This aint a Love Song

Taking pictures at Lake Contrary....found this poor guy....can't help but wonder what led him to his fate:


It was a Friday night like any other for our intrepid hero Ricky the Raccoon. After a long day of stealin' the farmers corn and playing mind games on the local dogs he was ready to cut loose with some much needed debauchery. On a night like this only one place would do, The Lake Club Bar and Grill.

Things were starting off well enough, he'd put a fiver in the jukebox and with some good tunes at his back he was well on his way to scoring an invite home with Pearl the Possum and her cousin Rayanne the Riverat. Ricky had heard some things about these girls, and if half of what he'd heard was true than a new litter of garbage thieves would soon be on their way. Sure, he knew the rat was supposedly claimed by JimBob the Bobcat, the token "Biggest Man in Town," but there's no way that guy would find out about it since he worked the overnight shift snatching chickens from the farmers coop.

One drink led to another, and another, a small squadron of Geese made their way across the room as Ricky made plans to bed not one but two townies tonight. They were coy at first, but soon the liquor had its way and they were giggling like a pair of schoolgirls watching a health class video designed to steer them away from this exact situation. Rickys friend Jackson the Jackalope tried to pull him away, he shared a story he'd heard about some beavers who tried to run a tag team on those girls only to turn up as slippers on the farmers wife. Ricky would have none of it, tonight was his night and no hick with a night job was gonna spoil his fun.

Two hours later Ricky was living that dream inside the rats humble home when the door burst open and JimBob came screaming into the room. Ricky made off like a bandit in the night, and as the cool air coasted over his tail he hazarded a look over his shoulder then breathed the breath of a free man when he realized that JimBob was nowhere to be seen. Counting himself lucky he crawled into his tree knot and let the evening fade away as sleep came upon him.

The harsh glare of daylight came crashing into his abode a scant few hours later. Ricky picked himself up and muttered a curse towards the heavens as he clocked in for another long day of corn thievin' and dog messin'. But something wasn't right as he took stock of his haul at the end of the day, the other raccoons had been aloof and silent much of the day, and now here came the boss with one of those looks across his face.

It was a few hours later, as the sun itself was calling it a day, and Ricky was showing up for mandatory overtime. Upon arrival the first thing Ricky noticed was that none of the other raccoons were here, in fact there wasn't another living soul for miles it seemed. Then, out of the darkness, his boss came scampering up as JimBob lumbered behind him.

"Hard times Ricky...hard times...in this economy I didn't have a choice."

His boss was gone as suddenly as he had appeared, only JimBob remained, and as his paw moved silently down the barrel of a .22 his mouth parted into a cruel and toothy sneer.

"I don't like no dirty animals touchin' my things."

A muffled pop, the stench of sulfur, a flash of light faded across the field as Ricky dropped to the ground, JimBob was nowhere to be seen. The night played on as a poor riverat found herself snared by the local Alley Cat brigade, later that same evening her cousin fell asleep in the middle of the road. The local police didn't bother to ask any questions, after all, who cares if a poor rat, a dumb possum or some stupid raccoon ends up dead in a field anyway.

Business as usual when it comes to barnyard dating.

Pizza Day!

It's scientifically proven that the human race will work harder when there's a reward involved. It's a commonly held fact that no person can resist free pizza. Put the two together and whatta' 'ya get? The Pizza Hut Book-It program!

Far back in the misty time known as "The '80's" I was a plucky 'lil learner at Lake Contrary Elementary, go Golden Bears! One golden year, I'm pretty sure it was Mrs. Lysaught in the 4th grade, a simple brown box was opened up before us. As we crowded about the box it's contents were tipped onto a table and each of us received the sweetest holographic rainbow button you ever did see!

The deal was simple, read six books a quarter and you got your very own personal pan pizza as well as six rockin' puffy stickers that you could adorn your button with. Obviously this idea is about as gold as those amazing glass tumblers they put out. But while I'm pretty sure this is a national phenomenon, let me assure you that it was made all the sweeter by the fact that our south end Pizza Hut was pretty much the classical definition of late 80's bad ass.

We're talking:
Frosted glass windows, the red hooker lights that hung from the ceiling with velvet ropes, throne like oaken chairs that complimented the oak and puffy-vinyl tables and those ovens that made it just a little extra crispy while also flooding a three block radius with the frenzy inducing scent of buttery crust on a busy Friday night. You even walk a corridor like hallway after you enter, only this isn't a green mile you're walking, rather the red brick road to oven baked delicious...yeah it's a pretty sweet Pizza Hut...even with all these "modern renovations" they've installed over the years.

For me, cash in was always a Friday night with my cousin Brandy. We'd pile into whatever station wagon Grandma Bett was driving at the time and go nail that golden delicious like starving heathens at the buffet of kings. Somewhere along the way they stopped giving us pizzas for reading though, and it's usually about that time that we go from a little kid nation of readers to an 'us versus them' adult philosophy regarding the value of literature.

Most schools don't even do Book-It anymore, my daughters doesn't. At the high school level we try to force kids to read with twenty minutes of punishment known as 'sustained silent reading', in which time a hostage nation of students idly thumb through whatever was at the top of the pile. Progressive learning is one thing, but didn't we already stumble upon gold with the idea of free pizza?

Even in "this economy" a personal pan pizza for every student can't cost that much. And rockin' holographic rainbow buttons are a negligible public relations expense. What if we expanded this to the adult level through a local library program? Adults read books or read books to children, they do this six times within six months and they get a free personal pan pizza.

I for one would still wear a holographic rainbow button if I had it.

Ballad of the Big Shots

When it's breakfast you go to Betty's, when it's business you come to The Spot. Both offer the amenities you'd expect from the Americana Diner experience. Only one holds a hotbed of intrigue and exposition that would put the Mos Eisley Cantina to shame.

In my youth they gathered along the front counter, silverbacks fading into the sunset. Eugene the golden gloves boxer who coulda been a contender, Merle the man who always has a plan. But the king of this court was the man who chaired a kitchen cabinet that would put Andrew Jackson's to shame, Ol' Virg.

Ol' Virg was every stereotype you'd expect to find, crotchety, chauvinistic, quick to anger and slow to calm down. Day after day he drew his morning routine to a close with stale cigarettes and bottomless cups of coffee. All the while he railed against "the city" or whatever agency he felt was currently impeding his grand designs for the south end.

Every so often he'd be on a tangent and one of his lackeys would speak out of turn, or heaven forbid the server would question his logic. Virg would storm off, swearing to never again step foot inside the establishment. Generally about a week or two later his need to hold court would overpower him and he'd be back at his station coffee in hand.

Virg doesn't make it to The Spot to talk shop anymore, he doesn't even swing by Betty's for a biscuit and gravy. A lifetime of railing against the system has left him a weakened old man unable to make the rounds. But every so often the phone rings at his house, his eyes perk up, his shoulders straighten and a cackle echoes throughout the room as he looks at the caller I.D. to see a city councilmans phone number flash across the display.

"'Bout damn time they get ahold of me, I've got some things to say!"

It is then that he rises up via telephone, the minutes bleed into an hour and for a small shining moment he's a Big Shot again. The timber returns to his tone as he offers his opinions on all manner of issue such as immigration and taxation. He's trying to set them straight, trying to show them the way, he knows that if they'd listen to him it'd all be ok.

Meanwhile at The Spot a new generation of silverbacks is growing into their own. Their roles are still undefined, a lifetime of experience and compromise has yet to harden their viewpoints and mold their interactions. But they do sip upon the coffee and contemplate ways to save their world and that's a start.

Do they know of the previous administration? Does this cabal of redneck intellect pay fealty at the altar of Rush Limbaugh as their predecessors did? Will it be flood or famine that challenges their agenda? And who shall rise above the others to assume the mantle of leadership and title of Big Shot?

In a small town diner there's plenty of time for those plot threads to play out. Because if there's one thing that's certain it's this, the band plays on, only the members change. And it's the sweet siren song of salvation that they offer up to the land they call home.