In regards to a very interesting comment delivered to this blog

November 13th, 2015

Located in Comments on the post; Pawn to King Four

November 10, 2015 at 2:00 pm (Edit)


This was posted Tuesday Nov. 11. Oddly the information which is very Veteran associated was posted the day before Veterans day.
To the best of our knowledge we did not know. Brother, Fred Gill, Carol and Joan Gill had another brother?.

We are asking and hoping that the gentleman, our cousin, can come back and email me.
Assuming he found this blog by the strategic tags I have placed with every post. (this is how we found Jerry Jones and family.

So come back cousin please! We would love to hear from you!
My email is:

November 13th, 2015
loves her sleep. (at 48 Mahar)

loves her sleep. (at 48 Mahar)

Fear and Mayonnaise

November 12th, 2015

portrait of the poet at 55. (written Aug 25 2015) why else wouldn’t our country be depressed? the world doesn’t seem to be getting better. there is always a new terrorist group waiting in the wings. the shootings are getting closer together and louder. we all look around suspiciously even while waiting for our Starbucks®. Visions of Sandy Hook crime scene still haunt me. my imagination is a gore manufacturing machine influenced by the media and Hollywood CGI.

the tomato garden was exhausted so i reluctantly retired it early. our old neighborhood. they watched us carry our life in brown grocery boxes into waiting cars. the birds still chirp, the dogs barks echo and the ice cream truck still screams from down the street. no, sorry it wasn’t white flight. we loved you neighborhood, you are forever in our hearts.

I’m not selling any of my shoes at the garage sale like the women did. because I need all mine. I still have plenty of walking to do. In a micro-second at work, the server crashed and the back-up followed. So the horrible equivalent of my job’s building burning to the ground happened one hot Summer morning. the smart girl moved 288 miles north and my son waded into a diverse dormitory somewhere in middlesex county new jersey. my other boy stepped off a plane from United Arab Emirates with a red face blasted by sand and sun.

I was just getting into cooking when a grease fire wiped out my ambition and abilities. for me, cooking is all about timing. start the potatoes first and everything after that will be dandy. when the art students finally leave, the teacher takes off her pants to get comfortable. she slices the last of the tomatoes and cucumbers and makes a sandwich with her made-in-Passaic-ghetto-bread. she calls it “starter” bread because the dough is passed on from generations when it “started” . this is also called “poolish” (and old English word for Polish) or “mother bread”. Let it be known that there are some Mother Bread hundreds of years old. meanwhile in New Brunswick I heard my son say, “I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up” but if you are only now choosing classes in for your first semester in college you better find that out quick. actually I’m still searching for that what I wanna be when I grow up and I’m bald with a prostate that is giving me fits.

if i didn’t announce my birthday it would have rolled into oblivion because everybody was too busy packing. packing to move to Boston. packing to move to New Brunswick, packing to move to a new place. packing. packing. packing. we have to go. we have to move. we have to pack. there’s nothing more sobering then being told you have to move. you have to move because the landlords son has a severe gambling problem and he needs the money to play poker. if i didn’t insist on a birthday present I would have got another heartless shirt or hat.

so here I am at 55 finally learning some important lessons. number one: speak up for yourself! hey it’s my birthday and I don’t want another dumb hat or shirt. thank you very freaking much. sheeeesh, people just don’t know nor care. ahhh, George is ok. leave the old man alone, throw him a Giants shirt. so I said something. buy the old man a blue iPod nano you unimaginative fools so he could listen to his weirdo music.

and I wish someone would have taught me lesson one from the very beginning. instead i was walking around my awkward adolescence like a dumb ass Billy Pilgrim just taking shit and more shit and then even more shit. people figured me out right after the initial introduction, oh this dude is a door mat. walk all over that. waking up on a bunk bed and facing each day with incredible amounts of FEAR. afraid to smile. afraid to talk.

I was a bundle of fear because my father was standing tall on my hero pedestal when he decided to take a quick detour into the silent abyss and my mother decided to punish me for the rest of my life for not accepting her sexual advances when I was 12. some people could shake off not having parents and actually use it to catapult higher in life. But I jumped on the springy diving board and it snapped like a fresh pea pod in half.

also this past summer of 2015 we attempted a vacation somewhere by the ocean. but nobody was really there. everybody’s mind was somewhere else. did you actually taste the ocean? did a wave slap you in the face? did we ever make it to the top of the lighthouse? the much anticipated dolphin watch turned out to be mechanical dolphins spinning around on the oceans surface.
although we had a high room with a good view everyone was looking at the future and worrying. our landlord put the phone on hold for three days to and when we finally answered it we got kicked out on the street. a mysterious detective from our home town called while we were “on vacation” and was asking questions about a missing person. one day on the beach the wind was so strong our chairs and umbrellas were just about ready to launch into outer space until we gave up and went inside.

my ode to Alcoholics Anonymous begins every morning with waking up crisp and clear like a young child’s first pair of glasses…

like a patch of blue sky on a black stormy day

like a pond, still but deep

like a happy dog with two tails

like wet cloths left on a cloths line for three days

like a brain freeze on a hot summer day in front of Krauzers 1974 holding a Frozen Coke®

like Jim McSherry sarcasm during a serious conversation

like feeling the back of your head after a crew cut

like eating my mothers potato salad on a wooden bench in our backyard on Whitman street

like taking an ice cold shower on the hottest day of the year when you have no pool

like taking LSD for the first time

like putting mayonnaise on your french fries

...somewhere by the ocean. but nobody was really there...

…somewhere by the ocean. but nobody was really there…

“i was the monster”

October 28th, 2015

tHis was a fairly simple dream but with complex themes wE had just moved into a new living space and there were boxes everywhere oNe on top of the other i could hear kryhas voice but i couldn’t see her tHe people that helped us move were all in the backyard sitting on our back porch laughing and eating hotdogs and hamburgers i could see them thru a window from the kitchen iT jolted me to see that the man outside barbecuing and telling obscene jokes was ME! i actually felt my heart stop and a electric tingling went down my back tHe man barbecuing suddenly looked at me staring out the back window nOw my dream had became a nightmare and i wasn’t in a deep enough sleep to realize it oH hell, this is just a bad dream I thought, and proceeded to create a monster with my imagination eVery nightmare needs a monster iT was a small two headed thing in the garden and it was growling and tearing up kryhas flowers and my vegetable plants nOw i knew it was a dream because we just moved and we had no time to plant anything aT this point i thought it would be a good time to walk outside and confront all the people and monster in my dream i pointed to my myself, who was standing behind the Weber® grill and said ‘what the living hell do you think you’re doing?!’ eVeryone stood up and screamed because apparently i was the weird one here. i didnt belong here i was the monster tHe thing in the garden jumped out to protect the barbecue guy (me) from me tHis is where the dream went out of control because i didn’t arrange this scene like this wHy am i the outcast? tHe two-headed dog jumped up and grabbed my arm! it was growling and hanging from my forearm aS much as i shook it, it wouldn’t let go aNd my arm starting hurting and tingling eVeryone in the backyard circled me and the monster tHey were smiling and still eating their hotdogs tHe pain in my arm became unbearable and i suddenly woke up i was sleeping under my arm again and it had fallen asleep now the tingling in my numb arm was intense and i was a happy that i woke up bEcause when i thought i had the dream under control —- it wasn’t even close.

October 28th, 2015


Uncle Billy and Dennis

August 20th, 2015

Uncle Billy is our fathers brother. Holy crap… we have an uncle hanging around?! Dennis is our cousin. Son of Geraldine Hartman Jones. Billy is struggling with his health in a rehab somewhere in Los Angeles. Dennis went to visit him. I wrote about Uncle Billy four years ago HERE. with some crazy strange blog title: “Put your arms around me for Gods sake” and at the time I was angry at my fathers brother because he just nonchalantly walked right out of our lives and never ever once looked back.
So ironically 40 years ago I rode on the “It’s a Small World” ride at Disneyland in California with Billy and just recently last night got off the phone with him for the first time since.

Right after Gerry found this blog and the Hartman’s and Jones reconnected and right before her untimely death before I was going to visit her in Las Vegas, I spoke to her on the phone. I remember she told me how upset she was at that blog post “Put your arms around me for Gods sake” and she really defended her brother and also told me that my cursing and some the sexual things I had wrote on this ridiculous blog were totally uncalled for.

Talking with Uncle Billy I heard my father’s voice. I heard my Grandfather’s toughness but most of all I heard Uncle Billy. He is his own man that made his own choices and created his own life and really didn’t need to stay “connected” to Joan and her ten kids. He had that right. He owed us nothing and we certainly owed him nothing. I just thought it strange that not once did he just think to check in on his 10 nieces and nephews that tragically lost their father at such an early age? But that’s ok, even though we were little kids, we didn’t go out of our way to check in on him. Damn, I still sound bitter here, don’t I? Too bad.

It was only by pure luck and internet hocus pocus that Aunt Gerry searched her own name and found this blog because I hoped she would. My reverse finding tagging trick worked. Through Gerry I have rediscovered our long lost cousins, Robert, Diane and Dennis. All of us have lived our lives and roller coasted the ups and downs that it can bring. Billy in particular had a life threatening disease, polio, attack him at the age of five. This is one rough way to start your life. Dennis is quite a story himself and an outright damn miracle of recovery. I even posted a movie made about him on this blog HERE

It’s a small world after all INDEED when your fathers brother is still around even after 44 years four months and three days after his untimely death.

My cousin Dennis and me in the jaws of Disneyland 1975

My cousin Dennis and me in the jaws of Disneyland 1975

In the Summer of 1975 I was an awkward teen boy going through puberty from hell when our uncle Jay Jones died. I remember Dennis calling me up and crying about it to me. That Summer his mother Gerry, insisted that I come out there to be with them. Her greatest concern was that as she worked she would be leaving young Dennis alone. I really didn’t want to go. I was scared of everything at that age. I’m still scared of everything at my current age of 55.

The agreement was Gerry was going to pay for my plane fare to California there and mom was going to pay for it on the way back. The other agreement at my insistence was that I was only going to stay a couple of weeks. Well I ended up staying the entire Summer and almost ended up living there forever. Turns out when it was moms turn to pay for the fare back, she didn’t have the money. And thus began the non-relationship of mom and Gerry. You see, money destroys relationships quicker than a hurricane hitting a double-wide.

The day I left mom had to give me a ride to the airport and as the time grew closer and closer for the plane to leave, mom sat at the kitchen table getting drunker and drunker on white cans of Budweiser beer. I was sure I was going to miss the plane or that we would get into a horrific crash on the NJ Turnpike half way to Newark airport. Finally I just yelled “MOM we have TO LEAVE!” which was strange for a boy that didn’t want to go.

Needless to say I made the plane. Everything was pure magic after that. Pure absolute magic that I will NEVER forget. It was the first time I rode on a plane and it was crystal blue skys and puffy white clouds out my window seat. The stewardess treated me like a king because I was a 15 year old boy alone. I couldn’t believe how BIG and how BEAUTIFUL our country was from up there. When I arrived in LA and got off the plane there were hipsters and hippies and PALM TREES, California is not of this planet. It is it’s own beautiful world of color, neon lights, texture and gorgeous sunsets. Aunt Gerry was always a woman that loved to go out and do things! And that we did. She took me to Disneyland, we went to see Jaws in a huge theater in LA which just blew me away as a movie (now the special effects are laughable!) I was very fortunate to have Gerry take me that Summer. I left all my brothers and sisters in the groggy hot depths of Carteret as we went to Reno Nevada and played Kino for hours.

It was here I did see Uncle Billy for the last time. He was always so distant but that’s just him. Our uncle is struggling to walk now and he is full of memories. My phone call with him wasn’t exactly what I wanted. I was looking for the past again. I wanted to hear intricate stories of him and our dad running down back alleys of Westfield and getting into trouble. I wanted to hear Grandpa Hartman yell at them for not eating their peas. I wanted to see Grandma Hartman shopping at the A&P and squeezing oranges. I wanted to see them all riding to upstate NY in that station wagon they had.

Instead we talked about polio and prostates and how he was a salesman for AllState Insurance company his whole life. But that was ok. It was great to speak to him. And in this “small world afterall” he ended our conversation with … please call again.

Brooke Marie Cordray and Blame The Gun

August 13th, 2015

The Riddle Road Market World Turtle Day Party - published on YouTube in May 2015 by pinballpoolshark

August 3 2000

August 3rd, 2015

Today Beverly passed away 15 years ago and we approach the one year anniversary of Glenns passing August 17 (yeah, I know, already!). Bev would have been 58 this September which means she was a very young 43 when she died. Somewhere on this blog I write about the day Bev died and how I’ll never forget it. She used to raise and sell persian kittens and the funny thing is one of her cats is still alive and lives with George Poulo in Plainfield NJ.
Personally I have so many memories with each Glenn and Beverly but I did have a special relationship with Bev. It was just one of those things. We go way back. She understood me deeply. As she sailed further and further away from us in her sickness, I never tried to find her. I wasn’t strong enough.
It is these kinds of anniversary that tell you fast the clock ticks and how fragile our time here is. I really miss them.


July 31st, 2015


A man that wore a long sleeve white dress shirt in the middle of a blazing July glanced at my license and let me pass. Through the chain-linked fence with barbed wire edging. My boots making love to an inch of mud. A morning of hard rain just fast moving gray clouds now, Rows of cars in different phases of destruction. This automobile cemetery. You were dragged here after our futile attempts to revive you in the glowing moon failed. Abandoned in some snow bank in South Jersey. Still the smell of burned rubber, oil and transmission death. “There you are!” One hundred and ninety something miles ago you sparkled in the dealers lot. You lit my eyes up. There is something special when it is brand new, never used, first owner. That new car smell, that perfect purr of engine. You took me around the universe and back. My dependable lover. Avoiding close calls. Kept me safe. Getting totally lost with me. Just you and I so many times. Looking so devastated now, the drooping air bags, bleeding transmission fluid and cracked windshield. Your final impact of love and devotion was that no one got hurt. Except you. Creaking your door open for the last time. My meager valuables thrown into a bag. Taking one last glance of you as I slop away. The sun breaks free and casts a final spotlight on you. The suction of the mud holding me there like you don’t want me to go. Still so beautiful and forever under the black racing clouds and hints of blue sky.

lost clips II (always look up)

June 24th, 2015