Big in Japan

One of the “to see” features of Japan, if you ever have the good luck of making such an excursion is to Yoyogi park in the metropolis of Tokyo. There you will have a chance to listen, if your ears can take the roar, various bands, most of which are from other parts of the world. And, you will see the Elvis dancers twisting their life away. After the onslaught of sound, which I should warn you sounds like that of a jumbo-jet taking off, the bands will offer themselves up to be worshiped as idols by their Japanese groupies.

There was one particular fellow, a member of some punk band that I am sure is unheard of in the States, that had place himself on display for the admiration of a clutch of overly enthusiastic Japanese girls that had coalesced near him for that purpose. The girls, about a dozen of a very young age, were gathered together at a distance of twenty yards from this specimen of western-rock-hero. They giggled and squealed and clutched each other like…well, like small overly excited children. The object of their admiration was a large pot-bellied lug of a man with a shaved head, dirty white short-sleeved shirt, frayed, grease stained cut-off pants, and high top boots with lug soles. His arms were crossed and he wore the greatest shit-eating smile on his face I have ever seen on anyone, anywhere. Suddenly, one of the girls burst from the group, closed the distance between herself and her hero in a flash, and she threw her arms around him. The brief embrace was returned and she dashed back to her groupies, who squealed delight and enfolded her as if to share the scent of her brief encounter with the exotic. He stood there beaming. Yes, you too could be big in Japan.

Spring Comes Early to Southern Arizona

As I peered through my patio window and the calming haze of a glass of wine, I observed the small birds flitting about on the grape vines that drape my perimeter fence. They repeatedly darted to and fro and perched upon the recently cut end of one of the vines. I have the bad habit of waiting until late spring to perform my primitive vine pruning.

The birds would chase each other from the same perch as if in competition for something. They would sit and dip toward the cut end. I watched this performance for quite a while until my curiosity lifted me from my recline, upward and outward to investigate.

It was quite simple. The birds had found spring sap oozing from the freshly cut ends of the vines to their taste. They were enjoying a flavored drink. Why imbibe duck-poop tainted water from the duck bath when you can instead quaff spring-sap tea?

The World Needs a Good Bombing

This song, to be sung to the tune of "The Times They Are A-Changing", is dedicated to the too many of my society who can find no end of specious reasons to enter into war. 


“The World Needs a Good Bombing“


© Zedshort


Come gather ‘round haters
Of all political stripe
And holler and yell out
Your jingoist tripe
And call everyone else
Who levels a gripe
That they’re cowards and should be leavin’
Leave the fighting and killin’
To those with no moral bone
For the world needs a good bombing.


Come bleedn’ heart liberals
And neo-cons who all gripe
That things over there
Seem about over ripe
And we must jump in now
Oh, the flames are just right
While there's glory
To be a-reapin’
Time to be killin’
Though it’s morally thin
For the world needs a good bombing.


Come senators, congressmen
Please heed the call
Don't stand in the doorway
Don't block up the hall
For he who gets voted out
Will be he who has stalled
There’s a war to be fighting
And if you won’t pander
They will cut off your balls
For the world needs a good bombing.


Come fools and hot-tempered
Throughout the land
And don’t hesitate
To make the demand
Put your sons and your daughters
At whimsy’s command
Begin a new war
We’re not needing
Sacrifice dearest first born
Send to foreign land
For the world needs a good bombing.


The heat it is on now
All hope is aghast
The quick will meet death
And the dead they will laugh
But the doubters today
They won’t be the last
To raise high a long middle finger
To those who praise discord
Hatred surely to last
For the world needs a good bombing.

Man of Constant Hunger

To be sung to the tune of Bob Dylan's version of "Man of Constant Sorrow"


"Man Of Constant Hunger"

©  Zedshort

I am a man of constant hunger
I’ve been hungry all my days
I’ll say goodbye to my own kitchen
Where I’ve spent most of my days.


There is no food to which I’m a stranger
My face is smeared with crumbs galore
But there is one promise, my dear foodie:
See you 'round the golden arches evermore.


Through every buffet I will wander
Through Asian, Country, and then more
Now my poor gut is fully distended
Need a ride to those ER doors.


I’ll have my stomach pumped out
And have my poor health restored
Should have known how bad I’d be feeling
Guess I was just plain bored.

Talkin’ OK Cupid

The following is to be sung to Bob Dylan's "Talkin' New York". The only difference is in the sixth stanza where my version contains six lines whereas Dylan's contains four.


Talkin' OK Cupid


by Zedshort


Rambling round from bar and band
Seeking love in every bush or hand
Thought all hope lost and feeling down
‘Till I come into OK Cupid town
Every type of woman and man on display there
And some in need of definition.

Lonely time in Cupid town
I found myself lurking around
Heart adrift no anchor called You
Somebody could die, lonely and blue
It was a lonely time then
People said my heart would stop and die pretty soon
Guess that was the consolation prize.

So I wrote me a profile full of heart
Poetry, and grace and added sparks
Described you and me both to a Tee
And posted it electronically:
OK Cupid, here I am.

I searched and found a gal on said site
That seemed to me just about right
Wrote her a letter true and blue
Zed, she laughed, I ain’t for you
You sound desperate to me
Girls wants honesty not truth.

So, I honed my pen and proceeded to lay
Out my plans for our future day
Drew them a picture fine and true
The gals there said I sounded lewd
They explained they was bitching whores
Not whoring bitches.

After weeks and weeks of hanging around
I found a gal in Cupid town
Had a nice face, big tah tahs too
I changed tune, paid membership dues
It was a wild and crazy and torrid affair
Lasted one whole day.

Now, someone I don’t know once said
If it’s happiness you want all of your life
You must make an ugly woman your wife
Body that screams but face like a horse
Balloon like ass and hooters that snort
Won’t be putting her on display in public too much
But we’re bound to keep the house warm.

So one morning when I awoke cold and alone
I lodged a complaint in my Cupid journal-tome
But heard in response not murmur nor hoot
It was then I knew I’d been given the boot
So long OK Cupid town
Howdy, Match dot com.

The Three Criteria

What is he thinking? Why does he act as he does?

Women are constantly asking themselves those questions of their men friends and it is time I reveal to you a number of facts about male behavior. First you need to understand that there is an under-layment of basic animal behavior. Everything displayed after that is nothing more than the décor of our vain behavior. We are a rather like decorator crabs, picking up bits and pieces of our environment and requisitioning those items for our personal use which is primarily an effort to attract a female of the species. But, as I said, there are really only three things that make up our foundation and everything else is fluff.

The three criteria by which men judge everything in the world are as follows.

  Number one: Can you eat it?

  Number two: Does it make music?

  Number three: Can you have sex with it?

If it does not meet one of those criteria, it is judged as being of peripheral interest.

Lonely-Boy

Lonely-Boy arrived as one of twelve ducklings in a small cardboard box. Their peeping, cheeping and rustling aroused the interests of the postal clerk and so I opened the package right there on the counter and displayed to him and to the persons in line behind me my new clutch of fuzzy cuteness. They nodded approval.

I knew straight away that something was wrong with my duck-assortment order. Only one of the twelve displayed a coat different from the others. I had eleven yellow ducklings and only one of another sort. I complained of this in a call to the hatchery and they explained they had sent what they had on hand but at the time of the Easter celebration about all they had on hand were Peking ducks; that is all anyone wanted.

So I put them in a cage, draped with a bed sheet and a heat lamp as a surrogate mother. They alternated throughout the day and night with waking and sleeping, peeping and quietude. They grew into Peking ducks and a solitary Swedish Blue.

The Peking duck in case you were raised on Mars, is the all white duck with the requisite yellow bill. They are highly inbred and very decadent. Decadence is defined as the inability to maintain the institutions you have create. To that end I would say, Peking ducks are so inbred that they no longer know the proper method of laying, sitting, hatching, and caring for their young. The vast majority of Peking ducks are raised in hatcheries. I once made the mistake of allowing a Peking hen to attempt the process of laying and hatching of several clutches of over three dozen eggs with the net profit of a single duckling. That, ladies and gentlemen, epitomizes decadence; keep it in mind for future reference.

The Swedish Blue is far less inbred and still retains the instincts that ducks should have and that, primarily, is to be among those of their kind and preferably to be among as many of the females of the species as possible. The one Swedish Blue duck I received I named Lonely-Boy, for obvious reasons.

Lonely-Boy had very dark purple plumage, grading into iridescent green ticking along his neck, a white bib and greenish-yellow legs and bill. He was a handsome fellow but it soon became apparent to the other ducks that Lonely-Boy was different in those obvious and ways. The Peking ducks discriminatory behavior began simply. When feed was provided, he was pushed out. When it came time to crowd into the duck house for the night, he was compelled to sleep on the roof. But don’t worry, ducks have a very thick layer of down and in spite of the layer of frost on his back in the morning, I am sure he was quite comfortable. Ducks are hardy creatures.

But hardest of all, Lonely-Boy was cut off from the primal-animalistic source of all affection…sex. Yes, Lonely-Boy liked to be with the Peking females, and I have no doubt that the females liked him too. He was after all, a dark and mysterious fellow. What could be more alluring?

But the males of the Peking breed had a problem with that and attacked and beat the stuffings out of him every time he charged into their midst to satisfy his desire. The squawking and honking and complaining was terrible to hear and even more so when it occurred late at night and worst still when the mauling of poor Lonely-Boy took place beneath my bedroom window. What a commotion! Lonely-Boy was driven from the flock and condemned to sleep on the opposite side of the house from which he would make the occasional booty-raid.

I grew tired of it all and resolved to find Lonely-Boy a new home. So, I placed an ad, “Free duck. Pretty Swedish-Blue, other ducks don’t like him. Name…Lonely-Boy.” Several people called me. One snarlulous, gruff, old man, sounding rather drunk and tired complained that he had a solitary duck and a large pond but the other visitor ducks, being wild had flown and his remaining duck, being very domestic and lonely, was quacking night and day in an attempt to call back his long lost buddies. He hoped that another lonely duck would mollify his lonely duck and the two together would equal one happy duck. In retrospect I should have given him the duck.

Another person, curious about such an exotic advertisement inquired as to how one would keep such a creature. I explained that ducks being cold weather birds with ample layers of feathers and down, needed deep shade at all times and a pool for bathing. She asked if she would have to pick the duck up and place it in the shade, as if the duck was so stupid that it would sit in the direct, intense Arizona sun all day and roast in its own feathers. No, I explained, ducks have a brain in their heads. I put emphasis on the word “their.”

Last, but not least, a woman called and told me her parents owned property in Payson, Arizona with a stream that ran year-round, with other domestic ducks, and geese, and wild ducks and they fed them and they were happy and such and it sounded to me like ducky heaven and so I said, “Yes, please come and take him away.” So, she arrived and we proceeded to catch Lonely-Boy.

There is a difference between a domestic ducks and domesticated ducks. Domestic ducks are those that are bred for making large quantities of meat and eggs while domesticated ducks are those that have been handled frequently enough as to let you get near them whether they are a domestic ora “wild” breed. Lonely-Boy was domestic, but not domesticated, and he gave us a run for the money. After much tripping and falling and huffing and puffing, and with the other ducks running interference just for the hell of it, I finally cornered him and stuffed him into a box and consigned him to his new owner. And good riddance! She promised to write and send photos of Lonely-Boy in his new home and true to her word, within a week, she sent photos of him "dancing on the water" of his new stream and one of the wild ducks cruising down stream to inquire into the source of commotion and to welcome the new-comer.

It truly sounded like ducky heaven, until a few weeks later, when I receive another letter about the situation. She informed me that a cougar had been seen stalking about in the area and she inquired as to whether cougars would eat ducks? I responded that cougars would eat anything meaty they could get their jaws around. I never received another letter from her. I can only hope that, one way or the other, Lonely-Boy has found ducky heaven...lovely, misunderstood Lonely-Boy.

Lonely-Boy dancing on the water

Wild ducks investigating the newcomer

My New Hood Ornament

As I waited for a light at the intersection of two major roads, I became aware of a little boy. I turned and found Little-Boy was sitting in a child’s seat, front passenger side in the truck on my left. He was dressed in a blue suit, hair neatly combed and parted. As I looked at him, I also looked past him, at his mom. Mom was a “looker.” I try not to be rude, but I must reiterate, mom was a “looker”, and so I was compelled to look; I am after all a guy. I suppose Little-Boy noticed my looking. He turned to me and I said to him in a mock-enthusiastic manner, as both our windows were down, “Is that your mom?” I believe I heard him reply, “Yeah.” I added, “Your mom’s pretty!” Mom took notice and smiled. Little-Boy whipped his gaze from me to his mom, and back to me and back to mom, and back to me. I noticed on his face a most serious and dark look of disapproval. I went back to watching the light when without warning, a small toy clattered across my truck’s hood. The child had launched it at me. I set the brake, turned off the engine and hustled out to recover it. I was laughing, mom was laughing, Little-Boy was not. I returned to him his toy, and hurried back to mine as the light had changed. I had just closed the door, when the toy came flying through the open window. Little-Boy had perfected his aim. The traffic proceeded and left me no chance to return his “gift” as they were well on their way but I am certain that I saw, as the two of them pulled away, mom was laughing. Mario, however, was mine.

A Brief Story

Rolf Velsen was born June, 1925 on a farm outside of the village of Vilatch, province of Vilatch, in the state of Carinthia, of Austria. He was what the people of that time and place would have called a peasant. In our vernacular of that day we would have called him a “poor, dumb farm boy.” Rolf’s education extended to the sixth grade, and his world was encompassed by the countryside about his home to a radius of ten miles. All beyond that was a foreign land. He was Lutheran and attended church regularly. Rolf’s acquaintances consisted in the main of his extended family, the nearest neighbors, and a few school chums. He worked the land beside his father and mother and brothers and sisters with the simplest of implements. He had never spent a night away from home. Home was all he knew. He was not sophisticated.

On August 1943 he was conscripted into the German Army. He said goodbye to his parents and siblings, and boarded a truck with others of similar luck, which carried him to a train that in turn took him to Salzburg, a distance of less than one-hundred miles from home, near the German-Austrian border. The handful of hours he had spent away from home already seemed to him to be an eternity, and homesick, he jumped from the train as it began to pick up speed. Several hours later he was captured by the police, turned over to military authorities and after a brief interrogation had revealed the facts, Rolf was placed in a cell. The next day he was given a Court Martial for desertion and found guilty. The following day Rolf Velsen was ushered into a courtyard with a thief, and a saboteur, placed against a wall and shot.

This story was related to me by an old man under the influence of a Scotch and heard by myself through the same haze. The story is a retelling of a tale relayed by at least several others and in the telling details may have been lost and others corrupted, but not to such a extent as to render it useless.

Mr. Stinky Breath

In the past I had the habit of leaving the cat-port open all night. My mousers have a duty to perform and it is best performed late at night when their prey are moving about. Trouble is they too frequently bring their victims into the safety of home. Whenever I can, I take their toys away and toss them into a bucket and the next morning bury them in the vegetable garden. 

You probably recall the story of how the Pilgrims that settled in New Plymouth, Massachusetts nearly starved to death due to the infertility of the very sandy soil they were attempting to cultivate. They were starving, that is, until the natives taught them how to fertilize the soil by using fish, which they had in abundance. Fish are high in protein and protein has an abundance of nitrogen, and potassium and their bones are high in phosphorous, and calcium, and upon rotting the fish become a very nearly balanced fertilizer. As there is a shortage of fish in the desert, I’ve learned to use the rodents my cats bring me. With a foundation bar, I drill a hole near the roots of a chard plant, lift a rodent out of the bucket by the tail, insert it nose first into the hole and using the foundation bar, gently tamp in in place. I’ve found I can deposit three small mice or one good size rat in each hole. It’s best to leave the tail of the last one hanging out slightly so you don’t accidentally over-fertilize that particular spot.

One of my cats, Legs, likes the hunt and early in mid morning knocks off to come into my bedroom to “report”. He’s a big tough, blond, male tabby who loves his man. He likes to sit near my head late at night and purr into my ear and breath into my nose. Late one night he was doing so, with his cold nose so close it would occasionally touch mine. I had noticed in the past a peculiar scent about him at those times but never put it all together…I was after all half asleep…when I found myself overly disturbed by that awful musky scent that he was breathing into my nostrils. When, finally, it dawned on me…what I was smelling…was the scent of…rat blood. I must say, was so very good of him to report to me, in his pure animal-cat way, the success of his hunt.