Circa 1000 A.D.

The Viking longboat slid through the icy waters of Dan, silent but for the rhythm of the oarsmen and the creaking of the crude planks.

Leif Eiriksson stood at the bow, gazing off to the west, though all he could see was mist and fog. Just as his father Eirik had been an explorer and the discoverer of Greenland, so Leif hoped this voyage would find new lands for his people. The ship cleared the fjord, the mast was raised, and the winds and the gods took over.

Leif grabbed one of the thralls and said, “Bring me your mistress, the prophetess, to throw the bones.”

The seer, in her long robe encrusted with precious stones, held her staff up to the sky and called out, “Oh Allfather, great One-Eye, help us to safely cross the great waters on this voyage. Redbeard Thor, send us an easy wind.” Then, as the others crowded around, she cast her bones and twigs on the wooden deck.

To the thralls and the freemen, it was just a scattering of bones marked with runes, but to the prophetess, they held great meaning. Just then, one of Odin’s ravens flew past. “We will find a great new land filled with forests and game, but I also see a great battle.”

Leif looked into her ancient, clouded eyes. “Ragnarok?” he asked.

“No, not Ragnarok,” she answered, “but a battle to rival it. I must cast the runes to discover the name of the battle.” She threw down the bones again, and then, studying the runes, her brow furrowed. ” The runes say the battle will be known as…Superbowl 51.”

Women are powerful beings, although many of them are unaware of their power because they’ve been subjugated by men their entire life. And why do men do this to women? Out of fear; us men know of women’s power.

Imagine Big, bad, weight-lifting, 350 pound Baba in the visiting room at prison. He’s feared through-out the prison–he’s doing life with no parole–and when he walks by, the toughest men cringe. And now, a bent over little old lady, all of 80 pounds, slaps him hard across the face, and all he does is say, “Sorry mama, I’ll try not to cuss again.” That women wields enormous power.

The writers of old tried to “keep women in their place” too. A woman was made from the rib of a man. A woman was responsible for the downfall of mankind. A woman’s testimony is worth half a man’s (Islam), the list goes on and on. Personally, I’m not afraid of women, I adore them, such awesome creatures! May they embrace their incredible power.

A single bead of sweat rolled down my back as I stood motionless, peering through the rifle scope for any sign of red. There was only one mall Santa left, and he was hiding out somewhere in the clothes racks of the men’s department. I radioed for the canine unit, and when he showed up, I waved a candy cane in front of his nose and sent him in.

In seconds, he was snarling and yanking the Santa out by his boot. There was a flurry of red and white and brown, and then, there it was: the shot. I lowered the cross-hairs on him and pulled the trigger. I plugged him right in the bowl full of jelly, and his pipe hit the floor a second before he did. The last mall Santa was down! The war on Christmas was finally over!

As a bartender, I’ve seen it all, heard it all. I’ve heard the most intimate confessions from a dizzying spectrum of drunken humans. I’ve heard their fears and deepest darkest secrets. It’s amazing what a few shots of truth serum bring out in otherwise well-guarded people. Most of them are harmless; just lonesome, or sort of lost, it seems. I don’t have a gun, but I have a hammer under the bar. I figure a couple of half-moons in someone’s forehead ought to slow them down, if need be.

Some people, you don’t know what to think of them. Like this guy last night. He sat there the whole night quietly  sipping brandy cokes, until it was almost closing time. Then, with just us two left in the place, he lifts his glass and blurts out, ” A toast! A toast for my brother Danny!”

I poured up a tapper, clinked it against his, and drained it. It was like a sauna in there, and the cold beer felt good all the way down.

“My big brother Danny,” he slurred, obviously quite intoxicated, “who died with a smile on his face and a funnel up his ass!”

Now the BS in a bar on a Saturday night can get pretty deep, but bartenders hear so much of it, it’s like we have hip-waders on, and we’re immune to it–but this one caught my attention. “A funnel…up…what?” I stammered.

“His ass,” he replied, and, finally making eye contact, ” a funnel up his ass…and I put it there.”

“Okay,” I said, “you got me. Let’s hear it.” I poured him  another drink, and pulled up a stool. “This one’s on the house.”

And there we sat drinking together til 5:00 AM. I make it a rule to not do that very thing with drunken patrons, but this guy really needed a drinking partner last night.

He told me how his big brother Danny gave him his first sip of booze at 12 years old (a scenario that would play over and over through the years), and how they’d raid the old man’s wineracks in the cellar, pouring out half the wine and filling the bottles with water and kool-aid. And getting in trouble with the police as teens, DWI’s, unplanned parenthood, and then marriage.

You would’ve thought that marriage would’ve put an end to his and his brother’s epic drinking binges, but alcohol was their real mistress (and a harsh one at that), and their marriages went the same way everything does for a drunk: away.

He and Danny moved in together in an old trailer out of town and proceeded to drink themselves into oblivion, month after month, year after year, “living” on Danny’s disability check he received for arthritis. Danny was still taking care of him. And everything was great. Until the cancer, of course.

Last year, Danny got stomach cancer and it had spread like wildfire. Last week, he was no longer able to keep any booze in his guts long enough to get drunk. And so he didn’t want to live anymore. He begged his little brother to kill him. Or find a way to get some alcohol in him. A needle, a brandy enema, ANYTHING!

At first he refused, but after some deep thought, he said, “Okay Danny, drop your shorts.” He went into the house and returned with a funnel. Danny seemed to come alive. He propped a pillow under Danny’s bare ass, and inserted the funnel. Then, he poured half the bottle in.

Danny’s body began to slump immediately, and a huge smile spread across his face. He mouthed a “thank you”, and lapsed into unconsciousness. A few minutes later, he stopped breathing, the smile still on his face.

“That’s quite a story,” I said when he finally finished, “but I gotta say you should have known that half a quart of brandy up his rear would kill him.”

He finished his drink, turned to me, and said, “I knew, mister, I knew.”

Provocative

Prolific

Passionate

Peculiar

Psychedelic

Performer

Poetic

Peerless

Perverse

Pensive

Perfect

Partier

Punk

Purple

Paisley Park

Prince

 

You find yourself barreling down Alcohol Avenue toward the hospital dead ahead. Its all green lights, pedal-to-the-metal, full tilt. There are cars at your sides so you can’t turn off even if you want to, and you say to yourself, how did I get here again?
You remember driving down Sobriety Lane away from the hospital. You had crossed Denial Street and even Anxiety Way successfully and with great expectations. Then you suddenly hung a left on Just One Street, and found out that it led to a left-turn-only intersection with the teeming, noisy traffic of Alcohol Avenue, and now, here you are, once again, about to turn your pleasant, afternoon cruise into an ambulance ride.

Whose plants these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To grab some bud and do some blow.

 

My little horse must think I’m queer

To sit here staring at his rear,

Between the blow and tender bud,

The stonedest evening of the year.

 

He gives his hairy balls a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound’s the sweep

Of smoking weed and snorting flake.

 

It’s lovely here beside the patch,

But I have all these buds to stash,

And miles to go before I crash,

And miles to go before I crash.

…ah, just sitting around with my son listening to Star Talk. Neil’s going on about the consequences of flatulence in space. It’s a slow Friday night, but I picked up a new book from the library today, which, along with the Sunday Paper Supercrossword, should see me through the weekend.

Also, I’m looking foreword to taking a little hike up to the top of a nearby mine dump, where I recently discovered soft, brightly-colored iron ore rocks that can be easily crushed to a fine powder. The colors range from brilliant yellow to orange to bright red. I’m going to bring some baggies and try to get a substantial amount of maybe four distinct colors (which could be mixed to make different hues). Then, I’m going to mix them up with egg-whites the way the early artists did, and try to paint a mining scene. Maybe.

I’m also making some willow wands. I wish I still had my drill so I could put a feather inside them. Maybe I’ll try to make one with a skull carved into the handle. That diamond willow (it’s everywhere around here) can really look nice sanded like glass and polyurethaned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

–by Michael Jordahl