3 Word Wednesday - Boy's Life - 2/13/08

Boy's Life

When young men get together
They don’t talk about the weather
They compare conquests they have had

They speak until swellheaded
Of girlfriends they have bedded
Exchanging lies that are really rather sad

With more than slight exaggeration
Confusing sex with masturbation
To imagined women they'll never know

If truth were to be known
They spend most their nights alone
With a lover that will never tell them no

Writer's Island - Changed - 2/12/08

I am a dinosaur. The world has changed around me and I have tried my best to stay the same. Some call me old school. I think it is more like old fool.

Although I have always known I was behind the times, it was never more evident than a few days ago when I went to a Best Buy with a friend. I often go to Best Buy, but I hardly ever venture into the bowels of the store. Luckily for me, the DVDs are right in front of the store.

This particular day we had to go back in the computer section, as my friend was looking to buy some hardware to make her computer wireless, or hairless, or something. As the computer tech conversed with her in computerese, what I heard was the same thing Charlie Brown hears when a teacher or parent talks: "wah wah wah wah wah" (I may have spelled that wrong). Soon tiring of feeling like a moron I roamed the store. I was confronted with items that I not only had no use for. I did not even know what they were. I am not talking about a few items. I am talking about aisles of merchandise. If a Best Buy store was designed with people like me in mind, it would be the size of a 7-11.
To say that technology has passed me by is an understatement. It has passed me by faster than a Corvette passing an Amish buggy.
My microwave and VCR still permanently flash 12:00, keeping me in a permanent Twilight Zone episode.


My son recently gave me his TIVO, as it was already obsolete to him. He had upgraded to the Time Warner Cable HD Digital Video Recorder, whatever in the hell that is. Whatever it is, it has superseded a technology that I didn’t even have yet. I hooked it up and I can play the programs that he had already recorded but there is no hope of ever recording any of my own. The instructions are only slightly less technical than those to disarm a bomb, and no less tedious. The TIVO has a bright future as a dust magnet and may soon be featured on EBAY.

I do own a cell phone, but resisted it for years. I am certain that there are Bushmen in the Kalahari that had cell phones before I did and probably more bars than I have in South Carolina. My son has an I Phone, which does everything except perform fellatio. I think that feature is available as an add-on. My phone has a piece of tape holding the battery compartment closed.


It is not only the changes in technology that confuse and irritate me. It is the 21st Century life in general. I think it was Ben Franklin who once said: “Believe half of what you see and none of what you hear.” He was way ahead of his time. With programs like Photoshop and airbrushing, I can’t believe anything I see.



I have to run anything I read through Snopes to authenticate it and who’s to say Snopes is not corrupted.

I love sports, but with steroid abuse, referees and umpires on the Mob payroll, and cheating scandals, I have no faith that results or records are not tainted.


The changes in our lives resulting from the attacks on 911 are too numerous to discuss here but one that has affected me personally is that air travel is no longer enjoyable. It never was never really a pleasurable experience, but know it is downright unfun. Gone are the days of arriving at the airport 20 minutes before flight time, curbside check in, and casually walking to your departure gate.

Now I have to be sure to wear my good socks since my shoes will definitely be coming off. I want us to be safe, but until there is a documented case of a fat, 55 year old blonde haired, blue eyed, pasty skinned, man involved in air piracy, let me keep my damned shoes on.

I am so tired of our politically correct existence. I am fat. I am not gravitationally challenged or horizontally skewed. A janitor is a janitor. He is no type of engineer. It is a noble job but no one goes to MIT and gets a degree in custodial services.


And don’t get me started on press 1 for English.


I watched the Grammy Awards and it is my learned opinion that today’s music sucks. We have to worry about: global warming and dirty bombs.
Sport sex has horrible consequences making it not worth the trouble.


You have to shred your trash to keep someone from stealing your identity. Anyone who would want mine is a sad case indeed.

Kids can’t just go outside and play. They have to be watched every minute and equipped with tracking devices. Everyone from the clergy to educators are potential pedophiles.

This has really turned into a rant. I guess the bottom line is that I was born in the wrong generation. I would have been more at home typing this on an Olivetti.

Monday Poetry Train - Self-Inflicted Wound - 2/11/08

I generally only have enough inspiration for one blog a week, at best. A couple of readers have inspired me to write more. You know who you are. I am not much of a poet. It requires more organized thought than I can muster. But this will have to do.



SELF-INFLICTED WOUND

DID SHE WHISPER, "I LOVE YOU"
AS I HELD HER OH SO TIGHT
OR WAS IT JUST MY LOVE FOR HER
REFLECTED IN THE NIGHT

DID IT COME FROM HER LIPS
OR WAS IT NEVER SAID
DID IT COME FROM HER HEART
OR WAS IT JUST INSIDE MY HEAD

SOMETHING PASSED BETWEEN US
OR AT LEAST IT PASSED THROUGH ME
LOVE I'VE NEVER FELT BEFORE
AND NEVER THOUGHT COULD BE

BUT AM I TRULY IN HER HEART
OR IS SHE JUST IN MINE
FOR LOVE THAT IS NOT SHARED
IS THE MOST PAINFUL KIND

Sunday Scribblings - Fridge Space - 2/10/08

The prompt “fridge space” had me totally baffled at first, but as usual a night’s sleep on the topic extruded an idea:

I decided I would write about something totally Americana: refrigerator art. Oh, I know that other countries probably understand and have embraced the concept of magnets and attach items to the front of their fridges. That concept, in itself, is not indigenous to America.

But, in my travels, I have found that most of the world’s refrigerators are not large enough to truly display all the elements of a person’s entire existence. I have owned standard German, Italian, and English refrigerators. Not only can none of these hold a gallon of milk or a 2-liter Coke, there is scant space on the door or sides for proper display. You will probably note that Canadians have American-sized appliances. I cannot dispute that, but a huge freezer in the garage containing an entire moose lacks the convenience of a simple kitchen display, as discussed here. And Canadians have the option of just placing their frozen foods outside their window for safekeeping. OK, I am done Canadian bashing. At least for this post.

This weeks offering is a photo study. I have included photos of the refrigerators of friends and family. I believe that you can learn a lot about a person by what is displayed on their refrigerator. With each I will include a short narrative. I will start with mine:

My particular refrigerator door is rather austere and barren, pretty much like the contents. When my kids were growing up, it contained their art, report cards, photos, notes, appointments, youth sports schedules, and anything else that warranted display or quick reference. So much so that every time someone entered the refrigerator they would have to retrieve and reaffix items that had fallen to the floor. And with three children, that door opened and closed often and sometimes violently. I always found it interesting that even though we know the exact contents of our refrigerator at all times; we still find it necessary to have a look-see every so often. Maybe someone broke in and added something since our last visit 20 minutes ago. I have never had one of those 25 cubic foot behemoths that are found in many American kitchens these days. What a wonderful canvas for fridge art that would be. Heck, my entire kitchen might not be 25 cubic feet.

Since my kids are grown and long gone and my grandkids do not live close enough to drop by with object d’art, my refrigerator door has become quite utilitarian. It includes the most important people in my life: my dentist, massage therapist, and stockbroker. Plus, anything that I happen to find that is magnetic generally finds its way there. I have several magnetic hooks that immediately fall to the floor if you place anything heavier than air upon them. So they remain empty, but ready. I have a magnetic photo of my favorite breed of dog, the dachshund. I have a crest of Nottingham England, one of my favorite cities in the world. I am sure a future blog will relate why that is. Perhaps a Sunday Scribblings prompt of Robin Hood, Sherwood Forest, or favorite cities on the River Leen will elicit such a blog. You might think that my fridge display is very sad compared to those below but please consider that all the others pictured have a woman involved. I believe that women are much more proficient at refrigerator art.

This refrigerator belongs to my oldest son, Rick, and his wife Jennifer. My granddaughter, Maris is nearly 4. She loves playing with the numbers and letters. I can only assume they spelled out Gators because they did not have enough e's to spell Yankees. That is a private joke. I am certain that when my kids were growing up we could not have had letters like these on the fridge as they would end up as profanity. I don't think I could have resisted. You thought I meant the kids, didn't you?


This is the fridge of my blog friend Lucy. I think she cleaned it up nice and tidy before she took the photo for me. She is obviously a mom. I love the South Park characters and the hat on the dog on top. I would definitely play golf in that hat.

This is my daughter Carly's fridge. She is the single mom of my grandson, Carson, who is just turning 4 and is a total handfull. She is the best mom I know. As you can see there is no time in her life for arranging her display neatly. I don't think that fridge space should be neatly arranged. It is more interesting when it is just a hodgepodge. This shows a nice mixture of Carson's priceless artwork and their mother-son memories captured in photos for all-time. Carson has obviously not yet learned to arrange the letters into profanity. I will work with him.



This is the fridge of my friend Judy. She is obviously a grandma. She also was the only one of my sample size that utilized all three available walls of her fridge.

This is the refrigerator of my Vemma friend Sharon. The only thing obvious here is that Sharon does not cook much. Lots of take-out menus. No recipes here. My kind of woman.

This is the fridge of my daughter's friend and co-worker Katie. I do not know much about Katie, other than that she is beautiful. Carson and I both think so. He is 25 years too young and I am 25 years too old. This fridge space reveals a very busy young woman and I appreciate her taking the time to submit her photo to my collection. What you cannot see clearly in the photo is that the schedule shown is a workout schedule. I am certain that is one item that will never appear on mine.

I have saved the best for last. This is the refrigerator of my son Josh and his wife Tia. They have no children, but are aunt and uncle to many, some not blood relatives. As you can see, they share my love of dogs. This is what a fridge space should look like. God bless America.
If you have a fridge that you would like me to include in my photo array, email it to me and I will do so.

This is a late addition from my ebay friend Dar. Her fridge is definitely eclectic. She is definitely a Penn State football fan. I hope those magnets haven't been there since Penn State was good. She has a definite nautical theme. I find it interesting that she needs two calendars. I guess it is important to get a second opinion. Is that a classic Lucy picture?

I was so happy that another of our Sunday Scribblings community, Sherrie, submitted her fridge space to me because it meant I no longer had the only dark fridge. She explained to me that since her daughter had grown and flown the coop, sadly there is no children's art to decorate with. She would probably have a bare door but her dear friend and artist, Violette, gives her magnets that she cherishes and displays proudly. Like me, she afixes whatever magnets businesses give her, including an emergency pizza magnet. We all need that.

Another addition sent to me by, Dana, one of my Canadian blogger friends. At least they are not all upset with my Canadian comments. She has obviously sliced her moose into smaller packages that will fit in a domestic refrigerator. By her door, you can see she is definitely a mom. Southpark and Sponge Bob. Lots of kids and pet photos. This is a great fridge and a wonderful addition to my collection. Keep them coming.

Sunday Scribbling - "Foul" - 2/3/08

When I read the prompt, “foul,” I knew it was something I could really sink my teeth into. Several ideas came to mind but I knew there was one story that needed telling. I think you will agree that the following experience graphically defines the adjective “foul”. I only hope my description adequately paints the picture.

Four of us were heading back to England from Paris. I was the driver with my ex-wife, Dawn, Mitch Voiers, and his wife, Pat, as passengers. We had just had a great lunch in Paris and were driving to Calais to catch an evening hydrofoil to Dover.


Since we had time to spare and Calais is only about a three-hour drive from Paris, we decided to venture off the main highway and take a more rural road that I saw on the map. I did not know that secondary roads in northern France are not of the same quality as secondary roads in developed countries. We suddenly found ourselves on a single lane farm road through fields of stuff growing. My agricultural knowledge allows me to identify corn and cotton. Anything else is just stuff growing. Dawn and Pat were quick to point out that some of the fields were lavender. I still don't know how they knew that. Women and their plants.




It was actually quite pretty driving through endless green, lavender, and gold fields on a bright sunny day, until ……………..



We soon came upon a tractor pulling a trailer with a huge tank on it that appeared to be spraying something onto the crops. We had noticed the sweet notes of lavender were soon replaced by an odd aroma, but at 50 miles an hour it had not become too offensive. Often unknown scents emitted from Mitch, but he was usually quick to claim them. As we found ourselves slowing to a speed that didn’t even move the needle on my speedometer and directly behind the trailer, the stench became much more prevalent. Mitch was the first to identify the trailer as a “honey wagon.” We were trapped behind a machine that was spraying human excrement on the shit growing. At that point, the crop had been reduced in my mind from stuff growing to shit growing.


There was no room to turn around, as there were drainage ditches on both sides of the narrow road. I was willing to sacrifice my car's suspension to get away from this unholy farm implement, but when I looked behind I realized there was a nearly identical “honey wagon” about half a mile behind us closing fast as I had stopped to put space between us and Pepe Le Pu (what I later appropriately named the driver).



To make matters worse, Mitch (who I found out had even a weaker stomach than I do) began to add a spew of vomit to the shit cocktail that was being applied to whatever was being cultivated next to the road. This resulted in an epidemic of hurl. I was next and I can tell you that boudin blanc, Bordeaux, and Brie do not taste nearly as fine exiting. The girls lasted the longest as they had a stronger constitution from changing countless fetid diapers. But not even the most ill fed infant could process anything to compare with the toxic environment we found ourselves trapped in, and they soon joined us in the barf-o-rama.

So we became some sort of sad, three vehicle, body waste ejaculating parade for what seemed like hours. I stayed far enough back from the trailer to avoid the spray, but that was little help. The drivers of the tractors were wearing some sort of gas mask/breathing apparatus, probably left by the Germans from one of the world wars as they marched through France. The Germans had a much easier road than us four Americans on vacation. I would have traded my car straight up for one of those masks. If they worked against mustard gas, there was an outside chance they would help against the fumes we were breathing.

We tried rolling up the windows between throw-ups, but that made it even worse as the tiny breeze that five miles per hour generated felt like an ocean zephyr. Once there was a place I thought large enough to pass but that would mean the jets of fertilizer issuing from the tank trailer would spray the car and they probably would not have let us on the ferry. We finally came upon a crossroad and took a right not caring where this road went. Luckily it did return to the main motorway.



I drove at an incredibly high speed trying unsuccessfully to outrun the stench. Had we gotten pulled over, I don’t think a Gendarmerie would have approached the vehicle. Had they just opened fire on us I think it would have been welcomed by the four of us.

We eventually found our way to Calais and onto the hydrofoil. One thing about our condition was that any seasickness encountered would not have been able to produce a drop of sick from any of us.


I have never returned to France. I also wash all produce thoroughly as I have since learned this is a common practice in North America too.