SO, WHICH LIE IS TRUE? ~ By Absolutely*Kate, all because of Laurita Miller, both proudly from Harbinger*33

SO, Which LIE
is TRUE?

~ By Absolutely*Kate,
all because of Laurita Miller 

Well, well, well . . . when The Brain Droppings of the lovely Laurita Miller (once the fiance and always the muse of Edgar Allen Poe), went splish-splash-squishin' all over tarnation, an award slid right across the WebTown scene that sure made me mighty proud, mighty pleased and OH, so sensationally serene!

"CREATIVE WRITER BLOGGER AWARD PRESENTED TO - Absolutely*Kate proprietor of AT THE BIJOU. There's no doubt her outrageousness will spill into new realms."  ~ Author, Laurita Miller

"WOWZERS! THANKS LAURITA!", says me, Absolutely*Kate, a humble promoter, believing in believers, writing and dancing with the best writers and wits I know . . . here AT THE BIJOU show, because, geeeeeez ~ what else are you gonna do with such a mighty vs motley crew? Well, other than showing their great writes up AT THE BIJOU's BigScreen, come every Double*Feature Tuesday & Thursday, and putting 33 of 'em into a manifesting of their authoring destiny in HARBINGER*33? (the book ~ Eric Beetner, Anthony Venutolo and Ian Rochford are still working on the screenplay, before the movie can come out, while Michael J. Solender and Madame Z keep amusing the costume seamstress with outlandish requests involving plumage). Laurita designed the seaworthy banner over there to herald the great things to come for Harbinger*33 ~

Now . . . It seems by the Articles of Contention attached to this here shimmery creative award, I'm supposed to spin you SIX LIES AND ONE TRUTH. You, dear reader and BIJOU afficiando, then get to figger out which ones shed doubt and which one rings true-blue. I get the pleasure as well of Thankin' my benefactress, the lovely Laurita who received this award and passed it my way . . . and then (drumroll please, adjust my spots, Eddie) . . . I get to award "The Creative Writer Blogger" award three other worthies' blog*ways. Hmmm, too difficult to narrow down ... but I'll give it some thought.

I most heartily *thank* author Laurita Miller, for this generous bestowment. She's one of my fave writers who gives fantasy a whole new shadowy shade of true-grue . . . My congrats to my comrade and fellow HARBINGER*33 ship'shape-mate on FOUR WHOLE YEARS of bloggin' her meandering mind fanciful free over at that afore'plugged way cool joint, Brain Droppings! Wow, Laurita just gets more intricate in how she webs her weave over imagination, subconscious finery, and a grace which makes shadows shimmer a new hue o'glisteny grey. You can certainly delve into her originals HERE AT THE BIJOU, another of her other homes to haunt around WebTown ~ "The Neighbours" and "The Fetch". (Not to be confused with "Fetch the Neighbours" ~ Read 'em both and you'll see what I mean! Don't try that at home, folks, I'm warnin' you.)

MY SIX OUTRAGEOUS LIES

and ONE TRUTH ~

( But can you spot the truth? )

1. I was the understudy for Etta in "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid", learning much from Ms Katherine Ross.

2. My grandmother, Helen Kozel was a Ziegfeld Girl.

3. I was on the sailing crew of the Bermuda One-Two race with the president of the Newport Yacht Club and a cargo of rum.

4. I presented a thirsty John Newcombe his Gatorade at the World Team Tennis Tournament, and he winked at me.

5. I wrote an eye-witness account of the Kent State shootings on May 4, 1970, from the edge of the crowd.

6. I was at Woodstock and my elbow can be seen in the back left hand corner of your album cover.

7. I had a filet mignon dinner with the president of Yale, following the Yale-Harvard football game. Boolah, Boolah!

* * * * * * *

To paraphrase lovely Laurita's acceptance speech ~ It's fitting, perhaps, that I have been gifted this Bald Faced Liar Creative Writer award. Being Outrageous is as good a way as any to celebrate life fully, with moxie. The world needs more moxie.

The rules attached to this award are as follows:

1. Thank the person who gave you this award. ( DONE! )

2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog. ( YEP! )

3. Link to the person who nominated you.  ( SEVERAL SHAMEFUL PLUGS MADE! )

4. Tell up to six outrageous lies about yourself and one outrageous truth.  ( EASY! )

5. Nominate 3 creative writers who most likely will have fun coming up with outrageous lies.  ( DIFFICULT! )

6. Post links to the 3 blogs you nominate. ( FOLLOWS ... BUT TOUGH CHOICES, MOST OF MY BEST FRIENDS ARE OUTRAGEOUS! )

7. Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know you nominated them. ( GONNA DO THAT )

I Nominate The Outrageous

*Creative Writer Blog Award*

  To ~

Michael J, soul of Solender at ~ The Not

Because he invented Outrageous, right after the lightbulb
which he delights in holding over his noggin.

Irrepressible Zelda, Madame Z at ~ Get-Your-Z's

~ for what is more Outrageous than a Pirate Queen

with a loose cutlass?

Clever Carrie the Clevenger at ~ MindSpeak

~ Outrageously reported to be the mother of

the Phantom of THE BIJOU's spirited offspring!

MAY YOU ALL HIT THIS CHALLENGE

WITH OUTRAGEOUS GUSTO! 

~ Absolutely*Kate,

shy, introverted and learning what Life has to offer,

Outrageously so . . . more so because of all of You! 

"GOT NOT?" ~ AT THE BIJOU SALUTES SOLENDER . . .

NOT FROM HERE, ARE YOU?

Join Michael J. Solender as he mixes fiction in a variety of genres, poetry, non-fiction essays, reviews, satire and opinion into a gumbo of distinct stories designed mostly to entertain himself. 

You all know that place where everybody gets to know your name, up the street, a saloon kind of literary hangout. The NOT. Ahhh, but do you know why Michael writes?

When two newspaper'folk meet up and let wit fly sky high, there's bound to be a life'long attraction. You know the story's glory ~ boy meets girl. Back over in the early stomping grounds of 6*City, where we got used to leavin' Enlighten on for you, girl asks boy to come play . . . when The Twilight Carnival came to town. History hit. Zinged his inimitable wit. *BAM!* Friendship forged into laughter ever after. The soul of Solender came aboard the mighty reader-ship I've been creating, HARBINGER*33, and wrote way past a shocker of a tale to share in some of the back and forth and forth and back a book needs that heralds the greatness of authors we both care so highly for . . . to soar, the more. He's been the reporter at posts around the country, now the toast of the arts & culture crowd down Charlotte, NC way. I've been the advertising agency gal in Ohio, come to Connecticut, starting up a few newspapers from the promotion side of the coin. Flipped pal Michael that coined phrase "GOT NOT?", after Allie ~ you all know Allie? ~ told me, "Yeah, it sounds good." (Allie verifies *cool* -- it's just how it goes).

The feller calls me "ubitquious". I'm glad the world's got NOT with him in it. But . . . I wanted to know more ~

   Question from the curiousity of the Kate ~   

What gives you the greatest *JOY* when you write -- when you concept it and the juices are flowin?   When you are nailin' it into that inner "ta dahhh" moment?  When others "get you" ... and somewhere .... you think you made a difference?  When you get $ slipped under your door?   When --- "

  MICHAEL, SIR NOT-INGHAM, RESPONDS:

Oh gawd. The best for me is simply when the cork comes out of the bottle and it starts to flow. For so many years I wrote for "others" - executive speeches, employee communications, message maps for managers etc. Now that I finally write for myself, I most enjoy the time that I have to script my words that make a story come alive and sing with meaning. I love connecting with readers and bringing them into my stories with their experiences allowing them to interpret what I have written in a way that has meaning for them. Telling tales is what I do, I love the creative process and am constantly amazed at what comes from my pen. I never know what exactly is going to come out and often completely surprise myself - the process for me is what I absolutely enjoy the most.

Happy First Year of
Zinging it out

  at the NOT

  from  

AT THE BIJOU!

  ~ Ubitquiously yours,  

Absolutely*Kate

"HAPPY SIR NOT'ingham" ~ From ubitquious pals, AT THE BIJOU

 

HAPPY NOT BIRTHDAY #1 

to Lou Solender's kid, Mikey,

from Jack Dempsey &

Absolutely*Kate,

*AT THE BIJOU *

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Yes. That IS the slugger with our slugger's Pop. Seems some schmoozin' was goin' on all along in our Michael's history. Always a fighting chance for success and a strong handshake will take you 'round mighty a championship ring. And that's how the Solender lad, our pal up the street at the NOT turned out . . . A Champ . . . offering many a handshake in presentation of a writer's one-two punchlines.

We AT THE BIJOU, heartily salute you

fellow author aboard the Harbinger*33. 

You're an integral part of WebTown, 

and ever a knockout ... who has done Pop proud.  

We love ya, man  ~ Katie

(who has assembled a few of your faves) 

 

SOUL OF SOLENDER SALUTED ~ By gal AT BIJOU to man of NOT

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

 "My Best according to me: (aka my personal favorites)"

  ~ MJS

 Best'Poetry: 

Cranbrook Lane

MICHAEL J. SOLENDER

Cranbrook Lane crossed my path today.

It wound in a lazy S, unadorned in normalcy.
Tidy lawns pretended not to know me from before.
Was I so different then?

Those summer days when shadows cast with dull edges.
When fog veiled the clearest morning.
When hollow void pulled with ferocity.
When joy and longing did not summon the courage to come.
When the depth was incalculable.

Cranbrook Lane appeared on my horizon.

One who loved me brought me there.
There where fractured sun knifed through with purpose.
Where vision focused on what was to be and abandoned what I could not change.
Where the tenacious fight was fought.
I am so different now...

Cranbrook Lane. Street of my past. Take me to my next.

Familiar I appear to her now.
It was who I was that she forgot.
I remember. I want to remember.

I'll not go back.

(c) 2009 ~ Author Michael J Solender

Originally published at Danse Macabre

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

 "My Best according to me: (aka my personal favorites)"

  ~ MJS

 Best'Lit:                               

Their Next

RUNNING THIS WEEK AT BULL MEN'S FICTION

 

MICHAEL J. SOLENDER

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

 "My Best according to me: (aka my personal favorites)"

  ~ MJS

 Best'MicroFiction:     

Six Months of His Life

SIX SIXES BY

MICHAEL J. SOLENDER

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

The hits just keep comin' folks. Since Michael couldn't hold his *Best* down to just two, Read*On ... Sure seems we've got a Double-Double Feature in progress, as we wish Michael and The NOT our very Best.

~ Absolutely*Kate

and the staff of renown, * AT THE BIJOU *

SOLENDER RETROSPECTIVE GOES INTROSPECTIVE ~ AT THE BIJOU

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

"My Best according to me: (aka my personal favorites)"

  ~ MJS

 Best'Young'Adult:    

The Sum of His Deeds

MICHAEL J. SOLENDER

From the corner of his eye Arne Carlson could just see tiny snippets of life unfolding outside of his hospice window. Young children were playing ball at the park adjacent to the property and several moms gathered around strollers with pony tails bobbing were sharing animated conversation. Arne let his mind drift to those simple pleasures he had once enjoyed.

His voice, struck silent from the last stroke three weeks ago, was unable to ask the attendant to turn his head further so he could drink in what would surely be his final views of what was an unremarkable, but immanently satisfying life.

At 93, Arne had outlived his wife of 57 years and most of his friends. Childless, Arne had planned for his care and final arrangements long before this day had arrived. He was relieved that he was comfortable in his final days and had reflected these past few weeks on the impact that he had made on others throughout his lifetime.

Had he made his mark in the world? Had he tried hard enough to make the world a better place? Without children would anyone even remember him? These thoughts churned like a chugging locomotive in his mind as he allowed himself to drift into half sleep, half daydream.

He knew what time remained would be measured in days, not weeks, so in spite of the prison his body had become, he made the most of his time challenging his past efforts as he took in the view the window was affording him.

He hoped he had made a difference in others lives. The golden rule meant something to Arne Carlson. He prided himself in demonstrating patience, tolerance and respect for friends, family, and strangers alike.

He was not a big dreamer, nor did he have outlandish aspirations. A modest life, a wife to shower with affection, good friends, some travel, good books and a comfortable retirement were all Arne ever wanted for and he was rewarded with just such an existence.

His legacy, he mused, would be a silent one, experienced a thousand times over throughout the course of his lifetime.

Arne Carlson was an unassuming, decent man who found pleasure in extending the smallest courtesies to others. An anachronism in the hurried life of the era in which he lived, Arne always took an extra moment to hold a door, give back the extra change received in error, let a car into traffic, help a child who was momentarily lost in a department store.

Life was a series of small transactions thought Arne; why not make them as pleasant as possible? So many daily inconveniences face us all: Who among us hasn’t been cut off in traffic? Been hung up on by dialers of wrong numbers? Provided with erroneous directions?

These tiny indignities face us all with growing frequency, and by Arne Carlson’s observation, growing annoyance, intolerance and aggravation.

Carlson decided at a very young age that he was not going to allow himself to be consumed by these societal infractions. He would always take the high road, always do the right and decent thing for his fellow man.

It was a learned discipline. Taking a few extra moments each day may have made him a minute or two late on occasion, or allowed someone to gain access to a better seat at a the movie theatre. These were small compromises in maintaining integrity, thought Carlson.

He relished these random acts of kindness. It was never a burden for him, rather it was a pleasure. He grew to view each opportunity as an obligation to make his fellow man’s experience on this earth just a tiny bit more tolerable, if not pleasant.

As he lay on his back, propped up on a pillow, Carlson grimaced and half wondered if his little social experiment had really made a difference for anyone but himself. He drifted off to sleep.

##

When he awoke, he was in a wheelchair in a narrow hallway facing two elevator doors about 200 ft. ahead of him. Each door was open and he could tell, even from a distance, each car was quite full.

He was able to hear, faintly, his name being called, he was being beckoned to each open elevator door. He began to wheel himself quickly towards the end of the hallway. As his pace quickened he could see the doors simultaneously begin to close. He accelerated his pace, urgently recognizing that he needed to be on one of those cars, he began to wheel as fast as he could given his tired and bent arms.

Just as he reached the closing doors, he found the door on the left had swiftly closed completely, shutting him out; the door on the right however had been kept open by the hand of someone unseen inside the elevator. Carlson just snuck in and the door gently closed behind him.

“We’re waiting for you.” Several voices said in unison.

Carlson looked around and saw that he was in the largest elevator he had ever seen, there had to be literally hundreds of people in there. He knew he was dreaming…he thought he was dreaming..Was he dreaming??

Everyone in the elevator car was beaming, each smiling wide, each looking directly at him. Carlson rubbed his eyes in disbelief for a moment as he looked around.

These people were strangers to him, yet they all seemed so familiar in some way. Who were these people? There had to be a mistake!

“Mr. Carlson, my name is Marcy.” A young girl of about 10 reached for his hand. “You rode with me on the subway in New York City last year when my brother and I became separated. “You called my daddy when I told you his number and took me to his office in midtown, missing your dental appointment.”

Carlson remembered, it was not such a big thing, a few stops and a call on his cell phone. He was impressed the girl had the presence of mind to stay calm and knew her fathers number. Anyone would have done the same thing.

“Mr. Carlson?” A brunette of about forty in a stylish suit reached out and touched his shoulder. “You reached up to the top shelf at the grocery and reached a can of soup for me a few years back. I was having such a crummy day and the fact that you simply stopped, and offered a hand made me smile and see there were good, decent people in this world.”

Carlson blushed. What a small thing he had offered his assistance thousands of times, why was this worthy of special recognition?

“Mr. Carlson, my name is Harris; I work at the Dry Cleaners you frequent.” I mistakenly gave you a ten dollar bill one day instead of a one, and you pointed out my error and gave it back. You may not know it but, your act of kindness saved my job.”


And on it went. Person after person, small kindness after small kindness, each shared their remembered small kindness with the man who had extended it.

Carlson’ heart began to swell with pride. He had made a difference, small things do bring pleasure into people’s life, the effort, joy really, was worth extending. He was sated.

    ##

Arne Carlson passed quietly and without pain that September day, his heart full and his soul light. His deeds on earth had earned him an express elevator ride up to the very top floor.

(c) 2009 ~ Author Michael J Solender

Originally published as a "most read"  at Stories That Lift

The hits just keep comin' folks. Since Michael couldn't hold his *Best* down to just two, Read*On ... Sure seems we've got a Double-Double Feature in progress, as we wish Michael and The NOT our very Best.

~ Absolutely*Kate

and the staff of renown, * AT THE BIJOU *

BLOOD BROTHERS ~ By Michael J. Solender of The NOT and Harbinger*33

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

"My Best according to me: (aka my personal favorites)"

  ~ MJS

 Best'Noir:

BLOOD BROTHERS

MICHAEL J. SOLENDER

15 years ago, before the "incident", Ari Shomari often told his beloved identical twin brother, Stavros, that he would gladly take a bullet for him. Ari could not have known when he made that statement that the bullet would in actuality come from Stavros' own hand at point blank range with a .38 caliber special Stavros had bought specifically for the occasion.

That Ari's end would come in such a fashion was truly inconceivable. Three weeks earlier, Ari was having a cigarette on his tiny beach side office patio in Mykonos when his cell phone rang.

"Ari?" The voice at the end of the line, instantly familiar in spite of not registering in Ari's ears for more than 15 years, asked. This was followed by 30 seconds of silence broken again by the two syllable inquiry, "Ari?"

Ari thought for a moment about hanging up but his heart, now driving his escalating blood pressure, filled with emotion and begged him to respond. At that instant he was feeling both unbridled joy and great suspicion, an unsavory combination that made him a bit lightheaded.

"Stavros." Ari said softly as the gulls chattered in the distance. "I thought I was dead to you. Are you here in Greece, have you come home?"

"I am home," Stavros replied, "Laguna is my home and has been every since Daddy and Mamma brought us here on our 5th birthday."

38 years earlier, Gregor Shomari brought his bride of 6 years to the U.S. and to what was then rural Southern California, 60 miles south of Los Angeles to Orange County.

Gregor established the family home adjacent to the orange groves in the newly-planned community of Irvine as a perfect halfway point between the busy ports of Los Angeles and those in San Diego. A necessary geography that was well suited to accommodate his burgeoning Import/Export business.

His brother Peter had expanded the family business, from Athens to New York, five years earlier and the boys now wanted to capture the Pacific Rim market as well; they needed a west coast U.S. presence and Gregor came with the family in tow.

"Ari, it has been too much time since we spoke. I miss my brother," Stavros lied. He hated Ari for what he had done to him and would never forgive him for the worst transgression a brother could serve on his sibling: the theft of his wife and only true love.

"Stavy," Ari said using a pet name for Stavros that no one else used or even knew of, given that Stavros had long ago adopted Steve as his moniker, "I wasn't the one who closed the door on his brother. It was you. I wrote and called for three straight years. All the overtures I made were met with your stony silence. I've never even asked for forgiveness from you and, if you can believe it, I don't even forgive myself. I simply wanted a relationship for us, particularly since Julie and I split up and she left my life for good."

Stavros had steeled himself for the call. He knew it would open the floodgates of emotion and bile he had stored up for years both for his ex-wife, Julie, and most of all for Ari. Ari was needed only as a means to an end for Stavros and only as a player in a long shot, last resort ploy to save his skin.

"Ari, this is behind us both now." Stavros went on, "I need to see you, I need your help."

There, he said it. He told his frozen out for fifteen years brother that he needed him. He knew Ari and the guilt he had for making the play on his ex. He knew he'd want to repair the relationship in any way he could. And mostly he knew that when he told his brother he needed his bone marrow to replace his own because he was being consumed by leukemia that Ari Shomari would be on the next flight to California.

His upcoming request was partially true. Stavros needed Ari. But he did not need his bone marrow and he did not have leukemia.

"Ari, I have cancer," Stavros lied coolly to his now-rapt with attention brother, thousands of miles of ocean and land mass separating them. "It is an advanced and rare form of leukemia that is ravaging me from the inside out."

"My god, Stavy!" Ari cried into the phone. "How...why...what can I do? How can I help?"

"I need a donor for the bone marrow, a donor who is an exact match. my...our...type is quite rare and they have told me a blood relative is the best opportunity for me to survive as they'll first do aggressive radiation and then, after hopefully killing all the cancerous cells, will replace my bone marrow with that from the donor. That's where you come in, if you'll help me."

"Help you, my god, Stavy, of course I'll help you. Why haven't you called me sooner?" Ari said, shocked at the news but strangely comforted in the fact that he had an opportunity at redemption with his brother.

"They need to start testing immediately." Stavros had it all planned out, reeling Ari into his lair of lies and deceit. "As soon as you come, I'll introduce you to my doctors. You'll need to be here for at least two months. Can you get your life in order?"

"Stavy," Ari sighed. "Unlike you, my life is very simple and quite in order. I have my half of the folk's inheritance; I haven't worked a real job since they passed. I live like a hermit, no girlfriend or really any friends, for that matter. I spend my days in my office writing and working on my novel. No one will miss me or even know I'm gone. My passport is current and I can be in LA tomorrow."

This was perfect, thought Stavros. Once he arranged for the "suicide", he could take Ari's passport, return to Greece and start over. His Greek was very good, thanks to his next door neighbor and his father who loved to talk with Stavros in his native tongue over the fence.

The Yakuza boys who held his gambling markers would just have to eat them. He was in so deep he could never get out. Unlike Ari, he had squandered his inheritance and had gone into deep debt, the kind of debt where not only did the interest rate accelerate in double and triple figured percentages but missed payment notices were accompanied by knee-shattering reminders or the removal of small but necessary fingers.

Killing Ari and making it look like his own suicide was a perfect out. He knew how Ari kept his hair and their weight had never differed even by a pound when growing up. He was certain Ari would be seen by the police, the Yakuza loan sharks, and all other creditors as Steve Shomari, deadbeat, but dead nonetheless by his own hand.

He'd be back in Greece with Ari's passport before they even found him if everything went according to plan. Starting over with Ari's bank account and life in Mykonos had an ironic and pleasing feel for Stavros. After all, Ari had taken his life when he took Julie. Payback was long overdue.

Two days later, the plan having been executed flawlessly, Stavros, now Ari, was sipping Ouzo in Ari's apartment. The vision of his dead brother, brains and cranial bits on his apartment wall in Laguna still fresh in his mind, he tried to erase it with another drink.

The suicide note cited the gambling debts and appropriate apologies. He had placed the gun in Ari's right hand and positioned it on the trigger convincingly.

Just another Southern California suicide, the coroner ruled, and the case was closed. Repeated efforts to contact the brother in Greece unheeded, the police, too, had more pressing matters to attend to and soon Steve Shomari was forgotten, even by the Japanese loan sharks who already had much more than their principal back and were fine with writing off the interest as long as the creditor was dead.

Stavros enjoyed the quite resort-like life in Mykonos. Ari was, in fact, quite organized and had left well-labeled files, bank account numbers and, with the mail resumed, Stavros could easily fill in whatever missing elements there were to living his life as Ari.

Two years later, Stavros, fatigued by the chronic cough that he couldn't shake for weeks went to the clinic. Several chest x-rays and blood tests later his physician called him back in to meet with an Oncologist.

"Ari, I'm afraid it's cancer," Dr. Papadakos told Stavros. "What you have is a very rare form of leukemia that can only be treated with a bone marrow transplant. Do you have a close blood relative?"

(c) 2009 ~ Author Michael J Solender

Original run at Twist of Noir and Eastern Standard Crime

The hits WILL just keep comin' folks. 
Write on, urge on, host on, Michael @ The NOT!

~ Absolutely*Kate

and the staff of renown, * AT THE BIJOU *
 

ARE YOU REALLY READY FOR SOME SUPER FOOTBALL? AT THE BIJOU makes your day

 

IT'S THE SUPER*BOWL!

* AT THE BIJOU *

WITH ALL THE FORWARD ACTION

YOU CAN SWALLOW!

GRIDIRON GREATS READY
 FOR SOME FOOTBALL FUN?

THE BIJOU TEAM
IS ON THE PLAYING FIELD:

Absolutely*Kate

Hero Harry B. Sanderford

Sweet Sugar-Wendy

Veronica, Wally and

Ben ~ you've heard of Ben?

Then, with a nod from The NOT, 

Michael J. Solender 

Daniel Stine

Paul Phillips

Lee Hughes

((Kate couldn't resist one more New England pictorial))

ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBALL? ~ International Interview by Michael J Solender of Harbinger*33

ARE YOU READY

FOR SOME FOOTBALL?  

~ International Interview
by Michael J Solender with

some non-gridiron guys gone global

EDITOR/THEATRE OWNER'S NOTATION:  I asked Michael if he thought it would be as cool an idea as I pondered, to check in on some of our esteemed writer pals around the spin o'the globe as to their spin on Who-Will-Win or what was up in their country regarding America's NFL finale to the reason the seasons of autum/winter were really kicked off . . . I tell ya folks, the golfer guy, the soul of Solender, the well-loved reporter fella with nuttin' but knows for news caught that Hail Mary Mikey pass and ran it up the line with no flags on his wordplay. Like Sinatra though, he did it his way. Regrets I have a few ~ but then again, too few to mention ... as I'm lovin' this SuperBowl Weekend with all its pomp and pagentry and my terrible towel from Steeler victories . . . so I gave you his hilarity . . . without contention:

The Stupid Bowl. Sunday February 7.  < {Michael called it this. Katie never would!}

That great all-American past time. Chips, dips, beer, dogs, beer, pizza, beer. You get the picture.

The entire nation shuts down to watch an over hyped and usually pretty lousy spectacle. This year we’ll be entertained at half-time by guys that are old enough to be our grandparents. Who? Yeah Them. 60 second spots go for upwards of $3 mil. as so many eyeballs are said to be glued to the tube.

It got me thinking: (OK *Katie planted a bug in my ear and we will share the findings at our respective corners of the web) What is the rest of the world doing while the world-revolves-around-us-Americans are getting a massive dose of indigestion and making fools ourselves at the neighbors?

Inquiring minds want to know!

News-hound (read:whore) that I am I set out to ask some folks who really are NOT from here to give me their take on this non-event everywhere but here.

Who better to ignore us, than the Chinese? For their take I went to our man behind the red curtain Dan Stine.



The Brits pretty much hate us after they found Tony Blair in the rack with Bush 1 and 2 so I’ve asked my pal Lee Hughes to give me the whole wonking truth from across the Atlantic.



The Aussies are still living off our good graces in welcoming Olivia Neutron Bomb lo those many years ago and letting her dance with Travolta. Paul Phillips will give us the view from the penal colony.


What follows are excerpts from my recent chat with these global fellows. Enjoy.

MJS: Does anyone in your country give a rip about the Super Bowl?

PP: We have salad bowls, toilet bowls, lawn bowls, dust bowls and possibly Camilla Parker-Bowles as a future Queen. What is this ‘Super’ Bowl of which you speak?

LH: No one gives a stuff.

DS: It is rarely mentioned, if at all.

MJS: Hmm I see. Well, I believe Football has an entirely different meaning in your country, what do residents there make of "American Football?"

DS: They usually pantomime someone holding a football in tuck position and smile somewhat blankly.

LH: Isn't it like rugby, but with padding and helmets, bunch of girls, your lot.

PP: We can make a hat, a submarine, a telescope...sorry, what was the question?

MJS: Moving along, Does anyone there have any idea where Indianapolis is located?

LH: Somewhere North of Mexico and South of Alaska?

PP: Isn’t that the place where race car drivers go around and around and around a square track and the winner is the last driver to fall asleep from boredom?

DS: It would take me, on average, ten minutes of intense oral work just to teach them how to say Indianapolis, and the next session would find the word removed from short term and long term memory banks.

MJS: Oh my. Good thing it wasn’t Minnesota then! OK. Will the game even be televised there? What time?

PP: Due to the massive popularity of the sport, it will more than likely be shown in August.

DS: No idea. I suspect there will be a broadcast on one of the Hong Kong stations and the westerner-owned bars in town will broadcast it and have a super bowl party attended mostly by ex-pats and their students.

LH: I think it's shown on an obscure sports channel on satellite telly.

MJS: That’s good to know! Do people watch (other than Americans)?

DS: Ex-pats and their students.

LH: Never heard anyone saying, "Did you watch the game last night, that linebacker was shit.

PP: Do people watch what? Oh, the football? Let me just run around and do a quick survey....just a minute....you still there?

MJS: I’m starting to get the picture. Are there "Super Bowl" Parties? What types of special foods are enjoyed while watching American Football?

PP: I am guessing that this is some sort of “Tupperware Party” equivalent. I think they have cake and cookies.

LH: There are no "Super Bowl" parties, sounds like a Tupperware gathering.

DS: There are three westerner bars in my town that I am aware of. Two are owned by the same guy, A Canadian, the other is owned by a German. The Canadian owned bars will offer Super Bowl parties along with food specials that scratch the culinary surface of the event, chicken wings without the great sauce, French fries, baked not fried, maybe pizza but low on the cheeses and again, no great sauce or even decent crust. There will be ample beer at super-inflated prices and of course, peanuts. It’s the one thing they got right here in China. Peanuts. The German guy will probably broadcast the game but you won’t be able to hear it over the Philippine rock band mangling a mix of classic rock and reggae.

MJS: Kind-of a Rasta event, perfect for Miami. Bob Marley rules! In the US, the commercials (advertisements) that debut on the Super Bowl are as much a tradition as the game itself and are usually quite entertaining - Does this tradition carry over to your country?

DS: Nope. The Chinese watching the ads would probably not get it since most of the ads are sort of like inside jokes.

LH: No the advertisers would rather seek a more important commercial spot between segments of Coronation Street.

PP: Oh yes, the commercials make the game even more (yawn!) exciting...honest!!

MJS: Observations on the game from you?

PP: More body protection than the Riot Squad, a breather after every play so the ‘athletes’ can have a rest, television time—outs so the sponsors can push their products, half-time entertainment (I use that word loosely) from has-been or never-were musicians. Sounds like a great waste of 4 hours!!!

LH: As said previously, a girls version of rugby.

DS: When in the US I enjoyed watching the game with friends, paid marginal attention to the regular season. One year I was involved in a football pool at work and I had Peyton Manning as my QB. I always liked that guy.

MJS: Yes and you like burnt toast too I suppose. Finally, Your predicted winner and score.

DS: Colts by 14

PP: Product Sales +50% - Entertainment Value 0

LH: New York Yankees 7 – L.A Lakers 3

And there you have it! He ....could.....go...all...the...wayyyy (to sleep)!

Geaux Saints! Who dat? 

(c) 2010 ~ Author Michael J. Solender with the global guys

What can we say AT THE BIJOU about our gallant guru pal ~ colleague of knowledge and wit aboard the mighty HARBINGER*33, and in the world as we know it? That he's the catcher of the wry? Well there's nothing we can say that Michael J Solender (J for Joy or surely you Joust?), hasn't said a thousand times over at his notable NOT. Michael would want me to unshamefully plug, plug, plug you to venture a tried and true trek over there ~ it's the neighbourhood saloon just up the street from AT THE BIJOU. So go, see ... feel ... laugh ... nod at the NOT ... get grin ... sometimes even sensate within.

As for those other mocking-my-sport boys? Ahhh, come back to Double*Feature Tuesday and get a load of how zenful friend Daniel Stine of the mighty HARBINGER*33 lifts the red curtain to write and chime out. The out-landish Lee and Paul? You'll see them all here folks, AT THE BIJOU. They're dashing and daring, smashing and caring Coming*Attractions ~ how could it be otherwise?

THANKS, YOU GREAT
(non-gridiron) GUYS!

~ Absolutely Steeler*Kate

and the staff of renown, AT THE BIJOU