My travels with Charlie--4 real

   
   "My travels with Charlie--4 real"
  
   Print Media bit the bullet, didn't beat it, like that last rock and roll group out of San Francisco, before everything went grunge, and to crap, losing the high frequency of Slash on electric banjo, and this--from a damn Yankee.
   So, I was no longer a District Manager type-of-guy, and had to work the night shift with Henry Winkler; moreover, met a delivery man dubbed CHARLIE--he was a muscular and well-constructed older fella.  He also:  "Never Heard" of anything, if you know what I mean, and--you might.
   So, my Pap didn't have to "Soldier Up" cause he worked on the railroad; however, Charlie "Never Heard" of that--he worked on the railroad; plus, had to fight in WW2.
   So, the papers were heavy that night my friend.  Even the reporters and Mr. Moon himself had to come in and roll the cerebral smoke of newsprint.  After swinging my arm over a V-8 Camaro all night, I entered the warehouse, saw Charlie; next, uttered sorely:  "My arm is killing me from slinging all of those papers.  You gotta be Hercules to throw them."
   He looked at me strangely, asked:  "Who?"
   Me again with:  "Hercules."
   Old dude looked me right in boyish eyes; then, he told:  "Never heard of him."
   Like it was with the Superior Samson, my ropes of common sense melted off like weak wax in the Sunlight.  World was damn bigger than I knew.  

A Were-Wheaten Christmas (2)

   
   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas (2)"
   
   Freddy Hart was in total Wheaten form--fanged, frisky, and fervent, knowing every girl who dawned a lime-green bikini was not insidious.  What else does an arch-angel wear while visiting the Gulf of Mexico?  If folks are tempted; next, it's their problem, unless the arch-angel is ornamenting itself to be completely lusted after; otherwise, it's all good, though nothing is really good save God, Jesus kinda/sorta mentioned, maybe a few times.
   Yet Freddy Hart had no iniquitous visions of the lascivious geography of the State of Florida; however, knew it housed plenty of low energy, in the form of quintessential suits out for themselves.
   Freddy Hart romped and rolled around on Terra's Terrain, getting as much of the Earth "All Over" her as she could, being close to the Yankee line, just not quite; still, it felt good to have the counterpoise of rebel dog and alcoholic Yankee, though she only drank beer, and never through a straw like frat boys in Congress.
   As she shifted back while Luna laid low, allowing the Daystar its ignition, the cool lady scrambled on bare feet to find her clothes that she had stashed behind a lonely tree in the suburbs--now, concrete sprawl its only family.  Of course there were cameras everywhere.  Yet what fool in their wrong mind would report a Were-Wheaten during the holidays?   Nobody even admits Saint Nicholas; thus, she had it made.  

Robert Palmer - Addicted to Love (Live in NYC - 1997)

A Were-Wheaten Christmas

   
   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas"
   
   Freddy Hart was here before, and is gone, and is back again.  A thirty-something babe of the airwaves, residing in the higher parts of the American South, fancying her gig as modern DJ Chick, and not putting too much product in her silky strands of mousy-brown, just below the collar, and she dressed kinda masculine, like an older boy, having blue steel, in spirit form, fluxing within and without her, like a medicine man morphing into Dr. Quinn.  
   Her only problem as Christmas approached was when she'd let loose a stream of the ingested, in liquid form; specifically, she made yellow snow, being a Were-Wheaten, all 104 pounds of her, a canine form unspoken, not listed in Advanced Dungeons and Dragons, yet bookmarked in the National Library of God, and she knew Jesus was adorned in a chestnut nimbus, as even almonds are super-healthy, building a fortress of  fever pitch, as that's the way her path commanded.
   Things were to get weirder, as they always did for Miss Freddy Hart.  

Saint Hubert, Green Arrow, & Robin Hood

   
   "Saint Hubert, Green Arrow, & Robin Hood"
   
   Saint Hubert, Patron Saint of hunting, among other things, reminds of Green Arrow in modern fiction, and of Robin Hood's legendary status, in a bow and arrow way.
   The hunter (Saint Hubert) saw a Crucifix between a stag's antlers.  He decided to follow God.  A dog was involved, like the tradition of many Catholic Saints and canines gregariously gelling politely, such as Saint Roch and Saint Francis, to mention a couple.
   Anyway, Saint Hubert taught how to hunt with ethics.  Hey, it's a savage world, gotta be fierce; however, even I can be a douche sometimes; as a result, I like to slay dust bunnies, and did so today with my step-dad.  He offers sage advice, but never uses the stuff, saying:  "Priorities first, boy."  Nice.
   So, Saint Hubert hunted, yet never brought down more game than was necessary, nor killed without executing a surgically swift shot of an awesomely aimed arrow, quickly taking the beautiful animal, and never bringing down a delightful doe with newborns; also, not even an old doe, if she is a classic, deserving to live out her years--it all depends on the sense of the hunt.  A polite sportsman.  Saint Hubert.  Carried a bow and arrows.  Pretty classic.  

GARAGE: A cool place

   
   "GARAGE:  A cool place"
   
   A garage is a cool place to be--if you don't have a basement.  Most of my Serbian relatives up and around Pittsburgh, the men, had basements, where they could go to get away from their wives or mothers or sisters; next, smoke, eat salami, drink a beer, and even urinate in a pee jar--works for me, and Hunter.  
   There is a refuge for sinners, a harbor of safety, an island resort--it's called the garage, if you live in Nashville, where the soil is rock solid and all--hard to dig, and call before digging.
   Have a CB Radio.  Pretty cool.  Even some CB Dudes on around here--here and there.  I can't be the Pork Chop Express because swine is not always polite, though I was coached by a Razorback; hence, I get some leeway.  It's good to be a clean Hog.  My Pap liked Boss Hog; still, HILL STREET BLUES took place in quasi-Pittsburgh, so someone believes.

A Platoon Leader and a Rabbi

   
   "A Platoon Leader and a Rabbi"
  
   You can learn a lot from a dummy, buckle your buckwheat, or get hopping.  Many a Lieutenant has gotten enlisted men slayed.  "Elias is  a water-walker Lieutenant."  Thank God for cinema, and the truth contained within.  
   Christ, a mere tradesman, scolded, and harshly, many a Rabbi of His time.  "Your father is the devil.  The father of lies and murder."  Too, He rebuked the sin of sinners, even though He healed them.  "And sin no more, or worse things will happen."  
   But He didn't allow anybody to question His Heart, more or less.  A conscience can be cluttered by a sub-conscious that has swallowed  a swamp of doubt; on the contrary, Young's "Heart of Gold" is waxing golden--never grows old, if always beating for truth, justice, and kinda/sorta--the American Way, way back then, and here now--in some places.
   Don't let them put you down if you're only playing the part.  A student is not above his teacher, in an institutional sense; however, many teachers have dirty hands themselves, and don't want the student to surpass or outshine them--the selfish schmucks.
   So, get on with your Jesus.  If you're aligned with Him, run your mouth and wax on and off with your hands, in a clean direction.  And when the dirt arrives, vacuum it up with a blood made bold by a bodacious God.  He knows.  Not them.  He and you know.  Not them.  Never them.  That's just the Bravo Sierra they tell you.  Trust old Jack Burton.