Oh well . . . .

This one began way back in the 70's, well before disco turned music to shit. This was even before Paint was a-stirrin' in his daddy's loins. Me 'n' the jackass were hi-tailin' it up the beeline to Tulsa, Oklahoma, in my trusty ol' Chevy Apache pickup truck. I had Fred's dad, Fred Sr., in the back, stinkin' up the camper shell we'd put on just for this trip.

Right now, you may be thinking, why the urgency? Well, hold on to yer horses, 'cause I'm gettin' to that. I'm just a little slow, ya know? Anyway, now where the hell was I?

Oh. Yeah. We were haulin' ass to T-Town 'cause I'd won a big pot at the jailhouse poker game a week earlier. Said pot included three o' Fat-Ass Darrel's tickets to the big outdoor Lynyrd Skynyrd concert at the Tulsa County Fairground (Darrel worked part-time as a jailer back home. He weighed at least 400 lbs. an' most of it was in his ass. Of course, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figger out that's why everybody called him "Fat-Ass Darrel".) We wanted to get there a day early, so we could scope out the territory. Maybe we'd even get lucky and meet some chicks.

Early on, lady luck seemed to smile on us. We pulled over at a truck stop just north o' Okmulgee 'cause Wonderaz had to take a dump. Well, knowin' him like I did, I stepped inside the coffee shop 'cause I knew we'd be there a spell. After I sat down in my booth and ordered a cup o' joe, I noticed two purdy hippy chicks with flowers in their hair, parked a coupla rows down across the aisle. They kept lookin' my way, just a-smilin' and a-gigglin'. After nonchalantly checkin' my nose just to make sure I didn't have a tell-tale booger hangin' out, I gave 'em the patented JEB wink and grin. Sure 'nuff, in no time at all they wuz a-sittin' across from me in my booth.

How'd I know they were hippy chicks? No bras, man, no bras. Ol' JEB notices important details such as that. They had hippy chick names, too. Emerald an' Joeycat. And coincidentally, it turned out they just happened to be hitch-hikin' to the same place me 'n' wonderturd were headed to, namely, the BIG CONCERT.

Of course, bein' the gentleman I am an' all that, I invited 'em to climb aboard the JEB Stuart Concert Express. Hell, the invitation had no sooner passed my lips, than they were out there in the cab o' my truck, squealin' and bouncin' up an' down in the seat like a coupla little girls.

So, I paid my check, and their's, too, and stepped outside. Just as I made it out the door, sir jackass came saunterin' around the corner, fiddlin' with a button on the fly o' his britches. He glanced up, eyeballed my truck, then looked back at me, with an expression of hope mingled with disbelief in his eyes. As I swaggered toward ol' trusty, I just kinda tilted my head real cocky-like, shot him a wink and said, "While you wuz busy takin' yore shit, I got busy roundin' up some gals." With that, we both broke into a dead run for the truck.

In retrospect, I don't know what in hell we got in such a hurry for--Emerald 'n Joeycat had already decided the partnerin' for us. So, the rest of the way up to Tulsa, Emerald rode on Wonder's lap, while the jackass lamely tried to keep his drool in check. Joeycat just cuddled up to me, allowin' as she had to help me with all that hard gear shiftin' an' knob twistin'. Me 'n' the jackass didn't say much at all, either, 'cause they took righteous care o' the conversation department, too.

We made it to the fairgrounds in one piece. The concert was set for the next day and the outdoor circus was just breakin' down as we pulled in. I parked as close to the big, high privacy fence as I could get, killed the ignition and we piled out. I went around to the back and opened the door to let Fred, Sr. out to stretch his mangy ol' legs. I could see he didn't need to take a shit, 'cause he'd left a pretty good sized coil on Wonder's toesack. Jeebus.

Well, I'm here to tell ya--Fred, Sr. woofed, took two sniffs and shot past me like a turpentined cat. I shoulda thought first and put a leash on him, or sumpin', before I let him out. You see, my current dog Fred, that all y'all members have grown to know 'n' love, is a chip off the ol' block, the ol' block bein' Fred, Sr. And Fred, Sr. wrote the book on humpin' everything in sight. Jeebus, with all these circus animals around, I knew Fred figgered he'd found the mother lode o' new hump material.

Before long, the place sounded like a damn African safari as my canine humper was apparently making one new acquaintance right after another. Elephants, tigers, lions, monkeys . . . all screamin' an howlin' either their indignant protests or joyful approvals, but as to which it was, I couldn't tell. Perhaps some o' both, I just don't know.

Anyway, I forgot about Fred fer a while as we got busy settin' up camp. As we were chit-chattin' with the ladies, we soon discovered they had arrived in town without a couple o' essential items, namely, they didn't have any tickets and they didn't have a red cent between 'em, of course. Oh, the concert had also been sold out weeks earlier.

Women. Go figure.

But, have no fear, the great Wonderaz is here! Shee-yit. While I was sittin' there a-stewin' over the latest revelations, he jumps up, strikes a gallant pose and declares, "Gals, don't you worry yore purdy little heads about a thang! I will save the day!"

Joeycat started gigglin'. Emerald shushed her and looked up at the jackass with two big doe eyes that'd melt butter. She flipped her hair, knowing fully well Wonderaz wuz doin' his best to get that shot down the front o' her blouse, and said, "But I wanna be with yooooo! What if you don't get iyun? I'll be so looonsome without my big Wonder muffin!"

Yep, that cinched it for the Wonderstud while I struggled to suppress my gag reflex. In a husky voice, dropped at least two notches, he replies, "Don't fret none, sweetcakes. Like ah said, I'll be with ya one way or another. Yer Wonder Muffin'll get it covered. You can take that to the bank, dollface!"

Oh hell, yeah, the silly bastard would get it covered. I mean, between us we had exactly $12.56, which was maybe, just maybe, enough to cover the gasoline to git back home. Maybe he figgered there was a sperm bank close by that'd buy enough o' his rotten baby batter to raise the $50-60 the scalpers were demandin' (and gettin', from all appearances) fer tickets.

Call it instinct, or maybe I'd just developed a jackass sixth sense after all those years. Either way, that old familiar, but uneasy, feelin' was a-comin' on strong. This was fixin' to git good. Or bad. All depended on your point o' view, I suppose.

Things had started to quiet down as dusk began to fall. I hadn't seen hide nor hair o' Fred in over three hours. I was beginnin' to wonder if maybe one o' the big cats had decided to have some dog fer supper, when all of a sudden we heard a "BAROOOOO!!!BAROOOOWOOOO!!!BARARAROOOWOOO!!!ROOOOO!!! Closer and closer. Louder and louder. Oh, it was pitiful! It sounded kinda like Fred, but then again, it didn't.

Well, it was Fred, alright, runnin' like his life depended on it. As he drew closer, it looked like his eyes were about to pop outta his skull and it became apparent he was carryin' a full load o' passengers. Yep, I'd heard people about havin' a monkey on yer back. Folks, I'm here to tell ya--Fred had THREE o' them li'l sumbitches ridin' him an' they were givin' him holy hell. One scraggly monkey was clutched around his neck, grippin' Fred's ears like handlebars on a bicycle; another straddled his back, with a stick in each hand, and wuz a-poundin' away on his ribs like he was a set o' hound dog drums; and the third monkey was hangin' on to Fred's tail, a-violatin' my dog in the butt like a jackhammer.

BAROOOHOOHOOOWOOO!!!BAROOoooo.....* Fred was plumb outta sight 'fore I even had time to stand up. I confess to bein' just a little worried, 'cause I'd never heard a dog bawl quite like that in my life.

Mornin' came and still no sign o' Fred. By early afternoon, the place was gettin' really crowded. We decided that me an' the girls would take my three tickets and go on in early. That way, we wouldn't have to jockey so hard to get situated up close to the stage. Of course, we promised to save Wonderaz a place 'cause he swore up and down that, come hell or high water, he'd make his way inside. I did pull him aside and reminded him that we didn't have a plugged nickle to spare for bail money, but he just brushed me off and rattled off, "No problemo man! I'll git it covered!"

Well, we made it past the gate and worked our up toward the front. In no time flat, we were feelin' no pain as the doobies kept passin' by, right to left, left to right, just like a damn assembly line. Finally, an announcer took the mike and mumbled something unintelligible. All of a sudden, the crowd roared to its feet and Wet Willie, the warm-up band, took the stage. They did a nice, long set. Even came out for an encore with "Keep Smilin'". Still, no sign o' the jackass. By this time, me 'n' the gals had just about forgotten who in hell the jackass wuz, 'cause we were ridiculously stoned.

The frisbees were a-whizzin' and the beach balls were a-bouncin'. But, that wuzn't all. It was hot, so the women's tops began a-flyin' off, too. I was soooo happy. Ol' JEB was in titty heaven with his favorite band, Lynyrd Skynyrd, about to take the stage. Man, it don't git no better'n that.

Finally, a huge Confederate Flag (Cross of St. Andrew) unfurled on the backdrop while Ronnie Van Zant 'n' the boys ripped into "Workin' For The MCA". Man, one great tune followed another and, finally, "Sweet Home Alabama".

No Wonderaz.

The band left the stage and the crowd began chanting, "FREEEEE-BIRD! FREEEEEEE-BIRD! FREEEEEEE-BIRD! . . . ." After almost ten minutes, the boys finally ran back out and began giving us what we wanted, namely, Freebird.

Not that I gave a shit, but still, no Wonderaz.

Just as Van Zant began the vocals, the air exploded with a deafening *KA-BOOOOMMM!!!* It was so deafening, Skynyrd stopped the song and just gawked. Way up overhead, high in the sky, was something sailing toward the stage with smoke trailing behind it. Was it a bird? Was it a plane? Was it Superman?

Hell, no. It was the jackass and he had company. Fred was wrapped tightly around Wonder's ass, doggie-style, so to speak. They hurtled down right in the back of the stage, plowing into the upper part of the huge Confederate Flag. What's more, when they hit the flag, they just stuck there, like a huge wad of chewing gum, except it was the spread-eagled jackass with Fred on his ass, doin' what Fred did best--humpin' Wonder's booty fer all he was worth.

Well, naturally, it interrupted the song, but not fer long. Van Zant finally cleared his throat, shook his head, and said, "Wull, I be gaaawd-dayum!" He waved off the security crew and counted the band back into Freebird. The jackass didn't budge the whole time, in fact, I'm sure he was out cold. From what I could tell, he was tangled in the cording holding up the big flag, which was just as well, since it was about a 40-foot drop to the floor. I also found out Fred had a sense of rhythm, 'cause it was obvious his Wonder-humps were in sync with the beat of the music. Naturally, the humpin' got faster and more intense as Freebird built up steam.

You will recall the circus was tearin' down to leave when we arrived the day before. I later figured out that Fred musta hid himself from those infernal monkeys inside Jo-Jo, The Human Cannonball's king-sized cannon. Of course, my dog was inside when Wonderaz aimed that cannon toward the stage, slid down the barrel and shot himself over the fence. Fact is, I'm amazed the discharge didn't bury Fred right up Wonder's ass.

Then, as always, there was also the matter of bail for the jackass. Yep, I told him we didn't have enough money, but he never listens. Truth is, I shoulda let the silly sumbitch rot in the Tulsa County pokey since I had to take his big (and I do mean B-I-G) sister Loretta out to eat (and other unspeakable things) 'fore I could persuade her to spring for Wonder's bail.

Oh well. Amen.

I learned a lot about the sport that year. I had been a casual pro football fan for a few years, but never really understood the game beyond the basics. These guys taught me some of the finer points. Football is more than just passing and interceptions, rushing and fumbles. At first that’s all you see, but as you learn, you begin to appreciate the art of being a lineman.

Linemen are the hidden jewel of pro football. It is their job to either set up or destroy plays for the offense or defense. A good line controls the opposing team’s line. Two aspects to a good line: the initial impact and the subsequent scuffling.

Sumo wrestling distills this to an art: Two men line up across from each other and try to put the other man down.

Yeah, I know that Sumo is saddled with the image of fat guys pushing each other around, but there is a lot more to it. It’s a technical sport with simple rules: stay on your feet inside the ring. No punching, biting or kicking. Get the other down via pushing, slapping, throwing, or tripping. And it is more than the isolated matchups; Sumo is an event that you have to follow day to day.

I have been watching Sumo for about three years now. One of the first things I learned is that each tournament is 15 days long. Each wrestler has one bout per day and the best record at the end wins. The first day I watched it, I was disappointed. Many matches end quickly and it felt very anti-climatic. But after watching the tournament in its entirety, the drama of the 15 days makes it great. There is a dynamic to it that is unique in sports.

Sumo obviously is an individualized sport. Each wrestler has their own particular style. Strength and size have a lot to do with winning, but technique and surprise play their part as well. As in any professional sport, you must have technique to compete, but in Sumo, technique is more than just who has the best footwork. The initial tachi-ai (stand and meet) when the wrestlers leap from the line and smash into each other takes on many forms. Once impact is made, one can choose to slap away at the opponent’s chest and face or go inside for a grip on the belt and try to get a throw in.

The tachi-ai is absolutely amazing to watch. If you think that football lineman are tough, imagine what it takes to do the same thing without pads and a helmet. Sumo wrestlers often butt heads directly, and when you have a combined weight of over 600 pounds crashing into each other, it is impressive. I am surprised there aren’t more broken noses or bloodied foreheads.

Because there are so many wrestlers of various shapes and sizes and because everyday the matchups are different, each day of the tournament has something new and exciting to offer. Upsets abound and over the course of the first 10 days certain wrestlers get momentum that carries them through some of the bigger matchups.

The sport is much more fun to watch once you learn a few of the wrestlers’ names and styles. Once you have a few favorites, its exciting to keep track of their progress and how they perform against certain wrestlers.

There is a purists aspect to the game as well, of course. Because these guys are so big, when someone gets a big throw or other impressive move, one cannot help but be impressed with the grace and finesse of the winner wrestler. There is so much strength and athleticism involved, its really easy to get excited.

Sumo is a lifelong pursuit. Wrestlers start as young as 15. Every day of the tournament starts early with the lower beginning ranks and culminates in the afternoon bouts among the upper echelon. There are about 40 wrestlers in the top division, divided into 4 classes. The top rank, yokozuna, is for life. The only way out is to retire. All the other wrestlers’ ranks are adjusted after every tournament based on their record. Each tournament, everyone is fighting to improve their rank, hopefully to make it to yokozuna.

The wrestler with the best record after fifteen days gets the yusho, the championship. It's really rare for someone to win with a perfect record. The yokozuna often but not always win the tournaments. The yokozuna matches are the last of the day. If the yokozuna loses to a lower ranked wrestler, the air quickly fills with flying zabuton, the cushions that ring side patrons sit on. Kind of like in hockey when people through their hats on the ice for a hat trick, fans celebrate the upset of the yokozuna with a flying zabuton frenzy. It's cool to see, but I wouldn’t throw mine unless it was the last match. Otherwise you don’t have anything to sit on after that!

Many of the high profile matches are sponsored by companies as well. Prior to the start of the match, company banners are paraded around the ring. Each banner is worth about $600, the sum of which goes to the winning wrestler. Some of those guys walk off the dohyo (ring) with over $6000 some times.

Sumo is very old, starting somewhere around 1500 years ago. The stamping ritual the wrestlers do before their match is intended to stamp out demons. They also always toss salt into the ring to purify it before entering. A brief intro to the history, rules, and other stuffis can be found here. It’s a pretty cool sport with a mix of history, philosophy, symbolism combined with strength, power, finesse, and strategy.

I doubt that Sumo will catch on as a worldwide phenomenon, but its worth checking out. It takes a little bit of watching at first to get a feel for it, but once you get past the initial disorientation and start to understand what is going on, it’s a really great sport. I look forward to every tournament, 6 a year in the odd months. If anyone is really interested, let me know and maybe we can work out something so I can send you a tournament on video.

I won’t hazard the reasons for you taking them; for myself it was because I wanted my own opinion on them, not my parents', not my teachers', not the governments'.

But I digress, as I am wont to do when slightly sober. I was talking about drugs. Drugs and alcohol.

We all laugh when some self-righteous ass spouts the same old tripe about alcohol being as bad as any other drug. Sometimes we say it ourselves. I don’t think many of us truly believe it.

Charlie, lsd, MDMA. Great trips all of them. Fun times. But here I sit, clean, and I know they all pale against the beautiful, sublime versatility of alcohol.

How we take for granted this potent, seductive elixir. We go out of a night, down a few pints and go home high on bon homie and laughter. Do you think it is being around our friends that makes us so at ease?

Fools.

Alcohol: 1
You: nil

Alcohol. How little credit you get.

You take the edge off reality for me. Let me take that step back and give myself the perspective I need.

There is an art to drinking, to finding that sweet plateau of clarity where your reality lies bare before you, yet where you retain a detachment from it. Perspective and detachment: alcohol, I thank you for these gifts.

I write this wee credit to liquor because today I got a wake up call from its siren’s cry.

The comfort I can take from one little bottle of beer after a long day of sobriety, worry, stress and sadness is staggering. And scary. And worth every dead and damaged cell in my liver.

Perhaps I’m preaching to the choir?

Cheers.

btw that butterfly is ghey.k.thx.bye

Love Dingle

…

For the first year he was an oblivious infant swaddled by a lonely but loving mother over-eager to nurture him. He fed from her breast and grew strong and firm from her natural milk.

In his third year he was aware of his father, aware of a man who would pass his eyes as a silhouette, a ship sliding past a ship in a dense fog of memories and dreams. For four years after his realization the son would wonder about his father, about where his father would leave to every early morning and return from every late night. He wondered who his father was, but it would not be until he learned what his father was that the son would loose his memories and his dreams completely.

…

His breathing was short and he could never draw enough breath to satisfy his strained lungs.

…

Seven more years would pass. Seven years and a blur of schoolhouses and games and childhood would slip past him unnoticed. He’d try to live out his youth but it never quite registered it never quite registered and he slipped more and slipped completely into his father’s experience into his father’s shoes into his father’s job into his father…

Father’s hands worked a twenty-eight year routine pulling abstract bulk, welding coarse metals, tightening obstinate black bolts, and cursing with the same old friends who all performed the same difficult industrial dance as he and his ancestors. Twenty-eight years of industrial labor, which his hands could show every scar and painful minute of.

…

On his retinas were etched the fire and glow of an acetylene torch and when he closed them he could still see a bright teardrop of blue light.

…

When father was four he would hear his father curse. Hear his father beating his mother and tear off in the car to work. For another seven years father’s father would wake up and scream at him and his mother for his pain. Scream and drink against his nothinglife… Against the industry, against the bills, against the food that he had to work for about the effort and the strain of his life and his aging wife and weak child and always, without saying it, at father’s father’s father for raising him in the shadow of this monotonous industry.

Two years slid by and the screaming kept up until father’s father slipped and fell from a four-story scaffolding and broke his back. For a year the industry would pay the medical bills but wouldn’t buy his liquor and father’s father’s body went into shock and he would shake and scream and want and it was better sooner than later that he would...

That he did...

And he did die.

Father didn’t weep or grieve this nothingloss; rather he became the next familial incarnation of this perfect division to total a redundant, routine, and static sum of experiential waste.

At twenty-eight father had worked for 4 + 7 + 2 + 1 years and been married the sum of this figure to a wife who had borne their fourteen year old son who, like his father’s father’s father before him, was just preparing to enter the industry. A son who’s mother would feed him her milk and love for a year + 2 + 4 + 7 + 14 = 28.

He leaned over, clutching his sides, and vomited all over his sleeping bag.

It took him a few minutes to get adjusted to this new state of consciousness.

"Fucking hell," he muttered in his raspy morning voice as he noticed the vomit and then stood up warily. He had to take a few seconds, upon getting to his feet, to grab his balance. Once the immediate physical demands were taken care of, he surveyed the room.

It didn’t look good. Granted, it never did. The carpet was always stained beyond recognition, most of the lights no longer worked, there was little to no furniture, and the windows had all been boarded up….from the inside. He noticed Cassandra still in her sleeping bag in the middle of the floor.

"You the only one here?" Rodney asked. No answer.

"Is Virgil coming back with more?" Still no answer.

The stereo, in whatever room it had ended up in the night before, was still playing the same Sublime CD that had been on for probably a good 36 hours. Some of the lyrics could still be discerned as the quiet music wafted its way throughout the apartment.

Early in the morning, risin' to the street
Light me up that cigarette and I strap shoes on my feet…

Some food sure would be nice now, thought Rodney. When was the last time I ate?

"We still have the basic ingredients for toast, right Cass?"

Rodney made his way to the dark kitchen. He grabbed some bread from the top of the filthy refrigerator and put it in the toaster. He opened up a drawer hunting for some jam, when he caught wind of something rancid, and quickly doubled over the sink and released the contents of his stomach once more.

"Doesn’t anybody clean up around here anymore?" he shouted angrily to Cassandra as he let the tap flow in a rinse when he was finished puking.

He decided to abandon the toast in favor of the bathroom.

He made it within a few feet of the bathtub when he passed out once again.

...24/7 the devil's best friend
It makes no difference
It's all the same in the end...

Laden with connotations.

And Rodney sat up slowly.

Dazed and in pain, Rodney went into convulsions. It was particularly bad, as he felt as if he broke his arm in the fall to the bathroom tile and was using it spastically at the moment.

As soon as he could get a hold of himself, he threw himself into the yellow, mildew stained. bathtub and turned on the shower.

Laying at the bottom of the tub, with the cold water streaming down onto him, did some good. He began to sober up again; the haze lifted some.

"Is this what I’ve become?" he asked nobody in particular. "Fucking hell. How can you tell when you’ve crossed the line? When does fun become death? I can’t even tell which is the user anymore, me or the heroin."

His speech turned internal once more.

"God I hate this city. I could have been, like a farmer in Ohio and shit. Just doin’ my crops, working in the sun, don’t have to worry about any of this shit. Do I do the deal because I want do dull the pain, or do I do it because I am a masochist? I wonder how fine a line that actually is. Man, things were okay back in the day. Prom. Beautiful bubbly lasses with gowns and ribbons in their hair. Getting teased for wearing those lame-ass ruffles. Getting’ laid was the only thing you had to worry about. When did life get so fucking complicated? How did it happen so fast? Or is it just me?"

"Did I start doing the drugs because life got too complicated? Or did life get too complicated because I started doing the drugs?"

"Does it even matter?"

...I feel the break, feel the break, feel the break
And I gotta live it out
Oh yeah un-huh
Well I swear that I, what I really wanna know (my baby)
What I really wanna say, I can't define...

Rodney nixed the thoughts and went back to pure id.

Pulling himself up and out of the tub was a grueling task, but it didn’t compare to catching a glimpse of himself in the cracked bathroom mirror.

And they say a person begins to resemble their surroundings.

"Fuck it, I need to refuel."

He made his way back to the living room, this time with a bit more control over his bodily functions. He spied against the wall the row of rigs that had been used the night before by all the party goers (or was that the night before last?). Lined up like fucking Rockettes. He couldn’t place for sure what belonged to who, and the only people around at the moment seemed to be himself and Cassandra. It occurred to him briefly that everybody having their own rigs is pretty much lip service only to trying to stay safe. When you’re that fucked up, unprotected sex and using the wrong needles are not things that even occur to a person.

"Whatever", he said as he spied his own set.

It only took him a few minutes to realize that he had no more smack.

"So is Virgil bringing back more shit or what?" Rodney shouted once again to Cassandra. This time, he didn’t really care if she answered or not.

...what I really wanna know (my baby)
What I really wanna say, is there's just one way back
And I'll make it
My soul will have to wait...

To his dismay, all the other rigs were empty as well. It bothered him momentarily that he would even check, but he quickly dismissed the thought. A moot point anyway.

"What’s the difference between a bender and an addiction?" he asked Cassandra, though the question was more directed at himself.

He was, of course, killing himself.

Is it suicide if you never think about it?

Or is that instinct?

The door to the apartment opened.

Virgil entered, carrying two bags of groceries.

Rodney realized he was hunched over the row of rigs like a starving animal. He stood up and brushed the front of his shirt self-consciously.

"Hey," was all he could muster in greeting.

"Cassandra still out?" asked Virgil as he closed and locked the doors, fumbling a bit with the groceries.

...just wipe that look off your bati face
you hate me cause I got what you need...

"Ummm, yeah, I think so."

"You look like shit," commented Virgil as he put down the groceries.

"Did you get more?"

Virgil paused for a bit as he laid out the contents of the bag on the floor.

"Of course."

Rodney went for his rig.

"You puked all over you sleeping bag, Rodney."

"I know."

"Seriously man, you look dead."

Rodney brought over his rig to where Virgil, sitting, legs crossed, was beginning to cook up a batch.

"As they say, a person begins to resemble their surroundings," answered Rodney.

"Nobody says that," was Virgil’s reply as he handed Rodney a full syringe.

"Well they should." Answered Rodney between gritted teeth as he shot himself up.

Really you need that 100 pack to back up the stuff you own right???

Her words, intoxicating and sweet, yet the voice invoking them scraped at my mind with its haggard gasps.

My mother was never a young woman. I never knew her when she was "beautiful Leila", the woman my father spoke of so wistfully. She was always this. This sad shell, decaying and distant even when personable.

My father was a young man, twenty-one years her junior when the first and only child of the two was born. The doctors swore that having a child at 53 was a horrid idea, not to mention nearly unheard of even in this day of medical miracles. Of course, they were astounded that she had managed to get impregnated at all. I suppose at the back of their minds was the question of why this 32 year old man, gravel voiced and handsome, had chosen to marry and have children with a woman so much his senior. But he did, and they delivered an exuberant flame haired baby girl 7 months later. After an exhausting and nearly fatal delivery, Leila could only sigh the word "Glory"...the sigh which became my name.

I wasn't an easy child. I know this. My mother's health deteriorated quickly after I was borne. It was never said, but the thought always hung thick. I was the cause of the this. I was the reason my mother receded into a frail excuse for a life. I do not mean this in a manner of emotion; for she was a benevolent spirit. Leila was the kind of woman who could move you with a word, a touch, a simple look of knowing.

It amazes me that my father is the one who couldnt handle the turnabout. Even when my mother assured him that some parts of her will never change... never die, he only seemed in a constant state of unrest.

Is it sufficient(or even accurate?) to say he held a quiet hatred of me?

In retrospect, I do not remember a day that the words, "I love you" passed his lips. There was not one frame of memory in which he held his arms out to me, or even kissed me goodnight. Of course, little Glory thinks nothing of this, as she has no comparison.

My father was a man who held but one constant in his life.. his love of Leila. For this, I can forgive and understand his contempt of me.

Some things cannot be penned into mere words. Leila had a way with life. Never has there been a woman more capable of bestowing such thresholds of warmth, comfort, understanding, and love the way my mother did with just a touch...a spoken phrase. All of this is not overshadowed by the distance she keeps; likely to protect her own heart. She is not the kind to devalue your emotions by calling attention to her own.

I did not inherit this, but I am blessed with the gift of recognizing it.

Father died nine sharp years from the day of my birth. Leila did not cry. She spoke, unblinking, of fires burning themselves out, of the slowest burning embers being those that edure.

Somehow she lived pleasantly, among dense brown walls and mismatched quilts, until the day her embers found nothing left to burn.

At this, I cannot cry. Harmony isn't always a thing of beauty, but the sound of Glory.

This movie transcended the actors and personnel involved with its making, although they all did an outstanding job. Rather, what sticks with me is its disturbingly timely and sadly accurate commentary on our society.

This is not a "whodunit", for the viewer knows who done what and who's gonna do what virtually all throughout. There's plenty of action, but I wouldn't call it an action flick, either. Though there's a couple servings of romantic side dishes thrown in, it's no love story. There's even a generous measure of gore and violence. Regardless, only a moron would call it a "hack 'n' slash" picture.

This thing called 15 Minutes holds up a big mirror and gives us an uncomfortable look at what we've become. It shows how we have allowed many of the principles we profess to hold dear to, in truth, become compromised, even trivialized. It mocks our utilization of the countless cheap rationalizations we have come to rely upon in order to pass off as right, things we once deemed wrong.

Who among us truly has honor?

John Wayne is dead. There are no more real heroes--men and/or women of unimpeachable and uncompromising honor. Everyone has a price. Everyone.

Oh, surely there is someone who, if pushed hard enough, will seize the ring of honor and rise above the sewage. Perhaps? Maybe not. When the movie is over, ask yourself whether Edward Burns, the fire marshall, is a hero or a villain.

Briefly, the movie centers around a Czeck convict who comes to the U.S. to retreive his share of the take from his former partner in crime. He is accompanied by a Russian pal. The Russian is infatuated with cameras and movies (such as "Silence Of The Sheeps" ). One of the first things the Russian does is steal a camcorder. From that moment on, he proceeds to film virtually every move he and his Czeck companion make.

Unfortunately, the partner in crime (now a plumber) has spent the Czeck's share of the loot. So, the Czeck is obliged to kill his partner and offs his partner's wife as well. For good measure, he then torches the apartment.

The Russian films it all.

Later, they watch a tabloid TV show of a man about to become wealthy from his crime story, after beating a murder rap with a temporary insanity plea. They decide they can do the same thing. Those stupid Americans!

Al Pacino is a police detective made locally famous by tabloid broadcasting. Burns, on the other hand, is a fire marshall who simply wants to do his job and shuns publicity. Nevertheless, Pacino and Burns are thrown together by the circumstances of the murders and arson committed by the two foreigners.

A short while ago, ol' Paint and I were discussing another movie he'd recently watched. He remarked how movies frequently seem much better to him if he goes in with low to no expectations. I've noticed this phenomenon, too. Fact is, I sat down to 15 Minutes with virtually no anticipation. I went just to get out of the house. Since then, I've wondered if I would have enjoyed it nearly as much had I carried high expectations. I can honestly say I believe this movie deserves high marks, regardless of my expectations.

In sum, 15 Minutes is interesting and disturbing entertainment. I am confident it will linger long in my thoughts, for the production never overwhelmed the message. Thus, I am pleased to give it a very emphatic four Fred Heads out of five. Amen.

I sense the sation
feel the pride, hubris of indulgence
Anticipation of the crack
- of a seal
- of an ice upon immersion

it comes
A wavy scent of heat on a highway
assault the sense of taste, smell, thought

whee-la!! we’re drinking……..

A tiny sip
roll it around
taste buds dance, eyes roll back

A swallow, gurgle, choke, swallow
inebriation initiation

find a way
-fly a way

coursing, crazing, cruising, crashing
alcohol fucks you up./

I refill my glass
but it empties again

The better I get, the less I can do
funbling, bumbling, tumbling, boom!

What is it about alcohol that pulls, pushes, drives me?
- I like to smoke pot ## more in control
- I like to trip, LSD, shrooms ## learn much more

An alcoholic high is pure indulgence
--There is nothing to be gained or utilized from alcohol (escape ? (maybe!?!)!)!!!

What is it? = evil incarnate!

I’m not a god fearing man, but of what’s available in my repertoire, I’d have to say that alcohol is the devil’s sputum.

It is human foible distilled (!!!)
-How much is enough? too much?
and released

I dunno…… I’m drunk by now!

(There is no blood but what the gutter gives)