Monday/Memeday: Tom

Tom is the man. In a world of sheep, Tom is the llama.


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Sarah In The Morning

20731_1351607707108_4432096_nIt was a cold, October morning at the Super 8 just off exit 337 and things were about to go, well, the way things tend to. The detritus of a night gone wonderfully wrong lay about us: A crumpled bag of NASCAR-themed barb-e-cue Fritos, a spent bottle of bottle of Yukon Jack, a crumpled lime-green camisole and a pair of Jimmy Chou pumps that cost more than my battered Impala–one under the chair in the corner, the other dangling from the lampshade beside the TV.

I lay on the bed, pulling deep off a wrinkled Gauloise, absently tracing my hands over the swollen bite marks on my thighs and abdomen,  when the bathroom door clicked and swung halfway open, releasing a cloud of steam.  I rolled off the bed, stepped on a beer cap and almost knocked over an open, half-eaten styrofoam take home box of ribs and gravy-soaked fries from Applebees, limping to the door to watch as she did her lips, the heavy coat of eyeliner.  Her bright red dress hung from a hanger on the towel rack–an open bottle of Smirnoff on the sink, hair of the dog.

She looked so beautiful, in the steam; I raised my phone to snap a picture.  She tried to block me, but too late.  Modest, to a fault.  “You can’t.” She shook her head.  “I can’t. Not the picture. Not us. Never again.”

“You said that the last time.”

“There’s too much at stake.  I’m not getting any younger, and the money won’t always be like it is now,” she sighed.  “My family. America. They need me more than you do.”

“Leave it all.”

“It’s too late. I’ve already called them.”

I looked up towards the door even the shape of a large, black vehicle skidded to a stop beyond the worn, gauzy draperies.  A second later, the door swung open and two large, glowering men burst through, the first with a blackjack in his gloved hands.

I whipped around for one last look. Her moist eyes were sad, but not sorry: determined, resolute.

“You broke me heart,” I said, thumbing the SEND button on my phone.

“You betcha,” she smiled.  The blackjack swung down on the back of my neck, stars exploding in my skull, not unlike those I’d felt in her aching, desperate embrace.

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Westsylvania Jazz & Blues Festival


Some of my Junk Friends have organized a killer music festival here in Junkland—otherwise known as Indiana, PA, home of Edward ‘Cactus Ed” Abbey and Jimmy

“Zuzu Petals” Stewart.  I don’t know jack shiite about Jazz but it sounds pretty good, and there is going to be a lot of it today–by some pretty heavy talents.  So, if you’re in western PA, northern WVa, or Eastern Ohio, I’ve just got this to say:


As an added bonus, if you come, and you can figure out who I am, and you approach me and say, “Are you the Junk Man?” I’ll buy you a beer–or a shot of whiskey.

Lots of great restaurants, pretty trees, old buildings, and a historic main street in our friendly little university town (and the kids are on break, so nobody will vomit on your shoes.).

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The Golden Fish Failure


I could have used this photo–the fish is more golden, and has the kind of grumpy expression I usually wear, but it lacks the irony of the pretty bikini girl holding a dead fish. And it lacks the bikini girl, which isn’t a minor thing.

I have nothing ready that’s not a picture or a a joke or some other form of acquired content, and I want my own words here because, frankly, I’ve been coasting through blogville a bit, distracted by other interests and–worse–responsibilities.  I’m also deeply disappointed in the lack of interest generated (or not generated) by my previous post, The Golden Fish Award.  I thought it was pretty damned funny on a couple of levels, but it just lay there in the blogwater, like a dead fish.  I don’t know if it’s my sense of humor that’s askew, or yours, but–well–for the sake of argument, let’s blame you. I’ve very disappointed in you, in fact, and I finally understand that whole “when bad things happen to good people” schtick.  I thought it was a metaphor, but it’s more than that;  I feel, you know, violated.  By your lack of attention.  I may cry.

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2015 Summer Wonder #13: The Golden Fish Award

I’m never quite sure what to do with these blog awards occasionally bestowed upon me–I’m appreciative, humble even, but it feels very one-sided, and I feel unworthy.

So, starting sometime sooner or later, or when I eventually get around to doing it, I’ll be introducing the Golden Fish Award to certain summery blogs of distinction. Nominations will be accepted and winners treated to kind words, a reblog, and just maybe, if you’re particularly lucky, I’ll wrap up your golden fish in some old newspaper and ship it via USPS one rate service–should be there in 6-10 business days.


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2015 Summer Wonder #12: Nice Backdrop.

Nice backdrop.


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Wednesday Words of Wisdom: Elmo Phillips

emo-philips-blindfold-refused” You don’t appreciate a lot of stuff in school until you get older. Little things like being spanked every day by a middle-aged woman. Stuff you pay good money for in later life.”
–Elmo Phillips




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