Tuesday, July 31, 2012

The latest from London


“…we interrupt our program: ‘Macy*s Sweet Tweets for Olympic Feet’ for this special news bulletin.  Reporting from London is correspondent Mano Blanick.  Mano…”

“Jack, it is pandemonium here on fashion forward Carnaby St.  A vending machine dispensing white Olympic  trainers for no cost has appeared overnight in front of the Office London shoe shop.  Secretaries and admins from all over the Financial District have flocked to the apparition.  It appears they are rebelling against the four inch heels demanded by their superiors.  Nearby Asian Nail salons have also shown a marked decrease it their business due to this outrage”.   

“As the Ladies speculate on the pros and cons of no cost shoe shopping, their studs can be found drowning their financial sorrows at the Kingly Club.  There is a rumor that a local Black Widow is taking advantage of this situation, and there are dead bodies scattered throughout the area. The smart lads have started in at the Florists, looking for buds so they won’t look like cruds to these overanxious ladies”.

“…Wait… It looks like there is a new development… 

It appears the trainers come with an accessory.  The Ladies excitement is growing…. It appears to be a long, slender object.  Not sure, but it looks like One of those things bought in a naughty novelty shop.  And it appears some of the girls aren’t waiting to use them. Oh, my! Are we in New Orleans?  Oh, the lads aren’t going to be pleased with this “

“Let’s see if we can get some feedback.  Miss!  Could you spare a moment?  What was your reaction to seeing this machine?”

“Oh, Mano.  It was heaven on earth!  Everyone knows that shoes are better than men.  They look cute and you don’t have to pick up after them. Well, actually, you do have to pick them up, but they smell so nice.  And it even came with the stimulator like a shoe horn.  I love it.”

“How many pairs do you think you will come away with?”

“That is a rude question, Mano.  The two things you never ask a woman are her age and how many shoes she has."

“Well, there you have it.  Men just might have been replaced by pieces of leather.  Back to you, Jack…”

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Harry in London (Blogophilia 23.5)


Hey, Hidey and Howdy.  It’s Harry Handy, your randy dandy dead DJ reporting to you from the London Olympics.  Yes, Oldies fans, WOFT has deigned to send yours truly to haunt the ceremonies.  And weren’t those ceremonies haunting?  A thousand years of British history distilled into a three and half days…I mean hours...(it just seemed like days). I understand the American commentary left a bit to be desired.  They could have just hired me. 

Now for you colonoscopy denizens, I have been dredging around the music crypt to find stuff that fits.  Since this is the Olympics, I was going to use Theme from Chariots of Fire, but I was beaten to the punch by Rowan Atkinson, the Cad.  He really should be run over by that three wheel car you know.  

But I did find something that would fit for the swimming competition.




Yeah, night swimming is a lot of fun.  When I was a much younger, good looking guy, I used to throw moon tan parties in my pool.  Swimsuits optional, of course.   It was fun to watch inebriated people stalk around like cats wanting prey.  And there would always be that one guy who didn’t have a clue.  If he was lucky, the girl made his day.  Other times... lets just say shaving cream an incriminating photos would be involved.

The Olympics were founded on the exploits of track and field.   And I can’t think of a better way to describe this but to hand it over to Diamond Dave and Company.



The food over here is kind of interesting.  Bangers and Mash.  Good old sausage and potatoes.  Not fancy, but it does stick to you.  For a more formal meal, there is Prime Rib and Yorkshire Pudding.   I kind of made an ass out of myself in the restaurant.  I mistook the stuff as one of those moist towelettes they put out after you eat fish.  As I was wiping my hands all the dogs in the neighborhood all wanted to lick me to death.  I must have been the most popular guy on the street.  I think I'll stick to curry.

The Games are supposed to celebrate the best in all of us.   And if we just concentrate on the sports, they really do.  We always want them to…



And with that, may your spirits rise high into the night.  I am Harry Handy.


Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Asthma

The band is tightening
Airway is getting narrower
Diaphragm not pulsing
As I become
Breathless.

Monday, July 23, 2012

Ring (Blogophilia 22.5)


The image in the mirror beckons you
What the French call Errance awaits
Hair of honey flows downward
Goth Girl transformed
By her love saying
Only: Ah, you
Shouldn’t have
The ring
Shines

Friday, July 20, 2012

The Test (Blogophilia 21.5)




Rain dripped into the bucket next to the door.  Carefully, he slipped the fuse through the hole. Capped pipes, fuses and wiring were stacked haphazardly on the table next to him.    It won’t be long now.  The memory of the house flashed in front of his eyes, which followed by the image of it burned down.    He was just fighting the monster under the bed.  Sandra, he called her, after his piano teacher.   She used beat his hands when he missed a note.  He could remember swinging the bat and hitting her and she was gone.  Then the muffled voices of the police.  Why they came with SWAT squad, he had no idea.  Everything else was a blur.  The leather restraints and drugs to calm him.  The electrodes as they hooked them on his head and the pain of the shock.   They would never give him anything for the pain.  

They eventually let him loose.  But there was nowhere to go, just a revolving door between the street and jail.  It was all a big bullying game.  The officious judges when they would sign bond.  Other judges when he would show up for sentencing.  Why give him fines?  He didn’t have any money.  And he just got angrier.   When he was finished, the police would know that they had bullied the wrong person.    He stepped back and admired the pipes.  A lot of work had gone into planning them.  Packing them carefully into a box, he took them to the test site. 

He found the farmhouse trying to escape.  Rumor it had been used as a toxic waste site.  Given the dead zones in the files, he didn’t doubt it.  He thought about blowing it up for one of the tests.   Not ready for that yet and it was isolated.   The roof had visible holes in it.   Nothing would be kept dry, but it could be used pipe and hardware storage.   A room in the center was dry enough for a staging area. 

Walking over to one of the dead zones, he noticed it was out of sight line of the road and not within earshot of any of the neighbors.   Fifteen feet from the tree line was a fairly large hickory stump.  It would be a good first test.  The wood was fresh and would splinter well.  He paced off a series of lines in each direction, looking for the best place to observe the blast.  As he is walking, he looks at the stop watch on his phone.  At the 90 second mark on each line, he turns around and crouches low.  He has covered about 500 feet.  This is the distance he intends to be at the main event. 

 The metronome began to click in his head.  Step…Step...Step... Every Good Boy Does Fine.  Click. Click. Click. Every Good Boy Does Fine. Every Good… E.G B. D. F.  He would play the mismatched chord just to set the bitch off.  His head begins to hurt.  The belt beating in time interspersed with the timer.     Whack… Whack… Whack… The scars on his back began to sting with the memory.  It was like a pile of quicksand he was trying to escape.  And the fucking Cops with their tear gas and tasers, making him leave the house.  Who cared if the taxes hadn’t been paid?  That was the dead bitch’s job, not his.   He began to see her face in the stump.   It was the right target.  

 He placed the pipe in a gap the base of the stump where the soil had washed away.   He didn’t bother to cover it, since he really just wanted to see how far the debris would go.  The 120 second fuse was lit and he began to walk up the path back to the farmhouse.   The remaining seconds tick off in slow motion.  

The blast sounds like a twelve gauge next to his ear.  The smoke drifts in the slight breeze.  The rain of debris lasts a few seconds.  Then it is quiet.  Not even the crickets sounded.   

Walking back to the stump, it has been replaced with a hole about four feet across and eight feet deep.  He smiled and makes measurements.  He carefully walked in a spiral around the hole making notes of where the wood fragments were.  They had spread in an oblong pattern, with the narrow side corresponding to the ends of the device. 

All of this was noted in a cryptic code.  Can't take any chances, you know.  He packs his gear and hikes back down to his truck. 

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Now

Another night
Looking for things
To express gratitude
For living

Came to the wrong place
Here in the ether
Is violence
Depravity
And everything against
Thy fellow man.

Maybe I need a change of scene.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Spiked






Maggie was confused and alone.  Everything around her was spinning.  Steam rose from the pavement across the street.  Halos formed around the streetlights and they pulsed in her sight.  

They were a curious design.  Copied from a 19th century photograph, they became a symbol for a developer’s dream, to turn this former steel mill into a bustling urban center. It took 18 years, and the first two buildings opened to great fanfare.  The scene looked like the stage set for “Rent”.   But to Maggie, it had become a nightmare.  

She was slumped against the apartment building.  All she could remember was dancing with that spiky red haired chick disco in Buckhead. The one that looked like it had been imported from ....Brazil.....she guessed.    Loud music and perfumed bodies surrounded her as the music pulsed and throbbed.  Boys as girls and girls as boys jumping and bumping with the beat.  Was it really a girl?  She felt a hand brushing against her shoulder.  Then everything went black.  Did someone spike her drink?  She was usually so careful about that.  Checking her clothes, it didn’t seem she’d been raped. Everything was dry and intact.

Struggling to her feet, she stumbled down the sidewalk towards the fake arch in the middle of the street.  How had she gotten to Atlantic Station?  As her eyes focused, she looked down at her watch.  It was gone as well as her purse.  Not surprising.  She came up to a storefront that had a digital clock.  4:26AM. was it still Saturday?  She fought the nausea.   A man was walking on the other side of the street towards the bridge.  She thought about waving at him, but decided against it.   Something told her she needed to get out of where she was.  But she really didn’t know how to do it.  

A loud crash came from behind.   She jumped back and turned.  There was an old guy tearing up the sidewalk.  He had scars all down his arm and looked like he had just escaped from a prison.  

“Who are you, and what have you done to my home?”  He yelled.   “My Daddy and Granddaddy worked damn hard to build that place so’s we could walk to work.  And you Yuppie scum tore it all down.  I am going to make you pay for that, whore!”   The man started towards Maggie.

Maggie ran towards the large IKEA sign at the end of the block, thinking it she might be able find sanctuary in this most holy of material providers.  She didn’t make it that far.  The old man grabbed her by the collar and threw her into the reflecting pond at the base of the arch.  Maggie began to panic.  Was he coming in after her?  She never could swim.   Visions of her mother warning about strangers came to her. A white light shone to her right.  She went left.  

Her flailing arms caught the side of the pond and she drug herself out.  The crazed old man was gone.  Had he been a dream?  She hailed a taxi, and headed towards home.  

 At least she was alive. 

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Random post. (Blogophilia 20.5)

I can't think of a thing to say, so I will resort to a random post. Think of it as an exception to the rule.

The hardest part of the prompts this week was the hospice nurse.  I really don't know why.  I have a sister and a niece who are both ICU RN's.  And one of my favorite characters, Kari Summers, is a "Death Angel".  And I have lost relatives to long term illness.  But I can't seem to make the connection in any meaningful way.

Best line from the Lurhman piece: "Don't read beauty magazines.  They will only make you feel ugly."  Image shouldn't be everything, but it is. So, toss them out, get naked and smile at the mirror.  Somebody will like the view.

I wonder if I should change careers.  That would be something that would scare me.

My wife had QVC on over the weekend and they were have their Christmas in July sale.  As usual, there were some pretty cool gadgets on there.  But, the bank account is low and my kids are now both legally adults.  We'll have to wait for the grandchildren.  Since no woman has tamed either one of them, I guess I'll be waiting awhile.

Just because, here is some Maya Rudolph.




Friday, July 6, 2012

Submision (Blogophilia 19.5)


She felt dirty when the call came. Like a stain on the carpet that wouldn’t clean up.  And it was his fault.

A sack of potatoes looked back from the mirror while she thought this. She never had been very pretty, and she certainly wasn’t pretty now. Drooping breasts against a beach ball stomach. She took a slug from the pint and the tears came. Cheap booze is a false economy. She had read that somewhere.

The voice began its litany: “It’s time. Kill him and kill me. It is the only way to end it.”  Maybe another drink would help. No. The fever kept rising as she applied her makeup.  

She selected the silver corset, rigged it could be tightened without help. The carbon colored stockings, held  with silk garters, were a garden design and didn’t stand out. A maroon chambray top, long black skirt and simple three inch black pumps rounded it out.  She put on a couple of bracelets and a spray of Obsession.  Before she put on the top, she tucked the Taurus .380 into the holster under her right breast.   She picked up a cigarette and lit it.

Where did he come from?  There were always strange men coming in and out of the house when she was little.  But HE was so much different.   Leather and powder rose along his well trimmed hair. The scent equaled happiness. He always seemed to have truffles and bear hugs.  The scratchiness of his beard seemed to stand out.   There would be talk and games, and then he and Mom would disappear. When they came back Mom would smell like him and she would be smiling. Cobalt bruises would peek out from under her skirts, but she never would say where they came from.

Mom asked him to watch her when she was out. Not that much she could remember. There was a bottle of liquor and he poured her some. The gold liquid tasted hot down her throat as she drank The scent became more intense as her mind became fuzzy. She tried to block it out.“Ride That Pony” was playing on the radio. Pain was replaced by a tickling sensation. He moved her small body as he saw fit. She was on top of him when he asked if she liked it. She really wasn’t sure. He became angry and slapped her. The emotional wall came down and she shut down.  

The next day had no pain. She followed his instructions in silence and he fed her more liquor.  There were oils and lotions that felt wonderful against their skin.Silk ribbons and a satin blindfold surrounded her.  Mom came home and found them. There was screaming, but she couldn’t remember who was doing it. He left without saying a word and Mom just stared.  She wasn’t sure if Mom was angry at her or not.  Nothing more was ever said of it.  

Like a mosquitoes to light, they always were together.   This was the only one that paid attention.  As she grew up, he would buy her pretty things and she would make him happy.  But, he changed over time and became mean.   He would shove and hit. He introduced the hardware and she became his slave. Submission was life. Anything else would be risking death.

Sometimes he would go too far. Their last encounter ended with four days in the hospital and fending off the police. There was nothing left to lose. The last of her money paid for the bus ticket here. It took time, but she found a job, and apartment and a life. It wasn’t going to happen again.  He wasn’t going to ruin it.  She had waited for this day.  A lustful feeling came over her and she shuddered a bit. 

The phone rang. The voice came out like honey and ash. The switch in her mind turned.He was Master.  Teacher. God.

“I need you.” The voice said. “You are to follow instructions exactly.  There will be consequences if you don’t.”

She sat in silence.

“Leave now.   There is a coffee shop on Ponce, just past Glen Iris. Go to the second table on the left and wait.  Your drink will be waiting for you.”

The phone clicked off and she mechanically picked up her purse. The place was just a few blocks away.  The art deco image of the building’s front door rose and fell in her vision and she was on the street. Horns were blaring, laughing at her.  They sensed her humiliation and were announcing it to the world. A little voice said she could turn back, which was immediately drowned out by the others demanding revenge in rhythm to the clicking of her heels. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.

She came up on the light across from the diner and crossed over. She hesitated. The small voice was still trying to turn her around. Checking the reflection in the mirror, the image of a prison inmate stared back. It was hoping for release. The big voices won. It was going to end way or another.  

She saw the cup of coffee steaming on the table and sat down. He had been there. Leather and powder filled the room.  A small light blinked in her peripheral vision.  She picked up the coffee and pulled out the note.  “I’m in the men’s room. Bring the cup.”

Looking around, she realized she was the only one in the room. The restrooms were in the far corner.  She stepped across and pushed the door back.  It was a standard room with an oversize stall.  It didn’t appear anyone was there. The stall door opened and he stepped out.

“You left.  I didn’t say you could leave. “   

The form was greyer than the last time.  He had on a simple black t-shirt and pull up shorts. She knew the leather panties were under that. The silk blindfold and handcuffs had been set on the commode. Her head felt like it was going to explode.The voice in her head kept saying now, but she held her tongue.  

“It didn’t matter I went too far.You are a slave and no account.No one would have missed you had you died. You know that. And like all the disobedient, you must be punished. Get on your knees and put the cup on the floor.”

She did as she was told. She knew the next command, but waited for him to say it.

“Unbutton the blouse.”

Slowly, she reached for the bottom button.  He taught her that curtains were to rise, not fall.  As she came up to the bottom of her rib cage, she touched the holster.  She was careful not to show it as she revealed the corset to him.  

Suddenly, he slapped her.  

“Too fast. “ He picked up the coffee cup and poured the contents on her head.  The humiliation was returning. And so were the voices. Kill him.  Kill him.

“Stand up.”

She did. Smiling, he undid the skirt and it fell like a puddle at her feet.  He began to kiss the dripping coffee off her nose and chin, nibbling as he went along. Stepping behind her, he commanded.

“Good. Kneel and take your communion"

She knelt and waited.  The blindfold came over her head. She could feel the breeze as he took off his clothes.  Their breathing quickened. As usual, he didn’t use the handcuffs right away.  She heard them as they were hooked through a hasp he and welded to the stall.  When they finished with the opening, she would be hooked up.  Not before.   

She felt him before her, but she waited.  

“Take it.”

Reaching out she felt his hips and very gently pulled him closer.  The scent of powder was strong as she began to work.  He began to move in rhythm to her actions and soon his time came.  As he began to rise, she reached under her breast and pulled the Taurus out.  Pressing it hard under him she pulled the trigger.   A burst of applause came from inside her head.  

The prisoner was free.