---Michael Acklin   
Dateline Poverty Ridge, Arkansas •
    Big News: I've retired.
    I hadn’t planned it. I’m not even sure I like it, but there’s no going back. The VA, in all its attentive doting, could not  help but notice me falling (miserably sober) on the way to the bathroom, forgetting things I’d just said and, perhaps, saying them again once or twice just to make a point of it. Now it’s1:26 am and I’ve turned in desperation to the Hawaiian music channel where  Gabby Pahinui is semi yodeling a song whose name and lyrics are unpronounceable. There’s of course a plenty of reason for all this. Against the background of wannabe Don Ho successors, anything I may yodel will get soaked into their air of bland madness like a baby marshmallow in a cup of Ovaltine.The dog is either sleeping or playing possum. I haven’t written anything new in about a month now.
    Not even anything tasteless. I blame it on doctors.
    Apparently they don’t get a lot of depressive, portly, whitebearded wierdos in their halls out of the Christmas season. In 24 hours I’ve seen my doctor, whose name is Jesse…we should rob at least one last train, don’t you think?…the night doctor, whose name I quickly forgot…a nice central Asian neurologist, and a smallish blonde woman who tried to make my stay more lasting. I did not catch her rank and role, but she seemed convinced of her authority, as did everyone else but me, so  I gave up and spent the night.
    I should have known it was a trap. Next morning there was this huge breakfast tray and, well…I haven’t had breakfast for a long time and since somebody went to all that trouble just for me…
    The difficult part was being driven home by a bass player and, getting there, noticing the letter Dr. Jesse wrote. Not a long-winded fellow by nature he’d taken a single sentence to say Mr. Mudcat was completely and permanently disabled due to Parkinson’s Disease. When doctors use words like completely and permanently they don’t mean what the rest of us mean. No fooling, I even heard words  like “nursing home” and “managed care,” These are not things I was expecting.
    Across the room a tenor is going into falsetto on “Here comes the Sun.” Who gave these people pemission to play pedal steel guitars anyway? I'm reminded of two remaining tamales in the Fridge, and now must  choose between Tex-Mex and a pineapple milk shake. All of these thoughts scare me. How long until I forget to eat altogether? I think it will be awhile. My antidepressant just kicked in and the sleeping pills can’t be far behind. I’m going for tamales while still can remember the difference between the Frigidaiire and the Lektrikal stove. 
    Somebody named Daniel Polysyllable is matching the steel guitar note for note and there ain’t a cowgirl in sight.
    I gotta go.
    Watch this space next issue and see if Mudcat still remembers.