The Mourning After Dallas

The tragedy that unfolded in Dallas last night is not a competing tragedy with the reoccurring deaths of mostly black men killed by mostly white police officers. It is a part of the same tragedy. It is a tragedy of two races distrusting, disrespecting, and profiling one another; with members of each judging the whole of the other based on the actions of a few. The original sin cannot be undone. Forgiven or unforgiven, it can only be moved past. Only when America mourns equally for the lives lost on both sides of this tragedy will it begin to stitch the wound that continues to rip open with each violent incident. And until we do the deliberate work of stitching, the natural process of healing cannot begin. We must all be doctors today. Our needle and suture must be empathy and respect... Empathy and respect for one another.

Radical Corporate Terrorists

Trump won’t say it. He won’t utter the words. Neither will Hillary, or Barack. None of them will… “Radical Corporate Terrorists!” There, I said it; a phrase you won’t hear from apologists of free market abuse. They’re too politically correct to admit that some greedy capitalists are strapping exploding debt to people across the country. They’re terrorizing the middle class; reducing their numbers with every explosion, leaving them so sift through America’s ruins with the desperate poor. 

Radical Corporate Terrorists have infiltrated every county in the nation. When a student signs up for college they say, “here’s your exploding debt vest. Put it on, or you can’t attend”. When a person gets sick they blow up their insurance agreement and say, “Sorry, we don’t cover that. We cover other treatments, but not that one; not the one you need to survive… But if you’ll strap on this exploding debt vest we’ll keep you alive a little longer. But keep in mind that when it blows up it will financially devastate your family. It’s your call. We’re just here to help. Please fill out our survey”.

Every couple generations Radical Corporate Terrorists blow up the entire housing market, sending shrapnel flying in every direction, injuring everyone except those living at the penthouse level. The penthouse dwellers wander down after the fires are put out and purchase whatever they please for pennies on the dollar and rent it back the financially injured at inflated rates… because they can. And because their God, Money the Almighty, says they are the chosen ones. They have the right. Glory awaits them.

I’m tired of being politically correct. I want a government that will fight Radical Corporate Terrorism. I want a candidate who will acknowledge that “Radical Corporate Terrorists” are here, now, planning and carrying out attacks every day. I want to fight the real enemy for a change.

Arthur P. Dale

(While walking the dogs this afternoon my mind wandered and voilà, a poem was born.)

Arthur P. Dale was hunting for whale,
out in the open sea.
Said Arthur P. Dale as he looked o’er the rail,
“Now where do you think they be?”
Then up from the bottom, the jaws of one got him.
No man was more flummoxed than he.
And he woulda fought ‘em, yes he woulda taught ‘em
a lesson or two… or three!

But Arthur was bested, it was uncontested; 
Hors d'oeuvre a la abductee.
And though he protested while being ingested,
t'was nary a chance to flee.
Now Arthur P. Dale resides in a whale, 
out in the open sea.
Tonight he lay pale, somewhere near the tail,
a victim of hyperbole.

Short Nonfiction

THE HISTORY OF CIVILIZATION

by R.L. Johnson (abridged version) :

Monarch underestimates the anger of the peasant class. Monarch's head ends up in basket. New leader pledges to do better, but soon falls in love with power. Head, basket, repeat.

Good Friday

I stopped by my local Safeway this afternoon to pick up a small Easter Ham. Then things got weird. As I hopped out of the truck… One should always hop at Easter time. It’s in the Scriptures. No, I don’t remember where. Ask Donald Trump... Anyway, as I hopped out of the truck, the sky opened up and sunshine flooded the parking lot. Three people dressed like Sailor Moon walked past me, and the sound of a French horn playing You Are My Sunshine filled the air. Yes, that happened... But wait, there’s more.

Inside the store I headed straight for the ham and then quickly to the express register. After placing my carefully selected Black Forest Ham on the conveyor belt, everything came to a stop. The cashier was searching for a key to open up the lottery scratch ticket case for a woman. The line grew longer, but this lady wasn’t moving without her scratch tickets; so, unable to find the right key, the cashier borrowed one form a nearby register and the wheels of capitalism began turning again. The lady purchased what appeared to be a few of every kind of ticket in the case. So far everything inside the store is normal, but, when the cashier tried to hand Scratch Ticket Lady her free Safeway Monopoly game piece, the women abruptly gave it back announcing that she didn’t want it because she’d, “never win”. I don’t know if anyone else in line was entertained, but the irony amused me enough to make the wait worthwhile.

After getting my ham and my free Monopoly game piece, I headed toward the door where a man asked me, “Do you play that Monopoly game?” He had a hand full of tickets so I figured he wanted mine too, but without thinking I said, “My wife does”. Then he gave me all of his tickets. I didn’t know what to say so I just said, “Thanks. I’ll tell my wife a nice guy at the store gave me these”. Then he started laughing, “Nice guy!” he said, “I need to do this more often… Nobody ever calls me a ‘nice guy!’” Doubly amused, I continued on.

Next thing ya know I’m back outside and the French horn music is audible again. This time I see where it’s coming from. There was a busker woman a few doors down, sitting on a chair, playing her heart out to an empty sidewalk. I never know how much to drop in a busker’s case, so I appreciated this one making it obvious. She was sitting outside The Dollar Store under a sign that said “Everything $1.00”. So I walked on down and got me a song for a buck.

...And as it turned out, that “French horn” wasn’t quite a French horn. But it was from the French horn family its owner told me. I don’t remember what she called it, but it was like a French horn except its big bell stuck straight out instead of curling around like a sleeping dog. Speaking of sleeping dogs, it’s time to take mine for a walk.

Good Friday everyone!

Red Hot Pokers

Today as I was ripping out old stalks and leaves without mercy or precision from the dozens of Red Hot Poker plants (kniphofia uvaria) that grow around our house, I realized… These things must be suffering from some plant-form of Stockholm syndrome. I mean, they’re held captive within the confines of my yard, neglected and abused, yet they grow like crazy. They’re peed on by the dog, gnawed on by the donkeys, and everything short of water-boarded by me. The ground is dry and rocky in the summer, and half flooded and rocky in the winter. The only thing they can count on are the rocks. Believe me, the grass is both figuratively and literally greener on the other side of the fence.

A four-man landscape crew with implements of perfection and a full array of plant-spa services show up every week across the street, and the Red Hot Pokers never cry out. They bloom and attract hummingbirds for me each summer, gathering moisture from God only knows where to keep the hummers happily humming. They grow so well I’m constantly hacking them in half with a shovel and replanting chunks of them in places that other plants have given up on… and the chunks flourish. As fast as they grow they could easily grow themselves into a giant “SOS” that could be seen from a passing airplane… but they don’t. They could commit suicide like so many other plants in my yard have… but they don’t. A hydrangea shot itself in the head just last week.

Yes, they’re definitely sick. Not from pesticides, or chemical fertilizers like the poor lush green perfectly pruned plants across the street. No, they’re clearly sick with some sort of mental disorder… but in their weird way, they seem to like it here… and we like having them.

Houdini’s greatest trick recently rediscovered:

Lost to history for nearly a century, a written eyewitness account of Harry Houdini’s greatest trick is now being reviewed by scholars. According to a just-released document: On August 3, 1921, Houdini was dressed before a live audience in soaking wet clothes. Each article of clothing, from underwear to outerwear, was pulled from a barrel of ice cold water on stage. His outermost layer consisted of a pair of high laced leather boots, a peacoat jacket, and wool gloves, all drenched. Houdini was then hand-cuffed and put into a large wet gunnysack.

The dripping sack containing Harry was then shoved into a large tumble dryer. The powerful clothes dryer (a precursor of today’s modern home version) caused the audience to gasp when it was turned on. George Sampson, inventor of the metal drum tumble dryer, and two of his assistants stood by in case of emergency. Harry was tumbled on medium heat until dry.

Approximately 90 minutes after being shoved into the dryer, the door was opened and Harry tumbled out. He was still in the gunnysack. He was still in the boots, jacket, and gloves, and he had not escaped the handcuffs. But upon closer inspection it was discovered that one sock was missing... ta-da!