Saturday, February 27, 2021

Cruel to be Cruel

"I must be cruel only to be kind.
Thus bad begins and worse remains behind." - William Shakespeare


Duly impressed by the Shakespeare open, friends?  Yes, I have the wise words of the Bard, always at my fingertips (as long as those fingertips are atop a keyboard and facilitating Google Search.) Well, If you were indeed impressed, please remember that feeling, as I’m pretty confident that’s the last time you will be.  For those not proficient in the prose and poetry of that author from Avon, that particular quote is from Hamlet, the Melancholy Dane, and heed this cordial caution, this amiable admonishment, this well-intended warning  (okay, class, thesaurus’s closed now), that is merely the beginning of the melancholia to come. For what follows is the sorrowful saga, the mournful memoir, the pitiful parable (hey, what did I just say about thesaurus’s?) of a lengthy, deep, important and meaningful friendship gone grievously awry.  And, sadly, for the pained party (yours truly, of course) the wish to conclude and sour the decades of closeness, conviviality and concern, was utterly and strictly one-sided, while being blind-sided.

Many renowned, respected and entirely fictional literary critics have favorably compared my poetry to the verse of Frost, Blake and Thomas – not Robert, William and Dylan, but David, Robert and Marlo (sorry to make you work so hard for that reach of a joke.)  So, while the simplistic, repetitive poem ahead of us, admittedly, may lack in sophistication, subtlety, maturity and quality (feel free to stop this self-deprecation, anytime) it is definitely heartfelt – broken heartfelt.  Besides, I’m not so sure I categorize it as poetry, so much as, bitterness and acrimony in rhyme.



"I don’t care about you anymore”

I was told

“I don’t care about you anymore”

Hurt extolled

You have found someone who

Can manipulate you

Not to care about me anymore.


“I don’t wish to again see your face

I’ll erase every moment, each place

All the times that we shared

Plus the love we declared

And not care about you anymore.”


“I don’t care about you anymore”


“I don’t care about you anymore”                                                                                         

Regret free

“Our long history is naught

My affection’s been bought

I don’t care about you anymore.”


Though you said you’re forever my friend

That’s the lie that has led to this end

When I try to keep touch

You feel I ask too much

And won’t care about me anymore


“I don’t care about you anymore”

Has sunk in

“I don’t care about you anymore”

Such a sin

With a callous adieu

That is not at all true

I’ll pretend I don’t care anymore.

Gosh, that was fun, wasn’t it - nooses and cyanide at the ready? Thanks for participating with me in this public therapy session. Now, as I consider all blog posts to be multimedia extravaganzas, with each element contributing to a single theme, we will wrap up with some classic rock, from that sly, wry and sardonic observer and commenter on life, people and peccadillos, Nick Lowe with “Cruel to be Kind.” 

"Oh, I can't take another heartache
Though you say you're my friend
I'm at my wits' end
You say your love is bonafide
But that don't coincide
With the things that you do
And when I ask you to be nice, you say

You've gotta be cruel to be kind in the right measure
Cruel to be kind, it's a very good sign
Cruel to be kind means that I love you, baby
You've gotta be cruel to be kind" - Nick Lowe

Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions, cash contributions?  Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com

Friday, November 27, 2020

I Was a 30 Year Placeholder

Or for you 50’s sci-fi movies fans, your choice –
 I Was a 30 Year Placeholder from Outer Space
 or the even more nonsensical 
I Was a Teenage 30 Year Placeholder

“So I'll just live and love you one day at a time 
And until something better comes along, your mine” – Billie Jo Spears

Preface/Foreword (I couldn’t decide) – Sometimes something is so real, so deep, so genuine, so precious, and even so perfect in its own unique way, that you believe it will last forever. Then, suddenly, with no signs, no signals, no forewarning, it ends. I thought I truly have learned much in my long 61 years and had gained substantial wisdom. What I have now learned is, I know nothing – none of us do. But, I can share this latest hard-earned lesson - you can count on nothing. Not to state the ludicrously obvious, but life is hard, and far too often, others will, whether purposely or unintentionally, make it that much harder for you. Count on nothing and no one. Am I bitter? Like an over-ripe grapefruit half, generously seasoned with rancid cilantro. 

Heed this warning, or not, perhaps a person posed to put such pessimistic prose to paper should not be your prime pundit but still, I will proceed - everything in your life, your present and immediate plans, your past and what you believed it meant, and your future and how you envisioned it unfolding, can all dramatically and sadly forever change in the blink of an eye with one unanticipated, unforeseen and tremendously unwelcome text (okay, maybe numerous blinks of the eye as it was a lengthy text, it does take a bit of detail to so thoroughly stomp on one’s heart.) 

The intense revelation, at hand - I was a 30 year placeholder (but, surely, you have already surmised that by the title) - decent company, an easily opened wallet, a doer of favors, a lender of currency, a supporter through trying times, a sharer of common interests and activities, but inevitably, and basically, a glorified seat filler, always on the precipice of replacement when something better, newer and shinier appeared. And there were temporary times in those 3 decades when a fresh face, an assumed improvement, a step-up did materialize, and I took my rightful place on the backburner, but none lasted, and once again, my companionship, a kind of tolerated, wanted, but never fully respected substitute teacher in the bio lab of life was again desired and called upon. However, that long sought for permanent replacement has now been found - somehow in the midst of isolation and pandemic - and so walking papers have been served. No more activities, no more theatre or dinner, no more travel, no more valuable camaraderie – rarely to be thought of, considered or remembered again. Where am I left? I ache with the loss. The newcomer steps in, enjoys everything I had the pleasure of, for most of my adult life, plus so much more; and she feels fulfilled, better than ever, happier than ever, while I face a void with naught but emptiness as far as the eye and soul can see. 

And, as the natural-born loser I so proudly am, naturally, I helped, actually abetting my own injury – participating in a day into night into day again, sans slumber, packing her up for her move which initially took her physically and geographically from me, and finally, as was inevitable, and a fulfillment of my prediction, away from me in heart and mind. When she went from living some short city blocks away to 1100 miles, I prognosticated that she would easily replace me, a concept poo-pooed on numerous occasions, yet a reality that occurred even faster than my instinctive pessimism on this particular subject imagined. Thirty days with the interloper, magically made our thirty years simply, cleanly and easily vanish - first from view, than from concrete actuality. A feat of prestidigitation that would make the combined might of Houdini, the Amazing Randi and the generously coiffed, David Copperfield green with envy. And any remaining communication between the two of us is now to be done so on the sly, as my very being, the simple fact that I merely exist, has been deemed offensive to the new permanent partner, and so delicate are his sensibilities and insecurities that it has apparently become part of my responsibilities in life that a primary concern of mine be that his gentle feathers remain unruffled at all times. I am too be as invisible as the wind, as quiet as Clara Bow. 

So, you may justifiably ask, what in Great Caesar’s Ghost (thanks, Perry White for the colorful turn of phrase) is wrong with you? Why do this for so long? And the response to that nosy query would simply be this - it was easily the greatest, closest, most treasured and dearest friendship and relationship in my life. I’ve gained from it, immeasurably. She changed me forever and for the better. Otherwise this wouldn’t be so traumatic. And if we were to never speak or see each other again, as much as that would hurt me, I would still remain grateful for the time and events we shared, no one can ever take that away. And if those feelings are hard to comprehend, that’s fine – we do (or at least did) and I will always love her and care for her. 

So, is there a moral to conclude this sad, self-serving and woeful tale of misery? Perhaps, it is this - nothing is forever, well, except for maybe Styrofoam in landfills. 

 As a born and bred New York City boy, I have no innate predilection, affection or particular knowledge of the Country and Western genre. But, when a tune fits the bill, attention must be paid. So, this go-round, we will end with the late Billie Jo Spears and her popular ditty, “Till Something Better Comes Along.” 

“If I have a chance my life to rearrange 
I couldn't change the things I'd really like to change
By going back the only thing I came this time
Because Till Something Better Comes Along your mine” 

Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions, cash contributions?  Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com

Wednesday, August 26, 2020

It’s Not Unusual? (Confessions of a Weird Guy)

“It's not unusual it happens every day
No matter what you say
You find it happens all the time”

I’m a weird guy. Wait, let me be a tad more charitable to myself, I’m an unusual person.  I think I’ve pretty much always been aware of this, potentially sad, fact and been basically okay with it. This realization reoccurred to me last evening, as I scrolled though the many and myriad videos I’ve contributed to a Facebook karaoke page, and then pondered to myself - who does this, and what would my late father think of this eccentric public display that I so willingly, gleefully and regularly participate in, and somewhat actually seem to need? Is this but a woeful and piteous desperate cry for attention – and if so, why?

And I’m not even a singer, nor a performer of any kind.  I couldn’t spin a plate, ventriloquize or juggle bowling pins, if forced to at the point of a derringer. Needless to say, I also lack any particular innate abilities or talents in the way of the crooner, serenader (Penny or otherwise) or warbler,  yet, the internet is now forever chock a block with my mediocre to bad, but earnest, attempts at song interpretation.

I’m also a heterosexual man, who, due to his cultural interests, sartorial sensibilities and perhaps sensitive nature, apparently ofttimes gets mistaken for someone more interested in those of his own gender – or so I’ve been told.  This error in judgment, based on broad, outdated and ultimately ludicrous stereotypes, neither irritates nor insults me, but certainly doesn’t assist, in any positive manner, with the pursuit of meaningful and fulfilling amore.

However, all this being said, I’m in my 6th decade of existence, don’t know how drastically I can change now, and honestly, how much I wish to.  My aberrancy, heretofore, has never struck me as a handicap. I live where I always wanted to live, Manhattan (top that!) I had a very successful, fruitful, creative career – heck, I worked with Liza Minnelli and shook hands with Muhammad Ali. Tim Allen once wanted my truthful feedback on some new stand-up material he was trying out. I conversed with Sting backstage and interviewed the entire classic company of Toronto’s Second City. I’ve mingled with legends… and Tim Allen. My history of travel could be considered a thing to envy, consisting of years of interesting, glamorous, fascinating and exciting journeys, by land, air and sea, throughout these once United States and in foreign lands across the globe. My family loves me, or fake it fairly convincingly, and I believe I’ve fostered fondness and affection of friends, although geographical and other circumstances frequently find me in the company of but myself and a not particularly empathetic or felicitous feline.

Yet, here I am at 61, having not lived what it is considered the more conventional, and likely, emotionally satisfying life – not a single spouse or solitary scion to be had (although, truth be told, I’m perfectly fine san-scion) and so, when lights are diminished and head rests on pillow, it occurs in isolation. Now, be not mistaken, I have dated, had relationships and cheerfully and with gusto frolicked upon the carousel of carnality (although, one can always use more turns on that merry go round), but have found no permanence, no true, lasting love. And, far too many times, unlike Nat King Cole’s “Nature Boy” have loved, but not been loved in return.  And that (yes, finally a point) is what I now feel is the real and true drawback and curse of being a weird guy (pardon, unusual person) – decent company, knowledgeable, well-educated, handy with a humorous quip, an impressive wardrobe befitting any and all occasions, well-mannered and well-behaved, financially generous when out with others  - and I could continue shamelessly searching for admirable qualities (who else will?), but time and experience have shown, not the type to tumble one head over heels, the sort to inspire fire, not a leading man of Hollywood's heyday.

Well, this has taken a troubling turn, but fear not, patient and indulgent reader, but for one element (albeit a vastly crucial and meaningful one) mine has been a full, interesting, rewarding life, I have been places and done things that many may dream of but never fulfill (now, you’re doubting me - how many Broadway and West End opening nights, regular Paris and London excursions, and ocean voyages are in your high school reunion bios? How many of you have had your work on television and stage? Yeah, that's what I thought! And don’t make me bring up Liza and Ali again!) and should the seemingly ceaseless scourge of covid-19 ever abate, life will once more be pursued, full (or perhaps, demi) bore.

A final thought - where there is life, where there is breath, where there is desire and testosterone enhancing supplements. I guess there is still hope. Pickle ball playing ladies of Valencia Palms Restful Acres and Community, consider yourselves warned!

Should that conclusion not be a cheery enough note for you – Ladies and Gentleman, this is Tom Jones!!

Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions, cash contributions?  Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com

Thursday, May 16, 2019

Notes from a Vacation Abroad - A Country Wallows in an Age of Ignorance

"I deeply want to believe that all human beings are a blend of their best and their worst... I can't find any best in Trump. He is simply evil - a dark, deluded, raging product of a childhood from which he cannot recover nor be redeemed." - Tony Schwartz (Ghost Writer, “Trump: The Art of the Deal”)

"You know, it really doesn`t matter what [the media] write as long as you`ve got a young and beautiful piece of ass." – Donald Trump

I've been afloat and I've been aloft for nearly a fortnight, commencing with a flight to Barcelona (pronounce it "Barthelona" tourista), continuing with a luxurious, outdoor hot tub and sparkling vino-dominated cruise, setting ashore in Rome, Pisa, Mallorca, Genoa and Cannes (my body is now comprised of 55% gelato, 25% croquetas and 20% Cava) returning, once more, por dos dias to the Gaudi-styled, Spanish metropolis, before finally boarding an always delayed Delta airship back to the beautiful spacious skies and amber waves of grain of home - possibly, the least civilized, welcoming and charming destination on this lengthy itinerary. Along this Vasco De Gama-ing, my hearty and steadfast travel companion and I had the enjoyable, good fortune of meeting and conversing ("conversating" to daytime T.V. courtroom show aficionados) with fellow world inhabitants from India, Indonesia, England, France, Spain, the Philippines, Argentina, Brazil, Italy, Poland, and even (gasp!) Mexico, and were reassured of this following obvious fact (and a chemical and biological fact, it is indeedy - so hold onto your Chinese-manufactured, white-supremacist MAGA chapeaus, Trumpsters) WE ARE ALL THE SAME!! No matter your cultural upbringing, choice of worship or language spoken; we all are kind, thoughtful and considerate, and we're all self-centered, selfish, thoughtless and egomaniacal. We are all the best and worst of times, none of which is determined by hue, tongue or happenstance of location of birth.

A Conveyance Enabling as Escape from Insanity
For any who depart the boundaries of the great 48 (with additional props to Alaska and Hawaii), this time and distance removed from the once-esteemed, now Trump-ghetto'd former U.S. of A, can provide a new and fresh perspective about the planet we are precipitously depleting and destroying, the bigoted antipathy spread from identical human to identical human, and the foreboding fear and fury disseminated by the furor of the Orange Furher and his purposely and proudly, hate-filled, zombie-horde of followers, who both support and propel our nation's rapidly ruinous place in the worldwide society of man to which we belong. To translate for those more mono-syllabic Trump/Fox/Info War-types who may have regrettably happened upon this harangue, in other words, we Americans kind of suck - we do - and you who hug the flag and buss the Bible and stake claim to be the most patriotic and most American amongst the 300 million of us, are truly and easily the worst of us. Congrats, at least you've accomplished something.

When one ponders the horrific nature of what we Americans and those onlookers across the globe have come to accept as the everyday and normal in Trumplandia, added to the sorrowful sin that we citizens aren't taking to the streets in daily outrage, nor storming the gates of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Frankenstein-esque pitchforks and torches in hand, demanding the immediate removal of the sociopathic, Mad-King, the greatest enemy our country has ever encountered, by what possible sick and perverted measure can anyone still blast the ever-annoying daily boast, that the United States is the greatest country in the world - largest number of kidnapped and caged babies growing up and dying in American concentration camps - most gun deaths and school shootings - greatest frequency of synagogue burnings – swiftly expanding wealth disparity between the escalating population of poor and the ever-richer affluent – catastrophically expanding number of uninsured people and the resulting bankruptcies and very avoidable deaths, perhaps? If bloviated repetitive brags, and wishing and hoping and planning and scheming made it so, as Dusty Springfield warbled, "you will be his" and my shiny, naked pate would be topped with a sumptuous mane, while I squired my beloved Freema Agyeman from Michelin touted eatery to Michelin touted eatery. But alas, wild-eyed wishes and felonious fabrications do not make it so.

Ah, Freema!

The question must be asked, is Donald J. Trump - thief, liar, tax evader, philanderer, sexual assaulter, child-rapist, con-man, traitor, racist, the very vision of Mephistopheles on Earth, Messiah to the brainwashed and brain-dead, the cause of America's current endless Pandora's Box of evils and woe, or rather the logical and inevitable result of what we are and what we've always been - a nation built on the back of one enslaved race, on land stolen by the genocide of another? Millions have gleefully and passionately embraced his merciless message of hatred, intolerance and xenophobia, while the pols of the Republican party have found in him someone so soulless, so without compassion, decency, humanity or empathy, a viper so voraciously vindictive and vile; the long sought-after vehicle to fulfill all the poisonous and pestilent, hateful and hurtful policies that previously were just unfulfilled and fruitless fantasies - an America about stealing from the poor to give to the rich, about cheating and harming others, about selfishness, anger, bitterness, prejudice and unfettered hatred, an America solely of, by and for the wealthy white male.

America's Legion of Doom
Take a journey, fly over this cuckoo's nest, sail from these shores (you can use an exotic cruise, there's a bar in far Bombay) partake in a restful and needed sojourn, removed from the lunacy and loathing that emanates every week, every day, every minute from Donald Trump and the fellow traitors that enable him, and sadly see, as a temporary outside observer from this safe distance - there are many great countries in the world, it's doubtful that the United States, 2019, is among them.

"Come Fly with Me, let's fly, let's fly,
Pack up, let's fly away"

Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions, cash contributions?  Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com

Saturday, April 13, 2019

Life is Change

"Life is Change
How it differs from the rocks
I've seen their ways too often for my liking
New worlds to gain
My life is to survive
and be alive
for you"







"You are the crown of creation
And you've gone no place to go."

Saturday, October 6, 2018

A Tagalong Isn’t Just a Girl Scout Cookie

Or The Joy of Having Ridiculously Talented Friends

Mais D’abord, Complètement Hors Sujet ...  - But First, Completely Off Topic…
(Some ask, why in French? I choose to ask, why not?)

While ostensibly a political blog, I've taken great care to avoid said sad subject in scribblings of late, as the unpleasant and ugly un-United State of affairs that has overtaken our once great country is a sure recipe for riling up resentment and deepening a depression that would make Sylvia Path and Vincent Van Gogh seem blissful paragons of unrelenting, unremitting and unapologetic joy and heavenly happiness. When an illegal, immoral and illegitimate leader, a Mussolini wannabe, but with less personality, decency and humanity, is empowered by a hostile foreign nation for the primary purpose of destroying history's preeminent democracy; and is blindly followed and worshipped as a modern demi-God by millions of either brain-dead or brainwashed traitors, haters and misled malcontents, even the Family Brady would abandon any notion of ever again experiencing a Sunshine Day;  while the remainder of us merely hope that we will still have a planet in which to awaken each morn. But, again, as hard as it may be to grasp at this juncture, we have not gathered together today to discuss politics, but rather rejoice and regale in far more pleasant pursuits.

They laugh alike, the talk alike, at times they even walk alike -
you can lose your mind.

Sur Le Spectacle, C'est ça - On with the Show, This is It
(Okay, I guess this going to be a thing now.)

You read the writings of a grateful and extremely lucky man,  who has had the beneficial fortune of enjoying exciting and unique show business events and artistic adventures delivered, not through any deserving deeds of his own, but rather by tagging along (I'm often known simply as "her friend'' or "that guy") in the close company and cozy companionship of comrades blessed by nature, genes, or Zeus, Osiris, Buddha, Jehovah, Trump  or whomever their designated deity, with the talents to write, compose, lyricize, act, sing, dance, produce and, if required to, probably spin plates, quick change, ventriloquize, train elephants, breathe fire, sword swallow, change the course of mighty rivers, bend steel in their bare hands; and who, disguised as Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper, fight a never-ending battle for truth, justice and the American way – although I may be mistaken about that last part.

Now, far be it from me to surrender or sabotage my own sense of self or sizeable ego in a cascade of humbleness and humility for I, too, have harvested the creative fields for, lo, some four decades, and have on display the statuettes and plaques awarded for those earnest and oft-times, effortless efforts. But while these television toilings have sometimes lead me to activities of great interest and excitement, (perhaps, sometime, you'll read of a day-long adventure with Liza with a Z, an emotional encounter with Muhammad Ali, or a convivial conversational bon mot resulting in a Carol Burnett chuckle) my own endeavors have not taken me to the arenas and opening nights that I've relished so, simply by befriending the gifted and the generous.

See, awards! I know you doubted me.

Aucun Homme N'est une Ile de Staten – No Man is Staten Island
(Oh, that’s fairly clever.)

When but a lower middle class lad, born and raised in the semi-civilized, proudly backward and dreadfully dull hamlet of Staten Island, New York (we will never speak of these origins again) the idea of attending a black-tie Broadway opening would have seemed as fantastical a fantasy as space exploration, Dr. Doolittle-esque animal communication or a satisfying occurrence of carnal cavorting with legendary rock goddess Grace Slick (but perhaps it's best I leave last evening's dreams out of this), yet that very event (the Broadway opening, not the rock and roll sex) is a biographical highlight. And, in many ways, was just the beginning.

Artistic interpretation of a life lived on Staten Island.
I pen this, thousands of feet aloft in the wild blue yonder (in an aeroplane, not by benefit of my own powers, but I suppose that did not actually require explanation, did it?) returning from London, and the closing of yet another brilliant new musical, for which I had previously attended its triumphant West End opening. And again, I owe all credit for this unique, memorable and wonderful journey, and the friendships made and experiences enjoyed, to the incredible, admirable and X-Men, mutant-like musical and writing abilities (more later) of a treasured, irreplaceable and dear friend. 

Je Suis allé Partout, Homme - I've Been Everywhere, Man
(The link to Google Translate - https://translate.google.com.)

From Elsah, Illinois, to Lancaster, Pennsylvania; from Sarasota, Florida to Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario, it’s been one glitzy, glamorous, international capital and hotspot after another (not to forget London, Paris, Muenster, Amsterdam, Edmonton, Chicago, Shrewsbury...), all thanks to being a “plus 1” to a genius just born with natural, extraordinary abilities – to compose powerful, melodic, sometime intricate, sometime playful music; to write intelligent, adroit, empathetic and witty lyrics, and to lift and move heavy objects by the surprisingly terrifying power of mental telepathy (which, of course, keeps me in constant fear of my life.)

Il n'y a Personne Comme Show People - There's No People Like Show People
(Now, it’s just purposely annoying!)

Finally, (patient readers exhale a deep sigh of relief) the richest reward of being a showbiz hanger-oner, has undoubtedly been the dozens and dozens of fine, friendly, warmly welcoming, and ludicrously talented individuals encountered and befriended from theatrical trek to theatrical trek; people from different backgrounds, different parts of the country and the world, different languages, all with one thing in common - being gracious enough to me so that they now must endure my endlessly verbose, judgmental and self-righteous political ponderings on Facebook, and for that, I am both authentically apologetic and beholden. In a nutshell (although, as you may have surmised, brevity is not a strength) and in less haughty verbiage, I get to do all kinds of fantastic things, without actual having to put in the work or possess the talent. And I am never not aware of that and forever and always appreciative and thankful.

We close with an unusual version of “There’s No Business Like Show Business” by the late, great Elaine Stritch.

“The butcher, the baker, the grocer, the clerk
Are secretly unhappy men because
The butcher, the baker, the grocer, the clerk
Get paid for what they do but no applause.
They'd gladly bid their dreary jobs goodbye for anything theatrical and why?”

Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions, cash contributions?  Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com

Friday, July 13, 2018

A Loverly Jaunt Across the Pond

Random Reflections from a Far Too Long Plane Ride, or
Hopefully, it's Not My Ignorance that’s Bliss

“Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away
If you can use some exotic booze
There's a bar in far Bombay
Come on and fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away” – S. Cahn

A 7 and ½ hour flight lay ahead of me, from Newark Airport to Heathrow and yet, inexplicably, I feel a calm, a peace, I have never before experienced on any flight, even a trek as blissfully brief as one frequented from my beloved NYC home to the mini-NYC of the Great White North, Toronto. I can’t explain this phenomena, and I shan’t attempt to now (although, an explanation of some sort is likely forthcoming as I have very little control of the thoughts, ideas and opinions that make its way from a semi-creative, often active noggin to the fingertips struggling across a Bluetooth keyboard awash in error and verbal miscalculations.)

Is it the fact that the destination at journey’s end is undoubtedly my favorite locale on the globe, the land in which I fantasize experiencing the remainder of my retired years? Is it the very English woman in the adjoining seat who was immediately reminiscent of brilliant British thespian, Glenda Jackson? Is it the shuffle on my iPod Nano, frequently playing Jefferson Airplane and Jefferson Airplane related performers, who usually never fail to relax me with or without the assistance of Mother Nature's most successful and soon to be legal herbal intoxicant? Or mayhaps, most realistically, was it the two, overly-poured pinot grigios at the faux fancy airport tavern and the delightfully unanticipated free champagne upon boarding in Premium Economy? Yet, although it very well may be the potent potables that force me to compose this while the plan was headsets on, pillow ‘neath the neck, blanket tightly tucked with a hoped for visit from the Sandman for this overnight odyssey across the Atlantic; this post-Lindberg, trans-Atlantic foray is one I’ve partaken of almost a dozen times, fueled by spirits each and every outing, and never before has such serenity overtaken me.

Upon further thought, as the almost otherworldly perfection and beauty of Miles Davis' Flamenco Sketches now wafts through my Audio Technica noise reduction headphones, maybe my current pacificity arises from that trumpeted artistry in concert with the beautiful British Isles accent of the Billie Piper-doppelganger flight attendant who just handed me my hot, really not so hot, cocoa. And to some degree, I suspect, this enjoyable and continuous contentment and calm may have also come from the satisfying and long-awaited unfriending and blocking of a childhood comrade on Facebook, immediately prior to boarding, who has mistakenly believed for years, that because we were once cordial some 4 decades ago, she held the right to condescendingly judge, criticize and critique each writing, opinion and life choice I have ever openly articulated. She does not, and the freedom of finally releasing her from my online existence after interminable, imagined eons of wishing to do so, but for fear of offense, is indeed, quite freeing.

Assuredly, said serenity certainly does not originate from the ever-tightening, vise grip of the shoes, midair, in faulty made-made, cabin overly-pressured environment, which upon blessed Mother Earth are definitively the most comfortable foot coverings I own, or the sudden, consistent throbbing in my lower leg. Then, I suppose, we also must consider the food tray, recently arrived, carrying comestibles, under which any other more sane circumstances would be justifiably, roundly and righteously, rightfully rejected, but once trapped thousands of feet in the atmosphere, with naught to pass the time but Vince Vaughn film festivals and Lock Up, maximum security level meals are excitedly anticipated and gloriously accepted and treasured as the Magi anticipated the birth of the savior.

To be terrifically truthful, once alighting upon the bountifully beautiful British Empire, I will be reunited with a dear friend,  my personal favorite of all of Earth's population, of whom I have been separated, a sea apart, but with the occasional company of her loving feline, for a thoroughly unacceptable period of time. And, when once again, keeping her company, we will be doing so for the opening of her brand new musical on a West End stage, an enviable impressive accomplishment and artistic achievement, so one would imagine these further elements would certainly bespeak the rarity of such an optimistic and uncharacteristically pleasant and delighted demeanor.

If you have been benevolent enough to stay attentive throughout this entire meandering expressive endeavor, perhaps the query has occurred to you, "is there a point arriving at some juncture?" for I, too, share that very concern and have, unfortunately, arrived at the conclusion, that that ship has sailed many alliterations ago. No pending satisfactory denouement to be found here, just a need to convey happiness at a troubled time when such sentiments are becoming increasingly difficult to obtain. Come fly with me.

“Once I get you up there where the air is rarified
We'll just glide, starry-eyed
Once I get you up there I'll be holding you so very near
You may even hear a whole gang cheer 'cause we're together”

Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions, cash contributions?  Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com