“Just Remember This: Two-Dip Weekend!”

Remember two things:

avocado and sour cream –

already got rest*!


*(For the guacamole: grape tomatoes to dice fine after seeding – yes, labor intensive, but do you want runny guac?; shallots and red onion, both minced; garlic – same; key lime juiced to flavor and protect – ‘mole cops, like; kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper; extra virgin olive oil and sour cream both to thin and flavor – criminals for the cops to control.  For the mixed-“race” refried beans: both black and pinto refried beans – canned if you are lazy but check to see if lard was used and if not, guy a better brand – if homemade and unwilling to swing lard, use bacon grease and do not remove the deserter tidbits; shallots, red onions and garlic, all minced; sour cream and extra virgin olive oil; S&P. For Both: minced, seeded and pithed jalapeno peppers for crunch and heat; a side-bowl of both crushed red and powdered dry chipotle peppers for the truly brave or just plain ignorant or massively stupid: I qualify on both the last two counts! These items may be served in separate small bowls with sprinkling baby teaspoons of sorts, or if related or truly loved, just use fingers!  Optional for the beans: paprika, both Spanish and Hungarian, smoked and straight; minced seeded grape tomatoes.  Optional for the Guacamole: a light dusting of smoked paprika.  Mandatory for both: minced green onions, both green and white as garniture on top and reserved in small side-bowls and muchas muchisimas mas small chop and whole-picked cilantro leaves and minced cilantro stems.  Do you realize how much beer – Negra Modelo or Tecate but in a pinch any will do! will it take to prep just two of these television musts? Go! Buy more beer!)



“Touchton’s Drugs Warm Wall – A Tale Told Twice!”

Brisk chill walk downtown

to bask before Touchton’s wall

where old men gathered.


Wait just a fine ‘sec’:

did you ;just call me old, man?

Here: have a mirror!





“A Tale Of Two Excellencies”

Except I think I will hang with the one who doesn’t know (Donald John Trump) and send the one who doesn’t care (Barack Hussein Obama) back to his ash-heap. Neither, I suspect, will listen to me.

Commentary, Outrages, Prose

One doesn’t know

and one doesn’t care:

our two excellencies –

enough to keep all hoping!

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“Mom, On Her Hundredth*

Sally would have made

a shiny centenarian:

a shiek-ess at last!


*(Born December 28 either 1919 – as she told the U.S. Navy and Dad – or 1916 as she later amended with a shy grin, or perhaps 1913 as I suspected but never pressed – Sally Claire (Khaya or Chaia or any other such spelling of the Hebrew word “Light”) Feldman Richards was a trip!  When I would come by her and Dad’s Sanford home en route to or from a local watering hole by way of an out-of-town assignment for my Brevard county newspaper some 30 or more miles distant, rarely did I evade her noxious ear and as I reekingly stumbled to the back door, muttering keep it quiet, klown! she would appear, nightgown’s lapel enfolding her lower face – for she wore dentures – and I would gleem: “Oh, shiek-ess of Araby! What a pleasant surprise!” Shusshed (but I wasn’t THAT loud!) she would ask over her retreating shoulder: “got time to take daddy fishing?” ¿Como no?” I would return serve!)

“Peeling Onions Before Mirrors”

Peeling onions before mirrors

I wait with all the grace galumph

gave as such to me for my impatience

and its still evilly-grinning good grace

Every answer I give that mirror

the goof or grape on my shoulder would shout:

“Wrong! Buffalo Balls For Breath!

Tell Him The Real Reason!”

(or, failing that,  find the next skin

and start shuckin’ jive-baiter!)

And so, that is why I pee outside:

that sumbitch who lives in ambuscade

in each and every mirror I have yet

unconspired to loose, break or back-wall,

resides a complaining vat of me

who will brook no lies which usually work

elsewhos and failing that less kind depredations

who says without fail: “Bullshit! Peel another layer!”

And that is why I chop onions and set them

on skillets with just Kosher salt to brown their tongues

into submission before I add the ground dead cow,

and why, as well, I have such great green hedges

because that self-imposed truth detector

inside the long and dark hallway’s terminal

departure for last night’s beer and brots*,

gets short shrift because I have just so many

good – or failing that, acceptable – lies left to toss

that using them to avoid work or world seems such

a miserable waste when I could be out girthing my waist



*(brots left misspelled intentinally: a brotwurst just scans ever so much better than bratwurst, no? Besides: Brats encased in gut just seems so unappealing. So Brot it Be!