Tuesday, December 27, 2005

Christmas In July... The 4th Of July.

Without going into the reasons, usually I don't give Christmas gifts. But this year my folks got a gift from me at their house in Florida. I made a surprise visit on Christmas Eve after telling them for months that I was not going to be able to make it. When I showed up, my mother cried. So did my aunt. And I'm pretty sure I saw my brother cry as he appeared to be dividing in his head one more person into eight slices of pizza.

But it was a nice treat [& retreat] for me too.

For instance, we took the boat out on the Ocklawaha & St. Johns Rivers. My dad & I sawed & sanded & made some nice shelves out of wood from two cedar trees cut down out front. And I ate oranges. Yes sir, I ate oranges right off the trees in the back yard... on Christmas Day. Nice way to spend Christmas if you ask me.

But really the icing on the cake was when I couldn't wait to get back & document all the strange things that were stuck in my head the whole way home.

Among the odd things I encountered on the road-trip:

Jackson, GA: This ad was posted over a urinal at the Flying J truck stop along I-75.
Now why... why are the Canadians not getting the beer batter? That doesn't even make sense. I could understand if it was the Kountry Kitchen's location in Abu Dhabi but Canada's not exactly a tee-totaling nation.

*By the way, this is not the actual photo. The one I took didn't come out very well. I was rushed due to the intimidating & scornful looks from the other men in the restroom as they saw me getting a camera out at the urinal asking for help setting it to 'Macro'.

Keystone Heights, FL: For the first time I took B.B. to McDonald's for coffee & a McGriddle.
Here he is getting his head around the concept.
B.B. on the drive-thru idea: That is the sexiest thing I have ever seen.
"Let me get this straight. You drive up close to the building & they just.. HAND.. YOU.. FOOD.. THROUGH.. THE.. WINDOW?!"

Nickajack Lake, TN: Thirty-six empty cans of Busch under a bush.
It's a Busch bush. The seeds don't fall very far away, do they?
Must have been quite a Christmas.

Finally, Valdosta, GA: They were celebrating the 4th a little early.
Damn it Roy. I know it's called the 'UN-Candle' but you still can't light it in here.
Cracking wise about this is clearly unnecessary. But I do find it odd that I was the only one at the scene who thought it was funny.

And these are the stupid things that are gonna stick with me the longest. This is why I never see the larger picture. I keep taking the smaller ones. I keep staring at my shoes... that someone's thrown into the power lines.

So, hope everyone's year & holidays were capital. For the coming year, take a trip. Surprise someone. Take stupid pictures. Smart off every chance you get. Oh, & don't feed your dog hash browns. You'll regret it.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Where's my security appendage?

Anybody seen this? I'm not trying to ruin anyone's Christmas surprise but the fact is some of you might be getting this.

Ladies & Gentlemen,
The Boyfriend Arm Pillow
[Right now the thing is on backorder so don't get too excited.]

What in the world? I've seen some odd things on the internet but holy outcast!

And it's half a torso! So your imaginary boyfriend is the victim of a horrible shark attack? Notice it's the Boyfriend Pillow. They know good & well that if they had named it the Husband Pillow it'd have to have a pot belly, an untucked "Kiss My Bass" T-shirt & you wouldn't be able to snuggle up to it cus it smells like motor oil & a fart.

I wonder if the Girlfriend Pillow is just two legs. Maybe we should market that.

How 'bout this for ad copy?


[insert picture of two-legged pillow with Jerry's head nestled at home plate with eyes closed & pleasant smile]

Even though you'd rather be curled up on the couch alone, this is the next best thing with comforting legs that wrap around you as if to say, "Wanna go to Hooters for dinner?" or "No, I think that poster from Death Wish II looks a lot better on the mantle than the picture of my mother," all the stuff you'd never hear from a real girlfriend.

Polyester, filled with snuggly foam [rather than deceit, like the real thing]. Complete with G-String & small feet. Imported. 37" waist x 22" inseam, you know, a size 4. Sorry, discreet packaging not available, you freak.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

I Like To Call It My Thinking Cap

In frustration with a few people I know, earlier yesterday I began to think, "I know I've quipped something philosophical & poignant about this at some point in my life."

Problem was, I couldn't remember it. You know, I feel as young as I ever did. And even though I'm becoming a bigger baby with each passing day, perhaps memory is starting to go. This is the first sign of it anyway. Or maybe it's happened before, I don't remember.

This is why I think we should start giving out PDAs to all the old people before they start dropping like extras in Glory, taking with them the meaning of life or a recipe for fried apples or something invaluable like that.

All I could come up with are odd things I've said at one time or another that don't really add up to a philosophy but did get me quoted & sometimes smacked. In listing them I now find it a little hard to believe I never made it into the good schools.

Things like:

- "Never consider your options after dropping an apple in the toilet."

- "I may be alone but I ain't wrong."

- Woman, to me at a party: "You can judge a man by the way he dances."
- Me, to woman's friend: "You can judge a woman by the way she judges a man."

- "If your girlfriend's stack of self-help books is taller than your stack of nudie books, it's not going to work out."

- "It's hard to impress someone after they've watched you have a heart attack."

If that's all I've learned in this life, I'll have to take it. When I was younger I was told that I was mature & learned for my age. But now I've noticed that with some things it's taken me a little longer to pick up on than everyone else. Even people that don't know which way the moon is seem to learn a few things along the way. Either it's just an impression I get of others or I really am as dense as a Yonkers diamond.

Although I don't think we're here to just learn lessons, things do go a little smoother when we pick up on the occasional omen. Some people can just cut things off cold at a looming foreshadow. My mother quit smoking in a day. My friend broke up with a girl at an airport right before the flight. Another friend quit his job out of the blue the other day. None of these people have looked back with doubt.

Me, I tend to keep faith alive. And when I do make a grand leap, it's usually a mistake in the sense that it isn't based on lessons learned in life but rather on lessons learned watching Hardcastle & McCormick.

Maybe it's time to admit that in a few years I'll be shopping at Kroger with my hockey helmet on cus I keep banging my head on the meat case. I'm not going down without a fight though. I promise, I'm taking good notes from here on out. Quiz me, I'll be ready.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

The Lone Onion Theory

For the first time in a while I perused my stats on my website today. But looking at those reports I think they're almost too much info. I don't want to know what version of Mozilla some of you are using. And I don't need to know that .8% of you are translating my rants into Dutch. By the way, if any of you .8% are in Amsterdam & are interested in putting a discreet American [with a leftover oat or two] up for a month, I'd like to hear from you. I can be reached at booyaa@jerryhager.com.

Anyway, in said report is an interesting list of search strings entered into Google.com to get to my site.

Search strings to locate JerryHager.com

lap dance
fluffer nutter
someday i'll understand
chaffed thighs
assassination of mayor mccheese
abbey hoffman
old guy on santa's lap
jerry hall leopard skin photo
skoal lid collection

Believe it or not I can see why a couple of them are listed. But the one I'm having the most trouble with is "assassination of mayor mccheese". Who's searching for this? Is there some conspiracy theory out there that I missed involving Grimace & those Fry Guys? Anyway, when I find where in my site I've written those words, I will issue a public retraction.

By the way, I do NOT apologize for "old guy on santa's lap". That, I will never take back.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Their Logo Is Blue For A Reason

I must be the only person I know that admits to going into a Wal-Mart. There are plenty of good reasons to boycott, but I only have one spurious reason not to - they carry the kind of toothpaste I like. If you can tell me where else to find Pearl Drops without having to get my tires muddy on my way to Judge Beans BBQ on Saturdays for more of my own personal on-going gall bladder experiments, I'm all ears.

This last Saturday found me with the regular itinerary [got my Symptoms Of Gastric Anomalies journal right here]. I'd never been to this particular Wally World location though. It just opened, I think. I'm not sure how you could tell anyway. They all look the same. Plus, those places are huge. Maybe astronomers can date them by their gravity signature, I don't know.

Went through my ritual of slowly creeping into a parking spot so as not to run over the poorly enunciating youth that appear suddenly out of nowhere. Parked my H3 [joke] & as I walked the gauntlet toward the doors, I tried to psych myself out to prevent my imminent panic attack. Curtly passed THE GREETER [if that's not the new touchstone of 'demeaning' you tell me what is] & barreled straight to the Dental Health aisle. As usual I grabbed all 5 boxes of Triple Action Pearl Drops that they had & pointed back toward the insanity they got going on up front at the registers.

Decided to go through that 'U-Scan' thing so I wouldn't have to talk to anyone in a blue vest. But on the way, something caught my eye. It was a rack of discounted DVDs. I know, I know. That's how they get you, isn't it? But they had a movie I really like for really cheap. It was 'Glengarry Glen Ross'. $7.50! And as I just can't pass up a bargain [if you can believe it, I once purchased 8 pounds of over-ripe bananas at the fruit market because they were 15 cents a pound], I nabbed it & proceeded to the closest open do-it-your-own-damned-self register.

Now, I am, without a doubt, one fast mother on ATMs & U-Scans. I can be done & in the car playing with the radio when most people are still trying to find their Kroger Plus cards. That said, I had just scanned all my loot & immediately noticed that the lady behind me in line is all up & crowding me. She's so close I can hear the person she's talking to on her flip-phone - yes, over all the noise IN A BUSY WAL-MART! Man was she in a hurry. She must have had to get back home to her Ritalin Rats before they ate all the Snackwells.

So in an attempt to avoid getting all flame-thrower on her ass, I just chanted to myself, "Be nice. She's probably buying stuff for Katrina victims." And I tried to accelerate through the Select Payment Type section. And so help me, the machine says & displays the following: "Halt! Restricted Item. You are surrounded. Please wait for Gestapo-Mart Management. Do not attempt to flee." The red light that towers over the register starts blinking as though to pin-point where to drop the bomb.

I look to the kiosk where the girl who oversees the self-checkouts is stationed, I guess she's there to make sure we don't cheat by scanning once but bagging twice on the plastic jewelry organizers. And she's staring blankly at her screen, looking puzzled like she's having trouble with the colored shapes monkey test she appears to be busy with.

What in the world did I scan that is restricted? What in the world does Wal-Mart sell that's restricted? Restricted to what? I honestly was baffled. I continued to wait because I figured she was working someone else's problem... right. Finally a non-blue-vest-wearing official looking man comes walking up. He informs me that the DVD has set off the alert. Seems they don't want children buying such movies.

I said, "Such movies? What does that mean?"

"Movies with foul language."

At this point, the lady behind me is explaining into her phone why she's going to be late for Sangria Night because some jaggoff in front of her at the store can't figure out the U-Scan. So after brandishing a birth certificate, passport, & Members Only Discount Card to Larry Flynt's Hustler Club I was cleared to purchase said filth.

I wanted to discuss this policy with the young manager. I wanted to ask him how they arrived at the logic of selling rifles & shotguns in the same store that has a contingency to deal with those who appear to be headed toward the register with an R rated film. Why? We have to protect our children? What kid would want to sit still long enough to watch 'Glengarry Glen Ross' anyway? It might as well be 90 minutes of a security cam shot of a credit union lobby. Any 8 year old you prop up in front of that thing will end up upside down on the couch making dinosaur sounds & kicking the wall.

"Yes, Virginia. You can watch all the violence you want on TV & in video games & even practice in the back yard with your new pump action shotgun but we can't let you see this awful movie because Jack Lemmon said 'Fuck'. We're afraid you might start using such words."

Well, I let it go & after being frisked on my way out the door by a 72 year old blind man, finally being OK'd by letting him gum my receipt a while, I made it home & a long way from such stores. With all the things in this world we as a society get wrong, this one's an easy one. This one's not even important, which is why you can count on me to broach it. I think this is the kind of logic that leads to manufacturers having to print warnings - such as a can of foot spray that reads, "Don't spray in eyes." Honest to our disappointed God, I saw that once. Or why they have PSLs for NFL stadiums. That's where you buy a license at an obscene price to then buy the season ticket. I just hope it doesn't rub off on me.

Maybe I should take the thing back to the customer service counter, wailing about how they sold it to my 7 year old daughter & now she's running around school with a spot-on impression of Pacino yelling about how the place stinks of the principal's farts for a week. Maybe to shut me up they might give me some free toothpaste.

Eh, fuck it.

Saturday, September 03, 2005

Get free Jerry Hager music! Seriously.

I don't have anything wise or insightful to say about the awful tragedy that is the Katrina disaster other than I'm moved & sickened & worried. But I can urge everyone to contribute by donating directly to The Red Cross Hurricane Relief Fund. And my way of doing that is to offer to anyone who makes a donation on-line, of any amount, the Jerry Hager catalog free of charge. That includes the 2 CDs Gentle Man & Miles From Brushy, plus an extra CD The Songwriter Sessions which includes bonus rare material.

Just make a donation on-line, print the receipt. [Feel free to black out the amount if you like.] Mail a copy to:

Blue Bourbon Music
PO Box 293057
Nashville, TN 37229

Include your shipping address & the CDs will be on the way.

So please help out. Donate, pray, count your blessings & enjoy the music.

Here's to those who are suffering & to those who come to their aid. God bless all of you.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

My Demands

Sometimes it's hard to write what's really on your mind in a blog. Especially when you know so many people & their business that there's very little you can relay as an anecdote without a couple of your acquaintances getting together to decode it. The only thing you're left with are the thoughts you have that are not connected to anyone. And the reverse Rorschach representation of my thoughts would simply be of a sleeping mule. Not much going on in there.

Of course I have the usual thoughts that just about everyone else has from day to day. Every morning in the shower I think really, really hard on ways I could work it out so I could just towel off & go back to bed without someone showing up at my door saying, "No. No. No. No. No. No. Forget it. I figured you'd try this today. You're coming with me."

Or sometimes in my head I subtract from my current age the age that my father was at certain milestones in his life; such as getting married, having children, joining MENSA, TKO'ing Emile Griffith in the 7th round. Do that a few times a week & you go straight to the top of the waiting list for a donor ego. You'll be checking the radio on the fives of the hour to see if Rush Limbaugh or James Woods has been in a car crash.

And I used to think way too much about why french fries don't taste like they did as a kid. And don't give me that bilge about them using different cooking oil either. They stopped tasting right a long time ago - before everyone got on these short-attention-span health kicks. I think that if fries tasted like they used to, I'd be as big as... well... a little bigger than I am now.

It has to be that things taste different as we age. For instance, I don't like sweets very much. But I remember loving sugar as a youngster. Actually my change in taste probably happened right about the time my mother warned me to stop putting so much syrup on my pancakes. She said that if I didn't stop I'd have to sit at the table until I finished every left-over drop, sans pancakes. Well obviously Special-Ed here doesn't listen, just like the fat kid with his butt sticking out of the chocolate river in Willy Wonka.

When I had finished the pancakes, on my plate there was a lake of syrup deep enough to float a bath tub on. And my mother never went back on her word. Even if she wanted to, she never let us see her sweat. Here I am trying to spoon up globs of Log Cabin & somehow get my mouth open for yet another dizzying rush of sugar & nausea. I begged & pleaded but nothing doing. I must have sat there for a half hour. I'd have rather chugged a pint of brine than get that sticky mess anywhere near me after that.

My mother hates when I tell that story. It makes her cry. But at least it keeps me away from the cinnamon rolls today. However, that approach didn't have the same effect on my brother when he experimented with smoking. He now smokes like Mel Gibson.

Wait a tic, here I am trying to stay away from the tell-tale, breach of trust stories I have on all of you & I start down this dark road of revealing how I was abused as a child. How I was made to work for 15 hours a day in the tobacco fields near Greensboro. How at 8 years old I was forced to drag my father around to pubs & cult meetings in a rickshaw. None of that happened. I had the cushiest childhoood & am always surprised to be reminded of it when I hear other peoples' stories about their families. Some of you people are weeiirrd.

So be nice to me. You see how easy it is for me to start rambling? One day I might get to something on you. I could tell that one about the wedding in Mexico City, Laura. Or the story about the encounter with the great looking "woman" in the men's room at The Chute, Barry. So, as for my demands; I will require a slice of pizza...

Wednesday, July 20, 2005


Saw this in my SPAM today.

It didn't hit me as offensive or anything. At first I didn't think anything of it. I mean it didn't occur to me to be surprised at the idea of having a dating service that's that specific.

I guess it's good to know what you want out of life. But taking the notion too far I guess, my mind began to wander around...

Suppose I started a website called crackermatch.com. I'd be celebrated as a national pig.

I guess it's just the way we are as a society. It'll always be easy to get certain people to start jumping up & down on your desk.

And then I found this: "Sweethearts. Not bleeding hearts". I decided to stop thinking about it & go back to stomping on ants.

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

Pardon me. Do you have any grey khakis?

I had to go home & change my pants today. For some reason, I'm like a bug-light for mustard. It's a universal truth - If I'm in the same room with any quantity of Plochman's, it WILL find my lap.

Now you know something personal.

Friday, June 17, 2005

My First Sensation Of Claustrophobia, Ever.

Encounter in an elevator today:

Guy with corn rows - "Did you have your eyebrows colored today?"
Me - [smiling, staring, rapidly tapping the "1" button behind my back]

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Anyone for Yum-Yum Pickles & Redpop?

By chance today I came across a website that
1) made me angry
B) made me ill
IV) made me write in my journal again.

And that last one is the kicker. I was a swirl of confusion when I read the website & came very close to sending a snotty e-mail to the author [got up to the ‘click on SEND’ part] but I thought better of it. I mean, picture Mike Farrell calling Rush Limbaugh’s show to cuss him out. We all know how that would go. Or, for that matter, Rush Limbaugh appearing on David Letterman. Oh wait, he did that. It was grisly.

So I then thought I would write about it here & put up a link. But now it seems I shouldn’t be too specific because it would only benefit the website author & probably increase her tiara size. Now I've settled on just describing the damned thing.

This is a website that graphically isn’t very interesting [not a big deal in my book]. This is a website that has almost entirely as its purpose the showcasing of innumerable essays to all of us on subjects such as

-Who qualifies as authentically gay or not
-Why feminism is evil
-The author’s progressive belief in BOTH a healthy male-female relationship AND a strong protective foreign policy
-PLUS how we can all benefit from reading about the author’s recent discovery of how to create a database in Microsoft Excel

But most memorably, this is a website whose author, a 24 year old recent graduate, very much in love with her boyfriend [proclaimed in various corners of the site], has a page dedicated to her considerable list of recipes. Yes friends. Amidst all this twaddle about how anti-American the liberals really are & otherwise inane dissertations on pointless topics, was the page of meals she could make if she was forced to. You know, if The Good Lord comes through for us & we get to go to all-out war with everyone except the British & Israelis & she has to rough it without her nanny.

But to her credit, I do believe she really could find the kitchen if she had to. It’s the room where as a child she would have had to go to get Brach’s Chews for the little black boys who would occasionally trick-or-treat in the neighborhood. Although she knew all they ever wanted in this world was to be white like her, still they wouldn’t really appreciate the extravagancy of a Symphony bar.

“Ah, what a neato idea? I’ll put up a culinary page on my website called Recipes of a Staunch Republican. After all, how will the yuppies be nourished if not for me?”

This page currently has a total of four, yes four recipes. But they’re recipes for dishes that I wouldn’t eat just based on name alone.

‘Cheesy Hash Browns’
‘Cracker-Crusted Ketchup Pie’
‘Sargento’s Ranch Nachos’

Not interested. Thank you. All the recipes consist of ingredients that are pre-packaged – I think in all cases powdered Ranch seasoning. And therefore instead of the expected instructions such as ‘julienne’ or ‘sauté’, she is forced to use terms like ‘shake’, ‘place’ & ‘break seal’. I mean it looks like a list of recipes you can find on the spine of a Velveeta box.

Now, for this one, there is little doubt in my mind that if anyone tries making it on their own just by following the recipe, it would flop. I know because that's what happened to me. However, I went to the person who made these once, and got all the secrets - just for you! Aren't I generous?
2 cans of Crescent Rolls
2 8 oz packages softened cream cheese
1 cup Miracle Whip
1 Package of Ranch Dressing Mix (Dry)
2 cups fresh broccoli, cauliflower and carrots
4 oz. Sharp Cheddar Cheese

Is she serious? These recipes remind me of when I first left my parents’ house & had to fend for myself. I was once so poor I ‘dumped’ Shoneys season salt all over a five-pound bag of potatoes & baked them. My roommate & I sat on the floor, watching his nine-inch TV that was sitting on top of a milk crate. It was the best Thanksgiving I ever had. But I’m not going to dedicate a page on my website to it. If I did I could call it Recipes For A Nine Year Old When Mom & Dad Are Out Gambling Your College Money Away.

Now, to be fair, I remember when I was just out of school. I thought the world was out there just waiting for me & my good damned ideas too. I thought that whatever I heard eight minutes ago was a revolutionary notion that I must share with the world - because there certainly isn't anyone out there as innovative & keen-witted as me. And I realize that most will think that I’m being mean-spirited. And you'd be right. Even though I’m not the first to be so & certainly not the first to get a few ‘Harrumphs’ for it.

You see, I don’t begrudge this person their beliefs [although I think her political & social sermons are the regurgitated yield of years of brainwashing, em… eh… I digress]. And I don’t begrudge her expressing them, as ignorant as they may be [digressing again]. But for God’s sake, can’t we keep the kids off of this site? I worry about the little ones. There should be some sort of parental control, eh? You know, like whatever Nazi censorship tool AOL has been touting recently? Something like that. Young kids that read this bilge are gonna end up as adults scooping gobs of Goober Fudge & Peanut-Butter on their fingers from a jar clenched between their chaffed thighs as they drive to Harris Teeters for more dried Hollandaise mix to sprinkle over some new dish they saw in Spirit Magazine called ‘Authentic Michigan Nachos’.

Monday, April 11, 2005

Heaven doesn't take cheaters who recycle their own essays.

This little bit was a response to a challenge I received to expound on what my Heaven & Hell would be like.

I'd awaken in a white cloud to find that I am employed at the dingiest, yet coolest, used record store in all of Puerta Vallarta - and I could never be fired, no matter what. I'd be in charge of Big Band, Crooners & half of Soul L-Z. I would have my own little desk in the corner, you know, the beige metal deal with the edge that everyone else keeps gashing their thighs on. A little hula-lamp. An old rotary phone with a 3-pound receiver so I could call back people to tell them that their special order from 6 years ago just came in - they have 5 days to pick it up. My perfect temperature cup of French Vanilla Decaf Coffee in my favorite Car Talk mug on my right. My old adding machine just in front of it, but I never spill a drop. There would always be Leon Redbone playing. Sometimes duet-ing with other artists, like Yo Yo Ma & Joe Satriani. Oh, what the hell, I might as well add that my shoulders are periodically being massaged by Heather Graham, who "just loves my musical prowess." And while I'm going overboard, I want ceiling fans, lots of 'em. Just like in KEY LARGO. I want to be able to work an 8-hour shift entirely in my red flannel boxer shorts. And since this is Heaven, whenever I am too 'zoned out' to figure change correctly, I can just say to the customer, "Just reach in take out how much you think you should get back." Here I would be king. It's my Heaven, after all. I get to order up anything I see on the menu. Speaking of, I'd always have sesame chicken for lunch. Everyday. From the same greasy dump that's up there on Broadmoor in Bordeaux, north of Nashville. That's if it's still there. Oh, wait. They're probably up in heaven already, making a way for me. I'M COMIN' GUYS! YOU HEAR ME?! THIS IS THE BIG ONE! I'M COMIN' TO SEE YA!

P.S. In case you want my idea of Hell, just substitute the words "Heather Graham" with "Billy Graham."

There I'll be... in line - "on cue" for those of you who are pretending to be continental this year. In line... perpetually... at the bank. One of those banks with a giant organ on a raised platform in the middle of the lobby. Have you seen those? I have.

An organ, with giant walnut colored foot-keys so the guy can play 'bass' at the same time. And in he'll walk, with his hunter green pants & candy-cane red sport coat... wearing... the ultimate in "genuine for him, fake for me" smiles. One he got free for re-sodding his sixteenth of an acre front lawn this Spring. He'll saunter up to the bench, noticeably without sheet music of any kind. Almost sonically & visually imperceptivity scooting the bench away from the wooden behemoth. This guy's old, man. I mean OLD. He taught Methuselah how to steal "Slow Children Playing" signs. And I get smacked in the face with a flash vision of moments to come - the sheer resistance of the plastic-coated keys breaking what's left of his calcium-depleted fingers being coaxed downward by what must be the mere memory of muscle tissue resembling the consistency of overcooked squash.

Sorry, where was I? Oh yes. And then it comes. That indistinct, indecipherable rumbling of very slow, behind-the-beat bass. I swear if he had one more foot-key to the left, the pitch & volume would, without exaggeration, relieve me of command of my own sphincter. Next comes the bouncy pattern of the piercing, yet wholly round 'melody.'

I know this tune. What it is? Somehow it sounds wrong in here. As if a Good Humor truck has slipped out of gear at the top of a hill & came to rest in this lobby, with it's own special alarm that no one seems to know how to stifle. It's TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALL GAME. Oh my dearest God. At least I think it is. I wouldn't have a doubt about it if it weren't for the 8th note in the 3rd line he keeps missing by a half-step.

"Buy me some peanuts & crack-ER jack"


I'm going to interject a quote I've already used on someone but I think this is the only time I'm going to be able to revisit my own quote: "...I don't care if I ever get back. Let me root, root, root for the home team." (In 1908, you'd think they'd have catalogued a diverse enough vocabulary to fill in those extra two syllables.)

But with the greatest patience, he keeps playing. ...playing & smiling. ...smiling & rocking back & forth. On an endless loop like a hip-hop dance edit. Like the kids do it nowadays. And I can't get out of line. I just stand there, wrenching the purple velvety rope. The rope you can't hang on because the stands are not bolted down. They just come crashing down on you when you try. But I keep forgetting that. It only takes me about four minutes to forget & I do it again, like a fool. And this goes on & on for six or seven hundred years. At that point, I start laughing hysterically & egging on Noah to swing it up a bit. And then, it all becomes... Heaven. (Life is a choice.)