Rock Accountant

Month: March, 2018

Dragging the wife back home


When our next door neighbor came home drunk to beat up his wife, my dad would turn off the TV and radio, and the three of us would sit near the window that offered the best reception. Sometimes the phone would ring with another neighbor asking us if we were listening.
We used our ears more back then. Before bed, I would lay next to my dad and listen to the radio. When I was little, the two experiences of radio and family combat were much the same to me.
Sometimes the wife would show up at our door crying and bruised. She and my mother would sit in our kitchen with the doors closed.
None of us wanted the husband to come looking for her. I believe my mom tried to convince her to go home.
Nobody wanted to witness her being dragged darkly back home by the arm.
I would hide in my room when our turn came.

These come from women

Women with a sense of humor do not occur naturally in nature so if you are lucky enough to find one hang onto her. Regis Boff

These are all from women:

When it rains in Los Angeles, twelve indie movies with complex, emotional, interconnected subplots naturally occur. We can’t help it. EH

The storm knocked our power out, so we’re doing exactly what our ancestors did in olden times: eating the ice cream melting in the freezer.

4yo son barged in as I was exiting the shower, and he stopped and made a sweeping gesture and asked “When did all of this happen to you? kristin

None of the dogs who lost at the dog show know they lost or that they’re at a dog show or that they’re dogs. Ari Scott

It’s my seventeen year anniversary of forgetting I left a Diet Coke in the freezer of the work fridge of a temp job I had for one day. Elizabeth Hackett

A few summers ago I stopped at some kids’ lemonade stand. As I took a sip, the youngest boy stuck his whole arm in the pitcher and stirred. Quinn Sutherland

I bought four boxes of Girl Scout cookies from my niece, but I’m saving them to use for bartering when our currency becomes valueless EH

Let’s see.
Trump had sex with a woman outside of wedlock. Check.
The woman was a whore porn star.
A second check and add 20 points.
He paid her to leave and be quiet. Check three.
Woman breaks the agreement and blabs.
Deduct 30 points because she was not an honest hooker.
Democrats are scandalized.
Check four and
add a new car and a week in Vegas.

Small Awareness

If machines achieve consciousness, as most believe they will in time, I don’t think we will notice. Human beings have always treated the smaller awarenesses of animals as negligible, and our gift for humbling our enemies is standard.
I have shifted to a life of electric contact with the outside world. My “friendships” maintaining themselves on FaceBook and Twitter. I doubt the advancing machines will treat my consciousness with sympathy and much interest.


It is lazy and silly to run around all day calling white people racist. It only makes us feel better about ourselves. Lord knows, there is nothing like another’s jealousy to put a spring in your step.

Ronnie Milsap: Blind and fat


Ronnie Milsap is a blind country artist. I had him on many of my shows. He was an excellent draw. I never liked him and bore him no concession for being blind.
I would negotiate directly with him. It is not unusual in that genre of music to deal personally with the performer.
I shouted at him once that it was a “good job he was blind, so he didn’t see what a cunt he was.”
Clever language can fail you when you are exasperated. I regretted I had structured the insult so poorly.
I was trying to sting him, but I failed to factor in that a lifetime of blindness would carry with it a natural immunity to what I had said.
Later I wished I had called him “fat.” His unfamiliarity with mirrors and his image would have hit him where it hurt.

By Janis Ian

I learned the truth at seventeen
That love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear skinned smiles
Who married young and then retired
The valentines I never knew
The Friday night charades of youth
Were spent on one more beautiful
At seventeen I learned the truth…

And those of us with ravaged faces
Lacking in the social graces
Desperately remained at home
Inventing lovers on the phone
Who called to say “come dance with me”
And murmured vague obscenities
It isn’t all it seems at seventeen…

A brown eyed girl in hand me downs
Whose name I never could pronounce
Said: “Pity please the ones who serve
They only get what they deserve”
The rich relationed hometown queen
Marries into what she needs
With a guarantee of company
And haven for the elderly…

So remember those who win the game
Lose the love they sought to gain
In debitures of quality and dubious integrity
Their small-town eyes will gape at you
In dull surprise when payment due
Exceeds accounts received at seventeen…

To those of us who knew the pain
Of valentines that never came
And those whose names were never called
When choosing sides for basketball
It was long ago and far away
the world was younger than today
when dreams were all they gave for free
to ugly duckling girls like me…

We all play the game, and when we dare
We cheat ourselves at solitaire
Inventing lovers on the phone
Repenting other lives unknown
That call and say: “Come on, dance with me”
And murmur vague obscenities
At ugly girls like me, at seventeen…

Russian wisdom

The Russians have always had the right way of handling wisdom; they bury it in long books so simpletons can never find it.

The Middle of Nebraska 1969

The Middle of Nebraska 1969

My first car was a used Buick Electra convertible. I bought it to travel across the country.
It was the longest car manufactured in the United States at the time. I abandoned it, sandwiched between endless cornfields on a summer Nebraskan evening in 1969.
It continues to this day to be the only car, in the Midwest, acknowledged by a mailing address. Two families have lived in it since I dumped it.
I was a college hippy and she an Isreali. She was a gulpingly lovely girl who never fully embraced my car. She felt the car misrepresented her worth.
She dumped me and my broken ride in the roadside gravel and hitchhiked back east. I stole some raw corn and went in the other direction.
From then on I sought vengeance on all of them. Not on the corn, on the women. It was great fun.
It did not occur to me until decades later that the only reason I worked at all was to buy expensive cars. Precision machines are potent symbols of compatibility to a woman.
The most stunning women, many of whom can otherwise barely sneeze without advice, know the price of any car on the road.
After I married, the dynamic of seduction had to be re-calibrated. We moved to a small town that new couples want for their children. They buy Volvo station wagons​, as did we. It is the most deceitful machine ever marketed. Breathtakingly fast, it draws in the unbelieving​ and continuously half-erect male. The woman, however, knows that crash test dummies play Scrabble in it, during collision tests.
My current car and I are growing old together. Both of us entering into a more predictable repair schedule. It takes me to doctors, and I take it to our mechanic on Main St.
I sense a certain smugness from this car as if it thinks it might outlast me.
Then that old hardness in me shows itself, and I suggest it might like Nebraska.


Got a Match?

I am a burner.

In these times of ever-encroaching global climate catastrophes, we need to return to the age of autumnal leaf burning. As a boy, in the area where I grew up that was often referred to as the third hemisphere, (around Pittsburgh), I would watch transfixed as masses of gathered leaves flamed out of control in our neighborhood. Grown men, whimpered as they frantically tried to beat back the perimeter of their crazily windblown bonfires using wooden rakes in pitiable attempts to slow the brushfires they had intentionally set with gasoline.

In my experience, nothing draws a community together like one neighbor burning down the house of another.

Saturdays, in the fifties, often turned into picnics with fire engines and apologies. I live now a million years into the future, in the self-proclaimed epicenter of tree sanctuaries, at least on the Eastern seaboard. On any given day you might run across an Ent mumbling about “never having heard of a Hobbit” as he rumbles through my neighborhood. The old fall dance of leaf cleansing is still a pastime but burning them is now forbidden. We are expected to buy individual bags to put our leaves in, to be later carried away by our municipal workers to some town leaf gulag. The rules governing the gathering of my leaves are daunting and not just a little fear-provoking. I suspect that I am not alone in this neighborhood anxiety. We don’t like being eco-friendly janitors. Trying to rid my property of leaves resembles a tropical fish trying to spit water out of his tank. There are industries and political positions built around this leaf thing, and I feel the unpleasant winds of the despotic collective. I don’t play well with people who know what is best for me. If global warming is a fact, then what better tactic to employ than a massive ring of leaf soot to surround our planet, blocking out the sun and forcing our temperatures to nosedive?

This is nifty I think, as solutions go. Got a match?


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