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
-

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
-

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

-

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."

-

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.

-

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.

-

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.