Saturday, August 29, 2009

थे लेंग्थ ऑफ़ थे ROAD

No beginning or end with little respite or separation between; this treadmill adds inches to already accumulating baggage (and it started as such a glorious day!).

Can this be sane?

Dig the scene; dirty windas down in open celebration, 21 gun salute, brothers-n-arms ripping down THEE 'merican hiiiiiiiiigh-way, pumping diverse stereo soundwaves, capable of almost anything... 'cept dealing wit Tha Man...

You've just left South Station said the sign; where they fighting for every square inch, lump & bump, axe ta grind, before our puttering vehicle is shuttled down another side-street-dump lot- littered with graffiti and fast food laser-light beams,

We come to an even brighter clearing. The bird had landed. Men working.

We come upon a yellow booth, peeled stickers splattered, automatically it spits out a yellow ticket. There is a stranger lurking in the background beside a sign that reads: Everyone Pays a Toll! We gaze up into two black coals that do not seem to share our propensity for the possibilities of a brand new day, but lend what we can for support.

"Pretend to play," I say, or was that just a thought? Lonely island eyes need sumpin' on a road to nowhere.(Making it through another day of gray, handlin' people and they change; consumed by toxic waste is no way to spend a day!).

Then...finally...we were free! Ticket to ride safe and snug, held under the notion of Democracy in the felt visor...Zeppelin vibe climbing...passengers vibing, a la Kerouac and Cassidy on the open road. Miles stretching. Blazin' sun sending messages of colour and vibration down a tingly spine while the hairs stand on end. We set forth toward the flaming horizon.

The music continues to rise above a spotted jungle of concrete vipers vying... "cryin won't help ya...praying wont do ya no good..."

Pines line, straight, in a stretch on both sides of the road...-gazing down, mildly concerned, parents gathered 'round the cluttered roadside remains, scattered, as the traffic slips on by unaware...

Neatly outlined in and among the design, members of the BSP, on the move, winding the traveler's way, watching that prized possesion slowly slip, slide and fade away, lost behind the night clouds settling in, released from another burning sky... Say goodbye!

Hey wait, in a flash, was that just the ticket? Question...confusion...panic...why had it flown out the window? We were good people...looking one to the other, up to where the ticket had once been and back again. How could this happen? Wasn't this road paid for anyway?

Holy Darwin! What were the immediate plans for survival?Question...confusion...panic... That orange and violet sure is streaming....when the clouds move...dancing in diamonds and peer-row-wettin on the shore of new lands...

While we sit at a total had all turned out wrong! Where had the open road gone? The ability to walk alone in unfamililar territory, barefoot, if only to taste the passing winds? Could we ever get it back again?

Everything may appear normal but it's not...passing a boxcar Volvo and then, whirling into the middle lane, an irridescent V-dubs van pays us little mind, smoke escaping.

Where do angels go when they know it's time to fly the coop? Suddenly to be filled to the gills with a glow that quickly becomes a sea of cherry red break lights impeding the flow, rupturing any chance for immediate gain or security, much less serenity. ...unto a silent soliliquy... Out of the question! We shall see 'bout redemption...speeding to pass through hoops and iron crested carefully crafted parameters: time honored art as form to hang on a mantle and greet the people with rigid lines and a fee; a wicked design with a new promise for a betta toe-maw-ra!

We pull up alongside a giant winda and the vehicle comes to a stop. We gaze into a tiny green tank. The machine, a late edition model of the infamous Big Pig, huffs and puffs but does not blow us down. There is a woman in her late 40's, road weary, caked with makeup and oversized jewlery who bends down low, illustrating a decrepit timeline, before hissing,

"Ze teek-ut!"

"Yaaaaz, Mumma Sez-Main, can you even try to understand?"

It wasn't beginning well...

"When we left South station on this here, bee-you-to-full day to do nothing but play....a proclamation if you'll allow Ma'am-"

"-Ze teek-cat, verst!"

Slow ennunciation.... wicked ways...we were in for it... Wasn't this road paid for?

"Ze teek-cat, or, veil charge, lungth uv road. No teek-cat? None?"

It was with our last Lincoln parted that we rode on in silence. The Length of the road?

...and it seems like we've been paying for it eva since...

Friday, August 21, 2009


It was upon old haunts we came upon again and again, the foliage in full flush, breathtaking scenery not quite captured in a hush.

Familiar jaunts down memory lane, beside the burning bush and exquistely manicured lawns stretching for what seemed like miles... weary eyes staring back through dotted window frames. Blank and scattered, hurried, lost in mileage backing up the physical form. Present but not accounted for. One hurling mass darting glances at irridescent flashes from message machines that light the skies. We pass by pigeons pecking the ground; ever on watch, picking at crumbs...vigilance a common dependent of surivival...hunger.

Creative power points to projections of clear consciousness and communication without hesitation.

What is this non physical form?

Certainly not to have and hold, but rather to cultivate and coax. It was the eve of McCartney @ Fenway; internal soil oils bubbling liquid overflow...when news came down from the wire...

Call me. Think you have good news coming....

Whatever could this mean?(Sox were in the Bronx...which proved to be the end of the Smoltz Boston.)

Like the precious jewel, hidden and long since hoarded, was about to be
revealed. Had synergism, or the joint action of agents grabbed hold of reason? Or worse still...blind emotion run amuck? With a little luck...we Could all be ridding toxins along a disjointed way...

Snake eyes! That's it! This could be a disguise. Tread lightly...

What would he want me to do? Thinking of course, the set of skills would be sharpened and ready for most anything a night in the city ken bring a sailor of these 7 seas...including, but not limited to a midget pleading for assistance at the bottom of a barstool, the characters in no condition...

"...ah...little help here!"

This same wingman on a road full of kicks...tricks run like Prince at the Palladium: The Tiny Purple Dot. We managed to rustle balcony seats in the last row behind all the beautiful people so the chipped ceiling was well within pickin' reach, though we did manage to keep a pre-show appointment with a friendly pharmacist, who turned out, afterall, to be a friend...before exciting post haste.

"Ya gut 30 minutes...if that! On your way boys."

Then it was at Dylan in the same city of Woosta tolerating rampart jabberwackey inside the parking lot jamboree...from a man/boy, ________, the not so closet Dylan freak.

"Those are the exact socks he wore in Hartford!"

Peak into the eye of the animal and an element of surprise may be duly attained by the observer within a shadow of a doubt.

Many mouths dropped open in surprise at that one but by now I had grown past the point of eager...ready was willing to be informed as citizen to justly determine what this here hullabaloo was all about.

I yearned for what had yet to be revealed and decided to take a stroll.

Outside the sun was shining and there was music in every direction. Birds were singing in trees with no leaves barely concealed. "It Aint Easy" blaring from a Chevy. The original "Signs", coming from the postman's trolley truck saddled by the side of the curb.

I passed a neon coloured kite held captive in a naked tree. The tails of the kite, a bright yellow and lime green, tangled and torn...left to bake in the sun (aging as we go in the know)fallen leaves appear to be nothing more than a kite contained, restrained, not allowed to fly...only to wonder why dreams do die...knowing all the while it comes from the smile.

...but where did it go? By the time I get to Arizona...I'll havata buy a new hat!

I'd need more than was time to go back. Returning to the funny farm it came to be the mind was wide open so I made the necessary adjustments.

What was hombre gunna say?

Yes, this is a bit south of sanity, maybe even casually corrupt, but if only to interrupt a mania mind of mazes frying in the desert.

"You sure you don't know? I thought-"

"With the prelude building by the moment, I'm sure I don't know Frantastic!"

Wait...strike that! We've run amuck once or twice...

Once fuss and reflectivity came to be, it was determined 4 brothers were to be duly engaged in harmony at the aformentioned Fenway for sunday night baseball against the Yanks in addition to Paul McCartney the following evening. Could this be true?

Less than one hour later:

1. The McCartney countdown had begun
2. Reality was beginning to settle.
3. Two Fenway treks
a. with a band of brothers.
b. Mom, Pops, Jr.

The voicemail eye turns red. It was my blood brother Lenny (not his real name!). No really. Everyone has called him Lenny since about 8 or 10, being a pet project of a relative on my creative side...though we do digress....

It seems by his message, Lenny is packing free airfare and a ticket with his big brother's name on it to the USC/ASU game in November. Keep in mind I have never been to Arizona; hence the mantra, By The Time I Get Arizona! (He has lived out there for 8 years).

Each experience, McCartney (Aug 6th, the Sox/Yanks , and finally, Arizona to see his condo and meet the black lab in person, have come strictly through goodwill. By the time I get to Arizona, I may need to rethink my stance on scorpions! Forget counting your change...always check your shoes!

Most people say enough for tons of men. Then again, there are those who don't say much...looking...listening...learning....deep in touch with the sands of faraway lands. Perhaps that one understands strife and struggle, borrowing the physical form to be considered lucky.


Wednesday, August 12, 2009


Brothers and Sisters. Members of the congregation...I feeeel alright...

Welcome to the final edition in this series of Blues Alley: Crème de la crème.

Seventh heaven comes to be in Blues progression when it sets up the turn-a-round for the chorus to build. Then everyone takes a turn. Soon the peoples get loose and see a glimpse of the light 'fore the catch the foist train home. My whole life has been one big fight; tryin ta do what might be right, cornered in a back alley with, listen, who, if you just haaad ta...laying claim to a name...could and would u place at the HEAD of BLUES RUSHMORE?

Now we aint talkin 'bout hoisting stone and mortar or any other such materials or even shelling out $989,992.32 clams time's Eternity's rate of inflation, not to mention the time and effort it took to make the original Mount let's press rewind.

No, here we're talkin' a bit more simply, as George Harrison was fond of uttering in complete animation,

"It's all in the mind!"

Well...lawd have mercy on me! It could go so many ways. We could spend days. It seems some bills can't never be paid... I'm afraid. So lend me your ears and I'll bring you a song and I'll try not to fry my own feet.

Wait a minute....strike that! I'd furnish socks.

Back to business! O lugnuts, who could represent an imaginary isle given American Musical History and your Blues education? The Washington to your Lincoln, Jefferson to a Roosevelt respectively...if you please! Shine your lovelight...let it shine on me! Widespread interest has come to be as far back as the pages of history....

"Everybody unnerstain the old fashioned country blue."
-Albert King

The bells have tolled my baby done caught that train and gone. Broadcast far and wide where the soul of a man, scrapping to claw, never dies, but lies at the precise point intersecting two roads where Lucifer reportedly fine tunes the six string to make her sing like a slothful king. Life by the drop. Drumroll please. What was the original creator of Mount Rushmore, Gutzon Borglum thinking, limiting the sculptures to just four heads?

Don't he know the range from Mississippi to Chicago on your way to Texas? Juss how we 'posed to pull this caper off...considering the moral compass and personal financial expenses?

Yet, there is one thing you do not know...I am left handed.

From somewhere deeper than the mouth of the Mississippi our 4 Heads could easily be...that street hustler playing for tips-trying to steal your wife, if only for an hour, Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, Elmore James, and the crawlin' king snake, John Lee. It could be and I wish I could stop. But, hell-bounds on my trail.

Come on in my kitchen! Quit your _________! Sounds like the good vibe tribe would do just fine celebrating trials and the tribulations with a soul smile more than a few miles wide; paying homage to those with little paint, fluff or powder; down-home, a substance fandango spread thru ought shady juke joints all across the Mississippi Delta.

Aint a river that runs deeper. No-one comes by it any cheaper...bloodsoil!

Do it one more-time all around with that sound for the body and mind! But what about Albert King and T-bone Walker? Little Walter? Bo Diddley and the poet laurette, Willie Dixon...doesn't everyone even slightly familiar with the Blues know a Willie Dixon tune, indirectly through Foghat, or the Violent Femmes, or Gnarls Barkley? And what about, for the intent of practical purpose, our founder, WC Handy? How far should we go back?

It never hurts to search...upon breakthrough.

BB and Freddy King could play and sing (just BB can't do them at the same time). There's Mr. Moanin' At Midnight, Howling Wolf standing tall at 6"6.

Yikes! Ken you imagine a 60 foot sculpture depicting the oversized dome of Howlin' sitting on top of the Dakota skyline looking down?

Some say the Wolf sang with his whole soul and owned two of the biggest feets you ever did see comin' 'cross the globe; built for comfort...he wasn't built for speed. Allowing for the natural course of erosion...that could turn out to be some 1,278.45 acres of mojo rising...5,725 feet above sea level!

...and to tell you the truth, Ruth, I been down so would look like up to me.

Is it any wonder Black Elk sought solace on his spiritual journey in the Black Hills region of South Dakota? The only thing more to the point of our purposes here in Blues Alley would be to "see" T-Bone Walker leading "Blind" Lemon Jefferson 'round Deep Ellum in 1923!

"Get on baw, drunken hearted mans fine!"

...'long as you unnerstan a sabbatical to a holy land featuring smooth fine granite, terrestrial mammals and songbirds singing into the infinite sunshine streching another endless day. COMPLETE SILENCE. Envision the Gran Pooh-bahs, but watch out for kie-oats and that moonlight rising through the pines at it shines atop the basin brooks for what seems like Eternity. Rest assured, George W. will not be invited to the dedication ceremonies any time soon.

Aint that nice?

The notes of Blues music, rooted firmly in the face of any honest soul, is an American art form which, some agree, gave birth to rock and roll and influenced such major artists as Led Zeppelin, Eric Clapton, Bob Dylan, and the Rolling Stones.

I've been born under a bad sign long as my right arm, so as a word of advice: never accept an open bottle of whiskey! Straight from the magic mouth of Sonny Boy Williamson. Bring it on home.

People out there trying to get some sleep. I'm out making my...midnight creep. Every old place I go...far as I ken see...possession over judgment day may be construed as lunacy; my Momma done did the best she could.

Without further ado...I bring to you: The Grand Poo-bahs!

1. ROBERT JOHNSON reportedly sold his soul to the devil and the 1986 film, Crossroads, has done nothing but enhance this myth. He is considered the grandfather of rock and roll.

His style of raw delta blues with an ingenious blend of country blues featuring boogie woogie piano bass-lines, tasty finger-picking and energetic slide guitar bits certainly put's him above most without question.

His vocal rangings soaring in falsetto and creative guitar stylings have influenced a broad range of musicians including the great, Muddy Waters and a gangly albino, who happens to be a road weary sidekick, named Johnny Winter, not to mention countless others!

The live fast die young motif has certainly not hurt his ever growing legend either. Eric Clapton has called Robert Johnson "the most important blues singer that ever lived!" and ranks #5 in Rolling Stones 100 Greatest Guitarists of all Time.

On September 17th, 1994 the U.S. Post Office issued a Robert Johnson 29-cent commemorative postage stamp.

Blues falling down like hail!

1990-The Complete Recordings: Get 'em!

Key Tracks-Sweet Home Chicago, Cross Road Blues, Hellbound On My Trail. Love In Vain.

See also: Peter Green Splinter Group, Eric Clapton, John Hammond, the train when it leaves the station...

Without 2. WILLIE DIXON there would be a lot less popular music worth remembering. Not only an accomplished bassist, arranger, and talent scout, Dixon, with an uncanny ability to craft a popular song, played a huge role in creating the Chicago Blues scene along with Muddy Waters and Howling Wolf.

Dixon was also a Golden Gloves Heavyweight Champion (and Joe Louis' former sparring partner) standing in at a formidable 6"5 250lbs. You shook me.

Dixon was also imprisoned for ten months as a conscientious objector for resisting the draft during WWII never mind one tireless ambassador for blues music and musicians in general.

He appears on many of Chuck Berry's early recordings, proving further linkage between the blues and the birth of rock and roll. Willie Dixon! Testify!

Some of thems...cries about it. Some of thems...dies about it.

That spoon, that spoon, that spooooonful.

Willie Dixon tunes: Marc Cohn, Howling Wolf, Areosmith, the Righteous Brothers, Willie Nelson, Tom Jones, Etta James, Albert King, Tom Petty, Jools Holland, Little Walter, Muddy Waters, The Ford Blues Band, John Hammond, George Thorogood, Jeff Beck, Sam Cooke, ZZ Top, Johnny Winter, Paul Butterfield, Elvis, Dizzy Gillespie, Los Lobos, the Kinks, The Doors, The Grateful Dead, New York Dolls, Megadeth, Shadows of Knight, Widespread Panic, Van Morrison, the Animals, Eric Clapton, the Yardbirds, Bill Haley, Sting, Jonny Rivers, Fleetwood Mac, Ten Years After, the Who, John Mayall, Little Milton, Meatpuppets, Otis Rush, Jimi Hendrix, Eric Burdon, Led Zeppelin, the Faces, Koko Taylor, Buddy Guy, SRV, Bo Diddley, the J Geils Band, Ry Cooder, Captain Beefheart, Bill Wyman's Rhythm Kings, Canned Heat, Steve Miller, the Violent Femmes, the Monkees, Foghat, Gnarls Barkley and Derek and the Dominos to name but a few notables.

and with what's left of our right mind...weighing in, thankfully, at 33% EACH...

#3a BB King opened for the Stones in 1969 and was formerly known as Beale street Blues boy, which was later shortened to BB.

This is the cat with the fluid string bend. The thrill is gone! To Know You Is To Love You. I Like To Live the Love.

Sent down from heaven above who was once a DJ in Memphis favoring Sinatra's "In the Wee Small Hours" on the playlist. Was finally allowed to perform in Vegas, shimmering in vibrato, due to the pull of old blue eyes. Will he rest in peace?

Got love if you want it.

Standing in at 6'4" 250 lbs., #3b Albert King born and bred in the same place as BB King (Indianola, Mississippi) was one philosophy of...less is more with Memphis style soul and sweeping string bends, not to mention those unorthodox tunings and relaxed vocals.

King, who started in the music scene playing the drums, was left handed and fancied the Gibson Flying V he affectionately termed "Lucy". He was also influenced heavily by Hawaiian music and taught himself by borrowing a right handed guitar and playing it upside down. He sounds in his right mind though Born under a bad sign as a Cross cut saw.

#3c Freddie King was called the Texas Cannonball and one of the first musicians to employ a multi-racial backing ground. I have a dream and his guitar parts seem to resemble a second vocal line whether in open string Texas blues or rippin raw, screamin tones West side a Chicaga.

Have you ever loved a woman? Then you know juss what I'm talkin about. Hide away.

King possessed an aggressive finger attack could be seen as an understatement.

Mentioned in Grand Funk Railroad's tune, "We're An American Band" as they were touring heavily together at that point.

Sadly, the world lost Freddie King at the age of 42 to heart failure.

Up coming dates to watch: September 3rd,1993 was declared Freddie King day.

...AND thee grand pooh-bah...#4 MUDDY WATERS defined the small Blues combo sound in the 1950's and Delta Blues gone electric...period! Incidentaly he started out on Harmonica and his heroes include Son House and Robert Johnson. Big Bill Broozy helped Muddy break into the Chicago Music scene who in turn returned the favor to Chuck Berry.

BB King considers Muddy the godfather of the blues if not the father of American music. Along with Willie Dixon, Muddy inspired the British Blues explosion led by a man named Eric Clapton, who was followed closely by Peter Green and one John Mayhall Bluesbreaker. Then they told a few friends...

It is as simple as ken be...if you don't like the peaches....please don't shake my tree. Minutes seem like hours. Hours seem like days.

These words, sung in a thick, heavy voice with supreme tone, could cause an otherwise balanced man to silently wonder in moments alone.

Ringing out through a Marshall amp in a crowded club ever reverberating and searching for just the right sound, ever mind when he pulled out that slide.

Deep and simple. Profound.

A Professional Band Leader.

Bring the sound down and we ken work with it. Plus, Muddy played with better bands: Little Walter, Jimmy Rogers, the king of blues piano, Otis Spann, and Pinetop Perkins not to mention, he was a Rooollin Stone.

FYI: In 1994 the U.S. Postal Service issued a commemorative stamp of Muddy Waters.

Key Tracks-Hoochie Coochie Man. Mannish Boy. I'm ready. Country Blues. Screamin and Cryin'. Got my Mojo Working. Howlin' Wolf. Long Distance Call. I Just Want To Make Love To You.

Suggested Reading-Live At Mr. Kelly's. Eletric Mudd. Live at Newport. Poland 1976. 1973 with BB King in Ebbetts Field.

Thats it. There aint no more. Whether you in a crowded room or all alone. Take it to the limit and bring it on home!

Sunday, August 9, 2009


There is no identity without crisis, it is what sets the bar. For Shazmis-sakes vultures and rodents, back off! This isn't a free for all circus nothing being to yuse. It is real and alive blossoming each and every day. There's nothing new to the sharks but their views and nothing further to say.

Common thread and theme becomes untied in purpose losing steam and focus. Henceforth, we market not only plausability 'round here in Petersville; but a spirit at the heart of innovation; ideas being chosen as a window of medium.

It began one summer a smoky downstairs room.

"This working for the man is for the birds. It must be a test. There's never enough. I can't get no rest..."

Sales-minded corner intelligence plants another seed, but work it girl like you was one of the shining stars in the sky, like honey to a hive in a swarm of bee buzzings. Forecast abominable. Gray skies with eyes of the same color presented before the maker, measured in terms of functionality and reliability. A code of honor setting up factories and strip malls upon the instant. This is your general public. Strung out downtown on greasy street corners infected like roach ridden addicts of habit...

Funny you see ida been waiting on me fix as you stood, hovering above and around, like a proud silver shroud from a ghost parenting the past, displaying the wonder wears of shrewd invention. How long will this onslaught last? A business proposal off the clock? What'd she say, this here saint, 'bout the man? Lemme try and understand.

I-nap and dream the precise location to stuff a footsie where levitation and humanity could be part of the process....i.e. the old fashioned lottery according to Shirley Jackson; to lay claim where insurance couldn't possibly mask as a cover for grief and finally, a land where one can fall safely asleep without a direct threat to indemnity. Get 'em off me man!

The invention being a comfort pillow complete with i-pod placement and various computer odds and ends to make for long travel. Would liability prevent every footsie from ever leaving the ground, stability being the name of the game as I-nap and you've just pulled the Joker? Or could safety be a harness and a headrest, perhaps with a long winded warranty that could do little for the rest of the majority wavering upon the next impending cliff? How much would that rent? Keep in mind the upcoming long week-end.

From the above in the notion of Love to come in nick of time...during the last all star game in the house that Ruth built-gala celebration-household names blowing a child's mind! Ripken. Ryne Sandberg. Rod Carew.

This presentation, though decidely stout was accurately ill-timed, but does represent a strong desire to infiltrate a virus; this being the word of the Saint,

"We muss break free from said chains of Man and machinery (though potentially creating new wicked wandering webs...drat!), which, if you like to swing a dick, is a twisted trick, but anything that jumps back at the Man is to be commended and recommended like a light brunch, late on Sunday morning.

Before the rush of afternoon tennis has a chance to settle the soul, even for a moment."

The filter has a tendency to run off kilter and no-one likes a rulebreaker, hence the term "ballbreaker," but Miss Eyeville Squakmore, fer sure, no-one wa wanta marry hah! That dirty verbal whore, someone we may all know as not so fictitious that never does get to shutting up, scouring 4 quarters of this watered down world with buttons, and flaming billboards and an everpresent bullhorn, springing upon every indecent angle; carving stone tablets to sell as clay to the market of the soul.

"Rape me....rape me, my friend..."

Isn't there more than a few special someones that resemble that remark? Lite brite. Black and decker. Perhaps the infamous Christopher Sly, playing 'round in the park after dark as a lark to tell the jealous wife? Talk about a dick-swinger. He want's to go on Safari to hunt the white elephant for nothing more than fun! Betcha he don't have the guts to pull the trigger. Sour puss! It being as it was...somehow Seymour keeps meeting 'em, from sea to shining sea, taken on the good word as advice, but then there are the bills to lend, loan and buy. What ta do foist...dat dere a rickety boat we aint had 'nough gum four fa years...whatchu wanna do Boss?

"free, free, set them free...O..."

Those rat bastards have pimped Madre Magedlyne's last dime, clucking like turkeys at the backyard bake sales, lining up on the city streets for first dibs; remiscent of a fuster cluck much unlike the order of your average beehive. Talk about buzzing! This is something out of the Enves, where nothing seems to sasafy...fussing over property and possession, even though theys all making more than their fair share of meat pies!

(See full story developing in petty affairs with a strong backlash of meaningless swill and all the pain, rain and pus developing leaky sores with lasting effects. Further details to come after the trail on this coming campaign train.)

What in the world could be missin? More than originally thought possible? Has time and space permanently decomposed this vegetable shredder?

This offer good until..

Would you like to mention what was true about our original intentions? Would it go capture the white elephant wandering off in creation, if only to hang it's head in a hall? Rhetorical ravement? There is the poteniality but that's a deal set verbally. Scrivenings are word worthy but hesitation prevents any attempt at inclusion...the reason is visual...picture a ruffled mutt with a bad case of the stew pulling with them lumpy front paws as the backside creates friction and leaky residue drops in between the sands of time...

Beware of dat dawg cuz Atticus done shooting for now...

The appropriate creation will certainly call time and the right minds into space...but what if for every seven dog years there is only crime and social dicease? The same situations day after day? Truth tempered by circumstance? What then? Rigidity may, in fact, stunt all evolution; witness atrophy before your very eyes! Which leads right back to Seymoure Grime and all the filth he has witnessed in his time. Absolute horese-shaz. It's as if he's a magnet for this type of hallaballo!In fact, just the other day, after stopping for that daily cup of coffee, filler up, Seymour got behind a huge pile of manure trapped in a ten-ton truck...there was nothing that could change his luck, try as he might. It was like a gathering of the nuts with a pocket full of holes...everything seems so light as his mind began to wander, as it intends to do from time to time. What was worth listening to? Time was quite valuable...

Mr Grime pressed on, despite the obvious disadvantages of traveling behind strong wafts of rising horse-shaz on a hot Summer's day.

"Take him to the office. Pay direct deposit."

Following the lumbering beast clear from Bummer's corner in the proud center of Petersville with the snazzy lawn ornaments, and the green grass and the everpresent advertisement, past the offices, the ten ton tanker finally pulling to the right, without so much as a signal, much to Seymour's delight, who was not about to be late for a day of counting, which for a census bureau boardmember 13 years running, would not be looked upon favorably by the established members on the board. Numbers were crucial to the operation and tardiness, even once, would not be was far too outside the box for longevity purposes.

Accelerating past the truck, turning a metaphorical corner if the audience could only be eager and just ascertain. Seymour frowned, throwing a, "fin-nah-leee...."and the fugly uckey face in the trucker's entitled direction high on up.

Being a taxpayer in Petersville for many years, Seymour Grime, well aware, topping out just under 38m.p.h with the beat up Chevy, that Sargeant Heavy could be lying in wait, in the thick of things by the bushes at the bottom of the hill, which might be mistaken for a grassy knoll and he an ovesized, greedy troll salivating...Sure enough, the bird had landed and there was Heavy, stashed in the hideout, absolutely oblivious, his fat ass out of position, away from the cruiser, a burly potatoe shaped back hunched away from the direction of the approaching pick up.

With an less than a precise about face, talk about weight displacement, Heavy, whirling in many different directions, views a gray shitbox rattling down the hill, tooting and misfiring like Chitty Bang Be Gone going nowhere fast.

The officer rises with difficulty from his knees.

" ova. You! Yes! Ova!"

The officer's white glove, the opposite of his flushed mug, wildly pointing to a dusty shoulder across the street, where he now stands pressed snugly into ruffled uniform heaving, huffing and puffing in shiny bangles.

The ten ton clunker passes, back in the flow of traffic not more than moments later, a wide smile passing for the trucker from the officer, still busy catching his breath.

Seymour, calculating, head down, methodical, given a break in the action, figures the exact number of minutes to spare before his illustrious name is disparaged.

It must be all business with the minutes and seconds busy ticking away...approaching near ether recesses of the red zone.

"What could this Nazi want?"

"What you thrashing down myyyy hill faw, baaaw?"

Riding this wave lately of badluck unto the all mighty mercy, Mr Grime was more than a bit surprised at this unprovoked outburst.

When Heavy arrived on the scene in the face of Mr Grime seconds later the smile had all but disappeared as hhe watched the effects of his words center the situation.

There was a long drawn sigh outside the vehicle...Petersville had always proposed a peaceful community and anyone with half a hedgehog knew Heavy harvested crop in that very bush annually, so what could be the sense in speeding? Just for the sake of a surcharge?

Mr. Grime, precise by rote and routine, would not take the bait of being spoken to in a manner befitting a chimp and busied himself to fiddling with was always about the may not be too late...will they wait...I can make this dealine if it kills me...

Before offering aloud to the officer, "I'd been trailing that very clunker rightaways, when the first rays of shine set me free from the road..."

"Wait one cotton-tailed minute Son! Easy Mr Free, we aint wide-eyed looking for a sucka. Tell me how'd jew git in fraana the ten ton? Theyse no break in the action down these parts. We gonna need to see, License and registration."

"He pulled into Mydream-"

"Noo-eeeh didant..Mistah...Grime! That street aint near big enough for that type a truck!"

With that Sargent Heavy, Seymour Grime, information in hand, disengaged, the officer dodging the passing traffic across the street, who have now begun gawking at the misery of Mr. Grime. A thousand clouded lives, each thankful their vehicles were free to go.

It was those lasting glances, if only for a fleeting second, that really burned Seymour, who was beginning not to believe in the notion of justice. Listen to all those voices...look what you done to your day... sucka...betta look for a new job...try to combine a vast array of skills with that person on an updated resume available immediately...

----Stay tuned for the 2nd edition in the Fishbowls and Shaz