See, What Happened Was... (A Toast, Probably A Short One)

Here's to you, 2023. You could have been worse.

I've done this sort of post several times before, so I guess it's a tradition, at this point. My favorites were 2013's See, What Happened Was... (which includes the origin story of that goofy title, and 2017... It's Not Me - It's You, one of my many breakup conversations with the inanimate. We have just under three hours of 2023 left, so let's be brief. 

Here's to January, which is mostly a blur of overtime and end-of-year gift processing for Beloved Employer, aided by my trusty endangered black-footed helperferrets...

"Is this really only one day's worth??"

Here's to February, the first half of which [Maris] and I spent with COVID. Yeah, I know. We were at least two years late. All the cool kids had caught it ages ago. What can I say? We've both spent our lives being unfashionably late for every fad or trend, ever. Why would COVID be any different? Our cases were relatively mild, which was still BLEAH, but made us grateful for all those shots.

February was also the month in which we learned that not only had Beloved Employer sold our dingy-but-cherished HQ building (5ish minutes from home), but they had also changed course and would not be finding another suburban space for us in-office personnel. We would be asked to commute to the fashionable but 75- to 90-minutes away "West End" of DC, where we maintain another mostly-empty office. I'm not exactly "cheers-ing" that... yet.

Here's to March, with its requisite Madness, made all the madder by the rapid preparation for leaving our HQ. If you've ever moved out of an apartment or house, you're no doubt familiar with being fully overwhelmed at seeing how much STUFF has accumulated and needs to be packed or thrown away/given away etc.. Yeah - try that with an office building that once held several hundred employees who apparently never got rid of anything over the past 35 years. So that was fun - and it was just beginning.

Wait - you know what? No cheers for March, either! I forgot Mom dislocated her shoulder for maybe the 30th time, and sat in an E.R. waiting room hellscape for about 13 hours. I was literally searching for an open walk-in clinic when they finally called her name. Next time, we're just going to slam her into a door frame, a la Mel Gibson's character in "Lethal Weapon."

Hmm... Cheers withheld for April, too. I grudgingly started shedding cubicle stuff in preparation for a downsized and not nearby cube in DC. Started taking wistful pictures of the old, rapidly-emptying office...

See? Sad.

Here's to May, because I feel bad not clinking glasses with one month after another. I worked my last day in the office right down the street...

Bye, cow painted by famous guy whose name escapes me...

...and worked my first day at the beautiful but distant DC office. To be fair, I love it there. There are some fabulous colleagues who, like me, actually come in to the office quite a bit, so that's been fun. The commute isn't even really that bad (when the weather is good and Metro's not broken). It just takes so LONG to get there. I marvel at you people with two-hour commutes for years and decades on end. Here's to you!

We're *DC* black-footed ferrets, now!

Here's to June! Nothing happened! Worked on my commuting skills, did some cooking and grilling and got a teensy idea for a possible twelfth novel, and a friend said, "do it," and [Maris] said "see you in August..."

Here's to July, during which I managed to crank out over 56,000 words, several of which might actually go together in ways that make sense. I don't know. I haven't reread it, yet - or finished it. I just kind of kept going. I can do that. It's a gift.

Here's to August! Nothing happened! It was hot, or something. Probably humid, too. Kept writing. Got a little bogged-down, but stayed in the fight...

Cheers, September. I'm sure you were a nice month. I appreciated learning of my promotion, which came a mere eleven months after I took on all that important, time-sensitive work. And the continuing wordiness that had my little novel #12 at over 80,000 words by month's end. Also, I was pretty much finished decorating for Halloween by then...

"Help!"

Here's to October, because vacation. 'Nuff said...

That'll do, OBX. That'll do.

Hi bird! Could you just scootch a bit to the right?

Here's to you, November, when I inexplicably decided to have another go at "National Blog Posting Month," and write a new post every day (which here means night) for the entire month. Actually, it's pretty explicable - it's because I am some sort of masochist. I did it, though! And one of those 30 bits of drivel was MY 300th POST!

Is that a lot? Also, do you dig our hats?

Also in November, we found The Last Spider. You can read about it in one of the "Thankfulness" posts from that month...

Hi. I'm not even hiding, dude. Sheesh.

Here's to December, still echoing in my exhausted ears. There was the Trans-Siberian Orchestra...

((Christmas Devil Horns))

There were [Maris]'s gnomes, and their 12 days of shenanigans...

They had a lot of help, this year. Merry Christmas, fellas.

There were downs, there were ups. Sadly, there was NOT peace on earth (not enough, anyway). But in my tiny sliver of the planet, the month ended strong.

So let's raise a glass to 2023, and eat, drink, and be merry. Most of us are keenly aware of what kind of show 2024 promises to be. I'll regret saying this, but tonight I say BRING IT. The good people of this country and others will find our way through this. We shall breathe in, breathe out, and stay in the fight - together.

Cheers...

Mad Max And The Goose And Not The Goose: A Christmas Story Sort Of

With snow and everything! Photo by [Maris]

Mad Max was in no mood. His feet were soaked and nearly frozen. Much of the rest of him was likewise damp and/or painfully cold. His sidekicks were fussing and bickering, which was not helping matters at all. "I am in no mood, you two!" he spat. "I gotta find us some shelter from this freezing rain - I'd settle for an awning, about now. I can't handle another Christmas like this. I wish I'd taken your advice and headed south a couple of months ago, The Goose."

The Goose growled out a low sequence of throaty sounds that could be approximately translated to, "Told you so." Under his breath, he added, "I'm just happy to be waterproof, tonight."

Maxwell Small hadn't always been mad. In fact, he wasn't at all fond of the "Mad Max" moniker his hobo brethren had bestowed upon him in the early 1930s - mostly because he didn't see himself as even remotely crazy (or angry, if we're going to split hairs). He'd had a normal childhood in Bedford, Indiana. He graduated high school and started work as an apprentice mechanic, repairing everything from Model A's to the newest farm equipment. He buried both his parents (double-fatal yo-yo trick accident), joined hobo nation, acquired a clingy Canadian goose, and later a German shepherd-golden retriever-half-albino Labrador mutt who thought she was a goose, and like it or not he became Mad Max.

The Goose and the dog, who came to be called Not The Goose, were best friends from the moment they met. It was often hard to tell whether The Goose thought he was a dog - or Not The Goose thought she was a goose - or both. They chased each other. They mimicked each other's speech patterns and dialects. They slept together, curled up like a pair of kittens. They stole each other's food and fought and made up and vied for Max's affection. But one of them... was a goose.

Most of the time, this fact was not a problem. It was cute. "Oh, look at that crazy hobo," they would say, "with his odd-looking dog, and his goose that thinks he's a dog. So cute." But Halloween would come, and then everything from St. Louis to Atlantic City would turn brown and dead, and just like that it was open season on critters that looked like The Goose. Getting past Thanksgiving in one piece wasn't too hard, but soon after, he'd start hearing the words "Christmas" and "goose" together, and things would take a turn.

"This is ridiculous," Mad Max groused, "We're going south, next year - if we live that long."

"Honk honk, hisssss, honk," said The Goose.

"Aroo rowrowooo," Not The Goose Agreed. And they shared a good long laugh.

The Goose had put on a pound or two since the previous December, so apparently he looked more appetizing than ever. As Mad Max had led his anserine and canine charges east from Dayton to Zanesville to Wheeling to Morgantown, they were harassed by a dozen cleaver-wielding maniacs, bent on turning The Goose into the centerpiece of Christmas dinner. Max and Not The Goose had been extra vigilant since Thanksgiving, and had fought off every threat, but they were exhausted. 

"I love you, The Goose," Mad Max groaned, "but I think if we find a fella with a campsite - or just a proper fire - I might let him have you, just so that I might warm my toes before they die and fall off. I'm sorry."

The Goose laughed it off, as if Max was obviously joking, but he shook his feathers from neck to tail, and hunkered down defensively.

They passed a shed along the B&O main into Cumberland, and found themselves bathed in a warm glow. "Say, strangers," a gravelly voice called after them, "care to share a fire?"

They turned. The Goose hissed reflexively, then relaxed a bit. Not The Goose growled reflexively, then stood tall and let her tail wag - just a little. Mad Max braced himself for another attack on his plump waterfowl, then likewise eased up. "Great day in the morning, guys - it's JACK SKUNK, working his way as far east as he can get before New Year's! Jack, ol' buddy - you're a lifesaver and a saint - a true gentleman. We can't repay your kindness, this cold and rainy Christmas Eve, but we will gladly walk the rest of our days in your debt..."

And the three wet, frozen travelers huddled around the fire of one of the smelliest hoboes ever known, and were welcomed and warmed and not eaten, and it was good.

Mister Torso, The Legless Wonder Hitches A Ride

 

I failed subject-centering class. Photo by Joe

I think by now it's been well-established that life was hard for America's hoboes. We've probably also touched on the added difficulty of hobo life for minorities and women (I'll check later to confirm that). But to all of the above hoboes, tonight's 'bo says, "Hold my beer..."

Try traveling the country and hopping freight trains whilst having zero legs, and presumably just as many feet. How would that even work? Some sort of wheeled conveyance, and a ton of upper-body strength? A horse? Cyborg legs? For Mister Torso, The Legless Wonder, it was mostly the wheeled thing. 

In late 1940, he lost his job as a side-show attraction in the Cruel Horrible Circus, and became a hobo. He did indeed use a kind of homemade cart to get around. It was a lightweight plywood box with oversized rubber tires. It operated much like a simple wheelchair; he sat on his leg stumps and worked the wheels with his hands. It worked great on smooth, flat surfaces, but for obvious reasons, it was rubbish on railroad tracks and the gravel ballast in which they rested. He could steal rides on trains, but they had to be very slow-moving trains, and it really only worked if he was on a train-adjacent freight or passenger platform, as said train rolled past. Even then, it was incredibly challenging to grab one of the train's iron ladders with one hand, and the cart with the other, and then not die (or drop the cart).

The cart-dropping bit happened, one miserable, rainy night in 1941 - in Gary, Indiana. He rode the train until it stopped in Cleveland, racking his brain for ideas, but apart from "build a new cart," ideas wouldn't come. He was summarily evicted from the train by an unsympathetic yard cop, who recommended that he find a shopping cart and a gondolier's pole, for the getting around. Mister Torso pulled himself through the jagged ballast and out of harm's way, next to the tracks, and felt the weight of his disability. Woe was him. Some hours later, the rain dried up and the sun warmed everything just a bit, and he noticed a big, square silhouette stomping purposefully down the yard lead track toward him. The figure stopped when it was perpendicular to Mister Torso's trackside moping spot.

Atlas Flatshoulders was huge - at least six-foot four and 270lbs. - and he stood for a moment assessing Mister Torso and his situation. "Brother, where you bound?" he said at last.

"Pittsburgh," Mister Torso replied sadly. "Or, that is, I was - until I lost my wheeled cart. I'll never get there, now."

Atlas thought, scratching his big square chin. "Well, brother... How do you feel about heights? You okay sittin' up high?"

"I guess so," Torso speculated.

"I ain't had a traveling companion in I don't know how long," Atlas said. "And I've always wondered what use I'd ever have for these oddly flat shoulders of mine. What say we try an arrangement?"

For the next seven years, the two hoboes were inseparable. Atlas Flatshoulders had a friend, and Mister Torso The Legless Wonder had a ride - and a great view. And a friend.

The End.

 

Thanking The "Muses"

 

Shootin' trains w/Godfrey Ozzenbarq III (not his real name), who wasn't there that day. Photo by Joe

I'm often asked by no one about who inspires me to write - 300 blog posts and 12 novels and counting. "Have you ever had a muse?" They would ask, if they existed and asked me questions. The short answer is, "YES!" An even shorter answer is, "YA!" I have had, and continue to have, a few muses - and I need to thank them for nudging me along my muddy little creative path to nowhere. 

Before I start - I know that there's a certain implication in the word "muse," that a relationship between artist (writer, in this case) and muse is inherently romantic and/or sexy. I must point out that mine are not your sexy, romantic muse stereotypes - except for [Maris], of course. (Speaking of [M] - she is being obnoxiously literal, right now. It is mildly amusing, sure - but it is NOT helping...)

Let's start with Godfrey Ozzenbarq III (not his real name). Oh! Wait! I forgot about High School Crush #2! Technically, High School Crush #2 was my first muse - and she actually did fit the romantic muse stereotype - or, the would-be romantic muse stereotype. She didn't inspire me to write a lot. I was rather lazy, at the time. But we shared an affinity for ancient progressive rock music, and we would often listen separately to 98Rock's "Headphones-Only" show until 2AM on Wednesdays - and then compare notes on A) how far we made it into the show before falling asleep, and B) cool sounds and lyrics we'd heard. I was dropped into the friend zone in short order, but it was during this time that I first began to be aware of my fledgling creative spark. So, thank you for that, High School Crush #2. Now, if you could just tell me what "The Carpet Crawlers" is about...

Okay, so - Godfrey Ozzen-- Wait! Let's get Stan and Janine (not their real names) out of the way. I worked with Stan and Janine (not their real names) almost twenty years ago (WHAT??), and the three of us had an odd dynamic. Stan (not his real name) and I were both in our separate committed relationships, and had worked together for a year or so, and along came this pretty, crazy-smart single woman, who seemed to actively embrace a muse-like role in our lives. We worked well together, and she had a flirtatious, intimidating confidence. Both she and Stan (fake name) were smarter than I am, but what ensued - through an ongoing 3-way workplace instant-messaging chat - was a strange, competitive game of one-upmanship of witticisms between the three of us. I hadn't written much of anything in several years, at that point, and this little triple mind-meld was instrumental in keeping that poor little flame flickering. Thanks, guys. I thoroughly enjoyed our weird time together.

Alright, on to Godfrey... You know what, let's talk for a minute about the newest muse-like figure in my world. Current coworker-friend Amelia (not her real name) is the smartest human I've met since [Maris], and yet super-crazy nice to EVERYONE, and the most genuinely positive person I've ever met. It probably helps that she's still young enough that the world hasn't had a chance to adequately trample her, yet. Anyway - common ground, similar offbeat humor, instant friends and all that. This dynamic is different. Yes, she kind of kick-started my writing, starting with this summer's Camp NaNoWriMo project, but unlike my time with the muse-y people described above, I'm not writing for or with her. I writing again because she told me to. Said she believed I had a gift and should be using it. She said these things on faith - hadn't read so much as a paragraph of my writing, at that point. Probably still hasn't seen more than a blog post or two. But when someone so positive and bright encourages you to do something, you gotta do it, right? Oddly, it's kind of freeing to know that she'll probably never have time to read much of my stuff. Takes the pressure right off! Thank you SO much, Amelia (not your real name). You're an absolute gift.

So. Godfrey Ozzenbarq III (not his real name). A lifetime ago, Godfrey was my best boss ever. He's been my confidant, best man, co-grifter, go-cart enthusiast, porn critic, mentor, turtle painter, ranting partner, career counselor, and would-be Jim Jordan beater-upper. We've remained friends, lo these many years, and he continues to inspire me to be a better, more creative writer. Before the days of texting and instant-messaging (yes, we're not young - shut up), we exchanged weeks-long threads of emails so bizarre and clever and rant-y that we still have them saved in our respective archives. His humor is steeped in a stew of cartoons, Saturday Night Live, Rocky & Bullwinkle, politics, and the weirdest, funniest stuff the internet has to offer - a bit like mine, but on steroids. When my writing starts to bland out on me, a quick exchange with Godfrey (real name - not) steers me right back onto the looney track - probably because his writing is like the coke-addled offspring of Hunter S. Thompson and Mark Leyner. Heartfelt thanks to you, Godfrey Ozzenbarq III (not your real name). For the yucks and the insanity and the friendship. I'm still not giving up on a collaborative writing project - hopefully before we die.

Last, and most...

[Maris] - Photo by Joe

Yeah. [Maris]! Our origin story is rooted in witty banter, both written and verbal. When I met her, I was desperate to impress her, and thinking that words were all I had going for me, clever emails and whatnot ensued. It worked! Yes, it helped that we had chemistry and were soul mates, but we know for a fact that well-constructed assemblages of words were instrumental in assuring our forever togetherness. She is still the only muse I am writing FOR. Just about every sentence is written with her entertainment (and approval) in mind. I live to hear her laugh at something I've written - unless it's something that's not supposed to be funny, but that rarely happens. It means extra because she reads SO much, and has ridiculously high standards - and because she is a RUTHLESS natural-born editor. She's the only beta reader I'll ever need. So [Maris] - obviously I can never thank you enough for like EVERYTHING (I just deleted FIVE commas from this sentence for you). But thanks for letting me keep trying!

There. Muses thanked. Also thanks, readers - for coming back for more drivel!

The 300... (...th Posting Of Drivel-y Bits To The Drivel-y Place)!

 The 300...

Islamorada, FL - Photo by Joe

300 times have I done this. I sit and stare at this screen and wonder, "What in THEE hell is wrong with me?" I'm not sure how to commemorate my 300th post. For POST #100, I shared the first sentence of each of the first 100 posts. Tedious, but the results were kind of cute, I guess. When it came time for my 200th POST, I spent hours stringing together the first word of the first post, the second word of the second post, and so on - all the way to 200. That post reads like the offspring of a fever dream and a dictionary on acid. For some reason, I felt compelled to mark my 250th POST with a "clip show" - not a true greatest hits collection; more of a random sampling of my first quarter-thousand posts. You're welcome to click on that one and then on the links within it, for old times' sake. I'll wait...

Did you go? I went. I even clicked on some of the links! One still mystifies me, and gives me an idea that isn't very good but when has that ever stopped me...

Presenting the Mostly Harmless Drivel 300th Post Awards! 

• Most Viewed Post: I still don't know why, but CARDBOARD & APATHY: A LOVE STORY is still my most-viewed post, by a LOT. I like it, but it's not that good. Some cute dialogue, a stupid ending, but what brought this post to so many screens? I just don't get it.
• Least Viewed Post: Okay - technically, a couple of the posts from this month are the least-viewed, but that's not fair. So, of the 270ish posts from before this month, the least-viewed is We'll Drink To That! And That! And That.... Brings back memories. [Maris] and I used to have shots and chips for dinner, and this post utterly FAILS to capture the fun and buzzy cleverness of those evenings and their toasts. I remember, though...
• Best Hobo: It's a tie! SANTA FE JINGLEBELL, THE WORLD'S MOST CHRISTMASSY TRAMP and JACK SKUNK will have to share this trophy. No matter - some fellow hobo will steal it within the first week. What can I say - I'm a sucker for a hobo with hope - and second chances.
• Worst Hobo: Wicked Paul Fourteen-Toes. Yeah, he's not very nice at all.
• Best Picture: 

  

  Jim Sees Me! Photo by Joe

  Okay, technically not my best picture, by a longshot, but it's got Jim and Charlie, and Jim's saying hey to me (or, "hey - put your phone down, mate!"), so I dig it. Also it's not the muddy Bart Simpson doll, for the dozenth time, and you're welcome!
• Author's Least Favorite Post: [Deleted]  Ha! Sorry, it really has been removed. If it hadn't been, this would be post number 301, and space-time would collapse in on itself like a neutron star. 
• Author's Favorite Post: This one was hard, and if you ask me to choose again next week, I could easily come up with several other selections. But tonight, this award goes to Heads, We're Dancing. It's just a wee bit of flash-fiction-y romance with a title stolen from Kate Bush, but it begat my favorite and most potential-ish novel. So, yeah. 

Lasers. Why'd it have to be... lasers? - Photo by Joe

So, there are 300 of these things, now. How 'bout that? Not sure I have another 300 in me, but who knows? There are at least that many names left on John Hodgman's list of hoboes. And I still have muse-like influencers - like three of 'em! So stay tuned. Maybe we can celebrate some more hundreds together...

Thank you for taking the time to read my mind, such as it is!

Fatman And The Creature*

 

"Don't bother me. I'm... I'm pollinating." Photo by Joe

"I don't see how that's any of your business, but as a matter of fact I have had plenty of girlfriends," Fatman declared with righteous indignation. His wandering companion, The Creature, was needling him again. "Besides," he continued, "it's not like you're one to talk. I figure I ain't ever seen you with a dame, not once."

The Creature retorted with some odd clicks and slurps and grunts that only Fatman could understand.

"Yes, I know that's because you're a creature. But when I was a kid, even our old bloodhound had a girlfriend. Never seen you with a girl creature. Just sayin' - maybe don't give me so much guff about a thing you ain't exactly excelling in."

More clicks and guttural sounds from The Creature.

"Sure, bub. She's from Canada. I wouldn't know her. Whatever you say. Let's change the subject..."

Growls, a snort, two coughs and a long throat-clearing.

Fatman stopped shuffling westward and removed what was left of his cap, clutching it to his chest. "You're right. It is the 27th. I completely forgot the anniversaries. Here's a moment of silence to honor my dearly-departed mom and pop. May they rest in peace... What? I know I've never told you what happened to them. I don't want you making fun of me - or them."

Weird noises from The Creature.

"No, they did not jump into the lion yard at the zoo and get eaten. What's wrong with you?"

Snorts and gurgles.

"Obviously they were not cut down by tommy gun-wielding gangsters. My folks were good people. Never so much as crossed paths with the mob. They ran a candy shop. That much, you know. But if you're going to keep tossing ridiculous guesses at me, I might as well tell the stories. There's not much to them, anyway. Mom forgot her hairnet once in all her years in the shop. Just our luck - it was on taffy-pulling day. Not a lot of people know how powerful that machine is. Pulled her head clean off. Ruined a batch of peppermint."

Alarmed squeaks.

"I'm not being callous. Just stating facts. Anyway, exactly one year later, my old man was making a batch of cinnamon hard candies, and-- no, he didn't choke on one of them. Stop interrupting. Good guess, though. He inadvertently inhaled some cinnamon and coughed so hard he fractured his skull on a metal shelf."

Subdued grunts and a sigh from The Creature.

"Oh, that didn't kill him, no siree. One of the nurses at the hospital did. With a pillow. She said he was never going to wake up anyway, so she wanted to free me or some such nonsense... No, no - it's okay. She was probably right. Although it did trigger my year and a half of grief-eating, leading to my metamorphosis from a regular fellow named Arthur, to a stinky old hobo called Fatman. But it's still okay. I got an okay life. I got more lint than the average 'bo..."

The Creature emitted a question-y sort of sound.

"Oh, I do! I adore lint. It's not merely currency, to me. I like to pull mine from my pockets, roll it into a big fuzzy ball, and just stare at it and pet it. It's almost as entertaining as reading hobo graffiti on sheds and telegraph poles. I'm also pretty handy with a buck knife, and my skills in the area of squirrel cuisine ensure that I'll never go wanting for company, out here on the road. Speaking of which - it's getting late. Better nab me some dinner before the little fellers all head to their nests. I hear Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick and a couple of her gal pals will be passing through on their way east. I further hear that one of her friends likes her men a little portly, so I'm fixin' to make this a good night."

The Creature was pointedly silent.

"Oh I see what you're doing. I don't care what you say or don't say. A man can dream, can't he?"

*(Note: There was no creature) 

Lost Voices: My First Ever (As Far As I Know) "In Memoriam" Post

 (this is when the audience heads to the kitchen and/or bathroom for a few minutes...)

No, no one is up there, but it's pretty! Photo by [Maris]

While we on our little down-beat from last night's dark and doomy storm post...

I still miss sharing a planet with David Bowie. It's part of life. As you age, your beloved actors, musicians, and other celebrities die. 2023 has seen its share of these departures. Let's remember a few of them, together.

Melinda Dillon. A fine actress, I'm sure, but like most of America, I only know her work in the movie "A Christmas Story." I see her every December, and every year she cracks me up a lot. She also touches my heart, when Ralphie beats the crap out of Scut Farkas and she lets it go. 

Alan Arkin. Another older actor with a huge list of credits, but his later work will stay with me. In "Little Miss Sunshine" and "Argo," he was the quintessentially cantankerous old grandpa. He's also near and dear to me because I once worked at a small company with a CFO who was absolutely Arkin's (especially from those two movies) doppelgänger. And of course, I can't hear the word "Argo," without hearing him say, "Argo fuck yourself!"

Tony Bennett. He was already old when I first saw him sing on "The Tonight Show," but he blew me away (I was young - shut up). I thought it incredibly groovy when 90s kids embraced him and reenergized his career, starting with his legendary performance on "Unplugged." 

Man, a lot of these people lived long and prospered. Here come a couple of tragic ones... Sinéad O'Connor - 56. Fame found her in her teens, and it was well-deserved, as she was a spectacular talent. Also, exceptionally brave. We like to call people brave for things that aren't really that courageous. But when she spoke out about the catholic church, A) turns out she was absolutely right, and B) she subjected herself to death threats, and pretty much destroyed her career. I'll always admire her.

Matthew Perry. Only 54. I related to his "Friends" character, because like him, I work extensively in sarcasm. He was basically a much funnier version of me. Also like me, he was a temp, early in the show! But he was deeply troubled. When he was young, his only wish was to be famous. The overnight fulfillment of that wish was an instant burden, and he battled demons he had no chance of defeating. 

Okay, one more tragic one. Lisa Marie Presley. I liked her. She was cool, but I can't help thinking that she was doomed from the start. Sad.

Paul Reubens (aka Pee-Wee Herman). Gone too soon at just 70 years old, this man was a tornado of weirdness and fun. He's one of those rare personalities - not for every taste, to be sure - who had a gift for connecting with and inspiring the nerds and misfits among us. He was one of us, acting like a child, being totally himself, and showing us that a person can be comfortable in whatever suit suits them. Like Bowie, Reubens told us it was okay to be weird.

There are a bunch more voices we've lost this year, but I'll wrap this up with a couple of giants. First, Tina Turner. What a life. She survived the humblest of beginnings, and a grueling marriage to a dangerously abusive man - and show business. Her strength and resilience are as impressive to me as her talent. She was fierce, onstage. And disarmingly candid and funny in interviews. And sue me, but if you've read my early "thankfulness" posts, you know I have to say this: legendary legs. There, I said it. She was a hell of an entertainer, and a beautiful soul.

Finally, Jimmy Buffett. For a self-described beach bum from the deep south, he sure worked his butt off. I saw one of his carnival-esque outdoor concerts many years ago, and I instantly got it. He was a wrecking ball of fun. As a would-be beach bum myself, I was naturally drawn to his laid-back music, but as a writer, I marvel at his lyrics - and at some of his books. His writing is breezy and conversational, but surprisingly sweet and often devilishly clever. I'm going to miss him. The world's just a little less beachy without him.

Maybe they went that way! Photo by Joe

Riders On The Storm: A Prep Talk

 

Another storm? Nope. Pretty much the same one. Photo by Joe

Remember the early days of 2021, when I was blathering on about THE STORM, and I basically predicted January 6th? I do. The post devolved into a bunch of half-hearted new year's resolutions, and we're not going to rehash them here, but that bit about trudging on through a Category 5 shitstorm merits a wee follow-up.

I won't go into the details about the continuing and regrouping and rebuilding storm that consumes our nation and much of the world - but you should. I know - it's exhausting and it feels utterly redundant and futile and all that - but trust me when I say that the bad guys are absolutely counting on us being too exhausted with the 24/7 casserole of nonsense to keep paying attention to what they're up to. Also, if I've learned anything since about 2015, it is this: even the most "liberal" news outlets on earth are scarcely scratching the surface, when it comes to reporting on and/or explaining what is happening - and what is in the works for 2024 and beyond. 

It's time to close the shutters, it's time to go inside... Photo by Joe

I have only one recommendation for mitigating that effect. Find yourself a historian who is well-versed in politics, and let them do the work for you. My go-to over these past few years is Professor Heather Cox Richardson, and her "Letters From An American" have been invaluable - for better informing me, for framing current developments within a historical context, and for doing so without sensationalism and hyperbole. I'm sure there are many others like her - probably even some on the conservative side, with a moderate, academic bent. Find yours. It's important.

BUT FIRST...

We're on the ride, clamped into our seats. We have no choice. Like it or not, we're taking a ride. So, if we're going to be riders, let's RIDE! 

Start with a drinking game, if that's your thing... Biden falls down, or confuses Kevin Hart for The Rock - DRINK! Ex-president says something overtly, shockingly racist and/or fascist (a dog whistle to his base, but also consciously designed to distract us) - DRINK! Some US state jerrymanders its congressional districts like an inkblot test in order to guarantee one party's dominance - DRINK! Putin dies like three months ago, but is still calling the shots in modern war crime - DRINK! A Kardashian says something - DRINK! Congratulations - everybody's drunk.

Riding on... I'm not officially advocating a complete tune-out, but hey - how about trying a complete tune-out! I know I'm constantly preaching cartoons and sports and bad movies - and COSMOS - as coping mechanisms, but there are SO MANY others. Knitting looks like a good one - concentrating and yet thinking about nothing. Cross-stitch. Painting. Writing inane little backstories for SEVEN HUNDRED ludicrously-named fictitious hoboes. Dancing. Exercise. Researching the origins of the best (and worst) dirty jokes. Or DAD JOKES! Jumping in puddles. Brushing your cat's teeth. As long as you're engaged in some sort of activity, you're most likely not watching The Storm. 

As Ren shrieks at Stimpy in the "Space Madness" episode, "We're not hitchhiking anymore - we're RIDING!"

Is it gonna get worse? Of COURSE it's gonna get worse, and probably in ways we can't predict. We all know it. I'm trying to treat it like the threat of terror attack (or, more likely, getting caught up in a mass shooting at a local shopping center) - yes, we should be vigilant, but we can't ruin our lives in service of those fears. We must walk on. Storms are storms. They can be spectacularly destructive, but they end. Even that giant red spot thing on Jupiter will eventually spin itself out. 

So here's to weirding it up and riding this thing out - through 2024 and beyond. We can have fun with it, and it's in our collective best interest to try. It's my prime directive, at this point...

El Top-Hat Swindlefingers And PomPom The Texas Dancing Dog

 

A dog that's neither PomPom nor dancing, but you get the idea. Photo by [Maris]

It was a match made in hobo heaven. It was Thanksgiving weekend in Amarillo, and El Top-Hat Swindlefingers was sure he wouldn't make his self-imposed arbitrary revenue goal for the year. The harvest festival circuit had been a major disappointment. It was 1934, and the first wave of the drought that would come to be known as the Dust Bowl had taken its toll on northwest Texas. With failing crops and everyone down on their luck, there were precious few pockets worth picking, in Amarillo. He hoofed it to Lubbock. No better. So he headed west, hoping that Phoenix, or maybe southern California would provide more fertile scamming and stealing grounds.

Of course, El Top-Hat wasn't always a Swindlefingered hobo. He was born Derby Grabbinghands, to the Oklahoma City Grabbinghands, and his childhood was completely normal - apart from his grueling hours-long after-school lessons in grifting, pick-pocketing and assorted swindles. Then, in 1927, his father was indicted for embezzling from his employer, and while out on bail drowned himself in crude oil (There was a lot of oil in Oklahoma, at the time. When it got deep enough, indicted ne'er-do-wells could drown themselves in it.) His mother remarried within a year, and lived okay ever after. Derby made it through high school, graduating in May 1929. He enrolled at Oklahoma State University, but by the end of his first semester, the Great Depression had come along and ruined everything, and he dropped out.

After months of failing to find work, he gathered his things and hit the road and joined hobo nation, wandering the central and southern plains and stealing, grifting, and pick-pocketing his way though every town. He was good at his profession, smooth and careful and quick - and when he added a found top hat to his wardrobe, he became an elite street criminal. Sleight of hand relies on misdirection, and pickpocketing doubly so, and as top hats were rare in southwestern towns in the early 1930s, his served as a built-in rube distractor. He made out like a proverbial bandit for a while, and even thought about returning to the real world, getting a little apartment in a big city, and plying his trade on the populous. He just needed to bring his game to the next level.

He met his ticket to the next level in Las Cruces, New Mexico, in the form of PomPom The Texas Dancing Dog, a prancy little white four-legged hobo stray. She was bopping about in a downtown park, just having a grand old time - and, El Top-Hat was quick to note, distracting the living daylights out of everyone. She danced like any dancing dog, but without a human partner/handler. It was enthralling, and a crowd of passersby stopped and stared. El Top-Hat had his most profitable pickpocketing day yet. He hatched a plan - a simple one with almost no hatching even required. 

PomPom The Texas Dancing Dog was a true hobo, in that she wandered the railroads, chased - and sometimes stole rides on - trains, and was as fiercely independent as she was reliant on the kindness of strangers and/or said strangers' susceptibility to being robbed. She could be tricky to follow, but follow her, El Top-Hat did. They became the pickpocketing and petty street theft dream team. PopPom was a fabulous distractor. El Top-Hat was a gifted thief.

She unknowingly helped ol' Swindlefingers accumulate a hobo's fortune (which here means just enough cash for a couple of months' rent on a grubby one-room loft in a bad part of a mean town). They drifted northwest, away from the worst of the horrid Dust Bowl, and by the time PomPom peacefully crossed the rainbow bridge in 1939 (the hobo vet estimated that she was about thirteen years old), Top-Hat's hobo's fortune had doubled. He found a cheap room in a Portland flop house, bought a secondhand suit, and did the unthinkable, for his kind.

He returned to the world. Went straight. Got a legitimate job. Met a nice widow. Got married. Lived happily ever after. 

He did, however, continue plucking the occasional wallet from a random pocket, just to stay in practice - because you never know...

NEXT! Or, "Encroachment - Next Thing - Five-yard Penalty, Repeat First Down."

 

'Tis TIME!!
No it's not - get out of the bows! Photo by Joe-elf

Happy Thanksgiving, readers. I hope all four or five of you had a happy, healthy, safe and thankful day. This will be quick, because we're all stuffed and exhausted, and because this post is just a little follow-up to TO ONE I WROTE IN 2012, and its central observation is the same as it was eleven years ago, only more so.

If you didn't bother to click on that link and reread the 2012 post, I can summarize really quickly: we as a short-attention span society are being force-fed the NEXT THING, often before we're even finished with the thing we're doing. Christmas-- sorry, holiday music was playing by mid-November, you say? 

2023 says "Hold my beer..."

July. July 14th - and probably a week old. Photo by Joe

Yeah. If there's a limit to how much the next holiday/event can encroach on the current one, we haven't hit it yet. Halloween candy and décor in stores by mid-July. Christmas candy and décor in stores in August. August!! No wonder our supply chains can't handle a little global pandemic. We may soon start selling next year's Christmas before this year's is over - our holiday hype seasons will have lapped each other!

That's all. The next thing is encroaching closer and closer to today's thing. End of sermon. No point or lesson or anything - not even a punchline. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to put away the Christmas decorations, to make way for next Halloween... What? Next Halloween is over? Fine, I'll put next year's Christmas stuff up, now...

Happy baseball All-Star Break, everyone!

Thankfulnessapalooza 2023 - Part Three (of Three)

 

Whose Waves? Floyd's Waves! Photo by Joe

Can he do it, folks? Will he do it? Will Joe come up with ten more things for which he's thankful, this year? Yes! Ah, but will there be any repeats from previous years' lists? Also yes. Sorry. To review, here are links to PART ONE and PART TWO of this year's list. Did anyone notice that in part one, the items were numbered, and in part two they were not? I didn't - until now. Whimsy! Okay, let's wrap this up...

21. Waves. I like waves. Bonus points for waves crashing into things - like jetties, rocks, sea walls, or those WWII-era observation towers that still stand staring at the ocean from the Delaware shore.

One intrepid little pony car, near Port Arthur, TX - Photo by Joe

22. My impractical but oh so sweet little mechanical soul mate. I'd say she's my midlife crisis car, but really that was the car that came before her. She's driven through swamps and train yards and all sorts of places no Camaro should ever see - capably and without complaint.

N&W Class J #611, near Manassas, VA - Photo by Joe

23. As long as we're admiring things in black and white... Trains. I love 'em. I've always lived within earshot of them, and I hope I always will.

24. For all my bitching about my new ELEVEN TIMES LONGER commute, there is a part of it for which I'm thankful - but only when the weather's nice. The walk from DuPont Circle to 23rd Street in DC, mostly by way of N Street. Behold...

Little daycare kiddies, strung together and singing "Baby Shark!" Photo by Joe

Historic Heurich House - Photo by Joe

Alley weirdness. I have questions. Photo by me

Next...

Endangered black-footed selfieferrets - photo by Bingo

Ask me about the Flying Spaghetti Monster

Empty offices have weird shadows - Photo by Joe

25. Weirdness in general. Always on the lookout for it, because it keeps popping up when and where I least expect it. Now more than ever, we could all use a daily dose of weird.

Okay, maybe not THIS empty... Photo by Joe

26. The empty office. What can I say - I got used to it, when in 2020 I suddenly found myself with (more or less) the run of the place. This year, I've readjusted somewhat, as there are people around slightly more often than there were over the preceding three years. Fortunately, when it gets people-y, it tends to be some really swell people. Okay, I'm thankful for the office, just in general. I do wish it was still five minutes away, of course...

Portland Head, Maine - Photo by Joe and [Maris]

27. I'm thankful for lighthouses. That is all.

28. Cartoons. I've preached this for years. Ren & Stimpy, The Simpsons, South Park, Aqua Teen Hunger Force, Family Guy, American Dad, Archer, Home Movies, Bob's Burgers, Futurama... Some of these shows are blessed to have positively brilliant writers and voice actors. We've seen a lot of episodes dozens of times. Granted, they're usually just playing in the background, but there's a certain comfort in hearing Family Guy's "Bag Of Weed" song from the next room - again. These characters are like old friends, and they ask so little of us.

All glory to the Hypnotoad - screen grab from the interwebz

29. Speaking of cartoons - I'm thankful for Hypnotoad. Coolest sound I've ever heard come out of my TV (apart from the clank of Howie Kendrick's go-ahead homer off the foul pole in game 7 of the 2019 World Series) - and those hypnotic EYES. Yeah - he's good enough to make the list twice.

 No, I don't wear them all at once. - Photo by Joe

30. Rings. I don't know why or how, but one led to another and here we are. I figure it's less gross than tattoos or piercings (on me - I'm sure they're fine on you tattoo/piercing people).

Well, look at that, campers! We made it through three posts and thirty things for which I'm thankful, this year. Well-done, you three! Well-done. See you tomorrow...

Constantly Sobbing Forrester Has A Moment

Point of Rocks - E. Baldwin, Architect - photo by Joe

Constantly Sobbing Forrester was lost. Again. He had been striding confidently along the B&O tracks through Harpers Ferry, across the Potomac and southward into Brunswick. He turned left onto Maple Avenue and was about to take the next left at Potomac Street, where he knew of a church that never failed to provide a bite to eat and a glass of milk to a hungry hobo.

Suddenly, he had no idea if left was the way to go, or right. Or was it straight for another block, up the hill to "A" Street? He stood there on the corner, turning slowly and studying the street and its buildings and storefronts, and just when he thought he had his bearings, a terrible panic buzzed through him. Not only could he not discern which was the right direction to go to reach the - what was he looking for? Diner? Hobo jungle? Church? Before he could come to terms with not remembering that, a second, heavier panic wave hit him, nearly knocking him off his feet. How did I get here? I can't even retrace my steps, he thought. I can't remember ANYTHING. He sat on the curb and sobbed.

At sixty-one, Forrester was impressively old, for a hobo. It was October of 1940, and he'd been a card-carrying member of the nation's wandering poor (note: they did not carry cards) for twenty years. He was born to a Civil War vet - would never divulge whether Union or confederate - and his nurse-turned-bride, in 1879. He carried with him vivid memories of ice skating on a frozen pond, and wintertime trips to the outhouse, and the sound of chalk on slate. Clear as day, he saw his mother, young and strong, showing him how to blow out the candle on his birthday potato pancake. He could still feel the sting of his father's belt, from that time when he unthinkingly swiped a few bits from the collection bowl at church. He was so little, and he saw coins, and grabbed them. Why? Why did that warrant such an assault. Things were never quite the same, after that.

He knew every curve of the B&O tracks, from DC and Baltimore to Cleveland and beyond. He could tell you what kind of train was coming - and the name of the engineer - from the signature of its whistle as it echoed off the hills of the Potomac Highlands. But he couldn't tell you how he got to this intersection, in this town he'd visited a hundred times. Lately, he was sobbing more often than not. His body was still strong - well, strong enough - but his mind had gone. He could see his childhood and his mum and his pretty, doting sisters with sparkling clarity, but he couldn't remember the steps leading from the train tracks to this spot, a hundred yards away. 

It was beyond cruel. Forrester sobbed, and sobbed. After that, he went on sobbing. After an hour - or maybe forty-five seconds - a strong but caring hand on his shoulder.

"Friend," a voice said, neither a question nor a statement.

"Sob," Forrester sobbed.

"Friend, you seem lost," said the stranger. "Let's get you back on track, before trouble finds us both..."

"Okay..." Forrester felt himself rise to his feet.

"This way," the stranger said. "Back to the tracks. I saw you earlier. Looks like you were headed south..."

Forrester shrugged.

"Toward Baltimore? Or maybe DC?"

Forrester knew those words. Those were cities. Small, but with many trains. He nodded.

"Let's go," urged the stranger. "Are you okay? Can you walk?"

Walk, thought Forrester. I know what walk means. I understand! He nodded again.

The stranger led the old hobo back to the railroad, and they walked southward (which here, in railroad terms, is "east") for two hours, past the east end of Brunswick yard, and along the Potomac past Catoctin creek and round the big curve to Point Of Rocks. He asked the old man questions, and the old man shrugged or said "I don't remember." 

Forrester sobbed off and on, as they trudged onward. He knew that these rails were his home. He knew what a hobo was, and that he was counted among them, but for a million dollars he wouldn't have been able to tell you how he had come to join their ranks - or why.  But then they rounded the rocky outcrop that demarked the north end of Point Of Rocks, and he saw in the distance the churchlike structure that was its train station.

"Baldwin," Forrester managed to say, between sobs.

"Beg pardon?" said his new friend.

"That's Point Of Rocks station," Forrester declared, wiping away some tears, "Designed by Ephraim Francis Baldwin. You can tell by the roofing, and the way it looks like a church. Devout Christian, he was. I'm not - but I can feel his faith in his designs. He did Kensington and Bryn Mawr and all kinds of other stations. I remember this place."

They walked on in silence until they reached the bricked passenger platforms of the station, and Forrester stopped and gazed up again at the church-y train station, illuminated by an autumn sunset, with a pile of cottony clouds behind its spire. "I know this place," he said. "I don't know how I got here, but I know where I am. This is good."

The stranger looked up at the structure and tried to see what the old hobo, who was once again sobbing, although now somewhat differently, could see.

"This is good," he agreed.