Picasso's Ghost

 



                                                        The Ghost of Picasso

        Sid Picasso, the first cousin of the famous Pablo Picasso, finally accepted the fact that his famous cousin was, Indeed, dead.  It happen when Sid's therapist pointed out that when Pablo came to Sid's house for dinner, he never drank the wine nor ate any of his cooking.  The food and the wine just sat there.  Sid instinctively knew that his Cousin Pablo would never have passed up a free meal unless, of course, he really was dead (or was a vampire).  Before Sid was cured of his delusion, and was jotted back into reality, Sid managed to tape a conversation that he had had with Pablo during the last time he came to dinner.  He presented it to his therapist who was deeply interested in this particular case, especially when there were two voices registered on the tape.  One was definitely Sid’s but, to this day, no one could identify the other. The tape was made public on October 31 of this year and the taped session went something like this:

       Sid: Thank you for coming,  Oh, and by the way, my therapist tells me that you are dead.  

       Picasso: And I am having a rough time accepting it. 

       Sid: Well, you 'll just have to accept it. 

       Picasso: No, I don't.  Life happened so quickly: it just came and left.  I was barely here before I had realized that I was dead. I didn't have a chance to really get acquainted with life: all the living I had yet to do, all the places that I haven't visited, all the wine, food and women I have yet to devour.  I needed more time...and I'm definitely going to make up for it by not leaving.

       Sid: What are you talking about?  Just listen to yourself.  You've been walking around irritating people forever and I think being around for 91 years should be more than enough for anybody.  You're such a terrible person that it's amazing you even managed to live this long.  There is no God.  I guess it's true that only the good die young.  But as nasty as you are...or were, you still can't stick around forever. 

       Picasso: Why not? 

       Sid: Because it's traditional that one should die, eventually, and it was your turn. 

       Picasso: But I'm one of the greatest artist that ever lived, and my greatness lies in breaking with tradition.  Do you realize how really great I am?  Do you know that I am the inventor of collage?  I, alone, have started an industry in craft merchandising, so therefore, I give myself permission to break with tradition.  And I will not be dead just to please your goddamn therapist.  No, I'm staying.

       Sid: You're sick, you know that?  What will you do?  My therapist, whom I trust more than you, says you're nothing but a figment of my mental illness.  You are nothing but puffs of air, a Halloween mask for kiddies to wear for trick or treat, a scary mask at that. You can't do paintings or drawings, nor can you play with clay, paper or scissors.  You can't even pick up a pen or a brush.  

       Picasso: I don't have to; you can do my drawings and paintings and collages for me. 

       Sid: I can't do that! 

       Picasso: Why not?  I will show you what to do, step by step.  It will be my ideas, my talent, my genius that will be guiding you…and you will get all the credit, all of it.  Let’s face it.  You were always envious of my fame and fortune, and it has tormented you all through your miserable life.  That is why you’re in need of a therapist.  Admit it.  You always wanted to be me, and now's your chance.  And you won't need therapy anymore.  Besides, you weren't a bad painter.  Just a bit mediocre.  Allow me to restate that...from just a bit to a lot.

       Sid: I can't sign my name to something that isn't mine!  My integrity won't allow it, and it will only make me more insecure and in need of more therapy. 

       Picasso: What integrity and who would know?  And that is beside the point.  It is the advancement of Art that is important.  Don't you understand?  You and I are insignificant, flea specks in the spectrum of our glorious culture.  It's Art, it's creative painting, that is important.  For Painting to be significant, it must progress or die.  These present day painters who call themselves artists are impediments to Art.  They progress into themselves; or worst, backwards.  They should have institutionalized Jackson Pollack when they had the chance.  He really opened the floodgates and legitimized finger painting and accidental spills.  When they say, "my two-year old can do that", they would not be far from the truth. 

       Sid: But that's what they said about your work when you and Braque were doing those cubist paintings, especially during your "Brown period", when all your colors had a shitty brown cast to them. The critics say that you ran out of subject matter so you and Braque started "Cubism" as a lark. 

      Picasso:  How dare you!  I never had your so-call "Brown period".  My period was Blue.  It was my "Blue period" when I first made my mark in the Art world.  It was Braque that painted that shitty brown, not I.  I was great, and how many people even heard of Braque?  Not many, I assure you.  No, I never painted in browns...your therapist put you up to this, didn't he?  He wanted you to agitate me, so that I will go away? 

     Sid:  No, she doesn't know enough about ancient art, like yours, to have an opinion, one way or another.  She likes Jackson Pollack. She thinks he's the greatest modern artist that ever lived.

      Picasso:  Oh, your therapist is a woman?  Good grief, when is a woman capable of anything professional, let alone being a therapist?

     Sid:  Yes, my therapist is a woman, and she claims that your fractured paintings of women faces was really that of you mother's.  She also says that all your paintings of women show that you are definitely a misogynist, and that if you weren't a ghost, you should seek help.

       Picasso: Keep it up and you will never see or speak to me again. 

      Sid: I will sincerely miss you.”

 The taped was edited and only selected conversations are reproduced here.  After the last sentence, Pablo Picasso never again accepted Sid's invitation to dinner, and Sid never heard from him again.

                             Yes, I was drinking when I did this painting.  But it had purpose...

Only Male Birds Sing

                       This is an excerpt from the third chapter of a novel I hope to finish before I drop dead.   I am still working on the first and second and sixth chapter.  I don't know what I'm doing.  Wish me luck with the project.

                                              Chapt. III  Visit to the Herbalist

      After that pronouncement by my lesbian doctor, I was sent to my uncle who was share cropping an orchard in Winters, California.  I was already a fat kid and I had a serious case of asthma.  On bad days I had to struggle to suck in enough air so I could remain conscious.  On good days I remain unconscious.  I was fat because my appetite was the same as any kid my age but I couldn't move around as much without wheezing and choking, thus, a huge gain in weight.  I just couldn't burn up the calories.  It wasn't my fault that I was born sickly.  It certainly wasn't written in the scroll.  With that in mind, I never felt guilty about being what I was, a fat , lazy kid with plenty of reasons for over indulgencies, and for avoiding anything or anybody unpleasant.  My mother was a saint, and I avoided her too.

      My exodus from urban to rural began with a trip to the local Chinese herbalist when I was just approaching my twelfth birthday.  Up to that point I had been seen by many Anglo doctors whose only response toward a cure for my asthma was to test me for allergies and charge my father five dollars.  The average hourly wage at that time was eighty cents.  This was at the end of the Depression and the beginning of the Second World War.  The general medical establishment, at the time, was prescribing Alka-Seltzer for stomach cancer (and from my understanding, still is).  The herbalist, a chain smoking, antiquated old man, who smelled of mothballs, had his office on the second story of an old brick building in the middle of Chinatown.

     The old building was built right after the 1907 earthquake and was designed to be dark and dreary.  The stairs leading to his second story office was a long climb since the store fronts on the street floor had very high ceilings.  I wheezed all the way.  All the floors were covered with this very shiny orange brown linoleum.  Across the hallway from his office was a barbershop that charged ten cents a haircut.   It wasn't much of a barbershop.  The doorway consisted of a ratty bed sheet hung rather badly.  The barber's chair was a tall wooden stool, and if you weren't careful, you could get splinters by just running your fingers around the edges.  When the chair was occupied, the rest of the customers had to stand in the hallway and wait in line.  There was no other place to sit.  The only amusement, while standing and waiting, was watching flies buzzing around strips of fly paper hanging from the ceiling.  The anxiety level was raised when calculating which fly would land on the paper and which fly wouldn't, the beginnings of an evolution of a fly's brain.
      The middle- aged barber, I remembered, was equipped with one pair of scissors, a comb, and a tragic demeanor due to thwarted ambitions.  At the time, the bowl cut hair style was what all cheap Chinese barbers gave to everyone regardless of age.  That is why we all look so much alike. No one complained.  Being very young, I postulated that every person working in menial jobs (like a barber), and showing no interest nor feelings in their vocation, as having a tragic demeanor.  As I grew older, I found this to be true.

      I entered the herbalist office with my father, the herbalist motioned me to take off my jacket and shirt and to pull up my undershirt.  He leaned over and, with his eyes rolled toward the ceiling,  examined me by squeezing parts of my body for half a minute.  As he straightened up, he shook his head and proclaimed to my father in a dry voice, "They are doing less than nothing for your son.  He will not get better.  All the white ghost doctors have done is to make a pin cushion of your little boy."  The herbalist began pointing at my back with his slender fingers, stained yellow with nicotine.  "See, see.  Look at those little red dots.  Your poor boy is being assaulted, and for what?  White thieves, white thieves are what they are!  They blind you with their subtle arrogance, with their medical theatrics, and have you believing that some miraculously unseen thing is being done to cure your son.  In truth, they are charlatans, vultures swooping out of the bright sun to peck away at your dignity, your common sense, and most especially, your purse.  Now, I'm not saying that I can do more than they can, but do I charge you a whole day's pay for ten minutes of worthless consultation?  And this notion that pricking your son's back to find out what food he can or cannot eat is...is...barbaric nonsense."

     I silently agreed.  He lifted my tiny wrist and laid it on a miniature red velvet pillow and began taking my pulse.  His white porcelain hand was that of a corpse, and from his vest pocket, he stealthily took out a shiny brass pocket watch and began scrutinizing the face, counting the seconds.  After a moment, the herbalist, with studied dignity, removed his fingers from my wrist, snapped shut the lid of his watch, and slipped it back into his vest pocket that was fraying at the edges from constant usage.  He hunched over, turned to my father, and uttered a sigh of resignation.  "You must face the facts, this port city is not good for him.  It is too close to the ocean.  The fog sweeps in nearly every day and does not wear out it's welcome until the noonday sun, and even then, it might decide to stay.  It never dries here; it is always cold and damp.  It would be better that your son goes away from here, some drier climate, like a desert or someplace with lot of dry heat.  This is what I prescribe."

     My father studied the old herbalist for a moment.  "You are right, of course, and I would follow this advice if I had the means to do so.  But things are difficult right now.  Is there not another option?"

      "Well, you could leave matters as they stand," grunted the herbalist, "and he may perhaps become stunted and develop into a dwarf.  His constant fighting for breath will leave him with little energy to grow.  But on the other hand, I have never known this illness to be fatal to one so young.  He may just grow out of it completely with no serious consequences...and then again he may not.  I have heard from reliable sources that children afflicted with this lung disease sometimes develop peculiarities, like mental dullness, or a small penis, or idiosyncrasies inappropriate to good social behavior.  I really do not know."

      I began to shiver at the herbalist prognosis.  The more I listened, the more I shivered and kept shivering, even after putting on my sweater and jacket.  I might never grow beyond my present height!  I was doomed to be a midget!  Always on eye level with the kitchen sink, always on eye level with adult bellybuttons, a gruesome prospect.  The achievements of Toulouse-Lautrec would have been a consolation but he was dead and I was too young to have known of his existence.  I was already too short for my age.  I became painfully aware of the fact when one day I was informed by my friends that they were not exceptionally tall.  Years later, when my height seemed to me as still being stunted, my evil Cousin Clyde, whose family was much wealthier than mine, and therefore wiser than mine, claimed that he grew over six inches during his vacation at the YMCA summer boy's camp.  The secret. he said, was to refrain from masturbating.  "No jacking off if you don't want to be a little runt all your life."  And for the next three years I practiced absolute celibacy.  I grew three inches.  My Cousin Clyde was so believable.

      The old herbalist looked at me sadly, shrugged his shoulders, and continued.  "But I do know that this damp, foggy climate is not good for what he has.  It is the damp sickness glued to his lungs that must be cleansed and dried, and it will not dry while living in this city.  Didn't you say that you have a  brother-in-law sharecropping a farm in the valley?  It is hot and dry there and your son could not eat that much.  Why not send him there?  He could work for his keep."

      It was called the Hellman Ranch and I thought that Ranch meant horses.  It didn't.  It was a fruit farm populated by two, really beat up, red McCormick tractors, and the longest chicken coop I ever saw.  Well, it was the first chicken coop I ever saw and it happened to be very long.  I arrived by bus and was picked up at the station by my Uncle Sam (that was is first name) who was my mother's older brother by about eighteen years.  It was not uncommon for siblings to be that many years apart.  He had no sympathy, he was a farmer.  This I perceive by my first impression in the form of a general osmosis of his smell and body language .  His face was very old China: it was wrinkled and very brown.  The kaki shirt and pants he was wearing was wet from the heat, and he wore an old gray Stetson that was stained black around the hat band.  He had a wiry frame and his manner was brusque.  He showed no signs of affection.  What was I to do?  He was my blood uncle and I guess that's what blood uncles behave like when they take on an unwanted relative who plans to board on his farm. 

                    My evil Cousin Clyde is on the left looking at me and thinking how gullible I was.

    

The Candidate for President, Senator Bushton

 

                                        The Platform of Senator William Bushton

 

 

This is the third in the series of interviews with the Independent candidate for the Presidency of the United States, the Junior Senator from Bumpkin, Maine, Senator William Bushton.

 

      As you have requested, Senator, we have inform the readers that none of these questions were given to you beforehand, so this will be the first time you have heard them.  Now, can we proceed with the interview?

 

      I HAVE NO PROBLUM WITH THAT.  FIRE AWAY!

 

      Why should you have a problem?  You’re the one requesting the preamble.

 

      DO I HEAR A DISTINCT NOTE OF HOSTILITY IN YOUR VOICE?

 

      No, my mother taught me to be fair and unbiased in all my interviews even if the interviewee happens to be a jackass….which you are not, of course.  So let us proceed with the first question.  Senator, what is your tax plan if you’re elected to the presidency?

 

      I’M GLAD YOU ASK.  I WILL START OFF BY SIMPLIFYING THE TAX CODE TO A ONE PAGE DOCUMENT.  ANNUAL CORPORATE AND INDIVIDUAL INCOMES OVER A MILLION DOLLARS WILL BE TAXED AT 50%.  ANYTHING OVER A HUNDRED THOUSAND WILL BE TAXED AT 25%.  THOSE MAKING HALF OF THAT, 15%, AND THOSE UNDER THAT, NOTHING.  NO INCENTIVES, NO LOOPHOLES. NO AND'S, IF'S OR BUT'S

 

      What about capital gains, tax incentives and charity deductions?

 

      IF YOU GIVE AN INCH, YOU’LL END UP GIVING A MILE.  I’M ALSO GOING TO ENLARGE THE I.R.S. INVESTIGATIVE AND COLLECTION BRANCH BY 50% OR MORE.  ACCORDING TO MY FIGUERS, WE SHOULD PAY OFF OUR NATIONAL DEBT WITHIN THREE YEARS.  WITH MY BUSHTON TAX PLAN, WE CAN AFFORD TO REBUILD OUR INFRASTRUCTRE, OUR BRIDGES AND ROADS, OUR FRACTURED EDUCATION SYSTEM.  ALSO, THERE WILL BE FREE COLLEGES FOR THOSE WHO QUALIFY.  WE WILL BE ABLE TO….

 

      Won’t there be quite a bit of opposition to that proposal from the top 1%?

 

      HOW MANY BILLIONS DOES ONE MAN OR FAMILY NEED?  INNOVATION IS THE WORK OF INDIVIDUALS WHO WILL INNOVATE WITH OR WITHOUT INCENTIVES.  THE ACCUMULATION OF MONEY IS NOT A PRIORITY OF GREAT INVENTORS.  IT IS ONLY THE HEIRS TO FORTUNES, MADE BY THESE INNOVATORS, WHO ARE THE PARASITES.  STRONG LEADERS ARE NOT AFRAID TO RAISE TAXES ON THESE PARASITES.  WHAT THIS NATION NEEDS IS STRONG LEADERSHIP TO ELIMINATE POVERTY AND INEQUALITY, AND THAT IS WHAT I AIM TO DO IF I’M ELECTE, TO LEAD…STRONGLY.  I LEAVE IT TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE TO DECIDE IF MY BUSHTON TAX PLAN IS RIGHT OR WRONG, AND BE DAMN WITH THE OPPOSITION.

 

      By the way, where do you get all your figures from?

 

      HERE AND THERE, SOME I MADE UP ON THE WAY.  IF TRUMP CAN DO IT, SO CAN I.

 

      What is your position on immigration?

 

      I LOVE ALL IMMIGRANTS, ESPECIALLY MEXICANS AND ORIENTALS WHO I THINK ARE TRUSTWORTHY AND HARD WORKING.  FOR EXAMPLE, I HAVE THREE OF THEM WORKING AT MY HOME RIGHT NOW.  I HAVE A CHINESE NANNY FOR MY NINE YEAR OLD SON, MY HOUSEKEEPER IS A MEXICAN, AND SO IS MY GARDENER.  FINE PEOPLE.  OH, AND I MUST INCLUDE THE MANY MEXICAN WORKERS WHO JUST RECENTLY INSTALLED MY ROOF AND DUG THE TRENCHES FOR THE NEW SEWER LINE TO MY HOUSE…

 

      Were all the people working on your roof and sewer line, Mexicans?

 

      COME TO THINK OF IT…NO.  THE FOREMAN WASN’T.  ALL HE DID WAS TO WALK AROUND WITH A CLIPBOARD.  IT WAS MEXICANS THAT DID THE WORK.  YOU KNOW, IF IT WASN’T FOR IMMIGRATION. I WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO AFFORD ALL THAT NEW CONSTRUCTION AND THE SORELY NEEDED HOUSEHOLD HELP.  THEY ONLY GET MINIMUM WAGE, YOU KNOW, AND HAPPY TO GET THAT, ESPECIALLY MY CHINESE NANNY WHO DOES THE COOKING AND CLEANING UP WHEN WE HAVE PARTIES.  SHE NEVER COMPLAIMS ABOUT THE EXTRA UNPAID HOURS SHE PUTS IN.  MAYBE IT'S BECAUSE SHE HARDLY SPEAKS ENGLISH?  I HONESTLY DON’T KNOW.  ORIENTALS ARE SO OBEDIENT AND CHEERFUL.  I ALWAYS SEE HER SMILING.  OF COURSE, ANY LEFT OVERS AFTER A PARTY, WE LET HER TAKE HOME TO HER FAMILY.

 

      That is generous...And are those people employed by you, in this country legally?

 

       I HAVE NO IDEA.  I ADVERTISED FOR HELP IN THE DAILY PAPERS AND THEY SHOWED UP.  I PRESUME THEY'RE LEGAL.  BESIDES, MY WIFE TAKES CARE OF ALL THAT.  I GIVE  PEOPLE BADLY NEEDED EMPLOYMENT.  NON-MINORITIES ALSO APPLIED BUT THEY DIDN’T EXPRESS MUCH ENTHUSASIM, NOR GRADITUDE FOR THE WORK OFFERED.  I THINK THEY WERE OFFENDED AT THE SALARY RATE QUOTED. 

 

       Then you are for the immigration policy as it is now being conducted?  And would you be for illegals having their children here for citizenship purposes only?

 

      SURE, WHY NOT?  WE GOT TONS OF ROOM.  YES, WE DO HAVE A FEW BAD APPLES IN THAT GROUP, I’M SURE, BUT THEN WE HAVE HAD A LOT OF BAD APPLES FROM  PEOPLE THAT CLAIM OF HAVING IMMIGRATING GREAT-GREAT GRANDPARENTS SAILING ON THE MAYFLOWER AND  WHO WERE FIRST TO LAND ON PLYMOUTH ROCK.  I DON’T SEE TOO MANY OF US COMPLAINING ABOUT THEM.  BESIDES, WHAT WITH OUR HORRENDOUS DIVORCE STATISTICS AND LOW BIRTH RATES, WE COULD STAND AN INFUSION OF NEW BLOOD.

 

      In your earlier statement, you mention something about a free college education for those who qualify?  Could you expound on that?

 

     GLAD TO.  WE SHOULD OFFER A FREE COLLEGE EDUCATION FOR ALL THOSE WHO QUALIFY BY THEIR ABILITY TO HANDLE THE WORK.  IT SHOULD BE PAID FOR BY THE GOVERNMENT AND FINANCE BY RAISING TAXES ON THE VERY RICH.  I FIRMLY BELIEVE THERE IS A CONSPIRACY BY CERTAIN POLITICIANS, CORRUPTED BY COPORATE LOBBYIST, TO KILL PROPOSED TAX HIKES TO HELP  FINANCE HIGHER EDCUCATION,  MAKING PUBLIC COLLEGES  SO EXPENSIVE THAT THE MAJORITY OF QUALIFIED STUDENTS WILL NOT BE ABLE TO ATTEND. 

 

     Isn’t that a bit far fetching?  A corporate conspiracy to up the cost of college?  To what end?

 

      THINK ABOUT IT.  IF THE COST OF COLLEGE IS TOO GREAT FOR THE AVERAGE HOUSEHOLD, WE WILL HAVE LESS COLLEGE GRADUATES TO FILL VACANT POSITIONS IN CORPORATE AMERICA.  THESE COPORATIONS WOULD THEN LOBBY CONGRESS TO GIVE GREEN CARDS TO GRADUATES FROM FOREIGN COUNTRIES WHO HAS RECEIVED A FREE EDUCATION BECAUSE THEIR COUNTRY’S HIGH TAX BASE PAID FOR IT.  THEY COME OVER HERE TO WORK, AND IT DIDN'T COST OUR COPORATIONS NOR THEIR SHAREHOLDERS A CENT IN TAXES TO EDUCATE THEM. 
      AND THESE PROFESSIONAL PEOPLE ARE EVER SO GRATEFUL THAT THEY WILL WORK FOR MUCH LESS THAN OUR NATIVE BORN AMERICANS, AND WOULDN’T DREAM OF DEMANDING MORE BENEFITS FROM THEIR BENEVOLENT EMPLOYERS.  THIS TACTIC HAS BEEN GOING ON FOR YEARS, AND IT IS STILL GOING ON NOW.  OPEN YOUR EYES AND LOOK AROUND YOU.  WHAT COULD BE BETTER FOR COPORATE AMERICA AND ALL ITS HIGHLY OVERPAID CEO'S AND THEIR MINIONS?

 

      I must admit that it makes sense in a convoluted sort of way.  Now, another very important question…if elected president, what would be your solution to the problems of the Middle East?

 

      WHY?  IS THERE A PROBLEM?

 

      Of course there is.  There is civil war in Syria: hundreds of thousands of civilians are uprooted, dying of exposure, migrating to strange lands while unsure of being welcome.  There is the intrusion of Russian influence in the Middle East, the rise of ISIS, and the danger of an accidental conflict between us and Russia, both armed with thousands of atomic missiles aimed at one another.

 

      LET ME REPHRASE THAT.  WHY IS THAT A PROBLEM….FOR US?

 

      What do you mean?  Of course it’s a problem for us.

 

       YOU DON’T THINK OUR OCEAN IS A GREAT BUFFER ZONE AND LOGISTICALLY A MILITARY PROBLEM FOR POTENTIAL ENEMIES?  ASK ANY MILITARY BUFFS AND THEY WILL TELLYOU THAT IT CERTAINLY IS.   NO, THE MIDDLE EAST IS A PROBLEM FOR EUROPE, FOR RUSSIA, AND FOR CHINA.  THEY'RE IN THE SAME LAND MASS, AND ALL CONNECTED TOGETHER SO THAT THE CONTENDING ARMIES CAN MARCH FROM ONE END TO THE OTHER WITHOUT EVER GETTING THEIR FEET WET.  AND IF WE DON'T  STAY OUT OF THEIR WAY, IT MOST DEFINITELY WILL BECOME A PROBLEM FOR US. 
      WHAT WE MOST CERTAINLY DO HAVE, IN OUR OWN COUNTRY, IS THE SLIGHT-OF-HAND OF SOME POWERFUL INTERESTS WHO WANT TO DIVERT OUR ATTENTION TO THE MIDDLE EAST, AND AWAY FROM THE PROBLEMS WE ALREADY HAVE HERE AT HOME: THE PROBLEM OF POVERTY, THE INEQUAILITY OF WEALTH, THE INFUSION OF DRUGS FROM SOUTH OF THE BORDER, THE RACIAL TURMOIL AND EXTREME UNDER EMPLOYMENT OF NOT ONLY BLACKS OR BROWNS, BUT OF THE POOR EMPLOYMENT PROSPECTS OF THE MILLIONS OF AMERICANS WITH AN I.Q. UNDER 100, WHICH IS HALF THE POPULATION.  THAT IS THE PROBLEM THAT MUST BE ADDRESS, NOT THE PROBLEMS OF THE MIDDLE EAST.

    

      What about Putin arming the Syrians and keeping Assad in power, and the possible confrontation with Russia?

 

       HOW CAN WE CONFRONT ANYBODY IF WE’RE NOT THERE TO BE CONFRONTED?  ASSAD MAY BE A BRUTAL DICTATOR BUT HAVEN’T WE TOLERATED WORST ONES?  COME ON; THINK OF JOSEPH STALIN, MAO TSA TUNG, AND KIM JONG U.  WE STOOD BY WHILE THEY ELIMINATED MILLIONS OF THEIR FELLOW COUNTRYMEN.  PUTIN MAY BE BUILDING UP RUSSIA’S INFLUENCE IN SYRIA, BUT I HEARTLY APPROVE OF HIS ACTION.  HE IS SPENDING HIS NATION’S BLOOD AND GUTS TO STABLILIZE THE AREA AND WE ARE COMPLANING?  WE SHOULD GIVE HIM A MEDAL. 
      IF I’M ELECTED, THE FIRST THING I WOULD DO IS MEET WITH THE MAN BECAUSE I TRULY LIKE HIM.  HE IS CHARMING AND WE WILL BE FRIENDS BECAUSE WE BOTH UNDERSTAND GEO POLITICS, AND WE MULTUALLY RESPECT EACH OTHER.  AGAIN, IF I'M ELECTED, OUR TWO COUNTRIES WILL BE ETERNALLY AT PEACE WITH ONE ANOTHER AND, BECAUSE WE HAVE LARGE AMOUNTS OF ATOMIC WEAPONS, THE REST OF THE WORLD WILL LISTEN TO US AND MAKE PEACE WITH EACH OTHER, IF NOT BY REASON, THEN BY FORCE. 

 

      You truly believe this?

 

      YOU ARE SKECPTICAL?  WELL, I DON’T BLAME YOU, SEEING HOW NAÏVE YOU REPORTERS GENERALLY ARE.  LET ME FILL YOU IN.  WHEN BUSH JR. INVADED IRAQ, HE FORGOT ALL ABOUT THE LESSONS LEARNED FROM VIET NAM.  PRESIDENT OBAMA DIDN’T FORGET AND I WON’T EITHER IF ELECTED.  WHEN PUTIN MOVES HIS ARMS AND TROOPS TO SYRIA, THANK GOD, HE HAS FORGOTTEN THE LESSONS LEARNED FROM THEIR INVASION OF AFGANISTAN, BECAUSE  DEFEATING ISIS WILL BE COSTLY.  STABILIZING THE WHOLE MIDDLE EAST WILL BE COSTLY.
       I SAY, LET THE GAMES BEGIN...WITH US AS OBSERVERS, NOT PARTICIPANTS.  IT’S A NO-WIN SITUATION FOR US TO BE THERE.  OUR MILITARY ADVISORS KNOW THIS AND SO DOES PRESIDENT OBAMA.  NOT SO, MANY OF OUR CONSERVATIVE CONGRESSMEN WHO STILL THINK JOHN WAYNE WAS REALLY IN THE MARINES AND WAS KILLED IN THE INVASION OF IWO JIMA.   WHEN THE DUST SETTLES, AND IT EVENTUALLY WILL, THEN, IF I’M ELECTED, I WILL MOVE IN TO THESE DEVASTATED AREAS AND TRY TO REBUILD WITH JOBS, EXPORTS, AND A SOUND, DEMOCRATIC GOVERNMENT BACKED BY GOOD, SOLID AMERICAN TROOPS.  MAKES SENSE, NO?

 

     Your simplistic solutions to complex problems sound a lot like that of another conservative candidate for the presidency.  And I am referring to a certain owner of a hotel chain.

 

      ARE YOU REFERRING TO DONALD TRUMP?  YOU KNOW I DON'T WANT TO DISCUSS HIM.  HE HAS ENOUGH PUBLICITY WITHOUT ME ADDING TO IT.  BESIDES,  I’M NOT THAT HELTER-SKELTER IN MY LOGIC, AM I? 

 

        I cannot comment on that.  I’m only a reporter.  I know it’s been a very long day for you, Senator, so here is my last two questions, both which should be politically innocuous for you to answer.  The first question is, what do you consider the most pressing problem of the 20 century?

      OVER POPULATION.  TOO MUCH LAND CLEARED AND DEVOTED TO LIVESTOCK.  TOO MUCH LIVESTOCK EATING GRAIN AND  TOO MANY PEOPLE EATING LIVE STOCK ENCOURAGING MORE LIVESTOCK EATING MORE GRAIN.  I'M NOT JOKING.  MORE CLIMATE CHANGE IS DUE TO THAT FACT THEN ANYTHING ELSE.  HAVE LESS PEOPLE EATING LESS LIVESTOCK USING LESS LAND CLEARED OF FORESTS WILL HEAL THIS PLANET THAT IS SLOWLY DYING.  MAKE NO MISTAKE.  ITS IS DYING...AND RAPIDLY.  IF I'M ELECTED PRESIDENT, BELEVE YOU ME, I WILL MAKE CHANGES TO STOP IT.

       That's a grim picture.....my second, and last, question is....what do you consider the most important innovation of the 20th century?

       OH, THAT'S EASY.  THE MOST IMPORTANT INVENTION OF MODERN TIMES IS, OF COURSE, THE 2 PLY, ROLLED, TOILET PAPER.  I CAN'T SEE LIVING WITHOUT IT.

 

      And on that UPLIFTING note, let me thank you, on behalf of the readers and myself, for your time and candid opinions on the state of the union. 

 

      YOU'RE WELCOME, AND THANK YOU.  OH, AND ONE MORE THING CONCERNING GUN CONTROL THAT WE DISCUSS ON THE LAST INTERVIEW.  I MUCH RATHER A CRAZY GUY COME AFTER ME WITH A BASEBALL BAT OR A KNIFE OR AN IRON PIPE.  I CAN RUN AWAY FROM THAT.  I CAN'T RUN FAR IF HE'S GOT A GUN. 

     

 

    

 

     

        

 

 

                              

 

 

 

 

     

     

 

     

 

     

 

     

 

     

     

 

     

     

 

    

 

     

 

      

 

     

 

    

     

 

      

 

     

     

 

    

 

    

     

 

     

 

     

 

    

 

     

 

     

 

    

    

      

 

     

 

     

 

     

 

    

 

     

 

 

     

 

     

 

     

     

 

    

 

     

        

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

    

 

     

        

 

 

                               

Henry and Ruth

 



 

  

                                                       Henry and Ruth

 

          Henry was a widower who, late one evening, stood naked in his bathroom brushing his teeth before going to bed  After brushing, he poured a small cap full of blue mouth wash, tilted his head back, emptied it into his mouth and loudly gargled.  Ruth, his wife, always complained about the disgusting noise he was making.  She’s been gone now for nearly three years.  As he spat it out, he leisurely observed the mouth wash and his saliva mingling, forming a gelatinous stream on the side of the sink.  He watched as it slid slowly down the white porcelain, gathering speed as it approached the drain hole.  Tomorrow was to be his seventy-six birthday and  his daughter, Amy, thought it a good idea to celebrate the event next day at her home. 

      

         Glancing up, he switched his attention to the image in the mirror.  There were shadows over his deep eye sockets.  He was getting to be a farce: overweight, his wrinkled face, ugly by anyone’s standards, was charmless.  As he stood there, it occurred to him that he has had this teeth brushing  and mouthwash ritual every night since he could remember.  He had no idea why, at this particular moment, he should be thinking about this.  He wasn't thinking about this when he was shaving this morning.  Although he looked into a mirror twice daily, it was only on this particular day, on this particular evening, when he became cognizant that he never really looked at himself.  True, there is his reflection, but he had only concentrated on the parts, never the whole.  He paused to take it all in instead of the myopic version.  God, how I’ve aged…and what a terrible shape my body is in.   Now I know why they invented clothes, he joked to himself. 

      

          He began neglecting his physical appearance the moment he got married.   Presently, he managed to hide his fat with loose t-shirts and baggy pants.  Still, he looked startlingly unattractive when naked.  He looked in the mirror and gathered in his pads of fat around his chest and sides.  He grabbed his sagging pectoral muscles and addressed the mirror.  “God Amighty, I’ve got breasts. Ruthie, wherever you are, I hope you’re not seeing this.”  Staring at his reflected face, Henry watched it gradually contort and twist into a scowl.  Putting both hands on the marble counter, he leaned over the sink and hung his head.  After a pause, he tried to suppress a surge of bile coming from his inner being onto the top cavity of his mouth.  He couldn’t.  He released his grief with a gush, accompanied by tears running down his face.  “It’s so quiet here, it really is, Ruthie” he whispered. “I have to shake this…silence.  I don’t want to do anything stupid, now do I?  I’m really tired…and my back is killing me.”  He promptly plopped down onto the tile floor.  Sitting there quietly, he noticed, through his tears, that there was rust around the base of the toilet bowl.  There must be a leak, he thought.  I should fix that.

 

         “No, son, don’t pick me up.  I can still drive.  I’m not helpless, you know. I’ll meet you there.”  Henry hung up the phone.  It was a gray morning.  His suit was laid out on the bed and he thought he did a pretty good job of getting a matching tie to go along with it.  Hardly ever wore a suit now since he retired as a department head nearly twenty years ago.  He was but a minion in a large corporation where his main duty was to appear worried.  But that was long ago.  He sat on the bed and fingered the tie.  Ruth did all the selecting: his suit, his tie, where to go on vacation, who their friends were, what kind of car to drive, what to eat, and where.   They were high school sweethearts and were married right after graduation.  He never officially proposed.  They got married because it was just the natural order of things.  She went to work while he finished college.  They had two children, a boy and a girl three years apart.  She quit her job when Henry began climbing the cooperate ladder.  Ruth took over the business of family then and organized every thing so Henry could concentrate on his worried look.  By the time the nest was emptied, Ruth became the dominant partner and steered the course of their lives; Henry was happy that she did so.  In fact, when they went places together, she was the driver of the family car while Henry always sat as the respectful passenger.

      

         After his retirement came the round of traveling, remodeling the house, and making unannounced visits to irritate their grown children and grandchildren.  Pay back time, Ruth would  laughingly call these visits.  Slowly the novelty of retirement began to wear thin and Ruth and Henry, having run out of obligations to others and to themselves, began to have the leisure time of getting to know one another.  But it was cut short.  The doctor said that it was a blessing that the stroke finally killed her.  Otherwise she might live as a vegetable, unrecognizable to anyone and a burden to everyone.  Henry remembered sitting by her bedside while she was in her coma.  He spent the whole day and her last evening just talking to an empty face, reminiscing down memory lane, planning about future travels, about the kids and grandkids and how great they turned out to be.  He tried praying.  He had no faith in religion but he felt he, at least, had to try.  Lying there in the hospital bed, Ruth began to change in Henry’s eyes.  She slowly morphed into the girl he married when they were teens.  By morning, the vision and Ruth had faded.

     

            After the funeral, Henry became despondent and couldn’t bring himself to go home.  The children drove him to a hotel because he refused their offer to stay with them.  He was uncomfortable with his children’s spouses when Ruth wasn’t there to engage with them.  Hotel rooms were neutral and he stayed there for weeks.  The first night home, he spent sleeping on the living room sofa.  He had the television turned on, blaring out voices and loud music drowning out his thinking.  The large screen flooded the room with its cold blue light exposing the dark corners so it would not threaten him.  The television was constantly on for several months, then gradually the volume was turned down and periodically he would turn the set off for a brief moment.  The brief moment grew into hours, then into days, and finally he managed to sleep without it being on.  Henry solved the problem of sleeping in their bed again by talking to Ruth, as if she was there.  Henry had now compress his grief into the deepest recess of his mind and managed to keep it there by talking to his long dead spouse.  But as time passed, it became arduous for Henry to keep up the pretense that she still existed, even in a nebulous way.  The acceptance that she was gone, never to appear again, began to surface and brought a burning sadness to his very being.

      

         As Henry drove away from the house, he took a glance at his rearview mirror.  It showed the ranch style house they have been living in for over fifty years.  It was in need of maintenance.  The wooden roof shingles were split and cracked as were the gutters.  Window frames were in need of repair and their screens needed painting.  All the windows were in dire need of washing.   He used to love doing repairs but now he lets it all go.  All his tools in the garage were covered with the remnants of disuse.  He was no longer the caretaker of things.  That would be his children’s job, or whoever inherits the house after he’s gone.  As of now, he couldn’t bring himself to care.  

      

         It began to rain heavily and, for a harrowing moment, Henry forgot where the windshield wiper controls were on the dash board.  The windshield wipers stuttered to life as it was turned on.  I have to get new ones, he thought.  It was a twenty minute drive to Amy’s house but he was in no hurry.  Henry was a very private person and only comfortable when Ruth was around.  Since her death, he dreaded gatherings such as this birthday party, even if it is with his own family.  He usually ended up with a drink in his hand, sitting alone in the corner somewhere, radiating unfriendliness.  It was okay when Ruth was alive.  She did all the conversing when they were in social gatherings, and all that was required of him was to nod, now and then, with a few words sprinkled in.  He was immensely happy with that arrangement, and was sure that Ruth was too.  But she was no longer here and he would be standing alone. 

     

          There was a grassy knoll over a rise in the road.  Henry parked to the side and turned the ignition off.  Rain clattered on the roof of the car and muddled the windows so visibility was nil.  The low gray clouds made the sky dark and menacing.  It was cozy sitting there, so private.  Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a package of cigarettes.  He started smoking again weeks after Ruth passed away.  Henry didn't have to please her anymore.  In fact, he didn't have to please anybody.  He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke toward the passenger side.  Placing his arm on the headrest he turned to Ruth and said, “So, what do you think?  What am I going to do with what’s left of my life?  You know, you were pretty, pretty damn selfish leaving me like that.  You could have bail out a lot earlier and I could have married somebody else.  Now, whose gonna hook up with an old fart like me, huh?" There was a long pause.  Henry winded down the window a bit and waved the cigarette smoke out with the flat of his hand. Then he continued, "Yea,  I know the smoke bothers you and I'm sorry.  A lotta things about me bothers you, don't it?.  Heck, you could hardly stand me when you were alive." Henry looked at the end of his cigarette, stuck it through the crack of the window and flipped it out. "I really thought I was gonna go first.  Who'd think you'd beat me to it.  You were really inconsiderate, you know that?  You could've made it a lot easier for both of us by not dying.  No, I’m not kidding.  I’m not kidding,  I’m really not kidding,” and Henry bent his head and began to silently sob.   Ruth smiled and stroked his hair. 

       

         A break on the horizon let out a stream of sunlight.  The rain fell intermittingly and then stopped altogether.  The break in the clouds broadened and the rays of sunlight were sharply contrasted against the ominous sky.  A rainbow appeared.  The spectacular scene made Henry exclaim, “Ruthie, look, Judgment Day and the second coming of Christ!  No crap.  Wow, what a sight.  We might be seeing Jesus coming down from the clouds at any moment now.”  Henry had no idea how long he had been sitting there, conversing with Ruth.  It was so easy to talk to her.  Opening the glove box, he took out some paper tissues and wiped his eyes.  There he sat, quietly, for what felt like an hour, then he turned to Ruth and said, “I know it sounds corny… but we did have a really long run, didn't we?  I had fun and I do miss you a lot....But there's nothing more left to say, is there?.. except I really loved you and I just didn't know by how much, until now...so, I guess we can say goodbye, sweetheart....so, I'll go ahead and say it...goodbye.” 

     

          “Yes, it is corny and it is has been a long run," said Ruth. "Goodbye, dear, remember me to the children, see ya."  And that's exactly what Ruth must have said, thought Henry.

      

         Henry turned on the ignition, shifted the car into gear, and joined the ongoing traffic.  He just turned seventy-six today and he wondered what sort of gifts his children were getting him.  

 

 

     



Incident at Falling Rock

 

 

                                                  Incident at Falling Rock               

      
       Gentlemen:  I have here in my hands a letter from the representative of the Ladies Auxiliary League of Artist’s (LALA) co-op gallery, and it is address to the City Council of Falling Rock, which are us.  The author of this letter is Prof. Ebinhoffer, who most of you know is presently serving as interim spokesman for that organization.  I wish to submit it to this distinguish body for consideration.  It is an apology from the LALA co-op, and written, in all probability, to avoid further litigation on our part for the unprovoked attack on one of our city council members.  Since I don’t have copies to hand out to each of you, I shall read it out loud instead, and ask that it be entered into the minutes of this meeting.  Are you all in agreement?  Fine.  Then I shall proceed:

 
Dear City Councilmen,

        This is an apology for that incident that took place Tuesday evening at the open forum where council member (Big) John Uptight put forth the motion that the city rescind the $5000 grant given to LALA co-op gallery.  We do not know the reasons behind this, but you can understand the emotional upheaval this has caused our members.  Without the grant, the co-op gallery will be unable to move from its present location, which happens to be right next door to the Greyhound Depot.  It is the memberships’ desire to move to a more suitable venue, like somewhere near a Macys, or a Target, or even a Wal-Mart.

        I agree.  Councilman Uptight should not have been subjected to such unwarranted physical abuse.  The grant is not small, and I do sympathize with Big John’s expressed desire on why the money should instead be awarded to groups with more pressing needs like, for instance, the Cultural German Folk Dancing Ensemble who are in dire want of a new dance floor at the Falling Rock Senior Center. 

         Ever since the craze of barefoot dancing has swept this community, many elderly folks, young ones included, have been filling the emergency room of our local hospital with injuries from splinters acquired while dancing on a wooden floor laid down during the Hoover Administration.  This would make the floor nearly ninety years old.  I also learned that Big John’s wife, a leading member of the Cultural German Folk Dancing Ensemble, personally suffered a six-inch splinter in the big toe of her right foot.  The hospital attendant said that the injury she suffered was exceedingly painful and could have been avoided if the floor was in better condition.  So you see, I am fully aware of the pressures that face Councilman Uptight to award the grant to where he thinks it is more urgently needed.

          Although the LALA co-op members has not acquired horrendous physical injuries like that of Mrs. Uptight, they do undergo a tremendous amount of emotional stress by just being located right next door to that noxious bus station.  There exist levels of trauma you people can hardly imagine.  We are presently located in, what I consider, a toxic environment and definitely not conducive to Art and elderly ladies.  I know what it’s like for I am, and have been for several years, a member of LALA. This may come as a shock to some of you but I have never made it a secret, nor have I tried to hide the fact that I am the only male member of that organization.  You may draw any conclusions you want from that, but it is not illegal.

          I know that some of our LALA members have a tendency to be downtrodden misfits and are subject to emotional depressions and violent behaviors, but gentlemen, to rescind this grant that would have enable us to relocate our co-op gallery away from that bus terminal, is deplorable and detrimental to our membership.  Have any of you been near a bus terminal lately?

           In many cities and towns, sociopaths and their homeless counterparts tend to gravitate around bus depots.  Why? I can’t imagine.  The problem is these dangerous and very anti-social people have been mistaken for the artists!  The artists are there usually participating in some art exhibitions and receptions taking place within the co-op which is right next door to the bus station.  Some of our most wealthy patrons, large donors, head of corporations, our city’s finest, attend these openings.  Some have even invited these sociopaths and bag ladies into their homes for supper thinking they were the artists in residence and later finding out that some of their silverware and small furniture were missing.  Since our better artist-members do resemble these people (it is really difficult to tell them apart), and have added tendencies not to confront nor defend themselves, we become guilty by default and by proximity association. 

          But this is not to excuse the behavior of certain protesters of our group who took it upon themselves to do what they did.  Again, we apologize, Big John, for some of our elderly members who got carried away with their enthusiasm and threw latex paint at you.  They should have taken it out of the can first.  I did caution them. 

           Since Councilman Uptight will be hospitalized for a length of time, I beg the council to table the action until he is able to get back on his feet.  At which time he is welcome to reintroduce the motion…if he cares to.  In the meanwhile, be assured that the Ladies Auxiliary Artist League Co-op wholeheartedly condemns violence in any manner, shape or form.  And that we send Councilman (Big) John Uptight, our whole hearted apologies, and that he recovers from the dent on his forehead soon.

 

                                                                     Sincerely,
                                                             Prof. Elbert Ebinhoffer

                                                           

Entered into the minutes of the Falling Rock City Council meeting on September 9, 2015     

Action taken:  All members of LALA co-op participating in the assault on Councilman John Uptight were sternly reprimanded, with the exception of Mrs. B. Bushton, who is chairwoman of the open forum refreshment committee.  She claimed she was too weak to pry open the lid.