My New Best Friend

THE SPIDER - MASTER OF MEN!

I'm not sure if all of you remember Nichols Department store, specifically the Salisbury location.  After Nichols went out of business, the building went unused before briefly becoming an indoor flea market.

Flea markets are one of my favorite things in the world, along with antique stores, and coincidentally my sister, had she played her cards right, could have easily wed Bargain Bill, Junior, thus tying our family in with the Bargain Bill Flea Market dynasty of Laurel Delaware for all time.  But you just couldn't do that, could you, Betsy?

Hands down my favorite stall at the indoor flea market was called "Not Just Books", a stall which sold only books.  Exclusively.  Just books and nothing else.  

It was there I bought this:

Or rather, my grandmother bought it for me and, bless her heart, I remember her telling me that it looked like a good one.  For this and many other things, I am forever in her debt.

As far as I knew at the time, the book was part of a series.  It's hero was one Richard Wentworth, who conducted a weird war against evil.  This copy was printed in the seventies, I think, but was a reprint of a novel that had appeared first in January of 1935.  In '35 Wentworth was referred to as "The" Spider while in action but "The" was dropped this time around to make it sound more like a spy code name.  Like Batman, Wentworth was a wealthy man, a criminologist, in fact, who got his kicks crusading against crime.  Other references were changed, and so the Spider's 30's era automobile became a 70's era sports car and some timely references were added.  It was, as they say, jazzed up for then modern readers.

I next picked up a Spider novel shortly after enlisting in the Navy.  I'd long been enamored of pulp novels and in particular the garish colors and gruesome scenes depicted on their covers.  The cover of this edition was a more traditional one:

This was during the long and tedious process of enlistment, signing and swearing in and generally being indoctrinated to the military's highest protocol, which is "hurry up and wait".  On a dinner break I walked over to a bookstore and found the Spider there waiting for me.  I read it, enjoyed it, and left Richard Wentworth behind for more than 15 years.

Legend has it that Harry Steeger, an editor for Popular Publications, was seeking a character to rival the Shadow, produced by Street and Smith.  The Shadow was a man of mystery who wore all black, carried two .45 caliber pistols, had a trademark ring, and was almost as psychotic as the criminals he warred against.  One afternoon while playing tennis, Steeger saw a spider crawling across the court, which to some may have been just a wandering arachnid, but Steeger saw inspiration.  And dollar signs.

Note the black ensemble, the two .45 caliber pistols, the
trademark ring, and just how crazy the Spider looks.  

Norvell Page, a native Virginian, took over writing the new magazine after a few lackluster issues and proved just crazy and weird enough in his own right to add an entirely unheard of dimension of sheer strangeness to the magazine.

Though a few people might still remember the Shadow today (there was a movie with Alec Baldwin around 1997) I prefer the Spider hands down.

The past few months have been a strange and lonely time for yours truly.  Little things have come to mean a lot, and for whatever reason I gave the Spider another shot, and boy am I glad I did.  I've read a bunch  of these damn things and am so glad there are more than a decades worth of them left to go.

During my reading of the last one (#110 "Zara- Master of Murder", November 1942)  I even went so far as to highlight  a few passages:

"He did nothing so limiting as to make plans in advance."

The Spider is a master of impromptu violence and of bewildering escape.  Given a pair of tweezers, he could wipe out an angry mob.  Given a nose hair, he could escape from San Quentin.

"But the eye is slower than the brain- and the Spider is faster than either."

Norvell Page writes of the Spider with grand hyperbole, at the same time making him so sinister you're almost as scared of him as the villain he's pursuing.

"...the Spider's voice was monotonous.  "Nothing can withstand my will.  Zara is not an exception.  My will is more powerful.  It overcomes resistance.  It dominates." "

The Spider is, again imitative of the Shadow, a master hypnotist.  That is why he is called "the Master of Men".  He'd tell you to "go take a hike" and before you knew it you'd be out on a nature trail somewhere and not know how the hell you got there.  

In addition to the heroics, the Spider is also involved with the lovely Nita Van Sloan.  The two are actually a great couple and rather than being completely helpless and constantly rescued, Nita more often than not is a perfectly capable assistant to her beau.  The Spider is very affectionate and tender to her, telling her more than once that "our karmas are one."

And then, of course, he runs off to shoot, stab, mutilate, and telepathically assault people.

The weirdest part?  On the covers the Spider is shown as a guy in black suit, cloak, hat, and mask, right?  This was an editorial decision on someone's part, because inside, the Spider is described as looking like this:

I've only read his hair described as black, but, as I said, I'm new to the Spider.  But fangs?  Brrrr.... Talk about striking terror into the hearts of criminals.  A mask is one thing.  After you got over the initial "why the hell is this guy wearing a mask?" you'd shoot at him, but not this guy.  What a creeper!

Am I gushing?  Yeah, I guess I am.  I'm a fanboy at heart and always will be.  And the new object of my affection?  Richard Wentworth, a.k.a.  the Spider!

The above image is from the ReelArt Studios statue of the Spider.  Had I the hypnotic abilities of my new hero, I would compel you to buy this for me for Christmas.    

Mild-Mannered Reporter Paul Sterling

  When I was very young the local authorities offered a service in which they would take video footage of your child to have on file in the horrific event of their abduction.  My sister and I stood in front of a chart which gave our height and we were asked to state our names and answer a few questions.  The last question they asked was what you wanted to be when you grew up.

I said I wanted to be a superhero and here, twenty five years later, I still do.

Comic books are not the obscure corner of Americana that they once were.  Superhero movies have dominated the box office for years now and mainstream publications and websites now include reviews of comic books alongside film, music, literature, and television reviews.

The next time you're out and about count how many superhero t-shirts you see people wearing.

I was in an extreme minority as a youngster, being a comic book afficianado.  I had a crush on Lois Lane and Kitty Pryde from the X-Men.  I learned from these comic books my morality, such as it is, and despite their glaring unreality, these heroes and their adventures were very real for me.  The fact is that I didn't live near any of my friends growing up, and summertime was very long indeed.  I needed friends and these four-color pages filled that need nicely.

Some people, knowing of my misspent comic book youth, have seemed amazed that I haven't seen the Avengers nor any of the other movies leading up to it, except Captain America.  The fact is the past is very much in the past, and these movies are a decade or two too late.  

As for Cap, he and I go way back.  Only his close friends call him "Cap".  He helped me through many a lonely summer and seeing his movie, well, it was the least I could do for an old friend.  

The following are brief bits on comic books and their lasting effects on my life.

You Wouldn't Like Me When I'm Angry

I took an online "What Superhero Are You?" quiz and was surprised that I am, at least according to this particular source, the Incredible Hulk.  I had my heart set on Superman.  The more I though about it the more it seemed fitting.  I, too, have a lousy temper and am prone to blow-ups.  My communication skills could use a little work, and my wardrobe is a pretty shabby.  

I only read the Hulk comic briefly as a boy, but remember in particular several issues in which the Hulk underwent a weird sort of psychiatric treatment by the green-haired super-powered therapist Doc Samson.  The troubled mind of the Hulk's alter-ego Bruce Banner was explored, and only now can I see myself as akin to him in that we both suffer from self-esteem issues and should probably talk about our feelings more at the outset rather than bottling it all inside.  This first issue climaxed with Bruce accepting the Hulk as part of himself, eventually transforming in a graphic way.  Rather than simply growing and turning green, the Hulk actually tore through the skin of Bruce Banner, shredding his flesh like newspaper.  It was bloody and strange and I've had dreams about it ever since.

As we all know, Bruce is in love with Betty Ross, but the two have never really been able to work it out, being as he was the Hulk and her father wanted to kill the Hulk. Her father was just generally a douche.  Another issue ended with Bruce rushing to a train station from which Betty was leaving for an unknown place.  Being just plain human Bruce, he couldn't run fast enough to catch the train before it left and for the first time in his life actually wanted to become the Hulk.  He slapped himself and tried to make himself angry with painful childhood memories, but it didn't work.  Betty, as it turns out, got off the train somewhere down the line and was walking back when she saw Bruce.  The two of them embracing joyfully is another image burned into my mind.  

Just because I'm the Hulk doesn't mean I can't be sentimental, too.

Rooting For the Bad Guy

A friend from Barnes and Noble told me once of a regular customer of hers, a young boy who preferred villains to heroes.  He would pick Doctor Doom over Captain America and looked forward to Halloweens in which he'd dress up like his favorite bad guys.  

This is interesting to me.  Despite my love for Superman, the fact is I resemble Lex Luthor more closely and, let's be honest, have more in common with a bald sociopath than a super-powered alien.

Villains aren't emotionally involved with anything beyond their own success or failure.  The Joker shows maniacal glee up until the point at which Batman defeats him, and then he shows despair or furious frustration.  Batman, however, remains stoic and constant throughout.  Again, I can relate more to someone prone to failure than someone who never encounters it.  

I know what it's like to get my ass kicked.

Villains are indifferent to feminine charms and rarely let women dupe them or ensnare them the way heroes sometimes do.  Both the Joker and Lex Luthor typically have attractive henchwomen about, gun molls who either love them and are spurned for it or scoff at their fiendish plans while filing their nails.  More often than not, when the hero arrives, the women turn on their "masters" like rabid animals.  Rarely do you see a villain in a loving and committed relationship with a woman who stands by his side as Superman hauls him off to jail.  I suppose this a weakness as well.  

Superhero/supervillain relationships are the ultimate in dysfunction.  "I'll get you next time" the villain says, thwarted though he may be.  Though I love the heroes, sometimes I wish that threat would come to pass.  But if the hero was dead, what would the villain do?  Get a job?  Can you imagine the Joker selling real estate?  No, they need each other.  Love and hate and that invisible line between the two and buy the next issue because we never know for sure.  

It could happen.

Whatever Happened to the Blue Beetle?

I'm sure you've never heard of the Blue Beetle and I won't bother you with a biography.  Suffice it to say, he was a favorite of mine.  The Blue Beetle was one of the only superheros I know who had a weight problem. He had to work that much harder than his peers to stay in tight spandex-friendly shape and I can relate.  It's hard to avoid baked goods after a long week of fighting crime.  Sometimes you need a sugar rush to stay in the game, but the Blue Beetle had to abstain.  This must have sucked for him, because I know it sucks for me.    

You'll notice I'm speaking of him in the past tense.  That's because in an issue some years ago, The Blue Beetle was shot in the head and killed.  This upset me and it was then I started to realize that comic books had changed.  Or maybe that I had changed.

Comic books were, when I was a kid, geared towards kids.  Mostly to young boys.  Comics are now geared towards guys my age or a little younger.  There is more intense sex and violence now, and I won't get into that being right or wrong, but I don't think that kids that are now the age I was when I discovered comics should be reading comics at all.  

If these kids knew what they were missing they would be ticked off.  Can you imagine being a child, going to the park, and not being able to get on the swing set or the monkey bars because a bunch of twenty and thirty year olds were hogging all the fun?  That's kind of what it's like.  Comic books have been hi-jacked from the kids who deserve and need them by a bunch of guys who just can't seem to grow up and shake the habit.

Guys like me, I guess.  

I love the comics of my youth more now than ever.  I talk about them and blog about them.  Probably too much.  But turning my back on them would be like turning my back on an old friend that doesn't fit in with my new friends.  

It would be like not being upset that the Blue Beetle is dead.

I wish that all the kids running around today could have the joy that I had when I was their age.  Loving and appreciating the heroes of my past is the right thing to do, and what little I know of the right thing to do I learned from those heroes.

That's corny, I know, but what can I say?  

I grew up reading comic books.

This blog is dedicated in loving memory to Ted Kord, a.k.a. the Blue Beetle.  

     

    

                  

PAUL STERLING FOR PREZ, or "I'll Politic For YOU, Baby!"

I have never really had any desire to seek public office.  

That's pretty much all I have to say about that.  

There is, however, a long history of fictional characters and otherwise completely unqualified entertainers that would regularly conduct presidential campaigns.  These brave souls included, but are not limited to comedian Pat Paulsen from the Smothers Brothers Show, Walt Kelly's "Pogo", Bozo the Clown, Ronald Reagan, and I remember an issue of Captain America in which he considered running for the highest office in the land.  Heck, he would've had my vote.

I thought today what my campaign would be like if I were running for President.  It would go a little something like this.  

Hail to the Chief

My fellow Americans.

It is with great humility that I come to you today and announce my candidacy for President of the United States.  I'm sure this may come as a great surprise to many of you, but not as big a surprise as it is to me.  I don't know what the hell I'm thinking.  

Some of you might ask:  "Just who is this Paul Sterling? I've never heard of him.  What are his qualifications?" 

My only reply can be: "I'm not sure I know just who you are, either, and what are your qualifications to ask for my qualifications?  Pipe down while I'm talking.  It'll be your turn soon enough."

With these petty matters aside we can now get down to brass tacks.  Just what am I going to do about the problems that face this great nation of ours?  That's a good question, and a fine place to start.

Just give me a minute...

I understand we have a problem with jobs.  There are a lot of people who want one and don't have one.  There are a lot of people who have one don't really enjoy the one they've got.  There are still more who don't have a job and are perfectly happy that way, so for beginners, let's just leave this last group alone.  As for everybody else, maybe some of the people who have jobs they don't like could swap jobs with someone else who has a job they might prefer.  Or maybe they could swap with some of the people who don't have one and just go jobless for a while.  They might like it.  I know this might get a little confusing at first, but what I'm basically saying is this job problem is one that I'm sure we can figure out, okay?

Moving right along...

I also understand that there are several wars going on.  Some of the wars we are directly involved in, and that's a shame.  There are other wars going on that we don't have a hand in at all.  For starters, let's not try and get involved in any of the wars that don't immediately involve us.  Not just yet anyway.  Let's watch the wars for a little bit, see which way it's going, and then after it looks like somebody is definitely going to win, we jump in on their side.  I know this might sound a little wussy, but it's smart.  We've won enough wars.  We've got a good rep in that department.

Now that we've got that settled...

Anybody could tell you that economically we're in the toilet.  Let's face it.  Anybody could tell you that, but I'll bet you that whomever tells you that is just as lousy at math as I am, so stop listening to just anybody.  Let's get some really smart people in there and take a look at the books and get a final decision once and for all just how far down into the toilet the economy is.  I recommend Nancy, who works for H&R Block and did my taxes the past couple years.  She's one sharp cookie.  

We've got other problems too.  A lot of what you might perceive as a problem depends on which of our two political parties you're affiliated with.  If you're a Republican, not being allowed to hunt game with a rocket launcher is a problem for you, as well as border security, and gay couples being allowed to eat openly together at Chick Fil A.  If you're a Democrat, your problems will be that your local grocery store only has three different kinds of hummus, or that vegan unwed mothers aren't allowed in front line combat, or maybe you just don't like the way people treat trees and shrubs.  And why do they call it a "party" anyway?  Neither group seems like they're having any fun at all.   

Basically what I'm saying is there are a whole hell of a lot of problems out there.  Jeez, are there a lot of problems.  Just dozens of them.  And here I am trying to put myself in charge of solving them.  

You know what?  Vote for whomever you want.  Me or any of the other folks running.  You might even have fewer problems four years later, but I doubt it.  Problems are like that old monster from Greek myth.  You know, the Hydra.  You'd cut off one head and another two would sprout right back up.  Doesn't that freak you out?

Anyway, thanks for your time.  Have a good one.  

Oh.  And God bless America.         

  

Last Stop: Tonopah Arizona

I'm still a little shaken up.

I helped Stephen move a television and it's stand downstairs today and though the chore was simplicity itself he insisted on buying me lunch out of gratitude.  

Neither of us really expected what happened next.

Cut to the Chase

There were people in the dining room and none at the bar so we went to the bar.  It was early afternoon and we were catching the shift change between folks who got an early start and were heading out and folks who had worked an early shift and were heading in.  

I had a tuna sub and Stephen had a cheeseburger that made me wish I'd ordered a cheeseburger.  The waitress sat our second round in front of us and we hardly noticed.  There was a car chase on television.  Someone behind me asked if it were O.J. Simpson up to his old tricks again and those of us who remembered that laughed.  

Facts were few and far between.  Someone had stolen a car, fired shots at the police, and was now heading like a bat out of hell out of Arizona.  One newscaster commented on his poor choice of automobile.  Another said the speed of the stolen vehicle was averaging at one hundred miles an hour.  They speculated he was heading to California.

In the interim there were brief clips of fighting in Syria.  Election coverage.  Commercials for prescription medications.  

Stephen and I wondered what was going through this guys mind.  What was his plan?  We said that it was hardly worth the name "car chase" as it was really just the stolen car weaving around traffic on a desert highway.  I excused myself to the restroom and joked that while I was in the can the whole thing would come to a spectacular end and I'd miss it.

When I returned the car had made an unexpected move.  He'd made a u-turn and was now heading down a dirt road.  Again I marveled at what this person must be thinking.  

Just go.  Don't stop.  Keep driving.  Don't let them get you.

The driver passed what looked like two farms, both out in the middle of nowhere.  So far the most exciting part had been the u-turn and now he made a right at stop sign.  I wondered when the helicopter providing the footage would lose it's signal or some producer would call it a lost cause and switch to something else.

And then it happened.

The car stopped and the driver emerged.  I couldn't see much of him, just that he wore an oversize jersey and jeans.  He spent time in the back seat of the car and for a moment I thought maybe there was someone else in the car.  Maybe the person he'd stolen the car from.  They had said all along he'd fired shots at police, so I don't know why I was surprised that he had a gun.  He ran down the dirt road, falling once and rolling in the dust, and took cover behind a bush.  I thought he was planning to shoot it out with the police, but as it turns out, he had another idea. 

He turned the gun on himself and pulled the trigger.  His head moved just slightly, like he'd been pushed.  There was, of course, no sound and as he fell forward they cut away.  Cut to a commercial. 

I'm sure we've all watched clips of horrific happenings and laughed, but in those circumstances you could always tell yourself it wasn't real.  You'd question whether or not it was doctored.  If it got too gross you'd just click it away.  But I saw this over lunch with my friend and I can't shake it.  I can't shake the sheer desperation that he must have felt.  I hated myself for the morbid curiosity that kept me watching.  My God, was this what I wanted to see all along?  

Like this desperate criminal, I just couldn't get away.        

I've been rooting around online and so far the only headline is that there was a televised suicide, the network is being criticized for allowing it out over the air, and one site in particular criticized the footage for being too blurry, can you believe that? 

But I want to know this man's name. 

He Wasn't Talking To You...

I am not a political animal.  I am not informed enough about politics to be one.  I say this cynically, because our media outlets are so flawed that I think it nigh impossible to be truly informed.  

Let me say this now:  If you really think that Fox News is an unbiased and impartial source of information, you are a fool.

Let me also say this:  If you really think that MSNBC and Mother Jones are unbiased and impartial counterpoints to Fox News, you are also a fool.

There are no such thing as facts anymore.  There are simply statistics that, like scripture, can be interpreted and reinterpreted to suit any argument.  There are video clips, sound bytes, and headlines that inspire public debate and all too soon became points of contention for a polarized American public. 

Out of Context

Candidate Mitt Romney was heavily criticized for statements he made at a fundraiser.  None would have known of these statements had they not been caught on video and placed online.  One of the sources of the video was Mother Jones, by all accounts a "liberal" publication.  I mention this just to be fair and unbiased.  I have heard that a spot at this particular fundraiser cost around fifty thousand dollars a plate, but who knows, it could have been more or less.  Either way this was not a rally or public function, nowhere you or I could afford to be.  I watched several different versions of the video and it was hardly the criminally offensive rant I expected.  At least I wasn't offended.  He stated his estimation of the American voting public, particularly this forty seven percent that he, admittedly, isn't concerned about.  

Despite the controversy, Romney has never really apologized, only saying that his words were "inelegant" and hoping that he wished whoever posted the video would post all of it.  Taken in it's entirety, what he said wasn't so bad.  At least that's what he says.  

The point is, how would any of us heard anything of this had the video not been taken and then leaked?  Why did what Candidate Romney say at this function sound so little like what he says to the American public at large?  He called his words "inelegant", but a better word might be "unrehearsed".

I don't know about you, but if I paid thousands upon thousands of dollars in support of a candidate, I wouldn't want the same old rhetoric I could hear on television for free.  Romney was putting on a show for those assembled, telling them what they wanted to hear.  He told them about Americans who saw their basic comforts as "entitlements" and scorned them for it.  Like a magician at a kids birthday party, he performed.

By the time a politicians rhetoric gets down here to us, it's so homogenized and watered down as to render it completely meaningless.  The bulk of what either the President or Romney say is virtually indistinguishable.  Fifty thousand dollars, however, buys you a plate of food and an earful of what a  candidate really thinks about the people voting for him or for his opponent.    

Now, don't get on your left-wing high horse just yet.  Any day now another video will leak, one from another fundraising billion dollar buffet, only this time the President will be caught on tape, making "inelegant" statements.  It's just how things work these days, and I bet I know which network will premiere it when it does surface.  

Like I said, it didn't offend me, but the leaked Romney video kind of made the guy look like an asshole.  There, I said it.  But the big lesson I took from the whole thing was this:  Since when do you have to pay through the nose to keep from getting smoke blown up your ass?

My apologies on using the word "ass" twice there at the end.  I hope it doesn't undermine my message.   

And me?  I'm voting for Donald Duck.

           

ZARDOZ SPEAKS TO YOU!

"Good?  Bad?  I'm the guy with the gun."  Sean Connery as Zed the Exterminator in "Zardoz"

I first became aware of the film "Zardoz" (directed by John Boorman in 1974) while reading a book on cult films in the basement section of the library at the campus of the Universtiy of Richmond.  To call a movie a "cult film" is sometimes a polite way of saying it's an incomprehensible piece of garbage, and this book turned me on to several movies, some of which I loved and others that I didn't like at all.  Some time later my grandmother gave me (for Easter, no less) a book on the films of Sean Connery, who starred in "Zardoz", and that book included more information about and pictures from this weird and wonderful film.

It wasn't until years later that I actually got to see the movie, and when I did I watched it with my mother.  This was awkward, as a lot of the female cast walk around topless for no good reason whatsoever.  Mom insisted that the movie was funny for all the wrong reasons and that Sean Connery must have been going through some kind of midlife drug phase crisis when he agreed to star in it.  I've seen it more than half a dozen times since.  

Yesterday "Zardoz" was the featured film for Sunday Dinner Family Movie Night and it was a roaring success.  Everyone who didn't fall asleep before it was over agreed that it was enjoyable, or at the very least interesting.  I purchased snacks in anticipation of what I jokingly referred to as "Zardozmas", but we ended up eating dinner late and the snacks will have to serve a later function.  I was going to make chili cheese dip which, like the script for "Zardoz", seems like a good idea at the time but comes back to haunt you in ways you didn't expect.  

As much as I'd love to write a long, in-depth, scene-by-scene review of this movie, I won't subject you to that.  I will, however, challenge you to seek this movie out and watch it.  Watch it with friends and loved ones so you can make fun of it.  "Zardoz" brings families together.

Everything I Need to Know in Life I Learned by Watching ZARDOZ

Most people are hesitant to watch Zardoz because Sean Connery runs around in it dressed like this.

Laugh all you want, but this look actually inspired kind of a trend in the realm of comic books.  Kind of a science fiction fetish wear look that you don't see much of these days.

Exhibit A:  Marvel Comics hero Killraven.

Exhibit B:  Superman villain Vartox

      

From Zardoz, I learned that you can't be pulled in by a bunch of flashy theatrics.  We live in a very image-centric society these days, and sometimes people might put up a good front, but in actuality be much less than what they seem.  

For example:  

If the figure above told me to do something, I'd damn well do it.  A giant floating head of stone is a pretty far-out thing to encounter any day of the week.  But...

What if the big stone head was just a front for this guy?  I wouldn't buy a can of green beans from this weirdo.  

From Zardoz I learned that life is full of little indignities.  You lose a big promotion to a lesser qualified co-worker.  Your significant other leaves you for someone else.  You give a big presentation, and only at the end of it do you realize your fly was down.  An effeminate blonde man in silky pajamas wants to inspect your teeth and you can't do anything to stop him because he has telekinetic powers.  You just have to accept these things, realize they have nothing to do with your worth as a human being, and move on.  

From Zardoz I learned that sometimes, no matter how much you want to, you just cannot get out of a bad situation.  Sometimes it's a bad relationship, sometimes it's a dead-end job.  Sometimes fear of the unknown stops you, sometimes it's a force field, but whatever the situation or the stress you feel, you are powerless to simply walk away.

I learned many valuable lessons from this movie, and can only begin to share them with you now.  

From Zardoz I learned that there is indeed someone in the drivers seat, and it sure as hell isn't you.  I learned that you cannot trust the wealthy or any kind of elitist.  Sometimes even intellectuals are too smart for their own damn good.  I learned that you can trust some women, but not all of them, and that even if a woman refers to you as a beast and insists that you be executed every chance she gets, it doesn't mean she doesn't find you desirable, and that while she may form a posse and try to run you down with a horse, this might all be part of some complex mating ritual that you just don't understand and you should just go with it.  

I learned that sometimes, you just have to follow a creative spirit wherever it might lead.  Who gives a damn what everyone thinks?  Maybe the public at large won't get it, but someone will, and they'll be grateful to you forever for what you created. 

I am grateful for Zardoz. 

Director John Boorman, star Sean Connery, and in the background actress Charlotte Rampling, who is HOT.

The Charmer

The Charmer

It was only when Simon met a woman immune to his charms that he could really be himself.  This happened with more frequency as he grew older.  Long ago he'd accepted that even the greatest athlete has a peak and that, once it had been reached, everything else was a slow decline.  

It was this knowledge that made Simon such a charmer.  He seemed to understand that failure was more likely than ever these days, and so went about pursuing romantic entanglements with a measured detachment.    He didn't seem to care, and while this attitude wasn't irresistible to all, it kept him in the game.  

Amber wasn't impressed.  Simon knew this right away and made a kind of peace with it.  There were no other attractive unattached women at the pub on this particular Friday night and Simon had picked her right away.  His first few passes were successful, the usual preliminaries being the exchange of names and Simon complimenting her appearance, in this case a lovely black strapless dress which Amber wore very well.  Right away Simon made her laugh.  This was always a good sign but, again, Simon knew that she wasn't impressed.  Rather than back away and drink alone, Simon did something he had begun doing now, here on the down side of his peak.  He simply made polite conversation with a woman, not as a prelude to sex, but for the simple pleasure of meeting someone new and getting to know them.

Amber asked where he was from, and Simon said "No place special".  Amber thought this an attempt at being mysterious and told him so, but Simon shook his head.  "No mystery."  he said.  

They talked of Amber's marriage, which had ended last year.  Her ex-husband was a gynecologist, one that had been carrying on examinations outside the office with several of his patients.  Amber was still a little hurt by the betrayal.  

Simon never knew how to handle a woman talking about a former mate.  Was he supposed to join in if she started bashing her ex?  Simon was no moralist and, truth be told, a cheater himself.  He let her vent, making small comments along the way to lighten the mood.  After she'd finished, she told Simon that she felt better having talked about it, and Simon was glad.

Simon ordered another round for the two of them.  The evening was going better than either of them had anticipated.  Down at the end of a bar two young people were kissing.  Both were drunk and were making quite a spectacle of themselves.  Amber rolled her eyes and Simon laughed.  Deep inside, he envied the young man.  He'd been watching the couple out of the corner of his eye for a while.  They hadn't arrived together tonight.  The girl had come with friends and the young man had come alone, and despite the protests of the friends with which she'd arrived, one of them calling him "a loser" and insisting that tonight was a "girl's night out", she abandoned the friends and was now making out with the loser at the bar.  The night was going pretty well for them too.  Sure they were hooking up, but who's to say that it wouldn't turn into something lasting?  Simon laughed again.  Amber wanted in on the joke and Simon told her the love story of the exhibitionists down the bar.  Amber said the only potentially lasting thing to come out of that relationship would be an illegitimate child.  

Closing time was coming soon and Simon was faced with a predicament.  Could he reach down deep and pull off a miracle?  He was thinking of things in sports terms more and more these days.  Though not a big sports fan it made sense to think of himself in this way.  It was, after all, a game.  He had been playing it for a very long time, and Simon only rarely stopped to think of just what he'd won or lost.  

The truth was that the game was all in Simon's mind.  There was no winning and no losing.  There was just Simon, and whatever happened would happen regardless of how he felt about it.  Amber was an attractive woman and funny and Simon had enjoyed her company.  If she wouldn't sleep with him, where was the shame in that?  He hadn't lost any game.  He'd written the rule book, built the stadium, sewn the uniforms all by himself.  The game was stupid and Simon didn't want to play it anymore. It was time to retire his jersey.

Amber said that it was getting late and spoke of something important she had to do the next day.  Simon volunteered to walk her to her car after they'd both paid their checks.  Usually, this was part of the game, but now Simon did it because he felt it the gentlemanly thing to do.  He felt good, like he'd just read a self help book and had made a plan to change his life for the better.  At her car, Amber kissed Simon on the cheek.  A soft and tender kiss, her lips barely brushing his skin, and Simon, of course, felt himself getting an erection.  She said, "Simon, you are a very charming man."  Simon thanked her, and really meant it.  

PAUL STERLING MUST DIE!

Bond, James Bond

Ian Fleming, author of the James Bond novels, only rarely and in very vague ways described to readers just what his fictional secret agent looked like.  In "Casino Royale", femme fatale Vepser Lynd describes him as looking something like Hoagy Carmichael, shown on the right.  Not a bad looking man, certainly, but not the sex magnet of legend that we've all come to know.  Fleming once said that he first hit upon James Bond as a character on his wedding night.  He married late in life and found himself genuinely nervous, even panicked, at the thought of losing his bachelor freedom and so to calm himself as well as steel himself to the prospect of marriage, he invented a new and more confident persona.  One that wasn't afraid.  It was that persona, he said, that became James Bond.  There are many examples of fictional characters that aren't described in great physical detail.  Raymond Chandler's private eye Philip Marlowe is rarely described outside of the color of his suit or women telling him he's a handsome brute, and if you read any amount of spy or private eye paperbacks, most will leave the looks of the hero a blank slate.  

In most cases, I think this is done so that the bald,  potbellied or homely reader can more easily insert himself into the fantasy world that this type of fiction so readily provides.  If the hero is described as handsome, muscular, with a full head of hair, etc. it might be harder to fit into his shoes and enjoy the goings-on.  If he isn't described at all, then you become him, and his triumphs and trials are your own.  

In the two cases listed above, Bond and Marlowe, I think that the hero was a kind of vehicle for the author.  They didn't describe the hero because they felt they were the hero.  They were living out fantasies on paper.  Of course, the dearth of description allows the reader to latch on more easily, as stated above, and this, I think, is why Fleming and Chandler are still in print today.

It was thinking all of this up yesterday that I decided that Paul Sterling must die.  Not a physical death, but be wadded up and thrown in a wastebasket, pending a serious overhaul.

It won't be easy, but over the course of the next few months I am going to come up with a new Paul Sterling.  Admittedly, there's some good stuff there.  An unpolished diamond with a lot of potential.  But by the time I'm finished, Paul Sterling will have greater adventures, more meaningful romances, and win fortunes undreamed of by the slob he is now.  

Stay tuned.  

"I Remember Mom"

Every writer has his shtick.  Themes and characters and life-altering events to which they return constantly.  I guess that it could be said that a good writer is one that, despite having his or her "bag of tricks", can compel you to revisit with them these central ideas.

Without a doubt, the biggest even of my life was the loss of my mother.  Losing my father was no easier, and I would never be so petty as to rank one above the other, but it just so happens that I was particularly close to my mother.  She fought a long battle with illness and I was with her every step of the way and so now my memories of her become more than simple recollections of a woman that I loved but the recollections of a journey toward the bittersweet end of that woman's life.  A journey that we took together.  

This will be the first of several postings on her and on this journey.

The Empty Spaces

If you see me walking around and I seem lost it's because I'm looking for her in places where she'd been.  I went a few days ago to the hardware store where she'd worked.  I expected her to be there.  She, of course, wasn't, but if everything in the store was just as it was when last I saw it, why did I not see her there standing behind the counter?  You cannot, to my satisfaction, explain to me what death is and what that process really means.  All I know of death is that people who once were here are here no longer and I can't find them no matter where I look.

My mother never understood why I would chuckle a little whenever she'd get upset with me and call me a son of a bitch.  She rarely got upset with me.  Not as much as she had a right to, certainly.  I daresay she should have been more upset with me and more often, but when she did get upset she'd call me a son of a bitch and I'd chuckle.

My mother would listen to me drone on about comic books and movies and all kinds of meaningless things and never once did she tell me what I loved in life was silly and she never seemed disinterested.  

We would watch television together.  This wasn't typical television viewing and we would talk during the movie and make fun of it.  We'd watch kung fu movies we rented and westerns and anything that tickled our fancy.  One of our favorites was a movie from the 30's called "The Half-Naked Truth" and there was a song in it we really liked.  Here it is. 

It's the only version of it I could find online and you have to kind of wait for the song, but Mom and I walked around the house singing this to each other for years.  It was one of a million private little in jokes you have to spend a lifetime with someone to accrue.  

My mother could draw beautifully.  I saw things she had drawn, but only ever saw her draw once.  When she died we found bags from dollar stores filled with sketchbooks and colored pencils, none of which she ever got the chance to use.  Sometimes I wondered if Mom had regrets in life, and that maybe all along she wanted to be an artist and couldn't because of her family obligations.  I feel a little better about it now.  After our journey together I know that while she may have had regrets she wouldn't have traded anything in her life, especially her family, for any career as an artist.

My mother couldn't sing to save her life.  My sister can sing and she loved that.  She's listen to Betsy at choir concerts and smile, not only proud of her talented daughter, but satisfied that there was, after all, a little justice in this world. 

The entire time she was sick, my mother never complained.  Not once.  

If I sit in a quiet room and there is nothing to distract me, I think of her.  I miss her.  I miss my father, but in different ways.  There are living people I can't see and I miss them, too.  It's only now, having lost so much and not having had a real home of my own in years that I understand why my mother held on to her family so tightly.  

My mother called me "Buddy" or "Pauly".  I just called her "Mom".  

       

  

What Makes Grass Grow Up Instead of Down?

In keeping with my fear of questionnaires, I grow very uncomfortable when people ask me about my spirituality, or to which faith group I belong.  Being asked whether or not I believe in God is no big deal, I do, but as for specifics, I find it hard to articulate just what it is I believe beyond the existence of a higher power.  I read quite a bit on the occult and on modern Paganism as well as older texts on world mythology and sacred writings from various groups and for the past few months I have had a really hard time focusing on anything in particular.  I'm not sure at what point I turned my back on a God that helps you out when you need it, but despite the trials of the past few years, I rarely prayed and instead sought strength from other sources.  It occurred to me some time ago that perhaps I might become a minister of some kind.  I eulogized both of my parents and felt I did a respectable job of it, but saying that I want to be a minister is a lot like saying I want to be an athlete and still being unsure of what sport I want to play.  In short, I felt an urge to help people and to talk to them.  To offer whatever comfort I could when the going got rough and to celebrate their good fortune.  As I've said, Humility has been my hallmark of late, and if this minister idea never comes into being it will be because I don't feel that I could ever be expert enough in the tenets of a particular faith to become a proponent of them, and I don't feel morally strong enough to live any kind of a completely circumspect life.  If it's one thing I don't want to be it's a hypocrite.  I don't want to be a hellion, either, but I wouldn't want to give someone substance abuse counseling while I had a hangover.  The following are bits and pieces on the common theme of the magic and mundane in daily life.

Gluttony

A woman came into the store looking for raspberry ketone.  We were sold out, as some television doctor had recommended it on his program, and I told her so, adding that we received new stock daily and should have more very soon.  She went on about what a wonderful thing the television doctor said this ketone was, and how much life her life would improve once she had it.  She said that one would have to eat several pounds of raspberries to get the amount of ketone they would get from one dosage of this miracle supplement.  "I couldn't eat that many raspberries." she said.  I was bored with her and her story at this point.  I said "I don't know, have you ever tried to eat that many raspberries?"  She straightened right up at this comment, turned her nose up into the air and said "Young man, that would be gluttony.  A sin." and she turned and walked away.  Later that afternoon I decided to have lunch at the chinese buffet and who should I see there but this woman, sinning her fool head off.

Tending the Fire

I was sitting around a nice warm fire on a cold night with good friends.  The fire was dying a little, but our desire to stay outside, enjoying one anothers company and conversation hadn't diminished a bit.  One friend told another to see about maybe raising a little wind to keep the fire going.  Being the obliging sort, the friend of whom the request was made stood and walked back a bit from the fire.  He took a knife from his belt and stood with his arms raised.  He was speaking, but I couldn't hear what he was saying.  He rocked back and forth and his eyes closed.  He threw the knife into the ground just at the outside of the fire pit.  In a moment a wind picked up, the fire grew, and we sat there lit by it's warmth long into the night.    

Cat-whispering

I'm not a cat person, but I imagine this is okay with most cats, as I've always felt that they have an inherent prejudice against me as well.  I doubt that when cats gather for midnight reveries that any of them look at one another and say, "You know, I'm really a person cat.  I just love people."  I've been living with two cats for a few weeks and for a while they were just something to trip over.  I'd pet them and their owners would hold them and tell them how cute they were but, really, it did nothing for me.  Last night, however, I made peace with one of my new housemates.  She sat looking at me through the window and for the first time I stopped and looked at her.  You know how a cats eyes can look at night when the light catches them just so?  How they can glow in an otherworldly fashion?  It's unnerving but her eyes looked like that for a while.  It thought it looked really pretty and when I came inside I petted the cat and told her so.  She said "Thank you".

Passage into Froghood

If you'll notice, on stormy nights on certain back roads, frogs will begin to congregate in the roadway.  I'm sure a biologist could explain just why  this happens, but I have my own theory.  I believe that this is a rite of passage for the young frogs of the frog tribe.  When the storm begins, the frog elders gather together the initiates and off they go to the road and in order to become fully accepted into frog society, the initiates must cross the road and return.  It is a test of courage, as frogs probably know all too well the danger of being smeared onto the pavement by passing cars and trucks.  At the end of the ceremony, the newly initiated frogs are welcomed fully into the frog tribe and gain all the privileges of adult froghood, for example, they can now choose a bride, own property, and vote.  Each initiation ceremony is ended with a celebration of the honored dead.  They shall not be forgotten.  

Courage

While a student in community college, I had a professor pose a question to the class for which I devised a very bright answer.  He asked what the difference was between folklore, mythology, and religion.  My answer was this:  "If your priest or pastor tells you the story, it's religion, if your grandparents tell you, it's folklore, and if your teacher or professor tells you, it's mythology."  I attributed this thought to Joseph Campbell, and for all I know he may have said something like it at some point, but the fact is I lacked the courage and confidence to submit this as my own idea.  I thought by attributing it to someone so much smarter than myself it would be more readily accepted.  I don't know why I do that sometimes.  

    

  

How To Drink to Excess

People have often asked me while I was throwing up or peeing in bushes or on lampposts outside bars: "Gosh, Paul... How do you DO it?"  My usual response is to tell them to mind their own damn business.  It may not have sounded quite like that, but I assure you that's what I was trying to say.  In the way of apology and as a public service I offer this blog and with it my heartfelt wish that all of you can someday be that wasted right along with me.

How to Drink to Excess, or How to Turn "A Few" into "Too Many"

The journey of a thousand miles, as the old saying goes, begins with a single step.  The beginning of the path to inebriation, however, is a bit more complicated.  One must be totally prepared to totally accept becoming totally wrecked.  If you consider that most of us really do go through life with a little angel on one shoulder and a little devil on the other, you must take the angel and place him in a drawer somewhere, hand the keys to the devil and say "let's have a good time."  This is a little schizophrenic, I know, but do whatever you have to do to eliminate any doubt in your mind that getting drunk is what you most want out of life at this very moment.

I find it's good practice to skip lunch.  By all means,enjoy a nice, modest breakfast, but when you finally sit down to drink (optimal start time is early afternoon) see to it that you have eaten as little as possible.  If you get peckish, just remember, sacrifice is the cornerstone of civilization.

Begin with mixed drinks.  I can almost convince myself a bloody mary is a healthy alternative to something with soda in it, but I leave the choice of drink to you.  Find one that you not only like, but one that has a fun name to say when you order it.  Some of the more apprehensive among you may be saying "Well, Gee, Paul, I don't know" and to you I say two things:  Stop being such a stick in the mud, and trust me, I've done this before.  I suggest three, but you know your tolerance better than I.  You know what, screw it, go ahead and have three.

Now, order some food!  You see, I wasn't going to leave you hanging.  The food will counteract the mixed drinks and give you your second wind.  Depending upon the quality of the service at your designated watering hole, coincide your order of food with your last order for a mixed drink.  When the food arrives, switch to beer.  As the old poem goes:  "Liquor then beer, you're in the clear", however "Beer before liquor, you're gonna puke your guts out".  Remember that you just might puke your guts out anyway and not to beat yourself up too much about it.

The beer stage is by far the longest stage in the process.  Think of yourself as a space shuttle, or a several stage rocket.  This is that touch-and-go period when you're trying to leave the earths atmosphere and anything could go wrong.  You might lose momentum, so perseverance is key.  Switching bars might become necessary.  You might have to ignore several calls from your significant other or you might remember that you work early the next day, but I repeat: DO NOT LOSE MOMENTUM!  You've started this thing and you're going to see it through.  Find out what beer is on special, stick with it, and as a rule I like to buy other people beers.  They may not reciprocate tonight, but you're planting seeds that will grown into free beer trees down the road.

I'd like to illustrate for you the next stage, but this is where the process grows fuzzy, even in my mind.

Depending upon the night of the week and where you go there may be karaoke or dancing.  Don't let any extracurricular nonsense distract you from your primary objective but, by all means, if you can do it and drink at the same time, feel free.  Just remember that you didn't wake up this morning looking forward to singing "Sweet Caroline" to a bunch of rowdy drunks.  You came to get smashed.  Focus. 

A word on shots.  Depending upon how drunk you want to become, and at this point you won't remember your goal inebriation level and will just have to wing it, someone will bring up the notion of shots.  It will probably be you.  One of my tricks of the trade is to insist that everyone do a shot, even the person that is shaking his head no because that's all he can manage at this point.  Someone is bound to poop out on you and not take their shot.  It happens.  Not everyone is as committed as you.  Looking on the bright side, that's another shot for you!  It's important to maintain positivity, as no one likes a sad drunk.

Congratulations!  You're smashed!  I knew you could do it.  

Now, you might throw up.  You might wet the bed, get into an argument with a loved one or a total stranger, you might even become involved with the local authorities, but even in the dingiest drunk tank in town, you can hold your head up high and say "I did it.  Or did I?  I don't remember."  Fuzzy recollection is a natural side effect and you shouldn't let it worry you.

ADDENDUM:  The Demon Hangover

If you're under twenty-five you can skip this part.  Just drink a big glass of water and take two Tylenol before you pass out and you'll be fine.  As for the rest of us, the best way to deal with a hangover is to not do anything at all.  I mean don't do jack squat.  Lay around all day.  Eat something greasy and fattening.  I find Hardees and a milkshake of some kind is best.  This way, you can tell yourself that you're not hung over at all, you just feel nasty because you ate a bunch of greasy fattening food.  

As for those of us who cannot manage to do nothing and find themselves faced with chores, work, or life in general in the face of a hangover, well, what can I say?  Suffer through it.  You're the one who wanted to go out and get drunk last night.

The Merits of Gothic Sleaze

I read a few blogs written about music.  In particular, I read blogs written about specific bands, and found that they all took a surprisingly defensive stance.  

I don't mean yours, man, I read that one and I thought it was cool.

The writer would name the band, give tedious biographical information, some would even give album by album and even track by track reviews and then... Defensively begin to counter any and every argument made about how much this particular band sucks.  The writer would tell you that an album sucked not because of the band but a neglectful producer, that while the A-Side may have been a hit, you really should listen to the B-Side, because it's way better, and if only people had heard of this band, they would take over the known universe.

I'm not a music critic, nor an art critic in general and only know what I like, so my first music blog will take the form a grade school book report, or a "What I did during summer vacation" essay.  Simple reportage.

TYPE O NEGATIVE SUCKS

All I knew about Type O Negative was that the lead singer had vampire teeth.  I'd heard a bit of music here and there, seen a video or two, and for years I just called them "that Vampire Band".  Later I found out the lead singer was named Peter Steele and that he was once in Playgirl magazine.  He also died a couple years ago.  As a group, they focused on death, and on sex.  I discovered them at a time in my life when I actually had a pretty good and satisfying sex life and my parents were both dying, so perhaps you have to be in that kind of mindset to really "get" them.  This would explain their rather limited appeal.

Goth types seem to have a reputation for being very somber and serious.  Every once in a while I'll pick up and issue of "Gothic Beauty" magazine and admire the way-out fashions of that scene and invariably there's an editorial of some kind in which someone bemoans a misconception of the Goth community.  It was in an issue of this magazine that I read Type O Negative described as "Gothic Sleaze", also reading that what really makes you Gothic is your sense of humor.

Type O Negative released albums called "Origin of the Feces" and "Slow, Deep, and Hard".  I think that's funny.  They have songs with titles like "Everything Dies", "Everyone I Love is Dead", and "Requiem for a Soulless Man".  I think that's pretty funny, too.  

They did slow and morbid versions of "Cinnamon Girl" and "Summer Breeze" in a funeral dirge style that earned them the nickname "the Drab Four".  Get it?  The Beatles were the "Fab Four".  

I guess the "sleaze" factor comes in with songs like "My Girlfriend's Girlfriend", a joyful ode to group sex, and the almost thirteen minute long "Unsuccessfully Coping with the Natural Beauty of Infidelity".  In the latter, the lyric is basically a rant about an unfaithful girlfriend.  Peter Steele sings "Do you believe in forever?  I don't even believe in tomorrow.  The only things that last forever are memories and sorrow."  This isn't strictly true, it's a poetic overstatement, but one can relate.  Sex and death.  The macho, dismissive stance of the song is parodied at the end when the frustrated lover wails "You... You make me hate myself."  

Once you've seen death, really seen it, you realize not only the absolute worst that can become of you, but also it's inevitability.  It's kind of like what the samurai used to call "the Art of Dying", making a conscious effort to let go of this life day by day to ease ones mind and perhaps allow for more enjoyment of it.  To enjoy a dirty joke, enjoy sex, and enjoy all of the other things that one day you won't be able to enjoy.  You know, because you'll be dead.  It's not so bad when you think about it.  

If memories last forever, then I credit Type O Negative with never taking themselves too seriously.  It seems like anyone who's had a hit record these days is thought a genius, especially by the artists themselves, and it's refreshing to have a band that admitted their faults.  The ultimate epitaph for any group is the greatest hits compilation, and Type O Negative entitled theirs "The Least Worst of Type O Negative".  

Peter Steele evidently had a lifelong struggle with faith and had experienced addiction, pain, and loss and when he became ill embraced a spiritual nature he'd long denied.  This is admirable in itself, but more admirable still was his attitude about it.  He didn't give a damn what people thought.  He made his own way.  

Strangely enough, "Everything Dies" is one of the most life affirming songs I've ever heard.  If you listen to anything, listen to that one.  

Would you hire ANY of these guys to clean your pool?

Then write a blog about how much it sucks.  Type O Negative and I couldn't care less.
        

The Snows of Yesteryear

"Where is Echo, beheld of no man,

Only heard on river and mere,

She whose beauty was more than human?

But where are the snows of yesteryear?"

-from "the Ballad of Dead Ladies"

by Francois Villon (1431-1489)

Old Flames and the Old Timer

I sat and drank with the old man for a while.  He'd clearly seen better days and kept looking at the clock as if hoping by some miracle it would run backward instead and deliver him to a past so much sweeter than the present.  He satisfied himself instead to talk of old loves over beers and well tequila and we were the best of friends for two and a half hours.

First there was Carla, whom he'd known since grade school.  She'd been his first, not his first love but the first woman with whom he'd performed the act of love, an act that over the years had become so far removed from the gentle purity of it's essence it was hardly worth that lofty title.  She'd gone on to work in a library and retired some years ago, a grandmother with a husband obsessed with ham radio.  They'd seen one another in the grocery store once around Thanksgiving time, she with her cart full of dressing, cranberry sauce and fixings for desserts and he with his full of wine, baloney, and day old bread.  There was no glint of recognition, no echoes from that distant past in which they'd been so hopelessly enamored as to allow one another the gift of physical consummation.  "She looked at me like I was a goddamned thief," he laughed, "but she knew right well that what I took from her she gave to me."

He next spoke of Elizabeth who'd been "rich and smart" by his estimation.  A thin redheaded student who waited tables for gas and rent money while he toiled as a dishwasher to support himself in a very modest fashion.  "She was from way down south and had a grandmother that called any northerner she met 'murdering yankee scum' to their face and mean every word of it".  They'd spend days off in her apartment naked, making food, watching television, holding and enjoying one another as only young people can.  "I loved those days we spent together," he said, "but I never loved that girl".  He wasn't sure what had happened to her, but was sure she had done okay for herself in life.  "She was that type."

Dana was young.  "Young and foolish," he said, "but the most beautiful woman I ever saw."  She had dark hair and eyes and skin "brown as a nut."  She drank with him and laughed with him and they went dancing together.  "The trouble was, I was living with another woman at the time." He shook his head.  "A good woman, too.  Two good women wronged by one shit-heel at the same damn time."  One day he'd told himself to break it off with Dana, never bothering to tell Dana herself.  "But, like I said, she was young.  It's easier to take that kind of thing when you're young."  She'd gone on to become a flight attendant and, as far as he knew, hadn't married.  "Which shows you she wasn't so foolish after all." he said, and we laughed.  

Marie was going to be his wife.  "She was the end of it." he said, but not bitterly.  She was a big woman, with a big laugh and a vibrant spirit.  "Everybody loved her," he said "My momma loved her to death."  He told story after story about her, funny happenings, trips they'd taken, and the colorful things she'd say.  "She was sassy and didn't take no stuff."  The inevitable question, "What went wrong?" went unasked for some time as he shared his recollections.  When  finally asked, he smiled again.  "I was a fool." he said simply.  He'd tested her a little too much, was drinking too much at the time, "Which wasn't entirely my fault." he said, raising a glass.  One night he'd been given a bottle of Pusser's Rum as a gift.  He came home, made hamburgers for dinner, drinking rum all the while, and everything was just fine until right around bedtime.  "I don't know what came over me." he said.  "Every man, no matter how content, has some itch or another that he can't scratch.  He's got a body or two buried deep inside, and I loved this woman so much that I wanted her to know all about it.  All about me.  And so I told her everything.  Everything I wanted and everything I'd done.  We made love that one last time and the next day she was gone."  Not physically gone, but emotionally.  "Turns out she wanted things I didn't know the first thing about.  Things I guess I just couldn't give."  One attempt at reunion came to nothing and before too long she and all their old friends drifted away and familiar haunts became hostile and foreign places.  "I begged her," he said.  "Made a pest of myself with her friends, her momma, even.  Nothing.  Damn near drove me crazy."  Marie had married some time ago.  "A minister down in South Carolina.  Real nice guy, I've heard."  He shrugged his shoulders and we ordered another round.

I'm sure there were more women to talk about, but there wasn't however, more time in which to discuss them.  He looked at the clock one last time, his eyes closing dreamily.  "Young man, it's been a pleasure." he said.  He shook my hand and was gone.  I asked the bartender if she knew his name and she said she didn't. She called him an "irregular regular" who came in on occasion.  I haven't seen him since, but I look for him there at the bar.

I look at the clock wonder when I'll hope it runs backwards.  

"A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams"

-John Barrymore, who portrayed the poet Francois Villon in the silent film "the Beloved Rogue" (1927)