Thursday, March 27, 2014

injaynesworld "Boys Will Be Boys..."

They gathered at the same time and place every Friday, sitting side-by-side on the old, wooden park bench like a flock of birds upon a wire, eagerly anticipating the show to come.

Bundled against the cold morning air, these five men – old now, but friends since they had played stick ball in this same park as youths – sipped from thermoses of hot coffee and munched on fresh-from-the-oven bagels from Happerstein’s Bakery just across the street.

In unison, their attention turned to the path on their left from which the women would soon appear.  It mattered not that heavy sweat suits had replaced the revealing shorts and tank tops of summer.   It was their smiles – sometimes a wink, often a little wave – as they jogged past that the men most looked forward to.

From the Five Sentence Fiction prompt, “Companion.”

Monday, March 24, 2014

injaynesworld it’s “The Four-Letter Word We Won’t Use…”

Colorful language is my thing.  Some people suspect I have Tourettes, such is my propensity for the naughty word, but no.  It’s all quite intentional. 

This week saw the passing of self-proclaimed “Minister” Fred Phelps, spreader of the gospel of fear, ignorance and hatred primarily directed at gays.  My uneducated guess is that the amount of self-loathing he felt far surpassed the loathing he directed at anyone else. We project onto others that which we most fear about ourselves. 


Still, how a soul born into the natural state of love, as we all are, can be turned so dark is beyond my understanding.  Even the use of the word “hate” produces shadows that chill me.  As a child, I was reprimanded if I said it.  “Fuck?”  No problem.  “Hate?”  A gateway to hell.  

To this day, I don’t use that word.  Okay, I may say that I hate it when some asshole is going 25 in a 45-mph zone, but what I really mean is that I’m righteously annoyed.  And even then, I don’t hate the asshole.  I hate what the asshole is doing. 

I wouldn’t have ever wished Phelps dead.  Really bad juju.  But now that he is dead, I will say I’m glad he’s gone.  It would be nice if this meant the end to his so-called church, too, but I’m sure another captain of ignorance will rise to lead his pack of puke.  

That sounded kind of hateful, didn’t it?   Oh, well.   Fuck it.

Friday, March 21, 2014

injaynesworld "I Won't Cry For You, Crimea..."

Is there a country on Earth that the U.S. has not fucked with at some time or another?  I don’t think so.  That our government has the cojones to call out Putin as imperialistic is truly the stuff of a late-night comedy writer’s wet dream.

No one expected Putin to just stand down after the Ukrainian people rose up to toss out his personally-picked pool boy, Viktor Ynukovych, least of all, I suspect, the Ukrainians.  He needed to save face and Crimea became his “pound of flesh.”  If world leaders will check their testosterone levels at the door for a moment (Yes, I mean you, too, Angela Merkel), everyone may be able to save face. 

Putin has nothing to gain by going into a full-fledged conflict with the west just to acquire the debt-ridden Ukraine.  Russia’s own economy is in the toilet.   But he just may do it anyway if we continue to challenge his penis size.

Two words describe Putin:  Vanity and pride.  The Ukrainians know this and have already backed off:  “Okay. You win, man.  Crimea is yours, you big, strong, peck-enhanced titan, you.”  The people of Crimea themselves (mostly older, conservative Russians with strong ties to 'the motherland') have now voted to align themselves with Russia.  That should be “game over” for us, but oh no. 

Ever notice how we’re always pushing for democratically-elected governments around the world, then cry “foul” when the vote doesn’t go our way?   After the great Florida debacle of 2000, we don’t exactly have the high ground when it comes to ballot box issues. 

Meanwhile, the Republicans, their pockets filled with defense industry cash, urge that we “Go to war!  Go to war!”  And their poster gal, Sarah “why-the-hell-is-she-even-still-around” Palin spouts:  “The only thing that stops a bad guy with a nuke is with a good guy with a nuke.”   Could someone please nuke her? 

Okay, I know the Democrats’ pockets are just as tinged, but I don’t see anyone on the blue side advocating a missile-driven pissing match with Putin.

Putin has now signed the law officially absorbing Crimea into Russia.  That horse has left the barn.   We should focus our efforts on supporting and strengthening the new Ukraine/EU political and economic agreement, while continuing to expand our non-military options.  

Let Putin enjoy his small victory in Crimea.  Unlike the explosion of a bomb, economic sanctions take time to show results.  Finesse and patience are not signs of weakness.   They are signs of intelligence. 

"Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall."

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

injaynesworld it's "A Lucky Break..."

The bone’s jagged edges jutted upward, tearing through Thomas’ leg, as scarlet red seeped into the snow spreading to encircle him in a ball gown of blood.  

Melissa would still be asleep, the sweet scent of their lovemaking just hours before lingering on her warm, soft skin. 

A haze of images taunted him; the chilled air tearing at his face, his skis ripping into the fresh snow as he dominated the mountain, turn after turn, and then that hideous roar, everything shaking, and the ground falling away beneath him. 

He wished now that he had awakened her and kissed her good-bye. 

Remains of a tall pine pinned him to the edge of the cliff, saving him from the massive plunge just beyond, but so twisted was he in its branches that he could he not tell where his body ended and its bulk began, while above a helicopter hovered, lowering the crew that would release him from its grasp.   

This post in response to the prompt “Lucky” at Five Sentence Fiction 


Monday, March 10, 2014

injaynesworld “Nip, Tuck, & Fill’er Up…”

My body rocks.  It’s healthy and strong and, on occasion, I can still turn a few heads.  Not that it’s perfect.  Oh God, no.  Fat that should be on my ass has instead traveled to form a stubborn “pooch” on my stomach that no amount of diet or exercise can dispel.   “Smile lines” have begun to appear and, but for the good fortune of an extended period of depression back in the eighties, they would be even worse. But you know what?  Fuck it.  Most days I can still look in the mirror and say “Not bad for an old broad!”

Once I hit the big 4-0 birthday, I began to realize that being “hot” was a lot more than a shapely ass and smooth skin. “Hot” is how we feel about ourselves.  Confidence is the gift we get with age and yet everywhere we look there is some form of media trying to kick our confidence to the curb. 
When I see older women, who are already beautiful, running out to get their faces inflated with the equivalent of “Tire Fix” in order to conform to a standard of beauty only possible with Photoshop, it truly saddens me.  I wanted to cry for Kim Novak on the Oscar telecast.  She’s 84, for God’s sake.  She shouldn’t have to feel crappy about herself.  

I have no problem with plastic surgery.  A little nip, a little tuck, in the hands of a skilled surgeon – Go for it!   We’re all living a lot longer these days.  There’s nothing wrong with wanting to look as good as we can for as long as possible.  That’s why we dye our hair.  That’s why we use makeup.  I don’t even put down the use of fillers.  There’s a stubborn vertical line right under my nose that I’d like to pump up a bit, and maybe one day I will, but I’d still like to be recognized by my dog.

Saturday was International Women’s Day.  When I think about some of the women I admire, not one of them is under 50 and they are all smart, accomplished and yes, beautiful.  

Hillary Clinton will turn 67 later this year and, of the possibility of becoming president in 2016, some Republicans are already playing the age card, “She’ll be 69. Too old!  Too old!”  How conveniently they forget about old farts John McCain, Ronald Reagan, and Viagra spokesman, Bob Dole. 


 Gloria Steinem, who turns 80 this month, said “Every place I go I tell my age, because it’s a form of coming out.” 

Comedian Carol Leifer has written a very funny book titled, “When We Lie About Our Age, The Terrorists Win.”  I agree.  My birthday is April 21st.  I will be 65.  I’d like to say that when I look in the mirror I wouldn’t want to change a thing, but there are days when I find myself with my index fingers strategically placed on my cheekbones and my thumbs along my jaw line doing a little self-lifting, and wondering what I can sell to raise some quick cash.  

I know that there are those out there, especially in the professional world, who will learn my age and write me off.  Maybe what women are really seeking when we fight to hold back time is not eternal youth, but eternal relevance in a disposable society.

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