Two Notions, In 100 Words

Firstly...

I've said it before (HERE), and I'll say it again. Super Bowl Monday needs to be a national holiday. Even if you're not a sports fan - if you don't even watch the game - that Monday is always pointless.

See? Pointless.

Secondly...

I count the days until Pitchers And Catchers Report, and I get eye rolls from non-fans. Listen - It's not about baseball! It's an idea. It is the notion that Spring is coming. Sure, there's some winter left, but it will end, and that relief is hard to describe to someone who doesn't loathe it as I do.

 

...hope.

 

Once again into the wilds of the 100 Word Challenge. Try it - it's fun!

As The World Spurns

Clear the street - laundry emergency!

"Out of my way, people!" spat Antigone Spit, as she barreled through the shoppers on Main Street. Her best friend, Mallory Many-Bruises, trailed twenty feet behind, struggling to understand not only Antigone's rush, but why she appeared to be starting to undress as she hustled up the street.

"Say, where's the fire, Antigone? And- whoa! Don't take those off! Have you lost your mind? If you have, I'll help you look for it, but I assure you, it's not in your trousers!" 

Mallory's many bruises complained bitterly, but she managed to catch up to Antigone, just as she made a hard left into the Uptown Laundromat and immediately began disrobing in earnest. Mallory quickly doffed her long, raggedy coat, and held it up between her frantic friend and a handful of stunned launderers.

"What on earth has gotten into you? This is the expensive laundromat. We should go to the one on Tenth."

"It's fine," Antigone said, slipping her makeshift burlap dressing gown over her head. "Two loads for twenty-five cents. It's worth it."

"That's ridiculous. How is it worth what I assume is your last two bits?"

"I have to wash these clothes right away," Antigone insisted. "Loving Vincent Hugsalot is back in town."

Mallory Many-Bruises needed no further explanation. But for the rest of us...

Born Vincent Gates, he had been a hobo for fifteen years, since just after the economic catastrophe of 1929. He described his childhood home outside of Chattanooga as "the most huggin-est house in America," where even the mailman got hugged daily. Within weeks of the onset of the Great Depression, he lost his job at the lumber yard, his sister married and moved to California, his younger brother moved to Atlanta to look for work, and his parents died in a beekeeping accident. His transition from life in the world to life on the road was a story oft repeated in 1930. It was hard, blah blah blah, but he learned and survived. 

Vincent's affectionate nature made hobo life even more challenging, as he was simply unable to meet a person without attempting to hug him or her. The wandering homeless of the thirties were not huggers, and thanks to a glandular disorder, Loving Vincent Hugsalot was an especially smelly and lousy hobo. No one wanted to touch him. His embrace attempts were universally spurned, from Chicago to New Orleans. When he did manage to land a hug, his unwilling partner would flail and struggle, so that it looked as if he was wrestling a giant, flapping duck. Once, he tried to give Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick a friendly greeting, and he was quickly stabbed.

"Oh, Antigone," Mallory said, "You should save the twenty-five cents, and just burn those clothes."

"I got away after only a few seconds, so a good hot washing machine should do the trick," Antigone said. "Honestly, as gross as he is, I feel bad for the guy. All he wants to do is hug people, and no one - no one - will hug him back."

Mallory nodded. "I once saw him try to hug Overly Familiar Fung. That guy loves everybody, but even he was having none of it. It must make him terribly sad." She sighed heavily, and the two women fell silent for the duration of Antigone's emergency laundry session, as they ignored the disapproving stares of the non-hobo patrons - something to which they had become well-accustomed.

Ninety minutes later, as they approached the railroad tracks at the end of Main Street, they saw him. Loving Vincent Hugsalot was trudging along the tracks alone, heading out of town. They stopped, and Antigone groaned at the sight of him. Mallory turned to her friend.

"Hold my bindle, Antigone. I'll be back in a minute."

"What? What are you going to do?" Antigone asked.

"Many bruises be damned - I think it's about time somebody hugged that man back."


This post brought to you at the prompting ("Unrequited" and/or "Spurned") of my friends at STUDIO 30 PLUS. Check 'em out!

Challenged

By 1986, space shuttle launches had become routine, so I can't recall why I recorded this one (maybe because it was an early-morning launch, and I thought it would be more spectacular than most). When I got home from class around lunchtime and turned on the TV, I thought it peculiar that they were still live, on the air. 

A mission delay, I thought. 

Tom Brokaw said "let's take another look at what happened this morning." They rolled those few critical seconds of videotape with only the cockpit-mission control audio, and the fateful "Go for throttle-up..." 

It haunts me, still.

My first 100-WORD CHALLENGE! Try it - it's fun!

Waiting For Buck Mope, or Jack Skunk's Last New Year

Remember Jack Skunk and Jack Skunk Fils, his son? And remember their New Year's tradition? I think it was something about how the father-son hobo duo made their way as far east as possible every December 31st, so that they could be the first to see the dawn of the new year. We last witnessed this feat as 1931 became 1932. Jack Skunk was twenty-seven, and his son was all of about twelve. 

Fast-forward ten years. Jack Skunk Fils, after missing two New Year's Eve celebrations with his father, has joined him at the muddy edge of the San Sabastian River in St. Augustine, Florida. They're camped beneath a few scruffy trees, wedged between Henry Flagler's Florida East Coast Railway and North Ponce de Leon Boulevard. Jack Senior's old friend Goofus is there, and is a welcome addition to the evening, as it appears that Jack and Jack Jr. have little to say to one another. We're not sure why.

"Take it easy on that wine, young man," Goofus said to Jack Jr.. "You don't want to pass out before the sun comes back."

Jack Jr. snorted. "Yeah, yeah. I know what I'm doing, old-timer - but do you really think it's fair to call this hooch 'wine?'"

"Oh, it's wine, alright," growled Jack Sr. as he dropped a freshly-gathered pile of sticks next to the fire. "You gonna do anything tonight besides complain, son?"

"Probably not, Pop." The younger Jack watched as his father bent over to poke at the fire for a moment, before groaning through the obviously laborious task of returning his body to an upright position. The old man was a couple of years shy of forty, but he looked twice that.

Goofus watched as Jack Jr. watched his father. He nodded sympathetically, and his customary jocular demeanor burned off like a morning fog in time-lapse. "Yep," he said softly, "yep."

"What's goin' on, Pop?" Jack Jr. asked. "Is it your back?"

Jack Sr. coughed out a dry laugh. "It's my everything. Say, Goofus - my cup is empty. Help me out, here."

Goofus obliged. "You see why we had to come to Florida for this New Year's, kid? Your old man never would have made it to the coast, up north."

Jack Jr. stared at his prematurely ancient father as if seeing him as he actually was for the very first time. "So, what is this - you're dying? What are we doing out here with the bugs and the damned gators and who knows what else? You need a doctor!"

"Let's change the subject," Goofus suggested. "I had the most glorious dream, this morning."

"Aw, nuts to your glorious dreams, you screwball!" Jack Sr. barked. "Let's list our resolutions. I want to be done before Buck Mope gets here."

Goofus gave an exasperated shrug to Jack Jr., as if to say "do you see what I have to put up with?" He cleared his throat demonstrably. "I resolve to get cleaned up and join the army," he declared. "Also, Buck Mope is a fictitious hobo who is not coming, tonight or ever."

Jack Sr. choked on his hobo wine (it was closer to a paint thinner than an actual beverage, but it did its job and seemed to take great pride in it). "You're fifty! I don't care how many Japs there are - Uncle Sam doesn't need fifty-year old infantrymen. And Buck is real, and he'll be here - you'll see!"

"I'm fifty-three, Jack. I'm not talking about fighting - much as I'd like to, after what they did to our boys in Hawaii. I think I could be a hell of a trainer."

"You couldn't train a monkey," Jack Sr. laughed. "Leave the war to the young men. That's how we win."

"That's how we lose another generation of men," Jack Jr. muttered.

"It's how we win, son."

"Anyway," Jr. said, "What makes you think Buck Mope would want to watch the first sunrise of 1942 with us? I mean - he's sorta famous, ain't he? He saved all those fellas from the Hindenburg."

"He gave his word," Goofus said. "He'll be here. So, you got any resolutions this year, kid?"

"You know it," Junior said. "As always, I resolve to survive."

"Ugh!" groaned Jack Sr..

"And I resolve to finish my hieroglyphic novel, scrawled in creosote on bridges, sheds, and telegraph poles from coast to coast. I think people are going to like--"

"That reminds me," Goofus interrupted, "I also resolve to write down all my best jokes and magic tricks, and find a worthy heir teach them to."

"What about you, Pop? Are you going to make yet another New Year's resolution to get cleaned up, find a job and rejoin society? Again? For the umpteenth year in a row?"

"Don't be smart, Junior. And as a matter of fact, I have a new resolution. I resolve to enjoy the hell out of this sunrise, and to relish the next breath."

Goofus and Jack Jr. looked at each other, then at Jack Sr.. "That's it?" they chorused.

"That's it. Sunrise. Next breath. Done. Look fellas - speak of the devil..."

"Buck Mope?" Goofus looked around excitedly - or perhaps in mock excitement. "Where?"

"No, you dolt. The sun. Ol' Buck Mope's gonna be sorry to have missed this. Look..."

Jack Jr. moved to his father's side and put a steadying arm around him. 1942 was dawning, and he recognized the magic in that first light. "It's nice, Pop. Real nice."

Jack Skunk raised his chin, as if sniffing at the glow rising in the southeast, over the river. He smiled the smile of the fully contented, then sat on the ground, leaned back against a tree trunk, closed his eyes, and thoroughly enjoyed his next - and final - breath.

Buck Mope arrived two hours later, with new hats for everyone. He was indeed sorry, but then, goodbyes never were his thing.

Recognizing...

Happy New Year to you all, and don't forget to check out some of my friends at Studio 30 Plus, who prompted us this week with "jocular."




 

From The Beloved Dale Thankyounote

Thanks.

[found in Potomac Yard of the Richmond, Fredericksburg and Potomac Railway, scrawled on a sheet of plywood in the traditional hobo hieroglyphs (eastern dialect) - unearthed during construction of Metro's Blue and Yellow lines in 1976]



Dear Niles Butterbal, The Frozen Turkey,

I thought a note was in order. Hopefully, this one finds you well and happy.

Ol' Barb and I had a lovely time with you and your crew on Thanksgiving, and we are immensely thankful, not only for your hospitality and the wonderful day, but for your invaluable friendship. Your very presence in our difficult lives is one of our most precious blessings.

We thoroughly enjoyed the aspic made from coagulated crabgrass oil, lint, and peanut shells, and your decorations of dead leaves and squirrel skins was second to none.

I especially appreciated the hobo wine. Its foundation was solidly buttery, but its subtle notes of dandelion, hat sweat and lint, hovering just above a subtext of creosote and cinder gave it a complexity that few road brews can claim. Sure, Ol' Barb thought it tasted like a dog poo salad baked in the Texas heat for two days before being strained through a used birthing cloth into a week-old diaper - but she thinks everything tastes like that, so don't pay her no mind. I thought it was yummy.

We were also impressed by your holiday attire - newspaper top hat and tails, burlap gown - not to mention pants! And shoes! So fancy. I know you said it was no big thing, but please accept, once more, my apologies for our appearance. In Virginia, tar is considered clothing. We'll do better, next year - if you'll have us.

As for the meal itself, what can I say? The pigeon was roasted perfectly, and the doghouse straw and sludge added a distinctive pungency that words cannot adequately describe. The mashed dirt was smooth as can be, and the sour pus, human bacon and wild onion grass topping was criminally-delicious. So salty and alive!

Your incessant insults and utter failure to miss a single, solitary opportunity to contradict, correct, or otherwise reprimand or publicly shame us were really just icing on the cake.  We can't wait to see you again, in our camp, for Christmas.

Thanks again!

Love, The Beloved Dale Thankyounote, and Ol' Barb

Prompted, once again, by my buds at STUDIO 30-PLUS, this was in keeping with the theme of "Thankful."




 

That Thankfulness Thing - Attack Of The 2015 Edition

Oh yea, oh yea, oh yea - The Court of Thankfulness is now in session and will come to order. Honorable Justice 2015 will preside. For your reading pleasure-- I SAID SIT DOWN.  Thank you.  Now, for your reading pleasure, here are no fewer than thirty (30) things for which the writer hereby declares he is thankful - and you, dear gentles, should be well-grateful that some of them are very, very brief in their depiction. (way more brief than 2012, 2013, and 2014)

To wit:

1. Baby bear Bei Bei, at the National Zoo. He is a treasure, and [Maris] and I cannot WAIT to meet him.

    

   Mei and Bei, November 2015.

2. Another MLB playoffs without atlanta and with almost no yankees.
3. Halloween - and its décor. 
4. Celebrating five years at the Humane Society of the United States. This is my longest tenure at a job since I left Erol's Video in 1992. I know!
5. Our neighbors - the ones whose first dogs ever are pit bulls (poor dogs) - have packed up what we assume is their meth lab and (hopefully) moved away. Now, the wishing for good renters to replace them begins...
6. We and our loved ones have not been the victims of a terrorist attack. Yet.
7. [Maris] hit five years, too!
8. My brother's 20-game plan at Nats Park. Love that Section 405 - close enough to Ben's Chili Bowl, and right next door to the Dogfish Head beer tap.
9. Legs. Yes, again. Also, not objectifying women.
10. Lionel trains. It's about time. Only been playing with them since about 1975.
11. My father-in-law. He left us this year, rather abruptly, and we all miss him, but are thankful to have known him.
12. Bryce freakin' Harper. Youngest man ever to win a unanimous MVP vote. Maybe not an easy guy to like, but we love him nonetheless.
13. Black-footed ferrets. More on these little cuties later, if my book ever makes its way beyond the walls of my house...

    

    ...but which one is Bingo?

14. Finding out that the young lady to whom I was assigned as "spiritual steward" has turned out to be utterly secular. My work here is done.
15. My first year since 2008 without a novel to show for it. Wait. No. Not good. Not sure I'm thankful for that.
16. This Mortal Coil. Such moody music. (nostalgic sigh)
17. Marriage equality. Because really, who F-ing cares if everyone has the same rights? Oh wait - we all do (should).
18. Richard Blade. Best DJ since Weasel.
19. The littlest of my 8 nieces and nephews. Cuz she's just so darn cute!
20. The return of Bloom County. I cannot begin to express my gratitude for Berkeley Breathed's comeback, and my relief at finding that reconnecting with his world has been effortless, like picking up a 20-years-dormant conversation with an old friend.

    

    (c) 2015 Berkeley Breathed - used without permission.

21. Dame Judi Dench. (swoon)
22. While we're at it - Bill Nighy. (equal and opposite swoon)
23. The fact that Bubba still talks to me from his grave in the backyard, and that his answer to "how are you" is always, "still dead!" See also: Bubba Drives Away
24. Smart phones. When they work, they represent more power and connectivity than even the flying cars people promised us - right there in our pockets!
25. Bubbles, because bubbles.
26. 10-Cane rum. May it rest in peace - or better still, come back to life. (Moment of silence)

    

    In memory of the finest of the sugar cane rums. Our mojitos will never be the same.

27. Attacks of the galloping dumbs, especially when they strike my entire country at once. We're experiencing one right now, and hoo boy, is it ever super-fun!
28. [Maris]. Words fail.
29. Writing. Not everyone can do it. Fewer still can do it at all well. Apparently, I has write good. Food for (my) thought...
30. White noise. Oh, woe unto those around me, should I ever lose my white noise.

This post features double-barrel inclusions of the current Studio30Plus prompt, "Attack." Please check out some of my long-lost bloggy brethren (and sistren) and their bits of written cleverness and mirth!



 

Why Hidalgo, The Devil Stick Artiste, Was Not

"...People are stupid."

What's in a name?  For most people, nothing.  For some, everything (see: John Fitzgerald Rockefeller Carnegie Getty).  For the American hobo of the 1930s, a name could make or break you, and so much of that equation was out of your personal control.  Such was the case with Hidalgo, The Devil Stick Artiste.

He was a hobo to be reckoned with, they said.  He was fiendish and evil and made of the darkest, blackest magic.  They said.  He'd just as soon jam a rusty blade in your gut and mutilate your innards as he would say hi.  It was said that he could manipulate a devil stick so deftly as to render it invisible, creating a hole in the universe through which Satan himself could speak, luring unsuspecting victims like a carnival barker.  Hidalgo was considered so dangerous that several cities had placed old-west-style bounties on his head.  Naturally, one of those towns was Indianapolis, where stupidity and ugliness were worn proudly.

Sadly, as was sometimes the case with our list of the poor 700 Hoboes, Hidalgo's name was all wrong - or at best, terribly misunderstood.

He was not, in fact, "a Mexican," nor was he named for any "Spanish devil," as it was supposed he was.  His parents, émigrés from France, had met in a Parisian library in 1897 when, hoping to read about the great American mustang named Hidalgo, they both reached for the same newspaper.  They married immediately, and sailed to New York that same year.  When their son was born, there was only one name that would suit him.

Hidalgo's father was killed by poison gas in 1916, defending his native France.  "Mother died soon after," Hidalgo would later recount, "of sadness, and rickets."

As for Hidalgo's skills in the dark arts, his devil-conjuring, and so forth, these attributes of his persona were the products not of exaggeration, but of pure ignorance and speculation.  

Devil sticks were simply batons, used by jugglers.  For juggling.  Hidalgo was indeed a "devil stick artiste," but not in the way that jugglers were devil stick artists.  He did not *USE* devil sticks; he couldn't juggle and had absolutely no aptitude for manipulating the sticks.  No - sorry, conspiracy theorists - he *MADE* devil sticks.  He carved them, usually out of walnut or cherry wood.  He was called "artiste," on account of his Frenchness, and the fact that his sticks were masterfully carved.

Nothing more.  

He was actually a very nice hobo.  Kept to the code, shared and worked and helped and everything - even went to church, when he could get away with it.  But he spent his days, from 1930, when he first joined the hobo nation, to his death of exposure in 1938, fleeing misinformed persecution, because people didn't know what his moniker meant.

It is said that his dying words, in the snow and freezing rain of Lexington, Kentucky, were, "People are stupid."


Prompted once again by my bloggy people at Studio Thirty Plus, this week I went with FIENDISH, although as you have just read, not really.