My Friend Steve Is Gonna Write a Blog

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

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

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

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

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

My Love Affair With Tattoos - 5/24/2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Headaches - 5/14/2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drowning Your Troubles at Myrle Beach 5/3/2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My husband left me for another woman.”

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

“He emptied our accounts and took everything.”

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

“I lost my job. She was my boss.”

“You can get another job.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Close Call With Technology 4/18/2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr UnFix It - 3/14/2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I only wish that these stories were exaggerated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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