ABOUT SHOES AND SHIRTS

I have an old pair of shoes. Thy are well worn and torn. My toes push through. There are holes in the soles and the heels are beyond repair, but I don't care. They fit and that's about the size of it.

Even though these shoes are out of style they've stood by me for many a mile. Win or lose, they are the shoes I choose. My shins and arches will agree, These beat and battered, tattered are apart of me.

As long as the last lasts they're the last shoes I'll ever buy.

I HAVE A T-shirt t ripped and ragged, This T has served me faithfully, I wear it everywhere everyday, And I don't care what people say, It's frayed and I'm afraid some drip will rip it off my back. If so I know he or she will simply lack my dedication and appreciation for this cotton creation of my sordid past. The printed message didn't last. It faded from the scene after many trips to the washing machine, But every stain to me recalls a memory of my gastronomy.

Here a smear of pizza slice. There a bit of pork fried rice. An ice cream cone, a chicken bone. A ham on rye embellished with hot pickle relish. If you will, a sour dill. Some hominy. Pastrominy. (Sic, sic, sic!) A bit of this. A bit of that. A blob of saturated fat. Whatever food I choose to chew. What ever stew. Whatever brew, Coffee, tea, What you see remember me and my worn and torn beloved T.

A FINAL GOODBYE TO DOCTOR HY

I flew from Florida to LA to say goodbye to my beloved brother who was honored on this sad and very special day. Hy, who will always be alive in my memory, began his eternal sleep at 84 after more years of pain and suffering than was his due.

This memorial is dedicated to I. Hyman Weiland, MD and PhD. a man who meant so much to me and to his family and the legions who respected his ability to slay the demons in their mind. He was a kind and skilled physician whose goal was solely to bring solace and bring peace, mostly to children in the throes of stress and illness which lies unexplained in the brain and arrested control of the soul.

This writing, as you will see, is not meant only as a comment on the life of Doctor Hy, but also on the importance of love and family and the way that we should deal with life's complexity and unexpected frailty. This is all about love, devotion and family.

We all are genetically connected to father, mother , sister, brother dating from each mating far back for generations of relations. We are all a product of the When that was Then and the now which is Now. Somehow, members of one family tend to look alike facially, physically and think and respond alike emotionally. Because We are Family. But when we grow up and go our separate ways, we tend to wend away from those early days. This is what happened to me and Hy.

It took finality to reawaken in me the importance of my family. The death of my brother brought us back together. Not weather, or in this instance, distance, could keep us apart. Isn't it strange how the heart can change mood and attitude? Does fear of fewer years and newer tears bring you face to face with reality and your own mortality? Does what you lose help you choose forgotten values you long refused?

All these questions renewed in me the need for family. Hy, like I, was a Navy man. His final request: to be cremated and his ashes scattered in the sea. And this was done as the motion of the ocean rocked our boat and we watched the flowers float and Hy's powdered remains disappear and heard the sighs and whispered prayers and saw the tears from trembling eyes. Is this always the way it is when a loved one dies?

Was God watching from behind the clouding sky as we said our last goodbye to Hy?

OIL'S ALWAYS WHAT IT'S ALL ABOUT

In this Georgie Porgie Orgy world we live in, we give in to the ineptitude, rude, crude mood of the Bush brood who'd trade all the progress we have made to lead us down a parade to greed for power our leaders need to prove they're in sole control.

When all is said and done, whether the war is lost or won, blood has blocked out the sun of peace for everyone.

Life and death will go on the same as it did before the illegal war was declared that pared down the population of a nation that had too many poor and starving peasants anyway.

A similar dictatorship will emerge to rule the fools who were suckered into a war for false democracy. Civil wars never end civilly.

Wars end when the dead outnumber those aiive, when nations no longer have the bread to feed the masses and the lower classes who suffered most roast in hell. The rich enjoy the spoils of war and oil's what it's always all about.

THE WRONG SONG SINGS ON

There's got to be something wrong with a government that keeps singing the same old sing-along song: an incompetent president can't be ejected because he's been elected/selected, laws and the Constitution be damned. Just because a candidate gets in by an act of fraud or a pact with the Supreme Being or the Supreme Court or by selling the voters short.

Why isn't it we've never sent a president to jail or tossed him out on his tail when he's failed to obey laws in a land where justice allegedly prevails?

Mayors and govs and lesser elected pols have been affected by laws aimed at those presumed untouchable. But when they got in trouble they got their just deserts where it hurts the worst, time for their crime in the slammer.

Agnew quit. Nixon quit. Both got hefty pensions out of it. But not the current 'White House twit. Seems he just won't git. What can we do about it?

POP'S PROUD! HIS SON DONE WON!

Bush, that little bit of fluff, knew he didn't have the stuff to be the president, but he figured if he was rough, talked tough and gruff that would be enough to gain consent.

But if the bluff and his off the cuff remarks left voters in the dark and Gore tore down this clown's facade he'd get the help of God and the Court of Last Resort to bloat his failing vote and make this beginner winner even though he's a sinner who, with a corps of crooks rewrote the books so he came out on top, and his pop is very proud because his son done won.

George carries on the Bush tradition that money and the Easter bunny and Santa Clause and broken laws will win out in the end. It's that and how you play the game. Forget the shame, ignore the blame, it's the mix of tricks and politics that picks the victor.

Who was the hero in year zero? Who stole the store in zero four? Need I say more?

THIS IS A RECORDING

I sit my phone that never rings except for things like recordings of yack-yack-yack where you listen to a hack promoting flack and you can't talk back which promises a sexy night in the sack "if you call me toll free at 800 ABCDEFGHIJ..." That is where I hesitate, wait, expecting more, then hang up on that electronic whore.

What is this world coming to when a faceless voice offers you a choice you can't refuse. But pardon me, kid, I just did. What kind of sucker do you think I am to fall for that 42nd Street scam? Where "girls" of forty with painted faces wearing sporty shorts or mini skirts flirt with any guy who happens by with that sad, leering look in his eye.

Though horny I be, she is not for me. I am not like other men Then the phone rings again. And again. And again. I ask myself what's the harm in it? I'll listen to her shit. Her prerecorded pitch. Then hang up on the bitch. I pick up and wouldn't you know, it's another faceless voice offering me a choice to burn in hell or accept my savior with a nice donation to his congregation. Is this a sign from the devine, via the telephone line?

I ignore the voice. I have a choice. I go on line and what do I see? A gospel gasping minister staring straight at me. "Resist temptation, accept salvation! Your donation will save a sinner. Will turn a loser into winner."

No matter the channel to which I switch I hear the same old sales pitch glitch. Ads for doodads, gizmos, thingamajigs and dancing pigs. Stuff to make your mouth smell sweet, to take the ache out of your feet. How to seduce your weekenguest, enlarge your breast, find romance and kill red ants.

Hucksters of the world arise! Pay your fee and televise. Viewers may not buy what you sell. But what the hell. It's the good old American way.

Since I am not yet ready for perversion or conversion, and gimmickry is not for me, I opt for my favorite diversion. I turn off the set, get set for my escape into sleep. The phone rings and rings and rings. I answer with some hesitation. Is this another sexploitation? I hear a voice, hang up and sink in slumber. Thank God, it was just a wrong number.

THE CLUB OF I 'CAN'T REMEMBER'

Have I lost my way? Is this the game I choose to play? Will it forever be, day by day, a life astray until they cart me away and I descend to the final end where I depend totally on those trained to ease my way into the nothingness of empty loneliness?

I'm a dues paying member of the Club of I Can't Remember. I will live forever in regret of what might have been and what escapes me now. I live in the Community of Lost Opportunity, way station to a long vacation in the Land of Last Resort. In short, welcome to Final View. We have been expecting you.

Take a number, sit and wait while our trained staff helps you navigate the cessation and inevitable separation from your life and mate.

As I entered the building, wheelchair bound, I found a sign which said: "This is Not a Nursing Home. It's a Rehearsing Room."
"Rehearse?" I asked. "Rehearse for what? Are we going to have a show?"

I saw a coffin on the floor. I saw a sign on the door: "Death Training." Need I say more? I knew what I was in there for. "You mean I have to learn to die? Why?"

"Have you ever died before?" the pusher asked. Before I could say another word, I heard from the coffin a deadly roar. The acting corpse began to snore. The wheelchair bearer pinched my nose. "Wake up! This is the Scene of Sorrow. You don't die until tomorrow."

The corpse climbed out of the coffin. It was a scene I'd see often. "OK," he said with a sardonic grin. "It's your turn. Climb in."

WE ARE HERE NOW---BUT HOW?

Scientists, with all their knowledge, the colleges with constant research, the church with centuries of mysteries unraveled, the traveled scholars and all the dollars and time invested still can't solve the simple riddle that is daunting and forever will leave intelligence wanting: we're here now, but how and who and why did you and I and all the creatures that walk or crawl and all the bugs and birds that fly in the sky and all the fish that fill the sea and all that was and is and will be fill the space occupied by the human race and all the creatures great and small, short and tall, black and white, and Oriental and elemental, ornamental and accidental, accidental red and green and shades between and every scene like sun and snow, wind and rain and moonlight's glow and stars like Mars and cars and wars and candy bars and booze that's sold in handy bars on every corner of the earth and words with all their variations and nations every where you go and seeds we sow and trees we grow and flowers that bloom and there's room enough for a this stuff and, who can say, even more that will come our way, like germs and worms and artificial sperms and new diseases and gentle breezes that, with wind and rain, become a deadly hurricane, and earthquakes that shake and lakes and streams and messages hidden in our dreams and all the things we think and all the liquids that we drink and and all the sweets and meats and pickled beets one day in a single wink, all that's here may disappear?

Is it probable and possible that none of this was ever here, that it was all a preview of what will appear in a TV special due next year, a creation of the imagination of the great Disney spirit and should we fear it or welcome its arrival and could it hold the secret for survival of a world that's yet to be?

You tell me.

HOOKED ON BLOGGING

I used to be a reader A compulsive over-eater, A meeter. A greeter. A dedicated jogger. Then I became a blogger. Now that's all I do, it's true. I've got plenty competition as I pursue my mission. Instead of going fishin' or selling on commission, since I started blogging I've given up TV and the Fox network can't deceive me. My love-life's out of fashion. Blogging is my passion.

MIKE THE TERMITE

If ever a termite liked to bite, Mike the termite did. He would roam the country wide in search of rotten wood. If he found a few rotting seats of birch in a church, he'd chew the whole week through. But Mike would stay away on Sunday so the folks could come and pray the way they should and would. And that was good.

Mike gave up wood for Lent. It was not his intent to bite and incite the wrath of God on this most holy day. And since His son the carpenter loved all wood from sawdust up to planks, Mike could afford to express his thanks and eschew a pew till services were through.

But one day Mike found a knotting knothole in the collection plate and ate a five dollar bill. It was a sin to chomp a fin so Mike went to confession. "Father, I have sInned," he said. "I ate out of the collection plate. What must I do to compensate for this transgression?"

"The next time you defecate what you ate put it back in the collection plate with a fiver and five more. Then take back the counterfeit bill and pass it at a WalMart super pooper store."

KICK BUSH'S LEFT (BE)HIND BEHIND

George's "No Child Left Behind" would be a big sucess if, instead of testing the intelligence and reading skills of the school kids, he would concentrate on his own scholastic records, As a C student at Harvard he orobably didn't even know who the U, S. president was at that time was or even who the current president is, for that matter.

Leaving presidents aside--backside, that is---the students were asked to answer a multiple choice question about what kind of a club the more fortunate students would go to get their lessons: a baseball bat, tennis racquet, tennis court or country club.

The under achievers were asked to what kind of game two sister stars played in a doubles tennis game: two matches in one day, play against each other, play with two balls at once or as partners. Since I know nothing about the game I would have selected all four as the answer.

Failing the test, the students would win a booby prize--the opportunity to repeat the grade they were in at the school or apply for transfer to a higher grade school where tennis was a prerequisite to passing, Of course, they'd also have to spell the word---prewhatchyuamaycallit. And tell what it means.

My multiple choice question for Bush the Brain: (a) are you the elected president? (b) the elected president (c) the elected president or (d) none of the above?

HA! HA! HEE! HEE! HO! HO!---Oh No!

This is a laugh. Hardly worth a paragraph. It's half funny, mostly sad. Makes me mad, Has the Pentagon gone bazzook? They've assigned a retired Army cooke, colonel, James "Scotty" Scott, a registered nut---to do what? Teach us how to giggle a lot. Don't laugh. This verse gets worse.

Oh my oh, there's this outfit in Ohio, that, for what it's worth, says we should, use mirth to ease the pain of Bush and a war where more than two thousand are dead so far.

The theory: A hee! and a ho! is the way to go when you know it costs a lot of dough to fight this oh so funny travesty, this war to promote and shove down the throat democracy to the survivors of thousands killed because (applause! applause!) of Bush hypocrisy.

Here's what Scott and his instructors contend: buckle up and chuckle. It soon will boost your immune and lessen distress. Yes, I guess that's true. Until a bomb blows you to Kingdom-come and your loved ones mourn their whole life on. "Ha! Ha! Ha! My husband's gone. Sonny dear's no longer here! Brother Gregg has lost a leg and arm. No harm. He's still got one of each. Ain't that a screech!"

They're teaching this fool-osophy to national guards on the way to the fray in Iraq where no, doubt they'll have a lot to laugh about, when and if they come back. They're teaching troops to laugh when there's no reason to. I don't see a reason why. Do you?

Ain't war and death a riot? I don't buy it.

MEMORIES OF BETTY

When will the memories fade? When will the plans we made, the games we played fade into the past and let me move ahead? How long has my love been dead?

Betty was the sunshine of my life. I sat beside her helplessly and watched her waste away, a little more each day. No more the dynamo I used to know. Now a sleeping, weeping frightened shell of the woman I knew so well.

Betty was wise, surprising, improvising, devising ways to fill my needs. She could tell when I was sad, aching from the pain I had. She'd hold my hand which said "I understand. I care." And we'd go on from there. She did not often talk of love. That was not her style. I knew it by her smile. She'd build me up when I was low She offered affection and direction when I knew not where to go.

It's said behind each successful man there's a woman who can enhance his success, can press him on to greater heights. The delights in the night can ease the stressful days in many ways,

I'm still here Betty's gone, She would want me to go on. I will until...

THIS TRAGIC TRAVESTY

The Bush Brigade has come a cropper doing things that aren't quite proper checking out its shopping lists in hopes of stopping terrorists in their tracks
before they perpetrate new surprise attacks on our land which lacks proper facts and only reacts after the fact and doesn't know what to do.

The enemy plays cat and mouse all the way up to the White House leaving dots here and there confident our president has no plan on how to prevent what's going on. Our dense intelligence makes no sense, ignoring events that lend credence to immense plots that don't mean squat to us and end up costing a lot in blood and bread and over 2,000 dead.

Thousands more bear the scars of war which will not go away. And that's just as of today and hundreds of yesterdays. How about tomorrow and tomorrow and the sorrow yet to be? How could we have been so dumb to succumb to this tragic travesty?

While we "stay the course," if we continue to back the wrong horse, there will be more, much more to come.

MY BODY'S NOT MY OWN

Everybody's got a body, just a mess of flesh and bone. But nobody owns their body, it's all on long-term loan. It's got lots of parts, two lungs, one heart, the major part that keeps it going. A kidney, bladder and a few other things that really matter. Some keep you thin, others let you grow fatter. Some fight disease, others do as they please.

When ever parts fail to perform to your satisfaction you and the doc must take fast action to put them back on track, give them what they lack in case you have a heart attack or stroke, If you smoke or booze too much or misuse too much what else is there you'd best take care or you may need a spare part here and there, blood to share, sometimes rare and hard to find just the kind to keep you going while you're growing.

All this stuff is not kept in place by glue and paste and masking tape and would escape if it wasn't held in by layers of skin. You can cut skin with a scalpel, stick it with a needle or a pin and it will heal, sealed by a scar which might itch while the blood congeals and leaves evidence of the surgical event. This operation should be money well spent unless the surgeon's incompetent. If the suture doesn't suit your satisfaction take action. The fact is, you can always sue the surgeon for malpractice.

A BITE IN THE NIGHT

I awoke one night, I got a bite, right where you might expect. In the vicinity of my former virginitY and in the spot where I was scratching, my girlfriend thought I had something catching.

Yes, I found the critter on my mattress. I sprayed with Raid and the bugger made a fast retreat on a dozen little feet. It sped out of my bed. One more squirt and it dropped dead.

On Night Two, what did I do? To play it safe I slept on the couch and sure enough at two past two---OUCH! OUCH! OUCH! As you'd expect that insect had cousins by the dozens. They met for their convention in asection of me I am embarrassed to mention.

The bugs were lodged in my rear posterior. I was determined to route them out. I inserted a tape in my tush with a recording of a speech by Bush. The strategy didn't chase the bugs away. Instead I heard a mighty hip-hooray. They wanted Bush, the bug. to stay.

Now that I knew where they hibernated I was determined they be exterminated. I went to the famous terminator, a former bug impersonator, Dr. Arnold Schwartzenager He refused to help my cause because he was their friend and would be a bugger to the end.

I tried this and I tried that. Ointments were a disappointment. Preparation H ended in frustration. I found Xlax lacking. Prunes fresh, or turned into juice, were of no use.

I was not to be denied. Every thing I tried to evict them from my inside failed. Then I went on a diet of Boston beans. After a month of constipation, while on the pot in a mood of frustration, there was a blast and the bedbugs ran gasping from the bean scene. As they rushed, I flushed and flushed.

To my delight, I slept that night without a bite.

DARWIN WINS

Come along all you sinners, you disbelievers, you believe you believers, you doubters, you want to find-outers, you Intelligent Designers and Creationist insisters, you evolutionist enthusiasts come with me on a spin to Darwinland and maybe you will understand why the chicken came before the egg way back when the world began and there wasn't even a rooster or a hen.

But keep in mind if you find find mistakes in the claims I make. Take them with a gain of salt. It's not my fault. i have never kissed my therapist so I am not a scientist. If that makes no sense I guess what I'm about to spout will make even less.

But let's begin. When the beginning began there was no man, no electric fan or garbage can or anything else that rhymes with "an." There was not a dress, no or yes, or more or less, but there was a mess caused by God who got the blame which was a shame which was odd because there was no word that rhymed with Lord or God or whatever which was odd because nobody ever read Webster's Dictionary or books on prehistoric history.

But I digress, As I said there was a mess and for what it's worth, somebody somewhere named it Earth.

This mess was just a lot of smoke and fire, ice and maybe bugs like roaches and lice and tiny mice but no dinosaurs or carnivores or baseball scores. There was a lot of swirling slop that would be named protozoa long before Noah built his ark or the world turned dark or God destroyed wHat He created and that word led to "creator," then "creation," which rhymes with "constipation," which started all this consternation over whether the Creator got the credit for the creation.

For who knows, many, many millenniums everything was hunky-dorey because everybody believed the story, that the Creator created it all and that led to Creationism which became the wisdom of the times. Then came Darwin from some foreign town who turned everything around who said Evolution did it all and he started a revolution which robbed God of his name and fame. But all the same, even Evolution is a game that proponents and opponents of theory, science and the Bible play. But who cares, anyway? It does appear we all got here and we'll all stay at least temporarily.

HEY HI GUY!

I meet a neighbor on the street and I don't know what to say so I greet him with a "Hey Hi Guy!" and start to walk away. But then I pause because I see that look in his eye that says he wants to reply. Finally, after a moment's hesitation, he extends the conversation. "And a Hey Hi Guy back at you."

I assume he is through and wave a too-da-loo, but then see his outstretched hand. I assume he just wants to shake. Instead he makes a big high five with a smile that springs alive and so I do comply, I know not why. He presses on the cliche conversation.

"How's it with you?" he asks. Like a sap, I've fallen into his trap. I respond, "Fine, how's it with you?" He says "Fine." I say "Fine." We exchange "Thank Gods" and nods and odds of empty phrases.

The next thing I know were in this bar drinking booze and trading news about this and that but mostly about his cat that's getting fat and caught a rat and hid it in his favorite hat and now he's plagued by fleas crawling up and down his knees and "What do you think of that?" he asks and looks at me, quizzically.

"Are you allergic to fleas?" I ask. When he says "Natch!" I say "Scratch!" I belt down my drink and that's it. I split and stiff him for the tab. I can hear his blab-blab-blab and suddenly it occurs to me he is just a lonely slob who hates his job and needs a friend desperately.

So I turn around just in time to learn that he thinks the same of me. "Hi Guy," I sigh "Hi Guy," is his reply. There's a tear in his eye as we say goodbye.

"See you around," I say. There's not a sound from his trembling lips.

FATHER TIME AND BABY SIX

Father Time said to Baby Six, "You're the new kid on the block and you could be in a fix if you got mixed up in politics before you're dry behind the ears. It appears I should hang around till you get your feet on the ground. Maybe I can help you, Baby Six."

The diaper clad little lad, not yet even toilet trained, tried to restrain a hee-hee-haw. "Nah," he said. "You had your try. I watched you from the big blue sky. You see, I was born premature and wasn't sure I wanted the job.

"I said No! but God said Yes! 'Get down there and clean up the mess caused by the GOP.' I thought God said I should go pee so I did and God was glad. I rained on their parade, George was dripping wet. Slick Dick was mad about the yellow rain and all the voters started to complain."

The Democrats expressed glee about the pee and warned the doo-doo would be followed by Number Two if they didn't do what they told him to. That downpour started a roar and Bush got the shame and blame for flooding on the White House floor.

Father Time went on a one way trip to the Oldest Folks Home. The Democrats watched him fall and slide and slip just like the president was doing in the polls. And Baby Six was extolled for his watery tricks and voters hailed the new Peepee democracy.

CONFESSIONAL

Something strange has happened to the deranged population of our nation. We, as a whole, are in a hole of isolation with emotions that are on a permanent vacation. We, collectively, don't give a damn who we are. And I don't know or care who I am.

There is a vacancy inside of me, an emptiness that makes me less than I should be. I, and maybe you and others, too, are victims of complacency, an agency which strangely makes us free of self respect, integrity and responsibility. As a result, we can dress like a slob, loaf on the job and rob and steal and not feel guilty or be ashamed of blame.

I have an obsession to make this confession be cause it eases me of the depression that encapsulates me. But keep in mind as you read these lines that I am not what I seem to be. I use the "I" and "We" editorially to describe the personality I see in others who I observe objectively. And speculate could happen to me.

What I write about "I" or "Me" or "We" or "He" or even "She" is strictly fiction, intellectuality. I observe the population and arrive at a summation of my observations. What I write, wrong or right, I leave up to you to decide. I admit I write from the brain, not from the heart. But if my words strike a chord, if they ring a bell with your private hell, only you know what you must do.

ONE NIGHT OF FUN... AND THEN ???

The clock stroke. Pandemonium broke. The annual joke. A world soak with celebration, excitation of short duration, then back to the same frustration for the duration of another weary year. Perhaps the last? Nobody knows.

Will the passing of another year be just a number, 365 days to wake and slumber, a bummer with another summer, the seasons and no reason for all the big to-do and ballyhoo, the noisy thing folks always do before they settle down into another Big Brother smother of what's left of our once free and flourishing democracy.

Nothing has changed but the rearranged, jiggered figures that creep a sleeping civilization ever closer to annihilation. Another year has come and gone, The same senseless war goes on. The UN would rather blather than gather its forces to order the world to hold its horses until a leader comes on the scene that will clean up this latrine.

It won't be Bush, that's for sure. His cure is pure manure. It won't be Tony, the clone of George, the British phony. So what's the story? Who will we find to mind the store? Who will lead us to an age of glory? Who will make things hunky-dory?

As long as there's oil in the sand and a demand for fuel throughout the land, there's only one thing the world will understand: kiss the Arab's greasy hand and other parts of his anatomy to keep the economy on a spending spree and slake the thirst of the cursed petroleum industry.

So is that what the cheering is all about? Every time the ball falls on Times Square more blood must flow to keep our economy on the grow. And every time we seal a deal, drip by drip, we grow nearer to the end of the trip on the good ship Armageddon.