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Tag Archives: Neville Cole

Neville’s Pooch Smells

31 Tuesday Jan 2017

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole, Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

Neville Cole, Stench, Trump lies

old-dog

Neville Cole’s Lie Detector

Story by the Pig’s Arms Emeritus North American Correspondent – Neville Cole.

I’ve never smelled rotting human flesh; but I can’t imagine it is a whole lot worse than old dog farts.

I bring this up because I am now very familiar with old dog farts; having been holed up “in an undisclosed location” for the past 10 days with a very old dog. When my old dog let’s rip my mouth curls, my eye’s water, and my hands wave in a desperate attempt to clear the air. It’s not just a smell. It’s a dank disgusting stink so thick you can taste it. Old dog farts roll in dark and heavy like a toxic fog.

But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is my old dog has taken to farting every time she hears Trump lie. I am at my wits end.

“I saw 1.5 million people out there” Gack! Choke!

“3 to 5 million people voted illegally…and all for Hillary!” Cough! Phew!

“This cabinet has the highest IQ of any every assembled.” Argh! No! Not again.

“This is not a Muslim Ban!” Please! I beg of you. No More!

“I got a standing ovation from the CIA!” That’s it! I can’t take it. Kill me now!

Maybe I should just turn off the TV and ignore this all. I could save myself so much pain and suffering.

Maybe I should turn my old dog out into the rain and cold. She would she would miserable but I would be spared.

Maybe I should make the best of a bad situation and buy a gas mask. Desperate times and all that…

People all over this country are trying to figure out how to deal with Trump’s Old Dog Farts. I’ve seen them. I’ve hard them. They are trying to dealing with the stench… working through the stages of grief.

On the night of the election we saw universal Denial.

“No!” The people cried as one. “This is not happening. What the hell? This is disgusting! What’s that smell?”

The toxic fog of election night seemed to hang in the air all the way till the inauguration. You’ve never seen such gagging and tears and revulsion; but still the inevitable reign of Trump loomed large.

I’m not saying there weren’t moments of hope. When Trump’s Russian Shower party was (uh-hem) leaked to the press it nearly broke the internet. Surely, this completely believable hilarity was going to save us all. Just the fact that more than half the nation heard the story and thought: “yeah, that probably happened” should be a clue that things are rotten in Moscow. We couldn’t possibly swear in Putin’s puppet! Not in the US of A! Not in the land of Reagan. Could we? Say it isn’t so… Argh! What’s that smell?

And so we’ve come to this. The Inauguration has set off a tidal wave of… Anger. 

Hooboy! Are we pissed! You bet your fat ass we are! Hell No! He must go! F-bombs rain down across this nation from sea to swearing sea. From Congress to California, from states both red and blue; we’re mad as hell, to all a fuck you!

punch-a-nazi

Punch a Nazi Day Celebrations

Right now in the USA… The rules have changed. Civility has given way to invective. Want to get likes on Facebook? Forget puppies… post a video of a nazi getting punched in the face. Want tweets retweeted by the thousand? Better be sure to end with fu** YOU!

But here’s the rub…

Can we maintain our righteous anger? Will we soon start to slide from anger into bargaining, depression, and (gulp) acceptance? Will Trump’s gung-ho zeal for scribbling half-baked Executive Orders with his big black sharpie out last us all? Will there be ANY line that Trump will cross that will cause Republicans in Congress give a fu**? Will the damage done eventually be too much? Will we be able to put back together what Trumpty Dumpty has broken?

Or…Will we one day soon just get used to the smell?

 

 

We are Defs NOT Amused

12 Monday Sep 2016

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole, Politics in the Pig's Arms, Virgil's Aeneid

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

Mad as Hell, Neville Cole, Trump

not-amused

The Pig’s Arms delights in the return of Neville Cole !

Queen Victoria once famously said “we are not amused” and for the first time in my life I can identify with that humorless old bitch. This past year has torn out my funny bone and stomped it to dust. I swear to god, Mad Max Fury Road is beginning to feel less and less apocalyptic and more and more like a best-case scenario for mankind.

A year ago, I’ll admit, there was still an aging anarchist inside me screaming: “Bring it on! How bad could Trump be? This shit is going to be hilarious!” But, like a lifelong atheist facing certain death, I’m starting to have second thoughts.

nev-1

I think my affliction began in earnest after I re-read Neil Postman’s Amusing Ourselves to Death. I’m here to say: that book is not fun. It’s just…not. In fact, it’s even more of punch to the kidneys today than it was 30 years ago when it was first published.

These days the things Postman says in Amusing Ourselves to Death don’t so much make you think as jump off the page, grab you by the throat, and beat you into submission.

Consider one of the book’s main themes…

Our politics, religion, news, athletics, education and commerce have been transformed into congenial adjuncts of show business, largely without protest or even much popular discourse.

If you have any doubt that this has happened. Well, let me introduce to you to a little thing we call “the internets.” Folks, we are living in the Golden Age of Show Business.

Some of Postman’s other concerns seem quaint in comparison to our brave new reality.

In AOTD for example, Postman reveals his horror that “the President of the United States is a former movie actor.” Damn! Who among us wouldn’t welcome Ol’ Ronnie back to the White House today with big old bag of jelly bellys* Honest Ronnie! We don’t care if you facilitate the sale of arms to the whole Middle East! Just come back and save us, please! We are begging you!

Hmm… Come to think of it. Seems like he had a point. Maybe we should have been more concerned back then.

After all, one of Postman’s big concerns was that Reagan was a celebrity. He felt that “the politician as celebrity has made political parties irrelevant.” Yeah, just ask the Republican Party about that one. Hey Fellas! You’re Fired!

By the way, does it not seem conceivable that elections could soon be broadcast reality show? Oh! I wonder who with get the Presidential Rose tonight! The way I see it, pretty soon ONLY celebrities will run for elected office. Who else is going to be able to compete?

I could go on and on about how much worse things have got since AOTD was published.

For example, at one point Postman notes bitterly that: public discourse has become dangerous nonsense.  Hoo boy! Do you think in his wildest dreams he ever imagined a Trump Policy Speech? Or the comments section of your local digital rag? Or Twitter, for christsakes!

But, you know, all this said, I can’t say I blame people for not being better informed. I’ve tried… and it’s damn, hard work.

Disinformation is the new norm and sorting truth from bullshit is damn near impossible; especially in a world where facts are irrelevant.

If you, like me, have tried to follow the press following Trump; it is obvious they have given up. There are so many distortions they start every report with a general disclaimer: Everything this guy says is a complete and utter lie. Then they try and pretend they are still reporting news. It is exhausting. For all of us. At a certain point you just have to get up and shut it off. And believe me, I’m not trying to pretend Hillary is all that different. It’s just that Trump has taken this whole dance into a different dimension. This is some historic crazy people.

97cbca5a8c7e66a4c2b6d95dd300ed11

And you know what? We are mad as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore! I see it everywhere. People are turning off and tuning out. They are no longer amused.

Jon Stewart famously left The Daily Show because of what he termed “bullshit mountain”. He explained that he just had to leave because “Watching these channels all day is incredibly depressing. I live in a constant state of depression,” he said. “I think of us as turd miners. I put on my helmet, I go and mine turds, hopefully I don’t get turd lung disease.”

You know, I think my whole point is… I know exactly how he feels and I am not amused. God help me, I am not amused.

*In case you weren’t aware, Jelly Bellys were Reagan’s all time favorite candy.

 

 

The Gospel of Cruz (according to Ted)

09 Tuesday Feb 2016

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole, Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

Neville Cole, Ted Cruz

cruz-ascension-1

From our North American Correspondent, Neville Cole

Ted.1 (The Begats)

[1] Verily, thus reads the book of the generation of Ted Cruz, the son of Jesus Christ himself.
[2] Jesus begat (by holy virgin birth) Teddy; and Teddy begat Englebert; and Engelbert begat Elvis; and Elvis begat Sonny;
[3] And Sonny begat Fidel and his brethren, about the time they were carried away to Cuba:
[4] And after they were brought to Cuba, Fidel begat Ramon; and Ramon begat Pedro;
[5] And Pedro begat Xavier; and Xavier begat another Jesus; and here’s where it gets tricky because Jesus begat Jesus Jr.;
[6] And Jesus Jr. begat Jesus III; and thankfully Jesus III begat Diego; and Diego thought about starting up the whole Jesus thing again but ended up begatting Rafael who became the husband of Eleanor, of whom was born Ted, who is called Cruz.
[7] So all the generations from Jesus to Ted are fourteen generations (give or take a Jesus or two).
[8] Now the birth of Ted Cruz was on this wise: When as his mother Eleanor was espoused to Rafael, before they came together, she was found with child of the Holy Ghost.
[9] Then Rafael her husband, being a just man, and not willing to make her a public example, was minded to get the hell out of Cuba.

[10] But while he thought on these things, behold, the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a dream, saying, Rafael, thou son of Diego, fear not to take unto thee Eleanor thy wife: for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost.
[11] And she shall bring forth a son, and thou shalt call his name TED: for he shall save his people from their sins.
[12] Now all this was done, that it might be fulfilled which was spoken of the Lord by the prophet, saying,
[13] Behold, a virgin shall be with child, and shall bring forth a son, and they shall call his name Rafael Emmanuel, which being interpreted is, God with us.
[14] Then Rafael Bienvenido being raised from sleep did as the angel of the Lord had bidden him, and took unto him his wife:
[15] And knew her not till she had brought forth her firstborn son: and he called his name TED.

 

X Marks the Spot

25 Friday Sep 2015

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

love story, Neville Cole, spook

spook

A Story of love and supernatural intrigue

By Neville Cole

CHAPTER ONE

Martin woke slowly. It took almost a minute before he realized where he was: face down in a pool of blood. He had no idea, however, that most of the blood was not his own; soon after though, he became acutely aware of the still-bleeding corpse that lay diagonally across his back. Together, he and the dead man formed an X; as if to mark the spot. The right side of Martin’s face was covered in blood but he was in no real pain. What was left of the dead man’s head stared straight back him. His grey-blue eyes filled with righteous disdain. His swollen mouth was agape as if in the midst of a raucous laugh. Nothing much about the gruesome display made any sense at all. Then, before Martin had summoned the wherewithal to move, he heard the rumbling echo of distant voice: “Well, I didn’t see that coming.”

In a single motion Martin pushed himself clear of the dead man’s body and twisted around to see who had spoken. There did not appear to be anyone near. Suddenly Martin noticed that he had a gun in his right hand. He raised it up slowly and waited, like a sniper ready to shoot. The problem was he wasn’t sure exactly what direction the voice had come from. This was strange because, as Martin was at the dead end of long dark lonely alley, logically there was only one direction the speaker could be. Therefore, Martin’s still foggy mind concluded, whoever had just spoken must have have moved along. Martin sat up and edged himself back up against the wall at end of the alley wall for support, gun always at the ready. What the hell was going on? Had he been drinking? Had he been drugged? Had he taken a blow to the head so violent it knocked a screw loose? Martin ran the fingers of his left hand all over his skull. Nothing was missing. No cracks. Nothing seeping out. All seemed intact. So what in high heaven had happened? For the life of him Martin could not recall how he got here or anything thing that took place. He wasn’t even sure who he was for certain. He sure as hell didn’t recognize the dead guy at his feet.

“What’s your name, Bub?” Martin jumped to his feet. The voice must have come from the darkness but he still had no sense of where or how or why. The voice seemed somehow very close and far away at the same time. “You don’t have to say it out loud. Just think. Who are you, Bub?”

Martin had no intention of doing anything the stranger told him to but he could not stop his own mind from thinking. “Martin. That’s right. I expect that’s about all you can be sure of right about now. Don’t worry, Bub. It’ll all come back to you soon enough. Well, most of it.”

“Who are hell are you?” Martin hollered with all the bluster he could muster.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” A milky apparition appeared next to the dead body.  Martin shot his gun then fell back to the ground in shock. “You already killed me, Bub. No use shooting me again.” The ghost was much younger than the dead body, and fitter, and more handsome, and more fashionably attired. The ghost wore a well-tailored suit, and a natty, charcoal-grey fedora.

“You’re…” Martin stammered furtively.

“Conrad. Jack Conrad. CIA.”

“You’re…”

“A spook? Well, we in the agency don’t like that term, but…”

“No!” Martin yelled, waving his gun in the air.

“I’m just messing with you, Bub. Hell yeah, I’m a ghost; but I prefer the term spook because I am CIA as well. Well, I was… until you shot me. Well, I was… once: several bodies ago.”

“I killed a CIA agent?”

“Officially, you killed an insurance agent. He was my latest shell but he was going rogue. Frankly, Bub, I’m glad you knocked off that old bag of bones. It was a mistake ever getting tangled with him to begin with; but sometimes… well, we don’t always have a lot of options. I like you, Bub. You are obviously very willing to use a gun. This dummy was never gonna be able to shoot any body. That’s why you ended up killing him, you know? He just refused to pull the trigger… until it was too late.”

“I killed him? I don’t remember a thing.”

“It happens. It’ll come back to you. Eventually. Some of it. I’ll give you some free advice, Bub. Stick with me. Listen to me. It’ll all come back a lot quicker. This ain’t my first time through the drill.”

“Oh my god,” Martin said, dropping the gun. “I shot someone?”

“Look,” the ghost said firmly. “If it will make you feel any better. He shot himself. He aimed to shoot you but wouldn’t do it. You tried to take the gun off him. He decided to shoot you after all. You struggled. He pulled the trigger and blew off half his face. You fainted. He fell on top of you. End of story.”

“But. The gun was in my hand when I woke up.”

“Ok. So, it was a little hard to tell what was going on exactly. Sue me. Here’s the truth, Bub. It was either you or him. If he didn’t end up dead, you were going to. He’d gone rogue, I tell ya. Certifiably insane.”

“Oh, Jesus. I’m going to jail.”

“You are not going to jail. Listen to me. From the trajectory and the distance this is going be a clear-cut suicide. Or rather it can be. All you got to do is clean the gun and put it back in his hand. We’ll clear all the traces that you were here and leave him gun in hand back down in that pool of his own blood. No one will ever be the wiser…and believe me. No one is coming looking for this loser.”

Martin tried to think but nothing would happen. Nothing about this was familiar. The alleyway seemed real enough. He seemed real enough. The dead guy definitely seemed real enough. But this voice in his head and this ghost thing? What the hell is that…spook? Jack Conrad? Secret Agent man. Had he gone mad? This is all some bad dream. Martin looked up but the vision was gone. There was a brief pause, a moment of stillness, then the voice returned. Closer now, more assuring. More like the workings of his own mind.”

“You’re not crazy, bub. No more than any other man. And this ain’t a dream. This is real. And you can take advantage of this situation. You really can, bub. You just need to change your perspective. I can help you but for now you got to do what I say. We’re gonna clean this whole mess up and we’re gonna get you away from here before any knows you’ve been here. Do what I say, bub, and do it now.”

The only thing that really seemed to make any sense was the voice in his head so Martin did exactly what it told him to do. He pulled a rag from dumpster and wiped off the gun, the wall, the ground around the body, it even reminded him to wipe of the dumpster. The voice told him how and where to place the body, how to fit the gun back into the dead man’s hand, how to remove any and every trace of his own existence in this place. Just when Martin felt like he surely must be about done and that he really much get away from this place Jack Conrad, the ghost himself, suddenly appeared once more.

“Martin,” Conrad said directly and firmly. “Listen to me. You are done here, except for on very important thing. This is something you must do. I cannot stress this enough.” Martin paused awaiting Conrad’s instructions. Pull up you sleeves and reach into the inside pocket of this guys jacket. Inside you will find a key. You need to get that key. Without that key you will not get away from this place. Do you understand? Get the key, Martin.” Martin, fully used to taking direction by now, even from a CIA spook, pulled up his sleeves as directed, lifted up the body once more, and pulled a key with a large green plastic keychain attached to it. “Good work, bub.” Conrad nodded. “Now let’s get you the hell out of dodge.” With that, Conrad faded again from view but his voice remained. Conrad’s voice instructed Martin how to exit the alley without drawing attention to himself, it told him where and how to dispose of his blood-stained jacket, it directed him to a public restroom to clean himself up, and after that the voice said simply: “Bub, I’m guessing you could use a drink about now. I know a place nearby that’s dark and safe and quiet. A place you can be invisible, like me. Let’s get you a bourbon, straight up. What do you say?”

Martin, unable to concoct any other plan, continued to follow Conrad’s directions without question or emotion. He had become a blank slate. He knew his first name, or he thought he did, and he knew what the voice told him. He had no idea who he actually was or what he did or where he lived even. “Of course, a wallet!” Martin suddenly exclaimed as he walked into the bar Conrad had told him to enter. “I must have a wallet on me somewhere.” He thought while feverishly feeling his pockets.

“Good thinking, bub. They don’t ask many questions in places like this but they do expect you to pay.”

Martin quickly found a wallet in his back pocket. He whipped it out with a flourish, opened it up as fast as he could and stared intently inside searching desperately for clues.

“Easy bub. You’re acting pretty damn suspicious about now. Remember, the goal right now is not to be memorable in any way. There’s plenty of time for figuring out who you are. You need to cut the nut-job act pronto and head on over to the back corner nice and easy like.”

Martin paused and slowly dropped the wallet away from his face. The bartender and two old flies at the counter were all watching him a little too closely. He pulled a twenty from the wallet and, nodding at the barkeep, said quietly: “Bourbon. Straight up.” Frankly, Martin had no idea what in the hell he might actually like to drink so he took Jack’s advice from earlier.

“Oh Jesus,” Martin thought. I just referred to a ghost by its name. Conrad. Jack Conrad. CIA. Jesus. I am losing it.”

“You’re almost home, bub.” The voice assured him. “Now, pay the man, then go over to the corner and take a seat. Let’s think this whole thing through nice and relaxed like.”

Martin took a seat in a booth along the back wall of the bar. Out of view of any seated out the counter. He stared at the shot of bourbon for a few moments, then took it up and swigged the whole thing in a single gulp. It did not go down well. Whatever he was, he most definitely was not a bourbon drinker.  “Think dammit,” he told himself. How did you end up in a dark alley in a pool of someone else’s blood with a dead body on top of you? Was it really the way Conrad said? But why was I even there in the first place? Then Martin had a moment, a memory, a point-of-view vision of shoes shuffling along a dark street, then a flash of light of some kind, then an old man – the old man at the end of the alley – pointing up at a streetlight. “He brought to the alley,” Martin thought. “But why? Who was he? Why did I kill him?”

“I’m trying to be quiet, bub. I really am…” the ghost butted in. “But this is killin’ me. Anyway, I see you’re starting to remember so maybe you want to move on to your original plan and open up that wallet of yours.

“Oh damn,” Martin muttered. “What is wrong with my brain? I just can’t think straight.”

Martin lay the well-worn black leather wallet out on the table and first pulled out the drivers license.  “Martin Warrick. That’s almost a British name? I’m not British, am I? I don’t sound British.” The address on the license was a California address. It was at that moment that Martin realized he didn’t even know what town he was in. Martin did not realize that while he was puzzling over this Conrad had returned. He was sitting in the seat across from Conrad in plain view of the bar.

“What are you doing?” Martin whispered. “They can see you.”

“No they can’t, Bub”, Conrad broke in. “None of them look like mystics to me. They can’t see a thing. Besides, I know where you are. You’re in Baltimore.”

“Baltimore, Maryland?”

“No. Baltimore, North Dakota. Jesus,” Conrad snorted. “This whole thing has really tapped you out.” Conrad pulled an old pack of cigarettes from coat jacket and a zippo lighter from his pants. His lit up a cigarette and leaned back against the back of the booth.

“I don’t think you are supposed to smoke in here.”

“Relax, bub. They can’t see me, they can’t see this… and don’t give me any lip about it not being good for me. I’m not exactly alive anyway, remember. Besides, it’s pretty much the only enjoyable thing I got left in this world, except for talking to you.”

“You enjoy talking to me?” Martin said curiously.

“Of course I do.” Conrad said while blowing a cloud of smoke from his nostrils. “What else is left for me?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything,” Martin replied. “But, I guess, as long as you are enjoying it some much would you mind calling me Martin instead of bub?

“Now hang on, bub. Let’s not get a ahead of ourselves. I don’t know how long this is going to last. This is not my first rodeo, you know. I don’t make a lot of personal connections in my line of business, if you know what I mean.”

“No, in fact,” Martin said raising his hands in surrender. “In fact, I do not know what you mean. I have no idea what your business is with me. I have not idea what is going on… and, I need another drink.” With that Martin got up and returned to the bar and said: “Ah, letsee… let me try a scotch this time. Only, this time, make it on the rocks.” He looked over and saw Conrad happily puffing away in the corner clear as day. Conrad was right though. Nobody else seemed to have any clue. “Haunted by a CIA spook, just my luck,” he said quietly.

The Greatest Wall of T-RUMP

21 Tuesday Jul 2015

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole, Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 16 Comments

Tags

Donald Trump, Neville Cole, T-Rumpasoreass

T-rump patrol

T-Rump apprehends another drug-dealer/rapist/terrorist on the Mexican border

By Pig’s Arms North American Correspondent, Neville Cole

During his recent visit to Arizona – in which T-Rump miraculously managed to jam an audience of 15,000 rabid supporters into an auditorium with a seating capacity of 4,000 – the self-proclaimed greatest presidential candidate God ever created paid a quick visit to the Mexican border to round up some dangerous criminals, strike fear into the hearts of the Mexican government, and paint of vivid picture of T-Rump Immigration Policy.

T-Rump sat down with me briefly to discuss his vision before running off into the sunset to “kick some more Mexican ass before the day was done.”

Pig’ s Arms: Thank you Mr. T-Rump for taking time to speak with us today.

T-RUMP:  Call me Don! Or The Donald. Or Mr. President. Look! First and foremost let me say one very important thing. First I want to say that this has truly been a pleasure and an honor to be here today rounding up several hundred rapists and drug dealers that the government down in Mexico keeps trying to send up here to take over our great republic. If I could, and God’s knows how great I would be at it, if I could… I would spend from now until my inauguration patrolling this border from sea to shining sea with the possible exception of spending election night celebrating my victory at T-RUMP Resort and Casino in Atlantic City.

Pig’ s Arms: So, even after you are elected you would come back to patrol the border until the inauguration?

T-RUMP: Yes. See here’s the problem as it has been explained to me. The election don’t mean nothing right away. There’s supposedly this time after the election where everyone has to wait around for the paperwork to dry, or something. Which is one thing I am going to look at very carefully. I think the American people who will vote for me in historical numbers are going to want me to get to work right away. I don’t know why in this day and age we can’t have the vote and sign the paperwork that same day. I got the best paperwork people in the business. I do a deal with China we got the paperwork on the table ready to sign before they even know they want the deal.

Pig’ s Arms: Okay. Let’s jump to the day that… all the paperwork is done and President T-RUMP is in charge. What changes can people down here expect to see right away?

T-RUMP: Apart from streams of drug dealers, rapists and terrorists racing back across this border to get back to Mexico, you mean? I’m kidding, of course. That is going to happen as soon as I win the election. Once I am in truly in charge the real fun begins… I don’t want to let too much out of the bag just yet; but let me just say once people see my plans they are going to have to seriously look at changing the name of the so-called Great Wall of China ’cause that thing is going to look like a garden fence compared to the Greatest Wall of T-RUMP.

Pig’ s Arms: So it is true? You do plan to build an actual wall between the US and Mexico?

T-RUMP: I don’t know if “wall” is a good enough word for this thing I have planned. I got the idea watching Game of Thrones. You see, right now, the Mexicans are pretty much wildlings; but believe me, there are White Walkers right behind them. Well, not White Walkers exactly… more like Brown Walkers. Anyways, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:

I will build the best wall, the biggest, the strongest, not penetrable, they won’t be crawling over it, like giving it a little jump and they’re over the wall, it costs us trillions.*  

Pig’ s Arms: Speaking of cost, do you still intend to make the Mexico pay for the wall?

T-RUMP: This is what politicians and laymen and pretty much all chicks don’t get. They don’t get how business works. Let me explain it to you:

Any savvy real estate mogul will tell you, is how it works. You build a big expensive thing and then hand someone the tab and they have to pay it. It’s the law.**

But, I’m not stopping with a Mexican wall. ‘Cause you know and I know that once we stop them coming in from down south they will find their way up north and start streaming in from Canada, so we are building a Canada wall too! This will be a bigger tourist attraction up there than Niagara Falls and Mount Rushmore put together. And then, let me remind you that many of them drug dealers and rapists and terrorists have boats too. So, The Greatest Wall of T-RUMP will extend into both oceans and the Gulf of Mexico as well. And here’s the great thing about that! We are going to build the wall on the American side of the oil rigs, so when they break none of that mess reaches US shores! No more oil spills! And not only that! Listen to this! Know what else we won’t have problems with once I build this wall in the oceans? Sharks! Why The Greatest Wall of T-RUMP will even stop hurricanes and typhoons! This country is going to be the greatest paradise God ever created… with a little help from yours truly, of course.

Pig’ s Arms: Wow, Mr. T-Rump, er… Don, I mean The Donald. Oh hell! Mr. President that just sound awesome in every way!

T-RUMP: I know it does. Let me just say this: this thing is just the thing that will make America great again. I want all your readers to know one final thing: I can’t wait to get started. Now, if you’ll excuse me I got some more criminals to catch.

t-rump

And with that… the once and future President was off and running and Making America Great Again.

* really real quote   ** another really real quote

To Mock a Killing Bird

14 Tuesday Jul 2015

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

Go Set a Watchman, Harper Lee, Neville Cole, To Kill a Mockingbird

aiming gun

Die Mockingbird! Die! Die!

Neville Cole Reels the Tell Story ….

Harper Lee’s new book Go Set a Watchman is generating serious buzz and even more serious consternation. Critics, readers, and especially life-long fans report they have been left “shocked” and “aghast”at the revelations within. Those who, years ago, read Lee’s original draft, however; were not at all surprised by how far from grace the once noble Atticus Finch has fallen. 

 In the draft, known only by the working title Die Mockingbird! Die! Die! a teenage, but still grammatically challenged, Scout Finch, discusses, at length, the Finch family’s troubles after the Robinson trial. 

 I thought Atticus was feeble when he was nearly fifty. Hoo-boy! You sho’ have done seen him when he was nearing sixty. To be fair, the years after Tom Robinson’s trial weren’t easy on old Atticus. He kept getting calls to defend pretty much every innocent black man in town and every time he proved they didn’t do nothing of the sort and every time they hung the poor chump anyways.

“That’s justice round these parts, Scout.’ Atticus got to saying; “Guilty till proven innocent, then hung… then an alcoholic spits in your face.”

It weren’t much of a good time for me neither. Kids at school all start calling me Spit Ball. Like it was my face all them toothless racists drunks were spitting in. Try getting a date for prom when all and sundry look at you ‘an picture pickled phlem.

All in all, I guess it were much worse for Jem though. He dropped dead in his tracks one day. He were always so darn crazy for football; but, you know, Atticus would never tackle him. He’d always say: “I’m too old for that, son.”

Well, anyways, one day after his broke arm done healed good, ol’ Jem says he’s ready to play football again ‘cause one day he wants to go to Alabama and play for the Crimson Tide.

“An,” says Jem. “If Atticus won’t tackle me, I know someone who will.” ‘An with that, Jem, he goes next door and he calls on ol’ Boo Radley to come out an’ play football with him. ‘An Boo, you see, he don’t really know his own strength and on the very first tackle he done hit Jem so hard he broke his arm again, and both legs and cracked open his skull a bit as well. The doctor tried to bandage him up again as good as he could; but Jem died of the internal bleeding later that very night.

We was all plenty broke up about that for a while. Atticus was even more tired than ever before. He wouldn’t even sit in the livingroom and read at night no more. Actually, that was around that time he started the drinking.

Whenever I asked him why he’d say: “Remember, how I told you that sometimes the Bible in the hand of one man is worse that a whisky bottle in the hand of another?”

“Yessir,” I’d say. “I do remember that. You said there are just some kind of men who – who’re so busy worrying about the next world they’ve never learned to live in this one.”

“That’s right,” says Atticus pouring out another five fingers. “Well, I’m finally learning how to live in this one the best way I know how.”

When Miss Maudie heard about that, she said she was going to have some hard words for Atticus; but he just told her that he always believed that when a child asks you something you should answer them. for goodness sake, and not make a production out of it.

Thing was though, Atticus started to pick and choose when he would answer me. The things I really wanted to know – like especially about boys and dating – he pretended he didn’t even hear at all; like he was deaf in both ears in addition to being blind in one eye.

Basically, like me, Atticus was born good and grew progressively worse every year. Then he up and stopped teaching me anything at all. Especially grammar and such things.

But worser than all the rest, was the day Atticus finally cracked. The fateful day he committed the ultimate sin.

I still don’t know how it all came to be ‘cause Atticus wouldn’t talk about it  except to say that I wouldn’t really understand because I couldn’t climb inside his skin and walk around in it so how could I even hope to consider things from his point of view? It must have been all them trial loses or all that spit in the face; but fact is, somewheres along the line, Atticus changed his whol’ mind about them mockingbirds.

Instead of him sayin’ them birds was singin’ their hearts out for us, he’d constantly complain about “that damn noisy bastard out back that never seems to shut up” and that “them mockingbirds aren’t smart enough to make up their own noises so they just copy all the other birds around instead only twice as loud so everyone gets to thinking it was their idea” and always he was saying that he’d bin “woke at the damn crack of dawn again because of them miserable mistakes of nature.”

Then that fateful morning out he staggers just before lunch; gun in hand, still reeling from all the whiskey he’d gulped down the night before, and he lifts that gun sight up to his good eye and mumbles:

“People generally see what they look for, and hear what they listen for… and I see one dead damn bird that I won’t ever have to listen to again.”

I knew Atticus was a good shot. He’d killed that rabid dog when no one, not even the sheriff dared to try. But, to see him pick off that tiny mockingbird at a distance of well over 100 feet, dressed in nothing but his night robe and barely able to stand from all the alcohol still surging though his veins. Well, frankly, it was time like these when I thought my father, who hated guns and had never been to any wars, was the craziest old coot who ever lived.

But you know, like Atticus always said: “You can choose your friends but you sho’ can’t choose your family, an’ they’re still kin to you no matter whether you acknowledge ’em or not, and it makes you look right silly when you don’t.”

Las’ thin’ I ever want to do is look right silly.

Future Perfect* 1 – Love and Bowling

01 Wednesday Jul 2015

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

Neville Cole

journal

*future perfect: a verb form or construction used to describe an event that is expected or planned to happen before a time of reference in the future.

FP1: In Which Harold 263840771 Will Have Found Love

We are but open books. Our pages, torn and scattered, all too soon forever lost.

From future perfect by W.H. Hopwood​

It was a slow day at The Company. It often has been lately. Ever since the Great and Final Merger (GFM), things have basically taken care of themselves. Harold 263840771 learned long ago to take full advantage of days like this. He opened Listr and prepared to compile a new TO DO list. It soon became clear, however, that there wasn’t much left outstanding for Harold to do. His Aeron Ultima+MAX froze in rigid stillness, his eyes fixed intently on his UXHD180 monitor, his ten fingers poised over the keyframe, ready and willing to lay the groundwork for future success. Which is all to say, it was certainly somewhat shocking when Harold suddenly digirote out in all caps: FALL IN LOVE.

Harold stared at the words in silent disbelief. Did his brain really just direct his fingers to hit those twelve particular frames (caps lock and two space bars included) or was this strange message merely the result of some random reflex action? It was intriguing to be sure. The longer he lingered over the Listr note, however, the more import the moment took on. Harold’s love life, or rather the lack there of, was the elephant in the room. An appropriate life partner was the missing last piece to the virtual jigsaw puzzle that was Harold’s existence. It was time to complete the picture. It was a task, in fact, that was long overdue.

“Damn straight,” Harold muttered. “It’s high time this cowboy found his lady love. Maybe even get hitched.” Laughing off the idea of a marriage proposal for now, Harold scheduled a two-week reminder. Fourteen days, he reasoned, should be time enough to have had at least a candidate or two in place.

“Now,” Harold told himself, “I need to find someone to fall in love with.” Thankfully, Harold knew someone who he knew could help.

Stanley 038795011 had been in love literally dozens of times since he and Harold first met at The Original Company Holiday Party two years previous (before GFM). Stanley was probably the only real friend Harold had. Not a hang-out-after-work-and-go-bowling kind of friend exactly, but definitely a share-a-lunch-table-in-the-cafetorium type friend. Harold was glad to see Stanley alone in the cafetorium on this most important occasion.

“Stanley,” Harold said with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Mind if I join you?”

“Why no! By all means…” Stanley shot back, sensing instinctively that he should match Harold’s energy. “To what do I owe this honor?”

Harold was happy to get right to the point. He had no time for the tedious ritual of daily small talk to which so many seemed devoted. “I need to find someone to fall in love with. Preferably within the next two weeks.”

“I see,” said Stanley in all seriousness. “Well, you’ve come to the right person. I’m your man. First we need to gather data and align characteristics that describe your perfect woman. I do assume that this is a woman you seek.”

“Yes, yes. Of, of course…a, a woman.” Harold stammered in part because frankly he hadn’t even considered any of the other options Stanley was suggesting.

“You are in luck, my friend. I have recently developed an app that can pinpoint exactly who and how and, more importantly, where to find the lifemate of your dreams. I have been beta testing it myself for some time now; but I certainly welcome the opportunity for fresh data. I will need just 15 minutes of your time to develop a candidate profile. When would you like to start?”

“I’m ready any time,” Harold said excitedly.

“Sadly, I have to return to my desk in twelve minutes,” Stanley replied glancing at his lifewatch,” otherwise I’d say let’s do it now. How about we meet at Ye Olde Tavern Bowl after work and take care of this matter today?

“Great,” Harold nodded. “Ye Olde Tavern Bowl, after work. Certainly. Sounds like an exceptional plan. Well, that’s that then.” Harold reached out, shook Stanley’s hand, and wandered off in what can only be described as a mental fog. There were so many conflicting thoughts and confounding questions bouncing around his skull he could barely manage to control his basic motor functions. The anticipation he felt was so great that Harold could not help but check his lifewatch every few minutes all afternoon long. On several occasions he grew suspicious that time was actually folding in on itself and possibly beginning to reverse. He took this as a sign he should refresh his basic understanding of quantum mechanics and the time/space continuum which fortunately allowed the rest of the day pass much more rapidly and by the time Harold looked up from his monitor again he saw that it was indeed, after work.

It was Lawn Bowl Tuesday at Ye Olde Tavern Bowl and most all of the young Company associates of all four (or was it now five?) genders were dressed in classic whites and forming teams.

“Looks fun, doesn’t it?” Stanley said looking out over the artificially sun-drenched fauxlawn. “But we have work to do, my lovesick friend.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Harold agreed, pulling up a chair across from Stanley’s VituaPC mobile workstation.

“Is that the new VPC?” Harold asked. “I haven’t actually seen one before.”

“You simply must order one,” Stanley said without looking up. “It is the most powerful virtual mobile workstation ever developed. I couldn’t live without it. Now. First things first. You are no doubt curious why I didn’t just give you my app and let you input your data yourself.”

“It did cross my mind, yes,” Harold nodded.

“Well, here’s the thing,” Stanley said, finally catching Harold’s gaze directly. “I haven’t done much QC on this thing at all. You are frankly the first trial case other than myself. Though I must say my own results have been nothing short of spectacular. That said, my UX is rather rudimentary and my immediate fear is that erroneous data entry on the users part could seriously impede the output. I just want to ensure all the evidence is empirical, if you catch my drift.”

“Of course,” Harold said yet again, continuing to nod back and forth as Stanley talked like a bobblehead doll.

“And besides all that,” Stanley continued while pulling what looked like some kind of digital stethoscope from his backpack, “there is the matter of the input device.”

“What is that thing?” Harold asked.

“I’m toying with calling it the loveometer but I’ll probably leave that whole area to the branding folks.” Stanley leaned forward to attach monitor strips just below Harold temporal lobes. “Here,” he said, handing Harold the third strip. “Slip this under your shirt directly over your heart.”

“Over my heart?”

“Yes,” Stanley laughed. “It really isn’t completely necessary but I think it’s a nice touch, don’t you? The point of all this is that the loveometer does not require you to think at all. You don’t have to read anything. You don’t have to physically process anything. And that’s what makes it so powerful. You can’t lie yourself or simply imagine you know the truth. All you can do is listen and leave the rest to your instincts and the loveometer. Now. Put in these earbuds and close your eyes. Forget everything, Harold, and listen.”

Harold had no idea what would happen next; but had he guessed for a year or more he would not have been prepared to hear the two big bold A Major chords that followed or Reg Presley of The Troggs wailing Wild Thing!

It was a shock to the system to be sure; but before he could adjust to this stimulus the music changed and Lionel Richie was crooning quietly in his ear: Hello. Is it you I’m looking for? Then, immediately thereafter Harold was dancing cheek to cheek with Ella Fitzgerald. On and on the songs flooded into his subconcious. His mind was awash with sound, color and meaning. From When a Man Loves a Woman Harold tripped to The First Time Ever I Saw Her Face. Then Cherish was the word he used to describe and just as surely as My Baby Just Cares for Me, The Way You Look Tonight, lead Harold to The Power of Love. 

So many melodies, so many emotions… but Harold could see something was missing. He had no actual memories he associated with any of this music. That realization filled him with dread. As each new song was introduced he grew more and more impatient to the point of being physically repulsed. He thought he might soon throw up. By the time Brian Wilson’s high falsetto started to sweetly to swoon God only knows what I be without you, he could take no more. He violently tore at the earbuds, threw open his eyes, and blurted: “I’m not sure this is for me at all!”

“I’m sorry,” the server who was at that very moment placing a blueberry pomegranate wheat ale in front of Harold replied. “Your friend told me that’s what you would want. Is there something else I can get you?”

“What? Sorry… Oh? No. This is fine. Where… Where did he go?”

“I’m not sure,” the server said. “He was here. Wow, you are really into music aren’t you? What are you listening to?” The server, who Harold was just beginning to realize was quite young and quite blond and very attractive, picked up his earbud off the table and held it to her ear. “Oh, my god! I love this song. No wonder you were a million miles away. Wait? It’s changing? Oh, this one is great too. You have excellent taste in music.” She handed the earbud back to Harold. “Funny…”

“Funny?” Harold repeated.

“Don’t take this the wrong way. But… You don’t look like the romantic type. What’s your name?”

“Harold,” Harold said shyly. “Harold 263840771.”

“I don’t need your number, Harold” The server laughed. “We’re not getting married. Not yet anyway. I’m Paige”

“No, ha!” Harold blushed. “Of course. Not yet. Ha. Nice to meet you, Paige.”

“I don’t know that I’ve seen you here before, Harold. Are you just visiting?”

“No. I…” Harold wasn’t quite sure how to explain himself but he knew he didn’t want to admit the truth. “I work for The Company. Ah, my friend and I were thinking about taking up bowling.”

“Oh you should. We play every Wednesday. Rock and Bowl Wednesdays. Have you heard of it? You’d like it. Great music.”

“Oh, yes? That sounds…pretty awesome.” It was the first time in Harold’s whole life that he had uttered the phrase “pretty awesome” and he was not entirely sure why he had done so just now.

“What are you, doing?” Stanley burst into the conversation in full panic mode. “The data! You’ve ruined the data! Why did you stop?”

“I’m sorry,” Paige said stepping back from the table. “Did I do something wrong? I just brought over your order.”

“No, no,” Harold told her. “Not at all.” Then he attempted to stand and therefore ripped both monitor strips from the sides of his skull. “It’s no problem. Think nothing of it. Every thing is fine. I was just…testing a new app for my friend. It’s…all good.”

“Ok,” said Paige. “Well, nice to meet you… Don’t forget about Rock and Bowl Wednesdays.”

“No. Yes…” Harold nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it. For sure. Sounds…awesome.” After that Harold stood about shifting his stance and smiling unconvincingly while Stanley fretted over his data, and Paige looked puzzled, then laughed sweetly, and finally moved off to check on another table.

“Harold” Stanley said slowly lifting his head from his workstation. “This is quite remarkable. Don’t ask me how or why but data does not lie. It is very clear. Right here. She’s the one!”

“I know, Stanley, I know” Harold laughed and a shit-eating grin grew across his whole face. Then suddenly he remembered something that shook him from his reverie: “Damn! Stanley. Do you know how to bowl?”

On Rejection

09 Thursday Oct 2014

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

Bad Playwriting, Neville Cole, Rejection

Every-person-over-45-in-my-office-when-theyre-typing-an-email

 

 Story by Neville Cole

I am quite used to rejection. I’m not saying I’m good at it; but I am very used to it.

Way back when, before I got old and comfortable, I was an actor. So, yeah… I was dealt a heavy dose of rejection very early on. Rejection for an actor is constant, immediate, and pretty much soul crushing. In fact, right behind the almost total lack of monetary reward, rejection is the worst thing about being an actor.

All of which is to explain why, after 10 mostly forgettable years, I couldn’t take it anymore and got a real job. Yes. It’s true. I gave up the actor’s life before I hit thirty. I am the very definition of a corporate sellout. It wasn’t as hard a choice as you might imagine. In fact, very soon thereafter I noticed something quite strange: I was happy.

I started doing fun things like go to the grocery store and buy supplies without first figuring out exactly how much it would all cost. I even did a few truly crazy things like buy health insurance*.

*Author’s Note: For those of you reading this outside the general realm of United States, note that health insurance in the US costs approximately twice what the average actor makes; at least it sure did back when I was still doing it.

Still, despite all this positive change, and despite all the years that have passed me by; deep down in my soul, a tiny but mighty creative flame still glimmers. All I need is the barest flicker of hope to ignite that spark.

Some dry tinder was thrown on that fire recently in the form of a playwriting competition. Specifically the temptation I could not ignore was an invitation to enter the WORST Play Ever Contest. It was an opportunity too perfect to resist.

“Hello. I thought. This is right up my alley. In fact, it’s perfect! Theater is in my blood. It’s part of my DNA! Why, I have stacks of horrendous material and ideas to draw from!”

I threw myself into the project without delay. I have to say, the bad playwriting process is unlike any other I have encountered. I fell immediately into that trance-like state known as the zone. Epically terrible dialogue flowed through me like… well, like fecal matter through a shit tube. I sat there, hunched over my laptop like a gargoyle on a gothic cathedral, motionless except for my ten furious fingers flailing away. Imagine Kerouac, hepped up on bennies, banging out the scroll for his magnum opus On The Road and you get the picture. Before I knew it, all in one marathon sitting, I was done. That is to say, over the course of a couple of hours. It takes a couple of hours to run a marathon, right?

Having spewed out such a violent torrent of words, I didn’t even consider anything as onerous as editing. In fact, mere moments after I finished typing “The End,” my masterpiece of stupidity was off to the review committee at a lightning fast 18 megabits a second. The rush I felt faded the moment I hit send.

Those of you familiar with rejection know all too well how quickly creeping doubt seeps into your consciousness. At first it was little more than nervous whispers.

“Are you sure that was your absolute worst work? Wouldn’t it have been better to wait a day or two to let it sit so you could review it with a clear mind? Do you really think it was a good idea to base the play on actual events? Couldn’t having some form of plot and character work against you in the long run?”

Not an hour had passed before despair hit me like a 2×4 to the noggin. “You idiot,” I screamed. “That pathetic piece of crap is nothing close to your worst work!”

The dread that followed was almost too much to bear. With each passing day I became more and more convinced that rejection was inevitable. I knew with absolute certainty that a cruel dismissal of my creation could hit my Inbox at any turn.

“We’re sorry,” I imagined it would begin, “but your play was too good to be considered for this contest.” Before the rejection officially arrived I set about to mend my broken psyche.

“Tomorrow will be another day.” I reassured myself. I will rise again. I will put on my suit and tie (my business costume) and head off to the safety of my office where so little is expected and everything not done can be put off till next week. “I will survive this,” I said wiping back tears of regret. “I always do. I always will.”

And then, today, my friends…something magical happened! This was in my Inbox!

Hello Horrible Playwright,

I regret to inform you that your play has been selected as a finalist in the WORST Play Ever Contest to be performed on Oct. 12th.

Who says dreams have to die? Who says we have to live under the brutal heel of rejection’s dread? Not I. Not today! Today I revel in the words of the great American essayist, Ralph Waldo Emerson, who famously wrote: “Do not waste yourself in rejection; do not bark against the bad, but chant the beauty of good.”

Then again, there are five other finalists still. I bet one of their plays is worse than mine. Hell! All five are probably much worse than mine. There’s no way I can win. Oh well… I better get to bed. I have to get up early and get to the office. I have a big conference call in the morning.

 

Hung One On Whitman

08 Thursday May 2014

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole, Poets Corner

≈ 8 Comments

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'Shoe, Algy, Asty, Big M, Emmjay, Gez, Gregor, Helvi, Hung One On, Lehan Winifred Ramsay, Merv, Neville Cole, Vivienne, Voice, Warrigal

poets_pub

Story by Neville Cole

I’ll admit it. I tied one on with Hung One On down the Pub last night. As I recall, it all started amicably enough. All the locals were there celebrating the 5th Anniversary. Viv’s spread was a real treat. Gregor took to the mic early on and told some raunchy jokes. Big M was singing Karaoke. I had a grand old time catching up with Algy, Shoe, Voice, Asty, Lehan, Gerard, Helvi, Warrigal and, of course Emmjay. But, much, much later, as closing time drew nigh, things got a little…well, strange. Hung grew increasingly introspective, almost wistful, as the night went on and we began to talk – as we often do when we get this way – about life, about love, and about…poetry.

“Some day, Mate,” he says to me, “I’m gonna go walkabout. I gonna drop this…” he paused for a moment to choose just the right word, than added: “façade…and start living.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I replied, appropriately emphasizing exactly in exactly the right way as I downed my last Trotters.

“I think you do. I think you do. I know you do!” Hung said with a sudden smile. “You and I aren’t the types to be penned in by… by rules…and, and rules. We are the truth tellers. We are the rebel alliance. We are poets, man…and we should be out there poeting our guts out.”

“We are poets,” I agreed with him. “When I look at you that’s exactly what I see.” I was at this time somewhat fixed on the word exactly as you might have already guessed. But I continued nevertheless: “You, for sure, are a fucking poet, Hung. Walt Whitman’s got nothing on you, brother.”

“Walt Whitman!” Hung leapt to his feet like a sleeping dog woken by a noisy cat. “That’s it!” Hung cried climbing his stool to reach the bar.

“Hey, hey,” Merv sang out. “Closing time, Hung. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

“Hear him out, Merv,” I said quietly. “He’s on a roll.”

“Warrigal kept to himself. Quietly sketching away in the corner; but I saw a wry smile break across his face as Hung began to recite a poem in a loud, clear voice.

“Song of MY self,” Hung announced to the almost empty bar. “By Hung One On Whitman.

And what followed, I recorded exactly as it poured from his soul…’cause no one would believe it if I didn’t write it down.

 

Song of my self

 

Come breathe the musk of morning
sit silent at the desert dawn;
Listen for my breath
Here me cry the empty sky
into being
Bathe in the light
I am not lost
nor hidden in rock
I am not dead
you are not dreaming
we are Life eternal.

Throw off your shoes
Did toes in solid earth
Draw kindred souls into your veins
There is not end in sight
no apocalypse is nigh
there is not one of us will die
we all are Life eternal
we are the one supernal
I take you in as you do I
Give yourself to the forests and the seas
We are all what feeds the other
There is no turning back
This is a never ending track that leads back to an open door
no floor
no ceiling to block the light
you are in my sight
no need to fear the night
Feel my warmth on you skin
Let me in
Turn your face to me
Give me a smile for today
You are Life eternal.

Look to the sky
Not a cloud to block the blue
This is my gift to you
This blue sky
that greenish-yellow leaf
the purple pinkness of the flowers
the richness and ceaseless variety
you are wrapped in a multitude of color
all for you this glorious display
I paint the world this way
To make each day your canvas
Take it in
Hold it with you to look upon
During the hours of grey and black
Remember my gift
Seek it out
The new day is just beyond the horizon
It will not be slowed or stopped
It will not hold back from you
Even if you doubt or despair
Even if you curse and cry
Even if you lose your way
Even if you forget
A new day is coming
Every moment
a hundred million every second
all across the Earth
a billion others like you and I
feeling with us
We are Life eternal.

Hung stopped for a moment, then a moment more, then paused, then graceful as a dancer, he bowed deeply and humbly. Emmjay and I cheered. Even Warrigal rose to his feet in applause.

I don’t remember much that happened after that. It’s a bit of a blur. I remember watching the sun come up a few hours later and replaying Hung’s poem in my head; but that’s about it. Still, it was a top notch 5th Birthday bash and I can’t wait till next year’s party.

 

I Started a Blog

28 Monday Apr 2014

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole

≈ 47 Comments

Tags

blogging, Neville Cole, Phoenix

Phoenix enlargement - in progress

Phoenix enlargement – in progress

Story by Neville Cole

Actually I’ve started probably a dozen blogs; but I’m hopeful this latest one might actually have some kind of payoff. It’s been a long, lean road so far.

Many years ago I convinced my company that I should go to a social media conference in Las Vegas and learn everything there is to know about blogging. My company still considers the word blog a four letter word but I took what I did learn and got to work on my own projects.

My first blog post “Oyster call Oystralia home” was probably my most successful effort to date. Somehow this fellow in Australia name Therese Trowseroff (or some such thing) miraculously discovered it the day of posting and invited me to be the North American Correspondent for something called The Window Dressers and Pig’s Arms. That fellow has quite an imagination. Wow. I thought, one post and the world is watching. This will be a piece of cake.

I sat at home and puzzled over one of the tips I learned in Las Vegas. Write what you know. I know, I thought I could write an advice column! I give brilliant advice. I created a character called Aunt Mary loosely based on a cross between Dear Abby and Dame Edna Everage. Who better to spew advice to a willing world, I thought.

My first Aunt Mary post was an qualified hit. Therese – who had changed his name to Emm or some such thing – sent me an email with the header “Holy Hits Aunt Mary.” Subsequent posts, however, did create such a draw. I also started to run out of advice.

That’s when I decided I was a modern day Charles Dickens. I would post – chapter by chapter – my tales of great adventure around the world, slowly gathering fandom until, at the conclusion of my story, I could self-publish a bone fide hit! I made it about 12 chapters into From Here to Nairobi before I was hit with the aching realization that this really wasn’t much of a tale and my projected sales would probably amount to about two days work in the office.

Undaunted, I hit upon the idea of using a blog to imagine a set of fanciful characters that could someday develop into a comic book series or animation. Chimp George, Pistol Palin and Smoking Rabbit never did catch on.

Intermittently I wandered back to the internet to do research. Why was I failing so consistently to create any kind of following? Sure I picked up some “followers” along the way but the only people who ever provided any feedback at all were the fine patrons of the Window Dressers and Pig’s Arms. They did say lovely things and Mike Jones (he changed his name again, I think) was incredibly supportive and thankful for my every effort.

The experts all over the Internet told me I should be blogging about gadgets, sports and/or fashion or providing brilliantly researched posts focused on important subject people need to survive or make money, or such. Hmm…maybe one on how to create a buzz in social media would be good. But, research and entrepreneurship is not really my thing. For a start, I’ve got a full time job; one I actually quite like and one that, knock on wood, I could potentially do till almost the day I die.

That said, I can’t shake this whole blog fantasy. Recently I read a quote from Stephen King about writing. “Write with the door closed”, he says. “Edit with the door open”. Brilliant, thinks I. I can write away on a novel idea alone, then post it out to the web and edit it with the world watching.

How does that song go? I started to cry which started the whole world laughing? We’ll I started a blog my novel which started the whole world reading anything else. Maybe, the problem is the whole world is too busy blogging to read anymore.

Anyway, long post short… I’ve started another blog about something I know: where to go out for a good time in this old town of mine. I’ve called it Around Phoenix. It’s full of good advice, local knowledge and a little bad humor for spice. I end each post with the catchphrase. See You Around Phoenix. The perceptive among you will notice at tip of the hat to Anchorman. It’s better than “Stay Classy San Diego” and nearly as memorable as “Go F#ck Yourself, San Diego.”

In the About section of my new blog, I say Around Phoenix only has one rule. I will only review places I really like. For one, I think reviewers who spew lots of vitriol about how bad some place is should probably just post on Yelp. For two, if I were looking for a restaurant or bar, I’d rather know I can go to a site where I know everything they suggest is good.

I also figure people with restaurants and bars are often pretty desperate for any good review and if they like what I write they may help promote my page with a reblog. I’ve got 5 followers so far (and one of them has 21 thousand followers), so who knows? The only potential problem is…what if I have to decide between giving a good review to a place with lots of followers and my promise to only review places I like? Oh well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I don’t have lofty goals as yet. I’m pretty much only hoping that maybe one of the places I review will offer me a free appetizer or a bottle of wine on the house or something. Hell, at this point if someone makes a comment I’ll consider that a victory.

But if this does start to pick up steam I got a lot of great ideas. I could write off my restaurant and bar bills on my taxes. I could let other people write reviews for me and just manage the content. I could set myself up for a second career as a social media expert in case my company has another round of layoffs. I can even picture an Around Phoenix app, or maybe a local TV series…and think of the franchise opportunities!

So anyway…I started a blog. It’s called Around Phoenix. Come visit if you’re looking for somewhere to go around Phoenix. God, I love that catchphrase!

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