Rock Accountant

Month: April, 2021

Come out to play

As I sat outside this morning having coffee, I missed the sound of screen doors slamming from my childhood friend’s houses. It meant someone would come to play.

Girls and boys come out to play illustrated by Kate Greenaway Stock Photo -  Alamy

Where was I?

I spent my evenings for twenty-five years in auditoriums, arenas, or stadiums that held between 1000 and 125,000 other people. Every goddamn one of those people remembers the day, and I can’t recall the year.

May be an image of 1 person and text that says 'Entevistle THE WHO PONTIAC SILVERDOME 1979 昌 1 02. Substitute 01. Opening 1 Explain M Me saxpphone trombone trumpet 05. Baba O'Riley MC 07. The And The Boris The Disco 10. Behind Blue 11. Music Change Drowned 13. 14. 5:15 DISC 100 02. 01. See Me Me 05. For 06. Dancing Streets 07. Sparks Won't Get 2000 10. Blues 11. Alone? Live Pontiac Silverdome, Detroit, Michigan; December 7th 1979 Rare & Ambient Master. Enjoy! STANDARD 200 தத்க PRESS PHTIPSH 參'

All the difference

The difference between love and hate is that you are ready to kill yourself for love, but you are prepared to kill everyone else for hate.

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Hard Nose Chicken

I grew up tough. My rooster was gunned down by the police when I was only six.

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What do gay men call their cars?


Guys can get through life with one best friend and a mechanic. A woman can’t be a man’s best friend and neither can a dog. If this reality ruffles women and disappoints dogs, well, they both need to hang their hopes elsewhere.
We men wish women were more like our cars. We hint at this by always referring to them as “she” and with loud compliments like ” isn’t she a beauty”?
I wonder how gay men handle this? I will check Car and Driver Magazine for clarification.
My dad did not load me with advice, but he made this life detail to me often and strictly as I grew up. “At fifty-thousand miles, trade your car in for a new one,” He would then follow with this, his only cynicism,” “Manufacturers build ruin into machines.”
We boys of the fifties and sixties had warnings of “planned obsolescence,” stuffed into our nervous systems by our fathers.
It led inexorably to the high divorce rate of that era. We naturally applied the laws of our cars to our women.
Nobody ever explained the difference to us.
Cars and marriages are not complicated if you understand their warranties. At 50,000 miles, you need to find a good mechanic if you want to keep a car.
After 20 years of wedlock, you need to call on the humor that only the two of you can understand if you want it to stay together.

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Creative Smiles

Yes, This is not creative writing. It is more creative smiles.

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So here I am

The thing about a circle is that it always appears to be going someplace until it collides with where it started.
My wife and I calculated twenty-six odd years ago that our children would be better off growing up in a place similar to Nebraska. They could shuffle about in rags with rods of hay dangling from their little mouths while mumbling, “Oh shucks,” just out of our earshot because they feared the woodshed.
We now live where everyone is flush with money. All of us actively cooperate in the affluent conceit that returning to pioneer mannerisms while still riding our snowblowers and donating that rarely looked at, used Van Gogh, to the grade school’s fencing auction is within our selfish reach.
Sadly, babies grow the way they want, no matter how rich the soil is that you put them in.
We are closing our circle now; our kids have grown, and we watch steady streams of new fantasy seekers arriving in our hamlet with their BMW station wagons and their penchants for ever higher speed bumps and ghoulish safety signs.
I could long reflect on the oddity of mimicking a life beneath my circumstance. That is if I gave a shit, or maybe a “shucks,” but I don’t.
Somewhere, profoundly hidden inside me, I strived hard to be this envied hypocrite. So here I am.

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Trapping women with cars

The first car I paid for by myself was a Buick Electra convertible. The make was commonly considered the longest car ever manufactured in the U.S.
I abandoned it, sandwiched by cornfields, broken down in Nebraska in 1969.
It remains the only car, at least in the Midwest, with a mailing address, as two families are comfortably still living in it. My girlfriend dumped me right there and thumbed back East with a stranger, setting in motion a disturbing course of using my cars as revenge.
Until I was married, it never occurred to me that the only reason I worked at all was to buy expensive cars.
Fine cars are a clear indicator of compatibility to a woman, even more, precise than astrological signs and a sense of humor.
I know this was oafish, but I mainly hunted beautiful girls. I was wounded, and this seemed an appealing brand of retaliation.
These stunning women, some of whom could barely sneeze without advice, could report to you the price and year of any car on the road.
I had a little money at the time and engaged my prey without conscience.

When I married, the dynamic of seduction had to be re-calibrated. Using my car as an aphrodisiac was now unthinkable ( as well as perilous).
We moved to a small town that magnetized itself to young couples.
Everyone buys Volvo station wagons, just like we did. It is the car that women start coaxing men to buy before they have even broached the idea of children.
These fertile women use the pretext of “might need the extra room for a dog.”
The Volvo is the most duplicitous machine ever marketed. It is breathtakingly fast ( drawing in, the unsure erect male). What never comes up is that crash test dummies sometimes play Scrabble during high-speed collision tests in Sweden.
My current car is big like my first one. We are getting old together and are entering more predictable repair periods now.
It takes me to doctors, and I take it to George, our Iranian mechanic on Main St.
I am beginning to sense a queer but certain smugness coming from this car. Like it thinks it might outlast me.
Then that hardness in me shows itself again, and I suggest that it might be like an apartment in Nebraska.

1969 Buick Electra 225 for Sale | ClassicCars.com | CC-1228771

Burning Ants

I would spend hours on hot Pennsylvania summer days chasing ants on our patio, on my hands and knees, trying to cook them with a giant magnifying glass angled perfectly with the sun’s rays.
I had built fires this way in Boy Scouts. I used twigs, not ants, for that.
The ants often adopted a “clump together” stratagem in their insect terror, a wrong move.
There is cruelty in children that blends agreeably with innocence.

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Words that Hate Poetry

Poetry is the last thing
That would occur to letters
that were mulling around
hunting for something to say.

Words, if pressed, would testify
that gathering to rhyme is
only for holidays.

Proud writers feel awkward
leaving only verse,
daggling statements that are
unsure of their periods.

But I prefer the short shit,
it pleasantly matches
the number of readers I have.

Roses Are Red (or Something): Bad Poetry Competition Hits WT This Thursday  | HPPR
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