My name is June

My dear friend Annie left a writing prompt (idea) for me on her blog.
Your turn, kiddo. {{{{grin}}}}}

” You wake up to discover that all your daughters are sons & your wife is your husband – what happens?”

Here’s what transpired . . . I don’t really know if I even like this but here we go . . .

************************************************************************

You stare into the bathroom mirror and scream – OH! MY! GOD!
June Cleaver continues to stare back at you in horror. You watch your chest heaving up and down and think “Christ in a sidecar, I have breasts and wide hips and then no, no, dear God, no . . . yup, they’re gone.”
Your precious jewels are gone.
You scratch where they should be and look around the bathroom stunned by the realization that your world has turned to black and white and that you’re June Cleaver.

You pray that the kids have gone to school and Ward is at work before making your way to the kitchen when you see a handwritten note on the kitchen table;

June,

I decided to let you sleep in this morning and have taken the boys to school myself.

Don’t worry, I made them oatmeal and toast for breakfast.

Wally asked if you could get him some pimple cream. His acne is acting up again.

And Beaver is, well, the Beaver. You know how much I love the Beaver.
I’ll see you tonight for dinner, my dearest

Love,

Ward

Your world begins caving in when you realize and understand the sheer magnitude of the situation you’re currently in.
Boys?!
You think, “What Would June Do?” and laugh thinking the initials of the phrase would look great on a bracelet.
You desperately need some booze but it’s only 8:30 in the morning and you’ve no idea where Ward hides the hootch.

You think that 24 hours ago the world was a vastly different place, as was your gender.

The phone rings and you automatically answer it like a subservient Stepford wife.

“Hello?”

“Hi June! It’s Agnes Haskell. Have you seen my Eddie? He never showed up to school this morning and I think he’s up to no good and goshdarnit, I’m a bit worried.”

“Oh, Agnes! No, I haven’t seen Eddie. Ward let me sleep in this morning and he took Wally and Beaver to school. Boys will be boys! I’m sure it’s nothing serious, Agnes. If I see him I’ll be sure to tell him to call you, okay?”

“Are you okay, June? You sound . . . I don’t know, different.”

“Oh, if you only knew, Agnes. No, I’m fine. Gotta run, the milkman is here! Bye!”

You place the receiver into the cradle of the black rotary phone and catch a glimpse of yourself in the living room mirror and think: I’m going have to do something with this hair! It will never do!

You’ve never been ogled before in your life until you go out on the front steps to get your bottles of milk.

“Morning Mrs. Cleaver!”

“Good morning, Dan.”

“Hey, did I show you my new tattoo?”

“You have a tattoo, Dan?”

“Did I say tattoo? I meant to say my thick enormous tongue!” {laughing}

“Oh, Dan, you’re such a cut up!” {you’re laughing, and shaking your head because he’s such a freak}

You pinch yourself and repeatedly head butt the fireplace mantle hoping to wake yourself or ultimately pass out.
You somehow make it to 5PM when a bulb goes on above your nicely coiffed head.
You find a piece of paper and write:

Dearest Ward,

I must have come down with the flu because I’ve been sneezing all day.
(I must be contagious!)

I did manage to do some of the boy’s laundry. Please tell Beaver he needs to start wiping himself better or I may start calling him “General Beaver”!
Please take the boys for dinner. I just couldn’t cook in this condition.
I’ve taken two aspirin and plan on sleeping until my color returns.

I hope you understand, dear.

Love,

J

You lie down and close your eyes while praying for a Medjudgore miracle.
Your breasts are nice and quite perky but BIG DEAL.
You just want your junk back. {and rightly so – *authors note}

You accept the fact that you’d never make it in this world as a June . . . April or May could be a distant possibility though.
And though the hormone thing is just a killer . . . the nasty shaving business ain’t quite that bad.

~m

Nano Shuffle

I put my Nano on “shuffle” tonight and wrote a little bit about the 5 tunes that randomly came up. Check it out.

*Michel Camilo – Just Kidding (from the album, One More Once)
What can I say? I have a new favorite piano player.
This tune has intense tight, screaming horns and is not for the jazz squeamish.
Camilo’s piano solo is the quintessential jazz solo. Amazing.
The man plays right-handed octaves faster than a frickin’ machine gun.
One of you guys better be listening to this guy after all I’ve said and posted about him.
Truth be told, I want someone to pinch me and tell me I’m not dreaming.

*Los Lobos – Colossal Head (from the album Colossal Head)
I’ve listened to these guys forever.
Raw, unpretentious and innovative, LL wrote the proverbial manual on how an electric guitar should sound in the studio.
If you’ve ever witnessed two musicians arguing over the difference between tube amplifiers vs. solid state you’ll eventual hear this: Solid State sucks!
The guitar sounds on Colossal Head totally support this statement.

*Fourplay – Kid Zero (from the album X)
Bob James (keys), Larry Carlton (guitar), Nathan East (bass) and Harvey Mason (drums), need I say anymore?
Alright, I guess I should.
You’ve heard all of these guys play more than you could ever imagine.
Believe me.
Kid Zero is a very cool song for all you smooth jazzers out there.
The hidden gem on the album is Michael McDonald’s vocal on “My Love is Leavin’”, an old Stevie Winwood tune off the album Chronicles. Schweet.

*The Tubes – I don’t want to wait anymore (from the album The Best of the Tubes 1981-1987)
I’ve loved this song forever.
Hardcore Tubes fans hated it because of the way it sounded.
It was produced by a musician named David Foster, another serious keyboard idol of mine from way back. (again, you’ve heard this guy before, you just don’t know it)
My playing resembles his in many ways. Ask my wife.
This tune sounded nothing like the old Tubes. It was a few years later that they hit the pop charts with “She’s a beauty”, another Foster produced mega-hit.

*Gonzalo Rubalcaba – Here’s that rainy day (from the album Solo)
Not exactly sure what to say regarding this one but if you like jazz piano and have yet to hear Rubalcaba, you ain’t lived.
Period.
They guy is a frickin’ piano machine.

I had fun with this.
I’ve also posted an Amazon link for every album.
Click and scroll down the page for a quick listen to each tune.
There’s some real nice stuff here.
If there are a few tunes you think I might like, leave a few titles.
I’m always looking for new stuff to keep the musical boat afloat and make the train ride just a bit shorter.

~m

666

I had something happen to me tonight that was so bizarre and out of whack that I had to blog a bit of it.
After working in Boston for well over three years I would have thought this situation would happen there but life is not always so predictable.
Tonight, I came face to face with 666.
She came in the form of a woman 70+ years of age.
It all began as I was arriving at my stop tonight.
I made my way down near an exit door and found a seat to wait for the train to stop.
Across the way was an old woman looking out the window; 4′ 10″, black skullcap, white hair, weird clothes . . . yup, she’s nuts, I thought; a Poltergeist extra, basically.
Strange thing was I could see her face in the reflection of the glass and she was looking at me, studying me.
I didn’t think anymore about it and I began to quietly hum a blues song by a preacher named O.V. Wright, called “Don’t let my baby ride”, a favorite song of mine.
About 30 seconds before the train stopped, she walked over to me and got right in my face.
Weird right there, dude.
She asked about the clothes I had on (shirt and hat, compliments of my oldest daughter’s college) wondering if I attended said school.
The conversation went haywire from there and I refuse to write it here simply because of the amount of profanity. (on her part, not mine)
This hag seriously creeped me out but before I walked away from her I did say, “Please take your medication and do us all a favor and go play in traffic, you bitch.”
Not sure what else to say except that it doesn’t get much weirder than this, and if it did, I’d blog it and probably be rich.
Anyone curious about exactly what this gasbag had to say, email me.
I remember a few snippets but I was too freaked out to remember all of it at the time.
This encounter was just too freekin’ weird folks . . .
I’m now home, smoking a cigar and drinking Harpoon Octoberfest.
Life is once again, okay . . . for now.

~m

Norm Abrams, I’m not

I’ve been promising my wife that I’d put together a cabinet for the kitchen.
She bought it several weeks ago and everytime I’d walk through the kitchen I swear I could hear “baaaawk, baaaawk . . . “coming from inside the box.
Its purpose was supposedly going to reduce some of the cabinet clutter and organize the pot and “pandemonium” wreaking havoc in the heart of our home.

How hard could it be to put together a small and innocent antique cabinet?

I’m no Norm Abrams, alright? Building things just isn’t my thing (stop laughing, Laho).

I consider myself a reasonably intelligent man but when an inanimate object begins making a monkey out of me, I have a problem.
I should have known better when I spied the little gold oval sticker proudly proclaiming “made in China” on all 76 pieces.

Assembling this hunk of shit (from the directions given) was worse than trying to comprehend quantum physics.
I seriously think the Chinese are out to get us, all of us.

Said directions were a series of “exploded” pictures; no words or explanations, just pictures . . . all 14 of them. Bastards.

Does the term 3-D puzzle of wood mean anything to you?

The cabinet was mainly black and I almost went frickin’ blind trying to screw this thing together. The phone starts ringing, I spill my coffee, I gotta take a crap and one of the cats starts throwing up a hunk of the Styrofoam packing this thing came in and I’m only Step #1.
I only have 13 more to go.
Please shoot me.
Point the gun at my brain stem and mercifully pull the trigger.
End my pain.

I think about throwing the damn directions away but err on the side of caution and instead start talking dirty to the sad looking unassembled pieces still littering the kitchen table. Things start clicking and I’m beginning to enjoy the dirty talk.

By the time I was finished (2 hours later) I look Chinese, well, my eyes do anyway.

Some people really have a talent for this building shit.
Not me.
I say pay another 20 bucks and let some other choad go Oriental.
I’m an artist, damn it, not Norm Abrams.

~m

Norm Abrams, I'm not

I’ve been promising my wife that I’d put together a cabinet for the kitchen.
She bought it several weeks ago and everytime I’d walk through the kitchen I swear I could hear “baaaawk, baaaawk . . . “coming from inside the box.
Its purpose was supposedly going to reduce some of the cabinet clutter and organize the pot and “pandemonium” wreaking havoc in the heart of our home.

How hard could it be to put together a small and innocent antique cabinet?

I’m no Norm Abrams, alright? Building things just isn’t my thing (stop laughing, Laho).

I consider myself a reasonably intelligent man but when an inanimate object begins making a monkey out of me, I have a problem.
I should have known better when I spied the little gold oval sticker proudly proclaiming “made in China” on all 76 pieces.

Assembling this hunk of shit (from the directions given) was worse than trying to comprehend quantum physics.
I seriously think the Chinese are out to get us, all of us.

Said directions were a series of “exploded” pictures; no words or explanations, just pictures . . . all 14 of them. Bastards.

Does the term 3-D puzzle of wood mean anything to you?

The cabinet was mainly black and I almost went frickin’ blind trying to screw this thing together. The phone starts ringing, I spill my coffee, I gotta take a crap and one of the cats starts throwing up a hunk of the Styrofoam packing this thing came in and I’m only Step #1.
I only have 13 more to go.
Please shoot me.
Point the gun at my brain stem and mercifully pull the trigger.
End my pain.

I think about throwing the damn directions away but err on the side of caution and instead start talking dirty to the sad looking unassembled pieces still littering the kitchen table. Things start clicking and I’m beginning to enjoy the dirty talk.

By the time I was finished (2 hours later) I look Chinese, well, my eyes do anyway.

Some people really have a talent for this building shit.
Not me.
I say pay another 20 bucks and let some other choad go Oriental.
I’m an artist, damn it, not Norm Abrams.

~m

Asshole

A death row inmate in Ohio feels lethal injection is unconstitutional cruel and unusual punishment.
Cry me a river, asshole.
Let me make sure I am crystal fucking clear on this; he raped and stabbed to death a 14 year old girl in cold blood and is complaining about the way he will die.

It’s cruel and unusual punishment?

Really? Come on, you disgusting cretin.

You are so low in the human decency scale that you’d have to climb a ladder to blow a snake, for God’s sake, you assclown.
You have no voice in this, as far as I’m concerned.
Shut the hell up and just die.
It frosts my stones to no end that we actually entertain the thought, all at the risk of political effin’correctness.
Please excuse my really bad French.

My wife served jury duty last week.
The case she was (almost) selected to serve on was fairly clean cut; a defendant was caught red-handed with handguns and drugs and was supposedly associated with a murder.
22 some odd State Troopers were standing nearby to give their testimony against this slimy piece of shit.
Everyone awaiting a jury appointment was asked a series of questions to rule out bias and impartiality.

“Is there anyone here that has already formed an opinion regarding this case?”

My wife {God love her} raises her hand and is called to the judge’s bench.

The conversation went something like this:

“Mrs. Murphy, you’ve already formed an opinion on this case?”

“Yeah. Guilty.”

“Mrs. Murphy? You’re excused.”

There may have been a bit more conversation but that’s all the ammo I needed to write this post.

What am I missing here?
Our judicial system is on way more drugs than Jimi Hendrix was when he was playing Woodstock.
Really, what am I missing here?
As far as Romell Broom goes, screw him.
I say fry his pussy death row ass . . .
And that’s almost too good for the likes of him.
As a taxpayer, I’m so sick and tired of paying for 3 squares a day, a bed with blankets and a roof over the head of slimebags like this guy.
I rant, therefore, I am.
Pissed? Ayup.
Can you tell stories like this bother me a bit?
Please excuse me while I go and vomit.
~m

Nine Eleven

I remember the day vividly; there were crystal blue skies, warm and ample sunshine, comfortable temperatures, a picture perfect fall day in New England.

The date was September 11, 2001 and I was just getting into work (selling pianos at the time) when the phone rang.
It was my friend Colin, a piano technician from the store where I worked calling to tell me he’d heard on the radio that a plane had just flew into the World Trade Center in NYC.
It must have been a terrible accident we both agreed, a freakish malfunction of an old turbine perhaps, a minor incident but nevertheless a tragic loss of life of strangers neither of us would probably ever know.
At the time, it seemed safer thinking of it that way.
It was a small plane, Colin said and that made me feel better.
Fewer people meant fewer casualties in a city the size of New York.

 

After I hung up the phone, it occurred to me that something didn’t seem quite right about the conversation. Couldn’t put my finger on it but something was wrong.
I knew it and Colin knew it, we just didn’t want to say it.

I mean, planes just don’t fly into buildings, do they?

My question was promptly answered when the phone rang 15 minutes later.
It was Colin again sounding a bit nervous.

Another plane? Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on? I asked.

He went on to tell me that both of the towers were hit and that it looked like we were at war.

War? I thought, With who?

I went outside and looked up into the sky for a sign that the world was still alright and all I saw was the endless crystal blue of the atmosphere but I noticed something else; there was an eerie stillness and silence hanging in the balance.

Word got around quickly that the US had been attacked as we began adding words to our daily lexicon: WTC, 9-11, Atta, Al Qaida, Al-Jazeera . . .

The dark truths would begin to bleed through the seemingly impenetrable fabric of our lives virtually changing all of us, forever.

The phones started ringing at the store . . . but not from customers.
The calls were from wives to husbands, sons to mothers, sisters to brothers – with one simple question; are you okay?
By noontime the phones stopped ringing and business ceased as the United States was brought to its very knees.

I can’t help but think of the same three words I thought on that horrible day: God Help Us

 

I still pray for all that we lost that day; the brilliant lives, our {unjustifiable} innocence and our shattered sense of {false} security.
We were too blind for far too long.

My words describing that day are still woefully inadequate but my thoughts and feelings of incomprehensibility are still so incredibly tender and raw.

I want badly to forgive but I still can’t.

God Bless all those we lost.

As Annie said, turn those headlights on . . .

~m