A METAPHOR FOR SEX

"...I'd better not be too explicit. My night is careless
with itself, troublesome as a woman wearing no bra
in winter. I believe everything is a metaphor for sex...
Sometimes I play a game in which my primitive craft fires
upon an alien ship whose intention is the destruction
of the earth. Other times I fall in love with a word
like somberness. Or moonlight juicing naked branches.
All species have a notion of emptiness, and yet
the flowers don't quit opening…
Ask a glass of water why it pities
the rain. Ask the lunatic yard dog why it tolerates the leash.
Brothers and sisters, when you spend your nights
out on a limb, there's a chance you'll fall in your sleep."
- Terrance Hayes,
from "LIGHTHEAD'S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY"

ON MINIMUM WAGE AND THE AMERICAN DREAM

I started out in food service and worked my way up. As I worked my way up, I worked with a lot of people that didn't want to be a chef, or a general manager. They just wanted to be a line cook, or a prep lady. They stayed very close to minimum wage; their increases came from doing a good job and longevity, not from following what some might call the "American Dream". Their American Dream was to come to work and do a good job and not be screwed. They wanted a clean place, out of the weather to work. They wanted to supplement the household income so their daughter could have a flute, or maybe got to college. They didn't want to get rich or be the boss, they just wanted to get a sqaure deal.
They were the salt of the earth and I admire them for it.

Back then my first job I made 1.65 an hour. No one was going to pretend I could have a place of my own, or that I earned a "living wage" @ 1.65. I think when I moved out of my parents house and in with a room mate I was making 2.25 an hour, and minimum wasnt 1.65, it was more like 1.95.
From what I understand, 1.65 is the equivalent of somewhere around 9.50 in today's money. All things being equal, that is where much of the inequality comes from.

I think I was making 2.50 an hour when I got my evaluation. I had worked there for a year, seen probably 25 cents in increases that year. They gave me a 15 cent raise. I told the manager that wasn’t going to keep me…that I thought I was worth more than that. He said “OK, fine, we will re-evaluate the next two weeks”.
The next day, the #1 cook in the kitchen quit. For the next two weeks I did my job and his. Worked a couple 80 hour weeks.
When I sat down with the manager after two weeks, I was grinning like a butchers dog.
"I think we were discussing how much I'm worth around here" I said
I’ll never forget the look on his face.
“Well, you have certainly done an outstanding job” he says.
When I left the table I was making 3.15 an hour.
Life was good.

Years later, during an interview for Chef’s position I was asked:
“What is more important? Your employee’s or the business?”
At the time it seemed a difficult question. I don’t exactly remember my answer, but I did get the job.
Over the years I have come to believe that there may have been several good answers but there was really only one wrong answer.
That the business is more important than my employees.
You might disagree.

Maybe if we had left minimum wage at 1.65 an hour, butter would still be $.55 a pound.

VETERANS DAY

My dad served in North Africa as a mechanic working on the B-26’s that provided air cover for Patton.

His duties also included recovering downed aircraft. They found a German ME-109 (Messerschmidt) that went down with a mechanical problem but was fairly intact. They borrowed whatever parts they needed from other Messerschmidt's they had recovered and managed to restore the thing to a flyable condition. In order to avoid unwanted attention from the AA gunners, they painted the plane bright orange. Everyone knew not to shoot at the bright orange ME-109 because that was our own boys having some fun in their free time. Well, the Krauts found out about this plane and one day a bright orange ME-109 flew in, cannons blazing and bombed their camp.

And that was the end of that, if you want to believe this tale of my fathers.

ROUGHING IT

After about our 6th camping trip the Ex-Mrs bulletholes asked for a tent she could stand up in. I’m like “What?” but went ahead and got one.

Then after a few trips she asked if we could get one that had a floor.
I’m like “What?” but went ahead and got one.
Then about 6 trips in the stand up tent with a floor she asked “Do you think we could get a cabin one time?” and I’m like “What?”, but we never did.
And now she’s my ex.

OUR FIRST TENT

MORE CANCER AWARENESS

Yesterday we talked about the latest cancer term: “Previvor”.
We are seeing the first generation of Previvors, people who find through genetic testing a high likelihood for a cancer.
Angelina Jolie may be the face to associate with that. Considered one of the most beautiful women in the world, Angelina discovered through genetic testing that she had an 80% chance of developing a breast cancer.
She had a double mastectomy before that could happen.
Previvor.

But genetic testing is not just for famous movie stars.

Joyce Walmer had lost her father and uncle to Thyroid cancer. She was diagnosed with it herself at 15.
There was a 50% chance that the gene would be passed down to one of her three children. The gene, MEN2A, guarantees you will develop thyroid cancer.
The results confirmed what Walmer had feared: Each of her children carried MEN2A, and would eventually develop thyroid cancer. So, their thyroids were removed.
http://host.madison.com/wsj/news/local/health_med_fit/surgery-before-sickness/article_58d844af-30f0-5278-89b1-605ff9b52bed.html

Clearly, genetics are going to be more and more important in the journey to save lives and mitigate cancers.
Testing is commonly covered by health insurance and public healthcare programs for people at high risk for having a mutation, and not covered for people at low risk. The purpose of limiting the testing to high-risk people is to increase the likelihood that the person will receive a meaningful, actionable result from the test, rather than identifying a variant of unknown significance.

DON'T GIVE ME NO LINES AND KEEP YOUR HANDS TO YOURSELF

BAD ASS MARKETING TIP OF THE DAY
Remember the Georgia Satellites and their big hit "Don't Give Me No Lines And Keep Your Hands To Yourself"??
They have a greatest Hits album. 
Guess how many songs are on it?
20! 
Twenty songs, all hits. 
What makes that even more impressive than that is that the Satellites managed to glean 20 hits off of only 3 original albums.

But wait!

Even more impressive than that is the fact that from those 3 original albums they managed to produce four (4) Greatest Hits albums!

Wow!

But the capper is that one of those greatest hits albums, the “Essential” Georgia Satellites, doesn’t even have “Keep Your Hands to Yourself” on it! 
And guess how much THAT one goes for?

60 bucks! 

For 60 bucks you get a greatest hits album that doesn’t even have, you know, a greatest hit on it! That is some slick-ass kind of marketing!

BREAST CANCER AWARENESS

What I learned at MD Anderson Cancer Awareness Seminar in Houston:
A person becomes a survivor at the time of diagnosis. Their healthy friends and family members are also survivors.
If you have Cancer, and you woke up this morning, you are a survivor.
One in 30 people are either currently undergoing treatment for cancer or have done so in the past.

And there is a new term floating about; the Previvor.
This is the first generation in human history who, armed with information about a predisposition to a cancer after opting into DNA testing, can make informed choices prior to cancer diagnosis. The typical previvor has tested positive for a BRCA mutation and learned that she is at high risk for developing breast cancer and ovarian cancer, and is attempting to manage that risk through a combination of increased surveillance through mammograms, breast MRIs, pelvic ultrasounds, oophorectomy,bilateral mastectomy, and other medical procedures.

PRESBYTERIANS

"You know what frightens me Commander?"
"Whats that, Jim?"
"Presbyterians. Presbyterians scare the bejesus out of me"

SUPREMACY

"James Madison’s Constitution contains the Supremacy Clause (federal law “shall be the supreme law of the land,” regardless of state laws “to the contrary”) because he knew that state legislatures, even more than the national legislature of an “extensive” republic, were susceptible to capture by self-seeking factions."
George Will

for future reference

MASCARA

I used mascara when I was in the 8th grade, but I didn't use it on my eyelashes.

“TIME FLIES WHEN YOURE ALIVE”

From a true story, where a Breast Cancer survivor takes a phone call…

“Hello... I’m sorry but he’s not here... Yes, it is... Oh, I’m afraid I don’t need any light bulbs right now... Five Years? That’s quite a light bulb. Tell me this isn’t a scam, is it? If it is, please hang up... Disabled Vets, eh. Five year guarantee, my God, my oldest boy will be twelve. Twelve, eight and five. What was your name again?... Do you have children, Mr. Shaw?... Oh, my. You’ll have to sell a lot of light bulbs won’t you? Children have such a strange attitude toward light, don’t you think? Have you ever noticed how they can read after the sun fades? And the lights aren’t on? But then again, children have their own inner light, don’t they? I love my children, Mr. Shaw.”

“Tell me, what’s the price of this extraordinary light bulb?... That’s a rather expensive light bulb, isn’t it?... I know, five years, but what if it burns out in four, four and a half, where will I find you?... Won’t burn out, eh? You must have some remarkable scientists down there. They don’t happen to have anything on the old drawing board for cancer do they, just kidding, Mr. Shaw. Just an old disabled vet’s joke.”

“Tell you what, you can put me down for a light bulb, okay?... I have to buy six? That’s thirty years. My my. Alright, Mr. Shaw, put me down for thirty years.”

From Paul Linke's story of his wife Francesca, lost to Breast Cancer a few days later.

AN INSPIRATION

So, let me get this straight.
My nephew Dave gets diagnosed a month ago, starts chemo and gets sick like a big dog, but manages to run a 5k one week into the therapy. Then today, while he is in the middle of a 25K (still doing chemo), he takes the time to stop and take a selfie with an 8 foot Arkansas Blacksnake, and still not only completes the marathon, but completes it with two hours left to spare.
Way to go Dave!
No matter what you are doing, whether its cooking salt dome turkeys, firing hockey pucks into trash cans off the back porch using a sheet of plexi-glass to simulate ice, building a guitar, mowing grass and getting poison ivy, collecting drums, sorting bolts, running the Cassotot in a kayak, or taking catfish off trot lines till your hands bleed; no matter what your latest endeavor might be, you are fun---and amazing-- to watch.

Dave is a total inspiration.
Keep him in your thoughts and prayers, OK?

IT'S MATING SEASON

A small zoo in Arkansas had a very rare species of gorilla. Within a few weeks the gorilla, a female, became very difficult to handle.   Upon examination, the veterinarian determined the problem. The gorilla was in season. To make matters worse, there was no male gorilla available.

Thinking about their problem, the Zoo Keeper thought of Bobby Lee Walton, a redneck part-time worker responsible for cleaning the animal cages. Bobby Lee, like most rednecks, had little sense but possessed ample ability to satisfy a female of any species.

The Zoo Keeper thought they might have a solution. Bobby Lee was approached with a proposition. Would he be willing to mate with the gorilla for $500.00?

Bobby Lee showed some interest, but said he would have to think the matter over carefully. The following day, he announced that he would accept their offer, but only under four conditions.

1. "First", Bobby Lee said, "I ain't gonna kiss her on the lips." The Keeper quickly agreed to this condition.

2. "Second", he said, "You can't never tell no one about this." The Keeper again readily agreed to this condition.

3. "Third", Bobby Lee said, "I want all the childrun raised Southern Baptist." Once again it was agreed.

4. And last of all, Bobby Lee stated "You gotta give me another week to come up with the $500.00." 

GOD BLESS AUNT LERA

You know the Lord is with someone when they seem to be dying of the same heart attack for 30 years.
I lost track of how many bypasses she had.
Lera had a bad ticker, but a good heart. 

She was the last of the 4 Williams sisters from Alto Texas, which included my mother. 

Before she died on September 12, 2011, she still loved to crappie fish and play bridge. She was a Certified Bridge Life Master, which I believe is the equivalent of being a Five-Star General.
When I was a kid and we would go to Lera's, there was always that laugh. A throw your head back raucous laugh. I guess all 4 sisters had that laugh, but Lera's was the prettiest.
And there was her Texas Sheath Cake, and Buttermilk pie.
Funny, I was a chef for 25 years, but I'm not sure Lera would have believed that I could cook my way out of a wet paper bag.

That might have something to do with my storied past with Lera.

A few months before she died I had talked to her on the phone. I told her I had finally quit doing drugs, that I had 2 years of being clean and sober.
"We tried to tell you!" Lera said.
Lera. She was a kind woman, in a Joyce Meyer kind of way.
She suffereed no fools; pulled no punches.


I can remember when I was 14 I had had a key made for her car after my parents had started watching the mileage on theirs rather closely, and on Saturday nights during the summer of 1971 I would slide noiselessly out the back door and walk to Lera's car, then meet up with my other 14 year old pals in the middle of the night, and we would joy ride and smoke Swisher Sweets and I knew of a certain window that if you knocked on it at 2 a.m. a couple 14 year old chicks would come crawling out, and its off to Devils Backbone to make out. When finally I was caught (by the Southlake Police) and had to give the key back to Lera and try to explain what the heck I was doing with a key for her car, I don't remember anything except her bright and burning blue eyes and pursed lips, as she said without much amusement:
"What in the world were you thinking?"
It was the eyes that got me, eyes that blazed and sparkled with kindness, and could have melted steel.

Handyman Bulletholes Part Two

Dear Handyman Bulletholes;
I had to take my car to the shop with transmission problems. They said they would replace my transmission for $1500.
I told them that I had heard my transmission was hard to find and expensive to rebuild.
“We got lucky and found one” the man said. So I said yes, please fix my transmission for 1500 dollars.
Well, they ran into some trouble and it cost them a lot more than 1500 to fix my transmission.
It took them 10 days to fix it. During that time they even loaned me a car to use. So when I went to pick my car up I was worried about how much they were going to charge me.
When I got there, they handed me two bills.
One was for 1500 dollars.
Another was for 1700 dollars.
The man told me that 2500 was what he should have charged me for the transmission, but he did not expect me to pay that at all.
The one for 1700 dollars would let him almost break even on the deal, but he would still be losing money.
And the one for 1500 dollars was all I owed him, because he intended to stand good on the quote he gave me.
I feel just terrible. What should I do?

Stranded in Euless



Dear Stranded;
This reminds me of back when I was working 5 jobs.
I was selling insurance over the phone.
I was selling and installing landscaping.
I was cooking on Wednesday nights for First Methodist Church of Hurst, and other special occasions that came up.
And I had a paper route, throwing the Dallas Morning News at the crack of dawn.
But I also sold roofs. I would go door to door, doing estimates on damaged roofs and hopefully they would use my company and I would get a commission.
There was man I tried to sell to. I went by several times, took him presents, sent a Christmas card, everything I knew to do.

Finally one day he called me. He said he had just had his house painted and was ready to do his roof.

On one condition.

It seems the painters had forgotten to paint the top of his second floor chimney. If I could get that painted for him for a modest price, then he would sign a contract for us to do his roof!
Finally! Persistence paid off, and I agreed to paint the top of his chimney for 40 dollars.

How hard could it be?

Well, let me tell you. I got up there on a 60 foot extension ladder, in a 30 mile an hour wind, with a paint can in one hand and a brush in the other and spent 6 terrifying hours swinging back and forth up there with no parachute, life and limb at risk, and did I mention I am TERRIFIED of heights? Somehow I did it.
I went and knocked on the door, and he came out and said “Looks good” and grabbed his checkbook. Just before he started to fill the check out, I said:
“You know sir, I told you 40 dollars and I intend to stick to it, but that job was worth a helluva lot more than 40 bucks”
He said “Yes Bullets, I know it was and I sure do appreciate it.”
He tore the check out of the book, handed it to me and smiled very kindly.

I waited until I got to the car to take a look.
There it was.
40 bucks.

It sounds like you have a very honest mechanic. I'd keep him.

Handyman Bulletholes

Dear Handyman Bulletholes is an irregularly occurring topic here at Bulletholes FB page.
Here is Part One

BACK IN MY USING DAYS

I went an signed a lease at an apartment one afternoon. I was going to move in the next day. But it took 4 hours to get out of the parking lot because while I was there they shut down a meth lab.

DEA, Fire Department HAZMAT, everywhere.
I thought, Oh man, I’m going to love it here.
I think at one point there had been three in operation while I lived there.
That’s the place where the manager called me in one day and said they were shutting all the drug lab people down.
She wanted to make sure I wasn’t involved because she liked me.
“Oh, no ma’am. I stay clear of those folks. When I want some dope, I go all the way across town to get it. I don’t want no one to know where I got it, or that I have it once I get home.”
And I laughed, because I said it like it was a joke, and she laughed too.
But the thing is...it was the truth.

BEFORE SHE LEAVES FOREVER

I had Spring Rolls, and Yum Nua, 

a Thai Beef salad last night.

We walked out to the cars

Stood there a moment

Then it was time for goodbye

I looked in her face

And then it hit me

How far away Seattle was

How long it would take to walk there

How long it would take
If I had wings
For me to

Fly there

Then I saw her eyes

That’s when it really hit me

And I did the only thing I knew to do

Which was to bury my face in her neck

And cry and

Cry and cry

Cry, cry cry

And look back up

Bury my face in her neck and cry

Look back up

Bury my face in her neck and cry

Look back up

Bury my face in her neck and cry

Look back up

Bury my face in her neck and cry

Then finally after 20 times and I looked back up

And I laughed

“I’ve done this before, haven’t I?”

“Yes daddy”

“When?”

“When I went to college and

"When I got married and

When I went to Denver”

I said “Oh yeah” and I

Buried my face in her neck and cried.

I had had the Spring Rolls, and the

Yum Nua, a Thai Beef salad last night.

She said they might go to
Joe T’s tonight, for Mexican

Before she leaves forever in the morning.
I'll probably have the fajitas.

DON'T STOP BELIEVING

We have a real divide going within my Senior Class of 1975.

It seems that our class song is “Forever Young”, from Dylans 1974 release, "Planet Waves". We voted on it in 1975.

Yet somehow more than half of the class has adopted the Rod Stewart version. They are convinced, as only true Tea Party Republicans can be, that our class song "Forever Young" is written and sung by Rod Stewart.
Stewart DID did do a song called "Forever Young" but  it did not come out until 1988.
We graduated in 1975.
So, either we are experiencing some kind of time travel, or some form of revisionist history, or else my entire class sucked at math even worse than I did.

It doesnt add up, but they insist the Stewart version is OUR version.
I have offered $100 cash and a steak dinner to anyone that can produce a Pre-1976 Rod Stewart version of the song. That no one can has not deterred their belief at all.

I've heard a rumor that at the 30th Reunion, someone put on the Dylan version of Forever Young, and halfway through, someone else yanked it. How nuts is THAT?

The debate gets quite heated sometimes, and someone from the Stewart camp invariably will claim that Stewart and Dylan share the royalties for "Forever Young".
Yes, they share the royalties for Stewart's largely plagiarized 1988 version. The lyrics are almost identical, and Stewart claims he does not know how he subliminally managed to rewrite Dylans original with only a few minor changes, but to his credit his lawyers contacted Dylan and offered half credit and royalties for the Stewart version. 
Stewart DOES NOT get partial credit or royalties for Dylans 1974 original "Forever Young".

To mention this only cements the notion in that camp that I am a know-it-all asshole.

So, I have taken a new approach.

I say “I never voted for Forever Young anyway. I cast my vote in 1975 for “Don’t Stop Believin'” by Journey.”

They look at  me all glassy-eyed and I’m sure it does not occur to them that “Don’t Stop Believin” didn’t come out until 1981, but at this point, what’s the fucking difference? 

TO THE BATMOBILE

"Show a man what he expects to see, and he won't look beneath the surface." - Catwoman 

I AIN'T BLACK

I've walked down the street my whole life, sometimes smack dab in the middle. I've played football, baseball, kick the can, rode on bikes with my posse', you name it, in the middle of the street. Never, not once had a cop tell me or my buddies to get out of the street. Had some swerve to keep from hitting me, or wait until we finish our football play to pass.
But then, I aint black.

I am little suspicious that this kid didn't give the cop a hard time, maybe even belly butt him and go for his gun. But I'm equally suspicious of the lack of info the cops are rolling out here. The first shot fired in the car, then as he attempted to flee, shot in the back (autopsy disputes this), then on his knees, hands in the air when the last shots fired 35 feet away from the cruiser?(some witnesses seem to dispute this)
I'm not sure at this point any of the details even matter any more, seeing some of the images of a city blowing up on itself. I'm concerned about a police force that may not have done squat for community relations the last 100 years, and now the chickens are coming home to roost.
Explain it to me in terms where I don't sense excessive force was used.
The Detroit riots of 1967 started over less. I know, I was there.

Then, a heavily Militarized Police Force takes the street. All that does is turn the volume up.

I have some friends that up till now I thought were a little paranoid about a police state.
Not any more.

If I can't see your face and badge, you aren't a cop. 

"We rolled lighter than that in an actual war zone."
Veteran of the 82nd Airborne, commenting on police gear in Ferguson Missouri.
When I was a boy I watched 10,000 National Guard move into Detroit. They "rolled lighter" than this too.

“One Riot, One Ranger”

When I was a boy my daddy marched me to see this statue at Love Field at least twice a year when we flew back and forth to Detroit, and told me the story of Captain Jay Banks, and how black folks had rioted in Mansfield Texas, and the Rangers were called in. Jay Banks walked down Main Street and unlocked the Mayor and the Sheriff from out of the jail, while the wide-eyed negro rioters looked on
Funny thing though.
The story my daddy told me was not the real story. The real story is that The Supreme Court ordered Mansfield School District to desegregate in 1956, and the white folks rioted, even hung 3 negro dummies up over the entrance to the school. Peace was kept by sending the 3 black students to Fort Worth School District. Mansfield took another 9 years to desegregate, and only did so after losing federal funding.

The south, and my daddy, sure was funny about that kind of thing.

I don't have permission to print this image, but I'm doing it anyway. This is Captain Jay Banks, protecting the peace and dignity of Mansfield High School, while a negro dummy hangs in effigy over the entrance to the school.

Addendum;
1956 wasnt the only time there were racial tensions in Mansfield Texas. In 1961, John Howard Griffen, the author of "Black Like Me" moved to Mansfield. The book describes his six-week experience travelling on Greyhound buses (occasionally hitchhiking) throughout the racially segregatedstates of Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia passing as a black man. The whites in Mansfield rioted again, hung black effigies in Griffens front yard, and threatened to kill him. Griffen moved.

Addendum# 2: I have located one ofthe original three students that were bussed to FWISD in 1956. His name is TL Moody, and has been a pastor at a Fort Worth church for many years.

SHE ROLLED HER EYES

I went through the Burger King drive through yesterday.

“I’d like the #1 Whopper with, no cheese, no ketchup, and extra veges. And a diet coke.” “Would you like cheese on that?” they always ask.

Always always always.

Sometimes they will interrupt me between “no ketchup, and extras veges “ to ask.

I try to remain polite and repeat for them:

 “No cheese, thank you, and no ketchup, with extra veges. And a diet coke”

They will repeat the part about the cheese and ketchup, but usually they get hung up on veges.

“Is that like the pickles?” they ask.

“Yes, pickles, tomato lettuce and onion”

They repeat back “ Pickles, tomato and lettuce”

“And onion” I remind them “with a diet coke and fries.

But by now I am a little worn out and I’m starting to lose patience. So when there is a 10 second stretch of silence as they ponder what a vegetable is, and then ask me again “Would you like cheese on that?”

Even though I know they are hard-wired programmed to ask me that,I’m probably not all sweetness and light when I scream “NO!”.

Then when they ask what kind of drink I’d like that just about does it for me.

But I’ve learned to take a deep breath, and in the softest most angelic voice I have “Oh! I would love a diet coke”.

But yesterday. After going through this exercise and getting to the window they weren’t done with me yet.

She handed me the bag and I asked if she had put ketchup in there for me.

“I thought you said “NO Ketchup” she says.

“Right. No ketchup on the burger.”

“So you want ketchup NOW? she says.

“Yes please, for my fries”

And that’s when she rolled her eyes. She really did.

But that’s OK. I figure I deserve it.

All those times at the Jack-in-the Box on lunch break with your 3 very stoned friends, 1975…

 Jack: “Can I take your order?”

Driver: “Ummm, yeah man, what did you want?”

Backseat #1:“A coke, a taco, and some fries”

Backseat # 2 “ Lemme have a Whataburger with no pickles and a shake and onion rings”

Driver “Dude we are at jack in the Box”

Backseat #2 “Huh?” (muffled laughter)

Driver: “Dude, I’m trying to order, we are at Jack-in-the Box, get a fucking grip”

Backseat #2 “Is that where they have the big Macs?” (car explodes with laughter)

And it just goes downhill from there, right?

Once you started laughing, that was it.

How we didn’t starve, I don’t know.

SHE BLINDED ME WITH SCIENCE, FAILED ME AT BIOLOGY

Back when I was married, my wife would ask me every now and then if we could have a baby.
Finally one day she asked and I said “Well, OK, go ahead and stop taking your pills”.
She was so happy!
Then I got home from work that day, and she had all these books, and calendars, and thermometers and stop watches and big Q-Tips and stuff.
Man, she was a real go-getter! I’d be having a cigarette after, ya know, and she would look at her watch and say “Ok, time to go again!”
It sure didn’t take very long to make a baby.

THE GRIEVING PARENTS

"The Grieving Parents", a sculpture by artist Kathe' Kollwitz who lost a son to WWI.
I saw this sculpture 20 some years ago on a documentary, and was moved by the amount of grief the artist has rendered without much detail. It stuck with me, and over the years I tried to find it again. I just found the artist and this image last week.

The way the father holds himself, and the lack of any emotion on is face reminds me of my own father.

They say the face of the mother is that of Kathe'.

"

Kathe Kollwitz was informed of her son’s death in action on 30 October. ‘Your pretty shawl will no longer be able to warm our boy,’ was the touching way she broke the news to a close friend. To another friend she admitted, ‘There is in our lives a wound which will never heal. Nor should it.’
By December 1914 Kollwitz, one of the foremost artists of her day, had formed the idea of creating a memorial to her son, with his body outstretched, ‘the father at the head, the mother at the feet’, to commemorate ‘the sacrifice of all the young volunteers’. As time went on she attempted various other designs, but was dissatisfied with them all. Kollwitz put the project aside temporarily in 1919, but her commitment to see it through when it was right was unequivocal. ‘I will come back, I shall do this work for you, for you and the others,’ she noted in her diary in June 1919.

Twelve years later, she kept her word: in April 1931 she was at last able to complete the sculpture. ‘In the autumn – Peter, – I shall bring it to you,’ she wrote in her diary. Her work was exhibited in the National Gallery in Berlin and then transported to Belgium, where it was placed, as she had promised, adjacent to her son’s grave. There it rests to this day.

EMERGENCY ROOM 2000

I went in for a swoll up leg. I had no insurance. The bill was 2200. The Taxpayers had to eat it.
It’s a good thing they didn’t admit me that night. No telling what the bill would have been.

I wasn’t going to let them admit me anyway.

After 14 hours sitting in the Emergency Room the doctor said “We may need to admit you”

 I told that doctor “No one is getting admitted.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean, if you are going to fix me, do it now, right here, but I won’t be going upstairs tonight.”

“Mr. Bulletholes, you could die. You could have a blood clot, and if it breaks free and hits your heart, you could die”

“I’ve been in this waiting room for 14 hours doc, and I haven’t died. Whats the sudden urgent urgency?””

“If you go to your car and try to drive home, it could break free”

“I’m sure you are right doc, but no one is getting admitted tonight. I’ll come back in the morning if I have to. But I won’t be staying tonight”

I'll never forget the look on his face.

I cant really tell you what my problem was other than just being an idiot. I just didn’t want to be admitted that night.

They ran a test and let me go.

Luckily, it wasn’t a clot.

Addendum- TWIKIWDBI has some great information on ER Room visits that might save your financial ass.

LUMINARIAS AND THAT LONG LONELY STRETCH OF ROAD

If you ever went to Luminarias, the restaurant I worked at for four years right after High School, you might remember that there was a long lonely stretch of road, Ben Street, just before you got to the restaurant. It was about two blocks long, no houses, just rugged terrain and grassland that is common to what they call “The Tandy Hills” along highway 30 between Beach and Oakland.

In 1977, I was a cook at Luminarias. I’d worked there about 2 years. I came in one morning with a billfold full of cash because when I got off I was going to buy a plane ticket to go to Rapid City to see my brother. There was a small dressing room where I changed into my chef uniform, and a locker where I kept my clothes. This particular morning, I took off my clothes, set my billfold in the bottom of my locker, and stepped into a stall to take a piss.

As I was taking a piss, the dishwasher came in. His name wasOC, and he was about half blind, and loved to sing the blues while he washed dishes.
This morning he was singing “Got to find me a part time love, hmmm, lord, I just got to find me a part time love” as he came into the dressing room.
”Good Morning OC” I said from the stall.
“Good morning” he said back. I heard his locker open and close, and out he went.

I finished my piss, came out, finished getting dressed and then…shit…my billfold! It was gone! I looked in the locker, I checked my pockets, and then…SHIT!
OC! That damn OC!
I went running out of the dressing room, past the dish room, and then to the back door where OC is now out on the dock by the dumpster.
“OC, you bastard, gimme my billfold back!”
“What you talkin’ ‘bout?” was OC’s reply.

Well, I checked the dumpster, I looked down the hill, I did everything but search OC. Now-a-days, it might have made sense to call the cops, but back then, it just didn’t seem like it would do much good. I was out a hundred bucks, big money for a guy making 2.75 an hour back then. Shoot, its big enough these days.

Anyway, I made it to South Dakota, and when I got back I made it a point to turn OC’s life into a living hell anyway I could. I came in one morning, and I started messing up pots as quick as I could, taking them to OC and telling him I needed them NOW!

I’m writing it down right now, and I got to tell you I’m not real proud of it,but its my story, right?

It took a while, but poor half blind OC finally reacted. Sometime around lunchtime, he had had enough of me.
He pushed me, and I pushed him back. Then he swung at me, and I dodged the punch. Then he come at me, the way a half blind deranged mad as hell professional wrestler might come at you and I went to kick him.
But poor blind old OC was too fast for me. He grabbed my leg! Now He’s got me by the leg, and he’s running me into the wall backwards! A shelf got knocked over, dishes flying everywhere, and me flat on my back on the floor, my glasses off! Now I’m just as blind as OC, and even more helpless because I’ve never been in a fight in my life, but in a blurry haze I see him reach into a dish tray and pull out a steak knife.
A STEAK KNIFE!

What did I do? I went running breathlessly, straight out into the middle of the dining room, customers looking up from their lunch, and I’m right next to a table where the Chef and General Manager are eating. They looked up at me, and I’m GASPING for breath.
“Whats wrong Steve?”
“OC…OC… he come at me with a knife!” I tell them.

And that is how OC came to be fired on the spot, dragged kicking and screaming from the dish room,vowing to “Kill my white ass”.
And how I came to dread that two block stretch of lonely Ben Street just before you get to the restaurant every morning for a while.


Addendum~ A year later I was promoted to chef. We put an ad in the paper for a dishwasher.
Guess who applied?
Yep, OC came in, looking for a job.
And you know what?
I hired him.
Just another thing to love about the restaurant business.

THE BREAKTHROUGH

"Evening upon evening, I would weigh out bucketfuls of equal sized balls of clay.
Barbara would throw an item, say, a simple cylinder.
My task was to make many, exact copies.
I rather balked at this, I did not see myself as some sort of industrial machine! I was an ARTIST!
So this was my introduction to zen. I would do a full day's work, then, after everyone else had gone home, I would start my practice. And after a couple of hours she would come back into the pottery, and chuck all my work into the clay bin. Day after day, week after week. until, one night, she only threw about fifty cylinders out, and left three on the table. She sliced them in two, so we could see the thickness of the walls and base. "Those aren't too bad... make another twenty, and I'll come back"
...The breakthrough came on a day when I stopped thinking about what I was doing, and my conscious brain let go of the motor skills. When I came back to consciousness, there they were, lively shapes, not lumpen, but turning still."

My friend Soubriquet, on his introduction to Pottery.

PURE POETRY

"“If the path before you is clear, you’re probably on someone else’s.
There is no fixed path to enlightenment. Enlightenment is not a destination, a goal, the resting place at the end of a long journey -that’s the mind’s version of enlightenment. Enlightenment is the lighting up of where you are right now…
Take any moment. Any moment at all. This moment. For any moment is the access point.
There are never any blocks - only access points. You are not some separate entity on a long journey towards a future completion.
You are pure poetry.”

~ Joseph Campbell

"IT HAD GOTTEN PRETTY BAD, MAN"

Back in 1997 I was out in my driveway washing the car one morning. My wife had left me, the house was being foreclosed on, we had filed bankruptcy and I wasn’t working. I had no plan, no visible means of support, no prospects.
As I’m washing the car, I see a figure a block away, jogging down the street towards me. I can’t see his face, just his size, shape and the way he runs, and there is something familiar about this dude. The closer he gets, the more I am sure that it is an old friend of mine from High School.

Sure enough, as he approaches I can see his face,and its exactly who I thought it was. He see's me now, and there is that moment of recognition, and he stops for a chat.
We exchange the usual stuff, what have you been doing, how are you, etcetera. We hadn’t seen each other in about 20 years. I tell him the particulars of my situation, the separation, the foreclosure, the bankruptcy. He tells me that he has quit using dope, and found a new way to live.

“It had gotten pretty bad, man” he tells me.

He has about 6 months clean. He has been attending Narcotics Anonymous meetings regularly to stay clean.
“You should come!” he says. He looks me in the eye, then up and down. He can tell I’m using. I have that vacuous look in my eye, I’m fidgeting like crazy and slurring my speech. I have all the symptoms and affectations that come with being a dope fiend. Because even though I wouldn’t admit it, I AM a dope fiend.
“You should come to a meeting” he says again “”We meet at 6 O’Clock up on Brown Trail. You never have to do any dope again Steve.”

I remember looking at him like he was nuts, and saying: “Aw man, stop doing dope? You got to be kidding me. Man, I’m going through a divorce, a separation, a bankruptcy and a foreclosure. I have no job. I have too much bad shit going on here to even think about not doing any dope. Maybe when I get all this other crap settled, I can think about getting clean.”

“Ok dude, whatever” he said, and off down the street he jogged his clean no dope black ass away.

It would be another 11 years before I got clean. I would go from divorce foreclosure and bankruptcy to living in a burned out trailer and giving up entirely. And it would take the State of Texas stepping into my life 6 years ago today to get me to a meeting, and to accept what he told me that day in 1997. “Any addict can stop using, lose the desire to use, and find a new way to live.”

Funny, it was 17 years ago I saw him that day on the street.
I still see him regular, down at the group.
A friend sent me a message this morning, “Happy Six Years Birthday” she said.
Us dope addicts, we have two birthdays, one is the belly button birthday, and the other is when we get clean and get to start our life up again.
I’d forgotten all about it. I take that as a good sign, maybe.
Happy birthday to me!

Here we are back in High School during Chemistry Class.

BULLETHOLES BUYS SOME PORN

The first time I went to buy some porn, I was embarrassed to be there. So I told the guy behind the counter I had been elected to find porn for a bachelor party.
“Maybe you have something that would be funny?” I asked him.

He looked at me with a fairly skeptical eye. “Something funny?” he asked

 "You know, something to get the guys laughin.’” I said.
He raised one eyebrow.
“Funny? You want something funny?” and without even looking, reached up on the shelf behind him, pulled down a movie and looked at the cover.
“Gazongas. This ones called Gazongas, haha. Is that funny enough for you, Funny Boy?”

Bulletholes and Bambi

THE POST THAT NEARLY NEVER WAS. 

One of my best chums in junior high was a girl named Bambi. I had a lot of guy friends, but when I think back, I hung out with Bambi a lot.

She was the only kid on the block that would play tackle football with me.
We spent many an afternoon in the woods and fields alongside the neighborhood hunting birds with bows and arrows, and collecting snakes and frogs along the creek.

On really hot days during the summer of 1971, we would play spades in her living room, singing along  to ‘Snoopy vs. The Red Baron” and “Jeremiah was a Bullfrog”.

We would crack each other up as we played cards, practicing doing our “sexy” look which amounted to making funny faces at each other.

Sometimes we would go to her garage and play ping-pong, or to her back porch and shoot some hoops. She always whipped me at horse.
Bambi wasn’t pretty by any stretch, in fact she was pretty athletic for a girl. She was the worlds greatest Tomboy, and she was my best friend for at least a couple years.

We went our separate way about the tenth grade. I discovered pot, and she went to a different High School so she could be on the swim team. I went bad, and Bambi stayed on course.

She got married right after High School, and I was going to go to her wedding, but I got stoned and I missed it.

But a couple years ago, when I got clean, I got to thinking about Bambi, because she was one of those people in your life that was so special that you know you will always like them, and what with the Internet its so easy to find old friends and say “hello” and sometimes it’s a good thing to do, especially after you quit using dope for 35 years.

I couldn’t find Bambi on any internet searches.

But I found her dad, and after a year of thinking about it I finally gave him a call.

It went to his recorder.
“Mr. Bambi, this is Bulletholes~ I grew up on your street and Bambi was my best friend
and I was wondering how to get in touch with her” and I left my phone number.

I was surprised to find that he returned my phone call so quick, and I didn’t get to answer it, it had gone straight to message.

“Sure Bullets, I remember you. Bambi is divorced. Her number is XXX-YYY-XYXY. She has had some surgery and she has Amnandow  disease now”

Now I was really surprised that he just came out and gave me her number. I figured he would forward mine to her, and she could decide whether to call me or not. And it seemed like I needn’t really worry about this Amnandow Disease, whatever it might be, because he didn’t sound like it was a big deal at all.
At least I hoped it wasn’t serious.

So I called Bambi!

I was relieved to find that Bambi doesn’t have Amnandow disease. In fact, there’s no such thing.

She was surprised to hear from me and then told me right up front…
Bambi isn’t Bambi any more.
Bambi is a man now, and his name is Roger. Roger cant afford the operations, but for all practical purposes, Roger is a man.

We talked for an hour, me and Roger, it was like we’d just been down in the creek yesterday, or were about to throw the football a little, just like the old days.

I remember the day 42 years ago Bambi and I went to the local sporting goods store. The man behind the counter had said “How can I help you boys?” and we bought some arrows to shoot birds with. Bambi suffered through it, and laughed it off. It wasn’t the first time she was mistaken for a male. It certainly wasn’t the last.
So, when I find out that Bambi is really Roger its no surprise.
And I promised Roger to keep his anonymity, but the story needs telling.
People would be about as surprised to find that Bambi is a man as they were to find out Steve  is an addict.

That is to say...not at all.

Funny thing Roger told me. It took me a while to wrap my head around it. He said:
“I’ve been a woman married to a man, and now I am a man married to a woman, but I’ve never had a gay experience my whole life”

Addendum: Since Bruce Jenner came out TG, and certain ordinances have been passed,  I'd like to add this about my friend "Roger". Roger coaches little league baseball, owns a company, chews tobacco, spits, and plays Mens Softball. His kids call him dad, his father calls him son, his employees call him sir, and his wife calls him Honey. He uses the restroom correct for his gender, which is male, and he looks good going in wearing his 3 piece suit.
Which restroom would you ask Roger to use?

Addendum #2: Jenner has been awarded various awards for coming out. I have friends that do not recognize the kind of courage that takes, or have any concept how important it is that a celebrity can step forward and carry a torch for a group that has been and will be discriminated against for some time still. Just ask my friend Roger, who I have sworn anonymity to. If Roger were to come out, he could possible lose his business and many of his friends.
And ask yourself if YOU have the courage to step forward the way Jenner has, were you to be in her shoes.

AND NOW A WORD CONCERNING WOMENS HEALTH

"I'm Al Alberts from the A.M.A., I say
Silicone implants are A-OKAY
They make small breast disease go away
And besides they're endorsed by the E.P.A

Hey, Ed Edwards from the E.P.A
Silicone implants are A-OKAY
It's true those things will never decay
But there will be a cure for death soon
I'm sure anyway

I'm Click
I'm Clack
For Triple A
Silicone implants Hey!Hey!Hey!
The cost of your auto, it will be defrayed
They're like personal internal airbags, okay?
That's my brother!

Gentlemen please, the facts remain
There are thousands of implanted women in pain
Address the issues, please explain
Lest our dialogue be in vain

Okay, it's true, the silicone slips
So it works its way down:  voluptuous hips!
Still a problem?  Button your lips
We'll cut it out and make computer chips

Yeah, well, it's weird but true,
The tiny little things are made of silicone too
So is glass and surgical glue
Put it inside for a womb with a view

Wait A Minute this is all too confusing
Silicone in everything, everything is oozing
Computers attractive to nursing babies
And breasts with an IQ of 3080"

from "Primordial Ooze III by Jonas Billy