Skip to main content


Showing posts from 2018

Breakfast with Buck

I already started telling you this. Here. Catch up, catch up. -----------------------------------
Hard to watch, hardest to listen to, so it has always been for me. The tearing, the chewing and ingesting, right out in plain view, too – in public! – whereas it seemed to me such activity should be confined strictly to the private sphere, like in using the toilet or pleasuring oneself. Ah, it was a lost cause. Thoroughly established in the culture.
Still the relief I felt as Buck paused in feasting to pick up with his story was not a thing of insignificance. He said,
“Dear Saint Christopher, protect me today in all my travels along the road’s way. Give your warning sign if danger is near so that I may stop while the path is clear. Be at my window and direct me through When the vision blurs rom out of the blue. Carry me safely to my destined place, like you carried Christ in your close embrace.”
Buck said, “Yes, that was the ticket. Those were the magic words.” His sales went up and then no more fl…

Hang on, Saint Christopher

It is the eyeliner, is how you know. More than the famous discolorations on the skin, liver spots shall we call them, more than the sense of shrunkenness. And not the eyes themselves, no not that, they can remain as before for all I care of them, and not the eyelids, either, but a red line around the eyes, as though bright red eyeliner has been applied. It happens in the very old, consistently too, at some point of aging, and so it was with my breakfast partner, Buck.
Breakfast partner, pfshaw. The hardest thing was to look, the eating was reprehensible, what with the essentially raw eggs supposedly scrambled, he might as well have drunk them.
“Missouri… and Iowa… and Kansas… and Missouri... and Nebraska,” he said. This was the first thing he’d said to me ever during these our daily silent breakfasts at the West Gray Café. I was dumbfounded, it is not too much to say dumbfounded.
For lack of a better response, I said this: “Wh-wh-what?” and I set down my fork in order better to listen t…

Origins 2

This one is all about me.
I’m Harry and I was born in Omaha, which is in Nebraska, which turn and turn about is in America and I’d wager you have heard of that, America, probably, so I refuse to take this description any wider. If I wished to be all dramatic and literary and pretentious about it, then I’d say something like this: “I came into this world in the Year of Our Lord One Thousand Nine Hundred and Seventy-Three.” But I do not wish to be all dramatic and literary and pretentious about it, so I’ll just say I was born in 1973. That’s hardly a year one is likely to associate with God much anyway.
Let’s get on with this.
To locate Omaha on a map, first you get a map and then you point to the very center of it. Look at where you’ve pointed. Your finger is somewhere around Omaha. To be honest, your finger is probably in the middle of a cornfield, but the cornfield is not far from Omaha. Back then, I mean in the Seventies and not when you pointed, the city was made up of stockyards and…

President Trump is missing!!!

There are many people, so many they can almost not be avoided and sometimes not at all and a few of these people I cannot avoid mentioning when I write. However, there exists one person, a person in particular, I have avoided, mostly, mentioning when I write until today.

I mention him here and now and I am sorry for that. And that person’s name is:
I know I know but the thing is, what you should understand is I enjoy talking of politics as I enjoy other things in my life too, say, scratching rashy skin or picking the tiniest of hangnails or waiting about to vomit when nauseous.
There are friends, bloggers, and other people as well who say this to me: “Harry, why don’t you ever write about President Donald Trump in your blog?” They deserve an answer, I believe, and so this is it. If you choose to continue reading and why not, then you may notice my answer comes in three parts.
First, I have nothing to add to the discussion. I lack what might be called a novel angle.…

I kind of know how it feels

Obviously, it all brings back many memories for me. All of the people phone me, or a lot of people phone me, anyway, and they ask me what I think of the boys. All I can say is all there is to be said and all there is to be said is that I am glad it looks as though they’re getting out of there.
A cave is not a tree, how true that is – although I suppose, if pressed, one could do a rough list of similarities – and twelve Thai boys are not the one boy which was me, Harry.
As for words of advice, what good are they? Keep away from endorsements, maybe. I believe I’d tell the boys that. Yes. To sell one’s name and likeness as I did for a cheap knock-off version of Stretch Armstrong dolls was a mistake and my appearance on “Webster” a disaster, and “well-documented,” too, as they say.
Even now, even today, there are some times, not a lot of times but some times, when I get recognized as Harry the little boy in the tree from 1981. How many people are there who can say they’ve seen the top of N…

Everybody is angry and more than usual but I don’t want to be angry 2

I was driving down Fairview Street when the man with the big head saw me. His eyes were too too wide and to me, being in the moment as I was, as we all are mostly, I suppose, the eyes appeared as though bloodshot. To a degree which would concern me, were they my eyes, anyway. A doctor may disagree with me on this.
I was nearly home. His car pulled out around me and that’s when I saw his big head and his probably problematically bloodshot eyes and he was spitting on his own window shouting he was so angry.
“I just want to go home,” I said to him, though uselessly as there was no way the man with the big head could hear me.
I just want to go home a lot. My friends, who are all getting divorced, are not there in my home, and my mother, who hates the President, is not in my home, and my clients are not in my home, either, not even that one client who threw her shoe at my head on Monday. At my head! Everybody is angry and more than usual but I don’t want to be angry too.
It’s music, mostly. I…

I hope this helps you understand

“Report: Netflix Bans Employees from Looking at Each Other for More Than Five Seconds.”By now you have seen this news headline, or else not, it’s all the same to me, honestly, because I have got to clear the air as this was my idea and only my idea and also my only idea in my capacity as Netflix Executive Vice President of Sexual Harassment Curbation and Affairs. What a mouthful that is...
The idea was sound. I maintain even now that the idea – my idea – was and is as sound as sound could be. You’ll see what I mean. I am confident of this.
See, in i.t. you’ve got Bruce, and then in accounting you’ve got Rita with the pretty hose who always carries with her those mints, and she has dimples that look like my Aunt Stacy’s. If Bruce from i.t. is told he cannot stare at Rita from accounting, despite her very pretty hose, for more than five seconds at a go then it solves or rather it prevents a great many problems. Even though when I give a speech at staff meetings now, the crowd appears as t…

I dance upon your gangrenous corpse

This is a sad post.
I had hoped never to write it, only that is not quite true – is it? – because I never imagined that writing this post might even be the remotest of possibilities for me, and therefore I could not have actively hoped anything at all about it one way or the other.
For nineteen years, I’ve viewed the Green Party as, you might say, a fundamental component of my identity, an essential element of just what makes Harry Harry. I am not complicated, as people go. I don’t have a lot of moving parts, so the Green Party has loomed large with me.
A week just passed us and it was a miserable week, really, especially with the news stories, and among the news stories I noticed were these:
The Green Party of Texas ended its recent petition drive having collected only 500 out of the 50,000 signatures it needed to get back onto the Texas ballot;It’s starting to look like my old friend, David Cobb, and his new friend, Jill Stein, might be into some trouble involving money they raised fo…

18 minutes to the law library

Heat it comes. In Houston. Summer Houston. This one time I went to Phoenix and heat there was heat that stabbed you. It was like you were being stabbed. Not in Houston where heat happens like a great submersion instead, in paraffin wax maybe, or in napalm. I’m not sure. It is hard for me, just thinking up similes in this heat, but that’s probably the gist of it. Yes. Submersion.
I was going down to the law library yesterday, and walking, and the heat was making everyone crazy. I had this feeling that everyone was melting or crazy.
A man up on the rail platform on Main stomped. He stomped. He dared us to look at him. You could see this man wanted to fight, or I could see, anyway. He accused us all of doing things with our mothers. Repeatedly. Angrily. “C’mon, you motherfuckers!” he said, “You wanna fight? You wanna fight?” and his fists were up and he was lurching at strangers.
None of us – old pros, I guess – made eye contact.
I wanted to say “This never happens in January,” but I did…

We've got to get in to get out

It’s better to best is all I’m saying, and not that he’s wrong at all. He’s one door away. Better to best. These things take time, the greatest changes always do, and in politics more than most things.
To narrow it down to a single door, “What could be simpler?” you say. Lieutenant Governor Dan Patrick narrows the problem of school shootings down to a single door but I say he is not going far enough.
If it were up to me, I’d take away that door. Dan Patrick’s last remaining door to the schoolhouse. And the windows. And any vents leading inside. I’d turn Texas schools into enormous, opaque cubes with no means of ingress or egress.
I’d paint them black but for the golden letters S C H O O L across their fronts. Or, maybe, E S C U E L A, just so that future generations can read it, if they can read at all, which, if you think about it, probably they won’t. The word “escuela” is more pleasing than “school” at any rate, from an aesthetic point of view, I feel. These are details whic…


This is the part where I tell you about why I haven’t been writing.
I haven’t been writing. I have noticed this. You might have noticed this.
After two weeks working full days at the pro se assistance office, my brain began to rewire itself. I knew that my brain was rewiring itself; I could feel it happening. Of course I could. The dreams, you see they were a dead giveaway. Lots and lots of docket sheets. So very many docket sheets you would not believe it. Docket sheets have filled my dreams more than any person ever’s, maybe.
There was a night I awoke because, in this waking world, Astro was leaping off my bed and my dreaming self feared I’d neglected telling him how and where to file an answer to a lawsuit. But cats are sued only rarely and even more rarely represent themselves in court. It was just my brain rewiring itself. Like I said.
After three weeks working full days at the pro se assistance office, I stopped commenting on other people’s blogs. It’s just there wasn’t time: Forty…

Father Tom's field trip

It was Blind Father Tom got us into this. Me, Doctor Wren-who-says-dude-a-lot, and Blind Father Tom. Under the seminary, which is someplace only Blind Father Tom could get us, under the Cardinal’s house, he said there’s something we should see and Blind Father Tom rarely lies to me. He’s taken vows.
And the elevators were, well, they were like intestines, I guess you could say, and we kind of pushed down ch-ch-ch, only maybe not always down, in what felt like peristalsis. It got harder for me to read my book.
“I TOLD you you had to see this!” Blind Father Tom said and then the elevator doors came open and then we saw holy people all around. I suppose they were holy people. Some holy people you can pick out by their garments and their very specific hats. Others are richer with impressive pinstriped suits and you know them from the t.v. All of them were there and they’d all gathered around a cage.
At first, I mistook the man in the cage for my friend, Gerber, but it was not Gerber. He had …

Best just to imagine

I nearly said “wall,” I swear. I wanted to say “wall” and truth be told, I still do, in a way. “Fence” is maybe the right word here and I know this, but when one cannot see through, what then? O, to have reached this age without knowing the difference between a fence and a wall!

It’s the other side that concerns me anyway. Of this fence, I mean. This wall.
On my walks, it bows out and across the sidewalk almost. I cannot see through it. It’s twelve feet tall so I cannot see over it. It is wicked. It is tempting. It is wicked and tempting.
Bamboos peer out over the edge of it, the top – you should see them peer! – along with preternatural light and there’s something about the way sound carries. “Preternatural.” I chose that word, instinctively, just now, without a care, and I’m really having second thoughts about it. I’ll leave it.
What’s on the other side of this wall?
I checked it out on Google Earth and I was not satisfied. There’s just a feeling I get. It’s a mystery and I’ve got to kn…