Crap . . .

art by Ben Rosen

Fred McDoughnut, 2h ago
What is this crap doing on Next Door? No relation to this neighborhood. Hope the leader gets rid of this quickly.


Dear Mr. McDoughnut,

I am deeply sorry to interrupt your happy little bulletin board/trading post. My, obviously erroneous, thought was simply that the Next Door social media website was where local folk would interact with each other in a multitude of ways about a multitude of things.  I only tried to spark a little thought, bring a little levity, and bring some music to the forum. Well, BOY!, was I wrong. I now realize that Next Door is ONLY for discussing endocrinologists, life  insurance, used coffee tables, surveys about using ladders, bogus utility representatives, used wall ovens and king size beds. I most certainly stand corrected by your kind words and diplomatic approach to my such offensive material. My bad! No need to have "'the leader' get rid of this quickly," you need not worry about having to experience it again.  I only have one question for you though, sir. . . do you still beat your wife?

Sincerely

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Striving . . .

In a pocket-neighborhood sandwiched between the rolling hills of a 100 acre cemetery and a can manufacturing factory stood the rows upon rows of little brick houses joined at the hip, providing shelter for a multitude of lower, middle-class and mostly blue-collar families, straddling the border of the 'big' city to the west. It was here that our protagonist lived the initial twenty-two years of his life learning about the world, in general, and learning about music. It's only now, after the passing of an additional thirty-eight, and additional learning about the world, in general, and about music, that he speaks through the music, as if it were second nature or even purely instinctual, about events, observations, people, places, emotions, wants, needs, pleasures and pains that have transpired throughout the entire period. Only now, the process of codifying, recording or documenting, if you will, the vignettes of music and lyrics, has somehow become more difficult whether due to a dearth of uncommitted hours or simply an impediment brought about by advancing years or even waning talent. It's not that a desire does not lie beneath the surface of a, what some may label, mundane existence, because surely he does not view his presence on this orb mundane by any means.  It seems that the entire process is interrupted, more often than not, by other things and that although the intent is to return to that divine pass-time to complete individual, pre-meditated works, the reality is that only on rare occasions is completion now actually accomplished. He does, however, spontaneously create constantly and prolifically, telling tales of bold, juvenile adventures, characters of shady as well as honorable reputations, encounters with wonders of nature, lessons culled from a multitude of days now spent an memories which elicit a gamut of emotions both mature and not. 

Way It Is

©2016 Raymond M. Jozwiak

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No Shortage. . .

. . . of tragedies in this world. . .


(from wikipedia.com)
". . . (Lee) Morgan was killed in the early hours of February 19, 1972, at Slug's Saloon, a jazz club in New York City's East Village where his band was performing. Following an altercation between sets, Morgan's common-law wife Helen More (a.k.a. Morgan), shot him. The injuries were not immediately fatal, but the ambulance service was reluctant to go into the neighborhood where the club was located. They took so long to get there that Morgan bled to death. He was 33 years old. According to an eyewitness, Miss More (13 years his senior) walked out of the club just before the last set. She returned and the band was already on stage. Lee was trying to get up there, but was talking with some people. He just started to get up the stage, when she entered and called his name. He turned around and she shot him. She then turned the gun on the club's doorman Ernie Holman, who grabbed her wrist and took the gun away from her. She started to scream, "Baby, what have I done?" and ran to him. She was later committed to a mental institution for some time. Soon after, Helen Morgan returned to her native North Carolina. Reportedly she never spoke publicly of the incident, until she granted an interview a month before her death. She died in Wilmington, NC, from a heart condition, in March 1996. . . "

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Good. . .

. . . news (for a change). . .

(By Yvonne Wenger, The Baltimore Sun)
". . . As a Friday deadline approaches, advocates are working to find housing for the homeless men and women living at a Baltimore encampment set to be cleared.

Christina Flowers, president of Belvedere Homes, stopped by the site between Interstate 83 and the Fallsway on Wednesday with a promise to find housing for those who want it. She said her organization secured a three-bedroom house in the Harwood neighborhood to accommodate six of the roughly 18 men and women at the encampment.

"At this point, it's just about being able to move forward," said Flowers, whose organization on North Charles Street provides housing for those who are homeless, suffer from disabilities or have a mental illness. "We've got the building; now we need the sheets and dishes."

  Flowers worked with other community advocates to identify open rooms for the camp residents, most of whom refused to go to a city emergency shelters for various reasons, including safety concerns.

The housing will be available permanently for those who want it, but they'll have to contribute money each month if they have income, such as disability benefits, Flowers said. . ."

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