The Postman Always Rings Bad

I suppose there are more terrifying things out there if one looks long and hard enough, but when the postman rings my doorbell, my heart skips a beat.

When I think of THE MAN at my door, I conjure up an image of the jack booted ATF thugs who attacked and murdered members of the Weaver Family at their home in Ruby Ridge, Idaho, in 1992. But since I have no weapons (because someone STOLE mine), no meth lab, and no green house for growing illegal plants (other than the 10,000 little Vicodin plants in my underground lab), I have no need to fear THAT MAN. Or do I?

I'm still a-scared of the postman if he rings my doorbell. He is kind of THE MAN, only a little more like "Newman" from Seinfeld, and generally sweaty. He probably isn't alerting me with a courtesy "mail call, Mr. Hodge -- something cool for you today!"

No, it's more likely, "I've something for you to sign, Mr. Hodge."

There are three things in particular the postman makes us must sign for, and they are all bad news. One, someone has sued me, and the plaintiff must serve me. Certified Mail is the favored (and cheapest) method.

Another is something truly evil, a notice from the IRS.

A third is a Notice of Foreclosure from the meanest, most ruthless, devilish, and racist of all THE MEN (besides the IRS): the evil mortgage company. In the old days, a notice of foreclosure was hand delivered by a genuine Nazgul on a black horse. It is cheaper now to send a sweaty postman (who leaves sweaty face prints on the storm door every single day. Jus' sayin'. ) I've had clients in foreclosure before. It was my experience once the bank attorneys get it, there's no backing down, no deals to make, and certainly no "we can work this out" attitude.

If that happens, the best thing for me to do is set the house on fire. Climb up on the roof and scream, "Made it, Ma! Top of the world!" like Cody Jarrett, (Jimmy Cagney, in "White Heat) as I am engulfed and tormented in the flames.


I don't like signing things. I never have, and I never will. I don't like to read what I am signing beforehand, but I have to because of all the crap people can do to us when we sign something without reading it first. I especially don't like signing "slips" or things that tear off, or a document that makes more than one copy (so press hard) or legal stuff, or papers that signify I understand what I just signed. Nothing good ever came from legal papers and whatnot, and white people can't hang on to copies of papers they've signed anyway.

The main reason I hate signing is I usually have to use someone else's boogery pen. I NEVER have a private pen on me when I need it.

I live on a major boulevard. Idiots I don't even know are always ringing my doorbell, and it annoys me each and every time. Did you know there is no law or obligation whatsoever that one must answer the door just because someone rings the bell or knocks? It's perfectly acceptable to let them see me see them, and then watch them watch me play the Ignore Game. That's how I roll. If I am not expecting you, there are only about two people for whom I would open the door. One is Jesus. The other, of course, is David Kelly, and that's only because he'd break a window.

Well, okay. Sometimes I will open the door and buy from fat kids who are selling crap for school activities.

Over the many years I've lived here at Morningwood, I'd say some 10,000 irritating, unwelcome, and uninvited people have come to the door. One memorable visitor claimed to be a "neighbor" who'd locked himself and his wallet out of his house. He needed $20 to pay a locksmith to unlock the door. Would I help him out.

I'd just gotten home from church, so I felt particularly Jesus-y. I fell for it and "loaned" him twenty bucks.

Turns out this same gentleman had been locked out of his house in neighborhoods all over Oklahoma City, and many others also loaned him money for a locksmith. I read about it in the papers. Still mildly annoyed that I'd been taken in by such a lame story, I called the district attorney and advised him that I, too, was a victim. I was practically a holocaust survivor. I wanted to complain, and I wanted slavery reparations, a money-check or compensation from Germany or any other non-bankrupt country.

Eventually, I received a money order for $20 from the guy. It was part of his plea agreement. THEN I felt bad. I wanted to find him, embrace him, and return the money. I wanted to forgive him and tell him to go forth and live a good life, and rip-off no more.

But I didn't. I cashed that thang at the licka stow where I trade.

That guy helped create this monster. This cynic who trusts no one now. This Howard Hughes without the money and long fingernails. I won't give a handout unless the asker admits it is for booze. Those guys are cool. "Why lie? I need a beer."

There are hosts of people I don't want to see or talk to, but my door seems to beckon them all. I used to tell the lodgers, "do NOT open the door unless you know it is for you. Whatever they want, I don't want it, or any part of it, and I don't want to hear it. You are inviting trouble and bother and annoyance. What if it is J. Dubs with "The Watchtower?"

Or it might be another "visitor," like the guy who came to my door two days in a row with the same story, "my car ran out of gas, and I need to get to Pauls Valley today." Right. Throw in "to buy diapers and see my sick child and babymama." Two days in a row! That guy needed an Excel program or something to help him keep up with the homes he'd hit up for money.

I've become old and jaded. Creepy and untrusting. Cranky and murderous. A disliker of about 97% of creation -- and 99% of the people who are still alive. I am sure it is mutual. I saw myself in a character in the movie, "Role Models" played by Paul Rudd. When the kid's annoying parents invited him over for dinner, (Rudd) said, "No thanks, I don't really like having dinner with people."

Well, it is the truth. Why not just tell them you don't like having dinner with people. Then, to make it all better, throw in one of my favorite lines of all time, the ever soothing

No OFFENSE.

Because if you have dinner with people, you can bet someone will double dip.

As my sponsor would say, "come to my cabin, and get a stabbin'."

(c) 2009 Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.

The Curative Lady

A couple of people liked my piece called "Curatives." Thank you. I liked it too, and I think some of my best blogs are the "nice" pieces. I am sort of sorry the same evil monkeys who inhabit the closet of Chris Griffin on "Family Guy," also live inside my head. They make me write hurtful things about muslims, Michael Jackson and President Obama.

Some have asked me if I followed up on my "promise" to get in touch with the nice lady I haven't heard from in over a year.

First, I thought she was in an assisted living place. I was afraid that maybe due to declining health, she couldn't live on her own any more. I also thought she was 87. Turns out she still lives in her little apartment, and she is only 82. So much for the magic and accuracy of Google.

Sidebar: People are going to stop using Google if they don't knock it off with all the phony "hits" when one searches. Notice the first five or so matches are paid sites that are cleverly designed to look like the precise answer to your search? It is getting worse. Nothing is really free. I have started skipping down to the 5th or 6th result, so I can get out of the fake sites.

After I found she was living at the same place after all, I sent a letter to her. She called me the next day, and we had a great chat. Turns out the reason she stopped sending me cards was rather simple. She said, "well, no offense, but I heard you got fat, and I don't like fat people."

That was hurtful.

I'm not so sure "fat" is the kindest, most constructive or most accurate word to use. There are others, such as zaftig, rubenesque, rotund, full figured, more to love, etc. They all mean fat, though, and they are usually used to describe fat women.

I'm lying again, of course. Not about being fat, which I am, but I am lying about that being the reason I lost touch with my friend.

While I was in the Aryan State of North Dakota, which I love and miss every day, she called my home. One of the lodgers at that time helpfully advised her that I'd moved and wouldn't be coming back. Nice. Thanks for that. Sometimes the Lodgers liked to stir up things. So, thinking I'd moved, my friend stopped sending me the cards and gifts.

Now that we have exchanged numbers, it will be easier to stay in touch, and I intend to do just that. I will also go over and see her if ever the temperature drops below 100°.

I was in Walgreens the other day, and I found the cheesiest, sappiest card I could find. It was lilac in color and overboard in its verse, but so were the sweet cards she sent me over the years. Perfect. So I bought it, and as if that weren't enough to get me kicked out of the males, I found a Lilac colored Sharpie, and I used that to write a short note.

I felt a lot better after we talked. I am going to make it a habit of calling her, even though I dislike to speak on the phone.

I'll tell you something about people I'm always intending to call or write or get in touch with. They'll die on me if I don't hurry.

There are so many people who have been placed along my path over the years. They've helped, taught, bailed me out, pointed me toward a solution, and encouraged me, more than I deserve. I might write a few more tributes to these incredible people.

Bonne Nuit.

(c) 2009 Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.

A Change of Race and Whatnot

Geraldo Rivera recently referred to Michael Jackson's "Race Change Controversy." At first I was surprised to hear that from (yet another) someone who purports to be one of MJ's closest friends. There's the spoon-bending guy, Yuri Geller, and Deepak Chopra, the only doctor on earth who did not give Michael Jackson a huge prescription for awesome drugs. That we know of. They've been all over the media touting how close they were to Michael.

Michael Jackson practically burned off his hair while doing a Pepsi commercial in the 80's. When it is mixed with Pepsi-Cola, Jheri Curl is flammable, son. I suspect that is when he started getting personality and mood enhancing drugs. That is when he REALLY went to Neverland. In the end, he was getting all he wanted of some of the most abused, addictive and terrific pain killers and benzos known to man. Allegedly. His addiction to cool drugs might also explain his other addiction to plastic surgery. Medical procedures often lead to good drugs, if the patient has a truly caring physician, or a pill doctor, depending on one's outlook. When he died, he looked a lot like a Ring Wraith. He was grotesquely thin like someone who gets lots of opiates. No need to eat when one has plenty of those things.

I was never a fan of Jackson's. Whatever it was he sang, shucked, or jived about was lost on me.

The only song I ever liked by Jackson was "Ben." I remember when he performed it at the Academy Awards in 1973. I was only two, but I remember it. Michael was still black in those days, and boy did he have an afro. Afros were cool and fascinating, not unlike color television was in 1969. But afros scared the white folks. This is why his Oscar nominated song lost to one of the whitest and most vomity songs in the history of music: "The Morning After," from the "Poseidon Adventure," one of the whitest and most vomity movies in the history of film." So that slight had to be racism foshow.

After "Off the Wall" in 1979, and "Thriller" in 1982, it was all MJ all the time, for the better part of a decade. He even bullied his way onto MTV, which once played videos by rock bands and stars. Now MTV features a delightful mix of rap, hip hop, ho's, bling, cribs and bitches. Not so sure our nation is the better for it either.

At the height of Jackson's popularity, Nancy Reagan invited him to the White House to receive some kind of award for his efforts to fight drug abuse. Right. I think she really invited him because he was a rich and famous negro, and the 1984 re-election campaign was coming up. I recall getting up and walking all the way to the Rose Garden just so I could say I saw him.

I saw him. It was magic.

I was a little creeped out by his voice and his "wonderful economy with words" (Sir John Gielgud, "Arthur"), considering the occasion. He said, "thank you Mr. President and Mrs. Reagan." That was it. The crowd swooned. It was as if God Himself had just revealed which church we ought to join if we want to be first to see Jesus.

I went back to my office.

Some time in the late 80's he took a turn toward the bizarre, and then he ran for it. He never looked back, either. The surgeries started. Friendships with chimps (different race). His peculiar fetish for young (I mean pretty, young (with emphasis on pretty) boys. It was creepy to see him carrying Emmanuel Lewis around as if he were a ventriloquist's dummy. There were many boy toys. The Culkin brothers, Corey Feldman, not to be confused with that awful Corey Haim, who is always on Soma. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It was boyz for dayz. Ugh.

Reports indicate he paid one of them, Jordie Chandler, over $20 million for wiener touching, and maybe worse. Jackson denied it 'til the cows came home, and they did, on June 25, 2009. True or false, he certainly shelled out a lot of money over what he claimed was a lie, "just to get this over with." Then there was the marriage to Lisa Marie Keogh Cage Jackson Lockwood Elvis Graceland Presley. That was supposed to wash away the sin and scandal of paying off Jordie Chandler's creepy parents,. The Chandlers basically sold the kid to Jackson in the first place. Personally, I think Lisa Marie Elvis Presley's roughly 108-minute marriage to Nicholas Cage was the creepiest, and that is saying a lot.

Folks, all of this started when Bobby Ewing dumped Jenna Wade (Priscilla Elvis Presley) and went back to Pam Ewing (Victoria Elvis Principal). Later, Priscilla, Victoria and Michael all ruined their looks with awful plastic surgeries. Connection? Conspiracy? Coincidence? Plastic Surgery Pact? You decide. But it started going downhill for many people in the mid-eighties. One can trace most bad things back to "Dallas." That's all I know.

But back to the Boys on the Lap. Some parents, like Jordie Chandler's, should be Guantanamo'd off to a muslim country and then beheaded to death. I'd behead Jordie's fat uncle, too, because he cashed in and blabbed lurid details about wieners and everything else we don't want to know about. Well, yes we do, because it is gossip. But we shouldn't.

Then there was the ghetto kid whose family brought the charges against MJ, which resulted in an O.J.-like trial, but without the blood and Fred Goldman's ghastly mustache. Jackson was acquitted, and probably rightfully so -- in THAT case. Based on my exhaustive research into the case, which consisted of asking a friend of mine who knows a little about those halcyon Neverland days, and reading two great pieces in Vanity Fair by my girl Maureen Orth, I concluded Jackson probably didn't touch that kid's wiener or vice versa.

These are well worth the read, and they are still online:

http://www.vanityfair.com/fame/features/2004/03/orth200403

http://www.vanityfair.com/fame/features/2005/07/orth200507

After Jackson's alleged death, and the unusually sparse media coverage afterward (right), I wondered if perhaps Jackson might have been innocent of all that madcap fun with little boys. Maybe he really did simply love children, innocently and Jesusly. Perhaps all he ever wanted was a part of the childhood he lost because his father pushed him into show business (which prevented him from becoming part of Gary, Indiana's prestigious and thriving crack community), which led to his super stardom. Poor Michael.

Torn with uncertainty and anguish, I returned to the documentaries that aired before the molestation trial: the interviews with British journalist, Martin Bashir. I have them on DVD, thanks to Ebay. It didn't take a muckraker to portray Jackson as a weirdo. Filming him with the sound off would have been more than enough, but we heard Jackson speak! We heard his creepy voice (allegedly a phony falsetto, just for the effect), and we heard him talk about the blessings that come with sharing a bed. How "iggerrint," racist and devilish were his critics. How silly it was to think he'd had any plastic surgery or race-changing procedures.

Do what? He said he'd only had two surgeries (on his former nose) to correct a breathing problem. When he denied additional plastic surgeries, I couldn't help but quote Dave Chappelle: "honky pleez."

That's his business, but he was lying about not having had about 6,000 plastic surgeries. Appearances change as we grow older, he insisted. Yes. I know I'm looking more Chinese as I approach my mid-thirties in a few more years.

In another documentary about Jackson, and this one was really juicy, the reporters mentioned several other young boys Jackson had befriended and then discarded once he tired of them. They were his constant companions until they began to reach a certain age. This is a family blog, so I won't be graphic about what caused Jackson to dump them and send them back to their parents with a car, house, or diamond bracelet or something to keep them quiet. The poor kids were left wondering why they were rejected by their hero.

The documentaries rehashed the great trial. I'd forgotten just how much evidence the prosecution had in that case, and I marvel at how they managed to lose it. Yet Nosferatu the Jackson was acquitted. Good for him. Carte Blanche to hole up inside a pill bottle, which is exactly what he did.

Long before the trial, though, I suspect he descended into serious drug abuse, and in quantities and variety that would shock the most hard core addict.

Oh well, he stayed thin.

Now things are really starting to annoy me. Whenever an event of any import occurs involving American Africans, we can expect to see a Parade of Horribles, including but not limited to: Al Sharpton, Sheila Jackson Lee, Jesse Jackson (no relation, different race) Geraldo, and so many others who simply cannot get enough air time. Oh -- there was an alleged nurse on my girl Nancy Grace's program (ugh). In the best tradition of physician-patient confidentiality, this nurse blabbed all, and likely made up a bunch of stuff. All of these people get away with saying the dumbest things imaginable, but no one "calls" them on it because they are Canadians. You know what I'm sayin'. With that bunch, everything is racist. This is why in my daily walk, if something doesn't go my way, I simply declare that person, place or thing to be racist.

I do it in jest. They don't.

There is talk of a National Holiday to honor Michael Jackson. I was already sick to my stomach when Sharpton declared Jackson "the greatest entertainer of all time." Say it isn't so, Al. He left your people in the early 90's, anyway. Isn't that just a bit of a stretch though? Greatest of all time? What about Nick Carter?

Michael's hideous alleged sister, LaToya Jackson (different race though) now claims that Michael was murdered for his fortune, which various morons estimate to be over $1 billion. Right. Michael Jackson died leaving a host of debts and a nice income, which he blew on crap and good drugs every month. Now that he has stopped spending the money, his sort-of children will be very rich indeed. So will his family. Unless his fat former "beard" wife, Debbie Rowe, manages to get her hooves on the sort-of children. She needs to die or go away or something. But, she won't.

(Neither will Sarah Palin, who I am mad at because she lost her mind, and her political career is over. And she won't play the quiet game. But I digress).

In the years to come we can look forward to a lot of drama out of all the Jackson Klan. I mean Clan. Chuckle.

It is hard to grasp when someone of enormous talent (and he had it, even if it wasn't to my taste), wastes it. His fans were forced to watch as he gradually became white. With each whitening procedure, he lost a little more of his natural rhythm. In the end, he danced like the quintessential drunken whiteboy douchebag at his first fraternity party.

He also became massively addicted to awesome drugs, he was surrounded by yes men, idiots, flunkies, vultures, plastic surgeons, white people, pill doctors, and some very rich pharmacists. No one would tell him NO, STOP, EASE UP DAWG, PLEASE DON'T TOUCH ME IN MY BATHING SUIT AREA, OR THERE EITHER, or anything else, other than the people who now claim they spoke to their dear friend just hours before his alleged death. He was like a son, a brother, or whatever to all of them.

That Nancy Grace Show. Geez. You know why I watch it? Because there is some chick named "Sheba," who calls in almost every day. Somehow she gets through. I would like to have some of what Sheba is on. That woman probably feels no pain. Factabidness, most of Nancy's callers sound pilled up.

Oh well, I don't judge. I am all about Fair and Balanced.

I am sorry Michael Jackson died so young. I am sincerely sorry for the three sort-of children. He obviously loved them, and they loved him. He did a some good things over the years, and I'll bet he did some boys. "We are the World," was a good thing, even if the song became putrid, fast. Proceeds from that effort made it possible to send thousands of U-Haul trailers to Africa so those poor wretched people could move some place where there was water and food: Somalia, and later Darfur. Barack will fix it.

Jackson could have changed. He could have stopped. We can all change. or refrain from doing stupid things that are getting us into trouble or killing us. We can avoid surrounding ourselves with enablers. Lord knows help was available to him. Some of his best friends had collectively been to rehab over 750 times. I'm sure I am not referring to Diana Ross (different race), Liza Minelli, and Elizabeth Taylor. But he didn't do nuthin' but use himself to death. It didn't have to be that way, but it was.

Jackson had what most of us don't have: an eternal fount of the most awesome drugs in the world. He was surrounded by highly paid enablers. Not much incentive to stop, so he didn't. The only thing left for him was death. He is now deader than Elvis -- unless he faked his death, which he probably did to avoid paying all those bills. There are people who believe Elvis is alive.

I feel for his alleged sort-of kids (different race), but boy are they fin ta be rich. "Gettin' paid like Oprah," as they say. Maybe, just maybe, they will turn out to be normal, and someone else can be on the covers of magazines.

They will probably join the Church of Scientology and stay out of the tabloid press -- like Tom Cruise (ugh), John Travolta, and fat Kirstie Alley.

This blog is a lot like Michael Jackson's alleged drug habit. It went on and on and on, because no one made me stop. Thank you for reading.

(c) 2009 Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd