Wednesday, February 25, 2015

AMY


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TIME OUT FOR CHEEKY

I don't kids. I have cats. At least I had cats. By last summer the 3 cats I loved had disappeared without a trace. Ray Gilkey, Nicole Ritchie and Spooky Cat were all gone. I can only assume that the pack of coyotes that run behind my house had finally found a way to get them between their teeth. If I did have kids I'm sure a few of them would've been torn apart by now also. Hell, who can keep their eye on 'em 24/7. It's nature's way.
  Then in August, Teehoo presented me with a noisy box for my birthday. Out popped a big eyed, creme colored, fluffy ball of fur. It was the last thing I wanted. A stray cat had followed a friend of hers home in Brooklyn Heights and had kittens. The bitch was wild and my little SOB was a chip off the old block. You'd think a kitten from the Heights would have better manners. Nonetheless we bonded and before you knew it the kitten was crawling up in my beard and falling asleep. Awwwwwwww.

   That was summer. Now the kitten is a cat and in this bone chilling cold we are both in exile out at WSSP. Shewho is in London and Cheeky and I are looking after her house and cat Mojo. Mo is old and fragile, has all kinds of health issues and needs constant care. As I prepare a syringe of medicine for him, Cheeky raises his backside, arches his tail, and flies full force at skinny Mo. He never has a chance. Mo moans, falls over and tries to escape, Cheeky up his ass. This is my life: go to the Dr. with my bad back, try not to freeze to death, and do my best to keep Cheeky from killing Mo with his exuberance. Thankfully I'm unemployed. Who would have time for a job? They have separate rooms, food dishes and litter boxes. Last night as I petted Mo's fragile frame and apologized for my cat, Cheeky bum rushed the door, jumped in Mo's litter box and took a giant, stinky crap.  So fucking rude! I'm at my wit's end. Maybe it was his lenient upbringing and late breast feeding. As i write this he jumps on my keyboard. The fucker can read my mind.
   We're still over two months away from turkey season. My planned trip to Cuba is on hold because of my back and the winter shows no sign of letting up. I know i should be concerned more with world affairs or at least try engage the art world, but I just can't work up the enthusiasm to give a shit. Cheeky cocks his head and stares wide-eyed up at me. Oh OK. I fluff up my beard and he crawls right in, as Mo moans in disgust. I just can't stay mad at him. He may be an SOB but he's my SOB. I'm thinking of getting a snake. Maybe a little diversity would be a good thing.      

Monday, February 16, 2015

SHEA DETAR


PARTY LIKE IT'S 1899

   It started with a sleigh ride last Saturday. What the rest of you call "sledding". After happily feeding my little great-niece Leeci cheezy potato chips, around a bon fire, trying not to lose a finger, I decided it was time to grab a sled and trudge up the hill. Hell, I could still do this. What's the big deal? The snow was soft, and the hill slow, sitting or laying on my belly, it shouldn't be a problem. I pointed the plastic kid's sled down the hill and flopped on.
    The first thing I noticed was my back and neck did not curve anymore, allowing my head to position upright. All I saw and tasted was cold white snow. Nor did I have the agility to stay in the track. I wobbled from side to side, then spun sideways and went ass over teakettle, in a misty cloud. I was fine. Everybody laughed, I popped another beer and the afternoon proceeded with children's rosey faces and giggles of pure delight.

   By Sunday night my left ass cheek and frontal thigh hurt so badly that I couldn't sleep. I couldn't shovel snow. I could barely stand. I couldn't wash my dishes, because the kitchen drain had already frozen the week before. Dish washing now entailed a lot of bailing and tossing full buckets of coffee and pasta strewn murky water, out my back door. But most importantly of all the "couldn'ts", I couldn't get wood in. I still heat by wood. I have a little propane heater, but it's not enough to heat the house. My "all nighter" is the only thing between me and and freezing to death. And getting the big logs into the stove, in order to get through these frigid nights, was becoming impossible. By St. Valentine's Eve I surrendered. I packed up the cat and some underwear, and headed for Shewho's.
    We spent a romantic evening stuffing ice packs down my long johns, as Shewho tried to massage the knots out of my leg. I'd spent 4 days without sleep, popping Hydrocodone and motrins. Nothing helped. For Valentine's Day Shewo gave me the gift of not caring that I was not going to do anything for her. That's why i love her so much. She's such a romantic.
   Today I came home to the shack to find the propane heater incredibly inefficient in minus 8 temps. The toilet was a frozen solid ice cube. Thankfully I had had the foresight to cut the water supply to the house. If I hadn't I would've found a skating rink in my living room. Now I have no water, busted pipes, frozen drains, dirty dishes, a fucked up leg, can't sleep........and  have to shit in a bucket. It's taken 20 years, but this winter has me by the short hairs. Tomorrow the plumber is coming to drain the split pipe system. I'm heading for WSSP until spring. Don't tell Shewho I'm bringing a bottle. It may take a little doing to make up for VDay. I want to surprise her. I wuuuuuuuuv U Baby!   

   

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

OLIVIA LOCHER


TRUE STORY

....and nothing but the truth. So help me God." I'm in court again. It's nothing serious. I made the mistake, at the end of hunting season, of driving through Montgomery on my way to an afternoon deer drive in Maybrook.  Montgomery has the reputation of a small backwater Georgia "speedtrap" town. Eight generations of Osterhouts resided there at one time or another. The ones that aren't spinning in their graves, run the risk of overzealous traffic officers any time they drive through. "36 mph in a 20mph school zone." the prosecutor stated, looking at me over his glasses. "I went to second grade in this courtroom." I proclaimed "8 generations..." The DA smiled. "So I guess you know where the school is." He had me there. "I plead insanity." "$150. Pay the clerk."

    I pled guilty to running a stop sign. 2 points and the one fitty. I lied. The DA lied. The judge accepted our lies. The well oiled wheels of justice turned smoothly. All was wrong with the world. And it's the lie that interests me. I may not always tell the truth, but when I don't I'm very conscious of the falsehood. So, how is it Brian Williams, (my guy) the "trusted", good looking, father of GIRLS actress Alison Williams, voice of corporate media, tells a lie, repeatedly, on national news, and doesn't realize it's gonna end his career?  I feel betrayed. I've had some experience with inexplicable liers. Uncle Johnny was a Vietnam war hero, multiple medal recipient, Major in the Green Berets. At his height of delusion he sat in open convertibles, in full uniform, waving to adoring crowds. Turned out he was a corporal in the army.......that's all. It took a lifetime to spin that one. Then he died.
    But we're not talking a sad relative of mine. We're talking the fucking voice of NBC. What would make this man feel the need to put himself closer to the action, than he actually was? He was in a "group of helicopters" that came under fire. That's pretty cool and macho and gives him that war correspondent cred., he obviously desires. But noooooooo. That wasn't enough. He put himself in the one that got hit. Didn't he think that kid that actually had a bullet wiz past his balls, wasn't gonna speak up? The only way i can explain it is, just like Uncle Johnny, he had to lie. He couldn't help himself. He wanted his medal to be shinier. And once he lied, he couldn't stop.
   I have no idea what I'm gonna do about the 6:30 news. I don't trust Lester Holt. Too much Murder TV. BBC has those accents and PBS has no art direction. CBS and ABC suck, and FOX will make me want to kill myself. Maybe I'll just stop watching the news. That wouldn't be such a bad thing. It's more an "open a beer and twist one" ritual anyhow. A reward at the end of the day. And Brian was always there.Maybe tomorrow I'm gonna pick up a book, or tackle cleaning out that closet, or organize those shoe boxes of a cassettes.....When Walter Cronkite left I got through it. I know, nobody under 45 even knows who that is. Why can't people tell the truth? You know, when I was back in the shit, slogging though the jungle with my fellow soldiers, bandoliers of .50 cal ammo slung across my sweaty body, you knew the guy on either side of you would, always, ALWAYS tell you the truth. Semper fi.  
 
 
       
 

Tuesday, February 3, 2015

MEBRAK


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