.
sorry i haven't posted anything of substance lately--i haven't had much poetry in my soul [i.e., alcohol in my veins] since i got outta the hospital, so things are pretty goddam bleak around here.
but i wanted to thank my three most faithful commenters [and the random emailers--who knew?] for their good wishes--i'll try to be back with some decent content soon.
[and yeah, i did allow myself one drink tonight, but you'll be happy to know that it was all-natural, goddammit--instead of the evil 7-up for a mixer, i went with healthy fresh-squeezed o.j. and a splash of san pellegrino for the appropriate fizz. that counts, right?]
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
state of mkf
you know those blogs where people just come on every day and bitch about minor shit that bugs 'em? i swore i'd never fall into that trap, if for no other reason than because i know from bitter experience that whining about the mundane is basically just asking for the great equalizer to come down on your pussy ass and really give you something to complain about.
case in point: a week after posting this self-indulgent nonsense, i woke up with what i hoped was only the flu; two days of denial later i'm checking my near-delirious ass into the emergency room at cedars with full-blown pneumonia [fucked up the new car getting there--prolly shoulda called a cab].
ask "why me?" in the ER but nobody has an answer--apparently it's going around.
flat on my back for four days, they're pumping serious, last-resort antibiotics into my veins around the clock and they don't have to tell me the pneumonia's winning, because i know.
[a scary, lonely time--as is my wont, i hadn't told anybody who really cares about me, so it's just me up there in room 7013]
day five: a corner is turned, and i'm suddenly back.
day seven and i'm outta there--i check myself out against my doctor's wishes, telling him i'll take oral antibiotics, decent food and a good night's sleep against one more night in that goddam hospital any day, pack my shit and, after stops at whole foods and rite-aid, drive my newly fucked-up new car home.
day eleven [i.e., today]: clean bill of health, lungs are clear, back to normal.
and remember the stultifying job i was bitching about so recently? all i can say now is, thank god for that lovely motherfucker and the health insurance that came with it [and yeah, as soon as i get the bill we'll play another round of "guess the total"--should be at least as entertaining as last time, right?].
Thursday, July 22, 2010
down to me
Everything comes and goes
Marked by lovers and styles of clothes
Things that you held high
And told yourself were true
Lost or changing as the days come down to you
Down to you
Constant stranger
You're a kind person
You're a cold person too
It's down to you
It all comes down to you.
You go down to the pick up station
Craving warmth and beauty
You settle for less than fascination
A few drinks later you're not so choosy
When the closing lights strip off the shadows
On this strange new flesh you've found
Clutching the night to you like a fig leaf
You hurry
To the blackness
And the blankets
To lay down an impression
And your loneliness
In the morning there are lovers in the street
They look so high
You brush against a stranger
And you both apologize
Old friends seem indifferent
You must have brought that on
Old bonds have broken down
Love is gone
joni mitchell, down to you
the way i keep even the people who matter at arms's length, i have no right to be surprised when they're not there for me when the crunch comes, but it's always a bitter pill anyway.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
shining through
.
two months into the new job, and god knows it couldn't be easier.
every afternoon i leave my house with a mere twelve minutes to spare, slip-slide my way into century city in virtual solitude past the congested rush-hour mob headed the other way, pull into the garage of my building, take my pick of prime spaces, ride the empty elevator up to the plaza--the doorman always rushes to meet me me since i'm his only incoming at that late hour.
another empty elevator up to the 21st floor, i wave at the receptionist [whatever the fuck her name is--she always smiles back because she'll be leaving soon], head for my suite, drop my shit, start my day.
first thing, i review the day's email, most of it from people who have worked there for 20 years [and, since they all leave before i arrive, i'll never meet].
the work, if it comes at all, usually comes via email; when it's done, i traverse endless lavish, deserted corridors to deliver the finished product to dark, empty offices.
eight hours later when it's time to go home, century park east and santa monica boulevard are ghost towns, and i glide easily through the empty streets of beverly hills all the way home, making every light.
easy-peasy, right?
so tell me--why do i wanna fuckin' strangle somebody?
two months into the new job, and god knows it couldn't be easier.
every afternoon i leave my house with a mere twelve minutes to spare, slip-slide my way into century city in virtual solitude past the congested rush-hour mob headed the other way, pull into the garage of my building, take my pick of prime spaces, ride the empty elevator up to the plaza--the doorman always rushes to meet me me since i'm his only incoming at that late hour.
another empty elevator up to the 21st floor, i wave at the receptionist [whatever the fuck her name is--she always smiles back because she'll be leaving soon], head for my suite, drop my shit, start my day.
first thing, i review the day's email, most of it from people who have worked there for 20 years [and, since they all leave before i arrive, i'll never meet].
the work, if it comes at all, usually comes via email; when it's done, i traverse endless lavish, deserted corridors to deliver the finished product to dark, empty offices.
eight hours later when it's time to go home, century park east and santa monica boulevard are ghost towns, and i glide easily through the empty streets of beverly hills all the way home, making every light.
easy-peasy, right?
so tell me--why do i wanna fuckin' strangle somebody?
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
because perspective is everything
.
I shall never fight in the armed forces with a Negro by my side. . . Rather I should die a thousand times, and see Old Glory trampled in the dirt never to rise again, than to see this beloved land of ours become degraded by race mongrels, a throwback to the blackest specimen from the wilds.
klan member and future liberal icon robert byrdin 1945 on the integration of the armed services
and since the phony charge of "racist" is tossed about with such facile, promiscuous abandon by the left these days, i thought it might be instructive to use the occasion of the good senator's passing to remind everyone of what the real thing looks like.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
a summer story
.
there's this story my mother loves to tell about the summer i played little-league, and she tells it well--great wind-up, pitch-perfect delivery, dramatic pauses in all the right places--and by the time she's done, she always has her audience in stitches.
i always go along with it, smiling good-naturedly and making self-deprecating noises--but the truth is, she might as well be talking about somebody else, because i have no more recollection of the incident that is the subject of this post than of the day i was born.
how, you ask, could i have so thoroughly excised from my consciousness a memory which will apparently live on in my mother's steel-trap mind unto the end of time?
oh, i dunno--you tell me.
our team was called the stars, and it was but one of many in a neighborhood full of sons and fathers [and don't even get me started on the mothers] who were batshit-crazy about baseball.
and every kid on birdwood road--all my friends--signed up for the team, so what the fuck was i supposed to do? and besides, mr. harberger next door and mr. ramsey across the street were gonna coach us, and the uniforms were cool--and what the hell, it'd make my dad proud.
i shoulda been a natural, coming as i did from a family of athletes--my father had played baseball in college, his brother had been a college and pro quarterback, their young cousin alvin was a high-school football star who'd go on to quarterback at baylor--hell, my family was lousy with outstanding athletes, and as the firstborn of the latest generation (and literally from the moment i was born),
expectations for me ran high.
sadly, by the time young mike signed up for his season with the stars, it was pretty clear to everybody that he was hopeless at sports.
and it wasn't merely that i was clumsy and uncoordinated; bigger problem was, i found the whole athlete thing really tedious and boring.
and more than a little scary. i remember that first week of batting practice i'd step up to the plate, those balls would come whizzing past me--way too fast and way too close--and i'd freeze.
[i remember i kept waiting for mr. harberger or mr. ramsey (or maybe even my father) to notice, take me aside and coach me through my fear, but that shit only happens in movies.]
whatever; by the second week of the season, i'd been relegated to last at-bat when we were up, and center field [because no nine-year-old ever hit out that far] when we weren't. this arrangement would work well--until the last and most important game of the summer, anyway.
and it's at this point in the story where my mother's memory takes over.
to hear her tell it, everybody's there that day--not only the usual moms in their lawn chairs, but most of the dads have taken off work because it's the championship or some such shit. and it's gonna be close--the teams are pretty evenly matched, so tensions are running high.
and the game lives up to its promise: inning after inning, the teams match each other run for run, until
in the bottom of the final inning the stars are one run up, the other team's at bat, they've got two outs and one man on, this big, fat kid steps up to the plate--and on the second pitch, he absolutely and unbelievably creams one straight out to center field.
center field--young mike's chance to shine at last.
as the ball cracks off the fat kid's bat and arcs majestically upward, every eye turns to its inevitable destination--and suddenly every mother, father, sister and brother from birdwood road are on their feet, screaming
mike, mike, MIKE, MIKE!!!
i'd love to tell you, gentle readers, that young mike caught that goddam ball; hell, i'd happily settle for telling you he gave it his all and missed.
but the sad truth is, apparently young mike was far more interested in a high-flying jet passing overhead than anything that was happening around him.
yeah, that's right--in the midst of all the excitement, i apparently stood there dumbly gawking up at the sky, oblivious of the screams from the crowd--much less the game-winning losing ball which bounced harmlessly to earth within ten feet of my limp, useless glove and rolled away.
stevie or davy or somebody--i dunno who--ran out, snagged the ball and threw it in, but of course by then it was too late--the game was over, and the stars had lost.
and since back in those halcyon days little league wasn't the blood sport it is today, young mike was allowed to live.
[sorry if the dénouement of this story was a little flat--trust me, my mother's version is much funnier.]
flash-forward several years: i'm bigger, stronger and angrier, and i've got a bat in my hands for the first time in years.
it's only high-school P.E. softball, so the balls are big, underhand and slow. doesn't matter--i've got something to prove, even if it's only to myself.
i wait for the right pitch, and when it comes, i swing with all my might and connect with a solid, satisfying thwack--a double, easy. all of a sudden, i understand that feeling i missed out on way back when.
by the time i round second, i'm grinning in triumph--it's only then that i look around and realize i'm all alone out there; everybody else is running toward home for some reason.
i trot back to find out why, push my way through the crowd and see the catcher rolling around on the ground in agony, clutching his knees--turns out instead of dropping the bat after creaming that ball out to center field, in my excitement i'd slung it backwards instead.
to grant knight [i couldn't name five people i went to high school with today if you held a gun to my head, but i'll never forget him]: if it's any consolation, (a) i'm still sorry, and (b) i haven't gone near a baseball diamond since.
and to the guy at work who couldn't shut up about his son's little-league team the other day and asked me if i'd ever played: thanks, asshole, for dredging up this post.
there's this story my mother loves to tell about the summer i played little-league, and she tells it well--great wind-up, pitch-perfect delivery, dramatic pauses in all the right places--and by the time she's done, she always has her audience in stitches.
i always go along with it, smiling good-naturedly and making self-deprecating noises--but the truth is, she might as well be talking about somebody else, because i have no more recollection of the incident that is the subject of this post than of the day i was born.
how, you ask, could i have so thoroughly excised from my consciousness a memory which will apparently live on in my mother's steel-trap mind unto the end of time?
oh, i dunno--you tell me.
* * * * *
our team was called the stars, and it was but one of many in a neighborhood full of sons and fathers [and don't even get me started on the mothers] who were batshit-crazy about baseball.
and every kid on birdwood road--all my friends--signed up for the team, so what the fuck was i supposed to do? and besides, mr. harberger next door and mr. ramsey across the street were gonna coach us, and the uniforms were cool--and what the hell, it'd make my dad proud.
i shoulda been a natural, coming as i did from a family of athletes--my father had played baseball in college, his brother had been a college and pro quarterback, their young cousin alvin was a high-school football star who'd go on to quarterback at baylor--hell, my family was lousy with outstanding athletes, and as the firstborn of the latest generation (and literally from the moment i was born),
expectations for me ran high.
sadly, by the time young mike signed up for his season with the stars, it was pretty clear to everybody that he was hopeless at sports.
and it wasn't merely that i was clumsy and uncoordinated; bigger problem was, i found the whole athlete thing really tedious and boring.
and more than a little scary. i remember that first week of batting practice i'd step up to the plate, those balls would come whizzing past me--way too fast and way too close--and i'd freeze.
[i remember i kept waiting for mr. harberger or mr. ramsey (or maybe even my father) to notice, take me aside and coach me through my fear, but that shit only happens in movies.]
whatever; by the second week of the season, i'd been relegated to last at-bat when we were up, and center field [because no nine-year-old ever hit out that far] when we weren't. this arrangement would work well--until the last and most important game of the summer, anyway.
and it's at this point in the story where my mother's memory takes over.
to hear her tell it, everybody's there that day--not only the usual moms in their lawn chairs, but most of the dads have taken off work because it's the championship or some such shit. and it's gonna be close--the teams are pretty evenly matched, so tensions are running high.
and the game lives up to its promise: inning after inning, the teams match each other run for run, until
in the bottom of the final inning the stars are one run up, the other team's at bat, they've got two outs and one man on, this big, fat kid steps up to the plate--and on the second pitch, he absolutely and unbelievably creams one straight out to center field.
center field--young mike's chance to shine at last.
as the ball cracks off the fat kid's bat and arcs majestically upward, every eye turns to its inevitable destination--and suddenly every mother, father, sister and brother from birdwood road are on their feet, screaming
mike, mike, MIKE, MIKE!!!
i'd love to tell you, gentle readers, that young mike caught that goddam ball; hell, i'd happily settle for telling you he gave it his all and missed.
but the sad truth is, apparently young mike was far more interested in a high-flying jet passing overhead than anything that was happening around him.
yeah, that's right--in the midst of all the excitement, i apparently stood there dumbly gawking up at the sky, oblivious of the screams from the crowd--much less the game-
stevie or davy or somebody--i dunno who--ran out, snagged the ball and threw it in, but of course by then it was too late--the game was over, and the stars had lost.
and since back in those halcyon days little league wasn't the blood sport it is today, young mike was allowed to live.
[sorry if the dénouement of this story was a little flat--trust me, my mother's version is much funnier.]
* * * * *
flash-forward several years: i'm bigger, stronger and angrier, and i've got a bat in my hands for the first time in years.
it's only high-school P.E. softball, so the balls are big, underhand and slow. doesn't matter--i've got something to prove, even if it's only to myself.
i wait for the right pitch, and when it comes, i swing with all my might and connect with a solid, satisfying thwack--a double, easy. all of a sudden, i understand that feeling i missed out on way back when.
by the time i round second, i'm grinning in triumph--it's only then that i look around and realize i'm all alone out there; everybody else is running toward home for some reason.
i trot back to find out why, push my way through the crowd and see the catcher rolling around on the ground in agony, clutching his knees--turns out instead of dropping the bat after creaming that ball out to center field, in my excitement i'd slung it backwards instead.
* * * * *
to grant knight [i couldn't name five people i went to high school with today if you held a gun to my head, but i'll never forget him]: if it's any consolation, (a) i'm still sorry, and (b) i haven't gone near a baseball diamond since.
and to the guy at work who couldn't shut up about his son's little-league team the other day and asked me if i'd ever played: thanks, asshole, for dredging up this post.
Monday, June 21, 2010
here's what's really happening in arizona
.
[because god knows you're not hearing it in the mainstream media]
as the obama administration prepares to file suit against the state of arizona for its racist new law--all the while assuring the credulous media that the southern border has never been safer--the US bureau of land management is quietly hammering up hundreds of signs just like this one all across a wide swath of said state,
effectively ceding a good portion of arizona from the border north to the outskirts of phoenix to the mexican human smugglers and drug cartels.
as pinal county sheriff paul babeu simply put it in a recent (and mostly ignored) press conference, describing the increasingly-sophisticated weaponry and military tactics employed by the enemy,
do you get it, gentle readers--does it fully penetrate? if not, lemme spell it out for you:
while the US government through its DEA pursues, imprisons and confiscates the property of millions of small-time drug-dealing and -using US citizens with ruthless impunity, it stands back and allows the foreign suppliers of said drugs carte blanche access to our country--hell, even clears a corridor for 'em.
and when the state in which said corridor happens to lie is overwhelmed by the resulting drug-dealing, kidnappings, carjackings, murders and fiscal drain and, after years of being ignored by the federal government finally takes measures to protect itself, it is then attacked by the very federal government which is charged with its preservation, protection and defense.
and why? all because the democrats figure a little mayhem in arizona is a small price to pay in order to keep their existing hispanic voters happy, and maybe even legalize several million new ones.
don't believe me? here's the obama administration's latest approach to dealing with the situation.
and if after clicking on the above link you're not convinced that the answer to our border problem lies in making illegal-alien detention centers more like club med resorts, then all i can say is
you racist bastard.
for the record:
the last time i discussed this topic, i made the following statement as regards arizona's now-infamous SB 1070:
since i wrote that post, two things happened:
1. the arizona legislature clarified the language of the bill to ensure that (a) cops couldn't just arbitrarily pull people over and ask for proof of citizenship or legal visitation--such request could only occur during "lawful contact," defined thereafter as a "lawful stop, detention or arrest;" and (b) race could not be considered as a factor in determining proof of citizenship.
2. i actually read the bill and did my homework--turns out arizona is doing nothing more than adopting as state law an existing federal law which was signed in 1996 by well-known right-wing racist bill clinton.
in other words, i've done a total 180--you go, arizona.
[because god knows you're not hearing it in the mainstream media]
as the obama administration prepares to file suit against the state of arizona for its racist new law--all the while assuring the credulous media that the southern border has never been safer--the US bureau of land management is quietly hammering up hundreds of signs just like this one all across a wide swath of said state,
effectively ceding a good portion of arizona from the border north to the outskirts of phoenix to the mexican human smugglers and drug cartels.
as pinal county sheriff paul babeu simply put it in a recent (and mostly ignored) press conference, describing the increasingly-sophisticated weaponry and military tactics employed by the enemy,
"we do not have control of this area."
do you get it, gentle readers--does it fully penetrate? if not, lemme spell it out for you:
while the US government through its DEA pursues, imprisons and confiscates the property of millions of small-time drug-dealing and -using US citizens with ruthless impunity, it stands back and allows the foreign suppliers of said drugs carte blanche access to our country--hell, even clears a corridor for 'em.
and when the state in which said corridor happens to lie is overwhelmed by the resulting drug-dealing, kidnappings, carjackings, murders and fiscal drain and, after years of being ignored by the federal government finally takes measures to protect itself, it is then attacked by the very federal government which is charged with its preservation, protection and defense.
and why? all because the democrats figure a little mayhem in arizona is a small price to pay in order to keep their existing hispanic voters happy, and maybe even legalize several million new ones.
don't believe me? here's the obama administration's latest approach to dealing with the situation.
and if after clicking on the above link you're not convinced that the answer to our border problem lies in making illegal-alien detention centers more like club med resorts, then all i can say is
you racist bastard.
* * * * *
for the record:
the last time i discussed this topic, i made the following statement as regards arizona's now-infamous SB 1070:
they've suddenly made fully a third of their legal citizens brown-skinned targets for police-state excess, and i can't imagine anything more un-american than that.
since i wrote that post, two things happened:
1. the arizona legislature clarified the language of the bill to ensure that (a) cops couldn't just arbitrarily pull people over and ask for proof of citizenship or legal visitation--such request could only occur during "lawful contact," defined thereafter as a "lawful stop, detention or arrest;" and (b) race could not be considered as a factor in determining proof of citizenship.
2. i actually read the bill and did my homework--turns out arizona is doing nothing more than adopting as state law an existing federal law which was signed in 1996 by well-known right-wing racist bill clinton.
in other words, i've done a total 180--you go, arizona.
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