, he flung the food against the wall. The second, he let it remain in the wall hatch. He didn’t really need to eat, nor was the food real. But the act of eating was part of the illusion. It was required to maintain that illusion. Everything, the room, the food, the airplane lavatory toilet, even Jack, were electrons flitting around in a server somewhere.

    Will watched on, dismayed.

    “Again?” asked the doctor?

    “Yes, although he came a lot farther this time.”

    “Give it another day,” said the doctor. “If he doesn’t respond or eat...”

    “I know,” said Will. “I know.”

    Jack stayed in bed. Will watched over the next day as his grandfather became hazy around the edges, like a dead fish that has been left in a fishtank. He wondered what his father would think of this. If, given this knowledge, he would rather have just let them strip mine him for his DNA and leave a shell behind. A shell certainly, but one that could be buried and returned to the earth. Will pulled up the other vidscreen. He called up the program “Jack in the Box” and hit a few keys.

Cancel Restart Delete

He tapped the screen and it went dark. His golden irises opened wide and his heart continued it’s steady hum. And somewhere in the large server, the electrons rearranged themselves.

* * *

The Turn

2011-10-03T14:42:00.000-04:00

Last week's class went well. It's a good mix of people and everybody seems to have a fair amount of talent and education. I didn't make an ass of myself, either... at least as far as I can tell. I read my assignment and everybody laughed in the right places and not at me. Success!

In class we reviewed a piece by Robert Coover in a recent issue of the New Yorker that was a pretty challenging piece to follow. It was definitely nothing close to a linear narrative... it felt kind of like being between two mirrors facing each other and seeing yourself reflected to infinity, except every third reflection was a stranger.

This week's assignment was even more difficult than last. Rachel gave us the task of writing something that, at some point, turns. There is a flashback, tangent... something... that leads us away from the main narrative, and then comes back again. Or at least, that's how I interpreted her direction. And this was supposed to be in one page, which I failed miserably doing. It's hard enough for me to get a cohesive idea going in one page, much less put some kind of departure in it.

So I did my best... and somehow it involved food again. The last three pieces I've written have featured food prominently. Perhaps I have a problem.

Pecan Pie

    The waitress stopped in front of the booth and whipped out her pen and order pad. “Know what you’d like?” she asked.

    “Just coffee,” said Jeff.

    “And you, sugar?”

    “I’ll have a coffee too, and a slice of pie,” said Andy.

    “Sure. We got apple, cherry, peach, pecan, (she pronounced it PEE-can) blueberry, rhub...”

    “The pecan, (he pronounced it pe-CAHN)” Andy replied, and the waitress squinted at him a second and wrote on her pad. He wasn’t sure if she was irritated at his interruption or the way he pronounced it. She ripped off their order and stuffed the rest of the pad in her apron and the pen behind her ear.

    “I don’t believe she likes you,” said Jeff. “I try not to annoy people with access to my food when I can’t see them.”

    “All the same, it’s pe-CAHN where I’m from.”

    Then Andy found himself sitting at a card table with his two cousins from Michigan and a kid from church that they’d brought home because they were Christians and didn’t like to see people go without on holidays. A plate sat before him with a bit of dry, white meat, (mom had given one leg to the kid from church and the other to Uncle George), a small mound of mashed potatoes and a larger mound of stuffing. Stuck over on the side was a tiny portion of canned cranberries, which he never ate, but was put on his plate anyway. They were on the porch and it was hot. A fan spun noncommittally above them. The unusually warm weather made the typically non-seasonal Florida Thanksgiving even less so.

    The kid from church had already eaten all the meat off the bone and was gnawing at the cartilage on the end. In fact, everything was gone from the plate. Even the cranberries were gone, with only a pink smear to indicate they had ever been there. He didn’t say much, and Andy didn’t want to start a conversation with him.

    Andy ate the stuffing and mashed potatoes and enough turkey that he knew he wouldn’t get hollered at for wasting food while people were starving in Armenia. The cranberries remained. The kid from church kept his head down and tried not to make eye contact with the Andy or his cousins.

    “Mom... I’m done. Can I have some pie?”

    Andy’s mom brought over four plates and set them in front of the kids. There were three slices of pumpkin and one pecan, which she placed in front of the kid from church.
    “There was only one slice of pecan left, so it will go to our guest” she said, smiling. “He told me how much he just loves pecan pie.”      The kid from church smiled and thanked her. Andy hated him a little for getting the pie, which he’d wanted, and for eating the cranberries, which he didn’t.

    Then Andy picked up his fork and cut off the point of his pecan pie, 1200 miles and thirty years away from that hot Thanksgiving at the kids’ table on Grandma’s porch.

    “How’s the pie, sugar?” said the waitress, pulling her hair back behind her ear.

    “It’s great... just like mom’s,” Andy replied.

    “Get you boys anything else?”

    “No,” they replied in unison.

    “Here’s the check then,” she said, placing the bill on the table with a smiley face and her name, “Pearl”, written in large, looping script.

    A streetlight flicked on low and slowly brightened as it warmed up and illuminated the snow which had just begun falling outside.

    “I think she’s forgiven you,” said Jeff.

Creative Endeavors

2011-09-25T20:55:00.001-04:00

I haven't written much in a long, long time. I did a small piece, entitled Suckered, for Meat for Tea: The Valley Review. It wasn't exactly a short story... more of a vignette. Suckered was a little heavy handed and the dialogue was... well, the dialogue was not its strong point. Dialogue is something I've always struggled to write. So I decided to make it almost all dialogue as an exercise... for the most part, just a couple speaking over dinner. You can find it in Vol. 5, Issue 2 if you're really interested.

I recently decided to do something to spur me to write more. I enrolled in a creative writing workshop at Flying Object in Hadley, MA with Rachel B. Glaser. I figured if I paid money, that I would be compelled to actually write something. It will be good to get some feedback from other writers... good, honest feedback.

That said, I'm a little concerned as well. I'm concerned that my writing won't be that good. I'm concerned I'll be "that guy" in the class that is hopelessly clueless and the other students mentally groan over when having to read or hear his work.

I've decided to follow the class here on the blog. If anything, it will just give me some material and you something to laugh at, whether intended or not, I suppose.

The first writing assignment was "Bad Writing". Well HO-leee hell. That should be a no-brainer. Except when you actually try to write badly... on purpose... it's not that easy.

I took a couple of days to think about it after getting the assignment. It was to be no more than a page, in any form. I tried to think about what makes writing bad. For me, I hate repetition of words or phrases. I try to avoid writing which adds nothing to the story. Run on sentences and bad metaphor are always a sure sign of terrible prose. Finally, a single image came into my mind... that of a sunset. I figured I would start with a cliché and would make it as over the top as I could. I would take all of those things that I normally avoid and lay it on thick... like peanut butter... and jelly.

So here it is:

The sunset looked like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Not the outside, but the inside, once it’s been squished together and then pulled apart again. It met the ocean and was reflected in its imperfect mirror. Being low tide, the air smelled of dead, salty things from the ocean.

“I love walking on the beach at sunset,” she said.

“I know. That’s what you said in your online profile,” he grinned.

He loved the way her lips moved when she talked. They were the first thing he noticed about her. Well, actually the second, but in his defense, she was wearing a rather low cut blouse.

There was an electricity in the air. He could feel the sparks between them. It was like humming electric lines or his old Lionel train set that was always short circuiting and leaving scorch marks in the carpet of his room growing up. Mom used to always yell at him for that.

“Stop leaving scorch marks on the carpet in your room!” she’d yell.

But Andrea didn’t yell like his mother, and his mother didn’t particularly look like her and never wore low cut blouses, which tended to reassure him that there was nothing Oedipal about his interest at all.

They walked in silence for a while, neither of them saying anything. It was nice. They walked a bit on the sand and then they walked a bit in the water, which lapped their feet, like a puppy with sweaty feet. Not that puppies’ feet sweat. Neither puppies nor dogs sweat. That’s why they pant, because they can’t sweat. But puppies will sometimes lick your feet when you take your socks off and they are sweaty. I mean, your feet, not the socks. The socks are sweaty too, but the puppies don’t lick the socks, they lick your feet. They sometimes do eat socks, though. Probably because they are sweaty. The water was nice lapping at their feet and not at all ticklish like a puppy licking your feet.

“I love the way the waves lap at your feet when you walk in the water,” she said.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” he laughed.

She smiled at him. Her smile reminded him of his mother. Wait. No it didn’t. That would be weird. No, it was his sister’s smile that it reminded him of and for a moment a frown crossed his face as he wondered which was worse; Andrea reminding him of his mother or his sister. His sister’s hair was just about the same color auburn as Andrea’s, although he was pretty certain that his sister’s color came from a bottle.

“You know what the sky reminds me of?” asked Andrea?

“No, what?”

“A peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Not the sandwich exactly, but when you pull it apart and everything is all squished together.”

Marjory Stoneman Douglas

2011-05-22T08:47:00.001-04:00

"There are no other Everglades in the world. They are, they have always been, one of the unique regions of the earth; remote, never wholly known. Nothing anywhere else is like them."

If we consider Henry Flagler, the railroad tycoon and real estate developer, as the father of Florida, Marjory Stoneman Douglas must surely be her mother. Where Flagler sought to subdue Florida and civilize her, Douglas protected and nurtured her. She fought Big Sugar and the Big Cypress Jetport. Her book, The Everglades: River of Grass, changed the perception of many Floridians about the Everglades from being a useless swamp to that of the literal and metaphorical heart of the state.

She was seen by many, mostly those intent on using Florida for their own financial gain, as a troublemaker... an old woman with nothing better to do than throw a monkey wrench into their plans. As the population of south Florida grew, the Army Corps of Engineers sought to drain flood prone areas. Douglas was often the lone voice of dissent, speaking up on behalf of the Everglades, whose voice was the croak of bullfrogs, the bellow of gators and the scolding of the red winged blackbirds. Developers, the Army Corps and politicians don't speak their languages, so she translated.

Mrs. Douglas died in 1998 at the age of 108. Without her, the Everglades would most likely be many more thousand square miles of ticky-tacky homes and strip malls. One could not ask for a better mother.

Opening Doors, Reprise

2011-05-17T22:59:00.000-04:00

Over the past year I've come to this blog several times with the intention of writing. Each time i would find the dust thicker and more cobwebs in the corners. I would read back a bit, remembering posts that I'd deleted, and close without writing anything.

At first I stopped writing because I couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't depressing as hell. I'd gone through a divorce and then a breakup with the Rebound Girl. I lost close friends. Then, when things started improving, I didn't want to write. I was afraid that if I wrote about my life, that would just fuck things up. I didn't want anyone to see me in that shape again. It became the elephant in the room. The Rebound's face still resided in the "Followers" box and it bothered me to the point that I emailed her and asked if she would remove it.

It just didn't seem like home any more. Or maybe that was just an excuse. I didn't want the blog to be an open window on my life again.

I started an anonymous blog, but couldn't find the motivation to write there either. It languished with a few posts and I orphaned it.

So I've come back. I'm not sure what this will turn out to be or the direction it may take. I may not even continue here, but I've promised myself to do more writing. I recently completed a short piece for Meat for Tea that will be published in the next issue. I'm hoping to take a creative writing course at Flying Object in Hadley, MA this summer.

It's good to be back... and don't lurk. I need some feedback to tell me what's working and what isn't.

Thanks,

J

Kamp for Kids

2010-07-15T12:50:00.001-04:00

Have you ever had one of those days where you wake up feeling pretty good about yourself? Have you experienced a morning where the conversation you had with someone the night before makes you feel just that much more alive?

That was this morning.

Then I went to the appointment that I nearly forgot last night. Fletcher's camp was putting on a presentation for parents, community leaders and State and local government. Because Fletcher's camp is not your run of the mill summer camp. At Kamp for Kids in Westfield you'll find kids and young adults, some with disabilities, some without. They play together... do crafts... watch movies... spend time in an environment of inclusion.

Fletcher occupies the opposite end of the spectrum from Blythe. Where she is outgoing, he is shy. Where she will speak in front of anyone, he has a deadly case of stage fright.

But where Fletcher shines is one on one and in his refusal to see people as different. He is perhaps the most empathetic child I have ever seen. When the camp was described to me it was my understanding that he would assist one or more of the kids with disabilities. But when I asked him about it, he looked at me like I was nuts.

"We just all play together," he said.

And there it is.

In his mind it was a place to be with other kids. They are kids that are at once different and the same as him. They are children with disabilities that he would help just like he picked up the kids on opposing soccer teams when they fell down.

To Fletcher, the color of one's skin is as irrelevant as their preference of ice cream flavor. A wheelchair is just one of those things that some kids need to get around. He makes me proud of myself and Britton.

The kids put on their skits. They acted out short performances based on some of the movies that they watched in the last two weeks. And as Fletcher more or less hid behind the sign that he'd created for his group, I thought how brave he was for getting up there. Because even though it terrified him, he wanted to be a part of this thing. He wanted to be up there with his new friends.

And I realized that I will never be as good a person as he is right now. But I can live with that... He sets the bar pretty high.

Simplicity of design

2010-07-08T01:14:00.001-04:00

There is a certain satisfaction in it.

Billy Collins

2010-07-04T14:08:00.001-04:00

The boy at the far end of the train car
kept looking behind him
as if he were afraid or expecting someone

and then she appeared in the glass door
of the forward car and he rose
and opened the door and let her in

and she entered the car carrying
a large black case
in the unmistakable shape of a cello.

She looked like an angel with a high forehead
and somber eyes and her hair
was tied up behind her neck with a black bow.

And because of all that,
he seemed a little awkward
in his happiness to see her,

whereas she was simply there,
perfectly existing as a creature
with a soft face who played the cello.

And the reason I am writing this
on the back of a manila envelope
now that they have left the train together

is to tell you that when she turned
to lift the large, delicate cello
onto the overhead rack,

I saw him looking up at her
and what she was doing
the way the eyes of saints are painted

when they are looking up at God
when he is doing something remarkable,
something that identifies him as God.

Billy Collins

The Eight Ball

2010-06-01T07:27:00.001-04:00

The One Million Liter Test Sphere

Operation Whitecoat

Papillon

2010-05-20T17:45:00.000-04:00

Dega: [the plan] It seems so desperate. You think it will work?
Papillon: Does it matter?

2010-05-17T13:38:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I wish life was a little more L.A. Story...

...and a little less The Usual Suspects.

Harry

2010-05-16T10:36:00.000-04:00

Quarter to two this morning I woke to a text from my friend Andrew. I suppose friend isn't exactly the right word. We became acquainted online making dueling photoshops of Mitch English. Somewhere along the line he became the closest thing to a little brother I've ever known.

He told me that Harry had died. He'd come home and found him, still warm.

And all at once it was a Friday back in 2006 in a vet's office, rubbing Arthur's head and scratching his ears for the last time. Because of that moment, because it comes back so easily to me, I know there's nothing I can tell him to make it better.

I wish there was. All he's going to hear is people telling him that they're sorry, and that it will get easier. Maybe for some people and some dogs, it does.

Then again, sometimes we are paired with our better selves. When they leave us, a little bit of our soul dies.

Change of Time

2010-05-15T11:22:00.001-04:00

I had a dream last night
And rusting far below me
Battered hulls and broken hardships
Leviathan and lonely
I was thirsty so I drank
And though it was salt water
There was something about the way
It tasted so familiar

Josh Ritter - Change of Time

She makes me laugh

2010-05-15T10:57:00.001-04:00

The Zig Zag Girl

2010-05-09T19:35:00.000-04:00

The illusion was that your head and your heart had gone in different directions, but only I fell for that. Everyone else looking on had seen your trick before and knew that you'd just contorted yourself up inside the boxes. I was really only an audience of one.

My anxiety at the sight of the blades, at the violent separation of the compartments slamming apart, was all part of the show. It goes on four days a week with matinees on Saturday and Sunday.

But the ironic part was that me being a skeptic, I should have seen through it. But I chose to believe. I wanted to believe it... to believe you. Just once I wanted it to be something other than smoke and mirrors; just once to see a bit of real magic.

The Zig Zag Girl illusion

Double Self Portrait with "Reflecting Back"

2010-05-08T19:01:00.001-04:00

Double Self Portrait with "Reflecting Back", originally uploaded by The Joey B.

Opening, Opening, Opening...

2010-05-08T13:39:00.006-04:00

Avant le déluge... l'art.

The proverbial calm before the storm, last night's balmy weather was a perfect counterpoint to today's miserable, cold damp of unusual thunder and rain. I blame Rick Sluben for ruining my weekend. I had planned on catching Britton and the kids shortly after 6pm at the first opening. I stopped in Easthampton to meet up with Mo and a couple of her friends. Mo was moving a little slowly due to her back problems and a recent injury and overslept a bit. To kill time, I went downstairs and had a great new flavor of ice cream at Mt. Tom Ice Cream... Secret Breakfast, vanilla ice cream with bourbon and corn flakes.

One could not have hoped for better weather for last night's exhibits. I'm rather irritated that I didn't bring my Canon, but I'm realizing more and more that the best camera is the one you have with you. The trusty iPhone has been documenting a lot of my life lately, and doing a great job.

My first stop was Open Square to see my friend, Denis Luzuriaga's exhibit SYSTEM. I got there later than I'd anticipated and just got to catch Britton and the kids for a few minutes. Blythe gave a critique of several of the paintings; quite lucid and unadulterated by art theory, just emotion and gut instinct.

I headed over to Parsons Hall Project Space, a new place to me. I was introduced to one of the owners, Kari Gatzke, at Mo's the other night. Parsons Hall defines itself as an experimental art, research and residency hub. There is exhibition space and artist studios on the first floor and live/work space on the second. I've been promised a tour of the building soon and Denis will be moving his studio here soon.

The 800 pound gorilla in the room was Chris Nelson's "Reflecting Back" a 28' x 10' shallow pool with water dripping from above and light reflecting off it onto the wall.

The water and light form constructive and destructive interference patterns on the wall. Coupled with the shadows of those viewing the exhibit, a rather haunting image is formed... a visible representation of those conscious and unconscious interactions one has with those around them.

Outside is its counterpart, "Between Space" where light is reflected off the canal onto The Canal Gallery and Studios.

From there we move to "Shelved Animals" by Deborah Simon, an installation piece of highly realistic animals. Scale is ignored, finding a giant panda, marmoset and hyena arranged together on a shelf.

An opossum hangs from a perch above and several fur seals appear to swim above.

From the website:

The animals, shown with no regard for eco-systems or taxonomy, are the fallout of man’s tendency to cherry pick what’s desirable and convenient and then quickly discarded it when it’s not. The confusion of scale and species seems to be exploding from the shelves along the walls with each species commanding the viewers’ attention in hopes of not being ignored and forgotten.

Another unusual piece was Mantis + Auto by Noah Stout, a five minute looped video of a... you guessed it, preying mantis. It sounds rather creepy and weird, but it was truly fascinating to watch. Then again, I take photos of bugs.

On the corner across the street was the first Bring Your Own Restaurant of the year. I saw most of the usual suspects.

Just down the street is Paper City Studios, four floors of open studios. Time was limited and I pretty much ran through, but hopefully I'll get a chance to go back and take a longer look. One piece that stood out for me was this:

I didn't even catch the title or name of the artist, nor does the Paper City Studios website have any info on the current exhibits.

It was an amazing night that made me want to get back in the studio. Soon enough.

Cinco de Mayo

2010-05-06T01:54:00.000-04:00

I had dinner with Mo at La Casita Azteca, a restaurant next door to our apartment building. The owner put on a great Cinco de Mayo celebration including live music. I get the impression that he'll take any excuse to put on a sombrero, grab a microphone and sing his heart out.

This guy busted out his twelve string and played a little while for us.

I don't have a clue who this lady was, but she went all out and even brought a piñata to the party.

Then these two beautiful birds danced for us.

Do yourself a favor... next time you are in Easthampton, stop at La Casita Azteca. The food was delicious and the staff couldn't be friendlier. In fact, it was like eating at home, except with better food.

Tragic Flaw

2010-05-05T07:21:00.000-04:00

Some people reach a place in time where they've gone as far as they can. A place where wives and jobs collide with desire. That which is unknowable and those who remain out of sight. See what it is invisible and you will see what to write. That's how Bobby used to put it. It was the invisible people he wanted to live with. The ones that we walk past every day, the ones we sometimes become. The ones in books who live only in someones mind's eye. He was a man who was destined to go through life and not around it. A man who was sure the shortest path to Heaven was straight through Hell. But the truth of his handicap lay only in a mind both exalted and crippled by too many stories and the path he chose to become one. Bobby Long's tragic flaw was his romance with all that he saw. And I guess if people want to believe in some form of justice, then Bobby Long got his for a song.

Dad's Wallet

2010-05-01T20:35:00.000-04:00

When my dad died, I went through his wallet and found two photographs... only two.

My half brother and sister from his first marriage, Jeff and Jennifer.

Dom

2010-04-29T01:34:00.001-04:00

The kind of girl that could make you an hour late to a Van Morrison concert and not be angry with her.

The kind of girl who could make you laugh with just a look.

The kind of girl that never forgot what it was like to be a goofy kid.

The kind of girl that could fly just by wishing it.

Dominique once told me that she was proud of me for my messy car, because when I opened the door and something fell out, it was inevitably a book. We met through a mutual friend and she came to be like a sister to me in a rough part of my life. When love fled, she was there to talk. When dad had his stroke, she put her arms around me.

I don't remember much from my wedding, but I recall scanning the church before Britton walked up the aisle and seeing Dom's face with that million dollar smile beaming at me. And that was the last time I ever saw her.

So when I found a box of old pictures today and started going through them, I was amazed to think that I'd let such a beautiful person get away. And she was truly beautiful, inside and out.

Oh the ways we laughed.

Then and Now

2010-04-29T00:38:00.000-04:00

1974

2010

A Mandate

2010-04-27T21:48:00.001-04:00

This afternoon I planned on stopping by the Nashawannuk Gallery to drop off the rest of my rent for the new apartment. (by the way, my bathroom is just above the sign that says "ART" that sadly is no longer there.) They had closed a little early, so I ran upstairs for a second to just look around and think how I was going to arrange the place. While I was fooling around, it hit me that I might have mail.

I ran downstairs and sure enough there was a letter sticking out of my mailbox with four stamps on it. I love getting envelopes with a ton of stamps on them. Since there are only a couple of people that know my new address, I had an idea who wrote it.

Pulling it out of the box, I saw the return address and it confirmed my suspicions. I walked back upstairs and opened it. Inside I noticed the back of what was unmistakably a check. I figured it was $20 or so to get a little something for the new apartment. The check dropped out on the counter and I began reading the letter. The tone of the letter was such that after the first couple of sentences I flipped the check over to look at it.

Take the amount that you would think would be too much to accept, then multiply that by a factor of ten.

I just sat on the floor. I didn't know what else to do.

So I read the letter through three or four times... sitting on the kitchen floor of my new, empty apartment.

I am sending you this check to help you find some peace in this 'Summer of Joe'...

That's how it began. It went on to list a few stipulations: Not to tell anyone the origin of the money, to include special things for the kids.

It was too much. It was more than too much.

You need to refocus and dig deep for those things which you deem most important in life...

And after a while I realized I had to accept it. Because with the money came a mandate. This money is an investment in me. By accepting it, I'm taking on a responsibility to do something good with it; actually to do many good things with it. Because every dollar I spend, I must spend consciously. It will only be used to bring joy or laughter to my life, to someone else that I love, or further my goal of being a writer.

So on the way home, I stopped and bought a brand new Moleskine. With it, I will record every expenditure, both as a ledger of the balance, and the circumstances under which the money was dispensed.

The Summer of Joe has a budget and an investor.

Final Words

2010-04-27T07:16:00.002-04:00

Kleine Opfer müssen gebracht werden!

(Small sacrifices must be made!)

A Love Song

2010-04-25T18:43:00.000-04:00

Cecil: Your mama thought you were golden so we named you after yellow flowers and corn. This is you here...
[cuts some purslane from garden]

Cecil: ...pretty, golden purslane.

Pursy Will: Purslane's really a weed, you know. A neighbor told me when I was 9 and I ran over his tomato plants. He said all gardeners hate purslane.

Cecil: Yeah, and dandelions. Doesn't stop kids from making wishes on 'em.

A Love Song for Bobby Long

Strikes & Gutters

2010-04-24T15:59:00.000-04:00

"How are you doing?"

It's not an easy question to answer sometimes. When your mentor, your father figure, your friend, asks you in a public place and your life isn't quite where you want it to be, you might not have a ready response.

"You know what they say... strikes and gutters, Barry. Strikes and gutters."

Maybe I've been watching too many Coen brothers movies lately. But because he's all those things to you... the reason he's all those things to you, he understands.

Wednesday night I had dinner and a long talk with Barry Moser. For those of you that don't know, Barry is a well known illustrator, an extraordinary wood engraver and a maker of fine press books. But that's a poor description. He is, above all, a teacher. He was a Methodist minister early on in his life, but that didn't last long. Soon enough, he realized that often people have difficulty reconciling their scripture and their prejudices.

We spoke for a long time... of art and politics... of the sacred and profane. He let me in on something that I'd guess he's told fewer people than he could count with one hand. He told me of his plans for his 70th birthday as well. It's something that is at once glorious and juvenile and makes me wish I could be there to see it. I have a hard time believing he will really be seventy years old this Fall.

"I began the Bible fifteen years ago. I don't know if I have another fifteen years left in me."

He often jokes that he's mortal and won't always be here. I don't buy it.

"I'm cutting your fucking head off and freezing it just like Joe DiMaggio's," I replied.

I aspire to be like Barry. I don't mean to be a celebrated illustrator. I have neither the talent or skill for that. But to be a man like him. He is not perfect, but it is in his flaws that I find comfort. The mistakes that he's made and his stumbles along the way that remind me that it's just part of the game. Like the ghost of George Plimpton said, "Show a little grace if you should fall."

The evening wound down. We walked out and stood on the porch in front of the restaurant a little while.

"If you ever need anything, you let me know," I told him.

I say that a lot to people, but it rarely carries the same weight as when I say it to him. I've only ever had one chance to truly do something for him; to give a little bit back for all of the things that he's done for me. We both stood there and teared up a bit and promised to see each other soon.

Walking down the street in the dark I felt I'd been baptized.

Strikes and gutters.

The Summer of Joe

2010-04-19T12:57:00.003-04:00

Yeah, I know. Summer isn't here yet. But like George with his three months of severance pay, I'm going to make the most of this summer. Considering the place I'm starting, I'll have to begin now to get up to speed. Since I've already read a book from beginning to end, I figure I'm doing pretty well. I need to work on my frolf game, though.

I had to go through a little rōnin period. After the divorce and then the breakup with Bear, I was lost for a while. In part, it was not wanting to give up a good thing and... I guess the thought of moving on made me feel like I was saying I didn't really love her. And even though the relationship was short in time, I did... and I still do.

English has no single word equivalent for the feeling. but the Portuguese... of course the Portuguese do.

Saudade: The love that remains. A vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist.

If that doesn't describe it, I don't know what does. Because it encompasses not only the feelings for Bear, but for those many things that I have lost over the years. My love for Arthur. The old Florida that is gone. And those things that I know will come into and leave my life in the future.

My forty years in the wilderness is done.

I'm reminded of the time that I dated the hippie from Gainesville that drove a VW Vanagon with butterflies painted on the hubcaps and macrame seat covers. I became a vegetarian for a little while and learned to slow down and appreciate things more. I knew from the beginning that things with her were not meant to last, so I took each day as an adventure.

And there are things that I learned from Bear that I'll take with me as well. I will still eat peanut butter with ice cream. It doesn't make me sad any more to think of it.

I'm making new friends. I was fortunate enough to have someone come into my life when I was down and needed somebody. A person with whom I shared little but a couple of mutual friends. A person that owed me nothing. As hard as it is for me to allow people in, to rely on anyone, I was given two gifts. Kindness and understanding. The two things I needed most right then. It allowed me to take a breath between waves. Maybe I was only treading water, but at least I wasn't drowning any more.

The Summer of Joe started this weekend with the kids. For some reason they wanted to hear Beatles songs, so we played them all weekend. There's nothing like singing 'Hey Jude' with kids and really hearing the words. It's a little hard to drive with tears in your eyes. We ate in diners and watched movies and we had fun. The first real fun I've had in almost two months.

I'd explain the Summer of Joe more, but I think the whole point of it is to defy explanation.

I will buy a truly expensive pair of Persols for the sun.

I will appreciate happy accidents, like having forgotten milk for the chocolate chip pancakes this morning and using water and sour cream instead. They were maybe the best pancakes that either the kids or I have ever eaten.

There will be day trips and camping... baseball games.

I'll remember to take the Five Things with me. And to use the pencil.

Just maybe there will be a trip overseas. I don't know if I can swing it financially, but as cheaply as I'm now living, it's a distinct possibility.

Most of all, I'll try to be me. I don't always like who I am, but I don't have any other choice but to live with me.

Q.E.D.

What would McQueen do?

2010-04-16T06:57:00.000-04:00

He sure as hell wouldn't have sat around bitching and feeling sorry for himself. He would have accepted that sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. And losing doesn't make you a loser.

I have a new mantra.

For a moment...

2010-04-08T23:44:00.000-04:00

...you really do believe he can fly.

Home?

2010-04-07T20:01:00.000-04:00

I looked at an apartment today that was recommended to me by a friend.

The previous tenant hasn't moved out yet and it's got a distinct Hoarders feel to it at this point. It's quirky and it's above a bakery, art gallery and ice cream shop. It's walking distance to the grocery store, staggering distance from a couple of bars, just down the street from the bike trail and at the foot of Mt. Tom.

And I kind of love it.

Most of all because I think I'll have the best neighbors I could ever imagine.

And out back...

...Nashawannuck Pond.

It's the kind of place where I think I can start over. A place to live simply, be surrounded by fantastic people and be me again.

Thank you Mo... thank you so much.

Lately I'm having hard days...

2010-04-03T08:46:00.000-04:00

Lately I'm having hard days and I curse the night

Photo credit: David Owen

Call Your Best Friend

2010-03-31T00:40:00.000-04:00

I found this in the mailbox today. Since I'm house sitting, I know it wasn't meant for me, but then again maybe somehow it was. I'm starting to realize that even though things are... well... I don't even know where to begin. Even though my life got thrown into a tailspin over the last couple of weeks, I'm a fortunate person who has people that love and care about me. Unconditionally.

So I called and I ate the chocolate.

I thought about how Spring is a time of warmth and green and life. I thought about how good it will be to see my best friend for the first time in ten years. Jesus... ten years.

I'm not a believer in fate. I don't believe in a higher power. But I know that there are things that remind us what matters in life, things that we can either recognize or ignore.

In my previous blog I pilfered a phrase from someone.

I don't need a lot. I just need enough.

For a couple of weeks I've kept coming back to that. I read and re-read it and finally realized that with all the turmoil in my life, it was the one thing that I could hold onto. It was the one idea that made sense to me.

Because enough is different for everyone and being aware of that is what has tempered my frustration. "Enough" for me is perhaps too much for someone else.

So I contacted the person who wrote that to ask about it and received this by way of a reply.

"Though I've had some crazy hard times, and though I've repeatedly thought I'd get trapped in this hole, I realize - there has never been a time in my life that I haven't had 'enough'."

Her answer approaches things from a rather different perspective. Looking at things that way... well, I've got more than enough.

I don't need a lot...

2010-03-29T19:51:00.000-04:00

I don't need a lot...

I just need enough.

American Idol Top Ten Guys

2010-03-03T01:36:00.000-05:00

The good news... everyone was much improved from last week. The bad news... they were so horrible last week that they've improved to what I would term mildly nauseating. The only thing I saw that I would buy tonight was from the Stride Mega-Mystery Gum commercial... the one with the ostrich jockeys. But you and I both know I don't watch Idol for good perfomers, like I only watch NASCAR for the wrecks.

Speaking of wrecks... American Idol's Top Ten Guys with me and Robyn is up at Gamelive.com.

A thrilling time...

2010-02-25T23:31:00.001-05:00

CRW_1583, originally uploaded by The Joey B.

...is in your immediate future.

American Idol Top 12 Guys

2010-02-25T12:20:00.001-05:00

Last night was our first opportunity to see the guys and vote this season. It was a pretty weak night and the girls definitely seem to have the upper hand in the competition right now. Handicapping the Top 12 Guys with me and Robyn is up at Gamelive.com

American Idol Top 12 Girls

2010-02-24T09:37:00.001-05:00

Last night was the first American Idol recap blog for Robyn and me this season. Handicapping the Top 12 Girls is up on Gamelive.com.

American Idol on Gamelive.com

2010-02-21T09:09:00.000-05:00

Starting this week I will be doing the American Idol recaps with my friend Robyn on the betting forum Gamelive.com. Expect the usual nonsense. It's supposed to be something of a "he said-she said", but will most likely devolve into Robyn speaking intelligently on the performances and me just making fun of their hair, clothes, teeth, etc.

The Archimedes Principle

2010-01-02T10:22:00.006-05:00

When I was young I would often take baths, things that are now reserved for times when I have sore muscles or need to think. For me, a shower is something that gets one clean, while a bath lets you reflect on just how dirty you were in the first place.

The other day my mother emailed me to say that the longtime pastor of her church, Bill Barrett, had died. I was raised in the church, but stopped going while I was in my teens. As I got older, I became rather jaded with organized religion as it always seemed like the people in charge were the ones that least espoused the teachings of the church. My visits to church were reserved to special occasions like holidays and funerals.

I don't recall when I first met Pastor Bill, but I had an instant respect for him. Upon reading his obituary I learned that he came to the church in his twenties. He was a man who knew how to speak to both the believer and the non-believer, a skill that is sorely lacking in most pastors.

The day I heard from mom was long and I came home feeling rather beat. I went upstairs and turned on the water in the tub, as hot as I could stand it, and lay there sweating for a long, long time. And then I did something I hadn't done since I was a child. I kicked open the drain and let the water flow out... a whirlpool forming between my feet. As the water level dropped, I sank lower and lower and felt the weight of my body return. The last trickle escaped between my shoulder blades and my body felt leaden there on the floor of the tub.

Pastor Bill was like that bath. He would never overtly point out faults or shortcomings. In fact, it was his kind and gentle nature, his pleasant spirit and giving soul, that prodded me to be a better person. I don't think I ever sat through more than one or two of his services, but that was never his style of preaching. His ministry was giving one on one while helping you deal with grief or pain or just giving a hand with something. I recall he was one of the few people in a position such as his that ever gave me true comfort in a time of need. He buoyed those around him, making their lives better, their loads easier to bear.

With him gone, I don't feel any cleaner, but I certainly feel heavier. And though I wouldn't necessarily call myself a believer, I will always be a member of Pastor Bill's church.

Giving Thanks

2009-11-26T15:10:00.000-05:00

Give thanks for those things that make you a good and honest person... that make you try to be as fantastic as they think you are.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

A Thanksgiving Miracle

2009-11-24T20:19:00.003-05:00

This is an old story... in fact, it's a story that caused some problems even recently.

But Thanksgiving is a time of reflection, so here it is again.

A Thanksgiving Miracle
or
The Day Moses Came to Dinner

Under pressure, I usually clam up or make an ass of myself. Case in point... I had just started dating my friend Angela and I was going home with her for Thanksgiving for the first (and last) time. Her dad... well, let's just say he doesn't suffer fools and is kind of a badass. When we first started dating he was thoroughly pissed at her and disgusted with me until he realized that he had me confused with our married friend, Marc. He had warmed up a little since then, but I was still a little wary of him. I still am. Mind you, I was living in Florida at the time, and her parents lived in Atlanta, so there was no real escape for me if things went wrong.

As if meeting her parents weren't enough, her uncle and his family were coming to dinner as well. Her uncle seemed like a hard-ass too. We all sat around the table and began dishing out the food. I kept pretty quiet. If someone asked me a question, I'd politely answer, but I didn't elaborate. After awhile I began to relax. Everyone seemed to like me, or at least I didn't get any hostile glares.

Somehow the conversation turned to chamomile tea. I didn't know shit about chamomile tea, but apparently her family did. Everyone had a personal anecdote about chamomile tea.

"Cancer patients drink chamomile tea to increase their appetite."

"Chamomile tea soothes my hemorrhoids."

"Chamomile tea helps me sleep."

"I drink chamomile tea to relieve a toothache."

"Make a poultice of mustard and chamomile tea to reduce swelling."

"My gangrene was stopped in its tracks by chamomile tea."

I guess I was feeling a little left out... Everyone had a story and I didn't. So I reached back into my 13 years of Christian education and said...

Moses swabbed chamomile tea on the doorposts of all of the Israelite houses in Egypt so the Angel of Death would pass over and not kill their children.

Dead silence.

I looked at Angela... I thought she was going to choke. Her dad looked like he was going to cry.

I hear a clatter and notice her uncle has dropped his silverware into his plate. His face was red and I thought he was coming over the table for me. He picked up the plate and exited the dining room for the kitchen. He never came back.

See, what Angela had failed to tell me was that her uncle was a fundamentalist Christian and that Moses was not someone he cared to hear jokes about.

It was a rather quiet dinner after that... punctuated by giggles out of Angela and her dad.

From Page to Screen

2009-10-18T21:19:00.003-04:00

This may come as a complete surprise to some of you, but I never really had a lot of children's books as a child.

Which is ironic, as I collect original book illustrations and have more children's book writer and illustrator friends than you can shake a stick at.

That's not to say I didn't read a lot as a kid. On the contrary, I read everything I could get my hands on. I started reading chapter books pretty early on. But picture books never really had a place in my library as a kid. My parents just never bought them. I remember the only place I ever regularly saw the kind of books most kids read... The Cat in the Hat, Are You My Mother, etc. was at Uncle Max's house. I'd spend every Thursday after school at his house reading "the classics". It's only been in my adult, professional life that I've come to love the picture book.

Today I took my kids to see Where the Wild Things Are, admittedly with a little trepidation. Many have noted that one will either love or hate this movie, based on how much one is invested in the mythology of the book. That's not quite right. You will either love or hate Wild Things, but not necessarily because of the book.

This is a movie about anger and frustration. As I sat in the dark theater beside my son, Fletcher, I was confronted by the monsters I faced as a child... and the monsters he faces today. I'm afraid the only way one can truly appreciate this film is to have been a wild thing, and then to have raised a wild thing. The adaptation will not speak to everyone.

To those who have worn Max's wolf suit though, it's a reminder of how hard it is to face a world before you're prepared.

Repost #7 The Dead Woman in My Truck

2009-07-30T00:14:00.003-04:00

Recently the subject of cremains and what to do with them has come up on Facebook and it reminded me of this story. Obviously, this was written when my dad was still alive and I was still married, just to avoid any confusion.

Original post August 5, 2006

I rode around with Erna's remains in my truck for quite a while. I honestly didn't mean to. I would have liked to have dumped her somewhere, anywhere, rather than drive with her daily. But Erna, in death as much as life, was hard to shake.

I don't remember exactly when Erna became one of my dad's patients. He always had one or two little old ladies that depended on him completely. He'd go grocery shopping for them and take them to appointments with specialists. The first of these was Mrs. Wildt, who crocheted me a baby blanket that I have to this day. The last, and perhaps greatest, was Erna.

Erna was a little old Italian lady. I didn't know her age, but I'd guess she was in her late 80's. Her husband had been dead for years, and had probably committed suicide if she was half the woman then as she was when I knew her. She'd call at all hours of the night; a hypochondriac that was dying. There's no worse kind. It's not like you could just tell her to suck it up, you aren't really sick, because in reality, she was inching closer and closer to death. But her complaints were only tangentially connected to her illness. And she didn't care who knew about them.

"My vagina hurts!" she told me over the phone. Only she didn't pronounce it vagina, she said "ba-gina."

"Ok, Erna... I'll tell Dr. Joe."

"My ba-gina hurts! Get Dr. Joe. I think I'm dying."

"Ok, Erna... You have to get off the phone so I can call him. He's not here."

"Oooooooh.... I'm dying." click.

That's how most of our conversations went. I sometimes went with my dad to see Erna in her little mobile home. She had no sense of privacy about her body and would often partially disrobe with me in the room in order for my dad to check her heart with his stethoscope. There we'd be. Erna with her sad, wrinkled breast resting in her lap. My dad asking her to take a deep breath... and again... and hold. Me sitting on the couch wishing I was anywhere but there and the motheaten deer head watching forlornly over the whole affair.

When I graduated high school I forgot about Erna for a couple of years. I'd moved out of state, but when I came back she was still there. Still calling dad's office and home whenever she felt a twinge of panic.

Then dad had a stroke. They didn't expect him to live. It started one morning in his office. He didn't feel very well and when he tried to get up out of his chair, he found he couldn't. I was living in an apartment above his office at the time and going to UCF. When I got back from class, there was a note on my door from his receptionist that said to meet my mom at the hospital. They never have determined exactly what it was. One neurologist thought it was a clot, while another believed it to be an unnatural constriction of the blood vessels to his brain stem brought on by high blood pressure.

He survived, despite the poor prognosis. He was on a ventilator for months and does physical therapy to this day. He never recovered any of his fine motor skills and is unable to walk.

While dad was still in the hospital, Erna was still dying. Without my dad, I think she finally decided that she didn't want to live anymore and she passed away a few months after his stroke.

While he was on the ventilator, my dad and I communicated via an alphabet board. I would run my finger down the letters and he would blink at the correct letter.

E
R
N
A
D
I
E
D

"I know," I told him.

I
N
E
E
D
Y
O
U
T
O
P
I
C
K
U
P
H
E
R
A
S
H
E
S

"Ok. But do you need anything?"

N
O

So I went to the funeral home and picked up a small box with her ashes. She had declined even an urn. She wanted her ashes to be spread in the ocean.

I retrieved them, but I was still busy with dad. I'd drive several hours daily to stay with him during the day at the rehabilitation facility. After a while, it just became another object in my truck: a cd case, books, and a box of Erna.

When I moved to Massachusetts I forgot about her. I had to leave my truck in Florida while I drove the moving truck north. My brother-in-law drove it up a couple of months later. I didn't tell him about the box.

We came back for a visit and my wife insisted I bring Erna. It was a busy time, visiting with everybody... checking on dad's progress which had noticeably slowed.

Our last day it was raining, but Britton insisted that we get rid of Erna. She wasn't driving back to Massachusetts with her. I didn't know what the big deal was. I'd been driving around with her for a couple of years by then. We drove to the Intracoastal and Britton got out with Erna's box and let her go off a pier. According to Britton, her last word was, "Bloooop."

Some might call it laziness... or indifference... or even passive aggressiveness. But I think my failure to let her go was something deeper. Maybe I was holding on to a time when my dad cared for people and wasn't cared for, a time when he was the most important person in the world to someone else.

A Press of Incredible Provenance

2009-07-29T19:03:00.003-04:00

Once upon a time I entertained the thought of starting a private press using an old school letterpress. Let's be honest... I still do. So much so that I drove to Syracuse to pick up a Chandler & Price 10x15 letterpress, and later, a Pearl press.

Both of them now sit in my ex-wife's garage collecting dust.

Today I received an email which made me wish I was independently wealthy with plenty of ground floor studio space, or at least a loading dock and freight elevator. Jeff Dwyer is selling a press owned by the people who made me love letterpress and the black arts.

When I moved to Massachusetts, I answered an ad in the paper for a picture framer at R. Michelson Galleries in Northampton. I figured it was the type of job that I could work around my school schedule. When I arrived for the interview, I took a quick look around the gallery and settled in front of shelves filled with some of the most amazing books I'd ever seen... books the like of which I'd had no idea actually existed. They were hand made art books, printed on letterpress in velvety ink crushed into the paper such that you could feel it as much as see it.

It was this chance encounter that introduced me to the world of printmaking... a world I sadly don't spend as much time in as I'd like. I was also able to meet the people who created these books, two of whom were Leonard Baskin and Barry Moser. The first I only knew briefly and never got to work directly with him. The second became a mentor and friend.

Vandercook & Sons, Inc. No. 2 Proof Press

This press has a long history of ownership and use by some America’s most accomplished fine letterpress alumni. After being manufactured in Chicago around 1935-36, it’s a mystery who owned it and where it was used for the next twenty years. Around 1958, Richard Warren, the owner of Metcalf Printing & Publishing Co. in Northampton, MA gave the press to his friend, Leonard Baskin when Baskin moved his Gehenna Press from Worcester, MA to Northampton. In the summer of 1958, Baskin employed Harold P. McGrath as his pressman for the Gehenna Press, and McGrath continued using the press at Gehenna until 1976. While the press remained in use by McGrath, under his guidance probably more than a hundred young apprentices studied the craft and learned to print. In 1976, the press was moved from Gehenna to its new home at the Hampshire Typothetae at 30 Market St. in Northampton. For the next ten years, McGrath and Barry Moser used it for Moser’s Pennyroyal Press productions. When the Hampshire Typothetae closed and Pennyroyal Press assumed ownership of the Typothetae printing equipment, the press traveled to Linseed Road in West Hatfield, MA. Around, 1987, Moser sold all of the Gehenna/Typothetae/Pennyroyal printing equipment to Alan James Robinson and the Vandercook moved yet again to Easthampton, MA. Harold McGrath followed the equipment out the door, and he continued to use the press until 1998 when Robinson sold it to Elizabeth O’Grady. She moved it to New Hampshire where it has rested quietly. At some point during the years on Market Street, the cast iron drum handle was broken and a welded repair was made. The press is available for $2,500.00. It weighs approximately 675 pounds, and professionals should move it. This price does not include moving or shipping costs. Additionally, also available for $500.00 is a twenty-four-drawer type bank with assorted sizes of Caslon foundry type. Pictures of the press and type bank are available. Contact Jeff Dwyer at (413-5840761) or e-mail at: jpdwyer@dwyerogrady.com

I hope it finds a good home with the kind of person who understands just how many wonderful things it has seen. Good luck, little Vandy.

On Turning Five

2009-07-13T23:44:00.006-04:00

A fifth birthday is unique. It's the birthday when you truly start becoming who you will be. On your birthday I give you five things to carry with you the rest of your life. They are for when I am no longer here to guide you.

First is a piece of coquina rock. It is to remind you that you will always be, like me, a Floridian. We are different and special. Look at this rock and remember my stories, and those that my father told me.

The next two things you will find are a pencil and a pen. The pencil, in order to write down those things that will change, and the pen to write down those that are constant. You will be tempted to use the pen. You will hold it in your hand and set it to paper often. Always use the pencil.

The fourth thing you will find is a length of string. It is long enough, trust me. The string is to gather up that which is scattered... those things for which you search and find only rarely. You will use it bring these things together and make them useful to you.

The fifth, and final thing you will find is a prism. It's to remind you of beauty which is hidden in plain sight.

Superstition

2009-07-07T21:47:00.002-04:00

I'm not superstitious by any means, but when I'm taking eye pressures, and the patient is a pain in the ass, I'll record 13 mm Hg if it is 12 or 14.

Image courtesy RootAtlas.com

An observation at brekkies

2009-07-03T09:51:00.002-04:00

This plate makes everything taste like sadness and ketchup.

Father's Day Prize

2009-06-21T14:01:00.003-04:00

Mystery bag from Fletch

The card: Dinosaurs, planes...

and bugs.

He certainly knows what I like.

Also, it appears I've won an award.

I'm glad I have the chance to spend the day with the best kids in the world.

Specs

2009-06-21T13:56:00.002-04:00

Blythe was squinting a bit.

Just as I thought. She needed glasses too. So instead of four, she now looks fourteen.

Glorious, Glorious Day!

2009-06-20T17:08:00.006-04:00

I missed this story when it broke on Wednesday, but thought I'd pass it along.

Many of you know my absolute hatred of Thomas Kinkade and the schlock he calls art. I'm not exactly sure if I feel sorry for the gallery owners in this case. They were, after all, complicit in fleecing customers out of money for what were essentially posters of bad art. But to see how he manipulated the market against his own dealers in order to buy out his own publicly traded company just proves he truly is Beelzebub.

In its February 2006 decision, the arbitration panel said Kinkade and other company officials used terms like "partner," "trust," "Christian" and "God" to create "a certain religious environment designed to instill a special relationship of trust" with the couple.

What the company didn't tell them, said their attorney, was that they would have to sell Kinkade's works at minimum retail prices while the artist undercut them with discount sales, some of which he made himself on cable television.It was part of a plan, they claimed, to lower the value of the publicly traded company before Kinkade bought it in 2004, at steep losses to many investors. Hazlewood and Spinello put their $122,000 savings into galleries in Charlottesville and Fredericksburg, Va., that opened in 1999 and 2000 and closed in 2003.

An arbitration panel voted unanimously to uphold an earlier finding of fraudulent activity on the part of Kinkade and restored an award of $2.1 million to two gallery owners put out of business.

So, fewer Kinkade galleries and he owes $2.1 million. That's a win-win situation, right?

San Francisco Chronicle

Treasure Hunting

2009-06-20T13:57:00.005-04:00

My dad was, for the most part, a sane and rational man. Actually, I use "sane" rather loosely, but he was not one to dwell on intangible things. He did not go to movies or read fiction. He was a pragmatist.

So his one real departure is rather ironic. He believed unflinchingly in hidden treasures.

Florida is full of treasure, or so one is lead to believe. Growing up I was spoonfed stories of people finding Spanish pieces of eight on the beach after a hurricane. John Dillinger supposedly buried money from a bank robbery in the yard of a house where a huge beachside condo now stands. Plantation owners buried literal pots of gold before the Seminoles came through and burned their sugar mills to the ground. It was this Florida that my father grew up in and he spent a lot of time with a metal detector and entrenching tool in his hands.

We once bought a house in New Smyrna all based on a second hand story told to him by a patient who had worked on the house. The story was that the man's father had been the cook for a bunch of outlaws in North Carolina, I think. They all got killed or thrown in jail and he took off with all the gold. They buried it in North Carolina somewhere and the man's son eventually moved to Florida in the 1920's, bringing the remaining loot. My dad's patient had been hired to put bars on the windows of the house.

For me, two questions would have immediately popped up:

First of all, why would someone who is putting bars on his windows be dumb enough to tell someone the story?

Secondly, why would someone who had that much money choose to settle in a ratty little house in the middle of nowhere?

But those particular red flags were never raised in my dad's head. We bought the house and began using the metal detector as inconspicuously as possible around the yard.

Inconspicuously, I said. A middle aged white dude and his son digging holes in the yard of a house in the middle of the poor, black section of town. There were these two ancient guys across the street that would just sit out on their porch and watch us.

When we'd gone over the entire yard several times, we figured it was time to start on the house. Over the course of a hot Florida summer, we proceeded to completely demolish that house by hand and cart it away, a dump truck load at a time. The two guys across the street just watched us and shook their heads at the things crazy white people do.

We never did find anything of value. I can't say I was all that surprised. But my dad never seemed disappointed.

And looking back, I guess he gave me a little nugget to carry with me.

Solo

2009-06-17T20:54:00.003-04:00

In the past two days I've had two instances of people questioning the appropriateness of something about which I've written. One was here... the second, today, caused me to shut down my other blog, The Skinny Reeve.

It was with great disgust that I chose to delete a story about something that happened 14 years ago. Something that, from my perspective, was fairly innocuous. But because it caused a friend grief from a family member, unjustified as it was, I compromised my integrity and removed it. It was a hard decision, especially since it was precipitated by a chickenshit lurker... like a schoolgirl tattling on boys for smoking behind the gym.

With that deletion and closing down of my blog came the resolve that I would never do another collaborative writing project, not that it ever really ever got off the ground. I refuse to be put in the position again where my judgment about what I write is questioned and I cave for someone else.

As for the first... it also appears to have been outed in a rather dubious way, and was expressed to me through an uninvolved third party. Perhaps the hope was that I would take it down of my own volition without being directly prompted.

Let me be absolutely clear. This blog is mine... all mine. And the things that I write here will stay.

Because my words are all that I have.

All That Matters

2009-06-09T23:50:00.000-04:00

my darling girl
my darling girl
you’re all that matters
in this wicked world
all that matters
all that matters

my darling boy
my darling boy
all of my sunshine
and all of my joy
you’re all that matters
all that matters

well, i can’t stop the pain
when it calls
i’m a man
and i can’t stop the rain
when it falls, my darling
who can?

my darling girl
my darling girl
you’re all that matters
in this wicked world
all that matters
all that matters

my darling friend
my darling friend
all we’ve got going
is love in the end
it’s all that matters
all that matters

Mark Knopfler
Shangri-La

The Identity Project

2009-06-03T20:15:00.003-04:00

My portrait from Leonard Nimoy's The Identity Project that I posed for and helped shoot for the documentary.

I'm not letting on about my "secret self"... suffice it to say, I don't dress like this often.

My Inbox Today

2009-05-22T20:02:00.006-04:00

I was feeling rather down today, as might be evidenced by my previous blog entry. When things looked blackest... when I was sure the brain cloud was here to stay... I received this email:

Hi Joe,

I recently moved back to Ormond Beach and I have tried connecting with a few old friends. How are you doing?

L----l

To which I replied:

Dear L---l,

I'm GRAND!

Considering the fact that I now demark my life into Before L---l and After L---l periods, (BL and AL respectively going forward) I can tell you unequivocally that I have no interest in connecting with you in any manner. I'm not even certain how I would qualify as a friend to you. Perhaps you've forgotten the circumstances under which we last had any interaction? Thirteen years ago you singlehandedly set about destroying several people's lives, starting with mine, in a manic bid to become the incarnation of Shiva.

So no. No thank you. Take your friendship elsewhere, point it at someone else and pull the trigger. I've had more than my fair share.

Let me make it abundantly clear that I would like the AL portion of my life to remain sociopath free. Any further contact after this point I would characterize as harassment.

Kindest regards,

Joe

Overkill?

Not if you know L----l. This is a person so evil that we don't even speak her name, lest we wake the demon.

On a bright note, I felt better instantly.

It Never Ends

2009-05-22T07:10:00.003-04:00

I can still remember as he lay on that cold, stainless steel table. I bent down to give him one last kiss on his grand head and smelled the ghost of skunk that still lingered.

Soft, soft ears.

From Arthur

I love you.

Precious Moments

2009-05-20T22:59:00.003-04:00

I'll have to defer to my teacher for confirmation on this, but I think it was my kindergarten year when I was in a certain school play. My role was that of a young homeless boy that lived in a box. For the posters advertising the play, students copied an image from Precious Moments to depict me. This was just after Precious Moments really hit it big in the late 70's.

My five year old brain didn't quite grasp the concept of older students co-opting this imagery to illustrate my character. I just assumed that they drew me. Leading me to believe, for several years, that I was the inspiration behind this national phenomenon of ubiquitous doe eyed children on everything from t-shirts to coffee mugs.

The Photoshoot

2009-05-17T19:34:00.003-04:00

Several months ago I was asked if I would like to pose for Leonard Nimoy's (yes... Spock) next photography project and help shoot documentary footage of it. I'd worked with Leonard on a couple of shows in the past and jumped at the opportunity.

The project was to capture the subject's "secret self".

From the R. Michelson Galleries website:

In November 2008, Leonard Nimoy was at R. Michelson Galleries in Northampton, Massachusetts, to begin his latest photographic journey: The identity Project. We gathered 100 subjects from all walks of life: artists, clergy, politicians, business owners, and asked them the question, Who do you think you are?

As Mr. Nimoy wrote: I am hoping to be surprised and delighted by what shows up in front of me. Anything from full costume to nudity, and I would encourage all of it. The "Secret Self" is the most provocative idea. Do you have a secret self?

Each subject was videoed as Mr. Nimoy interviewed them and created a portrait of their “alternate identity.” The results will be revealed in a major exhibition beginning in the summer of 2010 at MassMOCA (Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art) in conjunction with R. Michelson Galleries.

Everything went pretty normal... at least by Northampton standards. I'd missed the first day when the woman came in with her sheep.

The way we had it set up, my friend Luke was on the main camera for a wide shot and I was using a handheld dv cam to the right of the subject for close ups.

So when one of our artists showed up with her assistant for her turn, I planted myself about three feet away from her, just out of the shot. Mind you, this artist does sweet little hand painted engravings, usually Judaica themed.

Karla set up an easel with paper on it and placed her assistant on a stool directly in front of her, ostensibly to draw her. I was kneeling on the ground and blocked Karla and the assistant tight in the shot. I paid no attention to what was actually on the paper, or I might have been prepared for what came next.

The assistant hikes up her skirt to reveal... everything. And I'm there... staring straight up into it all and feeling like I was on the set of some soft core porn flick. At this point I'm kind of committed to the shot as well. So I roll with it.

Then Leonard's wife, who helped direct the photoshoot, starts yelling out, "Show more of your vagina."

It was also at this point that I heard my wife and kids arrive on the other side of the curtain which separated the prep area from the shoot.

So... if you'd like to see how it came out, here's Karla's secret self... and a link to some of the rest of the photos.

By the way... the naked dude with the dog? My friend Barry Moser from the prior blog.

Mine hasn't officially been released yet, although I have it. I'll post it when I get the go ahead.

Repost #6: My Dad's Contribution to Biological Warfare

2009-05-17T13:50:00.002-04:00

Original post: February 7, 2007

I bet you think this is a joke, don't you?

It's not.

With all of the emphasis that's been placed on biological weapons and terrorism since 9/11, there has been a renewed interest in the U.S. government's forays into bio warfare. While my father was in the army, he was a participant in biological warfare experiments at Ft. Detrick, Maryland, home of the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. I caught a show on PBS the other night about Operation Whitecoat, which reminded me of his participation.

Operation Whitecoat was the U.S. Army's solution to dealing with conscientious objectors and the perceived threat of biological warfare by the Soviet Union. My father was one of the conscientious objectors that became a human guinea pig.

Many of you know that I was raised a Seventh-Day-Adventist, which probably explains a lot about how screwed up I am. My father was also raised Seventh-Day-Adventist and like a number of others during wartime, felt a duty to serve their country, but were opposed to killing. Many, like my father, became medics. During the Viet Nam war, medics were often sitting ducks. They were inserted with slow flying helicopters and were often targets of the Viet Cong. When the U.S. Army needed human test subjects for their germ warfare experiments, they asked for volunteers from their ranks of Seventh-Day-Adventist draftees. The top secret experiments on humans were given the code name Operation Whitecoat.

My dad's experiments involved Q fever. He was exposed to the bacterium Coxiella burnetii, which usually manifests itself with flu like symptoms that last between one and two weeks. As far he knew, this was all he was ever exposed to, but you never know when it comes to this type of experimentation. In most of these experiments, the scientists would fill a 40 ft. diameter steel sphere called the Eight Ball with the particular virus or bacteria that they were studying. The volunteers would attach gas masks which had been hooked up to the Eight Ball and breathe the infected air. Then they would wait. When they began showing symptoms, treatment would be given.

I think my dad was one of the more fortunate ones. Some of the other things to which volunteers were exposed were rabbit fever, anthrax and black plague, significantly more serious diseases. Of the 2300 volunteers, none died, although there is evidence that some did experience health problems related to their exposure for years and even decades after. Operation Whitecoat came to a formal end in 1973. In 2003 on the 30th anniversary of the end of Operation Whitecoat, my dad was sent a medal for his service. It now hangs in my studio.

One surprising conclusion to which the PBS show came was that Operation Whitecoat most likely had a direct effect on Richard Nixon's decision to ratify the 1925 Geneva Protocol which prohibited the use of chemical and biological weapons in 1969. Work at Ft. Detrick continues to this day, revolving around defense against biological weapons and infectious diseases. It is also home to the National Cancer Institute.

Repost #5: Things We Did As Kids

2009-05-17T12:46:00.002-04:00

Original post: September 26, 2006

Kids like to throw things... especially at other kids.

Before the freezes of the early 80's, just about everyone I knew whose family had lived in Florida for more than one generation had at least one orange tree in their backyard. This would inevitably lead to orange fights. It was usually a free-for-all, but most everyone agreed for their own self preservation to not use green fruit. a. It's just bad form and b. They are super hard and hurt really, really bad when you get hit with one... especially in the head. Parents generally frowned on using fruit picked right from the tree too, unless you had more than you can ever eat, or give away to friends and relatives in a season.

Because of this, the weapon of choice was usually one that had fallen from the tree already and was in some stage of decay. There is a fine line between rotten enough to cause the person getting hit to gag, and so rotten that you can't even pick it up without gagging. The best ones were covered with mold like the one above and infested with fruit flies. That way when you hit someone, they exploded in a cloud of mold, fermented juice, and bugs.

We sometimes threw grapefruit, but they're big and you could screw your arm up pretty good after heaving a couple of them. Tangerines were even better than oranges, but we didn't have as many trees and often ate most before they fell. They had a thicker skin that helped them stay together long after the inside had really turned.

Good times.

Quite the Salesman

2009-05-17T12:06:00.003-04:00

In the gallery where I used to work we had an unofficial award that we bestowed when someone sold a particularly unsellable piece of artwork. It references one of the most amazing feats in sales I have ever seen.

One day, the gallery owner, Rich and I were in the gallery and a woman walks in and asks about one of our illustrators, Barry Moser. He happens to be a good friend, and has given me quite a few of his paintings. The gallery represents a number of well known children's book illustrators in addition to the fine art. Anyway, she asks if she can look at Barry's illustrations and mentions that she was looking for paintings of cats. So Rich pulls out a couple of pieces and she loves them. Then the question...

"How much are they?"

Most of Moser's full page illustrations start around $1000 and go up to $5000, which was way out of her league. She was budgeting at most around $350. Rich tried to find smaller pieces that might work, but there was really nothing that she liked. That's when he found it... at the bottom of the box of illustrations he did for a book about a dog and cat.

It was a full page illustration of a cat, from the rear, consisting of a tail, two legs and a very prominent, puckered anus.

She bought it... overjoyed that she would now own an original illustration by her favorite illustrator.

And thus was born 'The Cat Ass Award'.

Repost #4: The Royal Ontario Museum

2009-05-17T11:40:00.004-04:00

Another that many have heard about my last trip to Toronto. Edited slightly.

Original post: August 7, 2006

I have a dear friend from Canada named Deb. She, like many Canadians, think quite differently from Americans. You go to Subway and they ask you, "White or brown?" not "White or wheat?"(or at least they did before having a half dozen different kinds of bread) They can't give directions. Canadians, on average, are a mixed up bunch.

Which is why when I went to Toronto to visit Deb, I should never have asked for anyone's assistance. She left me to my own wits in the mean streets of Toronto, fending off teenage busquers playing "music". Here we call them talentless hobos looking for a handout, but I digress. She'd given me directions from her office to the Royal Ontario Museum. She said I couldn't miss it. Queen's Park, you're there. So I start walking.

I walked a long way. I walked so long that I figured I was in Ottawa, wherever that is, so I turned around and started walking back. I asked directions, but everyone gave me conflicting advice. Obviously I was lost... I found myself going in circles. I walked the length and breadth of Toronto.

That's when I found it. Big and museumy. I walked right in with a group of suits. Looked like they were there for some fundraiser or something. In the lobby area there were a couple of pathetic little displays showing how rocks are different in Ontario and not like rocks anywhere else. This place sucked. I vowed to yell at Deb as soon as I saw her for making me go to the shittiest museum on the planet. I saw some people getting on an elevator so I figured I'd go up as well. The second floor couldn't be any worse than this.

The elevator doors opened and that's when I realized this was not the ROM. There were about a hundred members of the media: print, television, radio... all waiting outside the chambers of the Ontario Legislature. I had somehow managed to get into the press corps of the Legislature. That's when all the members of the Legislature exploded from the chamber. I was in the middle of the Provincial Parlaiment, breathing my American germs on the Canadian governing body.

I figured I was going to be arrested. But, as easily as I got into the situation, I got back out. I hopped on the elevator, through the lobby, past the guards and out the door. No RCMP, nothing.

I eventually got to see the ROM. It was pretty good. I also got on Breakfast Television while I was there. That's like talking to Al Roker, I guess, but I sure as hell didn't stand around for hours with a stupid sign trying to get on tv. They came to me. From walking all over looking for the ROM I got shin splints and had trouble walking for a couple days, spending a lot of the time on Deb's couch.

That's what it looks like, if you're lost... and you're a bird.

Repost #3: The Moped Story

2009-05-17T11:28:00.002-04:00

Now I know a lot of you have read or heard this one, but it's a classic.

Original post: August 7, 2006

For those of you who have never heard the moped story, here it is:

Back in 1993 I moved to Elkhorn, Wisconsin, sans car. It's a pretty small town, so people know pretty much everyone in town. At the time, money was really tight and my girlfriend's brother offered me their old Suzuki FZ50. It was summer, I worked about half a mile from my apartment, and had no pride whatsoever. Well, summer turned into fall... and eventually winter. Wisconsin sucks in the winter, even more if you are riding a moped. And since I hadn't made enough money to cover the purchase even the shittiest of enclosed vehicles, I was riding a moped in the snow. I'm not a small guy. 6' around 190 at the time, getting that thing to go over 20 mph required me to lean over the handlebars to get the least wind resistance possible. With winter, this was even more critical as any bit of exposed skin froze. Most days by the time I got to work I had to smack my gloved hands against the wall to get enough feeling back into them to unlock the door. It was a long, cold winter.

That January I began taking computer classes at a small technical college a few miles away. Most of the time my girlfriend gave me a ride, so I didn't have to ride the moped out there. I was pretty adept at the computer work and was feeling pretty good about myself. Everyone thought I was really smart and they constantly asked for help with using Windows. Around the third week the instructor decided we should get to know each other a little better and so we went around the room telling where we were from, where we worked, etc. It came to me and don't ask me how, don't ask me why, I somehow vomited, "I have a moped." Apropos of nothing.

Three people turned their heads, looked directly at me and said, in unison,

"So you're the one."

Yes... I am the one. Forever a legend in the small, southern Wisconsin town of Elkhorn.

Repost #2: Overheard at Friendly's

2009-05-17T11:09:00.003-04:00

Repost #2 from my MySpace blog:

Original Post: June 23, 2006

True story

The other day I went to Friendly's with my six year old son, Fletcher. I detest Friendly's unless it's 10:30 at night and I'm craving ice cream or cheesy fries, but it was a treat for him. The hostess seated Fletcher and me in a two person booth. I hate these too. The waitress was taking her sweet ass time coming to our table and I noticed the guy across from us. He was seated after us and was already eating. I would guess he was in his sixties... a little stooped and weary.

He looked lonely, like maybe his own son was grown and moved away and his wife had died and he was living all alone in the big house that he'd bought her just after they were married. He would glance at Fletcher and a wistful smile would cross his face while Fletch told me the stuff he'd done in school that day. He was undoubtedly remembering those same conversations that he'd had with his son, before time and other obligations stripped him of everything but his memories.

After a while it became obvious how much interest he was showing in our conversation... living vicariously through me.

me: "Wanna go get some beer?"
Fletcher: "No."

The guy kind of smiles.

me: "Wanna go to the horse track?"
Fletcher: "No." frowning

The guy laughs a little.

me: "Wanna go pick up some girls?"
Fletcher: "No." scowling

The guy audibly laughs.

me: "Wanna kill a hobo?"

The guy nearly choked on his burger.

I don't care who you are... don't eavesdrop on my conversations. You might get more than you bargained for. Especially if I'm hungry.

Disclaimer: We didn't actually kill a hobo.

Repost #1: Fred Rogers

2009-05-17T10:37:00.004-04:00

Since leaving MySpace is going to orphan a lot of blog entries, I'm going to start re-posting some of them here. The first is about Fred Rogers. Say what you will about Mr. Rogers. I was never what one would call a fan of his show. There was something about the puppets that always creeped me out. His contribution to a channel which had so much of an effect on me growing up, however, is beyond measure.

Original Post: May 30, 2006

In 1967, President Lyndon Johnson recommended that Congress enact the Public Television Act. This would provide $20 million over two years as initial funding for the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. By 1969, President Nixon was pushing Congress to cut funding in half.

In the middle of the Congressional appropriations hearing, Fred Rogers was called to speak in front of the committee, headed by Senator Pastore of Rhode Island, to support the original funding. Rogers was relatively unknown in the United States. His show Mister Rogers had aired on the CBC with many of the familiar puppets that would appear in the later show, Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood.

Senator Patore was combative and unfriendly. He begrudgingly allowed Rogers to speak, giving the impression that it was a lost cause and funding would be cut anyway.

Rogers began with his even, calm tone.

This is what I give. I give an expression of care every day to each child, to help him realize that he is unique. I end the program by saying, "you've made this day a special day by just your being you. There's no person in the whole world like you, and I like you just the way you are." I feel that if we in public television can only make it clear that feelings are mentionable and manageable, we will have done a great service.

In all he spoke for under six minutes, but in that time he managed to convince everyone, including Senator Pastore, that the broadcasting provided by PBS was vital.

After Rogers concluded his speech, Senator Pastore, simply said,

I think it's wonderful. That is just so wonderful. Looks like you just won the twenty million dollars.

PBS got its funding, and created a generation of children, myself included, eternally grateful to Fred Rogers for his brilliant, eloquent speech.

Meow meow, kitty, meow meow.

Full video of the speech is here.

Bad eBay Art of the Week #27

2009-05-16T10:29:00.001-04:00

The last Bad eBay Art of the Week was posted on the Fourth of July 2007, but even then I was posting rather sporadically. Don't bother going back in the archives as they were all on my myspace page... a dirty, dirty place that I wouldn't suggest you visit. At least not my profile. I have to tell you. It feels good to get back on the horse... or unicorn as it were.

And I have to warn the uninitiated... this may very well be NSFW. It might also burn out your retinas. I'll likely use multi-syllabic dirty words.

Bad eBay Art of the Week #27! Who'd have thought that we'd ever get to number 27? Not those of you that were left hanging two years ago, I'll guess. If I'd been doing this properly, we'd be around #150 or so, but I'm rather lazy... and some have even called me unreliable. What's the theme this week? No theme. Relax people, let me ease back into this. Beggars can't be choosers.

I've made some changes since you saw one of these last. You'll note that because eBay auctions are rather transient events, all of my links are worthless within a week or two of my post. So I'll be putting the images in the post. This sort of blows the anticipation between the description and the actual piece of artwork when you click on the link. But if this is going to be a blog for the ages... a record of most of mankind's inability to harness the muses or notions of value... sacrifices must be made. So, click on the title to go to the auction and click on the photo to see it on my Flickr set.

If you're new, the blog always starts with a rooster. Don't ask me why, the reasons are lost in the mists of eBay history. But it's necessary. Trust me.

Obligatory Rooster Art: El Diablo
This one brings me back to my carefree, cockfighting salad days.

Danny ByL? What's he up to? Blue Man
Everyone's favorite ex-dentist painter may have just let us in on a little secret about his painting technique with this self portrait. I think he paints with his eyes closed. Danny managed to tear himself away from the awkwardly executed tits and ass paintings for which he's so well known, and presents us with a tiny peek inside the artists' mind. And inside that mind? Jame Gumb. And if you aren't familiar with his work, do yourself a favor... wander through his other auctions. You won't be disappointed.

New Horizons in Digital Photography Award:
Disgusting Toilet
by Unknown
I swear... even though I'm living as a bachelor, this is not a photo of my toilet.

The In 5 Years No One Will Recognize This Name Award: Susan Boyle with Beads #5 By Joyce Kenney
I don't know what's more disconcerting, that she painted a picture of manipulated reality show flash in the pan, Susan Boyle, or that there are five of them.

The Not What I Expected from the Title Award: Open Wide By Jeff Lasley
Considering all of the semi-pornographic, rarely erotic art on eBay, I expected something a little more filthy.

Second Runner Up Australia By Cindy K
or as I like to call it, Closeted Gay Dude and Frigid Harpy.

First Runner Up Untitled By Unknown
Reminiscent of all that 70's porn your parents used to love... a simpler time when it was possible to be white and pull off two afros.

Winner Baby Angel By Unknown
Angel... alien... whatever.

Thanks for stopping by to read. I really am going to make a concerted effort to do a weekly Bad eBay Art of the Week blog, because really, to do otherwise would make the title a little disingenuous. And because you've been so nice, I'll throw you a little bonus.

Jamestown

2009-05-14T22:45:00.003-04:00

May 14, 2009

Jamestown
By Jack, Fletcher and Alyssa J

This is why Jamestown is important. Jamestown was the first English colony. The settlers came from England. They came for silver and gold but they couldn't find anything. Instead they found Powhatans. The settlers made friends with the Powhatans and helped each other. That is why Jamestown is important.

Perhaps an explanation is in order

2009-05-12T21:28:00.002-04:00

As some of you know, and most of you don't, I've been going through a bit of a transition lately. Even if you weren't in the loop, so to speak, you might have noticed that things were... well... different.

Different backgrounds to familiar objects. New views from different windows.

I'm separated. I'm living alone in my own little apartment in Holyoke. It's a hole... I hate it. I miss my kids. I miss my wife.

But this is how it needs to be.

I won't go into any details about why, or what, or anything. It's not fair to my wife to air out details here. But people have been wondering. And frankly, it probably seemed as if I'd lost my mind if you didn't know.

So, with my new "free time" I'm trying to get my act together. To be a better person. To be a better father. To finish projects that have lingered too long. To start new ones that get me to the place where I love my job, rather than dread every day. I've been pissing my life away.

And I figure that once I like myself again, I'll probably be a more likable person to you too.

That, or I'll just hang myself with a belt.

Survivor

2009-05-12T21:20:00.001-04:00

Window Seat

2009-05-10T14:00:00.002-04:00

Upon Friending My Kindergarten Teacher on Facebook

2009-04-26T22:48:00.004-04:00

How exactly do I prepare someone who knew me as a five year old for the kind of nonsense that might erupt from me online?

Especially since I, as an unrepentant sinner and general scalawag, might offend her sensibilities as a teacher in a Christian school with the myriad of questionable subjects upon which I write and the vulgar language I use.

Then again, like the farmer with a stalk of volunteer corn in his soybean field, she had to have an idea that I was bound to be no good.

Forgive me Miss Suttill... I know not what I do.

Make a wish

2009-04-23T23:22:00.003-04:00

I once broke a wishbone with my wife.

Each of the ends broke off in our hands and the center part flew up into the air. It arced down and one of the sharp ends stuck into my shoulder.

I'm just sayin'.

Happy Easter!

2009-04-12T18:02:00.001-04:00

They Say It's Magic

2009-03-06T21:59:00.003-05:00

Something I wrote in early 2001... It was sent to me tonight. I somehow managed to completely lose and forget this piece.

I'm lucky to have friends that are more careful with my work than I am.

"Don't tell mom," he said
Sweaty palms hand coins to the barker
And we duck through the tent flap
They say it's magic

What follows is a tired rendition
Card tricks I've seen before
Mind reading shills in the audience
And, of course, invisible string

"For my final trick, I'll saw a woman in half."
Queued, she dances onstage
Raven hair streaming
Her outfit three sizes too small

I feel a nudge in the dark
"It's all smoke and mirrors,"
But his eyes never leave her
The magic is secondary

She does a slow bump and grind
Vaults into the box
Winks to the crowd
And proceeds to be halved

The boxes roll apart on squeaky casters
Her gaze momentarily stopping on me
Toes wiggling, she gives a small smile
Full of crooked teeth

Restored under cover of a dirty sheet
The box opens, revealing her whole again
Writhing having shifted her top
Leaving a dark nipple exposed

"That's the show folks. Next one in ten minutes,"
Hot lead in my belly
I pull my jacket down as we exit the tent
Concealing the guilty bulge in my pants

"Good show… you think?"
I mumble assent, kicking up sawdust
Guess your weight… 25 cents
Too good to pass up

A Blog for Him

2009-03-05T22:35:00.006-05:00

The phone woke me early, in those hours reserved for bad news. It was my Aunt Doris.

"Joey, your father has passed," she said in her simple southern voice.

There was more. There had to have been more, but those are the only words I remember. Jesus was mentioned more than once.

And all at once my life changed. I began making the obligatory calls.

I'd made a commitment to meet my friend Barry at the gallery that morning to help him load some books. Barry grew up in Chattanooga and his southern dialect gives comfort against the flinty background of the north. I naturally gravitated to him when I moved to Massachusetts and he became a friend and mentor.

So when I saw him I broke down and cried. I told him about my dad, and of course he yelled at me for not calling to cancel with him. But he was the person I wanted to see more than anyone else right then. So we talked about fathers, and dogs, and losing both of them. And in the end I was ready to get on the plane to Florida.

The next day I flew down and stayed at my mother's house in Ormond Beach. She and dad had gotten divorced several years before and she was in Michigan at the time. Dad had lived the last year or so of his life in Palm Coast, just a little north of Ormond. The funeral home was located in Palm Coast as well. I drove up to make the arrangements for my father. Jeff, the funeral director, was an earnest guy. He took me into a room to discuss the procedure and was treating me with kid gloves. He had no idea what he was in for.

My father was matter of fact about his death. He had his stroke in 1997 and wasn't expected to live. I assumed he would ask me to end his life, rather than linger on attached to a machine. Through sheer determination on his part, he recovered quite a bit of his mobility and his ability to breathe without a ventilator. From this point on, there was an understanding that if he should ever have another stroke or health crisis, nothing should be done to prolong his life. In a sense, I became resigned to his death many years before, and his life after had been on borrowed time.

So when it did come, it was with a mixed sense of sadness and relief that it was finally over. He had been trapped in that numb, unresponsive body far too long.

Jeff was a little taken aback by my disposition. I informed him that my father had requested no service. He wanted to be cremated and no fuss made whatsoever about his death. It was an interesting experience being the person to make these decisions for my dad that he could not make for himself.

"What kind of urn would you like?"

"No, no urn."

Jeff grimaced a little and took me into the "showroom" so to speak, where the caskets were kept. There he showed me three containers. One was a cardboard box reinforced with plywood, one a simple wooden box, and the last a finished wooden box.

"These are the cremation vessels." he explained. "They hold the body when it goes into the crematorium."

"The cardboard one," I said without hesitation.

This was, after all, what they intended on burning him up in. My dad would have haunted me if I'd chosen one of the wooden ones. As it was, I was afraid he'd appear like Hamlet's father to hector me for spending $85 on a cardboard box.

Then Jeff asked me about the container for the ashes.

"We have several options for transport of the cremains. You can purchase something here or bring something from home."

"Bring something from home?" I asked, "What do you mean?"

He said I could bring an appropriate container. I got the impression that when he said appropriate, he meant one of sufficient volume to contain the ashes. Now the only cremains I'd ever seen were those of his patient, Erna, but she was a tiny Italian lady. I wasn't quite sure what would be appropriate for the average man sized cremains.

"Would a five gallon bucket be ok?" I asked.

He looked at me a little funny.

"That will be fine," he said, before he realized I was kidding. He told me I would be surprised by some of the things that people brought in. I told him that the simple wooden container that they sold for $180 would be suitable. After getting shafted on the service, grave, gravestone, casket and cremation vessel, I figured I should throw him a bone. $180 for a $2 box still stung a little.

So he took me back to the room and began adding everything up.

"Would you like to see your father?"

It was the question I'd been anticipating.

"Sure," I said.

He left and informed the person that prepares the bodies for viewing to get him ready for me to see him. He said it would be a few minutes and after a little while he came for me. He took me to the doorway of a room where the bodies were placed for viewing. He cracked the door and told me to take as long as I wanted. Then he left me alone.

I entered the room. Frankly, dad looked pretty good. Or maybe he just looked that bad alive, but still. I didn't have that sense of uneasiness that arose when I'd seen other people I knew who had died. They never quite looked like the same person. I took a few minutes with him and then went back and opened the door. Jeff came out of the office when he heard the noise.

"That isn't him... That's not my father," I told him.

Jeff blanched.

"I'm just kidding," I told him.

Poor Jeff. He was a good guy just trying to help a kid get rid of his dad's body in the most expedient manner possible. I'm sure he had to deal with a lot of horrible, untimely and tragic passings. And here I was being an ass, while he was making final arrangements for my dad. I'll never forget his patient assistance and good humor.

When I left, I visited the Bulow Sugar Mill Ruins, just south of the funeral home. It was there that many years ago, my father and uncle waded neck deep into Bulow Creek in the middle of the night. They were trying to feel with their feet for the 19th century bottles tossed in in the creek by partygoers at the plantation. He loved to tell the story how, as he and my uncle shuffled their feet in the muck to try and find the bottles, a six foot alligator slowly passed between them within arms reach, eyes blazing with the reflection of their headlamps.

I sat there for a long time. An egret fished along the edge of the brackish water through which he'd waded those many years ago. And on the bank of Bulow Creek, under a sky more holy than any church, I said goodbye to my father.

Dad on his 73rd

2009-03-04T00:01:00.001-05:00

My dad would have been 73 years old today.

Most people knew him as an easygoing family practice physician.

While in high school, he pulled a pistol on his principal.

He once shot out the back window of the truck owned by a guy that was trespassing on our farm. Another time he took two guys at gunpoint from our farm to the police station in town... sitting with them in the back of the truck while my brother drove... for picking shrooms.

He broke his neck in a car accident and had to be put in a halo... he was seeing patients in his office three days later.

He twice pissed away more money in the span of a couple of years than I am likely to ever see in my lifetime.

Snakes feared him when he had his golf clubs.

He was generous with time and money, but rarely with patience or praise.

He imparted the wisdom in me to not judge a man by what he wore or how he spoke.

At times he taught me how to be... and others, how not to be.

He was a man for which the words pride and shame had no meaning.

Happy Birthday dad. I don't know what you'd think of me if you could see me today.

Surprise!

2009-02-22T12:00:00.004-05:00

My son had a sleepover last night and when he came home this morning he told me that the door on my Volkswagen wasn't shut tight. Odd... since I have to depress the handle to lock it. It was just about to rain, so I went on outside to check on it. And that's when I discovered... this:

From Cabriolet

In better times:

From Cabriolet

Welcome to Holyoke.

I try to be upbeat about Holyoke, but this just pisses me off. It's not the radio... it was ok, but nothing fantastic. It's the fact that somebody in this cancer ridden town would cut a hole in the top of a 22 year old car and yank out a cheap radio. It doesn't even make sense.

New Year's Resolution/Coming Soon

2009-01-05T00:18:00.000-05:00

For those of you that have been around a while, you'll remember my Bad Ebay Art of the Week Blogs.

I've decided I'm bringing it back.

Next Christmas...

2009-01-03T13:02:00.001-05:00

...we're waiting another week before we get our tree.

You think your Christmas was rough...

2008-12-30T20:09:00.001-05:00

From the Daytona Beach News Journal

December 30, 2008

2 Face Charges for Penis Tattoo on Fellow Inmate
By LYDA LONGA
Staff Writer

DAYTONA BEACH -- Lempira Norman had a lousy Christmas.

Not only was he housed at the Volusia County Branch Jail on Dec. 25, he also, by force, got a penis tattooed on his back by two fellow inmates, a report shows.

Norman told sheriff's deputies that Justine Harris and Ryan Collina had been harassing him all day because they wanted him to join a club they were forming. An annoyed Norman refused and went back to his room.

A few minutes later though, Harris and Collina showed up with a blanket and ordered Norman to get on the floor, the report shows. They threw the blanket on his head and began pummeling him.

The men threatened Norman, saying he would get a worse beating unless he allowed them to apply a tattoo, the report shows. Harris told Norman the tattoo would be of a capital and lowercase B, the report said.

But instead, as Collina held Norman down, Harris -- equipped with a makeshift tattoo kit -- applied a drawing of a penis on the back of the victim's right shoulder, the report shows.

When Norman reported the ordeal, the tattoo kit was confiscated, and Harris and Collina were charged with aggravated battery to a detainee, by a detainee.

To Al, from Cathy

2008-12-28T11:57:00.008-05:00

I've been sitting on this for a couple of weeks now. I recently went through a trunk of the last of my dad's possessions. Well, actually most of the things, including the trunk, weren't really his possessions. For a couple of years before his stroke, he bid on random storage unit lots that were being auctioned for past due rental fees.

I'm not quite certain what he hoped to accomplish. For the most part, the stuff was the kind of junk that you would let go rather than pay what you owed. Occasionally he'd find something, like my antique brass theodolite, that was really worth something. So I went through everything, piece by piece, separating out my dad's things that I wanted to keep and discarding the rest.

And then I came upon this in a wooden box:

Thirty-four years ago tomorrow, Cathy sent this postcard to Al at the Ohio State Reformatory. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Since my dad found this in Daytona, I have to believe that Al came to Florida after his time in the big house in order to get back together with Cathy.

The fact that Al kept this for so many years makes me think he couldn't have been all bad. But that he did leads me to believe that she ended up being the one that got away... That this postcard, received at a down and out part of his life, was the only part of her he had left to hang on to.

How Old Is Too Old?

2008-12-21T19:41:00.004-05:00

I'm not one for Christmas songs. As a matter of fact, it's just about this time of year that I want to go all Falling Down on people when I walk into a place and find Christmas music blasting. There are exactly two Christmas songs that never elicit this response... Snoopy Vs The Red Baron by The Royal Guardsmen and Father Christmas by The Kinks... two rather diametrically opposed approaches to the holiday season.

In fact I often find myself singing Father Christmas... in front of the kids... which has prompted strange looks from them.

When I was small I believed in Santa Claus
Though I knew it was my dad
And I would hang up my stocking at Christmas
Open my presents and not be glad...

See... we've never had The Talk with Fletcher. We almost did last year. We almost did this year. I don't think he really believes any more, but he also hasn't given us the "I'm in on the joke" thing when Blythe talks about Santa.

It's strange for me, because I had older brothers, I was disabused of the notion of a fat guy in a red suit coming down the chimney rather early on. That and the fact I'm sort of a pragmatist deep down. Fletcher is a dreamer. But he'll be nine in January and frankly, if he does still believe in Santa, I'm concerned about his gullibility meter.

So now I'm left in a quandry. Do I let it go? Or do I take him to the park where I told him that my dad died and that Arthur died and tell him Santa Claus is dead too?

Love

2008-12-07T19:50:00.001-05:00

Love
Originally uploaded by coleopteranpress

The Crimbo Tree

2008-12-07T19:24:00.003-05:00

We went to a cut your own place in Gr... No... I'm not telling you where because they had awesome trees and I don't want everyone going there.

I felt like Clark Griswold when I got it on the car, and especially after trying to get it in the house. Somehow it doesn't translate here, but the tree is about 8 feet in diameter at the base. If we didn't have such a big living room, we'd be in trouble. As it was, we had to rearrange the room more than ever before.

And you might notice that thing at the top. No, it's not an angel. It's the Elf on the Shelf, a tradition we started a couple of years ago after getting the book. The elf reports back to Santa nightly and finds a new place in the house to watch for the next day. It keeps the kids on their toes.

No, this is our angel... for sweet, sweet Arthur.

Saying goodbye is remarkably easy

2008-11-27T15:13:00.003-05:00

Wednesday was my last day at Fallon Clinic in Worcester. I've taken a new job in Springfield with a retina practice. Things are going to be a little rough back at Fallon for a little while as there are only a couple of people who know how to do my job... And they already have other responsibilities. I felt a little bad about quitting, but after getting walloped last year by a truck in a snowstorm, I just have too many reservations about commuting. So I wrote a letter to everyone.

This year I'm thankful I won't have to drive 120 miles round trip to work any more.

It's been a pleasure working with each and every one of you... well, for a couple it wasn't and you know who you are. But the rest of you… it was fun.

I’d like to thank each of you that took the time to teach me what you know and help me learn how to be even more awesome… if that is even possible.

Everything that I’m taking with me, I owe to you. Despite my unlimited show of self-confidence, when I started here I knew nothing… and you all were willing to give me a chance and impart your knowledge to me.

For those that started after me, I’m glad I had the opportunity to pass along some of that knowledge to you. Do the same to those who come after you.

The days ahead without me will be dark and perilous. There will be times when you'll think the skies will break open, the oceans will boil, and everything will come to a catastrophic end. But you will survive... most of you anyway. To those I say, be nice to each other… help each other out. Remember that we’re here for each other. Patients depend on us to ensure that they remain as healthy as possible. Treat each of them like they were your family… if you like your family, I guess.

Remember, I share 99% of my DNA with chimpanzees, so if I could do it, they can probably train a lemur to replace me. In fact, if Fallon could get away with filling out a W2 for a salary of peanuts and bananas, there would already be a couple here. Life will go on without me. It just won’t be as colorful or taste as sweet.

As a final gift, I give you this...

From Old Family Pics

...proof I wasn't always as bad as I am now.

Thanks for everything,

JOE

Happy Thanksgiving 1979

2008-11-25T19:12:00.002-05:00

From Random

Made with my very own front paw.

From Old Family Pics

Proud graduate of the Crafty School of Art.

William Lyons is spinning in his grave

2008-11-02T14:13:00.003-05:00

A couple of weeks ago I mentioned seeing my second favorite car... The Jaguar Mk II sedan.

From Jaguar Mk2

So today I'm browsing through eBay looking at cars I can't afford to either buy or maintain and I run across this... this... clusterfuck. There's no other word to describe it.

Here's the description:

Dare to be different with this one!!!!!! Car started life as a 4 door 1962 Jaguar Mk2. The car is chopped 5 1/2 inches and is mated to an s-10 chassis. This car has a fresh 355 chevy motor and full race t-350 transmission.The motor is an 010 block w/4 bolt main, 58cc heads,noisey gears, scat crank,blue racer cam 284 grind. Roller rockers,750 holly,edlebrock intake and a 750 holley, s-10 v8 conversion headers,new aluminum radiator and lincoln mk3 cooling fan and 0 miles(has been test run) chassis is c notched,and air bagged with fb system, has 4 wheel disc with zinc plated slotted and drilled rotors, upper tubular a arms. Rear end is from 2000 blazer and has new posi unit and 373 gears.Wheels are new 18" Corvette on the back and new 15" Mickey Thompson Skinnies on the front.Car comes with lots of parts, if serious I can e-mail a list to you. I have owned this car for approx 14 years and originally bought it in Arizona which is where it is titled. It's current home is in North Carolina. The hard work is done! Body work needs finishing,interior needs finishing. Let's just say it is a work in progress. The drivetrain is complete as is the exhaust system, but must be wired(new harness included) and plumbed to run and drive. Every one that sees this car freaks out and can't figure out what it is...old ford,mercury...what??? This car will truely attract attention and I don't believe there is another like it. Being a project it is sold as-is where is. Hate to see it go, new business and space require it does.. You finish the way you want, Rat rod, Hot rod, Custom.......Vehicle is listed locally, and seller reserves the right to end auction early if sold.

1962 Jaguar Mk 11 on eBay.

I can't believe someone did this to a poor defenseless Jag.

A Political Response

2008-10-25T12:07:00.003-04:00

Yesterday I read a blog from one of my regular feeds... a nice, extremely smart guy from Florida that is of Minorcan descent. As a 9th generation member of one of the oldest ethnic groups in Florida, he's a strong defender of the Old Florida... people that know what a coontie and a datil are.

So it was with trepidation that I contemplated responding to his blog, I've had it... It's the final straw. What set him off was the story about the girl who had a "B" carved into her face because she was a McCain volunteer... which has turned out to be false. I don't know... what was their first clue? That it was backward?

Anyway, he is concerned about voters being unable or unwilling to note Obama's general failings as a viable choice for President. On the one hand, I wish I was HALF as politically motivated at his age.

But on the other, I'm concerned that his arguments, from my perspective, are based on some fairly spurious innuendo by Republican leadership.

So I had to respond... and I tried to do it in a way that does not negate his political views. I welcome people that think differently than me because it makes me really examine why I'm voting. I think we will have to agree to disagree on most things, but want the argument to be substantive.

You're obviously intelligent... I've been reading your blog long enough to pick that up. But I can't understand why you're regurgitating half-truths about Obama.

There are lot of things I don't know about either candidate.

Regarding #1

McCain was, at one time, an amazing legislator. He broke with the party line when he felt that his constituency would not be served by their policy. Frankly, I think McCain is a little too aggressive in his foreign policy. But where it really broke down for me was his choice of running mate. Palin had little business being Alaska's Governor, much less next in line for the Presidency. She has proven time and again that she has little ability to think beyond the confines of her own stunted belief system and she thinks government can be run like the PTA. It was a clear message to me that McCain's interest was doing what he thought could get him elected, not what was good for the country. I don't care how much experience you have, once you start acting incompetent in the present, you negate any claims to experience in the past.

So what we are left with is a questionably senile old man and a poorly informed, hypocritical "hockey mom" or an "inexperienced" U.S. Senator and his 5 term, middle of the road Senator VP nominee. Choose. Now. You’ve got four years to live with your decision.

Regarding #2

The things that I've questioned about Obama, I've actually taken the time to read about... you know, from unbiased sources. What do you disagree with that ACORN has done? Its work to ensure low to middle income families have access to health care and affordable housing? Its work to help Hurricane Katrina victims?

I know... it’s their work to register voters, isn't it? Because you believe that ACORN is involved in massive voter registration fraud, right?

What do you know about it... really? Tell me what they've done. Because everything that I've read that bothers to go beyond the fact that ACORN received fraudulent registration forms notes that they have followed the legal requirements and flagged them as problematic. They have been upfront with the issue that fraudulent registrations have been taken and possibly even submitted by their employees. Yikes! and then they fired them... and cooperated with prosecutors and the FBI. Where does and organization's responsibility for the actions of its employees end?

And what about Bill Ayers? What was the connection to Obama? Bill Ayers is a douchebag. We agree on that. But the connection between the two was tangential at best, and that is obvious to anyone that knows anything about how politics work in the real world. They served on the boards of two non-profits together. Ayers hosted a meet and greet for Obama's first run for Illinois Senate. The Ayers connection there was more with Alice Palmer than with Obama.

If this kind of connection is enough to link someone to another's nefarious past, then I have no doubt that both you and I could be tied to child molesters, the Klan, drug dealers and jack-o-lantern smashers.

As for Wright... I don't really know much about him. I've heard bits of some sermons that I don't necessarily agree with. There are statements that he perpetuated (like the US government made HIV) that are pure craziness. But I've heard sermons in my own church growing up that I didn't agree with and would disclaim today. But if you read some of those sermons about American foreign and domestic policy... the ones that got everybody up in arms... he was largely right. The US government does do a lot of things that make us look overbearing in the eyes of the world. And the US government has treated Native Americans, minorities (probably even MINORCANS) and women as second class citizens in our history. The really funny thing is that McCain defended Obama and his connection to Wright during the Democratic primary when Hillary was beating up on him.

"I think that when people support you, it doesn't mean that you support everything they say. Obviously, those words and those statements are statements that none of us would associate ourselves with, and I don't believe that Senator Obama would support any of those, as well."

Regarding #3

"My attitude is that if the economy's good for folks from the bottom up, it's gonna be good for everybody. I think when you spread the wealth around, it's good for everybody."

What don't you agree with? Do you equate everyone participating in a healthy economy to be socialism?

I understand that there are policy issues that you might have with Obama. But please... argue the real issues and not the fake stories that get thrown out there to confuse things and play on our fears.

Punkins

2008-10-19T12:47:00.004-04:00

Halloween is my favorite holiday and yesterday was punkin' pickin' day. We went to a new place...

From Kids

Fletcher Farm in Easthampton, of course! We took one of Fletcher's friends from school.

They had some nice pumpkins...

From Kids

...and we made some new friends.

From Kids

Ham, Sausage...

From Kids

...and Bacon.

One of us even kissed a cow.

From Kids

We selected our pumpkins and made for home.

From Kids

I'm taking suggestions for what to carve in them.

A note... don't worry about making the hay ride. There wasn't much to it. We circled one empty field, crossed the road and circled another. Unless you happen to catch a college cheerleading team , Playboy playmates, or a group of librarian fetishists having a weekend outing in Western Massachusetts, it's going to be a boring, dusty ride.

Apple Pickin'

2008-10-19T10:07:00.004-04:00

I forgot to post last week's outing... apple picking.

We went to Clarkdale Orchard up in Deerfield.

From Apple Picking 2008

The last time we were there, Blythe was only two...

From Apple Picking 2008

...somebody has grown a bit.

From Apple Picking 2008

Looks like it's time for some apple pie.

While we were there, I saw my second favorite car, the MkII Jaguar... in British racing green, like it should be.

From Jaguar Mk2

After that we headed down to Old Deerfield Village for their colonial chocolate exhibit.

From Apple Picking 2008

It was interesting to have hot chocolate prepared as the colonials did. The recipe called for many spices, including star anise and pepper. I never realized how much chocolate was used in colonial America. As a matter of fact, Ben Franklin sold chocolate out of his Philly print shop and British soldiers were given a chocolate ration during the French and Indian War.

The exhibit was sponsored by Mars, Inc. and you can order chocolate made with an original colonial recipe from their website, American Heritage Chocolate.

Small Beer Press

2008-10-05T15:22:00.005-04:00

I first met Gavin Grant of Small Beer Press when he brought the original cover art for The Mount into the gallery for framing.

Cover art by Shelley Jackson

No explanation... just a painting of a dude with a bit in his mouth and a saddle on his back.

When he picked it up I asked him about it, and he told me that he was the editor and publisher of an insane little private press with his wife, Kelly Link, an interesting author in her own right.

Over the years I've crossed paths with them at various events in the area... most often at Holly Black's infamous annual New Year's party. Please... no pictures... I might want a career in politics one day.

Well, for October Gavin and Kelly decided to make their entire catalog of 26 books available for the low, low price of $249 and are giving 20% of the proceeds of all sales to the Obama campaign. So... if you have an interest in some good literary fiction, stop by the Small Beer Press website and see if anything looks good. Everything is on sale... up to 60% off in some cases.

And if you're voting for McCain/Palin, suck it up and buy something anyway. At least you'll have something to throw on the fire when Palin starts burning books.

Would you believe...

2008-09-28T18:53:00.003-04:00

...the new daily driver is a 1987 Volkswagen Cabriolet?

From Cabriolet

No cracks about it being a girl's car.

There's something about 80's cars that I love. There are few cars from this time period more iconic than a Mk1 Volkswagen... they are the forefathers of the modern hot hatchbacks. Plus it's great riding around with the top down.

The heat works, the air works, new Alpine radio with iPod adapter, tires with tread... and it's pretty good on gas. It's already got the Mustang beat.

Sometimes Nothing Can Be a Real Cool Hand

2008-09-27T11:09:00.005-04:00

It's with a heavy heart that I wake to a world without Paul Newman. Note to Lalo Schiffrin... compose something fitting.

Goodbye Lucas Jackson

Goodbye Reggie Dunlop

Goodbye Brick Pollit

Goodbye Ben Quick

Goodbye Fast Eddie

Goodbye Harry Gondorff

And goodbye Butch...

Mr. Newman, I regret I never had the opportunity to meet you. You were a man among men.