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IMPEACH

October 30th, 2017 by Michael Tabor

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He’s a danger to the American people. He’s putting the health & safety of the American people at risk. IMPEACH

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Scarecrow

October 21st, 2017 by Magdalena Tabor

 

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Be afraid!

For didn’t you see my shirttail fly

As I stand stock-still with a glint in my eye,

Pretending to be just stuff of straw?

But know this, raven, I am much, much more!

 

Tremble at my arms a’flailing!

The wind discerns my wit by wailing,

And you, fine raven, consider my threat

As nothing more than baseless fret,

And weary at the effort, less hurricane than zephyr.

 

Be afraid, I say!

As night descends with its screeching owl awry,

For in this field of stubble rests the shadow of time gone by,

And I must rise to shake the dust,

For know this, raven, I must, I must!

 

Quiver just a little now!

A feathered pile to fluff my brow.

Will nothing ruffle, rift or tousle?

My words deflect, devoid of muscle.

Oh, raven, cock your head

Give me an ounce of dread.

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Tom Petty Heartbreak

October 4th, 2017 by Magdalena Tabor

TOM PETTY Concert Ticket Stub 11-19-1977 Bottom Line New York NY 11/19/77 RARE

In March of 1977, I was just 22 years old (Okay, do the math, if you must).  My friends and I regularly frequented a favorite music venue, now defunct, called The Bottom Line in NYC’s Greenwich Village. I can recall many a sleepy drive home to Queens in the wee hours through the Bowery in that white VW convertible after an exhilarating show, nary a soul in sight.

On this particular evening, we were introduced to an unknown artist by the name of Tom Petty, the opening act for a famous guy, that has seemingly slipped from memory. So I did a little digging through the archives, and lo and behold, it was none other than Mr. Roger McGuinn. Now how could this be? Forget Roger and remember somebody nobody knows? It seems Tom had made a lasting impression. But it wasn’t his music I remembered that night.

Music freaks of the ultimate kind, we always made sure to secure a good seat by being among the first to get to the doors in front of a long trailing line of attendees. It was always general admission and the club, being a small venue, ensured that no matter where you sat, you would get to see the performance all right. But we always managed to sit at a table directly in front of the stage. Luckily, that night, there were no beers yet purchased to spoil what happened next.

Well, out walks this scrawny blond guy setting up his equipment, and I remember thinking, who’s he? No one had ever heard of him before. Then suddenly, he topples the microphone stand directly on top of our table. How’s that for starters? Maybe it was opening night jitters.

I honestly don’t recall another single thing, not the music, not whether or not I liked him, not even poor old Roger McGuinn who I love and adore.

But right after that night, everybody, and I mean everyone, had heard of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. His career debuted and just took off. For whatever reason, I always remember him as the guy whose microphone stand fell on our table.

With the passing of Tom Petty, little did I realize how many wonderful songs were penned and performed by this amazing and gifted artist. What a long way we’ve come since those cherished  and rebellious days of our youth. And to know that, even now, we can choose any song, anytime we please, and be catapulted back to that long ago era.

I’m right there. Center stage. Microphone stand crashing to the table. A blip in time forever encapsulated. A moment in Tom Petty’s life that everyone, even he, forgot. All…. except me.

 

 

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Silo

September 18th, 2017 by Magdalena Tabor

Image result for abandoned farm with silo

Half capsule upended.

A barn’s best bud.

Towering with its moon helmet

In a memory field of grain.

Sleeping on its empty stomach.

 

A pile of lumber

Sinks to its knees.

Silo gone solo.

 

Long abandoned to the wind.

An empty drum

Echoing a swallow’s song.

Or an owl on a wintry night.

Or a sigh emanating

From the soul of one,

Such as I.

 

A sigh so low.

A sigh so low.

 

If I could resurrect

Something from the dirt

I kick with the toe of my boot,

Something worth saving

Besides a dream

Sticking halfway out

Of someone else’s back pocket,

I might fill it with more

Than the beating of wings

Against the moonlit drape

Of night sky,

Illuminating nothing but

A silo.

 

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The True Last Alaskan

July 29th, 2017 by Magdalena Tabor

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Those of us familiar with the reality documentary series, The Last Alaskans, are already aware Bob Harte, a particular favorite, succumbed to cancer on Saturday, July 22nd.

For forty years, Bob made the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge his home, living in the tiny log cabin he built for himself and his family. But what set Bob apart from the other six cabin dwellers the government has allowed to remain in this remote corner of Alaska, was his aching loneliness without the company of another human being, mainly his ex-wife Nancy, whose heart was ever bound to hers. This wistfulness remained, as if he lived with the memories still tacked to the cabin wall, the photographs curling at the edges. They were never really gone, his wife and daughter, and when the radio announcer brought any news of them, he was always visibly touched.

But the story of Bob delves deeper than a lonely man living in the Alaskan wilderness with his husky Ruger. To hear Bob speak was to afford a glimpse into the soul of the man; soft spoken, unhurried. The intonations brimming with a kindness and honesty uniquely his. To hear Bob speak was to fall instantly in love with his boyish nature but with a man’s resolve and resiliency to overcome every obstacle he encountered.

Bob was self-reliant. Yet, he invited us in to sit at his table with the oil lamp burning, hugging every syllable in the rounded yellow light. It could have been a hundred years ago, but it was just the other day. We trudged through the crusty snow behind his heavy boots and trapped with him. I don’t even like trapping. I suppose most of us watching don’t and yet we followed him everywhere. Even in Grizzly country. Safe in the confines of our living rooms.

Bob afforded us the opportunity to live vicariously, a life we wouldn’t dare realize beyond our flat screen TV’s. This dangerous and hauntingly beautiful world was ours with the flick of a switch we could turn on and off at will. Bob didn’t own a TV. He wanted for nothing, and took nothing that the earth cannot reclaim but his essence will mingle in the remains of his cabin long after it crumbles into nothingness.

For me, personally, the series has lost its magic. The magic that wasn’t in the Northern Lights, but in Bob Harte, the true last Alaskan.

Once upon a time there was a cabin. And in it lived a kind and gentle man.

 

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Mud

July 24th, 2017 by Magdalena Tabor

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This road has kept its secret.

Posing as some farmer’s sense of purpose

Where neither tractor nor billy goat

Can amble over rock and ruts so coarse

As to run rivers through its hardened veins

When thunder cracks the valley,

And the rains are heard rushing like chariots

Through the birches

Pelting everything in its path

And filling every pothole

Until the earth is glorified

With mud.

 

No rubber boot has lived until it’s tried

The slippery slide of redemption,

To catch oneself with brisk assuredness

Or fall sloppily into the mess

With a self-deprecating grin

And a swear.

 

Mud has served its purpose then,

Putting me in my place,

And with every ounce of dignity mustered

Hoist myself from the trenches

To look beyond the laughing cow.

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Tyler Talks Pet Heaven

July 4th, 2017 by Magdalena Tabor

tyler

 

Hi, it’s me. Tyler! Let’s get one thing straight, okay? There’s no such thing as “Pet Heaven”. Now, wait a minute, wait a minute….. don’t get all bent out of shape, let me finish! The guy that made up this so called “Pet Heaven” knew nothing about us. There’s only one Heaven, and that’s right there, up in your face, licks and slurps, with humans! They can’t get rid of us that easy (not that they really want to), we’re there romping and frolicking right alongside, and we don’t even have to go to PETCO to get all the goodies. Heaven is Petco, only you don’t have to pay for anything. And you don’t have to work at being cute!

I want to talk about a very special dog. That’s right, a DOG! Any of you cats have trouble with that, you just pay me a visit at about 3:00 after my nap, and if I don’t answer I’m still napping. As I was saying, this DOG’s name was Chip. We used to live right next door from each other, only I didn’t see him that much because they never let me out of the house. But I could HEAR him alright. Humans call it “yapping” but I could clearly make out the words through his accent, had no trouble at all with it. He would say things like……

“Wow! Another cookie??? (and not a silly dog brand either, a real COOKIE, the kind humans reserve for themselves and would never think of sharing with anyone else, let alone a DOG). Thanks, Mom……you’re the BEST! You’re the BEST!”

And then he would say….

“Here comes Randy! Here comes Randy! I think he’s got a treat! I think he’s got a treat!” (Why he oftentimes repeated everything twice, I’ll never understand. It could have been due to his very excitable nature). After three long years, I finally figured out who this mystery cat “Randy” was. The MAILMAN, of all people. He never brought anything for ME! Not a single mouse!

But more often than not, he’d say……

“I’m so happy to see you, happy to see you! Whatcha got, whatcha got? I don’t care, I’m just so happy to see you!”

I think you know by now, this Chip kid was the HAPPIEST dog in the world. He had the BEST human EVER! If I was a dog, which I’m not, and never hope to be, nor do I aspire to be anything of the kind, it would be an honor and a privilege, to be accepted into Susan’s household, with or without all the extra cookies. She would center her WHOLE WORLD around me, not like SOME people, whose names I won’t mention, MICHAEL. (It’s not like you give me anything significant off your plate while I stare into your beautiful blues with my own. But, be that as it may, you’re still an alright guy, even if you do torment me by calling my name a thousand times like an imbecile. Is it any wonder I don’t give you the time of day? Not that I care to know what the stupid clock face says. You only need to know suppertime and nap time, that’s it. And those two happen several times throughout the day and not necessarily in any kind of order.  For instance, you might supper and then supper again, or nap nap, supper, nap, supper nap nap, whichever and whenever you prefer. Sounds confusing but there’s really no great mystery).

Anyhow, this isn’t about me. Susan is heartbroken right now because Chip left suddenly last night. He was in a hurry to see his relatives (whom he had never met) after hearing about them for so many years. What Sue doesn’t know is that, right about now, his grandad is showing him how to fix cars and will let him drive (without so much as taking a single lesson, I dunno, he just knows HOW all of a sudden) . They’re going to see his aunt, who loves to party, and his grandma who has a thousand stories about Susan he’s never heard before. Like the one about Susan looking exactly the same way coming out of the bathroom, to get all spiffed up, as she did going in! But Chip says he wouldn’t have it any other way. Why change perfection?

He says he misses you, but for Pete’s sake (who’s Pete?) stop crying! He’s having too much fun to worry about that now. It’s okay to be sad, but he’ll see you later. He really is a lucky dog. I have to live nine lives before I get to drive! For now, they shove me in the back compartment where I can’t even be near the controls, let alone see where we’re going! How do they expect me to learn anything? How will I find my way to Heaven? Chip says to follow the cookie crumbs. I don’t know. Sounds too Hansel and Gretelish to me. I don’t want to end up at the witch’s house.

Another route is to follow the paw prints. There are two sets , one of them is human with a kind of glow around them. They belong to the “Good Shepherd”. I hear he’s a really nice guy. He must be to be with all those stinky sheep. I think I can convince him to be more of a cat person…….when the time comes.  I’ve got eight more lives to go. God, I hope the next one’s better than this. I can’t even see out the window. The ledge is too skinny and they won’t leave the door open! What’s wrong with them anyway? Even Chip got to go outside. I wish I was a bird. Not the one I ate the other day, though.  Tell him I said, “Hi”. I’m not sorry. It was the most fun I had in a long time and anyway, he got to go to a good place. Is he driving yet?

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Tyler Talks Spa Day

June 15th, 2017 by Magdalena Tabor

tyler

Hi, it’s me! Tyler, who else! What a harrowing experience I’ve had. It all began the other day when Clementine (my sister)was scooped up in flash and put in that little box with the handle on top. She was crying! I ran over to help but what could I do? I don’t know the first thing about locksmithing so all I did was scream, “Help! Help! Clementine’s being kitnapped!” No one did a darn thing about it. They swooped her off to who knows where, then they brought her back about an hour later. Whew! What a relief! I asked her where she’d been but she wouldn’t say a word. How very mysterious.

A couple of days later, a variation of the exact same thing happened. Only this time, I wasn’t going to stick around in case they had any ideas about me, no sir. I headed for the cave underneath the bed but was blindsided. Somebody grabbed me! Was I destined for the same fate?

We were both smuggled into the Jeep and driven down some bumpy back road. We cried and cried in vain until I heard a familiar little voice say, “Don’t worry, kids. You’re having a Spa Day.” Oh, yeah? Well, what’s a “Spa”? Unless it’s food, I’m not interested, so get me out of here…..wahhhhh! Okay, so I’m a big baby. You would be too if you were in my shoes, if I had any.

Minutes later (but what seemed like hours) we pull up to a big red barn only there are no cows or horses inside, or even any hay. There are other cats! And no dogs, thank God. And these cats look perfectly fine, like, they’re not stressed out or anything. One of them says, “Don’t worry, buddy, it’s cool”. First, my name’s not “Buddy”, ya got that? And I didn’t come prancing in here of my own volition, so get out of my way. Usually, I’m a pretty nice guy but that kid annoyed the you-know-what out of me.

Then this guy waltzes in and says, “Hey, Tyler” like he’s my best friend in the world, reaches out and has the audacity to touch my fur! I cringed at the very sight of his freckled hand with the little curly hairs on top and backed into a corner but it was no use. He swept me up and started clipping my nails! You fool! How am I supposed to defend myself against the enemy, namely you? But he just kept it up, smiling like a buffoon. Clip! Clip! Clip! Bits of me flew in all directions. I prayed one of them would boomerang and hit him in the forehead – ping! But no such luck.

Then he proceeds to arrange some horrid looking instruments of torture on the table, chooses one, and combs me with it, tugging at the knots I worked for weeks to entangle myself in. Why can’t I have dreadlocks if I want to! It’s no good, he pulls harder – ouch! You $%#@*&^%! I swore. But he pretended not to hear me. I was beaten. Exhausted. He picked up my limp hairless body and stuck me in a cubicle. What, was I supposed to do some computer work now? Not unless they pay me for it! I know my rights. I want twice the salary you pay that mousey faced girl in the reception room who thinks she knows everything.

Then, of all things, Mom walks in and they slap her with a bill! You mean, you have to pay them??? For something I never wanted in the first place??? They got some decent sized fur balls out of all this! She opens her wallet and hands them a little plastic card. Okay, that’s better, she’s not as stupid as I thought. She sure fooled them into thinking they got something. Ha! Let them try to chew on that!  C’mon Clem, let’s go home. You wanna drive or shall I?

So……………whadayathink? Spas are so overrated. Wouldn’t you rather keep your toenails until you pull them out with your teeth? Don’t you think knots of fur sticking out in all directions make one appear a lot more distinguished? I’ll admit the little shaved spots are way cooler but it wasn’t worth the stress. Next time I’ll pick up more speed when I dive under the bed. It was that moment’s hesitation.

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Covfefelations! You’ve Done It Again!

May 31st, 2017 by Magdalena Tabor

Image result for trump slapping hand to head

By now, everyone has heard of the new word created by none other than the Trumpmeister himself.  Now now, in all fairness, given his limited knowledge of the English language, the word is not only sterling and original, it’s a reflection of unwitting ingenuity. I must say, I’m really rather impressed with the complexity of the word, the sophistication and yet playfulness of it when spoken, and the sheer (stifled laughter) magnitude of its origin. The question remains, however, what in blazes does it mean???

One can only speculate on the message lost in the meandering pathways of the brain in the man so earnestly attempting to express what (?) in the wee hours of Trumpdom. But another question just as perplexing eludes…..what is its pronunciation? It is of my personal opinion, and that of the general masses, to be “cov-feh-fee”. While we ponder this, here are some conjectures on its meaning in context:

Vould you like zom cream in your covfefe? (Spoken in your best Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation.)

My hair isn’t quite covfefed today. (This making perfect sense given the state of his coif.)

I was so happy there was covfefe at my inauguration, even if there was some in my hair for a week.

My next dog will be a poodle named Covfefe. Fifi is so passe.

I covfefe I know nothing about politics or anything meaningful.

Damn! I didn’t mean to hit send. That will put a nail in my covfefe for sure!

It’s widely known that sleep deprivation alters the cogs and wheels in the clockworks of the brain. My suggestion therefore, would be to refrain from drinking covfefe before bedtime. If you do, don’t drink and tweet.

So………………whadayathink? Have anything to add to this word of substance? Do you agree with the enormous potential value of the word? Will Starbucks cash in on this? Will von Trump get any sleep tonight or will covfefe rattle around in the coffers of his cranium? Will he brand the word before or after he figures out the definition? Let’s have a go at it, shall we?

Covfefe (cov-feh-fee): a nonsense word caused by a careless mishap at the hands of a blundering fool in the wee hours of twitter world.

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The Concept of Martyrdom is A Bad One

May 26th, 2017 by Michael Tabor

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Jesus was a martyr but at least he didn’t take anyone down with him. His suicide (which is what it was if you believe his mission was to die for us) in my opinion makes zero sense, but hey – billions of people for centuries seem to think that his dying redeemed us from Original sin (That seductress – Eve). I, for the life of me am incapable of grasping how and why one would come to this conclusion. But, that’s another blog.

Anyway, the fact of the matter is Jesus did not kill anyone (God the father killed millions , but Jesus did not). Jesus also preaches thou shall not kill. So yes, Jesus was a martyr but as I said… On the other hand, the other monotheistic Abrahamic religion – Islam, explicitly encourages and rewards persons who not only commit suicide but also murder as many people as possible in the process in the name of their god Allah. Lovely!!!

How counterintuitive is it to think that suicide and mass murder is something that will get you into Paradise with all those virgins. Just absolute nonsense!!! WTF are these zealots thinking???

So to get to my point, what if one of these suicidal homicidal martyrs gets his hands on nuclear weaponry? It’s over – that’s what. End of the species – Sapiens and the Genus – Homo. Thankfully, N. Korea is not a theocracy and Kim Jung-Un is not suicidal. But Iran is.

So WhaDaYaThink? What do you think? What I’ve always thought to myself was – thank God making a nuclear bomb is prodigiously difficult. If it was easy, you wouldn’t be reading this now. You’d be dead.

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