A.G.E's Joint

I don't normally do politics in my blog. As a former government worker, I avoid it like the plague simply because I don't want to relive dealing with pompous, entitled folks without the skills to hold a legitimate job. And talking politics generally devolves into a death spiral, each side getting more and more entrenched with each rotation. Like the Middle East. Like the current crop of displaced refugees. There seems to be two sides of thought on these folks. Either, they are enemy agents and should be repelled immediately, or they are total victims that will die if nothing is done. I fall into the second camp. 95% of the displaced people are exactly that. They lost their homes, businesses, farms, etc due to the political turmoil. And because most don't subscribe to the particular brand of Islam that ISIS champions, they are considered to be blasphemers and apostates and should be exterminated without mercy. And as such, they are deserving of a safe harbor. Howev

So, the other day I got home from picking up my wife and picked up the mail. Most days, it is ads, bills and other items that frankly they shouldn't have bothered with. Just think of how many trees died for that slick coupon sheet advertising house cleaning services and what not. And this batch of mail was similar, except for one envelope with a laser printed address label. I shrug, guesses it is a dinner invitation from a stock broker wanting to "invest" my non-existent money in a fake warehouse scheme, or maybe for some inaccessible land in the mountains. The shredder is hungry, but I stop.What really is in there? Ripping the flap open are vouchers to a local restaurant, and then I notice who sent it. A local funeral home. Great! Now, I know I'm getting old. I mean, I've been getting crap from AARP for at least ten years and now someone wants me to face my own mortality, probably on the monthly finance plan. I showed it to my wife and she laughed.

It all started when I met Charlie Balczak at Mess. Who’s he? An E4 grunt I’d bunked with. A short, wiry guy from Ohio, he could drink guys twice his size under the table and then hold his own in the fights that followed. Oh, he was alright for a Marine. Not quite as crazy as most of them, but he did have his moments. And this was one of those moments. We were assigned to a demolition unit at Ft. Bliss and had just gotten our deployment orders. Yippee. We get to do our jobs for real and get out of this Godforsaken desert. Still a desert, just not this one. This was my first deployment and Charlie’s third. He had warned me that fun was not allowed over there, so we drew overnight passes to get our kicks out before we left.  A good thing was there were no girl friends or wives to answer to. And for what we were planning, that was a very good thing. Butterbar told us Juarez was off limits again, but we’d been 86’d out of every bar in El Paso and Las Cruces was a dump. We had t

The picture sat on the desk mocking him from behind the screen. It was a simple thing, really, a sketch of an old cigarette ad. The vested sax player stared at him across time and space, playing some silent tune, a memory that was happily slumbering two hours ago. But it sprung out from the holiday decorations box and onto the floor. Honestly, he had thought the picture was lost two or three moves ago.  What does she look like now? A homely girl that everyone ignored, the only reason he even met her was passed out at a party that had already died. He would have been just as happy for her not to have woken up. But, no, his buddy threw his empties at her, and he had to open his mouth. So began the four year odyssey of drama and pain.  It was fun at first. Impulsive and spontaneous, she would chide him for public displays of affection and then pull him behind a car to have her way. Emotions more changeable than the weather and more powerful than the tides buffeted him.

In a small auditorium on the top floor of a skyscraper in Seattle, a group of people are gathered around a small banquet table making small talk. At the far end if the room is a podium. A short, rotund man in a tuxedo with a red vest approaches. Picking up a gavel, he gets the audience’s attention.  Tap. Tap. Tap. “Ladies and Gentlemen, would you please come to order.” [shuffling of chairs, then silence] “Good evening. I am, of course, Lucifer J Beelzebub, and on behalf of the Demons, Harpies, Spirits in our perpetual indenture, we welcome you to the 5776th shareholders’ meeting for Devil’s Quill Communications. We want to thank Mr. Harold Schultz and his staff here at Starbucks for his hospitality. The coffee is cold and bitter and pastries are stale. You thought of everything! And I must compliment you, Sir, on your current Holiday marketing plan. A simple design that is divide and conquer at its finest.” “Now back to business.” “It has been an exciting

Hey, Heidy and Howdy! It's Harry Handy on WOFT. I'm the randiest, dandiest D.J. in all oldies radio and I'm here to fuel your Geritol dreams. Dreams of long ago and far away, when you were sixteen and stupid. What's that you say? You weren't stupid? So, give me your answer to this. Yep. your past is NEVER far from the Google archives.And I am willing to go where no man (or imaginary DJ) has gone before to find it. (And this was the safe for work one). Speaking of Geritol Dreams, if you are man that is older than ol' Harry, you may have lusted after Ann-Margaret. Her red head meant fiery times alone in the dark. The girls hated her because she (along with a lot of others) date Elvis. The guys just wanted her. These days, she likes her privacy, but I'm willing to ignore that. Yes, you were Dazed and Confused. Then you got older. Found a girl and supposedly got wiser. Then you became this song. Now your doctor is telling you to give