Honest Scrap Award

First of all, I want to thank Kathy of Flamingo Feathers for including my journal in her choice of ten nominees for the Honest Scrap Award. At first glance, I thought it was the Honest Crap Award, and I said to myself "How appropriate!"

There are some rules involved with this. I've never been one to follow rules willingly, but I'll do my best to comply. All right, here goes:

First, I have to add the Honest Scrap logo to my blog. Okay. Done (it's somewhere on the sidebar). Then I have to provide a link to the person who nominated me. I did that, above.

Now (oh, God, I knew there was a "catch".....), I'm supposed to list ten interesting things about myself. This is the tough part. Most of the truly interesting things about me are either incredibly shocking or nearly illegal - so that's out (am I joking, or what? Naw, I don't joke.....).

If I list accomplishments, it will sound like I'm bragging. If I list other, more conventional things, it will be boring. Well, let's see - - I'll pull a few random things out of my cowboy hat, in no particular order. You've probably heard most of them before.

1. I'm ambidextrous (nothing sexual...), which probably comes from being a pianist. While on the subject, here's another scrap of trivia: the average pianist can span an octave (eight keys) with his hand. I can easily span ten keys with my right hand and eleven with my left.

2. When I was seven years old, I was diagnosed as having leukemia by two different doctors. I was given extensive unconventional holistic and naturalistic treatments by a third doctor. What can I say? Well over forty years later, and I'm still around......

3. At age sixteen I broke my left wrist playing football (when a big fat bastard tackled me). To this day, I can't bend my left wrist. Incredibly, it has never affected my piano playing.

4. At age sixteen (again), the National Guild of Piano Teachers presented me with the Albert Rosen award for one of my piano compositions. At age nineteen, I performed a piano concerto with a symphony orchestra. For the next few years I performed widely as soloist and accompanist with various orchestras and chamber groups.

5. When I was in my early twenties, an editor from Random House requested to see a collection of my poetry to be considered for publication in a book. Although already widely published, I didn't think I had enough quality poetry worthy of being in a book, and I turned down his offer.

6. On the subject of "turn downs":
While living in Southern California, I was hired by both Disneyland and Knott's Berry Farm. After careful consideration, I rejected both offers at the last minute. Reasons? Working at Disneyland was much too restrictive - sorta like being in the military. Knott's Berry Farm wanted me to work on a rotating shift, and that would have driven me crazy.

7. I worked as a movie extra with an independent agency. I also worked as an armed late-night security guard, on & off, for several years. On one of my jobs, somebody dumped a body in a large trash compactor on the premisis. I unknowingly was with the body all night long (the workers discovered it in the morning). Incidentally, the murder was never solved.

8. My maternal great-grandfather was of Austro-Hungarian royal blood. One of my maternal great uncles, Frederick Lang, was executed for murder. He was the last man hanged in New Jersey- in 1909. My article on this subject was published in the New Jersey Monthly. I'm presently working on a book based on the same subject.

Hey, wait a minute! If I reveal ten things about myself it will be far too much. I'll no longer be mysterious. I'm mercifully going to stop at eight. In retrospect I've lived an incredibly interesting life - which included as much adventure, excitement, drama, and tragedy as any novel. Listing random incidents is nearly an impossibility.

Okay. Now, according to the rules, I'm supposed to nominate ten other journals for the Honest Scrap Award. This is where I'm going to break the rules. I'm not gonna do it. I don't want to play favorites. I read and enjoy many journals on Blogspot. I could easily pick ten but that would be unfair to the others.

I truly appreciate all the great people who take the time to visit my blog (even those who don't leave comments). I feel that you are all my friends, no matter how many miles seperate us.

Is this honest scrap? You bet it is!

Various Stuff and Intense Heat

Me: after mowing the lawn



Was my diatribe on the Michael Jackson tribute excessively over the top? Probably. Did it serve to make my point? Absolutely. So, what was my point? Guess.

Change of subject

Barry Obama is on yet another extended, expensive foreign excursion. He's giving gifts again. Let's see, he gave some El Cheapo DVD's to the British Prime Minister. He gave an iPod to the Queen. That's really classy. And all my liberal friends kept telling me how stupid George Bush is.......Hey, I wonder what kind of "present" Barry gave to the Pope? A packet of Wal-Mart condoms?

All right, I promised I wouldn't get political - - but with a genuine Jackass running our country - it's hard to resist. Don't scratch me off your "Friends" list. I'm actually harmless. Really. If you can just try to look beyond all my faults, I'm almost perfect.


Change of subject


Heat, heat, intense heat. Is the global warming theory actually a fact, or is it just summer? I dunno. You tell me. Which reminds me of a joke.

Ready? Here it comes:

A cowboy died and went to the hereafter. He looked around and said "Wow! Heaven is just like West Texas!"

A nearby voice mutters: "Son, this ain't Heaven!"


It's one of my favorite jokes. I hope you can stop laughing long enough to read the rest of this.


It's been over 100 degrees in West TX for well over a week. Yesterday it got up to 108. Luckily the humidity is bone dry, but heat is heat and I hate it. I couldn't force myself to do any yard work until after 6:00PM. By then it cooled down to 104 degrees and there was a steady, broiling hot southern wind blowing.


I put a few new posts in one of the side fences. The posts were eight feet tall so I had to cut them. No power saw available - - I cut them by hand, which almost killed me. I ain't as tough as I pretend. I'm a sissy at heart. I dug the holes, mixed the cement, and was doing pretty good until the old lady next door came out to talk. Every time I'm working she comes out to talk. She probably has a crush on me. My charisma makes 85-year-old ladies swoon.


After the fence ordeal, I decided to mow the lawn. It was either that or be completely overtaken by grass & weeds. Mostly weeds. They've multiplied like wildfire after the recent rains. Mowing my yard would definitely kill a lesser person. There's so much to mow that I always have to put gas in the mower three times before I'm done. No lie. The damn mower uses more gas than my truck.


I'm seriously allergic to all the weeds, I get severe reactions that last for hours. My eyes get so dry and painful that I have to pry my contact lenses out.

So why do you wear contact lenses, Jon?

Hell, because I'm extremely vain. Don't forget, I was raised in Southern California.

Anyway, did you ever see a cowboy wearing glasses?


It's presently after midnight and still suffocatingly hot. I drank copious amounts of iced tea (nothing more, honest). Then I stripped off my clothes and plopped down in bed. Within fifteen minutes I was wide awake again. The rising moon was shining in my window, drenching my bed with cool mellow light. Sounds like the prelude to a romance novel, doesn't it?


I'm too miserable to be romantic. My eyes hurt. My muscles ache. I have a sinus headache. My hands are bruised and blistered. For some reason, I keep thinking back of when I lived in Hollywood.

Soft, misted, balmy nights: when I'd play the piano at the club until 2:00AM. After six hours of tickling the ivories, I'd still be wide awake and restless enough to indulge in annonymous trysts until dawn. I'd get up at noon, have lunch at a sidewalk cafe, maybe spend a few hours catching the sun at the beach. Everything was fresh & good & exciting & romantic & adventurous. Youth was on my side. Life, at least for the moment, was good.

What about now? An old quasi- cowboy with aching bones and bloody blisters from doing too much manual labor. Hard-living and hard-drinking - because the booze takes the sharp edge off the stinging reality of West Texas. My acute sense of romance is now gone - curiously replaced by raw, uncommited desire. The constant problems & stress that populate this chapter in my life have robbed me of my humor and optimism. I'm not the person I once was. Late at night I work on my articles & stories & novels & poems but my heart really isn't in it. I lost my soul long ago.


Is this bitterness speaking? Naw. It's just me rambling and bitching, as usual - - letting off steam. I probably shouldn't do it publicly, but - what the hell.........

Echoes of Ba'al

Long ago, when I used to delve into the annals of ancient history, I often marveled at how stupid some civilizations were to fervently worship pagan gods. The Philistines, the Canaanites, Babylon - - all doomed to extinction. My fertile imagination would go rampant, as I pictured the enormous stone god Ba'al tumbling down amidst the rubble of the temple that was destroyed by Sampson's blind wrath. The imagery was worthy of a Cecil B. DeMille epic.

We people who now exist in the 21st century are far too intelligent and sophisticated to indulge in the worship of false gods, aren't we? We wouldn't dare bow to the image of stone idols, we wouldn't kiss the feet of faux freaks.

Hey, I didn't say "faux cowboys". I said "faux freaks". There's a difference, ya know.......

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yea. I was talking about freakish idols. False gods. Images that are so incredibly conceived out of Grand Illusion that their overwhelming brightness eclipses any smidgen of common sense.

So, what the heck are you getting at, cowboy?

Oh, I dunno.....
I turned on the TV this morning. It was a whim - - just to see if I could tolerate 20 or 30 seconds of the Michael Freak Jackson Never-Neverland Peter Pan Memorial Tribute.

There is an entourage on an L.A. freeway with a hearse......a big black mega hearse......en route from Forest Lawn to Cirque du Soleil, or Staples, or wherever the heck the memorial is to be held. All the cable news channels have agonizing second-by-second coverage.....there haven't been this many news cameras focused on an L.A. freeway since the 3MPH farcical O.J. Simpson chase......

The hearse cruises along. The cameras follow relentlessly. The hearse cruises.....and cruises.....and.......c-r-u-i-s-e-s.......

I turn the channel. I let my remote flip through thirty, forty channels. I watch a ten minute global warming propaganda piece on the Weather Channel. I watch that bastard Bobby Flay cook yet another twelve course meal on the Food Network. I turn back to Fox News.....

......the big black mega hearse is still cruising down an annonymous L.A. freeway....on its way to......that great big Neverland in the sky......

It's nearing noon in West Texas. It's already hotter than hell - - - hotter than the artificial high that pulses through the veins of Hollywood celebrities as they snort and shoot their collective way to oblivion......

I head for the refrigerator. I pop open a can of beer. Not a 12 ounce Minnie Mouse can of Coors. Rather, a mega (yes, mega) 24 ounce can of Hurricane High Gravity malt liquor. This stuff should take me to Neverland a helluva lot faster than the hearse is taking King Michael.......

I indulge in a few generous slugs and continue watching TV.

The mega hearse is still cruising the sun-drenched freeway.....still on its way to.....apparently.....nowhere......

Today there are no typical traffic jams on the freeway. The cops have it all blocked off. No traffic at all. A smooth, unobstructed ride to heaven.......It's all so surrealistic.....just the hearse.....and the entourage.......and.....infinity......What's taking them so long? It's been an hour already. Maybe an hour. Maybe longer....

.....and the hearse cruises along........

It's all in slow motion. I watch in undiluted wonder as the hearse sails on. Malt liquor pulses through my veins, sharpens the moment, softens my anxieties.

The hearse, in SloMo.......

It's gotta be a joke, right? It's gotta be the Flying Dutchman. Sailing on to nowhere forever..........

Finally - somewhere between 12:30 and the hardcore prelude to inebriation - the hearse arrives at Staples. Or whereverthehell the destination is.

The media is rhapsodic. They can't say enough about how wonderful it all is. It's the greatest, most momentous day since Barry Obama's inauguration. I pinch myself hard. Am I dreaming? Did I die and go to hell? This absolute insanity can't possibly be real.....

I thought Barry Obama was God, Messiah, King, Savior of the Universe. That is, I thought so until today. Today, for once, God Barry is overshadowed by God Michael. Is there really room in the universe for two?? The news media thinks so.

I was too nauseated to continue watching. I turned the TV off. Turned on the air conditioner. I had broken out in a cold sweat. Not from the Texas heat, but rather from a King of Pop overdose.

An hour later, completely fortified by 24 ounces of Hurricane High Gravity malt liquor, I turn the TV on again - - just on a whim. The Jackson Megafest is still in full swing. Songs-a-singin' and tributes-a-plenty.

Al Sharpton - Al Sharpton, of all people, is giving a rambling speech about oppression. "Michael Jackson never gave up, he never gave up!! No matter what happened, he never - gave-up-"

Never gave up? Never gave up what? Doing drugs? Doing little boys? Doing totally bizarre, completely insane things? Getting disfiguring plastic surgery? Wearing clown makeup?

Al Sharpton - reeking with artificiality, reeking with a dubious, quasi-criminal past.....now speaking in praise of Peter Pan's double......and speaking......and speaking.......

As if Al Sharpton wasn't enough, ol' Jesse Jackson kept putting his puss in front of the camera. Why the hell did he show up? Does he think he was one of the Jackson Five? Maybe the Jackson Six? Well, hell, there isn't any public event in the past forty-five years that hasn't been attended by the Very High-Assed Reverend Jesse Jackson. Self-proclaimed God Almighty. The biggest hardcore media freak who ever lived. If there's a camera rolling, Jesse is there. Norma Desmond in black face and tie.......

And there were celebrities galore.....more stars than could fill a constellation. Stevie Wonder and Smokey Robinson, and......

........and Brooke Shields, my long-ago wet dream. Far from the Blue Lagoon and not too far from the threshold of menopause - she shed faux tears and gave the performance of her life, worthy of an Oscar...........

The house was rocking down Memory Lane with acute adulation and persistent praise and pomp and circumstance and reminiscence and reflection and saccharine sentiments and sappy recollections and eternal homage to the greatest personage the world has ever before seen or ever will see again and.......and song! Praise with song! Unity with song! We Are the World and there ain't nobody gonna stop us......moonwalking our way up the staircase to Heaven where we will all join the King in eternal blessedness and blissfulness.......

Tinkerbell, get me outta here!!!

Lord help me, it was all I could take, it was over the top, it was over the edge, it was more than one delightfully inebriated cowboy could fully comprehend, it was more than enough to make me glad I no longer live in the Neverland Netherworld of Hollywood..........

May the saints save and protect me.

AMEN.

cut and print.......

Celebrating the Fourth

When you're a child, Independence Day doesn't signify freedom or patriotism or love of country as much as it does celebration and picnics and barbecues. It's an extraordinary summer event. Fourth of July celebrations are squeezed so far back in my memory that it's almost painful to realize they happened so long ago.

I was no more than three when I remember going to a park with my parents on the Fourth of July, spreading blankets on the ground, having a picnic, watching the fireworks after dusk. I was probably four when I recall the back yard barbecue at my Aunt Ann's house. My mom, my aunts, most of my uncles were only in their twenties then. It was more than a lifetime ago but the memories are vivid: the pungent aroma of the barbecue, the intense heat and humidity, later the back yard fireworks. The youngest kids, like myself, were fascinated with sparklers. I still associate celebrations of the Fourth with that intoxicating blend of barbecued food & sulfuric smoke & sizzling explosions of fireworks & smothering humidity & drifting lightning bugs. That was on the east coast, before we moved to California.

Southern California was a whole different world, but Independence Day celebrations were satisfyingly similar. Much later, when I was in my late teens & early twenties, the beach offered a perfect setting for celebrations.

Pacific Coast Highway at sunset on the Fourth of July, cruising in my Corvette, accompanied by a few faithful friends, music blasting on the radio. Heading for our favorite coastline haunting grounds: Newport or Huntington or Seal Beach or Sunset Beach or - well, hell, anywhere was good enough for us. The beaches, as far as the eye could see, ablaze with bonfires and dazzling bursts of fireworks. The thick smell of smoke and salty ocean air......young, carefree, in the very midst of perfection......we didn't know it was perfection then, we took it for granted..........

As a kid, I was obsessed with fireworks. When I was about thirteen, we lived in a sleepy little town in Riverside County, which is about as far away from the beach as you can get. Fireworks were illegal there, but somehow I still managed to get them. Whenever my parents went on a trip to Mexico, I'd buy fireworks there and sneak them back across the border (those were relatively innocent times, before border guards were forced to become obessed with searching tourists for drugs).

It was around this time when a kid in our neighborhood had an unfortunate accident involving fireworks (his fireworks, not mine). He put a lighted firecracker in a bottle and was still holding it when the thing exploded. It blew off three of his fingers. That ugly incident quickly gave me a newfound respect for fireworks. I never messed with them much after that. After all, a fledgling pianist needed to keep as many fingers as possible.......

And now? I must be getting damn old. Firecrackers annoy me. Bottle rockets scare me. Cherry bombs and snakes are okay......but I prefer a safe & sane sissy box of sparklers (my God, I'm regressing quickly.....). They don't make sparklers like they used to. They're not as powerful, not as bright. They sure as hell don't last very long. A few feeble glimmers of sparks, and then - - - -ppfffft! It's over.

I don't feel like going out to picnic in the park. I don't want to watch a boring parade. I'm too damn tired to barbecue. If I put an American flag in front of my house, I'll undoubtedly offend someone. Sad to say, we're no longer surrounded by patriotic, God-fearing, red-blooded Americans. Those simple, uncomplicated, halcyon days are gone forever and I miss them immensely.

Many of my relatives are now deceased, and the rest are scattered in various parts of the country. Many of my closest friends live far away. I'm in West Texas now - far from the California beaches of my youth, far from reality as I once knew it. Celebrations? Well, hell, there isn't much reason to celebrate anymore. At dusk I'll probably go out in the back yard - wait until the dust settles, kick away a bunch of accumulated tumbleweeds, settle down with a cold can of beer, and watch a glorious Texas sunset. At least the beauty of nature has never yet betrayed me.

At peace with myself (sometimes)......proud to be an American (despite how quickly the entire concept of our country is eroding).......thankful for blessings and all that I have........

A happy Independence Day to everyone!

Note: the red & blue font colors are probably over the top, but it's my demented way of celebrating. I just check the comments for my previous post. Did Mrs. L. actually say she agreed with everything I wrote???? My God, call a doctor. I'm in shock!

Rotten Mood

I have a simple request:
Can we bury the King of Pop and move on? The entire thing was a tragedy which should have never happened. I feel sorry for his family. I'm sorry that he's gone. But what's done is done. This insane idolatry by media and fans is really getting on my nerves. Somebody should have been monitoring the Pop King - checking his excessive drug use. He should have been undergoing rigorous psychotherapy. Perhaps a miracle could have rescued him from his Peter Pan existence and brought him back to earth. Instead, his family and cronies fueled his abnormalities and greedily feasted on his fame. That quack of a doctor who was living with him and administering his drugs should be tarred, feathered, and executed.

End of soapbox speech.

I was in an extremely bad mood all day. Quite out of character from my usual easy-going, adorable, likeable, charming, uncomplicated self (hey, I'm lucky I didn't choke on that lie.....). All of the stress and pressures and sleepless nights are taking their toll. I'm getting mean & nasty, and after I chug down a couple of beers I'm not responsible for what I might do (blame it on the booze, Jon).

I sent a nasty letter to an editor today. This is completely out of character for me. I've been dealing with editors for the past twenty years, at least, and I've always managed to handle all situations with professionalism and dignity. Today I broke that rule.

I recently wrote a fantastic editorial for a local Lubbock publication. It was one of my best efforts. The editor curtly informed me that it was too long and couldn't be used. Normally I wouldn't think twice about such a rejection. Today it rubbed me the wrong way. I fired off an email in which I said that "It was a damn good editorial and you couldn't get anyone to write anything better."

Why did I say this? Well, because it was a damn good editorial and they couldn't get anyone to write anything better.

Anyway, I regret having acted so childishly. Blame it on the stress. Or the beer. Or the weather.

Notice my smooth transition to another subject?

The weather here in Cowboyland has been unusually rotten lately - kinda like my temperment. Rain, heat, intense humidity. The heat is nothing new, of course, but the humidity is. It intensifies the heat and compounds the misery. The constant rain is ruining all the work I have been doing in the yard.

Billy Mays died yesterday. No, not Willie Mays. Billy Mays. That extremely obnoxious shrill-voiced guy who does all the fast-pitched commercials on TV. I always hated him. Once, a few years ago, I wrote that I could derive immense pleasure from strangling him with my bare hands. Is it too late to retract that sentiment? I meant no harm. Really. I'm truly sorry that the guy is gone - I'm sure he was a nice person. Is there a bright spot to this tragedy? Maybe. I won't have to hear any more of his obnoxious commercials.

Dropping Like Flies

Holy Shmoly! There's a curse in Hollywood! Them stars is droppin' like flies!

First Ed McMahon, then Farrah Fawcett, now Michael Jackson. Who's next? Celebrities are running for cover, hoping the Powers That Be won't find them and strike them down!

Death is an inevitable unpleasantry that we all try to avoid as long as possible. I don't like to think about it, don't like to talk about it. Hungarian superstition has instilled a notion in me that if I whisper the unmentionable out loud, the Grim Reaper might hear and forfeit my number. But I'm getting off track. Let's return to Death in Hollywood.....

America, unfortunately, has an extremely unhealthy celebrity fixation - or, more aptly, obsession. Celebrities are placed on a much higher level than God Himself. Presidents can die, Popes can die, Kings, Queens, men of letters & science can die, and they only receive a passing salute. When a so-called "celebrity" dies, the hysterical frenzy of the media and the masses is unleashed with alarming ferocity.

Did it start with Rudolph Valentino when he died at 31 in 1926? Maybe. As his co-star and friend actress Alice Terry once said, Valentino would have fizzled had he lived. He wasn't much of an actor. He was merely a pretty presence, an idol nestled in the unstable minds of his fans(I am personally a big Valentino fan. I collect memorabilia. I've seen most of his films. But Alice Terry was right on. The dude wasn't much of an actor.....).

Who was next? Jean Harlow? Dead at twenty-six. The media and the public went wild. Her early demise never generated the mega immortality that some future stars did, but she caused a post-mortum sensation nevertheless.

Bigger legends followed: James Dean. Marilyn Monroe. Judy Garland. Elvis. To name a few. Anna Nicole? Certainly a tragedy, but it will quickly pass. Her star is feeble and waning. She contributed absolutely nothing to insure immortality......

I suppose the key to celebrity immortality is to die young. Or fairly young. Die before your films get stale and your ass gets saggy. Stay fresh in the public eye. Heck, nobody went into throes of wild obsession when Bob Hope died at 100.

Farrah Fawcett wasn't exactly young, but she was forever fresh and young in our minds. She's probably up in Heaven now saying "Damn it! This was supposed to be my day - and Michael Jackson took the spotlight completely away from me!"

Am I being crass & uncaring? Maybe. But I couldn't resist.

I saw Farrah Fawcett in person once, at the height of her fame. It was at the notorious Green Cafe in West Hollywood - a popular watering hole on San Vicente Blvd. which is now long gone. I used to hang out there in my Hollywood days. A lot of big celebrities would go slumming there. And a few porn stars. I saw Linda Lovelace there. And gay porn star Jack Wrangler.

Farrah Fawcett, despite having only minimal acting abilities, was gorgeous. She had "it". You either have it or you don't - and Farrah definitely had it.

The term "it" was coined in 1927 by novelist/screenwriter Elinor Glyn, when she described actress Clara Bow. Clara Bow quickly became known as the "it" girl. "It" is a quality possessed by some that draws all others with its magnetic force.......

I never met Michael Jackson, but I was acquainted with a record producer who knew him. Michael was supposed to be very kind, sincere, generous, shy. He was also so completely immersed in his own private world of fantasy and illusion that I doubt if Peter Pan himself could have found him. Never-Neverland, indeed.

I was never a Michael Jackson fan. I couldn't possibly relate to him or his music by any stretch of my imagination. I admired his talent and entertainment skills. Genius? Well, that's a matter of opinion. The word "genius" is carelessly thrown around today - - like "beautiful" and "love" and "abuse". Beethoven was a genius. Franz Schubert. Shakespeare. Mozart. Leonardo da Vinci. Nietzsche. Goethe. Thomas Edison. Maybe even the Bronte sisters. But the King of Pop? Well, I dunno.

It's very obvious that mega fame is a dangerous thing. Ordinary people who find themselves suddenly incredibly wealthy and catapulted into lofty regions beyond the stars are usually also doomed from the start. They quickly lose grip on reality. Their celebrity eventually consumes them. Michael Jackson is an extreme example of celebrity gone awry. Since he was a star from early childhood, he absolutely didn't have a chance. He was never really a child. He was never really a person. He handled the overwhelming stress by retreating into an insane fantasy existence. It was a perfect example of the Great American Tragedy.

Having lived in Southern California for thirty years, and having known a lot of people in the real Hollywood, I saw many variations of the same theme firsthand. I published many articles about movie stars and celebrities, and - admittedly - I'm still a big fan. I love Marilyn Monroe & Judy Garland & James Dean - but they were all deeply disturbed, extremely fallible people. The Grand Illusion is what we believe and what we want to see. The rest is merely as fragile as a candle blowing in the wind......

Michael Jackson? Farrah Fawcett? They've joined all the others in the dusty realms of infinity and, perhaps, immortality.


"Man's life? A candle in the wind, hoar-frost on a stone. Nothing more certain than death and nothing more uncertain than the hour......" Carl Sandburg

Random Thoughts, Summer Night

I had planned on writing something for Father's Day. It was perfectly drafted in my mind, it weighed heavily in my heart, it yearned for release. I finally abandoned the idea, knowing that it would be too emotionally draining to write and far too cumbersome to read. Someday I'll do it. Someday. I've written a lot in my private papers. I hesitate to reveal too much in a public blog. It doesn't agree with my nature.

If you have a father and your relationship with him is a good one - savor it, enjoy it. Be very thankful. Cherish each day. My father is gone. Nothing can be recaptured or rewritten or repaired. I'm left with endless regrets, shattered memories, deep wounds that never heal, conflicted feelings, overwhelming sadness. The anger, the rage, the terror, the chaos are all long gone, melted away. There is no room for them now.

I'm in a melancholic mood on this sultry summer night. Feeling old and reflective. Not old in years, but rather in emotions. I'm riding on thousands of years of emotions......

Summer arrived quickly, almost unexpectedly. How can you anticipate summer in a place where it feels like summer three months before summer actually comes? Does this make any sense? Probably not. West Texas has been kicking up the heat since March. It rained a few nights ago - a drenching, steady, steaming rain that provided enough soggy incentive for every dormant weed to grow. I woke in the morning to find the yard filled with them - still dripping, and all laughing at the amount of weed killer I had used the previous day. My plants are withered and lifeless. The weeds are thriving. That's West TX for you.

The tornado sirens went off on the night that it rained. They shattered the silence at 3:00AM and nearly ripped this tiny cowtown in two. Since the sirens are located very near my property, I had a front row seat to ear-splitting audio abuse. There was no tornado, of course - in fact the skies were beginning to clear - but the sirens shrieked for nearly an hour.

A phone call to the police department yielded nothing. There's a malfunction, sir. No need to worry.

Malfunction, my ass. This is the third time the faux siren alarm has sounded in six weeks. I'm sure that if we had a real tornado, the sirens would fail to work. I lived through plenty of real tornados in the Missouri Ozarks. Too many to even mention. It was a way of life there. I loved the Ozarks - a haunting, inspiring, unique place - - but the storms scared the shit out of me. Or the crap, if you prefer the Disney version. I remember one Ozark tornado that ripped a two-mile path only half a mile from where I lived. Several people were killed. When the sirens went off I panicked - jumped in my car, raced to a nearby convent that had a basement shelter. It was after midnight. Large hail pelted my car as I screeched through the streets. The power went out. Everything was black. I reached the convent just as the tornado hit. Numerous people were already there. The nuns took us to the basement where we stayed until dawn.

Nothing so dramatic here in West TX. At least not tonight. Just a hot, sultry, dark and quiet night. Too hot for dogs to bark, too hot for cats to prowl. Too hot for tired ol' faux cowboys to carouse. My only means of escape tonight is to leave a few haphazard lines in a worthless blog that should have been abandoned long ago.

Another fox has taken up residence in my back yard. I was surprised to see him, since they usually only appear in autumn or winter. My old friend the grey fox is long gone. This new fox is red and much younger. We encountered each other earlier tonight, in haze-drenched darkness. He eventually disappeared under one of the storage sheds.

Is there an exciting end to this tale? Nope. I can't think of one.
Good night, for now.