Wednesday, September 23, 2015

The Usual

Pathetic, adjective: pitiful, pitiable, piteous, moving, touching, poignant, plaintive, distressing, upsetting, heartbreaking, heart-rending, harrowing, wretched, forlorn, feeble, woeful, sorry, poor, pitiful, lamentable, deplorable, contemptible, inadequate, paltry, insufficient, unsatisfactory.

Righteous (LIVING), adjective: good, virtuous, upright, upstanding, decent; ethical, principled, moral, high-minded, law-abiding, honest, honorable, blameless, irreproachable, noble; saintly, angelic, pure; (RIGHTEOUS ANGER) justifiable, justified, legitimate, defensible, supportable, rightful; admissible, allowable, understandable, excusable, acceptable, reasonable.

Sedate, verb: tranquilize, put under sedation, drug; adjective: slow, steady, dignified, unhurried, relaxed, measured, leisurely, slow-moving, easy, easygoing, gentle, calm, placid, tranquil, quiet, uneventful; boring, dull.

The Usual

It wasn’t my best day, I’ll admit that.  “The usual.”  That’s all the text said.  I sat down at the bar and ordered a beer from Nathaniel.  I hate this place.  It’s an old roller rink turned into a bar.  The shag carpet from the 60’s is a brown and blue color and makes me think of vomit.  Every now and then the disco ball flickers light in my eyes and I hate the place even more.  I look around and see the off duty cops at the other end of the bar and they are going on about football.  Seeing them makes me want to do something illegal and start a fight, but I don’t.  I’ll sit here and let the thoughts roll around in my mind of why you wanted me to meet you.  I’m hoping the beer or beers will sedate me before you get there.  I know 10 pm is early for you and I might not see you until around 1 am when you finish up with whatever tater tot you are playing with.  A stranger sits down beside me and we talk  a bit and he buys the next round.  He is some kind of traveling salesman.  He sales electrical transformers for utilities.  The ones that blow out on your street with a loud bang and then no power.  He said the squirrels are good for his business.  He is charming enough to amuse me until you show up. 
I watch the door for you.  The crowd makes me just as sick as the carpet in the room. The cops are right there and I see two girls who are prostitutes walk- in and carry on like the party just arrived.  They are loud and obviously high.  I know their names.  I say hello, by calling them by name just so that the police will look my way.  None of us are stupid. The girls get their drinks and move over to the pool tables and smoke cigarettes and pretend to shoot pool until someone pays them attention.  
People in the bar know I have a bad attitude and don’t care.  I’m waiting for you and buying their beers, so they need to get over it.  I had a few late nights with the bartenders and some of the patrons waiting on you and the longer you made me wait, the more my attitude soured.  One time you didn’t show until about 3 am.  Then I think I started a verbal fight with you that was really pathetic, but in my mind, I was creating a tornado in which the tables and chairs and bottles started flying all around us and we were in a vortex of the bar.  Once our eyes locked, I was out of control and you escalated the whole scene.  I think you enjoy making me mad. I have this rage inside of me that will not stop until I am consoled.  You bring me to a level that there is no place else to go but straight down.  I am out of my mind when you take me to this level.  It’s twisted and wrong.  It’s like when two people are holding guns pointed at the other’s head and we go through the whole scenario, until you back down and I am appeased.  I am too righteous to back down.  One day you will shoot me.  I am o.k. with that.  I know you will be the death of me. 

I want to start doing shots, but as I look around I realize the room is not full enough for me not to be noticed.  I made up my mind earlier that I would come, and as my thoughts tumble, and the guy sitting next to me keeps talking, I want to leave.  Something inside of me can’t let me leave.  I have to see you. You charge me up like electricity.  I have been so low without you.  Ironic I am sitting by someone who deals in electricity, but he cannot help me. 

I hate that every time you get to walk away and I have to stay.  I think about why I stay.  I keep saying that I have no way to leave.  I am the only one keeping me here.  There is nothing else.  I should have left long ago. I should be living in New England and breathing cool salt air.  I should be far from this dark hole.  I hope this time you have new orders for me.  I’ve been here so long I have convinced everyone and even myself that I am a local. 

Hours pass and I wait. 

I started talking to a lively fellow from England and we talk about our favorite haunts when we are there and I completely miss seeing you come in.  I feel a tap on my shoulder, and I turn. Before I say a word, your lips are mine and you kiss the fight right out of me. I feel the vortex but it’s an empty  wind, and it smells of the sea, and I am home again.  

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Blind Spot

Are there times when you have a blindspot in your life?    

I have my own blind spot.  I fight to change it, I have even given up on it. I don't want to keep trying to see beyond it.  I couldn't describe it until I was talking to my friend who lost her mother. 

When you are intimate with someone you know their behavior, how they react to a movie, or that they will give money to street beggers who ask.  This level of intimacy is comforting.  There are no big surprises.  What happens when someone needs to transcend their character, to do what actually is needed?  

My girlfriend is angry at her father.  Her father was with her mother when she died, his recollection of her final minutes, he said that he didn’t call 911 immediately when she slumped in a chair in the kitchen, because he was waiting for her to ask him to do so.  Of course, she was in a state that she couldn’t ask him, and by the time he called, it was too late.   She hated him for waiting. She blamed him for her mother’s death. 

She said it has always been his character; he is a passive person.  An example she gave was, if you had groceries to bring into the house, he was not the one to carry them in or put them away, he would wait and do nothing until asked.  He is detatched.  Her mother always said that if her health was ever bad, to put her in a nursing home, because she did not want to be in the care of her husband.  She knew he would not take care of her. When asked to rub her back when she had back pain, his hand would make one long stroke down her back and nothing more.  He didn't know how to give her what she needed, and didn't care enough to give it to her.  A back rub, a simple request, but he wasn't good for it.  

When there wasn’t butter at the dinner table, he would not get up and get it himself, he would ask, “Where is the butter?” and sit there patiently waiting for somone else to get the butter.  In their relationship, they never got on the same wavelength.  She would talk to him about planning a trip, or thinking how the yard could use a shade tree or perhaps some bushes for landscaping.  She would talk about having the house painted and compare house colors she saw when they were out driving to say what she liked or didn’t like.  She waited for him to have the final say, “Yes, the olive with black would look great on the house.  I’ll get an estimate and get it done before the weather changes.”  He never said words like this.  He would nod to her comments.  He in turn, waited for her to tell him to call and get an estimate and when it should be done.  The house never got painted. 

Her mother wanted and deserved more.  Her father would never give it to her.  He always wanted her to, “just tell him what to say, and he would say it,  or tell him what to do and he would do it.”  She didn’t want to be the boss of him, she wanted more from him, she wanted him to be different, and she missed a lot of life from her husband being passive.  Their marriage was fifty long, empty years for her mother.  A blind spot.   

I don't know that I am in the right place. I have a blind spot.  I know my blindspot would be eliminated, with love and affection, care, a little passion, travel, true emotional and financial security, friendships and a big change in my journey. I am open to my life being way better than I can imagine! 

Asking for blessing of miracles for your life and mine. I'm going to be paying attention! 

A BIG  THANK- YOU in Advance!!!  

- Daily Panic


Wednesday, September 16, 2015


I'm taking a break from the blog for awhile.
Nothing to worry over.
I am considering some changes to the content and the layout.
I'm working on a few things that I do badly, and either I will get worse at them or better.

If I was a betting person I would bet on - Better.

If a new blog is created I will post a link.
Thanks for stopping by.
I can be reached by e-mail.

- Daily Panic

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Things that make you say, "huh???"

Fatal, adjective: causing death, leading to failure or disaster.

Glimmer, verb: shine faintly with a wavering light; noun: a faint or wavering light, a faint sign of a feeling or quality, especially a desirable one.

Impartial, adjective: treating all rivals or disputants equally; fair and just.

Things that make you say, "huh???"

I don’t know if any of you are fans of the Sherlock series on PBS.  I DVR the episodes if I'm not home. Watching the show is one of my Sunday evening pleasures.  I admit I am no good at solving the mystery, so I hang on to every word until the very end.  Sometimes I wish I had the concentration of Sherlock and his ability to see the whole picture.   I know this trait would help my writing tremendously, so alas, I make up stuff on the fly and hope at some point it will make sense.

 I live where there is not much going on as far as drama, unless you count the local scandal of the private lives of commissioners, or the public listing of small claims court. Not too much mystery in my life. 

One night I did hear shots fired one night aproximately around 11 pm. We had just laid down in bed.  When I heard the shots, I was confused, because I had not heard shots fired outside of target practice (which is a common everyday sound in the South) or a bird hunt, so I did not immediately place the sound with the action.

“Was that…?”   
  “yeah, it was.” 

 And I was so impartial when I didn’t hear police sirens, I drifted off to carefree dreamland without the fear of danger.  

The next day I read in the paper it was a drive by shooting.  The shots were unloaded by a teen trying to be gangster.  The six shots were not fatal.  One bullet hit one person’s forearm and another hit someone in the leg, and all other shots from the clip landed randomly around the direction the gun was pointed.  No police came, because apparently the whole neighborhood had the same attitude as I did, and didn’t dial 911.  The truth came to light when said shot persons came in to an ER about 5 am. The next morning, and the police made the report from there.  I guess the teens were in so much pain and freak out mode, they couldn’t stay in hiding. Now, each night before closing my eyes, I make sure I have the police dispatch on speed dial.

My advice to thugs, who want to avoid hospital visits, if I had any platform to speak to any, would be to get involved in some survivalist training. I’ve been around some United States Marines who told me stories of how they pulled various impaled objects from their own body parts and those of their friends, stitched them up and lived to show the scars.  Or they should befriend someone with medical experience. In the movies (which is believed by believers) most people go to see a veterinarian outside of normal office hours to avoid the watchful eyes of hospital security. Of course this is not practical advice to anyone with a wound, and who am I to give advice. I've only had to remove the occasional bee stinger or splinter from myself or others.  Oh wait, I did have to release a nail and a sewing needle from my bare foot, but not in the same incident.  

The last mystery I had to solve was a loud crash in my home.  I had just let the dogs outside for the evening and I heard a loud crash.  I knew it wasn’t the canines, so I investigated.  I looked in every room.  The laundry room, where I hate to admit is where things get stacked at random, nothing was out of the ordinary.  Nothing out of place in the bedrooms or living room.  I was perplexed.  I didn’t have any glimmer of a clue about what made the sound was or what it could have been.  It was not until the following evening, the mystery was solved.  I went to take a dish from the cabinet, and a tower of dishes were on their way to say hello to my face!  I caught the plates just in time! The shelf bracket holding the shelf broke and the shelf wedged itself within the cupboard and the dishes came to rest against the cabinet door.  It was nothing short of good old fashioned luck!  No dishes were broke and no harm done.  Easy fix to replace the shelf bracket.

I know my life is in the slow lane, but I have a feeling that in the near future, I’m going to have a floodgate of things to write about. How?  When? Why?  There are three good mysteries right there.

Thank for reading my notes for 3WW and stopping by.

Anxiously awaiting the new season of Sherlock! I love a good mystery!  

-     -   DP 

Wednesday, September 2, 2015


 Amusing, adjective: causing laughter or providing entertainment.

Deeply, adverb: far down or in; intensely (as a modifier).

Elastic, adjective: (of an object or material) able to resume its normal shape spontaneously after contraction, dilatation, or distortion; able to encompass variety and change; flexible and adaptable; noun: cord, tape, or fabric, typically woven with strips of rubber, that returns to its original length or shape after being stretched.

“Oh go, It’ll be fun!” 

Famous last words…

Bitchfest is a three day music festival located in Nashville, TN. It's main purpose is to celebrate feminine fueled bands and aggression in a safe and empowering environment. 
White Mystery
Thelma & The Sleaze
Hot ChaCha
I Am Sabot
Lurancy Vennum
Dirty Dee & The Sweaty Meat
How Cozy!


If all the honky tonk’n in Nashville makes your ears bleed, you just missed your chance to ROCK OUT in the Rockytop state.   The fifth annual BITCHFEST just happened in Nashville. The name alone intrigued me.   I am no stranger to dive bars and seedy joints, these are my haunts, my kind of places, they are where fun can and will be had by anyone seeking some adventure, and mostly they are within walking distance of my homestead.  While Nashville is known for country music, Bitchfest is about rock- Women who rock.  

The ambiance of the bar made me feel right at home, like our local juke joint, JUNIORS.  Nothing about the place was new. It had the raunchy d├ęcor that deeply resembled an abandoned building that only had power for the night. The carpet was well worn and mismatched, the tables were not in any kind of order and getting around the place was difficult without someone hooting and hollering in your ear.  Most patrons were sipping on cheap beer, but I am only calling it cheap because it came out of a keg, and the fancy appetizers offered were free hot dogs and sweet corn. 

The entry fee was only $7, but if we had rode up on our motorcycles, we would have gotten in free.  We arrived by pedicab.  Not quite the same bike.

The music was loud.  The percussion by the drummer was mesmerizing,  (hard not to pay attention to punk thump) He used  a variety of sticks, mallets, bongos and shakers that cascaded with whatever rhymes the singer was spitting.  I am no music critic or know the genre of music I am listening to most of the time, but my ears heard sounds of punk music and grundge, and I wondered if this was today’s rock and roll and I am behind the times.  It was really, really loud and had a frantic surge about it. The sounds floundered like a piece of elastic, screeching loud and tight, then they shot at you with a quick release of an almost quiet pause between lyrics that would make your heart bounce out of rhythm. 

The lights went out on one band but that didn’t stop them. The music powered on and wailed out tunes in the darkness.  With amusing names like, Daddy Issues, Mouth Reader, and Tennessee Scum, these bands sounded like I needed some drugs and teen angsts to fully appreciate the mangled mix that was blasting all around me.  I held my breath a little when a guitar player jumped on a wobbly table and tore into a solo performance.   The venue was so tiny, I felt like I was in the band- even though just from the looks of me, the band would reject me on sight.  I was content to stand nearby and if I lost my balance and fell over, I’m sure I wouldn’t have been picked up and sent crowd surfing, they would have left me on the dirty carpet.  When they noticed me lying there, it might have caused a weird grunge dance in which I would have been offered up as a bitch sacrifice by the revelers.

Before I paint Bitchfest out to be a product of a flash mob of women whose theme song is Pinks- lyrics to “So What” song: “Na na na na na na na na na na na na I guess I just lost my husband, ... I wanna start a fight, ... And I don't want you tonight." Bitchfest was a musical celebration of strong willed women who have a philanthropic side to them.  The event raised $200 for Planned Parenthood and another $100 to charities devoted to helping women in developing countries. 

Rock on Ya'll!

- DP


Wednesday, August 12, 2015


Three words. Write.
Enigmatic, adjective: difficult to interpret or understand; mysterious.
Gruesome, adjective: causing repulsion or horror; grisly, (informal) extremely unpleasant.
Irritate, verb: make (someone) annoyed, impatient, or angry, cause inflammation or other discomfort in (a part of the body).


Last night I had a dream and it was irritating.  It was one of those dreams that you have and you keep coming back to the same dream when you wake a little and go back to sleep.  Usually, when you want to go back to a dream you can’t, no matter how hard you try.  It was a boring dream about work, of all things. 

Years ago I spent a lot of time in solitude. I got very comfortable being by myself.  I surrendered to it. I meditated a lot. I know the value of silence. I am spiritual in that, I believe in God the Father, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit.  I also believe in all that comes with that belief; good and evil, angels, and miracles.  I believe our souls are more than our bodies. I believe in metaphysics.

I have been in the presence of some very interesting people who were more skilled in enigmatic areas that I am interested in.  I have always had an open mind to other people’s experiences.  I do believe every person has their own experience. It is rare to hear of anyone having the same experiences, except if they were having them in an out of body experience.  I personally, have experienced being “somewhere” with others and we talked about the experience together.  I once had a friend that challenged my beliefs and we conducted several experiments.  For example, we lived over 400 miles apart, and we communicated through chat on-line, I would think of him and focus momentarily (because for me, it was all it took) and this would be our conversation:

Him: Good morning.

I would focus and before I knew it I would type back,

Me: That blue polo looks good on you!

Him: How do you know what I’m wearing?  What shade of blue is it?

Me:  Baby blue. 

Him: This is weird.

And he would send me a screen shot of himself wearing a baby blue polo shirt.   

To some, what I just described would appear to be ESP (extrasensory perception), but I did it with other people without them knowing it, and I kept it to myself, just to know if I was actually doing it or not. I don't care to define it.  My friend and I did the experiments for years.  We came to find out that if you are open to these things, you also become open to someone else being able to know about you too.  One experiment we did was for each other to go “outer body” to the other person’s bedroom and the next day describe the bed and one thing that stood out in the room.
Me:  You sleep in a four poster wooden bed, with a plaid bedspread.  The bed was not made, only one side is slept on, you have a thin pillow, you were not in the bed.  One thing I noticed was your diploma’s above your highboy dresser. All the dipolma’s have your full name written out, none have an initial and I didn’t know your first name is Buford. Why are they in your bedroom?   
Without hesitation he replied-
Him: Holy crap!!  I hate my first name.  I never tell anyone.  They hang in my bedroom so I don’t appear ostentatious. 
Me: What did you see?
Him:  You can clearly afford a bed but your king size bed is only on a frame.  You sleep in the middle of the bed and you sleep with one of your pillows by your side.  I did see you asleep. You have a dresser with three stuffed sheep on top. 
Me: Yes, that’s because I’m a visual person and I count the sheep in multiples of three until I fall asleep. 
Him: LOL that’s funny, I don’t care who you are!  Most people count sheep one at a time!  Nerd!!
Me: I beg to differ, but Buford, is a bit nerdier.
We tried different experiments, like trying to be in the same place, but it did not work out. As the years went by, we found out how to close out, or shut out the other person from our lives, there was a definite reason for it.  We decided there were things that the other person did not need to know and we mutually agreed that we would do it.  As, I said before when you open up to one, you also become open to others, and for me, I felt under attack by some “presence.” I would have violent, gruesome dreams, where I would wake up screaming and knowing I just saw something horrible and ran from it.  We learned techniques that could protect us if we “traveled” and those experiments became more prevalent.    He and I too, grew apart.  It has been about four years since we have talked, and I have not actively wanted to “travel” to see him. 
I tell you this story because I had this overwhelming feeling last night about 9:30  PM that brought tears to my eyes, the feeling was,  he needs you, he is in a place he can’t come to you, go to him. I was sitting alone in my living room with the television on the schedule, looking for something to watch, and I  was crying without knowing why.  I went to bed shortly after and I “traveled.” I wasn’t sure who I needed to see, but I knew it was someone I love deeply. From my experience it could be anyone, living or passed from this life.  I thought of my late brother.     
I did not have a good night. I awoke often and was in a dream about work.  I continued in the dream all through the night and it was unsettling.  As a practice, I try to remember everything I can so I can piece it back together in the morning, while awake.  The more I tried to remember, I realized it wasn’t my work, it was Buford’s.  He is a computer programmer and works evenings running systems for large corporations.   I shadowed him during his work last night and I kept trying to leave but something kept me there.  I wish I had realized this before, but I will go back tonight better prepared. 

 I believe we are all spiritual beings. I believe a lot of things, but also for myself, I believe I am part of a much larger connection, that is not internet driven or operates on software, or is physically connected to anything.  I believe as a spiritual being, we can be a presence in someone’s life, during this life.  It is how we instantly know one another and how we gravitate to others and how others perceive us and why animals like or dislike us.  So, I will be in Buford’s life when he needs me, even if he doesn’t know it. When I see him again physically, I will already know so much without him saying anything, because during this difficult time of his life, like in times past, he won’t be alone.  

I have some sheep to count...
- DP

Wednesday, August 5, 2015


Addicted, adjective: physically and mentally dependent on a particular substance, and unable to stop taking it without incurring adverse effects, enthusiastically devoted to a particular thing or activity.Defiant, adjective: showing defiance.Filth, noun: disgusting dirt, obscene and offensive language or printed material, corrupt behavior; decadence, used as a term of abuse for a person or people one greatly despises.


The room was not the same as it was a month ago.  The apartment manager had all the windows and doors open.  The walls and the surfaces on the furniture and countertops had a black film over them.  The apartment had a full blown growth of mold spores.  The bathroom had a leak in the wall and that is where it started.  The drywall broke free and fell to the ground .  The moisture and the mold was airborn.  The heat was turned up to 90 degrees, and it was optimal for how fast the mold took over the apartment.  

The cleaners were scheduled.  The mold gave the apartment the look of filth, but the occupant was the furthest from someone who did not care about his environment.  If you saw beyond the black that covered everything, you would notice that everything was in its place.  The pillows correctly fluffed on the couch.  The mail in a single stack.  No dirty dishes in the sink.  Towels neatly folded in the cabinet.  Dirty clothes in a basket, not thrown on the floor.  Nothing out of order.  Even the cell phone was still charging.  Everything was correctly placed, now covered in black mold. 

The body had been removed by the coroner.  The place it had occupied was not black.  The crime scene photos were also removed by the investigators.  The report  read that he had returned to addiction and it was an overdose.  His neighbors just thought he was out when they knocked and no one answered the door for a month.  They thought perhaps they just missed him and would see him later.   

It was hard to watch the family.  They disputed the report.  The sister was the one most defiant to the words on the paper.  She did not shed a tear.  She was so angry.  “This did not happen. This is wrong.  He was sober, he was clean. This was murder. Find the killers.” The ex-wife too, was clearly shaken.  Her words were delirious, “We were making plans, we were getting back together.”  The father looked around and told everyone to get out.  He did not think anyone should look upon this horrific place and the more horrific spot that did not have any mold on it.  I know it was better they saw it together instead of individually.  If they had come one by one, the sister would have punched everyone and the ex-wife would have been tranquilized, and the father would have bulldozed the place.     

I just held the keys that unlocked the door so the family could gather his belongings.  I was silent. 
I knew him too. 

How to get away with...

How to get away with anything if it has to do with love

One of my favorite things to say is, “JUST LOVE ME!!” 

I use it in my defense of all things that make my boyfriend crazy.  He has a habit of ignoring me, and in response to that, I repeat things until he loses it and when the steam is boiling out of his eyes and he is clearly agitated, I throw out, “Just love me!!”  I say those words every time is gets angry with me, like when I give him directions, or tell him which parking place to park in, or how to do something he clearly knows how to do. 

He has his own saying, “Who is screwing this football?”  I have no idea what that means.  It is complete gibberish to me. Must be some kind of man speak; no one has translated for me.

As a couple we have developed this way of communication, that to other people that overhear our banter, we come across as jerks, but in reality, it is a sentimental way of telling the other person to cool it. We both understand it and to all the things that frustrate us, our words cause us to pause and laugh at ourselves. 

Me- “Take out the trash.  Take out the trash. Take out the trash.”
Him- “I’m taking out the trash.”
Me- “Did you get the drink cartons and the trash from the bathroom?” 
Him- “Who is screwing this football?”

Him-“The speed limit is 50.  You are going 70.”
Me-“Are you talking about this gauge (RPM) that shows 20 or that gauge (Speedometer)?” 
I know which gauge. 
Him-“WHAT??  That gauge!!!  How long have you been driving???”  He is wildly waving his hand over the gauges and screaming at the same time. 
Me- “ I’m driving and paying attention to the road, you can’t expect me to pay attention to those gauges too.”  
Him- “I will drive, pull over.”
Me- “Just love me!!!”
 I continue driving until we get to our destination.   

See how it works? Spread a little love today and do as I do, demand it!! 

JUST  L.O. V. E.  ME!!!  

Happy Wed Nes Day! 
- DP 

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

Not over it

 3 WW
Three words. Write.
Metallic, adjective: of, relating to, or resembling metal or metals, (of sound) resembling that produced by metal objects striking each other; sharp and ringing, (of a person's voice); emanating or as if emanating via an electronic medium, having the sheen or luster of metal; noun: a paint, fiber, fabric, or color with a metallic sheen.
Optimal, adjective: best or most favorable; optimum.
Polished, adjective: shiny as a result of being rubbed, accomplished and skillful, refined, sophisticated, or elegant. 

Not Over It

I’m sitting alone smoking in a back booth of the diner.  I don’t smoke, not under normal circumstances. Smoking is just not something I necessarily like.  I’ve always had bad lungs and I know the dangers, but seriously after the day I had, I think, why not?  Seems like I cheated death today and I may as well continue to roll the dice.  I reach across the table to bring the ashtray closer, and I have to wince.  I think I have some broken ribs, and the left side of my face was repeatedly the contact point for some one’s fist.  I know I look and feel oh, so pretty, but I didn’t bother to get my food to go and sulk away.  I’m not so sure I didn’t deserve the beating I took, I had been hiding for a while, and now since I got the physical message that someone was pissed at me, which I already knew, I could eat out in public and even if I can’t chew without it hurting, I’m giving my haters a big, Fuck you, they didn’t get the best of me, and I’m still here and they will have to deal with it. 

The waitress asked me if I needed help and I just smiled my bloody smile and said, “Beauty is pain and someone thought I could use a make-over.  Tomorrow I might get my nose job!”  I guess that she saw my humor and knew I’d be O.K.  I had not been in a confrontation like this since I was in my 20’s.  I used to run with a rough crowd and I needed to collect some money and the guy thought instead of giving me money, that I would take a beating.  I took it too, but his mistake was having a machete that was within my reach. When I had enough, I swung that long metallic blade in a downward motion. The tip of the blade sliced him from his ear to his chin, he started grabbing at his face to stop the blood and I cursed him and said, “My money or I’ll keep slicing!” He still held the side of his face when he gave me the blood stained stack of money.  I didn’t see him again.  I suspect he went to Mexico or anywhere in South America that he couldn’t be found.  A scar like that is hard to hide. I'm lucky I wasn't the one who got the scar or worse. I don't fight so much anymore.  I'm older now and I know the value of control.

I’ll tell you what happened.  It was one of those rare days when I went around in the daylight.  I stopped in and spoke to Walt, the bartender in a little sliver of a bar downtown where there is only a one way path of space between the bar stools and the wall.  I hate going there in the evening, I will send someone in to have the person I need to talk to come out, just so I avoid the crowd. I had a beer with Walt and he told me stories of his cat and showed me pictures on his phone.  Walt must have 200 of the same exact outfits, because I always see him in the same cotton collared shirt and jeans, but they never have any wear on them.  He also has four cats, not just the one. He never has a fur ball on him or a single hair.  It’s curious that’s all. 

Big Tony came in and he gave me a big Italian hug when he saw me.  I like Big Tony.  He is so genuine when he hugs, it feels like family.  Italians can’t help being affectionate, so it’s a natural thing they do.  I go months sometimes without any physical contact with anyone.  It’s awkward for me, but hey, it’s Big Tony.  Little Tony, his son plays minor league baseball, and sometimes I watch his games on the television.  We talk a bit about Little Tony.  There couldn’t be a father prouder of his son in the whole neighborhood.  Big Tony asked what I was doing now and if it was something he would be interested in.  I shrug him off and say, “nothing to mention, small stuff here and there.”  Of course I’m lying. 

I met Big Tony when I worked in the mall as a teenager at a German deli as a meat slicer.  Big Tony would come in for Rubens and potato salad.  That big Italian man ate more than pasta, go figure.  Big Tony was a shoe salesman and always wore a suit and tie.  I was impressed with him. He was the only guy I knew at the time that kept his shoes polished. I thought of him as a guy who had his shit together, even though he is only about four years older than me.  I liked him and we became friends.  He slipped me a few odd jobs for extra money.  These odd jobs had nothing to do with shoes.  I was loyal and Tony became as impressed with me as I was with him, he once complimented me on how I carried myself.  He said I had a cool, easy, nonchalant attitude, especially when things got “rough.” Some guys feed off that violence, and it overcomes them. I was calculating and if I had to “rough” someone up, I made sure I was quick and painful.  I didn’t like losing or expelling any unnecessary energy.  I was the same way with my words.  I soon got my own business going and stopped working for Big Tony.  It was real respectful and we are cautious of each other, but have never had any overlapping problems. No harm, no foul, that’s our relationship. 

He asked me about a girl named Rosalynn, he said he had not seen her in a while.  I told him I saw her a few weeks back and she had two kids, boys.  “she is living your life, T-ball and baseball, six days a week.  He nodded and said for me to tell her he asked.  I told him a few more stories about her. 

This whole conversation was a farce.   I knew what Big Tony was talking about and Walt didn’t need to know.  It’s a little uncomfortable to know someone so well and talk so intimately about someone and really, you are talking about “something,” without actually directly talking about “the thing.”  That’s the best way I can explain it.  “Rosalynn,” was a situation and now that I knew, I was involved.  Thanks Big Tony.

I said I had some things to do, and bought Big Tony a drink and left.  That’s how it started off. 

After I left Walt's bar I went to see the lamp man.  He is a cool guy that works on anything that can hold a bulb.  He has a lamp shop, but has an arsenal all through his shop.  No one can get near him without a bullet hole, that’s his reputation.  His character is messed up, he has a sick, warped view of the world, with that view, he is a hard man.  He will fight with you about politics, and religion, or the absence of religion.  He said once that he had a big political life. His years of fighting the fight, made him a highly opinionative, angry man. He ratted out some people in the House Committee and it shook up a lot of deals.  He is a man of quiet calamity, I am careful of what I said in our conversations, he could turn on a dime in his emotions, like a woman on her period.  He told me I did not understand the country and how communist held political office, on our nations soil and the idiots had no idea, and I had to be smarter than all of them.  Sometime I feel a great crevasse between us when he talks. He always ends his soap box speeches with, “open your eyes!!  Why can’t you and everyone else see what is clearly in plain view??”  He is probably right and he might sacrifice me, if it is necessary to promote his agenda, so we remain friends.  

Fuck these adventures with extremist;  I feel my insides being punctured, likely from broken bones and busted muscles swelling.  I let out a few groans and light another cigarette, my breathing is shallow but that is optimal I can expect with these broke ribs.  

The neighborhood used to be a safe place.  It was ideal for a long time.  I am a true local, a true insider.  There are a lot of people still local.  I met Bill one night out when we were feeding dollars to the local stripper pole talent.  He said he was new to the area, and asked where to go and what to do. He bitched a lot about the prices of the taxi’s and the weather and other travesties that he felt were directly related to him. He even argued the fact that most of the strippers having small breast were a slap to the face for him, I explained to him these girls were new, they get new tits if they work there for longer than a year.  The owner is generous like that.

Over a few months, Bill seemed to be everywhere I was.  What was odd was, he would be there before me, and talk to me like I was his brother or something.  I didn’t feel like our relationship was an episode of Seinfield, but he did.  He would always talk about what he did since he saw me last, got a haircut with Mickey, had the prime rib at Gabe’s Steakhouse, fished in the river, etc.  I caught on that he wanted me to mirror him and share the same about myself.  It was hard to explain it, because my perception was wholly mine, no one else saw it.  They saw Bill as a friendly, talker. I thought he was a major asshole. 

There is a big difference between someone’s reputation and their character.  The difference between reputation and character is that your reputation is what people say about you; what they think about you. Character is what your actions say about you, it's what you really are.  When there is conflict between the two, people take sides. 

There were some incidents that Bill was involved in and his actions made his reputation questionable.  When these incidents came to the surface, his reputation of being a standup guy, brought up a lot of conflict.  It really shook up the neighborhood.  Allegations were not believed, but that is life in the neighborhood, you walk around shaking hands and kissing babies like a politician, but in the dark you go around busting up their property or working out some deals that result in life or death.  Some things are not ever perceived, but when they surface, they surface like icebergs, small on the surface and deep and wide under.  Perception is how you play the game.  The game is to win.  I don’t feel like I won today.  

 The news report told the story, Bill got involved with a girl, and he shot her in the face while she slept on her couch, then Bill turned the gun on himself and it was ruled a double suicide.  The neighborhood could only conclude that because they were the “perfect couple.” No way Bill could have just boldly shot her.  It was suspected the couple had to have agreed to a suicide pact and told him that she didn’t want to know when it happened.  The chief of police even agreed with this bull shit in his report, he wrote it was a double suicide,  that they must have made a pact, this was not a murder- suicide case.  And even wrote the words, “God bless us all,” at the end of his statement.

That’s not what fucking happened.  He murdered her.  How do I know?  My girl, the woman I love, had been molested by him, and so had nearly every woman on his staff. It wasn't sex, it was groping, or rubbing, or hugging and kissing them in a way that made them uncomfortable. It was also some of the things he said, joking.  They did not laugh.  They filed together a sexual harassment suit against him and it’s been all over the television.  I wanted to take care of the bastard myself, but my girl, well she said this was the right thing for all the women, they wanted to be their own hero’s. They really needed to go forward with the suit as a group if they were to be vindicated.  She told me I couldn’t beat the shit out of him and let that be the end of it, the women had to do it legally. They needed everyone to know what had happened.  This happened to too many women to have it quietly "taken care of."  My girl asked me not to do anything. I would have handled it in my own way,  in an instant, if she said the word.  

I know that psycho, Bill, cold blooded killed his girl. The allegations of molestation were right on top of him and he knew, she didn't know him as a someone filled with such hate. He passed off the accusations as misunderstandings.   He needed her.  I believe they talked about the case and she said she was done; he let himself into her apartment when she fell asleep and shot her. Then like a coward, shot himself. 

I got my ass kicked by Big Tony, because I’ve known for a while about the harassment, and didn’t go all "Arnold as the Terminator," with the boys.  His wife was one of the women molested.  She was ashamed and alone and kept it from him.  I didn't know all the names of the women until it was released to the press, I just found out myself.  

I stood by my girl and told everyone of Bill's character. The Bill I knew, was a psychopath that hated women.  Remember the night at the strip club when I first met Bill?  He didn't know me, he didn't know the dancers or their backgrounds.  But it was in his eyes in the way he looked at them, the girls saw it too, when they would refuse his advances then he would curse them and call them whores and other profanities.  He might have been kicked out of the place that night.  I know what I saw. I know what I heard. I know that man hated women. I know.

Big Tony had to kick my ass.  He lost all his reasoning when he found out his old lady kept this from him.  He had no other outlet for his anger, except to kick my ass. He came looking for me and to my bad luck, he found me.  I might have done the same, if the shoe was on the other foot. Damn, he let me have it.  I'm not mad, Sometimes when two people throw down hard, they bounce back tall.  I hope that happens with me and Big Tony.

The waitress brings me a raw steak, "put this on your face lift, beauty queen. I can't look at you like that."  I take the steak and ease it on the side of my face.   

Thursday, July 16, 2015

Lingering in a Small Town

Three words. Write.

Boring,  Dark,  Lonely 


“Please set the recorder, it is to play at 8:00PM.” 

“What is it about?”

“Eight horrific murders that happened about 30 minutes from here.” *

“What? ? When?”

“The Alday murders, it happened in the 70’s and they are telling the story tonight on the ID channel.”

This conversation sent me on an internet search.  The murders happened in 1973 and there was nothing boring about the facts. LINK   

The Aldays were shot to death as they returned home for lunch. Ned Alday was gunned down along with 3 sons, a brother and a daughter-in-law, who was raped and then taken to a field where she was shot in the head. Prosecutors called the slayings the most gruesome in the state's history.”- Fight the Death Penalty

Three men, I will not state their names, because deep inside I do not want to contribute to their notoriety.  The Alday family and all the residents of Donalsonville, GA that lived all these years under the dark shadow of this tragedy; their lives mattered.  In the deep South people have always had roots that ran deep.  Not a single family in the farming area was not touched by these murders, something as innocent as coming home from the field to have lunch, was forever changed.  Fear shook the community and spread. The murders caused people to keep their relatives close and a city that once never worried over if their doors were locked, began to lock them.  Before the murderers were captured by the law, many people wanted to send out their own search party and take the “eye for an eye,” to seek justice. I am certain I would have felt the same way.

 “Over the years surviving, members of the Alday family have expressed bitterness over the length of time it has taken to get Isaacs into the Georgia death house. In a letter to the editor of a local newspaper in 1998, Faye Alday Barber, the daughter of Ned Alday, said there was something wrong with a legal system. She wrote that her family had become the victims of "legal plunder" and a justice system that acted like a "predator. For 25 years my family has pursued justice," Barber wrote. "The only thing that stood between the Alday family and justice was the law, and it was the law, not Carl Isaacs that became our ultimate predator. Our courts and legislators are nothing but vandals at the gates of justice. It took them a quarter of a century, but they beat us; they won. Like Pontius Pilate, they simply washed their hands of innocent blood. We lost our family, our farms, and our heritage. We lost hope... but liberty was not lost; it was stolen." She said the family dog, Tub, saw the bodies removed from the crime scene and never got over it. "He went out into the field and laid down, refused to eat or sleep, wouldn't let anyone touch him, and over a period of time his hair fell out, exposing rib bones that protruded through his skin," Barber wrote. "He was a pitiful sight. He became so thin that when it rained, he could have crawled under a honeysuckle vine to keep from getting wet. A veterinarian said (Tub) grieved himself to death. That dog had more compassion for my family than our courts."

These events happened years ago, but for anyone that lives in Donalsonville, GA, it is still a topic that is very much alive. There was even a movie made about it, "Murder One," but it is hard to find, I haven't seen it.  The reviews said the actors portrayed the family as  simpletons and it outraged the family and the locals.  It also stirred up all the memories that causes so much pain in the area.  It was not well recieved. Three or four books were written about the incident, and they too, are hard to find,  they are out of print and collector's items.   

Regretfully, this incident is not a lonely case; tragedy of murder happened even in my hometown in 1997. Mr. & Mrs. King were murdered in their home, on Red Acre Farm, by a young 17 yr. old boy who came to their door inquiring about someone that did not live there. The tragedy is a force that still haunts the house.  Over the years there have been several owners of the property, but none have lasted.  I cannot drive past the house without my memory recalling the events that happened there, even though I was not directly related to the incident.  I know the people of Donalsonville are overcome with the same type of emotion if they watched the incident replay last night. 

It is with great respect for the Alday family that I write this and they are not forgotten.

*Six members of the Alday family and two others in route.