My Black Beauty

 A gun turns a weak little boy into a big powerful man. A gun turns a nobody into a celebrity. Manhood based upon the ability to threaten and kill is now the American norm. Thuggery is now the key to personal fulfillment and fame in the US of A.

El Christmas

 They hired a mariachi band to play music at the company Christmas party. Do you like “Felice Navidad?” Apparently, it was the only classic Christmas song the group knew. They played it over and over again at increased decibel levels for at least three hours.

After that they started to play rock and roll covers. Their version of  “Jhonny Be Mucho” was actually pretty good -- although I found the attempt to smash their trumpets at the end of the song to be noisy and needlessly destructive and not at all in synch with the holiday spirit -- as was their acoustic rendition “Hotel Tijuana.”

Next came a 47 minute version of Bowie’s “Space Odyssey” -- complete with a 19-1/2 minute castanet solo. Three days later some of the hearing has returned to my left ear; so I guess it could be categorized as a success also.

Then they launched into a Rolling Stones medley and it was epic. The guy imitating Mick Jagger -- he calls himself Pancho Jagger -- was a riot. Literally, a riot. People were breaking up furniture and smashing windows to escape the performance. He was so acrobatic! Everybody wondered how he kept the sombrero on his head throughout the entire number.

He punctuated his singing with a series of asides explaining each song in the medley. According to Pancho, “Brown Sugar’ is a song about Keith Richards baking cookies and that the satisfaction not obtained in the song of the same name is the satisfaction of knowing your loved ones have successfully made it home for the holidays after a long night of partying on Christmas Eve.

You don’t want to know exactly what Pancho said about “Symphony for the Devil” -- children may be reading this feed -- but it had all the insight and nuance of a Stephen King novel adapted for the holidays by the Hallmark Channel. Personally, I think Pancho had too much eggnog before the party.

Finally -- and mercifully -- they ended their show by singing a song called “El Whit Chrissmuas” -- not the Irving Berlin classic, but a weird and disturbing ditty about some kid snorting cocaine under a poinsettia bush while his parents play Bing Crosby records in the next room. Suffice it to say, a good time was had by all who survived.

Shortcomings Come and Gone

Some people are bad, it’s true, but most of them just aren’t good enough.

Stupid is as Stupid Votes

Never use the phrase “nobody could possibly be that stupid” in Florida. Ten people will fall out of the nearest palm tree to prove you wrong. And one might fall on you.

Everything

I’ve lived a “what was I thinking?!!” life. The only thing I regret is everything. . .

Blue and Red with Feathers

Superman looks in his closet and it’s full of blue tights and red capes and one chicken suit. . .

The Eternal Grimace

God smiles at me. His large jagged teeth glittering in the moonlight. His breath smells of decay. A Cheshire cat grin of disinterest. Fading to black.

He knows something. But will not give up his secret. He is no one special, but will not admit it. His power is only to destroy. That is practical divinity.

The webs he weaves come apart quickly. And Spiderman tumbles to earth. Broken heart or broken leg. It doesn’t matter. Breaking is the only goal.

I spy his shadow. Barely discernable on a cloudy day. As pre-rain air clings to human skin. A frown posed on unbelieving lips. The joke unappreciated.

This is the riddle. This is the story. This is the end. There is no smile. There is no secret. There is no plan. There is no shadow. Only the eternal grimace.