He walked briskly across the snow covered parking lot, trying to keep his head turned away from the wind. The small, icy, snowflakes stung has they pelted his face. He hurried into the store and used the facilities, making sure none of the cashiers saw him. He didn’t want to take a chance on having his bathroom privileges curtailed.
Once out of the store, Charles hurried to the leeward side of the building, looking for a relief from the relentless wind. As he leaned against the building, he heard voices from around the corner, near the back of the store.
"You need to get this truck unloaded as soon as possible. I don’t care if it is cold and snowy, just get it done, now!" the husky voice bellowed.
Charles walked to the rear of the store and stuck his head around the corner to see a small, black man standing inside a semi trailer, struggling with trying to lift heavy boxes onto a conveyor belt. The wheels whirred as the boxes flew down the conveyor belt. The small man would grunt each time he struggled to lift one of the heavy boxes. Charles watched for a few minutes, then made a decision. He walked up to the back of the trailer and hollered in.
"Could you use some help?"
The man looked up, sweat dripping from his face despite the bitter cold. "Yeah, sure," he replied.
Charles climbed up into the trailer and started sending the boxes down the belt. The boxes didn’t seem that heavy to Charles, but then he was a big man, well built and considerably stronger than the small man struggling with the boxes.
They didn’t speak much as they worked to empty the trailer, just working, each alone in his thoughts. Charles was surprised that he was actually enjoying the chance to work again, even if he wasn’t getting paid. He found a rhythm that wasn’t too fast or too slow but was getting a lot of the boxes off the truck. He was loading three or four to the small man’s one box. Before long, they had the truck emptied.
"Thanks, man," the small man said, pulling off his well worn gloves.
"Sure, no problem, man," Charles answered. He started to jump down off the truck when the manager, who had been yelling earlier at the small man, came out of the back door of the store.
"You get it done?" he asked, looking at the small man. The manager glanced at Charles, but didn’t say anything to him.
"Yes sir, it’s all done.....all empty," the small man answered.
"Who are you?" the manager asked, looking at Charles.
"Nobody," Charles answered. "Just hangin’ around."
"Did you help?" the manager asked Charles.
"Yeah, I helped," Charles answered, almost with an air of contempt for the manager. He wanted to add, ‘what’s it to you’, but decided against it.
"I suppose you want to get paid for it?" the manager asked.
"Nah, just helpin’ out." Charles answered, throwing on his coat. "I’ll be going."
"Hold on a minute," the manager said, as Charles started to walk off. "Haven’t I seen you around the store a lot?"
Charles turned and faced the manager. "Maybe" he said. "Could be."
"Are you a friend of his," he asked, tossing his head in the direction of the small man.
"Nah, like I said, just helpin’ out." Charles replied.
"You lookin’ for a job?"
"A job?" Charles hadn’t been asked that very often and was surprised by the question.
"He can have mine," the small man said, stepping up between the two men. "I quit this stinkin’ work!" He walked past Charles and into the store. Charles watched as the door closed behind the man, then he turned toward the manger. The manager had stuck his hands into his coat pockets in a vain attempt to keep them warm.
" It looks like we have two openings now. What do you say?"
Charles thought for a moment, kicking at the snow that was piling up around the two men. He didn’t answer.
"It pays ten bucks an hour. It’s five days a week, Saturdays and Sundays off. You get a two weeks paid vacation after the first year. Interested?"
Charles looked at the man’s eyes. He seemed like a hard man, but there seemed to be a fairness to him and Charles figured he could use the money. "Uh......, I don’t know......maybe."
Charles was reluctant to take the work since having money always represented difficult decisions for him. Whenever he had money, his demons reared their ugly heads and tempted him beyond his capacity to resist. At least, that was the pattern in the past. Charles had been somewhat successful the last time he had worked and had a bit of money, only using his ‘helpers’ as he called them, for a short time and then using the rest of the money for useful items instead of fun juice for his veins. Yet, he realized he couldn’t avoid life forever, that at some point, he would have to step back in to it, with all its cruel temptations, and demonstrate that he could resist the siren call of illicit drugs. Overcoming his need for the feelings the drugs brought to him, had been Charles’s downfall in the past, but, he was determined to overcome this nasty habit and get off the streets. The only question in Charles’s head was if he was up to the challenge. If the past was any indication, he wasn’t. But people change, he thought, and maybe he could as well.
"Well, if you decide you want the work, come in to the store tomorrow at eight and ask for me, I’m Rusty Barnes."
Charles nodded, turned and started walking toward the corner of the store. Just as he was about to turn the corner, the manager called to him.
"Hey, what’s your name?"
Charles turned and yelled against the wind. "Charles Hocksworth."
"All right, Charles, I’ll see you tomorrow at eight."
"I guess," Charles muttered under his breath.
The next morning, about 9:30, Charles lay on his cot, staring at the snowy ceiling and watched the candle light dance around the ice crystals. The candle had started to take the edge off the cold, but Charles wasn’t too keen on getting out of his sleeping bag and facing the cold. His belly was complaining about the lack of food and his bladder was about to convince him he had to get up, even if he didn’t want to. He made a mental note to dig a small bathroom off the main room so that he didn’t have to walk all the way to the Walmart bathroom. The notion of going to work was far from his mind by this time. He had thought about it for a bit, but decided that unloading trucks wasn’t what he wanted to do then. Maybe later...much later, after the fear subsided.
As he crawled out of the entrance, the wind whipped ice and snow down his collar. He pulled his hood over his ball cap, stuck his hands into the coat pockets, and walked over to use the bathroom. He had slept too long to make it to the soup kitchen for breakfast, so he would have to wait for lunch to satisfy his stomach. After using the Walmart facilities, he returned to the pile to dig his bathroom.
He grabbed the small shovel, and started digging off the back of the main room. He had decided to make the bathroom just big enough that he could crawl into for those night emergencies or when the weather was to inclement in the mornings. He would dig some snow out, then push it out the front entrance, return and repeat until he had the new room almost completed. He was near finishing when he spotted a small, black handle sticking out of the snow. He pushed the snow away from it so that he could examine it. It appeared to be a handle like that on a brief case or small suit case. He dug around it with his shovel until he could pull it out from under the snow.
He sat down on his cot, placed the brief case on his lap and looked it over. It was black leather, very expensive looking, and locked. He worked on the locks with no success. Finally, in exasperation, he sat it on the ground and, using the blade of his shovel, levered it open. It fell open, scattering its contents all over the tarp in front of Charles. He sat and stared at the hundred dollar bills littering the ground in front of him. The case held hundreds more. He gathered up the loose money, stuck it back in the brief case and closed it on his lap. He sat there on his cot, the brief case on his lap, thinking. The only people he knew that carried money like that were drug dealers, and he didn’t think they would just let it be lost. Judging from where he found the case, at the bottom of the pile, it must have been lost for a few weeks, or even months. Never the less, those guys, whoever they were, wouldn’t just give up trying to find it. But, they don’t usually just lose money like that. Something must have happened to make them leave it after they lost it.
Another scenario that flew through his head is that someone could have stolen the money from the bad guys and then ditched it when they got too close. Whatever the reason for the money being there on his lap, he knew he would have to do something fast if he was going to .......to what? He didn’t have a plan. Call the police? Not even, he thought! But, if word got out that he had the money, he’d be dead meat within a few days. He grabbed the money and stuffed it in his back pack, an idea forming as he moved. He was about to crawl out, when he stopped. He pulled out eight of the bills and buried them in the snow above the candle. They would be revealed from the heat of the candle, after about an hour or so. He returned the case where he had found it, pushed some loose snow around it to cover it, then crawled out of the entrance.
He hurried to the soup kitchen, hoping to be in time for lunch. As he walked in, the room was mostly clear, except for a few men. He looked around, finally finding what he was looking for. He walked across the room and stood in front of the small, Hispanic man.
"Hey, Victor, what’s up?" he said, an unusual smile on his face.
"Hey, Charles, whatcha doin’, buddy?" Victor replied.
"I"m getting out of this miserable state," Charles stated.
"No way!" Victor said, standing. "Where you goin’?"
"Just away....I don’t really know, .....just outta here."
"Cool." Victor nodded, not knowing what else to say.
"Do you remember that place I mentioned to you the other day?" Charles asked. "You know, my own place?"
"Oh, yeah, man, what ya got goin’" Victor asked.
"I don’t need it no more, so I’m givin’ it to you. You want it?"
"Uh....yeah, sure, where is it?"
Charles thought for a moment. How could he explain that it was a pile of snow in the Walmart parking lot. Suddenly, after his windfall, that pile didn’t seem so cool. But, maybe Victor would. "It is in the parking lot of Walmart,"
"Where?" Victor asked, scrunching up his face. "You joking me, Charles?"
"There is a pile of snow on the Northeast corner of the Walmart parking lot. I made a snow cave in it and stuck a cot and sleeping bag in it. There’s a candle for light, a shovel to dig it bigger if you want. Go around to the back side of it, by the berm with the trees on it and, if you dig in the snow pile a little, you’ll find a blue tarp covering the entrance. It is warm ,out of the wind and it is safe. It is yours if you want it....doesn’t matter to me either way," Charles explained.
"A snow pile? Hey,...ya know, cool, I’ll check it out," Victor said, a note of hesitancy in his voice.
"Run the candle a lot, it helps to keep it warm," Charles added, with a smile.
"Yeah, ok," Victor said, not sure of the, so called, gift he’d been given. " Uh....thanks, man."
Charles shouldered his back pack and walked out of the soup kitchen. He pulled his hood up over his ball cap and leaned into the wind. That was the last time anyone ever saw him.
The End
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Charles Mellon Hocksworth
Charles Mellon Hocksworth
Charles first struck upon the idea of living in the snow pile on the Northeast corner of the Walmart parking lot on a cold, windy night just after he had been asked to leave the men’s shelter because of an altercation he started and finished with a rum soaked, foul smelling resident there. The fight wasn’t his fault, really, the man known as ‘Junk’ had taken Charles’ pillow and refused to give it back. Charles convinced him in the only way he knew how - a ferocious right hook. The powerful blow knocked out Junk and probably broke his toothless jaw, but Charles didn’t really care, not even a little. Junk had been stealing things from him ever since Charles had landed in the men’s shelter, and the pillow was just the last item that Charles was going to let him get away with. Charles had tried the, ‘turn the other cheek’ routine, but his patience had run out and he explained to Junk in a manner Junk would understand. But, that action made life for Charles suddenly far more unpleasant.
Ron, the night manager at the shelter escorted Charles to the front door, handed him his belongings, meager but adequate, and slightly pushed Charles out the door, carefully watching him in the off chance Charles wanted to take a swing at him.
"Sorry, Charles, but the rules are rules and we can’t have any fighting here at the shelter," Ron explained, in an, almost, apologetic tone.
Charles didn’t say anything, knowing that any attempt to ask for mercy would be in vain. He pulled his hood up over his ball cap against the wind that was blowing small pellets of snow, and walked down the street, not sure of where he would go. He had a sleeping bag tied to his back pack, a vestige of his working days, and was prepared to sleep outside if it came to that. His parka would keep him warm for awhile, but the temperature was dropping and would probably be down near zero before the night was over. His boots, old and worn, weren’t up to the task of keeping his feet warm unless he kept walking. The thought of walking all night in the pending blizzard didn’t strike Charles as one of the more brilliant ideas he’s had. There wasn’t another shelter within ten miles and he didn’t feel like trying to make it there during a snow storm, especially with the wind kicking up like it was, probably blowing in a blizzard. He had seen too many homeless men found dead after just such a storm and he didn’t plan on being a statistic just yet.
He knew there would probably be a fire in a fifty five gallon drum down near the tracks under the bridge that crossed the river, but he wasn’t up to walking that far tonight, plus, the idea of sharing the fire with a bunch of drunks, junkies and crazies didn’t get Charles too excited. He walked a few blocks trying to get his thoughts clear. He turned a corner and saw the lights of the Walmart parking lot and just naturally walked toward the light, like a moth looking for it’s bearings. Plus, he knew he could wander Walmart for awhile, warming up, before they sent him back into the cold.
Charles approached the parking lot from the South, just to the right of the large pile of plowed snow. It must have been twenty five feet high, piled up by huge front loaders. He stopped and stared at the pile, a germ of an idea budding in his cold brain. He looked the pile over, walking around it as he surveyed the immensity of it, enlarging his small idea as he walked. A brief smile crossed his cracked lips as he scratched his whisker covered chin with a bare hand.
He made a quick decision, turned and walked across the parking lot and entered the store. He still had a few dollars left from his last job, washing dishes at a café north of town until the owner’s grand son returned from school.
The owner, Jim, had tried to explain why he had to let Charles go, but couldn’t look Charles in the eye as he attempted some justification for firing him.
Charles walked to the sporting goods section and found the items he needed - a small backpack shovel, a candle lantern, a pack of small, flat candles for the lantern, a plastic tarp, and a small, folding cot.
After checking out, he pushed his cart filled with his new furnishings and headed for the snow pile. He parked his cart on the side of the pile opposite the store. A large berm covered in spruce trees and topped by a six foot fence were at his back as he began digging into the snow pile. He tried to pace himself so that he didn’t work up a sweat, knowing that any moisture that dampened his clothing would lower his core temperature when he stopped working. He dug a small opening, in the South side of the pile, just big enough for him to crawl into, that connected to an entrance hall about four feet in length with a slight turn in it to keep any wind down to a minimum. From there, he began to dig a larger room, one about four feet high and approximately six feet across in all directions. He wanted to keep it as small as possible so that he didn’t have to use much energy to heat it.
Once the hole was dug to his satisfaction, he pulled in his new furnishings to arrange them in his new home. He cut the tarp in half and fashioned a make-shift door from one half and used the remaining half as a rug. He set up his cot, dug a small ledge for the candle lantern and lit the candle. He now had light and heat. With no wind, the heat from the candle was enough to take the edge off the cold. In fact, his new home was becoming quite comfortable. He rolled out his sleeping bag, pulled off his boots and slid into bed. The snow, in addition to stopping the wind and acting as insulation, was also blocking all sound from the outside world. For once, in a long time, Charles could enjoy silence. It sounded good. He extinguished the candle, and fell asleep almost instantly.
He awoke the next morning having one of the best nights sleep he could remember. Not since he had found himself out on the streets had he had such a great night’s sleep. Sleeping in shelters, he had to keep one eye open most of the night to keep track of his things. In the ‘Pile’ as he had come to call it, he was alone, unmolested, safe and secure from the outside world.
He poked his head out to find a new, two inch, layer of fresh snow. He grabbed his backpack and stepped out of the opening, pushing some snow over the tarp to conceal it from anyone who might be prying around the pile. After making sure his new home wouldn’t be disturbed, he headed off to the soup kitchen to see if he could get something to eat.
As he walked to the soup kitchen, he had a new bounce to his step. He was a home owner now. Sure, it wasn’t really a conventional home, but it was close, and it performed as one. Besides, he thought, he didn’t have to mow the lawn or shovel the walk, some major pluses when you consider home ownership. He would have to find a way to get a radio so that he could listen to some tunes while he lounged around his new home.
He had just finished eating when Victor, a small, Hispanic man with silver hair and a ready smile, sat down next to him.
"Hey, Charles, I heard about the fight last night you had with Junk. Way to go, man!"
Charles nodded at Victor. "He stole my pillow," Charles explained.
"They had to haul his butt to the ER after you left. He had a broken jaw. They wired it shut so now he’s eating out of a straw," Victor said, lauging.
"He had it coming"
"Yeah, he probably did. I never liked him too much, ya know?" Victor said.
"Me too," Charles added.
"Hey, Charles, where are you staying now? Victor asked.
"I got my own place," Charles said, smiling slightly
"Your own place? How did you do that?"
Charles realized he’d said too much already and didn’t want to add to the mistake by saying more. He just shrugged his shoulders and moved the toast crumbs on his tray around with his fingers.
"Come on, Charles, what you got goin’?
"Nothin’"
"Nah, you got somethin’ goin’ on." Victor bent his head down to look Charles in the eyes. "You’re not gonna tell an old buddy?
Charles stood up. "Nope. There’s just room for one, and that’s me." He headed for the garbage can to dump his food. "Sorry, Vic. I’ll see ya around."
Charles realized he’d have to be more careful so that no one would find out where he was staying and steal all his belongings. He didn’t look back to see how Victor was taking the news. He just didn’t care if Victor liked it or not. It was a matter of survival and having people like you didn’t contribute to survival on the streets. Being smart and tough mattered and that was all. Charles was both tough and smart, and he was sometimes brutally honest when it came to dealing with his fellow man, especially the other homeless men he encountered on the streets. He didn’t see any reason to beat around the bush and try to spare anyone hurt feelings. If they couldn’t get over it, then to hell with them. He didn’t expect any thing different in return.
Charles had been on the streets for the last six years, ever since he was discharged from the Army in 1973. After two tours in Vietnam, a Distinguished Service Medal and a Purple Heart, all the Army could do for Charles was some money for school and occasional free medical care. They really didn’t have an answer to the nasty little habit he’d picked up in the jungles and back streets of ‘Nam. He, as well as many of his fellow soldiers, had found their escape from the brutality and senseless killing in various and assorted drugs. That was the good news, the bad news was that the habit followed them home. Some of the lucky ones rid themselves of it and the unlucky ones, like Charles, suffered the consequences regularly.
Six years of being on the streets, still fighting many of the battles he wished he’d left in country. But, Charles knew the responsibility for his condition lay at his door and none else, and he accepted that. He, somehow, knew he’d find a solution out of the darkness that had engulfed him and get his act together. He had to. He had seen too many of his fellow ex-soldiers die on the streets to want to spend all of his life homeless and hopeless. But, the puzzle was how one went about getting off the streets. As of that cold, sunless morning, Charles had not found that piece of the puzzle. He wondered if he ever would find it. Maybe he’d just walk the streets until they found him huddled under a bridge some day, frozen stiff like Speed, the meth freak who was found just a week before, frozen harder than the concrete he was laying on.
Charles shuddered at the thought of Speed laying on the concrete, just a lump of frozen flesh.
"Aw, crap," Charles muttered under his breath as he dismissed the thought of Speed out of his mind.
Charles walked back to the Pile and, after making sure no one was watching, slipped into the entrance and lay down on the cot. He didn’t light the candle, letting the ambient light leaking in from around the tarp across the opening light the small room.
It was after noon when he awoke. He hadn’t planned taking a long nap, in fact, he hadn’t planned a nap at all, but the comfort of his happy home had overtaken him and he slipped off. He crawled out of the entrance and , after covering up the tarp, walked over to Walmart to use the bathroom. The wind was picking up forcing Charles to pull his hood up over his head. It looked like another storm was blowing in.
To be continued.....
Charles first struck upon the idea of living in the snow pile on the Northeast corner of the Walmart parking lot on a cold, windy night just after he had been asked to leave the men’s shelter because of an altercation he started and finished with a rum soaked, foul smelling resident there. The fight wasn’t his fault, really, the man known as ‘Junk’ had taken Charles’ pillow and refused to give it back. Charles convinced him in the only way he knew how - a ferocious right hook. The powerful blow knocked out Junk and probably broke his toothless jaw, but Charles didn’t really care, not even a little. Junk had been stealing things from him ever since Charles had landed in the men’s shelter, and the pillow was just the last item that Charles was going to let him get away with. Charles had tried the, ‘turn the other cheek’ routine, but his patience had run out and he explained to Junk in a manner Junk would understand. But, that action made life for Charles suddenly far more unpleasant.
Ron, the night manager at the shelter escorted Charles to the front door, handed him his belongings, meager but adequate, and slightly pushed Charles out the door, carefully watching him in the off chance Charles wanted to take a swing at him.
"Sorry, Charles, but the rules are rules and we can’t have any fighting here at the shelter," Ron explained, in an, almost, apologetic tone.
Charles didn’t say anything, knowing that any attempt to ask for mercy would be in vain. He pulled his hood up over his ball cap against the wind that was blowing small pellets of snow, and walked down the street, not sure of where he would go. He had a sleeping bag tied to his back pack, a vestige of his working days, and was prepared to sleep outside if it came to that. His parka would keep him warm for awhile, but the temperature was dropping and would probably be down near zero before the night was over. His boots, old and worn, weren’t up to the task of keeping his feet warm unless he kept walking. The thought of walking all night in the pending blizzard didn’t strike Charles as one of the more brilliant ideas he’s had. There wasn’t another shelter within ten miles and he didn’t feel like trying to make it there during a snow storm, especially with the wind kicking up like it was, probably blowing in a blizzard. He had seen too many homeless men found dead after just such a storm and he didn’t plan on being a statistic just yet.
He knew there would probably be a fire in a fifty five gallon drum down near the tracks under the bridge that crossed the river, but he wasn’t up to walking that far tonight, plus, the idea of sharing the fire with a bunch of drunks, junkies and crazies didn’t get Charles too excited. He walked a few blocks trying to get his thoughts clear. He turned a corner and saw the lights of the Walmart parking lot and just naturally walked toward the light, like a moth looking for it’s bearings. Plus, he knew he could wander Walmart for awhile, warming up, before they sent him back into the cold.
Charles approached the parking lot from the South, just to the right of the large pile of plowed snow. It must have been twenty five feet high, piled up by huge front loaders. He stopped and stared at the pile, a germ of an idea budding in his cold brain. He looked the pile over, walking around it as he surveyed the immensity of it, enlarging his small idea as he walked. A brief smile crossed his cracked lips as he scratched his whisker covered chin with a bare hand.
He made a quick decision, turned and walked across the parking lot and entered the store. He still had a few dollars left from his last job, washing dishes at a café north of town until the owner’s grand son returned from school.
The owner, Jim, had tried to explain why he had to let Charles go, but couldn’t look Charles in the eye as he attempted some justification for firing him.
Charles walked to the sporting goods section and found the items he needed - a small backpack shovel, a candle lantern, a pack of small, flat candles for the lantern, a plastic tarp, and a small, folding cot.
After checking out, he pushed his cart filled with his new furnishings and headed for the snow pile. He parked his cart on the side of the pile opposite the store. A large berm covered in spruce trees and topped by a six foot fence were at his back as he began digging into the snow pile. He tried to pace himself so that he didn’t work up a sweat, knowing that any moisture that dampened his clothing would lower his core temperature when he stopped working. He dug a small opening, in the South side of the pile, just big enough for him to crawl into, that connected to an entrance hall about four feet in length with a slight turn in it to keep any wind down to a minimum. From there, he began to dig a larger room, one about four feet high and approximately six feet across in all directions. He wanted to keep it as small as possible so that he didn’t have to use much energy to heat it.
Once the hole was dug to his satisfaction, he pulled in his new furnishings to arrange them in his new home. He cut the tarp in half and fashioned a make-shift door from one half and used the remaining half as a rug. He set up his cot, dug a small ledge for the candle lantern and lit the candle. He now had light and heat. With no wind, the heat from the candle was enough to take the edge off the cold. In fact, his new home was becoming quite comfortable. He rolled out his sleeping bag, pulled off his boots and slid into bed. The snow, in addition to stopping the wind and acting as insulation, was also blocking all sound from the outside world. For once, in a long time, Charles could enjoy silence. It sounded good. He extinguished the candle, and fell asleep almost instantly.
He awoke the next morning having one of the best nights sleep he could remember. Not since he had found himself out on the streets had he had such a great night’s sleep. Sleeping in shelters, he had to keep one eye open most of the night to keep track of his things. In the ‘Pile’ as he had come to call it, he was alone, unmolested, safe and secure from the outside world.
He poked his head out to find a new, two inch, layer of fresh snow. He grabbed his backpack and stepped out of the opening, pushing some snow over the tarp to conceal it from anyone who might be prying around the pile. After making sure his new home wouldn’t be disturbed, he headed off to the soup kitchen to see if he could get something to eat.
As he walked to the soup kitchen, he had a new bounce to his step. He was a home owner now. Sure, it wasn’t really a conventional home, but it was close, and it performed as one. Besides, he thought, he didn’t have to mow the lawn or shovel the walk, some major pluses when you consider home ownership. He would have to find a way to get a radio so that he could listen to some tunes while he lounged around his new home.
He had just finished eating when Victor, a small, Hispanic man with silver hair and a ready smile, sat down next to him.
"Hey, Charles, I heard about the fight last night you had with Junk. Way to go, man!"
Charles nodded at Victor. "He stole my pillow," Charles explained.
"They had to haul his butt to the ER after you left. He had a broken jaw. They wired it shut so now he’s eating out of a straw," Victor said, lauging.
"He had it coming"
"Yeah, he probably did. I never liked him too much, ya know?" Victor said.
"Me too," Charles added.
"Hey, Charles, where are you staying now? Victor asked.
"I got my own place," Charles said, smiling slightly
"Your own place? How did you do that?"
Charles realized he’d said too much already and didn’t want to add to the mistake by saying more. He just shrugged his shoulders and moved the toast crumbs on his tray around with his fingers.
"Come on, Charles, what you got goin’?
"Nothin’"
"Nah, you got somethin’ goin’ on." Victor bent his head down to look Charles in the eyes. "You’re not gonna tell an old buddy?
Charles stood up. "Nope. There’s just room for one, and that’s me." He headed for the garbage can to dump his food. "Sorry, Vic. I’ll see ya around."
Charles realized he’d have to be more careful so that no one would find out where he was staying and steal all his belongings. He didn’t look back to see how Victor was taking the news. He just didn’t care if Victor liked it or not. It was a matter of survival and having people like you didn’t contribute to survival on the streets. Being smart and tough mattered and that was all. Charles was both tough and smart, and he was sometimes brutally honest when it came to dealing with his fellow man, especially the other homeless men he encountered on the streets. He didn’t see any reason to beat around the bush and try to spare anyone hurt feelings. If they couldn’t get over it, then to hell with them. He didn’t expect any thing different in return.
Charles had been on the streets for the last six years, ever since he was discharged from the Army in 1973. After two tours in Vietnam, a Distinguished Service Medal and a Purple Heart, all the Army could do for Charles was some money for school and occasional free medical care. They really didn’t have an answer to the nasty little habit he’d picked up in the jungles and back streets of ‘Nam. He, as well as many of his fellow soldiers, had found their escape from the brutality and senseless killing in various and assorted drugs. That was the good news, the bad news was that the habit followed them home. Some of the lucky ones rid themselves of it and the unlucky ones, like Charles, suffered the consequences regularly.
Six years of being on the streets, still fighting many of the battles he wished he’d left in country. But, Charles knew the responsibility for his condition lay at his door and none else, and he accepted that. He, somehow, knew he’d find a solution out of the darkness that had engulfed him and get his act together. He had to. He had seen too many of his fellow ex-soldiers die on the streets to want to spend all of his life homeless and hopeless. But, the puzzle was how one went about getting off the streets. As of that cold, sunless morning, Charles had not found that piece of the puzzle. He wondered if he ever would find it. Maybe he’d just walk the streets until they found him huddled under a bridge some day, frozen stiff like Speed, the meth freak who was found just a week before, frozen harder than the concrete he was laying on.
Charles shuddered at the thought of Speed laying on the concrete, just a lump of frozen flesh.
"Aw, crap," Charles muttered under his breath as he dismissed the thought of Speed out of his mind.
Charles walked back to the Pile and, after making sure no one was watching, slipped into the entrance and lay down on the cot. He didn’t light the candle, letting the ambient light leaking in from around the tarp across the opening light the small room.
It was after noon when he awoke. He hadn’t planned taking a long nap, in fact, he hadn’t planned a nap at all, but the comfort of his happy home had overtaken him and he slipped off. He crawled out of the entrance and , after covering up the tarp, walked over to Walmart to use the bathroom. The wind was picking up forcing Charles to pull his hood up over his head. It looked like another storm was blowing in.
To be continued.....
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The Bank Robber- a cautionary tale
He stepped inside the second set of glass doors and took a furtive look around, hoping not to see an armed guard. A quick exhale of air signified his pleasure at not finding one. There was still the pesky cameras, but he felt his disguise was sufficient to render him unrecognizable to anyone that might know him, or try to identify him later. To his dismay, the bank was busy and there was a line of people waiting to get to the counter. He wasn’t ready to step up to the line, so he hurried over to a small ledge attached to the wall next to the door where a pen was attached with a chain and several small forms were stacked in their respective compartments, ready to be filled out by bank customers. He grabbed one of the forms, turned it over and wrote his robbery note on it. He waited, hoping that the crowd would thin and he would be able to do his dirty business without having to worry about some citizen trying to be a hero. But, his luck wasn’t holding and the people continued to wander in the door.
He folded his note, held it in his left hand, turned and stepped into line behind a young woman with a little girl in tow. The little girl kept staring at him, making him nervous. Two old women walked in the door and stood behind him as he stared back at the little girl hoping that would make her turn around and stop looking at him. Standing on one foot, she swayed back and forth hanging on to her mom’s arm and sticking the fingers of her other hand in her mouth. His ploy of staring back wasn’t working, in fact, it seemed to make it worse.
The two older women behind him were talking about the up coming bingo game at the living center and wondering if Gladys would try cheating again. Then, almost in mid sentence, they switched to hair coloring , pros and cons, and then off to the best laxative on the market. He was trying to think of a way to move the line faster so that he didn’t have to listen to the talk about hair color and laxatives and be stared at by, what he thought was, a disturbed little girl.
Unfortunately, the line didn’t move and he was getting nervous. His fake beard was starting to scratch his skin and the sweat began to pour down his face from under his hat and wig. He had worn a down filled vest under his coat to make him seem heavier, aiding in the disguise, and the combination of vest, wig , hat and beard were causing him to become extremely hot and uncomfortable. He looked up ahead to see what was holding up the line. There were only two cashiers and one was helping an old man try to count the change he had brought in to deposit. They had to start over twice due to his forgetting where he was in the count. The second cashier was helping a young woman making a merchant deposit. She had checks, cash, coins and receipts scattered over the entire counter. It looked like he was in for a long wait.
The two women behind him began to argue about who had the most aches and pains. He wanted to turn around and tell them to shut up, but he didn’t want to bring any unwanted attention to himself so he just took a breath and tried to relax, which was becoming increasingly more difficult with each inane remark from the two old women.
Two men, dressed as if they might be construction workers stepped into line behind the old women. He was thinking perhaps his idea of robbing the bank wasn’t such a good one, when the line actually moved. The old man finally got his money counted and was hobbling out the door and the young woman and the little girl had moved to the counter, making him next in line.
His heart beat began to accelerate. He was next and it looked like the woman making a deposit was about to finish. She thanked the teller, stuffed her cash bag into her large purse and stepped toward the door. The teller looked at him and smiled. Well, here goes nothing, he thought.
"Hello, sir, how can I help you?" the teller asked, still smiling.
He said nothing, sliding his note across the counter toward her, his hand shaking as he pushed the note.
"What can I do for you?" she asked, taking the note in hand. She read it to herself. " I’m afraid I don’t understand," she added as she examined the note.
He pointed to the note and looked sternly into her eyes trying to will her to give him the money in her drawer.
"It says ‘give me all your money and act normal’. I don’t know what you mean by acting normal," she explained.
He couldn’t believe what she was saying. Could she actually be that dense? He pointed to the note one more time hoping it would sink in that he was trying to rob the bank. She looked at him with a blank stare.
"Did you want to make a withdrawal?" she asked.
He nodded, not wanting to talk, making identification even more difficult.
"Ok, what is your account number?"
He stared at her, not believing what he had heard. Again, he pointed to the note, this time with a thud as his finger forcefully struck the note.
"I have to have an account number in order to help you make a withdrawal," she explained trying to be helpful. "If you’ll give it to me, I can check your account." She waited for him to speak.
He decided to try to disguise his voice and get her to understand he was robbing the bank. "Put all your money in a bag and act normal," he said in a hushed, husky voice.
"I’m not sure what you mean by normal. This is normal. Wouldn’t you consider this normal?"
"Just put the money in a bag!" he said, becoming more agitated.
"Then I guess you consider this normal. Do you have an account here?" she asked again.
"No! Just do as I ask and no one will get hurt!" he exclaimed.
"Well, I would hope not," she added. "But, if I don’t have an account number, I won’t know which account to debit, now, will I?"
"Don’t you get it, just put the money in a bag ," he said, trying to be as quiet as possible and still be heard.
"I’m sorry, sir, but if you don’t have an account here, I can’t help you," she explained, looking past him. "Next"
"No!" he yelled, turning around and looking at the two old ladies. "Stay back. I’m not finished yet!"
"Well," one of the two huffed, "how rude."
He turned to the teller and pointed at the note. "Just put the money in a bag and continue as you normally would." He had given up on trying to disguise his voice.
"No, I’m sorry sir, but I can’t do that," she said, adamantly.
He stood and stared at her. He decided to play his ace. "I have a gun."
She looked at him, looked down at his side, then back into his eyes. "Next, she said, looking past him at the old ladies."
"Look, Mommy, the man is leaking," the little girl standing next to him at the counter said, pointing .
He was sweating profusely, it dripping off his nose and beard. The young girls mother shushed her and pulled her back next to her side.
"See, Mommy, look," the young girl insisted, pointing up at him.
One of the old ladies stood next to him. "We’re next," she said looking up at him with a furrowed brow.
"Just back off!" he shouted at the old lady. "I’m not finished yet."
One of the old ladies spoke. "She said you were." Indicating the teller with her gloved hand, a purse hanging from it.
"No sense being rude," the other old lady chimed in.
"Hey, what’s going on?" One of the construction workers asked.
He stepped aside. The first old lady stepped up to the counter in front of him. He stepped back another step.
"How can I help you ladies?" the teller asked.
He backed up a few steps, trying to get his head straight. Somewhere, the whole transaction had unraveled and he was no longer in control, if he ever was. He crumpled up the note, threw it down and almost ran out of the bank.
One of the old ladies watched him leave the bank. "What is his problem?"
"He wanted to rob the bank." the teller answered, smiling.
THE END
He folded his note, held it in his left hand, turned and stepped into line behind a young woman with a little girl in tow. The little girl kept staring at him, making him nervous. Two old women walked in the door and stood behind him as he stared back at the little girl hoping that would make her turn around and stop looking at him. Standing on one foot, she swayed back and forth hanging on to her mom’s arm and sticking the fingers of her other hand in her mouth. His ploy of staring back wasn’t working, in fact, it seemed to make it worse.
The two older women behind him were talking about the up coming bingo game at the living center and wondering if Gladys would try cheating again. Then, almost in mid sentence, they switched to hair coloring , pros and cons, and then off to the best laxative on the market. He was trying to think of a way to move the line faster so that he didn’t have to listen to the talk about hair color and laxatives and be stared at by, what he thought was, a disturbed little girl.
Unfortunately, the line didn’t move and he was getting nervous. His fake beard was starting to scratch his skin and the sweat began to pour down his face from under his hat and wig. He had worn a down filled vest under his coat to make him seem heavier, aiding in the disguise, and the combination of vest, wig , hat and beard were causing him to become extremely hot and uncomfortable. He looked up ahead to see what was holding up the line. There were only two cashiers and one was helping an old man try to count the change he had brought in to deposit. They had to start over twice due to his forgetting where he was in the count. The second cashier was helping a young woman making a merchant deposit. She had checks, cash, coins and receipts scattered over the entire counter. It looked like he was in for a long wait.
The two women behind him began to argue about who had the most aches and pains. He wanted to turn around and tell them to shut up, but he didn’t want to bring any unwanted attention to himself so he just took a breath and tried to relax, which was becoming increasingly more difficult with each inane remark from the two old women.
Two men, dressed as if they might be construction workers stepped into line behind the old women. He was thinking perhaps his idea of robbing the bank wasn’t such a good one, when the line actually moved. The old man finally got his money counted and was hobbling out the door and the young woman and the little girl had moved to the counter, making him next in line.
His heart beat began to accelerate. He was next and it looked like the woman making a deposit was about to finish. She thanked the teller, stuffed her cash bag into her large purse and stepped toward the door. The teller looked at him and smiled. Well, here goes nothing, he thought.
"Hello, sir, how can I help you?" the teller asked, still smiling.
He said nothing, sliding his note across the counter toward her, his hand shaking as he pushed the note.
"What can I do for you?" she asked, taking the note in hand. She read it to herself. " I’m afraid I don’t understand," she added as she examined the note.
He pointed to the note and looked sternly into her eyes trying to will her to give him the money in her drawer.
"It says ‘give me all your money and act normal’. I don’t know what you mean by acting normal," she explained.
He couldn’t believe what she was saying. Could she actually be that dense? He pointed to the note one more time hoping it would sink in that he was trying to rob the bank. She looked at him with a blank stare.
"Did you want to make a withdrawal?" she asked.
He nodded, not wanting to talk, making identification even more difficult.
"Ok, what is your account number?"
He stared at her, not believing what he had heard. Again, he pointed to the note, this time with a thud as his finger forcefully struck the note.
"I have to have an account number in order to help you make a withdrawal," she explained trying to be helpful. "If you’ll give it to me, I can check your account." She waited for him to speak.
He decided to try to disguise his voice and get her to understand he was robbing the bank. "Put all your money in a bag and act normal," he said in a hushed, husky voice.
"I’m not sure what you mean by normal. This is normal. Wouldn’t you consider this normal?"
"Just put the money in a bag!" he said, becoming more agitated.
"Then I guess you consider this normal. Do you have an account here?" she asked again.
"No! Just do as I ask and no one will get hurt!" he exclaimed.
"Well, I would hope not," she added. "But, if I don’t have an account number, I won’t know which account to debit, now, will I?"
"Don’t you get it, just put the money in a bag ," he said, trying to be as quiet as possible and still be heard.
"I’m sorry, sir, but if you don’t have an account here, I can’t help you," she explained, looking past him. "Next"
"No!" he yelled, turning around and looking at the two old ladies. "Stay back. I’m not finished yet!"
"Well," one of the two huffed, "how rude."
He turned to the teller and pointed at the note. "Just put the money in a bag and continue as you normally would." He had given up on trying to disguise his voice.
"No, I’m sorry sir, but I can’t do that," she said, adamantly.
He stood and stared at her. He decided to play his ace. "I have a gun."
She looked at him, looked down at his side, then back into his eyes. "Next, she said, looking past him at the old ladies."
"Look, Mommy, the man is leaking," the little girl standing next to him at the counter said, pointing .
He was sweating profusely, it dripping off his nose and beard. The young girls mother shushed her and pulled her back next to her side.
"See, Mommy, look," the young girl insisted, pointing up at him.
One of the old ladies stood next to him. "We’re next," she said looking up at him with a furrowed brow.
"Just back off!" he shouted at the old lady. "I’m not finished yet."
One of the old ladies spoke. "She said you were." Indicating the teller with her gloved hand, a purse hanging from it.
"No sense being rude," the other old lady chimed in.
"Hey, what’s going on?" One of the construction workers asked.
He stepped aside. The first old lady stepped up to the counter in front of him. He stepped back another step.
"How can I help you ladies?" the teller asked.
He backed up a few steps, trying to get his head straight. Somewhere, the whole transaction had unraveled and he was no longer in control, if he ever was. He crumpled up the note, threw it down and almost ran out of the bank.
One of the old ladies watched him leave the bank. "What is his problem?"
"He wanted to rob the bank." the teller answered, smiling.
THE END
Monday, February 1, 2010
Let's get bummed!
Well, dear reader, there are several resolutions that I have already missed, one being that I would write something interesting at least once a week. In reality, I’ll be lucky to write something interesting once a year. But, at least you’d think I’d write something at least once a month, interesting or not. But nooooooooo! I can’t even manage that.
I could talk about the weather, but one of my unwritten resolutions long ago was to not swear, and I intend to keep that one , so I can’t talk about the weather. Even though, we are in the abyss of winter, the black hole of the year that sucks out every ounce of life from any unsuspecting person caught in the northern latitudes. But, I’m not going to talk about the weather! Because it is tooooooo depressing. Just having to think about the lack of color, the bone chilling cold, and the insufferable snow, that just keeps coming and coming and coming until one is moved to tears and wants nothing but to scream and fall into a snowbank sobbing. That’s why I don’t want to talk about it.
I don’t want to talk about how tired I am from lifting forty tons of frozen water that piles up on my driveway and sidewalk, and all the other sidewalks and driveways I am responsible for. And, there doesn’t seem to be an end to it. It is unrelenting. And, the lack of sunshine and the accompanying loss of vitamin D has created an unyielding depression that has caught me in its icy grasp and I am helpless.
And that is why I’m not going to talk about the weather. Not even a little bit, not even once! Nope, not this guy. No weather. And no politics, which is equally as depressing and useless to talk about because we can’t do anything about either. Well, how about religion? No thanks, I’ve got one. So, now, dear reader, you may have a sense of why I’m not posting in this blog every week.......I have nothing to say!
I suppose I could subscribe to the mindless drivel that runs rampant on Facebook, but, I can’t bring myself to sink to that level - yet. Maybe next month when the weather has cleared.
This is one of the good things about winter, a happy snowman. This is one that Katie and Jake made on our front yard. Their grandma lives across the street and she could see this guy out her front window.
I could talk about the weather, but one of my unwritten resolutions long ago was to not swear, and I intend to keep that one , so I can’t talk about the weather. Even though, we are in the abyss of winter, the black hole of the year that sucks out every ounce of life from any unsuspecting person caught in the northern latitudes. But, I’m not going to talk about the weather! Because it is tooooooo depressing. Just having to think about the lack of color, the bone chilling cold, and the insufferable snow, that just keeps coming and coming and coming until one is moved to tears and wants nothing but to scream and fall into a snowbank sobbing. That’s why I don’t want to talk about it.
I don’t want to talk about how tired I am from lifting forty tons of frozen water that piles up on my driveway and sidewalk, and all the other sidewalks and driveways I am responsible for. And, there doesn’t seem to be an end to it. It is unrelenting. And, the lack of sunshine and the accompanying loss of vitamin D has created an unyielding depression that has caught me in its icy grasp and I am helpless.
And that is why I’m not going to talk about the weather. Not even a little bit, not even once! Nope, not this guy. No weather. And no politics, which is equally as depressing and useless to talk about because we can’t do anything about either. Well, how about religion? No thanks, I’ve got one. So, now, dear reader, you may have a sense of why I’m not posting in this blog every week.......I have nothing to say!
I suppose I could subscribe to the mindless drivel that runs rampant on Facebook, but, I can’t bring myself to sink to that level - yet. Maybe next month when the weather has cleared.
This is one of the good things about winter, a happy snowman. This is one that Katie and Jake made on our front yard. Their grandma lives across the street and she could see this guy out her front window.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
New Year's Resolutions
1. Don’t eat yellow snow. (Why wasn’t I told this as a child?)
2. When a large, hairy guy says shut up and you think he said stand up, clarify before taking action. (I wish I'd made this one last year.)
3. No Detox in the year 2010. (See post of November 2009)
4. Become filthy rich. (I’m half way there!)
5. Write something interesting in this blog every week. (Messed up already. Drat!)
6. Try to get a novel published.
7. Try to write a novel.
8. Read a novel. (Much easier.)
9. Find out who Lady GaGa is and why Mr. and Mrs GaGa named their little girl, Lady.
10. Buy Cher’s greatest hit.
11. Find out what aftershave Tiger Woods uses.
12. Buy new aftershave.
Well, dear reader, there they are, the Dirty Dozen, my New Year’s resolutions. And, may I say, I am resolute in keeping these this year. Perhaps I’ll update my progress as the year goes on, but, since following through on resolutions wasn’t one of the twelve, perhaps not. I hope these will inspire all who read this to set there own resolutions. Good luck!
2. When a large, hairy guy says shut up and you think he said stand up, clarify before taking action. (I wish I'd made this one last year.)
3. No Detox in the year 2010. (See post of November 2009)
4. Become filthy rich. (I’m half way there!)
5. Write something interesting in this blog every week. (Messed up already. Drat!)
6. Try to get a novel published.
7. Try to write a novel.
8. Read a novel. (Much easier.)
9. Find out who Lady GaGa is and why Mr. and Mrs GaGa named their little girl, Lady.
10. Buy Cher’s greatest hit.
11. Find out what aftershave Tiger Woods uses.
12. Buy new aftershave.
Well, dear reader, there they are, the Dirty Dozen, my New Year’s resolutions. And, may I say, I am resolute in keeping these this year. Perhaps I’ll update my progress as the year goes on, but, since following through on resolutions wasn’t one of the twelve, perhaps not. I hope these will inspire all who read this to set there own resolutions. Good luck!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Detox - A study in torture
Before I start, let me caution the parents that may be reading this. Send the children out of the room. What follows is so horrible, so scary that it is not for the faint of heart or for those under the age of twelve. I’ll wait until they are gone...............ok, we can continue.
The Martin family, or to be more accurate, Mikki, Katie and me - Jake is left out of the fun since he is playing football and needs his strength - have embarked on an epic odyssey, though that may be redundant. We have adopted a new diet that promises to bring health, happiness and prosperity to all those who would dare to attempt its rigor. Not wanting to back away from a challenge, we stepped to the plate, ready to take our swing at the fence.
The name of this program is "The Food Lovers Fat Loss Diet". It appears to be a very sensible, reasonable plan that incorporates real food and is based on the concepts of Nutrisystem, with a hint of Richard Simmons’ Deal a Meal utilizing real food we eat on a regular basis. It all sounded good until the first six day detox plan was explained to me. I was incredulous when I heard what was expected of me. At hearing the directions, I was immediately taken back to those days of pledging for a fraternity and the infamous "Hell Week" that every upperclassman looked forward to with sadistic glee. "I have to do what?" was my first reaction, my second being going to my room and brooding for several hours.
After coming out of my room, I reluctantly, and against all reason, acquiesced to the regimen and now find myself in the middle of the second ‘Hell Week’ of my life. What follows is the daily detox plan:
Upon waking, I am immediately, or at least ten minutes after waking, given a glass of water laced with Pysillium husks that has the equivalent fiber rating of a large ball of twine. After ingesting the fiber bomb, I am then administered a glass of water mixed with chlorophyl. For those of you who may not be familiar with chlorophyl and its many uses, let me elucidate. Chlorophyl is touted as an internal deodorant. I can now rest from my concerns that my insides may possibly stink. In addition to its deodorant characteristics, it is also extremely green. When I say extremely green, I am not exaggerating. It is so green that even the Irish refuse to use it. And might I add that everything it comes in contact with is instantly turned green. After the greening and deodorizing of my insides, I am then given a capsule of cascara sagrada that just adds to the truckload of fiber that I have already consumed.
Now for some real food? No! A blender of blue berries, protein powder, banana and apple juice, deceitfully labeled as breakfast, is then chocked down and I am out the door, armed with a field of green fiber and fruit, sitting like a ticking bomb in my gut. What could possibly go wrong with that?
At ten in the morning, I’m allowed a cup of apple juice and at lunch I get another shake with either blueberries or strawberries and protein powder. My afternoon snack consists of a choice of a soup mix of carrots and potatoes thrown into the blender so as to render them unrecognizable both in taste, texture and looks, or a cup of chicken bouillon. The evening meal is a repeat of the morning regimen of fiber, fruit and chlorophyl, and then all we have to look forward to is our evening snack of chicken bouillon or mystery soup. With these two, one has to choose between the needed calories of the mystery soup, or the welcome taste of chicken bouillon, which is devoid of any appreciable calories. So, death by starvation or wanting to die because of a dearth of taste.
As any reasonable, thinking human being would anticipate, the combination of a bushel basket of fiber mixed with fruit may have a significant impact on ones regularity. That thinking human would be more than right, in fact, he would be spot on. Now, those of you who are a bit squeamish or faint of heart, may want to turn away at this part, or at best, avert your eyes. To say there were frequent trips to the bathroom would be a gross understatement, and to add insult to injury, so to speak, the offerings at the porcelain throne were St Patrick’s Day approved. (You can reference the above description of the characteristics of chlorophyl). And to think I only have to endure this for SIX DAYS!!!!
As I write this, I am in the middle of ‘Hell Week’ and it would appear that, with any luck, I’ll survive this ordeal and will make it to the real food part of the program. This initial stage is, as I mentioned, the detox portion of the program and is designed to rid my body of all the toxins I accumulated over the years from the regular food I was eating. I’m not sure how the toxins got into my food, but at least I am now spewing them out of my body at an alarming rate and will, in three days, be toxin free. How many other men can say that?
I am sure this program was initiated by the CIA in or around the confines of Gitmo for the interrogation of terrorist and other miscreants that are housed there. However, all of my phone calls to Langley have not been returned, so we will never really be sure.
Rumor has it that this program was also rejected for use in training by the Navy SEALS as being too rigorous, onerous and just plain mean spirited.
In closing, may I, at this time, give my thanks to all those who have sent their condolences through cards and flowers in sympathy to my plight. They are deeply appreciated. Fiber on, dudes.
The Martin family, or to be more accurate, Mikki, Katie and me - Jake is left out of the fun since he is playing football and needs his strength - have embarked on an epic odyssey, though that may be redundant. We have adopted a new diet that promises to bring health, happiness and prosperity to all those who would dare to attempt its rigor. Not wanting to back away from a challenge, we stepped to the plate, ready to take our swing at the fence.
The name of this program is "The Food Lovers Fat Loss Diet". It appears to be a very sensible, reasonable plan that incorporates real food and is based on the concepts of Nutrisystem, with a hint of Richard Simmons’ Deal a Meal utilizing real food we eat on a regular basis. It all sounded good until the first six day detox plan was explained to me. I was incredulous when I heard what was expected of me. At hearing the directions, I was immediately taken back to those days of pledging for a fraternity and the infamous "Hell Week" that every upperclassman looked forward to with sadistic glee. "I have to do what?" was my first reaction, my second being going to my room and brooding for several hours.
After coming out of my room, I reluctantly, and against all reason, acquiesced to the regimen and now find myself in the middle of the second ‘Hell Week’ of my life. What follows is the daily detox plan:
Upon waking, I am immediately, or at least ten minutes after waking, given a glass of water laced with Pysillium husks that has the equivalent fiber rating of a large ball of twine. After ingesting the fiber bomb, I am then administered a glass of water mixed with chlorophyl. For those of you who may not be familiar with chlorophyl and its many uses, let me elucidate. Chlorophyl is touted as an internal deodorant. I can now rest from my concerns that my insides may possibly stink. In addition to its deodorant characteristics, it is also extremely green. When I say extremely green, I am not exaggerating. It is so green that even the Irish refuse to use it. And might I add that everything it comes in contact with is instantly turned green. After the greening and deodorizing of my insides, I am then given a capsule of cascara sagrada that just adds to the truckload of fiber that I have already consumed.
Now for some real food? No! A blender of blue berries, protein powder, banana and apple juice, deceitfully labeled as breakfast, is then chocked down and I am out the door, armed with a field of green fiber and fruit, sitting like a ticking bomb in my gut. What could possibly go wrong with that?
At ten in the morning, I’m allowed a cup of apple juice and at lunch I get another shake with either blueberries or strawberries and protein powder. My afternoon snack consists of a choice of a soup mix of carrots and potatoes thrown into the blender so as to render them unrecognizable both in taste, texture and looks, or a cup of chicken bouillon. The evening meal is a repeat of the morning regimen of fiber, fruit and chlorophyl, and then all we have to look forward to is our evening snack of chicken bouillon or mystery soup. With these two, one has to choose between the needed calories of the mystery soup, or the welcome taste of chicken bouillon, which is devoid of any appreciable calories. So, death by starvation or wanting to die because of a dearth of taste.
As any reasonable, thinking human being would anticipate, the combination of a bushel basket of fiber mixed with fruit may have a significant impact on ones regularity. That thinking human would be more than right, in fact, he would be spot on. Now, those of you who are a bit squeamish or faint of heart, may want to turn away at this part, or at best, avert your eyes. To say there were frequent trips to the bathroom would be a gross understatement, and to add insult to injury, so to speak, the offerings at the porcelain throne were St Patrick’s Day approved. (You can reference the above description of the characteristics of chlorophyl). And to think I only have to endure this for SIX DAYS!!!!
As I write this, I am in the middle of ‘Hell Week’ and it would appear that, with any luck, I’ll survive this ordeal and will make it to the real food part of the program. This initial stage is, as I mentioned, the detox portion of the program and is designed to rid my body of all the toxins I accumulated over the years from the regular food I was eating. I’m not sure how the toxins got into my food, but at least I am now spewing them out of my body at an alarming rate and will, in three days, be toxin free. How many other men can say that?
I am sure this program was initiated by the CIA in or around the confines of Gitmo for the interrogation of terrorist and other miscreants that are housed there. However, all of my phone calls to Langley have not been returned, so we will never really be sure.
Rumor has it that this program was also rejected for use in training by the Navy SEALS as being too rigorous, onerous and just plain mean spirited.
In closing, may I, at this time, give my thanks to all those who have sent their condolences through cards and flowers in sympathy to my plight. They are deeply appreciated. Fiber on, dudes.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Fifty items of gratitude
"And in nothing doth man offend God, or against none is his wrath kindled, save those who confess not his hand in all things." D&C 59:7,21
I have listed fifty items I am grateful for so that if the event I should ever feel as if life is picking on me or dealing me a bad hand, I can look at my list and realize that regardless of my current circumstance, I have been bountifully blessed. Even if one or several of the items on my list have been altered or removed, I still have all the others to be thankful for.
I have to admit that I am a bit chagrined that it took some thought to reach fifty. I had assumed it would be easier than it turned out to be, but a great exercise in having to really think about what I have been given. I have included some brief explanations and some commentary as well. Believe me, it is in no way complete or extensive - each item could be an essay in and of itself - I just wanted to give a brief commentary. I also need to mention that these are not necessarily listed in order of importance.
I would like to offer a challenge to all that read this - compile your own list of fifty items. You will probably use some of the same as I did, which is great, but you will, no doubt, have many that are original to you. Good luck!
The List
1. A loving Heavenly Father
I am blessed to understand the love He has for me and how involved in my life he is.
2. My Savior, Jesus Christ.
Without His atoning sacrifice, I would not be able to return to my Heavenly Father. Jesus is an example I can use in every aspect of my life.
3. Mikki, my wife.
She is my best friend, without whom I would be lost. She is everything to me. My coat from the cold (she’ll understand that reference.)
4. Tyler
5. Zach
6. Katie
7. Jake
(I listed my children separately because they are each, in their own way, a blessing to my life.)
8. My Mother
She brought me into the world, sacrificed continually for me as I was growing up, and continues to love me.
9. The promise of an Eternal family
I can be with my family forever. What a blessing that is!
10. Freedom.
Freedom allows me to enjoy all the rest of what I have.
11. Life
Just the blessing of being alive. That is, indeed, a great gift.
12. Love
13. Prayer
14. Sight
To see the beauty around me.
15. Hearing
16. Intellect
I have a mind that enables me to understand the world, to earn a living and to interact with others.
17. Speech
18. Smell
I smell good? :)
19. Mobility
I can walk, run, use stairs, etc.
20. Extended Family
21. Health
22. The Plan of Salvation
The plan that Father in Heaven gave me to allow me to return to Him someday with my family.
23. Friends.
24. A home
A place of safety from the world, a refuge from the storm.
25. Scriptures
26. Church
27. Modern Revelation
28. The United States Constitution
29. Beauty in all forms.
30. Music
31. A sense of humor
32. My talents
(Yes, it is plural)
33. Nature
34. Food and water
35. Memories
These seem to be fewer as I age.
36. Art
37. Knowledge
38. Heroes (Military, Police, Firemen, etc
39. Upbringing of values
40. Time
41. Modern Medicine
42. Science
43. Leaders
44. Employment
45. Safety
46. Technology
47. Business opportunities
48. Great books
49. Recreation
50. Transportation
So, there it is, my list of fifty things that I am grateful for. Let me know what you think of it and some of the things you would have had on your list.
I have listed fifty items I am grateful for so that if the event I should ever feel as if life is picking on me or dealing me a bad hand, I can look at my list and realize that regardless of my current circumstance, I have been bountifully blessed. Even if one or several of the items on my list have been altered or removed, I still have all the others to be thankful for.
I have to admit that I am a bit chagrined that it took some thought to reach fifty. I had assumed it would be easier than it turned out to be, but a great exercise in having to really think about what I have been given. I have included some brief explanations and some commentary as well. Believe me, it is in no way complete or extensive - each item could be an essay in and of itself - I just wanted to give a brief commentary. I also need to mention that these are not necessarily listed in order of importance.
I would like to offer a challenge to all that read this - compile your own list of fifty items. You will probably use some of the same as I did, which is great, but you will, no doubt, have many that are original to you. Good luck!
The List
1. A loving Heavenly Father
I am blessed to understand the love He has for me and how involved in my life he is.
2. My Savior, Jesus Christ.
Without His atoning sacrifice, I would not be able to return to my Heavenly Father. Jesus is an example I can use in every aspect of my life.
3. Mikki, my wife.
She is my best friend, without whom I would be lost. She is everything to me. My coat from the cold (she’ll understand that reference.)
4. Tyler
5. Zach
6. Katie
7. Jake
(I listed my children separately because they are each, in their own way, a blessing to my life.)
8. My Mother
She brought me into the world, sacrificed continually for me as I was growing up, and continues to love me.
9. The promise of an Eternal family
I can be with my family forever. What a blessing that is!
10. Freedom.
Freedom allows me to enjoy all the rest of what I have.
11. Life
Just the blessing of being alive. That is, indeed, a great gift.
12. Love
13. Prayer
14. Sight
To see the beauty around me.
15. Hearing
16. Intellect
I have a mind that enables me to understand the world, to earn a living and to interact with others.
17. Speech
18. Smell
I smell good? :)
19. Mobility
I can walk, run, use stairs, etc.
20. Extended Family
21. Health
22. The Plan of Salvation
The plan that Father in Heaven gave me to allow me to return to Him someday with my family.
23. Friends.
24. A home
A place of safety from the world, a refuge from the storm.
25. Scriptures
26. Church
27. Modern Revelation
28. The United States Constitution
29. Beauty in all forms.
30. Music
31. A sense of humor
32. My talents
(Yes, it is plural)
33. Nature
34. Food and water
35. Memories
These seem to be fewer as I age.
36. Art
37. Knowledge
38. Heroes (Military, Police, Firemen, etc
39. Upbringing of values
40. Time
41. Modern Medicine
42. Science
43. Leaders
44. Employment
45. Safety
46. Technology
47. Business opportunities
48. Great books
49. Recreation
50. Transportation
So, there it is, my list of fifty things that I am grateful for. Let me know what you think of it and some of the things you would have had on your list.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Poison - A Short Story
(Note: This is a short story I wrote for a new site that is publishing short stores online. This one was longer than the 1500 word limit, so I thought I'd "publish" it here. Let me know if you enjoy it.)
Wally Huddleston, a thirty something, balding, terrible excuse for a man, sat in his cocoon like cubicle at the Americas Insurance Company, munching his twenty fifth potato chip. He knew it was the twenty fifth because he counted his food as he consumed it, obsessing over every bite, every crumb, every swallow. Wally was overweight and given his love of food and the pleasure it contained, would probably be so for the rest of his life. Besides, if people didn’t like him the way he was, then he figured they could just take a flying leap.
Wally’s love affair with food, the only affair he was ever likely to have, was all he really had in his life. He hated his work, wasn’t too fond of his fellow workers, disliked his life, or lack of it, and with one exception, despised everyone he met. The one exception, the one bright spot in Wally’s drab and pointless life, was Becky Pearce, who worked five cubicles down from Wally’s and whom he thought was the most beautiful woman in the world. Becky, of course, had no idea Wally had any feelings for her, as they rarely exchanged more than simple greetings, and even then, Wally would never look at her as he mumbled good morning to her. She had smiled at him on the day she started at Americas and from that day on, Wally was in love.
Becky’s bubbly personality and infectious laugh had won over all the men at Americas from the very first day she set foot in the drab halls of the Americas Insurance Company, perched on the 65th floor of the Allen building. The fact that she was drop dead gorgeous, added to her popularity with the men on her floor, with Wally, no exception to her siren call.
He would often fantasize about her and what their life together could be, how she would dote on his every word, bringing him his slippers as he returned from work, fixing him fabulous meals after which they would make mad, passionate love for hours, and how she would coo soft words of love into his ear afterwards. He could see himself combing his fingers through her long, blonde hair, pushing it away from her flawless, tanned skin. He kissed her forehead and touched her large, blue eyes, softly caressing her eyelids, marveling at her long, full lashes as they touched his finger tips. He sat back and looked at her, soaking in her beauty, admiring her taut, athletic figure, her long, perfectly formed legs, her small feet with designs painted on her toenails. He loved every perfect inch of her, everything worthy of admiration.
Wally was in the midst of one of his fantasies, when Larry Rissen swung around the cubicle opening and grabbed the bag of chips Wally was saving for after lunch.
"You don’t need these, do you Puddlebutt?" Larry said, opening the bag and grabbing a chip. He had started calling Wally, Huddlebutt, but morphed it further from his name into Puddlebutt. Wally viewed Larry as the most obnoxious, foul person to ever walk the earth, but was afraid to say anything to Larry as he was large, fit and, in Wally’s opinion, extremely aggressive.
Larry had made a point of taking some of Wally’s food every day, explaining that he was just trying to help Wally lose some weight and that Wally should be thanking him for his trouble. Wally, of course, didn’t see Larry’s thievery as any kind of help and had even thought of filing a complaint, going so far as to fill out the form and stick it in an envelope. The envelope sat on his desk for two weeks before he finally threw it in the trash. He binged on an entire cherry cheese cake and two dozen cookies to celebrate his spineless lack of courage.
"Why bother asking?" Wally responded.
"No hard fellings, huh Puddlebutt?" Larry said as he wandered off down the hall of cubicles.
"Right, no hard feelings," Wally mumbled under his breath, the sarcasm dripping.
That was the day Wally started planning Larry’s death. There was more to the rivalry between Wally and Larry than the food pilfering. Wally, having overheard the braggart talking to some coworkers about what he wanted to do with her, knew Larry had designs on Becky. Wally had tried to defend her.
"That’s not the way you should talk about a woman," he had said, looking down at his shoes as soon as he spoke.
"What does someone like you know about talking about a woman," Larry had said, derisively. "Come on, give us the benefit of your many years of experience with the fairer sex, Puddlebutt" he had added, laughing and slapping one of the other men on the shoulder.
Wally’s anger boiled up inside him, but he said nothing.
"Well now, look at Puddlebutt get all red," Larry had said, mockingly. "Maybe we should all stand back before he blows!"
Wally hurried back to his cubicle and opened a bag of Fritos and filled his mouth with a hand full. Somehow, he vowed, he would get even with Larry for all the times he’d been humiliated and bullied by the blowhard. Somehow, but how? Wally was not the perfect specimen of manhood one would envision when thinking of an avenging angel to go and do battle with the evil that is in the world. He had a massive comb over, held in place by a combination of pomade and hair spray, dark, heavy rimmed glasses that were best described as Coke bottle bottoms. His mass was centered at his belt line, pushing the limits of what anyone could expect from any belt, and all this was set on a five six frame, balanced on small, flat feet.
Wally planned. He planned the rest of the day and well into the night. His plan was foolproof; one that would offer him relief from the bullying and the incessant teasing, and with the bonus of no one knowing he was the instrument of death. His precise research was finished and all he had left to do was implement the plan. He began the following Saturday.
Wally rushed around the city gathering the various parts essential to making his plan work. The first item, a syringe, was readily available in the dumpster in the alley behind Wally’s apartment building where the junkies gathered to shoot up all sorts of nasty things into their veins. His next item was more difficult to find and purchase. It required extensive research and even more correspondence, but, in the end, was the key to making the plan work. Wally had emailed a small research facility in Caractao, Brazil, requesting a sample of the excretion from the p. terriblis , or more commonly known as the poison dart frog. He explained he was a scientist working on a medicinal use for the poison, going into sufficient detail that they agreed to send a vile of the poison. They explained that the poison was extremely toxic, resulting in a gruesome, ugly death withing seconds of ingestion. Wally explained he was aware of the deadliness of the toxin, but was willing to take the risk. He had them send the secretion via next day mail, costing him an entire week’s pay, but, in his mind, well worth the cost. He now had all the ingredients to make his plan work. The following Wednesday, he was ready to implement the villainous project.
Wally was up early, rushing around his small apartment, preparing the bait - a banana - chosen for its ability to mask the slight odor and taste of the poison. He was almost giddy as he went about his preparation, humming as he injected the frog secretion into the banana, laughing at one point as he imagined Larry eating the banana and instantly falling to the floor, foaming at the mouth, contorted in pain. He tried to act as natural as possible as he entered the office and walked to his cubicle. He sat the banana in a conspicuous place on the end of his desk, anticipating Larry’s arrival. He didn’t have to wait long.
Larry walked up to the opening of Wally’s cubicle.
"Say, Puddlebutt, whatcha got for breakfast? How about this banana? You don’t need it, do you?"
Wally didn’t want to seem to anxious for Larry to take the banana so he started to protest.
"Yeah, I do want it, Larry," he said, not looking at Larry.
"So do I, it will make a great gift," Larry said, grabbing the banana and walking off toward the common area.
"Fine," Wally said, under his breath, a faint smile on his thin, purple lips, "Very fine, indeed. Consider it a gift then"
Wally sat back in his chair and waited for the event he had waited and planned for. He didn’t have to wait long. He heard a scream. He jumped up and headed toward the common area, trying to look surprised and interested so as not to draw any suspicion towards himself. Suddenly, he stopped. Jutting from behind a desk, on the floor, were the legs of Becky. He knew they were hers because of her shoes, the little red pumps she always wore with the blue pinafore and white stockings. He knew most people by their shoes since he was always looking down rather than in people’s eyes. No question, it was Becky. Larry must have meant the banana was a gift for her, not him. Wally had killed the one thing in his life with any meaning.
He turned away from the death scene and walked out of the large room into the hall and up the stairs to the roof where he usually ate his lunch. He walked around the hulking air conditioning unit, where he customarily sat in the shade, directly to the edge of the building. He never hesitated, he just stepped off the edge and fell.
The tickle in his stomach stopped after about fifty feet. For the rest of the fall, Wally was calm, finding the rapidity of the descent mesmerizing. The ground approached much faster than he had anticipated and he covered the eight hundred and five feet in just a few seconds, smashing into the cement just behind two women in town early to miss the rush of the other shoppers. He didn’t feel a thing, finding death the instant he hit. He bounced once then landed in a messy heap, surrounded by blood and brains and other gooey stuff that comes our of a body when it suddenly stops and nearly explodes.
No one understood why he jumped. Certainly it couldn’t be the unexplained and sudden death of Larry Rissen, or the fainting collapse of Becky Pearce as she witnessed the ugly death of Larry. It was just one of those unexplained mysteries. And wasn’t it a shame.
Wally Huddleston, a thirty something, balding, terrible excuse for a man, sat in his cocoon like cubicle at the Americas Insurance Company, munching his twenty fifth potato chip. He knew it was the twenty fifth because he counted his food as he consumed it, obsessing over every bite, every crumb, every swallow. Wally was overweight and given his love of food and the pleasure it contained, would probably be so for the rest of his life. Besides, if people didn’t like him the way he was, then he figured they could just take a flying leap.
Wally’s love affair with food, the only affair he was ever likely to have, was all he really had in his life. He hated his work, wasn’t too fond of his fellow workers, disliked his life, or lack of it, and with one exception, despised everyone he met. The one exception, the one bright spot in Wally’s drab and pointless life, was Becky Pearce, who worked five cubicles down from Wally’s and whom he thought was the most beautiful woman in the world. Becky, of course, had no idea Wally had any feelings for her, as they rarely exchanged more than simple greetings, and even then, Wally would never look at her as he mumbled good morning to her. She had smiled at him on the day she started at Americas and from that day on, Wally was in love.
Becky’s bubbly personality and infectious laugh had won over all the men at Americas from the very first day she set foot in the drab halls of the Americas Insurance Company, perched on the 65th floor of the Allen building. The fact that she was drop dead gorgeous, added to her popularity with the men on her floor, with Wally, no exception to her siren call.
He would often fantasize about her and what their life together could be, how she would dote on his every word, bringing him his slippers as he returned from work, fixing him fabulous meals after which they would make mad, passionate love for hours, and how she would coo soft words of love into his ear afterwards. He could see himself combing his fingers through her long, blonde hair, pushing it away from her flawless, tanned skin. He kissed her forehead and touched her large, blue eyes, softly caressing her eyelids, marveling at her long, full lashes as they touched his finger tips. He sat back and looked at her, soaking in her beauty, admiring her taut, athletic figure, her long, perfectly formed legs, her small feet with designs painted on her toenails. He loved every perfect inch of her, everything worthy of admiration.
Wally was in the midst of one of his fantasies, when Larry Rissen swung around the cubicle opening and grabbed the bag of chips Wally was saving for after lunch.
"You don’t need these, do you Puddlebutt?" Larry said, opening the bag and grabbing a chip. He had started calling Wally, Huddlebutt, but morphed it further from his name into Puddlebutt. Wally viewed Larry as the most obnoxious, foul person to ever walk the earth, but was afraid to say anything to Larry as he was large, fit and, in Wally’s opinion, extremely aggressive.
Larry had made a point of taking some of Wally’s food every day, explaining that he was just trying to help Wally lose some weight and that Wally should be thanking him for his trouble. Wally, of course, didn’t see Larry’s thievery as any kind of help and had even thought of filing a complaint, going so far as to fill out the form and stick it in an envelope. The envelope sat on his desk for two weeks before he finally threw it in the trash. He binged on an entire cherry cheese cake and two dozen cookies to celebrate his spineless lack of courage.
"Why bother asking?" Wally responded.
"No hard fellings, huh Puddlebutt?" Larry said as he wandered off down the hall of cubicles.
"Right, no hard feelings," Wally mumbled under his breath, the sarcasm dripping.
That was the day Wally started planning Larry’s death. There was more to the rivalry between Wally and Larry than the food pilfering. Wally, having overheard the braggart talking to some coworkers about what he wanted to do with her, knew Larry had designs on Becky. Wally had tried to defend her.
"That’s not the way you should talk about a woman," he had said, looking down at his shoes as soon as he spoke.
"What does someone like you know about talking about a woman," Larry had said, derisively. "Come on, give us the benefit of your many years of experience with the fairer sex, Puddlebutt" he had added, laughing and slapping one of the other men on the shoulder.
Wally’s anger boiled up inside him, but he said nothing.
"Well now, look at Puddlebutt get all red," Larry had said, mockingly. "Maybe we should all stand back before he blows!"
Wally hurried back to his cubicle and opened a bag of Fritos and filled his mouth with a hand full. Somehow, he vowed, he would get even with Larry for all the times he’d been humiliated and bullied by the blowhard. Somehow, but how? Wally was not the perfect specimen of manhood one would envision when thinking of an avenging angel to go and do battle with the evil that is in the world. He had a massive comb over, held in place by a combination of pomade and hair spray, dark, heavy rimmed glasses that were best described as Coke bottle bottoms. His mass was centered at his belt line, pushing the limits of what anyone could expect from any belt, and all this was set on a five six frame, balanced on small, flat feet.
Wally planned. He planned the rest of the day and well into the night. His plan was foolproof; one that would offer him relief from the bullying and the incessant teasing, and with the bonus of no one knowing he was the instrument of death. His precise research was finished and all he had left to do was implement the plan. He began the following Saturday.
Wally rushed around the city gathering the various parts essential to making his plan work. The first item, a syringe, was readily available in the dumpster in the alley behind Wally’s apartment building where the junkies gathered to shoot up all sorts of nasty things into their veins. His next item was more difficult to find and purchase. It required extensive research and even more correspondence, but, in the end, was the key to making the plan work. Wally had emailed a small research facility in Caractao, Brazil, requesting a sample of the excretion from the p. terriblis , or more commonly known as the poison dart frog. He explained he was a scientist working on a medicinal use for the poison, going into sufficient detail that they agreed to send a vile of the poison. They explained that the poison was extremely toxic, resulting in a gruesome, ugly death withing seconds of ingestion. Wally explained he was aware of the deadliness of the toxin, but was willing to take the risk. He had them send the secretion via next day mail, costing him an entire week’s pay, but, in his mind, well worth the cost. He now had all the ingredients to make his plan work. The following Wednesday, he was ready to implement the villainous project.
Wally was up early, rushing around his small apartment, preparing the bait - a banana - chosen for its ability to mask the slight odor and taste of the poison. He was almost giddy as he went about his preparation, humming as he injected the frog secretion into the banana, laughing at one point as he imagined Larry eating the banana and instantly falling to the floor, foaming at the mouth, contorted in pain. He tried to act as natural as possible as he entered the office and walked to his cubicle. He sat the banana in a conspicuous place on the end of his desk, anticipating Larry’s arrival. He didn’t have to wait long.
Larry walked up to the opening of Wally’s cubicle.
"Say, Puddlebutt, whatcha got for breakfast? How about this banana? You don’t need it, do you?"
Wally didn’t want to seem to anxious for Larry to take the banana so he started to protest.
"Yeah, I do want it, Larry," he said, not looking at Larry.
"So do I, it will make a great gift," Larry said, grabbing the banana and walking off toward the common area.
"Fine," Wally said, under his breath, a faint smile on his thin, purple lips, "Very fine, indeed. Consider it a gift then"
Wally sat back in his chair and waited for the event he had waited and planned for. He didn’t have to wait long. He heard a scream. He jumped up and headed toward the common area, trying to look surprised and interested so as not to draw any suspicion towards himself. Suddenly, he stopped. Jutting from behind a desk, on the floor, were the legs of Becky. He knew they were hers because of her shoes, the little red pumps she always wore with the blue pinafore and white stockings. He knew most people by their shoes since he was always looking down rather than in people’s eyes. No question, it was Becky. Larry must have meant the banana was a gift for her, not him. Wally had killed the one thing in his life with any meaning.
He turned away from the death scene and walked out of the large room into the hall and up the stairs to the roof where he usually ate his lunch. He walked around the hulking air conditioning unit, where he customarily sat in the shade, directly to the edge of the building. He never hesitated, he just stepped off the edge and fell.
The tickle in his stomach stopped after about fifty feet. For the rest of the fall, Wally was calm, finding the rapidity of the descent mesmerizing. The ground approached much faster than he had anticipated and he covered the eight hundred and five feet in just a few seconds, smashing into the cement just behind two women in town early to miss the rush of the other shoppers. He didn’t feel a thing, finding death the instant he hit. He bounced once then landed in a messy heap, surrounded by blood and brains and other gooey stuff that comes our of a body when it suddenly stops and nearly explodes.
No one understood why he jumped. Certainly it couldn’t be the unexplained and sudden death of Larry Rissen, or the fainting collapse of Becky Pearce as she witnessed the ugly death of Larry. It was just one of those unexplained mysteries. And wasn’t it a shame.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
The Dog is back
So, dear reader, we continue with the saga of the rabid dog and his angry antics. I finally detached his slobbery jaw from my computer’s virtual leg and was minding my own business, wondering how I was going to keep my family safe from some of the more unsavory junk on the internet, when I received a call from John Ahlander, who is one of the principles at K9 Web Protection, a division of BlueCoat. They are the trainers and former handlers of the guard dog that attacked my computer. He was very gracious and expressed his dismay at my predicament. He explained that there are over a million virtual guard dogs dispatched throughout the country, guarding families just like mine and that very few of them have turned on those families. Mine was a special case, with some unusual circumstances. He offered some explanations as to what happened to my dog and, after some discussion, we were able to narrow it down to a few things, but nothing definite.
Because the software is free, and because most all of the dogs are well behaved, there isn’t a lot of need, nor a lot of money to justify a large, extensive support staff, which I discovered when I looked to them for help. After discussing these items, we decided to run an experiment. I was going to download another dog and have a second go at it, so to speak. We are going to endeavor to tempt the dog to see if it will attack its owner again. If it does, Mr Ahlander has pledged his personal help, giving me his email address and business phone number. One can't ask any more than that from a company.
So, as we speak, the dog is wandering the virtual junk yard we affectionately call the internet, protecting my family from the virtual mail man in the event he tries to deliver Smut Magazine this month. So far, so good. The dog is doing his job, and we’re still able to use the internet. Well, kinda. We have another problem with a virus or piece of malware that is blocking Facebook and MySpace. We are currently in heated battle with this little devil using every weapon in our arsenal - AVG, Adaware, Spybot, and Malware bytes - to defeat and destroy this bad boy.
So, all is well that ends well. I appreciate Mr. Ahlander taking time out of his busy schedule to call me, some insignificant spec in the middle of nowhere, and offer his help. That shows a lot of class and devotion to service. In the end, I’ll have to retract some of my statements about k9 Webprotection and say that if you want to protect your family from the evils that lurk on the internet, K9 is a viable option.
Stay tuned to this station for a complete recap of our upcoming trip to Northern California to visit the redwoods, Pacific ocean, Oregon coast and impromptu family reunion in Eugene, Oregon next week.
Because the software is free, and because most all of the dogs are well behaved, there isn’t a lot of need, nor a lot of money to justify a large, extensive support staff, which I discovered when I looked to them for help. After discussing these items, we decided to run an experiment. I was going to download another dog and have a second go at it, so to speak. We are going to endeavor to tempt the dog to see if it will attack its owner again. If it does, Mr Ahlander has pledged his personal help, giving me his email address and business phone number. One can't ask any more than that from a company.
So, as we speak, the dog is wandering the virtual junk yard we affectionately call the internet, protecting my family from the virtual mail man in the event he tries to deliver Smut Magazine this month. So far, so good. The dog is doing his job, and we’re still able to use the internet. Well, kinda. We have another problem with a virus or piece of malware that is blocking Facebook and MySpace. We are currently in heated battle with this little devil using every weapon in our arsenal - AVG, Adaware, Spybot, and Malware bytes - to defeat and destroy this bad boy.
So, all is well that ends well. I appreciate Mr. Ahlander taking time out of his busy schedule to call me, some insignificant spec in the middle of nowhere, and offer his help. That shows a lot of class and devotion to service. In the end, I’ll have to retract some of my statements about k9 Webprotection and say that if you want to protect your family from the evils that lurk on the internet, K9 is a viable option.
Stay tuned to this station for a complete recap of our upcoming trip to Northern California to visit the redwoods, Pacific ocean, Oregon coast and impromptu family reunion in Eugene, Oregon next week.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Mad Dog Mauling
We all are familiar with the phrase, "Meaner than a junkyard dog", meaning a guard dog that is beyond vicious, that would just as well rip your arm off as look at you. Well, I’ve recently had an encounter with a vicious, rabid, guard dog that has left me shaken, angry and somewhat nauseous. I’ll try to recount the adventure as best I can and try not to swear.
It all began innocently, as most of these things do. I wanted to protect Katie and Jake from the evils that lurk on the Internet waiting to pounce on unsuspecting youngsters and senile oldsters. At the recommendation of a trusted friend and IT professional, I downloaded a piece of free software entitled K9 Web Protection, offered by BlueCoat. At first, our relationship was benign and friendly, with the dog - they have a dog as a mascot that you can have bark if someone tries to access a web page that is inappropriate - doing his job and keeping us all safe from the nasties that lurk on the web. But, then it happened.....
One evening, the kids informed me that the computer downstairs was ‘broke’ ,as they put it. Regardless of the nature of the problem with the computer, they always say the same things. Either ‘it is broke’, or ‘the computer doesn’t work.’ So, I took a look at the computer and found that the dog had turned on us and had taken the computer hostage and wouldn’t let go. Not only had it turned on us, but it had become rabid as well, crazy in its aggression. I tried to uninstall it, but it required the use of the administrative password. No problem. I entered the same password that I had been using for over a year and the dog said it was invalid. INVALID?????!!!! How could that be? There was no doubt that the dog was out of control and needed to be stopped at any cost!
As you would assume, I turned to the original handlers of this malicious mutt, the K9 Web protection folks. Once on their site, (I had to use my computer at work) I soon discovered that they had no support, only some automated FAQ doggey doo that was of no help at all. I searched their forum for clues to eliminating this nasty threat from my computer and found others who had experienced the same misfortune. The knowledge that they had found no relief made my heart sink. I found a phone number for K9 that was in Draper, Utah. I called it and, of course, had to leave a message as there wasn’t anyone around to answer the phone. They never called me back, even after three messages. I was getting desperate.
Soon, I figured that if the K9 people were unresponsive, maybe I could go to the parent company, BlueCoat. At least there I found a human to talk to. The person I talked to took my information - phone number, email address, etc, then said he would forward it to the K9 people. NOOOOOOO! I begged him not to give me to those lunatics who had sicked this mad dog on me in the first place and then had refused to even talk to me after the mangy mutt turned on me. He explained that the people I had called were in Utah and that the people he was going to give my information to were in California. I was somewhat relieved at that news. I shouldn’t have been!
They emailed me instructions to the corralling of this dangerous canine. I had explained to them that I couldn’t get on the internet, a common problem when the dog turns on its master and takes over the computer. They sent me instructions to download the software again, overlay it on the original, re-enter a new password and then I could do whatever I wanted to from that point. Fine! But ......HOW DO I GET ON THE INTERNET TO DOWNLOAD THE SOFTWARE IF YOUR SOFTWARE WON’T LET ME GET ON THE INTERNET??????
This salient point seemed to stump the support group. I can see them all huddling around their one desk in someone’s small garage trying to answer that sublime question. Well, maybe they are in a basement rather than a garage, who knows?
So, let this be a warning to all that read this, don’t download the software known as K9 Web Protection! It may be fine for awhile, but it will turn on you and hold you in its slobbery jaws and never let go, and you will have no one to turn to for help. Whatever you do, don’t download this software.
So, now what do I do? I’ve called a friend - a different one than recommended this piece of dog doo, who is a professional IT man to see if he can eliminate this menace. Perhaps in another post, I’ll be able to report that I’m free of the malicious malware that K9 had unleashed on the world. Perhaps.
It all began innocently, as most of these things do. I wanted to protect Katie and Jake from the evils that lurk on the Internet waiting to pounce on unsuspecting youngsters and senile oldsters. At the recommendation of a trusted friend and IT professional, I downloaded a piece of free software entitled K9 Web Protection, offered by BlueCoat. At first, our relationship was benign and friendly, with the dog - they have a dog as a mascot that you can have bark if someone tries to access a web page that is inappropriate - doing his job and keeping us all safe from the nasties that lurk on the web. But, then it happened.....
One evening, the kids informed me that the computer downstairs was ‘broke’ ,as they put it. Regardless of the nature of the problem with the computer, they always say the same things. Either ‘it is broke’, or ‘the computer doesn’t work.’ So, I took a look at the computer and found that the dog had turned on us and had taken the computer hostage and wouldn’t let go. Not only had it turned on us, but it had become rabid as well, crazy in its aggression. I tried to uninstall it, but it required the use of the administrative password. No problem. I entered the same password that I had been using for over a year and the dog said it was invalid. INVALID?????!!!! How could that be? There was no doubt that the dog was out of control and needed to be stopped at any cost!
As you would assume, I turned to the original handlers of this malicious mutt, the K9 Web protection folks. Once on their site, (I had to use my computer at work) I soon discovered that they had no support, only some automated FAQ doggey doo that was of no help at all. I searched their forum for clues to eliminating this nasty threat from my computer and found others who had experienced the same misfortune. The knowledge that they had found no relief made my heart sink. I found a phone number for K9 that was in Draper, Utah. I called it and, of course, had to leave a message as there wasn’t anyone around to answer the phone. They never called me back, even after three messages. I was getting desperate.
Soon, I figured that if the K9 people were unresponsive, maybe I could go to the parent company, BlueCoat. At least there I found a human to talk to. The person I talked to took my information - phone number, email address, etc, then said he would forward it to the K9 people. NOOOOOOO! I begged him not to give me to those lunatics who had sicked this mad dog on me in the first place and then had refused to even talk to me after the mangy mutt turned on me. He explained that the people I had called were in Utah and that the people he was going to give my information to were in California. I was somewhat relieved at that news. I shouldn’t have been!
They emailed me instructions to the corralling of this dangerous canine. I had explained to them that I couldn’t get on the internet, a common problem when the dog turns on its master and takes over the computer. They sent me instructions to download the software again, overlay it on the original, re-enter a new password and then I could do whatever I wanted to from that point. Fine! But ......HOW DO I GET ON THE INTERNET TO DOWNLOAD THE SOFTWARE IF YOUR SOFTWARE WON’T LET ME GET ON THE INTERNET??????
This salient point seemed to stump the support group. I can see them all huddling around their one desk in someone’s small garage trying to answer that sublime question. Well, maybe they are in a basement rather than a garage, who knows?
So, let this be a warning to all that read this, don’t download the software known as K9 Web Protection! It may be fine for awhile, but it will turn on you and hold you in its slobbery jaws and never let go, and you will have no one to turn to for help. Whatever you do, don’t download this software.
So, now what do I do? I’ve called a friend - a different one than recommended this piece of dog doo, who is a professional IT man to see if he can eliminate this menace. Perhaps in another post, I’ll be able to report that I’m free of the malicious malware that K9 had unleashed on the world. Perhaps.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Joseph - the sequel
Last two nights! That’s right, everyone, there are only two more nights to catch the renowned performance of ‘Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat’ at the Civic Auditorium. The amazing cast have played their hearts out, singing and dancing to enthusiastic crowds who begged for more. Many visitors have compared this production to those seen in London and New York and have nothing but rave reviews for the show. If you haven’t ever seen the play, you owe it to yourself and your family to spend the meager eight dollars for a ticket and come see the theatrical event of the year. The cast has received standing ovations at every performance, so, I can guarantee you will be entertained far beyond the money you spend. Doors open at 6:30pm and curtain is at 7:30. See you there!
How's that for a nice plug? For those of you out of towners, private jets are standing by to accomodate your trip. Well, maybe not really private jets. Would you believe a Cessna 150 with bald tires and only one passenger seat? I think you best bet will be commercial airlines, actually.
Seriously, I would recommend this show to anyone who enjoys music. It is appropriate for all ages and music tastes. It is a great show with an excellent cast and chorus that will amaze you at their level of talent. And I would say that even if I wasn't in it. I'm pretty sure I would say that if I wasn't in it. Well, maybe being in it has shaded my objectivity a bit, but come and judge for youself. Just do it, you know you want to.
How's that for a nice plug? For those of you out of towners, private jets are standing by to accomodate your trip. Well, maybe not really private jets. Would you believe a Cessna 150 with bald tires and only one passenger seat? I think you best bet will be commercial airlines, actually.
Seriously, I would recommend this show to anyone who enjoys music. It is appropriate for all ages and music tastes. It is a great show with an excellent cast and chorus that will amaze you at their level of talent. And I would say that even if I wasn't in it. I'm pretty sure I would say that if I wasn't in it. Well, maybe being in it has shaded my objectivity a bit, but come and judge for youself. Just do it, you know you want to.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Allergies and other show biz stuff
I’m allergic to Joseph And The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat! I know that seems ludicrous but it is absolutely true. The last time I played in ‘Joseph’, I contracted pneumonia just a few weeks following the close of the show. This year, I didn’t even wait to finish the show - I ended up getting pneumonia during the rehearsals. Now, what are the odds of getting pneumonia four years apart? And only when I’m involved with the play? I’ve performed in other plays and haven’t even had as much as a sniffle, and here I am near death with pneumonia while in the throws of rehearsals for ‘Joseph’. I would have to say the odds are overwhelming against this just being bad luck. My only conclusion is some kind of a weird, bizarre allergy. Perhaps it isn’t just the show, maybe it is an allergy to Andrew Lloyd Weber musicals. The only one I’ve performed in is Joseph and....well, you know the rest. Maybe it is too many flats in the score, or too many people on stage, or.......I don’t know what! But, it has something to do with this #$^%#& show.
I do know I’ll never do this play again!!! Actually, even before I was struck down with pneumonia, I knew this would be my last show. I’ve lost the fire. They are no longer fun, and when the fun is gone, there is no incentive to put up with all the hard work that goes with a play like ‘Joseph’. I’m done. This time, I was almost done in.
The regimen for treating pneumonia.....by the way, who came up with the spelling of that lousy illness? Couldn’t we spell it phonetically? And while we are at it, I’m guessing that the same bone head that came up with the spelling for pneumonia decided to spell phonetic as well. Shouldn’t phonetic be spelled phonetically....fonetically? Good grief!!!!!
But back to the treatment of pneumonia. I received a series of three shots, one every day, for three days. These are the first shots I’ve ever received that the nurse said, "This is going to hurt." And they did! The poke didn’t hurt, but after they had injected the molten lead, the pain, stinging, and aching started. And I got THREE of those bad boys. But, the good news is that I’m on the mend. I haven’t gone back to rehearsals yet...I’m a little gun shy....but I’ll try it on Wednesday. Too many coughs, though, and ‘The show must go on’ is going in a bucket out the back of the stage door!
I’ll keep you posted.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Joseph Bio Vote
Dear Readers,
Sorry about the long absence, but what little I had to say just didn't seem worth waisting your time. I know that I didn't seem to have that regard for your time with all my other posts, but I have repented, sort of,.......well, not really, but it sounds good, eh? Actually, I've been very busy and just haven't had the time to post anything, plus, my creative juices have dried up and left me sitting here totally uncreative and without thought. But, fear not, for I have found new juice! And, I need your advice, or at least your input.
As some of you may know, Katie, Jake and I are doing "Joseph And The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" this summer, which is one of the reasons for my dried up juices due to the three nights a week rehearsal schedule. Because I'm one of the brothers in the cast, I have to write a Bio for the program. These bio's are written by the performer as if someone else wrote them, extolling all their past successes and musical accomplishments, as well as claiming extraordinary talents. In the past, when I've had to write one, I've taken a different tack and have attempted to write something funny. This year is not different. However, I've written two and can't decide which one is the one I want in the program. And that is where you come in. I'd like to have you let me know which one you like. I have to turn it in next week, so let me know as soon as you can. Thanks for the help. You'll notice that the second paragraph is the same in both. That is because of the dried up juices thing and that is all I could think of. The two follow:
Bio 1
Dee’s first exposure to music came just after his sixth birthday when he was abducted by a roaming band of Romanian gypsies who had illegally crossed the German border and were traveling throughout the country shaving women’s armpits. After learning the shaving business, Dee was then apprenticed to the band’s one-armed musette player where he learned to play that unusual instrument as well as the gilfin rotary finger cymbals. Currently, Dee limits his music to playing the piano and singing in the shower. But, getting the piano in and out of the shower has become increasingly more difficult, so he has limited his shower singing to a Karaoke with a long cord. This years production will mark Dee’s fifth Sounds Choir Production.
Dee is easily recognizable on stage as he is the only one carrying a bucket. The bucket is the only way he can come close to carrying a tune and he has been required to use the bucket for the four productions he has performed in. Having no talent has not deterred this, want to be actor, even though all those who know him have begged him to stop punishing audiences and to pursue some of his other passions like extreme worm farming, or full contact knitting, or jumping off tall buildings holding a towel over his head yelling "I can fly, I can fly". What Dee lacks in talent for singing, he more than makes up for in obnoxious behavior and an absolute uncanny ability to make easy dance steps unrecognizable. After several death threats from music lovers, Dee has decided this years production will be his last. Dee shares the stage with his daughter, Katie and son, Jake.
Bio 2
Dee’s background in music is varied and unspectacular. He sang the title role in Joe Green’s classic operetta, "La Bonnhedda" with the wonderful featured song "If I’d Shot You When I Wanted To, I’d Be Out By Now". After that, less than thrilling performance, Dee went on to play Dave in "The Last Train To Clarksville", the short running musical based on the music of the Monkees. It was a way off-Broadway production which opened in Minot, North Dakota, and ended there. Following that debacle, Dee left music and became the Montana Full Contact Knitting champion, scoring an amazing 300 on his final round. With little left to accomplish in his professional singing career, he moved to Idaho and started a small business selling competitive knitting supplies.
Dee is easily recognizable on stage as he is the only one carrying a bucket. The bucket is the only way he can come close to carrying a tune and he has been required to use the bucket for the four Sound Choir productions he has performed in. Having no talent has not deterred this, want to be actor, even though all those who know him have begged him to stop punishing audiences and to pursue some of his other passions like extreme worm farming, or jumping off tall buildings holding a towel over his head yelling "I can fly, I can fly". What Dee lacks in talent for singing, he more than makes up for in obnoxious behavior and an absolute uncanny ability to make easy dance steps unrecognizable. After several death threats from music lovers, Dee has decided this years production will be his last. Dee shares the stage with his daughter, Katie and son, Jake.
Well, there they are. Let me know which one you like. And for those who don't like either, .......well.......that's ok too, I guess. But don't say anything, that way I'll think you just couldn't decide.
Sorry about the long absence, but what little I had to say just didn't seem worth waisting your time. I know that I didn't seem to have that regard for your time with all my other posts, but I have repented, sort of,.......well, not really, but it sounds good, eh? Actually, I've been very busy and just haven't had the time to post anything, plus, my creative juices have dried up and left me sitting here totally uncreative and without thought. But, fear not, for I have found new juice! And, I need your advice, or at least your input.
As some of you may know, Katie, Jake and I are doing "Joseph And The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" this summer, which is one of the reasons for my dried up juices due to the three nights a week rehearsal schedule. Because I'm one of the brothers in the cast, I have to write a Bio for the program. These bio's are written by the performer as if someone else wrote them, extolling all their past successes and musical accomplishments, as well as claiming extraordinary talents. In the past, when I've had to write one, I've taken a different tack and have attempted to write something funny. This year is not different. However, I've written two and can't decide which one is the one I want in the program. And that is where you come in. I'd like to have you let me know which one you like. I have to turn it in next week, so let me know as soon as you can. Thanks for the help. You'll notice that the second paragraph is the same in both. That is because of the dried up juices thing and that is all I could think of. The two follow:
Bio 1
Dee’s first exposure to music came just after his sixth birthday when he was abducted by a roaming band of Romanian gypsies who had illegally crossed the German border and were traveling throughout the country shaving women’s armpits. After learning the shaving business, Dee was then apprenticed to the band’s one-armed musette player where he learned to play that unusual instrument as well as the gilfin rotary finger cymbals. Currently, Dee limits his music to playing the piano and singing in the shower. But, getting the piano in and out of the shower has become increasingly more difficult, so he has limited his shower singing to a Karaoke with a long cord. This years production will mark Dee’s fifth Sounds Choir Production.
Dee is easily recognizable on stage as he is the only one carrying a bucket. The bucket is the only way he can come close to carrying a tune and he has been required to use the bucket for the four productions he has performed in. Having no talent has not deterred this, want to be actor, even though all those who know him have begged him to stop punishing audiences and to pursue some of his other passions like extreme worm farming, or full contact knitting, or jumping off tall buildings holding a towel over his head yelling "I can fly, I can fly". What Dee lacks in talent for singing, he more than makes up for in obnoxious behavior and an absolute uncanny ability to make easy dance steps unrecognizable. After several death threats from music lovers, Dee has decided this years production will be his last. Dee shares the stage with his daughter, Katie and son, Jake.
Bio 2
Dee’s background in music is varied and unspectacular. He sang the title role in Joe Green’s classic operetta, "La Bonnhedda" with the wonderful featured song "If I’d Shot You When I Wanted To, I’d Be Out By Now". After that, less than thrilling performance, Dee went on to play Dave in "The Last Train To Clarksville", the short running musical based on the music of the Monkees. It was a way off-Broadway production which opened in Minot, North Dakota, and ended there. Following that debacle, Dee left music and became the Montana Full Contact Knitting champion, scoring an amazing 300 on his final round. With little left to accomplish in his professional singing career, he moved to Idaho and started a small business selling competitive knitting supplies.
Dee is easily recognizable on stage as he is the only one carrying a bucket. The bucket is the only way he can come close to carrying a tune and he has been required to use the bucket for the four Sound Choir productions he has performed in. Having no talent has not deterred this, want to be actor, even though all those who know him have begged him to stop punishing audiences and to pursue some of his other passions like extreme worm farming, or jumping off tall buildings holding a towel over his head yelling "I can fly, I can fly". What Dee lacks in talent for singing, he more than makes up for in obnoxious behavior and an absolute uncanny ability to make easy dance steps unrecognizable. After several death threats from music lovers, Dee has decided this years production will be his last. Dee shares the stage with his daughter, Katie and son, Jake.
Well, there they are. Let me know which one you like. And for those who don't like either, .......well.......that's ok too, I guess. But don't say anything, that way I'll think you just couldn't decide.
Monday, March 23, 2009
The Dream
I died. Yes, dead, kaput, mort, no longer among us, pushing up daisies, pennies on the eyelids - dead. What the heck had happened? One minute I was here, the next I’m standing in front of the Pearly Gates waiting for them to open. Dead? How can this be. I was in relatively good shape. Sure, I didn’t exercise on any regular basis, unless you count rushing around the house looking for the tv remote, or bending over to see what was in the refrigerator. And my diet did include fruits - that is if strawberry ice cream counts as a serving of fruit - and pizza with mushrooms and olives should be counted as vegetables. I was going to do something about my cholesterol just as soon as it hit four hundred. I figured I had a few weeks to go before that milestone. But, here I was, dead.
I stood at the Gates wondering what I was supposed to do next. I didn’t see any bell to ring or any other way to alert them, whoever they were, that I had arrived. Surely, they would have some high tech advanced warning system to alert them to the fact a new arrival was waiting to get in.
I examined the gates and walls more thoroughly. The gates, tall elaborate patterns of gold bars, interlaced into intricate shapes, were tightly closed. The walls, approximately twelve feet high, appeared to be made of solid gold. Everything was polished to a high sheen, reflecting the light to the extent that it was almost painful to look at them. I wedged my face between the bars of the gate trying to see if anyone was close that I could ask for help. There wasn’t anyone to be seen. I extracted my face, sat next to the wall to the right of the gates, and waited.
"Hey, buddy, you can’t sleep there."
"What?" I answered, jumping up. "Who said that?"
"You can’t sleep there," a man standing at the gate said.
"I wasn’t sleeping. I was just waiting for someone to come and let me in," I stated, trying to explain myself and why I was there. Where had this guy come from? "Are you St. Peter?" I asked, excited to be meeting one of the original Apostles.
"No, he is on vacation. My name is Al," he explained.
Vacation? I wondered where one living in Heaven would go for a vacation. I decided not to ask.
"Al? I was expecting St. Peter."
"I know, I get that a lot," he said, looking through some sheets on a clip board. "What can I do for you?"
The question set me back. "I guess you could let me in," I suggested.
He glanced through the sheets again. "Nope, I don’t see you here," he eventually said. "Sorry."
"What! How can that be?"
"You’re not on the list. Sorry." He turned to leave.
"Wait," I yelled. "There has to be a mistake."
He turned and looked at me for a moment. He leafed through the papers on his clip board again. "Nope, no mistake," he declared.
"No, now wait a minute......Al....do you mean....I’m supposed to be.....down there....?" I said, pointing down. That can’t be.....can it? I mean, I’ve tried to be good.....most of my life, mostly, kinda....you know, there were those few times when......well, eh......alright, maybe more than a few times, but I wouldn’t think that would be enough to keep me from getting in.....would it?" I was stammering, trying to think of anything to persuade Al to reconsider. I was becoming frantic.
"Apparently," was all he said.
"No, wait, listen. I’m sure there is something we can work out. Surely, there must be something."
"There is nothing. And don’t call me Shirley." He turned to leave again.
"No, wait! I want to see your supervisor." I demanded.
Al turned to face me. "My supervisor?"
"Yes, your supervisor. I want to talk to him." I tried to sound as if I carried some weight. I wanted to let him know he couldn’t push me around.
Al walked back to me. He put his hand on my shoulder as if he were a grandfather giving his grandson some sage advise.
"He rarely makes appearances outside these walls and since you aren’t coming in, you can’t see Him," Al explained. So much for having any pull here.
"Your supervisor is....Him?" I asked, incredulously.
"Yes, now go on about your business."
"Wait, I have no idea what my business is now. And I don’t know how to get to.....well, you know,....heck,"I said, not wanting to say the real word while standing so close to heaven. Besides, I didn’t want to hurt any chances of some sort of clemency.
"Sorry, I can’t help you," Al said. "That’s not my department. I’m in charge of the gate and letting people in."
"So, who do I talk to about getting.....there?"
"I think that is....oh let’s see.......is it Bob?" Al answered looking at me as if I was going to affirm his answer.
We both stood staring at each other while Al rummaged through his brain. At some length, the various brain cells came to a consensus.
"Yes, Bob is in charge of that department," Al finally declared.
"Then can I speak to Bob?"
"He’s inside and......"
"I can’t come in," I finished for him, shaking my head in agreement. "I know. So, how do I see Bob?"
Al seemed stumped by that question. I was beginning to think that Al must have worked for the government at some point in his life and his bureaucratic thought process had hung over to the hereafter.
"Did you work for the government on earth, Al?"
"No," Al answered, " I drove a cab in the Bronx."
"Well, Al, maybe you can summon Bob to come down to the gate here and give me some advice. What do you think?" I suggested.
"Wait here," Al instructed.
I turned to return to my spot next to the gate thinking I’d be waiting awhile, when Al spoke.
"This is Bob," he said.
It hadn’t been but a second and here they both stood. Apparently, things moved fast in heaven.
Bob, thinner and taller than Al, stood at Al’s left side. He too had a clip board. He spoke. "What can I do for you?"
"Al tells me I can’t come in, so, I need to know how to get to....the other place."
Bob shuffled through the papers on his clip board. "I don’t see you here," he said.
"What!" I exclaimed. "If I’m not supposed to be in Heaven and I’m not on your list for the other place....where in the he.....heck am I supposed to be?" I yelled, almost forgetting to be on my best behavior.
"That’s just it," Bob replied, "Your not supposed to be at either place. If you’re not on either list, then you aren’t supposed to be dead yet." He looked at me as if that settled the issue.
"But, here I stand," I said reminding him of the problem we were trying to solve.
He shuffled through his papers once again, studying one in particular. "Ah, here it is," he said reading it to himself.
"What?" I asked.
He read to himself a bit more. "It says here that you weren’t supposed to die until your cholesterol hit four hundred. You have a few weeks left." he said, smiling. "Just a minor snafu. Here, I’ll give you a pass back and we’ll see you in a few weeks.....unless you make some changes. There, all’s well that ends well, eh?." Bob was quite pleased with himself for finding the answer. It was a bit disconcerting the cavalier attitude Bob and Al had toward my demise, or my pending demise. Either way, they didn’t seem to broken up or concerned that I was dead or about to be. I was about to offer my observations on that subject when Bob wrote something on a piece of paper on his clip board and stepped toward me.
He handed me a piece of paper and as soon as I touched it, I was back in bed, awake, staring at the ceiling. I sat up and looked around. It was a dream, but it seemed so real. But, how could it have been? Was it real? Was it a dream or a near death experience?
What ever it was, it got me to thinking. Maybe I’d better start exercising and watching what I eat, besides just watching it all the way to my mouth. I think I’ll start next week.
I stood at the Gates wondering what I was supposed to do next. I didn’t see any bell to ring or any other way to alert them, whoever they were, that I had arrived. Surely, they would have some high tech advanced warning system to alert them to the fact a new arrival was waiting to get in.
I examined the gates and walls more thoroughly. The gates, tall elaborate patterns of gold bars, interlaced into intricate shapes, were tightly closed. The walls, approximately twelve feet high, appeared to be made of solid gold. Everything was polished to a high sheen, reflecting the light to the extent that it was almost painful to look at them. I wedged my face between the bars of the gate trying to see if anyone was close that I could ask for help. There wasn’t anyone to be seen. I extracted my face, sat next to the wall to the right of the gates, and waited.
"Hey, buddy, you can’t sleep there."
"What?" I answered, jumping up. "Who said that?"
"You can’t sleep there," a man standing at the gate said.
"I wasn’t sleeping. I was just waiting for someone to come and let me in," I stated, trying to explain myself and why I was there. Where had this guy come from? "Are you St. Peter?" I asked, excited to be meeting one of the original Apostles.
"No, he is on vacation. My name is Al," he explained.
Vacation? I wondered where one living in Heaven would go for a vacation. I decided not to ask.
"Al? I was expecting St. Peter."
"I know, I get that a lot," he said, looking through some sheets on a clip board. "What can I do for you?"
The question set me back. "I guess you could let me in," I suggested.
He glanced through the sheets again. "Nope, I don’t see you here," he eventually said. "Sorry."
"What! How can that be?"
"You’re not on the list. Sorry." He turned to leave.
"Wait," I yelled. "There has to be a mistake."
He turned and looked at me for a moment. He leafed through the papers on his clip board again. "Nope, no mistake," he declared.
"No, now wait a minute......Al....do you mean....I’m supposed to be.....down there....?" I said, pointing down. That can’t be.....can it? I mean, I’ve tried to be good.....most of my life, mostly, kinda....you know, there were those few times when......well, eh......alright, maybe more than a few times, but I wouldn’t think that would be enough to keep me from getting in.....would it?" I was stammering, trying to think of anything to persuade Al to reconsider. I was becoming frantic.
"Apparently," was all he said.
"No, wait, listen. I’m sure there is something we can work out. Surely, there must be something."
"There is nothing. And don’t call me Shirley." He turned to leave again.
"No, wait! I want to see your supervisor." I demanded.
Al turned to face me. "My supervisor?"
"Yes, your supervisor. I want to talk to him." I tried to sound as if I carried some weight. I wanted to let him know he couldn’t push me around.
Al walked back to me. He put his hand on my shoulder as if he were a grandfather giving his grandson some sage advise.
"He rarely makes appearances outside these walls and since you aren’t coming in, you can’t see Him," Al explained. So much for having any pull here.
"Your supervisor is....Him?" I asked, incredulously.
"Yes, now go on about your business."
"Wait, I have no idea what my business is now. And I don’t know how to get to.....well, you know,....heck,"I said, not wanting to say the real word while standing so close to heaven. Besides, I didn’t want to hurt any chances of some sort of clemency.
"Sorry, I can’t help you," Al said. "That’s not my department. I’m in charge of the gate and letting people in."
"So, who do I talk to about getting.....there?"
"I think that is....oh let’s see.......is it Bob?" Al answered looking at me as if I was going to affirm his answer.
We both stood staring at each other while Al rummaged through his brain. At some length, the various brain cells came to a consensus.
"Yes, Bob is in charge of that department," Al finally declared.
"Then can I speak to Bob?"
"He’s inside and......"
"I can’t come in," I finished for him, shaking my head in agreement. "I know. So, how do I see Bob?"
Al seemed stumped by that question. I was beginning to think that Al must have worked for the government at some point in his life and his bureaucratic thought process had hung over to the hereafter.
"Did you work for the government on earth, Al?"
"No," Al answered, " I drove a cab in the Bronx."
"Well, Al, maybe you can summon Bob to come down to the gate here and give me some advice. What do you think?" I suggested.
"Wait here," Al instructed.
I turned to return to my spot next to the gate thinking I’d be waiting awhile, when Al spoke.
"This is Bob," he said.
It hadn’t been but a second and here they both stood. Apparently, things moved fast in heaven.
Bob, thinner and taller than Al, stood at Al’s left side. He too had a clip board. He spoke. "What can I do for you?"
"Al tells me I can’t come in, so, I need to know how to get to....the other place."
Bob shuffled through the papers on his clip board. "I don’t see you here," he said.
"What!" I exclaimed. "If I’m not supposed to be in Heaven and I’m not on your list for the other place....where in the he.....heck am I supposed to be?" I yelled, almost forgetting to be on my best behavior.
"That’s just it," Bob replied, "Your not supposed to be at either place. If you’re not on either list, then you aren’t supposed to be dead yet." He looked at me as if that settled the issue.
"But, here I stand," I said reminding him of the problem we were trying to solve.
He shuffled through his papers once again, studying one in particular. "Ah, here it is," he said reading it to himself.
"What?" I asked.
He read to himself a bit more. "It says here that you weren’t supposed to die until your cholesterol hit four hundred. You have a few weeks left." he said, smiling. "Just a minor snafu. Here, I’ll give you a pass back and we’ll see you in a few weeks.....unless you make some changes. There, all’s well that ends well, eh?." Bob was quite pleased with himself for finding the answer. It was a bit disconcerting the cavalier attitude Bob and Al had toward my demise, or my pending demise. Either way, they didn’t seem to broken up or concerned that I was dead or about to be. I was about to offer my observations on that subject when Bob wrote something on a piece of paper on his clip board and stepped toward me.
He handed me a piece of paper and as soon as I touched it, I was back in bed, awake, staring at the ceiling. I sat up and looked around. It was a dream, but it seemed so real. But, how could it have been? Was it real? Was it a dream or a near death experience?
What ever it was, it got me to thinking. Maybe I’d better start exercising and watching what I eat, besides just watching it all the way to my mouth. I think I’ll start next week.
Friday, March 20, 2009
An Evening of Entertainment
Last night, at the Hillcrest High School Performing Arts Center, we watched some extraordinarily talented young men and women. Hillcrest held a talent show as a benefit for the Halford family who’s son was injured in a snowmobile accident this winter. As I sat there, enthralled by the amazing talent of these young people, I couldn’t help thinking of the criticism thrown at teens today about their addiction to sitting around watching tv, playing video games, etc. One can only imagine the amount of time and effort that went into these performances. These young people are indeed talented, however, talent without work is often wasted and left untouched. These young men and women had obviously spent hundreds of hours honing their talents, practicing until the performance was flawless.
On top of the dedication and discipline, we must add courage - the courage to stand in front of their peers, their friends and their families and put it all on the line. Live entertainment has a magic that comes from the performer standing on the edge of a precipice of failure with disaster waiting to grab them by the neck and pull them down. Forgotten lyrics, missed notes, botched arrangements all are specters that hover about waiting to take down the unsuspecting performer. And yet, they all rose above the fear. Undaunted, they went on and with an air of professionalism, provided the audience with an evening of unparalleled entertainment.
Katie and Jake, my daughter and son, were members of this ensemble of talented youngsters. Katie played guitar and Jake played the bongos. They sang "I’ll Follow You Into The Dark" and, since I am an unbiased and impartial judge, I’ll admit they were the best of the show. At least, they got the longest ovation. In addition to Katie and Jake, there were several pianists, a young woman who played the harp and sang, several other guitarist who all exhibited excellent talent, three violinists, a singing group with piano and violin accompaniment, a ballroom dance duo, there was even a re enactment of the Mario Bros. That is just a partial list of the wonderful acts that we were privileged to see.
In conclusion, let me say live entertainment is alive and well in Idaho Falls and these young people represent our future, not only in the world of entertainment, but, I would venture a guess and say that they represent our future in all areas. I am proud of all of them for their courage, commitment to excellence, and discipline in setting goals and accomplishing them. They are young men and women we can all be proud of.
On top of the dedication and discipline, we must add courage - the courage to stand in front of their peers, their friends and their families and put it all on the line. Live entertainment has a magic that comes from the performer standing on the edge of a precipice of failure with disaster waiting to grab them by the neck and pull them down. Forgotten lyrics, missed notes, botched arrangements all are specters that hover about waiting to take down the unsuspecting performer. And yet, they all rose above the fear. Undaunted, they went on and with an air of professionalism, provided the audience with an evening of unparalleled entertainment.
Katie and Jake, my daughter and son, were members of this ensemble of talented youngsters. Katie played guitar and Jake played the bongos. They sang "I’ll Follow You Into The Dark" and, since I am an unbiased and impartial judge, I’ll admit they were the best of the show. At least, they got the longest ovation. In addition to Katie and Jake, there were several pianists, a young woman who played the harp and sang, several other guitarist who all exhibited excellent talent, three violinists, a singing group with piano and violin accompaniment, a ballroom dance duo, there was even a re enactment of the Mario Bros. That is just a partial list of the wonderful acts that we were privileged to see.
In conclusion, let me say live entertainment is alive and well in Idaho Falls and these young people represent our future, not only in the world of entertainment, but, I would venture a guess and say that they represent our future in all areas. I am proud of all of them for their courage, commitment to excellence, and discipline in setting goals and accomplishing them. They are young men and women we can all be proud of.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Pictures
I wanted to post a couple more pictures since that seems to be required in the world of blogs, or at least in the country of Blogeztan, where it all started. Does that make me a Blogeztonian? Maybe just an honorary citizen. Anyway, back to the pictures. The first picture, taken about ten years ago, is of my children. I think you’ll notice they have some common characteristics. It is probably apparent to those who know me, that I don’t have those characteristics. I asked Mikki, my wife, about that but she just laughed and walked off mumbling something about free milk. I have no idea what she meant.
The second picture was taken several years ago just after we had spent a large sum of money to have our new swimming pool installed and the whole neighborhood showed up for the initial plunge. Talk about rub a dub dub, three men in a tub. We managed to get seven in our tub! The picture is taken facing North across the barley field that used to surround our home. Of course, now we are surrounded by houses that are far less appealing to the eye, and much noisier as well. And, they smell bad. But, don’t get the idea that I’m bitter.....or angry......or upset....or feel betrayed...or....or.....bah!
Back to the pool. It’s a good thing our water isn’t metered since we have such a large pool. You’ll notice at the left side of the picture is the corner of a building. That, of course, is the pool house where we keep all the chemicals, life saving devices, cleaning equipment, skim nets and alligator repellent. It contains the changing areas as well. To the right, you’ll see the exercise equipment that we installed prior to the swimming pool. As you can see, it is nothing but the best for the Martin family. Well, I’m starting to brag now, so I’ll quit and try to gain some humility. Until next time.....
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Spring sprunged?.... sprang?....springed?
(I’m detecting a recurring theme here with posts about the weather)
Yesterday was one of those days we, here in Frozen Nowhere ,look for from the beginning of November - a day with no wind, plenty of sunshine, no wind, warm temperatures, no wind and grass poking up out of the rock hard, black snow, and no wind. It is a day I like to call a ‘Sucker Day’. I refer to it by that name because every year at this time, we get suckered into thinking that because of one great day, Spring is just around the corner. But, we should know that winter will not let go that easily and will raise its ugly, nasty head a few more times to remind us that it is still alive and well and only sleeping. Snow will return, cold will be back and the wind, lurking just around the corner waiting for us to turn our backs, will rush in to nearly blow us into next year.
But, dear Reader, what a day we had! Hope was again a word we dare use. Hope that, perhaps, someday, we would see the return of warm, sunny days. Perhaps we will again be able to walk outside without eight layers of clothes, knee high boots, two hats, a scarf, gloves, goggles, hand warmers, and electric underwear- which, by the way, mine shorted out the other day and I thought I’d fallen in love again!
What more can I say about yesterday. All my troubles seemed so far away. Now, it seems as though they’re here to stay. Oh, I believe in yesterday. (nice turn of a phrase, huh?)
Yesterday was glorious, marvelous, magnificent, outstanding, stupendous, fantastic, and good kinda... thing. (I love writing.)
Well, I can’t write any more about yesterday without crying - it was (past tense, dang it!) a beautiful day. But, it is gone, taken leave of us, exited the stage and we are left with this day, a crumpled, grey, forsaken day with little to write home about, the ugly step sister of yesterday, the son that disappoints kinda day, an, 'oh, it's only you', kind of day, a, why can't you be more like your brother day. But I still have the memories of yesterday. So, until tomorrow, farewell.
I'll try not to write about the weather for a few posts. I mean, after all, enough is enough! I'm becoming a one note sonata, a broken record, a scratched cd (a reference for the younger set who don't understand the broken record reference), an untalented writer who has nothing to say but continues to say something anyway. So, I'll try to do better in the future. Thanks for your patience.
Yesterday was one of those days we, here in Frozen Nowhere ,look for from the beginning of November - a day with no wind, plenty of sunshine, no wind, warm temperatures, no wind and grass poking up out of the rock hard, black snow, and no wind. It is a day I like to call a ‘Sucker Day’. I refer to it by that name because every year at this time, we get suckered into thinking that because of one great day, Spring is just around the corner. But, we should know that winter will not let go that easily and will raise its ugly, nasty head a few more times to remind us that it is still alive and well and only sleeping. Snow will return, cold will be back and the wind, lurking just around the corner waiting for us to turn our backs, will rush in to nearly blow us into next year.
But, dear Reader, what a day we had! Hope was again a word we dare use. Hope that, perhaps, someday, we would see the return of warm, sunny days. Perhaps we will again be able to walk outside without eight layers of clothes, knee high boots, two hats, a scarf, gloves, goggles, hand warmers, and electric underwear- which, by the way, mine shorted out the other day and I thought I’d fallen in love again!
What more can I say about yesterday. All my troubles seemed so far away. Now, it seems as though they’re here to stay. Oh, I believe in yesterday. (nice turn of a phrase, huh?)
Yesterday was glorious, marvelous, magnificent, outstanding, stupendous, fantastic, and good kinda... thing. (I love writing.)
Well, I can’t write any more about yesterday without crying - it was (past tense, dang it!) a beautiful day. But, it is gone, taken leave of us, exited the stage and we are left with this day, a crumpled, grey, forsaken day with little to write home about, the ugly step sister of yesterday, the son that disappoints kinda day, an, 'oh, it's only you', kind of day, a, why can't you be more like your brother day. But I still have the memories of yesterday. So, until tomorrow, farewell.
I'll try not to write about the weather for a few posts. I mean, after all, enough is enough! I'm becoming a one note sonata, a broken record, a scratched cd (a reference for the younger set who don't understand the broken record reference), an untalented writer who has nothing to say but continues to say something anyway. So, I'll try to do better in the future. Thanks for your patience.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Water is Liquid and Other Spring Realizations
Those of you who live in the warmer climates would look at the title of this post and wonder about my sanity. Yes, I know that even those who don’t live in warmer climates ponder my claim to sanity, but I’m sure our warmer friends would consider the opening statement as somewhat bizarre, even coming from me. But, I would remind them that in this part of the country, wild, outside water is solid for the better part of three months and we tend to forget, by the time the end of February rolls around, that water is really runny.
The solid water, snow and ice, has been piling up since December until we all were beginning to wonder if it would ever realize it has overstayed its welcome and leave. Finally, it has taken the many hints we have been dropping at every opportunity and has decided to make a hasty retreat, running down the street and disappearing into the storm drains.
As I drove back to work this afternoon, I stopped for just a second to admire the sun shining off the tiny ripplets in the improvised creek streaming around the icebergs and glaciers that adorn our street, on its way to the ocean or the sewage treatment plant, which ever comes first. And this water didn’t even have the hydrocarbon rainbow that is usually associated with gutter water. It was just ordinary, regular, semi-transparent water that one usually sees in the mountains, cascading around fallen trees and rocks. It was beautiful to see - a life changing experience. Alright, maybe not life changing, but certainly mood altering. Who needs drugs when all you have to do is experience melting snow on a nice, near spring day after a miserable Idaho winter? I am euphoric now, almost giddy at the mere glimpse of runny, soft, liquid water. All of the time in the Sixties and the excesses that accompanied that decade can’t compare to the amazing mood alteration that is spring in Idaho.
I feel sorry for those living in the warm climates who have nothing more to look forward to at this time of year other than more nice warm weather. Here in Idaho, we flirt with insanity every winter, nearing the abyss of utter, complete, depression. A complete hopelessness of spirit, doubting that spring will ever come and knowing the darkness will continue forever until we are completely mad. And then, we have a day like today, and we again come to the realization that water is liquid, life is good, and we will again see the sun and the ground and dirt and grass and worms and flies and all manner of insects, two of each kind.......wait, I’ve become biblical here.
And now, all that remains is for a few more days like today to string together and....yes!....we have summer!!! Could we hope for something as great as that? Sure, why not?
The solid water, snow and ice, has been piling up since December until we all were beginning to wonder if it would ever realize it has overstayed its welcome and leave. Finally, it has taken the many hints we have been dropping at every opportunity and has decided to make a hasty retreat, running down the street and disappearing into the storm drains.
As I drove back to work this afternoon, I stopped for just a second to admire the sun shining off the tiny ripplets in the improvised creek streaming around the icebergs and glaciers that adorn our street, on its way to the ocean or the sewage treatment plant, which ever comes first. And this water didn’t even have the hydrocarbon rainbow that is usually associated with gutter water. It was just ordinary, regular, semi-transparent water that one usually sees in the mountains, cascading around fallen trees and rocks. It was beautiful to see - a life changing experience. Alright, maybe not life changing, but certainly mood altering. Who needs drugs when all you have to do is experience melting snow on a nice, near spring day after a miserable Idaho winter? I am euphoric now, almost giddy at the mere glimpse of runny, soft, liquid water. All of the time in the Sixties and the excesses that accompanied that decade can’t compare to the amazing mood alteration that is spring in Idaho.
I feel sorry for those living in the warm climates who have nothing more to look forward to at this time of year other than more nice warm weather. Here in Idaho, we flirt with insanity every winter, nearing the abyss of utter, complete, depression. A complete hopelessness of spirit, doubting that spring will ever come and knowing the darkness will continue forever until we are completely mad. And then, we have a day like today, and we again come to the realization that water is liquid, life is good, and we will again see the sun and the ground and dirt and grass and worms and flies and all manner of insects, two of each kind.......wait, I’ve become biblical here.
And now, all that remains is for a few more days like today to string together and....yes!....we have summer!!! Could we hope for something as great as that? Sure, why not?
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The Government - You've got to be kidding!
Normally, I wouldn’t use this space for worthless drivel (oh sure, you laugh.), but, on rare occasions, I am want to wander into dangerous ground, taking up your valuable time by babbling about subjects such as one equal to the weather - politics. Just as Mark Twain stated about the weather, "Everyone complains about the weather, but no one does anything about it!", I too have come to the same conclusion about politics. We all complain, but we really don’t change anything when we try to do something. We might as well try to alter the weather.
I want to make myself clear at the front, I’m not, in any way, criticizing the new administration. I think we have to give the new president some time to effect a change. However, when I look at congress, and the bulging, bloated bureaucracy that our government has become, I become despondent and feel like throwing my hands in the air in disgust. But, then I remember that it has been this way for a lot of years and we’re still here and we’re still plugging along. Evidence the sayings of Will Rogers:
A fool and his money are soon elected.
About all I can say for the United States Senate is that it opens with a prayer and closes with an investigation.
Alexander Hamilton started the U.S. Treasury with nothing, and that was the closest our country has ever been to being even.
An economist's guess is liable to be as good as anybody else's.
Be thankful we're not getting all the government we're paying for.
I don't make jokes. I just watch the government and report the facts.
Last year we said, 'Things can't go on like this', and they didn't, they got worse.
The only difference between death and taxes is that death doesn't get worse every time Congress meets.
Things in our country run in spite of government, not by aid of it.
This country has come to feel the same when Congress is in session as when the baby gets hold of a hammer.
Will Rogers certainly had the government figured out. But, the point is, it stunk then, and it stinks now, yet, somehow, we manage.
As an example, the bailout and stimulus package. Assuming that we have about 130 million taxpayers in this country, which is the number of those filing, and that the bailout at 750 billion dollars, give or take a few billion and the 500 or so billion of the stimulus package, equaling over a trillion dollars, would, if distributed to each tax filer, amount to about $7,500 per person. If that amount were given to each person, they would have two choices, either spend it or save it. Either choice would percolate back to the top stimulating the economy in the process. If we saved it, the banks would invest it or lend it back to some of us, therefore stimulating the economy. If we spent it on debt reduction, those we paid it to would have it to invest or lend, thus stimulating the economy. If we just went out and spent it, we’d stimulate the economy. Why do the powers to be think that giving it to the top will stimulate the economy and benefit us? It will only stimulate the top - the same fools who put us in this mess in the first place. Why give it to them? Percolating to the top benefits everyone, trickling down won’t work and will only benefit the fat cats who only trickle into their own pockets!
Anyway, sorry about the rant. It must be the weather. Can’t somebody do something about it?
I want to make myself clear at the front, I’m not, in any way, criticizing the new administration. I think we have to give the new president some time to effect a change. However, when I look at congress, and the bulging, bloated bureaucracy that our government has become, I become despondent and feel like throwing my hands in the air in disgust. But, then I remember that it has been this way for a lot of years and we’re still here and we’re still plugging along. Evidence the sayings of Will Rogers:
A fool and his money are soon elected.
About all I can say for the United States Senate is that it opens with a prayer and closes with an investigation.
Alexander Hamilton started the U.S. Treasury with nothing, and that was the closest our country has ever been to being even.
An economist's guess is liable to be as good as anybody else's.
Be thankful we're not getting all the government we're paying for.
I don't make jokes. I just watch the government and report the facts.
Last year we said, 'Things can't go on like this', and they didn't, they got worse.
The only difference between death and taxes is that death doesn't get worse every time Congress meets.
Things in our country run in spite of government, not by aid of it.
This country has come to feel the same when Congress is in session as when the baby gets hold of a hammer.
Will Rogers certainly had the government figured out. But, the point is, it stunk then, and it stinks now, yet, somehow, we manage.
As an example, the bailout and stimulus package. Assuming that we have about 130 million taxpayers in this country, which is the number of those filing, and that the bailout at 750 billion dollars, give or take a few billion and the 500 or so billion of the stimulus package, equaling over a trillion dollars, would, if distributed to each tax filer, amount to about $7,500 per person. If that amount were given to each person, they would have two choices, either spend it or save it. Either choice would percolate back to the top stimulating the economy in the process. If we saved it, the banks would invest it or lend it back to some of us, therefore stimulating the economy. If we spent it on debt reduction, those we paid it to would have it to invest or lend, thus stimulating the economy. If we just went out and spent it, we’d stimulate the economy. Why do the powers to be think that giving it to the top will stimulate the economy and benefit us? It will only stimulate the top - the same fools who put us in this mess in the first place. Why give it to them? Percolating to the top benefits everyone, trickling down won’t work and will only benefit the fat cats who only trickle into their own pockets!
Anyway, sorry about the rant. It must be the weather. Can’t somebody do something about it?
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Winter Rant II
Alright, I know I’ve covered this subject before (see December 8, 2008 - "Snow and Other Swear Words"), but a subject so onerous requires yet another rant. I am compelled, in fact, to comment further upon this season of discontent, this season that even the jaws of Hell pale in comparison. What went wrong in the creation of this world that allowed Winter? Oh, I know the argument - without Winter, we would not enjoy the other seasons. It is an analogy of life, without the heartache and sorrow, we would not appreciate the happiness and joy. Well, in the case of seasons, I’d be content with not enjoying Spring, Summer and Fall as much if I could just do away with the Winter. I’ll hold back on the enjoyment, how’s that? Here’s the deal, Winter is eliminated and I’ll promise to not like Spring, Summer, and Fall as much. That should work, don’t you think? Great, where do I sign up?
So, what makes Winter so bad, you ask. Well, let me count the ways. First, the roads. Anyone who has slid off the road into the ditch can tell you that the fun of Winter fades quickly as you see yourself rushing head long into a snow bank, trying to maneuver between a power pole and a sign post. And who hasn’t enjoyed the adrenalin rush of hitting the brakes at a red light only to discover they are accelerating? What’s even more fun is if there are a few cars already stopped at the light. By the way, it is a proven fact that it is impossible to remove the smile from the owners of tow companies until well after the 4th of July! In addition, who doesn’t love standing in sub zero weather scraping inch thick ice off the windshield. Sorry, did I say scraping? I meant chipping, prying, blasting, kicking, burning. By the way, a weed burner torch is not a good idea. You’ll have to trust me on that. $1500 for a new paint job is hardly worth the savings in effort and time.
And how can we leave the rant against Winter without mentioning white. Ah yes, white and its many shades and hues. Every stinking thing is white, or grey or whitish grey or greyish white, or white turning grey, or some shade in between those two. Gack!!! I’m so sick of white I could scream!!!! When I’m in charge, I’m going to have a variety of colors for snow, depending on temperature - the warmer, the closer to red, cooler will be on the blue/violet side. It will snow rainbows. Yeah, that’s the ticket, rainbow snow. Just imagine the snowmen. ( I could write an entire post on rainbow snowmen, but I don’t want to offend the San Francisco contingent.)
Don’t think I’m not going to mention the temperature during this rant. How could I? Winter would not be complete if, when we step outside, the moisture in our noses didn’t freeze solid. I mean, after all, in what other season can we say we haven’t felt our feet for weeks?
A few weeks ago, we had a blizzard. For those of you who don’t know what a blizzard is - how lucky can you be!? Anyway, a blizzard is where you shovel the same snow out of your driveway several times. And, if you think you are going to outsmart it by throwing the snow down wind -ha! Just wait a short time, and the wind will turn around and blow it back so that you can shovel that snow again in the opposite direction. You don’t win with blizzards!
And, when the snow starts to melt and you begin celebrating, the weather turns cold and turns all the melted snow -read water - into ice. Then, we get to enjoy the semi-flips, half somersaults, unscripted break dancing, prat falls associated with ice under a thin layer of snow. And these are just a few of my favorite things - tra, la, la.
And so, dear reader, that is just a bit of what I’m feeling about Winter. The rest of it is unprintable amongst mixed company. And that is all I’m going to say about that. For now.
So, what makes Winter so bad, you ask. Well, let me count the ways. First, the roads. Anyone who has slid off the road into the ditch can tell you that the fun of Winter fades quickly as you see yourself rushing head long into a snow bank, trying to maneuver between a power pole and a sign post. And who hasn’t enjoyed the adrenalin rush of hitting the brakes at a red light only to discover they are accelerating? What’s even more fun is if there are a few cars already stopped at the light. By the way, it is a proven fact that it is impossible to remove the smile from the owners of tow companies until well after the 4th of July! In addition, who doesn’t love standing in sub zero weather scraping inch thick ice off the windshield. Sorry, did I say scraping? I meant chipping, prying, blasting, kicking, burning. By the way, a weed burner torch is not a good idea. You’ll have to trust me on that. $1500 for a new paint job is hardly worth the savings in effort and time.
And how can we leave the rant against Winter without mentioning white. Ah yes, white and its many shades and hues. Every stinking thing is white, or grey or whitish grey or greyish white, or white turning grey, or some shade in between those two. Gack!!! I’m so sick of white I could scream!!!! When I’m in charge, I’m going to have a variety of colors for snow, depending on temperature - the warmer, the closer to red, cooler will be on the blue/violet side. It will snow rainbows. Yeah, that’s the ticket, rainbow snow. Just imagine the snowmen. ( I could write an entire post on rainbow snowmen, but I don’t want to offend the San Francisco contingent.)
Don’t think I’m not going to mention the temperature during this rant. How could I? Winter would not be complete if, when we step outside, the moisture in our noses didn’t freeze solid. I mean, after all, in what other season can we say we haven’t felt our feet for weeks?
A few weeks ago, we had a blizzard. For those of you who don’t know what a blizzard is - how lucky can you be!? Anyway, a blizzard is where you shovel the same snow out of your driveway several times. And, if you think you are going to outsmart it by throwing the snow down wind -ha! Just wait a short time, and the wind will turn around and blow it back so that you can shovel that snow again in the opposite direction. You don’t win with blizzards!
And, when the snow starts to melt and you begin celebrating, the weather turns cold and turns all the melted snow -read water - into ice. Then, we get to enjoy the semi-flips, half somersaults, unscripted break dancing, prat falls associated with ice under a thin layer of snow. And these are just a few of my favorite things - tra, la, la.
And so, dear reader, that is just a bit of what I’m feeling about Winter. The rest of it is unprintable amongst mixed company. And that is all I’m going to say about that. For now.
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