Jack Diddley - Chapter Three

Her eyes were strangely doll-like, lifeless. Dark pupils, dilated wide open, staring straight upward as if watching the slow-turning ceiling fan above her with intense curiosity. Pupils surrounded by almost supernatural looking, ice blue retinas. There was too much eyeliner, but it suited her. The sculpted eyebrows were perfect, with just enough light brown shadow below them, highlighting heavy lids. The whites of her eyes showed a hint of bloodshot, like she hadn’t gotten enough sleep the night before. There were no blemishes, bruises, or marks of any kind on her flawless, alabaster white facial skin, save for the small entrance wound on the right temple. A small trickle of blood had run down the side of her face, past her ear pooling on the white tile floor of the bathroom. The wound was quite possibly from a .22 caliber weapon or small stabbing implement. It was as if she had just finished putting on her makeup for an evening on the town with some wealthy boyfriend or suitor. The eyeliner pencil was still in her manicured white hand, grasped by slender fingers with nails painted dark red, like the roses in the vase on her dressing table nearby.The polish matching the lipstick on her full lips. She wore no rings of any sort. There was a thin, gold braid necklace and ruby pendant lying on the floor by her left hand. It appeared to be broken. The dark purple, satin evening gown fit her hourglass figure perfectly. It was slightly low-cut at the neckline, revealing ample breasts. She appeared to be about 25 years old, Caucasian, long, wavy black hair...and those ice blue eyes.

I stood over her for a minute or two, stepping aside from time to time while the police photographer continued his chores. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She was a pretty girl, not gorgeous, but very appealing in a Betty Paige pinup girl sort of way.

“What are you doing in here, Diddley?, the gruff male voice from behind me chided, “Take a hike!”

I turned around to see police Sergeant Elmore Wagner leaning against the door frame to the bathroom, arms crossed, that perpetual constipated look on his ruddy, unshaven face. He wore his usual cheap, corduroy Sears sport coat, unbuttoned, revealing a wrinkled white shirt and tie, covering a bulbous, keg-like belly that concealed his belt buckle. The tie only reached about halfway down his torso. The shirt collar was open revealing a fat, sweaty neck...he never could get that collar buttoned. His mismatched trousers appeared too long over the well-worn wing tips. Elmore was a 50-ish, unkempt fat cop with a full head of wavy, black hair always in need of a trim. The fingernails on his chubby little hands chewed down to the nubs. It seemed he was constantly biting his nails then spitting them out in your direction.

Uncrossing his arms, he pointed a plump index finger in my direction, “You...out!”

“C’mon, Elmo”, I responded, “Gimme a break. I’m just doing my job”.

“Your job? Your job?”, he questioned, “What job? You write shitty pulp fiction crime novels and articles for those Hollywood gossip rags”. His fat face instantly turning a deeper shade of red, thick-lidded eyes opening wider. If he wasn’t so fat, you would have been able to see veins popping out in his neck. “And stop calling me Elmo”, he scolded, “to you...I’m Sergeant Wagner!”

“All right, all right”, I said feigning concern, “how about Sergeant Elmo?”

“There’s the door, Diddley”, he ordered, “don’t touch anything on your way out!” He moved that plump index finger to his mouth and chewed off another piece of what was left of the nail. Then, turning his head to the side, spit it out. At least this time he didn’t aim it my direction I thought. Disgusting habit.

I slowly made my way past my favorite fat police sergeant, throwing him a little smirk and wink on the way by. He shook his shaggy haired head slightly then turned and walked into the bathroom. I stopped for a moment and looked back at the girl lying on the tile floor. I could still see those eyes staring up at the ceiling. The image reminded me of that night in Singapore twenty years earlier. She looked so much like the bar girl who met the same fate. Same dress. Same hair color. Same eyes, save for the fact that the Singapore girl’s eyes were almond-shaped....Asian. Ice blue, Asian eyes. I’ll never forget that.

(To be continued...)

Lest We Forget

It was two years ago today that we lost our Dad, husband, uncle, grandfather, brother, a friend and surrogate father to some.

We still think about you every day!

How's the book going Dad? I know you are writing about some very interesting things.

I will try to be your voice while I am still around.

Your Son.

seven seven 0 seven

All the calendar numbers have lined up once again. It happens once every year the first decade of the new millennium. This year, today, it's 7-7-07. Last year it was 6-6-06. Next year...8-8-08. Big deal! Just one more excuse for marketing geniuses to ply their trade on the unsuspecting public.

I haven't yet read anything relating this day to the 7 Deadlies. You know, the so-called seven deadly sins, capital vices, or cardinal sins...lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, pride. The threat of eternal damnation doesn't seem to be much of a deterrent any longer in this world. And since I've been told by many so-called "practicing" Christian types that I already have a standing reservation you know where, I try not to dwell on these negatives. Besides, the rules of avoidance of these seven behaviors are not governed by the cafeteria system. "Well, I've been real good with avoiding three of them, pretty good about two...and off the wagon on a couple. How's my score?" Apparently, it doesn't work that way. "And the heat...the heat!" Five out of seven ain't bad.

So, in keeping with my efforts to look at the positive side of everything, here is a list of the Seven Holy Virtues. Yes, the seven deadlies have opposites...just like everything else in this universe of ours. The path to righteousness can be found in these seven little words...right?

Chastity...Abstinence...Liberality...Diligence...Patience...Kindness...Humility.

How about trying on these seven behaviors on this seventh day of the seventh month of the seventh year?

Isn't this really The Secret?

Unsafe and Insane?

The old schoolyard joke went something like this...

Do they have the Fourth of July in France? Well, of course they do. They just don't celebrate Independence Day then.

My Fourth of Julys as a child included a family trek to, among other places, Lanark Park in Canoga Park where I grew up. After a day of swimming and barbecuing at home, my Dad, Mom, sisters, and me would throw a few blankets in the trunk of the car and head over to this local park. We would get there early enough to stake out a good spot on the cool grass to watch the fireworks display at dusk. It was free back then, unlike some of the many over-blown so-called patriotic fiascos of late.

The fireworks at the park was a huge family thing for most of our friends. Sometimes we would bring along a cooler and some snacks. It was never anything but safe, fun, and exciting. I felt very secure. Not like some events in recent years requiring police riot squads to quell the unruly intoxicated crowds.

We would sit on our family blankets and wait with great anticipation for the show to begin when it got dark. Everyone would "Ohhh" and "Ahhh" with each colorful explosion in the sky. The smaller children would stand very close to their parents at first. Then, as the pyrotechnics went on, they got a little braver...jumping up and down and squealing with delight after every flash and boom.

Maybe the Fourth of July celebrations back then just seemed more secure and safe. After all, I was just a kid. I was within the safety net of my family. No worries.

As an adult, I've never really "worried" about big Fourth of July public wingdings and fireworks shows. I rarely attended any of them. Now, we just "hunker" down within the safety of our house or front yard and watch the craziness from there. A large contingent of neighbors with illegal fireworks is all around us. Mortars, Roman candles, rockets, and over-size firecrackers start going off before the sun goes down every year. I expect the same tonight. We sit on the lawn with our next door neighbors and gawk at the goings on just a few feet from the "safety" of our homes. Every once in a while, a fire department vehicle cruises by looking for the perpetrators of a recent barrage. They stop, get out of the car, and start asking us questions, "Do you have any illegal fireworks?", "Do you know who was responsible for that last rocket?" Not finding said "illegal fireworks bad guys", the firemen launch into a lecture about how it is illegal to even watch these displays in neighborhoods. "You should report them to the proper authorities!", they scold. Whatever!

The fire department leaves and the "show" commences again. The "bad guys" skulk out from their hiding places in darkened garages and backyards...lighting mortar and rocket fuses, then run back inside soon after they go off...leaving us to incur the next interrogation.

I guess the Fourth of July is all about the rocket's red glare and all. But, for some reason, it seems to have lost its meaning.

Be safe. peace.

Tom Howard

To most of us, the name Tom Howard doesn't strike any chords. But to the people of Turlock, California, it is very recognizable.

I didn't know Tom Howard personally. He passed away on May 15th of this year. To most anyone from Modesto or Turlock who has lived in these parts for any length of time, Tom was an icon of local politics and free speech.

Last Sunday, I had the pleasure of being at Tom Howard's Irish wake at the restaurant where I work. I took the photographs. I also put together a slideshow from scanned photos of Tom. This short blog entry does not do justice to the man's most interesting life. I will attempt to put it all in perspective here in the very near future. It bears much more attention that I can provide at this point. Like I said...I never met Tom Howard. But I got to "know" him just a little by attending his wake last Sunday.

Lemurology 7

Conservative lemur: Ahhh...smell that?

Liberal lemur: Yeah. Smells like burning rain forest.

Conservative lemur: It smells like...progress...like money!

Liberal lemur: But, where are we gonna live soon?

Conservative lemur: Right here...in this preserve that the liberals set aside for us. It's kind of small, but we'll survive. Besides, we get a better view of the city now.

Liberal lemur: Hmmm...guess you're right.

Conservative lemur: I love the smell of burning rain forest in the morning. It smells like...victory!

Liberal lemur: I hate politics!

Lemurology 6

Child lemur: Dad, what are those creatures down there?

Dad lemur: Well, son, those are humans...tourists I believe.

Child lemur: What are they doing here? They're just walking around and staring up at us.

Dad lemur: Tourists are humans who pay a lot of money to look at native fauna in their natural habitat.

Child lemur: How can you tell the difference between tourists and those scientists who are always poking around?

Dad lemur: Because one of them just pointed at us and said, "Look...a meerkat!"

Child lemur: I thought humans were supposed to be smarter than we are!

Dad lemur: That's the theory anyway, son. Just ignore them, they'll be gone soon.