LFS: The Storyteller

I wrote this rant several years ago, when the kids were still living at home. I think it still holds true today. What do you think? ©2007 By LeeZard Okay, I know I am about to come off as a grumpy old man but, here we go. I was driving in the car with Number One Son and shaking my head at what was on the radio. “I just don’t get your music,” I said. “It all sounds the same to me and the lyrics don’t make any sense.” Omigod; I’ve become my father! Believe me; I’ve tried to understand it. I like a lot of new music and I try to stay current. I have an iPod and at least a third of my songs are post-2000. I just don’t get Rap and Hip Hop. Sometimes it downright offends me -- and I am not easily offended. With a few exceptions, most of today’s Rap songs cover the same material. They have the same beat and the lyrics – if you can call them that – talk of mutha bleepin’ this or that, my “ho” left me 'cause I hit her, gangstas, I got my piece and I’m gonna kill someone or let’s go somewher

©2007 By LeeZard Who coined the term “the Golden Years” to describe old age? I’m betting it wasn’t an older person. In fact, as we Baby Boomers enter our so-called “golden years,” I don’t even know what today’s politically correct term is. While I don’t yet dwell (too much) on my mortality, I am more aware of it than I was even five or ten years ago and, I am dealing with many other changes. I was sitting with some folks last week and an extremely wise woman in the group opined, “You know, people don’t really write about what it’s like – what it really feels like – to get old.” So I’m writing. Granted, my experience is limited but it is mounting quickly; I’m 60 years old, which I’m told is “the new 40.” What I can tell you is that it’s not all fun and games – certainly not “golden.” Don't get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I have a good life. But, let’s face it, the aging process forces us to make changes in what we do, how we live, how we get from here to there. In other cases, w

This is perhaps the most personal poem I've ever written. Joseph Maler - my Mom's Dad - was one of the few positive influences in my early years. He was certainly the first to make me feel like I had value and something to offer this crazy world. He also set me on my professional path - genetically. Joe had one job throughout his life. He was the "Western Union Man." Yup, Joe worked for the telegraph company. He was a "Wire Chief." Before TV took over our lives, Joe ran the crews who would sit on the roof of Yankee Stadium and telegraph World Series' scores around the world. Joe never talked about his job; I only learned of it by asking questions of other family members. I am convinced, however, that my innate understanding of how the media - especially electronic and new media - work for end-users was passed from Joe to me without a word ever spoken. ©2007 by LeeZard This typewriter is a lot older than it looks. It belonged to Joe, and he’

©2007 by LeeZard Dustin had been passed around quite a bit before we hooked up. He was about two years old—a magnificent, classic Collie. I wanted him the minute I laid eyes on him. Dustin obviously felt the same way. As I walked over, his upraised, feathered tail began to wag the entire rear third of his body and he broke into a huge canine grin (my fellow dog-lovers will understand). A squat, heavy-set man instantly appeared out of nowhere and asked if I wanted to buy the dog. I should have known; virtually everything is for sale at Englishtown, New Jersey’s famed open air flea market. It is more than 100 acres of junk, used auto parts, a smattering of genuine and faux antiques, clothes old and new, livestock, produce and just about anything else related to human consumption. I’d been ambling down one of the wide dirt pathways, enjoying the cacophony of commerce, when I spotted Dustin. He was tied to the cab of a beaten flatbed truck parked between a collection of your grandma’s old

I came across this free-verse during a recent move - and cleaning out of old (and I mean old) files. It was written in the late 1960s, at the height of the Vietnam War. My older brother was in the Marines and in the middle of the war zone, as he put it, "building the road to Da Nang with a rifle and a shovel." It is short but, I believe, very powerful. Sadly, it is still true today. ©2007 by LeeZard (Pulitzer Prize winning photo: Kent State students killed by National Guard during Viet Nam War Protest) He’s a boy. You’ve given him a gun, You taught him how to shoot. You’ve given him a knife, You taught him how to kill. You’ve taken him from home, You taught him how to hate. You call him a man. He’s a boy. A boy who can shoot, Kill, And hate.

We all have those special memories from childhood, the things that still make us feel warm and happy whenever we think about them. For me, it was Grandma Rose’s Apple Pie. YUM! ©2007 by LeeZard Grandma and Grandpa lived in Brooklyn on Ocean Parkway, a broad, eight lane boulevard with grassy malls seperating the six major lanes from the two side roads that fronted the red brick apartment buildings and numerous synagogues. From our home in Queens, it was a 20-minute-to-one-hour drive along the Belt Parkway, depending upon traffic. We visited often and Grandma always had something special, a favorite lunch or dinner, some brownies or, on those very rare, special occasions, THE pie. I didn’t realize it at the time but, creating this masterpiece was, and still is, very labor intensive. Four pounds of Macintosh Apples have to be peeled and cut into sections (and it has to be Macs; no other apple will do!). No store-bought pie crust either because that was the secret t

Don't ask me why but, one day I just got the idea in my mind that I'd write a "raunchy beach song." Sometimes the muse is inexplicable and, I don't fight it. BTW/if you think you have music for this, or could write some, have at it! And, of course, hugs & hisses are always welcome. ©2007 by LeeZard Palm trees dancin' in the breeze, Are you real or just a tease? We met a few short hours ago, So, is it yes or is it no? I want to lay with you in the nighttime, Doesn’t matter if you want to be mine. I want to throw you down on a beach dune, I want to sing a lucky vacation tune. Let’s get out of this dingy bar, Let’s hop in my bargain rental car. Let’s drive ‘til we lose the road, I'll ride ‘til I lose my load. I want to lay with you in the nighttime, Doesn’t matter if you want to be mine. I want to throw you down on a beach dune, I want to sing a lucky vacation tune. I’ll hold you and make you sigh, I’ll caress your silky inner thigh. If you say no I

©2007 by LeeZard   NOTE: Coney Island's Mermaid Parade began in the 1980s when Brooklyn's storied amusement park had devolved to a sorry skeleton of itself. Today the parade is a huge celebration of the summer solstice and a major Brooklyn event.  For me, the Mermaid parade is a roller coaster ride back to my youth. For more on the parade history: http://www.helium.com/items/1870244-history-of-the-coney-island-mermaid-parade. I went with my brother, To the Mermaid Parade. Oh, what a parade it was. There was Ethel Mermaid, And Kool-Aid Mermaid, A bearded mermaid, And bearded mermen. There were mermaid kids, And mermaid maids, Mermaid dudes, And mermaid nudes. So many mermaids, To stir the mermories, At crazy crowded Coney Island. It was a searing Saturday in June, A steamy New York City Scorcher. A perfect day, a perfect way, To open the Coney Island season. It was hot, So sweatifyingly, humidifyingly hot, That riding the “F” train from Manhatta

©2007 by LeeZard It was just Stonewall and me, only he wasn’t saying much; Stonewall Jackson has been dead for 144 years. But there we were. Well, there I was, standing by myself at the Stonewall Jackson Shrine in the small rural town of Guinea Station, VA where General Thomas J. (Stonewall) Jackson died at the Chandler Plantation on May 10, 1863. The great general himself, or most of him, is actually buried across the state in Lexington, VA. I say most of him because, believe it or not, the general’s chaplain took Jackson’s left arm, amputated eight days before his death, from the Chandler Plantation to a field hospital several miles away - and buried it. That’s where the general was first treated after he was accidentally shot in the arm by his own troops during the Battle of Chancellorsville. So, if Stonewall Jackson wasn’t actually with me on that quiet southern morning, even in spirit, at least part of him was nearby. Nonetheless, I stood transfixed, staring at a small, lonely ma

©2007 by LeeZard Here’s my theory on youth sports: * Coaches, referees, umpires and league officials: paid professionals. * Parents: barred from all practices and games. * Games and practices: videotaped. * Videotapes: sent home for private viewing. It started with my son in Little League. The parents running our local Little League had been around for eons and ran it like a private club. They favored their own kids and their own friends. The fields and the equipment were in disrepair. Many of the coaches were untrained, screaming negative demeaning commands to the kids. The same 10 or 12 people showed up at the annual meeting each year to elect officers. It finally took a massive phone campaign and countless hours of political maneuvering to draw almost 100 people to an annual meeting to throw the rascals out. After my kids outgrew little league I joined the local umpires association. Standing behind home plate is the best seat in the house. I umpired everything f

©2007 by LeeZard Somewhere, In the Middle of Nowhere, Washington - That's where I found this farm. It is on a lonely two-lane blacktop running 30 miles east from Yakima, WA to the northern end of the Hanford Nuclear Reservation. Just outside of Yakima, the road takes you through vineyards and hops farms but slowly gives way to mile after mile of empty rolling grassland, and then - The Farm. What's so special about this place? Not only is it lonely, it is eerie and abandoned. I'm guessing it's been abandoned for at least 50 years. I base this estimate on the age of the rusted out vehicles sitting there with only sagebrush and tumbleweed for passengers. It seems as if the people living and working here just walked away, leaving their life as a monument to days long gone. As the years have rolled by, modern times - and sentiments- have overtaken history.

©2007 by LeeZard I am a walking, talking miracle. By the end of 1997, I was clinically depressed, stuffing more than 220 pounds onto a frame built for 175, struggling to breathe when I walked up a short flight of stairs and suffering intermittent internal bleeding. At 51, I was virtually unemployable and emotionally alienated from my family and friends. I was a late stage alcoholic. Had I continued down that path I certainly would have died a lonely and ugly death if I didn’t kill myself (and/or someone else) first while driving drunk. I would’ve been in and out of jails, hospitals and perhaps a mental institution or two. Instead, I decided I couldn’t live that way anymore. I also knew I couldn’t stop drinking on my own so I turned to the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. That was the beginning of my miracle. I’ve been sober since June 10, 1998. I weigh 190 pounds, power walk 3-5 miles nearly every day, have a challenging and well-paying job and an overall sense of peace and gratitude.

Sometimes, words appear in my head in rhythm and/or rhyme. I'm not sure why; I'm not a big fan of poetry. Go figure. Someone told me a long time ago that a lot of my poems seemed like song lyrics. So, recently, I've been writing with that in mind. I have no musical talent whatsoever but, the following would probably make a good Rock & Roll tune. ©2007 by LeeZard Blue Streak, Blue Streak, I’m ridin’ in the Blue Streak. Flyin’ down the Interstate, Top down, feelin’ great. She’s a low slung mean machine, Drive ‘er fast, keep ‘er clean. Tap the brake, make the scene, Hit the curve, she won’t lean. She was on Ebay, That’s the way you buy today. Low miles, high style, Punch it down, eat the miles. Blue Streak, Blue Streak, I’m ridin’ in the Blue Streak. Flyin’ down the interstate, Top down, feelin’ great. Fat tires, leather seats, Jump on in, have a treat. Ain’t no Beemer, ain’t no ‘Vette, Ain’t no car that’s beat her yet. Never thought I’d own this ride, Ne

I spent four days in Southern California at the height of the wild fires. It was both tragic and awesome. The night and day fire shots were taken along I-5 near Camp Pendleton. The flames were creeping right down to the freeway. You could toast marshmallows. The smoke diminished the region's already questionable air quality. It also created an orange-tinged haze that filtered each dawn and dusk, adding to the other-worldly feel of the entire situation. The family shot represents the more than 10,000 evacuees who "camped out" at Qualcomm Stadium. These were the folks who either didn't have insurance or, whose insurance did not cover emergency living expenses. It was a very sad scene.

Copyright 2007 by LeeZard I know I'm not the first writer to be inspired by a visit to Boston's fabled Fenway Park, but I must tell you about my recent pilgrimage to that ancient ballyard. Even I was surprised at my emotional response. I grew up in New York City. Yankee Stadium, with its huge crowds and vast outfield, was where I learned to love the game. For some reason though, I never had the opportunity to visit Beantown so I used the excuse of a recent business convention in Boston to visit Fenway. It didn't matter that I've always hated the Red Sox; as a baseball fan, I've always respected their great players. And, I wanted to see the stadium before its renovation. Even though the team was on the road, I was told if you're lucky, you can talk the security guard at the service gate into letting you in for a peek. It would have been nice to see a game, but I wanted to see Fenway--to worship at the shrine of that storied leftfield wall, "The Green Monster