Bill Cosby: Thief of the Middle Class

Image Source: geektress.com

Bill Cosby robbed my mommy.

Okay, the Cos’ didn’t travel to Maine and ransack our Brunswick home, or pull a strong-arm hold-up on my mom on the street. But still, Bill Cosby took money away from my dear hard-working stay-at-home mom.

I am still, to this day, waiting for my Picture Pages puzzle booklets and Mortimer Ichabod marker.

Remember Captain Kangaroo? Of course you do. Then you also remember Picture Pages with Bill Cosby, which was a regular feature on the show. I still know the theme song by heart:

Picture Pages!
Picture Pages!
Time to get your Picture Pages!
Time to get your crayons and your pencils!
Picture Pages!
Picture Pages!
Open up your Picture Pages!
Time to watch Bill Cosby do a Picture Page with you!

Yeah, it would have been time to watch Bill Cosby do a Picture Page with me, if he had ever sent me my goddamn Picture Pages puzzle booklets and Mortimer Ichabod marker. But he never did.

Thirty-odd years later, I have no idea what happened. My mom sent in our order (I’m pretty sure), having carefully filled in the order blank (I’m pretty sure). Our order blank went out in the mail (of course!), and…

All I know is that I spent many an afternoon hearing the voice of Bill Cosby and the robotic squeaks of Mortimer Ichabod on my TV as I stared out my living room window, hoping to see the mailman pull up with the coveted package: a squeaking Mortimer Ichabod marker of my own. And I spent many an afternoon being comforted by my mom after the mailman failed to deliver.

I’m sure Bill Cosby himself had little if anything to do with this malfeasance. (I can imagine the Cos’ mirroring Krusty the Klown’s mea culpa about putting his name on the disaster that was Kamp Krusty: “They drove a dump truck full of money up to my house! I’m not made of stone!”) I’m sure he was preoccupied and totally unaware.

Still, it was Picture Pages with Bill Cosby, not Picture Pages with Some Nameless Schlub Who Likes to Steal Money From Stay-at-Home Moms.

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Black Friday in Hipsterburg

Image Source: Lonely Planet

“Oh, here we go!” Ray said. “Friggin’ Black Friday again!”

Ray and Clem were looking through the flyers that were spilling out of the New York Times as they sat at their window table at Pete’s Candy Store in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Their band, The Dickweeds, was playing the night after Thanksgiving, and they were killing time after sound check with a few PBRs and some snark.

Clem flipped the Macy’s flyer open and laid it on the table for their mutual perusal.

“I take it you didn’t partake in any Black Friday action?” Clem said.

Ray was distracted scanning the incoming crowd and hoping for adulation, or at least recognition. He turned a sideways glance to the flyer and threw out his best sneer.

“Bah!” Ray said. “No way I’m going in for that shit.”

“It is cheesy,” Clem said. “I guess if you’re in to that kind of thing, you can get some deals, depending on how much the stores mark stuff down after jacking up the regular retails.”

“Yeah, and then I’d be the type of mouth-breather that actually goes to the Garden State Plaza,” Ray said. “I wouldn’t do that at noon on a Saturday, let alone midnight on a Friday.”

With those words Clem connected a pair of dots that had been hovering in his head.

“Woah!” he said. “Didn’t I see that PBR t-shirt you’re wearing on sale for $50 in a Garden State Plaza store window, ya hipster doofus?!?”

“Yeah,” Ray said. “But I didn’t go there myself. I got dragged out with my sister, fachrissakes. “

“Ah, yeah,” Clem said. “That makes a huge difference.”

“Damn straight!” Ray said.

They ordered another round as the beautiful people filled in for the first act on the bill and, eventually, them.

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First Thanksgiving

Image Source: Sugar Pie Express

It was a brilliantly cold, brilliantly clear and sunny morning, and Chris Wightman wanted to experience it all. First Thanksgiving in New York, finally! Chris opened the window in the kitchen to let in the glorious New York morning. The air carried a fragrant lilt: the rush of fresh, brisk New York air; a good bit of Thanksgiving cooking from all over the building; a hint of garbage from the sidewalks; coffee and burnt toast and donuts from the Chock Full ‘o Nuts around the corner…perfect. And all the roommates out of town for the holiday! Could it get any better?

Well, of course, it would be better being with family. But this was the next best thing. A turkey sandwich from the delicatessen two blocks over and an empty apartment was as good as it gets for the first Thanksgiving in the big city. Besides, the family would call on the telephone. For now, it was all about enjoying this amazing holiday in New York.

Chris sat at the open window, inhaling the chill, fragrant breeze like it was life itself and thinking about the steps that led here: summer; driving down from Vermont to walk around the neighborhood and scope out “For Rent” signs; having just enough in the bank to be able to sign the papers; being just young enough to be able to do it… You can’t move to New York when you’re middle-aged, Chris thought. You have to do it when you’re young and ballsy enough to believe you can handle anything.

Just like I did…

The faint strains of the Thanksgiving Day parade wafted in from 8th Ave. Chris had never had any desire to have anything to do with the parade, but now, in the empty apartment, with the most introspective holiday of the year and the rest of the day in glorious New York ahead, it was the most beautiful sound ever. The sound of a marching band became the first of a long list of reasons to be thankful in a small New York kitchen with nobody around.

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Sorry, all! Between the day job and getting ready to host Thanksgiving, I wasn’t able to get anything new done for today. I’ll be back, probably for Friday, but in the meantime here’s a little seasonal love from last year. Happy and Safe Thanksgiving, all!

brian westbye

Photo Source: Vivian Maier

I used to hate Thanksgiving. Used to be all alone, nobody to see, nothing to do but get a turkey sandwich at some sleazy diner, no family to go home to… well, I have family, downstate, but they don’t want nothing to do with me, you dig? And that’s ‘cause of the troubles I got in a few years ago. I don’t blame ‘em. I mean, I was in bad shape. But that’s another story.

Anyway, like say I used to hate Thanksgiving, and being all alone. But wait’ll you hear about my Thanksgiving THIS year!

So I got on at the Greek’s place a few months ago. Mostly washing dishes, but some line cooking here and there. That kind of thing. I’m doing good, checking in with my PO, taking my prescriptions, showing up early at the Greek’s and staying late…doing my best, you know?…

View original post 993 more words

Rhetorical

I was glad to be your
fallback
ballast to your
dreams
comfort as you questioned
your life, your plans, your
needs

Now that you have
moved on
what is left for me
after I endured it all
for you
while aching
silently
what is left for me?

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Come Evening

After supper

After chores

After TV

After reading

Come the dark

Come the time

when lights are low

Come the evening

Come to me

Let us end the day

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Depleted

Image Source: Jessica’s Health Blog

An empty shell
spiraling
on a circular path
downward

A broken spirit
crawling
on shards of glass
bloodied

A common rat
caged
trapped by the demands of
life

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One Toke Over the Line

Image Source: Illustrators Journal

My greatest claim to high school infamy? (Cover your ears, mom) I actually smoked a bowl in English class. Not going to lie: I’m still pretty amazed at this little bit of bad-assery.

How did I get away with toking up in a classroom in the middle of a school day, you ask? Perfect storm of happenstance.

1. My class was in a trailer, and I sat by the um, “living room” door, which was open on a warm day.
2. No wind.
3. This class was lead by Ms. Grant, who was, shall we say, a little slow on the uptake.

Conditions were perfect.

My “chum” Ryan, a metalhead stoner with a mullet and bad teen mustache combo and about 500 functioning brain cells, sat next to me on the other side of the open door, and he produced the pipe from his jean jacket. We both figured – okay, I was the brains of this operation, so I figured – that with the door open and Ms. Grant at the helm, we could probably get away with it. He leaned out first and blazed up, to the tittering amazement of the rest of the class. My turn!

I took the hot metal bowl, leaned out and got a good solid hit, then passed it back. The feeling of the weed spreading through my body and the amazement of the rest of my class was magic. Most heads were craned in my direction, and there were a few audible snorts and titters, but overall it was like nothing was happening.

At one point the (exploding plastic) inevitable happened: Ms. Grant looked up from whatever she was teaching, twitched her nose and said, “Class, do you smell something funny?” Of course nobody smelled a damn thing. Nothing to see here, folks. I think Ryan was holding the bowl in his hand under the desk as we both stared straight ahead, a couple of red-eyed church mice. We both barely stifled a hyperventilating-laugh, because of course, this was the funniest thing ever. And that was it: back to the pipe we went, with total impunity.

I’m still amazed that I pulled this one off. Not only for the brazenness of the crime, but also because I was such a paranoid straight-and-narrow kid. I knew that if I ever tried to pull something like this off, I would get caught, and all of my co-conspirators would skate. But knowing Ms. Grant, I just knew I’d be able to pull it off that day. And isn’t that really what high school is all about? Leaving your comfort zone and taking risks?

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The Day The Music Almost Died

Image Source: Lewiston Sun Journal

As we’ve seen, the 1988-1989 Lisbon Maine High School Band was not exactly a font of discipline and professionalism. But the Memorial Day parade officially cemented our status as irredeemable reprobates.

It was a hot one that year. The band, under the tutelage of Ed “Bluto” Judd, had been put through its paces, marching daily throughout the blazing days of May. We were ready, or as ready as we would ever be.

The plan was to march in the parade, then take a bus for a VFW picnic. Fine. Somehow we got my bass amp/wheelbarrow/generator rig in place, and the band set up, sunglasses added to our red polyester/black nylon/plume wardrobe. We were mostly well-behaved: I think one of our drummers started out the parade with a smoke, but otherwise, all business. And we were relatively tight and together. Relatively.

There is a little park/memorial-type thing on a hill adjacent to Rt. 196, directly across from the Worumbo Mill and the Kennebec Fruit Company, both recently and not so recently immortalized by Stephen King. It’s a little strip of grass, with a fairly steep slope down to 196. The bus set up here, and the band started mingling with our brave vets.

This is where things got interesting.

The VFW had set out several coolers, some filled with beers for the vets, and some filled with sodas for the kids. Which coolers do you think we started raiding?

At some point cheap cigars appeared, and the level of merriment increased as the afternoon progressed. We must have been pretty good at hiding our degeneracy, because nobody said anything and we kept up our low-rent pirate act with impunity.

I don’t remember where Judd was throughout this mayhem. But I do remember him suddenly appearing at the end.

Somehow or other, the bass drum, which had been parked at the top of the park/memorial-type thing, started rolling down the slope. Directly toward Rt. 196 traffic. Was it pushed? Was it attempting suicide? To this day I have no idea (and even if I did, I wouldn’t be saying). But I will take to my grave the image of Ed “Bluto” Judd lunging – literally lunging – to stop the bass drum at the bottom of the hill, moments before certain disaster. Picture Belushi doing back-flips down the aisle of the Triple Rock, and you get the visual.

I don’t remember the rest of the day, nor the bitch-slap that inevitably followed at our next band practice. But what I do remember is more than enough for a lifetime.

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Democracy Now

I don’t normally cross-pollinate like this, but here is a post on Election Day and democracy in general that I scribed for Open Salon today. I hope you all have voted your conscience today.

Democracy Now

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