THE I-CAT WAS NOT AMUSED AT CHRISTMAS by Phil Comer

A PERSNICKITY FELINE GETS HOLIDAY COMMUPANCE, A STORY IN VERSE.

We're the Imperial Cat; that would be

 I-Cat to you.

Things are all a dither. We find ourselves

hot in a stew!

We are the Imperial I-Cat; we are not amused.

We are not impressed by Christmas.

We're Holiday abused!

We are not amused by Santa with all his

Ho Ho Ho.

We're sick and tired of Christmas.

It's high time for it to go.

Neither are we amused by strings dangled before our paws;

Nor by balls, rubber mice, or yet more tales of Santa Claus!

We're not amused by smashing Grandma's keepsake ornaments;

Nor by Mom, Pop and Junior in holiday adornments.

We are not amused by catnip sprinkled

in paper bags.

We're not amused by velvet ribbons,

lights or hanging tags.

We discovered our belly in sudden

need of washing;

That we couldn't finish; we spied bugs

that needed squashing!

We were diverted by arrivals knocking

at the door,

Then Lex, the neighbor's smelly dachshund, dashed across the floor!

We flipped our tail, ignored the beast;

a hairball we did cough.

We further were offended by the fruitcake

they'd dropped off.

In disgust, we sharpened our claws

upon the wicker chair.

We skittered when Papa shouted,

"No! No! No, Cat! Not there!"

We dove for our secret hidey-hole,

and crouched out of sight.

Momma started scolding too; we might be stuck here all night.

These folks have yet to learn how

to properly address we!

But we shan't yowl too loudly; the bed and board come scot-free.

We rearranged the manger and hid

the baby Jesus.

Perchance we'll think to put it back,

just before Hell freezes.

Cattle lowing, sheep and camels, we found the creche well set.

Junior shouldn't play inside with trike or

new crash helmet!

We were vexed by cats' pajamas from our Christmas stocking.

We're not amused by mistletoe; that we found quite shocking.

We sang no Christmas carols although

we know the lyrics.

The family blames our ill temper;

we fault atmospherics.

We were not amused by cuddles;

we struggled to be free,

But the jammies came with Velcro;

that's how it's gonna be.

We clawed to be let out; we felt

prerogatives denied.

Outdoors, the snow wet our paws;

we yowled to get back inside! 

For us, Santa left lumps of coal;

now those are some sick jokes.

Mom, Pop and Uncle Charlie just stepped out in winter coats.

That's when we lost our temper:

Junior yanked upon our tail!

We fluffed, hissed, fanged and spat; with our claws we sought to impale.

Junior is annoying when left to his own devices.

We've more important tasks: Tending shadows. Killing mices.

We're unimpressed by chestnuts toasting over open flame;

Now, chipmunks roasting over fire, that's our idea of game!

What's this? Mom and Pop are back with

Uncle Charlie in tow.

Yet another present, a basket with

a big red bow!

We pretend not to hear when informed,

this one is for we.

Snarl, spit and hissy fit! It's a kitten

under the tree!

It blinked. It purred. It raised a paw.

Heavens, that thing is bratty!

It blinked. It purred, "Are you my new Mommy? Or my Daddy?"

Though knowledgeable of the facts of life,

in the classics we've been tutored,

"For goodness sakes, Kitten, I don't know.

It's been ages since I was neutered!"

I flipped, sniffed and studied this kitten

from every angle.

Well, lo and behold, I mewed,

"I think I'll call you Angel!"

We went on a rip, raced all around

until we were exhausted.

Then a miracle! The tree's branches

all became frosted!

I showed our buffet; that Angel was famished was among my surmises.

At the litter box I advised, "Now, these people, they don't like surprises."

From the toilet I sipped, "The water is fine

for drinking."

Mom ran in stamping feet, "Cat, what on earth are you thinking?"

The kitten was tired; we were wiped out;

I groomed Angel's whiskers.

Christmas gone, something remains: Small purrs like elfin whispers.

In the end, when one's a friend,

Christmas is about caring.

"Snuggle close, Angel. My hidey-hole's

just right for sharing."

THE END

Still want more of the Holiday spirit?

Check out my rap tribute to Chuck Sambuchino, Gnome for the Holidays!  [go]

Text Copyright © 2011 Phil Comer.

Photo credits: O Tannenbaum Guy: Ryan Gosling "Christmas Lights"; "Lilly in Afghan" by Phil Comer; "Broken Ornament," unknown; "Fruitcake," unknown; "Creche Without Jesus," unknown; "Cat's Santa Pajamas," unknown; "Lump of Coal," unknown; "Christmas Kitten" by Catheryn Carcamo; "Cat Under Tree," unknown. Additional attributions will be made as available.

Unless stated otherwise, illustrations and links outside this blog are for information and are not the property of the author.

ESSENTIALLY by Phil Comer

"Pepper spray... it's a food product, essentially."

FOX News' talking air head Megyn Kelly demonstrated yet again why people who watch FOX News know less than people who watch no news at all.  

Ms. Kelly and FOX News added their usual twisted spin - deferential to authority, dismissive of victims' suffering - to the tear-gassing of passive Occupy Wall Street protesters at UC Davis. That's why their audience-base LOVES FOX News, and the rest of us quiver.

But Megyn Kelly "essentially" opened a world of possibilities.

I'll start... Feel free to jump in. Anyone can take a whirl at the FOX News' spin game!

A TORNADO is a breath of fresh air, essentially.

A TSUNAMI is a memorable day at the beach, essentially.

NAGASAKI and HIROSHIMA were urban renewal, essentially.

GLOBAL WARMING is early spring, essentially.

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001 was a sunny day, essentially.

GEORGE W. BUSH was a president of the United States, essentially.

"If the Bush Fits, Wear It"

EXTRAORDINARY RENDITION is a free plane ride, essentially.

WATER BOARDING is neti potting, essentially.

NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST is a roaring campfire, essentially.

A TRAIN WRECK is Michelle Bachmann, essentially.

ELECTROCUTION is a bad hair day, essentially.

A FIRING SQUAD is a ventilation service, essentially.

A FLAT TIRE is a chance to clean out your trunk on the side of the road, essentially.

HORSE PUCKY is fertilizer, essentially.

MUSTARD GAS is a condiment aerosol, essentially.

A BLOOD BATH is a spa option, essentially.

PARADOKE CORNER - #12 “Lucille Ball” Paraprosdokian Tasty Bakers' Dozen

Paraprosdokian, two phrases, the second changing the meaning of the first, usually in a funny or humorous way. The Paradoke Corner Tasty Bakers' Dozen in the Lucille Ball category:

13) A man who correctly guesses a woman's age may be smart, but he's not very bright.

12) It wasn't love at first sight. It took a full five minutes.

11) I don't do T & A very well because I haven't got much of either.

10) Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.

9) Buster Keaton taught me most of what I know about timing, how to fall, how to handle props and upstage animals.

8) Once in his life, every man is entitled to fall madly in love with a gorgeous redhead.

7) I earned my stripes as a hoofer. I've become a 'star dancer.' All I have to do is make sure my arms go up when the backup dancers' do.

6) "Some of the most gifted people I've ever met are homosexual. How can you knock that?"

But, technically, that statement is not paraprosdokian. So #6 gets a do-over:

6) I think knowing what you cannot do is more important than knowing what you can do. In fact, that's good taste.

Ah, that's where I went wrong!

5) The secret of staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly, and lie about your age.

4) I'm not funny. What I am is brave.

3) You see much more of your children once they leave home.

2) My God, I'm outliving my henna.

And the Paradoke Corner Winner in the “Lucille Ball” Tasty Bakers' Dozen Category:

1) Yes, my hair is 'naturally red.' That's what it says on the bottle.

Next in Paradoke Corner series, Outstanding in the Field! (go)

Compiled from various sources. Paradoke Corner ranking by Phil Comer. In photos, Lucy & Desi, Lucille Ball, Desi Arnaz, Vivian Vance as Ethel Mertz (Getty Images), anonymous models (http://www.365gay.com/).

Unless stated otherwise, photos and links are for information and not the property of the author.

PHIL COMER INTERVIEW by Candice Dyer

Candice Dyer

North Georgia-based journalist and iconic free-lance writer Candice Dyer's work appears in anthologies and periodicals including Georgia Trend, Atlanta Magazine and Garden and Gun. She is author of Street Singers, Soul Shakers and Rebels with a Cause, a history of music in Macon, Georgia. A popular speaker, her exploits can be followed on her blog, "Antics in Candyland".

On a recent visit to Sandtrap, Candice paused on the dove porch to brandish her sharpened quill over mimosas and fuzzy navels, the latter being Phil's. 

Peepers, dove muse

Candice: What's the meaning of life?

Phil: Good Lord! I thought this was gonna be easy.

Don’t be fooled by my reputation. 

Do I get a "do over"?

OK, you are a Southern writer in a long tradition of Southern writers. The wellspring of your creativity -- describe your Muse, please. And I don’t mean his abs.

Yes, my muse comes shirtless, generally posing as one of the Village People. He forces me to pantomime "YMCA" to the doves' amusement. Creativity comes in dreams. My subconscious works overtime. People I meet in the supermarket inspire me. I'll talk to anybody. Reading, but rarely TV. Off-the-cuff exchanges that "click."

Is that where your Sandtrap sketches come from?

Yeah, often. Sandtrap is that fictional place that never existed, but should. It taps into growing up in a rural community within a drive of urbanity. Country folk seem more rooted in common sense. As a teen whatever I needed to know about sex -- animal, vegetable or human -- I counted on country peers, not the clueless urban Einsteins.

Agreed. Country folk are closer to the Earth; basic biology does not make them blush. Forget 'Sex & the City' -- I'm waiting for 'Sex & the Country.' Manolo, meet Carhartt. So, you write about sex?

Did I say that? If so, I was quoting Gertrude Stein. She said, "Literature unconcerned with sex is inconceivable." Something like that. And here's to "show, don't tell."

Why do you write?

Three reasons. To engage the voices inside my head in conversation as opposed to chatter, to connect with the stories of those who've gone before and to give myself the illusion of triumph over life's absurdities.

Phil Comer, Home place, Sandtrap, Jawja

You've certainly honed a unique Southern "voice." What sort of things do you write?

I'm a scientific writer and editor by training. By avocation, I write all manner of stuff, fiction long and short, slice of life essays, novelty poems. Those are where that "voice" kicks in, slightly snarky, ironic. I've finished my first novel Ruby Cheeks, the initial installment of a comic Southern noir saga. Humor and the human condition are integral to my work. I find it hard not to be funny.

GROUP SHARES STORIES FROM THE CEMETERY by Jackie Finch

Rose Hill Rambles teach visitors about history in Georgia

By Jackie Finch, Hoosier Times, The Herald-Times, Bloomington Indiana (Originally published January 20, 2002)

(MACON, Ga.) The physician was convinced the prescription he wrote for a patient was correct. The pharmacist who was asked to fill it was sure the medicine was deadly.

To prove his point, the doctor swallowed the prescribed measure himself. He promptly died.

Dr. Ambrose Baber (1792 – 1846) is buried in Rose Hill Cemetery in Macon, Ga. His grave and bizarre story are shared in a Southern tradition known as a "ramble."

"Rambling is part of the process in the South of having a sense of place," says Phil Comer, a member of the Middle Georgia Historical Society.

"One way you keep in touch with your sense of place," Comer says, "is through storytelling and going to the cemetery and rambling -- retelling the stories of people who have gone before."

On this sunny afternoon, Comer is taking us on a short ramble through Rose Hill Cemetery. Now on the National Register of Historic Places, the 77-acre cemetery is one of the nation's earliest surviving public landscape cemeteries.

STAINS by Jessica Lynne Garrett

This is my first guest post on "All Write By Me." This short piece STAINS was written by my friend Jessica Lynne Garrett. She is an amazing photographer, performer and writer.  I hope you enjoy.   

It happened while I was making Jake grilled cheese sandwiches. He was sitting there on the couch with his feet propped up watching CNN, his blue work shirt stained with diesel fuel and sweat. All I see are those stains, they’re a bitch to get out.

"Hey Babe, damn it was a long day today, I bet I must have worked on ten trucks myself," Jake grumbles.

He goes to work every day and works on transfer trucks for twelve hours. I wash grease and diesel stained clothes, make our bed with blue striped sheets, bake peanut butter cookies, balance the checkbook, and scrub the toilet, among other things. The list goes on and on.

"Angel Eyes, will you make me a grilled cheese sandwich?" he asks as he plops down on the couch to take off his work boots.

HISTORY LIVES AT ROSE HILL by Dan Maley

The Telegraph, Monday, Oct. 26, 2009 

History lives at Rose Hill Cemetery thanks to semiannual tours

By Dan Maley - dmaley@macon.com

(Macon, Ga) There’s a lot more to Rose Hill Cemetery than meets the eye.

Those rough stone blocks in that retaining wall came from the collapsed ruins of one of the towers at Fort Hawkins, the first white settlement in this part of Georgia.

That flagpole towering over a hillside of Confederate graves came from Cochran Field, where Royal Air Force pilots trained during World War II.

That patch of grass may cover the remains of an early Maconite — after all, only one third of the graves in Rose Hill are marked.

With its skyline of monuments, terraced plots and variety of trees, Rose Hill offers a pleasant walk at any time of year. But to really appreciate the history of the place, you’ve got to take a ramble.

In 1977 the late Calder Payne, working with the Middle Georgia Historical Society, began giving twice-yearly cemetery walking tours called Rose Hill Rambles. The tradition continues under the auspices of the seven-year-old Historic Rose Hill Cemetery Foundation, a nonprofit dedicated to preserving the 169-year-old city property.

Sunday, about 200 people turned out for the most recent ramble. The man with the megaphone and the facts was Phil Comer, a writer, historian and toxicologist. Comer has been giving tours of the cemetery since the ’80s.

THE DEVILFISH by Phil Comer

The modern world seldom stills except when the power grid fails. One such occasion was a Christmas Eve night, a blackout during a rare cold snap in Central Florida.

Landon Fuller

Eventually, Landon's voice broke the silence; the lone flickering candle illuminated memories from long ago. Just shy of his one-hundredth birthday, Landon asserted that his earliest memory was harvesting winter wheat in Charleston, South Carolina. The men hauled the wheat by wagon to the mill. It took all day. They packed a lunch.

A small reticent man of sharp wit and keen mind, Landon steepled fingers before his face and leaned into the flame correcting himself: An earlier memory was a trip by steamship and train, summer vacation to the home of his mother's mother in Crystal River, New York. He and Henry, his twin, made friends with two older boys whose father was the Crystal River station master. The twins helped the boys chalk lines on a tennis court. Also that trip, Landon and Henry saw their first moving pictures in a nearby town.

Landon and Henry Fuller were born to Sally Landon Seward Fuller and Paul Hamilton Fuller in Charleston, South Carolina, on August 7, 1902. Landon survived his twin by a number of years.

"No," Landon leaned back, arguing with himself, "harvesting winter wheat had to be the earlier event. The black and white Charlie Barnwells were among the farmers that day."