Barked Up The Wrong Tree

It's a chicken or egg thing, isn't it? Folks and their names. You either better have a great sense of that infant sitting in your arms when you stick a name on it, or early on you better have a great sense of what your name means so as you can arrange your life accordingly, because if not--in either case--someone gets stuck with the wrong name and their whole life can be a rather painful exercise in disconnectedness. Take the above-pictured Stanchion Landreaux for instance (he's the one on top, the human; the dog below is Cooter, Tuck Jennings's bitch). With a name like Stanchion Landreaux you'd think he'd be a lord of the manor type, an expert tamer and ruler of his back 40, someone at peace with the chaos of nature, the wilderness. Far from it, though. As far as possible. The name notwithstanding, Stanchion Landreaux has the personal make-up of the guy standing in an office cubicle, licking glazed donut shards off his fingers and warning people that the toner is low, not like he knows how to do anything about it. If his daddy had been half as wise as he purported and comported himself to be, he would have named his only son something like Phil and done away with the whole Landreaux thing and just made it Landry. Folks is dumbasses most of the time.

It's not like Stanchion is a idiot or nothing. He's got qualities on the plus side. There ain't nobody in the county organize a better pancake breakfast, logistically speaking, than Stanchion. And if you don't mind the odd wince or cringe, his homebrew tastes pretty...well, it gets the job done. Takes the best action photos of the high school's cheerleaders too. That's something. But take him anywhere beyond the smell of a drive-thru or sight of concrete and that boy is more helpless and useless than tits on a shotgun.

So it was with much trepidation in my soul, and I know Curtis Loganbeck's too, when that fool Armsted Callow invited Stanchion along on our annual hunt this year. "Somebody don't get killed or maimed, I'll take it as a happy accident," I told Loganbeck. "Sureshit," he replied, feeling loquacious.

"I'm gonna get me a bear," Stanchion announced when we were still setting up camp t'other side of T.C. Creek. Honey Bun, Stanchion's wife, is gonna have to re-pile that bouffant of hers when she gets the Visa bill for all the hunting haberdashery Stanchion treated himself to. To be kind, the man's portly. Why he needs seventeen layers of vests and such I have no notion.

"If'n a duck don't get you first," Armsted cackled.

"Sureshit," said Loganbeck, feeling convivial.

Anyway, but time passed, as it will insist on doing. We got a few bucks the second day, enough to keep me in venison jerky past March. Stanchion proved to be merely incompetent, which I took as a not insignificant victory. The third morning we was just finishing up the squirrel fritters--the Lunk Stevens way, not the Buddy Mac way, too reedy, them--when Armsted finally cracked with what Stanchion had been doing with the bacon grease every morning. Cracked as in, "Just now what in the hell you doin' with that bacon grease near every day, Stanchion?"

"Soaking my hankies in it," Stanchion replied like duh, as the young ones say. "What else you think I'm doin'? Blow your nose in a sea a bacon aroma like I do, you don't mind the allergy sniffles t'all."

Nonplussed, we all was, at that.

So that day we trekked a ways west, out toward Tuck Jennings's, looking for that big buck we'd seen the day before. "Got a trailer wall just begging for that buckhead," Armsted crowed. I know that trailer wall, opposite the Elvis painting. Call me prejudiced, but that buckhead'd look much better in my den.

"Buck schmuck," Stanchion spat. "I want me a bear. I do believe I'm getting the hang of this hunting thing right quick."

"Well," I offered," how about right quick hanging that shotgun elsewhere? I do kind prize my face is all."

"Sureshit," opined Loganbeck, feeling altruistic.

Half a mile later we were all zipping up, getting rid of Armsted's coffee in some brush, when the barking started. Cooter can smell Loganbeck across about five acres; I do believe the two of them are some kind of long lost kin. Well, a minute later that fyce comes charging down the trail running to Loganbeck, whose arms were already open wide waiting for the embrace, when Stanchion let out an "eeekkk!" (Jesus render me mute if it was anything but a bona fide housewife-encounters-mouse eeekkk!) ear-shattering enough to de-buck the whole county and half of the next one over, too. He--Stanchion--takes off running from whence we came like a monk who just stumbled onto Beale Street. Poor old Loganbeck, standing there waiting for a reunion slobbering like a 60-year-old spinster waiting on an "I do" and that dog run right past him hot on the trail of the turned-tail Stanchion, who by now was maxing out what little speed his corpulence allowed him and yelping sounds I ain't heard since Turgid Noyes had his unfortunate confab with that demonic chainsaw of Bullet Mull's. As he ran for what he thought was his life, Stanchion doffed layer upon layer of his still neatly creased togs, trying to gain more speed I reckon, in a exhibition of dexterity I would have bet anybody but Snipey Horne was far beyond Stanchion's capabilities. Provisions and all whatnot were falling out of pockets as Cooter's barking got closer and closer to Stanchion who, not unwisely if he had possessed the arbor-scaling skills of the twelve-year-old lithe boy he never had been, made the quick decision to get airborne in the nearest tree. But the result, well, that picture up there tells it more succinctly than I could ever muster words for.

That picture, by the way, was snapped by Loganbeck on Stanchion's very own leaping-cheerleader-full digital camera that had fallen out of one of his jettisoned vests' pockets. And as Armsted rolled in the mud cackling, and Tuck Jennings trotted toward us snarling, "c'mere, hound," and Cooter growled and wouldn't let go of Stanchion's ass pocket, and Stanchion whinnied "Help me, Sweet Jesus, help me!" and I surveyed the whole tableau with mild disgust at the entirety of human endeavor, Curtis Loganbeck, after the whizzing sound of the camera's "click," peeked out from behind the camera and, obviously feeling aesthetically proud, said, "Sureashellshit."

"Sixty-five dollars for these trousers," Stanchion lamented afterward, twisted all around and pawing at the bitten-out hole that used to be a back pocket and now just exposed a flabby glute. "Fourteen bucks for a lookalike brand at Wal-Mart," Armsted put in. Cooter lay on the ground snuffling the remains of Stanchion's pocket and hanky; we had been able to separate the dog from Stanchion's ass, but no sane man was going to try to separate dog from fabric or scent. "Beast loves her bacon," was all Tuck offered in the form of explanation or apology.

Yep, Phil Landry would have made sense, but a Stanchion Landreaux barked up a tree with a bacon-soaked hanky makes a man question everything he thinks he knows about anything.

Speaking of which, I know I need to apologize to Orville Schank. God rest your soul, Orville, I know there ain't nothing useless about tits on anything.



The Thought That Didn't Count

Contrary to popular opinion, church hall pundits and too polite receivers of lousy gifts, the thought does not always count. For proof I offer you the tale of a guy named Bamberger, as unlucky a cuss as there's ever been. He didn't grow up on the wrong side of the tracks; he grew up underneath the tracks. In Clearfield, PA, of all places. Much to his ever-increasing ire as he grew older, Bamberger was born at precisely the wrong time: he was too young to be a beatnik and too old to be a hippie. Thus, his drug of choice was chocolate, rich milk chocolate. "Untethered," was what he used to write on job applications and such where it asked him to check the single, married, or divorced box.  And there's no better word, not just for Bamberger's romantic state, but for the totality of Bamberger. The word could have been his nickname if anybody--including himself--had called him anything but Bamberger.

At the age of nine Bamberger suffered a life-altering experience. Bamberger's father, Bamberger Sr., operated a small-time fencing business when he wasn't installing the real thing, mainly barbed wire. Among the hot items in the shed out back Bamberger was rummaging through one day was a dictaphone. Always good with mechanical objects, Bamberger got the thing to work, much to his undying horror. The sound of Bamberger's own voice coming out of the machine repeating the words he had just said, "How the hell does this thing work?" spooked the boy so badly he lived in fear of speaking the rest of his life. "Bamberger," Yes sir," "No sir," and "Gimme a Hershey's," was about the extent of his verbal repertoire. When Bamberger turned sixteen (Bamberger Sr. was by that time on year three of a seven to twelve rap) he got a job twenty miles away in DuBois at a bacon processing plant. Every morning Bamberger would trudge out of town, past the row of fast food restaurants, and go stand near the ramp for I-80. He always would get a ride, getting in a vehicle and muttering, "DuBois," and doing the reverse at the end of the day, simply muttering, "Clearfield." This continued for ten years, at least.

For a while one of Bamberger's regular rides in the morning was a NEMF driver. After about six months of picking up Bamberger two or three times a week, the driver once said to him, "You don't say much, do you?" That was right after picking him up one morning. Fifteen minutes of silence later, as Bamberger disembarked, he substituted "nah" for his usual "obliged." Now Bamberber was taciturn, but he wasn't discourteous or mean, so the exchange got him thinking. Three days later, when the NEMF driver again picked him up, Bamberger was ready. For ten straight minutes he talked. Rambled, really. He had never spoken so much to anyone in his life, let alone all at once. By the time he had touched upon gun control, integration, the Allman Brothers band, and eternal salvation, the NEMF driver interrupted and said, "Hold on there, Bamberger, I lost your train of thought back there around the Rapture and the motorcycles."

"Train of thought?" Bamberger had never heard the expression before, or if he had, this was the first time it registered. "Hmm, I guess my switchman fell asleep or something and put me on the wrong track to obfuscation or something. Derailment at least, probably." He kind of laughed at that, the first time he ever knowingly expressed any awareness of self-bemusement. "Indeed," said the NEMF driver, who a few minutes later slowed down enough near the DuBois exit for Bamberger to hop out, and never saw him again.

Some time later (this would have been the Seventies; Bamberger was portlier by then, and balder, but he had a driver's license and his own pick-up), the bacon processing company's baton of leadership passed on to the founder's grandson, from the son. This boss had been educated, so a whole new system of procedures was implemented. The upshot was one day Bamberger found himself in a conference room with a bunch of his fellow "line" bacon processors discussing all sorts of "possible internal and external improvements." The grandson, who seemed too peppy and nice to be a real boss, was excitedly writing down on flimsy white papered flip charts any and all suggestions from the gathered employees. By the time the grandson had flipped the chart about seven times, through employment benefits, safety issues and the like, Bamberger was feeling like he should probably say something, for appearance's sake, not that he cared much for such a thing. It was just that he had never really felt anything needed to be changed about his job, other than the smell, and you might as well complain about having to breathe. But the topic was now "product enhancement" and the ideas were flying right and left about all the ways the company could increase its sales. Finally, Bamberger damned it all to hell and raised his hand, endured the whispers of his colleagues who were amazed that he was going to speak, and spoke out loud and clearly his suggestion. Undaunted by the explosion of laughter that greeted his suggestion, Bamberger stood upright and stared at the grandson, who stared back, perhaps a fellow visionary. "Okay," the grandson snapped himself and the room out of momentary hiatus and started to write in the tiny upper left hand corner of the flip chart, the only space available: "covered with--" just then the loud whistle blew signalling the end of the day shift. In the mass exodous melee that ensued, Bamberger noticed that the grandson never finished writing the idea, whether due to space limitations or all the distraction. Maybe he'll remember, Bamberger thought to himself.

Well, if the grandson did/does ever remember, he's kicking himself now, managing the graveyard shift at the old DuBois Wal-Mart. You see, over the years the grandson did implement many of those employee suggestions, but not Bamberger's, and none of the suggestions could help the company stave off the inevitable--bankruptcy. True to his nature, Bamberger worked the last day of the company's existence as diligently as he had worked every day for a few decades. And after a lean year, Bamberger ironically found employment with NEMF, probably running the same route his old friend had run, Middle PA to Northeastern OH. It was on the slushy streets of Cleveland one February when Bamberger heard over the radio what he couldn't believe, and in the process almost took out an SUV packed to its gills with a youth metal detector enthusiasts club. At once, Bamberger saw millions of dollars floating in front of him, just out of reach. "Damn," he muttered. "Missed again."

It was about this same time that Bamberger, seeing mortality's vacancy sign blinking at every turn in his life, started considering the notion of un-untethering himself. His affections fell on a roundish, jovial woman named Marci who worked the register at the Emlenton truck stop. "What the hell," Bamberger thought to himself a couple days after the revelation in Cleveland. So he made an extra trip to Cleveland, found a Malley's, and made his purchase. Later that evening he shyly approached Marci, who was ringing up some microwaved burritos for that driver from Altoona. "Here Marci, Happy Valentine's Day." He hesitantly handed over the box. "Bamberger, I never knew!" Marci cooed as she unwrapped the package. "Oh, Bamberger, I can't," she sighed when she saw what the gift was. "Why, are you teth--are you married?" "No, sweetie," she grabbed his wrist. "I'm diabetic. And Jewish. Practicing. Chocolate covered bacon just won't do." "Shit," Bamberger pulled his wrist away from Marci, then the box of bacon, covered in chocolate, away from her, all the while damning himself for ever, ever, speaking. "Don't be so upset, Bamberger," Marci cried. "I'm touched. After all, it's the thought that counts, you know." "The hell it is."

Paradise Found

Well, forget sliced bread. There's a new greatest-thing-ever kid on the block, and methinks this one's got staying power. Maybe you folks on the coasts have been blessed for years, but this is the first I have ever heard of this nugget of nirvana, and I would just love for this to be its world-wide debut. Cleveland could use a little recognition, and this item has Cleveland written all over it.

What the hell am I talking about, you scream? It's simply the simplest. It's culinary Lennon & McCartney; a gourmand's Burns & Allen; a munchie fiend's Watson & Crick; a gustatory Trinidad & Tobago. It's bacon, covered in chocolate!.

Hey, you, come back down to Earth; spark up the defibrillator; you haven't died, but this is heaven. The ultimate pairing of the two greatest food groups, nay, the two greatest foods. Bacon, covered in chocolate!. Elton John once sang that the New York Times said God was dead. Well, if that's so, He/She/It is back and wearing a confectioner's toque. I think this might spell the death of sex, amusement parks, cable TV, booze, and Lotto. I mean, really, once one has bacon, covered in chocolate!, what does one need/want/crave?

Keep thinking, because now that there's bacon, covered in chocolate!, I've got all the time in the world.

The last thing I ever want to be (besides, suddenly, a man without access to bacon, covered in chocolate!) is a shill, but I must tip my spat out gum to Cleveland's greatest institution, Malley's Chocolates. This morning I turned on the radio and heard an ad for Malley's, pushing their usual (and very scrumptious) chocolate-covered grapes and strawberries, among other goodies, all in time for Sweetest Day this Saturday. Now at first I was disappointed not to hear the voice of the Malley's Matriarch, Adele, on the radio. The way she pronounces "chocolate-covered strawberries" makes you want to shed everything you are or will ever be, down to your mouth, tongue, and stomach, and burn effigies of Hershey's bars and the like, just so you can indulge yourself in chocolate-covered strawberries.

But then, just as I was missing Adele's tenderly excitable tones, came the announcement: Malley's now has bacon, covered in chocolate! Five hours later, when I could again breathe somewhat normally and had shed every tear of joy I'll ever muster for the rest of my life, I realized that if Adele had made the announcement of Malley's new bacon, covered in chocolate!, well, the excitement in her voice and the excitement that that voice would have ignited in the listeners, would have blown out any sense of sanity left in Cleveland. For public health reasons, I'm thankful Adele stayed away from the microphone; for personal mental health reasons, I'm thankful Adele and her minions have now taken bacon, and covered it in chocolate!.

Go to Malley's website, it's drool-worthy enough, but I just checked and there are no pictures of bacon, covered in chocolate! Again, for our safety, I'm sure. Just reading the phrase bacon, covered in chocolate! must have you all in a lather (writing it is just as bad); imagine seeing a picture of bacon, covered in chocolate! and not being able to sample it immediately? Torture.

I'm at a loss of thought. Jet packs, the ability to Tivo my dreams, a Cleveland championship of some kind--those seemingly untouchable wished-for lifetime dreams now seem so passe. We've got bacon, covered with chocolate!. What more could one ask for?

Um, Adele, how about sausage links, covered in chocolate!?

Joan Armatrading-Heaven

Pere Ubu-Heaven

Robyn Hitchcock & The Egyptians-Heaven