A tale of two kings

A king once stood on high steps and said “I have a dream.” But he was a king in name only, and his crown, though real, was spirit thick and not of this world. What he could not envision was that a skinny young man would come along, a man of his like, of a darker hue (a fact of great import in this vale of tears) and grab the world’s crown. The new king would wear it and smile and we would gasp, “We did not think this possible.” But the world does spin on its rusty axle, and things change, this way and that. And the dream keeps plowing through the waves, sailing toward an ever advancing shore.

Surviving Minnesota

Yesterday it rain sleeted for the first time this season. I remembered quickly how to bunch my shoulders against the wet, whipping wind. I remembered how quickly my hands get cold, like corpse hands, and how that cold infects the rest of my body. And I remembered how the beauty of young women is hidden below layers of sweaters, coats and hats, how the imagination must take over — picture a roaring fire, perhaps, as you massage that brunette’s small feet, and the warmth of her smile, bright as some exotic bird of paradise — and how difficult it is to hold that thought, running for a store entrance as if to save your life from Mr. Freeze.

 

This crap will last five months, maybe longer, which beggars the question: Why do I live in Minnesota? If I don’t ask the question my brother will. He lives in Dallas and plays golf in January. He lets me know that year round, even in the summer. And I should move down there, he says (if for no other reason than to babysit my nephew, but only occasionally).

 

He makes a good point. Warmth year round is inherently good. There’s a reason old people flock to Arizona and Florida. They have grown wise with the years and see no reason to put up with the bull hockey of Minnesota winters and the young jackasses driving 85 on frozen roads and the heating bills, bunch of fat cat utilities trying to rip them off and who needs it?

 

But Dallas? I don’t know. There just isn’t anything pretty about Dallas, unless your thing is new concrete overpasses, or squat shrubby trees, or large photos of big-haired preachers on every other billboard. Then again the young ladies are less weighed down with clothes, and that is a plus. But then I think of the stifling hot summers and could that be any better?

 

It won’t rain sleet every day. I know that because I’ve lived through this shit before. It will give me something to whine about until April, and that’s worth a hunched shoulder or two.

I’m Dan Ryan and I approve these messages

In the spirit of the election season I run these attack ads against frequent readers. Because people need to know the truth.

 

Ad #1: He says his name is Dave Daily, but what has he done… daily? Has he balanced the budget? Has he stopped the terrorists? Has he educated our children?

 

Dave Daily: he hasn’t earned his name, he hasn’t earned your vote.

 

 

Ad #2: Greg Ryan won the father’s race at his son’s first Scout event. He ran very fast.

 

What is he running from?

 

Tell Greg Ryan he can run but he can’t hide.

 

 

Ad #3: The stock market is in a tailspin. Could it be Mark Trost’s fault?

 

Banks across America are failing. Could it be Mark Trost’s fault?

 

Our economy is teetering on the brink of disaster. Could it be Mark Trost’s fault?

 

Mark Trost, it could be you.

 

 

Ad #4: He uses the name James Bond in his emails. But I know James Bond. I’ve seen his movies and read his books.

 

James Bond, you’re no James Bond.