Thursday, August 27, 2015
I remember when my mother died, peacefully, at home.
I called the police, the fire department, the funeral home.
I called some family and some of moms friends.
I guess I kept it together pretty well for all those calls.
It was when I called work, and my good friend and workmate answered the phone that I lost it.
I can’t imagine what it must be like for these folks at WDBJ in Virginia coming in to work this morning.
Prayers and blessings to them.
Posted by bulletholes at 1:43 PM
Thursday, August 20, 2015
So I came skidding up right behind her in line, and I froze like a stone. She was wearing that backless turquoise number layered with a sheer Ann Klein T underneath, which allowed me to see the outline of her lacy little pink bra. It’s a great gimmick, but the thing is…
The 3" long tag was hanging out the back of the turquoise top!
I froze like a stone.
What to do?
Should I just step up and say ‘Let me help you with this, baby” and tuck the tag back into her shirt?
Or should I just let it pass?
Which do you think I did?
Posted by Bulletholes at 7:04 PM
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Posted by bulletholes at 10:01 AM
Thursday, August 13, 2015
I’m white, decidedly non-religious, but recognize the guaranteed right of any religion to build a church, temple synagogue or mosque anywhere they like, will pay extra to live in a clean modern and compassionate society, and a huge premium to live in a country with the most modern kick ass military possible. I believe in the brotherhood of man, but recognize, as my Aunt Glesnal would say, “there is a lot of meanness in the world”.
Posted by bulletholes at 2:32 PM
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
"..., leave the statistics stuff alone unless you're
comfortable with uncertainty. I'm just a hack, but I'm already drowning in a
sea of reserved judgments. You see, a hypothesis test can only have four
results. You can say:
Posted by bulletholes at 2:08 PM
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
In the park the daffodils came up
and in the parking lot, the new car models were on parade.
Sometimes I think that nothing really changes—
The young girls show the latest crop of tummies,
and the new president proves that he's a dummy.
But remember the tennis match we watched that year?
Right before our eyes
some tough little European blonde
pitted against that big black girl from Alabama,
cornrowed hair and Zulu bangles on her arms,
some outrageous name like Vondella Aphrodite—
We were just walking past the lounge
and got sucked in by the screen above the bar,
and pretty soon
we started to care about who won,
putting ourselves into each whacked return
as the volleys went back and forth and back
like some contest between
the old world and the new,
and you loved her complicated hair
and her to-hell-with-everybody stare,
I couldn't help wanting
the white girl to come out on top,
because she was one of my kind, my tribe,
with her pale eyes and thin lips
and because the black girl was so big
and so black,
hitting the ball like she was driving the Emancipation Proclamation
down Abraham Lincoln's throat,
like she wasn't asking anyone's permission.
There are moments when history
passes you so close
you can smell its breath,
you can reach your hand out
and touch it on its flank,
and I don't watch all that much Masterpiece Theatre,
but I could feel the end of an era there
in front of those bleachers full of people
in their Sunday tennis-watching clothes
as that black girl wore down her opponent
then kicked her ass good
then thumped her once more for good measure
and stood up on the red clay court
holding her racket over her head like a guitar.
And the little pink judge
had to climb up on a box
to put the ribbon on her neck,
still managing to smile into the camera flash,
even though everything was changing
and in fact, everything had already changed—
Poof, remember? It was the twentieth century almost gone,
we were there,
and when we went to put it back where it belonged,
it was past us
and we were changed."
Hoagland received a lot of criticism for this poem, and here is an extract form his response....
"You are confused...you are naive when it comes to the subject of American racism, naive not to believe that it permeates the psychic collective consciousness and unconsciousness of most Americans in ways that are mostly ugly.
The elements of that confusion are, as we all know, guilt, fear, resentment, and wariness. Its sources are historical and economic and institutionalized. We drank racism with our mother’s milk, and we re-learn it every day, as we weave our way through our landscapes of endless inequality....
Posted by bulletholes at 2:20 PM
Thursday, August 06, 2015
Tuesday, August 04, 2015
Dr. Martha was no-nonsense. Practiced medicine into her 80's. wore jogging shoes, and wind-sprinted from one patient to the next.
My ex went to see her.
Shila-“I think I’m allergic to lemons”
Dr. Martha- “Don’t eat lemons”
Shila- “Don’t you want to test me?”
Dr. Martha- “Do you want to get poked with 1000 needles?”
Posted by bulletholes at 1:57 PM
Friday, July 31, 2015
“What are doing bursting into my house?’ she demands
“JoJo has been fucking my wife here!” and he jostles the slut around by the hair a little, and waves the gun some more.
She stomps right up to him, grabs him by the arm, says “I told you JOJO aint here, now get the fuck out of my house” and tosses the guy out by his ear and closes the door behind her.
And someone asks her ‘Velvet, weren’t you afraid of his gun?”
Velvet gets this funny look on her face and says:
“GUN? WHAT GUN?”
Posted by Bulletholes at 10:48 PM
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
“A true war story is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behavior, nor restrain men from doing the things they have always done. If a story seems moral, do not believe it. If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made a victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude whatsoever. There is no virtue. As a first rule of thumb, therefore, you can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil. Listen to Rat Kiley. Cooze, he says. He does not say bitch. He certainly does not say woman, or girl. He says cooze. Then he spits and stares. He’s nineteen years old — it’s too much for him — so he looks at you with those big sad gentle killer eyes and says cooze, because his friend is dead, and because it’s so incredibly sad and true: she never wrote back.
You can tell a true war story if it embarrasses you. If you don’t care for obscenity, you don’t care for the truth; if you don’t care for the truth, watch how you vote. Send guys to war, they come home talking dirty. Listen to Rat: “Jesus Christ, man, I write this beautiful fuckin’ letter, I slave over it, and what happens? The dumb cooze never writes back.”
― Tim O'Brien,
Posted by bulletholes at 6:58 AM