“By crackulous! You young punks listen up good! You don’t know nothin’ by crackie (Pronounced cray-kye!) . Filthy young hippies! (Pronounced Hip-eyes). With your dirty minds! You young people are too sexy! Now listen up! It was the great winter ❄️ of ‘46 by Crackamundo!”
The old man 👴 loaned (past sideways participle of lean) back in his rocking chair.
“92 inches of Schnee, 52 degrees below zero in Philadelphia. My pap (Pronounced pap-wise papification) purchased me a brand spankin’ new 1946 Studebaker Commander. Sure was a fine lookin’ Auto-Mobile by crack-wise crackification! I drove her all the way down to the University of Miami with nary a scratch and only one dangling modifier.”
”I remember that drive well! I stopped at every Barbeque joint, reeferstick hut and whorehouse from Philly to Tampa. I found me the dirtiest, smelliest, fattest, oldest, ugliest, yummiest whores. Ah the smell of it, by Kraken!”
”Well I found me a nice apartment rented to me by one of them Cuban broads. There was a 20 space covered garage (Pronounced gah-rhaaaaj) I got space number 20 at the far end. It was January 20 of 19 aught 47. That night I heard on my radio 📻 that a huge Hurricane was a comin’ I remember me a few back in my Army Air Corps Training back in 19 aught 42. By Quraquie!”
”Well I was at class when the storm hit. They warned people to get their cars out of the garage but I plum forgot. When I got back to my apartment the entire garage was collapsed and all the cars 🚗 destroyed excepting for slot number 20. Not a scratch on my Studebaker. Them bastards never forgave me. Oh well 😔 time to change my diaperous bowel genie 🧞♂️!”
from Man in the Poetic Mode p. 100, McDougal, Littell, Evanston Illinois, 1971, publishers, Joy Zweigler, editor
T.E. Hulme was one of England’s Great War poets. He died in 1917 when struck by a shell while deep in thought.
Hulme captures the melancholy cool of Autumn with perfect reflection.
He brings us along on the lonely country walk with him.
Autumn is a feeling. It doesn’t have to represent death, but it can represent harvest and a necessary stage of ending when the crops fall into humus as we also must, before there can be a new beginning.
Autumn is cool, Autumn is a time for reflection. It is my favorite time.
Peace be the Botendaddy
P.S. If you fancy yourself a writer, get offline, get off the electronic reader, go to a real library or bookstore and read something you haven’t read before.
WARNING ⚠️ DEEP EXISTENTIALISM TURN BACK NOW AND DO NOT READ THIS UNLESS YOU ARE IN A MYSTICAL, CAMUS-LIKE MOOD
“I was never looking to be Yossarian, I didn’t become Yossarian, I just was Yossarian.”
I said to my dad. But my dad wasn’t there. It was his Veterans’s grave marker and a photo of him and his airplane ✈️ in WWII.
I didn’t put up photos of him getting nuked at Alamogordo with his black lens, one mile across the desert 🌵 from a one kiloton atomic shell 🐚 that killed him and everyone in his unit from cancer or Leukemia within the next 5-30 years. No photos from Korea either.
I once held what appeared to be someone’s vertebrae and a shinbone in my bare hands during the war. I don’t remember how they got there, but it was out in the desert. Like Yossarian. That moment had a fatalistic, Camus-like feeling to it. It was precisely then, that I became unstuck in time.
The desert is limitless and eternal and makes everything seem of epic importance and rather at the same time of puny irrelevance.
I never listened, I never paid attention, I never followed orders… OK, I tried to. It just didn’t work for me. I could never stay awake either. I had no military bearing whatever the f@&k that means. I didn’t belong in the military, but every military needs someone like me.
As George Clinton once said: “I ran through hell without getting hot, I went to Vietnam 🇻🇳 without getting shot.”
I’m lucky 🍀. I can’t die. Soldiers in Iraq 🇮🇶 would ask me to ride in their truck (pronounced HMMVW) because I was so lucky. I walked into and out of several minefields in Bosnia without a scratch. I even found a minefield in Iraq near the Iranian 🇮🇷 border. I can’t die because of the ‘Botendaddy No Glory Theory’ I can risk everything and never be harmed because I would have glory and that, my dear readers is cosmically impossible.
Someone questioned the other day whether I was really a Veteran, online of course. I didn’t answer. I served in two Wars and for many now forgotten years and she was right: I’m not a Veteran and I never will be. Veterans are honorable, grizzled, heroic. I’m not honorable, I’m not grizzled or I wouldn’t shave my visage or run 🏃 10k’s and I’m not heroic, I just have unrealistic optimism. I don’t think anything bad can ever actually happen… until it does.
My father died when I was 12. I always wonder where he went. Not in a real sense, but in an existential sense. In times of trouble I would ask: ‘where are you?’ Crazy people like me need that guidance, but I just had to make it up as I went along. Maybe you do too.
He deserved better. He was loyal and he got nuked for it. I learned enough wisdom from him for a lifetime, But I just couldn’t make use of it.
I got stuck at an airfield near Al-Kut for three days during an endless sandstorm. I lived on a concrete pad next to a T-wall. I spent the time reading 📖 James Fenimore Cooper’s The 🦌 Deerslayer. I was born in Cooperstown, by the way.
I guess I’m a bad guy. It’s Jerry Lewis Syndrome. That’s when everyone else likes something but you actively hate it. I hated Jerry Lewis. I thought he was non-funny like Lucille Ball. But everyone else said he was funny 😂. I hate Brussels Sprouts and people tell me that they taste good. The taste like 💩.
‘What would your friends say?.’ ‘I don’t have any.’ Answered Yossarian.
My readers are wonderful, beautiful sensitive people, they love fashion, running 🏃 , cooking 🍳 mountain climbing but I am absolutely certain that they have no idea at all what this post is about and that’s really OK.
As the cool winds gently blow into the Northeast, the leaves turn brown and the chestnuts ripen, a slight chill that fall beckons can be felt in the air, the faint scent of a distant smoky fire rises to great youas you walk on a leaf-covered wooded path with gentle forest creatures.
Yet I find myself in Southern Iraq….
AND IT IS 122 FREAKIN’ DEGREES!
WHAT THE HELL IS THIS PLACE!
HEY WE’VE GOT A DEATH VALLEY TOO!
BUT WE CHOOSE NOT TO LIVE IN IT!
105 DEGREES AT NIGHT?
ARE YOU FREAKIN’ NUTS?
HELL WOULD BE COOLER! WAIT…I’M SUFFERING FROM SPONTANEOUS HUMAN COMBUSTION!