Bonechance’s blog

A Christmas Tradition

nobody@vox.com(Bonechance) — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 19:20:34 -0600

Year Of The Ox, 4707
24 December 2009 AD
Thursday, 1911 hrs. CST
Stormcrow Ranch
Boone, IA USA
"Squirrel Corn Capital Of The World."

Not today, my friends, not today, will I succumb to lambasting morons and/or Congress. Today is reserved solely for what is best within all of us, those portions of humanity which make us the most interesting study of interstellar aliens, a species so far advanced it knows it is doomed, and yet still smokes filterless cigarettes, drives while talking on cell phones, and eats an FDA-mandated, acceptable amount of rat feces in hot dogs.

I sent out Christmas cards this year, the first time in probably a decade. If you did not get one, it is because I did not have your address. I despise you all with equal disrespect; so do not feel slighted by your lack of mail on my part. I tried to be exactly even, choosing quotes and cards, which I thought, represented your tastes, and what little good will I still harbor toward the human race. Akin to hand-written thank you notes, and standing when a lady approaches the table, these old manners and traditions make the world a better place. There is only one word which describes this: decorum. A propensity of manners. I suggest you try being polite and gracious, say, one day a week, and see what happens. I already know the answer, but I am curious about your adventures. Please contact me here with your tales. I will post them.

Pandora’s Box contained the Woes of Mankind, but also Hope, a chance of redemption, and something to keep us going, that lagniappe of merit and élan.

So saying, here is my attempt to bring ‘an unbearable lightness of being’ to an otherwise dark world:

My family has long practiced a tradition that at least one gift from the many we give must be hand-made. What follows is what I gave to my littlest boys in Christmas 2004. It has become a tradition in itself, a little something I read to them while they wait--in little boys' giggly, wiggly ways-- for Santa Claus. Please note that for the best effect, it must be read aloud with a wide-eyed wonder, that children’s story voice parents and librarians use. I tried to phrase it to make it easier to get the flow right. And I admit it is no Gospel of Matthew, Gift of the Magi, A Visit from St Nick, nor Why The Chimes Rang. It’s simply three hundred words for two lights of many in my life. Please enjoy it.

The Boy Who Wanted To Be Santa Claus

C. Hob Wear

For My Little Boys
“Never let your hearts forget what is real.”

There was once a little boy who wanted to be Santa Claus.

His name was Hunter, and he thought Christmas was the greatest thing in the whole world—even better than ice cream and chocolate chip cookies!

Hunter loved Christmas so much he decided he’d like to be Santa Claus. So, when he was just five years old, he wrote a letter to Santa with his favorite crayon.

The letter said:

"Dear Mr. Santa Claus~

If you decide to retire, please hire me to make and deliver all the presents to all the children of the world. I am a hard worker, and I really like Christmas.

Your friend,

Hunter"

He mailed the letter and then he waited. At first waiting was hard, but as the days went by it was easier. While Hunter waited, he practiced wrapping presents,

And he learned all about reindeer,

And he practiced carrying heavy sacks by helping his Mommy and Daddy take out the garbage and carry in groceries.

But no letter came from the North Pole.

Now some people would be sad if they didn’t get what they asked for, but not Hunter. Christmas time came and everyone thought Hunter’s presents were the best wrapped, and his Uncle Keith was amazed by how much he knew about reindeer, and Grandpa Ralph was impressed by how much firewood Hunter could carry all by himself.

After Christmas, Hunter wrote another letter, much the same as before. He used his best writing so the letter looked just right, and again he mailed it the North Pole. He knew Santa was busy, so the waiting wasn’t as hard this time.

And while he waited, Hunter learned to make toys,

And how to bake Christmas cookies,

And he learned all about winter weather,

But no letter came from the North Pole.

Still, this Christmas was the best ever. His Aunt Anne loved his home-made toys, his Uncle Brian ate a whole bunch of cookies, and his little brother Tucker was spellbound by Hunter’s knowing of storms and winds.

It is sad to say many years went by like this; Hunter happily learned all he could about being Santa Claus, and wrote a letter every year, but Santa never wrote back.

Hunter grew up—as little boys and girls do—but he was happy knowing he made other people happy with his Christmas-y thoughts.

And wonder of wonders, when he was quite old—over 20, at least—a letter arrived from the North Pole! It was written on snow white paper that sparkled like frost and smelled like Christmas trees and peppermint candy canes.

And it said this:

‘Dear Hunter~

Thank you for all your letters. I look forward to them every year, and the cookies you leave for me are very, very good.
I am sorry, but you cannot have my job. This is not a bad thing. You are already very much like me—you keep Christmas in heart all year round by thinking of others and believing in your dreams.
If you are good and true, you do not need to be someone else—you can just be yourself, no matter what anyone else says. All you have to do is believe in that little bit of Christmas magic everyone has in them.’

And the letter was signed,

‘Your friend,

Santa Claus’

And Hunter was happy because he had made his own dreams come true.

The End.

Some of you have seen this before, but this is its first—and only--public posting. I’m of the age and mind that it doesn’t matter anymore. Granted, I’d like credit, and whatever wherewithal such a tiny tale might produce, but in the main, it is about passion and love, and there is no price for these. And it needs an illustrator. Let it be noted that I am not giving away the rights; it is simply an offering for those who believe in the best of who we are, a simple, quiet prayer to believe in inherent magic and miracles. And it is as my friend Chef sez: ‘ We are right on schedule.’

Here also, I must add, I am the same Peter Pan-ish goof who leaves cookies and milk out for Santa on Christmas Eve. What amazes me most is that part of the milk is gone, and there are cookies missing every year come Christmas Day morning. I can’t explain it. It is indeed, ‘a wonderful life.’

“All things are possible; the impossible just takes a bit longer.”

Rage, rage,….

~~Hob

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Blame It On The Dog

nobody@vox.com(Bonechance) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 08:44:34 -0600

Year of The Ox, 4707
3 November 2009, AD
0831 hrs CST
Stormcrow Ranch
Boone, IA
USA
"Squirrel Corn Capital of the World."

Faithful readers, my apologies I have been a way far too long. The fault is solely mine. Thank you for your continued patience.
‘But, now we are drawn into a great civil war, testing whether this nation or any nation can long endure.’ Lincoln said those words.
And we face these times again. Not in physical ways, or beliefs of succession, nor the rights of states to choose slavery as a source of economic reality. Oddly enough, our separation from each other comes from a far more insidious and vapid source. Our own government pits us against each other, separating us into the haves and have-nots.

"It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. … It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eyes of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its sallow limbs."
--M.W. Shelley, Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus

   Sounds a lot like our political process of late. Ye gods, what have we wrought? The monster exists and we have made it live and breathe. It has no soul, or morals, no empathy, sympathy or trust. It exists merely on lust of self, and its boundless hunger.
   John Locke said, "The actions of men are the best interpreters of their thoughts."
   The shine is off the rarity and charm of The New Boy and his continuing, ailing administration. Nothing has changed, and we’re still being raped as our government succumbs under the weight of a whore-wrought hellbroth of malfeasance known as the 80’s and early 90s. At least whores have the presence of mind and decorum to admit what they are doing is illegal—well, in most states, and parts of Illinois where one pays double for political sodomy. It is, of course, a value-based economy, rather than that of the service industry (here, I must note, I have a lot more respect for hookers than I do Congressmen or lobbyists. The Ladies have always--and ever-- been honest in their trade).

“Senator; Love the dress.”
--Hannibal Lecter, MD

Let’s back up a bit: The Crash of ’06-08 did not occur over-night. The signs were there for a long time. Since at least October 1929. No. No Look again. The cycle of boom and bust began then. Inflated prices, over-valued properties, graft, theft, Tammany Hall, swampland in Florida, Prohibition. Look to the past to understand your future. Christ on a crutch, you’re paying for bottled water, about $10/gal. Really? Why don’t you just drink gasoline that is still cheap at $3? By all means, have it your way. Drive your kids everywhere and then bitch that milk is expensive. See what that does about putting food on the table.

“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.”
   --Nietzsche

    Yea. Verily, yea. I am said monster, and I make no bones about it. Abyss R Us.
    I believe The Crash was an adjustment, a purge, a culling of a mindless herd. For far too long were more people hired to manage more people who we hired. Who the hell’s assistant needs an assistant? I’m sorry, but all the math I know says one cannot divide by zero. You cannot take nothing from nothing, nor do it rapidly by long division.
Which is the core of algebra and even calculus. Numbers don’t lie. Only humans do.
    I am out of work myself, which is really no issue to me. I can get by on peanut better and Ramen noodles. What bothers me about going to job service is this one guy. 54, laid off, too late to learn new skills, too early for retirement. I really feel for this man—he wants to do right by his family, to himself, and to and for his country. Instead, he gets wealthy opportunities to be a dishwasher at minimum wage. Apparently, he—like me—is over-qualified for… anything. This is our legacy. So much is lost for no good reason at all.

“Blinding ignorance does mislead us. O! Wretched mortals, open your eyes.”
--L. DaVinci

    We live in a world of Somebody Else’s Problem. Indeed, just blame it on the dog, what with its bad bowels on a diet of lamb and rice. Flatulence that clears a 12’ by 12’ room. Tell you what—if something stinks, it is bad. No amount of Glade solids or incense will change that. It is rotten, putrid, and poisoned to its core. Don’t look at me as you wave miasma away from your face—I voted Independent.
    There is hope, though. I found quoted: ‘Sauce will thicken as it stands.’ (Double Cheesy Quesadilla Hamburger Helper). Maybe a roux of lard and cheese with pasta will make things better as the world winds down. Cheap and quick seems to be the intention and philosophy. A place where walking away makes all things perfect and right. But remember to stir occasionally. And my friend Chef still believes it was Huckleberry Finn who discovered the Mississippi River.
    Uh huh, and Mount Saint Helen’s will never erupt in our time. Hmm. Maybe you saw something about it on YouTube. 4800 tons of particulate matter thrust violently into the atmosphere, half a mountain sliding away, flesh-melting ash raining down…. Ring any bells? No big thing apparently when it comes to complaining about the price of coffee at 7-11.
    Do you get it yet? You bet your ass I’m pissed! And you should be too. Play your Twitter, and Facebook games as you deny our failures, that one last chance to make things whole. I’m sure it is vital that your kids know you are top player in Farkle and Mafia Wars.
    Sorry. I have been shouting at you. I get a bit hepped up about the lack of magic in Life. In this, I leave you with three quotes: you get to choose how your lives will be; they juxtapose but all speak of the same thing:

“Make my own home be my gallows.”
--Dante

“Be the change you wish to see in the world.”
--Gandhi

“We must hang together, or surely, we will all hang separately.”
--B. Franklin

Little wonder I always,

Rage, rage….

~~Hob

Post Script: Just as I was finishing this piece up, I came across three things:

The first is a quote by Thomas Huxley:

“We should not pretend to understand the world by only intellect; we comprehend it just as much by feeling. Therefore, the judgment of the intellect is, at best, only half the truth, and must, if it be honest, also come to an understanding of its inadequacy.”

The second:

“Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human discourse; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken.”
--J. Austen

Both these quotes speak directly to me and my admittedly egocentric worldview. And in the latter, it is true: everything I say is a lie. At least I am honest about it. Giggle.
The last is troublesome. And irritating: Someone posted ads for shoes in the comments of one of my blogs. While said women’s shoes are quite fetching, none are my style, size, or color, and I had nothing to do with their posting, nor do I condone or appreciate this. It is kind of funny though, but still, I must apologize to my readers. Sorry, my friends.

~~H.

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Last Of The Baby Boomers

nobody@vox.com(Bonechance) — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 07:43:13 -0500

Year of the Ox 4707
27 June 2009 AD
0732 hrs CDT
Stormcrow Ranch
Boone, IA
USA
"Squirrel Corn Capital Of The World."

"When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years.”
--Mark Twain, "Old Times on the Mississippi" Atlantic Monthly, 1874.

I was checking my stocks yesterday—you know—the same ones we all have: GM, Citicorp, et al. (The ones we bailed out), and wasn’t too encouraged by the returns on my/our investments. It looks like we are still dumping cash down so many rat holes, I think the world might tip over due to the sheer weight of worthless paper alone.
    Now, I don’t know about any of you, but as a shareholder in these corporations, I should be getting at the very least some kind of quarterly report, as well as returns when the value of my stock goes up (Citicorp was down to $0.40 a share at one point, it’s sextupled since then, so my roughly three thousand shares should be garnering a dividend about now.
    Did I miss something in my mailbox? “Buehler? Buehler?”
    But I noticed something as I tried to read the tiny font used in the newspaper; it’s getting pretty bad when I have to use my reading glasses to locate my bifocals.
    Now, when I was a kid, only masturbation caused blindness, or so my grandmother told me. However, Chef heard that the latest Surgeon General's report states that macular degeneration is the leading cause of loss of sight in individuals of our near-advanced age group. He reasoned, and rightly so, apparently that either we are spending far too much time alone in bathroom with magazines, or we are getting old.
    And, I suppose this is very telling of where we are as my generation ages.
    I was born, (for no good reason at all apparently, if my blog is any indication), at about the very end of the Baby Boomer generation, those heady and halcyon years from 1945 to 1963, after the Greatest Generation, but before Baby Bloomers, Generation X, and Dot Com Kids. And mine is the last group that will not ever make more money than their parents.
    Think about it: from the very first expatriates on these shores, it just seemed to get better and better--money flowed like water through a sieve and everyone ate butter, bacon, and lard every day— Life was good and bright, the very soul of The American Dream--until about the mid-1980s. Right about here weasels got in the hen-house and rats got in the corn (actually, historically it really started about the time of Adams/Jefferson, but that was before the days of streaming, biased, and sin-money-bought media, when there used to be things like objectivity and honesty and integrity
    Stephen King once said growing old is like a bad dessert after a great dinner. I have to agree with him, here now in the second third of my life. And though we are down to 1,270 days on the Mayan Long Count Calendar, I still think we have a chance to be The Greatest Generation…Ever, no offense to Tom Brokaw’s outstanding book.
    My readings this week: The Memory Palace of Matteo Ricci, The Templar Legacy by Steve Berry, Culloden (a history of a Scottish battle)... Some Twain, and a bit of Will Rodgers. My admittedly monstrous intellect demands a constant feeding, so I usually have about four books going at any given time.
    And my snail-mail box is often crammed with all-manner of things—the bills, o' course, and the usual magazines: Fine Wood-working, American Journal of Medicine, Saveuer, Oriental Vixens in 3-D, US News & World Reports, Leather Cat-Women Nuns of The Moon—the stuff that everyone reads.
    But within these stacks of screed, are also bits of intelligence-- Smithsonian, Scientific American, Invention & Technology, and The Writer.
    There are more I’d like to get, but the seed catalogs, and gizmo stuff (J. Peterman, Hammler-Schlemmer, etc.) take up the rest of my quiet evenings by the fire (always a fire going, which plays hob with my air conditioning in the summer months, but those unpaid bills burn with a bright and cheery flame).
    It comes to this: this is my world, and I want to learn everything about it, before the rest of you are swept away. But that does not mean you don’t have a chance. Make a choice.

“Get busy livin’, or get busy dyin’.”
--The Shawshank Redemption

I may be the last of the baby-boomers but I do not want to be akin to The Last of The Mohicans.
This is why, I always,

Rage, rage,…

~~Hob

Post Script:

I was astounded the other day, when I heard my words quoted.
    Chef and I were working the pit—BBQ—not a bar (Sheesh, how little you think of me) and Side Dish showed up, and said these startling words. “Yep. ‘The land of cow and corn.’”
    No one I know can turn a fragment like that into an all-encompassing description of where I live, save one. Let alone six simple words, which describe a history and generations of one lone state, and one of its native born, far-less-than-famous sons.
    “Hey! Those are my words!”
    “Yeah, I read your blog this morning. Chef told me I might want to check it out. I liked it. Though I’m still not sure about you.”
    “Well, there is that.”

~~H.

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Herding Squirrels

nobody@vox.com(Bonechance) — Wed, 13 May 2009 09:54:34 -0500

Year Of The Ox 4707
13 May 2009 AD
Wednesday, 0937 hrs. CST
Stormcrow Ranch
Boone, IA
USA
"Squirrel Corn Capital of The World"

"Banking should not be exciting. If banking is exciting there is something wrong with it."
~~Clay Ewing, president of German American Bancorp, a community bank in Jasper, Ind.
~~quoted from The New York Times, 11 May 2009

When I was in Oklahoma, I had the opportunity—for once—to pay a bill in a timely manner. I stepped up to the counter with a c-note in my long-fingered hand and attempted to pay the tab for my cellphone.
   “You are from Iowa, sir?”
   “Yes ma’am. Land of cow and corn. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Nice place northeast of here. Just south of where Laverne Johnson’s barn burned down thirty years ago.”
   “Uh huh. And you have an account with us?”
   “Yeeesss.” I sensed trouble, but continued.
   “Do you have a credit card?”
   “No. It is illegal for me to use one. Some kind of federal thingy. Big guys in dark suits, that kind of stuff.”
   “Uh huh. Sir, you can’t use that.”
   “I beg your pardon. What?”
   “We don’t accept cash for your account.”
   “What?”
   “It’s out of state.”
   “What?”
   “Credit card, debit card, money order, cashier’s check, or bank draft. Also only a local check with three forms of ID,” she recited.
   “What?”
    “ID? Identification. Passport, driver’s license, gun permit, fishing license, voter registration, social security card, AARP membership card, eBay PayPal account….”
   “Wait. No. What?”
   “AARP? At your age, there are certain benefits….”
   “No. No. That other thing you said, the first part.”
   She sighed. “No cash.”
   I stepped back. “Kay. Sorry about the Iowa joke. Let’s start over: I’d like to pay my bill, please, and here is a one hundred dollar bill. I’d like my change in tens, if you would be so kind. I….”
   “I can’t help you sir.”
   “This is a hundred dollars! I worked ten hours to earn it! Okay Okay. Granted. I took a long lunch that one day… but this is still a hundred dollars! American money. Cherished by drug cartels, hemorrhaged by Congress, currently worth 83% of its original value…”
   “Sir, no cash…”(And then, the killer): “It’s policy.”
   “This is money! Cash money. Moolah! Cabbage! Scratch! Big coin!”
   “I’m sorry sir. We do not accept cash for accounts based out of state. It’s policy.”
   I stormed out, seething.
   I stormed back in. “I’m only 46 I’ll have you know!”
   I stormed out again (Well, almost—I ran into the doorjamb. Woulda been pretty cool otherwise. Very dramatic).
   It was right about here I had a stroke, I think. My brain turned to small-curd cottage cheese—not the good kind; the cheap stuff that always smells like it’s about 30 seconds from expiration:
   I stormed back in again, shaking a raised fist. “Canadia!” I shouted. “Radishes! Tiny, biting weasels!! Duc l’orange! The capital of South Dakota is Pierre! Bacon…!” Ooh, and I meant it too. Every damn word. Man, I was hot.
   I stormed back out again in a stomping rage.
   The police arrived shortly after I left, I guess. There was an account in The Lincoln County News (OK) later that week. Something about a crazed terrorist with dyslexic aphasia and a goofy haircut. ‘I think he was Cajun,’ reported one witness. ‘He spoke French with a weird accent. Didn’t understand English. Mighta been Norwegian.’
   The police report no leads at this time, but the investigation is continuing.

"Whenever destroyers appear among men, they start by destroying money, for money is men's protection and the base of a moral existence. Destroyers seize gold and leave to its owners a counterfeit pile of paper. This kills all objective standards and delivers men into the arbitrary power of an arbitrary setter of values. Gold was an objective value, an equivalent of wealth produced. Paper is a mortgage on wealth that does not exist, backed by a gun aimed at those who are expected to produce it. Paper is a check drawn by legal looters upon an account which is not theirs: upon the virtue of the victims. Watch for the day when it bounces, marked, 'Account overdrawn.'"
~~ Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged.

   For years I’ve had problems with--and been troubled by—banks not accepting other banks’ checks. I sorta understand this: it takes a lot of work to enter the MICR code, those numbers at the bottom of checks, and exorbitant fees need to be applied. Especially, since very expensive machines do all the work. Said machines managed and maintained by whole teams of well-paid individuals who also have trouble cashing their checks at ‘alien’ banks
   But then, about three years ago, I started having trouble with stores not accepting money orders unless it was one of their own. This makes no sense. I always considered money orders to be between cash and personal checks but more honest, in a way, since they were backed by cash rather than the creative financing all of us practice in our Hello Kitty embossed personal checkbooks (Uh, not that I had one. Mine was, er, ‘Super Heroes.’ Yeah. Super Heroes)
   I got over that, and learned to work around it, spending cash only, or shopping only at places where I had bought the MO’s to begin with some weeks prior (I admit. I do have a certain penchant for spending cash, and since, due to legal issues I’d just soon not discuss, I really can’t maintain a checking account. But I do have the presence of mind to plan ahead, and money orders were a way to keep cash out of my pocket while still holding money in reserve).
   Then this cash thing. It was my first experience, and not a good one. Nothing like my first St. Pauli Girl beer, tell-you-what. Since when did using money become like herding squirrels--all crazed, and rabid, and fraught with untold headaches and hassles? It’s American money spent in America! Shouldn’t it all be the same?! After all, isn’t a U.S. driver’s license legal in all 50 states, Puerto Rico and Washington, D.C.? Same country, and the same laws. Shouldn’t our national currency be the same?
   Every paper note printed in the United States has these words on it: “THIS NOTE IS LEGAL TENDER FOR ALL DEBTS, PUBLIC AND PRIVATE.” Now, unless the definition of ‘all’ has changed and I missed that memo from Harvard School of Law, and the up-date from Merriam-Webster Universal Dictionary of English, Unabridged on-line, with said contract (and it is, by definition, a contract), I should have been able to pay my bill with that Franklin.
   (Sigh). I suppose I could pursue this: Hire lawyers, subpoena bank records, arbitrate in some class-action torts involving payments in nickels and pennies, but really, it comes to this: It’s your life; choose who controls it.

“The laws of science do not distinguish between the past and the future. Yet, there is a big difference between past and future in ordinary life….
The increase of disorder or entropy is what distinguishes the past from the future, giving a direction in time.”
~~Dr. Stephen Hawking, A Brief History Of Time

I’m looking at the lone ten-dollar bill I have in my possession at the moment. Hamilton looks toward the future apparently, just to my left. On the reverse is a very nice engraving of the U.S. Treasury--that big empty building near the East Coast--and inscribed above that are these words: ‘In God We Trust.’
I think I’ll just go with that—a very strange and juxtaposing, oxymoronic image. Seems oddly appropriate, given this day and age.
But I’m still going to,

Rage, rage,…

~~Hob

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The Fall of The Roman Empire

nobody@vox.com(Bonechance) — Sat, 09 May 2009 23:28:40 -0500

Year Of The Ox 4707
May 9th, 2009 AD
Saturday, 2124 hrs. CST
Stormcrow Ranch
Boone, IA
USA

"Squirrel Corn Capital of The World"

I have been away, but those miles are behind me now, and I will speak of my adventures in a later post.
     Today is dedicated to words. And a lesson on listening.
    The lesson first: I said some months ago that the national debt would get about so far out of range, it would be hard to contemplate. I wasn't wrong, was I? For once, I am not sorry to say 'I told you so.' Like many of you, I chose to believe in a change, in a better way. I did not vote for President Obama, though I had high hopes he might make government honest again when he did win. And I did not vote for Senator McCain either. To me, he was not 'strong' enough to be president. No, my vote went elsewhere. And that is my business, and my opinion only.
    I made a choice, and somewhere, somehow it was noted, in one of the things which politicians note and track('Hob, red-head, given to proclivities, monstrous in his habits, a credit rating lower than his cholesterol reading; likes to read, writes like a third-grade hack, cooks with real butter, secretly enjoys the smell of lilacs, cinnamon and cardamon, harasses and harangues telephone solicitors for fun, a bit over-weight and has a weak chin. Hates morons and Congress, or self-same. Favorite salad dressing is Italian, blood type A+. A Person Of Interest, and currently on The No-Fly List to points East of Omaha, NE and points west of Tulsa, OK. Also a registered Republican'). I think I was grouped in the Undecided/Independent category exit polls. Hard to tell. Numbers don't lie but people do.
    Aany-waay, what was saying was this: Pay attention to stuff; listen and learn. There is so much out here to just blithely walk toward the Oblivion. Be right wing, be left-wing, be an umbrella, or bark like a monkeydog---whatever, but please know your world.
    Thus ends the lesson.

Now, to words. These have been in the press a lot lately, and I too needed to look them up. I used the Universal Dictionary published by American Standard Publishing, circa 1938. The starred items are my, ahem, additions( my lexicon is a bit more...flexible, shall we say).

Nepotism(n): the act of hiring one's family or those close to one's self; specifically for financial or political gain. *See also cronies/cronyism. *See also, lobbyist(s).

Malefience(n) a). harmfulness, hurtfulness; b). criminal, evil

Corruption(n): *See also Congress. *See also Dodd, Murther, UAW, et al.

Atrocity(n): montrously awful

To be fair, I'll allow nineteen hours for rebuttal--the same allowed for Republican and Independent Congressman to read the 1100 pages of the TARP Legislation. Aaand....go.
    Look. Bottom line? I live in the greatest nation on earth and in the history of mankind. I am tired of the thieves and liars, of it being a given that all politicians are corrupt greedheads. I cannot--and do not--whole-heartedly adhere to the ideas put forth by the Tea Party crowds( in many ways it looked to me like a political Woodstock--some were just there for the show {aside: I predict a baby-boom in nine months}), but I do believe in what they were saying, which Dr. Suess put so eloquently in Horton Hears A Who: 'We are here!' and reiterated in the movie, Network: 'I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore!!'
    That's all. Seems simple enough. A fair wage for a good day's work? You bet. Cool. Happy to do it. Need a loan? Sure. Okay, but don't waste it, pay it back, and never ask again.
    But when 'render unto Caesar,...' becomes 'render unto Caesar so Caesar can rob Paul to pay Peter to render unto Caesar,' well, that is just so wrong on so many levels it makes my teeth hurt and sounds like the plot of a Jerry Springer show.
    It is little wonder I always,

Rage, rage,...

~Hob

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FAQs

nobody@vox.com(Bonechance) — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 14:48:34 -0600

Year of The Ox 4707
1 February 2009 AD
Sunday, 1016 AM CST
Stormcrow Ranch
Boone, IA
USA
"Squirrel Corn Capital of The World."

SuperBowl Sunday. A time beyond understanding for most of the World. It is said God rested on the Seventh Day just so He could watch American football. And I am not far from enduring the blather of the Pre-Game, before we actually get to that meat near the bone.
But in the meantime, I'd like to answer the most frequently asked questions my ten readers have generated regarding this blog, my writing in general, and my life overall:

Yes. Yes. No. Yes. Sometimes. Yes, but not my fault. Yes. No. Yes. Yes.

    There.
    I hope that clarifies things.
    Actually, of these questions, there is one I would like to address specifically: the quote usage (item #3 on the list). The quotes I use are from memory exclusively otherwise said words will be cited when I have to look them up. I make no bones about using the words of others. The funniest thing I ever saw about this was from the comic strip 'Doonesbury' wherein George F. Will would shout for his 'quote boy.' (off panel: "'Get me something from W. Somerset Maughm!! Now dammit! I'm at the conclusion!. I need pith!) Maybe you need to be a writer to understand the humor in this series of panels. I roared. It was so like Trudeau to notice a pattern, and it was even funnier to see his drawings of a wide-eyed intern scrambling through a huge library, trying to find apt words for his master who sat a desk like Bartleby the Scrivener.( 'uh, sir? Will Kipling work?' Fool boy. I said 'pith'; not depth!!') But what most people missed was that the writer knew who to cite and when. Now, GFW is a great writer and a huge baseball fan, and while he may have flown into town on a plane with two right-wings, this does not change the fact that the man can turn a phrase or two, that he can sling ink. But he uses quotes a lot. Smart man, that Mr Will. Conservation of resources, doncha know.
    Myself, I find that I cannot keep re-creating the wheel, that the words already expressed say exactly what I intended. It is my hope that one day, I too will be listed in Peter's Quotations, or even say or write something of merit, something that people will remember in the next Age. And the Age After That. It seems unlikely. I am the first to admit that I am too goofy and lazy to create such things even in this world of sound-bites and blurbs, of blogs, Op-Eds, and YouTube vlogs.
     Oh and ah, I better get going. I have snacks to prepare for my private tail-gating party. At least I'll know everyone there.

"... my sock is off,
my foot is cold,
And now my story
Is all told."
~~Dr. Suess

Rage, rage,...

~~Hob

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A Voice Stilled

nobody@vox.com(Bonechance) — Wed, 28 Jan 2009 21:55:44 -0600

Year of the Ox 4707
28 January 2009 AD
Wednesday, 2145 hrs CST
Stormcrow Ranch
Boone, IA
USA
"Squirrel Corn Capital of The World"

"'Charles Kyle Brown
1971 - 2009
Charlie Brown, age 37, of Boone, died at his home in Boone last week. Visitation is Wednesday evening from 6:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m. at Becker Funeral Home in Jewell. Cremation will follow visitation with memorial services at 2:00 p.m. Friday, January 30, 2009 at the United Church of Christ in Jewell. A memorial fund has been established, gifts may be sent to Charlie's mother: Mrs. Karen Hill at 1003 Elm Ave. in Story City, Iowa 50248. Becker Funeral and Cremation Service is caring for Charlie and his family.
Charles Kyle Brown was born in Lansing, Michigan on May 4, 1971 to Charles C. and Karen L. (Shuck) Brown. Charlie was a conductor for the Union Pacific Railroad.
Charlie is survived by his mother, Karen Hill of Story City; three daughters, Berhana Brown of Williams, and twins, Fiona and Onika Brown of Ellsworth; brother, Chad LeBert of Clearwater, Florida; three sisters, Katrina Hart of Sinton, Texas, Dawn R. Caudle of Ellsworth, and Annie Martin of Portland, Texas; nieces and nephews, Natasha, Tatianna, Dawn, Chandra, Jayson, Carissa, Sherri, Malori, Savanna, Lauren, and Bryce; and 15 great nieces and nephews. Charlie was preceded in death by his father."'
~~From The Boone News Republican, Boone, IA, 26 January 2009

My friend Charlie died last week, and my world is suddenly a darker place. There is an absence of color in a voice stilled.
    I am not the first to suffer a loss, nor the first to grieve and lament. Even with my beliefs of the complete failure in the concept death, I still find it hard to realize that Charlie is gone. I know he is not.
    This is not denial. I’ve been down that road through hard-fought paths—the introspection, the doubt of self, the quest for something better and something I might have changed.
    No.
    E. Kubler-Ross wrote a great book on the five stages of death. One would think this would provide some solace, the understanding of such things, but this book speaks of those in the throes, not to those of us who still stalk the Earth, who live on this side of the Veil, of those of us who still have unanswered questions.
    Charlie was always about the silver lining—there just happened to be clouds around it; that’s the way he looked at life. Ye gods, he stormed the Earth, a man so much alive it almost hurt to be in his presence.
    When we were housemates, when he would get off the road and come home, he would shout ‘Craig-ford’ every time he came in the front door. Day or night, dawn or dusk, and all the hours in between. He never could get that my true friends call me Hob. Anyway, he’d shout and talk and pretend like I wasn’t there, like it was his house, slapping pans on the stove, pouring himself a drink, and all the while giggling with a fiendish glee, knowing I would have to do the dishes.
    Sigh.
    What can I say about my friend Charlie?
    Well, he owes me money—I know that; he owes me cigarettes—I know that too. To some, these thoughts may seem callous; perhaps even ghoulish and/or disrespectful. They are not. If you knew Charlie, you would understand that he would be laughing at the above comments. Besides, what is more important is what I owe him—a debt I may not ever be able to repay: a lust for life so great it casts its own shadow.
    I have tried to find words within myself to complete this eulogy, and I find there are none. So I will rely on the words of others, far greater and better than I:

"Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality."
   ~~Emily Dickinson

But perhaps the best words written about Charlie are from the Declaration of Independence:

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."
~~Thomas Jefferson

    It was and is that last bit which speaks of my friend Charlie the most. He always pursued; he sought things beyond ken.
    And now, he knows The Answer, that One Thing.
    In this, I am almost envious. I face a world largely alone with questions that have no answers.
    My final words on this are ancient, the battle cry of the Knights Templar:

Beauseant! Beauseant, Mon ami!

Indeed, ‘be glorious. Be glorious, my friend.’

And always, always,

Rage, rage,...

~~Hob

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Spam Sandwiches

nobody@vox.com(Bonechance) — Sun, 18 Jan 2009 06:30:59 -0600

Year of The Rat 4706
18 January 2009 AD
Sunday, 0507 hrs. CST
Stormcrow Ranch
Boone, IA
USA
"Squirrel Corn Capital of The World"

My friend, Chef, comes over on Saturday mornings--mostly for the free coffee, I think.
    He travels a lot in his job--which is not cheffing--he does some kind of thingy with water. But he knows I am most always here, and almost always awake. We talk and laugh, sharing the past week and the days yet to come, two friends who have grown comfortable with each other. About two months ago he started a new idea--food in our private coffee klatch.
     Now, Chef is a world-class, um, well,... chef. Me, I'm mostly a cook, helluva rank. So things that come from our respective kitchens tend to astound and draw crowds from miles around. But on our Saturdays, we go with simple and plain elegance. We have Spam sandwiches, or fried baloney or bacon-n-onion sandwiches on paper towels. I gotta tell ya, there ain't nothing like it in the world.
    Sure, we could do fiddle-neck ferns in smoked hazelnut butter, or steamed bok choy with garlic and shallots, or hash from a bacon-wrapped pot roast with green peppers, topped with a Cajun roux.
    But it's just two friends, having coffee--one often lit like a Christmas tree, and the other waving cigarette smoke away from his face.
    The thing that gets us most though, is the questions we field regarding our tastes. 'Why Spam? ' or 'You're great; you can make food laugh, dance, and sing; couldn't you make something better?'
    Well, yeah; we could. But that's really not the point. We could pull out all the stops and break out our copper pans and cast iron skillets, and cook a breakfast that would give Henry VIII the gout.
    It's simple: Spam tastes good, It is only bigotry and snobbishness which prevents it from being a premiere product. Many think it is like trailer-trash ham, or government cheese.
    Look, ya think you have seen all of the Ver Meers, or Van Goghs? Ever see the rough drafts? The things they threw away?   What would you pay to have one of those? Well, bacon and Spam are the same way. And you are wasting your taste buds if you don't just try.
    Ah, well. It's your life.
    But I hope you always,

Rage, rage,....

~~Hob

Post Script: Just as I was finishing this post, Chef showed up. He read over my shoulder, cup of coffee slopping on my sweatshirt, hoping I was surfing porn. He noted that I had left some things out in my blog; that it was almost the perfect blog but I hadn't mentioned salt, or butter or The Food Lover's Companion. And I have to agree with him. So, in the spirit of David Allen Coe and his friend Steve Goodman, I pen these words:

A big part of our mornings together is butter and salt. Suffice it to say, we do not adhere to any diet which limits these things. We both believe in moderation, but I drink moderately a lot, and Chef uses salt with reckless abandon. We both figure that if salt, smoke and alcohol are all preservitaves, then we will out-live you all(some people worry about donating organs. Me, I have oil companies bidding on my lungs for the coal-tar therein). Through this all, as we laugh and cook and talk, Chef and I rely on The Food-Lover's Companion by Sharon Tyler Herbst, as we foodies drink our coffee and slice red onions for our sandwiches. Ms. Herbst recently died, but word has come down the pike that her husband Ron will/is continuing her work, so the Fifth Edition may be available in a year or two.(Check Amazon for previous editions and/or copies) Anyway, we drag THE BOOK out when a question of food comes about. Me, being a hack, who just barely knows the recipe for ice, has to check it over and over again, but Chef almost always knows the answer(Truth to tell, I think he is still pissed about me beating him in the fried wonton throwdown, and takes a private glee in proving me wrong. Smart man, my friend and someone I admire and respect; too bad he has a memory like Swiss cheese--sodden and soft and full of holes).
Yeah. Whatever. Say what you will about me. It's all true. Just don't diss my friends. But I can look at myself in the mirror every morning and can laugh like a hyena at the face I face. Can you say the same?
Through it all, I always,

Rage, rage,...

~~H.

Post Script of the Post Script:

You are all invited to coffee and bacon sandwiches every Saturday; coffee is most always going by 0600. Hope to see you. Bring some bacon.

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The Value of Measure

nobody@vox.com(Bonechance) — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 23:21:55 -0600

Year Of The Rat 4706
15 January 2009 AD
Thursday, 2134 hrs CST
Stormcrow Ranch
Boone, IA
USA
"Squirrel Corn Capital of The World."

Foremost, I have to apologize for that other post, the one before last. There about 500 words left out of the middle. They were written , but somehow in a flurry of copy/ paste/ paste special/spell-check/post/post now/save, they were lost. In fact, if you check the lone comment for that post, you will find that I apologized there too. Oddly enough, one sentence of ten words probably would have made the whole piece hang better and more tightly. But I am not one to un-do things, and if I spent my life re-doing things, well... things would never get done.
    It is brutally cold here these last three days. It was -20 when I got up at 0400 this morning and had dipped to 22 below by 0600, when the cloud cover cleared. Still, snow has to be moved, so mail can be delivered and people can get to the Fareway grocery store to buy five of the six listed specials in the local shopper, so yours truly layered up, in clothes that would make a knight look light, and cleared multiple inches of frozen water for three hours. It's not all so bad--one account over north of here gives us cookies--but I am often reminded of the failed South Pole explorer Robert F. Scott, whose journal was found in his frozen hand: he had scrawled--'Great God. this is an awful place.'
     Amen.
    But the bars are open, here in Boone, as is the liquor store there in the 24 hour Hy-Vee. I laugh a lot when I see the shelves emptied of milk and bread and Spaghttioes and tuna and Hormel Deviled Ham and Van de Camps Pork and Beans, and I stalk through crowds of people who think they can't go without for three days. I worry about these morons sometimes. It's like the Donner Party, Revisited. Yeesch!

"The church is near, but the way is Icy;
The tavern is far, but I will walk carefully."
~from the Ukraine.

'Kay. Focusing again. the value of measure. This statement is an oxymoronic double entendre, an inverse reciprical of itself. Look again. If a value is the measure of something, and the measure is a value of the same something. then a loop is created.
    Where is this going?
    This the world we live in. It is not puns, or clever word games, or Soduku, or observing things that tickle our curiousity. We live in a hard-assed world of problems. Period. The onus is upon us to solve some long-standing issues. If one pays any attention to the clock I posted, that is the time one has left (personally, I think no. Did the world stop on December 31, 2008; 12:59:59? No. It rolled over to January 1, 2009. See?)
    O' course, I've been long reknowned for my insanity, for some twenty odd years now.
    But I am never wrong.
    I hope you can look at the world the same way, and always,
    Rage, rage,...

~~Hob

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Just Thought You Should Know

nobody@vox.com(Bonechance) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 04:44:36 -0600

Countdown

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