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Frequency: Purple Passion--Mexico Petersen

  
   "Frequency:  Purple Passion--Mexico Petersen"
   
   Petersen adored the Purple Passion, spilling it on a sofa in the mid-80's.  My last Blog stunk, metaphorically.  Can't find an adjective thingamajig for ARITHMETIC--still, nope.
   If only a Boss 302, any year--were to materialize.  Holy Heaven, wouldn't even need anything but an automatic.  Rednecks used to tell me, in the day:  "Shit, that's an automatic--ain't shit."
   But grabbing a second in an auto-powered 8-cylinder is sophisticated redneck.  Monza--4-cylinder; however, armed with Holland's V-8 transmission--no shit, could scratch a third.
   STOP sign.  STOP, an acronym for:  Scratch Tires On Pavement.
   Boy--it was Arkansas.  What the hell else does an adolescent have?  And I say:  "Jesus drives a muscle car."  You know what I mean . . .

Werefox Vaquero--Fossil Fuel

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Fossil Fuel"
   
   Max and Junkyard were @ the local tavern, waiting for a brew princess to flare up some inflammation with the wicked wheat, which crafted further Swamp Thing paranoia--in a manner of speaking.  But them glades supported some high adventure--and what is man if not up for the sport of his terrain, however it be?
   Max inhaled the tavern's atmosphere, swiftly forgetting the dry crisp of an Arizona Spring.  He made sure to sit @ the back of the bar, eyes alive to the possibility of oncoming traffic aimed in his direction by curious hoodlums.  The tavern was so crusty, minus the barnacles, that the management didn't mind a canine inside.  
  As Max watched the local sports on the tube, he reflected upon STAR WARS, just to entertain his mind, though Batman did arithmetic-like exercises upon his mental playground for peace.  Anyway, Max displayed to himself some dialogue from the 1977 movie.
   Chewie grunts a grievance.  Han with:  "You said it Chewie.  Were did you dig up that old fossil?"  Luke with:  "Ben is a great man."  Han retorts:  "Yeah, great at getting us in trouble."
   The moment passed, yet it would return in the future.  Next, Junkyard yawned and Max sipped his beer, patiently.  

Werefox Vaquero--Tolstoy's Gospel?

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Tolstoy's Gospel?"
   
   Ela was aboard the bouncy ride of a candy wagon, helping haul the grub and goodies to the other cowboys.  As the wagon wheels rotated, underneath the Sun's brilliant gift to all, she pondered herself, as a cowgirl; plus, an investigative mind, remembering:  Blake, Jefferson, Tolstoy--all forged Gospels, in a sense, Tolstoy reflecting upon "resist not evil" and all, and her knowing G. Gordon Liddy said God is beyond our comprehension, yet Plotinus with simplicity; regardless, like a NASCAR student--drive right on through Ricky Bobby; specifically:  SHAKE AND BAKE, BABY.  
   Ela grabbed her own portion, as only she could, thought about her foxy lady inside and all the fabulous friends a type of Grandfather had gifted her with, knowing humility is not being somebody's bitch, for a bitch will turn in the end, possibly putting glass in your food, or however it goes.
   She would retain the kit fox and camouflage, yet as the animal became more animated among the Arizona strip malls, not uncommon to see them scrambling around in the parking lot, just little dogs, making a living as do we all, judged by their size, never their heart, like Samson's mighty fist on a superhero leap-down in shocking fashion, to align the Earth with a proper and victorious vibration; moreover, Ela fought off a smile, not proud, but adoring her chipped front tooth, which somehow brought a crooked Han Solo kinda smuggler's grin to the countenance of Max, and how she adored him, never wanting to wash a lizard's feet, yet soak a bird in the clean of aqua, chat with the messenger, and watch it fly off, programmed to do its seemingly angelic job, as if innately and always knowing--it's a darn cool bird.  

American Awakening

   
   "American Awakening"
   
   It's like men can be men again, or a Commander in Chief is showing us--it's okay to be men, and he's doing it rather bluntly--doesn't he have to?
   My Pap up in Pittsburgh drove coal trucks, worked in factories, and was the toughest man I ever met.  I was never ashamed of him--why the hell would I be?  A 4th grade education, yet fluent in the Slavic languages, and was UP on Tesla way back before the modern re-discovery of the Serbian genius.  
   I ran papers; next, warehouse drop leader; then, more elevation; furthermore, management--in charge of an entire county.  Still, I felt ashamed--many people saying it was a nothing job; however, one lady in the family told me to never be ashamed of a job, knowing I was pretty much allergic to people and couldn't crank out a bowel evacuation amid the static of society.  I'd go home at night and read books by Voltaire, Fyodor himself, Joyce, Proust--and then when I would mention these men in front of the so-called educated--nobody knew what I was talking about, looking at me like I was a lunatic because I wasn't down with the TWILIGHT nonsense or whatever--I prefer the classic vampire/werewolf--if I wend my way weird.  But as one of Voltaire's characters mentioned in a novella:  "To hell with the classics.  They don't make me happy."  So now, I just read STAR WARS books, and I feel stupid about it.  Oh well, make yourselves like children the Messiah says.  Always liked Han and Chewie, and I saw the original cinematic presentation back in the day, so many times so, that I was driving my mother crazy about it.  Every weekend I pleaded to see it again and again.
   "Obi-Wan?  Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long time, a long time."  

Werefox Vaquero--Poodle-ishish

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Poodle--ishish"
  
   Max slowly sauntered into the dog breeder's mobile home.  Was invited.  Had strawberry chaw under the lip.  Had formed his own pocket, fella.  The dog breeder was your quintessential Bubba Cheese fixture--what you might dub an Uncle Jesse type.  In front of him, was a golden poodle.  Dog breeder said his name (dog breeder's name mind ya) was Country.  
  
MAX
Is that the dog?

COUNTRY
Boy, you can't see, hum?  Damn straight!  Looky here boy--ya got your miniature poodle, your standard poodle; next, your toy poodle.  Canis lupus familiaris, ya here.  Germans say they're from France, and hell--works for me, boy.  Now, you gonna purchase this sum bitch?

MAX
Of course.  The poodle approached Max, sniffed him, rolled over; then, stood up, wagged his tail, and showed an affectionate posture.  Max gave the elegant soul a swift pet--it was loyalty at first sight.  Yeah, I'll take the pooch.  I haven't been greeted like this, well--ever.  Too, this is a metaphorical pleasure to John Steinbeck venturing with Charlie.   
  
   Junkyard knew that was his name.  Wagging his tail as he and Max strutted out, not like dirty disco, but with swift elegance.  Friends can be made, if you don't care who gets the credit.  

Big Trouble in Little China Toast