Marjane Satrapi is in Buffalo tonight. Our daughter Kellie is majoring in English at our local university and she's taking a contemporary lit course. And they're reading Satrapi's stuff. And this is total excitement for a student when you actually get an opportunity to chat with an author. When I attended the same university in the 70's I was a Sociology/English major and I too took a contemporary lit course (poetry). And this course was taught by one of our local poets. I won't mention his name because it's Marjane's night. Anyway, this poet knew all the poets we were studying and he arranged for us during our Friday class to speak to the poet over the phone that we were covering  during the week. It was rather cool, but, the technology wasn't as sophisticated as it is today...but still, to speak to Erica J. over the phone was rather titillating. I suppose you could call that the beginning of on line courses. Joshing of course. Phoenix rising. I'm not much of a fan any education going on in cyberworld. I wouldn't go to a doctor that got a degree off the internet. And that would mean, a doctor of ophthalmology, divinity or psychiatry...or any other fuck who's so goddamn desperate for a plaque and a title. Personally I like soothsayers, some reiki practitioners, a few shamans and the street smart unenlightened ones better. (which doesn't mean they're not enlightened)  It really doesn't mean anything. Marjane was born in Iran. She moved to France after college. She wrote this visual comic book about her life growing up in Iran. It's been translated from this to that. And yet, there is some common ground.  That's all I ever ask for. 

The coincidental owl has been popping up in my life lately.And I don't know what it means.Not too long ago I blogged about my friend's wife (Beverly) being diagnosed with cancer. I never know what to say or do when situations like this occur...but like most people I fill my mind with positive thoughts and I pray the best way I know how. And then I over think things. I remembered this stone that I picked up a long time ago on the beach of Lake Erie where we have our cottage. I always referred to it as a healing stone.  The cottage is on the Seneca Indian reservation. It was my mother in law's love...her sanctuary. Gloria has since passed to the spirit world but the weird thing about Gloria was that she loved owls. And she so loved them,that if one was ever in a quandary as to what to buy her for a gift that a safe thing would be something with an owl symbol on it. So, the other day I picked the stone the little shelf by the window in our kitchen and I mailed it to my friend's wife. I wrote no message on a note, all I did was send her the stone and on the envelope I wrote these words "healing stone-owl medicine."  A few days afterward Beverly calls and she thanks me for the stone. And she said her husband Tom wants to know what kind of perfume did I put on the stone...and  I told her patchouli oil. It's a very sensualizing fragrance...maybe you and Tom need to make mad passionate love tonight.(leave it to a man to suggest that)  And then she asked...why owl medicine...and I said..I don't know...but maybe because I've always admired you for your wisdom. We left it at that...small talked a bit more , and then said goodbye. Now, here's two other things that happened within these past few days. I walk this same route day after day with my dogs for their afternoon jaunt. Two days ago I notice an owl statue in one of the yards. I immediately wonder why I have never noticed it before. No big deal. This morning though I go to Petrucci's Cleaners to pick up my shirts. I've been going to this place for as long as I can remember. Today, I see this statue of an owl on top of this counter right near the three way mirror where Don measures you up before he does alterations. Granted I haven't had many alterations done throughout the years, but I do walk by that area to go to the back room and grab a cup of coffee. I asked Don if he just got that statue of the owl...and he said gosh no...I've had thing here forever. Just look at those eyes he said, it's like he's following you around.

blah. I just may have to let this pass. I'm upstairs using the daughter's computer and I can't figure out some very basic operational things. So rather than diddle into the unknown and get yelled at in the morning for fucking up their computer...what you see is what you get. Nothing gussied up. Which is nothing new. Nothing to get gussy about. Strawberry fields forever. So, what do you think about Michelle putting her hands on the Queen. I think she did it unconsciously on purpose and I'm glad she did. I think the funnier story would be, if the queen would have whirled around called her a b.b.and told her to keep her fucking hands to herself. (I have a black female dog) (in case you're wondering) Sit! Whack. Oh my fucking god, he slapped the instructor. Slapstick is generally visual, but it doesn't have to be. Imagine for a moment a very funny home video. And forget about the fact that the person on the snowmobile crashing into a tree and tumbling into a ravine actually died that day. But please, have compassion for the family that sent it in to Bob Saget...they were devastated by their loss, but monetarily destitute too. Their intention was noble.. in their minds...they wanted a proper burial for their son who was born out of wedlock. Ohmm my knee joints are killing me, how do I adjust my legs so that asshole up there doesn't whack me with his stick again. Hey, you're not alone...I'm feeling the same way too. Who are you? I'm curly. And you? I'm moe. Don't tell me that's larry up there. No, he's on first. Who's up there? Ah...good question. Whack!

Yesterday I came across this old pair of Cocoran jumpboots that I had tucked away in the basement. I probably purchased these boots in 1967 while I was stationed at Ft. Campbell, Kentucky. Ft Campbell was the home of the 101st Airborne brigade.  These boots were not regulation issue, but I think it was ok for airborne units to wear them. I liked them even though I was a leg, and I purchased them primarily because they could keep a shine better than the boots that were issued to me. To members of airborne units, all soldiers that didn't jump out of planes were referred to as legs. But except for not having a screaming eagle patch on my sleeve, one would never know that I was a leg. I played the part of a strack soldier. I broke starch daily, my gig line was straight, my buckle shined like a gold tooth in a New Orleans jazz band, and my boots could reflect a commanding officer's smile. At Ft. Campbell, I even had airborne officers tell me I was looking good. One time during inspection our commanding officer stopped in front of me and looked at me up and down. And then he looked up and down at me again and said...damn Mazur, you might be the biggest fuckoff in this unit, but goddamnit, you're always looking like a soldier. Maybe that's the reason I haven't thrown those silly boots out. This morning I brought them upstairs to see if I could buff them up a bit. They had a ton of dust and crud on them and they smelled like mildew. I took the shoe laces off, and then I washed  the boots off with soapy warm water and then I patted them dry with a towel. I found a can of Kiwi shoe polish underneath the sink as well as an old shoe brush. And for about a half hour, I relived an era of my life. Until my daughter Kellie came in from school and said: what are you doing dad...preparing for battle? I said  ...nah, I just wanted to see if I could get these damn things to shine again. If I had some cottonballs I'd have them looking like a piece of glass. A good shine is a technique...an excellent shine is a work of art.

Today I wonder about a comment my bride made to me many moons ago. Does that ever happen to you. Do you ever wonder why a comment has resurrected itself somewhat. I say somewhat because no matter how much I think I'm recalling the comment verbatim, there's a possibility that I won't be 100% on the point. I said fuck you, what's not to understand about that? So fuck you too. But that's not the point.  Fuck him, fuck her, fuck ewe & fuck me too for fucking around like this. Basil. Yes, but I didn't say it, I just thought it and then I wrote it. Be careful  what you think. Never write things down. Hint. So anyway...and this is an old story, my wife asked me why in god's name did I get a tattoo of a dragon on my butt. And of course, anybody that knows me, knows the answer. I may have even blogged about it before. I was making a statement. I used to think that tattoos were dumb, until I realized that my body is one venue that I can use to communicate something to you. Can you feel what these fingers are doing to you right now. They're giving you a much needed back rub. However, the words may just be rubbing you the wrong way. The rub. This is like fishing. Casting the line out, having the bait fall off during the cast, & then  thinking nothing is nibbling, reeling the line back in, either seeing bait or no bait and then having to make a decision. You don't have to admit it, but it's obvious to me that something took place. The tattoo on my butt has aged. And even the reason I got it has aged. It was because of the ageless concern of tiring. And when I heard too many people say...oh, my ass is dragging...and I would say...oh, you should see my ass' dragon. But, it was my bride's comment that I was talking about....she wondered if I would be embarrassed by a wrinkly old dragon on my butt when I was about to get a shot in the ass when I would be in a nursing home. And all I can say tonight is...
I'm aging faster than fuck you too. Hey, but at least I'm smiling my dragon off. and while you're at it...fuck puff, fuck bliss & fuck the dragon.....but please, not my arse.
Hey, it's morning...I already got over it. Phew for a new day...?

Excuse me. I say excuse me a lot, but I don't beg much. And I think I'm going to stop asking god to have mercy on my soul. I don't have a problem with my soul. It's fine the way it is. Excuse me? OK, I beg your pardon. Anyway, I really don't understand body and soul all that much, but I'm glad I have a body that puts up with the punishment I put it through. But I also don't understand who this thing is that's glad it's body puts up with him. Or should I say it. I'm never sure if this mind thing is a body thing or a soul thing. Is it a package deal, or is this whole shitting thing ala carte. Or is it a collective. Collective soul, collective consciousness. Or a dysfunctional cooperative. I'm not even going to think about it anymore. It doesn't matter what it is. But I will continue to say excuse me, and I will probably never say, I beg your pardon and I doubt very much I would ever beg for mercy even on a human level. I don't know what to believe anymore regardless. Lately I've been questioning the existence of the easter bunny. But I would never kill him intentionally if I saw him in the road. As for jesus, I probably wouldn't recognize him at first. I beg your pardon, but what about the women. Yeah, I think it was Mary Magdalene that first recognized him after the resurrection. Are you sure? Excuse me, I'm never wrong . I beg your pardon I remember you being wrong many times before. Bullshit, how can that be...this is all fiction. Is that like an illusion? Hell no, fiction is differrent. Although, some may beg to differ.

My wife's great aunt Fanny Rogers has cut into my blog time lately. Yesterday I took her to the doctor and while we were there he suggested I bring her back on Thursday. Today near 5pm, I get a call from aunt Fanny and she told me that she just got off the phone with her doctor and he said she should get to the emergency room at the hospital immediately. Fanny's 88 years old so nothing you do with her takes less than 3 hours of your time. It's her time too, but since I'm much younger than 88, I perceive time differently. But I'm not going to get into that bullshit tonight because that's precisely what it is ...bullshit. Anyway, I just got back from the hospital about 15 minutes ago, so today I logged in about 3 hours and forty- five minutes of fanny duty. The doctor at the hospital said that she'll probably have to stay for a couple of days so they can figure out what's going on with her. Since she does live alone in a second floor apartment I was relieved that they were going to keep her overnight. Earlier today while she she was ambling her way down the stairs I thought...gosh, if she ever slips and falls, we're both dead. Common sense would say...call an ambulance, but trust me, it's not easy to convince an old timer that and ambulance is a good thing. I finally had to do that with my Aunt Jerry who lived next door to us...and when the ambulance arrived, she started to scream...get out of here you son of a bitches...I didn't call for you. In January when I called for Fanny, she was a little more docile, but when the ambulance arrived she told them she had to go to the bathroom, so they helped her there and she spent about 15 or 20 minutes getting prepped. Today, surprisingly enough she was dressed and ready to go when I got there. Although she bitched at me when we got to the hospital that I didn't give her enough time for her to take a tylenol.

I've been lazy lately for multiple reasons. But, I did get my laptop back this evening and since I made it the excuse why I wasn't writing, I'm free to get back to blogging tonight. I think death got in the way too. Not actual death, sudden death, flukey death or muse death...but more like impending death. I'm on Aunt Fanny death watch and it made me  wonder a few times.... holy fuck what's happening here, I could die before her while I'm waiting for her to die. Where would I be, and what help could I possibly be if I weren't present at the time of her death. (or my death for that matter) This morning while walking the dogs, I was wondering if everybody knows that death comes in threes. Holy shit, Joe and Betty just died...(dum da dum dum dum) (I hope you know what I'm getting at...hum it in a deep low voice) ...I wonder if I'm next. Nah, not now.  I just read in the obits that Florence who owned the bakery on Walden passed away on Sunday. And besides that, Stanley who lived three streets over, died in his sleep minutes before midnight on Monday. And yes, Huang Po's grandson thirty times removed passed away silently after falling from a tree and hitting his head on a rock that used to be part of a wall. Not the wailing wall, but I'm sure it has happened there too.  Anyway....I'm really at a loss for words because I'm dead. Now, who's ever in charge of this shit, please allow for me to blog again for many tomorrows....and please know that I am grateful and glad. And if you choose rain...that's OK too.

There was an old joke and the punch line went something like this..the young woman comes home early from her date and the father asks her immediately, how was your date...and she replies: wousy. She wanted to get laid, and her new boyfriend thought she wanted to get weighed so he took her to a penny arcade and put her on one of those scales that not only told you your weight but your fortune too all for a penny. What the hell, I'm wondering why supermarkets don't place real doctor scales near their pharmacy department, right next to the free blood pressure machines. I like the old time scales where you had to set the one weight (let's say at a hundred or 150) and then you had to play around with the lower weight and slide it here and there until the little bar in the middle showed a balance. I don't trust digital scales, but the ones with the weights are not only fun, but they seem more trustworthy. I would imagine the same type of person who checks their blood pressure in a supermarket would also use the scale. I actually didn't get laid today, but I did weigh myself. I've been pretty much the same weight for as long as I can remember. But, when I go to the doctor's office I'm always five pounds heavier...that's because we have a happy scale. We didn't rig it that way. When we bought my Aunt Mary's home after she died we kept her bathroom scale because we never had one.  We've been living here since 1991 and on Easter Sunday my brother in-law went to our bathroom and when he came out he said: damn, I can't believe I ate so much today and my weight actually seems to have gone done a bit. And I said to him...add five pounds...it's a happy scale. Anyway, back to bowling. I don't like the sport. But it reminds me of another old joke. A young man is on his honeymoon...


                                     

There really is no such thing as now, so please, don't attempt to figure out how to stay  in it...you'll just drive yourself crazy. Actually, I'm glad I just said that because I'm feeling a lot better already. Which means I can tell you about something that I was thinking and feeling about earlier and I won't have to worry about transgressing. I got an oil change today. I thought it was going to be a quickie, but it lasted a lot longer than I imagined. At first I paced and then I relented and sat down and picked up a Newsweek.The cover story was about Christianity losing its oomph in America. And I thought it's no wonder, I've lost a lot of oomph in my beliefs lately too. For those of you who don't know, I'm a baptized roman catholic. Throughout my life (in my mind) I've painted about a half dozen pictures of jesus. He always has long hair. Wouldn't that be weird if the real jesus was bald. My jesus always looked like he came from eastern europe too. He may or may not have cavorted with women...that doesn't matter much to me. I love the fact that a lot of what he happened to say was somewhat duly recorded. I think he helped Jimi Hendrix write the song about the wind crying mary. And maybe it was mary's influence on him that made him do so, (eli lama sabachetcetc) or margaret or anne or john or hank for that matter. Is hank a jesus name? Of fucking course. Right in this here now. Jesus is as flowing as this here after or before. And suddenly, out of no where, a soft voice came into my head and said....love.

Every two foot by four foot of my life should be a question mark. Why. I refuse to convert to centimeters though. It'd be like learning Finnish at this stage of my life. Finish is better so I will stop. But I can't and I won't until I can't any longer. How many consecutive nights has any show you know go on and on. Hey, what's going on. This and secret. Honestly. Well honestly, I really don't know what I was getting at, or where I was going, so I better ground myself for a few minutes. Tomorrow morning I am boarding a Southwestern flight to Raleigh, NC. On thursday, my buddy's bride will be undergoing a surgery for the removal of a couple of lesions on her brain. I wish I could suck them out with a straw and be done with this bullshit, but no, it's not about me and my crazy imagination, it's about her now. I ponder illusion all the time and wonder if it's just me making all this shit up. Nothing really is happening in the news. Especially this crazy swine flu epidemic too. It's my imagination. And you might be saying....hey wait a minute...I've been thinking the same thing too. I feel like playing the walrus song, or maybe even something sadder. But no, you and I know better.