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Voodoo Peeps

(Originally posted on the website Continuum…)

Ever feel like biting someone’s head off? Have a few people on your scene who deserve to have their heads chewed off and spit out like a piece of rancid beef? Would you do it if you knew you could get away with it?

Well… Until you come up with your plan for the perfect head chomping crime, I’ve got a little diversion for you. VOODOO PEEPS! These little peckers are oh so willing to vicariously give their lives in place of the big peckers in your life who really deserve to have there heads gnawed off. And it keeps you out of trouble!

First, start with a fresh box of marshmallow Peeps at Easter time. Remove the wrapping and put the box away somewhere. Forget about it until July.

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Second, when some fowl excuse for a human being gets your tail feathers all in a knot, remove one of your little Peep friends from the box. (Note: Though you are peeved and all in a huff like a hen who just laid the mother of all eggs, be gentle in removing the Peep so as not to tear the guts out of his fellow beside him. You will need him at a later date for sure. Jerks of a feather flock together. If you have one jerk in your life, more are bound to follow.) Carefully position the Peep within your finger tips, using your pinky as a perch for your sugar-feathered friend.

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Step three, the most satisfying part of the process: With gusto and delight, with soaring abandon, yet with precision, bite the hell out of his little soft body and rip his head right off his mallow shoulders! Do it as a starved buzzard who hasn’t seen a rotting carcass in weeks! Birds do not have teeth, but you do! Do your carnivorous worst! Bare those canines! Chomp down! Fill his jugular with all of your venemous anger!

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But! Before you swallow, savor the moment! Toss his little egg-head around within your cheeks! Allow his sticky little cranium to migrate from one side of your mouth to the other! Suck his little brains out and feel your frustrations flock away as so many startled sparrows!

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Finally… Ingest and smile!

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Feel better? I knew you would! (A little birdy told me!)

May the purple Peep of happiness send droppings of peace upon you always! (Send pieces of droppings on you always?? Nah!!)

Posted at 11:55 PM (EST)

DON’T LOSE THAT NUMBER

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(Originally posted on the website Continuum…)

BACK IN TIME again. This nostalgic piece is being written while under the influence of Steely Dan. Who would have thought? When I was in high school it just was not cool to listen to Steely Dan! How could that boring stuff compare to something as deep and musically intricate as the amazingly broad spectrum of three chord symphonies produced by the likes of AC/DC? How could that lame music measure up to the culturally enhancing and magnanimous-thought evoking quality of the wholesome Alice Cooper? Tell me. How could Steely Dan ever hold a candle to the altruistic, not-for-profit, purely for the love of art, labor of love of the face-painted Kings In Selfless Service, KISS? My how perspectives change with a little time and experience! The rich keyboards, clean drums, smooth background vocals, quality lyrics, horns, percussion, worthy guitar work, I’ll take Steely Dan! Now they take me to times past through “Rikki Don’t Lose that Number.”

I am always impressed at the way in which a song, a sound, a smell or any one of innumerable stimuli has the ability to carry one back in time without warning. You might be in the midst of complicated work, or driving to the store, or watching a parade or eating a meal, when suddenly something causes you to remember days of long ago. A long closed and forgotten door in your subconscious is opened and you find yourself in fields of yesteryear.

How did “Rikki Don’t Lose that Number” place me in the backseat of my grandparent’s car in New Egypt, New Jersey on our way home from the Jersey Shore? Was it a hit song on the radio on one of those summer trips back in the early 1970s? Was it one of the many popular tunes that Sister C, Cousin B and I used to sing along with while we jumped on the bed in Pop and Gram’s spare bedroom? That room had a mirror on the wall and we would jump and sing and collapse in heaps of laughter upon the mattress. I remember that “Black Water” by the Doobie Brothers was one of our favorites. (“I’d like to hear some funky Dixie Land, pretty mama come and take me by the hand…”) But “Rikki?” I don’t remember that being one of our favorites. Oh, but I don’t want to “lose that number!” I don’t want to lose that connection with the past and those good memories! I’ll “send it off in a letter to myself” and to whoever wishes to read it. Maybe it will bring smiles from the past to someone’s face that has long forgotten how smile.

New Egypt, New Jersey is not a major town. I don’t remember any town at all actually. I remember flat Central Jersey farm fields. I remember the small racetrack there. Was it only for go-carts or was it for stock cars? I don’t remember. Pop would always travel the county roads through the New Jersey pines when we went to the shore. New Egypt is somewhere on one of those routes. Maybe it was the oddness to a child’s mind of a place called “Egypt” in New Jersey. Are there pyramids here too? Maybe just small ones brought over by the early Egyptian settlers who arrived in New Jersey around the time of the Dutch? Do the mummies come out at night and eat people in New Egypt? We never hung around long enough to find out. We were only passing through on our way to Sea Isle City, Cape May, Avalon, Atlantic City or Brigantine.

DO YOU KNOW the excitement of a North Jersey kid when he sees sand along the road on his trip to the shore? It’s comparable to seeing the first snow flurries of the winter, the first robin of spring, the first neighborhood house decorated with Christmas lights on the day after Thanksgiving. Somewhere around New Egypt we became alive again, mummies or no mummies. The lethargy was gone. Our nearly bursting bladders were forgotten. The air was fresh with salt and excitement. The sand was on the ground! The beach was just beyond the next incline in the road! Do I see the waves already? Or is that only the heat rising from the road?

There was another sign that we were almost to the shore. Along one of those county roads through the pines there was an ice cream stand. How we would look forward to arriving there! Pop was famous for near mental breaking long trips without many stops. Oh, but he loved ice cream and we could count on his stopping at this stand! By the time we would get there we would be ready for 10 feet tall ice cream cones! It was all very psychological. If we could just keep our sanity until we made it to that ice cream joint, we knew we would be refreshed and able to keep our minds for the rest of the journey. The excitement and sugar would carry us the rest of the way! What a second wind!

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AT THE SHORE we would stay in campgrounds. Pop always had a trailer or a mobile home. When we were old enough, Cousin P and I had the honors of helping Pop hook up the water and sewer hoses when we got to the grounds. Other than that, our time was filled with fun. We would bring our bikes and ride the dirt lanes through the grounds and pretend we were one of several favorite stock car racers. We would spend our change on candy at the campground store. We would go to the game room and play air hockey while The Guess Who sang “American Woman” on the jukebox. Every evening we would take refuge in the trailer while the truck passed through and sprayed for mosquitoes. I’m sure they killed a lot of those critters and some of our brane shells. I mean shane brells. I mean brain cells. If it rained, we would play card games such as “Pig,” “Go Fish” and the interminable “War.”

We spent a lot of time at the beach. In my mind I will always have a vision of my grandfather walking painlessly barefoot over scorching sand, like a pale, bald, Irish firewalker, while his children’s children hooted and hopped among the broken shells and discarded cigarette butts in his wake. Mahatma O’Ghandi, leading a band of initiates yet to be trained in the art of endurance. Oh, the mercy of the ocean! Praise to the gods of water and relief!

In the evenings, the boardwalk was the attraction. We laid down our quarters. The wheels spun. The prizes were won now and then. We bought kites, saltwater taffy, t-shirts, key chains, polished seashells, magnets and more. We ate funnel cake, freshly roasted peanuts, candy apples, cotton candy.

In Atlantic City, we watched the horse dive at the Steel Pier. We had our pictures taken with Phyllis Diller and the Pope at the wax museum. We never failed to get a kick out of the Planter’s Peanut man at their store on the boardwalk. Gram purchased specially designed shoes in Atlantic City. Was the store called Sheldon’s?

At Cape May, we searched for Cape May “Diamonds” on the beach. We marveled at the half-sunken concrete ship. We watched Pop go crabbing and fishing in the bay. We gave up and finally bought the “diamonds” at one of the many sea shell shops.

At Brigantine, we stayed with the nuns, friends of Aunt E. There, Cousin P was the only one brave enough to see the movie “Jaws” in the theatre. How does one muster enough courage to watch a movie about a killer shark at night and then swim in the ocean the very next day? At Brigantine, I got one of the worst sunburns of my life. Somehow, I was severely burned on my hips. It hurt to wear my jeans at night. One night there were toads everywhere outside. Of course, we enjoyed catching them. Well, I only semi-enjoyed it. Bending over hurt too much due to the sunburn! I distinctly remember Cousin P telling me that I looked like an absolute idiot trying to catch toads by only squatting and not bending my waist.

One of the funniest things I ever saw happened at the shore. We spent the day on the beach and were ready to leave. We were tired and hungry standing outside of the car while Pop unlocked the doors. I remember that one of the girls had to pee. For crying out loud! You had a whole friggin’ ocean just yards away but you want to hold it until we find a bathroom??? Then it happened! Right down the back of someone’s neck! Sea gull poop! I was looking right at her, one of my cousins, when humor struck! She was standing next to a telephone pole and… “Bombs away!” Have you ever seen the way a young girl dances when she has gull crap on the back of her neck? I was delighted! When she yelled, “It’s not funny!” it became even funnier! When I said, “Ewww! Look at the shells in it!” she nearly killed me! Thank you, “Rikki,” for reminding me of gull shit!

ON AND ON I could go with these memories! As I play the Steely Dan song again, I am thankful that I didn’t “lose this number.” Hey, “Rikki,” you know who you are while you’re reading this. “Don’t lose that number!” Call it up. Remember those times from your past when you were a little more carefree and optimistic. Think of gull shit on your cousin’s neck and smile! “Send it off in a letter to yourself” and pass it on in order to inspire someone else. May the gull of paradise visit you all!

I BLAME CAROLE KING: THE EVIL INFLUENCES OF MY MOTHER’S MUSIC

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(Originally posted on the website Continuum…)

I’M LISTENING TO “Walking into Clarksdale” by Jimmy Page and Robert Plant. Man! Talk about a stinky CD! I got it a few years ago on Ebay. I guess I just had to listen to it today to remind myself how bad it is! What a disappointment compared to most of their early work in Zeppelin! There won’t be any writing inspiration from this music! I better put something else on!

Let’s see… Dire Straits? Eagles? ELO? (Hmm… “Evil Woman” I could write about X.1 or X.2.) The Goo Goo Dolls? The Guess Who? (Hmm again… “American Woman” Sounds like more ex-wife inspiration.) Don Henley? (“The End of the Innocence” That happened at birth.) Faith Hill? (Wait! Who put THAT in my CD collection?) Carole King? (Lots of childhood inspiration there thanks to Mom!) Led Zeppelin? (Nope. I got a bad Page and Plant vibe right now.) Lynyrd Skynyrd? (“Gimme Back my Bullets” Ah! More ex-wife inspiration!) John Mellencamp? (Someone once told me that I sound like a mix of Bob Seger and John Mellencamp when I sing. “Sammy Cougar Mellonhead.”) Nazareth? (Not again! “Love Hurts” More ex material!) Tom Petty? Pink Floyd?

Did you notice that they are all in alphabetical order? Yeah. It’s one of my idiosyncrasies, just like making sure all of my money is facing the same direction with the smaller bills in front.

OKAY. Here we go. It’s Carole King. Look what you’ve done to me, Mother! “Oooo, Darling! When you’re near me and you tenderly call my name…” What have I become? Oh, this is disgusting! I hope none of the guys at work find out that I listen to this mush! Yet I don’t seem to have the will to turn it off. And it’s taking me back…

I’m remembering the year that my parents divorced. I was nine. The signs that the end was near were pretty obvious even for a nine-year-old. The note on the table that read, “You can have the pool. I want such-and-such,” was a dead giveaway. When the news was broken to Sister C and I, I remember saying, “I know already.” We were in the dining room at Pop’s diner.

Was I angry about it? Did I have resentments? Did it cause some heartache and bring weirdness into my life? I’d be a liar if I answered no. Yet, through the years I realized that I would not have become the person that I am if I didn’t experience living through my parents’ divorce. I also have this gut feeling that I would have been a rather boring person, maybe a passionless average Joe. Just before the divorce I was interested in playing the saxophone. My God! That would have prevented my whole glorious drumming career! I could have turned out to be one of those kids in the band who have no coordination yet insist on “trying out” your drum set. How annoying! And they never stop once they start! A few of these types came SOOOO close to being harpooned through the throat by a drumstick! So, I didn’t spend much time thinking about what could have been if my parents stayed together. To me it felt more like this was the path that my life needed to follow. It’s just the way it was.

“You gotta get up every morning with a smile on your face and show the world that you’re beautiful as you feel.” Well, Carole, easy for you to sing about it! Not always the easiest thing in the world though! But I’m learning to do it more!

NOW, where was I? Oh yeah. Age nine.

Remember Pop’s red Ford Ranchero? For the rest of my fourth grade school year we lived with my grandparents and Mom drove us back and forth to school instead of changing schools mid year. (Thank you Mom!) It seemed like we were always on Asbury Road. I distinctly remember “Crocodile Rock” by Elton John playing on the radio one hot afternoon as we drove home.

Fourth grade was also the year of my first fist fight in school. Yeah, there’s a milestone for any boy! The fight broke out in the middle of class. I don’t even remember the other kid’s name now. It was stupid. I had other fights outside of school in those days. One friend and I got into fights every now and then. One time I broke something of his. He chased me all the way home. The front door was locked and Mom was inside vacuuming the living room. This kid was pounding on me and I was pounding on the door. But Mom wouldn’t open it! (I’ve been meaning to ask you about that, Mom!) I ended up getting pushed into the rose bushes. He got me good. That may have been our last fight before I moved away. I think he was one up on me. We’ll see who ends up in the bushes if I ever find that guy!

It was also the same year that I punched an eighth grader in the face. He was this big tall kid with flaming red hair. One time he chased me all over the neighborhood, pounding me on the top of the head the whole time. I couldn’t get away from him. Then one day I went to meet one of my friends, David Clark. At the spot where we were supposed to meet there was someone sitting on the other side of the road. I thought it was my friend and yelled, “Hey, Clarkbar!” To my horror, the person on the other side unfolded and stood up. Strutting his way across the street was the giant carrot head! “What did you call me??” “Nothing!” POW!! Right in the left cheek! It worked! It left him stunned just long enough for me to get a head start. I ran to the house of the aforementioned friend (the one who shoved me into the roses) and pounded on his front door. His mom opened the door and yanked me in just as the flaming giant was nipping at my heels! He left me alone after that.

There was another bully where I lived as a kid. His name was Gary Sinko. Sinko doesn’t sound like much of a bully’s name. But we were all afraid of him. I don’t know exactly why. He wasn’t very big. It was all in his attitude I guess. He used to pick on me and beat on me. One day I was crossing through some yards. Suddenly, Gary was standing right in front of me. “Where do you think you are going?” “Nowhere!” POW!! Right in the stomach! Again, it bought me enough of a head start to get away. I never punched a kid in the stomach before. I remember thinking of how soft it felt. He never bothered me again either.

Bullies are everywhere though! Even after we moved to Gram’s I had to deal with a few. One of them was Victor Motyka. Even in fifth grade he had long hair. It was pure blonde. And he was smoking pot back then. He was a bad dude with a big bully attitude. Everyone in school was afraid of him. He was a little crazy. It was dislike at first sight for he and I. He’d push me around and what not. Until one day, the day he made a big mistake. Returning my tray in the cafeteria during lunch one day I bumped into Victor. He decided to show off in front of everyone. Whenever Victor was around, people watched him to see if he’d do anything crazy. So, he started pushing me and calling me “four eyes.” (Yeah, I wore glasses as a kid.) Then he knocked my glasses off onto the floor. POW!! I punched him right in the face! No running this time. I stood there and waited. I guess I put him in his place because he didn’t fight back and he never bothered me again. If you don’t put a bully in his place he will always feed on your fear and never leave you alone.

WOW! Look at what this Carole King music is doing to me! People talk about rock-n-roll causing people to do violent things. I don’t know. I think this mellow junk is more dangerous! Maybe there are subliminal messages recorded backwards on this CD. “I feel the earth move under my feet.” Yeah! It’s from the bodies of the wounded falling down! “You just call on my name, and you know wherever I am I’ll coming running to see you.” No thanks, Carole! You’ll just come running to knock me into the rose bushes! I need to listen to something wholesome instead of all this easy listening angst! Something like Nirvana maybe…

Now, with the proper musical background, let’s go back to fourth grade and talk about…

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PUKING!

I only ever threw up once in school. I told Mom that I felt sick in the morning. She wouldn’t believe me and felt that I was just faking it. As a kid you are guilty until proven innocent. So off to school I went. I made it to lunchtime. I managed to force down some fruit cocktail. But it didn’t stay down for long. After lunch our class was in the library working on book reports. I delayed the puking for as long as possible. That’s the way I am. I can’t handle it. I lay there for hours when I have the flu and dread the idea of puking until it comes out with such violence that it nearly rips my head off. Afterwards I always tell myself that the next time I will puke ASAP because you always feel so much better as soon as you do. But I never do that! So, here I was in the library, choking it down until I couldn’t hold it much longer. The teacher was surrounded by students who were waiting their turn to ask questions. So I in my timidity stood there green-faced until it was finally my turn. I said, “I… think… I’m… gonna… pu…” He pointed and yelled, “Run to the bathroom! Run!” One step. Two steps. Three steps. BLAHHHHHH! Right there on the library carpeting! It was embarrassing but I didn’t feel well enough to care. A few more steps. BLAHHHHHH! BLAHHHHH! Ten minutes later Mom was picking me up in the nurse’s office. “I told you I was sick.”

NOW, the most embarrassing incident in my entire school career happened in second grade. During the whole ten years of school that followed, nothing topped this. No, not the time that I fell in a huge puddle during gym class. No, not the time that I farted by accident in seventh grade geometry class. No, not the time that I got caught burning papers during study hall in the auditorium. This just may be the most embarrassing incident in my whole life. It happened when I had to read a report in front of the class. I did my report on bats, the flying kind. I sat there in utter nervousness as student after student got in front of the class to read. I was so scared! So much so that I did not even have the courage to ask to use the bathroom before it was my turn. (You know what’s coming. Don’t you?) So I got up to read. I was pale white and shaking. All eyes were on me. It was my turn in the spotlight. I can still see all of those kids with looks of anticipation on their faces, waiting for me to start. “My report is on bats. Bats are the only flying mammals…” PSSSSsssss…

Yes! I pissed my pants in front of the whole class in second grade! There! Now the whole world knows! For all of these years the laughter of those kids has echoed in my mind night after night! I can still smell the fear and urine spreading on the cheap indoor/outdoor carpeting! I still curse the flying mammals!

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But God bless my second grade teacher, Mrs. Yates! She quickly ushered me out of the room with her arm around me. “Oh, Sammy! Why didn’t you tell me you had to go? I would have let you. Go down to the nurse.” I walked into the nurse’s office with my pants soaked and reeking. “What happened to you??” “Uh… I got sick?”

SO MUCH for the past. Here’s something interesting. I just joined the Toastmasters club where I work. Let’s hope that my first speech there goes a little better than my speech in second grade! I hope they don’t ask me to speak on the topic of the most embarrassing experience of my life. I’ll be pissed!

IF MY DAD HAD DIED WHEN I WAS YOUNG

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(Originally posted on the website Continuum…)

“MY DAD had died when I was young.”

NO, NO, MY Dad did not die when I was young. I overheard someone saying that at work today and it just sparked so many thoughts and emotions within me. What if MY Dad had died when I was young? What would life have been like? What must life have been like for the one who was telling another about how she grew up without her father? God, what is THAT like?? God, I thank you that MY Dad did not die when I was young!

What if he had though? I wonder if my life would have been harder. Would my life have been easier? Maybe it would have been neither harder nor easier, just different. There is no guarantee that different would be easier, but there is always the fear that different would be harder.

Maybe the only easier aspect of my Dad dying when I was young would be the absence of painful memories brought about by my father’s shortcomings as a member of that infamous band of hoodlums known as humans. That’s the thing about dads: they are human. Humans fail. Humans sin. Humans are weak. I may not be an expert on dads. Yet, after being a dad for 17 years now, I think I have a little room to speak to what dads are. They are not super heroes (contrary to the belief of all toddlers). They are only men. Many are their shortcomings. Those who are honest with themselves know it. Those who are brave enough will admit it, especially to their children.

I KNOW that there are many men in this world who have made such an absolute mess of things that they do not even deserve to be called dads. I know that there are sons and daughters who carry about deep wounds, some of which are now bitter hardened scars, all because of their fathers’ neglect or abuse. Many are the nights when they have lain in bed and wished to God that their “dads” had died when they were young. I personally do not know how this feels. But my compassion goes out to those who know such pain. All I can say is please do not remain bitter, my friends- for your own sake especially. I do not know all of the answers. I do not know how to make all of those scars go away. But I do know that there is One who has suffered for all of the wrong doing in the world. I do know that there is healing in His sufferings. I do know that there is freedom to be found at the foot of His cross. I would not be a very good friend if I sent you anywhere else to look for relief.

THOUGH I mainly spent only weekends with my Dad growing up, I do have some good memories, memories that cause me to be thankful that my Dad is still alive at the age of 62. I remember my Dad teaching me to fish. One time when I was only seven or eight, we were fishing in a small stream near Warren Glen. Dad was teaching me how to cast. I was starting to get the hang of it. I was actually beginning to get my line in the water more often than in the trees. Then I cast the ultimate casts of all casts… and snagged Dad right in the… uh… shall we say, “buttocks?” Sorry, Dad! I remember when he put a basketball hoop up for me in the driveway. I remember jamming my thumb while he was playing with me. I even remember getting up before dawn to go on a trip to Canada when I was less than five years old. I remember eating breakfast with my Dad that morning. I ate puffed rice cereal. You know the stuff that has the taste and texture of lightweight Styrofoam.

CURRENTLY I am living on the same street that my parents lived on from the time I was born until I was five. This was not by design. It just happened that there was an available apartment here when I needed to rent one. But it sure does bring back a lot of memories when I drive by house number 15 just up the street! I remember swimming in my little kiddy pool in the yard and taking my bathing suit off. I remember taking boards off of the side of the front porch with my Dad’s hammer. I remember being determined to cut down the big maple tree in front of the house with his saw. I remember how he pulled me down the snow-covered street on a sled. And I remember how I wore my Dad’s work boots and dreamed of working for the electric company like my Dad.

Certainly life would have been different if my Dad had died when I was young. And certainly I would have never opted for the convenience of being without him just to avoid accepting that he was a fallible human. Certainly much more good has been added to my life by having my Dad alive for as long as I can remember.

FROM the sixth grade on through high school, my greatest love was playing the drums. I started out with a simple snare drum, joined the school band. Several months later, Dad came pulling up the driveway in a VW Bug stuffed with drums. My first drum set! Hours and hours and hours were spent banging on that set! When my freshman year of high school came, so did Dad with a bigger, better drum set. More hours. More calluses. Even bleeding fingers. Dad was in attendance at many concerts and band competitions. Thanks Dad!

THIS Memorial Day we had a cook out at Dad’s house. (He makes a pretty tasty burger!) Through the afternoon I had those moments when I could sense how brief life really is. I could see it passing before my eyes while the echoes of childhood were still clear in my ears. It was striking to me that my first memories of my Dad are of him as a younger man than I now am. Imagine that! In a certain way, I am now older than my Dad, older than the Dad who made an impression on my young mind. My how brief life is! In another blink of an eye, my son will be the one thinking such thoughts while I flip the burgers. Though life is brief, I want it to be deep. Then the burgers will taste better and my son will be satisfied.

SO that is the story. My Dad did NOT die when I was young. I hope that he is still alive when I reach the young age of 62. I just hope he doesn’t ask me to go fishing though. I have a feeling he is looking for some revenge. Still a little sore I guess! Well, he has a right to be. Raising kids can be a pain in the… uh… “buttocks?” Sometimes.