These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Step into the light

Johnny said it could be done. He was eager for them to join him. What could be better? The whole family together at last...... or most of it. Bart asked him if it hurt. The paternal hologram stood there for a few heartbeats thinking. Then he said - No, I would not call it pain, more like a feeling of  complete, ripping, disorientation. More like becoming a stranger in a strange land. But it passes real fast. Imagine, no more death, no sickness. You want 'magic.' They got magic. Food still tastes like food. Love still feels like love. And rain still feels like rain. It is just like Heaven, 'cept here they let u turn the Choir off........ Then he did a little dance, right on top a that little black cube, stopped and looked his son up in the eye. Bart laughed. He said - But I'm afraid, Daddy. You know me. I  gotta see it first....... Johnny said - You got any dogs wit' you?....... Bart said - Nope. I froze 'em up before we left. Figured maybe somebody come by and wake 'em up. Jus' hope they doan wind up in no stew pot........... Johnny asked 'bout cats or canary birds or any other critters........ They did have some tropical fish, but Bart wanted to try with something a little more intelligent. How you gone know what some guppy still remembers?


So he closed up the sanctuary (after sending Johnny back to 'Universe Electronicus' and went upstairs. Davey and his cousin was playin' head transplants  wit' their Captain Biology set. Bart went into the playroom and said - What are you two little guys doin'?.......Davey said - Nothin', jus' fixin' a l'il squirrel head on top of a teeny, little lady sea cow. That why we got that little plastic tub. That why we got the water. Careful, Pop-Pop. Doan spill it. If you wanna watch while we operate, you gonna have to set over there (pointing toward a leather sectional). That the 'fancy watchin'' seats. You know, like they got in hospitals........... So that is what Bart did and he quietly looked on as they transferred the heads of two, completely alive, micro-mini mammals included with the set........ Remember, this is Mars. Political correctness flew out the window before they even built the window. But this is also the middle of the twenty second century and even kiddie toys got sophisticated neurological equipment. Finally, after 'bout twenty minutes, it was done. The head transplant was complete. Micro-minis, 'specially genetically treated micro-minis heal real fast. Parts stick together like crazy glue. Kids plop it in the plastic tub and right away it start swimmin' 'round.


That when Bart get an idea. He say - You wanna show Big-Pop Johnny how smart you are?...........Davey say - Hell yeah!........ Bart laugh. That kid always did talk like a regular, little chili pepper.


Two minute later they back in the little sanctuary. Boys gotta crowd in behind the leather ottoman(only settin' accommodations they got. But it was alright. Bart do all the necessary hinky-dinks and that little black cube start vibrating. Three heartbeat later, Big-Pop Johnny settin' on it wiping bacon grease off his malf. He say - Well, boy (he mean Bart), you made up your mind?............. Bart say - Sort a, but first we gotta have us a dry run.......... Then he hold  up the little tub so Johnny can see whats in it. The six inch tall, holographic grand-pop peer down and say - What kind a fucked up (boys commence to snickerin') ass backward, rat-mermaid  bastid is that!?.......... Bart say - It the kind that gone get us all outta here.


And so he proceeds to do a little test..........


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Taking chances

Bart knew what would be. Johnny, his holographic daddy told him. Earth ain't gonna help. They got they own problems. And how you gonna stop them Chinese goomers when there so damn many? Communiss bastids is tearin' up the streets. King's Club got all smashed up. No where to get a good steak no more. Ain't nobody seed Larry, the owner. 'Puter say he all dug in wit his wife-for-right-now's folks over in Nimoy. 


Can't go to Earth. Well, you could try. But eighty five percent what lift off go 'gook' (rhymes with cook), what wit all them bee-bops flyin' 'round. They say folks (and I'm talkin' 'bout folks from old Trooper families too) is holin' up wit Kit-Kats. I know. I lnow. Ain't supposed a talk that way no more. Tuva-Tuva, I mean. Them what still hates says - Better dead than orange..........They wanted a word that rhymed with orange but there wern't none. Maybe in Kit-Kat talk they got one. I don't know. 


Bart did consider makin' a break. But how far he gonna get with this crew? I mean, come on. You see Miss Sissie, or Miz India or Miss Monica squeezin' off spuds from a 'red hot,' or like an old lead shooter? Buster an' Zeke might make it. But don't forget, they got kids in there with 'em too. An' that bunker ain't gone last forever. They thought it would. But Chinese goomers funnelin' in shit to the M.I.R. (Mars Is Red). I doan know if it's acid, or plasma or what it is. Dissolves bird shit off tanks real good. So I guess it jus' a matter a time fore it eats it's way down here.


All Miss Sissie do is stand over that stove fryin' matzoh meal latkes. She gone have her Passover, one way or the other. Lord gone come and set her free. Blessed assurance, Redemption is hers. She tell 'em all - Doan you worry. God gone lead us all out a here. Her daughter-in-law (although somewhat emotionally estranged from her philandering husband, Zeb) mostly agrees, bein' a Christian and all. Rest of 'em mostly heathens. Decent enough. I doan know if God plannin' a juice 'em all up on Resurrection Day, but who knows?


Kids is all in the holodome. They playin' Pork Chop Hill. That a 'puter simulation a some ole Earth war. Bart standin' in the doorway. He watchin' em. Look like they truly on a rain swept hill in Korea. Got rags tied 'round they heads and everythin'. 'Puters does wonders these days...even toy ones, like in the holodome.


That set Bart thinkin' 'bout the life his digitalized daddy got on the web. Mus' be like heaven. Everybody safe. Nobody go gook. Sun always shinin'. 'Skeeters is all dead. Chupicabras all friendly like. An' even if them Chinese goomers smash up all the 'puters on Mars, that world still out there. That world is everywheres. 


So he go back down to the 'sanctuary,' slip inside and close the door.


Who knows? Maybe Miss Sissie gonna get herself redeemed after all. Maybe they all will.....


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The Martian Cowboys Will Be Back, but Jonathon ben Macabi speaks now

I find nights such as this to be excruciatingly beautiful. The air has a certain fresh, damp chill. And the earth smells moist and fecund. I walk for hours on end, looking and smelling and touching and smiling. Tonight is not a 'feeding' night. Oh, you will know when that happens. The moon is new. The sky is dark. And the aroma of human flesh intoxicates me as the hookah's of Old al Andaluz never did.


We left the house in Chestnut Hill, Sarah and I, for more fitting digs deep within the rabbit warrens of Queen Village. A 'trinity house' they call it. Google it, if you  do not know it...a Philadelphia trinity house, classic to this venerable place since Franklin was a boy. I love the multi-pane windows and the cellar made from stone. The perfect nest for a vampirino and his vampirina to find repose. 


Have you seen me on the streets? Perhaps you have? If you did, you'd remember. Some say I favor a young Antonio Banderas. The Spanish quality, I suppose. Yet others claim I mirror the one known as Adam Levine. Perhaps it is the sharp, finely drawn features. Oh, I am vain. It is an old Iberian affectation..... the matador in us all. My trim, black jeans are custom made, as are the fine, leather bootkins and everything else I place against my body. Even Sarah... for I 'created' her.....


Right now I prowl the perimeter of Rittenhouse Square, a sophisticated, urban park worthy of  Edwardian London, or belle epoch Paris. I love the way my sharp leather heels spark against the pavement...... My 'calling card,' so to speak. 


And I see them, two young things back from a visit to some warm, dark coffee bar. How delicately they skitter along the sidewalk. Hurry-hurry-hurry-hurry. Must get home and lock the door. Steam rises up from an old round, iron vent, a still working vestige of an ancient heat source. Ah, the all knowing grace of this special town. I love it so. 


One of the maidens sees me. I nod. She smiles. Her roommate laughs. But her laughter turns to heartbeats as I glide across the cobbles, arms outstretched to hug them both.


How wondrous they smell, like new-born kittens. I nuzzle she-of-the-lovely-smile, whispering secrets in her ear. To bad my ancient Spanish words elude her. Then the breath turns to a kiss...and the kiss to something more. Oh, fear not. She will not die. This is just a taste to warm my bones. Her friend snuggles closer, awaiting her turn. I part from the first one to savor the second. Then put them in a cab and send them home. Moments later, I proceed on my way...a discreet wanderer in the dark.


Will they remember me? What do you think?


The 'cowboys' will be back. The Martian tale will end. But then my time will come. Tomas de Macabea (Jonathon ben Macabi is my 'Bible name - for this one still believes) walks among you.


Please forgive me if I leave you now  to explore other thoroughfares........ Ah, the mellow byways of Philadelphia after dark.....a veritable vampire wonderland.....


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... The Situation

Big Daddy told 'em lots a stuff. He shimmy-shamed his electronic particles all up and down the internet, kissin' up to other programs and squeezin' the shit out a them. He know how them Chinese goomers make them bee-bops. He know what them M.I.R. (Mars Is Red) bastids want a do. He know how much help The United States and Provinces of North America really gonna give. He even know the secret 'gredient in Coca-Cola. He also know they growin' a new edition a his grandson Alec. But he doan wanna talk 'bout that. Why jinx it? An' he 'specially liked talkin' a Little Davey. He liked that part best of all. 


So after...when Bart switch him off... he drift back to his carefully programmed simulation of Mars, circa 2075, right after the first big Change. Things was rough. Air still scratchy-like. Even so, chupicabras woke up real fast. Folks gettin' chomped up left and right. Sky-ponies still not hundred percent. Few look all right. Rest got crappy lookin' wings. Tuva-Tuva startin' a re-constitute. Like Lazarus stumblin' out from the tomb, that what they was like. Earth folk (new ones, I mean) used a give 'em soup. Didn't know they long lost cousins back then. Now they do know and it still doan make no difference.


But Johnny got a real nice spread. You seen it...The Polvarosa (that mean red dust in Spanish). Big house all brand new. Barn right spruce lookin'. Stables all first rate. Mostly all Arabians back in those days. He ain't married to Loretta yet. But she do come out with her mama for visits from time to time. She not from Barsoom. That always a wild kind a place. Her folks from Rodenberry. They more churchy-like. Still had the Cafe at The Crossroads. You know. Where the Walgreen was? An' a right nice General Merchandise Emporium. Think there used a be a little library and community social hall too........ (wait, lemme look) Yeah, they did. They must a, 'cause it still in the program. 


So Johnny settin' out on the big, ole, wide veranda, squintin' into the sun and sippin' on a ice cold glass a whiskey.  Got his best digitally programmed canine companion, Caleb (that mean dog in Hebrew).  Brand new, re-constituted Tuva-Tuva woman out in the kitchen tryin' a fry up some eggs. Gus and Isaac comin' over to play cards. Maybe sheriff gonna join 'em. who knows? 


Sometime that Arianna Huffington (she immortalized as a hologram, jus' like him) get jealous a all this phony shit. She glad when Loretta not here. And what he got ain't the REAL Loretta. The real Loretta never did have herself 'lectrified. No, she jus' die regular-like. She ain't in no universal web. She in Heaven and that another kind a place entirely.


Johnny gonna ask Gus to help him. Gus a hologram, 'lectrified, immortal, semi-dead guy too. They gonna shimmy-sham theyselves all over the web. They gonna learn even more stuff. 'Cause Bart gonna need it when he bust his family out a there. Gotta bust out, less he want that bunker be a tomb.


M.I.R. goomers fixin' somethin'.  They fixin' somethin' big. Ever hear tell a folks what went 'gook' from Ebola? Liquified liver runnin' out they eyes and nose.  Itchin' like a bed bug  campground. Shit hole worse than the Mighty Mississipp.  Well then, you know what the first stage gone be like....


Second stage gone be like spontaneous human combustion... only not near as nice.


Hells-a-poppin'...Yes siree.....


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... what the cowboy said

So Bart knew things. His semi-dead, digitalized daddy told him plenty when he came back. Only this time, the second time, somebody else come wit him. Little Davey seen him settin' up in one a the settin' rooms, lookin' out a window. It not a real window. Ain't got no glass. It jus' a screen, but a real good screen. What it show look positively genuine. Most time they got it set on Europe, Venice mostly. Look like you spyin' out through a window on The Grand Canal. Folks says it the view from Palazzo Barbero , one a them curlyqued-up, white marble, old timey, rich folk joints. Bart jus' set there watchin' them gondolas float by. And look...Peggy Guggenheim jus' wave to him. He doan wave back though. He jus' look. Bart got brains. He know what's real. Zeb come in wantin' a talk politics. But Bart say - Boy, you talk like a man wit' a paper asshole. What for you talkin' politics? We doan know what kind a world gone be out there. Why you think they gone need you?........ Zeb jus' breathe out real fast. Kind a like a sigh, but heavier. Then he go in a kitchen for a little peanut butter sandwich. Set there lookin' out a 'window' at Old New Orleans. He like them real fancy, jazz funerals they got there. He like the purdy, octaroon, Creole society matron live across the way. Look at her settin' up on her 'balcon' sippin' that cold, sweet tea. She mighty finne for jus' a computer simulation.


And when Bart go back down to that sanctuary he bring Davey wit him.... Excuse me. Did I already tell you that? I think I did. You will have to forgive me. Ain't no lonesome pines down here for me to pass through. It kind a difficult bein' a quasi-mythological figure in such a concrete, cold hard place. I The Voice a the Lonesome Pines....as  you most likely know.


Davey go all wide eye when he see his legally dead great grand daddy. Back in Johnny's day ain't nobody called pop-pop. You a Big Daddy (grandfather) or you a Little Daddy (plain old regular father). And Johnny Texaco definitely a Big Daddy. He go all misty eye when he see the boy. So I know he more than jus' a hologram. He ain't no artificial simulation, like that Peggy Guggenheim in her gondola, or that octaroon society lady, Madam Casanove ( though they both did actually suck air at one time).


Johnny say - Put her there, boy....... And Davey, real careful like, stick out a  finger. Johnny reach up an' touch it. Davey smile. Johnny smile back. Then Bart heft him up on his lap and they set there, listenin' to what Big Daddy  got a say......


(if you are not able to clearly comprehend this episode, scrollin' down to the previous posting should set things straight for you)


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Johnny Texaco Speaks

Hobart (Bart) quietly closed the door to the sacred chamber and sat down. It wasn't a large place, no more than five by seven feet. Contractors thought it gonna be a toilet. Family did not want 'em to know. So it ain't got no commode or nothin. Just a plain, old polished concrete floor, grey, flecked, granite walls and  a white ceiling that radiates a soft white light. Only furnishings are one square, black leather, tufted ottoman and a three foot high, rectangular polished concrete plant stand. But it ain't got no plant on it. That's where the little titanium box what got Bart's daddy in it sets. Miss Sissie say it look like a cheap, bargain basement, above ground mausoleum. 'Cept instead of a titanium box there'd be like a little bronze urn with a dull, brushed finish. But seein' as she don't spend much time in there, her opinion ain't worth chicken shit. That what Bart think. He don't say it, but he think it. 


So he set hisself down on the black, squishy seat, scootch it forward to face the box, clear his throat and prepare to talk. Whole thing work on voice recognition. It really is a very ingenious, sublime contraption. 


Bart say - Daddy, I wanna talk to you........ Voice-in-the-box say - That you, boy?.......... Bart say - Yep, it me....... Then a little electronic hum commences vibrating out from that Rubik's Cube sized sanctuary. And next thing you know we got a itty-bitty, six inch tall, ever-so-slightly potbellied, but still trim, silver haired rodeo dude stompin' around and smokin' a ceegar. But nobody gotta worry 'bout no smoke none, 'cause he jus' a hologram. Ever once in a while he flicker. That how you know. 


Bart say - Daddy, we got problems............. Daddy say - No, shit, Sherlock. Don't you think I know!? I waft through thirty two on-line, hinky-dink, newspaper crappiolas every day.............. Bart say - Then you know 'bout Alec?.............Daddy jus' swallow and nod.......... Bart don't dwell on that subject, 'cause he can tell it pain his holographic daddy jus' as much as it do him......... So Bart say - You still tradin' sparks wit' that little Arianna Huffington hologram?............ And Johnny (that his daddy's name) say - Ain't no business a yours, boy. My Loretta up in Heaven, but I  down here, so I gotta do sumpin' a keep 'busy,' don't I? Now shet up and spit it all out. What you done wrong now?


So Bart snort back a bit a snot, square his shoulders and start talking. Worse the story get, more that little 'lectronic goomer start grinnin'. That jus' how Johnny be. He gotta be the big rooster, don't you know. He gotta be the top dog. But still, you do gotta give him credit. I mean since he been 'dead' (technically) that goomer learn a lot. Finally did learn hisself a little Tuva-Tuva, how to play pinochle, how to cook a mean batch a bahklava. (them semi-immortal holograms claim they eats stuff. can't figure what it taste like to 'em, but I don't know.) He can wriggle his digital ass into and out of all kinda programs. Life jus' one big holodeck (if you remembers Star Trek) to John Paul Texaco.  An' he wanna get this meetin' over real fas', 'cause he got The Calgary Stampede waitin'. Y'all gotta see them smart little boots Arianna Huffington got on.


Tells his sonny-boy to come back tomorrow (he don't know it night). Then he jus' give out a not so itty-bitty rebel yell and BAM, he disappears. 


Bart do try to call him back, but all he get is a little, old lady eatin' a hot-dog..... an' she jus' tell him a go to hell and drop dead.....'cause like, I guess, she really do like that hot-dog.........


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... THE DEAD WALK AMONG US

There are ways to preserve a 'presence.' And it is not known if this is truly the original, singular essence of creation, or merely an exceedingly exact copy. But it sees. And it hears and it speaks. Not everyone is so preserved. Many view it as an imprisonment of the soul. Some see it as torture. 


What happens it this.  A group of scientists and technicians send tachyons and other sub atomic particles streaming through a human brain just before the actual instant of death. Each particle melds with an equal measure of cerebral 'charge.' For what passes as memory is really only a complex series of electrical impulses. And these tiny bits of past experience dance off into a long conga line, only to be captured and sequenced in an intricate, binary program. Fleshly life ceases, but silicon existence endures.


Few have achieved it. Those of a deep and profound faith reject it. Others , of modest means, cannot afford the hefty freight. Yet among the families of the rich there are 'ancestors'........forebears who have never left. Not many. Each clan has perhaps one or two. The Texacos have one. He? She? It? abides within a small, titanium box. And this special relic rests within a chamber beneath the bunker. Bart has the key. He wears it 'round his neck, upon a leather thong. It gives voice to his father. 


And  tonight (or what passes for night beneath the surface of the Martian capital of Barsoom), the father speaks again.. Such mutual communications are rare, for technical as well as emotional reasons. They can be very dangerous. 'Souls' can be lost. 


But Bart has a request to make. He wants his father to swim through the vast, eternal, conscious 'net' and find things. He needs secrets. The family needs secrets. 


And tonight he means to know......


So he waits until the others all drift off, or at least retreat to the comfort and privacy of their chambers. Then he opens the passageway to the 'special room' and steps down. 


Five heartbeats later the portal closes. None can see the seam. It's time for the 'magic' to take place......


Ghost riders 'neath the sky........


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vampire wonderland: THE LITTLE MATCH BOY ~~~~ a re-telling of H.C. And...

vampire wonderland: THE LITTLE MATCH BOY ~~~~ a re-telling of H.C. And...: It was quiet in the tram car. The air was still. Tiny pellets of sleet peppered the roof. The new boy ran to the back and struggled to force...

These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Homo Sapien Martianus

They been in the bunker 'bout three days now. Ev'rybody all settled it.  Miss Sissie actually like it. This her place. This her home, or part of it. She got a kitchen. And it not full a all them 'foody-food-food' machines what do the job automatically. Y'all gotta stir the batter if you want any pancakes 'round here. Right now she practicin'. She practicin' makin' her Pascal bread..... Sort a like a little, dried up crepe. It not hard. She gonna do it for The Feast a The Lord's Passover...... 'This is the bread of haste'.....That what He said. That what God said. Means you all gone go 'gook' soon. 'Gook' mean that l'il, 'lectric sound 'puters make when you shut 'em down. It what them 'Troopers' say for 'die.' Nobody kicks no bucket 'round here. They just 'go gook.' Rhymes with 'cook,' if you tryin' a figure it out. 


What God want 'em a know is ----- Y'all better do lots a real, good, lovin' stuff now, if you wanna move in with Me later........ That's what He sayin', if you payin' 'tention........ An' Miss Sissie sure do pay attention. Sometime, when she got The Lord hinky-dink real bad she go 'round tellin' folk - He save your soul for a reason! He take you outta Egypt for a reason! Now what you gone do about it!?....... Then she stand there lookin' at you, like she God's sec'etary or somethin'. An' all this interplanetary fuedin' gone on startin' a get to her. 


Sometime she talk 'bout Earth. Say she wanna  go there. She wanna live there. Not jus' her. She wanna take all of 'em back wit her.  Bart say what they gone do 'bout they Martian hearts? 'Cause, you know, they all born here. They got the bones too. Got them Martian bones. That why they all a few inches taller (than Earth folk, I mean). Sure, some folks does it. Take a lot a therapy. Gotta put stem cells in the heart muscle. Gotta mortar up them bones wit a lot a calcium. Gotta get used to pullin' 'round three times the load. Earth got that heavy pull. It not like the gravity we got 'round here.


Them soldiers from The Empire a China startin' a feel that now. Bones gettin' all jellyfied. Muscles goin' all stringy. Oh, they do got remedies. But the whole experience still tend to be real disorientin'. It like plantin' a cactus in swamp water, then yellin' that it ain't growed right. Space do got it's rules. 


I can't 'magine them goomers out on Europa, livin' in them 'pods' out on the ice. They do not penetrate under that frigid crust. They do not go down to where them manta ray people live. Robot/android goomers does that. All them science goomers does is keep ev'rything runnin' right...wind the clocks, if you know what I mean. And then, when they look out into the sky-what-ain't-no-sky, they sees Jupiter, loomin' up there like a big, ole monster beach ball. That gotta sour  your grits. 


But hoomin beans funny that way. Some pay good money a tote theyselves out here on honeymoons . Bart and Miss Sissie did, back in the day. Shacked up in one a them bubble towns over on the other side. Took a submarine ride down under a see them manta ray goomers. Folks does that. Scientists too. They takes submarine rides. Just ain't no gettin' out and rubbin' noses, if  you know what I mean. Them germy-germs we all got jus' too damn different. An' nobody wanna chance no new type a 'mushy fever.'


Sure hope that sucker Miss Monica got in her belly grow up right. Sure hope they finds a way to make this place work. 


I like Mars. Can't rightly see myself bein' 'voice a the lonesome pines' nowhere's else.....


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Of course you know VULCAN was basically Ancient Hebrew, don't you?

This is not a conventional post, but a sharing of the TRUTH. The OLAM (the world) will not end on December 21, 2012, though another momentous event will transpire. 


Upon that date, our star system will pass through the Equitorial Plane of NEHAR-DI-NUR, The Stream of Fire, or The Stream of Light. You may know it as The Milky Way. It is our galactic home.


And each time we make such a transept (by certain reckonings once every two thousand years.....by others, once every twenty four or twenty six thousand years) a new Star Era dawns upon the world.


That date (12/21/12) will see the dawning of the age of D'ili. You may know it as the age of Aquarius. A time when Heaven pours forth upon the Earth like water from an eternally bountiful pitcher.


HUMANITY COMES OF AGE...........


Before The World of Truth appears, The World of Lies must vanish. ------ old Central European rabbinic proverb.....


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... BUNKER BOUND

Now this not like a little back yard cold war bomb shelter. What they got here more like a big, ole, pretentious, suburban ranch house. Contractor put in in years ago when they built the place. That why it got a early 22nd century look.  Lemme see. How am I gone describe that to you?...... Picture The Jetsons if they was first cousins with Caligula. Lots a gold gilt, cream colored cushions, fancy control panels fill a colorful screens that flash on and off. Got these metallic veined, marble floors and bidets what shoot the water out so fast you could permanently castrate a horse. But it safe in there. Them communiss goomers from the M.I.R. ain't gettin' in. Done stripped all the upstairs rooms. Communiss' all stompin' 'round in hand-tooled, chupicabra-skin, rodeo boots. Funny, but Karl Marx never predicted such a predilection for fine footwear and premium time pieces. Sweetie-Pie gettin' tired cookin' up all that challah-bread french toast, but that seem to be her job in 'the new regime' and she don't wanna make waves. 


Meanwhile, down below, they sleepin two to a room (place got six). So we got Mister Bart and Miss Sissie...Miss Monica and her daughter..... Little Davey and his cousin (Monica's son).....Zeb and his legal wife, India.....an' them two ranch hands and they gum-chewin' wimmen folk. Kind a like a pixilated, crazy version a The Waltons, 'cept with more 'go to hell's' than 'good nights.' Zeb and India's room 'specially rich in them go-to-hells. They echoin' off the walls.


Bart sit up in the little holadome watchin' the news. Empire a China movin' in. Tuva-Tuva folk gone crazy. Communiss goomers eatin' up all the french toast... But, as you know, The Twenty First Century (state of the art Space Train) did get through. So somewhere deep in another subterranean Barsoom bunker that Russian/North American consortium busy spittin' out pulse bombs. Only thing is, they gotta conjure up a good way a deliverin' 'em to the enemy. Right now they fixin' on a plan. Gonna feed little ones to whole mess a big blues (large, sometimes man-eating, locusts). Then they gonna do some kind a hinky-dink and remote control 'em so's they swarm all over them God damn evil folk. You remember what happen to them chupicabra settin' all over that tank? This all work right, we gonna have a big, ole mess a General Sao's Chicken and Texas Pulled Beef in no time. 


News say other rich folk got throwed out too. They highlighting all the families....the Gillespies... the Ginsbergs..... the Watkins.... the DiBrunos ... all of 'em. Bart like when they say 'the Texaco's.' He love to hear his name on 'TV.' Shame it gotta be part of a dispossessed oligarchy. But name recognition all that matter...and they gone be back.


Funny thing though.......'TV' goomer never did say the Jonses....... Wonder how 'Stinker' pull that off?


Five heartbeat later, Bart 'sawin' wood.' He snorin' away. Miss Sissie layin' in bed lookin' at some ole, classic, flat-screen movie (I think it Bob & Carol and Ted & Alice). Ranch hands all hootchyin' up they wimmen. This like a vacation for them. Davey and his cousin doin' head transplants on 'genuine-live-miniature-animals. (they got a kit). MonkeyHead-Cobra they favorite.


But Miss Monica ain't doin' nothin'. She jus' lay there, singin' to her daughter and feelin' that baby growin' up inside her.......


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Urban Warfare

It came from out in the street. Most folks did not know 'bout this place. That why they call in 'The Hideout, or The Hide-away.' Texacos  got 'nother official townhouse little ways off. Lot a rich folks do it like that. Dumb kitchen gal come runnin' out. But when she sees nobody bleedin' they guts all over the floor she seem a little bit relieved. Guess she 'spectin' a clean it up.


Zeke pull a gun. He go over and peek through them fancy lace panels they got blockin' out them 'sidelights' by the door. Then he say - Trucks! They got  trucks all up and down the street!


Bart run over to see too. Bunch a raggedy goomers jump out. Most of 'em totin' them cheap, Mars made 'hot shots.' You know, them energy shooters. Sort a like a ray gun, 'cept it come out in a line a hot, little spit bubbles.


Then Bart say - It the M.I.R.! It the M.I.R.! Communiss'! Communiss!............... Women folk start screamin' an' twistin' they diamond rings 'round, as if communiss' ain't never learned how to rotate no finger ring. 'Sides they prob'ly all gone go 'gook' down that basement after M.I.R. goomers shoot 'em up anyway.


Zeb yell - Safe Room, downstairs NOW! ........ Them what knows the place start runnin'. Them what don't know pick up the rear. Soon ev'rybody 'hunker in the bunker.' as Bart used to say. But back then it was only a game. Zeb and Alec were partial to playin' war. They 'tend this place is headquarters. Kind a what Hitler would a had if he didn't 'gook' off off all them Jewish scientists and they chillun'. Bunker got nuclear fussion, electro-pulse power, all kind a lazer gadgets, fancy communication devices, freezers (nuclear powered) fill up with frozen pizza (not the shitty kind) and gourmet, genuine Mrs. Paul's fish stick, made from genuine stick-shape fish. Not to mention all the bestest, scented, pastel ass wipes this side a the ass-teroid belt. Miss Sissie kind a fussy on certain thing. That why the hardwood floors so nice.


So there they be. Sixty five feet under ground, sealed behind sixteen feet a titanium, with fool-proof water and ventilation system. Kitchen all fill up wit' genuine twenty first century 'food court' delicacies. Bedrooms filled with clean underwear and brassieres....... When Zeb say - Sweetie-Pie! Where my Sweetie-Pie!? .........'Cause she kinda got partially trampled in the stampede, 'specially when she crouch down a pick up her new, special-made head-crown. So she ain't never made it to the 'safe place.'


Miz India jus' throw back her head and start laughin' and laughin'. Then she go - Sweetie-Pie! Sweetie-Pie...just like some screechy-voice, old witch would say it. 


But nobody pay her any mind. They already pickin' out bedrooms.


An' when that Mars Is Red brigade smash down the townhouse door, Sweetie-Pie right there to greet 'em.  Pimple face bastid go - Which one are you, bitch!?...... Sweetie-Pie think fas'. She go - I the maid. Come on. I show you where they keep all the good stuff.


So they run upstairs to loot all them Rolex watches and satin jockey shorts. Then she take 'em in the kitchen for challah-bread french toast (hootchie gals all know how to make that) and big, ole glasses a TANG. 


You know, war is sloppy bidniss. An' now we got 'nother contingent a deal wit'.


Funny how Stinker Jones steer 'em all right over to the doorsteps a his bestest 'frienemies.'


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Honey, I'm Home!

Now Zeb happened to be dining alone that evening. His new pregnant sweetie-pie was attending yet another fashion show to benefit the brave troops. It should be mentioned that she sailed through society under her own name. Insiders knew the truth, but nobody talked. Why muddy up somebody else's bloomers when they all got bloomers a their own?


Ole Effie was gone. She stayed 'round for  a while, a lot longer than most a them other kit-kat 'retainers.' Government wanted a put her out, just pick her up and dump her old, scraggly ass out somewhere's in them badlands. Zeb intervened. He knew who to call. So she had time to pack up her stuff  and wait  for a tank to transport her out to a Chinese base in the borderlands. Some folks say she went on to join her sister in one a them nice little oasis settlements. But I also heared certain un-publicized accounts that claim she 'workin'' as a lab rat for a big Chinese (and not just Chinese...big Earth-side American interests are in on it too) drug - beneficial prion, research and development hinky-dink. She did have a good way a makin' sweet potato pie. Hope they give her a nice cage.


The new gal, some jumped up shop girl from one them boutiques just off a Neil DeGrasse Tyson Avenue, open the door and jus' look at 'em. She don't know who they are. She jus' wanna  go back in the kitchen an' read her sexy-trampy holazine. So she say - Yes? And wit' all due respect, who the hell do we got here?................... Miss India (who rarely talk that way) say - You ain't got nothin', you buck-teeth, big ass, hootchie gal. This My house (Bart clear his throat), this our house and we jus' catchin' our breaths is all. Now where my 'huzzzbind'?


Zeb, who almost choke on little bit a gristle say - Sugar-babe! What the hell has Jesus done to me!? (as he run out into the hall) You here! You all here! ....... An' he do hug her, but not like he really mean it. Then he pick up Little Davey too. Kiss him on the cheek and all that...... Davey say - Howdy, pa......... But if you look real fast, you see he rollin' his eyes over to Bart. 


Miss Sissie squeeze him 'round his neck. He is her firstest baby, after all. Even Bart slap him on a shoulder. Them other folks, the ranch hands and they women doan say nothin'. They just stand 'round takin' it all in.


Bart lead 'em all in a the 'quiet talkin' room' (that what they call a livin' room in these parts. He set hisself down in his big chair, just off the side a the fireplace. Then he yell - Effie! where my drink?....... Zeb say - We  ain't got no Effie no more. Government goomers done toted her away........ Bart shoot him a look and say - What this 'Gov'ment' shit you tellin' me, boy? Ain't you part a that too!? Why you let it happen!? .................. Zeb doan say nothin'. He jus' look down at his lap. Miz India grab his hand. Oh, she do smell some kind strange toilet water on him. But this ain't no time for no scratch fight. She can pencil that in for later.


Dumb kitchen gal figure she better fill 'em up wit' somethin'. She better keep 'em busy. So she whip up a big, ole crystal pitcher  fill a Tang. You know, fancy Earth shit like that hard  to get up here. 


Bart commence a detailed account a their sojourn wit' the Tuva-Tuva folk. Kids start playin' wit' an antique porcelain Flintstones-Bedrock chess set originally won by some ancestor almost one hundred and sixtyfive years ago on the boardwalk in Wildwood, New Jersey. Nobody been stabbed or killed yet. So for the Texacos things is goin' all right.


But then it happen. Somebody push they little finger 'gainst that door bell. One second later chimes start playin 'She Wore a Yellow Ribbon.' Zeb freeze. He look just like alabaster (or alabastid, as we say in these parts)... Miz India say - Honey-pot, why your han' so cold?


Two heartbeat later door slam open and new sweetie-pie bellow - Nevah mine. I foun' my key. Zeb! Puppy-dog! Come look what all I bought!


An' kids is kids. They jus' rush over like she a reg'lar Miz Santy Claus. But then Miss Monica's youngest say - Hey, lady, who are you?


That when Miz India start squeezin' his han' real hard. And you know she got them real pointy, sharp, lacquer nails. I think a little bit a blood come out too.


I mean if she not call him Puppy-dog, they might a made up somethin'. They could a say she like an Avon lady, or maybe an over friendly disoriented stranger. But she call him 'Puppy-dog,' an' she call him 'Zeb'. Not too many disoriented stranger ladies gonna do that.


An' ev'rythin' stan' still for like four heartbeat, till new sweetie-pie look down at them little Texaco heirs and heiresses an say  - Who the hell am I? Who the hell am I?.... Who the hell are you?


That when somebody start shootin'.........


oooooooOOOOOOO(TEXACO)OOOOOOOooooooo


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... But Tonight Belongs to Celtic Magic

There is much magic in the world. And when it flows free it is a wondrous thing, bearing prophecies and knowledge to chieftain and milk maid alike. But when it weaves itself into the flesh and bones of a mortal soul noxious cysts begin to grow and the beneficial nature of the thing festers into something else.

Such is the way with Life-Eaters. Those wide-eyed innocents beguiled into never ending union with the night. You may know them by other names. Your people may call them Nefalim, or Windego, or Vampires. 

In rare cases a few have been domesticated, living in darkness and spitting out lies which simple souls took to be divine. But most survive as outlaws, racing with the moon. They hide from the sun, for their silver, orbed mother is at war with him and she knows he'll kill her babies.

And they bed down to rest in alien earth each morn, for they are forever on the run.

You have seen these lucid wanderers. You know you have. You know that. A silent walker spied through the draperies of an upstairs window on a frost-tinged winter's night. How did it know you were there in the darkness? How did it know to look up? But look up in  did, as you jumped from the glass, burrowing deep into the covers and shivering with fear and delight.

How fortunate you were to have witnessed such a miraculous thing. How lucky to survive.

And early spring nights are a special time. Young ones are drawn to the chill, moist vapors swirling through trees and cold, parked cars. Be careful. Go not out alone, for the night has a thousand eyes. Just be sure not to close your own if you should sneeze.

God bless you. God bless you all.

And may the Children of the Moon dance with other partners, for all that I have  told you here is true .

Piper, piper, in the night. Skin so pale and eyes so bright. Play your tune for other ears. Tarry not with me......

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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Native Magic

In the middle of Barsoom lies an oasis, a cool, fresh, greensward known as Jules Verne Memorial Park.  It has a picture book woodland, a clear, bright stream, called the Sambation and a lush, verdant meadow called The Plains of Sharon.


Tiny creatures, brought from Earth, wriggle through the sylvan night. Flying squirrels glide through the shadows. Cunning, dowager spiders weave webs. And specially designed, nocturnal turtledoves sing of steadfast love.


Eleven strange sky-ponies circled o're this rarefied spot, carefully choosing the proper place to alight.  And after a time, each one came down to silently find purchase upon the ground. I do not know if mechanical devices (of which the Troopers have many) saw them as they flew. In all probability they are able to do so. But this night and the events therein, were very far from probable.


Bart slid off first. Then he and the ranch hands went 'round to help the others. Although never stated, each soul sensed the importance of discretion and no one spoke.  After perhaps ten score heartbeats they assembled in a small circle under the starry sky. 


The strange sky-ponies stood 'round for maybe three dozen heartbeats more, until one-by-one, they slowly dissolved and merged with the late-night mist. Little Davey waved good-bye, as the last one nickered softly.


India mouthed a prayer. Miss Sissie did too. The ranch hands and their women said countless 'amen's.' 


But Miss Monica knew who the sky-ponies were. She knew that and other things too. And she whispered the secret to her daughter - They were the 'elders,' the Tuva-Tuva elders. The same ones who welcomed us into the jadeite cave......... And then she told no one else. 


Now Bart was a spiritual cynic. But practical, none the less. A ride was a ride, no matter how fortuitous. And miracles in the dark, although unexplained, could still be welcome gifts. So he gathered the little band together and led them along a narrow path toward the sounds of traffic not so far away.


Upon reaching the Ring Road surrounding the park, they shunned the androids and their rickshaws and set off, on foot, for 'the secret hide-away' (a jewel-box townhouse unknown to the press), there to rejoin their kin.


Zebulon almost died when he saw them in the hall....


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SCREW THOSE MARTIAN COWBOYS! I AM TALKING NOW!

You know my name. I am Jonathon ben Macabi. And Although My story has not been smeared all over your after school television for seventh grade female children to shriek over, certain tit-bits of my 'life' have been illuminated via this blog. 


So you know of my 'family.' and you know of my predilection for fine, trim, black, leather bootkins. You know of my dark room deep beneath the cellars of the GlenGary house in Chestnut Hill,  plus assorted other jewel-box hide-aways scattered about the ancient districts of Philadelphia.


I know. I know. I know... Those cowboy, Martian bastards occupy the space right now. Yet what is Mars to one like me who's walked the moons of Saturn?...........Why am I doing this unseemly thing? Why am I speaking out of turn?..........Well, let me catch my breath and I will tell you.


Approximately fourteen hundred heartbeats ago, I witnessed a shameful burlesque of the Life-Eater existence upon my magic-calling-card........ I know. I know. I know. you call it by another name...An 'I-phone.' An 'I-Phone.' ....Two syllables. I know! I know! I have it. I got it. NOW SHUT UP!!


At times I awaken during my diurnal nap. In the past, I'd lay there contemplating ancient wrongs and visualizing exquisite forms of lethal retribution. But even enjoyable hobbies like that eventually grow boring. Edith, my 'familiar' recognizes this and brings me toys to wile away the hours. The latest is that I-Phone. ...... I use it to watch your idiotic spectacles and entertainments. ...My favorite is the one hosted by an immortal, aged, vampire woman.  'Barbra' I think the vampirina calls herself And she has a trained panel of human, barking seals who spout out ridiculous opinions on cue. 


But that's not why I am here. the Ellen woman ( I do not think her manic display even comes with a name) showed a 'clip' from an up-coming magic-lantern narrative, entitled DARK SHADOWS, ostensibly detailing the 'life' of a buffoonishly typical, penny dreadful blood-drinker called Barnabas Collins.... 'Barnabas Collins' indeed...No better than a threadbare clark from Dickens.


Do not be fooled by this simple and childish, facile rendering.....El Mundo Vampirismo is much more complex.  And I, who have faced the Fire Pits of Marseilles will teach you.


Yet I must endure the tortuous yodels coming from Mars. ....... Let the cowboys have their say. Let the 'troopers' speak.  Their tale will end. I SHALL RETURN and we will taste the warm, spring night together....


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Alec's Two

And then it ended. The still, impassive Tuva-Tuva elders silently rose to their feet and filed out of that place. The old Poo-Poo woman nodded to each one, as they left. Moments later, the men, women and children of the Texaco party began to awaken. And Miss Monica came out of the smaller room, followed by the orange skinned prince. That was it. The deed was done. She carried within her the beginning of a line destined to make Mars a true human home. Please know, I speak of the more recent 'Earth' humans. She was the font and her offspring would inherit this world.


No one said much.  Mister Hobart helped Miss Sissie get up. Their daughter-in-law, India joined them. Little Davey went to stand by his pop-pop (Bart). Alec's two went to their mother. She embraced them both. And the ranch hands and their women got up too. 


One of the bob-cats purred, as she rubbed up against the guests. The Poo-Poo woman passed 'round a flask, made of finely worked, native Martian copper. Obviously a Tuva-Tuva antique. She motioned for them to drink. Bart went first. After he was satisfied it was safe, he passed it off to the others, even the children.  The Poo-Poo woman smiled, raised her hands and blessed them. Then she gave old, copper wristlets to Monica's children. There appeared to be some significance to the gesture. But no one knew what it meant. Though I can tell you. I'm the voice a the lonesome pines. I know everything... or almost everything.


Alec's two would be half siblings to the new one. Guardians and protectors to Monica's third child. It's odd. They all knew, on some level, what had happened. But no  one spoke about it. And the orange prince was gone. 


Bart turned to face the old Tuva-Tuva woman and said - Thank you for giving us shelter........ She nodded and smiled. The Earth humans nodded back...... Miss Sissie said - But, what happens now?..... The orange skinned woman from an older human line said - Please, follow me....... And she led them back through the smooth, jadeite chambers to the russet plains beyond.  A little way off stood 'bout a dozen sky-ponies, whether from La Polvarosa, or some other ranch was hard to say. Each wore a specially tooled harness made to accommodate the long, strong wings.  The orange skinned woman showed Zeke and Buster (the two ranch hands) how to lay low upon the horses' backs and hook their legs and arms into the straps, insuring a safe ride.  Bart helped the others do the same. Miss Sissie was scared, but he kissed her and told her she'd be all right. The kids took to it right away. Alec's two had been 'up' already. And Little Davey was more than eager for the adventure. 


They could see a small Chinese outpost a few miles off to the left. But that wouldn't matter. Chinese soldiers don't mess with sky-ponies. They're too professional for that. Since the Trooper-folk would be riding down real low, they'd be pretty much invisible anyway. 


'Bout two minutes later they were off. Zeke's horse flew 'point'. The rest fanned out to the sides... a big, ole 'V' cutting through the yellow Martian dawn, headin' straight for the city of Barsoom. Eleven frightened humans, strapped to the backs of pegasi reborn. Hearts poundin'. Hooves flashin'. Manes flyin'. Just another morn, high over the fabled plains  a Mars.


Wonder what Zeb gonna do when they touch down?....


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... But not tonight

Tonight I must rest. If you are familiar with this site, you know I've only done that a handful of times. Few others post as much.


But this night is not like other nights. If you like, please leave a lengthy COMMENT. Tell us about yourself. Spin your own tale. Make it like a guest blog. PROMOTE your own sites. Step into the candlelight and speak that we might hear. Or wander through past arcs. GOOGLE THE LITTLE MATCH BOY by Billy Kravitz. That's a good one. 


And here's another site you'll enjoy..... http://www.caballoblue.com/ ....... Go ahead. Take a chance. Explore.


I'll be back..........


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Fast Shots

Cannot forward much material tonight. Something wrong with the etherial passage connecting my parallel universe to yours. Think the phenomenon is primarily a localized event, due to all the atomic and sub-atomic discharges produced by ships and weapons maneuvering for position in the skies above the Martian capital city of Barsoom.


Citizens seek shelter in underground subway system. But unlike yours, ours rely on magna-lift technology. Mars based cannon-like projectile launchers provide cover for The Martian- America flagship, The Twenty First Century. Of course we know it's the twenty second century (here, at least), but the line began then, so they use the name.


And deep within a hidden laboratory Stinker Jones henchman study an embryo. It's a clone. But not just any clone. These cells come from Alec Texaco's nose. The only viable part of him to be recovered after a brutal 'hit.'......


So Miss Monica's husband 'survives.' Granted, if she gets him back it'll be as a wailin' little sucker. And she might not be so interested in takin' up wit' a romantic partner so much her junior. But his mama gonna want him. Miss Sissie miss that boy real bad. She do anything a have him back. She pay a whole lot a money.


Stinker not 'sactly sure how he gonna use what he got in that l'il pyrex dish, but he know he gonna use it. That is if they ever get rid a them Chinese goomers. Miz Stinker learnin' herself a eat wit' chopsticks. But it mighty hard pickin' up sauce-slathered barbecue wit' them delicate, little implements. So she just jab 'em in, like a big, ole toothpick and gnaw away. Only it purt near impossible a balance it that way. That why her pants is so dirty.


And then we got that ORANGE SKINNED BOY. Big sucker too. Got hisself a mighty handsome physicality, in an exotic kind a way. That who Miss Monica been holed up ('scuse my 'spresion) wit'. And I hear he the Tuva-Tuva pregnancy-makin' champeen a the world. You know, bein' 'the voice a the lonesome pines,' I hear lot a stuff. She seem a like him too. Big, ole Poo-Poo woman get herself out a her seat. She sneak over an' take a peek. She laugh. She giggle. False teeth fall out, but she scoop 'em up and put 'em back real fas'. Nobody see. She vane that way.


Hope that flagship get through. Hope them North American/Muscovite bastids do sumpin'.


I do not want a have to learn how to channel my thoughts in Chinese......


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