I have been second to drugs and alcohol

I have been second to other boys

I have been second to other men

I have been second to children

I have been second to heroin

I have been second to everything.

In one life, at one time, some time soon or far in the future… I have but one request.

For once in my lifetimes can I be first in a persons heart?

Can I be first loved?

Can I be first thought of?

First protected?

First held?

First kissed?

First longed for?

Why must it be only my goddess who came to me in a dream?  One who I can love but never hold?

My whole life I have wished for true love… how can it be true when I am first in nothing?

I am first to love,

I am first to care,

I am first to heal,

I am first to hope, to dream, to protect.

For my love I was shunned,

For my caring I was harmed,

For my healing I was hunted,

For my hope, my dreams and protection I am passed by.

All I can hope for is times passing and changes that are for those who are second.

For as we stand in the background we actually hold more than our fair share… We usually do not complain, nor do we hurt… but eventually being second is no longer enough.

At a concert

A seat next to me

is empty

I imagine

How it would be

If you were

Beside me

In a shop

I see a dress

Which I’d like

To wear for you

And even more

I dream about

How you pull it off

And how we make love

As passionate as ever

But you picked never

And I can see

Pieces of my heart

Lying in front of you

(waiting to be

walked on (by you)

and as we say

goodbye

I cannot help but cry

I read a book

The places they walk

The words that they say

The music they listen to

All reminds me of you

You’ll never escape

my mind

and I also find

you’ll never escape

my heart

even if we spent

years apart

On a street

I see a couple

About to kiss

Unable to hide my tears

I hurry past them

Memory is still

too much alive

pictures are clear

kisses are sweet

our eyes meet

and I could hear your voice

All feelings rash back

I see no other end

I see no other choice

But to cry

Horrified at

Our goodbye!

a new insight!

But I cannot keep my mind

on the other side,

away from you

it’s just too difficult

to do!

It’s always on the side that

you are on

and the spring is being born

and I still cannot think of

anything else!

Though I would like

to write about

the birds and the bees

and the cherry trees!

But you are on my mind

too often!

I don’t care if it seems right

or wrong!

I would die to hear that –

we belong!

And if it doesn’t seem to you –

like that

than I’d prefer to be

dead!

Since you’re not

brave enough

to call me

my love!

As the moon above is so bright

And there is a sparkle in your sight

There’s nothing I want more

Come leave this world with me

Don’t you want to be happy

I’d stay with you endlessly

There’s nothing I want more

Come stay with me over the night

Come listen to my heart

Come live with me and be my Love

Or do you want us to part

Do you want to leave my harbour

Don’t you want to sail back home

Don’t you want to feel that pleasure

Do you want me to be all alone

Still, it’s hard for me to understand;
I wonder where your love has gone.
Love reaches higher than the highest mountain.
Love is endless.
You silly!

So, can you find it again?
It can’t be that hard!?
Love should save you!
Let yourself – surrender!
You silly!

So, there is nothing I can do!
I can just wait and pray!
Love will come our way!
Love will meet us someday!
You silly!

Still, I’ll be wondering why you act like that.
I’ll never get to know why you pretend.
Look around and you’ll see happy people
Look deeper these ones are in love, but you,
You rather stay silly?!

So silly is my love for you
So silly all my thoughts of us
So silly, yet so nice
So silly, and so nice 
Shiny sparkles in (y)our eyes!

If every house hold had an alarm clock like this, it would be absolutely impossible to “Sleep in”. You would NEVER ever be late for anything that involved you getting up from bed. Wouldn’t you love to get your hands on an alarm clock like that? (I would…wait what am I talking about, I know everything about it)

This alarm clock had a very special name and for some reason I felt is was specially designed for me. Want to know what it was called?
NO?.. why not? I’m telling you, you’ll never believe the name of it. Ok, are you sitting down? If your not, go grab yourself a chair – strap yourself in (tight) and listen to this…

The Alarm Clock was called…. (Drum roll please)…. MY MOTHER!

You heard me right, it was called My Mother. Let me show you how effective the My Mother (alarm clock) was. Like I said, it’s 3:30am (who wakes up at 3:30am?… well apparently I do) and it’s time to get up. Did I mention at all that I was six years old at the time? Name me one kid (boy or girl) who gets up at 3:30am? I didn’t think so.

My mother comes into my room, lightly pulls off the covers, gently gives me a kiss on the forehead and tells me to get up. No… wait that Mother Alarm clock never made it to market – the designers said it would never work (Boy were they right) The “Real” Mother Alarm clock worked like this. I felt my feet being pulled by my ankles (at supersonic speed – my eyes popped open, I had no idea if I was coming or going?) and next thing I felt is my head resting on the foot of bed (at first I thought I was dreaming) and then CRASH my head hits the floor, no warning, no nothing (I definitely wasn’t dreaming). The Mother alarm clock had no mercy on nobody (can you see now how it’s impossible to sleep in?). I’m seeing stars (like you wouldn’t) and all I hear is “Hurry up, were going to be late!”. Now if we were going to Disney Land, they hey all the power to the Mother Alarm Clock but guess where I was going?…

C H E R R Y P I C K I N G!!!!! Yahoo!… talk about the time of your life (believe you me, I became a Legend in Cherry Picking).

I was up and ready in less than five seconds. Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. The Mother Alarm clock comes with a feature that dresses you as well. I’m in the car, its pitch black outside. You had to drive with your high beams on just to see two feet in front of you (now that’s dark). I had no idea how long of a drive it was, all I wanted to do was Sleep.

We arrive at the farm. We get out of the car and the Birds were still sleeping? (And my moms said hurry up or were going too late??). You know it’s early when you don’t see or hear a bird in the sky. Suddenly I heard “Hey…who’s down there?” (That was the birds talking to each other). We pulled out the flashlights (I’m telling you, it was Dark!) and walk towards the farm house. We meet the farmer and he says to my mom “What’s with the kid (me)?” My mom tells him “Never you mind, were you want us to start picking?”. Even the farmer had a sense; you don’t mess around with the Mother Alarm Clock. He pointed us into the right direction. My mother asked him “how much you pay me for basket?” The farmer replies .10 cents a basket. My mom felt like she just won the lottery and grabs my hand and were running (not walking) in the dark to the tree’s.

We get to the tree and everything is waiting for us. A ladder, a harness (that holds the basket) and a bunch of empty baskets. Now the name of the game is the more you pick, the more money you make. I’ve never picked cherries before, I have no idea what to do – so I followed my mom. I’m watching her and doing what she was doing, then POW – I’m on the ground (Like I got hit by a bull dozer). Turns out I was slowing my mother down and she just wanted to “move” me over. Well I landed at the tree beside us.

Now I got my own tree. I’m up the ladder right to tip of the tree. I grab my first cherry and put it in the basket. I look in the basket and that one cherry didn’t fill much of the basket up. I’m thinking (mind you I was six) this is going to take all day to fill this basket (pretty smart no?) So I get my brain thinking and I come up with a wicked idea. What if I grab the branches and start shaking them until the cherries fall off. I know what your thinking – “Great idea but run it by your mother first” Well it’s a little to late for that advise because I decided to just do it (like Nike says). I grab a branch and shake it till I was dizzy. The cherries started pouring down (I told you it was a good idea) and my mom sees me picking the cherries off the ground and loses it. “What are you doing” she says. “What?… I’m picking cherries” I said. “Don’t move” she says. “You’ll crush all the cherries with your feet and we will have nothing to pick”.  Well that idea didn’t work and I was back up the ladder and picking the cherries one by one.

Have any of you picked cherries before? Let me tell you its very boring and it will drive you to drink. I had about fifty cherries in the basket and I had enough. I didn’t have breakfast (the Mother Alarm clock didn’t come with that feature) so I decided to eat a few cherries. Well a few turned into a lot which turned into a lot more which turned into a basket which turned into a TREE. I eat a whole tree, not one cherry on it. My mother comes over and sees the tree empty. She couldn’t believe it (I think she thought cherry picking was my calling in life). Good job (In Italian) she says (yeah that’s the same mom who woke me up by letting my head crash to the floor). She was looking for the (full) baskets of cherries, already doing the math figuring out how many baskets a tree could fill and she figured I must have picked about $100 worth or cherries. She’s looking around but finds nothing. She was about to ask me where the baskets were but sees me holding my stomach and moaning. My mom asks “What’s da matter with you?”. I told her my stomach was hurting. She says “Well that’s because you no eat the breakfast”. “Eat some cherries and you’ll feel better”. I told her “No…its ok I don’t feel like cherries right now (matter of fact to this day I don’t “feel like” cherries anymore). Well my mother finds out I didn’t pick any cherries (Yes I did, fifty of them remember?) and gives me a motivation to continue. Guess what it was?… (Pretend I’m playing the theme song from Jeopardy to give you some time to think) 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 Ok… times up. If you guessed FEAR – give yourself 20,000 points and you’re the new Jeopardy Champ (your starting to understand my mother). For everyone else who got it wrong, shame on you – the only way you will understand my mother is to read my other stories (go do it now…wait – well since your almost done, you might as well finish reading the story and then go).

Well I’m all fired up (wouldn’t you be) and ready to break the record for the most cherries picked by a six year old. I was climbing those trees like a monkey (I didn’t need the ladder anymore; it was slowing me down (ha). I was picking cherries faster than the trees could grow them. In no time the ground was covered with baskets full of cherries (I swear I picked enough cherries to cure world hunger – but I gave it to the farmer instead, Hey… I didn’t know people were starving). I told my mother my fingers were bleeding and I needed a break (When you got Fear in you, you have no idea when quitting time is). I burned off that tree full of cherries I ate and I was starving. I think I lost a few pounds that morning.

The farmer came by to “check up” on us and when he saw all the baskets full of cherries, his eyes popped out of his head. He ran to the road side flagging cars down asking people he needed help to carry all the baskets we picked (his tractor wasn’t big enough) to the farm house. There were cars parked a mile long along the side of the road. Everywhere you looked, someone had a basket in there hands, and people were climbing all over each other trying to grab a basket. It was like Michael Jackson (poor guy, I feel sorry for him – his best album was Thriller) was there signing autographs.

The farmer pulls me aside and said “how the hell did you pick so many cherries?”. I told him “Have you met my mother?” “No” he says, well then you’ll never understand.

The Funny Guy

The arid heat from the helicopter’s propellers is pushed against my face violently. If it weren’t for the protection of the goggles on my face, I think I’d be picking sand boogers from my eyes for weeks to come. My rucksack rests uncomfortably on my lap, crushing my ball sack against my thigh. I shift to ease the pain as my legs begin to tingle from my feet to my knees. It subsides, but only momentarily. As I glance across the way, over the duffle bags stacked in between, I notice the other soldiers. Some are acquaintances, but most of them are my friends.

We’ve trained for this exact situation over the last year. Some would say, “We’re ready for it.” I would say, “We’re not.” The butterflies of anticipation and the wonderment of unknown bounce around inside my head and stomach. As I glance around at the helicopter’s other passengers, I know I’m not the only one feeling this way. My eyesight vibrates as I strain to focus on random faces. Their eyes are hidden behind dusty goggles. Some of the soldiers lose themselves in thought, their eyes closed, impossible to sleep on a Chinook with all of the noise. Not to mention the crushed groins and uncomfortable metal frames digging into a person’s quadriceps.

We begin to make our decent. As the vehicle turns toward our destination, I can see the ground below from the gunner’s door, the only lights are those from the city below. We fly beyond them across a long, empty field. The darkness invades my sights. Tiny, green lights affixed to the choppers interior walls are the only things allowing me to see. The forward operating base’s ground illumination suddenly begins to invade the helicopter’s belly.

Dust begins to fly from the ground as the propellers push it upward. Bits of the debris flies into my mouth, though it’s closed, it still finds its way inside. My teeth instantly feel grimy with sand and grit from the Iraqi earth. I try to seal them together more firmly. I didn’t think I’d need a cravat over my face for the flight, I think to myself. When there is a dusty situation involved, I’d normally have a cravat over my mouth and nose. It made me look like a bandit. The one from the Skoal can always pops into my head. The humorous thought is quickly interrupted.

“Grab your rucksack and two duffle bags! I don’t care if they’re your bags or not! Get the shit and get out! This bird has to be back in the air in less than 2 minutes!” The First Sergeant yells as loudly as he possibly can as he competes with the bird. We immediately obey. We are robots.

I stand, my legs feel like rubber as the blood rushes back into them. There is no time for recuperation. I grab a shoulder strap on my rucksack and swing it onto my back. I wait for the soldiers in front of me to get theirs in place and then grab the two duffle bags. Colorful thoughts of what First Sergeant will say if we don’t get our asses in gear run through my head over and over as I wait impatiently.

Finally, though it was only a few seconds, it feels like an eternity, the line is in motion. I grab two straps attached to the bags and make my way to the ramp at the rear of the helicopter. The weight of my interceptor body armor, IBA, along with all of my pouches full of ammunition, and the M16A4 slung over my shoulder, makes it nearly impossible to move quickly. The knee and elbow pads First Sergeant insists we wear are riding at my ankles and forearms now, useless. I am quick, but careful not to lose my footing as I travel down the smooth, metal ramp and out onto the gravel. I keep my head low though I’m fairly certain the propellers are much too high to make contact with my Kevlar laden head. My goggles cloud over even more with a combination of perspiration and the humidity and I strain against my load so I can run a finger across their plastic front. I shakily succeed and continue toward the others with my load of baggage. They skirt alongside a shoddy looking trailer located near the landing zone. There is a narrow path between a wall of sandbags and the building. I squeeze in behind them and struggle with the bags in the process. The heat starts to build inside my helmet. Sweat begins to flow from my hairline onto my forehead and, just when I begin to get the hang of maneuvering the path it opens to a parking lot.

We set the duffle bags neatly into a pile. The ends are marked with the last four of our social security numbers and our initials for “easy” identification. Some of the guys manage to get their bags before they end up in the pile. Their battle buddies know them well enough to recognize theirs for them. Others start their search in the dark. It takes a few minutes before everyone is ready. We gather in a formation as First Sergeant makes an announcement. We’re going to “tent city” for the night. Tent city is exactly what it sounds like, a city of tents. I’m really not excited about the news. From what we’ve heard, Iraq is well-known for its mortar attacks. Luckily, our time in tent city is minimal and there are no mortars, then.

The booms and crashes come full-force and loudly as I jump from my bed in an old Iraqi soldier barracks that the United States Army had claimed for its own during the initial invasion of Iraq. It takes a while in getting used to, but after a few months, the mortar attacks become just another event. I chalk them up as one of life’s many experiences. Sometimes the mortar attacks are quickly followed by Howitzer guns firing in retaliation and counter-fire. Those guns are placed nearby. I don’t know which I’d rather hear, the mortars or our own guns returning fire.

During one of the election times, we are sent out to assume a stay in a building which was once occupied by another unit within the city. They had abandoned it a couple weeks prior, upon arrival that fact was evident. The entire place had been gutted of all fixtures and anything the local populace could put to use in their own homes had been stolen.

As my team and I wander around the building investigating and looking for our room, there is an explosion that rocks the entire place. Luckily, I’m still in my gear. We all go on high alert and run for the stairs leading to the rooftop. The sky is clear, but it is nighttime and the illumination is obstructed by some abandoned buildings nearby. A .50 caliber machine gun is blasting away from the M113 positioned below next to the building. An M240B is firing like crazy from the bunker on the rooftop. We run to the edges of the roof and our weapons point in the direction of the 240’s tracer rounds. My team leader asks the gunner for a situation report. All he knows is that a rocket propelled grenade slammed against the side of the building and he immediately began to fire in the direction of origin.

We quickly run back downstairs and secure our night vision, affix it to our Kevlar’s, and set out to find the attacker. Much to our dismay, our hearts beating like kettle drums in our chests, we search every nearby building, stumble over several piles of brick, and trip into many holes, but our invader has eluded us. What an interesting evening.

With their former president still in hiding, the Iraqi nationals would stop at nothing for a buck. We established “pay sites” to encourage the force-retired ex-military members from trying to kill us for monetary Al Qaida bribes. The lines are blocks upon blocks of people, mostly men. With the noontime sun beating down on our heavily armored bodies, we watch, wait, and maintain order as the men get their American dollars. At times things get rowdy, we use sledgehammers and Maddox handles to convince people to get back in line.

Upon completion of the day’s payouts, we go to the local bank where the money is stored between sessions. We pull up next to the building, after dodging power lines that are sagging way too low, the ramp on the M113 drops and we get out. The metal door allowing, or protecting, the building from outside access creeks open angrily on its hinges. One by one, we file into the guarded perimeter. Our guard begins to drop almost the second the door is latched shut. Our Kevlar’s come off along with our body armor. Iraqi’s know how to construct a building that can withstand a lot of small arms and mortar fire.

We enter the cement office building as the locals secure the money in the vault. The bank personnel are kind enough to have a room cleared out specifically for us, the nighttime guard force. After a long day of heat, standing, and annoyance, a few members of the team decide to bed down until their guard shift comes. We each take an hour apiece in the gun positions on the rooftop, there are two of them. The rest of us go downstairs and begin our negotiations. We really want something to drink and I’m not referring to water. There are a couple of civilian police officers who stay in the building with us. A few dollars for the booze and a little tip money tacked on and we have ourselves a party.

The beer arrives, cans of course, and we place them into a water cooler. The cooler is made of stainless steel and contains water which pours out from a spigot below. There is a hinged door on top where the water is stored and, with a built-in refrigeration unit, it’s the perfect place for the beer cans to float and get cold, not to mention hide. We know we’re wrong, but sometimes an ice cold beer after a day in 130-140 degree weather seems justified even if it’s illegal.

We gather on the rooftop with our beers in our hands. Our squad leader sleeps soundly inside, oblivious to our shenanigans. We sit in a circle on old, rusty buckets and folding chairs as our buddies keep watch in their gun positions. We tell story after story about back home and, despite the circumstances, mold friendships through hardships that will never be lost. When my turn for guard comes, I’m a bit on the tipsy side, fall asleep, and pull way more than my hour, possibly two or three. Thankfully, the night remains calm and quiet.

I am on mid-tour leave in Germany when they finally find Saddam, but the celebratory fire, from what I am told, was quite intense.

There is one day that sticks out in my mind much more than any of the rest. The day is as hot as any other Iraqi summer day. The temperatures are in the hundreds. We prepare ourselves for a regular patrol. We’ve only been in country for a few months, but it seems like an eternity. The Humvee’s are warming up, we are loading up, and our patrol is about to commence. There is one soldier among us who hasn’t been outside the camp in our time here and he’s tickled pink to “finally be doing his job.” He’s been stuck in an office position answering radios and writing activity logs for the entire duration and finally managed to convince the Sergeant Major that it’s his turn to go out. He’s bored and has had enough of sitting around.

PFC Thomas is his name. He is an infantryman heart and soul. There is nothing he’d rather be doing than what he’s doing right now. Thomas isn’t much of a people person. He lacks the common knowledge to communicate properly, so he keeps to himself most of the time. As he adjusts the rounds in the box secured to the side of the .50 caliber’s gun mount inside the truck’s turret. The cravat he wears over his mouth and nose, in order to protect himself from the dust, hides his smile. The laugh lines around his eyes are the only telltale sign of what lies beneath the cloth. His eyes twinkle. He readies the harness below his butt by tightening it securely and making sure his feet are correctly placed on the center console.

Everyone gets into their prospective positions within the trucks and we roll out. As we drive out of the entrance to the camp, we all lock and load a round into the chamber of our weapons and make sure they are on “safe.” The clunk of the .50 cal is something that, if you’ve ever heard it, you’ll never forget as the bulky weapon is charged loudly. Thomas is ready as well. He scans his sector excitedly as we make our way into our section of the city.

The sun’s heat radiates brilliantly. The garbage laden streets emit a nasty stench. The breeze carries the odor into the trucks’ open windows as we drive along. Nobody says anything because it’s something we’ve all come to expect. It’s old news.

Today our mission, like many days before, is to make a link-up with the local city police and conduct a presence patrol. We have to remind the locals that we’re still here and allow them to talk to us when necessary. We make ourselves readily available often, though hardly ever conveniently so. The police are waiting off the side of the road where they usually do. As we drive by, they interweave themselves into our vehicular formation. We begin our patrol deeper inside the city.

I watch out my window as we drive along the streets. The buildings stand tall beside us, dirty and gray. A tall mosque, the top is weathered-copper green, stands alone amongst the surrounding homes as it reaches for the heavens above. Children play various games in empty lots, their shoeless feet caked with the dusty earth. Their innocent faces are crusted with snot and boogers. To be born into something like this, as Americans, we are so spoiled. An elderly woman stops our convoy with tears and violent sobbing as she steps out in front of our slow moving vehicle.

Our Commander gets out of the vehicle after a steady and suspicious observation around the area’s buildings. Our assigned interpreter gets out with him. They cautiously approach the elderly woman. A black niqab is veiling everything except for her eyes. Her flesh is weathered and dark. The wrinkles are deep. Her rough, callused toes poke from beneath her dress as a gentle breeze pushes the light fabric. The driver and I get out of the Humvee as Thomas continues scanning the area for threats down the barrel of the machine gun. We each face outward with our doors open. The police walk lazily about as if annoyed by our talking to a sobbing old woman, their AK47s slung and being used as armrests.

A shot rings out from behind me, a single shot. It takes a millisecond for us to react the way they taught us. We duck behind the closest cover available. For me it’s the hood of the Humvee. I orient the barrel over the truck in the direction of the shot’s origin. I scan wildly, but deliberately. There is nobody in range. I continue to look for a few more seconds as I check rooftops, still nothing.

I catch a sight from the corner of my left eye, it’s Thomas. His body is quivering and blood is pouring from his forehead. I jump quickly into the vehicle from the door below and grab his body. I yell for help and the driver comes. We lower him down into the truck. I reach into his first aid pouch and grab his dressing. I pull the wrapper off and press the cotton against the bullet’s entry point. The blood continues to flow as Thomas’ eyes flutter. A pool of red liquid forms around his head and begins to soak into my pant leg. His body tenses one last time and then relaxes, forever.

We return to the camp with shock in our minds and loss in our hearts. The tears remain concealed in our sockets. The Chaplain meets our trucks as we pull them next to the building. The blood stains coat several areas next to me. I try to ignore them by looking out the window. His face stares back at me over and over again in my head. We silently exit our vehicles and the Chaplain gathers us for a moment of prayer. Some tears find their way to the surface, but many of us wait until we can sit alone in the dark with a cigarette in our mouths. Our minds lost in silent mourning and the recollection of tragedy. Those who managed to stifle their tears couldn’t contain themselves as the bagpipes played “Amazing Grace” at his memorial service. He is our first casualty and he won’t be our last. The nightmares continue to invade our sleepless nights as his excited eyes leap from the darkness of the shadows for years to lifetimes.

A bassoon’s humming sound of water against lakeshore,

As it’s gurgling over and between the rocks,

Deep, slow waves lapping against the sand in long notes,

With its tuning fork drawl carrying effortlessly along.

The jaunty, high-pitched fluted sounding of birds soaring masterfully above in the sky,

The wind is their maestro,

And she is keeping their winged beats,

They take leisure from her tapping,

Singing harmoniously in their treed diva tunes.

A chorus of insects,

Mosquitoes vibrating in ear,

Gnats buzzing in and out as they oscillate,

Flies noisily flitting with their in deflectable cheer,

They are kazoos in the air of a humming melody.

Owls questioning who,

Mother Nature’s tenors,

Crickets chirping,

Madam’s sopranos,

Frogs croaking,

They are her basses.

The raw, uninhibited talent of the musical peace of nature,

Soothing to the soul and orchestrating to the eardrums.

Rosie was this hot, attractive, gorgeous, drop me dead bomb shell of a women. Ok, I’m lying… Rosie was a Horse. Not an attractive horse, just a horse but not a normal horse.

Confused?… Ok, let me start from the beginning.

It was in one of my years in College (can’t remember what year). Actually I don’t remember much of College because they lied to us. The College guaranteed employment in what ever field we choose after graduation. Well I graduated and nothing happened. All I remember about College is Rosie.

So, let’s just say this story starts in year 2 of my College experience. During that year, part of the course required us to take an elective course. Something outside of school. The boys (my four buddies) had always wanted to go horse back riding and their just happened to be an elective to do that. Now I really couldn’t care less about getting on a horse and going for a ride, but if my buddies wanted to do it – why not, what could it hurt (trust me you won’t believe it).

We all sign up and shortly afterwards I run into another friend of mine who noticed I signed up for horseback riding. He comes up to me and says “Make sure you don’t get Rosie, she’s crazy” I ask him “what are you talking about?”. He says “believe me you’ll see” and leaves.

On the day of the event, we met up at McDonald’s for a quick breakfast (I ordered the Big Breakfast if you wanted to know). We took one car from there to the horse ranch. In the car, my buddy starts playing “Devil Music” (you know really hard metal music, all you hear is some guy yelling and making noise) and he’s playing it Loud! We had about a two hour drive ahead of us and I had to listen to that music all the way there. To get my mind off the music, I started thinking about riding a horse. I imagined being a part of Bonanza (remember that show? It was a cowboy show) Little Joe was my favorite. There I was on the horse with a pistol in one hand and the other hand lifting the horse on its back legs and yelling “YAHOO” Suddenly this riding a horse thing was sounding pretty good (Little Joe did it, why couldn’t I do it?… believe you me, there’s a reason for it).

We arrived at the ranch, it was pretty run down and smelt of pony piss (but there were no ponies?) Listen, I know what your thinking. “How do I know what Pony piss smells like?” Well, let’s just say I had an experience with a Pony but that’s another whole story on its own -so we won’t go there (Ok, I’ll make it quick). When I was little (what else is new), my dad took me to a farm to buy eggs. This farm just happened to have Ponies on it. I remember watching cartoons with Ponies in them so I thought it would be cool to go see one up close. I tell my dad I wanted to see a Pony. The farmer said it was ok. I walked up to the Pony (near the rear end, I should have went for the head) and as I was just about to pet him, the SOB lifts his leg and pisses on me – like I was a fire hydrant or something?. You see Ponies are not as innocent as they appear to be. So trust me, I know what Pony piss smells like and I’m telling you, that place smelt of Pony piss.

The Instructor (I forget her name, so let’s just call her Karma – what comes around goes around and I hope what happened to me goes right back at her) Karma greets us all and walks us to her office. On the wall was a list of the names of each horse on the ranch. I noticed the name Rosie and remembered what my other friend told me (don’t get that horse). Karma asks each one of us individually which kind of a horse we would like. A fast horse or a slow horse?. All my buddies were tough guys so they wanted a fast horse. When Karma came to me, I said “give me a slow horse” (with the luck I’ve had as a kid, I better be safe than sorry). Well guess what horse was left?… you guessed it ROSIE. I asked Karma if there was anything wrong with that horse. She tells me “No not really, but it really depends if she (Rosie) likes the person riding her”. I’m a nice guy I figured, Rosie will love me (Oh boy did Rosie love me; she never had a rider like me before).

Karma asked us to follow her outside to where the horses were waiting. We all gather in front of the horses (must have been about twenty people) and she says “Does anyone not know how to straddle a horse?” Nobody put up there hand so I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the only idiot who didn’t know how to get up on a horse.

I watched a few people get on the horse and it looked easy enough. So, my turn comes up. I did exactly as the other guys did. I grabbed the top part of the saddle with both hands and put my left foot in the (foot part of the saddle) I start to lift myself up (doing exactly what everybody else did) and as I lifted my right leg over the horse (to put my right foot in the other foot part of the saddle) my ASS split in half. Do you people know how BIG a horse is? Believe you me, they look small on TV. Every muscle, limb, nerves, veins, tissue, skin, (what else is inside a leg? – if you think of more just add it to this list) got torn beyond repair. There is no doctor in today’s age could have fixed that damage. Piece of advice from me to you. If you ever decide (after reading this story) you want to give horseback riding a try, make sure you STRETCH… stretch like you never stretched before! My recommendation, when you can tie (make a knot) with your legs around your neck – then and only then will you be ready to ride a horse.

Thank God I was still on the horse (Rosie) because if I was on the ground, my legs would have came crashing down to the ground. I had no feeling in my legs and Rosie began to walk behind the line of the other horses heading into the woods. We were going pretty slowly (thank God) because I figured Rosie knew that I was in trouble (I read it somewhere that animals know when they are dealing with a rookie and take it easy on them) and I was beginning to like it (my legs were still broken don’t get me wrong) but it felt pretty good being that high up.

Karma (the instructor…remember) was at the head of the line and hollering stuff to everybody (I couldn’t hear anything because I was the last person in line and I kept on thinking I hope she’s not saying anything important). Turns out she was. Want to know what she was saying? Now remember, wouldn’t you think Karma should have told us this stuff BEFORE we got on the horses?. She was telling everyone (except me) that we were approaching a field of grass and that the horses like to eat grass. Yeah so what you’re thinking right? Well, here’s the piece of information that would have came really handy (for me) to know at that time. Karma said that some of the horses may or may not eat the grass, but if they do they stop suddenly and drop there heads to the ground. It is very important that you HOLD ON TO THE RAINS (you know the rope that’s attached to the horse’s head that you hang on to) or you will fall. Well… me and Rosie were coming up to the grass field (remember I haven’t heard anything about what the horses will do) She suddenly stops (I’m thinking she wanted me to enjoy the scenery after all the pain I was in – Oh yeah like hell) She drops her head faster than you can shake a stick. The rope ripped out of my fingers and I was balancing on my broken legs. I panicked (the hell was I gonna do?) Well my cat like reflexes kick in and I lean over and grab Rosie’s neck (with my hands) and held on. You may not know this but when a horse puts its head down to eat grass; it forms a 90 degree angle. So picture this. I got my arms around Rosie’s neck, my head is about 2 inches from the ground and my feet are pointing straight up. Rosie starts eating (totally oblivious that I’m hanging on for dear life with two broken legs) chewing slowing, enjoying every morsel. The blood starts rushing to my head, I can feel that I am about to pass out (remember nobody knows that this is happening to me) so I try desperately to make Rosie lift her head. I wanted to poke her eyes out but that may have pissed her off, I thought about choking her so she could feel what I was feeling but that probably would have made it worse. Just as I was running out of options, Rosie decided she had enough and started lifting her head (see there is a God out there). I managed to straighten myself up (with no help from my legs) and as the blood starts returning to my body, I could see we (Rosie and I) were falling behind. I remembered little Joe (from Bonanza) pulling on the ropes to make his horse go quicker. Well I decided to do the same. I give Rosie a little pull and she looks at me with this face like “what are you trying to pull tough guy, I think I need to teach you a little lesson”

Rosie starts walking a little faster (hey that worked – thanks Little Joe) It was at that point that I realized that when a horse moves quickly, its body (or the saddle) moves up and down and it’s your job to match the horses rhythm. (Thanks Karma for not telling me that bit of information) I try to use my broken legs and match Rosie’s rhythm and just as I was figuring it out, we had reached up with the group (remember I still haven’t mastered Rosie’s Rhythm).

I see Karma heading towards me (I thinking maybe someone saw me and radio in to her to come check up on me – that wasn’t the reason) and she tells me we are about to go down a steep hill that’s muddy at the bottom (so she’s here to teach me some technique to hold on to Rosie to make it down the hill – Ha, like hell…listen to this) and she says “Rosie likes to roll around in the mud so be careful” (BE CAREFUL! What the hell does that mean? I’m thinking) I was just about to tell her about my broken legs (so maybe she could help me down the hill) but she took off. I could see the line getting smaller and smaller and me and Rosie getting closer and closer. I tried whispering in Rosie ear that I loved her and I was having a great time (yeah like hell I was). All I was thinking about was great, my legs are busted and my cloths are going to be covered in mud and my buddy won’t let me in his car so I’ll probably have to take a cab home.

We come up to the hill; Rosie looks down (and was probably thinking what should I do with him now?… I wonder if he knows I like mud?) Well I held on to those ropes (my knuckles were turning white) Rosie starts going down the hill. Step by step we were getting closer to the mud. We make it down the hill and I’m thinking maybe I should make a run for it. I tried to move my left foot but nothing… it was dead. My only hope was to hang on to Rosie neck again, roll with her and pray for the best. Rosie gets right in the middle of the mud and stops (probably thinking should I do it? – maybe I’ll just give him a little scare) she bends her back legs and I could feel myself sliding (Oh, holy Jesus have mercy on my sole I was saying) then suddenly she stops and gets up and started walking through and passed the mud (thank you Jesus)

I saw the line stop again and I’m thinking now what? What the hell is Rosie going to do to me now? It looked like it was the end of our ride because I saw Karma off her horse as everyone was passing her and the horses were going into the barn. Thank God it’s over. I couldn’t take anymore. As I was passing Karma I hear “WHACK” and Rosie takes off like a bat out of hell (I took a quick peek back and I saw Karma with a 2×4 piece of wood in her hand and she just smacked Rosie in the ass with all her might) I held on for dear life and Rosie was running like she was in the Kentucky Derby (Remember when I told you that when horses run the motion is up and down and I hadn’t mastered riding Rosie rhythm…well I wish I did) As Rosie was coming up, I was coming down (and for you ladies out there, we men have something between our legs that is very sensitive) and that part of me was smashing against the saddle (very hard). I was screaming like I was being rapped… “Help!…Somebody stop this bloody horse before I die” Rosie must have heard me (and finally felt some sort of sympathy for me… about #$% time) because she slowed right down.

Karma was waiting at the entrance of the barn (I’m thinking, how the hell did she beat us? we must have been going at least 90 miles and hour – I don’t know you figure it out) and she asked me if I enjoyed the ride and need any help getting down. I said “listen Karma what I need right now is an ambulance and I need a TEAM of doctors ready for me when I arrive” I got off the horse and my legs were in the shape of the letter O with a balloon in between (you know what part that is) Now I understand how people get bow-legged. For all you bow-legged people out there I’m one of you now – we rock.

Before I left, I asked Karma why in God’s name did you slap Rosie in the ass? She says “Oh, we just like to have the horses stretch there legs out before they retire to the barn”.

Well, after all the damage Rosie has done to me, I’m sure she will sleep like a baby tonight. Tell her I’ll miss her.

The Funny Guy

P.S. There’s a lesson to be learned here… Don’t mess with a woman named ROSIE.

If you are my dream, day should never dawn,

You are my goal, you are my terminal,

If you are my shadow, sun should never be gone.

If you are my hallucinations, they should never die,

If you are my swoon, I would never revive,

If you are my laughter, I would never utter a cry,

My soul, from you, I derive.

May you be like summer tempest,

That pours on me all the sorrows of thou,

You are a treasure I need to quest,

Every time- tomorrow, yesterday, and now.

You are my sadness, you are my glee,

Sweetest thou, I live for thee.