DON'T BYPASS THE PIE PASS ~ A Delicious Double*Duo Serving

 Back again ~ ~ because the recipe was thaaaat good . . . 

It's so "last season" as NFL'memories go, but still mighty fine and delicious and someone left the cake out in the rain . . . so we punted . . . and went for the pie. My oh My, you gotta go for the pie . . . 

AUTUMN HAS FALLEN ~ Pic ala Kevin H

DON'T BYPASS THE PIE PASS

~ By Absolutely*Kate and Harry B Sanderford

deliciously tangoing with the tangle of long yarns

SUMPTUOUS SANDERFORD SENSATIONS

~ A double*feature duet,
at the pen and in the kitchen ~

Ray Charles was doing what Ray Charles does best in the background. 

Though Ben and Brett had Georgia on their mind with the way the Giants had plucked a few feathers out of the Falcon's strut, these brawny boys were more into staging the mess'around as they worked together in Ben's mom's kitchen back in Findlay, Ohio. Brett threw eggs with only a bare moment's notice of, "Go long, Ben -- go long." With a few yolks cracking up, the yucks kept coming, as recipe book after Ma Roethlisberger's recipe book was yanked down from the high shelf the boys had no trouble reaching. When Hit the Road Jack came on, Brett looked up at the winking Felix the Cat clock over the kitchen sink and shovel-passed the Domino's brown sugar bag hard, fast and down low with a swift muttered, "Here we go again."

"You don't know me", Ben sputtered over the oooomph to his gut, "if you thought that one would get by. Now come on, let's make this pecan pie."  

“Me come on? You don’t have to tell me Big, I’m the one who has to get to Detroit before kickoff.”, the horn-hat QB defended.   

“I can’t believe you are going to that game after the homecoming the cheeseheads gave you a couple of weeks ago. Besides, you know you aren’t going to find anything remotely resembling a home cooked Thanksgiving dinner in Motown.”

Brett, being the comeback king of not just QB historee, but lyric quips rile'valry, stirred nuts into the stickey goo, while informing Ben, "I have a way to survive - I'm taking one of these pies as my carry-on luggage.”  

“Brett your mama might make the best pecan pie way down the Mississippi but around here we like to run ‘em through the oven before they go down down down that road. So fill ‘er up, let’s roll...”, Ben sang as he spun around holding out two empty pie shells for Brett to ladle full with the lumpy brown goo. 

Brett scraped the bowl clean and popped the oven door open for Ben who, careful not to fumble, made the completion setting the first and then the second down with plenty of time left on the Felix The Cat clock. High fives were in order followed by the opening of beers.

Big Ben took a sip and asked his possible Super Bowl foe just why he was going to Detroit to watch his former team. The team whose fans had showed a short memory and such bad manners to him only weeks prior.

“Because I’ve been a fortunate man and I’m grateful,” he said without a hint of ire. Then that shit-eating Brett Favre grin overtook his face and he added, “You know John Madden won’t be there with his eight legged turkey this year. I figured those boys might just like some pie.” The two gridiron good guys clinked beers as Junior Brown hung it up sending them both into a kitchenwide air guitar frenzy.

'Bout this time, Mrs Roethlisberger stepped into the disarray display gaining yardage in her usually well kept kitchen, and fondly one'upped both grown boys as the radio flaired out some lyrically high quality Beatles, in fine GameDay finesse of her own. "All together now, you rockstars had best clean up your creation mess. Any time at all, it doesn't take a fool on a hill or in the stadium nosebleed seats to know receivers have to get back and let our fave Favre score. Sure Brett, you take an extra pie down that long and winding road. Just put the word out around both leagues, to burly, brusque, behemoth defenders, keep your hands off my baby!"

“You got it Mrs. R.” Brett winked and kissed her cheek before twirling her around the kitchen floor.

"Happy Thanksgiving!"

FROM ABSOLUTELY*KATE

AND PIE-MAKING HARRY B SANDERFORD

with the thankfulness of

double-featured writing companions

and always inspiration

THANKS BE TO YOU

  IN WARM JOYS

(and good messy kitchens)

WISDOM IS COOL ~ Pic ala Oskay

Thanksgiving dinners take eighteen hours to prepare. They are consumed in twelve minutes. 

 
Half-times take twelve minutes. This is not coincidence.

~ Erma Bombeck ... 

from Harry's refrigerator magnet collection

~ where truth is cool
 

 { click she and he when you're hankering to read more }

~ Absolutely*Kate hangs out AT THE BIJOU 

swinging noir and flashin' fiction

and recording inspiration when she bumps into it 

~ Harry B Sanderford surfs his own super outta site site,

is a headliner and a showstopper  AT THE BIJOU 

and sometimes a farmers' markets afficiando

( though why he needs to buy a farmer, I'll never know ) 

 

COILS OF GOLD ~ By Debbie Lamedman ~ Broadway bound!

                                 SPECTACULAR PHOTO BY DAMIAN ARVETIS INSPIRED THIS TALE

COILS OF GOLD
By ~ Debbie Lamedman

I had a stink on me. The stink of desperation. It was palpable. No job, no money, no man. I hadn’t gotten laid in a year. Hadn’t worked in two. The stink rolled off me in waves. People were definitely keeping their distance.
 
I needed to escape my self-made prison. The walls were closing in, constantly reminding me how small my world had become. That apartment, once a bohemian portal that had been open to festivities, frivolities, and provocative inhabitants from all walks of life, had suddenly and inexplicably sealed up. I didn’t want to see anyone, but I couldn’t isolate anymore either. I had to get out.
 
I knew where I needed to go. I needed to take a walk someplace where I could breathe. Not be suffocated by the throngs of people that crawled over this city like ants on a discarded ice cream cone. I turned my car south and headed where I hoped would be sanctuary. There was a dusty old street that ran behind the railroad tracks in the historic part of a little beach town. It was off-season and mid week and there would be little to no tourists. It was the perfect escape.
 
The day was brisk and gray. Early morning brought the workers out; the smell of bacon and coffee hung in the air as the coffee shops prepared to start their day. I also detected the scent of shit. Trash men, wearing gloves and emptying dumpsters nodded to me as I walked by. They had stink on them too. I was one of them. The trees alongside the path created a canopy of greenery. The leaves rustled slightly when an insignificant breeze whistled through them. I shivered. I felt so tired. Even my escape could not bring escape. I walked on.
 
I heard the strumming of some type of string instrument dimly coming from down the road. I squinted my eyes against the gray glare and in the distance I saw a tall, shadowy figure sitting on the right side of the path. I couldn’t see much else, but the music was eerie and slightly intoxicating and it beckoned to me like the Sirens.
 
As I approached, I saw her sitting on a milk crate playing her oddly crafted guitar. I felt like I was looking at an optical illusion. I took in everything. The bright colored scarf wrapped around her head revealed remnants of hair the color of coal. The carefully crafted tapestries hung in a row behind her weaved with purple, lilac, green and black thread. They looked thick and sturdy and exquisitely made.
 
I stopped directly in front of her and listened to her play. She seemed to be looking through me. At first I thought she might be blind. But she knew I was there. Never wavering, continuing to play her haunting tune.
 
She was decorated with silver bracelets up and down both arms. Silver rings adorned her fingers. Two clusters of white stones dangled from her earlobes. But the most magnificent thing about this creature; and there was no doubt in my mind, she was a creature, were the coils of gold wrapped around her neck. And her Cleopatraesque neck was sitting at least 10 inches off her shoulders. A long, graceful, powerful neck which appeared to be floating above her body. She was out of place, looking like a character from a circus sideshow, not someone who would be sitting by the side of the road in a cozy little coastal town.
 
Her fingers never stopped plucking her instrument and I was mesmerized.
 
“You like-a music?” she asked.
 
Her shrill voice pierced the day. An unusual voice thick with suggestions of exotic faraway places. It took me off guard. I did not respond immediately, so she repeated her question.
 
“You like it? Music?”
 
“Yes,” I answered, surprised at my own breathlessness. “I like it very much.”
 
“You buy?”
 
“Excuse me?”
 
“You buy,” she stated matter-of-factly.
 
She stopped playing, and moved off the crate with grace and dexterity. She reached behind her and carefully pulled down one of the tapestries. Her hands moved smoothly over the fabric, presenting it to me as if she were giving me a gift. Then she said, “Five dolla.”
 
I thought she was going to smile, but she kept her manner dignified. She wasn’t interested in making a friend. She was engaging in a business transaction.
 
“It’s beautiful. Really. But I can’t. I’m sorry. I don’t…I can’t…” I stuttered. Losing whatever composure I may have had.
 
“Is okay. You broke. I know.”
 
“You know?”
 
“I smell you. I know.”
 
She was freaking me out, but I couldn’t move. What else did she know?
 
“You come back. Yes? More music I play. Next time you buy. Five dolla for bootiful thing. Yes? Good. Now you go.”
 
She returned the tapestry to its hanging position, and sat down on the crate in such a manner, it might as well have been a throne. I remained frozen. Staring at her. Wondering how she seemed so at peace. Wanting what she had.
 
“Bye bye,” she said. “Now you go.” I was dismissed.
 
A flicker around the corners of her mouth appeared as she looked at me. But no smile ever came. And her expression could not be defined. She started strumming the same haunting tune as she majestically turned away from me. The sounds of the strings released me from my momentary comatose state. I continued walking down the path away from this woman. This woman with her sixth sense and her third eye. I knew there would be no next time. If I did return, I knew like I knew my own name that she would not be there. Not next time. Not ever. I knew this. And as I walked away, the music becoming fainter and fainter I knew what I had to do. I had to go home and wash the stink off me. It was time. I was ready.

(c) 2010 ~ Author Debbie Lamedman

Photographer Damian Arvetis

Playwright Debbie Lamedman is back AT THE BIJOU with her showcased tale, come what May . . . along with a sparkling spotlight announcement for a perfect day in May ~ She's going Off Off Broadway with her talents! 

Yes folks, you heard it here first ~ In over 880 submitted overwhelming plays from around the world, the BIJOU's very own cheered on Playwright Debbie has made it to the top 40 finalists of  ~ WAIT! Her taxi just arrived ~ Heeeeere's Debbie ~~~

PLAYWRIGHT DEBBIE LAMEDMAN: YES Absolutely*Kate! I just found out that one of my 10-minute plays was accepted into the 35th Annual Off Off Broadway Samuel French 10-minute play festival.  Over 880 submissions and I made it to the final 40! Miraculous! I'm very excited and now have to plan my trip to NYC in mid July.  Wow!  Didn't see that one coming!

ABSOLUTELY*KATE ~ Tell us more! Tell us more ~ Hey, you're not making this up just because you're such a talented writer, are you?

PLAYWRIGHT DEBBIE: NO Absolutely*Kate! Seeing as I'm so enthusiastically involved with this playwrighting festival, here's a link for ya: SAMUEL FRENCH OFF OFF BROADWAY FESTIVAL as well as how the story broke on BroadwayWorld.com. As I may have mentioned, I'm very excited.  I'm thinking of throwing a bake sale to pay for my plane ticket out there.  Just a thought.  Do you think those ever work?  Do you have any ideas??

ABSOLUTELY*KATE ~ IDEAS! ~ Dear ol' Debbie you've come to the right writers' place. Conference to convene on your breaking Broadway scene. The HARBINGER*33 colleague-ship of sensational authors, some of them screenwriters, have talents and tendencies which soar (and more). AT THE BIJOU showcases writers' raves to become readers' faves. I think I hear your destiny calling you. 

PLAYWRIGHT DEBBIE: Hope the folks who fill the red velvet seats AT THE BIJOU like my story.  Hope you're feeling swell!  Hope you're enjoying your spring in Connecticut!  I stood on the steps of Yale Repertory once and pretended like I was part of it . . . maybe some day . . . who knows?

DEBBIE, AT THE BIJOU IS WISHIN' YOU WELL, 

CHEERING YOU ON SWELL! 

     

We're psyched you'll keep us posted

on how you'll be giving them hell!

AT THE BIJOU

WRITERS' SHOW BIZ IS OUR BIZ!

PLAYWRIGHT DEBBIE LAMEDMAN:

Thanks! Thanks!  Many, many, many Thanks!!!   

I am fully recruited into believing in believers!

  You have made a believer outta me!

     

 MORE on Debbie's posting this success journey at CONFESSIONS OF A CLUTTERED MIND. Do enjoy ~ The noise you hear poppin' is simply, thus strongly, her personal brand of enthusia. (It'll grow on you ~ I assure you. I'm already stirring up masterminds behind the scenes to aid further this talented lady's dreams and schemes.)
 

BAD NEWS FROM OUTER SPACE ~ (or: How I Learned to Love the Pods) ~ By Mike Whitney of Harbinger*33

Bad News from Outer Space

(or: How I Learned to Love the Pods)

~ By Mike Whitney

CUE SOUND! CUE SOUND!

^ CLICK MIKE ^ / ^ CLICK MIKE ^ 

Disclaimer: This title is actually a line from a Bond film, ‘You Only Live Twice’. It was spoken by a flunky to the arch villain: ”Boss, bad news from outer space!” Shamelessly stolen for this homage to a great scary movie from the 1950’s, I - folksinger/songwriter - also turned it into a novelty tune in 1978. 1978 saw the first remake of this science-fiction/horror B classic. Another followed in 1993. Neither film worked as well, partly because sequels seldom succeed, and partly because I was thirteen in 1956.   ~ MW

1956

Impressionable teen in the fifties: Elvis, girls, cars, sports, movies. Movies like ‘The Day the Earth Stood Still’; ‘War of the Worlds’; and ‘INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS’. The original was a creature movie starring your family and friends as the creatures. For fright, nothing from a space ship or the Black Lagoon compared with everyone in town talking in a monotone. This was a perfect film for black and white. People looked like your mom and dad but they seemed to lack any emotional capacity. Director Don Siegel – later known for directing ‘Dirty Harry’ - perhaps thought he was making a propaganda piece depicting the horrors of Communism in the fifties. In an interview he referred to the executives at the studio as pods because they edited out all traces of humor from the film. That’s interesting in retrospect. All I saw then was this little boy about my age running down the road out of town screaming, “That’s not my mommy!” And I was sore afraid.  A mother suddenly drained of all emotional response? No love, no anger, no warnings of what will happen when dad gets home? No joy? Terrifying!

Mary watched her favorite aunt

Sucked feet first inside a plant

When you wake up, we’ll all be the same

If you get bored, your pod’s to blame!

1961

I was then a married teenager. My pregnant teenage wife and I were watching a rerun of the film. In five short years, fear had taken on new meaning as our hero Kevin McCarthy stared in horror at his true love from high school, Dana Wynter. To sleep is to be taken over. She had finally fallen asleep and become a pod. I snuck a glance at my wife's growing belly. My thoughts exactly: we have both turned into characters from a B movie. What greater horror could the future hold?

Your double grows from a big seed pod

It takes your mind, and then it takes your bod

From pain and hunger we'll all be free

Come on, pod! See about me!

1978

I was living in Houston when the first sequel appeared. A good cast including early Jeff Goldblum. As usual when Hollywood shows us the monsters instead of letting us imagine them, special effects shock quickly turns to boredom. Pod Donald Sutherland pointing at sole survivor Brooke Adams and uttering the pod squawk in the final scene neatly summed up my critique of the film as well as the Urban Cowboy craze sweeping Gilley’s Bar. First, Saturday Night Fever discoids and Bee Gee ‘bots, now cocaine cowboy cyborgs. Would the seventies ever end?

Your pod will get you. Don’t fight. Don’t weep.

They take over when you go to sleep.

No more feelings, peace there'll be

I can't wait till they get to me

1993

Abel Ferrara directed the third version. ‘Body Snatchers’ was set on an army base where everyone follows orders. Thus, figuring out who the pod people are is all the tougher. But in the wake of ’Terminator2 – Judgment Day, the film lacked any originality or shock value. In February, the World Trade Center was first bombed. Life in these United States quietly and dramatically changed. In June, the film was released in France, but not shown in the United States until January of ’94. I hit the big five-0 this year, and Clinton was dancing on television as the Dow went out of sight.

What if Pod was one of us

Just a pod on the bus

1996

ATLANTA-- July 29, 1996 (ENN) - The FBI said on Sunday that they were pursuing several promising leads to find who was responsible for the bombing in Centennial Park on Saturday morning. 

It’s been forty years and how the pods have grown

They’ve taken over government, big business and they’ve shown

You don’t need emotion to run the seed pod race-

Better keep on eye on the sky for bad news from outer space!

2002

As war looms on the horizon once more, it occurred to me this might be a good time to watch for a rerun of the original ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’. Pods without emotions might be a nice antidote to religious fanatics. 

Ambulance Driver: Yeah, Doc, there was a nasty accident out on the interstate.

Dr. Bassett: Bad one, eh?

Ambulance Driver: Yeah, a truck and a car collided. Ya know, it was kinda funny... the truck was carrying a load of the strangest-looking seed pods.

“Mary, come quick! Out here in the garden. Down here by the tomatoes. You see that six foot zucchini-lookin’ thing?It looks just like you.  It’s got your eyes! Look! They blinked! I don’t think we ought to water that one any more, Mary. Mary? Speak to me! Mary!”

You load 16 pods, what do you get…

Hit the road, pod, 

and don’t you come back no more no more

No more no more.

Hit the road, Pod and don’t you come back no more.

Everybody knew you didn’t give no lip

To Big Pod, Big Bad Pod

Bad news from outer space

Peace on earth for the whole pod race

© 2002 by Mike Whitney

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

For a free MP3 of the author

performing ‘Bad News From Outer Space’

in a live performance, send an e mail to: 

 mikelwhitney@gmail.com

Or visit him online at STAYONTHEHILL

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

No salesman will call, no spam or virus will infect your computer, and no pods will appear in your basement or in the trunk of your car. Because It’s too late!

They’re ALREADY HERE!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

WHAT DO YOU SAY ABOUT A MOVIES and MUSIC MAN LIKE MIKE? That he was influenced by the Beatles, Firesign Theater, Leon Redbone, John Prine and Gordon Lightfoot? That he's a writer and a showman and an Indie musician born outta Chicago with the razzamatazz to prove it ... til he classed up his act even more as an Ohio boy now making music with his lady love in the North Carolina hills?

Well sure . . . all of that good, good, good vibrations hype as well as since his 1971 novelty single, Hard to Be Hip and My Best Friend was released, Mike Whitney has written songs and played professionally, from 1970 to 2003. Since then, he has released 3 albums of live and studio recordings. He has a new CD, Temporary Sanity at CD Baby.com and two others. http://cdbaby.com/cd/whitney4  

 

But there's more than high entertainment
where Mike's concerned . . . 

There's the kind of character in this character
you're just honoured (along with 3 million others)
to call "friend".

I do. I am . . . Honoured.

Thanks Mike for this share of pods sweet pods,
be they ever so humble.

~ Absolutely*Kate

and our very fine staff of renown

* AT THE BIJOU *

IN THE DOG HOUSE ~ By Paul D. Brazill of Harbinger*33

IN THE DOG HOUSE

By ~ Paul D. Brazill

  

Bonny is volcanic. She’s so angry that she can hardly speak but, unfortunately for me, hardly is the operative word. As she tries to scrub the blood stains from my best white shirt, she goes on and on about the meal she’d cooked the night before and how long it had taken her to cook it. She keeps asking me over and over again if I want to live on burgers all my life and why, if I’m going to spend all of my time hanging around a dirty warehouse with a bunch of psychos that look like Blues Brothers rejects, I can't at least pick up the phone and call to say I’ll be home late.

My head is hurting, my stomach is rumbling and I’m tired. Bonny is starting to sound like a duck quack quack quacking, so I turn on the radio hoping it isn’t more ‘Sounds of the Seventies’, as I’ve really had my fill of that shit the last few days. The DJ’s monotone drone introduces some LA band destroying a Neil Diamond classic so I switch it off again.

  

Noticing that the heat from Bonny’s eruption has started to cool down, I present her with a bag containing the proceeds of my recent job. When she sees the rare coins in the bag, Bonny’s jaw drops so much you could scrape carpet fluff from it and she lets rip with a string of expletives, so strong that they would even make the young Eddie Murphy blush. Almost tearing off her nurse’s uniform, she runs toward me screaming like a banshee.

Afterwards, when I know that it’s safe, I suggest that maybe we could go out for something to eat. We could even try that Hawaiian burger joint that’s just opened up nearby. Hands on hips, Bonny laughs and says, okay, as long as I promise not to wear that dumb Speed Racer t-shirt that makes me look like a nerd.

Anything you say, I reply and start to walk into the bathroom before stopping and saying that, shit, if the service in that restaurant is any good today, I might even leave a tip. 

(c) 2009, Author Paul D. Brazill 
Originally appeared at Powder Burn Flash in January 2009

One of the founding authors, Opening Night AT THE BIJOU, PAUL D. BRAZILL is always a thriller ~ inimitably charming, to some disarming, but never reported harming ~ that's just his cast of rough'tough characters.  The prolific swing'king of noir, as I know it, was after all, Paul. Post-Bogey, I mentored at this bloke's wide mind of how what one doesn't see really could be. He makes it so. I think his Montblanc smokes, giving further atmospheric light. 

Rumours rampant across the pond of a novel and a big agent in NYC? You're going to have to pester Paul - you never heard it from me. Paul claims he has been lucky enough (he's humble too), to have had stories in A Twist Of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, The Legendary, Beat To A Pulp, Thriller Killers n Chillers, Blink Ink, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Shoots & Vines, Six Sentences and Flashshots. His print published work is in the book Six Sentences Volume Two and the Finnish magazine Ässä.(ACE) and coming soon, Bats In The Belfry - Halloween Anthology edited by Anne Frasier and Radgepacket 4 from Byker Books. Watch for Paul's noir to rock the reader-ship of HARBINGER*33, heralding the greatness of 33 authors along the horizons of their deserving destinies.

Paul Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and lives in Bydgoszcz, Poland. He has absolutely nothing to do with the shooting of Liberty Valance, nor the monkey purported to be hung in the renown of his town. He can be found stalking at ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ 

~ Na zdrowie Paul, with FairWinds, Favourable Seas
~ Absolutely*Kate and fine staff of renown, AT THE BIJOU