Not Quite Pale Ale

Nothing like a good cigarette after a stressful situation. Of course, cigarettes are bad for you. But, then again, so are stressful situations.

This not quite Pale Ale from Burlington, VT is pretty good HI#9. Going down just fine.

You know, they say that alcohol is bad for you, too. But I say, “Live Free or Die,” baby.

Isn't that Vermont's slogan? Wait one second. No, I think it's New Hampshire's, actually. What's Vermont's slogan? Something about maple syrup, probably. The Maple State? Mmm mmm yum. Maple syrup.

Maple syrup's not bad for you. Unless you have the diabetes. But if you already have it – the maple syrup – go crazy!

This not quite Pale Ale is almost the color of maple syrup. Sort of. It's not about particulars. I flat out wish I had some maple syrup right now. But life is good and we're still alive. And that's that. Right?

And anyway, after beer and cigarettes, who can afford maple syrup?

Pick-Up Game

A no-look, left-handed pass
Cousey-like
in transition
uphill, in the lane
just out of reach
of my teammate trailing
out of bounds
skipping over junipers
under a pear tree
into the Hussein's yard
(an Iranian family, Shah-era)
the side yard where
one evening in adolescence masturbation was discovered
for the fifth or sixth time
employing a jar of noxema
a sister exiting the shower
in her bathrobe
to see the fellas in the late-night
pick-up game
inadvertently startled
hungering for a big mac
happy meal
picnicking courtside
in the cool, evening Summer grass
as an airliner with the President aboard
streams low in the sky
jet fuel trailing in the last pink dusk and satellite
stations shift positions
to accommodate the subtle
shuttle transformation
and disconnection
amidst the beaming stars
in space, and the cordial questions
of where one grew up:
this fella from South Dakota
my sister impressed --
she did undergrad at Duluth --
another from Michigan though
I had quite all along thought New York
another from Texas, one from Alabama:
a good, clean game, almost chivalrous.

Life was so much simpler and exciting
in youth, and yet chaos ruled
as it does now.
Still.
You think you're invisible
but you're really not.

A Dream of Baseball and Girls

Commencing with Little League, my focus was mainly on baseball. But girls were a close second. I engaged in foreplay with mannequins between ballgames. It was fun. Me and my friends incessantly rode our bicycles around town day and night. Swimming, too. We did a lot of it. It's what we did, especially during summertime.

My mother had eyes for my baseball coach. He always wore lucky, checkered slacks. He told me about the checkered slacks that “these babies are lucky." In more ways than winning ballgames, I suspected. My mother undressed those ubiquitous slacks many a-time. I threw no-hitters. The world was good. And, why shouldn't it be?

Come up with the most shagged balls you get the ice cream cone. Equitably, everyone got ice cream whether or not they came up with the most shagged balls. Point is, you got after it, you hustled. Many a trip to the local Dairy Queen for soft serve cones, Buster Bars, what-have-you. I remember my assistant coach had a big nose almost identical to his son's. Nice folks despite their comical appearance. Another teammate of mine, his mother, inadvertently ran into me with her car while I was in pin-stripes on my Schwinn. Me and another teammate raced her on our bikes and I guess she didn't notice. She accidentally turned right into me. I collided with the side of the car at the front end above the wheel well and flew over the hood, landed in the street. Scared the hell out of her. My father drove me over to the doctor's office. A couple of scrapes, a bump on the head. The doctor cleared me to play, said that it did not appear that I had a concussion. Not too much scrutiny back in those days. My father was laughing knowing I was burning to get back to the ball park. He was right to be proud. I returned in the middle innings to pound a 2-RBI double off the wall and help our team to victory.

I was a big fan of my sister's one-piece swim team swim suit, I recall. I built my own girl mannequin out of it with pillows to simulate just the right curves. I was a creative kid, on and off the field. Community authorities attempted to curb my enthusiasm. I played sports and spent ample time in the courts. Anything to escape the boredom and have some action. It was all about action.

In fact, one night, I walked over to your house in just my underwear and t-shirt. I am not afraid to admit it, this was just how crazy I was over you. I dreamt I was positioned in left field with the Chicago Cubs (of all teams!) and attempted to restring my glove between pitches. I needed an extra string of leather. I left in the 6th inning without a word. Took off the uniform, skipped the shower, and headed straight to your house. Ostensibly for just that string of leather.

Yeah, right!

Look, you either surmount limitations or do not. Even in your dreams, they're always there: baseball and girls. You know you gotta have it!

Mastering Musical Raindrops

The raindrops fall gently, a steady percussion, water hitting petals. A lightning flash startles our tuxedo kitty of 13 years; thunder follows, still pretty far off. Waiting on the mama, in hopes she has an umbrella. Should get some hot water going for tea in anticipation of her arrival.

My music teacher told me something simple and brilliant during my most recent lesson, referring to learning how to play the accordion: he said, “Hey, it ain't easy. But it ain't hard.”

He encouraged me to feel good about the progress that I've made.

I do feel good about what I'm learning – he is an excellent music teacher – and although I get frustrated at times, I do not foresee giving up. Not gonna happen. The goal Sam (my teacher) says is to “master the instrument.”

I hear the music of the falling raindrops; the rumbling and rolling thunder at slow intervals, intermixed with flashes of light. My practice is done for the day. I am where I'm at: awaiting the return home of kitty's mama.