Having Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

Christmas: I can't let it pass without at least a bit of holiday cheer. It teels like the best ones were back in my childhood. I'm sure if I had kids and they were healthy, any year could still be even better. Some people have the opposite feeling I do this time of year. Maybe they can't stop thinking of what they desire, compounded by the illusion it's being had all around them. Maybe they have every family invitation, friends are throwing parties, work's got parties, cards need to go out and gifts need bought and wrapped, and while they've seemingly got it all, they're in need of a prayer and/ or a few stiff drinks or whatnot, somewhere they can let the sheer grind of it all, go. I've had some pretty quiet Christmases in recent years, and not to be maudlin, but you rarely know when you're spending your last with someone, so by all means, share it where possible! I remember 2013 as a pretty big one, since we were freshly back from California for the first time on Christmas in years. I think it's the most fun I ever had wrapping presents. Last year my sister came down with her boyfriend, some old friends of my parents came over, and Christmas Eve, at least, was full of song, dinner, laughter-what do you know, it lived up to some of the famed hype!

I remember reading the Gospel versions of the Nativity in 2016, where I'd just scored my first slim check in a while and stuffed the stockings with games. So, it's not that I expect too much, but if I'm going to be surrounded by all this hubbub, I at least have our quiet Yule ceremony I find moving and personal, and otherwise, there's just some little ineffable something I hope to find. The side of going off adventuring for most of your adult life that no one talks about is, if you ever go back to your hometown, you'll find everyone's quite wrapped up with a bow and tags, under another Christmas tree or four already. So, I found an invitation to go to Cartersville, its one appeal being that the emcee of the event was the delightful Moriah Medina, who somehow ended up related to most everything of lasting value from our stay here. The catch, you might say: Karaoke.

And not with any particular social lubricants, either. In fact, I rather thought it might be numerous singers of a similar caliber to Mrs. Medina, herself, including her, in a coffee shop. So, OK. I had a couple of songs from the world of Rock come to mind, so maybe I'd sing, too. I even had a pre-party plan, which it turned out, didn't fall into place.

But you know, I did have a date- even if she hadn't committed to going. I only had to mope about that long enough to down half a cup of coffee before I discovered she was up for it. My Mom passed; I mean, on the invite. Considering it turned out to be outside, that might have been just as well, but since she was around, thought I'd try.

I picked the 411 route to Cartersville, which really flew by. My date- my date now for years, who was at least until March, my singing partner, too-put on a queue, not of holiday music, but some relatively obscure David Bowie tunes, while we figured out the minutiae between the highway and downtown.

We came into one of Cartersville's main streets, lovely big houses with histories and tasteful lights. We pulled into Friendship Plaza, and discovered numerous families crowded around the stage in the park!
If you think a public, family-friendly gig is lame, well, I recall being as cool as you think you are. Don't get me wrong, I wondered what the hell we were doing there, too. But we parked near the gorgeous Young Brothers Pharmacy window on the other side as twlight neared. We weren't close enough to see the positively maniacal display of nutcrackers ambitiously assembled, not until my date's toe had nearly frozen off and we were scrambling to get pics in the streetlight.

I think the strange liberation of our path- not so tied now to family affairs, our friends scattered the country, nay, the globe over, is how readily we adopt whatever we encounter. I quickly realized, one hug later, while looking at the karaoke sign-up, that this was a case of "bells are ringing, children singing" - and I sorta hoped all might be merry and bright, but it felt a touch queer finding enough space between blanks to keep people from getting sick of seeing me, possibly, from the scrawls, the only adult in the line-up. My date was game, though; she almost signed up to do "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town" in the style of Little Michael, knowing what a kick I always get out of hearing her version of his boyhood Jackson Five vocals. I was listening to one of the five versions of "Rudoplh, the REd-Nosed Reigndeer" we would hear that night, with about one fourth of the lyrics the kid on the stage really liked best. Not possessing typical amounts of shame for my age, I picked a handfull of tunes, one we did together that I can't even remember now, one of those tunes Bing made famous. Then we checked out the grafitti while my date wondered if the kiosks took cards as she brought no cash. Turns out, local businesses like Merry Maids (Hot Dogs, Pop corn and Hot Chocolate) and H & R Block (S'mores!) were treating all two hundred or so of us there!



I remember the thrill of literally hopping back on to stage of any sort when our names were called. We'd been taking in the milling families and friends, which were locked into their cliques as usual, with an occasional 'hello!' You don't expect much more, really, so you have to enjoy the environment and the mild comedy of kids with more energy than vocal study. But we teach kids about that age, online, each morning, so we were pretty open. I haven't felt any fear in front of a crowd since I was a stand up comedian telling cleaned up racist jokes at the high school's talent show when I was fourteen. (It was the absurdity, not the epithets, that made them funny, mind you.) I was nervous taking the guitar on stage for Integr8d Soul a few times, but this was bar a toddler could hurdle, so why not have fun? As usual, when we haven't rehearsed, we take a few bars to find our exact mesh, as we rarely have a harmony planned and just dive in, but it went just fine.

We'd roasted ourselves by the fire for a bit, as the kids performed with more audacity. One Dad even shored up his two little ones long enough to get "Frosty The Snowman" out of them, and maybe three or four other words. I had to give it up for a couple of little boys and a little girl who might grow up to be as big a ham as Ye Olde Authore. It’s lovely to see humanity at an age when they haven’t learned yet you are supposed to virtually die of fright when more than one stranger is looking at you. One woman, who begged everyone to understand “I was coerced into this,” was mercifully interrupted by the train passing, which she used as her escape plan. We got a good version of “Santa Baby” from a lady who remembered the original, and of course, you’re not down South if someone doesn’t do an Elvis impersonation on “Blue Christmas.” I think the usual karaoke strategy, correct me if I’m wrong, is to select something you like to sing a few favorite words to, then muddle on through the rest. See, it applies to all ages.

I am inclined to say our next time up was “Christmas, Don’t Be Late”- complete with me using my voice for Lelly the Elephant, basically, to stand in for Alvin, while my partner pretty naturally has Chipmunk range. Our screen even gave us David Seville’s fussy direction to his rambunctious adopted animal kids, clumsily added by me. I even zipped up my Spider-Man hoodie and crouched down at the stage’s edge just for the kids who were eating it all up. I think it was as goofy as it sounds. Kids knew we were Chestnuts, roasting by an open fire, now, so they popped up complimenting us without fear afterwards. One dad took the occasion to express to his son he shouldn’t worry at all what people think- like him. Just have your fun. He didn’t specify, “but do care what I think, because I’m your father,” but the boy got it. It is funny, the things kids will give you a hat tip for doing.

Imagine if you will, thinking “if only I could be brave enough to do that” without thought for how gonzo it was.

I offered to catch the next one myself. By this point we’d succumbed to the lure of a hot dog a piece, and little did I realize, I’d decorated the front of my shirt with copious amounts of melted chocolate.
Its sheen didn’t really stand out as a stain while I roamed the stage like an expressive imitation of someone classic entertainer from days of yore. I added some interpretative dance to “Jingle Bell Rock,” which has that old rock and roll sound you can really lay into. But I’ve long been a proponent of drawing in the crowd, and had the pleasure of two little dancers- the boy was named Bristol, I recall that much- who edged their way to the side stage, where we’d been cheering them on, ourselves, minutes before. I noticed them dancing and, as you can plainly see in the video my date was kind enough to capture on our phone, bent down and sang it right to them, waving them up to come give a little kid step show. I found everyone in the crowd I saw singing along, because I wanted those people to feel the vibe, too! I checked my words a couple of times and hopped, sleighed, and picked up my feet there in Jingle Bell Square.

One of my students clapped along the entire time I showed it to him during online class, so I know it’s got...something. The look on one girl’s face- I named my newer elephant, Angela, after her, and of course, Teacher Angela- was a sheer delight I won’t ever forget. I mean, it’s really the entire reason you ever choose to be an entertainer. Besides, as my ten year-old student Kevin so blatantly put it: “It’s funny, too.”


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Safe to say, we’d long since gone from just clapping to darn near directing the little performers, who just don’t think of you as a stranger at all in that setting. I’m happy to say, we inspired them, not to mention, enjoyed them. We’ll never even know each other’s names, but it was all So In The Moment.
We also ducked off by the big tree to take some lovely pictures together where the park lamp light gave us a chilly vampire tone. “We’re white,” said my date. “Get over it.”

I’d discovered and cleaned off my S’more stain before our last number, which I’d completely forgot I signed us up to do. We’d won over enough good will to survive any hairy eyeballs in the darkness out there, so Mo reminded us we were up for “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.” I’d chosen punchy little numbers to that point, hearing a few things like “Holly Jolly Christmas” that had cheered me with their mirthful delivery (plus, I just watched Rudolph with my date at my Mom’s recently, being a big fan of that cast and The Island of Forgotten Toys). But here, as night fell in small town Georgia, the fireside warmth of this song, its words so tastefully rendered on the YouTube screen, really moved me to sing it like I meant it. I knew my date was fixed on the words to keep them straight, but I wanted to turn to her, just once, to sing, to serenade her there in the chilly Southern eve. I was surprised to discover, when I looked into her eyes to sing: “Through the years, we’ll always be together--” I caught such a lump in my throat!

The real substance of those words, which must’ve moved that songwriter so many decades ago, too, filled my emotional being. I was truly too caught up in their love and meaning to keep singing, because it was absolutely beautiful and true. I am glad, too, because I listened to her sing like a silver bell, stunned by the gorgeous quality of the singer I fell in love with from the day I discovered her ability to sing. It wasn’t show biz at all, and there was no one on Earth but we two for one holiday magical moment. I rejoined her, heart so full of this instance I hope never to forget.

Oh, wait, I can't forget the kids we heard on stage as we departed: they'd decided to launch into their own version of the Chimpmunks song. Voices and all. Like Mo said, seeing the next generation pop up there really warms her heart- good for some chuckles, too.
She was even patient when we left the GPS off and detoured through a back road that wound around some secret treasures of lights hidden far off in the country suburb’s hills. I was struck by how blessed I’ve been by her mellow counterpart to my enthusiastic leaps into the unknown and spotlights over the years. I may have taken us to the middle of Who Knows Where, but she was always the one who made that perfectly fine.

And so, I wish her happiness this and every holiday, for always keeping that special magic I seek, right there inside. And, dear reader, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. Be chill, Cease ill

River, Meet the Sun Ray (a poem by Cecil)

From the point of Origin,

across the lonesome void I’m hurled
Seeking, Sun Ray, quickly runs
beyond to this green world.
And only with some eye to see, is there blue, surrounded me
through moisture called by trees, carried on a song of breeze
to move through dust, into clouds’ tease
and find you, River, touch the seas.

Before this world that’s come to be

the moon and I did love;
while gentle light speed, arrive I
hide and seek, she drifts above.
Her gravity of presence slides yon shoreline waters to their tides
and takes me, waxing, waning sights to visit Hidden-From-The-Nights.

Swift feet reach, red pebble toe
it’s not to tell you where to go
that I shine on you, River low.
Just, follow now your Nature- flow.

Since discovery, reflect I back
uncovering you, along your track
recover the view that brings you back, reflect on you, beyond the black.

Among the glades reaches your pools, from early in your streams.
You need no worry, where you start – I wonder, how?
The River dreams.

Fallen limbs may bar your presence-
stagnate you, but not for long.
Full and true, gather your essence-
Find yourself where you belong.

Punch and kick where you must run
resolving in a gentle splash;
soft and yielding, yet with pressures
caught in a tight pocket- smash!

As I touch your surface, sparkle, free, we meet, a warming glance;
laughing, life within you, swims
and stirrings, deep inside you, dance.

Near you, happy, Sun Ray swift
meet your surface, feelings lift;
through the rocky shoals, you sift-
receiving, I can feel you shift.

Life, a circle, living weather
brought us, like two hands together. I’m inspired,
spontaneous, to whisper of illumination
kept for you, behind this cloud, your curious anticipation.

I cleared my mind, for in my rays,
I hint at secrets, joyful soul.
Gently, I can sense your maze
you run- but River, I see you whole.

Carry with you, now a feather
from the wing of one who soars.
Were you cheered, this shine, together?
Ever, River, freely roar.

Cecil Disharoon 12/zen/18

Download the Be Chill, Cease ill outlook! Well, not exactly, but...

A creative friend, who makes gorgeous nature photography down in Florida, might say he's been wrestling with the blues. He responded to a quick vignette I left on Facebook this week:

Ha, I was feeling a wee bit sullen, seeing someone I wasted time trying to make new friends with. But a big sip of coffee and one blast of "Welcome to the Jungle" in the Saturn with Anj, and suddenly I was cracking her up in Food Lion with an Old Flirty Codger voice, a couple of very goofy voices, and hey, our new pal Kierstan checked us out. My hoodie got a nice convo started with a young Spider-Man fan and his Dad. See how you can sometimes just set the intention and be joyful?

My friend said: "I wish I had your outlook on life."

It really made me think how much I appreciate the recent relative success of my outlook, but I began to wonder: what can I say that could help?

So I replied:

You can download here, if you have a compatible OS * ___* (Just in case laughter's the best medicine...or at least, will set a receptive tone.)

I work at it a lot 'cause people, High Blood Pressure, and other tricky aspects of being Human tempt ya to go Low. I don't quite know where the inspired, care-free stuff comes from except I just try to keep everything out of its way. I guess my approach is about what one doesn't think, so a less hesitant, more spontaneous way of being simply emerges. Is that any help?

These workouts helped keep my moods better through work, and with that energy released, I've been trying a couple of new things (though the Bujinkan thing dates back to another high point in life). I've been freeing myself up wherever possible to let Creativity have its way. Then I hope I will manage my time well as my energy and overall time available to concentrate increase, and will add learning some new software for recording and animation. I will say whatever is negative or perplexing becomes more manageable when we deal with it in a creative forum- like say, writing with someone in mind as your listener can kind of help remove the 'viral' element of such thinking. From there, it becomes a matter, you might say, of not believing in your mentally-constructed problems. I have to resume engagement with the whole cycle all over again every so often. And people will not always cooperate, in which case we might do well to realize No Fucks Need Be Given.

I realize, when one does not owe to a single doctrine or discipline for one's well-being, friend, it's that much harder to offer an experience that will cultivate an outlook that might transfer to success for someone else. Just last night, we were discussing how, without our unique experiences, it's hard to transplant the possiblity of dealing with Grief and Loss in a similar empowering way to what we found. I owe some much help and guidance in my stability to my fortuitous choice of help mate. Hell, just having someone not sabotage your efforts is one thing! But reliable great advice and example is priceless.

Now I ain't sayin' I provided those things, especially in those few words, but I do believe it's good to keep an eye out for them!

An Ill Port in A Storm (a round robin horror, with friends of Cecil Disharoon)

If I’d only known the box collecting dust by my computer would rip the mystery off the existence in a way that would leave a fearsome wound, gaping...

Like they say, it was a dark and stormy night. (1 (All contributors footnoted below for flow!)

As usual, the goddamned wi-fi was down. (2)


Stranded from the whimsies of my outside world distractions, I amused myself-the things that pile up while one is engrossed overly much in online activities. Here was this box a friend overseas had posted to me, marked "Ether Net." I was amused thinking how Johann, Angela and I used to talk about Sir William Crookes and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and their Spiritualist propensity for describing entities in the "ether." 
I dusted off the box, fished out a cable, and looked for a port.

Which wasn't too difficult, for, as they say, "Any port in a storm." Unless they were talking about drinking wine in a tavern until the storm was over... (3)
The lights flickered and the shadows danced on the ceiling. (4

A hush fell across the bar as a stranger strode in from the rain...(5)

He was dressed all in black, rain poring from his long coat and hat, which shadowed his visage. The patrons of the bar stared at him, warily. (6)

None more so than Abe, visibly startled by the sparsely-damp visitor. He dried the spilled Natural Light draft from his gnarled mechanic's knuckles while taking a break from the pinging poker machine in the next room. 
It's the sort of night you might see a ghost, to be certain. Abe's often-lulled eyes betrayed just such a fear as they roved the roiling shadows that robbed the stanger intermittently of shape. )

"Port in a storm, fella?" asked Piper, pulling Gilley an imported draught, as well as her weeks' third double shift.
"A sweet chase at the end." The stranger's words rolled audibly over the storm,from beneath his brim. I felt he was attracted somewhat to my curious box, and was relieved when Gilley picked up his rhapsody about the recently-defunct Kepler Telescope.
"Imagine what it would've said," said Gilley, "If only it had been enough alive to appreciate the worlds it glimpsed. There's an epic poem there. Shame Bradbury is dead. Or maybe Clarke. Hell, even Ellison."
Abe shuffled back to gambling, providing the newly-hushed bar the mechanical cheer of impulseness again, aside from the smooth wine flow into the glass of the man in black.

Suddenly the door slammed open, but the chill was carried on no wind. It misdirected us as to how the shabby-haired little boy came to stand beside Abe at his game machine. "When is Mommy coming home?" pleaded the child. A coppery echo ferried his plaintive voice.
"She promised she'd tuck me in. Why can't she come home?"
"Leave me the hell alone!" spat Abe, twisting off his stool and storming out to our midst. He jostled Gilley's drink, passed close to the stranger and questioned him. "Did you bring this kid? Is this some stunt?" 
"Calm down, Abe!" said Gilley. The stranger peered from beneath his brim without a word.
"It's just a kid, what's your damn---" Gilley's words died in a gasp. (1)(Cecil Disharoon)

The stench of death drew a gurgling wretch from my throat and Gilley's bloodshot eyes appeared from beneath his brim. There was a dark gray mist hanging in the air and the boy appeared to float rather than walk across the floor toward me! His arm was extended and his fingers were twisted but definitely pointed toward me when I regained my breath! The shriek was nightmarish and Abe was sobbing as he turned to see me backing away only to be stopped by the wall behind me. (4)



The child-like form distorted into many mouths, a physical flow of tentacles from the inhuman mass that had spoken so plaintively. Piper cursed as she went for her shot gun behind the bar. Abe had no chance as he fell in the door way, crying out in terror.

The strangers eyes beamed darkly in thin slits, as his command boomed from beneath a drooping mustache. “The box! Touch the wires together!” I could feel him nearly ready to pounce for it, himself. I think he sensed my reflex to treat any movement as an attack. The pale fear on my countenance surely reflected my revulsion as I watched Piper try to draw a bead on the hungry thing ravaging the luckless mechanic. I didn’t know him so well- I’d known his family’s business since I first came to town in need of a tune-up. Simple common humanity alone evoked pitiful sympathy for last animal sounds to emerge from the victim awash in the invading storm.


The gun blast rocked my electrified nerves as I ferreted the workings of the bizarre gift placed within my care. Why me? I shed the confusion. React to the ebon interloper’s instruction- or die!
I could only hope, the split second I activated the connection, I had not played into some more loathsome machination. Then the spectral form inside sprang from between my shaking hands.


Wrestling with the eerily glowing form, the apparition that had terrorized us seemed once again pitiable, though no less revolting. United we watched its struggle, until the phantasm strands enveloped the murderous thing. Then before our eyes, it shriveled like an aging pepper. Then, the snare seemed to crawl with a life its own back towards the box I’d dropped on the barroom floor.

Timelessly, after the box closed with a hiss, we all stared after its motionless form. Our eyes drifted to the impassive visitor, and Gilley was the first to finally request an explanation. He stammered: “How…? Who…? Wha…?” Then, mixed into a nervous laugh: “Fuckin’ ey!!!”


The night-clad stranger stood, but did not advance, merely staring at Abe’s remains. “I could smell gasoline and automotive oil on your friend there- from that and his hands, I would presume he was a mechanic. It’s a logical deduction he was contracted for a repair, on the car belonging to the woman of the child we saw. It’s entirely possible some other crime was committed, but without a motive, I think it likely he committed no violent crime- only negligence. A faulty tire seems less likely than some malfunction in the poor woman’s steering. I would guess this was the repair the man failed to properly perform.”

“How in God’s name would you know?” said Piper, as the macabre vision of Abe’s mangled remnants began to translate in her adrenalized brain.

“Forgive me if my intuition yield a cold review of the departed,”
said the stranger, stroking the corners of his mustache.

“You see, I’m working from the nature of this device- what I’ve discerned of its workings. Anecdotal evidence suggests, within a radius as yet unclear to me, heightened emotions can call forth constructs of a nature, one might not imprudently call, otherworldly. The same invention then provides a sort of snare to capture the monsters in their physical form---too late, I’m afraid, to save your fellow patron.”

He reached out his gloved hands, in which I immediately placed the infernal box. “I see you require no coercion in ridding yourself of the thing. I can promise nothing of my own character or wisdom, but I will take it hence with no questions, by your leave.”

“Just get take it and go, please,” said Piper, still gripping her shotgun. “Wine’s on the house.”
“I will do so,” said the stranger, tucking it beneath his arm. “Bear in mind, it’s activated by a profound sense of guilt. Whatever’s eating a man may...well...I shall not be glib. Guilt is the province of the living.” He turned halfway out the door beside the ravaged corpse, and gave a hint of a smile.

“As for what mysteries this machine lays bare...let life have its mysteries. May we live to resolve their stories, and imagine our wits, a match for injustice. May we engage them. Before they engage us.”

His presence evaporated by the occluded moonlight, even as the storm abated. Piper took the grim task of calling emergency, while Gilley played some hunch, restored wireless service yielding some marvel to his hands. Myself, I shuddered at the memory of a Honduran woman I’d kindly referred to Abe’s service some weeks before. I remember her gratitude as she took on my casual recommendation: our town had a handy answer to her suspension trouble.

Contributors, Thank You!

1- Cecil Disharoon
2 (Keith Howell) 3- (Danielle Piper Proctor) 4- (Joe DeAloia) 5- (Jo Duffy) 6. (Angela Dawn Disharoon)

Brother, can ya spare a little empathy?

I was inspired by a charming meme I've seen go around. I guess I had to see it at the right time, or enough times, or from the right person to inspire me to say something possibly worthwhile in return.



I really do agree. You know the hardest thing about opening up, though? I bet it's no different regardless of gender, this thing: we feel the need to put out something aspirational, funny, and in no way add to the lurking potentially depressing atmosphere around anyone who may be reading/ listening. We know we should let all the negatives, go, and wield the light, and not be self-centered. And sometimes, we also think no one will express empathy or support, and we'll feel like we opened up and hah, here's more proof you can't count on anyone (which is not empirically so, but we're not talking about being purely rational). But learning to avoid that risk of vulnerability is as bad in its own way as people being dramatic for attention. But you can't understand how others you care about feel if you lose track of how YOU feel. How YOU feel- if you are striving to keep it to any kind of standard- is going to call on you to be truthful It might very well require you try to express yourself to someone else. There may be a quality in that listener- hell, sometimes the fact they aren't a great listener! Or maybe it's just your dog, who at least won't interrupt, talking. The qualities of your audience will allow you to see the shape of your own thoughts. Know thyself.
Even if you simply sit down to write, like this, you at least get to see what's going on inside. If you're inspired to write to someone- like half of this was intended- they just might evoke strength and perspective in that expression.


I want to be clear: I feel like a lot of the meanness going on these days stems from an unhealthy attitude about this very thing! Its consequences are catostrophic. On virtually this very day, two years ago, I watched an inability to simply go get therapy build, along with a lot of attitudes festering online, fuel a man's destruction of all his closest family relationships. So many horrible opinions are the result of men disconnected from their feelings, and then, the ability to see other points of view. It flows right into the lives of many bitter women, too. It is bitterness, including each gender, that leads to demonization, cruelty, blind stupidity- opinions that then utilize a fraemwork of other falsehoods that seem to connect with the entire negative identity. The denial of Facts themselves can be followed right back to our opinions of ourselves. When we reject the truth about ourselves, we reject truth in objective matters outside ourselves, also. It's all part of one big embrace of lies.

We can't be too hard on ourselves for not knowing everything- who knows everything? We can't be too hard on ourselves for having emotions, or we will have only hard emotions. Palm trees do not break in a hurricane, so often, because they are stong, but pliant. They naturally know when to bend as a response to great pressures. But sure enough, they are damn near impossible to break, because they are not rigid, yet they are not brittle. They can lose a few fronds and stay rooted.

Guys need to bear in mind the healthiness of sharing vulnerablity, at least, with someone they trust. It's so easy to get that impulse mixed up with ridiculous, even vampiric, drama regentry, or for the inherently noble, being negative or egotistical. Some guys are truly bearing an empathic load and great responsibilities. If they will only let their friends add their strength, they will find more capacity to summon that will- and benefit everyone in their life, all the more.

Do you feel we agree less on even calling the sky blue?

May I ask if you feel the discourse on what is Factual has degraded?

Or has it come to include and amplify the voices of more people who are not versed in a better set of objective facts? Or worse, has an agreement on what is moral and just- more intangible values- become the true victim? Do we delude ourselves there was a time when, disagreements abounding, there was a better consensus on 1) those moral values and 2) an evolving body of factual knowledge, which required at least a proper challenge via scientific method?

I am sure this also relies on what body of people we're discussing, too, and when. I would say the consensus 2) seems to have fallen into open dispute relatively more than 1), whose existence as a "are people inherently good or bad?" (Yes.) debate's continously documented.

I did grow up Evangelical, so I'm long since acquainted with facts chosen to serve religious doctrine (or The Truth, depending on how you feel there). That mode of thought, at least to me, either seems to have gone mainstream, or more people who previously had no opinion (often because they thought it was over their heads or not interesting). What passes for knowledgeable has changed in that we seem to be looking in the back of the book, if you will, for answers, then proclaiming conclusions without any rigorous exploration to 'show the work.' I've described a horrible way to turn in Math homework. Is that an analogy for what we now do as a society? Or am I selling the average person a bit short? Are we reaping the ugly underside of Convenience Culture, in pre-fabricated opinions we can then parrot passionately? I will say, religion- actual religion- was sort of fashioned that way for most believers. They were not expected to spend time on ecclesiastical studies at a scholarly or seminary level. What we were asked to do was read our Bibles, then take the Word of God at its word. You would grow stronger as a Christian if you read scripture and prayed. Most likely, you would come listen to the preacher deliver the inspired Word in sermons-and that was fine. Particularly if you attended whenever possible.

This pattern is also why I have in recent years recognized an idolotrous fervor for what passes as politically-inspired pieces of conversation. Now, some, many, still observe Evangelical culture as well. Some affiliates, and especially many outside that culture, wonder how its Jesus-inspired messages, as He is its central storyline figure, do not apparently clash with the rhetoric and aims of conservative policy. I do believe a fellow with whom I am barely acquainted reminded me, in a post to a mutual friend, that Evangelicism and Conservatism have at their core a distrust of human nature.

Now, returning to my initial question, which I'm not entirely sure I've supported with the tangent above, I ask if you think now, moreso than in decades before, people who never before professed interest in or credentials for being experts, or having given much thought really to the lines of cause and effect in policiy,

are adopting social media to drive and be driven by what is, when not examined, propaganda and misinformation.

I do think the average person did feel fairly confidently informed in their stances, however, simply because then, as now, the conclusions they've adopted seem reasonable.
But what I want to know is, are we divided more than ever by a subjective sense of reality that accepts an objective stream of testable hypotheses? Are we, wary of propaganda designed by nefarious parties that do not share our interests, becoming religious in our political fervor in a way that replaces religion, which, by its secular nature, embodies larger swaths of humanity who might dispute religious doctrine or mark the box, "I don't know," in favor of party lines? To the point of an evangelical level of devotion, and celebration of its figures and truths? Are we fallen to idolotry?

To my original point, Science, so long as you approached it with experiments you could reproduce, and results that moved the definition of factual consistencies, always held open the door, via method. to build upon its body of probable knowledge and acquire new discoveries.
Were we ever, more so than now, in accordance as to what's factual?

Did we ever agree more on things the way we agree the sky is blue?

Did we, not long ago in the past, have a better consensus of the facts from which we might proceed?

Is it worse now ---are we being conditioned to disagree more vehemently? Or does History contain our tumult's consistent cycles? Are we revsiting ideologies now we seem to have shed as inadequate to human survival?

Are we now, with each our definitions of 'blue' in our experience, unable to agree on problems beneath the blue sky?

Do we agree less on even calling the sky, blue?


Be chill, cease ill

Keeping facts straight in a crooked world: politics edition

A consensus arose that the center in this nation (and others I can think of) was moving right. (It also simultaneously looked like numerous civil rights-type positions were becoming mainstream.) Lately it's looking like there's no sensible 'center' that would actively incorporate both poles. The right outside of Trump is becoming a fringe; the Buckley type is hardly in evidence, politically, and forget liberal Republicans- that's been evaporating since '68. Meanwhile there's an active struggle between established Democrats and the activists. There's a serious, and possibly necessary, trend away from anyone campaigning as or supporting a 'moderate.' One cannot, after all, compromise by offering an equal seat to lunacy and lies.

My one caveat in this very emotionally-tempting partisanship- made worse by the evaporation of civility- is we don't want to lose our ability to discern fact and opinion. Lies, disregard, injustice- I hardly apologize for my emotional rejection of these things, and aims supported by said tactics. The disregard for objectively probable information- the abandonment of Reason- in the service of humanist principles accelerates this polarization. Simply put, I'll keep fact-checking to the best extent possible rather than seeking comfort in labels and tribalism. This, from someone whose life was personally poisoned by this Trumpian strain of thought: my wife was harmed and a gun taken out in our presence by a family member who will never know our company again without acknowledging culpability. So, I'm not impartial, nor, aside from an occasionally-obtained philosophical objectivity, do I respect all opinions as equal in quality.

I want to encourage critical thinking, pragmaticism (not austerity in favor of the status quo of disparity), and exploration of ideas. I do not wish to see the intent of liberal philosophy subsumed by propaganda in the vehement rejection of said humanist principles. I find this personally difficult sometimes, honestly, but we must keep the truism in mind: two wrongs don't make a right. I don't intend this as an argument with any positions stated in this thread, merely, my two cents on achieving some sort of vision and optimism that is not empty, while in no way surrendering to the depressing current of polarization and illogic.

Remembering a teacher: my Aunt Linda

It's Aunt Linda's birthday. It's my sister's birthday, too!

Like I have been and now am daily for the best pay of my life, Aunt Linda was a tutor, often, as I do now online with kids across the globe, from her home. She dedicated her teaching time generously to the staff of her church, Trinity Christian Academy. One of her rewards was affordable tuition for my sister and I. I believe the start we got there created a learning ability for which there'd be no turning back. She loved Jeopardy! and read quite a lot. I'm actually quite a lot more like Aunt Linda than Mom :-D

Aunt Linda and Grandma White were taking care of me while Mom was in labor with my sister. Mom called her before the sun rose to let her know the Time Had Come. Aunt Linda's birthday memory that year was feeding me spaghetti, which ended up a bit of everywhere: my hair, my high chair, the floor, all the usual twenty-one month old child's targets. Deb was born about 3:37 that afternoon.


We used to pick vegetables as a family in the garden outside her bedroom. We would pick figs off the tree by her window. I still have a scar from a pebble gained while running along the dirt driveway off the Old Calhoun Road that ran between that garden and her side of the house. I used to pick over the facinating room of hoarded items from the 1960's that showed me memorabilia from her teens, items from her time attending Bob Jones University, and various odds and ends, including the old typewriter either or her Mom used back then. I never could get the old camera to work, but that typewriter became my prize. I created fantasy baseball standings based on characters made with my sister, and wrote my first comic book plots, using up the ribbon several times. I still remember replacing the corrective ribbon. The whole thing closed inside a case.

We used to play board games and card games like Uno with Aunt Linda, both at the dining room table there, and later in the living room of the house where she moved with Grandma and Grandpa in 1991. I still remember peeping at Aunt Linda's answers while playing "Mastermind"- a guessing game using colored pegs. She never let me forget how I leaned over to give her a 'spontaneous hug' and have a look at her hidden pegs! We thought it was so funny at the time.

She embroidered a "Braves" shirt for me. Why I loved #4 so much, I can't say: I liked Biff Pocoroba's name, I guess, even if he was nowhere near so memorable as #3 and #5, Hall of Fame-caliber sluggers Dale Murphy and Bob Horner. She gave me my first 'job': rising at the same hour at which I teach today, the crack of dawn, to walk her dog, Shaggy, a mixed mutt bred from our miniature Daschund, Brandy. He had a crooked back leg and long hair. He was her baby for thirteen years. I earned the money for some much-desired Masters of the Universe figures, about a quarter or so at a time. It was a formative experience.

We used to go camping, all seven of us, for several years. I remember our asthmatic hike down a trail, where I was so convinced we'd gone the wrong way, as it seemed to go on forever. I thought I had the same problem she did. I'm still pretty allergic here in Georgia.

Aunt Linda. You taught us both our first piano lessons in your room. I used to compose my own tunes, which I favored over my lessons. I can't even remember all the first lessons I must've learned from you. Spending the night with her was the greatest adventure my sister and I knew, back then. She would set up cots for us in her room, in a very old house with intimidatingly high ceilings and the kind of massive front porch that has gone out of style.
She'd do due dilligence in getting us through dinner and washing up, and watched tv and played games with us. You have to understand, after I was eight, her house was a place I would casually just walk into, a refuge from the boredom of living out in the country. I killed so many hours borrowing their phone to talk to DAvid Holt. I still tried to break off and actually hang out with them, but I was reaching the age where you really get intensely curious about the outside world. But for many years before then, Aunt Linda was pretty much my best friend. I just know we shared a love of Garfield up til my adolescence. Like Peter Parker, I had an aunt to love, too.

She never married, and helped care for her parents in her somewhat early spinsterhood. I'm nowhere near so old-fashioned, but whether she shared her love of the Atlanta Braves and Baseball Digest, or games, or Lewis Grizzard, she invested so much into me in those long bottom-of-our-shared driveway conversations. I loved her dearly. I don't think she could quite comprehend our pilgrimmage to California- it's exactly the sort of thing she'd never have tried. For years she'd type up the Vent, the reader feedback column in the Atlanta Journal Constitution newspaper, for me on her old PC for years. It was full of snarky and sometimes insightful comments. She really had no better idea what to do with a computer besides process words. I always wondered afterwards what might've happened if she'd told her own stories. She dearly loved Eugenia Price, and got some books signed by her.

Sadly she fell out of touch near the end of her life, at 60, in 2009. She had successfully lost a lot of weight, but never met anyone to love. How difficult it was learn her elderly friend down the street had harped on and on with the prediction she'd gain the weight back. I think she had a habit of expecting the same honesty she gave others, too. But that's another story. There are certainly sad passages I carry with me, but indulging in sadness would be too bittersweet a way to eclipse what should be a testament. I want you to know her, too, and if you did, I want you to remember.

She always spent time with both the elderly and the very young. Playing cards with her lonely elderly neighbor came as naturally as tutoring an array of children.

You could find her talk radio playing every single morning. She helped call in our birthdays for the radio, because back then, morning radio was still something families did together. I'm not even that old, as yet, but imagine. It's like I grew up, not only in the country, but in another time altogether.

She put so much into many of my formative traits, I can no more forget her than the parents I so resemble. I have a single class for a change, in a few minutes, so I'll close by saying happy birthday in memory of a sweet, sometimes taciturn, often sarcastic and clever woman who loved us dearly. I taught vocabulary on the piano- an instrument she first taught me. I hope through me she's still passing along a brighter start to a new generation, a passion for serious learning bespeckled with good laughs and creativity.

Loss, lasting love, and the ding of the unplugged toaster

A new friend of mine lost a meaningful person in her life, a loss such as she has yet to know in her young life. Most of our losses in youth are from our own store of innoncence and trust and belief in those to whom we look up. The reality of that loved one being gone- it's a grandfather- has darkened her days since with the thought, "he's really gone forever." And there is nothing wrong with one's private grieving process, for as my friend Ryan put it, 'to feel it is to heal it.' Yet we don't feel our most profound losses the same way.

Let me share this one thing, and I hope it helps, but I spent a life building up to this epiphany.
When I got news my Dad passed away at 58, I felt the strangest calm, from knowing how wonderful were our last words and how he loved the Western I drew him for his last birthday. He had come to California to visit, and could well understand why I was loving it so much, how good life there was treating us. I was so happy he got to see it for himself. I was trying to figure out how to answer his call that we might need to come back and look after him some when pneumonia aggravated his pulmonary fibrosis, and he slipped away, November 29th, after a rainy Thanksgiving.

Everywhere I went that day, I felt as though a corridor of heavenly light went with me. I will never forget walking east on Market Street in the bright shining sun with my lovely best friend, whose view of life and emotionally-tangible help and ideas had opened me to feeling life in this unconventional manner.
I felt ever step was through a mystically-experienced veil. I did not exactly feel sadness, because it felt so intensely as though he were with me in an inseparable way, for always. He was no longer in pain nor living in fear of suffocation from his condition, it's true. But more than that, I felt...happy? The joy was real and beautiful. I feel it now as I visit that memory of trying to tell Angela Dawn, in that moment.

We flew back from our home in California. Many were the mourners, for he had been kind to many people, and in those days, many friends came out to support us, from a lifetime growing up together.
There must've been a dozen of us gathered in the kitchen as I spoke about how these people we love have given us something that will stay around us, always, and if Dad were here, he'd agree.
One solid silent second later, as people nodded, the toaster 'dinged.' We laughed. Then we got a look at its cord, lying pliant by the outlet.
The unplugged toaster dinged, my friend.
We laughed so hard!
For many years, I was in a good place where, whenever I was doing something I knew he'd love, I felt him right over my shoulder. I've had one friendly dream after another about talking to him, and it's always the most normal thing in the world. It made it feel like he never left my life! ONly upon returning to Georgia, and seeing what life here without him was like, did I ever feel the loss in a more conventional way. Seeing the desperation and loneliness of my mom without his companionship, as she found it was not so easily replaced by everyone who could cut and paste "I love you" or "you're beautiful." It has been hard, a few times, to see his home and acknowledge he did not get to properly retire and enjoy it in his golden years. But every time I have taken one of his old tasks in hand, there he's been with me.

But I always try to return to that good place in Life where I realize his lessons and all his love live on in me. Sometimes, the departed are not so absent as those close at hand. Let their spirit shine in you and what you do. It is no more an illusion than life in this world ever is, for it touches upon something mysterious and eternal that is the spark in our few moments of breath here. Inspiration is the true breath of life.
Ding!

Civil War dinosaurs: a letter home

Idly do some speak of 'civil war.' Yet, never should we forget the sacrifice of the brave men who lost their lives battling Tyrannosaurus Rex, that is to say, the tyranny of (lizard) kings.

I never realized anyone would think dinosaurs roamed the Earth at the time of the American Civil War. My long-neglected studies of history, however, spurred by a pastor named Matt Powell, encouraged me to unearth the forgotten story of Confederate soldiers fighting these pernicious beasts. Pastor Powell points out photographic evidence of pterodactyls, which, considering how long one had to sit for a daguerreotype, is surely miraculous. My scholarship led me to the following, touching missive.


Dear Clara,

I hope this letter finds you well. The marches are hot and the days are long, and the giant lizards are as bad as you've heard. Captain says we'll have to storm the velociraptor nests at daybreak. They are quick and craftier than Stonewall Jackson himself. But I am in good spirits and thankful.
One poor fella from Raleigh courageously volunteered to feed his sawed-off leg to the T-Rex, so that we might break camp safely. I lost that lovely wool cap you sent me, fleeing from a triceratops, which is to say, a lizard running on all fours, rather like a bull, with three horns. Thankfully, they say those beasts are not known to eat men, and so I feel sure I will retrieve it.

Camp grub is fine, but I look forward to coming home to your biscuits and gravy, and think of them often while avoiding allosaur dung on the trails. I look at the stars and remember your perfume, and rarely are my reveries interrupted by pterodactyls, which is to say, winged lizards what fly. Some of the men have taken to shooting at them. They see them better after a few sips of moonshine, it is said, but you know I abstain generally from strong drink.

This terrible business of brother fighting brother fighting giant reptiles will be done one day, Perhaps we can find a homestead to settle, far from these scaly beasts, though I confess to a certain wonder at all of God's marvelous creation. You do not hear as much of parlay as you do the fearsome battles, sweet Clara. But when you talk to the other side in times of cease fire, you find a great agreement that in these times, rampaging dinosaurs unite the hearts and hands of men, regardless of our differences.

Yours affectionately, Johnny

Freedom and status

Those who feel fatalistic in their bondage do often develop a misconception, that those who live to be free, wish to feel superior (to them). We do not think money makes us free: it serves (or does not serve) us as part of a way of life that frees us. Some people covet a way to freedom without recognizing the attitudes and ideas that make it freedom. If we did these things for status, we would still be in bondage- to living our way, relative to the slavery and sadness of others.

A friend was posting about his choice of career as a librarian. He chose this to make his own life bearable. That is the life we should choose: what would make it most seem worth living?

He gave an example of how unnecessary status is. He is glad if people who, for example, serve food, are happy in their work. I know there was a time I certainly was, but mostly when I could count on my kitchen to make the right things, in a timely fashion, and especially if I could make a connection with my guests.

I replied:
Why do we fail to appreciate people in any honest and actual labor, right? Yes, particularly those who are providing us with sustenance. What we eat should be an experience, not an after thought. We profit from seeing one another with purpose and clarity- even if those qualities are lost on the person who thinks they labor only for money.

We aspire to achieve, and to fashion labors that suit our unique temperment, as you say, not merely to acquire status relative to others.

Putt Putt

We’ve done some fun things lately like watch Harry Potter (2nd week of August), walks whenever we can, biking when one of us doesn’t have a flat or it’s not scorching hot or we’re not dealing with work or a cold onset. But last Friday, I finally realized we were going to do it: Putt Putt!
Yay!
So I nap, watching it fall towards dark. By 8pm, we were in the borrowed car (She-Hulk, our truck, has no A/C), jamming out to “Solo” by Demi Lovato on Hwy 27, Redmond Circle via the Veterans Parkway. I saw her admiring the horse being transported next to us on the way past Garden Lakes. The long way ‘round did us little short cutting but as she says, it was a nice drive, wooded neighborhoods. We passed the place where we recorded our demo, back when that was revived as important. It was a long ways out to Putt Putt, seemed like, but I’d looked up the hours and seen the address on Yelp! Sure enough, the modest family rec and entertainment area popped up on the left. We parked, with a certain thrill running through me.

Putt Putt!!
We walked into rather familiar settings. My eyes no longer scanned the Frogger or Donkey Kong machines, but it was no longer 1981 either. And now I was on a date with my sweetheart!
The girl, fresh out of high school, hooked us up with balls for $5.50 each while I asked questions about Lazer Tag and the package deal, then Anj came from the restroom and selected a plastic-headed club (red) and a blue ball, while I took the grown folks club and a red ball. Stuck One and Stuck Two filled out their card, and with daylight still glowing outside against the encroaching dusk, we stepped up to Hole One, which she made in an effortless Hole in One! Took me three. The waterfall showered some fifteen or so yards away, as we picked out the course way over the wooden parapet. Game On!

I set up for a photo on Hole Two, starting a trend towards about a score of them, which is a pain on our limited phone space. I did it with joy, even if it was a bit less relaxing, juggling sending and erasing at decade-out-dated speed, throughout the 18 holes. I reminded myself to stop and watch her, as we juggled that along with rushing to each hole to stay ahead of the biker couple. We kept switching out the score card, easier if I hadn’t been fucking with that old ass phone- yet how many times have we dropped it and it’s kept ticking? I like its funky old alarms and familiar phone number. By hole three I made note of the speakers hanging uselessly above: “Queen of Hearts” and “I Love A Rainy Night” were the pop tunes I recalled from our long-ago family visit in the early 80’s. It felt like we’d been with Dixie and Charlie ages ago, too, but never in this millennia. That alone lent the night a novelty.

“Queen of Hearts” was a hit in 1981, so I am probably remembering that year. “Rainy Night” came out in Nov. ‘80, on the heels of #5 hit “Drivin’ My Life Away” and topped Country, Adult Contemporary and Hot 100. It followed “9 to 5” by Dolly Parton- the only time Country crossovers ruled, back to back. My fondness for both of those songs was born on that Putt Putt course. It’s the era I remember my parents enjoying being young, and generally happy together!



Hole one’s straight forward. For some reason, like most people who haven’t been mini-golfing in a while, we went the maximum number of strokes- five- as soon as things got weird on Hole Two. One imagines that’s exactly what happens time and again on that course: you feel pretty good about putting it in or almost putting it in straight-away. Then hole two leads you around strategic bumpers and it starts getting away from you! A tiny lesson in humility, and most likely, a chance for a good laugh.

She finally got a nice picture of me at her request, too, by Hole Four, when it was still nice and sunny out. I’m surprised how suddenly it seemed night fell out there, by the time we reached the cave in the back nine. I only recall one five-shot folly myself; I had taken a good lead by the nine hole total, and would only get better. I tried thinking it through a bit, old instincts that made me feel like I’d figured out this course and this simple game ages ago. I could feel Dad with me, a vague feeling our original four were together again. I am so glad for the time he spent taking his family out for fun!





Most likely I first went out there as a guest at Kendall Coleman’s birthday party. I tried my hand at both of those hot video games. I didn’t really have any close friends, though I’d been to David Salmon’s house as a guest a couple of times and wanted to count him, but he was much tighter with Freddie Smalley and Stephen King. I also went over to Evan Locklear’s house a couple of times; I used to play house with him and Nell Whatley. I remember it as the trip excited me enough to interest Dad in taking us all out there. The early to mid 1980s were peak time for my family unit, for sure. Trips were really where many of the other highlights came in. It's meant to be a bonding experience, getting out of the regular routine and surroundings.

I don’t recall P-Putting that day of the party, just burning through my arcade tokens with my usual ineptitude at video games. It was the year Arcades ruled, for sure. I used to daydream of walking into Aladdin’s Castle in Riverbend Mall and doing the one thing I thought cool kids did. The Mall and 1981 set me off on another nice memory of Dad. He’d be 70 if he were alive, September 2nd.

Rabbit’s smash hit- this was when my folks were young enough to enjoy some popular music and cards at a friends’ trailer, can’t recall who they were- was dug out of the 1960’s, itself, from a phrase Rabbit recorded onto a cassette. Eddie found it in his basement in 1980 and got together with two other song-writers to perfect his finger snappin’ clappin’ feel-good hit. Digging around in the past to find fond memories and catchy phrases can positively change your life.

So, back to hole five.




That was my first hole-in-one, and sort of where the game started to turn in my favor. She took a five stroke cap on that one. Hole six was my next hole-in-one! However much her shots bonged around, Angela never lost her good cheer. Hole seven was her next hole-in-one; she pulled up a bit as it took me three. She started getting it together, and by the middle nine, we were only four strokes apart, me in the lead.

I only felt compelled to write because in our quiet little life, this was a special day. A date. I wanted to hold on to the memory vividly. The years have a habit of slimming things down to impressions, and certain clusters around moments somehow out of the ordinary. The drama’s very low, unless you play it for comedy. I don’t recommend putt-putting with anyone who’s not up for a laugh.

Hole in One! Triumph!
Cartoons love mini-golf. Along with that bit from the Wong not-so-mini golf in one of the Futurama movies - the Green one- here's one we loved that I just remembered:
Watch Regular Show Season 6 Episode 3 Daddy Issues Online - Regular Show https://www.watchcartoononline.com/regular-show-season-6-episode-3-daddy-issues#.W45FSANKIgc.twitter

There’s three variations, really. You’ve got the ‘pipes sticking up around the hole’ obstacle, which eventually adds the second kind: the dreaded hills! As we closed out our front nine, she kept her blue ball steady on the rise without rolling off, which set her up to follow on holes eight and nine with two strokes each. Then you’ve got the third obstacle: those wooden triangle you have to bank around. Once you combine that with, say, a hole on an upwards tilt, it gets harder to predict the best way to shoot. That’s how the next nine began. We both did okay.

The sun sank to twilight as she took a picture of the simulated waterfall down the side of the cave. We stopped for our portrait together beside the worn elephant. From this point on, I got the intuitive pressure of the putt down better. One thing we did I don’t recommend: she began letting me go first. Don’t change your order unless you are ready to screw up your scorecard! It’s hard enough with the missing scorecard platforms around hole fourteen or so. I was sketching our numbers in on a fence as we kept up our pace, so the biker couple behind us wouldn’t have to wait. We never had to wait on the family of six- I’m not sure how many were playing, but the bearded guy seemed to be dating the late teenage daughter, while little brother, an adolescent, kept sneaking a glimpse of Angela’s backside.

At least, hole sixteen was another Angela hole-in-one. I begged her to please re-create her moment of triumph- it’s hard to participate AND take good pictures, especially if you have a phone where you wait forever to send each individual one, then have to erase for space (due to the lovely pics I’ve kept over the past four years we’ve had it). Our phone is even older, model-wise. It’s become a spot of familiarity, I guess, outlasting the second, smarter phone we got. She looks like she’s holding a bolt of light, she said.

I can’t blame you for rooting for her to win. I got her by eight strokes on the back nine, though. By the time we sank our ball out of sight on hole eighteen, it was dark. We’d had a fun summer evening.
Call My Killer, Arcade!



Turns out, we didn’t play a second game, because she wanted to try the arcade. This idea got better and better as we went along!

Some games might have a ticket pay out if you master them, but they are one play and done affairs, with more lights than fun. We had to try our hand at skee ball, sure, and I think we tied. We offered a ball to a little boy who came up. His mom declined, explaining he had a habit of throwing the heavy skee balls at people! I could tell you she tried a game of dropping a ball through a hole for a reward, where you time the plunger for the most points possible.





When we finally found Elk Hunt, we two non-shooters got back in touch with our ready-aim-fire sides!

Our expedition lasted much longer than the other games, and ate another round of quarters. We seemed to get worse about shooting the cows – the female elk- as we went along! But we had a lot of good laughs. I had to remember to pump and reload after each shot. What creatures were we shooting in the bonus round? Boars! We went hog wild. We were after geese on the first bonus round, as she reminds me. We had put our names in on each other’s player, but as you can imagine, that didn’t matter.



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She finally found a game that lasted more than one action AND paid some tickets. It was a jungle explorer sort of deallie-o, with a ball controller you rolled for ducking, jumping, and apparently, diving off the bridge out of control. We took turns playing out the rest of our tokens. Your pulse rises that incremental bit as you get sucked into the game, and the pace runs away from you, like so many fun things in life do.

We chatted up the girl working there, who’d given us our scorecard and told us about the deals on a relatively quiet point in the night. One of the long line of Coosa alumni to be Putt Putt employees, she was starting college locally. IN fact, we were very ready to go in part because I had my next-to- last awful two in the morning shift at DaDa. It’s only awful because there’s no time to sleep before the six in the morning shift, and then, your sleep careens wildly for days. But this is how I will remember it was Friday, August Twenty-First, too.

By the time we cruised by Taco Bell, we realized we’d only spent sixteen dollars on our date. I was glad to put aside speculation about how many checks and how many hours it would take to purchase our new truck- the key to our next move. Games bring you into the moment! Yeah, there was a nostalgia factor involved, but we made new memories. Anj said she didn’t remember us ever visiting an arcade together in all these years, but now, we’d remember. I’ll probably recall stopping at that grocery store across the highway, in hopes of a deal on a gallon of milk to drop off for Mom, fresh off her trip to Alabama. I just knew we’d had a time I wanted to imprint, in every possible minute. Yeah, I discovered it wasn’t quite a scenario I’d deliver two weeks later in precise detail- and I do desire strongly to write minute-by-minute scenes again, as it’s been too long. But who does that with their fond memories, anyway? I think we should hang on to them in the form that makes us most happy.

A day off with the world's strongest man: remembering Dad on his birthday

My recent date at Putt Putt made me remember my visits there in 1981. Thinking of those times has taken me back to a special day that year. Dad asked if I'd like to go somewhere, just me and him. Off we went that afternoon to Riverbend Mall, during a spell his sister and her three kids – four, there was a baby!- had moved in with us. Mom thought I might be lonely to get a bit of Dad’s attention- I probably admitted as much, glumly. (OR it could've been something else and I liked her guess? It made sense?) I was a fun lovin' kid, but I'd also sat beside a small bin of garbage and cried when I was three or four. The trash was done being part of our lives, you see. I knew it was going somewhere it'd never see us again..

Back when I watched G-Force and Spidey each afternoon, you find the days my young father would show me his muscles. So impressed, I was, with his ability to toss me and crush my hand in a handshake! I remember asking if he was the strongest man in the world. He always seemed able to lift anything, open anything. He didn't mind my speculation and questions. He never showed off the bigger feats like lifting cars and buildings, because, he said, he didn't want to- maybe later!

> Here's the original page that inspired most of the Reel B battle, set up with Doc's tragic origin and Spidey's mysterious, almost sinister peep into the facility before the battle at the end of Reel A.


I clicked through the story, bereft of Stan Lee’s script and captions, funky and quirky drawings so different than the usual commercial way I saw Spidey represented. I didn’t explore the entirety of the View Master Stereo-scope experience- I see they produced some amazing slides for the clunky plastic 3-D handheld toy of my childhood. Eames, Kaplan and Wright’s amazing nature and architecture. Did I also have the booklet? Funny what you don’t recall! More I think about it, I had to have read it.
My two heroes, side by side in 1979.

I do know I got a cool Hulk slide set later. I eventually tracked down a reprint copy of Hulk #125, think it is, where Hulk battles a very formidable Absorbing Man. My most vivid memory was figuring out that one side had the triumphant green Crusher Creel holding the boulder to crush Hulk, his foot absorbing Hulk's strength. But ViewMaster was a vivid way to experience the Banner/ Hulk transformation! Sapped of his power, the Hulk was changing back to his human alter ego. The villain strained as he also absorbed the change, now becoming human, too! In the other side of the slide- one for each eye- he was turning human. The Hulk's great secret spelled the unexpected downfall of the Absorbing Man! It's from a great action story, complete with Banner heroically piloting an experimental plane, only to pick up a deadly passenger and return them both to Earth in spectacular fashion. Reel C's climatic battle enthralled me.

I imagine I had Rocky Road when we stopped in Baskin Robbins’ 31 flavors with Dad. The trip renewed a bond with him I will never forget. There is something special about being little, being loved, walking beside your big adult and feeling wanted. It seems crazy now to think it was ever so hazy, recalling how much I loved and admired him and Mom. I guess you have to go through enough changes that you, bored, think will never come.

If your Dad wasn’t the Strongest Man in the World, I don’t envy you.

HEre's to all the STrongest Men in the World.