new poetry...

UNSPOKEN

Just another mime, wherein words align
to find, the silence that we see.
When these rebels fall, barren souls to all
defined, our struggle to be free.

In ambivalence, fettered lips frequent
lament, atonement from the sin.
No un-uttered tell, ferries through the swell
to well, these wounds which we begin.

In the farewell send, parting ways defend
an end, to which we’ve lost adore.
Just another age, wherein words of rage
have caged, our feelings gone ashore.

© Blair A Pettyjohn
December 30, 2005

Arrival: Part V (06.11.87) Installment D

Amazement is a relatively light word to describe what I felt when discovering that the only damage to my car was a flat tire. After I mounted the spare, I figured a little nap might be wise to appease the food coma that nearly plunged me into the sea of permanent tranquility.

I was so jacked up from my little ordeal though, that napping wasn’t something soon to happen. The mental scars of self flagellation tore into me as I replayed the idiocy. The more I thought, the more agitated I became; so - ten minutes later I pulled into Crescent City, filled up on coffee and continued on.

Driving is a therapy that some may not understand. Therapeutic infusions were deficiently absent and driving was the only consultation I was able to muster. I drove through North Bend, Newport and a host of other little cities that I had never been. I stopped for gas and more coffee at a place that eludes me now. The further I traveled, the clearer things seemed to become.

The eastern sky began to gently illuminate as my coffee lost its drugging affect. My eyes again, began to settle at half mast and I found myself in an oddly illusionary state. The smell of taffy wisped in through my lowered window along with the sounds of high tide and morning gulls.

There were no headlights in either direction. I came around a curved portion of bay and as it eased up, I saw a long section of straight. I’m not quite sure why, but I simply let off the go and coasted. A car can coast for quite a while from sixty miles an hour or so.

I remembered driving with my grandfather as a little kid and how every now and then, we would see if we could coast all the way home from atop a nearby hill. So, I figured that wherever I stopped, that would be my home for the time being. I coasted for nearly a mile and-a-half before Checky ceased to move.

Dawn was still merely a threat to night. A vacancy light shimmered to my left. I wasn’t much for car sleeping if bedding was near by and when my radio suddenly turned on, I figured I was either imagining things or this was my hint to see if the Silver Sands Resort Hotel had a vacancy for me.

I was given keys, found my room, and then convinced myself that sleep would be a lot more comfortable without shoes. I would sleep well for the next few hours. I couldn’t say that this little stop in Rockaway Beach would be uneventful.

the music of the week...

Old Poetry... Again, Again, Again

WHAT IT’S ABOUT

I’ve not seen the pyramids of Egypt
I have not seen the Great Wall of China
I’ve not heard the heavenly sounds of whales
nor have I heard lions call to their young

but in my dreams I have soared further than
any one could possibly carry me
and in my dreams I have listened to sound
expand with beauty beyond belief

often I fail to head experience
of past that preciousness holds so deeply
caught in monotony my conscious treads
deepened waters spinning in turbulence

I have found a needy place buried
somewhere within my soul desiring
a moment of complacency viewing
all nature offers such tender minds

so as I cessation briefly in step
abolishing weight of worry and time
a voice reminds me of the wonderment
and simplicity rarely noticed

the mountains spire above the setting sun
the geese rise in unity homeward bound
wind gently caresses my open ears
and a sound of silence soothes my mind

that is what it is all about...I hear
echoed from a heartbeat of peacefulness
a grin emerges and sprouts to laughter
all that out there...that’s what it’s all about

© Blair A Pettyjohn
February 07, 1996

Arrival: Reader Info...

If anyone is reading this, I would like to first state that the ‘Arrival’ story is simply that; a story. I’m making it up on the fly to see what the heck I can come up with as well as to see if I can do it without creating any unintended loop holes.

Since it is a story, I would love to take it in directions guided by others than myself. The concept shall remain mine, but I would seriously dig the challenge of taking it out of my head and into the thoughts of others...

So, that being said; if you have any ideas – let me know, I’ll see if I can work them in...

the music of the week...

Arrival: Part V (06.10.87) Installment C

I nestled into the shadows, between the rocks and underbrush along the banks of the Little Washougal River. I’d been educated at an early age that “just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean that they can’t see you”; so I would sneak up on a hole that would most assuredly have a fish or two, cast upstream and let the bait drift into the home of my favorite pastime.

The sun breached my hideaway with shards of broken light. I closed my eyes, focusing on the warmth, caressing the tenders of chill upon my face as the bait finished its journey downstream. Ferried by the suns gentle warmth and the hypnotic murmur of running water, I was adrift the presage of Utopia.

Happiness swelled to either cheek, I inhaled deeply the freshness of morning’s birth and exhaled slowly as not to disturb nature. As I opened my eyes, a shadowy angelic character, backlit by the sun, appeared before me just above the center of the river. The sun began traipsing slowly to the side, giving the shadow form. Soon I was looking at the silhouette of my grandfather.

He smiled at me; the kind of smile where words to follow are unneeded. The sun continued its circle ‘round as he moved toward me. Within arms reach he knelt, tilted his head a little to the side and gently placed his hand upon my face. “You need to wake up” he said quietly, but firmly “... it’s not time”. The sun continued its movement as it began to cast my shadow unto him, gradually eclipsing his presence. When sunlight’s glitter remained in only one eye, he said once more, “Beagan... you need to wake up”.

My shadow finished its throw; the eclipse was complete, leaving only darkness. The fishing pole, still in my hand, took an enormous hit and began to shake violently. The river’s volume was suddenly a deafening roar of thunderous depravity and my heart beat so vigorously that it felt as though it was going to leap from my chest.

An abrupt ground swell shook me violently as my head hit the driver side window. Checky was at a seriously dangerous angle as I found myself part way up a short section of Jersey barrier; the only object between me and the ocean’s cliff. I steered hard right; Checky slammed hard onto the road as we leveled out. I quickly corrected as I headed directly into the banks that lay to the right, and then began skidding out of control.

If you ask anyone about their driving abilities, most will answer with something that’s quite self complimentary. If you would have asked me prior to June of ’87 about my driving abilities, I most likely would have said that I was pretty good. Post 1987; my opinion contains a lot more truth and a fair amount of humility.

I was, for a lack of creativity, fucking lucky. That’s the plain and simple. I was stupid, fell asleep, and if it were not for some road construction along that particular stretch of highway, I would have shot out over the cliff’s edge and ended it all at the early age of 20. Instead; I drove up the ramped edge of a highway barrier, woke up, and skidded in umpteen different directions, winding up almost as though I had parked on purpose with a flat tire just a little bit off the road.

I sat, engine idling, shuttering for breath for God knows how long. The only words spoken, upon the realization of precisely what happened, were “Oh, my… Christ”. There are a few occasions throughout my existence where death has been kept at bay; this was one of them. I don’t know if it was my grandfather who woke me up, if it was God, or some other force. I only know that it was not my time.

The Ultimate Skive

I’m a ripped Levi’s, t-shirt and Teva boy. I don’t publicize the other garment because, well… I just don’t. I will let you know this though; there is a style of undergarment that I would love to see available for the want-to-be-sexy, need-to-be-formal, naughty side in all of us men who only have a choice between boxers, briefs and those other French sort of thingies.

Women have the candy shop’s keys when it comes to the hidden secrets of silkiness and it has plumb got me a little jealous; not jealous in the “golly, that’s the stuff I wanna’ wear” sort of way, but the ‘feeling a little non-variety’ sort of way... let it be – it’s just a Blog.

There is an overabundance of stores devoted entirely to the ‘need-to-know-side’ of women; Victoria's Secret, Frederick's of Hollywood, a billion-six on-line shops, heck - Macy’s, Nordstrom’s, and Target have sections larger than the average family home that cater to nothing more that that secretly seductive side.

What do we have? We have a kiosk with tighty-whities on one side. On the other side we have William the Conqueror boxers, which we convince ourselves, will look stunningly brilliant but when we get home and widdle into them, perform some little virility dance affront a mirror, a one-pack shadow is revealed befitting nothing more than Barney’s best friend Fred.

What we need is our own little ‘just-for-guys’ gimmick; something that we can slip on in the wee hours of the morn, not tell anyone, and feel a little special throughout the day. We should have something that can get the job done as well generate a fun, hey-baby I’m home feel. Sort of like the Mullet’s ‘business in the front, party in the back’ concept, only cooler.

What I want are Thong Boxers. Man! That would be cool. The boxer gets the job done; the thong adds that slice of naughtiness. It’s a match made in heaven. It’s like lemon meets lime, peanut butter meets jelly or creamy center and a chocolaty cookie crunch! Imagine it boys, our own little ‘we-know-it and you-don’t’ trick on the public.

Yeah, sometimes I just get all giddy like when I think of it. I do get a little confused though if I start thinking too much because I’ not quite sure which side would be the front...

Arrival: Part V (06.10.87) Installment B

There is a moment when disbelief becomes an anchor to the wondering wishes fluttering within the dream of day. The knowledge that something is not real makes the need to believe even stronger, and I was definitely in a place of need.

A short wisp of breath lingered in my emotional wake. My heart seemed to skip a few beats and my eyes slowly began to muster the glisten of tear. Ghostly eyes of illusionary longing gazed through me as if to examine my soul and its penury of redemption. As quickly as this moment thrust itself upon my travels beginning, it dissolved into nothingness as a large delivery truck passed between us, leaving mere memory.

I’d never heard of a Skoda Sports Coupe. I can’t say that I would have ever run into one had it not been for a few odd events, but it was the only automobile that I had ever given a name to; Checky. Not a highly creative name, being made in Czechoslovakia, but I was thoroughly peeved one day at its affinity for auto shops and in a moment of weakness, blurted out the only epitaph of blame that I could come up with. It stuck.

I slipped back into Checky, fastened the lap belt, and continued my journey north. Another four hours or so of engine hum would pass before I pulled into Eureka. I hadn’t eaten anything all day and was extremely famished; I ended up in Old Town at The Lost Coast Brewery.

My fish n’ chips disappeared with hardly a breath between. The second beer went nearly as quick and I was left catching my breath like a heathen with sleep apnea. Rachael, an attractive woman sitting next to me, commented on my digestive abilities, initiating an engaging conversation that would last for the next few hours. We would develop a relationship in the years to come, but that tale is better fit for later words.

As the sky’s final trace of brilliant orange streaked into the coming darkness, I once again, was on the road to elsewhere. I really didn’t feel like stopping, though I should have; this was to become one of my finer moments in stupidity where lessons are not learned from the fate of others.

The food and beer nestled in with the boredom as I pulled away from the cities lights. Side two flipped over automatically on the tape deck with the haunting, melodic voice of Elizabeth Fraser and Cocteau Twins. I began to slowly tire in the darkness as my eyes, unable to scan the country side, settled gracefully at the half-open state.

My head began to nod periodically. I convinced myself that I would soon be fully alert and that it was only a momentary state. As drowsiness continued to overtake me, I promised myself that I would stop at the next intersection. It was then that I fell asleep. It was then that my grandfather made his second visit.

Old Poetry... Again, Again

ANCIENT ORDER OF INTENDERS

As I glance back upon my age
and sponge the spills of fruition,
as my memory stays away
these days, veered aside tuition,
‘tis then my dear, the world I fear,
where I had lacked in all ambition.

A youth of years had offered I
to run with foils forgiven.
A scheme these eyes did see create,
yet my blood did not condition.
And now in part this wearied heart,
has but the bitters twang to live in.

Mirrors reflect my life lived rough
through the promise of morrows trust,
yet these fingers wide open, passed
all occasions to chance, like dust.
I’d planned for much, to see and touch,
not imagining my schemes be crushed.

Somewhere in-between then and now,
I had betrayed the fostered cures
for words of regret such as mine.
I had ignored their witless spurs.
Now forever, part I’ll never,
the ancient order of intenders.

© Blair A Pettyjohn
March 13, 1997

The Bio Rhythm Method

Intellectually, I’ve imploded. Physically, I’m preparing for immanent destruction and upon Monday, my emotional stability will plead “evaluation please” from within its dilapidated voice of reason. On the positive side; my intuitive abilities are steeped in heightened awareness and I’m quite sure that the spiritual arrival of six good numbers will render the acquisition of one, crisp lottery ticket.

I’m the cerebral equivalent to that lying upon a table following Jenga’s last block of stability; at least these are the allegations of my biorhythm chart. Frankly, I don’t feel that it’s too far off the mark; I can’t seem to maintain focus, hitting the gym tonight is barely plausible and I feel like crying… well, not really but hey, if an antlered beastie caught me on the backside I would most definitely be teary-eyed.


I’m curious; when is the ovulation period? There are peak performance periods and there are un-peak performance periods and I’m really concerned about my period of vulnerability. Currently I’m in the “warning Will Robinson” phase, leading me to believe that it’s not the most opportune time to be engaging in verbal intercourse without some form of protection. Then again, what if the low stages of biorhythmic pulsating are the no-worry days?

I’m profoundly baffled as to when I might be promiscuous with my verbal interaction; should I just smile up with a conversational dental dam all the time, or can I go au natural and get the true feeling of unencumbered utterance most of the time (just as long as I follow the rhythms of bio safety-ness). Perhaps I need to practice abstinence? I beseech thee for an answer...

the music of the week...

Not Much on the Mind Tonight

I have three hairs on my chest; it appears as though I have more because I grow two on the left side of my chest real long, swoop them over to the right side with a little curl action and va-voom – a Tom Selleck chest have I! I call it the comb-over-peck.

Maybe it’s a George Michael chest; the “I Want Your Sex” sort of looks, with ripped Levi’s, Ray-Ban’s and that fine-looking Asian thwart to my inner sanctum of duplicitous behavior.

I can see it now; half-Adam on the rippled white satin sheet, me with the swoop action curl, her in red no-see. I slowly lean into her with passions waning breath, embracing each trickle of gilded anticipation. My lips hover before hers, tasting her relinquished reticence, closing my eyes for a tender kiss of monogamy and Boom! It’s the big flop.

My comb-over turns was-over and a blanket of lengthy chest hair now lay before us in glory’s half-wit cousin. She shrieks, I wheeze, the camera’s crew guffaws and now… hey, wait a minute… this just became completely messed up. That’s really disappointing.

Don’t you hate that? Birds start singin’ in the sycamore trees with a little me-dream, everything starts to feel ginchy-like and out of the blue, the WWF of sustained thought puts a Flying Clothesline on the happy thought and you’re on the canvass seeing birdies.

I don’t really have three hairs on my chest; I’ve got 37.

Arrival: Part V (06.10.87) Installment A

I thought I would continue with the story I started a while back…

Springs slumber arrived uneventfully in June of ’87; summer’s waving warmth settled into the bay area with early tan lines and talks about the increased traffic over Highway 17. Arrivals hadn’t slowed by any degree and I was increasingly agitated by my elongated inability to write.

On Wednesday the 10th I awoke earlier than usual, feeling the malignancy of boredom and an extreme desire to be anywhere but where I was. After pacing the foot of the bed for quite sometime I tossed some clothing and writing material into my rucksack and hit the road by 9:30.

I had no plan, no destination, just a desire to go. I steered on to the northbound 101, tossed a meek prayer toward the imaginary God of haste in hopes that I be spared any tickets and became lost in the sound of B-Movie’s ‘Nowhere Girl’. My thoughts emptied as they were replaced with lyrical mimicry.

It was on sheer luck that I gazed at the meter, maybe four hours later, to find myself on fumes. I pulled off the highway at Willits, Heart of Mendocino County; a quant little town, softened by the rise of redwood, Douglas-fir and patches of fog. I stared off into the bank of mist layered across the forests door as the light hum of petrol filled my car.

I heard a restless noise behind me. I turned to see a white dove ruffling its feathers atop my little red Skoda Coupe. I was mesmerized by this silly bird. It just sat there, staring at me with this look of knowledge that far surpassed mine. I remained still; not wanting to drive it away and wondering why the heck it decided, of all places, to pause here.

A few moments later the dove seemed to give me this little nod; one that said “There, there now”, before it launched and disappeared into the layering fog. I turned back toward the forest and saw the outline of a gentleman slowly approaching me. The fog was suddenly quite heavier than before but I hadn’t really given it much thought.

A few cars passed along the roadway between me and the indefinable silhouette. As each car passed he became a little more recognizable. As each car passed, I became a little more uneasy.

My grandfather passed away in 1980. Nearly a day has gone by where he has not filled some moment of time in my thoughts. I had missed seeing his final moments by only hours and had wished heavily that I had been afforded the chance to say goodbye. I often wonder if those desires, gave cause to my own interpretation of the events that occurred.

I stared in disbelief as I realized who I was looking at. I was looking directly into the eyes of my grandfather.

Family Choice

You can’t choose your family. Well who the hell came up with that crock ’o shyte?

Granted you can’t womb shop during the consummation process, else the inner city would simply be three houses for rent and a vagrant with a self deprecating prophecy. The rest of the dynasty-shoppers would hop into the Rockefeller’s embryonic freezer of fortune, cramming as many as possible into the next egg of success and the world would be abound with quintuplets vying for their non-biological mothers attention as the surrogate bottle feeds their chosen path.

I believe you can choose your family. Many of us have a certain lineage that shines just bright enough to light their zipper so they know where the exit is. They do not warm the cockles of our heart on any regular basis and to address them is a major study in political correctness. In our nicey-nice world of incensed-lacking drive, we edify all with ways of acceptance and teach not to stand up for a sense of pride.

If you’re uncle’s a drunken stem and the family gathering becomes his opportunity to get comfy with the nieces chest; he is not a nice person and should most likely be stretched out on a desert somewhere. If your sister loves to talk with you as long as you are addressing her issues and never mind yours, why waist the time? If one of your parents was never there for you, why accompany their whims of fancy when it only results in digging a deeper chasm of despair?

On the lighter side, what about the best friend who is always there for you and even though you get all pissy with each other, you always make up? What about the grandfatherly figure that sits down over a cup of coffee and gives you life pointers when you ask and you truly enjoy his time? How about the step mother that made time to make sure you were part of her family even though she was not originally part of yours?

My family has become those with whom I share my life; those who fulfill the simplicities and dampen the gruels. They are the ones who without malice have planted ties that strum the chords of happiness and unlock the gates of sorrow. I am there for them and they are there for me.

I have a sister; she’s not bred from a shared parent but she will be in my life until the lights slowly dim and one of us wipes the tears of eulogy. I have a mother; a stepmother who has walked me through the eccentricities of life and given me that which I lacked during my early stages of development. I have two sons; Cody my biological son whom I love in such a way that words do not seem fit, and Ian, although not biologically attached, who has become an intrinsic part of my life and lacks befitting words of love as well.

I love my family. The family from which I bleed as well as the family I have adopted. When someone says to me “You can’t choose your family”, I usually don’t say much. I just get this little fiery warmth bellowing from within, along with a sense of sorrow for the announcer. “Well, it’s too bad you see it that way” I say to myself “I’ve chosen mine; and they’re a right fine bunch...”

the music of the week...

Song. No Music.

HALLWAYS OF A MIND

In all of my nightmares
of horror and despair
which visit me from time to time,
I’ve not yet confronted
the face who’s being hunted,
waiving his terror to be mine.

Each night before I sleep
I pray my soul to keep;
to face what I might reap,
in the cold dark looming hallways of my mind...

I look to the mirror
and see a performer
façade a life renown to lead.
In fathoms of disgust
he’s cultured to distrust
his feelings beckoning to heed.

Chorus

I churn ever endless
in cold sweating dampness
and hide away into the eve.
I know if confronted,
my dreams will be shunted
where peace gives loneliness its leave.

Chorus

© Blair A Pettyjohn
December 06, 2005

New Year's Resolutions

Twenty-six days remain before outlandish attempts at hoodwinking the eyes of self betterment are blurted out in a drunken stupor, midst the cheer of Champaign bubbles and paper twirly bits. Every year people launch this resolution movement as if it were from the bowels of longevity only to wipe its existence from memory three weeks later.

I personally think that the whole New Year's Resolution concept is the spiritually misguided antithesis to the upcoming discipline, devotion, and preparation period of Lent. If you add something to your routine that is a beneficial gain, Ash Wednesday’s confiscation of chocolate, beer or surfing internet gender shows is deemed less of an overall blow to habitual guilt.

January is a majestic month in the guise of personal achievement; 24 Hour Fitness percolates with the precipitative beer-bellies insta-fit plan; NicoDerm’s afire as cigarettes extinguish; Jamba Juice replaces the warm wild turkey with cold and family dinner night ramps up for scores of repeat performances.

Then February hits; the bustling whir of sweat-caked tread mills mull to a minor disturbance in the force, New Year’s stress gets ridden out on a Camel, cold turkeys line up for a wagon ride and dad seems to be a little busier than planned, but go ahead and eat without him.

It seems like the bulk of humanity requires a new year’s birth to lay at rest the ways of old. Why wait? The whole idea of change shouldn’t be rooted in attempted failure. If you plan on becoming more fit, losing weight, quitting smoking, and quitting drinking or spending more time with the family, then just do it; Nike is.

Personally, making a change that’s dependant on the weather has an air of requirement, taking away from the empowerment of the decision. Besides, if you take care of all the meaningful decisions prior to the New Year, you can fabricate some obnoxiously scandalous resolutions to confuse your friends and thwart your foes. For this New Year’s resolution, I’ve decided to become a better lesbian.

Old Poetry... Again

I was thinking about this poem earlier. I've found nothing concrete to spat about so I've decided to include some more old stuff...

EMERALD

She looks out upon the city lights cape
from a balcony espied nightfall’s moon.
Float by deterrent winds of resolve as
her sight saunters into benighted dreams.

‘Tis quiet, though voices resound, turning
silence against elements of reason.
Quickening is the breeze, refreshed unlike
any ere, stirring her delicate breathe.

Viewed is alas the beauty, unobserved
by onetime days undone, here to allay.
Twilight spirits shimmer in drops arid,
her eyes close, grasping dignities remains.

As her touch presses lightly an answer
that has awaited courage’s consign,
the emerald surrenders its glory,
echoes claim the arrival of shadows.

Somewhere - sanguine lights are coruscating
in the fervor of bodies unaware.
Somewhere - light is bright amidst the darkness
that is serene... somewhere - light has passed on.


© Blair A Pettyjohn
June 30, 1996

the Pleasure Principal

It is the late eve of Saturday. I’m in the presence of Macallan 12, slowly flickering candles and a plethora of randomly generated music; David Benoit, ‘Cast Your Fate to the Wind’ is the current play.

The horrid bit of this literary respite is that my snifter of neat with a branch of water has run dry. I would not consider myself an alcoholic for I do not attend any meetings, but I do enjoy my scotch from time to time and from whence it came has gone and went makes for much the disappointment.

I had lost... I had tossed away, through anger or pity or just plumb self loathing the pieces of true euphoria in my life. I willingly chose not to regain them for quite some time. Goldie Lookin’ Chain, ‘Half Man Half Machine’ plays. I am beginning to remember, and I’ll tell you this for nothin’; I’m a tad terrified, half hesitant and really friggin’ excited all in the same gulp.

I love to write. I love to twist words and brew streams of text that make people step back for a moment and muse about my ability to exist within the confines of normalcy. I get all ginchy-like when I sow a new word into my patchwork of clothy verbiage, then make an attempt to put it to use. Massive Attack, ‘Angel’ plays.

Officious; that’s my new word for the day. Volunteering ones services where they are neither asked nor needed. I suppose there are about a-million-six frat boys out tonight, poking their officious noses into the affairs of the sober.

As I was saying, I forgot how much I really enjoyed writing. Randy Travis, ‘1982’ plays. One part of me really wants, needs people to enjoy this dribble while the other part, the anti-me, says a-bollocks-to-all-ya-all and what-the-hell do I care. Maturity, well rounded-ness, and a dose of sanity combine the two into a tasty little bite-sized Oreo of sensibility and I find myself happy with my efforts and even happier if someone gets a chuckle.

I need to buy more scotch, Lagavulin to be precise, so that I may medicinally soothe the spidery webs of shadow that hang above. ABBA, ‘The Name of the Game’ plays. Frankly, ABBA songs just sort of strip the creativity right out of me and I end up all fluffy-like singing along with the real sultry red haired chick that made me realize what timbre was...

Titanium Nails

I have this obscure dream; it involves finding a genie in a lamp and being granted one wish. I’m somewhere between here and there and suddenly come across a magnificently brilliant brass lamp that speaks to me in some sort of mythical “Hey! Pick-me-up and rub-me!” sort of way.

I of course, being tuned into this haunting madness, oblige the silent voices that beckon. I grab the corner of my appropriately loose shirt and frantically shed years of tarnish from the hand-crafted, oily bringer of light.

Sounds abound as a foggy mist encircles me. Funky lightning-like effects fill the sky above and a bellowing, raspy voice speaks out; “Who dares disturb me?” Unaffected by this awe-inspiring display of witchy-poo, I proclaim “'tis I!”

My bravado is a level enhancing statement that the genie takes quite well and we begin to chat; “Right on.” He says “You know, most of the time I get this totally mealy-mouthed blubbery that doesn’t make a whole hell-of-a lot of sense and I’m just tired of trying to get my fright on and grant a wish at the same time... you know?”

“Yeah,” I say “If it’s any consolation; some pretty awesome effects you got goin’ on there.”

“Thanks. So what's the wish? You know about the rules and everything right?”

I give a raise of the eyebrow, pretend that I’m in the know with the whole wishy thing and say “Yeah, I know; three wishes, anything I want but no asking for more wishes and make sure that I am precise in my request so that I don’t end up with a little tiny piano player.”

“A – yeah – No.” he quips. “One wish man; and no money. The rest of the stuff is spot on, but that whole three wish thing went out after some putz decided to put Arabian Nights into full time circulation.”

“One wish?” I confirm. “One wish” he replies.

I ponder for a moment. A flurry of desires floods my senses; each battling for pole position in the race to fruition.

“Hey.” The genie says “I don’t have all day. Make it quick.”

“I want my finger nails and toe nails to be made from nail-like-lookin’ titanium so that I’ll never have to clip them again and they’ll just be perfect for the rest of my life.”

“Really?” he asks.

“You know it!” I reply.

“Did you like the second Darin?”

“Not really” says I.

“You are really where it’s at, you know.” He says to me with a little nod.

“Thanks man – you be well.” I look down and wa-la! Never again shall I need trim my nails.

There is another blast of lightning and some more misty stuff, followed by sudden silence. With the genie gone and I with my wish, I continue the day a little happier.

the music of the week...

Rubbernecks!

Oh my Christ! Is it me, or am I just lofting the bilge of piloted idiocy into an arena of occupants who could care less about efficient commuting? At least once a week in the twilight of eve, somewhere twixt the 134 to the 5 to the 110 to the 10 to the 405 route that brings me to the salty breeze of the marina, I bring up the rear to a lovely jam of traffic that lengthens my arrival by some unpredictable amount.

Now, it’s not the traffic that truly annoys me; hey, it doesn’t take a surgeon to realize that this is Los Angeles and with an estimated 10 million people (I did not say citizens), things are bound to be settled on the side of insanity when it comes to the rush hour commute. It is the Rubberneck that just chaps my hide to no end as I play my active roll in the up-rolled window road rage!

I'm willing to invest overwhelming odds that ninety-six percent of drivers who can’t maintain focus on the course of their own automobile (because they're so invested in someone else’s) are the same brain-stems who make wingey statements about the horrific traffic on their commute.

It’s even more of an egregious disregard to the guy-behind-you-ness when the north bound track is slowing down just so they can tune in to the flat tire stationed on the south bound track. What gives?

For you-know-what’s sake, don’t stare! Get home, turn on the local news and jollies galore will be had, for any of the local affiliates are replete with accidents here and maiming there and even a car chase at least once a week. Heck – buy a Tivo and record! It can be accident-a-palooza every night in the comfort of your own home!

I’d love to have Lord Humungus from the Road Warrior keeping flow-guard with a big bull horn telling people to “just drive away and I spare you-life”, and if they didn’t he would unleash the super evil biker gang to wreak havoc upon your car with an ever-ominous threat of loosing life. Boy I bet that would speed traveler on their way.

I suppose I won’t see my Lord Humungus though. After all; we’re all about love and peace and understanding. Heck, even Tookie Williams, the murderer of four innocent victims has been named "King of Kwanzaa" this year which means we could never hold people accountable for their actions… oops, I digress. I guess I’ll settle down a bit. I wonder how I can get nominated for a Nobel Prize for Peace and Literature.