Et tu, Bono?

It's nice to think about the earth and all the adorable wildlife.
But if we have no jobs and no money, people will be huddled, warming themselves over the flames of burning trashcans and as Ted Turner suggested might happen by mid century - eating each other, probably sans decent silver ware. There will be no more special programs or forest rangers to take care of the nice animals if supposed conservatives keep voting to tax us all into oblivion and vaporise thousands of jobs. Of course, the other, more optimistic school of thought suggests that by then animals will be the only ones with food and a place to live. The air will be all clean and sparkling because industry and commerce will have ground to a halt. We vile humans would finally have what we deserve.
How would Sonny have voted? Would his ecological views have also clouded his love of free enterprise?
Not being from California, really I can only guess at these things...but the one thing I do understand. If one isn't really a conservative, or doesn't believe in libertarian values - one needs to go sit on the other side of the aisle, so that we all realise what we're up against.

Gone Awry

Like everybody else who isn't hiding in a cave with bin Laden, I now understand that Michael Jackson is gone. And, for about the fourth time this week, surprised myself by being saddened and angered at the same time on hearing some piece of news or the other.

When you watch somebody grow up as I did Michael Jackson, you feel your existence is at least a bit intertwined with theirs, no matter how far removed Bel Air is from where you may be living, or how different you might be as people. [ I promise you - Bel Air just isn't the neighbourhood where I hang my hat these days]
At 15 though, my first real commercial art gig was executing a giant Jackson Five poster for the local record shop in our Texas town. Not a big Jackson fan, I was still rewarded with the new album my handmade poster advertised and the amazing sum of $25.00. This was dead swanky money back in 1972 [ or so- I'd have to look it up] He was two years younger than me and I sort watched his progress from a distance over the years, the way you would some kid who sat behind you in math class. Feeling sort of kindred, a little bit connected - just because you were both young, both waiting for your lives to begin, hopefully about to turn some unknown corner which would propel you into exciting, sophisticated adulthood.
The aforementioned anger came about for one reason. I mourn the life he could've had, not the one he lived. Before he'd turned six he and his brothers were subjected to an incredibly demanding concert schedule, relentless rehearsals and nothing but rebukes from their outrageous father Joe. There was little childhood to speak of, and whatever latent weirdness may have languished in the Jackson genes -dormant under the rafters- was forced into bloom by the cruelty and selfishness of the elder Jackson. Michael and his siblings all reached adulthood somewhat odd, very uncertain of their real worth to the people around them. It's a tragic thing, alright, and I am very, very sorry about the Jackson family's loss tonight. Things could've been very different and I wonder if his siblings are talking quietly among themselves right now, in hushed tones about the same thing.
I watched as long as it took to emotionally process the sobering news, then started flipping through the channels. All Michael Jackson- all the time, as it will be for the next week, probably. Finally in exasperation, I turned to the BBC. Respectful but brief, they had put together a 6 minute obit from file tape, then moved on to other world news. Tomorrow, here in America, the House votes on a proposed energy tax bill which -if passed -will raise this country's energy and gasoline bills to an unprecedented, unpayable rate. The budgets of ordinary families will be destroyed, for all practical purposes.
Iran is still on fire, it's news organizations still blacked out, probably under threat of death... or worse. North Korea is busy building a missile launch pad, it's payload directed in the vicinity of Hawaii. Yes, other things are happening in the world. All bewildering, all leaving the observer feeling helpless and rather impotent.

Frank As Kate and So Forth

I rendered this drawing a long time ago. And, like Dorian Grey, I furtively pull it out from time to time and look it over. Who [unless I'm stupid enough to tell them] will realise this is the authentic inner me...an elding, ruddy skinned old farmer in overalls. The Inner Hillbilly, maybe - if I were writing for some trendy magazine. Sure, on the surface I'm middle aged and rather garden- variety in my female-ness, but wait. There's a Skillsaw under the bed. My still new cordless drill sits nicely in it's charger, humming. There's a new derringer with my name on it, waiting for the next trip to the shooting range out by the lake. Due to size and range I will have to politely ask any intruder to 'please stand a little closer so I can hurt you', but one has to start someplace. And then there's the gutted, former gas grill in my sideyard. I build my own fires from scratch and I don't use lighter fluid, because something which smells that vile can't be good for your insides. Nothing beats the taste of slow smoked Beast o fany kind - sans chemicals and other intrusive, frilly extras.
But just like Dickens, I'm wandering away, here. I really mean to talk about Frank...my mascot, my rustic alter ego. He's clenching that rose pretty tightly because sometimes that's all there is of my alleged girly side.
I remember Frank's slow creation, years ago, over a period of weeks, as I prepared to enter a contest. ...how I imagined he was a farmer, coming into town every Saturday night since the Armistice - right after he got home from France. The raw danger of war and dizzy night time amusements of Paris had unwittingly opened up a black hole in his humble emotions that till then, he didn't know existed. Instead of rising at four every morning to feed the hens and do the milking, he was wakened by a shrieking lieutenant, acrid smoke in his lungs and the boom of mortar fire. The occasional night in town was also smoke filled but with the sweet fumes of sandalwood cigarettes and opium pipes. Red lipped girls dancing onstage by gaslight- frantic, gay music. Nebraska hadn't been like this. Here,in this raw place where charming people spoke with pouts and frowns -you were forced to either really live or really die, on a daily, sometimes moment to moment basis.
And now these years later, after his senses had been pried open, his heart and mind made alive to possibility...the war long ago ended, the local menfolk had slapped him on the back and bought him beers...then ...nothing. Years and years of mending chicken coops, paying his tab at the local corner grocery...growing grey. A headful of wistfulness and half lived promises with no place to let them take shape. And yet he is wise enough to know that the fibres of his particular makeup are fragile, for all their solid, wearable strength. He is better off here, living in his head -cowardly and shortsighted though that might seem.
At least that's what he's always told me.
Behind him are all the women who have passed in and out of his life since around 1918. The one with pointed ears is a waitress...the fact that she and the woman in braids are in black and white indicates they are only figments of Frank's lively imagination - fairies, probably. The little red haired girl is Frank's first love...the woman with black eyes nearest the rose is his departed wife. Ever hopeful, Frank clenches a rose in his ragged teeth, determined to live until he dies.

Perhaps I am trying to make peace early with my dimming eyesight and occasional grey hair, so that when the real thing comes someday , I will already be settled in - possibly reading a good book as everybody else my age staggers in the door, struggling to make sense of it all - the sudden shock of growing older still visible in their eyes. The real truth is... I am Frank....in all his hopefulness, all his raw wonder at seeing the world, alternately wobbly and confident of his place in it, depending on the day . No matter how ill equipped and shabby we might appear on the outside, Frank and I are both still here, fighting for space in the same, rather unremarkable human frame.

The globally celebrated Jinksie Spub...

...has 'slipped the surly bonds of earth' this weekend. I didn't expect so much emotional, almost physical pain to emanate from the demise of one large boned, rather portly blue eyed cat...folks from Costa Rica to the British Isles have sent loving messages and this has chisled the sharp edges off the hurt considerably. Thank you all.
The Spub was a shambler, a living room skateboard champion and cold winter day companion. He was my biggest fan and daily confidant...always purring, always happy to see me -a commodity which is in short supply some days. He thought I was wonderful and always came bounding down the stairs at the turn of a key in the front door. And somehow, just staying alive myself this weekend has seemed a tough business.
But I'm almost through to Monday, now. The Spub lies in his new resting place under the Mimosa tree out back. No more pain, no more fleas. Just blue skies.