Starbucks has changed the color of its mermaid logo from green to brown, and given appreciative coffee drinkers a more revealing look at the woman-fish. A Christian group in California called The Redundance is offended by the new logo, and wants consumers to boycott the coffee chain. Are they out of their fucking minds? I need my coffee, and a half naked mermaid on the cup does not offend my sensibilities.

These pompous people need to get a life. There are plenty of significant things going on in this world that people should find offensive. I find many things displeasing, but the Starbuck’s logo is not one of them. I do find it unconscionable when corporations in this country reap multi-million dollar profits off the blood of young Americans dying in a desert. I t’s repulsive finding a pubic hair in my pasta, but I’m not boycotting the noodle company. It’s also offensive when religious leaders put on a show of piety while behind closed doors they are molesting children. Those are some of the things I find offensive, not the cutie on the cup. How about boycotting those puppies, and leave the coffee company alone.

I haven’t heard any mermaids complaining so get over it and find something worthwhile to protest about. How about starting with the gas prices?

Read more of my writing at http://www.authornation.com/Lyam

Looking out my living room window, I notice my neighbor pruning the palo verde trees in his yard. His name is Frank, and you can’t help but notice him because he weighs 400 lbs. Last summer, I gave him The Secret to read but apparently the laws of attraction caused blubber to cling to his fat ass. He is shirtless, and his shorts are hanging low enough to expose his abundant butt crack to the world. The sweaty hairs on his back look like thick dripping spider webs. My stomach does a flip that would rate a 9.5 at the Olympics.

In order to spare my wife the indignity of this spectacle, I decide to lend Frank a hand. I have an ulterior motive. It’s comforting to hold any type of sharpened instrument in my hands, and maneuvering the steel clippers with precision can be arousing. Frank seems pleased to see me join him.

After completing my good deed, I enter my home to find my wife giving me the evil eye. Mary gently reminds me that the trees in our yard could use some trimming. While pretending to be absorbed in her conversation, I watch the television behind her.

CNN is covering the disaster in Myanmar. It’s a horrible situation that would touch even the most hardened heart. The survivors are pleading for food and water. In the background you can see bloated bodies floating facedown. The United States has made a formal complaint regarding the lack of response by the Myanmar government. This is the right thing to do, and I am proud to live in a country that generally shows humanity toward others. At the same time, I find the comments by our government ironic concerning the lack of response.

It was not that long ago that I saw similar pictures of people lacking water, and dead bodies floating in the streets. Those pictures were from New Orleans, and it was not the government of Myanmar that failed to respond.

Helping a neighbor is always the correct thing to do, but lets try to take care of our own yard also.

Sample more of my writing at http://www.authornation.com/Lyam

I had an epiphany while eating breakfast this morning. Maybe it was caused by the hot sauce on my eggs.

Every Tuesday, I put depilatory cream on my ankles in order not to end up like my mother. Hair on your ankles is an abnormality.

A few days ago, my wife used an extra button from my shirt to replace a missing one on my pants. That’s unnatural, but I wouldn’t consider it abnormal.

It’s important to differentiate between the two.

Sample more of my writing at http://www.authornation.com/Lyam

Like a lot of folks, I have been inclined to blame President Bush for running this country into the ground.

This Bush Administration has a long list of failures, mistakes, and lies. Others have done a better job expounding upon this list than I will do.

Security failures on threat assessment before 9/11.

A misdirected war in Iraq with no anticipation of the insurgency, and no exit strategy.

The Bush Administration incompetence and cronyism which was highlighted by the national disgrace of Katrina.

Hallibuton’s corruption.

Torture.

Corporate welfare.

War profiteering.

The Bush Regime environmental record.

The many more deceptions that have not even been revealed yet.

After doing further research and evaluation, I am tending not to blame George Bush anymore. It’s not really his fault.

I’m blaming his mother.

You can’t tell me that Barbara didn’t drop the baby more than once or twice.

We owned a Boston Bulldog named Frisky when I was a kid. We didn't really own the dog because the animal did pretty much whatever it wanted. Feeding crayons to Frisky ensured our yard had the most colorful dog shit in the neighborhood. Encouraging my younger brother to swallow rubber bands did not yield the same results. My father told everybody that something was wrong with me. Did you know if you squeeze Orajel on an ant trail the insects can't feel their legs. Maybe my father was right.

Today at Wal-Mart I bought this contraption called the Beer Can Chicken Roaster. A co-worker suggested I should try it, and claimed it made the juiciest chicken in the world. Suggestions can be welcome events as long as they are not offered in a public toilet.

After driving home, I wasted no time getting the instrument out of the box. There was a wire cone about five inches tall, and a flat circular metal tray. Not much to get excited about. Opening a can of beer, I drank three swallows before placing the can inside the indentation in the center of the tray. The stainless steel wire cone snapped over the top of the beer can to hold it in place. Simple enough.

Removing a whole chicken from the fridge, I began the uncomfortable act of shoving the wire covered beer can up the birds ass. I recall seeing something similar to this at Attica, but Armando screamed for a long time. The chicken seemed to be handling the abuse rather well. I patted the bird on the back, and complimented it on accomplishing the incommodious feat.

Next I pushed a small potato into the chickens neck. The raw chicken is standing at attention before me causing a wave of patriotism to flow through my body. I'm not the only one with goose bumps. I saluted the bird before placing it inside the oven at 375 degrees.

The theory behind this vertical style of cooking is to let the fat drip off the roasting bird onto the tray while the steam from the beer deposits moisture back inside the chicken.

The process seemed to be going fairly well until I checked to see how the chicken was cooking. Opening the oven door revealed the bird pointing one of its golden brown wings directly at me in an accusatory fashion. After breaking the wing and pressing it gently against the birds side, I informed the chicken that George Bush would not consider my actions torture.

The chicken appeared to have swollen a bit while cooking, and looked like my Aunt Lilly after she started taking the depakote. Listening to a few extra voices is better than a massive weight gain. I mentioned to Aunt Lilly that I still had the afghan she made me for Christmas.

My wife wandered into the kitchen during my conversation with the chicken. If she considered my actions unusual, she didn't mention it. Mary has commented on other occasions about me being strange, and she does roll her eyes a lot. She once told her parents that I was visiting from one of the group homes. Being well endowed compensates for my other shortcomings, and keeps Mary happy.

The final straw came when I removed the chicken from the oven. The eye in the potato winked at me. I'm susceptible to the temptation of seduction just like anybody else, but the wink made me feel uncomfortable and dirty.

I never found out if the chicken was juicy or not. Instead of eating the bird, I positioned it outside on the patio railing. The crows had Aunt Lilly looking anorexic by the end of the day.

 

My wife and I enjoy a life filled with simple pleasures. Sharing hot cocoa in the evening can be relaxing and comforting. If you are out of cocoa, masturbation has the same effect.

Mary begins by heating milk in a stainless steel pot on top of the stove. She uses a can of evaporated milk in order to make the treat extra creamy. I take one aspirin every day to avoid clogs.

She adds Hershey’s Cocoa and sugar while stirring the milk with a wire whisk. A splash of vanilla extract poured into the mixture completes the comfort factor.

My wife pours the liquid brown treasure into two mugs and carries them to the living room. We lounge on the sofa, sipping our chocolate while watching porn. Life doesn’t get any better.

I place my mug on the glass top coffee table, and trace circles on Mary’s thigh with my left hand. I like to make rings similar to the emblem of the Olympic Games. Just as my finger is tracing the fifth ring, a huge blue fly dives straight into my cocoa. There were two mugs on the table, and why it decided to swoop into mine baffles me. The fly is the decider.

The napkin under my mug catches the drips caused by the splashdown. You would have thought that the fly would have the decency not to skinny dip in my drink.

Apparently the temperature of the mud bath was hotter than the fly expected, and the insect attempts to paddle quickly to the rim of the mug. I watch this event with vested interest while asking myself several questions. Am I prepared to do rescue breathing? What about CPR? I’m afraid it’s thumbs down for the fly.

Within a few seconds it looks like we have a floater. Mary has not noticed the drowning taking place inside my mug. Women are not as observant as men, but it’s prudent not to call their attention to this fact.

I briefly consider switching mugs with my wife, but I’m not ambidextrous. Using my finger, I scoop the dead fly out of my cocoa and squeeze it inside my napkin.

Mary has finally noticed my hand is no longer on her leg, and she questions if there is a problem with the cocoa. Marriage can be emasculating. Her piercing gaze and the tone of her query causes me to rapidly evaluate my options.

1. I can say nothing, and finish drinking my cocoa like a man.

2. I can explain about the fly, and throw the cocoa away which will somehow get twisted into a criticism of her cooking and diminish my chances of a sexual favor.

I suppose you are wondering what I did.

Remember Jonestown?

You can sample more of my writing at http://www.authornation.com/Lyam

The empty house was silent except for the dripping faucet in the kitchen sink. My father never locked up his guns which allowed me easy access.

Sitting on the cold tile in my parents kitchen, I pressed the gun to my temple and prepared to make my exit from this world. My hands were steady, and my heart was still. It's simple. Pull the trigger.

Just squeeze, and splatter the mess inside my head all over Dad's new Kenmore Fridge. It would have been a permanent solution to my transitory problems. Those problems seemed overwhelming at that moment in time. Hope was a distant memory. Pull the trigger.

I was 22 years old, out of prison for six months and unable to find employment. Temporarily living with my parents, and spending most days feeling sorry for myself. Trying to do the right thing, but not willing to live with the consequences of my past actions. Not able to have a relationship with anyone due to the hatred in my heart. Pull the trigger you sorry fuck.

I don't know what kept me from following through. Grace? Maybe I lacked the commitment. There were no Nike commercials. Maybe there's a plan for everyone's life. Maybe I didn't want to make a mess for my Mother to clean up.

I don't know why my planned suicide failed that day, but I am thankful that life continued. Death would have been easy, but I would have missed so much joy in living this life.

I would have missed....

The opportunity to begin a career where one day I would save a life.

Feeling the sand between my toes while walking on a beach with the love of my life.

The Soprano's.

Thousands of sunrises and sunsets.

Getting married on a sunny August afternoon.

Riding a motorcycle on an endless stretch of highway with my wife clinging to me.

A fractured foot.

A fractured clavicle.

Learning lessons.

The birth of my son.

My wife's beautiful smile.

Internet porn.

A cool drink on a humid day.

Making love 6,217 times. With the same woman.

My son's wedding.

George Bush stealing two elections.

One bad decision would have caused me to miss all those things, and many more. I'm thankful to be here.

Life is precious. Take a deep breath of it, and don't pull the trigger.

You can sample more of my writing at http://www.authornation.com/Lyam

CNN continues to report on the housing crisis, and they seem to take a perverse pleasure in parading the folks who have lost their homes across my television screen. They usually show a family with a huge home, two or three cars, and all the accessories of the good life. This is also known as living above your means. It's a sad situation, but I can't help but think about the people who have never been able to afford a house or car.

Nobody talks about the poor people in this country who are just getting by. Tough times can be hellish for the folks who don't have anything to begin with. The news never even mentions the poor as they focus on the "middle class". What about the man who walks to a minimum wage job, and then comes home to his family crowded into a one bedroom flat. And then there are the homeless and forgotten. The least, the lonely, and the lost.

There is a thought process in this country that reasons the poor are where they are because they lack the motivation to improve their situation. Bullshit. My grandmother died when I was ten years old. At the funeral, I listened as the preacher expounded on her faith. The pastor claimed if her faith had been just a tiny bit stronger the cancer that had ravaged her body would have disappeared. Bullshit. Sometimes people do the best they can, and it's still not enough to escape poverty or death. Life is tough.

I spent most of my youth growing up in public housing with my best friend Rollie. We lived in a small apartment next door to his family. Rollie was born without a full left arm, which gave me an advantage when we played catch. It also made him popular with the girls. A nub can be used as a club, and they are also functional when petting a monkey. Together we shared the ups and downs of life.

Rollie was seventeen when he shot a corner store clerk during a botched robbery. I often wonder what the fuck my friend was thinking. His robbery attempt was destined to fail. With a gun in his hand, Rollie became confused when the clerk tried to hand him the cash. It should have been evident that there was going to be a problem. I suppose the clerk could have pinned the money to Rollie's shirt. Life was tough for the clerk. He died later that evening.

Rollie made it halfway down the block before the police arrived and cuffed him. I don't know if they ordered him to raise his hands. What they did with the extra cuff also remains a mystery.

At the police station, my friend was booked and fingerprinted. I don't know if they printed the same hand twice. Somebody always asks me. The information highway ends at my doorstep.

Rollie is doing 25 to life at Greenhaven Correctional Facility in New York State. I still send him a card at Christmas time, but my friend has never replied. Convicts can be sullen. Life is tough, especially if it's your sentence.

A foreclosure is not the worst thing that could happen to you. Welcome to reality. Be thankful if you have your health.  Life can be tough, but the consequences are often the product of our own bad choices.

My novel Lyam's Journal ISBN 0741445050 is published and available toll free at 877-BUY-BOOK or online at bbotw.com or amazon.com