Sunday Scribblings - "Money" 11/4/07

The subject this week of “money” brought to mind events in my life where legal tender was painfully hard to come by. I take you back to a simpler time:

When I was a child I could be very happy with a dime. It provided me with many options. Among other things, I could choose between ten pieces of penny candy, two cokes, two big assed Hershey bars (twice the size of the standard Hershey bar today), or a game of pinball. Any combination of which were very satisfying to me. With a quarter I could have a world-class sugar high (unknown in those days) and the beginnings of life-long dental issues.


In 1972, I purchased my first “new” car. My dad had instilled in me the importance of a warrantee, so I set out to find the cheapest car with a warrantee, meaning it had to be a new car. I checked out the Chevy Vega, Ford Pinto, and Volkswagen Beetle, but the cheapest I could find was an AMC Gremlin, $1, 400 bucks. Stop laughing. It was bright red with white stripes and so ugly it was cute. Kind of like a Pug breed of dog. The only car actually less attractive than the Gremlin was also made my American Motors some time later. It was the Pacer, which looked like some sort of perverted fish bowl. Thankfully, I never owned one of them. Early on, I loved that Gremlin. If you closed one eye and squinted, it actually looked sporty. However, you will notice the photo of the Gremlin I included in this blog pictures it with the hood up. That is an accurate depiction of my Gremlin. I actually had a Gremlin-X. I came to find out that the X stood for Xtremely Shitty Car. When I bought the Gremlin I was working for the Bunker Hill Company making well over $3.00 an hour (huge money for a nineteen year old in 1972. I was a carefree, single guy with a "hot" ride. Luckily, girls in Kellogg, Idaho in 1972 were a little like Amish girls, they would ride in anything that had a radio. All that came to a screeching halt when I received my induction notice and joined the Air Force, found out my girlfriend was pregnant, and got married, all in a matter of months. My payments were $38 a month and there were a few months that my dad made the payment for me. Plus, the day after the coveted warrantee expired the car self-destructed and I gave it to my dad for liquidation. I have owned and forgotten a lot of cars but even in my current state of dementia, will always remember that first new car. Plus, any time Hollywood wants to portray a character as a real dork, you can bet your ass he will be driving a Gremlin or Pacer. The international symbol for loser. Thanks a lot, Paramount.

When I was a twenty-year-old enlisted man in the Air Force living in Denver with a wife and baby, money was nonexistent. I remember that the $100 a month rent on our small apartment took up the majority of my monthly pay leaving very little for such extravagances as food. We sometimes collected soda bottles (yes, they were worth money then) to return for deposit in order to purchase baby formula. We would often invite single friends from the barracks over for a home cooked meal, providing they brought the food. A special treat for us was to go to Arby’s for a roast beef sandwich. Boy, did that sandwich taste good. No fast food is nearly as satisfying these days. I have visited Arby’s later in life but could never duplicate the joy. I don’t think Arby’s has changed, I think I have. I have become so accustomed to having what I want, when I want it, that there is no sense of a “treat”.



I was once an avid and competitive bowler. When our financial back was against the wall it would be agreed, reluctantly, that I would take our last five dollars and enter a bowling tournament. You can’t imagine the pressure when my wife and baby were seated behind the lanes, their livelihood depending on my scant talent. Whether it was providence or not, each time that this occurred I placed high enough to generate income. Even though I look back on this as foolish and risky, it often allowed us to purchase some necessities of life. I have never experienced greater pride than holding out the $50 or $75 that I won to my wife. Then we were off on a shopping spree for milk, bread, Dinty Moore Beef Stew, and TV dinners.



If you are looking for where this is all going, you have obviously not read any of my previous blogs. I think what I am clumsily trying to say is that some of my most memorable times were when money was in scant supply but my austere life brought great joy and appreciation. For the current, jaded, me, true delight is the scarce commodity.

Happy Halloween

Here is an original poem for Halloween (ok, I am not Poe)


The night of moonless solitude
Crept in a foggy haze
Darkness amplifies lonely footsteps
Escaping from the maze

Killers lurk in concrete caves
Waiting for their prey
They tear the flesh from passersby
And disappear with the day

None will see and live to tell
Of the terrors of the night
And investigators find mangled bones
As evidence of their plight

Sunday, October 27, Sunday Scribblings - Hospital

I have been submitting to Sunday Scribblings sporadically for about seven months and it has occurred to me that most of my ramblings have been very superficial and reveal very little of myself. While most of the other writers in this community take themselves and their writing very seriously, I have often trivialized the prompts and made light of whatever topic was presented. As a result, those few that read my ramblings have probably formed an opinion that I never have a serious thought. My first instinct with the prompt “hospital” was to follow my modus operandi and provide humorous anecdotes about bedpans, nurses trying, unsuccessfully, to find a vein for an IV, paper gowns, and sharing a semi-private room with a corpse. But that would have been an untruth. The first thought invoked by the prompt “hospital” follows:


My mother died in November of 1986. I was not there. I was serving overseas in the Air Force and by the time the Red Cross contacted me it was too late to come home. My father did not know to contact the Red Cross to notify me and he did not know how to make an international call. We were not the kind of family that frequently kept in touch. Communication was primarily through letters, so there was no indication that anything was wrong in Idaho. She had already been cremated by the time I was notified. I spoke to my dad and he indicated that he was fine, though I knew he wasn’t. I was a single dad with three kids who had recently survived a divorce and an immediate uprooting to a foreign country. Dad knew that my place was with them and there was no point in returning home after the fact.


In March of 1989, I was still in Europe, and received notification that my Dad was in the hospital and that his life expectancy was in the hours, not days. He was in the final stages of cancer that was so far advanced by the time he sought medical treatment, that there was none available. I left my kids with friends and immediately flew home.


When I arrived at the hospital I did not recognize the figure that they told me was my dad. He had not been a large man, but he worked in the mines for 35 years and was very strong with powerful arms and a grip that could put me on my knees. He now weighed less than 100 pounds and consisted of skin stretched across a skeleton. I am not even certain that he knew I was there. All I could do was hold his hand, put ice chips to his parched lips, a cool washrag on his forehead, and talk to him. I probably said more to him in those few hours than I had in my life. Let me explain. When I was young my mom did most of the communicating. When I reached my teens, I didn’t communicate at all with my parents. I thought I knew so much more than them, what was the point? Then I left home, went to college, got married, joined the Air Force, and never came back, other than for short visits. So my dad and I never got to know each other as adults. The man that I was trying to comfort during his last breaths was a stranger to me.


That hospital room, silent but for dad’s labored breath and my soft words to him, became a time machine. I was transported back to my youth, to our youth. The times we went fishing, watching the Friday Night Fights, the times there were presents under the tree that dad could ill afford, our late night raids on the kitchen after mom had retired to bed, going bowling, playing catch. It all came back to me in a flood. This was both my first first-hand experience with death and my first realization of who this man really was. For my entire life, I had taken both him and life for granted.


The doctor came in, said dad seemed stable, and told me that I might as well go home and get some rest and come back in the morning. I tried to insist that I would stay but he convinced me to go since I had been up for who knew how many hours, including a flight from Germany to Spokane. I had been at home for about an hour when the hospital called and said dad was gone. The nurse said that it seemed he was just waiting for me to get home.


Back at the house I grew up in, I sat in the recliner that dad had spent the best part of the time since mom died. There was a stack of papers on the end table. I picked them up and looked through them. There were newspaper clippings, both from my baseball days and from my military career. But the one thing that caught my eye was a Christmas card that I had given my parents when I was a teen. I had written a little poem entitled to my parents:
There’s a lot of things I should do, that I don’t
And a lot of things I could do that I won’t
There’s a lot of things I shouldn’t that I do
And a lot more things I should, than I do for you

Those four lines capsulize my life about as accurately as anything I could say here. Those of you who expected my usual “writing with a smirk” will be disappointed greatly, particularly Lucy. I should be back on form next Sunday.


Postscript: I carried my parent’s ashes with me for about ten years, not really knowing what to do with them. The containers began to leak so I had to make a decision. I was living in Wyoming at the time and carried them to a beautiful and unique place where I dumped them into a river that disappears underground (see website). Neither of them had ever been there and we had no connection with the area. It just seemed like a nice place. I had actually inquired about spreading dad’s ashes on the mound at our beloved Yankee Stadium, but found it was against city ordinance.

http://www.windrivercountry.com/lander/sinkscanyonstatepark.html
S

It Is Good To Be King - Sunday Scribblings 10/21/07

I don’t aspire to be King of the World, just the USA. I would initiate the following laws for my Kingdom:


All Education And Commerce Will Be Conducted In English. Failure to Speak English: Immediate Deportation To Country That Speaks Your Language.
Tax Structure Will Guarantee That Educators, Military, and Police Will Be Paid More Than Any Professional Athlete or Entertainer.
All Employment Includes Child Care and Medical Care. Supplemented By Taxes Raised From Entertainers and Athletes.
Winning The Lottery And Keeping Janitor Job: Money Will Be Redistributed.
Littering/Graffiti: Death Penalty





You Can Bury Loved Ones On Your Own Property In Whatever Container You Wish.
You Can Sell Body Parts On Ebay.



If You Come In Contact With a Military Man/Woman In Uniform It is Mandatory To Shake Their Hand And Thank Them For Their Service. Failure To Do So Will Result In The Offender Immediately Trading Jobs With The Soldier..
There Will Be No Welfare Until There Are No Help Wanted Signs in the Kingdom. Failure Of Able-Bodied Citizen To Work (Unless Self-Sufficient): Deportation To Socialist Country Such As England Or Canada


Not Signaling for Any Maneuver That Causes Your Auto To Leave Your Lane: Death Penalty
Driving 20 MPH Under The Speed Limit: Death Penalty
Talking on Cell Phone While Driving (Not Hands Free): Death Penalty
Talking on Cell Phone While Serving Customers: Death Penalty
Talking on Cell Phone While Being Served: Death Penalty
Text Messaging While Driving: Death Penalty
Sending me a Text Message: Ass-kicking followed by Death Penalty



National Anthem Will Be Changed To “God Bless the USA by Lee Greenwood”
Failure to Stand During National Anthem: Deportation To Country Of Your Choice
All Indian Reservations Will Be Closed and Native Americans Given Same Advantages and Requirements As Other Americans (I don’t care what happened prior to my reign)
Citizenship Is Not Automatic By Birth. All Prospective Citizens (Including Immigrants)
Must Perform 2 Years Community Service Prior To Being Awarded Citizenship. Can Be Military Service, Planting Trees, Picking Up Litter On Highway, Building Roads, etc.
All Citizens Will Be Referred To As Americans. Any Reference to Native American, African American, Italian American, etc Will Result In Citizenship Being Revoked and Deportation To Country Person Identifies With (Native Americans Will Return To Reservation Without Casinos)



Uttering The Phrases “That’s How I Roll”, “Keeping It Real”, “Slippery Slope” Or “Whatever”: Death Penalty
Blaming Anyone Other Than Yourself For Any Transgression: Death Penalty
Drinking And Driving Will Not Be An Offense But Anyone Causing Harm To Person Or Property While Intoxicated: Death Penalty (Do You Want To Take A Chance?)
All Children Will Wear Uniforms To School. Social Class Will Not Be An Obstacle To Learning.
Televising WNBA, Major League Soccer, or Billiards: Network Taken Over By State. Programming Changed To “All Seinfeld, All The Time”
Smoking In Restaurant: Death Penalty




Parent Yelling Criticism From Stands At Any Youth Sporting Event: Public Flogging
Middle Aged Man With a Comb-Over Or Pony Tail: Immediate Government Imposed Head Shave
Initiating Frivolous Lawsuit: Death Penalty
Currency Will Feature Likeness of Albert Einstein, Mark Twain, Elvis, and Walt Disney.
Shoplifting/Stealing: Death Penalty
Selling or Distributing Drugs To Children: Death Penalty
Abusing a Domestic Animal (Cat or Dog): Death Penalty Abusing Any Animal: Depends on the Species of the Animal


Wearing a Thong or Speedo in Public (body fat over 20%): Death Penalty
Wearing Low-Rider Jeans with stomach showing (body fat over 20%): Death Penalty
Keeping Your Seat on Public Transportation When Senior Citizen is Standing: Death Penalty Parents Who Raised You Can Be Prosecuted Too.
Total Religious Freedom Will Exist, However If You Harm Another Citizen or Destroy Property In the Name of Your Religion It Will Immediately Be Abolished.
Trying to Convert Someone to Your Religion: Must Attend Diversity Seminar
White Men Dancing: Death Penalty
Performing Karaoke of any song from the “Grease” Soundtrack or “Paradise By The Dashboard Lights:” Death Penalty



Any Television Program Broadcasting An Image of Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, or Rosie O’Donnell (List to Be Modified At My Discretion) Will Be Immediately Replaced With Seinfeld Re-Runs.
Living In America and Continually Talking About How Wonderful Your Home Country Is: Immediate Deportation To That Wonderful Country
Living On A Golf Course and Not Playing Golf: Death Penalty
Deadbeat Dads or Moms: Death Penalty
All Law Schools Will Be Closed Until It is Determined That We Need More Lawyers
Taking an Unapproved Photograph Of Any Other Citizen Regardless Of Level Of Celebrity: Death Penalty



Kidnap, Rape, Armed Robbery, Crimes Against Children: Death Penalty
Celebrity Expressing Political Opinion: Bad Review Followed By Death Penalty
Allowing Children To Scream and Misbehave in Restaurant, Movie Theater, Wal-Mart, or any Public Place: Children Put Up For Adoption, Parents Sterilized
A Training Program and License Is Required To Be a Parent. Violation: Children Put Up For Adoption, Parents Sterilized.
We Will Discontinue Trade With Canada As They Have Nothing We Want.


Legalization, Regulation, and Taxation of: Prostitution and Marijuana.

Abolishing Of All Seatbelt, Helmet, and any other laws written to protect us from ourselves.

Writing - Sunday Scribblings 9/9/07

Eye kin rite real good and rely wood like sum day two right too urn a lifting 4 pee pole eye loft. Aye kin some times half a tuff thyme wit my grandma an languish. That is y eye all ways use the spell Czech feet sure too prove reed my righting. Eye wreck o mend it two awl wood bee Arthur’s off pros. N fact eye used it hear.

Dear Diary- Sunday Scribblings 8/19/07

I don’t think most men keep diaries because we are not certain whether or not they are admissible in court. Putting my innermost feelings, fantasies, and desires down on paper is a bit threatening to me. That is one reason I have never sought a counselor or therapist though I am probably in dire need of one. Trust someone with my most private thoughts? Not bloody likely!! Writing this little blog gives as much insight into me as I am comfortable revealing to anyone. There is only one person on this planet that knows pretty much everything about me and she knows who she is. I do take comfort in not having to keep any secrets from her. The amazing thing is that with all that knowledge she still hangs around. Maybe she is ghostwriting my diary.

I recently heard a couple of great quotes on this subject that I found interesting. I do not know whom to credit but: the first is: “Only good boys keep diaries, bad boys don’t have time.” I don’t think of myself as a bad boy at all but I am definitely not a good enough boy to leave a paper trail. It is also my experience that most women have no use for a really good boy. The second is “Real men don't keep diaries, they write journals.” I do neither. Regardless what you call it, it is documented evidence. On a positive note, if I ever chose to keep a diary (I am confident enough in my masculinity to call it that), my handwriting is so bad that not even forensic scientists could decipher it. There is much better penmanship on cave walls. I have been told that I have the handwriting of a serial killer. Another good reason for not keeping a diary. Don’t you think?

Goosebumps - Sunday Scribblings 8/12/07

This week’s prompt was a no-brainer for me. While there have been several events in my life that when recalled can create goosebumps, only one raises them the size of small tumors.

First, I must declare that I am a well-educated and rational person (some who know me would disagree with rational in many cases, but I am claiming rationality for the purpose of this subject). Maybe skeptical would be a more accurate description of me.

When I was living in England in the early 90s, an English lady friend of mine was acquainted with a “renowned” medium. She lived near the coastal town of Great Yarmouth. It was a good hours drive from my home near Cambridge to the Norfolk Coast but my friend assured me it would be well worth it. This particular clairvoyant was evidently not easy to get a reading from as she held a high position in the pecking order of psychics. She even claimed to work as a consultant to local police and even Scotland Yard in helping to close unsolved crimes. Though I seriously doubt that either law enforcement agency actually admits to using parapsychology as an investigative method. (From what I understand that type of activity is limited to the Phoenix Arizona District Attorney’s Office.) It is common knowledge that any paranormal activity happening in England automatically gains credibility. The occult runs rampant in the British Isles. Lets face it, there are a lot more dead people in England than in the fairly infant United States. And apparently, many of them don’t know they are dead. But I digress, as usual.


Anyway, though skeptical, I agreed to have a reading. I arrived with a totally closed mind, using the hour drive to plan my strategy of providing no useful information to the medium. I would display the stoic face of a Texas Hold’em champion and answer any questions with curt yes and no answers. I was told to bring a personal item with me from which the psychic would feel my energy and emotion. I chose a ring that belonged to my late mother. So, I went in with absolute certainty that this reading was all hokum.

OK, we have come to the part where the goosebumps appear every time I think about the time that I spent with this witch. Not just goosebumps, but the hair on the back of my neck gets a life of its own. She allowed me to bring a cassette tape to record the entire session. I brought a one-hour tape and the reading lasted much longer than that, so I did not capture it all.

She began by taking both my hands in hers and examining my aura. Then she asked me to produce the personal item and hold it in my right hand without showing it to her. I cleverly reached in my pocket, concealing it in my already sweaty palm. She said, “Your mother’s ring is an excellent choice. She loves sapphire.” She made a point of using the present tense even though mom had been dead about 5 years. That subtle point did not go unnoticed. She put both her hands over my outstretched, closed fist, and the ring actually heated up in my hand. Not just warm from being in my sweaty fist, hot like Arizona.

Then she proceeded to talk about events and people in my life (by name) that no one could possibly know. I didn’t get the opportunity to use my poker face because my mouth remained wide open throughout. Nor did I get the chance to use my curt answer plan as she asked me no questions. She already knew everything. I am glad I did not have a full bladder.

As if I was not already primed to join her fan club, she sent me home with a final proclamation from my dad, then dead 2 years or so. This is the part that raises goosebumps on top of gooseflesh.

“Your dad said you could have at least gotten the watch fixed. There will come a time when you will have to because the one you are wearing will stop working.”

That simple statement really didn’t mean much at the time because my head was reeling from the information overload she had provided me. But on the way home I had time to think about her closing remarks. A year before I was on vacation in Miami and went into the ocean without removing the watch I was wearing. A gold Hamilton watch that my dad was awarded at his retirement for 35 years of service to the Bunker Hill Company, of Kellogg, Idaho. When I realized I still had it on, it was too late. The crystal was full of seawater. Upon arriving home I put it in a drawer in my bedroom and began wearing the watch I was wearing during the session. I forgot about it entirely but after she mentioned it I took it out and opened it up. It was severely corroded (a year of whatever seawater does to metal). I put it back in the drawer. It was a total loss. I was certain it could not be repaired. Again, I forgot about the watch.

A few years later, I was living in Riverton, Wyoming. I woke up in the middle of the night and looked at the illuminated dial of my watch. It was stopped. I went to the drawer and pulled dad’s watch out. It was funny, but I was not surprised that it was running. The second hand made a couple of revolutions and then stopped dead. I took it into the jeweler the very next day. He said that he could repair it but had to order some parts and it would take a while. He said it was impossible that it had been running at all as severely corroded as it was. It was totally seized up. I did not argue, though I knew better.

A few months later, since I had not heard from him, I went back to the shop to check on the status of the watch. The jeweler had retired and the guy running the shop could not find the watch or any record that I had actually brought it in. I would never regain possession of the watch. He had no reason to lie about it as in a store full of diamonds and gold, a $300 watch is of little consequence. I do not believe I was meant to have it.

I still do not believe in the legitimacy of most mediums, psychics, or clairvoyants, but I know the lady in Great Yarmouth was the real deal. By the way, during the hour I spent writing this I shuddered several times and there is a constant drip of perspiration running between my shoulder blades.

If you don't buy this story I will not bother with my UFO encounter.

Decision - Sunday Scribblings 8/5/07

I made the decision last week to not submit a blog to the Phenomenon prompt. Nothing came easily to mind, and I am much too lazy to put forth any real effort. I see I was not alone as “Phenomenon” received the fewest submissions in weeks. This week’s prompt elicited from me two responses. The first one is this paragraph explaining last week’s failure and the second follows.

I love to go to the movies. As with most of my life, I never plan a trip to the cinema, nor do I generally hanker to see a particular film. I make the decision of which movie to see by a very complicated process. I drive to the theater. As I near the ticket counter I check the time and whatever film is do to start is the one for which I purchase a seat. If there is absolutely nothing of interest beginning soon I leave and go do something else. I will make a decision if two films are starting at approximately the same time. I will pick the one that looks most interesting.


Yesterday, I got off work early but there was an accident that causes a huge traffic jam on my way home. Since I work very close to a mall that houses a very nice multiplex, I elected to spend my time in a reclining seat being entertained as opposed to sitting in traffic being enraged. My two choices were “The Simpson Movie” and “Hairspray.” I have never been a Simpson fan, probably have seen portions of a half dozen episodes in the past 100 years it has been on TV. I am not sure why I have no interest in that show when I love “Family Guy”, “King of the Hill”, and other programs of that genre. I selected “Hairspray” and I could not have made a better decision. It is the most fun I have had in a movie since “Borat”. I am not saying it is the best film I have seen, but for entertainment value it ranks very high. I was the only single male in the audience filled with women and couples. I am certain they thought I was the most unattractive gay man they had ever encountered. Not that there is anything wrong with that.


I will not try to explain the storyline here but I will say that the cast is wonderful, the music is lively, and I expect some award nominations. To begin with, any time Christopher Walkin is in front of the camera, it is worth watching for me. “We need more cowbell” is still my favorite skit ever on Saturday Night Live. But to see him sing and dance was priceless. John Travolta in drag was a bit frightening but you knew at one point he would be dancing and he did not disappoint. There were even cameos from John Walters, Ricki Lake, and Jerry Stiller of the original 1988 film. Nikki Blonsky was wonderful in the lead role and though it was her first film she totally nailed it.

My film selection method has certainly failed me in the past, but this time the decision was “Divine” (1988 Hairspray reference).

McDonalds - "I'm Lovin' It"

I probably stop at McDonalds less than once a year, but my 2007 visit was the most entertaining ever. I witnessed one of the best bruhahas in fast food history today at a local Myrtle Beach McDonalds. It was lunchtime and there were probably 25 cars in the drive-thru. I was several cars back, with a bird's eye view, when the chain of events began. The driver of a car paid for his/her order and then pulled out of the line prior to advancing to the pick-up window. It could have been an emergency exit or just a shenanigan. If it was a prank, it was the best $5.00 investment ever.

Every subsequent car got the order intended for the car in front of him/her. Since it was so busy, no one checked their order at the window, except me. I might not have noticed except what should have been handed me in a small bag was delivered to me in increments. I tried, to no avail, to stop the employee, who wore a "trainee" badge, from handing out the order. I think there are only two positions at McDonalds, trainee and manager. I informed the drive-thru trainee that my order was indeed wrong. She, of course, argued against the probability of an error in my order. Perhaps her 100% accuracy status was in jeopary. I am convinced the extent of her "training" program was "take the next bag you see and hand it out the window to the next vehicle that drives up". No one prepared her for the possibility of getting out of sequence. This eventuality is probably not covered in the Hamburger University syllabi.


By then, several angry and confused patrons had pulled around and gone into the store with their random and sometimes disappointing orders. They could not drive back through, as it would have taken twenty minutes to make it back to the window in the traffic.

I had ordered a grilled chicken sandwich combo and received a huge order including Big Macs, Happy Meals, fries, several drinks and a hot apple pies. Since I obviously had their order, I am positive the huge family in front of me was not HAPPY with their MEAL whatsoever. In all probability it was sadly lacking. And I know that the construction crew of illegals in the club cab behind me was not going to be satisfied with my grilled chicken sandwich combo. They would NOT be "lovin' it".

The pressure of the situation resulted in a screaming fit and near catfight between the aforementioned trainee, the on-duty manager, and several other customers and employees. I am certain at least a dozen orders were screwed up, to say nothing of the delay as they reconfigured the bogus orders. I am sure they received some phone complaints from those that didn't discover their sweet tea was actually a diet coke until they had driven off. Had I just continued driving with my cornucopia of Mcfood, there is no telling how long this "guess what's in the bag" game would have continued.

It would be well worth the price of purchase to perform that maneuver and pull over to watch the fun.

Wicked - Sunday Scribblings 7/22/07

I don’t know that I have ever used the word “wicked” in a sentence unless I was describing a character from the Wizard of Oz to someone who had never seen it. But that has probably never happened since I rarely converse with anyone from outside our galaxy.




The first thing that came to mind when I read the prompt was a film I saw in the early 80’s based on a great Ray Bradbury novel, “Something Wicked This Way Comes.” It was not nearly as good as the book, but movies seldom are. It was interesting enough to hold my attention and be wary of carnival people, which I still am.


If I were from Boston, I would have used the word thousands of times as in “that chowda was wicked good” or “that sunset was wicked pissah”. But sadly. I live in the Deep South and have had no reason to use the term “wicked.”

If I were a sportscaster I would have used it as in “strike three on a wicked splitter.” If I were a Boston sportscaster I could say, “that was a wicked good slider from Schilling, wicked pissah that it was hit for a home run.” (see, I hate the Red Sox. They are truly wicked.)



I googled the word “wicked” and the first hundred or so entries referred to a Broadway Musical about the “untold story of the Witches of Oz.” I could sit in the Orchestra for $110.00 a ticket. That is “wicked expensive” considering I have no interest in learning more about those witches and sitting that close there is always a chance of a house falling on me or getting strafed by a stray shingle. But I could sit in the Rear Mezzanine for $50.00 a seat. That sounds like a “wicked” good deal and appears much safer.

Hair - Sunday Scribblings 7/15/07

As I grow older, I seem to be able cultivate florets of hair from the most unlikely places. I am a proponent of evolution. It makes more sense than any opposing viewpoint. I understand how nose and ear hair protects those organs from dust and other airborne particles, but what is the function of the ever-increasing fleece on my back? Come on Darwin!! Is the aging process gradually returning me to my Pithecanthropus roots? And why do my auditory and olfactory senses suddenly require more protection now than when I was thirty? And what is that three-inch wild hair that occasionally appears overnight on my earflap that is protecting nothing?


And my eyebrows. I don’t think they required much attention during most of my adulthood, but now, who am I, Leonid Brezhnev (young people google his image)? I go for a haircut and invariably, my stylist (they like to be called that) will ask, somewhat disgustedly, ”would you like me to trim your eyebrows?” Who would say no to that? “No thanks, I am trying to look as unappealing as possible, that’s why I am paying you $20.00 for a haircut.” Then she pulls out the industrial strength clippers and deposits more hair cuttings directly into my eyes than she removed from my noggin. It wouldn't be so bad if my eyebrows grew symmetrically, but there are always offshoots that are a good inch longer than the bush. I wish it were socially acceptable to request a nose and ear hair touch-up as well. A conscientious stylist will however, casually remove the aforementioned single, wild earflap hair. I am certain that I am referred to in the appointment book as the missing link.


I knew a man in Wyoming about my age, who had totally given up on controlling his nose hair plantation and allowed it to become one with his mustache. An attractive look, it was not. When talking to him, you could not help but be drawn to this unique feature. Very much like a conversation with someone with a huge, black mole on his face. And yes, sometimes an unplanned hair can be seen emanating from that pre-melanoma.

Thankfully, at an age when many men are combing-over what little hair they can produce, my Native American heritage has spared me pattern baldness. But suddenly, the rest of my body has more fur than a 1970’s porn shoot.

Slippery - Sunday Scribblings

As usual, I have responded to the prompt with the first thing that came to mind. It is the account of a personal experience that I have never forgotten:

I was living in Cheyenne, Wyoming, where the dark months are an absolute horror. Growing up in snow country did little to prepare me for the hibernal hell that is wintertime in the high plains. I believe a Wyoming pioneer coined the term bitter cold. I often wondered how those hearty soles survived a winter there when I had all the modern comforts and still found myself miserable. There is an added dimension to a Wyoming winter. A constant 40-mile per hour wind polishes the foot deep ice to a perfect gloss. Then comes a fresh powder snow, which conceals the treacherous glacier. I am certain you know where I am going with this.

I was parallel parked on Lincoln, which is a major artery in the City of Cheyenne. This is important because of my later impossible attempt to conceal what had happened. I was unloading some merchandise to carry in to a shop that I did business with. My hands were full and I was probably carrying more weight than I was approved for. I took one careless step and suddenly instead of being vertical and perpendicular to the sidewalk, I suddenly became completely horizontal and parallel to it. I don’t mean that my feet went out from under me. No, my feet were at the same elevation as my head. I am certain that if there was an Olympic event in which that particular maneuver was judged, I would have been awarded a 9.5 (except maybe the Russian judge). I am not sure if I completed all the compulsory moves, but I definitely nailed the degree of difficulty, though my landing may have cost me some points. I landed flat on my back, with the packages still in my arms, undamaged. Luckily my spine and the back of my head broke my fall.

The most important thing for any man who falls, prior to accessing damages, is to play it off in the event that anyone happened to witness the performance. Well, that activity was a dismal failure, as not only had it been witnessed, but also both directions of traffic had come to a complete halt. There were people running to my aid. I am sure that some believed I had fallen from the sky, like Icarus. In spite of a possible broken back, concussion, bruised kidneys, and ruptured spleen, I managed to crawl out from under my vehicle (did I mention that I actually slid under my 4X4) and jump to my feet announcing my OKness (I love to make up words), as if this happened all the time. Though I couldn't breathe and I was seeing things only cartoon characters usually see, I managed to summon as much dignity as possible and get back in my vehicle, driving off before the paramedics arrived. I eventually recovered, with minor bruising, a massive headache, and some vertebrae in new positions, but I am certain that several years later citizens of Cheyenne still talk about the worst fall they ever saw.
This is another of the many reasons I love Myrtle Beach. The only way to slip on ice here is if someone spills a frozen daiquiri. If you do happen to fall down at Myrtle Beach you have at least a 75% chance of landing on sand or a golf course. Neither would cause a 911 dispatch.

Death - Midweek Post

I generally write on very innocuous topics that I can color with my sarcasm and irrelevance. As one of my few readers warned me, “it is hard to write with a smirk about a serious subject.” Not heeding that warning, I have elected to write about death, or at least my connection with it. Any humor detected is purely by accident and the result of me not being able to write any other way. This will also be my longest blog to date, insuring that no one will read it. I know I never read long ones. But the subject of death will cause me to ramble even more than usual.

I have been to eight funerals in my life. All deaths are tragic, but these are particularly horrid as the oldest was only 32 years old. When an elderly person dies you celebrate his life, but when a young person dies you mourn the lost potential.

My first real introduction to death was that weekend in Dallas in 1963, where, through my television, I witnessed JFK and Lee Harvey Oswald’s termination.

My first personal confrontation with death was the suicide murder of two boys by their father. They were neighborhood kids who I thought a nuisance, but whose mother thought enough of me to ask me to be a pallbearer. Evidently, they idolized me. Who knew? I don’t remember being particularly kind to them. Maybe I wasn’t and it was retaliation to make me bear the polls. I was not particularly close to the three classmates listed, but in a small town, a high schooler dying draws like a two for one sale. Everyone attends the memorial. They were important events in my life or I would not recall them so vividly.

All of the new millennium deaths listed were people much closer to me. And as an adult, I mourn for their parent’s loss and for my own. The world is not a better place without these young people and all could have been prevented. No parent should outlive his children. I cannot comprehend the agony their parents suffered and will always suffer. I spoke at two of the services. I felt I needed to. Though only one was a blood relative, I miss them all.

*Kevin & Joe Rush 8 and 9 years old – January 1967 Murdered by Father
Tom Brainard – 17 years old – December 1967 – Whirlpool Electrocution
Marilee Haddock – 16 Years Old - May 1968 Leukemia
Danny Deeder – 18 Years Old - April 1970 – Vehicle Accident?
Brandon Sova – 19 Years Old - August 2004 – Drunk Driver
Andrew Ott – 22 Years Old - October 2005 – Inhaling Dust-Off
**Kevin Thomas – 32 Years Old - December 2005 – Suspicious Circumstances
Jim Salter – 24 Years Old - April 2007 – Murdered

*PallBearer
**My nephew, only relative on the list

You can see that I was able to pretty much avoid death for about 34 years or so. Well, that is not entirely true. All of my grandparents and both parents died during that span as well as untold relatives, but I attended no services. You would have to know my family to understand this shocking fact. I am not even sure when my grandparents passed. I just know that when we went to visit, they weren’t home. We lived in Idaho and they were all in Georgia and Florida (which you would know if you read my damned blogs). As you can guess, we were not a close family unit. I think I can remember instances where my folks would make a comment such as “hey Rick, your grandma died, pass the potatoes.” When my mother died I was stationed abroad in the Air Force and by the time the Red Cross notified me, she had already been cremated. It is not as bad as it sounds. I saw her a couple of months before her death and we had some closure. When dad died, I was present but at his request there was no service. He, too, was cremated and I carried their ashes with me for about 10 years before the deterioration of the containers forced me to find them a final resting place. I had wanted to scatter dad’s ashes inside Yankee Stadium (you would know he was a Yankee fan if you had read my damned blogs), but found out it was against about a million Bronx and Major League Baseball ordinances to do so. Evidently, they get hundreds of requests each year, so my idea was not original or doable. So, I found a beautiful spot in a place called Sinks Canyon, near Lander, Wyoming, where neither of them had ever been and had no connection to.

I spent 20 years in the military, so death was not totally foreign to me. I saw some things. But when it happens to a stranger you are not affected. Case in point. When I was in Junior High school we would often walk down to the city center for lunch. One of our favorite spots was a place called Dick and Floyd’s. It was a hellhole, often with passed out drunks from the night before littering the barstools, but they made a great milkshake. This was long before fake ice cream. When they still used the old ice-cold silver containers and gave you the extra when they filled your glass. You can see how disjointed my thinking is, when I can divert to milkshakes during a death blog. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. One day, we heard a loud explosion and we ran towards it (nowadays I would run away from it) to find that someone had self-tested his new shotgun in the alley next to the Coast to Coast store. We got there even before the crack Kellogg, Idaho police force. Grey matter was everywhere, body akimbo. We were mesmerized and by the time Barney Fife had dispersed us, we had witnessed enough for a lifetime of stories. But it did not spoil our lunch. On the contrary, the event gave us carte blanche to be tardy with no repercussions. We could be traumatized if we chose to. There were no bad dreams, night terrors, nor did I ever require therapy, but I had that in reserve should I have needed it.

I used to compute how many years I had left based on my current age vs live expectancy per actuarial tables. That activity would always result in depression and a panic attack. I am not nearly as afraid of death as I used to be. I am not sure why that is the case since I have not reached any viable conclusion on what happens after death. I think I have just come to terms with the inevitability of my demise. I recently had a serious cancer scare and faced with my mortality I think my greatest fear was not dying, but being forgotten. How is that for a narcissist view of death?