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So long, Bob Seger…I’m Glad I Knew Ye

Have you ever been to a rock concert? Well, my daughter bought tickets to Bob Seger’s Final Tour Concert at the Banker’s Life Fieldhouse in Indianapolis recently. I was invited! I was so excited!! I’ve only been to a Neil Diamond concert and that was probably 30 plus years ago. My daughter and I used to clean house together to their music…so we were used to be-bopping together with dust clothes in our hands to their music.

I like Neil’s music, but he’s no Bob. Neil is like a small vanilla sundae with 1 tsp. of chocolate sauce. Bob is like a large hot fudge Sundae with a double scoop of really hot fudge with whipped cream and cherry on top. Don’tcha love it when you get to the bottom and there’s still some hot fudge down there! Ambrosia!!

Well, anyway, I live 2 ½ hours from my daughter and Indy so I carefully planned my trip so I wouldn’t hit much shop traffic, even though it was Saturday. (I’m an older lady, remember). My daughter gave me strict instructions to avoid the construction on I-70W at the OH-Indy border because it was down to one lane. She says, “Mom, just get off on Rte 40 when the time comes and you’ll be fine.” OK, I can do that.

Sure enough, after about 40 minutes on 70W, I saw a sign that said “You can choose an alternate route if you wish.” Well, it wasn’t worded like that, exactly, but that’s the tone I read. So I thought, well fine, I’ll decide which one I want. I passed the Chester Blvd area, which I know well, but thought I had maybe, better choices so I went on. After a little while, I went up a hill, around a curve and ran into the biggest, longest line of cars, trucks, vans, SUVs, jeeps, Travel trailers, motorcycles, busses, you get the drift.

So I joined them. (What choice did I have now!) I stayed in that line and inched forward for about 45 minutes. Sometimes, we didn’t even inch…we just sat. I was between 2 nice semi’s. I say nice because the one in the front had lots of writing on the back (besides “wash me” written in the dust) so I had something to read. The driver of the truck in the back inched his truck over to straddle the center line so jerks in cars couldn’t zoom past. I pretended he was my protector and hero. (I felt like when I lived on Camp Pendleton back in the day…and had all those Marines to protect us.) I felt like we were in a traffic battle here. I just have to cheer when truckers take responsibility to stop jerks from acting on their jerkiness, don’t you? (unless you are the jerk!)

Well, it was a beaut of a day…with wispy clouds in the sky, forming different pictures. I saw 2 hands, a small dog with one ear, a buffalo head, and a python with one eye. I also watched a farmer harvest an entire bean field. Thank the Lord we’ll have beans this winter! I was beginning to wonder, with the wet spring we had. We finally broke out into the light of day again. I was getting to feel like I was the bologna between two slices of bread! It’s on to Indy!!

The concert was spectacular. My seat was on the aisle in a card table-type chair. Like we were afterthoughts. The stairs was beside my left foot. It was kind of exciting to see if I was going to jump around to the tune of “Rock and Roll Never Forgets,” fall down the steps and break a hip or not. I just got a little off balance once…don’t tell my daughter. She won’t let me go anymore.

We got a little turned around when we left to find our car in an outside car park. Not an easy feat to find it with 60,000 fans leaving the venue in cars, trucks, cycles, vans, jeeps….you understand. We watched them all as we wandered around trying to look intelligent. I told her to not look scared. She had a small noise maker on her keychain. I had a one inch flashlight and a small pink canister of mace, expiration date 1/2017. I figure the muggers would be able to laugh themselves to death. I wasn’t too scared although it was midnight. The crowds were thinning fast. I can still kick crotch high with my left leg, though, as long as I have something to hang onto. A nice security guard finally told us the way to our car. We said “God bless you” to him and he was grateful. We do what we can.

Bob Seger, I’m so glad I knew you. I’ll continue singing Katmandu, Shame on the Moon, Fire Down Below, and so many others…as long as I have breath. Against the wind, against the wind, against the wind, against the wind, against the wind, against the wind against the, wind…

My Weekend With Mike: Part 4

It was eerily quiet sitting in our rolling rattle-trap in the parking lot behind a convenience store in the small town five miles north of the gravel pit where the wild and rockin’ KKK rally was being held.

I was still coughing from all the dust the truck threw up into the opening where the passenger door should have been as we roared away from the ignorant rabble. My brother was sitting in the driver seat, deeply sucking on a cigarette and spitting out the window.

The truck was almost dead. The tailpipe had fallen off just as we tore out on the dirt road leading away from the gravel pit. Two of the tires were in the process of going flat. The transmission had only two gears left: reverse and fourth gear, and the engine was smoking badly and dripping oil.

I still had no idea where I was. There was a lot of flat farmland, and the town could be anyone of thousands of small towns throughout the Midwest: decent, lower middle-class houses, a dying downtown full of antiques and weird knick-knack stores, a post office, and the convenience store we were hiding behind.

“I don’t think we were being followed” said Mike, taking the Glock from the console between two seats and placing it back in the holster under his coat. Then he started stroking his long, jihad looking beard, turned towards me, and noticed I was staring at him.

“What?” he asked. “You like my beard?”

“Yeah. Yes, I do,” I answered, grabbing my walking cane and getting out of the truck. “You have a fantastic beard with an idiot hanging off of it.”

I used my cane to hobble my way around to the front door, and a very…healthy… young lady held the door open for me.

How did I get here? Where is the sick, depraved part of my brain that gets me into these circumstances without a moment’s hesitation? I am too OLD to be behaving like this! I’m standing under the harsh fluorescent light in a store in the middle of nowhere and there are LIZARDS working the cash registers! How did this happen?

I need more orange juice: the hallucinations are getting manageable, despite the vicious looking reptiles working the late-night shift at this store, but I also have to get something into my stomach to soak up all the alcohol. I reach for something; it doesn’t matter what it is. It’s wrapped. Orange juice and…Oh! Energy drinks! Get some of those. Liquid heart attack in cans! It is going to be a long and bitter ride unless my brother doesn’t know where we are, and then…well…that’s it. Finished. They will find us in a field somewhere around here, our bones baked in the sun…nothing left of my brother but his stupid fecking beard.

I handed money to the lizard at the register and stepped back out into the night, shuffling my way around the back of the store, only to find my brother gone. No trace of him. Completely disappeared…

Then I remembered the girl.

My brother is a lady’s man. I have NO IDEA how he does it. There as only been one woman who has ever really loved me enough to put up with my nonsense, and I was lucky enough to marry her. She thought, the minute that she saw me, that I could be fixed. I have been under construction ever since. Mike, on the other hand, always had women THROWING themselves at him. He once crashed his car into a concrete barrier: his face hit the steering wheel, he knocked out a bunch of teeth, broke his jaw and some bones in his face, and when he was on his way out of the hospital to go home, he got the numbers of two very cute nurses.

Well, fine. It had to be about two or three in the morning. I hauled my body into the cab of the truck and sat in the driver’s seat, considering my options: I had a big bottle of orange juice, two cans of energy drinks, and…cool! Cheese Danish! Lovely!

I also had access to the stash. I lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and put it down in the ashtray and then I picked out a nice big, fat herbal cigarette and lit it. There was no sense in worrying about my situation now. I was safe for the moment, out of sight, out of mind. My brother took the Glock, but he had a nice big hunting knife under the seat. I leaned against the driver’s side door and tried to get some rest. Tomorrow, I thought to myself, if I find the bastard who got me into this mess, I will use the hunting knife carve my initials into his forehead. Nothing serious. Just so he has something to remember me by.

Crickets. I love the sound of crickets………….


What? Yes officer! I was KIDNAPPED! By a MADMAN! Yes, I know I am the only one here, but I am a POOR, CRIPPLED OLD MAN! What? The open box of naughty substances and all the alcohol bottles? HOTTENTOTS! A roving band of…

“Hey! What are you doing in there?”

I rolled down the window. It was a human: young, male, dressed in the same red shirt the lizards were wearing in the store last night. He didn’t look like a lizard, though. He looked more like a talking potato.

“Why, hello there, young man,” I said, smiling at him a little too much. My voice didn’t sound right. It was too fast, too loud, too nervous. It sounded like I was on helium. I knew what I WANTED to say, but I couldn’t be sure my mouth was actually forming the words correctly. Was I even speaking English? Did he understand me? Was he about ready to freak out because I am speaking some alien language he doesn’t understand?

“You can’t sleep here, buddy,” he explained as his eyes scanned the interior of the death-truck I was sitting in. “You need to go, or else I will call the cops!”

I kept my eyes on the talking potato and reached for the keys, hoping they were in the ignition and not in the pockets of my brother’s pants which were, no doubt, lying on the floor beside the bed of the hot, young, female door holder I saw last night. As if by magic, the engine managed to cough itself into life on the first turn of the key.

“No need to involve the police, young man,” I grinned, trying very hard to keep him calm. “Everything is fine. Yessir, all is well! God is in His Heaven, and all is right with the world!” I had to use my cane to push the clutch in: my left leg is useless. I anchored the heel of my right foot into the grooves of the floor pad, jammed the stick into fourth gear, and slowly let the clutch out. Gave it a little gas. The truck shuddered like a wet dog and lurched forward. Finally, the clutch was fully released, and I carefully got the truck out of the parking lot and onto the main drag, waving at the talking potato and yelling out the window: “Have a GREAT day! Don’t let the WEASELS GNAW ON YOUR BRAIN!’

I STILL had no idea where I was. I picked a direction and started driving, and I was fortunate that convenience store was right at the edge of town, and I wasn’t going to go back through the town and risk having to stop for the one lone traffic light in the barren, god-forsaken place. Once I got this pile of bolts going, I didn’t want to stop. I might never get it going again. I was just three or four miles out of town, going a steady 40 miles an hour when I saw him hitchhiking: my brother.

I had a few choices occur to me at that moment. I could just drive past him, but there was no way I could keep up driving long enough to find out where I was and keep the truck moving forward without stopping. If I was going to make it home and leave the dark, psychopathic mass of madness that was my brother hitchhiking down an endless, dusty road in the middle of nowhere, I had to keep this horrible pile of rolling rubble moving,  like a shark. Never stop for anything.

Or, I could run over him, which he deserved, but I wouldn’t do well in prison, and I wanted his punishment to be long, drawn out, and agonizing…

That left only one option.

It turned out, I ended up choosing the right direction; headed homeward. Mike was driving again, yelling over the sound of the blaring radio and the engine, which was smoking badly now and whining with a sickening grind of metal. Did we throw a rod? Did we open up a gateway to Hell? Who knows? I ignored my brother, who was regaling me with the sexual kinks of the lovely young wench who held the door open for me, the busty blonde babe who looked at me like an old, shriveled, safe old man. I also shut out the sound of the truck and the radio, and concentrated on finishing breakfast.

The truck finally died for good two blocks from my house. My brother got my wheelchair out of the bed of the truck and I sat down in it and started to roll away from him, standing there, beside the death truck from Hell.

“Call me when you get to Mom’s,” I shouted over my shoulder. “Don’t pee into the wind!”

He left the truck where it sat and started walking in the other direction, sticking his thumb out.

“Right!” he shouted back at me. “I will gnaw on the skulls of all who oppose me!”

I’m sure he will.

Womenology – 102 – Advanced Womanry

Part 3 of 3

by WildMan aka, George Palczynski

Everybody sing!!!
“I can’t get NO… sat-is-fac-tion.

To a man, it’s a song. To a woman, it’s… a good deal more. It’s a trope the world over. For women, it’s not a learned inclination. It’s congenital. It is essential yin. A woman’s general satisfaction had never come from a placebo. She can’t be talked or tricked into being satisfied.

Fact And Fancy
This is a cold fact. Men, dissatisfied, make no effort to fix the source of their dissatisfaction. Men merely, simply, digitally, restore the balance. If 0, then add 1; if dissatisfaction, add satisfaction. All nature is balance. It’s called ‘equipoise’. It’s powerful and it works. It may be the preeminent calculation to durable human sanity. Women are not without it; they resort to it. Dissatisfied with X, they’ll open a tub of ice cream, or go shopping for shoes. See! It works… alas… not to their complete satisfaction.

Why then are women so persistent in fixing that which dissatisfies them? Because women will not rest until ‘it’ is …BETTER. Cavil at it all you want, but it’s in their make up, and there’s not a damn thing that can be done about it.

When I was a young man, a nice young woman asked for help rearranging the furnishings in her apartment. Apparently, she was… dissatisfied. As this had been part of my skill set by which I managed to pay off my bar tabs and stay stocked with Lucky Strikes – I agreed.

She was a feathery girl, light of heart and spirit. She could not crash through life, nor would she plow through it. It, life, was not a jungle for her to clear a path through with a machete. She, Carol was her name, did not flutter through it like a butterfly, she floated and glided – that’s how feathers ‘roll’ – they float.

You can have your bits and pieces as you like them but I’ll have them as they are… as long as they are packaged in a sweet, sweet disposition. Carol was so ‘at home’ within that sweet disposition that I’m not sure which had been made for the other. Had that disposition been made for Carol, or, Carol for that disposition?

A Lesson, A Class, A Seminar, A Tutorial

She deliberated upon each move of an assembled component piece. This was my resting time. I put it to good use, observing her – body language, facial reactions, voice – tone, pitch, and rhythm. This was not purposeful. She merely, naturally, caught my attention, my interest… and curiosity also. It was probably the signal life lesson on woman ever given me. She caught me smiling at her taking earnest consideration of the most recent composition. “What are you laughing about?” Said I, “I wasn’t laughing, I was smiling.” Said she: “Well, it looked like you were holding back a laugh.”

I moved this there, that here. Gave her props. She moved stuff along with me. We’d… she’d finally got it. She redlined ‘satisfied’. But wait! “Could you move your end back a couple of inches”, she said, of the sofa. Sure, I hadn’t said, just moved it. There. I’d almost asked if dinner was ready. She’d promised a meal in return for muscle. It was crockpot stew. The aroma was wafting for some time.

“Now just a quarter inch forward” came the words wrapped in that sweet voice. I swear it, with the saints and angels in heaven my witness… she said, “Now just a quarter inch forward”. …I’d laughed hard in my young lifetime, but I’d never been poleaxed by funny before. The laughing… it hurt. “You’re laughing again”. I nodded – I couldn’t talk. I was near on my knees on the floor, sputtering/wheezing with laughter. I’d hurt nothing moving all that furniture. I was certain I’d strained a couple intercostals laughing. Was she miffed? Damned if I could tell – couldn’t see through the tears.

She could do nothing but wait. Eventually, I’d settled. She did ask once, “What’s so funny?” I broke out again, waving off any possibility of an explanation.

Happiest dinner I ever had – smiling, grinning, chuckling and eating. She asked, several times, (CURIOSITY!), what was so funny. Having finally got control of myself I told her… “it was ‘a quarter inch'”.
“A quarter inch?”
“Yes, a quarter inch”
“How’s ‘a quarter inch’ funny?”
” It made me laugh”.
“It is if it makes you laugh”
“You’re weird”
Spent, I laughed, weakly. She shrugged, nodding disbelievingly. I was, to her, at that moment, an alien, so far removed from female/woman that she could make of me nothing more than ‘weird’.

A quarter of an inch is a big deal to a woman; and it’s never funny. That can’t be said of ANY other of GOD’s creatures. That’s the bottom line as to what will finally satisfy women everywhere… the last ‘quarter inch’ more… or less… maybe.

Atonement and Over Compensating

A woman’s curiosity and desire had got us into trouble but her amends got us from the cave to the penthouse. Women have earnestly set upon restoring the paradise that had been lost by them, whether they will cop to it or not. Not a one of them may admit it – ‘at’s okay – at some point you just have to let go of ‘it’.

Women will work ceaselessly to make things better, better men, children, homes, gardens, meals – better, always, everything, better. It’s not for nothing that women have themselves a reputation for being difficult to satisfy. They are on a mission.

Not The End

‘Better’ is without limit there where perfection is not known to exist.
– George Palczynski

Never Forget

“Insofar as something retains mystery, it commands interest.”
– George Palczynski

Always Remember

A man is never so assured of his manhood as when a woman insists he is weird.
– George Palczynski

Vive la difference

And THAT’s the Happy Ending