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.
(an overly dramatic Frankenberry broken lost toenail story)
Had a broken toenail (stubbed right foot, on a heavy box, not that that matters or maybe it does, I’m not sure) that was slowly growing out when I noticed underneath my PC desk, blood, pooling. A good bit actually and a now wet red sock that was staining the plastic runner for wheels underneath my feet and even the rug around it. Apparently, that toenail or trophy, don’t ask me, I couldn’t tell ya, was done waaay before I thought it might be with socked blood footprints leaving a trail that I’m usually much better at I think.
After a few pointed, spirited exclamations I wondered, should I just buy a new rug? But that would require sooooo much work, and a few bucks at that discount “everything” store for a new one, move the desk and all the stuff off the top of it, the recent heavier steamer trunk next to it as well, that had a small cat tower for weight (even more with a chunky cat, cat #1, just calling her cat #1 is the best I can do, on it, napping, no one would think to look under a napping cat right?) into temporary boxes for the moving stuff (do I even have any empty boxes, any more of them, the ones I had gotten at the grocery store were all full and loaded and iced), shush cat #2 off my lap and try to stop her from nosing, grab the PC and lamps and knick-knacks and post-its that are important reminders of something I wrote on them, stuck to the PC screen in some cases, when a need post-its arose and turned its head, or should just I try to clean it?
But blood is so difficult and I forget the last time I had to do this. They were a nice couple I think, but too self-enamored and obsessed with temporary things, and she took a lot of pictures with pursy lips, and I don’t really know who might have missed them, really, well I do, but news eventually fades (I’ll have to look for the clippings I’m sure I kept and pinned) but then I thought to do the google of cleaning possibilities instead, again, I can never remember, but then I realized, again, searching how to clean blood stains out of a rug might raise a red flag or two.
They’re always watching ya know … the “they?” You know them right, help me out if so. I’m at a loss if alone.
But I’m a bit stuck now and my socks are unmatched with one former sticky red one tossed aside leaving one breezy naked foot. It’s kind of uncomfortable.
But the unexpected postcard was nice, and is somewhere around here I think. I’m sure I pinned it. It was from from Stockholm, if I remember correctly, a pretty picture, and all it said was “Thank you, don’t wish you were here though wish you were here”.
Now, where are those band-aids and those super absorbent ropes, wait … flash … I remember! I think they are next to the power tools and med equipment.
A new flash fiction prompt fromMelissa, to write something from this pic.
“Mom, stop, we’ve talked about this, it’s a different day. Artie and I have told you, plus you know I can’t, I have messed up insides, we just can’t, just deal with Chrissy and Semblance (of a cat) and Penelope.
Now are you good?
Ok, I’ll check in with you every five minutes … just kiddng … every ten.
Well, we’re off, I’ll bring you back some seashells and sand glass”
Dad was a prick.
There was a time where Mom and Dad were good, for like 5 minutes, I remember them actually, specifically, each one, tick tock, he kissed her on her forehead and seemed genuine on this forehead just before he had made breakfast and wished us well at the bus stop, where we dreamed he might even start his fancy car in eventual winter and let us sit, but … tick tock …
Mom loved him with all her heart, she didn’t know anyone or anything else other than him and he knew that in his running around.
“Mom, relax they are cats, now here are the things you can and cannot do with cats …”
I had a list.
Jesus, is that what I have come about? Explaining to my mother the taking care of cats and making lists?
I met Artie just out of college, he was the boss guy’s son at my new possible gig’s small box store but dreaming bigger. Maybe a spot where my new degree would matter and give me an in but …
“Oh hey, Marcie, where are those shoes you were wearing?”
“Oh hey, Marcie, where is that blouse from Tuesday’s interview, with the low flowers?”
“Oh hey, Marcie, we’re going out for drinks after work“
Then Mom said, for the war effort, they have good sniffers, cats, might find bombs, don’t tell your tell your Dad though and I got them, your “kids” by the way, especially Semblance (I love her) they’ll be fine. We just have a thing on Tuesday … Semblance and I, don’t worry.
Oh, and fuck him, he doesn’t like cats and how much does lyme cost these days by the way?
So another Flash Fiction/Prosery prompt at dVerse Poets from Melissa of Mom With a Blog of the usual 144 word max type (not including the title) and the prompt this time around was a line from a poem by Tina Chang “I am haunted by how much our mothers do not know.”
They came out at night, not every, but most, just wanting to sit with me. Some were familiar in shape and size from my books and doodling’s, while others defied description, but once I was comforted, at the start, that none were going to “spell” me, eat me or trade me to a goblin king we were good.
I told them that we just had to keep things quiet as possible, so as to not to bother Mom who was always murmuring me stories of their adventures but they assured me they were keeping an eye on her in her rest and in her head.
“I don’t know Carol, I think he may be lost to us.”
“I am haunted by how much our mothers do not know” I whispered to them all, but they said not to worry, we’re good at keeping secrets.
I had the most random of asks the other day, “when did you start getting gray?” from the coolest of strange kid I work with, the one I would have befriended in high school to protect him or maybe he would have befriended me the same in my own strangeness as having a wingman is always welcome no matter the matter’s.
But well, I don’t know Tim. It just is, as when I wasn’t gray I just wasn’t. He’s too young to ask of such things though, those fears, and if they are such, they are a ways away for him so he has time. But it got’s me to thinkin’s, when exactly was that?
My dad had a small gray spot on the side of his head when he was young, a little Jupiter storm circle that just eventually stormed over his whole planet and threw his cosmos in a gray whirl as he managed an oversized family at too young an age while still trying to start his life but always just looking “old”. Now I don’t have a spot that has threatened to take over my whole noggin eventually …
… but wow, how long have I grayed?
That is a question.
Maybe it was the relationships I no longer wish to pursue and those times I was wrong, dead wrong, and tried to backpedal on things said that I regret. Gray hair “pop!”
Or maybe it was the times, in said no longer pursued relationships, where I was right, dead right, but remembered I wasn’t wearing a cup and backed off to let them work out just the same in the end … another gray hair “pop!”
That’s why I have my little set of clippers that I bought from Walgreens a number of years ago for just 15 bucks I said to him, for when you stand in a dry shower, naked, with a broom and a dust pan at hand and you shave it all off, down to the hair nub, stubble, so you no longer think of such things. Hopefully there is no mirror in the bathroom distance to refer to by the way, no one needs to see that, not even yourself, plus you can’t see the back of your head anyway.
But I am gray now, not quite totally so, but surely getting there, no swept hair almost bald shower stalls with a broom and dustpan on a lean, waiting, will hide that, and maybe the reason he asked, looking at this old dude who still says “dude” and work wingman, was that he really was curious about his future hair, and his future old in general that we were all were curious about when we were young (for just seconds – he’s thinking about this way too much if that is the case) or it was just him making weird casual conversation, as he is wont to do
Truthfully, the graying doesn’t really bother me all that much, I am more concerned with small hedges that can sprout out of my ears, the wild bushy that the eyebrows can be sometimes and the occasional errant nose hair.
It just comes to pass Tim, this gray hair thing. But I will offer what I can if you have questions. I am no sage, nobody would want me to be one believe me, but I have some life lesson tales that end like Brothers Grimm stories to learn from (and some not so much … “let’s dance on the bar!!”) and now a gray hair “pop!” unless of course it was actually just weird casual conversation.
Then, well, we can go with that, for fun, otherwise you’re on your own kid.
It’ll trickle down to you, you poor unwashed masses, eventually, we promise, the economy … since Reagan this empty promise (now please grab a shower or something, break out a damp washcloth at least you stinky bastards … sheesh!!)
Seems the Orange Devil, amid whatever words can be gleaned from a new word salad lie rally or “press conference” with only a couple of sensical words strung together now, is still set, if he is reelected, on extending the almost criminal tax cuts he doled out to companies and wealthy friends on the corporate welfare list even sweetening the trickle in pay for play promise (it’s a pretty comprehensive list).
School lunches for children who haven’t yet been taken down by JD “sad, but a way of life” Vance’s gun interests? Socialism!!! Anti-American!!!
But trickle, trickle, trickle? Sound economic policy.
Anyway, this is just reason for me to repost this version of “Baby, You’re a Rich Man” I did a year ago simply because I like it and it says stuff on the aforementioned.
Trickle, trickle, trickle …
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
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
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
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