Memorial Day: A Salute and a SALUTE !!

In honor of Memorial Day 2011, I offer you a poem from my dad’s first book, Irish Coffee…

De Profundis

I was young at Gettysburg,
And though Spring has come and gone a hundred times,
I am not old.
I am still thirst-quenched by Summer’s rain,
and laughter, wind-borne, nourishes me.
Beside me, my Captain sleeps,
and often, in the cool silence of the tombs,
when lilacs bloom, I hear him sigh.

I need no granite monolith,
pillowed in the dust of a century,
to mark my name.
It is graven in the ridge above me,
and in the quiet valley that slopes toward the sea.

Jack Mahoney ©1974

Here’s to my dad, and to all who have fallen in defense of this great nation.

Amen.

Now, on a lighter note…

Jayman and I are doing another award winning installment of I’m With Stupid on Blog Talk Radio for you today at 11 AM EDT.

As you may know…

On our Monday show, we like to just spontaneously jump into the news headlines that are rocking our world.

Today we will be talking about Sarah Palin, Michele Bachmann and the 2012 GOP Presidential Primary field, but mainly we will be making topical jokes about dicks. Y’know…penises, dorks, wanks.

Evidently, one of I’m With Stupid’s fave congressmen, Rep. Anthony Weiner (D-NY) allegedly showed his manhood over the internets recently, and well…we are going to make a thousand and one jokes about it come to his defense.

We want to salvage this man’s good name and be his reputation prophylactic of sorts.

So there you have it.

Join Jayman and me at 11 AM EDT on I’m With Stupid on Blog Talk Radio by clicking HERE. And/or…

You can call us at 661.244.9852

Happy Memorial Day all, and as always…

Cheers!!

Vikings, Cowboys, and Hot Dogs

I didn’t watch any football on Sunday. Well, at least I didn’t watch any on TV.

I was all excited about watching some gridiron action, but something got in the way and instead, I watched a football game that took place some 35 years ago.

You see, Beth and I got into a fight on Sunday.

The whys, heretofores, and whatnots are not important, but because of our emotional tussle, I shut the TV down.

I was pissed. She was pissed. The mood just wasn’t right…

Click…TV Off.

Beer in hand, a smoldering Marlboro Light dangling from my lip, and anger dancing between my synapses, I went outside and sat on the porch.

Three drags from the smoke, two sips off the beer, and one heavy sigh later, I blasted off to the past…to 1975.

Looking past, through, and beyond the hospital across the street, I could see the Minnesota Vikings playing the Dallas Cowboys.

It was great…

My favorite team when I was 10, the Minnesota Vikings, throwing it down with my dad’s favorite team, the Dallas Cowboys.

I could see Fran Tarkenton throwing to Sammy White…

I could feel Chuck Foreman, sweeping right, and I could hear my dad bitching about the Cowboys getting hosed on a “phantom” unnecessary roughness call, and...

I could envision every player, be they Viking or Cowboy, blowing frozen December steam from their noses while locking horns in the old Metropolitan Stadium. Ha. I smiled when I thought of that yesterday, and I remembered smiling on Sunday afternoons with Dad.

I loved ol’ Dad. He was one of the funniest, kindest, and yet, grumpiest sunzabitches I ever knew. He was the Holy Trinity of Conundrums.

Yet…In spite of all that, when I was a kid, every Sunday was football on TV. As the youngest of nine, it was mainly just him and I.

We would bet on one game every week. A nickel.

I would take the Vikings every week, and no matter what hapless team they were playing, Dad would take the other team.

Nearly every Monday, I would get a nickel for my “win”, and if the Vikings did happen to lose, he would tell me:

“We‘ll go double or nothing next week, Matt.”

We never did...somehow I always got the nickel, win or lose.

Halftime was even good back in those days…Dad and I would set up our TV trays and on cue, Mom would come out with soup and sandwiches.

While Pat Summerall and Tom Brookshire were getting sloshed on vodka and whiskey at halftime, Dad and I were getting sloshed on Bean Soup and Hot Dogs.

And all the while, my Dad would be saying to mom…

“You’ve done it again Mary Anne. Great Supper.”

And my mom, embarrassed, would respond, “It’s only hot dogs, Jack.”

To which Dad would say…

“You are kinder to me than the refs are to Tom Landry and Roger Staubach.”

I would smile, chuckle, and finish my hot dog.

It was the definition of “comfort food”, and I ate it up.

And while it was a fight between Beth and I that served these memories up on Sunday...

I would order those memories up any day of the week.

Cheers!!

Matt-Man: Yeah, I Like That...

Last week, I posted a partial list of things I hate. Today?

I am writing about things that I like, things that bring me joy.

My dad, in his book Credo, wrote a poem about things that were pleasing to him. It was titled, Personal Choices and one of the verses went like this…

I like

the serenity of old battlefields
short sermons,
and chores well done.

©1981 Jack Mahoney

I decided to list some of the things that I like, using the same poetic form that Dad used in that very poem…

I like,

Fernleaf Buckthorns, brash, red geraniums,
white Dogwoods anchored in black mulch,
and the delicate, pink blooms on Scottish Heather.

I like,

the pre-dawn aria of the mourning dove,
the clickity-clack of an archaic timepiece,
and the seductive sadness in the voice of Chrissie Hynde.

I like,

footlong chili dogs, cheeseburgers rare,
lima beans and scalloped corn,
and BLTs heavy on the bacon.

I like,

the warmth and closeness of my son’s embrace,
a cool breeze in August, the January thaw,
and goosebumps germinated by the heat and moisture of a loved one’s kiss.

I like,

the smell of a backyard cookout,
the scent of fresh cut Christmas trees,
and the aroma of basil on pizza fresh from the oven.

I like,

poems by Tennyson, Donne, and Dylan Thomas,
the honest comedy of Chris Rock,
and drinking Wild Irish Rose from a knowing, old, beer glass.

©2010 Matt-Man

Yeah, I like that, and I hope you liked it too.

Happy Hump Day, all.

Cheers!!

Sunday Morning Church Disservice: Why?

It’s going to be some kind of day weather wise on this Sabbath in Bagwine, Ohio.

I say “some kind”, because I haven’t checked the weather forecast. Eh, I’m off anyway so no big deal.

For today’s Sunday Morning Church Disservice, I once again, invoke the soul and the words of my dad…‘cause well, I need them right now…

Why?

Why do you seek to destroy
all that I build,
knowing full well
that time alone
would serve instead,
and once the pillars rot
and the castles fall,
you would not be burdened
with a sense of guilt?

Why do you taunt me
with practical things
nor realize that all dreams
must someday be shattered,
and falling to earth,
awake each man
with the thunder of mediocrity?

Could it be that deep inside
you cannot watch me suffer
the pain of one
who strives for the stars,
and struggles,
day by sad day,
up a ladder without rungs?

Jack Mahoney ©1974

Amen, and Amen…

Off to see Ryno this morning and then after that, who the fuck knows?

Have a wonderful Sunday, all.

Cheers!!

Sunday Morning Church Disservice: Birth of a Nation

It's going to be a scorcher of a Sabbath on this 4th of July in Bagwine, Ohio. But, that's as it should be.

Things will be rockin' and exploding over at my brother's house later today and Ryno and I shall be part of the shenanigans, along with eighty other liquored up goofballs.

It will be one helluva birthday party for America over at Casa del Marty.

And to kick the day off, I once again summon the historical perspective and Gaelic fueled wordsmitthery of my dad, Jack Mahoney, to wax poetic on the origins of this great nation...

The Voice of the Revolution

Richmond’s streets were cold and bare
But signs of Spring were in the air.

Like Christians from the Catacombs
Patriots stole past Tory homes.

To St. John’s Church in stealth they came
Risking death and a traitor’s name.

Once safe inside they paused to pray
That freedom’s torch would light their way.

The roll was called, the minutes read
Approved and entered as were said.

Each cautious vote was meekly cast
When Patrick Henry stood at last.

Then like a monk before his God
His voice in measured cadence trod.

The oak floor shook beneath his rage
The Bible trembled page by page.

He crossed his wrists, despair implied
“Our chains are forged”, he harshly cried.

He spoke of liberty and death
And murmurs rose with every breath.

Then undismayed by thoughts of fear
The Yankee crowd began to cheer.

The shouts burst forth like tamarind
And Henry’s words were on the wind…

In Williamsburg, where all was still
Lord Dunmore felt a sudden chill.

He shuddered as he stirred the fire,
And saw a raging fun’ral pyre.

A musket shot, a distant bell,
And muffled hoof beats broke the spell.

Reluctantly, he grabbed his sword,
And took his pistol from the board.

Sadly, he knew, but could not say,
That England’s fate was sealed that day.

© 1981 JJM

Amen and Amen...

Have a wonderful 4th of July all you chuckleheads. And for those of you who have tomorrow off?

Suck It!!

Cheers!!

Two Hundred Summers

A poem that my dad wrote some years ago in honor of our nation's Bicentennial in 1976...

The gates are open
somber, still;
the blade-grass quivers
on the hill.
A single robin
claims the crest;
the flowers in summer hues
are dressed.

The weathered columns
all look down
on marble slabs
that kiss the ground.
The names and dates
are graven deep,
two hundred summers
lie asleep.

The crowd is silent
standing there;
a priest intones
a solemn prayer.
The speaker dwells
on death and life,
and speaks of distant
drum and fife.

The chapel bell
in memory rings;
the choir, stirring
anthem sings.
The benediction's
slowly read;
the crowd departs,
the amen's said.

The hallowed ground
seeks love and rest,
for those it seals
within its breast;
July's green hills
their echoes keep;
two hundred summers lie asleep.

Jack Mahoney (C)1981

I'm workin' all day today because, well...someone has to drunk up the denizens of Bagwine, Ohio so they can beat their wives and lose a finger to a firecracker.

Cheers!!

Sunday Morning Church Disservice: Why?

It’s going to be some kind of day weather wise on this Sabbath in Bagwine, Ohio.

I say “some kind”, because I haven’t checked the weather forecast. Eh, I’m off anyway so no big deal.

For today’s Sunday Morning Church Disservice, I once again, invoke the soul and the words of my dad…‘cause well, I need them right now…

Why?

Why do you seek to destroy
all that I build,
knowing full well
that time alone
would serve instead,
and once the pillars rot
and the castles fall,
you would not be burdened
with a sense of guilt?

Why do you taunt me
with practical things
nor realize that all dreams
must someday be shattered,
and falling to earth,
awake each man
with the thunder of mediocrity?

Could it be that deep inside
you cannot watch me suffer
the pain of one
who strives for the stars,
and struggles,
day by sad day,
up a ladder without rungs?

Jack Mahoney ©1974

Amen, and Amen…

Off to see Ryno this morning and then after that, who the fuck knows?

Have a wonderful Sunday, all.

Cheers!!

The Familial Devolution of Poetry and Prose

Those in my family take pride in their love of poetry and we all take pride in our ability to be wordsmiths.

But yesterday, I posted a poem titled, “Colors” that I had written back in 1983 and I became a bit alarmed.

I could see that from my dad, to me, and now onto my son, Ryan, our poetic ability has actually devolved.

Let me show you…

Here’s a poem that my dad wrote for his second book, Credo.

The Silent Earth

From this silent earth,
I take a handful of dust…

Whose sacred ashes do I hold?
Whose wind-kissed lips are in this mold?

Does Helen’s beauty slumber here,
Beneath the dust of Sappho’s bier?

Are David’s lyric sonnets pressed,
Against Bathsheba’s fertile breast?

My lovely one, we have the key;
the fields of earth are you and me.

A century hence, this dust will bear,
your bright-eyed laughter in the air.

And someone else will lift the sand,
and toast your beauty in his hand.

Embrace this dust, the wind, the sea,
they hold the heartbeats of eternity.

Jack Mahoney ©1981

Ahhhhh, very nicely done, Dad. Let’s see the poetic genes that you passed on to me, shall we?

When I was at Bowling Green State University the campus newspaper did a story on me because I put up all of the poetry I was writing up on my dorm room door. Here’s a couple of examples:

The Sun

The Sun is hot.
Hot, Hot, Hot.
The Sun is yellow.
Yellow, Yellow, Yellow.
Well, not exactly yellow.

The Final Spring Break

The car went down the mountain road
Down the road it sped.
The car went off the mountain pass
Everyone was dead.

Unreelquited Love

The tuna swam for miles
In search of his one true sole mate
He trudged and plodded all the while
For a chance to boink and procreate

He met her at the sandbar
Her eyes and his did lock
But she swished her tail, and turned around
And said, “Sorry Charlie, I have a haddock.”

Matt-Man ©1983

I recently came across a book of poetry that my son Ryno wrote in school when he was 10 years old. Let’s look at his work.

Couplets

I went to a kid and said, “Do you rhyme?”
He said, “Not all the time.”

The kid is a kid named, Dude.
He’s pretty crude.

Practicing Kung Fu---
It makes me have to poo.

Triplets

Indians had a house
They called it a wigwam.
They did not have pom poms.

Haiku

A frog hung on
To a stick in the harbor
As the sun comes up.

Do ya see what I mean? Our poetic gene pool may be wide but it ain’t deep. Oh dear God, what hath been wrought?

You know the saddest thing about all of this is? Both my dad and my son have had books published, and me?

I appeared in the November 8, 1983 issue of the BG News. Life ain’t fair.

Cheers!!

Sunday Morning Church Disservice: Genesis, Exodus, and a Nocturnal Portrait

The skies will be gray, wet, and cold on this Sabbath in Bagwine, Ohio. However, I have a new schedule at work and will not be manning the Beer Mine today as usual.

But, in spite of the day off it is not a day to rejoice.

Early Saturday morning, forty-four years to the day on which she gave birth to Schmoop, Schmoop’s mom passed away.

While her passing saddens us all, she now rests in a world of crystal clear clarity, something which she hasn’t had for some time.

So to Schmoop, Dave, Rick, Jeff, Steve, and Schmoop’s sister, may you find comfort in the fact, that good ol’ Patty Ann is roaming above you in high definition and with a smile upon her face.

Maybe this excerpt from a poem my dad wrote over 35 years ago will help…

Her skin was fair like the lily’s bloom,
and her hair was gold from the Nature’s loom.
I yearned to grasp her hands in mine,
but I was bound in forest vine.
As gentle night and morning kissed
she vanished full in swirling mist.

I hope and pray her star will rise
beyond the earth and Heaven’s skies.
I’ll watch it where no mortals weep
when I walk again in the forest deep.

JJM ©1974

Amen, and Amen…

On this day more than usual, I do wish Schmoop's family,

Cheers!!

Why

I have a couple of things on my mind.

First…I was dissed by a long time friend. I was deleted from her life. NO, not physically, but emotionally.

It’s kinda weird because I usually wouldn't give a rat’s ass, but we had been friends for years, and her casting me aside because “it doesn’t look good” sucks. I know…I am using great English today….Fuck it.

It’s absolute bullshit. If this chick has to “hide” me from her man, that is just silly. On her part and on his. We were friends. For a long damn time.

Does anyone get that? I have lots of friends that I used to go out with. Does Schmoop care? And Schmoop? Hell, she's hosed the entire city. Do I care? NO, she knows I love her.

When do people stop being 14 year olds? Oh, I know…they don’t!!

Holy Cow!!

Anyhoo…My brother Vince, found a copy of my dad’s first book. And from this book, Irish Coffee, I give you a poem titled, “Why”.

Why

Why do you seek to destroy
all that I build
knowing full well
that time alone would serve instead.
and once the pillars rot
and the castles fall,
you would not be burdened
with a sense of guilt?

Why do you taunt me
with practical things
nor realize that all dreams
must someday be shattered,
and falling to earth
awake each man
with the thunder of mediocrity?

Could it be that deep inside
you cannot watch me suffer
the pain of one
who strives for stars
and struggles,
day by sad day,
up a ladder without rungs?

Jack Mahoney ©1974

Yeah…my dad had a way with words, and he passed it on. I just hope I don’t let him down.

Working 11-4 so wish me a good day. We’re having some snow, Bitches!!

Cheers!!

Happy 4th of July

To all of you...

My computer and household are finally running as they should.

Schmoop and I wish you a very safe and very Happy 4th of July.

While I have to work tonight...

Schmoop and I are going to be spending Saturday at Marte's house enjoying a two kegger.

I hope you all have as much fun as we plan on having, and I leave you with this...

My dad wrote the following poem as part of his second book and a play (Two Hundred Summers) that he wrote.

It's titled, Bicentennial, July 4th, 1976...

The gates are open
somber, still;
the blade-grass quivers
on the hill.
A single robin
claims the crest;
the flowers in summer hues
are dressed.

The weathered columns
all look down
on marble slabs
that kiss the ground.
The names and dates
are graven deep,
two hundred summers
lie asleep.

The crowd is silent
standing there;
a priest intones
a solemn prayer.
The speaker dwells
on death and life,
and speaks of distant
drum and fife.

The chapel bell
in memory rings;
the choir, stirring
anthem sings.
The benediction's
slowly read;
the crowd departs,
the amen's said.

The hallowed ground
seeks love and rest,
for those it seals
within its breast;
July's green hills
their echoes keep;
two hundred summers lie asleep.

Jack Mahoney (C)1981

Have a great 4th everyone...And by the way...The rug burns left on Schmoop's knees from the new carpet are so Salvador Dali-like.

Cheers!!

Happy Birthday, Dad!!

It’s a special day here at Bagwine Ruminations…

I don’t do Birthdays any longer for readers, because invariably I miss someone, but…

June 5th, 1921 was my Dad’s Birthday…

Jack Mahoney, in spite of never passing on his good teeth, full head of hair, and good eyesight on to me, was the one who did will to me…

His humor, his wisdom, his love for words, and his empathy for all. And for that, I thank him beyond any thought, any word…and any prayer.

And more than being my father…he was my Dad. He was, simply the best.

My dad, was a man who grew up in times when people had nothing, yet he was fairly well off. And what did he recognize?

Not what people such as he had, but rather, what people around him, didn’t have.

After World War II, he started a family, and in spite of the demands of his new wife, family, and work, he went on the road with two “niggers” and helped to integrate Catholic parishes throughout Southwest Ohio.

He wasn't Jesus, but he was living the WWJD kinda life.

He worked hard. He wrote his poetry. He never forgot that there was always someone, somewhere, with less than him.

Jack was as soft, bendable, and adaptable as a reed bending in the Little Miami River, and at the same time an unyielding rock against injustice in the world.

He was not some sort of burly "man" among men, but rather, a man who sought and found the best in humanity.

And, helped to define and utilize the best in humanity.

I still miss him at times, but he is always with me.

When I shudder at the injustices in the world, his hand still clenches with mine.

When I read Wordsworth, Yeats, or Tennyson, he is still reading along with me. (And like me, claiming he was better.)

When I think of all that this world could be, he still asks, just like when I was a curious little child, “Why Not, Matthew?”

He was always about taking life and the world to its extreme and peaceful end. He cussed like the sailor he was, and yet, was as spiritual as they come.

He was, my Dad…And I’ll always try to be like him. Not in all respects, but when it comes to having empathy for all people, and cherishing the written word?

I will never waiver. I will never falter. I will never let him down.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Cheers!!

And for those of you who still want to read...

I think if I should have to go,

before the things I want to tell you

have been said,

I could not be at rest, eternally,

but must awake

and seek your soul instead.

And then if you would smile

into my eyes and say,

"I know for it was so with me",

my happy dust would mingle

with the earth,

as endless rivers flow to the sea.

In Closing...Jack Mahoney (c)1981

Memorial Day 2009: Black Dresses and Bloody Beaches

Here’s to Memorial Day…

I say, “Here’s to” Memorial Day because I just don’t think the word, “Happy” is quite the description that fits this Holiday.

Unless of course, you are all giddy about picking up a “black BCBG dress – beautiful detailing, light-weight silk for summer, and marked down from $158 to $79...” at the incredibly solemn, Macy’s Memorial Day Sale!!

If that’s the case…be as happy as you want on this day.

Anyhoo, to wit, and heretofore…(I dig saying that.)

I offer to you, a simple Memorial Day post today, along with the hopes that you enjoy the day and enjoy it safely.

My dad served in the U.S. Navy from 1942-1945. He served aboard a munitions ship in the Pacific. He served with honor and distinction…as did so many others during World War II.

In spite of all of the death and destruction that occurred during the Big One, my dad had a somewhat funny tie to the war.

While on a short leave, he married my mom. The date? August 6, 1945. Uh-Huh…The day that we dropped the bomb on Hiroshima.

His leave was made permanent, and their marriage lasted through nine kids, and 53 years until his death in 1998.

Here’s a picture of Jack and Mary Anne from that era…

My dad saw many things during the war that stuck with him and which he ultimately wrote about in his poetry.

One of the bloodiest battles he was engaged in, was the Battle of Tarawa. He wrote the following poem, Tarawa, and it appeared in his second book, “Credo”.

Tarawa
misbegotten
pin-point in history;
what angry god
was mid-wife to your birth;
what ancient sun
saw you rise
from the ocean floor?

Decades ago,
on a blood red sea,
I watched
as you were ravished
and stripped naked
and in return,
you became a parched grave
for five thousand men.

Never for them
the solace of the rich earth.
nor the kiss of Spring;
only the sharp coral, and the eternal sun.

Do you hate them still?

--JJM ©1981

Here’s to your safe enjoyment of Memorial Day, and to Vinny and Jay, I hope you both find sexy dresses that scream, “Look at me guys!!” when you go to Macy’s today.

Cheers!!

Sunday Morning Church Disservice: Out of My Way, I'm a Christian, Dammit!!

It’s a hot, hazy Sunday in Bagwine, Ohio today.

But…I am actually rested up from my “week off” and ready to get back to being myself.

I have to work all day today, but before I go, I have an actual sermon for all of us…Specifically, for all of us “Christians” in the audience.

Something hit me last night at about 9:15 P.M., in between my 14th beer and my second pint of Wild Irish Rose…

Christians, suck.

Now hold on Nellie, not true Christians, but those who profess to be Christians.

I laugh at some of these charlatans such as Rod Parsley, Paul Crouch, Joyce Meyer, and Benny Hinn, but far more dangerous is the hypocrisy that lies within our family, our neighbors, ourselves.

Far too often of late, I have been called a “fucking asshole”, a “jerk”, and a whatever body part one might like up his or her ass…

Typically, I don’t mind these aspersions…in fact, I usually find them funny. But these are words coming from self-professed “Christians”.

I do not proclaim to be anything other than an imperfect being. I make fun of myself on a regular basis…sometimes to a fault.

Why in this day is there a proliferation of people that claim to be Jeebus personified and whine that they are being persecuted?

People who claim to want to help others and yet complain about how their money is wasted on the less fortunate.

People who want eternal salvation for all, but demand a price from others here on Earth.

People who judge others while refusing to look in the mirror…

I have often taken shots at the Little Baby Jeebus, but religion aside, his message is something that everyone should agree upon.

The Golden Rule, The Sermon on the Mount, the sending back of the veal cutlet because it was under done and over priced…

I also like Lao-Tzu, the founder of Taoism. Both LT and JC were wise. No matter your religious bent or not, both ideologies are sound…They were not radicals.

Unless of course, being nice to people is a radical idea.

Amen, and Amen…

And now, our Sunday Serenade...a poem from the late, great, Dad of Matt-Man. From 30 years ago, an illustration of the height of Christian hypocrisy…

Reflections On Northern Ireland

What Christians, we,
on Sunday morn,
who to Christ
lip service give.

In song, in prayer,
we hear His words,
and touch the Book
that holds His Rule.

With wine and bread
we are all fed;
we hail the Cross
to be the Grail.

But darkness comes,
and in His name,
each side is led.

And Christ again
is crucified,
beside the wounded
and the dead.

©1981 JJM

Cheers!!

Catch Turnbaby's BlogTalk Radio Show tonight at 8 EDT. For details, click HERE.

Sunday Morning Church Disservice: Father's Day

Yesterday…Two people grew up.

My 13 year old son…and me.

I went over to his house to spend some time with him for Father’s Day because today he leaves for Basketball Camp.

He was so bright eyed and excited when I got there.

He had had his Mom buy three pairs of shorts for me that matched three pair that he had.

My son has had some problems of late. Among a few other things, his grades really fell off the last quarter.

He had already gotten a butt chewing over this, but he got it again yesterday…Why?

Because his Mom can’t let things go. She has to harp on things…Instill guilt…Justify her existence. Trust me, I know.

Well, words ensued, because of course, she ended up making the grade issue all about her, as she has with so many other things in the past.

But, for once, in our twenty year history, when she yelled at me for being an uncaring father and a lousy man, I stood up to her.

This guy, who has been guilt ridden for years for walking away, told her everything she needed, and of course, didn’t want to hear.

I have NEVER uttered a bad word about Ryno’s mom in front of him, but yesterday, she pushed the limits in attacking me, and I responded.

While I am sorry, and I apologized to Ryno for yelling, I am not sorry for a damn thing that I said to her. And everything said, was heard by this sweet, little boy.

Am I sorry he heard what was said? Yes, but only because of the manner in which he heard it. I am glad that he heard what was said, and by whom.

Because, let me tell ya folks, she let her own words paint her self-portrait. Wow, move over Dorian Gray!!

I am very confident that his bright little mind digested the differences between his mom and I, in manner, tone, and context.

At one point, he told Mom, to quit reliving everything , because it does nobody any good. I cried, because, it was like listening to myself. The boy is wise.

I have many faults…I mean, just ask Schmoop…but Schmoop will also tell you that I admit them, freely. Ryno’s mom has no faults. Just ask her.

She will also, say that our failure in marriage was entirely MY fault.

More times than not, if a person ever tells you that their marriage failed all because of the other person in the relationship…

They are either bat-shit crazy, or delusional…

While he still loves his Mom with all of his heart (as it should be), I think yesterday, my son found that out.

It has been a painful and tearful Father’s Day weekend for me, but in some aspects, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Amen, and Amen...

I am working 11-7 today, serving beer to all of those fathers who are hiding from their wives.

So, I’ll see ya all tomorrow, and to my Dad who has long since passed on, Ryno and I love ya, buddy.

And now, to lighten the mood….Our Sunday Serenade.

Once again, from his second book, “Credo”, a light hearted look at love by my dad…

CONTRAST

In his Brooks Bros. suit and Florsheim shoes,
He speaks of love so ardently.

But she flaunts her jeans and her gingham smile,
And speaks of love so casually.

He thinks of martinis and filet mignon,
And speaks of love so seriously.

But she serves him pizza and Diet-Rite Cola,
And speaks of love so casually.

Cheers!!

Half-Nekkid Thursday: Pop a Top for Pop

I was in a bit of a quandary in regards to today’s HNT posting.

You see, today, my dad would have been 87 years old.

He has been gone nearly ten years, and I wanted to do something for his birthday.

I wondered to my self…

“Self? Is there a way to give a shout out to Dad AND do a HNT post without it being tacky?”

I’ll let you guys decide if I managed exactly that.

The following poem appeared in his second poetry book, Credo.

It is about how many of us often times lose sight of what is good in life, as we drearily drown in our drab, commuter world existence.


Prisoner of the Freeway

Let him,
who in the course of things,
denies those parts of earth
which life holds dear,
go forth,
amid the solitary loneliness of his own mind,
bearing with him
the sterile satisfaction
of a sightless vision,
that perceives only the concrete ribbons,
which encircle his red-green-amber world.

Never for him
the benediction of silent skies,
nor the prayers of trees,
gold-dipped in Autumn;
only the smug beatitudes
of his dust to dust existence,
and the false baptism of tears
shed only in laughter.

©1981 JJM

Happy Birthday Dad…I am off today, so I’ll be drinking more than a few in your honor.

As for the rest of you hooligans, Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday!!

Cheers!!

180 Degrees

Yesterday was kind of odd.

In a good way.

An old friend stopped by, and although she said my posts haven’t been very funny of late, it was great to see her.

And then, later in the day I went to work and was busy as hell. But it was a good kind of busy.

Later that evening, I found out that I made somebody smile. I like that. Quite a bit.

This person smiled because she said, in effect, that she felt as though she was 14 years old again. Giddy…Innocent.

I don’t think any of us want to traverse those years again, but when in brevity, they can be a good feeling.

Those years can be full of hope, promise, and even though many times painful and awkward, in some ways the best of times.

It reminded me of a poem my dad had written. It is a poem about coming of age and venturing beyond the apron strings.

When a site reviews me, I always get knocked for my grammar. They just don’t get it. I write in a style that we speak everyday.

My dad could write sonnets, dissertations, and pentameter someone’s iambic with the best of them…but he was at his best when he wrote as most of us speak.

A poem by my dad that popped into my mind last night, “Triangle”.

I regret to tell you
that I have a date with a girl
much younger than you,
and a bit slimmer.
She’s very pretty, dresses mod,
and she smiles
the way you smiled,
once upon a time.
Perhaps that is why
I asked her to join me
at the Pizza Hut
for Coke, and the fourteen inch deluxe.

Since you let your daughter
stay out until midnight
and you get sleepy
after the eleven o’clock news
don’t wait up for us.

Say what you will, I think it is simplistic beauty. Here’s to you Dad!!

And now, the Bagwine Ruminations Comment of the Week…


This week’s comment comes to us courtesy of that Bejeweled Breast Queen, and her words from yesterday.

Leighann of Pessimists Need Love Too commented on my post from yesterday about the number of lovers we have all had. The average number being nine.

I laughed out loud when Leighann commented:

“I’m still a virgin.”

Why did I laugh? Because even if she didn’t have four kids, you know damn well somebody would have at some point, scaled those twin peaks!!

So here’s to you for ropin’ this week’s COW.

Please congratulate Leighann by clicking HERE.

Have a great Saturday everybody. And of course…

Cheers!!