This follows a practice of morning daily prose-ing with pen and ink, pencil, lipstick and crayon on paper (typing, legal and notebook) going back to my college days. It's fun and at times it pays cash money.
Yesterday a pal in California who possess one of the finest Blog sites going - The Scratching Post - commented on one my Dick Simposn posts . KTCat posts insights and observations with a wicked wit, underscored by a feline soul. Take a gander at this cat's blog which I link below.
This week, two of my posts opened their claws on Thundering Dick Simpson ( former Chicago Alderman, Political Science Prof at UIC, and Progressive Tax-dollar jackal) over his recently media ballyhoo-ed Cliff's Notes of Corruption - Green Grass and Greed: Corruption in the Suburbs. This latest work is intended to
- Fire up the usual dependable media gas-bags to howl about Corruption universal and squeal like a hog on gelding day about suburban political ne-er-do-wells
- Get Pat Quinn to use more phantom Illinois tax-dollars to have Thundering Dick's associates compensated for panel-time in the endless work of rooting out Bosses, Bagmen and Blackguards in the 'Burbs -publicly execute the Girodins( Regular Dems and Tassled Loafer GOP-ers) - Dick's Committee for Public Safety from Suburb Corruption-COMITÉ de la Sécurité publique de la corruption en dehors de la ville
- Get more Progressive branded goofballs, ninnies, grifters, nutbags and abortionists elected to public office
My pal from the sinister coast ( facing true-north, west is left and right, or dextra is east) sent this note to me here in centralis ora - you know, over by the Lake:
The chap believes my offerings to be Obscure and Splendid. I do not know about the splendid part, but I be obscure.
Obscurus in Latin means Dark. The word now tends to mean ambiguous, mysterious, or not easily known. Beginning with Edmund Spencer, who married the daughter of an Irish chieftain, the renaissance English poets valued the dark conceit, allegory - the darker the better.
Allegory is used to explain something metaphysical ( love, marriage, courtship, patriotism, or Faith) by using a bunch of physical objects - a heart becomes a hand grenade under the pen Abraham Cowley (1618-1687).
Dude, Obscure I must remain.
The heart is dark. The mind is clouded. The voice, though certain, stutters attempts at truth.
Let me explain.
It all had to do with a train ride from Madrid to Seville, or was it Seville to Paris? I was trying to distance myself from this young girl, Conchita. As my train was ready to depart I found that a bruised and bandaged Conchita was pursuing me. From the train I poured a bucket of water over her head. I believed this might deter her, but she climbed aboard.
My fellow compartment passengers witnessed this rude act. These included a mother and her young daughter, a judge who is coincidentally a friend of Thundering Dick Simpson, and a psychologist who coincidentally is a dwarf - looked a great deal like Rep. Mike Quigley (D-Lakeview). They inquired about my motivation for such an act and I then explained the history of my tumultuous relationship with Conchita.
I'm a middle aged, widowed, white guy, who when sporting a beard bears a strinking resemblance to that great actor Fernando Rey - Frog One from the French Connection. Women find me attractive for some reason, in part due a my boyishly Celtic self-deprecating manner with the dark eyes of Tyrone Power if he had lived as long as me and because I keep my pockets full of spending loot and change my "vines" nine times a day. Conchita was drawn to me like flies to a crowded Archer Avenue bus in August - that and the fact chicks dig the obscure.
Conchita, claims to be 18 but looks older, vows to remain a virgin until marriage. She tantalized me with sexual promises but never allowed me to satisfy sexual desire, which I was plenty used to, let me tell you. Conchita's antics caused us to break up and reunite repeatedly, each time frustrating and confusing this middle-aged widow guy.
Eventually, I found Conchita dancing nude for tourists in a Seville nightclub. I was enraged. Later, however, I forgave her and bought her a house - a nice raised ranch like my own back in the States, but drier during rain storms, because there were no Goddam #$%^ing Tree Roots raping into the sewer ejection pipe going out to Rockwell Street thanks to the sonsobitchin' parkway trees.
Soon after moving into the house, Conchita refused to let me in at the back door, tells me that she hates me, and that kissing and touching me make her sick. I get that alot. Then, to prove her independence, she takes up with a hair-dresser who sings in the community male chorus and dances in summer productions of Pippin.
After this, Conchita attempted , insisting that the sex was fake and that her "lover" is in reality a homosexual friend. However, during her explanation, I decided to beat feet and then says "Now I´m sure you love me,", causing her bandaged and bruised state spoken of earlier.
I jumped trains, while she slept and when once the train's lights were fading toward Paris, I remembered that I had not had anything to eat and went to one swell Tapas joint and me a big old plate-fulla Queso con anchoas, pulpo de gallegos,papas bravas ( love them spuds) and pinchos de encurtidos. Mighty tasty.
Them flamenco dancers got nothing on a big old plateful of Tapas.
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