A Poem Inspired by the Art of Thomas Kinkade

Frottage in the Cottage

No mere glass could dare suffice
For toasts of Season’s Cheer
‘Tis jug and box of Gallo wine
Before I draw you near

My red-stained mouth makes me look like
Some sated woodland beast
Though belly filled and senses dulled
This wolf has yet to feast

For though the hearth with amber glow
Warms all within the room
Frigidity inside your heart
Makes it feel like a tomb

You treat my touch, my rubs, my gropes
Like some atrocity
Not even my most heartfelt slap
Can bring you back to me

I know you wish to spurn my love
Go running for the door
It’s only fair I let you know
Of all that lies in store

‘Tis many miles through the snow
Until the nearest town
Beware of Jack Frost’s famished heart
His love will hunt you down

His chill will numb and sap your strength
I know the way he’s sinned
So shall you, he’ll part your thighs
With scythe-like wintry wind

And when you’re found by passers by
I have no doubt they’ll say
“What a tortured, selfish face
She’s better off this way”

‘Tis the Season

Nothing says “November” like turning on the TV and watching The History Channel. Peter Weller fans, Hitler completists, and aficionados of UFO claptrap will have to get their programming fix with a lower dosage this month. It is November, and November means Kennedy.

JFK, of course, usually gets star billing. He was after all the only one to get elected president, was the only war hero, and had the hottest wife. So what exactly was his legacy?

  • 1961: Gives the go ahead on the Bay of Pigs fiasco, ruining any chance of a normalized relationship with Cuba for decades to come.
  • 1962: Decides to resolve the Cuban Missile Crisis by engaging the Soviets in a game of chicken, a strategy that served him so well aboard PT109. He got lucky this time. So did the rest of the planet.
  • 1963: Travels to Berlin and announces to the world that he is a jelly donut (well, he didn’t really but I’m not one to let the truth get in the way of a good story.)

In other words, mixed results. To be fair though, no presidency is perfect and his was better than most. His position on civil rights was admirable, he possessed a sense of humor not often seen in politicians, and he certainly had a way with the ladies. Still, I think if he had it to do all over again, there would have been some changes along the way. The decision to make that trip to Dallas immediately comes to mind.

Jack’s brother Bobby seems to be getting some play this year as well, with a movie about him coming out this Thursday. I still haven’t decided whether I’m going to go see it though. On the one hand, it is only fitting that a film about the brother of the legendary John F. Kennedy should be written and directed by the brother of the legendary Charlie Sheen. On the other hand, Jack Black does not play Ted. This is an egregious omission and I fear what others may follow.

Perhaps it’s all for the best. Jack Black is born to play Ted Kennedy and it would be unjust to limit him to a supporting role. Also, Ted’s defining moment didn’t happen until a year after Bobby’s death. I think the perfect vehicle (pardon the pun) for Black’s performance will be “I’ll Drive: the Chappaquiddick Story.”

Ted Kennedy, if you recall, claimed to have tried to dive down and save Mary Jo Kopechne before sobering up enough to go get help. Well, it doesn’t take an accomplished director like Emilio Estevez to see what a great scene it would be to have Jack Black doing multiple slo-mo belly flops off the bridge while some catchy tune from the musical “Camelot” played in the background.

That’s what I call movie magic.

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Backspaces

We all have crosses to bear. Mine are typos. It seems as though they show up in everything I write, compromising my perceived intelligence like an extra chromosome. In this blog, I at least have the luxury of going back and fixing my mistakes after the fact. The problem is that I’m on a mailing list as well. There my errors are as uncorrectable as stupidities committed in real life.Since the reason I write is for ego gratification, this pains me. I don’t like it when things pain me. I want everything to be peachy. Failing that, I’d like the pain (and if possible, the typos) to be explained away by some traumatic experience from my past. It’s not my fault, you see. Mom used to beat me with a wire hanger.There’s the rub. Mom never did any such thing. In fact, I don’t think I’ve had any traumatic experiences in my entire life. When other people bring up theirs, I usually try to change the subject to one where I can show how clever I am.

No matter. Since I don’t have any personal traumas, I’ll just have to invent one.

About 25 years ago, I worked as a counselor at one of those summer camps Paul Newman set up for children with cancer. I didn’t see Newman the whole time I was there. He had done his photo op before my arrival and if he’s like most people, he wanted what was best for the kids but didn’t want to have to look at them for too long. I can’t say I blame him. That had to be the most depressing two and a half months of my life.

There was a silver lining however in the form of one of the campers. Her name was Tina. Tina had developed early, as they say. Not a hair on her head but let me tell you, that girl was rackalicious. I was in love.

The only problem was that I couldn’t be sure if she had matured emotionally on a par with how she had physically. Putting the moves on her and freaking her out would be a bad deal for all parties involved. Fortunately, I had a plan to test the waters. What this entailed was leaving her a little note anonymously expressing some carnal interest. If she ran screaming to one of the other counselors, I’d deny everything if asked and let the whole matter slide. If, on the other hand, she spent the whole next day with a sly smirk on her face, then all systems were go.

My handwriting was pretty recognizable at the time (A’s with circles around them, i’s dotted with skulls) so I had to sneak into the admin office and use the typewriter when no one was looking. So that night during Vespers, I slipped away to compose the note. Time was short. I quickly typed up the message and put it under her pillow before she returned to her bunkhouse.

I had anticipated that she might take the note to a counselor. What I had not anticipated was what happened next.

I was having lunch in the cafeteria the following day, surrounded by scores of children and their malignancies but thinking only of Tina. The camp director came in. Her hand went up. The mouths went shut.

“One of you,” she said. “Has been using the office typewriter to send vulgar notes to a fellow camper. First of all, the office is off limits. Second, we don’t like profanity here. At least I think it was profanity. Do you want to know what the note said?”

There was a cheer of assent from camper and counselor alike.

“‘Let’s fick.’ Yes, with an ‘i.’ Whoever wrote this really needs to learn how to spell.”

The entire cafeteria, including Tina, erupted with laughter. I made it a point to laugh along with them but like a clown in some stupid French movie, I was crying inside.

I really appreciate all of you who took the time to read this. You’ve helped me grow, you know, as a person.