Rhubarb Ranch

2009 Resolution Time Revisited

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 21:10:00 +0000

Last year about this time, I wrote
this, my New Year's Resolutions for 2009. Here's a recap of how I've done:
1. This coming year, I resolve to keep a journal, which will, hopefully, improve my marriage and my relationship with God.
Uh, not so much, on all 3 counts. No journal (unless this stupid blog counts, except that I've hardly done even that this year), and scant improvement with either relationship.
2. I resolve to exercise regularly, and hopefully, lose the extra 40 pounds.
I now have 50 pounds to lose.
3. I resolve to further reduce, and hopefully eliminate, our debt. Getting a better job is, naturally, part of this resolution.
A little better here, A++ on the latter, but haven't reduced the former because we're saving up for an international adoption ($). I could have reduced the debt by nearly half with what we've saved, so that should count for something. Geez...
4. I resolve to turn off the evil television, and pick up a sketch pad, camera, guitar, or writing instrument instead.
Did I mention that I haven't missed a single episode of House or the O'Reily Factor this year, or that I've added The Good Wife, Fringe, and Lie To Me to my viewing list?

Shit.

I still don't smoke, though...

Dead Blog

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 02:53:00 +0000

Merry Christmas greetings from El Rancho Del Rhubarb. It'll be interesting to see the outcome of last years resolutions, but that's next week. Right now, the blog is dead, a victim of neglect and gainful employment. Last year at this time I wasn't working at all. Feast or famine.

Hot Dog

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Sat, 25 Jul 2009 14:24:00 +0000

Summertime, and the living is easy, mostly because the Rhubarbs are working, and not blogging. And here it is, the end of July, and we've only consumed about half of a 40-pack of Ballpark Franks, "they plump when you cook 'em." We buy the 40-pack at Sam's, but usually they're gone right away - a big picnic, a cookout, camping with friends - along with a case of those ready-made quarter-pound hamburger patties. Hell, this summer I haven't even reloaded the propane in the gas grill or been to the lake. I don't really know the difference between a Frank (Frankfurter for you Krauts out there, like my lovely wife) and a Hot Dog, except maybe the quantity of unacceptable bovine body parts and organs contained within each. Hebrew National, "no ifs, ands, or butts," probably make the best hot dogs: beef, Kosher, bovine anus-free, but you can't beat the price of Ballpark (all-beef, but probably chock-full of anus tissue and other organ meats) at the Sam's; chunk some of those bad boys on the grill, toast up some buns, break out the Guldens Spicy Brown! Light on the Heinz, some diced onions, good all-American food, named after Germans or canines, go figure. I love the summertime.

Quisling

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 17:45:00 +0000

From Wikipedia, Quisling:
Quisling, after Norwegian politician Vidkun Quisling, who assisted Nazi Germany to conquer his own country, is a term used to describe traitors and collaborators.

Ahhh, so many parallels, so little time.

"I am not prepared to have my 29-year record in the United States Senate decided by the Pennsylvania Republican primary electorate," [Spector] said.

So, in other words, Arlen's not going to have his career decided by voters, hell, that would be un-Democratic.

Good frigging riddance.

Naivete

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 17:16:00 +0000

The wet-behind-the-ears Obama administration and their left-wing congressional counterparts are either stupid or evil, as indicated by the recent declassification of photographs and documents about "enhanced interrogation techniques" used on enemy combatants captured in Iraq and elsewhere. These politicians - mostly well-off, mostly Democrat, mostly urban-dwelling, elite, effete, pseudo-intellectuals, who have never served in the military, never held a job outside of government, never done an honest day's labor in their life - refer to these interrogation methods as "torture", but clearly have no real-world frame of reference to what "torture" really is, or what really goes on over there in enemy territory.

Here's what the enemy does to people they capture: They wire their testicles to car batteries, they blow off their kneecaps with handguns, and eventually cut their heads off with a saw.

Here's what we do: we have dogs bark at them, we play loud music, we pour water up their nose, and make them wear underpants on their head. Sounds like a frat party, only without the beer.

Historically, Enemy Combatants are treated by the Geneva Convention as spies, and therefore, aren't entitled to the same protections as prisoners of war. In World Wars I and II, and even Korea and Vietnam, enemy combatants were simply taken out and shot. Let's bring back that policy; it will save us all from the pointless debate about what to do with Guantanamo inmates or what constitutes "torture."

Ambulance

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 16:01:00 +0000

I've never been in an ambulance, but have always been curious. Anything with a siren going by was fair game for us kids; if we were lucky, we could follow on our bikes and witness real-life adventures performed by real-life superheroes - firefighters, police, emergency medical technicians. Maybe there would be carnage - a car accident, or perhaps a house on fire - but sometimes it was just the cops pulling someone over, never a shootout or hostage situation. You generally didn't get a look inside the ambulance, it was a lot different than a fire truck, with all the controls on the outside, the dials and valves and hoses and ladders. Back in the day, the firemen would ride on the back of the truck, ready to jump off and pull out ladders and hoses and start fighting fire at the drop of a hat. The ambulance was always secretive, curtained, or doors with very small windows, now big cubic vans, but formerly low slung custom Cadillac station wagons, with a big gumball machine on top. My dad had the chance to ride in a number of ambulances before he died, including several rides on an Air Ambulance, probably CareFlight, a big Sikorsky or Bell or Huey helicopter, multi-million dollar equipment and personnel, and a pretty expensive ride, but I think most people would think it was worth it.

Are Folks Still Falling For This One?

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 15:02:00 +0000

I received the following email the other day, which was automatically routed into the Spam folder, but I was curious because the subject line said "Good News", and we could all use some good news nowadays, or at least a good laugh:

This is Mr.Fisher

Uh, don't you mean "Phisher?"

Kelton from the Microsoft Lottery Board

Wow, Microsoft has a lottery board?

i have depositedyour winning cheque of 550,000,00GBP for delivery since the bank and courier has refused to contact you for delivery

bastards

I have left for Africa(Nigeria) for some seminar

For some seminar? A little vague, don't 'ya think?

so i have deposited a Confirmable Bank Draft 550,000,00GBP

Isn't GB on the Euro now?

with the FedEx Courier Plc for delivery i have also paid for delivery. What you have to do now is to contact the FedEx COURIER SERVICE as soon as possible to know when they will deliver your package to you For your information, I have paid for the delivering Charge, Insurance premium and Clearance Certificate Fee of the Cheque showing that it is not a Drug Money or meant to sponsor Terrorist attack in your Country.

What, is there a form with checkboxes or something?
I hereby certify that these funds are not
a.) Drug money,
b.) meant to sponsor a terrorist attack,
c.) all of the above,
d.) none of the above.

The only money you will send to the FedEx COURIER SERVICE to deliver your Draft direct to your postal Address in your country is (£60.GBP) Dollars only.B eing Security Keeping Fee of the Courier Company so far. Again, don't be deceived by any body to pay any other money except 60.00GBP.

Okay, now we're down to brass tacks: 60.00 Great Britian Pounds (Sterling), or about a hundred US bucks. Seems like a lot of work for a hundred bucks.

I would have paid that but they said no because they don't know when youwill contact them and in case of demurrage.

Demurrage? Awfully big word in such an otherwise illiterate and poorly punctuated correspondence.

Had to look it up:
Demurrage (n)
1. Detention of a ship, freight car, or other cargo conveyance during loading or unloading beyond the scheduled time of departure.
2. Compensation paid for such detention.

You have to contact the FedEx COURIER SERVICE now for the delivery of yourDraft with this information bellow; Contact Person: Mr Akeem MachelloManager FedEx COURIER SERVICE NigeriaEmailAddress: enquiries@redstarexpress-ng.orgTel: +234-80-5267-6084 Finally, make sure that you reconfirm your Postal address and Directtelephone number to them again to avoid any mistake on the Delivery and askthem to give you the tracking number to enable you track package over thereand know when it will get to your address.Let me repeat again,try to contact them as soon as you receive this mail toavoid any further delay and remember to pay them their Security Keeping feeof £60.GBP for their immediate action.

Ahh, there it is, the other cornerstone of a good scam - urgency - "...contact them as soon as possible...avoid further delay."

Sound familiar? Can anyone say TARP, Stimulus Bill, Multi-Trillion Budget? Your Democrat-controlled Congress and the Obama Administration have used the exact same crisis language and sense of urgency to further their agenda as Nigerian email scammers, but the swooning voters who thought their Messiah had come have yet to get on board the Clue Train. Tickets, please!

You should also let me know through email as soon as you receive your Draft. NOTE: Do not contact the FedEx Courier if you know you are not ready to pay the £60.GBP And claimyour Confirmable Bank Draft of 550,000,00GBP. Yours FaithfullyMr. Fisher KeltonMicrosoft Incorporation

Jesus, how about some friggin' punctuation?

I heard the other day on The Dave Ramsey Show that an old lady actually fell for this scam, to the tune of about five figures, and was wiped out, and was now in hock to some PayDay/CashForTitles Loan (shark) place in order to pay her bills, which is a terrible and pitiful story. You would think that anyone with a lick of sense could look at the above email and automatically know that it was completely bogus. I wouldn't send this clown money just because of the poor grammar, not to mention the fact that I haven't played the Microsoft Lottery in at least several weeks.

Test Tube

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Thu, 12 Mar 2009 16:17:00 +0000

The test tubes that came with the chemistry set were lame; tiny little things, fragile, not heat resistant. My dad, a biochemist at the time, fixed that right away, delivering large, thick Pyrex tubes, built for real industrial-strength chemistry. My experiments were confined to the garage, smelling of toluene and kitchen matches. The chemistry sets of 30 years ago were certainly better than today's: I don't think you can even make a decent stink bomb with one now, and they probably don't contain anything dangerous, like mercuric oxide, which, when heated up over a burner rendered a little silver blob of mercury. I bet today's chemistry set doesn't even have a burner, and I'm sure any kind of fire (or even heat), or flammable chemicals, is regulated out and forbidden in today's nanny state. Back in '60s, it was caveat emptor, you're on your own, don't fuck up. That kind of freedom is ruined by Stupid People. My dad's famous college chemistry story, probably apocryphal, is that he blew up a chem lab while making nitro glycerin. That kind of initiative would probably be unappreciated today.

Buckle

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 20:08:00 +0000

They seemed impossibly large; how could you sit down wearing something like that? Like WWF trophies, but won for riding or roping or staying on a bull for more than eight seconds. I guess that last part is kind of like the WWF, hanging on to a multi-ton gyrating bovine, who's every intent is to shake the would-be passenger to the ground and stomp him to jelly. Risking your life for a damn belt buckle, although usually quite large and made out of (mostly) precious metals, like gold and silver. Even the FFA kids raising calves or pigs could get one, highly engraved and filigreed. And they would sport them around their freshly laundered and pressed jeans, Wranglers or Levi's over ostrich skin polished boots, a crisp starched shirt with pearl buttons tucked in, and the giant WWF trophy girding their loins like a shield, protecting their abdomens from a Mexican shiv or a rearward hoof. I always wondered how they stayed so clean and pressed and shiny around all those animals and their dust and waste, those polished boots that never seemed to step in steer manure.

Sidewalk Ring

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 18:05:00 +0000

Found this 3 or 4 inch iron (steel?) ring held in place with a spike in a concrete sidewalk, downtown in Sherman, Texas, next to the wooden curb. Purpose? Anyone? Anyone?

Fashion

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 18:03:00 +0000

Just what the hell were we thinking in 1976? I distinctly remember: bell-bottom jeans (Levi's), polyester shirts, ruffles, puffy sleeves, Dacron, acrylic, garish geometric prints in avocado and rust, and the hair! Oh, the hair, my God in heaven, the hair! Long, but it only looked good on folks with straight hair. If your hair was wavy, or heaven forbid, downright curly, it became not only long, but Big with a capital "B", a tremendous structure cantilevered out from your skull, gravity-defying, possibly even a pseudo-afro, as large horizontally as vertically, a living, breathing, talking Chia pet. And now, it has all come back around, that clothing, those hairstyles, because Fashion has run out of ideas, again. This too, happened early in the 1970's: leather jackets, t-shirts sporting a deck of Marlboro's rolled up in the sleeve, peg-leg jeans, boots, a greasy DA combed-back, the Fonz, Grease, Happy Days, Brillcream, an embracing of 1950's hoodlum style. I'm actually hoping for the day when fashion promulgates the look seen in post-war film noir, the men wearing grey flannel business suits and fedoras, and the women in tailored A-line skirts and fancy hats and high-heels. A cigarette in every hand (lit with a naphtha-fired Zippo), scotch whiskey and martinis all around.

Fun With Eggs

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 15:47:00 +0000

On a single day, we have nine, count 'em, nine, different colors of eggs, ranging from peach and pink and brown, to off white and bluish green. I hope the hens can do that this Easter, I don't like messing with the dye.

Pastry

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 13:57:00 +0000

The white icing comes first, sticky, slightly gooey if it's warm, drizzled in a matrix, a latticework or swirl or whorl of sweet atop yeasty dough painstakingly rolled flat again and again, flour and lard forming paper-thin layers that compress and ooze when bitten, sugar seeping out onto taste buds and into cavities, pain and pleasure emitting forth from this invention of the Danes; manna, not from Heaven, not nourishing but hellish, clogging the arteries and slowing the heart, eventually killing the overweight host by starving it of oxygen, diabetes destroying its internal organs and blinding its eyes, dead at breakfastide, oatmeal and fresh fruit untouched.

But the humorless Norsemen have nothing on Greeks bearing gifts; how about some baklava?

Poetry

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Wed, 18 Feb 2009 14:48:00 +0000

I'm not really a poet, but occasionally I'll write a song. Typically, these songs don't see the light of day - they are usually bad - but more often than not, they just sit unfinished in a notebook, hidden away. When I was younger, much younger, I and my pseudo-intellectual friends would sit around, smoke joints and cigarettes, drink copious amounts of coffee, and have long very, very meaningful conversations about all things pseudo-intellectual, from philosophy to politics, physics and psychology, basically anything that started with a "p", or made that "s" or "f" sound while using the letter "p". Part of that exercise involved writing long passages in a common journal called a "Bitch, Want, and Stroke" book. The concept was simple: we all lived in, more or less, the same house, most of the time, and the book was a way to say things that might be awkward or uncomfortable to say in person, in real time. Sure, there were times when we would move back in with our parents, or shack up with a girlfriend, or even get our own place, but we would spend a great deal of time together, often weeks or months, at the same house. The book was the low-tech version of Facebook or MySpace, a way to keep in touch, abreast. There was ranting about people not doing their fair share of the vacuuming or eating the last yogurt, compliments given and favors cashed in, and the random bit of prose or poetry. Sometimes an excerpt from a song, sometimes something original, usually in response to a jilting or a perceived injustice; maudlin, bad poetry, brimming with teenage angst, seasoned with bitterness, garnished with narcissism, littered with adverbs.

Playground

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 16:27:00 +0000

In the small California town where I grew up, we had some of the best city parks and playgrounds in the world. Huge expanses of manicured green grass, rolling hills, tennis courts, mature pine trees that were easy to climb, all in safe neighborhoods free of crime and child predators and gang violence and graffiti. There were huge sand pits surrounding the massive steel playground equipment - giant slides, monkey bars multiple stories high, towers and ladders and huge swings hung with steel chains that could secure an ocean liner. The inevitable human-powered merry-go-round, kids falling off into the sand, dizzy, sometimes puking, laughing. There wasn't any sense of responsibility or liability on the part of the Parks and Recreation department; if we got hurt, it was our own fault and we shouldn't be so careless. The responsibility was on us, the liability our own, as it should be. The cool pits of sand sheltered by sycamore trees was a favorite place to play in the summer, we would make sand castles, but we had to dig down deep to get to the wet sand, in order to make massive ancient cities perfect for army men or Matchbox cars or Tonka trucks. Occasionally, we'd be digging in the sand and run across an unexpected clump of the wet stuff, too shallow to be the mother lode, and we'd hand it off to our sister, who'd be asking, "Did you find some wet sand?"
"Sure, here it is; oh wait, no it isn't, it's cat shit!"

Concentration

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 16:00:00 +0000

This is harder to do, the older I get - keeping this many balls in the air - there just doesn't seem to be enough time for anything anymore. My feet hit the floor in the morning, and it's a sprint, then a long distance run, followed by another sprint, sucking the life force away until evening comes and there's nothing left; it's all I can do to just sit in front of the television, not really watching it, just staring into the light, the remaining life force sucked away until it induces a fitful sleep. Then awake in the middle of the night, always have to get up in the middle of the night, only a few hours until the alarm goes off, then back in the hamster wheel. I get less accomplished every day, and as a consequence, that which was not accomplished piles up in the Unfinished Basket, further behind each day, one step forward, two steps back. Unfinished, unrealized, undone. Harder to keep the focus, maybe soon I'll be repeating myself, treading ground already trod upon while the undone grows in scope and complexity. The sunset, the twilight, once one of my favorite times of day, soon to be accursed, a lovely time turned horrible, the things which were once so familiar now unrecognized, unrecognizable.

Blackberry

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 16:32:00 +0000

I don't really know what the Object Writing people intend here; is this the fruit, or the electronic communication device? We have the former, growing wild here on the ranch; but not the latter, which we eschew because of their cost and annoyance factor (both high). One can make jam out of the former, which is exactly what Mrs. Rhubarb did this year, her first effort at canning, wonderfully executed. The grandson and nephews promptly devoured it, and placed an advance order for more. Well, unfortunately, there won't be anymore until next Fall, but then Mrs. Rhubarb and I will put on our tall rubber boots and work gloves, and subject ourselves to thorns and minor lacerations as we pick wild blackberries from our own property (eating plenty as we go) so that our friends and relatives can have blackberry jam for the Christmas holiday.

Subway

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 14:35:00 +0000

The stations were very space age, gleaming chrome and glass and enamaled colored brick, long escalators rising impossibly high above the street, or descending impossibly low underground. The shiny white cars, built by Rohr - I think they were Germans, legendary for prompt locomotive transportation. Now the cars are brushed stainless steel, I know, I've seen pictures. Back then, you got on at Concord or Richmond or Orinda, purchasing a ticket from the machine, and placing it in the reader slot at the gate - whoosh! - instantly your ticket would pop up out of another slot five feet away, and the gates would slide open, tilting away like a ladies fan, inviting you in. That long damn escalator up to the platform, the chirp of the electronic train whistle as the gleaming electric car rolled quietly, quickly into the station, pushing a wall of breeze before it followed in the wake. Through the East Bay hills, then plunging into the Trans-Bay Tube, under San Franscisco Bay, underwater but dry, emerging on the other side to the smell of busses and steam and fish and Chinese food and saltwater, today overrun by idiots - transplants and busybodies looking for free love or lunch, minding everyone's business - but back then, maybe even now, beautiful.

Workshop

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 17:19:00 +0000

Dim and dusty, the darkness sliced away by shafts of light coming from windows and skylights, a divine lighting, the particles in the air giving definition to the pillars of light solid enough to support weight. The sweet smell of lacquer - nitrocellulose - poisonous and carcinogenic, milky white and thick like sugar water, nauseating and rich. Tung oil, woody, thick, and slippery. Spruce and cedar and oak, smooth and raw, white, unprotected, the grain impossibly complex and unique. I sharpen a chisel on a stone until I can cut paper, and carve away translucent curls of wood, wispy and delicate.

Sandpaper

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 15:32:00 +0000

Gritty, it puts my teeth on edge, like the blackboard when I was a kid. I hated the blackboard, biting the inside of my cheeks as I took the chalk in hand, chills raising goosebumps on my arms as the white stick hit slate. The silica-coated sheet of thin cardboard does the same, but only briefly. Attached to a sanding block, it's perfectly manageable as I run it across a piece of cedar, the aromatic red dust collecting on the board, smelling of memories and old blankets and a cardigan sweater. It's smooth to the touch, but I switch to a finer grit anyway, further abrading away any slight imperfections - microscopic really - and I run my fingers down the board, not just feeling and not looking, but looking with my hands, the way blind people do. Seeing with my fingertips and then the mind's eye, grinding away the high spots until there's nothing left but glass, Teflon, a pond on a windless summer day, silk.

New Digital Camera

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 18:07:00 +0000

Taking some pictures around the Ranch with my new digital camera:

Heartbeat

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 16:26:00 +0000

Most of the time, I don't even notice it - that's because it's working correctly, more or less. Occasionally, there's a flutter, some confusion in my chest cavity, right behind my sternum, and I put my right hand to my chest, over my heart, a salute like I'm saying the Pledge or watching the flag raise while listening to the Star Spangled Banner. I can't feel it with my hand, but I can feel it inside my chest, wobbling around, a spasm. I don't know what it means, it only lasts a second and it's gone, no ill effects remain, and I pretend it isn't there, like it will go away. My dad's problem didn't go away, and eventually his valves became leaky sieves, his labored heart only pumping 10% of the blood needed by the rest of his body. He was cold and tired all the time, and finally decided to have the surgery. A crusty old veteran talked him into it - I no longer remember the guy's name, he was a golfing buddy of my dad's, probably the Korean war and a smoker, now tubed up to an oxygen tank, but had a handshake that said, "I can still kick your ass, even though I have one foot in the grave. We didn't screw around back then, men were men; you kids nowadays, you're just a bunch of pussies and pantie-waists." He came through the valve replacement surgery intact, and convinced my dad to do the same. My dad didn't make it; post-op he was drowning in his own blood, not able to hang around long enough to heal and realize the benefit of new heart valves. The heartbeats finally ran out, stopped, nice and quiet now after 67 years of relentless pounding and thumping. Done.

Milestone note: this is the 100th post to Rhubarb Ranch.

Departure

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 15:56:00 +0000

I love to fly, even wanted to do it for a living for awhile. Flying is expensive, learning to fly is expensive, airplanes are expensive, fuel is expensive, travel is expensive, parking is expensive, airport food is expensive. Some would say, "overpriced." Still, I love to fly, I love the "Departure" part of the airport, now behind security, a private club available only to ticket holders, sometimes containing further mysterious private clubs available only to "VIPs" or "Admirals" - frequent flyers, folks who spend half their business week in an airport, who require and demand a quiet, paneled lounge with drinks and special smoking areas and high-speed internet ports and concierge service. Before the security lockdown, it was fun just to go to the departure gates at the Big Airport and watch the travelers on their way to exotic destinations: Tokyo, London, Singapore, Cancun. The women were always beautiful in airports - rich, thin, sexy, well-dressed and well-heeled, with no real job and nothing to do but travel and shop - the modern-day jet-set.

Vaccination

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Wed, 07 Jan 2009 21:45:00 +0000

I remember vaccination day when I was a kid; it wasn't unusual, back in the 60's, to be vaccinated before the school year started, or even be vaccinated at school. One of the things they vaccinated you against was Polio. The polio vaccination was still pretty new then, but I didn't know this at the time, it seemed pretty commonplace. What also seemed commonplace was an adult or child wearing arm braces connected to walking canes, but you didn't stare because you didn't want to be impolite; get caught staring by your mother and you were often the recipient of a quick forehand to the back of the head. Yes, my mother didn't want us staring at the polio victim because it was impolite, but I suspect there was a superstitious reason as well - there were still kids with arm or leg braces, still kids in iron lungs, still old-wives tales going around about how you could catch polio by sleeping next to an open window or some other innocuous act. We didn't look, our mothers made us look away, because we didn't want to be next.

Whiskey

noreply@blogger.com (Rhubarb Ranch) — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 14:15:00 +0000

Warm molten amber coats my throat and then my stomach slow like honey, but tastes like naptha or witch hazel, except with a slightly smoky, oaken finish - my lips go numb, the lower part of my face soon follows, I can no longer feel my cheekbones. Only a Scotch will do nowadays, and an old one at that. Kentucky Straight Bourbon or Canadian no longer make the cut, unsophisticated booze for unsophisticated drinking - multiple shots of Crown with a Coors Light chaser, then a night of throwing up in a parking lot followed by a morning of headache and dehydration. Or a pint of Jack hidden in an overcoat on a cold winter's afternoon, consumed straight, in secret, in public. I breathe fire - antiseptic, sterile breath, clean, my lungs filtering and separating the foreign solvent from the hemaglobin, scented, as Vonnegut says, "...like mustard gas and roses."