nite life of buddy don:
a bar thats famus fer sangle malt scotch

back in february, me n miz bd gut our furst taste of sangle malt scotch. dont know how we had dun missd it all our lives, but we had. mayhap it had sumthin to do with not lackin likker all that much. but tiz the drank of our ancestors n with the hep of eric over at straight white guy, we gut started.

twuz luv at furst tastin, so to speak, n since then we dun gut us a colleckshun of half filled bottles of differnt kinds. mayhap this weekend i kin rite up a lil revue of em.

meanwhile, i gut a good irish friend i been a'knowin fer minny years n he dun marrd a woman frum england. (i writ bout a evenin we spent together here.) so ever now n agin, he has to go cross the pond fer a visit with her folks. so twuz whenever me n miz bd wuz a'larnin bout sangle malt scotch. he musta been gone a few weeks n whenever he gut back, he wuz verr busy, so we dint git inny time to talk fer a lil while.

but thay cum a day when we had lunch. corse he had lots to flap his gums about on a counta havin jes had a big ole trip full or add venchurs over in england, but bout time we wuz leavin, i memberd to tell him bout discovern sangle malt scotch. turnt out he wuz a eggspurt ever bit as informd as inny. we gut to talkin bout witchns we had tride n he recommended a few.

next day he cums into my offus all eggcited bout sumthin he had receivd in the mail, a invitayshun to a sangle malt scotch tastin at a bar over in man hattan name of keens steakhouse. but twernt jes inny invitayshun: twuz a invitayshun to whut they call a single malt scotch tastin, witch ifn ye follerd that lank to keens steakhouse, ye dun gut to see whar tiz addvert eyesd fer may 20. he ast did me n miz bd wonta go, so we sed we did.

but we wuz havin truble waitin, so i ast him dint he thank mayhap we should make a eggsporatory visit to make shore we knew whar twuz n how we wuz a'gone git home n all. tiz the kind of info ye dont wonta half to figger out after spendin a evening tastin sangle malt scotchs of all kinds.

last nite wuz the nite n whut a time we had. whenever we gut off work, we walked down to the place n wuz dee lited to see miz bd thar waitin to meet us. she wuz dressd up rite nice n i half to add mitt i wuz proud to have her take my arm. in we went.

tiz a beeyootiful old place, witch fer my taste, tiz much better now that caint nobidy smoke indoors in man hattan. (side note: bars n restrunts wuz up in arms agin mayor bloomberg over his ban on smokin, arguin bout how they wuz a'gone lose bizness, but whut happend wuz the opposit on a counta thay wuz lodes of folks that dint lack going out to breathe smoke.)

the furst plan was to have a cuple dranks. they brung us a menu biggern ye git in mos innyplace ye eat, but it dint have nuthin but sangle malts on it. so we gut us each a differnt one n passd it round fer everbidy to taste. twuz so good, we dee cided twood be wise to eat sumthin, so we orderd us sum dinner. n then a nuther round. n then a nuther. n i thank twuz over round then. sum of the ones we tried wuz laphroig 15 year, ledaig 20 year, cardhu, tobermory, bruichladdich, isle of jura 15, n the champeen of em all (witch we all agreed how twuz the bes of the nite), bunnahabain raw cask 21 year.

whut a nite. me n miz bid sed good night to our irish friend at the corner of 36th n 6th. we walked over to the ferry (a bit of a hike, but we needed to walk a lil) n then across to jersey. whut a dee liteful nite!

thankee, eric, fer yer hep in gittin us started!

life of buddy don, chaptur 114:
makin a friend at grad skool

funny thang bout how ye git reddy fer a new part of yer life. seems lack i gut this fear bout how i wont be good a nuff. ye mite thank i wood be confident on a counta how i had dun well as a undergrad n gut the fellowship to study overn west germany, but neethur of them facks kep me frum bein wurried i woodnt be able to do everthang ye needed to do to git thru grad skool.

fer one thang, it seemed lack ye had to have so much to do that twuz impossibull to doot all, witch that meant ye had to deecide witch thangs ye wuz a'gonna do n witch ye wuz a gonna git by without doon. later in life i figgerd twuz a way of teachin ye how to set yer priorties. aint no way to do everthang, so ye gut to do the thangs that matters most.

heres the list of thangs i had to wurry bout that fall: (1) 18th century poetry class, (2) shakespeare class, (3) literary resurch class, (4) german lit class that i wuz auditin, witch twuz the furst thang i real eyesed i wood half to let go, (5) teachin assistuntship, (6) cookin ever meal, (7) rootin fer the phillies, witch as ye mite know, they won the worl series that year n bes part of it wuz the nashnull league champeenship twixt the phillies n the houston astros, witch that wuz so good on a counta twuz a grate series n emily wuz a astros fan on a counta she had a lil crush on thar catcher name of alan ashby, n (8) havin no money lef over fer much of nuthin.

corse a list lack that dont give ye no idee of the blur it turnt the fall into.

fer one, we had to wurk as teachin assistunts, witch that meant i had to attend classes with my 'mentor,' a portly woman name of virginia with the wrinkles of a sixty year old n the red hair of a teenager. i gut to watch her conduct class n gut to grade sum of them papers n then git my gradin graded by virginia. we had to use the harbrace collidge handbook fer everthang, so i had to larn how to put lil numbers by ever miss take inny of them students made. the class met three times a week on mundys, windsdys n fridys. thay wuz papers to grad, witch virginia let me do most of that n then she wood go over my gradin to make sure i wuz on the rite track. befor the class had ended i wood half to teach em a time or two, witch twuz sumthin i could hardly wait fer n sumthin that wood keep me awake at nite wurryin.

the poetry n shakespeare classes wuz mostly fun though they tuck a lot of wurk n time. i hadnt never read so deeply bout no subjeck lack that. in that poetery class, we woodnt jes read the pomes writ by alexander pope or the play by john dryden or the prose of ben johnson, witch ye mite could wunder why we wuz readin plays n prose fer a poetry class but ye mite could say drydens plays wuz lack huge poems n ye couldnt hardly unnerstan nuthin bout the late 17th n early 18th centries without readin ben johnson. corse me n emily had dun gut carrd away over in west germany n read a lot of other thangs frum that time, mostly the novels writ by daniel defoe n laurence stern n tobias smollet n henry fielding, so that wuz a hep. but all that wuz barely the beginnin. thay wuz all these wurks by critics n skolars to read, all bout that same time period. ye kin magine how thay wuz a more books than inny student could ever git to durin a quarter.

twuz purty much the same with that shakespeare class only twuz a undergraduwait corse so ye wernt forced to read as much. me n emily read lots of them plays out loud to each other -- othello, macbeth, lear -- each takin bout half the roles. fack is, the mane thang we had in common wuz how we luved readin so much, speshly novels.

nuther thang we had to figger wuz how to feed ourself. problem thar wuz how we dint have no money fer eatin out, witch that meant sumbidy had to cook, n as emily put it one time, she couldnt hardly boil water without burnin it, so i had to cook. lucky fer me, i tuck all my classes in the mornins, the latest one bein that literary resurch class with ran frum 1:30 to 3 ever tuesdy n thursdy. i wood git home early a nuff to burn a lil bowl of theevil weed, witch thays tales that hang offn that simple statement that i hope i git to, then to play a lil piano n then to start dinner. twuz a sprizingly big part of life.

fack is, ye could git the skedule of the day frum it fer the mos part. i wood git up round 6 am at furst, make sum coffee n wait fer her to git up. she woke up round eight, grumpy n needin a cigarette. since she couldnt eat fer a while, at lease a hour or so, we wood be readin or watchin the today show. she wood generly git reddy to eat befor we had to leave out fer classes, but ifn she hadnt gut reddy by then, she did without n never once cumplaind bout it. corse, i always ate n always had sumthin reddy fer her, eethur biskits n sausage n gravy n eggs or jes biskits with butter or a egg or even jes cereal with milk. we dint hardly eat lunch on a counta thay wuznt time nor money fer it.

dinner wuz the big meal, witch i timed it so we could watch the 6:30 evenin news n the reruns of barney miller. i gut to whar i had a bakers dozen of meals i could make purty quick: (1) cornbread, beans n taters; (2) cornbread, beans n macaroni n cheese; (3) spaghetti (generly saved fer cumpny); (4) chili (also good fer cumpny); (5) pizza; (6) mexican rice, bean n eethur burritos or tacos; (7) baked taters, fish n salad; (8) fried chicken, mashed taters n green beans; (9) pot pies n salad; (10) grill cheese sandwitches n fried taters or soup; (11) one of our faverts, a rice dish with meat n onion n peppers, witch i gut that recept frum a german magazine name of fernsehwoche, witch wurd fer wurd that means 'far see week' but means tv guide jes the same; (12) pork chops n baked taters n salad; n (13) a meat, noodel, tomato n cheese dish i more or less made up after we had et sumthin such lack at astrids, witch she wuz the woman frum berlin who gut a fullbright to study at utk n we wood see her ever now n then.

i aint cumplainin bout cookin, witch i lack to cook purty good. im jes pointin out how it had its effeck on life. we gut most of our staples by shoppin at the krogers out chapman hiway, witch eli wood cum take us shoppin, but twuz a nuther thang fer perishibulls. often as not, i wood spend my afternoon shoppin fer meat or milk or eggs or whatnot. thay wuz a lil grocery run by sum arabs bout six blocks down laurel avenue n twuz a nice lil walk. so twood be a natherull thang fer me to cum home, burn the bowl, play piano, take a walk to the store, greet emily when she cum in, talk bout the day a bit, n then start fixin dinner.

it tuck a hole quarter fer me to figger out how thay wuznt no point in me trine to read in the afternoon or after dinner. by then i wuz too tired to keep much of innythang i read in my mind, so i tuck to goin to bed around 8 of a evnin n git up at 4 am sharp. it seemed lack a temporary lil change, but i been a'doin it purty much thataway ever since, only i dont need as much sleep nowadays. used to be i wonted 8 hours. then in my late 20s, seemed lack 7 wood do. now i caint lay in bed much over 6 n 1/2 hours, frum 9:30 pm to 4 am.

corse, we had to take at lease three classes, witch i had to take this class name of literary research n thats whar i gut to meet all tuther new students who wuz a'startin grad skool at the same time. turnt out thay wuz 22 students startin out on thar masters in english in the fall of 1980. as it happend, i cum into class last. twuz held in a long room with a verr long table n whenever i gut thar, thonly seat lef wuz at the far end frum the teacher. i wuz a lil sprized hadnt nobidy tuck that seat on a counta twuz clearly the secunt mos powerful place to sit. i dont know ifn ye have noticed, but it makes a differnts whar ye sit. innywho, i had the good luck of sittin at the far end of the table frum dr miller, witch he wuz one of the worls eggspurts in the poetry of sir edmund spencer.

mayhap on a counta how i sat at one end of the long table n he at tuther led to thar bein a lil frickshun twixt us. i wood be the one to questchun sum of the pinions he put out as if they wuz facks. he dint thank much of computers n dint thank they wuz a'gonna be all the useful fer resurch. in sted, we needed to larn how to use the liberry. he give us homewurk whar we had to find everthang ever publishd by a riter of our choice. i tuck raymond chandler fer mine, witch he dint thank twuz ackshul literchur. whenever i tole the class my choice, he objeckted n sed i wuz wontin to brang the 'pulp riters into the inner sanctum.' i tole him thay wuz as much good poetry in raymond chandler as thay wuz in edmund spencer n that kindly riled him.

but he had the last laff on me fer thatn on a counta tuther students wuz pickin obscure riters, witch mayhap they blonged in the inner sanctum, but thay wuznt but about ten or twelve published wurks fer most of em. we had to make a different 5" by 7" card fer each book we found. he woodnt let us use 3" by 5" cards on a counta he sed we wuz doin resurch n needed the exter room. so i wuz a lil sprized by jes how minny differnt publicayshuns raymond chandler had to his credit, speshly whenever ye gut into whut had been translated. long story short, whenever we had to brang in the cards we had collekted, my pile wuz ten times biggern innybidy elses. wursern that wuz how he give it a c+, lowest grade i had ever gut on inny wurk i had ever dun. turnt out i had missed a comma here, a period thar, n he wuz gradin on how minny errors ye made with no accountin fer how minny cards ye had used to make em.

i wuz purty riled about it, but it dint make no never mind. turnt out he had to show us the new innovayshuns with computers after all n once we gut to that, i wuz more or less in woods i knew purty good. n we had to read the thrall hibberd n holman book, witch i had been a'readin thatn frum hi skool on a counta i lacked that kinda thang. twuz a hard quarter n cum down to a final eggzam on a tuesdy, december 9. i studied lack crazy lack we all dun, but that mornin cum news that made everthang we wuz studyin seem a lil silly: john lennon had been shot to death the nite befor.

that hole quarter, i hadnt never had nuthin to do with tuther students in that class. we wuz all in competishun n seemd lack sum folks resented how i wuz older n had dun writ a novel n had dun larnt a forn langwage n wood disagree with the perfesser. i figgerd everbidy tuck me fer a arrogant know-it-all type n wuznt much i could do bout it.

innywho, that mornin we tuck the test n when twuz over, sevrul of us gatherd outside of class n talked fer the furst time. corse, twuz john lennon n the beatles we wuz talkin bout. a cuple of the fellers thar wuz frum mississippi n one of em lived close by. he sed mayhap we should go burn a number in john lennons honor, so we walked over to his place, put on sum bob dylan n talked that afternoon away. one of the fellers wuz a verr hi-strung guy who had gone to ole miss. he wood marry a turkish woman n move to the middle east before long. as i recolleck it, his name wuz steve or sean, sumthin startin with s. tuther feller wuz so full of hisself that i dint never wonta have much of nuthin to do with him. he had gone to mississippi state in starkvull n his name wuz william 'bud' rankin. purty soon bud wonted to lite a nuther joint n that wuz too much fer steve or sean, so he left to git to a class. i regretted not takin the oppertunty to leave my ownself. bud could talk n talk n talk n i wuznt all that impressd by nuthin he had to say. but i wonted to git hi n i dint never half much of nuthin to doot with.

so i made friends with him since he had im a good conneckshun n luved to shar his stash. tiz shameful to add mitt, but tiz true. n that started a friendship that lasted fer minny a year.

life of buddy don, chaptur 113:
back home

sumbidy that lacks to read thangs lack heracleitus lack i had dun minny a time befor even goin to west germany, sumbidy lack that shouldnt be sprized to find ye caint go back to the same home ye left, witch heracleitus is the one that sed ye caint step into the same river twice on a counta how the flow makes it differnt water each time ye step in it. the flow of life duz the same thang to folks n places ye lack to thank on as home.

corse twernt only home that had changed. me n emily had dun our share of changin too, only that wernt sumthin we wood notice right off. ye caint hep but wonta git home n tell sum tales bout yer add ventchurs livin overseas, caint hep but wonta share whut ye dun, caint hep but wonta show off the books ye bought n thangs ye larned. whuts all too easy to fergit is how folks back home has been a'changin n readin books n cummin up with thangs to share with ye.

we spent the furst week makin the rounds of our friends. mama had a lil dinner fer us with ham n turkey n all the mizes thar, witch we hadnt seen sum of em in years. ye mite wood thank they wood wonta know sumthin bout how thangs had gone in west germany, but they wuz manely glad we had made it back home safe n that no war had broke out while we wuz over thar.

corse, thay wuz moments. uncle arnold wuz thar. he had dun been to the soviet union n he wuz ranked way up in the marine corps reserve so as ye mite reckon, he wuz a lil on the conservative side, speshly regardin nashunull defents, witch he bleevd carter wuz invitin the russians to attack us by projecktin weakness. innywho, whenever he went to the soviet union, he brung back some toilet paper sos he could demonstrate the differnts twixt thar system n ours. twuz a cunvintsin bit of paper whenever we furst saw it. twuz ruff as could be n seemd lack twuz made out of recyculled paper. so we had to brang sum of the toilet paper back frum wharever we went. fack is, i had a lil colleckshun frum all them places we visited. turnt out twuz all purty bad. ifn twuznt ruff, twuz slick lack wax paper n ye had to wunder why innybidy wood thank twood git ye clean. but that paper gut passd round till uncle arnold left on a counta how he hated bein razzed thataway. i dint git a chants then or ever to tell him bout all the mizes i found buried in the jewish cemetary.

innywho, we made the rest of the rounds. i showed virgil my colleckshun of nietzsche, witch we had always talked lots bout his flossofy, but seemed lack it made him mad. only thang he wood say wuz how he dint read german. he wuz drankin that evenin while everbidy wuz passin round joints, witch twuz a bit of a shock, even fer a old doper lack me,  how everbidy wuz gittin hi all the time. mane thang i member bout that evnin wuz how i wonted to talk to him bout the thangs i had seen, includin the toilet paper on a counta how his dad had brought sum back frum east germany, but he pointed out he had dun seen the toilet paper whenever he wuz over thar livin on the economy. i dont know whut brought it on, but at a certain point, with no warnin, he threw a full beer rite at my head, witch i duck n it hit the wall of his lil house n broke rite through the paper thin sheet rock.

visited eli, witch all he wonted to talk bout wuz how he had been dead durin his suicide attempt but had cum back to life. mama had dun been tole he wuz a'gonna be a vegtabull at best n how he had been nuthin but fer near two weeks, but then he started cummin back. he claimed he had lost sum memries cumpletely, but most of em wuz fillin thayselves in. he dint wonta here nuthin bout our trip, witch i had dreamed of talkin to him bout sum of the flossofy we had read together n sum of the thangs i had larnt bout it durin my travels, but he dint wonta here it. he claimed he had dun herd a nuff whenever mama wuz a'tellin everbidy everthang i had writ home in letters.

maisie ast could i take a ride with her, so i did. emily sed she dint mind stayin at mamas n readin, so we rode down to melton hill n parked whar we had parked minny a time over the years. she sed she wuz thankin maybe she wood marr oscar clowder. witch thang bout that wuz how she dint seem lack she wuz really all that much in luv with him. so why wuz she cunsidderin it? she shrugged, lit a nuther cigarette, burned bout a quarter of it, stubbed it out. i waited fer her to way sumthing. finely i ast her why she wuz thankin bout doin sumthin she dint seem to wonta do. she anserd how she figgerd that wuz thonly thang ye ever git to do in life innyway. i wonted to argue, but she gut quite n sed she dint wonta fuss. couldnt we jes watch the water fer a while?

befor we could go back to looseburg fer a while, randy fox sed he had a sprize fer us n that he wonted us to cum over on a saturdy to spend the nite. he n jenny skinner had dun deevorced on a counta she wuz ackshly a lesbian. seemd lack thay wuz more to the story, but randy woodnt tell nun of it. we had borried mamas car n tole her we wuz stayin the nite. we gut to his new place, one of them apartment complexes they wuz a'bildin out on kingston pike, witch it had a swimmin pool n lots of green lawn round it. he tole us he had saved us each a hit of mescalin n he wuznt takin no backtalk whenever he offerd it. twuz the furst time fer emily n i spekted her to make a scene to stop it, but she sed twuz about time she tripped.

i dont member all that much bout that trip, only that randy tuck us outside n set us down under a tree n lit a joint n lef us thar. we spent the afternoon doin nuthin but starin each other in the eye. twuz a grate trip to whar it seemd lack we wuz one person fer a spell. randy tuck our pitcher under that tree n whenever i look at it, im sprized to see how long my hair wuz n how skinny we bofus wuz. we had on shorts n wuz sittin rapped aroun each other. we wuz up till way late in the night, lack ye mite speck, so whenever twuz time to sleep, we sed we figgerd we wood drive out to the farm, witch he wuz so sleepy he dint fite us on it. that afternoon n evenin wuz amung the best times me n emily ever had.

frum thar, we finely drove to looseburg. went thru the parties on fridy nite, the dinner at nanny's the next day, the supper out in the country on sundy. twuz verr nice to see everbidy, but dint nobidy wonta hear nuthin bout west germany. twuz so strange to us. we wuz loded with stories dint nobidy wonta here.

so we spent the rest of august thar in looseburg layin out in the sun on lounge chairs in the back yard. twuz a long way frum the nearest naybor, so we could git near nekkid n git a purty good tan. twuz nice to be so lazy, but twuz odd how nuthin felt lack home.

purty soon august wuz over n twuz time to git back to knoxvull n wurk on getting set up fer skool, witch we gut us a partment in laurel student housin. we dint have hardly nuthin to put in it. my old piano. a cuple chairs mama give us. a bed frum pete smith. a used tv frum milton mansfield. emilys ole stereo. but thang wuz, whenever we gut our thangs set up, even tho we dint have no sheets n had to use our sleepin bags fer linen, once we gut everthang in thar n closed n locked the door, we knew we wuz finely home.

everbidy wonted to ack lack we hadnt never been away, lack they wood ignore how we hadnt called nobidy back fer a year. they dint wonta here nuthin bout our time in west germany. whut they dint know -- whut we dint know eethur -- wuz how that time over in west germany wuz the best year of our marrg.

wasted mornin of buddy don:
whut i dun in sted of bloggin

tiz gittin hardern ever to git myself to quit readin bout thangs a'goin on n git to ritin. i wonta git back to the novel i been ritin since last june, life n pinions of buddy don, hillbilly, but it seems lack everday thars a fresh bit of awful news. used to be i could read a cuple articulls n then look away. i lack to thank that ritin good fickshun is bettern trine to keep up with the "facks" on a counta with good fickshun ye gut a chants to git closer to lastin truth. facks is always changin n rarely proovd or bleevd by bof sides. as nietzsche put it, "there are no facts, only interpretations."  ole friedrich had im sum other good quotes that seem to fit todays sitchewayshun. heres a mo of em:

• Convictions are more dangerous enemies of truth than lies. (Daybreak: Thoughts on the Prejudices of Morality)
  
• Extreme positions are not succeeded by moderate ones, but by contrary extreme positions. (Human, All Too Human)
  
• Madness is something rare in individuals -- but in groups, parties, peoples, ages it is the rule.  (Beyond Good and Evil)

so heres whut tuck up my mornin:

• frum Slate, thars a articull name of Trust, Don't Verify: Bush's incredible definition of credibility by William Saletan. here's the quote that i caint fergit. tiz sumthin mr bush sed in his third prime time news confernts: And the credibility of the United States is incredibly important for keeping world peace and freedom.
  
• in The Washington Post, thays an articull name of House Member Seeks Gorelick's Resignation bout how mr sennsenbrenner, a congressman, wonts to git one of the commishuners taken off the commishun on a counta how he thanks thays a conflick of innerst: In a statement yesterday, Sensenbrenner said Gorelick's memo had established "the heightened 'wall' prohibiting the sharing of intelligence information and criminal information." But other officials and documents suggest that the wall was in the process of being built before the memo. The secret Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court of Review, in a 2002 ruling, noted that the Justice Department had begun erecting the legal wall "during the 1980s," as an interpretation of the 1978 statute governing clandestine wiretaps.
  
• frum the ny times, articull name of Expert Kept From Speaking at Antidepressant Hearing by Gardiner Harris, bout how "Top Food and Drug Administration officials admitted yesterday that they barred the agency's top expert from testifying at a public hearing about his conclusion that antidepressants cause children to become suicidal because they viewed his findings as alarmist and premature": Recent studies have shown that children given antidepressants are more likely to become suicidal than those given placebos. But the studies have lead to different interpretations by psychiatrists. The refusal by drug companies to publish the studies has worsened the confusion. Internal agency documents obtained by The New York Times show that federal health officials are divided, too. Dr. Andrew D. Mosholder, an agency epidemiologist, was the man charged with analyzing 22 studies involving 4,250 children and seven drugs. In a carefully argued, 33-page memorandum, he concluded that children given antidepressants were almost twice as likely as those given placebos to become suicidal.
  
• ny times -- krugman: A fiscal comparison of George Bush's and Lyndon Johnson's policies makes the Vietnam era seem like a golden age of personal responsibility. At first, Johnson was reluctant to face up to the cost of the war. But in 1968 he bit the bullet, raising taxes and cutting spending; he turned a large deficit into a surplus the next year. A comparable program today — the budget went from a deficit of 3.2 percent of G.D.P. to a 0.3 percent surplus in just one year — would eliminate most of our budget deficit. By contrast, Mr. Bush, for all his talk about staying the course, hasn't been willing to strike anything off his domestic wish list. On the contrary, he used the initial glow of apparent success in Iraq to ram through yet another tax cut, waiting until later to tell us about the extra $87 billion he needed. And he's still at it: in his press conference on Tuesday he said nothing about the $50 billion-to-$70 billion extra that everyone knows will be needed to pay for continuing operations.
  
• salon -- conason: "Let me be clear," said Ashcroft. "My thorough review revealed no covert action program to kill bin Laden." In other words, all the former Clinton officials who had sworn otherwise, including Clarke, must be lying. A few minutes later, members of the commission dryly informed Ashcroft that he was badly mistaken. Without saying so directly as to compromise classified material, Richard Ben-Veniste and Fred Fielding both indicated that the commission had obtained a 1998 Clinton "memorandum of notification" specifically targeting the al-Qaida chieftain. Evidently the commission staff found this important document among the Clinton papers withheld by the White House until very recently (and disgorged only after a public complaint by Clinton attorney Bruce Lindsey). It would be interesting to find out why that particular item was held back from the commission by White House lawyers. After being told that the "MON" contradicted his accusation, Ashcroft was forced to swallow his words. He ended up promising that "we'll work to understand that more thoroughly."
  
• washington post front page articull name of General Calls Insurgency in Iraq Sign of US Success; Political Achievements Are Cause of Uprising, Myers Says: The chairman of the U.S. Joint Chiefs of Staff said Thursday that the deadly insurgency that flared this month is "a symptom of the success that we're having here in Iraq" and an effort to undermine the country's transition to self-government.  Asked at a news conference here whether the military had failed to counter insurgents' attacks in Iraq, Air Force Gen. Richard B. Myers said guerrillas want to undermine several political successes, including the creation of the Iraqi Governing Council, the signing of a bill of rights and efforts by the United Nations to devise an interim government that would assume power on June 30.
  
• ny times front page articull name of U. S. Open to a Proposal That Supplants Council in Iraq: The Brahimi plan would replace the American-appointed Iraqi Governing Council with a transition government whose leaders would be appointed by the United Nations, after consultations with the United States, the governing council and other Iraqis. It could include members of the current governing council, but it is unclear how it would balance religious and regional rivalries within Iraq. By endorsing the Brahimi plan, the administration seemed to accept diminished American influence over the Iraqi political process as self-rule approaches and after power has passed back to Baghdad. The move was the latest abandonment of an element of the plan the Americans arrived at on Nov. 15, specifying the June 30 transfer.
  
• la times articull name of U. S. Shift Undermines Efforts for Mideast Peace, Arabs Say: Arab leaders charged Thursday that the United States, by recognizing Israel's claims to major settlements in the West Bank, could no longer be viewed as an honest broker for the Middle East peace process. But the Bush administration insisted that Prime Minister Ariel Sharon's initiative for the Gaza Strip and West Bank could restart the peace process by removing Israel's presence in Gaza. And it said the move would not hinder U.S. efforts to shore up Arab support for creating a stable interim government in Iraq.

whuts a'goin on now makes me thank i mite half to start bleevin whut i dont wonta bleev, witch tiz a nuther quote frum nietzsche: What is good? -- All that heightens the feeling of power, the will to power, power itself in man.

add mirayshun of buddy don:
'mo' of skolarly sites sumbidy sent me

me n miz bd tuck us a class in screenritin a few years back. they had em a concep name of 'moteef,' witch tis the use of three thangs to make yer point. we git into a habit of callin a group of three thangs a 'mo.'

i gut a mo of thangs i wonta make a point bout today, witch thays all websites i jes larnt bout.

i wuz dee lited to git news of them sites i shoulda dun found by now. each of em is wurthy of yer time n tenchun. furstn's dedicated to The Traditional Craft and Lore of The Cumberland Plateau & Tennessee. ye kin find lots of facks n stories bout ole timey ways. they gut em a grate dickshunairy, bettern mine, witch mine is jes a joke fer them a'readin life n pinions of buddy don, hillbilly. the one they gut on this site is the genuwine articull.

frum that site, ye kin git to a nuthern thats verr innerestin name of conjurefolk or "Of the Resurrection of the Meadow; Traditional Craft Resources," witch tiz dedicated to folks ways of doin thangs. heres how they splain it in thar innerduckshun:

Greetings and welcome to Of the Resurrection of the Meadow. This website is concerned with Folk Ways and the Lore of the Land, with survivals of paganism, with history & heritage, with the underlying traditions and folkloric roots of the ways, practices, and beliefs traditionally associated with witches & witchcraft, and the study of folk customs & beliefs, with a view to their implicit meanings and survivals of paganism expressed therein.

the third site has plenty of good infermayshun bout farmin n the lack, witch ye could larn a lot by readin it. makes me wish me n miz bd could move back up in the mountins to take up a lil farmin. tiz a dream we keep alive n this site is gonna hep, witch tiz called wisteria's farm. ye kin larn bout thangs lack whut a worm bin is n why ye mite wonta have one. cummin attackshuns include infermayshun bout root cellars n 'een of hens' n compost. rite now ye kin larn when to plant accordin to the signs. tiz a site wurth watchin!

i urge ye to take a look at these sites. theys rite nice! tiz a grate wurk to keep this cultchur alive! thankee, miz wisteria!

pinions of buddy don:
three quick obsurvayshuns

whut did he know n when did he fergit it?
ifn ye subscribe to The Nation, then ye kin read this here statement by mr cheney, witch seems lack he has a purty good unnerstandin of thangs:

Once you've got Baghdad, it's not clear what you do with it. It's not clear what kind of government you would put in place of the one that's currently there.... How much credibility is that government going to have if it's set up by the United States military when it's there?... I think to have American military forces engaged in a civil war inside Iraq would fit the definition of quagmire, and we have absolutely no desire to get bogged down in that fashion.

that wuz dick cheney in 1991 eggsplainin why we wuznt gonna make the miss take of trine to take baghdad. too bad he fergut.

wood ye hire sumbidy that dint never add mitt to makin no miss takes?
in my bizness, i gut to innerview n deecide whuther to hire folks. one of the questchuns i always ast em is how they handle thangs whenever they make miss takes. ifn they tell me they dont make no miss takes, then i wont cunsidder hirin em. heres why: in our bizness -- keepin cumputers a'goin sos bankers kin make lots of money -- ye cant do much of nuthin without makin a miss take now n then. ifn ye add mitt it, then ye kin figger out whut needs to be dun to fix it n to keep frum makin the same miss take agin. ifn ye caint, ye make everthang much wurser. so i guess ye kin see why i woodnt never hire mr bush to wurk fer me:

Q. In the last campaign, you were asked a question about the biggest mistake you'd made in your life and you used to like to joke that it was trading Sammy Sosa. You've looked back before 9/11 for what mistakes might have been made. After 9/11, what would your biggest mistake be, would you say? And what lessons have you learned from it?

A. Hmmm. I wish you'd have given me this written question ahead of time so I could plan for it. I'm sure historians will look back and say, Gosh, he could have done it better this way or that way. You know, I just — I'm sure something will pop into my head here in the midst of this press conference with all the pressure of trying to come up with an answer, but it hadn't yet.

perdickshun of buddy don
ifn we make the miss take -- n make no miss take about it, twood be a miss take -- of ackshly captchurin or killin moktada al-sadr, then i perdick we will git a war started not with jes the dead-enders, the bitter-enders, the remnunts of the ba'athists, the terrsts who keep a'cummin to iraq to attack us, the thugs n evil doers who hates democracy n wonts to stop us befor we kin git it started -- no we wont have a war with jes these folks thats alreddy attackin us, tho they probly wood claim they wuz jes defendin tharself n thar cuntry n thar relijun; no, we wood have us a war with mos all of islam, a real reljus war. tiz dubly true ifn we take him out of the sankchewary of the mosque.

progress of buddy don:
gittin better at havin migraines

yesterday mornin, jes after i had dun my early mornin daily bloggin, i real eyesed whut wuz makin me feel lack i wonted to vomit: i had me a migraine fixin to attack. i walked frum the dark livin room to the lite in the bathroom n the way the lite hit me wuz proof.

so i kep my hed n rote a short note to the folks at wurk, lettin em know not only that i wuz a'gittin sick but whut all needed to be dun in my absents. i then tuck the new medicine dr mauskopf give me whenever i went to my appointment. tiz sum stuff called zomig n ye take it as a nasal spray, witch that means it wurks almost in the instunt.

main thang it duz is make ye sleep all day, but whenever ye git up, ye feel a lot better. miz bd sed, 'yer back,' as soon as i gut up late in the afternoon. i feel fine at the moment n dun gut reddy fer wurk, so im happy bout that.

thang is, even when yer in yer fifties, ye still gut thangs to larn, lack how to have a migraine.

ole stories of buddy don:
story writ to play with form

Hooks

"Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand!"

The preacher, a bald man with a deep voice and a red face, swaggered back and forth before the congregation, his black eyes wandering through the pews of his little wooden church like a window shopper wandering the streets of a business neighborhood after closing time.  The members of the congregation sat stiffly upright, as posed and scrubbed as mannequins advertising beautiful clothing.

"And ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet."  The Preacher's voice became a tiny whisper: "But the end is not yet."  Then the voice began rising to a scream: "No, brothers and sisters, the end it cometh, but it is not yet here.  Repent!"  He shouted; he pounded the podium: "Repent, I say, for the kingdom of God is at hand!"

Again he grew silent.   An old man coughed.  A pair of patent leather shoes scuffed against the wooden floor. Starched clothing rustled.

"For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and Pestilences, and earthquakes, in divers places.

He paused, rubbing his hands together.

"Even now,  brothers and sisters, that Satan incarnate, Hitler, stalks the lands of Europe.  Even now the unsaved Japanese masses prepare to make war and to shed innocent Christian blood.  The signs are upon us, the end is near, and I say we must repent.  Repent and be baptized, for the kingdom of God is at hand!"

Again the Preacher began pacing back and forth, pouring his angry eyes over the congregation, letting his holy wrath burn into their souls like flaming pitch from hell.

Among those afflicted with the burning truth of the preacher's words was Anthony Lewis, ten years old, uncomfortable in a pale blue suit whose pants went only to the knees.  He'd heard the rumors of war.  He'd seen his older brother, James, off at the bus stop over in Knoxville.  He just knew the war would be over before he got a chance to get in on it.

 ***

In a small Kneipe, Zum Steinbock, Anthony and Barbara Lewis sat back in their booth, relaxing after dinner with cigarettes, red wine and talk.  With them were Branimir from Yugoslavia, Richard Taylor from Southampton, Anna Muller from Frankfurt, and Suvi from Finland.  Anthony was certain war was imminent.  He argued that the invasion of Czechoslovakia was only a prelude.  Branimir laughed, slapping Anthony on the back and saying in his richly accented German that all Americans were alike.  Anna did not translate the remark.  Richard smiled also, but he said nothing.  Barbara lifted the decanter of red wine, shook it gently and  poured the last of it into Anna's glass.  Anna finished rolling her cigarette, stuck it into her mouth and bent towards Richard, who struck a wooden match, let the phosphorus burn and then lit the cigarette.  Their eyes met.  She smiled.  He blushed.  Barbara touched her husband's elbow.

"Anthony, enough about war.  We need more wine."

Branimir called for wine.

Anthony recalled himself, realized he'd been talking nonsense, smiled at Barbara, who indicated Richard and Anna with a twist of her head.  Then he suggested the party go dancing after they finished one more bottle of wine.  When his wife went to the ladies' room, he smiled at Suvi, whose Finnish silence attracted him.

 ***

That it was time to say goodbye seemed all too clear to Anthony.  They'd been going together for over a year, it's true, but they were only teenagers after all.  He knew they'd never marry.  They needed to get out, to be with other people, to get rid of their all too human restlessness.  He knew, deep down, in her heart, Barbara Mullins felt much the same way.  Wouldn't it be better to get it over with?

 ***

Barbara Lewis, thirty seven year old mother of three, didn't believe all that garbage about pollution this and pollution that.  Her husband, of course, was all stirred up about it, having read a book that already in 1972 was four years old.  She knew he'd grow out of it soon enough.  Lord knows, the world is the world.  Nature's as big a polluter as any man.  And isn't man a part of nature?

 ***

Anthony's best friend, Tom Jamison, believed war was unavoidable.

"We'll never make 1960," he argued.

He prepared by purchasing gold, weapons, and one of those new bomb shelters that were suddenly so popular.  He read newspapers in three languages that he knew he could only half believe by the time he got his hands on them.  Still, he read very carefully and filled in the missing details with his imagination.  He had his visa ready for entry into Switzerland.

Anthony was unconvinced.  His wife Barbara refused to discuss the matter.

 ***

Many of the members of the First United Methodist Church of Redondo Beach, California, worried about the poor in Africa.  Anthony laughed privately at this, but he didn't let his wife know how he felt.  She liked to point out that conditions in Africa were so backward that the people had to do without toilets and running water.  And now, with the rebellion of Rhodesia, the continent faced an uncertain future filled with war and rebellion.

 ***

No matter how he tried, Anthony could not avoid lusting after other women.  The problem had become especially difficult since his fortieth birthday.  He had a woman in every port of his life, all of them blissfully unaware of the lewd things he was doing with them in the privacy of his own mind.  There was that blonde headed girl, just a child really, certainly no more than twenty five years old.  He saw her everyday as he rode to work on the Kingston Pike bus.  Although he considered her a little too heavy, he found her blue eyes delightful.  Of course, it embarrassed him to be caught staring at her.  And how could he ignore the tall brunette secretary who wore those daringly short dresses  short for 1971 anyway  and ate at the third table from the door in the employee cafeteria?  And how he loved to watch the short but friendly little waitress at the restaurant he and Barbara sometimes went to after church.  And his son Joel's last girlfriend, Frieda, who wore nothing but shorts all summer long.  And at home, starring in one of Barbara's favorite TV shows, that beautiful girl with the huge mouth who sang like a man.  Barbara teased him about her, but she had no idea how he really felt.

 ***

They met at the Smokey Mountains National Park in 1948.  Both loved nature.  He had slipped away from his family as they were hiking Mt. Le Conte.  He found the waterfall that marks where the trail gets steep.  It was early spring and still quite cold.  Few people were about.  Barbara found him staring at the falls and said, "Oh, hello!" before she knew what she was doing.  Anthony blushed so violently that the pink showed through his acne.  And he knew it, but he smiled back at her anyway.  They were astounded to learn not only that both loved Gene Autrey's music, but that they also attended the same high school.  He'd never noticed her before because he didn't fool around with sophomores.

 ***

By the fall of 1981, they'd known of his cancer for over a year.  They knew it was only a matter of time.  Still, Barbara and the three children, Anthony, Jr., Jane, and Joel, were stunned by the news.  Jane flew in from Milwaukee to stay with her mother for as long as necessary.

 ***

Anthony hated dentists, but he knew he had to go.

 ***

And wasn't it amazing, really just amazing, how quickly little Anthony Junior picked things up?  Already walking and only eleven months old!  And his fourth tooth coming in!  And did you hear what he said the other day?  Just priceless!

 ***

They'd waited nearly three years for their 1965 vacation, and now this had to happen.  Who ever heard of a grown woman catching the mumps?  The children would be heartbroken.

 ***

Barbie couldn't believe how quickly the ceremony was over.  The rehearsal had lasted nearly two hours, but she felt sure she'd have missed her own wedding if she'd blinked her eyes.  It's a good thing her father had hired that photographer.

 ***

Joel attended the Harvard Business School and came home for Christmas 1974 predicting another depression.  All of the signs were right — look at the interest rates, inflation, unemployment, housing starts, a disgraced presidency, and the Japanese.  And this one, Joel promised as he passed his father the Christmas turkey, this one will make the last one look like a tea party.  Of course, there's not much you can do about it.  Jane missed the conversation, being occupied with her daughter, Lisa.  Anthony, Jr., rolled his eyes, but Joel's mother was proud of him.  Anthony changed the subject to football.

 ***

Anthony never could understand drinking.  Before taking a drink, he couldn't wait to get started.  After he'd had a couple, he felt great and figured, why not a couple more?  Then he'd hate that sleepy feeling he had, so he'd take another.  Just a short one.  Finally, he'd figure he might as well hit the sack.  Then he'd wake up around one thirty, and he'd have to pee, and he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep.  Then he'd hate himself for ever taking a drink in the first place.  Even so, he'd often get up, moving very carefully to keep from waking Barbie, and check to see if there was anything left to that bottle.  He rarely had to open a new one.

 ***

For two years, two nearly unbearable years for Barbara, Anthony, Jr., belonged to a Christian group whose specialty was counting earthquakes.  They seemed to rejoice each time a new one hit.  And they loved to hear about wars and rumors of wars.  They quoted all of the most knowledgeable pessimists on the environment and the economy.  The worse things got, the happier they got.  They knew whose side God was on.

 ***

Anthony heard from Chester Davis about the new family moving into the neighborhood, but he couldn't make himself believe it at first.  After he'd finally finished paying off his mortgage and put his garden in and built that beautiful pink brick wall and everything.  And with interest rates up in the stratosphere, there'd be no way for him to find another place half as nice.  Some reward for having towed the straight and narrow for twenty five years!  There's no justice in this world, he told Barbara.  He wanted to blame President Johnson, but he was a determined Democrat.

 ***

Anthony and the kids worked the surprise like this, see.  They told her about the party ahead of time, but they let on like it would be on Saturday night.  Well you shoulda seen her face when she got home on Thursday and everybody jumped out and screamed, "Surprise!"  She nearly died of fright.

 ***

The attack was well planned, Anthony was reading in the latest Time magazine, the troops were well trained, highly motivated, and completely equipped with the latest weapons, and the enemy had been lulled into a false sense of security by highly effective propaganda.

 ***

Barbara had his pipe and slippers laid out, greeted her young husband at the door with a kiss and a martini, and told him she loved him.  He could smell his favorite meal cooking in the kitchen — pizza!  Anthony felt so guilty.  He couldn't for the life of him remember what day it was.

 ***

Anthony, Jr., had been praying for that baseball mitt for three months, ever since turning ten years old.  He'd even saved up close to two dollars towards it.  Oh, if only he could talk his dad into it, he knew he'd make the starting team.

 ***

Barbara didn't mind living alone.  She planted a garden each year.  She was a regular at church.  She taught a class in knitting at the night school.  And should she really feel lonely, she could always call her granddaughter.

 ***

Glasses had been bad enough, but braces?  And Jane's father acted as if he were doing her such a big favor, making such a great sacrifice.  Well, she'd show him.

 ***

No one would believe that they wanted to spend their silver anniversary alone.

 ***

Many of Joel's most enlightened friends contended that man was his own worst enemy.  They pointed out his bloody history, his inability to end war, his willingness to create and use uncontrollably dangerous weapons and technologies, and, finally, his inability to understand himself.  They knew it was just a matter of time.

 ***

Like all of the other men, Anthony, Jr., put his faith in his union steward and committeemen.  If the union officials said it was thirteen percent or strike, then, by golly, that's just what it would be.

 ***

At first Anthony tried to ignore the rattle.  Maybe it would go away.  Of course, the car was still  under warranty, but he hated to interrupt his daily business to have the damned thing fixed.

 ***

Anthony's father claims that man's place in the universe is really very small.  He sees no pattern to human history and denies that man has made any significant progress in at least six thousand years.  Human life, he claims, is just a very temporary phenomenon in a universe that doesn't really give a damn about such trivia.

 ***

Jane just had to have that new outfit.  Her whole high school career depended on it.  She'd already talked her mother into it.  Now if her father could only understand.

 ***

Anthony, Jr., didn't see the boy chasing the ball from behind the hedge until it was too late.

 ***

Barbara knew there'd be a regular war at the dinner table if she tried that new liver recipe.  But what's a mother to do?

 ***

Reagan had the crowd stirred up.  Wasn't the enemy using chemical warfare?  Weren't troops massed on the border of an innocent land, poised and ready to snatch those precious raw materials?  Hadn't we let our military capabilities lag far behind theirs?  Anthony, like many other in the audience, was convinced.  He'd vote Republican for the first time in his life.

 ***

Jane turned over onto her stomach, reached back and undid the clasp to her bikini strap.  Then she wriggled into place.  Her husband didn't care if she was thirty years old: she was beautiful.

 ***

Barbara had just about decided to give up television when Anthony surprised her with one of those new color sets.

 ***

They each sponsored the feeding and education of an orphan in Indochina.  Barbara felt it was the least they could do, and Anthony didn't feel like arguing about it.

 ***

It was probably the happiest day of their life.  Little Jane had given birth to their first grandchild, a little girl whose name would be Lisa.  They celebrated by going to church.  The sermon was based on the first verses of John.  "In the beginning was the word."  What word? Anthony thought, avoiding the preacher's eyes.  "And the word became flesh and dwelt among us."  Barbara couldn't help thinking of Lisa when she heard the verse.

ole stories of buddy don:
story writ to git the group to stop laffin

heres a nuther story writ fer the group, witch the splainayshun of the group is cummin up in that novel, life n pinions of buddy don, hillbilly.

 

Big Wheels Roll

"Whose side are you on anyway?" Janie Duncan asked her brother, Donnie Whitlow, just after he'd suggested going after another six pack.

"Aah, I'm just trying to shut up Fatso there," Donnie replied, indicating with a wave of his roach clip B. B. Brown, his friend and next door neighbor. B. B., a very fat man who'd married probably the skinniest woman in Clinton, Tennessee, had been explaining once again his design for a perfect transmission, something involving little wheels spinning inside of a big wheel, transferring power, keeping things turning, moving the car. He was boring everybody with his use of terms like "virtual perpetual motion," "clean and efficient transfer of power," "power drive," "axle of the vehicle," and his favorite, "infinite gear ratio transmission."

"The only perpetual motion he really knows anything about is that mouth of his," Donnie added, laughing and slapping B. B. on his knee.

"I'm serious, man, you could run something for just about ever using the right transfer of power from its source to its object."

"Say what? How's about you getting some power out of your butt and transferring it to your car — or is that too complicated? Let's get another six pack."

"Forget it!" Janie screamed, placing her hands against her ears and ducking a little. The cigarette she held between the fingers of her right hand dropped ashes onto her shoulder. Donnie reached over to brush it off, but Janie jumped and slapped his hand the instant he touched her.

"Hey, Janie, what's up?"

"Sorry, Bro, I thought it was a bug or something."

"We gotta go anyway." Florence Brown announced, slapping her husband B. B. on the knee and standing up to stretch and yawn.

"Yeah, we need to take off, too, Donnie," Janie said. "Eric's drunk enough already." She scratched a blue place on her nose.

"Does it itch?" Donnie's wife Lily asked.

"Oh!" Janie blushed and turned away. She walked over to the living room mirror and scratched it gently, inspecting the slight green hint leftover from what had been a nasty bruise.

"It must be healing," she said. When she was little Donnie had nicknamed her "Shrink," short for Shrinking Violet, for she had always had a bad habit of hunching her shoulders and "looking like a scared rabbit." This did not stop her mother from praising her "good features," especially her "eyes more violet than Elizabeth Taylor's," and her "chestnut brown hair." Donnie once cracked that Mother must have meant the horse not the rider from National Velvet, drawing tears from Janie and a slap from his mother that made his nose bleed. Now her chestnut hair was not a problem, having been cut short in a pixie style — her husband Eric did not approve — and streaked with blond. And her eyes were as often as not covered with sun glasses, which, defiantly enough, she even wore indoors at night now and then. "Isn't that what it means when it itches? That it's getting well?"

"Well, it must have been a pretty nasty fall," Lily said, patting Janie on the hand.

"She's always been clumsy," her brother said. He was feeling good. He was a tall man, with a strong jaw, curly brown hair, green eyes, and a perfect moustache. He'd always had a good build, and he improved it by working out at the YMCA in Knoxville three times a week. He had to admit he had everything a person could want — a good job as a construction foreman at TVA, a nice little twenty acre spread, his best friend Eric Duncan (who'd even married his sister on his advice), a sharp looking wife, and steady renters in B. B. and Florence Brown. He even got Florence to come in twice a week to clean up and do the laundry so his wife could say she had a maid. And he had a good feeling about it since the Browns needed the break he gave them on their rent.

It had been another successful Friday evening get together for the three couples, an evening of drinking and music, smoking Florence's home grown pot and laughing at B. B.'s continual ravings about infinite gear ratios. Funny how you get a little alcohol in that guy's system and he never shuts up. Yes, Donnie couldn't call the evening anything but a good time, an unqualified success. He'd reached the proper level of altered perception using his favorite drugs, beer and marijuana. The girls had behaved themselves. Eric was good and drunk, hiding in the bathroom with the latest edition of Playboy. Janie, as usual, was smoking and pacing the floor like a tiger in the zoo. And B. B. was fighting off sleep, slinking down further into the maroon couch that separated the living room from the dining room, still chattering away about keeping something going forever using the right arrangement of wheels within wheels. Florence slapped his leg again.

"Come on, Baby. Time to go beddie bye."

"I thought we was gettin' some more beer," he said, hiding a yawn by sticking the back of his fat hand into his mouth.

"That's the last thing you need, Honey. You're about to pass out now."

"Yeah. No more beer, Donnie, please?" Janie said, smashing a partially smoked cigarette into the ashtray and pacing beside the wood stove.

Florence gave her husband another slap, this one on the shoulder.

"Come on."

"That's it, Flo baby," Donnie said. "Beat him to death."

"Shut up, Donnie," Lily said.

"I suppose you think you're man enough to make me?"

"Oh God, Donnie, leave her alone," Janie said. She sat down again and crossed her arms. Then, after lighting another cigarette, she stood up, walked over to the wood stove, opened the grate and checked the fire. "What's taking Eric so long?"

"Must've fallen in," Donnie said, laughing loudly.

"Well, we can't leave without saying goodbye to Eric, Flo, so why don't you sit down and relax?" Florence walked around the couch and came up behind B. B. She leaned over him, her long brown hair shielding her face, and kissed him.

"Let's get ready anyway," she said. "I got things to do tomorrow. I want to get to the flea market early."

Bill grabbed her arms and pulled her into his lap.

"How'd you like me to spank your bottom, huh?"

Florence kicked free and stood up, straightening her blue wool sweater.

"I mean it, Fatso, let's go," she said, snaring a fistful of his hair. "Do I have to make you?"

"You and whose army?" B. B. replied, seizing her hand and standing up with a rude grunt. He was shaky for a moment and nearly fell back into his seat. "I guess I did get drunk after all."

"Aah, your just dizzy from all those wheels," Donnie laughed.

"Don't listen to him, honey. You're drunk," Florence said, pinching his cheek.

Everyone talked at once, saying goodbye and planning the trip to the flea market. Donnie had Florence flip on the overhead light.

"What a mess," Lily said. Red and white beer cans, most of them crumpled in the middle by big strong men, were crowded onto the coffee table and the arms of the couch and matching chair. A few had found the floor. A bag of very green pot sat open on the coffee table next to an ashtray, some rolling papers, a meerschaum pipe, a pair of hemostats, a record cover, a set of keys. The floor was littered with old newspapers and wood chips. Next to the upright wood stove was a nearly empty wood box.

"Looks like you need to go split some more wood, Janie," Donnie said, rocking forward in his brown Boston rocker to pull out another rolling paper.

"What do you mean, me?" Janie asked, standing back up to pace over to the bathroom door, listen with her ear against it, shake her head, and return to the wood stove to warm her hands.

"I'll take that pot," Florence said, coming around the couch to grab it from Donnie.

"Let me just roll one to wake up on."

"OK, but I'm about smoked out tonight."

"We're all too wasted," Janie added.

"Who asked you?" Donnie said.

The room became silent as Donnie rolled his joint. Just as he began to lick it, a voice could be heard coming from the bathroom. At first it sounded like a drunk moaning. Then it became a melody.

"Oh God," Janie said.

"Shh!" Donnie said. Everyone listened.

"Janie Duncan's just a girl, just like any other in the world; Janie Duncan's just a girl, just like any other in the world! Janie Duncan's just a girl, just like any other in the world."

"Eric: the fifth Beatle," Donnie said. Florence and Lily laughed. B. B. coughed.

"He sounds like one of the Stranglers to me," B. B. said, laughing alone at his joke.

"Wow, B. B. made a joke!" Donnie said.

"I guess Eric finally managed to take his dump," Janie said, scratching her nose again.

"How can you tell?"

"Shh! Here he comes," Janie answered.

Eric emerged, a tall man with rosy, beardless cheeks, limp brown hair, and a crooked, cynical mouth. He hadn't changed from his Exterminator's uniform, and he smelled of insecticide. He was still singing when he noticed that everyone was watching him. He raised his hands as if to quiet an unruly crowd, mumbling something about not clapping, just throwing money. Then he stumbled against the bathroom door, pushed his hair back from his eyes, and walked over to B. B..

"Where you going, Henpeck?" he said, punching his friend's paunch. "Has old fartface Florence made up her mind you're going home?"

"It's already two A. M., Honey," Janie said.

"'It's already two A. M., Honey.' What a nag! Janie Duncan's just a girl, just like any other in the world," he began singing again. Donnie joined in, and both of them got louder, almost shouting the refrain. Janie covered her ears and walked to the door. After the fourth refrain she screamed.

"Shut up!"

The room became very quiet while everyone watched Janie light another cigarette.

"Donnie, we need to get to bed," Lily said, tugging at her husband's arm. He shook her off, pushing her away.

"Leave me alone, Woman."

"Let's go, Bill," Florence said, opening the door and pushing B. B. out.

"Let me get my coat," he said.

"I've got it already."

"Well give it to me. It's cold out there."

"You've got your fat to keep you warm, Blubberbod," Eric said. "You look like a damned Polar bear."

Florence moved to within two inches of Eric, bumping him slightly. She held up her fist.

"See this? How'd you like to have it in your eye?"

Eric snatched her hand, swallowing it in his. He squeezed.

"Don't, Eric, you'll hurt her," Janie said. Florence showed no signs of pain.

"You drunken asshole," she said. "You can't make me give in. Now leave my man alone."

"Henpeck? You want me to leave old Henpeck alone?" Eric asked, squeezing even harder. Janie began pulling at his arm, shouting his name.

"Get over there and defend your woman, B. B.," Lily said.

"She's defending me," B. B. answered. The men laughed, even Donnie.

"Let her go, Eric. I'm warning you," Janie said, jerking violently at his arm.

Eric suddenly let go and turned to Janie.

"You're warning me, are you?" He made a grab for her hair, but she ducked out of his reach and ran across the room. Eric glared at her, his lip trembling.

"Let's go, Billy," Florence said.

"Yeah, I guess we better. Good night, good night, had a wonderful time."

"Yeah, Donnie, we'll do it again next week," Florence said, pushing B. B. out and slamming the door behind herself.

"We better go too, Honey," Janie said, gathering her cigarette case and lighter into her purse.

"Oh," said Eric. "Janie's ready to go. Janie's making the rules. Janie thinks Eric is ready to go."

"It is pretty late, Pal," Donnie said.

"We've gotta get up early tomorrow, anyway," Lily added.

"Besides, Eric," Janie said, "you gotta be at work at seven thirty tomorrow. You're gonna have a bad enough hangover as it is with only four hours  "

"Shut up, Bitch."

"Well, it's true, Honey. You know how you'll feel tomorrow. Every week you ask me to get you to bed sooner on  "

"I said, 'Shut up, Bitch!"

"Fuck you!"

"That's all you ever think about."

"Oh, shut up, Eric."

"Give her a joint and put the meat to her. That's the only way to get her to shut up."

"Well you won't shut up until you pass out drunk. Every night it's the same thing."

"'Every night it's the same thing.' God, how many times have I had to put up with the same nagging?"

"Lily, Donnie, it's been fun," Janie said.

"And it's still fun," Eric interrupted. "Let's go get another six pack, Donnie. Let the girls hit the sack. Maybe they can get it on together and leave us alone."

"Eric Duncan, you shut your face!"

"Oh, you like that, do you? Maybe that's what you need — a woman. Damn sex maniac. Maybe a woman could keep you quiet."

"Eric," Donnie said, "it is getting late."

"So you're on her side, too?"

"He's not on anyone's side, Honey. It's late. Now let's go. Here's your coat."

Eric slapped the coat to the ground.

"Well, I'm leaving. Sorry Eric has to be such an asshole, Donnie."

"You come back here!" Eric warned.

"Goodnight Lily, Donnie." Janie glared once at Eric before leaving and slamming the door.

"That bitch!" Eric yelled, picking up his coat and rushing after her, leaving the door wide open.

Janie had already reached the driver's side of the orange Superbeetle by the time Eric got to the car.

"So you're driving?"

"Don't you think I'd better?"

"'Don't you think I'd better?' It wouldn't do for Eric to drive. He's too stupid to drive. Good thing Janie's here. She'll take him home, take care of him."

"You son of a bitch! Shut up and get in the car."

"'Shut up and get in the car.'"

"Oh, fuck you!"

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. That's all you ever think about." Eric got in and pulled his seat belt over his shoulder.

"Shit!" Janie said.

"What now?"

"I forgot the keys. Don't move till I get back."

"'Don't move till I get back.'"

Janie got out and began running to the house.

"Janie!"

"What?"

"Close the fucking door, you slut, it's cold."

She slammed the door. Eric's groan could be heard outside. He covered his ears with his hands.

Janie found the front door still open. Lily was gathering beer cans. Donnie was smoking his joint to wake up on.

"I thought I'd let this place air out a little," Lily said. "What'd you forget?"

"Keys."

"They're on the kitchen table, I think," Lily said. "They were earlier."

"I thought I put 'em in my purse," Janie said, shaking her purse again. No keys.

"Here they are," Donnie said.

"Where?"

"On the coffee table. I used them to clean my pipe."

"Thanks, Brother." Janie started to say something else but caught herself in time. Lily called her into the kitchen.

"Is Eric gonna be all right?" she asked.

"He'll sleep it off fine if I can just get him into bed."

"What about you, Janie? Will you be all right?"

"Me? I've handled this kind of thing dozens of times. He's all right. He's just mad 'cause the party's over. He'll be real sweet tomorrow afternoon."

"After he gets off, you mean?"

"After he gets off and gets him a beer or two."

"Well, you be careful."

"Careful? Oh, I'm not that drunk. I can drive fine"

"Well, goodnight."

"Yeah, 'night. 'Night, Donnie."

"Come back when you can't stay so long, Janie," Donnie called.

Janie closed the door firmly behind her. She found the VW key and jangled the others free. When she got back to the car, much as she'd expected, she found Eric asleep. She opened the door quietly and got in, closing it as carefully as she could. When she started the car, however, a loud buzzer told her she'd forgotten her seat belt.

"What's that?" Eric asked, sitting up Janie backed the car out of the driveway.

"Just the seat belt buzzer."

"Well turn it off. I'm trying to sleep."

Janie ignored him, put the car into first, and began driving off.

"Can't you turn that fucking buzzer off? Maybe I better drive."

"You can't drive, Honey. You're too drunk."

"'You can't drive, Honey. You're too drunk.' Bullshit. I got my seat belt on at least."

"All right, all right. I'll put my belt on. You just shut up."

Janie brought the car to a halt and pulled on her belt. Eric hopped out immediately. Janie locked her door.

"Get back in the car, you asshole." Her voice was trapped in the car and sounded like a low moan. She rolled her window down and put her arm over the lock.

"Open the door, Janie."

"You just get back in the car. Now everything's all right. Let's go."

"Open the door, Janie!" Eric tried the handle. "Unlock the door, you slut!" Eric tried to push her arm off the lock. They struggled together for a moment. Eric pushed her arm off finally. Janie popped the clutch, causing the car to lurch forward.

"You bitch, get back here!" Eric ran after the car, nearly running into it when Janie slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. She pushed the lock again and leaned on it.

"Get out, Janie."

"No. You get in."

Eric tried the door handle.

"You fucking little whore. Unlock the door before I break it."

"I'm not gonna do it. You're too drunk to drive."

"'I'm not gonna do it. You're too drunk to drive.'"

"Well, aren't you?" Janie asked. Eric punched Janie's elbow off of the lock and pulled it up again. Again, Janie let out the clutch, let the car jerk forward, slammed the brakes, and locked the door. Eric chased after the car, jumping straight up into the air and slamming the cold ground with both feet.

"Open the fucking door!"

"No."

Eric tried the door handle again.

"I'm not gonna open the door, Eric, so you might as well get in."

"'You might as well get in.'"

"Fuck you!" Janie yelled, leaning out, her lips parted as if she wanted to bite or kiss Eric.

"You little bitch!" Eric answered. Then, striking as swiftly as a snake bites a bird, Eric slammed his fist into Janie's left eye. Blood began pouring from her nose, spilling into her mouth and onto her sweater and coat and purse, splattering the window as she cried and coughed.

"I've had it with you!" she screamed.

"Janie! I'm sorry, God, Janie, I swear I am, please, I never meant — "

Janie drove off. At the corner she turned around, jamming the gears and even causing the tires to squeal when she let out the clutch again. Eric stood in the middle of the road with his arms out. Janie drove straight at him, gaining speed. He closed his eyes and stood motionless. She swerved at the last instant and drove around him. Then she skidded to a halt and stuck her head out of the window. She spat out a red clot of blood.

"You just walk home, Eric. I'll be there in the morning. If you show your face at Donnie's, I'll tell everything. I swear I will." Before Eric could answer, she drove off. She continued driving aimlessly for thirty minutes so that her timing would be right. She told herself out loud she was not upset, that she'd handled this kind of thing dozens of times in the past. She even found herself repeating parts of B.B.'s big wheel theory. This made her laugh, so she told herself she must be all right. Then she returned to Donnie's.

She found her brother's house darkened. She parked and got out anyway. She pounded on the door, leaving little red fist prints on the white painted wood. Lily came finally.

"Janie! What happened?"

"Eric passed out and I ran into the door knob trying to get him into the house. I'm so damned clumsy." She began crying again. "Could you see if I'm all right? He's asleep on the couch, Eric is."

"Come in. Of course."

Lily patched Janie up, washing her face, putting an ice bag on her eye.

"And I'd almost healed,'' Janie said, laughing. Lily did not laugh. She soaked Janie's sweater in the bathroom sink. She wiped the blood from her purse. Finally, she made a bed on the couch.

"You are going to stay the night, aren't you?"

"Oh, Lily, could I?"

"Of course. Anytime." Lily wanted to tell Janie what she suspected. She felt almost certain she knew. But Janie refused to meet her eye.

"Goodnight, Lily. Thanks for everything."

"Goodnight, Janie."

Donnie woke up when Lily crawled back into the bed. He wanted to know what all the fuss was about.

"Janie's hurt."

"Again? God she's clumsy."

"I don't think it was an accident, Honey."

Donnie rolled over to face the wall, groaning.

"Just what do you think?"

"Well..."

"Well? Get on with it. I was sleeping just fine until two minutes ago."

"I think Eric hit her. In fact, I'm almost sure of it. Her nose is broken."

"What are you, a doctor?"

"No."

"Well, how do you know it's broken? Besides, she messed it up once before on a damned coffee table."

"Well now it's more crooked than ever. I don't think she fell last time anyway."

"So you think Eric hit her then, too? Is that what Janie said?"

"No, but I think she's scared."

"I think you should mind your own business. Even if he did hit her, you know she practically begged for it. Look at the way she bitched and nagged at him tonight. I've wanted to hit her a time or two myself."

Donnie curled up into a ball. Within minutes, Lily heard him breathing deeply. He was asleep.

sprang evnins of buddy don:
celebraytin the holiday

 

we gut us a nuther new sangle malt, thisn name of ardbeg, witch tiz a islay malt

 

as ye kin see, the colors a lil differnt frum yer reglar sangle malts lack mcallan 12 year

it dont seem to keep ye frum playin yer insterment

sprang days of buddy don:
good fridy in jersy

lonesum jersy sky

 

sprang buds a'burstin . . .

 

 

. . . payshuntly waitin . . .

. . . while them barges gits tugged up the Hudson to git thangs

stories of buddy don:
story writ to play with point of view

Burned

 

"I just don't think I'm ready to settle down," Brad said, pulling at his wispy little moustache. "I'm just too young."

"Twenty-six?" Brad's girlfriend Marianne asked under her breath, shaking her bowed head and then tossing her long blond hair back over her shoulders with both hands.

"Don't you think you ought to light that thing, Jim? You've let it go out again." Brad coughed loudly, dryly, into his hand.

Both Jim and Brad were sitting on the floor. Jim leaned forward onto his knees, bent over his crotch, pulled back the denim flap and struck a wooden match against his zipper. Jim was nearly thirty, but he looked older. His hair had always been thin and fine, and in recent years it had begun the slow retreat toward the back of his head. Thick brown patches remained above his ears, and an insubstantial tuft of it had set up a desperate rear guard action in the middle of his head. This he wore long and let hang awkwardly into his face.

"Too young to be married?" Jim said, holding the match in front of him and turning to his right to smile at his wife, Tammy, who rolled her blue eyes toward the ceiling. "I think you got the wrong idea about marriage, Bro'. It's really not as bad as you think. In fact, it's the happiest state known to man."

"Really," Marianne added. Jim turned to his left and met Marianne's green eyes for a moment. She did not smile, so Jim dropped his eyes and continued.

"Well, there comes a time in your life when you got to take responsibility for your actions. I mean, let's face it, I'm no angel myself —"

Both Marianne and Tammy laughed.

"Amen, Bro'," Brad said, again thoughtfully pulling at his moustache. "But you've always been quick enough about tying the knot."

"Yes, I was once. But I went through the jungle myself, and, if I do say so, I did all right there." Jim looked down at the half burned match as he said this. Marianne caught Tammy looking at Brad. Then she caught her eye, and each woman smiled. Brad looked at the ceiling.

Jim lifted the match to the joint, which began smoking but did not light. He raised it to his lips for a moment, then paused. It was still unlit.

"But I swear, Bro', I was never happy there. That wasn't really what life was all about. I'd seen both worlds, you know, when I remarried."

"Yeah, I know," Brad said. "Let's see can you light that number."

"I swear, man, I'm happier now than I ever was. Tammy and I are like partners. No matter what happens, we're together. It's like having this great friend to go through your whole life with, and like, you never have to worry about lots of things, like women and things, ever again. You're really free when you're mar — ouch!"

Jim jerked his hand sharply and the blackened bit of match fell to the carpet, smoking lightly.

All four of them laughed.

 

 * * *

 

Tammy wanted to laugh when her brother-in-law, Brad Lundy, said he was too young to settle down.

His attitude about women really stinks. He ought to rent them out by the hour.

She took a drag off her cigarette and spied him carefully. A tall, lanky hunk, actually, with curly brown hair and that little boy's moustache, he is attractive. I can't deny that he could get all of the women, probably, that he could ever want. The bastard.

Tammy snuffed her cigarette into the ash tray at her left. As she did so, she watched her thin, awkward husband light the match against his zipper.

I wonder if little boys ever grow up? He must have tried that trick a thousand times at least. I guess it makes him feel like a man. Lord knows, he's no macho. So different, these brothers, the one so strong and physical, the other so thin, so cerebral, so fragile. Still, that's what I love about him: he can be weak with me.

What's this now? What's he saying?

"Too young to be married?" Jim said, holding the match in front of him and turning to his right.

Yes, honey, I know your brother is a callous bastard. It's nice the way James understands me. He must know exactly what I'm thinking.

And he's right about marriage being the happiest state. At least there one can find a little security with a lover. You can protect each other from the temptation of people like Marianne, poor woman. I wonder if Bradley the Macho knows about Marianne's unsuccessful attempts with Jim? Surely not. He'd never settle for something someone else had rejected.

Tammy looked over at Marianne. What was Jim saying now?

" . . . let's face it, I'm no angel."

That's funny, Tammy thought, laughing out loud as she caught Marianne's eye. What a cat! With those green eyes, that sleek body. I'll bet you'd still love to get your claws into my Jimbo. And I don't blame you. Fact is, I feel for you, your kind that is. You end up with Brad, who'll never be anything but a callous bastard chasing skirts. He's been through how many different women now? And you're no different, honey. He'll leave you when the next pretty face looks his way.

But don't get any ideas. I'll protect Jim, believe me. He's as innocent as a two year old, my baby, and I'd kill to protect him from any further suffering. He needs me. He told me, with words, with tears, and tears never lie —

"Ouch!" Jim cried. Tammy started from the couch to stamp the burning match if necessary, but it was already out. Then she laughed.

 

 * * *

 

"I'm too young to settle down, Brad said, pulling unconsciously at his moustache. He stole a quick glance at Tammy. Not his type. But tough. I love the way she sits, so damned feminine. And those blue eyes! Damn, they could melt you. I've always been kinda partial to auburn hair, anyway. But those tits of hers — they're basically missing. Give me a lady with lungs, any day.

I wish Jim would pay more attention to what he's doing. He always lets the joint go out while he's preaching.

"Don't you think you ought to light that thing, Jim? You've let it go out again."

God, my brother. He's living in never-never land. Married again? Not that this one isn't an improvement.

Oh no, here he goes with the zipper trick. Good, it worked for once. Now put the match to the joint and pass it over.

No, he's got to talk first.

"Too young to get married?"

Damn, I wish he'd leave me alone about that. Can't he see I'm not the marrying kind? Sure, it's just the thing for him since he's always been the ugly one. God, look at him now, that stupid hair falling in his face. He looks like a clown, a stupid clown. Oh well, that's what marriage does to you, makes you a damned clown.

What do I need marriage for anyway? I can get all the sex I want without it. Better sex, too.

Brad glanced at Marianne, who was laughing with Tammy. Must be a private joke. Women anyway! Why would you want to sign your life away to just one woman? I bet if old Jimbo'd ever had anyone like Marianne, he'd change his tune. Woman'll fuck your brains out. I wonder does Tammy? Naw, can't imagine it. Must be funny, the two of them in bed. I bet ol' Jimbo's cock's as skinny as he is. Must be like getting stabbed for Tammy. Shit, a woman wants strength, passion, control. God, I just wish Jimbo'd heard Marianne last night: she was wicked. She loves it when I hold her down and pump as hard as I —

"Ouch!" Jim cried, causing Brad to lean forward to pat the match out if necessary.

I swear, that guy. He didn't even get the joint lit in all of that. Brad couldn't help laughing.

 

 * * *

 

Here he goes again with that too-young-to-settle-down business.

"Twenty six?" Marianne said under her breath. Of course, he chooses not to hear me. I sometimes wonder if he hears anything I say. At least Jim — oh no!

Jim leaned forward onto his knees, bent over his crotch, pulled back the denim flap and struck a wooden match against his zipper.

So he's still doing that! Oh, Jimmy, how can you ignore me now? After everything we went through, I should hate you, I know, I should utterly hate you, your thin little arms, your thin hair, but, oh Jimmy!, how I would love to touch your thinness again. No one ever understood me the way you did, no one. Surely you know I'm not interested in that boob, your brother? God, what an animal. But Jimmy, I'd do anything just to get near, and when he said his name was Lundy, I couldn't . . . what? What is he saying?

" . . . got the wrong idea about marriage, Bro'. It's really not as bad as you think. In fact, it's the happiest state know to man."

"Really."

Yes, that got his attention. He thinks I approve. Oh, Jimmy, you still have the sexiest grey eyes, Jesus, look at me Jimmy, can't you see how I feel? That's it, drop your eyes. Let's hear what you've got to say for the holy estate of matrimony.

"Well, there comes a time in your life when you've got to take responsibility for your actions . . . "

Yes, Jimmy, how well you say what you cannot do.

Marianne could not help laughing out loud.

Oh, Jimmy, you always were the preacher, but you could never lie, so why do you try? When did you take responsibility with me? And that little wife of yours, I just bet she loves to hear you sermonize. Little Miss Goody-goody, won't even smoke a joint with us. Look at her staring at you. She doesn't know you at all, does she? Yes, smile at me, Sweetie, isn't your hubby cute? Don't you just love the way he preaches nothing but the truth? I wonder if you'd smile if you knew about us? Has he ever cried with you? Have you ever raised blood on his back? No doubt you're too sweet to make a man bleed, aren't you dear?

What? What the hell is he saying now? Never was happy in the jungle? I suppose that means me? His little tiger? I'll put you back into the jungle where you belong, you little monkey. I'll show you how hard it is not to worry about a lot of things, like women, you just wait. You never could resist —

"Ouch!" Jim cried. Marianne laughed.

I hope it burns. I hope it burns.

 

 * * *

 

Jim had been uncomfortable all evening long. Imagine, his little brother showing up with Marianne. I thought she'd gone to California. And she's as beautiful as she ever was, maybe more. Why must I be such an animal? I'm happy with Tammy. She's perfect for me. Why, then, can Marianne cause my body to go crazy? My heart feels like exploding. I just wasn't ready for her. You'd think little Brad could have warned me. I guess he didn't know. How could he? Bad enough that Tammy knows as much as she does. What's that?

"I just don't think I'm ready to settle down," Brad said. Look at him tug that moustache. It's really funny. He's so big and strong, but he's got no hair on his chest or his face to speak of. I may be bald, but . . .

I wish he would marry Marianne. That way she'd be off my hands for good. Ah — what am I thinking? That way she'd be that much closer, that much more tempting. I've got to say something before I light this.

"Too young to be married?" Jim said, turning his gaze to his wife. She hates the little punk. Good old Tammy, solid as a rock. It's nice of her to be so kind to Marianne. Of course, she thinks we never had anything between us. Look how she rolls her eyes. Nothing but contempt for Brad's being unwilling to get serious and settle down.

"I think you've got the wrong idea about marriage, Bro' — " I've got to say the right things now, for Tammy's sake. And I believe what I'm saying anyway. I am happy. I am. I am. I am. "It's really not as bad as you think. In fact, it's the happiest state known to man."

"Really," Marianne said. Jim turned to his left and met her green eyes for a moment. Was she asking a question? Or backing me up? I know you, Marianne, I know what you're thinking. It's a question. Damn you! I am happy! Marianne did not smile, so Jim dropped his eyes.

"Well, there comes a time in your life when you got to take responsibility for your actions. I mean, let's face it, I'm no angel myself —"

The women laughed.

"Amen, Bro'," Brad said.

Shit, I blew that one. Surely they don't think I'm that bad!

"Yes, I was once. But I went through the jungle myself, and, if I do say so, I did all right there."

What am I saying? There was Judy, my first wife, a child, a foolish adventure. Then, seems like it was years later, years of frustration — I hated women! I swear, they can be so cruel — but then I met Marianne, my little tiger. No, don't even think it.

"But I swear, Bro', I was never happy there." Surely Marianne knows I'm lying. I was never happier, but it couldn't work with her; she's just too wild. "That wasn't really what life was all about. I'd seen both worlds, you know, when I remarried."

I hope that convinces someone. Of course, Brad doesn't hear a word of it.

Forgive me, Marianne, but I've got to say this for Tammy's sake.

"I swear, man, I'm happier now than I ever was. Tammy and I are like partners. No matter what happens, we're together." Oh, Marianne, you do know better, don't you? "It's like having this great friend to go through your whole life with, and like, you never have to worry about lots of things, like women‑‑" Oh, Marianne, you've got to forgive me. And I know you will. I'll see you again, I know. You may have run away last time, but this time we'll —

"Ouch!"

Damn, I've got to watch what I'm doing. He felt himself blushing. Everyone was laughing at him. He chuckled politely before putting his burnt thumb into his mouth.