“WE, WHO ARE ABOUT TO RIDE….SALUTE YOU!”

                                

 

    We spend our lives in a cultural shell. We go to work, to the store, to the dry cleaners, to the vet, to the ATM and home. Routinius mortise. We seem to shy away from mustering up our drive and curiosity, to expand and go out into the world and experience diverse and unusual cultures and lifestyles. Sad to say, we are too home coddled and choose to cling to our Twitter mentality and plasma screen state of mind.

    It was either Theodore or Eleanor Roosevelt that once said, “If given a true option, I would prefer to die in a fly infested tent while on a bully safari overlooking the Zambezi river of costal Africa.” This was an individual of challenge and strong commitment.

    The audacity to draw nearer to the home hearth and cling to the comfort and security of the family bosom was not an impediment to Roosevelt; nor is it with me! With this true sense of adventure and Indiana-Jonesology, I have always declared myself a freebooter and explorer of bizarre cultures and ancient rituals! That being said….I went to my first NASCAR race.

    My son-in-law had gotten tickets for him and my daughter to see a big race being held at the Daytona International Speedway in Daytona, Florida. At the last moment, my daughter had contracted chronic sport nausea and was currently in the care of Wifey, who knew the systems from her own experience. It was at this time I was offered the extra ticket and the opportunity of a new venture.

    It was mid July, a beautiful bright day and my anticipation was built up like a colon full of dry cheese. When we arrived at the Speedway, I was overwhelmed by the mass of vehicles! 80 percent of all pickup trucks in the U.S. and Toronto were there! It gave you a strange sense of migration. The parking ritual took forever, but in due time, we got a parking spot about two counties away. We made the long walk to the main entrance and along the way we passed an entire nation of caravans, RV’s, campers, Winnebago’s and some vehicle abodes that deny description. On top of all these conveyances were lawn chairs, BBQ grills, coolers, dogs and drunks. I was amazed at all the activity that gyrated above ground.

    Finally, we entered the inner sanctum of this Coliseum of Speedway. The fans reminded me of the documentaries on the “HISTORY CHANNEL”. Wild eyed, tattooed, bearded, and big breasted Visigoths battling in the Coliseum of Rome in the third century AD. It was also obvious, that most of these fans had a blood-alcohol content of 1.5 liters.

    The language of the racing devotee, was colorful in it’s simplicity and directness. The English language was completely overhauled in this environment with 90 percent of all grammatical rules and sentence structures being composed around only two root-words, “fuck and sheeet.” As these spectators roared and slobbered beer, their young adolescent prodigies stood there drooling and grinning while they yelled, “sheeet-fire Daddy!!”

    My son-in-law brought a small cooler of beer, which was allowed, and I also purchased what was called a beer ticket, which cost as much as dental work. Those standing in line for beer seem to tremble with the anticipation.

    We finally stepped out into the stands overlooking the Circus Maximus of auto racing. It was spectacular! There was a  huge oval race track and in the center of that oval was a domain called the Infield. It was a busy and thriving city of activity and purpose. Towers, RV’s, trailers, pimped out buses, race cars and an army with a vast array of colorful uniforms and Darth Vader helmets. All scurrying with ant like precision and purpose!

    Soon the command to “START YOUR ENGINES!” was announced and over eighty thousand inebriated fans orgasmed into mental overload. The noise coming from the revving engines was overwhelming and the anticipation and drama of the moment was like childbirth. These gladiatorial helmsmen, began to steer their supercharged vehicles slowly down the track. With every passing moment, the ’Pack’ gained speed until a cautious man, hanging over the side of a protected tower, started to wave a battle standard……then the track morphed into Armageddon!! At that moment, a collective whisper came from the immense grandstand….”Fuckin-a!”  It was reminiscent of the Mormon Tabernacle choir, singing the first stanza of the Battle Hymn Of The Republic.

    Within moments, the weeping howl of over 100,000 transfixed fans became deafening…..the collective roar of over forty high performance vehicles made your brain vibrate. So, with the over ingestion of malt beverages and the heat of July in this concrete arena, the overall experience became a visual enema plunged deep into the soft tissue inside my skull!

    After the race started, everybody just started to roam, drink beer, meet friends from other tribes, drink beer, eat, drink beer, flirt, drink beer, throw up and drink more beer. If Dale Earnhardt’s name was mentioned, then everybody would drink beer. Once in a while, someone would ask who was winning and then drink some more beer.

    The only time the crowd became mute was when there was a near mishap, blowout or actual crash. Video cameras were always at the ready for a YouTube moment. An electronic reader board had to tell everybody who was where and in what place. The gladiatorial games were never this confusing. A great many hours later, the race was finally over and somebody named Gordon won which caused a lot of booing and more beer drinking.

    Later, after fighting a traffic jam that was equated to a herd of a million rutting bison, I was soon on I-95 and heading home. I was sunburned, deaf and brain fried. My son-in-law was passed out in the back seat, so I got to enjoy the drive home, plus listen to my Cher CD. As I drove the speedway home, I thought about how the roots of stock car racing were derived from the moonshine runners of the 40’s and 50’s. Interesting still, is that many of the sponsors of race teams are beer companies. The paradox of all this is the sponsorship of Nationwide car insurance. Speeding drivers with beer endorsements? Eventual car crashes with auto insurance logos embossed across the wreckage?

     Beer, crashing cars, mesmerizing loop-t-loops of mega performance chariots….the highest death toll of any spectator sport in the world and finally, the millions and millions of exuberant and intoxicated fans, whooping it up while they verbalize their bloodlust in single syllable tirades!  I now understand the fall of the Roman Empire.

 

    

        FORGOTTEN

 

    

 

Sad is the face, that is never kissed.

Lonely is the soul, that is never touched.

Starved is the body, that is never held.

Lost is the smile, that is never used.

Empty is the heart, that is always broken.

Forgotten is the child, that is never loved.

                     

                                                   For my grand children……Charlie

 

 

 

 

    THE PARTY’S OVER

 

    If my doctor were to say….“Charlie, I warned you about snorting Viagra, now you only have one week to live before rigor mortis sets in.” What will I do in my final week??  I can forget the family, they’ll be too busy putting their name tags on all my damn stuff. So my dilemma is, what will I do in this short allotment of time? Nothing large or too complicated….but, it must be unique! As I figure it, I could accomplish three projects before they fire up the oven at Grace Gardens.

First….I would tell Wifey to go out and buy a complete wardrobe with a plethora of goofy shoes and underwear. Then, after she catches her breath, she can also buy each of the grand kids one of those PlayStation thing-a-ma-jigs! After all that aggressive shopping, I would insist that she schedule herself for a trip to the Spa for a complete overhaul from that fruity masseur that runs the place. Then after that, she should quick time it to the beauty parlor for the mega-works and if she wants to come home looking like Lady Gaga….well , that’s just fine. I would also tell her not to worry about maxing out the friggin credit cards and just enjoy herself.  Once she was on her shopping quest, I would order a large rubber stamp from Kinkos saying, DECEASED-RETURN TO SENDER. This would be for my executor to use on the credit card bills once they start to avalanche in.

 

 

Second….I think I would enjoy letting my five grandkids shave my head, (and then theirs) and then I’d take them all to the beach so they could take pics of old granddad in his new thong.

Third….last of all, I’d spend a day on the phone calling all my in-laws and telling them of my impending demise and that, out of love, I’d be sending them each a check for ten thousand dollars this week from my estate….then, of course, I wouldn’t do it! 

    During my seven day quest, I will start each day at IHOP, having their Kamikaze Breakfast of half a pound of bacon, six sausage links and a Godzilla stack of blueberry pancakes with cream cheese stuffing and topped off with a six inch dome of whipped cream. Vanilla milkshake on the side. Then for lunch and dinner, each and every day, I will go to HOOTERS and have the thirty hot wing special with onion rings and of course two pitchers of beer. I will use takeout for the Caramel Fudge Cheesecake.

    On the seventh day, with all these task completed, I will still have one closing act, shortly before they bag me up. I will stack all my surround sound speakers and such in all the front windows of the house and then put in several CD’s of my old buddies, the Rolling Stones, and then crank up the volume to sonic level. Then I will set up a lawn chair in my front yard, facing my asshole neighbor who raises friggin chickens, and then stretch out naked……and peacefully expire.

 

　

                        I really do believe that life can be pleasant and it can also be said that death 

           may very well be peaceful….but, it’s the transition that bothers the shit out of me!.

 

 

 

 

 

    #@%*?&^+!!!

 

 

    Women are very sensitive and emotionally defensive. I have learned this and a great deal more over many years of domestic warfare and kamikaze alibis‘.  Men have been ignorant to the ways of women because we have always believed that our male, Neanderthal ancestors, had made all the rules. In time, the male finally grew to realize that men and women are very similar, except in the concept of arguing. They soon realized, also, that no one’s perfect in this world and that we all have our shortcomings and faults which often serve as the catalyst of most arguments. In fact, women have a humongous amount of faults whereas men generally only have two: Everything we say and everything we do.

    Women were made to argue. They will argue with a TV reality show, their boyfriends, husbands, inanimate objects, each other and their clothes. Women that argue with each other do it silently with dagger like laser stares. I once saw this when a female clerk in the dress department of Sears indicated that Wifey should consider a larger size and Wifey quietly told her she was mistaken, whereas the clerk retorted with,  “Maybe even two sizes larger.” The silent stare that was exchanged between them caused my bladder to ache and the candles in ‘Home Accessories’, to melt.

    When you’re a young married couple, arguments are mostly about jealousy, money, and who’s in charge.  Jealousy accounts for the most ER visits and tends to be recycled for many decades. Money arguments are usually resolved in the bedroom, where the man is often outmaneuvered and left in a whimpering heap to take a nap. Who’s the head of the household varies from one couple to another, but the basic premise has always been the same; marriage should be, ‘when a man and woman become as one’. The trouble starts when they try to decide which one. My wife has always given me the decisions I make and it has worked well for us.

    Sometimes, after I come home from a long session of consoling a friend at HOOTERS over a domestic problem, I will come in and give Wifey a kiss and that kiss will be symbolic of two prizefighters shaking hands before the bell. There are two times when a man should not drink and argue with a woman….before marriage and after. It’s like a boxing tournament….the wife takes the part of the fight commissioner and makes all the rules….she controls the bell and decides the time limit for each round….and she’s the referee who decides when you’ve had enough….after maybe 30 rounds. Then you crawl back to your corner and lick your chauvinistic wounds.

    The aftermath of an argument is often a testy time. Women will often behave like cats….they may quietly prowl by and give you a gentle nudge, or just stop and scratch your eyes out. Best to always be on your guard for latent retaliations and employing a food taster is recommended. I truly believe that the happiness and most argument free marriage would be the union of a deaf man to a blind woman….with large breast.

    Bottom-line is; we do dearly love them and should not jeopardize that love by trying to understand them. In romance novels, no matter how much a woman loves a man, it still gives her a glow to see him commit suicide for her. In real life, the simple act of lifting the toilet seat will suffice.

 

    

THE HANGMAN’S DANCE

 

The hangman waited, to do the chore,

Rope fresh tied, with an oiled trapdoor.

He stood arms folded, there dark and silent,

To render service, by the law’s own judgment.

 

They walked Jake to the gallows, where the hangman stood,

This silent man, with a folded hood.

They read the words, why Jake should die,

Of the evil done, as he began to cry.

 

Then the parson’s words, just wasted breath,

All Jake could see, was his hideous death.

“Please Mr. hangman, ya jest gotta know,

I ain’t kilt that fella, so please let me go!”

 

Poor Jake was hooded, dark without sound,

The hemp noose placed, like a necklace round.

Jake’s legs shook and his knees went weak,

For it’s judgment time, and his death they seek.

 

“Oh lawd forgive me, and give one last chance,

Jest don’t make me do, the hangman’s dance.”

The hangman stepped back, and gripped the lever,

There was a ‘click’, and Jake’s heart went to quiver.

 

The trapdoor sprang, and sounded like thunder,

Jake was aloft, and headed down under.

All the world went quiet, and he felt so free,

His thoughts were clear, though he could not see.

 

Ol’ Jake took flight, then was snatched by the rope,

Then he kicked and jerked, as his soul lost hope.

Poor Jake now swung, like the swaying willows,

There underneath, the hangman’s gallows.

 

So here’s the moral, to this clump of words,

Stray not from the righteous, like villainous cowards.

And all you boys, take not a chance,

Else you learn, the hangman’s dance.

 

Charlie

　

　

　

 

 

IN CONGRESS, JULY 4, 1776 The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen unitedStates of America When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. — That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed…… 　 In 1776, with these sacred words, we became a nation. Over the course of our short history, more than 1,309,000 Americans have given their lives to preserve it. So enjoy your cookouts or your family’s day at the beach, but….don’t let this day end without telling your children or your grand children, why we take one day each year to remember and celebrate those words written back in 1776. The day we forget what those hallowed words mean, will be the day all those honored Americans will have died for nothing.

    THE PAIN….THE PAIN!

 

    Pain comes in all forms. Broken hearts, violated trust, embarrassments, bamboo splinters and election day. But, there is one pain that haunts our society from the most esteemed heights of our government, to the lowest barnacles of this society. It is the pain of being stupid! Seems that only two things are truly infinite; the entire universe and the scope of human stupidity, and I’m not sure about the former. Oddly enough, the pain is not felt by the ‘el estúpido’, but by those forced to live in the same hemisphere with them.

    There are three major levels of stupidom. Congressional Dunderheadism is the first. It is hard to imagine a more stupid or more dangerous way of making decisions than by putting those decisions in the hands of people who will never pay a price for being wrong. Seems that, whenever a senator does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives and therefore the pain of it’s consequences must be burdened by others. I love their ‘town hall’ meetings when they address the common folk and state, “Ask away my friends, there are no stupid questions.”  Okay then, what kind of questions will stupid people be able to ask? The cerebrally challenged are out there, with their arms flapping in the air like flounders, and they are just inching to get their turn and ask something bewildering! Do they get smart just in time to ask a question?

    Now, we come to that level of moronic Olympian known as the Intellectual Celebritium. This is usually a west coast, tree humping liberal that often believes that anything that is too stupid to be spoken can usually be made into a song. These sermonizing, herbal smog puffers have learned long ago of the blessings and comradeship of being stupid together. Granted, they are an attractive bunch of academia and celebrities and prove over and over again that a lot of beautiful people can be stupid. There’s a tremendous amount of idiots out there that truly look good. It’s frightening.

    Now, the final level of dumb. The Conservative Godologist. These individuals, with their infectious smiles and cross-eyed mentality, have proved more than once that we are all born ignorant, and one must work hard and diligently to remain stupid. They often confuse schooling and education with economic equations and have indorsed the status of stupidity more than once. Seems they believe books are as useful to a stupid person as a comb is to a Tibetan monk. Declarations, mottos, slogans and speeches are their forte and they have often shown that wise words are usually spoken in jest, as opposed to the volumes of stupid words spoken in earnest.

    Stupid does not have to be the curse from our immediate forefathers. True, life is tough, but it’s tougher when you endeavor to be stupid when it’s so simple to be wise. When you think of something to say that’s stupid, just don’t say it….instant wisdom!  Good example is the next time the boss or wife is chewing your ass out and says, “Do I look stupid?” Don’t answer!

 

***For not being raised stupid, this post is dedicated to my Mom and Dad. I owe my parents a lot, especially my mother and father.

 

 

     I was evicted from my warm bed, one school morning in 1955, by my bellowing Mom, calling from the kitchen as she boiled up a pot of Quaker Oats for me and my brother. I threw my Hopalong Cassidy bedspread over my crumbled sheets and zombied to the bathroom to piss on the lid….my younger brother followed suit. Then we got dressed standing on the large floor vent of the furnace to keep warm until bellowed to come to breakfast.

    I sat at the Formica topped kitchen table and stared down at the prison food called oatmeal. As I sat, I looked around and took stock of my young world. Our phone was a modern Western Electric, with no party line and was made of Bakelite (an early plastic).  It weighted about five pounds and was permanently wired into the inners of the house. We were also proud owners of a Philco, 23 inch, black and white multi vacuum tube apparatus known as a Television. The device had three channels, and for many, was a spiritual wonderment! 

                

                                                                       

 

     Our RCA record player was also a joy and could automatically change records when the last one finished and I can remember Dad demonstrating this phenomenon often to company.

 

   

     We also had a household cooling system that was transportable from room to room. It was an 11 inch, General Electric oscillating fan. It had two speeds, ‘spring breeze’ and ‘cyclone’.  The trick, during the worst of summer, was to have a wash tub with an ice block in it and then to position the fan behind the tub to blow over the ice and into your direction….the hours of comfort generated from this electrical device were immeasurable.

 

    

    Next to the kitchen table was our Frigidaire refrigerator. This particular model had a freezer department that held two ice trays with more than enough room to freeze four pork chops. The condensation tray under the fridge only had to be emptied twice a week. A marvel.

 

 

 

    One final entry…Mom was an appliance aficionado and at the top of her list was her Kenmore wringer washer from Sears. This juggernaut washed all your clothes and then all you had to do was run each piece of clothing through the wringer rollers to squeeze out the water before hanging out on the line. The rollers also did a number on baloney sandwiches by mashing them to twice their size. Problem was, the clothes smelled a little funky after that. 

 

   

    Those were special days and we all felt that we counted cadence as the world marched in step to our technology. Even Rocky Jones on the Saturday morning kid’s show, Space Ranger, once said that Americans would most likely live on the moon by 1980.…if the Martians did not cause a problem……….Cadet Charlie, signing off.

 

 

　

      

      

 

 

When fish are in schools they sometimes . . . take debate.

When the smog lifts in Los Angeles , . . . U.C.L.A.

A will is a . . . dead giveaway.

If you don’t pay your exorcist . . . you can get repossessed.

Show me a piano falling down a mineshaft and I’ll show you . . . A-flat miner.

You are stuck with your debt if . . . you can’t budge it.

Local Area Network in Australia : . . . The LAN down under.

A boiled egg is . . . hard to beat.

When you’ve seen one shopping center . . . you’ve seen a mall.

Parents were called to a day care center where a three-year-old was . . . . . resisting a rest.

Did you hear about the fellow whose whole left side was cut off? . . . He’s all right now.

A bicycle can’t stand alone; . . . it is two tired.

In a democracy it’s your vote that counts; in feudalism, . . . it’s your Count that votes.

He had a photographic memory . . . which was never developed.

Those who get too big for their britches will be . .. . exposed in the end.

When she saw her first strands of gray hair, . . . she thought she’d dye.

Acupuncture: . . . a jab well done.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yep….that’s mine!

  

   Bonjour, how y’all are? Now, here one fine Jambalaya ta fix ya famille dis week et ya sur ta be da hero, mon ami! Firs, ya go scoop up some bon bayou shrimps (store kind est bon) den git ya some fine hog saucisse et den snatch up one bon shicken, not ta long dead. Put all getter in da pot wid beaucoup garden fixin et git ta berlin. Add da rice et da Bayou Seasonin, den let da bon time roll.

 

    Ingrédients:

1 pound boneless et skinless shicken breasts, cut in da 1-inch cubes

1 pound smoked Andouille or any bon, spicy hog saucisse, cut into 1/4-inch slices

2 celery rib, thin sliced

1 beaucoup size onion, all chopped

1 medium green pepper, all chopped

2 clove garlic, minced (never too much garlic)

1 28 ounce can da diced tomato, undrained

2 cup uncook rice

3 cup da shicken broth

1/2 pound da fresh raw shrimp, peeled et deveined so not ta choke 

3 tablespoon minced fresh parsley

2 tablespoon da Worcestershire sauce

 

  Butt Stompin Bayou Seasonin:

1 tablespoon dried oregano

1 1/2 tablespoon salt

1 1/2 tablespoon garlic powder (never too much garlic)

1 1/2 tablespoon  paprika

1 tablespoon black pepper

1 tablespoon onion powder

1 tablespoon da cayenne pepper (dink bout it first)

1 Bay leaf

1 tablespoon dried thyme

 

  Directions:

    Put on da Cajun music and do da kitchon two step. We ready go start….in da Dutch oven, (beaucoup pot), sauté da hog saucisse fore 1 minute. Add da shicken et sauté 2 minute more. Add da celery, onion, green pepper et garlic; sauté 2 minute or till vegetable all crisp et tender. Stir in da raw rice, shrimps, et remainin ingrédients plus half of Bayou Seasonin. Brin ta berl. Reduce heat; cover et simmer 20 minute till shicken stop bein pink…member ta stir. Let stand 5 minute so rice suck up all juice fore servin. Fluff it all up. Oooo, oui….ya fin! Dish out et season wid more Bayou Seasonin fer ya taste. She yield 8 servin, most time. Git da beer et make da merry….c’est la vie!

 

   Nutritional Facts:……1 serving (much ya like) equal 464 calories. Wid da beer….612.