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

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

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

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 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.