Chapter two

I was just talking to my father. He told me that he was getting to the point where he could tell a Toyota from a Honda automobile. I find this hilarious and odd at the same time. I've always been able to easily tell the difference between the two makes and it frustrated me that he just couldn't find a way to differentiate them "damn Jap cars" as he called them. I find it odd because he's been dead for about 7 years now. He jumped up out of his grave to tell me he can tell an Accord from a Camry.

Louis qualified for a research program studying the "phantom limb" syndrome. His doctor recommended him because his symptoms were so severe. Even though his arm has been missing for several months now, he can feel it as if it is still attached to his body. What's more it tingles, itches, and burns. I told him that what he has is a hemorrhoid. He frequently reaches across his body to scratch it but always comes up with a hand full of nothing. The study pays money for a good research study and Louis is in need of the extra cash. His wife died several years ago after being stung by a bee. She left him with two young little girls. Now that he has lost his arm he can no longer work at the mill and has been chasing several low paying jobs just to make ends meet. He tried to sue his former employer but an attorney told him he was pumping a dry well. There were so many lawsuits against that company, and they had lost so many judgments, that their attorneys learned the fine art of never paying up. He couldn't get much disability pay because he was still a healthy man with one good arm. He could still stand at the front door at Wal-mart and say "hello" to every distended abdomen that shuffled into the place.

His wife was a lovely woman and he misses her deeply. Every day when he comes home from whatever sad little job he holds for the time being, he always shouts "Honey I'm home" when he passes the doorway. He always sets the table with four plates even though there are only 3 people left in the family. Every night before he goes to sleep he turns down her side of the bed and scrunches up her pillow between his face and his one remaining hand and gives it a big passionate kiss. This would be sweet except for the fact that before she died he had confessed to me that he was no longer in love with her and was having an affair with their daughter's 3rd grade teacher. He wanted to divorce her but was afraid of hurting her feelings. He was so afraid that she would be upset with him that he wished that she would die so he could be free to enjoy his life without worrying about how angry and sad she would be. His sick little fantasy came true only days after this confession. I went to be by his side and he was completely devastated and wracked with guilt. The 3rd grade teacher waited patiently for him to get over his grief but finally gave up on him less than a year following his wife's death.

I am a musician too. Louis and I had a band together that played some original material and some covers. We played legion halls and school gymnasiums. The jobs were so much fun and I really miss being a rock star. Our band was called Martin and Louis, a play on the popular comedy team of Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin from the 40's. I was Martin the lead singer and rhythm guitar player. Someone had suggested we call ourselves Louis and Clark, since my first name is Clark, but I felt the historical reference was too "dorky" and besides I never used my first name, everybody calls me Marty. Louis and I always talked about putting the band back together but that possibility seems remote unless he could learn to play those gutsy lead guitar riffs he became noted for with only one arm.

One thing we can do together is drink, and we drink every Saturday night at a bar called the "Woodpecker." The bartender at the "Pecker" is named Russell and he only has one eye . When he was a child, he and some friends were playing with an archery set in his back yard. Neither he nor any of his playmates could come close to hitting the broad side of a barn with the steel tipped arrows. As a joke, Russell went behind the target and poked out the solid red circle in the middle. He put his eye up to the hole and laughed that it was the one safe place to be in the yard. Guess what happened next? Bullseye!

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Phantom Limb. Chapter one

Do you ever have dreams that are so real you can't tell if they really happened or not even after you wake up? Have you ever dreamt you had a pointless conversation with a friend who you later remembered was dead? I have these dreams all the time, I think I can say I have a dream like that every day. The only difference is I have these dreams when I'm awake.

My friend Louis worked in a factory, or more accurately, a mill, for 17 years. This mill produced bags of animal feed for distribution at pet stores and farm suppliers. The bags of feed were very pretty to look at with pictures of little Pomeranian dogs on the outside or well groomed horses with an instructional message below like "For older, less active dogs." or "For long haired adult cats." I still buy that brand of dog food for my cocker spaniel "Nancy." She is a middle aged over-active dog with a penchant for peeing on my freshly laundered underwear. Louis once took me on a tour of his mill. It was like a medieval fun-house of sorts. Nothing that went on in there seemed to make any sense whatsoever. There were pipes leaking hot steam everywhere and noises so loud and obnoxious you couldn't hear yourself think. I saw a huge box on giant springs shaking madly and puffing out dust. Enormous cogs turned aimlessly and 2 story cast iron structures that looked like oversized washing machines heaved and groaned. There was a sign as you entered that said "No accidents in __ days!" The part that would tell you the number of days since the last catastrophe was a little square of blackboard with a tray below it holding a piece of chalk and an eraser. There was no number in the space since it hadn't been even 1 day since the last accident.

Louis wore a hard hat and he gave me a loaner so I could take the tour with him. Big and small items often fell from several stories above you in this mill, and the hat was more than a silly occupational requirement. Louis' hat was dinged all over and speckled with greasy stains. Hot fat was used to make the different grains that comprised the feed stick together to form them into pellets or chunks or "nuggets." Sometimes the big machines would spew out the hot fat on the cold floor or the body temperature humans. Grains were constantly being transported by pipe to all sections of the factory and the lighter grains could escape through the tiny gaps in the joints and seams. It seemed as if it were snowing year round inside the mill as the alfalfa would float in the air. The potential for fire or explosion was high, and the machines with their moving parts and noise raised the opportunity for a serious injury to an alarming level. Louis played guitar and wore gloves to protect his hands from callouses and burns even though there was a rule against wearing them. Some machines, if you accidently got your hand stuck inside of them could pinch off your fingers or your hand. If you wore gloves, and I don't entirely understand the physics involved here, the machine could pinch the fabric and pull your entire body inside. A little more than a year after Louis gave me the tour, a machine that makes horse feed grabbed his glove and popped his right arm off at the shoulder. The machine did such a good job of grinding up his whole limb that there was nothing left to re-attach. Louis has a picture of a black stallion tattooed on his prosthetic arm with a message printed beneath it. It says "For the lustrous coat of show horses."

Brown Lipstick

Today is the day I begin my greatest endeavor. Normally, here in this little space on the interweb, I write occasional thoughts and observations. Sometimes I throw in something about my life that I hope others might find amusing. I have even put some goofy lyrics and bad photos in this blog for your big laughs. Starting with the very next post I am going to do something much more personal. I am going to write an entire book with each post being a new chapter. The name of this book is "Phantom Limb", an expression referring to the eerie phenomena that occurs when a person loses a portion of their anatomy but continues to feel that lost part as if it is still attached. You can take it literally or metaphorically, but however you decide to absorb it, it is a tribute to the human spirit that no matter how devastating or minor a loss, humans just can't seem to let things go.
Here is a joke. A man had lost an arm in an accident and it left him very depressed. He was a guitar player and missed being able to play. He didn't like the way people looked at him and shied from him. He decided to commit suicide. He went to the top of a tall building and was ready to jump when he saw a man with no arms walking below. The no-armed man was skipping and clicking his heels. The man felt foolish, he was without only one arm and here was a man missing both and was gleefully skipping and clicking his heels. He ran downstairs and caught up with the man who had no arms. "What is it inside you that gives you, not only the courage, but the joy to carry on, and carry on with such joy that you feel you need to click your heels?' The man with no arms looked at him curiously and said "My ass itches." end of joke.

So this idea of writing a story via a blog might be a bad one. The story itself may be awful and unreadable. I might get some very mean comments from people like I do with my regular blog and that could hurt my feelings. You might ask, Joe, with all of the crazy crap that happens to you daily, and all of the real people in your life that you could trash to pieces in your blog, why would you even dare approach writing fiction? My answer is two-fold my dear friends. I have forever wanted to publish a work of fiction, and every time I finish a blog, the blogger program asks me if I want to "publish", so today my answer is yes "I want to publish!" Simple reason number two...."My ass itches." XXXXXI

Man who thinks he's a dog bites man

Many years ago in a galaxy far far away (Loogootee,Indiana) I grew up putting off doing my English paper every Sunday night by watching this horrible piece of tv trash called "The Ed Sullivan Show" Ed Sullivan was a no talent columnist that by some twist of fate became the host of the most important variety show ever to grace the american public. He was incredibly ugly, he talked funny, he had no idea who the people on his show were, and he controlled the world. He introduced us to Elvis and The Beatles. He blackballed Jackie Mason. (thank God) On a weekly basis, however, he gave us bike riding bears, and people who could play God Bless America on crystal glasses filled with varying amounts of water. The most important act he ever introduced was this guy that spun dinner plates on the ends of sticks. He could get dozens of plates spinning on different sticks at the same time while the orchestra would play this familiar manic song that induced the feeling of impending dread. He was very good at spinning plates. Recently it has been brought to my attention that I am like the spinning plate guy. I have been doing my best to cover my bets and keep everyone happy at the same time. There are several people who matter to me in this veil of tears who don't necessarily matter to each other. As a matter of fact many actually hate the others. So I have been running about like a juggler, trying to appease everyone. Sure I've dropped a few plates along the way, but the crazy music keeps playing and I carry on like that's the way its supposed to be.

A few weeks ago I had what I initially thought was a nervous breakdown. Notice the huge gap between blogs. I began crying and couldn't stop. This is unusual because for years and years I never ever cried. I have had a few moments in the last year where I've shed tears, but this was an uncontrollable break. My first response was to let all the plates fall and start over with a whole new set of plates. My second response is to stop all the plate spinning and move on to playing God Bless America on crystal glasses. My heart is in shambles and my hours are filled with loathsome thoughts and loneliness. Yes, it's finally the real me coming out! Last night I figured now would be a good time to write a Blues song, but I still ended up writing goofy crap like I always do.
ie: I'm a man cos I make lots of money, I'm a man cos I have integrity, I'm a man cos I shave every morning, I'm a man cos I got goodies hanging off of me!" BB King could possibly make that work.

The most classic line in news gathering ever delivered is "Dog bites man is not news! Man bites dog now that's a story!" Yesterday my news outlet reported that a man in Louisiana began barking like a dog when he saw a mailman and ran out of his home and up to the letter carrier and bit him on the shoulder. It makes me feel so good to know there are people out there that do crazy shit like that. It makes me feel as if the crazy shit I do is pretty mainstream.

I don't know if there is going to be a sensible resolution to the craziness that infects my world, every day I think I see a light at the end of the tunnel and it turns out to be the killer ray from a UFO. The biting man will get a monetary fine and some psychological treatment and probably won't attack another mailman for months. I on the other hand must wade through the muddy waters of confusion for the rest of my life without a peaceful conclusion, seemingly. Excuse me now, it's late and I still have to finish my English assignment. XXXXXI

What up Dog Days of August

It's the end of an era, Peter Jennings has died. An era of a network anchorman whining about the lack of nationalized health care in the United States every frickin day has come to a close. The end of the forever young pretty boy on the network. When a pathetic ABC network decided that they didn't have the skills to garner an audience they selected a high school drop-out from Canada with a great haircut to anchor their nightly news. When that didn't work they sent him on assignment and replaced him over the years with a variety of pompous and self righteous doofi. Finally after all the miserable talking heads had died, literally, they deemed that he had become pompous enough to resume the job as the face and haircut of World News Tonight, much to the dismay of Ted Koppel, who remembers him as a close friend and colleague, now that he's dead. Secretly Ted is kicking himself for not dying first. Damn that Jennings!

I met Jennings once at a convention where he was signing news memorabilia. I purchased a pair of Saddam Hussein's white underpants and paid my 50 dollars to have him autograph them. He threw them back in my face and told me to go to Dan Rather's table, and he continued on signing the Bill Clinton sex cigars. Honestly he apologized later when we met in the smoking room. He took a drag on some cigarette he pulled from a strange Canadian pack with the picture of a sailor on the front. He squinted as he inhaled and said "Damn that 911!" I asked him if he ever considered quitting smoking and he laughed that raspy dry smokers laugh. He said "Did the Americans give up when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?"

So now the search begins for a suitable replacement. This is going to be hard so soon after electing a new Pope. Rumor has it the Cronkite has already began doing posters in his rec room, and Ted Koppel has been to Great Clips 3 times this week. In my opinion this is at last the opportunity for the networks to do the right thing; cancel the news and put on cartoons again. That's why everyone tunes in at that time anyway. They want to see if Rocky and Bullwinkle are back. XXXXXI