Fickle Pickle

The fickle pickle I find myself in
Is a tickle I tipple with a drop or two of gin.
When the wind isn’t listening I ponder lonely, fidgeting, and wonder if the reason I grin’s because of sin…


Jesus Christmas

Have you ever seen Jesus dressed as Santa? Not like a mockery but more of a combination of ideas, how you know that if, in his day, Jesus would totally be down with being Santa Claus and handing out presents. I’ve been hearing about the guy who has a nativity scene of Jesus shooting (they use the word “murder”) Santa Claus with a shotgun. I have mixed feelings about this. I don’t know whether to laugh out loud or roll on the floor laughing. It’s not like the gun was in the other hand, right?

What I do know is that dragging a tree into the house or hanging lights on the gutters or throwing loose change into a bell-ringer’s bowl doth not a Christmas make. It is part of the egg nog experience, though. Whatever holiday you call it, whatever you do to have it and whatever goodness it brings to those around you, I’m glad to be a part of it. Except for the shopping, the lines, the traffic, the insolent louts who are always in my way and those bell ringing bastards opening store doors for me as if I would then give my nickels to their multinational charity outfit who has ties to organized crime.

I do however, dig the whole jingling, fireplace, warm hearth and good grub going on this time of year.

In Drinking We Trust

Kent Club_11.04_4266

Long standing bars whose histories and legacy of neighborhood service have watched presidential tenures come and go, old laws be broken and new laws enacted are growing more valuable by the second. They’ve seen how people, style and tastes change over the decades, and only a few storied bars are still serving communities their certain brand of revelry and respite. No other institution can boast as many wild tales through bygone eras as a legendary bar.

Except maybe a church.

A house of god and spiritual worship, where those who are lost converge to find a common direction with others, a haven where everyone is part of a following but on a very personal journey to find a piece of heaven.

Are we still talking about church, you lovely dipsomaniac?

Houses Of God

Ornate Buddhist temples are some of the most stunning structures on earth. The interiors are filled with altars and colors, lights, decorations, patterned tile and intricate designs that strike awe and wonder but also embodies a warm, welcoming atmosphere amidst its busy resonance. There is fresh fruit and newly cooked food offered to the deceased, the robes of the monks are a bright yellow or orange, sometimes a muted brown and their benevolent pacing around the temple is one of simple precision. Sometimes when they chant as they pray, the hypnotic and haunting sound resembles a strange, calm, growling animal of god.

European cathedrals and gothic churches are architectural masterpieces, with their stained glass and towering arches, vaulted ceilings and dominant steeples, such masonry and woodwork is unsurpassed by hardly any other type of building. Inside, despite their grandiose features, these churches are downright impressive. But sometimes it’s in a dreary horror movie sort of way, a deep fleshy fear that ignores the sun that enters through the colored glass windows as a certain foreboding and demand for subservience echoes quietly through its chambers.  To a child or someone who may not be so god-fearing, it’s a frightening prospect that a man wearing all black whose intimidating house of worship is the only thing standing between them and their maker.

Both are houses of god and both provide people places to find strength and answers, places to say hello to friends and farewell to the dead. However different and strange, however dark and sinister, it’s all the same god who we all wish we knew a little more about.

Juggling Girls and Other Circus Tricks

Journals are like girlfriends. Secret agent girlfriends that are so technologically advanced that they transcend gender roles and popular expectations. They keep secrets and you can tell them everything without collateral damage. Unfortunately you also don’t receive any input or insight from the journal like you would if you told your girlfriend everything. Nor do you suffer consequence or reprimand for revelation or confession.

I wonder what would happen if all the men in the world treated their women like a diary. Keep them safe and locked up, but also relinquish to them every detail and thought of every moment of every day. Or maybe men could treat them like a blog? No, editing is permissible and the internet is a show more than a real, private paper journal.

No one wants to know that much about anyone, especially the one they love, do they? I think people have to leave some bits to the imagination and wading through all that minutia would kill all suspense and just manifest paranoia. (Just because I’m mentioning dinner rolls and sausage does not mean I want to have sex.) Oh, that’s just me?

I have 3 categories/journals on this little blog and that’s about all I can handle. Any more and it would be like juggling girlfriends, which is a young man’s game. Not only am I not a young man, I got all the girlfriend I need.

If you have a date on Friday with a girl but are already looking forward to Saturday’s date with girl #2, then something is amiss. When you’re worried about running into girl #3 while you’re with girl #2, then something will give. Trying not to get schedules confused with names of different women, their jobs, personal details, what night with which woman at which bar, if it was Friday or Sunday, who is this on the phone right now? Appearances always collide and mistakes eventually occur and the face of an ass is always the one looking at you in the mirror.

I could also never understand polygamy, good god, how much maintenance would that be? Not girlfriends, but having 5 or more wives to keep smiling? Is that actually possible, is everyone happy there or is someone getting the short end somewhere? Why do I feel like if it were me, I’d be the one suffering, but in those cults I think the dude is pretty content. My head would spin like the exorcist girl and I would be hitting the road faster than Cale Yarborough.

Life is so much nicer and I sleep so much easier now that I’m not such a young man. I just write in a journal and reminisce about a life I wish I had.