TRUMP is an ugly CHRISTMAS SWEATER_Mark Twain, ghost

Ghost of Mark Twain here ...

while I was waiting for Roland to come back from one of his rare blood runs,

I flipped through the pages of the New York Times.

Now, I am a humorist ...

which means I am politically amoral. 

I just make jokes while Congress makes laws of them.

And, no, "we are not better than this."

When folks had to choose between Tammany Hall and P. T. Barnum, 

these sort of things just happen, don't you know?

As I was pontificating earlier,

I was reading what made Ugly Christmas Sweaters beautiful

as opposed to just tacky to make a dollar for the sweater company.

Call me contrary,

but I insist that a true Ugly Christmas Sweater should lack any irony when it is made.

The maker of said sweater should truly believe the sweater is a thing of beauty,

despite the badly stitched Santa, tinny bells, and glaring colors.

It got me to pondering that old P.T., ah, Trump

probably thinks he is quite the catch for the American public.

And just as certain, many voting pilgrims thought so, too.

Maybe they still do.

Me?



I haven't had so much material for my humor

since old Clinton got himself impeached for being confused about what constituted sex!

Oh, lest you think me fond of the other side of the aisle ...

Madame Pelosi,  when you question a fella's manhood in "private" in front of an aide ...

It ain't private.

Love the tickling skunk reference.  

Though when one skunk tickles another, neither has the right to point paws.

The 4th CHRISTMAS GHOST

The 

FOURTH CHRISTMAS GHOST?

The Ghost of Christmas Never To Be ... 

Again.

Perhaps Christmas 

will never be as innocent 

as we remember

 because we are not 

as innocent as we were then.

Families were bigger in the Christmases of the Past

Now, single child families are the norm ...

where Mommy and Daddy 

may be separated, divorced, or 

never together

in the first place.

LONELY

is now the word that comes to mind

at the mention of

Christmas

for many

 when once it used to be 

JOY 

POVERTY

Christmas has become a season of sorrow for many women who can barely put food on the table, 

much less presents under the tree. 

My mother was one such person.

Weeknight movies were cheaper than weekend showings.  

On the way back to our basement apartment, 

we would walk down dark, scary streets holding hands

and singing our theme song, Side By Side:

Oh! We ain`t got a barrel of money
Maybe we`re ragged and funny
But we`ll travel along
Singing a song
Side by side

With no money for a tree, 

Mother scooped up the largest fallen branch from the lot selling them and brought it home.

Topped with shiny aluminum scraps from Hershey's kisses, 

it was just as wonderful to me as the one in New York's Time Square.

CHRISTMAS MAGIC

Can be conjured to push back the 4th Christmas Ghost, if we but cling to the truth that love and imagination

is within the heart of each of us to share 

with all those in our world who are going through harder times than they appear.

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07KQ8XMJR

{Only $1.99}

Celebrate Christmas Eve in 1946 

New Orleans. 

The ghost of Charles Dickens 

recommends it!

Haunting Beauty: OCEAN GYPSY

DO YOU READ TO THE END OF LONG POSTS?

Do you read to the end of loooong posts?

Megan doesn't.  But as you can see: she can't even be bothered to buy new stockings!

I usually do since with posts, like with Forest's box of chocolates, you never know what you might get!  

How about you?

Do you stop before you begin 

when you see the post is long?

 

In 1946, 

Orson Welles starred in

Murder By Moonlight  

filmed in New Orleans.

Read all about it in

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07HM8ZS5Q

SONG OF THE CITY

Among scars, I am the fresh wound,
Among days, the one that never comes,
Among the bones you find on the beach
the one that sings was mine.
- Lisa Mueller

Each city has its own voice with its own distinct song.

The song is louder in the dead of night.

My city ...

 
Its sprawling expanse cups a beautiful rippling lake which it poisons daily with the petro-chemical plants bordering it like Mordor did Middle Earth. 

If you look up, an eye-aching blue sky will take your breath away. In more ways than one. 

It has absorbed the poisonous fumes from endless stacks for so long, breathing the air in a course of the day is like smoking four cigarettes. 

City and state politicians swear all is safe. The national newspapers cite the city as capitol of Cancer Alley which runs along the Gulf Coast. 
 

The city is a strange meld of something Tennessee Williams and Upton Sinclair might have written in a joint affair -- emphasis on Tennessee Williams. 

One of my older friends was once the "disciplinarian" of the local Hells Angels. 

I have seen a side of the city few have. He was also once a E.M.T. for the one ambulance service here. 

Often he told me of dragging into the center, covered in blood, too weary from the many calls to immediately clean up. 

He would turn on the TV in the break room and hear the local news proclaim the police stating that all was normal. 

 
He laughed, 

"I suddenly knew their definition for normal: four car accidents, two shootings, and one fatality."

 I have a Non-Aggression Pact with the city. 

I don't mess with it. And it considers me too small to notice. 

It still possesses great beauty. 

But like ugly scars criss-crossing a beautiful woman's face, progress slashes away at it. 

 Terrible poverty and bleak living conditions often within blocks of opulent mansions. 

The poor turning upon themselves. The oblivious rich attending sprawling, ornate churches. 

Business owners committing suicide on the premises of the local casinos after having lost all. 

Silence on the TV and on the radio. 

Jokes among the citizens that the logo of the local TV news is the three monkeys covering eyes, ears, and mouth.

The Plants and the casinos feed the city's treasuries. Cancer rates, ruined lives, and closed businesses are proclaimed independent of the cash cows.

Then, why stay? 

It is the city in which I spent my teenage years. All the friends I made, I made here. 

Here is where I grew to know my mother as one adult knows another. 

This is the city in which all my friends live. 

The common people here have a zest for living that I have seldom met elsewhere. 

If they hate you, you know it.

If they are your friend, they always have your back -- even when it would be smart to look the other way. 

They live large. 

Broad, bold strokes for them. No small, mean snipes. 

The city loves Mardi Gras so much that it has found a way to have two of them every year. 

No ambushes from smiling faces. 

And the last time I checked, the powerful eat the helpless in every city in every state.
 

And in a few minutes, you can drive to great expanses of wildernesses. 

In fact, one of the last great American wildernesses is only minutes from here: 

the Creole Nature Trail. 

{ for a more detailed description of it from me go to http://rolandyeomans.blogspot.com/2010/03/last-exit-to-eden.html.} 

Drive it long enough, and you can catch the faint breath of the ocean. 

It is like the Great Mystery reminding me this land had once been a clean wilderness, 

where the waves came in, creamed up to the shore, and their breath smelled of something besides hot fear and cold greed. 

 Now, I sit at night on the terrace of my apartment bordering a small rippling bayou, 

watching the graceful egrets and floating beer bottles while listening to the voice of the city.

  

In the distance, the banshee wails of police sirens and ambulances. 

The night is never silent long here. 

In the darkness, somebody is always runing and somebody else is trying to catch him. 

I look into the blackness and know somewhere out there, 

people are hungry, sick, forlorn, desperate with fear or loneliness. 

And others are shaken by sobs or anger. 

Mankind is not very kind.

It is a city no worse than others. 

A city filled with hope, pride, and ambition. 

But mostly, a city lost and beaten and full of emptiness.

This is the city I know.

How to SELL MORE BOOKS During the HOLIDAYS_IWSG post

It's the HOLIDAY SEASON already!

 Book Promotion during the Holidays is 
a Marathon Not a Sprint

Everyone is in a buying mood, 
so this is the perfect time
 to sell more books.

According to Google Trends, 

search terms related to “gifts” in the United States trend upward 

starting in early-mid November through Christmas Day.

Readers usually number other readers

among their friends.

So how to reach them?

1.) LAUNCH A HOLIDAY-THEMED BOOK

Put the Holiday in the title of your book and make it stand out from the crowd by opposing the genre with the season.

It's just before Christmas, 

and we share the regrets,

 hopes and best intentions

of a beleaguered manager 

after corporate tells him 

to shut his restaurant down.

2.) DESIGN AN EYE-CATCHING COVER FOR YOUR HOLIDAY NOVEL

It's New Year's Eve in New York City. 

Your best friend died in September, 

you've been robbed twice,

 your girlfriend is leaving you, 

 you've lost your job...

and the only one left to talk to

is the gay burglar you've

got tied up in the kitchen... 

oh, and 

P.S. your cat is dead.

3.) SPREAD THE CHEER

Sites like VISTAPRINT can make your Christmas Cards for just 31 cents each.

4.) Send emails reminding readers that ebooks are the perfect gift that requires no shipping.

5.) Offer your print book at a price that keeps your book under $10 even with shipping.

    {You want to tempt gift givers to choose your books to widen the pool of readers receiving your novels.}

6.) AMAZON DOMINATES HOLIDAY SALES

 Focus on Amazon. 

Emphasize links to your books on Amazon. 

Your prospective customers will already be shopping on Amazon, 

so make it easy for them to purchase your books by being where they are (on Amazon!)

7.) EVERYBODY is advertising on FACEBOOK

The fishing hole that everyone uses produces few big fish.  Think outside of the box.  Use Pinterest or Instagram.

8.) DO YOUR OWN 12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS related to your book

Whether it is a themed giveaway, 12 questions whose answers win a prize, or just 12 jokes ...

It will generate interest in your book and your prose.

The possibilities are limited only by your imagination