I’ve been watching Hunters on Amazon Prime starring Al Pacino, among others. It made me think of his loosely-based role as Tony Montana (Al Capone) in the 1983 movie Scarface. I watched it several months ago after a visit to the Las Vegas Mob Museum. As a Gangster Wanna-Be, it was part of an informal tour that led me from Chicago to Manhattan to Vegas to Phoenix. Rat-atat-tat.

Al Capone and Nitti ruled Chicago, while John Dillinger died there. He was captured in a Phoenix hotel after innocently offering a generous tip. Nitti lived in the building that is currently the site of Harry Caray’s Italian Steakhouse. A stairway in the bar leads down to a hidden vault, surrounded by the history of The Chicago Outlet, framed in pictures on the walls. In Manhattan, I next had lunch at Spark’s Steakhouse, where just outside, Gambino boss Paul “Big Paulie” Castellano was gunned down by hit-men hired by his soon to be replacement, John Gotti. For more detailed Gangsta’ information see Posts #1124, #1067, and #907.

The cross-country thug tour will resume when we’re all able to travel again. In the meantime, I offer this poem:

Gangster Wanna-Be 

I’ve seen a lot,
Of crime scenes.
Read some books,
And magazines.

In the movies,
Hollywood portrays.
Killers are stars,
And Crime pays.

It’s fascinating history,
Of murder and betrayal.
Men, women, and children,
Always seeking bail.

There was not much love,
On St. Valentine’s Day.
After the Chicago Mob,
Had their way!

I can also guarantee,
That you won’t float.
If you’re wearing,
A Chicago Overcoat.

Scarface went to prison,
Reign passed to Nitti.
John Dillinger’s legend,
Ended in the Windy City.

These are a few,
Of the obituaries.
Near the basement vault,
Below Harry Caray’s.

When “Joe Batters” swung,
It wasn’t at a ball.
And “The Lady in Red,”
Was no innocent Doll.

If you didn’t pay,
Your Teamsters’ dues.
You might end up,
In cement shoes.

In the Big Apple,
There was Murder, Inc.
Lansky, and “Lucky”
Controlled illegal drink.

Gambino boss “Big Paulie,”
Once ran N.Y.C.
John Gotti got him,
But prison was to be.

“Bugsy” drawn to Vegas,
Made it a gambling town.
Home of the Mob Museum,
A “Hitman” took him down.

The museum tells the story,
Of these overrated thugs.
In display are WANTED posters,
Featuring their ugly mugs.

The bullet-riddled wall,
From the St. V’s Massacre.
With Outlines of the dead,
Is by far its biggest lure.

I’ve dined at Spark’s,
Where a bullet was dessert.
Saw Nitti’s escape route,
Wearing my Cub’s shirt.

I’m a gangster wanna-be,
On the surface it looks fun.
I would gladly dress the part,
But couldn’t fire a gun.

I could tip like Dillinger,
Live in a Flamingo Suite.
Gamble with House money,
Drink, eat, repeat.

“Bugsy” made the claim,
“We only kill each other!”
Where did he go wrong?
You’d have to ask his mother.

Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com

A few months ago my wife and I visited the Bellagio Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas the site of our marriage nineteen years ago. We had planned to celebrate in San Francisco tonight over dinner with her daughter and husband. Instead we’re having a fancy, dress-up dinner at home. With every special occasion, I present her with a porcelain Limoges Box and poem. Considering current travel restrictions, I thought it would be appropriate to help her envision our original sight-seeing plans, including a visit to the Golden Gate Bridge. “The Golden” also served as the backdrop for her daughter’s wedding last year at the Presidio, commemorated with a similar painted box of crooked Lombard Street. 

Golden Beholdin’

We missed out,
On Spring Training.
This viral threat,
Is quite restraining.

No Alcatraz,
Or Golden Gate.
I guess it all,
Will have to wait.

Bali breezes,
Delayed in May.
Instead at home,
We’ll probably stay.

For now we’re still,
Florida bound.
And taking steps,
To break new ground.

Surf and turf,
A little wine.
With so few options,
On where to dine.

Chocolate-covered berries,
Our traditional dessert.
I’ll even wear,
A dressy shirt.

I offer to “bridge,”
These “troubled waters.”
Instead of celebrating,
With one of your daughters.

A Limoges reminder of,
Where we would have been.
Until we can travel,
The World again.

Happy Anniversary,
For our nineteenth year.
Through thick and thin,
So lucky you’ve been near.

I Love You More,
And more each year.
Thanks for putting up,
With me, my dear.

Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com

With all due respect to those who are truly suffering, I offer a little poetic humor. I think it speaks for itself. 

Grounded 

Not sure what I did,
On St. Patrick’s Day.
But when I got home,
There was heck to pay.

It was serious,
The way it sounded.
When I was told,
“You’ve been grounded.”

No friends could come over,
Forced to stay inside.
“Social Distancing” rules,
I was told to abide.

I was locked in the bathroom,
Scrubbing my hands.
I wasn’t even allowed,
To see games or bands.

My use of toilet paper,
Was restricted to squares.
I tried to apologize,
Over my errs.

I thought they were going,
To wash out my mouth.
Can’t visit the kids,
Who live far South.

I sought explanation,
Got confusion instead.
Could have made it simple,
“No dinner – just bed.”

I looked out the window,
Masked intruders in the street.
This all makes me hungry,
“Is there more to eat?”

People are sick,
Maybe I am too?
My sympathy symptoms,
Turned out to be flu.

Celebrities were dying,
I began to understand.
We all had to cancel,
Trips that we planned.

Everyone was in trouble
Not just me!
We were all grounded,
No one was free.

It made us all paranoid,
Reluctant of a hand.
It was all reminiscent,
Of reading, “The Stand.”

We gorge on snacks,
Binge on bad TV.
Over this evil enemy,
No-one can see.

“We’re in this together,”
Wishing it was only me.
I’m used to being grounded,
Since I turned three.

Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com

Poetic words were hard to come by in this viral crisis, as emotions waver from tears to laughter, depending on how you can best handle it. Versions of my ramblings have ranged from too angry to very silly as I struggled to find something in between. I’ve tried my best to express the feelings of frustration in these stanzas, after weeks of blogging about it – just hoping there’s a cure. 

Secure A Cure

Just wake me up,
After this is done.
The fat lady sings,
Once recovery’s begun.

These nasty germs,
It must be said.
“Kill them dead,
Before they spread!”

If I live on,
Beyond this threat.
I hope there’s things,
I won’t regret.

Social distancing,
Will be just history.
Once we solve,
This viral mystery.

Greet me with a hug,
Or shake my hand.
Then side-by-side,
Close we’ll stand.

This worldwide mess,
Will come to pass.
An infestation,
Spread in mass.

Maybe a cough,
A bit of a fever?
Are you a giver,
Or a receiver?

The first symptoms,
Are just like the flu.
As bad as the plague,
But something new.

An invisible enemy,
Like nothing before.
It steals toilet paper,
From your favorite store.

It took March Madness,
All fun for that matter.
Comfort food in isolation,
Made us a little fatter.

You have to keep,
Six feet away,
Or this bad bug,
Will have its way.

It makes some hoard,
Then strikes you sick.
Wash your hands,
And do it quick.

Masks can’t cover,
This silent threat.
Staying home,
Is your best bet.

Stop touching your face,
Hide your ignition key.
Just sit on the couch,
And binge watch TV.

These past few weeks,
Have been a blur.
Someone please,
Secure a cure!

Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com

It’s back to reality and the deserted streets of downtown Portland. A discussion with my son in the Florida restaurant business has me worried about the future of his family. I’m back at my desk trying to craft a few words to summarize our trip to Arizona and decided on a poem:

Viral Spiral 

Instead of spreading,
Irish Cheer.
Or toasting with,
A Guinness beer.

We saw our savings,
Go down the drain.
While toilet paper,
Made folks insane.

Our Courtyard Hotel,
Was a ghost town.
Cancellations,
Began to abound.

The six of us,
Of thirteen planned.
Dined on meatloaf,
And washed our hands.

Rather than,
A baseball game.
The world became,
A viral shame.

We shared a dream,
About “eating a peach.”
And talked of cars,
Priced out-of-reach.

Two more went home,
We were down to four.
No tourney to watch,
Not a single score.

But a double rainbow,
Held fortunate appeal.
And Ted served up,
A “delicate” meal.

So off to Marana,
A full day early.
While life as we knew it,
Turned really squirrelly.

The sun came out,
As we quarantined.
A viral spiral,
Now forced to heed.

We met the neighbors,
And the construction crew.
Watching them “crown,”
Was something to do.

The restaurants were open,
Through St. Pat’s eve.
But most were shuttered,
By time to leave.

We made a brief escape,
To Dillinger’s hotel.
And the ladies did Tubac,
Intrigued by a bell.

The guys went to Sam’s,
To find the shelves bare.
Yet our hosts were gracious,
Their goodies to share.

It was a memorable reunion,
Despite a world of trouble.
We were comfortable and safe,
In the Laegeler bubble.

The wine case we brought,
That soothed our woes.
We shipped back full,
Of wipes & dirty clothes.

copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com

It’s always good to hear from friends, especially those who conjure-up fond memories of a Rolling Stones concert 39 years ago (December 1, 1981). We took a group in the WMEE 97 FM van to the now non-existent Pontiac Silverdome to see the show, also featuring Santana and Iggy Pop. It was a gathering of co-workers and companions well worth trying to recreate. Her thought was to see their stop on this year’s tour through Nashville. Unfortunately, I’m in Bali, unless the Corona Virus disrupts our travel plans. The question always comes to mind: Will this be the last chance to see them together? As I learned after watching Tom Petty play at Seattle’s Safeco Field, you never know if there will be a next time? He died a month later. Mick (Michael Phillip) and Keith are both now 76, Charlie 78, and Ronnie 72, so for each of the last ten years I’ve expected a farewell tour or worse. Iggy Pop and Carlos Santana are also 72, as I look back to that unforgettable Detroit concert. These guys should all be retired like me. 

As I talked with my friend about possibilities to get together, I’m amazed that forty years have passed since we first met. Anymore, our friendship is limited to birthday conversations and an occasional meal. Two thousand miles separate us, but every time we talk it seems like only yesterday when we saw each other every day at the office and even traveled together. (See Post #1038). I would love to get together again in Nashville. After all, life can take unexpected shifts. I joked with her how pleased I was to read the recent Indiana University Magazine obituaries without finding another lost classmate.

My mood has been dark these past few weeks while trying to fight-off this nasty cough. Running has been a challenge every morning and sleep has been restless. I try to keep my writing and poetry humorous, but my words took a more serious twist this morning, as I contemplate my inevitable mortality. 

My Last Breath 

As I close my eyes,
Take a final blink.
I want it to be,
A playful wink.

Like I know something,
No one else does.
I don’t know why?
Just because!

I’ll have a last laugh,
Put a smile on my face.
Make every effort,
To go out with grace.

I’ll take my secret,
To the grave.
And with this last breath,
Pretend to act brave.

Like it’s no big deal,
To leave forever.
And all earthly ties,
To suddenly sever.

Into the unknown,
I’ll boldly venture.
And face the start,
Of this next adventure.

All I’ve accomplished,
The love I’ve felt.
I’m satisfied with,
The hand I’ve been dealt.

I have no regrets,
I’ll exit with style.
I take my first steps.
And leave you a smile.

Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com