Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
The former Paul’s Restaurant
Sleeping on the floor upstairs
The honorable Lee folding camp table
Reflections in a diving bell
MISCELLANY AFTER A LULL:
We stopped for breakfast at the former Paul’s Restaurant the other day
In downtown Waukesha.
Every time I go in there I hark to the early 1950s
When I, in the employ of my stepfather, sanded
The old wooden floors in that building
When it was the Metropolitan Dime Store.
I wore a breathing mask
And used a huge electric sanding machine,
Up and down, up and down
For days I sanded those floors,
So that now when I go in there I automatically
Become covered in sawdust.
The view out the window at the former Paul's
Includes what was once Irv Beeman’s barber shop
Where I got my hair cut as a youth by a young barber, Butch Marino
Ah, Beeman's was a mystifying and glorious place
Where brave men got their shaves, first by having their faces covered
In hot towels to soften the bristles;
Next, the soap got whipped up into a lather, round and round, with
Shaving brushes in out-sized mugs
Leather stropped straight razors
By banks of tidily clad white-coated surgically-careful
(sanding and sanding);
And shoe-shine boys went back and forth
The weather has turned hot lately.
Last night we slept on the floor
In our old bedroom upstairs
Where there is air conditioning.
The bed got moved downstairs
While I was under the weather,
Lying on the 2 yoga futons (two for some thickness)
This morning in the early light I studied the architecture
From that lower angle
And once again appreciated my temporary custody
Of such a marvel of take-down ingenuity.
Before my time,
That table went many places,
Touching and briefly-uniting much foreign turf,
Supported many temporary but unforgotten enterprises
Near campfires, stacked firewood and water jugs;
I've seen it support searching raccoons' weight
And in fact, like a Sampsonite suitcase
A man could stand on its sanded, varnished surface.
By triangulation, it is 'magical'.
Bridges are built like that.
This morning as we moved downstairs
The temperature outside in the pines was 70 degrees.
Reflecting, I made some coffee in the T. Mahoney diving bell
Reflective chrome maker.
Electrically gurgling til done.
The repetitious perking does the job
Like sanding dime store floors,
Or shaving men's faces.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
She comes by this recycling skill rightly.
Just speaking of her paternal influence, not to mention her mother's which is profound, John Means once built a barn just from recycled billboards from an old job he held. His employment involved erecting billboard signs; ironically, for the same Waukesha WI -headquartered company that at about the same time also employed another billboard hanger, our surrogate dad, Waukeshan Uncle Lee, / See http://raccoonnews.blogspot.com/2009/03/kind-mans-boots-to-fill.html / though John Means was in Pleasant Valley Maryland then, as he always has been. The discards of his choice were given to John for piling up for an eventual barn.
This barn has been romanticized on these pages before, / See http://raccoonnews.blogspot.com/2008/10/poppys-barn.html / Like Dee, who does not herald her creativity, so John Means does not see anything perticularly noteworthy about his utilitarian barn. The front sides of the billboards bearing the advertising face inside and were left, understandably, natural. The outside of the barn has the traditional red color with white trim. Some of the effects, such as the faux windows, add to the pastoral affect, yet affectation is a word unknown to John Means, a two-fisted big man who might leave a rare impression on a deserving jaw, gentle as he is.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
you lift a wrinkled hand,
curled fingers smooth my bobbed brown hair.
your numbers hover overhead:
they flash at me.
were they painted there for counting?
determined lips push back the memories.
i learn my numbers from your flesh
setting ink to arm i mark myself:
i am your twin -
i share your stain.
while you teach me to crochet
they play a game -
your wrist moves in concentrated twists:
the blue tattoo peeks teasingly
from behind a fine linen hanky
tucked inside your cuff,
edges tatted white.
at Passover you peel red apples.
your wrist turns gracefully.
your numbers roll
like the face of a gas pump.
you scoop the haroset into your palm
your hands are swift
rubbing spheres in circles
so fast your fingers disappear,
your numbers disappear.
alameda co. fair
first place/best of show
Monday, June 15, 2009
It is 11:19 AM our time. I have just taken the tightly sealed jar of limburger out of the refrigerator and exposed it to the air, as I have a yen for a limburger and rye sandwich for lunch.
I want it to build up its critical mass so have opened it early, ahead of the lunch hour to give it plenty of time to start buzzing.
Other limburger-lovers ( or abhorrers, too/Debbie, I know who you are) are invited to correspond, c/o firstname.lastname@example.org
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Dad, Uncle Lee, Mom and Aunt Frances were having one of their ribald times together, and I watched with wide eyes and semi-unpinched nostrils while they comsumed vast quantities of a brick of limburger cheese - they told me what it was, for I was only 6 - and bottles of frosty Schlitz beer.
I was admonished to try some of the limburger. I dared not, but they persisted. "Come on, David Lee, you're a Dix. You have to have some!"
I eventually opened my lips to my mother's insistent presentation, and I was almost instantly wed to limburger cheese.
On Flag Day, or any day, I will gladly purchase as I did this morning a brick of the only limburger said to still being made in the US: Country Castle Limburger, Monroe, WI.
I had two thick sandwiches of limburger on rye today, this Flag Day, in honor of my deceased loved ones. Just the right expiration date on the wrapper found the contents ripened to the taste of a true limburger eater.
YOW-SIR! Here's to those who fought to keep us free to do all manner of things.
(Limburger cheese is also addressed in a previous SRN post: http://raccoonnews.blogspot.com/2008/02/keep-in-tightly-sealed-jar-refrigerated.html
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
ZEPATA, EL DAYO, CREEKETS, &C.
Under cover of darkness and unbeknownst
To his master who slips by the campfire
With his amigos and dear creekets –
Slippin’ soundly all –
Takes an innocent step over the border
between Mayheeko and the Yewknighted Stits
in his unintentional meandering
as he does on a restless night
But under full watchful saddle, always ready;
Unaware he is of the bad offices
many Americanos have toward
undocumented (alien) and therefore
illegal hoe-werses, and others with suspiciously wet backs,
WHOA! Cries a twitchy Zepata,
Roused from slumber by a glowing ember
Sprung from the fire and searing his
WHOA there, my belawv-ed hoe-werse!
You not going there, me fren’.
No matter to them if you live among them
No matter if you work like a hoe-werse
You are needed here, mi amigo;
Withdraw your hoof and take one step back,
Rejoin your true compadres,
One for all, and all for one!
Stay, Dayo, stay…………..
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
June 9, 2009
Leslie V. Dix II
aka Les, Uncle Skippy
takes as his bride
a church organist
in Johnstown PA.
A woman very skilled
in using all of her
appendages at once;
It couldn't be happening
to a nicer guy!
The soon to be Mrs. Dix studied under famed pipe organist Diane Bish, whose feet are shown above. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cRHShb80Ug8
Friday, June 5, 2009
1:15 And let them be for lights in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth: and it was so.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
But now it’s a non-functioning belt watch
Even though hitched to its last notch
The buckle hangs loosely down
The baggy pants staying up barely on their own
Get out the leather punch
Oh devout partaker of the lighter lunch
Does not your wan exhibit make the fat man sour?
Your downcast belt laments:
Don’t Get Around Much Any-mahw-er!
once holding the bird feeder securely,
is about to succumb.
the worn strands snap,
thus weakening the remaining thread(s)
bearing the load.
Too many squirrels, pesky,
have lept futilely but persistently;
again and again
swinging from the once unified wire
unable to reach footholds on the smooth ovoid gourd,
and dropped to the ground in disgust,
They may or not know that eventually
the feeder will be without sufficient support
from their relentless attacks
and all will fall with the last squirrel,
who will finally reap harvest.
Why then do I, so watchful, not replace the wire
before that happens?