confessions of a nasal mist addict

Good fortune is not something that appears regularly in my metaphysical inbox, much less at the end of a meal in a Chinese restaurant.  But I did have the good fortune of being born in the same year Captain Kangaroo went on the air.  While I’m uncertain as to what the Gods were messaging by that fateful synchronicity, I’ve often drawn parallels to these two seemingly unrelated events.

For those members of the Alphabet Generations and as a reminder to my fellow Boomers; Captain Kangaroo was a morning show for kids.  Far more entertaining than Mr. Rogers, the Captain lived in the Treasure House with Mr. Green Jeans, Bunny Rabbit, Mr. Moose, Dancing Bear, Grandfather Clock and an assortment of other neighborhood characters including Mr. Bainter the Painter.   The Captain would read stories, teach arts & crafts and show Tom Terrific cartoons featuring Mighty Manfred the Wonder Dog.  Bunny Rabbit would play tricks on the Captain to get carrots and Mr. Moose told jokes that always ended with a thunder storm of ping pong balls falling on the Captain.

It was an idyllic time…the days were just packed with adventure that included chasing the occasional possum or raccoon from the trash cans that lined the gravel road in the trailer park where we lived.  My cousin Mel and I built forts from refrigerator boxes and spent our afternoon’s in the branches of a huge oak tree eating candy stolen from the local ice-house.  Falling from heights that made my mother nearly faint was an option we chose regularly; there was a creek that ran under the tree and although the water was cold and black, it was also deep enough to swallow our youthful frames.

Every day began with the Captain and life at the Treasure House was equally idyllic.  It was as if nothing ever went wrong and the biggest problem was cleaning up all those ping pong balls or worrying about whether Bunny Rabbit had enough carrots.  Unable to distinguish reality from fantasy (a malaise I continue to battle which is in part one of the reasons I’m single) I decided I wanted to live at The Treasure House.  Today I might describe it as a natural high…I mean, c’mon who wouldn’t want to hang with a dancing bear and talking clock?  F’get about it.  Can’t tell me I got nothin’ to do.

And hey, don’t forget about the fact it was the fifties: hula hoops, chocolate Coke’s and the occasional half empty can of Jax beer pilfered from Uncle Junior’s hands as he slept one off were all de rigueur .  I only wore shoes three or four months out of the year and porn meant petticoats.  There was always a bar-b-q on the weekend and that sometimes meant a trip out to the swimming pool DuPont had built for the employees of the local plant.  There we could sneak off to the inter coastal canal and play with the manatees or stand on top of the plumbing outside the women’s shower peering through the jalousie windows.

Evenings were spent catching fire flies in a jar or shooting Roman candles at each other.  Sometimes we would sit around a listen to Paw Loyd tell stories of being pulled from his horse because his “sheet” got caught in the briar patch he was riding through.  Now why would anybody wear a sheet while riding a horse you might ask?  I’ll  remind you this was southeast Texas and the sheet was the bottom half of a costume topped off by a conical shaped hat and hooded mask.  Such is my ancestry.

But every day would begin again with The Captain and my almost fairy tale stroll on the treadmill of life.  I suppose it’s an indicator of age me telling this story, but the memory and the emotionstill run through the veins and arteries leading to and from my heart.

I really thought I could run away and live at The Treasure House and not only improve what was nearly perfect but also enjoy the guarantee that it would never end.  My perfect reality ended shortly after I began first grade.  We’ll save that story and the lament of the unHoly Treasure House and the Sisters of the Sacred Heart Nunnery & Orphanage for another time.

The other night I ventured forth to another Treasure House known as The Troubadour accompanied by Jenny from the block and Dr. Duskin.  Bob Schneider played the role of The Captain and my other favorite characters were replaced by Harmoni “I’m ready” Kelly and a multi instrumentalist that made Dancing Bear look like a quadriplegic.  History, in a somewhat maligned form, repeated itself and my idyllic ambitions were once again aroused.

I awoke the next day and felt this burning desire to run away join the band.

I’ve been taking cheap shots, literately.

I’m forgoing convention in favor  of creating better content.  So as far as for going forward and in an attempt to mature myself and that which springs forth eternal from the hard drive between my ears (and perhaps more representative of my years) I will endeavor to drop my abuse and overuse of alliteration and all it’s children.

“Oh my…say it just ain’t so Ken Bob.”

Well, yeah it is.  How I say it has become more important than what I say and while I’m known f0r and thrive on contrarian thinking, while I’m known for taking the fork in the road (and the spoon and the knife as well; I enjoy a two fisted meal…ya’ know?) and while I’m known for my equal parts passion and lust when it comes to abuse and validation; drizzle drazzle, drizzle drum one more run on sentence, one more bastardization of the English language and I’s done.  And for you dear reader; eyes done.

Call me Mick, but I can’t get no (da-da-da) satisfaction.  I’m the kind of guy who when he gets to the top of the mountain says something like “Could’ve got here faster if I would’ve…” or utter the angst of anti-climatic calculations and assumptions of goals not set high enough, deep in a trough of delirious doubt I fail to reward my self.  And now I find myself at a similar precipice and I’m pissed.  Well, at least peeved and pondering platitudes of the past and present.

So no more homophobic homilies, no more wanton whimsy, goodbye to gregarious gorging on words, wisdumb and the weakness associated with a continual dose of verbal sucker punches that satisfy the senses for seven seconds like that six dollar bowl of fro-yo you ate last week.

This week and weeks going forward I’m gonna feed you the fat.  I write this as I struggle through this weeks verbage yet to be finished to my fancy.  But from breakdown comes breakthrough, that which does not kill me only makes me stronger and at the end of the day…it gets dark.  And as we all know it’s darkest right before it gets pitch black.  I find myself once again mired in the mud of my own making.

How will  make the shift from a stream of (un)consciousness where the words flow like wine only to wilt like wroses?  My machete maligned, it’s edge as dull as that which you now read, that which you drink like beer and later dispose of in kind minutes later I endeavor to persevere.  I remain inspired by those around me and recent readings of “The Ten Things You Can Do To Become A Better Writer.”

1. Write.
2. Write more.
3. Write even more.
4. Write even more than that.
5. Write when you don’t want to.
6. Write when you do.
7. Write when you have something to say.
8. Write when you don’t.
9. Write every day.
10. Keep writing.

I’ll add one more to make it a nice uneven 11:  When you can’t write, write about it.

So there.

How about that?

Good gawd; what hath my witing wrought.