Author: Stephen J Frankenberry

Recently my nephew Matt pulled off a unique trifecta (no, not the ponies again, freakin’ Destiny’s Tap Dance for the win! Outta my way sketchy old man, grab a shower will ya! Gotta cash in my ticket! … it was an issue once for Matt … or maybe was it me … but we’ve, I’ve, been seeking counseling) he graduated, birthdayed and Eagle Scouted all at the same time. Now right there my brain hurts a little. The only time I’ve ever had the Universe converge in such a way was when I celebrated a birthday once and then did two other things, like wake up and then trudge to the shower. But he pulled it off, and with aplomb I might add and for his efforts he was gifted a well earned brand new electric guitar from a group of us old folks who will surely try to glom off his future fame as the next John Mayer.

Beck, my Sis, group texted a number of us to see if we would be willing to chip in a dollar or two for said guitar, and there was something in there as well about a purple one and a new color instead because purple wasn’t now available and clashed possibly with his shorts of future guitar playing fashion choices or Prince wasn’t really dead or velvet Elvis posters also clashed in the black light … whatever, but I was all in. I even figured out how to send Beck some $$ from my PayPal account instead of waiting for some moment where we were all together to hand her a check that she would look at me then with a sideways, scoffing glance, “Dude, you really are old aren’t you?”

Seems this was an “everybody wins” kind of thing Matt. Ol’ dog, new tricks my friend!

But Matty, I wanted you to know, that in the span of that new guitar group text, the back and forth’s, that Buck and your Uncle Steve, “Unca Steve” if you were still only 5, proved themselves to be nothing more than 12 year old boys.

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Beck: Matt wants a purple electric guitar he saw. With his birthday, graduation and Eagle Scout all next week. Group gift? Just an idea. Throwing it out there.

Mary Anne: I’m in.

Other phone #: We’re in!

Buck: Ya

Other phone #, #2: I’m in!

Nick (my brother): Ya

(Buck and Nick cut of the same verbose cloth it seems)

Beck: Yay!!! Thanks

Me: Put me in as well!!!

Beck: I put $100 down but it was for a different guitar. The one he wanted was gone already but this one was the same price and he loved it (and he said it would go with more outfits than the purple one would have 😊).

(Hey, don’t be tryin’ to Jones my signature parentheses lady!)

Then Beck added a pic of Matt at the store on a stool with guitar in hand.

First other phone #: Looking at the pic real quick I totally thought Matty had some kind of Forrest Gump leg brace on … totally threw me off.

Beck: Lol, nah, just a stool.

Buck: Lololoo … she said stool

(and yes Buck, I saw what you did there with ‘loo’)

Beck: (a poop emoji)

Mary Anne: Hahaha

Me: You know I knew “stool” was coming right? And how did I know? ‘Cause Buck beat me to it.

Buck: Lol

Me: We’re guys. We’re always 12

Buck: She always asks me that

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So Matt, as you play your well earned new not purple guitar and find some better color coordination fashion with it and write tunes that will Wow us I’m sure at some point in the future (oh, and let Jacob chip in some lyrics by the way, gotta have some wonderfully dry and too funny sardonic wit additions) (parentheses are mine Beck!) and be all creative know that there was a stool joke involved.

Outside, a just me and Beck text.

Beck: You’re an ass.

Me: I know.

So in the Attic, at the bottom of every post are three possible choices of other posts you can click on to maybe continue your surely glorious reading (or listening) experience as who wouldn’t want to endeavor to more right? I mean, how could you not? You’re in the Attic for God’s sake. Does it get any better? They are usually as current post similar as can be.

Below my latest post then was this one, reminding me of one of my better days from a couple of years ago (and one of my better bits) that talked of just this time of year, 4th’s of July’s and birthdays and also new stories told. A day where I actually got out of the house and hung with family and friends for a little while … and even enjoyed myself. 🙂

This was a good day.

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July 4, 2021

My Sis and my Mom came down from Albany this weekend to Buck’s place in Wallkill (Buck is Beck’s guy) for a little July 4^th get together. Just a few folks, Buck’s daughter and his son and daughter in-law, Scotty, a cousin of sorts and some friends, two other couples one of which I hadn’t met before but am so glad that I did as they were a too cool. Funny, relaxed, easy to join in conversation and share a silly story or two, especially Angie I think was her name, though I would need a few more get togethers to really remember it, newly introduced names can get lost sometimes in a just almost there kind of way, like car keys in your other hand. We, and Beck, talked of being crazy cat ladies (guys) among many other things.

And there was also Victor, Buck’s grandson, his daughter’s talkety talkety talkety 8 year old who regaled us with an 8 year old’s stories and brought us nothing but smiles while he held court on Buck’s patio pushing his baseball hat back and forth around his head. He even read us the story he wrote for Buck, who the kids call “Choppy” (don’t know where that comes from but certainly much better for Buck’s not old feeling piece of mind I’m sure, much better than Grandad or Grandpa) a one Victor bound with stapled pages about how Buck was 61 years old and was named “Choppy”, and maybe how that was even his given name if I remember the story correctly, like a Mom and a Dad would actually name their kid Choppy and how he bought what he thought was a house from three “sale guys” named Bob, Hazmat and Fart who actually tricked him into buying a spaceship instead that Choppy jumped out of after screaming “NOOOOOO!!!” when he realized he’d been had.

It was quite gripping, edge of your seat kinda stuff and reminded us of the wonders of 8 and the talkety, talkety, talkety that comes with that 8 especially from Victor who is fabulously good at the tellings. It was also illustrated by the author himself by the way, who made sure to note that on the title page, and of the reading of that page twice to us for emphasis.

Now I’ve mentioned this before, many times, but I don’t go out much, even less than the nothing that the last year and half forced us into if that is possible, perfectly happy to ignore the world if I can with only my furry girls, a few words here in the Attic, a Bucco game or some Sci-Fi on the tube, but I do truly enjoy going to Buck’s place and hanging with the gang, good food at the offering, MY gang and just sitting spinning stories and laughing sometimes at the stupidest of shit once I do decide it’s Ok to get my ass out of the house and relax in a bit of something people call being social.

Actually, when I got home tonight I saw Celie in her kitchen and when I told her of my day she said …

Celie: You mean you weren’t here?

Me: No

Celie: All day?

Me: Well, not since 1p when I left

Celie: You mean you left the house?

Me: Yes

Celie: Oh, good. Glad you weren’t dead up there

Me: Thanks, glad I wasn’t dead up there too

This today also included a bit of celebration of my birthday, which was a couple of days ago on the first, a celebration that just involved some ice cream cake, candles, Victor making sure to remind me not to spit on it when I blew the candles out which I assured him I wouldn’t, discussions of Fudgie the Whale and whether Carvel still made such and a few presents.

Mom seemed excited to give me hers. Now keep in mind that she is only an in the moment anymore, I’m not really sure she even remembers where this gift came from, it’s heartbreaking, but you just try to live in that moment with her.

It was a box inside one of those cool little pouches with a pretty ribbon for the sinch squeeze at the top and I’ll tell ya, in a million years, if anyone had asked me to guess what was in that box inside that cool little pouch with a pretty ribbon for the sinch squeeze I wouldn’t have guessed this. It was probably something that Beck bought for her to give to me. A Day of the Dead Sugar Skull. I kinda knew what that was, but I still had to look it up just to be sure. It was a Pittsburgh Steeler one. Yeah, apparently there are those but there ain’t no guessing that is ever going to bring you to a Pittsburgh Steeler Day of the Dead Sugar Skull birthday present from a Mom. I would have only, at best, gotten to socks or a Pirates T-shirt or maybe some underwear in the guessing.

I did though try to make sure that it fended off any unwanted spirits from around Mimi’s ass … just in case of course.

Beck also gave me a present of meat, something from her and my nephews. Yes, It was a bit of a different day when it came to the pressies. A couple of steaks and some higher end hotdogs (I do love hotdogs so that one was well received) and they weren’t actually hotdogs but were “Wieners”.

I know huh? Fancy.

Victor giggling: “Wieners”

With ya Victor. If I’m 8, “wieners” is some pretty funny stuff, hell I’m 57 now and “wieners” still makes me laugh.

Victor: That’s funny that they’re called wieners. Hey Ms Becca (what he calls my Sis) where did we buy these?

Beck: At BJ’s.

We all erupted in laughter, with a quizzical Victor wondering why the hell that was so funny.

Other Victor’s from the day?

—

He had gone fishing with Scotty, that Buck cousin of sorts I mentioned earlier, cousin through marriage kind of thing I think, though that stuff, extended family ties and the labeling of such eventually just confuses me.

Me: How’d ya do guys?

Scotty: He was the man! Just kept catching ’em.

Beck: How many Victor?

Victor: Somewhere around more than 9.

—

He and his Uncle Neil braved the pool, I say braved as today was a bit on the chilly side for July. When they got out, Victor came to the blue-lipped realization that wearing a T-Shirt always seems like a good idea at first until you get out of the pool to a breeze.

Neil’s wife Siobhan (the coolest of names): How was it?

Neil: (cavalierly) It was fine. Not too bad.

Victor: No words just a cold askance wet shirt raised eyebrow look that shiveringly said Uncle Neil you’re a freakin’ nut job! That was cold!!

– —

Victor: I’m gonna wrap a potato with potato eyes in some paper and give it to my Dad like a present.

Me: Why?

Victor: Potato eyes freak him out.

Me: Really?

Victor: Yeah.

Me: I love this kid

—

While he was head down in the ice cream cake he made sure I didn’t spit on in the candle blowing?

Victor: Thank you for having a birthday.

Me: Ummm … well you’re welcome my friend. I’m thankful of having a birthday as well.

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Yes, I’m thankful of birthdays Victor even if they add a new number every year that I’d prefer not to think about but sometimes they come with good days of actually getting out of the house, Pittsburgh Steeler sugar skulls, unexpected hot dogs (wieners … giggle giggle), new friends and funny small stories.

Cheers all,

My Sis called me just now on her way to see her guy, Buck, who is in death’s throes of sniffles and coughs and lack of sleep hallucinations, all those symptoms of impending death that only a Beck hovering can cure to wish me a Happy Birthday. #59 and not counting, though of course, there it is, counting.

Son of a bitch.

But talking to her just now reminded me of last year when, for said birthday (#58 then and not counting) she got me a little care package from Adam’s Market, one that included a murder balloon.

My post then from then.

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July 10, 2022

So, my Sis got me a few things from Adam’s last week for my birthday. A surprise bit of groceries from a fave place that came with a balloon. Apparently, no matter how old you are you can still get balloons.

But it was a homicidal balloon, or murder balloon as Beck named it, immediately trying to kill me on my way home with my open windows and too loud music (no, the music wasn’t a balloon issue, I’ve just been loud lately) bouncing, wrapping, blocking view, everything it could do to make me dead. It even took a look outside like some tongue hanging dog balloon before it got back to its nefarious balloon nefariousness.

When I got home, evil balloon plan seemingly thwarted it proceeded to kill one of my fans instead, wrapping itself around the fans throat.

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Stopped at Home Depot for a new fan yesterday, answering the unasked question of how much someone’s gift for your birthday can cost YOU? 50 bucks in this case, but that’s not your bad Beck.

I mean, what are you gonna do with homicidal balloons right?

There was though, this. New fans come in boxes. Blind cats find boxes. Blind cats get comfy in found boxes.

Fuck you balloon.

Thought I’d revisit the Beatles for a new parody. Now Kevin “has anyone seen my spine? I know it was here somewhere” McCarthy when asked about rolling back some of the almost criminal tax cuts they gave away back in ’17 (no surprise that Trump’s only signature moment was to give rich folks reason to be even richer rich folks) said there are plenty of tax dollars coming in, we don’t need to roll anything back. But of course, at the same time, in the name of sudden fiscal responsibility, we need to keep the avg American’s dollars in check and cut, cut, cut.

When I first started to editorialize via tune, 5 plus years ago, realizing no one was going to read my shit but that they might, instead, toe tap along to said shit in song the Beatles were my go to including even an “album” worth of songs at one point. The Orange Album.

So a bit of comfort food/tune then.

Baby, it’s a Tax Scam

“So whats we got on the agenda today boss?”

“I’m thinkin’ we get dem GOP folks to savin’ us some more money. Udderwise, we don’t be supportin’ ’em with any more of OUR money”

“We gonna play the country for dupes again?”

“You knows it Mugsy”

—

---

How does it feel to be GOP privileged people

Knowing they put you ‘bove the rest

Padded bank accounts will attest

Reward for support of who is best

A thank you with more in store

—

How does it feel to have recognized ravenous gre-eed

Know divide’s what they do seek

Wealth kept away from weak

What do you plan with your new gain

Hope keep ridin’ the money train

—

Baby it’s a Tax Scam

Baby it’s a Tax Scam

Baby we know what we do

Ya keep all your money in your stock buy backs

It’s what ya do, country we’ll screw

—

(ohhohh)

Baby it’s a Tax Scam

Baby it’s a Tax Scam

Baby we know what we do

—

How does it feel to laugh at the unfortunate people

Who we keep selling trickle down

Knowing you’re all just clowns

Blowing a big hole in the debt

One paid with folks safety nets

—

Baby it’s a Tax Scam

Baby it’s a Tax Scam

Baby we know what we do

Ya keep all your money in the family tree

Hand down scott free, no tax ya see

—

(baby)

Baby it’s a Tax Scam

Baby it’s a Tax Scam

Keep runnin’ it don’t give a damn

—

Baby it’s a Tax Scam

Roll it back no way man

Avg Joe’s you’re also rans

—

Baby we’re all rich men

Baby it’s a Tax Scam

Baby laughing to the bank … 

(and the much clamored for sequel to Good Plants)

I have a couple of Spider Plants, Erica & Syd (what? I name things) that were gifted to me by my sister about 7 months ago. They have done quite well here at the ‘stead being very planty in their growing while listening to me babble at them or eavesdropping on conversations with cats. I think though that they might be part of my sister’s nefarious plan to have them overwhelm me where eventually I’ll be found dead in some lush, overgrown garden and she can then split my third of our inheritance with my brother.

Anyway, Erica has taken to sprouting babies, Sylvie and Ned, and Ned the long singular one? He almost looks to have some Faerie qualities so at least if my sister’s dastardly plan does come to fruition I know I will be well taken care of by the folk.

So I am sure that most of you have gotten or continue to get unwelcome texts phishing for personal info, usually with a link they’d hope you would click on that tells you that you have an unclaimed package at the UPS Store or that your checking or credit card account has detected a problem or that you have been flagged for national security concerns with your recent combination of purchases at Stop & Shop of cold cuts, lettuce, mayo, red onions, a specialty bread from the far end of the store and 50 bags of fertilizer that, if put together in just the right combination, could help you make a really nice sandwich, or possibly build a bomb (with a snack now for this build in a dark one workbench single lamplit smoky overstuffed ashtrays basement).

Usually just texting STOP can be enough to make this current text go away, well, until the next one. “we regret to inform you that your father’s estate …” “your Walmart account that you don’t have is due to expire …” “this is Discover card and, dude, you bought that? Oh, that is SOOO NOT your look. Just confirming your order … please contact us here”

But I have this recurring one, texts that will hit me every few months and always with very new personal attempts to engage in an “aren’t you?” kinda way and always with a few pics of the same pretty young woman in various situations to attest to …  

“Waiting for you at the restaurant, hope you get here soon, I ordered the wine.”

“Little Millie (holding dog) misses you, how about we go to the park?”  

“Jenny told me to get in touch with you.”

And this recurring one hit me with a new attempt today.

“Hi, are you the yoga teacher that Stephen referred me to?”  

Now, this one made me laugh, for obvious reasons. One, though it did get my name right, was of the wrong person unless there are two Stephens in this new story and Two, if so? Seems no one in this phishing-land machine is actually doing their homework, no, they’re just being lazy.

A teacher? C’mon, I ain’t no teacher of things.

The yoga though? That almost got me, as that is actually a daily practice of mine, right after waking up bleary eyed from another night of shitty sleep and gingerly placing a sleeping blind cat to my left and saying “good morning” to a not blind cat in a computer chair and to some spider plants in a window (It’s important to talk to them) so I can curse to my legs slowly dragged over the side of the bed with said bleary eyes faced in my hands to then get my day started with some yoga. Yeah, they got me pegged. Maybe they ARE doing their homework.

I responded with “Seriously? Stop now, lose this # … I have some yoga to practice”

This was followed with “Sorry for the intrusion.”

I responded then, trying to be kind, “All good” thinking maybe this might be done, again, for now.

But alas …

“I think it was God’s plan for us to meet”

My response was an exclamation akin to a mom and a trucker and a “if this were God’s plan, that would only confirm that he is certainly dead if the best I could do to meet someone was through a phishing text from an imaginary woman who gets to the restaurant first to confidently order wine for the both of us, has a little dog named Millie and a friend named Jenny who apparently knows me. Now please, just go away … again” and then I got this.

“I practice going to aerial yoga”

Whoa! Hot damn!! Stop the phishing presses!! Aerial yoga?!?! I don’t even know what the hell that is but it certainly changes the whole dynamic of this thing now doesn’t it, she being all limber and as adventurous as aerial yoga sounds? Interest suddenly piqued!

Now I do feel bad for the poor girl who’s images have been stolen for this one of many phishing expeditions we all come across. I’m sure, as I see the pictures attempting to lure me, that she’s very nice, she and her little dog too, that she lives in a nice part of town, maybe even upscale in a fancy loft apartment of those fantastical loft apartments in TV shows or movies that no one really lives in in the real world, and certainly not worthy of that character from whatever show or movie you are watching, has a very satisfactory or even exceptional life with a good job, where she jogs to the gym and eats well and has friends who play board games every first Friday of the month with a lot of good play “Hurrahs!” but all while not knowing that someone keeps sending me a her, that maybe she even experiences the same phishing thing on her end (though I truly hope it doesn’t come with pictures of me in return … no one wants that, seriously, no one wants that, plus that would just be really weird and come with a Twilight Zoney sounding music bed).

No.

Note to surely nice young woman who keeps being sent my way every couple of months? Apologies.

I am, though, still curious about this whole aerial yoga thing. You don’t by any chance know anything about that do you?

Just askin’.

(Extra Note: As I wrote this, I got another text, though from a new number “Hi, are you the yoga teacher who introduced Stephen to me?” Seems it’s still a story of two Stephens, though slightly turned. I kinda want to meet the other one now. Maybe he knows the girl in the pictures from that non-existent loft apartment. I mean, I’m sure she is really nice).

A good friend of mine recently posted to me at Facebook of the arrival of a new member of the family of Monster Cereals, Carmella Creeper. (thanks Patty, I didn’t get the cereal text alert for some reason … thought for sure I was on the list).

Fixing up her room here in the haunted house here as we speak.

For those that may not know my name is actually Frankenberry. It’s not a radio handle (my gig) I invented somehow, or a name for this Blog, as some have thought on occasion over the years, that I may have decided, maybe drunkenly they thought, that a pink strawberry flavored Frankenstein looking monster cereal character would be the perfect name to attach to a radio persona or to a Blog from an Attic.

No, Stephen J Frankenberry to be exact as my English mother would surely and adamantly have you note. And Stephen with a proper “PH” (no, not a water thing, though that apparently can be important) she would also add. Not some Americanized “V” as she always viewed it. Not that she thought less of anyone with that “V” mind you, though maybe silently thinking such of the parents, “It’s not their kids fault” she surely thought.

“I’m sure they are all very fine Stephens but with a “V”? … sigh”.

The cereal came out when I was 7, in 1971 (yes, I’m old) and inspired many the jokes then and ribbings on long school bus rides and also prank phone calls on the weekends that would drive my mother mad, in a “mad” monstery kind of way I guess huh?

“Hello, is Count Chocula there? (click)

“Hello, is Boo Berry there?” (click)

A few years later

“Hello, is Fruit Brute there? (click)

She, in her very English just off the plane only 8 years earlier, had no idea what prank phone calls were.

“Joseph Frankenberry!! You and this bloody name!!” followed with a “Hell’s Bells” and many other very English expletives that she would eventually get a bit more explicit with but with an English accent which just made them sound really cool.

Whatever and well, I have always been inextricably connected to a pink strawberry flavored Frankenstein monster cereal character and am quite fond of it, even have a tattoo on my forearm to proclaim Monster Family solidarity.

So, to find out that I have a cousin?

Well now, that was pretty exciting.

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Nice to make your acquaintance Carmella, and welcome to the family.

So, a couple of things. I tend to walk around the haunted house here in only tighty-whities, neck bolts and my big ass scarred head head accessories clutching a one eyed teddy bear, the Count can be a little arrogant and is something of a night bat with his late night TV viewing of horror and Hallmark flicks (he finds it very amusing that somehow the two aren’t really all that distinguishable from one another), Boo is a sweetheart though a little flighty, and Fruit Brute is a bit unpredictable and will most certainly leer at you. Just remind him that we are family and that this isn’t the South … oh, and that you will kick his ass (he’s all talk). Yummy Mummy visits from Egypt on the holidays and has his own room with a sarcophagus in the basement.

Oh, I’m also historically, according to the TV commercials, a bit of a scaredy cat, so if you can keep the “Creeper” part of “Carmella Creeper” to a minimum I would appreciate it. Your room is all the way up at the top of the stairs in the attic loft bedroom with a great crow’s eye view of the graveyard in the front lawn. It’s a pain in the ass to mow and weed whack around all the headstones but is still quite eye catching (though the HOA are NOT fans and don’t find the same aesthetic in it that we do).

But again, welcome to the Monster Cereal Fam Carmella!! Lookin’ forward to October!!

Brute, seriously? What did I tell you about her being family?! Really Carmella, feel to kick his ass!!!

Haven’t posted a So then Sunday in quite a while. For those that may be new here (my sincerest of apologies if so, you apparently have lost your way) a So Then Sunday is entirely my own creation, it’s not a “thing”, just an excuse for me to re-post stuff I like … on a Sunday. It’s like a Throwback Thursday just on a completely different day, a one that ain’t a Thursday and one that usually happens 3 days later just minus all those one hitters from the 80’s and 90’s.

This is one of my faves of the parody tune thing I try to do, not a parody here of an existing song though, just some words instead to an instrumental from the production music bed site at work, and a one with a lot of words, and done fastly. I like that. Lots of words done fastly (yes, “fastly” is also not a “thing”).

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September 11, 2022

Alright, a new experiment, and a bit of current anger’s fun. Came across a bed at our production site recently that had a really cool sound and beginning and some nice changes within and I thought well, how abouts working some lyrics to it as I have done a couple of times with my “She Said (Old T-Shirt)” song and “We Let Billy Drive the Car”.

No actual song for parody, just a production bed. Though this isn’t lyrics of a me thing or a fun story to be told, this keeps in the vein of the current nightmare, but still a trying to keep within the tune. I guess these production site music beds can sometimes serve as my “band” huh?

So here’s this.

Are we viewing a surreal horror

Or just watching angry parody  

Only funny in horrific ways

Tickets bought a play called tyranny

Our seats quick sand of ignorance  

Till lifelines thrown early history   

But still grasp false reality

—

Theatre  

—

---

Now don’t bother me now, Mom I’m only dancing

In the aisles I’m prancin’

But not in gay way I’m singin’

Bout what end days are bringin’

Performance art playing out at schoolboards

Angry small minds at chalkboards

Who chalk up hate in loud chords

—

We sing of Devil’s discord

Threatens normal we should afford  

Only to those who live accord

Cause if you can’t you’re not on board

That train rolling over those told to

To straighten up and fly right

And only to the right, right

No other way to fly right?

Right?   

—

It’s time now to get on page

To help us harken back to better days

Where men were men and women knew their place

And where the lessers really had no face

And history didn’t happen as they say

No it was wondrous patriotic way

And the whitey’s always saved the day

With better of country their only play

—

“Hey now, that sounds like Jazz …  we don’t do jazz here … there’ll be no jazz … though, we could appropriate it … whattya think Cletus, we could appropriate it right? It’s an idea … and hey, whoa, hold on, that sounds almost a little funky … we don’t do funk here … there’ll be no funk here …  though we could appropriate this too and probably even dance to it with wide lapels and wider pant legs in an embarrassing way and pay lip service to the lesser players … and don’t even go there on blues if that’s next by the way … though we could appropriate that too  … but you know what? we got country, good ol’ American country is ours … top Lee Greenwood and Charlie Pride and Toby Keith if you can… hey, why you laughin’?”

—

We know now, we know the only right right

We’ll push till you surrender fight  

Tyranny now in plain sight

Though we’re too dumb to see plight

Instead looking at it as insight

To future where we new white

Will own again some of you then

Own all your rights superior

Restrict your vote and then some 

Or change votes depending on outcome

Sham democracy gets its run

Till realize too your rights are gone

Tyrants don’t care of your song

Tyranny theatre ticket bought

Backstage phone it sounds now

ring ring

Hello, it’s me great leader

Right?