Mad Dogs of Advertising: Beekeepers

We-d

often play practical jokes on one. Another and this morning a mid-winter tractor-trailer woke me up, or accurately, the sound of air brakes scattered my troubled slumber. I-d disengaged all things electric, struggling for 'good sleep, the real deal, rest', having at least partially laid out a slightly-more-than-adequate 'neatly arranged suit case ready' and duffel bag yawned folded set to go ... there-d be a concert in Central Park for sure in late April. There was an odd sense, while the visible white hand denied access to the left of center website, at least on the remote, and as anticipated the old fashioned spaghetti had hit the fan.

AND

the air horn across the way made me peer out through the 249 or so birch trees and now it was finally light enough to make out the freshly painted blue insignia on the winter dirty burnished trailer....Rilke Lines.

I threw on the power switch, throttling down, and all my my machines more or less ignited. The fax stuttered like Charles Lamb and red valentine paper magically reset itself. I-d slept in my sturdiest of coats (more of a sleeping bag with sleeves) and now I took off my buckskin mittens. I warm my hands together as the gas furnace thundered to life. Supposedly I-d walk all the way out to the highway as the singing tractor trailer loudly idling had started air horn 'jokes': dah dah da da dah dah.

You may know the sound like when writers growing up with typewriters would try and mimic sounds. As the other day I-d typed sonic boom.

And I didn-t say:

(((((((((((((((((((((((((((sonic boom))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))

could have though, and I want you to know that I know that it nosily crossed your mind. Like your best idea and then you look up and the cream colored replica truck is stopped dead in front of you. Or whatever was on your mind when the deer smashed through your passenger window, the road slippery as though only snails silvered to and fro for a few hundred years. Maybe not gently. Come on now. Fess up.

You thought that: tickle tickle dandelion beneath your chin...

No it-s not funny. Can-t you see the poet needs rest? So I sauntered through the greyed morn down toward the road, ignoring an odd stomach pain (did I swallow a pit? Olive? Apricot? Peach? Sesaemiamarie seeds? Have current events done nothing but a great sharing of diverticulitis? Was I being punished for cancelling my subscription to Philosopher's Monthly? For still avoiding Dontay?

I lit the wrong end of a Marlboro Light, or was it a Winston Black? Cursed the day, and thought like I always do when I light the filter, I walked toward the truck thinking of that scene in To Sir with Love, you remember that? When the 'kids' lit the kotex on fire? Why would there be a fireplace in a school room? And the January thaw teasingly hinted at continuing.

Shut that damn thing off. I'm supposed to deliver this to you. Why are you dressed like sad hobo the clown, I asked then pivoted waving on Angelo the sheriff who secretly reminded me of Rod Serling with a too-black dose of Grecian Formula. Whatupdog? This is a load of paper, the driver said, coming down from the red cab. I'm supposed to deliver it to James. Who's it from?

The driver stood there flipping back her manifest and then yanked out a nice bond parchment and the sheriff shined his light as none of us saw well this morning after seven days of disaster and wall to wall carnage while outdoors the clear skies and sun had been blinding. Dark shades, ouch! Just aways away, where the road was more of a synonym of silver, certainly not greyed with dew and first light, two crows --- clawed, pecked and bit, their legs neutral sticks --- desecrating the bloated flank of a fawn.

The note said:

James, here is more paper than you can count.

Please! Sit down and write that story about Andy Pafko's

somersault catch that June night in 1956.

Your fan,

Kid

***This is an interesting post. rated.

Caroline Hagood
JANUARY 20, 2010 01:34 PM
So glad you made it Caroline; it means alot to me, it really does. Rather an exhaustive series of tragic events.
Peace to you and yours!

J.P. Hart
JANUARY 20, 2010 06:31 PM
What an interesting style you have - looking forward to more.

Ann Nichols
JANUARY 30, 2010

***JANUARY 17, 2010 8:51PM

Views: 39

Comment by Robert B. James on April 16, 2019 at 7:48am

If I could write that good I’d be deader  already. 

Comment by J.P. Hart on April 16, 2019 at 8:08am

Maybe I shoulda-coulda-woulda stuck wit the saxophone, that LeBlanc. (Iamtheonlyone: thinking of a starter pistol??) That heartbeat going on L0;}Like yesterday and its belief systemic, I'd gotten as far as those riffs in Gerry Rafferty's Baker Street
You're darz good RBJ, that there's index fingers cross lips and an occasional moon dance when you pass...when you wake up it's a new morning. If my luck holds we'll all be singing along with Billy Joel when's it? X week. O congratulations on your 'tirement, RBJ...cyber knuckle bump good buddy! Hooray!
(that'll be me in the Red Cross T, behind the stadium)
Here's an example of Badger Fortitude:
The 1984 Barneveld, Wisconsin, tornado outbreak is a significant severe weather and tornado event that took place across the central United States from North Dakota to Kansas on June 7–8, 1984. ... The entire outbreak killed at least 13 people across three states including 9 in Barneveld alone.
RBJ: do you hear from Fred Hallman or Dale Stone? OM and Gloria are in Paris on that river I usually mispronounce...

Comment by Robert B. James on April 16, 2019 at 8:26am

I hear crows caw, and herons squawk eerily, Baker built Asbury Park..more or less, as Bradley recovered in Ocean Grove, maybe. Rolling Stone V.  Sailed across from Germany. 1960.

Comment by Maui Surfer on April 16, 2019 at 11:28am

the surfers handbook sez: always keep a bag packed ... for the coldest waters include a drysuit; ice cream headaches be damned.

smith-coronas for all at the bar

Comment by Maui Surfer on April 16, 2019 at 11:32am

Comment

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