Thunder Thighs And Heck Jenson's Miracle Boy

     I was told that when the mother was said to be having difficulty with the birth and that her whinnie was very faint, the message spread through the crowd in a hushed whisper that, she wasn’t gonna make it.  Most weren’t too worried about the mama, after all the next day she was scheduled to be sent to a factory somewhere over near Farmington, to be made into glue and to wigs.  No, what the crowd was surely gathered for was the child.  When Thunder Thighs, Heck Jenson’s favorite horse, became pregnant at such an old age the whole town had thought it was strange.  Nobody coulda’ foreseen however, what Ted Girk the veterinarian discovered upon his examination of ol’ Thunder Thighs.  Thunder Thighs was pregnant with a human boy.  Heck was shocked.  He began tellin’ everybody in town that there was a miracle baby coming, and that he was going to be born right there in his stable.  So, the whole town started buzzing with miracle fever.  They came to visit Thunder Thighs often during her pregnancy and combed her thick black hair for her, and stroked her saying: “Good girl Thunder Thighs, good girl.”

                Thunder Thighs began to stomp her big hooves kicking up dirt and mud and straw, while Doc Girk tried to calm her down and bob and weave to stay on Thunder Thighs’ business end, to catch the baby she was trying to force out.  By the time the boy’s blonde head started to show out of Thunder Thighs’ Hindquarters, she looked like she was about to keel over.  Keel over she did, and when she hit the ground with a great thunk, a naked eleven and a half year old boy with blonde hair and blue eyes shot outa’ her like a cork and slid across the stable in his own after-birth.  The crowd gathered was quieter than Dafford’s Cemetery at midnight.  They gawked at the boy and each other, and at Heck.  No one knowing what to do, Heck took of his jacket and threw it over the boy as he began to stir.  The boy stood up and pulled the jacket around him, slimy from head to toe with a hundred pair o’ eyes all staring at him.  It was at this point that Rabbi Schmulie Bogdonawitz extricated himself from the crowd and approached the boy.  The crowd looked and nodded and thought, yeah the Rabbi should be the one for the job.  The Rabbi said, “Hello, miracle boy!  And welcome to this modest stable of Heck Johnson’s in our humble town.  You truly are a blessing and a gift.  Mazel tov and L’chaim my young friend.”
The boy looked over the faces of the crowd before smiling and then saying.  “HOWDY YA’LL I am your lord and savior returned.  Ya’ll got some beans or anything because I been stuck up a horse’s ass since Christmas and boy howdy am I hungry.”  The crowd stared at the slimy, naked miracle.     

Her Name Was Veronica

                Today I was watching a movie that had a character named Veronica in it.  Afterwards the song ‘Veronica’ by Elvis Costello popped into my head.  I started singing it as I walked around the house aimlessly, while doing laundry.  It was stuck in my brain, so I decided I needed to listen to it.  I opened my laptop and went to youtube.com, this being the quickest way I could immediately listen to that specific song.  On YouTube’s homepage there was a featured video of Seth Rogen on C-span talking to a senate appropriations committee.  When I saw his face I thought of his guttural annoying laugh and the secret jealousy I have about his fame sprung up in the back of my mind.  Of course I had to watch this video first.  I began to watch and it turned out that Mr. Rogen was there to speak to the senate about Alzheimer’s disease.  He told a personal story about his mother in law.  And gave some nice factual information about the cost, the ugliness, and the overall crapy’ness of the disease.  He spliced in his own brand of self-deprecating humor.  It was at this point that I said whoah this is weird, ‘Veronica’ is a song about an old woman with dementia.  I glossed this over as an interesting coincidence and not the internet’s subtle way of controlling and or knowing my thought process, and kept listening to Mr. Rogen’s testament.  He apparently helped start a charity. 

                This all made me think of Mr. W, at work.  Mr. W is an employee of mine that has in my opinion a good amount of the symptoms normally attributed with the very early stages of this disease.  When I first met him I assumed he was very slow.  Through conversations I have learned that he is a veteran and was an electrician for 30 years before retiring.  He works for me now doing menial work.  No matter how hard I try I cannot teach him and have him retain the knowledge that is required for these menial tasks.  One day I will “correct a behavior” as they call it where I work, and the next day he will do the same wrong thing again.  When confronted he says with a surprised somewhat vacant look in his eyes, “oh nobody ever told me that, thanks.”.  Others at my workplace sometimes think it is an act, because he can be so cognitive at times, but then he will just fall apart.  He bums me out daily.  I am frustrated not just because he slows me down, but also because I can’t imagine not being in complete control of my brain. 

                On Christmas Eve, one of the few days we don’t work, I got a call from a colleague of mine.  I ignored the call figuring that they were trying to get me to come in and do some last minute work.  He left a message, when I listened to it I found out that my co-worker had found Mr. W in the building on Christmas Eve.  He had been sitting there since noon and it was now six pm.  My co-worker asked him what he was doing there, and his only response was he was there to work.  I had told Mr. W our holiday schedule before he left the day before, but in my haste to get home and be with my family, I forgot to write it down for him.  Rather than make an embarrassed call to find out if we were working on Christmas Eve, he had just showed up around the time that we normally work.  I sat down to eat with my family trying to fight back tears as we began to eat.  Feeling how sad it was.  How he just sat there all day when he could’ve been with his family, and this was all my fault.  He had to just sit there all alone in an empty warehouse with only his thoughts for company. 

                I have gotten over my guilt but still every day I want to do something to help.  Maybe I do by asking the same questions daily.  By the repetitive tasks I get him to do.  It still doesn’t make me feel any less helpless.

Thoughts I think Every Day

Existence: 
                   I open my eyes.  A ceiling, white puffy paint, cracks.  In doors.  Inside of something.  My house.  Steven's house, he owns this, I rent it.  I am laying down, is it laying or lying.  I am on a bed.  This bed, it exists in my room, in the house that Steven owns, on the floor and beneath the ceiling.  The floor is wood paneling.  I know that it exists because I am touching it, seeing it.  It exists.  I exist.  There is proof I exist.  Birth certificates, paper trails.  My thoughts and my memories they only exist in my mind.  Does any of this matter?  How do I prove that I exist?  What do I leave behind?  If I leave something behind will it make me exist?  If I fall in a forest will I make a noise?  Like 'ow' or 'whoopsidaisey' or ' thunk'?

Time Travel :
                          I still don't understand time zones.  How is it noon here and nine somewhere else?  It is already tomorrow.  Tomorrow has already been and yesterday was.  The present is just the past of the future.  As I write this, it is old news, but it is the newest blog post since yesterday.  Is it all predetermined?  If it is, there is no now.  Like this moment right... now...crap it is gone.  What I need is a constant(you're welcome Lost fans).  Like every time I go to the bathroom, it is the same.  That will be my constant.  When I pee it will remind that I am in the now, and will always be in the now. 

Legacies and The Meaning of life : 
                                                             I will be remembered as that vain guy who was pretty likable.  In the words of Forest Gump: "I don't know if mama is right and everything happens for a reason... or if we are floating around accidental'like on a breeze.  But I think maybe it's both.  Maybe both is happening at the same time."  He had an IQ of 75 and he will be always remembered as a hero, a ping pong star, and a millionaire.  And I... I got nothing.  Well until I am gone I will just keeping on keeping on.  I will stay a romantic without the reverence, a humorist without the social commentary, and a Hemmingway without the impotence.  Well, without the impotence, yet.  Yet!      

Eyes Skyward In Wonder

Wild wisps of hair running through my eager fingers
Holding out, held on, tracing the lines of hands
And brushing lips against a wrist.

Blissfully rolling and pitching on the edge
On the way down
A waterfall constant rush and then a hush.

Then a pounce with pounding sinuous thighs
Arms coiling around and constricting
Slithering away with serpent’s tongue hands
Leaving trails downward
Eyes following trails in the dark
A hungry gaze feasting the landscape.

Stars aligned
Heavenly bodies orbiting
Not a warm sun but a cool foggy moon
Eyes skyward in wonder.

questions

Whoah wait if I am not the new normal, am I the new not normal?

Or is it the new weird, or new strange, or new unique?

Why are my hands shaking?

Why did I drink so much coffee?

What was that noise?

Is that the wind or some kind of rodent?

Should I keep this mustache?

Is my hair cut perfect?

Or is it better than perfect?

How can I get my kids back?
Should I start professional arm wrestling?

Is my life interesting enough for reality tv?

Or is it too interesting?

Why does my head hurt?

Why do I think about time travel so much?

Another Excerpt from the Bible 2

The Bible Two:  The ‘New’ New Testament:
Stories from hell…
An Excerpt from the Journal of Jack Covington P.I.

     Leninovich Stolalvya in life had been a successful man.  A respected man almost up until his death.  Lenny as his friends called him, had grown up first generation American who put all his efforts into becoming a king in the financial market.  Unfortunately with great passion sometimes comes greed.  A hunger that is never filled.  The constant acquisition of more and more power and money is what drove him.  When his investors finally realized that they investing in speculating on speculation, and that all their money was gone Lenny was already so wealthy he couldn't be touched, or so he thought.  During a particularly dire low point in the world economy the American Government which he loved and had helped out from time to time decided to make an example of him.  Rather than let him blame bad management for his crimes, they held him personally and financially responsible.  Before they could have him arrested he took his gold plated .44 magnum and ate a bullet.  Now, when they say 'there is a special place in hell, for this kind of person'  there is.  He and a few other not so poor souls, are housed in a few old dilapidated mansions overlooking the lake of sulfur.  We called it ' The Hamptons'.  Even in hell the rich folk still have nice views. 

The First of Many Unlikely American Greeting Cards(not sure what the name of the business is yet.)

    

Happy Bastille Day

      This Bastille day I hope that all of your aristocrats are virtuous.  I hope your oligarchs are socially conscious.  And I hope that you don't let the class system get you down.  When God gives you lemons, make lemonade.  No bread in the pantry?  Eat Cake!  If a bunch of "Connerie" is getting you down, sharpen the guillotine blade, and try to keep your head.  Three cheers for La Resistance.  Also, the French word for dangerous has an 'X' in it, which is totally badass.