Posts Tagged ‘ reality ’
BYE-BYE TO ONE SWEET GOBBLER
Holiday turkey,
you’re such a culinary delight.
With your meat so tender,
we shall gobble you tonight.
And when our tummies are stuffed with you,
you may wind up as a tasty stew.
If by chance you turn greenish-blue,
we’ll have to trash what’s left of you.
— Boots LeBaron —
Click the link below and get Boots’s Black Friday Holiday Deal Starting Friday !!! And the Rest of the month !! Happy Turkey Day !!
ARE YOU SOLELY YOU, TOO?
Proudly I am solely me.
My search for understanding
is a never-ending spree.
The gift I treasure most is
the wisdom that belongs to thee.
If your thoughts are only dubious,
that’s enough to stir up
a ruckus in my tuchis.
Sure, I’m somewhat of a
gullible fool who
failed in school.
Through life, dyslexia
has been my anchor.
No way can I take reading
comprehension to the banker.
Yet I’ve always felt free
to think as I please,
soliciting knowledge from
you modern day Socrates.
Even when reliability
turns to dust, I trust.
For me, believing in the
worthiness of others is a must.
Writing essays, poetry and human
interest stories about people
such as thee, has proved
to be my fait accompli.
Despite society’s judgemental rule,
a learning disorder has always
been my inspirational tool.
It’s a stubborn confidence
I have found. At times
I’ve run it into the ground.
Listening to the rantings of others,
you might discover thoughts so profound.
Naturally, there’s no guarantee that
such philosophies will astound.
If it happened to me,
it could happen to thee!
— Boots LeBaron —
THE HUMAN RACE
THERE’S MEANING IN EVERY BRIEF LIFE
I am searching
I am lurching
I am caring
I am daring
I am hellish
I am selfish
I am hypocritical
I am satirical
I am realistic
I am spiritualistic
I am beat
I am obsolete
I am abrupt
I interrupt
I am radical
I am lackadaisical
I am long-wedded
I am embedded
I am bent
I am spent
I am adorable
I am deplorable
I am dyslexic
I am artistic
I am curseless
I am hearseless
I am heathenistic
I am egotistic
I am headstrong
I am woe-be-gone
I am ancient
I am patient
I am quick-witted
I am dip-shited
I am non-racist
I am essayist
I am happy
I am pappy
I am my children
And they are me!
— Boots LeBaron —
EX-JOCKEY LEARNED THE HARD WAY
Stewart I. Haupman was petting a $2,300 cockatoo when I met him several years ago at his parrot shop in Redondo Beach, California. But he wasn’t always in the exotic bird business.
He grew up in New York’s Hell’s Kitchen, a tough tenement section brimming with poverty and controlled by gangs. At the age of seven, he sold magazines and sang on weekends at Jewish weddings to help support the family
Sharing a small two-bedroom flat in a tenement house with his parents, grandparents and a brother who had polio, he slept on a cot in the hallway.
When he turned 14, he quit school, forged his father’s signature, and became a stable boy at the old Jamaica Race Track. A year later, he became an exercise boy at Hialeah, a track in Florida.
It was there he got his first mount as a jockey. The third horse he raced, won! Within eight months, he had won 127 races and had become a full-fledged jockey.
Over a period of eight years, riding for Sonny Jim Fitzsimmons, whom he described as “the dean of trainers,” he had won 832 races. “Being a jockey, that was my education. I rode and I broke yearlings for the DuPonts, the Vanderbilts, the Whitneys… “I owe a lot to those people. They taught me to be a human being. I learned to function in an area of society I never even dreamed I could be a part of.”
As a winning jockey, the kid from Hell’s Kitchen not only rubbed elbows with the rich and famous, but found a pride within himself. “The racetrack gave me self-esteem. I had a great time. Winning a big race is an unbelievable experience.
“You hear the crowd yelling, screaming. And You’re whipping and driving. Well, it’s exciting. You wave at the judges in the winner’s circle. There’s smiles. Applause. The track gave me the feeling of being somebody special. Like a track star.”
During a race at Hialeah, his mount “snapped an ankle” and Steward went down in front of the pack. Trampled by six horses, he was “busted up bad” and spent nine months in the hospital, gained weight and lost that competitive edge to win.
“To have success suddenly taken away from you — it was devastating! When you’re a kid, nobody paints you a rosy picture. Nobody tells you there’s a rose garden out there. You find it. Then, all of a sudden, it’s gone. It seems that nobody really teaches you that in life, you win a few and lose a few. You should never quit when you’re down.”
— Boots LeBaron —
THE HUMAN RACE
A CHANCE MEETING WITH MY FAVORITE LEPRECHAUN
Not too long ago,
I was walking down the street minding me own business when
when I heard a rustling of leaves coming from high in a maple tree.
When I looked up, there was Francis Archibald O’Leary with
that waggish face beaming down at me.
He was trapped, clinging to a spindly branch that barely supported his portly Leprechaun frame.
“Top of the mornin’, chappy!” hecalled, tipping his topper.
Up to that point in my life,
I had been a logical kind of guy who believed that elves, mermaids, gremlins,
pixies, brownies, even gnomes were figments of our imagination. But I must admit that
I’ve known my share of Leprechaunic folk the size of Billy Barty.
So there high above me was Francis, oozing blarney winking down with
impish green eyes magnified by bifocals.
As sure as St. Patrick drove all the snakes from Ireland, I had
never met a more whimsical character than the one whose coattail was
was caught in the branches.
“Before you forsake me,” he pleaded, “would
you be up to doin’ a kind deed?”
I shot him an skeptical glance.
“Wouldn’t you agree, it’d be unmerciful
to leave a body trapped in a tree on such a fine kite-flying day?” he rattled on.
“How’d you get up there?” I asked.
“Would you believe I was tryin’ to getcloser to heaven?” he snorted.
“If I help you down, will you give me an interview?” I asked.
“Yer pullin’ me leg,” he howled.
As I began to walk away,” he hollered after me:
“Unless yer interested in talkin’ to the descendent of Ireland’s King Timothy O’Leary?
That’s me, you see!”
No sooner did I help him down that he pushed
out his double chin and tossed me a cockeyed smile.
“Timothy O’Leary was not really a King,”
he explained showing no guilt. “He was more like the
chief of a clan in County Cork. But King
Leary did exist. And his same blood
trickles through my veins and those of
my sons, Shawn, Kevin and Bryan. They
are all sturdy lads.”
“Just where on the Emerald Isle do you
hail from?”
“Sad to say, I’ve never been to
Ireland. My father, Timothy
raised nine of us on an estate in Cambridge,
Mass. where he was a groundskeeper.”
“Are you truly one of the Little People?” I asked.
“Not only am I the largest leprechaun in the world,
I’m the only one with an engineering degree; one
who works with rainbows, pots of gold, taxes,
and has an enchanting wife named Allie who teaches
college calculus. Just think of me as an overgrown
elf with supernatural powers. That’s me!”
That spiel was the beginning of a friendship
that lasted far more than a blink of an eye.
Before we parted, I asked, using tax lingo,
“Francis, would you be up to granting your
rescuer three promissory wishes?”
“Brace yourself,” he said puffing up his
chest and pouching out his belly:
“May the road rise up to meet ya. There’s
one… May the wind be always at yer back…
And here’s me favorite: May you be in heaven
ten minutes before the devil knows yer dead!”
Right there in front of me, Francis vanished
in a puff of smoke leaving the scent of
Irish Spring in his wake.
Francis Archibald O’Leary was truly a happy soul.
Right now, I’ll wager he’s at a place, far above
the maple tree, shuffling his twinkle toes,
dancing a jig. The sight of him will surely cause
old St. Peter to open wide his gates.
And, may I add, leave the many friends he
left behind with heartfelt memories.
Toodleoo, old pal.
In Irish, that means good-bye.
— Boots LeBaron —
(Frank, a physicist and former U.S. Marine,died on Valentine’s Day last year when I wrote this story.
He was born in Cambridge,Mass. in 1927)
THE WILD AND WOOLLY HUMAN RACE
DIVERSITY has many faces. They come in
different colors, creeds, genders, logic, ethnicity,
religions, prejudices, levels of narcissism and
variances of naivety. As the Academy of Motion
Picture Arts and Sciences proved with its Oscar
show on Sunday, we are an unpredictable species.
Each of us, in our own inimitable way, is a little
goofy. We tote these eccentricities wherever we go:
Showbiz, Wall Street, politics, the workplace,
into personal relationships, even sports. While
watching the Oscars and listening to comic Chris
Rock’s one-liners, the thought, loony as it may
sound, occurred to me: Why not create a dozen
golden statuettes each individually honoring white,
black, Latino, Asian, Native American, gay and
lesbian artists and technicians? Sure it’s a
logistical challenge. But the film industry has
a year to cope with it. To get them started, I
did a quick sketch of what these golden statuettes
might look like. Granted, it ain’t migraine proof.
But at least it’s a thought that might save the entire
celebrity industry from going bonkers.
— Boots LeBaron —
THE HUMAN RACE
WHO ARE WE?
Lovers can be friends.
Friends can be enemies.
Enemies can be teachers.
Teachers can be preachers.
Preachers can be hypocrites.
Hypocrites can be gigolos.
Gigolos can be heart breakers.
Heart breakers can be liars.
Liars can be users.
Users can be abusers.
Abusers can be cowards.
Cowards can be heroes.
Heroes can be brutes.
Brutes can be romanticists.
Romanticists can be manipulators.
Manipulators can be politicians.
Politicians can be swindlers.
Swindlers can be believers.
Believers can be dreamers.
Dreamers can be schemers.
Schemers can be tycoons.
Tycoons can be ignoramuses.
Ignoramuses can be patsies.
Patsies can be voters.
Voters can be celebrities.
Celebrities can be impostors.
Impostors can be charmers.
Charmers can be shysters.
Shysters can be lovers.
— Boots LeBaron —
THE HUMAN RACE
MEET SUZIE, A HORNY SPINOSAURUS FROM EGYPT
My name is Suzie. I’m bigger and more voluptuous
than a Greyhound bus. Paleontologists gave
me the name Spinosaurus aegyptiacus. I prefer
Suzie. Some 90 million years ago, during
the Cretaceous period, I hung out in the
river beds of Egypt in northern Africa.
And that’s where they dug me up in 1912.
Interested in my measurements? I’m 50-feet
long. That adds up to a statuesque 6-to-7
tons of girlishness. Scientists say that
I was the largest of predatory dinosaurs and
the only one of my kind who thrived in water.
Problem with having webbed feet is I could
never wear stilettos. My favorite tidbits
were huge fish, alligators and turtles.
You might say that among dinosaurs, I was one
primeval cutie who didn’t need eyelashes to
flutter or pouting lips to entice boys.
It was my glistening seven-inch fangs and
flirtatious glances that turned them on.
My fashion plate was my six-foot sail-
like fin that sprouted from my back.
Girls envied it. Guys adored it!
Surprisingly, I don’t miss the days of my
youth when my species were struggling for
survival. It didn’t come close to what you
power-hungry, self-righteous Homo sapiens
must cope with in today’s troubled world.
Don’t take my word for it. Just read the
news or watch the talking heads on TV.
There were no mortals anywhere when this
horny Spinosaurus was on the prowl. What
does that tell you about your superiority as
Earth creatures? Evolution might be fascinating
to ponder. But it doesn’t guarantee perfection.
— Boots LeBaron —
http://www.amazon.com/The-Human-Race-Boots-LeBaron/dp/1494218526
The Human Race
ONLY THE SHADOW KNOWS WHO’S THE RIGHT CANDIDATE!
Who knows what skull-duggery lurks in the hearts
of politicians running for this year’s
presidential election? Not even The Shadow
knows. Some of you might remember the
spooky crime fighter who petrified radio
audiences before the advent of television.
He had the ability to “cloud men’s minds.”
Thanks to politics, it’s not a lost art.
Today on TV, politicians and other talking
heads constantly cloud voter’s minds.
For proof, tune in to the New Hampshire
primary and listen to mudslingers doing
the hootchy-kootchy as they compete for the
the world’s most influential position: The
U.S. presidency. The current political
extravaganza is not only a sad act to
witness, but at times highly entertaining.
How do we separate the incomprehensible
gobble-dy-gookers from trustworthy
political warriors? Who will be the most
prolific fighting for our individual rights?
It ain’t funny. The challenge for voters is monumental.
Many these well-financed combatants are
brilliant debaters. Don’t tell me a scant number
of these political saints aren’t dancing the
waltz to garner votes. They focus on whatever
issue their target audience needs to hear:
Immigration, energy, the economy, gay rights,
taxation, separation of church and State.
a woman’s right to choose, stem-cell research,
gun control… You name it. We
fall for brilliantly conceived lines delivered
by TV’s talking heads, radio babblers and scores
of Internet twiddlers voicing their slanted
messages into the ozone. Who should we trust?
Remember, Superman and Wonder Woman are
are comic book characters. Yet U.S. citizens hunger
for the kind of conscientious integrity in humans
that such superheroes are identified with.
Who should voters with such diversified demands
know which political barrister in the race
for commander and chief is the most righteous?
How do we convince voters to first do their
home work and then turn out to vote en masse
relying on keen instincts governed by
hearsay evidence?”
Got me!
— Boots LeBaron —
PUTTING A FACE ON THE HUMAN RACE
THE PSYCHOLOGY BEHIND SINKING YOUR LOOT IN POWERBALL
The POWERBALL hysteria which ended Wednesday, January 13, 2016, revealed society’s hunger to fulfill their dreams of reaching instant billionaire status by at the very least purchasing a two buck POWERBALL ticket. Who are these millions of hopeful gamblers who lined the streets and jammed places like service stations and 7-Eleven type stores to hit life’s alleged jackpot?
I don’t care who the new moguls are or what gold mine granted them a “promissory” existence in a better world for a two-dollar ticket to financial bliss. Sure I’d like to buy bundles of happiness. But this mass performance of men and woman who invested anything from a paltry $2.00 to as much as $10,000.00 for POWERBALL tickets, is one soap opera that exposes everybody’s psyche.
I found a few pros and cons about contemplating billionaire station in life. For example:
Sally Stowe, an actor-director and stage producer, who soon intends to be greeting friends at her own memorial service while she is still kicking, told me, “I don’t think that my Maker could care less if I stood in line to buy a two dollar ticket that could make me a billionaire. The life I’ve shared with my husband, Charlie, and our kids, can’t be bought for ten billion. My life has been a priceless gift.”
Bob Aaron, a retired mechanical engineer from Torrance, Calif., had never bought a LOTTO ticket. “I have no idea how much money I have saved over the decades,” he said. “If I failed to buy
a ticket and learned that I would have become a billionaire, I guess I’ll live with it. Sure, I’d take the money and run. On the other hand, if my wife, Sue, who’ve been my best friend for many years, drew a winning ticket at POWERBALL, first thing she’d do is trade her husband in for a newer model.” Bob laughed at that joke.
Widow Marilyn Hofferlin, a resident of St. Louis, Missouri, said, “The world if falling apart. The headlines are focusing on POWERBALL. It just goes to prove how greedy we are. I didn’t buy a ticket. At the moment, biggest, most frustrating loss I can think of is when Stan Kroenke, who owns the Saint Louis Rams football team decided to move the team to Inglewood, California.
“Right now, they are pulling down the banners at the Dome, where our Rams packed the stands. That breaks my heart more than losing out as a billionaire. My husband, Richard, if he was alive today, would totalle agree with me. I know the odds of me winning at POWERBALL is laughable. I’m 84. Life is short. I’m not so naive to think I can beat the odds.”
Marvin Thurman from Rushville, Illinois, who buys and sells farming machinery, didn’t purchase a ticket because, “I don’t think that would be too smart of an investment. When there’s millions buying a chance, one ticket isn’t worth a hill of beans,” he said.
Entrepreneur Tom Ruff, who years ago maxed out three credit cards to create the Tom Ruff Company, which is now a long established national head-hunting organization, said this: “I’d rather earn an honest wage than gamble against the odds trying to win a billion dollars.” Ruff, who lives in Main and enjoys a comfortable yet busy life with his fiancee, Meg, and dog, Tank, obviously wasn’t compelled to buy a POWERBALL ticket.
Roland Hueth, an avid fisherman and former paint company executive, asked, “Do you really think you’re going luck out against hundreds of thousands of other dudes who all want to make a quick killing? It’s like casting a hook with yummy bait into an ocean that’s bubbling with fish, and not coming up with a single nibble. Donald Trump can keep his money. I don’t envy him one bit.”
— Boots LeBaron —
http://www.amazon.com/The-Human-Race-Boots-LeBaron/dp/1494218526
Click to buy The Human Race by Boots LeBaron avail at Amazon and Kindle.
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