In the comment section of my Spe 29, 2008 blog Jw wrote: "Have you ever thought about
putting each thought on a new line." And then in an email she took the time to format this blog and I felt like a poet. Of course Ginsberg is a stretch....but hey...it's my imagination so I can do as I please.  I'm posting the formatted version just so some (if interested) can see the written word in a different slant. And the beauty is...this is the type of friends we make here...someone who would take the time to comment, but also take the additional to an effort to take it once step further. For this I am grrateful.

This is for Dawn O'Brien and she's alive and well.
This is for you, because you are alive and able to read these words. 
This is for me because I am alive and well and free to use these words.
This is for you, who can't.
This song is for the freedom fucking fighters of the world who think that
the only way to gain freedom is to eliminate those who don't think the
way they do.
This is for those who don't think, or at least for those who think they aren't thinking.
This is for all those that disagree.
This is for all those that could give a fucking shit less.
This is for the queers, cocksuckers, pimps, cross dressers, and baby rapers out there.

It's for the ass sniffers and cheats too.
It's for those who believe in their own sense of justice.
It's for those whose life has been one injustice after another.
It's for the self inflicted, It's for the free.

It's for our pets…cats, dogs, snakes and our zoos too.
It'sfor the little bitty baby that slipped through the hands of god. 
It's for the god who slipped through the cracks of all knowing.
It's for the late bus and it's for the bus you just missed.
It's for you pacing not knowing.

It's for you hungry. 
It's for you so full you are uncomrtable.
This land was made for you to vomit.
This land was made for you to be healthy and eat fresh foods and stay alive a long time.
This land was made for infant death.
This land was made for accumulation and it was made for sharing. 
This land was made for misunderstanding and it was made for you and me.

So here were are…I'm glad to meet you…my name is Tom

 

 

 

 

 

Actually, I can't handle lies either. I think I exist somewhere in between. In the land of bullshit. My bullshit. Your bullshit. With a moo moo here and a moo moo there here a moo there a moo everywhere a moo moo.But I'm a bull, I don't go moo. See, you're catching on mister bull. But, what you do do, is of the utmost importance. I don't do nothing anymore except for an occasional bull fight in spain. And nowadays with air travel so expensive, I haven't been to spain in ages. Well, what about all these fast food places like McDonald's, Burger King, Arby's etc...that must keep you pretty busy, after all, we need a lot of cows for all the beef we consume, so, the stud that you are must have you rolling in the action. Not so much anymore...years ago it used to be a lot for more fun. Why's that? Well, for one thing, I was allowed to run free in a pasture and when I caught the scent of a cow in heat I could just run down the hill and fuck her real good. So? So, the truth is this has been taken all away from me...now, someone comes into the barn, straps this gizmo to my groin area...and it hurts like hell at first, and then it vibrates and it begins to feel a little bit better, but I'm bitter as hell too because I really want to fuck a cow and in my frustration I must come a ton into this gizmo and not too much later I feel a little relief because someone comes in an unstraps the gizmo from my groin. So what happens next. I'm not sure, but I've been told that someone (who's paid a lot of money)  comes and takes my come from the gizmo and sucks it up into a syringe and the walks around the barn and sticks it up into a cow (one that I should be servicing) and then ten minutes later drives off in a nice looking car and let me tell you, this makes me mad as hell...I'm more than outsourced....I'm...I'm...ruined. But, this is all for the better. The better my ass...people today aren't eating less red meat because of what I just told you, people are eating less red meat because cows aren't getting fucked by bulls the way they used to be...hamburgers just don't taste good anymore. It's all about love my man...and you can't fuck with that.

                                                                

I will be in Ann Arbor for a few days. Peace, maze

Just before we leave for any trip I like to sing my version of how willie nelson sings "on the road again."  I hope you have the tune in your mind. Now if you do, please place these words in there....on the road again...you bet your sweet ass we're on the road again. And then get on the road and go. It takes us about six hours to go from Buffalo to Ann Arbor to visit our son. It's a pain in the ass to drive for the week end, but there's always something memorable. And if I really put my mind into it, I would have enough memorable stuff for at least a dozen blogs. And then a dozen more. I once was going to record the subtle variations of driving from Buffalo to Philadelphia, but decided against it because I felt that people just wouldn't give a shit about it. But, that was bad thinking on my part because the trip was really quite exciting. As is or was going to and fro to Ann Arbor too. They are not called trips for nothing. Two things out of millions of things that occurred are all I'm going to tell you about. On the way down to Ann Arbor we heard this song tainted love by soft cell, in between, Michigan got their asses kicked by Illinois and after the game we were looking for a place to get a bite to eat and every eating establishment within a football throw of the stadium was jammed. And then when we decided we should venture further,  the mass exodus from the stadium made us crawl to the next eating establishment maybe a few miles down the road in any direction we chose to go. Hunger and tiredness began to get the best of our emotions. But, dad the driver (me) said fuck all this shit, I'm just going to drive back to the hotel and there's the Bowery Bar and Grille we can go to that's directly across the street from where we're staying. Most were ok with it after I explained the game plan. We had two cars communicating via cell phones as to where we should go and what we should do next. But I was hell bent to get as close as possible to the hotel so I pressed on. I was the lead car. When we pulled into the parking lot of the Bowery Grille, one of my daughters said...this is a trash dive. When we walked in I said to myself...holy shit, this place reeks of smoke and it's karaoke night to boot. I walked in with a black cloud of disdain for dad and a cloud of cigarette smoke to find a seat for eight who were mostly hungry and angry at each other. And then, something weird and miraculous happened...the locals came up to the microphone and began to sing their songs....and it was beautiful. It was so poignant and real that I felt as though I could cry in joy. And my son had said...tonight has been a happy accident. And we agreed. By luck, dad was no longer the jerk. And after a bunch of food and a bunch of drinks, we left there feeling more local than not.

                                

Suppose for a moment that you choreographed whatever you thought was going to be captured later by an audience. I had this vision and I want it to be yours. Ho hum. Now, whose ho hum is it.  Raise your hand...thank you. I'm bored. Go to the bathroom. I don't have to go. Yes, can I get you something to drink. nope, I just want to run away and hide and not even be one small part of what you're going to say. OK...that's it then.


This was the start of last night's blog....but I didn't like where it was going so I went to bed instead.
 

I came across this snapshot today. I probably took the photo of this young girl sometime in 1968 while I was stationed in central highlands of vietnam near the city of Pleiku. And that's the end of the story. I was surprised when I was in nam that some of the merchants in the shops in the cities were from India. What made them come to nam, what made them even stay there during a war, I was never quite sure. I never bothered to find out, probably because I thought...hey, I'm just passing through, no use getting too involved with the people and their situations. Besides, I was just a kid myself, I had no real sense of commitment to anything. Except for maybe getting back to a girlfriend (who ultimately severed our ties while I was there) and a few friends and a few favorite hangouts and of course, family which seldom deserts you. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life except for keeping it. Every day was a countdown to the next day which made your stay there a little shorter. It was a weird state to be in. Anticipating joy and gloom simultaneously. But, I made it here and I'm glad to be able to reflect on it tonight. I do though, wonder about that little girl. Could she possibly be in a similar little shop with her daughter posing candidly for a snapshot from a graying returning vet who ventured across the seas to see what the hell it was, that he may have left behind. Damn, that was forty years ago...it may be her daughter's baby that's posing for pictures in Pleiku.

I'm not what you would call a social drinker even though I do enjoy drinking socially. I just don't go out all that much. So, rather than not drink at all, I drink alone. It's more sacramental that way...which makes it for me a spiritual and communion like experience and therefore not really alone drinking.  I find it difficult to tap into this feeling in bars and other noisy and boisterous social situations. Right now, I'm not drinking a lot, and I'm not really alone because I hear the bride talking to her sister on the phone and the crazy jack russell terrier yapping about something and the tv in the background sounding like something country and western playing itself out on a movie or sitcom and of course you, mostly unknown to me, possibly wondering where any of this might be going tonight. I'm kinda wondering the same thing myself. I'm also wondering if kinda ever made the dictionary. In walks a cat. She stops, stretches and goes meow. I avoid eye contact with her because she will meow and meow for food and I would think by now she should realize that it's the bride that does the evening feeding. She just gave me another meow. I am definitely not alone ever. I take another pull from my glass of beer. She walked away, possibly towards the voice of my bride talking to her sister. The sound of tv is no longer country western sounding, but something I would rather not be listening to. Where is silence when you need it. The simple thing would be to get off my ass and shut the tv off. And the next simple thing would be to incorporate this sound and that sound into this slug of beer into the next slug of beer and the next sound into this sound until you get the finest blend of hops and sounds and no abounds. A mellow blend that always has you in mind. A blend that knows that you can't get anywhere form here and a blend that remembers where the hell it was that you realized that there's no such thing as the devil and a blend that is keeping all spirits alive till the no end of time. Now that my friends is how I define love and meditation. However, in the morning , I may disapprove of this message. But, so what....it'll be a new day. btw, this is a snapshot of me in 1968 drinking a beer in nam. I wish I could remember what was going on in my mind that night.  

                                   

Here's another snapshot from the basement. I would think by the faded colors I snapped this photo some time in the early 70's. I have no idea where or why I attempted to capture this scene. By posting it today I want to set it free. I want all colors to be free. And I want all people to be free too. God, I must be naive. Thank you. There has been so much bullshit thrown my way in an attempt to destroy my innocence and I have been fortunate enough not to fall for it. And for this I thank you baby Jesus. I don't know if this is a universal prayer, but it's one that I overheard my wife and kids say every night when they were being tucked into bed. (and if you have heard this prayer before, and I screwed up the words....forgive me for I was a bad listener) Baby Jesus bless me, keep me close to you. I want to please you Jesus in every thing I do. Be near me little Jesus in my work and play, make me love you Jesus more and more each day. I'm telling you, that was so sweet and nice to listen to nightly. And now I wonder what my kids say and pray before they go to bed. I hope they pray for freedom and justice. I hope that each day they act free and just. And I pray that they pray that they will never lose their innocence, no matter what crazy bullshit is sent their way. And that they have a sugar mountain they can retreat to and a baby Jesus to play with.

                                          


                                                      

Last night I purchased this piece of work at the annual Autistic Services auction. I was the high bidder of two pieces of artwork. Every year that I attend, I come home with a piece of work that I should hang up somewhere, but I never do. Last year while I was leaving the building with my two pieces of artwork that I bid for, this one young woman came up to me and said, oh, so you're the one who outbid me for that painting. And I said to her, I'm sorry, my intent tonight was not to deprive you of some joy, I just liked the picture myself and kept on bidding. But I said to her, you would really make me happy if you would take it home with you and hang it up as a special reminder that total strangers can be nice to one another. And she said, I couldn't do that. And I said, I think you should because I think you would treat it better than I would. And why is that. Because I said, I feel that you would give it the prominence it deserves. Me, I would just tuck it away and never hang it up. She hedged again. And then I took the painting and handed it to her boyfriend and said, here, would you mind taking this and give to to her as a gift from you. He laughed a bit and took the painting off my hands. Anyway last night I was surprised how many people commented on how much they liked the two pieces I won. And the weird part about it, no one could really explain why they liked this picture of the woman's face, but they did like it for some reason. And I said to one woman, I like it because it's edgy. In a sense it's a defacing, but it's also a statement that there's more than just the surface. But I also said, it could the artist's frustration that he is not like others. But I really can't say, I don't know what goes on in the mind of an autistic person. But whatever it is, it always catches my eye.

                              

As a kid I never understood the popularity of a pineapple upside down cake. But when someone in our family made one it was accompanied by one too many oh goody and one too many oh wow. Back then...I would think...oh fuck I hate that shitting cake, it's way too damn sweet.. but I would never dare utter my feelings, so I would always eat a small piece of it. And I suppose, that could be construed as a form of moderation. And moderation was something I learned from my mother in regards to beets. Just put one piece of beet on your plate, but make sure you finish everything on your plate. I used to hide pieces of beet in mashed potatoes just to be able to swallow the damn thing. And, it didn't take too long afterward that I was able to at least tolerate them and then ultimately even buy some to enhance a meal...and yes, there was a few times over the years, I grew some in the garden. But for me, beets are not something I could put on my plate on a daily basis. Which makes me wonder....who eats the most beets. I never see them offered at restaurants as a side dish choice. I see them thrown in with cabbage and horseradish, but I never see them advertised on sale at the local supermarkets. Beets really are a select food source. They're not made for all...and yet they are. So many secrets out there for our sustenance. Supposedly you're better off if it's local, but soon I will taste a South African orange ...because the price was more reasonable than an orange grown in Florida. Which means to me that the orange from Africa will probably taste more or less like an orange from California and a beet from a can will not make you shit red in the morning like the real thing.

                                         

The other day I blogged about the art auction for Autistic Services here in Buffalo. This is the second piece of work I won the bid for. My snapshot doesn't do it justice, but nonetheless, I hope you get a feel for this piece of work. I liked it because it made me stop for a moment and be a little more analytical than usual. It's not like a painting of a sunset where I would think oh wow that's beautiful and then walk away to the next piece of art hanging. No, this picture stopped me in my tracks. It engaged me. I attempted to figure it out and then I thought, there's no way in hell I would ever be able to figure out the mind of the artist...and yet, I would love to have this hanging somewhere and watch people reading these little boxes and then have them do fourteen random thoughts and create their own work of art. The work before their eyes would be the template. And, from here on in, the next fourteen sentences will be the maze doing the exercise. Lapsang souchog after a good fuck. Michael stayed in bed with a young boy. It wasn't the color pink that caused aids. This glue is super but it misses a beat. It was a Pinto. Flip the cushion over nobody will ever find out. Next time don't lose your phone....Roger out. Oh fuck, I'm so drunk I forgot who I'm calling. I suppose this is what they mean by full circle. Guarantees are only good for a year, quit whining, the Beatles will be on Ed Sullivan tonight. You have some purple on your mustache. It was at a stag party and it was quite by accident. It's the latest rage with interior decorators. OK, so I'm a liar....most of you knew that already, but I bet you're wondering how I jimmied my way out. I don't get it. Why would you, it's me. But of course, if you feel like playing you could post 14 random thoughts anywhere you desire. I realize that it's difficult to see all the words on the picture. I think that's the big difference between me and a person with autism. I can switch channels easily they mostly stay tuned to the same station.
 
              

I'm not sure if  males have different needs than females for bathroom decorations but last night I happened to be upstairs for something and while up there I felt an urgency for a little urination so I went into the bathroom and peed. It should have been a simple thing, but I did notice that the bride had put up some new decorations on the little shelf above the toilet. And while pissing I thought, this is nice. And then I thought, the women of the house would not appreciate these decorations as much as I did. Unless of course they would walk into the bathroom, look at the wall, notice the decorations and then ponder the beauty of the placement. I don't know about you, but when I enter a bathroom I generally have a mission. Mission number one or mission number two. Anything after that doesn't matter a whole lot to me. Now, for most males, the mission of number one is generally an upright position. For females, both missions are either in the squat or sit position. I sometimes use the squat or sit position for mission number one in the middle of the night or when number two is coming out first fast and furious and the lagger number one following shortly thereafter. So now I'm beginning to wonder why pee is number one. I would think that if you had a choice to either pee your pants or shit your pants, you'd choose the pee before the poo. I would think then, we should say poo should move up to number one. But for all I know, number one is pee only for my family..everybody else is taking a shit as number one. I think we should also add more numbers. Number three should be when you need to change your pad and number four should be when you carry a magazine into the bathroom to help you along. Anyway, I must apologize for this blog tonight...it got a little out of hand.

Because I didn't extend my tour in vietnam for 67 days I wasn't eligible for an early out. Which simply meant that instead of being discharged from the army on April 20, 1969, I had to wait until August 18, 1969. The huge difference was this: I got to leave nam in February instead of April which meant I had to stay in the army five months longer than I wished. But I have to say, those last five months were memorable to me. And I must say, that I probably needed those months for the transition into civilian life. Originally the army was sending me to Ft. Sill, Oklahoma, but I had a friend from Buffalo that happened to be working in the pentagon at the time and she said that if I came to the pentagon, she knew enough mucky mucks to get my orders changed. And I almost feel like telling the story of Sue and me in DC, but if I do, I'll forget about the kittens and how I associated them with a conscience. While I was home on leave from nam I purchased a brand new 1969 Volkswagen Beetle. It was the car that I drove down to visit Sue to see if I could get my orders changed. And that drive was successful because I was able to get my orders changed to Ft. Belvoir, Va., instead of Ft. Sill, Oklahoma, which was way too many miles away from Buffalo. Belvoir was nice because it was close to someone I knew, and it was a week end eight hour drive that me and the Volks could handle to visit  Buffalo. (home) I did get to see Sue a few times while I was stationed near D.C., but she was having this on and off creepy relationship with a boyfriend that I didn't much care to get involved with. Anyway, the point of this story is pretty lame and I'm somewhat surprised it surfaced. While at Belvoir, a couple of my friends wanted to score some hash, so, since I had the car, I said sure why not, we'll drive into D.C. and cop some. When we got to the apartment of the seller/friend  all I remember today is that there were a lot of kittens running around. Their big fat momma cat dropped a load. No big thing, cats drop loads all the time. So, this one guy says to the other guy...do you guys want to try some hash before you buy some. (And really, who the fuck would say no at time like this...so we toked) And after a while I asked ...what album was playing...and the reply was Spooky Tooth...and I said oh wow, I never heard of them before. (And this blog is already way too fucking long) And then,  as I was getting a little stoned and I was falling back on one of the plumpy pillows that were placed all around the room...  I looked around the room and I thought about the kittens and thought I better not get too comfortable before I fall asleep on top of one and smother them. This thought process may have taken less than one eighth of a second. I'm sure the cats are still alive somewhere now meowing.

                                          

In my ineptitude I can't get this photo thing to work on my computer. But that's as far as I go with my whine tonight. There are so many people on this thing that have mastered this cut, copy, paste, upload, download and sweet etcetera sort of skill, that I almost hate to say this, but...I envy them. You know who you are. I hope you feel smug. Can people really feel smug anymore? I think maybe yes, but I actually feel a lot of compassion for those smug feeling fuckers because they truly are (imho...for you cyber enthusiasts out there) out of touch with today. In my humble opinion, smug was never in. But here it is, just a simple word, and a simple definition, and a simple feeling that I could punch a smug feeling fuck in the nose. I sometimes wonder where this anger of mine emanates from. I'm a thug who hates smug. Glug, glug, glug. But let's get back to smug. Do you think smug is feminine or masculine? Smug is asexual isn't it. Smug is a pug in a rug. I know this has nothing to do with the point I was attempting to make, but I think I may have felt (and I hate to say this) a little smug with my rhyming prowess.  Actually, I have to confess, that I'm really not one for rhyme. I think rhyming limits you. There once was a man from Buffalo, who loved to play with words and shuffleo. Oh, that was so lame, why can't you play by the rules of the game. I will, and of course I should, but knock, knock, knock on wood, I would if I could. I'm confused and feel used that you're using words to create fjords.  But Finland has no fjords and Cheektowaga (the town where I live) has no lords, except  for those prefaced by the word slum. Or money grabbing scum. I really don't mind people grabbing a few bucks on the side to make ends meet.....now the rest is up to you....grab a word and rhyme with it. Chime in you sweet thing you, it's time to speak your mind.




                                    

A few weeks ago our daughter's boyfriend Eric popped over to the house to ask for Malina's hand in marriage. He was nervous as hell and the first thing that came out of my mouth was: what does Malina think of all this. And he said, that they talked about it a little and they even talked about a ring. Then I said...are you planning on buying her a ring and he said yes, and then I recommended a jeweler friend of mine. And, then I asked, do you have a timeline set, and he said not really, but he wanted to tie it to a special event in their lives. This week end they went mountain climbing in the Adirondacks and not too long ago today I got a call from a choked up teary Malina telling me that Eric asked her to marry him. And I asked: what did you say? And she said, of course I said yes. And then I asked her, where the hell are you, and she told me the Adirondacks. And I said, oh, that's why you're so out of breath. And then I said, I can't wait to see the ring...where did Eric get it. From your friend Fran. (Hmmm, I thought, the kid listens...but he also must have gotten a pretty good deal too.) Where's mom. She's at a baby shower. She's not answering her phone. She's with Kellie, so call Kellie...she'll answer her phone. I'll send you a picture of the ring. Great....and congratulations, I'm happy for both of you. Bye. Now, here I am, hours later and I'm thinking...damn, I never even asked her when they're planning on getting married. I think I'll wait until they get home from the mountain. I'm happy too.
btw, I can't figure out that other band...I'll have to remember to ask her when she gets home.
                                                       

I don't care. There is always so much more than meets the eye. Do you ever get annoyed by cliches? I love them. Sometimes they sound new too, it depends on how they're presented. Nothing new under the sun. What the fuck are you talking about, this persimmon looks pretty new to me. Yes, it may be pretty new to you, but it sure looks like Mu Chi's great sumi painting, "Persimmons" to me. Yes, it looks so real I could eat it. Well, even though you would eat it, it would still taste like paper, even though it was painted on rice paper. This is the perfect time of year to think of persimmons. What do they taste like? I'm not quite sure, I never really tasted one, but I've been told they taste like astringent pomegranates. And why is this the perfect time of year.Because it's fall, and this is when these things are ripe in Japan. Anyway, I'm sure this isn't making a whole lot of sense to anyone who may be reading this tonight...except for maybe Laura who likes to read poetry of this sort. Earlier I read this poem by Gary Snyder in the New Yorker magazine and it was about Mu Chi's persimmons. Maybe I should post it so you can enjoy it like a fall fruit. But then again, what I'm talking about really has nothing to do with the poem. It's really something I can't put my finger on. The goop part made me feel good, and Benrido I don't understand, and the napkin in hand is so nice and ordinary and Japhy Ryder was a friend of Jack Kerouac so I would think that what he has to say is so relevant to the world today. It's all about curing hunger in one way or the other. And I tried to post this poem, but couldn't. If you can find it and post it...I would be satisfied...for a bit.                       And yes, sweet Carla did post it. Check out the comment section.

You could tell me what key we should be singing in but it wouldn't matter. I would not know the difference between the key of c or the key of d. I envy folks who know the difference. But I also envy folks who don't know the difference, but can still carry a tune. When I was a kid, my piano teacher quit me because I didn't want to learn how to read music. She said to my mother, I can't teach him because he just wants to play by ear. I may have been six or seven at the time and I was probably more glad than sad when this happened because on Saturdays when all my friends were out playing, I had to sit for an hour and practice the piano. I don't think my parents were too upset when my teacher quit me, because they probably bought the piano for my sister who's a year older than me....although  she eventually quit playing too. She must have read music for a little bit longer than me. I remember every good boy does fine and face too and for some reason when I doodle, I like to make treble clefs in elaborate fashion. I never found bass clefs all that exciting to doodle, but I may be a bass person at heart. And, when I eat chinese food, I don't use chopsticks, so please don't embarrass me when company comes over and ask me to play chopsticks on the piano that's been sitting in the corner of this old house collecting dust for the last fifty years. But I must admit, that I do enjoy it when I see a good chopstick user or player. Or I catch someone playing a damn good guitar without a pick. Or an ant tripping over a bread crumb. Or adults playing music with a 12 year old blind kid and realizing that the key they have to be in, has nothing to do with sight.

                                                 

I don't know what's happening lately, but my friends and acquaintances have been falling quicker than the leaves. There must be an endless pool of souls floating about so I don't understand this need for more. And three out of four of those deaths have been what most would consider untimely. Marie K .was in her 80's &  last week when I saw her, she was grocery shopping in one of those motorized carts and she was lugging around one of those portable oxygen tanks too. Kenny W was a shock as was John H and John K and Tom Z. 60, 61, 53 & 49 respectively. I played softball with Kenny for years, greatest guy going with a smirk and a smile and conversation & ball busting that never quit. He dropped in a sauna at the local Buffalo athletic club. John K and I went to high school together...his wake is tomorrow. He must have married late too because I kept on bumping into him at school and sporting events. John H was always a little kid when I was growing up on the street behind him. His brothers run the meat market that I frequent every Saturday morning. This kid John looked lean and mean in his casket today...youthful and athletic but an aneurysm snuffed him out. As for Tom Z, he was a casual acquaintance. I knew him from Johnny Angels pizza place down the street. I passed his wake tonight while driving to the local convenience store for a big bottle of beer. I felt like stopping in, but I wasn't dressed properly. He hung himself in our local jail the other day with his dungarees. He was drunk and fighting with his girlfriend so the cops came and locked him up. I always knew him to be a nice guy. Whenever I saw him lately, he'd be riding his bicycle down the street and we'd always say hi to each other. None of this shit should be shocking because we all know none of us will come out of here alive. But fuck man, this has been a bit much lately. The other day when I learned of Kenny's death I went into a silent funk. The bride knew something weird was going on because I disappeared into the bedroom and didn't sit and blog by the computer that night. When she came into the room later, she said...I don't like it when you're in this kind of mood. But at that moment, I didn't even know why I was in that mood. It wasn't until the morning, when I opened up the newspaper and saw the face of John H in the obits, that I realized that death was making me sad.

btw....thank you in advance for allowing me to dump all this on you. 

                                  

I attended three wakes today and a cocktail party for the Lancaster Democrats. Talk about good fortune, two of the wakes were at the same funeral parlor and the cocktail party was just a few mile swing in the direction closer to home. As much as I dislike going out and about, I get energized by people and crowds. The weird thing about me as a politician is the fact that I don't care for public speaking, but I love working a room. I love going from table to table, person to person just to chit chat and say hello. And I don't generally introduce myself, I just pop in and chat. Sometimes though, I just say dumb things like...hi, I'm Tom Mazur and I'm not running for anything. And when I'm actually running for office people will ask me at times who I'm running against. And I say, I don't run against anybody, but somebody is running against me...I hope that doesn't make me paranoid. One time while campaigning going door to door I ran into this ornery man and he confronted me immediately by saying...you look like a goddamn politician, what are you going to do for me.  And I said, I'm probably going to piss you off by raising your taxes. And he looked at me and said...well at least your honest. Now, this is almost like a brag, but it's really not...it's just a cool story. Many years ago this poor woman was sitting in my district office with her two daughters and all were sobbing. She got tossed out of her apartment and the landlord was so pissed at her that he sent someone over to the house and had them yank all her furniture out of her apartment and put it at the curbside. She had no where to go until another week before she could move into a new apartment....but the problem was, that she couldn't contact the owner of the new apartment because he was out of town for a conference. I was tired and dressed in a suit after a long session downtown and I remember thinking oh man...I don't need this shit.  Long story short. After about a dozen and a half phone calls we were able to contact her new landlord in New Jersey, got his permission for her to move in early, get the keys, get a friend with a truck to snag her furniture out of the street and get her into her new abode that night. A few weeks later I bump into her at the local pharmacy where she was working as the cashier. I'm out of context because I was in a T-shirt, my groovy james dean leather jacket and a pair of dungarees. I recognize her and think...oh god, there's that poor woman who had all her shit tossed out onto the curb. And she looked over my way and was eyeballing me up and down and I knew she couldn't figure out where she knew me from. When it was my turn to cash out she blurted out...oh  my god, now I remember who you are......and I can't believe that you're one of us. And I said to her...you know, that's the greatest compliment I ever got.

                                            

What would you do in any given situation. I don't know. Good answer. You did well today Johnny, you played the best that you could. ( one of his team mates thinking...god, he sucked on the field...his mother ought to shut her fucking mouth because her son is a horrible player...he's always the reason we lose the game) This sort of coddling thinking really doesn't help kids all that much. Why's that. Because they go on thinking that they're pretty ok because their parents keep on reaffirming so. They even go so far as placing bumper stickers on their van boasting about their child being an honor student in middle school. Fuck schools too for handing that dumb shit out too. Schools ought to be smarter than that. To the very rich smart ass kids who have been pulling off encyclopedias off their bookshelves for as long as they can remember...give them a bus pass for the public transportation in their town. For the less fortunate, give them a cadillac with five dollars worth of gas in the tank, and some shiny rims to boot.  Of course, this has been exaggerated tonight. I'm prone to extremes. So, strike all the words I just laid down on you and kindly continue forward. I don't know if I can. Some of those words hurt me. OK, I apologize. It wasn't your son's piss poor playing that made us lose the game tonight, because we all know it's a team effort...and we as a team should  have rallied around the fact that your son struck out three times and made four errors in the field today. Give him a break, so he had a bad game. I suppose you're right...you do own the team, so it doesn't matter what I have to say. Yes, you're correct...here's a bumper sticker for you. Thank you sir...(I'm no longer undecided)
What a joke...she'll never vote.



                               

 I decided a long time ago who I could feel comfortable with to lead this fine country of ours into the future. I don't understand someone being undecided. But lately those that are undecided are being courted. Excuse me sir, I understand that you're undecided..do you think I could have a moment to chat with you. No, I'm in a hurry and actually, I'm not  really undecided because I only said that because I essentially think that what I am, is none of your fucking business. In Erie County  we have people that register to vote and they generally affiliate with one of the larger political parties.  But there are a lots of people who don't wish to affiliate with a political party so they check off the little box that says Blank. Some folks don't like to be referred to as a blank, so they check off the box that says Independent. And of course, there are thousands of people out there that could give a shit less about voting, so they don't even bother to register. Political operatives know this so they bang on doors and try to get people to register. And then, once they do that, the next operation is GOTV. (get out the vote)  The first time I ran for office (1988)  I was working the Kenfield/ Langfied projects with my black friend Earl Smith. At that time it was OK to refer to Earl as black...this was way before political correctness came into vogue. Anyway, this particular day was primary day and Earl and I were knocking on doors  and reminding folks that it was primary day, and they should make sure they get to the polls and vote. I was standing by a door I knocked at and was waiting for someone to answer their door. Earl came by and said...here's what you gotta do around here because they take forever to get to the door. And he went and knocked on three different doors and  told me that when someone comes out, just walk over to that door and talk to them. Earl kept on walking and I was still standing by the door I initially knocked at when suddenly this I heard this black woman yell out..."which one of you uncouth mother fuckers knocked on my door and walked away."  I looked at her and I pointed at Earl. And damn, I knew better, because when Earl first told me how we should approach this GOTV in the projects...I must say, I was more than a tad undecided on his tactic. But..I did learn something that day.




                                           

Lately I've been taking our dogs to walk the outer ring of Delaware Park. One lap around the golf course, soccer fields, baseball diamonds, tennis and basketball courts and zoo is about 1.8 miles.(we do two)  Talk about a stimulus package for the dogs, this place is like and overload for their senses. I park the car near the zoo, so as soon I let them out and hook 'em up to their leashes their noses catch all the scents of the captive pisses emanating from the publicly funded entity called the zoo. At this point, the dogs are in a frenzy and they yank and pull me towards every sort of direction. I yank back and stop. And then I tell them...ok you crazy fucks, if you can't behave in public, I'm going to take you back to the hood where you recognize all the scents and your walk will be less exciting. It'll be the same old lamp post, fire hydrant, fence stank that you've sniffed for the last couple of years and the same old squirrels and cats sitting on porches that you not only have seen a thousand times over, but have almost begun to befriend. And shame on you for becoming familiar....look what's it's done to your contempt. Your contempt for being held captive. The zoo should piss you off for more reasons than one. They're not free and either are you. But I'm freer than most and for this I am glad. Glad about what? Glad that I don't have to hunt to fill my belly and glad that I don't have to defend myself against predators and glad that 97% of the time there is water in the bowl. (and especially glad that you don't use that blue stuff that tastes yucky to clean your bowl) Well, I'm glad we already had our w-a-l-k earlier because if I would say I'm glad we had our walk earlier, all I would hear is woof woof woof because you heard the word walk. Woof woof woof...shame on you for thinking that I don't know what you're thinking...take me out for a walk...I'm yours.

                         

This blog has nothing to to do with the upcoming election. It has nothing to do about beauty. And if you kiss me because you think I'm beautiful, I'll say, oh my gosh, oh my gosh and I hope to god I won't throw golly in there too. So what's the meaning? I feel bad for all you losers out there. Not on the night of November 4th, but the night of now. Now some one is at a loss. Just like that, a perplexity. What are you going to do about it do good reader? What are you going to do about it apathetic kind and considerate next door neighbor kind of person that you are? Silence and more silence and some internal stewing and a blurt. Do you care to hear that blurt? Fuck no! Heck no! Well maybe? Is it worth listening to? That's up to you. Yes you, who has more control of situations than you even care to think about. But I don't care about you because it's really about me only. Only what?  The lonely. Yes, I know the song. And what else? You. Today however Joe Biden farted at an airport concession stand....it went unnoticed. Sarah Palin is wearing red somewhere. O and Mc are stumping. Me I'm having a beer and saying what the fuck. And me, I'm wondering about you...are you OK? Something happened and I want you to know that I care. Does that mean me too?  Yes, under certain conditions. Fine.