"!"

Consider: McCain left the Arizona stage to part of Hans Zimmer’s score from “Crimson Tide.” (This part, actually.) The 1995 Tony Scott film focused on a career Navy man (Gene Hackman), labeled a maverick by some, who is stripped of his authority and ultimately beaten by a young black guy, somewhat new to the scene (Denzell Washington).

Then there was Obama, who left the stage to the strings of Trevor Rabin’s score from “Remember the Titans.” The 2000 Disney/Bruckheimer joint followed an African-American coach who brought together whites and blacks to win a championship.

This is obviously more than coincidence, but is this genuinely telling? Someone chose these songs on purpose. [MTV]

Puff Daddy Quote of the Day

Regarding newly elected President Obama...(man, it feels good typing that)

"I felt like my vote was the vote that put him into office. It was down to one vote, and that was going to be my vote. And that may not be true, but that's how much power it felt like I had," the hip-hop mogul said.

Election Fatigue

So everything's different on Wednesday, right?

This is how bad McCain is

McCain is SO bad, he's getting Indiana racists to consider voting for a (1/2) black guy. Wow.

In Fishtown, Indiana, one man was quoted as saying, "I'm voting for the nigger".

Amazing country this is.

leave fingernail marks on your soul mate to the beat

Drowning in blankets of red patterns, and a blue one around my feet for safe measure from a kitten, my nostrils were adhering to the airborne remnants of a woodstove. I peaked out the blinds, rubbed my fingertips across the window surface for a clear view of a neighbor clearing his drive way. The type that you'd expect to be wearing an ascot and hoisting a snifter of brandy. Smug. An avuncular old gent. I stared up at stucco and listened intently as a shovel damned a layer of ice in rhythmic fashion in the early afternoon. It forced you to leave finger nail marks on your soul mate to the beat. Like all the punk bands that grew out of contempt for the incomparably deluded frat boys and prissy, politically correct dilettantes who these days pop collars and rock Uggs. The ice was a tendency, the motion of the shovel was the irresistible tendency to leverage out a trend. It was a fresh sound that reminded me of the frantically turning wheels of my childhood.
A run of the mill Tuesday in 1988 was like watching painted grass drying, while growing. I remember riding my Big Wheel down Bridle, holding the handles like a grudge and achieving little success at the art of traction, pebbles distracting the purpose of my underachieving plastic tires. Feet dragging, the white noise of peddles spinning like a tripped out Ferris wheel in a Terry Gilliam flick. I would end up on my side, most days, in a king size unmade flower bed of a one armed bachelor next to a pumping station by the lake. The fall down was virginal beauty off the rails. The blood from my nose was the breakfast of champions. The neighbors mutt, at this point, was charging the gate like a Visa with speed lines along a collar that resembled a hanging grape with a splash of fire. The pebbles that threw me off course made a new colony in my open knee. The mongrels mouth pressed through the rusted steel gate as if mashed potatoes through the prongs of a fork. His bark, a power line snapping in a pool of rain. His single armed feeder mirrored his angst through a kitchen window, mourning the transplanted ladino clover his bed once blanketed. It wasn't the type of expression that would get him a quick loan at the bank, that's for sure. The vinyl sides of pre-World War houses became the urban sprawl horizon for a boy on his side basking in the sound of spinning wheels coming to a halt. These moments remind me of the rarefied air of Paul Newman. There's a romantic cache I seem to give them. Like the feeling you get when you watch the 'Sandlot'.
The hole in my blanket that I peer through is the shape of an onion while I listen to her type. Pitter pat with a fat cat. Stomach as empty as a volleyball, I was beckoning her in need of driving her crazy with Huh?-inducing escapades and made up languages. It's the effect on you that prolonged exposure from me gives. I eat three meals a day, unfortunately, the ingredients of two are primarily my own words. He just dun killed himself an opportunity, that one did.

The Popcorn Man

He was the son of Edith J Williams, aka, 'Wings', the woman who lived in the home I was raised in. The one I type in, in the shadow of her lilac bushes. She took in my grandfather, 'Normie' as she called him, in the spring of 43 while the Popcorn Man stormed the beaches of Europe becoming a man. She cared for her garden and waited for Western Union to deliver the bad news.

He used empty hand grenades as lamps, filled with kerosene with boot strap wicks. Among his pockets, I imagine, were two rosaries, his drivers license, a folder of 16 photos of family and friends, a blood stained letter, and $1.61.

The war, I imagine him saying, was like a comic opera. Because you only die laughing.
The beaches were littered with leaflets demanding the allies to quit, and the skies rained shells from storm clouds of artillery smoke. They said you couldn't complete 12 missions without dying. Duncan J. Williams, The Popcorn Man, completed 18.

His nickname changed to Yo-Yo, because he always came back to you.

He had a paper angel in Worcester. They spent 90 straight days together before he was shipped off. He asked her not to exceed three dates with any particular boy. This way, she could get to know others and make her own decisions. But she wouldn't get to know them too well. He remembered these requests, I imagine, in the shadows of a crumbling monastery, picture in hand, while leaflets swirled in mini tornadoes with shredded ally uniforms choreographing a dance in it's shadow.

The Italians around him used his trench knife to cut their wedding cake while during downtime the troops would stage baseball games and give their cronies their share of beer. Oh, the Fighting Seabees.
"Mother, I am in the very best of health, and I hope to hear the same of you always". "Tell Mary, to head to the beach with the babies, and although I won't be there this summer, I will be next. It's a date. Take care of yourself and keep the stoves roaring and the chow line long."
He was captured by the Germans.

I'm holding, in a trembling hand, the notice declaring him a Prisoner of War.

Kriegsgefangenenpost.
Rank and Name: Sgt. Duncan J. Williams.
Prisoner of War No. 100663
Important: For prisoners in German hands the prisoner of war number should be clearly indicated if known.
A letter. From broken Wings.

Dear Duncan,
School started again today, and for the first time in 16 years there are no Williams', as Normie went to his mother last night. He called me three times today, Normie did. He is terribly lonesome, poor little fellow….and so am I. I wish I could have kept him as my own.
I am all alone.
I received a letter from Davey today. Still in California. He has changed his mind about coming home.
I hope you are well. I want to see you terribly. Love from all- Mom.
By Air Mail, Par Avion.
Everyone written about above would end their stories by dying a lonely death. I have never been so proud to have Normie on my arm, or to have been raised in this house, with the smell of her lilacs infiltrating my window every spring like a front line attack. I never knew the popcorn man, but the inspiration has brought me a mighty headache as I shield a laptop from tears.
The eye sees, the mind knows, the heart feels. I have no war to call my own, but I have people whom I love that I will never let go without a shoreline fight. I have integrity that won't be sold or drowned out. No matter how much you doubt yourself, remember that the Yo-yo always comes back.
I know that.

Rehash and Relax, Another Tale of Gusty and his Starry Gaze

I don't know his name, but I've known him through comfortable eye contact for about three years now. It's a 'smile and nod' relationship with a little something extra. As if we were pretending not to know each other. I've spoken to him enough to lose his name in a thick brush of accent and to learn he turned up here from India years back, to look for a better life. I know him from dumpster diving in the daytime.

Today was something very new.

I opened my hatchback to pick up a painting I had put together on glass. The glass was hot from the stay in the car, but I lifted and headed into work, because they all wanted to see it. As I approached the doors I saw his skinny legs like tree trunks growing from the dumpster. I laughed. When the air conditioning met the glass in my hands, it instantly shattered, leaving my hands full of slivered glass and blood. They all looked at me with that, "this kid can't catch a break lately" look, and all I could do was smile. At this point, these things are very funny to me. Keep the punches coming. I'm a masochist.

I washed my bloody hands and wrapped gauze around them to soak the spills. Pulled out the shards, headed to Register for the end of my shift.

He's over at Petco now, collecting bottles and trying to make conversation with the pretentious white folk in the Lexus. My attention drifts from my wounds to his attempts at tête-à-tête, and directly to the old woman buying Soy milk.

She looked at my hands, reached out and held them. The wrinkles under her eyes, like power lines. I imagined birds resting on them. "You are young, you will heal. I just hope I can finish the food I buy before I die", she says as she looks past me, over my shoulder. She lures me in with a finger curl and whispers in my ear, "St Peter is knocking on my door. I'll be with him very soon".

I drop my elbows to the counter with comfort and sift through her change for her. I'm photo-introduced to her four grandchildren and her poorly organized purse, and we discuss the fleeting options of hope and health. And she appreciates my smile and good intentions. She tells me their aren't many like me, she can see it in my eyes. My line disperses in frustration as we hugged like old friends. I helped her to her car, turned down a dollar tip, and my attention drifts to my Indian friend who's name I don't know. He's watching and smiling. He knows.

I walked up to his beaming smile and we walked together naturally, with a connection and expectation I cannot translate to words, and we headed to the back of the store. We had just bagged up bananas, bread and OJ, so I went in and took enough for the two of us. We sat in silence and broke bread and soaked in the sun. I went back inside, punched out and walked away. I heard the sound of cans dragging on pavement and thought of a car with "Just Married" written on it, dragging aluminum over cobblestone.

All day I had been greasing my palms with my forehead, now leaving it quite crimson. Exhaustion struck. Life in general made my knees shaky and I sat on the curb. On the warm Shrewsbury pavement, I slept in the warm luminosity. The ubiquitous feeling that life is beautiful and tragic took hold of my joints and told them it was quitting time. The moment was a bona fide masterpiece.

The sunlight oversaturated the license plate as I awoke in time to see the car strike the cat. The feline was struck but not run over, and as my blurry eyes reminded me of where I fell asleep, my weary legs told me it was time to punch back in. My Indian friend was across the lot, but saw the hit and run, and he ran.

The feline saw the gutter as womb, and crawled onto it's side hoping to find an answer.

I picked the cat up, ignoring the wounds, the germs. Ignoring them to hold the animal in time for it to die in my arms. It looked up at me, and then the little guy died. That moment is frozen. I think of the old woman, the dreamer by my side, the driver who fled the scene. I wonder what he had for lunch, what he was listening to in the car. I wonder if the woman will die with the quickness of the cat, and if the painting breaking was just a metaphor. The dried blood. The bread.

All this death, all this life. All the moments where the two meet. Existence, it has no pyramid of value. To exist is to exist, whether you are in a Mercedes or a dumpster.

He looked at me with compassion and took the dead being from my grasp.

We dug a hole together in the shade of the trees, language barrier in place, and held a funeral with Jim Beam and crusts of bread. I named the cat "Jack", because the author is always on my mind, and couldn't help thinking I was burying the old woman at the register. My grandfather. Myself.

We collapsed to our knees and prayers from India were thrown into the breeze. I cried with a man who came looking for a better life. He realized, like we all do, that there is only life. There is no better or worse. It's the myth of "meant to be".