Save A Life, Don't Drink and Drive :
Friday Nov. 13th
"Save a Life, Don't Drink and Drive" says the hooptie, an old pick-up truck. I was driving home from work when I read the bumper sticker from the commuter in front of me. Wow, Filled with joy, I think there is hope. This man is convincing me with this bumper sticker, seriously! I could hug him for his noble message, or perhaps just a sticker to look more inconspicuous in the eyes of the police. Either wayI'm moved.
Saturday, Nov. 14th
I drove home under the influence of southern comfort and cranberry juice. After three glasses, perhaps 5-8 oz. of fine bourbon I felt the time for my departure was looming. My core temperature was up as was my confidence and self assurance.
"I am never going to drink and drive again." a quote from my own mouth. I have suffered losses of friends from making the same choice. I have heard report after report of casualties related to drunk drivers. I have listened to my family tell unfortunate stories of loved relatives cause damage, suffering, and injury after a few drinks. Still I drive. Blurry vision, altered mindset, and the possibility do not stop me from reversing from the parking spot.
What will It take? Prison awaits. Fines await. Injury or worse is waiting to strike like an irritated cobra. M.A.D.D is waiting for me to slip. Yet, I slip over and over. Like so many Americans facing 2nd and 3rd DWIs , We continue to make the mostly deadly choice.
I understand the consequences, But will the consequences have to carried out in order for me to truly realize.
No, My life and yours will not be endangered , I hope.
Monday, Nov 16th
More bourbon, though substantially less than before. My vision was not really affected. I was okay to drive, says the hypocrite. Sorry.
I am afraid of my 21st birthday.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Life, Death, and Politics
Once, When I was eleven or so..
I was one in a gang of 20. Our town was poor and separated by north and south. A boy named Foster; Brian Foster was the eldest of us. He was about 17 but threw hooks like he was no more than a toddler. Luckily for him he was a built with a deceiving frame and boy he was a brilliant crook. He was second in command. Second to me.
Them southern boys thieved up and down the sidewalks of ‘Rock Chester’ from sunrise to sunset. ‘Rock Chester Natives’ they called themselves. Each day they sold the loot across the bridge in New Jersey. They ran a genius enterprise and it turned a tremendous profit. How it irked Foster to the bone to not be able to take a cut from the sidewalk vendors of his own town.
Mr. Washington paused and let out a low bellowed laugh. He had an entertaining idea. ‘We will cut the Achilles tendon of each and every Native pawn. Then we will take the heart of their King and assume absolute control of the enterprise.’ Foster raved. He was an ambitious fool.
One of the magistrates that stood listening to the speaker asked like a schoolboy in class, " Sir, Did you not fight?"
Mad as young Foster. Lead my crew of 20 into battle with 40 odd boys? How do the Spanish say? Esta Loco. I knew better than to lead my boys to slaughter. Nevertheless, taking control of their enterprise was enticing. Eventually I would wage war.
I began by sending the smallest of the boys to do reconnaissance work. They stalked the Native's guards like ninjas moving with cover of the shadows. After a week we knew all their favorite targets. We watched and noted their preferred methods of attack. By the time we had scheduled how often the young entrepreneurs were rotated, my young ninjas caught up with an ol' boy who was running off to see a cute little town's girl. He was cornered and hit across the chin, then brought to me, El Grande Shogun.
Poor kid pissed his pants before I could even start to administer some good ol' corporal punishment. He spilled the entire hierarchy after giving me a bit of useful information about a heist that the leader, a boy named 'Shade', was planning in upper Rock Chester N.Y.The natives were to take on 'Tommy Long Pawn'. Their plan was to send two youngsters in asking about a gold ring. When close enough they would both knife Tommy, the only employed attendant. Then a group of five more would storm into the shop to rip off weapons, jewelry, and electronics. The Boys in Blue were waiting. After the attempted assault their presence was made know and I believe a couple of arrests were made as well. I sent for the pisser to be thrown over the bridge. Two days later the N.Y Pig Department raided the Native's hideout and barracks. Their reign was finished.Those whom were lucky enough to be spared by the fuzz eventually found us for protection. Our numbers grew by the dozens, and Foster created unprecedented profits running the new business.
"Did you kill the boy?" a gruff voice asked amid the shadows of the basement room.”
That boy, that rat was the sole reason the southern Natives fell. We sent him swimming with an engine block for a float I fastened him to." Washington’s sternness resonated slowly around the basement’s crowd. Everyman standing and listening to their commanding chief digested the story without as much as a stomach growl. A ruthless expression deep in Washington’s eyes bore into the pupils of the man bound by the knotted manila rope. He who is gagged, beaten, and bound to a chair that is centered in front of Washington’s officers, is a present day officer for New York Police Department. With emphasis on the “was”, he was also an officer in Washington's ranks.
"Bury Him." Washington finally spoke. Washington, even beneath the ominous aura of the colorless basement, wore dark and tinted wood grain rectangular suns glasses. His suit, probably Italian, absorbed what little light illuminated the cold space. The graying gentleman stood and spoke with a dignified assertion. In unison each standing officer spoke. ”Sir, yes Sir.”
A man dressed in pressed black and white suit came to the bottom of the stairs. He tried to address the raconteur in a whisper. After the second failed attempt at gaining Washington's attention he let out a faux cough. Washington stepped toward the coughing man and was reminded. "Sir you have an appointment with Senator Davis."
"Right, Well Boys. " He turned and faced the room. "I am a busy fella’ these days. You are all doing splendid work. It shall be a Merry Christmas for each of you and your families." He shifted and started ascending the stairs. After he reached the fourth step, he turned and lowered his head under the doorframe just enough to make eye contact with the imprisoned man.
Like a true politician he grinned, gave a minute wave, and spoke to those ‘Bastard Knights’. " Send the rat pig to his grave, alive."
I was one in a gang of 20. Our town was poor and separated by north and south. A boy named Foster; Brian Foster was the eldest of us. He was about 17 but threw hooks like he was no more than a toddler. Luckily for him he was a built with a deceiving frame and boy he was a brilliant crook. He was second in command. Second to me.
Them southern boys thieved up and down the sidewalks of ‘Rock Chester’ from sunrise to sunset. ‘Rock Chester Natives’ they called themselves. Each day they sold the loot across the bridge in New Jersey. They ran a genius enterprise and it turned a tremendous profit. How it irked Foster to the bone to not be able to take a cut from the sidewalk vendors of his own town.
Mr. Washington paused and let out a low bellowed laugh. He had an entertaining idea. ‘We will cut the Achilles tendon of each and every Native pawn. Then we will take the heart of their King and assume absolute control of the enterprise.’ Foster raved. He was an ambitious fool.
One of the magistrates that stood listening to the speaker asked like a schoolboy in class, " Sir, Did you not fight?"
Mad as young Foster. Lead my crew of 20 into battle with 40 odd boys? How do the Spanish say? Esta Loco. I knew better than to lead my boys to slaughter. Nevertheless, taking control of their enterprise was enticing. Eventually I would wage war.
I began by sending the smallest of the boys to do reconnaissance work. They stalked the Native's guards like ninjas moving with cover of the shadows. After a week we knew all their favorite targets. We watched and noted their preferred methods of attack. By the time we had scheduled how often the young entrepreneurs were rotated, my young ninjas caught up with an ol' boy who was running off to see a cute little town's girl. He was cornered and hit across the chin, then brought to me, El Grande Shogun.
Poor kid pissed his pants before I could even start to administer some good ol' corporal punishment. He spilled the entire hierarchy after giving me a bit of useful information about a heist that the leader, a boy named 'Shade', was planning in upper Rock Chester N.Y.The natives were to take on 'Tommy Long Pawn'. Their plan was to send two youngsters in asking about a gold ring. When close enough they would both knife Tommy, the only employed attendant. Then a group of five more would storm into the shop to rip off weapons, jewelry, and electronics. The Boys in Blue were waiting. After the attempted assault their presence was made know and I believe a couple of arrests were made as well. I sent for the pisser to be thrown over the bridge. Two days later the N.Y Pig Department raided the Native's hideout and barracks. Their reign was finished.Those whom were lucky enough to be spared by the fuzz eventually found us for protection. Our numbers grew by the dozens, and Foster created unprecedented profits running the new business.
"Did you kill the boy?" a gruff voice asked amid the shadows of the basement room.”
That boy, that rat was the sole reason the southern Natives fell. We sent him swimming with an engine block for a float I fastened him to." Washington’s sternness resonated slowly around the basement’s crowd. Everyman standing and listening to their commanding chief digested the story without as much as a stomach growl. A ruthless expression deep in Washington’s eyes bore into the pupils of the man bound by the knotted manila rope. He who is gagged, beaten, and bound to a chair that is centered in front of Washington’s officers, is a present day officer for New York Police Department. With emphasis on the “was”, he was also an officer in Washington's ranks.
"Bury Him." Washington finally spoke. Washington, even beneath the ominous aura of the colorless basement, wore dark and tinted wood grain rectangular suns glasses. His suit, probably Italian, absorbed what little light illuminated the cold space. The graying gentleman stood and spoke with a dignified assertion. In unison each standing officer spoke. ”Sir, yes Sir.”
A man dressed in pressed black and white suit came to the bottom of the stairs. He tried to address the raconteur in a whisper. After the second failed attempt at gaining Washington's attention he let out a faux cough. Washington stepped toward the coughing man and was reminded. "Sir you have an appointment with Senator Davis."
"Right, Well Boys. " He turned and faced the room. "I am a busy fella’ these days. You are all doing splendid work. It shall be a Merry Christmas for each of you and your families." He shifted and started ascending the stairs. After he reached the fourth step, he turned and lowered his head under the doorframe just enough to make eye contact with the imprisoned man.
Like a true politician he grinned, gave a minute wave, and spoke to those ‘Bastard Knights’. " Send the rat pig to his grave, alive."
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