life

2026 is here and a post revisit – The Snow Was 17 Feet

January 4, 2026January 8, 2026by Stephen J FrankenberryLeave a Comment

Well, we’re all good for another holiday season, we’ve celebrated surviving 2025 (definitely considered “survival” of a year that will not be remembered well in the annals of history, actual history – hopefully we’ve been charitable and compassionate and thoughtful and truthful and dare I say, human, to counteract that … so far) we’ve added a few things to our stash of things while adding some things to other people’s stash of things, some things probably already forgotten until months from now when we will discover them as surprise brand new things and we are getting ready to return to our regulars where we will surely miss the anticipation of short weeks and probably REALLY quickly … like Monday at around 9:02am, or maybe 9:15am after you’ve toasted your bagel and hopefully haven’t had to curse at forgetting to bring in the cream cheese you bought on Friday on the way home (leave a note now dude!).

But on this Sunday morning at the end of the season I thought to just sit for a little, read a few bits of mine and also check my WordPress Stats just to see what posts have been viewed or even “liked” recently as I have mentioned and done in the past. Now, obviously, there are recent ones that will have gotten some attention but I will also often find, when I do this, at least a couple of older pieces that someone or someone’s have somehow found to view.

I don’t really know how people come about some of these older posts other than maybe randomly searching the Attic, which is great if so, though certainly not through tags as I am no good at remembering to keyword hashtag anything, for the most part, but I am also not really going to question as, well, it’s just cool and I’ll leave it at that, plus it reminds me of where my head and I were at depending on the time or place of the post.

So, that’s what I have today, a revisit of a post from around this time of year in 2020. A pretty good post too, as I re-read it this morning, and one that has some moments still pertinent to today as well.

Plus, I also didn’t really have anything new so …

Oh, and Happy Happies all.

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The Snow Was 17 Feet

December 12, 2020

The snow was tall, just tall as enough tall it needed to be against the front door to keep it from opening as I remember now, though 17 feet at least it seemed in my kid head then, though bear in mind that my tall was small (but with hope of a big someday). I was only six or seven or so and I was mad. My parents had just bought their first house, a something numbered address on Archer road in Mahopac NY with me in tow. But I was mad, not the mad that some might attribute to me and my now of cats, a crazy cat lady guy and a need for solitude away from a mad, mad, mad, mad world, that kind of mad, but with a just being mad … why the fuck can’t I open the front door to the glories of snow?

I hate snow, or at least I hate it now, the cold that it is and the down of that cold, the darkness of a light’s short days that come with it. But, again, I was six or seven or so. Snow was a wonder then, something just waiting for the play.

It certainly, the snow, wasn’t 17 feet tall but, it feeling taller than me, it could have been 30 feet, or a hundred feet, or a however many feet that were necessary to dwarf me. It was as far away as just a glass door, that extra door that you doored along with an already perfectly good door, one that could become a screen though, in the summer months, for a bit of air and I pushed, pushed against not 17 feet of snow, but enough, against the door, a silly angry kid pushing against a door. And I even had my snow boots on. Ready. Go. Snow.

Man, that shit could bleed, knuckles, after the mad and its push to open a door that didn’t want to be opened, a door that just said “leave me be son”, “I’ve been holding this off all night”, “have ya seen the snow? It’s almost 17 feet.”

That was my first scar, a one atop my right hand. A fist knuckle and a hard push. The only thing missing was the “motherfucker” exclamations that would come years later for all of the times snow or anything of the sort would be 17 feet tall.

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Jonna and Keryl give me a pass, I think, as to our guests. It’s a show, “Happy Hour”, that we’ve been doing since dinosaurs searched out self help gurus to ask of what to do for their inadequacies, “I’m too big with short arms”, “Mom wasn’t around for the long names that would come based on my bones”, “I was a vegetarian though three stories tall and a bit ungainly”. They know I’ll never read the books from these guests, I can’t, I don’t read anything that isn’t filled with the wonder of places imagined, some of swords and kings, some of spaceships and distant planets, all of a simply not here, instead of just “self help” vagaries that tell you of who you could be if only you could be someone else just like you, but different (especially after buying a book). But surprisingly, some things, even in my cynicism seep through, our guests, all, have their moments for me. I Just patch them together, grab bits and pieces that may mean something and move forward. A lot of them are the same, some just a more well known, more established name “same” than others but, really, the same. But I grab that patchwork, a workable patchwork mind you, and roll. No need more.

Recently in one of our shows Jonna talked of finally wanting to write her own book. A something she has in her, like Keryl who has two now, Jonna’s Facebook posts evidence of the writer.

Jonna, if you’re going to write a book please don’t think of it as the topic of a future interview for a podcast with a couple of cool ladies and some dude interviewing for advice within a small world of such. Just write your book and a just you book. Write too much, exaggerate often with sly smirk, but just be a book that books as a Jonna book would book.

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Bella has one PC chair while I sit in the other. I have two. I know, Mr. Fancy pants huh? One is the “Shoes” chair the spot he owned from the moment I took it out of the box years ago and laid my thin Steelers blanket on it after trying not to have any pieces left over in my assembly. Then there’s the one slowly becoming the “Bella” chair as I sit on all nights and she sits with me after a dinner shared with Cricket the Blind on her foot recognized paper towel for the small fork cuts of extra dinner to come and an attempt at the same with Mimi the Quirky (successful if it’s chicken).

Bella is the most patient of cats, there’s not a of one of us who couldn’t be better off with the kind of patience she shows, not being terribly fond of Cricket the Blind and only minding Mimi the Quirky, she exhibits her patience just for me, holds back any anger she may have at these “others” who have invaded our space taking attention away from her belly rubs on her dot of a small bit of circle carpet in the living room I never use in this two room place or another rubbed belly on her chair or even on her crunchy paper (my Sister sends powdered vitamins once a month worrying of my poor diet and possible vitamin deficiencies in a box that doesn’t really need any packing but she still does with that hard edged brown paper stuffed to the left or right of that packing box, depending on how you opened it – I think she’s fully aware it’s not needed but packs it just the same – she knows cats). It’s Christmas day every month for Bella when I get my vitamins and she gets a new lay on fresh crunchy paper splayed out next to last month’s flattened such.

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I know this is a little disjointed, but it’s one of the ways I think, in short blurbs of thoughts but strung together in pieces and with many run-ons of current things or memories that may not be connected or just might be (usually are). This one is the latter but it’s where my thoughts were this weekend, as some of you might be able to relate to disjointed thoughts, the brain being a bit of jumble during the upside down we live in. But it is a weekend where I’ve taken Monday off to give me 3 days, to at least breathe a bit (though apparently not to get my thoughts into any coherent form). I get 3 weeks a year of vacation time, or PTO for those technical. 15 days to do with as I will. I do this once a month and this month is a bonus with the holidays to come giving me a couple of others. I almost feel guilty knowing that the holidays will afford me my once a month two extra times without paperwork but I’m not going to let that deter. A once a month Monday is a once a month Monday, the holidays are just gravy. Could I take a week at some point, call it a vacation, sure. But I’m a single dude always strapped for $$ and I have my charges. Plus, where am I going to go, especially now?

Some of you might be alright with believing a normal exists but I’m not a one and it doesn’t.

There’s so much that is 17 feet tall, hell, most of our lives are spent trying to deal with stuff that is 17 feet tall, a seemingly insurmountable task of too tall walls, placed there daring us to scale maybe even bloodied knuckles to come from the attempts.

But I’m in no mood to scale today. This is simply my acknowledgement of such. 17 feet? I gotcha. Tall you are. But I’m just gonna take an extra day and sit and surveil a tall wall for no reason other than no reason, and hunker a bit away, just me and the girls.

I Opened My Mouth And The Devil’s Voice Fell Out (There’s Somethin’ Goin’ Around)

December 25, 2025January 1, 2026by Stephen J Frankenberry3 Comments

Note/Warning: Overwriting fun

So on a recent Monday I got up with a reluctant sigh, a more reluctant sigh than the usual as I hadn’t slept all that well all weekend, more not “all that well” than said usual, whispered (grunted) my normals to Cricket and Bella and stood up (yay, I did it again, and still above ground too … bonus!!) and went about my morning business. Trudge upstairs with a towel, wave to my Sister’s gang, Arthur, Saphira and Rikki the Raspy, grab a shower and then trudge back downstairs though a bit more pleasant for the smells now for any possible downwind passerby.

Then …

finish drying
put underwear on while standing, something I am very proud these days that I am still able to accomplish without losing my balance and almost toppling over, though that doesn’t include the occasional getting your first foot stuck in them as that’s an any days, any age possibility and well, slapstick of new one legged dance moves can be funny (somebody call the Tik Tok, just speak Billionair-ese and add a Chinese accent – I’ve hit on a possible craze) sweatpants and sneakers next that I have already thrown on the bed to wait for me which are then applied in an appropriate manner that won’t garner any strange looks at the convenience store or phone calls to HR after I get to work.
rinsing cat bowls at the utility sink in the laundry room then (don’t judge … the paint stains are pretty old) and picking a food choice from atop my small fridge cache of cat food cans for the girls, eventually tapping one and then opening it under Bella’s nose to make sure it passes the appropriately stinky enough for cats cat approval test which is usually a once quick lip smacking Bella tongue which will never cease to make me smile, even on rough mornings, and then it’s cat noses down.
almost done, dressed, heavy hoodie on and then grab my phone for one of two things, neither of which, by the way, are to check for texts or emails or social media posts or anything of the sort that may have come from the outside world while I was sleeping poorly or maybe something I had missed (though, believe me, whatever it may be, if so, it definitely wasn’t “missed”).

There isn’t really any single thing that I care enough about, other than my Sis and the gang, that I will find it necessary to start my day by checking to see if it reached out or just to see what it was doing in its little corner of the world. Hell, it could even actually be something that I may need to be concerned with and needs to be addressed but no one needs THAT to start the day right? Waaaay too many possibilities. Let me at least get to the car so I can start cursing at people, you know, warm up a bit to the day before I need to begin “dealing” with shit, maybe even its (yours).

No, I grab my phone for two things. One, to re-turn on the strips of LED lights that outline this basement room of mine, something nephew Matt put up when he and Jake were younger and this basement was their game room. It’s pretty cool, to tell ya the truth, with so many color choices and brightness settings, that I wonder how I ever lived without them before, like I could have perpetually been the twelve or so year old Matt when he first strung them about.

Two, hit the little microphone and ask Google lady to tell me what the forecast is going to be for today, on this morning, but I was totally unprepared for the voice that would fall out of my face to ask the question. There almost seemed to be a hesitation to google ladies response and then an almost wary “the forecast today is calling for skin melting temps in the mid millions, and rivers of fire and rains of molten lava … Sir”

Whoa!!! What the fuck? I could almost swear I wasn’t possessed when I turned off Matt’s cool LED lights last night before I hit the rack as the voice I had, or didn’t have, didn’t even sound human.

Now, I have had some interesting voices over the years that usually come with being the result of vice or are an indicator of a soon to be sick that have sounded pretty rough, there have even been times where I actually was possessed and the voice could be a bit otherworldly and menacing but things were always worked out, trades were made, but nothing like this. No, this was unlike any other sound that had ever fallen out of my face and probably explains why the wary sounding Google lady gave me a forecast for Hell and even called me “Sir”. If for nothing else, I have a new AI acolyte (and one not regulated at the state level) but this was even worse than when Peter Frampton and other bands discovered the vocoder back in the 70’s.

Then the phone call came to tell me to expect a letter.

A cease and desist phone call telling me to expect a cease and desist letter, and a one trying to sound very legal-like but really just sounded like a guy named Vinny, warning me that if I continued to use the voice that I only now just discovered I possessed, was seemingly possessed by, that the legal ramifications would be harsh and that the somewhat equitable trades, like those in the past just wouldn’t be enough this time. No, there would be no swaps now. No future children would be accepted, no souls would be saved even at the expense of my own (though we did have a spirted, however brief, discussion as to this whole “soul” concept, though his hard cut definition definitely topped my more existential one).

Oh, and my kneecaps would probably find themselves to be of issue.

I just …

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(Cricket!! Not now kid!! Bad timing … talking to the Devil’s people at the moment!)

… deferred, apologized and promised that I had no real intention of impersonating the devil himself. It did though make me rather useless for the day in my job as a radio guy as using my voice is kind of a prerequisite for the job.

Eventually my actual voice started to return a few days later and I was able to get back to things, though with lesser voice in hand and record, though quite raspilly, a radio show that I do with a couple of dear friend co-hosts and have for years now, the early portion of which did revolve around my suspected possessed voice and possibly just attributing it to being part of the winter season and the sniffles and colds that can come, though a bit extreme.

“Frankenberry” said one co-host “The Devil falling out of your mouth, that voice?”

… and here it came

“It’s been goin’ around”

Oh, son of a bitch!

Seems no matter the situation, no matter the ailment, no matter the no matter …

“Hey, you sound a little rough”

“Yeah, a bit of a cold thing maybe”

“Its been goin’ around”

“Seems my allergies are acting up”

“Yeah, pollen, it’s Spring, it’s been goin’ around”

“Hey did you hear Bill lost his leg in a car accident?

“Yeah, lost limbs, it’s been goin’ around”

“It was a Big Bang and shit collided in just the right way and there was a primordial thing with bellies and tails onto a shore on a new planet in its new cosmos”

“Yeah, that’s been goin’ around”

“Been channeling the devil’s voice lately”

“Yeah, it’s been goin’ around”

… and then suddenly I had the measles and small pox and polio all of which were “goin’ around” and RFK Jr laughed creepily and raspy-like wile noting that we could be friends in voice and also just because I wanted to get a dig in at RFK Jr and, by extension, this whole dumb ass world we live in right now.

The dumb?

Yeah, it’s been goin’ around …

So?

Yeah, that’s all I got.

Good luck though, shit’s been goin’ around.

Some Tunes ‘n That (song links compiled in one, easy convenient post)

December 7, 2025December 13, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry2 Comments

Note: How to overwrite taking a day off.

Once a month comes once a month, it’s pretty regular as once a months go, as long as calendars don’t try to fuck with me and suddenly change cats out of time on my wall … (hey wait, when the hell did that meowing tabby suddenly turn into a yawning gray long hair?) but once a month means that I am takin’ Monday off. And when I do, take this once monthly, it can sometimes involve a new “tune” …

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(sorry, that was Cricket in case you were curious, always reminding that she is a part of this process, blind keyboard stepping right through, though her singing voice definitely can leave a bit to be desired … but so with ya on the solitary 7 my friend … I know huh? Nope, don’t get me started)

… and when that is the case, a new tune, I will take my time that often then involves me working said tune, though it has been a little while for this as we live in dire times, free thought not really being all that much of a thing these days so you must be careful, but I will work it.

Well I did work a new thing this Friday and with that, that new tune I thought, as I have done before, to put a few things into one easy, convenient post as once I am in song mode I am just there.

So, with links to their posts, I boogie woogie here, I channel Bob Dylan, there’s a new one with a big top soundtrack, I lament the white supremacy that seems to, so sadly, be a thing these days, from the top on down, I Cheap trick some need to conform, I rail on tax cuts ala the Beatles, and the always GOP minority rule via Tears for Fears.

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God Made Trump – God: “Yeah, That Was In Error” (boogie woogie song revision)

A breathless boogie woogie thing

“Boogie Party” Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

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Gonna Wanna Rule Somebody

(To Bob Dylan’s Gotta Serve Somebody)

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Trump Circus Two

(to a little circus sounding bed with “circus” being most apropos these days)

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One White Leads To Another

(To The Fixx “One Thing Leads To Another”)

White supremacy, proud virtue of this administration

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We Want You To Be We

(to Cheap Trick’s “I Want You To Want Me”)

To the GOP who feel they’re somehow being persecuted in their beliefs by not be allowed to dictate how everyone else lives

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Baby, it’s a Tax Scam

(to the Beatles “Baby You’re A Rich Man”)

Yeah, this one is obvious

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Minority Rule

(to Tears For Fears “Everybody Wants To Rule The World”)

Popcorn anyone?

Of Aunts and Thank You’s

November 9, 2025November 15, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry2 Comments

“Steve, I have some news” Beck said as I poked my head in the living room to her on the Beck couch to say “Hi” after what had been a frustrating but finally muddled through Friday.

“Aunt Anne passed away”

I was going to joke about something totally silly in my poking corners of living rooms with sisters on couches and then …

… pause … “Oh no … no” and I flashed to the late 90’s almost 00’s and felt guilty, immediately, as I hadn’t talked to Aunt Anne in too long.

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There were thank you cards that I would never send for wedding gifts I never kept (though there were a couple I would like to have, that fully loaded tool box filled with shit I would never need or know how to use for one) and feel guilty of for the longest of time and there was paperwork eventually that said the magic had passed well before its time or thank you card expectations suddenly no longer a thing, plus divorce numbers in graphs and charts and over multiple demographics helped me explain, painfully, fast endings and also just being lazy and hurt.

“Hey what time is it?”

“It’s now and you still haven’t sent those thank you cards and, oh, try again sometime, maybe, on this whole marriage thing if you can or wish?” Another thought entirely there, and a nonstarter.

And then there was Aunt Anne.

I needed a place, a spot, a wherever that wasn’t this whatever now, I needed, really, to just run away.

Cue Aunt Anne and Uncle Don and Florida sun and unintended but welcome beaches and Mouse dreams. Yes, I went to the beach and Yes, I worked for the Mouse, even wore tights and big ass floppy shoes and baggy shorts and plastic heads on the weekends.

I know, kinky huh? Just minus the soft light and candles and knotted rope.

She offered me a room, in a welcome home when I was at a loss as to what to do after my unexpected sideways step replete with those Thank You cards I never sent that I kept in a box on a new nightstand as a reminder of my lacking’s but also of my refusals (that was my justification anyway).

But Aunt Anne and Uncle Don and that huge living room where I would sit, cross-legged watching TV with them and commenting together on new shared favorite shows as a part of the family still sits cross-legged with me, along with remembrances of Benny the Cat who catted along with me to this new stead and who Aunt Anne, to her sure consternation, and unneeded pressure, kept an extra eye for “Hey that’s Stephen’s cat, keep an extra eye or i’ll never sleep and then be forced to hurt you … “

My cats have always had that effect.

We’re all, obviously, older now, shit catches up eventually as it will, as it does as it must but there are Aunt Anne’s and Uncle Don’s along the way who give you place, comfort, friendship, if you are lucky enough, a place to lay your head and regroup and even go to the beach or wear big ass plastic heads on the weekends (no, not in a kinky way … freakin’ wierdo’s) and breathe for just a moment.

Lubs Aunt Anne.

Angel of Death: End Of Days, Route 9, Poughkeepsie??? (audio post revisit for the season)

October 24, 2025October 25, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry2 Comments

Earlier this week I posted “Headstone” a fantastic video short voiced and built by a good friend and co-worker based on a flash fiction piece of mine, something for this spooky season, one that involves a graveyard’s groundskeeper coming across Death weeping at a long forgotten gravestone.

Well, that is not the only story I’ve written that imagines Death in one way or another (I’ve got a couple of tunes in that regard as well) so in continuing to keep with the season then, I thought to revisit this one from three years ago’ ””””p777777777777777777777777 (sorry, that’s Cricket the Cat Poet wanting to join in here with her own thoughts, again, and strangely, with this talk of Mr. Death, she has opted for a bunch of 7’s, interesting) but I wanted to revisit this one, one decidedly lighter than “Headstone”, from those three years ago, Spring of that year actually, not Halloween time where, on my ride home from work one night, I passed the Angel of Death standing in the middle of Route 9 in Poughkeepsie (some dude dressed as the Grim Reaper holding an hourglass).

But was he really just some guy in a costume?

Now, this one is one of my most viewed posts, period, over many year’s time spent here in the Attic, couldn’t tell ya why, though I am not complaining and credit to my discerning readers (yes, shameless flattery trying to get me everywhere with you all) as it just a pretty good post and a real favorite of mine.

Then a few months after the initial post I decided to do an audio version of it and play it up a bit. I know a number of you have already read and/or heard this, but, well, I just don’t wanna miss this time’s window to get it out there again for the others.

Here’s to the season my friends, my favorite time of the year.

Angel of Death: End Of Days, Route 9, Poughkeepsie???

(and a guy dressed as the Grim Reaper holding an hourglass in the middle of route 9 led to this …)

So I saw the Angel of Death tonight … on Route 9 in Poughkeepsie standing on the median between the North and South triple lanes, at a traffic light, near a T.G.I. Friday’s and a Mattress Firm and across from a new specialty soap shop, a new Sleep Number Bed place and a convenience store, among a number of other spots.

Tall guy dressed as you might expect of an Angel of Death/Grim Reaper type. Long black robe, oversized hood and he was pointing at things, menacingly, possibly specialty soaps and he seemed like he might even have been yelling though I couldn’t really hear as I passed him amid that damned rock n roll I was playing too loudly on a nice sunny almost Spring evening, finally, one you surely wouldn’t expect the end of days to arrive on, at least you’d hope not, though I’m afraid my Mom might feel vindicated now all these years later of her worries of, when I was younger, while I was playing that damned rock and roll too loudly back then as well and cutting up perfectly good heavy metal band concert T-shirts to have her sew them on the back of denim jackets, that some might think the end of days would sneak up on me because I wouldn’t hear it/them coming.

The only thing out of the ordinary for this particular Angel of Death though was that he was carrying an hourglass. Not that Angels of Death don’t sometimes carry hourglasses, they do, I’ve seen artist renderings, some pretty cool artist renderings as a matter of fact, but this was in lieu of the tall, sharp, pointy, violent looking scythe’s we’ve more come to expect in a clichéd Angel of Death kinda way which, truth be told, is probably for the best in this day and age that that wasn’t what he was carrying.

Tall, sharp, pointy violent looking clichéd scythe’s? Yeah, that’ll getcha noticed, and not in a good way, and possibly even get ya tased or worse. Hourglass? Much less threatening.

I did though think, if I could have, that I would have politely pointed out that this hourglass of his was a little small, not really of a size befitting his stature or one to really get him noticed in the middle of a busy roadway here in Poughkeepsie, and right at the height of an evening rush hour with people being lost in thoughts of get homes and dinners and dog walkings and sweatpants and checkings in on that show that you’re pretty sure your better half cheated on and watched the next episode of without you, again, and conversations/angers left open ended the night before.

I would have pointed out that he needed something a bit more dramatic, more theatrical, something oversized to really catch that thought lost eye. The hourglass he had was, well, a little on the Spinal Tappy Stonehenge side but with him being the Angel of Death an all, I would have been as deferential and as delicate as I could with this observation (plus, he most probably still had that clichéd scythe somewhere in reserve – and that shit looks like it would hurt … a lot, like in a death kind of way).

Now was there any reason, I thought, any significance to this specific spot of his as I drove past? I don’t know. Was this where the thunders and the lightnings, the great fires or floods, or great fires followed by floods to drown out great fires making people tread water in floaties the only thing they had on hand, damn the children, the pestilences and rivers of blood were newly ordained to happen, or was he just waiting on a pick up order from that T.G.I. Friday’s and doing what Angels of Death do to pass the time, what little time may be left?

Had he been maybe having some trouble sleeping recently (certainly possible as carrying the weight of his message has gotta be a heavy sleepless nights kinda burden) thus reason to be in between a Mattress Firm and a Sleep Number Bed store or was he really pointing menacingly at specialty soaps, a could be 21^st century haven of witchcraft with all the witch-like curatives some of the soaps and maybe oils and creams inside can surely promise … plus Hell, you know there’s gotta be a crystal or two hanging in there somewhere right? Or maybe he was just waiting to cross the highway way to get to the convenience store for a pack of smokes thinking to his Death self, well, if I’m bringing word of the end of the world to the peoples, I might as well smoke up while I can.

I don’t know. Whatever the reason was for that location or whatever the reason wasn’t, all I really thought on my way home after passing this Angel of Death fella with his too small hourglass (you just need a big black sports hearse car to compensate my not friend) was “listen, if this is it tonight big guy, if this is the end of days, after you’ve possibly picked up your order at T.G.I. Friday’s could you …

“Hi, can I help you sir?”

“I’m here for a pick-up”

“Your name?”

“Angel”

“Angel? Hold on … hmmm, hmmm, hold on a sec, I’m sorry I’m not seeing that here for our pick-up orders right now”

“You sure … nothing under the name Angel? With an A?”

“I can spell Angel sir, thank you, and sorry, but no … could you have ordered under a different name?”

“Oh wait, you know what, I may have. Do you have one under the name Death?”

“Death … Death … Death … sorry busy night … hold on … oh, here we go … Death … burger, blood rare, locusts, frogs, extra cheese, fries and the apple cobbler dessert special?”

“Yep, that’s me. Sorry, I don’t usually use my last name, way too formal and can be a little off-putting”

“No worries Sir. Let me get that for you, Oh, and by the way? Cool hood”

“Oh, well thank you so very much”

“I would say though, if you don’t mind a little constructive criticism, that you get a slightly larger hourglass”

… and could you, after you’ve put a deposit down on a new bed …

“You’ll be so happy you chose our little slice of sleep heaven … (stop short silent stare) … sorry, my bad … probably not the best of selling points for you I’m thinking now … you’ll be so happy you chose our bed Mr. Death instead of something that feels like a bed of nails like from those sleep hacks across the street …”

“They have something that feels like a bed of nails?”

“What?”

“Bed of nails, those sleep hacks across the street have something that feels like a bed of nails?”

“Ummm, well yeah, that’s what we say … Ok, but hold on, I got ya. If you’d like, Jimmy, one of our delivery drivers, works at a small local hardware store and I’m sure we could throw in a bag of nails, support small business right, that you can toss on the bed, like scattering rose petals for you and the Missus …”

“There’s no Missus … I’m Death. It would make holiday family get togethers very uncomfortable.”

“Ok, well, bag of nails just for you it is then”

… and then after checking in on potential modern day witches …

“Do you have a soap or some oils that can just ease some tension, possibly transport me away to a better place? I think I’ve seen a commercial like that … a place like … HELL!”

“ummmm, Ok then, well?”

“Gotcha! I saw ya glancing over at that crystal … witch”…

… and after you’ve a grabbed a smoke outside the Exxon while you’re getting yelled at for your loitering could you at least let me feed the cats and have my dinner and maybe clean a litter box or two? I would SO hate to have to face the end of days, you know, the rapture or something, even if you all do the rapture, I’m not sure, or some sort of reckoning, with messy litter boxes and on an empty stomach.

“Will do”

Thanks.

Alright Bella, alright Ms Cricket … Last Fancy Feast “Savory Centers”

Eat up quickly girls, I don’t know what kind of deadline he might be facin’.

Gonna Wanna Rule Somebody (song redux)

October 11, 2025December 3, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry6 Comments

Been a while on this one and, truthfully, I just like having a tune to turn to in the midst of monumental stupid when I am headphoning for escape.

Going back to my original post, May of 2024 and to Bob Dylan’s “Gotta Serve Somebody” …

Gonna Wanna Rule Somebody

You may be a wished dictator who’s scripting a dream

Of what to do in year 25 with a right’s loyalist team

Who’r mapping out a dire plan where democracy it seems

Is no longer a real player in the grandest of red schemes

And you’re gonna wanna rule somebody, yes indeed

And you’re gonna wanna king somebody

It may be those already on the devil’s dark page

Or those forced to take new stage

Body vessels are the targets in this new SCOTUS age

The ones who stand up try prevent women in a cage

The ones who had temerity to think body autonomy

But in this new world order legislating you’s the rage

Yeah, you’re gonna wanna rule somebody, yes you are

And you’re gonna wanna lord somebody

You’ll make women understand that they just don’t have a say

Instead monitored by state

You may be undesirable in this grand U S of A

An invader less than human is all he will have to say

To rile up the base while he drives all you away

The military will be called upon slap down to make point’s sway

Yeah, you’re gonna wanna rule somebody, yes you are

You’re gonna wanna lord somebody

You’ll make those who just don’t belong go back to where they’re from

Yeah, you’re gonna wanna king somebody

You may be a protester on campus wantin’ say

You hate the inhumanity that you’re seeing day by day

That you’re not an anti this that or even a pro that

You just hate women and children wearing dead pawn hats

But they’re gonna wanna rule somebody, yes indeed

They’re gonna wanna use your naivete

To gain an in ground against hated college elites

They’re gonna wanna rule somebody

And you may be example of future disputes

To quell freedom of speech tear it out by the roots

Teach that protest is only what they will agree

You are no patriots like Jan 6 ones who would see

That he gets chance to rule somebody, yes indeed

Gets chance for a new autocracy

That there will be no dissent that doesn’t come with intent

To help him rule somebody

You might like use projection to describe your enemies

Accuse them of harboring fascist wills and dreams of tyranny

You’ll even claim reverse discrimination of dear whitey

You’ll say that anti-white feeling can’t happen in this great country

And you’re gonna wanna lord somebody, yes you are

And you’re gonna wanna take us back

To a time where white man ruled

And others minded their P’s & Q’s

You’re gonna wanna white everybody

You may call yourself disciple of the MAGA ways

Protect yourself on his good side fearful of vengeful days

You may even say that fascism’s not that bad just give it play

As we’ve heard too often now from MAGA’s praying new Trump day

Well, you’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes it’s him

You’re gonna have to serve somebody

Well, it may be the devil, while the lord sits this one out

You’re gonna have to serve somebody

You’re gonna have to serve the orange

You’re gonna have to serve prostrate

You’re gonna have to serve not the lord

You’re gonna have to serve new devil’s day

Headstone & The Walk (short fictions)

October 4, 2025October 25, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry2 Comments

Well, with it being that time of year for these types of stories I thought to revisit a short bit from last year, one I have posted before in a couple of spots and one that started with a dVerse Poets “prosery” prompt from June of 2024 and also to liberally revise the second part to it that, truthfully, I had forgotten I had written …

//////////////////////////////////////////

June 4, 2024

A prosery challenge at dVerse Poets

A very short piece of poetry or flash fiction that tells a story, just one with a limit of 144 words, but, somewhere within your story, includes a line from a poem

Here?

From Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Sleeper”

I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye

//////////////////////////////////////////

Headstone

In a graveyard nearing dusk the groundskeeper came upon Death, leaning heavily upon his knot gnarl anguish handled scythe as he knelt at an almost hidden, fallen stone, shunned, just outside the cemetery, alone, at the edge of a large forest. He wept quietly.

“Are you alright old man?”

Death was startled

“What?!” as he tried to stand

“No need. Pay your respects”

“Why don’t you shudder, cold, at the sight of me, cringe, run to escape who I am, maybe to you?”

“I know death. I have been here as long as you have searched … for your mother right? How did you know?”

“I had this inscribed in her stone, I pray to God that she may lie forever with unopened eye hoping she would never see my shame and what I had become and wrought”

The groundskeeper said “Let’s walk my friend” …

//////////////////////////////////////////

Then I thought to continue the story …

//////////////////////////////////////////

October 19, 2024 (revised) October 3, 2025

The Walk

The groundskeeper walked his headstone common with Death alongside.

“I knew her, I was there, she begged me not to, not just yet

I knew him too, he was an ass, he was having an affair and was found out with a jealous bullet … I assisted the trigger

This one wanted to experience the sadness of flying, I gave her a bit of a nudge while the crowd scattered below

He here? He was a case of life unexpectedly cut short … on a Tuesday I think, an unusually busy Tuesday if I remember too

Pointing “That one over there was an unfortunate result of small minds but …

This one was a way back where they marked doors and wore masks… some of those scared even me, I really had my bones full then

And whole sections in the distance there the result of religious fervor …”

“STOP!” as the groundskeeper came to a halt looking directly at and through Death with a chill

“What?” Death paused, shrunk a little, actually, finally frightened

“We’re just walking here, so stop.”

“But? …”

“You know all of them, of course, I, we all are well aware of that. Jobs are jobs. You have yours, though your glibness is wearing me very thin, and you don’t want that, you REALLY do not want that, but I have mine … look to the distance, the Lily fields that surround us here? This is my keep and all that lay in it away from you, at last, but also for all those who come now or have in the past, their memories just wisps scattered to the Lilies, to pay respects or seek absolution, to mourn or even rejoice in some cases, to just be seen or wish to only blend into and under the grass as well or to apologize for being late for someone’s birthday.

To come here, for most of them, is just to sit and wonder and talk to the wind as if their words can be carried, wisped away to other places by it to be heard somewhere in it

That is Angie, talking to her dad

Those are flowers left by Peter who feels better now even though he was an awful son and knows he hastened his father’s death

That is Bart, off to the left, who comes here only because he feels if he doesn’t he will lose whatever semblance of sanity he has left

That’s Michelle, after years away, who feels that wiping off the dust and grime and dirt of time will somehow make everything alright

Then there is Thomas, who I truly feel for, his loss that just destroyed him as that headstone is the last, only, thing he has left in whatever it was that tied him in this, his world. She was, under that stone, the only person that kept him safe in his differences.

Know that your job has consequences”

“But what are we to do?”

“Nothing, we can do nothing, but we can have a little respect. I take comfort in some genuine words spoke at knelt stone, when there are some, when loss is so profound that it brings a tear to even this old groundskeeper’s eye”

“This is what you do?”

“It is, but I don’t fault you for doing what YOU do. Now stand …”

“But I don’t even remember having knelt”

“… use that scythe for balance and stand up from your creaky knees and bony fingers and let’s go over to that corner and to Maribel”

“Maribel? Who … Maribel … is she?”

“No, leave her be, she has time, still has a daughter to come, but she sings, she even extols YOUR virtues”

“Me? MY virtues?”

“She sings of what is done and understands, as do I, though in a lesser chord, as I am no singer, and in such a glorious voice”

“Her loss?”

“It is of no matter, she just comes here, twice a week, sometimes more, to sing of all our losses, just sings along with the trees and the breezes and wisps of what was once of seas and suns and moons that drown and pass and of short lived birds sung in pretty flights above us all through the stones underneath her feet that look out over the hills at this place, all of these places, that are as one as they always have been, are here as intended to be stretching to the Lily’s”

“Oh my, is that heaven?’

“Could be, I don’t know, not sure”

“You said she still has a daughter to come?” Death remarked with a glint.

“STOP!! Were tears for your Mother back there even real?

“Moment of weakness I guess”

“ENOUGH!! You know, my expanse can include you, death can die, if I will it and then cover it in grass and Lily fields in the all encompassing distance, but for you? the Lily’s will wilt. There will be another to fill your shoes, if need be, it just won’t be you, gone at your own bones arrogance”.

It’s a Frankenberry Monster Cereal Family Time … Again … Again … So Matt … (post post)

September 28, 2025October 12, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry3 Comments

Note: revisiting this one from last year, my first Fall here in my role as the Brother Uncle Troll under the stairs, one who doesn’t eat cats by the way (sorry, I know that’s kind of random) as some tails might go, but looks to them, instead, as friends and for emotional support and as somefur’s to defer to and claim to be talking with so as not to completely appear like just someone slowly becoming a batshitting nutter talking to the wind or chemtrails or RFK Jr or ghosts or Nelson (one of the extra folks in his head) … again.

Oh, Nelson? He’s quite nice in case you were curious.

Bella: (stretching) Hey dude. Did you say something?

Me: Just go along with it Bell, for appearances sake, Ok?

Bella: Sure, whatever. I’ve always been a bit iffy on this Neslon fella by the way, just to let you know..

My first Fall it was then, with my Sis and Nephew(s) and extra cats (see? I wasn’t going totally nowhere with that) and because, now, truthfully, I’ve just really been looking forward to calendars turning and to re-posting it for some fun as it’s one of my favorite posts. It is, though, a bit long so if do you take the time (much appreciated) I recommend a stand up and stretch in the middle and a stroll to the concession stand and maybe a pillow behind your back for when you sit back down.

It’s that time of year where we see our name displayed in all its sugary, questionably healthy, comically scary strawberry Frankenstein Monster goodness, any number of “essential” vitamins just an added bonus (See?! I told you Ma! essential freakin’ vitamins!! It IS good for us!!) on grocery store shelves and make sure to text each other pictures of our first sighting.

From Beck this past Friday “‘Tis the season!” and even with a new Jim Henson Muppet character design, well how ’bout’s that!?, though we need to find a store manager to discuss shelving priorities. On the bottom?! Really?! And Boo on top? Love him like a brother but there has never been a day where I didn’t have to open some windows and air out the smoke with this guy.

Anyway, from last year, one that also includes a post from a couple of years ago within it about the newest member of the Frankenfamily then, Carmella Creeper, Caramel Apple, nice change of pace and so much better looking than the rest of us, well in an undead, sweet Caramel Apple but eat your brain zombie-like kinda way.

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October 20th, 2024

When I got home earlier last week I said to my Sis (Beck) and Nephew Matt “So, how do you know when it’s October?” Pretty simple, the pumpkins adorning front steps, the Halloween decorations filling up lawns, sometimes to the extreme (oversaturation people!! Fun, but oversaturation!! And inflatable evil doesn’t really come across) football season already more than a quarter way through, the cool crisp nip to the air and the proliferation of hoodies and sweaters and the nagging sense of dread at the back of your head and taste buds of pumpkin spice (Pumpkin Spice is people!!!)”

I know, I said that last year, and probably the year or years before that too just because it’s funny (Ok, even if only I think so) but still, I didn’t yell that part all madly Charlton Heston-like as not to frighten the children so we’re good, but then I asked “How do you know when it’s October in this family though? When you see this particular display in the grocery store” … and I then showed the both of them the picture on my phone from my trip to Market Bistro (my new favorite grocery store by the way and I absolutely LOVE a good grocery store as any any old man should) in Latham earlier to grab something for my lunch (and no, I wasn’t grabbing Halloween time perfect cereal, Mom would not approve of such a meal, not now anyway) to which Beck said “Hell yeah!!!”

Though Beck immediately noted the lack of Fruit Brute or Yummy Mummy in the display … then it was a quick lesson of family history for Matt who had also chimed in with his Mom’s “Hell Yeah!!” but didn’t really know why.

“Yah see Matt … why don’t you sit down son. Way back in ’71, the Monster Family of cereals was born into a cereal age where sugar coated treats could be sold as a healthy breakfast option replete with whole grain and a varying number of essential vitamins and minerals and calcium (add milk) but also a laundry list of other ingredients you couldn’t pronounce that would cause pause years later according to science and could probably explain some things, but claimed with cartoon character spokestoons for legitimacy in a kid’s world and Frankenberry, Count Cholula and Boo-Berry were welcomed into the greater family fold of these cartoony sweet characters with hyperactive kids Mom sleeve tugging in the grocery store to buy “Please, Please, Please!”, Ok’d by Moms only because of the “essential vitamins and minerals” labeling bit and the need to get you to just shut the hell up and stop stretching her blouse.

Your uncle here was only 7 back in that day, Matt, a day where the internet was Saturday morning commercials of cereals and candies and toys that just happened to have cartoon vignettes placed between them of anvils and beep beeps and a wondrous company called “Acme” that provided myriad ways to blow shit up, Wacky Racers Wacky Racing, cat and mouse best friends trying to kill each other, a snarky rabbit in a rabbit hole “What’s up Doc-ing?” with a sarcastic smirk and a carrot, a That’s All Folks’ and before, shudder, the actual internet, where you had to walk uphill both ways in your bare feet over broken glass (Yes, a lotta broken glass back then Matt and folks without shoes … oh, and it snowed a lot, No, I don’t know why, it just was) to get information from a library or a newspaper and where you communicated with your friends through an ancient tradition of talking face to face or on a telephone attached to a wall in a kitchen that was only as smart as the conversation happening on it (which was often decidedly NOT, no matter who was on it, Moms and Dads included) but one that came with a timer as, back in that day Matt, the whole family shared just one phone, or more to the point, just one phone line even if there were other phones in bedrooms, maybe, for the hoity-toity wannabe’s who just wished to show off to friends and neighbors but which could get uncomfortable with your mother showing them into her and Dad’s bedroom for a “glance” at a new bedspread or curtains or something … “Oh that little extra phone thing on my nightstand?” but still just one line, so that if you picked up another phone you could hear someone else’s conversation.

So you had to learn patience and a respect for privacy (unless you thought your Mom had some juicy shit to share with her friend Marina or there was something you could hold over your brother and his friend’s heads to blackmail them with so you quietly snuck into Mom and Dad’s room and picked up the hoity-toity phone) or if it was a real far away friend you might actually have to send a letter as those long distance calls could be a cost so you sat down in your room and wrote a letter with words on paper, or parchment as you might think of it now, and then put it in an envelope with a stamp … what you might ask? … a stamp? … oh, a small square sticky paper thing with fancy edges that represented mail money with presidents on them or flags or flowers or whatever was the latest “this deserves to be on a stamp!” picture that you licked a gluey bit to stick them … yes licked … a gluey bit … with your tongue … and after some person at the Post Office had rolled or layed out however many you were looking for with their bare, possibly filthy fists across the sticky bit that you were going to lick … I know … how did we all survive and that stamp went on that envelope that you wrote an address on and put in the mailbox to then wait patiently for a reply until you died of old young age. And you can’t even imagine what a breakthrough stamps you could peel off of a sheet were!! Think of the DVR or the toaster oven or the wheel just in a stamp kinda way … and the public health implications? It was HUGE!

Anyway, I won’t belabor this as I’ve written something to this effect at this season for years, just know Matt, that I don’t change, nothing in the air at this time has me suddenly looking any scarier or sickly sweet as I do on a Sunday morning, after a sleepless Saturday night doing just this sort of overly wordy thing only with beer, for a pee replete with “Aaaaaarrrgggghhhhs!!” at a damp bath mat soaking my socks (dammit fella’s!! can ya dry off in the shower a bit more when you’re done please?! And I was gonna keep wearing these dirty socks I’ve had on since Friday!! They were practically, and comfortably mind you, pasted to my feet”) full moons don’t have me suddenly transform, that is a Fruit (Frute) Brute gig in his warewolfyness, I don’t float around all dreary eyed high-like wondering who I might be the blueberry spirit of (probably of some marketing guy who reveled the late 60’s too much), I don’t have a sarcophagus in the basement where all that overbought emergency toilet paper of recent years can come in handy, I don’t have to run from villagers chasing me with torches and pitchforks and poorly misspelled signs just at the mere sight of my pink self for sale on a grocery store shelf, like some sort of monster nightmare commodity replete with steam vent horns and temperature gages, clunky boots, knobs in my neck and sleepless night residual sugar highs (I swear some of that sugary stuff could sit in the system Matt … like all freakin’ day! … at least that was what could have been my excuse for a who me was then if I hadn’t been too young to think of it).

But do know, as you grab at crucifixes and lunge for holy water that that ain’t my monster domain either, plus poking me with said crucifixes while making a nice lemon butter and garlic pasta just makes me giggle, it tickles, and that is the Count’s purview anyway, plus he takes a pill now that helps him “Wow, I never knew how tasty garlic was!” which he says EVERY FUCKIN’ TIME WE TRY TO ENJOY ANYTHING WITH GARLIC AND IN HIS ANNOYINGLY OVERDONE ACCENT (he always wanted to be an actor). Yeah, we get it … you can have garlic now … sigh

But I should also let you know Matt that your Mom was remiss in her noting the lack of inclusion of some family members in the “family picture” display at Market Bistro as last year we Monster’s were introduced to a long lost cousin, and a pretty cute one too, well, as cute as an undead zombie that only wants to eat your brain can be cute, Carmella Creeper, but certainly a hell of a lot cuter than we ugly mugs, that’s for sure. Yes, that includes you Count. No, shut up, you ain’t “distinguished lookin'”

Carmella has fit in quite nicely and to tell you the truth it is nice to have a woman around, she freshen’s up our old guy monsters perspective and in Caramel Apple, such a tasty new addition to our old, tired flavors.

Anyway Matt, that is the story and where we stand right now in another Frankenberry Monster Family cereal season.

Matt: (looking up suddenly at the stares from his Mom and myself) “What … were you talking to me?”

Me: “You put your earbuds in didn’t you? Had them in almost the whole time?”

Well, anyway, next October will come around sooner than you think for more story time.

Before that though, this was the Attic introduction of Carmella to House Frankenberry Monster Cereal Haunted House of the Monster Cereal Family House.

Ok, I can work on that.

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June 10, 2023

A Welcome To A New Monster Cereal Family Member

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 as we speak.

For those that may not know my name is actually Frankenberry. It’s not a radio handle I invented somehow as some have thought on occasion over the years, that I may have decided, maybe drunkenly they surely had to have 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” 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 just with a “V” … Oh, Bloody Hell!”

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 though.

“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 in an English accent which just made them sound really cool and cute so you forgave.

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.

////////////////////////////////////////

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 my boxers, neck bolts and my big ass scarred head and 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 free to kick his ass!!!

Look What Trump’s Done (song)

August 16, 2025September 6, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry9 Comments

Now in January of last year I did a version of Melanie’s “What Have They Done To My Song” from back in 1970 with “Look What They’ve Done To Our Trump” which a good friend of mine commented at the time that she thought was the best parody tune I had done yet which was high praise because one: I had done a ton at that point and was still counting ’em and two: I didn’t really think she liked any of my parody tunes.

Who knew?

But hers is an opinion I value, still do and dearly so, so I took that, as I said, as high praise.

Well, things have changed dramatically since then, as we all know, and not for the better and I thought I’d revisit the song then and update the lyrics and do some liberal “borrowing” from the first one, freakin’ self plagiarist that I am!

Hey!! I said this is just an update!

Well, a slow tap of a foot and bop of a head again and some current thoughts.

Look what Trump’s done to his Trump, Ma

He’s the nightmare now that goes

bump

He finds fascism’s all he wants do just right

So he and despot pals are tight, Ma

Look what Trump’ s done to his Trump

Look what Trump’s done to the court, Ma

They’re just bought and paid for cohorts, now

He’s got six of ‘em dismissing precedents

And legislating from the bench, Ma

Look what Trump’s done to the court

He just wants a good country for whites to live in, Ma

Says he’s a true proud Ameri-can, Ma

Who just wants dismantle from the inside out

Destroy democracy for autocratic clout

Look what Trump wants for coun-try

NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA

NA NA NA NA NA NA NA

Cmon everybody NA NA NA with me

Maybe even LA DE DA

Look what Trump does for his Trump

But this’ll surely work for the right, Ma

Who’ll trade our freedoms for their piece of pie

They’ll justify a thuggish po-lice state

If it don’t come for them “well that’d be just great”

Until he finds their loyalty doesn’t rate

Now Trump’s just foll-owing a simple plan, Ma

Where he’s the Man to all his Stans, Ma

And he revels how easy this all has been

To revisit bleak history’s darkest sins

Look what our vote now calls a win

Look what Trump does for his Trump, Ma Ma Ma

He’s found just how to grift us all his chumps, Ma

He dances rooftops once re-vered houses white

While tastelessly gold gilding everything in sight

Look what Trump does for his Trump

He has a brand new day in mind does Trump, Ma

Not one where we all have an equal say

Life, Liberty and Happiness

The pursuit of such some DEI nonsense

Not part of his white Christian pretense

Look what Trump’s done to our ‘stead, Ma Ma Ma

Look what he does with nationalist in-tent

Well, fascism’s all he wants to do just right

With masked jackboots

Helping him sleep at night

This is what Trump calls himself a win

While singing dark songs

XTC and Days

July 27, 2025August 8, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry1 Comment

Broke out XTC’s “Oranges and Lemons” from back in ’89 earlier this week as the weather called for something that wasn’t my latest in the car, the slog of old school Deep Purple, in all their iterations.

Now for reference, I don’t listen to music any longer except in the car, 25 minutes at a time, Lilly, my six speed old man CD playing (ask grandma or grandpa about CD’s) girl. Love ya ol’ bluesy heavy metal but you can only go so far and you can be a bit dull. Are you loud, yes, loud is good, has always been good (sorry Ma, I’ll turn it down) especially with open windows, but are you bright and bouncy and lyrically damning and compelling and biting enough for sunny days? No, that you are not.

I’ve been a music only in the car for the longest time now where I used to be an always in the foreground or at least in the background as a subtle soundtrack of days. Should I worry that things are falling off, that once loves have been so easily discarded like baseball (not my doing) or relationships for instance? (reasons) or more, just altered?

I don’t know and I probably should be a little concerned that I don’t really care I guess. I mean I like to hear new things, usually at work where we sometimes build spots with new music, but at this point in my oldness I have my comforts and going back to Deep Purple or The Rainmakers or The Silencers or Alan Parsons or Bob Mould or XTC works just fine for me. I just don’t really feel the need to invest myself in anything new, I’m pretty full in that old regard, though I do look forward to something new from MonaLisa Twins at some point, the only “new” that has caught my fancy in the longest of time.

No, I’m good, I have words and cats and my sister has cats, they sing well enough at my feet at the crack of stinky can or on a set of stairs, one of them just needs to learn how to play guitar or even bass … not drums though, I don’t wanna have to hit a broomstick on a wall like a cranky old landlady.

Including an Arthur … apologies, I kinda talk pretty loud …

“Really Steve, you don’t say”

“What?”

… something I am always reminded of in videos but then forget when taking a video. But ya gotta love his eventual southern belle-esque turn of disdain here, a “Why my Lord, I neva …” the only thing missing being him holding a dramatic paw up to his face.

Now back to XTC and “Oranges and Lemons” their “Sgt Pepper” or from the artwork their “Yellow Submarine” (every band wants to have their own). I had the hardest time trying to decide which tune from it to present in this post as this album is just perfect, and I have only come across a handful or so that would meet that “perfect” mark for me, filled with so many great choices of tune and so many that even sing to our current times from 36 years ago and with Arthur’s disdain.

(writer’s note to self: This isn’t Facebook numbnuts, you can put more than one video here… Oh, right …)