Dear Diary

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Day 1: Hello, I Must be Going… ♬

I cannot stay, I came to say, I must be going... ♬

So, stow’d-away and on the move, I’m going. So far, no one knows I’m here – so far. It’s plenty dark but there’s plenty of room. And I’ll be needing it. Soon.

From a second floor one bath walk-up with “…no closets” to a very Brady 60’s sitcom suburban split-level with tire swing and “…nosy neighbors”. He wants to pee on a tree without prying eyes sneaking peeks. She’s happy to have nosy neighbors.

Twenty-three… my new lucky Lotto pick, got me to be me. No, not Groucho. But for now, just call me X.

…or rather Double-X.

Day 18: Here in My Heart

There is goes again… a little bit louder now. It’s got a nice beat, but it won’t dance. Was gonna complain (but didn’t know who to) till it dawned on me… Oh, that’s me, silly.

Yeah… that’s me alright, and it’s not. Alright. Someone I don’t wanna be is someone who’s always right or always got to be. And too – too quick to complain, too abrupt to judge, and too flying off the handle. The broom handle.

Broom Hilda’s broom handle.

Why is it when everyone… . No, scratch that. Why is it why I jump to a conclusion, it’s usually the wrong one? Need another healthy helping of the Fruits... love, joy, Peaches and Herb, Raisinets, plus one more…

Graciousness: Yeah, that really is the heart of the matter.

Week 3: The Scheme of Things

Daddy wants to get ready, momma’s fussin’ over the hue… pink or blue. Some guy dad calls the four-eyed bald guy wants to know if’n they want to know.

Dad said yes, momma said no.

Day 30: …and I’ll Name the Dogs

Lately I’ve been getting a earful of everything. I mean, everything!

Curious George at the Firehouse
The Stinky Cheeseman, and of course…
How to Balance and Blueprint a Chevy Small-Block 350

(…sometimes dad reads aloud.)

Today Momma was reading from First Samuel. That’s when he told she that she was not. Not Hannah. But I think she thinks she is or wants to be. So, what does that make me? …an answer to prayer.

“𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐒𝐚𝐦. 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐈 𝐚𝐦.”  King James meets Green Eggs and Ham

Good thing she wasn’t reading Hamster Huey and the Gooey Kablooie.

Day 42: Pooh for Thoughts

“Sometimes I sits and thinks and sometimes I just sits.”  Winnie the–

Week 8: Got Pizza?

And hopefully within buggy strolling distance. ‘Cuz… we won’t be able to just call and have one delivered.

Those nationally franchised drive-thru’s spinning neon tiles and toga-draped Romans slice up some saucy substance to be consumed with two liter’d high-fructose corn syrup and plasticware (delivered in thirty minutes or less by guys who lick pork rind bags).

Not pizza.

And those cardboard discs stacked at minimum wage in Stop & Shop’s frost bite aisle? whatever they were, at zero degrees they ceased to be. Yeah… gluttony may be a sin but frozen pizza is sacrilege.

That’s right, I said it.

Sure… the Interstate gets you from point A to where you want to be in socially-distanced climate-controlled ease, but you’ll never see the covered bridges, old stone churches, and antique shops that color the local scenery of the two lane blacktop.

Fast food is just a destination. Pizza is a journey, not dough coated with tomato sauce, cheese, and choice of toppings.

…could be, but not.

Not unless baked in wood-fired brick-oven downtown with indecipherable accents, no parking, and fewer tables. An aromatic symphony must be experienced, not summoned by emoji and tracked on an app. Order in person. Pay in cash.

Don’t call ahead
Don’t request delivery
Don’t ask how much

…you can, but don’t. Not if you want a pizza.

Week 8½: Think Pink

Zzzzzzzzzzzz… snorx.

Momma’s asleep, dozing off somewhere between “The Return of…” and “…Strikes Again”.

No, not Star Wars.

Daddy’s still up. So, it’s up to us to finish the mini-midnight Blake Edwards film fest. Daddy is… quietly that is… detailing the scene-by-scene comedy scheme.

Clouseau: “Duz your dawg bite?”
Hotel Clerk: “No.”
Grrrr-arr-arrRR-aRRR!
Clouseau: “I thought you said your dawg did not bite.”
Hotel Clerk: “That is not my dog.”

(…way too funny.)

Now, if the bumbling Inspector were on the “The Trail of…” my Pink tail, there’d be lots fewer sequels. I’d be quite easy to follow anywhere because I’d leave pawfuls of telltale clues everywhere – stinky, smelly, covered in snot…

Fingerprints.

They may identify me or betray me but do not belong to me. Unique and never duplicated, they are the mark of the 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭.

Mom and Dad have syndication rights.

Week 9: What’s on First?

A thumb! Finally something I can use.

And just in time: Dad bought and oiled a mitt for me. If’n it’ll keep him from redoing that whole Bud & Lou routine, I’m up for some spittin’ and scratchin’.

Hopefully it won’t come to that.

No, dad, What’s on second.
“I’m not asking you Who’s on second.”
Who’s on first.
“I don’t know… third base!”

Father’s Day: To be or not

To honor all fathers, Pastor O’ asked all the fathers to stand. But daddy glued to his pew said he wouldn’t – said he wasn’t. Yet. Momma’s red n’white stiletto left his shin with a black n’blue tattoo.

Good for momma.

Week 11: Just Practicing to be a Comic Strip Kid 

Month 4: Texas Two-Step sorta

Momma mistook my toe-tapping and twirls for something slightly more three-quarter-ish waltzy or pirouette-ic.

Uh-oh. Stay tuned.

Month 4½: I’m that Kinda Girl ♬

So, momma paused and re-shuffled her Inane Eighties playlist to include some culture and refinement and other sucky stuff: Shostakovich, Stravinsky, and Leopold Stokowski.

…and their bands.

(…as if Doc Suess weren’t enough) which begs a coupla questions:

First: What is 𝐆𝐫𝐨ß𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐟ü𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐤𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫?
…and Second: Who cares?

Dad’s flavor of “classics” tastes more like Texas BBQ and red Solo cups. And out on the road… redneck rules – my ride, my radio: Lynyrd Skynyrd, Charlie Daniels, the Brothers Bellamy and Marshall Tucker.

…and their bands.

Momma threatens to walk.

Well… hopefully our 60’s sitcom split-level is within cork-huskin’ distance of some Amplitude Modulated Hee-Haw fiddlin’ and banjo pickin’, ‘cuz the only longhair ceoncerto-ing I wanna hear is Patty Loveless, Patsy Cline, and Bugs Bunny.

…and their bands.

Momma may never forgive daddy.

Month 6: Willlll-maaaaaaaa!

Saturday morning’s cutie pie was clearly a paint chip off the ol’ Flintstone. Conveniently so – Fred woulda blown his Bedrock top if Pebbles’ ponytail was crayon’d anything but Hanna-Barbera orange.

But momma’s blown-dry chestnut mane is anything but like mine, so my debut may take some getting used to.

Month 7: “＠⋕$％⌃＆⁎ǃ–𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐬!”

I’m still a little foggy on the why to, but I’m fairly clear on the how to… double-clutchin’ the unsynch’d gearbox on that ol’ fifty-seven stepside. Yeah, daddy may not always think I’m mindin’ but I am listening. Like when he sez…

The meek may inherit but the world is full of idiots
Prayer time is not me-time
Count your change, Respect your enemy, and of course…
Zip your fly before leaving the john

And if I ever find myself on Jeopardy!…

“I’ll take Da History of Da Bears for two-hundred, please.”

But every so often, he’ll spout something to which momma shrieks back something fierce – something about me running off with bikers. He may be right but why take that chance, she whispers when he’s out of earshot.

She’s a lady. He’s no gentleman. But she’s okay with that.

Me, too.

Thanksgiving Leftovers: Let’s Eat Grandma

The phone rang: Momma’s worried.

She’s pacing. Now she’s stopped. No, she’s pacing again, pacing and reading, reading Psalm 46:10. But she’s reading it wrong. It’s not:

𝐁𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐆𝐨𝐝.

There’s a comma there, momma. I know you can’t see it in the original punctuation-free Hebrew – it’s silent. You hafta read it like the grainy subtitles of those old black n’whites. So read it, momma – read it right:

𝐁𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 [𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚] 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐆𝐨𝐝.

Be still, comma.
Be still, momma.
Be still.

…𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐆𝐨𝐝.

Mid-December: We Wish You the Merriest… ♬

The tree is beautiful. Must be. Momma’s sashaying back n’forth and all about with trimmings of popcorn strings, blinking LEDs, and chimney stockings, as carols (corny and classic) waft in and out: Bing and Perry, Mannheim Steamroller, The Muppets… so, I know she’s happy.

Daddy’s happy, too – he’s watching football (and helping out by keeping out of the way).

Now he’s barking along with the Jingle Bell dogs, as fourth n’goal gets pre-empted by a Please Stay Tuned… TV time-out for sidekick Linus and Charlie Brown’s classic holiday cartoon:

“𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐲… 𝐚 𝐒𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐫, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝.” 𝐋𝐮𝐤𝐞 𝟐:𝟏𝟏

That’s my favorite part.

Momma pauses with this Coke-and-a-smile sigh, then fondly trips through memories and reminiscings of my first Christmas, next Christmas.

Not me. I’m enjoying this one.

Day 273: Aquarius with Stuffed Crust Rising

♪ “Let the sunshine! Let the sunshine in your heart shine in…! ♬ Everybody – all together now! Sing with me! ♪ Let the sunshine…! ♬ Hey! Wait a minute! Watch what you’re grabbing there – unhand me!”

If they didn’t like my noise, they shoulda just said so! And oh, the indignity of it all. I’m trying to keep a sense of humor but… buck naked and ankle hoisted high above the padded-cell applause of a herd of antiseptic in-laws, then heinie slapped by that upside-down four-eyed bald guy!

＠⋕$％⌃＆⁎ǃ–𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐬

Dad was surprised. Mom said she knew. My curls are cherry, but my room’s painted this boyish hue. So, while me and mommy do some mommy and me, dad’s off to the Big Orange Depot for a bucket of Panther Pink.

…and a pizza.

Hmmmm… January 22nd. You just gotta love pepperoni with a slice of irony.

3:10 to Yuma
Her life will never be same again. But this is not the story’s end. This is just a new destination.

Free Parking
This is why we can’t have nice things. Everyone thinks they’ve the right to take them from you.

Herding Cats

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The ancient Egyptians enslaved Israelites unleashing the wrath of Almighty God. But they worshiped cats.

Perhaps they understood, unlike our modern pharaohs… nobody owns cats.

Dogs have owners
Cats have staff
(…or so says Mittens’ embroidered throw)

Cats are Bed & Breakfast boarders at best. They dine any time, nap anywhere, and purr beneath the moon to a Patsy Cline tune. They are self-grooming, self-governing, and always socially distant. Cats are the cowboys of the La-Z-Boy frontier.

Dogs are democrats.

 

But even with the lifting of medical martial law and dog owners dancing naked-face through the aisles of lettuce and grapes, everyone’s just a little too delirious with their refunded freedoms to see… we’re not as free as we used to be.

Well, what was the mask mandate but a human leash law?

No gatherings other than Sunday dinner, all workers reclassified into essential vs. non-essential based on their ability to fulfill the needs of the State, and of course you couldn’t go to school but you could burn one down.

Businesses closed
Travel suspended
Churches shuttered
No right to speak, worship, or assemble

And for refusing to wear your muzzle… No soup for you!

To borrow a bumper sticker: Covid control wasn’t about Covid. It was about control.

…Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of “Hey, y’all! Watch this!”

Everyone remembers the highlights, but Jefferson’s Declaration also warned of the threat to freedom beyond just Pharaoh:

“He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers from the EPA, IRS, and OSHA to harass our people…”

So, we went to war with an unelected unaccountable King and his powdered wig bureaucrats for the right to be ruled by our unelected unaccountable neighbors and their lapdog democrats.

Apparently we lost.

Free men do not ask permission. Or forgiveness. And we’re either free or we’re dogs on a leash. Freedom cannot be licensed.

How many men are driving suspended, not for being bad drivers, but for being bad fathers? (Not that a license could transform Mr. Magoo into Mario Andretti but…) if a license, any license, can be revoked for shorting child support then what’s next?

Failure to fly the crayola flag?
Denial of a patron’s personal pronoun?
Singing Jesus Loves Me?

Tyranny is an zero-sum game: If the tyrant cannot control everything, in the end he  controls nothing. The ultimate failure of every evil empire is their inability to herd cats.

If the State therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed. Unless, of course, a permit is required then please file your forms in triplicate.
John 8:36  NKJ (Not the King James)

Freedom and bureaucracy are oil and rust.

For tyranny to succeed, individual liberty must be surrendered to the selfish whims of everybody else. And everything must be licensed by the State. Except cats.

Just kidding.

It’s just that cats, unlike the rest of us, refuse to be enslaved by Pharaoh.

Jefferson’s self evident truth declared freedom to be an inalienable gift of the Creator. Mittens understood this from Day Six. The rest of us… eh, we’re still unconvinced.

Free Parking
“Ride it like you stole it.” Thomas Paine (sorta)  Well… he might have said it, had he opened a novelty t-shirt outlet.

Sons of Liberty
Be careful what you wish for. To borrow a bumper sticker quip: Covid-19 control isn’t about Covid-19. It’s about control.

Square Pegs

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There’s a reason why you can’t pound a square peg into a round hole (unless you’re a three year old). Because Pi…

3.1415926535897932384626433832… so on and so on, blah, blah, blah, etc.

…is an irrational and endless stream of digits.

Eventually (or so we’re told) increasing the number of digits beyond the decimal will simply make any relevant computation ‘close enough’ so that the inexactness of Pi doesn’t matter.

But it does matter. You can’t square a circle.

The rational understand this. Mathematicians though try to rationalize the irrational and twist themselves into algorithmic knots. Unwilling to accept that some things just are (or are not).

But as any country boy could tell you: Pie ain’t square at all.

Pie are round. Cornbread are square.

Both are delicious, but not the same.

Circles and squares were created different to be different. They share neither form nor function, and are not interchangeable.

Squares are, well… rigid, and their dimensions… well defined. Angular dispositions lend themselves to more mechanical endeavors. You don’t have to like ‘em, but there’s a reassuring consistency to them. And they’re not all that complicated: If you’ve seen one side, you’ve seen them all.

Circles on the other hand possess this air of mystery. Flowing lines create a natural artistry with captivating curves that are at once intense, carefree, and deceptive.

There was a time when such differences were celebrated and enjoyed (or at least accepted as mathematical constants).

Back in the sixties dope smoking hippies painted every Okie From Muskogee as a four corner’d equilateral for their rigid set of values. But today as then true squares are rare (and getting harder to find).

Culture is not only geometric, it’s double entry: Shapes drawn on one side of society’s ledger must be erased from the other. Which means…

If you trade Lace-trimmed Petticoats for Digital Urban Camo, then you must also deduct Full-grain 4×4 Stetsons and inflate Latte-sippin’ Sandal-clad Cupcakes.

Even still… some cotton calico’d circles can (at times) fail to see their own balance sheet imbalance: If want your square to be a square, then you need to let him wear his own pants.

In the pursuit of some mythical equality, cultural arsonists equate equity with sameness. But insisting that every shape can be any shape denies the uniqueness of squares. And necessity.

Yeah… “Heather May Have Two Circles” but she still needs a square to shape her life (and not just any ol’ four-cornered trapezoid). Preferably the square that gave her life.

That’s right, I said it.

And for pointing out obvious differences in configuration (as well as basic biology and the creation of the Almighty) square pegs are divorced from society as geometric misogynists.

There is beauty in truth, whether writ on tablets of stone or a repentant heart. Of course, the truth nobody wants to hear is hate.

Circle-squarers hate being circles. They cannot be squares. And they hate squares for it.

Square and Circle created He them. Genesis 1:27

In the presence of THE ARTIST, the disobedient demand their freestyle be accepted as ‘lifestyle’. But truth is neither personal nor convenient. It can be ignored but cannot be made untrue. And it hurts.

Ugly truth is math.

3:10 to Yuma
Her life will never be same again. But this is not the story’s end. This is just a new destination.

Free Parking
“Ride it like you stole it.” Thomas Paine (sorta)  Well… he might have said it, had he opened a novelty t-shirt outlet.

R is for Redskins

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Not for rose. But what’s in a name?

A shadow vaults a fortress wall then steals silently through a forbidden grove to the castle of his enemy. On a moonlit balcony unaware, a fair maiden appears. She speaks:

“O Melvin, Melvin, wherefore art thou Melvin?”  Melvin & Juliet – Scene 2 Act 2

Of course, Shakespearean purists will be quick to critique: Juliet wasn’t asking where Melvin was but why he was.

Melvin.

…which he wasn’t.

To thine own self be true but his one true love hated his name though not him, or so she claimed. So, was it any wonder that her romantic misplay “Refuse thy name!” ended in tragedy.

What’s in a name? Would an overall’d farm lad straw hat and cap gun, sneak into a Saturday matinee double-play featuring Marion Morrison in Soggy Oatmeal followed by Not Jane Russell and the Rather Harmless Man?

Not likely.

If a rose were an elephant, would you really want a dozen? What if they were Redskins? or what if Moses supposes his toes were roses… ♬

Opinions ain’t Hollywwood musicals. In a free society, All the world’s a stage and offending someone is inevitable, maybe necessary. The First Amendment not only protects free speech, but guarantees unpopular speech.

Amendment XXVIII: What Right doth Thou have to be Offended?

Constitutional arsonists defiantly deny the downright declarations inked in the Bill of Rights, insisting on silly stuff like… you can’t yell “Fire!” in a crowded theater. But what if there is a fire in the theater? or worse, what if there are…

“Redskins!”

Or what if you just need some devious diversion to rescue other hapless husbands from an evening worse than shakesperean death (…which might be preferable once they’re all discovered down at Mel’s Grill & Ale with a wench in one hand and a pint in the other.)

But with a charred wonderbra in one hand and a nutcracker in the other, society’s Juliets set out to cancel everything that offends them – everything that is not them:

Columbus day
Chik-Fil-A
The Dukes of Hazzard

And without the consent of the fans of Major League Baseball, the Cleveland (no longer the…) Injuns now suit up as dreaded Guardians – door-t’door insurance salesmen striking fear in the hearts of harried housewives everywhere.

What a bunch of pussies we’ve become.

But blinded by their own contempt, the unhinged pink pussyhat brigade failed to also censor the home of the franchise formerly known as the Redskins (a name which is actually older than the team itself) which honors the original white male himself – the one and only redskin-fighting Father of our Nation.

Guess now they’ll hafta move.

The Cowboys will be next – soon to be rebranded as The Beta Male Livestock Managers, followed by the Tampa Bay Semi-Aquatic Wealth Redistributors.

Approved rules package for the new NFL season:

• No tackling without permission
• Quarterbacks will be uniformed in pastel pleated mini-skirts
• Half of winning score differentials credited to each losing un-winning team

…resulting in – you guessed it (and fractions).

The woke League ought to grow a pair and recoin all their teams according to the fantasy protocols found in backroom bars and poolhalls. Something like…

Flaming Rat Breath Snot Nosed Puss Picking Belly-Button Lint Lickers.

…or the new Jets. (Oh, c’mon – this is football: Wear a helmet!)

If changing your name doesn’t change your identity but you change your identity anyway, maybe you should just go ahead and change your name: The National Hm-hmm League – yet another Shakesperean tragedy.

Yeah… the truth hurts.
The truth nobody wants to hear is hate.

But names don’t hate. Hate is not a logo, a monument, or a flag painted on an orange car. Hate is heart issue – yours. You are what you see in others. And when everything you see is hate, hate is everything you see.

So there can be no Redskins, no Dilbert, no Blazing Saddles – not until the closed fist is replaced by an open heart…

The Golden Rule
a few Beatitudes
and Love thy Neighbor

The ground is level at the foot of the cross.

Juliet may have been right about one thing: The Redskins by any other name will still be smelly.

X is for Christmas
If your neighbors accused you of being a Jesus freak, would there be enough evidence in your seasonal display to convict?

Dear Diary
Day 1: Hello, I must be going! I cannot stay, I came to say, I must be going… ♬