The Midnight Traffic Report, Part 3

It was mid-afternoon and Wyatt would walk to a cool conservative saloon on Ronald Reagan Way. Nancy’s Bar and Grill was one of his usual pit stops after a long day at work. The air conditioning was cranked and the young man almost felt cold sitting alone. 

He sat in a corner booth with his new book and a bottle of local beer. If he thought the book was only forty pages long, the naive traffic man would've been wrong. Flipping through hundreds of pages, he appeared stunned, but found one long poem. It was the most that he had ever read. Wyatt slowly started to read The Highwayman and the nice poem struck a chord with the young and lonesome reporter. It was like there was a love knot between Wyatt and the poem. It was like Wyatt understood the “Highwayman.” Following that day, he would read the poem in the morning, after work and always before going to bed. Sometimes he acted out scenes while alone in his spare time just for fun.

After he exhausted himself reading the same poem obsessively, he was desperate to integrate the poem into his wildly informative highway traffic report performances. Wyatt transformed into the highwayman, and he vowed to ride off into the sunset. One day he would go riding, riding, and ride north on a long highway heading all the way to Canada. After changing out of his cowboy uniform for a final time, Wyatt dressed into jeans and a red shirt before his report. “Howdy folks! There’s a traffic bottleneck southbound.”

A producer whispered in his ear. “Where’s the cowboy uniform?”

“I hate my work uniform. This town is nothing but boots and spurs.”        

The short-haired woman yelled, “No.” She was visibly mad. “Shut the hell up! We’re throwing to a commercial.” She cursed under her breath.   

Wyatt would start to speak Canadian with his camerawoman. “Turn off the camera, eh. You need some bacon. Go play hockey with Guy LaFleur.”

“Okay, Wyatt.” She responded uninterested in any of Wyatt’s nonsense.

“Eh, don’t you understand the Canadian language?” He spit on the floor.

“I don’t give a damn. I don’t want to work with you.” She was repulsed.

“I’m gonna throw away the old cowboy uniform for a winter coat made of Saskatchewan sealskin. I’m putting on a red trucker’s hat and going riding, riding off into the sunset.” Wyatt smiled like he had just won a prize fight.

The angry manager of the community channel walked into the studio. He was overweight and sweating. The middle-aged man was wearing a small cowboy hat and chewing tobacco. “What the hell is going on around here?”

“I’m going to go riding, riding, riding!” Wyatt said.

“Well have fun riding, riding, riding. And don’t come back.” The manager knew that the kid had talent, but his focus was off and dead air would have been better than broadcasting mad traffic rants. 

“I don’t need Wheelerville. I’m going riding, riding on a bus northbound to Canada.”Wyatt was ready to pack his bags. “Oh, I do so know how my camerawoman will miss me; but I must go riding, riding.” Revealing a half-smile, he clenched a bus ticket, looking nervous but insanely happy. The bus ticket had been sent in from a fan of the channel. It was a free ride out.

Before exiting the old studio, Wyatt exclaimed “The highway is for riding, riding, riding. And now, I’m off to where the wind is a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. And this has been Wyatt McReynolds reporting.”

He would finish a tirade and storm out of the studio, tossing Bessie out on the sidewalk in anger. He wasn’t going to need his lucky lasso anymore. His bags were packed and he stood at the bus stop waiting and flipping through pages from his big book of classic poems. A Greyhound bus stopped for the patient traffic man. He boarded the bus. The driver smiled at Wyatt, closed the bus doors and put her foot down on the gas pedal; and rode off into the sunset down a long lonesome highway paved with goodwill, good intentions and good dreams.

Greyhound bus headed for Saskatoon from Wheelerville.

The Midnight Traffic Report, Part 2

The teenage years slipped away from Wyatt. He had barely finished high school, but would never miss a traffic jam at the community channel. His hard work paid off as he would report some of the finest traffic collisions in Texas history. 

One day, he was riding into work, but when he went to dismount and strut into the community channel building, his manager came flying around the corner. "Whoa," he hollered. Absentmindedly driving in to start his day at work, the manager hopped a curb and crashed into Bobby Joe, causing major internal injuries. Wyatt lost his prize-winning horse and went on to do the traffic, but cried at work that day. His camerawoman and manager laughed at him for being a big baby. The traffic man was left with a bitter taste in his mouth. It was never the same.

Wyatt continued his traffic reporting career; but his heart wasn’t in Wheelerville, and he never followed directions from his TV producer. Sometimes he could be heard sulking in the corner of the studio, whistling a depressed country tune.

It was a hot and humid summer afternoon in Wheelerville and Wyatt had finished reporting for the day. “And that’s the traffic in your neck of the woods. I’m going to Marilyn’s Mercantile.”

The stout woman quickly turned off the camera. “See ya tomorrow.”

“Have a good day,” he said and walked away with proud confidence.

The blue-eyed wrangler took off his cowboy hat. He sighed, brushed his gorgeous blonde locks and admired his hair and tight abdominal muscles. His stunningly handsome good looks were the trademark of traffic in Wheelerville. All he could do was admire his lean and well-toned body in one of many mirrors around the modest studio with historical appeal.

The 21-year-old would enjoy talking to himself, “What are you gonna do?” His mom was concerned about his attitude and she encouraged him to take up hobbies or try reading more. After the shoot was over, he feverishly talked to himself, “I’m gonna have myself a tuna fish sandwich and buy me my first book.” It was all about him and he loved to admire his fine acting chops.

Wyatt looked very hungry. He walked out of the studio room and proceeded out the back door of the friendly building. Slowly walking towards Marilyn’s Mercantile, there was drool coming out the side of his mouth, but he didn't know and couldn't wipe it away to save face. There were beaded lights shining on the shop entry doors that greeted him every day. After ordering his usual tuna fish sandwich, he browsed up and down the aisles of the half-empty shop. There were so many books. There were so many fashion magazines. Wyatt was very familiar with magazines. He loved to flip through the pictures of attractive women in advertisements of hip fashion magazines. Gazing at the top shelf, he looked at a book of poetry by Robert Frost. His eyes widened, undoubtedly remembering that being read to him in seventh grade. “I’ve taken that road before.” His mind was preoccupied.

A middle-aged woman turned around, looked at him and took note of the young man. The lonesome traffic reporter read the title to a book singing to him out of the blue. The book was called Forty Singing Seamen And Other Poems and the book almost cried out to him. He grabbed the book by Alfred Noyes and stood in the checkout line, but he was uncertain it would keep his interest and he wondered if this was the first book he would read. Giving up the internal debate, he bought the book and walked out of the store. He was desperate to give the book a good home.

The Midnight Traffic Report, Part 1

Winter road reports on The Traffic Channel saved lives in the flourishing town of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. The Traffic Channel was a major employer. 

Wyatt A. McReynolds was hired in the Fall of 2001, after signing a handsome contract. Soon the traffic reports were a staple of very early morning satellite television spreading across the Canadian Prairies. Traffic was kind of a big deal in the wild west. The station needed endless hours of live programming to fill time slots and they needed voices to track miles of endless roads.

Wyatt enjoyed three square meals a day. His breakfasts included cereal and a banana in the morning. He savored a nice tuna fish sandwich for lunch. Wyatt loved a good hot dog for dinner and indulged his sweet tooth with a Mr. Big chocolate bar when nobody was looking. The talented, keen traffic reporter aged gracefully. A better than average man in his late fifties with no grey hair, he had ambition and a boyish smile. His mother’s genes played a part in his youthful appearance. As he reclined in the chair of his office on the eleventh floor of The Traffic Channel building, the dead silence from his 500-square-foot office was an eerie silence that would cause any man to reflect on his life.

***

First reporting traffic at the age of eleven in the small room of his beloved mother’s tiny apartment in Wheelerville, Texas, Wyatt found his call of duty. His mother was a Czech immigrant. He spoke fluent English, but sometimes he spoke Canadian or a little Czechoslovakian in his spare time. Looking out the small window, he whimsically called out the traffic moving through the city, building excitement as rush hour rattled on. Soon after, Wyatt took his reporting to a community channel; and even though he was just a kid, a manager saw his talent at calling traffic almost before it happened. He would always report the early morning traffic wearing a cowboy hat, red vest, blue jeans, a big belt buckle, red boots and spurs. He even carried his lucky lasso, named it Bessie, and kept it lashed on tight to his waistband, while reporting traffic across northern Texas. The man had a few gigs and non-paying cameo appearances in rodeo reports on the community channel, but his strength was the road. The youthful traffic reporter could be heard in a hysterical fit of laughter. “Yee-haw, it's another fine day to giddy-up and go driving!” At a young age, his passion for working early mornings was contagious. Sometimes after laughing on camera, he was heard deep into the night. “And now let’s look at the exit ramp.” The sound of his cackling carried on beyond midnight.

Wheelerville’s community channel was located in the downtown core of the town. The small red brick building was situated between two huge high-rise buildings and dozens of shop houses running along Ronald Reagan Way, a busy street and a major commuter artery.

Most of his breaks from work would be spent at Marilyn’s Mercantile. The small, quaint department store with a pop stand and historical feel could be found beside the small community channel building. It was just one of many shop houses along the bustling street. The young man also spent some of his time at a local horse ranch at the edge of town. Bobby Joe was his black mare and best friend. 

Bobby Joe

Acid Flashback No. 43

“A foolish heart will call you to toss your dreams away, then turn around and blame you for the way you went astray.” ~ Grateful Dead 

                                                 

Happy New Year! I'm writing during a time in the holiday season when I'm not sure what day it is. If 2015 was called my year of Lionheart, then 2016 is the year of the gorilla. My New Year’s plans include studying Gorilla Monsoon, since I really can't climb the Empire State Building this year. I lost my company in 2015, but I want to wish my dear, dear friends a happy new year with lots of online shopping. Despite the really freaked-out, freaky-cool flashbacks of old WWF Wrestling and Lionheart Entertainment, it’s been a great year for Lifestyles of the Richard and Famous. We're going to a New Delhi next year when my wife is ready to go grocery shopping. Fortinos is getting boring and not as culturally diverse.

You might think that I’m writing another random blog, but I want to promote traffic and become responsible for less traffic accidents. The Great Beyond is where I’ve been giving you my heart and soul. This is a great place to create awareness on the issue of the craziness of traffic. I invented the idea of photo radar before Bob Rae started selling his concept of the idea on the campaign trail before it was first introduced to South Ontario in 1994. When you hear stupid stories like a giant monkey tries to cross the highway and causes a large traffic jam, remember live traffic cameras are watching you whenever you’re driving, so drive safely. Traffic is always evolving. I created the idea of a Traffic Channel and I want to share my passion for traffic in the next blog. My next big idea is turning the Traffic Channel into 11-D, or something way better than 3-D, where trucks are popping out of the TV screen while you’re watching your favorite station with sponsorships from Esso, Petro Canada and Mr. Lube. Stay tuned.

Truckin’ is a song by the Grateful Dead, which first appeared on their 1970 album. Lately it occurs to me, what a long, strange trip it’s been….

Tim Hortons Truck

Oh, Betty Is Pretty Fucking Good

“Choose us. Choose life. Choose mortgage payments; choose washing machines; choose cars; choose sitting oan a couch watching mind-numbing and spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fuckin junk food intae yir mooth. Choose rotting away, pishing and shiteing yersel in a home, a total fuckin embarrassment tae the selfish, fucked-up brats ye've produced. Choose life.” 

~ Irvine Welsh, Trainspotting

Lionheart Leaks vs. WikiLeaks, which is better, which publicizes better-leaked information, even if it's not info, in any way that's not affiliated with Wikipedia. If you Google 'choice' anywhere on the Internet, you'll learn it involves mentally making a decision: judging the merits of multiple options and selecting one or more of them. I regret choosing a junk food coma and falling asleep in the middle of King Kong. The movie is a technical achievement and it's also a curiously touching fable in which the beast is seen, not as a monster of destruction, but as a creature that, in its own way, wants to do the right thing. Even giant gorillas have feelings. What would drunk Betty White think?

I don't know, but the first step to recovery from addiction in Southern California is addiction treatment programs offered at the Betty Ford Center. Its expert, comprehensive alcohol and drug rehab integrates the latest research and evidence-based practices. With addiction, every person's situation is different. You might be wondering why I’m not writing about addiction treatment in Southern Ontario. The reason is that I’m not paid to promote the healthcare industry in Canada, but I'd like to advocate choice in other nations where it matters. 

Betty Ford

The Great Beyond Is A Good Place

Question: How do I evoke the broader illusions of grandeur?

Richard's heart

Answer: I give you my heart. I'm re-releasing Lionheart Leaks. I'm going to redefine magical realism one day. The struggle to define magical realism goes beyond the bloody human heart and it defines new rules with real choices and consequences. We are offered a new style that is thorough of this world and goes beyond the mundane. In my magical realism, we find the transformation of common work into awesome and unreal experiences that keep us waiting for the next shock.

Moral theology is a term used by the Roman Catholic Church to describe the study of God from a perspective of how man must live in order to attain the presence of favor of God. True moral theology determines how man should live and it examines such things as freedom, conscience, love, responsibility, and law. The New Year is a time to reflect on the past year with good and bad blogs. As I look back, the human study of morally wrong theology leads Beyond The Rum Diary: Hunting For Your Dream.

God gave Moses the Ten Commandments on Mount Sinai to serve as principles of moral behavior for the human race. I believe God would go beyond the Ten Commandments if Moses were alive today. It's very difficult in publishing to capitalize on old trends with just two tablets of stone. Here are the ‘11 Commandments for the 21st Century.'

1. Thou shalt not commit climate change on the world.
2. Thou shalt not look at Billy Idol cover art.
3. Thou shalt not sext your neighbor.
4. Remember every day of the week, especially Tuesday, and keep it holy.
5. Remember, before Alzheimer's takes memory away from you.
6. Honor your goldfish if he or she is your only friend.
7. Thou shalt not covet trillions of dollars.
8. Thou shalt not commit cyberterrorism.
9. Thou shalt not watch reality shows from ten years ago on YouTube.
10. Thou shalt not declare World War 4.
11. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image or any likeness of anything that is heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth using your iPhone or any electronic device.

The Great Unknown

So, we're all heading off into the great unknown....

First Clause: Lionheart Leaks

As defined by the Richard Tattoni Free Dictionary, a clause is simply "a particular and separate damn article, stipulation, or proviso in a treaty, bill, or contract." I don't have a clause binding me to write tales of Lionheart Leaks, but I'm plotting fresh ideas for 60 to 70 installments in the offline serial novel not-yet-ready-to-blog.

And you can start by trying to find anything done online about Lionheart Leaks and simply go Beyond The Rum Diary. E.B. White was an American writer and lucky bastard who was a contributor to The New Yorker magazine. White believed "the best writing is rewriting." In other words, the best writing is editing. We find all kinds of free online books, but mine will be well-edited and it will shine a new light on your fears of radio. 

Second Clause: Ho, Ho, Ho 

Christmas is a time to give generously. "Ho, ho, ho" is a deep-throated laugh or chuckle used as the laugh of Santa Claus or even the Jolly Green Giant. The Daniel Blowden Show wishes everyone a happy holiday season. If you haven't finished your fucking shopping or you don't know what to buy, there are always goddamn gift cards: 

gift card

n.

1. A prepaid credit card can be used as an alternative to cash.
2. A gift that basically means, “Merry Christmas, I know literally nothing about you.”

I'm going to share a motherfucking poem:

Santa Claus Wasn't My Friend

I knew Santa Claus, who was trusty in his way,

When he came near, his busy elves ebbed away.

And with fond memories, Donner jingled away,

Ebbing or dying to go, Blitzen would run away.

Of his choice virtues, I can speak on his behalf,

Or hear the drunk and Rudolph’s red-nosed laugh.

(And they never did meet again on George Street).

I coined wishing wells for penniless spirits from hell,

His dreams dropped, twisting from sadness to grief.

He dreamed of his family, trapped in a prison cell,

He was behind bars, steel barriers without relief.

This would be the jolly old man’s ineffable fate

That he did time while Mrs. Claus played late.

(I wish they worked together on George Street).

The North Pole or Hamilton or any living land

Frightened just in time for a Christmas witch.

Mrs. Claus formed a steamy female punk band.

Near the playground, she would sing like a bitch

Or strolled with their child and dog to the store,

And he’d see them there and recall longing lore.

(Over a haze he wouldn’t work on George Street).

                                      

Let love be the demise of any other known man,

But not for this Santa Claus and his heart of stone;

He’s strong, unmistakable, and a trustworthy man.

One day he will pay his mortgage and bank loan.

Those past days were a decade to flash or blur,

Till a further step, he’ll live to support her.

(He wasn’t my friend on George Street). 

What We’ve Got Here Is A Failure To Communicate

“When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.” ~ Hunter S. Thomspon

Where do we manufacture dreams?

Some men you just can’t reach, especially those like Donald Trump telling stories about the fall of the World Trade Center. Weird people watch Pop Goes The World and sing all about the World Trade Center tumbling down with thousands and thousands of Arabs cheering on the streets of Jersey City. That's the truth.

I’ve learned everything I need to know from Chelsea Handler’s Uganda Be Kidding Me, following Martha Stewart on Facebook, drawing Pluto in one easy step, and writing handwritten letters to stars of Disney On Ice. To my dear, dear friends in the Americas, Happy Thanksgiving and Give Peace A Chance.

But there are more professional problems than cartoon violence or Civil War college football rivalry game. The Washington Redskins players are accusing referees of calling penalties against the team because the referees don’t like the Redskins name. The world is filled with horror, violence, pain, and racial injustices from terrorism. ISIS wants us to accept that it is how it is, and ISIS wants good people to buy into demented fantasies that they’re doing something important. Cyberterrorists are a bunch of savages that are going to join the Russians and the French terrorists like the cockroaches they are.

In the heart of Burlington, I want to rid the world of the goddamn status quo and cyberterrorism and the evils plaguing society from giving us fucking sequels to An Inconvenient Truth. The world is plagued by lies, but the most powerful truth is the real commercial world. You can’t underestimate the impact of the final buck and when Lionheart Leaks becomes available in the distant future.

The Burlington Post dropped my promotional advertising on page nine, but the Post has been all over my controversy on page eleven. It seems like small potatoes, but it blew up last week in the newspaper. My cousin auctioned off my table from the castle for $500 and I wanted it auctioned off for $600 for charity. Bubba called and told me that he would set up a date to pick up my table. I said, “You can’t have it.” It was supposed to be $600 instead of $500. Bubba went to the Burlington Post and complained and we got in a big fight. I threatened to punch him out. I’ve been down and out lately since spending every last cent on Lionheart Leaks. I'm getting deeper and deeper into debt.

Christmas isn’t about what you need, it’s about what you want, and trusting your instincts to make the right choices. My choice is bringing the world Lionheart Leaks on December 1st and releasing the hardcore facts. Not even WikiLeaks can reveal the true inner demons troubling our streets. I feel like I'm getting a little closer to the streets, the barking dogs, and sleepless nights. 

Ottis O’Toole walks the streets and he begins to explain to Johnny Electric in Installment No. 1: “Johnny Electric was the charged CEO of Lionheart Incorporated and he was a serious gambler with vices.” I’m allowing people close to me to reveal the facts about how Lionheart almost ruined my life. Sometimes I think I’m losing my mind, but no use crying over spilled milk.

And I'm not going to cry about suffering from Peter Pan Syndrome. Science Daily believes "the 'Peter Pan Syndrome' affects people who do not want or feel unable to grow up, people with the body of an adult, but the mind of a child. The syndrome is not currently a psychopathology" or fully understood.

If you’re like me and you believe that The Little House On The Prairie TV theme song inspired John Williams to write the Star Wars theme song, then you also believe Walt Disney’s not dead, he’s frozen, and when someone thaws out the Walt, he’s going to be pretty pissed off at Oswald.

Black Jeopardy And The Bills After The Weird Go Pro

Predicament No. 1: Novelism

Bring back the motherfucking-ass dominance of the transformation of novels.

I want to become a category on Jeopardy and watch the entire episode for the hearing impaired with White Alex screaming his lungs out. I’m weighing the pros and cons of online writing and concluding I want to write in the friggin' future. I've chosen to write my first novel blog. I'm releasing the first edition of Lionheart Leaks.

The story is about a group of 20-something underachievers struggling in life. They're paid to work for Lionheart Incorporated. Working for a very ambitious and corrupt company, the employees form good friendships before learning they have been duped by the company. After a friend dies, they secretly form Lionheart Leaks to get back at the founders of Lionheart, but their plan gets sabotaged.

Here’s my self-edited opening from the highly anticipated online version of Installment No. 1: Howgh, It All Began (A Collection Of Random Incidents):

“A scratched vinyl record was being played on the stereo turntable and the song sounded like Cherry, Cherry from Neil Diamond’s Gold. I was listening to the classic song and a poor, dumb waitress at the same time. The troubled waitress with bright green eyes wearing too much makeup apologized for not recognizing me at first and then told me that she would bring another drink.” (Lionheart Leaks WIP)

Scratch that. The Atlanta Braves are brave.

brave

 (brāv)

adj. brav·er, brav·est

1. Possessing or displaying courage.

2. Making a fine display; impressive or showy: "a coat of brave red lipstick on a mouth so wrinkled that it didn't even have a clear outline" (Anne Tyler).

3. Excellent; great: "The Romans were like brothers / In the brave days of old" (Thomas Macaulay).

4. A word that basically means Richard Tattoni.

If I had Stephen King’s address, I would send him an old-fashioned letter and tell him he’s getting old and he should visit The Great Beyond. The word if is the middle word in life and maybe Stephen King needs to read Lionheart Leaks coming soon Beyond The Rum Diary.

Predicament No. 2: Pros and Cons

O.J. Simpson became USC’s second Heisman Trophy winner in 1968 when he first captured the hearts and minds of Civil War enthusiasts. The Pac-12 evolved over recent decades to become bigger and better, but the conference is having a bloody awful year of football.

A Civil War college football rivalry game between Beavers and Ducks brings in a shitload of money for the Pac-12 Conference. The Great Beyond has become a home for veterans of the game to look back and remember. Leave It To Beaver, I’m not choosing sides or bringing back Abraham Lincoln from the dead. I want to go beyond football and play a new game on my PlayStation 11. Let’s play Black Jeopardy. In the category of “What Happened Was,” Black Alex says “The lights went off.” Mr. Hightower buzzes in first and tries answering in the form of a question, “What happened was I forgot to pay the bill.” Mr. Hightower couldn't answer in the form of a question and started a fight with Black Alex over his Bill Cosby sweater.

The American Thanksgiving is a time to relive O.J. Simpson’s big record-breaking performance against the Detroit Lions. O.J. is still revered as the best player the Buffalo Bills ever had. True story.

I’ve accepted that there are pros and cons in this world, and professional teams like the Buffalo Bills must be better understood. This is the reality of the world that we live in. I’m a fan of Buffalo, Seattle, and the Browns. Bring back Jim Brown, James Brown, and Charlie Brown!