Fandango

              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

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

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

By Harry B. Sanderford

 

 

A small ruby brooch dots 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. Begging apologies into her headset, she excuses herself, so hoping to reschedule. He lets out his breath as she crumples on the curb.

Live Dangerously

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 bent back and 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

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

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/