Kristallnacht

This is a work in progress, so I’m not really counting it as a post. It is meant to be an epic poem about the holocaust and will eventually be set up as an immersive multimedia performance art experience. It is being posted here and will be edited over and over again, with many more parts being added. The third piece that is on here now, will be moved further back in the composition. I need to lose myself into the period for a few days, for inspiration. I’d like you to be able to view the creative process with me. The first poem was written many years ago, but lost to the vagaries of time. It is reconstructed here (the only four lines that I can remember; the first and last two), but the original was much more powerful and moving. You’ll also notice that the writing style differs from the other writing styles you have seen, so far. I blame it all on the voices. No, not really, but sometimes they have some really cool ideas. No, not really. The best way that I can describe my mind is for you to envision galaxies colliding. It never stops. Ever. As always, comments, criticism and insults are always welcomed. If you like it, please let me know. If you hate it, let me know that, too. Thanks. – Steve

New - 


I Saviour (change title - using this one for another sequence)

II Kristallnacht

You ask me, child, if I remember
I remember, I remember, I remember
Hobnails on the cobblestones
And the strutting marionettes
Torches in the night
Shattered glass
Spilled across the sidewalks like stars across the sky
A million points of light
Shouted commands and muted whimpers of fear
Beatings and blood
A mitzvah for the host, this brutal, ritual bath
Running, screaming, shots in the night
Tears and horrible, inhuman laughter
Boots on the stairs and a pounding at the door
Hide the children!
The wood cracks, splinters and breaks apart
“Raus, raus!”
Too late! Too late!
Too soon, our voices join this choir of the damned
And the world burned around us
Collapsing in upon me
And those who speak no more.
You ask me, child, if I remember
How could I ever forget?


III Six Points of Yellow

A star of yellow cloth
A patch upon my clothing
A stain upon my soul
They hunt, they come in packs
Wolves, they are
They strike without warning
“Juden,” they call
“Halt,” they command
They descend upon you
They feed their madness
Sometimes, they hurl words
The easier pain to bear
But most times those words are weighted
With fists, brick and stone
“Am I not one of you,” I cry
They laugh, “You are nothing like us.”
The blows rain down
No, I am nothing like them
I have become nothing
Perhaps something less

IV The Vanishing

V Boxcar

The baby never stops crying
A sardine has more room
And smells so much better
The press allows for no movement
The baby never stops crying
I don’t know how many days have passed
The baby never stops crying
I am thirsty, there is no water
I am hungry, there is no food
I have soiled myself, there is no shame
Just the endless standing
The baby never stops crying
Did I fall asleep? Am I still awake?
Please, let it be a dream
The baby grows quiet; she will cry no more
The grandfather next to me is the next to go
And still he stands
Lord, help us. God of my fathers, hear our pleas
How many more?
The endless miles clack by
We are less than cattle

VI The Arrival

VII Savior (change title?)

"God will help us," we cried
"God will protect us," we prayed
Surely, God would not abandon us

As I watched as my wife and children being led away
I knew there would be no savior
God would do nothing

He has abandoned us
And I have abandoned him

VIII Arbeit Macht Frei

IX Angels of Mercy, Angels of Death

X Garden of Stones

Contemplate if you will
Depthless silence that envelopes you
Much like a greatcoat
Sullen and black as pitch
Like the ash that drifts upon the wind

I tread softly through the mourning mist
To tend this garden of stones
I hear the echo of whispers and soft, ancient wind songs
Songs... and memories; a bitter requiem for the spirits
A prayer that dies and lay unspoken

The killing fields grow strong and vibrant
Serene, yet deathly still
Over far horizon, so endless and emerald green
Sustained by the tears of children that never blossomed
And the long dead flesh of man

I have come to seek your spirit
I have come to ease my soul
And for a moment much too brief
I feel your presence that slips through the mist
Here... in this garden of stones

Did I rouse you from your dreams of eternal night?

XI Kaddish

English translation follows.

Yitgadal v'yitkadash sh'mei raba.

B'alma di v'ra chirutei,
v'yamlich malchutei,
b'chayeichon uv'yomeichon
uv'chayei d'chol beit Yisrael,
baagala uviz'man kariv. V'im'ru: Amen.
Y'hei sh'mei raba m'varach
l'alam ul'almei almaya.
Yitbarach v'yishtabach v'yitpaar
v'yitromam v'yitnasei,
v'yit'hadar v'yitaleh v'yit'halal
sh'mei d'kud'sha b'rich hu,
l'eila min kol birchata v'shirata,
tushb'chata v'nechemata,
daamiran b'alma. V'imru: Amen.
Y'hei sh'lama raba min sh'maya,
v'chayim aleinu v'al kol Yisrael.
V'imru: Amen.
Oseh shalom bimromav,
Hu yaaseh shalom aleinu,
v'al kol Yisrael. V'imru: Amen.

Exalted and hallowed be God's great name
in the world which God created, according to plan.
May God's majesty be revealed in the days of our lifetime
and the life of all Israel -- speedily, imminently, to which we say Amen.
Blessed be God's great name to all eternity.
Blessed, praised, honored, exalted, extolled, glorified, adored, and lauded
be the name of the Holy Blessed One, beyond all earthly words and songs of blessing,
praise, and comfort. To which we say Amen.
May there be abundant peace from heaven, and life, for us and all Israel,
to which we say Amen.
May the One who creates harmony on high, bring peace to us and to all Israel.
To which we say Amen.

You're Only Bae Twice a/k/a The Return of Kodilla

Yet another unexpected text message pops up on my phone. I don’t know who this guy Michael is, that used to have my current phone number, but it’s getting pretty old, getting his texts, calls and pics. Evidently, he has a lot of service issues with DirecTV (big surprise) and is always on the verge of having his electricity turned off. Oh, and Michael? You need to pay your car insurance, too. I don’t know why he doesn’t have enough money to pay his bills. From most of the texts that I’ve read, Michael must have sold enough drugs to supply half of Philly, but I guess you can’t sell dope if you don’t pay your phone bill. Plus, I’ve had this number for about eight months now, so I’m assuming that these people that keep texting me aren’t exactly MENSA members, either. I’m also assuming that Darwin will work his magic, before too long…

Let’s get back to the story.

This text pops up on my phone:

Incoming Text: its kody aka k rock

Okay. And? The only people I know with an aka in their names probably like to do fun and romantic things like take long walks, appreciate sunsets, love puppies and  enjoy a good prison gang rape. Come to think of it, I don’t know anyone with an aka, in their name. And shouldn’t it be a/k/a, anyway?

Irritated Me: So Fucking what?

Like I said, I’m getting a little pissy about this stuff.

kody aka k rock: Huh

kody aka k rock: Figured you would want to know 

Figured that I’d want to know what? That you’re a dumbass? I think I already won the fucking prize for that.

Okay, I’ll be nicer to Mr. k rock Me: Whoever you’re looking for, this isn’t theory phone [number] anymore

Okay, I’ll be nicer to Mr. k rock Me: Their

kody aka k rock: Stop playkn babe

Stop playkn babe. Could it be? Holy shit! kody aka k rock must be Kodilla! I’m going to play it so smooth this time that I’ll be seeing titties in minutes. I’ve got a plan. I’m so fucking cool.

Smooth Me: Maybe if you send me a pic, I might remember you better

kody aka k rock: Ok ok hold on

Score! It was that easy! It only took seconds and I am laughing my ass off. As usual, my smooth moves, slick words and suave demeanor have conquered another woman. I mean, I can’t rely on my rugged good looks, alone.

Time passes and no pic. I guess Kodilla was just too shy, to send that pic, after all. No boobies, for me.
Sheesh, you’d think that after letting a guy give her a pearl necklace, she’d give up the goods, but noooo…

But the very next day (I feel like little bunny fucking foo foo, right here), a pic pops up in my notifications. I’m thinking that it’s the ex, sending me a pic of the little one doing something cute and adorable. It’s cute and adorable, because it’s my kid. If it were your kid, it would be fucking annoying.. So, I open it up and it’s from kody aka k rock and it’s not quite what I’m expecting. I’ve been cheated! There’s no Kodilla. There’s no titties. There’s nothing but some butt ugly dude, making a strange face and sticking his tongue out.

Insert pic of butt ugly dude here.

Let me tell you, my life is just an endless series of WTF? moments. I don’t know about you, but I sure could lead a much less interesting life. Really. I don’t know who, or what I assraped in a previous life, but I’ve surely paid my debt by now. Was I Stalin? No! So, back the fuck off, Karma, you bitch. I had a plan and shit and you and Mr. Murphy came along and assfucked me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckitty fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I just wanted to see some tits. Was that too much to ask?

No Titties For Me, Me: Dude, I’ve never seen you before in my life

kody aka k rock: ctfu up I know my boyy just told me I had his number wrong

Another thing that pissed me off was that I had to look up ctfu, using Urban Dictionary and that made me feel old. Cracking the fuck up. That’s stupid.

kody aka k rock: can I get a picture back?

Okay, I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m a guy and he still wants my pic.Yeah, no. Call me old-fashioned, but I’m just not into guys. It’s fine if you are, it’s just not for me. Women do get my blood flowing and I’m a pretty big fan of tits. Is that so wrong? Besides, I’m not that kind of whore. So, no dude, you can’t get a picture back. I don’t send pics of myself to anyone, for any reason, not even shirtless selfies in front of the bathroom mirror. The best you can hope for is a badly drawn stick figure.

In my mind, I thought, “Drat! Foiled again!” Or at least something to that effect. I’ll guarantee you that there was an “F” word of some sort, in there. I never sent a pic. I never answered back. The conversation ended there.

New rule, people, so pay attention. No one is allowed to message me, without first sending me a pic of female human breasts. Nice ones. Firm. Like melons. No exceptions.

Well, that’s the end, right there. No moral, no tidy ending. No titties, either.  
That’s the way life works, sometimes. Nothing more than Karma biting me in the ass. If you need to draw any conclusions from this meaningless story, if you need something to carry away and warm the cockles of your heart, take this – I Like Tits. Bodacious Ta-Ta’s. How’s that for a deeper meaning, motherfucker?

Catching Up

Welcome, or welcome back, to my own little corner of creation. I’ve been away for awhile, for far too long, but I’m back with a bang. I’ve been writing like crazy and have been writing in a much less formal style. My last few posts have been humorous and I have a few more of those to come; my life is just too surreal, but you can expect more of those stories that tug at your heartstrings, too. I’m also trying to use less commas. I’ve been hiding from the Grammar Gestapo. Now that warmer weather is here (except for the week of my vacation, which starts tomorrow), I’ll be out exploring with my camera, seeking abandonment, beauty and decay. My photography and my writing have really changed over time, so you can expect to see both blogs start filling up.

If you haven’t been here before, take a look around and have a few laughs. There’s all kinds of stuff hidden within these pages. Some of it is pretty decent stuff, according to some of you and I think some of it is pure crap. Having said that, expect to see some major spring cleaning going on, around here. A lot of older posts will be disappearing. All of the stories will be left alone. I’d like to concentrate more on my writing, but all of the other stuff will soon be gone. I have a photo blog and a Facebook page (www.faceboof.com/phatography) for photography, but I still may post the occasional photo or two, here as well.

About those stories… I’ve already posted four new stories, I’m about to post this missive and I have two more stories written and ready to post. Beyond that, I’m in the middle of writing another story and I have started a list of story ideas and that helps me to remember what I’d like to write about. So far, it has helped with my writer’s block, which can sometimes be extreme.

I almost forgot. There’s one last thing, about all of that. I don’t know if you’ve read the story “They Call Me Bae,” but it turns out that there’s more to the Kodilla story than I thought. Did I finally get to see the titties? Stay tuned.

Changes

Turn to face the strange
Ch- ch- changes
~David Bowie

As for me, well, there have been a lot of changes in my life, most for the better and some, for the worse.

Some dreams end so that others may begin. My marriage of fifteen years ended last year. It sucked. Shit happens. Our children have paid the price for it.

What a Long, Strange Trip It’s Been

I moved to Philadelphia, with pit stops in Westampton, NJ and New Hope, PA, along the way. It’s different, living in a city. It’s strange, delightful and sometimes disturbing. I loved the small town life and the people that I met and became close to, over the years that I spent in West Virginia. So many memories were made there, memories that I will always cherish and carry with me, no matter where I go. That stage of my life is over, now, although I do miss the quiet, sometimes.

New things to deal with: increased crime, insane motorists and endless traffic. Crazy, rude people. Waiting inline, higher prices, the crush and the rush, rush, rush.

New things to discover: Philadelphia is the story of the United States; you can’t escape history here and who would want to? Philadelphia has a long, proud history. Also waiting to be discovered are abandoned factories, arsenals, hidden airfields, gold mines, and so much more. The Jersey Shore is always close by and New York City is just a short drive away.

Food Paradise – There is so much great food here, it seems that every ethnicity is represented. The supermarkets are full of all sorts of upscale and international foods. The produce markets are incredible. There is a little Russian market down the street that carries fresh rabbit. Yum! Sorry, Thumper, but you’re just too tasty. China Town has some of the best restaurants that have the most amazing food and the most atrocious service imaginable. I would gladly endure medieval tortures, for those Asian delights. The best Italian food in the country is in this region, the pizza and breads are great. It seems like there are bakeries on every corner and let’s not forget the legendary foods that Philly made famous, cheesesteaks, soft pretzels and wudder ice. I’ve been in Foodie Heaven, since I got here. My biggest complaint is that I can’t seem to find a restaurant that serves Coca~Cola products. Pepsi sucks. Oh, and what’s with this “hoagie” shit? It’s a sub, dude, plain and simple. That’s a horrible name for a sammich.

You’ve Got to Kiss a lot of Frogs

I started dating again, last August and it’s been quite an eye opener, in so many ways, providing quite an insight into the human condition. I’ve met some really wonderful ladies and some really interesting ones. And I mean interesting as in shit’s about to get crazy. This has taken me on quite a number of adventures and misadventures. You’ll be reading about some of those adventures and misadventures in the days and weeks to come.

That’s all for now, so buckle your safety belts, keep your ass inside the vehicle and hold on for your life; it’s going to be quite a ride.

We now return you to our regularly scheduled insanity.

Cheers,

Steve

The Hitcher

It was a cold, wet and stormy night. The wind was whipping the snow and rain all about; the night was dark and visibility was low. I had just left work, it was around two am and I was anxious to get home. Just after turning onto the highway, I saw what appeared to be a fairly young girl huddled against the bus stop sign, with her thumb out, trying to catch a ride. Being the good, kind and gentle soul that I am and feeling sympathy for anyone caught out so late in this weather, I pulled over. Well, she didn’t seem to notice me, so I backed up a bit. Still nothing. I hit the horn; she noticed. She came up to the car and I noticed she was wearing a hooded puffy coat, looking like a half-drowned Stay Puft marshmallow girl. I unlocked the door and she got in the car, water pouring from her in small streams. The poor kid was soaked. I asked her where she was headed and she starts to speak. My first thought was that she was retarded, but then I realize that she’s just really, really stupid and has a speech impediment. She tells me that she needs a ride to the Budget Inn, which is quite a distance, being all of maybe two blocks away from where we are. I have to admit that I felt a little disgusted that this idiot didn’t have the fortitude to walk two blocks, had the stupidity to stand there in the rain instead of hauling ass back to her motel and that she had the audacity to hitch her lazy ass a ride. Whatever. I’m feeling magnanimous, so let’s go. We drove off and that’s when the hammer fell.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, with my being such a stud and all. You’d even be right, sort of… Yes, indeed, because with me, there always has to be that ‘sort of’ moment. Where life just slips into the surreal.

“I was looking to pick someone up,” she blurts out. “Would you like to come back to my room with me?”

I almost slammed on the fucking brakes, right there. Not exactly sure that my brain had processed her words correctly, I blurted back a shocked, “Wait. What?”

Every guy’s fantasy, right? Pick up the hot young chick on the side of the road and bone her, right? Not exactly. I looked at her plump, stupid looking face, huddled in her puffy coat and all I could think about was the Pillsbury Doughboy. I don’t know about you, but personally, I’ve never had a hankering for the Pillsbury Doughboy.

Once again, I stammered, “What?”

“Do you want to come back to my room, with me?” she repeated. “I need money, to pay for my room.”

GET. THE. FUCK. OUT. I am such a fucking moron. It all made sense now, but looking back, you’ll have to excuse me for being ignorant of the etiquette for bus stop hookers. Blame it on too much clean living.

“Ummm… No, thanks,” I replied. “I’m not into that whole thing and I really don’t have any money.”

“Not even for five dollars?” she counter-offered. “I’ll suck you dry, for five dollars.”

Really? A five dollar hooker? GTFO! They haven’t been around since the time of Moses and I should know; I was there. While the bargain basement price of five dollars only made it that much more tempting, somehow, I managed to restrain myself.

“No, thanks,” I said, as we pulled up to her motel, “I’m going to have to pass. It’s late and I need to go home.”

“Can you help me with five dollars?” she pleaded.

Maybe I should have felt bad for her and given her a few bucks, I mean, I can occasionally feel sympathy for other human beings, but this wasn’t Doughboy’s lucky night. I was pretty tapped out, myself and was trying to get my own rent money together. And, I’m pretty much a dick. Let’s not ignore that three hundred pound gorilla in the room.

“I really can’t, I said, “My own rent is due in a few days and I’m scrambling to get it paid on time. Sorry,”

With that, she got out of the car and I watched her waddle her way into the motel lobby. The ungrateful bitch didn’t even thank me, for the ride, but, as they say, “Service is its own reward.”

As I drove off into the storm tossed night, I thought about missed opportunity and I shuddered. Remember kids, no good deed goes unpunished.

The Rules

Most parents, I think, want to provide their children to the best of their abilities, giving their progeny all that they can. For one group of parents, this seems to entail the giving of material things; cars, clothes, money, etc. For another group of parents it could be more emotionally, or faith bound; love, wisdom, morality, etc. A third group of parents would be a combination of the first two groups in that they try to teach a balance between the first two approaches. A fourth group are the parents who believe their children should learn and earn their own way, in this world. Finally, there is a fifth group of parents, the neglectful ones, those who are unfit to parent; human refuse, the abusers, addicts and alcoholics. One very popular way of providing a head start for children is a college education savings fund. This is a wonderful idea and a noble concept. My ex-wife and I started something similar, for our children; we just call it something different. This Fund for Understanding, Caring and Kindness, or FUCK, as I like to call it, will provide funding for the years of intensive therapy that our children will need, by the time we are finished with them. It’s a cold, cruel world out there and I want to prepare my children. In one of the most competitive and bleakest job markets in living memory, I want them to have the ability to adapt and overcome any and all obstacles. I’ve come up with a formula to help them gain a competitive edge in the cutthroat corporate world, or perhaps a path of enlightenment towards an outside of the box type of career. Alternative employment, maybe entrepreneurship; sometimes you just have to make your own opportunities.
My children are all very intelligent. I know that every parent says that, but mine truly are and they make me so proud. One of the first sentences that all three of my children learned to say was, “Mommy fell, it was an accident.” And they would say it with such glee! It just warmed my heart, let me tell you. While I thought this was pretty hysterical, my ex-wife failed to see the humor in this. It’s not like I would have actually pushed her down the stairs, but hey, accidents do happen and you should always have your story straight.
It is in this spirit, that my children and I have developed certain rules to live by. Nine little rules to follow. Think of it as a nine step program, a guide, or an outline. It doesn’t just apply to being an assassin, remember, teach your children to think outside of the box; they could use these rules to also become a drug kingpin, serial killer, union/community organizer, lawyer or even a U.S. Congressman. That’s right, the sky’s the limit!

THE RULES

#1 Be prepared. Always dig the hole first. Digging a hole isn’t illegal and it’s usually not that suspicious. However, digging a hole with a body next to you might raise a few eyebrows.

#2 Always have an alibi. Again, be prepared. Work this out in advance. Remember, always keep your story simple and straight.

#3 No witnesses. Ever. Always dig that hole a little deeper. You know, just in case.

#4 If you have someone else do the work for you, you’ll have to get rid of them, too. No loose ends.

#5 If you have a secret and you tell someone, it’s not a secret, anymore. Don’t trust anyone with your secrets. If you spill your guts to someone, you’ll need to get rid of them.

Rule #6 is my favorite. This rule was the brainchild of one of my children. I’m so proud! 

#6 Fire makes DNA go DNAway.

#7 Don’t get caught.

#8 If you do get caught, never admit to anything. Do not answer any questions. No one there is your friend. There is only one person who can help you and it’s not God.

#9 Always ask for an attorney. The attorney is the only one you talk to. If you can, get a good Jewish lawyer. They rock! Come to think of it, Johnny Cochrane really kicked some ass, with the whole OJ thing. “If the glove does not fit…” Indeed. The Chewbacca defense was brilliant, as well. So, black lawyers are cool, too. If I haven’t offended your particular ethnic group and you’d like me to, please explain why someone of your ethnicity would make a great attorney. I breathlessly await your reply.

Demented? Well, maybe a little, but they’re still words to live by. Remember, there is always an alternative approach, so teach your children to think outside of the box; it opens up worlds of opportunities for them. My middle son wants to be a research scientist, in order to invent the zombie virus. He might even do great things for mankind, before he destroys it, perhaps something like Soylent Green. And to think that the zombie apocalypse could happen within my lifetime. How exciting!

Don’t judge me. I’m just fucking with you.

Unsinkable

Unsinkable

What might be considered an injustice by some, might be construed by others as justice served. Take, for example, the release of the Lockerbie Bomber, condemned throughout the West as a mass murderer and yet, hailed throughout Libya and the region, as a hero, upon his return there. Or perhaps, the election of Barack Obama, over John McCain and Obama’s successful re-election bid, when he trumped Mitt Romney. Some US citizens see Obama’s victories as a vehicle, for hope and change, while others see it as a betrayal of American ideals. Justice and injustice… tricky concepts, indeed. However, there is no greater injustice in this world, no, in this life, than a self-righteous, “I told you so.”

The day had started innocently enough; three old friends and their children, gathering together for some fun times; or so it seemed. My wife (now ex-wife) and I were catching up with our old friend, Scott, whom we hadn’t seen in quite some time. All of our lives had changed drastically, since we’d last seen each other. Scott was now a single father, with a son and a daughter that we had never met. Likewise, Medusa, my (ex)wife and I had brought two little boys into the world. We had made plans to renew acquaintances and to let the children play. Our target was Orr’s, a local farm market that specialized in pick your own strawberries. This activity would provide a chance for the children to burn off some energy, while the adults caught up on the intervening years. The day had dawned, bright and beautiful; a truly perfect Spring day that seemed to cloud over a bit, as we pulled up to the farm, only to see a large sign that read, “Closed on Sundays.”

Like a gaggle of geese, the children were honking and hollering; crying and screaming. Evidently, I had ruined their young lives beyond any sort of redemption and they would need years and years of therapy, to recover from the traumatizing incident. I thought of the horrors of PTSD, in ones so young, but, to be honest, my children will probably need years and years of therapy, by the time I’m done with them, anyway, so I wasn’t too worried about it. While the world was quickly coming to an end, we adults were tossing suggestions back and forth like hot potatoes. I knew deep down, that only I could come up with the master plan, to save the day. And I did. That was when I hit upon the idea of going to Back Creek. It would be fun, it was conveniently close, and best of all… it was free, which appealed to me the most, because I’m such a cheap bastard; after all, I’ve been known to squeeze a nickel until the buffalo is gasping for air. Knowing genius when they see it, everyone agreed this was a wonderful idea and we were soon on our way, Scott and his family following close behind.

When we arrived at the creek, we hopped out of our vehicles and gathered up all of the paraphernalia that you need when you travel past your driveway with children; all of the blankets and towels, bandages and tape, potions and lotions and another fifty pounds of combat gear that you load upon yourself like a pack mule. I looked up for just a moment and that was when I saw them. “Them,” being the two pickup trucks that were racing each other through the creek. I must have had quite a muse that day, as inspiration suddenly struck again. My Jeep Grand Cherokee was much larger than either of the trucks and we all know that bigger is better; the creek was incredibly low that year and I could now fulfill my lifelong ambition of being a macho, rugged guy and go four wheeling in my Jeep. It was one of those redneck, “Y’all wanna’ see something really cool,” moments. In retrospect, that alone should have been warning enough, but it wasn’t.. I announced my intentions to my (ex)wife, who gave me one of those looks that are generally reserved for the certifiably insane and while I hadn’t realized that the color on her face could actually occur in nature. For a moment, she seemed too angry to speak, but somehow she managed to splutter out the words, “Absolutely not!” It may even have been a little stronger than that. I argued my point; I had seen, with my own eyes, the two  trucks as they raced down the creek. The water was so low, there was, maybe, a one in a million chance of something going wrong. Medusa said something about, “I’ve lived here all of my life…” and that was when I pressed the mute button, while she kept prattling on about whatever she was prattling on about. While Medusa’s lips continued to move soundlessly, my mind was already in the creek, racing through the rocks with a giant rooster tail of water flying behind me. Sensing that I now had the intellect of a rock, my (ex)wife elected to walk down to the small gravel island that served as a beach and picnic area, children in tow, while Scott and I drove the Jeep down.

I stomped down on the accelerator and the Jeep took off, diving into th water, spinning and sliding; just tearing it up for a few minutes while we drove the few hundred yards down to the beach. Several times that day, I took the Jeep back into the creek, splashing through the water like a child in control of an oversized Tonka truck.. I had so much fun and laughed so hard; I loved every second of it. The children loved being able to ride through the creek with me, while I drove like a maniac. After a while, even Medusa broke down and went for a ride, trying her best not to smile, lest it split her face in half. All too soon, it seemed, fun time was over and it was time to leave.

Everyone and everything was wedged into the Jeep like a canned sardine for the trip back to shore. As we drove back into the creek, I made sure to drive a little wildly, for the benefit of the children, who were screaming up a storm in the back seat and the hatch. I turned to drive up the bank where we entered the creek, the tires churning up the water behind us, when suddenly, there was a sickeningly sharp lurch downward and to the left as the Jeep dropped into a deep hole and then the engine sputtered and died, with a sickly, watery gurgle. I couldn’t try to restart the Jeep, it would only suck more water into the engine. Not that it mattered anyway, everything was dead. I had taken the seeds of that one in a million chance of something going wrong and I had harvested a bumper crop of trouble.

I looked at my (ex)wife and I swear that I could literally see the top of her head explode and visualize the steam flying out of her ears. I think, in retrospect, that she may have been just a little bit angry with me. “I told you not to drive in the creek,” she fumed, “I told you there were hidden holes and sure enough, you’ve managed to find one!” Hidden holes? What hidden holes? She had never said anything about hidden holes, to me. It was then that comprehension dawned upon me, enlightening me with an epiphany, of sorts. Perhaps she had said something while I was daydreaming and had tuned out the sound of her voice. I really hate that feeling that I get, when I realize that I’m wrong and there was no way that I was going to open my mouth to try to defend myself. How on Earth was I going to get myself out of this mess? Being the genius that I am, I quickly surmised that the quickest way out would be to open the door and get out of the Jeep, which I did.

As half of the creek cascaded into the Jeep, I jumped out and found myself deeper in the creek than the Jeep was. I climbed out of the hole that I was in and walked around the Jeep, appraising the situation. Ironically, the depth of the water on the passenger side of the Jeep was only ankle deep. I thought that Scott and I could just push the Jeep up onto the bank; it was only a few feet. Well, we pushed and we pushed and then we pushed some more, all to no avail. Medusa joined in and still nothing. To add insult to injury, I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I slipped and fell, falling face first, into the water. While I might not have been stuck, the Jeep certainly was; it wasn’t going anywhere, without help. We, meaning I, had to come up with a different plan.

It worked out that Scott would take me home to get our other vehicle and then he and I would return to the creek to retrieve everyone else. We stopped at my mechanic’s shop (it was on the way) to ask him to tow the Jeep back to his garage and to see if it was salvageable. Of course, I had to explain the whole story to the mechanic, while he looked at me, the entire time, in total bewilderment, as if he had never seen a bigger idiot in his entire life. I’m sure my (ex)wife would have concurred. He looked at me and said, “Don’t you know there’s hidden holes in that creek?” After everyone in the shop finished laughing at me (I’m pretty sure that even his mangy old dog was giggling), Scott dropped me off at my house and I drove our other SUV back to the creek to pick up my family. When I arrived back at the creek, there was a new surprise awaiting me; the Jeep was now out of the water and on the opposite bank! My wife quickly explained that a Good Samaritan had come along and winched the Jeep over to the other side. This was quite a mixed blessing; the vehicle was now out of the water (good thing) and the engine could dry out. However, I would now look like an even bigger idiot, because I couldn’t even accurately describe where the Jeep was located!

The drive home was made in a stony silence; Medusa just kept shaking her head. It wasn’t until after we arrived home that the “I told you so” demon escaped from the bottle. The day had become a loaded shotgun and Medusa let loose with both barrels. What could I say in my defense? Nothing, that’s what. I had done something incredibly stupid, so I just stood there and took the barrage. I hadn’t listened to my (ex)wife, who, impossibly, for the first time in her life, was actually correct about something. I was angry, too; seething inside, but there was not a word that I could say. I just prayed that the Jeep was repairable; it was her vehicle, after all.

The next day, our mechanic called to inform me of the damage. Other than having to replace the spark plugs and change the sir filter, we had been lucky. And everything else was fine. There was no sign of water in the oil or in the gas tank and I thanked my lucky stars that all was well and the cost was minimal. Well, minimal when compared to the cost of buying a new Jeep. Two hundred dollars had just gone flying out the window and I knew that I would hear about that too, once I told my (ex)wife. I knew that I would have another large plate of crow to eat that evening (Please note that crow tastes nothing like chicken) and I did. It was only marginally wose than the year before, when I sank the Jeep in the mud, up to the driver’s side window and on an angle as well, when I took the Jeep four wheeling in the same area, but that’s another story.

In hindsight, I should have listened to my (ex)wife, instead of daydreaming. She’s lived in this area for most of her life, while at the time, I was still a semi-recent transplant to West Virginia and the whole farm living is the life for me, thing. I should have listened, but of course, I knew better. My (ex)wife had many long years in which to smugly lord this incident over me and I firmly believe to this day, that there is no greater injustice in this life than an “I told you so”.

They Call Me Bae

     
In the random insanity that is my life, many strange things happen. I don’t know if this is due to divine retribution, karma, or just random chance, but I don’t ever remember having ass raped a nun. If nothing else, life sure is interesting. Take, for example, a text message that I received the other night:

Incoming Text: Hey bae

Now, I know you are desperately wondering, as was I, what exactly, and I mean what the fuck, exactly, is a bae? Is it a typo? Is it slang? Does it mean babe? Is it just ignorance, shining through? Whatever. It doesn’t need to be that fucking deep.

Anyway, not recognizing the number, I respond back with a cool and suave:

Me: Who is this?

Incoming Text: You know who this is 

Actually, no, I don’t know who this is. This is why I’m asking. Allow me to explain, so that you may be enlightened.

Me: I just got this phone and you’re not in my contacts, so no, I don’t (know who you are).

Incoming Text: Remember u tittie fucked me ba 

Okay, this is something that I am 100% certain, that I would remember, unless… Maybe, it’s like sleepwalking, but with an added bonus (there is that whole sleep titty fucking phenomenon). Face it, though; you just can’t forget a spectacular pair of tits, even more so, a pair that you’ve just jewelry shopped, all over. I was even beginning to wonder if it was anyone that I knew, trying to screw with me, but no one with that area code had my number and none of the senior citizens that I know are still awake, at that hour. So, smooth as silk, I replied:

     Gentleman Me: I’m sure I would be able to remember that, but I don’t think I am the person you are looking for. This is my new phone and number. I just moved to Philly.

See? I’m all about being a gentleman and shit.

Incoming Text: What’s your first name?

Dumbass Me: Steve

Incoming Text: Ohhhh well hi Steve

Dumbass Me: Lmao. Hi.

Incoming Text: Steve what?

Incoming Text: ?

Giant Dumbass Me: Actually told her my last name.

I know, I know; what the hell was I thinking. Hey, it was late, I was tired and quite obviously, I wasn’t thinking. Look, evolution has provided men with two brains. Unfortunately, we only have enough blood, to run one at a time.

Incoming Text: You want to see my tits maybe they will refresh your memory

Old Pervert Me: Okay

Look, I’m just trying to be helpful, here. If a woman can’t fight the urge to show me her breasts, who am I, to try and stop her? Free tits is free tits. Sorry. It just is.

Incoming Text: Send me a pic of your face first.

Not Wanting to end up on To Catch a Predator Me: How old are you?

Send her a pic of my face? That, was so not going to happen. There are enough photos of me in compromising positions, with dwarves and llamas, than I care to admit. I have no further comment.

Incoming Text: 19

Not a Total Pervert Me: I am old enough to be your dad, lol.

Incoming Text: And you?
  Yeah? Well how old?

So Much for Seeing Some Titties Me: I am 48

Incoming Text: Sooo?

GTFO Me: Lmao

Incoming Text: idc

Seriously? This 19 year old girl/child/baby, just told me that she doesn’t care that I am almost 30 years older, than she is. I’m trying to do the right thing here, but if you’re going to shove them in my face, I’m going to motorboat them.
ADDED BONUS! She could be a hooker, or a crackhead, but then again, that would be so 90’s. Is retro still cool?

Time to Shut This Down Me: What’s your name?

Incoming Text: Kodilla

Kodilla? WTF? Seriously? I can’t even begin to guess at what her parents might have been aiming for, with that one. Godzilla? Gorilla? Mozilla? That shit is completely made up. Who does that, to a child? I’m officially in the Twilight Zone, at this point.

Model Citizen Me: I’m sure your tits are spectacular.

Let me know, if you get the reference.

The next thing that I was going to type was a thanks, but no thanks line. As much as I’m flattered at the thought of some dumbass kid wanting to show me her boobs, but two in the hand, certainly isn’t the same as one in the bush. Besides, it just made me feel creepy, like the guy in the white panel van that always promised me free candy. You can fool me five or six times, but that’s not a candy bar, mister.

Beating the Odds

     Another one for the only me file…

So, I’m on my way to work today; it’s a beautiful Spring day. I’ve got the windows halfway down, the moonroof is open, and the stereo is cranked way, way up. We’re talking Spinal Tap loud, right here.

     I’m cruising along, I’ve got my groove on, when an object comes into my peripheral vision, ricochets off my window (it made a very loud “plink”) and this little, piece of shit rock strikes my face, directly under my right eye. WTF? No. Seriously. I don’t know if it’s God, the Devil, Karma, the Universe, Flying Spaghetti Monster, or whatthefuckever. I didn’t do anything to warrant special attention and I’ve been behaving. Pretty much. So… WHAT THE FUCK?`

     Now, I do have to admit that I was lucky, if you can call getting hit in the face with a rock, lucky. If that rock had hit me, just a little bit higher, I’m sure that my right eye would not be in its happy place, right now. Plus, that little zinger sure did hurt like a son of a bitch.

     The odds of something like this happening have to be astronomical. I mean, the truck that kicked up the rock at that angle, the placement of my car, the amount of space that my window was down, blah, blah, blah. Everything had to be just right, or wrong, in order for that rock to hit me. I mean, the odds of that happening to someone would have to be a billion to one,or something like that. The odds of that happening to me? Pretty fucking good, evidently…

Scared Sober

I'm not one to believe in the supernatural; to me, ghosts and goblins, creepy creaks and moans, as well as errant footsteps in the night are all things that can be explained away quite rationally. Explanations may assume many forms, from the weather to an old home settling upon its foundation. An overactive imagination may also play its part. The mind loves to play tricks on itself, whereby every sight and sound can assume a malevolent purpose. Supernatural occurrences can always be explained away rationally; except for when there is no rational explanation.

It began like any other day, indistinguishable from the day before, it moved along like any other day; no portent of doom appeared on the horizon as the day bled out into night. Penny and I had made plans to visit our friend Lisa, for an evening of fun. Penny had a young daughter, who was close in age to Lisa's daughter; the two girls frequently played together and were fast friends, as we all were. We had arrived at Lisa's home, had dinner, and Lisa and I had a few drinks.

The children played while the adults socialized; the hours passing quickly. We had made plans to spend the night, and as the evening deepened, the children were put to bed. Penny wasn't feeling very well and was tired. She decided that she was going to lay down with the girls, leaving Lisa and I to fend for ourselves. We retreated into the den, closing the door behind us, so as not to wake the children. We listened to records, watched movies; we told jokes and we laughed; talking about anything and everything. We'd also had a few more drinks. We were laughing about something, when suddenly, our revelry was interrupted by a soft knocking at the door, a soft knock that somehow reverberated like the sharp report of a gunshot in the close quarters of the room. Thinking that one of the girls had woken up, I walked across the room to the door, telling Lisa that I would tuck the child back in and return. As my hand touched the doorknob, I felt the shock of deep cold. Opening the door the same way I would any other, I looked down to see which one of the girls was awake.

That was when it hit me, or, more accurately, went through me. This cold, malevolent presence, this thing, had violated me with malicious intent; the cold somehow imparting a taste of death. It was if my very soul had been raped. In a fraction of a second, I had felt what I can only describe as pure, oppressive evil; ice cold and yet, I had sensed a raging fire, the smells of soot, ash and brimstone. I literally knew the tread of something walking across my grave, been given a vision of that desolate and lonely place. Words alone cannot begin to describe the fear, dread and hate that passed through my body. I started shivering, shaking uncontrollably, my arms wrapped tightly around myself; freezing on a hot summer's night. "What the hell was that?" I heard Lisa say. "What the hell was that?" she repeated. "What?" I asked, uncertain that I wanted to admit to anything. "Whatever the hell that black thing was that that just walked through you," she replied nervously. "You saw it?" I asked. "Hell yes, I saw it!" she said. You could hear the tremors of fear in her voice. I told her what I had experienced and felt, asking her if anyone had ever died in the house; died in a fire, to be specific, for I had glimpsed... something. She assured me that nothing of the sort had ever happened, yet I knew that it had, beyond a shadow of a doubt. We attributed what had happened to our having had a few drinks, but I think we had both just been scared sober. We decided to leave the house for a bit and go to the beach until our nerves settled, thinking that Penny and the girls would be safe until our return. There was nothing to fear, really, this was, after all, an alcohol influenced episode.

Once we reached the beach, we took a walk along the shore and discussed what had happened, convincing ourselves that what had occurred was nothing more than imagination. Hours later, as a false dawn crept across the horizon, the decision to return to Lisa's house was made with great trepidation. We drove back slowly, both of us apparently still quite rattled and on edge. Arriving back at Lisa's house, we were startled to see that every light was on, both inside and outside of the house. I'm sure we both had puzzled expressions as we looked at each other and simultaneously asked, "What now?" As we approached the front door, it suddenly flew open, startling us.

There in the doorway stood Penny, disheveled and frightened; the gleam of terror and madness burning in her eyes. "Where the hell have you been?"she thundered. Lisa and I explained to Penny what had happened and why we chose to leave. "Yeah? Well, it got really pissed off after you left," she responded. She went on to explain that it, whatever it was, had awakened her and the girls, walking around the house, opening and slamming cabinets and drawers; knocking on the walls and the bedroom doors. Terrified, Penny and the girls had been huddled together, cowering in the living room, anxiously awaiting our return. The entire episode would still have been easy enough to pass off as alcohol induced, except, Penny hadn't had a single drink all evening. She had been completely sober and hadn't even been aware of the events that Lisa and I had experienced. Still groping for answers, I wondered if someone might have tried to break in. Prudence dictated that I go back outside, to look for any sign of an intruder, which I did. Finding nothing, I went back inside the house. The remaining hours of the morning passed without further incident, until Lisa decided to call her mother and explain what had happened the night before. All hell seemed to break loose after that.

Lisa's parents, a very conservative Jewish couple, contacted a couple of crazy Kabbalah mystics, who came to Lisa's home. After questioning the three of us about the events of the previous night, these self proclaimed mystics, claiming themselves to be psychic, roamed throughout the house, making comments and suggestions. They mentioned that some mezuzahs were missing from the doorframes, others had been turned upside down, and still more were missing their requisite verse from the Torah. The Kabbalists then proceeded to prove themselves correct, pointing out spots on the doorframes, where you could clearly see the outlines of the missing icons. All of the remaining mezuzahs were removed from the walls, opened and found to be empty inside; a barren womb. The Kabbalah mystic gave instructions to Lisa's father on the appropriate remedy to the situation, in order for the icons to once more perform their duty to guard the home. Soon after this, the Kabbalists performed an exorcism on the house, followed by a ritual cleansing and a blessing. Claiming the battle to be won, the two erstwhile psychics departed the house, but not before questioning me further, explaining to me that mine was a new soul, and therefore much more receptive to the supernatural. Yeah, right. Stranger still, the next day, Lisa researched the history of her home, discovering, of all things, that there had indeed been a deadly fire in her home, an electrical one, that had taken the life of a previous owner. The discovery of this information shook the three of us once again. While it had been a strange and dreadful night, as far as I know, there was never another incident in that house.

Over the years, I've tried to rationalize the events of that night, trying to explain them in every possible way and have never been able to, not with any degree of satisfaction. There are so many questions, still, and they are begging for answers. I still don't believe in things that go bump in the night, but it still scares the hell out of me, whenever I think of that night.

The Photo Blog Is Now Up

Hi,

As mentioned previously, I've decided to start a photo blog. This one is really meant to be for writing samples only and I'm almost done with the next post. There are some great pics from our Atlantic City trip on the new blog. It is called Phat's Fotomat. If you have to ask, you'll make me feel really old. I hope you enjoy the pics. As always, comments are welcomed and appreciated. Thanks.


Phat's Fotomat

http://phatsfotomat.blogspot.com/

The Greatest Day of My Life

No trip to Atlantic City is complete without at least one visit to the White House Sub Shop. No Philly "hoagies" here, instead, you get the real deal. This is a cheesesteak the way Philadelphia wishes it could do it; the best cheesesteak (don't you dare call it a steak and cheese) in America, hands down. I understand that their other subs are good too, but, to be honest, I've never tried them. It's all about the cheesesteak for me.

Allow me to back up a step here. One of the very best and most important things about a sub from the White House is their choice of bread. This bread, known as Atlantic City bread, is virtually worshipped, by those in the know, throughout the civilized world, and it comes from the one and only Formica Brothers Bakery, just across the street from the White House.

The Formica Brothers Bakery, located in Ducktown, Atlantic City, NJ, has been an Atlantic City tradition since 1919, when Francesco Formica and his wife, Rosa first opened the doors. In 1928, Francesco moved the bakery to its current location (2310 Arctic Avenue, Atlantic City, NJ 08401). Today's Master Bakers work around the clock, and hold to the same traditions and recipes that were established over 91 years ago, while producing over 30,000 loaves of bread every day. In addition to their legendary Italian breads, Formica Brothers Bakery also has an extensive selection of Artisan breads, dinner rolls, cookies, cannoli, pastries, biscotti and Nonna Rosa’s famous Italian Tomato Pie.


In 2006, the original retail shop was transformed into a state of the art Wi-Fi enabled Café with outdoor seating (open daily 7am – 7pm). On Saturday nights (7pm-10pm) the café features live music. On December 4, 2008 Formica's opened a second retail bakery cafe in Kensington Square, Northfield New Jersey (open daily 7am - 7pm). The cafes offers daily lunch specials, featuring soups and sandwiches made on freshly baked breads.

http://www.formicabrosbakery.com/

When we opened the door to the bakery, we were immediately overwhelmed by the wonderful aroma of freshly baked bread. The boys raced toward the display cases that were overflowing with fresh, handmade Italian cookies, crisp biscotti, flaky pastries and mouth watering cannoli. At the counter, I was quickly greeted by a young lady, who's name, I regret to say, I did not take notice of. She was very helpful, friendly and polite, and, upon learning that we were from quite a distance away, this young lady volunteered to cut and wrap the bread for us, so that it would stay fresh until we got it home. She went above and beyond the call of duty for us and service like that rarely exists anymore. I bought as much bread as I could carry and after we had brought the bread back to the car, we continued on our way to the White House for dinner. Well, we tried to anyway, but first we had to make three trips back and forth to the car to get everything that I kept forgetting to take with us.

Anthony Basile opened the White House Sub Shop ( 2301 Arctic Avenue, Atlantic City, NJ) in 1946. His hard work and dedication to perfection is what has given the White House its legendary reputastion. There are many reasons to visit Atlantic City but a trip to the hallowed grounds of the White House Sub Shop should be your main one.

Arriving at the White House, I was astonished to see that not only was there no line, there were empty booths as well. Normally, the line extends out the door and well down the side of the building. The take out area was packed, as it usually is, no matter what time of day, or year. We quickly slid into our booth and we were ready to order, no menus were necessary; cheesesteaks all around, with three iced teas (all drinks are in cans at the White House, Pepsi products only). The waitress was there within moments of our sitting down and was gone within seconds as well, our order in hand. Now, a quick note about the wait staff; I think that all of these women have been there since day one and they range from typically South Jersey friendly to the curmudgeon of your dreams (or nightmares). However, they are all professional and tolerate no nonsense. Ask for a special order or something not on the menu, be prepared for a withering look that will make you wish you could just crawl under your table and disappear. While waiting for your food, and it's never a long wait, glance around and drink in the ambiance of the place. Framed, autographed photos of the greats and almost greats line the walls. Frank Sinatra was a regular patron, having subs flown to various locations around the world. You can see the sweaty old towel from his last performance on the wall as well. The Beatles also put in an appearance, look for the photos on the wall to the left behind the cash register. Oh, and I really hope you like the color orange, because it is everywhere; it's on the stools, the booths, the walls, even the aforementioned pictures are framed predominantly in, you guessed it, orange. Or, you can watch your sub being made before your eyes by a small army of premier sub making experts.

Once the food arrived, the boys stared wide eyed at their sandwiches. They had been told to expect the best cheesesteaks ever and they tore into them with gusto. Anthony, my oldest son, became mute (which is no small feat for an 8 year old) for the first time in his life, as he devoured his sub in minutes and clamored for more. Dominic, my 5 year old, was just the opposite, taking his time and savoring each and every bite. When I asked the boys how everything was after their first bite, Anthony mumbled something unintelligible while trying to shove the entire sub into his mouth and Dom yelled for the entire restaurant to hear, "This is the greatest day of my life!" Upon hearing this, our waitress came back over to check on us (which can be a rarity there), asking if everything was okay. You should have seen the smiles on their faces... and hers.

Finishing our meal, it was time for dessert. Unfortunately, the only dessert available at the White House is a Tastycake, so we decided to reserve dessert for custard on the boardwalk. I paid the check and we made our way past the long line of people waiting outside, and we were sated, but for a moment. I was happy, I had what I had made my pilgrimage to Atlantic City for, but I was saddened as well; saddened because I knew that it would be many months until I could enjoy this pefection again. If you find yourself anywhere near Atlantic City, do yourself a favor and heed my advice and treat your belly to a sub at the White House.

I'm not much of a mushroom guy, but my wife loves them.

The White House Special is a cornucopia of cold cuts; huge portions of Genoa salami, ham, capicola, and provolone cheese, all tightly packed inside the loaf, lightly brushed with olive oil, and adorned with just the right amount of lettuce and bits of sweet pepper.

Hungry yet?

Anthony was a vegetarian until he tried his first cheesesteak. He finished the whole thing.

One bite and he says, "This is the greatest day of my life!" You just can't get a better endorsement than that.

I realize that this isn't my normal type of post, but I am trying to highlight various types of writing and this is the first time I've ever done any type of review, for anything. Leave me a comment and let me know what you think.

I do have a very special post coming; a great story about a very spooky night. I'll try to have it up as soon as I can, but please be patient, I want it to be perfect. Take care and thanks for stopping by.

Well, that might be a few more days now. I have a new writing assignment due as well as a speech, but I should be able to post one of those.

The View From Here

Locked away in my solitude, the illusion of isolation is complete. And it is here, at the boundary of earth and sky, that I look out upon the forest and beyond, to where the hills and mountains climb endlessly upward, these great granite steps that lead to the very edge of Heaven.

Winter's bleak tableau, seen through this dirty glass, the snow a virginal white, a funeral veil, to cover the many sins and stains of man; the dense thickets of maple and pine lie dormant in the death grip of their slumber. My eyes drink in the grand spectacle of night; the stars line the edge of the world and burn so fiercely bright; scattered diamonds strewn by the hand of a god.

The songs of my youth tug at the strings of memory; a ghost, a wisp, these tendrils fade much too soon, only to return and I find myself flung headlong into the vast kaleidoscope of days remembered, frozen moments recalled. Images flash by, marching down the years, all that the heart is willing to reveal and the many dark secrets it still keeps. All that once was, all that was lost, and all that remains; ashes and shadows.

The city was vibrant then, it lived and it breathed, undulating with the flow of people. The mind's eye takes in the vast panorama of the beach and the ocean beyond, partially obscured by the roofs of the shops and arcades that once lined the boardwalk. Laughing gulls drift lazily overhead like so many summer clouds, their cries a lonely chorus of ephemeral notes. Blink and it's gone forever.

I remember too, another view of the world from the small, cramped apartment that my mother loved so much; her small comfort in those final days. Stars are seldom seen here, drowned as they are by the wash of garish neon signs and the mist that storms ashore with the coming of night. Memories smolder, yet it's the heart that always burns. Oh, but for one last glimpse of that infinite sea. All that remains... All that remains is naught but a dream; ashes and shadows; the pain and the loss of that last vestige of youth.

It's funny, those little things that you take for granted and then find so hard to live without, once they're gone, but that's just the view from here.

None of the pictures in this post are mine.

Atlantic City boardwalk, mid 80's

Steeplechase Pier

The old Steel Pier and the Planter's Peanut Shop

1970's Atlantic City

Fond Memories...

As always, comments are welcomed and appreciated.

Thanks for stopping by.

I thought this song would go perfectly with this post