FORMIDABLE and WISE

When I was a child, my father would say the most peculiar things; odd things, indecipherable things, things beyond my five year-old comprehension. Being intellectually lazy and a quick study, I learned how to react to his curious utterances by mimicking the reactions of the adults in the room. My father was a formidable man and I understood that we were all pretending to understand his incomprehensible utterances. It made perfect sense as a five year-old. Hell, it makes perfect sense to me today at fifty-one. Like I said, my father was a formidable man.

One day my father was speaking about an unmarried cousin who was about to become a father when he made the most enigmatic comment he ever spoke,

"A stiff Dick has no conscience."

I understood to take my cue from the adults in the room, bow my head and look remorseful. I understood that this Dick guy was not a nice boy. I understood that we didn't have any cousins named Dick. I understood my father was formidable man and a complete mystery at times.

Today, I see so many overworked, exhausted unwed mothers and now these many years later...

I understand my father was both formidable and wise.

With Love for the Ladies

Men are truly simple creatures.
We come in tall or short,
fat or thin, and rich or poor.
That’s the extent of our diversity.
Don't bother looking for more.

One additional attribute
Bound to catch your eye
Is the boundless almost innumerable
Clans of "asshole” we currently occupy.

If I tried my best to hazard a guess
The Sarcastic Asshole Clan is mine
Where I have resided for a very long time

Women are a different creation, you see
When my song is sung your girl will be like
Finally a man who understands me!
Please don't take that personally.
The lyrics are an education
Learn quickly gents while the tuition is free.

There are many things a
Woman can and will be
one at a time up to twenty-three
simultaneously, maybe more.
I lose track constantly.
Count on your fingers or just nod
and smile along with me.
Here we go fasten your seat belts
tightly...

She can be
The last breath of Fall
The first hint of Spring
Awkward at times
but always a Beautiful thing.

Her voice is a perfect tenor.
the angels say, “God sent her.”
Have you heard her sing
(Yup, a beautiful thing)

She’s a cool summer shower
A hot masseuse who won't
Charge by the hour.
It's a contract deal you see
Is that seven or eight so far
It's a mystifying mystery

She’s a mom and a mistress,
A professional prom dress seamstress
She'll make an igloo a cozy place
With her tasteful knickknacks she got
at a steal shopping with Whatsherface
Her best friend for twenty years,
but her weird name always escapes.
So, it's "Whatsherface".

Now, I've lost my place, oh yeah
She's a Maytag repairman,
Sorry, Miss, repair ma'am
Do the math or a make a wild guess
You'll be wrong at what comes next.

Aw, what the hell? She changed
from a bathing beauty into an alchemist.
She'll turn lead to gold while feeding the
Baby on her breast, with absolutely no mess.
Hell, the baby and I are both impressed

When she enters the room,
She’s the girl next door
Meets Rosie the Riveter
Who won the Second World War
(While being cute)

Germans never knew what hit ‘em.

"Mine Got! It vas a whole bunch of Vimen!"

She’s got the caboose and the engine
Home or office freight train
running just a little late again
She had to stop to make snowmen
in the pouring rain.
Don’t ask her to explain
There she goes again!

She’s a doctor, nurse,
And ambulance driver
A sushi chef or a
Deep sea diver.




She’s a Queen, Jack,
Or a fighter Ace. 

Just give her ten minutes 

to put on her face.
An hour or so will go to waste.
(She was beautiful to begin with!)

That’s okay she can win the race
At the gym, the mall, office
or for that parking space.

"Back off! It’s mine!"

That's the Parking Lot
Asshole Clan kind.

She’s a silent poem and
Every love song.
In an argument you’ll
Always be wrong.
(Don’t you love that?)

In the end we both win
Some tender loving and...
What was that problem again?
(It never mattered)

She’s a broker, a banker,
and a naughty boy
Bare bottom spanker.

Ouch!

She’ll be late on foot,
by car, or unicycle.
She’s insists she can be
late for anything...
except her menstrual cycle.
(Amen!)

She’ll get the kids to bed on time
On that you can bet your last dime.
(She wills it!)

She’s a soothing ointment
or a witches brew
At night she’ll be a fine wine
In a glass or two
So will you when it’s
Just the two of you
Dancing around the room
Like you used to do
(Why’d we ever stop?)

She’ll fall asleep
With her head on your chest
In the morning, you made
Her hair a mess!
Hair Messing Asshole Clan 

is my guess.

She’s a caregiver
And a lunch order taker
An interior designer
And birthday cake baker

She’ll plant a garden
Watch it bloom
It’s her laughter
That lights up the room
(I love you.)

She’s Mrs. Santa, a reindeer,
Or a friendly elf,
Cleopatra, Laura Croft
Or Mother Eve, herself.

She’s a photo finish
And the forbidden fruit
She’s the hottest model
in a photo shoot

Well, guys this song is
down to the wire.
Put it to work.
you’ll discover
I’m no liar..

We’re just simple men
Short, fat, lean, or tall
So, for the ladies let's take a
moment of pause in awe.
(Look into her eyes, dummy.)
Now, let’s give ‘em all
A HUGE round of applause!
(Keep clapping. No, seriously keep clapping.)

Keep loving them, too
That’s the best we
simple creatures can do
A goodnight to the ladies
And your simple creatures, too.

HTB Chronicills - Current Crimes, Vol. III (An HTB Alcohology)

Character Color Index:
  Narrator’s lines: Black Text
  Author’s lines: Red Text
  Harold’s lines: Snorted hours ago

Begin your journey where you’ll meet Harold’s Tails. Stagger forwardish through Harold’s HTB Chronic-ills: Collection of Current Crimes, Vol. III the first two are in hock at the pawn shop (just like Spielberg when he started Star Wars with Episode IV). Meet Harold the Bum and his assortment of sordid sorts; mostly habitual, usually criminal, one magical, another non-corporeal, and a couple are exclusively cranial. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll throw up blood, and die. It will be fun, you’ll see. Follow me, I’m the Narrator who knows all and sees all. You’d be amazed at all the stuff I know. Being a Narrator is about as close to being God as any entity can achieve without being the Supreme Being. So, if you have any quest…

(Indecipherable grumbling from off stage.)

Well, I just thought it might be nice if the audience could participate in a dialogue with the Narra…

(Much louder and angry indecipherable grumbling from off stage.)

No… Very well. Okay then, we’ll do that then…

(Narrator resumes his PROPER function sharing his nothing like God, limited scope of knowledge with the audience as written by the author, who is much closer to The Maker, being a maker of things unlike narrators)

Yes, we’ll since the audience has read all that, I’ll just continu…

As written! As written!

Okay, I get it. I get it. (In a tone of exaggerated sincerity, the narrator resumes) Narrator resumes his proper function sharing his nothing like God, limited scope of knowledge with the audience as written by the author, who is much closer to The Maker, being a maker of things himself, unlike narrators.
(Narrator snaps) There! Was that good enough!?

(Author’s turn: Sounds of a backstage brawl which carries on for several minutes as audience listens to the pleading and alternate screams of the narrator, and then concludes with the narrator’s whimpering and sobs. Finally, thank Author, the narrator continues his narration after being penned a good thrashing in a “come to Author” encounter. A thrashing which could be easily and almost infinitely repeated should Author so choose. Anytime, anywhere, buddy.
Now, begin again.

(In a tone of serious fucking contrition, the narrator resumes) 

Meet Harold the Bum *sob* and his assortment of sordid sorts; mostly habitual, usually criminal, one magical, another non-corporeal (narrator motions an imperceptible finger at his undetectable self), and a couple of them are exclusively cranial. *sob, sniffle* You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll throw up blood, and die. It will be fun, you’ll see. Follow me, to the land of dry heave, stomach churning thrills, millions of rats, and unidentified pills, catch the latest, easily-transmitted and always terminal case of The HTB Chronic-ills.

You go ahead. I’m not feeling very well. I’ll catch up later. *sob* And now a word from our sponsor…

HTB’sHomeless Academy 

Coor's Katalog

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There's more to come from your resident bum... when he sobers up, because education is the only way to fully grasp how fucked you really are.

"It doesn't take a village to raise a child. 

However, it does take a village to raise an idiot."

Hurray we're Fucked

Thomas Midgley Jr. is not a common household name, but it aught to be. Tom was a chemist who solved one of humanity’s pesky issues with the internal combustion engine. Knock and ping was nearly eradicated by Mr. Mingley’s innovative idea to supplement gasoline with safe cheap and effective lead. He was subsequently awarded the prestigious American Chemical Society’s Nichols Medal in 1922 for his contribution to a greatly enhanced chemical society. A few years later, a few minor issues of greatly reduced sanity, lucidity, and rationality was noted at the factory where Tom’s Ethyl gasoline was refined. Tom created one minor issue which may have lead led to the extinction of all life on Earth. Tom went on to invent chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs) to propel our deodorant and expel our ozone. The deleterious affects of CFCs went unnoticed until some 30 years, and a hole in the ozone half the size of the Atlantic Ocean, later. Bill Bryson remarked of Midgley, “[He had] an instinct for the regrettable that was almost uncanny.” You win some, mentally handicap others, and you almost lose everyone. That’s life. What the hell are you going to do?

Another scientist, whose name is equally alien to household discussions, stumbled upon Midgley’s oversight when he noted the ozone was evaporating faster than the Kardashian’s television ratings and an alarming number of terrestrial species, Kardashians most notably, were going retarded from lead gasoline additive. This researcher probably received a grant and a wall plaque before continuing on to fuck up other things someone else will have to figure out someday. That’s science. What the hell did you do?

In an attempt to restore his good name, Midgley would demonstrate how safe his lead laden hydrocarbons were by washing his hands in and huffing the gas for thirty seconds at a time. Inhalant abuse has seldom improved one's social standing, however his performance did improve the marketability of leaded gasoline for a few decades. That's hypoxia. He's turning blue.

In the golden years of Midgley’s life, chemistry’s karmic clown came a calling, and awarded Tom with a crippling case of polio. This may bring a smug smile of Gia’s retribution to both my post-modern druid and Seattle environmentalist readers. That’s misanthropy. What the hell is wrong with you?

Being the creative/ destructive being that Tom Midgley proved to be, he solved one of polios pesky paralysis issues by devising a harness, rope, and pulleys system which allowed others to get his now medal and award weighted, yet paralyzed body out of bed. Being a man of reason, Tom was woefully unaware of the finality karmic clown’s expect from their paybacks. Their motto is, “When the clown puts you down, God damn it, stay down.” That’s liable. What the hell is a Karmic clown going to do?

Before Tom could receive another award for his mechanical marionette ingenuity, the clown dropped the curtain on Tom when he became entangled in his harness and ropes which strangled him to death. Druids and environmentalists offer a standing ovation. That's ironic, and it's all true.

Small Crimes and Heavy Breathing in Green Lake

We have all spent an afternoon at or in Green Lake. If you haven’t, you must because a summer afternoon spent in the natural ambiance of Green lake will be well worth the price of making my initial assertion true. We know the trendy neighborhood which surrounds our beloved Emerald City’s Emerald Oasis. As an act of omaĝe or attention deficit bloom, we named that hipster neighborhood... “Green Lake”, as well. Let’s keep it simple for the Climate Change Deniers, and guys like me who felt compelled to wear my SCUBA gear from Woodlands Park Zoo until I safely crossed NW 85^th Street in fear of getting the benz. Let’s keep that last part confidential, between you and I, and the thirteen hundred or so other people that will read this and carry my, er… our secret to the grave. Speaking...er whispering of secrets, very quietly whispering of secrets...

Let's keep this one under wraps, too. I was so fucking close, another six feet and I would have made it. And it's my roommate's truck whom I told, "Wow! That's fucked up man. Who the fuck would do some dumb shit like that to a dude like you who usually pays his part of the rent within a reasonable time frame pretty much usually? Fucked up shit, it must have been stolen some time during the night, whilst* we slept."

* For those of you not incubated on this planet or within the last three centuries, the word "whilst" only makes an appearance in literature which can only be categorized as "Pure fucking fairy tales". Nowhere, else is it used in the modern English language, nor should it.

Anyways, we’ve all been totally ripped off ordering a coffee and vegan Danish or maybe it was a sandwich thingy because we were in coffeeshop poet turf way over our heads but thought we could fit in. They saw you and your single color, non-architectural haircut coming since the Northgate Mall MasterCuts. The coffee was really good. However, the vegan, whole something, ancient grain, fair trade, ozone replenishing (their claim, not mine) stuff on a gluten free ciabatta was not, in my estimation, a fair trade. Nevertheless, we still love Green Lake like a shining beacon on a hill… strike that. Like a brilliant guiding light drawing the highest concentration of acceptably tattered Che Guevara tee-shirts in the nation per capita. Shocking, isn’t it? It Rekindles the heady days of the 1980 Winter Olympics’ “Miracle on Ice” USA Hockey team. Green Lake trounces West Seattle in both the Che tee-shirt quantity and the exquisite dog-eared patina categories.

Viva Lago Verde! Shame on you, West Seattle. Where have you’re “So Left, we’re gone” values gone? Is that redundant?

Who cares? We’ll cross that West Seattle bridge if and/or when we need to, which isn’t now. We love Green Lake, because it’s cool and we’re cool. At least, I am and you’re… working on it. Coolness always attracts coolness, and Green Lake is no exception. It’s a textbook...nah, make that a Google Maps example!  

To the South of Green Lake stands Freemont like a fucking gangster keeping all that other Seattle weird shit outta’ our Seattle. Good looking out, G!

To the West is Ballard, which has a long history of sticking it to “the man”. Right on, Ballard! Ballard was an independent city until Seattle surrounded Ballard, then cut its water lines and forced Ballard to bow to “the man”. Boo, Seattle! Fremont’s gonna’ be running all up in your house soon.

To the North, straight up, is Crown Hill! How fucking cool is that shit? Green Lake wears a crown!

Ya’ know what? Fuck the neighbors. We love Green Lake because it is everything that makes it Green Lake, and not the shit that makes stuck up Mercer Island, or practically quarantined Magnolia, and most of all Green Lake is definitely not, I think I’m gonna’ puke, Shoreline.  

Granted, in Green Lake Bourgeois Capitalists still exploit the poor, dumb proletarian who, through no fault of their own, mistakenly mis-order a forty-dollar coffee and thingy, making wage slaves of us all for their decadent, imperialist conquests. The rest of Green Lake is spot on, though. Look…

Check this shit out. From this angle, Green Lake represents its street cred because…
Need I say more? Shut up! You’re not the boss of me… I call it, “synergy” because almost no one ever knows what that word means, even when it applies, which it does. So, I’m calling it what it is, which is “synergy.” Big whoop! Che would have taken a big Shoreline sized poop had he known his image would be co-opted by some hipster wearing Hollister trust-fund baby because daddy bought a hundred shares of MSFT in 1986.
Mercifully, Che lost his head in 1967, the year of my birth (Yup, it’s official,” synergy”), so El Comandante wouldn’t take a big, smelly Magnolia over Vietnam sacrificing a million Worker’s to spend their lives in Marxist-Leninist government sweatshops making Levi’s for the West. Hey, a buck’s a buck, and that’s a day’s wage for Ho Chi Min’s kids today.  Yeah, Communism is depressing because it’s like when you find out that the presents under the Christmas Tree didn’t come from Santa’s magical sweatshop elves, they were just made by non-magical sweatshop Southeast Asians. Same stature, but way different accent… depressing. Ah, well, pop a grip of Paxil and we’ll go to Green Lake.
Green Lake is multifaceted and unpredictable, see? This is Green Lake without the lip. However, it has the rest of the human features intact.
The testicle dropping thing about Green Lake is that it hides the visage of a real Working-Class hero… One even Che would proudly sport upon his chest. Si? I mean, See? Viva Dilbert!
Now, to seal the proverbial deal for the Grande Macho Cajones, you’re getting a pony, kind of cool that Green Lake exudes… Here they are exuding beautifully. Makes you just want to support that type of lactationaly exuding firm, ripe coolness. You gotta’ reach out and gently gather it all in your hand and squeeze. Communism is depressing. This shit is not. Fuck Communism. On, first thought, just keep your Communism and I'll be entertaining them and the other thirteen hundred or so other people who read this... concurrently. Like I said, I love Green Lake. In conclusion, Personally I don’t give a phuoc if you do or not. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass and rice bowl lunch menu meal at the Fila factory in Vũng Tàu.  I fucking love Green lake. Well, Love ya’, love your show, but I gotta’ go… to Green Lake.

 Fuck yeah!

Wisdom of the Prophet: Book X

Wisdom of the Prophet

Part X

The Perp is a Genius

Brilliant in his absence and absence of input!

The last words (or final fabricated wisdom) of Steve Jobs is, in my negligible opinion, quite beautiful. Yes, in my wholly unqualified judgment, the alleged utterance expresses an idea beautiful enough to take the silver medal in Mr. Jobs most revolutionary innovations, eclipsed only by the ubiquitous lower case "i".

Let's review this genuinely apocryphal message falsely attributed to Steve Jobs, although his family who were present for Steve's valedictory vocalisation refute he spoke the upcoming sentiment, I urge them to reconsider their position under the guidance of qualified legal counsel because it's a valuable legacy. 

I, for two*, believe Steve would have given us a single departing squeeze of the index finger if pressed for validity of content in lieu of authorship and assuming he could claim the work as proprietary intellectual property. I’m being respectfully, magnanimously sarcastic, of course, which is difficult to do. So, without further ado, let's review the departing dictation which Steve Job's didn't say...

(Quotation marks are used figuratively and as comic props)

“I have come to the pinnacle of success in business. In the eyes of others, my life has been the symbol of success. However, apart from work, I have little joy. Finally, my wealth is simply a fact to which I am accustomed. At this time, lying on the hospital bed and remembering all my life, I realize that all the accolades and riches of which I was once so proud, have become insignificant with my imminent death. In the dark, when I look at green lights, of the equipment for artificial respiration and feel the buzz of their mechanical sounds, I can feel the breath of my approaching death looming over me. Only now do I understand that once you accumulate enough money for the rest of your life, you have to pursue objectives that are not related to wealth. It should be something more important: For example, stories of love, art, dreams of my childhood. No, stop pursuing wealth, it can only make a person into a twisted being, just like me.”

Profound, no? I want those to be my last words, especially the “twisted being” reference. We always look kindly on the dying who are charmingly self-effacing, like Gollum's death scene should have been. We like to believe our heroes, whom Steve is to many, were human too, and through this brief moment of frail humanity we too can gain access to all that made them more.

Whomever the real author is, I believe they were projecting a human moment into Steve that, “Oh, wow. Oh, wow. Oh, wow” cannot relate (Steve Job's actual last words. A little disappointing, I know, but stick with me here). The prevaricating author wrote eulogy, not history. When judged on content rather than origin, the words construct a spectacular and philosophically enlightening passage, befitting Steve’s passage to the Hereafter and our passage into the hero made human that we might share in his glory, if only for a frail, fleeting moment.

To that counterfeiting copyist, I say ,"Bravo, you brilliant, lying bastard! Yes, Bravo! You made the human race look far more insightful and likable than we truly are… for a moment. But what a grand moment it was. Thank you for paying attention and remembering, “I don’t care if it’s true, just make it a good story.”



* - I'm assuming the fiction writer of funeral fraudulence and I are in agreement.