storeeze

He is not here, but is risen!—Luke 24:6 My granddaughter Christina was visiting from college on Black Saturday, just in time for my favorite Easter tradition—rack of lamb, red wine and The Last Temptation of Christ —until her mother got wind of my plan.“THIS MOVIE PORTRAYS JESUS AS A HOMOSEXUAL!” I snatched the phone. “It’s the best Jesus movie.” “It's disrespectful. Bad on Easter. I raised Christina a certain way and I don't want her watching it.” “You haven’t seen it.” “I don’t care. Put her back on.” “Hi Mom, it's me again.” “Don't let gramps make fun of our religion.” I had no good reply and we went straight for the wine and lamb.  Come Sunday morning, I figured Christina, a biracial young woman, would appreciate an African American congregation on the day that always packs out a church. The church stood on stilts, ark-shaped like Noah's, ready for the Flood. We took it in, and walked up a steep ramp into the vestibule to a blast of Hands up for Jesus  from a yo...

“Two photo ops, dinner at the house and Ron Carter at the Bistro. Be here by 5:30.” I was late. We raced to St. Louis U and the rarefied atmosphere of the Beaux-Arts. A lady with a charming smile handed me a brochure. Richard found me at the Pinot Grigio and round cheeses. “Can't take you anywhere!” Was it my blazer-baseball cap ensemble? I finished the tasty stuff and drifted into the Michael Eastman Retrospective. Large photos, curiously dead (no people), nicely framed, an architectural feel. A cactus resembling a building ornament. Horses with a human countenance. (Why the long faces?) I asked Richard, “What about the sheep?” “We don’t have time.” Wham! Across town and two flights of steps for 70 Years of Martin Schweig at Webster U. Richard was all-in for Schweig. I tabbed Eastman.  Richard’s house was next. Pineapple chicken in the crock pot. Stretching on the sofa to Paul Butterfield. Sibelius after dinner to think it over. The Bistro has no signs proclaiming MAGNIFICEN...

“We take this action not for the purpose of expanding the war into Cambodia, but for the purpose of ending the war in Vietnam and winning the just peace we all desire.” —President Richard M. Nixon, Address to the Nation on the Situation in Southeast Asia (April 30, 1970) Out in the boonies, away from the gaiety of modern life, one perilous day bred another in Vietnam, a confused and horrible country that I had zero interest in. Imagine my delight, my joy, when Capt. Martinez interviewed me for a job I never saw coming. I listened attentively: “Sgt. Barclay is going back to the world. We like your background, McClish. You’re high on our list. As of today, you're the company clerk if you want it and think you can handle it.” What would life be without fetid water, oppressive heat and rain, random bouts of violence, maddening insects, flies everywhere, loathsome diseases, and beefy loads?  “Uhm, yeah, I guess so. I mean sure, Captain. Yeah!” I tossed my trusty M79 grenade launcher, C...

My wife Babs heard about a history professor at the University of Minnesota who crafted wine cabinets, and thought it would be the perfect birthday present for me. We saw him one evening to pick the style, wood, and finish. A month later we brought the finished cabinet home in the back seat of the car. We were so impressed we decided to have a dinner party for it. Babs invited the professor, her shrink Paul Arnold, and his wife June. I brought the menu to Haskell's, a fashionable wine dealer, and came away with nine bottles and precisely when to drink them during the meal. The christening came on a warmish evening, beginning with Weingut Muller Privat Rheinriesling Spatlese.  Chateau Thivin Cote de Brouilly, was uncorked when Paul and Babs went to the kitchen. The professor sampled the rogue bleu while he stared at the Girl with Red Chair, Brick Wall, hanging over the fireplace: “She has a beautiful little body, hasn’t she?” June leaned in, wearing a clingy red jersey knit. “You sh...

I don’t even think they know where they’re goin’.  What are they tryin’ to prove, anyway? —The Wild Ones (1953) You know how every neighborhood has an eccentric? When I slipped my Harley up Richie’s drive on a wonderfully hot Saturday afternoon, he was sitting on his bed surrounded by clothes and boxes. I t was one of those wacky Saturdays where the sight of Richie sleeping in would cause his father Ollie to turn purple  and dump the contents of Richie’s bedroom into the drive.  “Goddammit Richard, you'll be out of my house by six o’clock tonight, I GAR-UN-TEE!” “Where’s Ollie?” I asked. Richie sighed, “They’re at the Hub.” We got it back into his room—the heat didn’t help—and cracked open a couple of Ollie’s cold ones. We’d been in crises since Alan frosted us with the Angels: “I like his sister. ” “Yeah, fourteen. ” “What do you see in these Angels girls? They're still in high school and you ain't even finger-fucked 'em yet. ” Richie opened his little black book. “...

Subject: My calls with Kim today. Sandy handed me my morning latte with a note to call the Gateway Shelter. Kim answered. She told me she was uncomfortable and getting a COVID test today because there was a potential outbreak at the shelter and she wanted to see her grandchildren. “That’s scary,” I replied. “Only three residents [out of 50] wear masks.” I sipped my latte and asked her whether the staff wore masks. She said yes, they do, but at every other job she had during COVID, the workplace was much safer—lots of cleaning and sanitizing, masks and headgear. These precautions aren’t taken at Gateway. Kim has elderly relatives and other family members with compromised immune systems. Her daughter was scared. I propped my feet up and asked her if there were other issues. Kim’s sister is also a social worker. They had a conference call with another friend to discuss the issues at the shelter. Kim mentioned general cleanliness. “One morning I wasn’t even on the clock when I was ordered ...

What happened to the girl I used to know? You let your mind out somewhere down the road, Don't bring me down, down, down, down, down No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no —from Lynne, Jeff. (1979). Don't Bring Me Down [lyrics] The army? It’s bullshit, really —t wo years amid spells of senseless madness, where life can be short. I took off my uniform and never put it on again. I let Peavey Company know my globetrotting days were over and soon began handling all things computer at the new Tech Center, working days and schooling nights, busy with responsibilities. Since returning I had been on the lookout for enemies, strange sights, sounds and smells. Diesel churned my stomach. I looked up every time I heard a helicopter. The 4th of July was tense. Fireworks and the lingering smell of sulfur—incoming or outgoing? At first I slept well, but then I would wake up suddenly in a cold sweat not knowing where I was and had to change my t-shirt. The doctors suggested hypnosis. I demurred...

Last week I got carried away with a squirrel. He was pillaging the bird feeder in broad daylight. I burst out of the screen door, got him with the first shot from my water gun and chased him up the oak tree. My heart was pounding. It was too much for a guy on the heavy end of the scale. I dragged myself inside, short of breath. A couple Xanax later, I had recovered. From now on, the birds would fight their own battles. A walk later that day set off heartbeats well over a 100. It’s a great system, tachycardia. The brain sees unusual heartbeats and says “Hey, you’re under stress,” which adds more stress and more beats. I turned around after a block. “You have an appointment with your internist on Friday,” my wife reminded me. “Butterfield? I was there last year.” “Butterfield has your number,” Nancy replied. “He’s keeping you alive so you can make the house payment.” “How come your heart rate is so great?” She answered, “I smoke.” I called my friend Steve and canceled our pool date. ...

Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.—King James Bible, 1611, Matthew, 5:15.   Inasmuch as the recent events surrounding the Lady Arlene (if that indeed is her real name) are not widely known, I have attempted a rude and hasty account from marginal notes, eyewitness accounts and a late edition of the Creve Coeur Crier. The first indication of something amiss was a no-show for a four o'clock showing of The Favourite, a film illuminated by candles, for it seems that on the previous night, she had been resting under a canopy in her handsome, four poster bed after the day’s entertainments. The Crier did not state if she had drawn unknown persons to her baits or excited any passions, but as of late, she had been much taken by a new cleansing ritual, touted by a talk show host with Axis pretensions, utilizing a regimen of pulverized kale enemas (not recommended). When she wasn’t running to the b...

I usually ignore my answering machine for hours, sometimes days, but when I heard, “It’s urgent,” I thought better. After all, it was kind of urgent the day she mentioned that her boyfriend of seven years had shot himself in the head.  This time it was two tickets at the Fox.  “Don’t you want to see Johnny Mathis?”  “No thanks.” “Come on,” she said. “I’m not in the mood.” “Please?” “Why did you wait to the last minute?” “Well . . . nobody else could go.” She needed someone to go with her since her brand-new car is, and always will be, asking for someone else to drive it. Of course, she’s blind in one eye and can’t see out of the other, especially when drinking. “Don’t you want to see Johnny again?” she said in her plaintive tone. “He is 80. I guess maybe I should before he doesn’t come back. I’ll drive.” “Do you have something really cute?” “Mm-hmm. Yeah, actually.” “A girl can never tell who she might run into downtown.  We need to hurry. Be over at my...