“Wrong House”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-20)

The last ebb of July.

It was a typical start to the day. Up at 3:30 in the morning, fans going in the windows, Black Lab already craving a slice of plain bread. My joints stiff with arthritic woe. Cliff Richard echoing in my head, wisps of a dream still left from slumber. I made coffee and checked the phone. Then, took a seat at my desk.

It was time to write.

My canine companion seemed restless. He paced by the door while I scrolled through pages on the computer. I paid no attention to his mood. Steam rose hopefully from my cup. I tapped out a few sentences as the caffeine cleared my thoughts.

A dull thud sounded at the front door. Like the knock of an old, gnarled hand against a tree.

I tilted my head. “Wrangler?”

The dog had suddenly gone into hiding. Likely in our front bedroom. I held my breath until the deep thump of wood sounded again. And again.

A curse spilled from my lips. “What the...”

I approached the door, beginning to tremble. Electricity seemed to crackle in the air, dry and rough with energy. My stomach collapsed inward on itself. I could feel a presence waiting outside.

“Who’s there?”

Silence filled my ears. Heavy, foreboding, and thick. Like deep water, out to sea. I felt a tug toward vacant cascades of nothingness. Dank, black, empty depths of negation.

“Who’s there?” I said again.

Finally, impatience made me bold. I grabbed the doorknob and twisted it forcefully. The door crashed open. I stomped my foot for emphasis.

“Do you know what time it is…?”

A hooded figure was standing on my porch. Draped in a long robe of sackcloth stained with fire-pit ash. He gestured with a hanging sleeve.

“YOU! I HAVE COME FOR… YOUUUU!”

I looked around, frightfully. “For me?”

“YOUUUU!” he wheezed.

I breathed hard. “The lot rent isn’t due until tomorrow. I am expecting a check in the mail...”

“YOUUUU!” he repeated. He pointed a withered finger at my face.

My stomach churned. “Look, I made coffee a few minutes ago. Would you like a cup?”

“THERE IS NO MORE TIME FOR YOU!” he spoke in a rasp of rotting leaves. “THE HOURGLASS HAS GONE EMPTYYYY...”

My hands were shaking. “I get it, you don’t like coffee.”

“COME...WITH...MEEEEE!” he commanded. “NOWWW!”

“Look friend, this is my working time,” I explained. “Things quiet down overnight. This is the best part of my day. The moment to ponder and put pen to paper...”

He was growing angry. “I HAVE ALREADY SAID IT! YOU HAVE NO MORE TIME! HEED THE WORDS OF DEATH! I AM THE GUARDIAN OF ETERNITY!”

I sputtered like a child. “Death?”

“DEATHHHHHH!” he roared.

I considered his tattered robe and scythe. Then began to laugh out loud. “Right! Now I get it! This is hilarious. You knew I’d be up working, right?”

He did not reply. But his breath became more rank and vile.

“Look, you shouldn’t have gotten pissed off so easily,” I said, anticipating that my neighbor had donned the dark garment in protest. “You wanted to stay up drinking last night. I get it. It was a perfect night. In the low 60’s and clear. The last day of this month. Right in the middle of summer. But my bones were aching. I needed some rest. That’s it, just needed to rest. I wasn’t trying to be unsociable...”

His piercing eyes peered from the gloom. “YOU WILL REST FOR ETERNITY, WITH ME. COME TO THE GRAVE, MORTAL MAN! COME… WITH… MEEEE!”

I had begun to sweat, despite the cool air.

“My dog needs company,” I stammered. “And the rent must be paid tomorrow. I have to go shopping next week. With a stop at the Giant Eagle pharmacy. I need more time...”

“THE HOURGLASS IS EMPTY!” he shouted. “DID YOU HEAR ME? I AM THE KEEPER OF TIME! YOUR FLICKER OF LIFE HAS ENDED! FOOLISH AND WEAK AND OVERWHELMED BY THE WINDS OF FATE! SNUFFED OUT LIKE A CANDLE FLAME! YOU ARE MINE NOW, THE PREY OF DEATH! STEP FORWARD AND ACCEPT MY EMBRACE!”

My knees felt like rubber bands. “I really think we need to talk about this...”

“NO TALK!” he exploded. “BOB JAFFE, YOU WILL ACCOMPANY ME INTO THE ABYSS! WE LEAVE FOR DUAT AT THIS MOMENT! HEED MY WORDS AND DIE WITH DIGNITY! THIS IS THE COMMAND OF DEATH!”

“Bob Jaffe?” I said with surprise.

He paused with irritation. “YES!”

I fidgeted for a moment. “Bob lives up the street. But he moved to a nursing home last week.”

The cloaked figure slouched with defeat. “YOU ARE NOT CALLED… BOB JAFFE?”

I wiped sweat from my brow. “Nah. Not Bob Jaffe. In Europe, my surname was Iaac.”

He slumped against the door frame.

“DAMMIT! WRONG HOUSE!!”

Smoke filled the air with a char of stale embers. There was a muted flash of orange coals. A howl of defeat reverberated from my porch.

Then, he was gone.

My Black Lab trudged in from the bedroom. He rubbed against my leg, looking half awake. Bread crumbs lingered in his whiskers.

I needed to catch my breath. The morning had passed too quickly. It was now after 5:30 and my coffee had burnt black on the countertop. A breeze toyed with the curtains. The computer had switched off from neglect. Sounds of a Phil Hendrie netcast whispered from the back room.

I stared at the empty doorway, still tasting ash in my throat. A mood of release had taken hold. I was spared by chance. Given another day. Another spin of the prize wheel. An extra sunrise. Most of all, another opportunity to write.

It was time to make more coffee.

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Cleveland King, Part Two”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-20)

Note to Readers: In the first part of this series, I described how my forgotten Facebook group for Mike Trivisonno suddenly took on a new life in the COVID-19 age. The radio saga continues here as this weed-in-the-concrete-cracks blossoms into a hardy organism of its own:

As said many times during my wordsmithing adventure, the best columns often seem to write themselves. From real events can come true inspiration. Direct, plainspoken, and wonderfully authentic.

An example of this personal maxim appeared when my online group for Cleveland radio personality Mike Trivisonno exploded with new members. Something that happened by circumstance, after a long period of dormant irrelevance.

I had followed ‘Triv’ since days at WNCX, where his analysis of boxing and other sports added a bit of spice to their morning broadcasts. He was known to be an outsider of sorts, having no formal background in radio. But frequent calls to media legend Pete Franklin had made him known to listeners. That got him in the door, as a spokesman for the common citizen.

In modern terms, Trivisonno had grown in stature and infamy. His presence at WTAM helped make the station a formidable player in the Cleveland market. Because of their signal strength, he was soon able to boast of reaching “Thirty-eight states, and half of Canada.” He changed co-hosts and the crew over time, and tried various tweaks to the basic formula. When news events were thin, he channeled Art Bell and talked about contrails in the azure blue. His ashtray voice and off-the-cuff presentation remained strong. He always sounded like a guy at the end of your favorite bar. Loud, opinionated, sometimes teetering on the edge of wanton credulity, but undeniably part of the scene.

A loyal voice for the neighborhood.

In modern terms, I had lost touch with the show. But disability and early retirement meant that I had more free time to revive our connection. So when the lost Facebook group began to thrive in fertile soil provided by political discontent and the Coronavirus, my radio tuned back to Triv. I quickly realized that he had become enamored of Donald J. Trump. Something I did not share. It seemed a bit surprising after his seminal period as a working-class laborer. A fellow far from the privileged few in the financial district of New York.

Yet this tilt toward the Cheeto-in-Chief began to make more sense when talking to an old friend and neighbor. Someone who had been a butcher for one of the successful supermarket chains based by Lake Erie. I saw him while walking my Black Lab in a field between our homes. After a brief greeting, my friend gushed praise for president. When I mentioned the disarray and bumbling of his administration, there was a look of disbelief in return. Then a familiar refrain. “Fake news!” He praised many accomplishments that were ignored by mainstream media outlets. Few of which could be quantified with literal facts. But his passion did not wane while speaking about MAGA glory. “Trump in 2020!” he cheered. “Melania in 2024! Don Jr. in 2032!”

After our encounter, I pondered that Trivisonno, once again, had tapped into this energy of everyday people. Those less interested in hard, scientific analysis, and more focused on the grit and grime of American life. Though divided by social strata, Triv and Trump were both comets in the cosmos. Flying on personal inertia. Defying the odds, and galactic boundaries imagined by celestial mapmakers. Their very existence exploded every accepted norm of being.

My role as administrator of the Facebook crossroads caused some personal guilt. I was a political agnostic, with no devotion to the dominant paradigm of elephant versus donkey. But after considering options to delete the group, or pass authority to someone else, I decided to continue. My fan affinity for Triv had not waned. Curiosity made me want to observe and record the reactions of his listeners. Perhaps with a sense that at some future date, he might look back with fond amusement.

I suspected that he was more of an entertainer than a pundit fueled by commentary and opinion. He had learned the craft of radio broadcasting through hands-on experience. Whether crudely dissecting the incompetence of Cleveland Browns football, crime, or Cleveland politics, he spoke as an everyman.

Always to his listeners, directly.

Membership in the group had originally been around a dozen. But with the passing of a decade and beyond, suddenly there were more. Many more. When the roster reached 500, I was breathless. But at 750, I felt amazed. At 1000, I became overwhelmed with disbelief. Each week, a steady march of followers arrived for approval. 1100, then 1200... all looking to join La Famiglia Trivisonno.

More, more, more.

Predictably, they were white, older, and conservative. Seemingly, consumers of various Fox News broadcasts and Rush Limbaugh or Glenn Beck as alternatives on the radio. The sort of folk not given to embracing ‘Black Lives Matter’ or the statue-toppling wave of ‘Cancel Culture’ activity.

Some reacted favorably to posts about vintage Cleveland sports icons, or brewing history. There was palpable disdain for Mayor Frank Jackson. Loyalty to Chief Wahoo as a baseball logo. Indifference to LeBron James, despite the 2016 Cavaliers NBA Championship. I tried to include posts which aligned with Trivisonno’s show topics, or ideas that seemed likely for the future.

COVID-19 remained a central theme on-the-air, and in the listener posts. There was outrage for mask orders and the general idea of government directives affecting everyday habits. Yet by contrast, support for federal intervention to combat protesters in the nation’s cities. This confused logic may have been anathema to political scientists. Like those celebrated by the New York Times, and CNN. But to Triv, it was bread and butter made for the masses. A meal to be consumed with gratitude. Like manna from Heaven.

Echoing his hero with the spray-tan and wave of bleached hair, Trivisonno was in the hunt for ratings. Real-world success, not laudation from scholars and students.

With a national election drawing nearer and the global pandemic continuing, I reckoned that there would be plenty of material for future shows. The only question was about what might come afterward. When the confetti had settled. On a second term for Trump, or a new age of Biden and his Democratic cohorts. What then for a local hero?

If nothing else, there would always be the contrails.

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Dick Stewart Book

A new book by my fellow wordsmith and compadre Dick Stewart. I reviewed his 'Eleven Unsung Heroes of Early Rock & Roll' in a past column.

Get the book today: http://www.lancerecords.com/unsungpioneers.html

https://chardonthoughtsatlarge.blogspot.com/search?q=dick+stewart

“Dr. Talk, Roku Roundup”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-20)

Long after dark.

For this writer, the appeal of hours spent awake after sunset has often been a subject worthy of analysis in print. Since childhood, this habit of a ‘night owl’ has been both familiar and conducive to inspiring creative projects. A recent example appeared as I sat in my living room on a weekend morning. The clock was approaching 4:00 a.m. and I had finished two cups of coffee.

After watching an episode of ‘1PugLife’ from Canada, and playing a Phil Hendrie netcast on my iPhone, a lull of energy had me slumping in my chair. But as I scrolled through clips on YouTube, via my Roku streaming device, a familiar face appeared like a beacon shining through the darkness of fatigue and emptiness.

Jerry Springer.

The post was of his 1995 recording, ‘Dr. Talk.’ I remembered buying the album at some point. An act that was predictable for a record collector with a tilt toward such bits of disposable pop-culture.

With a click of the remote, I slipped backward in time to that moment of lyrical abandon:

“You… say.. things...

Aren’t going well

You’re halfway to hell

You’ve lost everything that counts

Gone is your spouse

And maybe the house

All you haven’t lost are pounds

The kids are bawling

Creditors calling

When did life become this curse?

The car won’t run

Your days seem done

Could things ever get any worse?

But then there’s Oprah, Phil, and Sally

And Jerry Springer too

A little dose of a talk show host

You won’t seem quite as blue

‘Cause if that’s the world or part of it

Where madams are sometimes sirs

You’ll quit complaining, things could be worse

Those calamities could be yours.”

The descent of Springer from a legitimate thinker, political aide, mayor, television commentator, and interviewer – to the garbage heap of ‘Trash TV’ has been documented by many. But this artifact from the studio floor, a disc suited to be on the shelf next to ‘Morton Downey Jr. Sings’ provided an extra wrinkle to his legacy.

Versions of ‘Hey Mr. Tambourine Man’ and ‘Talk Back Trembling Lips’ stretched the limits of audio credulity. But the title track was something more insightful. An anthem. Crafted perfectly to repeat on his show at dramatic moments when guests tipped the scales toward personal collapse and a complete surrender of inhibitions:

“I… mean… that...

Stuff on there will raise your hair

You’ll do a double take

Like a pretty John with high heels on

Out looking for a date

Or that big, bald-headed woman

With a tattoo on her face

Who swears she was abducted by a man from outer space

Now I know your lover left you

With who you thought was your best friend

And the dog you taught to fetch a ball

Just bit you in your rear end

But remember that guy on Springer

Who cried and fought and swore

That last week he talked to Elvis

At a Memphis Walmart store

Well the dog bite…

It’ll heal

And the hurting

It’s just a cut

And the lover who left you

Well it’s best that he did

He’ll probably wind up on his butt

So give thanks for life

Even when it’s not the best

You see, there’s always worse…

You could be a talk show guest!”

A third cup of coffee helped focus my thoughts on the memory of ‘Dr. Talk.’ I recalled that Springer performed a version of the song in his movie ‘Ringmaster’ from 1998. Dressed in cowpoke duds and looking much like the sort of surreal figure that might have appeared on one of his shows:

“But then there’s Oprah, Phil, and Sally

And Jerry Springer too

A little dose of a talk show host

You won’t seem quite as blue

‘Cause if that’s the world or part of it

Where madams are sometimes sirs

You’ll quit complaining, things could be worse

Those calamities could be yours.”

Also included on YouTube was a video of Springer performing the song in a club. Likely a promotional offering to tout the song when it was released. I hadn’t seen it before.

In yonder days, my affection for episodes of Jerry Springer’s program had caused some marital difficulty in the household. My wife shuddered each time his opening theme was played on-air. When I bought a figure of the TV host through ebay, she forbade me from displaying it in our living room. Jerry’s likeness was banished to my home office. Particularly after working long hours, I liked to relax on our couch and play old VHS tapes of his most notable altercations. I would enjoy a cold brew and cheer for each fight like a boxing match.

My favorite collection was a volume of ‘Jerry Springer Too Hot For TV.’ She hated the tape passionately.

Eventually, my marriage dissolved and the Springer tape disappeared. I had corresponded with him, via postal mail, and he sent a glossy photo as a keepsake. But that also vanished in the mess of my personal archives. I remembered suggesting that he make a tour of trailer-park communities, across America. And that he embark on a tour of France, something I reckoned would spotlight the contrast between our cultures. Theirs, as a nation of great history and art. Ours, as a land of tin and plastic, dispensed for quick commercial gain.

My random encounter on the Roku brought everything back into focus. Once again, ‘Dr. Talk’ had spoken.

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Four O’ Clock”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-20)

Too early in the morning.

No matter how I have tried to regain a regular pattern of sleep in retirement, my efforts have failed. Each night has remained unpredictable. Up at midnight? Up at one, two, three, or four o’clock? Of course. Anything works when you yourself do not… ho, ho, ho. Look out below! The spin of a coin could decide my fate just as easily. Heads or tales? None of this matters. Name your poison.

Without a set schedule, I have been free to write at any hour. Free to express any thought in virtual ink. My only difficulty has been in choosing a beverage of choice to accompany these unpredictable sessions. Beer or coffee? Sometimes, just filtered water. Again, it does not matter.

Spin the Wheel of Fortune.

So, let us begin:

America

So full of right and wrong

The riffs of a Bo Diddley song

Magnatone turned to ten

I’ll go there again

Come with me, friend

Keep me hoping

Keep me praying

Keep me upright, all night, out-of-sight

This ain’t no Golden Globes

No pins in my ear lobes

Don’t you know

No congressional probes

No pep rally in white robes

There’s a riot going on

Just before the dawn

Timbers of the temple start to crumble

It keeps me humble

Never fear

The end is near

But I am here

With a Silvertone hi-fi

Vinyl records from the five-and-dime

Alvin Cash & The Crawlers

Doing ‘Twine Time’

Step and sweat

We won’t forget

Heels kick and voices shout

We’re stepping out!

Bumbling, stumbling

Showing off for the talent scout

Taking a dose of H. S. T.

Shotgun golf

Fear and loathing on the campaign trail

Or in Las Vegas

Got a tiger by the tail

Greetings to Gonzo

It used to be this way

But look now, it’s yesterday

Fools argue over the ‘Lost Cause’

Of Jefferson Davis and General Lee

Like we are still living in 1863

How can kids raised on ‘The Boss’

End up falling for that hooked cross

Waving battle flags

Behind their sandbags

Big-tired trucks

Aw shucks!

Confederate Chevrolets

Bring us back to yesterday

Three-quarter ton

There’s a cross burning to be done

A war un-won

But never surrendered

Never tendered

Never given up

Take this bitter cup

If you please

In the year of 2020

Kids still disagree

Over slavery

It seems to me

We should have outgrown the habit

That mixed up, rascally rabbit

‘What’s up, Doc?’

Preaching pundits trying hard

To turn back the clock

Falwell risen from the grave

We’ve got a nation to save

Mother Mary and the Holy Ghost

Outside agitators

From that state on the coast

Leaders boast

About defending the core

Hear the raven

Squawking ‘Nevermore!’

But you’ll not read that tale

In anything on sale

At a newsstand run by the man

Whitewash, oh my gosh

Put it on thick

Make that color stick

Heavy, heavy

In this land of the free

Warring factions, split

On the question of democracy

Vandals vie for attention

Politicians lie too often to mention

How’d we get here?

How’d we careen into this year?

Deep in the ditch

2020 is a son-of-a-bitch!

Better stock up on snacks

And garage your SUV Cadillacs

There’s judgment at the door

Again the raven: ‘Nevermore!’

Quipping, quipping

The stock market is slipping

My ass I am gripping

To keep it out of the fire

Corona cases again on the rise

God help us, before we die

I’ll learn to fly

Into the azure sky

Over the frosted mountain crest

I passed the test

Fumbling my pencil

As exam time expires

That truck with the big tires

Is out of gas on the overpass

Steam from under the hood

That rebel decal in the window

Does it no good

It’s understood

By even the marionettes

With heads full of wormwood

This century of horror born

Made me sit up in bed

Early in the morn

Let me warn

Women and children off this ship of state

We’re taking on water

Waves of political fodder

Sinking fast

This trip to the past

Has been a blast

MAGA hats and brickbats

Pale rider on the horizon

It’s all been done

Cowboy hero points his gun

Arms akimbo

A nation in limbo

Looks death in the eye

And shouts

‘I see you!’

My tale is true

I still have the discipline of a newspaper editor. Deadlines are set in stone. A regular routine has to be maintained to stay employed. So finishing written work means I get beer and a nap.

Until it begins all over again. Tomorrow morning, four o’ clock.

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Three O’ Clock”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-20)

Up early, again.

My Black Lab is close behind as I exit the bed. Watching, crouching, in the shadows of our living room. The morning ritual is set. I always rise too early. This time, long before daybreak. Three o’clock in the morning. Eyes still heavy with sand. My belly full of regrets. Too many rations of Miller Lite, and a ham & cheese triple-decker, too long after dark. Late, late, late.

Nothing new to see here, friends.

I prepare a pot of coffee in the Bunn. Canine friend already eager for his walk. But there are words in my head, just as ready to be loosed into the morning:

“Two old white men, we’re at it again...”

After taking my pooch for his stroll, I have toast and coffee with an episode of the Canadian YouTube series ‘1 Pug Life.’ Followed by a netcast of Phil Hendrie on my phone. Then, the rowdy rage in my head has fully fermented. I can wait no longer.

What I hear from the muse, I must type into print:

Two old white men

We’re at it again

A chance, a choice

The contest of ages

Leader of the free world

Give the prize wheel a whirl

‘America the Beautiful’

Busted

Broken

Beaten

Bent

Borrowed into poverty

‘My Country ‘Tis of Thee’

I sing the sweet melody

A familiar refrain

We’re at it again

Dancing in the street

Cops on the beat

Enemies to defeat

Lucrative lies, evil to despise

The last gasp of Brazilian Boys

Making noise

Running rough over the ramparts

Flagpole stab

To the heart

I’m on my radio

In the dark

‘Mayday! Mayday!’

An unlocked door

Open to a clown-parade of whores

Talking heads

Burning beds

Bristled brushes

Turn to bog rushes

There’s a pundit on the air

Selling snake puree and voodoo hair

The populace to infect

Disease-filled specks

Curse those he protects

Light projects

Leni Riefenstahl

On the jailhouse wall

With a face of modern man

Dripping irony and spray-tan

Caution be damned

A quirky coif

A persistent cough

A name spelled in gold leaf

With the opposition in retreat

‘Let us eat!”

The victor’s feast

Fed on fowl and feathers, all

At the banquet hall

Victuals from vanity

An interview with Sean Hannity

Delighters for the up-all-nighters

Posed and primed

Killing time

Cranky comestibles

Keep the crowd full

BREAKING NEWS

There’s a threat to the nation!

Valor and honor

Inspire the donor

To give hands and hearts

Like piles of cash for body parts

Bleeding hearts

And competition darts

Common voices heard

Deep in the dirt

‘Don’t be deterred!’

You’ll find true worth

A choice between

Foolish and obscene

Tricks for treats

Still dancing in the streets

Reports from the autonomous zone

Recorded on a cellphone

It’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)

Pigeons feeding

Fame comes, fleeting

We’ve taken a beating

Fame and fortune set

We won’t soon forget

The hope of a new-age King Cyrus

Derailed by Coronavirus

Run into the rocks

Wearing sandals and white socks

Run, like a dog

‘Run, run, run, run

Take a drag or two’

Mud on my shoes

Which fate shall I choose?

BREAKING NEWS

Bormann on the run

From South America

To the cable cabal of a beer hall

The banter of old men at a club

Tears of a cherub

Pints at the pub

A crowd of kids at the door

Never been here before

But there’s a pair in the way

Telling stories from yesterday

Polyester slacks

At Goldman Sachs

‘Wear your mask!’

Protesters attack

My Country ‘Tis of Thee

The states disagree

With none to lead

In this Land of the Free

‘Mercy, Mercy Me!’

Fish full of mercury

Legislators with diamond spurs

Ride in like the cavalry

BREAKING NEWS

Melania in stiletto shoes

A model’s pose

A thorny rose

In pantyhose

Sent ‘round the globe

Like the crack of a baseball bat

Dipped in piss and scat

‘Riddle me that!’

The idol of a southern war

Nevermore

‘What are we fighting for?’

The thunder of Thor

A cloned clip of Christian Dior

A trip to the mega-store

Walmart is the chapel

Where Eve bites the apple

Where saints use cyber-pay

To win the day

So let us pray

At last, I slump in my chair with satisfaction. This morning exercise is over. Now I can rejoin the everyday stream-of-consciousness. Until the muse visits, again.

Comments about ‘Words o the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024