Wednesday, August 23, 2017

How to Win at the Lottery....

Read this...

Why It Is A Fools Game

Then fold up your money and put it back in your wallet.

You are now $2 ahead.

Simple, right?

Petty Revenge Division (Blogophilia 26.10)

In a nondescript office outside Minneapolis....
Good evening and thanks for choosing Devil’s Quill. My name is Nimrod. How may I help you? Your neighbor bought a new car and you are jealous? Yes, Sir, we have a number of petty revenge options, but may I ask why you are so upset about a car? Oh...I see. He invited your wife to ride, but not you...and you saw them get out a motel and you couldn’t resist looking in the window?... Acting like monkeys?... I see...I understand you are upset and want payback. But may I ask why you using our petty division and not one the stronger menus? Oh, the price. Yes, your immortal soul does sound rather dear. You are in luck, we have a name your price option for every one of our services. For example, we can raid their trysts with a gloomy conga of glum looking beauties, so ugly it will turn off the horniest of people... Then we have the “touch of grey” options that turns the couple old before their eyes. What’s that? you want to do what to them with a bunch of bananas? Oh, myyyy....Sir. pasty fruit sounds tempting even for me, but I’m not sure if I can find 30,000 lbs of them...I do need to let you know special orders do cost a first born son...He’s worthless, too? It looks like we have plan. Let me look at the schedule...Did you want to witness this or go with plausible deniability? The latter? Certainly. Besides the son, what do you think this is worth? The right arm? That does sound reasonable. As a bonus, you are eligible for our Gomorrah special, turning your wife into a pillar of salt for looking at no extra charge. I am so glad we could help you and good luck pursuing the underage redhead...Oh, we know ALL, Sir. Have a good night.

Wednesday, August 16, 2017

Charlottesville (Blogophilia 25.10)

What a field-day for the heat 
A thousand people in the street 
Singing songs and carrying signs 
Mostly say, hooray for our side -Stephen Stills 1966

I didn’t think I would live to see history repeat itself, but here we are. In 1968, we had the Chicago Democratic Convention riots, where the protestors (my older brothers and sisters) exerting their disgust over perceived corruption of the democratic process, meeting a shielded blue line designed, hopefully, to protect those in power. Over time, those in power proved they did indeed have clay feet and fell to the scorn of all.
This past weekend we had the next generation of those protestors come up against the latest iteration of the White Power movement, who ironically are angry over what THEY perceive is the corruption of the democratic process. One had a temper like the other’s jealousy, producing confrontation as Thesis met Antithesis and reacted. One decided to go to war, taking twenty or so casualties. As the reaction is still brewing, it will be a while before we learn the synthesis. Although, I expect it will cause more erosion in White Power’s very limited power base. 
Reaction is ugly. It shows the worst of people. The base desires on violent display as they grasp for resources and perceived power over others. The energy is misguided, since the ones with the power and resources are not the ones the other side is facing. The ones with the gold and power are thousands of miles away, playing a chess game and these groups are pawns. 
Me? I sit on the sidelines, refusing to be pulled down the rabbit hole. My energy is much too valuable to waste on those arguments. When I’m gone, the next generation will do the same thing. It is like a perpetual motion clock. Confrontation and enmity are elephants who never forget. 
But I can divert it with some puppy love, right?

Pic guesses: Grotto, Swimming Hole, Hideaway, afternoon off, striped, skinny dip, cooling off.

Thursday, August 10, 2017

A Vulgar and Accurate Analysis.

This Analysis breaks down the current missile situation well. Two rich boys showing off their boners and threatening to fuck the world without lube.

Don't expect to cum before they do.

I heard him referred to as Dolt .45 today. I can accept that. 

Tuesday, August 8, 2017

Urban Hiking (Blogophilia 24.10)

I was looking at the prompts this week and I thought about doing a WOFT segment, with Harry doing a Surf Music retrospective with the Ventures. But Christine Wichman, beat me to the punch. And really, there wasn’t anything Harry hadn’t covered before out there to work with. 
I briefly considered a Devil’s Quill bit, using the “devil’s music” to draw the suckers in, but that didn’t really fly, either. 
Then it occurred to me, Walk, Don’t Run perfectly sums up my fitness protocol. Due to a minor electrical/valve defect, I can’t run more than half a mile before my heart hits 200 beats per minute. But if I keep the speed to less than 4 mph (a good power walk pace), I can go all day long. And for us...uh, older...folks, it is much less stressful on the joints. 
Do I do this in a gym? No. Those are meet markets down the street, where the boys and girls watch each other eat, when they only want to watch each other sleep. I’d like my scenery to change as I go. Hence my hobby of Urban Hiking. For the cost of the occasional park fee, I get a wide variety of views. 
Atlanta has many options for the hiker. From more traditional forest hikes, (Chattahoochee River Trails, Kennesaw Mountain), to Historic Civil Rights trips (The King Center and The Carter Center are about 2 miles apart), to architecture sightings, the combination of hills, ground and pavement will keep you interested. 
Last week, I tried a new place, South Peachtree Creek trail. At 2.2 miles, it is a moderate level trail running along both sides of a rail right-away near the Emory University campus, not far from my house. It has only been open about a year or so. The trail head was next to a set of tennis courts where a guy was channeling his inner John McEnroe, which made the first 1/4 mile kind of annoying.

A large part of the trail uses boardwalk due to the terrain and in some areas, it appears you are walking along the treetops looking down at the under-story along the creek.

There is a side trail where an abandoned pump house has been tagged by “artists”.

The remains of their tagging party was sadly apparent. Often, I carry a garbage bag to pack out trash, but I didn’t have one with me on this trip. It’s part of being a trail angel and the karma is often returned. 
As with most trails here in town, you run into random art. It makes for a nice touch.

I will be returning to this trail again in the near future. There are a couple of more side trails needing to be looked at. 
So, how about you? How do you get your exercise in? Are you a goal achiever or do you prefer to smell the roses as you go along?
Pic Guesses: In the Clouds, Alone, Lonely Boy, Apart, Distance, Solo,

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

Window Shopping (Blogophilia 23.10)

All legs, no chin
Limp locks dripping on thin shoulders
Gazing through the glass
At the blue frock
Trying faces
Some of satin, some of steel

Thin lips reflect her doubt
Damp wings bent
Out of the chrysalis
Is she ready to fly?

Not a person yet
A stranger comes along
Waiting to take her into the wildfire
Of life.
Pic guesses: Bent (in blog) Damp Wings (in blog) Earthbound Misfit, Fallen angel, Flightless, Chrysalis (in blog), Fly Away.

Tuesday, July 25, 2017

Trouble at The Big Dog Garage (Blogophilia 22.10)

It is a rainy morning at the Big Dog Garage. Jay is at his desk in the shop, looking troubled. Revenue is down and hard decisions are being made...
"Oh, yeah. Oldsmobile Toranado. Roll on in here."
"You need to do something about that suspension. Anyway, the reason I called you here is I've run into a little bit of a money problem and it is causing me to look at my cars."
"YouTube channel ratings are down and CNBC might be dropping us. Times change, you know. It sucks. Mavis and I, we're aren’t getting any younger and I lost one of the mechanics last year. All of us the garage sat down and we had a long discussion over you guys."
[Water begins to leak from the washer]
"You figured it out, huh? It isn't that you haven't been a fun ride over the years. You're comfortable and stylish and you love the night life. We had a blast when we first finished you. you, running hard over the hills in Malibu. Then you had that trouble in town...
You’re keeping your demons down with that big assed engine we put in. Antics like that don’t project the image Big Dog Garage needs right now. As much as I hate it, we are laying you off." 
[Water is now flowing freely across the windshield]
"Paul! Can you bring a squeegee?"
[A detailing crew cleans up the mess]
"Don't be afraid. Our fate can't be taken from us. Anyway, A flatbed will be coming in about an hour. Put your manuals in the trunk and be ready for it."
"Look, I know you're upset. Maybe if I throw in a case of beer?"
"Wait... Don't take this so..."

"At least one is dead and multiple cars destroyed are in a freak accident at the Big Dog Garage in Burbank today. KTLA 5 is on the scene gathering details and we'll have full report at 11."

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

The Amaryllis (Blogophilia 20.10)

Amaryllis in crystal vase
A box of the finest chocolates
Secret admirer thinks he’s being clever

It isn’t 1920
A girl must always be on guard
A couple of clicks I see it is him.

He thinks he’s the knight in shining armor,
A vassal attached to a kingly land.
All I see is a mousy coward.
Not worthy of my feet, much less my hand.

Oh, I suppose it is rather sweet.
And, Lord knows I’m no fair lass.
But this is third time this week
My sail isn’t going up the mast.

Pic guesses: Beatrix Potter, Fluffy, lop ears, bugs, furball, Fatal Attraction,

Saturday, July 8, 2017

Another Drunk Entertainment Type

Another Drunk Entertainment Type.

So, today's clay feet belong to Shia LeBoeuf.

Old Beefy got marinated on River Street in Savannah and managed to make enough of an ass out of himself to get checked into jail.

Sadly this isn't his first rodeo. Reality is slapping him hard this time, though.

I hope he wakes up.

But, if he doesn't, Bonaventure Cemetery has a plot waiting. 

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

Cy Timmons - Nowhere

We're on the Soul Train (Blogophilia 20.10)

Hey, Heidy and Howdy! Harry Handy, is back on the air! So, how are you, Geritol Generation? Get that iron up, cause we're going to get down here at The Fart. I'm channeling Don Cornelius this week and giving proper respect to those artists rocking our world.

That's right we are discovering the soul of SOUL. Put the daisy chains and hibiscus in your hair (the purple offsets the gray wonderfully), and enjoy the ride.

I can say without a doubt, if it hadn't been for that music, I'd never be on the radio. Most kids my age listened to the ball games. I listened to the likes of Alley Pat and Night Train Lane. And the music they played! I got caught with the earphone through my shirt because I kept dancing in my seat. And I watch Soul Train over American Bandstand because Don was cool and Dick was not. Since I could play or sing, I played the ones who could and the rest is history.

You can't start a show like this without going to the deepest roots of the music.

Ms. Holiday is not normally thought of as a Soul Singer. But most top notch artists borrowed heavily from her style. The world was always on fire and she was going to go up with the flames. You want to join her in that cocktail and hope things would get better (which they usually wouldn't)

It wasn't long before others picked up the mantle (and wore it).

And shout about it.

The Summer of Love kept the party rolling, expanding the sound all over the world. 

Hit after another hit, we kept listen (and hopefully, learning)

In the 1970's, the songs evolved, but they were still about chasing (and winning) the ladies...

I wonder how many children were conceived to that?

Some took it in a different direction:

The influence began seep over into mainstream music

And so on. Even today, in the homogenized world of mainstream music, Soul still is sampled as an ingredient in your daily recommended dose of sound.

But it isn't the same as the real thing...

For our sponsors Geritol and Ben Gay, this is Harry Handy signing off.


Topic (Discovering Soul) Jay Sole

Pic-Christine Wichman

Pic guesses: Primrose Path, Arbor, Shady Lane, Wisteria,  Garden, Tunnel of love,

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Black Satin (Blogophilia 18.10)

It is in all caps
Not the first, not the last
Not my monkey or hers
Knowing our own darkness
Faded memories of demons long past,
Still haunt

Tattooed Alice falling
Into a Dali landscape
Where up is left
And down leads to another dimension.

Blood is its avatar, its seal
Scarlet stains upon the face
A solid mass of contusions
Pale, faded roses on the black satin bier

Screen shout drawing the usual suspects
The “heroes”, The vampires
Agendas working against each other
Struggling against another iteration
Of power and subjugation
In a tango where both lead.
Poe paraphrase: Blood was its Avatar and its seal -- the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, -Masque of the Red Death
Pic Guesses: Pale Rose (in blog), Black satin (in blog), Faded, Mourning, Vampire (in blog), pastel,

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Girl (Blogophilia 17.10)

Not really attractive
Mom hips, no tits
Bottle blonde
Over coke bottle glasses
Too much make up
Hiding broken promises
Scars real and not

Selling again
Never say never
Something lasting
Bull to her Bud
Riding into the sunset

Topic (Never say never)-Kim Herndon
Pic guesses-Intertwined (in blog), Hearts in the sky, sky writing, Interlocking, Blue sky, Proposal, Love,

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Oz in Wonderland (Blogophilia 16.10)

A woman in ruby red shoes
Out of place on the porch
Blue smock and white pinafore
Clutching a rabbits foot
Older than the hills, younger than a baby
Her story is to behold

Long ago In a wheat field
The storm blew, lifting her gingham skirts
High above the rainbow
A yellow brick road in the distance

But it was not to be
The slide formed
Past the pot o'gold she went.

Landing with a bump
On top of a blonde haired girl.

"Oh, excuse me.
She said, lending a hand
Who are you?"
Brushing the dust
"Alice. " She replied
"I'm hunting rabbit
And, you?"
I'm running from an old maid."

Alice frowned
"Well, before you rudely dropped in
Honey Bunny went left."
Curious, Dorothy asked
"Is it true what they say?"
Alice smirked
"Much more to the story
Than officially told.
I wasn't so innocent
I was so bold.
Peeking in the looking glass, I saw the tail
I had to have him
Leaning in, I fell like a second story man
Down the tunnel I went
Out in the field
Soon I caught him,
But he turned the tables on me.
Tea and smoke
Donning fezzes from the hatter like Zoroastrian holy men
We found ourselves praying to Mazda on top of the Jabberwock
Nibbling on out bits until I saw spots.
We sang in joy
As the crowd looked on
Fez and fuzz became one as sleep came
When I came to
He was gone.
I was so blue"

As Alice finished, Dorothy smiled
She knew just what to do.
Pulling the blonde close, she found the Fez
Alice, she found the shoes
The rest was a blur
Fuzz and fez came apart
Replaced by courage, heart and brains
And a new rainbow raising them home

Dorothy smiles at the memory
It was the best night of their lives
She looks now over the Kansas prairie
While Alice cooks rabbit stew.

Pic guesses: Second story man (in blog), Looked on (in blog), Peeping toms, Peekaboo, Long drink of water, wildlife, spotted, Leaning in (in blog), Peeking (in blog), Zoo,

Friday, June 9, 2017

Road Trip (Blogophilia 15.10)

“Mommy. Are we there, yet?” The voice had just a bit of a whine to it.
“Not yet. We still have a little bit to go.”
Kathy reached into the bag at her feet. Out came a bottle of water. She offered it to Emily.
Brushing a fly off the pale arm, the little girl replied, “No, thanks.”
Kathy opened it up and took a swallow, then offered it to Jimmy behind the wheel, who finished it in one long glug.
Emily looked out the window. These country roads were boring. Miles and miles of grass fields with cows here and there. Some of them had ponies, but even then they just stood and ate. They probably pooped, too. But the car was moving too fast to see that. It also meant they couldn’t smell it, either. Good. She remembered the school field trip to the zoo. It stunk bad. Cows and ponies probably smell bad, too.
Around a curve, an abandoned log cabin stood next to the road. The windows were all broken and the door was missing, which made it look like had a face. It looked so cool. It felt like it was talking to her.
“Ooh, look at that old house, Daddy. Can we stop and see it?”
Jimmy was irritated. “No, Honey.” He said. “Aunt Pam is fixing dinner and we don’t want to be late.”
“Oh, O.K.” She knew not to say anything else.
What was the house’s story, she wondered? Everything had one. You just had to look to see what it was. Was it like the Gingerbread House where the old witch was waiting for kids to turn into sweets? She liked sweets, but she didn’t want to be one. Or was it like Red Riding Hood’s Granma’s house, with a wolf to eat you up? That would hurt. She thought about asking again to go back, but that would only make Daddy mad.
On the seat next to hers was a lined tablet. There was a piece of sticky tape on the top of it and Mommy put a pencil there. Drawing was fun when there was nothing else to do. A sketch of a house with a hole in the roof soon appeared. She added a cow, a horse and a stick girl at the door. She couldn’t put in the red hair, though. The crayons were packed in trunk for when they got to Aunt Pam’s. Coloring would have to wait until they got there. The eyes became so heavy.
The pony’s fiery mane matched her own. The green t-shirt and polka dot short was replaced by a long white dress, like a princess would wear. Galloping across the golden meadow, the old cabin was perched on the ridge above her. It looked lonely and lost. With a light tug, the pony stopped at the steps of the porch. Standing still for a moment, a smile grew from ear to ear for she could hear the spirit breathing inside. With a turn, she dismounted and came up to the first stair.
“Mr. House, may I please come in?”
There was a faint rumble, wind in the broken glass.
“Who wishes to disturb my slumber?”
She stepped back, almost tripping over the hem of her skirt.
“My name is Emily. I saw you from across the field and wondered what your story was.”
A chuckle like sound came from the doorway.
“My story? Little girl, a few times I have been around that track. I have no story. A man built me some moons ago. It took him a season and a phase to finish. The spirits of six trees make my walls and floors. All of them cut from across the field from which you came. The Man took care to form me and make me tight against the rain. After he was finished, he brought a wife and they raised three red haired little girls.
This revelation delighted her.
“Like me?”
The porch almost smiled.
“Yes, very much like you. It is serendipity you have arrived and blessed me with your company. They were such sweet things, playing games here on my porch, then following their Mommy down into the field to feed the cows. And, yes, they do poop. But I never thought it was that bad. It kept the grass fed.”
The little girl giggled.
“In time they each grew to be as beautiful as the wife. Younger men came and claimed them for their wives one by one, and I would weep at their leaving. I kept hope they would bring their own children to play on my porch. But, alas, they never did return. It wasn’t long after the youngest left the Man and Wife took ill and died. Do you know what died means, Little One?”
Emily became thoughtful and silent for a moment.
“Kind of like when Granny, my Daddy’s mommy, went away?”
“Yes, like that. I have been alone since. Some of the neighbors say the Man and Wife are still in here in spirit, as ghosts. How I wish. Even when they fussed, it was a lovely sound. It’s lonely here. A few people have come by. But only to be mean by scratching my walls and breaking my walls. You don’t look like that kind.”
“No. My Mommy and Daddy told me to be kind to everyone, even they aren’t kind to you. They said it was a seed that would grow as long as you tended it.”
“That is a good lesson. Remember it...”
“Sweetie, wake up. We’re here.” Daddy kissed her forehead. “Was it a nice nap?
Emily rubbed her eyes.
“Yes, Daddy. It was. The Old House did have a story. It was built long ago...”
“Hold on to that thought, Honey, and you can tell me after we eat. I can smell the barbecue from here.
Topic (Country Roads)-Kim Herndon
Pic guesses: Golden meadow (in blog), field (in blog), lost (in blog), roll in the hay, grass (in blog), harvest, homestead, house

Thursday, June 1, 2017

Atlanta Traffic (Blogophilia 14.10)

The topic this week is “So many road blocks
OK, that naturally bleeds into one of favorite topics, Atlanta roads. Oh, this town is special. Not many places can claim their expressways catch fire and burn to the ground.

Add one homeless dude, a rolling molotov cocktail and improperly stored pipe and this is what you get.
This is just the latest of the fun. 
3 major interstates intersect just south of the state capitol,and they are under construction, all of the time, 24/7. Orange barrels and “temporary” barriers as far as the eye can see. And not just inside the city, but for a 50 mile radius. Because of this experience in constant concrete, the road above was rebuilt in 44 days (the cost hasn’t been fully revealed). You spend your commute time staring at the bumper before you and hope the one behind is paying attention. Nothing worse than being part of the four car insurance seminar blocking traffic.
Then you have I-285 (also known as the Perimeter), which acts as the de facto castle wall to area. 8-12 lanes of asphalt with two speeds, parking lot and 100 mph. Places are described as “Inside” (ITP) or “Outside” (OTP), depending on which side of the wall you are on. You can guess where the snobs are. 
There isn’t neatly laid out street grid, like other cities. That would have been too easy. The road network is best described as a spiderweb laid out by Dali and painted by Picasso. The spider as an artist has never been employed, really. Roads, originally Native trading trails, radiate out from an intersection known as “Five Points” following hill ridge lines, with very little cross connection. Street names change with no rhyme or reason and dead end at railroad tracks. Panhandlers are at every corner, tapping tin cans to get your attention. 
The best known joke about the city is Peachtree. Yes, there ARE 28 different streets with the word in the name. Some of them run parallel, while others are cross streets. They go north, south, east and west. It’s better to use the Waffle House method to give directions (go to the corner with the WH and turn left, then pass two more and turn right...). Or, if you are in the Northwest suburbs, use this to guide you.
The only chicken you can see from space.
(Maybe we should be called “The Chicken City”. You can have your chicken sandwich Political (Chik-Fil-A), Historical (Paschal’s), Old Fashioned (The Colonnade), or just normal (Zaxby’s), the whole town runs on fast food and soft drinks.)
You would think this chaos would drive people away. But people seem to make money here.
And in this world, it is what counts.

Topic-Dahlia Ramone
Pic guesses: Dali (in blog), on the wall, Sound of Silence, Cartoon, Warhol, surreal, contrast,

Saturday, May 27, 2017

Casino at the End of the World (Blogophilia 13.10)

This road trip was endless, running from one tourist trap to another in the misty rain. Jerry had to admit, “The Museum of the House Cat” and “Goats on the Roof” were fun. But did she really have to hit every tchotchke shop like it was the last day on earth? He fought tooth and nail not to go in them. But Martha was THE WIFE. Dutifully, he dodged the rows of Mommy tanks to stand bored in front of Jesus snow globes and “hand made” dream catchers, only to have her complain about everything being too expensive. 
A double billboard came in to view. On the left was for the “Can’t We All Get A Loan?” pawn shop. Cute. It reminded him of the “Free at Last” bail company next to the jail. One of those jolts they make you remember the business. The other board touted “The Casino at the End of the World.” That would work. Gamble yourself broke, pawn your car, and then you can die. 
“Oh, Jerry. That casino looks fun.”
“Yeah. Doesn’t it?”
“Oh, please. You only live once, you know.”
Yeah. He knew. Groaning, he turned on the highway exit, just as the rain got harder. A State Trooper was getting a treasury payment out of a fellow tourist. on the far side of McDonald’s. Old one level motels littered the highway. Ones trysting couples use to hide from their angry spouses. It just went to show that all of life was a gamble, really. It was only logical, right? And logic is the beginning of wisdom, not the end. The House always wins in the end.
They spotted the pawn shop about half way up the hill. The casino was just beyond it at the end of the road. Marked by a modern diamond vision screen listing the coming attractions. The building resembled a large warehouse without the loading doors. Covered in a fake mauve stucco, it stuck out from the mountainside like a zit. The only way around it was to turn around and go back to the highway. A tractor beam force took hold of the vehicle and pulled it through the gates. A parking space opened up next to the front door that had their name on it. They looked at each other. She shrugged her shoulders and got out of the car, popping her black umbrella open just as the car door shut. He decided to make a run for the door. 
Inside the door, the Foyer routed the patrons to a glass railed balcony with a double set of escalators funneling you into the large arcade. At the bottom, they were met by an attractive young woman in a red dress.
“Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Goldstein. How wonderful you could make it. Here is your complimentary rewards card to get you started.” 
Jerry and Martha looked at each other. How did they know us? 
“We have license plate scanners at the front gate, if you really must know. Your drinks are ready at the bar.”
The bar seemed to stretch the length of the room. As they approached, a black suited girl handed them their Sam Adams. She suggested beginning with a set of penny slot machines just to their right to start. They passed about a dozen until they found one with a mermaid theme and no one in the chairs. There was no where to set their bottles, so they just held them between their legs.
“Martha, why don’t you go first.”
“Oh, OK.”
With a swipe of the card, the machine was loaded with 500 credits, the equivalent of $5.00. Each play used ten credits, though. With a press of the button, the screen simulated the reels of an old fashioned Vegas machine. The first three plays came up nothing, but she then hit the next two for a total of 75 credits. The game went back and forth like that for about ten minutes before all the credits had run out. 
Jerry made his swipe. He hit a 100 credit win on the first go around. The thrill was visceral. It felt almost as good as winning a contract. But not it really wasn’t very satisfying. He played five or six more times, got bored and cashed out the machine with about nine dollars to spare. He never did ask how much was on the card when they handed it to them, but when it came back it had $109 credit. So, at least for now, they had the advantage over the house. He was sure that wasn’t going to last.
“God, Jerry. It’s noisy in here.”
“Yeah, it’s why I never hit the Casinos in Vegas when I’m there.” He took a sip out his bottle. “It gives me a headache.”
As they went down the aisle between the machines, an old woman passed them in a mobility cart smoking a cigarette, the white exhaust trail going behind her.
“Aw. Look at that poor thing.”
“I guess gambling is the only pleasure she has left.”
As they looked around the room, they realized they were the youngest people there. Bald and greying heads bobbing around on canes, they were chained to the clinking, flashing machines. No one spoke to each other, except to scream when there was a big hit. It kind of reminded him of the movie “Cocoon”, where everyone was waiting to be reborn. 
A little further down the aisle was a set of table games, mostly for a ten dollar buy in. Again, the faces around the table showed the wear of bad decision making. These people would be stuck here for all eternity...
They looked at each other. This was what the sign meant. This WAS the end of the world for these folks. Quickly, they finished their drinks and made their way back to the front. The hostess table was blessedly empty and they escaped what they thought would be their final fate. They left the rewards card on the stand. 
As they got back in the Mercedes, Martha looked at Jerry, then kissed him.
“I don’t need those. I won at life when I got you. Let’s head home.”

Topic-Dave Coon
Pic guesses” Butterfly, Chrysalis, Cocoon (in blog), Spring, Monarch, Woman. Pollination, Rebirth.

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Basement Bar (Blogophilia 12.10)

I have a number of characters that I have developed over the years. Kari Summers, Jerry Goldstein, Jeremy Allen: they all represent a piece of my personality. I’m going to pull one out of the vault I haven’t worked with in about 30 years: C. Hartridge Heath IV, Esq., Attorney to the Rich and Useless.
“Glad to meet you on this beautiful Atlanta day. But you can’t tell it in this dank drunk tank. The name is Hartridge Heath, most everyone calls me Hart. Glad to meet you. As you can tell by the ‘esq.’ behind my name, I am a bar certified attorney. What kind of law, you ask? Any law that supports the American Pie way of life, Son. And don’t you forget it. Truth, justice and estate loop holes for the right folks, like me. My family tree comes with ties to Nobility! Why I can trace my lineage on my mothers’ side to William the Conqueror when he raped some local lass on his way through. At least that’s what the Parish directory said.”
“Why yes, Son, I have never left the south. Daddy sent me to military school when I was seven and stayed there until was time to go to Athens, and with a few strings pulled, did law school at Emory. Such a shame they let the liberals in there, I finally had to stop my contributions. Of course, ol’ Georgia has changed a lot, and not for the better.”
“Hey, Hope! Can I get another mint julep? And another martini for the young man, here.”
“I’m a stick in the mud, you say? Hush your mouth. My ancestors were always right, even when they weren’t. They were paid to leave Britain by the Crown, that meant something. Then we carved out the greatest agricultural economy anywhere. Slavery? Now, I admit they got too attached to it. And more than a few of the farms were lost when the Yankees invaded. That’s when my Great Great Great Grandfather Elias found there was more money in juggling words than worrying about cotton. You always got at least a fee, if not a cut of the crop, when you wrote the contract right.”
“This tradition continues as he fleeced all the Yankee carpetbaggers trying to pick up land for cheap. Elias realized money really was God. And it was a God you could work mostly to your advantage. His sons, Jackson and Bryant continued this trait when they moved into Savannah permanently and set up the firm. They cemented their place in society down there when Bryant, how to I put this delicately, had to marry Cecilia Hartridge. Now we have offices there, here and in Nashville. All cities with like minded clients interested in preserving our lineage from the savage threats we see on the outside. People with very old assets tied and ways.”
“Oh, I’m aware we are dinosaurs. And many think it is evil we still exist and will go to lengths to eliminate us from the world. What those fools don’t realize is they are just like us in most ways and you cannot separate the just from the unjust, or the good from the wicked. They stand together as black and white thread. When one thread breaks, the weaver will check the loom.
“What? That was too deep for you? Well, if you must, go on. I don’t have court today, or any clients to worry about, so I’ll just stay here in Hope’s Dungeon. Don’t like the sun anyway”
“Hope! Can I have another one? I’ll get you a check for the tab when I get back to the office.”
Blogophilia 12.10-American Pie
Pic Guesses: Basement Bar (in blog)Hope’s Dungeon (in blog) dank (in blog), drunk tank (in blog), tavern, cabin, closet, storehouse, wine cellar, workshop. 
Hard Prompt is a paraphrase to fit the narrative.
You cannot separate the just from the unjust
And the good from the wicked; 
For they stand together
before the face of the Sun 
Even as the the black thread and the white
Are woven together.

And when the black thread breaks,  
The weaver shall look into the whole cloth
And he shall examine
The loom also.
Khalil Gibran- On Crime and Punishment-The Prophet. (c) 1923.

Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Bowsprit (Blogophilia 11.10)

On the dock
Golden sun shines
From a bowsprit view
To the wide harbor pass
Anyway the wind blows, I’m
Open to the sea.

Meet me, Captain Saint Lucifer
Darlin’ I’ll be there.
To buck the seas and drink the teas
Of dream lands far away.
Don’t stay at the bridge,
Let her go where she may.
As we meet
Our watery grave.

Topic (Any way the wind blows): Colleen Keller Breuning
Song Lyric-”Meet me, Captain St. Lucifer
Pic guesses: Dream Land (in blog), Cave, Sanctuary, Isaiah, Sunrise, Sauron, Perch, Spirit.

Friday, May 5, 2017

YouTube musings...

Hey, Heidy and Howdy! It's your old buddy, Harry Handy floating along the Geritol trail. Over the years, people have asked me: "Harry! Is you life only moldy and oldie?" No, not really. I do wander what they refer to as "Socialist Media" from time to time to get ideas for good ol' WOFT.

Let me guide you oldsters in some of things available. Trolling along one day, I found a second generation Hippy couple walking the talk about being off the grid and out of the MAN'S grasp:

The wife, Esther is the daughter of Carla Emery who was one of the ultimate Hippy Chicks. She's got some interesting things to say

And then there is this youngster living the ultimate "Year Off Dream"

And when you select any of those, the YouTube algorithm sends you down the rabbit hole of crazier and crazier stuff.

Yep, clear out before the bombs come...Where have I heard that before?

A good reminder that no matter how the kaleidoscope changes, it all remains the same. Someone, somewhere wants to destroy your world and everything in it. With luck, we'll already be dead when it happens. If not, we'll still be dead.

Sleep tight, Ladies and Gents.

If you can. 

Wednesday, May 3, 2017

Sunday Morning Haiku (Blogophilia 10.10)

Looking out window
To Sunday morning sunshine
Empty street below

Coal dust blankets cars
Delivery truck brings meat
To the starving ones

Man reads on voting 
Not intending to join
His lover in there

The secret to get
Ahead is getting started
With a coffee cup

Topic-Doris Emmett
Pic-Sallon Newlove
Pic Guesses-Streets cape Coal Dust (in blog), Delivery (in blog), Empty Street (in blog), Midtown, Sixth Ave., Diner, 

Saturday, April 29, 2017

Mile HIgh Club

Scanning the sites today, I find an article claiming about 10% of air travelers have had sex either in the airport or on the plane itself.

Getting Busy

Now, for several reasons, I rarely fly. But I guess I'm just not looking in the right direction when I go through the airport. All I see are exhausted drones dragging their belongs behind them trying to make the next flight.

Maybe I should go out more?

Thursday, April 27, 2017

Friday Night (Blogophilia 9.10)

The text comes in just as he comes in the store: "Working until 6." Damn it. He's early and she's late again. You would think he'd get used to it. Or she would quit agreeing to work over. Lord knows what the fuss would be if it were her waiting on him. Might as well get a cup of coffee and pick up a pizza. Won’t be time for much anything else for supper. 
As he approached the Starbucks stand, a chubby woman with wild curly hair and stained leggings stood at the counter. Another lost soul needing a shower to occupy his time. She asked repeatedly the difference between a Grande and Venti. Great. Her conversation seemed not so much with the Barista than with herself. Maybe they are sampling over in the cheese department. Better than waiting for this moron finish.
As he crossed over the aisle, he stopped to look at a rather large wine display. The manager had a sense of humor, putting "Menage a Trois" next to "Middle Sister". A bottle of "Josh" should be added, just for chuckles. A trashy novel could be written just from the labels. "Winery Row." Josh committing 19 crimes at Toasted Head trying to get Middle Sister away from that awful Mondalvi family, while Ernest and Julio woo...Wait, wasn't that"Falcon Crest"?
Nobody would get it. The ladies would look past that display and go "Oh, New Age is on sale. Let's get a that and some Havarti". Boom, the store just got another $25. It was all for the impulse buy, to separate you from the maximum amount of money. The way of the world. At least the world he was used to.
Nobody was at the cheese department, so with a sigh, he heads back to Starbucks and woman is gone. The barista's highlights are old and faded, but somehow she still smiled. Venti Pike's was ready and handed over with a knowing wink. He'd been doing this too long. At least the chair is open and the phone has a full charge. Candy crush to the rescue.
Somewhere into the second game, a drift of a one way conversation worms into his consciousness. The voice is shaky.
"Yes...I've talked to the doctor and he won't extend my prescription...But nobody understands...It's a matter of life and death...Let me have that number and I'll call you back...It's a toll free call?...I hope I have enough time on my phone..." Click.
The woman's back is to him. She's strung out. Makes sense.
"Yes...I need this for my anxiety...No, you don't understand...I've got..Hold on, I've got another call...This is she...You'll front me four days?...Bless you...How long...See you then...Hello, I'll call you back..." 
Softly, she placed the phone on the table and turned toward him. In a squeaky voice, she said:
"Hello. I'm a writer."
A small smile ran across his face.
"Really? So, am I. Are you published?"
Her eyes went toward the floor.
"Not in a long time. Back then it was mostly scientific stuff. But I had an accident and with concussion I have constant anxiety. I have to have my meds just to exist."
"That's terrible." He said, taking a sip of the cooling cup and not mentioning his eavesdropping. "I suppose you've heard all the thick skull jokes."
She frowned at that.
"I think I'm paranoid. No. Not that, more complicated. Poetry and rhymes are always running through my head."
"That's a good thing, usually."
"No, it's not. I'm manipulated. They make me fall down for a thrill I hope they'll prop me up with some more pills. I'm going down to the Pharmacy to see."
The tune almost immediately began playing in his head. Funny how a song you haven’t heard in twenty years pops up so readily. With a shrug, he returned to his game, shoulders twitching to the imaginary beat.

Topic-Toll Free Calling- Barbara Kausteklis
Pic Guesses-Pizza (in blog) paella, hot out of the oven, party, three meat, supreme, cheesy, paddle, dinner,

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Circus (Blogophilia 8.10)

Yeah, I thought about a story. Couldn’t really get a good idea.
Then I thought about writing about Easter and Holy Week. That had some possibilities, since the statement “He is risen” and copious amounts of incense brings back all the back-slid to prove they are still alive. In their day-to-day lives, Sunday morning church service is not an enormous priority. But either through guilt or fear, they find their way back on Easter. And as a church usher, I have to heard these feral cats here and there in such a way everything works smoothly, while the clergy on the altar run the show. 
I could write a bit on Tax Day. I’ve been an accountant all my career, and I can always count on two rings for that show, The first week in February and the seven days leading up to April 15. You would think with modern technology the process would be more organized. Nope. The first ring wants their money and they want in now! The second group don’t want to pay the money. But unless they are Donald Trump, they got to pay. File the extension and I’ll see you August 15.
Ultimately, the three ring circus that I can’t get rid of is Politics. Yes, that clown car of professional fence-sitters and moral trapeze artists promising the world while stealing your wallet. I, sadly, live in the 6th Congressional District of Georgia. As you may be aware, this is the seat held by Dr. Tom Price, who is now Secretary of Health and Human Services. One less of the old guard is a good thing in my opinion. But it does have consequences. 
This open seat has been like a dead gazelle on the Kenyan plains. Jackals, hyenas and other carrion eaters are flooding my email and tying up my phone. The television and social media have been the ringmaster for this dog an pony show. Vote for the Democrat (who only lives part time in Georgia and not even in the District). Vote for the Lady (who has a checkered past on holding office to full term). Vote for this gray haired guy (with the reputation of double dealing on the state level). Not to mention the 15 other candidates. PETA and Humane Society succeeded in shutting down Barnum and Bailey. Why can’t they do an expose on this tragedy? I haven’t had an uninterrupted dinner in weeks. 
Well, today is the election. There will probably be a runoff. But for at least a week or two, I might get some peace and quiet. 
And then we’ll do it again.

Pic Guesses: Clown Car (in blog), Smiley, Snowmobile, Wash Me, Cold, Why I don’t live up north.

Monday, April 10, 2017

Wind Woman (Blogophilia 7.10)

The afghan hung loosely, knots struggling to maintain. The gale was relentless, drumming branches in time to the Beelzebub's whim. There was no time here. The sun stayed directly above, never relinquishing a grip to the moon. Shadowy and slight, the Wind Woman leaned in, stumbling along narrow trail. All she sees turns to brown as the Sun burns the ground. The Fugitive's path would be his, now and forevermore.
It hadn't always been this way.
But she hadn't always been a woman, either.
She had started as a boy. In fact, she still was. But the parts never worked. She favored thought over strength, beauty over violence. At coming of age, the other men knew they had received something different in him and saw the threat to their warrior ways. Fearing retribution, they brought him to the Shepherd saying: "He isn't from God, but from the Devil himself, return him to the land of Nod." Without another word, The Shepherd tossed the scapegoat into the desert with only the clothes on his back.
As the gate shut, the southbound gale began. Turbulent, and tossing tearing the rags off him.Naked for and era and and age, he bounced from boulder to stone. No stopping to contemplate his fate or allow for repentance. Repentance for what, though? He could not turn back time to know the Sin that had preceded his birth. It had been unknowable, unforgiven and unforgivable.
Pushing toward the rising sun, the dress and afghan landed on his face, blinding him. Mourning colors and not beautiful, they were sheltering. With a struggle, his head slid into the skirt opening. Cloth fell in place as if tailored for his very soul. The garments spoke to him as he wandered, commiserating with him on his fate. The bodice filled and his cheeks fluffed and flushed. A long mane of black extended behind him, a rudder to his sail and his wandering laid strictly on the narrow path. Man was now a woman by chance.
Now and again, she would meet another wanderer, always men, and they wished for companionship. Always honest with the story, some engaged willingly, feeding on her misery. Others were repelled, cursing their fate. Either way, satisfaction never was to be. But those left full from her wounds would add him to their prayers in hope that Mercy would not be blind.. And she would return the prayer, halfheartedly, knowing it was in vain.
One particularly cold time, a screech could be heard over the din. A large bird was caught in the teeth of the blow. Powerful wings beat to keep the creature level above her She knew. This indeed was the Mercy his companions had spoken of. A pricking began at her neck. The sharp point of the needle that had stitched the afghan stood proud from the collar. As he pulled,fine threads were freed. Knots frayed as the cloak returned to ashes and dust. The wind caught thread, winding and twisting it into a thin rope.
A loop was fashioned with effort. Casting upwards, she caught the bird and it began to lift. Soon, they were above the horrid gale. In due time,she was set in a garden of flowers. The black dress was tattered and the walnut, wind burned skin was death in contrast to the life around her. Overwhelmed, tears flowed like a river to the ground.
A voice called out.
"Welcome home, beloved one. The Sin you were cast out for was not yours, but your ancestor's. The village knew their time was short when you came to them, child of beauty. They did not know beauty and they feared it. The wrath shown you accepted more willingly and lovingly than anyone could expect. You never wished ill for others, only for yourself. For that, you will receive here what you did not there."
Another wanderer landed beside her. He, too, was in weeds. They rose together and as their hands touched, the rags fell off. But there was no shame.They were now the lilies of the field. The wind still blew, but with the soft touch of a woman tending a baby and they brought forth their own sweetness to God’s garden.
The beauty sought...became.
And all was good.
Topic-Dave Coon
Pic guesses: Lillies (in blog) God’s garden (in blog) colorful, life, beauty (in blog), Sweetness, Love,
Note: this is a double dip with a Goodreads short story group, using the word Turbulence as the prompt. It took me a direction I’ve never really gone before.

#blogophilia #wind #lLillies