"Intentionally Offending Someone" (What does that mean?)

I often come across titles whose subject matter often remains a mystery to me.
That happened with “Married To The Mob”
That title drove me crazy.
What the fuck was I thinking about!
So here we are again.
With one of those gems –
For an endless source of amusement.
INTENTIONALLY OFFENDING SOMEONE
How do you intentionally offend someone?
Are you civilized about it?
Um.
Pardon?
You have a snot hanging from your nose. (Just wanted to let you know.)

What do you do?
You tell me the truth.

“Intentionally Offending Someone” (What does that mean?)

I often come across titles whose subject matter often remains a mystery to me.

That happened with “Married To The Mob”
That title drove me crazy.

What the fuck was I thinking about!

So here we are again.
With one of those gems –
For an endless source of amusement.

INTENTIONALLY OFFENDING SOMEONE

How do you intentionally offend someone?

Are you civilized about it?

Um.
Pardon?
You have a snot hanging from your nose. (Just wanted to let you know.)

What do you do?

You tell me the truth.

"Intentionally Offending Someone" (What does that mean?)

I often come across titles whose subject matter often remains a mystery to me.
That happened with “Married To The Mob”
That title drove me crazy.
What the fuck was I thinking about!
So here we are again.
With one of those gems –
For an endless source of amusement.
INTENTIONALLY OFFENDING SOMEONE
How do you intentionally offend someone?
Are you civilized about it?
Um.
Pardon?
You have a snot hanging from your nose. (Just wanted to let you know.)

What do you do?
You tell me the truth.

“Intentionally Offending Someone” (What does that mean?)

I often come across titles whose subject matter often remains a mystery to me.

That happened with “Married To The Mob”
That title drove me crazy.

What the fuck was I thinking about!

So here we are again.
With one of those gems –
For an endless source of amusement.

INTENTIONALLY OFFENDING SOMEONE

How do you intentionally offend someone?

Are you civilized about it?

Um.
Pardon?
You have a snot hanging from your nose. (Just wanted to let you know.)

What do you do?

You tell me the truth.

The Many Moods Of A Room, Or, The Artist’s Den Revisited, Or, A Work In Progress, First Movement

the artists den, art, photography, imagination, poetry, music, composition, research, creativity, Bipolar II, Affective Disorders

Those of you who saw The Artist’s Den, well, you’re in for a treat. Finally! I get to have some fun!

I’ve just begun playing again!
It’s dreadful when you can’t play.
The world can be a terrible place for you.

And when the Imagination demands that it constantly be nourished, then the world is a really dreaded place to be in. It revolts against the Laws of Nature. Filled with artificial structures, as if they can contain us. And yet they do. They do that quite well. But we be keep rebelling, yelling at the faces of its Leaders, never shutting up. Never willing to back-down. Never willing to stop shouting at Stupidity, Hypocrisy, Liars and Thieves, while wondering what a good man may look like. Could we select a sample? From the pool?

But the time has come for me to be where I was always meant to be. Withouts restraints. Totally free. And enjoy this brief journey of ours.

And it’s not like I haven’t tried to check out. Did it three times! Two were major failures. The third – Well they never figured out why I stuck around. But obviously I was boisterous and highly entertaining, of which I have no recollection. I was invited to come back and visit those who had cared for me. The doctor who cared for me was someone I never met but only talked to on the phone. I was as puzzled as he was, and I asked him to explain what happened. What went wrong? Why was I still around! He approached me as he would a five- year old who is being read a bedtime story. Well, he said. Your brain cells went to sleep. They did? Damn, I didn’t know they can do that. That’s awesome! I can’t remember who told me how I behaved there was – the Nurse who invited me to come back and visit? Probably. She had been highly amused apparently. I think I was yelling obscenities a lot. And I have no idea at whom. I was told my father turned red and left because of what I had said. Sorry But I missed it. Wish I could’ve been there.

When I finally came to, they had tied my wrists with cotton ribbons to the bed. I had been moved to a room and had a security guard outside, standing at my door who was a Dyke. I was extremely gentle upon my return to Earth. I stirred and mumbled about my state of Confusion. Where the fuck am I? Why is the room spinning like a Kaleidoscope? Damn. I just saw an equation fly by!

She just looked at me strangely and said:

“I’ve never come across anyone like you.” And her eyes were held in a state where she gazed at the world as a work of perpetual wonder.

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Annie Oakley Unmounted

Saturday mornings were always special for me when I was a kid.  I would wake up at the crack of dawn, throw a piece of salami between two slices of white bread, pull out a glass of Coca Cola, and slice myself a piece of chocolate fudge cake, and prop myself in front of the television set (this was the late 50s, mind you) and indulge my fancy for early morning programs starting at 7 am.  And even though all was depicted in black and white then, for me it was full of color.

The original Flash Gordon whetted my appetite for science fiction.  Flash Gordon, the central character of these episodes struggled over the principles of good and evil, supported by well-balanced cast, Ming and his raven-haired daughter  (why were the evil characters always depicted with dark hair, while the virtuous women especially always had blond hair?) and Flash’s love interest (can’t remember her name now) dueled during the early superhero days of science fiction television.

The rest of the line-up focused on Western-themed programs — the masked superheroes, Zorro, and the Lone Ranger, with his raspy voice, topped by my early influence of positive female role-models, the incorrigible Ms. Annie Oakley.  I was sensible enough at this early age to realize I could not manufacture the realities exposed through science fiction, but smart enough to recognize that Annie Oakley did indeed have modeling potential for a scruffy, bobbed-haired, 6 year old, a tomboy in every sense, who went on her own adventures on the South side of Chicago, Hyde Park, blocks away from the imposing University of Chicago, under whose shadow I seemed to thrive.

So much so, that I had convinced my mother, while still in second grade, to purchase a complete outfit of western gear to indulge my early morning fantasies.  And even though so many years have passed, I still clearly remember our trek to the store on Van Buren Street, in downtown Chicago, where I was outfitted with a cerulean blue cowgirl shirt, a black skirt bordered with white fringe around the hem, some mean looking cowboy boots, black cowgirl hat, and a belted holster for my guns.  Upon our return home, I mounted my steed, supported by some heavy duty springs, and rode up and down the dining room floor, hollering things like, Hi, ho Silver!, while watching the Saturday morning round-up that dominated my fantasy life.  And though I borrowed lines from other programs, I knew deep inside that it was Annie Oakley who was my spiritual soul mate, even though she was blond and I was a brunette.

The appeal of Annie Oakley for me was immeasurable.  I imagined myself doing what she did, even though my horse was pretty much stationary, and manufactured of plastic.  But the thing was, my horse captured a steed in motion, all four legs in the stance of a gallop, and so I knew wherever Annie traveled, I could go as well.  This was a satisfying emotion, and allowed me to escape whatever friction was otherwise present in my actual environment.

The odd thing though is that as I grew older, I developed a firm distaste for Western movies and programs, to the degree that now, whenever I look at the cable programing guide and see something like Appaloosa-something mounted on the screen, I instinctively dredge up a feeling of repulsion, which I cannot explain and quickly run in the other direction.

But Annie Oakley will forever remain a sweet memory for me.