Stories Tall

I love weaving a good story over drinks or during a sunrise, through a blog, or in bed. My stories are not exaggerated truths. Neither are they peppered with lies. My life is exaggerated and dishonestly led.

I don't know that it means anything to lead an exaggerated and often embarrassing life, a life that does not seem to be mellowing as I enter middle age. Maybe it means that this is who I am, and this is how I will always be.

I've spent enough time trying to hide my odd nature, my strange mind.

The tale weaving begins now.

The Charge of the Light Brigade

Reveille occurred at Oh-three-hundred hours prompted by a full bladder. It was an unwelcome wake-up call, as the troops came close to mutiny the previous evening.

"Look, pretty kitties! I have a surprise for you," I announced while shaking the heart-shaped toy. They approached cautiously. "Is this an enemy trick? She feeds us and releases us from confinement on occasion, but we are Troop Kitteh, and we do not fall for hoomin wile."

Lily, the bravest of the bunch, came closer, sniffed, rubbed her face on it, and turned away. Boop sniffed it, adopted a bored visage, and went about other important business like licking his tukas. But Princess, surely Princess who loves all things jingly, would be enticed. 

She hid behind some boxes.

Saddened that my present was rejected with the particular apathy only felines can muster (if they feel like mustering), I realized that I skimped on the catnip. I retrieved my knitting materials and began to create something that might be pleasing to human and cat alike.

As I pulled the catnip from my knitting basket, the troops double-timed it back into The Room of Confinement and stared at the container of catnip. I stared at them, amazed by and wary of their moxie. And then, I caved, fearful of the damage they are capable of inflicting on both animal and inanimate objects.

I sprinkled catnip here. I sprinkled catnip there, and yet their appetite for catnip did not diminish but grew exponentially. They meowed. They swatted me with claws retracted, reminding me that should they choose, they could claw up my face. They have tasted blood.

Catnip they wanted; catnip they received. They commandeered my bed and slept the sleep of victors.

I quietly knitted another heart, determined to get it right this time.

I'd Like

to be
seen
as more than
a
piece
of meat.
But then
I worry
that I will become
invisible

I Am a Broken Person

The fractures can't be hidden 
Once you needed x-ray vision

to see

Now they glow
radioactive
in the dark
in the light.

Fix me?

Smokin' Joe Frazier Banned Me from His Gym and Later Invited Me to a BBQ

I was sad to read that Joe Frazier died and that at the time of his death, he was living over his gym. The house I visited was modest by champ standards, and the apartment over the gym was pretty gross -- some of his boxers stayed there.

Why was I banned? Because Joe was a little confused. 

A housemate of mine from Altoona was recruited by Joe. Great kid -- Kevin Fasick. Anyway, we were about the same age, maybe Kevin was a little younger, and he used to invite me to the gym. One day I finally went, and, well, I was nineteen, okay?

Lots of people kind of milled around and hung out and worked out, and it was something to do instead of going to class. Joe thought I liked his nephew or cousin or something -- there were a ton of guys he called kin who weren't. I *think* Marcus isn't his son son, but is related and maybe was adopted or something. I'm not sure about that, but whatever.

Marcus was the main attraction, and Kevin was being trained, and I met this guy I did like (who lived over the gym), but the guy Joe thought I liked I actually didn't like.

Joe got tired of seeing me there, I guess, was afraid I'd make babies with his nephew who already had several and wasn't a boxer or really doing much of anything that I could gather, and maybe Joe was a little tipsy.

He started cussing me out, grabbed me by the arm and threw me out the door, and told me to never come back. 

When Joe Frazier gets in your face, even if he's wearing a suit vest, no shirt and drinking a wine cooler (really), you get the fuck out with the quickness and You. Don't. Go. Back. (Unless it's late and you sneak upstairs to see the guy you *do* like.)