Gran’s blue car was
never out in a storm.
It hardly ever got wet.
Church and doctors.
Fridays the market.
That’s all.
Till a year to the day
after Grampa died,
and she drove it off a cliff.

By-Doug Mathewson

Arizona Highway,
Ford Crown Vic coming up fast.
Hair just flying out the window!
Woman’s got a heavy foot.
Passed me better than a hundred,
Oh, ….. it’s the Tribal Police.

Like many of my stories this is accurate and true with only the exceptions being the parts that are pretend. My sister had taken up with some damned fiddle player,and she wanted to got to Tucson early to see his band play in some broke-down bar. More fiddling going on I knew than what he was up to with his Walmart Stradivarius, but that’s none of mine as they say. Now mostly she goes to the farmer’s market next town over.  Sells a little produce off back of her old truck. Now there was a problem. A problem for me, her little brother to solve. That thirty year old farm truck won’t make any seventy – eighty miles south to Tucson. So there I was with my Toyota full of her cantaloupes and peppers right up to the roof, just driving along, when this incident took place. Thought they was going to the casino or some fool place.
So like I say, all true. Well all but I never had a Toyota, or them cantaloupes either, or to be honest a sister. Don’t even live out that way to tell the truth.  – Doug

Our bread knife had been missing for better than a month. Ikea had one with an asymmetrical wood and stainless handle that appealed to my inner Swede for only seven dollars. Where the original bread knife had gotten to was beyond my imagination, and below my cut-off for concern. Time passed, bagels were sliced and toasted, the new knife edged it’s way  into our daily lives. The transition was as smooth as buttering toast and we moved on.
On-line sources were not expansive enough for what I required. For reasons peculiar and picayune I decided one afternoon to use our old really big library style dictionary to look something up. “The first clergyman was the first rascal who met the first fool.” was a quote from Voltaire but in what context? Who did he say it to? Was he just being clever, or was he making a point?
I needed the two thousand page dictionary to discover the truth. My discovery was very different. There was our old bread knife! It had been used (I don’t know when) as a book mark. The entry “costumbrismo” was underlined. There was an old photograph (very wrinkled) that had been folded and refolded years ago into quarters there as well. It was a sepia toned image of a chicken pulling a toddler in a little two wheeled wooden cart, and “Havana 1873” written on the back in florid script. Written down the book’s margin in red was “Zarzuela” followed by four exclamation marks.
With my head buzzing full of 18th century French philosophy and 19th century Hispanic art I thought “I can make a cardboard scabbard for the old bread knife and   seamlessly join it with gaffers tape to the black wooden block containing the new bread knife. Brilliant!” I was suddenly stunned by my entire lack of imagination. Given this sprawling mash-up of information and concepts in art and the humanities I was still mentally dealing with the bread knife!
Inaction would have been unacceptable. I refilled the errand bread knife under “R” in the dictionary to indicate both “redundant” and “resolved”. I put the folded chicken cart picture in my wallet for another day.

by-Doug Mathewson

re: “WHAT’S NEW FROM URBAN OUTFITTERS”
-an informative note from Lolita and her disturbing friend Twink-

re: “INVESTMENT OPPORTUNITY OF A LIFETIME “
-they must know something great about my future-

re: “ON-LINE PHARMACY VIAGRA FOR LESS”
-they must know something terrible about my future-

re: “FREE SHIPPING VICTORIA’S SECRET”
-completely disingenuous, how much can a Brazilian cut panties weigh?-

re: “RUSSIAN BRIDES YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL”
-why couldn’t have Ronnie Wood just thought things through?-

re: “SPLIT FOURTEEN MILLION SWISS FRANCS”
-how can I say no to the Fiance Minister of Nigeria, but why does he
have a post office box in Reno Nevada?-

by-Doug Mathewson

On the sidewalk,
by the pay-phone,
someone dropped
a thousand peso
Golden Garcia
and I used it to call you.
That must have been
enough.
Connecting me
and Mexico City
with you
and Oklahoma City,
but there was only
your machine.
You visit your Mother
on Sundays,
since she got sick.
I felt so foolish
not remembering,
suddenly unsure
what to say.
I didn’t leave
a message.

by-Doug Mathewson

Marilyn;
Your endlessly repetitive inquiries if I would be “ok” were so insistent and relentless I was unable to respond. As the kids might well say, “No, I am not good with that.” You going off on some so called “business trip” with your friend “Michael” (who as far as I can tell doesn’t have job at all) is most unseemly. What kind of business trip does an unemployed person go on I ask? I watch enough daytime television  while you are out to have a very clear picture of what your “business trip” will consist of.
I understand your not taking me to Las Vegas, and frankly I was just as glad not to go. The very thought of that city at nose level is revolting. What I do find disturbing is the haphazard arrangements you have made for me in your absence. I could stay with your ex for example. Steve was always such a thoughtful and kind man, (unlike this “Michael” you seem to hold in such high and undeserved regard). I am quite sure Steve would be more than willing to have me stay the week. He lives on a farm in Connecticut for God’s sake! We could frolic in the autumn leaves together and dare I say, I might even chase bunnies! But rather you have chosen to board me at “Happy Dale Acres” What a misnomer! Who ever heard of a kennel on the twenty third floor of an office building in mid-town. There are no “dales”, no ”acres”, and I for one am not happy. The overwhelming smell of copy-machine toner, comings and goings at all hours, and elevators that make strange unsettling noises have left me sleepless and unable to eat (not that any dog with a home would eat what is offered here).
When you return I feel it would be in the best interests of our relationship to discuss this and other matters further. We have had many good times together over the years, and these shared memories I hold dear. My desire, my hope, is that we may return to a relationship where in we once again regard each other as “partners and companions” on life’s road. I wish for us to stand on an equal footing, your two to my four, as we share time together mutually interned on this plane of existence.

I await your response;

Spinoza,
Jack-Russell Terrier
Happy Dale Acres Kennel
Musgrave Building
NYC, NY

dictated to Doug Mathewson

Dateline Hollywood :

Hollywood ’s A, B, and C lists turned out last night for a gala fund raiser
coinciding with the release of the Mira-Maxx’s production “King Kong VII”.
Many original works of art were donated to benefit Hollywood ’s “Home for
The Visually Unpleasant Program”. Unquestionable the largest piece was an
amazing work donated by Paris Hilton! This three story high installation piece of the
mighty ape was made entirely of underpants Ms. Hilton had lost or discarded
while attending various red-carpet events this fall. With bejeweled thong eyes,
shimmering silk panty teeth, and comic “hello-kitty” flannel fingers this imposing
sight was certainly a crowd pleaser! Paris kindly removed the hot-pink pair of skimpy
boy-shorts she was wearing for photographers, adding them to the sculpture.
Noted Jovian commentator Mumpart Blagghart remarked “for a skinny assed woman, she has such a big heart.”

by-Doug Mathewson

That Army bus was a small one, just enough room for the eight of us and our gear.
It was hotter than the Devil’s own oven in the summer, freezing in the winter, and leaked both spring and fall. I lived inside that olive drab shell for better than two full years with the rest of the Honor Guard as we bumped and wound over and back the Appalachians through West Virginia, Virginia, and Tennessee. War was what keep us busy those years ’67, ’68, and part of ’69. We took turns driving, those of us who knew how, but when we got to our stop it was always Larry who played Taps and presented the flag to the family. The rest of us stood there, after we each fired three times. Then Larry, horn under his arm, would salute and give who-ever the folded flag. Then we’d drive to the next one. Little towns mostly, some places not even towns at all.

When they sent us out from base that first time, That ole Sergeant explained;
“Just because you boys ain’t too sharp don’t mean you can’t serve your country.
You’re doin’ your duty at home is all, shootin’ off blanks in honor of the dead.”
We honored the dead alright, if there was enough left of ‘em to send back home.  Soldiers families tried real hard to be strong and proud for their boy, for their country.
It was the brothers and sisters, high school friends. Them all being just kids like us, crying maybe or everything held all tight inside. Wives and sweat-hearts were the worse. Seeing them just tore me up. Tore me up bad every time. Bothered us all one way or another. Some guys drank enough or drugged enough not to feel it, or maybe
just not feel it as bad.

I turned eighteen on that bus, nineteen too, and we gave out must have been better
than a thousand flags. Didn’t keep one. Didn’t keep anything really, just my boots (them being the only shoes I had). Other guys on the bus, them GI’s, came and went, and I left in my time too. What stayed with me was the families, keeping themselves together when they were in such pain because they didn’t know what else to do. Young girls in tears, or worse real quiet. I’ll never forget them. Went back my old job, or near enough. Still workin’ DQ. Just mostly on the grille now, only mop-up weekday nights’. I see kids come in, no older than we was. Always hungry after the game or a school play. I think; well maybe where I was those Vietnam years was like a school play. I wished so hard the dead boys would come in from the wings, pushin’ each other and taking their bows. The broken hearted girls smiling now, holding roses their proud daddy’s brung ‘em. But the dead boys were still dead, and the sad girls was left to heal them selves all up and down them back roads.

by-Doug Mathewson

Ticket thirty-three and I waited while lower numbers were called out. Since the kitchen just announced twenty-one, I knew my basil udon noodles were still distant.
Just like that it seemed; I was day dreaming about tigers and if they spoke like us what would their voices be like? Would they have Indian accents or tiger accents (what was are tiger accents like?) and then I wanted Indian food instead of those impending  yet aloof noodles; but pretty sure there are tigers in Thailand so the noodles would still be ok. Were they marsupial tigers? No, that’s in Tasmanian and I never had Tasmanian food so I drew a blank, but what were the Tamale Tigers?  Salsa band or South American socialist militia? Not sure; that one could go either way.

Then I saw shoes flash in the mirror near the bar by the floor and they were woman’s red high-top Converse, but the stars were on the insides of her ankles and I didn’t know if this reversal was a trick of the mirror or she just had them on the wrong feet. But then the counter guy called “thirty-three” and I forgot what the tigers were saying and the girl with the high-tops was gone which was good since I have issues with women’s
feet and shoes and well, ….issues.

Noodles were suddenly my sole focus but they were bland and I wished I had gone to the Indian place run by tigers and have the lovely tiger hostess in her flowing silk sari with her unsettling gaze recommend “the catch of the day”. I was scared to ask what it was and ordered it anyway earning a wide smile and a rumbly deep purr as she said “ excellent choice” and I swear she flicked her tail just for me she swayed away to the kitchen. But by then I must have finished my noodles, (or maybe the crows at the next table took them- not sure), and should be getting back to work. Back to being head fact checker for the King, or maybe reviewer of fake Tasmanian restaurants. Just have to see what it says on my office door. Think I have an office anyway.

by-Doug Mathewson

A table for one is just no fun.
Traveling on business you learn.
Tired of hotel restaurant’s snappy themes:
* Pumpernickel Pub
* Captain Flapjack’s Galley
* Blarney Stone Buffet
Break the cycle I said to myself!
Go to the nearby “Hard Rock Cafe.”
Have pizza with Elvis and Elton,
(Little Betty Boop won’t eat a thing!)
Quickly seated, so few solo nook request
Would I have a monster bacon-burger with a Gene Simmons?
Maybe a cherry-coke with Norma Jeane,
(her skirt blowing wildly between breathless sips.)
My table  was between the restrooms,
Behind the coat rack, but it had a theme!
The obituary of Maureen Starkey,
Liverpool hairdresser and first wife of Ringo Starr.
Conversationally we were well matched.

by-Doug Mathewson