Monday, December 29, 2014
I was 27 or so, and working with a real tough guy who was maybe three years older.
He wasn't a chef, he was just a guy trying to make it as cook. But he seemed like less of someone that should be a cook than anyone I ever knew
He had come from a broken home. Some steel town outside Pittsburgh. He said his daddy beat him senseless all the time. It was like he had walked right out of that album, right out of that title song, "Born In The USA".
He seemed like he had probably done some time; maybe he had, but what he talked about the most was how he’d left home at 16, joined the Army and ended up in Vietnam. He was entirely affected by it all; he wore an American flag headband and an Army jacket and we called him Rambo. He talked like Rambo, walked like Rambo, acted like Rambo and wouldn't you know it he looked just like Rambo too, except his nose was a lot more crooked. And he was a big, strong, fit SOB too with a look like he could creep up on you and stab you in the neck and you wouldn't even make a sound. He was the first guy I knew that had one of those little locks of hair growing longer from the back. I think they call it a "Rat-Tail".
His favorite song of course, was Born In The USA, he sang it always.
He seemed like a guy who might go off any minute, kill a cop and end up in the woods somewhere, and a whole army wouldn't be able to shake him out of there. But I found favor with him somehow, maybe because we’d be preppin’ in the kitchen, and I’d get the song started by banging a pot with a spoon keeping time, then "Born down in a deadmans town", and pretty soon the whole kitchen is singin’ it.
We’d belly bump, and he’d let me box him, like a Doberman might let a Terrier nip at him.
Fuckin’ Rambo. I think about him every time I hear a Springsteen song.
He had a girl, but I think he slugged her one night, and I don't remember if he got fired, or if he just stopped showing up. All I know for sure was he was a stick of dynamite with a short ass fuse. And like a wolf, no matter how much you fed him, he would always have one eye on your throat and another on the woods.
So when a buddy posted "Downbound Train", a song I'd never heard before that I can recollect, it made me think of Rambo. Fits him, it does, maybe even more than the obvious Born In The USA. And I got to say, upon hearing this song I got choked up thinking about Rambo, and how I cant even remember his right name, and hope to God he's doing OK.
I hope to God he's doing OK.
Posted by Bulletholes at 9:07 PM
Friday, December 26, 2014
Posted by bulletholes at 11:11 AM
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
Friday, December 19, 2014
Every year I go through the same exercise at Kohls. The cashier asks if I have a Kohl's Credit card.
"Would you like to apply for one?"
"Ma'am, there's no way they are going to give me one."
"We will give you 20% off just for applying"
Well, who can turn that down?
So every year I hold up the line to get my 20% off, the cost being the shame, humiliation and suffering I go through while everyone is watching.
I hear the guy two people down ask whats taking so long, and the woman behind him whisper "He's trying to get credit", then the computer spits out its answer, and the girl cocks her head and says "I'm sorry, here is a number you can call to find out why you were DENIED"
I don't need to call, I know damn well why I was denied, but HEY, I got my 20% right?
Well, let me tell you something sister.
This year is different.
I'm going down to Kohls and get my 20% AND their fricken' card because I'm getting approved for credit all over the place!
Posted by bulletholes at 12:52 PM
Thursday, December 18, 2014
He comes up with a new one every few years.
Tonight, on stage at the USC auditorium, he is barefoot, just to make his point.
And the island he moved to, now that he has nothing, having abandoned all the toils and troubles of the world?
I lost all respect right then.
Posted by bulletholes at 8:03 PM
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Some folks are under the impression that a store owner can just refuse service to anyone for any reason. That that is what America and the First Amendment is all about.
But that’s not true. What America is all about is exactly the opposite.
You have the right to purchase goods and services from anyone, anywhere, no matter who you are and the accident of your birth.
That was the purpose of the Civil Rights Amendment back in 1964.
That no one could be told where to sit on a bus, or which water fountain to drink from, which restroom to use.
That no man be denied buying lunch, having his car repaired, or lodging for he and his pregnant wife at a hotel, based on his skin color, or his religion, or lack of one.
There was a court case up in Oregon where a Biker was suing because he was refused service for being biker. But that’s not why he was being refused service. He was being refused service for being loud and obnoxious. That’s what the court ruled.
Lately, many states have expanded those rights to guarantee service regardless of race, creed or color to include Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender. It seems like the only people that are really against this are Christian. They tend to see this as an attack on their Religion.
I’ll go along with that when I hear about a Gay Florist refusing service to a Methodist.
The fact is....
ITS AGAINST THE LAW TO BE DENIED SERVICE FOR BEING A METHODIST!
They wonder aloud “Whatever happened to the right to refuse service”?
But they themselves have never been refused service.
I've never been refused service. Tell me how that works, because I might be a tad miffed if I went to a service station with a flat tire and was refused service because I was a woman, or black, or Muslim or was not a Christian, or FOR ANY REASON. Or because I was Gay.
There was a case in Colorado, where a Bakery denied service to a Gay couple who wanted a wedding cake from his shop. The Baker, a Christian of course, says it offends his religion to have to bake a cake for a Gay Wedding. I’ve got friends that agree, that think he has a right to refuse service on these grounds.
“Why can’t they just go somewhere else for a cake?” they ask, those who have never been denied service.
Those who have never been in a minority.
“You boys look gay to me”
“Yes we are”
“ I refuse to make a cake for you”
Well, me and my beloved are shattered. We really liked the big poo-poo’s cakes, and what started out as joyous occasion has turned into a bag over the head punch in the face. Yes, we will go get a cake somewhere else, but we will also file a complaint against the big poo-poo.
The good thing is the courts see it this way too. The court in Colorado ruled that anyone who denies service based on sexual orientation will be fined.
We are all, as Americans, guaranteed a right to service regardless of race creed or color, and in many states regardless of our sexual orientation.
The tide, I think, has turned.
It is sometimes argued that if a Christian cake baker is compelled to bake a gay wedding cake, what would prevent a black cake baker from having to make a cake for an Aryan Nation Wedding with Swastka's on it.
Well, the judge in this case ruled on that as well. Click here and see pages 8 and 9.
As much as I admire the outcome of these cases, I especially enjoy the logic and language employed in the rulings:
Posted by bulletholes at 1:02 PM
Monday, December 08, 2014
I said “It doesn't hurt. As long as I don’t get too carried away”
So I kinda eased up ya know, but I didn't say anything, or she’d have got all over me, and that would have been the end of that, if you know what I mean.
And so I showed him how I was up, with both arms locked like in the missionary position and I said “Well, I was watching TV, and I got up like this like I was going to do a push up, but I didn’t do a push up, I just kinda stayed in this position because it felt good”
And he looks at me and says “And that feels good?”
"It doesn’t hurt?”
“Well, you seem to be OK. Maybe it was just scar tissue”
I was pretty relieved.
Posted by bulletholes at 12:46 PM
Saturday, December 06, 2014
I don’t remember who it was that came to the house, could have been any one of us I reckon, but dad sat me down later to talk.
He liked to smoke his cigar when he talked all serious to me at the kitchen table. He would say three words
(“You are judged…”,
pause for effect, look at his cigar like it was a crystal ball, take puff and blow great clouds of smoke out, and as the smoke cleared, I would be looking him dead in the eye. He would say two more words
his eyes would follow the smoke coming off the stogie making its way to the ceiling. I couldn’t help but watch with him. Then, as punctuation, he would tap his cigar on the ashtray, and finally finish his thought
(“…company you keep”),
which happened to be some new buddy with bad posture, a slouchy hat, long hair and bloodshot eyes.
Posted by Bulletholes at 12:59 PM
Friday, December 05, 2014
Posted by bulletholes at 7:05 AM