Chief Writing Wolf

September 18, 2016 · 3:33 AM

Conduit

Now that we’ve reached another major milestone with the 09/11 attacks – 15 years – with more moments of silence, replays of news footage from that awful day and myriad personal stories, I have to express my growing cynicism about those events. Short of joining the cadre of unrepentant hawks who believe it was all a well-orchestrated conspiracy, I’m at least settled in the belief that those in charge of national security – from the White House occupants to the guardians of airline safety – failed in every sense to anticipate something like this. You mean to tell me that no one, absolutely no one, in any role above a street cop didn’t think for a moment that someone could hijack a large jet liner and slam it into a building? Did no one overseeing the nation’s immigration system not postulate that people overstaying their work or tourist visas could pose a legitimately fatal threat to a large segment of the populace? In retrospect, I guess not.

We’re the country that developed both the first fully-functioning automobile and airplane and were the first to reach the Earth’s moon. We were instrumental in developing radio, television, air conditioning, computers and cell phones. We rose up from the depths of the worst economic downturn in our brief history to help defeat some of the most brutal dictators the world has ever seen. Did no one – not even a secretary – sitting in an FBI office think, ‘Hm…you know, box cutters could be pretty nasty.’

The U.S. has failed before on such grand levels. In the fall of 1979, we were still so concerned about the threat of nuclear annihilation from the Soviet Union that we didn’t think a handful of really pissed off university students could overwhelm our embassy in Tehran, Iran and hold people hostage for fourteen months. Less than four years later we had military personnel in Beirut, Lebanon when a dynamite-laden box truck plowed into a compound and took 299 lives. Again, it seemed no one thought these events were possible.

On the other hand, someone did think of crashing a plane into the White House. In February of 1974, Samuel Byck, a failed Philadelphia businessman, planned to hijack a plane and nose dive it into the White House. Upset, in part, because the Small Business Administration didn’t grant him a loan to start his own company, Byck had actually come to the attention of the U.S. Secret Service more than once before his enacting fateful ploy. But, in the days when people could literally walk onto an airplane carrying more than just a bottle of water, Byck stormed aboard a Delta Airlines flight; killing first a policeman and – after firing through the cockpit door – the co-pilot with a stolen .22 revolver. After forcing a flight attendant to close the cabin door, he announced that he wanted the plane flown to Washington, D.C. He had even nicknamed his plot: Operation Pandora’s Box. The bomb he claimed was housed in his briefcase was actually two Valvoline containers filled with petrol, but it had no ignition device. Out on the tarmac police tried to disable the jet liner by blasting away at its tires. Finally another police officer fired directly through the cabin door, subsequently and fatally wounding Byck. Officials learned much about Byck’s plan from the audio tapes he left behind. However, both the media and the nation were enthralled with the brewing Watergate scandal, so Byck’s failed hijacking warranted little attention. Still, did no one with some degree of authority at the FBI – beyond that nosy secretary – not view this event with ominous potential?

In the aftermath of the 09/11 attacks, the country – already heavily divided over the previous year’s presidential elections – united in a way not seen in years. It’s a shame how people don’t often see the value of humanity or realize the fragility of their existence until someone dies. When death occurs on such a massive scale, though, it’s akin to a natural disaster: we lowly bidepals suddenly get it that we’re just a speck in that hourglass of time. But, no sooner had we come together in one of those Kumbaya / We-Are-the-World kind of ways than politics crept up from its sewer of a home and started ruthlessly dissecting the national conscious (as it’s wont to do). Among the first notable reactions was our descent into Afghanistan. Once a beacon of literature and mathematics, Afghanistan – by the start of the 21^st century – had toppled into the madness of religious fervor and extremist conservatism. The Taliban had taken over a decade earlier and – as the U.S. became drunk on a newfound economic boon – Afghan war lords never forgot the promises our nation made for helping them defeat the Soviets: promises of new infrastructure, health care and all that comes with nation rebuilding. They didn’t forget. The U.S. did. Any average person knows one of the worst friendship betrayals is to forget a heartfelt promise. Hell – some people get pissed off if you forget their birthday! But forget about building a new hospital?! The one holding that bloody promissory note damn sure doesn’t! Hence, 09/11. So the U.S. invaded – and still hasn’t left.

Next came the Patriot Act. This Hallmark-style gem blossomed from the hearts of the U.S. body politic as a concerted effort to prevent any future terrorist attacks. It snagged tools already in place to fight drug trafficking and organized crime and reconfigured them into a tool to infiltrate terrorist organizations. In that case, I wonder why they haven’t gone after the IRS. But it quickly metamorphosed into a pathetic dogma allowing social conservatives to dictate what they felt was un-American. Any suspected anarchist – you know…gays, lesbians, atheists, abortion doctors, Negroes, Hispanics, Native Americans, feminists, Muslims, Roman Catholics, environmentalists, vegans – fell under the proverbial microscope of questionable behavior. So, what’s new in America?

One of the most curious – and most comical – of responses was the passage of a bill by the U.S. Congress declaring that French fries in the commissary would be renamed “freedom fries”. This was strictly due to the fact that France refused to let itself get hoodwinked into believing the Bush Administration’s claim that Iraq possessed weapons of mass destruction (WMDs) and should therefore be invaded. Freedom fries?! Yeah! Showed those Frenchies a thing or two about pissing off Americans!

Here’s the crux of my argument: the single greatest response to the 09/11 attacks is the equally catastrophic reaction of the Bush White House’s decision to invade Iraq because they maybe-kind-of-sort-of-in-a-way had something to do with killing nearly 2,900 people on that gorgeous Tuesday afternoon. The invasion of Iraq, along with passage of the Patriot Act and overall mismanagement of the Afghanistan War, annihilated our collective response of unity and hope rising from the ashes of the 09/11 carnage.

I’m old enough to recall Watergate and the destructive impacts it had on the collective American psyche. It brought down the notion of the imperial U.S. presidency, when we learned that Richard Nixon was a bigoted, foul-mouthed jerk. Americans shouldn’t have been shocked, though. Presidents are people, too. But then again, that level of authority imbues a certain degree of responsibility the average person can’t fathom. Or it should. There’s an exception to everything, and Bush certainly was exception to the concept of personal responsibility and high-caliber ethics.

George W. Bush had a prime opportunity to seal his future as one of the greatest Chief Executives ever to occupy the highest office in the land. Instead he screwed it up royally because of his own incompetence and narrowmindedness. That’s, in part, because he was nothing more than a puppet of right-wing extremists who targeted the White House and the U.S. Congress long before the 09/11 terrorists started plotting. Some large oil and energy corporations here in the U.S. set their sights on Iraq in the 1990s, strictly because of its vast reserves of natural resources. I’ve consistently pointed to one critical, almost overlooked fact: in 1998, Kenneth Derr, then CEO of Chevron declared, “Iraq possesses huge reserves of oil and gas-reserves I’d love Chevron to have access to.” Derr later became CEO of Halliburton – the same company Vice-President Dick Cheney lead until May of 2000, when he abruptly resigned and moved from Texas back to his native Wyoming. In 2000, Chevron, Exxon, BP and Shell dumped millions into the Bush presidential campaign; more than any other presidential race. Their efforts seem to have paid off. Less than two weeks after Bush took office, Cheney chaired the newly-formed National Energy Policy Development Group whose entire purpose was to lay out the course for America’s energy future. In March 2001, the group outlined Iraq’s oil production capacity. In 2004, Bush’s first Treasury secretary, Paul O’Neill, said, “Already by February (2001), the talk was mostly about logistics. Not the why (to invade Iraq), but the how and how quickly.”

In November of 2002, the Bush Administration RELUCTANTLY established the National Commission on Terrorist Attacks Upon the United States, known affectionately as the “9/11 Commission.” The bipartisan group pulled as many high-ranking political and national security officials beneath the magnifying glass glare of its hearings. Watching bits of the hearings again recently, I noticed a few phrases kept popping up: ‘I’ll have to get back to you on that.’ ‘I can’t say right now.’ Here were some of the most critical figures in U.S. national security and they didn’t know that, for example, many of the 09/11 hijackers had expired visas? Or that “Bin Laden determined to strike US” could translate into: bombs on planes or even planes used as bombs? Seriously!

I have one question: what the fuck were you doing in that job anyway?

If, for any reason, I had ever told a supervisor questioning me on something in a past job, “Let me get back to you on that,” there’s a good chance I’d get fired. I’ve actually seen it happen to people. Long before 09/11!

When you reach that level of authority in government (or business, for that matter), you are held to a greater degree of accountability than, say, someone mopping the floors at Wal-Mart. It’s why the police aren’t really granted the benefit of an “honest mistake” when they reach for their guns and pull the trigger. But then, we’re talking about the Bush White House. Its people weren’t held to a higher standard than the rest of us. They got away with it, too.

In September of 2009, political activist and author Van Jones resigned his new-found position as “green jobs czar” in the Obama Administration due to his affiliation with self-proclaimed 9/11 conspiracy “truthers.” The group claims the Bush White House was complicit in the September 11, 2001 terrorist onslaughts. Within their own ranks they generally fall into two camps: those who say the Bush Administration (and, to some extent, the Clinton White House) dismissed a growing body of intelligence beginning in the late 1990s that the attacks were imminent; and those who declare the Bush gang actually planned and carried out the events with the express intent of invading either Afghanistan or Iraq and accessing their natural resources. Or invading both countries. Either theory is plausible.

Consider – among other things – that 511 executives at 186 large corporations, such as Halliburton and Exxon-Mobil, hoarded stock options towards the end of September 2001 at a rate never seen in corporate America before. Or that one company, Teradyne, laid off a slew of employees just hours before the 09/11 events, and its chairman gathered 602,589 stock options just two weeks later. Or that KBR, a Halliburton subsidiary, received $39.5 billion in no-bid contracts to rebuild Iraq – the most of any company. Remember, Dick Cheney had been CEO of Halliburton before assuming the vice presidency.

There are a few figures who have become lost in questions over 09/11. One is William Rodriguez. Rodriguez was one of the last people who made it out of World Trade Center Tower 1 before it collapsed. A maintenance worker with 20 years on the job, Rodriguez is considered a hero because he unlocked doors for arriving firemen. In testimony before the 09/11 Commission, he claimed he heard an explosion in the basement of that building as he arrived for work; which was just before the plane hit. Kenneth Johannemann, a part-time janitor in WTC1, stated he also heard the explosion. And a maintenance worker in Tower 2 reported a similar explosion just before the plane struck that building. Barry Jennings, a former New York Housing Authority Emergency Coordinator, had been in World Trade Center Tower 7 (the Deutsche Bank Building) and claimed he and another man, Michael Hess, had been “blown back” by an explosion in the structure hours before it and WTC Towers 1 and 2 collapsed. They also claimed to have stepped over dead bodies in WTC7 as they fled. WTC7 had not been struck by an airplane, but it caught fire and crumbled within hours after Towers 1 and 2 fell. Other occupants claimed they’d heard explosives go off in the building some time before its downfall. But the National Institute of Standards and Technology (NIST), which investigated the collapse of the three edifices solely from a structural standpoint, highlighted the amount of debris (including flaming refuse) that fell onto WTC7 from Towers 1 and 2. Still, conspiratorialists point to the fact that Jennings died under suspicious circumstances on August 19, 2008. Twelve days later Johannemann also died; in this case, from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

There are other mysterious deaths of people with direct and indirect ties to 09/11.

Beverly Eckert, whose husband died on 09/11, co-founded Voices for September 11^th, an advocacy group for 09/11 survivors and their families. Eckert had also pushed for the U.S. to allow legal action against the government of Saudi Arabia, pointing out that 15 of the 19 09/11 hijackers hailed from the oil-rich kingdom. She and others claimed that, like the U.S., the Saudi government helped to facilitate the attacks. Eckert died in a commuter plane crash on February 12, 2009.

Christopher Landis was Operations Manager for Safety Service Patrol for the Virginia Department of Transportation in 2001. He had an unobstructed view of the Pentagon, which was struck by American Airlines Flight 77. Landis had taken photos of the area in the days immediately preceding 09/11; many show light poles that were down near the Pentagon. Afterwards Landis turned over the photos to authorities. But he also kept copies and handed the same batch over to “The Pentacon,” an organization dedicated to investigating military injustices. Jason Ingersoll, who worked for the U.S. Navy, took pictures of the same area in the moments after Flight 77 plowed into the Pentagon. In some of the photos, the same light poles as in the Landis shots are knocked down. In November 2006, Landis committed suicide.

Bertha Champagne was a babysitter for the family of Marvin P. Bush, a younger brother of President George W. Bush. Often dubbed the “neglected Bush,” he had served on the board of directors for Securacom/Stratesec, a Kuwaiti/Saudi-backed company, from 1993 June 2000. Securacom/Stratesec provided electronic security for the World Trade Center Complex and Dulles International Airport from where American Airlines Flight 77 originated. By September of 2001, Marvin sat on the board of HCC Insurance Holdings (now Tokio Marine HCC), which insured parts of the WTCC. On September 29, 2003, Bertha Champagne was crushed to death by her own vehicle on the grounds of Marvin’s family home in Fairfax County, Virginia. The car inexplicably rolled forward and subsequently trapped Champagne against a small building beside the driveway. There were no witnesses, and nothing was stolen from either Champagne or the Bush home. Champagne’s death appears to have been purely accidental, but it wasn’t reported in the media until October 5.

It’s all circumstantial evidence that can point to a deliberately wicked machination. Or not. There’s nothing like a good conspiracy, though. Even the pragmatic, ever-cynical Chief Writing Wolf loves one. Yet, amidst any great national tragedy, people will always make tangential connections between seemingly unrelated events and individuals. Marife Torres Nichols, the Filipino-born second wife of Oklahoma City bombing conspirator Terry Nichols, had lived briefly in a New York City building where a man named Ramzi Ahmed Yousef also occasionally resided. A Kuwaiti national, Yousef helped to plan and bomb World Trade Center Tower 1 in February 1993. He and another man drove an explosives-laden truck into the building’s garage. The resultant explosion killed 6 and injured more than a thousand.

If you think the U.S. federal government doesn’t engage in such unseemly practices, I have a couple of vials of Jesus Christ’s blood in a Tupperware container beneath my bed I’d like to sell you for $25,000 a pop.

Regardless of whether the tragic events of Tuesday, September 11, 2001 were a carefully-conceived Mephistophelean drama or the end result of people in government who just should have known better, it all served as a conduit for poor behavior at the highest levels of authority; gateway, if you will, for a small cadre of government and corporate elitists to twist reality into a new and more affluent life for themselves.

The rest of us were forced or tricked into submission via personal shaming or voter intimidation. Just when we progressive futurists felt two centuries worth of human rights advances had finally produced a casteless society, we got shot down like…well, like a bird out of the sky. Many of us saw this coming. The hijacking of four airplanes was preceded by the blatant hijacking of the 2000 presidential elections. Once again, the message was clear: White male privilege is not to be questioned. (And, in case anyone forgot, the Chief is mostly of the Caucasian persuasion.)

Like microwaved French fries (yes, that’s what they really are), it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. And in my soul.

Let political and business titans tap-dance on the graves of those who perished – were murdered – on 09/11, if it makes them feel empowered. They can’t take that feeling with them when they meet their own fate.

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Filed under Essays

Tagged as 9/11 Commission, 9/11 truthers, Afghanistan, Afghanistan War, Dick Cheney, freedom fries, George W. Bush, government conspiracy, Halliburton, Iraq, Iraq War, Patriot Act, September 11 2001 terrorist attacks, terrorism

September 1, 2016 · 11:02 PM

Still Here

Who’s there? Wolfgang peering into my parents’ bedroom on August 1, 2016.

My gaze remained fixed on my computer – as it always does, when I become engrossed in either a news article or my own writing, leading to that vicious brand of dry eye syndrome – and not paying much attention to anything around me. But, out of the sandy corner of my right eye, I noticed Wolfgang lift up his head. It wasn’t a gradual rise, like he’d heard the refrigerator door open and hoped someone was reaching for a snack. Rather, it was more of a sudden jolt, as if a wayward noise had startled him. Often, I don’t hear those same noises. As a dog, millennia of canid sensory attributes finely-tuned and ground deep into his mind and body, he can hear a bug crawling in the next room, on carpet, with a rainstorm battering the house around us; he could see that same bug – minuscule as it may be – ambling across the carpet.

But this was different. No refrigerator door; no bugs; just…something. It was enough to make me stop; giving my eyes a much-needed break. Then I saw a shadow; a nanosecond of movement. Wolfgang whipped his head around, and so did I.

A couple of years ago I wondered, in an essay, what it would be like to be deceased. I’m in no hurry to find out, but as both a spiritual person and a writer fascinated with the gothic (even the macabre), I’ve thought about it for most of my life. It’s become an especially important matter to me in the three months since my father’s death. Raised Roman Catholic, I was taught to believe in angels and saints. But, when I heard an elderly nun once say “there’s no such things as ghosts,” I couldn’t reconcile the two. Angels exist; ghosts don’t. What’s the difference? My first views of angels came from the stained glass windows of the church where I became an altar boy in the mid-1970s. I acquired a more salacious vision from John Phillip Law’s “Pygar” in “Barbarella.” (I actually prefer the latter.)

Having divorced myself from the Catholic Church years ago, I seek emotional fulfillment in the simplest of things: reading, writing, exercise, music, vodka, and, of course, Wolfgang. I still believe in a Supreme Being, but I don’t subscribe to any religious ideology. It’s too confining. Yet the concept of an afterlife has remained a constant fixture in my mind.

Over the past three months Wolfgang’s behavior has become more curious. His attention is being constantly diverted. He lifts his head and stares at something – or someone – in the distance. He’ll just hold that gaze – not for a few seconds, but several minutes. One night, as I worked on my computer, and my mother sat in the den reading, Wolfgang perched himself just outside my parents’ bedroom…and stared straight ahead. He didn’t move for what seemed like an hour. Finally he stood and entered the room. Turning to his left, in the direction of a nightstand, he sat after a few minutes. And remained there for the longest time. I didn’t want to disturb him, so I left him alone. After a while, he ambled back to a spot near me and plopped down…still looking ahead into my parents’ bedroom.

“What’s that?” I asked him. I knew the answer.

His eyes, bright pools of dark chocolate, bored into my face. Those eyes – and his animated expressions – always conveyed more than the average person.

Of course, I’m biased – not just because he’s my dog. More so, because I love dogs – and most animals for that matter – than I do people. Animals don’t gossip; call you names; cut in front of you while driving; throw a self-righteous attitude in your face; or believe the world revolves around them, and science just needs to prove it. In other words, animals don’t piss me off just for the hell of it.

I’d have no problems pulling out a gun and firing into the windshield of a car whose driver almost ran me off the road because they were engrossed in their cell phone. But I’d think twice about putting down a dog that bit me out of its own fear.

México won’t execute drug kingpins because they don’t have the death penalty. Yet, they retain the brutal tradition of bullfighting and conduct rodeos where horses routinely break their necks. Tell me I’m not the only one who thinks that’s twisted.

I created a controversy on Facebook about five years ago, when I stated that I’d rather see a thousand drug addicts and / or sexually-irresponsible people died of AIDS than see one animal suffer because of human neglect and abuse. Just about everyone missed the “drug addict” and “sexually-irresponsible” part. How dare I think someone who fucks around like a rabbit on Viagra shouldn’t cry too loudly when they come down with something a tad bit more severe than gingivitis. If political incorrectness was a course, I’d fail miserably.

“What’s that?” I asked again. He just looked at me, and I gathered he was telling me exactly what was going on. Domesticated animals comprehend a bevy of our words. How many of their vocalizations do we humans understand? I just had to figure out what those expressions meant.

And I finally figured it out. He knows things; meaning, he sees and hears things that are there; others who are there.

And I know that who’s often there isn’t visible to the eyes of the contemporary human; our brains having become too cluttered with practicality and technology. Yet, even before now, I had proof. Nothing that can be verified independently, but proof to me nonetheless.

One weekday in the spring of 2011, as I crouched before my computer – making a concerted effort to launch my freelance writing career, while trying to ward off the dreaded office-chair butt affliction – I sensed someone move behind me. At the same nanosecond, Wolfgang bolted into the hall from his spot near my chair; a modest growl spilling from his snout. Both him and that ubiquitous figure unnerved me; giving my eyes that much-needed break.

But I kept my focus on Wolfgang. He stood in the hall, looking towards the den. His head cocked to one side slightly and – apparently satisfied no danger lurked – returned to his place near my chair. He circled around that few square inches of carpet, before plopping down. He sensed my confusion and tossed me a comforting gaze. “Don’t worry,” his eyes reassured me. “I got it settled.”

Settled what? He sighed, exasperated. I’m certain he was thinking what a naïve dumbass I must be. In retrospect, I’d agree with him. But I stepped into the hall and peered towards the den. That figure – that someone – I thought, was an old woman. I returned to my chair.

Wolfgang gave up trying to explain it to me and resumed napping.

Then my mother came out of her bedroom. Hugging the doorframe, unsteady from a midday slumber, she gave me a confounded look and asked, “Where’s grandmother?”

I squinted at her. “Who?”

“Where’s grandmother?” she repeated.

I hesitated, equally confused. I knew who she was talking about, but I didn’t know why. “Why are you asking me that question?” It really startled (upset) me.

She woke up and rubbed her eyes.

I turned briefly to Wolfgang. I was trying to tell you, his eyes said.

Aside from my mother’s three siblings and their father, I only met a handful of her relatives – all from her father’s side of the family in Michigan. I got to know the Mexican side through antiquitous photographs and stories; ghost stories, in a way, stuck in my mother’s memory.

My maternal grandmother died in México City on Christmas Day 1940 from some miscellaneous stomach ailment. Her own mother, a widow by then, had returned from living in Washington, D.C., where she worked as a nanny for the daughters of a U.S. Navy admiral. Along with being a good cook and natural-born caregiver, she was self-educated, which included teaching herself English, and an opera aficionado. She stepped in to help her son-in-law (my grandfather) raise his four children.

She had led a life mixed with hardship and religiosity (the latter supposed to hinder the former). But then again, what woman born in 19^th century México – or anywhere outside of royalty and the industrial elite – didn’t? At the age of 14, a handsome, 21-year-old young man with steely blue eyes spotted her in the yard of school she attended, introduced himself and decided to make her his bride. A few months later her mother dropped her into a wedding dress. He gave her five children, two illegitimate children, a bout of syphilis and an early widowhood. By the time my German-American grandfather, Clarence, arrived in México City with an uncle selling farm equipment in the mid-1920s, my great-grandmother’s husband was already gone. When my grandfather met the brown-eyed beauty named Esperanza who would become his wife, he apparently was smitten. He actually courted her, and it was a little while before they got married. My great-grandmother didn’t want to impose her marital tribulations upon her own daughters. Clarence and Esperanza married in 1927.

Esperanza’s mother was a curiosity, my mother recalled. Not even five feet tall, her internal organs were switched; her heart, for example, rested on the right side of her torso and was too big for her body. They could see the veins on the sides of her neck pulsate, a feature that made her wear high-necked clothing. Her eyes were more golden in color; “ojos de un perro,” is how she described them – “eyes of a dog.” But, more intriguingly, she also bore enough personal faith to build a bridge between her heart and the spiritual netherworld.

Supposedly women possess that unique ability more than men. I believe women are just more willing to admit it. Acknowledgement of contact with “The Other Side” is conceding, in a way, a dependence on the inanimate – the emotional. And men aren’t permitted such comforts. In México, in the U.S., or anywhere they want to call home and be considered valuable. But I feel that having no spirit is akin to having no soul.

Shortly before the death of someone my great-grandmother knew – a relative, a friend – she would encounter a mysterious figure; a woman cloaked in black with a veil-like accoutrement almost completely covering her face. She’d mutter the name of the individual – whoever was about to die – and then vanish.

My mother and her older sister, Margo, never really believed her, she told me. Their grandmother was just an old woman with a strange little mind carved up by Roman Catholicism and too many health problems. Until one afternoon shortly before Christmas 1940.

Esperanza had fallen ill, and no one could figure out why. My mother and Margo accompanied their grandmother to a local open-air market; the type that were so common back then and now quaintly occupy a spot on travel shows. A woman, clad in black, suddenly stood before them. All Margo and my mother remember was hearing their own mother’s name – Esperanza. It seeped through the woman’s lace veil and into their ears; a sound that abruptly instilled an overwhelming sense of dread in the two girls. Hearing them both recount the incident some four decades later made my skin tighten. Less than two weeks later, Esperanza was gone.

My grandfather was headed back to Michigan in the summer of 1942, when the train he rode stopped in Dallas. A job ad in a local newspaper caught his attention. It offered something like $20 per day as a machinist, a fortune in those days. He applied for and got it. He moved into a nearby boarding house and, within a year, had managed to save enough money to buy a house in the Oak Cliff section of Dallas. In September of 1943, his four children arrived with his mother-in-law, after a three-day trek by train from México City. He felt he had to move. As an American in México during a global war, he didn’t just feel out of place – he was out of place. By then my great-grandmother had secured her role as de facto matriarch.

She died in Dallas in August of 1963; less than three months before I was born. At the funeral, my mother almost passed out, as much from the emotional loss as from the intense heat. Standing outside in Texas during August is not a pleasant experience. My great-grandmother had blessed my mother’s stomach just days earlier; holding a tiny wrinkled hand above my restless unborn self, her other hand clutching an aged crucifix.

My father’s older sister, Amparo, was at the same funeral. She knew how close my mother had been to her grandmother and (knowing those damned Texas summers) had brought a large jar of cold water. After my father helped my mother back to the car and had her drink some of that water, my mother looked up. And, as she recalled years later, she spotted a small figure dressed in black some distance away – a woman with a black veil covering her face. “Go away,” my mother said into the hot air, and the woman left.

That crucifix, now over a century old, hangs unimposingly above my bed – just as it did throughout my childhood and through the three apartments I lived in before returning to my parents’ home a few years ago. And, thinking back now, on that spring afternoon in 2011, I realize Wolfgang must have seen my great-grandmother. Her presence most certainly startled him at first; he’d never seen her before. But she assured him she meant no harm; she’s one of us.

On another nondescript afternoon, I was trying to help my mother find a pair of small scissors. She always kept them in her nightstand, but she couldn’t even find the scissors there. I looked through it, too, albeit with a greater sense of frustration. I was enmeshed in one of those “Moods.” How did I end up like this? Unmarried, childless, 40-something, scarcely employed with a bad back, helping my mother search for a pair of miniature scissors.

I turned to see Wolfgang. “Really?” his eyes bemoaned with a frustrated sigh. “This is bothering you?” His gaze slithered around me and towards the nightstand; he then scampered away. “You’re getting on my last nerve!” he grunted.

I almost followed him, but something made me stop. Look again, I heard in my subconscious. I opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand and filtered through a menagerie of items. My fingertips grasped a small envelope, which held a black-and-white photograph…my mother’s maternal grandmother. It was her passport photo, probably taken in 1943 in preparation for her move to the U.S.

My father had said frequently he hoped he’d go before Wolfgang. He’d grown so attached to him that the dog’s death would be too much to handle. I told both my parents a while back, though, I believed he’d go before them. I also told them that we needed to prepare ourselves for his inevitable demise. In 1985, when we had to put down our beloved German shepherd, Josh, we had never considered the impact such a death would have on us.

Now my father is gone, having passed away in this house – just as he wanted – and Wolfgang keeps tossing his gaze around.

So I look at the various photos of my father and know for certain – he’s still here.

My father at his 60th birthday party in 1993.

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Filed under Essays

Tagged as afterlife, death, dogs, religion, spirit, spirituality, Wolfgang

June 19, 2016 · 12:22 AM

Happy Father’s Day 2016!

“When you’re young, you think your dad is Superman. Then you grow up, and you realize he’s just a regular guy who wears a cape.” – Dave Attell

“Four-year-old: Tell me a scary story!
Me: One time little people popped out of your mom, and they never stopped asking questions.
Four-year-old: Why?” – James Breakwell

“He has always provided me a safe place to land and a hard place from which to launch.” – Chelsea Clinton

“Me and my dad used to play tag. He’d drive.” – Rodney Dangerfield

“There should be a children’s song: ‘If you’re happy and you know it, keep it to yourself and let your dad sleep.’” – Jim Gaffigan

“Any man can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a dad.” – Anne Geddes

“I just sit there and make up songs and sing to [my son] in gibberish. I’m very good at gibberish now.” – Elton John

“I found out that I’m a pretty bad father. I make a lot of mistakes and I don’t know what I’m doing. But my kids love me. Go figure.” – Louis C.K.

“Men should always change diapers. It’s a very rewarding experience. It’s mentally cleansing. It’s like washing dishes, but imagine if the dishes were your kids, so you really love the dishes.” – Chris Martin

“I’m probably the most uncool guy that [my daughters] know – as far as they are concerned anyway – ‘cause I’m Dad. I mean dads just aren’t cool – especially when I dance! They don’t want me to dance.” – Tim McGraw

“Having a kid is like falling in love for the first time when you’re 12, but every day.” – Mike Myers

“Having children is like living in a frat house: nobody sleeps, everything’s broken, and there’s a lot of throwing up.” – Ray Romano

“The older I get, the smarter my father seems to get.” – Tim Russert

“My sisters and I can still recite Dad’s grilling rules: Rule No. 1: Dad is in charge. Rule No. 2: Repeat Rule No. 1.” – Connie Schultz

“You can tell what was the best year of your father’s life, because they seem to freeze that clothing style and ride it out.” – Jerry Seinfeld

“Fatherhood is great because you can ruin someone from scratch.” – Jon Stewart

“I’ve had some amazing people in my life. Look at my father – he came from a small fishing village of five hundred people and at six foot four with giant ears and a kind of very odd expression, thought he could be a movie star. So go figure, you know?” – Kiefer Sutherland

“I have found the best way to give advice to your children is to find out what they want and then advise them to do it.” – Harry S. Truman

“When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years.” – Mark Twain

“Before I got married I had six theories about raising children; now, I have six children and no theories.” – John Wilmot

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June 12, 2016 · 12:15 AM

Father Wolf Transitions

My father in 1949 at age 16.

At one family Christmas gathering in the 1980s, someone had invited an older couple most everyone knew. They often provided musical entertainment at such gatherings; with the man playing a guitar, while he and his wife sang. During this particular evening, the woman brought out a set of maracas and began yodeling. I have to concede that – up to that point – I had never heard a Mexican yodeling. I always thought yodeling was a characteristic unique to people only of Nordic extraction. Even though I’m one-quarter German, I don’t possess such a talent. But, if you’ve ever heard a Mexican yodeling…well, imagine a Chihuahua having a Maalox moment from hell.

Some of my male cousins and me tried to sustain our laughter and wondered how long this would continue. The gathering took place in the house of one my aunts, Teresa, and her husband, Chris. A massive abode with a wide, marble-laden foyer, a living room or seating area sat off to the left upon entering, and a formal dining room to the right, which allowed entry into the kitchen. Most everyone had gathered in the spacious den, with several others in the kitchen and another dining area. I stood in the den, with my cousins, our backs to the covered patio, with a clear view of the foyer and the front door.

As the woman yodeled, my father suddenly catapulted from the dining room into the living, straddling a broom like it was a toy horse. He sported a bright smile and waved to the crowd in the den. Those of us who saw him burst into hysterical laughter, while those closer to the kitchen, against the fireplace, or against the wall parallel to the entertainment duo jumped to their feet. They clustered en masse in the center of the den, just in time to see my dad gallop back across the foyer into the dining room. The woman singing saw him on the return jaunt and almost lost control of her voice.

It’s those moments that kept circulating through my mind these past several days, as my father, George De La Garza, began his transition into his next life. It began last Monday, June 6. After enduring an array of health problems over the past few years, capped by two weeks in the hospital just last month, he’d finally had enough. We had a brief memorial service Saturday morning, the 11^th, at a local funeral home. Both my parents were wise to make funeral arrangements five years ago. They had initially bought cemetery plots, but decided afterwards to be cremated and sold the plots back to the funeral home. My father didn’t want an extended funeral; no real funeral at all, in fact, with a Catholic rosary, a lengthy mass, a parade of limousines and another service at the grave site. His philosophy was simple: “just throw me in a box, toss me into the ground, say your prayers and go on with your own lives.”

I had written of my father previously, but he didn’t like too much attention bestowed upon him. He was a unique character who liked to make people laugh and who often made himself the butt of his own jokes. As a teenager, he’d often play pranks on his mother, Francisca. Once she sent him to the store with a list of items to buy. He left the house briefly and sneaked back inside and went into his parents’ bedroom; where he called the home phone number. In those days, if you had more than one phone in the house, you could actually call your own number from within, and the other phone would ring. His mother picked up the phone in the kitchen. My father pretended to be at the store and confused by what she’d written on the list. He aggravated her, until finally he set down the bedroom phone and startled her by walking into the kitchen.

My paternal grandparents had eleven children, but four of them – two boys and two girls – died either as infants or toddlers. That was common in those days – couples would have several kids and some may die not long after birth. But my father often said his parents had so many kids because his mother was hard of hearing. As they got ready for bed, my grandfather would ask, “Well, do you want to go to sleep, or what?” And my grandmother would respond, “What?”

My mother certainly didn’t escape his humorous wraths. He told me that she and her younger sister, Angie, were so mean and bitter because they’d grown up in México picking avocadoes. When their father decided to move the family to the U.S. in 1943, my father said, he could only afford train fare for four people. So he went, along with his oldest daughter, his son and his mother-in-law. For my mother and Angie, according to my dad, my grandfather leased a donkey and told them just to ride north until you run into bunch of White people speaking only English.

Like most men, he was fiercely protective of his family. My mother told me years ago that, if my father knew how some of the men talked to her at the insurance companies where she worked her entire life, he’d probably be in prison; meaning, he’d most certainly kill more than a few. He always said he’d know I would be a boy. One particular picture he took of me as an infant, he said, was the mirror image of what he’d dreamed about while my mother was still pregnant. She almost lost me twice during what she said was a 10-month pregnancy and was in labor for several hours. While they languished at the hospital, the staff was trying to reach the pediatrician; this being a time before pagers and cell phones. When he finally showed up, my father asked where he’d been.

“What’s the big deal?” replied the doctor. “You have a date tonight?” I guess he was trying to be cute.

But my father – usually catching the humor in someone’s tone of voice – grabbed the man by the lapels of his jacket and slammed him up against a nearby wall. “Listen, you bastard! My wife is in pain, and I want to know what the hell you’re going to do about it!”

My dad could still find some way to turn a bad situation around. During the extended funeral of John F. Kennedy, my parents had gathered with other friends and relatives at the home of my father’s older brother, Jesse, and his wife, Helen. At one point, Helen asked why the “flags were halfway up the poles.”

“Because they ran out of string,” answered my father.

About fifteen or so years ago, my parents agreed to watch the pet goldfish belonging to the daughters of some neighbors; a younger couple who are about my age. One day my mother changed the water in the fish bowl. The next day the fish were dead. My parents hurried to a pet store to buy two more goldfish; hoping the neighbors wouldn’t notice. But those fish also died. My father told me what happened, adding, “Damn! I didn’t know I was married to a serial killer!”

I stare at pictures of my father scattered throughout the house and notice, in almost all of them, he’s smiling and / or laughing. He was that rare type who never met a stranger. Unlike me, he was an extrovert. I always admired that about him. He could never understand why it was so hard for me to make friends.

His health had begun to take a more dramatic turn for the worst at the end of 2014. Following a partial colectomy, he was hospitalized twice for kidney failure. He vowed he’d never allow himself to be taken to the hospital again. “I want to die here at home.”

But, one weekday morning a month ago, he had a change of mind. “I think I need to go the hospital. I want to live.”

So I called 911 and had him hospitalized. He again was suffering from kidney failure, but this time, his gall bladder had also become infected. They got him as stable as possible, and after two weeks, I convinced the doctors to let him go. Technically, from a medical standpoint, he wasn’t actually ready to be released. But I made it quite clear to all the attending physicians that he needed to be home.

I had asked him only once the previous week, if he wanted to go back to the hospital. He shook his head no. He knew this was it. The end for him was near. I knew it as well, but I was still trying to get him healthy. It’s so difficult to see a loved one in the grip of such physical agony. It was so tough to see a man who radiated vitality – even into his 70s – gasping for air and barely able to move. I had prayed for his suffering to end. And we all know the old saying, ‘Be careful for what you wish for; you might just get it.’ Short of a miraculous recovery, my father’s health just wasn’t going to improve.

He wanted to die at home. He wanted to pass away in the house he and my mother had worked so hard to buy and to keep. And I wanted to grant him that wish.

My dog, Wolfgang, who will turn 14 this week, initially wandered throughout the house looking for my father. Then, over the past few days, I noticed that something seemed to be catching his attention. He’d suddenly sit up or prick up his ears. And then relax. I believe animals possess a stronger sensory perception than we humans. It’s their one superior trait.

My grandmother Francisca died in February of 2001, almost three years to the day after the death of her eldest daughter, my Aunt Amparo. The next two deaths were my Aunt Teresa and my Uncle Jesse, both in 2004. Several months after Jesse’s death, my father had a strange dream that he couldn’t explain until after he told me about it. He was perched on a tractor lawn mower, plowing through a large expanse of grass, when he noticed a group people perched beneath a tree. As he got closer, he realized they were his parents and three older siblings. He could see his father completely, but he could only see the top halves of his mother and Amparo. Teresa was covered by a black veil, and Jesse was off to one side, shrouded in darkness.

My grandfather motioned for him to come closer and then asked him if he wished to join them. Was he – in effect – ready to give up on this life? My father said he turned to the field of grass and said no – he had too much work to do. And then he woke up.

I realized the grass was a metaphor for all of the things my father still wanted to do in his life. It was symbolic, too, because he loved gardening. I also realized that – as my father had described them – the family’s appearances represented their time on the other side. His father had died in 1969, so his spirit had time to metamorphose into what was a familiar figure. His mother and Amparo had only died a few years earlier. Teresa and Jesse and arrived on that side the year before, so their spirits hadn’t had enough time to take shape into people he’d recognize. He only knew it was them because they each spoke to him.

I don’t believe the human soul has any definite shape, color or mass. It’s not like what we see here. I’m also much more spiritual, even though I started off the memorial service with the Lord’s Prayer. I want to pray to my father to help me through the ensuing difficulties with my mother. He’s just begun his transition into that new life, however; so I don’t want to disturb him too much. Allow me to be greedy, though. I miss him terribly. My heart still aches, but I’m more at ease now than I have been in over this past week.

On Sunday night, June 5, my father kept pointing forward and uttering something. After a minute or so, I finally understood what he was saying, “Door.” There was a door in front of him; not the bedroom door. That other door. He was finally able to step through it. And that’s what needed to happen. At some point in time, we all step through that door. No one really dies. The body perishes, but the good souls remain alive.

My father and me in 1966.

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Tagged as death, George De La Garza, hope, life, love, spirit, spirituality, transition

May 20, 2016 · 10:36 PM

The Alphabet of Me

A is for adamant. I have a certain view of how my life should function and I refuse to relinquish it. It’s how I’ve survived all these years without going crazy and killing myself. I don’t impose my ideals on others, though. I’ve had that done to me and sometimes I’d obey; thinking if I did what others thought I should do, they’d like me. It never worked! So I stopped doing that shit. Other people’s rules don’t apply to me.

B is for barrier. I’ve placed too many barriers in front of me; impediments of my own making; excuses to prevent me from taking unnecessary risks and possibly hurting myself. I’ve told myself I can’t do X because of Y. Or worst, because someone else told me I can’t or shouldn’t do it. So, I’ve finally learned to knock down those barriers.

C is for curious. I’ve always been curious about the world around me, even if I feared it most of the time. I’ve wondered why hurricanes form and why dogs move in circles several times before laying down. I wonder why most people are assholes and refuse to get along, when the alternative is constant yelling and fighting. When I get curious about human nature, I become frustrated. So, I start thinking about dogs and hurricanes. At least they have a reason for being the way they are.

D is for depression. It’s one of the ugliest words in the English language. It’s been a constant, demonic companion in my life. It’s robbed me of life’s simple pleasures more times than I can count. It’s held me back from taking the chances I needed to move forward. It’s kept me in bed or drunk, when I should be out doing something good for myself. It’s almost killed me – several times. It’s still there; lurking in the back of my psyche like a dormant flu virus. But I finally stood up to it and beat the fucker back down into the gutter where it belongs.

E is for education. I feel this is the single most important factor in any civilized society. Odd, considering I dropped out of college in the late 1980s and didn’t return until almost 20 years later to earn my college degree. But, I did it. And, my education didn’t end when I finished that last class. It continues. I’m still learning. I’ll always keep my mind open to new experiences and different things.

F is for fear. There it is again – fear of the unknown; fear of people; fear of taking chances. Fear has been the other unwanted companion that just won’t leave me alone. It’s taken almost my entire life to learn to smack that thing down into oblivion. Still, on occasion, it extends a grimy finger upwards and points at me. It still tries to intimidate me. But now, it’s all been turned upside down. Fear is scared of me.

G is for glaring. The truth about people and things is often glaringly obvious to me. Why don’t others see the various and sundry colors of the world, instead of just the grays? Some folks look at me like I’m crazy. But I just have my own unique view of my surroundings and the people who occupy it. More importantly, I no longer expect people to think and feel exactly as I do.

H is for health. After seeing an aunt battle with cancer in the late 1980s and a friend ravaged by AIDS just a few years later, my physical and mental health became paramount. Few other things matter as much. For years, however, I had a handle on my physical health. I lifted weights, jogged regularly and did some basic calisthenics almost every weekday morning before heading out to work. It took a while longer, though, to get a grip on my psychological welfare. I know my body will grow tired, as I continue to age. But I refuse to get “old.” That’s more a state of mind.

I is for introvert. It used to upset me so much. I had such a hard time making friends. I just couldn’t get too many people to like me. I felt, for so many years, that I was defective. Something was wrong, I kept telling myself; something wrong with me. But now, I embrace that attribute. It’s me; it’s who I am. I am just quiet and insulated. I’m a reader and a thinker; not a showman. I don’t have to make a spectacle of myself anymore to feel important. That introverted attribute generates a slew of story ideas and compels me to write and to read.

J is for jaded – as in cynical. You get that way after a half century of experiencing life’s bullshit; enduring years of being shoved around because you won’t conform to others’ expectations. I’m jaded as in bitter; bitter that it took me so long to realize I’m important and have much to offer this world. But, at this point in time, that jaded personality has given me a more clear view of life.

K is for kill. If I killed everybody who pissed me off, I’d be the world’s worst serial murderer. Then again, who wouldn’t? Part of being introverted and jaded is that I don’t like people much. I’ve always said the more I get to know people, the more I like my dog. Animals are cool; most people are assholes. But, I couldn’t waste my time killing anyone. I don’t want to spend that much gas money driving out to secluded locations to bury the bodies. I have stories to write!

L is for lost. Growing up so shy and timid I often felt lost in a world of bullies and cool kids. Now, I feel lost in a world of idiots. So I get lost in my world of reading, writing, music and good wine.

M is for meticulous. I’m a very detail-oriented person. Some people like that about me, especially at work; others find it annoying. People don’t have a certain place in society, but objects do.

N is for nearby. I keep the memory of long-gone loved ones close to me. People who helped raise me and had an impact on my life reside in my heart and my soul. I won’t let them drift away. I can’t. I can’t turn my back on them just because they’re no longer physically present on Earth. They’ll be the ones to come get me when my own life expires.

O is for ordinary. As difficult as I am to get to know – this, according to my own parents – I consider myself rather ordinary. I’m not handsome and I don’t have the perfect physique. I certainly no a genius, but I’m intelligent and well-educated. I do consider myself a very good writer, so on that level, I’m somewhat extraordinary. Writing is the one part about me in which I’m 100% confident. Otherwise, I’m an ordinary individual trying to live a relatively ordinary life.

P is for past. I’ve dwelled on it too often. I always wanted to make things better – things that happened a while back and can’t be altered now. I’d spend – waste – so much time thinking about the past. You do that a lot, when you grow up shy. People always seemed to take advantage of me and get the best of my mind and soul. So, even though I finally stopped doing that to myself, I occasionally have trouble breaking free of the past. Pulling my mind away from way back there and keeping it in the here and now.

Q is for quiet. Teachers and other adults always said I was quiet as a child. I’m still somewhat quiet. Now, it depends more on the situation than on my desire to stay out of trouble. If I’m quiet, that usually means I’m listening; sometimes plotting. What’s wrong with that? No one needs to be loud and obnoxious. Those who feel the need to be that way actually need to be smacked. As a writer, I relish the quiet; the solitude; the isolation. I’m quiet because I’m observing the people around me – and trying to figure out how their personas would fit into one of my stories.

R is for rebellious. Yes, I’ve always been quiet. But, I’m also rebellious. Quietly rebellious – as oxymoronic as that sounds. I don’t like to make a scene, unless I become enraged. It always startles the crap out of people when that happens. But I’m generally a silent rebel. My parents wanted me to study computer science, or anything related to computers. I wanted to be a writer. They equated that with being a bum; thus I started studying computer programming in college – just to please them. But my inner self said no; that’s not who you are. You’re a writer. Now, I’m a technical writer by day and a creative writer by night. Ironically, I’ve had to become a computer aficionado to engage in both tasks. Either way I’m still a writer. I rebelled against my parents’ desired plans for my future – quietly.

S is for smart. I’m smarter than I look. I like to read, so I know a lot; a lot of different things. Things like arctic hurricane is the formal name for a blizzard. Things like Polynesians in the South Pacific sometimes have blond hair, not because some European sailor got shipwrecked on an island 300 years ago and then got lonely, but because there’s a genetic trait among them that produces fair-colored locks. I’m smart because I understand human nature, even if I don’t like people that much. I’m smart because I know the environment is worth saving and not from a politically correct standpoint. I’m smart because I’ve been around and listen and observe more than I talk.

T is for tender. I have a good heart – physically and emotionally. My disdain for human beings notwithstanding, I still have compassion for people in general; mainly children and the disabled. I certainly have a tender spot for animals. Yes, that’s kind of odd to hear from someone with a leather fetish and a taste for vodka.

U is for underappreciated. Once more, growing up in a cocoon of timidity, I always felt underappreciated. It also means underpaid, and the two are usually interconnected. Showing someone respect is showing your appreciation for them. For example, I always try to remember people on their birthdays. To hell with Christmas or Valentine’s Day! Those are easy to recall. But, if you really want to show someone you care about them, or at least acknowledge their presence on Earth, wish them a ‘Happy Birthday.’ They’ll appreciate that more than ‘Merry Christmas.’

V is for various. I like a variety of things. My blog, as well as my writings, reflect that. I like different foods, different genres of literature and different styles of music. I have definite opinions on various subjects; some of which seem contradictory. I urge people to vote, for example, but I despise most politicians.

W is for weird. I’m a writer. I’m just weird. They’re symbiotic elements – ying and yang. They just go together. Only other writers will understand. But, whereas I once cringed at the mere hint of being dubbed weird, I now celebrate it. Actually, it’s pretty normal for me. Other people are the ones who think I’m weird. They just don’t understand. And, that’s fine.

X is for X-ray. Sometimes, I’ll expose my true self to people, so they can see who I really am. Those who think I’m weak will see the strength deep inside me. Others who think I’m cold and calculating will see the clown figure that lies beneath the rigid exterior. That’s not a common occurrence, though. I rarely let people get inside me like that.

Y is for yes – as in a restrained yes. I won’t say yes to just anything. I’m too cautious. I’ll say yes to saving an injured animal; yes to good vodka; yes to dancing to my favorite music. I reserve my yeses for the most important elements of life.

Z is for zeal – a zest for reading and writing. Well, I guess that’s two words for this one letter. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, though, my passion for the written word is boundless. We writers have to possess such an innate desire to sit down and drop words onto paper or a computer. It can be exciting and rewarding, but quite often, it’s frustrating and disappointing.

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Tagged as alphabet, emotions, life, literature, personality, sentiments, thoughts, writing

May 8, 2016 · 11:49 PM

“Birth of a Flower” (1910)

We modern movie-goers are so accustomed to visual effects in films that it’s almost difficult to imagine the awe people felt when they first witnessed such things as traveling shots and fade-outs. But, just as soon as moving pictures became a new form of entertainment at the start of the 20^th century, some creative individuals began pushing it to new levels. One was Percy Smith, a London native who found his career as an educator boring and unfulfilling. He turned to the medium of film by going to work for Charles Urban, another cinematic pioneer, before creating his own films. Smith began experimenting with a variety of innovative techniques. Among them was time-lapse.

In 1910 Smith shot the world’s first time-lapse film, Birth of a Flower, which showed an array of different flowers blossoming. It became an international sensation. Smith’s name may have been lost to movie history, but his desire to stretch filmmaking into unknown regions helped transform a novelty into an art form.

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Tagged as Birth of a Flower, Charles Urban, cinema, early 20th century technology, early films, filmmaking, Percy Smith, silent movies, time lapse photography

May 8, 2016 · 4:56 PM

Happy Mother’s Day 2016!

“If evolution really works, how come mothers only have two hands?”

– Milton Berle

“Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we’ve ever met.”

– Marguerite Duras

“When your mother asks, ‘Do you want a piece of advice?’ it’s a mere formality. It doesn’t matter if you answer yes or no. You’re going to get it anyway.”

– Erma Bombeck

“Mother – that was the bank where we deposited all our hurts and worries.”

– Thomas Dewitt Talmage

“My mother had a good deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it.”

– Mark Twain

“I want my children to have all the things I couldn’t afford. Then I want to move in with them.”

– Phyllis Diller

“My mother’s menu consisted of two choices: Take it or leave it.”

– Buddy Hackett

“Mother Nature, in her infinite wisdom, has instilled within each of us a powerful biological instinct to reproduce; this is her way of assuring that the human race, come what may, will never have any disposable income.”

– Dave Barry

“If your kids are giving you a headache, follow the directions on the aspirin bottle, especially the part that says ‘keep away from children’.”

– Susan Savannah

“A suburban mother’s role is to deliver children obstetrically once, and by car forever after.”

– Peter De Vries

Image courtesy: Love Statues

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April 23, 2016 · 2:00 AM

Joy and Jasmine and Everything They Once Were

“Are you girls okay?” Giselle propped her arms on her hips and cocked her head.

The girls – Joy and Jasmine – had been acting more peculiar than usual all week long. Cats were the oddest of creatures, Giselle reminded herself; her Siamese twins being no exception.

Joy and Jasmine often perched their wiry, milky-white frames atop something – the antique dresser, the entertainment center, or the highest shelf in the den where they were now – whenever they wanted to be alone. Like all the cats she’d had in the past, Giselle knew feline personalities could be as fickle as they could be subdued.

Yet, as she stood in the den, staring up at her adopted children, Giselle noted – once again – that they appeared to be more intellectual than she previously thought was normal, or even possible. Their eyes, the bluest she’d ever seen on anyone (human or animal), gave the impression they were actually thinking; they seemed to possess some degree of cognitive function. But she always got the feeling the cats were waiting for something. Or, someone.

Then it dawned on her. They missed Robert. They were his babies, too. He’d been out of town for three weeks; this being the last phase of a year-long project for the engineering firm.

“Daddy will be home tomorrow night,” said Giselle, her hands clasped in front of her.

The girls remained still on the top shelf of the built-in bookcase, like a pair of porcelain antiques; identical and priceless, stoically beautiful, the perfect accoutrements to the array of chintz pillows and terracotta statuettes Giselle had scattered throughout their newly-purchased home.

But, yes, Giselle thought, they missed Robert. “Okay then,” she said with a skewered grin. “I’ll be going to bed in a few minutes.”

She turned off the two lamps in the den and gave Joy and Jasmine one final, loving glance. Their eyes glowed softly, a quartet of azure orbs.

The house sat at the end of a short road, backing up against a tree-cluttered mound, which tumbled down into a shallow stream and back up towards an old farm-to-market road. A four-bedroom ranch-style abode with a driveway that snaked around a thick magnolia tree to the garage had stood vacant for almost four years, the realtor, Carlene, had told them; since it was in such an odd location. The couple who’d owned it previously had suddenly left, and the county had trouble locating them. “They split up,” Carlene added, “and moved to two different states. I think the IRS was after them. They owed back taxes.”

Eventually, authorities found the duo. Once they’d been set up on a payment plan, a county judge appointed an independent counselor to oversee sale of the house. Carlene was merely trying to sell it and get it off the county’s hands. But it was still a gorgeous house.

Giselle and Robert Fernandez ogled at the area, able to hear the stream murmuring in the distance, and found nothing odd about it. “It’s perfect,” Giselle crooned, as Robert wrapped his beefy arms around her. They were standing on the walkway; already enchanted with the simple charm of the house and its rustic setting.

Carlene stood nearby, beaming with shared happiness; her petite frame perched atop a pair of shoes with excessively high heels. “Oh, I’m so glad ya’ two like it!” Her southern drawl poured over them like honey mixed with syrup and brown sugar.

That’s when Giselle first saw the cats; Siamese cats – almost identical. They sat alongside the driveway, side-by-side and partially obscured by the magnolia tree. They seemed to be looking at her, and Giselle’s heart sank.

It had been almost a year since she and Robert had put down their last cat; about eight months after the other one turned up dead at the foot of their bed. Not a good way to start a Monday morning. They had already begun their house hunt – and vowed not to get anymore pets for a while.

A while arrived sooner than expected. The cats kept showing up near the driveway. Giselle tried several times to entice them to come with her. But, each time, they’d scamper towards the rear of the house.

Then, one Saturday afternoon, Robert came back from a jog around the neighborhood, and the cats followed him to the front door. They looked more haggard than before. With a mild beckoning flip of his hand, Robert got them to go into the house ahead of him.

They managed to give the cats a quick bath – without getting scratched or bitten; an oddity unto itself, Giselle mused, knowing felines and water don’t mix well. They gave the scrawny duo some milk and sat back to discuss what to do next. Call the city pound? A local animal shelter? Giselle was more ready to give them up than Robert. They had too much to do with the house, she reiterated.

Then, for no particular reason, he abruptly named them Joy and Jasmine. From a distance, they truly looked like twins. But Joy’s ears were darker; the only real way to tell them apart. Joy was also somewhat more aggressive. But their quirky, unimposing personalities worked their way into the young couple’s hearts, and – as unexpected as the adoption was – they didn’t mind. And they decided not to give them up.

Amidst their chaotic schedules with work and refurbishing the house, Giselle and Robert made the time to take the girls to a local veterinarian to get some basic, necessary shots. A short time later, they had the cats neutered by the same veterinarian. The doctor noticed one curious thing, though; she couldn’t determine how old the cats were.

“Their teeth make them look to be about 10,” she said. “But, physiologically, they’re around 5 or 6. They don’t have any signs of arthritis or heart trouble.” She just couldn’t understand how they were each about ten years of age, yet “not show it on the inside.”

Joy and Jasmine quickly became fond of Robert, lounging on either side of him the few times he sat on the couch to watch TV, or cuddled up at the foot of the bed – closer to him. Giselle didn’t feel ignored. She was glad to get some stray animals off the street and give them a good home.

Occasionally, however, the girls displayed their aloofness by climbing atop something and remaining there for the longest time. Just like they were doing now.

Giselle carried a glass of water into the bedroom and took a shower. After smothering her body in lotion, she donned an oversized Dallas Cowboys tee shirt and was leaning over the bathroom sink, trying to pluck a renegade eyelash from her left eye, when the bedroom lights flickered and then, shut off. They came back on within seconds.

She waited a moment, but nothing happened. The bedroom lamps had been doing that a lot recently. At night Giselle would be in the bathroom or the closet – and, on one occasion, sitting up in bed reading – when the lights shuddered and then went out. But they always came back on immediately afterwards.

She stood poised over the sink, though; wondering if someone had broken into the house. She searched the bathroom for a makeshift weapon and found it in the form of a heavy shampoo bottle. Only then did she realize that the bathroom light was still on, while the rest of the house was dark. She didn’t want to ponder that curiosity any longer, so she turned off the bathroom light and inched her tiny frame into the bedroom; one hand clutching the shampoo bottle.

Something else came to mind. Then she heard that sound. Distant – giggling. She crept to a window behind a nightstand. She didn’t want to turn off the lamp or stand in front of it. She could hear them – right outside the house. Little kids giggling.

She was certain they were the neighbor’s children; a quartet of rug-rats who stormed through the area like rabid squirrels. Other neighbors had complained about them.

Why they’d be running around outside at night was beyond Giselle’s comprehension. “Do you hear that?” she asked Robert one night.

He listened. “Um…no.”

“That laughing. Little kids laughing. They’re sneaking around outside.”

“At this time of night?”

“Yes!”

Robert usually had good hearing, but he never heard those kids running around outside in the middle of the night. Joy and Jasmine could surely hear them, Giselle thought. They always disappeared somewhere into the house at night; especially when the kids started their nocturnal excursions. Maybe the kids had found the cats at one point a while back, Giselle surmised, and tortured them. When her younger brother kicked a neighbor’s dog, Giselle – age 12 and all of 4’0” – smacked his face hard enough to make him cry and bleed at the same time. Whenever she heard the neighbors’ kids bouncing around outside late at night, she clenched her hands; certain the vermin had harmed Joy and Jasmine at some point. It’s why the cats had grown desperate to get into the house, Giselle told herself, knowing they’d be safe.

When she saw the neighbors leaving one Saturday afternoon, Giselle – crouched before a flower bed, potting soil spread almost to her elbows – scoured at them. They didn’t notice her – thankfully; or they’d see the daggers flying from her eyes. The elderly lady who lived across the street with her invalid husband – the first people in the neighborhood Giselle and Robert came to know – also happened to be in her own front yard, clutching a water hose and gazing at the family of six. The elderly couple were the only people who conversed with Giselle and Robert for any considerable length. Other neighbors weren’t so loquacious; nothing beyond a wave, perhaps followed with a ‘hello.’

Giselle turned back to the flower bed she was hoping to resuscitate. “Little fuckers,” she muttered into the dirt. She thought of her girls again. How dare you hurt them!

She began moving towards the bed, when a thick mat of fur scraped against her ankles. “Oh, God!” The shampoo bottle fell to the floor.

The bedroom lights suddenly came on again, startling her again. She returned the shampoo to its place in the shower stall and started looking for the girls. She called for them. The house was silent. As she came to the end of the hallway, something else brushed against her; coming from either side. She hopped back with a sharp scream. “Goddammit!” She retreated to the bedroom, certain someone else was in the house, and crept back into the hall with a baseball bat.

A faint, high-pitched noise made her look down. Joy and Jasmine stood a few feet away. “Oh, God!” Giselle moaned, her shoulders dropping as she exhaled. “Girls.” She caressed their heads; knowing the cats were still growing accustomed to the house. She couldn’t get mad at them; she certainly couldn’t blame them for her overreactions. She laughed, as she dropped the bat back into the closet.

She glanced back down the hall. They’d disappeared again. Where was their hiding place? She grinned. Anywhere! She laughed aloud at her own anxiety and returned to bed.

Seeing Robert sitting with the girls in his lap was as pleasant to Giselle as it was curious. He kept staring into their eyes, and – from what Giselle could tell – they were gazing back. His lips would move at times. Giselle couldn’t hear what he was saying, but felt he must be reassuring the girls they were safe in this house.

“That patch of grass is dead,” Robert said. He and Giselle stood in the back yard late one Sunday afternoon.

She could still smell the wood of the newly-erected, eight-foot-high fence. For weeks Robert would come out there and stand in this one spot, just staring at the ground. She’d be busy with the rest of the yard, when she’d catch him towering over that one area.

He was right, though. Amidst the expanse of vibrant green grass, this one small patch towards the back of the yard stood out because of its beige coloring. It looked as if some alien beings had descended upon the property and began carving out crop circles, before realizing they wouldn’t have enough room.

Giselle looked at Robert. He seemed more upset by it. Not just annoyed, she thought, but…disturbed.

“Well,” he finally said. “I guess I’ll just have to dig it up and plant some new grass.” He had just finished mowing the lawn and was tired.

But he was back outside the following evening, again standing over that one brown-grass area. Just staring at it. Occasionally picking at it with a hand, or rubbing his toes against it. Wandering around it, cocking his head in different directions; like a puppy inspecting a new toy.

“Just replace it,” Giselle said one evening, after Robert had come back inside.

“Yeah, I will.” He took a sip of water and mumbled, “When it’s time.” He headed towards the bedroom.

“‘When it’s time’?” Giselle repeated.

“You’re both so pretty,” she heard Robert say. He sat in the den, the cats in his lap. Giselle wasn’t really listening, but she suddenly could hear him. “You’re okay. You’re safe here with us.”

Giselle grinned. Just as she suspected.

“You’ll always be safe,” Robert continued. “No one can ever hurt you again.”

On the following Saturday she stood in the utility room, sorting through laundry, when Robert entered. She didn’t hear him; the steady hum of the dryer being so abrasively loud. He’d been fidgeting with his laptop. “Oh hey, babe,” she said.

He almost bumped into her – as if she wasn’t there – and entered the garage.

It was so unlike him that Giselle couldn’t say anything. She watched from the doorway as Robert grabbed a ladder and proceeded up into the attic. It was only accessible through a square opening near the door. Robert propped the ladder against the wall, again seemingly oblivious to her presence on the other side of the metallic apparatus. “What – ?” she started to ask.

She could hear him in the attic space just above the utility room; rumbling around with the gracefulness of a giant boar. “What are you doing?” she asked into the ceiling. She noticed Joy and Jasmine perched at the opposite end of the utility room, closer to the kitchen.

A few moments later Robert ambled back down the ladder; carefully balancing himself while cradling a beige shoe box under one arm. He dropped it on the floor and replaced the ladder. He swept up the box, as he reentered the utility room – again seeming to ignore his wife – and sat down at the kitchen table.

The cats had left.

“What is this?” Giselle asked, pointing to the box.

“I – uh – I don’t know, really,” he replied with a smile. He had removed the lid and was rummaging through its meager contents. “I just had an idea to look up there.”

“Why?”

“I – don’t know. I just did.”

The box bore a few photographs and a handful of papers; the latter yellow and crinkled.

Giselle and Robert sifted through the single stack of photos – all five of them. One had a group of children gathered on a patio; another displayed the kids on a couch; one featured two little girls wearing identical dresses standing against a fence; one had a blurry image of a smiling young woman, captured as if she was in mid-stride, her over-sized sunglasses creating heavy shadows on her face; and the last showed a man and a woman standing beside a pick-up truck in a driveway.

“Who are these people?” Giselle asked.

“I don’t know,” Robert mumbled.

The handwriting on the papers was too faint and illegible to comprehend.

Robert continued flipping through the pictures – over and over – for several minutes, as if hoping to find some new detail.

His intensity began to annoy Giselle. “So…what’s this all about?”

He kept perusing the photos and looking at the papers.

“Robert?”

“Yeah.”

She tilted her head forward, closer to his face. “What is this?”

He sighed. “I don’t know.”

“How did you know this stuff was here?”

He sighed again; a sound more of empathy than frustration. “I…I don’t know. I just had the idea to look up there. I didn’t – I didn’t know this stuff was there.” He kept shaking his head, as if uncertain of his own actions. “Weird,” he finally said, packing everything back into the box. He dropped a light kiss onto her cheek, before leaving with the box.

Giselle started after him and stopped when she heard the girls scuttle past. She barely caught a glimpse of their tails, as they took off in the same direction as Robert. Their sudden presence startled her. She fidgeted her fingertips together, listening to the dryer hum.

On Sunday night Giselle drove Robert back to the airport for another business trip; this one scheduled to last only three days. The following evening she busied herself with a few crossword puzzles and finally completed an aging history book that she’d actually first tried to read in college. She placed the dusty tome back on a shelf and was surprised to see the girls when she turned around. “Hey, girls!” she said with a smile. She squatted down to caress their heads. Their fur felt unusually cool. “Are you okay?”

They didn’t answer her; they were just enjoying the massage.

Her phone rang. It was Robert. “Hey, babe.”

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Good! How are things there?”

“Eh – kind of gloomy. It’s been threatening to rain since last night. But it’s just been cool and windy.”

“Oh, well –”

“Listen, can you do me a favor? Not right now – it’s too dark outside.”

“Uh – yeah, sure.”

“Can you check out in the back yard and look at the spot where the grass is brown. You know that one little area closer to the back side of the fence?”

“Uh – yes. Why?”

“Can you just check and see if there’s anything odd under there?”

Odd? “Like what?”

He was silent.

“Like what?”

“Um – just – uh – just see if the ground feels funny.”

See if the ground feels funny? “What do you mean?”

“Um – I don’t know.”

“Okay…I still don’t know what you’re saying. What – what’s with the ground out there? What do you mean ‘feels funny’?”

“I don’t know. Just – uh – just see if there’s like a bump of some kind right underneath that piece of grass.”

“Okay,” she muttered after a second.

“I keep thinking there’s a tree stump buried there. You know – maybe the previous owners had cut down a tree and didn’t really remove the stump.”

“Oh, okay.” That actually makes sense, she mused. “I guess that could be dangerous, huh?”

“Yeah, it could.”

They both relaxed and talked a little more. He told her he was lounging on the bed in his hotel room, butt naked with a steely erection; thinking about her. He just wanted to get the “funny ground” issue out of the way first.

She wanted to start up on another book, as she dropped into bed, but decided against it. She had a meeting at 8:30 the following morning. But, as she lay in bed, staring at the crown molding and the ceiling fan, she couldn’t help but think of Robert’s curious request. ‘Feels funny’? What the hell was that all about? Joy and Jasmine had curled up at the foot of the bed; an unusual spot for them, considering Robert wasn’t here.

Then she heard a faint giggle pipe through the bedroom window. “Oh, goddammit!” She sat up, staring hard at the drapes. She heard another one and yet another; finally leaping out of bed and turning on the side lamp almost simultaneously. “Stupid kids!” She peeked out of through one side of the drapes, enough to see out towards the neighbor’s house, but not enough to be seen.

Nothing. The neighbor’s bushes languished in a deep shade of blue.

She turned to shut off the light – bypassing the empty bed – and stepped back to the window. Even with the bedroom darkened, nothing outside the house caught her attention. She switched the lamp back on, smirked at the empty bed and sauntered into the bathroom.

The lamp shut off.

She dropped her shoulders with an exaggerated sigh. The lamp had been functioning oddly. It wasn’t the light bulb: she’d checked that more than once.

The light came back on.

A few moments later, she stood at the sink, patting her hands dry and wondered if the sudden irritation in her left eye was a lash. She leaned forward, towards the mirror.

The bedroom went dark.

She slowly lowered her hand, keeping her gaze on the mass of darkness behind her; framed only by the bathroom doorway. She felt a coldness roll up her back and onto her shoulders. This wasn’t the neighbor kids running around outside acting stupid. Someone had entered the house, she thought.

Again, she searched for a makeshift weapon and found it in one of her combs. She crept back into the bedroom and looked down the hall. She suspected for a moment the power had gone out. But the bathroom light was still on. She proceeded to the closet and grabbed a baseball bat; tossing the comb onto the bed. She would have picked up one of Robert’s shotguns perched in the back of the closet, but she didn’t know if it was loaded and didn’t care to take time to find out.

She moved down the hall and reached for the light switch. The light wouldn’t come on. A shuffling noise a few feet away prompted her to search briefly for the cats. She tried the light switch again, and the hall lamp illuminated.

Enough to catch something dart passed her.

Enough to make her stop blinking and breathing for a few seconds. The light shut off. She flicked the switch several more times, but the hall remained dark.

She finally took a deep breath and cocked her head towards the ceiling. “Damnit!” she muttered, wondering how she must look – standing in a darkened hallway of her own home, wearing an oversized Dallas Cowboys tee shirt and holding a baseball bat. She moved into the front room, just a few feet from the main entrance.

The hall light re-illuminated.

She glanced over her shoulder; curiosity mixed with frustration. She turned on a lamp in the den and scanned the quiet area. When she wheeled back around, Joy and Jasmine sat in the middle of the hall. “Well…there you two are.”

They cocked their heads, as if they didn’t know why she was surprised. Or pretending not to know.

Once back in her bedroom, Giselle dropped the baseball bat into the closet. The girls curled beside one another at the foot of the bed, forming something of a crescent shape. Giselle slowly climbed back into bed and turned off the side lamp; making only a quick note that the bathroom light had already been turned off.

When Robert returned home, Joy and Jasmine couldn’t stay away from him.

Giselle approached the three of them, as they sat on an easy chair. “Well, look who’s become daddy’s girls.” She reached out to tickle the cats’ ears. They snarled at her, causing Giselle’s entire arm to snap back into her torso, like a measuring tape being recoiled. She stood up straight, her mouth contorted in both shock and annoyance. “What the hell!”

Robert – who had been staring at the girls all this time – merely threw an equally irksome glance at his wife. That evening he hovered around the brownish patch of grass in the back yard for several minutes. Giselle could only stand at a kitchen window and try to make sense of his behavior.

Then the girls suddenly darted towards him; coming from somewhere near the house. Their abrupt presence – outside, of all places – startled Giselle. The cats hadn’t been outside the house since she and Robert had taken them in – at least not by themselves. They didn’t want to take the chance the girls would become feral again and end up lost or, worse, in the hands of some wicked children. Like the kids next door.

She started towards the door, but returned to the window. The girls had trotted up to Robert and started trolling that same patch of brown grass. He squatted down to caress their heads. She saw his lips moving. Although their backs were to her, Giselle could tell the cats were listening to Robert. He then began running his hands along the brownish grass, before caressing the girls’ heads and talking to them again. It looked like he was saying more to them than to Giselle in the two days he’d been home.

He finally stood and marched back into the house. He went directly to the office. Giselle followed him and was surprised to see him rifling through that dusty shoe box. “Robert…what’s going on?”

“Something.”

“What?”

“Just something.” He fiddled through the pictures. “Here,” he muttered, more to himself. “Here they are.”

“Who?”

He dropped the pictures and strode back into the garage, almost brushing against Giselle.

“What – ?! Robert!” Only when she arrived in the garage did she realize the girls hadn’t followed him into the house. “Wait a minute. Where are the – ? Where are Joy and Jasmine?”

Robert stripped off his tee shirt, grabbed a drain spade shovel and hurried back outside. Again, Giselle followed him, but she stopped just outside the patio. He proceeded to that brown patch of grass and began digging.

“What – ?” She sighed loudly, but it dissipated into a heavy wind. “Robert!”

He repeatedly slammed the shovel into the grass and, within minutes, had dug it up. He kept digging, his torso and face already coated in sweat.

Giselle casually approached and began circling him the way she’d done when they first met at that July 4^th barbecue. All the other women had sauntered past him, trying to get his attention, as he talked with two other men. Robert was the best-looking man at the party, and Giselle immediately became determined to meet him. Her ploy had worked. He stopped talking to his friends – one of whom was the host – and smiled awkwardly at her.

This time, though, her circling movements went completely unnoticed. “Robert,” she said gently.

He kept slamming the spade into the dirt. A small mound had begun to form to his left; something like a newborn island volcano breaking the ocean’s surface.

“Robert.”

He kept digging. His gray khaki shorts had darkened with sweat.

“Robert!”

“What?!” He stopped, still breathing heavily, and looked at her.

“What in God’s name are you doing?!”

“I’m trying to find them!” He plunged the spade back into the small hole he’d created and pulled up more dirt.

“Find what?”

He kept digging; the mound growing higher; his breathing growing even heavier.

The sun had started to drop below the mass of trees behind the house. The modest blue of the sky metamorphosed into a deep purple, and the light breezes turned into a steady wind.

Robert continued angrily slamming the shovel into the dirt. And, just as Giselle was about to speak his name again, they heard a loud crack. A near-splintering of wood. The shovel had hit something harder than dirt. “Oh God,” Robert muttered. He moved some dirt with the shovel; more cautious now.

Giselle stepped forward, as Robert tossed the spade off to one side and squatted down. His eyes remain transfixed on the hole. And what was in it. Giselle leaned over, as Robert cleared away more dirt.

The shovel had struck an object, and as Robert dug more hurriedly – this time with his hands – she realized it was a box. A wooden box.

Finally, Robert was able to free the box. He tried picking it up, but it was either too heavy or it was stuck. As he strained his arms, the carotid arteries of his neck bulging with aggravation, the top of the box suddenly bolted loose. Robert tumbled backwards. The gritty wooden top rolled out of his hands and over the spade. He crouched back over the hole and paused for a moment; hot breaths spilling from his mouth.

Giselle looked down, her body trembling. The wind had intensified slightly, and she was getting cold.

The sky was the darkest shade of violet she’d ever seen.

A dirty cloth or sheet was stretched over the box.

Robert gently reached down and pulled it up.

Giselle heard the cats screech and whipped her head around. She didn’t see them. “Where are they?” she asked, partly to Robert and partly to the wind. “Where’d the girls go?”

Robert’s breathing had slowed. “Here,” he said.

“What? Where?”

He pointed to the box.

She peered down into it.

“They’re here,” he muttered. He loosely gestured to the bones in the box, still not looking at Giselle.

She felt colder, as she noticed two tiny human skulls.

“They’re here,” Robert murmured, breathing normally now. “They’re right here.”

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Filed under Wolf Tales

Tagged as cats, children, felines, girls, Giselle, grass, Jasmine, Joy, old photographs, old pictures, pets, Robert, show box, Siamese cats

April 17, 2016 · 8:17 PM

God Damned Texas

Well, hell! God must have, considering the gallery of lunatics the Lone Star State has put into public office in recent years! I can honestly say I’ve never been more embarrassed to be a Texan (or an American, if you look at the current presidential race) than I am now. I opined two years ago that I hope Ted Cruz runs for president and gets his ass slaughtered in the process. So far, he’s one of only three survivors in the Republican field. I eagerly await the political bloodbath at the GOP convention in Cleveland this summer. I have a perverted fascination with seeing arrogance publicly butchered. Cruz has made a number of incendiary comments, including that the United States will collapse into the fires of Satan’s lair because gay marriage is now legal – as opposed to the centuries of European-induced Indian genocide and Negro slavery where nothing so calamitous occurred. There are too many idiocies that came from his mouth to highlight here. I mean, I wouldn’t know where to begin! But one recent revelation is that he tried to uphold a state law banning the sale of sex toys, which he said safeguards “public morals”; adding that “police-power interests” are a tool (pun intended) in “discouraging prurient interests in sexual gratification, combating the commercial sale of sex, and protecting minors.” That’s right. Cruz believes police have the power to invade your home and yank a dildo out of your ass or vagina! All in the name of protecting children, of course. Like so many right-wingers here in Texas, Cruz is willing to move heaven and Earth to protect children from wayward sexuality, while ignoring the fact most of those children are uninsured. Priorities, people! Priorities!

Canadian-born, Cuban-Italian Cruz certainly isn’t the first Texas official to spout out such twisted logic. This state has a long history of generating some colorful characters. During the 1990 governor’s race, Republican oilman Clayton Williams said, among other gaffes, that bad weather was like rape; it’s inevitable, so you might as well lay back and enjoy it. As you might expect, the old bastard also insulted Blacks and Hispanics. But here’s the sad part: he garnered nearly 40% of the votes. Fortunately State Treasurer Ann Richards won. Unfortunately, she lost four years later to the grandest of all Texas political goofballs: George W. Bush. It’s around that time when Texas politics began sliding into the surreal – enough to make Salvador Dalí jealous.

But the past decade alone has seen the dramatic rise of Texas’ quirkiest politics stars. I now present the following three jewels of cluelessness.

Ken Paxton – The state Attorney General has been in legal trouble almost from the moment he was sworn into office. In July 2015, Paxton was indicted on felony charges for repeatedly breaking state securities laws during his tenure as a state lawmaker. Then a new charge that he deliberately misled investors in a technology company arose. Amid raising thousands of dollars from the investors, Paxton supposedly also received commissions – something he didn’t reveal and something that’s, you know, kind of illegal. His attorneys tried to get all the charges dropped, but the judge handling the matter refused and ordered Paxton to be arrested in Collin County, just north of Dallas. Paxton had to undergo the usual rigmarole of fingerprints and mug shots. Whenever people in Collin County, Texas are arrested, officials wrap a white towel around their necks before taking the requisite glory shot. But, because Paxton is a high-ranking state figure, he got the anticipated special treatment and was photographed sans towel. (Trying to be discreet, Paxton had met with William Mapp, one of the energy company’s co-founders at a Dairy Queen in McKinney, which is in Collin County, in the summer of 2011. According to most Texans, Dairy Queen is a step above Burger King.) While Paxton is currently trying to stop a group called Exxotica from staging a sexually-oriented exposition in Dallas this summer, news reports now reveal that Paxton is still paying top aides who left the attorney general’s office more than a month ago. The Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) is investigating the investment deal, and Exxotica is threatening to sue the city of Dallas, if it violates their contract to proceed with the exposition. I truly hope the SEC wins, and then, I’ll join them at the Exxotica convention.

Louie Gohmert – The East Texas congressman takes outlandishness to a new level. As with most right-wing political figures, Gohmert doesn’t want anyone telling him what to do with their guns, but he feels the urge to tell people what to do in their own bedrooms. Aside from his staunch opposition to abortion (a given trait among conservatives), he’s compared limiting the size of ammunition magazines to bestiality and opposes gays from serving in the military because they’d spend more time giving each other massages on the front lines than fighting. (What the hell’s wrong with massages?!) In light of President Obama’s election wins, Gohmert has co-sponsored a “birther” bill that would require presidential candidates to submit their birth certificates as proof of eligibility to run for the White House. Recently he opposed a bill that would have directed education funding to recruiter more women in the sciences by claiming it’s gender-biased and that even Martin Luther King would have opposed it. Not knowing when to shut the hell up, Gohmert went on to add that such a bill would have distracted Marie Curie’s research and put “millions and millions of lives” in jeopardy.

Sid Miller – Like most politicians, the state’s Agriculture Commissioner has a penchant for travel. And, like most politicians, he claims it’s all done in the name of state business, and therefore, he’s justified in charging taxpayers for his expenses. But the $2,000 he spent on a 2015 trip to Mississippi to compete in a rodeo for prize money probably doesn’t fall into the business category. He engaged in calf-roping events and won $880. He tried to explain the trip’s importance by claiming he had set up a “work meeting” with Mississippi’s agriculture commissioner and other business people. But wait! It gets weirder. Miller also may have charged Texas taxpayers the $1,000 it cost to fly to Oklahoma to visit an old friend, Michael Lonergan, a discredited Ohio doctor, for a “Jesus shot.” Yes, Miller – who apparently suffers from chronic back pain – needed the spirit of the Lord pumped into his tired body via a concoction of unknown ingredients that’s injected into the upper arm. Lonergan served prison time in Ohio for tax evasion and mail fraud, before relocating to Edmond, Oklahoma. Miller is reimbursing the state of Texas for the trip “out of an abundance of caution,” according to his spokeswoman. But the Texas Rangers, a state police agency, is still investigating. My idea of a “Jesus shot” is a heavy duty screwdriver made with Smirnoff citron vodka and a bottle of baby oil; then shouting, “Jesus!” as I wipe my face. I have videos in exchange for contributions to a charity of my choice – mainly my freelance writing fund.

Miller spent $55,000 decorating his office.

Mary Lou Bruner – The 69-year-old retired teacher is seeking to be the next president of the Texas State School Board, the entity that has made all of Texas the literal laughingstock of the nation. Bruner subscribes to the usual right-wing ideology: the Earth is only about 6,000 years old; there was a man named Noah who built a massive ark and that dinosaurs were among its passengers; climate change science is leftist bullshit; and 20^th century liberals rewrote the history of the Civil War only to make it look like slavery was the root cause.

But, among her myriad Facebook rants is this lovely tidbit: “Obama has a soft spot for homosexuals because of the years he spent as a male prostitute in his twenties. That is how he paid for his drugs. He has admitted he was addicted to drugs when he was young, and he is sympathetic to homosexuals; but he hasn’t come out of the closet about his own homosexual / bisexual background. He hasn’t quite evolved that much! Since he supports gay marriage, he should be proud of his background as a homosexual/bisexual. He is against everything else Christians stand for, he might as well be for infidelity.”

Facebook forcibly deleted that post, and even some of Obama’s most ardent critics here and across the country thought that went too far. Of all the disrespectful crap lodged at our first biracial president, that’s the most slanderous. As far as I can tell, though, she’s never apologized for it. A spokeswoman for the Cherokee County, Texas Republican Party dismissed the response to Bruner as excessive; describing her as “a nice older lady who doesn’t understand social media and the impact that it can have.”

No one has to “understand social media” to realize calling somebody a prostitute and a drug addict is offensive and just plain stupid. Do you need a PhD in astronomy to understand that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west? What’s worst, however, is that – given Texas’ dismal voting record – Bruner stands a good chance of actually winning that coveted seat on the school board.

There’s also a good chance Paxton and Miller will both remain in office. In the U.S., a true double standard exists when it comes to elected officials facing criminal charges. People are routinely thrown in jail for possessing a pinch of marijuana or talking back to a police officer. Sandra Bland, anyone? But use your official power to skirt the system? Well… that’s up for discussion. I have no hope for the future, but will keep writing to avoid a visit from the FBI.

Although Texas gave the nation – and the world – Dick Cheney and Enron, it also produced the U.S. space program, Buddy Holly, Janis Joplin, ZZ Top, Beyoncé, Eva Longoria, frozen margaritas, Shiner Bock, Whole Foods Market, silicone breast implants and, of course, Chief Writing Wolf. So, things aren’t that bad down here!

On a side note, I really do plan to patronize Exxotica and display my version of the “Jesus shot”: a bathtub filled with Mike’s HARD Lemonade; a liter of Red Bull; a sounding rod; heated Vaseline and a high-definition video camera. I’ll email copies to Bruner and Cruz to show what they’re missing while campaigning. After all, politics is bad for both body and soul. Yee-hah!

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April 17, 2016 · 12:40 AM

Why My Dog Is a Tax Deductible Expense

“Come a little closer. I dare you.”

I decided at the start of this year to use the costs associated with the care of Wolfgang as a tax deduction. A little background is necessary. I adopted Wolfgang from a dilapidated former roommate thirteen years ago. Tom* had gotten him in August 2002 to replace a much-loved dog of the same breed he had to put to sleep. By the end of that year, however, Tom realized he could no longer care for the new puppy, and I realized I no longer could stop plotting to get rid of Tom by making it look like a game of pool and tequila shots gone wrong. He’d have to give him up. I couldn’t bear the thought of it. I’d already grown too attached to the little furball and feared he’d end up in a home with someone more irresponsible. Tom left in January, and the puppy stayed. I renamed him Wolfgang.

He’s supposedly a miniature schnauzer, but I realized almost immediately that he’s an undiscovered species of canid: a miniature wolf. Neither the Smithsonian nor the National Geographic Society has responded to my requests for a detailed analysis. At first glance, he looks like any other small dog – cute and adorable. But that’s part of the inborn ruse. A closer examination, however, reveals the monster lurking behind the pools of dark chocolate known as his eyes and the fluffy silver and white hairs coating his face. A serial rabbit killer, Wolfgang has terrorized more squirrels than the German shepherd I had decades ago. A deep, loud voice resides within his little throat; another coy, inborn trick to make the unsuspecting believe they’re standing just feet from a coyote. He is 22 pounds of raw, canine angst.

But he has become my savior in so many ways. As I struggled with my freelance and creative writing careers, I realized the value Wolfgang adds to my professional life. He is my therapist, focus group and lifestyle consultant. He is the only one who truly understands why I say and do what I say and do, and therefore, is the only one who reserves the right to criticize me for it all. He truly comprehends the reasoning behind my deliriously twisted stories. He sees the genius of my mind; whereas others would see a psychiatric trauma case, a recovering Catholic or a porn star reject. And, since we’re all bearing our souls here, I fit each of the above descriptions in the worst way.

Wolfgang at 3 months.

Despite my occasional rapid-fire mood swings, bouts of euphoria mixed in with valleys of despair, Wolfgang has proven to be a constant source of inspiration and reality. Most dogs are like that anyway. And, as with most dogs, Wolfgang has his own unique personality. He doesn’t have an attitude – a nasty trait exhibited by those bipedal cretins known as humans. Just touching him puts me in a better mood, even if I’m already feeling good. But it’s his visual responses to my stories that tell me if what I’ve written makes general sense. In one tale, for example, I wondered if a rather mundane character should have a greater role. Wolfgang’s empathetic gaze told me yes. So I expanded the character, and the story benefited. In another, I thought that a rather cantankerous individual was nevertheless crucial to the moral arc I was trying to convey. Wolfgang’s snarl told me the bitch had to die. Again, the story turned out better, after the character accidentally stumbled onto a paper shredder.

Aside from keeping his shots up to date, I had Wolfgang neutered years ago, which prolongs a domesticated animal’s life. (Many people should have the same thing done, but not because their lives are worth prolonging.) I bathe him every Sunday night and clean his teeth regularly by spreading a dab of canine toothpaste on a small hand towel. (Actually trying to brush them turns into a physical battle, with my hands on the losing end.) When his fur gets long, I brush it the day after his bath. In this case, “brush” is a subjective term, because he often spirals into an alligator-death-roll maneuver.

I’ve had his health care covered through Veterinary Pet Insurance (VPI), which is now NationWide. Because he’s almost 14, the premiums have increased. But again, he’s worth the cost. The money I’ve spent on that insurance, along with other veterinary bills and food, could have just as easily bought me a high-powered computer, an I-Phone, the complete Photoshop Suite to create art for my stories, and / or a week at a leather bondage festival. I suppose I could have churned out some really good stories with all of that. (Yes, even a bondage festival can be enlightening. I have the handcuffs and thong underwear to prove it.) But, without Wolfgang’s presence, I just can’t see any good stories popping out of my head. What good are all sorts of luxuries if you’re not mentally fit? I mean, look at the Kardashian girls! Well… they’re mentally ill; they’re just dumbasses. Regardless, medical expenses are often genuinely tax-deductible.

My followers surely know by now that I’m a devout animal lover. I’d rather see a thousand drug addicts or sexually-irresponsible people die of AIDS than see one animal suffer due to human neglect. A close friend shares my sentiments; he likes cats. Cats are pretty, but I’m allergic to them. Besides, when have you ever heard of a rescue cat?

Still, the more I get to know people, the more I love my dog. I seriously don’t know how the Internal Revenue Service (a.k.a. the “Washington mob”) will respond to this deduction on my 2015 tax return. And I seriously don’t care. They can laugh all they want, which I’m sure they’ll do. I’ve had worse happen to me, such as pretending someone who cuts me off in traffic is just having a bad day and they’re not really an asshole.

For now, though, I have another story to run by Wolfgang. This one’s kind of mushy, so I have to conjure up a more creative demise than a demonically-possessed paper-shredder.

For real!

*Name changed.

ASPCA.

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Filed under Wolf Tales

Tagged as animals, canines, dogs, miniature schnauzers, pets, tax deductions, taxes, wolf

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