A pair of reading glasses
Gold-plated cigarette lighter
St. Christopher medal
Shot glass from Niagara Falls
Nail clippers
A key to an unknown door
Twelve one dollar bills
Two yellow golf tees
One miniature screwdriver
Expired drivers license
and a W-2 from the Golden Peacock Bar
What he left fit in a shoebox
The stuff rattled around;
His life was an open book,
In death he became a mystery
I split the money with my brother;
We ordered a round and raised our glasses
And did something we’d never done before –
Toasted our old man
Monday, February 19, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
A Classic 70/30 Split
The phone rang at 3:30 A.M., an hour of the morning ripe for bad news. As I stumbled for the phone in the dark my first thought was that someone in the family had died.
“Hello?”
“I saw your speech. You have a future as a Baptist preacher.”
“Dr. Duke?”
“Of course it’s me. Who else calls you at this hour?”
Duke had been out of touch for four months, off, I assumed, on one of his periodic excursions to Thailand or Outer Mongolia or gallivanting through Prague with an underage heiress.
In fact, as he was now telling me, he’d been in Kona, Hawaii, attending to business interests. Cannabis cultivation, I assumed, though, given the proclivity of the Bush Administration to eavesdrop on ordinary Americans, I had no intention of asking on an open telephone line. The trip had obviously gone well because he was sober and in high spirits, eager to incite revolution and mayhem.
“Not running for school board was a big mistake,” Duke said. “Those people desperately need someone with my peculiar talents. The foundation is crumbling and they stand around like shell-shocked sheep waiting for a miracle to save them. And whoever’s doing their PR needs a public flogging. Sweet Jesus, what kind of morons extend the big boss’s contract before taking care of their labor force? The first principle of leadership is to take care of your people. How the hell can a PhD not know that? Is the Superintendent that arrogant or that dense?”
“Beats me,” I said. “Maybe a little of both.”
“Looks like a classic 70/30 split to me,” Duke said. “If the man had a shred of moral decency he would have told the Board to delay extending his contract until after this mess with the teachers was settled. And then, for good measure, he would have refused any salary increase until his people got what they deserved. What kind of car does he drive?”
“A Lexus SUV, I think.”
“Yeah, that figures. Lexus, the official vehicle of elitist greedheads. Be that as it may, the Board put its collective foot in a steaming pile of walrus shit and the teachers will never forgive them or forget. Whether they meant to or not they made it abundantly clear that they value the Superintendent more than the people who do the heavy lifting. You don’t extend the contract of a man leading you to state receivership.”
“That’s the general consensus,” I said.
“Well, the Superintendent may have a contract through 2010, but he’s effectively washed up. His reputation is shot and his legacy will be one of failure and ineptitude. Amen.”
“Hello?”
“I saw your speech. You have a future as a Baptist preacher.”
“Dr. Duke?”
“Of course it’s me. Who else calls you at this hour?”
Duke had been out of touch for four months, off, I assumed, on one of his periodic excursions to Thailand or Outer Mongolia or gallivanting through Prague with an underage heiress.
In fact, as he was now telling me, he’d been in Kona, Hawaii, attending to business interests. Cannabis cultivation, I assumed, though, given the proclivity of the Bush Administration to eavesdrop on ordinary Americans, I had no intention of asking on an open telephone line. The trip had obviously gone well because he was sober and in high spirits, eager to incite revolution and mayhem.
“Not running for school board was a big mistake,” Duke said. “Those people desperately need someone with my peculiar talents. The foundation is crumbling and they stand around like shell-shocked sheep waiting for a miracle to save them. And whoever’s doing their PR needs a public flogging. Sweet Jesus, what kind of morons extend the big boss’s contract before taking care of their labor force? The first principle of leadership is to take care of your people. How the hell can a PhD not know that? Is the Superintendent that arrogant or that dense?”
“Beats me,” I said. “Maybe a little of both.”
“Looks like a classic 70/30 split to me,” Duke said. “If the man had a shred of moral decency he would have told the Board to delay extending his contract until after this mess with the teachers was settled. And then, for good measure, he would have refused any salary increase until his people got what they deserved. What kind of car does he drive?”
“A Lexus SUV, I think.”
“Yeah, that figures. Lexus, the official vehicle of elitist greedheads. Be that as it may, the Board put its collective foot in a steaming pile of walrus shit and the teachers will never forgive them or forget. Whether they meant to or not they made it abundantly clear that they value the Superintendent more than the people who do the heavy lifting. You don’t extend the contract of a man leading you to state receivership.”
“That’s the general consensus,” I said.
“Well, the Superintendent may have a contract through 2010, but he’s effectively washed up. His reputation is shot and his legacy will be one of failure and ineptitude. Amen.”
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Mud-Brain
I need to write something witty for my blog, but I’m too damned tired. Brain feels like it’s drowning in river muck…slow and sticky and hard to get rid of. The more you rub it the worse it gets. Has President Bush or H. Clinton or B. Obama done anything stupid today? Sold out some group or another, sucked the ass-end of the defense industry in search of campaign cash? I’d like to see a good, old fashioned fist fight in the United States Senate chamber, the kind of fight you often see in Korea or Taiwan, where elected officials go ape-shit and beat each other senseless. I’d like to see John McCain and Hilary Clinton in a fist fight. That’s a fair fight, don’t you think? Hil’s had Bill by the scrotum for years. You think she’s a pushover? Or Teddy Kennedy duking it out with Trent Lott. Everybody enjoys watching old, wealthy, white, overweight, tight-assed lawyers fight like street dogs. It helps the rest of us remember that the fuckers are no better than we are. We’re all losers, if you think about it deeply enough. We’re born, and we croak, only we don’t know when it will happen, and some of us think we can prevent it and live forever…we take vitamins and guzzle green tea…we visit ancient temples and run our fingers across sacred objects…we pray to icons, to virgins, to volcanoes, to Billy-goats…
That’s what I mean by a tired, empty, mud-sloshed brain. It’s not sharp or quick; it’s cranky and petulant. Somewhere Tom Waits is laughing and beating on a garbage can with a table leg. This life is funny and twisted, especially when you get caught in this web or that rat hole. And none of it makes a bit of sense. It’s like fitting a grain of sand through the eye of a needle at the bottom of a toilet in Madagascar…Yes, that’s right and I dare you to deny it.
But what’s the cliché, “this too shall pass?” OK, when might that happen?
That’s what I mean by a tired, empty, mud-sloshed brain. It’s not sharp or quick; it’s cranky and petulant. Somewhere Tom Waits is laughing and beating on a garbage can with a table leg. This life is funny and twisted, especially when you get caught in this web or that rat hole. And none of it makes a bit of sense. It’s like fitting a grain of sand through the eye of a needle at the bottom of a toilet in Madagascar…Yes, that’s right and I dare you to deny it.
But what’s the cliché, “this too shall pass?” OK, when might that happen?
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