Google Map Squirrel.

I lived here in 1963. There appears to be a squirrel in the middle of the front yard. Google maps is watching you rodent.

Thank You For The

Leftovers are lurking in the fridge, cramming up the place, shoving the everyday cartons and bottles to the back of the shelf.  Songs of holidays are beginning to creep their way into the air, and things, as opposed to nothings, are encouraged to show up in bags and boxes, delivered and absorbed into the rooms and cupboards, some remaining and others banished for being inessential or hideous.

There are quinces and cranberries and pears shoved into mason jars of vodka and whiskey, left to improve our lives and attitudes later on. But it's never too soon to embrace the idea of all this... stuff.  Or maybe it is.  Wasn't it just Halloween?  There's still a cute stuffed bat hanging by the mailbox, and the ubiquitous squashes. Holidays seem to be cramming the calendar like never before, bumping each other in line and reminding us how self-centered they can be. Bad behavior is acceptable at the table. But that's OK, I like to mix it up this time of year. After that, it's more of the same.
Happy Holidays!

Reason vs Dumbasses

Hello. I am reason. I have a rudimentary understanding of how a Democracy and Economics work, or at least the ability to recognize when it is working. I like the American life, even if I don't agree with many aspects of how it was achieved. Still, I am appreciative that it exists and wish for it to continue.

Hello. I am Dumbasses. Not sure if that's two words or one, but we are many. We understand that we don't like that the government is doing stuff that the rest of us don't like. We like the other stuff that we got from the Government, but that was before they tried to give other people stuff we might not like. It's bad. This is what we don't like, and also why we are Dumbasses.

TEA PARTY OVER STEEPED

When you sit in hot water for too long, nobody wants you for tea.

I Love Lucy

Nietzsche Family Circus.

When we are tired, we are attacked by ideas we conquered long ago.  

Something In The Garden

This is photographic proof that something is, or was, in the garden. Something very fast and malevolent. It will not be taken alive.
I witnessed this force of nature by accident while taking photos of the abundant roses in the garden, and was lucky to get away in time. This is me on the run. I will not soon forget the fear it instilled in me and my camera.  I have spent the last day in recovery from the horror.
Still, it was a lovely day filled with sunshine and blossoms.  You just never know what will pop up in the best of circumstances. Just take my advice and always plan an escape route when photographing in the wild. You have been warned.

Pantone Makes Me Feel Better

Color is everything. Color has a name. Color is spelled wrong.
This is a black and white world with or without colors, but I've got this Pantone color chart that helps sort out the Maroon from the Rubine, the Red from the other Red, and puts Teal in a place it doesn't deserve.
Why does it make me happy? Because I like the squares.
I like that they are self contained. They keep a respectful distance and still manage to be complimentary. They don't have to get mixed up, but if they do it can turn out well... or sometimes you get Teal.
Black is awesome, by far the most colorful square. But it can also make you do things you shouldn't.  Beige does not look good on me, so I don't like it on anyone. Dark Blue is the kind of color that gives Brown a bad name. Royal Blue is absurd and ought to be thrown overboard. Orange is fine as long as it isn't 1974. Greens are just great on walks. Burgundy looks OK in a wine glass but nowhere else.  Yellow is really only there to get with Blue and make Green.  And Purple, well that is one badass Pantone and I think we all know why. As for all the Random Reds, where would Roses be without them? Beware of the Metallics, they get a high number but don't really earn it.  And then there's White... It's what makes the world what it is, along with Black. What a bitch.

Get Pissed And Play A Record.

Pemberton Senses A Change

Hello with much enthusiasm and a dash of jubilation albeit with a pinch of trepidation. That is to say, I report with mixed feelings regarding a distinct change in the weather.
Upon awakening earlier, just minutes ago really, to the smell of hummingbird and a hint of topsoil overturned, I ventured to the south window and observed the following: a hummingbird and overturned topsoil. Gads! It appears that I successfully napped through the entirety of a season.
I recall a brief episode around the end of December last involving a roast beef. It seems the thing had dispersed a smell that could awaken a badger from the dead. A glorious display of aromatic bliss that immediately put me on my feet with much determination and unbridled appetite! I was famished and immediately primed for the task ahead, no matter how arduous. Sad to say, it ended badly.
 I had little trouble upending the beast off the table - all it took was a well placed paw and the thing was mine!  At nose level is was utterly intoxicating; I swooned and lost my senses altogether. I dimly remember dragging the roast down the main hall before a rude confiscation occurred. It seems the help had other ideas for the meal... Oh well, I restrained myself and allowed them to carry on. I have a deep regard for the keepers of my house, so under the circumstances decided not to make an issue of it. I slept well that evening with the memory on my tongue, so all was not in vain.
Anyway, I appear to have swerved off track. It is the coming of Spring that has me at odds.  I will adjust in due course, but it does take an effort. One is rather thrown off by an abrupt and unannounced change such as this, and some contemplation will be required to make the transition. I am unprepared to simply step out into a foreign clime, teeming with little flying things and untrimmed grass. The smells this time of year are a gaggle of anarchy... Yes, better to let it settle down a bit rather than rush out prematurely. I have given it a chance through the window and found it not yet ideal, in fact I took one sniff through the open sash and inhaled a galaxy of ephemeral mayflys. They won't last the night, but I will still be here tomorrow afternoon when I will once again survey the progress of the season, this time with my nose to the glass. Goodnight and dream of beef!

Black Speaks Out

Don't pretend you don't see me. I get this all the time, people think just because there's nothing reflecting back, it isn't there. Well here's a bit of news for you all:
I ABSORB EVERYTHNG!
You all are obsessed with BLUE and YELLOW and ORANGE, like they can cure all your ills and brighten up your day.  But what you don't realize is that they are just lying to you. That's right. They  just throw back what you want to see like a cheap hue. They don't possess any depth, it's just a surface trick to lure you in.  Can't you see? I'm the real thing! I have DEPTH and I will tell you the TRUTH!! When you are lost on a moonless night, trying to find  the way, I'm there for you. But do you see? NO! You act like a hopeless ass and stumble around falling into the ground.  What do I have to do to get your attention?
 When you got locked in that closet when you were five and screamed and pounded on the door, I was there for you. When you woke up from that hideous nightmare with a fever I was there... but you just stared at me like I was nothing.  Soon the light came on and I disappeared.
But I'd rather be invisible than a sellout rainbow - what a ruse they are, nothing but a bunch of show off primaries prancing about with droplets.
 At least white has some self-respect. As far apart as we are, I take my black hat off to white. That's a class act. Nothing gets past white. It must be easy, not absorbing and being so bright and all.
Still, I wouldn't give up my mystique for anything. I have an aura that even a candle has trouble holding up to. Cats and witches and clergy would be just pets and cranks and silly men in cloaks of a different color without me.
The world would miss me if I were gone. But I know one thing for sure. There's more of me out there than anything else and one day all your lights will go out. I'm talkin' 'bout the BIG LIGHT! That's right, the damn SUN will eventually be done and then I'll get my day in the... uh, well I'll just be all there is I guess. Wow.
Anyway, sorry for ranting. I just get overwhelmed sometimes.  Whatever happens, don't be afraid of me.

Just Iffy

The room is a crowd
When I speak out loud
Just unruly
Spoken unduly proud

When I say it I justify

Then onto nullify 

Just nonsense

In past tense

I'll hide in the light
With all eyes on me
Never a clue as to who
I might be right

The point goes astray
But I aim anyway
The target in deference
Moves away

One day a riot
The next a lull
Eventually quiet
Hopefully done

Night Switch

I'd like to attach one of these to my head. Anyone else think this whole dream thing is like an unwanted  home invasion?  Isn't waking life enough to deal with already...?  Every once in a while there is a respite from the relentless and all-too-vivid re-imaginings that pummel the helpless-at-rest, an odd bit of frolic and bliss,  but it's about as rare as a cake at the dentist's.  Per usual, some horrible mash-up of past memory pain shows up uninvited; a combined humiliation of reality and worse-case-scenario that lingers into the morning, or even past lunch and into the next evening. I have to knock it back with strong coffee followed by determined thoughts of present consciousness and sometimes even pizza and beer for lunch.
I remember a time when this wasn't the case.  At some point between puberty and my late teens, I recall slumber rich with wonder and lolling, stretching into the late morning on weekends like warm baked bread in my bed.  It was what I imagined an opiate bliss might feel like, and sometimes, if the planets are aligned and hell is averted, I still get that happy floating nothingness for a moment or two, but it is a fleeting thing.
What happened between then and now? Have I amassed such a database of awkward personal moments, unwanted tragic news stories, scenes of torture and heartbreak, accrued knowledge of the cruel nature of things, that it just overflows as I lay cuddled up under comfy covers, like a backed up toxic drainpipe into a clear mountain stream? Is my imagination overactive, underused while awake, acting out like a child prodigy denied a piano on which to pound?  I fear it's all of those things combined with bad luck and an uncooperative pillow.  I'm pretty lucky during the day, so perhaps this is just the balance of nature keeping it real. I will just suck it up and hope for happiness. Goodnight and sweet fucking dreams!

Flying On The Ground At Night In a Small Town Cemetary Is Not Scary

It was a daylit night, the clouds were stuck in a tree at the cemetery war memorial. The light was high yet shone all the way to the grass at my feet. Under my eyes, over my head. Fast above, so fast the sky had no time to think. There was a smell of night damp and fallen rain, not just summer but forever. I saw the tree outlined with sharp shape against the midnight, each branch held its angle, and there was light at every edge. Nothing strange, nothing out of place, all together there. It held me in a cold and warm embrace with smooth snagged sticky space and nothing strange, nothing out of place. Then the clouds were high, so high above the moon with its daylit night, and they flew, not like but with the wind. This was the vantage point to see them all together, over and under, beneath the ground the dead, around the sky the light, against the tree the life. Nothing strange, nothing out of place. My feet were on the ground, my head was attached, my eyes above my head. There was nothing to do, nothing to think, nothing to say, nowhere to go. All together there, it was. It still is.

Monkey's Night Out

Hey! Just got back form the Oscars. Did you guys know the orchestra was live? I didn't even see them! Anyway, I'm having trouble focusing after the sparkly gowns with sparkly backdrops... I even took a little tumble trying to find my seat. Of course I wasn't invited, I was hanging out in the car wash and got stuck under a black SUV. I was only trying to clean up a bit on the cheap...  Anyway, next thing I know a valet tossed me the keys and told me to park it in the VIP section. Well, I'm a sucker for red carpets - they remind me of raw meat. One thing led to another and I ended up 26 rows behind Jack Nicholson. That guy is awesome. He has a cologne very close to 80 proof Kentucky Bourbon, unmistakable even at a distance.
I had a good time and met some real animals there, mostly at the VIP bar. They were all talking about movies and boring stuff like that, but I got some free drinks. The bartender thought I was Danny Devito. It was fun for awhile but I had to get out of there after some producer offered me a job driving his dog to school. The money was crazy good, but I couldn't do it. A respectable dog I could maybe handle for a week or two, but this was a chihuahua working on a law degree. I could've drowned him in a teacup. I'll never understand pets, let alone ones with aspirations. All I know is there's hot water at the car wash, good booze at the Oscars and whoever Danny Devito is, he should get some new friends.

The Bitter Transformed Existentialist

You painted me into the corner cupboard.  Of course it was dark, and the saucers blocked your view, even after you took them out and piled them one on top without any sense of size order. It is better to go from large to small but this is never taught as it is not deemed a useful skill in getting ahead.  Algebra might have helped you had this been a serious endeavor, not so much for stacking the small plates, but for calculating the outcome of painting in the dark. That's where I was, for all you cared.
Geometry maybe more applicable, or am I being too kind? Just a simple sense of 1-2-3, or more precisely, what-the-hell. Did the cupboard shelf need painting or were you just obsessing over the lack of visible purpose in your life? I think we all know the answer to that, so why bother with an analysis. The outcome is clear. You painted me into the corner cupboard and there I will remain. Your friend until the next time I creep into your cup when you least expect it.

Kevin Ayers 1944 - 2013

Kevin Ayers was one of those people who should pass away in the night, asleep, perhaps dreaming of sub-tropical locales and women laden with ripe bananas. Rest in peace...

What Have I Drank?

Be forewarned, this tale is sordid and downright unsavory.  There is a bar in our 'hood that is very close to our hearts, especially for its affordability and lack of a sign on the building. It also has a cool name (something defined as a "prolonged series of retaliatory, vengeful, or hostile acts") Yet, it is a very friendly place frequented by hip girls & boys and the guy who founded Voodoo Doughnut, who has a fantastic collection of trilbys.

This afternoon, being a Friday and feeling a bit Happy Hourish, we rolled in and sat up at the bar. Cocktails were an astonishing bargain at $3.50, so I inquired as to the brand of house Whiskey.  On this occasion I was taken aback at the answer: McCormicks.  My initial thought was a mashup of fish restaurant and something vaguely Scottish, which I quickly put aside and ordered straight on the rocks. The adorable barperson assured me it had a "vanilla finish" which it indeed had.  It finished like a final shellac on a yacht named after a very frugal relative wearing rather too much perfume. I had another. The final tab came to less than a bowl of our cat's best kibble, so I felt quite pleased with myself. Of course it was all an illusion... as most of the best things in life are.

After returning home, I felt compelled to find out more about this ridiculous sort of Bourbon. I had visions of sipping at home at less than the price of bottled water, laughing at the likes of Makers Mark and Knob Creek. I quickly found the entire history of the distillery documented on the ever -reliable Wikipedia. I felt a bit unsettled at the discovery that the distillery was located in the upper reaches of Missouri - a most unlikely place to manufacture Bourbon. It appears the place was established there for the natural Limestone springs running underground. Furthermore, it is the nation's oldest distillery due to the fact that it marketed its product as "medicine" throughout prohibition. This is a very savvy Whiskey, with a hint of lawlessness and perhaps a slightly illegal aftertaste. 

The final chapter in this lengthy history of distillery (which also features a popular vodka called "Glazed Doughnut") almost caused a complete state of sobriety. Rather than paraphrase, I am including this classic bit of history so that no one will be tempted to order this tipple at any price. You can thank me later by buying me a Bourbon made anywhere south of the Ohio river. Cheers!

1996 Export Investigation

From 1996 to 1999, the company sold nearly five million gallons of disguised grain alcohol to a freight forwarder operated by a Russian immigrant for eventual smuggling into Russia. The shipper was suspected of having ties to some of the most powerful mob clans in Russia. Other distillers, brokers, and shippers around the United States were also reported to have been under investigation by U.S. authorities. McCormick was charged and pled guilty to a misdemeanor count of making a false entry in regulatory documents, in which it identified the alcohol as non-drinkable products such as industrial cleaning solutions, and it agreed to pay $2 million in penalties and $1 million in reparations paid to the government of Ukraine, and accepted a one-week suspension of its license.

Royston Montgomery Pemberton

Hello most forthrightly! That is, I'm introducing myself, as it were... if you catch the drift I'm leaning toward, and I most sincerely hope that you do. My name is as listed in the above title, but you can call me Roy. Monty if you prefer, but in truth - Pemberton is the name ascribed me when the feet hit the floor, which I assure you happens when I am awaken, usually daily. My reason for addressing this forum, while not entirely clear to me since I only recently arose from a rather ambitious nap, I can only guess is for a good cause. What?  Yes, well I will do my best. Always aim to please you know!
In truth, things have been topsy and all around out-of-the norm for my sort of breed. The cold requires that I spend a sometimes exhausting amount of time indoors and off the hunt, so to speak. The fire warms the hearth where I am often found in deep contemplation and, in truth, much needed recovery, and I take great comfort in using this time to, uh, catch up on my rest.  One can only do as one must, and that is what I do when I am sleeping.
Well! It's been tremendously pleasant introducing myself under difficult circumstances, considering the evening meal is still an hour off. I will excuse myself now and bid you all a good evening as I must prepare and conserve my energy for the coming repast. Sleep well and dream of foxes. Goodbye!

THE URBAN SURREALIST

The shut up should stay in and the inn should shut up.  I was a mussel in a shell.  Caught up in a net of an inept fisherman, so easily tangled that his feat fell off.  How awkward and worded.  An attic full of dreams is not what it seems. It's a gateway to the lower dens, where the lights are glittering and darkness never falls. Just a trip on stairs, taken unawares. That is the downfall, the step off the right direction. The surrealist is a realist. Not an ally with a list. I can no longer carry the weight of meaning, so I let it go. Going, going, never gone.

I Like Girls

This is a great show. Watch this.

  

CRITICAL CROW CORNER

What some of you may not understand, or remember (I was featured briefly last year and have been in seclusion, working) is that I am A POET.  While it is true I was featured as an astute observer of the local urban environment - it is not my first love. In fact, I despise the current urban scene.  This used to be a decent neighborhood, littered with oily fast-food wrappers and spilled malt liquor. Now it's a bleak landscape of salted caramel and the occasional pomme frite.   I would die happily never having to lick up another inch of IPA. What is it with you people? Have you not the decency to indulge in repugnant snacks?
No matter... I am above these small and highly disturbing details of urban lack-of-blight. I am better than that. I have important WORK to complete. In hindsight, things were much easier when the morning worm was floating in a discarded meth batch. Oh boy, we were flying in those days. But I digress...  Yes, I am ascending, not like the lark. In fact, small birds are not on my radar. I have no time for them and their incessant chattering.  My time is better spent in pursuit of the MUSE! I am close to pecking new ground in my pursuit of the perfect poem. Soon it will be complete and the chattering will cease. The #4 bus will screech to a halt, the pale and skinny two-legged hoards put down their pints, the dogs discard their cardigans and every squirrel miss its branch when I unveil the as-yet-untitled masterstroke of genius! Nothing will ever be the same again. I must go now, I have left my almost-completed manuscript in the upper branches, where I will peruse, ponder and persist!

THE URBAN SURREALIST 2013

A revolution. One morning stretched to noon and back, like the cat. I saw the coming of the coffee cups, black with promise. I heard the starting of the car, the kicking of the feet, the pushing of the pedal on the season cycle; around the sun we go with not a break. And now the half-circle cup sits quietly, less disturbed. Domain recovered its shocking.

Now comes the cold, the snap. The knitting sits atop and wraps around. The cat is undecided at the doorstop, one way adventure, wrong way warming. All outside or in, all dead or buried until Spring. What is new about the date when we've met before? I see you are changed, it must be the hat. I can change with the weather, but I'd rather do it alone. 

What is new but the old one again. And again, it stays the same. I'll call it by another name, the thirteenth Earl. The one was enough, but that isn't how it works. So the best is set to come, but has it yet? I'll be under the blanket, revolving. Or in the bath, dissolving.