Red, White and Blue Christmas

by Harry Sanderford and Zelda Martin

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Archie couldn't help but regret all the years he'd wasted competing for Veronica's affections with arch-rival Reggie, only to have her drop them both for Jughead, when his stack-pizzas-like-pancakes, eat burgers-by-the-platterful, wear-a-funny-hat and stay "Skinny Like Me" program went from small time scam to publicly traded empire. And now, this unexpected sighting of Betty on the mall Santa's lap, laughing and kissing his rosy cheek, the Rockwell embodiment of the Christmas Spirit, only served to deepen the shade of Archie's holiday blues.

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Little did he know that Betty was, at that very moment, asking jolly old Santa to bring her a bottle of "Love Potion Number Nine" for Christmas, just so she could use it to attract her secret love, the very same hunky, freckle-faced redhead, Archie.

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As Archie stood watching, he saw Betty's face suddenly turn white, then red, while that naughty Santa, so lively and quick, looked even jollier than he had been before. A little too damn jolly, Archie thought, and seizing his big chance to win Betty's love, he rushed to her rescue, just as Betty jumped off of Santa's lap and slapped that cheeky old elf hard, right across his merry old dimples.

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Betty wheeled around, steaming mad, and ran right into Archie's open arms, where, wouldn't you know, the frown on Betty's face cheered up, the rain cloud over Archie's head cleared up, and ...here it comes...wait for it...was replaced by one of those great big damn cartoon hearts!

Merry Christmas, everyone!

16 Candles - or Babies - or Something

Today, my best friend's daughter turned 16. That event made me recall my own year of being 16. I then came to this conclusion: For humans, 16 is a difficult age. Most other animals are old by then. They are babies for a few months or a year, then they're grown-up and on their own, having babies of their own every few months or years and definitely making their own decisions and taking full responsibility for their lives. By the time they're 16, they've had 8 or many more batches of kids, who've gone on to have kids and grandkids of their own. A mouse, if it lived to age 16, would probably have about a million descendents. An ape might have 40.

But a human is still considered a child, at least by his or her parents, has been coddled and protected and is certainly not ready to reproduce (at least in her parents' opinion). The 16 year-old herself thinks that she is quite grown-up and capable of taking care of herself and making her own decisions. What do parents know, anyway? Those stodgy old farts were never young! With such divergent attitudes, there are bound to be problems.

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If a 16 year old girl (ahem) becomes enamored of her 32 year old history teacher, and the teacher senses her receptive nature, the stage is set for early reproduction. By the time the girl is 48, she could have at least 48 descendents. And while the mouse has far exceeded her reproductive capacity, fewer of the human's descendents would be eaten by cats.

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If there is a moral to this story, I don't know what it is, but I am glad I'm not 16 anymore. I'm also glad I'm not a mouse.

Here's a tandem exercise I wrote with Harry Sanderford last winter. He didn't feel that it was up to our usual high standards, so we didn't post it. But the older I get, the lower my standards become, so I say...To Hell with standards! Let 'er rip!

Through the Window Glass

Maggie leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the Greyhound bus window. Over the river and through the woods, she thought, watching the snow east of Interstate 95 gradually melt away into skinny pine trees and palmettos.
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Finally, after two days and two nights of hard riding, stopping only for bathroom breaks and scrumptious bus depot meals, Maggie's heart skipped a beat and she felt something like a smile forming on her formerly gloomy face when she saw the sign on the highway that read, "FLORIDA - 1 mile."
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Florida was a coin burning a hole in Maggie's pocket. After all, her name was short for "Magnolia," not "Margaret," like most people guessed, and freezing NY winters spent with cold company had taught her one thing; not every tree is meant to drop its leaves and stand stoically awaiting the arrival of spring.
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As the bus rolled into Jacksonville, she was tempted to jump out and start dropping some of her leaves, but she fought the urge and held on to her seat. She was headed for Kissimmee, her old home town, where she had arranged to re-connect with Bubba, her high school sweetheart.
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Twenty years ago, with youthful curiosity and ambitions far too great to be contained in any small town, Maggie had grabbed her diploma, loaded her Chevy and left Kissimmee and Bubba behind, like shoes that no longer fit, to run barefoot out into the world.

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But now, with sore feet and aching heart, she was back in town, pulling into the bus station, and looking for love. Then, through the steamy bus window, she saw Bubba, all 300 pounds of him, none of which included any hair on his head. Bubba, spitting tobacco onto the sidewalk while scratching his huge ass, and Maggie suddenly realized that snow and ice weren't so bad after all. She dived under her seat and rode that bus all the way back to Buffalo, where she lived happily ever after.

It's Halloween, my favorite holiday. Tonight we celebrate the dead and the undead. We pretend to believe that the undead are alive. But most of know, deep in our black hearts, that the dead are not undead, they are un-alive...which means...are you ready...they are DEAD! Do you hear me, you superstitious fools? Do you wish to be undead when you die? Would you want to drag your crumbling corpse out of its comfy coffin and go gallivanting around the graveyard and scaring the living to death? Okay, I admit that it beats just lying there forever, with nothing to do but rot, but we have to be realistic here. Like, how the hell are you going to lift the lid of that coffin, when it's got six feet of heavy dirt piled on top of it, even if you do happen to be undead? Hm? Give up?

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Now I suppose you're going to trot out the old "spirit" business. "The spirit lives on, though the body decays." I'm sorry, sonny, but I'd rather drink my spirits than communicate with them. I do admit that sometimes my steely certainty is compromised by certain unexplainable events. For instance, tonight I made my traditional trek through the cemetary, down by the abandoned church. I do this every Halloween night, to demonstrate my haughty disbelief in such silliness as spirits hovering over the gravesites. I strode confidently down the path through the center of the cemetary and was feeling quite frisky. But then, I felt a bit of a breeze, no...it was almost like a soft breath, brush across my forehead, and then the back of my neck. It made me just a tiny bit nervous, but I brushed if off and walked on. Then, there was another breath, and another. I turned around and saw a tiny, bluish light, bobbing around, just out of my reach. I blinked, thinking it was my imagination, and then opened my eyes WIDE, as more soft sparks of blue glimmered in the air, all around me. I felt like I was slowly spinning, propelled by soft puffs of air circling me. At that point, I almost succumbed to superstition, but somehow managed to pull myself together and took off running as fast as my puny legs could go. I reached the groaning gate just as the church's chimes struck twelve.

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Once outside, I regained my reason, and scoffed at my foray into fright. And next Halloween, I will take my traditional trip through the cemetary once more, but at midday, not midnight.

Ha Ha Haiku!

I am not pretty.
True, but I am pretty old!
I did not die young.

The older I get,
The less I care about looks.
Wrinkles hide my flaws.

You can't see me now,
Hiding behind my wrinkles.
That's how I like it.

What happened to me,
The old me, when I was young?
The new me is old.



I have one question.
What is the meaning of life?
There is no answer.

We live and we die.
Don't bother looking for more.
Life has no meaning.


The ocean charms me
Its blue depths, deep as the sky
Full of life and death

Eat or be eaten
Bigger fish eats smaller fish
Prime law of the sea

It's the same on land
Some die, so others can live
We all have to eat

Say What?

One of my favorite bloggers, Anthony Venetulo, alerted his devoted followers to the blog of Micael Chadwick, "The Journey." Micael is inviting his readers to answer 10 questions and link them to his blog. The questions, along with my answers, follow:

1. What is your favorite word?
My favorite word, partly because of what it means and partly because I love to say it, slowly and laciviously is...LUST.

2. What is your least favorite word?
My least favorite word is HATE! I HATE hate!

3. What turns you on, creatively, spiritually and emotionally?
The full moon.

4. What turns you off?
A messy, filthy kitchen with a sink full of crusty, dirty dishes, pots and pans.

5. What is your favorite curse word?
Fuck! Fuckety, fuck fuck!

6. What sound or noise do you love?
Birds singing.

7. What sound or noise do you hate?
Loud, blubbery farts.

8. What profession, other than your own, would you like to attempt?
Absolute dictator of the USA!

9. What profession would you not like to do?
A garbage collector.

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like God to say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
"Thank heavens, you're here! Johnny Depp has been waiting for you!"

micaelchadwick.com

POWER!

Are you powerful, or powerless? Would you like to be a SUPERpower? Well, power UP! More power to you! Raise your fists and repeat after me: Power to the people! I'm not just talking about MANpower, either. We WOMEN have to get on the power ball. We need a balance of power! A house divided is not a powerhouse.

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So let's all get on the power grid. It's my job to guide you, using power steering. I'll show you the power and light. And no, I'm not just full of wind power, and this isn't a power play. I am inspired by a higher power...the almighty SUN! Yes! Solar power is my power within.

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Don't worry, it's not all work and no power play. Women, enjoy the show, as your suitor delivers his power lines. Men, show your women that you have STAYING POWER! Your power tools will put horsepower to shame.

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In conclusion, I have this cautionary note. Do not always attempt to overpower everyone, or you may find yourself in a power-gridlock. Remember, absolute power corrupts absolutely!

Here's a "flash" I wrote for a contest that asked for a story inspired by the line, "The lady does protest too much, methinks." Unfortunately, I didn't get it submitted in time, so I'll post it here.

Lend Me Your Ears

Once again, Stan was eating dinner alone, while Sadie was out marching, protesting against something or other. Stan had given up trying to keep track of what was riling her up. There was always something she was upset about, something that must be demonstrated against, and some group she could join that felt the same as she did about a particular issue. Some of the groups were small, and marched on city hall. Others were larger, and marched on the state capitol. Today, Sadie had boarded a bus and headed off to Washington to protest the war, or deficit spending, or capital punishment or any of a number of other causes. Who knows? Stan thought. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. I'm going to have a talk with her when she gets home.

He decided to wait up for her, and while he waited, he tried to think of the best way to present his case. He had to be very careful not to antagonize her, or she'd be marching on him next! He knew it would not be productive to come out and tell her that he was tired of being alone so often and that he felt that she cared more for her causes than she did for him. She would accuse him of being selfish and uncaring. And then, he would not be able to resist telling her that it was she who was being selfish and uncaring and they'd end up angry and sleeping in separate beds, which was definitely not what he wanted. He pondered some more, and finally, he experienced an "ah-ha!" moment, just as he heard Sadie opening the front door.

He rushed to greet her, pulling her into his arms as she set down her handbag and jacket. "Not now, Stan," Sadie said. "I'm tired." She sighed heavily and turned away.

"Of course, you're tired, poor baby. It's been a long day. I've made some hot chocolate for you. Let's sit down and relax, and you can talk about the march if you feel like it."

"I don't feel like it, Stan. But the hot chocolate sounds good."

Stan guided her to the couch, and went to the kitchen to get the drinks. He handed Sadie her cup, with a graceful flourish. "For you, Madam!"

Sadie smiled. "Oh my! With marshmallows even! This will be the best part of my day."

They sat quietly, sipping their drinks. Stan decided to make his move. "Sadie, honey, I've been thinking."

"Uh-oh..."

"No, no...it's good! Just hear me out. It seems to me that you're alway demonstrating against something. You're showing the powers-that-be what you think is wrong with what they're doing. How about this? Instead of 'pro-testing,' how about 'testing-pro'! Try being pro some cause, be for something. Instead of being anti-war, for instance, be pro-peace! Instead of being anti-drilling in Anwar, be pro-drilling someplace less attractive. Do you see what I'm getting at? Honey? Sadie?"

Sadie opened her eyes and yawned. "Oh Stan, I'm soooo sleepy. Let's go to bed. I have to get up early, because I'm marching on City Hall tomorrow. We're protesting something or other."

(This is what can happen if you've had too much wine before posting on your blog.)

Why did I leave California, if I liked it so much, you ask. Hmph! I was dragged, I tell you! Dragged, from my California home, my fingers digging into the rich soil, over the mountains and through the woods, leaving civilization behind forever, forced to follow the man I didn't love, into the wilds of godforsaken UTAH! Utah - land of the setting sun. Dark superstition and light madness. There was nowhere to run, no one to turn to as I battled the demons of the desert.

But was that bad enough? No! Of course not! Five years later, when my torn and ragged fingers had finally healed, the March of Whines was resumed. Off into the always rising sun we drove, finally stopping at the Beast of the East, Lancaster Pennsylvania.

After several more years of suffering, my wild ride was resumed, this time led by a Greek God, truly, the God of Lust, who rose from the ashes of my incinerated libido and raised me to heights never known in the Mountain State. I became a poet!

I am Zeldor! See me soar!
Never again shall I muffle my voice or deny my choice!
I will lead the parade in the March of Rhymes.
I will reside in the middle of the riddle.
There can be no worse verse.
I will pine for the sublime.
But I will never be clever.
I will moan alone.
I won't try.
Goodbye.

Take Me To Your Lender

I was flat broke and needed some money to pay the rent. So, I hailed a cab and told the Arab, or Indian, or whatever the hell he was - he had brown skin and some kind of fucking accent I couldn't understand, and even though I was a skank, I wanted to be polite - anyway, I asked him to take me to the Screw U Mortgage and Loan Company on 69th St. Now...we started out on 35th St, and this Raghead starts driving south toward the lower numbers instead of north, toward 69th! I said, "Wait a minute, you're going the wrong way!" He have me some ishkabibble about road work or something, and I said, "Look, Mister, if I had money to burn, I wouldn't be going to a fucking loan company, would I? Now turn this fucker around, or I'm going to shoot myself in the goddamn head!"

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"Oh no! Please don't do that, Madam. My last customer did that and it cost me the price of a camel to clean up the mess!"

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Then he turned around and re-set the meter, if you can believe it. So I had to give him credit for that, and resolved not to call him a Raghead anymore, even if I hadn't actually said it out loud. Not that I would have anyway, you see, because to me, "a rag" means a Kotex! You know, like when you're in your period, you say, "I can't fuck you tonight, Johnny, because I'm on the rag."

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So anyway, we got to the mortgage company and I paid the Kotex-head his lousy $20 and even gave him a tip, "Kelso in the 4th," but he didn't get it, so I called him Poopy-head douchebag, and the cab took off like a camel in heat.

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It was hot in the mortgage office too. I sat in front of a desk, with some little twerp in horn-rimmed glasses looking at me like I had just crawled out of a toilet and was sullying his dainty office chair. I started out being quiet and deferential, but after that schmuckette turned me down, I started yelling at him, which felt really good. I could feel the power boiling up in my gut and I reached across the desk and grabbed him by the lapels. "Lend THIS, Asswipe," and spit in his face.

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Of course, I had to get out of there fast, after that. I hailed a cab and told the new raghead to take me to the racetrack. I was going to put my last 20 bucks on Kelso in the 4th.

The Coffee Chronicles - Part 2

I'm sitting outside, at a wet table

My skirt is absorbing the rainwater on the wet chair

I'm drinking hot, bitter coffee, while listening to a folk-singer

She's strumming her guitar and singing corny lyrics, of her own composition
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She's very self-confident, I think

Though few people at the little street festival are listening to her

I wouldn't be listening, if I could avoid it, but I can't

Unless I give up and go home, which I don't want to do
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I feel alive here, at the sidewalk cafe

Watching people walk by, even though no one sees me

I am invisible, which is fine - I don't want people to look at me

To look is to judge, and I don't like to be judged
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But I do like to be invisible

I can look, without being looked at

I am looking now at a young man in a t-shirt and shorts

He is muscular, with a hairy chest and dark eyes

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I wish he would stay nearby, so I could continue to look

I want to commit his firm, sexy body to memory

to be drawn upon later, when I'm lying alone in bed

needing some imaginary company

-

Apparently, that is too much to ask; he has moved on

Now my coffee has grown cool, and the music has stopped

There's nothing else to do here, so I'll go home

And be invisible, all by myself

Bitter

It's hot here, sitting outside of Starbucks

at a wobbly table, near the highway

with unpleasant music piped from a speaker

right above my head

I'm drinking hot, bitter coffee, but I don't know why

I could have ordered iced, sweet coffee

I could have sat inside the cafe

in luxurious cool, conditioned air

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But - there were too many people inside

I don't like too many people

I don't like many people, either

I am hot and bitter

-

I wish I were cool and sweet, but it's too late

I was never cool, no matter how hard I tried

So, I might as well be hot, hot and sweaty

gasping for breath, but resisting my urges

-

If I must be hot and sweaty,

why can't I be in the arms of a hot sweaty man

Why can't I have a smooth, creamy man inside me,

instead of a hot, bitter cup of coffee

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Next time, I'll go to Sexy Bucks, instead of Starbucks

where I'll order something sweet and filling

And I'll stay inside the cafe, where it's cool

so I can be hot in comfort

A Night in the Life of an Art-loving, Claustrophobic Nymphomaniac

There were only a few people in the art gallery when I first entered. I was able to peruse the paintings in peace, with no one brushing against me or breathing on me. I moved slowly down the corridor, crossing the aisle when anyone came too close. But gradually, more and more people entered the room, sucking up the oxygen, raising the temperature, and talking, talking, talking incessantly. I felt the nerves along my spine start to quiver. I tried to rein in my rising discomfort, but as more and more bodies pressed in around me, I began to feel breathless and anxious. It would be only a matter of time before someone actually would touch me and I knew I would lose control if that happened. I tried to breathe deeply and relax, but it felt like there was no air left in the room. I had to get out, but how? I was surrounded by people. There was no clear path to the exit. I looked around frantically, trying to find an opening between any two bodies that I could slip through, without touching anyone, hoping desperately that one clear path would lead to another and I could carefully zig-zag my way to the door. It was getting hotter by the minute and I was sweating and shaking.

Just then, I realized that I was standing right next to a man who looked just like Johnny Depp, but with a great build. He was wearing tight pants and an Italian-style shirt, open at the collar. In a flash of inspiration, I realized that pressing against him wouldn't be intimidating at all. In fact, it seemed like a really good idea. I caught his eye and brushed against him, saying, "Excuse me, Mr. Depp." He said, "No problemo, signorina," and embraced me. I swooned in his arms. The crowd parted, as he carried me outside, into the cool, moonlit night.

Although I usually appear docile, with a slight build and a soft voice, I have a violent temper. Small provacations can result in me bellowing obscenities at the offender. If the offender is not adequately chastened, and continues to annoy me, he is almost certain to regret his actions.

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For example, this afternoon, as I attempted to park my car in front of my psychiatrist's office, another driver decided that my parking space belonged to him. As I backed in, he nosed forward. We were locked in an unpleasant, metallic embrace. I rolled down my window and shouted at him, "Get out of here, you fucking moron! I was here first!"

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He, however, did not relent. On the contrary, he dared to yell back at me, "You are mistaken, madam. This is my space."

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I felt my blood pressure rising. "I'm counting to three, asshole. Back out now, or you'll be sorry."

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I don't know if it was the tone of my voice, or the 357 Magnum I pointed at him, but he backed down and out, and I backed up and in.

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I feel calm again now, so don't be afraid. Unless, of course, you are planning to annoy me in some way.

Someday, I will post a new entry. Someday SOON I hope. But not tonight. I'm fagged and shagged. What the hell does that mean? It just popped into my head, when I was trying to think of a way to describe how tired I am. But now it sounds like some kind of sex act, which is far from what I was doing that made me so tired. I was planting flowers and then making a huge batch of potato salad for tomorrow's festivities. How unsexy is that??

Things That Make Life Worth Living

Love

Sex (especially if associated with Love)

Chocolate

Flowers

Friends and family

Sunny, blue skies

Johnny Depp

Tree-ripened fruit (when I can find it...not an easy task, nowadays)

Music (narrowly defined to the kinds I like)

Birds singing

Moonlight

Good coffee

Things I Could Do Without

Angry people

Traffic

People who want to kill other people

Weeds in my garden

Pedophiles

Religion - all varieties

Glen Beck, Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity

Blizzards, tornadoes, hurricanes

Birds who crap on my car

Women who wear fake fingernails

Decaf coffee - I mean, really! What's the point??

Help For the Malcontent...Whiners Anonymous of America

Hi. My name is Zelda, and I'm a whiner.
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Welcome, Zelda! What do you whine about?

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Oh, jeez. Don't get me started...

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Our motto here at W.A.A. is "Change what you can, accept what you can't, and shut up about the rest."

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Yeah, that sounds great. But I just can't accept that Life Isn't Fair!

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Zelda, we all felt that way at one time. But we help each other realize that no one important actually ever said that life is fair. Once you get over that hurdle, you stop expecting fairness, or even looking for it! If you find yourself yearning for justice, just call one of us. We'll talk you through it. Just remember, "fair" is a four-letter word.

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But it's so hard! I've been whining for years. It gets worse, the older I get. In fact, getting old is one of the major reasons for my whining. Why can't I be young and pretty? Look at my hands, all wrinkled and ugly. My face is sagging, my tits are drooping, and my arches are falling. My skin was smooth once, at least I think so, but it's been so long, I don't remember for sure. And that's another thing! My memory is shot. LIFE ISN'T FAIR! The wrinkled part is so much longer than the smooth part!

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It is, if you're lucky! If you die young, there's no wrinkley part, but the whole part is too short. Just remember, no matter how bad things are, they could be a lot worse.

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Thank you, guys. I feel a lot better now.

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That's what we're here for, Zelda. I know it's tough. I haven't whined for three years now, but I think about it every day. At our last meeting we had a new member who kept using the f-word so much that I could feel myself longing for fairness, and the whine was almost to my lips, when Joe, here, saw it coming and slapped me hard. Thank you, Joe.

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Wow! You guys are an inspiration. From now on, whenever I feel myself wanting to ask, "Why does life suck?" I'll just give myself a hard slap and say, "Whine not!"

I stare forlornly at the blank page. It dares me to write something on it; it mocks me, whispering..."You have nothing to say, Bitch! Just give it up and go to bed. You know that's what you want to do, so leave me alone in my pristine whiteness. Don't sully my surface with your silly scratchings."

"Hey!" I declare defiantly, "Who do think you are, telling me what to do?"

I attack the page with my sharp pen, scratching out "i's" crossing "t's" and scrawling "f - u's."

Unfortunately, no actual words come out of the assault, but I'm sure kicking that blank page's butt!

When All Else Fails, HAIKU!

It's a sunny day

But I'm all gray and cloudy

and soon, tears may fall

-

No, I'm just kidding

I'm actally quite cheerful

Some say - "Bi-polar"

-

My mind is calm now

Writing haiku is pleasant

Except when it's not

-

Why do I do it?

I should be writing stories!

But I'm too lazy

-

No, that's not the word

Not lazy, just idea-less

I must try harder

-

I will try harder

But...that sounds like lots of work

And I'm so lazy

-

Yes, really lazy

You've no idea how lazy

Lazy like a fox!

-

Fooled you, didn't I?

You think I won't write one thing

But you're mistaken

-

My brain is stirring

I'm getting an idea now

And another one

-

But first, I must rest

Getting ideas is hard work

and I'm exhausted

If variety is the spice of life (and who would argue against that time-honored axiom?), why does our society demand monogamy in marriage? How many times can you "be" with the same person, before you know every move, every sight, by heart? How can you continue to "get it up" when you've been up that road so many times before? Just look at the numbers...three times a week for 52 weeks, that's 156 times a year. In 6 1/2 years you've done it with the same person over 1,000 times! Even if you both try really hard to inject a little variety into the act, it's still going to be pretty dull after 1,000 times. Maybe that magic number explains the proverbial "7 year itch" that afflicts so many unions.

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Not that I'm any kind of authority, you understand, since I do not trouble myself with matters of the flesh, so I could be mistaken. And, I have a good friend who claims to have "been with more men than you could shake a stick at," and she says that basically, they're all the same, so I guess that variety wouldn't make much difference, one way or the other. Unless, of course, you're talking about chocolates, in which case it's easy and socially acceptable to fill yourself with a delectable, mouthwatering, lip smacking variety of smooth, creamy treats in all sorts of colors, shapes and sizes. Mmmmm...I'm getting hungry.

Can anyone out there in Blogland give me a convincing argument why the possession and use of marijuana should be illegal? Well...I'm waiting...

Ha! I didn't think so!!

Think about it. Smoking MJ feels good, it's relaxing, it doesn't smell as bad as cigarettes, it doesn't give you lung cancer, it doesn't make you loud and angry and prone to wreck your car, like alcohol does. So what's not to like? I ask people this question all the time, an no one has a good answer. About all they can come up with is something about it being a "gateway drug." It'll lead to taking worse things.

Well, listen up, guys. Life is a gateway drug! Everything you do leads to something else that's worse than the last thing. When you're a baby, you start out drinking milk, and the next thing you know you're eating cholesterol-laden butter and cheese. Omigod, the cheese! It's everywhere! Then you start out riding your pollution-free bicycle and when you grow up you go on to driving a smoke-belching Hummer. When you reach puberty, you harmlessly jack off, and by the time you're 17 you're impregnating every girl in your class.

There's nothing in life that's free of consequences, so why outlaw a little weed that can make you forget, for a few precious minutes, how fucked up everything is?

I shouldn't bother asking this question. I know at least one of the answers. People who don't drink or smoke or dance or make-love-for-pleasure-instead-of-procreation don't enjoy life, and they want to make sure no one else does either. They would like to legislate against anything and everything that could bring joy to the lives of people who are capable of experiencing it. But as long as the pleasure-seekers continue to seek ways to enhance that pleasure, they will defy the senseless law and obtain the means to that end. The Temperance advocates succeeded in passing the 18th amendment to the U.S. constitution, and we all know how well that worked out. Thirteen years of chaos, as citizens continued to seek alcohol and crime flourished. A strong demand will always be supplied.

IMHO, marijuana should be legal. It could be regulated and taxed, as are alcohol and tobacco. Think of the potential revenue, all you legislators who are reading this! (Yeah, right. Legislators read my blog religiously.) Prison overcrowding could be substantially reduced. Some dealers may have to get real jobs!

And then we can move on to considering legalizing other drugs as well. Can you just imagine the reduction in world-wide crime if marijuana and coca-derived drugs were legalized? The drug cartels in Mexico? Pfffft! All gone! Street thugs in the U.S.? Considerably reduced. If their drugs were legal, they would probably be cheaper and the users wouldn't have to steal as much to supply themselves. Poppy farmers in Afghanistan would not have to worry about their crops being confiscated. Just imagine the RAGE in the plains states in the U.S. if suddenly the diet police passed a law making wheat illegal?

I could go on and on, but I don't want to tax your patience.

I am pondering the possibliity of posting something to my bleak blog. But what can I write? My mind is a muddle of decayed dreams and hopeless hopes. There are a few festering fantasies still fluttering through, and a woeful wish or two, but no intact ideas, no dynamic designs.

I must make room for my ruminations! I will clear the clutter, cleanse my cranium! How should I hose it? With a fearless flush? Or a controlled clearing? A wanton winnowing, or a wishy-washing? Am I asking for amnesia, or mustering my muse?

Ha! My muse is not amused, but I am. He says I'm no poet, and I say I know it, but I don't care, I'm on a tear.

My brain was in pain

I could not explain

But then I knew why

and thought I should try

to lighten its load

so t'wouldn't explode

I flushed out the junk

and found a small hunk

of undamaged cells

veritable wells

full of untold tales

Or something like that...

What's In a Name?

I have a confession to make. My "legal" name is not Zelda Zapp, no matter how much I wish it were. My incredibly boring, undistinguished name is...Patricia Martin. My parents gave me and my sisters plain, ordinary names, because they both disliked their own unusual names. Mom's name was Evie Easter Willis and Dad's name was...are you ready?...Knut Fagerbakke. They were both teased unmercifully about their names, all through school. As soon as he turned 21, Dad changed his name to Kenneth Martin. And when the babies started arriving, he and Mom agreed to give us unnoteworthy names, to reduce the chances of peer harrassment. Of course kids, being as creative and evil as they are, found plenty of other subjects to torment us about, but our names were not one of them.

My sisters and I did not, however, appreciate our parents's thoughtfulness and wished we had more interesting names. I experimented with different names over the years, using my middle name, Marie, for a while, but I didn't feel like a Marie, and it was too common also. I tried Maggie, and Sadie, but they didn't feel right either. And then, one day when I was in my thirties, the name ZELDA came to me, out of the blue, and I knew that was me! ZELDA! WOMAN WARRIOR!

Now, if only I could summon up the ambition to make it legal. The last name, of course, would be Zapp. I don't know if my father would approve, or not. Probably not.

When I told my therapist about Raul, he sighed heavily. "Zelda, oh wait...it's still 'Zelda' isn't it? NO, I refuse to call you Sadie! All right, all right! SADIE!
-

So, Sadie...do you remember the last time we talked and you told me you were not going to expand your 'fuckable-age-range' again? I thought we had agreed that you should not be with any men less than half-your-age-plus-5. Raul is only 25! I'm not sure exactly how old you are, but I'm pretty darned sure you're over 40!
-

Well sure, I'd like to fuck someone who's only 25 years old, but I wouldn't! Wait a minute! Who's analyzing whom here?
-

Okay - back to Raul. Why did you go out with him? No, I don't want to see the photos you took of him! Oh geez, all right! (pause) Okay, I suppose he is gorgeous, but there are many gorgeous young men out there. You're not going to fuck all of them, are you?
-

Oh...I see. When you're 'Zelda' you keep your legs together, but when you're Sadie, all bets are off. Well, Zelda - note the emphasis, please - I think you'd better start settling down again. Stop all this travel to exotic places, places with all those muscular, brown-skinned men walking around wearing tiny swim trunks. Next time you want to take a vacation, try the Poconos! There's a nice Holiday Inn there, and the employees are all flabby, white guys who won't bring out the 'Sadie' in you. You can go swimming in a nice, warm swimming pool and then take a walk around the parking lot. There will probably be lots of friendly, older people there - you know...people your age - and you could drum up a game of pinochle after dinner.
-

Zelda - wait! Don't cry! Where are you going? Your hour isn't up!"

Tiger is a lion cheetah!

Nothing Revealed

I have nothing to say, and by god, I'm going to say it! No, don't try to talk me out of it. My mind's made up. I've been thinking about it all day and I can't hold back any longer. I know what you're thinking...she won't do it...she doesn't have the guts. Well, I've got news for you, Jack! "Guts " is my middle name. I've been intimidated by lack of ideas for too long! I've hung back, waiting for inspiration, while millions of other bloggers post every day, whether they have anything to say or not. I must confess, however, that I owe a good bit of my resolve to the fact that there are various loathsome household chores jostling for my attention, and I must demonstrate to them and to myself that tonight, writing about "Nothing" is far more important than washing dishes or ironing a long-neglected pile of shirts and trousers. And I have until April 15 to do those depressing taxes, thank you very much for reminding me, you dirty rat!
-
Okay, are you ready? All right, go to the bathroom and get a drink first. I'll wait...
...

That was quick. Okay, here goes nothing!

As soon as I figure out the answer to this question, I will let you know. I will post a lengthy rant on this critical dilemma of all of us liberated women out there. And for all you men out there, now you know what Wonder Woman was wondering about.

Bad Dog!

It's been a long time since I had a dog, but not nearly long enough! The crazed canine that put an end to my dog-owning desires (after 13 l-o-n-g years) was "Benny," a male wirehair fox terrier. We got him when he was an adorable puppy, all white, orange and grey fluff, with big brown eyes and an eager, playful personality. He remained a lovable, friendly, entertaining dog while he was in the house, with my husband, kids and I, but as soon as he would step out the door, there'd be trouble. (I should mention that this was back in the 'seventies, in a town where there were no leash laws.) Benny lived for two activities: fighting and fucking. He was the cave man of dogs. Any male dog who ventured near our yard was fair game. In spite of Benny's small stature, he was so ferocious and had such long, sharp teeth, that he usually came out on top. It was horrifying to see and very difficult to break up those fights. I won't go into the grisly details here.

-

Female dogs, on the other hand, were treated with enthusiastic affection. One particularly entertaining event stands out in my memory. At the time, we were living in a nice, Mormon neighborhood in Salt Lake City. Our neighbors across the street had several kids, the oldest of whom was a 7 year-old girl (Kathy). They also had a girl dog (Suzy). One afternoon, kids and dogs were outside playing. I heard a knock on the door. It was Kathy, looking agitated.

-

"Mrs. M! Your dog is stuck in our dog!"

-

I looked outside, and there was Benny, "stuck" in Suzy. Apparently, the fun part was over, but deflation had not happened yet. The funniest part was that they were facing away from each other, looking quite uncomfortable, even embarrassed, if you will forgive me for anthropomorphizing.

-

I told Kathy not to worry, that her doggy wasn't hurting, and they would get "unstuck" soon, which they did, of course. But a few months later, Kathy's family was "stuck" with a litter of fluffy puppies.

-

Thinking back on those times, I am amazed that no one ever shot our dog, or called the police, or at least demanded that we lock the horny little S.O.B. up. And I am more than a little ashamed of how irresponsible we were to have let him run free. In my defense, I will say that I begged my (now ex) husband to have Benny neutered, but he refused. Actually, I would have been happy to neuter both Benny and my husband, but I didn't have the balls.

Why does winter have to be so damn cold? Why the hell did I ever leave California? I hate winter! I hate snow! I really, really hate ICE! (Except in small cubes, in my whiskey) And don't get me started on ice-cold WIND! Why did the goddamn groundhog have to see his goddamn shadow? Why can't I move to Florida? IT'S NOT FAIR!

I Had a Dream

I woke up screaming, but I didn't know why! I was consumed with terror. I opened my eyes and saw nothing to warrant my panic. I was in a small, well-lit room, perhaps a hotel room. The furniture had that unremarkable, but not unpleasing, sterile look I associate with inexpensive hotels. I was lying on my back, on the floor. I sat up slowly, feeling a bit dizzy, but otherwise okay. The clock on the nightstand said 8:30. The last thing I could remember was sitting in the L.A. airport, waiting for my plane to Shanghai. Had I been shangaied? No, it couldn't be, or I would be in the hold of a ship, not on the floor of a hotel.

-

I stood up carefully, my head throbbing. I walked to the window and, with fear welling up in my chest, I pulled open the heavy drapes. The window looked out onto a courtyard that was dominated by a large, flaming pit. It was odd...it looked like a typical hotel courtyard, which ordinarily would have a swimming pool as its centerpiece. But instead of blue water in the "pool," there were red flames leaping into the air. People were sitting around on deck chairs and beach towels, and now and then one of them would stand up and walk to the edge of the fire pool and dive in. I could see several people in the shallow end, laughing and talking as the flames licked their skin and smoke puffed from their burning hair.

-

Something was dreadfully wrong. I crawled back into bed and resolved to never, ever again eat jolokia peppers right before bedtime.

"No one can get to the phone right now, so please leave a message." BEEP!

What do you mean, no one can get to the phone right now? You live ALONE! You don't even have a cat! Just say YOU can't get to the phone, dammit!

No, of course I didn't actually say those words out loud. But I was so irritated by the message that I almost forgot why I called. Oh yeah, now I remember...dinner...I have to invite her to dinner, because we're having Nick over, and it's uncomfortable having an odd number of people around the table. Especially when they're all odd, which we are. An even number of odd people evens things out, softens the edges. So, I leave a message.

"Hi Suzy. How're you doin'? I'm sorry you can't get to the phone right now, because I have an important message for you. Can you join us for dinner Sat...BEEP!"

Shit! Well, she'll call back and I'll fill in the details then. And she DID call back, but of course I was outside shoveling snow at the time, and couldn't hear the phone, or anything else except my non-stop cursing of everything about life in miserable, goddamned Pennsylvania. When I went back into the house to defrost my fingers, I saw the blinking light on the telephone.

"Zelda? When is the dinner? You didn't say. I can't answer if I don't know when it is. Call me."

So I called her again. "No one can get to the phone right now..."

"Suzy, where the hell are you? Pick up the goddamned phone! The dinner's on Sat..." BEEP!

Shit! I'd send her a goddamned letter, but there'd probably be a message in her mailbox saying, "No one can get to the mailbox right now." I'm going to cancel the whole thing! I'll just call Nick and tell him we'll do it some other time.

"Hi! This is Nick. I can't get the phone right now, so please leave a message."

I've got NEWS for you geniuses in the news media - Michael Jackson is dead!

D - E - A - D....DEAD

Why am I still being subjected to photos of his poor, old, bleached, re-formed, de-formed, make--upped pseudo face?

If I have to see photos of men every time I pick up a magazine or turn on the computer, let it be photos of LIVING men, preferably MANLY men, muscly, square-jawed, natural men. If they happen to be singers, let them be singers with deep, manly voices, not trembly falsettos.

And if and when any of them dies,give them no more than a week of tribute, and move on. Make room for the living, and stop making me dwell on my own mortality.

Pat, Pat, Pat

All the recent fuss about increased airport securtity reminded me of what happened to me a few years ago, shortly after that goofball "shoe bomber" was apprehended. I was going to fly from Baltimore to L.A. and was waiting to board the plane at a terminal in BWI. I had passed through the scanning booth with no problems that I knew of and sat down in the crowded waiting area. A nice-looking young man was sitting a couple seats down from me. I couldn't help but notice that he was engrossed in "reading" a girlie magazine of some sort. Suddenly, a person from behind the counter approached the young man and whispered something to him. They both turned to look at me and the young man stood up. First, he carefully placed his magazine, open to the place he had been perusing, face down on the seat of his chair. Then he pulled a scanning wand from his belt and spoke to me. He told me that he had been instructed to scan me and that I should step over to the side of the waiting area. I was dumbfounded! I had no idea why I had been selected, but I followed orders. He told me to hold my arms out from my sides while he slid that wand over my body. Picture this! A middle-aged woman, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, standing spread-eagled in front of a whole waiting area full of people, while a young man runs a wand over, under and all around her whole body. And then! A pat-down. Fortunately for both of us, he didn't "pat" any private parts. If he had, he would have met some serious resistance from Zelda the kung-fu-fighter. When he failed to find anything suspicious, he dismissed me and went back to his seat and his Hustler magazine.

I found a seat on the opposite side of the room and felt thankful that I had remembered to remove my diaphragm before going to the airport.