One of the parts

Stemmons Freeway … The Triple Overpass … Dealy Plaza …

Images that resonate with nearly the entire populous the Planet over. Maybe not so much any longer in a ‘where were you when?’ kind of way any.  But more in a what-really-happened … How? Who? Could it be?  … kind of way. Appropriate. Because not everybody that’s here now was there then.

Fifty-two years hence, it remains How? Who? Could it be? Depending on who writes the book. Everything is conjecture. Circumstantial. Convoluted. Some purposefully.The rest succumbed to the gravitational pull of synchronicity.  Becoming just one of the parts that the sum is greater than.


As the baffling screenplay unfolds those with backstage passes witness deeper, B-Side cult images: curtain rods;  Carcarno & a Coke in the break room.  Akin to knowing not just “Abbey Road” in general, but that to create perhaps the greatest B-Side ever recorded the Lads simply pieced together some throwaways they hadn’t finished.


Things just fell into place. The place they were meant to be. So, they Let It.

As was with Kennedy’s assassination. Not that anyone let things happen,  per se, they just simply and perfectly happened.  They existed on their own. And at 12:30 pm  Dallas time, on November 22, 1963 they came together with such force and precision as to send Jackie crawling out over the trunk of the Presidential limousine. Scrambling to retrieve  a sliver of her husband’s physical essence. Carved out and blown off by the bullet(s) from a madman’s / madmen’s rifle(s).

Animal instinct. An urge to do … something … anything. The blood. The carnage of bone and muscle. Incomprehensibly fatal. Past the point of no return. And announcing the reign of  the still present day mantra: “How? Who? Could it Be?



Zero Some Game

You know how you’re driving around one day and out of nowhere comes a lady … she whispers in your ear something crazy …

Well, happens to me all the time.

Couple days ago, for one.

Was writing up an invoice for some work I had done – meaning: some work I had done … no, that’s not helping clarify things much, is it. Ok. I was writing up an invoice NOT for some work I had done .. as in a new nose or other perceived trouble spot body spot. But, instead, for some work I had done … in the past .. some f*)&ing work I did – ME – not some white-coated porcelain mannequin doctor fixing some shattered skin that had been attacked. I did the work. Jeez, WTF .. can we just get on with the story already?

So, mistakenly – honestly, it was completely ‘on a moosetake’ {as my parents tell me I used to say as a kid, when I did something wrong … } that I entered $600.01 as the balance due instead of the more benign, and unfortunately, more accurate figure of $60.00.


Thought to myself “What an interesting life a ‘0’ has.” How they / he / she / it isn’t suffering from some advance case of clinical manic-depression is beyond me. If, hypothetically speaking, one day not too far removed from this day, you find the ‘0’ on your phone calculator not responding, you’ll know why.

It would be due to my friend and yours finally checking not out, but in – into the nearest psyche ward to look for a cure for what ails him / her / it. To get his / her / its mind right, reach some arbitrary status quo consciousness instead of constantly vacillating between the two extremes of ‘nothing’ and ‘substantially more.’

On one hand, his / her / its existence doesn’t even qualify as being anything. Not even something. It’s true resting state is: zero. Nothing. That’s just got to wreak havoc with his / her / its self-esteem.

Ahh .. but on the other hand {are 5 fingers … a joke my cousin used to say} our depressed little friend could write his / her / its own ticket just by gathering a few kin folk to line dance on the end of whatever lonely figure happened to be first in line on a check’s ‘amount’ line.

Even the very next in line … number 1 … the so-called ‘lonliest number’ receives oodles more recognition that Senor Nothing. From none less than the greatest band to have ever graced our fair planet at the beginning of the greatest 30 odd minutes of music ever penned.

The Beatles. Abbey Road. Opening track on side one. Come Together …

One and one and one is three … got to be good looking ‘cuz he’s so hard to see.

But our rotund little buddy? …

Zero Hour. Go from Zero to Hero. Ground Zero.

It’s One O’clock and time for lunch .. Bum De Dum De Dum .. when the sun comes up and I lie on the bench, I can always hear them talk …

Zero. All alone. In a rubber room. Walls infinitely soundproof. Infinitely impenetrable and impervious to his screams.

Strange bedfellows indeed.