The Angel of Fair Play pleads the 5th.

A boy fell from a tree. It was an easy way up, and even easier way down. He didn’t have to work at it. The boy didn’t want to cry till help came. Dad was an inventor and the boy had a patented face. Dad thought it was a good move - a unique item, especially in his culture. Problem was the product broke and no one pays for busted goods. Dad didn’t know all this of course; he was on a sales trip, chasing clients and investors. Dad had an excellent pitch; he talked about obedience and adaptability. Most people, when sitting down with him, wanted a piece.  The boy thought about getting up but it didn’t make sense for his legs so he looked back up at the tree and watching it sway violently he got scared. Dad got home and saw the boy on the ground. He had no choice so he went inside and made some calls. Dad never came out the back of the house again. The earth ate the boy, it took awhile, but it happened. Dad lost some clients but he said "a good inventor never succumbs to failure." Many years later in a horrible storm the boy’s tree fell through the dad’s house destroying the property. The storm hit pretty bad and in the morning all the cops and fireman were there helping people out of the wreckage and looking for survivors.  They all said it was the worst storm in years, like some kind of vengeance drove it. Dad watched the news from his motel-room; he was selling 3 new inventions 4 towns over.

The Value of a Good Cry

I spoke to my Uncle last night. He's dead – three years gone, so I had to buy the first two rounds and the third was free. I came in to his house, a small bar at the last stop on the train, and he was on the wall.  Black and white, a few dirty finger prints all mounted behind glass in a faux gilded frame – he never blinked. I kissed the picture and spoke with the survivors, most of them knew me from before but I didn’t remember them. Something harder might have been more appropriate but I drank the ale –it wasn’t the cheapest option on the menu. I played his music, old crooners, rock ‘n roll from the 70’s, and a gnarled voiced carnie. I don’t think he regrets his death - he only left behind people that love him, but he doesn’t know that, he doesn’t know anything any more. Death or drink made me feel romantic about all of this – not sure which. Romantic about all the invisible men in the sky – they’re unhelpful most of the time except for Hermes. When the sun goes down Hermes is left to his own devices, bound only by his will. He carried a message for me and in the most timely of manners I got my response. I can’t tell you what I heard but soon I’m going back to that place to drink beneath my Uncle’s simple altar. I made my prayers last night and small sacrifices will be due in the future but for now it’s all paid up.

A smart trap

Eyeliner is difficult to remove. At the train station Sunday night a woman approached me - she looked mid-twenties and attractive - my eyes were black. She said she was a writer/producer and very interested in westerns. "Did you see the new Coen Brother's film" - "Ah, did you see the original?" - "Oh, did you read the book?" "I said, "Jeff Bridge's eye-patch was excellent, very believable; a ruff piece of leather." She thought about that and smartly asked where did the shoot happen. I told her it was the convent up the street, talk to Father Jim he's got the details. "Cool," she goes "Som- " And I left her on the platform, the train was here, I was tired with a grey face and black eyes and I needed to wash. The eyeliner didn't come off in one, it took a few attempts and I'm not sure I had the right tools around. It's fun making movies and changing your face for people, it seems honest because the lie is so loud.

The Law of Physics

Pondering Wile E. this evening - his impotence omnipresent - I read everything he spoke. I enjoy the kismet, depressing as it is. I despise the Pharaoh, as do the unfortunate folk beneath his heal, but are their tools of expression no greater than the intelligence of a ragged pack? This frailty seems consistent - stretching back towards the petal kid corduroy first responder, tripped and establishing a formal means of protest - but I can't help feeling suicidal elation because Chuck Jones stabbed the heart of the matter, gave us our icon and allowed his ideas to get lost on the viewership. I admire that kind of freedom. Imagine we're marching on the hill, picket in hand, pushing fast and angry - we got a point, we're gonna' get 'em to listen this time - "Beep, beep" – comes the response to our call. Cynicism is like your favorite electric blanket, warm on the coldest days - burning you alive when you get too comfortable; I'd like to get thru this winter in other ways, but it's freezing out there. It's hard to laugh when what's funny is your powerlessness. But there might be something possible, one procedure to implement that softens the problem, massages those nasty, penetrating late night thoughts burning a hole in your being - GRAVITY DOES NOT EXIST - or at least it doesn’t ‘til you look down.