Hi and welcome to the Attic, I'm Frankenberry of said Blog Title and I write of just my everyday here, sometimes funny, sometimes heartfelt, sometimes angry, sometimes funny again because, well, who don't like funny, thoughts on getting older and sometimes stuff that's just kinda shit. I pen and sing the occasional parody tune and other songs, sometimes I even get a little bit poetic or short story-etic or something like that. If you're joining me here I thank you, but just mind your head and feet and keep an eye out for my little Bella and Cricket The Blind as well as the memories of Raspberry (Razzy), Mimi the Quirky, of Blink The Lil' Kit, Grayson the Mighty, Shoes the Big Orange, Shana-Girl, Benny Good Man Benny Brown, Merlin & Bob. Wouldn't want you step on them or anything … 'cause then I might just have to throw you down the stairs … damned humans.
Author: Stephen J Frankenberry
Just some guy in a Pirates hat, couple'o cats and this spot
So I have this new friend who posted an idea for some flash fiction, with a picture to base it on.
“Do you see anyone?”
“What?”
“Do you see … dude, never mind. You are just fucking dim”
“No, I don’t see anyone and yes, I see that too and no I’m not dim, sometimes I just choose not to hear you”
“But this … I mean, there is someone here right?”
This was OUR spot, Jaimie and me. It was our escape from Mom’s and Dad’s and teachers (though it was summer so we didn’t have to concern ourselves with them at the moment) and Bart’s and his pal’s mean spirits and priests and neighbors and even delivery guys who would just show up.
Mom really needs to stop ordering stuff she doesn’t need or even remember she ordered in high heels.
This was our escape to talk about baseball and girls and how we hated everyone.
“Well, this a curious conundrum”
“Seriously?”
“What? It’s a cool word”
“Do you even know what it means?”
“Kinda, I just used it right? Though it confuses me”
“Shut up dude, let’s look around”
“For what?”
“Jesus, for whoever left this here asshole”
Jamie and I had been friends since we were two or so when our Mom’s met by chance and gloried on the “joys” of momdom. They weren’t serious.
“Can you at least look with me? I mean no one just leaves their shit lying around like this”
“Why do you care?”
I gave him a stare.
“Ok fine, let’s look, plus there is bra looking thing, maybe she’s topless”
I gave him another stare.
/////
The next day the news and the cops were all over our little place in the sun and sand, and we knew we had lost our one refuge and maybe even a new friend.
It was early 2020 before the world got bent and the rubber gloves told me that that thing was going to need to come out, another tooth to not weirdly save in a flowery box that Mom has in a closet right next to her fall pajamas. I went with that and ran.
For four years. I know, not good.
But my adult teeth finally caught up with my baby ones, eventually, again, and the rubber gloves had their day.
I knew this was going to come, this pockmarked, cracked, broken molar constant dental floss grab of bits of breakfast, lunch and dinner and snacks moon rock of a tooth was going to have to see the light of day out of my head eventually.
Dramatic re-creation (from only professional actors though, no amateurs need audition).
“MMMTHPTPUTTAARGHH!” drool, spit fly on my own cheek and even in my eye.
“It’s just pressure, no pain” said the rubber gloves with a magnifying lighted eye.
Pulling the rubber teeth stopper thingy from out of my other mouth like the stick you are told to clench down on before having a limb removed in a bloody grassy warring field on the fly and getting a rinse.
“You know Doc, you are the worst first date ever! Nobody does a take your first date to work by the way!! That is NOT a THING!!”
She said with a Marquis de Sade glint “Ok, let’s get back to it”
Son of a bitch. Sigh.
Almost two hours later my head was a little lighter of tooth but at least I have this little moon rock for the diorama I want to fashion in a cardboard box, the one Mom has next to those pajamas, a lunar moonscape I think, maybe even with a tiny cute little Neil Armstrong … “One small tooth …”.
I know they wanted to avert their eyes but were forced, through sheer professionalism, to meet my gaze at the reception desk as I gingerly pulled out my wallet (everything was gingerly right then).
I apologized. They weakly smiled even though they had probably lost whatever business might have come walking through the door during my screaming time.
“That will be 65 dollars … oh, and come back in two weeks. We’ll be wearing full body rubber gloves then, black, and tall spiky boots too and we’ll even slap you around some more if you’d like”
The other day as I was checking out my Blog stats at WordPress, the platform I use for the Attic and one of the cool things about WordPress, the ability to see your sites “traffic”, I noticed that an older parody tune of mine had recently gotten a couple of unexpected downloads/listens.
Now I am always curious as to how some viewers might suddenly discover something of mine (a tune/old post) from some time ago. I mean it’s not like I’m any good at remembering to add tags to my things because I’m not, hell, tags to me are just the things I always forget to take off of new pants or shorts or T-shirts until around three in the afternoon the first time I wear them, so I can’t chalk it up to that and other than doing a dive into the blog (which has happened where someone, maybe the first time visiting the Attic, will check out a number of things all at once before running away screaming with their hair on fire) I don’t really know how they may come across the older stuff, pretty randomly it seems.
Another older post of mine, from April of ’22 for example, even pops up on a regular basis, regular enough that it has become my most viewed effort, a fun thing I wrote about seeing the Angel of Death in the middle of Route 9 in Poughkeepsie that I also did an audio post of (here, I’ll save you the trouble of randomness or deep dives, Angel Of Death: End Of Days, Route 9, Poughkeepsie??? )
No complaints mind you, I don’t care how folks come about it or them as long as something is maybe getting a new eye or earball or two. I mean that’s why I do this right? Why I have a blog in the first place? Other than the sanity saver that it is?
The older parody tune, from March of 2021, was a tune I did for Celie’s cat “Cujo” and from an idea of hers as a matter of fact. I have written of this often but when I first moved into the one bedroom place above a three car attached garage back in November of ’17 (though I moved out recently) I was immediately astounded and overjoyed by the sheer amount of fur that were furring in and around Celie’s haven of said fur and even feather as well.
Now besides, when I was first there, usually being greeted in the driveway by “Blue” the big intimidating looking blue pit of all soft dogness after the big chested intimidation passed and amid the din of all the other dogs, I was also greeted by cats, four in particular. Bruce the coolest of cat fellas, the Big Lebowski, or Big LeBruceski of cats if you will, who ran the cat yard and house, Handsome, a cat with no more apt a name, Honey Bob Tail (who I would come to call “Boo”) the sweetest little rolly polly of a calico with, indeed, a bob tail and Cujo, a funny name for a cat I thought until he proved himself worthy of it. The first proof of worth for me? When I went to say hi with a pet and a rub of an ear after one of my arrivals home from work early in my stay while he was cat rolling around in driveway dust, as cats are wont to do, and he welcomed me with a bite of my palm halfway through my pettings of “hello”.
“Ok, Cujo … gotcha … and I get it now.”
Instant friends.
But Cujo, like Bruce, had a coolness about him (Honey Bob Tail was all sweetness and a bit of weight on your shoulder for the pick up and Handsome was just damn good looking so much so for girl cats to swoon) and Cujo and I became pals, sometimes with a new band aid or two like sharing friend wrist bands. He was also a bit of weight on the shoulder for the pick up but not because of the rolly or the polly like Honey Bob Tail, Cujo was quite lithe and long, but from the sheer fear that could accompany it (dude could take an eye from my shoulder I thought) but he liked shoulders, even stretched upwards on a knee for it … though briefly.
Anyway, Celie had mentioned to me a few years into my time there that someone, somecat, was peeing in the house and NOT properly, not in one of any number of litter boxes placed about the spot and that she had discovered through some fine detective work (cameras and an even caught in the cat act) that it was Cujo. She then said, and she knew of my parody tunes because I kept sending them to her whether she wanted me to or not, actually she probably would have preferred the “Not” because now you are just annoying me Stephen, especially the political ones, that I should try the chorus of Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me” because “It Wasn’t Me … I didn’t pee” had come to her when she heard the tune on the radio in her truck.
Brilliant I thought. But well, I also thought, I can’t just do something with only the chorus now can I? No self respecting song parodying guy would stop at just the chorus right? No, I don’t know the answer to that as I don’t know any other of these self respecting song parodying guys but, for the one I DID know? ME? That shit just wouldn’t meow. Gotta work the whole tune.
Now I miss Cujo and did for the longest time, still do, while I lived in that house of fur and feather after he, one day, just wasn’t around any longer, he was a dear friend lost and well, ’nuff said on that, and I didn’t want to revisit this tune of his for the longest time as I tried not think of the what may have happened (that’s a rabbit hole no pet person ever wants to go down in such a case). I just remembered the welcome homes and the pettings and the band aids and the kitchen counters helping me with the feeding of he and all his cat brethren on occasion (another story entirely, though one, ones, already well told) as he was just a really cool cat, a really smart, snarky, talky cat who I bonded with over hello’s and ear rubs and those occasional loving band-aids.
So thinking of Cujo again now, I thought to revisit some fun and some cat pee silly.
Cheers old friend.
It Wasn’t Me, I Didn’t Pee
Yo, Handsome … Open up man
What do you want Cujo?
Mom just caught me
Seriously?
I don’t know how
Where?
In the shower, you know
Man
I don’t know what to do
Well, say it wasn’t you
—
Alright
—
Celie came in and she caught me red handed
Peeing on the shower floor
Picture this, I’m a cat named Cujo
Who doesn’t litter box no more
How could I forget that she lived
On this very big house floor
Just right down the hall here
Till she was standing at the bathroom door
—
How could you forget that Mom’s the one who owns this villa
She’s got sixth senses that snap up on her pilla
You keep this up she’s gonna be your killa
She knows it’s you even got ya on camera
Before you were dumb and strolled off into the shower
These humans got tech to catch you any hour
Yeah that’s video your ass up on stovetop
You gotta say it wasn’t you to save you from the next stop
—
But she caught me on the counter (It wasn’t me) Saw me peein’ on the stovetop (I didn’t pee) Even saw me in corners (It wasn’t me) Yeah she caught me on camera (I didn’t pee) Saw scratches on the floorboards (It wasn’t me) Smelled the smell that made her nose curl (I didn’t pee) Heard her screams when she discovered (It wasn’t me) I couldn’t stay so I took off
—
Celie came in and she caught me red handed
Peeing on the shower floor
Picture this, I’m a cat named Cujo
Who doesn’t litter box no more
How could I forget that she lived
On this very big house floor
Just right down the hall here
Till she was standing at the bathroom door
—
Act like nothing happened, that it’s no big deal
Walk your Cujo walk, denial in your cool
See if you can sing another cat’s fault song
Maybe Sunny with who you don’t get along
You’re gonna be banished from house for real
You’ll be pushin’ daisies soon for just this deal
You’ll be out garage, house life won’t last
Get caught again and 9th life will pass
—
But she caught me on the counter (It wasn’t me) Saw me peein’ on the stovetop (I didn’t pee) Even saw me in corners (It wasn’t me) Yeah she caught me on camera (I didn’t pee) Saw scratches on the floorboards (It wasn’t me) Smelled the smell that made her nose curl (I didn’t pee) I heard the screams when she discovered (It wasn’t me) I couldn’t stay so I took off
—
Celie came in and she caught me red handed
Peeing on the shower floor
Picture this, I’m a cat named Cujo
Who doesn’t litter box no more
How could I forget that she lived
On this very big house floor
Just right down the hall here
Till she was standing at the bathroom door
—
Gonna blame some other
For the smell that I’ve caused
Gotta be some other cat who goes and pees against doors
I will tell her that maybe it’s because of the dogs
Thought to just a little fun for a “So Then Sunday” today.
From back in the Spring, my version of the Oompa Loompa song for an unfortunate guy named Bob.
I know, you’re saying “Damn Frankenberry! This is just what I didn’t know I needed today!”
You’re welcome.
////////////////////////////////////////
April 2, 2024
So a friend, Drew, recently posted to the Facebook this meme …
… and I thought well, what if the Oompa’s showed up at the funeral of this meme guy, a fella named Bob maybe, whose ‘last mistake’ was actually his LAST mistake.
Now, if anyone was wondering why it’s been so long since I’ve had a girlfriend, probably not, well, this is the kind of shit that I think about and do for fun which goes a long way to explaining said singleness.
I don’t date, don’t go to movies, or dinner, or events, or play pickleball, or go “clubbin'” and whatever that might entail (sounds expensive and I don’t have the wardrobe for it as I’m sure sweatpants ain’t gettin’ me past the bouncer) I don’t nature hike, I’m not a regular at any monthly game nights with friends, I don’t Church, I certainly don’t go on retreats (“retreat” – it sounds so white flag defeating), I don’t go to family get togethers with anyone new and pretty in tow to make Aunts happy (Oh, “finally” they would say in small Aunt klatches quieting any busybody speculation), I don’t gym or bike or jog or even walk briskly, not that some exercise wouldn’t hurt, I don’t do anything in groups though the one’s I am not in might sometimes remark unfairly of such, no, I just do this sort of stuff and other writing things silly and not silly, oh, and I have full blown conversations with cats.
It’s amazing what you can learn about a cat’s daily by the way, if you just take the time to listen. “Really? You meditated in a window in the sun (napped) while contemplating the mysteries of the universe and then woke up and went to the litter box?!”
Yeah, that ‘single’ status ain’t changing anytime soon I don’t think.
Anyway, for the dearly departed Bob, who took one final, unintended, bus ride to the sky.
Oompa Loompa Bob Song
Oompa, Loompa, doompety-do I’ve got a little story for you Oompa, Loompa, doompety-dee it’s about Bob so please listen to me
What do you get when you’re walking a street Lost in your cell “hey, that video’s neat” You don’t pay attention to what’s in your surrounds Including that curb’s last mistake to be found
I don’t like the look of this
Oompa, Loompa, doompety-don’t Step off that curb Bob please tell me you won’t Oompa, Loompa, doompety-please Lift your head, look around at that bus bearing down
I had made my way upstairs into Beck’s kitchen which then leads into the dining room where she was sitting at the dining room table with her dinner.
Beck: You’re supposed to make a sound, any sound!
Me: What? The steps creak a bit, and that handrail just lost a screw that fell to the floor. You didn’t hear that?
Beck: (glance – glare)
Me: Ok, I’ll step harder … and find that screw (ahhhhh m’fer, I need a flashlight).
Beck: You’re supposed to sound like the troll that lives at the bottom of the stairs under the house (downstairs) like you’ve said. Can’t you grunt or something? I mean, you’re old and always breathy grunting anyway, or at least that’s what you tell folks. Don’t be getting’ all ninja-like suddenly.
Me: Sorry (though a little proud of my newfound Ninja).
////////////////////////////////////////
I’ve been living in my new found digs for more than a couple of months now, with my sister and my nephews, Jake and Matt, (24 & 18, old enough to discern for themselves that this uncle Steve thing may have been a mistake or not and I have found myself to be quite happy with such, whatever the determination). Circumstance called for a change from an old untenable situation to instead be the guy who lives at the bottom of the stairs “under the house”, in a basement, in what amounts to a pretty cool studio apartment replete with two cats, my beloved Bella and Cricket, waaaay too much shit for a single guy stored in the room next door (with a washer/dryer/clean underwear bonus) and space that that untenable situation didn’t allow.
And I can write in comfort.
Now, not that that old situation stunted creativity, it didn’t, I wrote some pretty good stuff then, but it was more of a just get it done now if you can, quickly, as you still have to wake up in the morning to the reminder of NOT comfort so get some furtive sleep.
////////////////////////////////////////
Buck, Beck’s guy, and a brother of mine from a long time gone if he and I had known each other years ago, in a different life for me it would have been, flying planes and high fiving ourselves in passing on the tarmac, had some friends over for the weekend. I had plans to not engage and just be that troll under the stairs, doing what I do, had a new poem to work on as a matter of fact, but, well, I am no good at that in the face of new people as my mother would be so disappointed in my lack of cordiality if so … so I engaged and told a few stories (yes Dad, you would have been story proud).
Hopefully they were able to sleep easy without any concern of that guy under the stairs who might somehow invade their dreams
////////////////////////////////////////
I just thought now to some new things.
Blade
Blade looked about the sea
“Now that is such a sight to see, an expanse not matched for any land lubbers who aren’t me”
The newbie, (that was me) exclaimed “what is it that you see … Blade?”
“I see Pirate dreams but you, young Harley, are not ready”
“Why?”
“Because my scabbard could have diced you just now ya see”
I stood on deck at a fine point just at my gut
“Don’t ask questions, just be, just be the sea” he said “or you will soon find yourself dead”
I took his name as he looked about then under the sea
Novice pirates may not have scabbards, but they can still have knives also pointed at the gut
Ya see
////////////////////////////////////////
I just shoehorned that one in there by the way. It has no connection to the story at hand. I just like it.
////////////////////////////////////////
But I have quieted myself even more than normal, no one needs to know that I am here, other than a couple of cats and an uncle, and hopefully friend, who is just that and Buck’s friends don’t really need to know of the guy under the stairs. Just in passing.
I know this sounds all very dramatic and really silly and I am sure there are those that wonder of a 60 year old dude who is living like he is still in college, a mattress and boxspring on the floor, which is not a change by the way, years, single and a not care of what may be but I am not going to constrain myself to bedframe convention, it is what it is. I like beds on the floor, plus it’s important to be proactive on possible monsters underneath. Beck has just nodded her head at it with a quizzical look and I will just go with it, as I always have, plus, I really am kinda quiet …
… though not quite quiet enough for some in my new part-time work locale.
Seems I have the ability to make a really strong first impression and drew the attention of HR in emails about my language and my just regular going about my day.
M’fr what is that shit all about?!
Now upsetting an apple cart of oranges is not really my concern nor my intent, I can’t control the overly sensitive nature of those that would probably find apples and even their own oranges to not be to their liking so …
////////////////////////////////////////
In the Moment
My head lolls like a blind cat
Yes I know
Cricket
On a swivel
On a bobble
On a swerve
On a Stevie Wonder
On a pillow if your head can loll such
.
Its way too early for thoughts like these
Though
I nod on that pillow
.
V (Victoria) noises above my head
At the top of the steps
Doing simple human things
The sink
The phone
The garbage with a clink
Routine
Maybe even the recyclables in a non recyclable bag
Being alone in her thoughts
Other than the phone
Which talks into the way
Of a V day and what it may bring
Or maybe has already brought
Though it is early
.
I feel comfort in the small noise
Of V
As I am an old man now
Have been for a time’s time it seems
Andhave found a new stead
Listening from under my head
My bed
At the bottom of the steps
To others attempts at a day
Start
Maybe toast
And butter
A little jelly even
.
I discover a new world in an ear
From under the stairs
That tells me things I didn’t know
////////////////////////////////////////
Beck: Seriously, make some freakin’ noise will ya? Ya old troll
There is this spot, what was surely a vibrant truck stop once, that I pass in my to an fro’s in my new commute along the NY State Thruway. It sits vacant, boarded, graffitied, among all the other alive spots I pass where you can grab some gas, a bit of shut-eye or maybe a bite to eat.
An anomaly
A dead spot
.
Exit 21B
It was raining dogs and devils
a night as thick as pitch but there was light …
Exit 21B
a promise of respite from the drive
that took so long to not quite survive
just yet
our destination
.
it shone, shimmered, sparkled,
harkened
Exit 21B
brighting our way
with promise
“Oh, that’s a place we could stay”
in this dark and stormy cliché
.
Truckers drank coffee at a counter
ogling Mary’s offers
to refill a cup before return to their trucks
dreaming in back bed sleep cabs
of another mug
.
We shook off the rain
just a wet stain
at our feet
in a puddle
.
Do you have a room,
to escape soon now this horrid swoon
of weather?
.
Of course, just sign here Sir
.
There were tables of chance
to win without even a glance
it was easy
night was day
peasy
.
There were family and friends left to the wayside
justified
besides who are they
really?
.
We sang in bright neon lights
our day’s night might
wonder how we could have been so lucky to have lost our way
It’s Monday and, at the dVerse Poets Pub, we are writing Prosery, the very short piece of prose or flash fiction that tells a story with a beginning, middle and end. It can be in any genre of your choice, but it does have a limit of 144 words; an additional challenge is to hit 144 exactly. The special thing about Prosery is that we give you a complete line or two from a poem, which must be included somewhere in your story, within the 144-word limit.
The complete line or two in this case are from Leonard Cohen and his poem “Take this Waltz” with the lines being …
And I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moss
.
TheScrapbookAnd The Man In The BlackFedora
“Hey Jaimie, check this out, just found this covered in moss behind a tree”
Presents a tattered book with dead flowers pinned to it and a warning “DO NOT OPEN”
“Well, let’s see what’s in it”
“It says not to open Billy”
“C’mon, probably just a note left by the 11 year old girl who lost it. It looks like a scrapbook”
“I don’t know, it doesn’t feel right”
Billy opening the scrapbook finds it filled with photo’s of people and notations of the date/time of their deaths and scribbled inside the cover …
And I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moss
At that moment a man in a black fedora appeared.
The air stilled.
Then Billy was gone and all Jaimie caught as the fedora’d man closed the scrapbook was a quick glimpse of Billy’s picture.
I know, all these years of me being single and not caring of such, and then Kelsay came along. I realize she seems a bit out of my league, well actually in another league entirely, like a completely different sport, but if you are going to dive back in let it be the deep end and hope you remember how to swim … I mean, look at the, those ummm, shades!! Ya don’t quibble with cool shades and true love.
And the turn ….
Now to not be catfish and be catfish and ask for money.
Hi and welcome to the Attic, I'm Frankenberry of said Blog Title and I write of just my everyday here, sometimes funny, sometimes heartfelt, sometimes angry, sometimes funny again because, well, who don't like funny, thoughts on getting older and sometimes stuff that's just kinda shit. I pen and sing the occasional parody tune and other songs, sometimes I even get a little bit poetic or short story-etic or something like that. If you're joining me here I thank you, but just mind your head and feet and keep an eye out for my little Bella and Cricket The Blind as well as the memories of Raspberry (Razzy), Mimi the Quirky, of Blink The Lil' Kit, Grayson the Mighty, Shoes the Big Orange, Shana-Girl, Benny Good Man Benny Brown, Merlin & Bob. Wouldn't want you step on them or anything ... 'cause then I might just have to throw you down the stairs ... damned humans.
Sundarbans,The sunderbans, Sundarban Tour, Sundarban Travel Guide, Mangrove Forest, UNESCO World Heritage Site, Royal Bengal Tiger, Tiger Sighting, Wildlife Photography, Bird Watching, Sundarban Safari, Houseboat Tour, Ecotourism, Adventure Travel, West Bengal Tourism, Bangladesh Tourism, People of Sundarbans, Local Culture, Bonbibi, Mowal, Honey Collector, Sundarban Legends, Mangrove Ecosystem, Conservation, Climate Change, Biodiversity, Sundari Tree, Sundarban Itinerary, Travel to Sundarbans, Kolkata to Sundarbans, Sundarban Boat Trip, Wildlife in Sundarbans, Saltwater Crocodile, Spotted Deer, Indian Python, King Cobra, Sundarban National Park, Sundarban Tiger Reserve, Bay of Bengal, River Cruise, Nature Photography, Forest Life.
A personal exploration of autism from a brother’s perspective, including family relationships, philosophy, neuroscience, mental health history and ethics
frankenberrysattic.com 