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