Unnoticed in Clever Worlds

The clearest description I have managed so far about my blog is that it is not about cats. In general, I find predators pretty predictable while prey on the other-hand, because they live in universes of anxiety, develop more textured personalities. I also have as a writer a deft hand when it comes to making matters worse, so of course , the already panicky are ready made for me. I will try to grow this blog into an assortment of laughs, because that is what my life has mostly taught me to do. I will use the famous people I have known to get your attention and then tell you small but many times wonderful things about them. I will never name the ones I say ugly things about but I hope you will guess who they are.

Month: July, 2017

Little Homicides

I grew up on one of the many hills surrounding the City of Pittsburgh. We were all bigots and racists. Unfortunately being homophobic was not an option because it had not reached us yet.
Every large ethnic or racial group had its hill, the effect of the national game of “musical chairs” America plays with homesteading immigrants.
These wretched masses huddled on the first space found to be empty and followed politely the rules of the dominant culture. These guests never noisily drew attention to themselves. And that was quickly learned or else.
Immigrants remained visitants until they shed their annoying native language, dropping everything except the clumsy accents that trailed them like kite tails for a couple of generations.
Pittsburgh’s uncontaminated little hilltop enclaves stood like bearded goats on these hilltops, each confident that their summit was closer to whatever God was above them.
There were no hills for women, as they were scattered equally amongst the males.
Class envy existed, but there was not much of that. We were all kind of lower class and fighting about so little would have just proven more demoralizing.
I grew up in a time when snobbishness was a greater offense than bigotry.
Nowadays self-admiration is confused with health and intolerances are like little homicides.

All men know the feeling
by Regis Boff

I bought a new car,
I make excuses
just to look at it
in my closed garage.
I don’t drive it
because it is new
and factory clean.
All men know the feeling.
I do this kind of shit.
All the time.
Yesterday our power went out.
The electrician rewired our house.
He installed a gleaming new fuse box
next to the car
in the garage.
Now I go to look at that.
The car has no feelings.

Such is pure joy

A blink shakes his tear
into the open
floating bazaar of
unsure rainbows.
Such is pure joy

What quiets them

I am the white America that is permanent.
I know how to handle the different ones around me.
I know what quiets them.

The Vatican, Homosexuals and vile sexual acts

The immensely talented people who produce Broadway shows could resolve many of our most intractable secular contentions if everyone stopped hectoring them over their sinful propensity to orchestrate unnatural acts upon one another.
My wager is they would respond enthusiastically and imaginatively to the challenges of issues like abortion, overpopulation and skinny pants
At the very least I do think it is high time for the Vatican and Broadway to sit down and have it out face to face.
After all, they have the benefit of finding heterosexual sex equally repugnant. Tidy

A first-time father and the tattoo

It has been two years since the struggle of resistance to my daughter’s tattoo ended. It was a contest between me and her self-determination.
I caved to her in roughly the same measure of time that it took France to capitulate to the onslaught of Hitler’s blitzkrieg in the Battle of France in 1940.
Both France and I left the war scarred and a little bewildered by how we could have lost so utterly.
In my defense, France lost its entire army and its sovereignty while I suffered only minor self-esteem chaffing. Also in my defense was the fact that I was a first-time father and the French had been surrendering to loud noises since the writing of the Magna Carta.
My daughter’s feverish crusade for the scarring pigment may have had everything to do with her and my age and little more.
For all I knew, she may have quietly wanted a petite, barely noticeable “Dad” somewhere on herself which would have been tough, ( although not improbable) for me to contest.
Nevertheless, from the first mention, I cast her as Queequeg, the prophetically tattooed South Sea Islander from “Moby Dick.”
She settled for ear piercings, a triumph for her and a lesson in female”baiting and switching” for me.
There are more storm clouds on the horizon, however. My wife is threatening to get one now, of a gold nugget and a shovel.

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