Dare  walked into the room.  Every head turned her way.  What the hell does she want?  No one invited her and she sure as hell wasn't wanted.  She could only mean trouble for all concerned.  She moved slowly forward.  Every man held his breath.  Some turned their heads away like they did way back in grade school.  If they did not look at her then maybe she would not touch them.  Her touch was sure death.  She moved closer.  Her walk was more of a glide and she seemed to float as she moved towards them. She moved towards the left side of the room and the men on the right breathed a sigh of relief.  To bad for the guy she chose.  That was his problem.  This was no time to be hero.  They usually put a hero's medal on his coffin, not his chest.  She stopped in front of the town drunk who was surprisingly sober right then.  A cold chill ran down his spine but he didn't shiver.  He did not want them to know how afraid he was.  It did not matter that they all had the same fear.  He would not shame himself.  From somewhere he found the courage he had lost as a young man,  He stood tall and looked her straight in the eye.  Her eyes were blue and cold as steel.  Her lips thin and hard.  She reached out to touch him.  He was the one she had chosen.  He did not cower or flinch.  His eyes became hard and he actually made her stop and step back.  Dare became unsure of herself.  No one had challenged her before.  They knew the possible outcome but this man, this drunk who she was sent to take, had changed. He was no longer a drunk.  He was a man again and a man to be feared.  A man that can conquer his inner devils was not one she wanted to challenge.  She dared not touch him.  She turned and walked away.


His guts were aching with fear. Run he thought. His legs froze.  His mind screamed at him to run. He couldn't go forward because of the death he faced.  He couldn't run because he would be a coward.  He froze, unable to act  He could not be a hero and he would not be a coward.  He faced the death of war or the thousand deaths of a coward. He heard the shell scream but never heard it explode.
His mother received a letter telling her how brave he had been. 

i am coming

I am coming

 soaring to join you
writing your name in the sky
your love is all I ever wanted
your name is there for all to know
 though the winds try to blow it away
it will remain there for ever and ever 
 it is written with the blood of my heart 
my love for you is for all eternity 
 the wind is in my soul
 the earth waits

I am coming


Junsend ocrav ortool
Mithrst inisano Scangsio
glyri collisan aphteted
mizan ourristu aphotet
gontl ingpro

an old Grizzly Bear incantation recited just before eating an incompetant hunter or before posting a comment on someone's blog


I don't have a lot of game unless Cross words and Blogging are on the list, but I'm married to a very gamey lady.  Noo, she doesn't stink.  She is a super female stud.
She plays volleyball 3 times a week and soccer every Saturday and Sunday.  We are spending this week end in San Diego so she can play in a soccer tournament.  She turned 60 on Thanksgiving day.  She has beaten Colon Cancer and has had major knee reconstruction.  Yes she is one lady with a lot of game.  The good news is she is in great shape.  The bad new is she can kick my butt if I get out of line.

post for Sunday Scribblings

carry on keats

even though
my heart aches
and a drousy numbness
pains my senses

I continue to seek
the depth of your jade green eyes
the pulse of your soul
beating with mine

I seek  the touch
of your hand
the feel of your back
the heat of your breath

forgive me
come back


to the young
beauty is flesh.
  the world turns on
the flesh of a woman,
this is causing global warming.

to the old
beauty is the world
beauty is bold
but not bold enough
to stop
global warming

you young peope
need to
cool it

the oracle of the duck

When young and untested
he could not figure them out

When old he was uncontested
 never went with out 

Today he sits on his butt
in a cold and rickity hunting hut

He knows they will come
he knows where from

The morning is butt cold
his butt is bony and old

He lights a sterno
that turns into an inferno

The hut is on fire
 the ducks  fly higher

He may be able to
forecast a duck

but when it comes to fire
 he is a total muck

God is Great....and funny

I got this via the net.....Old Grizz could not resist passing it along.
An atheist was walking through the woods. 
What majestic trees!
What powerful rivers!
What beautiful animals!
He said to himself.
As he was walking along the river he heard rustling in the bushes behind him.

He turned to look and saw a 7 foot Grizzly bear charging towards him

 He ran as fast as he could up the path but the bear was getting closer.  He turned to look again and tripped and fell.
He rolled over to pick himself up but the Grizzly bear was right on top of him.

At that instant the atheist cried out 
"Oh my God!"
Time stopped.  The bear froze.  The forest was silent.
A bright light shone upon the man.  
A voice came out of the sky.
"You have denied my existence for all these years.  Do you expect me to help you now?"
Am I to count you as a believer?

The atheist looked into the light and replied, "It would be hypocritical of me to suddenly ask you to treat me as a christian now.  But, Perhaps you could make the bear a christian".


Very well said the voice.

The light went out.  The sounds of the forest resumed. The bear dropped his right paw and brought both paws together, bowed his head and spoke. 

"Lord bless this food, for which I am about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen

the interview

I made it.  I got the interview.  There were two of them.  Both of them with PhD's in Physics and heading up a solid fuel research program at Stanford University.  I had no idea why I had to interview with them.  My job, if I got it, would be a minor lab position at the test facility.  I had been to the facility and interviewed with the plant manager.  He told me I would get the job but just had to interview with the two men heading up the project.

I was nervous as hell and blew the interview.  I was so far out of my league it was a joke.  They asked me stupid questions like, why won't an airplane fly on the moon?  I was so nervous I couldn't have told them why they fly on earth.

I was really depressed.  I wanted that job.  It was within the field I was studying for in college.  I wanted to be  a chemical engineer.  The job was for the summer and it would have helped my finances tremendously.
I moped about for the next few weeks working evenings at McDonald's and feeling sorry for myself.

The news was scary and grim.  "Solid Fuel Test Plant explodes" killing 2 and injuring 5.  That's the job I didn't get.  Would I have been killed?  Did the person that got the job screw up?  I will never know.  But one thing I do know,  some times blowing an interview is the best thing you can do.


Fool me once shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. This is an old adage I've heard for years. But what is shame but a feeling you have when you get caught or fooled. Nothing can cover a man or woman so completely as the fog of shame engulfing guilty souls when they are caught. It is strange to me that guilt can walk so proud until it is discovered.

junk and I

I caught my junk yard dog............. eating my junk food........... inside of my junk car.......... right after he had .......... ripped up my junk mail................... which was not so junky after all.................. because he ate my junk bonds .................... but unfortuneately for him................... he also ate some his junk dog food................ I created using junk science.................. which made him sick......................... but I was able.............. to save my ............. junk yard dog ................ with an................... Old Grizz...................... junket pudding...................

fatherly advice

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I never bothered to pay attention to.
I was not and am not any different than any other son.  Sons always know more than than their fathers.  Everyone knows that.  We all go through our growing pains being pains in the asses.  It is not until we've gone over fool's hill that it dawns on us that the "old man" was not so dumb after all.  All dads give advice.  Some give a lot of advice and some give only what they think is necessary.  My dad was of the latter group.  He didn't talk much but every now and then, when we were off alone somewhere, he would offer my some words that he felt were important.  On one occasion when I was in my early teens we were sitting on the patio and he offered me these words of wisdom.  "Son, I know you're starting to take an interest in the young ladies and I think I need to offer some words of advice.  
Always treat girls with respect.
Never do anything that would make your mother ashamed of you and above all, never unzip your pants with a girl you wouldn't marry."  That was it.  He never spoke another word to me about sex.
Well if you read the first sentence of the blog you already know that I didn't listen.
I am not going to dance any skeletons out of my closet and tell all of the sordid details but I certainly would have been better off if I had listened.  I would just like to tell my dad that he was right.  It is to bad that I couldn't have said that to him while he was still alive.


bump in the night
is not as strange
as you might think

you never know
whence the bump
comes or goes

some say ghosts
some say fright

but I say
a bump in
the night

is only a dream
or a rat
maybe even
a washing machine

but never a ghost
or a ghoul can
go bump

only a wife
mad as hell
can make a bump

oh hell
I was confused with
the word thump.

that is what it really was
a thump in the night
from a wife
afraid of ghosts

when I tried to
sneak in late.
she heard bump bump
I felt thump  thump

zip zip

He couldn't keep his eyes off of her lips.  They bugged him.  God how awful they looked.  Why would a women paint her lips that way?
Didn't she realize she looked like a damned whore?  Did she think men liked that look except those that knew it was a sign she was easy.  Those lips were like a neon sign advertising a product...SEX.  Come on over here guys, I have what you want and I am willing to share.  Was she a whore?
It did not matter too him whether she sold it or gave it away, she was still  a whore and shouldn't be allowed in this neighborhood.  He was fuming and decided to call the police.  Just then a man came out of a store and went up to her and started talking.  They turned to walk away. He had to intervene.  He could not let that whore do business in his neighborhood.

Hey, he called out to the couple.  "I'm calling the police and having that women arrested for prostitution and if you don't want get arrested with her you better get the hell out of here".

Are you crazy, the man replied?  This is my wife and she is dressed up for a Halloween party.  If you call the police I'll have you arrested.

Damn, he thought, will I ever be able to zip my lip?

one plus one equals one

Two souls with but a single thought,

Two hearts that beat as one
two souls - two hearts
beating thinking
one mind
one heart
one body
one clone
body of blood
genetic blood
mind of thought
genetic thought
one soul one clone
two hearts
one real
one clone
one life
one soul
one copy
one ghoul 

curds drive me to drive

In the city of Beaver, a little town in Southern, Utah there is a world class cheese factory,  the " DFA Cache Valley Cheese Mart" that sells fresh Curds.  I never drive though Beaver without getting my fix for fresh "Curds" the  "Squeaky Cheese".

In fact I have driven there from  Las Vegas  just to get my fix for "Squeaky Cheese".  If you have never had a bag of Curds and a cup of coffee by yours side as your are driving up or down the road, you have never been in heaven.  Bite into a clump of Curd and it squeaks as your mouth closes.  The muted salty cheese taste is to never be forgotten.  A sip of hot black coffee with the hum of the tires on the road completes the reverie.
There is something about fresh curds that hits my taste buds right in the butt.

Yep, when you say cheese to me, I don't smile.  I get in my car and drive.



hungry was a friend of mine
and was with me all of the time.  
He stayed with me
through thick and thin.  
he would never stray far 
would always return home again.
and when I begged him to leave
and set me free
he would always laugh

flash his ugly grin
kick my gut
with an ugly twist
his goal to leave me
crying for a crumb
of life
as I crawled and begged
for more
he would laugh and giggle
and laugh some more
if you want some food
you filthy swine
here take mine
lick it up off the



I have never been been a friend of tattooing. The reasons do not matter.  At least the original reasons do not.  However, I am not a prude.  If you want one, it's your body, do what you want with it.

In fact I have seen several tattoos that I like and I admit they fascinate me.

I am really fascinated with the ones on pretty girls.  That's my problem.  Sometimes I cannot keep from staring and it bugs me.  I am beginning to think I am becoming a "dirty old man". 

When I was  a young man I trained myself to look a woman in the eye and not stare at her boobs.  I actually achieved my goal and could tell you what color her eyes were.  

However, now the ladies are tattooing their boobs and their butts and leaving enough  exposed to get my attention.  The tattoos start above the breasts or the butt and disappear beneath their sexy underwear of which they do not mind showing along with a lot of body parts that are also hard to ignore.  Now I am getting old but I am not dead and it has become very difficult to keep my eyes from staring.

So, I propose the following.  It should be a law that if a woman tattoos her breasts or her butt she must also have a pretty tattoo under each eye.  This would help "dirty old men" like me keep their eyes where they belong.

the key

The big day had arrived.  Today  they would give the car away.
It was a great promotion.  Drive the new "Demeter".  The latest beauty on the market.   It was perfectly named for today's society.   "Demeter" the Greek God of Agriculture and Grain symbolized the new  "green"  world.   It got sixty-five miles per gallon of gas and seated five comfortably.  The geese loved it.  "Just get them to eat a few bites of grain and they would drive off in one." was  Fat George's favorite saying.  He would say it over and over in sales meetings.  The geese were how he referred to and thought of customers.

The promotion was simple.  Take a test drive and get your name in in the drawing for a new "Demeter".  Twenty names  were drawn for a chance at the "key".   The one with the lucky "key" would drive off in a brand new car.

Free hot dogs and sodas  for anyone coming  in on the  final day of the contest.  Big discounts were offered on all cars.  Fat George hadn't missed a trick.  He got up on the stage and took the mike.  He was ecstatic.  This was his best promotion.  This would be a great year even if they never sold another car.

OK folks, he said in the mike.  The big day is here.  One brand new "Demeter" for the lucky "key" holder.
There were twenty brand new cars and twenty excited winners of the drawing.  Each one  holding what they hoped would be the lucky "key".  "Remember the one with the "key" that starts the car will drive it home today"  Fat George bellowed.

He was at his best. "George's Car Sales is giving the car away absolutely free",  he yelled in the mike.  We will pay the registration, the taxes and give the lucky winner a full tank of gas".

OK it's time.  Get in and try your key.  Twenty winners with twenty "keys" opened a car door, got in, inserted  and twisted their "key".    Each one was  praying they would be the lucky one.

They all started, every damn one of them.  Every "winner" was a "winner".  Twenty  brand new "Demeters' absolutely free  to twenty lucky winners.  Fat George damn near fainted.  What the hell's going on here he screamed.  Fat George was giving away not one but twenty brand new "Demeter's"

Jimmy Schmitds, the car lot boy, stood at the back of the crowd laughing.  "There, you fat bastard, I told you I would get even with you for firing me".

posted for "Sunday Scribblings"

the phone rings

It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone ringing three times in the dead of night.  Unfortunately the person that answers those rings has no way of knowing that it is a wrong number.  The phone woke Tom and Dana up.  Who could that be at this time of night?  Tom rolled over and mumbled hello.  No one responded.  Hello he said, who is this?  Still no answer and then the click of the other party hanging up.  Who was it, Dana asked?  I don't know, they hung up.  Wrong number I guess.  They both rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but Tom couldn't.  He wasn't supposed to be home that night.  He had come home from his run  a day early.  His normal run put  him in Phoenix on Wednesday and Thursday nights.

This week one of the accounts didn't have any freight so he deadheaded home early.  He was wide awake.  Recently he had been wondering if she had been cheating on him.

 She could cheat so easy with him gone two nights each week.  Was that her boy friend calling?  The bug had been planted and it grew and festered the rest of the night.  He got up early and got himself a beer.  By the time Dana got up he was drunk and mad.  He knew she had been cheating on him.  He accused her.  He wouldn't believe her.  Who was he?  How long?  Then he hit her with a back hand that split her lip and sent her sprawling.  He heard a noise behind him and turned.  The bullet entered his chest, exploded his heart and tore a hole in his back the size of a fist.  He was dead before his body hit the floor.  God Dana said, what are you doing here?  The killer replied, I knew he was suspicious when he answered the phone.  I came to see if you were all right. This is perfect he said.  You  can say you killed him and claim self defense.  He helped her off the floor and kissed her.  My brother wasn't worth a damn he said,  He's better off dead.

carry on tuesdays

panties, wine and sleep

decided to take a shot at the new poetry blog.
objects of imitation
don't know why, but it was fun

wandering through
the silk and satin
these push up that
those cling tightly to it
they lift and firm
what the hell size
does she wear

no one drinks wine alone
why not
it's my wine
I can do as I please

asleep on the floor
don't care any more
the dam plane
is stuck


We were two
she and I

she was blue
I was lost

she was wild
I was shy

We became one
she and I

she was everywhere
she was everything

I was lost in she
she was lost in I

she permeated my world
The atmosphere was filled with her

I could feel her, sense her
as part of me

she blanketed me
like a warm summer breeze. 

she surrounded me
engulfed me
caressed me 

she lifted me.
she was I
I was she

Then we we were two
she and I

It was fun
when we were one

When we became

she was lost
I was blue

to love or not to love

They loved with a love that was more than love. Their passion was deep an unending. They lived for each other, truly the perfect love. No one else, nothing else, existed when they were together. They hated the times they had to be apart. They plotted secret meetings in the middle of the day. Sneaking away for an unneeded errands. Just a touch, a hug would help them get through the moment. Often the touch, the hug could not be broken leading to the the thrill of public sex. Coupling in places they could be seen or caught but rarely were they seen and if they were, they would giggle and disappear, melting into the busy world. They knew their love and their passion would last for ever. A love so deep and a passion so strong can also have a deep river of jealously flowing like the river Styx buried somewhere deep in the unsuspecting brain. A misspoken word, a missed rendezvous, a look, a smile at a pretty girl, a compliment by a handsome man, often lead to small suspicions and if not talked about they can grow and seethe and boil and fester. Those that can love so deeply are also those that can hate just as deeply. The love that was more than a love can turn into a hate that is more than a hate and it did with these two. Their jealousy grew but they were not the type to talk about their problems. Each knew that they were true to the love and passion and were sure the other was weak, faltering, looking for a forbidden touch. Their suspicions of each other festered in their minds and soon each was sure the other was planning to leave. Each began to miss the daily trysts. An excuse, a meeting, anything to avoid the other. Each would hurry home at night to see if the other would still be there. There love making was short. They were like two animals, mating because of mother nature. Each wanted the other to deny their couplings so they could confirm their inner knowledge. Neither would give in. They had sex every night. Quick functional sex. There was no emotion involved, only hard physical sex. Each acting as a prostitute. A deep hatred began to grow in their hearts. Each began to plan revenge, a perfect way to get even. Each began to plan the perfect murder. They became obsessed. When they got home they had their animal mating moment and hurried to their own personal computer. Each googled death, murder, poison and any other subjects that might help them in their plot for revenge. It is interesting how the mind works. Their minds seem to meld together in their desire to commit the perfect murder. Their computers searched the exact same subjects at almost the exact same time. Neither had a clue to what the other was doing. They were on a mission. The perfect murder. Should I get insurance...no that would be stupid...revenge, not money is my desire. Should I hire someone...no that's really stupid....Should I buy a gun....no, to obvious...Poison...no, to easy to trace...Medicine...the idea came to each mind as if they were listening to a lecture...."Viagra"....oh my God, they thought, I can kill with sex. Oh how easy will that be. Viagra, so easy to get from the net. Viagra sent in a plain wrapper to their places of work. Viagra, so easy to slip into a drink. A hot drink to mix the pill. Each made a potion of Viagra and boiling water. Each used 10 pills, more than enough they were sure to bring forth the revenge, the death of a cheating lover. Each chose Starbucks. On the fateful evening each said to the other almost as one "lets go to Starbucks for a Latte". Neither realizing that the other had also said it. They were too excited. It was like the honey moon night of two virgins. Each found a way to slip "their" potion into the others drink. They sipped for a few moments and then began to drink faster, Again almost as one the words "I'm horny,lets go home" came from both mouths. Again neither realizing the other had also said it. They were hot and ready before they left the shop. He showing his manhood alive and ready, she giggling and kissing his ear and neither caring about the show they were putting on. In fact they were glad they were making a scene. It would be perfect later when the other was dead. They were almost undressed before they went through the front door. They were into each other immediately. They both ground and pushed. Hot and sweaty, each screamed, "harder, faster", do it faster, I need it faster. 10 minutes, 15 minutes, 30 minutes and then an hour. The Viagra pushed them, gave them strength and stamina they never knew they had. They were both exhausted. Neither could figure out why the other was still alive. They collapsed in a heap, tangled together, Neither had climaxed. He began to giggle and then she began to laugh and then they really looked at each other for the first time since the jealousy began. I was trying to kill you he confessed. She laughed and also confessed. They talked, confessed and talked and that started a real love that truly was a love that was more than a love. Carry on Tuesdays

adults suck

This subject is this old bear's favorite pet peeve. "When are you going to grow up"? "Act your age". "Do you know how old you are?" These question were hurled at me just last week from Mrs. Old Grizz. Why in the hell would I want to grow up? That's my standard answer. I never want to grow up. I never want to be an adult and by "God" I won't. To hell with the those that think I have to act in some "way". I refuse to give it up. "It" being my child behavior. I like to throw tantrums when I get caught with my fingers in the cookie jar. The greatest compliment I ever received was at my 50th high school reunion. One of the "Miss Prissy Pants" that believed her life had been so successful, (3 kids - doctor, lawyer, Indian chief), looked at me, batted her droopy mascaraed eyes and babbled, "you still haven't grown up, have you? This stupid blathering came during the session where everyone stands up and brags about how successful they have been. "Yahoo, look at me I have more money than you. My parents are better than your yours has been changed to "my kids are more successful than yours." I just stood up and said that I had been arrested more than any one else in the class and had sex with more women than any other guy there and finally all my kids were very happily incarcerated in one prison or another in 26 different states and that I sure was some kind of a record, thank you very much. I thought I was doing them all a favor. After all what do most adults want more than someone to look down on. No, not me. I never want to grow up. However, if I ever do, I want to be a cowboy or policeman or fire fighter or a astronaut or a school teacher for Sunday Scribblings

Shylo and Me

posted for "Keith's COTtage" When a journey begins badly it rarely ends well is a damned good way to describe my trip to bury Shylo. I should have known that there would be trouble. They warned me to stay home. They warned me that I was to weak to make the drive, but I couldn't stay there. I had to go. I had to see her one last time. I left early because there was a 4 hour drive ahead of me. I had left her at a friends house while I had a Gall Bladder removed. I wasn't one of the lucky ones that got in and out in one day. They cut a hole in my gut that was eight inches long. That was after they had cut a hole in my belly button. Nasty, nasty, nasty the doc said. You had one ugly Bladder, we had to take it out it in pieces. I moaned and felt sorry for myself for the next week while I recovered. I got the phone call early in the morning. She was dead. She was my black schnauzer and the best dog I ever owned. It was like a boy and his dog while he was growing up. We were never apart from the time I bought her as a puppy until I left her that day. Seven years and we were never apart. She went every where I went. If she couldn't go, I didn't go. My eyes teared when I left her. Maybe that was that an omen. Maybe I should have known what was going to happen but I didn't. I wasn't worried about her. My friends loved dogs and I knew they would take good care of her. What I didn't know was that she would run away. I guess she was looking for me. It wasn't the cars fault, Shylo ran right in front of it. The driver took her to the vet but she died on his table. They were waiting for me to get there before they buried her. I had told them I wanted her in a pet cometary. I couldn't bear to think of her being burned up in one of those damned dog inferno's. As I drove towards her my eyes teared and I couldn't stop from crying, My eyes began to burn and as I tried to wipe them dry I missed a turn and my car left the road, flipping over and over down a hill side, I was killed on the second flip. Maybe this journey did end well after all, Shylo and Me are together again. .

the dinner

posted for Sunday Scribbling Last month Old Grizz got himself in one big heap of trouble. Mrs. Old Grizz left to spend a few weeks with her mother. If you ever want to meet up with one mean old she bear, you should visit my mother in law. Well you know what happens when momma bear is away, this old bear is gonna play. Having the den to myself for a few days I decided it would a perfect time to invite the boys over for some "Texas Holdem". Eight seats at the table, seven suckers and my self. I picked the seven worst poker players I knew. Scooby-doo - A not so smart dog. Eeyore - A less than bright donkey (I always thought of him as "dumb ass"). Goofy - The name says it all. Yogi Bear - My dumb cousin from Jelly Stone Park. Pepe-Le-Pew - A real stinker when it comes to poker. Huckleberry Hound - Need I say any more. Foghorn Leghorn - well, how smart can a chicken be (I call him Pea Brain). The invites were sent (actually I just called them) and then I went to get the food. Chips and dip, buffalo wings (that one is always hard for me because I hate to eat a cousin - I actually know a few buffalo's with wings, one is now missing his), and of course a keg of beer. The party was on. Friday night the boys showed and we just sat down to deal the first hand when Mrs. Old Grizz came home. When she walked in the door the bear poop hit the fan. "What is going on. I told you no more poker parties. Scooby-doo leaves his scooby snacks every where and when he loses all can do it run around saying "rooby-rooby-roo". He drives me crazy. And ..the last time Eeyore was here he left thistle all over the house, then pooped in the corner and had the audacity to walk around saying "thanks for noticing me". Oh my God. you let Goofy come back? They should have never changed his name from "Dippy". All he does is scream all night long "Yaaaaaaa-hoo-hoo-hoo-hooey. I can't even think. Well bless my soul if isn't cousin Yogi. If you say "I'm smarter than the average bear" one time, I'll smack you with a frying pan. Beside you're not so dam smart. Your love life is shot to hell after you got caught with that blond hussy. They even wrote a song about you. If you haven't heard it check it out on the net. suzie bear Oh Grizzy how could you let that stinking Pepe-Le-Pew come back. Last time he kept humping my leg because I had on black pants with a white stripe down the leg. Huckleberry Hound? How can you let a blue person into my house? You know I can't stand blue people and on top of that he cannot even hum a tune on key. Huck if you even hum one bar of "Clementine" I'll wash your mouth out with "mother's Lie Soap". Glory be Grizzy get out the frying pan. I'm going to eat that tough old buzzard. Foghorn if you grab me be the tail and whack me with a board singing that "Camptown Races" song, I'll doo-dah you all over the barn yard. Everybody out. Out...out...out. You're not going to mess up my house. Get out. Grizz you have a lot of explaining to do. Yes dear. And so went the story of Old Grizz's dinner for seven.

what happened?

We think we know the ones we love............ for "Keith's COTtage"
we talked often we walked on occasion we drank together every now and then even shared the same women from time to time he was always there for me i called to him for guidance and support he was the first to come when i was down i could count on him to lift me to higher places and then it all changed something happened to challenge our friendship i called he was not there anymore i was lost i could not function where did my inner being disappear oh shit he is off in the strange strange world of blogging

new, whats?

an old man sitting in the morning sun worried that his life was no longer worth the effort and then a new child was born that needed his love and guidance and beget a new reason for him to be

anticipate and the journey

ANTICIPATE FOR SUNDAY SCRIBBLINGS i anticpated and was disappointed.............. i dreamed and was denied........... i went and never saw............ i believed and didn't achieve....... i looked and could not see................ i know that i did not................ believe in me the journey carry on tuesday
The journey began and immediately it was apparent that there was to be no end. There would be countless years of struggles and frustrations. Even if there was to be some small area of success or some small milestone reached, the journey would continue, driven by the desires and deeds of the writer. There had to be much thought and then long periods of rethinking. Roads had to be driven and maps plotted and then the routes had to be redirected and sent in another way. The ultimate destination a dream, maybe a forgotten childhood fantasy or a simple desire to be noticed. The road is a compulsion that must be followed. It cannot be denied and when a milestone in the journey is reached it may cause revulsion and denial. Like a woman who wants to destroy the children she has created, the writer has periods of remorse and hates the offspring of their thoughts. They lament the creative process and have grave doubts about the journey but they know it must go on. It cannot be stopped, because it is now in the blood and no matter what happens on the journey, the writer must continue. To stop the journey would be to deny eternal life. There will never be an end, only the journey.

midnight dream

Self Found Midnight dreams Swirls Above Twilight darkness Confronts Mass Confused energy Challenge Awaken
Force denial Screams Take Desire Whispers Be Unafraid Nuzzle Bravery Fears not Defeat
Fools fear Failure Mind Awake Failure Is Knowledge Gone Misty Dream Remember Not Dream Forgot

i have will power

darkness burned the mid-day sun it caused my spirit to weaken but i refused to patronize the local pub until happy hour

horse meat and ants

The power of the mind is an awesome thing. Sometimes it doesn't matter what something really is. What really matters is what your mind perceives it to be. Take for example the day I got a great buy on ribs. They were 45 cents a pound (remember my name is Old Grizz) and I bought about 20 lbs for the week end cook out. The normal price in those days was around 1.75 per lb so you know I got a great deal. But that is where the mind thing comes in. About half way home with the ribs I got to wondering why they were so cheap and of course my mind naturally got around to "horse meat". The more I thought about those ribs the more I could see some poor ass horse in a slaughter house. Naturally I threw the ribs out. If I had taken one bite I would have gagged. Fast forward to my life in the here and now. We just paid big bucks to have a new kitchen put in and my wife had to have "granite" counter tops. Fine by me. She chose the color, dark with some biege mixed in. Well the other night I was fixing a snack on the counter and I was attacked by ants. Seemed like millions of the little thugs and I couldn't see them. They blend with the counter top very nicely thank you. Of course I sprayed and sprayed and washed and washed and sent all their little bodie into the sewer. Now my problem is ants over mind...mine. I see ants evry time I go in the kitchen. My wife has never been so happy. I wash the dam counter at least 3 times every night and twice before my coffee in the morning. I can't get them out of my mind. God how I wish I was an Aardvark.

flower of love

love is the flower you've got to let grow carry on tuesdays the cactus flower brings beauty of color to the brown arid desert it is nurtured by the love of the sun and the sweat of the morning dew a gift of nature and a child of god love is like that it too must be nurtured and fed it too will bring beauty to a wild desert

The devil and I

Sometimes when we have a great desire to go to a special place or do something we think would be special, we get ourselves into a great deal of trouble or at least the experience does not turn out the way we had hoped. I once tried to improve my writing by going to a writing work shop . I signed up for the following class. Writing 666 "Rhetoric" On the first day the wily old horned goat said to me, "Why are you here?" I replied, "I want to learn how to write. I want to be a great writer". Good, he said, "show me some of your...... Allusion, Alliteration, Amplification, Anacoluthon, Anadiplosis, and Analogy" Damn, I relied, I did not come here to learn magic, I want to be a writer. OK, he said as he got a little redder in the face, " Show me some..... Anaphora, Antanagoge, Antimetabole, Antiphrasis, Antithesis, and Apophasis" I replied. "I do not like scrabble, I only want to write." His eyes bulged and his voice got louder as he said , "Yes but I need to see something in Aporoia, Aposiopesis, Apostrophe, Appositive, Assonance, and Asendeton" Trivia is a game for nerds, I replied. I am serious about writing. His eyes got bigger, his horns grew longer but he took a deep breath and said, "If you are really serious at least demonstrate Catachresis, Chiasmus, Climax, Conduplicatio, Diacope, and Dirimens Copulatio" Now my eyes got bigger and my face grew red, Damn I said, "I may be able to do something with Climax and Copulatio, they both sound familiar." I thought he was going to choke on his tongue. He spat back at me, "Do not be crude, to write you need be able to Distinctio, Enthymeme, Enumeratio, Epanalepsis, Epistrophe, and Epithet" Cowering, I replied "But these, whatever they are, are not even in spell check "Spell Check?, he spewed, screw spell check. I am not teaching spell check, I am teaching Rhetoric. If you want to write your readers must hear Epizeuxis, Eponym, Exemplum, Expletive, Hyperbaton, and Hyperbole Don't be crude, I whimpered, I just want to write simple prose without using foul language. His tongue forked out at me and his mouth spewed fire, "Yes, but to write Prose, even simply, you must use Hypophora, Hypotaxis, Litotes, Metabasis, Metanioia,and Metaphor" OK, I replied "I know metaphor. I'll Metaphor." Now he was really mad. "Are you a total idiot, a complete moron"? "That is to simple. Good writing requires Metonymy, Onomatopoeia, Oxymoron, Parallelism, Parataxis, and Personification." I felt better, I finally recognized some of the words he was using, I said with a deep sigh of relief, "Now were getting somewhere. I can Personify an Oxymoron Parallelism and California has taught me a lot about Parataxis" He drooled and he blubbered as he said, "Do not be trite. In this class we require Paranthesis, Pleonasm, Polesyndeton, Procatalepsis, Rhetorical Question, and Scesis Onomation." Now I was totally lost and I got smart with him. "Now you are getting trite", I sassed. "you cannot be serious...Scesis Onomation? Your are, of course, joking. He nearly choked on his tongue as he gurgled, "Do not get smart with me you little imp. If you want me to help you, come up with some Sententia, Simile, Simploce, Synecdoche, Understatement, and Zeugma." I was really frustrated and I said, "I've got a great Understatement for you" "Good," he said, "let me hear it." I picked up my journal and said very quietly, "You can take your class and your rhetoric and go straight back down to hell." "The devil made me do it"


one end was located in China the other end in England and never the "twine" shall meet

Betrayal can be Deadly

cradle, perfect and snare. 3 word wednesday
Cats in the cradle, the perfect snare.woven through the fingers of time. I drifted through the morning mist coming closer and closer. I knew she was there waiting for me. I could not resist. She enticed me. I knew she was poison and I would die, but I could not resist. I could only remember her body, how she felt, how she shook when we made love. One more time. Please, just give me one more time. She had been there for all eternity weaving her cradle. Weaving a perfect web of death. She knew I was coming. Her eyes burned the mist. I could feel their heat. I could feel their strength pulling me. My lust engulfed me. A damned eternity of lust, burning my loins, racking my body. It forced me towards her. I was sacrificing my eternal soul for lust. I knew it and I could not stop. I was almost there. I felt the heat of her body, sensed the rhythm of her hips. I could hear the sound of her heart throbbing wildly behind her heaving breasts. Her breath came in pants. I sensed her desire for death. It engulfed me like a web. I had betrayed her. She had waited an eternity for revenge. I was so near I could feel her breath through the mist. Her cradle was perfect A snare of eternal revenge. I had to touch her, feel her one last time. She knew I couldn't stop. I reached out, felt her arm. She gasped, shuddered, the excitement of revenge gripping her. Centuries of hate erupted within her. Her heart exploded, her revenge lost. An eternity of planning, building her cradle of deceit, setting her snare, all lost in a heart beat. My lust released me. I was free. I had won..or.. I had lost


Old Grizz is giving "a story in 58 words" a try
"Memories" the music moved her soul her soul moved her body her hips swayed with the music her breast moved in rhythm he watched her from a distance a lustful look burned the night air the memories of youth returned an old desire burned in his groin dam, he thought, it would be nice to be young again
idea by "Surface Tension" - thom g

my hero for "carry on tuesday"

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life...... is a thought that deeply troubles me. Who else could be a hero in my life? Does my life have any heroes? I am certainly not a hero by any imagination of the word, but I could be a hero of my own life. I could be if I could overcome my main weakness...procrastination. I'm sure it's not to late. I just have to get started. I'll do that tomorrow. Right now I have to take a nap.

"My plan" for S&S

I needed a plan. I needed something to help me. I knew I could not do it alone. I had tried it before and one time I almost succeeded but in the stretch run I had faltered. I had caved in to stupidity. I stood there looking at them laying on the table. One little pack of cigarettes. One big pack of death. I was alone, feeling sorry for myself. I do not remember why I was depressed. It was probably because I was alone. We all go through ups and downs in our lives and most of the time it is just because of small mood swings and mean nothing at all. On that evening I was looking at the cigarettes that my brother had left on the coffee table and I wondered what would one taste like? I had not smoked one in nine months. I had kicked the habit. I had beat them. But I decided to take a drag to remind me how bad they tasted and I did. Unfortunately for me, that drag was the best smoke I ever sucked in. I had not really kicked the habit. The next day I was back to smoking 2 packs a day. Fast forward to ten years later. I wanted to quit. Hell, I thought, it isn't hard to quit smoking. I quit 4 or 5 times a day. The hard part is staying quit. Now this is where the plan comes in. A plan to help me stay quit. I finally devised my plan. It was simple, really simple and some of you are going think that it was stupid, really, really stupid. But as stupid as it may sound to you, it worked for me. My plan...."cigarette procrastination". Yep that is it..."cigarette procrastination". I wouldn't quit. I would just not have another cigarette until I retired. Does that sound stupid? I don't know, but I am really serious, it worked for me. The thought of never having another cigarette was a lot easier to take. In my mind, I didn't quit, I was just putting it off until another day. That was thirty years ago and I still smoke but I am waiting on that next cigarette until the day I retire. Yes 30 years of "cigarette procrastination". I know that when I smoke that next cigarette I will be hooked again. Maybe that is why I am 70 and still working.

drip -hypnotic-sulk

A shot at "Three Word Wednesday" my sulking nose dripped me into a hypnotic trance. while in my hypnotic trance I sulked because I bumped my nose and my nose began to drip again drippy noses and hypnotic sulking are not a match made in heaven

Dream on Keith

"Dream on, for dreams are Sweet." They are needed to mend your soul. Do not run from your dreams. They are meant to cleanse your body of the unneeded torments your soul goes through. When the guilt of the day racks your body at night, your soul must cleanse them. Even the nightmares are sweet because they are a harbinger of your soul being cleansed of the guilt. Take the "Dream Catcher". Bless it with your God and it will protect you at night. It will catch your dreams and your soul will be cleansed and pure, ready to begin a new day. The old Indian did not smile. His eyes were black as polished ebony. They had the depth of a mountain pool and as I looked into them I felt the reflection of my soul looking back at me. My body seemed be more erect, my heart felt younger and there seemed to be a heavy burden lifted from my mind. I felt pure and cleansed as if I had just been forgiven of all my sins. He never blinked and I knew I was looking into the eyes of all men's souls. "You have been blessed my son, " he whispered. "You have been allowed to see into the eyes of God." You do not waver, you believe. "Dream on, for Dreams are Sweet"

I Indulge me

As is obvious from my blog name and my writing, I am no spring chicken. In my blog profile it states tha I am 517 years old and was born in the year of the rat. Awesome I thought, that fits. I put 1492 as my birth year because I am a wise ass. Just to get the record straight I turned 70 this year and I never wrote a lick until a year and a half ago. I never dreamed of being a great writer. I never thought I had any talent for writing. I never intended to write until a friend invited me to a class called "Journaling for Older Adults". It is a class that helps you write your life story. I was interested because my dad didn't put anything in writing. Now he's gone and I don't know enough about him. I want my children to know who and what I am and was. So I went to the class and I was introduced to Amy Lusky-Barth, the instructor. I cannot begin to describe the positive influence she has had on me. I am not even going to try. I am going to lead you to her blog and let you read her wonderful writing. If you are in doubt as to whether what you have to say is important, then reading Amy is a must. I have her on my blog roll. (Purple Sage Post) However the post I would like you to read is on "Tuesdays with Amy" and is titled "I Owe it All to Kafka" I have no idea whether I am a writer. I will probably never be published, but because of Amy I will write and write and write. In fact I will indulge myself with writing. Thank you Amy Lusky-Barth

friend for " Carry on tuesday"

"Is there anybody there?" said the traveller, knocking on the moonlit door
i opened my soul to him he listened to what I said he heard what I said he believed what I said i trusted him he did not lecture me he did not try to change me he accepted me i trusted him he was my friend

Human (Sunday Scribblings)

What? Not again? That's the 4th time this year. They're killing us. How did they get in? Drove through the overhead door? Damn. How much did they get? Them Sonsofbitches. All the jackets and the sewing machines. Insurance? No, they canceled us after the last burglary. We're screwed. How much? $30,000 to replace the jackets and the equipment? We'll have to use the house. Yes, we need the money or were out of business. I know it's our home but if we don't have a business we'll lose the home anyway. I'll call the bank. You go ahead and order the new machines and the jackets. And by the way I'm going to order that pistol, you know the one I looked at before, The 9MM automatic. Hell yes I can shoot. I qualified with a 45 in the service. If you can hit anything with that gun you can shoot any of em. Yes, I'll be careful. Hey what's all the police action on the freeway? Dead? Ran over by a semi? Good, I hope it's the Bastard that robbed us. Serve him right. Bitter, your damn rights I'm bitter. I'd like to kill those A-holes that robbed us. I'm going to wait her at night and take care of this once and for all. The Law? Our Law? The dumb asses that haven't caught anyone for the last three burglaries? Your Kidding? right? Human? What do you mean, I'm not human anymore? Shoot a kid over graffiti? I wouldn't do that. Would I? Compassion? For the dead guy? His family? Oh my God, you're right. I never even thought of his family. That's bad. Wow. I am bitter. I have no compassion, I am turning into something not human. Your right. I won't order the gun. No I don't want to kill some poor kid over a little graffiti. I think I'll have a talk with God. Maybe he can help me become human again.

Sting for "Weekend Wordsmith"

I think everybody in the world has been stung. I can't prove it, but I'd bet my last $2 on it. Well, I suppose I would have to eliminate babies. However, once your up and walking, your going to get stung by one of those pesky buggers. If you are lucky, you won't be bitten by a Yellow Jacket. I wasn't. I mean I wasn't lucky. I was stung by the biggest Yellow Jacket in the western USA. At least I was sure it was the biggest. It looked like the biggest one to me. Now one of the important things about being stung is...""where did it get you"? Your hand? Your foot? I knew a guy who got stung on his " good time charley" when he was relieving himself on a hunting trip. That made for a lot of good jokes on that trip and a lot of trips after that. I had always been lucky with my bee stings. They were on the hand ,the foot, the legs or the arms. The places that hurt but didn't cause any major discomfort. But, the last one was a real bitch. I have hunted, fished and camped all of my life so you would think that I would have learned a few things. Well I have learned some things, but I did not learn about Wasps and Coke. While out camping last summer. I was enjoying a book, a fire and a coke in the late afternoon. My wife asked me to do something so I set the book and the coke down and did what she asked. When I returned to my place of solitude I took a nice big mouth full of the coke and the Yellow Jacket that was stealing it. I was lucky in that I did not swallow, but I did manage to make the Wasp mad and of course, before I could spit him and coke out, he let me have it. The only good thing thing about the whole incident was that it didn't get me in the throat. It got me on the inside of my cheek. For two days it hurt like hell and I looked and felt like I had an impacted tooth. Now I know that you should never leave an open soda can where a Wasp can lay claim to it. http://weekendwordsmith.blogspot.com/

"Barbie" for Sunday Scribblings

The military is not a lonely place, especially if your in boot camp. That's where I was, among a bunch of other horny GI's. I had been there about 4 weeks when I got my "1st"package from home. Actually, it wasn't from "home", it was from my girl friend. I had written her about the wonderful life we were living and how much I missed her. I stressed that she need not worry about me and other girls because even if I wanted to find a girl there was no way in hell "they" were going to let me near one. When I open my "package" I was sure I was getting cookies. But, alas, that was not the case. I got got a horny love letter and a "Barbie" doll. Here, she wrote, is a girl you can play with to keep you busy. The only good thing about it was that everyone else was so busy opening their mail that they did not notice my "new girl friend". I hurriedly hid her in the top of my locker thinking "damn I have to get rid of that thing". You ladies probably do not have any idea of what happened next but if any of you guys were in the military, you know what was about to happen. That's right....Surprise Inspection. Line up men. Open up your Lockers, Papa's going hunting. That's right gentlemen we are going to see how really clean you are. If you know what prayer is then you know that I was praying. "Oh please dear God, not my locker. Please, please, please... God Help Me. But no, God wasn't about to help me that day. OK Private Grizz ( I really wasn't Grizz in those days, but, well you understand), lets see how neat and tidy your locker is. Oh my oh my, what do we have here? I'll be damned. Hey gentlemen, look what Private Grizz has....... his own personal doll,...... a @@%**^#@ barbie doll. Private Jensen, you bunk below Private Grizz, does he play with himself? Does he wear pink panties? Sir I can explain, I stammered. It was a joke from my girl. A joke he screamed. Your a joke. ... 100 push ups .....right now. Count em gentlemen. Wait.. Private Grizz, Do you want me to put the doll under you while you do the push ups? N n n n n no Sir...... Hit the deck. Count em gentleman or you'll be down there with him. And Mr. Private "Sissy", while your doing your push ups, think about the next 10 days you have on KP. Boys who play with dolls can surely do a great job washing dishes. I hate Barbie Dolls

"Roses are Red" for Carry on Tuesdays

"The red rose whispers of passion,
And the white rose breathes of love" Did you know that? No, I said, how do you come up with these things? I don't come up with them, I read them. You know in poetry books. You might try it some time. OK, where did the rose thing come from? You probably think I don't know. Well they are the opening words of "A White Rose" by John Boyle O’Reilly. You should read some poetry. You may discover a romantic heart. She had a devilish grin on her face. She was looking up at me, her brown eyes giggled at me. She wiped the rain drops from her face. Which rose do you like the best? I didn't know. I had never really thought about roses. To me they were just another flower. To her, they were everything. We were standing in the rain, looking into the flower shop window. She loved to walk in the rain. She was born to live in San Francisco. I was just a visitor. I don't like any roses in this rain, I replied. Oh come on you old grump, tell me which one you like the best. She was still looking up at me with her turned up nose and her freckled cheeks. The rain was running down her face. She was smiling. She was my own personal Sun. She created light and warmth on a cold rainy San Francisco evening. OK, if you really need to know, I prefer the red ones. Why? She always had to know why. Never could I be a "just because". I finally replied, I like red because they are prettier and they smell better. Yes, but what about passion and love? Remember "Red is Passion and White is Love". Are you just Passionate for me or do you Love me? Well I know I have a great passion for you. It would be wonderful for your naked body to join my naked body in a nice warm shower. Her eyes sparkled and her devilish grin appeared. Maybe when you learn to love the "White Rose". The fog horn moaned across the bay and my lustful soul moaned in the San Francisco night.

The Book

The book was thick and black and covered with dust. Its boards were bowed and creaking. I wiped the dust away from the title. It was written in an ancient Greek dialect. I had a limited knowledge of the dialect but I was only able to read one word of the title, "Atlantis". Was this old black book some kind of history of the lost city of Atlantic? I was excited but I was afraid to open the book for fear I would destroy parts of the book. It was very old and I did not want to harm it in any way. I knew it could be very valuable and might even make me rich. Maybe even rich enough to retire and follow my dream to write. I had one major problem. The book wasn't mine. I stole it. I'm a curator in a small New York City museum. The museum had just received a big collection of Greek Art and Artifacts from the estate of a wealthy old lady. She inherited it from her late husband and he had inherited it from his grandfather. I was going through the items and opened an old trunk. Somehow I discover a hidden compartment with the dusty old book inside. It was not logged in as any part of the collection so I figured it would be easy to steal and I was right. I took it to my apartment. I do not know much about ancient Greek but enough to know that it had something to do with the lost city of Atlantis. I did not know what to do with it. I wanted to sell it, but to whom? I had no idea so I decided to trust a friend that was involved in selling valuable art. He told me once that he was sure some of it was stolen but he didn't care as long as he got his commission. I was hoping he would know what to do with the book. I called him that night because I was excited and couldn't wait. He was at my apartment with in the hour. We looked, we discussed but we didn't touch. After about an hour he called someone but would not tell me who it was. He made arrangements for this person to see the book. I let him take the book because I did not know what else to do. He said he would call me the next night and let me know what he found out. I waited until after nine on the next evening and he hadn't called so I called him. A strange voice answered the phone. He said he was Sgt. Mays of the NYPD and wanted to know who I was and why I was calling. I told him who I was and that I was just calling to say hello. He said my friend had been murdered and wanted to know if I knew of any one who wanted to harm my friend or if I knew of any reason he would get murdered. I said I was sorry but I did not know of any person or any reason why someone would want to kill him. -2- Now I was scared. I had just got my friend killed and I might be next. Was it the book?. Did the killer know about me? Did he, or she or maybe they even know about me? I didn't know what to do. If I told the police what I knew then I would have to tell them what I did. I would be fired, Yes, they would fire me and I would be banned from the art world for life. I checkecked the doors and the windows and went to bed. I couldn't sleep. I got up, made some coffee and turned on the late news. They already had the story. "Henri Trumpour, a New York art dealer, was found dead in his apartment this evening. The police are not giving any details but our inside source says that he was murdered. No further details are available." I flipped the channels looking for more news. I paced some more and finally I fell asleep watching the news channels. The phone rang and I almost fell out of my chair. It was just past six. Jesus I thought. Who the hell could that be at this time of the morning? I thought maybe, I shouldn't answer it, but I did. This is Sgt. Mays, NYPD. Is this Donald Rassmusen? Yes, I said this Donald. Well Donald, I am calling about your friend. You know, Henri Trumpour, your buddy that was murdered last nignt. We found a note pad with the word "book" and your name and phone nember written right under it. I was wondering if you had thought of anything that might help us. What is the book all about? Oh my God, my name, my phone number, the book. Did the killer see it? Did he even care? He had the god dammed book, Why would he care about me? Oh Jesus, Holy Mother of God, what if he thinks I know who he is? - to be con't -