Call Me Crazy

Who knows what is running

through my mind at any given

time? (That is a rhetorical question

which is impossible to answer.)

I see a landscape painting on the

wall, and I’m thinking pizza pie

for dinner. I see a cat outside, and

I’m thinking, my, what a beautiful

blue sky. So, don’t offer me a

penny for my thoughts. You never

know what you’ll get. I see the

beautiful form of a woman passing

by—hair, face, breasts, arms, buttocks

and legs. What I’m thinking here, I

cannot politely say, but it isn’t pizza

pie or blue sky. I may be a lot of things,

say what you will, but sure as hell,

I’m not crazy.

                             -30-

Chris Hanch 3-9-2020

Had I Only Known

Had I only known what was good for me

I would not be where I am today.

I would be somewhere, anywhere else

but here, perhaps on a yacht

sailing off the Isle of Capri in

the Mediterranean Sea on board

with a bevy of bakini-clad beauties,

with millions stashed safely away

in a Swiss bank account, Bloody

Mary for breakfast, Italian Wine

for lunch, Vodka Martini before dinner,

Cuban cigar and Nepoleon Brandy after.

Ah, but such a dreamer, imagining what

could have been had I only known previously

what was good for me. I didn’t

I wouldn’t, I couldn’t, somebody,

somewhere else, you see.

Instead, here and now, the oblivious and

broke son-of-a-bitch I turned out to be.

                     -30-

Chris Hanch 3-9-2020

The Potato and the Light Bulb

Everyone knows the potato was discovered

and not invented. The light bulb, now there

was an invention, mind you. I for one prefer

the potato. Not only do they satisfy hunger

and the need for nourishment, but the tuber

can be baked, boiled, fried, diced, sliced,

cubed and mashed. The light bulb can be

screwed in and out of its socket, turned on

and off. We can attribute its invention to

Thomas Edison; the potato was discovered

by who knows? And I just love my spuds and

a good mystery. Also as a child, although not

edible, I had great fun with Mr. and Mrs. Potato

Head. Actually, I was born way after Edison, and

due to his death before my time, he had nothing

to do with me personally. So nstead, I gave credit

to GE and Westinghouse for the bulb which en-

lightened my life in the dark of night. French fries,

au gratin, baked and slathered with butter, blen-

ded with mayonnaise and made into a salad, the

potato has such diversity. The filament of light is

available in various watts, shapes and size, and

brightens our living rooms, buildings and streets

at night. Potatoes too come in assorted shapes,

colors and size and are in addition delicious, and

a hell of a lot more fun to eat. So, please e-mail

me your potato recipes. Tonight, I plan on dinner

for one by candle light. Consider this, without

the discovery of the potato, where would the

Irish and the Great Potato Famine be?

                        -30-

Chris Hanch 3-10-2020

Flashing Orange Light

Flashing orange light on my computer

keyboard, a battery icon with a streak

of lightning at its center. Trouble with

the battery I surmise. I am not an ex-

pert of such technological things. I have

no education or experience in electron-

ics. I am not qualified to diagnose the

problem accurately. I see with my own

two eyes a symbol, a flashing orange

light which persists, a battery with a

lightning streak at the center it appears

to be. A process of elimination for

me—I surmise it is a warning, definately

not a sign from God on high winking at me

affimatively. I shall continue my writing

for the day with caution and hesitancy

until it goes either goes away or I’m able

to get the damned thing fixed.

                      -30-

Chris Hanch 3-9-2020

Something About Recovery

At the bar I used to frequent, I pull up

a stool and the barkeep comes over to

me, “The usual, Chris,” she asks? I nod

my head, and she pours a double vodka

on the rocks. When I’m nearly finished,

I needn’t ask for another, she is there

with the bottle and fills my glass.

The night continues on that way until I pull

money from my wallet. The barkeep knows

when I’m done. “Good night, Chris!” she

smiles as I tip her handsomely. And I will

return and repeat the same three or four

nights every week.

On the nights when I don’t go to the bar,

I stop by the local liquor store on my way

home from work. I walk up to the counter

and the owner asks, “Good evening, Mr.

Hanch, the usual?” I nod my head. He

reaches to the shelf behind him and pulls

down a pint of vodka. “Thanks, Hank,” I say.

“See you in a couple of days.”

When you’re divorced and live alone as I

did, it helps to have a routine to rely upon,

to keep a semblance of sanity. The ego is a

fragile and desirous thing needing to be re-

cognized with measured frequency. I guess

one craves some sort of noteriety even if

only in the neighborhood in which one lives.

After years of the same, I found it necessary

to quit drinking and move about from place

to place. I am no longer recognized anywhere.

A recovering and sober ego is a terribly lonely

thing. For what it’s worth, you’re alive, home

bound, nowhere to go, and growing old. The days

go by, and sometimes it seems nobody knows.

-30-

Chris Hanch 3-5-2020

The Route

In my mid-teens I worked for one Joe Zagarri who

owned and operated a St. Louis Post Dispatch

Newspaper Route in the St. Louis Area. I rolled

and tied newspapers in the cargo area of Joe’s

International Harvester utility van weekdays after

school. And on late Saturday evenings, early Sunday

mornings we delivered the Post’s gigantic paper.

Joe paid me and a friend of mine $10 a week. We

rolled hundreds of papers and used a machine which

clanked along tying the papers with string into a knot.

By the end of Joe’s territory after all the papers had

been delivered, my friend, Dennis, and I had black

hands and streaks of newspaper ink on our faces.

On rainy or snowy days we would hand wrap each

paper individually in a plastic sleeve. Joe, not trusting

the accuracy of our throw, pitched the papers out his

window onto the lawns or porches of his subscribers

as he drove. It was a fast, furious and dirty job trying

to keep up with Joe as he negotiated neighborhood

after neighborhood of his extended route.

What stands out most in my mind remembering my

job with Joe way back then was the cramped quarters

and pungent smell of than utility van on Saturday

evenings especially. Not only were those Sunday

papers stacked row after row to the ceiling, but Joe

enlisted the help of his two grown brothers, Vince and

Dino. Had their last name, Zagarri, not tipped you off

previously, the brothers three were of Italian decent.

Now, I personally have nothing against Italians, a warm

hearted and boisterous people, I’d say (I am of Greek

heritage myself), but late Saturday into early Sunday

morning the confines of that International Harvester

reeked of newspaper print, garlic, sweat and the

blaring conversation of bickering brothers. It was a

potent combination, the residual of which remains

permeating in my brain to this day. And that not-

withstanding, for a paltry $10 a week, Dennis and

I, we most certainly worked our asses off for way

too cheap.

                              -30-

Chris Hanch 3-6-2020

Never Say Never

Never say never. I have foolishly used never in my

lexicon of promices many a time before. On occasion,

I broke with the premise of never as never seems to

be inevitable whether or not I agree.

Besides, had I adhered to never, I would possibly elim-

inate a good deal of opportunities available to me.

As a child growing up Catholic I was told, under pen-

alty of eternity in hell, never eat meat on Fridays.

God couldn’t wait for me to die, though, so throughout

my life instead, he found ways to punish me.

For Christ’s sake, I said I was sorry for eating a hot dog

at my friend’s house that Friday when I was thirteen.

Eddie was Presbyterian and said it would be okay this

one time. And slathered with mustard, it was a mighty

fine hot dog indeed. Actually, truth be known, it tasted

much better on Friday than hot dogs I’ve eaten any other

day of the week. In confession that Saturday after the

damning frankfurter incident, I promised the priest,

said three Hail Mary’s and a Glory Be in repentance of

my sin; swear to God, I would never again…

Add another coal to the fires of hell should I fail once

more. Eventually, the rule had changed, and the Pope

decreed that it was now okay for Catholics to eat meat

on Fridays. Never saw that coming, did we?

Since then, I’ve tried lots of different brands over time,

but found that other hot dogs never tasted quite the same.

I’ve become a non-believer in my latter years. Never thought

that would happen either. But, you know, never say never.

I am frequently reminded of a similar proverb—Never say die.

Although I may refrain from saying it, and given my septuagen-

arian age and tenuous time remaining on Earth, irrespective of

word or deed, one day I’ll be forced to deny never one last time.

                                                               -30-

Chris Hanch 3-5-2020