Saturday, December 29, 2018


Double Decker

Combat Wombat

         ILLEGIBLE 💙
    Note to self
    (And the rest of
      the kingdom):

No  More  Bags  On  HeadS

“No. I am      And also, execute Lance Bass
      the           (do not blame the King. This
    King!”         came to me in a DREAM) 

        Mega                                Mania!! 

See!    Hi!   Hello!         Retry for ME.
                                       as King of this


           1.  No court jesters necessary
                (the savings are incredible!) 
 Also  2.  No more rubber soles
 Etc.   3.  Eliminate all spoons
           4.  Alvioli
           5.  Smartphone speaker holes will
                ALWAYS BE TIGHT

*which are kind of like proclamations without the t’s
~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~  ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   

Sally Field Is Now Head of
Air Transportation

And also… 

All lefties will henceforth
Be regulated to the

Oh, I don’t think you’ll
    be laughing long. 

Neighing Perhaps. 
Neighing perHAPS. 

  It’s a sad day in the kingdom
for anyone who
sees illegibility in the

Friday, December 28, 2018


Show To Mother
(Stephen Colbert sticker poem VII*)

I found two quarters and
two nickels on 8th Street
(sidewalk) yesterday.  She’d
be so proud that I bothered
to stoop over to pick them 
up.  Madoc, on the other
hand, would probably have 
found them before me.  Or,
if by some odd chance he did
not fine them first, he’d most
certainly need to know the date 
in which each coin was minted…if
they were pennies, anyway.  I wasn’t
hopping from interview to interview
when I found the coins.  Not like I’m 
doing today, when I learn I haven’t
quite enough money for a cheap lap-
top (you can get one for $100 these
days, I’ve just learned.  One that 
works.  That’s cheaper than most 
mobile phones, just for some con-
text or perspective.)  Then I real-
ize that I can have $40 more if I
return the keyboard I just bought
here two weeks ago (I’m once 
again at Best Buy), so it might
yet be possible for me to walk
home with my very own laptop,
the first one that I’ve owned
since my second night home-
less over twenty-one months
ago (a cold night when I slept
on the sidewalk a block down
from what was my apartment,
our apartment….  The problem
was I put the large piece of lug-
gage hastily packed full of what
I decided quickly was my most
important possessions, which
included several iPhones, my
laptop, a few of my favorite
clothes, a few bathroom sup-
plies, Coco the Loco, who was
a cat who for nine years had
never been my sole responsi-
bility, was never even my idea
to adopt in the first place be-
cause someone else beat me
to the punch shortly after 
Sepia the Cat passed away.
All these were in my large
suitcase, along with some
completely random items from
the apartment – stuff I’d been
able to gather from the bulk
of all that was in there, one
third of which was not mine
but had been left there by
the deadbeat terror, another 
third of which was mine or-
iginally and the last third be-
longed to me and the dead-
beat cumulatively (like Coco
the Loco; like the apartment
itself, the lease of which had
both our names, even though
I’d paid by far the larger share
of the rent and the rest of our
expenses for over five years
while the deadbeat eased his
way through school).  And
of this disparity of items, 
I’d been able to pack up and
get to the UHaul truck from 
about one third of the mat-
erial that resided in the ap-
artment with me, with us,
which included only a portion
of what I had accumulated 
in 50 years of living, which
was perhaps a third of what
had been in the apartment,
before being assaulted by
the apartment manager
simply because, thanks to
the most extreme panic at-
tack I can recall, I said I 
need to take a quick trek
to the emergency room.
As the manager, I guy for
Whom I’d sung praises for
Being the best, empathized
With his work, spent hours
Talking with him about AC/DC
Concerts, and who had gotten
Intimate with some of the 
Stragglers who invariably
Stayed with me during their
Hard times (I am told many
Of the advances were unwant-
Ed, but cannot attest to the
Veracity of that), had me in a
Neck-hold lifting me up to the 
Roof of the cabin of the U-Haul
Truck, refusing to let me take 
The short 5 block trip to St.
Francis.  At least until I
Creamed “Police, Police,
Police…” at the top of my
lungs and lo and behold the 
police very quickly arrived 
and I was able to escape the
horror of being there excav-
ating the history of my life.
Once I was able to leave, I 
Parked in the St. Francis
Parking lot until I stopped 
hyperventilating, then drove in-
to the Sunset to sleep for the
night in the UHaul truck (where 
I discovered the next morning 
that I had a flat tire.  Backing up 
a bit, I’d only gotten about a 
third of the material that was 
in the apartment in which I’d 
lived for 13 years, about a third 
of which was mine in the first 
place, but all of which I paid 
to be stored for a year, only 
to have it all auctioned off (my 
entire poetry library! my every 
journal!  all of my photo books, 
including those few I got from
my grandmother’s collection
and the quilt my other grand-
mother made me, along with
the many items that had no-
thing whatsoever to do with
me, except that I had lived
for a decade with their right-
ful owner, their rightful resp-
onsibility.  They’d just been 
left for me to take care of. 
And after a year of making 
payments while homeless and
jobless to keep the items in
storage, I lost every item after 
missing a couple of months’
payments, after which all of the
items were apparently taken and 
auctioned off in some horribly im-
personal manner to the highest 
bidders.  But back at Best Buy, and
upon contemplating all too much of
this craziness that had led to me 
needing or wanting badly or just 
being here seeing it would be poss-
ible for me to finally get a new lap-
top, in a new age where they could
be had for cheaper than most mobile
phones, I became full of questions so
big I would never have thought they’d
exist, these big questions; they had not
even crossed my mind.  So I called Mom
to ask her what she thought of the sit-
uation I was in, or perhaps it was a dil-
lemma.  I ask her what I should do, what
she thinks about all of it, but her response
was a familiar lamentation about how she
feels so terrible that she can’t help me
financially.  “Mom,” I say, “you just sent
me $50 for Christmas,” or I wouldn’t even
be considering what had, given the last 
couple of years, been an outrageously 
delightful dilemma. She does her curt
little chuckle and I then recount how my
week between Christmas and New Year’s
has been thus far, and begin to feel almost
giddy about how much more pleasant it is, 
despite all that I’m still currently living
through that is, well, sub-par.  After this
final exchange (which is much more me
than her), I hang up happy to have gotten
the opportunity to listen to a few of her
complaints, who’s passed away, who’s
in the hospital and I chastise her for not
sending me any sweet treats from the
holidays this year (neither from Thanks-
giving nor Christmas, both of which al-
ways include the best, sweetest desserts
my family is capable of concocting – and
I’m serious, for the most part, having
hinted surely so much that she had to
know it was a serious request).  But
this welcome and trite conversation
with Mom has opened me up to the
realization, more than ever, that even
though I’ve endured what has been five
years of horror, the past year finally saw
a move upward rather than downward,
and remembering last year’s holidays
reveals how significant a difference the 
present holiday season is, since it’s one
in which I remain mostly upbeat, positive,
upbeat, motivated and even happy – a stark
contrast, it turns out, to my mother’s general
disposition, to her outlook on life, at least
as she so clearly presents it.  It’s not the
only reason that I’m happy to have had
the conversation with her.  It’s also that 
there are so little conversations at all
these days; in my life).  Whatever the
reason, it certainly lifted my spirits,
which weren’t horrible in the first place.
Perhaps part of it is a bit of a cocky relief
that my spirits, my generally positive outlook
(one which I almost found impossible to find
during the four years previous, since the de-
parture of the deadbeat without even having
the balls to tell me anything about it to my
face, but having to face the horror of the 
truth on my own, after he disappeared…and
well afterward), that my disposition was 
formed substantially in rebellion to my 
mother’s endless complaining and proud
pessimism. I suppose that the same could 
be said of my aspiration to stay happy, al-
most to the point of hedonism; to generally
avoid any serious materialism; to refuse 
to even feel or even attempt to under-
stand or relate to the concept of ven-
geance in any real way; and it primarily
explains the fact that I have remained a 
staunch pacifist my entire life (as it has
existed thus far, in any case), never hav-
ing hit anyone – well, besides, as I have 
often been told, my twin brothers, upon 
coaxing, on more than one occasion,
my parents or one of my less aware 
relatives into allowing me into the 
boys’ playpen – some impulses are 
apparently impossible to control.
These optimistic, pacifistic, happy, 
hedonIstic, non-vengeful, happy-go-
lucky impulses began, at first, it 
seems to me, as nothing more than
cliché adolescent or teenage acts of 
rebellion: those impulses which were
against authority, particularly those
of one’s parents or extended family.
I’m not perfect.  I certainly compre-
hend that. But speaking with Mom 
makes me happy.  And today, it made 
me very happy.  Not in an “I’m so glad 
I’m not like you” manner, either – 
even though the story of my day 
may come across in such a one-
dimensional manner.  This feeling
reiterates for me that it’s enlightening 
to be close to those who are unlike you.  
I truly believe that.  And, sure, it’s funny 
that “unlike” might apply just as intensely
(if not more) to family members, to those
closest to you, as those from the opposite
end of the earth with whom you’ve not 
even language in common.  Family, like
perfect strangers from radically different
cultures, we have so much in common.  
And boy, are we different.  Way dif-
ferent.  But, when you think about it,
as I am at the moment, we’re related
to each person on this planet.  Imagine
the commonality, and what we might
learn from the differences.  Mom
reminds me who I am every time
I have the joy of her presence,
be it face to face, flesh to flesh,
or, as it most often is these days,
ear to ear.  Happy 75th birthday,
Mom, a couple of weeks early
(Dad would have been 75 today,  
in fact).  Here’s to as many more 
conversations as you can withstand.  
I love you for who you are and 
for who I am and I always will.

*(the title of this poem is from a page from 
Stephen Colbert’s I Am America And So Can 
You, which has a set of “STICKERS,”  each 
with a phrase which he recommends using 
to show that you are the “man in charge” or 
that “you’ve got it all under control” – I 
assume to be used especially when the 
man-reader actually has no clue, or simply 
isn’t interested or even paying attention)

Wednesday, December 26, 2018


John 3:16
(Stephen Colbert sticker poem V*) 

On that day, the five dozen volunteers 
walked over the edge of the precipice,
stopped for a moment, huddled in front
of it, then, as directed by the first in line,
moved forward, following him, one by one, 
into and completely through the massive 
oval of ancient rock that had been sacred 
to the planet’s inhabitants ever since as 
far back as their recorded history, and 
no one knew how long before that.
But no one, at least in recorded history, 
had ever dared to go where no Vulcan had
knowingly gone before; as far as Vulcanity
knew, no one had ever passed through the 
Sacred Portal on the Great Precipice.  The
line of individuals making their way o and
through the Great Portal were each volun-
teers, mostly made up of academic veterans 
of research along with a few of the eccentrics 
who lived further up the mountain upon which 
the precipice and its “portal” stood. Each indi-
vidual who passed through the chute made of
sheer rock (which burned a bright shade of 
bronze on clears days such as this one, which
was due to an admixture heavy metal mixed
with the planet’s typical mantle), once on the
other side, found that they had entered a void 
filled with nearly blinding solid white—not quite
light—that was thicker than it could possibly be; 
in fact, it was so dense that as each of the travel-
ers looked back to observe the side of the portal 
from a perspective that, to their knowledge, no 
Vulcan had ever seen, no trace of it could be seen.
There was nothing but the intense bright white.  
Each Vulcan learns at a very young age that, 
even with ardent and steady open-minded steady
steady focus in one direction or at one thing
for any significant duration of time, any con-
clusions implied by logic about what was seen
might be about as far from the reality as imagin-
able.  In other words, logic does not always win.
There is and will always be the inexplicable, the
unexplainable; illogic.  Nevertheless, what with
imagination being one of any typical Vulcan’s 
weakest link: what does one use to make any 
progress with a subject encountered that with
standard logic is only misunderstood, inappropriate-
ly managed or dealt with, or worse, is an udefeat-
able enemy to civilization and harmony. Vulcans 
become both palpably disturbed and very curious
when this sort of oddity is encountered. So, by the
time the seventy explorers had each passed through 
the sacred, hollow rock and paused long enough to 
glances back toward where they at least believed 
they were moments earlier, the thick white non-
fog had in an instant become a seemingly imperm-
meable hue of pink.  A Vulcan bathed entirely in a
sea of pink is a sight to behold (reference for example,
the master swimmers in the T'Paul Sea in the late spring).  
It is the color for love, pink; and their color for grief.  
And to immerse oneself in it is to encounter within 
oneself the dichotomy, that primary conflict which
the proud race has successfully quelled for as far back 
as the established historical record goes. When bathed 
in this present pink light, each individual experience was
deep and unrelenting, it was pure emotion. And emotions
are illogical.  To express them, to even allow them even 
sparingly into consciousness was lowbrow, if you will.  Yet 
oddly, it was the primary ritual, catalyzed by walking into
the hallowed caverns where inside nothing existed except 
a vivid pink intensity which could somehow, upon being
temporarily sealed (in an airtight manner) allowed move-
ment and breath within.  Each Vulcan father would ex-
perience for a day, a night, and another day until dusk, 
directly after the birth of his firs-born Several of today's
volunteer explorers had never even experienced this
ritual, this rollercoaster through heartbreak and ecstasy
and everything in between.  A few hours after being 
lowered into one of these pink caverns, there was what
was termed in Vulcan something that, roughly translated,
was the reversal, a moment when all of the rosy light's
passions began to subside and then slowly disappear 
altogether.   Nothing is left.  Perception is momentarily
eradicated nothing is perceived – by either of the seven 
Vulcan hypersenses.  There is no negatively, no positivity.  
There is no love, no vengeance; neither pain nor joy.  
There is only the nothingness within the trajectory
of the genesis of life to its culmination to its inevitable
extinction.  The drop, sheer as it was, wasn't actually a
drop at all.  What was perceived as precipice was rather
the mere top of what might best be described as a swarm
of poisonous green blood that co-existed with the mighty
pulse of existence, the unusual longevity of a race that had 
always evolved, and swiftly, toward some ideal.  The swarm, 
however, had also pre-existed, and had moved beyond ideal.
And it would outlive the pulse.  There was no sensation, to 
be sure.  There was “I know what you know” and there was 
“I feel what you feel.”  Representative of the entire race, 
these explorers had grasped, in unison, that which was to be 
normally quelled and yet experienced unto numbness only in
proximity with life's most precious and poignant moments, 
which, when combined with each like experience, the sum-
mation of every Vulcan's ritualistic journey from everything 
into nothing.  Their thoughts, as the beings each flew or fell 
into the nothing of all nothings, were melded with those of
the green swarm.  And all that remains of the event are im-
permeable notions.  Love defies and denies logic.  No love, 
except that which extends indefinitely, exists.  There is no 
existence.  There is an irrevocably pure, fathomable simpli-
city that is and will always be toppled by duplicity, or un-
being.  These notions are held true by millions of hollow
words in thousands of fictive languages.  The green
swarm always bleeds to death.  The expanse of
altruism is a boiling vengeance.  I see what you see.
I feel what you feel.  And how would either of us ever
know any of this or even throw a wrench into the enor-
mous machine that creates and then contains and then
perpetuates  lthese notions, when we each choose no-
thing but to keep swimming desperately  just off the 
shore of hope, in the dark can confounding sea of denial?

*(the title of this poem is from a page from Stephen Colbert’s 
  I Am America And So Can You which has a set of “STICKERS,”  
  each with a phrase which he recommends using to show that
  you are the “man in charge” or that “you’ve got it all under  
  control” – I assume to be used especially when the man-reader 
  actually has no clue, or simply isn’t interested or even paying  

Sunday, December 23, 2018


Trivial Pursuit (1980’s Version) #3

What US association considered a 
seal of approval for low-cholesterol
foods in 1989.

High Anxiety

In what mountain range does Dirty
Dancing take place?

The Catskills

What two young brothers joined 
together as dark, unsung, gun-
slinging anti-heroes in a 1988
Australian western?

Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze

What long-running musical is 
based on T.S. Eliot’s deepest,
most intense and thought-pro-
voking volume of poetry.


What is created when you throw
Diplo into a bowl of Skrillex

Jak Ü

Anastasia, Sheena Easton, Shu-
hada Davitt (Sinead O’Connor’s 
new Islam name), The Time, the 
midnight singalong of Purple Rain
(Thank you, Peaches!), Nothing
Compares to?


*Category key
PER: Personalities 
ENT: Entertainment
NEW: In The News
TL: That’s Life
SL:  Sports & Leisure
WC: Wild Card 

Saturday, December 22, 2018


Trivial Pursuit (1980’s Version) #2

Whose campaign aides warned “A
vote for Anderson is a vote for

Jimmy Carter’s

What brand and style of condoms is
the favorite of Freddy Krueger, Ozzy
Osbourne, Nancy Kerrigan and Dian

Red and black striped Trojans

What sent Carter-Wallace stock from
$61 to $150, coinciding with the be-
ginnings of the AIDS crisis?


What country’s military squeezed
out $9,000 for marijuana-laced,
freeze dried urine?

Martha Stewart

How many inches long are the razors
Freddy Krueger uses on his victim, a)
Dustin Hoffman; b) Jack Nicholson; c)
puck chaser; d) Carl Bernstein or e)
“ranks right up there with the Mountie
and the beaver,“ eh?

Wayne Gretzy (It‘s a sports and
leisure question, so what were you

Years before Nicole Kidman followed
suit, whose daughter married Danny
Keogh, the son of a Scientologist?

You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog,
and oh what a cruel one at that.
But you always love me tender when
I’m caught bouncing on Oprah’s living
room trampoline.

*Category key
PER: Personalities 
ENT: Entertainment
NEW: In The News
TL: That’s Life
SL:  Sports & Leisure
WC: Wild Card

Friday, December 21, 2018


Trivial Pursuit (1980’s Version) #1

Who did Teddy Kennedy say he admired
for not getting involved involved in the 
Reagan administration?

Ronald Reagan 

Taylor Swift?

Taylor Dayne

What Disney character, whose video
was released in the early 80s, is first
cousin (at least) to the present day
ruler of the free world?


What body part did Ronald Reagan
have skin cancer removed from in
1985, 1986 and 1987?

His nose

What kind of juice, with puts, was
thrown up ad nauseum in The
Witches of Eastwick?

The Juice, Juice Newton and 
Oran Juice Jones

What Billy Joel song most closely 
depicted the future of American
politics with the lyric “…but it just
may be a lunatic you’re looking for…”


*Category key
PER: Personalities   
ENT: Entertainment
NEW: In The News
TL: That’s Life
SL:  Sports & Leisure
WC: Wild Card

Tuesday, December 18, 2018


Swami Swami
Bing Bong
Gina Lollo-

You never get a
second chance
to make a first
impression is
not always one
hundred per-
cent accurate.
For example,
it occurs on
plenty an 
occasion that,
with but the firm
handshake you
share with a
new acquaint-
ance, you can 
sense (or even
“know”), at
times visc-
erally, that
this hand
belongs to
destined to
become a men-
tor, a primary
confidante, your
best friend and/or
long-term lover,
if not life-long
partner. With
one firm shake
of the hand.
That’s all it can
take to discover
one with whom, for
each passing week
to follow, you’ll en-
joy hours of titillat-
ing, salon-like, deep
and pressing conver-
sations that inspire
not just the two of
you, but all of the
friends you accum-
ulate simply by vir-
tue of the celebrity-
like charisma you as
a duo command,
wherever you hap-
pen to be.  And
after the throngs
are enlightened by
these educational 
romps, what will
follow are con-
versations until 
deep into the 
night, or more 
often than not, 
into the early 
morning as the 
light begins to 
glimmer about 
and the local
birdsong is in 
full fare, with 
just the two of 
you; more end-
less, captive, 
seismically mind-
blowing, career-
enhancing, and
even more pass-
ionate than the
earlier round-
table engage-
ments, filled the
laughter of gleeful
repartee, replete 
with flirtation, eso-
teric mind-games,
and just enough
slight disagree-
ment that either
of you can triumph-
antly sway the
other at least
slightly in the
other’s direction.
These evenings
will see the con-
sumption of scads 
of middle- to upper-
range-priced bottles 
of wine (because your
new best friend has
an expansive cellar,
and knows just the 
places – or can ascer-
tain in a jiffy – to find
the best spirits at 
bargain prices, being 
friends with vintners,
bulk traders and 
sommaliers world-
wide).  These nights
are libido-ridden
and rife with com-
pelling import,
which must be dis-
cussed at length –
and soon, of course, 
and plans are quickly 
made to do just that,
right before you stag-
ger out the door and 
into the the filtered
rays of a sunrise, rays
that dance toward you 
from heaven (or there-
abouts) and are inter-
spersed with patchy 
ing fog.  Then, after
happily walking for
a while, and emerg-
ing from a final 
patch of fog just 
rotund enough to
encapsulate you
and your momen-
tary fantasy, you
are brought back
to the here and 
now, back to this
first encounter 
with whom you 
are by now more 
certain than the 
intimate connec-
tion the flesh of
a couple of palms 
during a firm hand-
shake. That moment
when you are clear 
of the imminence
of what will be a 
lifetime connection,
which will expand 
beyond that first 
electric grip each 
day henceforth.
It all begins
with this 15 or
20 minute mo-
ment during 
which your 
spine tingles
with anticipation
of what will come.
And then you trade
cards, your new
best friend pro-
mises a call with-
in a week or two
to follow up with
something or other
so that you can 
be gifted a back-
channel to a man
whom you asolute-
ly must contact 
immediately, for 
whatever upward-
moving reason. 
And as your new 
soulmate fades 
into the crowd 
and the conver-
sation still re-
sounds in your 
head, you’re 
nothing short 
of giddy with 
prospect, pal-
pably sonic
with relevance,
when mere 
minutes pre-
vious it (your
head) was 
clogged, stag-
nating with
awareness of
the insignifi-
cance of your
life, which has 
now become of 
grave importance
to you as you 
pocket your
new power-
mate’s card
and bid an
Farewell un-
til next week 
(or so), so sat-
isfied with the
assurance that
you’ve found
a new mentor
for business
and social
ventures and
who knows
what intriguing
partnerships and
adventure to come.

However, of course,
your new acquaint-
ance, the unbeknownst
burgeoning co-conspir-
ator you’ve imagined,
after mere moments 
of gliding through 
many admirers, 
stopping to speak 
at any and all 
occasion along 
the way, may 
quite possibly, 
by the end of
the evening, if 
not sooner, have,
like many others
before, completely
forgotten you and 
your life-altering 
moment; may
even, perhaps
never again
register a
glimpse of
a memory
of you or
your first
and only
in memory.
Not once.
Not ever.

Swami Swami
Bing Bong
Gina Lollo-