MYRTLE BEACH RAMBLINGS - Writing With A Smirk

A Day When Everything Went Wrong - 1/24/2012

2012-01-23T21:36:00.000-08:00

This weeks prompt for the South Strand Writing Group was: "A Day When Everything Went Wrong." I decided to change things up and write a little poem.

I awoke in the small hours
To the acrid stench of smoke
Suffocating the darkness
And making me choke

I reached for my glasses
They flew out of sight
They would've been less than useless
In the opaque, dark, night

At that very moment
I regretted I stole
The smoke alarm batteries
For my remote control

I stopped, dropped and rolled
As I slid to the floor
Still wrapped in my sheets
I crawled towards the door

I knocked off a lamp
As I took my covers with me
It shattered and scattered
Leaving glass and debris

I policed up some of the ruins
With my palms and my face
As my eiderdown cocoon
Rolled all over the place

Racked with pain and with fear
The terror increased
Still enveloped in bedclothes
An 800 count beast

I scampered towards safety
Across the sleeping room floor
When my skull came in contact
With the wall or the door

Imbedded with glass
Now a knot on my head
I spun around wildly
And stubbed my toe on the bed

Wouldn't you know
That my knee jerk reaction
Would cause yet another
Head to wall attraction

The pounding my cranium
Was giving the wall
Caused a sconce and a painting
To detach and fall

If you think that they missed me
And fell harmlessly away
You are not following closely
The events of this day

May have been the concussion
Or the blood in my eyes
But I started to panic
And did something unwise

Not wishing to die
In a blazing pyre
I thought of the best way
To get out of the fire

I could see through the window
Just barely a glow
Perhaps from the fire
I couldn't know

I launched my human burrito
With all of my might
Towards that little
Beacon of light

I crashed through the window
To the nocturnal gloom
Ejecting myself
From a second floor room

I crashed through the glass
Collecting more shards
And landed on my back
In my neighbor's back yard

The bedclothes came off
Sometime during the flight
And I landed naked
On a warm summer's night

I might have been hurt
From my two story cannon ball
But the neighbor's koi pond
Helped break my fall

Where were the firemen
Where were the flames
And why was my neighbor
Calling me names

Emergency vehicles
Soon did respond
To pull me out
Of his God Damned koi pond

The injuries sustained
And the way that I sobbed
Made the police believe
I was beaten and robbed

Though it was hard to believe
And harder to explain
But a horrible nightmare
Had driven me insane

Rejection - 1/17/2012

2012-01-16T22:30:00.000-08:00

The prompt for this week's writing group is: "An occasion when you experienced rejection." I could have just submitted my journal but that would have been cheating. A high school memory came immediately to mind:

It is the late 1960's. The scene is a spring high school dance held at the local union hall in a small mining town in northern Idaho. I had just performed all the compulsory moves for a maladroit 16 year old boy. I had enthusiastically shaken hands with my few friends as if I hadn't seen them in years, though we were all playing baseball together just a couple of hours prior. Sometime, during the course of the evening; I would shake hands with the same guys each time we came in contact, as if one of us was a returning POW. It was all we knew to do. I think eye contact without shaking hands would have been too awkward to bear. We would sometimes attempt to talk, but the band was playing "Gloria" so loud that communication was impossible.

Those of us without dates were then required by ritual to stand in front of the stage and watch the band (composed of some of my classmates), standing as close to the speakers as possible. This activity showed any girl that may have been looking in our direction that we possessed great musical knowledge and might be called upon at any time to sit in with the band, Though I, myself, possess slightly less musical skills than the wind-up monkey with cymbals and the closest I would come to joining the band was to fetch an errant drumstick.. A casual stance and the bopping of my head, though undoubtedly totally out of sync with the beat, was the closest I could come to looking cool. And, believe me, I was the polar opposite of cool. I am not certain, but I may have invented the "air guitar".

The drunker or more confident girls would dance with each other. No teenage boy would be caught dead dancing early in the evening. Well, except one guy who was a northern Idaho LSD pioneer. He danced in the halls at school. Even guys that came with dates would hang out in front of the stage with the rest of us handshaking, speaker hugging, losers, while their dates danced.

The dance floor was huge. Though it really only needed to be the size of a jail cell. For a self-conscious teen, like myself, walking across the room to where the eligible girls were compressed against the far wall was every bit as terrifying as crossing a minefield. Everyone in the place could see you crossing the room. There may as well have been a spotlight on you.

For most of us, no floor crossing would happen until "last dance." It was important (for other than the most hopeless dork) to pair up with a girl for the last dance. It was always a slow song, such as "Something" by the Beatles. Of course, I couldn't actually dance. My idea of dancing was to put my arms around the girls waist and lurch around in no particular pattern, trying unsuccessfully not to step on her feat. Since most of the girls were several inches shorter than me, there was an uncomfortable bend necessary that increased the degree of difficulty and made me look like a staggering scoliosis victim. The sole objective of "last dance" was to find a girl that I could give a ride "home".

My lack of dancing prowess was moot if I failed to cull a consort from the bouquet of wallflowers. I had been covertly scouring the line-up all evening for a possible candidate. My strategy was to never approach "A"-listers. It was improbable that a girl who would not acknowledge my existence in the classroom would want to be seen with me, let alone experience my haphazard embrace. "A"-list girls liked good-looking, popular guys. I had the facial features of a young Gandhi. "A"-list girls liked star athletes. I played baseball. Our high school didn't even have a baseball team. Soccer hadn't been introduced yet. If it had been, my studliness factor would have been somewhere between a soccer player and the guy that played the clarinet in the pep band. "A"-list girls liked guys that drove cool cars. In the parking lot was my dad's ten year-old pick-up. The one we drove to the dump.

So I focused on the "B"-team, who were still out of my league, but it was possible that one of them may have drastically lowered her standards by that time of the night, so that an invite from me would be marginally less objectionable to slow-dancing with one of her girlfriends. There was the added barrier in that the "B"-team believed themselves to be "A"-listers due to the stampede of supplicants they could expect at "last dance". This significantly increased the probability of a rebuff.

The truth was that I would go as far down the alphabet as necessary. Bee-lining to a less desirable girl would not only increase the chances of acceptance but also the probability that I was the only guy that would be looking into her lazy eye that evening.

The band had announced that after "Satisfaction" would be the "last dance". I joined the other oddballs on the Bataan Death March to rejection.

Star Trek- The Episode You Never Saw - 1/9/2012

2012-01-08T22:49:00.000-08:00

The prompt this week for our writing group is "an account of a visit to a fictional place." The first thing that came to mind was a Star Trek episode I had seen years ago. I think it was called "Spectre of the Gun". The Enterprise was transported back to the old west. I remember really enjoying that particular circumstance. I decided to write a piece based loosely on that premise. I have taken some liberties with Roddenberry's Star Trek, so don't be too critical.

Captain's Log Stardate 3842.4: After experiencing a temporal distortion, we have been transported through a space and time portal. The Enterprise sustained minor damage but no casualties. We are orbiting a small, class M, terrestrial planet. Mr. Spock is analyzing the planets composition, atmosphere, and life forms.

Mr. Spock: "Captain, it appears we are in a geocentric orbit around the planet earth in the mid 19th century. As the current technology is primitive, we will be undetected by the population.

Capt. Kirk: "Interesting. Isn't that the time period of the fabled North American old west? Gunfighters and gold rushes?"

Mr. Spock: "Yes, Captain, it was a time of lawlessness and acquisition."

Capt. Kirk: "I have a romantic fascination with that time period. Find us a location in the American west that will provide us the opportunity to observe without violating the prime directive. Let's go down and take a look, purely for scientific purposes. Get Dr. McCoy and a some obscure red shirt and meet me in the transporter room. Mr.Sulu, you come too. Mr. Chekov, you have the console."
Mr. Chekov: "Aye, sir."

Captain's Log Stardate 3842.4: We have transported to the surface of Earth, on a ranch near Virginia City, Nevada, in the year 1859. The detail consists of myself, Mr. Spock, Dr. McCoy, and Mr. Sulu. The red-shirt crewmember (Ensign, I have no idea of his name) of our landing party transported directly onto a bed of serpents that Mr. Spock has since identified as Western Diamondback Rattlesnakes. Since that genus has been extinct for several hundred years, Dr. McCoy has no antidote. The crewman's body has been transported back to the Enterprise. Do you know how much Star Fleet paperwork that creates for me? Sorry, Captain's Log, that was rhetorical.

Mr. Spock: "This ranch is called the Ponderosa."

Dr. McCoy: "How the hell did you know that, Spock?"

Mr. Spock: "I am of superior intellect. And there is a sign over the gate. It seems to be some sort of breeding ground for a species of bovine creatures."

Dr. McCoy: "Like your mamma?"

Capt. Kirk (chuckling): "No, these are a food source. I had real beef as a youngster in Iowa. Wonderful. Though you would not appreciate it Spock, being vegetarian."

Mr. Spock: "Eating other creatures is illogical."

Dr. McCoy: "So is only mating every 7 years."

Mr. Spock (ignoring McCoy): "The ranch is inhabited by five men. I detect no female presence."

Dr. McCoy: "Crap, we have landed in Suluville."

Mr. Sulu: "That is a myopic view."

Mr. Spock: "The residents appear to be a man and his three adult sons."

Dr. McCoy: "Curiouser and curiouser."

Capt. Kirk: "You said FIVE men."

Mr. Spock: "They appear to also possess a slave, who performs all the traditional female functions of this time period. He has a similar racial and genetic makeup to Mr. Sulu."

Dr. McCoy: "These jokes just write themselves."

Mr. Spock (ignoring McCoy): Slavery was an accepted practice in this time period. Illogical, considering the rallying cry of that society was freedom and liberty.

Dr. McCoy: "Well that explains their lack of use for women here in Suluville."

Mr. Spock: "They travel by equine. Though the weight of one of the riders grossly exceeds the load limits of that particular beast of burden."

Capt. Kirk: "Pretty fancy ten gallon hats."

Mr. Spock: "Captain, while they are undoubtedly excessively large hats, the function of which I cannot determine, their capacity is considerably less than ten gallons."

Capt. Kirk: "That is just a figure of speech, Spock. An exaggeration of the size of the hats."

Mr. Spock: "Hyperbole seems to be an essential part of your culture. For instance, when Dr. McCoy discusses his medical qualifications.

Dr. McCoy: "Pon Farr you, Spock."

Capt. Kirk: "The older, grey-haired, one reminds me of a Star Ship captain I met years ago."

Mr. Sulu: "The young one is quite handsome."

Dr. McCoy: "Keep your phaser holstered there cowgirl. What do you want to do, build a little house on the prairie?"

Mr. Spock (ignoring McCoy): Fascinating. There exists some vigilante code that gives these particular citizens carte blanche to randomly administer the death penalty to any fellow inhabitants that infringe on them in any way.

Capt. Kirk: "That is true. I have read about that. It is called frontier justice. It applies to the theft of any possessions: livestock, gold, horses, even women.

Dr. McCoy: "Safeguarding of women does not appear to be a priority here in Suluville."

Mr. Spock: "No trial? No due process?"

Capt. Kirk: "I guess the word justice is subjective."

Mr. Spock: "Barbaric."

Dr.McCoy: "Jim. Does that frontier justice apply to trespassing?"

Capt. Kirk: "Most certainly."

Dr. McCoy: "Then I suggest a hasty exit. Four riders heading this way, primitive weapons drawn. I don't know about you, but a dead Vulcan in Nevada, though satisfying, might violate the Prime Directive."

A bullet pings off a boulder very close to Dr. McCoy's foot.

Dr. McCoy: "Damn it Jim. I'm a doctor, not a gunfighter."

Capt. Kirk: "Kirk to Enterprise. Scotty, Four to beam up. Now!"

Scotty: "Aye, Captain."

Captain's Log Supplemental: A short visit to earth's surface revealed that mankind has not evolved significantly in 400 years. We just have better weaponry now. Instead of eliminating those that violate our canons one by one, we now have the capability to eradicate entire worlds. I, personally, would be very at home on the Ponderosa. Except for the lack of females. Jimmy Kirk likes the ladies.

Success and Failure - 1/2/2012

2012-01-05T07:10:00.000-08:00

This week's writing group prompt was "a moment of success or failure." I intended on writing an uplifting personal piece chronicling one of my personal triumphs. I could relate the time I ..............um...or the moment that I.............hmmmm.

A flurry of painful failures and disappointments filled my head. Wow, this is going to be harder than I thought. Then it came to me that failure and success are very subjective:

For someone who has attempted suicide by taking an overdose of sleeping pills, waking up in the morning is an epic fail. For the rest of us, it is a victory. And in my case, often a surprise.

A baseball player that fails miserably seven out of ten at bats is a candidate for the hall of fame. In most endeavors a 30 percent success rate is unacceptable. If a doctor lost 70 percent of his patients, his practice would probably suffer as a result.

A four minute mile is an achievement for a jogger. Not so much for a NASCAR driver.

Many women try for years to get pregnant and bear children. Others do it with a minimum of effort and intent. The latter is a success at procreation but a dismal failure at fertilization avoidance.

I think you can see where I am going with this. For instance, a two-year old, going poop on the potty is a cause for celebration, for a seventy year old........ OK, bad example.

Recently, on a television show called the X-Factor, a contestant was praised as a hero for going seven months without smoking crack. They raved about what an inspiration and role model he was. I have been crack free for nearly 60 years. I should get a parade, complete with Shriner clowns.

Success has many levels. A child takes his/her triumphant first step and nobody outside the immediate family gives a damn, but take one step on the moon........

I was at a Christmas Show at the Alabama Theatre and it was announced that a couple in the audience were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. They attempted unsuccessfully to stand up when someone told them that their name had been called, but settled for a Royal Family type wave. There was applause and people whooped and cheered. There was probably some sad bastard or bastette in the crowd who had been married multiple times. Is that success or failure? I think anyone who finds four or five different people willing to cohabitate with them deserves some recognition. But today with same-sex marriage being in vogue, the matrimonial pool has doubled for many. Maybe it is not as difficult as it once was. And I would think that losing half your worldly goods every few years might tilt toward the failure side of the ledger.

Being elected to the office of The President of the United States seems to be a big deal. At least until after the inauguration, when the chosen one finds out what the job entails and how much bipartisan fellatio he will have to perform to get elected to a second term.

As a parent, success or failure is not immediately evident. As the child grows to adulthood, our parenting skills are revealed: Honor student - yay, professional athlete -yeah baby, champion of industry - hell yeah, serial killer - oops.

I guess my life has pretty much been absent of major highs and lows. That might not be such a bad thing.

Something That Made Me Laugh Until I Cried - 12/12/2011

2011-12-12T18:01:00.000-08:00

My response to this week's writing group prompt, "Something That Made Me Laugh Until I Cried."

Evidently, weddings are sort of a big deal. Up until couples started staging their events for YouTube, the ceremony tended to be serious and solemn. The binge drinking and antics of embarrassing friends and family were reserved for the reception. Weddings tend to be particularly stately and dignified in the south, where I live, making the episode that I am recounting here even more ridiculous.

My sons, Rick and Josh, graduated from Catawba College, near Charlotte, North Carolina. One of their dormitory suite-mates and best friends was Jamie Gillis from Fayetteville. Through them, I came to know Jamie and as a result was invited to his wedding some years after they graduated. The wedding was held in Salisbury, in the Catawba College chapel.

On the rare occasions that I have been inside a church I like to be close to the exit in case a fire and brimstone situation develops. On this day, I took my usual place in the back of the chapel, far from where Jesus hung out above the altar.

The bride (I have forgotten her name) had already shot past me heading for the alter and my son Josh had still not arrived. Somewhere between "speak now or forever hold your peace" and "sickness and in health" Josh took a seat next to me in the pew. With my eyes, I silently questioned why he was so late. He didn't say a word just opened his jacket. There was a perfect imprint of an iron seared onto the front of his shirt.

At this time it is important for the reader to be made aware that I do not possess an inside voice. For some reason I was blessed or cursed with a very powerful, monotone, speaking voice without benefit of modulation or restraint. Any attempt on my part to whisper generally results in a volume level not much different from my normal speaking voice. Sometimes, I am told, my private voice actually resonates more than my regular speech. That was a problem for me in school, as confidential communique murmured to the person in the desk next to me often reached the teacher's desk full voice. Also, on this particular day, the acoustics of a church amplified that which was already too loud. I believe that design is intended to keep parishioners conscious.

I began to laugh. It was not a chuckle or a snicker. It was a full-fledged guffaw. My amusement triggered laughs from my sons. While their laughter was somewhat courteously subdued, compared to mine, they exceeded the acceptable decibel limit for a church service. I could not stop. The more I tried to control myself, the harder I would laugh. Just when it seemed I had gotten my mirth managed, Josh would again flash his shirt at me.

Soon, everyone in the minster, including the wedding party, was looking back at us. It was not Christian charity reflected on their "shut the fuck up" faces. They take their church ceremonies seriously here in the Bible Belt and any joyful noise must be sanctioned by the congregation and approved by the church council. Just before it seemed we would be ushered out, I managed to regain some command of my emotions and display a modicum of dignity. It is a good thing, because I could not have walked on my own power. I would have had to genuflect to the parking lot.

I never actually stopped giggling, I just was able to confine the sound to my own general area by burying my face in a hymnbook. Tears, drool, and snot will probably prevent any future back pew believer from opening to hymn 234. That page is most likely sealed forever.

I am certain this was the hardest I have ever laughed in my life. At least at something appropriate to discuss in this venue.

First Time Away From Home - 12/5/2011

2011-12-05T17:48:00.000-08:00

The prompt for this week's meeting of our writing group was: "First Time Away From Home." This was my response:

The first time Matt killed someone the degree of difficulty was high. It has gotten exponentially easier since. That he was only a child when he took his first life was certainly a factor in the effort required. The guy was one of Matt's mother's boyfriends. Everybody asked him why he had stuck a butcher knife through the drunken, sleeping, guy's throat. He remained silent. He was embarrassed to say that it was because the guy repeatedly tried to touch his wiener. Matt was exiled to juvenile detention where he remained until, at 18, he would be transferred to big boy prison. At 11, Matt was among the youngest, smallest, and whitest inmates at the Tarrant County, Texas facility. That meant that he also had to be the toughest and the smartest.

There was a plethora of wiener-touchers in juvie, both inmates and guards. After Matt had maimed several older convicts and they still would not leave him alone, he formulated ways to kill some of them. He used all of his abundant free time thinking of ways to create murders that appeared to be accidents or suicides. It became a game. The authorities could not link Matt to any of these deaths, but the streetwise thugs knew and as a result he gained mucho respect among the gen pop. Even the guards steered clear of him. "That motherfucker is crazy," was whispered in the exercise yard as he walked by.

By the time he reached his 17th birthday, he was reluctantly crowned the king of the institution. Others came to him for protection, which he gave to those most in need. He divided most of his time between the exercise yard and the library. As a result, both his body and mind were superior to most of his cohabitants.

At 18, as promised, he was transferred to the Texas State Prison at Huntsville. In his nearly 7 years at Tarrant County, Matt had caused the death of 12 wiener-touchers and other creeps. Eleven were inmates and one was a particularly sadistic guard. Some people need killing. He had not had a visitor during his entire incarceration. Evidently his mother was unforgiving about the death of her boyfriend.

Through the criminal grape-vine, Matt's reputation proceeded him to prison. He was seldom challenged and pretty much kept to himself. He only killed 2 men in Huntsville.

A byproduct of his self-absorption was that he was considered a model prisoner and since his only misdeed was committed as a juvenile, he was paroled a week before his 21st birthday. He had spent nearly half of his life incarcerated.

As he walked through the iron personnel gate to freedom, leaving the only home he had really ever known, he had no idea what he was going to do. Other prisoners had told stories of the wonders of the outside world: soft women, hard liquor, and fast cars dominated the fables. He had never experienced any of these pleasures. He had $267.00 in his pocket that he had earned from prison work projects and a duffel bag containing his scant belongings.

Since the prison was located right in Huntsville, he was able to walk the short distance to the city center in just a few minutes. Matt decided he was going to treat himself to an alcoholic beverage. He found what he assumed was a bar since it had neon signs in the windows advertising many kinds of beers. Above the door was the name, The Manhole.

He walked out of the hot, Texas, sun into the cool, stank, darkness of the tavern. He waited a minute for his eyes to adjust to the gloom and then ambled up to the bar and took a seat on a stool.

The bartender asked, "what'll it be, handsome?" Pretty friendly place, Matt thought.

"I don't know. What do you recommend?" he answered, smiling.

"You look like an appletini kind of guy."

"OK, I'll try one."

"Make that two" a voice two stools over said as he slithered onto the stool next to Matt.

As the drinks were delivered, the intoxicated man introduced himself, "I am Adam." He rubbed Matt's thigh as he spoke.

Adam leaned over and whispered something into Matt's ear as his hand moved up to his crotch. Matt experienced a Deja Vu from ten years ago. The same words, fetid breath, and wiener-touching.

Matt put his hands over Adam's ears and with minimum effort, snapped his neck. The man slumped and quietly slid off the stool to the floor. Matt drank down his appletini, savoring the tart flavor as it burnt a trail down his throat. He had no idea how much the drink cost, so he just laid all his money on the bar, told the bartender thanks, picked up his duffel bag, and walked back home. The bitter taste of his hour of freedom still on his lips.

Traffic Accident - 11/21/2011

2011-11-21T14:33:00.000-08:00

I hadn't written anything in some time. I lacked the motivation and inspiration. A few of us formed a writing group that will meet weekly and will write from a prompt. That gives me a subject and a deadline, both of which I seem to need. Our first prompt is "Traffic Accident." The following is what that prompt brought to my mind:

Terry was on his way home from his security job on the set of CSI Sea of Tranquility in medium rush hour traffic. He was listening to some classic rock on his new ICrap device. Just as he was starting to relax to a 50 year old Coldplay song, he was disturbed by the nosecone of another vehicle entering his passenger window at a moderate rate of speed. When he had recovered from the shock of the unexpected docking, he assessed the situation:

"Oh crap", he said out loud to himself, then silently thought "Just my luck. A taxi. No doubt driven by an alien with no insurance, and no English.".

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He screamed rhetorically at the driver. "Where did you get your license, "SkyMart?"

As other unconcerned traffic zoomed past, he realized that his initial assessment was correct. It was indeed an alien hack driver. This was going to suck on so many levels.

"I am very, very sorry, it seems my automatic pirate has malfunctioned,." The cabbie spoke through the damage.

"I think you mean pilot."

"Yes, pilot, my English is not so good."

"Neither is your driving, Roswell." He immediately regretted using the racial slur that Earthlings had attached to any extraterrestrial, regardless of planet of origin. It was every bit as derogatory as back when there were white people and they called blacks, niggers and chinese, chinks. Terry was part white on his mother's side, but the white had pretty much been bred out. Terry was roughly the color of a russet potato. He did, however, have enough white DNA that he qualified for minority benefits.

The Venusian driver began to tremble uncontrollably and turned a darker shade of gray-green than his normal hue. "There is no need to get racy. I said I was sorry.

"Racial. I was being racial. Not racy."

"Yes, you were."

Terry segued, "what the hell were you doing at this altitude? You know you aren't supposed to go above 15,000 feet in those shitwagons."

"Again with the obligatory remarks," the Venusian replied.
"I think you mean derogatory."

"You really are hurtful. I know that you Earthlings call us taxi drivers, Venetian Blinds. I have excellent vision. In fact I can see Uranus." What passed for a mouth emitted a high-pitched shriek that Terry took for a laugh.

"That was pretty funny, ET. Now what are you going to do about the damage to my vehicle?" Terry pressed.

"I have excellent insulation from Geico," the driver said proudly.

"I hope you mean insurance. "Why am I not surprised", to himself. "You look just like that lizard."

"You forget that we Venusians are telegraphic. And he is a gekko, not a lizard."

"It's telepathic, Yoda. Can you just not talk to me until the police arrive?"
"Certainly, I will be very solvent."

"Oh, for Christ's sake", Terry put his head in his hands.

He decided he would amuse himself while he waited for the police.

"What is your name?" Terry asked.

He knew that the authorities assigned names to all arriving aliens as they processed through immigration, as their given names are unintelligible and sometimes just a growl or fart sound. He also knew that the INS folks had a sense of humor.

"I am Jeffrey Dahmer," the driver said proudly.

"Of course you are," Terry chuckled.

Just then, a police cruiser arrived. The officer rolled down his window identified himself as patrolman Keith Richards, and asked, "Have you had an accent?."

Terry put his phaser on stun and shot himself in the face.

Creative Writing Assignment WK 1 - 9/22/2011

2011-09-22T14:56:00.000-07:00

I am taking a creative writing course at Coastal Carolina University's Geezer Outreach Program. My first week's writing assignment was to write something. I did that. The amazing thing is that I didn't wait until the night before it was due to begin. I wrote the following very short story based on this picture. Don't ask:

Joshua was ten when he realized that not everyone could see the future. He had known that he had that ability ever since he could remember, but didn’t think much about it until that fateful year. He could not control when it happened. It just happened. Sometimes it was just a little thing, like knowing the phone was going to ring or that his mom would break a glass in the kitchen. Other times it was a more meaningful event, like a neighbor’s dog getting run over by a garbage truck or an earthquake in India. Though he didn’t know exactly where India was.

The mistake he made was telling someone. One night, he frantically warned his dad not to drive to the grocery store because he was going to get shot by a robber. His dad laughed and said something about Joshua’s imagination, promising to be right back with some ice cream. An hour later his dad was in an ambulance with a bullet wound in his shoulder and a confused look on his face. The police were equally baffled, when they apprehended the shooter based on Joshua’s detailed description; including the license plate number of the getaway car. His dad, being in shock, could provide little information to the authorities, but could identify the culprit from a lineup.

From that moment on, everything was different. Joshua was talked about on the news. They used his soccer team picture in the broadcast. People were calling his house day and night, wanting to know who would win a ball game or what lottery numbers to pick. No one understood. It didn’t work that way. Random Images would just appear to him, as real as life. He had no control over when or where. It could happen in a dream, at the dinner table, or in the classroom. Sometimes he would go weeks without a premonition. Other times they would come so fast and frequently that it gave him a headache.

The kids at St. Marks Elementary School suddenly steered clear of him. They called him a freak and a mutant. Even the teachers, who were mostly nuns, looked at him warily and he was sure he heard whispered devotions as they passed him in the halls. But the worst part was the way his parents looked at him. It was never the same again.

Mrs. Howard, the school counselor, was not a nun and seemed more interested in his “gift” than afraid of it. She met with his parents and it was decided that he would undergo some trials to verify his ability, though she admitted being skeptical that this type of power (she called it ESP) actually existed.

Joshua was very nervous on the day he was to be tested. He didn’t know what sort of exams he was going to be given, but he hated tests of any kind. For one of the assessments, Mrs. Howard held up cards with symbols on them; stars, circles, triangles and he was supposed to guess which figure was on each card. He knew, without even seeing the look on the therapist that he was not getting them right. In fact, he failed all the tests, but he did know that Mrs. Howard’s heart was going to stop working very soon. He decided to keep that information to himself. No one would believe him anyway. Mrs. Howard concluded that Joshua was not gifted with second sight and things at school soon returned to normal. Things at home never did. The knowledge about the shooting was explained away as coincidence or happenstance. That was fine with Joshua.

Life went on, but not for Mrs. Howard. When his mom told him that Mrs. Howard had died, he acted surprised. He had learned to perfect a look of astonishment.

That was twenty years ago. Joshua was now a successful Wall Street stock broker. Though he never learned to harness his ability, he heeded his intuition enough through the years that he had made some very successful investments for both he and his clients. He was happily married and had a wonderful ten year old son, named Jacob. Joshua never discussed his talent with his wife, Sherry, or anyone else.

Tonight, Jacob awoke from a terrible dream and crawled into bed with his parents, shaking uncontrollably. As Jacob related the horror of the dream, Joshua decided to take a personal day and spend it with his family at their home in Connecticut. He circled tomorrow’s date, September 11, 2001 on the calendar on the refrigerator. He did not tell anyone else. They would not believe him anyway.

The Dave Matthews Band and Sushi Both Leave a Bad Taste In My Mouth - 9/4/2011

2011-09-04T10:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it seems that I am the only one in the world that doesn’t grok certain things. There are many cases of this being true, but I think I will limit this discussion to two examples: sushi and The Dave Matthews Band. Spoiler alert: I will admit up front that I don’t care for either of them. So you can save yourself the excruciating agony of reading on if you are just trying to find out where I stand on these critical issues. Perhaps I am not sophisticated or cultured enough to appreciate the complexities and art contained in either, but I like what I like. If you like either or both, I don’t care. Write your own blog.

Sushi: It is not that I haven’t tried sushi. I have given it several chances and each time resulted in a napkin spitting convulsion. It is not that I am discriminating about what I shove down my pie hole. I weigh approximately the same as Gilbert Grape’s mom. You don’t get like this by being selective of cuisine. It is not that I dislike polarizing food. I love oysters, escargot, calamari, mountain oysters, duck pate, and liver. I have eaten unidentifiable items from a night market in China. I am adventurous. It is not the thought of eating RAW fish. I have enjoyed steak tartare and absolutely adore prosciutto crudo.

Perhaps it is partly that it tastes foul and partly because those that are devotees of the sushi are so enthusiastic and fanatical about it that it causes my rebellious nature to surface. They make a Broadway show out of “going out for sushi.” Those of us that find bacon irresistible don’t try to convince others of the joy of gammon consumption. Nor do we try to instruct others of what fetid condiments are required to garner the entire dining experience. I find Sushi aficionados to be a bit like religious zealots. They really want you to know about their sushi.

If you like Sushi, fine. Just make sure you actually like it and aren’t just trying to be trendy.

The Dave Matthews Band: I have unsuccessfully attempted several times to listen to the Dave Matthews Band. I have friends (all middle aged and white) that think the sun rises from between Dave Matthews’ legs. I can acknowledge that he and the other members of his band are accomplished musicians, just as I can concede that the French make decent films. But I don’t have to like them. There are actually a couple of his songs that are listenable to me, but not enough to make the cut on my IPOD. It is not that I am close-minded about music. I have a wide range of musical taste. The playlist you are listening to right now is about as eclectic as you can get.

Someone suggested that “you really have to hear them live.” So I went on Spotify and made a playlist of “Live at Folsom Field.” I had a choice between that and “Live at Wrigley Field,” but there hasn’t been anything worth observing at Wrigley field since Ernie Banks retired. I started it up, hoping to finally grasp what DM was all about. When the first song cued up, Skooter licked himself and left the room. But he knows even less than I do about music. So I ignored his critique.

The first thing I noticed was that before every song there was at least a minute of some kind of tuning effort that seemed successfully designed to drive the fans into a screaming frenzy. EVERY FREAKING SONG. Come on Dave, just start the damn song. It is a double album, so when I woke up (oh yeah, it put me to sleep) it was still going. Fans of DM are certainly in luck. If you like one song, you will certainly like the next one, because it is exactly the same song. Without the tracks being listed and the endless tuning it would be impossible to tell when one song finished and the other began. Kind of like the Grateful Dead (who I am also a great fan of). This was some mind-numbing stuff.

On the rare occasion that I could make out some of the lyrics that he was garbling, they were totally without substance. I am a very lyrical music fan. I am not a fan of jamming just because you can. I like a 3 minute 30 second song with some meaning. Not “I'm the Monkey Man With the great, great monkey plan.” I had to turn it off when he totally butchered Dylan’s brilliant, “All Along the Watchtower.” It was actually several minutes into the song before I knew what the hell it was. That was brutal.

If you like The Dave Matthews Band, fine. Just make sure you actually like it and aren’t just trying to be one of the cool kids.

There Should Be a Telethon For Me - 8/20/2011

2011-08-20T19:35:00.000-07:00

I am not a hoarder like the nutbags you see on television, I just have a hard time throwing things away. OK, by definition, maybe I am a hoarder. I have decided to try to do something about that so that when I get foreclosed, I can travel light and it won’t be so hard to live out of a 1999 Bravada. With that in mind, I have gradually begun to unclutter my life.

Late last night Jack Daniels and I decided to pull my stockpile of clothes out of the closets (though I live in a condo I have two walk-in closets, go figure) and cull them. I put on the play list you are listening to right now (if your sound is on) and set to work.

It has been well-documented, if you have read past posts of this blog, that though I am an intelligent, well-educated, man, I am not very task oriented. I have almost no practical skills. If you gave a set of directions and a tool box to both a chimpanzee and me, the chimp would design a lunar excursion module long before I could assemble an IKEA desk. People that know me know this to be an undisputed truth.

Right now, I have a cabinet door that’s hinges are held on by one of the four screws required. As an alternative to replacing the hinges (which I have no hope of doing), I have developed a rather inventive propping system. The fact that each time I open the door it falls off does not seem to annoy me enough to attempt a repair.

I tell you that so that you understand what a big deal it is for me to embark upon this great clothes-sorting undertaking. It involved an elaborate system of categorizing by fit and functionality for literally hundreds of garments. You notice I did not mention anything about style or fashion, as those were not criteria. My look is timeless. Khakis and polo shirts have never/always been in style. There was lots of trying on, or attempting to, in the case of older items.

Skooter was totally annoyed by this process as not only were the clothes taking up a large portion of the couch, which he considers his, but usually when I get dressed it means we are going somewhere. Every time I tried something on he went to the door. Finally he just got exasperated and laid down on his bed, sort of.

I arranged all the clothing into three groups: 1) those that I can or will never wear again, 2) those that I can (with some effort), will, or do wear, and debris. I have to tell you that only the trained eye can tell the difference. Though I am totally useless, I am a manic organizer (OCD). By the time I had finalized my categorization it was 3 AM and nearly bedtime. Skooter and I took the trash to the dumpster and I left the two huge heaps of my livery in place and headed to bed. Skooter inspected my work, chuffed, and followed me. I had a plan. I would get up in the morning, bag the cast-offs, and take them to homeless shelters.

This morning, I did just that. I filled two lawn and garden size, black, trash bags, and headed out to donate. I felt so good about myself that I stopped and picked up some barbeque to take home as a reward.

Arriving home, I decided to eat the pulled pork before concluding my mission, which involved the putting away of my downsized wardrobe. Sitting on the couch, admiring my work, I noticed a pair of chinos that I was sure should have gone to the donation stack. Closer examination revealed several such items. Frak! I had bagged the wrong heap.

So, I now have another mountain of clothes to donate and only the items that were in my ready line, and not subject to triage, to actually wear. The only winner (duh) from this situation is some really fat homeless guy who plays a lot of golf.

This is why I normally don’t do anything. If you do nothing, you can’t screw it up.

Everyone Talks About the Weather, Really They Do - 7/27/2011

2011-07-28T16:54:00.000-07:00

I am not an unfriendly person. In fact my daughter, Carly, calls me a line talker. I like to converse and I can carry on a conversation about almost anything, if it interests me. I enjoy making smart-ass remarks and appreciate intelligent repartee. But the older I get, the less I can participate in small-talk.

The truth is that I am not a good listener. That might be why I failed miserably as a counselor and wasted my time getting that degree. As soon as I lose interest in a conversation, I tune out. I may appear to be paying attention, but I am not. I can maintain eye contact. I can even watch your lips move, but my mind has moved on without you. I had a tolerance for small talk when I was younger and if it was a woman that I was interested in. That is where I learned to maintain eye contact, although sometimes that focus wandered south.

I live in a condo where most of the residents are even older than I am. I can usually avoid these people, but sometimes the door doesn’t close fast enough and I share the elevator with one of them. I do my best to avoid eye contact and try to actually become invisible. This is difficult as I am 6’1” and weigh about the same as a side of beef. It is hard to hide in a 5X5 enclosure. I do not believe that just because two people occupy the same space that a conversation has to ensue. A simple polite nod or “hello” is sufficient for me if I have blown my cover. Even a “wassup” from a younger person, is acceptable, though not preferred. I have pretended to be engaged in a conversation on the cell phone, only to have it ring. So a verbal exchange is often inevitable.

Why do people when they reach a certain age all become meteorologists? They fixate on the weather like red neck on a bowl of grits. If I am stuck with a super senior, I can guarantee I will receive a weather report before I can get out of that confinement. “It sure is a hot one.” I nod but what I really want to say is “it is July in South Carolina, what the fuck do you expect, a blue northern?” Even if it had rained for six solid hours and the elevator is taking in water: “we sure needed that rain.” Are we now farmers here at Captain’s Harbour? Do we have crops to irrigate? I really don’t NEED any rain, ever. I have lived here for eight years and every time I turn the tap, water comes out. Even during the longest of droughts. When all I get from my sink is mud or dust, I will worry about precipitation.

If a person that hasn’t yet reached the age of mandatory weather reporting is trapped with me for the seemingly endless ride, the discussion will center on my dog, Skooter: “Is that a Beagle?” Again a nod but inside my brain is dying to respond: “nope, he is a Great Dane. He has a potassium deficiency.” Or: “My uncle had a Beagle.” Nod, thinking: “Where the hell is he? I want to party with him. Maybe we could become blood brothers.”

I don't wish to be an unfriendly neighbor. I wave like a sonofabitch when I
drive by these people or if I am on the balcony and they see me before I can duck down. And I will talk to them if I have anything important to say. For instance, if I see flames coming from their unit or someone is stealing their car. I totally agree with Robert Frost but unfortunately condos don’t have fences.

Friendly Fire - 7/5/2011

2011-07-05T20:45:00.000-07:00

When I was stationed at RAF Bentwaters, United Kingdom, in the early 80s, an incident occurred that I felt I should chronicle. I am certain that this event wasn’t widely publicized, and was not funny at the time, but in retrospect………….

I will give a back-story, hopefully without boring my readers to tears, but some background is necessary to relate the story. RAF Bentwaters was home to the A-10 Thunderbolt aircraft, lovingly called the Warthog. It is essentially a flying tank. The A-10 is heavily armored, with incredible anti-tank weaponry. Among that hardware is a 30MM Gatling gun, mounted in the nose. I will not bore you with specifics about this amazing weapon but will provide a link here if you desire more information. Suffice to say, it is a big-ass projectile.

The event that I am recounting involves this aircraft and this particular weapon. A young airman was attempting to remove a single jammed round from the 30MM Gatling gun on an aircraft parked in a hardened shelter. He was using an unauthorized, but very popular, method of prying the round out with a screwdriver. The round fired, shooting off across the airfield. You can see where this might be a problem.

Since the firing was both highly unexpected and incredibly loud (particularly in the confined space), the young airman was not able to report what had happened. Instead, he was wandering aimlessly inside the structure, dazed and confused, probably with blood running out of his ears.

If you are still with me, you are probably wondering where the projectile ended up. That is a very important part of the story.

RAF Bentwaters maintained a stockpile of “special” weapons to support fighter aircraft that would deploy there from the United States in case the shit hit the fan. The A-10 is much too slow and short-ranged to deliver this type of bomb and not be vaporized. As you can imagine, such a storage facility is heavily secured. So where do you suppose would be the absolute worst place for this projectile to terminate its short journey? Yep, it blew the door off of the security office of the weapon’s storage area. Fortunately, no one was walking in or out of that door at the time. Even more fortunately, it was not a high explosive anti-tank round, or the building would have been reduced to rubble.

The missile shop, in which I worked, was co-located with the weapon’s storage area. This event was immediately reported as a rocket attack on the “special” weapons area. As you can imagine, that situation was taken very seriously. We went on high alert. All personnel were immediately armed (against what, I had no idea). M-16s are normally not effective against rockets.

Fortunately, before any of our crack team of pseudo-combatants had blindly opened fire on the invisible attacking forces, someone found the incoherent specialist, determined what had actually happened, and we stood down. In my 20 year Air Force career that was the one and only time I had been fired upon. I still have no idea why I did not receive a medal for that incident.

Ghost of 4th of July Past - 7/4/2011

2011-07-04T13:04:00.000-07:00

Today, we journey back to the 4th of July of 1972. My last as a teenager and a civilian. It was also my last before becoming a father, but none of this has anything to do with this story. My then-wife and her family were celebrating Independence Day as a last hurrah before my upcoming departure to Air Force basic training. I am certain they were hoping that Ho Chi Minh would soon be wearing my ears on a necklace. This trip was a temporary detente between me and that awful family. Again, not part of this story.

We were camping at the Bumblebee Campground on Bumblebee Creek, a tributary of the North Fork of the Coeur d’Alene River in northern Idaho. At that time, Coeur d’Alene was the only French I spoke. Come to think of it, I don’t speak much more than that now.

It is no secret that I love to fish. In those days, Bumblebee Creek, though a small stream, was a great source of brook trout and one of my favorite places to fish. Not just because of my dislike for the other males in our party, I took my fishing gear upstream, alone. I love to fish alone as it is a great opportunity to reflect and hear only the babbling of a brook and not that of people.

The brush was so thick on the creek banks that the only way to walk upstream was to actually wade. Even in July, the water was ice cold, but after a while, numbness replaces the bitter chill. The creek bed is composed entirely of rocks, slippery, often moss covered, rocks. This dicey surface combined with my maladroitness was a recipe for disaster. You only think you know where this story is going.

I had extracted several nice fish from pools along my route, upstream, when I encountered a particularly swift and deep stretch of water. As you would expect, I slipped and fell down. Valuing my catch and gear more than my health well-being, I fell pretty hard, but was able to right myself and continue on.

I came upon a culvert that was built to channel water from a gulch under a forest service road into the main creek. At the dumping point of the duct formed a large pool that I believed would be home to some nice brookies. I climbed up and sat on the edge of the corrugated pipe so I could fish down into the pond. I could see several nice fish, but before I had baited up the pool became cloudy. I soon realized that it was blood fouling the water. My first thought was that a bear or mountain lion upstream was feasting on something and the blood was washing downstream. That was not an unreasonable assumption.

Then the reality that the blood was running off of the culvert changed my thought process. The blood was coming from me. But how? I was experiencing no pain. I stood up and performed a self-exam. The source of the blood was from the area of my right, rear pocket, where I had stored a jar of salmon eggs (a favorite trout bait of mine). When I had fallen, the jar had shattered and a large piece of glass was now part of my buttocks. There had been no pain, since the ice-cold water had numbed me. Evidently there are no major arteries in the buttocks, so though I was bleeding quite heavily, I was apparently not bleeding out. That fact did not ease my panic. Does panic increase blood flow? Oh crap.

Since at this point I had lost all interest in fishing, I did not need to wade back to camp; I could walk the forest service road. Actually, I made it back to camp in record time. Someone else went back later for my gear and fish, which I had also lost interest in. They could follow the blood trail.

Then came the most embarrassing part of the ordeal, I had to ask my hated father-in-law to pull the shard of glass out of my, now not so numb, ass, with a pair of pliers. Actually shard is not an adequate word. This was more of a hunk of glass. I am sure he was less gentle than he could have been. After all, I had knocked up his daughter.

We did have a first aid kit, but some of it had been expended earlier in the camp-out, when one of my in-laws had stepped into a frying pan containing hot grease. Obviously, this was not as successful of a camping trip as we had hoped.

The consensus was that I should be immediately taken to the hospital, as it appeared I required stitches. The only dissenting vote was the only one that mattered……mine. There was no way in hell I was going to be someone’s emergency room story. After everyone had a look at it, they bandaged it up as best they could and I had a lie-down. As a reminder of that 4th of July, I have a permanent scar that few have ever, or will ever, see.

Stupid Human Tricks - 7/2/2011

2011-07-02T17:52:00.000-07:00

When I was in high school, my dad bought a brand new 1968 Mercury Montego MX Brougham. It was bright orange with a black vinyl top. It was very sleek and sporty, very out of character for my dad, who was a pick-up man. On rare occasions, I was allowed to drive it to school. I had a 55 Chevy, but by then, it was pretty much a rust-bucket that spewed smoke and backfired at the most inappropriate time. I ended up driving it, unsuccessfully, in the demolition derby. The Montego was way cool. With anyone else behind the wheel, it would have been a babe magnet. For me, not so much.

When I drove to school (about 3 miles), I would wait until the school bus had entered Interstate 90 and whiz by it at a high rate of speed, honking my horn like a moron (actually, exactly like a moron). This maneuver was designed to impress a girl that I had a huge crush on, but whose parents, wisely, did not allow to ride to school with a miscreant such as me. Actually, I paraphrased. I am pretty sure the word miscreant has never been uttered in Smelterville, Idaho. I should add here that this particular girl was so far out of my league that she didn’t even know my league existed. That did not stop the ever-hopeful me from the futility of trying. Her parental excuse was just to spare my feelings, she would not have ridden with me if I had duct tape and chloroform.

I usually had a couple of fellow miscreants riding with me, even though my parents had strictly forbidden me from “running up and down the road” wasting nineteen cent per gallon gas. I was supposed to drive straight to and from school. In retrospect, I am sure that my dad realized that was never going to happen. On those days when I had the Montego, lunchtime was miscreant cruise time, sans girls. It was not like the lousy schools now with their closed campuses, metal detectors, and armed security. About the only controls put on us were that the teachers took roll sometimes.

One cold Idaho winter morning I set off chasing the school bus. Just as I accelerated past it I hit a patch of black ice. Many southern readers (as if I have many readers from any region)probably have no idea what the heck that is. Let me just say that once you have experienced it, you will never forget. A few hundred yards in front of the bus, I went into a flat spin. I did several 360s and miraculously stayed on the Interstate without hitting anything or rolling over. It was totally luck, as at 16, I had zero driving skills under normal conditions, let alone careening down the highway at 80 MPH, with two caterwauling passengers. Luckily there was no traffic other than the school bus.

When I had spun to a complete stop, so did the school bus. It had to stop relatively short in order to avoid t-boning me, as I was sideways in the road. There were 55 faces staring straight at me. I don’t think the girl was impressed, nor was the bus driver, who happened to be someone that knew both me and my parents well. Needless to say, I rode the bus every day for the rest of the school year.

The race-car driver of the day was a guy named Parnelli Jones, who had just won the Indianapolis 500. This was back when the Indy 500 was a big deal and everyone knew who won it (and could pronounce their names). I know it is hard for young people to believe, but once upon a time the Indy 500 was bigger than NASCAR. Now I am not even sure if it is televised. My reason for this diversion is that calling a driver Parnelli was like calling a total moron, Einstein. It was not a compliment. That was my moniker until the event was forgotten and I earned more permanent and vile nicknames, based on other stupid things I did later in my high school career.

Acting on my own bungee accord - 6/27/2011

2011-06-26T23:27:00.000-07:00

This will be the final installment of the practical joke/prank series. It is not that I don’t have more foolishness to relate to you; it is that I want to move on to another topic that has come to mind. Unfortunately, I have little control over what my fractured and fragmented mind will produce and when. I have to grab an idea when my memory proposes it, or it is gone, sometimes forever. Such as it is with insanity.

Most of my past antics were not the result of meanness or malice, but the consequences of boredom and world-weariness. This is totally the case with the one I am relating in this posting.

In all Air Force maintenance organizations, there is one common necessity; bungee cord. It was as essential as duct tape to a redneck and we had reels of it. Though I am not mechanically inclined, whatsoever, I have created many interesting uses for this magical material. This is the story of one of those uses. When I was working in missile maintenance I was always looking for a release from the tedium. Sometimes these releases were the result of bad judgment. This was one of those times:

One day there was a munitions squadron staff meeting and I volunteered to stay in the shop and “man the phones,” which translated to taking a nap in the break room and/or reading from our stash of magazines that objectify women. I soon tired of relaxing and searched for something to do. That is when I am most prone to mischief.

I decided that it might be fun to rig a booby trap to spring on my returning co-workers. The entrance to the missile bay from the office area was a huge blast door that slides open on rollers. I stretched a bungee cord from the inside handle of the door all the way to the back of the missile bay. I tied the cord to a wet mop head and pulled it as taut as the elasticity of the cord would allow. So essentially I had extended a 75 foot cord to about 100 feet. It was stretched to the max. I don’t recall exactly how I secured the mop head but with all the equipment available, it was not a challenge. There was a hair trigger so that any movement of the door would release the mop head.

I had barely gotten the apparatus rigged up when I got the call that the crew was at the gate. I had to buzz them in. As a result I didn’t get to function test my device, but I was confident it would work as designed.

As the door slid open, I only had a split second to realize that it was not only my co-workers entering the missile bay, but the officer in charge of the munitions storage area and another Captain that I did not know, though would soon enough.

Another instant reality was that I had totally underestimated the velocity that a bungee cord that length would generate. Suddenly, a 45 mile per hour, soaking, mop head was screaming towards my court martial. Luckily, my lack of knowledge of physics caused the mop head to slam into the door handle that it was tethered to, narrowly missing the entourage. Had it hit someone directly, it would have knocked them down like a Nolan Ryan fastball. There was a loud report (never good in an explosive environment) and a significant splash, but no actual casualties. Well, other than my humiliation as I had to explain “just what the fuck was I thinking.”

When a Stranger Calls and Gives You the Weather Forecast, Don't Answer - 6/15/2011

2011-06-15T18:37:00.000-07:00

Continuing with my theme of practical jokes/pranks I have pulled. The one I have decided to relate in this posting is my favorite one ever. I stated on a previous post that no one was actually hurt as a result of any of my monkeyshines. That may not be entirely true. The tomfoolery that I am about to describe could actually have resulted in some grievous bodily harm. But, for me, ignorance is bliss.

One of my additional duties when I worked in the missile field was as maintenance liaison at the Command Post. In short, the Command Post is a hardened facility where leaders of an installation direct the operations of their units. It is filled with communications, status boards, coffee, and lots of brass. I worked there during exercises, deployments, real world emergencies, etc. My job was to keep the commanders informed of fighter aircraft status, weapons loads, and maintenance progress on broken aircraft.

After all the senior staff (Colonels)had gone home for the day, there was not much to do. We had to keep the Command Post manned, but activity was minimal. There is a saying that “idle hands are the Devil’s tools.” This axiom was never truer for anyone than it is for me. When I am bored, mischief is a distinct possibility. Those that know me know this to be a certainty.

Each of our work stations in the Command Post was equipped with state of the art communications. As this was over 30 years ago, the telephones we had would be laughable now, but for then, they were cutting edge technology. My console had the capability to conference call with several individuals. I could cause phones to ring all over the base, connecting them together at my caprice. As you can imagine, I was want to explore this capability. In addition, the Command Post maintained a listing of the home phone numbers of ALL base personnel. This was before anyone lived under the illusion of privacy and the availability of caller ID was still well into the future. You can already see where this is going. The combination of my ennui, a super-duper phone, and my access to everyone was not going to end well for some people. The problem was that I could not share this prank with anyone as even in those days, I was violating a number of military and FCC regulations.

I started fairly innocently. I would dial two random people and connect them. Of course they both assumed that the other person called them. You can imagine how the conversations went, particularly when I redialed multiple times. While I was listening in, I also had the capability of joining their conversation, taking the role of instigator, both parties thinking that the other guy was speaking. Swearing and threats of ass-kickings were common. It is possible some of these people met to have physical altercations, but I prefer not to think about that. Well, actually, it is kind of fun to think about.

You would have thought that the pleasure I received would have been enough for me, but alas, no. You see, military installations are awash with “secret” affairs and dalliances. I was privy to some, shall we say, sensitive information. So I used that knowledge to select my victims. You would be surprised (or maybe not) at the reaction of a guy receiving multiple phone calls from the person he suspects is diddling his wife, or girlfriend. Sometimes, I had to insert a name in response to, “who is this,” just to up the ante a bit. The most fun of these was when the woman involved did not cohabitate with either of the men, and had her own residence. Dialing the “triangle” was always entertaining. You would think that after a while one of them would stop answering the phone, but they never did.

Sometimes I would just connect two people that I knew simply disliked each other and if there was no immediate profanity or enmity, I would insert some, to get the conversation going. Another of my favorites was dialing a party and connecting them with the weather, time, or traffic report, over and over. I did that to a coworker once and he came in the next day and said there was something wrong with his phone. Evidently, someone kept calling him and giving him the weather forecast. I asked him why he kept answering and he said that he kept thinking it might be something else. I had a hard time listening to him with a straight face. I can still not think of that gag without laughing out loud (LOL).

As with all my pranks, I was much younger then and would not implement such a cruel and thoughtless deed now. I am now much too mature for that kind of shenanigans. Plus I don’t have a phone with that capability and there is that pesky caller ID.

Why I Am No Longer Welcome In The Republic Of China - 6/13/2011

2011-06-12T22:34:00.000-07:00

This is the second installment of my account of pranks/practical jokes that I have contrived. The fact that I am chronicling these events does not mean I am proud of them. It just means that I am accepting ownership of these deeds. I did many things when I was young that I do not condone now. No one was physically harmed by any of my actions, but it is possible some extensive therapy was required. And now for the back-story:

In 1974 I was sent to Taiwan for a few months temporary duty, from my base in the Philippines. Taiwan is my favorite of all the Asian countries that I visited. I like the people, food, and countryside. I could do an entire blog on Taiwan, but probably won’t.

I was assigned to Ching Chuan Kang (CCK) Airbase, a Republic of China installation, near the city of Taichung. My task there was to maintain a stockpile of air-launched missiles for F-4 fighters, as the Vietnam War was still a going concern. Our missile shop was “guarded” by Chinese conscripts in stripe-less, ill-fitting uniforms, shouldering carbines that probably would not fire, but were fixed with somewhat rusty bayonets. So anyone storming our facility would run the risk of tetanus. They all had an Asian Barney Fife look to them and I would bet you would find their single bullet in their shirt pocket.

I became quite friendly with one of the guards. He spoke a bit of English and I could count to ten and swear in Chinese. He would stand just outside the door of the missile bay and split his time between cautiously watching for marauding Communists and watching us; young guys with hangovers handling high explosives. He had both a look of interest and a bit of trepidation. His name-tag was in Chinese but he told me his name was Chen. I am guessing half of the conscripts on the base had the same family name. I have spent some time in the Orient, so I can accurately put his age at the time between 12 and 40. Hell, I can’t even guess the gender of some Asian people, and I have a one in three chance at that.

He was there all day, nearly every day, and never seemed to get a lunch break or anything to eat. We would give him sandwiches, snacks, and sodas. He would have probably been court-martialed, had he been caught eating on duty. But my kindness did not come without a price.

Be patient, I am getting to the prank, but I have to give still more back-story.

My crew was working on some inert AIM-9 sidewinder missiles. For aircraft loading and pilot practice, we put a functioning guidance unit on what are essentially pieces of pipe, the exact weight of a live rocket motor and warhead. They look exactly like a real missile except they are painted blue, instead of white. The warhead is about 20 pounds, a little over a foot long, and five inches in diameter. The active guidance unit mounted on a piece of pipe allowed a pilot to lock on a target (sometimes an airliner) and practice the firing sequence without an actual launch. Thereby greatly reducing the danger to the occupants of the airliner.

As it was a very hot day, the blast door was open. It normally is not, but we weren’t working on live missiles on that day. Chen was standing just inside the door, out of the sun. I told my other two crew-members to follow my lead. I started hollering, grabbed a dummy warhead, ran toward the door, handed it to Chen, and we all ran out the door. Chen, still carrying the warhead, ran after us, also screaming. When we stopped running and started hysterically laughing, Chen continued running. It took a bit of time and effort to convey to him that it was a joke. I think if he hadn’t dropped his carbine at the onset, I would have needed a tetanus shot. I hope Chen had been issued a second uniform, because I am certain that he soiled that one.

He eventually forgave me or I returned to the Philippines before he figured out how to load the bullet into his rifle. Either way, I left Taiwan in one piece.

I know that those of you that have read both of my practical joke blogs think that I only pull pranks on Asians. That is not true. These are just the first two that came to mind. I assure you the next chapter will document Caucasional high-jinks.

Be Careful Who You Prank - 6/10/2011

2011-06-10T14:20:00.000-07:00

This blog is the first of several that I may or may not write concerning my penchant for practical jokes and pranks. First, a little backstory:

In 1983 I attended the Manpower Management School at Keesler AFB, Mississippi. After over ten years as a missile systems technician, I thought it might be advantageous to retrain into a carrier path that might make me more employable once I left the Air Force. Manpower Management is Air Force speak for Industrial Engineer. Obviously, I was mistaken about the applicability to civilian life, but that is another story.

Many of the Air Force schools are attended by foreign military members. Manpower is one of those. This is a story about one of those officers, and my inappropriate behavior towards him.

I arrived at Keesler on a Friday to start classes on Monday. Most of my classmates also arrived prior to the weekend. We were assigned rooms and immediately began the long military tradition of partying all weekend. One of our classmates was a Korean (South) Major named Ko. He was a very nice, quiet, little man, who had never been to the United States and was overwhelmed by the plenty we take for granted. He also enjoyed that during the months as an exchange officer, he received the pay of an American Major, many times that of which he was accustomed. We introduced him to the American custom (which I made up) that the ranking officer traditionally bought most of the beer. In reality, that NEVER happens. His English was very broken but as always, the more we drank, the better we communicated.

When the meet and greet ended, Major Ko and most of the students retired to their rooms and the rest of us to my room for a few more beers. I noted that Major Ko’s room was directly across the court from mine. An idea for a prank came to me, which seemed very funny at the time. I called several pizza delivery stores and had them deliver a pizza to Major Ko. Then, a few of my new comrades and I watched from my window. As each arrived, Major Ko answered the door, accepted the pizza, and paid the driver. There was never a discussion or attempt to refuse or dispute the order.

On Monday, as we arrived for the beginning of class, Major Ko came in toting several pizza boxes and set them down on the coffee bar. He said, “here are pizza for anyone who want them. It is too much pizza for Major Ko. I no order but they bring them to me. I don’t know what happened. I like Pizza but one is enough.” At that point I took up a collection from those that were involved and gave the money to Major Ko. I explained to him that it was a joke. I wasn’t sure if he fully understood, but he smiled and declined the money.

When class started, we all had to stand up and introduce ourselves to the class and give a little background as to why we were in there and what we did previously during our military service. When it was Major Ko’s turn, he stood up and introduced himself and said very seriously: “I am Major Ko. I am from South Korea and before I came here I, how do you say, administer death penalty.” (Looking directly at me and using a chopping motion towards his neck). Several of us immediately turned a bit pale. As he sat down, he leaned over to me and said quietly, “I funny too.” I laughed so hard I painfully shot whatever beverage I was drinking out my nose.

We became instant friends. Funny is universal.

The Exploding Toilet - 6/4/2011

2011-06-04T18:43:00.000-07:00

My daughter used to live in an apartment in Clemmons, North Carolina. I not only hated that residence, I was somewhat afraid of it. I think Anne Frank had a nicer place, even when it was full of Nazis. I know it was all she could afford as a single mom with a young son, but that didn’t make me at ease there during my visits. The management of the apartment complex never fixed anything. Light fixtures that occasionally caught on fire were troubling, but the worst thing for me was the exploding toilet. She actually had two bathrooms, but one of the toilets was permanently disabled as my grandson, Carson, then a toddler had flushed countless toys and clothing items. As a result, anything you attempted to flush was returned to you, immediately and emphatically.

The other toilet functioned, but using it was like a game of Russian roulette. You could use it several times without incident, but once you had been lulled into dropping your guard, it would attack. Sometimes it would work enough times consecutively that I would forget the inevitable flare-up. Then when I least expected it, woosh. I and the novel I was reading (yes I am one of those bathroom readers) would be soaked by ice cold and thankfully clean water. It would continue to shoot torrents of water until I had composed myself enough to reach down and shut off the valve behind the toilet. Every time it detonated, it took my breath away.
Not in a good way. Carly kept a supply of old towels and rags to sop up the couple of inches of water that each episode would flood the floor with. I often wondered if the apartment below received unexpected drippage when these incidents occurred.

I am not sure that it happened to me more often than anyone else because I exceed the recommended weight allowance for this particular model of toilet, or because the apartment hated me and chose to punish me in that manner. Anyway, Carly and Carson have since moved on and the apartment is probably occupied by some other family huddled together in humid darkness, afraid to illuminate or flush.

Facebook: You Can Run, But You Can't Hide - 5/28/2011

2011-05-28T06:02:00.000-07:00

Last week, through the miracle of Facebook, I was contacted by a woman that I once dated, but hadn’t spoken to in 17 years. I know what you are thinking: one of my sperm had matured and now needed a kidney and/or a college education. No, she contacted me because I had been on her mind for nearly two decades. Well, she hadn’t pined away too much; as she has been married for the last 10 years to the same guy she was dating when I met her. He must be a real catch if someone like me can hold her interest. I am not the kind of man who holds a woman’s attention through the checkout line at Costco.

When I was assured that she was not tracking me down to kill me, I relaxed and enjoyed the contact. It was not nearly as awkward as one would expect.

Lucky for her that there are only three people named Rick Wainright on Facebook, and one of them is my son. I did not have the same good fortune while searching for my old Air Force friend, John Smith. There are nearly 80,000 of them, but I remain optimistic.

I remembered this woman fondly, but she has detailed memories of our short time together that I had long forgotten. And it seems that she was somewhat distraught when I packed up and moved without telling her or even saying goodbye. I honestly had no idea that I meant more to her than a port in the storm. Though it gives me a warm feeling to have someone nearly 2,000 miles and a lifetime away remembering me, I am also very sorry that I ended up hurting her by my absence and thoughtlessness. I have chosen to live a solitary life, but occasionally take comfort in the company of others. I guess I never considered the possibility that others have also taken solace in my companionship.

I want to take this time to somewhat publicly apologize to any woman who found herself in the path of my willy-nilly journey to the abyss. And a word of advice to women: if you like a guy, you might mention it to him before he moves on to the next thing. We don’t tend to be too perceptive and our attention span is very short.

But I take a little satisfaction in thinking of her thinking of me as her husband is trying to give her a good rogering. I never liked the little shit anyway.

Home Moaners Association - 5/16/2011

2011-05-16T11:15:00.000-07:00

I lived the first fifty years of my life without hearing the words Homeowner’s Association (HOA). I had never owned a home. I have been a transient for my entire adult life. I followed twenty years in the air force with ten years of wandering aimlessly. My mind still wanders aimlessly, but I now do it from the privacy of my own home. When I decided that Myrtle Beach was the place I wanted to die, I bought a domicile. In 2003, when I purchased my condo, it was significantly cheaper to buy than to rent. I love where I live, right on the waterway, not far from the maddening crowds of tourists at the beach, but far enough.

The only aspect of condo life that I hate is the HOA. Those not familiar with this organization are very fortunate. The owners of our development, called Captain’s Harbour (we have no captains and no harbour), have formed a corporation. The stated purpose of this organization is to administer the operation and management of our condo. Ownership of my unit automatically makes me a member of the HOA, with all rights and “privileges.” We elect a board from within our ownership to provide this administration. Their conduct is governed by the Master Deed, which is a bit like the Bible, in that everyone interprets it to support their own agenda. The Master Deed consists of 25 legal sized pages of lawyer speak with at least that many pages of exhibits and attachments. I have a copy somewhere, but have never read it, nor will I ever.

In the eight years of my residence, we have survived several such boards, as each member serves a two year term. The board is very much like the legislative and executive branches of any government, in that they blame the previous board for everything that has gone wrong. It also resembles Congress in that it is primarily made up of old, angry, self-absorbed, retired, white men, who have nothing better to do. I have a theory about people that want to be on an HOA board. I think they are individuals that have never had a position of authority or responsibility in life and being on the board gives them a modicum of power. I have had enough responsibility in my life. I don’t seek any more, ever.

There are two separate factions within our fifty homeowners (imagine that). They have squabbled, libeled, slandered, vandalized, and sued each other for the entire eight years of my residency. There is also quite a bit of money involved, as our dues/assessments total nearly $15,000 per month. We have had corruption, payola, and just plain stupidity in the management of those funds. Again, like Congress. One board paid a contractor $65,000 IN ADVANCE to do a job. As you can imagine, that job was never done, nor did we recoup our funds.

I tried to run for the board once, on the Voice of Reason ticket, but immediately withdrew my name after witnessing a few minutes of the annual meeting. Meetings are conducted with the same respect, decorum, and order as British Parliament or the monkey house at the zoo. Both warring factions have tried unsuccessfully to recruit me into their ranks. As a result, I am hated by both sides. I am comfortable with that. As you can imagine, it is not a particularly friendly place to live. I am OK with that too. I have Skooter as my friend. What more could I need?

The next elections are scheduled at the annual brouhaha next month. I am sending in an absentee ballot. Though I wouldn’t mind watching the pandemonium, I don’t want to get hit by any divergent small arms fire or stray f-bombs.

How's My Driving? - 4/29/2011

2011-04-29T14:40:00.000-07:00

This week I had an appointment at the Charleston VA dermatology clinic. It was a follow-up to a skin cancer removal I had a while back and a check-up to see if I had any more of those little bastards growing on me. More about that later.

I take the Disabled Veteran’s Van from Myrtle Beach as it is free and with gas at nearly $4.00 a gallon, saves me a nice chunk of change on the nearly 200 mile round trip. The trade-off is that for a half hour appointment my entire day is shot. The van departs at 5:00 AM and returns after the last rider has been seen at the clinic. We generally get back by 4:00 PM, so even those of you that are mathematically challenged can imagine that it is a long day. But since my time is of no value it is totally worth it.

Another hazard of the trip is that there is always the possibility that one of my fellow riders will either crap their pants or die, or both. I wish I could say that those are rare occurrences. Sadly, for some of these passengers it is a one-way trip.

My strategy is always to show up early and claim the seat all the way to the rear. The van holds 10 passengers, but thankfully, is hardly ever full. Many of the veterans couldn’t physically climb back to the rear of the van if the front of the van was on fire, so I generally have it all to myself. I am usually among the youngest on the van by at least a war. I bring a pillow and my IPOD and lie down and try to breathe through my mouth, as a full Depends is not the only offensive odor that wafts back to me. Old has its own bouquet.

I avoid conversation at all costs. When I first started riding the van several years ago, I made the rookie mistake of engaging other riders in conversation, as I tend to be the gregarious type. I would get a two hour narrative of war stories that never happened from a guy who spent whatever war he took credit for winning while serving as an admin clerk in Sumter, South Carolina. I have learned from experience that guys that were actually in the shit do not talk about it very much. So I leave it to the other travelers to exchange fictional accounts of which the first liar doesn’t stand a chance. I settle in and put the world on ignore, trying my best to be invisible.

On this particular trip, it was impossible to disregard the hullabaloo that ensued. I noticed early on that the ride was a bit rougher than usual and we traveled on rumble strips more than one would expect. I had to brace myself to remain on the seat during what I could only describe as frequent defensive maneuvers. It wasn’t long before I heard voices shouting at decibels above the volume of AC/DC in my headphones. Since the van was still upright and traveling in somewhat of a straight line, I tried to ignore the din. If someone had died, was near death, or crapped their pants, I was unqualified and unwilling to lend assistance.

Finally, curiosity overcame comfort and I rose into a sitting position and removed Black Sabbath from my ears to find out what was going on. In short, (as this post is already too long and contains too little white space for anyone to read) some of the passengers had determined that our 75 year old, volunteer, driver was impaired. Evidently, having my eyes closed had spared me the horror of a series of close calls. To add to the poor guy’s impairment, a couple of other septuagenarians were verbally berating him, as if they were his wives. The diagnoses offered by his critics ran the gamut of any combination of night blindness, drunkenness, early stages of a stroke, and Alzheimer’s. Whatever the cause, when we stopped at the Georgetown Golden Arches for coffee and an outside of garment piss, one of the combatants called the police. I guess the plan was to breathalyze the driver and if he passed, to give him a series of psychological exams, to determine his ability to soldier on. Well, the police officer that responded spoke with the driver and determined he was coherent enough to continue. She made this assessment without requesting the driver to exit the vehicle, let alone demonstrate his acuity. So with people still caterwauling behind him, the driver got us into Charleston, though I will admit when we entered city traffic his control of the vehicle further deteriorated.

After a discussion with hospital security it was determined that we would be provided a different 75 year old driver for the return trip. We made it back without incident with the original driver riding shotgun.

The original intention of this blog was to tell about my dermatology experience, but I got off on a tangent, as I am prone to do. Anyway, some time ago I asked the dermatologist about the removal of a skin tag from my eyelid. It was an annoyance, but sadly, not the most physically repugnant thing about me. He examined my eye and said that we would have to schedule an appointment with an ophthalmologist as dermatology is understandably hesitant and unqualified to work directly on the eye.

This time I had a different dermatologist and while examining me he noticed the skin tag on my eyelid. He asked if I wanted it removed. I said that I would, expecting him to make the referral previously discussed. Instead, he pulls out what looks like a pair of dikes and proceeds to snip the tag off. He says, “we’ll try to do this without deadening it.” He starts snipping and it feels like he has put hot coals in my eye. Since it was obvious from the tears running down my face that it hurt like hell, he says that “we” will have to numb it a bit. I have already removed myself from the “we” of which he spoke. He pulls out a needle from who knows where and immediately begins sticking it into my eye. This hurt way worse than the side-cutters, plus the added terror of watching a needle being jabbed into my eye. Once it was comfortably numb (Pink Floyd reference) he cut out the skin tag without further discomfort. Then he said these very encouraging words, “it may grow back.” Well, guess what, doc? If it does, I will live with it. My concern is that one of these doctors was obviously wrong about the degree of danger and difficulty in cutting on my eyelid. When it comes to my eyes I want to err on the side of caution. I may have crapped my pants a little during the procedure.

Mensa - Doorway to Nothing - 4/11/2011

2011-04-11T19:02:00.000-07:00

It is not uncommon for an exchange with my friend, Bill Woolum, to inspire a blog. Bill is one of the handful of my Facebook contacts that is also a friend in real life. Last night our Facebook conversation began with a discussion of the Yankee/Red Sox game and ended with speculation as to which of our classmates, circa 1970, are Mensans. That may seem like a strange segue, but actually since both of us have severe attention deficit disorder, as well as other issues, it is a totally logical progression. Our exchanges often deteriorate into much more base topics (usually my doing).

I often wish that Bill and I lived closer so that we could have these conversations over beer, breakfast, or blancmange, but alas, we both love our particular coasts.
The Mensa dialog is what inspired this post. I am a member of Mensa and I expect Bill is a closet member. Speculating as to whom in my graduating class of Kellogg High School, Idaho, 1970, were possible Mensans proved to be an interesting activity.

Let me state at this time that I don’t believe my qualification for Mensa is any sort of accomplishment other than I am a really good test taker.

Mensans that I have come in contact with are generally weird and uninteresting, insufferable bores. (Except for Dave Powers and me) You will note that I have let my membership lapse. I have absolutely nothing in common with members of the organization. Contributors to their publications expend an inordinate amount of effort to try to impress each other with their knowledge. I write to publicly display my lack of enlightenment.

I believe that being smart is like being gay, it is not a choice. It is thrust on you and it is up to the individual what he does with it. My innate ability to process information has actually worked against me in my life. School was very easy and as a result I got bored and stopped paying attention in about grade six. Also, in the 1960s, in Kellogg, Idaho, tall, skinny, awkward, kids with big ears/noses that wore glasses and knew all the answers in class were not cool. I tried, unsuccessfully to be cool. I learned pretty much by osmosis, through no effort of my own. I can honestly say that I never read a textbook, other than an occasional chapter that interested me. As a result, I was, and continue to be a world class underachiever.

I graduated right in the middle of my 192 high school graduating class. That may not sound too bad unless you consider that the majority of those that finished below me would be considered special needs students in today’s society.

But, as is my modus operandi, I smoked the ACT/SATs, and went on to college, where I discovered lots of new distractions as barriers to success. I learned that class attendance was necessary to successful course completion. After one year, I was not invited back.

Getting back to the Mensa discussion, statistics would indicate that since Mensa membership is comprised of the top 2% of standardized test takers, my class should have included 3-4. I have no reason to believe that Kellogg High School produced genius above the national average. After all, we were all subjected to 18 years of heavy metal poisoning. I am thinking that would work against us.

Bill and I enjoyed speculating as to who the remaining 2 or 3 qualifiers were. It was an enjoyable exchange. I guessed the other Mensans from my class were Jim Etherton, Mike Jasberg, and Jeff Kenyon. Sorry Christy Blick, you can’t have beauty and brains. It wouldn't be fair. Bill did not disagree with any of those and added Brian Shiplett.

After our conversation ended, I thought that it is very possible that, like me, the other gifted students were also camouflaged, cloaked in mediocrity, and the high achievers from my class succeeded by sheer effort and ambition.

My life in three minutes - 2/15/2011

2011-02-15T10:54:00.000-08:00

A friend created this for me. Fifty-eight years in 3 minutes. You will have to pause my playlist for maximum enjoyment.

A Cosmic Event - 2/10/2011

2011-02-10T14:48:00.000-08:00

I haven’t made a blog post in quite some time. It is a combination of apathy and laziness that seems to define me as of late. I have not been inspired to produce more than an occasional smartass comment on my Facebook page. But I had an experience yesterday that is worthy of a mention.

I am not a philanthropist by any means. I do the occasional bit of charity, but it certainly doesn’t define my life. I get pleasure from donating food to my friend, Scott Mann’s annual Marathon for Meals and my daughter in-law Tia’s Polar Plunge. I adopt a child and a geezer from the angel trees every Christmas. I never deny a Shriner when they are risking life and limb at busy intersections. I donate my used crap to Habitat for Humanity and play in charity golf tournaments from time to time. All of these small efforts always give me a good feeling. I would probably do more if I had the means, but I am on the bottom end of the economic food chain.

All of the largesses mentioned above are anonymous. I never see the recipient, nor do they know who I am. I have always thought I would enjoy seeing the joy of a needy child opening a present that I purchased specifically for him/her, or the enjoyment of a family having a nutritional meal because of me. It is not that I want credit for my altruism. That is not it at all. It is that I would like to share in that joy, albeit invisibly.

I guess that is enough back-story. On to what happened yesterday. Those that know me know that I am not a religious person at all. I do not think that religion has any connection whatsoever to being a good person. But I do believe that everything in our lives happens for a reason. Call it what you like. I am going to call it a cosmic experience.

I was taking my purchases through the freak show that is Walmart, to a cashier. It was not a busy time so there weren’t a lot of checkout options. The first cashier I approached had just turned her light off and was heading for her end of shift bourbon. I was all the way on the pharmacy side of the store because I had purchased some Mucinex-D, with the hopes of being able to breathe in the near future. As those of you with chronic allergies know, anything with a freaking “D” in the name requires a complete background check for fear that a 24 count pack is the beginnings of a meth lab. I know from watching Breaking Bad, that it takes a whole bunch of “D” to turn a profit in the cooking of methamphetamine.

The next aisle was the cigarette aisle, where there is always a line because the customer and the cashier cannot agree on which of the 50 different types of Marlboro is optimum for their particular habit. The only other checkout stand lights were all the way down on the grocery store end. I hate going down there because there is always someone trying to pay for their groceries with a check drawn on the National Bank of Guatemala or trying to use a debit card without any money in the bank.
Here is where it gets cosmic. Shoppers with overflowing baskets seemed to just beat me to a lighted check-out stand. But there was one that nobody seemed to be going to, though there was only one customer in line. What I thought was my good fortune turned out to be much more than that. It was a young mother of three who was attempting to pay with an Electronic Benefits Transfer (EBT) card. It was obvious that the amount of credit left on the card was much less than the cost of the groceries in her basket. She was deciding which items were most important and leaving the rest in the cart. She was handing the items one at a time to a very testy cashier and watching the total to see what else she could purchase. One of the items that were left in the cart was a small, decorated, birthday cake, obviously for one of the children. There was nothing in the basket that was frivolous or unnecessary.

When she had exhausted her EBT grubstake, she began to sift through her wallet and found a few dollars. The cashier totaled up her EBT purchase and, with a heavy sigh, asked impatiently if there was anything else. The lady looked helplessly at the little bit of cash in her hand and longingly at the birthday cake, and shook her head.

Suddenly, I heard myself say to the cashier as I held up my overused MasterCard, “I will get the rest of that.” They both looked at me like I was out of my mind. I was in agreement with that conclusion, but could not stop myself. Restraint and self-control have never been my long suits. She tried to talk me out of it, but stubbornness IS my long suit. I started to help her hand the rest of the contents of the cart to the indifferent cashier. There was chicken, potatoes, stew meat, beans, corn, hamburger, hotdogs, hotdog buns, rice…………..and a birthday cake.

Both of us were crying as I ran my credit card (for different reasons). I had seen the total. I had the feeling this was the first break she had experienced in quite some time. I declined when she tried to force the bit of money into my hand. As she left with her family’s subsistence, she hugged me and called me an angel. My friends know that I am no angel, but for that brief moment, I knew how angels feel. It was the best day I have had in memory.

I did not make a conscious decision to act in this manner. Something came over me and took control. You can call it God if it makes you feel good. I will call it a cosmic event. Omnia causa fiunt. I am not writing this piece to seek praise or reflect myself in a positive light. “I am not that kind of angel.”

Merry Christmas My Ass 12/6/2010

2010-12-06T21:52:00.000-08:00

Today is December 6th. I was hoping to go much deeper into December before getting hit by my first “Merry Christmas” blitzkrieg. But I took one across the bow early this morning from the volunteer that serves coffee and pastries at the VA Hospital in Charleston. I can forgive her because some of the people that she serves today won’t be around at Christmas.

Throughout the day, I heard several other such greetings in the periphery but as they were not directed at me, the rules of engagement are that I did not have to respond or acknowledge. I find that the key is to keep moving in a serpentine manner and pretend to be otherwise engaged.

That strategy served me well until I made the tactical error of visiting Walmart. At the entrance was the dreaded Salvation Army Bell Ringer. I did not expect an encounter this early in the campaign and was not prepared. I tried unsuccessfully to avoid eye contact, much like with a rabid dog. I thought I had gotten safely out of range, but those people are trained to project their “Merry Christmas” greetings so that even with the cover of several other shoppers, I knew it was directed at me. I felt the laser sight of her eyes on my back. It was like a Scrooge seeking missile. Though I did not turn around, she knew that I knew that I was hit. She confirmed the kill by ringing that infernal bell.

As Skooter and I were entering the elevator at my residence, I could not get the door closed before one of my neighbors entered. Believe me; I tried as desperately as if Jason Voorhees was pursuing me. I knew from past Yule-tide attacks that she was a loose-cannon “Merry Christmasser,” who has been known to snipe as early as Black Friday. I was trapped in the elevator like a fart victim. She began the conversation with a benign weather comment. Skooter apparently did not receive my telepathic command to attack. It is my understanding that the business end of a 40 pound Beagle attached to one’s leg will temporarily curb Christmas spirit. But Skooter, selfish bastard that he is, failed me miserably, as he tried to charm her out of a treat. Eye contact was inevitable.

I had to exit first, so I considered a preemptive strike with either a “Have a Nice Day” or a i-jung chagi to her knees. Since she lives in the same building, and I see her nearly daily, perhaps she would realize how ridiculous it was to “Merry Christmas” me with 18 shopping days left. But she not only “Merry Christmassed” me, but there was collateral damage: “You and Skooter have a wonderful Christmas.” Oh no she didn't. Though traumatized, I managed to drag Skooter to the safety of our home. If I can teach Skooter to use the toilet, I may not venture out again until 2011.

An "Odd Job" Market - 10/24/2010

2010-10-23T23:07:00.001-07:00

It has become increasingly evident that I need to go back to work, at least for a couple of years. There is going to be a gap between the end of my liquid assets and the time when I can collect my 401Ks and Social Security (if there will still be such a thing). My military retirement will sustain me, but not at any quality of life that I desire. It is not really a gap as much as a chasm, possibly an abyss.

At the time when most young men were starting their life’s work, I was beginning a twenty year hitch in the military. At the time when most 40 year-olds were entering their peak earning years, I was retiring. I have piddled around, taking employment doing various things, for the past nearly 20 years, quitting each when I began to get bored, which was often on my first day on the job, and finding something else the next day, equally as unfulfilling. I am at a disadvantage as I have never really been involved in a job search. Since I was a young boy, jobs have always found me. But in the current job market, employment is not seeking me out.

I guess I am kind of hard to place. I know a little bit about everything and a lot about nothing in particular. That makes me a decent conversationalist, a great Trivial Pursuit player, and a decent Jeopardy contestant, but unfortunately not a sought after employee. The fact that I can do a crossword puzzle with an ink pen is not a skill that necessarily looks good on a resume. In spite of my lack of specialization, I have always seemed to be successful in most jobs that I valued enough to apply myself to. But everything I have ever done has been a job and just a job. I have never felt like I was doing anything satisfying or fulfilling. I read about people who love their work and can’t wait to get started every day. I greatly envy them.

I am most suited to do office work. I can type like a sonofabich and due to my obsessive compulsive disorder; have almost a maniacal ability to organize. I love the concept of a place for everything and everything in its place. I am a great filer of shit. My attention deficit disorder causes me to multitask even when it is not appropriate to. I am great on the phone if I remember to hold it up to my good ear. Unfortunately, my post-military job experience is mostly in sales and marketing, which I freaking hate. So I have had to create a resume that is a work of fiction that James Patterson would be proud of. I can accomplish all the tasks listed at a high level, I just haven’t yet.

With that in mind, I made the rookie mistake of putting my faux resume online. I was under the mistaken impression that Monster.com and CareerBuilder.com were legitimate sources of employment. I receive almost daily contact from companies offering job and investment “opportunities,” but no real employment. Many of these faux (I love that word) jobs are disguised as real jobs.

There is no end to insurance companies I have never heard of, multi-level marketing schemes, and “can’t miss” franchise opportunities. They all seem to have an opening in “my area” and “after reviewing my resume,” think I would be a perfect candidate. I should earn a minimum of $5,000 a month working part-time from my home or $150,000 a year as a commissioned sales rep. Of course, since none of these companies actually hire anyone or pay a salary, there is no limit to the number of commissioned sales persons they can have on staff.

I generally respond to all of these “opportunities” in a very negative way. Sometimes by email but if they leave a number I call and speak to them directly. It is kind of a fun way to spend my idle time, berating someone, and challenging them to tell me where “my area” is or which particular qualifications on my resume led them to contact me?

My idea of employment at this stage of my life is linear: In that I work “X” hours per week at “Y” hourly rate to equal my weekly pay “Z.” (X x Y = Z) - a ton of withholding. I have yet to find a position like that where “Y” is more than $8.00 an hour (which I will work for if it includes unlimited free golf).

I recently went to an interview (not from an internet job site). It was for a receptionist position, which sounded perfect for me. When I arrived at the office, I was given an employment application and directed to go into a conference room to fill it out. In the conference room were about 15 other applicants, all of whom looked like wait staff of a local Hooters. Knowing there was no chance in hell of me getting the job, I decided to have some fun with the application. I listed myself as a 75 year-old black, former astronaut, CIA operative, mafia hit-man, who graduated from Tuskegee Institute in 1960. My special certifications/skills were that I could flatulate on command and could drive a combine.

When I was called in for the interview, I was sure that the guy interviewing me would laugh at my application and excuse me. He did not. He appeared to be looking it over carefully, though obviously not paying a bit of attention to it. He actually asked me questions and made notations on the application. He then said that everything looked fine and he would be making his selection the next day. He would call me if I was chosen and, if not, he would “keep it on file for six months.” I am sure he had already selected a hot 20 year old and was going through the motions.

I could be unemployed for a very long time.

It's Not Rocket Science - 10/15/2010

2010-10-15T19:16:00.000-07:00

Songs will be sung around the campfire by my descendants about my lack of practical skills. The only quality more legendary is my total lack of patience. Both of you who have read previous blogs will recall the cassette deck event and the carburetor rebuild debacle, among others.

I am certain sleep would not have come easily had you known that I was once entrusted by the United States Air Force to prepare missiles for flight and nuclear weapons in a ready state. I don’t know if I used to be more competent, but I doubt it.

Knowing what I know about myself you would think that I would no longer embark on tasks requiring any adroitness, dexterity or aplomb. You would be wrong.

I sleep on a Sleep Science Memory Foam mattress, which is the absolute best sleep system I have ever stretched out on. I know you have seen the advertisements where one person is jumping up and down on one side while their “partner” is defusing a bomb on the opposite side. From the first time I laid down on it, I knew I would never own anything else. I love this product so much I could do a commercial for it, but I am sure the image of a fat bastard like me wallowing around would send sales plummeting.

The mattress comes with a: “Luxurious Soft, removable and washable, Jacquard cover”. This is a totally truthful declaration. It was this statement that encouraged me to venture beyond my skill set. I examined the tag and it instructed me that it was machine washable in cold water and could be dried using the air fluff setting (no heat). I understood the purpose of this care was to prevent shrinking. I am not a complete dullard.

There is zipper all the way around the mattress for easy “removal.”

DAY 1

I removed the mattress cover and as there were a couple of small stains of unknown origin, I applied Spray and Wash and washed as instructed. As the cover is quite plush and “luxurious” as previously stated, I was expecting that it would take some time to dry using the air fluff setting. I was not prepared for how long it actually took to dry. I slept on the couch like a married man that had erred.

DAY 2

I am not certain if I was awoken by the pain in my arthritic knee from curling up to allow Skooter his three quarter share of the couch or the distress neck was experiencing from my head being elevated far beyond my normal position. Once I could get myself into a standing position I went to check the dryer as I had put it on an 80 minute cycle prior to retiring. Still wet. Though I was tempted to add some heat to the process, I kept my cool (so to speak). Eventually, the cover, though still damp, was dry enough to reinstall. My plan was to run the ceiling fan on high after I ensconced the mattress, to complete the drying. It made sense to me.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the degree of difficulty I would experience trying to refit the mattress into the cover. The mattress is 10 inches thick and the stability that it is famous for is because the foam is compressed into a solid, very heavy, mass. It is nearly impossible for one person to maneuver it sufficiently to plant it back into the cover. This is a fact that I suspected when removing the cover but had reached the point of no return before I fully realized it.

I wrestled it until I was totally exhausted, turned on the ceiling fan, cooked dinner, and retired to the couch.

DAY 3

I awoke is more agony than the previous morning due to the added structural damage I received from mattress wrangling. Sometime during the night Skooter moved to his bed (which he seldom sleeps in). I am not sure if he moved voluntarily or was kicked off the couch by my jimmy leg.

The cover was now dry but my bedroom was now about 50 degrees from the cool night aided by the high speed fan. I pulled out the owner’s manual for the sleep system and there was really no new information to help me. I now had the cover positioned pretty well but not well enough for it to zip. I was afraid to force it as I did not want to risk tearing it or stripping the zipper.

In the manual I found a number for tech support. I thought, “what the heck?” The fact that a mattress required tech support should have told me I was in over my head. But I dialed the number and as you might suspect I got somebody in India and when I told him my situation I think he put me on speaker phone so all the other outsourcers could enjoy my distress. As you can imagine, he was no help at all, and the consensus from the Mumbai office was that nobody every removes the cover. He did indicate that the successful re-installation of a cover that he had heard of but had not been verified was done by a team and not a single person.

The next couple of hours were pretty intense. Skooter begged to go out on the balcony as I am sure he thought I was going to have a stroke. I managed to get the bag on the mattress and zipped, but I am not sure that the memory foam has any recollection of how things used to be. The cover is not perfect, but we live in an imperfect world. Once I got the fitted sheet on you could hardly see the lumps. Job well done. I am putting this one in the win column.

Homophobe or just straight? - 10/12/2010

2010-10-12T07:06:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, some moron called me a homophobe. So today, I have decided to create a post designed to separate the men from the boys, so to speak. I am going to explore gayness. Well, that was a bad choice of words. I am going to discuss male homosexuality. I do not claim to be an authority on this subject as everything I know about the gay lifestyle I learned by watching “Will and Grace,” American Idol, and The Winter Olympics.

The observations I make here are my own opinions and if you disagree, I don’t really care. The first comment I feel inclined to make is that I don’t think being gay is a choice. I think life is hard enough without choosing to complicate it in such a manner. I have seen elementary aged children that I took one look at and my GAYDAR went full scale. You have too. I have observed a man walking into a room and PING. They did not practice walking that way or talking that way.

I have nothing against gay people. I think that homophobic people are those that are not certain of their own sexuality. And those that try to quote some ridiculous Bible references are grabbing at straws. Those same verses condemn masturbation and eating shellfish. I will see you all in hell. That being said, I don’t think it is necessary to flaunt gayness by parading down 42nd Street, making out in Speedos. That would not be appropriate for heteros either, but I would be more likely to tune in. I believe everyone should be proud of who they are, but they don’t have to make everything into a broadway show.

Gay marriage is a huge political football. Though I think this issue is based more on economics than on love and marriage. Having paid my taxes as a single person for many years, I can understand the motivation for wanting to be able to file jointly. I have never understood why single people should bear more of the tax burden than those that can’t control their procreation. I am penalized for keeping my DNA to myself. I have considered marrying a woman I don't even like just so I can file a joint return. Families use more of the services of our infrastructure and should pay more taxes. But that is another blog.

I say, let them marry. Why should they be exempt from the “joys” of marriage? I can assure you that they would soon change the name of their lifestyle to something other than gay. Relationships are easy until you have a mortgage and a home to jointly keep up. You see how I used joint there?

As to whether gays should be allowed to teach our children, I don’t see why not. For some reason, it is vastly believed by the heterosexual community that all gay people just get in a big pile and randomly fornicate. I think that gay relationships are similar to straight associations, except the sexual roles are less strictly defined. I don’t know for sure if there are designated pitchers and catchers or if there are utility players. Excuse that baseball metaphor, as every event in my life can be summed up in either a sports or a Seinfeld allegory. I don't think one's sexual orientation affects their ability to try to teach Algebra to a class of dunderheads.

The big issue now is the military policy of "don't ask, don't tell." I served 20 years and worked with several outwardly gay people. I never noticed that it affected their job performance. I was under the impression that in the Navy they had been asking and telling forever. I will tell you this: if a person wants to serve my country, and possibly die for it, I do not care if their sexual preference is farm animals.

The gay people that I have known (not in the Biblical sense) have by and large been good people. There was a time when our local Ruby Tuesday’s wait staff was composed primarily of outwardly gay men, who only used their closet to store their wardrobe and countless pairs of shoes. Service was never better. I bought my BMW from an outwardly gay man and it was his gayness that sealed the deal. I am a disciple of the stereotype that gays take good care of their apparatus (sometimes I kill myself). I was correct. He had 10 years of service records, chronologically filed in a folder. This may not have been due to his gayness as much as his OCD.

As far as I know, none of my children are gay. The don’t ask, don’t tell, policy has always worked for us. But if they had been, it would not have changed the way I care for them, treat them, or love them. Yeah, I do prefer that they are not gay. So sue me. I am also glad they are not outlaw bikers, covered in tattoos and piercings, or are crack heads. I am sorry if I have now offended my crack head readers. I hate to be labeled as a crackaphobe too.

I love comedy. I LOL and sometimes LMFAO at jokes about gays, old people, handicapped people, rednecks, blacks, Mexicans, jewish people, lawyers, democrats, and particularly Arabs. To me, nothing and no one are taboo. So if my humor offends anyone’s delicate sensibility, I don’t really give a damn. "I'm here, I'm severe, get used to it." Please refer to the title of this blog before commenting.

I do want to thank the misguided soul that called me a homophobe for curing my writer's block and inspiring a blog post. It had been a while.

A life well-lived. 9/22/2010

2010-09-22T07:54:00.000-07:00

I am sitting at my computer listening to Pandora.com accompanied by Skooter alternately snoring and passing gas. The only difference between us is the snoring.

In the past 24 hours I have I started and discarded half a dozen writings, not really committing to any of them. As this blank Microsoft Word page stares back at me while I wait for the combination of an energy drink and Vicodin to inspire me, I realized what I must write about today.

I just passed my fifty-eighth birthday with as little fanfare as the previous fifty-seven. It is depressing to do the math as to how many more of these events I can expect. I am not sure why I should be so inclined as I have wasted so much of my life doing nothing of consequence. I sometimes believe it is a curse being blessed with innate intelligence that has not translated into success, through my own lack of ambition and imagination. Don’t worry, in spite of my self-loathing, that is not what I am writing about. At least not today.

I am going to use this page to celebrate; who I think is one of the most amazing people who has ever blessed this cruel and beautiful planet. You have heard of this person, but unless you are a fan, as I am, you probably don’t know his whole story. I am sure I am leaving some things out, but I will give you enough information to make you say “wow.” Any of these accomplishments would fill a life for many:

World Class Athlete: Appeared in Sports Illustrated's "Faces In The Crowd" for his achievements in collegiate rugby union, football, boxing, and track and field.

Phi Beta Kappa, graduating BA, summa cum laude in Literature.

Rhodes Scholarship to the University of Oxford, Bachelor of Philosophy in English Literature.

Army Officer, Helicopter Pilot, Ranger.

Offered and declined the position as a professor of English Literature at West Point.

Grammy Award Winning Singer/Songwriter – wrote some of the most beloved songs of all time.

Golden Globe nominated actor. Appearing in nearly 100 films.

Posed for Playgirl magazine.

In addition to these accomplishments, he somehow found the time to drink a bottle and a half of Jack Daniels daily until he quit in 1976 (no easy feat on either account), date Janis Joplin, Barbara Streisand, Carly Simon, marry 3 times, and father 8 children (no whiskey dick there) .

At this point, the more astute of you know that I am talking about Kris Kristofferson. He is now 74 years old and has led a full life for several men.

You would assume that discussing this amazing person would inspire me to action and get my own life re-energized. You would think that. Nope, I am going to join Skooter for a nap. Kris made me very tired.

Through the Eyes of an Artist - 9/4/2010

2010-09-04T12:33:00.000-07:00

This afternoon while Skooter was walking me, I saw a lady snapping photos in my neighborhood. A short discussion revealed that she was from the Midwest and this was her first visit to the south. She said she found the scenery breathtaking. Being a Seinfeld fan, I know that “breathtaking” can be interpreted many ways (Lobster episode). She told me that she was an artist and planned to use the photos she was taking as subjects for a series she planned on painting, called “Southern Exposures”. She caused me, for the first time, to actually look at where I live. When she had gone, I snapped a few photos with my crappy cell phone camera. I was motivated, but still too lazy to go in a get my camera.

I have always appreciated living on the water, but have never paid much attention to that which I see every day, but don't really look at.

All of these were taken within a couple of hundred yards of where I sleep, grill, and sit at the computer.

She was looking through the eyes of an artist. I don’t look at the world through the eyes of an artist, primarily because I have no artist skills. I peaked as an artist when I made a turkey from the outline of my hand in Kindergarten. But today, this chance encounter encouraged me to focus on the scenic splendor that surrounds me every day, but I take for granted.

Reflecting (as I always do) on this revelation, I realized that I should apply this same concept to my own life. I am mostly disappointed in my “little” life. I let days, months, years pass without appreciating the simple joys that I experience. They go relatively unnoticed. As this woman taught me, “every photo doesn’t have to be the Grand Canyon,” I suppose every hit doesn’t have to be a home run. Sometimes you win by dribbling one through the infield. As a person who has not hit many out of the park, maybe I should be happy just getting to first base once in a while. I am guessing this metaphor will be lost on both my readers, but it sounded good when it was inside my head.

Will this lesson stay with me? Probably not. It may just be the combination of an energy drink and OxyContin that has provided me with this clarity. Perhaps there was no woman there at all. There usually isn’t.

Even my dumpster is surrounded by beauty.

Delusional - 8/17/2010

2010-08-17T19:07:00.000-07:00

I have watched American Idol fairly faithfully since its debut. Well, up until this past season when it seems America ran out of talent in the under 30 demographic. The only person I saw that even remotely impressed me was a strange and exotic looking girl who was eliminated fairly early, Siobhan Magnus. The contestant that got all the attention was Crystal Bowersox, a very unmarketable, one-dimensional singer, and her name was about the only thing interesting about her. I liked her until I realized that every song she sung was going to sound the same. I couldn’t even tell you who won; it was such a boring season. I think Simon realized that when he bailed, thus for all practical purposes, ended the show’s run at the top of the ratings heap.

Realizing that it is primarily 12-year old girls and middle-aged women that actually call in their votes, I have never been too concerned about who wins. Often the winners end up performing at shopping malls (that gray-haired guy that’s name no one can recall) and also-rans end up with fame and fortune (Daughtry). I am also very skeptical that actual votes are tallied and results are not just determined by the producers. Surprisingly, there is no independent third party validation to assure legitimacy. I am not a conspiracy theory guy, but they do seem to end up with at least one major surprise towards the end of each season.

But I don’t want to discuss that aspect of the show. During the first few weeks of every season, they air the auditions, where thousands of hopefuls are gathered in a handful of cities across the country. These episodes tend to be freak shows and train wrecks that I cannot look away from. Many of the contestants know they are just there for the fun of it, national exposure, and to see just how obnoxious they can be. They realize they have no talent and as much chance of being the next American Idol as Rush Limbaugh keynoting the Democratic National Convention.

What I wish to discuss here are those poor souls that believe they are talented but are every bit as bad as those trying to be bad. They are totally delusional and heartbreak and tears result when they are told by the Simon Cowell that "If you sung like this 2,000 years ago, people would've stoned you." These young people are devastated by the rejection. My thoughts are always, “don’t they have parents and friends that love them enough to tell them the truth?” I don’t believe in dashing kid’s dreams, but at some point reality has to set in and somebody who loves them has to say, "you sounded like you were being strangled," before Simon does it in front of 30 million viewers (not verified). I was blessed with three very talented kids, but if one of them would have said, "Dad, I think I am going to go on "So You Think You Can Dance," I would have very tactfully produced a video of them dancing and squashed that notion immediately. A parent knows. I always thought that maybe some of these sad-sacks were actors that were paid to add that element to the show.

That was until my return trip from Spokane last Tuesday when I met one of these psychoneurotic youth. This is his story:

He told me his name, but I forgot it immediately, as I do most everything people tell me that I have no interest in. But almost everything else he informed me about was worth my time and attention, if only for entertainment value. He was traveling to Austin, Texas from Spokane to audition for American Idol. While that was not a shocking thing, as thousands of other hopefuls were simultaneously converging on that Texas City. What caught my attention was how certain he was that he would not only continue on to Los Angeles as a finalist, but would eventually win the title. The audition process was merely a formality. He was 17, a rising senior in high school, and traveling alone for the first time in his life. He was obviously very anxious about flying and stuck to me in the gate area like failure adheres to the LA Clippers. I was relieved to find that our seat assignments were half a plane apart.

However, plane was delayed just long enough for him to relate much more of his story to me.

(Side note: The plane left a half-hour late but arrived in Denver on time. How does that happen? Do they lie about how long it takes to give them some leeway? Why don’t they fly that fast all the time?)

I knew immediatly that he was blogworthy.

He had already secured a four year “free ride” to the University of Texas to play baseball, football, and basketball. The greatest athlete in my lifetime was Bo Jackson and he only played two sports.

So you might imagine this kid as 6’6” 250 pounds of solid muscle. Well, I estimated him at 5’8” 180 pounds, with the muscle tone of Marilyn Manson. I am 57 years old and barely ambulatory and I guarantee that I could push him around a football field like one of those inflatable Santas in my neighbor’s yard every Christmas. He would look more at home at a Magic the Gathering tournament than any athletic field. When I inquired as to why he was wearing a Texas A&M jersey (rival of UT), he said, “they wanted me too, but I chose Texas because I am majoring in Culinary Arts and Crime Scene Investigation.“ Who could argue with that logic? Everyone knows that the University of Texas has the best culinary arts/crime scene investigation program in the country.

Still wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt, I inquired as to his position on the Central Valley High School football squad. His reply was, “anywhere they need me.” Those of you that know my lack of ability to hold myself in check would have been very proud of my restraint. Though it raced to my tongue, I made no mention of Bobby Boucher. For those of you that are not football savvy, I can assure you that the University of Texas, one of the top football schools in the nation, does not give scholarships to a utility player unless he has mad size and skills that can be utilized throughout the program. His reply to a similar question about baseball was much the same, “catcher, pitcher, outfield, sometimes third base.“ Again, major colleges generally like their recruits to have a position. I am pretty sure that his position is “left out.”

Though I am not Dr. Paul Ekman, I have a pretty good feel for when someone is lying to me (except for women). I am certain that this young man believed everything he said. He could have passed a polygraph with flying colors. There was a certainty in his eyes that made me sad for him. I liked this kid. but will not be surprised if one day he is on a clock tower with a sniper rifle.

Before we parted, I asked if I could take his picture in case he won Idol and was famous. He said, “Sure, in fact a lot of people have already asked me for my autograph for when I win.” I did not listen to him sing, but I think he is very fortunate that Simon is no longer on the panel.

My God's Better Than Your God - 7/28/2010

2010-07-27T21:30:00.000-07:00

My daily walk on the beach not only improves my health but my clarity as well. I get daily ideas for blogs, songs, and smartass Facebook posts. Unfortunately, since I have the memory of the east wing of a nursing home, much of this genius is lost before I can get home and write it down. But this morning was different. I had an epiphany.

I have an idea that will immediately improve the world more significantly than any innovation since fire. I am surely to win the 2011 Nobel Peace Prize. I am so sure of this that I am contacting JG Wentworth for an advance against the cash award. My idea:

Gather all documents, scripture, writings, and doctrine from every known religion: Christianity (including Mormonism, Protestants, Snake handlers, and Catholics), Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Sikhism, Judaism, Shinto, Rastafarianism, Scientology, Atheist, Satanism, and whatever others exist.

Edit these texts to find the following words: know, truth, factual, judgmental, infidel, certainty, right, sanctimonious, absolute, sure, real, exact, fact, true, certain, undeniable, veracious, genuine, hate, intolerance, virtuous, superior, faultless, infallible, irrefutable, perfect, unquestionable, supercilious, greater, higher, prophet, superiority, occupation, reality, arrogant, bigotry, fanaticism, holier than thou, self-righteous, pious, Holy War, narrow-mindedness, presumptuous, convert, judgment, kill, righteous……………….

and replace them with: believe, faith, hope, guess, speculate, fantasy, delusion, suppose, myth, conjecture, wish, peace, tolerance, clueless, confused, bewildered, superstition, mystified, opinion, fabrication, stumped, fable, puzzled, coexist, lore, cooperate, open-mindedness, fairness, unknown, benevolence, legend, compassion, indulgence, patience, understanding, leniency, rational, WAG, story, acceptance, assumption, hypothesis, theory, thesis, temperance, pidooma, sensibility…………………….

Without a doubt someone will read this post and nod their head in agreement, thinking it is true for all beliefs except theirs.

My Dog Can Smell Your Soul - 7/26/2010

2010-07-26T11:03:00.000-07:00

My baker’s dozen of regular readers know that my boon companion is my Beagle, Skooter. Those that know Beagles realize they have an amazing sense of smell. They are often used for drug, cadaver, or bomb dogs. Skooter has a special ability.

I wish I was as good of a judge of character as this canine. He has divided all humans into three categories immediately upon meeting them and deals with them thusly:

1) If he likes them he can be very charming, sidling up to them and offering himself to be petted, stroked, or otherwise attended to. He will repay these kind gestures with a loving look from his big, sad, brown eyes. He may nuzzle them or even offer a lick, though his is not generally a licker. Chances are he may just stand by them and relax.

2) Some people he will totally ignore and even change course to avoid contact with them. He has sensed that they are not deserving of his favor but has not yet made a full determination. Through time, they can actually earn their way into the first group. They are on super secret probation and only Skooter knows why.

3) The third group of people has been instantly entered into Skooter’s shit list. His hackles will rise. He will snarl and bark at them and no amount of coaxing will change his mind. If he was looking at the devil himself, the reaction would be no different. If they had a pocket full of treats he would not alter his perception.

You may say that Skooter is exhibiting prejudice and bigotry, making an instant, baseless, judgment on the worth of a person. I think that Skooter’s position is that there are enough good people in the world for him to waste time on the bad. Not a bad policy in my opinion.

I can only speak for myself, but sometimes I am so eager to be petted, stroked, or otherwise attended to that I have often not been as selective as would be prudent as to whom I offer my back to. Historically, I have often been metaphorically stabbed in that back. Sometimes just a flesh wound and other times a near fatality, cutting into major organs. Usually the attack comes after I have squandered time, emotion, and resources on this schlemiel or schlemielette.

Skooters method of sorting humanity has served him well. He has never, to my knowledge, had a less than satisfying association with humans of his choice, while in my custody.

He does not choose by race, sexual preference, gender, economic status, or national origin. I believe he can smell their soul. Two people can approach him and he will select one (or none) to give his brand of affection to. Once they are accepted, they are members of Skooter’s inner circle for life. And I have to be honest. Those that he has embraced have proven to be worthy. Right Mike?

Skooter does have a trace of bigotry however. He pretty much dislikes all children. They are only eligible for categories 2 and 3. They tend to get in his face before he has had the opportunity to evaluate them, thereby forfeiting their opportunity. Oh yeah, and if you try to reach into our car, uninvited, all bets are off. He has to appraise you on his terms.

My Friend Steve Is Gonna Write a Blog

2010-07-19T08:28:00.000-07:00

A young friend of mine told me last night that I inspired him to write a blog. I am not sure if I am gratified or dismayed. Is he encouraged because my words struck a chord with him or because he feels that “if anyone reads Rick’s pointless drivel, they will love my writing?” The same way that Wally Pipp inspired Lou Gehrig. Nobody is going to get that obscure reference. How about the way in which K-Mart inspired Wal-Mart?

I suppose it doesn’t matter how creativity is stimulated, just that it is. This particular person is only 17 years old and is very talented in many directions. He is a singer-songwriter, who has written a butt load of songs. He is a computer whiz that can hack into your website and change your “Church of God” to “Church’s Fried Chicken” in minutes. And unless your name is Jack White or John Frusciante, he can play the guitar better than you.

I am not, generally, a big fan of 17-year olds. Particularly pasty white, suburban, kids that assay to be black, and can’t quite pull it off. While many 17-year olds express their originality with a spray can and your wall, Steve channels his into music. While many 17-year olds can’t form a coherent thought, let alone a complete sentence, Steve is contemplating writing a blog. I applaud his efforts, regardless of his motives. I am humbled that he even takes the time to talk to an old geezer like me, let alone find value in my words.

My Youtube Videos

2010-06-11T09:48:00.000-07:00

My Youtube Video Library

A Love I Could Kill For - Original Song - 6/10/2010

2010-06-10T21:31:00.000-07:00

Steve Pethel performs an original song that I co-wrote with him.

My Love Affair With Tattoos - 5/24/2010

2010-05-24T08:00:00.000-07:00

There are some groups of people that my writing has not yet offended. Don't worry, I will get around to you.

For my generation, tattoos were something that a drunken sailor on shore leave in the Philippines woke up with the morning after a weekend of binge drinking and whoring. Sometimes the tattoo would include the name of a woman that he had no recollection of knowing and the only evidence is the tattoo and painful urination. A really industrious Olongapo City bar girl could have her name adorning several sailors while the fleet was in port. Luckily the treatment for the gonorrhea she gave him would also cure the infection from the back alley tattoo. As this guy has aged, the ravages of time have rendered the woman’s name no longer legible, and the tattoo just looks like dirt on his arm. Though he had spent much of his life back home in Des Moines, unsuccessfully, trying to find another girl named Fatima to marry.

In today’s world, much to my dismay, tattoos are en vogue. Up until 2004, it was against the law in South Carolina to ink people. Now, one of the seedier areas of Myrtle Beach is lousy with tattoo and piercing parlors. I do not think that it should be illegal to tattoo, but I think a five day cooling off period, similar to that for buying a handgun, would be appropriate. While tattoos are a booming business here at the beach, tattoo removal is also very lucrative. I am conjecturing that buyer’s remorse for tattoo acquisition rivals that of owners of really ugly cars. And if you are intent on getting a tattoo, put some thought into it. Many of the tattoos I see around town look like the refrigerator art from my preschool grandchildren.

This article is not directed at men. I have no real opinion about male tattooing, though I am very happy that neither of my sons has ever succumbed to the urge to defile himself in this manner. I am addressing tattoos on women. Not the woman who has a delicate, little, butterfly or flower adorning her goody box. I am talking about real tattoos that sag and fade with age, and become unidentifiable blotches. Tattoos that detract from the natural beauty of a woman.

I walk the beach every day and part of the enjoyment, particularly now that the sun has made its appearance, is admiring the women on the beach. The truly beautiful, head-turning, spectacular women of all ages generally have one feature in common: few, if any, visible tattoos. I am guessing they don’t want to tarnish perfection. And rightly so.

Conversely, toothless, shapeless, hags that look like they either fell off the back of a Harley or the porch of a trailer house are often covered head to foot. Is it a lack of self-esteem that drives women to this extreme? For these women I encourage, “drill baby drill”. I have heard it said that many people get tattoos to be free, rebellious, and independent. That is the same rallying cry I hear from bikers, yet they all end up dressing and looking exactly alike. Nothing independent there. The day is coming soon when my lack of tattoos will be viewed as avant-garde.

Along with the tattoos, it has become fashionable to have intimate body parts pierced and adorned with jewelry. Though I do find a belly button ring on a woman weighing less than three bills kind of sexy, I think there are certain areas that need to be left au naturel. One of the least understandable to me is the tongue. Merely biting one’s tongue is such a painful experience that I can’t imagine intentionally causing trauma by drilling a hole and talking with a lisp for the rest of your life. I have heard reasons for doing so are mainly sexual. I can’t Grok that. I have never thought while receiving oral sex, “wow, this is pretty good, but you know what would make it even better is a sharp piece of steel or a gemstone rubbing against me.”

I know that many people who read this have tattoos and think they are an art form. That is the great thing about America. We are all entitled to our opinions. After all, 80% of the U.S. prison population has tattoos. I am guessing that same percentage holds true for crack whores and welfare moms. If you look at middle management and above in any of the Fortune 500 companies, you will be hard pressed to find any managers that have tattoos, hidden or otherwise. If they are so attractive and stylish, why do you suppose they airbrush them out in nearly every movie role Angelina Jolie has ever had?

Twilight New Moon or "Dude, Where's My Heroine." 5/16/2010

2010-05-15T22:18:00.000-07:00

I have Netflix now so I watch a lot of movies that I would normally probably pass on. Even though I am not a big fan of the vampire genre, I decided to give the Twilight franchise a look. I had seen the first one with my daughter some time ago but nodded off quite a bit so I revisited it. I found it to be watchable. I particularly enjoyed the vampire baseball game and I thought the film contained a great, but hackneyed line: “I don't have the strength to stay away from you anymore.” It was a great line to me as it pretty much summed up a vampire/human relationship.

I have not read any of the books, nor will I. So my opinions are totally from the film adaptation. Those that jump to the defense of the story will not convince me of its merit.

My biggest problem with the franchise in general is that there is no one to root for. I like a strong protagonist in my films. My favorite character is Edward’s cute and crazy sister, Alice, played by the beautiful Ashley Greene. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have a large enough part to keep me interested. The main character, Bella, has absolutely no personality and even less judgment. She is eager to give up her soul to hang out with Edward, who is no great shakes. But she will glom onto any monster that gives her the time of day. If a zombie or a Sasquatch shows up, Edward and Jake are history. She does not have enough charisma to be as surly and moody as she is. In the short term, I can endure lack of character from a truly beautiful woman, but she is not attractive enough to be that lacking. That is why I quit going to the Dog Park. Too many totally unappealing but caustic women lurking about.

Bella’s dad is the local law and he makes Barney Fife look like Sherlock Holmes. It is hard to determine if he is a worse father or peace officer. He takes for granted that people are being murdered in the woods on a daily basis and makes little or no effort to investigate nor does he make any attempt to prevent people from venturing into those woods, not even his daughter. Chief Martin Brody wanted to close the beach after a single shark attack.

Chief Swan also allowed Bella to stay in a vegetative state for months, after she was dumped by Edward, without any intervention other than checking on her when she continually screamed with night terrors. Also, for a police chief, he seemed to take no notice of the many permanent scarring injuries that his daughter continually sustained. Disappearing to Italy for 3 days didn't even get her grounded.

The guy who plays Edward is the goofiest looking lead character in a movie since ET. His head looks like it was drawn by Picasso and his standard facial expression is the same one Skooter features when he is having a particularly difficult bowel movement or Corky Thatcher trying to solve for Pi. And it doesn’t seem to hurt the storyline that he is a 100+ year old pedophile. He loves Bella primarily because he can’t read her mind. With that logic in place I would fall in love with every woman I have ever encountered. For a guy a century old he is pretty naive. Also after a hundered plus senior classes, Bella is the best he can do? A dull, emotionless, desperate, girl next door. His previous educational experiences must have been military academies or home-schooling. I couldn't have resisted just once in a while going out for sports. We know he can play baseball.

Jake is a nicer looking guy but he attends high school on the reservation, so Bella reduces him to the "friend” zone, though she spends much of her time lusting after his lupine body. Jake can restore a motorcycle; no make that two, from junk to new condition in nothing flat. I lived in the middle of a reservation and I can assure you that 16 year old Native Americans do not have that skill set, or virtually any skill set. Bella also took it in stride that Jake morphed into a werewolf right before her eyes. I don’t think any relationship I ever had would have survived a morphing. Also, there was no full-moon involved. They stole the Incredible Hulk’s “You won’t like me when I’m mad.”

Vampire legend and lore has carefully been crafted so that we all have a basic understanding of their habits, limitations, and abilities. Not these Vampires. Fact: Vampires sleep in Caskets. Not these. They don’t sleep at all. Fact: Vampires cannot go into sunlight. These Vampires get pretty in the sun. Fact: Vampires turn into bats. Nope. Fact: Vampires can be killed by a stake through the heart. Uh uh. Gotta tear these ones apart. Fact: Vampires have to be invited into your home. Edward is a Peeping Tom as well as a Pedophile.

It is indicative of the way I view movies that I can accept Apotamkin and Lycanthrope roaming the north woods of Washington State but am put off by the fact that Bella not only has a passport and huge amounts of cash/credit, but carries it with her so that an immediate flight to Italy is possible. If I allow that to pass unchallenged, I have to get my mind around the fact that she flew roundtrip to Italy from Washington State, completed her mission, and returned in 3 days. Never mind that Forks is over 200 miles from Sea-Tac Airport and the Italian village they traveled to was remote. Never mind that in today’s airline world, I cannot be guaranteed to fly roundtrip to Charlotte in 3 days and that is without an encounter with the Volturi.

As I said, the first installment of Twilight was watchable, though not worth wasting a Netflix pick on. The New Moon chapter was a real snoozer and I am dumber for having sat through it. I could have used my pick to get something with merit, like Witless Protection.

Headaches - 5/14/2010

2010-05-13T21:43:00.000-07:00

It is well-documented that I am a huge Seinfeld fan. Huge being the operative word here. My fellow Seinfeld aficionados will know that Jerry went without throwing up for 14 years, from 1980 to 1994. His streak ended, as all streaks eventually do, when he ate a black and white cookie that turned into David Duke and Fahrikan in his stomach.

Why am I telling you this is a post about headaches? Well, I had a similar streak end yesterday. When I was in the Air Force I had terrible migraine headaches. They varied in frequency and severity, but the worst ones caused me to remove my gun from the nightstand and put it in my safe. There is no way I could open the lockbox in the throes of a grand mal migraine. Anyone who has suffered severe migraine headaches knows that eating a bullet is a viable option. My migraines contained the following symptoms (fellow sufferers can relate):

I could not tolerate any sound. A whisper sounded like an air raid siren.

I could not tolerate any light. I had to have absolute darkness. The light under the door was as bright as the sun.

Any movement made me dizzy and nauseous. I had to be absolutely still.

I had to be as cold as I could tolerate. I was constantly rotating my pillows to find a cool spot.

If I was with someone, I would have them put as much pressure on my head as they could muster. That pressure offered a small bit of temporary relief. If I was alone, I would take an ice cold rag and push it as hard against my head as I could.

The hospital personnel at Mildenhall AB, my last assignment, would take one look at me staggering in the door and prepare a cold, dark, room and a hypodermic needle filled with some kind of narcotic. This was long before self-treatment was available. My kids can verify how severe both the illness and the treatment were. Once my son, Josh, called me soon after I arrived home from a visit to the hospital and the conversation went something like this:
“Hi dad.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Josh.”
“Josh who?”
“Your son.”
“I don’t have a son.”
“Dad, are you ok,”
“Nope, I have a headache.”
“Oh, ok, talk to you later.”
“Who is this?”
Click.

I retired from the Air Force in late 1992 and had not had a headache of any kind for 17 years. It is pretty obvious that mine were caused by stress. I pretty much lead a stress-free existence now, except for self-induced tension that I will always seem to conjure up. Yesterday, I had a headache. By anyone’s standards that have never experienced a migraine it was a very bad headache. I think it was a sinus headache, definitely not a migraine, but it still broke my streak. It had been so long since I had a headache that it took some time for me to realize that is what was causing me to feel so poorly. When I awoke this morning, it was gone. I did not even have to take anything. Well, my gun is still in my nightstand and my days without a headache are now at one. I should twitter Jerry and find out how his current vomitless streak is progressing.

Drowning Your Troubles at Myrle Beach 5/3/2010

2010-05-03T06:43:00.000-07:00

I was on my daily walk along Myrtle Beach. It was nearly deserted as the sun had abandoned the sky in favor of imposing storm clouds and wind. I noticed a young woman standing in the pounding surf. The waves would vary her exposure from knee deep to above her waist. It probably would not have seemed odd but she was fully clothed and not in any normal beach attire. She looked like she would have been more appropriately dressed for an office than wading. She was facing towards Portugal and even though water was splashing and the wind was howling, it was obvious she was crying.

My inclination was to walk on. Through the years I have developed immunity to women’s tears and a proclivity to not get involved in the problems of others. But there was desperation in this person that seemed imminent. So I walked to the edge of the water, within earshot, but not close enough to be threatening to her. I spoke softly but loud enough to be heard above the combers “are you all right.” She didn’t hear me or chose not to respond. The latter was the more likely. So, being the stubborn person that I am, I spoke a bit louder, using my command voice, “HEY, ARE YOU OK?’ A bit louder than I had planned, this made her body spasm, and immediately look back at me, probably fearing that an attack was forthcoming.

When she realized that I was not moving towards her, she replied unconvincingly, “yes, I’m all right, thank you.”

Her tortured face and tensely fisted hands told me that she was a bad liar and she was far from all right. “You don’t look all right,” I insisted, now engaged.

Her sobbing increased (I can have that affect) and between sniffles she shouted, “Leave me alone, I am going to end it! My life is over!”

But as she spoke, she staggered back towards the shore if only a few inches. I took this as an opening. “What could be so bad that you want to drown yourself?”
“I have nothing to live for.”

“Well, I don’t know you but surely things can’t be that bad.” I got as close to the water as I dared without my new Reebok walking shoes getting wet.

“My husband left me for another woman.”

“That is not worth killing yourself over. Sounds like he wasn’t a prize, anyway. Maybe you are better off without him.”

“He emptied our accounts and took everything.”

“That is just stuff, you can replace that.”

“I lost my job. She was my boss.”

“You can get another job.”

“They foreclosed on my house. I am homeless.”

“Lots of people are experiencing that. They find the strength to go on. There is always hope.”

I noticed a minuscule change in her demeanor and as she turned to face me I realized that beneath the despair she was very beautiful. I urged her, “come on out of the water and lets talk about it. Things are never as bad as they seem.”

She held her ground (or water) but at least her need to commit watercide had been temporarily quelled. She was at least listening. I took the initiative to continue the conversation. “You are young, beautiful, and have at least one nice outfit. You can always start over.”

Though the sobbing had stopped, the tears were still washing her cheeks. “It is so hard. I don’t know what to do. I just want the pain to be over.”

“Well, do you have any family or friends you can stay with until you get on your feet?”

“No,” she said. “All my family live up north, in Boston.” I thought I had detected a New England accent. But at least I had her talking.

“Well, let’s think positive, what do you enjoy?”

“I love baseball,” she brightened. “I am a huge Red Sox fan.”

I cringed. She suddenly did not look quite so appealing, but I managed to continue. This was a chance to save a life, after all. I took the conversation back on task. “The first thing you need is a job. What kind of work do you do?”

Sadly, she stammered, “well, up until today I worked for the South Carolina Democratic Party.”

“You know, you might be right. Life can be a real bitch. If you walk about a hundred yards that way,” pointing south, “the riptides are much stronger.“ I continued my walk up the beach.

My Close Call With Technology 4/18/2010

2010-04-18T18:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I attended CREATE South 2010 at Horry-Georgetown Technical College. CREATE is an acronym for Carolina Regional Exposition of Art, Technology and Education. CREATE 2010 was an all-day event. My reasons for attending were to learn how to increase the number of people who regularly read my blog into double figures and to hear the Yale Brothers perform while I ate free barbecue.

I was more out of place at this event than a Clemson football player in a classroom. I am certain I was the only person in the room that did not speak fluent Klingon. I confirmed my fears that my understanding of technology lies somewhere between Fred Flintstone and the Bushmen of the Kalahari. Everyone came in with their notebooks and I Phones and immediately linked up, becoming one organism, like the Borg, I couldn’t bring my own laptop, as my battery only lasts about 30 seconds without recharge and I would have had to haul in my docking station and a huge roll of extension cord. It would be like the Yale Brothers setting up for a half-hour show.

It was like being in Salt Lake City or Harlem. Everyone knew each other. Some had never met face to face, but they knew each other just the same. A presenter would mention a person’s name that I had of course never heard of, and I think I could actually hear orgasms scattered through the room. Guy Kawasaki evidently has nothing to do with motorcycles. And Chris Brogan is the Tiger Woods of the geek world, sans the random fornication.

I am so glad that I did not embarrass myself by bringing in my cell phone. I think they would have gathered around me like the monkeys at the monolith. I am certain I was the only person in the room that had actually made a telephone call on their cell phone. Most of these folks probably didn’t know that feature still existed.
Well, there was little discussion about blogging, other than the fact that the google network that I use for this blog is not used by anyone else but losers like me. The real bloggers use Wordpress. Every time the word Google was uttered, the entire room broke into hysterical laughter. The talk was all about podcasts, twitter, Comcast, camtasia, social media, and living in the online community. I don’t live in the online community. I like to go there, but I enjoy the real world. Some of these people haven’t ventured outside since Al Gore invented the Internet. I think I got my answer as to why nobody reads my blog. It is the same reason nobody reads Beowulf anymore. Why take the timed to read this crap when you can listen to a podcast while you twitter?

There was a portion of the day devoted to networking ideas between attendees. Someone would get up and talk about a project and somebody else would offer their particular skills and expertise, immediately creating a partnership. Since I have no project ideas, skills or expertise, I was not a part of this phenomenon, though I found it interesting. One person wants to put all the world’s works of art online so kids won’t have to go to museums to see them. One of the presenters made the comment that there are no bad ideas. I silently disagreed. Exterminating the Jews and changing the Coke formula immediately came to mind. That and putting all the world’s works of art online so kids won’t have to go to museums.

One old guy got up and in his efforts to hawk a book he had written claimed that he invented the Happy Meal. Being the cynic that I am, I took his name down and looked it up on the Internet (when I got home) and discovered that he was one french-fry short of a Happy Meal. I think he comes from the Al Gore School of inventing things. I knew he was questionable when he explained his book at length and I still had no idea what it was about.

The good news is that the barbecue was excellent and I got a chance to meet Chris Yale, who has managed to avoid me up until now.

The 2010 Census - Don't Try This At Home, These Are Professionals - 3/21/2010

2010-03-21T20:25:00.000-07:00

Those of you who have followed my blog may remember that last July I was fired from a job that I really enjoyed because of the contents of my postings. If those innocuous words resulted in my dismissal, I probably can expect another pink slip from this entry.

I decided to work for the 2010 Census for several reasons. The first being that since I have not been able to find a suitable permanent position in today’s unfavorable job market, I thought that a little cash from temporary employment would come in handy. Also, I believe in the census. I think an accurate count of South Carolina’s population can only benefit the state in getting our slice of the federal government pie: representatives, electoral votes, funding, etc. In the 2000 Census, South Carolina, in particular Horry County, which I reside in, ranked nationally among the bottom as far as participation and accuracy of the count. As a result, we lost out in many different ways. I believed I could contribute to precision in my little way. Everyone who knows me knows that I am nothing if not exacting and detail oriented. Sometimes anally so.

There are a lot of people, including friends of mine, who are against the census. Although I do not understand their reluctance and fear, I respect their position. I have already completed and submitted my own census and found nothing in the 10 question form that would give me any reason for consternation. The most personal question was my age, and I think the government pretty much knows that anyway. I don’t think “Big Brother’s” knowledge of whether I own or rent my home is going to be used against me or create a Branch Dividian situation at my condo. There are a lot of problems I have with our government, but I would rather choose my battles and “rage against the machine” on more important issues. If I thought the census invaded my privacy in an important way, I would not participate, and certainly not work as an enumerator. That is what my position is called.

That being said, I have some serious reservations about how the 2010 Census is being managed and the potential for accuracy. The cost of the census has been estimated at 15 billion dollars. Let, me repeat that, 15 billion dollars, with a “B”. Though I have only a very micro view of this process, I believe that what I see in my little corner of the operation indicates how poorly it is run overall. I doubt we are the exception as much as the rule.

I took a multiple-guess test back in December. There were 28 questions and the score required for employment consideration was 10. The test was laughably easy and I had a perfect score, as I assume everyone with a full complement of brain cells did. The minimal requirements should have immediately alarmed me as to the expectations of the census. I believed it was more revealing as to the quality of people in the applicant pool. Though, I also realized that the chance of accuracy was greatly diminished.

I did not know how bad things were going to be until my first day of the four day training program. My supervisor conducted the training, which consisted primarily of him reading verbatim from the 2010 Census manual. This would not have been so bad except for the fact that this individual could not read, had absolutely no vocabulary, nor any knowledge whatsoever of the job we were being trained to do. His obvious dyslexia manifested itself whenever any sequence of numbers was provided to us. They were, without exception scrambled. It was the most brutal four days I have ever experienced. I do not know what the requirements were for the position of supervisor, but I am certain it did not include an interview of any sort. I am convinced that the same process was used as is used by our legal system to select jurors: Finding the absolute dimmest, most obtuse, people from the available pool. Here is a recording of a portion of one of the training sessions. Imagine four days of that.

Another obstacle to learning the job was that many of the materials that we would be working with were not available during the training program, so a lot of the instruction was conducted hypothetically, without the opportunity for practical, hands-on, applications. This included visual aids that the manual often referred to. I am at the higher end of the enumerator hires and I am struggling with some of the massive paperwork. I can only imagine what the 10 of 28 people will turn in.

There are 14 people on my “enumerator crew.” Make that 13, one guy washed out during training. Evidently, it was decided that one supervisor could not adequately administer that large of a workforce. As a result, there are two crew leaders underneath the supervisor, each responsible for half of us. I am sure that there was some head-scratching to find half of 13. This means that there is a completely unnecessary level of supervision in every crew, and there are hundreds of crews just in South Carolina. Who knows how many levels of management there are above us that also serve no function?

Because the supervisor had not been adequately trained or evaluated for competency, we ended up filling out all of the required employment paperwork many times. Not only wasting many man-hours but forests of paper. The supervision team was also responsible for fingerprinting all of us. To date I have been fingerprinted three times, with no assurance that a usable set of my dactylograms has been obtained. I will not be surprised to find out tomorrow that I need to ink up again. The police have more success printing uncooperative suspects than these guys have had with me.

My crew leader’s final instruction prior to our first day of enumerating was “don’t work too fast; we want to make this job last for a while.” He is a true bureaucrat. Sucking off the government teat. Your tax dollars at work. Anyone who knows me also knows that I am not capable of giving less than my best effort. But in spite of my participation, there is no chance in hell that the Horry County 2010 Census is going to provide an accurate/timely count.

Mr UnFix It - 3/14/2010

2010-03-13T23:13:00.000-08:00

As has been chronicled in past postings, my dad had the ability to fix anything. He never used the services of any sort of repairman in his life. He could function as a plumber, electrician, auto mechanic, or carpenter; whatever was required. He was not simply a blue collar guy. The two major occupations of his life were miner and tobacco picker. I like to say that he was a “black and blue” collar worker.

Dad, though small of stature, was extremely powerful from a life of hard work. I remember his hands were as rough as 60 grit sandpaper and his grip was as strong as a vice. I, on the other hand, cannot fix anything. It is actually worse than that. If I fix something it ends up unfixed to the point of being in worse condition than it was before I began the project. Though I can muster a pretty strong grip (shut up Mike), my hands are as smooth as those of a 12 year old girl. My dad did not want to teach me any practical skills. His intention was that I earn enough money to get some guy like him to fix stuff for me. He didn't want me to learn to work on cars because he said that as soon as a boy starts tinkering with cars that is all he will ever do. Dad had no idea what an underachiever and poor earner I would end up being and that a little practical knowledge might save me from myself. I provide that back story as a preamble to the following anecdotes of my exploits as a handyman.

Some time ago, I posted a story about the wonderful work I did on the cassette deck in my vehicle, so the following accounts will not surprise anyone who follows my escapades. Because I have absolutely no tradesman skills, there is no reason to own any decent tools. I have a couple of screwdrivers, a partial set of sockets/wrenches, and a hammer. I have some sort of learning disability that prevents me from being able to follow written directions and my lack of patience is legendary. Those conditions are a recipe for disaster which I will share with you now.

My first new car was a 1972 Gremlin-X. For those too young to be familiar with the AMC Gremlin, it is widely regarded as the worst automobile ever manufactured. And that includes some Eastern European Cold War cars made from expended shell casings and scrap metal. I was an airman in the Air Force with a wife and child. I could barely afford the $36.00 per month car payment and a $5.00 tank of gas, let alone any repair/maintenance. I don’t remember having car insurance. It must not have been as big a deal in those days. Well, as soon as the warranty expired, the car began to self-destruct. I was living in Tucson, too far from my dad for him to redneck engineer it into working order. I was on my own.

It totally stopped running once and a guy looked at it and said it was the carburetor. I went to the parts department and was told that a new carb would run me about $75 but I could buy a rebuild kit for $2.99 that would allow me to repair the one I had. He said it comes with simple directions and anyone can do it in about an hour. He had obviously not seen me in action. Anyway, since I had only about $5.00 in my pocket at any given time, I opted for the DIY undertaking.

I went home, removed the carburetor from the car, sat down at the kitchen table, and commenced the rebuild. Eighteen hours later, I had “finished” the job. I held it up proudly to my wife and she commented that there were some parts left over on the table. There was a spring, a couple of metal screws, and a rubber gasket. I determined that they must have given me some spare parts in case I lost something. I tossed them into the trash and proudly took my expert workmanship outside and bolted it onto the car. I turned the key, pumped the gas pedal, and the car “fired up”. I use those words because when I started the car a flame shot straight up into the air. I don’t mean that a spark was emitted. It was an open flame, a blaze, an inferno. When I shut off the engine, the fire immediately receded. I can’t remember how I obtained the money, but I paid for and had a new carburetor installed.

Unfortunately, that was not my worst or most embarrassing handyman effort. That would come several years later. I bought my daughter, Carly, a new bike when she was about eight or nine. It was a Strawberry Shortcake bike, all the rage for girls of her age. The challenge was that it came in a box, unassembled. The box indicated that assembly should take about an hour and only required a couple of general tools, which I actually owned. I sat down in the middle of the living room floor and began assembly. After a few hours, Carly had actually given up ever getting to ride her bike. Heartbroken, she watched from a distance as questions about my progress were met with increased anger and frustration, and words no child should have to hear, let alone in reference to Strawberry Shortcake.

Eighteen hours later I stood back and admired my work. It actually looked somewhat like the picture on the box. The final touches were inserting the streamers into the handlebar grips and adjusting the seat for maximum comfort. Then it was time for a test ride. She was overjoyed that, finally, her new bike was ready to ride. Swelling with pride, we took the bike outside. She got on and attempted to pedal off for her first ride. She said that it was “kind of” hard to pedal. There was also a horrible squeak every time she tried. I figured it just needed some WD-40 (a non-mechanics answer to everything). That remedy did not work; neither did my many attempts to make adjustments to try to ease the pedaling.

Though, she loved that beautiful bike, she was never able to pedal it the way a normal bike should be propelled. For the life of the bike, it was nearly impossible to pedal and always made a sound that people could hear blocks away. But poor Carly kept trying, hoping that someday her bike would heal itself. It never did, nor did her dad ever make it better. I had other people try to fix it and evidently my assembly damaged it beyond repair. Ever the optimist, Carly would just push it along or coast it downhill, trying to get maximum enjoyment out of her crappy bike. It was the saddest bike ever. It was so hard to watch her ride it a few feet at a time. Homeless kids that got their bikes from dumpsters had more fun than Carly did. Luckily, she eventually outgrew it.

I only wish that these stories were exaggerated.

Why I should not be on a party planning committee - 3/10/10

2010-03-09T22:40:00.000-08:00

I have intended to tell this story for quite some time but was afraid of outraging my readers. Since I have apparently alienated the majority of my readership with far less offensive postings, I have elected to proceed. The handful of people who regularly peruse my blog know me well enough to realize I totally lack decorum. This article will contain full-frontal female nudity which is germane in the telling of this account. It could be argued that the photos are not crucial to the narrative, but it is my tale. So, at this point I will warn anyone who has stumbled on this blog that is offended by female nudity to stop reading now (if you haven’t already).

I was the superintendent of the manpower office at RAF Mildenhall, England. Superintendent essentially means I was the highest ranking enlisted member in the office. In that capacity, I was entrusted to be a role model and set a professional example for the more junior staff. I believe I performed that function admirably while in uniform. Off-duty, I was not necessarily a paragon of propriety (and for the past 18 years I have been off-duty). It has been said that the difference between the Boy Scouts and the Military is that the Scouts have adult supervision. After 20 years of service, I have no evidence to the contrary.

In 1991, one of my subordinates, Mark Davenport, was transferring to a CONUS assignment. Military units traditionally honor a departing coworker with a going away party. Often this soiree is tailored to the personality of the guest of honor. For instance, a party animal would rate a real Bacchanalia. It is also important to embarrass the honoree if at all possible. Mark was a very shy computer geek back when PCs were not advanced enough to support geekdom. He was not a drinker. Planning a party for him that would not suck for the rest of us was a challenge. The party committee, which consisted of me and a young Second Lieutenant, recently commissioned from Purdue (who shall remain nameless in case he is now a General), determined that it might be funny to get Mark a stripper gram. This was all the rage in England in 1991 and very benign. A frat guy and a debauchee should probably not have been entrusted to plan this shindig, but it seemed innocent enough. The other office weenies agreed and chipped in. We reserved a room in a local pub and it was on like Donkey Kong (though it was still just an arcade game then).

The party was going well and we were all having a few beers and giving Mark his going away gifts, plaques, certificates, etc. As well as the usual suspects from my office, my two teenage sons were also in attendance. As the drinking age in England is highly negotiable, they were enjoying some warm beer as well. Then, it happened. The young lady who the agency sent us showed up, right on time. She had with her a small boom box, which she turned on and began to dance, gyrate, and remove her clothes. But something went terribly wrong. She, with Mark’s assistance, removed ALL of her clothes and began to mount and ride Mark like Red Pollard on Seabiscuit. Our innocuous lingerie show turned X-rated right before our saucer-eyes.

It seemed that the agency had sent us the girl that was scheduled for a private bachelor party, the organizers of which had requested a much more personal service than we had chartered. Those groomsmen were probably a lot more disappointed than we were. We noticed the error quite early in her performance, but no one brought it to her attention.

If you look at the very first photo in the array, you will see that Mark had removed his outer shirt and was drenched in sweat. This photo was taken after the artist had departed and the guests that were revolted had bolted.

The only downside to the evening was that just outside of our room (which was less private than you would think) was a meeting of a ladies group dining after Bible study at the base chapel. The only person they recognized and acknowledged was, you guessed it, the Lieutenant. Come to think of it, he is probably not a General now. One of the ladies’ group happened to be the Wing Commander’s wife. He may still be a Lieutenant.

Filthy Water Cannot Be Washed - My long association with water - 2/20/10

2010-02-20T19:35:00.000-08:00

There is no predicting where inspirations to write will come from. To be honest, they come often, but I am basically too lazy to transliterate from a thought to the written word. Today, I had a fusillade of motivation, possibly drug induced.

My weight-loss program includes consuming copious amounts of water. As I was retrieving a bottle of Kirkland (Costco) “Spring” Water from the refrigerator this morning, words from a Kipling poem echoed in my mind. The synapses of my aging mind are puzzling. I usually can’t recall what I ate for lunch yesterday, but I can rote recite a poem I memorized nearly fifty years ago:

“It was crawlin’ and it stunk, but of all the drinks I’ve drunk, I’m thankful for that one from Gunga Din.”

While walking squirrel patrol with Skooter this morning, some anecdotes about my association with water came to life:

When I was growing up in northern Idaho, I didn’t know much about water and I don’t think my dad did either. Whether our water was hard or soft was not an issue to my dad. All that mattered to him was that the water was wet and mostly translucent. I can remember television commercials for a water softener, “Hey Culligan Man,” but I had no idea what they were yelling about.

Dad had more important issues than the PH of our water. Ours came out of our faucet ice cold, even in summer, and that was all that mattered. I had never heard of keeping water in the refrigerator until I ventured south. In the winter, we often had to leave the water running in the faucets to keep the pipes from freezing. In spite of that, I can remember dad crawling under the house during particularly extreme winters with a propane torch, thawing frozen pipes. I know that water was never a particularly important issue during my upbringing. It was taken for granted.

Dad died before bottled water became widely available in the 90s, but I know he would have laughed at the concept of buying water. What emitted from the sink would have always been sufficient for him. I found out later that the water of my childhood contained more heavy metals than a Monsters of Rock Concert.

When we lived in the Philippines, we lived on “the economy”. This means that our house was in the local village and not within the perimeter of Clark AB. Because the water that emitted from our spigot was roughly the same content as that of a bedpan, we lugged water in huge jugs (heh heh, I said huge jugs. Obscure Beavis and Butthead reference) from the supply at the base. We actually didn’t know for sure if base water was potable, but at least light passed through it. We did not have a water heater, so showering was a dodgy process, though the water coming out of the shower head was at a minimum, lukewarm. We heated it on the stove to bathe the kids. Again, whether the water was alkaline or acidic was of no consequence.

My first experience with really soft water was in Scotland. I got into the shower and poured my usual dollop of shampoo into my hand. When I applied it to my hair, it literally exploded into lather. It seemed there was no end to the foam. Had I been an 80s hair band, and assuming they actually washed their hair, there would have been sufficient suds for band, groupies, and roadies. But the major problem was during the rinsing process. I could not rinse the shampoo from my hair. Since Scottish water heaters have roughly the capacity of a Mr. Coffee (do those still exist?), I was soon both soapy and freezing. I quickly learned that in Scotland, a bottle of shampoo can age like single malt scotch.

Shortly after my Air Force retirement I worked for the Wyoming State Engineer. That office controlled the rights for all usage of both ground and surface water. Water is a precious commodity in the semi-desert climate of the high plains. Range wars have been fought over it and there has been an ongoing lawsuit for decades between Wyoming and Nebraska over usage of the Platte River, which flows through both states. Permits were required for any water consumption. One of my responsibilities was the processing of well permit applications. One of the requests that came across my desk was from a resident of Jackson Hole who wished to drill a well on his property. The name on the form was Harrison Ford. I think everyone in the office ended up with a copy of that signed document.

My sister’s family lives in rural southeastern Georgia. They get their water from a well and it has extremely high sulfur content and emits a fragrance somewhat like rotten eggs, and sometimes comes out of the tap opaque. It causes you to come out of a bath more offensive smelling than you went in. Sulphur water is therapeutic at a spa, but makes crappy sweet tea.

I have had to learn to like water. Until December 1, 2009, when my efforts at weight-loss began, when I was "swinging on the refrigerator door" (mom's words), water would not have been one of my druthers.

Ralph H. Johnson VA Medical Center - 2/1/10

2010-02-01T18:09:00.000-08:00

I am a disabled veteran. I was not disabled by enemy or friendly fire, shrapnel, or any other wartime peril. My disabilities come from playing sports, overindulging in nearly everything I have ever indulged in, and listening to AC/DC at an extremely high volume setting. But since I spent 20 years making myself available for armed conflict, I am eligible for Veteran’s Administration (VA) benefits, such as they are. This is because most of the events that have resulted in me being in the condition I am in occurred when I was on active duty. On active duty, in this case, meaning enlisted in the air force.

The extent of my disability was determined by comparing the condition I was in during my induction physical in 1972 with the state I was in upon retirement in 1992. According to the VA, I am only 70% of the man I was at 19 (who isn’t). If I could get a psychiatric team to follow me around for a few days, they would up that 30% disability significantly. But the 30% gives me full medical benefits, such as they are.

Today, I traveled to the Ralph H. Johnson VA Medical Center in Charleston on board the Disabled American Veterans (DAV) van. I am entitled to ride the nearly 200 mile round-trip in the DAV van as part of the prize package from being disabled. It departs Myrtle Beach at 5AM and returns after the last rider’s appointment. Skooter hates being walked at 4AM nearly as much as I despise walking him at that profane hour. But the trip is free and free is good.

Today’s journey was for a routine CT scan of my lungs. Though I have never smoked a cigarette in my life, it seems I have what are called nodules festering one of my lungs. Growing up breathing air toxic with lead/silver refinery emissions combined with 20 years of inhaling jet engine exhaust may have contributed. Scanning my chest regularly inspects for any change in the nodules which could mean T-R-O-U-B-L-E . So far, they are just perched there to annoy me. On the plus side, this procedure can cost up to $1,500 each time, in the real world. I get it free with your tax dollars. Thanks.

Each time I visit the VA hospital I am in awe of the parade of heroes that pass by while I am in the lobby waiting for the return trip. There is a plaque near the entryway that reads simply:

This could not be more true. So many have sacrificed so that we don’t have to. If you are not appreciative of this, you suck. The Charleston VA Medical Center is named for Medal of Honor recipient PFC Ralph H. Johnson. A memorial honoring him is near the entrance. I always take a moment to pay my respects when I walk in.

There are many volunteers throughout the facility that give their time as tribute to the champions who are treated there. A sweet lady named Helen dispenses coffee and pastries to those waiting for their prescriptions. The driver of the DAV van that brought me there is a volunteer as well.

Today, I was inspired to share these thoughts. I am going to try find more things to encourage me to write. No promises.

Open Mic - A Thursday Evening Delight - 1/22/2010

2010-01-22T16:52:00.000-08:00

Last night I attended “Open Mic” at the Fresh Brewed Coffee House in Myrtle Beach. It is a weekly event held on Thursday evenings at 7:30 PM. This was my first visit to this establishment and I immediately felt at home and comfortable. The laid back atmosphere carried through to the ‘Open Mic”. Everyone is encouraged to perform In this totally nonthreatening environment. You can sing, tell jokes, juggle, read poetry, whittle, whistle, whatever. I am happy to report there was no juggling in last night’s presentation. I was the oldest person in the room by more years than most of them had been alive, but the ambiance took me back in time. I half expected the audience to snap their fingers in lieu of applause. The only things missing from the coffee houses of my youth was the woody aroma of patchouli and the smokey haze, neither of which I am nostalgic for.

I had friended Brian Roessler, who honchos the affair, on Facebook, and last night we met for real. He is the type of person that one instantly likes. Engaging and genuine, he opened the show by singing a few of his own fantastic compositions. He has a very smooth style that has obviously been honed through years of performing and fusing his many musical influences into one that is uniquely his own. He even sung a song he wrote about his love affair with Little Debbie, which I could identify with. He then acted as emcee and brought up a parade of other performers.

The singer/songwriters, which made up the lion’s share of the performers, represented a wide range of musical styles and influences. Justin Newman was unmistakably bringing us a blending of Lou Reed, the Beastie Boys, and Bob Dylan. The small stage definitely did not allow him the freedom of movement that his body craved to fully convey his music. He is a very animated and physical performer.
James Dunovan (obviously of Polish extraction) brought a quiet angst to his very original sound. His vocals were heartfelt and genuine. James and I worked together at Frito Lay a couple of years back until I realized that stocking grocery stores was one of the many things I am ill-equipped to do. That realization came on day 2 of my employment.

A young man named Tripp Cappelman channeled the vocal stylings of Gregg Allman and Ronnie Van Zant while his partner Seth Kellum wowed us on the guitar and mandolin. These two were my personal favorites, as I love southern rock and they did it justice. Seth is from Missoula, Montana, not far from where I grew up and Tripp is an Air Force brat from Sumter, SC. One verse into their first song and I knew Tripp was not from Pawtucket, Rhode Island. This boy is southern born and southern bred. You could practically smell the grits on his breath. I did not get their last names. Maybe someone can help me out with that. I didn’t want to ask too many questions lest I be labeled a stalker. There is a fine line between getting enough info to write a piece and being creepy.

This was not simply a sausage fest as next came a beautiful young lady named Renee, who read some of her original poetry and the piece of prose that inspired her to become a poet in the first place. One of the poems she read was crafted that evening as she waited for her turn at the microphone. The emotion that she invested in her poems was felt by every heart the room as we experienced them with her. She ended her performance by including audience participation for a future piece she is working on. She queried “if you could only have one decadent dessert before you died, what would it be?” That was so easy for me, “crème brulee is to die for.”

What these young people share is a passion for their art. The beauty of this showcase is that it gives them an opportunity to share their talent with an intimate and supportive audience without fear of judgment or rejection. There is no Simon Cowell to appraise their performance. It didn’t happen, but I am certain that if someone took the stage with absolutely no skills at all, a hearty applause would reward their effort. With that in mind, I am considering reading my crappy poetry next Thursday night. If only I could juggle or whistle.
I left a little after ten and I know there were several more entertainers yet to come, but I had a beagle at home that was impatiently waiting for a nightcap walk. I hope to observe those that I missed in the future.

I am not a coffee drinker, but when in Columbia……. I drank three cups of a robust Jamaican coffee which I think was blended with methamphetamine. The combination of it and the phentermine I am taking as part of a weight reduction plan caused me to experience an enjoyable rush in spite of the minor stroke I experienced. Vision in both eyes is highly overrated. The music I enjoyed on the drive home was incredible until I realized the radio was not on and it was a combination of tinnitus and the thundering of my own heartbeat. At 3AM, I was simultaneously applying the Dewey Decimal System to my bookcase, sweeping the floor, and attempting, unsuccessfully, to coax Skooter into fetching things. I think I better understand the popularity of coffee now.

Why I haven't written, or have I? 1/22/10

2010-01-21T23:15:00.000-08:00

I haven’t written here for well over a month. I have had a few of my loyal readers contact me and it was their consensus that my real-life stories entertain them better than my attempts at 55 word fiction. Frankly, I had not had any events in my life lately that inspired me to post. Having posted here for nearly three years, I am often not sure which of the outrageous shit that is my life I have actually written or just thought about writing. Often, I compose an entire post in my head before actually putting it to Word. When one is in the early stages of dementia, there is very little difference in thinking it and writing it. Kind of like Catholic sin. Fantasizing about having sex with your friend’s wife is the same as actually doing it. It is certainly not the same to the friend but it is to the Pope. Maybe that is why Popes don’t marry. Too many guys would be nailing their wives.

It is the same way with the spoken word. I often think I have said something to someone, when I have actually only thought about saying it. Then of course I insist I have told them and a fight ensues. For example: I went in for a fairly important medical procedure and thought I had told my kids about it. Evidently I had not. They found out some time later during a normal conversation at a birthday party for one of my grandchildren. I now know that is the kind of information they would like to have before the fact. Had I been one of the 1 in 200,000 that die from the anesthesia, they may have been confused and disturbed by the morgue calling them to claim my cadaver. That is, if there had been anything left to claim, as I am an organ donor.

Conversely, sometimes I say something aloud that I was only thinking and had no intention of saying out loud and a fight ensues. What is perceived as a lack of tact on my part is actually a serious cognitive disorder. An example: I was visiting a couple, let’s call them Steve and Brenda Moss. They were fairly close friends but I had not roamed their home before. Their wedding photos were displayed in their hallway. Now at this time Brenda weighed in at about three bills. The bride in her wedding photo resembled a young Grace Kelly, only with a better body (for you younger people, imagine Jessica Alba). I thought to myself, “What happened to you?” But it turns out; I was not thinking that to myself. I was thinking it to her. You can’t put those bullets back in the gun. I have never felt like a bigger crapweasel.

So, I guess this post is a good illustration as to why I do not write often. I do not know what I was trying to say here.

55 Flash Fiction Friday - Sound Familiar? - 12/10/09

2009-12-09T21:27:00.000-08:00

Each week G-Man of 55 Flash Fiction Friday cajoles me to write a story using only 55 words. I am writing this one a day early because I am on a drug regimen and don't know what day it is.

A young left fielder from Chicago was drafted by the Washington Nationals. He was instantly a fan favorite. The crowd was eager to see what he could do as the team was struggling badly. He never actually got up to bat but at the end of the season he was selected league Most Valuable Player.

55 Flash Fiction Friday - Tiger, Tiger, Tiger - 12/4/09

2009-12-04T09:02:00.000-08:00

Each week G-Man at 55 Flash Fiction Friday dares us to write something understandable using only 55 words.

I do not usually write topical pieces and am not one to jump on the bandwagon of any current story but I am just amazed by the series of events unfolding concerning Tiger Woods (who I am a big fan of).

I am the most famous person in the world. Gorgeous wife and two, healthy, beautiful children. I make unfathomable amounts to play a game that I love. Millions of adoring fans that will buy whatever product I endorse. A posse who acts on my every whim. What could I possibly do to mess that up?

High School Football - 11/28/09

2009-11-28T09:07:00.000-08:00

Last night I challenged my demophobia and joined 6,500 people at the Myrtle Beach Seahawks football game. Demophobia sounds like fear of democrats (which I also have) but it means fear of crowds. This was a playoff game to determine who would represent the lower end of South Carolina in the state championship. Myrtle Beach is defending champion, so it was a game of interest and really the only thing happening in Myrtle Beach on Black Friday night. Last year, these same teams battled to a 51-50 Myrtle Beach victory in triple overtime. It promised to be a great game.

I arrived an hour early, hoping to get seated before the stadium filled. Unfortunately, 6,000 other people had the same idea. My greatest fear was realized, climbing bleacher stairs scanning the throngs for an open seat. I was lucky enough to find one on the 20-yard line. Many were not so fortunate and had to stand behind the end zones. Thankfully, my bladder held out for the entire game as there was no hope of leaving for any reason and getting my seat back. This was particularly disturbing since I saw people carrying funnel cakes.

I love the atmosphere of college football, but high school football has its own unique ambiance, particularly in the south. To illustrate how huge high school football is here; during the football season, Costco schedules fewer employees on Friday evenings than any other night of the week. It was interesting to see that the Myrtle Beach Seahawks have a pirate as a mascot. Though there was a fictional pirate called the Sea Hawk, however a Seahawk is a bird. After living here for nearly 10 years, that mistake in the educational system does not surprise me. Seattle and the University of North Carolina at Wilmington figured that out, evidently the Myrtle Beach folks had no access to a library. Even a Seahawk helicopter would have been a possible mascot, though not practical.

The opposition was the Marlboro County Bulldogs. A bulldog is an appropriate mascot. Well done, Marlboro County. Although a smoking man on a horse would have been more interesting, though not politically correct. I particularly enjoy a game where I have no emotional investment and can just watch it objectively, acknowledging good plays by either team. Though I live in Myrtle Beach, I know as many players on the Marlboro roster as I do the Seahawks. Zero.

Unfortunately, this game was virtually over early in the third quarter, as Myrtle Beach, though outweighed by at least 50 pounds per man on the line, dominated. The superior athleticism of their skill players soon wore down the Bulldog defense. Many of which played both offense and defense. They played hard but were outperformed at every facet of the game. They got a cosmetic touchdown towards the end of the game to make the final score 40-13. The game was not that close.

I only have two criticisms of the game and neither involves the players of either team. The first is the officiating, but not for the reason officials are normally censured. I think they called a pretty fair game. The problem for me was that they took so long to make decisions between plays that it killed the flow of the game and made it practically unwatchable. There were often ten minute interludes between snaps while the officials huddled and discussed who knows what?

The second fault I found was with the Myrtle Beach coach. Late in the game with a 30 point lead, he tried an onside kick. Thankfully, it was unsuccessful. Even the Seahawk faithful in the stands were questioning the intelligence of that bush-league move. He also kept his starting offense in, and throwing deep, right up until the final gun. As a result, the humiliated Bulldog team began to lose their composure and it got a little chippy toward the end. The team being shown-up, as can be expected, began to take cheap shots and that is a exactly how players get unnecessarily injured. The star quarterback should have been watching the game with a Gatorade in his hand, not throwing down-field. Anyone who does not agree that these actions were unnecessary in a high school competition has never actually played team sports. It is my hope that Myrtle Beach High School officials reprimand this coach for his unsportsmanlike behavior and lack of leadership. He is blessed with great players, which might not always be the case. This arrogance may come back to bite him in the ass. Bulldogs have a long memory.

That being said, congratulations to the Seahawks, and best of luck in the finals. That game will be played at the University of South Carolina’s Williams-Brice Stadium. I may travel to that contest as it seats about 80,000, and I am certain to get a seat.

55 Flash Fiction Friday - "Dead Man Walking" - 11/27/09

2009-11-27T11:32:00.000-08:00

Each week G-Man invites us to tell a story using only 55 words. My prompt supplier quit me so you are stuck with my own idea.

Preparations are being made around him.
He is oblivious as unseen hands help him don traditional attire.
The preacher arrives, offering solemn words of encouragement.
It is time.
He walks the long corridor as someone shouts -
“Dead Man Walking.”
He takes his assigned place, as it was practiced.
The music commences.
He suddenly hates Mendelssohn.

55 Flash Fiction Friday - Anomaly - 11/19/09

2009-11-19T18:21:00.000-08:00

The challenging prompt from Lena for this week's 55 Flash Fiction Friday is Anomaly. This is what came to mind.

He was not the only astronomer to discover the spatial anomaly, but the only scientist who understood its gravity. Alarming a hopeless world would only result in equal measures of disbelief and panic. Two calls: his daughter, to tell her he loved her and his unfaithful ex-wife to tell her to watch the moon’s approach.

The Loss of a Friend - 11/15/09

2009-11-15T10:47:00.000-08:00

Today, I watched a lady visiting the dog park with her dog for the last time. Punk is 18, and his quality of life is reduced to such that the humane act for Cathy is to have him put to sleep. The procedure is to be done tomorrow. So she brought him by the dog park so he could say goodbye to his friends, canine and human.

On the way home Skooter interrupted his commitment to hanging out the window to bark at arbitrary motorcycles and pedestrian dogs to see what was wrong with me. He licked at the tears on my face before laying down with his head on my leg, comforting me. Dogs know. These lines were running through my mind.

Goodbye dear friend. My life was enriched by knowing you. Through the years there were many times when I felt unloved by my fellow humans, but there was never a moment that I doubted your love, which you gave unconditionally. Though human friendships often come with motive, you had no agenda other than to bring happiness into my empty life.

The one constant in my ever-changing life was your ability to make me smile.
Though sometimes you begged for my attention,you never reserved yours nor rationed it. You could sense when I was playful and when I just needed to sit quietly.

I have had human relationships of which I cannot recall names or faces.
But your sweet face is forever etched into my mind’s eye. Though the world is a lonely place, you never allowed me to feel solitary. I hate that you are leaving me now but I know it is your time. As with all good things, you were gone too soon.

I will say I am never getting another dog. But I will and I will love it just as I do you. It will never replace you but will help to ease the pain I feel today.
There are those that will never understand the total devastation of losing you.
I feel sorry for them.

Pills - 11/13/09

2009-11-13T05:25:00.000-08:00

I got up this morning and took a handful of assorted medications and this came into my head. Don't ask me why. Oh yeah, the Vicodin I had for breakfast.

They got pills to make you happy
And pills to make you mellow
Pills to control your blood pressure
And some make you pee yellow

They got pills to make you horny
And pills to make you not
Pills to control that ugly rash
And that case of jungle rot

They got pills to make you skinny
Though none of those will work
Without diet and exercise
If you buy them you're a jerk

They got alternative medications
Supplements and Herbs for sure
And there isn't much that ails you
That chronic will not cure

They got pills to make kids behave
And not set your house on fire
And pills that cause a vacant stare
If that's what you desire

They got pills to quit smoking
And pills to slow your heart
Pills to make you evacuate
And some just make you fart

They got pills to make your date more fun
And pills to make you rave
Pills to make you hit home runs
And pills to make you brave

They got pills that make you comatose
And pills that make you laugh
Pills that you need several of
And some you cut in half

They got pills so you don’t get pregnant
And some that hope you do
And pills so your infected friend
Doesn’t spread herpes to you

They got pills to shrink your prostate
And pills to make you hard
Some pills come in a bottle
And some come on a card

They got pills to make you larger
Pills to make you small
And like Grace Slick once said
Some don’t do anything at all

They sell pills over the counter
And some are kept in back
The really good ones you only get
If your doctor is a quack

They got pills that make you sleep
And some keep you awake
Some of them cure heartburn
Or stop a tummy ache

Some you have to swallow
And some you have to chew
Some that you take orally
And some are taken……..eew

Some pills the FDA approves
And some of them they hate
Some pills get recalled
But usually too late

Some pills have side effects
Including pain and death
They can help your asthma
But it might be your last breath

They got pills to cure what ails you
Just because you think they will
Though there’s only sugar substitute
Inside that little pill

Some make you creative
To write verse or prose
Unfortunately for my readers
I don't have none of those

55 Flash Fiction Friday - Direction - 11/12/09

2009-11-12T16:06:00.000-08:00

This week's offering to the 55 Flash Fiction Friday Gods was prompted by Lena's suggestion of Direction. For some, drugs increase creativity. Copious amounts of narcotics for me, not so much. I will do better next week as there are no refills allowed.

The path forked. One track was deeply rutted and well traveled. The other was relatively unused, with weeds growing unchallenged. His nature was to follow the more popular trail. This time he elected to go in the direction less frequented. He had hiked a few hundred yards when he was eaten by a forest creature.

HEY, I AM NOT ROBERT FREAKING FROST.

Improv - Getting out of my shell - 11/10/09

2009-11-09T22:18:00.000-08:00

Recently I decided I needed an outlet to get me away from Seinfeld reruns and out from in front of this computer screen. I signed up for a creative writing class through the local University’s continuing education program. I tried this three times. Two of the classes were canceled due to lack of interest. The third I dropped out of after the first session. The instructor was not going to be able to hold my attention. She had a voice that made me yearn for the sound of stray cats having intercourse outside my bedroom window. And her qualifications for teaching creative writing were that she had once vanity published a cookbook that was still available for purchase in India. So Seinfeld reruns were looking pretty good.

One day at the Bark Park I met a lady that was involved in an improv group and found that classes were available locally. When I got home that evening I went online and found the group’s website. It looked interesting and a beginner’s six week class was forming, so I signed up immediately.

I have just completed that course of study and though improv is miles outside my comfort level, I am glad that I did. The experience of the improv performance is secondary to the pleasure I received from my association with my fellow classmates. There were eight of us in the class from extremely diverse backgrounds that connected immediately and became a cohesive unit. I found myself looking forward to our weekly gatherings. As we got to know each other, we developed friendships outside of the classroom.

One thing became immediately apparent to me as I learned more about my fellow cast members. In comparison to the full, rich, lives that these people led, my life was very empty and sad. Somehow, I have lost my identity and no longer have a purpose to my existence. That sounds extreme, but it is very true. My contributions to conversation were about my kids, grandkids, and dog’s lives. There was very little to say about myself other than things I did in the past, not things I do now. I have become an observer of life and not a participant. I did not realize how low my self-esteem had plunged.

When we performed I always felt my contributions were less than those of my classmates. I hear their brilliance and my flaws. Even when I was complimented by another member of the cast or the instructor, I never really accepted it as more than them being nice. I brought my camera and took photos of the other performers for my Facebook, assuring I was never included. My daughter mentioned that fact and I joked about it, but the truth is that I have let myself go to the point that I hate to see my image in a mirror or photograph. I use self-deprecating humor to reinforce my low self-image. One of my new friends has tried her best to not allow me that defense mechanism. I thank you for that Lauren, even though I don’t always acknowledge it. When one of my posse publicly stated that she looked forward to doing a scene with me, my inappropriate reaction was one of utter disbelief, shock, and awe. Instead of accepting that honor as it was intended, I tried to rationalize and downplay it in my mind. Could anyone actually want to perform with me? Though it gave me the best feeling I have experienced in ages, I didn't really believe it.

I am so thankful that I took improv instead of creative writing. When I write, I can hide here in my writer's garret and never leave my comfort zone or my home. I am secure enough in my writing ability to never challenge myself. Getting onstage in front of others makes my heart race and I know I am alive. I regret that I did not take advantage of the support that my troupe offered me, trivializing their praise.

Our entire group has decided to continue on to the next level in our improv education. I am going to try to start with a new, positive, approach. With the support of my new, dear, friends, maybe I can get my verve on. There was a time in my life that I was confident almost to the point of being cocky. I am going to try to get that Rick back. I think everyone will like him better. I know I will.

Skooter's Audition Tape - 11/7/09

2009-11-07T00:43:00.000-08:00

55 Flash Fiction Friday - "Hesitation" - 11/6/09

2009-11-05T21:06:00.000-08:00

My Facebook friend, Lena, once again provided my prompt for G-Man's 55 Flash Fiction Friday. This week's prompt is hesitation.

At first it was barely noticeable.
A slight hesitation.
An uncertainty.
A moment of confusion.
He kept it to himself but knew that soon it would be obvious to everyone.
Worry furrowed his brow as he dressed for work.
He walked down the tunnel toward the symphony of zealots cheering the name on his back.

Laundromat - 11/1/09

2009-11-01T11:12:00.001-08:00

There is no rhyme or reason as to where my writing inspirations come from. It just happens, like shit. Today I felt compelled to talk about Laundromats.

Those of you who have always lived a privileged life will not be able to relate to this posting. This is a story written from the bottom of the economic food chain.
When I was very young we had an old type wringer washing machine. It was located outside of the log cabin that we lived in. Yes, a real log cabin, just like Abe. (No, I did not walk to school uphill both ways.) We didn’t have a dryer. My mother hung the clothes out to dry. As we lived in northern Idaho, there was a large portion of the year that neither the washing nor the drying was possible without ice becoming a factor in both activities. As a side note: line-drying generally gives the clothing a freshness. Not so much in Smelterville Idaho, where the air was toxic with lead refinery smoke.

When the weather made it impossible for outside laundry, my mother would take our dirty clothes to the Laundromat. And since my dad worked in the mine, they were truly “dirty” clothes. The Laundromat was my favorite place in the world. It was a white trash amusement park. It had vending machines that dispensed candy and soda pop as well as a machine labeled change, which dispensed quarters and dimes. Incredibly, in those days, dimes were useful. The dryers took dimes as did the candy and soda machines. Pinball machines also took dimes. Now they take debit cards. For those of you not familiar with dimes, they are worth more than a nickel but much smaller in size, go figure.

Prior to the establishment of Walmart, Laundromats were where kids were allowed to run amok. It was anarchy. They rode in and raced the laundry carts, roamed the facility checking coin returns for loose change, and alternated between screaming at the top of their lungs and begging their moms for money. (A dad would not have been caught dead in there. The only men in the Laundromat were single miners washing their work clothes) For some reason nearly every child came equipped with an openly runny nose, adding to their appeal.

Mom would not allow me to participate in any of those fun activities. She would give me a lecture on the drive to the Laundromat. It was the same every time. I would get a certain amount of candy/pop money and that was it. If I spent it quickly, I would not get any more. It was a firm belief of my mom’s that “money did not grow on trees.” (I was not allowed to play pinball. It was evil, like gambling) I was also not allowed to run "wild" like those other “motherless heathens.” I was to sit and color, draw, or read. Are you kidding me? I don’t think the other mothers thought I was well-behaved, I think they thought I was retarded or crippled (before handicapped). I was not even allowed to go look when one of the kids found a dead mouse while crawling around behind the dryers. In spite of all the restrictions, I loved the Laundromat.

I am at a good place in my life. I have a washer AND a dryer, both indoors. But I have a large, thick, blanket/comforter that is too large for my washing machine. When it begins to smell too much like Skooter, I take it to the Laundromat. The Laundromat has large capacity washers and dryers. (I assure you that dimes do not work in them) The first time I went, I loaded my blanket/comforter into the washer and while it was washing I went home to get my gun. The Laundromats of my youth have been replaced with places that one would come to should he wish to be robbed, acquire crack, or prostitutes. I haven’t had occasion to shoot my way out with my blanket/comforter yet, but I am prepared to do so. I also allow it to smell quite Skooterlike before I take it in for a wash. Usually, the morning after I wake up with a mouth full of dog shed.

55 Flash Fiction Friday - Distraction - 10/29/09

2009-10-29T19:05:00.000-07:00

This week's 55 Flash Fiction Friday offering uses the prompt "distraction" provided by Lena, a loyal reader. In fact, one of the only loyal readers that is not my daughter. I am doing something a little bit different this post. If you want to hear the piece read in the author's monotone voice, here it is.
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Distraction

He awoke in agony

Choked by the stench of expended gunpowder

His comrades lay motionless

He needed a distraction lest the pain would drive him mad

A pretty, barefoot, girl in a sundress

Her hair shining in the Carolina sun

Her smile beckoned him to her

When medics found him his lifeless face was smiling

Edward Jones - 10/26/09

2009-10-26T11:07:00.000-07:00

I have my meager IRA in an Edward Jones account. I have been with them for ten years or so. I have had no major issues with Edward Jones, though I have never met him. My financial advisor is Shaun Walsh. I like Shaun, he has an engaging personality. He is nice to me. I have no misconceptions. He is nice to me just like the girls at Hooters are nice to me. His amiability is proportionate to the size of my account just as the Hooters girl’s affinity is related to my tipping history. If I had a few million invested instead of a few thousand, he would be a friend with benefits.

My reason for this installment has nothing to do with Shaun; it is directed at that prick, Edward Jones. Like every other investor, my balance has shrunk drastically in the last couple of years. It is attempting a feeble comeback as of late, but I am still not back to my initial investment. I have lost thousands, where there are not too many thousands to lose. My complaint is that in this horribly uncertain market, Ed has elected to raise the fee for maintaining my account. What this says to me as an investor is that though all his clients are losing money hand over fist, Eddie is not willing to share that loss. He has picked this point in time to raise his profits at our expense. It is not a huge increase, but spread over millions of clients, it is significant. I do not know if all brokers are displaying this level of greed, but I expect as much. You might want to check your statements.

I have a new, more appropriate slogan for this economy: "Turning Dollars Into Cents."

55 Flash Fiction Friday - Necromancy - 10/22/09

2009-10-22T15:54:00.000-07:00

Each week G-Man of 55 Flash Fiction Friday challenges us to make sense using exactly 55 words. I put a bit of a twist on it this week. One of my loyal readers, Lena, selected the subject for my submission this week. She chose Necromancy of all things. I gave myself five minutes to come up with this, so it is not a masterpiece. I love taking requests.

He had an extraordinary capability.
He could transport himself into the arena of whatever genre of movie he viewed.
He had journeyed to Hogwarts and Tatooine, walked the Field of Dreams and the streets of Casablanca.
He avoided certain films.
He had no taste for necromancy.
No interest in seeing “Dead People all the time.”

I am Captain Patience - 10-19-09

2009-10-18T22:47:00.000-07:00

My kids call me Captain Patience. I believed this sarcastic nom de guerre of my perceived lack of tolerance was highly exaggerated. It is their contention that during their formative years, I was impatient with them while helping with their homework and other fatherly teachings. They contend that when I had determined that they should have mastered a lesson or task that instead of explaining in more detail that I would elevate the volume, intonation, and inflection of my voice. Josh gives an example of this as:

“what is 2 times 5?”
“2 times 5!!”
“‘WHAT THE HELL IS 2 TIMES 5!!!!”
“ WHAT IS #@*^*$@! 2 TIMES *!^*#$@ 5!!!!!!”

While my teaching methods may be controversial, all three of my kids excelled in school. But they did not often ask me to help with their homework.
Recently, an event happened that made me grateful that none of them were present to witness. It also caused me to consider that their designation of me as Captain Patience may be somewhat deserved.

There was a cassette tape stuck in the player in my SUV. It had been there for a number of years, as I had several years ago abandoned use of the cassette in favor of the CD and later the IPOD. The tape was probably melted into the deck from nine years of South Carolina heat and humidity. It would not eject and I totally forgot it was in there. Until..................

I went to crank the SUV one morning and the battery was dead. I jump-started it, and while driving around to charge the battery I noticed that the deck was attempting to eject the tape. The little motor was running continuously. Somehow, in the middle of the night, the deck had unilaterally decided to expel the tape. As the tape had become one with the deck, this attempt was unsuccessful but the deck refused to admit defeat and went into lock-down mode, thereby depleting my battery. This simply was unacceptable. Using a pair of needle nose pliers, I attempted to remove the tape from the player. This was no easy task as the tape had become one with the deck. I had to totally destroy the tape and remove it in pieces. To my chagrin, removal of the tape did not cause the mechanism to stop mechanizing.

This is the point at which my alter-ego, Captain Patience, took over. Using the same needle-nose pliers and large screwdriver, I destroyed the cassette deck. Did I mention it was a Bose system? I ripped out the circuit board and every moving part I could find. I totally gutted the entire system. Much of this handiwork was done at 60 miles per hour. Skooter moved to the back seat as he did not want to get hit by any schrapnel. I lost my radio presets, the digital display, and the clock, but to my amazement the radio continued to play and the ejection motor continued to function. (see clip below) It was possessed, but so was I.

By probing blindly and violently with the screwdriver, I finally killed it but I now have a gaping hole in my dashboard and I am limited to the radio station that it was set to. I have evidently lost the ability to tune. But it was totally worth it.

A friend, who is electronics savvy, later offered, “you should have just pulled and reinserted the fuse and it would have stopped and probably reset and not restarted.” He should not have said that to a superhero armed with a screwdriver and a pair of needle-nose.

55 Flash Fiction Friday -Amnesia - 10/15/09

2009-10-15T17:33:00.000-07:00

This is my weekly submission to G-Man's 55 Flash Fiction Friday. I write them on Thursday in case Friday doesn't come.

I have no recollection of who I am or how I got here.
Cameras flashing, people displaying curious hand signs.

I see my reflection, an odd looking little old man with wild eyes.
Who is this loud woman and unattractive youngsters accompanying me?

Evidently my name is ...............Ozzy, and I am the Prince of Darkness.

I have never set a woman on fire - 10/14/09

2009-10-14T09:24:00.000-07:00

I went golfing last week with a dear friend of nearly 30 years, Mike Sova. It was one of the most enjoyable golf days I can remember. I think I enjoy golf more now that I don’t play as often. The weather was spectacular. I played well (for me) though Mike is a much better player (younger) than I am. When he hits 3-wood and I totally nut a driver, we hit it about the same. We played with two other geezers, which assured I would not be last on the tee all day. I also saw my first baby blue heron. Amazing! But that is not what this post is about. It is about relationships.

As I chronicled in an earlier blog, (click here) I once set Mike on fire. I contend that cremation will test a relationship. The fact that we remained friends is a testament to the difference between men and women. I have never set a woman on fire, but in spite of that virtue, I have never maintained a relationship with one anywhere near as long as my friendship with Mike. Oh, there were small transgressions and isolated incidents of inconsideration, but nothing compared with setting someone on fire. I know that in India it is permissible to set one’s wife ablaze if she pisses you off. I just leave, or she does. Seems like an easier solution to a squabble and it doesn’t waste valuable gasoline.

Maybe I will log onto Eharmony.com and in my FREE personality profile state: Straight, overweight, nonsmoking male, 50s, with a poverty level income and no prospects, that has never incinerated a woman, seeks soul mate. That should create some buzz.

It is possible that Mike has maintained our friendship, looking for the right moment to ignite me or is just waiting for me to spontaneously combust. As they say: “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” Or in this case, hot. Or it could be that his reprisal is just to humiliate me on the golf course for the rest of my life. Anybody got a match?

The Dixie Classic Fair - 10/13/09

2009-10-13T08:50:00.000-07:00

This weekend I attended the Dixie Classic Fair in Winston-Salem with my daughter, Carly, son, Rick, his wife, Jennifer, and my three grandchildren. It is an amazing fair and we had a great day. I had no idea we would endure the intensity of a melanoma growing sun in Winston-Salem in the middle of October. I got quite a bit more sun than my dermatologist would recommend…..which is none.

One of my favorite things about a fair is the variety of food available that I would not, could not, order anywhere else. I love a real carnival corn dog and funnel cakes, washed down with fresh squeezed lemonade. I abandon any concern for hygiene standards. Don’t ask don’t tell. One joint even fashioned their funnel cakes into French fries, making it easier to eat while walking the fairgrounds. Novel idea.

Something they do here in the south that may not be a big hit in the health-conscious Pacific Northwest, is that they deep fat fry everything. Healthy food like broccoli and string beans. Fry ‘em. Candy bars, Oreos, and Twinkies. Not unhealthy enough. Let’s fry ‘em. One place even advertised fried butter. I am not a health nut, but WTF? Who thought of that?

I am in a place in my life where I have become an observer of life rather than a participant. The fair is the absolute best place to people watch. If you ever lack in self-confidence or have image problems, just go the fair. You will feel like Brangelina with a touch of Einstein. Note to woman weighing 4 bills: There is no place on your body that a piercing enhances your look. Please do not show them to me. I just ate a corn dog.

I am certain that every person who has ever punched out a relative on Jerry Springer was present at this fair. And I am certain that the people running the rides that we entrust our children to have all done hard time or were acquitted on a technicality.

Mountain people, who only come to town once a year, come to the fair. There is a booth there where the carny offers to guess a rube’s weight, age, or birth month (Like in The Jerk). Judging from the people I saw, it would be more interesting to guess their number of extra chromosomes, number of teeth, or which is higher, their IQ or the temperature. If they really wanted to make the game challenging, they would have the yokel guess who their daddy is. Kind of a Maury Povich twist on the game.

After I had put in the appropriate amount of grandpa time and the obligatory waving like a moron at the kids on carnival rides, I followed the sound of music to the stage where various bands played all day. I heard two really good local bands: Doug Davis and the Solid Citizens and Kavish. Both were very enjoyable. I left before the Pranksters took the stage. They were a Grateful Dead tribute band and since I would not cross the street to see the actual Dead, a fake version did not interest me at all. Of course the advantage of playing a 2 hour Grateful Dead set is that you only need to learn one song. They tend to go on forever. The Grateful Dead have given me a very graphic description. When I want to portray a very foul odor I say "smelled like Jerry Garcia's beard."

Adding to the excitement of the fair was the fact that Wake Forest was playing Maryland at the adjacent football field. It was homecoming for Wake, so they had scheduled one of the worst teams in the Atlantic Coast Conference to assure a victory. Is it me, or does the Wake Forest mascot look suspiciously like Ebenezer Scrooge? They call him the Demon Deacon. I have no idea what that is, but when he comes onto the field he is riding a motorcycle. Wake Forest is an amazing school. It is very small but very competitive against the huge schools on its ACC schedule. They have a beautiful football stadium.

This fair is by far the largest I have ever been to. But I knew I was out of my element when I realized there are people that can tell goats apart. There was a tractor pull that drew more of a crowd than several major league baseball teams. But the coup de grace was that there was a line to get into the vegetable displays. I will stand in a line for a funnel cake but not to look at a turnip. Even a prize winning one.

55 Flash Fiction Friday - Retribution - 10/8/09

2009-10-08T18:40:00.001-07:00

Each week G-Man of 55 Flash Fiction Friday entices us to compose a story using exactly 55 words. I challenge you to give it a try.

Timmy’s “step-dad” was drunk again. He could hear the blows, his mom’s pleadings. Tomorrow, dark glasses, makeup, and sleeves would cover the damage.

Cesar’s words: “neutered dog equals better dog.”
The monster would pass out soon.

Timmy made a practice swing with the 7-iron. He eyed the driver, smiling grimly. "Let the big dog eat".

55 Flash Fiction Friday - "No Intelligent Life Here" - 10/1/09

2009-10-01T09:07:00.000-07:00

Each week G-Man of 55 Flash Fiction Friday challenges us to write a piece using exactly 55 words. Not as easy as it seems. My first draft is usually about 90 words.

Off course.
Landed on uncharted planet.
Met by people all wearing identical drab clothing and the same vacant smile.
“We accept aliens with open arms. No one has to work. We have free everything. Our government will take care of you.”
He got back into his craft and flew directly into one of their suns.

Sunday Scribblings - "Cheese" - 9/27/09

2009-09-27T06:00:00.000-07:00

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is "Cheese". The first thing that came to mind was a video of my granddaughter Maris.

55 Flash Fiction Friday - The Rendezvous - 9/24/09

2009-09-24T17:34:00.000-07:00

Each week G-Man of 55 Flash Fiction Friday challenges us to tell a story using only 55 words. I highly recommend it.

They met online
Lived close by
Traded lies
And someone else’s photos
Innocent chat became suggestion
Innuendo became Cyber sex
Both were married
Without joy
Meeting planned
Discreet little bar
He got there early
Eyes adjusted to dark
Surveyed the scene hopefully
One recognizable woman
Too familiar
Oh No!!!!
What was his sister doing here?