why the few hundred words I just wrote were shit canned into cyber heaven.  Who am I to question such an action. This is anew. And it's not something I care to be at. I am having a cyber tantrum...please forgive me. In the morning I will be leaving this plane on a plane with the bride and daughters to vacate buffalo, ny for the ocean shore of charleston sc. We'll be back in buff, ny on the 9th of this month. Our flight leaves at 7am tomorrow. I may  be out of reach for a slew of days. I want you to know, that all the salty air I breathe...you will be in my heart and thoughts...and I will be blowing out all the peppery stuff that's in my system out towards you. While I'm gone, do something nice for someone. peace, maze.

Well, we got up at 4:00 a.m. to put the finishing touches on our packing. I actually took the dogs out for a walk. What a weird perspective. Usually when I'm out there at 5:45 am there's actually some folks out and about. But at 4 in the morning, it's dark and my imagination is stirring more than any other activity. But I felt safe because I know that god hangs out in the dark too. So I said, god hang near me so no bogeyman comes out and jumps me. I said it quietly because I know god has good hearing too. Just in case, one of my neighbors has insomnia, ... I didn't want them to hear me calling on god in the middle of the night proclaiming my fear of the bogeyman. I wonder if I would have equal fear of the bogeywoman, but I never heard of such a thing...when I was kid it was always the bogeyman. Anyway, what made the morning especially daring was all the lightning that was going on. I thought for sure me and the dogs were going to get drenched, but we made home in time. However, the rain waited until our ride came at 5:30 to take us to the airport. Me and the bride and the daughters got drenched while carrying our luggage to the vehicle. But that was the least of our worries...we were excited about going on vacation. The excitement didn't last long. Our ride dumped us off at the airport and wished us a good time. We stood in line patiently for about 15 minutes to check our bags. When I showed the man our tickets he apologetically told us he was sorry and that our flight had been canceled. We then had to go to the reservation desk and see what our new arrangements would be. Long story short...our flight leaves this afternoon @5:30pm. We were lucky to catch our friend who dropped us off at the airport, and he was kind enough to bring us back home in the pouring rain. The dogs were excited to see us.

                                           

I'm not so sure that's an easy thing to do. No matter where you go there you are.....that's an old one. This morning I was sitting on the ocean deck and I was looking out across the Atlantic. When we first arrived I asked...what's on the other side of this...and someone said Africa. And for a moment I thought...it is true, we are all connected. We are connected via this cyber stuff, the cell phone miracles, and garmin sattelites that help point our way and of course, the ocean soup.A butterfly flapping in Africa caused yesterdays thunderstorm, me having a flap with my family on how we should proceed to leave this vacation spot tomorrow is not only creating a hurricane over here, but I'm thinking, something nasty must be happening in Africa because of it. All this shit is so awesome that I now feel close to some god out there. And if this creation was some big accident or some godly calculation I'm feeling at peace with it. And I think it's because of all this water out there. This liquid that's always seeking some form of equilibrium even during its tumult. OK...I'm out of here. I am well and doing fine...but missing you folks immensely.

Home at last. It may take me a few days to figure out my former habitual life in front of this computer. For me the whole notion of a vacation is a very weird phenomena. I could have easily gone away in my attic for a week and I would probably be a lot more rested than I am today. Airline travel is not what it used to be. And I almost hate to admit it, but I do think I really do miss those meals they served years ago on most flights. I don't understand the peanut, cookie, cheese cracker and pop deal that they have going on nowadays ...especially on a 32 minute flight from Atlanta to Charleston. I suppose it's fine if you're a peanut lover. The stewardesses are in such a hurry to  get up and down the narrow aisle they toss a bunch of those bags on your lap and scurry back to their cart so they can pour you a shot of pop. And what is it about stewardesses these days, they don't make them young anymore. I thought they saved the senior ones for transatlantic flights. And the pilots even look a little ragged around the edges, not to mention the overworked air traffic comptrollers. It's almost difficult to fathom that one would be safer in an airplane than in a car. But then again, there's way too many cars on the road and way too many distractions going on while people are driving. Cell phones, movies, books on tape, make up, newspapers to name a few. Years ago it used to be seeds popping from joints, but I think they now have produced seedless smoke and why not, if they can do it to watermelons, I'm sure they can do it for weeds. Anyway, I'm glad I'm back home. It's about 60 wet and cold degrees here in Buffalo this afternoon. Compare that to the 100 degree hot salty sand humidity in South Carolina I don't know which I enjoy more. I'm not crazy about the salt water of the ocean, but just in case I somehow get to miss it, I saved a little bag of those salted peanuts from last night's flight from Atlanta to Buffalo.
                                      

I'm competitive so I'm always rooting for someone to win. If I'm in the game, I'm in it to win it. But, I won't pick a fight with cancer, simply because I don't like the fucker's reputation. I'm not sure about this, but is cancer a guy or a girl. I'd say it's masculine. Pneumonia and kidney disease are more feminine. Diabetes is asexual. Yesterday (and I have no idea if this has any connection to any of this) (and yet...) I was looking up the dodo bird and how it became extinct. Simply put, it was a rather large plump bird who couldn't fly but had this uncanny fearlessness around human beings...which translated quite simply by us thinking humans...as easy game. Which is really weird because from what what I've read, their meat was rather tough and didn't taste all that good. But hey, I suppose it was good to talk about around campfires. Yeah man, today was good, I bagged fifteen of those fat dodo's in about fifteen minutes. Geez, you broke my record. Yesterday I was able to bag 13 in 17 minutes. Wow, that makes me the leader. Well, records are made to be broken, so before long, someone younger and spunkier than you will be able to bag 17 or 18 in 12 minutes or less. How the hell can that be possible? I developed dodo dope. I just sprinkle this white powdery stuff on the food they like to eat and it makes them perky at first but after a minute or two it makes them walk slower. Bang, bang, bang and in no time you've bagged a dozen. Isn't that cheating? I don't know, I don't see it written anywhere that we can't dope the dodo birds. But, at this rate, we'll wipe them out of existence. Eh, that will be years from now...besides, we'll be dead by then, why should it matter. And, if they should be wiped out before we die, we can always make clay pigeons. And to make the game more exciting, we can toss them up in the air and then try to shoot them with our arrows. Oh wow.

                               

I don't feel like talking about a damn thing tonight but I will regardless. That feeling of not wanting to talk/blog  just went somewhere else. It's like when Pema Chodron says to you in her words in an article ...take three deep breaths (stopping & seeing) and then go on. I'm lazy so three is a lot of work. In times like writer's block, one deep breath should suffice. But, if you want to take it beyond your fear of spiders, maybe two or three deep breaths will work better. And, if you're extremely scared shitless possibly the best thing you can do is breathe in and out as fast as you can until you pass out. The breath is the most easily accessible tool we have out there, but I like to rely on beer. Sometimes I use breath and beer in tandem. No, I don't snort beer,I just make a conscious effort to sniff it's marvelous aroma a little bit before I slug it down. A lot of folks do that with brandy. I'll drink brandy once in about every thirteen years, but beer is my staple. My mother always kept a bottle of blackberry brandy in her hutch. She seldom touched it unless her bowels were a little loose. Folklore says, blackberry brandy should bind you. I seldom get loose enough to rely on having a bottle of that stuff in our hutch, but I wouldn't mind a shot of that stuff right now just to say, here's to you mom, I'm thinking of you. And you too dad. Although dad was not much of a blackberry brandy man. Good whiskey is what made him frisky. But I'm thinking about these two lovely characters in my life because today is their wedding anniversary. They were married on this day in 1930. Dad ended their marriage in 1977 by his death. And I don't believe they have ever caught up again in heaven. But that was the thought of my last breath...now I'm thinking...well maybe...and now....mom is saying, shut up and go watch the olympics on TV...and dad, is not saying much, but I know what he's thinking. I'm swimming in my thoughts and that's fine with me because soon I will be hopefully watching the US swim team do something special on TV tonight....just as special as when I watched the Ed Sullivan show with my mom and dad.

                                                             

Do certain sounds grate on you too. Something as simple as people clipping their nails can annoy me. If I would have to determine which sound annoys me the most I would have to say (at this moment) auto alarms that go off in the middle of the night. Auto alarms are a concept that I totally misunderstand. I always drive a car that's pretty much theft safe. And ever since my little brand new 1969 Volks was broken into by having a window smashed in, I have refused to lock any vehicle I drive. That philosophy pisses off my wife and kids only when I happen to take their car for a spin and then  I bring it back &  I get out and leave it unlocked. But, they return the favor when they happen to take my car and they lock the doors when they park the damn thing.  And then in the morning when I'm zipping out of the house to get to my destination thinking my door will be open, I get a little pissed that I have to use a key to gain entry. Years ago, b.w. &k. (before wife and kids) I always left the keys under my seat. This worked fine for me because I didn't have to run around looking for my keys before I made off  to work, all I had to do was jump into an unlocked car, grab the keys from under the seat and zoom off to work. But, once I got married and my keys got locked into the car, my screech was a sound my new bride didn't much care for. But let's get back to the middle of the night incessant car alarm going off. I think there should be a mechanism installed in those alarms...that if someone doesn't respond to that noise within 12 minutes and 37 seconds a little bomb will go off and destroy not only the alarm, but 1243 dollars worth of innards that will not be covered by any insurance. I mean really...people should be held responsible for their noise. It is a pollutant. And tell me...do you get annoyed when people are speaking a foreign language in front of you and you can't understand what the hell is going on. There should be a law against that too. After all, this is America...fuck the fact that our grandparents couldn't speak english.

                                                           


                      

I thought the time driving back from mimi's home to to my home across the border would suffice for me to collect my thoughts on the marvelous time we had together. But there was so much going on this afternoon that there will probably be a dozen blogs on this experience. What a lovely thing it is to go from virtual to real in a short 40 minute trip down the road. Mimi lives in Canada and I live in the USA...no big deal usually, until 9/11. I dread trekking over the bridge. The lovely Liza came in from Toronto, so it was no bridge crossing for her, but her hassle was much simpler...how do I get there from here. Mimi fielded a bunch of phone calls from Liza just attempting to redirect her to the cozy caterpillar place. I don't know how mimi does it, but she grows caterpillars on parsley plants.  Ding Dong. Oh God...I can finally eat. And oh god, did we ever have food. But before we ate I kindly excused myself, I had to pee. Her bathroom was very clean, but I'm pissed I didn't check out her medicine cabinet. There will be a next time, but now that I'm blogging about it, I'm sure she'll be prepared. Dear Liza who looks as though she's 25 brought along her lovely daughter Victoria who's 14. I would imagine the grandmother looks as old as 42. Anyway, mimi and me did meld. We were able to immediately move from virtual to real time in no time flat. We chatted and chatted about this and that and before long, she was showing me family photos hung in her bedroom and she showed me her appendix operation scar from when she was nine years old (13 stitches and in an L shape too)  Ding Dong oops...(but what was the other ding dong all about) (I'm not sure..I think it was an attetion grabber)Liza must be here...wow...and it was true. In came Liza with a wheelbarrow full of food, a smile that never stops and a daughter that I thought I knew from a former life. We all hugged in a warm and genuine way. I sat down shortly thereafter and crossed my legs like I generally do and was feeling pretty damn good about the afternoon. And we ate, and we talked and we looked at one another in awe and adoration and we sucked into our souls all these goddamn positive energy vibes that more than likely we'll be smiling from the inside out forever. I mean, what else could I say about this afternoon...you just had to be there. But, what I'm feeling right now...I'm sending it your way...and if you feel the slightest bit of twinge...you are feeling what I felt this afternoon with Mimi, Liza and Victoria...and you. I am a lucky man. And yes, I'm smiling because mimi had her hand down my pants, and Liza had her hand on my bootie...and Victoria snapping the pictrure said...how gross.

         

Put yourself in Jesus' shoes or Kwan Yin's too or the plumpy Buddha's, and imagine what they're thinking now. I have no idea where these former deities perch when they are looking over the doings of us sentient beings, but I would think they may be a tad dismayed. I would, if I were a transmission. The first thing I would ask myself is holy moses, how did this place get so darn screwed up. How could so much get lost in translation. But then again, as a deity, I would know. Or, at least I hope I should know, but I'm not a deity. I'm playing pretend. And I'm asking you to do the same. No way in fucking hell will you suck me into this game. Whack...the sound of a bamboo stick hitting the side of a human temple. Hey you fat son of a bitch I'm gonna kill you. No you won't, not until you turn the other cheek. Whack . Now, you're going to get it  for sure. Simmer down you. Wow, who the hell are you. Why does it matter...shouldn't it suffice that I am here. Yes, you're a lot prettier than the other two I just had to deal with. Well, quit trying to spread yourself so thin...there's really only one of us. Oh, how boring. Yes, she's here too, and much cuter than I am. Whack. Hi, I'm Tom...what's your name. Whack . Mary and I'm pregnant. WHACK. . A deep masculine voice from the sky...DON'T ASK,  DON'T TELL. Whack! And the dream continues. Whack...chirp, chirp, chirp, cockadoodledoo Yes, I'll have two eggs over easy, sausages and one piece of wheat toast and coffee, half decaf with a shot of cream. Whack. Jesus, will you cut it out...that fucking smarted. Whack, whack, whack. Damn, I can't wait until the cock crows. Whack. And here's one for good meassure...WAP!
What language was that?

                                              

I wuz gonna but I was so stuck in awe that I lost my mind. I am generally pretty good at letting folks know where I'm at, but I must say , that I've had a few screw ups too. Unintentionally of course. I sometimes leave my phone at home, or I leave it in my car. I consider a phone a shackle. Seldom will I answer our home phone...and when it goes off in the middle of the night it gives my heart a start that doesn't know there's such a thing as rest again. Discourtesy call...what the hell is that. I think I possess a form of phone courtesy though. I never have my phone on ringer ...I'm a perv, so I like the vibration in my pants. I will seldom take my phone out of my pocket even while vibrating unless I'm anticipating a senseless call from someone immediate to me asking a simple and direct question like...did you get there ok. But now that I know how to text because I got a phone with qwerty I can always excuse myself, go to the bathroom, and instead of looking in the medicine cabinet...text my wife. Oh fuck, my phone just fell in the toilet. Are you OK in there. Yeah yeah, I'm alright, I just forgot to put the the toilet seat up and I dribbled a little bit on your seat. Use the tissues by the sink. Vibrate, vibrate, vibrate...who the fuck is calling me now. Bonk! Oh fuck, I just hit hit my head on the medicine cabinet. Do I dare open it up to see if there's some peroxide in there. Nah, tough it out. What the hell happened to you...it looks as though you may need some stitches. Give me your cell phone so I can call 911. Why call, let's just drive there. I don't drive, and you won't either with that gash. Well, call 911 with your phone. I can't, it's been disconnected. Shit like this happens every 3 minutes and 58 seconds..longer than it takes to make a soft boiled egg.

                    

Tonight we all piled into a tiny one bedroom apartment to help our daughter move in. She had two pizzas, a large order of chicken wings and beers and wine coolers in the fridge to serve us little helpers. There were thirteen people there to help her out. I liked the coziness of it all. But now I'm glad to be back to the little corner of my world, where life is even a little more casual and comfy than that apartment. I have to be back there tomorrow because some bedroom furniture is being delivered anytime between 11am-2pm. and the daughter has to work and I was asked if I could be available. Of course I said, I would be glad too. It won't be all that bad because the furniture store said that they would call her a half hour before the delivery. I didn't time the ride down their tonight, but I would think it took us about 17 and a half minutes to get there. But, you can't really trust delivery time. It's too nebulous. Not that there's such a thing as exact time. But I would say that these last ten years, it's gotten a whole lot more difficult trying to pinpoint someone to even give you an approximate time. Now, I don't consider a 3 hour window a good approximation....but, ten to fifteen minutes...I can live with that. However, when I see a handwritten sign in a window that says....Be Back in 10 minutes...I immediately get wary. I start asking myself...did they just put up that sign a minute ago...should I wait at least five more minutes..maybe his toilet isn't working and he's across the street at McDonald's taking a shit. Maybe he put this sign up yesterday and got hit by a car walking across the street to McDonald's. I'm sure you get my point, the scenarios are endless. Not too long ago I went to my favorite neighborhood Kwik Service for an oil change. It was 8:55am and the place opened at 9. I waited for a bunch of minutes and decided the place wasn't going to open on this particular Saturday. I drove home and called them just to see if someone finally made it in. I got the answering machine. I left no message. A couple of days later I was in the neighborhood and still the closed sign hung in the window. I ended up going to the Delta Sonic car wash and got an oil change there. About a week later, I drove past the Kwik Service place and I noticed a piece of paper taped to the closed sign with these two words...For Good! I was glad they had the decency to notify me. It was a casual way of setting me straight.  ttfn...brb...

Dogs have good hearing and smelling, but they can't see worth a shit.  A lot of time I can't recognize a whole lot of stuff either. It's rather funny  when it happens to the dogs and me too. Bark, bark bark, woof woof. What the hell are you barking at. That fucking thing over there that looks like a raccoon. That's not a raccoon you silly fool, that's a plastic bag in the middle of the road. It sure looked like a raccoon at first...I mean, I even saw that little bandit mask too. You need help. Help my ass, what about the other day when you yelled yipes because you thought you saw a big fat ugly (subjective) spider on the counter-top. Well, I was startled a little bit, but I would never have uttered the word yipes, so, I think you stand to be corrected. No, you said yipes. No, you're wrong...I've never said yipes in my life..except for  maybe today. I don't even think I ever said yikes either. I mean really, why would I say yipes or yikes when there are so many bolder and nicer exclamations. Do they both mean the same. No, yikes is used more out of fear, while yipes is used out of surprise. For example...yipes, I can't believe this cake is for me...what a pleasant surprise... versus... yikes, there's a fucking spider on my counter-top, somebody please come in here and kill it. Hey...hey what...slow down a bit...I'm not here to cause any harm, I got here quite by accident...and I can't even say it's because of all the dust in your house, but before you whack me with a rolled up piece of newspaper, scoop me up in some plastic cup and then throw me outside so I can battle another portion of our elements.

                                  

I think this blog is for an eighty year old woman who likes to put on a purple hat and then go outside with the rest of her being naked. Why are you gawking young man. I'm sorry ma'am, but I never saw anyone put their pubic hairs in cornrows before. Why are you looking down there to begin with. I'm not sure, at first I only noticed your hat. Do you like it. Actually, purple is my favorite color. So, why the need to go any further. I suppose it was the colorful beads you had attached to your braids down there. Oh, I did that for my husband..he seemed to need some variety. Well, does he like it. He does and he doesn't. Meaning. He complained that I used too many red beads. I take it he doesn't like red. Yes, it reminds him of blood. Ah, I think I understand. He was in the big one and he saw way too much bloodshed...he even got a purple heart. I suppose he likes your hat then. He's stupid, he doesn't know what he likes anymore. And what about you, do you know what you like. Yeah, I like to be left alone with my purple hat and nothing else. But what about the cornrows. That was his idea...something he saw in a magazine when he was at the barbershop. What barber does he go to. This is really a hoot, he goes to Red's at the corner of Bailey & Delavan...and Red is bald. He must have have been going there for a long time. Oh hell, he must  have been going there before he even met me. Geez, Red must be getting up in age. I would say he's in his 90's...he took over for his dad during the first world war. If you don't mind me asking, who does your cornrows. Tess, Red's wife. Wow, that's convenient. Yeah, since my husband can't drive anymore, I take him to the barber shop, park the car, and then go in to see my old friend Tess. If you don't mind me saying...she does a nice job. Sonny, I think you should keep your eyes on my hat. This reminds me of an old song. Well, play a few licks and see if I can recognize it. Oh gosh, maybe I shouldn't have blogged this way tonight. Don't worry sonny...fuck'em if they can't take a joke.
                         

Remember our Jack Russell Terrier that died about five months ago...well her ashes are contained in the vase pictured today. How gross and creepy our sixteen year old said when I brought the little vase upstairs and asked...where should we put this. Bury it she said. I was OK with that, but it's such a cute little vase that my bride decided to display it for awhile. So, now our little gross and creepy little secret has gone public. And I'm to blame. I had no snapshots to use tonight so I walked around the house with the little digital and snapped away. I woke up three sleeping dogs in the process. I don't believe you should let a sleeping dog lie. Unless of course they're corked up in a little vase as a clump of ashes. I think that would be pretty gross if I were to uncork the vase, dump the ashes and then try to play catch with them. Bounce, bounce, bounce...toss..plop, bounce, bounce, splatter..achoo. No, that can't be right, I don't think a pile of ashes would splatter. I think you need blood and guts to splatter. How about plunk poof  bounce bounce achoo. That still doesn't feel right. Don't you just hate it when you're trying to find the right words to describe something and you swear to god, that it's not possible. I mean really what makes achoo a sneeze, or harrumph a clearing of a throat. Psst. I like that sound...it has a lure to it. Arf is stupid...if any dog that I happened to bring into our home went arf afr, I'd be somewhat disappointed. I'm more of a woof woof sort of guy. But come to think about it, the dog in the bottle was more of a yipper than a woofer. And when I would toss her the ball she'd be yipping back and forth as she was fetching it. It drove me nuts, but she lived to be sixteen years old....but come to think about it...I was probably already nuts when I brought her into our home.

                                                  

The sun has not yet set and no beers have yet been downed. I had a delightful time though playing at Janet's Bar & Griil on and off throughout the day. It started to get beyond innuendo at times and that was nice. It feels good to get frisky in the afternoon. That's why it's called an afternoon delight. But, there ain't nothing like the real thing baby. Now, I'm really on the prowl. I wonder if that's true. Can someone get so worked up over the phone, looking at pictures in a magazine or catching some saucy banter in a chat room, that they'd want to go out and bag the real thang, in real time, in real life. For most, I would say, reel time would suffice. I have no problem with folks getting their jollies from fabrications. To me, it's sometimes fulfilling and exciting even though it teeters on being borderline banal. The beauty of wanting or not wanting this type of vicarious fun lies in the eyes of the beholder.  It's usually in the form of a button, clicker or remote control. And if one is worried about one's kids there are filters out there too. I've never been one for censorship, I've always been a person of open dialog and trust. We have bowls and bags of candies and chips and other goodies all over the place. We place no restrictions on treats...and surprisingly...no one over indulges. (except for me) (I can't be trusted)( I'm a sneak. ) (But an honest one)  So, since this is not my regular time for sitting and blogging everything is out of context. It doesn't feel right to this habitual being that I worked so many years into honing. Actually it started off wrong this morning. Two things happened. I had to go for a 7:30am life insurance physical, so I went without breakfast. And when I came home with a Tim Horton coffee and a breakfast sandwich, I went to the mailbox and lo and behold, there was no morning newspaper in there. My day was fucked...so I figured, no use planning anything today...I just better diddle around at Janet's Bar & Grill. I must say, I had fun...and it really got me thinking.

                                            

Anchorman-Afternoon Delight

There's a lot of things I have little self control with, but I think I'm getting much better at taking a time out from arguments. Although I also know that the way the fucking stars line up sometimes, there's definitely gonna be a fight that night. And even knowing the stars as predicted where things should lie for that particular day, and even after reading the horoscope for pisces for that morning of that day I was about to set out for...things don't always go as predicted. Today is far from over...I've got four and a half hours left, but I must say, so far so good. My horoscope said that someone will play some emotional games with me and that I should protect myself from someone trying to bully me into doing something I don't want to do. I'm home alone, and I should be asleep by the time the family returns from the beach. Knock knock. Excuse me for a moment. murmur murmur murmur murmur murmur, fuck you you son of a bitch, bang, bang. oh fuck I just got shot. Somebody please call 911.  Stop, don't bother...it's a OK now. I wasn't shot after all, me and the pizza delivery guy reconciled. At first he tried to hand over to me three assorted subs, a double order of chicken wings and a pizza with cheese pepperoni, mushrooms and anchovies...and then the trouble began when I told him I didn't order anything...and he said...is your telephone number U812, and I said yes, and he commenced to bang ny head against the door, and then I took his head and banged it against  the door...and I felt somewhat validated, and then out of nowhere, he banged my head against the door again. At that point I felt as though I should retaliate, but instead, I said I'll take the pizza for twenty bucks if that 's ok with you. And he said ok. I gave him 20 plus a five buck tip. As he was going down the drive I heard him murmur ...sucker. I felt like continuing the fight, but I was happy to have a pizza in my hands that smelled pretty damn good even when I didn't think I was all that hungry.
                          

The quickest way to take the fluff out of bed sheets hung out in the summer's fresh air is to go to bed after an evening of pale ale, buffalo chicken wings, blue cheese dip and a  fistful of french fries. And, if you aren't found dead in your bed in the morning, consider yourself one of the fortunate ones. I've heard a lot of folks say, that they'd like to die in their sleep. Boring. I mean really, isn't that a chicken shit way of dying. It's been documented by people who had a near death experience while sleeping. Clinically, I was dead. My heart had stopped. And if I remember correctly, just before this tunnel of bright light was beckoning me,  to enter, I was dreaming about sex. It wasn't any kind of outrageous kinky sort of sex with a sports illustrated swimsuit model, I was having sex with my wife of 33 years. The sex must have been more strenuous than usual because it was during this loving encounter that I knew my heart had stopped and I had died. The thing that probably brought me back to life was this sharp thrust I got to my rib cage and the loving voice of my wife saying, will you roll over, you're snoring like a horse. It was then, that I let out a huge (excuse the expression) fart and I rolled over and fell asleep again. I was glad to see the morning. I really didn't remember much about dying, but I wasn't scared about it anymore. Although, I don't eat any wings or heavy greasy stuff before I go to bed, and I haven't had a pale ale in years. If I really want to live it up, I have a little rice pudding or a glass of milk before I go to bed. God, I'd love to live to a ripe old age and have someone ask me what was the secret to the success of my longevity. But if you'd ask me right now, I'd have to say, don't believe in any of the bullshit...go full tilt...no use dying a miserable fuck...you might end up coming back as an armadillo on a texas highway. Who needs that grief. Yahoo! Thump thump. Honey, I think you just ran over an armadillo. Yeah well, what did you want me to do, swerve and kill us both. No, but you could at least slow down a bit.

                     

I hail from an old drip family. Some families like to percolate their brew while some like to put a fistful of coffee grounds into an old (clean) hanky and dump it into a little pot of boiling water over a campfire. I never got into Mr. Coffee and I'm somewhat glad I didn't. Possibly in another ten years I will have my regrets. Lately though, the easy way out for me is to get in my car, drive less than a mile away and pay a buck forty six for a medium cup of Tim Ho's finest. But it comes no where near to the taste of my mother's coffee. She was known for a coffee that would knock your socks off. And in the late afternoons we always had to have some pastries to go with our coffee at supper time. Thing were different then, all you had to do was walk across the street to your local bakery and pick up some goodies that were baked at five in the morning for your dinner desire. A dinner where every member of the family sat and chatted. The banter wasn't all that special, but the coffee and pastries were what we mostly stuck around for. Of course, there were times when the topic of conversation got a little uncomfortable, but mom always kept it so we wouldn't upset our tummies. And there were times (mostly Fridays) when dad would be a tad more unruly because he cashed his check at Jackie's ( the saloon next door) and mom  would be at her tether and she would snap...and all hell broke loose...and (phew) there was no abuse...and fortunately  I'm here to talk about it tonight...and I'm sorry to say, I miss it all, even though Timmy Ho's coffee is not all that bad. I can almost say, I love it too.
                                             

I don't even have to go to the bathroom so I don't know what's prompting me to write on this topic tonight. The picture I suppose. The other friday night when the family and I were waiting to be seated at our local gin mill for their famous fish fry, I had to sneak away for a quick pee in their grungy bathroom. While there I just couldn't concentrate on the urination, I had to snap a picture with my cell phone too. Today, the photo reminded me on how really rank some bathrooms can be. When I was in nam we had outhouses and piss tubes at our base camps. Generally the outhouses were equipped with four seats for pooping and a screened slanted trough across the the sitting area for those who only needed to pee. Underneath the seats were 50 gallon drums cut down to about a third of their normal size in order to catch the turd droppings. It was asked that we only shit and not pee while sitting. Simply because if the drums will fill up with too much pee, it would be more difficult for the person on the shit burning detail in the morning to burn the shit. I think it was a rule most of the guys paid little heed too. It was much easier to just sit, shit and pee and get the fuck out of there ASAP. The trough was a weird thing and it mostly smelled grosser that the 50 gal cans you sat above. The principle of the trough was simple. It was made out of wood and lined with sheet metal and placed on a slant and it ran into a pipe that went into the ground that went into a hole that was full of rocks. Eventually the hole filled up and the piss started to back up and stagnate. Piss tubes though were larger in diameter and placed strategically outside of the outhouse. They didn't fill up as fast and they didn't smell as bad because they were not contained. It was frowned upon if a soldier did not use a piss tube or outhouse while at base camp. At night, I would get up and piss in the road. Only because it was a lot closer. Others did the same. Vietnam was a beautiful country, but back then, it stunk like piss. And yes...we didn't belong there either.
                                              

but saying that, I am whining. The damn blog I just wrote took off on me. I suppose it's all for the better because it was about being naked. It was about tits and asses and cocks and cunts. Nothing more than that. Just words. In fact, the words were quite static too. Nothing was going in and out. Words were just being content being placid. No moisture, no gushy sounds, nothing even remotely erotic. Except for Tara's tit. Her 45 year old tit. It's her birthday today and she really wants to be 27 forever. Actually I never saw her tit, so I can only imagine what it looks like. And I wonder if her tit would live up to her voice...a voice I've never hear either. Calling Denmark.... Hello, is this Tara's tit. Yes. Well, this is Tom from Buffalo, NY, would you please put her mouth on the line. Hello, is this Tommy ? (in an accented way ) Excitement abounds. Do you realize it's no longer my birthday ?  Yeah, what I really wanted to say to you tonight took a shit some place in the universe, so I'm really at a loss for words right now. Bull only. Yep, I think I know what you mean...let's talk.
                                              

                                                   

I'm sure there are times when most folks get an opportunity to check on someone to make sure that they're alive or not. I've done that a lot with our kids...especially if their naps lasted longer than usual. I'd tiptoe in on them just to make sure they were still breathing, but once I found out, I made sure I didn't wake them. Nap time was always a delicate balance. Late naps for toddlers suck. That only means that you're going to have a wound up kid at 11pm. I had tons of experience with aged napping relatives too. My mother lived upstairs from us for about eight years in a cute little mother-in-law bungalow when the bride and I first married. My mother would conk out for a nap on the chair or the couch at odd hours throughout the day or evening. Walking in on old people can be even more delicate than checking in on a toddler. Little babies or kids don't think you're a robber or a rapist when you walk in on their nap. Old people may think that way and have a stroke or heart attack when your presence startles them awake. This is where mindfulness is helpful. Which reminds me of a word I always liked to use when I was bringing up our kids. The word is consider...and its variations can be considerate or consideration. I really like mindfulness a lot, but tonight I think I like consideration more. But suppose someone is mindfully considerate, would that make them more mindful or more deliberate. Enough already....I am now being considerate. Actually, they're quite similar if you think about it. I'm wondering if it's to late to write a book and call it: The Miracle of Consideration...by Thick Knot Tom.
Go to bed...but please tiptoe if your mate is sleeping.

I keep seeing this picture of Matthew Dickman on the pages of the American Poetry Review. Which really only means I've seen his picture twice, even though I've been getting the APR since I got out of the army. This man Dickman was awarded 3000 bucks for a first book prize in some poetry competition. The book's titie is All-American Dream and the introduction was written by Tony Hoagland (another poet). I never met Tony Hoagland but I'm quite familiar with his work. When I was taking a mid life grad course with the poet Carl Dennis, we studied Hoagland's poems. I liked Hoagland a lot. And I like Carl Dennis a lot too. So anyway, the other day while I was on the crapper, paging through the latest issue of the New Yorker magazine up pops a Dickman poem on page 92. At first I thought...where do I know this guy from. I think a lot in the bathroom. And I think well too. I must be relaxed enough that my memory is well served.Plop...oh yes, he's the new poet they're touting in the APR. So, without further due, hopefully I'll be able to paste Dickman's poem for your view. Oh shit, this is Michael, not Matthew. Fuck it....it's a good poem regardless.
 

by Michael Dickman September 1, 2008

This is my second blog for today. Scroll down and catch the Dickman poems that I posted earlier....if you have time. Not now...tomorrow (this was for Lars). This is now for Sharon. She's this wonderful woman who serves me my coffee at Timmy Ho's in the morning. She knows I'm going to Michigan in the morning to take my son to school. She knows because she asks and I know she knows because I tell. Her birthday is Monday. I asked her a long time ago so this why I know. I marked it down in my journal. The other day while getting my coffee, I said to her...your birthday is on Monday and I will miss it because I'll be out of town. And I love it when this happens....she looked at me with this semi shocked expression and said...how did you know. And I said...because you told me so. And she was surprised I remembered. My memory is generally haphazard, but I do make a habit of making little notes, stuffing them in my pocket and then placing the information in my journal when I get home. I call this book a journal, but it's probably more like a diary because each page has the month, day and year on it. Although, much to my surprise, there was no annotation reminding me of Sharon's birthday this Monday. I suppose I remembered it simply because I took her in. She has no family here in Buffalo and she tells me she has no family anywhere (which is something I can't believe....I mean really, how can that be?) and I offered her me and mine. I asked my wife if she could bake her some cookies (which she did) and I picked out a nice card, and we got her a little gift too.
I left the card open on the table and I asked everyone to please sign the card for Sharon. When our son came down and I asked him to sign the card, he asked, who's this for...and I said Sharon. And he asked, who's Sharon and I told him...and he said, I don't know Sharon, and I said, but she knows you. He signed the card. She's a stranger, who's really not a stranger to our family. Yes, that means you too.

      

Any a-z you speak is a variation on redundancy. As is, in the beginning was the sound and the sound became human. Yes, not man, not woman...a simple being...that's all. And, this is all according to Tom, who's a descendant of John, who's the son of Mary and Joe. Zoom...almost two thousand years later. Excuse me sir, are you Joe? No, channel 2 news in my face, my name is Joseph. Well Joseph, have you ever hung around with this woman Mary? Yes, in all honesty, most of the women in my life are named Mary. Well Joe...oops I mean Joseph, this particular Mary is pregnant. Nope, not me, I'm not that close to any Mary I know. But, if you told me that Ruth was pregnant, I'd be crapping my pants about now. So, what are we going to tell Mary. What do I care...tell her to go back to her tent and have her baby. She would, but her father would kill her. So, why the hell should I have to worry about such crap. Because, there were times Mary told guys her name was Ruth. Oh fuck, I think I'm catching your drift. Good for you, we'll put you up in this little place called Bethlehem, and don't hang around there all that long because Herod found out that Mary used to change her name to Ruth every now and then. Jesus Jesus I implore you, please kill all these fucking fuckers out there...but spare Mary Ruth for your right hand. And also please dear lord, spare me the heat of your hell for this rendition of a variation of a translation and strike down those that were thinking ill will towards me.... and yes, I know, it's not about me, but you dear god and your creation. Vibrate..vibrate...Hello, this is Tom....John, this is Ruth....Ruth, at first you sounded just like Mary. I need your help....yes, and I need your help too. ( I left the John in there simply because  it was necessary ...from the beginning)