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?

Astrology - Sunday Scribblings

Astrology is nonsense, but it is benign nonsense. Much safer than religion. I doubt anyone has ever been persecuted or any wars have started over astrology. I don’t think anyone has gone postal because his or her horoscope indicated a bad day. So if you follow it, fine. But to think you can break down the entire human race into twelve personality types is ludicrous. I have met women with more personalities than that and have met many people with none at all. Maybe there should be a category for that. Your birth sign is Toxic. You have no personality at all. Do not mix with the rest of humanity.

I think the reason Astrology is so popular is that it appeals to our vanity. Many of the characteristics listed in Astrology summaries are very desirable: Honorable, Powerful, Natural Leader, Nurturing, Intelligent, Prosperous, etc. We read the traits of our particular sign and think, “yeah, that’s me.” I think often it is more like, “yeah, that’s who I’d like to be.” If you didn’t guess by the image above (your sign might be Moron), I am a Virgo. So lets examine my Astrological traits.

The Virgo is highly discriminating, but not necessarily as prudish at some might believe. In ancient times, a Virgin was a woman who was not the property of man, and therefore had the legal right to just say "no." Now, in modern times, you Virgos are known for your ability to be highly discriminating -- especially when it comes to matters of personal desire. When Virgo is ready, however, to say yes, the laser-like focus of your passion is anything but prudish.

That is true for me. It is prefered that the object of my desire be female and conscious. If that is discriminating, I am on board.

Virgo is the picky one of the zodiac signs, critical and fault finding with the keenest eye of all for details. This sign is wonderful at analyzing, critiquing, schedules and agendas. You Virgos have the uncanny sense to see what's wrong with a person, a situation or your environment. It's why Virgo makes such natural critics. Virgo practical analytical abilities are second to none. Your mental process may not be the most creative, but Virgo's razor-like thinking is highly effective. Like the maiden pictured in the Virgo glyph, you separate the useful wheat from the unneeded chafe, the good from the bad. Virgo might be a "clean freak," but most Virgos have a messy closet somewhere or a disaster under their bed.

So basically, we are nitpicking jerks. I have three children who would agree with this analysis. You have me there.

The Virgo motto could be "Perfect is almost good enough." On one hand, this trait makes you very employable, for you're not likely to do shabby work. On the other hand, you can be so finicky that you put limitations on your interactions and experiences before they happen. You'll be happier if you can learn to be selectively less critical, both of others and yourself.

I have a bevy of former bosses who would beg to differ.

Element: Earth
Earth signs are naturally practical. In this lifetime we are bound to Earth. There is no escaping the reality around us The Earth is about as real as it gets; it can be felt, weighed and it has substance. Accordingly, the earth signs base their life on what is real, not what is imagined. Sensation is valued over thoughts or feelings. Earth signs live with their feet on the ground. Others seek their advice because of their basic sensibility. For earth signs, seeing is believing.

The earth of Virgo is a changeable earth, light to the touch. It's about practical analysis -- using mental tools to discern the best use for what is around us.

This must explain my hesitance to embrace religion and why I don’t believe in Astrology. Too much speculation and belief in dogma required. I do espouse tangible things like money and blondes. .

Sixth House: Work
The Sixth House is about the regular performance of work-related tasks. This isn't necessarily about career. It's about the job you have that buys the bread for the table. This sector is also where we look to find out about health and healing, for it's not only work routine, but also our daily habits of hygiene.

I bathe and brush my teeth regularly. Too bad about the other 11 signs. Dirty bastards.

Key Planet: Mercury
Mercury, the Messenger of the Gods, moves around the Sun faster than any other planet. He symbolizes our thoughts -- not only how we think, but how we communicate. In fact, Mercury is in charge of all language. Mercury is our active and rational mind. It is not only "just the facts" but also what we do with them. As the key planet of Virgo, Mercury is about intellectual discrimination. It's the binary function of the neurons in our brain. They either fire and impulse or they don't. Mercury here is about the basic "yes" or "no" decision that must be made for every piece of information that enters our consciousness.

I don’t even understand this gibberish.

Virgo Greatest Strength: Your ability to focus your attention

Good to know that my ADD and OCD do not exist. I am going off my medication immediately.

Virgo Possible Weakness: Need for perfection gets in the way of enjoyment

Condoms are a must. STDs get in the way of enjoyment.

So all of us Virgos are clean, critical, discriminating, hard working people who are such miserable souls that we are destined to spend our life alone, cleaning stuff. Well, maybe I do believe in Astrology after all. Maybe I should find me a nice Virgo woman and we can focus our attention on destroying each other with criticism and spending our lives totally dissatisfied with each other. Any takers?.

I don’t often pay attention to detail (not very Virgonian) so if the topic this week was actually Astronomy, please disregard all of this.

The Skeptic

I opened a small retail store on Main Street in Riverton, Wyoming in 1994. I started very small, part-time, sharing retail space with another fledgling business, a trophy and engraving shop called Lasting Impressions. I soon outgrew that arrangement and moved to a larger location, resigned my position as Director of a Technical Training School, and took the plunge into full-time entrepreneurship. I sold sports memorabilia, apparel, comic books, gaming supplies (Dungeons & Dragons and the like), pool cues, darts, paintball supplies, and just about anything else I could fit in my store. I even had a game room with pool tables, coke and candy machines, and video games. My enterprise grew by leaps and bounds as it was about 120 miles to my nearest competition. My customer base ranged from hard-core sports nuts (of which I can relate) to the Magic the Gathering and D&D crowd (of which I pretended to relate as it was good for business). Business was booming.

Sometime in late 1995, a man walked into my store with a salesman’s gait and a large satchel. It was a slow day and I decided I would listen to his pitch before I tossed him out into the street. He was from a company called Ty (which I had never heard of) and he had a new product that was going to “sweep the nation”. Then he opened his case and proudly produced the most ridiculous looking, poorly made, generic, piece of crap I had ever laid eyes on. He introduced them as Beanie Babies. He further stated that my business (due to size, location, reputation, and success) had been selected to be the exclusive outlet for this product in my town. He assumed that blowing that much smoke up my ass would endear him to me. He was wrong. He did not realize what a skeptical person he had encountered. Though I had lost interest immediately and was paying little attention, I believe he said that a $3,000 initial outlay would assure me all of the new issues, of which many were planned. I rather rudely dispatched him from my establishment, but not before belittling his product as only a person of my wit and cruelty can. He urged me to reconsider, but when he fully assessed my size and attitude he left by his own power, without fully closing his sample case. Beanie Baby extremities were frantically waving goodbye to me as he exited.

By Christmas of that year, every Tuesday morning throngs of grandmas encircled the block waiting for Jerry’s Flowers and Things, a block or so east of me to open. Tuesday was the day the new issues of Beanie Babies arrived. This phenomenon continued for several years. You see, the somewhat androgynous Jerry was open-minded and saw the profit potential in selling crap to people who collected crap. He made a fortune from this foresight. Though I also sold crap to people who collected crap, my crap seldom appreciated 5000%. I tell you that story to tell you this story.

In 1998 I heard through one of my wholesale distributors that a new game called Pokemon was being released soon that was going to “sweep the nation.” I immediately placed my order. I am skeptical but not a complete fool. I bought this game direct from the factory in the largest quantities allowed. I usually pre-sold the entire issue before it ever arrived. I would not even open the cartons; just redirect them to eager secondary market buyers as far away as Australia. For nearly two years I profited more from that one product than everything else in my shop combined. Sadly for some, Pokemon sales hit a wall shortly after I sold my business and moved to South Carolina. I tell you that to tell you this.

A couple of months ago a COSTCO member that I was visiting in my role as Business Development Representative told me about Vemma, a new and wonderful nutritional product he had just discovered. It was going to “sweep the nation.” My ears and mind opened wide. He gave me a bottle to try. In a few days I realized that I was going to buy Vemma. I did a little research and decided I was also going to also sell this amazing product. I have since given samples to others who have shared my excitement. Anyone who is suffering from any health issues can benefit from replacing whatever nutritional supplements they are taking and this one simple product. I cannot adequately describe its potential in this forum but if you take a moment and visit my website www.myvemma.com/rickwainright you can learn about this incredible product. As you have read previously, I am a hard sell. I am admittedly the most skeptical person alive. If I am sold on it, you will be too. Whether you are looking to just improve your well-being or are looking to embark on a home-based business, this product is for you. I am no longer selling crap to people who collect crap. I am selling a better quality of life and everyone needs that. Feel free to ask me any questions. rickfanattic@yahoo.com.

The Plan - A One Act Play

Last evening I watched a very interesting interview of Princes William and Harry by Matt Lauer. I think that interview will spark several Blogs from me depending upon how motivated I become. The first of this series (and possibly last) is a one-act play I have written:

The scene is Buckingham Palace Gardens on a cloudy (imagine that) June afternoon. There are two people seated on a bench in the garden, Queen Elizabeth II and her son Prince Charles. For simplicity and because I am lazy, their names will be shortened but even the most unsophisticated reader should be able to follow the conversation. For maximum authenticity, the reader should read aloud in a posh British accent.

PC: “Mummy, will I ever be King?”

QE2: “My darling: aren’t you happy being the Prince of Wales?”

PC: “Wales is shit, mummy.

QE2: “Is that proper language for the heir to the throne to use?”

PC: “Sorry, mummy, but I so want to be king. I have heard from Mel Brooks that it is good to be king.”

QE2: Laughing. “Well at least you are not the pissboy.”

PC: "Sometimes I feel like the pissboy. Oh mummy, you are 81, don’t you want to retire?”

QE2: “My dear boy, it is also good to be queen.”

PC: “Please mummy, I implore you.”

QE2: “Charles, we have discussed this many times, must we revisit?”

PC: “But Mummy, I am nearly 60 years old. I fear that if I am not crowned soon my prostate will be the size of a football before I am seated on the throne.”

QE2: “You know I love you Charles, but there are certain factors at play here that have caused me not to relinquish my crown to you. But there is a plan afoot.”

PC: “Please expound, Mummy. What is the plan for me.”

QE2: “Why must you force me to hurt your feelings? You know how upset you get.”

PC: “I know, but I must understand.”

QE2: “One reason you have not been promoted is the currency.”

PC: “How so?”

QE2: “It appears that no one wants your likeness on it. Parliament is afraid it will devalue the pound sterling.

PC: (under his breath) “But the picture of you is 50 years old, you wrinkled old hag.”

QE2: “What did you say?”

PC: “Nothing. They could use Photoshop and make me look any way they want. Granted, I am not Brad Pitt, but who in this country is, what with his straight teeth?”

QE2: "You do look a bit like that American, what is his name, Newman?"

PC: "Oh, Paul Newman, thanks Mum, everyone likes him."

QE2: "No, no, I think his name is Alfred E. Newman."

PC: "Oh mother, you can be very hurtful when you set your mind to it."

QE2: “Regardless Charles, we are opting for your son, William. Lovely boy, that?”

PC: “But he is the spitting image of me, mum.”

QE2: “Oh, dear boy, that Skywalker lad favored Darth Vader more than William does you. To be honest, Ladbrokes gives Sir Elton John better odds of being crowned than you. But there is the problem of whether he would be king or queen.” Chuckles.

PC: Jumping to his feet. “Mother, you insensitive shrew, you are a hateful bitch!!!!”

QE2: “Previous queens would have taken your head for speaking in that tone.”

PC: “About the only thing you can take from me that you haven’t already is my Capital One card.”

QE2: “Speaking of plastic, how is Camilla?”

PC: Sits back down. “She is fine, but can’t you accept the fact that I love her and treat her with due respect?”

QE2: “I don’t know what you are talking about, Charles, I have given her a quite noble title”

PC: “I wanted to talk to you about that. It was very hurtful to call her the Duchess of Skank. There is no such place in the commonwealth. We googled it”

QE2: “How many times must I apologize? It was an innocent mistake. It has been officially corrected and now she is Duchess of Cornwall. Doesn’t that sound nice?"

PC: “But Mum, the press always call her the Duchess of Cornhole, and sometimes I can hear her late at night, crying.”

QE2: “You should keep the kennel door closed.”

PC: Rising once again. “Mother!!!!!!!”

QE2: “Sorry Charles, it is just that she looks a bit like someone who is constantly smelling flatulence. Diana was such a lovely girl. Isn't the entire purpose of cheating, to improve one's prospects?”

PC: "But Mother, Diana cheated."

QE2: "My point exactly."

PC: "But he was a simple stablehand."

QE2: "You are not advancing your argument."

PC: "But I am a royalty, what could she possibly have seen in him?"

QE2: Does not respond, but looks dreamily into space and smiles slightly.

PC: “Mum, you hated Diana.”

QE2: “True, she was a free spirit, a rebel, but Phillip and I did like the fact that after centuries of inbreeding she actually put a fork in the family tree.

PC: "I did think it odd that many of the Royals had only one grandfather."

QE2: And let’s face it Charles, she gave you two beautiful sons. And the world loved her.”

PC: “Must I always hear those whispers? People say, "beautiful Diana, beautiful sons, fortunate to favor her, wonder who is the birth father" It is all quite tiring?”

QE2: “Nevertheless, Charles, I have decreed, your son William is to be the next King of England.”

PC: “Only if you outlive me, mother.”

QE2: “That is the plan, my dear.”

I Have a Secret - Sunday Scribblings

If I told my secret to the half dozen strangers who read my blog each Sunday, then it would not be a secret, now would it? Not that I have a secret, but if I did and I revealed it here I would have to fly around the world and whack each and every person that commented on my blog on Sunday Scribblings. That could get very expensive having to fly to Oregon, Idaho, India, England, Australia, California, Italy, Massechusettes, Washington State, Florida, Georgia, North Carolina, and Herbsylvania (there is such a place, ask Herb). OK, I could drive to North Carolina, Georgia, and Florida but I would have to get a rental car or maybe jack one so that my own vehicle would not be spotted at the crime scene. I could probably combine Oregon, Idaho, California, and Washington State into one trip, so that is doable. To the locations I would have to fly to I would be confronted by today's increased airport security and I could not bring my Glock with me so there is that inconvenient 5 day waiting period before I could buy some heat to bust a cap. And you can't even buy a handgun in England and many other third-world countries, so I would be forced to kill the foreign Sunday Scribblers with a claymore or a fireplace poker. Then there would be some kind of lobby against fireplace pokers. Remember, "claymores don't kill people, people kill people." I would miss too much work and Costco would fire me, leaving me without income or prospects. I would soon become homeless and have to live in a Kenmore dryer box. I could die of KFC dumpster poisoning, rabid rat bites, frostbite or hypothermia (not likely in South Carolina but my resistance would be down). I would be without healthcare, and I am not an illegal alien, so I would have to be treated by a massage therapist and aromatherapy cannot cure the plague (I looked it up). I would be so overcome with guilt over killing all of you (well, some of you) that I would simply lose the will to live. My death would be on your hands. So that is why I am not telling you my secret and I think it was rude of you to ask.

Baseball - Statistics

In spite of playing the game, the real reason I have become an avid fan of baseball is that I am fascinated by statistics, always have been. There is no sport in which statistics are more important. Baseball records are some of the most hallowed in the sport’s world. That brings me to the point of this blog. I am going to make a statement that will cause many baseball aficionados a knee jerk reaction. The two most overrated players in the history of baseball are Hank Aaron and Pete Rose. What? It will be considered blasphemous by many, but I have statistics to back my claim. I will bet you I am right (Pete Rose joke). These two were great players, don’t get me wrong. But each has a career record that is based on longevity over achievement.

I am going to compare their records with some current players and see how they measure up. I am purposely not including the steroid boys, such as Bonds, McGuire, and Sosa. I believe they have tainted the record book and do not acknowledge their numbers. That is my choice. It is my blog. If you want to give these jakals credence, get your own blog. Give me a break. Bonds shoe and hat size have even increased. Athletes in any sport do not get better at 40 years old. Have you seen Mark McGuire since he retired from baseball? I saw him recently playing in a golf tournament. He looks like he has spent the last few years on chemotherapy. He is literally half the man he used to be. Sammy Sosa is still playing, but looks like he could be eaten by the turn of the millennium version of himself. He had to take the entire 2006 season off to clean out his system as they now test for steroids. In my opinion, the single season home run title still belongs to Roger Maris. He hit 61 in 1961. Roger was 6’ tall and weighed 197. If he was performance enhanced, it wasn’t a very good product.

Back to my topic. Let’s begin with Hank Aaron, the career home run leader with 755. If Alex Rodriguez and Ken Griffey Jr. had as many at bats as Hank they would have 852 and 843 home runs respectively. The most home runs Aaron ever hit in a season was 47. Arod and Griffey have exceeded that season total 4 times each and are both likely to do it again this season. Arod may do it by the all-star break. No one has ever brought either of these athletes into the human growth hormone or steroid discussion. Hank was a nice player and totally deserves being in the hall of fame, but I don’t rate him in the same class as the aforementioned players. Griffey has been hampered by injury, but before his unfortunate move to Cincinnati, he was the most exciting player in baseball.

Moving on to Pete Rose. He is the all-time major league baseball hits leader He amassed 4256 hits but batted only .303 for his career. This stat would not rank him in the top 100 of all time. As with Aaron, I believe he is a great player and should be a sure bet to enter the hall of fame some day (sorry, another Rose joke) but I am less impressed by his numbers than most people. Using my previous logic, if current players Ichiro Suzuki and Todd Helton had the number of at bats that Rose had, they would both have about 4700 hits. They have lifetime averages that hover around .333, top 20 all-time. The measure of a great season for a hitter is 200 hits. Pete achieved that number in less than half of his 24 seasons Ichiro has done it every season he has played. Granted, that Helton plays half of his games in the rarified air of Colorado, but he also hits in a much weaker line-up than Rose ever did. Pete had 3 future hall-of-famers batting behind him. Helton has none. This allows pitchers to pitch around him more. Albert Pujols has not played enough seasons yet, but I believe that barring injury, he will become an all-time great.

But I may be wrong.

Note: Since I originally wrote this post Alex Rodriguez has admitted to using steroids, much to my disappointment. I still believe that Rose and Aaron were stat compilers and when I think of the greatest players in baseball history, neither name comes to mind.

Baseball - Father's Day

I was planning to write a blog about my dad for father’s day, and as all my writings do, it rambled on and took on a life of its own. I do not apologize for that. Those who read my words regularly have grown to expect me to stray and stay off topic. That is more a product of my ADD and OCD quirks than by design. If you saw my weekend housecleaning begin in the kitchen and up at Hooters, you would understand. I will immediately lose any readers who know nothing about baseball. I will divide this into two separate blogs as I know from my own experience that long blogs don’t get read.

I have always been a baseball fan. I came by it naturally, as my dad loved the one game a week that was televised when I was growing up in northern Idaho. Since, in the late 1950’s, the New York Yankees were a dynasty, the “game of the week” usually featured them. Later in his life, dad became an Atlanta Braves fan. This was equally due to WTBS televising all of the Braves games and the fact that dad grew up in Georgia. He was also a loyal Georgia Tech fan, though I don’t believe he ever had laid eyes on the Atlanta campus. Even though WGN broadcast all the Chicago Cubs games, dad never became interested in that hapless franchise. Who could blame him? Dad never got a chance to play sports as his dad considered such things frivolous and dad was forced to quit school quite young to go to work. He used to play catch with me but by about the age of 10 I threw too hard for him to catch me. That, in itself, made him proud.
My sons became New York Yankee fans by a lifetime of intense brainwashing. So much so, that my oldest son, Rick Jr. named his daughter Maris. I was delighted with that. My daughter’s son, Carson, will become a Yankee fan once I have him fully programmed. Maybe I will nickname him Mickey, Hanna-Barbera probably has a copyright on Yogi..

My love for baseball increased during my youth, as I showed an aptitude for it. But as I pitched my way to some local acclaim, dad seldom watched me play. He felt that he was bad luck as the few times he was in the stands I performed poorly. He would listen wide-eyed as I came home and gave play-by-play accounts of no-hitters. I always knew he was proud of me and only when I had kids of my own playing sports did I realize how painful it must have been for him to stay away from my games. Outside of military service commitments, I don’t think I ever missed any of my children’s sporting events. Sometimes, when all three were playing at different levels, the logistics got very difficult. Watching those games will always provide some of my fondest memories. I coached their teams for several years and those experiences will result in future blogs.

Eccentric - Sunday Scribblings

One of the many definitions of eccentric is deviation from the normal or expected. With that in mind I am going to disregard the prompt this week and write about whatever comes to mind. Nothing has really come to mind. Maybe next week.

Sunday Scribblings - Spicy

Three Mile Island

My good friend and golfing partner, Ramesh, is from India. If you picked that up from his name, you are paying attention and are probably quite worldly. I have been to his home for lunch or dinner several times. Having been all over the world, I am pretty open to trying anything that is considered food by other cultures. If you don’t know, much of the food of India tends to be quite spicy. Knowing that I am a bit of a wimp in that area, he and his wife Leela (also from India) advise me on the intensity level of each dish. While I find many of the foods delicious, I have stayed away from those of which the aroma made my sinuses begin to drain and my eyes tear worse than from viewing the end of “Old Yeller.”
I recently won a free, all you can eat, wing party at Hooters on a radio trivia contest. Yes, I know a lot of useless information. There were to be ten of us at the party. I arrived early to select our first order of wings. Hooters has several different levels of intensity for their chicken wings. I ordered an assortment ranging from Medium (I am not even wimp enough to order mild from a scantly dressed hostess) all the way up to their hottest, one named “Three Mile Island”, which I specifically selected for my Indian friends. I am sure it was on the high end of the Scoville Scale, since the hostess shuddered when I ordered it. I am pretty sure that the cook needed protective gear to even prepare this coating. My timing was great, as the order came out shortly after my party had arrived. The hostess pointed out the different plates of wings as to their piquancy (she did not know that word, I do). The party began with most of us reaching for the medium and hot versions and avoiding the plate with the haze hovering over it, like a runway in the summer. I pushed the plate of biohazard wings toward Ramesh and Leela. They tried them and it was immediately obvious from the blisters raised on their lips and the inability to breath that the “Three Mile Island” recipe was not popular in India. Mike, one of the other participants, a Caucasian from New Hampshire elected to try them. We all watched in awe as he devoured the entire plate with no visual side effects. Whether he actually enjoyed them or was posturing for the hostess, I was impressed. I have a hunch that the next morning, Mike would regret stepping up to that plate. Ramesh later said that he had eaten spicy food his entire life and had never tasted anything to rival “Three Mile Island”. Hooters should come up with an ad campaign, “Try our hot wings, they would make Gandhi swear.”

Music of the Night - My apologies to Sir Andrew Lloyd Weber

Pinehurst in My Dreams gave me a prompt because I was bitching that Poetry Thursday had gone on hiatus and I need a kickstart to write. She chose "bullfrog". At first I thought how stupid of a prompt that was, but in a few minutes I came up with this.

Music of the Night

Each night outside my window
A cacophony of sound
Natures orchestra Serenades me
It’s instruments abound

Crickets provide percussion
While calling to their mates
Owls ask their eternal question
Their vocals captivate

And when I stop to listen
I can’t help but rejoice
Providing bass and baritone
The bullfrog adds its voice

So open up your windows
To the music of the night
You won’t need a sedative
To relax ‘til morning light

Though sometimes out of rhythm
And usually off key
The creatures of the darkness
Provide a symphony

Sunday Scribblings - Town and Country

As always, I respond to the Sunday Scribbling prompt with a knee jerk reaction and go with it. This is what town and country brought to mind:

I love visiting New York for the excitement, culture, and entertainment options. I also adore Las Vegas for obvious reasons. But, I could never live in either place. Huge cities are overwhelming to me. Too stressful, too fast, and way too much temptation. There is evil everywhere, but it really stalks you in the big city. I could also never live in a rural area. I enjoy the isolation of the country on my own terms, not as a lifestyle. I am a townie. I like living in a medium sized city with access to the country. Even though I seldom venture out in the middle of the night, it is comforting to know that there are stores and restaurants open 24/7, should I have an urgent need for a lottery ticket or a Denny’s Grand Slam at two A.M. I grew up in a tiny village in Northern Idaho, where the sidewalks (what sidewalks?) are rolled in shortly after supper. I lived overseas for 15 years, where legitimate businesses in even major cities pretty much fade to black as the sun sets. Pubs in England usually close at ten thirty. That may be different now, but I am speaking from my own experience. There are after hours clubs, but you generally need to be young, heavily pierced, and have hair of a color normally found in a rainbow to fit in. Living in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina is perfect for me. Southern cities are unique. I have access to all the conveniences of a metropolitan city and am just minutes away from rural areas that cause Dueling Banjos to pluck in my head. Maybe I should do a commercial for the Myrtle Beach Chamber of Commerce. City living with the potential to “squeal like a pig” only minutes away.

Ponderosa's Meme

What were you doing 10 years ago?

I was running a small retail business on Main Street in Riverton Wyoming.

What were you doing 1 year ago?

The same crap I am doing right now, except I didn't have a blog.

Five snacks you enjoy:

I have recently lost 60 pounds, so I don't eat many snacks these days. So I will report what I would eat if I wasn't so stubborn:

Cookies Dipped in Milk (can be Oreos, Nutter Butters, or Wafers)
Cheese (sharp cheddar is my favorite)
Chocolates (really good decadent European)
Bananas sliced up in a bowl of milk with sugar
Meat (Beef Jerky, Slim Jims, Peperoni Sticks, or Barbequed Vienna Sausages)

You can see why I needed to lose 60 pounds

Five songs that you know all the lyrics to:

Five that I will admit to knowing. I have some that are guilty pleasures and I would lose my man card if anyone knew. These are ones that first come to mind and I sing along with often.

He Went To Paris (Jimmy Buffet)
Two Out of Three Ain't Bad (Meat Loaf)
Imagine (John Lennon)
In My Life (The Beatles)
Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound (Hank Williams Jr)

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:

Be very charitable
Remodel my place or buy a new one (depending on how many millions we are talking)
Buy a new car
Join a really good golf club
Invest in my children

Five bad habits:

Bite Fingernails
Pick Nose (hey I am being honest here)
Procrastinate (not really a habit, more of a way of life)
Eat too late
Watch too much TV

Five things you like doing:

Playing Golf
Fishing
Watching Movies
Reading
Watching People

Five things you would never wear again:

A Mullet
A Leasure Suit
Birth Control Glasses
A Uniform
Braces

Five favorite toys:

Computer
(Private) Could have qualified as a bad habit
Camera
IPOD
Golf Clubs

Whirlpool - Poetry Thursday Submission

Life is like a salmon's swim
Upstream to spawning ground
As one obstacle is overcome
A new one is soon found

At journey's start, just as the fish
We are strong and sure
Determined to reach our goals
And able to endure

With every barrier that we cross
And bruise that we receive
And each time that we try and fail
A part of us we leave

I came upon a crippled fish
Being washed back to the sea
Belly-up and spinning round
And I marveled...how like me