P.A. Kane's Blog, page 5

Random Prompt #298: What is your favorite work of art?

Random Prompt #298: What is your favorite work of art?     Looking up and to the right from my desk chair, near the door frame, I have a painting of the iconic 1949 Herman Leonard photograph of Ella Fitzgerald at the mic in Club Downbeat in New York City with Duke Ellington and Benny Goodman looking on from a front row table. I had been trying to buy a print of this photo for a long time, but for some reason it was out of stock all across the web, which prompted my fabulous, multi-talented daughter, Madeline to do this painting for me and it’s my favorite...for several reasons.    I grew up in a quasi-jazz house in the 60's and 70's, That is to say the background noise in our house was the jazz my parents listened to on the local public radio station WBFO 88.7 or the long defunct WADV 106.5. Today, 88.7 is public affairs NPR and 106.5 is new country and plays endless sagas about faux cowboys drinking beer on the back of pickup trucks. While WBFO played it pretty straight, WADV had more personality with Buffalo Broadcast Hall of Famer, Fred Klestine spinning a unique jazz blend and wishing you a salubrious day. Or you could hear Bernie Sandler’s Big Band program playing Count Basie and Bennie Goodman, which I got, I guess, by osmosis. As great as Basie and Goodman might have been, to my teenage eyes and ears they could hardly compete with the coolness of The Beatles and Bowie. By the late 70’s though, my attitudes toward jazz started to change when I heard stuff by Charlie Parker, John Coltrane and Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue. through my friend the Doctor, who was and is, always a step ahead of everyone else.   But, being a kind of music snob there were limits to what I would listen to and I dismissed anyone who didn’t compose their own music and deemed jazz vocalists as mere interpreters of song. Frank Sinatra was chief among these pedestrian interpreters and by the late 70’s who wasn’t sick of the idiotic My Way or New York, New York? While my snobbery remains largely intact, it has become more informed and less monolithic. I still don’t quite get Sir Francis Blue Eyes, but the bluesy heartbreak of Billie Holiday, the depth and range of Nina Simone and the elegant grace of Ella Fitzgerald have rendered all of my foolish objections and resistance to jazz vocalists... silly. Listening to the ethereal phrasing of Ella on a song like Miss Otis Regrets, you are drawn into a drama where you can’t help but feel sympathy for a condemned adulterer meeting her fate. There’s not a single ounce of fat or a wasted breath in this vocal or the whole Ella Fitzgerald oeuvre.     Which, brings us to the photo. In both his narrative fiction and bouncy jazz poetry Jack Kerouac created a multitude of scenes just like the one depicted here in Leonard’s 1949 photo. Besides seeing it, just like in Kerouac I can so smell the smoke wafting in that room, I can hear waitresses taking orders, glasses clinking the kitchen door opening and closing while Ella belts out something snazzy like the The Lady is A Tramp to the stunned onlookers, chief among them Duke Ellington and Benny Goodman. Or maybe something more mellow like the 1944 number one hit IntoEach Life Some Rain Must Fall. The key to the whole photo is that joyous expression on Duke’s face because sitting at that front row table, no matter what Ella Fitzgerald was singing, that would be your expression too.    Duke’s and Benny’s expressions are muted in Madeline’s impressionistic painting, but the sense of excitement remains and is heightened by the orangish-yellowish-halloweenish background fire Ella is creating with her vocals. Despite the swirling fire everyone is rapt with attention and bearing witness to the first lady of song who could be a real heart breaker duetting with Ink Spots or party girl lost in The Frim Fram Sauce with Louis Armstrong. 
     No matter how great a song or painting is, they get old and worn out. At first you stop really hearing or seeing them, but eventually your indifference might turn to annoyance. It’s been years since I put Madeline’s painting up on my wall and it still excites me and evokes the sound of Ella Fitzgerald’s graceful and beautiful voice in my head every time I look at it. It's as brillant today as the day I hung it up. In my book that makes it a favorite, multidimensional work of art.  

Big Wayne Wants To Know What They're Doing Up There?

    Built on thirty bricks and his wife’s homemade, Sriracha soaked, mac-n-cheese, twenty-eight-year vet, Big Wayne is the bearish anchor of the A-Belt. As the morning sort begins he stands with gloved hands looking up the moving conveyor belt with a certain amount of misery at his co-workers up the belt engaged in conversation. As the packages roll down and start to assemble in front of Big Wayne you can hear him audibly sigh as he looks at the packages. Just like yesterday, just like every day, many of the packages from Amazon, Walmart and Verizon were missed by the still talking and flitting about co-workers up the belt. Big Wayne picks up the missed packages, goes past the already struggling guy pulling the mall truck and mutters to nobody in particular, “What are they doing up there?”
    Setting the packages on the steel gearbox enclosure halfway up the belt, he spreads his arms in disbelief and yells to his still talking his co-workers, “Hey, the weekend’s over, it’s sort time,” Having their conversation interrupted they give Big Wayne a funny look before resuming their conversation.     Returning to his position he finds still more packages that aren’t his spinning against the blocking bar at the end of the belt. Exiting the big 700 that carries the mall freight, the mall guy says, “Might be a long morning, looks like Toys R Us is getting a bulker.”    Big Wayne responds to this information with an exasperated eye roll as he removes his and 217’s and 218’s freight from the belt. After the mall guy and Big Wayne get caught up the freight momentarily thins out, just as late starter Donna (218) arrives at her truck. Having seen the printout of her stops Big Wayne gives her the rundown and reminds her about the crazy pit bull at 323 Aurora, which is getting their monthly “Direct Signature,” medication today.    The conversation changes, Big Wayne tells Donna about the Toys R Us bulker that’s been wreaking havoc all morning, while he leans against her Sprinter with one foot on the bumper, sipping from a stainless steel travel mug, Watching the mall guy remove some package from the belt and walk them up to the steel gearbox an annoyed look comes to Big Wayne’s face and he steps down from Donna’s bumper looks up the belt and sees the same co-workers still engaged in conversation and yells up at them, “More pawin and less jawin,” as he makes angry pawing gestures with the hand not holding his coffee. Irked, he turns to Donna, who is standing on the step aide at the back of her Sprinter and says, “What are they doing up there?”     The sort ebbs and flows and as unrouted packages start to find their way into the mix Big Wayne asks Dave, who works across the belt and is back from being sick with the flu if all these unrouted Orchard Park packages go to him or up the belt.     Dave looks them over for a second and says, “Up the belt.”     Flustered, Big Wayne asks, “Why don’t they pull them?”    Smirking, Dave says in the shifting warehouse light that is distorted due to his huge Andre the Giant like head, “Because it’s not their job to pull unrouted packages Big Wayne.”    Throwing up his hands in disgust Big Wayne says “What are they doing up there?”    Dave smiles and says, “Maybe you ought to touch up your coffee with a hit of  Sriracha.”    But, Big Wayne is not amused and proceeds to ignore all the missed packages spinning at the end of the belt and only pulls his assigned freight just like those guys up the belt. No more Mister Nice Guy he thinks to himself. No more trying to be a team player.  Then, late starter Rick, who always shows before his scheduled start time and is real chatty draws the mall guy into a conversation about Yes getting into the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame while he continues to struggle with the Toys R Us bulker. Soon the Toys R Us packages are mixed in with the other routed and unrouted missed packages at end of the belt and it’s one giant mess. Big Wayne sticks to his no more Mister Nice Guy edict, while the mall guy and Donna, who is back from her sort position, straighten out all the missed freight.    Frustrated, Donna says, “What are they doing up there?”
    Seething, Big Wayne just shrugs his shoulders and under his breath says, “I don’t know what they’re doing up there, but I’m sure we’ll do it all again tomorrow.”

Random Prompt#299

Random Prompt #299Have you ever spoken up when you saw something going on that was wrong? Were you scared? What ended up happening?
    When I read the topic sentence for #299 my mind immediately jumped not to a time I spoke up, but to a time that I didn’t speak up. My middle daughter Caroline was maybe ten years old playing on a town softball team and was eternally stuck in right field. There were older girls on the team and some travel players getting a little extra work in this less competitive league including the coach’s daughter. Caroline had endured this same scenario on the previous year’s team: stuck forever in right field while the travel girls and the coach’s daughter pitched and played infield. Bored to tears at the lack of action in right field she would start to play with the dirt at the edge of the infield or would twirl around with outstretched arms like a helicopter. I would encourage her to keep her head in the game and she tried, but she was ten and stuck softball’s version of purgatory. Who could begrudge her this lack of attention? Youth sports coach, that’s who.      Neither Caroline or I can remember if she asked the coach if she could play a position other than right field or if he just took it upon himself after she was lost in an extended daydream, but between innings in a game that they were hopelessly winning the coach, in front of her teammates, teammates parents and the whole town softball community, imitated her helicopter routine. This is a man of fifty plus years spinning around with outstretched arms telling a ten year she can’t play second base if she going spin around like a helicopter.    Though shocked and filled with fury, as my humiliated little girl took a seat at the end of the bench all by herself, I did nothing, I was paralyzed. I’d like to say my lack of action was the result of some high mindedness, knowing it was better to show restraint rather than escalating the situation, After all, I’m  the guy who automatically pulls over and lets you pass when you’re riding my ass in your pickup truck (and it’s always some douche in a pickup truck). If you’re an ass to me at work I mostly look past it and never retaliate because I don’t want to be an ass too. I like poetry and despite the jeers of every self-styled tough guy I ever met I remain steadfast in my belief that Led Zeppelin sucks. But it wasn’t any cool Zen like state of mind that prevented me from acting. I was raging inside and wanted to kill that coach.     But no punches or even loud voices were used to resolve the issue. It was resolved with a simple, civilized phone call. The coach remained a jerk and didn’t really apologize, but Caroline, as well as some of the other marginal players did see more time at various positions for the rest of the season and did just fine. As for me, when I think about this incident or occasionally see that coach around town I still feel rageful. My anger for that coach, maybe youth sports and the unfairness that my daughter wasn’t a better athlete is misdirected though, the real culprit in all of this is me. I could come up with a reasonable explanation for my lack of action, but could never find a way to excuse it. My little girl was humiliated and instead of protecting her and fighting for her I just stood there and let it happen without a peep, thus perpetuating the cycle of fear and humiliation I also endured as a kid. Beyond the diminished respect from Caroline, a further punishment is that I will never forget or forgive myself for my lack of action or my lack of courage.
    And that’s what comes to mind when prompt #299 asks: have you ever spoken up when you saw something going on that was wrong.

Dave Called In Sick Today (a FedEx melodrama)

     Char was standing at the open door of Dickie’s truck while he cleaned his dash talking about the fact that Dave had called in sick today when Kelly walked by. Excitedly, Char said to Kelly, “Dave called in sick today.”     “Dave called in sick today? Dave never calls in sick? Are you sure?” Kelly asked.    “Yes , I’m sure, Char said. “I was doing address insertions when Marcia took the call. Dave called in sick. He has the flu and won’t be in today.”    “You know,” Dickie said, “if Dave called in, he’s hurtin’ pretty bad.”    At the time clock where people waited to swipe in at 0640, the erase board indicated that Banick would be doing Dave’s route. Rudi asked if Dave was off today.     Russ was handing out equipment on the other side of the counter said, “No, Dave isn’t off. He called in sick today.”    Big Wayne said, “He’s been coughing and sneezing all week.”     “Calling in before the New Year holiday means Dave won’t get sick pay,” Karen said dispiritedly. “That’s not right, Dave never calls in.”    “Standing in line, Lil Wayne turned to Donna and said, “Great, I know they’re going to bone me with Dave’s Marilla stops. It always happens when you try to get out early. This place sucks.

Dave Called In Sick Today (a FedEx drama)

     Char was standing at the open door of Dickie’s truck while he cleaned his dash talking about the fact that Dave had called in sick today when Kelly walked by. Excitedly, Char said to Kelly, “Dave called in sick today.”     “Dave called in sick today? Dave never calls in sick? Are you sure?” Kelly asked.    “Yes , I’m sure, Char said. “I was doing address insertions when Marcia took the call. Dave called in sick. He has the flu and won’t be in today.”    “You know,” Dickie said, “if Dave called in, he’s hurtin’ pretty bad.”    At the time clock where people waited to swipe in at 0640, the erase board indicated that Banick would be doing Dave’s route. Rudi asked if Dave was off today.     Russ was handing out equipment on the other side of the counter said, “No, Dave isn’t off. He called in sick today.”    Big Wayne said, “He’s been coughing and sneezing all week.”     “Calling in before the New Year holiday means Dave won’t get sick pay,” Karen said dispiritedly. “That’s not right, Dave never calls in.”    “Standing in line, Lil Wayne turned to Donna and said, “Great, I know they’re going to bone me with Dave’s Marilla stops. It always happens when you try to get out early. This place sucks.

Random Prompt #300...

    Though I’m not much of a daily blog reader I’ve always thought the best ones have a quick hit quality — a left, a right followed by a lean tight uppercut and then out. I’ve never been able to accomplish this in my own writing. Growing up in a small three bedroom, one bathroom house with nine siblings’ attention was granted when say, you broke a window, skipped out on you night to help with the dishes or when you gluttonously finished off the rare box of crack like Captain Crunch that made it into the house. The scorn, along with the damage Captain Crunch did to the roof of your mouth was intense and so worth it. But nobody was ever looking for me to share an opinion or to verbalize my feelings on a topic. Same is true now with my three college age children still at home who know absolutely everything and meet every query with an ironic eye roll. They don’t want to hear it. And, like a dormant flower shutdown and stilted by the cold of winter waiting of the nourishing warmth of the sun and spring rains my past attempts at blogging have featured a loquaciousness akin to a rambling Bertrand Russell lecture on the history of Western Philosophy with a few obscure Todd Rundgren references mixed in along the way. Lacking quick hit jabs and crosses this has made my blogs more or less useless.
     But, that is about to change. This Christmas morning in addition to a nose and ear hair trimmer, a must for every self-respectable middle age man, my oldest daughter got me this book: 300 Writing Prompts. From the title, you might expect such a book to be the usual subjective bullet pointed discourse on how to get your writing going, but it isn’t that. Instead, the book contains three hundred topic sentences that you respond to within the confines of a single page like a journal entry. With the discipline and economy of a MMA fighter I am going to answer these prompts within the confines of the space allotted. While I’ll live up to the space requirement I can’t promise to eliminate all references to Todd Rundgren, cause, ya know...TODD is GODD.     In descending order, Random Prompt #300...
                    What is your favorite day to spend a lazy day?      In recent years I’ve come to understand that work is man’s salvation and in theory I never have a lazy day. I have an agenda of things to do and accomplish every day and never tell myself: ‘You know what, I’m going to just chill today.’ Of course, there are days when I am totally useless and ineffective or I get derailed by a broken-down car or maybe I’m out late seeing a band and indulging in adult beverages, which leaves me at less than full capacity the next day. But, even on those less effective days I do my best to follow through with my agenda and try never to give in to totally shutting it down.    I’ve also never been much into concepts like “mental health days” or notions of “me time.” Rather, following through on my daily routine is the therapy that keeps my state of being healthy and stress at bay. I work in the “mental health” and “me time” after I’ve completed my daily tasks, which include: a couple hours of writing (or at least sitting in front of computer screen attempting to write), doing my time on the day shift and working out, plus the daily curve balls life always dishes out. When these things are done I typically sit with a podcast or music and something I call a 42 Dive (4 beers and 2 whiskeys). The absolute worst thing that happens to a guy my age, is not getting old, it’s losing purpose and becoming bored with life. When that happens that innocent and nourishing 42 dive turns into a 64 sweep and then an 86 bomb. The answer to this creeping boredom and lack of purpose is of course: WORK. And, accordingly, in the new year, I plan to put my energy and excess time into combating the forces taking hold in post truth America. Not exactly sure the form this will take yet, but whatever it is, it will serve as my favorite way to spend a lazy day.

McDougal Chapter 3

Last post of this work in progress...(click here to view in chronological order)
Chapter 3    On my first day back I was greeted by the same situation that got me suspended five days earlier. After third period, as I was walking through the transition hallway from the old building to the new building, fucking redheaded moron gorilla Talty McManus was again kicking McDougal around. Seeing me, he grabbed McDougal under the armpits and threw him into me. Though a little stunned I was still able to sort of catch and cast McDougal aside in one fluid motion which landed him on the floor. I stepped toward McManus, but stopped myself thinking about the shit storm that would come if I acted on the fire raging inside of me. It killed me, but I did an about face into the new building to McManus jeering, “This ain’t over Jackson.”     I looked desperately for McDougal in the halls and at lunch for the rest of the day, but couldn’t find him anywhere. All day long my mind alternated between beating the shit out of fucking McManus and that scene at The Spot where McDougal, while listening to Mitski, jumped to his feet, threw open his arms and just radiated there like a travel size Jesus or something. Aside from a couple of Facebook messages I didn’t see McDougal during my time off, but I watched YouTube videos of Mitski and read about her on the Chromebook I bought with my Pennysaver money.  Of course, we didn’t have an internet connection, that would have cut into the Keystone Light budget, but in exchange for cutting her grass and keeping her driveway clear in the winter the old lady next door, Mrs. Hagen paid me a few bucks and more importantly let me tap into her Wi-Fi.   Japanese American, Mitski grew up all over the world, places like Malaysia, China and Turkey before her family eventually settled in New York City. Never rooted to one place and being biracial her songs discussed issues of belonging and being disenfranchised. I bet that’s why they were so powerful to McDougal. Her lyrics hit me hard too and I really looked forward to talking to him about her, if I ever found the little hobbit fuck.    After school I looked back at The Spot hoping he might be there, but nothing. Then I remembered that place he mentioned Knight’s Blade Gaming. I went home, checked the address on the internet and it was over by where my grandma used to live in West Seneca. I got on my BMX and headed that way.     I don’t know, judging from the name, I guess I was imaging a castle or something, but Knight’s Blade Gaming, shared a small square single story building on Center Road with an accounting firm. The entrance was at the rear and seemed totally unoccupied when I walked in. Dimly lit, the walls were lined with collectible action figures, decks of cards and on shelves sat board games enclosed in cellophane. Beneath overhead lighting there were a series of tables set up for war games with various themes, combatants and settings that went from an arid Star Wars moonscape to an intricate Game of Thrones battlefield. I was about to leave when I heard a couple of voices coming from an opening at the back of the store. I followed the voices until I came to another smaller gaming room and amidst an array of tables found McDougal. He was sitting across from some huge unkempt kid with a scraggly beard playing a card game. There also was an older guy, maybe mid-twenties, with the same bad facial hair in a black t-shirt that had a massive gold sword on it watching them play. I stood there unnoticed, marveling at the stark size difference between McDougal and the guy across from him. They were playing “Magic, The Gathering,” which was one of those brainy games with a million fucking rules and strategies that I hated, McDougal, at least for the moment, hated it too,    “Got anything in that goddamn deck Denny that isn’t a Haste or Death Touchcard?” McDougal said in mock anger as he reshuffled his deck with his disproportionately sized hands.     I laughed and the three of them looked up at me and the guy with sword on his t-shirt said, “Hi, can I help you?”    “Hey, I was looking for McDougal.”    Irritably, McDougal said, “What the fuck Jackson, every time you show up I’m getting my ass kicked. Maybe it’s not me after all, maybe it’s you.”    Everybody laughed, including me and the older guy walked toward me stuck out his hand to shake, “Hey Jackson, I’m Mike, that’s Denny. Jacob told us a lot about you and what’s been going on at school,” and raising an eyebrow, “and, the Rite Aid by school.”    “Jakob?”    “Jacob...McDougal,” Mike said.    “Oh, I only knew him as McDougal.”    “That was smart of you not to go after that McManus kid today. No sense getting suspended again,” Mike continued with a parental tone.               “Yeah, well, it’s probably going to happen at some point,” I said.    “Doesn’t have to,” Mike said with some calculation in his voice.    “Yeah, Denny’s like the Stephen Hawking of photoshop and he’s worked up A Brief History of McManus,” McDougal said as Denny sort of looked away.    “Hey Mike, my bike is outside. Mind if I bring it in?” I asked.    “Sure, go ahead.”    When I came back they had a laptop opened to the photoshopped pics of McManus. Lots of hilarious shots of him in dresses and bikinis looking so happy. Also, a bunch of really great pics of him kissing guys.    “Where’d you get all these,” I asked.    “Mostly his Facebook page,” Denny said shyly.    “We think if he’s enough of a rock head to kick Ja..McDougal around, he’s probably the type that would be nuts about photos showing him as a gay cross dresser. I hope they don’t offend you.” Mike said    “I'm not offended.”    “But if these don’t work and he continues to fuck with McDougal or you, then we go blackhole on him,” Mike said and he nodded to Denny.    Denny opened a manilla folder and there were sheets of paper containing some really nasty pics of McManus all covered in blood next to dead dogs.    “These are so bad I didn’t feel comfortable leaving them in digital form on my computer,” Denny said. “Hopefully we won’t need them.”    “So, are you going to text him those first ones?” I asked     “Shit can go wrong with texts,” McDougal said, “We’re going to print them onto paper and were hoping you could give them to him. We know where he lives.”    “Why not mail them or just stuff them in his mailbox?”   “Mail gets lost and if we put them in the mailbox his parents might see them first,” Mike said reasonably.    Looking at Denny, who was the size of some Jurassic Park monster I said, “Why me, why not  him? I’m still the fucking new guy and messing with McManus already got me suspended once. I don’t need that shit.”    Denny got red in the face and awkwardly got up from his chair and limped out of the room.    Mike went on, “Denny’s got some physical limitations and should it go bad, he might have real problems.” Then he raised his hand and showed me his wedding band and said, “And, I’m too old and have too much responsibility to be involved in any of this.”       Feeling like an asshole I thought it over for a moment and then said “Okay, yeah, I’ll do it, Fuck McManus.”     Both Mike and McDougal smiled and then Mike exited in the same direction as Denny, leaving me there with McDougal.    Looking at him I said, “Hey, sorry for not jumpin in today,”    “Don’t worry about it. Pierson came through right after you and I was able to get away,” McDougal said referring to the shop teacher Mr. Pierson, who broke McManus and I up the day we went at it.    “Holy shit, same as last time. Deja vu, all over again,”    “I know, right,” McDougal said. “Were you able to scam your old man about the suspension?”    “Almost, he found out the last day. Wasn’t so bad. One elbow to the gut.”    Mike and Denny came back with the doctored photos and a minute later we climbed into Denny’s beat up Ford Focus and headed over to McManus’s house on Harding Street near school.    When we got there, I got out of the car, went to McManus’s shabby front door feeling pretty anxious and knocked. Nobody answered, so we decided to give it some time. Waiting in the car I found out Denny was a seventeen-year-old junior at West Seneca West and that I vaguely knew him from my time in West Seneca. All through third grade, during morning announcements, students were asked to keep this Denny Wroblewski and his family in our thoughts and to never take for granted our good health. I didn’t know why we did this or who this Dennis Wroblewski was that we had to keep in our thoughts. Then one day at lunch a year later in fourth grade when Denny hobbled by our table on crutches someone said he had cancer and lost part of his leg which explained what Mike meant by his physical limitations.      Waiting Denny opened up about the hassle of being endlessly fitted for prosthetic legs and did a funny impression of his mom who was sure every time he cleared his throat or coughed it meant the cancer was back. The smile on his face as he mimicked his worried mom made me wonder where my own mom was and if I’d ever see her again.    Sitting there McDougal also talked about why he was so small. He had something called; Hypopituitarism, which was a rare disease where your pituitary gland doesn’t produce hormones and made you grow in fucked up ways. With some resignation in his voice he said he took a lot of awful medications and growth hormone shots every day to help spur his growth, but it wasn’t working great.    After an hour of waiting, listening to what was messed up about them we called it a day. I took the pics and Denny reminded me that it was important to give them to McManus when his friends weren’t around.    “How am I supposed to do that?” I asked    “Maybe in the transition hallway, you pick a time and place to settle up, but first you got talk,” McDougal offered.     “Yeah, dude in a rock head. A redheaded fucking rock head. Don’t think he’ll go for that,” I said.    Seeing no good answers Denny said, “Then how about we try this again tomorrow? You can tell us what’s messed up about you Jackson.”    I laughed and said, “We’ll need way more than an hour.”    And, with that, it was a plan.    Only it didn’t quite work out that way. Next morning I missed my bus and rode my bike to school. I didn’t see McManus all day, not even in the transition hall. I did see McDougal and he said Denny was going to pick us up after school. Since I had my bike I told him I would meet at Knight’s. I realized later, when it was too late, the smarter thing would have been to take the ride from Denny and get my bike afterwards. My way, I peddled to West Seneca got in the car and came right back here to McManus’s house on Harding Street. But this time not thinking things through worked out for me. While unlocking my bike at the end of the day I saw McManus get on the bus to go home and had an idea. Living so close to school I didn’t get why he would take the bus rather than just walk, other than it probably provided one last chance to terrorize some smaller weaker freshman or something, At any rate, I realized I could just ride to his house on my bike and settle our business when he got off of the bus. So I hightailed it over there, got the pics out of my backpack and waited for him.     It must have taken all of a minute for this older lady who lived across the street from McManus to come out on her porch and ask what I was doing there. She was not convinced at all when I told her I was just waiting for my friend and said I should move along or she was going to call the police. Being a person of color in a hoodie, sort of loitering in a mostly white neighborhood, that’s the last thing I needed—the police.     Not wanting to give this up yet and knowing he was going to be there any minute I slung my backpack over my shoulder and stuffed the pics into the front of my jeans and slowly went down his street, in the opposite direction I needed to go home, constantly looking over my shoulder to see when he got off the bus.      I was about twenty houses down when I saw him, so I turned around and started to peddle really fast. From the way he strutted, even at a distance, you could tell he was an obnoxious fuck. Closing in, I started to get really mad watching him, When I pulled on to the sidewalk about two houses down, he saw me. I dropped my backpack, but still peddling hard I went right at him and the look of fear and confusion on his face was so fucking delightful it made up for the pain when we hit the ground after I flung myself at him from my bike, shoulder first. Quicker than him, I was up first and was able jump on him and pin his arms with my knees leaving me an open lane to wail on his dumb Irish Setter head. But instead of pounding him I pulled the printed pics from my belt and jammed them in his warm up jacket really hard and then got off him and breathing heavily said, “Before we go, you fucking rock head, you need to look at these,” And I rolled off him and to my feet in a ready stance.    He got to his feet and started to come at me saying, “You’re fucking dead.    In my ready stance, I said, “Before we do this just take a look at those asshole. I had you and let you up. Just take a look and then we can go if you still want to.”     Still coming at me he casually glanced at the top one, threw them to the ground and said, “Fuck you.”    “STOP!” I yelled putting up my hand. “Look at them asshole.”    Now, spread out on the concrete sidewalk he looked down. Watching him process what he was seeing was like watching Forrest Gump solve a physics equation and when he lifted his big dumb head and looked at me I said, “Yeah, that’s you, dumb fuck!” Watching him still not quite get it was so great and I continued, “Listen, if you keep fucking with McDougal and me these and many more will hit every all the platforms—Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Periscope...all of them.”    “Fuck you,” he said and he sort of took a half step toward me.    Still with my hand up I had an idea. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my flip phone and with my thumb pretended to call McDougal. I didn’t even know his number and may have been a little quick pretending that he answered, but I said, “McDougal, I’m here with McManus...you ready?” I paused another second and then said, “You decide McManus, we go and you explain to the world why you’re tonguing dudes or we just stop all this stupid shit?”     “Fuck you,” he said and took a step toward me.    “McDougal,” I said and he stopped. “Last chance, McManus.”    And, that was the last step he took. After another brief pause he bent over picked up pics on the sidewalk and under his breath while walking toward his house said, “Fucking nigger.”    Under different circumstances I would not have taken that, but my victory was so complete I just picked up my backpack and laughed the whole way to Knight’s. When I got there Denny, Mike and McDougal were waiting.    “Ready?” McDougal asked    “Not going to be necessary,” I said feeling a big ass grin crawl across my face.    After telling them what went down they were smiling too. I exchanged fist bumps with Denny and Mike, but that wasn’t victory enough for McDougal and he jumped up to bump chests and of course, I accidently knocked him on his skinny little hypo ass. Didn’t matter though he popped up and did a fake end zone dance, even pretending to fake spike the ball.    When we were laughed out at McDougal’s dance Mike took on that parental tone again, “You know Jackson, we’re all glad it worked out, but the plan…”    In his little tin voice, McDougal cut him off, “Shut up Mike, McManus deserved worse than getting knocked on his ass. Jackson played it just right.”   In the short time I had known him it really was kind of inspiring the way that little bit fuck could assert his authority in certain situations. Mike just sort of smiled and didn’t say another word, the room resonating with General McDougal’s pronouncement.    Instead of catching a ride from Denny, McDougal left with me. Part of the way he rode on my handlebars, part of the way he walked. We talked about Mitski and he said part of what he identified with, was the fact there were things beyond her control that forever made her feel like an outsider. He said he felt that way and wondered if I did too, to which I had no answer. For the last year all of my attention had gone to avoiding the wrath of my old man. It made me uncomfortable thinking feelings had any value. In my head I could hear the old man—chicken shit elites obsess about their hurt feelings, instead of moving forward and surviving. I was happy when he changed the subject and started talking about girls. He told me how much he liked Lexi and wanted to know if she had any friends.    “Friends? Yeah she has friends.”    “Friends that put out?”    “McDougal!”    “I’m just kidding,” he said laughing. “But, ya know I spend my whole life with Denny and Mike. Good guys, but sad sacks. How Mike found a girl is crazy.”    After thinking about it for a second I said, “Well, she did say this girl Sydney Cheever had some pretty wild stories.”    “Sydney, Lexi sits with her in that art class we have together. No shit, Sydney. She’s so cute...and easy too. No shit,” he said clapping his hands totally thrilled with this information.    The smile didn’t leave his face the rest of the way home, but just before we were at his street he asked some subtle questions about my BMX and my X Games friends. There was something he was asking but it wasn’t clear and when I pressed him what was with all the questions, he moderated his smile and said, “No big deal. Just asking.”
    It was a weird ending to the day and again as we parted ways, I was left wondering, what the fuck McDougal? 

South Park Artisan Market...

Thanks to everyone who stopped to talk or buy a book at the South Park Artisan Market on November 19. I'll be there again on December 10 for a repeat performance and this time I will have credit card reader.

Buffalo Mudd...

Back in the early 2000's I published a monthly website called Buffalo Mudd that ripped off the satrical style of The Onion. Describing the site I would people it's  The Onion of Buffalo. Well, over this past summer I got one of those fancy streaming music services and today was the day I boxed up and exiled some five hundred cd's to the basement, including a couple hundred disks I burned myself. Going through them I came across a CDR titled "Buffalo Mudd Backup." As far as I remembered Buffalo Mudd  was only backed up with floppy disks. Yes, floppy disks, that's how long ago it was. And, as you might imagine, as excited as I was to see the disk I thought there was no way these files, which were more than a decade old would be intact and interface with my Blogger program. But after a little cutting and pasting I've managed to recreate a reasonable facsimile of the original, epistemological...Molly story. She was a little older and she was Molly O'Malley instead of Molly Shea, The piece in itself is really kind of stupid, but it's a charming make you smile kind of stupid. Or at least it was for me. I hope it is for you too.

Original Molly:

What's A Party Chick To Do?

I'll be selling and signing books Saturday, November 19, ...

I'll be selling and signing books Saturday, November 19, 2016 from 9-1pm at the South Park HS Artisan Market. Lots of local vendors selling unique crafts, jewelry, home decor and much more. Stop by... https://www.facebook.com/events/741205032694013/