Van 38

Not For Limbaugh

National Football League worry not, Rush Limbaugh will continue to be the “biggest non-paid promoter of the sport.”    

There is something to be celebrated in all of this, which does not involve the megalomaniac and his grand support for a sport that is doing well in spite of him.  We should be celebrating the fact that what one says can have consequences.  Although often times it seems like any alleged, former drug addict can spew lies and hate with no consequence, actually with a positive consequence, of more money; we now have the affirmation that sometimes words matter as much as they should.

Words do matter.  Why did I write “alleged former drug addict” above?  Simply because I can only confirm that Rush was once a drug abuser, I cannot safely nor accurately say he has stopped.  (In fact I hope he lives his life higher than Jerry Garcia ever could have imagined, at least that would give him an excuse for the absurd crap that comes out of his mouth.) 

Instead of admitting words matter, why not take the Limbaugh approach?  Say anything you want, anything that mindless, insecure, hate mongers want to hear and not worry about the consequences.  How about this, Rush Limbaugh has sex with apes on a daily basis and that is why he is a racist.  He feels insecure in that he cannot make the ape tell him he loves him.  Of course no one would find this believable, those that listen to Rush sure wouldn’t and those that don’t are intelligent enough to realize that nothing would sleep with Limbaugh besides a snake. 

It is not a liberal conspiracy that has given Rush the boot.  (It is good that that boot is literal, but a shame it is not physical.)  It has nothing to do with what Limbaugh uttered as, "Obama's America on full display," a line so vague and devoid of meaning I won’t even make an attempt at deciphering it.  It is the fact that he has strategically and willingly alienated African Americans in this country for years.  And he has reaped sick amounts of money from that strategic hate and alienation.  So much money that he could be a partial owner of an NFL franchise, that is if words did not mean anything.

Joe Wilson Lies (Elephants are Slow Moving: Why the Right is Wrong)

“You lie!” 

“What’s that Joe Wilson?  Say it ain’t so.”

“You lie about covering illegal immigrants.”

“Actually I don’t.  Please see Article 246 of HR 3200”

Article 246 of HR 3200 states: Those living in the US illegally are not covered and would not be covered by the affordability credits in the plan.

Facts don’t matter to people like this.  They don’t matter to people like Betsy McCaughey, the woman who started the death panel rumors and then argued with John Stewart that death panels were indeed a part of the bill only to be shown that indeed they were not—not in the way she and the rest of the elephant whack jobs were claiming.

It is hilarious that the party that is allegedly for values and morals pull such crap.  Are these the family values we teach our children, to lie when it is convenient, to scare people when one is out of ideas and to heckle individuals while they speak?  It is absurd that the Republicans are talking about death panels and getting involved with the final days of a person’s life—anyone remember Terri Schiavo? 

If the Democrats do not reform health care it will be their failure.  They basically have the numbers to do so.  They should not let the party that stands for fiscal responsibility and less Government, so long as it does not apply to useless wars, rich people and corrupt business, to hinder them with their gorilla like attacks of smears and lies.  Apparently lies worked so well for W that the elephants got used to using them and saying whatever they pleased.  Apparently rumor, innuendo, scare tactics, smears and lies are the morals the right now wish to teach our impressionable youth, or are the type of Government influence that is necessary and appropriate.   

As President Obama reminded us all tonight Social Security faced opposition and socialist claims, so too did Medicare.  Elephants are slow moving creatures—they have been on the wrong side of these debates nearly twice as long as the Civil Rights Act has been in practice.  They continue to be on the wrong side and continue to use the same tactics that hinder this country.  It is strange that when one questions if a war is of necessity or choice they face the stones hurled by the right—“un-American”, or “against the troops.”  However, when one questions the basic right to medical assistance these slurs are nowhere to be found.  It is clear that one party stands for respect and decency as moral principals and one only claims too.  Remember the old adage that actions indeed speak louder than words. 

A Slaughtering of Bulls

I’m slugging down my Cruzcampo—it’s out of necessity.  The sun is hotter than it was at noon and we’ll be receiving no break.  That’s what you get when you only pay four Euro fifty to watch bulls get slaughtered.

Our seats are in the direct sunlight and I am surprised by how fierce the sun is in Madrid at 7:00 pm.  An application of sunscreen makes me feel that only the insides of me are baking.  The stadium is half full and like us many people have carried in their own food and drinks.  I am armed with beer and Doritos, my wife with water a beer or two and olives.  Elizabeth made fun of the amount of beer I purchased prior, but in one hour she will enjoy one of the tasty, mildly warm cervezas. 

Hemingway and Picasso saw bull fighting as an art.  We remind ourselves of this before the killings begin.  Perhaps we’re justifying our presence. 

Across the Plaza de Toros is a small band.  They play spunky music throughout each of the six fights.  Each part of the “fight” has a musical interlude that accompanies it.  The strangest and most gleeful music is played at the end of each fight when the dead, bloodied bull is hooked up to the horses, paraded once around the ring and dragged out.  Maybe he’s on his way to the butcher and this is why the music is so happy?

Cigar smoke does not fill the air, but the smell is persistent.  We are not sitting on the cushions that are for rent; instead we are on the hot cement.  The cushions are at times used as an object to illustrate one’s displeasure with the matador.  To do so one only need hurl their cushion into the ring.  We don’t see this display of displeasure. 

Just before 7:00 pm a grounds crew comes out working the surface.  It is similar to a grounds crew in baseball, except the uniforms are a lot cooler.  Seven men groom the dirt in the ring wearing black pants, green shirts with a red collar and two chest pockets that are also red.  The ensemble is topped off with a black hat and red belt.  Once they leave the bull pops out and looks a little confused and unsure.  I am not an animal lover, nor even much of an animal sympathizer, but it is hard not to feel a little something for the bull.  That feeling will grow. 

The bull is tired out by a handful of guys who run the thing around for a few minutes.  They get the bull to charge and then duck behind a little fence that is up against the edge of the ring.  After this the brave horseman comes out and spears the bull between the shoulder blades.  We will see one bull get the better of a horse, goring it and dropping it.  The horse does have armor, but on this occasion it appeared as if the bull managed to get underneath the lattice looking armored coat. 

After tiring it out and spearing it, three guys come out one at a time to plunge what looks to be giant scrolls into the back of the bull.  These guys come out into the center of the ring.  No cape, no sword, just their buoys of pain.  If there were a respectable part of this entire process it would be this stage.  Yes, the bull has been run tired, yes it’s been speared in the back, however coming into the center of the ring and provoking it to charge takes gusto.  Some men are able to plunge their darts deep in.  Some miss entirely, while others get somewhere in between.  It is graceful and exciting to watch the bull charge, the men jump and twist their bodies out of the way all the while plunging their scrolls having nothing to do with salvation into the bull. 

The bulls keep going after all this.  They are slower and some less spunky, but some seem inspired by the relentless assault.  At this stage the matador comes up full of bullshit bravado, often times waving their beret and dropping it in the ring.  They do a skilled dance with the bull; the skilled ones often time place their cape behind their back or turn their back entirely to the bleeding beast.  Most of the action takes place in the shade, not necessarily because it is a little cooler for the matador, but to reward those who paid more for their tickets. The tickets are on a tier that include how close one is to the action as well as whether or not one is in the sunlight and if so for how long. 

We continue baking in the sun and an hour into the event I reapply sunscreen, finish my Doritos and keep drinking the Cruz Campos that are gradually becoming warmer and warmer. 

The second of the six fights we see the matador is able to finish the bull with one stab.  The end is signaled by the matador exchanging his sword for another.  When this happens the arena gets quieter, all knowing the end is near.  I do not like this, any of this, but am glad I have come once to form an opinion.  The second matador wafts his cape around a few more times; the bull is seemingly dizzied and exhausted.  With a quick thrust the sword is all the way in between the shoulder blades, the handle rests against the bull’s back.  The sword is removed and the bull drops to its haunches then to the dirt that must still be hot even thought it is in the shade. The crowd cheers, music plays and a man comes running out with a small dagger, digging it into the neck of the bull.  He does this quickly and then is gone.  I am not sure about this process, but it happens during each fight.  Is it an attempt at making this more humane?  Like many of the events of this night I am left wondering.  I am left wondering if this is a cultural relic that should die and never come back, or if this deserves to continue in what we consider a civilized world.  I wonder whether the half full arena is a good sign of this slowly coming to an end.

The fights all conclude with the obvious outcomes—all bulls lose.  No humans are injured, which of course is not always the case, and one horse may have died.  It is 9:00 at night and the sun is still present, but like the bull after a few stages it is not as fierce.  As we leave Elizabeth reflects on the night, “We just saw six bulls and possibly one horse get killed.”  We sure did and it’s a bit of a strange feeling. 

Italian Learnings

An acceptable beverage to quench the thirst of an on duty life guard is a 24 oz beer.

Picking your nose on a train and flicking it is apparently ok--at least it is to  the 60 year old man who was sitting across from me.

I do not have the balls, or maybe the mean spirit, to say, "Away from gypsy" in a funny voice.  Instead I ignore them or utter something in Japanese.

Going to the Vatican museum mid-morning on a Wednesday is a great idea if you don't care about seeing the Pope.

Pizza and pesto is wonderful in Italy.

American and British pig scum vultures outside the Vatican will say anything to get you to take their tour--Damn pig scum.

David is a really big statue.

Drinking two large bottles of wine with two funny Belgium people=good times.

Don't get too excited when the US is up 2-0 on Brazil.

The Italian Rivera is gorgeous.

A train from Florence to La Spazia can be filled with super sketchy people. 

Using an International pay phone is expensive but not difficult.  The US International code is not 011 but 001.

A steady diet of croissants, pizza, cappuccino, water, beer and wine over a 24 hour period is a stellar diet.

It's incredibly annoying when the other guy sitting across from you on the train keeps constantly clicking his pen.

A Renaissance Hometown Rendering

The gray tiled floor is somehow wet. I am soaked, but have yet to step a foot inside. Looking above, the ceiling shows no sign of water. The computer—this computer sitting on the tiny desk in front of the mirror is dry. I walk in with the water squishing between my feet and my Chaco’s. Hopefully the watercolor paintings managed to stay dry. Thunder keeps roaring and it sounds the same everywhere so it doesn’t matter that we’re in the home of the badass Renaissance boys. Florence is much smaller than any of the other three cities we’ve been in and feels a bit like a concoction between a college town, a fancy mall and a cultural powerhouse. Elizabeth is out at one of the museums—not the one with David, as we saw him yesterday—I’d give you the name but she has the book. I have my beer and just polished off a small salami and cheese sandwich. It was quite small, but perfect for an afternoon delight. I am lucky, yes it is raining like mad, but my beer is cold and the salami is neither warm nor greasy! I sit on this Ikea stool (just like the green ones LP and I have, though this one is black) in my boxer briefs (best of both worlds baby—not too much boxer, not too much brief) and notice the floor is now almost dry. Behind me my pants, which would be called capris if I were a woman, dry on the silver ladder. No painting or repairs taking place, just a silver bunk bed, also from Ikea. The ladder serves as a drying station and the top bunk is like a storage compartment. The bottom is a double and accompanies me and me lady just fine. This is now the fourth place we’ve stayed on our trip and it appears as if we’re on the Ikea hostel interior design tour. With the possible exception of our place in Madrid each room has been practically furnished by the big yellow and blue. The smell of salami still hangs in the room a few minutes after I finished the last bite. It mixes with the damp and musty smell of a long rain. We’ve got some room to spread out in this place and have done so. Our backpacks rest against the three wooden lockers, think a six foot wide armoire. In front of that it might appear as if we were trying to sell shoes in the place as three pair sit in an arrangement that could pass as a window display. The desk I sit at has quickly resembled one at our home: Top Left—a bag of toiletries Top Right—random papers/empty bottle Bottom Left—small calendar Bottom Right—room key, clippers & pen There’s much more that litters the desk, but I am not able to try and capture the spacial setup if I named the bag of vitamins, toothbrush and dental floss, moleskin notebook and room key. I would however like to mention that the nail clippers are a pair of AS Roma clippers that also serve as a keychain and bottle opener. Looking up I see the rain still falling. It is now a quiet rain that I can keep track of in the mirror. I am happy that I only waited a few minutes at the train station after buying tickets to La Spezia for tomorrow. Liz and I split up around 2:30—she heading to the not too long line for the museum (the name still escapes me) and me heading to the train station to check on tickets and then back here to do this. Later I should check on a few places to stay for the end of our trip. Tomorrow we will end up in Cinque Terre and either hike all five villages or do that the following day. It will be nice to get away from the cities. We have gradually removed ourselves being in the not too large Florence, and will do so fully tomorrow. We have hikes and beach bumming, beer drinking and wine sipping in our future. And if we’re lucky—at least if I am lucky—I’ll find a place to watch the US play in the Confederations Cup Final on Sunday. The floor has now dried and so too has my Tiger Beer shirt. The capris are still in the process and the Moretti beer will provide a few more thirst quenching sips. If our connection to the Internet (thanks Al Gore) is actually working I will post this and try to inquire on a few places to stay for our last few days. If not I will go back to my book that my brother in law so wisely recommended. With a dry floor, drying pants, a hint of sun and a little more beer it seems either way a winning situation. (Stay tuned for the Bullfight story—Notes galore in my moleskin—still working it out in me head. Here’s a quote from LP, “We just saw six bulls die. And possibly one horse.”)

Imagine Sand, One-Eyed Beasts, & a Young Picasso

Dear family and friends:

It is a new day—not quite an hour has passed on the twenty-first day of the month of June.  It is my full intention to wish you the best and assure you that Elizabeth and I are splendid and enjoying the show Espana has offered thus far.  We arrived in Madrid today just half past three.  Unlike twelve years ago I arrived in just over three hours on a train that would surely be fit for at least a Count.  The train was not at all like the pre or post, which is to say around, World War II train that Rob and I took from Paris.  That train was a faded and rusted sleeper train—quite cool—but not pimp and posh like the rig we arrived on earlier.

 

Barcelona was a whirlwind of beach and bikes, wine and swine, and other delightful soires.  To find a city that is as walking friendly with loads of beach access, good public transportation and friendly demeanors is nothing less than a large feat these days—I realize I am preaching to the hymnals at this point and that your are the ones with the words written so I need not try and tell you how the song goes.  I’ll simply say that it is most difficult at best to beat a city where one can enjoy an evening taking in the ocean air, sand beneath their feet and red wine lingering on their pallet for a small sum the grocer requests.  I assure you all that we represented the States as best we could, being two bottles deep.  To avoid throwing a lovely lady under the horse and buggy, I’ll simply report that a good time was had by all and one individual, that most would not expect, was quite fired up for a spell.  A wise one might even say this one was on the muscle!  But I do get ahead of myself with this reporting of Saturday and Friday evening before illuminating you on the one that we all are thankful for.  That is not to say that the events of Thursday are not worthy of ink—merely that my focus is on the day now twice removed. 

 

Friday morning: not after the taking of toast and tea—but café and Corn Flakes (the lady went with Muslix) that we ventured through the labyrinth that is Barcelona in search of Cyclopolis.  No now you need not worry yourself sick and spoil your lovely Sunday brunch, we did not search out a fearsome one-eyed creature notorious for plucking the left eye of foreign visitors, though had we it is quite certain we would be capable of such a challenge being from, at least near enough, to the D!  Opposed to flexing our Detroit hardness on some meek ass beast we sought ourselves cycles to give ourselves a Gaudi tour de Barcelona.  Shameful and misleading would it be if I were to let you even leave this piece of correspondence thinking it were I who came up with such a splendid idea as a Gaudi self guided bicycle tour.  Seeing as I am not in the position of being accustomed to leading others down false paths and that shame does not find me easily, I will inform you that this was all Elizabeth’s idea and that she served in full capacity as tour guide.  She also happened to designate herself, not by choice, or open vote, but more a twist of misfortune, to be the most lovely lady in Barcelona with a flat rear tire a mere thirty minutes and one of five Gaudi sights seen on our tour.  Please be still and stop wringing your hands inquiring whether justice is present in this ever changing world—we kept ourselves in good spirits and walked the bicycle back to the non-feared and two eyed store owner and exchanged a pink bike with a bell and a flat rear tire for a purple bike minus the bell but with a lot of crucial air in the rear. 

 

As for air in the rear that is indeed another yarn to spin around another handmade envelope that I will send in our week and some ahead.  It is with my utmost respect, love and admiration that I wish you all the best.  May God bless you as he has me.  Yours,

Daniel

 

PS

Forgive me for my omission of the Picasso Museum, which featured drawings of the young fellow at the age of nine.  It would also serve you well to know that we enjoyed the beach for a few hours on Thursday in between roaming the streets and eating tapas.

Potatos-Swine-Wine & Dine in Barcelona

The hall is so dark it’s no wonder a wireless signal can get lost.  I forgot about the pitch dark European hallways of hostels and hotels.  This one tonight, our first night on our trip to Europe, is not pitch dark—just dark as hell dark.  Elizabeth does a magnificent job of feeling her way to the door and finding the large square light switch.

 

A push—and a few flicks—(good thing we’re not epileptic) and the yellow stucco walls with the white kids jigsaw cut out border welcomes the two of us home.  It’s almost one and..

 

We awoke from our beds nearly 36 hours ago.

We left just over 24 hours ago.  (Left the ground that is.)

And thanks to the combined horrors of American Airlines and Chicago we arrived at our hostel in Barcelona’s Barri Gotic some seven hours late. Hey we were just happy that we got out of Chi-hole and made our connection to London.  (Waiting at Heathrow was not the coolest, but the five hours went fairly quick.)

Heathrow=

Take a large round circle and throw in tons of people and shops and that’s we were engulfed in            

Reading..walking..talking..wandering..eating..pissing..reading walking..talking…

Heathrow time = done.

 

Load plane to Barcelona.

Read and snooze—snooze and zone out.

Arrive.

Take train.

Take Metro.

Walk and wander.  (Nice map skillz LP)

Arrive.

Drop bags.

Ask for eating recs.  Find a non-eating rec.  Enjoy tapas and a bottle of wine.

Tapas= croquets-ham salad-asparagus and some wonderful sauce-potatoes with an awesome sauce (kind of like the dipping sauce for an onion blossom from Outback!) Finished off with tomato and tuna salad.  (For the actual names of these dishes check back or wait for Liz’s update.)

 

Wander city.

Drink a beer in the park.

Wander into the dark as hell hall.  Find the glowing room that the wifi still can’t seem to find.  1:21am us = 7:21 pm US and adios. 

(Look for pics later)

Really? A Soccer Post?

The New York Yankees seemed undaunted by the economic downturn this past off season with their signings of Mark Teixeria and CC Sabathia, arguably the two best free agents available.  The total cost of the coveted two comes to 341 million dollars.  That “investment” gives them Tex for eight years and Captain Cheeseburger for seven.  341 million dollars is staggering, but don’t tell that to Real Madrid.

After buying Kaka from AC Milan for 94 million Madrid followed that up by spending 131 million on Cristiano Ronaldo.  That’s 225 million just to get these two footballers.  That is not the money Madrid will be paying them to play, just the cash to get them to the club!

As a Liverpool supporter I am glad to see Ronaldo gone.  Some have said that the Premier League is hurt by losing the “best player” in the world.  Ronaldo may be the best, but he’s also one of the whiniest divers in the game.   Now with a grip of cash at its disposable Manchester United will be capable of making that deep bench even deeper with two or three star players—that proposition is scary. 

As Man U and Man City have been quite active, teams like Liverpool and Arsenal have had rumors and whispers circling them like crazy.  Here’s to hoping both make solid moves in effort to push United from the top of the table. 

Limbaugh--The True Annoited One (DM)

You have to love the ongoing Republican debacle that is Cheney, Limbaugh and Sean Hannity.  After some edgy jokes by Wanda Sykes Hannity has feigned outrage about President Obama’s laughter.  He also presented us with that great Hannity logic—what is worse, wishing an American death, or water boarding a terrorist?  To briefly clarify Sykes simply said she wished his formerly abused kidneys would fail—that is not quite a death wish.  (Formerly abused added by me.)  Enough of this junk though—the two jokes were maybe a bit much, but who the hell cares.  Sykes simply used a tactic that the aforementioned bozos use all the time—call people terrorists and wish ill upon them. 

Take Two:
The great American Rush Limbaugh or Colin Powell, who would you rather have in the party?  Who is the better Republican?  This just shows us all what danger this party is in; apparently there is not enough room for both?  Absurd.  And if there is not—Republicans are taking the formerly fat, always arrogant and inflammatory, former drug abuser and constant flamethrower over a man who has actually done things for this country.  PLEASE!  This is the “Country First” party—or at least was this past fall and now this is the we worship a former crack head, moron who spews hate and venom. 

I am sick of hearing hacks call an elected official “the anointed one” and hear the rumor and innuendo of socialism, wealth seizing and redistributing.  We had eight years of their answers and that’s a large part why we are in the situation we are.  It’s amusing to me that the party who constantly cries about hard work and taking people’s wealth could look at former President Bush and President Obama and be critical of President Obama.  One man was born into wealth beyond most of our dreams—the other into a single family home.  One man had not only a silver spoon, but a golden path throughout life, the other turned down a potential money making career in favor of actually helping others.  The party that stands for hard work and fair treatment is quite clear—the party that stands for hate filled speech, fuzzy logic and exclusion best quickly recognize their demise and turn to true leaders and away from their anointed one.

The Smoke (DM)

The burned country stopped off at the left with the range of hills.  On ahead islands of dark pine trees rose out of the plain.  Ernest Hemingway

You remember the smoke pouring upwards from the earth.  It felt primitive.  The lakes were calm and you were making good progress on the water.  The planes dumping water and chemicals on the fire would begin an hour or so before you reached your camp spot.  There were no train tracks around, and when you returned the following year you would not see any black grasshoppers, just a long line of charred trees.  It would seem strange to be able to see the mouth of the other lake while still on the water.

As you set up your tent the planes were still dumping onto the fire.  It was probably sometime near this point when he portaged through the fire.  A story that would become almost legendary, timing was everything, portaging in between planes dumping water and chemicals.  Luckily it was a short portage.

At your camp there was no need to ax out any roots for a spot to sleep.  You had stayed in the same place last year minus the smoke and fire and planes and knew of a good spot to set things up.

Shortly after the tents were up and the canoes out of the water you rewarded yourself with a swim.  You had accomplished a good amount and looked forward to dinner and some coffee later.  You still smoked cigarettes at the time and enjoyed having a smoke with a cup of coffee as you watched the night engulf the water.

Later that night you felt happy and fortunate having been taught things about living outdoors.  The water had been boiling for the required three minutes and you removed your green bandana from your head.  Folding it once making a potholder out of it you grabbed the pot by the side and carefully poured water into the four cups.  You could smell the matches in your left pocket and looked forward to that cigarette. 

The first page of a thing I started tonight. (DM)

The room has a faux finish.  There are two love seats situated across from one another.  A coffee table is in between with dark legs and a light, almost white top.  There are two cups of coffee and two tall glasses of water sitting on the table.  An old tape recorder is in the middle of the table.   

I guess I find characters that have actual hardships interesting.  Intriguing. 

And do you relate to these characters?

Relate, I don’t know if I relate to them, but. .

Oh, I am sorry to stop you.  I always forget to plug this thing in.  It’s no good unless you plug it in.  Excuse me for a quick moment. 

Okay, let’s begin again.  I’m sorry about that.  I’ll just press this button and start fresh and you just do your thing.  Okay?

Sure.

Here we go with the press of a button!

What type of characters do you find yourself relating to the most?

Fictional or non  fictional?

You didn’t ask that before?  Let’s say it doesn’t matter.  I’m just going to stop this, rewind and begin again.  Again again, I suppose.  Fictional or non fictional it doesn’t matter.  Although I suppose non fictional might be more interesting, the made up characters one might associate themselves with is kind of more interesting than the real ones.

The real ones are non fictional.  Made up ones, as you say, are fictional. 

Yeah?  Non, doesn’t that imply it does not or is not?

Yeah and fiction is fake—made up as you said.  So if it is non fictional then it is not made up.

Thus it is real. 

Exactly.

Huh.  Very interesting.  This is why I always tell my clients that all can learn from all.  So shall we?

Bobby J, Revisionist History & So On (DM)

Bobby Jindal stepped up to the plate on Tuesday and didn’t strike out—he wet himself in front of the entire stadium.  He then proceeded to beat himself up side the dome with his bat.  His delivery was awkward and forced; his lines of criticism murky and flawed.  I’d say that he took himself out for 2012, but frankly could care less whether that is or is not the case.  What is obvious is that the Republican Party is out of ideas and their only political move is to push their chips all in and hope that a President who is actually trying to do something will fail.

Governor Jindal criticized government for corruption and failure to act.  He used Katrina as an example of this—uh Bobby do you recall who was in charge during that time?  He insinuated that the Stimulus Bill was filled with corruption and completely misrepresented President Obama’s words regarding the seriousness of the crisis that we are in.  Oh yeah, he also mocked provisions in that Bill for high speed rail and provisions to buy new vehicles for government.  Hey Bobby—high speed rail is a tremendous idea, potentially solving many issues that we currently face and the purchase of automobiles is indeed stimulus, potentially saving many jobs that might be lost if those vehicles are not bought.

The identity crisis the right is facing has led to everything from revisionist history regarding FDR’s New Deal failure, to the tired old lines of tax and spend liberal.  The posturing regarding the spending of this most recent Bill is absurd—the pot indeed calls the kettle black.  The past eight years have been a spend fest—a Paris Hilton shopping spree of lavish proportions!

President Obama is hard at work trying to repair the several holes in this ship before it hits the bottom of the ocean.  Perhaps having a President who is actually working is confusing the right seeing as how President Bush (43) spent nearly a third of his time on vacation—977 days!  Perhaps having a President whose policies are directed to helping the majority of Americans is shocking and wrong.  This still does not explain why so many people, who must desire to be the uber rich, have issues with Obama’s policies—folks if you don’t make more than 250K you’re not really affected. 

In the beginning stages of President Obama’s reign we as Americans, regardless of party affiliation, owe it to him to be open to change.  The tired old rhetoric of trickledown economics—which they no longer use those words, but just because you no longer call a duck a duck doesn’t mean it is not a duck, have failed so the need to look elsewhere is present.  To criticize President Obama over spending when we are in one of the worst economic situations is hardly fair; especially after the spending spree the right has taken us on recently.  To say the government has no business in helping aid people is plain stupid, and to misrepresent President Obama’s plans, as Jindal did, as faith in government and not people is plain wrong. 

Look around you folks—plenty of hardworking, well educated, dedicated and hardworking people are either out of work, or have recently been.  The idea that a simple will to work is enough is not the case—not right now.  The idea that government should let the auto industry fail, banks and financial institutions fail, is dangerous and scary at the least.  I don’t claim to know exactly what needs to happen, but I do know that the role of government is to protect the people.  I do know that we finally have a President who is working and who has thus far kept his word of offering a hand to the other party.  If Republicans want to posture and misrepresent the President’s words and policies they have apparently learned very little from the debacle of the last eight years.  

Way too long (DM)

I have hardly written since coming home from Japan.  I cranked out close to 100K words of non-fiction there and maybe 20K or so of fiction.  I haven't went through a spell like this in years, but overall am not too concerned, just feeling the itch and the need to get back--but not bad enough just yet.  I have come a long way on some solid revision of a collection I wrote back in 05-06, but other than that I have felt either that I don't have the time or the will.  Anyway, I pay a small fee for this site and need to get back to keeping it up.  Since I got nothing new I'm going to post the closest post from a year ago at this time. 

2-18-08  1:24P

These thoughts were not going through my mind as I walked to Hayama Junior High School for the second time:  I won’t see any of the san nen-sei gakkyuu (third grade class students) again after today unless I see them in Heiwado or Tehara Station or some other place in or around Ritto.  At 3:30 when I walk to meet Yoko at Ritto Junior High to pick up my schedule for next week I will have officially finished my fifth rotation of what will be nine total.  For all of you who might be slow at math, that’s over half way.  I will miss working with many of the san nen-sei gakkyuu, as they were usually respectful, tried to do their work and typically had a good attitude and sense of humor.  So today is a farewell of sorts, a thought that occurred just before sitting down to a strange medley of yasai to buta (vegetables and pork). 

Walking to school the snow was coming down and my jacket was slightly coated.  I was thinking about LP’s ride to school and hoping it wasn’t too bad.  I was happy that it was snow rather than rain and glad to be listening to Stereolab on my ipod.  Normally I bike to Hayama, but last Thursday as I mounted the Bounty Hunter just after 5:00 PM I noticed instantly that the bike tire was flat—beyond repair flat.  I had known this day was lingering, just waiting to try and surprise me, as the tire had been hopelessly low for some time.  Not only was it low, but virtually impossible to fill with air.    I’m not sure just how old the BH is, but it’s long past its prime.  I decided instead of pushing this piece of trash all the way home that I may as well ride it as far as I could.  That ended up being all the way home.  I’m not sure if you’ve ever ridden a bike over a mile with a flat back tire, but I’ll tell you, it’s a hell of a work out.  You also relinquish a great deal of control.  So with the BH out of commission I’m walking to school for the second day and thinking about Rob and Amber arriving in Maibara in less than eleven hours.  I’m thinking about jobs I’ve been applying for and thinking about how happy I am my boy Dave put Stereolab’s album Emperor Tomato Ketchup on the ipod my folks bought for me that he loaded up.  I’m thinking I could care less if there’s no air left in my tires.   I am not thinking about a farewell of sorts.

It’s a strange job here in more than many ways.  One part of strangeness is the distance that is between the students and I.  It’s not this way in every case, but there are several barriers to us forging a strong student/teacher relationship.   First up, a language barrier, second the fact that I see them once or twice a week for four to six weeks and then leave.  There’s more than that though.  There are the cultural differences, the miscommunication and at times a lack of opportunity to actually interact with many students.  However, in the case of the san nen-sei at Hayama these obstacles are much less.  I have gotten to know several of the students pretty well.  I know and call a very few of them by name.  I work with great teachers who let me interact with students, who encourage them to interact with me and this has been instrumental in the fact that I’ve been able to develop some type of relationship with these students. 

At home, whether I’m teaching in college, or leading a backcountry trip, I am able to develop relationships with students and campers much more on my terms.  I am able to effectively communicate with them.  I am able to learn their personalities and they mine.  Often times there are gaps and barriers in these types of situations, typically age or ethnicity.  We are usually able to overcome, or at least move past these without getting too hung up.  Here, for the aforementioned it is much different. 

It is difficult to gauge what your job is here, a mix between real teacher, half teacher, worksheet maker, and live human tape recorder—read and repeat, read and repeat.  For these reasons I’m guessing it is difficult for students to gauge what your job is here, or who the hell you are and what it is you’re doing in their classroom.  I am not foolish enough to think that more than a handful of kids would waste the space in their mind thinking about who I am and what my role in their classroom is.  However, by the variety of reactions and interactions I have with students it plays out what must be in their head whether conscious or not.  Some students seem genuinely glad to speak with you and want to try to learn as much as possible.  Others take on the roll of your Japanese teacher and will teach you whatever words they can.  Others see you as a means of entertainment, or as just an oddity—some white dude is in my classroom.  There are some that seem freighted, whether it is of your foreigninity (hell yes that’s a good made up word) or their own fears of making a mistake while communicating with you is hard to tell, but their fear, or severe shyness is evident.  Finally, there are kids that just don’t give a damn and they don’t have the time of day for you.  There’s a nice mix, not terribly different from any classroom of any age group when you break it down, but again this isn’t any classroom, it’s somebody else’s classroom in Japan.

The farewell of sorts will be an ongoing farewell for the rest of our time here in Japan.  I will move to Ritto Junior High School and say sayonara to their san nen-sei students.  I will say goodbye, temporarily, to Rob and Amber once they come then leave for the warm summer weather of Australia.  Our mother’s will come and go Yoko (our coordinator and friend) will resign in April—sayonara.  Once we start our third and final rotation each school will have a much more permanent farewell and there will be no need to add “of sorts” to it.

These thoughts were going through my head as I walked home from Hayama Junior High School for what might prove to be the second and last time:  I need to break the ten thousand yen bill in my pocket so I have the right denominations to give to Yoko for school lunch and the maintenance fee.  I have to walk a bit faster if I want to make it on time.  Rob and Amber should be on a Shinkansen on their way from Tokyo and I’ll be seeing them in less than three hours.  Walking down the narrow street I am surprised at how quickly routes and landscapes become second nature and am thinking that these farewell of sorts really aren’t all that bad as they continue leading me towards a very big hello again. 

A Holiday Trio (DM)

1

The plow had come through throwing hunks of snow in front of the drive.  The roads were now easily passable, but the driveway was blocked.  Shovel-shovel-shovel.  It was a short shovel.

After leaving I went in search for a Christmas gift or two for my lady.  I avoid malls at all costs.  The last time I went to a mall for Christmas shopping I was probably stoned and not yet twenty.  I hit up a few stores and as a whole avoided lines.

Lines don’t really kill me.  I’m patient like a Monk sometimes.  The longest line I was in was on the exit ramp off of I 75.  The traffic was maddening—there’s a damn mall nearby, which I’m sure was the reason for the delay.  I felt that urge of aggravation and annoyance sitting there in my white Mazda Protégé listening to a sports talk radio show I could care less about.  I wasn’t in the mood for NPR, which is rare and didn’t feel like music.  Maybe I took a deep breath, but not for sure, I did decide I really didn’t care about the traffic, as I honestly had nothing I needed to do.

I love that needing to do nothing.  Of course there’s always stuff to do.  Take all the boxes in my basement.  We moved into our house three months ago and things are coming along quite well, but the basement is filled—in an organized filled sort of way with boxes.  I could be doing that.  I could be cleaning, or putting my bindings on my new Santa Cruz snowboard my badass wife got me for my Birthday.  I could have been shoveling the rest of the blocks of plow snow blocking the other half of the drive, but I didn’t need to be doing any of these.  Had I not been stuck in a line of vehicles I would have most likely been reading You Shall Know Our Velocity or playing the soccer game Winning Eleven for DS. 

The only other line I found myself in was the place I found one of the gifts I really wanted to get Liz.  It was a short line and I had this family behind me who were talking about how bad their kid’s hands stunk from his gloves.  The kid was about 15 and had a tie on, which was strange.  His father didn’t have one on and the mother didn’t seem to be dressed up.  They also ripped on the kid for wanting a 59/50 Colts hat.  The mother’s comment went something lime this:

You know those stupid hats with those goofy flat bills.
To which pa replied:
Oh man.  You want one of those lame things?

The exchange was a surprise as the couple did not appear to be the type that would openly punk their kid.  I gave a chuckle hearing this, one I think was appreciated by the forty something folks and was called up to drop some cash in the name of Christmas. 

2

I’m practicing getting up from a seated position.  I am not drunk and my legs have not fallen asleep, what some call pins and needles.  I’ve just screwed in my snowboard bindings and am feeling if the angles I set are going to cut it.  I’ve sat down got up, sat down got up, five times in a row and my right knee feels a tinge of pain. 

Now I’m dancing on my board shuffling my feet left and right—it’s all in the hips.  I’m having a surprising amount of fun and now pretend to be riding down a hill carving left and right.  Yes, I am thirty years old and playing with the birthday present Liz got me a few weeks back.  It’s a Santa Cruz All Star and I must tell you that I’m obviously wearing my Vans boots, it’s necessary seeing as I have to strap into my bindings, but what is not necessary is me wearing my snow pants.  The things we do while home alone.

Liz is out at an engagement party; I coped out as I’ve had a cold the past few days.  I felt well enough to go, but didn’t mind having the day to play around with my All Star, sweep the floor and watch football.  At this point she is probably picking up her niece and nephew, which even three and a half years later I have to remember are my niece and nephew. 

After carving up the tan carpet in the family room, a nice warm shower, eating spicy noodles and browsing Barnes and Noble the four of us are back at our house sitting around the table making our own game of pictionary.  We are writing things that we will soon draw.  Two huge zip lock bags of markers are on the table, two packs of colored pencil and a brand new 24 of Crayons.  Liz is an art teacher and well equipped for kids.

Let the drawing and guessing begin.

Aiden is drawing what I am sure is Wolverine.  It is a man with four long claws in place of hands. 

“Wolverine, it’s Wolverine.”

“Nope.”

The wind gusts outside and I am happy I don’t feel a draft.  It’s one degree out there, minus seventeen with wind chill.  If that’s not Wolverine it’s got to be Freddy Krueger, but I didn’t write Freddy and I don’t think they know who he is.  Liz wouldn’t write Freddy. 

“It’s Freddy Krueger.”

“Who?  No.  Look it has claws.”

“A bear,” Solstice says and she’s right.  The human thing with claws is apparently a bear.  Laughter all around.   

3

There are kids playing in the front yard, which is comprised of two small triangular chunks of yard, they are making a fort with Liz.  There are no drawings of bears that look like people with claws, but there is a trace of yellow snow, we’ve been making lots of jokes about yellow snow and a few about brown snow the last eighteen hours.  I’m shoveling snow and enjoying it.  Feeling I’m putting in my fair share (almost) after being somewhat sick and having my wife, Liz shovel the other day.  She did forbid me though. 

The shoveling of snow can be rhythmic and when it is it’s a wonderful thing.  It’s a rhythmic event this sunny, snow three day away from Christmas day of a day.  I’ll shovel for an hour and LP (as I often call her, here last name used to be Peltier hence the P) and her niece and nephew who are mine too will play in the front yard and then take it to the play set at the park for the same time span.

When we go inside we will eat rice and tofu with edamame beans that Liz has prepared at Solstice and Aiden’s request.  Such a strange name that is so fitting for her—Solstice.  I remember when I first heard it, Liz and I were only friends, though I was indeed interested, and I thought how strange of a name.  Once we got together, three years later or so, it seemed the name would always be strange, but like anything it settled in and became normal.  We are indeed adaptable. 

After eating we kill time with hide and go seek—watching them play.  We watch soccer and then their dad comes to get them.  We talk their dad in to staying for some soccer viewing, I DVR’d Arsenal and Liverpool.  We sit drinking Bell’s Two Hearted Ale watching what most call football, as a kid will randomly come into the room seeking the other. 

They will leave and so too will we.  Remaining Christmas shopping to be done and I’ll buy myself a pair of sweatpants.  Navy blue Hanes sweatpants, you couldn’t get any less hip or dorkier if you tired. I’ll hear about the six-dollar purchase from me lady and it’s not in a good way. 

This is what she does not say.

“Whoa, nice sweats baby.  Damn you should pick up at least one more pair.”

Instead it is a few words here and there thrown in between her laughter. 

“There for around the house,” I say a little defensive. 

Sweatpants take me back to the summer between fifth and sixth grade.  The dawn of junior high school.  I was shopping with my mom for a few things and wanted to score a new pair of sweats.  She made the good call of steering me clear from sweats.  Thanks ma. 

Shampoo Snot & Two Ply

“I don’t think I use tissues the proper way; I always get snot on my hands.”

“I don’t either.”

The snot was flowing like a river, like a beer keg at a New Years party, hell any party for that matter.  It had it’s path—knew the path it would take as if it were as natural as God deciding where to put a river.  It flowed with free reign, with ease and when I blew my nose in to the nice Kleenex I had bought one day earlier at CVS—the kind with the aloe built in—the snot would cover the tissue, but then escape always out of the bottom leaving a coat on my palm, right palm usually.

The snot was not the condensed add water to this thick snot kind.  It was liquid—almost.  Think shampoo only a bit more watery. 

I had been silly enough to ride my bike in the blistering cold wind Monday needing at least twenty-minutes of substantial exercise.  The ride itself wasn’t such a poor decision, but the lack of thin-layered facemask was.  I’ve been wearing this when exercising for the past month or so and it does the job.  On Monday I either couldn’t find it or didn’t care enough to look hard enough and pedal pushed my way through the fierce wind.  My legs felt good—but my ears, my ears were aching that dull inner and outer ache, the hat I had worn seemingly did little good.

Then there was Tuesday—the night shoveling.  Again a colder than cold outside winter, but not really winter yet atmosphere.  Again no thin-layered facemask.  I shoveled with a few beers in belly looking forward to rewarding myself with a few more post shovel. 

The next day the snot came.  The dull aches.  I lounged around reading all day pretending the cold was nothing more than a little sniffle.  The next day full throttle leaky noise of shampoo, but slightly thinner, forced to buy tissues, more soup and Taco Bell. 

The box from yesterday is nearing the end.  A fresh one sits waiting to get in the game.  Eyes have been leaking as if I’ve lost a loved one and soon I’ll be out amongst others hoping my snot won’t leak out on to a plate of food, a glass of beer, a bowling ball or shoe. 

The to-go pack of 15 2-Ply Tissues awaits my jacket pocket.  I carried these packs all over Japan.  I will place this pack in my left pocket and think of a life that now seems so far away and fake. 

Outrageous Outrage?

Barack Obama ran for president on the platform of bridging gaps and bringing people together.  Several times he talked about the necessity in dealing with people whose views differed from ours, but engaging them, understanding them and finding other areas of common ground.  These are not the divisive politics of the past eight years and regardless of your religious views, or lack there of; regardless of your views on issues pertaining to gay rights, the choice of Rick Warren to give the invocation at the inauguration ceremony should be viewed as an effort to unify opposed to divide.

Many individuals have said that gay Americans largely voted for Barack Obama and that this is a slap in their face.  This seems strange to me, as Barack Obama has never come out in favor of gay marriage.  Why is this an issue?  It is being made one of the biggest knocks against Warren—his support for Proposal 8 in California, which bans gay marriage.  Strangely enough the man these people voted for has not spoken out favoring gay marriage, civil unions yes, gay marriage no.  I do not see the disrespect argument in this case.

I’d also suggest that there are undoubtedly a great number of individuals who cast their vote for Obama who are atheists and of different religious viewpoints that could claim to have beef with Warren.  However, we have not heard the great outrage and claims of disrespect from these folks that we have from the gay community.

It’s fair game to point out the issues one group might have with any individual.  It’s fair game to express displeasure over such a choice as Warren.  It is a bit heavy handed however, to claim that this is a slap in the face, that Barack Obama is disrespecting the gay community.  Any individual who votes for any candidate could always find an issue (at the very least) in which they disagree with a candidate they voted for.  Instead of focusing on the differences we have, why not focus on the common ground?  Isn’t this how actual relationships work in this country?  We should embrace Barack Obama’s choice as evidence that he will not bow down to one large hunk of the Democratic voting base, we should be thankful that he is taking actions to back up his statements of creating a government and a vibe of togetherness, opposed to the divisive bullshit of the past eight years.  Part of being inclusive, part of working together is at times bringing people in we don’t like or agree with.  We’ve had eight years of exclusion and one minded/sided views, I’m happy that there is an apparent change on the horizon.  Diversity is a two way street and that seems forgotten by some.

A Good Snowfall Falling (DM)

I had slugged down two Two Hearted Ale’s and was feeling good about shoveling some evening snow.  It had come down in that effortless way snow always falls and inspired me in some odd and meaningless way. 

I had arrived back home from a useless work meeting where we watched ten-minute videos about the college I work for.  We also saw a Power Point slide show and listened to all sorts of absurd questions.  I had carpooled with a lady who lives in my town and the two of us found ourselves laughing as we listened to the middle aged, bald man breathe heavily as he shoveled food into his mouth.  He had been about an hour late and it is doubtful at best that the food was still remotely warm. 

We walked out to the car amidst what my wife would playfully call a winter wonderland.  I would have used quotes for winter wonderland, but that sort of thing really bugs me.  The overuse of quotation marks is something I suffer through whenever I teach a “Creative Writing” course.  The snow on the car wiped away like a name you never had any intention of remembering.  Light, crisp and full of hope this snow was.  Placing the red quesadilla maker I had won at my work meeting in the back seat, I grabbed the new snow brush/scrapper and quickly dusted off the snow.  My co-worker and fellow townie helped me out with the use of her gloves and we were off.

Slow going it was on 696.  Yeah, that’s the second “Yoda talk” line.  There’s almost nothing better than going 40 miles per hour on the highway.  Of course sometimes there is nothing worse.  Tonight, with the crisp snow combating the vicious cold I enjoyed the slow rolling drive.

I phoned some friends after dropping off my co-worker/townie/friend, but to no avail.  They were staying in for the night resting up for the intense week they were not yet half way through.  I took the long way home enjoying the snow filled, slow going streets.

After relaxing with two beers and a book I had the urge to shovel.  I knew the snow would keep falling, but wanted to be outside in the fluffy magic.  I went upstairs and changed out of my jeans and into my sweet snowboards pants I had got in Kentucky over Thanksgiving.  I found them at a TJ Max for a hell of a price as well as a pair of snowboard mittens!  Sporting these items, as well as some fleece boots that are now ten years old, a sweater from my mother in law, which I was hesitant to wear because I like it so much and it’s really nice and I feel bad about sweating in nice things I like; and my jacket bought in Japan—hat too, I took not to the streets, but the driveway and sidewalks. 

Outside it felt much warmer than earlier when I had suffered through a twenty-minute bike ride.  Snow always makes it feel warmer.  I began scarping the snow away from the pavement and it was as effortless to remove it from the ground as it was for it to arrive there.  At 11:00 at night the shovel made the loudest noise for what seemed to be miles.  I was about to shovel the neighbor’s drive, but thought better of it.  They just had a baby and I was hesitant enough making the noise in my own drive.  I felt bad for shoveling, but also felt bad for feeling bad about it and kept on.  Sometimes I think too much about my impact.  Take at a restaurant after we pay.  I feel the need to get out of my seat instantly.  It’s stupid and annoying.  There are plenty of other times and scenarios when I care too little, but this is about shoveling snow. 

The shoveling was smooth and everything was illuminated in the glow of white.  Shortly before finishing, we live on a corner and have lots of sidewalk, I felt a hunger that matched my after swim hunger to perfection.  It was a true hunger, a well-earned hunger and I looked forward to going inside and micro waving some veggie hot wings.  The scrap of the shovel echoed down the block and I looked forward to seeing my wife once she got home from making cookies with her mother.  A cookie would be a great compliment to the Morningstar Wings and Two Hearted Ale. 

Now, unlike the snow I leave you to get back to the reading before the shoveling.     

Longest Spell Yet (DM)

The counter is sticky and has been for the past week.  You wish they weren’t so casual about cleanliness.  You’re already on borrowed time, just living out your days with two people who took you in.  You feel out of place, you long for your home, for your independence, but those days are gone.

There’s nothing much for you to do.  You sit and wait for the voices to return from work.  Sometimes you get lucky and one of them leaves the TV in the kitchen on.  You wish you could flip stations, but you don’t mind watching the cheesy morning talk shows followed by a soap opera or two and concluding with Opera, or some television justice program.

It’s been either six or seven days since Bob and Sue took you in.  They don’t pay you much attention.  You have mixed feelings about that.  Bob sort of wiped down the sticky counter earlier today, but you can still see a streak of honey from when Sue missed her teacup.  There is a coffee ring or two on the counter, it is no longer as visible as before Bob’s wiping, but it’s still there, just faded from exposure to the sun, or the bottom of a paper towel. 

Granny Smith had told you stories all your life about the countless others who have suffered the same fate.  It’s not necessarily tragic, in a sense the tragic ones are those who are never twice removed from their home, the ones who never get picked at the Market.  You used to envy them, but as you’re going on your ninth day at Bob and Sue’s house you have a sense of relief to be out of the market.  You’re happy to be sitting on a somewhat dirty counter next to a banana you cannot communicate with. 

It is on the eleventh day that Sue picks you up and gently places you at the bottom of a brown paper bag.  She holds you for a second, maybe two and you feel the warmth of her hand.  Her hand is so soft, softer and smoother somehow than your skin.  Inside the bag you are happy that you’re not resting against the rough paper bottom, you feel blessed that the turkey, or maybe pickle loaf sandwich is below you.  It seems to make sense since the sandwich is protected by a smooth piece of plastic, still not as smooth as Sue’s hand.  You think back to the day she picked you and took you away from the market, how lovely it felt to be cradled in her hand.  You look forward to Sue pulling you out of the bag one last time and keeping you in her hand for the longest spell yet.

Gender Bender Annoyance (DM)

I know it is not new, but it's still annoying as hell.  News flash!  The first "man" to give birth is not a man!  I just saw Larry King's interview with the couple and Larry asked, so you haven't had anything done down there to change what you were born with?  Imagine how weird Larry King is and now imagine him saying that.  Creepy yet so funny.

Past Blast! (DM)

I'm teaching a creative writing course this term and it got me thinking about some of the stories I wrote for my undergrad workshops.  I dug this one up and figured I'd post it.  (Disclaimers implied)

Vomit: AKA Puke, Hurl, Spew, Yack & Barf

To make oneself vomit without aid of a finger is quite a chore.  I began cramming my tongue down my throat until I started gagging.  Kenny, the fat kid who sat next to me and always cut egg salad farts was my target.  For lunch I had brought a pound and a half of egg salad and forced all of it down.  I was determined to get back at this sloth of a beast by hurling a pound and a half of egg salad all over him.  I figured I had to smell this kids stench everyday of the damn week it was only right that he had to wear mine for half a day. 
The fourth time I swallowed my tongue my gag turned straight to puke.  I casually turned to the right and let loose all over this kids face.  The initial spew was quite a spray and it took him a few seconds to realize what was happening.  He quickly stood up from his chair and I followed, letting loose another quarter pound off egg salad all over his enormous body.  He tried to get away, like a wounded animal he darted, well Kenny couldn’t dart, he was to fat, but he tried to dart left then right, but everywhere he went, I was on him like piss on the toilet seat.  I wretched for the third time, feeling myself get dizzy.  It was hard to catch air while hurling and to add to it I had to chase this fat kid around.  The puke attack on Kenny had been going for close to a minute now, half the kids in class were laughing, while the other half tried not to puke themselves.  My teacher, Ms. Fuller was stunned and shouting “George George for heavens sake what is wrong with you, will you please get to the restroom and stop following Kenny, the poor kid is drowning in your vomit.” 
My war was almost won, just one more battle to wrap it up and I felt it coming.  Kenny had managed to fight through three rows of desks and was making what he assumed to be a safe retreat near Ms. Fuller.  He was wrong.  I had decided that if to win my war a few innocent bystanders had to go down in the process, well then that was the way it had to be.  Kenny was a yard away from Ms. Fuller pleading with her to make me stop.  Ms. Fuller began to run as she noticed there was no stopping me.  Like a Japanese comocosi I was going to complete my mission.  My mouth was already leaking with barf as I had been puking for five seconds, but holding it in until I had a grade A shot at Kenny.  He was cornered, wedged in between the wall and the blackboard and I unleashed without mercy.  Like the honorable soldier I was, I went right for the jugular, literally.  The egg salad hit Kenny right in the throat, dripping down the inside of his shirt.  I had one more wretch coming and took aim for a second face shot.  Got him!  A direct hit and Kenny was done.
    The classroom looked like a war zone.  From the middle of the class up to the blackboard were trails and random puddles of yellow and white spew.  Kenny had sunk to the ground in a waterfall of tears muttering something about how I puked in his mouth; it was probably the only thing ever to enter Kenny’s mouth that he didn’t like.
    Ms Fuller was standing in the doorway; her wrinkled jaw was hanging as low as her sagging tits.  Her eyes were fixated towards the middle of the classroom where the war had begun.  She just stood there, not blinking in disbelief.  I think she had survivor syndrome or something.  One thing’s for sure; I don’t think that lady ever got over what I did in her classroom that day.
    That was the only time in my life when I deliberately hurled on a person.  I wish I could say it was the only time I’ve puked on someone, but it’s not.  The first time I picked up a bottle of booze I was 13.  Me and my pal Dave decided it was time to take up drinking.  We’d been smoking camels for the past six months and felt it a good time to try and capture another crippling vice.  Dave had smuggled a bottle of vodka from his dad’s cabinet.  It was real quality stuff, Dark Eyes vodka.  The label had a picture of a wolf on it that seemed to be staggering and its right eye was glazed over and blood shot.  Neither Dave nor myself could figure out why the wolf was on the label, we discussed it for a minute or two and then decided it was time to get down to drinking. 
    Being 13 we had no clue what you do with vodka.  We didn’t know if you mix it with something, or take it straight. 
    “I’m pretty sure my dad drinks half the bottle plain.  Then he mixes it with beer, or something else.”
    “You don’t have any beer to mix this with do ya?”
    He didn’t so it was decided that we’d drink half the bottle plain and then find something to mix the other half with.  Neither one of us were prepared to taste the horror we did.  Dave took the first pull off the thing and made a face that looked like someone who was constipated. 
    “Uggh, damn this stuff is rough.”
    “Give me that bottle you pussy,” I grabbed the bottle and took a tug twice as long as his.  My throat was fizzing, my stomach red-hot.  I could even feel the enamel on my teeth disenagrate.
    Dave just laughed at me and took the bottle back.  We each lit up a smoke in hopes it would ease our pain and sure enough it did.
    “Hell now I see why people smoke while they drink,” I said.
    “Yeah, or maybe drink while they smoke,” Dave said as he laughed a little to hard at his stupid joke.
    The two of us sat in the woods behind my house for an hour, smoking cigarette after cigarette and choking down our new vice.  By the time we got half way through the bottle, it was looking half full, not half empty.  I was pretty sure my folks were still out at the movies so we left our Dark Eyes in the woods and walked back to my house.  We found a bottle of prune juice in the basement that I knew my mom would never miss and went back into the woods.  We dumped half the bottle of prune juice out, allowing enough room for the rest of the drunk wolf vodka to be poured in. 
    “I don’t know, ya think we’ll be able to finish this stuff?”
    “Hell yes we’ll finish it Dave.  There’s no good reason two 13 year olds shouldn’t be able to finish a bottle of vodka between ‘em.  Plus if we don’t we’ll totally be pussies.  Remember when we split that pack of cigarettes for the first time, it took us four hours to smoke ‘em all, but we did it.”
    “Yeah but then I puked on the way back to my house.”
    “Well yeah, but now we can smoke like champs.  There’s 16 year olds who can’t smoke as many cigarettes as we can in a day.”
    We sat in those woods as the mosquitoes came out and devoured us.  I couldn’t believe they were still able to bite, the amount of alcohol they were taking from us they should’ve been dead.  Exactly two hours and fifty-two minutes after opening the wolf vodka Dave and I had completed our mission.  A whole bottle of vodka down our pallets.  Slugging down the half full bottle of vodka prune juice was as nasty, no, more nasty than drinking the stuff plain, as we called it then.  Dave was smart and hurled in the woods.  He started around 10 PM and finished at half past.  Of course being his good friend I mocked him the whole time.  Uttering gibberish slurs, calling him a pussy and asking him if he wanted some more prune juice.  We stumbled back to my house, smoked a cigarette behind the garage and gave each other a hearty high five for completing our alcoholic task.  Dave headed back to his place and I headed into mine.
    “Hi honey, did you and Dave have a good time?”
    That voice, ohh, I was not expecting to hear that voice.  I hadn’t even thought about my mom being awake.  I froze, telling myself to play it cool, guard every word uttered.  Tell her your real tired and just gonna go to bed.  Thoughts of anything and everything rushed in and out between my ears, and then. . .
    “A wolf is outside and it has dark eyes.”
    “What honey?”
    “A wolf is. .”
    I stopped and realized what I had just said.  Shit, I’m screwed, what the hell were you thinking.  Umm cover it just cover it play it cool.
    “Agh, nothing ma, it’s just a stooopid jhoke you’d prabley not like.”
    “Oh ok.  Are you feeling ok George?”
    “Yep, great, just a little tired.  Well I’m gonna go to bath.”
    “What George?”
    “I’m goingz ta bah, bad.  Bed, I’m goin ta bed.”
    “George honey come over here for a sec.”
    “Ugghh, na dat’s all right ma, I’m real sleepsy.”
    “George come here.  You’ve been drinking haven’t you?”
    “Just some prune juice with wolf in it.”
    “George you get over here right now.”
    Well she asked for it.  I staggered over to her and reached out to give her a hug, but instead I gave her a shirt full of vomit.  She shrieked out, the same shriek she gives when she sees a mouse in the house.  My dad came bolting into the kitchen wearing nothing but his poop stained briefs.  This was his usual attire for a weekend night.  He looked at the puke on my mom, the lake of it on the floor and then up at me.  His eyes focused in, he was the real soldier.  I wiped my face with my hand and tried to swallow.  My throat felt as if it had swelled up, I tried to swallow a second time and more came up.  The three hot dogs I had eaten before the drinking now covered the floor, pink, green and brown covered up our powder blue linoleum.  The pink were the dogs, the green relish, and the brown was the vile prune juice I had choked down.
    “George, what in the sacred name of Roosevelt is going on in here?  I’m sitting there, trying to watch the damn ballgame and I hear your mother squeal like a damn pig.  I come in here and there’s throw up all over the damn floor and yer mother.”
    “I didn’t squeal like a pig Bob.  I don’t make noises that sound like pigs.”
    “Whatever lady, I’m not concerned with what sort of noises you make, but what I am concerned with is why in the name of Jack Dempsey is there puke all over you and this kitchen.”
    My dad had this thing he always did when he was pissed.  He’d always incorporate names of his favorite sport stars into his sentences.  It was usually Dempsey, Mantle, Ruth, or Willie Mays.  Occasionally he threw in some politicians, like Roosevelt, Lincoln, and when he was really pissed Kennedy.
    “Well sweetie, it seems our little George was out drinking tonight.”
    “Drinking, damn boy you can’t hold your liquor any better than this?  Hell there’s a great game, tied up in the eighth inning and I come running in here cause my boy can’t handle a few drinks.  Shit.”
    “Bob don’t you encourage this behavior.  For heavens sake he’s only fourteen.”
    “Haaa, ha, huh, I not furteen, I’m only thirteen,” I said as I took out a camel and lit it.  At this time I was so overwhelmed and screwed that I no longer cared.
    “George what the hell are you doing?  You drink, you smoke, well son it seems that your quite the established junkie.”
    “In the sweet name of Willie Mays, George, what the hell do you think your doing?  How do you expect to be a ballplayer while smoking, huh, you wanta answer that?  Don’t ya know son, you don’t start smoking until you know you’re not going anywhere in sports, not before.”
    “Bob you are just encouraging him.  Not only is he smoking, but drinking too and who knows how much.  Who knows what else this son of ours is into?”
    “All right Joyce, you just go upstairs and get yerself cleaned up.  Then come down here and clean up this mess of a kitchen, I’ll deal with Georgey here.”
    Half way into this whole incident I had to whiz like never before.  I was squirming around, still smoking my cigarette and in fear of the wrath to come.
    “What the hell you dancing around like a ferry for boy?  You gonna shit yerself, or you just gotta take a leak?”
    “A leak.”
    “Well damnit get outside, piss, and get your ass back in here, you understand?  And put that damn cigarette out too.  Shit, in the name of Vince Lombardi.  And if ya got to puke some more you make it come up before you get back in here.”
    With that my dad lit up a smoke and grabbed a beer from the fridge.  When I came back in he had a beer waiting for me.
    “Take a seat damnit.”
    “Yesssirt.”
    “Now look I figure your mother is gonna be up there for at least ten minutes getting all that filthy throw up you unleashed on her off.  So you got eight minutes to drink that beer, and if your gonna puke, you take your damn ass outside.  Understood?”
    “Yepz.”
    “Now you lissen and you lisen good.  I do not want an incident like this to occur ever again in my household.  Now I know your young and yer gonna drink.  But for the sake of Ruth don’t drink yerself into a wreck.  And if you do, then barf before you get home.  Shit.  Now tell me, how many times have you done this?  Huh?”
    “Thiss the firs time.”
    “Oh really.  The first time, you expect me to believe that?”
    “Yez sirr.”
    “Well what the hell’d ya drink tonight?”
    “Vodzka.”
    “Vodka?  What’d ya drink it with?
    “Halfz bottle plain, and thes other part with prune duice.”
    “Are you shitting me?  Vodka and prune juice?  Shit son it must’ve been yer first time drinking.  What the hell you doing boy, don’t nurse that beer, drink it up, yer mother will be down soon.”
    “Yez sir.”
    I chocked down the beer, wanting to lit a smoke to ease it down.
    “So here’s the deal. .” he said as he paseed me a cigarette.  “Your gonna inhale this smoke, slug yer beer, and get to bed.  If yer gonna puke yer sleeping outside.  Tomorrow you’re ass ain’t doing anything.  Nor the next day, the next day and so on.  Your also gonna be yer mothers slave for at least a week.  Cleaning the kitchen, the house, hell whatever in the name of Lincoln she tells ya to clean, you clean.  And you clean it like your cleaning for Marilyn Monroe, you got it?”
    “Yez sir I do’s.”
    “Alright then, finish that beer, smoke up yer smoke and get to bed, or outside.  But if you puke in this house again yer ass is in deeper then Ho Chi Min.”
    With that I jammed out my cigarette, finished my Pabst and went into the backyard to sleep, I was taking no chances.