P.A. Kane's Blog, page 4

I Feel Like Going Home . . .

         A home is often fraught with conflict, piles of laundry and endless things that need to be fixed or replaced. It is also a place with people who look like you, breath like you and who won’t laugh too much when they see you in your underwear. O’Malley embraced everything about home. He loved places where people rooted their lives and loved songs about people wanting to be where they rooted their lives.


    This was never more true than when he found himself with tears welling in his eyes in the parking lot of South Park Optical as he listened to I Feel Like Going Home, by Yo La Tengo. He didn't so much hear the song drifting from his satellite radio as much as he processed its dreamy atmospherics and felt its sad longing for the warm places where we take cover from the world—home.
    Wiping away the tears as the song concluded O’Malley laughed to himself at his, always near to the surface, emotions and thought of another weepy “home” song. It was a summer night and he was having a cocktail with his wife on the back porch listening to John Prine’s Summer’s End from “The Forgiveness Tree.” The meditative summery vibe it roused an image for O'Malley of his long dead mother. Like in a grainy home movie his mom was taking laundry down from a line and mugging for the camera with a big smile. A summer breeze blew through her hair and of course—as the author of ten children—she was pregnant. Yet, standing there, trapped in time, she was still so beautiful. And, as the moving chorus implored the listener to: Come on home . . . O’Malley began to cry and long for his dead mother.

    When O’Malley’s wife realized what was happening she was very concerned and asked, “What’s the matter?”     Regaining his composure O’Malley explained to her how the song created a vision of his mother and how he missed her. Though married nearly twenty-five years she was unaware of the depth of his emotions and after kissing him on the cheek she proceeded to gently tease him for crying . . . which O’Malley loved.     Next time it came up she was all atwitter, “This is the song that makes you cry, right? Kids, come watch daddy cry . . . hurry.”     Looking at her, looking at him, waiting for him to become emotional O’Malley smiled and remembered a “home” song about her. When they were first dating and their means of existence was more meager means they would go tent camping. One night when they got washed out and had to go running for the car they sat listening to Joni Mitchell’s, Night Ride Home, waiting for the rain to stop. Though the rain pounded the roof of the car for hours it couldn’t wash out the Fourth-of-July song or the wet enchanting girl next to him who was part fire and part firefly. And though they weren’t able to raise the tent that night or make it home, it hardly mattered to O’Malley as they pulled into a fleabag motel, just as long as she was by his side.     At work sometimes O’Malley would be on the periphery and hear a co-workers radio tuned to the classic rock station. Though this genre was so played out by now there were still a few songs that grabbed his attention. One of those was Take The Long Way Home by Supertramp. For O’Malley this song brought him to the yearbook room of his high school where there was mural on the wall of a kid with an afro pointing to road which was emblazoned with the Supertramp title: Take The Long Way Home. Not only did O’Malley like thinking about that room where he skipped a lot of classes, he also liked to think about all the girls he took the long way home with in high school. Marked by an inability to be vulnerable and brimming with fake bravado O’Malley wished he could go back in time and change some of the dumb things he said and did walking those girls home. But, he reasoned, saying and doing dumb things came with the territory and was part of the charm of adolescence. Still, if he could get another shot at those beauties he would be kinder to them and express his gratitude for their attention. But, alas, he would have to settle for his gentle regrets because one thing was sure about the past—it could never change.     While O’Malley had some shaky resolve about the past he looked forward to all the future trips “home.” Whether it be the Long Journey Home with Elvis Costello, the Safe European Home with The Clash or just Home with Karla Bonoff, where those people who look like him and breathe like him will be waiting to challenge, embrace and make fun of him.      

Music Is Art . . .

Next Saturday-(09/08) my wife, Donna and I have a booth at "Music Is Art" festival at Riverworks from 11am-11pm. I'll be selling and signing copies of my novel "Written In The Stars: The Book Of Molly" and my wife will have all kinds of reasonably priced fine art for sale. Thank you...

Rock Legend Elvis Costello Kills Three Hipsters With Deadly Smirk

 As the summer faded so did the crowds at Canalside. Jackson and Lexi, despite the lack of activity and the encroaching winter still liked going down there to sit on the benches and look out at the rapidly cooling waters of Lake Erie. Occasionally, they would touch hands and maybe even share a kiss, but mostly they looked at the water, enjoying its peaceful, rhythmic movement.      With the Thanksgiving holiday only a week away, they fell into a conversation about their dysfunctional families and the disasters that seemed to always accompany the holiday when a man sitting on the next bench asked them for the time. He was bundled up pretty good and had a modest but identifiable British accent.    “Excuse me, might you have the time? I seem to have misplaced my device.”     Jackson pulled his phone from his pocket, “Three-twenty.”      “Thank you, sir.”      Jackson turned back to Lexi, but her gaze remained fixed on the man. After a moment she whispered in Jackson’s ear, “I think that’s Elvis Costello.”     “No way,” Jackson responded looking over at the bundled up man staring out at the water.      “No, really. He’s playing at Shea’s tomorrow night.”     Impulsively, Jackson yelled out, “Elvis Costello.”     The man looked over at them and pulled his hand from his coat pocket, waved without much enthusiasm and said, “Aye.”      Lexi was up in a flash, introducing herself and her boyfriend, Jackson.     The man remained seated with placid look on his face until Lexi told him how much she enjoyed his work with the Brodsky Quartet and Burt Bacharach. With a burst of energy he stood up, extended his hand and with a broad smile said, “God bless you child.”      “I like your other work too, but I really admire the risks you took with those projects.”     Knowing Costello had to cancel an earlier part of his tour because he had returned too quickly after receiving treatment for a cancerous malignancy Jackson asked, “So, how ya feeling?”     “A bit dodgy now and then, but well, considering all the trauma my body’s had to endure.”     “By the way,” Jackson said with a smile, “I like the Brodsky stuff too, but my favorite is Get Happy.”       “Ah, pure adrenaline rock-n-roll, but with heart. Wouldn’t you say?”     As Jackson and Lexi agreed about the greatness of Get Happy, three man boys dressed almost identically dressed in skinny jeans, scarves and beards were walking by and instantly recognized Costello. They were sharing  a fifth of clear liquid and were only distinguishable from one and other by the by the color suit jackets and how they adorned their heads. One had a straw pork pie hat, one had a dark skull cap and the third guy, who was going on and on about the perfection of “What’s So Funny Bout Peace, Love and Understanding,” had a ridiculous man bun.     Costello stood listening patiently as man bun guy extolled the virtues of the song. But, eventually Lexi interrupted him, “Mr. Costello only covered that song. Nick Lowe wrote it.”     The three hipsters fell into uproarious laughter, slapping each other on the back.      Costello rolled his eyes and looking at Jackson and Lexi mouthed the words…’Bloody, Fucking, Hell,’ and then with a smirk forcefully said, “Ya know, she’s right. Nick Lowe wrote the bloody fucking song.”     All of the sudden the three hipsters grabbed their throats as if they were choking and a minute later fell to the ground—the life gone from their bodies.       “Shit,” Costello yelled. “I’ve gone and killed three more fucking hipsters with my bloody smirk. Shit.”     He paused for a second, gathered himself and calmly said, “Jackson can you ring up the authorities, please.”      As Jackson made the 911 call Costello began to kick the lifeless bodies on the ground, complaining, “You-fucking-wankers... now-I’m-going-to-have-to-spend-all bloody-night-at-the-police-station. I’m-going-to-have-to-meet-with-your-families-and-look-into-their-pain-stricken-eyes. You-fucking-tossers.” He stopped for a moment and said, “Jackson, Lexi, feel free to get a bit of this too, cause you’re going to be at the police station all night too.”     And with that he resumed kicking the bodies.  

Local Author Will Write You Into Novel For Cash

West Seneca, N.Y.—For cash payments local author P.A. Kane will write you into his new novel, Leaving Jackson Wolf. With the crowdfunding phenomenon sweeping the country Kane thinks this would be a fun way for people to participate in the writing process and for him to increase his profile and revenue stream.
Kane is open to any ideas people have for placement in the coming of age novel due out this fall. You can be a swarthy guy standing on a corner. You can make a pass at Jackson’s brainy best friend McDougal. You can have a beer at a corner bar with Jackson’s alcoholic father, Mickey. Or, you can have Jackson beat the shit out of you—if that’s your pleasure. Anything you want, just as long as you have cash money.
The first to step up with a cash payment and make their way into the future best seller are longtime friends Jesse Homes and Jack Conrad. Kane has written a scene where the protagonists, Jackson and McDougal are looking at a Facebook post by Holmes, who is conversing with Conrad about the virtues of Jackson Browne song, TheseDays. Clicking on the Youtube link to These Days McDougal asks:      “How does this old people shit end up in your feed?”     “That guy Jesse Holmes was my fourth grade teacher and I don’t know, he kept showing up in that Suggested Friends thing, so I sent a request.”     “He listens to shitty music.”     “The Nico version of this song is pretty good.”     “Think Nico did that as a joke.”     “Look here,” Jackson says with a laugh. “Mr. Holmes swooning over this stupid song:”     ‘Did you know Jackson Browne wrote this when he was just sixteen?’     ‘Just sixteen?’ Conrad says. ‘Wow, all I was doing at sixteen was failing my road test and waxing my carrot.’      ‘Yer still waxing your carrot, Jack. lol’     ‘Yeah. LOL’     “Man, these guys are assholes.”     “Mr. Holmes was an alright teacher,” Jackson says with a shrug.     “Really? Waxingyour carrot?”     “Yeah, goddamn mom jeans and Dad jokes. Screw them.”
In addition to a scene like the one above, Kane is also open to selling the dedication to the book or will mention you in the acknowledgements for a reasonable fee. Typically these are nice little tributes to friends and family who have put up with all the bullshit that comes along with producing a book, but to Kane money is more important. He believes nobody really cares who inspired you or gave you wise counsel through the writing process. To him all that stuff is overrated. What isn’t overrated is beer money and double Crown Royal neat. So, if you would like to be the inspiration or the wise counsel in this story about a young man searching for his power in an unforgiving world, Kane is open to any reasonable offer. P.A.Kane
Of course, all offers are subject to negotiation.        

Living For The City

     It’s the second day of freshman year and I’m outside my locked homeroom waiting for my teacher. There’s an assembly down in the auditorium that we piss-ant freshman are not invited to. Waiting with me in the hallway are three white guys and one black guy. I don’t know any of them. They come from places beyond my South Buffalo world, especially the tall stringy black guy. So, standing there in the mostly empty hallway, I hear one of the white guys, who is kind of beefy, say something to the black guy. I don’t catch it exactly, but know it includes the word “boy” because of the way tall stringy black guy responds: “Who the fuck you calling boy, motherfucker?” as he lays five or six, quick as lightning, open handed slaps about this white kid’s head. Not sure at the offense of the word boy, I’m stunned by his response and wait for the white kid to come back at him, but he just stands there, humiliated, with visible hand prints all over his face. The tall stringy black kid also stands there for a moment ready for one of us to take up our Caucasian brother’s cause. When none of us do, he turns and goes over to the window and in its slight reflection starts evening out his moderately sized afro with a pick, which has long vertical teeth and a handle shaped in the form of a clenched black fist.
     Thus began my education in race relations.     For some years there had been a population of black kids who rode the bus into our very white Irish Catholic neighborhood to attend South Park High School. The difference in 1976 was that it was the first year of court ordered busing. The busing issue had been hotly contested and would eventually see our school integrated on a 1:1 basis. The mix while I attended was something like a 3:1 ratio favoring white over black.      Growing up in segregated Buffalo with the racial conflicts of the sixties not that far in the rearview mirror South Park High School was the first place, away from the TV, newspaper and what people said on your street, where I would mix with black people in a substantive way. The same was probably true for the black kids. Given my narrow upbringing I guess I expected a few brush ups like the one outside my homeroom, but thinking back all these years later about that incident what surprises me is my indifference to the whole racial element of it. When you got right down to it, one kid said something objectionable to another kid and got slapped down for it. That’s the way it went. I’m not going to say skin color was irrelevant, but it was superseded by the stringy black kid asserting inalienable right to exist and his willingness to fight for that right, which all kids inherently understand and respect. I’m not sure many of my South Buffalo neighbors would have felt the same way, but to me and the other white guys standing there, it wasn’t our beef and we had no business becoming involved.          More interesting might have been what went on in the black kid’s head. With the racial mix what it was and our country’s less than stellar history I’m sure he expected there to be some conflicts. But, how scared was he? Or, was he waiting for it and maybe had a plan mapped out? Was he surprised when none of us white guys jumped in? Did he think we were soft or was his etiquette the same as ours—say something stupid and get a slapped down, no matter the color of your skin. And when it was over did he think: I’m going to get a square deal here.       Funny thing is, over the next four years I’d get to know that black guy and he was nowhere as tough or militant as this first impression would seem to indicate. His name was Lyle and he was smart, articulate and good natured. Through some after school basketball I also found him to be kind of slight and easy to push around. He was probably close to 6 ft. tall and all of a 130 lbs (I was 130lbs in first grade). I regret not asking him what was going on in his head when he stood his ground outside our homeroom. Then again, I suppose he said it all with his response.     Besides the vague and distant knowledge I had of the racial unrest of the sixties and the not so accurate things I heard in my all white neighborhood growing up, the thing that informed me most powerfully about black reality prior to high school was TV (sports and sitcoms) and of course, music. In particular the song Living For The City, by Stevie Wonder from the classic 1973 album Innervisions, which forcefully recounts the trials of a sturdy, but barely surviving black family from Mississippi that gathers enough resources for a son to seek a bigger life in New York City. The son is instantly duped on the street and sentenced to ten-years in jail. The sequence of events in the song hit my young head hard, as did the chilling spoken part and sound effects, in the middle of the song, which ends with an annoyed prison guard dropping an n-bomb on the young black man as a cell door slams shut. It was so brilliantly unjust and final and it left me feeling ashamed, helpless and most of all confused.     Living For The City was pretty radical for both the radio and what I heard in my own house, which was stuff that my older siblings bought— Carol King, Steely Dan, Neil Young. It wasn’t uncommon also to hear the R&B of Al Greene or Earth, Wind & Fire wafting out of our funky semi-finished basement. But, our white privilege made it easy to avoid political things like Bobby Womack’s, Across 110th Street or Cutis Mayfield’s, Pusherman. I guess songs like Southern Man and Alabama by Neil Young took on race, but they pointed an accusing finger at the white south.  Living For The City however, portrayed the black experience in horrifying terms with big ominous keyboards, a dry poignant beat and angry vocals. I was still a church going believer at the time and had an idealized version of American history, so it was hard to square Stevie Wonder’s description of black life in the land of Lincoln and Roosevelt and with what I learned at Holy Family Church on Sundays.  And, though we were by no means rich—my nine siblings and I packed in our tiny house on Lockwood Avenue—we had the white luxury of hope and promise and maybe even a feeling of being exceptional. When we gazed into the future it looked like the song America by Simon & Garfunkel, where there’s real estate in your bag, a pretty girl named Kathy on your arm and wispy bus rides through the vast landscapes with the American dream there for the taking.     Next to Living For The City you got the sense there was two different Americas. What was idealized in our most sacred documents like, all men are created equal, and what we learned in church seemed to be complete bullshit. It was a contradiction too big for my pre-pubescent mind to accept, understand or do anything about.       But once I got to high school, away from the politics, the newspaper headlines and away from what I heard on the street I found the black kids I met not to be all that different from me. Funkier in dress, speech and music than we Levis wearing guitar loving white boys—but at the end of the day we were all just a bunch of dumb-ass teenagers trying to find our way.      Being a gym rat my exposure to the black population at school was probably greater than a lot of other white kids. In classes and lunches black and white stuck together, existing next to each other in a parallel kind of way. But down in the gym, after school it was just a bunch of guys hanging out. The black kids had to wait for the Metro bus to get them home and we had stupid TV re-runs till our pissed off fathers came home and started yelling at us. 
     So we stayed at school and just kind of bullshitted, sometimes lifting weights, sometimes playing golf-hockey (which really was just shooting pucks at different objects in the gym, but you kept score like it was golf) and sometimes we played basketball. There wasn’t any supervision other than one of the P.E. teachers collecting a coaching stipend sitting in their office with a coffee and a newspaper while we screwed around in the gym.   
     It was all pretty loose. So loose, we kind of fell into these semi-regular blacks vs. white basketball games, but it wasn’t because of racial tension or anything. It was more white guys had white friends and black guys had black friends and skin color provided a line of natural competitive division—and Nelson Mandela was still in jail and the Dalai Lama wasn’t around, so for better or worse that’s the way we did it. It was friendly, fun and competitive. When you won, and both sides did win, it was as satisfying. But, it wasn’t about race, it was about the competition. Race and skin color was an added twist that was sort of incidental. Bottom line, it was a game you played to win, like the other games you played in your yard, at the park or in gym. All of it was the same, even the requisite busting of chops—especially the busting of chops.      Outside of school, a bus ride difference between our neighborhoods, we hardly ever mixed socially. The one exception was a couple of guys on the football team —the Markey brothers— had these really great racially diverse parties on Saturday nights after the games. I first attended one these legendary parties as a sophomore when I was a prolific bench warming tight end. None of my regular friends were on the team, so I went alone and was mostly ignored, save for some of the out of reach junior and senior girls inquiring about the prospects my older brothers attending the party. I had no answers for these lovely ladies regarding my brothers, but did magnanimously offer myself as a stand in until they showed which always produced big patronizing eye rolls and giggling. Like all guys with no juice I usually got stuck in the kitchen drinking beers and rehashing a game I hardly played in with other guys who had no juice. Guys with juice were sneaking upstairs or outside to make-out with girls out of our league.     While it sucked to be ignored, it did afford me the opportunity to observe what was going on, which was fascinating. Right there in the middle of all white South Buffalo on autumn Saturday nights in 1977 there was a bunch of black kids laughing, dancing and drinking with white kids and it was no big deal.       In the early part of the evening the stereo was dominated by the white rock of Zeppelin and Clapton and saw a lot of kids just standing around. But, as the night wore on the furniture got pushed against the walls and the lights were turned low That’s when James Brown and Aretha found its way into the mix. Eventually the rock-n-roll gave way completely to the dance music. Yes there was some disco, (sorry rock gods, it wasn’t me, it was the times) but what I remember burning up the Markey dance floor the most was All ‘N All by Earth, Wind & Fire and Songs In The Key Of Life by Stevie Wonder.      Given my already lowly status I didn’t dare risk the embarrassment of trying to dance, but when the place was really rocking to Serpentine Fire or I Wish it wasn’t lost on me how astonishing it was to see all those white and black kids dancing together. Astonished because I knew lots of people in our safe little all white neighborhood would have a big problem with what was going on here.     Looking onto the Markey dance floor though, I felt kind of proud of myself, proud of all of us, that this scene was so natural and unforced. Proud that we had transcended something that produced so much anger and hatred in the larger world. It was the way it was supposed to be. And, what the whole country couldn’t figure out, us dopey public high school kids in Buffalo, NY did with seeming ease, prompted by nothing more than music, dance and the joy of being young.       In the process we fulfilled the aspirations of our most sacred documents and our religious creed. The confusion of have and have-not, just and unjust America that so confused me as a young man was muted, at least for a few hours.     While I can’t say I developed life-long friendships with black classmates the interactions I had went a long way toward demystifying black people and benefited me greatly. In 1980’s I worked at the Millard Fillmore Hospital in material management department as I slowly made my way through college. Through that job I got to meet and work with a bunch of great guys who happened to be black. From them I learned so much about the challenges I was spared because of my white privilege. I didn’t always agree with their arguments but the conversations were spirited and real with plenty of good trash talking.        Yet, despite of this exposure and interaction I can’t really sit here and tell you I’m beyond race. There are old codes forged in me from a young age that have been really hard to extinguish. Don’t get me wrong, I am appalled at all this Trump nationalism bullshit that so animates white grievance and I hated the eight years of dog whistles from the right that the Obama’s had to endure.       My racism is nuanced and deeply embedded and I’m very embarrassed when it surfaces. For instance, when I’m at the grocery store and I see a Muslim woman in a chador pushing kids around in a cart I’m always a little surprised when they speak perfect English. From what I’ve seen and read and watched especially since the 9-11 attacks, these people are supposed to be foreign and scary with broken militant language. They aren’t supposed to be in the cereal aisle at Wegmans with zero accent trying to explain to their kids, for the millionth time, that Fruity Pebbles are nothing more than refined sugar totally devoid of any nutritional value and that they can’t have them. With African Americans and Hispanics, almost involuntarily I also go right to well-worn stereotypes if a co-worker has an issue or if I see some headline in the newspaper. Usually I catch and correct myself very quickly and after the moment shame passes I’m always so amazed how these old embedded codes so easily surface.     On several occasions I’ve tried to explain to my kids my subtle nuanced racism and they think it’s  bullshit. They think I should be able fend off these thoughts in spite of the indoctrination I received through my early teens. Easy for them to say with their big sophisticated brains, positive socialization and being a couple of generations removed from this bullshit, which once again is gaining strength with the rise of Trump.      Despite the Trump phenomenon I feel optimistic one day we will make it to a post racial society, especially with the coming generations, like my kids who don’t want to hear lame, white man rationalizations or excuses. Nevertheless, when the counting is done I still feel pretty good about how I responded when the challenge was before me at those football parties and at school. A little face to face exposure goes a long way.                 






 [PK1]

Large Vendor Show: South Park High School, Saturday, Nove...

Large Vendor Show : South Park High School, Saturday, November 18, 2017...9 am-noon . Lots of local vendors selling unique crafts, jewelry, home decor and much more. I'll be signing copies of my book, "Written In The Stars:The Book Of Molly" and previewing my new website: www.buffalomud.com Please join us.
http://buffalomud.com/

Local Author Anxious About Deep State Surveillance Too...

Bauerle      The open letter published at Canada Free Press by Buffalo talk show host Tom Bauerle warning President Trump of deep state forces attempting to take down his presidency has local author P.A.Kane ( Written In The Stars:The Book Of Molly ) feeling anxious too.    The letter contains photo and video evidence along with expert testimony recounting  several incidents, dating back to 2013, where Bauerle believes he and his family became the subject of high tech surveillance by New York Governor Andrew Cuomo for the strong stance he took on his radio show against the Safe-Act (which primarily reduces the size of a gun clip). Feeling he was being observed by nefarious forces Bauerle made several calls to local police, but when they found no evidence of surveillance the talk show host asserted the ruthless Cuomo was employing new cloaking technologies such as non-linear optics and adaptive camouflage to track his movements . Now, given the endless leaks emanating from the White House, Bauerle believes deep state forces are using these same cloaking techniques in an attempt to bring down the Trump presidency.     Though an ardent Progressive, opposed to both Bauerle and the Trump administration  Kane has been noticing some strange occurrences in his own back yard and believes he too is the subject of deep state cloaking surveillance.    After a long day of writing and working a day job, weather permitting, Kane likes to relax on the porch off his garage with a bourbon and a book while taking in the copious foliage in his yard. But, almost to the day, when Trump came riding down that escalator in 2015, the trees and bushes in his yard seem to always bend to the north even when the wind is blowing in the opposite direction.           “It’s very strange,” Kane said. “Trump announces he’s running for President and all of the sudden everything in my yard starts to sway and bend in the same direction. A little weird, right?”(See video)     Then there’s the case of his dog: Kaya Francis Bean.     “Yeah,” Kane said, “KFB loves to run and prior to all this Trump business I would throw sticks and balls and she would chase them down like Florence Griffith-Joyner and bring them back to me. It was great fun. Now, when I throw a stick she still gets all Flo-Jo on it, but she won’t bring it back. Instead she punks me and makes me chase her down. Is that a coincidence or maybe the little hardened growth between KFB’s  ears that just appeared out of nowhere is a deep state chip and someone in adaptive camouflage is directing her to mess with me? This is really cruel and hurts my little snowflake heart. I want my dog back”  (See video)     The most damning evidence of deep state monitoring according to Kane is a recent video that just showed up on his YouTube page out of thin air.     “This is really disturbing. I’m sitting on my garage porch with a book, a drink and some music. All of the sudden LCD Soundsystem finds its way into the rotation and everybody knows I get happy feet when I hear anything by the great James Murphy and can't help but throw down some of my white man moves. You might think I'd be a little self-conscious, but hell, who's going to see this abomination in my fenced in yard? At least that’s what I thought.     Next morning I get an email from YouTube telling me my video has been “successfully uploaded.” What? I click the link and on my YouTube there’s a video of me dancing to the LCD tune. I can’t delete it and when I reach out to tech support I just get error messages.     Another coincidence or something else? Maybe the the deep state?” Kane asks with a furrowed brow.(See video)     Asked why the author of one coming of age novel set in 1979 South Buffalo that ranks 1,611,649 in sales at Amazon would garner all this high-tech attention from the deep state?     Nodding confidently Kane says, “Look, I sit on that porch and think reasonable, pragmatic thoughts. I read good books by Ta-Nehsi Coates ( Between The World And Me ) and agree with the case he made for reparations in The Atlantic. I dream about single payer health care that will cut my costs by at least a third with better outcomes. I know Trump’s goddamn tax reform is just going to be another tax cut for the rich which will add trillions to the debt and spur zero growth. I know that the round the clock fear they peddle on FOX News and right wing radio is utter nonsense. In fact, I jumped in on a Facebook thread after London Bridge attacks that was hysterical with this idea that Islamic terrorists are going to kill all of us. Very calmly I pointed out that less than one-hundred people in the U.S. have died from terrorism since 9/11 and you’re sixty-eight times more likely to be killed from being struck by lightning than a terrorist attack. The host of the thread responded to my post by calling me a: “sanctimonious dick,” and then unfriended me.     That’s why they’re watching me. I’m calm, reasonable, pragmatic and can back up my positions with reality based facts. The right thinks facts are a liberal bias so to them I’m very dangerous.”     Kane was uncertain when asked how he planned to eliminate these deep state forces plaguing him, “They seem to want to mess with me rather than hurt me at this point, so I’m going to watch them, watch me and hopefully with the help of some cloaking recognition goggles I got on Amazon for $49.99 they’ll make a mistake and I’ll be able to make a video record of the surveillance with my phone.”         

     

Dropped off a new batch of my novel "Written In The Stars...

Dropped off a new batch of my novel "Written In The Stars: The Book Of Molly," off at Dog Ears Bookstore & Cafe. Also, I'm now volunteering there on a part time basis. Stop in Sunday 3/12 from 11-3pm or Wed 3/22 or 3/29 from 5-8pm. Get a signed book and a good cup of coffee...

Dog Ears Bookstore & Cafe

Delivery People Unsure About New Account...

     After their yoga class, Brandon, Melissa and Jodi (Southtown drivers) would drink Chai Tea and eat Organic cookies at the local Starbucks while engaging in conversation that typically revolved around late planes, nearly getting bitten by dogs and the absurdity of the dead-end sales leads they turned in every month. But, the mood on this winter night among the friends and co-workers was uncharacteristically quiet and tense until Brandon finally addressed the elephant in the room, “Melissa... Jodi... I’m just going to say it, I’m really troubled by all the Walmart.com packages we’ve been delivering lately.”     “Me too,” said Melissa crumpling her impish nose, “That offer of free two-day shipping on purchases of $35 or more is really taking off and those packages clogging up my shelves are creating such negative energy in my truck that I’ve hung extra Swarovski Crystals in the cargo area and have misted up my seats with my favorite essential oil blend, but nothing seems to weaken that evil Walmart aura. ”    “It’s really stressing me out too.” Jodi said putting her hand on Melissa’s arm. “With so many new things to protest, from the repeal of Obamacare to Betsy DeVos wanting to bring the Kingdom of God to public schools, it’s not fair that we have to hate on Walmart all over again like it’s 2005.”    The friends were unsure what to do about this seemingly insurmountable problem. Walmart was horrible in every way, from the wages they paid their employees to their huge carbon footprint, but with Amazon relying more on their own delivery network they needed these Walmart packages.    Just as a Bon Iver’s, Skinny Love started to waft gently through the air Brandon suggested they journal about the problem and then share their thoughts with each other.    “Great idea,” Jodi said. “But, I’m going to need another tea and let’s split a cookie.”     Taking his notebook out of his backpack Brandon said, “None for me, I gained two-pounds this week.”    “Brandon, if you would just do the Enzymatic Body Cleanse, that would remove all the toxins from your digestive tract making you be more regular and not so prone to these swings in weight,” Jodi said lecturing.     Smiling, he agreed, but still resisted the cookie as he began to write.    For the next fifteen minutes or so they vigorously applied pen to paper pausing occasionally when a clarifying moment became necessary. When they were done, it was clearly evident the therapy had worked. Each of them seemed more calm and peaceful.     Though feeling better, they were reluctant to share what they had written and were about to call it night when Melissa snatched up Brandon’s journal and began reading aloud from it: “For the love of God, if I have to listen to that slacker Jodi, tell me one more time about that goddamn enzyme cleanse I’m going to get a gun and remove all the toxins from my body by eating a full clip of bullets. After helping her and kooky Melissa, with her oils and ion-free lucky rocks, on the sort and with deliveries almost every day she thinks I don’t know that she stops at Tim Horton’s during P1’s and gets a large Ice Cappuccino, that insufferable, toxin filled, phony. All this effort, including being a downward facing dumbass in that stupid yoga class...for what? One of them better start putting out or I'm going to bid on a city route where the girls voted for Trump and have no self-esteem. This is bullshit…”    Though the rant went on for several more pages what was revealed was more than enough and both Melissa and Jodi were aghast, staring at Brandon in utter disbelief.    Rather than defend himself Brandon grabbed Jodi’s journal and started to read: “I know I supposed to be working through my anxiety about all this new Walmart freight, but can you believe this? Goddamn Brandon just told me he can’t eat a third of a cookie because he gained two-pounds this week. He must be afraid that he’s going to grow a Kardashian ass? Or maybe he’s doing a layout for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue? What a nancy-boy. Eat a fucking cookie you twit...I guess I shouldn’t be so harsh, I do scam him into taking stops from me almost every day…”

    By this time, Melissa was laughing, prompting Jodi to grab her journal. In a funny mocking fry voice, which Melissa sometimes fell into. Jodi began to read: “The vibrations of the universe occupy infinite patterns of which I am one. My oneness, properly focused, directed and allied with the universe’s positive energy sources will create a paradigm shift that will turn those Walmart packages into Amazon packages. Or maybe, I can forget all this crap and just do a really shitty job with the Walmart packages like Brandon and Jodi. I’ll kick some around, lose some, mis-deliver some so that people will just stop ordering stuff and we’ll lose the account. I heard Jodi was almost singularly responsible for the loss of the Adam & Eve account and not because packages were damaged or lost, as much as they were, shall we say showing up on people’s porches... soiled, especially the cylindrical shaped packages. I remember Jodi getting lots counseling about large gaps between back stops then…”     That was enough and a seething Jodi said, “Fuck you, Melissa!”    “No,” said Melissa, looking at Jodi, “Fuck you!”     Vehemently Brandon added his two-cents, “Fuck the both of you.”     In unison Melissa and Jodi joined forces and said, “Fuck you, Brandon.” Then. each added a disparaging remark about the probable size of his penis.    There was a tense few moments of uncomfortable silence as the three friends gathered themselves. Finally, Brandon said, “You know Dave, the Orchard Park driver with the big head? That new handler, the engineering student drew a schematic of his skull and calculated Dave’s head has a mass of between 61-65lbs.    “No way,” said Melissa, “Dave can’t weigh more than 185-190 and you’re telling me his head is 65lbs?”       “The thing is huge,” said Jodi.     “Yeah, but…” Melissa said.
     Talking about the size of Dave’s head seemed to draw them back into a normal space where the three friends not only liked each other but could put their own heads together to solve the problem confronting them, with Brandon asking, “So, what are we going to do about this fucking Walmart account?”

Random Prompt #297: What Takes Too Long?

    My wife’s work stories always revolve around someone being an asshole to her and they’re always too long. Trying to provide context she feels it necessary to give a full accounting of co-workers resume and work history. Instead of something simple and straightforward like this: “I had this conference room booked for a meeting at 1pm, but this asshole, Jim from accounting, was in there eating his lunch and wouldn’t leave.”     To which I could give a simple fat free response: “Screw that guy, why can’t he eat his lunch at his desk or in the cafeteria like everyone else?”     But, no, it’s always this: “You remember Jim from accounting? He worked at HSBC for Bart Ehrman. Remember Bart, he died of exposure on a nudist beach in 1993? Then Jim came to work for us, but was a real pain in the ass because he resisted Excel and wanted to keep using WYSIWYG, do you remember him? Well, Jim slept with my friend Joyce (sleeping around Joyce comes up in every story) and got caught and would’ve gotten fired, but the guy from Human Resources, Jay Pribus, who got fired from being a Buffalo Teacher Federation Rep because he always sided with the administration, he was sleeping with Joyce too and Joyce said she would blow him if he fired Jim. Well, this asshole Jim from accounting was eating lunch in a conference room I booked....”     As the late, great Benny Sorra once said to me; “You ask my wife what time it is and she tells you how to make a watch.”.
    I was on four airplanes this week and the thing that takes too long is unloading carry-on luggage and exiting the plane. Some people are impatient, others are lackadaisical and none of it is efficient.     Part of what makes this process inefficient is the impatient guy (and it’s always a guy), the moment those seatbelt lights go dark, that guy toward the back of the plane bounces out of his seat, grabs his carry on and tries to buck the system, jumping ahead of the people in front of him, like someone who tries to cut line in a coffee shop. Others follow his lead, but through society’s immutable laws of order and justice someone will, quickly and rightly, step in front of impatient guy and bring everything to a grinding inefficient halt.     In contrast to the impatient guy trying to bolt from the plane is the never-ready lackadaisical middle-aged woman named Marie in row 9A. Marie is the person in the coffee line who doesn’t know what she wants and never has her money or card ready when it’s time to pay. As people wait she lumbers out of her seat, puts on her coat, then needs assistance removing her too heavy bag, never thinking for a moment about the people behind her as she slowly bumps her way down the aisle out of the plane. God bless Marie, but she brings everything to a grinding halt too and makes exiting a plane take too long.

    The fact that we have to leash our dog to take her out is annoying and it takes too long. Not only did our, loves to run mutt, Kaya Francis Bean, hit the jackpot with a loving/doting family when we rescued her from an Alabama kill shelter, she also got a giant fenced yard on a double lot which she could whip around totally unfettered to her heart’s content. In a huge figure eight she would run behind the pool and then go up the driveway toward the back fence and then swing around the shed and up to the front fence, where she would turn again and follow the walkway leading to the back of the house and then take a hard left and start back toward the pool again. She would also chase balls and sticks and then sit next to me chewing sticks while I sat on the porch off the garage having a few beers listening to tunes. A veritable paradise for a running dog like KFB. Then, she got weird and wouldn’t come in the house.    At first we could just hold the storm door open and she would come in. Then we had to start propping it open and she’d come in on her own. That was followed by propping and calling. Eventually, we had to prop the door open, call her, shake a bag of treats and then give her a treat. But just before Christmas all our tricks totally stopped working and once she was let out, she wouldn’t come back in at all. Reasonably well trained: she sits and lays down with verbal and nonverbal cues, comes when you whistle or call, but when she’s out in the yard now, all bets are off  and she’s way too shifty and fast to catch. Hopefully, come spring her weirdness will subside and she can be the happy running dog she was meant to be. But, for now we are left with leashing her, which is annoying and takes too long.