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BY Davey H

06/01 Direct Link
Davey H pulled an inflated but thankfully not embedded tick from inside his belly button this morning, noting its tan raisin-like composition, then, in a fit of pique, flung it off on the ground, regretting the act of potential sabotage later on, albeit realizing the bleakness inherent in attempting to retroactively correct the situation, i.e., said tick would never be retrieved from its sandy surroundings.
For you see, other persons – frequently wearing sandals or bare feet – traipse nonchalantly over the terrain upon which the engorged tick was so carelessly deposited.

Was the puffed tick of the genus Ixodes, species scapularis?
06/02 Direct Link
That tick would wither and die, but not before depositing hundreds of eggs, although considerable uncertainty surrounds such a situation. So we say not in jest that we hope for the best.

Meanwhile, as multifarious arachnid parasites descend upon our vulnerable pink flesh, we continue to hear viscerally jolting accounts of Wall Street parasites robbing the 99% of scarfable assets via various venues: “financialization” of student loan debt, sneaky little fees and charges on unsecured lines of credit (plastic debt) and our voracious for-profit sick-care system.

Rolling Jubilee is buying up medical debt. Is that a good thing? You bet!
06/03 Direct Link
Blow past that hovel on the corner of the road that gets closed during mud season, and as you crane your head rightward – due to some eerily indescribable gravitational pull – you notice many exposed boulders dotting a veritable mud-lot.

And where are the pigs? Those rocks are showing for a reason: the porcine inhabitants of that pathetic space are now mere memories, and whilst they lived, breathed and ate everything in sight, including the subsoil, they feared not their eventual demise.

Now they may be pork chops, ham, or if they're extremely unlucky, the most grotesque “foods”: scrapple or sausage.
06/04 Direct Link
PIGS  STILL

Hearken to a heartening envelopment
when cruising through
in your wagon so blue
that semi-rural development!

Wonder of wonders I have seen!
Still alive are the mud-caked porcine!
Yes, they still grovel
at home in that hovel
where it seemed that
they’d no longer been!

So don’t cast aspersion
at carnivorous mavens
nor generate aversion
at their ramshackle havens.
They’ve done all they can
for those ill fated hogs
that they, at least, man
didn’t throw to the dogs!

So brother, go hither!
You can still cast an eye
at those critters that wither
in their filthy sty.
06/05 Direct Link

Oh, gloomy-hued sky
of sun so bereft!
What fate that I
would then take the first left!

Whilst the 1%’s grinding
but hasn’t yet won;
our assets they’re finding
Will they take our last $1?

Meanwhile, we’re green while
cool spring rain has pelted;
the grass out the ass
grew tall after snow melted.

Will it dither
or wither as I drive upon it?
Or arise and lay flat
festooned with yellow bonnet?

Hah! Spry dandelions perky
and testing their mettle
with things still a bit murky
to support the rose petal.

Slumber, oh cucumber!
We’ve got your number!

06/06 Direct Link

Again, the infernal pull of having to be on time for something, say, a social function, that elicits trepidation on the part of you, the participant, who with temerity will tromp the accelerator and make otherwise inadvisable automotive moves in order to get your butt to the destination on time.

Screw it.

As per the non-venerable Whupsteen’s sage philosophy:
“If given the choice ‘twixt being on edge or on time, just RSVP – and remain sublime.”

So as our destination draws quite a bit nearer, I pick my nose and see how it goes, take a peek from the rear-view mirror.

06/07 Direct Link

One judges a driver by company he keeps: gas hog? Late arriver? Or do they drive Jeeps?

Rick H is a fella with whom I recently reconnected, and suffice to say, not having seen him in 40 years, he looks just as damn old as expected; gray around the temples, just like me and all the others.
He did some crazy shit back then, too, just like the rest of us.

But nobody – NOBODY – did what he did with a Chevy Vega. No, Rick was a brash road pioneer.

Who else ever tried shoehorning a 350 LT1 into a Vega?

06/08 Direct Link

QUERIES TO A FOREST SAGE

Salutations, oh Forest Sage!
Omniscient upon the forest stage!

Please whip me out a botanical page
and make it an arborist’s sheaf!
Then I will engage
with a systemic rage
and turn over a spankin’ new leaf!

Why, oh sage great
I have noticed of late
as I peruse the damp forest floor:
does some deadwood that’s fallen
turn green when it’s all in
a spot that we need to restore?

THE SAGE THEN RESPONDED:

”That green is just envy
oh, yes, if you will
and at times, lad, it can be
some stale chlorophyll."

06/09 Direct Link
The mega-spies
have expunged their jism
and to no one’s surprise
they have looked through a PRISM.

And now it appears
that they LIKE all our views
but it brings me to tears
that folks call this stuff ‘news’!

Sans razzmatazz I thus prepared paper
and read of that jazz
so-called NSA caper.

Although we may piss
and burp, fart and cuss
the real truth is this:
'They' make money off us!

Here's a probable explanation:
The 'Big Data' mining
of our information
oh, please stop your whining!
Soon surely you’ll see
it’s only SPAM
sent to y’all and me!
06/10 Direct Link
Aspersions will surely be cast
as jaws will likewise flap;
yet soon this news will be past
and canned just like so much crap.

As to those aspersions being hurled in the general direction of our most recent ‘leaker’, many are coming from the ‘left’ of the political spectrum, and do call up some reasonable assumptions as to his credibility and waffling tendencies.

And we have the venerable Time magazine, that thinly-masked tool of the Ruling Class, with labeling apparatus in full bloviating swing, calling such whistle-blowers ‘hacktivists’.

Funny, we’d likely never see or hear about government/business revolving-door corruption otherwise.
06/11 Direct Link
Hurly burly birthday girl
with gifts, she’s free from want;
with few days off she came to unfurl
in overcast Vermont!

’Twas nineteen long-ass years ago
the venerable T got hitched,
and it was a miserable day although
few attendees bitched.

They put aside
their mundane cares
and came to reside
on plastic lawn chairs...

Chairs which received an impromptu and quite unwelcome drenching, despite the fact that it had not rained in months; oh, how very wrenching!

The showers dampened whatever remaining vestiges of enthusiasm the bride-to-be possessed, and conspiratorially combined with intermittent tears to form mascara-tinged facial rivulets.
06/12 Direct Link
Nineteen years is nothing anymore, so they say. And who the f*** are “they”?

Usually members of The Greatest Generation, having been through many a degradation: one World War and its subsequent various and sundry ‘conflicts’.

Having thus waded through the muck of our dreadful carnally bloodlust-soaked past, to prevail through thick and thin without giving in, in sickness or health, penury or wealth, they muddle through, making it last.

Against that backdrop, we boomers sway like pussy willows in our predecessors’ shade, and in some cases, notably ours, we actually feel jubilantly joyous whilst attending their 50th anniversary fete!
06/13 Direct Link
Back to the present and still hitched,
having seldom bitched.
This vacay was to be less strenuous
or ambitious than previous jaunts,
and would therefore mean culling fewer wants.

Davey H had been out planting tiny cucumber seedlings until 11:30 the night prior to departure, and this out-of-the-ordinary act felt good and right.

Plant at night; plant at night!
Help those tiny plants to fight;
shoot tender shoots
with all their might!
Don’t let them be baked by light!
Hot sun, no fun, it’s only right!

But that bright sun was not to be;
neither hide nor hair of honeybee!
06/14 Direct Link
Dinner bound, and lately I’ve found
oh, please don’t be averse;
for you answer that cell phone’s
odious sound
and pull it from your purse.

Hello! Um, hey, but, like, um, we’re
all in the fray, still sitting here!
Do we matter at all?
Can you still friggin’ hear?

But I rant at such a rude interruption
of who and whatever is right in front of us
at such times as that categorically unimportant call
comes in!
But to the connectedness-addicted,
such minutiae matter not.
Hell, we might as well be an ink blot.

The Cell Phone Resistance Movement BECKONS.
06/15 Direct Link
Had a buddy who several years ago latched on to a great job installing insulation with a local insulation company. Suffice to say such exquisite timing and auspicious geographical location has insulated him and the firm from prevailing recession forces.
Sometimes they lay, sometimes spray, with a seeming teeming preference for dense pack cellulose – the rage of the day. Could I get him over to our place to play?

I bought a ton of un-faced fiberglass, planning to stuff it into ceiling cavities. Boneheaded move, maybe, but I was dead-set against cellulose. It looks like an open invitation for mice.
06/16 Direct Link

You can buy cans of cheap-ass spray foam insulation that has too many drawbacks to list, but several come to the fore, such as: better use the ENTIRE can in one shot or be left with product that can’t be safely extracted, having hardened in the exit cavity.
Store an unopened can for too long and see what happens!

I made that mistake, and then made another worse mistake while attempting to utilize the still-full can by drilling a hole in the nozzle.

POOOF!

The ooze flowed fast and furious as I directed it into rust cavities in rocker panels.

06/17 Direct Link
Today is a day that was so very sad
we despaired
and then ended up teary;
for our dear Dookie left
in this place that we shared
too bad!
Oh, so dull, dank and dreary!

He took his last labored breaths
as we watched, horrified.

We ended up leaving his body in the living room for most of the day, shooing a lone fly from his mouth toward dusk.

Chilled to the bone with god-awful sensations, I ambled over to consult with a friend who had cremated his elderly dog some years back.

”Build a wood ‘rick’,” he said, nonplussed.
06/18 Direct Link
Nearing dusk, we had almost completed
the rick-stack of damp wood and brush
that would become the funeral pyre.
But it was one of those years:
dry wood was in short supply;
we had none under cover.

Still not completely sure
if Dookie was REALLY dead,
we wrapped his surprisingly supple bulk
in a hand-woven blanket
and wheeled him to the final place
his body would remain
in its present homogeneous state.

With air heavy with dew,
heart heavy with grief,
we placed the gasoline bowl under the pyre,
lit it,
and launched the most difficult task
of his relief.
06/19 Direct Link
Syrian rebels, big Baghdad bomb.
Fat stones and pebbles
Glib glitter and glom.
Would it make Prince wince?
Lady Gaga her name?
Watch them bask in irrelevance,
out of the game.

Health safety net shredded
new nukes for Iran
Me? I stay vetted
and PUKE when I can.

Dull aches and pains
a smartass’s zingers
Dow losses and gains
As we hear trilling singers’
dull sonorous strains
folks are put through the wringers.

The continued pursuit of health
Is a joke!
But a great source of wealth
for those One Percent folk.
atop our sick-care non-system
of which I spoke.
06/20 Direct Link

Undocumented workers back in the news
whilst Gitmo prevails in contrarian views.

Meanwhile, day after day,
week after week,
the wood pile out back
hasn’t cut any slack,
and two birches died back by the creek.

Tomorrow, the first sunny day of summer
a non-bummer,
we depart for hotter environs
to attend a memorial service
for one who two months ago dearly departed.

Life, however, intervened.
So instead of embarking on the 4+ hour drive
before midnight, we packed the car,
and then packed it in.
Hells bells, 3 hours sleep in one’s own bed
beats hell out of that.

06/21 Direct Link
We made the mistake of not printing out directions, and the map sucked.
This confluence of inauspicious events meant arriving late at the wrong church of the same name as the one we were supposed to be at, beat.

Too bad someone has to die for everyone to assemble for such fun.

But the deceased,
a food aficionado in this case,
would prefer this buffet,
this feast – a merry-go-round well-greased
and chimera not ceased – to moping.
We’d like to think so at least.

Consuming restaurant food for several days meant dropping our guard regarding GMO’s,
but we’re used to that.
06/22 Direct Link

Bloat set in
and attendant gross indigestion
bopped along for the alimentary ride.
Hardly surprising,
considering the onslaught
of foreign substances
– otherwise known as restaurant food –
and rank acidic coffee brewed
with fluoridated, chlorinated water.
Ergo it stewed.

Lower GI micro-flora thus evicted,
a belly fuss made that was predicted!
Before our banquet was complete
I was near unsteady on my feet
and coming soon I could deduce
damn soon stools would be so loose!
Surely as that greasy dish
Mother Nature granted a wish
yup, having eaten in starts and fits
I wasn’t bleatin’
but sure had the shits.

06/23 Direct Link

The extra long table beckoned, splaying across that back room allotted for our familial banquet as we ambled in, chilled by drafty air conditioning.
Some briefly marveled at the fireplaces that grace the place.

Bevvy set up shop prior to beverage proffering, firing up a WIFI-enabled tablet on which his merrily chattering daughter soon appeared, her witty repartee intermittently chopped by infinitesimal connection interruptions that garbled her frozen facial expressions in characteristic digital fashion whilst snipping off chunks of words.

But nobody seemed to bat an eye or ear; attendees were used to such cyber-flakiness; in fact, some were addicted.

06/24 Direct Link
Bevvy's daughter,  it turns out, was chatting via this FIOS WIFI connection while bopping around her apartment in Germany.

Oh, do they ever drink!

Yes, she assured us, the beer flowed freely and needed no Oktoberfest in which to do so.

She had the giggle of a girl half her age. Funny, she lacked her Dad's bushy eyebrows, and we didn't recall her Mom's facial features – not with the passage of 23 years.
In fact, the last time I saw her mother was in 1989 at that silly LA Strawberry Festival.

E-nough. We commenced taking unassigned seats at the table.
06/25 Direct Link
I ended up next to a redhead cousin, 3 years my senior. This ordinarily wouldn't have raised hackles, save for the gustatory sustenance she saw fit to consume. When asked for her order, she uttered a 3-syllable word: long-since heard and quite absurd. I mutely demurred, as it made my gut curd: she might as well have asked for a TURD!

Her menu selection? Escargot. (That's “ess-cargo” to the uninitiated, and is another name for friggin' SNAILS.

But no matter; nobody ranted in there, conversation flowed like cool Maine air, and I tried not to think of this cousin's gut-fare.
06/26 Direct Link
All in all, we were seventeen
three generations spanned;
some were hefty, some quite lean
we hailed from across the land!
In late June, the place so green
for us to make a stand;
the camera's flash came quick and clean
across the lens we spanned!

The wait-help gladly and dutifully operated the assorted digi-cam appurtenances as the gathered clan posed and cheesed, pleased.

This gig was definitely one of those “hey, we need to do this more often!” undertakings, and sentiments to that effect would no doubt flow from attendees' pens, keyboards, and cell phones in the ensuing weeks.
06/27 Direct Link

One notable occurrence is worthy of mention: the deceased's father-in-law got up to make an announcement, presumably a PROnouncement, regarding the deceased – or at least some commemoration thereof – just about the time the last tidbit of dessert had been gnashed or boxed up and folks started to get restless, prior to a decidedly vigorous busing of the table.

But it was not to be.

The now-elderly gent lavished few words of praise before launching into a countervailing climate science riposte, pillorying climatologists of Kyoto-esque persuasion and assessing the consensus of global warming as “pure bullshit”.

In the end, CO2 prevailed.

06/28 Direct Link
Back at the sumptuously appointed (by working-class standards) hotel, Spousester and I puzzled at our not being invited over to my cousin's fashionable digs for some shit-shootin' and 5¢ tour. After all, hadn't they turned left after pointing us in the direction of our temporary lodging? Whassupwitdat?
Was this a 'WTF' moment?

Hotel WIFI was sufficient, even for an 11 year-old machine, clocking in around 18 mbps. Outside, relentless sun cooked our granola bars and vitamins before we had sense enough to schlep them inside.

Later on, we got over to Cuz's and ogled at both house and car renovations.
06/29 Direct Link

Memories gushed in a delightful torrent as we swooped over those smooth suburban streets to my cousin’s place. We parked the rusty ride and sauntered up to the split-level’s main entrance – one graced by Uncle and Auntie for nearly 50 years.

Oh, many an “if-only” surfaced along with loving memories of this grouchy uncle and his stern, stalwart spouse.

But it was deeply satisfying to again pick the capacious brain of JR: mega-mechanic, self-taught computer expert and former body man extraordinaire, of whose scintillating skills we were very much aware. Hark! Glance at that jet black 1960 Corvette so fair!

06/30 Direct Link
Time definitely passed.
Man, you could say it was FAST.
In this coastal state so vast,
flag proudly flapping from the mast,
emotions of grief didn’t last.
And we country bumpkins were outclassed!

Cuz had indicated that she still wasn’t pension-vested, and her two Corgi mixes, two parakeets and a parrot didn’t flick the bird.
Cuz also bought a brand new cherry red Honda Civic that purred.

New tile bath downstairs, 50+ year-old fridge replaced, old bath became cut-through to the garage – dedicated cages for birdies with wings, these were a few of their favorite things!
So long, old hodgepodge!