Mark Catron

Check out the music of Mark Catron at his Reverb Nation page:

Mark Catron - Reverb Nation

Santa Swim Party - Stage 3

Third Stage of latest painting...

Life, Doctor Who & Combom:The Ten Doctors Part Four by Babelcolour Teaser Trailer 4

Gene Bannister has sent you a link to a blog:

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Blog: Life, Doctor Who & Combom
Post: The Ten Doctors Part Four by Babelcolour Teaser Trailer 4
Link: http://www.combom.co.uk/2011/12/ten-doctors-part-four-by-babelcolour.html

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Santa Swim Party

Final name for this piece...stage 2

Santa Swim

The 7th painting in my new "Holidays" series.

Christmas - 2011

Do you remember your first Christmas on your own?  My first Christmas on my own was during my first year in the Army.  I had been stationed in West Germany, a country that really speaks Christmas, Old World Christmas.  Whereas commercialism had long ago shown Chuck Brown that Christmas had become a victim of marketing in the United States, Christmas in Germany renewed my belief in the holiday.  The only thing missing was my family.  I, like so many others, had come to associate Christmas and family but, thousands of miles away, I spent my first Christmas on my own, utterly alone, surrounded only by a dark, hairy Greek bartender and his sister, two old drunken Staff Sergeants, and a zit-faced teenager from Nebraska.  The next Christmas, which seemed to arrive so much faster than previous ones, had come to me in the deserts of the Middle East, the true home of Christmas, near the site where Jesus Christ had been born.

Those couple holidays, spent millions of mental light-years ago, still resonate in my memory, each holiday season.  I remember the fears, the alienation, the self-imposed exile from my family, my friends, and myself.  Hidden, across Europe and the Middle East, seeking myself, seeking the real meaning behind the holiday that had come to signify greed, lust, and commercialism.  In those dark years, I found the true meaning of the holiday.  The traditions, the memories, the need to be close to loved ones, especially in times of darkness, to reach out and pull tight to you those who you can lean on, who can support you with a smile, a laugh, a kiss.  The meaning of the holiday, steeped in traditions, both religious and commercial, the shopping, the gift hunting, the trees, the lights.  The meaning of the holiday; Charlie Brown cartoons, the Grinch, the songs, Gene Autry and Burl Ives.  The meaning of the holiday; the Wise Men, Jesus, the manger, David Bowie and Bing Crosby.  The meaning of the holiday; Christmas...family...tradition.

As the holiday approaches, I remember my past, but look to the future.  One day soon, a few rotations of this old planet, will see my own grandchildren, toys & wrapping paper, Christmas hams with feasts on Roast Beast, ornaments and colored lights, children and spouses, grandchildren and diapers.  A further trip away from the battlefields of the Middle East or the lonely Black Forest, but a trip closer each day to family and memories and tradition.  Merry Christmas.

Who Are You - Close Up

A close-up of the upper left corner of #78 in the Collage Series

Mondays

Nothing accomplished today.  Boy Scout Troop meeting tonight.  Mind distracted.  Did get a package in today with gifts for the family for Christmas.  Called the phone company to improve our DSL service and create a wireless hot spot in the house.  Going to be a good year, just wish I could get motivated.  More painting & writing this week, hopefully.

Artist as a Young Man - Stage 3

more work on this piece

Artist as a Young Man - Stage 2

Second stage of progress on this one...

Artist as a Young Man

Latest in a series of Self-Portraits...number 4 in the series.  Still a work in progress.

In Memory of Sam

The Book of Psalms offers this:  The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge.  He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.  Psalm 18:2.  I do take refuge in that knowledge.  Today, I found out my niece passed away.  A child, only just thirty years old, she passed in her sleep on the morning of November 8th, 2011.  She leaves a husband, two daughters, a son and grandson behind.  Samantha Charlene Wade was born the eldest child of Darryl S. Abney and Elizabeth Jones.  Brought up in the 1980s, Sam was fun-loving and free spirited, especially as a youth.  Her smile was infectious and her beauty would light up a room.  She married Randy Wade, married life suited her.  Motherhood followed with her children, and motherhood suited her.  Years of medical issues began, as they so often do in many people's lives, to take their toll on her; physically, mentally, and emotionally.  On the morning of Tuesday, November 8th, The Lord brought her home to rest, her earthly pains gone, and in her wake she not only leaves an emptiness and sorrow for her loved ones, but she also leaves behind the memories, memories of happier times, healthier times, memories of peaceful times.  Paul, the Apostle, in his First Epistle to the Thessalonians wrote: For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep.  I Thessalonians 4:14. Rejoice in the life of this young soul taken from our earthly prison, she will know serenity, she will know peace.  It is written by the prophet John in the Book of Revelation that after the Second Coming of Christ, when the Lord will walk among us that "He will wipe every tear from their eyes.  There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away."  Revelation 21:4.  Rejoice for Samantha's life; rejoice for the time when we will walk with her again, no more crying, no more pain.

Running With the Turtles - Scene One

Running with the Turtles               The bags lay packed on the living room floor; my old Army duffel bag, an old Army ruck sack donated by another Scout parent who serves in the National Guard, and a few smaller bags, plastic grocery store bags containing coffee pots, flatware, cooking utensils, and random sundry items for camp.  A few short hours later our vehicle would be loaded and headed down the highway to the local Boy Scout Ranch where my son and a group of his fellow young men along with myself and a couple other adult volunteer leaders would be camping for the week in those waning days of June in Missouri, when the temperatures would hover around ninety degrees or mostly closer to a hundred.  It was going to be the experience of a lifetime, not just for those boys but also for myself.             As a young boy I had joined Cub Scouts along with several of my friends, it was to be an extension of our friendship, a place to continue our make believe playgrounds wars fought against pretend enemies, a place to hone our woodcraft skills; the ability to build fires, make shelter, survive off the land.  But our experience never got to that point, after several meetings in a Den Mother's home and a failed Pinewood Derby experience, the Den was dismantled after it came to light that she would often yell and curse in front of us young Cub Scouts.  I had earned my Bobcat rank and was close to completing my Wolf requirements but I never had a chance to complete those requirements.  I became an ex-Cub Scout, forever resigned to never feel the exhilaration of being awarded that red rank badge with the Wolf's head on it.              My father encouraged me to join the Cub Scouts, I believe, out of a chance to correct his own failures in Scouting.  I learned much later, after his death, that he was a Boy Scout in the days leading up to the Second World War.  His family lived in a small home on the edge of farm country.  The Depression had hit them hard, his older brothers already gone to Tennessee to work for the government.  Father had followed in the tradition of his own parent, and his older brothers, with a love of the outdoors.  Hunting, fishing, and camping were not new to him as he joined the local Scout Troop.  When the war broke out, his older brothers left the work camps and joined the military, one in the navy and one the army.  Far too young to join the military service, his father and his Boy Scout Troop led recycling drives, collecting tin cans, tires, and old newspapers.  He, according to his old Scout Master, whom I had the chance to interview before he died at the age of 97, was a natural born leader.  It all changed, though, his chance to become an Eagle Scout, Boy Scouting's highest rank in America, when his family received the worst news possible.  Both sons had perished, within days of each other, in two separate accidents.                        The eldest brother, a Private in Uncle Sam's Army, had been shot during a live fire accident during his Basic Training.  An explosion during a training exercise had gone off close to his crouching position, causing him to reflexively stiffen up, sitting up a bit too much it seemed, because a machine gun round caught him on the side of his skull.  His father had told the story many times; his uncle had not been killed instantly but lingered in the hospital for a week before finally succumbing to his injuries.  He died three days after his brother, the Navy electrician that was caught in an accident with a floating mine.  The electrician, my father's idol growing up to that point, was a handsome man with plenty of potential.  A star athlete for the High School basketball team and baseball teams prior to a three-year study at a University in the East, he was forced from his studies by the Depression and the family's need.  He was aboard ship, which was scheduled to depart the California coast on its first mission, just gathering his gear before going dock side for the evening when a shipment of floating land mines fell on deck.  The crane that had been loading the mines, along with other last minute gear and supplies, malfunctioned and the shipment fell twenty feet.  The former star athlete and college student had been maybe twelve feet from the explosion, according to ship mates I had found online, and was killed instantly.              The family was devastated by the double fatality.  Grandpa began to drink heavily, barely able to maintain his meager employment at the local laundry.  My father's mother, ever the stoic woman, immersed herself into her work, at a local shirt factory that had been converted to make uniforms for the military.  She worked longer hours, leaving her only son to care for his father, making meals and dealing with his drunken outrages and drunken depressive mood swings.  Father was never able to finish his Eagle Scout rank, never returned to the Scouting program again.  He was denied the exhilaration of earning the rank, denied being able to impress his parents and his brothers, now forever taken from him.  His boyhood ended that summer.             By guiding me into the Cub Scouts, my father was trying to fulfill his own dream, but after the other parents, my mother included, basically dissolved the Den because of the Den Mother's behavior which was discovered after one of my friends repeated one of her more colorful expletives in front of his own mother when they removed us all from it.  My father was a very busy, he had just began his own business, which had been so successful he had launched two franchise locations and was branching off into another, separate venture, and this prevented him from being able to focus on my own Scouting career, short as it was.  He was unable to take over the Den, and in those days Den Mothers ran the Cub Scout program, except the head spot, Cub Master, a leadership position which was still required to be held by a man.  My experience with Cub Scouts, and Boy Scouts, was limited and would never be fulfilled as a youth.             Father later encouraged me, as I approached adulthood, to join the military.  He thought the experience would be good for me.  "It will make you a man," he used to say.  I always thought turning 18 made you a man; at least it did in the eyes of the law.  Legally you were an adult, you could vote and you could be called to serve on a jury, you could be drafted, if there was a draft again, and you were for all intents and purposes an adult.  It was not until I joined the military and faced reality and the global world on my own that I realized what he meant, and I had not been prepared.  But that was years ago, and as we approached the Boy Scout Ranch I began to wonder if I had been pushing my own son.             I hadn't, if anything I had tried to dissuade him.  I had not sought out Cub Scouts for my son; in fact the opposite was true.  My only son, sandwiched between two daughters, had brought home a flyer during his first grade year.  JOIN CUB SCOUTING, the flyer proclaimed.  A meeting was being held in the Elementary School Cafeteria giving parents and students the opportunity to learn about Cub Scouts and, if interested, the ability to join a local Cub Scout Pack.  My son was hooked, before we ever arrived, he was bound and determined in wanting to join.  Perhaps he also wanted to extend his playground activities beyond the playground and into the Den Meetings with his school chums, perhaps he wanted to learn scout craft; learning to build shelters, live off the land, and build fires, learn how to whittle, about animals and bugs, I am not certain but want to learn he did, and does.  The price wasn't very expensive, a few dollars but it was also a commitment.  As a first grade student, barely seven-years old, your son, a new Tiger Cub member of the Cub Scout Pack had to be accompanied by one of his parents.  No matter my work commitments, no matter my hobbies, or other distractions, my son, my children, always came, and always will come, first.  I was a Cub Scout Parent and would be as long as my son wanted to be a Cub Scout.              I was content to be a Cub Scout Parent.  I would attend Den Meetings and Pack Meetings with my son.  We participated in parades, food drives, and fundraisers.  I even began to attend Committee Meetings, where the activities and ceremonies, where finances and outings were discussed.  Not content to just set back when my son's Den lost its leader, I found myself an Adult Volunteer.  The first year, his Tiger Cub year, he graduated along with three other boys.  The next year those four, along with two others who joined, earned their Wolf rank, that prized red badge I had been forever denied.  Most of the boys remained the next few years, some dropping out only to return later, a few forever gone and a couple new faces.  Through their Bear rank and through both years of the Webelos program, my son and his buddy were the only ones to see it through, each year.  Through numerous camp outs, five Pinewood Derby races, several food drives, and fundraisers, the two completed all the requirements and earned their Arrow of Light award, the highest award in the Cub Scouts program.              When he was first joining Cub Scouts, as a barely seven-year old boy, I asked him what he wanted out of the program.  He gave me two answers; "to spend time just you and me, dad" and "to earn my Eagle Scout".  Together we worked him and me, both of us learning, both of us growing.  I had already made my life decisions long ago, but his future was, and continues to be, one of his own making and I wanted him to be prepared.  If his experience in Cub Scouts, and his experience as he continued into Boy Scouts, has taught him anything it is that he should be prepared.  More than just a motto, it should be a mantra for each and every American, each and every human being; be prepared.  Be prepared for anything and everything.  Which is exactly why when the rains began to fall that first night of Boy Scout Summer Camp we all had our rain gear; ponchos and rain jackets, the whole entire Troop was prepared.              My son's buddy, the one that completed the Cub Scout program with him, didn't move on to Boy Scouts.  His focus was on sports, particularly football, and as much as he enjoyed himself on outings and events, he didn't see himself as a Boy Scout and had gotten everything he thought he wanted out of the program.  I tried to talk my own son out of continuing.  Was he positive this was what he wanted?  Was he committed to it?  He wasn't going to join, making a commitment to another six to seven years of hard work, just to quit if it got difficult.  "I want to be an Eagle Scout, Dad," he told me again.  Together we both became members of the local Boy Scout Troop, him as a youth member and me as an Adult Volunteer, again.  I continued to stay on with the Cub Scout program, helping other young Cub Scouts earn their red Wolf badges, orange Tiger Cub rank patch or blue Bear rank patches but now I was a member of the Boy Scout Troop Committee.  They wanted me to become the new Scout Master after the long-time Scout Master took time away from the role.  I refused, at first.  I was not experienced enough, in my opinion.  I had served with the United States Army during the First Persian Gulf War, in the early 1990s, but I was not ready to become a leader of pre-teen and teenaged boys in the woods on outings or on the water during canoe trips, I was not responsible enough, approaching forty-years old myself, I was not mature enough.  Of course, I didn't tell the Committee that, I told them I refused until I had become fully trained.              I had been a Cub Scout leader for six years, through my son's own five-year commitment and an additional year before I became a fully trained Cub Scout leader.  The Cub Scout program requires Adult Volunteers to receive training within six months of joining, however my work schedule always made catching the training sessions difficult, and after an old war injury prevented me from continuing the type of work I had been doing and forced me into an early retirement, then finances proved to be the problem.  I eventually did attend Cub Scout Leader Training Classes.  I had attended Youth Protection Training, a mandatory, no getting out of it, training that was held at our Cub Scout Pack's meeting location, a local church.  Those training sessions, held every year or two, were free of charge and convenient.  They protected the Adult and taught the Adults how to recognize if a child was being abused and how to react and report it properly.   But the training of how a Cub Scout Pack should operate, how to run a Den Meeting, how the District and Council works, all that was old hat to me.  When my son had joined, as a Tiger Cub, we had gone to the nearby city, like my father and me those years ago, to buy a uniform for my son and his handbook.  I had also bought myself the Adult Leader manual, even though I was not an Adult Leader at that point.  It had made sense, almost as if I could tell I would one day be a leader, but it made sense to me to know as much as I could about the program.  To this very day, that Manual stays near by bed side, where I've often taken out it, or my Boy Scout Handbook, or my Boy Scoutmaster Handbook, and referenced it when I've had a question about the program, or how to deal with a particular situation.  So Adult Leader Training, Cub Scout Adult Leader Training, seemed redundant to me and I didn't see the sense in going, but to be on the level, and to be considered fully trained, I finally did attend.  But I wasn't going to be a Boy Scout Troop Scoutmaster without becoming fully trained, and I still don't think  I ever will be.             Standing in the pouring rain, just thirty short minutes after all our tents, green canvas wall tents, had been erected, the whole Boy Scout Troop was not too discouraged looking.  They each had a rain poncho on, except the new boy, a year younger than my own son, who wore a yellow slick rain jacket and pants combo, some of the ponchos were red or green with my son and I both wearing clear, see-through rain ponchos.  Besides the rain ponchos they each wore an expression of excitement, well not all of them wore an expression of excitement, three did.  Two of them wore smiles, those two young men were always smiling, as if in their mind's eye the world was always funny and always entertaining, even in miserable, to us adults, situations such as the one we found ourselves in at that moment.  One had a serious look on his face, with his yellow slick rain jacket and pants, this first year Boy Scout seemed to be all business.  He was a cut-up and a clown, or had been during Webelos meetings back in Cub Scouts, but now as a Boy Scout he was ready to get down to business.  This was the Boy Scout Troop.  This was almost the entire Troop, two older Boy Scouts, both Life rank Boy Scouts, were taking on the Ranger program that Summer Camp year.              The Ranger Program saw the Boy Scouts taken out into the over 6, 000 acres of the Boy Scout Ranch and learn to live off the land.  They did not stay in one camp.  They did not sleep in tents, not even small pup tents.  Each Boy Scout took only what they could carry on their back and were taught to survive in the wilderness.  The only other member of the Troop, an recent Eagle Scout, was in the Summer of his 16th year and was all about his summer job and his summer girlfriend.  The Eagle Scout did come out and spend two evenings with the rest of the Troop; he kept his commitment to the younger Scouts, trying to be positive example of continued service back to the Troop beyond your own personal goal accomplishment.  For the first time since most of the young men assembled there in the rain that Summer afternoon had joined, and a couple had been in the Troop over three years, they were really in charge of something new, without the benefit of others showing them what to do and doing the majority of the work.  It was on this new group, this new Troop, this new Patrol.  They had held elections prior to Boy Scout Summer Camp to decide who would be Senior Patrol Leader, who would be their Youth Leader during the week of Camp, responsible for waking up everyone each morning, responsible for attending Senior Patrol Leader Meetings to find out program changes and updates, responsible for creating a Duty Roster and making sure that each member of the group preformed their assigned tasks.  They had also held elections to determine a new Patrol Mascot.  The Boy Scout Troop had elected my son, a recently promoted First-Class Scout to Senior Patrol Leader and they had chosen to become the Turtle Patrol.  A more apt and appropriate Patrol Mascot could not have been chosen, and as that Patrol, that Turtle Patrol, stood in the middle of their Swamp of a Campsite we all knew, each and everyone of us knew that this was going to be no ordinary Summer Camp experience.

More Works in Progress

More Stuff in the works at the Mill... Number 35:  La planete des singes (expected completion:  2011)

Who Are You - Final

The 78th in my Collage Series is a tribute to the 50 year history of the BBC science-fiction program Doctor Who:

Fishing for Kiddlings - Stage 2

Second stage on latest in Self-Portrait Series

Fishing for Kiddlings - Stage 1

First stage of 7th in Self-Portrait Series "Fishing for Kiddlings"  -- What do you think?

Scout Daddy

The 2nd painting in my Self-Portrait series.

Art is What You Can Get Away With!

here's a recent work...quote from Andy Warhol

Who Are You?

next step of progress on my latest work....

Spies Versus Spies Like Us

Number 14 in the Collage Series

Painting In Progress

newest painting in progress, 78th of Collage Series (1-100)

Highway Angels

another one from my collage series

http://familie-reher.de/modules/Search/tubyus.htm

Hippos & Serial Killers

http://www.myspace.com/bryan_bannister/blog/543500264

The Story of Mister Seymour Better

The Story of Mr. Seymour Better

            He sat there at the bar eyeing up the beer sign, blazing blue and red in the dark dim light of the bar, hazy clouds of cigar and cigarette smoke making the scene look like the British boat docks when the fog would roll in, making seeing anything impossible, save for the bright, flashing, almost neon like light from the lighthouses, beer sign lighthouses of the night, although it was the middle of the day and he was still cold sober, despite having been sat there in that bar stool for over an hour, sipping his whisky and cola.  He sipped the drink, he had never been a drinker, his stomach couldn’t handle it and his disposition, otherwise, couldn’t handle it either for when he did drink, on those ever-so-rare occasions when he did partake, when he would buckle under pressures; from social settings and pressure from his peers to the formal settings when the pressure wasn’t just from his peers but also from those superior to him, not only socially but economically, which is to say financially superior to him, or those that were morally, ethically superior to him; the priests, the rabbis, the philanthropists who made every breath they took seem like another benevolent act of kindness in a life destined for sainthood.  He sipped the drink knowing that soon it would be all over; not just the day but the whole mad adventure, soon, very soon in fact, the whole adventure would be over and he would have to return, return ever so humble to the pitiful role, the position he had resigned himself to those many years ago, a position he had not really chosen for himself but that Fate had chosen to bestow upon him, a role that only the most acclaimed actors, or actresses, he reminded himself, trying to break a lifetime of chauvinism instilled into his brain by his father, uncles, and grandfathers, but all the same a role that any performer would have been honored and awarded for performing on film, when the scenes were false and the outcome predestined, but he had performed this role, this act of making others believe his performance in real life, when the stakes were life and death and when the outcome was never predestined, or was it, he wondered to himself, drinking another sip of the harsh whiskey.  The bar did not have English whiskey or Scottish whiskey, as he asked for trying to act all sophisticated, he didn’t normally drink and he didn’t know the difference between whiskey made in England, Scotland, Germany, India, or Ohio, why Ohio a person may ask, but he never liked Ohio and if the whiskey he was drinking was from anywhere it must have been from a steaming pile of state like Ohio, the place where his innocence in the ways of love had been taken from him, one of the first times he had drank any alcoholic beverages and his girlfriend had ended up in bed with another man and his wife, leaving him, looking like a fool on the sidelines, a laughing stock at all the huge, bearded, tattooed and pierced bikers and their wives in attendance at the party, a party his girlfriend, an older woman, ten years his senior, who had taken a shine to his thin, sickly, spindly-armed frame and his balding, at age twenty-two, dark black hair, actually it was light brown but the amount of sweating he did combined with the oily, greasy nature of his physical being made the hair seem black, a deadly black like the inside of his heart as it burned in his chest that night, as he vowed by the pale, full moonlight of that stinking, dreadful, awful night in Ohio to never again be the victim, to never again be the fool, to never again be the butt of everyone’s jokes and laughter.  He left that particular girlfriend after another three months, during which time he had plotted and planned his escape, fleeing several states and returning to the Midwest from the Deep South and beginning again, this time as an executive, an account executive, a salesmen, he had to admit that’s what he was, and had been for over three decades, during which time the greasiness of his hair was replaced by the ravages of time and his balding hair was now grey but the sweat stayed, worse now that in his youth but still, ever-present.  His wife had met him almost two decades previously and forced him to marry her, his vow of never being the victim had went straight out the window, he had married his dream woman but she turned into a nightmare, or so he would tell anyone who would lend an ear to hear his pleas for forgiveness and his begging for answers to his predicament, but he knew the answer, he knew it all those years ago in Ohio and he knew it even more so now, now after three decades of being the fool, the pitiful, pathetic fool, laughed at, not only behind his back but straight to his face, he knew the answer but instead tried to hide behind the performer’s mask, hiding his fears, insecurities, his disappointments, and his terrible, crippling stuttering made him even more self-conscious but he carried on, his acting skills firmly in place, he would play this role as long as he could, ride it out but today he realized he didn’t know why he continued and he began to question it.  He took another sip of his whisky, the foul taste reminding him of why he continued, because the Lord had told him to continue, as he would pray for guidance, he always felt that if the Lord wanted him to change or wanted him to leave his wife then the Lord would send him a sign, so sure was he of his significance, of his importance in this world, he knew that if the Lord wanted him to play a different role, then the Lord would send him a sign, but no sign ever came, until that morning, he thought, looking down the bar to his right to the television screen barely visible through the smoky, dim light of the bar, the television reminded him of the sign he had received that morning, a sign that had sent him on his journey, this journey, for which the bar had been merely a way station, a stopping point for a brief moment on his way to the end, the end of the journey, the end of the performance, an end to the lifetime of embarrassment and a lifetime of harassment, and end to the greatest role of his life and the beginning of his next role, of his ascension, of his transformation, of his metamorphosis, it was the beginning of the next phase in his life and it all began with a simple song, “Take it Back” by Johnny Switzer and the Bad Dawg Band was on the television that morning, his wife, the beautiful woman whom had told him they were marrying after she became pregnant with his baby, a feat he thought particularly fascinating as they had never had sexual relations, she had only let him kiss her on the cheek a few times prior to the pregnancy announcement, and only once on the lips, at their wedding ceremony, but the pregnancy turned out to be a mistake on her part, she explained something about faulty math and getting her dates screwed up, but he believed her and they were married, a couple destined to spend eternity together, not just here but in the afterlife, forever and ever, but she still would not have sexual relations with him, at first it was because of the baby but after a year of being married and no further pregnancy, she refused on religious grounds, saying their marriage was based on a lie and only through extreme commitment to the Lord would they be able to cleanse their unholy spirits and achieve purity enough to one day consummate their marriage, but until then, she insisted on separate bed rooms, only allowing him a few, harmless kisses on his birthday (she insisted that she spend the whole entire week of her birthday at a spa resort, or beach resort, or ski resort, or wine country resort, or any resort, but always by herself, although he always ended up having to pay for a double occupancy room, double room service, and double air fare, just in case one of her friends decided to go along, which she always claimed they never did, but he still had to pay double) and their anniversary, and once, just once, on Christmas in the year of their seventh wedded year, she became so intoxicated on eggnog that she allowed him to feel her up, over her sweater, of course, but she forced him into a pittance that included him doing community service road work, cleaning up the sides of the highways for six months because of that night, claiming that Satan himself had tempted her and caused them both to be sent backwards on their journey to purity, this wife of his, as Johnny Switzer and his band played their 1976 Top 40 hit, she looked up at him, turned and looked at the screen, then back at him and she began laughing.  She laughed so hard that she began to snort, then she laughed so hard she began to cry, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes as she couldn’t contain herself over the humor that she had seen, a humor that he couldn’t see, but that slowly, as if the Lord himself, or herself, he reminded himself, taking another sip of his whisky, as if the Lord wanted him to slowly see what the Lord had always knew, today would be the day the performance came to an end, today the acting was done and the sad, pathetic little man, with the bald head and grey tufts of hair over his ears was done being the fool, he was done playing the part, he realized that his wife, the blonde woman who didn’t look a day over twenty-five was laughing at him and the lyrics of the song, “One thing I’d do, to escape you, is I’d take it back” went the tune which told of a handsome surfer writing a letter dumping his plain jane girlfriend, only to die in a surfing accident before finished the letter but she still finds the incomplete letter, a real heartbreaker but a good belly rubbing song back in the late 1970s and early 1980s nightclubs and bars.  His beautiful, loving wife, concerned about their everlasting souls, who secretly attended weekends with male lovers, females lovers, and groups of lovers at hotels, spas, resorts, shopping malls, movie theaters, or anywhere else to have wild sex parties, drinking and doing drugs, committing adultery and several other sins, all right under his nose, of course he knew, he feigned ignorance, playing his part, true to the role he had been given by Fate and the Lord our God, he played his part and ignored her dalliances, he ignored her addictions, he ignored her sleeping with the Police Detective that had investigated the break-in at their home, the break-in that was a result of her owing a Drug Dealer she was sleeping with six hundred dollars, he ignored it when both the Detective and the Dealer went to prison and she began to send both money, she claimed she was doing her religious duty, making life easier on the Police Detective, the handsome, full haired detective with a chiseled chin and the bluest eyes, who had sacrificed so much to help them, and doing her religious duty in turning the other cheek towards the Drug Dealer who had broke into their home, stealing all their electronics; the giant, flat-screen television she had insisted on, even though they had yet to watch one movie together on it, their computers, their stereo, actually her stereo (he had bought it for her one Christmas, she had given him a pot holder), and had known about their hidden safe somehow, or had discovered it, and stolen all their cash, over three thousand dollars he had been saving back, and the diamond ring his mother, and her mother before her, and her mother before her, had brought over from Mendlefelden, Germany when they had immigrated to America, at a nice jewelers the ring had been appraised at six thousand dollars, she had insisted that he take it to be appraised when he had inherited it following his mother’s passing, in fact his mother’s funeral had not even been held yet and she had insisted they go to the jewelers before the funeral home, but the burglar had barely gotten two hundred dollars for it at a seedy pawnshop that like to skirt the law, even selling prescription medications to the right people, as he found out a year later when she owed the Pawn Shop Owner three hundred dollars for sleeping pills and anxiety medication after she had run out of the pills provided by the high priced Nut Doctor and Psycho-Babble Doctor she would see four times a month, at two hundred dollars an office visit, his beautiful wife was laughing at him and the good Lord told him, revealed to him that this day was the day.  This day was the day the laughter stopped. 

            He finished his whiskey, tipping back the glass, polishing off the last bit of liquid in it and pounded the glass back down hard on the bar.  No one noticed, no one turned at the loud sound echoing through the still, smoky bar.  Some of the smoke was from cigars and cigarettes, but some of the smoke was from the gun that lay next to his right hand, which he picked back up and tucked back inside his suit jacket.  The yellow and white plaid jacket had those dark brown elbow patches and an inside pocket that he tucked the handgun back into, he had pulled it out only ten minutes before, when he shot the Bartender, two strippers, and three patrons, but not before ordering his lunch and eating it, polishing off three glasses of cola and finally asking for an alcoholic drink.  The Bartender had laughed at him, just like his beautiful blonde wife had that morning, although once more he had allowed her, he wasn’t through with his part, not as far as she was concerned, not quite yet, but the Bartender had laughed and that was it, the sign from the Lord, just like at the office, the Lord pointed the way and he reacted, just as the Lord had wished him to.  He waited until his drink was delivered and when The Bartender, who had been the latest man she had been sleeping with, asked for the money for the drink, he had pulled out the handgun and shot the Bartender right between the eyes, point-blank range, and splattered, in brilliant crimson red spray mixed with grey bits and fragments, what little brains the Bartender had on the mirror behind where he had been standing, but he had to turn quickly, quicker than anyone thought he was possible of moving, and put another bullet through both strippers; college roommates hoping to make extra money by selling glimpses of their flesh to dirty old men, lesbians, and young guys too young for places as dark and vile as this, the bullets dropping them also to the floor in puddles of their own red liquids, oozing from their bodies, then turning one final time and shooting the three old men; two priests and a rabbi, a tired, old joke that never played out…two priests and a rabbi walk into a strip bar…the punch line never to be finished, instead all three getting shot, precision-like, almost hit man-style, between the eyes, then another shot to the heart of each.  He walked back to the bar, sat back on his bar stool, and finished his drink while at the same time finishing the fries in the red plastic basket his burger and fries had been served to him ten minutes ago.  The Cook, a man he had never seen before in the Pit, a new hire, stood in the kitchen, not having moved since the first bullet passed through his boss’s head, continued to stay in the same spot as he finished his drink and his fries.  After tucking the handgun into his suit jacket, the Cook continued to stay perfectly still, almost hoping that the man had not seen him, or forgotten about him, and he decided that the Lord didn’t want the Cook dead; the Bartender, of course the Lord wanted him dead, he was sleeping with his wife, although he doubted much sleeping went on, he smiled to himself at his little joke, he now could enjoy his own little jokes (his wife, his beautiful wife, and all of her friends and family and thought he wasn’t funny and, after a bit, he began to believe them, but not after this morning and the office, now he knew he had a terrific sense of humor, or at least he thought he did and it was time he enjoyed his humor), anyway, the Bartender certainly the Lord wanted him to dispatch that evil soul, same could be said about the wicked, evil harlots, the whores who tried to sell their flesh, they deserved to die, the Lord would want that type of filth purged from the planet, his Garden, and those servants of the Lord, the priests and the rabbi, teachers, educators, respected men of the cloth who spoke of the Lord’s works, the Lord’s plans, the Lord’s commandments sat, with sin in their minds and hearts, paying the whores and harlots while drinking the alcohol of the Adulterer Bartender, they also deserved to die, the Lord had spoken to him and told him to purge these evil ones.  Now it was time to return home, just one little stop on the way, he told himself, the grocery store to pick up all the ingredients to make his wife, his beautiful wife’s favorite meal, beef tips and noodles with cherry cheesecake and strawberry marguerites.  The grocery store visit didn’t take long, he gathered the items, paid in cash and got into his car without one problem, without one hiccup, without one time the Lord telling him to exact vengeance on one of his lying, cheating, beautiful wife’s adulterous suitors; not the Meat Market Man, not the Produce Man, not the Dairy Man, not once did the Lord tell him to bring them to justice, instead, the Lord showed him how each would die, the Dairy Man being killed when a cattle trailer loses control and rolls over him, crushing him flat, the Meat Market Man, his necktie, that awful, ugly fish tie he wore every Thursday would get stuck, that very evening, in the blades of the slicer and he would be choked to death, or at least the coroner believed he was dead before the safety kicked the slicer off but not before it sliced part of his cheek and eye and nose, and the Produce Man would die from toxic poisons that he accidentally sprayed on the lettuce one morning, mistaking it for water in his drunken state, the man having spent the last twenty years inside a bottle after killing a teenaged girl under the town bridge, a secret he took to his grave, but the Lord had shown him all this, he knew that vengeance would come for all the adulterers but not from his hand, from the Lord’s divine intervention.  Instead, he paid for his groceries and proceeded home where he prepared the dinner of his wife, his beautiful wife’s dreams, the only thing wrong, the only thing missing was Ramon, the Cuban swimming instructor from their honeymoon, which he had not gone on, although she insisted that he see the pictures when she got home, Ramon with his dark black chest hair, and arm hair, and stubbly beard, and all around good looks was missing and of course, he would be there instead, but other than that he had made her favorite dinner.  He had candles lit when she came home, her hair out of place, her skirt turned backwards and her stockings tore, she obviously had a rough day, but he smiled his best sycophantical smile and served her a plate, poured her a glass of margaritas and began eating himself.  She laughed, food flying out of her mouth, as she recounted for him, although he had been present, the morning’s events, complete with the Johnny Switzer song from 1976, the laughing, the rolling laughter, the snorting, and the crying, she told every detail and then proceeded to tell him why she was laughing, throwing it into his face about what a laughing stock of a pathetic, cuckolded husband he was, but soon her laughter began to die off, her snorts and tears not because of the laughter, not this time, the snorts, the gasps for breath, and the tears in her eyes were because of the rat poison he had purchased at Leo’s Grocery Store, the rat poison he had put into her beef tips and noodles, mixing it with the rich gravy made from solid beef stock and the antifreeze, also bought at Leo’s, that he had put into her strawberry margarita.  She was clutching her throat, as foam began to rise from the corners of her mouth, her body beginning to shake, uncontrollably, as he continued to eat his medium well steak dinner, she fell to the ground and he continued to finish his salad, steak and baked potato dinner he had made for himself, her legs finally coming to a stop, the kicking, all movement coming to an end as she passed, her eyes open and filled with fear as they began to cloud over.  He finished his dinner and waited for his ride, he knew they would be there any moment, the red and blue flashing lights on the back wall letting him know they were on their way.  He sliced another piece of steak and forked it into his mouth, savoring the taste, as the sirens got closer and closer.  The Lord would see him through this transformation, the Lord would see him though this metamorphosis, but first, the Lord would have to deliver him from this modern day Sodom, and the Lord’s Taxi Driver had shown up, the Police Detectives had arrived at his door, prompted, no doubt by the ten bodies he had left, stuffed into supply closets and bathroom stalls at his workplace, all evil Adulterous Souls that had taken that whore, that harlot, his wife, his beautiful, dead, mouth full of foam wife that lay on the floor, all those evil souls the Lord had instructed him to purge.  No doubt, Police Detective, probably not THE Police Detective, the Lord told him THAT Police Detective was being sodomized, speaking of the ancient Biblical twin city of Evil, by THE Drug Dealer’s brother, but this Police Detective was approaching the door, his finger outstretched to ring the bell, once…a pause, and the finger stretches out again, to ring once more before giving a knock and calling out his name, well, the name he had always been known by, the name of the role he had been forced to play those fifty years, but now that role had been cast aside and he no longer recognized that as HIS name anymore, the finger outstretched one, final time, before HE put down his steak knife and fork, pulled the handgun from his suit jacket, his yellow and white plaid suit jacket with the dark brown elbow patches, he pulled the handgun from the inside jacket pocket, turned it to face the door of the house and waited for the bell to ring a third, and hopefully final time, and he pulled the trigger.

The End

Statler Brothers

http://youtu.be/1s8nRL2bPCU

Doctor Who Comes to America

http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/7997301/doctor_who_comes_to_america.html?cat=39

NYTimes.com: Bin Laden Is Dead, Obama Says

This page was sent to you by:  bryan_63601@yahoo.com Message from sender: Big News: WORLD   | May 02, 2011 Bin Laden Is Dead, Obama Says By PETER BAKER, HELENE COOPER and MARK MAZZETTI President Obama said Osama bin Laden had been killed in a firefight during a "targeted operation" that Mr. Obama ordered in Pakistan. He was later buried at sea. Advertisement Copyright 2011  The New York Times Company | Privacy Policy

Doctor Who Returns

 

The long running British import, the science fiction television program Doctor Who, premiered its latest season on Saturday, April 23^rd with an episode entitled The Impossible Astronaut.  The new season begins with an episode designed for a fan of the show and not a newcomer, diving deep into the story of the time travelling Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey, with his companions and his TARDIS, with little explanation for the person unfamiliar with the program.  If you are new to Doctor Who, do not begin your romance with the program with Series 6, as I believe they are calling it, or Series 2 (being the second season for still "new" show runner Steven Moffat), or Season 32 (numbering from the beginning of the show in 1963).  If you are new, begin with Series 1 from 2005, or Series 5 from 2010, but Series 6, the latest series, is for the established fan, but don't be afraid, the great thing with the Doctor from Gallifrey and his wonderful machine that can travel in time and space, the TARDIS, you can jump on any time, just enjoy the ride.

In this review, I will attempt to stay away from spoilers.  In the past I have often given full details of Doctor Who episodes, but this time I will not be doing that.  Instead, I want to give you broader strokes, to preserve the watching to the true fan.  Steven Moffat and crew return for the latest season of the popular British science fiction program with promises of revelations and hints of mystery.  The press has been filled with tidbits about Doctor Who, handed out meticulously the past few weeks.  Doctor Who message boards have been running behind the scenes factoids, pictures from filming of Doctor Who, and rumors and speculation about Doctor Who since last season ended, but as the new season of Doctor Who grew closer and closer, more and more facts had leaked.  I will be honest in saying I knew pretty much everything that was going to happen in the episode before I ever saw it, but it did not diminish the experience, much.  I did not, however, see the ending coming, which I will not spoil if you have not seen it yet, but it was a great cliff hanger to leave the audience with in anticipation of the next episode of Doctor Who, Day of the Moon, which is set to be aired on Saturday, April 30^th, 2011. 

The cast of Doctor Who was marvelous, with the actors now firmly entrenched in their characters.  For those people nervous about young Matt Smith as the 900-year old Time Lord, they need not have.  The BBC, and head writer Steve Moffat made a great selection with their Doctor.   Smith owns the role almost in a way that predecessor David Tennant did not.  Do not get me wrong, don't even send the angry e-mails or post the angry comments, I loved David Tennant in the role of the Doctor.  Doctor Who was David Tennant.  But that's the thing with the Doctor; each actor brings something new, something old, and something unique to their portrayal.  Matt Smith delivers all that and much more.  His Doctor is ancient and wise but also youthful and carefree, almost careless, but make no mistake about it, he is also not to be trifled with.  The writing in The Impossible Astronaut gives Smith several great lines including his discussion with his trio of companions on the TARDIS and his discussion with security forces in the episode.  Also returning this season is Karen Gillian as his companion Amy Pond, who carries a few secrets with her, and her husband, Rory Williams, played by Arthur Darvill.  The married couple is back with The Doctor, after marrying in the finale of last season and honeymooning during the Christmas special, A Christmas Carol, and they are joined by Alex Kingston, reprising her recurring role as Doctor River Song. 

The episode also featured a few new faces to the Doctor Who gallery of stars including Mark Sheppard, the versatile British actor who has had role on everything from Star Trek: Voyager and Monk to Supernatural and Burn Notice, as Canton Everett Delaware III, an ex-FBI agent who finds himself along for the ride with the Doctor and his companions.  Sheppard's real life father, William Morgan Sheppard, plays an older version of his Canton Everett Delaware III character in the episode.   Another highlight of the episode, and I will have to admit a small spoiler here, but nothing more than those handed out by the BBC before broadcast, is Stuart Milligan's portrayal of President Richard Nixon in the episode, which is primarily set in 1969 in America. 

The Impossible Astronaut, the latest episode of the almost 50 year old science fiction program Doctor Who, aired on April 23, 2011 on both BBC1 in the UK and BBCA (BBC America) in the United States, a first for the franchise. 

 

here

http://www.dailyjournalonline.com/entertainment/local/article_c844f428-67c8-11e0-be29-001cc4c03286.html

COMING UP IN PARADE, IN NEWSPAPERS SUNDAY | Parade.com

http://www.parade.com/news/2011/04/17-table-of-contents.html

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Killer Whales

Will It Go Round

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Retro Virus (2010)

A look back at some iconic toys & product imagery from the past.

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The Tragedy of Loho (2010)

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