Dawning and fawningNon-fatal attractionAwakened, still yawning,afraid of the action.
But today was May Day, not to be confused with the "MAYDAY!
MAYDAY!” distress call that would be implemented by various and sundry pilots
or seafaring waifs who fell prey either to Mother Natures’ depredations,
on-board fires, floods, jettisoned structural integrity of vessel’s hull or
No, this May Day thing definitely signaled a salute to working class pride and
professionalism – of course tied to unionization in particular – that saw its
nascent stages whilst I was knee high to a dung beetle.
Admired are the working mired.
Spring has sprungOh bitches brew!Rodents hung – what’s left to do?
One got in, quick as a flash;We hustled out his chipmunk ass!
”The only good rodent is a DEAD rodent,”Whupsteen declared, adding: “I’ll never be a Buddha;I have ZERO
compassion forrodent-f**k pieces of shit.”
Two years ago, a local cat neglecter took off for Florida, leaving a bevy of
barn cats to fend for themselves in the harshest winter out of the last ten or
so. The felines were of course subsisting off anything they could sink their
sharp-as-all-get-out fangs into, including innocent songbirds.
The luckless birdsthat fell to the felines
left us without words
as for food they made beelines!
One of the caring women in the community had witnessed the aforementioned cats
roaming and subsequently eating frozen compost from a pile next to a shed that
housed an expensive coffee roasting rig. The rig is beside the point, but
beside the joint.So an impromptu joint cat rescue effort was implemented,
which meant the participants would assemble wildlife crates – which
incidentally REEKED of cat piss from previous cat rescue excursions – and plop
them down next to the coffee roasting joint.
Rail on, Davey H, rail on!
As I was saying the other post, carnivorous cats hurt
songbirds the most, and this situation had gotten out of control, hence the
joint cat-culling rescue patrol having been formed to end the murderous avian
slaughter, surely as that snow had been frozen-assed water.
It seems the snowbird barn owner had sent a relative with a
Polish last name to investigate the cat trap proceedings and report
results back to the Sunshine State.
Lost in the fray were the piss-stinkin’ traps, which were lifted from the site
by said relative, who was also pissed.
Davey H would never forget that phone call urging him in the
politest words possible to repair to the feral feline relocation site, pick up
the pissy crates, and get the f**k outta Dodge.
It was a limited-time offer, obviously; the kind of deal you
get when somebody wants your balls but will let you off easy if you just
The voice at the other end could have seethed, but didn’t.
Davey H also marveled at the skill with which the cat
trappin’ lady discharged her self-imposed duties, preferring the ‘manual’ cage
closing method utilizing approximately 20’ of string.
Actually, Davey H, having been honest and up-front from the
start regarding the collective felicitous feline activities that were taking
place sans permission on someone else’s private property, actually got to LIKE
the fellow who called and offered the cat trap return deal.
Such could not be said for the April-arriving snowbird barn
owner, who stormed up to Davey H’s modest abode, hammered on the door, and
launched into a tirade, waxing accusatory.
Pardon me – should anyone really be reading this – but did I
spin this winding yarn last year?
Anyhoo, Davey H withered in a blast of warm CO2.
The scurrilous snowbird assailed Davey H and his more
courageous spouse with borderline harsh allegations of ‘his’ cats having been
“done away with”, when in actuality they were safe inside some large wire dog
crates in a vacuous Victorian house about 3 towns north that also carried cat
piss stench – and 20 other cats.
How interesting that snowbird all of a sudden gave a flip
for ‘his’ abandoned critters!
The saga has continued to this day, 3 out of the 5 cats
remain too feral to place and the hoarder who possesses them will get a chance
to save face.
We’ll soon see if cat lady comes through with what she owes
us or is just cat lazy and throws us.
Elsewhere in the mews, the abandoned place two doors down – having served on
and off as temporary feral cat housing – will at some point be razed and have
Christmas trees planted on it.
Of course, Davey H has some news for the potential planter, possibly not to be
taken lightly, but that spot doesn’t get enough light. Additionally, it can get
swampy post-snow melt, and a profusion of crack willow roots will conspire to
make newcomer seedlings’ lives difficult.
The drought-to-be officially ended last night.Don’t worry
about the pansies.
So what of that Christmas tree planting fellow?
A hunch hunches that, considering that he’s hunched over his couch glued to the
television during most off-work hours, few if any Christmas trees will be
planted unless he conscripts his able-bodied son into doing the grunt work.
Meanwhile, consistent rain is sopping the land on which the prospective
planting will occur.
Additionally, and with good reason
It’s plain to see it’s apple season.
So criticize, yes, if you dare
Beneath clear skies
To none’s surprise
We’ve chemicals in the air!
Apples in these parts can hardly be marketed as organic.What a grave insult to the intelligence that would be!
In a bad year – one in which the months of April and May have predominantly
high ambient atmospheric temperatures and commensurate humidity levels (leaving
aside barometric pressure factors) – the spraying is nearly constant.
Give an ear and you can hear
The spewing over there;
Then quiver in your toxic fear
Of breathing dust from sprayer!
You’ll never find out what is sprayed
Or what it does to health;
As toxins on the trees are laid
To protect the orchardist’s wealth.
We’re slowly being poisoned, you see.So how do ya like THEM apples?
Funny, we make toxic a food itemso that nothing will eat it – then WE eat it.But no matter; such is this modern existence.So:
Worry not, oh toiling soul,
For you have work to do;
Too soon they’ll dig you out a hole
Three feet by 6 foot two!
Enough macabre musings, Davey H;perhaps it’s best to thankthe indefatigable
Sigmoid Whupsteenfor his snarky advice during such terrible times:
“Find out what that shit is, man.Then see if it gets you off.”
Of the deposits made
(the moniker of which, in bank vernacular, is truncated thus:
“depchx”),the path could be laid,the bills could be
paid,we shall not be swayedwith debt-hex.Cuttin’
some slack, and doin’ just fineand sharp as a tack or pitchfork
tinewrenched out of the shackwhere the treasure’s minenow
let’s clean up out backfull-drenched in sunshineunveiled
and unpackin that sand draw a line!Hah! So much for
waxing enthusiastic as regards keeping up with that abhorrent field
grass this year; after all, it exerts its vigorous heliotropism
Tweeter is subsumed in
assisting in our cancer patient’s care and emotionally drained by
the proceedings.The oft-impatient patient, having
relinquished high hopes of regaining life as she knew it, is spewing
dread and deep-rooted death-based negativity in every
direction.Sadder still, she basks in the blare of
television.Across the planet, meanwhile, any given
testosterone-laced young human male is discovering his protuberant
erection, which he accepts without objection.Life –
exuberant, fully functional and tending toward reproducing itself
sexually – has death as its counterpart, as we’re told by the
wise that knowledge comprise and also pass gas when they fart.
The ticks are ferociousSo lethally precociousAnd have us a-quivering in fear;
As the dread Lyme disease
Sure as leaves on the trees
Is sadly inexorably here.
So sans antidote
To this screed I just wrote
Please forgive me for being neurotic;
For the lame formal ‘cure’
Won’t work like before
Because it’s an antibiotic.
Fellow woods worker Rowlie had indicated his growing reluctance to remain on
health-weakening antibiotics in perpetuity – something his myopic mainstream
practitioner had perhaps not so subtly implied as being the only option.
Luckily, he discovered a local compounding pharmacy that provided high-potency
I admonished the Rowlster thus:
Flush the prescriptions
without a fuss!
Indeed, with much gusto
and a hearty “hooray!”
'Natural' he did go
ergo grief went away!
But, well, you know
that he lived in PA.
After spring melts the snow
those damn ticks will hold sway!
Musing about his situation, perhaps ticks were the least of his worries!
As it turns out, with a bitter divorce now several years behind him, he met and
married a girl from India.
Oddly, she stays on that continent most of the time, last I heard, making
Rowlster’s status that of “Supposedly married”.
Davey H interrupts the Rowlster Chronicles to announce the
sad passing of patient ‘L’, who took her last breaths as a gaggle of family and
friends looked on from her bedside.
“Those eyes aren’t seeing a damn thing,” I thought, while intermittently looking
into veritable twin marbles with white centers, lulling below their respective
Her mouth was round and wide open. Breaths were almost undetectable, coming in
feeble gasps that made no sound and heaved her still-alive frame beneath the
sheets and blankets.
L’s decline had come so rapidly and mercilessly as to shock all into somber
I tried to concentrate. Oh, I tried, damnit, but could not
help snatching glances at the heaving wisp of a being that had been – until a
couple of weeks ago, following a second round of chemo – such an animated
presence in the community.
On August 29th, 2011, when hurricane Irene turned the Deerfield into
a raging brown torrent; L came down the hill, weak as she was, happy just to
shoot the breeze amid the rapidly growing crowd of rubberneckers.
Her appearance was bewildering: why did she look so different?
Oh, that was a wig, perched atop seemingly singed eyebrows.
L drank the proverbial ‘Kool-Aid’ ® back then, and had fallen for another round, but that being water
under the dam, no one beside her was making a sound. The breathing in silence
was rhythmic; profound.
After a spell,
one of the attendant RN’s urged us to leave so the caregivers could wash L.
Interesting: was this a premonition of sure death, a pre-emptive washing
ritual, or a manifestation of the rushed, impatient, harried state of affairs
our collective lifestyles had become?
I mean, aren’t you supposed to wait until the patient is a cadaver
before you wash her/him?
MY "I, ME, MINE":
(Original words by Lennon/McCartney, lest Davey H should boast.)
So brag he will not
But raise them a toast
When put on the spot
He will then make the most
And he hadn’t forgot
Paid respects to his host.
So the ‘I’ that I carried around just like any other schmuck, had to leave the
gathering anyway; it was getting late for ME to continue serving MY charges,
even though they weren’t technically ‘MINE’.
I bring this up for relevance: the late Teri K. had quipped “you are merely thinking
of your OWN death from cancer.”
Today it rainedlike
the proverbial canines and felines;at least I THINK it was today.What does the calendar say?Anyway, this decidedly deleterious
deluge ordinarily would not have been an intractable difficulty, but
with approximately 180 yards of rocky, gravely fill lying
inauspiciously in the yard, it posed glaring challenges.To wit:
that puddle formed byone of the humongous pilesacting as an
unwanted dam.Damn!Now the diggin' machineWill spin
'in the sauce'Tires not cleanBut Hell, it's no loss.Indeed,
the transmissionIs pure hydrostatic;But I'll be wishin'For
sun not erratic.
Ranting and railingGranting, curtailing
Whiled away, frittered much time;
Dogs panting and tailing
Barking and wailing
And I with a sad pantomime.
But that was last week,
well worth noting while meek
As the other half cruises the ‘Net;
With dank rain all day
We had zero to say
Hey, sometimes that’s what you get!
So since dear L died
We couldn’t have lied
No, that was the wrong tack to take;
We watched as her pride
Was just sucked from her side
What was left was so surelyNOT FAKE.
Reality had surely bitten.
Nobody was sorely smitten.
Enroute to Prolifica,Whupsteen hit some beefy speed bumps.After all, he had gone to the mall,had gotten insulted for wearing cheap
clothes,but had then exulted, responding in prose:
“Hah! You of the preppy persuasion
“You know I’ve got you licked!”
“For I save funds on just such an occasion,due to the threads I picked!”
“These canvas bags and burlap sacks
I wear with endless pride;
no high price tags torn off those racks,
and I feel good inside!”
So much for his chivalrous chirping;
it was time to repair to the caféfor fine java slurping.
Up & at 'em
and soon put to the test:
No, thank you, madam
Please spare hornet's nest!
But it was not to be for me, lest
I stood still for the screech
leveled right at my chest.
So such is the nature of cohabitationwith attendant squabbles and such;
As we iron the wrinkles
through our meditationbut some folks don’t seem to
Or if they do,
they may hurl it at youas you cower in slinging barb’s touch.
So let’s exit the door
Because that’s what it’s for
Start ‘er up, then pop the clutch!
Today Dougie heartily enabled timely removal of LG’s
dead-as-all-get-out ACER SACCHARUM, lending able-bodied hefting, two muscular
saws and brawny 5000 lb. trailer.
Dougie’s brawny, too. Better yet, he bought lunch.
After munch that we liked a bunch, we hit the road, me he followed, the way he was
showed, said trailer was brought to our modest abode, summarily slowed, no need
to goad, parked on a node, and emptied of load.
All this means is that now yet another friggin’ mess is added to the existing
ones, and this pile in particular must be dealt with sooner than later.
Nature once again intervenes
for these here backwoods
who slap on their jeans
as the temperature soars;
and you know what it means
for us toiling outdoors:
Damn near quitting our chores,
ending up on all fours!
This dreaded annual ordeal looms: rasslin’ an overweight window mounted beastly
noisemaker into its slot for what is hoped to be a reasonable 3-month
Yes, the world’s loudest air conditioner is about to be taken out, dusted off,
and hefted into its summer home.
Each year we vow will be the last for this dreadful piece of electricity-gobbling
Life, work, yard,
play;what in the worldin common have they?Why, they’re
all unfinished projectsI’d say!We
heard today, then out to splay:Burma’s political prisonersare slowly being released,some after spending an unbelievable19
years in the pen!And what, please tell,are their ostensible
‘crimes’ then?They didn’t even create a memeto
raise the junta’s ire;but criticized the odious regimewhich
held their feet to the fire..Thus imprisoned without a
trialto soak up jailhouse dust;back out in the sunat
least for a whilepolitical freedom or BUST!
The baffled reader of such bizarre reports as yesterday’s
post – citing the invisible country of Burma
– might wonder why people were jailed for a coon’s age after essentially doing
Burmese citizens who had at long last mustered the temerity to challenge a
bunch of well-armed lackeys’ iron fist decades-long rule did so and paid a high
price, having clearly understood:
that no 1st Amendment is expressed or implied.
And why do some call it ‘Myanmar’,
Short answer: the thuggish ruling junta decided on the name change by decree.
I REFUSE to recognize the junta as legit.
Trill the swill,
oh mouthy news anchor!
Our heads to fill
with such rakish rancor!
Of such bad news
please set us free!
But uh-oh, the views
are of Miss Jolie!
Yes, folks, talking heads took a break from sordid Syrian war-blood-stomp to
tell us of OTHER dreadful happenings, such as a high-profile actress agreeing
to maim herself in surgical removal of natural endowments – with ancillary
benefits going to the well-funded Cancer Indu$try, which gets to sing a song of
itself in the ensuing dog and pony show.
The whole thing REEKED to high heaven and made for gruesome news.
1) The Big 'C' proliferates a
culture of FEAR, all the better for Cancer Indu$try exploitation.
2) Build a system based on disseminating and
cultivating said fear, rustle up gadgetry to ostensibly treat dreaded
conditions, and they will come.
3) The Cancer Indu$try frequently sings a song of
itself from the pompous pink ribbon-clad perch of false promises, trumpeting
about 'finding cures', and 'raising awareness', marching and marketing, but
ultimately needs foot soldiers in the trenches.
4) Bottom line: Medical device and diagnostic
imaging manufacturing are fabulously profitable industries, but facilities need
to purchase that snazzy equipment – then use it.