The Truth

Steakbellie away
Vacation in New York State
Wife’s heart with Artie

The Facts (Haiku)

Steakbellie’s all gone
Old Artie is in control
Blogs and Brats—all mine

Writing Exercise # 2

Use these 10 words:

ivy, squat, mizzenmast, iguana, rivulet, muzzle, xerography, twosome, foyer, decibel

Extra credit for using all ten in the order given, and/or for creating a piece which uses all ten words in 75 words or less. 1,200 words max.


Dear Yale alumni,

Ivy League Schools can squat down and kiss my state-college beanbag. I don’t care if your forefathers rode proudly on the mizzenmast of the Mayflower; my dad crossed the border from Mexico by riding in a wooden crate along with a hacking and evidently horny iguana. Think your granddaddy was special for wearing a big belt-buckle and wooden shoes? Mi papi had to endure a rivulet of salamander semen on his journey.

Go ahead, muzzle me, you oligarchs. There are others like me ready to preach the truth. Get rid of one of us, and another two will reproduce: the xerography of social justice, I call it. You are portrayed as wholesome, but your desires don’t stop with a twosome; fucking people, all people not you, is a genomic trait. It’s in your over-privileged DNA.

By the way, Eli, you run this country like I get the runs from mole sauce: predictably and with the end result of everything going down the shitter. Is this what $40,000 a year tuition got you?

I concede I am not a refined person. What you call I foyer, I call a hallway. But what you call leadership, I call “can’t lead for shit”. Tune me out, if you want. Have your symphonies and espresso makers drown me out. Just remember, what ever you do, I’ll amp things up one more decibel

Better invest in a hearing aid company, because when I get through, I’ll have burst out your damn eardrums.

Si Se Puede,


John Radcliff Smythington
Amherst, MFA, ‘94

A Must Read

So I've gotten into the business of eyeing and promoting new talent. Not in the Irene Cara--Fame way, but that's not a bad idea. No, I have found the universe's next great blogger. Bert Bananas. As best I can tell, Bert is 90 years old, hasn't left his home county in the last 20 years, and is a 4 handicap. All of those things are purely speculative, but I suspect he will tell you otherwise if he cares to.

Make sure to stop by his site and say hi. Tell him Unlce Artie sent you.

And definitely make sure you read his archives; there are some really funny commentaries, especially this one.

Because Iris told me to....

Iris had one of these tagging exercises on her blog. I figure I'll do the same. Here is my life exposed for all to enjoy as breif snapshots of time.


Ten Years Ago

In was working at the American Red Cross in Philly. Living with Carol on Naudain Street and dating Liz. I still hadn’t completed my graduate degree, though I was only a class away. I was starting to make plans to attend the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, which turned out to be a blast. Likely, I weighed about 188 pounds, and though I had chronic back pain and exercised infrequently, I was still able to crank out 8-minute miles on the treadmill. I was 26 years old.


Five Years ago

I was planning my wedding, which was two months away. I was living with Barbara in a one-bedroom attic apartment in Oaklyn. We paid $500 in rent. Lot’s of free time in my childless world. I would spend several days a week at PSC and liked to get my coffee at Three Beans in Haddonfield. I was working at the same place I am now. I think I’ve gotten better at what I do, but I may be kidding myself.


One Year ago

One year ago was a Sunday, and chances are I was caring for the twins and playing with the Ruy-guy. The weekend was sandwiched in between meetings in Edison on schools and transportation and Monday’s market development in Delaware. In both instances I got a free lunch. Vacation would be but a week away. Not only would I enjoy the beautiful OBX summer, but my daughters would be christened at sunset at a beautiful sound-side church. I was also doing the Atkins diet for the first time. I melted away 20 pounds in two weeks.

Yesterday

I read an interesting article on the United States Patent Office which is now the American Portrait Gallery and part of the Smithsonian. It is an architecturally stunning building and serves as the focal point between the White House and the Capitol. I plan on visiting it next time I am in DC. I was supposed to meet my athletic trainer for an initial meeting yesterday but he canceled. That bastard will have to pay for the inconvenience he caused. I will eat a can of pinto beans before our next meeting.

The Donald is losing it.

I just watched the Miss Universe Pagent and was greatly disappointed that there was not one contestant from outside the galaxy. What's up Trumpster, your flair for the self promotion does not extend beyond the planet Earth?

Miss Universe is fun. No talent needed. I am amused by contests that reward genetic superiority (OK, and maybe some surgical genius, as well). I guess Trump can get away with this because he is, well...Trump. If Hitler tried to organize a beauty contest, I imagine he would catch some flack. Then again, I am not sure Hitler's judges would be fair to Miss Israel.

By the way, Miss Puerto Rico won. Correct me if I am wrong, but isn't Puerto Rico a territory of the US? Is it fair that the US get's more than one entry? I think Guam might have had a contestant as well, so that makes three.

Given Puerto Rico's status as a terristory of the US, I wonder if Junior will invite Miss Universe to the White House. I know Clinton would.

In Loch Loman's nave,
near the Abbey of Columbia
come the earthly bed of Wallace, Campbell and Doune before.

Here lies the boy of red tartan
and his mouth earns the pie.

Mossy cradle,
wooded nymphs:
an infant wails in hunger.

On Aberdeen's hills
a clan's blood washes over.

"Ne'er agin, me Celts,
O' Scotland calls fer ye whole."

From Bobby Burns' hand
it passed to him.
Neither words,nor fame.
Just a hunger.
Just a hunger.
Just a hunger.

A chit from Brittania.
Eat on, Macwing!

Literally...

OK, this is a lame post, but I want to address the fact that many people use the word "literally" when they really meant "figuratively." Sorry to my elitist friends who consider this post close kin to Indians working at 7-11 humor, but this is Literally/Figuratively all I have to offer.

Let's play a game. I'll give you some personal claims and you decide whether they are true or false.

I literally…

…Shit myself when someone played a practical joke and pretended to rob me.

…Died in a hospital operating room.

…Choked on my own vomit after reading Smelmooo’s Tuesday’s Top Five.

…jumped for joy after a Marine recruiter told me I was qualified to enlist.

…cried after seeing Kurt Gibson on a Wheaties box

…ate a serving of ravioli that could have fed a family of eight.

…pummeled a guy into unconsciousness for giving me a bad advice.

…laughed so hard I began to hyperventilate.

…spent so much time in the library that a librarian offered me a cot to sleep on.

…risked my life attempting to steal a mannequin from department store.

…dumped over 500 gallons of toxic chemicals into the Delaware River

…Became the first person to pee in the university’s new swimming pool.

…sang my way out of a traffic ticket.

…begged my way into losing my virginity.

…sold more candy for a school fundraiser than the rest of my class, combined.

…, from the age of 8 to 16, watched more TV each day than I slept.

...lost thousands of dollars betting on college football.

What did Smelmooo purchase for $2.23?

The great Smelmooo recently posted about a shopping encounter in which he received too much change. That is all well and good, but what I want to know is this, What DID Smelmooo purchase for $2.23?

Is Popeye a superhero?
Well, he did have supernatural powers. I mean, I've been eating spinach for years and have yet to kick the ass of a bearded brute. He kept peace and order in his little universe, AND he had a uniform (navy issued).

Why does Marvel and DC get to decide superhero status? Isn't it time Popeye gets his due?

Maybe the great Birdy can chime in. Also, and I don't know a lot about comics, but how does Thor end up a superhero? Isn't he an actual Norse God? Are there other comics that use historical or religous characters as the hero. Is Jesus marketable?

Writing Exercise #1

“Have you been laying eggs on my desk all week?” asked Delbert Smidge, his question as baffling as his taste in clothes, a gray satin jacket with an elastic waistband that performs a Heimlich Maneuver grip around his ample belly.

The jacket was so old that even the stains of cheesesteak grease and cheap newsprint had faded over time. For all his sluggish style, I must admit, circa 1983 fashion worked well for Smidge. Like his histrionic hairwhip, the jacket had the unintended consequence of revealing instead of concealing. It belong to him in the same unfortunate way that Bob Dole’s limp hand both explained his past and helped shape his present.

“I guess by you silence, you are either deaf or ignoring me,” Smidge snickered, his voice full of self-congratulation. He was a hostile and harsh boss. This was borne not out of some stern style of managerial excellence, but out of fear that his brother, who owned the business, might shut down the company and leave Smidge jobless. In six years, the business that Smidge captained had turned a profit just once.

Like Smidge himself, that old jacket no longer added value, but hung on for dear life, the beneficiary of someone else’s charity. Or is it the desperate need for a friend that kept both Smidge and the jacket so close?

Quite frankly, I was surprised that Members Only still has members, but any investigation on my part into the cult of 80s garb will have to wait. After all, it is only three days until the Concrete Technology Convention in Atlantic City, and if we are to make a lot of sales, we have to focus.

My name is Ramona, and I am Mr. Smidge’s Marketing Director at Beck and Call, a specialty advertising company based out of Keyport, New Jersey. You know, we are a company that sells all those giveaways that other businesses use to attract customers.
My title is probably more impressive than it is. I am Beck and Call’s only other employee. I answer phones (Smidge says he can’t be bothered), design layouts (I have an Associates in Design), and attend trade shows, which are our primary source for business (thanks to my flirtatious ways and 36c breasts).

Specialty Advertising has changed a lot in the six years that Smidge and I have been together. Why just last week, the company in Oaxaca that makes all those foam beer can coolers shut down their plant and will re-open in a month as North America’s sole provider of foam cell-phone holders that fit into your car’s cup holder.

The difference between the two products is more than the distinct diameter openings and the object it cradles. It’s about the future; about creating a need in a mind that doesn’t even know your product exists. Beer coolers were yesterday. Cell phone holders are tomorrow. And Smidge’s jacket is forever (hee hee).

“Boss, did you get the double-stick tape we need for AC?” I asked.

“But what about my question?”

“What question?”

“About laying eggs on my desk. Aren’t you curious about what I mean?”

Actually I was very curious. Ever since he borrowed from the library Catch-22 on audiotape, Smidge is always coming-up with these stupid questions. And I giggle as he carries on the witless banter with me. It is actually one of the things I like about the little shit: his inability to know when someone is laughing at him and not with him.

“I don’t have time, boss. I’ve got orders to fill and you still haven’t fixed the copier.”

“But these eggs, they aren’t ordinary eggs,” he giggled

“They’re not?” Damn, he drew me in!

“We’ll yeah they are…normal eggs, that is. But do you know what an egg is?”

Is he fucking serious? He asks me if I want to know what he was talking about and now I have to answer his questions?

“They are eggs, boss…from a chicken, I guess. Hey, did you order two rooms at the Econo Lodge? There is no way in hell, I’m bunking with you again.”

“They’re periods!” he exclaimed, gleeful and by the looks of the slight bulge in his Hagar slacks, maybe even titillated.

“What?”

“They are periods. Chickens drop eggs, just like you do. The eggs you eat are unfertilized chicken periods,” Smidge was red with excitement. “What I was getting at is were you on the rag this week, you know, laying eggs on my desk?”

I hope his brother does close this shit hole down. That little bastard makes me wear low top blouses at the convention, screams at me, and subjects me to listen to his douche bag comments.

Let’s see what kind of business he generates without me, when all he has is his lousy personality, bad hairwhip and that Goddamned jacket.

Fucking Smidge.

Fucking eggs.

Fucking Members Only jacket.

Don't let the poop get to you (Redux)
(a short story about a friend)

It is a sad, sad story that needs to be told. He decided to give cross-country a try, knowing that there were many months until baseball season began and the conditioning might do him so good. As with most eighth graders, he approached the first cross-country practice with the laser-sharp intensity of an ADD kid without his Ritalin. But that would change.

Growing up in his comfortable South Jersey town, running was not the sport of choice for either the ambitiously encouraging parents or their under appreciative kids. Folks in his community could afford the hockey equipment, the basketball camps, and the private coaches; his parents were no different. Running, it was thought, was something you did to prepare and excel in another sport; it wasn't a worthy sport in and of itself. People in M-land where he lived weren't running to escape their abusive parents or crack-infested neighborhoods. These families all had cable with HBO and Showtime. They didn't want an escape, they wanted more time to watch Batman and still make it to the Flyers game sitting in their father's corporate seats.

The other fall sports failed to interest him. The star soccer players have been playing on traveling teams since kindergarten, the esoteric sports like crew were still a few years away from catching-on at the middle school level, and football was forbidden according to his over-protective mother.

So cross-country became a sport of last resort, but also a depository for his dreams of stardom. He watched the 1984 Olympics and saw what success did for Carl Lewis and Edwin Moses. Maybe he was to be the country’s next great runner. He did, after all, do fairly well in the elementary school field days. Granted, he knew nothing about the sport, a 3.1-mile race through woods and over hills and across uneven plains of grass. What he did know was that he wanted to succeed, to be a star.

His first practice began sharply 15 minutes after the final bell at school. Harriers were to get into their gym clothes and muster in the gymnasium for a pep talk from coach. Like many of his fellow classmates, he was not wearing the newest running shoe from Nike. He was outfitted with large boxy white basketball shoes that made his spindly legs even more awkward. He knew this to be the case, but he thought of Secretariat and Seattle Slew. They once were gangly colts themselves and needed time and the proper training to win. This stage, too, would pass.

The course they would run that day would take them around the perimeter of the middle school and adjoining high school. Coach wouldn’t run with them. He was heavy and unhappy. He wanted to coach varsity football but couldn’t land a job. He did this for the $1,500 stipend and nothing else.

The young runners, about a dozen in all, darted across the field at an unusually rapid pace. Arms flailed, legs swung haphazardly, and heads bobbed. It was obvious that everyone shared a few common traits. First, they had no idea how to run--the pace, the fluid motion, the economical strides, all lost on them. And secondly, they all wanted to be the best. If effort were results it would be a 12-way dead-heat for first.

He got off to a good start, all things considered. He wasn’t with the lead group (who would be walking in another quarter-mile) but he wasn’t with the back-packers either (they’d be walking in another quarter mile, too). The group he was with would be turning onto the high school property in a minute and the burning in his lungs convinced him that gold medals would not come without a little pain.

Hitting the long stretch that ran parallel to the soccer fields, he and his fellow runners glumly encountered their next obstacle. It sounded its presence on the heel strike and spread its terror through the harriers gasping mouths and noses.

The green, green fields they were traversing didn’t get so lush by accident. True to the community’s agricultural past, natural treatments were used to treat the grounds, and if he wasn’t again recalling Secretariat and Seattle Slew, he should have been. They were running through a field of horse manure.

The weaker yearlings around him already halted their strides, sensing that manure was like quicksand, the more you struggle the worse it gets. He would not be shaken-up by equine waste, however. Just he and another boy, an equally awkward kid who appeared more at home in a science lab than a dual meet ran shoulder to shoulder.

The course was now ¾ done and he was amazed at how a distraction like horseshit could erase the pain. Looking down at his shoes, now no longer white but a scuff-filled prism of brown to gray, he wondered what his mother would think.

As the flittering thoughts of a scolding mom came and went, he now thought bigger thoughts--of victory, triumph, and adulation…all things that would soon be his.

His pace quickened with anticipation of the finish and he gulped in oxygen as if it were golf balls to be swallowed. His running mate, super geek, was now but a shadow on the ground. He had fallen behind by several links and would not be a challenge today.

Knee lifts were getting higher, heels were hitting hamstrings, and oxygen debt was just a mere inconvenience for the next 45 seconds. He was in the homestretch.

Coach would probably recommend he run with the high school varsity, he thought, even though his races would be limited to the few schools that fielded a middle school cross country team.

“I’ll progress so much more with the varsity,” he gasped between strides. The finish was but 200 meters away. “Villanova’s good but if I really want to be great, I should go to Arkansas.” To him, it was not to early to think of colleges.

In actuality he floundered to the finish, but with his heart racing so fast he felt like one of those Japanese express trains: sleek and steel, silent and swift. With his final strides, he bounded in self-adulation. He had done it. He had finished first. It would not be his last time victorious, he thought, but there can only be one first, first. How could he mark the occasion?

Other students—cheerleaders, and dententionees waiting for the late bus started to stare at him in amazement. “Probably saw my finishing kick," he thought, hands on knees struggling to catch his breath.

Actually, it was his apple red face and back full of horse feces that engaged the other students. His shoes were now caked with muddy horse slop…an inch added to the bottom, a half-inch around the edges.

He couldn’t find coach outside so he hustled toward the locker room. If anyone beat him to the coach, it might be assumed that they finished first. He couldn’t let that happen. He worked too hard for this and wanted to reap the rewards: an ‘atta boy’ from coach.

Inside the locker room there was silence, except for the leaking faucet and hum of the air conditioner. The only sound he would hear was that of his own groan. A note was on the chalkboard.

I went home. Don’t mess up the place. See you tommorow (sic) --Coach

“Burning lungs!
horse dung!
rubber legs! s
mell like rotten eggs!
and now coach is gone!
what went wrong!

He would learn that the solitude and loneliness of running extends beyond the run itself and weaves itself into the fabric of one’s life. He needed more. Coach would not see him tomorrow or the next day. He would never return. His running career was over, and with it went the dreams of glory.