humor

I Don’t Have a Leg to Stand On

I Don’t Have a Leg to Stand On

I’m busier than a one legged man in an ass kicking contest. Yup. That’s me. I’m the one legged man. And I’m getting my ass kicked.

You know how some families over-share with those embarrassing annual family letters?

I mean, I’m looking at one now, staring at photos of absolutely unrecognizable people, asking “Who the HELL are these people?” (Although as I look at this closer I see that this letter DID go to the wrong address. ) Whoops. Sorry. My bad. I’ll just tape this up here, and here…..

Well, anyway, here’s my “over-sharing” holiday letter ~

“It was a dark and stormy night…” and I took a monster header down a steep muddy embankment in the pouring rain just after dark a week ago. I stepped on a patch of mud on the steep pitch in front of my next door neighbor’s house that was slicker than greased butter. (I know. That’s not a very good analogy) Before I even had time to think “Whoa, I can’t believe it’s not butter!” I was off my feet and in the air. One second I’m walking through a deluge, just minding my own business, taking in the evening air and then BAM! next second I’m rocketing downhill at the speed of light, like an Olympic luge racer, except for my left leg, which I left behind. Long story short ~ I watched in amazement as my left leg twisted into impossible shapes like a balloon at a children’s birthday party.

Fast forward ~ one week later ~

My physician calls with my MRI results. My ACL looks intact, (Which is wonderful.) He says I have an ACL like the steel cable that held the Hindenberg Zeppelin to the docking station ( No, wait ~ that’s not a good metaphor) but that my cartilage is toast ~ which makes me crave butter and honey.

My orthopedic consult was initially scheduled a month from now ~ A month? C’mon ~ seriously?

Of course an injury like this at this point in my life gives rise to many concerns and questions. One of the things that concerns me is that after only a few days, I have stopped asking most questions. Always one to ask “why?” or “how? or “what if?”, sadly, now I just seem to bark “Where the fuck is my cane????

Another of my burning questions is “How will this impact my fun?” I want to know whether or not I’ll be able to do a scheduled 5 day canoe trip down the Green River in Utah the first week in April. I’m one of the last of the hard core hopeless romantics and eternal optimists, but I’m looking for a shot of reality too. If the trip was tomorrow, the only way I could even get in any kind of boat would be for a Viking funeral ~ carried in a supine position by Viking maidens and set aflame on Seneca Lake while my cocker spaniels, Chauncy and Ollie stand at attention on the cliff and blow “Ricolah” from those really giant alpine horns. The Green River and Canyonlands is the real deal. It’s one thing for me to try and go all Robert Mitchum but another thing to possibly put the other 3 in my party at risk just because I’m trying to use up my last gram of testosterone and we’re out in the friggin’ middle of the marmot infested Utah wilderness and I’m suddenly all Burt Reynolds in Deliverance with my broken femur lashed to a canoe paddle while some one toothed hillbilly named Festus takes potshots at us from the cliff dwellings and my compadres are trying to haul my sorry ass out of there day after day.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself….

To prove that thing about the squeaky wheel….I guess whining is a good negotiation tactic. I whimpered and moaned my way from a consult a month away to tomorrow at 9 AM. (I hope I can get up in time!) Actually I sent an e mail. (I might have exaggerated just a teensy weensy bit.) I think I kinda described how I was using a rattlesnake as a tourniquet to staunch the bleeding from my femoral artery? (Too much?)

I guess my karma’s come back to haunt me.

“C’mon ya big baby, ya still got one good leg. Get back in there.” (Mike Maxwell – Legendary (in his mind) Youth Soccer Coach )

At least I have the internet to help me research this (and also scare the absolute bejeezus out of myself , overwhelmed by creeping paranoia as I self diagnose every other malady I come across in my scholarly Google research. For instance, I had no idea you could get those insidious brain eating amoeba from a knee injury. Who knew?

Sometimes ignorance is bliss. In the meantime, rehabilitation starts right at home in Big Skyy Country.

(and I don’t mean Montana.)

December 17, 2012 14

Lunch Lady Cookbook Mondo Fandango Lentil Soup

Hey there boys and girls! This is Lunch Laddy Michael Gillan Maxwell bringing you the latest edition of the Lunch Lady Cookbook. I don’t know about you, but after I’ve been outside in the crisp autumn weather doing manly things like wearing flannel shirts, raking leaves, tossing the old pigskin around, cleaning gutters, cutting firewood and wrangling Cocker Spaniels, it takes some stick-to-your-ribs hearty fare to keep the Lunch Laddy’s depleted afterburners chugging away.

It’s times like this when Cup-a-Soup just ain’t makin’ it. You need something to stoke the furnace. It’s time to pull out the big guns and make it from scratch and while you’re at it, you might as well chef up a power packed protein and antioxidant bomb with plenty of fiber to move the mail. It’s the right time of the year for Lunch Lady Cookbook Mondo Fandango Lentil Soup.

Pull together the following ingredients, and commence to slicin’ n’ dicin’

1 package red lentils

2 cups chopped celery

2 cups brussels sprouts (cut in half)

2 cups chopped carrots

1 chopped onion

16 oz. chopped baked ham w/bone

16 oz. can diced tomatoes with green pepper and

8 oz. can tomato sauce

6-8 cups water

2 -3 coves of garlic

Worcester sauce

Hot sauce

Spices ~ sea salt, fresh ground mixed pepper, basil flakes, garlic powder

Chopping vegetables — Chopping Vegetables

Combine tomatoes, tomato sauce, carrots, brussels sprouts and celery in a stock pot.

Rinse and drain lentils, then add to stock pot with other ingredients.

Bring to boil then turn to simmer.

Slice ‘ dice onion, garlic and ham ~ sauté until onions are caramelized ~ add to stock pot.

Season generously.

Simmer for 2-3 hours, stirring frequently.

Top with Pecorino Romano Cheese and serve with massive piece of buttered crusty rosemary olive oil bread

Lunch Lady Mondo Fandango Lentil Soup and Bread

Beverage Pairing ~ Brooklyn Brown Ale (or 2)

Musical Pairing ~ Plenty of gutbucket blues with reverb drenched chainsaw guitars ~ early Stones, Black Keys, Junior Kimbrough, R.L. Burnside

And if your guests give you any kind of grief at all, then it’s NO SOUP FOR YOU! COME BACK ONE YEAR!

Until next time, this is the Lunch Laddy signing off for The Lunch Lady Cookbook.

Party hardy and eat hearty. Bon apetit!

November 18, 2012 2

“Awesome” Alert!

My short, nonfiction piece “Fly the Friendly Skies” was accepted for inclusion in the forthcoming anthology real.

I am SO excited to be included in this group of writers, and most humbled and honored by all of it. Thank you so much Editor/Publisher Matt Potter!

For a peek, click on the link below.

http://pureslush.webs.com/atasteofreal.htm

October 1, 2012 6

The Lunch Lady Cookbook: Dining at the Dirt Track Races

Hi there boys and girls! This is the Lunch Laddy, Michael Gillan Maxwell bringing you another installment of the Lunch Lady Cookbook. Summer is a fleeting season and it won’t be long before lunch ladies across the nation will be at their posts with healthy heapin’ helpins’ of classic American Lunch Lady AWESOME. But I heard Summer say: “I ain’t dead yet!” and the Lunch Laddy still has a wild card or two to throw down before Labor Day. This installment of the Lunch Lady Cookbook is takin’ it old school. We’re gettin’ our act together and takin’ it on the road. The Lunch Lady Cookbook takes you out to eat at one of the grittiest and noisiest venues for classic American haute cuisine ~ the dirt track races!

The dirt track menu has the venerable, time honored comfort food that is the epicurean cornerstone of county fairs, amusement parks, rodeos, traveling carnivals, the circus and most sporting events. To say that it is a veritable cornucopia of healthy vegan delights would be more than a little white lie. There may be some nitrites, white flour, high fructose corn syrup and a smidgeon of hydrogenated oil in one or two of the offerings, but I’m not altogether sure and I don’t really want to know. This is not the place where one goes to sample whole foods masterpieces, gastronomic innovations, and strokes of gustatory genius. This is not cocktails at Noel Coward’s. We’re wearing tee shirts and ball caps, not silk smoking jackets and ascots. This is the dirt track for God’s sake.

Slushies, Ice Cream

It is here that one may dine on such delicacies as fried dough with powdered sugar, giant pretzels, cotton candy, nachos smothered with melted cheese, pulled pork, Slush Puppies, ice cream cones, french fries with vinegar, sausage, chili, salt potatoes, Texas hots, and of course, the uncontested foundation of all classic cuisine Americana: burgers and dogs! This is not just another Friday night out on the town. This is the mecca of midway concession delights. This is a sacred pilgrimage. Of course, any selection one makes from the menu may be embellished and enhanced with any number of old stalwarts from the condiment trough including yellow mustard and (fancy) ketchup, chopped onions, dill relish, chili relish, sweet relish, powdered sugar, vinegar and a half dozen other gooey, slippery, slimy, gloppy things guaranteed to turn your shirt into a dish towel. Unless, of course, you have the foresight to wear a bib. However, that could turn out to be a tragic fashion choice at a venue like the dirt track races. Let’s not forget that a healthy layer of sand and grime and grit will enhance any selection you have made, especially if you are seated with the Lunch Laddy at Turn 4. Think of it as extra fiber in your diet.

The switchboard is lighting up with callers who just want to know: “Lunch Laddy ~ what did YOU choose for your dirt track dining entree?” I must confess, my mind was already made up before I even left the house. I would settle for nothing less than a hot dog and a beer. The Lunch Lady Cookbook dog was served on a white bun in a cardboard tray and smothered with chopped onions, (Fancy) ketchup, yellow mustard and chili relish. The dog was sublime ~ an insouciant little sausage with just the right amount of nitrites and grease. I could bite it but it didn’t bite back. It would not have been complete unless it was washed down with a cold can of beer. (And then another one, for good measure.)

Beverage pairing: Labatt’s Blue ~ chilled to perfection, drunk from the can.

Music Pairing: Whatever heavy metal tunes that were pulsating from the speakers. All I know is that the guitar tone felt like a bag of hammers being dropped on my head.

As for the races, it was the Lunch Laddy’s first visit so it was like sacrificing a virgin to the volcano. The Lunch Laddy sat just above track level coming out of turn 4 and surrendered himself to the volcanic din of mechanical mayhem, the ambrosia of burning rubber and fuel combustion engine exhaust, the sweet caress of filth and grit massaging his skin and blinding his eyes, the earsplitting shriek and howling maelstrom that is blood sport spectacle for the whole family on a Friday night somewhere in America. What’s not to love?

The Roar of the Greasepaint, the Smell of the Crowd

So, until next time, this is the Lunch Laddy signing off.

Get your motor runnin’!

Arrivederci and Bon Appetit!

August 25, 2012 6

Going Postal

GOING POSTAL

I mailed something to Spain recently. The surreal encounter in the Post Office did little to enhance my faith all things postal. I think Charles Bukowski put in something like 20 years as a postal clerk, if that tells you anything. But then again, John Prine was a Chicago postal carrier, so maybe there is hope after all.

I stood in line for eternity while a blue haired, frail old lady inquired about shipping her pet tropical macaw. The next person mailed Christmas cards. That would be fine except that it’s May. Then I stepped up to the counter and came face to face with someone who could only be described as the guardian at one of the gates of Hell.

“Mailing to Spain you say? Are there any explosives or flammable liquids?” “Um … it’s a flat envelope containing a letter.” (I wanted to say: “I’m mailing Spanish boots of Spanish leather. What does this look like you idiot? It’s a letter envelope!”) But I knew that would only prolong the agony and most likely end with her subjecting me to a thorough and vigorous body cavity search in full view of all the other customers.

“Well, if it’s anything other than paperwork, such as a document, you’ll need to fill out this customs form and sign here, here, here and here. Just remember this may be inspected and you will be subject to prosecution if you falsify this report or enter any inaccurate information.”

“I’ll bet the weather is rather pleasant in Guantanamo this time of year. A black hood will actually go nicely with virtually anything in my wardrobe,” I thought as I turned away from the counter. By this time the line behind me had grown to at least a half dozen impatient customers who eyed me with suspicion. I filled out the form in triplicate, put a checkmark in the “contents” box that signifies “document”, dutifully described the document as a “NY State Drivers License”, and trudged back to the end of the line, whistling “Alice’s Restaurant”.

After another eternity, I slid the form and envelope across the counter. She inspected the form, arched her eyebrow and asked why I would be sending a New York Driver’s License to someone in Spain. I wanted to say “You caught me! I’m a sleeper operative in an al-Qaeda cell, supplying fake IDs to my comrades in arms in Spain!” Once again, I prudently bit my tongue and explained that it was for my next door neighbor here in the states who has been living there with his family, but will be returning soon.

After some deliberation, she began ruthlessly stamping the form and pulling apart the duplicates to be distributed to various places, including one for me, with all the information that would be needed to track me to the ends of the earth. I started to wonder if my black hood would be itchy.

“Do you want this to go Overnight for $45, Express for $23 or First Class for a dollar nineteen?” I chose a dollar nineteen, and hoped that the license would reach my friend before it was time to renew it again in 10 years. I decided to skip the rest of my errands and head straight to the liquor store.

May 19, 2012 4

The Last of the Hard Boiled Dicks ~ Episode VI ~

Is That a Gun in Your Pocket, or Are You Just happy to See Me? — Is That a Gun in Your Pocket, or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

The Last of the Hard Boiled Dicks Episode VI

A Mugsy Phlegmming Caper

A Cheap and Tawdry Detective Noir Mystery

in Serial Form and Three Part Harmony

~ Episode VI ~

Things Ain’t Now, Mama What They Used To Be

Now Let’s See ~ Where Were We???

Mugsy is visited by the free lance ornithologist, Elvert Bisbee, who is looking for Gladys. He informs Mugsy of the suspicious and sinister activities of the two piano tuners. Mugsy heads out the door to find Gladys, and the envelope and to meet his date with destiny. He receives a text message from Imma Pennyraker, telling him to walk towards the river. After descending the stairs, he pauses to check on the action in the street, and witnesses Fontaine’s body being spirited away in a black Mercedes SUV. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, he spots Gladys roosting on a “No Parking” sign across the street. Careful to avoid Miss Crabclaws, Mugsy starts to cross the street in an effort to approach Gladys and retrieve the envelope. He glances back to see the piano tuners come around the corner. They spot him but are temporarily detained by Miss Crabclaws. Musgsy starts to cross the street and is almost hit by a van, just as Gladys takes off and starts flying towards the river. The door of the van slides open and someone yells: “Get in now if you want to live!” Mugsy dives into the van telling the driver to “Follow that parrot and step on it!”

~ And now ~

The van took off and careened down the street, first bouncing off the curb, then nearly swerving into oncoming traffic. I flopped around like a fish out of water, trying to get up off the floor. This was the second time in an hour I found myself in a such a compromised position. I hoped it wasn’t becoming a habit.

Her sultry voice hit me like a velvet hammer. “So, we meet again, Mr. Phlegmming. I did not think it would be so soon, but things are happening more quickly than expected. I presume you have the envelope?” I heaved my bulk onto the seat and and found myself face to face with Imma Pennyraker. She was no longer dressed in a wet raincoat, but she still looked as munchable as a box of Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies. “The envelope is somewhere safe,” I said. “Actually, it’s a long story, but Gladys has it. That’s why we need to follow that parrot.” Ms. Pennyraker said something in Russian to the driver, who gunned the engine, jumped the curb and started driving on the sidewalk to get around traffic and keep up with Gladys.

I looked back and saw a police patrol car stop outside my office building. Miss Crabclaws was all over the cops before they could even get out of the car. She brandished her cane like a rapier, slashing and poking, pointing at the ruins of her piano, then thrusting the cane back towards the cops as she ranted and raved. Maybe this was what Zorro might have looked like at the elder hostel, hopped up on meth and reliving his salad days. The piano tuners were jacking a pizza delivery car. One of them had a gun leveled at the pizza guy who was backing away with his hands in the air. Bisbee came out of the building and started sprinting after us. “Hell Hounds On My Trail” started running through my head. This was no time to be singing the blues.

“She’s heading towards the river” I said. “ We can’t let her out of our sight!” Pedestrians screamed and dove out of the way of the van. We swerved back onto the street just in time for the bridge. Gladys was flying across the river. She had swooped down, keeping close to the water and then veered east towards the main part of the city. I heard brakes screeching and horns honking. I looked back and and saw traffic stalled out in gridlock and the pizza delivery car jammed up in the middle.

We crossed the bridge, keeping our eye on Gladys. She seemed to be heading towards a ramshackle shanty on the river bank. “That’s the old boat house,” I said. “Turn left on that access road just across the bridge, but do it fast. We’ve got to lose that pizza delivery car.” It was starting to get dark and that was going to make everything more difficult. Gladys was looking for a safe place to roost for the night. It would be almost impossible to find her in the dark. I hoped that’s why she was heading for the boat house. It would be a good place for us to hide too, if we could just lose the piano tuners.

We turned onto the frontage road and headed for the boat house. The street on the other side of the bridge was not in view. I couldn’t see the piano tuners which meant they couldn’t see us either. The boat house came into view, but Gladys was nowhere to be seen. It was getting dark fast. We had no time to lose.

We pulled up to the boat house. I got out of the van first. I heard Imma Pennyraker say something to the driver in Russian before she got out. The van pulled away and kept driving down the frontage road. “I told Giorgio to drive the van away and lose it. We can’t take the risk of somebody spotting it here.” she said.

The boat house was in disrepair, but still relatively intact. There were a couple of broken windows, but the roof looked sound and there was a working door. I turned the knob and was relieved to find it unlocked. I pushed the door open and tried to get a look inside. It was already dark as a dungeon in there but still light enough to see shadowy forms. I could just make out the shape of a flat-bottom row boat on a set of saw horses. Before stepping totally inside I looked back in the direction we had come from. It was almost too dark to see, but someone was definitely walking up the road in our direction.

“Quick, get inside,” I said. “Someone‘s coming!” We ducked inside and closed the door behind us. It would have been dark as pitch, but the lights from the town were enough to illuminate the place to see just enough to get around. I heard foot steps crunching on the gravel outside the boat house, then they stopped. I pulled the sock full of quarters out of my pocket and held it over my head like a black jack. I was prepared to give whoever it was a good crack across the noggin.

The door swung open with a creak. A shadowy figure stood in the doorway. “Hello,” he said. “Is anybody in there?” He started to come through the door. I raised the sock full of quarters and got ready open up a can of whoop-ass on the intruder. Before I could move, I heard flapping of wings and felt something rip the sock right out of my hand. There was an ear-splitting screech. “Drop the gun punk!” It was Gladys! I heard Bisbee’s voice. “Gladys? Is that you girl? Come to Papa!”

I peered into the dusk and recognized Bisbee with Gladys perched on his shoulder. “Jesus Christ Bisbee!” I said “You scared the Bejeezus out of me! How the Hell did you find us?”

“Glad to see you too, Phlegmm,” Bisbee said. “I knew about this boat house and figured Gladys might try to roost here for the night. By the way, you’re welcome.”

“For what? I asked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about?”

“ I knew you had a shitload of trouble following you, so I pulled the lever on the back of a garbage truck. It dumped a full payload into the street. Hell of a mess. Stopped traffic dead going both ways. I think the piano tuners are probably still stuck in that quagmire.”

I heard a deep but sensuous voice behind me. It massaged my libido like the scrub brushes in a car wash. “They’re not piano tuners.” Imma Pennyraker stepped out of the shadows and outside into the dim twilight. She was holding the envelope in her hand. “Gladys dropped the envelope onto the floor when she knocked your weapon out of your hand. We are fortunate, indeed,” she said. She stood facing us in silhouette with the river at her back. The reflection of the lights of the city sparkled on the placid water like a million emeralds. She looked like an Amazon river goddess.

Bisbee let out a low whistle between his teeth. “You’ve been holding out on me Phlegmm. Who’s this tall drink of water?”

“I’d introduce you, but I don’t know her real name.” I said. “I’ve been getting the run-a-round ever since she darkened my doorway. Perhaps the lady would like to tell us her real name and explain what this is really all about?”

“I’d be happy to,” she said. She held out the sock full of quarters. “Mr. Phlegmming, perhaps you’d like to put this back in your pocket? Not only does it enhance the cut of your trousers, but you may be needing it later. Now let’s step inside and I’ll explain everything. We haven’t much time.”