The (New & Improved) HYENA KITCHEN

Sad question to start off the new year... What is wrong with this world? I know, that's a loaded question these days – I guess I should say, what's wrong with Hollywood? I went on IMDB this afternoon and the top news story was that “The Maus Awakened” had taken yet another billion dollar boffo box office record or something. The second story was the passing of cinematographer Vilmos Zsigmond – the last of the greats reduced to second billing. A passing that should be heralded. McCabe and Mrs. Miller and Heaven's Gate two of the most beautiful westerns ever shot. Not to mention Deliverance , The Deer Hunter , and my first three seconds on screen The Sugarland Express . (I have to add one of my favorite films of the last twenty years, Life as a House .) Hollywood always seem to reduce a career to a footnote in favor of what is filling their coffers at the moment. I called Zsigmond as the last of the greats; as he was the last of my personal top five – Haskell We...

"Shadow of Cowardice "         by James Patrick Lockett Each and every day shadows are cast across our souls and we must dig deep within ourselves to recognize the difference 'tween one man standing in the way of the light, and the cowardice, the hatred, that hide behind the mask of shadow that creeps across us. Each and every day we must bond our souls against the shadows of cowardice and call them on out, to make light of their darkness; and in standing together, we can defeat the shadows that threaten to block our light. Muslims do night hide behind black hoods. Christians do not hide behind white hoods. Faith does not hide in the shadows, hatred does. Faith lives in the light, all faiths. Try as you might oh cowar'd shadows, you cannot block our light.

. . . I just realized that I have failed to post anything at all for 2015.  I would love to it's because I'm successfully writing stories  and brilliant essays for other venues, but that would be a lie.   I  have a number of things to post now that laptop issues have been resolved and will get to them shortly, your patience is always appreciated.

"Wrappings" by James Patrick Lockett I shield myself from the lights and tinsel, from the greed and falsehood, from the gift wrapped hatred hidden for the season; I hide behind pages of Bukowski, and wait for my deepest wishes to come true, and for the rains to end.

        I seldom publically acknowledge my atheism, as I have always felt that what a person believes in, or doesn’t believe in, is his or her own business. Everyone has the right to believe that which they need to get by day to day – just another choice we’re faced with these days. While I tend to be more vocal on choices like Coke over Pepsi, or liberals over conservatives, I remain a “silent atheist,” one who sees no reason to wave my lack of belief in the face of others as the “bully atheists” do. However, when my mind and heart make an informed choice to believe something, I resent being lumped in with the aforementioned “bully atheists.”          Deepak Chopra – who until today I’d always dismissed as the touchy-feely Guru to the Stars, who’d pen a number of “how to fix your life” books that supply endless fodder for daily Facebook affirmations; the mystic version of the Wayne Dwyers, the Tony Robbins and others on the Rah-Rah-Rah-Bab...

      "The Special”                by   James Patrick Lockett        It was an hour ago – to the second, if you care to be that precise – that we’d broken up. But, since I was looking at a clock next to the glass shelf of high end scotch, all bets were off. Bar Time! Could be an hour, could be could be ten minutes. However, I was on my fourth drink, so it was probably closer to . . .no, wait . . . that’s also a poor gauge. Fuck it, let’s just say sometime within the past hour I became single again.        I sucked the last bit of Jura off an ice cube and set the glass down in hopes of catching the bartender’s eye. I stared passed my empty glass, at the bodies on the dance floor pulsating to bad eighties songs. . .  . . .  traveling in a fried-out Kombi, on a hippie trail head full of zombie, I met a strange lady, she made nervous . . . . . . indeed. Ladies Night re...