Storm rolling in near Los Banos

 

Jack on the Tee!

 Okay, another "out of nowhere coffee rant”:

So for no reason in particular, I suddenly recall meeting Jack LaLanne. I was at Black Lake Golf Course in the mid-’80s and I'm waiting for the first tee to clear (I'm on deck). I hear whispering and someone says, "That's Jack LaLanne!"

I'm curious, so I step through the small throng and see a guy on the tee using a driver that appears to be about two feet longer than it should be. He's wearing a t-shirt that is clearly nine sizes too small and pants so tight they reveal we have something in common—we both hang to the left (it's a guy thing). The lady I'm with is mesmerized and wants me to get his autograph. 

I turn to her and say, "The only reason I would approach that guy is if I needed to feel tall!" Of course he can do 4,000 pushups. He's got biceps like cantaloupes, and in pushup position he can't be more than two inches off the carpet! If he wasn't Jack LaLanne he'd be marching to "Whistle while you work"! 

I get a "Shhhhh… he can hear you," and I can't help but continue. Look, on the TV he must surround himself with midgets! You'd never know he can't reach the freezer! He must have been a fire hydrant in his past life!

Suddenly I get a, "Jeez, dude, what's your problem?" I turn around to the guy behind me and reply, "Hey, dude, this is the guy who makes me feel like shit because I can't do 300 one-finger pullups. Look at that, he can't even reach the pedals on the golf cart!" 

"He's a member here ..."

"Bet he only has to pay half the dues ’cause he's only ..."

"Stop it!" I recognize the voice and tell her I'm done, but I keep muttering. Wasn't a good round. I got to watch "Jack" on each tee doing handstands and one-arm pushups.

Of course, today he'd be declared "vertically challenged" and allowed to play Abe Lincoln on Netflix. 

I'm done. And yes, I feel better.

The night before California closes, again ...

 ... Erna's. Three couples in a large room separated by 20-30 feet with a wandering Sommelier about to go dormant, again.

  

12/20

Selections...

Been a while between paragraphs.

It is a smoky Saturday morning, and my robe feels to ask for more use—who am I to ignore the request? Looking out over the meadow, there is little contention, save for the mock battles of blue jays and other feathered things—more a game of tag, methinks. In any case, they’re relentless and none seems to get hurt.

On the other hand, where roads collide and machines blare in the quiet, there is an uninterrupted and obvious anger, silent and not.

The signs neighbors used to post on their lawns are now dares and have become self-righteous declarations of degrees of patriotism. Most are just bait, I’m afraid, baited by a glass eye skillfully nurtured by the choice of a button on a remote. Neither choice’s side has patriotism in mind. It is about ratings and sponsors, fueled by whatever head-slapping lie or exaggeration can be offered to keep the “channel” connected.

There was a time when friends could disagree, when signs on a lawn weren’t even discussed as the coincidence of neighbors picking up the morning paper together never interrupted a morning smile or wave. And through the smoke of a BBQ, political protests usually lasted as long as it took to have a can or bottle opener tossed your way. Elections were not seen as a threat by any selection. And when existential fears were offered up by a side or sides, they somehow dissipated like the wrinkles below an iron, because we had memories of fairness and realities that always eventually pressed the button of conscience that never became too remote.

It is our life that is reality. Not a cause. Not a theory. Nothing threatens the very next moment; why should we believe some glass eye in our living room that tells us where our future seconds will land?

Now is the moment of happiness.

Herd futility !

Herd futility is interfering with my false sense of impending safety!

That Little Box in your House

 

Why would anyone bury decades of inherited sensibilities and intuitions just to be told by a little box how serious it all is (interrupted by a commercial on how to avoid paying back taxes…)? It's just a little box in your house with a lot of different voices. Be the ventriloquist, not the dummy; listen to you. 

 

There is a wonderful whispering skepticism alive in all of us. It hisses at us before we leap over an abyss, and occasionally it says, “This might be a foot too far.”

 

 

 

May full moon

People ..

People talk about the "new normal"—its arrival, what it might look and feel like. Others believe we will simply reset to exactly where we were. I find myself hoping for a little compromise between the two. Mostly I think my left will come up earlier than it ever did, and stay up longer than it ever did.

The water hazard

                                                    When you realize you don't have enough club!

The Reporter and The Question

The ice in the drinks couldn’t have even started to melt before she asked if I had ever broken the law while on duty. Had I said no, she would have dismissed me as a liar; every officer she had already asked was. When I pondered the question and confessed I had, I saw her hand come off of her glass of wine. When I further confessed that it had been haunting me for nearly ten years, I could see her fingers grasping a ghost pen, or I should say attempting to.

I shifted uneasily in my chair and looked around for the waiter, as if I could only go further with the assistance of more alcohol. Not wanting to lose the moment, she snapped her fingers on both hands over her head, which not only attracted the waiter but also got the attention of everyone else in snapping range.

Now, when a reporter asks you out, you bet your headline the motive, no matter how big your ego, is not about some powerful attraction she just can’t help but sate. No, when a reporter shows interest, it’s more about getting your x-ray than getting into your pants. This ”date” was supposed to be an apology for an offensive article she wrote about the department a week before. She had grilled the Chief on the air about it. When that didn’t work, I suddenly became her Adonis and found myself being asked to dinner. And if dinner didn’t work, apparently she had the reputation of using another “skill” that involved sheets. Yeah, that would happen when the Post Office announced an Idi Amin stamp!

The waiter, who nearly ran across the room, now stood frozen, waiting (as waiters do). I looked up with a timid smile and ordered a double shot of Maker’s Mark. I glanced over at the blonde sitting across from me; she shook her head and pointed to her only-single-sipped glass of red wine.

I looked over at two faux-compassionate blue eyes and tilted head, and had to use every cell in my body not to burst into laughter or, worse, spray a drink across the table that would have resulted in an assault charge or lawsuit.

 “Okay, we can start with that if you’d like, but swear to me this is off the record. It could ruin me.”

Her head shot straight up as her eyes widened. “I swear!”

At that moment all I could see was Clinton saying, “I never had sex with that woman,” but I continued, after taking a false exhale of relief.

I worried about being out-clevered (new word). This dinner was not going to be on me. It was agreed that “the steaks are on her” would precede everything. We examined the menu, and while I was confused about what to order, I guess the furrowed brow she picked up made her say once again, “I mean it, this will be just between you and me.” I nodded at the two orbs just above the top of her menu and ordered a rib-eye (medium), potato (with just butter), and any vegetable (‘cause I was going to ignore the vegetable anyway). I sipped my drink and gave Medusa a weak, pathetic smile.

 “It all started in the shower. I’d had enough! I was desperate and I knew it.” (I sipped, paused, peeked, and continued.) “Now, I confess, it had been bothering me forever, and I finally decided to do something about it.” She nodded in false commiseration.

I figured the salads would be a good time to break it to her that it’s not polite to talk and chew. She reluctantly agreed and told me she could tell this “thing” was clearly a burden, and she really appreciated my candor and valued my trust. I nodded and played with my croutons, sipped, and continued when the salads were cleared.

 “Okay, I knew for a fact that a certain officer’s brother worked at Menlo Hardware. I also knew if my plan was going to work, I needed to go in the store in uniform.” I shook my head and took another sip.

“I decided to go in during lunch hour, and when I was on my downtown beat patrol, on foot. I entered the store and asked for Smith. I’m not going to give up his name. Smith was paged and came out from the back. I stared at him for a good five seconds to convey the gravity of my presence. ‘My shower water is so weak, I have to run around in it to get wet. I don’t like running in the shower—it’s dangerous. I want a shower head that will knock me over if I’m not prepared.’ I held up my hand to halt any quick reply; I knew what he was going to say. ‘I want to feel what it is like to be hit by a Saharan sand storm; do you understand, Smith?’

“He nodded, squinted, and said he might have one left. He said, ‘But, but they’re against the law—we had to replace them all with the limited …’

“I interrupted, ‘Except for the one, the one you have back there, the one you may have?’ I pointed to the back of the store. I stared back at the storeroom entrance, back where gushers live, geysers were trained, constant artificial cloudbursts resided.

“’They’re against the law,’ he pleaded.”

Blondie began nodding her head, her disgust with me forming on her face with each word. But this part was the truest, I told her: “But wait—there’s more!”

“I took a step closer to Smith and gently tapped my badge saying, ‘I am the law!’ I jutted my chin towards the storeroom and Smith rushed to it. He returned with a small paper bag. I could tell his mouth was dry and he was having trouble swallowing. I took the bag and, for Smith’s sake, I said aloud, looking into his panicked face, ‘I take this evidence in the name of the state of California. And Smith, you realize of course you’ve been in possession of this evidence and that’s a crime.’ His eyes opened wide and I quickly put my hand on his shoulder and said, ‘I know your brother—he’s a good cop. I don’t want him to be embarrassed or you to have to pay consequences. So we won’t say another word.’ When he began, I stopped him and said, ‘No need to thank me—remember, not another word!’”

When the waiter brought the steaks, she told him she had decided to have hers to go. She clearly had to keep her cool. After all, she had been recognized by the other restaurant guests the minute we were seated. The waiter brought the carton. She bent over, kissed me on the cheek, and whispered, “Fuck you, Officer Raggio,” and strolled out in her best runway walk.

What I didn’t get to tell her was that when I got home that day, I removed my 20th shower head and opened the paper bag to a rather plain-looking spigot. My shoulders fell in disappointment and I attached it with no expectations. When I turned on the water, I’m sure music filled the bathroom. The flow struck the floor of the tub with a force that splashed over the edge onto my pants. I lit a cigarette. This eighth wonder of the world has followed all my showers since! It still produces a prodigious blast. I shall bequeath it!




It wasn’t until I finished my steak that I realized I had to buy hers too. Lawyers, reporters (not all in both cases) are way, way down the food chain. To this day, I believe 10% of what they say on TV, because the remaining 90% is about motive, and the motive is ratings and readership. Every now and then we get to strike back—silently, of course. And the reporter? Well, every time I see her now she begins to even out her lipstick … with her middle finger.

Sommeliers and the Like

I’m from the Bronx.



I have never really been able to explain this to my wife in a way that she can appreciate; it’s hard for her to understand that, between my "Bronxing" and my "coppering," food for me has always been a result of hunger—and then later, as a cop, something I had to eat swiftly. Nothing worse than to order a meal, fast-food or in line at a store, and then suddenly have to run out, unable to return to the ordered meal (they rarely saved it). If you're lucky, you can throw money at the checker as you dash. (Of course it has to be more than the three-day-old, pre-made sandwich costs.)

I tell you all this because Sally lives, lives, to go out to those restaurants where the portions are, let us say, "limited" in size.

Sally:

"Now I want you to appreciate the presentation—the time it took to create that presentation, the artful way the food is dressed on the plate. There will be several courses, and I know this will challenge your patience. But this is important to me, and since I've shown my patience while you watch those monotonous crime ... Well, I just think you might show some appreciation for the fact that I am taking you out to ...”

I hold up my open palm, nod, and say, "I'll try" (without a fraction of honesty in either word). Going out to one of these places requires all the patience (and alcohol) I can consume before we leave, driving or not! I'm getting dressed, over-dressed, for a meal that wouldn't sate a Lilliputian, so I'm trying to sneak some Ritz crackers into my sports-jacket pocket. I turn around and Sally is staring that glazed stare that makes me feel numb and dumb at the same time. "Just in case?" I quickly throw two into my mouth in rebellion.

I just love pulling up to a valet who looks back at my Subaru as he accepts the tip from the $200,000 Benz in front of me. His look says enough to piss me off, and I send my best angry-cop look back at him.

"You're starting already; we haven't even gotten out of the car and you're starting already."

I open my mouth to explain and finally just say, "Hey, why do we have to come to these places where the valets are better dressed than me?"

Before she can reply, her door is opened and her dream for the night is coming true. I, on the other hand, open my own door. The valet waits patiently. I reach into my coat and slap a Ritz in his palm. He thanks me. Sally doesn't see this. A coup. I can’t stop looking at a vintage Cadillac—you know, the kind where there’s a different time zone between grill and trunk? Sally tells me to close my mouth and pulls me to the door. 

Now, seated, there is a silent shift of power. The threat of embarrassment looms over the black napkins. Those same pantry eyes 30 minutes ago have now softened into a blinking plea for fairness, for reason. I start thinking of the valet and an involuntary smile pushes the side of my mouth upward. Sally pats my hand and says, “See, I knew you’d begin to enjoy this, once …” I nod back gently.

Here I am, once again about to be stalked and given involuntary lessons on “the grape.” Each course would be supplied with a different wine. The sommelier holds the bottom of the bottles as he pours. The splash appears to be exactly the same as the one before. I wonder how many years it took to become that accurate. This is a man who is exceedingly proud of every ounce he introduces. I want to see some expression on the man’s face. I need emotion to continue! I know, I’ll …

Sally grasps my hand and mimes the words, “Don’t you dare!” Something on my face gave me away—a tell. Now I’m wondering if my poker group can see it!

I suggest we take a picture of every tiny offering that comes (every fucking hour). Look, portions that size don’t require digestion. If my stomach could talk after I swallowed, it would say, “Wait, wait, what was that?”


The wine is finally striking a chord. I have a small buzz, which of course fits the portions perfectly. Shifting in my seat finds me resigned and surrendering to the situation. I lean the wrong way in my jacket. The clear and present muffled sound and vibration of the demolition of the remainder of my Ritz crackers solicit an “Are you okay?” The lying nod, heroic smile, and fake anticipation for the next pour works.

Dessert is a combination of whatevers. I’m wondering if it will taste like something I am able to identify. Sally’s eyebrows hit her hairline and she nearly swoons. All I can think about is my favorite dessert, butterscotch pudding.

The valet seems not to recall me and quickly gets my Subaru. When I reach for a tip he says, “No thanks, I’m full.” I start laughing and give him a real tip. Sally asks and I just shrug. The quiet drive home is broken when she suddenly blurts out, “You’re impossible! You’re like climbing Everest … in slippers!” 

“Sherpa Sally?”

Okay, the laughter was concessionary but hearty. We both know there will be another dinner with more warnings (and a few more Ritz crackers).

Sides

Manchurian candidates on both sides, unable to loosen their ties. Salmon moving upstream, unable to think outside the motive. Blinders on a race horse, patriotic addictions—a righteous opioid screaming into its own echo. We, the people, need you to get out from under the platitudes and look back at us.

Do not ...

Don’t tell me how to make chili or insist that there’s only one way. Next it’ll be the way I mow my lawn or wear my hat. Revolutions have been fought over people insisting on the way others should think, feel, and follow. You might have a clear view of party, politics, religion, and yes, even Constitution, but I was born with my own special gray matter, and that is what matters to me. If there were only one way, we'd have to eliminate east, west, and south. I like north, but only on visits. If I need a new recipe, I’ll ask around.

Speed, the need ... with one exception

               1969 Road Runner    (The Bird)

The horn went "Meep Meep" and when you stepped into it, it slammed you back against the seat. That wonderful instant carburetor speed was followed by screaming pipes and rear tires that couldn't keep up the with horses.  Marlboro's on the dash and sideburns you can't see.

                               1987 Grand National   (Blackie)

Dubbed "The Vete Eater" My first intro to a Turbo; the pause and then the smooth increase- like a taxiing jet. I rarely passed one car at a time, pulling into the on-coming lane and stepping into it ... warp speed, loved warp speed.

                                        1998 BMW M3   (The Beamer)

Classy ride, owned speed, bought with only 22K miles and very dependable.  Handed down to the kids.










                        1999 Mustang Cobra  (The Snake)

I regress. I hear "the sound" on the new Cobra.  The pipes instantly make me think of Steve McQueen and his green Mustang in the movie "Bullit"  I go by the dealer on duty and inspect one on the display floor. I ask if I can test drive it. They agree, but insist I go solo to do it. I suspect they saw the saliva dripping from my jaws. I go up to 280 and at the beginning of the on-ramp. I stop. I look into the rear-view mirror and lose all desecration. Nothing but smoke behind me, the tires are like soft chewing gum and finally grab, second gear and they grab again like glue. By the time I hit fifth gear I was near 140 and ready to sign a contract.  When I got back the car dealer could smell the ride I took and smiled. "I want one, the next one you guys get in" The guy said, "Yessir Officer" It had "the sound" I fell off the speed wagon. Raggio, you little boy!

(I sold it when I retired. It has very few miles, but those were miles with smiles!)

                                                     
                          1974 Alfa Romeo "Alfetta"  (Sinbad)

I would sell all the cars I've ever known to have this vehicle back. No car I've ever owned was more "me" Sinbad reflected style, class and grace. Riding in it was, personal. The seats bucket seats were close, the wood dash and faces of the dials clearly followed the smooth lines and Italian accent. I so so so regret selling it, always will.

1985/2019

Just before retirement.

Weather-hyped

     On the 18th hole it was 95 with a breeze ... that was 12:50 

The course was virtually empty, save for this golfer and coyote!  ;-)

                    Apparently around 4-5 it got near 105!

The Putt

Sea Ranch
August 5, 2019
Hole 11
Some say the putt was so long it deserved an intermission: 85 feet as the crow flies. Add 10 more feet for the circuitous route it had to take before gently disappearing in the cup! 

Longest putt ever for  Raggio!

The Amendment needed

Until the ownership of a gun becomes a privilege, not a right, we’ll continue on the merry-go-round, grasping at a ring everyone knows is one hand too far to capture.

I don’t know any responsible, reasonable gun owner who truly believes his or her guns will be taken away by a president, a party, or even both parties. Fear incites such ideas, such nonsense. Only a minority threatens their sport, their traditions, and their safety. Those professionals I know and worked with regard possession of their weapons more as a privilege than a right. And with that privilege comes the maintenance of and responsibility for the use of those weapons; they know the force (and the implied force) weapons carry.

Making ownership of a gun a privilege that must come with the same responsibilities the majority of gun owners practice today seems to me the only sensible path to reducing the crisis that afflicts us. Arguing the point about a right does not help. Deserving the privilege would, in my opinion, go far toward preserving the right.

If you own a gun and you don’t hear voices or you haven’t had dreams of carnage and murder, then you are as frustrated as a non-gun owner with the lack of imagination in our Congress, and you see this is not about taking away your gun. Rather it is about finding the antidote to the fringe who use, abuse, and terrorize us with the constant distraction of hate.


The Second Amendment needs to speak to privilege, not right.

We need to stop repeating the talking points and guesses about gun registration and background checks—those will come, but they will come down the line. Ask any cop if background checks will have an impact on the carnage, and the response will be, “Not a scintilla!” A serious background investigation for a new officer may take weeks, even months. There aren’t enough people on the planet to conduct serious background checks on new gun owners. (And we can’t even pass that law!)

A few suggestions:

1. Finding a way to reduce the number of weapons in this country is paramount. We need to get the guns out of the hands of yahoos who want to shoot stop signs and fire into the air on holidays. Access to weapons is too easy. Most guns are handed down, or you know a guy, or you know a guy who knows a guy …

2. Making the mere possession of an assault weapon, outside of a responsible entity like a gun club, punishable on the same level as possession of a chemical weapon will make a difference. Make the punishment unthinkable.

3. Reducing the arsenal we use on ourselves will have to find fresh ideas and be reduced to the state level for enforcement. Dividing a problem by 50 ideas works better than trying to manipulate the current sludge of Congress.

4. Expecting that Congress will cure, solve, or move is futile. If they move on background checks, they’ll say, “Well, it’s not the answer, but it’s a start.” No, it’s not a start. It’s hands having trouble patting each other’s backs. These people have become experts at a conversation that speaks to no one but themselves; they will not move unless their re-election is threatened.
5. Changing the verbiage in the Second Amendment is the only way I see to circumvent the Supreme Court and the gun lobbyists.

We can shake our collective head; avoid malls, stadiums, concerts, and any line longer than ten people; or we can consider demanding the right to live without fear for our children and the exploitation of these events by the Internet and the press, even when exposure of those events is excused with the disclaimer: “What you are about to see …”

A Woman ...

... has a thousand more reasons to be angry than a man, and yet women don't go AK-47 hunting. Hmmmm …

A place for fog

The edge of collected images seems to dull in the passage of time and daily distractions. It is in the silence where they beg to appear from back in the line. Tilted heads leaning to be seen to the side of the even administrations that only have one purpose and that are born to tunnel vision, they stand perfectly straight—perhaps necessarily, though they are, without any personality, solid colors. Clear. Obvious. Styrofoam.

Notes sing and the fingers back there in the line snap, heads nod, hips move, and words rise like a melodic phoenix to remind something in me that rhythm is the jukebox of the heart, so I sing to remind those tilted heads they’re not just in line, they offer a place for fog where the world softens in meaningful nostalgia, and they remind my feet they’re not just for shoes, for walking.

Irish beach 70th

Morning visit

Everyone has tens of thousands of stories; each one of them can change the “once upon a time.” Our memories are our hieroglyphs. The order in which we recall them can change their temperature, status, and direction with a fresh menu of ideas. The idea that one person might present himself or herself as your Rosetta Stone is absurd. If you are seeing someone for a personal bout that extends more than a few months, you’ve made a friend you trust, and you are paying him for both. Perhaps there is nothing wrong with that.

There is feeling good. Feeling bad. And not feeling. Examine what made and makes you feel good, but don’t mine too deeply. We never really ask why that song lifts us, why we find comfort in aromas, the sun, and the quiet. Going back in order to go forward might seem to make sense. We see history and we see us. The brain only goes back to our beginning. Two people wearing plaid do not make some inner familiar coincidence. In fact, in the compromise we make to accept that, we lose ourselves and restrict discovery to comparisons.

To recognize satisfaction and practice its retention through all distraction, I believe, is the gateway to understanding the smile. We suffer more from believing in mental “sameness” than the fear of mental illness.

A Politician’s Disclaimer?

I have decided, before I am exposed for actions I’ve forgotten, been forgiven for, been excused for, and those no one will ever know, I want to apologize for all the shit I’ve ever done that might be offensive today that was clearly unknown to be then.

But I want to go all the way back to when I was ten—no, no, five! I should have played Tonto occasionally instead of always wanting to be the Lone Ranger. And I want to admit now that my hands wandered to places they shouldn’t have while at the drive-in with Kimberly Love, who never actually said “no” until I went for the buttons. I realize I was dumber than a sack of sand, and should have known better when Butch announced that from now on he was “the nigger,” I was the “the wop,” and Eddie Guadalupe was “the speck”—yeah, the speck. We realized later that the word was really “spic,” but we had used “speck” too long to change it—it was the Bronx in the ‘50s, and that’s not an excuse, it’s an explanation. You won’t get it, but I’m not going to spend my life trying to define it for you.

I’m going to run for office and try to drive the car without always looking in the rear-view mirror to see what might catch up to me. You see, it slows the vehicle and delays getting where I would like to go: understanding what’s ahead and listening to those who know about destinations.

So I’m going back to age five, calling, “Ollie ollie oxen free!” I’ve never had body parts in my freezer, and I hope you vote for me!

40 years of golf 27-47-67

Poker Wisdom?

Poker wisdom?


Conservatively, at any one time, there are a collective 420 years waiting to raise or fold. Over these past years, “yesterday” always seems to be the focus, a softer focus, a matter-of-factness. (New word.) The sense is  less of an apology for what was and more an explanation for it. Changes came in the way change might best be consumed—over time, a long time.


We have all, to a one, admitted scandalous actions and words—the hallways of our lives then were much narrower. We lived in our communities and learned from sidewalk to sidewalk, and of course we believed mostly what our parents believed (with the exception of sex, bedtime, and broccoli). We learned about races through avenues of television and some of us took a fresh look at one another, for the first time examining the other one’s last name. But hallways still remained narrow.


We shake our collective heads at the table and wonder how we could have been so distant from what, in retrospect, now seems so obvious. But it wasn’t … obvious. We rubbed two sticks together, if you will, to start a fire, unlike today’s flip of a switch. The news was uninterrupted by commercials; it was Joe Friday news. And it was meted out in small bites, because the hallways were narrow.


Politics was that “thing” that you felt you should know about and would take the time one day to investigate, but not now. Feeding kids and making rent were the paramount issues. No one on the television was selling right from wrong or left from right—at least not so obviously as to permeate those narrow halls enough to make us stop and think.


And that is where we “seniors” stand united in our observation: There seems to be reaction, not thought; the flavor might be accurate but there is no sipping. “Our side says …”—without any regard to Mr. Simon. Ideas need and deserve the fermentation that should come from thought, and while it may seem obvious to some, swift currents make the table suspicious. We are not guilty of ideas we digested as normal and true when we believed they would always be so. We were mistaken.


This new generation has grown up with explanations, retro accusations that are justified within that shield of hindsight and completely out of focus to a generation dueling with a guilt they’re supposed to feel, but don’t understand. How could it possibly have been different? We didn’t have the benefit of understanding and explanations that came in seconds from a keyboard. Most were, it appears at least to this group, political plebes.


When someone tells me, “This is the way it should be now,” and wants some immediate movement as if it has come from the burning bush, it is representation without fermentation.


Half the table voted for someone I didn’t. And long before that inauguration, they were tired, weary, and angry. And I realize no one wants to be told their nonfiction chronicle deserves to be edited—as if it would or could amend one’s today.


There is something frightening about righteousness: It’s not like a sunset that speaks for itself, or music that moves the soul. It lacks the subtle influence water has on thirst, and usually it is offered in fortissimo, showing that it couldn’t last if whispered.

The cold

What so silent creeps with evil intent, without a whisper of its coming?
Tickles the throat and allows not the clearing a normal disturbance makes;
Cast not the eye on this villain, and perhaps destination will choose another
A skirmish in the sinus, the sleeping familiar warning of Nyquil nights to come.

Morning’s arrival has company: a Kleenex, a Kleenex, my dignity for a Kleenex!

What cold deed now seeks revenge on my throat and avoids all abating?

A hot ember residing with comfort sits, as if a servant
To inspect roughly anything that might attempt to pass.
A symphony in the making; coughing with notes of varying sounds from basso to falsetto,
Followed by a gentle wheeze that rests with insistent pride on every breath.

Like a one-hit oldie, there is no expectation of arrival,
You know the notes, the melody, and the harmony—and there it is:
A cold, your cold.

One would think that given the many rehearsals,
You could play through the misadventures:
Be d’Artagnan and duel all symptoms to rest.
Not.

I am six when I’m sick:
Ginger ale, Vaporub, and Campbell’s chicken soup (the musketeers)
Must follow until that morning when the corner arrives,
When my voice no longer sounds like it’s exiting through one nostril,
When blowing my nose doesn’t feel like it might blow an eye into my soup.

I used to read the thermometer without glasses;
A non sequitur, yes, but I have allowance.
I am seriously feeling sorry for my three-days-ago self.

Okay, so it wasn’t Iwo Jima, but it was a form of hand-to-hand combat with myself;
Fight, but do not slay; you might need those lungs later …

Images

128 and the Redwood Hallway

Just retired ...swarms...(shake weight arms)

                            River Creek range - 2010

Breaking news...

We are becoming as polarized as Congress. We see less and less of the person who makes a different choice. We judge people more on the shirt they’re not wearing. The civil civil war is becoming more and more uncivil. I can blame things, people—but mostly it’s the television. It used to inform me—now it only incites me. Fills my veins with “breaking news”—it’s a dog whistle, it’s heroin, it’s processed food. I’m fooled to think if I don’t pay attention, the Morlocks will surely take over. Perhaps it’s time to watch my own shoes and make my own direction. I don’t want to pick a line to stand in or on. I just want to agree with myself more. How did we ever come to think that it’s better to compare with people we already agree with?

Grrrrrrr

My age is revealing a growing disdain for the following competitions: checkstands, gas pumps, 30-second ads, hostesses, traffic of all kinds, heat or cold (in any continuous form), appointments, my handwriting, and arguments that last more than 5 seconds.

I’d like to think this disdain reflects preference, not impatience, though lately I have a suspicion that my fancy French coffeemaker has been playing tortoise to my hare on purpose, in an effort to soften my glare while it brews.

Moonset

Just a bit too close!

                          Near as I can figure it was about 2 miles from the neighborhood

How did we get here?

After she called them "deplorables," I thought, this race is going to be closer than people think. Her apology was like a judge telling the jury, "The jury will disregard that statement." Who calls people “deplorables” unless they're thinking it? It was spontaneous; it was the way she really felt.

How did we get here? How did this happen?

I’m not sure a Kansas farmer gives a damn about transgender bathrooms, gerrymandering, tell-all books, gays in the military. Their ideologies, I believe, are much more symbolic: flag, country, wages, and removing their hats (no matter the word or words) as they salute the symbol. These are the other half of Americans we urban folk got too sophisticated to notice—the silent majority, the Tea Party, and those who are now so desperate they're willing to hear only certain words coming from their guy who doesn't sound like a bridge-seller and seems to be talking right to them. It matters not a bit that the next guy or gal will be a Democrat or a Republican—it's the same old song, and those “deplorables” will be disenfranchised all over again.

No one person can bring to the table a unifying thesaurus. We are victims of supervised neglect; both sides are deaf and neither can read the other’s sign language. A serious chink in the republic’s armor: politicos and their ideologies (and their passion for same) caused this. Greed on both sides kicked the can down the road, not realizing or caring that a population was inside it. They’re unable to change.

Reminds me of the old nylon stockings: once you had a run …

The Oaks

The oaks in the meadow are much too quiet, too still—suspiciously so. I imagine when I turn my back they swing dance, break dance, waltz? I try to catch them; I cheat with my peripheral advantage, but they’re wise to me and refuse catching. Those oaks in the meadow—much too quiet, too still.

I remain suspicious. 

Coyote in the shade

Waking this side of Nippinawasse

Waking this side of Nippinawasse, I realize I had dreamed about being trapped in ‘70s, wearing puka shells, boots, and pants so tight people could tell my blood type. I think that’s why I don’t recall much about the ‘80s—the contrast, the relief was so complete and subtle I refer to it as the “beige decade.” People had to take lessons on how to button up their shirts and deny those chain necklaces were ever theirs. It made me cautious and led me to think about trends and fads a bit more. I tried looking in advance back at myself—it doesn’t work; it’s not supposed to. Still, I worry that I’m becoming an involuntary player in something I don’t understand and that, at the end, someone will tap me on the shoulder and tell me it’s all been one long pyramid scheme.

Waking this side of Nippinawasse.

The backyard ...

Looking out ...

Summer of 62

The day I came home from camp, my mother picked me up in her new Austin Healey Sprite. It was the summer of 1962, I was thirteen, and I couldn’t wait to brag about losing my virginity at camp. If I  recall It came out more like a near confession than an expression of bravado.


She switched gears and looked at my face for proof (she could see a lie on my face in the dark). She nodded once hard—it appeared the nod was to herself—and said, “Great, that’s not a conversation I was looking forward to” (another gear).


“Okay, Romeo, listen up: Use your elbows and share the wet spot, and you’ll do all right.”


My turn to nod, and then I tested: “This means I can smoke now, right?” Another gear in silence, which meant “no.”



The only other advice I remember my mom giving me was not to trust anyone who doesn’t like bacon.

Summer's Sin

The echo in the canyon

If you look back and imagine an idyllic time, pause. Perhaps we all overlooked, or pretended there wasn't a chink in the armor until it showed up. Going back to that idyllic place without recognizing how and why we are where we are just creates another generation of ostriches. Hiding behind or defending your political initial only exacerbates the echo in the canyon.

Fire sunset

A place for fog ...

The edge of collected images seems to dull in the passage of time and daily distractions. It is in the silence where they beg to appear from back in the line. Tilted heads leaning to be seen to the side of the even administrations that only have one purpose and that are born to tunnel vision, they stand perfectly straight—perhaps necessarily, though they are, without any personality, solid colors. Clear. Obvious. Styrofoam.

Notes sing and the fingers back there in the line snap, heads nod, hips move, and words rise like a melodic phoenix to remind something in me that rhythm is the jukebox of the heart, so I sing to remind those tilted heads they’re not just in line, they offer a place for fog where the world softens in meaningful nostalgia, and they remind my feet they’re not just for shoes, for walking.

CONDIMENTS IN MISUSE (just another rant)

Someone will say it’s the way your parents initiated their 

use. Others will point to 23 & Me and insist that it lies 

completely in your genes, because some people eat cilantro 

and taste soap and others don’t. One rogue group believes 

it’s a matter of aesthetics: the color of the condiment trumps 

all.

Watching someone put ketchup on a hot dog, for instance, 

causes me to wince and imagine the unimaginable: what the 

mix of ketchup and dog might taste like. There are states 

that I’m told have laws about ketchup use: shall only be used 

on fries. Which, of course, makes perfect sense. Would or 

could you say that someone who misuses a condiment has 

no taste no taste? And there are those who commit even 

more serious breaches, like putting mayonnaise on a 

dog. This is so far over the line I’d forgive anyone who water-

boarded such transgressors.

There is no constitutional right or protection against 

condiment misuse. While I know the government has its 

priorities (like creating a Space Force or dealing with anyone 

who is a shade darker than the President), I think a new 

branch of federal agents called The Condiment Cops should 

be seriously considered. Assigned to all stadiums and public 

venues, these CC’s could mete out instant justice when they 

identify misuse, an approach I think everyone would relish.

Mixed use, of course, would have to be contested in the courts …

Bronx Cowboy

My genes were trained from an embryo to go Cowboy.  Now of course it all seems so incongruous; 'Bronx Cowboys"- but there it was, in Black and Fuzzy white; Hop-a-long, Poncho and Cisco, Roy Rodgers, the Lone Ranger (who was hardly "lone" Tonto always had his back) And lets not forget the John Wayne flicks...

And then a Deputy Sheriff ... no boots.

Gal gone?

They were never automatic, her visits. Sometimes often, sometimes infrequent, but always upon appearance came a respected welcome; four-legged royalty who seemed to set aside the “wild” part and dare proximity for a snack. Her swaying and circling, and the occasional paw scratch on the ground showing a bit of anxiety and impatience, seemed more like an attempt at communication. That one could whistle and hold up an arm and then find her racing from some unseen tall grass was, for me, anyway (and I suspect for others as well), a sign that our friendship was still present and quite active. We were the “pets” grazing past her territory and paying the toll with a variety of “tributes.”

It has been a month since “the gal” has visited, responded, or been sighted. Hopefully she is nursing a new brood and is much too busy to collect our infatuated faces and smiles. But she has been longer absent than any other span, and she hasn’t left a note, nor any indication of what is happening with her.

A group of golfers awaits with hopeful curiosity that she’ll show again, take some time to abate the concern, and confirm that it wasn’t something we said …

The epiphany

I had come home from a hard day of golf to find a man at the side of my house. I recognized the PG&E uniform and inquired what he was doing. “I’m turning off your power; you haven’t paid your bill.” I had up until then been deft at defying circumstance and certain realities. I took a step closer and insisted he stop. I told him I had two small daughters who would be coming home from school soon. He paused, clearly considering my dilemma, and then looked at the golf bag still slung over my shoulder, my golf shoes connected with laces over the irons. He examined my face and the cigarette dangling from the side of my mouth and shook his head. “Maybe it’s time you change your priorities.”

Change. No greater resistance could have had residence in this man’s body than the resistance to “change” or even to alter. I checked the lights for some miracle, still in disbelief—no miracle. No cooking— electric stove. I recall making up a story about the electricity and how I would fix the problem, that homework and dinner would be by candle light. I didn’t have to make it exciting—children, I would discover, find such challenges fun, new, exciting. I announced that we would be picnicking on the dining room floor, on a blanket with candles, the fare to be peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Two small smiles grew into large ones and my oldest fell right into step, setting the blanket with paper plates, napkins, cups for juice. I lit candles in the bathroom, the hall, my room, and four more, carefully placed on the dark brown shag rug surrounding the blanket.  Looking back, I realize, among too many other recognitions, how children automatically make the best of awkward or fresh circumstances; later, as adults, we preface our responses with complaint, blame, and a measure of self-pity, before acting on the inevitable child in us.

Watching those two bright and crumbed faces, smiles flickering in the candle light, my shame was so complete I couldn’t talk, lest I fall into tears of apologies that would need an explanation I knew I would be instantly forgiven for—forgiveness being another quality children are specially known for. “Dinner” done, “dishes” thrown away, two small nightgowns made their way down to their bedroom, giggling, hands attached. Kisses delivered and “Goodnight, sweet dreams, I love you’s” said, I was left on the blanket, but it might as well have been another planet, certainly another world. Somewhere inside, rarely visited, began an emotion that brought a racking and sobbing in my body, attached to a pall of shame and guilt I had never known I owned the deed to. It went on for what seemed like hours, and when I thought I was done, it insisted, apparently knowing how resistant I was to reality and discomfort. When finally I could walk, hours later, I made it to my bed where two small bodies inevitably made their way during the night, not always together, but somehow by morning attached to Dad. Sweaty heads and soapy smells launched every morning. This morning I would hold them like never before, appreciating cotton flannel-covered arms and bodies, tiny hoarse voices in protest over waking.

That next morning I sold my golf clubs, my stereo, my coin collection, and anything else of value, and I got in line, a line where I was no longer first—proud and happy to be third, and only just threatening to be a real parent.

Uh-oh...

What if we told Michael Rennie, an alien is an alien. We don't care how far you've come, you can't be here!"  And no one knew how to say, "Gort, klaatu barada nitko"?

Sometimes you're just Rapunzel with a crew cut..

Quail with Engima