the admiral

great evening bellywarmer and a vibrant alternative to a whiskey sour, basically a manhattan but with lemon instead of cherry

only tried with dry vermouth but works well with blended, bourbon, rye, or scotch whisk(e)y - even brandy

in a shaker:

1.5 oz (45 ml) vermouth

1.5 oz (45 ml) whisk(e)y

1 oz (30 ml) lemon juice OR half a lemon squeezed and sliced

bitters - aromatic, orange, if you have both try 8 drops each

shake 30 seconds and serve chilled (if lemon/juice and vermouth are chilled it will suffice)

enjoy and relax

legend has it

the chief has spoken; if he comes off the mountain

there will be war.

if he does not come off the mountain then he will think about it

the chief paces about until it is time to sit

ensconced

upon the log;

and so, he shall take his place about the log, 

and release the Great Mud Falcon; indeed, that will decide

for should the falcon reek he will arise from the log;

should it pierce the mist as a demon spirit, he shall,

raise his hands to the sky and cry out

AS FROM BENEATH THE TAIL OF A BISON;

BREAK WITH THE WIND

(to the best that we interpret his words)

and so every elder, woman, child

shall descend upon the village below,

with resounding, yea, a deafening cry;

a wail of great battle would ensue 

for if village below has incurred the wrath 

of the falcon: a great battle must be fought

but as it were, the falcon, fell stillborn

and with great thud; gray as winter sky

it fell upon the ground; behold, the falcon

did not reek: behold:

it lyeth in the mire 

as a mound of soot;

drenched with the dew

 of a thousand moons.

and so the chief beseecheth his elders;

go hunt; go gather; provide for your young

and he once again takes is place upon the log;

and ponders these things.

live from clock tower plaza

Seems I catch myself glancing out at the parking lot before each roll of the dice this lazy afternoon. Funny how the snack bar at a grocery can be such a popular hangout, let alone the fact that it's across town from my school, but granted, close to anything worth while. So after dropping someone off at work why not sit around with the ghosts and beat Yahtzee?

They say the teenage years are the hardest we ever live through. At the beginning of it I sat on the school bus thinking those words and felt myself entering a tunnel, and come to think of it, I was right. Last year was a doozey. Had different friends before it started. Maybe we still are, it's just...different. I'm different. How much pressure can a person take? How many licks till you get to the tootsy roll center of a tootsie pop?

Friends make you confident, that's why they're friends. You earn each other's trust and pretty soon you're standing on it, feeling it under your feet, head high above everyone else and it's not supposed to get to you, but they don't put that in the brochure. The girls you talk to become the songs on the radio, sonic spirits, even when the words just blend in with the noise of life.

Everyone blames the girl I see, but she's just a pawn, devil's due, and it was gonna take stepping in a bear trap to eff things up. When Dad splits logs out back he uses a wedge but it don't do a thing until he smacks it with a hammer. I swung the hammer. Chased curiosity in my language and made promises in hers.

The company I get to keep in this deal is neutral, in the war, no threat to the current regime. Come to think of it, she'd look kinda hot in fatigues and shades, medals on the pockets, helmet and boots. It's a shame only dudes seem to get the top job in the real world. Hmm.

One time I swear she and I were walking out of here and I saw a dude who used to give me trouble, had a strange way of showing appreciation for someone. He's alright. We all have our ways.

There's a retired fellow I talk to, says he sometimes drives along a stretch of the highway to see if anyone's stranded and needs help. His wife reminds him how there could be someone hiding in the trunk, but sometimes we reach a point where that doesn't matter. We want to cross lines and break down walls. Springsteen's hungry heart. I just tend to burn bridges.

thanksgiving

We gathered at the house for Thanksgiving that year. My brother and his wife picked up Dad from the convalescent home where he had been recovering from a UTI the past couple of weeks. My future wife and I had volunteered to construct a ramp from an old door for some impromptu wheelchair access.

The little great granddaughter got excited about playing on the ramp and so she did.

When my brother got there they were half worn out already. Dad was in his late 80s and limp as a wet noodle. There were times when he could do therapy but certainly not today. I helped get him up the ramp and into his chair and it was like juggling several bags of sand connected by ropes.

Mom got distracted and burned the gravy base. Then, she started all over.

My SIL had left her coat at the home and so we volunteer to go get it, least we can do, it was still on the chair under the canopy.

So we blessed the meal and filled up plates, and found out they had fed him lunch at the home despite instructions not to. I had some gravy and it was the best ever.

At one point I sat with the great grandson and asked if he had a girlfriend.

"Yeah"

I follow, "is she any good?" Naturally this draws fire from my future wife.

Mom hovers over Dad to try to catch what he's trying to say, barely over a whisper. Basically he wants to go back to his bed at the home. Hard to admit how peaceful he seems there when we visit, then he realizes you're there and greets you. She goes back to her chair, and I'm on the couch like we sat so many times over the years. Mom says,

"Mike, this is your future."

I realize it is probably the last time we will get to all sit there like that.

Out in the yard we play some kind of ball with the kids.

By the time we loaded him up to take back to the home, Dad had rested some and come around, he waved to the little kids from the car.

2 weeks and a day later I get the call from my brother. Dad had passed peacefully around midnight.

Thanksgiving had been the right thing to do.

Clamp's Catch

So Clamp shows up late, unfashionably, not for lack of trying least, in the usual gray wool getup, except this time, with a new accessory.

About three feet away is a tall sturdy brunette, twenty or thirty years his junior, who would be quite compelling if she were Angelica Huston, just like Clamp might bring Tony Bennett to one's mind, at least in his own bathroom mirror.

With a crisp, well-combed presentation in a lavender top, long skirt and a concentrated silence that hints an intense wish to be invisible, she doesn't even keep step with him, and just may have left her soul at home until she can figure out exactly what to do with her somewhat shorter companion and the next couple of hours.