Harry B. Sanderford

For The Birds

2011-12-05T11:46:00.000-08:00

Harry B. Sanderford

Ray jerks his head around quickly and sees nothing but the same sad drinkers. He’s attended too many of these wakes over the last couple of years. Each time he reminds himself to begin living each day as if it were his last. Life’s so unpredictable. Just look at Miles, or Frosty before him. Nobody ever sees it coming. Well, maybe you could see it coming for Frosty. The point is, life is short, man. Nobody on his death bed, regrets not working more. You only go around once, so stop and smell the roses. Clichés all, sure, but he means it each time. And each time, as time goes by, best intentions fade and life falls back into dull routine. It’s not so bad really, it’s comfortable. Living each day like it’s your last is exhausting. If you spent every day climbing mountains or jumping out of airplanes, you might truly wish to spend your last day in your bathrobe eating freezer pizza and watching Netflix. He whips his head back around only to see Miles’ Uncle Paul hoist his hi-ball. Ray nods and returns the salute.

Lately he’s been catching flashes in his peripheral vision, fleeting glimpses he can never catch in full, spectral shadows scuttling just out of sight. They began right after Frosty twisted his motorcycle into a mesquite stump down in old Mexico. Ray could not explain their nature; not visions exactly, but if not visionary, surely cautionary. It would be loco to speak of them, so he keeps them to himself. A sparrow (or was it a bat?) darts from the corner of his eye too fast to draw a bead on but trails in its slipstream a foreboding of gathered vultures roosting beyond the periphery. He tosses the last inch of whisky back and slams his glass down on the bar with a resounding bang. Now, all the other heads in attendance swing around.

He has everyone’s undivided attention, so it’s as good a time as any. He wants to say something about his friend. Something uplifting he hopes, but it is not what’s in his heart. He considers and rejects standard platitudes. He especially hates that consolation prize: At least he died doing what he loved.

Ray had been first to find Frosty. Well not the first exactly. He couldn’t have been more than a few minutes behind when he rode up to find Frosty crumpled in a lifeless heap. The carrion birds were already on the ground, waiting for him to cool. He pulled his cell from his back pack and called Miles, told him to bring the truck. Then he pulled his pistol from the pack and shot every buzzard already on the ground and each new one drawn to the carcasses as they landed. He had to reload.

Miles drowned on a head high day at Calafia, a break he knew well and a swell that was big enough to be fun but not particularly dangerous for a surfer of Miles’ experience. Ray had been out with Miles but couldn’t save him. Even as he tried, seagulls inched closer.

Memo for Last Will & Testament: The thing I loved most about that thing I loved...is it never killed me! After that, it’s over between me and that thing I loved. You have to draw the line somewhere.

Ray decides to wing it.

“Friends...,” he begins and then dodges abruptly to his left, swatting wildly. He does not connect with the pelican poltergeist and in missing, spins himself all the way around. The other mourners follow his antics unblinking and to their credit, with a minimum of chittering. Embarrassed but determined, he composes himself. “Our friend Miles lived life hard…” he resists the urge to drop to the ground, gripping the bar and closing his eyes until he is sure a great blue heron has found a perch behind him. “…Miles feared nothing and no one...” he soldiers on but something is not right.

The other mourners, mostly family and friends that have known him since he, Miles and Frosty were kids, are looking at him differently somehow. He feels the odd one out, they are different but the same. It is he who is alien. Their eyes, no longer damp, are red but not from crying. They are sharp now, penetrating and focused on him. Awaiting his words they cock their heads from side to side in unison and stare unblinking with those eyes, blood red now and shiny as beetles. Ray’s apprehension, once limited to avian apparitions twitching at the edges, has turned to full centered dread. Uncle Paul regards his diminished hi-ball, no longer raised in encouragement, narrows his gaze and pecks at the last cube of ice in the glass.

* image above by Terrie Boruff Yeatts
borrowed from Artmenow's Blog
http://artmenow.wordpress.com/

Luke & Abby...So far

2011-10-17T17:33:00.000-07:00

Dark thunderheads loomed menacingly on the horizon throughout the afternoon and upon Luke's arrival at Abby’s house made good on their threat delivering well spaced dime size drops of rain that sent him dashing for her porch. Abby had prepared herself to endure dinner, perhaps a movie, whatever it took to appease her mother and possibly curtail any future efforts towards resurrecting her love life. It had been 18 months since she and Jack split up and her mother had decided it was high time she, get back out there. When her mom’s friend Trudy mentioned that her nephew was home from Iraq, her fate and this date were sealed. Her new suitor barely stood a chance.

"You must be Luke," she offered in greeting.

"And you must be Abby. Y’all ready?” Luke asked.

“As I’ll ever be, I reckon,” Abby shrugged.

Luke grinned and opened his jacket wide for her to duck under.

“My aunt tells me you’re a singer,” Luke was first to break the silence of the ride. He thought he detected a slight blush in Abby’s fair complexion. His aunt had not exaggerated when promoting her as pretty. Her hair was too red to be called auburn but was not that orangey hair that’s often called red. Her eyes were a deep shade of green and so far had not met his own. He did not know that she wasn’t wearing underwear or that the blush that rouged the tops of her ears was not out of shyness but of anger at her mother’s meddling. “I just sing in the Midbrook Presbyterian choir on Sundays,” she said modestly. But in fact she had a beautiful voice and had often dreamed of singing professionally.

“Where are we going?” she asked hoping to steer the conversation away from herself. They'd turned left onto State Road 16 from the graded road that led away from her house. A right would have taken them into Midbrook. It wasn’t much but it passed for civilization in these parts. Scratch the movie she figured, they were heading towards Burnett where their choices would be between the Dairy Queen and Lulu’s Bar and Grill. It should really be renamed Lulu’s Bar and Microwave since a grease fire had closed the kitchen 6 years before. Abby was resigned to an evening of Slim Jims, Beernuts and remaining unimpressed.

"I was thinkin’ if it’s okay with you, we could ride on over to Weaver and have a look around.” Weaver was the county seat and 17 miles beyond the turnoff for Burnett. Abby only visited Weaver to re-stock household staples at the warehouse grocer or when she needed something from the new Home Depot. Weaver also had a variety of restaurants, a new mall with a multiplex theater, and a night life that wouldn’t have to include shuffleboard or darts. A trip to Weaver with no attached errand held promise. “Sounds like fun,” she said relaxing a bit. Luke’s quick smile loosened her resistance another notch.

Luke reached down and switched on the pickup’s radio...erectile dysfunction effects one in...cringing, he gave the knob a twist...MY MONEY,MY BITCHES,MY...then one more again half-spin...take another little piece of my heart now Bay-bee...finally. Janis worked for him, he gave a sideways glance and detecting no objection thumbed the volume up a touch. Returning his attention to the road, Luke was dumbfounded to see illuminated in his headlights what appeared to be an Indian brave dressed in buckskin and war-paint, clutching the reins of his rearing pinto in one fist and thrusting his be-feathered lance into the night with the other. The truck bore down fast. In the time it took Luke to move his foot from the accelerator to the brake they were nearly upon the wayward warrior. Lightning flashed and Luke braked hard yanking the wheel right, avoiding a collision so narrowly he made eye contact with the now electric brave. Even as he fought for control of the careening vehicle, Luke’s mind etched a surreal image of the warrior on horseback, his lips peeled back in the gaping grimace of his war-cry, “Whaa-Hah uh TAKE IT!”

Luke forced the wheel back hard to the left avoiding a run of fence and sending the already fish-tailing pickup into a broadside slide along the shoulder that shot a wave of black mud into the air for forty feet before coming to rest hard against a speed limit sign.

“What in the hell..?” Abby fairly screamed.

“Are...are you okay?” Luke asked, close to losing it himself.

“Are you trying to kill us?” Abby’s fear was giving way to anger.

Luke, still gripping the steering wheel was trying to make sense of what had just transpired. “Jesus Christ, what happened?” Abby demanded.

Luke looked back to where the Indian should have been and saw nothing. He reached over and popped the glove box open, retrieved a small flask of whiskey, unscrewed the top and took a generous pull before offering the bottle to Abby. “Are you drunk, just what the hell was that all about?” she fumed...but she took the drink. Luke didn’t answer, he opened the door, stepped out of the pickup and saw the black swath the truck had cut leading all the way back to the pavement. He saw no horse. He saw no Indian.

Abby was out of the truck. The liquor might have calmed her nerves a bit but it had not quelled her anger. “Hold up there,” she demanded squaring herself in front of him. Luke knew this time she expected an answer, trouble was he had no idea what the answer might be.

“Didn’t you see?” he probed.

“See fucking WHAT ?”

Abby fed up, wound up, and hurled the flask. Luke fielded the silver projectile inches from his face and with cool he did not truly possess, calmly took another belt to buy time. She hadn’t seen it and Luke was beginning to doubt what he'd seen himself when the warrior’s image flashed again in his mind. Whaaaaa-hah-uh-TAKE IT!

“I don’t know, a dog, coyote maybe,” he lied. If she didn’t see it, and he couldn’t prove it, he wasn’t willing to be judged crazy as well as incompetent. “Damn I’m sorry, you okay?” he asked a second time.

Abby eased a little and took the flask from his hand. “I never even saw it... we missed it?” she asked before taking a sip.

“Yeah, that one got away,” Luke said reinforcing his fabrication.

“Well that’s good I...I guess. Listen, I’m sorry about freaking out on you there, I was a little scared.”

“You and me both,” he agreed.

“Are we stuck?”

“Naw, I’ve been in deeper than this. I’m afraid to look at the other side of my truck though.”

They piled in on the driver’s side, Luke would hold off surveying the passenger side damage until daylight. He started the engine and dropped the pickup in gear, the ground was soft and they showered another blast of the black earth but easily pulled away from the sign and back onto the blacktop.

“You sure you’re okay?" he asked a third time genuinely concerned.

“I’m OK. To tell you the truth I think I was over-due for a little excitement.” Abby did feel good too; alcohol and adrenalin seemed to be just what the doctor ordered.

“Well then, look out Weaver, we’re on our way and powerful thirsty,” Luke joked.

“Woo-Hoo!” Abby cheered surprising them both. Luke broke his fix on the rearview mirror and eased the clutch out sending the pickup Weaver-ward.

~*~

Jack Thacker locked the doors of Thacker Hardware at 6:00 pm. The store hours were from 7:00 am to 7:00 pm Monday through Saturday but Jack knew there would be no more customers. Even if there were it would only be Mrs. Perkins for another tube of Superglue, or Jedidiah from Eli’s Fixit needing a washer or a screw. Since the Home Depot had opened in Weaver, Jack couldn’t sell a faucet or a lockset or a power drill. If folks would rather drive thirty minutes each way and hand their money over to those evil bastards in their orange vests then fuck ‘em. He’d turn off the lights and save the electric bill. Mrs. Perkins could wait until tomorrow if she needed any Goddamn Superglue. What on God’s green earth did she do with it all anyway?

It was still happy hour when Jack walked into Nadine’s. “Happy” he whispered, the word foreign in his mouth, the emotion attached to it only a vague recollection. He caught the barmaid Jenny’s eye and she began drawing him a pitcher as he collapsed into his usual booth, lit a cigarette and began stewing over the long list of hardships and injustices he felt kept him from the life to which he was entitled. His list always began with the hardware store his granddaddy had built when there were more horses than cars in Midbrook. Thacker hardware had a hand in the squaring and plumbing of nearly every structure in town. It had thrived since before the First World War and had weathered the great depression and every subsequent recession. His father Zachery kept it going while raising four kids after granddaddy retired and now it would be on his watch that the family business, after surviving every adversity for three generations, failed. Jack Thacker took no notice of the happy hour that swirled around him, the sharp crack of pool balls, the tinkling of ice against glass, the jukebox spewing out "Freebird" for the millionth time, or the carefree laughter of labor unburdened. He just drank and quietly reviewed his list, which always ended with Abigail Deautrive.

A Regular Peculiar Day

2011-10-04T05:44:00.000-07:00

A Triple Play By, Paul Phillips, Absolutely*Kate & Harry B. Sanderford

Once upon a tome in a bustling bookshop far, far away, toiled a man who loved fast cars and loathed slow books. Peculiar customers with peculiar customs were a regular occurrence for this regular man but one morning, all records were broken for kookiness. As was the fashion, customers milled lazily about the rows of neatly stacked volumes with little intent of purchase while this regular man in his regular way ignored them, skimming Cliff's Notes on Othello, (being extra careful not to crinkle the corners thereby rendering it un-saleable) just as typical as Tuesday until the most horrendous metal twisting chrome crunching crash interrupted this regular man's regular morning and he looked up to see the huge black Hummer backing slowly away from the rear of his formerly pristine 1967 California Special as if seeking a better vantage point from which to fully appreciate the modern sculpture it had just made of the Mustang's rear bumper. CRASH went the California Special - CRUNCH went the chrome - COLLAPSE went the Cliff's - CLANG went the taut strings of the heightened heart palpitations of the regular man who owned the bustling bookshop where peculiar customers milled lazily and swift skimming was the secret rage ~ no typical today taunted this tainted Tuesday! Arising from his chair, this regular man swept all the peculiar customers aside on his way to the exit, palpitating heart bashing harder and harder against his chest, his stride becoming faster and faster, his face becoming redder and redder, until he made his way outside to the parking bay (parking bays were reserved for one car at a time, right?) to confront the definitely UNregular but extremely peculiar owner of the Heavy Metal Lunchbox On Wheels who had just turned his California Special into the short wheel-base model. He was boiling with rage, ready to read the regular riot act to the rear ending road hog but when the driver’s door popped open he watched the tallest teal heels and the most beautiful legs slide into view for the longest time before being followed by the shortest skirt, well, his heart went BOOM and when he saw her standing there, the way she looked was way beyond compare, and suddenly there was syncopation to his palpitation, and as his heart skipped a beat to the cha-cha samba rumba, he gazed into her beautiful eyes and spoke the words his heart could not, “Might have known it, woman driver!”

Check out:

Paul's bookstore, http://www.facebook.com/pages/A-Readers-Heaven/120494344664261

A*K's Theater, http://at-the-bijou.blogspot.com/

Who Is This They?

2011-09-13T17:00:00.001-07:00

Harry B. Sanderford

In 1963 I was in the first grade. Pterodactyls had ceased crossing overhead but clocks still had hands on them. My teacher, Mrs. Miniard was teaching my class how to tell time when the news came that President John F. Kennedy had been assassinated. It was the first time I'd heard the word. They rolled a television into our classroom to let us watch the coverage. They say that anyone who was around back then remembers exactly where they were and what they were doing. They say this about most significant historical events, murders, and moon landings. They'll say it about the most recent horrors at the World Trade Center, and they'll be right.
They also say it about your first love. And while I don't recall exactly where I was when Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., John Lennon, or Jack's brother Bobby, were gunned down. I do know that in 1963 my brother Roy was in the second grade and in love with a second grader named Becky Heron. It could have been monkey see monkey do, or merely coincidence but I was secretly smitten with another Becky, a first grader named Becky Brown. Work as I would against it, I could not staunch the flow of cartoon hearts which streamed embarrassingly from my juvenile cranium in her presence.
They're right of course, about remembering important events that occur during your lifetime. As for first love, I reserve that particular first (as well as a few important others) for a girl that would not come along for another twelve years. A girl I vividly remember. I don't know about Roy, but I can't really picture those pioneer recipients of our affections. I do recall that Becky Brown had whatever it takes to make a six year old boy who professed to hate girls, think of little else. I also recall of her a marked absence of teeth. Zero front, uppers or lowers. What a woman!

Hard to believe it's already been 10 years since I wrote this. But I was right about them being right. Right?

Eat, Pray, Love - Alternate Ending

2011-08-24T03:56:00.000-07:00

The movie that comes directly to mind when pressed to think of a movie I hate is: Eat, Pray, Love. My recollection of the movie is mainly of an over privileged woman focused largely on her own dissatisfaction who tells her not so bad husband to shove it and sets about figuring out why her not so bad life isn’t way greater. The fact that I found the movie too insufferable to actually stay tuned until the end makes it a perfect candidate for me to write my own ending.

In my ending (which would happen about 14 minutes in) Julia is scarfing a platter of scampi, donkey braying ecstatic if insatiate and licking each glistening finger clean of the buttery garlic salve that soothes her indulgence starved soul when a crack opens in the restaurant floor and she is sucked down into the bowels of hell where she meets a dashing devil played by Steve Buscemi. Buscemi turns in a career performance as the droll demon king who sheds humorous and ironic light on the perils of being so self-absorbed. Unfortunately, the lesson is lost on Julia who is delighted by the new level of sorry she is able to feel for herself with the added legitimacy of eternal damnation.

Jared Handley over at Lit Fire http://litfire.socialgo.com/ is now offering daily prompts. Tuesday's challenge was to write a sequel or a new conclusion for a movie you hate. Check out Lit Fire for some daily inspiration.

My Interview With Mary Hanlon Stone

2011-08-16T04:39:00.000-07:00

Mary Hanlon Stone, co-star/interrogator of ABC's Take The Money And Run fields a few from me At The Bijou.

http://at-the-bijou.blogspot.com/2011/08/take-money-and-run-mary-harry-quite_395.html#.TkoY5JDuPHI.facebook

Frankie's Wave

2011-08-14T04:41:00.001-07:00

by Harry B. Sanderford

It was down to him now, the last man standing and the only one left looking east on this chilly Saturday morning dawn patrol. "Screw it" he said and set his coffee on the old Rambler's dashboard before grabbing his wetsuit out of the back seat and tugging it right side out. A quick towel change later he zipped up, unstrapped his board from the roof rack, grabbed it by the rail and flipping it once caught it one handed before tucking it under his arm and trotting off down the beach. Near the water's edge he stopped to stretch and watched the lead wave of a new set build into a perfect feathery lipped peak at the exact moment that the first rays of sunlight topped the horizon glinting green and gold through the pitching lip of the unridden tube. It was a pristine and privileged sight witnessed only on rare occasions but on this morning such beauty was unbearable. This empty perfection would not last he knew as he turned his back on the surf to follow his shadow back up the beach.

It has been awhile since I posted anything so I figured I'd give this one some more air. It was the first thing I posted on this blog when I began it last August. I wrote it after my good friend and oldest surf buddy Frankie Banks passed away from brain cancer. (That's him up there ripping in his backyard.)

It was first published by Rob on the main Six Sentences site. Thank's Rob!
And, has since been published in actual print in the Australian Surf Magazine: Kurungabaa, a journal of literature, history and ideas from the sea

http://kurungabaa.net/2010/01/11/february-is-the-new-december-volume-2-issue-2/

Drifting

2011-07-15T03:59:00.000-07:00

Guest Post by Wendy Sugar Staley

Driving south on I-95 I am aware of white lines blinking by and the murmur of music streaming from the radio. Passing the North Carolina state line, 100 miles closer to you, my mind is on autopilot driving the monotonous miles that remain between us. I focus and refocus on the cars ahead of me…deep breaths…more AC… a sip of water. I realize I'm struggling to keep my eyes open, keep them on the road, and panic sets in. How can this be happening when to finally arrive is all I ever dream? I stop worrying about falling asleep, giving in to dreams of you, and worry instead the alarm will ring once again before my dream comes true.

Sugar is the sweet combination of Tinkerbell and all things pink who occasionally channels Mae West. Why don't you come up and see me sometime? She is proprietor of the 6S Sugar Shack where she goes heavy on the spirits and easy on the eyes.

Prickly Pears

2011-07-05T17:07:00.001-07:00

Harry B. Sanderford

Early forays into the developement of the two piece swimsuit resulted in a series of near misses. One such example, the Bicacti, showed early promise before fading into also ran status and fashion obscurity in the shadow of the still wildly popular Bikini. Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema's itsy bitsy, teeny weeny, yellow polka dot bikini pretty much preempted all prior predilections for this prickly predecessor. The Bicacti was perhaps ahead of it's time as it would be the mid-nineteen eighties before women ever willingly embraced the idea of spiked clothing. The Bicacti's designer Jose Cuervo, having failed in his fashion endeavor but still stuck with 8,000,000 tons of cactus came out ok though, going on to invent a wildly popular tonic that ironically has proven itself to have tremendous Bikini removal properties.
Bolstered by this success Jose is rumored to be back in the laboratory and working on a new watermelon based version aimed at the more amply endowed.

Today is the the Bikini's 65th Birthday!

http://thelook.today.com/_news/2011/07/05/7019009-happy-birthday-bikini-at-65-youre-still-hot

Calling All Angels

2011-06-24T03:55:00.000-07:00

Sappy’s cowering whimper ended with the dual report of Jeanette’s derringer pistol. Click…Click. “Damn it!” Jeanette broke Virginia open to stare in disbelief at the two empty chambers staring back. Sappy uncoiled from his fetal position still reeking of urine and cowardice and never once thought of counting his blessings. He swept a leg catching Jeanette off guard and sent her sprawling. He leapt upon her and seized her by the throat. Jeanette hammered with her fists and bicycled her legs but the fall had knocked the wind out of her and she hadn’t drawn a good breath. Her vision was growing dark at the edges and she knew she was leaving. She hated going at the hands of such a pussy. She did not close her eyes. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. If looks could kill, she meant to stare this son of a bitch straight into hell.

Over Sappy’s shoulder, an angel appeared. Oh please, what’s next trumpets? she thought. How utterly cliché. Then, the angel clobbered Sappy with an enormous nickel plated pistol and sent the bastard tumbling. The angel went on to kick and stomp the living shit out of the once again cowering sap and with each gasp of sweet oxygen Jeanette's angel came more fully into focus. “Harry!”

“Harry, thank Christian Dior! How on earth did you ever find me?” Jeanette exhaled.

“You just wait until my uncle hears about this Harry,” Sappy whined sitting up now and holding his ear.

“Who the hell do you think sent me Eugene? You had one simple thing to do. If you had a brain in that punching bag on your shoulders you’d know to steer clear of your uncle right now.”

“Wait, Eugene? Harry, you two know each other?” Jeanette’s jubilation was taking a turn she was becoming all too familiar with.

“I’m sorry, Jeanette meet Eugene. Eugene is just leaving,” Harry said hauling the man to his feet. Harry whispered in the ear the man was not holding. The man struggled to pull away like a petulant boy who doesn’t like being told what to do. Harry clamped a hand on Eugene’s throat and finished what he had to say. Releasing him, Harry said loud enough for Jeanette to hear, “Leave the keys to the T-Bird in the ignition. Catch a bus or hitch-hike, I don’t care but get some real gone between you and the boss.” Then he shoved the shaking, bleeding and stinking man in the direction of the door.

“Just a damn minute here Harry, that man’s not going anywhere. I’m calling the police!” Jeanette said, brandishing her phone.

“Go!” Harry ordered and Eugene actually ran down the hall.

“I’m sorry Jeanette. I really am, but I’m going to need for you to give me that phone,” Harry said raising the 45.

“What the hell are you into here Harry? Who is that boy’s uncle?”

“You already know Jeanette,” Harry said with a sad smile. “He’s The Boss’s sister’s boy, 215 pounds of total fuckup. Eugene Gabardine.”

“Avery? You’re saying Avery had me abducted? My God Harry, I have to say I’m surprised and more than a little disappointed to find you've fallen in with that bastard.”

“I haven’t fallen in with that bastard Jeanette, and nobody calls him Avery.”

“I’ll see that he’s called a hell of a lot worse before this is over Harry and I’ll think up a few things to call you too.”

“Sticks and stones Jay C, but for right now you must be able to see our predicament,” Harry waggled the gun and shrugged, what can I say?

“Why are you doing this Harry, what the hell does he have on you? It’s not exactly like you are hurting for money.”

It was true, Harry had always been lucky. He’d been lucky in business, lucky with the ladies and more often than not, lucky picking the ponies. Anyone would say his life was charmed. That is at least, until Boss Gabardine set him up.

“Jeanette, you’ve been out of the loop, so let me fill you in. Eugene was just supposed to keep you company long enough for the city council to ok breaking ground on The Boss’s proposed sports park and gaming facility. It passed without your vote yesterday, by the way. I had no part in any of that. I was called after the fact. You can believe that or not but so far, one person is dead and the Professor's wound up in the hospital. I was on my way there to ask him about something he’d said when I got the call to check up on Eugene. I think you have to admit things were not going all that well for you when I got here," Harry meant to be sarcastic but when she touched her throat he felt ashamed. "Look Jay, you’re just going to have to trust me when I tell you that it’s not a very good idea for you to be popping to the surface right now.”

“Who…who is dead? Is the Professor ok?” Jeanette had to sit down.

“Spangler or Spackler, the new projectionist At The Bijou, anyway. Word is he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was Chester Hanks they really wanted. Do you believe that, Hookem Hanks? Some kind of bloody mess in the ladies room there too. I don’t know about that or just how Chester fits into all this but what I do know is The Boss very clearly wants you out of the picture. As far as everyone knows, you are missing. I aim to keep it that way and I think I know someone who can help.”

                         ~

Eugene Gabardine was a sulky, spoiled, boy and never one given to following orders. He did not leave the keys in the T-Bird as Harry had instructed. With the warehouse door barely closed between him and any immediate consequences, he exorcised a small tantrum that had been building in his chest by kicking the side mirror off of Harry’s Charger. “You aren’t the boss of me!” he screamed with huffy school-girl conviction. Then he hopped in the T-Bird and backed it straight into the Harry’s car. There was a satisfying crunch as the Charger’s plastic tail light puzzled, and Eugene found he felt much better. He shifted into drive and blasted Harry’s car with a spray of gravel before schweeling out of parking lot. Foresight was not a characteristic that would ever be associated with Eugene but he was not one to dwell on the past (or learn from it) either. As his spinning tires barked onto the asphalt of the county road, Harry and Jeanette ceased to be of concern.

Jeanette's troubles all started right here:
http://at-the-bijou.blogspot.com/2010/03/prints-and-popper-by-absolutelykate-and.html

Meet Virginia

2011-06-17T04:48:00.000-07:00

Ringing brought Jeanette out of her trance, probably saving the man’s life. Still straddling the sap she could now see was sapped, she released him allowing him to slump back unconscious and fished the source of ringing from his shirt pocket. Another damn Iphone, the german cockroach of electronics. She was fingering the talk button when she noticed her formerly subdued sap had not only roused but had the actual audacity to be eyeballing her inner thighs where her skirt had hiked over. Looking down where he had drawn a bead she said, “Enjoying the view? Well, how about a nice close look?” She reached down between her legs, slid her fingers along her left thigh and holding Sappy's rapt attention, retrieved the silver derringer from her garter and poked the muzzle in his face. “Meet Virginia. You got about one second to start talkin’ Buster. Who’s on the other end of this phone?”

“Careful with that pea-shooter Ma’am, I’m just following orders. I was supposed to keep you in the dark for a spell and that’s all. I never meant you no harm, I was just coming to see if you needed some juice, I swear.”

Jeanette wasn’t buying it and Sappy’s sniveling only repulsed her. The phone had stopped ringing. She drew Virginia back keeping the gun aimed between his eyes and held the cell out. “Call them back. Tell them you were in the bathroom. Tell them everything is ok and make it convincing.”

The man began to blubber and Jeanette realized he feared making the call more than he feared being shot. Who the hell are these guys, she wondered. She had an idea of course. But, would he really go to these lengths? She felt suddenly hot-and worse-wet! She jumped up standing over the pathetic whimpering excuse for a man who had just quite literally pissed himself. Enough is enough, she thought and squeezed the trigger.

Jeanette's troubles all started right here:
http://at-the-bijou.blogspot.com/2010/03/prints-and-popper-by-absolutelykate-and.html

Jeanette Unravels

2011-06-10T04:19:00.000-07:00

Jeanette sawed on the ropes with the emory board that was now nothing more than limp cardboard. She kept at it though, working her wrist raw straining against her bindings. In the dark as she was, it was easy to focus on this task alone. In her mind’s eye she saw each individual fiber as it snapped relinquishing its hold and knew she was closer to escaping. Her diligence paid off. She could not pull her hand free altogether but she had loosened it enough to push her arm through further. Straining her fingers to their most outstretched they slid first over the edge of her pocket. She curled her fingers back finding the edge again, this time slipping them inside and touching the smooth plastic surface of salvation. Fingertips stretching deeper into her pocket, she visualized the Iphone. Thankful to find it business side up, she began working a series of maneuvers she was a little surprised to find her hand knew quite well. Soon she heard faint ringing followed by her friend Kate’s voice answering in the distance. The joy and triumph in this moment was so tremendous that it needed to be expressed but of course high fives were out of the question. The height of Jeanette’s joy quickly plummeted to the equal depth of her despair when her whole body burst with laughter that only muffled into her forgotten gag.

Jeanette might have sat there and cried were she not fit to be tied and the fact that she already was, only served to make her madder. She wanted to scream but she knew it would do her no good. So she focused her fury on her confines. She no longer felt the pain when she yanked her arms against the ropes. She pumped back and forth, lunging forward then pulling back like a girl on a swing pumping to go higher. She felt the chair rock and she built a rhythm with each tug. The front legs cleared. She now understood the exhilaration a foolish schoolboy feels balancing his desk for attention. Upon settling back she leaned forward bringing the back legs up. She was rocking now and when she arced backwards again she twisted with all her might, balancing briefly on one rear leg before toppling over sideways. The crash slapped her head to the floor and dazed her a bit. It also loosened the arm of her wooden prison. The ropes had gone slack and she was able to work her hand free. Triumph may have been postponed but it was only sweeter for the delay. Before even freeing her other hand she yanked the gag from her mouth and pushed the blindfold up from her eyes. Even without the blindfold it was too dark to make sense of her surroundings, the only illumination a horizontal slit of light below what she knew must be a door. As she struggled to free herself completely, she focused on this sliver of light. Her passage out. Her escape.

As Jeanette untied the last rope from her ankle, her beacon blinked out, only to be replaced by a new vertical and widening strip of light. This time Jeanette did scream.

Jeanette’s scream was not one of fear but more a release of pent up rage, only further exasperated by this ill-timed reappearance of her tormenter. A body could take only so much disappointment before snapping. There was no crying in her war-cry and no hesitation in her actions when she seized the wooden chair by the arm and hurled it at the figure silhouetted in the doorway. There was no weeping and there was to be no mercy when she charged and tackled her stunned and stumbling jailer. She scrambled on top of him and grabbing an ear in each hand, began bashing his head on the cold concrete floor. Each time she pulled his head up she hammered her knee home between his legs. She was fighting for her life, and once again she'd found her rhythm.

Sugar, Them's Ears Not Handles

2011-05-25T13:20:00.001-07:00

Harry B. Sanderford

Sleepy's hand carresses Cowboy's cheek then tosses his hat and grabs a yank of hair. Cowboy's thinkin' Sleepy might throw dogies in the rodeo as the little lady hauls his face down. But he don't mind the scenery none, kinda takes to it, thinks maybe he'll settle down here. Sleepy closes her eyes and her lips form a small o as Cowboy whispers his muffled story punctuated with kisses. Before long the sleepy cowgirl lets out a breathy sigh, gasps a new lungful, arches her back and shudders. Her small o is a larger molar showin' O, then it's "OOOOOmygod!" Cowboy, (thinkin' if'n he had his hat on he'd take it off) glances up for a second and Sleepy gives a look that sorta scares the cowpuncher, then in a voice he don't much care for screams, "DONTYOUDARESTOP!" Cowboy's ridden some 'n been throw'd by others, but he weren't ever meant for pullin' up short on the trail. He whoops a giddyup 'n kicks in for another stretch.

Commercials, They're Grrrrreat!

2011-05-13T10:51:00.000-07:00

Harry B. Sanderford

I was watching the tube recently and when I watch TV I like to watch the hell out of it. The remote control is key to my viewing pleasure. I don't watch commercials as a rule, this is ordinarily my prompt to move along. So, it is mildly ironic when my interest is caught by one of those deals where the whole point of the show is to count down a list of TV's most memorable commercials. It's pompous self-indulgence on my part really; I'm only hanging on to verify my prediction that the old commercial where Mean Joe Green scores some Coke from a kid and then tosses him his filthy sweat-soaked jersey will win out. It does of course and I revel in my astute ability to predict clichéd predictability. For my money though, the best commercial of all time is that one with Mr. Whipple sitting on the crapper noisily grinding out some grundlers and since he has nothing to read, he's left with just his thoughts. The camera moves to the little thought bubble over his head where a gore muzzled Tony the Tiger is plop-plopping Alka Seltzers into a glass of water with the freshly mauled carcass of Captain Crunch visibly oozing entrails dotted with pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars and green clovers in the background. Not sure just what they were selling there.

WoooHoooo! I Got Mail!

2011-05-07T10:16:00.000-07:00

I was the lucky recipient of a super surprise package that landed on my damn doorstep all the way from Ontario Canada! WOOHOOO!

What cool stuff I got! I am feeling like an honorary Canadian (hankerin' for a Molson) in my new hat and T-Shirt! Since I don't have a Molson handy, I think I'll pour a cold Coors Light in my spiffy new L.O.T.M.R. coffee mug! Really the coolest Damn Mug Ever!

Don't be jealous. I won these elaborate prizes for my uncanny Damn Door picking abilities in Cathy Webster's http://muskokariver.blogspot.com/ Damn Door Contest. Turns out, I'm something of a Damn Door savant. Unfortunately I've not been able to focus this asset on lottery numbers or fast horses. Working on it, it's Derby Day. But wait, that's not all..yeah, go ahead, jealousy is now warranted. I also got the coolest little MukMuk keychain, a travel bottle of bubble stuff so I no longer need leave home without it, and some groovy new tunes entitled, "Mushy Music" ...I know. Who's luckier than me?

Cathy you are the coolest and I loved your Damn Door contest and all the really cool stuff you sent me!

Thank you! Thank You, Thank you Cathy!

Beauty Ay?

* Sports of Kings * ~ A DailyDouble from AbsolutelyKate and Horsey Harry

2011-05-06T03:38:00.000-07:00

As Jim Dandee opened the Daily Racing Form with customary crackle to jaded eye, his glance glazed over the chess set his kid made him for Christmas. Plasticine royal blue and hunter's green of deeper hue, it sat there just gathering dust on the side table ~ where unprovoked, the king toppled clearly in his view. It was a sign he knew. What sort would work it’s self out soon enough. He righted the fallen ruler and returned his attention to the form. Not all clues would just present themselves.

Yes! How’s this for a clue? ~ “Clueless” was running in the sixth at Tampa Bay Downs and with what Monday's meteorologist Mandi precipitationally predicted, a muddy track it could be -- gul darn it, his majesty's crown was once again down; hadn't he just - - - Oh, whoa it up there Nellie! A photo-finish flashbulb popped enlightening like and Jim Dandee pulled up mid-stretch from restoring royalty to his horizontal highness, poked a nubby finger under the running line and followed it out to see that Clueless was out of monster mudder dam, “Topple Two Times" and in the irons today was none other than Elvis (the king, baby) Trujillo!

Thoroughly bred to bet a hunch, Jim Dandee was no pawn of fate come lately. Odds on, how could he be rooked with The King among jocks atop this Clueless colt born for the slop? ~ Hell, heaven can wait, but when Elvis took off from the gate he won 35 straight in his native Panama, then 55 more from Mexico City to set the pace of the race for three graded stakes titles from South Florida to Churchill Downs.

Kerplunk -- the royal chess piece took another clunk -- "Why that's a triple crowner,” Jim mused unconfused. Third time’s a charm.

At the finish-line rail Jim Dandee patted the plastic talisman and the slips of paper in the pocket of his lucky blue-green shirt, feeling the first drops of anticipation, perspiration and Meteorologist Mandi’s predicted precipitation, as E.T. gave Clueless the reins leading into the stretch in the rain and all the king’s horses stared idly back at all the kings men, no longer subject to their round-heeled ruler’s reign.

* * * * * *

Thanks for enjoying our Daily*Double*
Together we wish you a great Derby*Day and please remember to bet responsibly!
~ Absolutely*Kate & Horsey Harry

Actually A*K say's, "bet responsibly." I say, the less you bet the more you lose when you win. Go nuts!

This is the first Kentucky Derby in years that I haven't had my pick sewn up by now. Tough one to figure this year. Who do you like?

137th Kentucky Derby
Purse: $2 million; 1 1/14 miles; Grade 1

1. Archarcharch, J. Court, 10-1
2. Brilliant Speed, J. Rosario, 30-1
3. Twice the Appeal, C. Borel, 30-1
4. Stay Thirsty, R. Dominguez, 30-1
5. Decisive Moment, K. Clark, 50-1
6. Comma To The Top, P. Valenzuela, 30-1
7. Pants On Fire, R. Napravnik, 30-1
8. Dialed In, J. Leparoux, 4-1
9. Derby Kitten, J. Castellano, 30-1
10. Twinspired, M. Smith, 30-1
11. Master of Hounds, G. Gomez, 20-1
12. Santiva, S. Bridgmohan, 30-1
13. Mucho Macho Man, R. Maragh, 12-1
14. Shackleford, J. Castanon, 20-1
15. Midnight Interlude, V. Espinoza, 12-1
16. Animal Kingdom, R. Albarado, 20-1
17. Soldat, A. Garcia, 20-1
18. Uncle Mo, J. Velazquez, 5-1
19. Nehro, C. Nakatani, 6-1
20. Watch Me Go, R. Bejarano, 50-1

Odds by Mike Watchmaker
Post time: 6:24 p.m. Eastern
TV: NBC
All carry 126 pounds

You Really Kinda Had To Be There

2011-04-29T08:50:00.000-07:00

Harry B. Sanderford

The picture jumps then stops and before the heat from the bulb can burn through the image completely, Marlon Brando tells Rod Steiger, “It wasn’t him Charlie, it was you.” The film melts away altogether and the theater is bathed in bright light. The trailing edge of the film slaps loudly against the projector behind me. My fellow patrons are craning around in their seats annoyed with this interruption as I make my way down the aisle and hop up onto the stage.

“I’m ready for my close up Mr. Kazan,“ I announce to ticket holders twisting back around.

“Remember that night in the Garden you came down to my dressing room and you said, "Kid, this ain't your night. We're going for the price on Wilson. You remember that?” My audience isn’t quite sure yet but a few are digging back into their popcorn. "This ain't your night"! My night! I coulda taken Wilson apart! So what happens? He gets the title shot outdoors on the ballpark and what do I get? A one-way ticket to Palooka-ville!”

Palooka-ville, yeah that slays ‘em. They know what’s coming. It’s nobody here’s first time On The Waterfront.

“You was my brother, Charlie. you shoulda looked out for me a little bit. You shoulda taken care of me just a little bit so I wouldn't have to take them dives for the short-end money.” They’re with me now, hanging on every word and right on cue one audience member sets me up delivering Charlie’s line, “Oh I had some bets down for you. You saw some money.” A hundred more voices join in unison: “You don't understand. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am, let's face it. It was you, Charlie!”

I take my bow to thunderous applause. The projector rolls, and awash in hehehehehheh--Woody Woodpecker, I take my leave.

* all in itallics are taken directly from the movie On The Waterfront, written by screenwriter Budd Schulberg.

Good Morning Mr. Hanks

2011-04-22T06:18:00.000-07:00

Harry B. Sanderford

Chester Hanks awoke with a Schlitz induced headache that while not uncustomary was never the less annoying. Eyes closed, he sleep-walked to the bathroom to relieve himself. Eyes still closed, he flushed, shuffled the 14 steps to the refrigerator, popped the top on a cold can of good morning and drained its contents entirely before squinting out at the day. The replenishing effects were immediate but short lived as the events of the preceding night crept home. He heard soft snoring coming from his bedroom followed by an awfully official sounding knock at his door.

FUCK, is what he thought. “Hold your horses, I ain’t dressed,” is what he yelled at the front door before hurrying to close the bedroom door; hoping like hell the bulk under the blankets was Ruby. He buttoned his fly and finger combed his hair before opening the door. “How can I hep ya?”

“Good morning, Mr. Hanks. Sorry to wake you.” It was 11:15 and the boozy, bodily, funk of debauchery issuing forth from the unsealed capsule caused Detective Stine to take a shallow breath and a step back.

“I was already up Sergeant Smartypants. What brings you around?” Chester asked. He’d opened the door only partially so it would not be confused with an invitation inside. Stine saw his invitation over Chester’s shoulder should he decide to use it, in the form of the bong standing General over an army of dead soldiers lined up on the coffee table. “I need to ask you a couple questions about your replacement at the Bijou, Sparky Denton.”

“I ain’t sure I can hep ya there chief. I didn’t rightly know the boy. So if that’s all then…” Chester figured it was worth a try but he wasn’t exactly surprised to see Dan Stine’s brogan step in before he could get the door closed. “Something else officer?”

“I know it’s early.” Crack of noon, Stine thought and rotated his head side to side working out a kink. “So let’s try again. It looks like you had a little party here last night. Maybe if you can’t think of anything pertinent to my investigation into the murder of your replacement, one Sparky Denton, you’d prefer to tell me about the bong I saw on your coffee table.”

“Well the short answer there officer, is that it’s not mine.” This was true but Chester knew it made no difference to the detective. Chester had a hard and fast rule about cooperating with revenuers. He didn’t. He was going to have to give this one something though. Because for the life of him, he could not recall where the owner of that bong, one Eugene Gabardine, had gotten to and he did not want Sergeant Stine helping him figure it out. “You know, now that I’ve had a moment to study on it, I do remember that Sparky feller was referred to me by another feller workin’ off his debt to society in Alice.”

“Do tell,” Stine said pushing the door open a little wider and stepping back from the threshold.

“Dudley, Malcom Dudley is his name. Ever’one just calls him Malc-Dud. Get it?” Chester smiled his I’m on your side here partner smile, hoping that would be enough.

“Go on.” Stine prodded.

“I don’t know if it’s true, but word is Malc-Dud walked from a murder two rap with time served and 120 hours of commie service.”

“So what’s his connection with Sparky Denton and why did he want him working at the Bijou?” Stine circled Malcom Dudley, Malc-Dud on his note pad.

Chester now knew Malc-Dud had been setting him up all along. Apparently Sparky had accidentally taken his fall. He intended to settle that score himself but he didn’t mind if the cavalry helped a little bit. “Boss Gabardine provided Malc-Dud’s defense,” he answered.

"Open a window Hook," Stine said flipping his pad closed indicating they were done.

This is a small bit I wrote for a collaboration with A*K that we started last year and will resume sometime soon. In the meantime, you can play catchup beginning here: http://bit.ly/h1olNC if you are so inclined. H

GABARDINE WRINKLE IN BIJOU BLOODBATH

2011-04-15T09:52:00.000-07:00

Harry B. Sanderford

The Hazeltown Holler surpassed daily circulation and printed an evening edition for the first time since Nixon was impeached. Chester Hook’em Hanks nabbed the last one from a paper box outside of Murphy’s Mud-Cat, a beer joint and bait shop over in Alice where he served his community service (for fishing drunk without a license for the fourteenth time) by polishing a barstool with his back pockets. He ordered a can of Schlitz and smoothed the paper flat on the bar. He read no farther than the headline about Boss Gabardine and stopped to drain half his beer in one long swallow. The fat cats that scavenged the ponds around Alice were not the only ones Chester was inclined to angle for. He’d overheard a bit of information concerning The Boss and that pretty film critic for the Holler. Being a married man himself, he figured The Boss would rather his wife remained unaware of such information. He also figured the Boss might want to hitch a new Ranger bass boat to the back of his pickup. When it came to figuring, Chester’s calculating could be ponderous. Boss Gabardine was the biggest fish in any pond at anytime. His headline worthy woes could only serve to make him cranky, cautious and likely even more dangerous. Another man might sum up it was time to cut his line. Chester Hook’em Hanks determined it was time to dangle bigger bait.

Hook’em walked over and unplugged the juke box to silence Molly Hatchet. He had a plan to hatch and damned if their infernal caterwauling was helping him think. He successfully warded off any objections from the whelps at the pool table with a practiced stink eye that seldom let him down. The three of them, still too sober for pressing the point, broke eye contact first and went back to their game. Hook’em raised his can and gave a nod in their direction showing his support for the unspoken treaty. Long as he had the can in his hand, he went ahead and polished off the suds. He set the empty on the bar, pulled his note pad from his back pocket and began bullet-pointing his plan.

Ruby picked up the empty can and set a fresh cold Schlitz wrapped in a bar nap in front of him. “What you studying on so hard tonight, Hook?” the rotund Ruby inquired. Chester closed the pad quick and smiling up at Ruby said, “Darlin’ I’m composin’ a sonnet for the prettiest barmaid I ever did see. I’m a little stuck right now though, maybe you can help me. I need something that rhymes with Ruby and all I can think of are boobies.”
Ruby rolled her eyes, sifted the pile of change from Chester’s twenty, extracted two ones and offered, “How about Doobie? As in, I find your sincerity to be dubious. Or maybe try Scoobey, as in you are a damn dog! Then there’s always Newby, as in you are one naive son of a bitch if you think you are ever sweet talkin’ your way up next to this!” Ruby stepped back and presented with a sweep of her hand just what it was Chester would be missing out on. Then she turned on her heel in an exaggerated huff and rang the register for Chester’s two dollars.

Chester couldn’t help but grin. He loved getting Ruby going and he loved it even more when she got the better of him. Truth be told, Chester loved Ruby. He plucked a five from his diminishing pile, folded it lengthwise so it would stand and balanced it on the edge of the bar.

Chester had just reopened his note pad when the door opened with a jangle and he looked up to watch Boss Gabardine’s no account nephew Eugene, shamble into the bar. He wondered if this night could get any better.

This is a small bit I wrote for a collaboration with A*K that we started last year and will resume sometime soon. In the meantime, you can play catchup beginning here: http://bit.ly/gA4cGm if you are so inclined. H

Honey I’m Home

2011-04-08T04:13:00.000-07:00

Harry B. Sanderford

“Honey, I’m home… Just me, Sugar,” Doc rehearsed on his walk from the barn to the house. It always took a bit before his borrowed ears adjusted to the sound of his borrowed voice. Physical sensations were mostly familiar, though often incorrectly categorized. Twisting the icy door knob awoke senses in his fillings. Snow melting in his boots felt like sand between his toes. He’d watched his host slip on the steps, landing squarely on his ass. He had a private chuckle, truth be told, yet the only discomfort he registered now was a ticklish burn in his earlobes.

Pushing the back door open, he was relieved to see the bluish flicker that meant Beth was watching television. If he played it right he could thaw out in a warm shower and collect himself a bit before engaging in more than cursory conversation. It was not that he wished to avoid Beth; he'd become fond of her on his previous visits. She of course knew nothing of the arrangement, but her smile was real and his to keep whenever he manned the controls of her husband's body.

“Hi Sugar,” he called from the hallway.

“Hey babe, it’s going to be a cold one tonight. How do you feel about chili?” Beth asked.

“Sounds great to me Hon. You know it’s you who’ll pay later.”

“No beans in yours!” she shouted.

“Ha, fair enough. I’m going to take a quick shower to warm up," he shouted back.

Safe, he thought and gestured with hands already becoming familiar as he watched them close the bathroom door.

Dookey Earl... Pukey, Hurls!

2011-04-01T04:19:00.000-07:00

Reigning Ex Ex Games Containment Competition champ, Earl “Retainy” Gainey, blew chunks Saturday after clinching his second world title. Gainey, who has long attributed his counter-crapping capabilities to a near bovine tolerance for lactose, stirred wide-spread panic at one point during the competition. Fearing he’d blow, Earl’s grimace and gutteral growl, sent the crowd of constipatory constituents clamoring for the exits. While most reported only having the shit scared out of them, three remain hospitalized. Earl managed to keep his shit together long enough to defeat fellow fecal freighter, “Skid” Mark Loafster, but moments later erupted spewing Vesuvius volumes of vintage, but vile and viscous vomit from veranda to vestibule.

Following Ret’s Rainbird imitation, manager Dung King, was quick to issue a statement countering speculation that the champ's bungus may have actually grown entirely shut. Proven true, the allegation would lead to Gainey’s disqualification and possible exclusion from future Extreme Excrement Games. King assured the press that Earl did indeed possess an XXG approved ass-hole, leading to further speculation as to whether King referred to himself.

Reached for comment Retainy seemed unconcerned. “Retention records come and go,” he said. “But did you see all that corn? I ain’t ate no corn in over 2 years,” he further articulated.

OK, sorry about that. Sometimes the 7th grader that lives in my head takes over the keyboard and must be indulged if I am ever to move on. H :)

When Harry Met Callie

2011-03-25T06:23:00.000-07:00

By Absolutely*Kate & Harry B. Sanderford

When Harry met Callie he was wearing soft blue worn jeans, a plain white T-shirt and a sailboat . . . nothing more, nothing less, but that was plenty a lot for Callie. When Callie met Harry she was wearing the modest half of a silver bikini and sputtering salt water onto that plain white T in response to the CPR he administered after fishing this most exotic creature from the clear blue Caribbean. Callie was lost in finding Harry's eyes as clear blue as the Caribbean while a mixed mouthful of sputter signals sensated from his particular CPR technique. Did the Red Cross really advocate massage therapy? "Do'n'n'n't stop," she purred thinking she'd shivered against his timber. Oh but to gauge the timber of a man. 't'was Callie's heart revived but Harry's cheeks that colored, and as first aid rounded second base it would be his own rusty heart to beat free of his chest and flap helplessly upon the deck for the beautiful nymph plucked from the sea. Under the strain of voyaging, this sea goddess of Aphrodite knew that many sailors through the ages have seen in the ocean the embodiment of their deepest fears and desires. This mortal who'd plucked her from sea and lucked her heart free, seemed so the reel-deal. Nothing about the way his strength exuded and his emotions protruded let her feel he'd zeal just for the halibut. Would her mermaiden secret be safe 'pon his deck? Callie decided this mortal grasping her pelvic and pectoral might just be her Adonis. Nothing ventured nothing gained, she allowed Harry to glimpse not the silvery bikini bottom, but instead revealed her actual tarpon type tail fins; the sight of which left Harry not knowing whether to heave-to, fall off, or run (it had been a very long time). Smitten though he was, he finally decided he knew when to fish or cut bait....and it was at that moment they hit the reef.

Hayes Carll KMAG YOYO

2011-03-19T17:40:00.000-07:00

Cavalcadeofstars

2011-03-15T04:49:00.000-07:00

I have a piece up at Jeannette Cheezum's Cavalcadeofstars today.

http://cavalcadeofstars.wordpress.com/

Cup Or Cone?

2011-03-11T04:18:00.001-08:00

Harry B. Sanderford

After repeated disappointments with his experiments into the field of Expeditious Nutrition, (including one nearly catastrophic incident with the Ham-O-Pult) Dr. Fullerfaster, as so often is the case, inadvertantly invents the ice cream bong. Ever on the lookout for new ways to indulge an old sweet-tooth, test subject Eugene eagerly shot-guns a bucket of butter brickle. Gravity urging the frosty treat south with no calorie surrendered revolving a cone, Eugene delights in the sinful sensuality of the creamy, cool, sweet so effortlessly ingested. True love he speculates, surely holds no deeper satisfaction than does this speedy delivery of sugary butterfat. Eugene is of course mistaken and not for the first time. His musings routinely fall somewhere short of insightful, but then Eugene after all, is an imbecile.

Dooley Noted

2011-03-04T14:48:00.001-08:00

Harry B. Sanderford

All morning long his nerves had been on edge and he couldn't shake the feeling he was being watched. He had a clean line of sight six miles in any direction and right now as far as he could see, he and his mule Katie were the only two in the territory. Dooley stoppered the bottle and slid it back in his saddlebag, admonishing himself for being so damn jumpy. He gave Katie her reins to roll a smoke and was licking the gummed paper when he heard a soft snap and turned in the direction it had come from. A nearly imperceptible imperfection at first, an eyelash viewed in peripheral vision, became a stitch on the horizon and then a seam unraveling an opening in the fabric of the sky. Dooley looked up to see the clear blue winking open to reveal a world size bloodshot eye. He dropped his cigarette makin’s, grabbed himself a handful of reins and slapping Katie's flanks gave a little chuckle as he shouted, "Well on the upside Katie, I reckon we ain’t goin' crazy!"

Snap

2011-02-28T10:53:00.001-08:00

Harry B. Sanderford

Sweet Tooth needed a little snack, so he ambled on down the hall to the kitchen. He figured to make one of his patented peanut butter, potato chip, tangerine, raisin, and banana sandwiches because those things just always hit the spot. Unfortunately, when he tugged the Wonder Bread from the top of the fridge, what was left of a newish loaf slid from its sack, scattering 52 pickup style (give or take a few cards) onto his feet and all over the kitchen floor. Examining the Wonder bag now hanging limply in his grasp, he discovered on the leaky end a rather ragged hole he could not recall having formerly been there. Turning his attention back atop the fridge to what had been a brand new bunch of bananas, he saw very plainly that one banana was now half eaten. Well, half devoured actually. It wasn't like it had been sliced cleanly with a knife and wrapped in Saran Wrap to be placed in the butter door of the fridge where it would be forgotten for months before its discovery and finally tossed out with suspicion and utter speculation as to its species and origin. No, it had been rather haphazardly portioned with seemingly no utensil involved; an oozing brown viscosity trailing its ragged, blackened, peel. His old nemesis he knew was back.

It wasn't a good idea to come between Sweet Tooth and his snacks, unless maybe you felt like getting eaten. This wasn't Sweet's first round with Super Raton. The last time, his pointy faced adversary had escaped down a hidey hole embarrassing him and it was still a sore point. He swore one day he'd get that rat if it ever dared set paw in his pantry again. He'd been waiting ever since, counting the days, and he was ready. At the hardware store he'd purchased the biggest baddest rat trap ever made, the E-Rat-O*Kater! (Patent Pending). It had a one inch thick solid oak base half the size of a clipboard with an over-wound heavy duty spring held in check by a hair trigger that at the slightest vibration or provocation would release the bulky barbed business end. Guarranteed to rend The End. The beady eyed potato chip poacher had not shown himself since.

Kicking bread slices out of his path, there was a lightness in his step on his way to the pantry and a wide grin cracked his face as he fetched the too long dormant E-Rat-O*Kater! from the top shelf. He set it up where the bread had been on top of the refrigerator, baiting it with one of the slices of bread from the floor he smeared with peanut butter. As a last stroke of culinary inspiration he dotted the peanut butter with cheesy puffs he remembered the whiskery one had enjoyed before. He cocked the powerful spring back, hooking the bar under the keeper and sliding it into the trigger. Then he carefully, carefully, holding his breath, very gently, released it. All set. Bon appetit, Mighty Mouse!

He was too wound up now to bother with his patented peanut butter, potato chip, tangerine, raisin, and banana sandwich. Besides, the bread was all dirty. He swept up the bread, snagged an envelope of Poptarts from the cupboard and went back to his room to eat them raw and listen. He hunkered in the dark quietly chewing the crumbly cold pastry. He feared turning on the light or television might alert the twitchy vermin and dissuade him from partaking of his last supper. After a while he stretched out on the bed. He meant to just lay in wait, listening but before long he fell asleep and began to dream. His dreams were a jumble of the tantalizing treats he loved hovering before him. Suspended bags of salty snacks dripped crispy contents like crunchy teardrops while half eaten candy bars and cream filled Little Debbie's draped the backs of aisle seats or spilled over counter top edges in a dreamy Dali vision of Sugar's concessions At The Bijou.

SNAP!

Snapped awake from his dream, Sweet Tooth sprang from his bed and ran down the darkened hallway into the darker kitchen. He skidded to a stop at the far wall, snapped on the light switch and peered up at the fridge, eager to gloat. Nothing. No writhing rodent, no cheesy puff adorned peanut buttered bread, not even the E-Rat-O*Kater! remained. Slowly he turned, and there he was.

Sweet Tooth had run right past Super Raton in his haste. The scamper hampered rodent of the rotund persuasion was now between him and the door. His legs on his right side were pinned grotesquely in the E-Rat-O*Kater!'s steely grip but damned if the furry bastard wasn't using his left legs to push himself along like one of those bulldogs that has mastered riding a skateboard. Sweet swallowed back a twinge of poptart that was trying to escape and for the first time felt just a little exposed in his BVDs and bare feet.

While Sweet Tooth shifted from foot to foot wondering just how to finish the job without requiring a rabies vaccination, the mauled rat was making off with the E-Rat-O*Kater!. The varmint reached the doorway but instead of skating through and down the dark hallway, it steered into the jam. Wedging the E-Rat-O*Kater! against the jam gained him enough leverage to wriggle his crooked appendages free.

Snap.

The rat sat up on his haunches and casually licked a trickle of blood from his paw before using it to flip Sweet Tooth the bird and darting off down the hall. Sweet Tooth finally snapped out of it himself. He remembered the broom. Of course, the broom! he thought and snatching it up, he lit out after the rat. This was not over.

The Anthropomorphic dog

2011-02-25T03:51:00.001-08:00

Harry B. Sanderford

Billy's struggling artist days ended the day he came up with the gimmick of painting his rottweiller Rufus in a variety of humanesque, if humiliating poses.

Wrapped in a shawl rocking Whistler's Mother style, fly fishing in waders and a hooky hat, or overalled and pitch-forking American Gothic with Francine the french poodle who lives next door, Rufus found ironic abstraction tedious .

"Yo Bro, don't make me go all anthropomorphic on your ass up in here," Rufus snarled.

Billy Blake looked up from his easel, "You feelin' froggy leap Motherfucker, but first stop scratchin' at them fleas and hold that mug how I showed you."

"Dawg, I tole you I aint got no mutherfuckin' thumbs an' I'm scratchin' at this wooly ass sweater you makin' me wear, aint even my color."

"You're spillin' beer all over is what you're doing. Just hold it best you can, I'm almost done." And with a few more strokes he was, another Mastercard masterpiece for the mongrel masses. No offense Dog.

A Day At The Beach

2011-02-18T06:22:00.000-08:00

Harry B. Sanderford

Rothko and Stella loved the beach. To Jalapeno it was just one big litter box and for her it held no great appeal. She sprawled sunbathing on the dashboard lifting a lid occasionally to watch Lauren riding a wave. The dogs delirious with freedom romped and chased tight figure eights in water chest deep on little corgi legs. Jalapeno didn't like riding in the truck and she would never understand why dogs and humans like being wet so much. She licked a paw, caught a lovely whiff of something fishy on the seabreeze, stretched in her sunny spot and slept. Here's to good waves, long dogs and flexible cats.

Ebbtide

2011-02-16T00:01:00.000-08:00

By Sugar and Harry B. Sanderford

Love lies sleeping on a white sand beach. The tide washed her up

and has yet to reclaim her. Starfish and fiddler crabs loll in shallow

pools or dodge plastic shovels unconcerned that love burns

nearby. Fearing the riptide that could drag her back under,

Love longs for a safe harbor. Embraced by the dunes and warmed

by the sunlight, a gull's haunting laugh taunts her but she does

not stir. Love is not lost, only dreaming and I am in her dream.

Sugar is the sweet combination of Tinkerbell and all things pink who occasionally channels Mae West. She is proprietor of the 6S Sugar Shack where she goes heavy on the spirits and easy on the eyes. You can find more of her sweet musings here: http://sugarwendy.posterous.com/

Today is Sugar Wendy's Birthday! Happy Birthday Sugar!

Happy V.D.

2011-02-14T00:01:00.000-08:00

Harry B. Sanderford

I went to the store

to buy you a card.

They all seemed so mushy,

deciding was hard.

I looked at them all,

every one on the shelf,

and finally decided

to make one myself.

So,I cut and I pasted,

great gobs of gluey

paper were wasted.

I cut out little hearts

I thought you might like to see,

and for the front,

a big HAPPY V.D.!

Speaking of which,

I suppose I should say...

That the V. and the D.

stand for Valentine's Day.

I'm pointing this out,

lest you take it to mind,

that this card be one,

of the Get Well kind.

Nope, that's not the case.

What this card's meant to say,

is wont you be mine,

on this Valentine's Day?

Fandango

2011-02-10T16:11:00.001-08:00

Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the fandango? Queen

By Harry B. Sanderford

The Spanish dance it is named for is a courtship dance that starts out slowly (boy sees girl, girl runs away) and builds to a passionate whirl-wind (boy chases girl, girl looks over her shoulder to make sure boy is still gaining on her). The ride is itself a rhythmic mimic of the dance. Four enormous legs festooned with flashing lights suspend a giant pendulum that swings a whirling merry-go-round business end with increasing speed in an ever expanding arc. It is on the extreme perimeter of that spinning business end that you will find your seat and strap yourself in to ride Fandango. You laugh nervously with your neighbor hoping to appear fearless but secretly you're calculating consequential variants associated with centrifugal forces, corn dogs and candy floss consumption. The ride begins with a slow clockwise rotation and a gentle rocking motion that comforts you at first but it's gathering speed and span with every pass and before you know it you see the ground then you see the sky, you see your house, then you see your thigh, if you see your lunch you're gonna die, ayee-yi-yi-yi! At merciful last it is slowing to a stop and wonder of wonder you didn't even chunder. So bingo bango do the Wango Tango, you just tripped the light Fandango!

In The Eye Of The Beholder

2011-02-03T17:22:00.000-08:00

Zelda Martin & Harry B. Sanderford

A cowgirl in a yellow sundress crouches behind a big rock on the beach, reloading. Her name is Sal and right now she's no one's pal. She's madder'n a bull with his nuts in a vise. She takes aim again at Sam, that son-of-a-bitch who's running away as fast as his bow-legs can carry him, zipping in and out of the surf to make himself harder to hit. Sal knows that Sam knows that the sun's in her eyes, so she can hardly see. Why is the sun in her eyes, you ask? Because the no-good sidewinder has her wide-brimmed cowgirl hat and her fringed leather vest, skirt and boots in that bag he's got slung over his back. A girl lets down her guard for a few minutes, to take a nap on the beach, and what happens? She wakes up in a goddamn yellow sundress for chrissake, while the guy she thought she could trust is hightailing it down the beach, probably headed for the nearest pawnshop.

Sam’s not heading for any pawn shop. He’s booking for cover so he can hideout until Sally either simmers down or runs out of bullets. As long as they’ve been riding together, Sam has accepted Sal’s hard drinking and her ornery fighting. Her temper has a hair trigger and her fury, if unleashed upon someone who does not happen to be one’s self, is a spectacle unparalleled and a marvel to behold. He's turned a deaf ear to her coarse language and for the most part a blind eye to what would charitably be called her rough exterior. Sam was the one cowboy on the whole planet who saw something beautiful in Sally. He loved her just as she was warts ‘n all and I mean we’re talkin’ real warts here, hairy ones, not no dang metaphorical warts. She sure was pretty in that yeller sundress...well, at least 'fore she woke up, he thought diving behind a trash barrel as it caught a ricochet.

DAMN! That was my last goddamn bullet! What's wrong with me? she thought. I never miss! She stood up and threw her empty pistol as hard and far as she could, in Sam's general direction. And then, she became aware of a strange sensation creeping up through her chest, her throat and then her eyes, and then some kind of salty, watery stuff was squirting out of her eyes and down her cheeks. What the hell? It's...it's...TEARS! Christ almighty!

"SAM!" she screamed. Come back here, you ornery polecat! And bring me my real clothes. I feel like a candy-ass whore in this stupid sundress!” She started ripping off the dress and running through the wet sand toward the trash barrel, where Sam stood, prepared to run in either direction, toward her or away from her, depending on the look in her eye as she got closer.

Running naked up the beach Sal was a kinetic study of the female form fashioned from phone books. Her pigeon toed gate rocking her head left and right was the saving grace that kept her pendulous breasts from blacking both eyes. Sam saw Bo Derek in the beach scene from 10.

Sal was still too far away for Sam to hear her shouts but he took her getting naked on the beach and running towards him, (plus the fact that she’d stopped shooting at him) as a good sign and decided to shuck his own duds and meet her halfway.

At this point, the laws of Physics took over. Two hefty Masses approaching one another at increasing Accelerations resulted in a Forceful collision that sent them smack down hard, into the sand and surf, where they commenced to rolling back and forth in each other's wake. When their heads cleared, they scooted toward each other like two sand crabs in heat. Sam pulled Sally to her feet and gasped in pleasant surprise. The friction from the coarse sand had scraped every one of those hairy warts off of her, making her even prettier than he had thought possible. Standing there together, the setting sun haloing Sal’s wild thatch of red curls, Sam felt he was the luckiest man alive. He sensed Sally had cooled off and he knew this was the perfect time. So he dropped to one knee and asked his gal Sal for her big ol’ cracked and calloused hand in marriage.

Sam had become something of an expert at misreading Sally’s moods. If he’d been better at it he might have ducked instead of catching her haymaker square on his left ear. The blow sent him cart-wheeling back into the surf, sucking about half the Atlantic Ocean up his nose as he sank to the bottom looking up through the wavering water at the funhouse version of his sweet saddle-tramp Sally. Seeing her through this new lens was something of an eye opener for Sam as he layed on the bottom watching her pitching and stomping and fussing. Her antics were those of a dance he’d seen before and of which he knew the progression. Right now she would be calling him a sidewinder and if she had a chaw she’d punctuate the accusation with a brown spurt of tobacco before swinging wildly at the air in front of her. Sam grinned, a bubble escaping his mouth as Sally pantomimed his predictions up above. Sam didn’t know it but he was looking at Sally in a way he never had before. Objectively. And you know what? She still rocked his world.

Still smiling, Sam closed his eyes and pictured Sally coming down the aisle toward him, wearing a purty, white bridal gown. He was having himself a nice little picket fence underwater daydream as he headed towards the light. But, the next thing you know, he was upchucking ocean face down in the sand and gasping for a breath while Sally rode him bareback. Once it was apparent he might survive, She rolled him over, kissed him smack on the lips and looked him dead in the eyes as she told him in that tender way of hers, “You ain’t getting’ off that easy Buckaroo. I accept!”

Get moreof Zelda's rockin' Zs right here: http://z-to-u.blogspot.com/

Shadow Phil-osophy

2011-02-01T19:10:00.000-08:00

Harry B. Sanderford

Phil Connors, Phil Collins & Dr. Phil have gathered at Gobbler’s Knob at 4:30 am on the morning of Wednesday February 2^nd 2011. They’ve come to support their fellow Phil, Puxatawny, as he attempts to predict the likelihood of an early Spring by the sight of his shadow or lack thereof.

Puxatawney Phil: Thanks for coming. You guy’s ok, need anything?

Dr. Phil: “This ain’t my first rodeo son!”

Phil Collins: “I wish it would rain.”

Puxatawny Phil: I’m not anticipating rain today Phil, maybe sleet tomorrow.

Phil Connors: “What if there is no tomorrow? There wasn't one today.”

Phil Collins: “It’s against all odds?”

Phil Collins: “I can feel it in the air...”

Phil Connors: “This is pitiful. A thousand people freezing their butts off waiting to worship a rat. What a hype.”

Puxatawney Phil: Thanks Phil. Always good to get feedback from a colleague.

Dr. Phil: There’s more than one way to skin a gopher son.

Puxatawny Phil: C’mon Doc, you know I married a gopher.

Phil Connors: “This is one time where television really fails to capture the true excitement of a large squirrel predicting the weather.”

Puxatawny Phil: Needle all you want Connors. Squirrels work for the Farmer’s Almanac, I’ve got a network gig.

Dr.Phil: You don't put bicycle fenders on a pig that'll sing soprano!

Dr.Phil: “How can you have any pudding if you don’t eat your meat?”

The sun is long past risen and the Phils have taken one giant step back from the Doc who is slobbering, scatting and ranting.

Dr. Phil: “No dog ever peed on a moving car.”

Dr.Phil: A bear don’t squeeze the Pope’s Charmin when he’s gettin’ the milk for free…

Dr. Phil: You don't need a satchel full of corndogs just to prove you’ve been to the circus…

Puxatawny Phil: What in the hell are you talking about Doc?

Phil Collins:”There's this girl that's been on my mind all the time, Sue Sussudio, oh, oh.”

Dr. Phil: There’s no hoppin’ the turnstile on the subway to Bakersfield…

Puxatawny Phil: C’mon guys, I need to make my prediction!

Phil Connors: “I'll give you a winter prediction: It's gonna be cold, it's gonna be grey, and it's gonna last you for the rest of your life.”

*Phil Collins & Phil Connors (Bill Murray) quotes are from Phil Collins songs and the movie Groundhog’s Day. I put more than a few words in the Doc’s mouth but a couple of the Dr. Phillisms are actually attributed to him “ “ (and one to Pink Floyd).

I hope for you Winter-bound folks, Pux doesn’t see a thing and that Spring is on its way.

Happy G-Hog Day!

Har

Hot Shot

2011-01-28T05:37:00.001-08:00

By Harry B. Sanderford

A small ruby brooch appears on her tailored lapel. She clutches at her breast and then holds her hand out, as if feeling for rain. She staggers a step, unable to comprehend the sudden rose blooming in her palm. There is just no time for this, she worries. She excuses herself, begging apologies into her headset, so hoping to reschedule. He lets out his breath as she crumples on the curb.

Live Dangerously

2011-01-21T03:07:00.001-08:00

by Harry B. Sanderford

Holding a popsicle to the testicle I injured on my bicycle,

Nurse Brandi says it's possible I also broke my clavicle.

I boast I nearly made it, but I think she's unimpressed.

Dare-devil and imbecile's the same to her I guess.

I launched even higher than I really thought I would

and once I cleared the fence things were lookin' mighty good.

I sailed across the drainage ditch

and touched down awful pretty,

but when my back wheel got the wobbles,

I chaired the tumbleweed committee.

My thumb got pretty twisted,

I skinned my knees and tore my pants.

Nurse Brandi's got me on the mend,

but I fear I'll soon have ants.

Clara Belle

2011-01-14T05:24:00.001-08:00

Harry B. Sanderford

All big as an order about his jungle book wants now is to go to Bob and tiger-snag a readable injury while the podiums at McCormick do a bond of snooty arrival on six pass to Baghdad. Holding jobs that would appear to audit rock's Buddy Gillette, BB Gun and Robbie are part of a parolee babbage under-smoother that crocks back to Wolfgang Bader and his call to bigger endpoint the master clock. Records like speed of backer, java snapper routes, and the crew clock about jobs, have all yielded big dogs that route directly to 42 nuclear bobby sox, not to Detroit. Logs tickled and bought cheap with mapper Ralphs and only given to concoct bowl records, further kick-rock and jack-smack the back-cracked. All big as it were about his jungle book, Tigard Snyder hands off copy locker regards for 6 pound aquatic data bonds in mature rubble. Raw data ringer-bangers are currently revamping respirators in an effort to clarify results.

Sweet Chili Philly

2011-01-06T18:43:00.000-08:00

A 1-2 punch by ~ Absolutely*Kate and Harry B. Sanderford

At 52, Sweet Chili Philly’s punchier days were behind him. But on a Saturday night, for a twenty dollar bill or a careless remark, he’d still dot your eye. Came one Saturday night, in rained a cold October bluster and just that kind of careless remark reconnoitered Philly’s muster. Yes, it was autumn in New York for Philly when this uptown dandy in a brown plaid wool sport coat with a Norfolk style back, three patch pockets in the front -- one showing a hand clenching more than just plaid pocket lint -- barged into Sweet Chili Philly’s streetcorner. I saw the whole thing. That particular streetcorner held no desire.

“Hey Sport, got the time?” Otis Floyd was working wallets and watches when he spotted a beaut cutting off circulation to the ham dangling from the big lug’s sleeve. Probably a ten dollar Times Square Rolex but what really caught his shifty eye was the diamond studded doorknob glinting from this manatee of a man’s mammoth middle finger. The stranger’s size did not intimidate Otis. A small man himself, he was armed and dangerous. He took a little too much pride in his appearance and still greater pleasure in besting a bigger man. He had no idea how poorly he’d chosen his mark or his words this time.

At 32, Sweet Chili Philly was riding the world higher than most ever gain a vantage point. Punchy successes followed round after round, match after match, in each contested bout on his way to the top. There was never any doubt that what Chili sought was what Philly got. The shining gem on his middle finger bore testimony to his ability to pulverize palookas with his sweet left hook. He earned his sparkly prize along with the WBF heavyweight title in lucky Round 13, if you know what I mean, against a mean crowd from Queens hooting and hollering for their very own local hunk of meat, two-time world champ Rodney Rocky-Jaw Brawlter. Rocky Jaw presumably collected his moniker through his ability to take a punch, but after Sweet Chili’s methodical disassembly and ultimate knock-out blow, there was consensus among wagerers that it was his feet and not his chin made of granite.

Hard to know you’ve peaked until you’ve begun your descent. Sweet Chili Philly was on top of the world for approximately 72 hours before he started seeing phantoms. After another 72 hours of neurological examinations a team of specialists disagreed on diagnosis and treatment but were unanimous in their decision that the symptoms were the result of one too many blows to the head. With that Sweet Chili Philly’s career as a professional boxer was over.

Phantoms may not accurately describe what Sweet Chili saw. What he saw wasn’t so unusual really. It was always a boy, the same boy. Sometimes he was riding his bike, other times maybe he’d be casting a fishing line. When he saw these phantoms they were as real and vivid as the crimson puddles he’d left on the canvas of the squared circle. What was a little unusual was he always saw them through the eyes of the boy’s faithful companion, Sport.

"Here Sport! Heeeeey Sport!" What dog day afternoons were Sweet Chili's run-run-runarounds in the sweet spot his brain refrained with this boy, a place akin to a Mayberry state of mind. The boy he saw as true, regularly let loose with a piercing yet jaunty whistle to come home to, a playful sound that conjured the first rambunctious peace to which his pugilistic life had ever let down his guard. A ferocious loyalty to protect something more than a right cross or uppercut jabbed at his own glistening flesh in the ring, was resonating into all his realities recently.

I swallowed these truths to be self-evident as easy as the Chianti sloshed into my chipped goblet at Louie De Palma's Mangiamo in the Bowery, the night Sweet Chili held my hand across a checkered tablecloth. He held his breath too, wanting me to know and believe all the sides a tough guy was offering so sweetly to let him honestly into my life. Takes a strong man to offer himself up. I sipped. I listened. I considered. The waiter served another slice of pepperoni and mushrooms with extra cheese. Sweet Chili served more slices of life, straight up. That's the night I fell and fell hard for the big tough lug. When he clumsily leaned over the tortellini con farcia di vitello for our first smack at a smooch. I knew I was down for the count. I agreed to meet him on the weekend for a tentative trip to Atlantic City. The gamble was how his Ma would take to another woman in his life. I remember - he joked, said I'd have a fighting chance.

Sweet Chili Philly read the suggestion poking from the little squirt’s plaid pocket but did not look at his watch, “It’s time you move along partner, I’m meeting someone.” He saw the boy again and this time the boy was not alone. Otis Floyd decided showing the gun might improve its impact, “Listen Sport, just gimmee the ring.” The boy led the beautiful woman by the hand, they walked the path now familiar to Sweet Chili Philly. He realized he loved the boy and more, that he loved the woman. Otis pointed the gun and cocked the trigger, “The ring Damn it!”.

His fighting days behind him, his loving days before him, one more fight, the fight of his life, for his life, flashed before his eyes as the boy’s whistle, the woman’s scream, careened in a single blazing moment of crimson rage rising again. His right leg came forward when the first two knuckles struck the side of Otis Floyd’s runty head. It appeared Sweet Chili dazed and weakened both the propensity for the little man’s clean shot as well as his desire for heavy flashy jewelry, but it didn’t stop there.

I was screaming, screaming from the streetcorner, pointing the young traffic policeman towards the scene of the crime in progress. In slow motion, I saw a fast flash of the full momentum of the man I now was sure I loved, pivot back, rotating anger and focus on his now blubbering target. His arm swung out like a fishing pole in a wide arc, the sheer speed of his turn and this turn of events drove his fist into this sap’s head. Temple, jaw, nose and ear were not in the same configurations when the cop made the scene. His piercing but jaunty whistle emitted complete admiration, “Saaaay, wasn’t that the Spinning Backfist? Ain’t you Sweet Chili Philly? Man oh man, my old man took me to Queens the night you K-O’d Rocky Jaw Brawlter. This guy here was armed and dangerous, I’m hauling him in. Uh, can I have your autograph, sir?”

When Absolutely*Kate is not proffering her prime-time pigskin prophecies her buttered fingers can be found in many pies. Not the least of which, her role as the prime minister of popcorn At The Bijou, where she'll be looking for your Flash submissions for the second annual Fab Feb FilmFest:
http://at-the-bijou.blogspot.com/

Stay Just As You Are

2010-12-31T20:43:00.000-08:00

Harry B. Sanderford

It was coming clear to God that his booze-fueled midnight resolution to quit smoking, drinking, lose weight, and keep a more watchful eye on his cholesterol and sodium may have exceeded his actual resolve. He knew he wasn't getting any younger, but it was only 10:30 am and already he was chomping two packs of Trident and calculating angles that might justify his taking a wee hair of the dog. It'd been a hell of a party and he was slowly piecing together certain cloudy events that might just require his passing out apologies when he bit down hard and finally, truly, understood that verse in "Ole Dan Tucker" about Dan dying, "with a toothache in his heel." Howling oaths unblessed, the normally benevolent deity spat out a filling along with the glob of sugarless gum and when he was finally finished taking his own name in vain, he smote four out of five dentists with nary a thought and upon a moment's reflection, smote that contrary fifth one just for good measure. Later he would reconsider this reaction and think it perhaps a bit severe, but for now it felt like old times and it was good. 'Happy New Year', he thought as he sparked a blue-tip match to life with a thumbnail and set fire to his first Cohiba of the new year.

Happy New Year Everyone!

Southbound

2010-12-23T11:30:00.000-08:00

Harry B. Sanderford

Maggie leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the Greyhound bus window. Over the river and through the woods, she thought watching the snow west of Interstate 95 melt away into skinny pines and palmettos.

Brunswick 2, Jacksonville 70, slid by riding a green rectangle.

It had been fifteen years since she’d been south of Atlanta, twenty since she’d been home. A lifetime, she thought shifting position to stretch her legs. As a young girl her curiosity and ambition had been far too great to be contained in any small town. Maggie grabbed her diploma, loaded her Corolla and left Middleburg and everyone in it behind like shoes that no longer fit, to run barefoot out into the world.

She flipped a coin at Interstate 10 to choose between Hollywood and New York City. Heads, the Big Apple. Tails, Tinsel Town. Heads it was, so she stayed on 95 North and headed for the Empire City.

She did ok there too, better than most. A pretty girl and smarter than some, she found work right away. She modeled for catalogs at first. An agent spotted her in J.C. Penney Ready To Wear and soon a couple of local commercials, then a part in a sitcom pilot came her way. From there, she was off and running. The good life came easy, but it did not come free.

Big Talbot Island State Park, I-10 Baldwin, Maclenny 2

Maggie arched her back and rolled her head side to side working out a kink. She’d been to so many exciting new places and met so many new people. She’d fallen in and out of love maybe a time or two more than she cared to recall. In the end, how much of it really mattered? Her name was short for Magnolia, not Margaret like most would guess. All those winters spent with the terribly cool and sometimes the down-right cold, had taught her one thing; not every tree is meant to drop its leaves and stand stoically awaiting the arrival of spring.

Lakeside, Middleburg 3

Florida was a coin she tossed. How could it now be burning a hole in her pocket? All she knew was, the closer she got, the more she just missed home. She wondered how home might feel about her. She had not called ahead so nobody met her at the depot. It wasn’t so far now. She picked up her suitcase to walk the last leg of her journey down the dirt road that led home. At the crossroads where her daddy’s property began, she sat down on her suitcase and lit a cigarette. Maggie had seen the foot-lights on Broadway, the bright lights of Time Square on New Year’s Eve, and surely the lights of Paris brought a tear to her eye, but it was a thousand feet of Christmas lights strung on a barbed wire fence in the middle of nowhere Florida, that finally made her break down and cry.

Sugar's Six For Santa

2010-12-17T04:51:00.001-08:00

Harry B. Sanderford

All Sugar wants for Christmas is coffee in bed. She'd like just one long lazy morning with the Sunday paper strewn all over tarnation and Buck there beside her reading her funny and bizarre bits of news. Buck with his own brand of commentary of course, making her laugh and telling her she's pretty. He could light the wood stove and make blueberry pancakes while she looks over the sale ads, hollering to him when she spots a bargain. Maybe they'd work the crossword together while they ate, Buck making up words, Sugar rolling her eyes. After breakfast Buck might tell her she has syrup on her chin and then leaning in, kissing it away, find more on her cheek, her neck, her knee.

Sugar's been a good girl Santa

Dr. Ramsey M.D. W.W.B.R.D

2010-12-13T12:49:00.000-08:00

Harry B. Sanderford

Dr. Ramsey cleaned his nails with a set of dollar store clippers emblazoned with WWJD, that he picked from a peg board wall of similarly monogrammed items ranging from flashlights to forceps. He thought about his patients who gave thanks to Jesus. It seemed to bring them such comfort but for the good doctor, only doubt. He may well be the truth and the light, the good doctor smirked clicking the switch on a plastic penlight, but apparently batteries are not always included.

Ramsey finished his one dollar manicure with the notion of faith still lingering. It wasn't that he begrudged his patients their beliefs, fact was he longed for something to believe in himself. Maybe I could adopt an acronymic life philosophy for myself, he thought tossing batteries, pickles and packing tape into the cart. He continued wandering the aisles gathering kitchen and office supplies and pondering life's mystery until eventually arriving in children's toys as if led by a divine hand to the peg-hooked beacon dangling before him.

Back in his car he tossed the rest of the one dollar disguise kit into the back seat, adjusted the mirror to smooth his new mustache, yelped a giddy laugh, and punching the pedal to the floor, sped off into his new life guided by a single philosophical question: What Would Burt Reynolds Do?

Tough All Over

2010-12-09T19:20:00.001-08:00

Harry B. Sanderford

What I'm talking about are people who genuinely believe they are struggling because the antique Persian rug they do their yoga on is made of wool and therefore is too scratchy. The economy being what it is, they fear they'll take a beating trading it on the silk one that will not chafe Mistress's knees. I'm talking about people with crab quiche on their breath and cars that never had a payment book or leaked important fluids on the driveway, looking me straight in the eye and telling me about hard times.

The gentleman of the manor has an insatiable penchant for fine art and times being what they are, now regularly calls upon my services. Telling me his story about the economy is his soft effort at driving a hard bargain. I just keep looking him in the eye as I help myself to a Cuban from his humidor, light it with the silver lighter next to it, and put the lighter in my pocket.

Tangerine Unforseen

2010-12-03T07:30:00.001-08:00

by Zelda Martin & Harry B. Sanderford

Sadie was outside looking for the newspaper and cursing the cold, December wind, when she spotted a bright orange tangerine lying in the middle of the snow-covered driveway. Like a beautiful painting, the incongruent image of the citrus in the snow seized Sadie for a moment, eliciting laughter even as tears formed in her eyes and her heart swelled with what she would later decide was joy, then quickly sank with what she knew to be sorrow upon realizing that the pretty perishable was cradled not in the snow as first thought, but rather perched just above it on the frozen tips of a man's fingers. Her mind raced wildly, wondering if she should brush off the snow and see who the man was, or if she should dial 911, or just grab the tangerine and run back into the house and eat it. Sadie's deliberations were pretty much settled when she broke into a run, arms flailing, yelling, "Shoo, GO-Wan, SHOO!" at a great black crow who had swooped from the power line landing inches from the fruit; more amusing than frightening her feathery foe when she slipped on a slick spot and slid in a butt-first beeline towards the frozen man, the crow and the vitamin C. She hit the crow with one cheek, sending him cawing into the air, and the tangerine with the other cheek, sending it rolling down the drive, and then she ground to a halt, stuck on those cold, stiff fingers. Horrified, embarrassed, verging on hysteria and to be honest just a little turned on by the cool fella's glacial grope, Sadie whipped around to see if her indignity had been observed. Finding the crow her only witness, she watched him peck twice at the frosty fruit before abandoning it to resume his post on the wire. Then she screamed and nearly joined him there when she felt those fingers move.

Madam Z Rocks all by herself here:
http://z-to-u.blogspot.com/
Check her out!

Give And Take

2010-11-25T04:43:00.001-08:00

Harry B. Sanderford

Having found himself incapable of affecting the necessary reparations, Malkovich resolved to dismantle his alley prize. His intention was to harvest the laser and some of the many small motors from inside and reassemble them as a kind of mutant kinetic laserium. He envisioned a robotic configuration that when placed beaming and whirling beneath a mottled glass bowl would transform his ceiling and walls into an extragalactic extravaganza. This new idea excited him even more than the original prospect of once again listening to his small CD collection had when he first discovered the old Sony. Sadly just as he commenced calculating counter cohesion coeficients, (hammer selection) Bradley "the brain" Buzzkill dropped by and informed him that the lasers he sought were not to be found, "in the belly of no ordinary alley audio." Deflated, Malkovich wondered at the conspiring forces of the universe while Bradley, not usually known for his glass-half-full disposition, passed a joint saying,"Good place to hide your weed though Dude."

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

2010-11-24T09:35:00.000-08:00

May your Thanksgiving tables overflow with good cheer!

The Future: Heartbreak Is Epidemic

2010-11-19T03:58:00.001-08:00

Harry B. Sanderford

Death by broken heart has become so commonplace that the accumulating corpses of the unrequited are now nearly as ordinary and invisible as the homeless. Busy bluetoothed brigades of moving, shaking, go-getters kick ass, take names and absently text URGENT missives while merely stepping over and around the weak of heart. Recreational shoppers deftly steer overfull baskets in the direction of much, much, more with only a peripheral perception of the heaped up hopeless for whom the motto "shop till you drop" was just never enough. In the know hipsters have figured a clever loophole that allows them to hate the game and the players by only having sex with people they can't stand while listening to separate IPods. Survival of the fittest focuses a blind eye on a guarded heart and this too is evolution. Cobalt splashes on aftershave and cranks up Roxy Music's Love Is The Drug on his antique stereo, knowing full well the risk but unable to staunch the flow of cartoon hearts that stream embarrassingly from his head in Gina 3.7's presence.

Rebel Ravel

2010-11-11T09:08:00.000-08:00

Harry B. Sanderford

Jericho eyed the tiny cockroach marching boldly down the tiles behind the filthy urinal he pissed waveringly over. No attendant to brush imaginary lint from his shoulders fishing for tips in this joint. It was Bike Week in Daytona Beach and he was a rebel running free. Screw the corporate stiffs! Not the first second thoughts regarding hastily made and perhaps poorly reasoned decisions chewed the edges of what remained of Eliott Bernard Gerard's better judgement. He knew real rebels rarely kept up payments on fourty thousand dollar motorcycles or riverside condos, and he knew he'd be passing out apologies and excuses to superiors in the morning, but for the moment, deadline and duty were only pestering gnats the Cuervo spared his swatting. Tonight Jericho was calling the shots and right now he had a pool game to lose, another round to buy and his eye on a skinny little tatooed lady with a foul mouth, fake tits and dirty feet. He zipped up, spat in the direction of the bug missing by tiles and kicked the flush handle with a Ferragamo heel.

Winter

2010-11-05T22:14:00.001-07:00

Harry B. Sanderford

An untended Ferris wheel turns slowly against a smoke streaked sunset. The tattered sails of beached sailing ships wave cheerless gray and brown party flags over soldiers of every stripe. Ragged throngs too weary to separate by uniforms sit on their helmets rolling tobacco or passing unlabeled bottles; the bitter local spoils of a global contest no longer possible to score. Some drink greedily thankful for another day, others drink just as fiercely regretting the very same thing. One soldier considers a childhood memory of snow falling on a boardwalk that no longer exists. The snow he knows will still fall. But this cannot be my life, he thinks, to melt into a puddle, swirling in the gutter like so much dirty snow.

Lucky Streaks

2010-10-28T05:10:00.001-07:00

Harry B. Sanderford

Roger blinked. This was it he supposed; soon his entire life would reel before him like a fast-forwarding video tape. Funny though, the things that go through a person’s head once it's been severed from his body. Roger thought of his wife Carla's perfect ears and the scent of her powdered neck when he kissed them. Then he wondered if he could still flare his nostrils or wiggle his own ears. Mostly he thought about how he'd wound up in this position, he'd only gone out for a pack of smokes. This fact would no doubt delight his many friends and co-workers who insisted smoking was going to be the death of him. A technical win at best but he knew they'd take it.

He'd hiked his usual route up Barber street to Cecil and over a block to Zip's package store. He bought a pack of Luckys, a Yoohoo and a racing form and was reversing his route when this zombie started having a cow about him dropping the cellophane from his Luckys. "Ok, ok sooooorry." he spat in exaggerated apology. The zombie shook his head and sneered self-righteously. Zombies were having cows right and left in this neighborhood anymore. He plucked up and pocketed the wrapper and continued on his way, stopping to very demonstrably dispose of the Yoohoo bottle in the bin on the corner of Barber and Cecil. Not a zombie in sight of course then.

He unfolded the racing form and noticed the date, October 31, 2010. Halloween. Roger was near panic realizing his blunder, none of the living ventured out on Halloween anymore. Kids didn't even Trick or Treat, it had just become too risky. He tossed the form in the bin and ran. A dozen houses, maybe only eleven and he'd be home. Safe.

With five houses to go and his lungs exploding Roger heard first the shrieks and cries, then the clattery scrabbling of hooves and claws on asphalt. He stepped it up angling through Mrs. Proctor's periwinkles and hopped her hedge right into Mr. Miller's damn cactus garden. He twisted mid-flight narrowly avoiding a nasty encounter with a century plant's pointy parts before thudding shoulder first in the gravel and rag-dolling his way through agave and aloe and every other assorted prickly and pokey thing. Rolling to his feet, his house now in sight, Roger scrambled to recover but a shadow of evil covered him like fog and he knew he would not make it. He turned to see a dark wave containing every vile and hideous nightmare creature spilling down Barber Street. Vampires and monsters with gargoyles and ghouls, ghosts and skeletons marauded the street in search of anyone foolish enough to be out. Roger's quick census of available fools revealed to his dismay that he was quite alone.

Leading the procession of the slimy, slithery, boney and fanged was the barnacle encrusted pirate Blackbeard. He swung from the unseen yard arm of a night sky ghost ship landing lightly in Roger's path. Roger's weary mind could no longer perform the calculations necessary for registering his fright; he tapped a Lucky from the pack. Rats entangling his beard and his breath like rotting fish, Blackbeard gave a hearty belly laugh, drew back his saber and with a single hack put an end to all of Roger's fear. Roger, simultaneously quit smoking.

Roger looked sideways at his body. He looked sideways at everything now. He noticed there was a hole in the sole of his right shoe and he was pretty sure he was wearing the underwear with the elastic half unraveled. Clearly he'd not prepared very well for his decapitation. His shirt was streaked with blood, still he might have tucked it in, he thought. He wished he'd gotten around to taking off that 10 pounds and with what felt like a grin on his face and his final synapses firing Roger thought, well in a way he supposed he had

Sweet Talk

2010-10-21T19:39:00.001-07:00

by Zelda Martin and Harry B. Sanderford

Sadie loves to dress up for Halloween, but she's having a hal o' a time thinking up a costume she hasn't already done. She's been everything from Popeye to a demented nurse to a Martian, and oh yeah... a tube of toothpaste. This year she really wanted to push the envelope way outside of the ordinary and was mulling possible options when Stanley piped up with his annual suggestion that she should wear just her go-go boots and go as Puss in Boots while he puts a pot on his head and goes as Peter in a Pan.

"Stanley, I told you last year and the year before last, and I'll tell you again, WE ARE TOO FRIGGIN' OLD TO BE RUNNING AROUND NAKED IN PUBLIC, and if you mention my decrepit go-go boots one more time, you'll be gone-gone and your Peter WILL be in a Pan!"

There was a moment of poker faces before they both had to laugh. Then Stanley dumped the contents of a plastic pumpkin on the kitchen table, rummaged around for a Ring Pop and holding it up for Sadie said, "You will never be old in my eyes, girl goblin, Happy Anniversary!" Sadie accepted the tawdry treasure, and with tears of joy in her eyes replied, "It's been a lot of years since the day we made our lust legal, but you're still my favorite Tootsie-Troll."

Still uncertain about her costume, Sadie licked the new lolly seductively as Stanley laid her down on the mattress of miniature sweets and kissed her from her Mounds to her Whatchamacallit, whispering, "And you're my Bit-O-Honey, Sugar Baby."

Happy Halloween Everyone!
Madam Z Rocks all by herself here:
http://z-to-u.blogspot.com/
Check her out!

Security

2010-10-16T10:35:00.001-07:00

By Harry G. Peakman

(my Uncle Harry)

I've bolted all the windows

and I've locked up every door

And I've spread much lovely garlic

all around the floor

I'll not have interruptions

from goblins, ghouls 'n such

(So highly overrated-

they don't amount to much)

I've grouped the herbs and crystals,

bat wings and turnip blood

There's mummied hand, a "skeeter" fin,

foul waters from a flood

A wiggle of the uvula,

five lopsided soles,

Pelargonium juices

and some droppings from the moles

Seven twigs lantana,

toad's eye a la carte,

A batch of hiccups from a muse

and diced rhinocerous heart

There's toenails from new kittens,

a mouse that's been giraffed-

Oh, all the stores and charms and things

to keep my wiles a craft

So when Halloween is dawning

and the night is turning rough

I'll be busy in the basement

o'er a cauldron stirring stuff

Reach For It!

2010-10-15T04:58:00.001-07:00

By Harry B. Sanderford

Julie made her living getting shot three times a day at Six Gun Territory. Deputy Scooter Baxter would always warn Sherriff Handsome just before Julie got the drop on him and the Sheriff would always wheel around firing up above the saloon where Julie would clutch her breast and stumble off the roof right into the horse trough. Julie understood folks expected to see the sheriff get the bad guy, and taking a dive at a horse trough sure beat danglin' on the end of a rope. All in all Julie liked her job but like most folks, you could say she had some regrets. She never got to ride off into the sunset like real cowpokes, never once got to leap her horse from a moving boxcar, or pull her kerchief up over her face and pester the law abiding depositors of some unsuspecting First Bank. But most of all Julie never, ever, got to kiss Viola Softerkisses the resident rodeo sweetheart. She wasn't giving up entirely on being the one to get the girl and ride off into the sunset though. At today's 3:00 show Julie was gonna shoot that loud-mouth Scooter.

Prickly Pears

2010-10-07T06:58:00.001-07:00

Harry B. Sanderford

Summer Of Sam

2010-09-29T19:14:00.000-07:00

Rod Stewart’s Maggie May spilled out of the transistor radio dangling from my Montgomery Ward’s Stingray. Samantha Honeycutt straddled its banana seat backwards smoking the filtered half of one of my dad’s Winstons while I smoked the other half spitting little bits of tobacco into the water. We were at cane pole pond and Sam was telling me how “immature” boys her age were (I was her age). “Maturity” was all of a sudden a major issue with all of the girls in the neighborhood and at school I’d noticed. Samantha informed me that she no longer had time to hang out with “immature” boys and now only liked older, “mature” boys. At least teenagers! she emphasized. Samantha was wearing one of those braless shirts that were popular in the 70s; basically a pillow case with holes for the arms and a draw string around the neck. It was an orange one I’d seen her wear plenty of times climbing trees or fishing for bream, but there was something different about it that day. When she twirled around on the seat of my bike and grabbed the high rise handlebars, I knew just what it was. I was still only 12 ½ , my birthday wasn’t until December, but I turned thirteen that summer.

From the Thinking 10 prompt: I turned thirteen that summer.

Vinny The Vegetarian Vulture

2010-09-24T03:52:00.000-07:00

Harry B. Sanderford

When Vinny was little his grandpa told him stories of how the old timers could panic west bound pilgrims and prospectors into picking up the pace just by circling overhead. Well those days were long gone. The pioneers may have had to keep one eye on their canteen and the other one on Grandpa's grandpa but these days humans didn't go as far as the corner market without a cell phone, a bottle of water and their own personal GPS, so the likelihood of his ever tasting the chewy center of a thirsty cowboy was looking pretty remote.

Vinny spent most days loitering with his pals along the shoulder of US highway 17 between Peirson and Barberville, just waiting for a pokey gopher turtle or near sighted armadillo to wander into traffic; all the while day-dreaming of circling high overhead.

One day a carload of passing surfers hucked half a cheeseburger right to, or maybe it was right at him. Handout or hand grenade, it was an epicurean epiphany for Vincent. He'd never tasted seasoned, or for that matter, even cooked meat. When he thought of all the Uniroyaled roadkill he'd snacked sans any salty benefit, he cringed. But even worse, he'd unknowingly been on the Atkins diet his whole life and this crusty, pickle chip imbedded half burger bun, this castoff cache of culinary carbohydrates, triggered sensations of delight beyond any earthbound buzzard's bearing. And so began Vinny the vulture's vegetarian adventure.

He took flight soaring higher than he'd ever been before following the little blue maverick with the surfboards on top. He flew all the way to New Smyrna Beach where he can now be found circling overhead on the afternoon trade winds with his new girlfriend, a seagull named Sasha who taught him where to look for kid dropped ice cream cones, and his pal Pedro, a pelican pirate from the panhandle who introduced him to sushi and claims to have dined on every bait barge from Pensacola to Jacksonville the long way around.

Now knit something with that yarn!

Harry

Swine Actor's Guild

2010-09-22T09:49:00.001-07:00

by Harry B. Sanderford

Like so many child actors, Arnold Ziffle struggled after the cancelation of his hit series Green Acres. Once considered heir apparent to the Porky Pig theatrical throne, Arnold bombed on Broadway with his self indulgent production of The Three Little Pigs in which he insisted on playing not only all three pigs but the wolf as well. He followed that debacle with leading roles in a succession of low-budget Star Wars and Top Gun type knock-offs which also failed miserably as Americans still just stubbornly resist the coupling of pigs and flight. No longer a piglet and really beginning to pack on weight, the plum roles began passing him by. Soon the only scripts being offered were from Jimmy Dean or Oscar Mayer. Offended, he considered such roles demeaning and vowed to end his career before accepting one. Arnold would work blue but he refused to work browned.

P.S. Don't worry about Arnold. True to his word, he gave up acting and entered politics, unseating six term incumbent Ned Beatty as President of the Swine Actor's Guild.

A Bedtime Story

2010-09-17T04:02:00.000-07:00

Harry B. Sanderford
We dine on Top Robin and Mac-O-Cheese, culinary euphemisms you can probably figure out. Spencer and Lauren are old enough now to know the real names but we still think these are more fun. Their parents have gone out for the evening leaving me in charge. Both girls love this knowing that no one runs a looser ship than Uncle Harry.

It's true and for the next few hours we’ll blow bubbles and soak each other with squirt guns and water balloons. We’ll eat animal crackers in a bed sheet tent on the living room floor, decapitating giraffes and turning elephants into hippos by biting off their legs and trunks. Lauren will teach their cat Kato what look to be some fairly advanced yoga postures and inescapable wrestling holds while we watch countless episodes of Sponge Bob Square Pants and laugh extra loud at jokes that are really just kind of funny.

Tonight I have brought a book to read to the girls at bedtime. This is not significant, my bringing a book. I have read to these girls many times. What is significant is that I've brought this particular book specifically for bedtime. To date on my watch there has not been a bedtime.

Many things prescribed for your own good, like bedtime, have only theoretical benefits. You're asked to believe in some imprecise, down the road goodness, while forsaking what you know to be the immediate and tangible goodness of another hour of T.V. or an extra slice of Birthday cake. When it comes to babysitting, I have my own theory. No bath? No problem. Maple syrup on your french fries? Make it so. And bedtime? Well when you're sleepy silly.

I have seen my angels transformed in the aftermath of one of our all-nighters though, and know I did their parents no favor. So at 8:00, for their own good, I tell them to put on their PJ's and brush their teeth. It's time for our story.

To my astonishment, my treachery goes undetected. Both girls comply brilliantly. Lauren shaves seconds off her teeth brushing speed record, while Spencer, who chooses to rinse with O.J. after brushing, discovers minty fresh and fresh squeezed to be gross-ly incompatable. Neither suspects that their normally allied Uncle Harry has defected to the other side.

I tuck them in, kiss them, turn off the light and take a seat in the doorway to catch the hallway's light on the page. The book I read from is a Harry Potter book, chosen for the obvious reason. I believe it's entertaining because for the first couple of pages the girls are quiet.

In bed, Lauren has never been able to control her lateral squirmage. She is the needle on a compass and Spencer is due North. "Stop it Lauren," commands Spencer. "I'm not doing anything," Lauren protests from her position of twenty past nine. I give Harry Potter a short break while I re-scooch Lauren, who is quite pleased with her interruption, to a position closer to six O'clock. I read on for awhile, occassionally glancing at my wards to see how my trick is working.

Listening to the story has made Lauren sleepy. And as she turns over, she tugs some of the covers along with her. This infraction does not go unnoticed by Spencer, who with a great yank, unfurls her sister from her slumber. "She's hogging all the covers," Spencer argues. Heartfelt testimony in the trial she knows she has started. "No I'm not," shouts Lauren, now wide awake and mounting her own defense.

After delicate deliberation of the facts, stacking "did nots" and "did too's" along side "Un-Uh's" and "Un-Huh's". I would rule in favor of Lauren, pointing out to Spencer that she is still fully covered and has quite possibly overreacted. But, even though there is a certain Yin-Yang balance, I know the offshoot gloating and subsequent pouting will lead only to further litigation. I declare a mistrial, re-tuck, re-kiss, and resume reading our story.

Lauren is asleep in a minute. Spencer hangs on to the end of chapter one. I close the book, and kiss them both once more. It's for their own good.

Now where did I put that remote?

Sugar, Them's Ears Not Handles

2010-09-14T05:58:00.001-07:00

Harry B. Sanderford

Sleepy's hand carresses Cowboy's cheek then tosses his hat and grabs a yank of hair. Cowboy's thinkin' Sleepy might throw dogies in the rodeo as the little lady hauls his face into place. But he don't mind the scenery none, kinda takes to it, thinks maybe he'll settle down here. Sleepy closes her eyes and her lips form a small o as Cowboy whispers his muffled story punctuated with kisses. Before long the sleepy cowgirl lets out a breathy sigh, gasps a new lungful, arches her back and shudders. Her small o is a larger molar showin' O, then it's "OOOOOmygod!" Cowboy, (thinkin' if'n he had his hat on he'd take it off) glances up for a second and Sleepy gives a look that sorta scares the cowpuncher, then in a voice he don't much care for screams, "DONTYOUDARESTOP!" Cowboy's ridden some 'n been throw'd by others, but he weren't ever meant for pullin' up short on the trail. He whoops a giddyup 'n kicks it in for another stretch.

Story Story

2010-09-09T11:38:00.001-07:00

Harry B. Sanderford

It was one of those sweltering afternoons that San Diego endures only several times a summer. I’m riding on El Cajon Boulevard, with my friend John in his old Chevy pickup. John is a lifelong San Diego resident and fanatical Charger backer. He's talking up some pre-season game taking place somewhere in the world, between some team and his beloved Bolts.

The six months between the Super Bowl and the first pre-season games seems interval enough for most Charger fans to forget the bitter humiliation of the preceding season and throw themselves headlong and hopeful into the promise of a new and as yet unsullied season. John’s jacked about his beloved team’s prospects this year. This off-season the Chargers have acquired a couple of veteran quarterbacks in Jim Harbaugh, and Eric Kramer. B-guys for sure, but any change in this post would seem an improvement over the tandem fiasco that was rookie Ryan Leaf, and veteran bench-warmer Craig Whelihan last year. They have a new coach and a clean slate. It is undoubtedly the best time of the year to be a Charger fan.

Pre-season of course means nothing. Air conditioning however, can only truly be appreciated during temperatures of at least Floridian severity; a situation only rarely encountered in the agreeable climes of San Diego. The idea of luxuriating in the air-conditioned, dimly lit, confines of a local watering hole, drinking ice cold beer and watching football, even just pre-season football, well it’s the San Diego adult equivalent of a snow day. John is going on about Junior Seau, the Chargers schedule this season, and so forth. “You had me at air conditioning,” I say to John. The sign in front of the Nite-Life tells us all we need to know: NFL, GIANT TV, COLD BEER, AIR CONDITIONED. We pull in.

Stepping from the stark daylight through the heavy curtain that serves as a door into the cool darkness gives the sensation of entering a cave. After a moment our eyes adjust and we move to a table near the TV. The air conditioning, its nip exaggerated by the sweat drying on our skin, is Frigidaire frosty. The bar itself is practically vacant, our own little oasis. We order up, pour our beer and toast our good fortune. Here we sit, 97 degrees on the street, cool as your mythical cucumbers, happy as your proverbial clams, inside. And this is where we meet Jane.

She approaches us inquiring, “Would you guys like a table dance?” The NiteLife is, to use their terminology, a gentleman’s establishment. John and I decline the offer. We're saving our money for more beer during the game. But given the hour and the pace of things in the bar, we’re really the only patrons and so are engaged by Jane in conversation. It turns out that this is in fact Jane’s first day on the job. She is working part-time as a table dancer but does not intend to dance on stage where she would be required to remove her top. She is also working fulltime as a public librarian. The stereotypical notions regarding either occupation do not escape us and after much joking with Jane concerning the obvious disparity in her chosen career paths, I suggest to her that her experiences might well make for a good story.

Jane sees me coming from a mile away. Suspecting my motives to be less than genuine, she reminds me that she really doesn’t have any experiences. “My first day, remember?” she says excusing herself presumably to greener pastures. Her instincts, possibly correct, do not deter my interest. Though suddenly, I have renewed interest in football.

John, being the only one obsessed enough to realize that football is even occurring so early in the year, has dialed in via satellite what he thinks should be an awesome confrontation between some second string, and another. And you know what? He’s right. Damned if we don’t have the Chargers VS the Broncos. Here are the Super Bowl champs, squaring off against John’s Chargers. Live from down under. That’s Australia mate. Pitcher, please.

I am not without sympathy for John and the minions of annually allegiant Bolt Backers. Having served my time as a Bronco fan however, I cannot help but espouse an air of superiority under the circumstances. Elway, god love him, has himself gone on to even greener pastures than Jane. But the machine that Mike Shanahan built can easily be driven by Bubby Brister, or Brian Griese, or in a pinch, me. Give me Terrell Davis, Shannon Sharpe, and Ed Mccaffrey, and in the immortal words of Steve Martin, “I don’t need nothin’ else.”

The Chargers look good in the early going. It’s preseason, so I’m not worried. But they look pretty good. They’re up 17 points. It's preseason. Preseason doesn’t count.

“Jane! Where have you been, any new experiences?” Jane has no new experiences to report but has gotten the hang of pretending to be amused. She drains the last two inches of our pitcher equally into our mugs asking, "More beer fellas?”

"Well, yeah!"

The Broncos are coming back, but it doesn’t matter, the real game happened in the first quarter. Like I said, it’s preseason. It doesn't count.

The Bronco’s second and third teams come back to nullify the Charger’s 17 point lead. They win by 3 against the Charger’s number 2 and 3 guys.

Still, based on the early play of their starters the match is scored as a win among the Charger faithful. And so a new season, full of promise, begins.

John and I retire to the smoking room for victory cigars. Actually, it’s a twelve by ten smoke filled closet with tables behind the rear stage at the NiteLife. Across the table from me sits Jane. She is small and slender, delicate really. She is in her mid to late twenties. Her features are Asian though her hair is blondish or light brown. She is on a break and so dutifully smokes a cigarette as we talk. Jane is pleasant but still she's not buying my story story. It’s getting late and she indulges my attempts at sending the two of us into over-time. But just like preseason, it doesn’t count.

A Dog Eat Dog World

2010-09-03T11:12:00.001-07:00

By Harry B. sanderford

By 1962, her beauty faded, and her promotional appeal diminished, Hillevi, in an ironic twist of fate found it necessary to seek employment in the factory that produced the very franks she'd helped popularize back in her spokes-model days.

She started in lymph-nodes and nostrils and after only 17 months was promoted to the cartilage and organ meats division. In no time at all she'd been through knuckles and spleens and was well on her way in colorings and preservatives.

Her rise was meteoric. "Unprecedented," remarked Tube Steak Today, the industry journal that again and again profiled Hillevi's accomplishments. She was it seems a natural, a term not tossed freely about in either spokes-modeling or the red-hots biz.

Sadly, despite her rapid advancement and apparent success, it cannot be said that Hillevi was happy. As a girl, Hillevi had dreamed of a different life for herself. She'd hoped to settle in Middleburg, or Valdosta, or some other cosmopolitan metropolis with an inordinately high rate of wiener consumption, where she would one day open a combination roadside motel and hot dog buffet.

Such a sweet, simple, foolish dream. Alas, the unfulfilled dream of an idealistic young beauty queen, only a glimmer of whom remains.

Hillevi seldom plays her clarinet anymore, and though she cannot imagine her life without them in it, she no longer regards the dogs as worthy of her charms.

* Hillevi Romblin was Miss Universe in 1955.

Other than charming wieners in the photo above, her career in the red-hots biz, as far as I know, is one of my own fabrication.

Bon Apetite! H

Bananas

2010-08-28T05:32:00.001-07:00

Harry B. Sanderford

Dog winged the monkey's gerdonderplonk just past ceremony. Winkle-wizzened water garglers awoke wanderjanked while apple-gated confederates slept on. Rusty pipe smack-down cancelled water lily gumbo's two o'clock and Patsy sang Crazy for the millionth time. Cart-wheeling donkey kong cougar camp visionaries lament then relent and consent. Rotty board deliverance wiggles wormy can-can hula-hoops and a dirty dozen daisies die. Woman howls moon, monkey bites Dog, man slaps clock and Patsy still crazy, falls silent.

Frankie's Wave

2010-08-28T05:01:00.001-07:00

by Harry B. Sanderford

Harry B. Sanderford

For The Birds

Luke & Abby...So far

A Regular Peculiar Day

Who Is This They?

Eat, Pray, Love - Alternate Ending

My Interview With Mary Hanlon Stone

Frankie's Wave

Drifting

Prickly Pears

Calling All Angels

Meet Virginia

Jeanette Unravels

Sugar, Them's Ears Not Handles

Commercials, They're Grrrrreat!

WoooHoooo! I Got Mail!

* Sports of Kings * ~ A Daily*Double from Absolutely*Kate and Horsey Harry

You Really Kinda Had To Be There

Good Morning Mr. Hanks

GABARDINE WRINKLE IN BIJOU BLOODBATH

Honey I’m Home

Dookey Earl... Pukey, Hurls!

When Harry Met Callie

Hayes Carll KMAG YOYO

Cavalcadeofstars

Cup Or Cone?

Dooley Noted

Snap

The Anthropomorphic dog

A Day At The Beach

Ebbtide

Happy V.D.

Fandango

In The Eye Of The Beholder

Shadow Phil-osophy

Hot Shot

Live Dangerously

Clara Belle

Sweet Chili Philly

Stay Just As You Are

Southbound

Sugar's Six For Santa

Dr. Ramsey M.D. W.W.B.R.D

Tough All Over

Tangerine Unforseen

Give And Take

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

The Future: Heartbreak Is Epidemic

Rebel Ravel

Winter

Lucky Streaks

Sweet Talk

Security

Reach For It!

Prickly Pears

Summer Of Sam

Vinny The Vegetarian Vulture

Swine Actor's Guild

A Bedtime Story

Sugar, Them's Ears Not Handles

Story Story

A Dog Eat Dog World

Bananas

Frankie's Wave

* Sports of Kings * ~ A DailyDouble from AbsolutelyKate and Horsey Harry