Friday, August 19, 2016

He's no joke; he moves like smoke
in a tornado.
He's got fire in his heart and thunder in his
soul.
He's lightening in a golden shoe! Usain Bolt
was unbeatable.
And running, he's the best
at the Rio Olympic Games.

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

Lunacy, laughter, long life, love

the world is a crazy place inside the human bubble. Outside the manmade bubble, life goes on in all its grisly, brutal, beautiful, graceful unfolding.
Wild critters could care less about humans, so long as we leave them alone.
Domesticated critters, of course, depend on we bipedal freaks of nature to provide them everything they need to sustain life.
I look at the myriad "issues" being discussed on news media, and it's clear that nothing changes so long as the human condition remains stagnant. And stagnant is what I mean.
We do not learn from history. We do not learn from cataclysm - just look at the Republican presidential campaign and explain to me how Donald Trump is the best candidate for president of the United States of America. What mad scientist cooked up this character, with his odd hair, foul mouth, and careless rants that hurt people in tangible ways across the globe.
Baffling in one respect. Perfect symmetry from another point of view.
We are all one step up from monkeys (clearly), therefore we like our leaders loud, rude, violent, and thick-skinned. Trump's blather makes the electorate that loves him feel "safe," "right," "righteous" and "smug," all really praiseworthy qualities, for a monkey, eh?
The world is a crazy place for human beings. We lock each other in cages; we kill each other for no reason other than anger, impulse, and self-centeredness. There is no justice in the land of the free.
There is money and lawyers and those who have more of both need not worry, unless you really commit some faux pas beyond the pale - essentially, if you get caught doing something illegal, well, that's a problem. Get caught doing something that makes the legal bureaucracy look bad, and you'll be spending lots of that money on lawyers. But the odds are you won't spend time behind bars.
Meanwhile, down in the streets, thousands are jailed everyday, maintaining the status quo of profit per unit. Each "unit" (read "prisoner") pays x-amount of cash annually and the profit is figured into the equation before the prison is even built.
The world is a crazy place for human beings. But if you're reading this, it's likely that you ARE a human. Given that fact - well, I guess you're f*#$@!, unless you're one of the "lucky" ones, born to the golden river that flows past the platinum castles in the Valley of Power and Rule.
God (are you there?), bless us all.
I realize that's a tall order (I mean request), but you can do it - CAN'T YOU?
Or am I, once again, talking to the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the door, myself?
Maybe it's the same thing.

Monday, January 25, 2016

AFC/NFC championship

I'm disappointed that the Patriots lost.
New England just couldn't overcome Denver's defense, which played an amazing game!
The Broncos D managed to stifle Brady and Co., holding them to one TD and a handful of FGs and, when it came down to converting a 2-point conversion, it wasn't even close.
Brady was under so much pressure that he barely had time to spot his primary receiver, let alone his secondary or his dump-off man.
Both defenses played their assess off! But Denver provided Manning with an extra second on nearly every play, while Brady's offensive line just couldn't find the groove that would have allowed them to handle the Broncos pass rush.
And since the Patriot's running game was inconsequential, the final was almost a foregone conclusion. Almost, because during the last minute and half of the 4th quarter Brady hit big Gronk down field for a about 17 yards, a play followed up with another pass in the middle that put New England in Denver territory. Brady threw a beautiful pass that floated over two defenders and the Gronk wrapped his huge hands around the football and scored a TD, making it 20-18 Denver.
All Brady and Co. had to come up with was a 2-yard play for a 2-point conversion to tie the game at 20 apiece.
Once again, the Denver D held serve, and the game ended on a 20-18 final score.
I had so much hoped that Brady would get a chance to win that fifth Super Bowl - putting him in the singular category - all alone as 5-time Super Bowl winner.
Manning played a smart, savvy game. He threw one INT, as opposed to Brady's four.
He threw two touchdowns to the same wide open receiver, though it must be noted that the second pass was perfectly placed, allowing the receiver to get both feet down.
C'est la vie!
I hope that Brady will return for at least one more season - and I hope that New England's owner and recruitment team will find players who can provide Brady enough protection to give him the edge.
A tip of the hat to Peyton Manning, who played well enough to beat the best team in the AFC. Of course, Denver will likely get crushed by the Carolina Panthers, who have too much talent, power, momentum, and teamwork for the Broncos to overcome.
My advice: if you're a betting person, take the Panthers in Super Bowl 50, unless the point-spread is ridiculous. I think a 3-point spread will be ideal for gamblers who're leaning toward the Panthers.
Anything beyond 3 points may put the mojo on the game's outcome.


Saturday, November 14, 2015

Death visited last Sunday!

When someone you love dies, your heart becomes a desert, a wasteland of hollow echoes and weird,  roiling voices that bubble in your mind like water boils in a pot.
Someone I love died on Sunday, Nov. 1, 2015, and I watched her disappear from this earth, and from the warm, gentle basket of love we shared.
Her eyes seemed to click off, like a light switch, and instantly she was not with me anymore. Gone!
No matter how deeply my heart ached to reach out and somehow bring her back, she had gone.
Helpless does not describe the desperate sorrow that flooded my mind and soul when I recognized that she had disconnected from her body and was, even in those several seconds it took me to recognize that vacant, empty look upon her face for what it was - the end.
The end of moments now never to be shared, the end of new dreams and happy moments in each other's arms.
My life is so much better for having known her, for having loved her and for knowing her love for me. I learned from her the wisdom that life imparted to her very special heart.
I don't know what caused her to go; the doctors haven't said yet; but I pray that she knew my love was reaching out to her.
I ache for her presence, I cry for the loss of her gaze, her smile, and her fingers in my hair.
However, I feel joy in the belief that she is no longer suffering the daily physical and emotional torture that she endured for so long. For far too long.
Debra gave love with her whole being, and people were drawn to her light. But she could only give as much as she had, and she did.
Every bit of her love was given to those who she felt were mistreated or unjustly harmed, and to the innocent, beautiful children - all the children!
I am blessed to have been allowed to share years beside her, wrapped up in the beauty of her joy in life, while sharing a fight with terrible pain that, every day, tried to eat away her ability to speak (she loved to talk!); pain clouded her thoughts so at times she trembled with rage when her poetry turned dark and harsh - she did not like to feel like life was a burden.
And she fought bitterly to keep a golden thought in the forefront of her mind, no matter the intensity of the demon's attack.
She thrived on her daughter's smiles, her grandson's giggles, her mother's sweetness, and her sisters' rock-solid support. She found strength in her son-in-law's hugs, her father- and mother-in-laws' acceptance, good humor and friendship; and, sometimes, when the sentences seemed to effortlessly glide from her pen onto the page, she found magical wings in her poetry, and the waves of pain would fade into the background.

At times, moments of grief well up inside my chest and spill out of my eyes, and I gasp for breath because the emptiness stabs my heart, and its knife twists and plunges, until I'm on my knees begging for relief.
But sometimes, when I silently say her name, a peace visits me, and a smile blooms in my heart, and I know that my love is forever entwined in hers.

Saturday, February 28, 2015

An unrequited day - or is it?

Today is, as several people have reminded me, the anniversary of my birth. "Happy Birthday," they write or say, and I appropriately respond, "thank you so much. Sweet of you to remember."
But what I'm really thinking is, "what the f@$* business is it of yours? And why would anyone want that dubious (at best) anniversary remembered?
Oh sure, it's nice to think "well, I've lasted another year above ground. Hooray for me." But then there's those aches and pains that accompany aging; those loose, rattling teeth, the hair loss, the gray pallor that seems to creep ever-wider across one's face. 
I shan't go further bemoaning the fact of the matter, except to say, who cares? Who really gives a flying s@*% about someone's birthday? And why? What's the point?
Seems like it's another sham excuse to line the pockets of retailers, not to mention bakers, and other shrewd business enterprises. 
Nonetheless, to all who took a moment of time to wish me a happy birthday, I sincerely and humbly say, "thank you, very much!"
Hypocritical of me, I know, but that's too bad. I'm not put off by the human capacity for sentiment. I'm put off by the baffling traditions that sometimes create discomfort for those of us who's age is a siren song that portends death's inexorable approach. 
So please forgive the rambling, disjointed nature of this tome. I intended to write something pithy and humorous and, sadly, failed miserably on both counts.
But it didn't take much time, so there's that.
Stay warm. Be happy.
And if today was your special anniversary; a recollection of the moment you drew your first breath and began your journey toward humanhood, then by all means - happy birthday to you, too! 

Thursday, January 22, 2015

Another media-gone-rabid waste of time!

Did Tom Brady cheat by releasing air from the footballs during the conference title game?
Did the NFL slip someone into the locker room (or wherever the game footballs are stored before the game) who surreptitiously bled air from the footballs to set up the Patriots so they would be plagued by a two-week media-fueled hell ride before the Super Bowl? Perhaps the intent was to distract the Pats so much that they fail to fine-tune their game plan for the Seahawks?
Maybe the Seahawks had someone in the stands who had the diabolically clever plan of letting air out of the game footballs, thereby besmirching the Patriots win against the Colts?
Maybe aliens from Zeta Ridicula traveled billions of miles and hundreds of light years to sabotage the footballs at the AFC title game, thinking it would make a good joke.
Why not. Any scenario is plausible at this point, at least according the ever-enterprising and wise media crews who cover the NFL.
It's a kind of cock-and-bull story that petty, amateurish media hordes try to sell every week, because most of the hapless reporters haven't a clue about how to craft a good, worthwhile story, or piece together a bit of actual journalism.
Of course it stands to reason that Tom Brady and the whole Patriots franchise would jeopardize their win against the Colts by performing an idiotic stunt like letting air out of the game footballs. That's just the kind of behavior that winners embrace, right?
And of course, the rush to judgment by many in the media is justified because the Pats were caught video recording opponents' practices some years ago, so cheating is in their DNA - right?
Do you seriously think that the Pats were intimidated by the Colts and, therefore, felt compelled to squeeze a few ounces of air out of the game footballs?
If so, then please call me ASAP. I have a golden-egg-laying hen for sale.
Do you truly believe that Brady needed a theoretical edge in order to feel comfortable about playing in another (his 6th?) AFC championship game against an inferior team?
To the sports media mavens who are prancing with delight and pillorying the Pats for an unproven assertion (where did this story come from anyway???) and one which, on its face, is absurd, I say take a long look in the mirror and ask yourself if you're in the right business?
The conduct that many of the reporters and talking heads are displaying with regard to this non-story is a slap in the face to any sports writer/announcer/analyst who respects the game, the players, and not least of all, journalism.
The circus might be a better fit for you fools who have been strangling this rubber chicken for the past week. You certainly don't belong in a newsroom or sports studio!
Go flog your sad, self-serving delusions in private, please. And please allow those reporters who recognize the difference between news and malicious gossip to report the NEWS.
Nonetheless, thanks for your buffoonery!
Now go home and give yourself a spanking.

Saturday, December 13, 2014

A long time since I posted on Moblog909.

My how the time flies. Flies and flies
out past the horizon and into the boundless clouds.
A feast of pigeons floats above, teasing and tantalizing the red-tailed hawk, which creaches and screams and circles confidently, knowing it will soon sink its claws into the fat body of a grayish-purple pigeon. That curved, razor-sharp beak will soon crunch through the breast bone and muscle of the pigeon's beating heart, and the life that spills from that bird's blood will sustain the hawk another day or two.
Changes keep evolving, mutating, mutilating and distorting time and space, and my body seems to slow to a stillness that defies belief, but which demands acceptance, despite the masquerade, as steady, relentless motion.
Who can say what reality is? Truly? What fabric, light, aroma, sensation comprises reality in this moment without you?
Where you are is not where we all are at this moment, so what now?
Can you reach out across the void and sink the putt, hit the shot, nail the field goal, speak the truth?
No. You cannot!
But you can try, so please do. It makes for an amusing moment outside time and space, and it might relieve the heartburn that God feels this very instant. Who knows?
Indeed! Who knows?
Life is a pliable, mid-spilling bouillabaisse that never quite reaches the floor.
The goons act tough, and the killers don't talk, and the madmen strike out at the delusions and nightmares that haunt their broken souls.
If you happen to be on the "stage" when the lunatic finally snaps, well, whatever happens remember, it's not his fault, he's crazy. Use the opportunity to hone your craft, practice your lines, push your imagination into corners of perception that you've never before perceived.
Maybe you'll survive.
Who knows?
And the paint that covers the pain drips from my fingers, dappling the concrete floor with rose, green, purple and black.
That's Friday night in Texas, folks. That's the unsettled unraveled day moving into night beneath a cloudy sky.
I say to you all - good luck, good life, good love, and goodnight.