Yesterday’s post went over like a fart in the wind — like so many of my posts.
Only 17 views and one comment.
But I’m so very thankful for that single comment.

There’s always been a part of me that’s been yelling, “Hey, over here! Look at me.”
When I was younger, it didn’t matter whether it was ‘negative’ or ‘positive’ attention – jus’ as long as you looked at me.
Yet, here I am, an old man, having passed from childhood to adulthood, and still I am begging you to look at me.

And while I want it to be all positive – I’m so hard-up to be noticed at times that I’m willing to act in a negative way to gain your attention.
Unfortunately, not even this is working anymore.
“Hey, over here! Look at me,” is but another catch-phrase in a world filled with people craving time in the spotlight.

Is the problem me — have I become what Takuan* warned against?
Perhaps my book of matches are used up, my candle burned out.
Then again, maybe you really don’t care.

*Takuan is a 17th century Buddhist monk who taught that an overbearing personality will frighten off both allies and enemies.

It’s possible that I ought not say these things, but I gotta get it off my chest…
As a one of the fastest kids in the county, I could never understand why I could dash from one end-zone to the other in a football game, outrunning opponents and remaining open the entire time and the quarterback would never throw the ball to me.
I would repeatedly shout, “I’m open! I’m open!” but to no avail.
It wasn’t until I was older that I realized that I had outrun the ability of the quarterback to throw the football that far.
The same can be said for my writing.
Having any kind of ability does no good if you and I can’t develop some sort of teamwork.
And in order for my writing to work, someone’s gotta be their to read it.
Unfortunately, I can’t tell if you are or not because of a lack of feedback.
And what’s even more frustrating are the junk emails — some complaining that I don’t have ‘fresh content.’
Still other’s always promising to help my blog to go viral or to monetize my site.
They’re nothing more than fake bullshit while I know you’re real, but yet you say nothing.
I’m here — where are you?
For crissake’s, my toilet gets more action in one day than this blog does.

Once, when I was a youngster, about 16 or so, I bragged to a neighbor-man that I could fix his chainsaw. I came to this conclusion after I couldn’t get it to start while bucking up some small logs to be used for that coming winters’ fire.

I mean, it’s a small engine, so how hard could it be?

He took me up on my offer and I promptly took the thing home and started ripping into it.  But, no matter what I did, I couldn’t get the damned thing to start and stay running, so I had to put it back to together, return it to him, admitting that I really had no idea what I was doing.

The neighbor-man laughed, pulled out a small can of gasoline and filled it up.

As I sat in my truck waiting for my son to finish his business, I quietly observed a young husband and his pregnant wife seated on a nearby parking lot bench. She was far enough along that she could barely see over her baby bump, he was so exhausted that he could not keep his eyes open.

From the bags and packages collected around them, I could see they were still shopping for the baby that was on the way.  She kicked off her sneakers to give her swollen feet and ankles a rest while allowing her husband to catch a few minutes of desperately needed sleep.

After a few minutes, she tried valiantly to put her shoes on by herself, which is not an easy task when you cannot see your own toes. Immediately, the husband, with his eyes still heavy in sleep and his mouth open with a lasting yawn, slid to the asphalt and began to help her.

When he was sure that she was nearly settled and could finish the task, he slipped back into his seat and shut his eyes, seconds from falling asleep. A few minutes later she exhaled loudly with frustration, struggling as she reached to finish the tying of the last shoe.

And though he appeared to be fast asleep, he heard it, knowing her sound. Without even opening his eyes or the slightest of hesitations, he calmly dropped down at her feet.

Once his knees touched the black-top, he opened his eyes ever so slightly. That’s when the sweetest smile danced across his face as he finished tying her shoe.

She giggled, he laughed, I cried.

Joe stood against the wall, right where the boss-lady wanted him. Usually, the retired Jarhead worked in the other room, but since the boss-man wasn’t around, the boss-lady commandeered his services.

Anyone that knew Joe, knew what he was about, that security was his thing and that there was no one tougher than he was when it came to the protection racket. That’s why he didn’t complain when she posted him on the far side of the room, overlooking the entire floor and a clear view to the door.

No, Joe didn’t expect anything to happen while on duty. He only wanted to be ready in the event the shit ever did hit-the-fan.

“Come and join us, Joey,” Barbara called out. He smiled and shook his head no. It was obvious that the little hottie had no idea how seriously he took his job. Then she cooed loudly, “Kenny-poo!”

Joe’s mood suddenly soured. While he didn’t hate the guy, he couldn’t understand what a beautiful babe like Barbara saw in the little Queer-doe, as he wiggled his skinny ass across the room.

“You called?” Kenny preened.

“Yes, I did sweet-cheeks,” Barb answered, “Go and try to get Joe to join us,” she said as she looked up at Joe, adding, “All work and no play, makes a man worthless.”

“Ah, shit,” Joe whispered, knowing that if seeing the little homo wasn’t difficult enough to take, having a conversation with him made things even worse.

“Come on, Joey,” Ken smiled, reaching out and drawing his finger-tips across Joe’s forearm, not knowing how the mere presences of the pastel-clad fudge-packer turned the older man’s stomach.

“It’s Joe or Joseph, not Joey – I’m tired of tellin’ you that,” Joe responded to the name change, “And no, I’m stayin’ right here.”

“Fine, suit yourself, sweetheart,” he stated with a wink.

Touching, sweetheart, winks – it all set Joe’s teeth on edge and it was all he could do to keep from verbally lashing out at Ken. But he knew that engaging in an argument might lead to his pounding the snot out of the flamboyant homosexual.

As he stood his post, he watched as Barbara continued to faun over her boy-toy. She had once told Joe that it was her and Kenny’s destiny to be married despite his attraction to the same-sex.

And in his watching, he couldn’t help but notice Barbie’s inviting ass, good-sized tits and shapely hips. He also noted that she could use a few more pounds, especially around her waist, “But I wouldn’t kick’er outta bed,” he though, “‘Less there’s more room on the floor.”

Joe sighed at the idea that she could waste so much time on Ken, knowing how Joe felt about her, and that he was perpetually alone. It didn’t seem fair that he had no one falling all over themselves for him and that he seemed to be moving towards a life of never-ending bachelorhood.

Joe had seen some crap during his day’s in the Suck. He always felt an ebbing under current of anger, a seething rage that he couldn’t get rid of and never fully understood. PTSD, they called it.  It caused his mind to go to dark, uncomfortable places and play with his sense of right and wrong.

As Joe slipped into this mind-set, the thought struck him again; if he could only get rid of Kenny somehow, in her sorrow and pain Barbie would fall into his arms for comfort and from there, everything else would naturally slide into place.

“But how?” the old Marine fantasized. He had thought of it all and in the end he never came to a satisfactory conclusion, “After all, I’ve seen the boss-woman literally rip the cock sucker’s head-off and a day later the ass-bangin’ son-of-a-bitch is back out on the floor with the rest of the fuckin’ toys.”

“Maybe I should feed his faggot-ass to the dog,” G.I. Joe smiled as he contemplated Ken’s fate. In silent glee, the battle-hardened toy pictured Ken’s mangled, chewed up turd-encrusted face in a long sheeth of Fido’s crap.

I took two more photographs before realizing it happened. Everyone had gone quiet, no more drum beats, no sing-song. An Eagle feather is dislodged – has fallen to earth. It lay at the feet of a Cherokee elder as he danced the circle.

Grandfather tries once, twice, three, four, a fifth time. His old bones and joints refused to let him bend that far. The man’s face shows no sign of stress, no sign of worry. But my mind races, my body shakes as I will him, “Pick it up.”

My spirit must have jumped wildly as I pressed my mind to his. Grandmother calmly clutched my elbow, whispering, “No, child.” She holds me tight, knowing I want to help the old Warrior. My muscles quiver, I’m frozen in place, aware of her instruction.

A sixth attempted made and still he could not scoop it up. Oh, how I wanted to break tradition, beg forgiveness, help. Grandfather came full circle stepping stiffly ‘round the feather. Back to where he began, taking a deep breath, a seventh try.

Grandfather succeeds, gathering up the dropped Eagle feather. Murmurings began to rise, the crowds breathing a sigh, relief. The drums beat out time again and voices raise to Great Spirit. I watch Grandfather’s dignity restore, feel Grandmother’s release.

The old warrior looks at me, winks, smiles and give a gentle nod. Somehow, someway he knows my Spirit stood with his for a time. The Cherokee elder turns, dancing left as if nothing happened. Above comes the cry of the Eagle’s voice – “All is, as it should be.”

had too much to dream last night

composite people, day, night
couldn’t run, feet stuck, playa mud
running scissors, matches light
saw screwdriver hammered

spelling from alphabet soup

busy, confused, understand
fell from boat, water all ‘round
dry-docked and swimming in sand
no life jacket, but Mae West boobs

reading the alphabet cereal

oh yeah, way too much to dream
lost spans of years over night
time slowed, sped up, redeem
by blast from a nuclear sunrise

counting alphabet letters

today is a newer start
in darkness the same way returns
it rips the lungs, that bleeding heart
no way out, cycle continues

sing aloud the alphabet song

had too much to dream last night
movietone and signal’s lost
path goes one way, broken sight
built up, burned down, quiet mind

One, two, three – alphabet numbers

It wasn’t to long ago that I caught holy hell for suggesting that ‘Progressivism,’ is a mental health disease. Now, the table’s turned as a group of scientists from Tulsa, Oklahoma and Bonn, Germany have come up with a medicinal cure for xenophobia.

Xenophobia is simply defined as a dislike or fear of people from other countries. To put it another way, these researchers have found a way to ‘fix’ those of us who ‘suffer’ from Nationalism or a sense of patriotism as well as Populism, which is the “support for the concerns of ordinary people.”

Turns out, anyone proud of the U.S., their citizenship or worried that they might run afoul of Sharia, are the one’s suffering from the mental illness. The cure, researchers claim, is the hormone drug Oxytocin, administered in combination with peer pressure.

Now, to understand the term ‘peer pressure,’ you have to realize that it’s a commandeered phrase – one that original meant ‘bullying.’ But in this case the ‘bullying’ is meant for ‘good,’ because it helps a ‘certain cause,’ which is curing ‘xenophobia,’ — so it isn’t really bullying after-all, but rather ‘peer pressure.’

As for the drug itself, it’s a neuropeptide hormone sometimes known as the ‘cuddle drug’ because of its ability to turn normal human beings into idealistic nitwits. Side effects to the drug include mania, hypersensitivity, memory impairment and intense confusion.

So, after going through the study page-by-page, I came to realize that I was correct in my initial assertion; Progressivism really is a mental health disease. And judging from the side effects, those afflicted with the disease are suffering from a too much Oxytocin and not enough ‘peer pressure.’

Note: humor isn’t one of the side effects.

Former Nevada Senator Harry Reid is like a gift that keeps on giving. I mean – well I thought – the next time I wrote anything meaningful about him, it would be his obituary.

Federal court documents show that in November 2011, New Jersey Democratic Senator Robert Menendez got Reid’s help in pressuring the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services (CMS) to reverse its ruling that Florida eye-doctor Salomon Melgen owed $8.9 million for over-billing Medicare.  Menendez is facing a corruption trial along with Melgen, whose accused of bribing Menendez with hundreds of thousands of dollars in campaign contributions and lavish trips in exchange for his help on government disputes.

For his part, Reid contacted a White House deputy chief of staff, who in the end refused to help Reid.

“At that time, the Majority Leader reached out to the White House Deputy Chief of Staff,” reads the 30-page trial brief, “Informing her that Menendez was upset about how a Florida ophthalmologist was being treated by CMS and asking that she call the agency.”

Department of Justice paperwork also lays-out how Melgen and Reid had their own relationship. In 2012 the doctor gave $600,000 to Reid’s Majority PAC, which was then earmarked for Menendez’s 2012 electoral race.

Furthermore, in June 2012, Melgen flew Reid on his company’s private plane from Washington to Boston for a Senate Majority PAC event and back again. The indictment also details how on August 2, 2012, both Menendez and Reid met with then-secretary of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services Kathleen Sebelius in Reid’s Capitol office to discuss policies that affected Melgen.

Both Menendez and Melgen have pleaded not guilty and deny wrongdoing. And once again, like a greased pig at the county fair, Reid isn’t facing any charges for his underhanded activities.

It was about this time 20-years ago that my wife awoke me so I could get ready for my overnight shift at KOZZ. When she did, she also told me that Princess Diana had been killed in a car crash.

At midnight September 1, I went on air, and all through the morning I gave report after report as the news continued to unfold. For me, her death is like asking where were you when Elvis died, the space shuttle exploded or the World Trade Center tumbled to the streets of NYC?

All are historical events with a personal twist. I am sure, should you be old enough, that you have the same events in mind and your own memories to go with them.