Random thoughts

Uncle Will's plan to win any war.

2010-09-12T13:39:00.000-07:00

1. Send all the reporters home. They aren't in America and they have no constitutional rights in a foreign country. If they want to stay there is no protection provided by the military. They are on their own.

2. If you shoot at our military you will die. So will the person standing on either side of you and the one behind you. If someone near you starts shooting at our troops you had better be moving for cover.

3. If you hide in a building to shoot at our military expect the entire building to be leveled. If you are a civilian and didn't shoot you had better hit the ground running or your dead. It doesn't matter what kind of building you are in. Church, school, mosque there is no where to hide.

4. This is a war. People get killed. Things get blown up. It is a dirty, stinking, rotten business and from time to time it must be done to keep the world safe enough to live in. War is hell – there is a reason people say that, there is nothing nice about it.

5.You have the right to complain, bad mouth, resent, protest, or otherwise dislike war, and that right will not be trampled on. But don't be surprised when your whining, sniveling, cowardly butt is scooped up in the middle of the night and dropped off in the war zone for a few days.

6. If you don't like this country, feel free to leave. We will even help you pack.

I will survive

2010-07-12T16:31:00.000-07:00

As a child I became enamored with the World War II when I first discovered the Time Life Series on the war. In the many years since I have been privileged to talk to many men who served in that great conflict. Those who firsthand saw the triumph and agony of those years of war. Those who sacrificed their very existence to secure freedom for the rest of us. Them most poignant of my memories of these discussions were the men and women I talked to who liberated and suffered in the death camps of Nazi Germany.

The survivors tell a story of horrific survival. Stories that would, and should break the heart of the most hardened person. The liberators tell the story of the discovery of the ovens, the gas chambers, the lamps and shades made of human skin, and the emaciated children.

I have seen the marks tattooed on the arms of the survivors. The hollow stare in their eyes as they speak of the conditions and friends lost. I have heard of stories of surviving only on weak soup and small pieces of stale bread. The sorrow of retelling of the loss of loved ones that they had to bury. The cruelty of their captors.

There is nothing joyful about the stories. There is no bright spot in the darkness.

But today I came across a video that was joyful. It was hopeful. It caused me to cry. It was a video of a survivor and his family dancing to “I Will Survive” in front of former death camps, on death trains, and in front of Memorials.

There was no bright spot then, but for those who survived the world is freedom. And for all of us there is hope.

Donk-a- what?

2010-06-02T01:33:00.000-07:00

Have you noticed lately that the trend for things has leaned to the far side of ridiculous? Everything “stylish” now seems to attempt to compensate for its owners need for attention of any kind. People are walking around with their teeth encapsulated in gold, their necks covered in gold chains. They wear outfits that look like Ray Charles picked them out of the discard pile at Goodwill. Huge sunglasses that completely obliterate any hope of peripheral vision. And they think it is cool. I often wonder what these people will grow up and become then I see that some of them are already adult aged.

But then I see something that hits close to home. I am a car nut, a gear head, a wrench slinger. If it has an engine - I love it. The different styles, designs, and brands of automobiles are a wonderful cornucopia of wheeled art to my eyes. And, to see what people are doing to these mobile Mona Lisas is deplorable.

Driving past a business in Charlotte I am tempted to close my eyes so I cannot see the bright metallic candy green 1966 Lincoln Continental sitting on 24 inch rims with rubber-band tires. It ranks right up with putting a Tyrolean hat and big nosed novelty glasses on Rodin's “The Thinker. It just isn't right.

On one web site I saw a video of some poor undereducated, disrespectful youths who had taken a rare Buick Grand National and put it on 22 inch tires and equipped it with hydraulics to make it lift up and down. My first reaction was to get a big stick and go explain to them why they should never deface my all time #1 dream car. It is bad enough to rape a Honda, or Hyundai – but the car that single handedly put Buick as the head of the performance class for General Motors in the 80's – Beyond despicable.

However, today I saw one of these “donkified” monstrosities that put a smile on my face. On I-85 in Charlotte a donked mid 80s square bodied Caprice came down an on ramp followed by a Ford Crown Victoria. The Vic was fully equipped – state trooper lettering, blue lights, and sirens. I don't know what the car was pulled over for, but I can only dream that among the charges, somewhere, the driver was cited for blatant stupidity, and ruining a great riding old car. Also, in my dream the cop wacks the driver with his baton before walking back to the patrol car.

The Wednesday Willies

2010-06-02T00:40:00.000-07:00

I have decided to dedicate Wednesdays to the Willies. What Willies you may ask? Well if you hold out, and don't fall out, you will find out.

The first is dedicated to my wife, Stephanie. I never thought anyone would come into my life and fill it the way you have. You are truly, "An Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground". I love you even if I don't say it enough.

Racing Stripes?

2010-03-22T10:45:00.000-07:00

We were driving along minding our own business. Driving along in the 10,000+ pound Suburban, pulling the huge trailer, and minding our own business. (Ever notice how many tales of woe start off with, “ I was minding my own business?”). The speed limit is 55 where we were on Highway 150 in Lincolnton, NC, and I had a long distance between my truck and the one in front of us. Then, in the blink of an eye, things went all sideways – literally.

There was a line of 6 vehicles in front of us – all doing the speed limit – and, as we passed a large nursing home, a car pulled out into the road and stopped. In case you haven't done the math 55mph x 10,000 pounds/ brand new B.F. Goodrich tires x 25% of new brakes = a heck of a long stopping distance. (Yes, that is a scientific formula why do you ask?) After the first 2 seconds of panic stopping I soon realized that the coefficient of friction between the rubber and the road was insufficient to haul that ponderous poundage to a stop.

So, relying on my years of experience in demolition derby and off road insanity, (otherwise known as driving in Charlotte)I turned right. Up over the curb. Onto the grass. Into the clear. That is until a Chevy Astro van about 5 cars up had the same idea. Now sliding through wet grass at 40 some odd mph is fun enough. It is even more fun when there is suddenly a large blue hunk of steel in your path. Fortunately, he saw me, and turned hard back beside the car he was avoiding.

Only problem now was that there was a crater the size of my living room about 10 feet to the right of his van and I was still going 40. So, I summoned up all my steely eyed reserve of superhuman spacial reasoning, and threaded the Beast through a hole it would not physically fit through ( it helps if you think thin).

The next daunting obstacle was that there was not enough room to stop completely before the fast approaching tree line enveloped the front of my vehicle. However, my wild cowboy side had an out. I gently turned right up the far lip of the crater and rode the bowl around to the flat, over the curb, onto the driveway of the nursing home (a 90 degree maneuver at a way too high speed for those of you following along at home) and then brought the whole mess to a shaking, hopping, lurching, bobbing, tools in the back of the truck jingling, stop. Gently pried the leather seat from the grasp of my puckered butt cheeks, peeled my wife off the ceiling, and proceeded to find a way out of the maze of a parking lot built for tiny cars with my whole 50 foot long train.

A guy in the parking lot stopped me and said, “ I bet you have racing stripes in your shorts don't ya?”

So now I am left with figuring out how to remove the claw marks that my guardian angel left on the paint of the roof. Oh yeah, and he put in for hazard pay.

The weight of our words

2010-03-10T08:46:00.000-08:00

I had an odd dream last night that I was at a hospital building doing some kind of work. One of the guys who worked for me in this dream was a scrawny ill tempered guy who had a young child with him. This guy did nothing but demean and put down this child. Over and over he was heard yelling and cussing for the slightest perceived infraction committed by his off spring. Then I walked up to him and told him that unless he picked up his words and carried them away he was fired, and (as happens in dreams) there at his feet was a huge bundle of black weights. Now, I have no idea how much it weighed, but I made three guys pick it up and set it on his shoulders. As he struggled to carry his words away I told him to always consider the weight of his words because someone had to bear it.

A very profound dream to be sure. The weight of our words is a ponderous thing. Not just what we say but how we say it. I know that I have been guilty of throwing words that burden rather the bolster the recipient of them. And don't we all. I recall a book I found in my grandmothers basement many many years ago in which a dragon was the main character. On his wall he had a sign which read something like, “Sticks and stones can't break my bones; for that I'm much too scaley, but unkind words and things I've heard can break my spirit daily.” Watch your words, you never know who has to carry them.

Oh, and the dream, well, after he carried off his words - I got in a tank and drove away.

Going to the chapel

2010-03-07T21:21:00.000-08:00

Five more days. All the free time I have left. Seconds go by like the blades of a fan. Time draws short. Things must be done. Then it will happen.

March 13, 2010 I will be attending a wedding. Specifically I will be attending my wedding. Honestly something I thought would never happen again. However, loneliness is a strong motivator to do what I swore I would never do again. That and I met the most wonderful gal in the world. Actually she met me.

See, I wasn't interested in any kind of relationship, but this little gal picked me out. We needed each other and now, we intend to spend the rest of our lives together.

What lies ahead – who knows. But the journey is more exciting than the destination. Here's to a long and happy trip.

Five more days.

Taste this!

2010-02-09T16:10:00.000-08:00

After sitting and watching TV while it poured rain outside for the past few days I have noticed a word that really has no meaning in many commercials. Well, the word actually has a meaning, but the way it is used in the commercials it really has no meaning at all. The word is taste, or its variants – tasty or tastiest. Taste is one of those words that advertisers like to use. “Our burger has more taste than the competitors” Yeah, and I puked and it had taste too. Not a taste I want in my hamburger, but it has taste. Much more taste than I had in my mouth before I puked.

Now I realize that the word taste when used in reference to food is supposed to convey a good connotation. However, in actuality it means nothing without a little help. It can taste good, taste bad, taste bland, taste salty, or taste like barf.

My favorite is the Coors commercial where they said they had the coldest tasting beer. What does that even mean? What does cold taste like? Is it laced with liquid nitrogen? If I drink it will I get frost bite on my uvula? What if I leave it out in the sun all day, will it still taste cold?

Well, I have to stop writing now. My dinner just was handed to me. I sure hope it is tasty.

That's the power of stupidity

2009-12-31T12:47:00.000-08:00

For years now I have been amazed by infomercials. I love how the people in them are total idiots. There is a guy who is too stupid to open a carton of juice so someone invented a little doodad to stab in the top of the carton to pour the juice. My favorite of years gone by was the woman who couldn't figure out how to operate her twisted knotted garden hose. The hose was so knotted it must have been a class project for 50 kindergarteners in knot tying class. Then the woman is given a hose reel and suddenly she can water her flowers. I always wondered where they got the ideas for the stupidity in the infomercials until last night I saw a new commercial that makes all infomercials pale in comparison.

I was watching TV and a new commercial for an insurance company that uses cartoon characters in their ads. I wont mention the name for this company for fear that they will send a platoon of clueless cartoon lawyers to my door.

It starts out with a construction worker trying to break concrete with a baseball bat until Erin the insurance girl pulls a jackhammer out of her purse ( not all that farfetched I have seen some of the stuff women carry in there) and suddenly the guy can do his job.

Next Erin finds a painter who is flinging paint on a wall until Erin reaches in her mighty “purse of wonders” and hands him a paint brush. Now I know some “professional” painters who may be so overcome with years of paint fumes that they forget their brush.

Then she finds a businessman (perhaps the CEO of the insurance company) who is so clueless that he is trying to send smoke signals to communicate. Erin rescues the poor man with a cell phone.

Then we find a woman who has left the grocery store with her purchases precariously piled up in her arms. The poor woman is in danger of being brained with a can of food until Erin whips out a bag and catches the poor womans food. Curiously enough it is not a ecologically friendly canvas bag, or even a paper bag, but it is the evil plastic handle bag that we all have 4 billion of in out kitchens. I found that an odd choice for a company that touts how ecologically friendly they are. ( Although the bag is plastered with a recycle symbol.) Perhaps with the jackhammer, paintbrush, and phone in her bag there was no room for a canvas bag.

Now even though they are trying to show how much easier their insurance will make you life, it seems to me that they are advertising to idiots. People to stupid to use the right tool for the job. Although, with the state of things today, that could possibly be the best marketing strategy of all. We cater to morons, call us today, or you just might hurt yourself.

Snow

2009-03-02T19:06:00.001-08:00

Fluffy white, beautiful, lovely, bright, treacherous, slick, and wonderful. Snow is a force to be reckoned with.

Last night we got out first serious snowfall of the winter. In a matter of a few hours we had about 8 inches piled around. Abbi, our Great Pyrenees was in heaven. I think she would have stayed out in in all night and loved it. It is funny to watch a 150 pound animal bounce around like a puppy. Leo, the Jack Russell/Italian Greyhound, wasn’t so enthused. He preferred to stay on the couch in front of the heater vent.

Fortunately, nothing was hit when an apple tree split in half and fell. Oh well, I needed to trim it anyway. Now there is only half as much to prune.

We left at around 8 pm to go to Wal-Mart and get some Fritos. I had a hankering that nothing was going to satisfy. We fired up The Beast, swept off the snow from its windows, and went on out happy way. In short order we came across what I guess was Crouse’s first crash. A kid in a Ford F-150 was driving too fast and slid into the trees and blew out his airbag. He wasn’t hurt and said he would wait for his parents. Too bad it was a company truck, the guy probably lost his job.

At Wally-world we bumped into a neighbor who is an older lady. Her son was driving her in his 4wd truck, but since he has a broken ankle we decided to follow them home. The train was across the tracks so we got to take the scenic route home. Up and down hills we meandered through Cherryville and back into Crouse. The drive up a couple of the steeper hills was fun, but we made it with no problems.

At 1am I got a call from a friend who’s brother was off in a ditch with both of his cars. So again we swept the gathering snow off of the tuck and went to get him. About halfway there they called and said a tow truck had showed up and pulled him out. Funny that the guy from Wyoming got stuck in out “sissy southern snow”. So we had the fun of driving around in the snow some more.

This morning the roads were clear, the sky was clear, and it was so bright you couldn’t bear to look out the windows. The dogs had fun running around in their pen all day. When Leo got cold he just sat on Abbi. Tonight it will refreeze and I will probably get another call to pull someone out of a ditch. Or maybe I will get to sleep till tomorrow. Then get up and watch the snow melt.

Mans best friend

2009-02-13T22:40:00.001-08:00

There is a fundamental reason that dogs are mans best friend and cats are not. You see a dog is faithful - a cat is selfish. Dogs exist to please you - cats exist to sit in your lap, but only if there isn’t a more comfortable spot available somewhere else.

When they excavated around ancient Pompeii where there had been a volcano eruption they found a little boy who couldn’t escape the river of hot lava. They found his dog laying right next to him, staying with him to the bitter end. His cat left as soon as the tuna fish was gone.

Think about this. If you decided to walk to Madagascar to study the mating habits of native tree worms your dog would be right there with you. He would encourage you, help you, hunt for you, guard you, and support you. Your cat, however, would be back at your house smoking your cigars, drinking the good scotch, and eating your ficus. If the cat did come with you it would eat the worms.

My dog follows me to the bathroom in case there is something I may need - or maybe because she knows that I am at a convenient level for head scratching. My cat, on the other hand, was in my chair a half a second after I stood up and will be mad when I get back and move him.

If someone breaks into your home you dog will be a stalwart defender of your property. Your cat is already looking at what kind of car the robber drove in case it is nicer than yours, and if it should come down to it, will scratch your eyes out trying to get away from the intruder and save his own hide.

When my cat is inside he wants to be outside. When he is outside he wants to be inside. My dog just wants to be wherever I am.

My cat wants to be on top of whatever I am doing because he thinks he should be the center of attention at all times and nothing - not even paying taxes - is more important than he is. My dog lays beside my chair and hopes I will drop a pretzel.

The dog may dig holes in the back yard in search of bugs and a cool spot to lay, but your cat will lay in the back steps in the dark trying to kill you so it can have the house to itself.

When I call my dogs name she gets all excited and comes running. To get the cats attention I must be covered in liver pate and not mind being eaten alive. If the cat digs a hole he is probably planning to bury me in it.

If I scold my dog, he will learn from it and try to do better next time. My cat, given the same scolding, will hack up a hairball in my good shoes.

If I rattle the candy corn jar my dogs will sit up and wait patiently to receive their nightly two pieces then lay back down. If I rattle the cat treats I will be disemboweled while trying to open the can and if I only give them two each they will stare at me like I have just insulted their mothers.

A dog will live with you for its entire life. You cat may just decide to move three houses down and leave no forwarding address.

My dog will take any food I give him right from my hand with no questions. My cat must inspect the food, and know where it came from, and the expiration date, and the manufacturer, and the ingredients, and the brand of truck it was shipped in before he will consider eating.

My dog hears my truck and begins to shake with anticipation and joy that her whole world and reason for existing is home. My cat hears my truck and is irritated that it interrupted his dream.

My dog will ride in my truck anywhere I go. My cat will puke in my truck if it happens to sway when the wind blows.

My dog will wag her tail when she is happy. My cat will wag his tail right before he shears my left leg in two right below the ankle.

If my dog licks my hand it is to show love an affection. If my cat licks my hand it is to see how I taste today.

You see dogs have people - cats have staff.

Now you know why dogs are mans best friend, and cats sleep with their butts in your face.

My life in tucks

2008-10-27T18:48:00.000-07:00

I had a long drive to a job last week and it allowed me time to think. We were cleaning up an old farm and to make the job go faster I put my old truck back on the road. Steph was driving it, following me to the job, and I was looking at the battered, dented 90 GMC in the mirror and my mind drifted.

The old guy who owned the farm never got rid of anything. We were pulling rusted horse drawn plows and 1920's model truck frames out of the woods. Every vehicle he had ever owned was sitting on the property. And looking at it you could see a progression of the mans life. He started with horse drawn plows and moved to tractors then started driving Lincoln Towncar’s in 1969 as he made more money up until he was put in a nursing home when he owned a 1995 Towncar.

My wondering mind went to the stages of my life and my trucks. I have owned four trucks in my life so far. The first was a little 1983 Mazda B2000. It represented realizing a dream. Since I started driving I wanted a pickup and finally I had one. It was small and noisy and I loved it. It was the first truck my son ever rode in. My ex-wife drove it and seized the engine because she didn’t check the oil like I told her. I kept it for 3 years after that and finally sold it to a man who could fix it. I didn’t have time or finances to put another engine in it.

After a bad wreck in 2000 I bought my first real truck - The WarWagon. The 1990 GMC was my first step to financial independence. I started a business, and put the truck to work. I put a camper shell on it and an over the camper ladder rack and went to work doing home repairs. It hauled lumber and tools for two years until I hit the lowest point of my life.

My wife left me, my business failed, the injuries from the wreck started causing me intolerable pain, I was diagnosed a bipolar and put on the wrong medication that had severe side effects, I lost everything I owned, and wound up living in my truck. It represented my only lifeline, my security, my shelter, my home. With a twin sized box spring and mattress, a 5 gallon water cooler, an ice chest, and a little tv, I spent two years surviving. I applied for disability and was denied - it was a fight that would go on till January of 2007. I could have moved back to TN to live with my parents but I didn’t want to leave my three children behind. At least In NC I could visit them. I read library books by the dozen to fight the boredom. I refused to go to a shelter. The WarWagon was my home and as I found out was more faithful than my ex had ever been.

During that two years I learned who my true friends are. I learned my limitations. I found a love of writing. I made new friends. I propped myself up on my cane and learned to fight the odds.

Finally, I got an apartment through a government grant. I wasn’t happy with taking the handout, but I had no pride left. It took me fifteen minutes to move in. I had nothing but the contents of my truck.

I took the camper shell off and began driving around town collecting what scrap metal I could find on the curb on trash days. The truck represented standing on my wobbly feet again. I started making some money and bought a prepaid cell phone. And I drove around looking in yards and leaving notes on doors about hauling off scrap metal and old cars. I bought an old laptop computer and started putting my thoughts and ideas down. I wrote two books that need work and may one day find a publisher.

Finally in 2007 I got the best news since the birth of my children. I was approved for partial disability and I got back pay. I found a piece of land I could afford on my disability payments. I retired The WarWagon and bought the Suburban. It represented comfort and stability.

I met my girlfriend, she moved in with me, and we started working together. The work caused pain but made me feel alive again.

I bought an 84 Chevy S-10 from my brother. He was restoring the truck when I bought it and I haven’t managed to make much more progress that he did. It has sat for a year in the barn untouched. It represents the future. Plans that are unrealized. It sits and taunts me when I see it. It reminds me of all the things I have let slip through the cracks.

And then I was looking in the mirror again. My old truck, my girlfriend coming along behind me. It represented happiness. It represented life. It represented rebuilding. It represented striving for independence. But most of all my trucks represent moving forward - no matter what the obstacle.

Dirty words

2008-09-05T22:34:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I got an email from a girl I went to high school with. Just out of the blue this gal who I remembered as being a sweet, funny, cute gal sent me an email with the worst kind of foul language in it. I was shocked. I had never heard her use such language. I am here to tell you I was dismayed. She used such language that I am afraid to even repeat it. She said the ugly “t -r” phrase. She said it was time, please forgive me, and if you have delicate ears turn away now, it was time for the “Twentieth Reunion” Of course then she had to get really nasty and remind me that I was the oldest one in the class.

Well, after I picked myself up off the floor I got to thinking. It can’t have been 20 years. Why only yesterday it was 1989 and I was a fresh high school graduate with a 1972 Pontiac Bonneville.

Yesterday, well, maybe a few yesterdays ago. Back when the internet was in its infancy and CD’s were modern technology. Back when my old pickup hadn’t even been built yet. Granny boots were fashionable. Flipped up collars were cool. The Fresh Prince was still in Philadelphia. Portable computers weighed 80 pounds. Boom-boxes were huge shoulder carried monsters. Portable CD players were super expensive. Digital applied to watches not televisions. Home computers had less memory than my cell phone does now. And speaking of cell phones they were the size of our
metal lunchboxes and were carried around in bags. Russia was still the enemy.

1989, just yesterday.

I went to a small school. In my graduating class there were only 7 of us, and I was the only guy. Don’t get me wrong there were advantages of being the only guy. I got to lift all the heavy things, kill all the creepy things, and dispose of all the disgusting things. But the 7 of us were fairly close as you could imagine. We talked of all kinds of subjects that a larger class would have probably prevented. And since most of us went to church together we saw each other seven days a week. ( There was usually a church activity on Saturdays.)

It is funny that as close as we were then, that most of us have drifted off and have not seen each other much since graduation. We got married, went to college, got jobs, or some other endeavor that pulled us away from our little group. In the intervening time we grew apart.

Some got as far away from Springfield, TN as hundreds of miles, and a some never left. And now we have drifted, ebbed and flowed, traipsed, lollygagged, sidetracked, hobbled, wobbled, and somehow made it 20 years into the future. Yesterdays future.

1989’s future.

But, I still cant believe she said those dirty words to me.

Arrrrrrrrghhhhhhhhhhhhh

2008-08-12T08:05:00.000-07:00

Monday last week a I was sitting at a redlight minding my own business. I was driving my bright red Chevy Suburban and pulling a 30 foot flatbed trailer when a kid with his head stuck up his butt plowed into the trailer. (Ouch my poor back just what it needed was more trauma) This thing pulled straight as an arrow at 80 mph before the wreck with a ton of weight on it. Now I cant get up to 55 with a small car on it without the trailer trying to pass me on the left.

The insurance company sent an adjuster out this morning and he said, " it cant be bent unless the welds are broken, and the welds are fine."

It took all my self control to not beat the guy with my cane. I asked him if he actually meant you couldnt bend a piece of steel without breaking a weld. He again said yes. Well after a good amount of yelling and nearly bending the adjuster - without breaking his welds - he admitted that it could be bent.

So now I have to find a place that repairs trailers to take a look at it.

Why couldnt the guy just look where was going?

The doc has me on muscle relaxers and I cant stand for a long period of time. Great fun.

Strange days

2008-07-02T18:26:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had a day that was just strange. Not necessarily bad, or even good, but just strange. One of those days when you sit back in the evening and review the day in your head and say, “ man that was weird” Well Friday and Saturday were like that for me.

Friday started out normally enough. We took a car the scrap yard and ran a couple of errands then headed up to Charlotte for one final stop before we headed to Tennessee for my nieces birthday party. Coming up Wilkerson Blvd we saw what we thought was a police car with someone pulled over. However, as we got closer we realized it was an unmarked patrol car with its blue lights on sitting behind one of those radar signs that tells you how fast you are going. When we got closer still we saw that the patrol car was buried in mud. So being the good citizen that I am I offered to pull the car out, and a few short moments later we had the little Impala back on solid ground and headed off to our destination.

About a hour later we started back toward home we nearly got broadsided by a rescue vehicle that was making a u-turn in the middle of highway 74. Two miles later we found out why. The entire road was closed off to a bad wreck. So after taking a handful of back roads we were on I-85 and sailing along again.

We made a quick stop to fill up the truck and since the gas station we use offers a discount if you get a car wash, we got a car wash. Only when I started to pump I noticed we didn’t get our discount. SO after dragging the manager out in the unbearable heat every thing was rectified and then some. He refunded the price of the car wash and then gave up a free carwash. So instead of saving $7.99 we saved $15.98. Not a bad deal at all.

After all that weirdness was over we embarked on our journey to Tennessee. We successfully made it half way there and decided to stop for the night. Enough weirdness for one day.

Saturday had its own special breed of strange circumstance. The kind that could have gotten someone killed.

About 2 hours outside of Nashville I noticed a red pickup driving erratically behind me. I noticed it when it nearly rear ended my truck. Thinking the driver was drunk I got on the phone with 911 and made a report and told the dispatcher that I was going to slow down and see if I could get the truck stopped because it was all over the place. After it nearly rear ended me twice more it darted down an off ramp so I headed through the grass to catch it again and finally cut the truck off and got it stopped.

The driver wasn’t drunk - she was in insulin shock. She was diabetic and out of insulin. Almost as soon as I got her stopped a city officer arrived and I told him that I would drive the woman to where she was going and Steph could follow me in the beast. So he said to go ahead and do it, and we did. After the initial shock and fear of being stopped by a large hairy man she was very appreciative and gave us both a big hug. Hopefully, she made it back home with no problems.

Then we encountered the real weirdness - I arrived at my family’s house. And we all know how weird family can be…

The Wal-Mart effect

2008-03-13T02:57:00.000-07:00

I used to live in heaven. It was a nice place. If you needed something you had to plan for it. There wasn’t a store too close by, that way spending money was planned and done carefully. The nearest grocery store was 6 miles away. The nearest Wal-Mart was 10 miles away. If you needed milk you got it while you were out doing other things. Then the unthinkable happened. The mother ship Wally World flew over and dropped a Super Center in my back yard. Just a mere 3 ½ miles away. Why, I could walk that far. I would have to steal one of those little electric wheelchairs to get home, but I could walk there.

At first I thought it would be a good thing. Need some oregano, take fifteen minutes and go get some. Need some eggs, why they are just a short way down the narrow streets. And coincidentally, going to the grocery store to get eggs, I came back with eggs and maybe orange juice. Now, I come back with deodorant, dog treats, beef jerky, flower pots, birdseed, tennis shoes, a DVD player, three pocket knives, and maybe eggs, oh yeah, and a much lighter wallet.

It is amazing that before I survived without setting foot in Wal-Mart but once a a year, now It is a miracle if I don’t get there once a day. This is what I will now and forever call, the Wal-mart effect. It is the complete and utter inability to go into that cavernous land of delights without coming out with 50 things that I didn’t know I needed until I saw them. Not that I am buying frivolous things, I just never knew I needed a combination moustache/toenail trimmer. I never knew I couldn’t live without 20 pounds of oatmeal cakes. Before if I wanted fresh doughnuts I had to go to Krispy Kreme 12 miles away, now I can go to Dunkin Doughnuts inside the Gates of Wally conveniently 3 ½ miles away.

It used to be that Northern tools or Ace hardware were the only place I couldn’t get out of without buying something, but then I came home with a new hammer, screwdriver, super strong magnet that would suck the iron out of your blood, or a chainsaw. Last week I came home from the store, blinded by the Wal-Mart effect, with a huuuuuuge coffee cup shaped flower pot. Is my manhood in jeopardy. Should I start wearing pastel colors. Then I look at the receipt and see that I also came home with 4 quarts of motor oil and a pair of pliers. Hummmmmmm, maybe this effect isn’t so bad after all - just someone hide my wallet.

Midnight Ramblings

2008-02-01T14:19:00.000-08:00

It used to be that a midnight snack consisted of crawling out of bed, staggering to the kitchen, stuffing my face, and then staggering back to bed and slipping into a coma. Those were the good old days. Now it is a bit more involved.

Now I sit up, check for animals that will be harmed if I step on them, and then try to get out of bed without waking up Steph. Next I run the gauntlet of furry beasts sleeping in various parts of the floor. The worst is the big dog, the Great Pyrenees, there is no telling where she will be laying. Sometimes she is in the bedroom floor, sometimes in the hall, some times in the living room, sometimes upside down in front of the front door, and sometimes she materializes from the paneling - although she snores so I can usually get a general direction.

Turning on the lights is also a must. There are times when the little dog leaves little presents in the middle of the floor. Nothing like stepping in a warm pile in the dark. But that is another story entirely. Lights are also good to see miscellaneous dog toys in the path to the fridge. You only step on a rubber ball and fall on a big soup bone once before you want to see where you are.

After all the hurdles are cleared there comes the fearful time when I actually open the fridge. This is usually followed by the cacophony of furry feet in a wild stampede. The second the magnetic bond on the door is broken there are three bodies sitting at my feet and three tongues drooling on the floor ( and one rat running up and down the sides of her cage) wondering what gastrointestinal delight will be brought forth to appease their discerning palates. In other words what kinda grub am I gonna toss on the floor for them.

After I make a selection of the leftovers lurking in the icebox, I have to pay toll or run the risk of not getting out alive. Between the two dogs, cat, and the rat it is amazing that I get anything at all. So the dogs and the cat get a couple of pieces of whatever and the rat get a little nibble and I make my way back to the bedroom shutting off lights as I go. Finally, I get back to the bed, push Steph back to her side of the bed, and lay back down.

Only problem is now I am wide awake again, and hungry. Wonder if the dogs left anything.

Real trucks

2007-12-23T20:20:00.000-08:00

My brother and I were talking about trucks and we began to discuss what makes a real truck. Not a little prissy pansey thing that never sees the dirt, but a real honest to goodness Real Truck.

Here is what we decided.

My truck falls under the category of a real truck.
Real trucks have scratches and dents.
Scratches scuffs and scrapes are trophies on a real truck.
Many parts on the truck maybe be factory but not necessarily to that truck.
If it fell of going down the road, you didn’t need it anyway.
If it is loud it’s a good truck, if it is quiet, it needs to be worked on more.
If at any point someone asks, “Is it supposed to be that way, I mean it just doesn’t look right”, you might have a real truck
Real trucks can be 4 wheel drive and 2 wheel drive. 4 wheel drives just break more often and are more fun to break, also more expensive to repair.
A 4 wheel drive truck can get stuck twice as far from civilization, twice as bad, and will be twice as hard to get out, and most likely, you will break something you wouldn’t have if you had a 2 wheel drive.
Real trucks have mud on them, you can clean it top and bottom, you can clean it with a tooth brush, and it will still have mud.
Real truck are dirty more than they are clean.
Real trucks don’t say ford or dodge on them.
Real trucks have accessories, no not the chrome ones, accessories like trailers to haul other not real trucks, other accessories for real trucks include winches and trailer hitches
Chains aren't an accessory, they are a necessity no real truck should be without.
A real truck breaks chains.
If a real truck is in an accident, the police officer will have to ask you to point out the damage caused in the wreck.
If you have never ticked off the guy at the local car wash for leaving the wash bay full of mud rust and oil, you don’t have a real truck.
Real trucks come in many colors - often all on the same truck.
You might have a real truck if you friend calls to borrow it because he doesn't want to get his truck dirty.
Real trucks aren’t pink.
Real trucks require tetanus shots.
If a real truck gets shot no one notices.
Real trucks have engines sizes bigger than your in-laws IQ.
Washing a real truck involves driving it down the creek.
The tires on a real truck are the same size but not necessarily the same brand.
Real truck are parked all by themselves at Wal-Mart not for fear of scratches, but because no one will park near them.
Real trucks do not need a paved parking spot.
If you run over a VW and don’t touch it you have a real truck.
Real trucks can carry more than they weigh.
Brakes? what’s that, I just gear down.
Real trucks aren't afraid of water; they float on it, or drive through it.
If you wreck a real truck you will most likely increase the value of it.
Real trucks don't get cut off in traffic, honestly, people are afraid of it.
The people at the parts store know you as the guy that drives that big truck.
You can use your truck as an alibi, as in “Honest officer I was stuck down in the woods all day, just ask anyone”.
Real trucks can be fixed with a ball peen hammer and duct tape.
The bumper stickers on a real truck aren’t for show they are holding it together.
The air conditioner is a fancy option your truck used to have.
The radio, probably cost more then your truck, and it came from the blue light sale at k-mart.
You have a gun rack, but don't currently own any guns.
you can stand under a real truck to do an oil change.
Real truck have floors made of street signs.
Useful modifications to your real truck are made from wood.
Leaving the window in a real truck down in the rain is no big deal it will just run out the holes in the floor.
Real trucks always have parts in the bed, just in case, especailly if the before mentioned truck is 4 wheel drive.
Not all real trucks have back bumpers, because it still chained to the back of someone else real truck.
The pine tree in a real truck isn’t an air freshener on the mirror; it is stuck in the grill, and still has squirrels in it.
Real trucks don’t come in pastel colors.
Getting a new key made for a real truck involves going to the hardware store and looking at screwdriver.
If you have a horn but it can’t be heard over the engine you may have a real truck.
Air bags are under the truck, not in it.
Locking your truck doesn’t refer to the doors but the axles.
You never lock a real truck, no one wants it anyway.
Your dog thinks the passenger’s seat belongs to her.
A real trucks owner thinks a security system is taking the battery with him.
A real trucks security system is a pile of cans in the floorboard.
The interior of a real truck can be cleaned with a garden hose.
Little children old women and small animals may be scared of a real truck.
A real trucks tailgate can be used method to get out of a mud hole.
The entertainment system in a real truck consists of two lawn chairs and a clear starry sky.
Someone asks what kind of sound system you have and you reply FlowMasters.
A real truck might go missing, but you never worry, your friend is using it to pull out his real truck.
You might have a real truck if you have ever used it to plug a hole in the cattle fence.
You never put more then $20 in gas in a real truck, not because you can't afford it, but because it will start to spill out on the ground.
A real truck can be used to measure the depth of the pond.
Your wife may leave you, your dog may run off, your boss may fire you, but a real truck will never let you down.
When a real truck has a full tank of gas it is either stolen, or your buddy filled the second tank up when he borrowed it and it’s not hooked up.
If your truck can be used as a form of ID you have a real truck.
The paint on a real truck can be touched up with any color Krylon.
You may not want to look behind the seat of a real truck; live animals may be living there.
Any size tire can be used on a real truck, if it won't fit, just drink a beer and grab your saw-zall.
If you drive a real truck all your neighbors know you are coming home long before you get there.
The son of the owner of a real truck, always wins at my daddy’s truck is bigger.
A real truck can be used as a hunting blind.
If your neighbors don't let you park in front of your house you may have a real truck.
It is possible to get your new boots muddy by getting in a real truck.
Real trucks can be used in place of a chainsaw for tree removal.
A real truck can and has been driven through a house.
When some punk in a rice rod pulls up next to you at a light with his "music" blaring you always have the option of running him over with a real truck.
A real truck has bullet holes from the inside out.
A real truck will have to be turned off when going through the drive though at the Taco Bell so you can place your order.
You work on a real truck in the drive way because it won’t fit in your garage.
The only way you can see in the rain in a real truck is if your buddy hangs out the window and moves you wipers for you.
The ice scraper on a real truck is a flattened beer can.
Your pretty new truck is sitting in the driveway, because you pulled the motor to get your real truck running.
A real truck has been used more than once to pull out a stuck tractor.
A real trucks tool box is big enough to sleep in.
A real truck lights can be used for an impromptu football field in the middle of the night, but only after everyone’s truck is stuck while waiting on another to come pull you all out.
You and your buds have never gotten in trouble for having a party in the back field, the police get stuck at the gate 80 acres away every time.
It’s a real truck if it has ever been identified for trespassing on some farmer’s property because it left parts behind.
If you have a real truck you need a second vehicle for parts runs.
When you own a real truck, before buying or renting a home, you must check how far away AutoZone is from you.
A real truck has blood mixed in its oil.
Real trucks are built by Craftsman, Snap on and Matco.
When rebuilding a real trucks engine, you might find your missing 3/8 inch racthet.
If you know your truck more intimately than your significant other you have a real truck.
Real trucks aren’t accessorized they are modified.
Real truck owners get new parts for Christmas.
The seat belt is worn in a real truck, not in case of a wreck, but to keep you from falling out.
The sun roof in a real truck was made with a shotgun.
Real trucks are door optional.
Cleaning a real truck could lead to replacing sheet metal.
Real trucks have parts attached with JB weld.

You may have a real truck …
...if your tires can be heard before your truck can be seen.
...if your tires are taller than your girlfriend
...if a good first date is seeing if you can break something out in the middle of no where
...if you run into you bud and neither of you care
...if all the deer in your freezer came from the front of your truck at 40mph
...if people say, “I’m not riding in that!”
...if when someone asks “is that big enough?" you respond, " no, but it will do for now".
...if no one else wants to park near them.

You don’t have to ask if it’s a real truck you will know it when you see it.

Got more? Let me know.

ACK I dont have time for this.

2007-12-05T09:00:00.000-08:00

So it has been a while since I posted anything new. Actually it has been a long time. And seeing that I am sick as a dog today I finally have time to lay hands on the keyboard and do some typing. It is kind of exciting, this is my first time being sick in a house I actually own. Woo Hoo. How fun.

The past few months have brought about many changes. I have a home and some land. I have made a few new friends. I have entered a romantic relationship for the first time since the divorce. I have two dogs, two snakes, a rat, and two fish. And my girlfriend wants another rat. I am thinking of charging admission.

It is all great fun and wonderfully exciting. I never know what will happen next. I have been so busy I haven’t even had time to read, but that is a good thing. Staying busy keeps you alert and alive, but is makes things pile up. I have three books I am working on writing that I haven’t touched in months. I have one truck in the field that needs to be painted and reassembled, one that needs a timing chain, and three that need to be disassembled sorted through and made into one good truck. I have my faithful old WarWagon that needs attention. My suburban needs servicing, and the check engine light on Steph’s Taurus stays on all the time. And to top it all off Christmas is coming, and I still haven't bought all my presents.

Ok gotta go I don’t have time to be sick. Maybe I can pencil it in for the fifth of nextember.

Maybe not.

Remote controlled

2007-07-23T05:25:00.000-07:00

The newest member of my family is a huge dog. Abby is a Great Pyrenees, otherwise known as a stomach on legs. And a hardheaded one too. I have never had a dog I couldn’t train to come when it was called, and other simple things, but Abby was not learning. So I bought a remote control. Well actually a shock collar. After three days I have well behaved a dog in my house. No more chewing on shoes, jumping on furniture, running off through the neighbors yard, or other bad behaviors. All it takes is a simple push of a button and she is on the straight and narrow path.

It got me wondering - why cant we get a remote control for people. Since most people ignore their conscience and common sense wouldn’t it be nice to have a means of directing them into better behavior. Call it an idiot button. Driving 40 mph in the fast lane - buzz. Thirty seven items in the express lane - buzz. Parking in four parking spots - buzz. Fighting over the last Harry Potter book - buzz. Yelling at your kids in public instead of making them behave at home first -buzz. Yelling on a cell phone in a restaurant - buzz.

Imagine the joy and stress relief of having a magic button that would irradiate irritation. The ease of life without stupid behavior. It would be grand to be able to fix the idiots of the world - or at least watch their hair stand up on end.

Lost in my Genes

2007-06-27T21:24:00.000-07:00

I used to worry about my propensity for loosing things. I can loose things while I am holding them in my hand. I constantly take off my glasses and then have no idea where they are. The biggest problem with that is I cannot see my glasses once they are off. That is also why there is super glue holding one of the lenses in place.

When I am working on a car I spend most of my time trying to find my tools. A wrench that I just had in my hand can grow legs and hide for several minutes. Some never get found. I have a large hammer that I finally painted yellow years ago because I could never find it. Now that all the paint is worn off I am back to loosing it again.

Unless I hang my keys on the hook in the living room I can never find them. My pocket knife is lost more than it is found. The only thing it seems that I don’t loose is my truck and it is huge and bright red.

But recently I remembered something that put things in perspective. Many years back I learned that I am a descendant of John White. Who is John White you ask? Well I will tell you.

In 1587 there was an attempt to establish a colony at Roanoke, Virginia ( now in present day North Carolina). John White was in charge of that colony. He went back to England for supplies and when he returned the colony was gone. He had lost an entire colony of people.

What does that little lesson in early American history mean. Well it means that we White’s have been loosing things for hundreds of years. It is a genetic predisposition. I can no more change it than I can stop the rain. However, it does make it a little easier to smile when I loose yet another ink pen - at least I never lost an entire colony.

Realization

2007-06-12T20:15:00.000-07:00

I was struck by a realization today - I now own a home. It isn’t anything fancy, but it is mine. If I want to fix it up I can. If I want to knock it down I can. I don’t need permission to paint remodel or just hang a picture. I am free to do what I please. If I feel like it I can go drive around in circles in the grass, and no one can say a word to me about it. On the down side if anything breaks I cannot call the landlord. If the air goes out it is my problem. If the steps fall down I have to fix it. If the refrigerator conks out it comes out of my pocket.

It has been a long time coming, but I am finally there. I am a home owner. So if you will all excuse me I have to go clean the carpets and mow the yard.

Yep I am a home owner.

Feels right

2007-06-07T07:38:00.001-07:00

Getting up early,
Hot coffee in a travel mug,
Old work clothes and steel toed boots
Big trucks
Loud engines.
Long days of back breaking toil
Greasy hands
Skinned knuckles.
Cold drinks
Nights of cool comfort.
Friends in need,
Friends when needed.
Warm hugs
Soft kisses.
Meat and potatoes.
Long hot showers.
Exhausted sleep.

Some things just feel right.

Heroes

2007-05-04T13:42:00.000-07:00

I am always amazed at the strength of people I know. When some would have thrown up their hands and said, “ I quit,” they soldier on. Some living with the horrors of an unthinkable childhood, some with the pain of a tragic marriage, some in the hell of loneliness, some swimming upstream against a belligerent current of self doubt, and some in the fall of financial ruin yet the march on.

Sometimes they fall, some times they want to quit, sometimes they want to hide, and sometimes they want to go away and start over. But inside them, hidden maybe even to themselves, is a reserve of will that keeps them struggling onward.

These individuals too often don't see the strength they possess or the inspiration the give to others. They continue week by week, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, and second by second to try and rise above their circumstances and positions and live their lives. They fight an unseen foe and slowly they are victorious. They are the ones who can look back and say, “I didn't think I was going to make it through that,” yet they have.

They are the ones who give us to know them the strength to endure our own ills. They do more than they thought they could. They are stronger than they think they are. They are, and always will be, my heroes.

public meanness

2007-05-04T12:25:00.000-07:00

I am always amazed at the human propensity to harm one another. We can go from, “I love you, and I can’t live without you,” to “I hate you, and I never want to see you again,” in an instant. Every day we see marriages, relationships, friendships, and partnerships end up on the rock reef of ruin. Another statistic on the books of life.

And it seems that we are not content to just hurt the person by ourselves. We recruit armies to attack the object of our derision. We spread rumors and tell stories that we have no business repeating. Things are said in “jest” that are ruinous to the other. Rumors grow and mutate into things that have no truth left in them, and still we are not satisfied. Feeling good about ourselves is only achieved through tearing the other apart.

What is it about us that makes up find the things that are most hurtful and display them in front of the world? I honestly believe it is our training from every source of influence to be as selfish as possible and only think of number one. There was a song many years ago entitled, “You Always Hurt the One You Love,” The Mills Brothers sang it n perfect harmony, beautifully saying, “ If I broke your heart last night it’s because I love you most of all.” Today that song would change to, “If I can’t crush you publicly and frequently I wont love my self at all.” A truly sad change in the status of relationships. We have gone, as a society, from a people who help others and feel good about it to only feeling good if others are under our heel.

I am not above this blatant self-promotion. I have, at times, lashed out against others, not caring of the repercussions on the object of my scorn. The worst thing is that the damage is not done just to the single object of attack. Just like it is impossible to drop a bomb on a single person and not damage the surrounding area, it is impossible to just hurt one person. In the aftermath of our attacks we find children, friends, and family wounded by our selfishness.

What can we do? Well the answer is both simple and complex. It is easy to say but hard to implement. We should simply love each other as much as we love ourselves. The golden rule, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” still applies today but seldom is applied today. We can't solve every problem this way, but we can solve a lot of them.

When you tear down that person remember that you are tearing yourself down. A person who needs to destroy someone else to puff themselves up is really a small person to begin with. They are insecure and live inside themselves in a small insular world that will never know true joy or happiness. They will continue to stumble from one tragedy to another and make all those around them miserable until they learn to step outside themselves and learn to love.

We can’t forgive and forget everything, but if we try wouldn’t it make the world a nicer place to be.

Resilience

2007-02-05T11:32:00.000-08:00

Shortly after they finished the construction of the interchange between highway 74 and I-85, completed all the landscaping, and removed all of the orange cones, someone lost control and ran down one of the newly planted cedar trees. For along time it languished there half in and half out of the ground, surrounded by the tire tracks of an 18 wheeler, pointing at some unknown point on the distant horizon. Eventually the tire tracks disappeared and grass grew back, but the little dead tree lay there in a depressing display of brown branches and falling bark. Since I drove past it every day eventually sensory adaptation set in and I didn’t notice the poor little tree any more. At some point the state got tired of cutting around it and cut the remains down leaving only a small stump as a marker to the trees presence. In time I forgot the tree ever existed. Until today that is.
Today I drove down the onramp and began to merge on to the interstate when something caught my eye. To my left there was a small hint of green against the brown winter landscape. The little tree had, from some internal reserve of fortitude, sent out a branch and it has begun to show green. I was amazed. I remembered back to a time where it was nothing more than tire ruts and dead wood. Now life has sprung from the grave.
As I looked at it I was intrigued by the resilience of the little tree. By all rights it should be nothing more than a small stump. But now, at least until the big mowers come back through and cut it down, it has made a comeback. Not a huge epic struggle from behind that inspires millions to do great things, but a small gesture of unyielding strength. No matter what life throws at us, no matter how hard the situation and no matter how bad things get there is always hope for regaining some small part of what was lost. If we can take a lesson from the little tree and show resilience, stiffen our backs and set our heels we can survive anything. Just stay the course and do what you are supposed to. For the little tree it was growing branches, for us it is growing period. When we stop growing we are done.
So take a lesson from the little tree. Never give up. IF you hold out, and don’t fall out, you will find out.

I forgot

2007-01-31T14:49:00.000-08:00

My oldest daughter tells me that my hair is turning grey. I disagree. I think I am turning blonde. I keep doing these things that make no sense. Like tonight for example, I was watching The Tonight Show with Jay Leno that I had taped last night because Bill Cosby was a guest. I came in from working and sat down in my chair to eat and turned the tape on. After I finished eating I had a terrible thought. I was going to have to stay up later than I wanted to because I hadn’t taken a shower yet. The reason is that I don’t like to go to bed with my hair wet because it stands up like medusas snake-do and is impossible to tame the next morning. (Vain I know, but at least I don’t gel, mousse, and spray it down.) Then I remembered that it was only 7 pm and the show I was watching was taped.

If that was the only time something like that had happened I wouldn’t worry about it. However, it is becoming a daily occurrence. I can’t tell you how many times I have opened the microwave to heat up something and found the something that I heated up last night and then forgot about. Sometimes it doesn’t even make it into the microwave. I find a ruined un-frozen dinner sitting in the box on the counter.

I have to be careful with channel surfing because, more often than not, I will forget what I was watching when I started surfing which leads to more surfing and more forgetting. It is not unusual for an hour to go by and for me to have surfed through every channel and still not know what I was watching. I don’t know how people with the hundreds of satellite channels do it. I can’t keep track of seven stations. When I had cable I just surfed around until I passed out from hunger because I forgot to eat the dinner that was in the microwave.

Since I know that I cant remember anything I wrote myself notes and then promptly loose them, and then when i find them I have no idea what they mean. I call numbers all the time and say, “ Hi, I am William White. I found your number in my wallet and I have no idea how it got there. Do you know who I am?” Which sometimes leads to long awkward silences, and the occasional, “If you call back, I’ll call the cops.”

I cannot count the number of times I have looked through old computer files and found long rambling narratives I have written, that show great promise, but I have no idea what they are about. Or I open up an old notepad and see where I have written something down and I am not sure if it is a story idea or a list of things to do. Sometimes I try to work these scraps of information into a essay, Eggs, bacon, preparation H. But at that they don’t make sense. Wash car, vacuum hair, spaghetti.

To help with all this brain malfunction, my dad gave me his old Palm Pilot. It is a great tool. Now I carry all my phone numbers, things to do, appointments, and notes. It is a great way for me to carry more information around that I have no idea what it means. I find things like: lawn mower, potatoes, boots, and air scrawled in the memo pad section. I don’t know what they mean but they are there in this hi-tech wonder so they must be important.

The Palm is also one more reason for me to drive around the block and them come back to the apartment to get something. I have to make special trips for my keys, wallet, laptop computer, cell phone, and now for the Palm. I am sure that my neighbors take bets on how many times I am going to have to come back and get something.

I once drove all the way to Franklin, NC without my wallet to get a load of scrap metal. If you are not familiar with Franklin it is one downhill slide from Tennessee and a 3 hour drive from my apartment. I took my time loading up the truck and was ready to come home when I noticed that I was low on gas and needed to fill up before I headed in. I also noticed that I didn’t have my wallet. I scrounged through the WarWagon and came up with a few dollars in change, put that in the tank, and barely made it to Asheville. I then got to spend a long, hot, sweaty night not sleeping in the front of the truck. Finally, the scrap yard opened and I was able to unload and get some money for breakfast and gas.

And speaking of my wallet, there is a cashier at a store here in town that knows who I am and calls me when I forget my wallet. When I was having to walk with a cane for a while I was forever having to go back to a store and get the stupid thing off of a shopping cart where I had hung it when I unloaded the cart (yeah I know I didn’t put it back in the buggy corral but I was hurting). One gas station used to keep my cane when I left it leaning against a pump. I learned eventually to keep a second cane in the truck.

So what is the point to all this babbling. Well, to be honest with you I cannot remember. But whatever it is, I can blame it on blonde roots.

Whats in your shorts?

2006-12-13T13:52:00.000-08:00

Sometimes the great hand of fortune rests on us and leaves us with a, “How did I survive that?” feeling. After the excitement dies down and our pulse returns to normal we carefully reconstruct the circumstance of the event and are left wondering even more how we got away with it.

Friday morning I drove the WarWagon to Kannapolis to buy a 1995 Ford Windstar from a man. I had my trusty antique tow bar in the back and was looking forward to the extra money I would make when I parted out the van and sold it for scrap. I was really looking forward to finishing up the deal and going to pick my kids up at school to start our weekend together. I checked out the van and noted that only the right rear hubcap was missing. Then set about loading up all the various parts of the engine that the owner had removed and disassembled.

With the deal made and the van firmly attached to my trailer hitch I started back down I-85 through mid afternoon traffic in Charlotte. Things were going smoothly and I was calculating having a few minutes to eat a leisurely lunch and cleaning up the apartment a bit before going to get the kids. The van was towing smoothly and so I bumped up the speed to 65 mph and settled in for the drive.

Just before the Mallard Creek exit there was a huge chunk of tire that had been left by a transfer truck. Traffic slowed as both right hand lanes maneuvered around it. I made an easy move to the shoulder of the road and went around the obstruction then picked up speed again to head for home. Little did I know what that seemingly innocent maneuver would set into motion.

When the speedometer read about 63 mph I felt the van step to the right and instinctively I slowed and looked in the mirror. To my shock there was a tire rolling along beside my drivers door. It was far too small to be from the WarWagon so I knew that the van had lost a wheel.

The errant Bridgestone passed my front bumper and made a lazy turn for the shoulder fo the road and I breathed a mild sigh of relief. Then it decided it wanted a bit more freedom and turned left, crossed all four lanes of south bound traffic and rolled along the median. When it slammed into the cement barricade I began to really be concerned. It would have been funny had it not been so scary and potentially deadly as it leaped nearly 40 feet into the air and crossed into the north bound lanes. For a second or two it was out of sight, and then it appeared again as it hurtled skyward and vaulted a street light on the median. By this time everyone on the south lanes had stopped and were watching the show.

I slowly drove along the shoulder trying to stay even with the tire that had crossed into the south lanes again and headed straight for my front fender. I stood hard on the brakes as the tire sailed past the front bumper and charged up an embankment and went exploring in the trees along the side of the road.

After a brief scavenger hunt I located the tire and noticed that the brake rotor was attached to the back of the wheel. When I lugged the 90 pound assembly back to the van I saw what had happened. The nut that holds the wheel assembly on the van had been removed. I immediately pulled the wheel cover off the passengers side tire and found that the nut had been removed from it as well. A phone call to the man I had bought it from revealed that he had removed both of them not realizing that they held the wheel assembly on. He brought me the nuts an hour later and I was on my way again.

While I was waiting my guardian angel went and put in for hazardous duty pay – he deserves it. Me? Well I went back up in the trees and emptied my shorts.

Assault on Kings Mountian

2006-11-22T14:17:00.000-08:00

In a daring afternoon raid a band of ragtag troops, lead by an experienced and devoted leader, William, invaded the rough terrain of Kings Mountain battle field. Jared, the tireless scout, forged ahead of the small unit and reported back with much needed information. Emily, communications officer, kept each member informed of the progress of the advance. Allison, moral officer, did her best to boost morale and keep the troops moving by constantly smiling and repeating, “Daddy, I love you.”

Before the invasion the troops fueled up with orange Bug Juice, peanut butter crackers, and apples, then rode onto the battleground in the trusty WarWagon and disembarked to begin the assault. A scene of utter chaos ensued as the troop checked maps and watched informative movies in the pre-assault planning session held in the visitor’s center.

The troops carefully inspected all displays of weapons and equipment while asking many questions about their usage. Every button that could be reached was pushed and each new discovery led to many more questions. When all information that could be gleaned from the displays was investigated the band rushed out onto the well worn trail and charged through the dense fallen leaves in their quest to reach the summit.

Close observation of the terrain revealed creeks, hollow trees, and holes that could be used for shelter and camouflage. During the raid shrieks and yells could be heard pealing through the landscape as the warriors charged up the mountain side.

When the assault ended and the troops were safely ensconced in the WarWagon and headed for home. Their leader, with sore hips and knee – the only casualty of the day, mused that if the British were still there they would have run in fright from the attacking horde. Either that or would have all died from laughter.

Cosmic Revenge

2006-11-13T09:09:00.000-08:00

Every religion or belief system that I have ever had any experience with has with it an element of retribution contained therein. Call it what you will – justice, judgment, karma, accountability or any thing else – it is unavoidable. I recently witnessed events that are irrefutably that intervention of justice in the life of someone I am fairly close to.

In February of 2004, my ex-wife decided that she would not allow me to see our children any more. Since I was not in a position to hire an attorney I was forced to accede to her wishes and stay away. It broke my heart to do. Recently I scraped up enough cash to hire help and my ex changed her mind and had allowed me to see the kids. I cannot express how overjoyed I was to be reunited with them.

The first Friday night that I kept them was like a dream. We hugged and talked and played and opened presents that had been accumulating in the closet. Late in the evening we all collapsed into bed. At 6:00 am my phone rang. It was the ring tone programmed for my ex-wife’s number.

When I answered all she said was, “If I die, tell the kids I love them,” and hung up. A call like that will wake you up faster than drinking espresso while soaking in ice water. I tried to call her back and could not reach her, each time I was sent to voice mail. Finally, thirty minutes later, I got her again. She said, “I’m on the phone with 911”, and hung up.

At t his point I was picturing her locked in the trunk of a Lincoln, headed out to Lake Norman to be fitted with concrete shoes. Thoughts of having to raise the kids myself, funeral arrangements, and possibly moving back to Tennessee to be closer to my parents stirred in my mind. I found myself trying to think of who may be that mad at her, other than me.

Finally, I staggered to the kitchen to start the first of several pots of coffee for that day. Around the time Mr. Coffee began his final gurgle her cell tone rang again. “I am upside down in the back seat of my truck.” To make a long story short she was driving too fast in the rain and flipped her Ford Ranger 4 times on Highway 110 in Cowpens, SC on her way to work. While she was not seriously injured, she was banged up enough spend the day in the emergency room. Somehow she only bruised her leg and her lung. I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling her it couldn’t have happened to a nicer person, but I had already vented my spleen when we talked about the kids the first time and told her that she would one day get what was coming to her and it would happen in such a way that no one could blame me. I didn’t feel the need to get that worked up again.

Since that morning she has offered no resistance to my requests to see the kids. She has almost been nice - something I am unused to. Perhaps spending a couple of hours upside down in the rain while waiting for the Rescue Squad to cut her free with their giant can opener she had time to reflect on a few things. Perhaps it will be the last time the balance of her life has to be evened out. Time will tell.

20 things that make me smile

2006-11-09T17:23:00.000-08:00

Things that make me smile

1. My children – They are the reason I exist.

2. Old friends – Those that are always there even when things go wrong.

3. My truck – Like the energizer bunny – still going.

4. Antique tools – They are scattered all over my apartment.

5. Old shoes – The ones that are so broken in that they start to break apart.

6. Morning coffee – How else do you start a day?

7. Winter chill – much better than the summer sweat.

8. Meeting new people – new people to laugh at all my old jokes.

9. Pictures – Moments frozen forever of life years ago.

10. Old barns – Exploring Mecca’s for a scavenger like me.

11. Pretty girls smiles – Seen too seldom but appreciated every time.

12. Old TV shows – Slivers of my youth.

13. Books – Other worlds to explore and hide in.

14. Apple pie – Especially when it comes with coffee.

15. Music – Real music that you can understand the words too.

16. Quiet conversation – Getting to know a person inside and out.

17. Word puzzles – Things that make my brain work.

18. Hot baths – Soak away your cares and aches.

19. Sunsets – Especially when viewed from a beautiful location.

20. Memories – Sweeter every day (some anyway)

Ugly Daughters

2006-10-10T14:46:00.000-07:00

I heard a song recently in which a father is giving his daughter away at her wedding. After thinking about the premise of the song ( and thinking of my own two daughters) I came to a conclusion (bear with me) - all fathers secretly, subconsciously, and selfishly wish for ugly daughters. They may not say it - or even realize that they wish for it, but they do. You see, all fathers, myself included, want to keep their little girls all to themselves. They want to keep boys away from their girls at all costs. Mostly because daddies remember how they felt about girls when hormones started to kick in. You see when girls are beautiful they eventually attract attention of the enemy - boys.

This villainous enemy is intent on taking girls away from their fathers. Boys are the nemesis for every father who has female offspring. (While I want my son to be married to a beautiful gal one day - I want all those insidious creatures to stay away from my girls.) Those disgusting beings who want to carry off and marry our beautiful daughters. They want to take our pony-tailed, freckle faced darlings and start new families. Of course- with their new families comes the possibility of having daughters. For the young fathers sakes - I hope those daughters are ugly.

Goodbye

2006-09-22T11:50:00.000-07:00

I don't like funerals, although ,I don't know of anyone who does. However, I now am faced with the reality of attending one once again. And yet, with the funeral comes a sweet comfort. You see, my friend, Jo Dyer, was a wonderful, godly, sweet woman. A woman I never saw without a smile on her face. A woman who cared for others, and loved her family. She was devoted to her family and raised two of her grandchildren. In the nearly twenty years that I knew her I cannot ever remember hearing her complain about anything or any one. She was one of those special people who truly make the world a brighter place to be.

You cannot think of Jo without thinking of her warm smile and her long dark hair. I remember visiting her house and being amazed that she and her husband, Lester, were sitting and eating an onion like anyone else would eat an apple, washing it down with buttermilk and cornbread. I remember her and Lester singing in church. I remember rarely seeing one without the other.

Now, after a prolonged illness, she finally has the comfort that she gave others in her life. She has “shuffled off this mortal coil” and stepped through the gates of glory. Her race ended, she now receives that, “Well done.”

No I don't look forward to her funeral, but I am comforted in the knowledge that her struggles here on earth are ended. I will miss her, but one day I will see her again.

Fate

2006-09-16T17:55:00.000-07:00

A cold wind howls across the landscape of my soul.
Icy cold fingers bring pain to the depths of my being.
Cut off from those I love - I am alone.
The man who was afraid of nothing - now in fear of living alone.
Dispair and sorrow my only companions
I long for the warmth of loves touch.

Adrift in a black sea of nothingness,
Unable to fulfill my dreams,
Much less my wants,
And barely my needs.
Like a drunkard longing for the next sip
I long for love.
I yearn for comfort.
Yet I live
Alone.

tiger by the tail

2006-08-11T13:03:00.000-07:00

It seems that when the world starts to look sunny and bright it suddenly clouds up and begins to rain. Not that rain is always bad thing., but sometimes I would just like to sit in the sun for a while. This mold between my toes is starting to irritate me. The impetus for all this - well the transmission on the WarWagon died again. This is the first time that she hasn't got me home. I had to call my friend to tow it with his truck. Since he was at work when I called him I got to sit in a church parking lot in Charlotte for 5 hours. It was great fun. At least I had a book with me so I had something to read.
I know that all 2 of my faithful readers are wondering why I haven’t posted any new insightful writings so I will tell you. I have been busier than a one legged man at a butt kicking competition. I have been at home only long enough to shower change clothes and get a small amount of sleep each day. And on top of all that my laptop computer died. So for now I am holding the tiger by the tail. Problem with that is - when I let go there are teeth in the other end.

One for all my cop friends

2006-07-21T15:57:00.000-07:00

I didnt write this.....but i wish I had.

Recently, a California website ran an e-mail forum (a question and answer exchange) where the topic was "Policing the Community." One of the civilian email participants posed the following question: "I would like to know how it is possible for police officers to continually harass people and get away with it?" ------------------------------------------------------

From the "other side" (the law enforcement side) a cool cop with a sense of humor replied with this email: It's not easy! In California we average one cop for every 2,000 people. About 60% of those cops are on patrol, where we do most of the harassing. One-fifth of that 60% are on duty at any given moment and are available for harassing people. So, one cop is responsible for harassing about 10,000 residents. When you toss in the commercial, business and tourist locations that attract people from other areas, sometimes you have a situation where a single cop is responsible for harassing 20,000 or more people each day. A ten-hour shift runs 36,000 seconds. This gives a cop one second to harass a person, and three-fourths of a second to eat a donut AND then find a new person to harass. This is not an easy task. Most cops are not up to it, day in and day out. It is just too tiring. What we do is utilize some tools to help us narrow down those people which we harass. They are as follows:

PHONE: People will call us up and point out things that cause us to focus on a person for special harassment. "My neighbor is beating his wife" is a code phrase we use. Then we come out and give special harassment. Another popular one on a weeknight is, "The kids next door are having a loud party."

CARS: We have special cops assigned to harass people who drive. They like to harass the drivers of fast cars, cars blasting music, cars with expired registration stickers and the like. It is lots of fun when you pick them out of traffic for nothing more obvious than running a red light. Sometimes you get to really heap the harassment on when you find they have drugs in the car, are driving drunk, or they have an outstanding warrant.

RUNNERS: Some people take off running just at the sight of a police officer. Nothing is quite as satisfying as running after them like a beagle on the scent of a bunny. When you catch them you can harass them for hours.

CODES: When you can think of nothing else to do, there are books that give ideas for reasons to harass folks. They are called "Codes" Penal, Vehicle, Health and Safety, Business and Professional Codes, to name a few. They spell out all sorts of things for which you can really mess with people. After you read the code, you can just drive around for a while until you find someone violating one of these listed offenses and harass them. Just last week I saw a guy smash a car window. Well, the code says that is not allowed. That meant I got permission to harass this guy.

It is a pretty cool system that we have set up, and it works pretty well. We seem to have a never-ending supply of folks to harass. And we get away with it. Why? Because the good citizens who pay the tab actually like the fact that we keep the streets safe for them. Next time you are in my town, give me a single finger wave. That will be a signal that you wish for me to take a little closer look at you, and then maybe I'll find a reason to harass YOU. Looking forward to meeting you...........

Proper perspective

2006-07-18T21:05:00.000-07:00

Whoever it was that said, "Time heals all things," was a liar. Time doesn’t heal, time simply allows perspective. Time only allows things to fester and hurt worse. Time never healed cancer. Time never pieced a broken heart back together. Time only allowed wisdom to bring perspective that put the pain in its place. In high school I finally got out the nerve to ask a girl out. I didn’t date much, or actually at all. I had, and still have, a hard time relating to females. When the time came for Christmas banquet – we didn’t have a prom – I managed to muster up the courage to ask Holly Grubbs if she would go with me. She said yes. The day before the banquet she called me and told me that she was going with someone else. I was stacking firewood out in the snow when she called. I am surprised that my parents had anything bigger than a toothpick left to burn. Then someone, I don’t recall who, told me that timeless lie – time heals all things. It didn’t. Still today when I think about that there is a twinge of hurt. But perspective has allowed me to realize that anyone who would do what she did wasn’t really deserving of all that much affection from me.
On November 17, 1996 I got married. In October of 2000 separated. After a few years of trying to make things work (at least I did any way) she told me on December 23, 2004 she was having an affair, our divorce was final on April 26, 2005. Time won’t heal that pain either. Perspective, however, allowed me to see what life was like trapped in a loveless marriage with an unfaithful spouse. It has allowed me to finally see myself for who I really am. It has allowed me to start living again. Whenever I come across a piece of our marriage it still hurts just as much as it did the night she told me about the affair. It may be a picture, a note, or just a stray memory, but it hurts. It isn’t healed and quite possible never will be, but I can see why I am much better off now.
I have lost several fronds to death. Car wrecks, natural causes, murder, disease, and even suicide have added to the toll of accumulated loss. Time hasn’t healed the wounds that thier passing left. Time hasn’t brought piece or even acceptance. Perspective has allowed me to see that I hold the precious memories of their lives in my heart. Perspective allows me to love them still. It gives comfort through their memories. But not time. Time just marks the length of their absence, but perspective marks the love that was shared through our friendship.
In every tragedy or unfortunate circumstance we face our greatest ally isn’t time. It is being able to see the good that has come from each and every moment of our lives. Each situation is a portal to the future. Without pain there is no growth. The pain of birth brings life, the pain of life brings experience, and the pain of experience brings perspective. Only with the proper perspective can we go forward. Only perspective can allow us to accept the fate that has befallen us and lead richer, more fulfilling lives.
May you never know hardship, may you never suffer pain. But if you do eventually perspective will allow you to see the good that came from it. Proper perspective heals all things.

Back in the saddle again

2006-07-15T16:54:00.000-07:00

Well after a lot of long hot hours of cooking in the July heat, numerous abrasions and cuts, 3 lost tools, and several sets of very sweaty and greasy clothes I finally did it. I resurrected the WarWagon. I am back to working out in the hot sun all day for the time being. Hopefully my back will hold out long enough for me to make a little cash so I can fix it more. Poor thing has been abused since she rolled off the assembly line, but then again it is a GMC she can handle it.
I also have the phone back on. Yippee. I almost feel liker a functioning member of society. Well it is time to go soak my sore tired body in hot water and see if it melts. Hopefully soon I will write something worth reading on here and things will be back to normal.

Fresh gossip

2006-06-19T10:01:00.000-07:00

Well, now my neighbors have something to talk about. Living in an apartment complex is somewhat akin to living in a goldfish bowl – just slightly drier and with walls, windows, and doors and curtains – OK so maybe it isn’t like a fishbowl at all but you get my meaning. They have two somethings actually. One was the rare daylight sighting of the nocturnal occupant of apartment 12, and two was seeing another human at my apartment. Well, not just another human, but a human of the female variety (and the attractive female variety at that) dropped me off this morning (sparing me the long hot sojourn home from the library.)

You see the usual visitors to my apartment are smelly simian males who want to borrow my tools. (I am still missing a wire stretcher and a left-handed metric pipe wrench.) Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t even come to my door. The mailman does but he gets paid to. The last visitor I had got fed to the veggie drawer monster (VDM) (refer to Paper and Plastic and Lint for more details on this mythological creature). I am sure that I have had another female around the place but she didn’t sign the guest register so I don’t have a record of it. That is unless you count the red-headed Amazon (RHA)(whom the VDM is afraid of), but I try to block those memories out. They are definitely not well assembled female type persons. (A few poorly assembled ones have staggered up on the porch, but they are usually scared off by the torch-wielding peasants.)

The daylight sighting will be talked about like Bigfoot around here. Usually everyone determines my living status by setting traps or looking in the dumpster for frozen dinner cartons (evidence of either me or that the VDM has learned to use the microwave - which is entirely possible). Usually as long as they don’t smell to many bad odors emanating from my abode they assume I am still alive. About a month ago I stumbled into a trap left by the little old lady next door, when she set me free she told me that she was getting worried about me. Good thing she came out when she did because I was starting to gnaw through my cane to get away.

So now there will be new gossip flying around the building. That is until something more exciting happens. Like the VDM getting out and eating all the cats or at least doing battle with the RHA. If that happens I will sell tickets.

My treatise on sports

2006-06-19T10:00:00.000-07:00

I was talking to a friend about sports today. She said she didn’t understand what the point of racing was all about. I was going to try to explain it to her, but it is something you either like or you don’t. Not that she isn’t capable of understanding it, she just wouldn’t care to. (I include that last sentence in the interest of self preservation.)

If you know me you know that I like racing. Not just stock car racing, but all kinds of racing. I like cars racing, truck racing, boat racing, horse racing, bicycle racing, airplane racing. I went to visit a buddy of mine in the hospital this week and there were two guys in wheelchairs going across the lobby of the I stopped and cheered them on. Most racing has only one rule – get there first. I can understand that. Oh sure there are the three R’s of racing (rules, regulations, and requirements) but basically the first guy there wins. It is uncomplicated and you can take a nap in the middle and still be able to figure out what is happening. Other sports I am not so sure about.

Canadians are rabid about hockey. I can’t figure out why a bunch of toothless guys want to strap razor blades to their feet, pick up oversized tongue depressors and chase a Ho-ho around sheet of ice; trying to whack it into a fish net in between the fights. But Canadians also brought us curling – the sport that consists of chasing a broken bowling ball down a frozen hallway with brooms. Maybe it has something to do with the amount of ice they have up there – they have to do something with it.

And speaking of bowling what is the point. You pick up a chunk of some unidentifiable material and hurl it across a hardwood floor (which you aren’t allowed to walk on) and try to knock down little snowmen. If I had thrown heavy objects at my mom’s hardwood floor she would have chased me down the hallway with a broom(not to be confused with a curling broom), not to mention what she would have done when the snowmen melted.

The dumbest sport is golf. A bunch of supposedly sane people take deformed sticks and whack a ball across a yard trying to get it into a cup. The real art in golf is cussing. I know I used to work at a golf course. I heard things out there that would make a merchant marine go running for his mommy with his ears covered.

Then consider basketball. A mob of genetic mutants bounce a pumpkin across a hardwood floor (my mom wouldn’t like that either) and toss it into a broken fishnet. At least the Canadians have a whole net. When the genetic mutants get tired of chasing the pumpkin they amuse themselves by attacking people in the stands.

Soccer is a lot like hockey but it comes from ice deprived, warmer countries where they have to contend with things like sunshine and grass while chasing a pumpkin instead of a ho-ho. And they don’t have tongue depressors. They aren’t even allowed to use their hands. Sounds like a good sport for double amputees. (It was a joke please don’t send me scathing emails – I wasn’t equating double amputees with lower intelligence soccer players.)

Baseball and softball are other odd past times. Where else do you see a bunch of guys look like they don’t want to have anything to do with the ball. One who is standing on an anthill guy throws it to a guy who doesn’t want it so he hits it with a branch. Then a bunch of guys in the yard throw the ball at each other until it finally gets back to the guy who is standing on the big ant hill. Since no one wants to touch it if they don’t have to they all wear oven mitts. The guy with the branch has a pot on his head. The guy on the anthill doesn’t want the ball so he throws it at the guy who whacks it with a branch and the whole thing starts again. Sometimes one of the guys with the branch gets lucky and smacks the ball out of the yard and into Mrs. Petrofski’s petunias. The other guys are so glad that the evil ball is gone they let the guy run around the yard by himself then swat him on the butt. I am not sure why they do that. Then the dumb guy wearing the black coat flings another evil ball to the guy on the anthill and they do it again until all the people in the stands get tired of watching and go home. Mrs. Petrofski runs around her yard talking to herself about the hoodlums that are ruining her flowers and then puts the evil ball in a box with the others.

Football isn’t really football at all it is more like hand ball but that is another can of worms. In football a bunch of guys take a small watermelon and fight over it. Unlike baseball they all want the watermelons. The spend a couple of hours running all over the pasture chasing watermelon. When someone runs it to the end of the pasture (but not into Mrs. Petrofski’s petunias) they get a chance to kick the watermelon through a giant broken pitchfork, but first they have to fight off a swarm of ants that run into their pants (perhaps the ants are trying to escape the evil baseball too).

Tennis I don’t understand at all, or its cousins handball, racquetball, volley ball, badminton, or Ping-Pong. With so many different names and ways to play it seems that no one else understands it either. I mean if it made sense someone would have made a standard set of rules and equipment. The basic rule of these games is to hit the ball, birdie, or whatever back and forth and try to make the other person miss it. Either that or you try to hit your opponent in a sensitive area, but I am not sure.

Boxing isn’t a sport. You take two overgrown bullies, put oversized oven mitts on them, and put them in a pig pen and let them beat on each other. In school it was called a visit to the principals office, and if there wasn’t a good reason for it - a meeting with daddy at home. I personally always made sure I had a good reason. I am not so sure that the bullies in the pigpen have a good reason. I mean I can see the guy how got his ear bit off being mad at the psycho who bit him, but I don’t understand what they were doing there in their skivvies with oven mitts on their hands to begin with. On top of all of that they aren’t allowed to hit the other guy where the fight can end and everyone can go home. At least in wrestling (or wrassilin’ depending on where you are from and your waist to IQ ratio) they get to bite, kick, and swing furniture. But the bald headed guys should always be able to beat the dudes with hair down to their ankles. Maybe that is why most boxers are bald.

So as you can see racing is the only sport that makes any sense. They may only go round and round in circles, but the first one there wins – usually.

Paper and plastic and lint, Oh my. (With apologies to Dorothy and Toto)

2006-06-19T09:59:00.000-07:00

So I finally did it. I took a deep breath and got to cleaning. No not the refrigerator (I simply shoved another sacrificial stray dog into it to appease whatever that thing is that growls at me from the vegetable bin) I am talking about my wallet. My wallet gets used for everything: filing system, phone directory, scheduler, and door stop basically everything but money. The impetus for this domestic undertaking was that I walked up to the CVS close to my house to get a drink. You guessed it a root beer.

I am not saying that my journey was undertaken in adverse weather conditions, but my shoes melted and the soles of my feet are now fused to my knees. In these conditions it is best to travel light. Recently my wallet has grown so heavy that it has begun to pull the left rear pocket out of my pants. It is so heavy that it forces my spine out of alignment. I have taken to carrying the engine block from the neighbor’s dump truck in my right rear pocket just to even things out. (Let me tell you he was mad when I decided to stop at the hospital to see a friend of mine who had just had surgery – who would have known that a construction contractor would need his dump truck on a Tuesday morning. I mean what ever happened to a wheelbarrow?)

At the counter I was asked for the thing every cashier wants these days – my (insert cute store name here) card. The little card that says you are allowed to have 3 cents off a can of Geisha mushrooms (yes an actual brand of mushrooms I found at CVS I was tempted to open one and see if a scantily clad mushroom woman popped out). The ensuing avalanche of bonus/discount/loyalty/makeyouthinkyouaregettingadeal cards (spell check just had an aneurysm), receipts, coupons, illegible phone numbers, decomposed business cards, forgotten appointment reminders, old prescriptions, and a half-eaten bologna sandwich nearly wiped out the camera display. So after stuffing it all back in and ferreting (yes I keep an actual ferret in my wallet) out the appropriate card (yes, it probably would have made more sense to look for it when it was all dumped out in the floor, but a little old lady had stopped screaming for help). (Now grammar check just stroked out.) I handed the card to the woman.

At my apartment I dumped the whole mess into the floor (and man is my neighbor mad about the wall) and began to sort through it. First came the receipts, notes, and business cards. I think I had a receipt for everything I have purchased in the last 75 years (and I am only 35) stuffed between the chunks of cow flesh that I have been lugging around. I found receipts for things that I have no idea what they are – like the receipt from Big-Lots for chemicals. (I am going to have to check around and see if I have a laboratory stashed in a drawer somewhere. Who knows, I may have discovered the cure for forgetfulness and… umm…what was I saying? Why hello pretty lady what a lovely shirt you are wearing today.) I found a receipt for all three of my kids. (If I could have found one for my ex-wife I would have tried to return her for a refund. I am sure that they wouldn’t have wanted her back either.) I found business cards for businesses that no longer exist. (Or possibly don’t exist yet. I think my wallet has an ability to influence space and time. I put money into the empty space and when it comes time to get it out it is gone.) Nearly all of the phone number have no name associated with them so I am either going to have to call the entire eastern seaboard to figure out who they belong to, or trash them all. The appointments have all been missed or rescheduled anyway so they got trashed. And I can’t remember what all the reminders were for so I stuffed them into a drawer. (Quite possibly the one containing the laboratory.) The coupons are all expires because when a cashier asks if I have one my Pavlovian response is, “no”. (That is until I get home and the wad of coupons falls on my foot causing me to have to hobble across the road to the hospital. (Which prompts more paperwork to stuff into my wallet. (I wonder how many parenthisis I can use in this one sentence. (My computer is liable to suck me in (like Tron) and give me a good thrashing for this (which would be funny (and I might find that part of my book that got lost (because I save things under titles and then forget what I called them and where I saved them (which is irritating (and causes me to think bad words (OK that last one was superfluous (how often do you get to use a word like that (I like big words (they sound neat))))))))))))). (13) (Grammar and spell check just cried out from their graves.) I unearthed enough paper products to recreate a Sequoia tree (leaves and all), any two works by Russian authors (they all weigh about 85 pounds don’t they?), a fully detailed 1/20 scale model aircraft carrier complete with a squadron of tiny paper airplanes (highly detailed paper airplanes), and three rolls of Charman Ultra.

Next I moved on to the makeyouthinkyouaregettingadeal cards. (At first I was going to build a house out of them but then I would have had to have zoning hearings and get building permits – plus I don’t have a coupon for glue.) ( I used to have bank cards and credit cards but the ex got those in the divorce – I just got the bills.) I have cards for stores that went out of business with the dinosaurs. I think I am going to invite all my friends over and have a makeyouthinkyouaregettingadeal card poker game. (I’ll see your Bi-Lo and raise you a Books-a-Million (BAM is consequently the only card I have which I had to pay for and which is currently expired (OK I suppose those cards for the out of business stores are technically expired too (let’s not get into the whole parenthesis marathon again.)))) I wonder how many forests of plastics they had to chop down to make all these cards. Somewhere a whole plastic ecosystem has been destroyed so we can save a penny on artichoke hearts. (Which will just get fed to the vegetable bin monster let’s face it no real human ever ate those things and lived to tell about it.) I even found a PetSmart card (which I got three days before my cat decided to take up residence in Kookamunga (either that or I left the refrigerator door open the monster got her.)

Once the paper and plastics were cleaned up and organized all that was left was lint. I am using that to knit a sweater – for the neighbor’s dump truck.

The boy and the snake

2006-06-17T07:23:00.000-07:00

I was recently involved in a rather in depth discussion about a bad choice that I made in the past. The question was posed to me as to when I knew I had made a bad choice. My answer was I know it was bad from the beginning. I actually knew it was a bad decision when I still could have changed it. Then I was asked, “Well, why did you do it then?” My answer was in the form of an old story.

Once a boy was up on a mountain peak standing in the snow, holding his collar up against the wind, and he happened upon a Cobra. The boy looked at the serpent as it shivered.
“Little boy, I’m freezing. Please take me down the mountain where it is warm.”
The boy answered, “No, you are a poisonous snake and you will bite me if I try to pick you up. Even if you don’t then you will surely bite me when you are warm.”
The snake answered back, “No if you spare my life I will not bite you. You have my promise.”
The boy considered this all for a moment then carefully he picked the adder up and placed it in his satchel and began his hike down the slope. Soon he was home and he took the snake and placed him near the fire. Before long the snake began to warm and move around. The boy seeing how beautiful it was began to stroke its scaly skin. Then the snake bit him.
Incredulous the boy looked at his swelling arm and cried out, “but you promised not to bite me. Now I will die. Why did you bite me?”
To which the serpent answered, “You knew what I was when you picked me up.”

As for me I knew what I was getting into when I got into it. Why did I go ahead and do it any way. Perhaps it is in innate desire to be found wrong. Perhaps it was stubbornness. Perhaps it was stupidity. In the end it was a combination of these and other things. Now, like the boy, I must live with the consequences of my actions. And don’t we all from time to time look at the serpents we know we should walk away from and pick them up any way. Is it human nature to blunder headfirst into things we know we should avoid?
Maybe someday we will all learn from our mistakes and when it seems like we should run we will. Our survival instincts will win out over our desire to have the things that may come if we can somehow overcome our bad choices. Until then remember the boy and the snake. Knowing what not to get into will save a lot of wasted energy trying to get out of trouble we never should have been in in the first place.

Walking in the rain

2006-05-30T10:31:00.000-07:00

For a while now I have been in a funk. I really haven’t felt like doing much and have had no inspiration to write. I have basically lived in a pair of old shorts that has become my uniform of choice while siting around the apartment. When you can’t work and basically have no life things can get fairly depressing real quick. Until today that is, today I went for a walk in the rain. As I sat watching television I heard the thunder begin and soon I heard the rain drumming on the vent pipe for the stove. I quickly dressed in an old pair of jeans, waterproof boots, jacket, and my dusty old hat and headed outside.
While others were rushing to get to their cars or inside buildings I was thoroughly enjoying hearing the rain beat down on my old hat. Cars passed and the drivers gave me strange looks. As they thought they were better off in their hermetically sealed interiors I was splashing through puddles and enjoying nature. I waded up the road to a store and bought a candy bar and a Dr. Pepper. Inside the store I got more than a few funny looks from people who were waiting out the storm; especially when I walked back outside and sloshed across the street to the little coffee shop. I was rather disappointed when the rain stopped before I started home.
Back at the apartment, I shrugged out of my soaked jeans and dripping jacket and replaced them with the shorts. (Thanks to the boots my feet were actually dry even though I waded through racing ankle deep water more than once.) Now my hat is dust free and I feel much better. Rain isn’t just good for trees and grass. If used properly, it’s good for people too.

I am still alive

2006-05-30T08:13:00.000-07:00

Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I know it has been a while since you have heard from me. I would like to say that I have spent the past few weeks in quiet introspection and meditation. I would like to but it would all be a lie. The fact of the matter is that I have spent them reading too many Zane Grey novels and watching waaaay too much TV. Summer always does me like this. I get the lazys - the terminal lazys as a matter of fact. I know that this technically isn’t summer but why wait is my motto. I have been doing a little writing. I have half of a new book written. One of these days I will finish one. I have so many ideas for this new one I don’t know where it will lead.
So here are a couple of things I wrote recently. I hope you enjoy.

Where have all the men gone

2006-05-30T08:09:00.000-07:00

One of the greatest things about being a man has always been that we didn’t have to work at it. I mean women have to work at it. They obsess about an inch on their waist. They get up three hours early to paint on their faces and rebuild their hairdo. But men are supposed to look rough around the edges. That is until now. Now we are supposed to get manicures and moisturize our faces. Television commercials bombard us with hair care products and new razors that will shave our faces back to our childhood. We are supposed to worry about looking like actors and have no body hair. We aren’t supposed to smell like men either, but like a sea breeze or a winters afternoon. What ever happened to being a man? What happened to having a five-o-clock shadow and combing your hair with a screwdriver?
I remember a time when moisturizing a man’s face meant that the tractor had a hydraulic leak. I had a woman who cut my hair who asked me what I used on it because it was so thick and wonderful. I told her I routinely rubbed it under cars and washed it with dish detergent and I was telling the truth. What is wrong with having a little stubble? When I was a kid I couldn’t wait till I got to shave. Now it seems that men are supposed to look like they never reached puberty. What is wrong with a little dirt under a man’s nails and un-moisturized skin? I say it is time for the men of this world to be men.
Would the Marlboro man worry about his skin? NO! He would sharpen his knife on his stubble and then slice open a cow with it (the knife not the stubble) and have a steak then wipe his hands on his pants. He wouldn’t care if his socks matched his belt or even if they matched each other. Skin care for him is a pair of gloves and hair care is a Stetson. If he smelled like a sea breeze it was because he was on the beach. I can’t imagine John Wayne saying, “Let’s moisturize our skin, and make sure our belts and our hats match then go out and waft our fragrance over the hills until the bad guys surrender.” Never! He would say, “All right ya’ smelly dogs, get yer guns and let’s go after them scoundrels.” Now days Wyatt Earp would have been too busy conditioning his hair to go to the OK Corral.
So join me men. Let’s go out and get dirty. Let’s grow stubble and don’t shave till morning. Let’s wash our hair with unscented shampoo. I challenge you my brothers to shave with a razor that has fewer blades than a helicopter. Let’s smell like anything but a summer breeze. Gain a pound and don’t fret over it. Drive with the window down and let it blow through your hair. Toss that hair gel in the trash and let your hair be free. Throw out the tofu and quiche and have a steak. Be men. Get in touch with your feelings. Cry when Ol’ Yeller dies, but be men. Be a man or wear a dress. Let the women worry about facial hairs and hair fragrance. After all, they are supposed to make the world beautiful – not us.

Fell off the wagon

2006-05-30T08:04:00.000-07:00

This week I fell off the wagon. No not that wagon. Not that one either. The wagon I fell off of is the sugar wagon. No not that kind of sugar. I am talking about the kind you eat. You see for the past many months I have almost completely removed all sugar from my diet. In the process I lost a good deal of weight. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 50 pounds. As you can imagine I have enjoyed wearing a lot of clothes that have been lurking in the closet for a while. I have been doing real good with it too. Since I know myself and that I will have to have some sugar I allowed myself one candy bar a day. That is it. I haven’t bought any cookies or cakes or anything like that. No brownies or Little Debbie cakes. There has been no sweets in my apartment since sometime around Thanksgiving. I made it through Christmas and even Valentines day with no problems. Then came Easter. I suppose that if every one claims that Valentines day was invented by the greeting card companies Easter was created by dentists. Easter and possibly Halloween most likely pay for more boats purchased by those in the dental profession than anything else. I made it for a week after Easter and was doing good. Then I walked into CVS. As the door slid open I was assaulted by all of the goodies that I haven’t eaten in months. Reeces cups, Cadburry eggs, York peppermint patties, Jelly Bellies all lay in baskets waiting for me to enter and buy them all. All on sale half off. Being the savvy shopper that I am I grabbed them up. I debated for about .000000003 seconds over buying them. I knew that I had the willpower to resist the wonderful chocolate sugary goodness. At home I took them to the kitchen and put them in a drawer. There was enough sugar in there to last me for months. I even managed to forget about them. Then my sweet tooth, which has a terrific memory, reminded me about them. I went in and got two Recees cups. I walked back to my desk and worked on writing my book. (For the record I have started a third book. I finished one completely, one stalled halfway through, this third one has taken on a life of its own.) After I finished the two Recees my sweet tooth began to remind me that there was a whole bag of them in the kitchen. Before long my sweet tooth had convinced my feet to carry my hands into the kitchen. I was unable to contain the mutiny before I knew what had happened my sweet tooth had forced my hands to shove a half a bag of the delicious peanut buttery chocolate cups into my mouth. Then the tooth convinced my hands to grab a knife and cut open the Jelly Bellies. Of course it used the age old lie, “I will only take a couple.” In a few short minutes my hands had shoved almost a full bag of the candy down my throat. Finally I managed to quell the mutiny I forced my sweet tooth to behave and went back to the living room.
Sometime during the night my tooth woke my legs up and told them to convince my feet to take me back into the kitchen. While this desperate ploy was being carried out my eyes opened and told my brain that things were going awry. Since it was early in the morning my eyes decided that they wanted to read and told my feet that if they would take my hands to get my book things would be OK. OH my lying eyes. They knew that if I went to the desk that they would see the pile of little aluminum foil wrappers off of the Reeces. Then a rebellion that was uncontrollable took place. My feet sped to the kitchen and my hands grabbed all the sweets. Before I could get things reigned in again the bag of Cadburry eggs was empty, a tattered pile of aluminum foil lay on the table, and my teeth were full of jelly beans.
SO now my sweet tooth is in exile. It has been banished to the land of crackers and water for the indefinite future. Next time I go to the store I will have to close my eyes till I get back home.

My Addiction

2006-05-02T07:23:00.000-07:00

I admit it, I am an addict. I have always loved coffee. Not instant coffee, but real brew. From the first time I tasted it till today I have a soft spot for the dark brown brew. When I as a kid I would sneak into the kitchen after my dad had left for work and pour myself a cup out of what remained in the pot. Back then I had as much cream and sugar in the cup as I did coffee, but I loved it. By the time I started to drive my dad had quit drinking coffee for health reasons. I would stop at one of the many convenience markets I passed on my way to school., church, or wherever I was headed and grab myself a cup. After I graduated from high school I started to drink it black. I never was sure why I did it, but a woman offered me a cup of coffee and asked if I wanted cream and sugar and I said no. It was then that my addiction really began. I found that I loved the taste of good old black coffee.
When you have an addiction like mine you start to collect various means of supplying your habit. My first coffee pot was a $12 dollar Regal coffee maker. It took about 30 minutes for it to decide to make a pot of coffee. I loved that pot. It lasted five years before it went to the great coffee house in the sky. Then I bought the holy grail of coffee makers. I managed to buy a Bunn. It was wonderful. Coffee in about five minutes. After another few years of constant brewing (my addiction was bad at this time 4 pots a day on a good day, and when friends came over it was worse) it went off to join the Regal. I then came into possession of a percolator. It made good coffee and it had the added bonus of being able to take it to work with me and always have a fresh pot available. I became real popular among other addicts that were in the buildings I did security in. Given the choice between instant coffee machine coffee and my dissolve-your-teeth brew they came to me in groves. I think my ex-wife sold that one at a yard sale (same one she sold my juicer at too). Now I have two coffee makers. One is a 12 cup Mr. Coffee with a timer and all that cool stuff. I don’t ever use it much because of the other coffee maker I have. The other one is a neat little device that makes individual cups and put sit in an insulated mug. The original mugs are long gone but I have two One Stop mugs that work just perfect. (By the way, One Stop coffee is fresh ground. If you are an addict like me it is a great place to get your fix) Now I can make a cup of coffee in a few minutes and it is fresh and hot. When that one is gone I can brew another. Quick and easy.
I watch with amusement the news reports that say one day how evil coffee is and the next what a wonderful thing it is. I also have seen the same reports on alcohol, eggs, and yes even my beloved hot dogs. I ignore them all. I figure that one day someone is going to shovel dirt in my face, and when they do I want to have enjoyed the journey to the hole. And when that day comes someone will have to pry a cup of coffee from my cold fingers. Dark black coffee – just like there will be in heaven.

In memory

2006-05-02T07:22:00.000-07:00

You never know when an old memory will come to see you. Not repressed memories but those you just shuffle to the back of your mind and forget about. Today I was walking to the store and I saw a car. Not just any car, but I saw a 1987 Toyota Supra. It was blue and grey. It was just like one owned by a friend of mine in high school. Tommy Searcy was two years ahead of me, but do to the vagaries of small towns and private schools there was no class between us. We got to know each other fairly well. His parents owned a small store in the bad part of Springfield, TN. The year after I graduated they were found murdered in their home. I heard rumors that there was some involvement with drugs but it was never confirmed. A year after that my mother called and told me that Tommy’s body had been found on a back road in Robertson County. There were rumors of drugs in his death too. I can’t hear the song "you’re no good" without thinking of him.
Thinking of him got me to thinking about other people I knew who died unpleasantly. Andrew Stephens was a college friend of mine. He left school to go home and help his parents out. A short time later he was murdered. Sharon Davis was my high school principals daughter. She got involved with a bad guy and her body was found in a hotel room. Phil Aycock was another college acquaintance, but one who went bad. He was killed by the police after he robbed a store and stole a case of beer.
The most personal loss was Jason Robertson. He was a closer friend of my little brothers but I knew him well. He worked at a junkyard in Springfield, TN. A guy came in to try and return an engine that he didn’t buy there. When the guy was told to leave he pulled a gun and shot three people in the shop killing two. Jason was one of the two. I still have his picture on my refrigerator door. He was the only one who left a family behind a new bride and a baby. Whenever I hear "I like I, I love it" I think of him. Once last year I admit that I pulled the truck over to the side of the road and cried when the song played over the radio.
It is easy to look back and wish that I had spent more time with any of them. There are things I wish I had said to each one. There were times that I didn’t spend with them that I really could have. All I have of them now is memories. And those I wouldn’t trade for anything.

My dream

2006-04-28T09:12:00.000-07:00

My Dream by Ogden Nash

This is my dream,
It is my own dream, I dreamt it.
I dreamt that my hair was kempt.
Then I dreamt that my true love unkempt it.

Birdsong

2006-04-28T07:50:00.000-07:00

Over the Easter weekend I was sitting with my door open enjoying the cool night air. (For those of you who know where I live it was well after the gunfire had ceased and the blue lights had stopped flashing through the trees. It was very quiet because all of the people with good sense were huddled under their beds in fear, not outside making noise or even with their doors open so their TVs could be heard.) As the smells of springtime wafted through my apartment I began to hear a bird singing. Well I guess you could call it singing. It sounded like someone had taught a crow to imitate a whippoorwill, and then the crow had smoked three packs of Marlboros a day until he had to have a hole cut in his throat and sang through one of those little doodads that people who have had holes cut in their throat talk through that makes them sound like a bad special effect in a cheap science fiction movie. (Diagram that sentence. It’s a long way to go for an analogy but I have nothing else to do today.) What surprised me the most was that another bird of the same type (whatever type the first one was, either that or the crow had learned the song from a whippoorwill who really did smoke three packs a day and they were still in contact) answered from across the street. It amazed me that the terrible noise I that heard coming from the three in the yard was enjoyed by another bird. Even that it was understood. It made me think again that no matter how disgusting you may think something is there is someone who enjoys it. No matter how terrible it seems to you, someone will long for it. Pickled pigs feet anyone?

Solitaire

2006-04-28T07:40:00.000-07:00

Life is like a game of solitaire. (This profound thought came to me after the zillionth game I played after someone woke me up at midnight. It was either my ex-wife or her sister. Since they both sound a lot alike to someone who took a strong pain killer and then was awakened three hours after he went to bed I am not sure which one it was, they left before I could get my pants on and open the door. And, just in case you are wondering, the urgent matter they rang my door bell for was bringing back my old family Bible. I have no idea why that couldn’t wait till a better time of day, or any time of day for that matter. The odd thing is that any other night I would have been up till three or four in the morning. But I digress.) In solitaire you have a large quantity of unknowns and very few knowns. With those cards you can see you must make decisions that may or may not be the right one. Sometimes you can do no wrong. Every hand is a winner. At other times you can do nothing right (sounds like my marriage). Every hand is a looser. Then there are times when you struggle and things look like you are going to win and then you are stuck with that one card left face down. Or you almost give up, knowing you are going to loose, and then you win. Just like in life. How many times have you worked yourself to the nub and couldn’t get ahead while you watched someone else do nothing and not be able to avoid success. Sometimes I think that the deck my life was dealt from is missing a few cards. I haven’t been able to win for quite some time. All I manage to do is spent time arranging new loosing hands. Every once in a while I get a good deal. The cards fall together nicely. Those times, however, are few an far between. Mostly though my life is like solitaire because of the name. I always seen to play alone. The greatest thing about solitaire is you can always reshuffle and play again.

Two weeks of exile

2006-04-13T09:53:00.000-07:00

It has been two weeks, well, almost two weeks, since my truck died. And I am here to report that I am still alive. While the walking is making my back feel better it is making my ankle feel worse. I guess I can’t have everything can I? I may have to get a retread on my shoes.
I now know all my neighbors’ schedules. I have been able to observe the progress of the power line maintenance going on in my neighborhood. We even have a lovely new light pole in the back yard.
On foot you can see so much more than you can in a vehicle or even on a bicycle. I have noticed all kinds of stuff in people’s yards. I have found cars hidden in bushes. I found a cheap electronic organizer on the sidewalk. I keep looking but I haven’t found a new transmission laying in the ditch yet. And have been able to enjoy a myriad of flowers that are in bloom now.
I have even bumped into a few people I have not seen in a long time. If I had been in the truck I probably would have just honked and waved. I have made a few four legged friends too.
Strangely enough now that I have so much time to write I can’t seem to find anything to write about. I have reread and made corrections to my book, but I can’t seem to make any progress on anything else. I have about a million things I have started, but I can’t seem to finish them. I am sure that when I get busy again I won’t be able to stop the flow of ideas. I will be sitting on the side of the road again trying to scribble everything down before I forget it.
I have played my guitar for hours on end. My fingers are sore and I think the calluses are coming back. I have almost learned to adequately mangle Black Horse and the Cherry Tree. I don’t sound near as good as KT Tunstall though.
I have found the time to talk to a few of my neighbors that I hardly ever see. I have even started to cook again. It is amazing what you can do when you don’t have to rush off somewhere else. I even have plans to clean out the closet. I haven’t got brave enough to venture into the refrigerator yet. I cleaned up a couple of antique oil-cans and put them in the living room where they can be seen. Two plants and some decorating – if I am not careful someone will think I live here.
So if you are in my neighborhood swing on by. Most likely I will be here, talking to my plants. I may even cook something for you and play you a song.

Political Revision

2006-04-13T09:52:00.001-07:00

I am not a very political person. I don’t often get involved in political discussions. I vote but that is my business. I am a conservative, but frankly both parties sicken me. I have gotten tired of arguing over the issues of each election. I don’t think that there are many politicians alive that know how to tell the truth, are ethical, or that I would trust with my life. I have an idea though. After being at home for two weeks and watching television I think we should have a new method of picking political candidates. Since reality (unreality?) shows are wildly popular now I think that each party should have their own show and the winner gets to run for office. It needs to be a combination of all the reality shows. They have to race to a deserted island, eat pig eyeballs and grasshoppers, and win a rose each week to determine which one can run. The danger would be that we might decide that we like them there and not send anyone to go get them.

Thank you?

2006-04-13T09:52:00.000-07:00

I was at the library this morning checking my email like I am most morning. Things were as quiet as they ever are there. Kids were screaming, patrons were talking, and the librarians were making more noise than anyone telling them all to be quiet. As I sat minding my own business and reading all the unimportant things that I had been emailed, a woman walked up to me. Can you tell me how to spell “continental”? My first instinct was to stifle a laugh. Anyone who knows me knows that I am one of the world’s top ten bad spellers. I quickly opened Microsoft Word and typed in what I thought was close. It was close enough for spell check to find a correct version of it anyhow. The woman thanked me with a compliment. “I thought you could help. You looked like the smartest person here.” Now if I had known the woman I would have laughed and known it was a joke. However, since I had never seen her before, my head started to swell slightly. This swelling was brought down quickly by a look around the computer area. Other than this woman and her husband, (who were at least smart enough to know that they didn’t know how to spell continental. I sat next to two girls one day who were writing emails and one of them corrected the other – “No it isn’t ‘more good’, its ‘gooder’.”) not only was I the smartest looking person there, I was the only one who seemed to be aware that they were breathing. Most of them looked like they didn’t know what a bar of soap was for, let alone a shower. Two or three of them actually surprised me that they had found the library, but then again they may have had help. One guy was there talking to the computer screen as if it was actually going to talk back. As the lady went back to her seat I suddenly felt like the best-dressed man at a nudist colony - not all that hard of an accomplishment to pull off. I am sure that the lady meant it as a compliment, but after looking around I wasn’t all that sure. I wondered if she and her husband snickered to themselves over the statement.

Someday

2006-04-13T09:51:00.000-07:00

I have taken down all of her pictures. I burned all her letters. I gave away everything that reminded me of her. But she is with me still. The haunting memories of all she did to me linger like specters of another life. I never know when she will appear in my mind. I wonder about from day to day and wish for relief. There is none. I am tired of being alone. I am tired of living with her memories.
Life would be nice if there was a list of soul mates somewhere that told whom we were supposed to be with. Some way to know for sure who to be with. Some guarantee that a relationship would be happy. Some way to know that we wouldn’t be alone.
If women outnumber men so much why am I alone? Why must I live my days talking to my plants and strangers? Some day it will all end. My loneliness will be over. I will know joy again. Finally the ghosts will be banished. The past will stay past. The future will shine brightly. Dreams will come true. Someday, but not today. Someday

out of order

2006-04-04T10:13:00.000-07:00

For an unknown period of time this blog will be out of order. Well not actually the blog more like my life. In February I hurt my back and it has prevented me from doing any work. For the past four weeks I have been limping my truck around with only two gears left in the transmission. Well yesterday the lack of funds and the mechanical problems came together in a perfect storm. I barely got the truck home and when I got there I found a letter in my mailbox from the DMV. In my lovely pain med altered state of mind I failed to pay my insurance and for some reason never got a statement. Either that or it got tossed out with the junk mail. Any way I turned the tags in today and I am on foot, which is why I won’t be coming to the library very often to check my email, or post a blog. (I think I will go home and set the truck on fire and dance naked around it till the firetrucks come) Also after tomorrow I will not have a cell phone. It has all of about 9 minutes left on it now. If you want to call after nine I can talk till midnight on the 6th.

I am not saying this for sympathy or charity; I simply don’t want anyone sending the cops by my apartment to find out if I drowned in my soup. However if you know where I live (no I am not dumb enough to post it here someone may come by and steal my truck…. On second thought I live at 1125 Sc@&#^da@*&^le Dr.) feel free to drop by. I am not sure how long my shoes will be my primary mode of transportation, but unless Ed McMahon drops by with one of those huge checks or a Brinks truck turns over in my yard it will be a while. I will get online as often as I can drag my carcass to the library. After walking here today my collection of aches and pains is having a reunion and partying in various locations throughout my body. And I have a beautiful blister on my right foot. I will send you a picture of you are interested.

And for those of you who were wondering, yes I went to the doctor today, No he doesn’t know what is wrong with my back, but if I had more money to pay more doctors they could find out. my back, but if I had more money to pay more doctors they could find out.

Hope

2006-04-03T07:21:00.000-07:00

Out of the darkness
An Angel
Lowers a gossamer thread of hope.
It waves tauntingly in the dark.
Not strong enough to support my dreams
Barely tangible enough to hold my sight
It mocks me, hanging just outside my grasp.
Light glimmers down its length
Bringing illumination to the depth.
Slowly it comes lower into the gloom
I touch it; it shimmers in my hand,
My lifeline to the world above
Not enough to lift me from the abyss.
Silently another glimmer appears.
Another thread slithers down from above.
My hopes cling to their tender lengths.
Another and then another, hope comes to me.
The threads I weave together
Painfully slow they thicken and form,
Into a shining lighted braid
Slowly they take strength from one another.
Hope brings new hope and new hope brings more hope,
Expectations of freedom rise from the chasm that imprisons me.
The cord, still far too small to pull me upward,
Gives me hope and comfort that
One day
I will stand in the sun and know joy again.

Music and memories

2006-04-03T07:20:00.000-07:00

This morning, for whatever reason, my little eyeballs crawled open at about the same time the sun came up. I lay in the bed for a while and listened to the rain as it fell softly on the window, then finally decided that it was time to start my day, whether or not I wanted to. I staggered into the kitchen and started my first cup of coffee then poured myself into my favorite chair – the one at my desk. As the heating pad warmed against my sore back and the computer reluctantly came to life the power went out. I suppose that somewhere a light pole got knocked over. For a few minutes it flicked like a lethargic strobe light and finally went off all together. Finally it came back on and I started my morning over again. The coffee brewed, the heating pad warmed, the computer booted up, and I turned on the stereo. The memories began to pour out of the speakers.
Lee Anne Rimes began to sing, “How Do I Live Without You?” When my ex-wife first got married we went to movies frequently. One of the first we went to see was Con-Air. The thing I remember the most was the song. There at the end when Nicholas Cage finally got to see his family. It is a beautiful song. I remember singing it to her. Those days were happy ones. No kids, not worries, and no infidelity yet. That question rang in my ears. “How do I live without you?” She was the first gal I ever dated. I was 26 when we got married. She was 19. When I met her I didn’t realize how young she was. She looked older. After we had dated for a few weeks she told me that she was only 18. I was stunned. I thought she was at least 21. She had been home schooled and had graduated early and was in college. I remember that when we got married my car insurance almost tripled because she was considered to be an inexperienced driver.
Her dad had tried to talk me out of marrying her. Not because I was bad for her, but because he said she would be bad for me. I didn’t believe him. Those were the days before reality reached out and slapped me. I believed anything was possible. I thought the power of love would conquer all and we would be happy forever. If I had only know then what I know now. All my friends told me not to marry her. I still have a friend who teases me about it. It was like buying first class accommodations on the Titanic. It was great for a while but we all wound up getting wet.
I sat and drank my coffee and listened to the poetry of the song. I closed my eyes and I could feel her next to me again. I could smell her hair. I could feel the darkness of the theater surrounding us. Then the words pulled me back to reality. How do I live without you? Well the answer has been a struggle -sometimes an uphill fight and sometimes a terrifying downhill tumble. But how do I live without you? Pretty well. Thank you very much.

Boredom

2006-03-31T08:10:00.000-08:00

I am bored. Not your everyday I’m too lazy to find something to do bored. I mean I am first class, counting the specks on the ceiling (4,489,653 and counting), and, searching my mustache for gray whiskers (4) bored. The kind of bored that makes you want to want to learn a new language or start a new hobby in brain surgery. I mean bored. So bored that you want to start a bad habit just so you have something to do. The bored that causes men to start wars bored. I am bored. I have organized all my pencils, cleaned my toenails to perfection, and manicured the hair on my knuckles. All the coins in my change jar are in chronological order and my shirts are alphabetized by maker. I have ironed my socks and cleaned out the dust bunnies from under the dresser. I am thinking of gaining weight just so I can loose it – at this point counting calories sounds like fun. All the clocks (7) in my house are synchronized and I have rearranged the pictures (13) on my wall. I tweezed the living room carpet and trimmed all the stray fibers. If I still had a cat she would probably be bald and hiding under the bed – which is nice and clean. I read through the dictionary and made what corrections I deemed necessary. All my pocketknives (7) and one spoon are sharp and my toothpicks (53) are aligned in the holder with a slight left-hand twist. I have yawned 57 times since 7:00 PM and I have 123 freckles on my left arm. (I would count the ones on my right arm but I am saving them for later.) I know how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll pop (I will let you discover that for yourself) and I have arranged all the cans (88) in my kitchen cabinet by calorie content and color. All the frozen dinners (24) in my freezer are facing the same direction. The refrigerator is on its own. I reached in to move some stuff and got bit. I cleaned out the broom bristles and combed the mop. You could eat out of the dustpan (hey I am a bachelor I may eat out of anything) and drink out of the mop bucket. My shoes are all laced the exact same way and lined up neatly like soldiers waiting for battle. I have polished all the doorknobs (6) and shined the baseboards. I removed all the excess fuzz from my q-tips (114) and sanitized my toothbrush. If I had a roommate I might take up hair design but unfortunately I live alone. All my CDs (47 – mostly classical) are cleaned and fingerprint free and my fingers (10 at last count) are clean and CD free. I counted the staples in the stapler (87) and measured the footage left in the tape dispenser (4’ 7”). My bookshelves (94 books) are neat and organized (a first) and all my batteries (19) have been tested and are arranged according to remaining voltage. I have watered the plants and plucked away any growth that didn’t look healthy (I was talking to them but they quit listening). I dusted all the light bulbs (18) in the apartment and lined up all the thumbtacks (25) on the memo board in nice colorful patterns. I doodled until my doodler quit. And I have written most of this essay. I would go to sleep but there is no excitement in that. Besides I ironed the bed sheets and I don’t want to wrinkle them. My pillows (4) are impossibly fluffy and the nightstand has been polished. I may go around and mess things up just so I have something to do again. I burned all my candles (7) down to the exact same length and arranged all my kids stuffed animals (97) according to height and species (although some of those species I am not so sure about – what do you call a six-legged blue animal with two heads?). For now I am going to practice my rubber band marksmanship by trying to hang them on a nail from across the room. Later I may try to dig an escape tunnel through the back wall just in case I may need to escape from myself - now you know why I sharpened the spoon.

The Pit

2006-03-30T16:13:00.000-08:00

Deeper and deeper I fall
Into the darkness of despair,
Dark hands reach out to grasp me
And pull me farther into the pit.
I struggle, crawl, scrabble and dig with all I have in me
Yet I slide deeper still.
I cry for help but none comes.
Those things that were once my salvation
Now become weights to hold me down.
My efforts in vain are expended.
Loneliness my companion
I sink into the gloom.
Unending night descends upon me
No sunlight permeates my tomb.
Creatures of darkness cry for me.
I can not surrender to their sirens call.
Another day,
Another hour,
Another minute,
Another breath
I fight my battle.
No relief comes to my plight,
Yet I fight on.
I sink farther,
I fall deeper,
I grow weaker.
Yet I struggle
Unwilling to allow the darkness to win.
There is no hope of escape,
No light to run to
Only the fear of living on the bottom pushes me upward.
The fear of remaining always alone.
I pull myself upward.
In public
I wear a happy face.
In private
I remove my mask and sit in sorrow.
In private
I sink deeper into the nothingness.
Alone I reach for the surface
Alone I fight for life.
No help to climb out.
No rope of expectation is tossed into the blackness.
My fingers seek a handle
My toes grasp for holds.
I struggle,
Sliding farther down with each motion,
And yet I struggle,
Still alone but unwilling to give in.

Bonnie - my first love

2006-03-29T07:27:00.000-08:00

When I was a teenager my dad, for whatever reason, defied logic and bought me a 1972 Pontiac Bonneville (soon named Bonnie) for the princely sum of $500. The unbelievable part was that it had a 455 cubic inch engine with a two barrel carb under its incredibly long snout. That is about 7.5 liters for those of you who don’t remember cubic inches. (My full-size truck has a 5.7-liter engine.) It was a monster. It wasn’t the most powerful car since it only had around 200-horse power, but it cranked out 350 foot-pounds of torque. For those of you who don’t know what that means allow me to translate. If you held the gas on the floor it would spin the rear tires till the rubber came off. Nearly everyone has a story about a car that they wish they had not sold and old Bonnie was mine. She was seventeen years old when I got her, but only had 71,000 miles on her. She had a little rust in the trunk and a leaky rear window. But apart from that she looked pristine. None of my friends had anything that could keep up with her. She weighed in the neighborhood of 6,000 pounds.

Once, when I was in High School, my little sister was home sick. She called the school and told the principal that someone was going through our tool shed. He called me to the phone. She told me about the guy. The principal said that he heard my tires light up in the parking lot before the phone hit the floor. It normally took about ten minutes to drive home. It only took about two minutes that day. I have no idea how fast she was going, but I used up almost a full tank of gas. When I walked in the back door my sister said, “how did you get here so fast I just hung up the phone.” I just smiled. And for the record – there was no evidence that any one had ever been there. The drive back to school was made at a more sedate pace.

She regularly ate Fieros and Mustangs for breakfast, with an occasional side dish of Mopar. A guy I went to college with had a 1967 Ford Mustang with a built 289 and a four speed. I walked off and left him many times. Another friend had a 1972 Plymouth Valiant with a 318, a 4-barrel Holley carb, and a 3-speed auto tranny, couldn’t get close. I drove her for about 4 years back and forth across the mountains between North Carolina and Tennessee. She never gave me the slightest problem and got a respectable 18-mpg, and used very little oil. People still comment on her when they see me even though she has been gone for over 10 years now. I cannot believe that I let her get away, but she was broken down (bad timing chain after nearly 20 years imagine that) and I was moving and didn’t have the time or money to fix her, or any place to store her so I sold her. I keep looking on Ebay and other Internet sites to see if I can locate another one. Perhaps one of these days I will find her or one like her, and rebuild her. Will I let my son drive her? Probably not.

Empathy

2006-03-28T15:39:00.000-08:00

I can’t stand to see someone that I care about in pain. There is something inside of me that wants to take them and hold them and tell them it will be all right. I suppose I may be too empathetic at times but it bothers me to see someone hurting. Tonight I saw a friend of mine and she was not happy about something. All I know is that it is about a guy. Not surprising most women have men problems and most men have women problems. I know that there is no way I solve her problems but deep inside me I wanted to. There is a comfort in being able to give comfort. There is love in being able to give love. There is joy in being able to bring joy. When I left her tonight I had a feeling of failure because she still wasn’t happy. I almost turned around and went back but I didn’t. I hope that whatever, or whoever, made her unhappy is resolved soon. I don’t like to see her sad. I don’t really like to see anyone sad. I know how terrible that feels. I wish that there were some way to eradicate pain and sadness from out lives, but unfortunately there is no way to do it. I hope that for her joy comes back soon. I hope to see her smile. I only wish I had some way to insure that the smile would remain.

But then another thought hits me. If it were not for the sorrow we know in our lives, we would never know what real joy is. Without the rain we would never know the beauty of the sunshine. There was a song many years ago that said, "It takes a little rain to make love grow." And I suppose that is so true. We must know sadness to really know the meaning of happiness. Without one the other has no foundation. Without war we would never truly know the meaning of peace. Time doesn’t heal all things it simply puts them in better perspective. It allows us to have a better understanding of our sorrows and deeper enjoyment of out joys. I suppose that in some way my friends sorrow will enable her to know greater joy. I hope that is true in any case. And just maybe I can in some way help to make her happy again.

Restless

2006-03-23T11:46:00.000-08:00

Today, now that I have slept, I have that restless feeling that I remember from years gone by. It has been a while since I have felt like this. I just want to do something. Anything. I want to pack up and wander off to anywhere but here. I want to go to where I can be in new surroundings. I want to be twelve years younger when I had so few obligations I could go any where I pleased and no one cared. I want to be able to go for a long walk in the country. I want to go for a long drive with no destination in mind. Just wandering up and down the roads till I find where I am going. I want to spend three or four days in the truck with nothing more than a sleeping bag and a fishing pole. I want to go away and be someone else. If just for a little while. I want to go play a pick up game of football in the mud. To jump on a bicycle and ride till I don’t think I can make it back. I want to disappear, not run away, just to be away from myself for a while. But time and obligations and injuries keep me from being that free again. Maybe someday when the doctors of the world find a cure for car crash injuries and pain in general I can do it again. For now I am limited in my freedom by the length of the cord on the heating pad and the availability of pain meds. Maybe someday I can be free again. Maybe then, but not today.

Just for those who wanted to know

2006-03-22T14:48:00.000-08:00

I finally broke down last night and took some dimerol for my back. The stuff the doc perscribed wasnt working and I hadn't slept since Saturday ( which prompted my temper tantrum post). I went to bed at 11:30 last night and woke up at 4:20 this afternoon. I feel much better now.

I amuse myself

2006-03-21T12:51:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I amuse myself. (nobody else but at least I think I am funny) As a matter of fact I amuse myself quite often. Like tonight for example. My back was sore so I thought I would soak in the tub. However, I also wanted to watch 3 ½ Men so I fired up the old VCR, turned off the telly, filled up the tub, and soaked for a hour or so while reading a good book. (Well it was a book anyhow.) When I got out of the tub I came in the living room (yes I dried off.) Then I turned the TV back on and ignored this week’s episode of CSI Miami (well actually I was playing Red Alert on my computer). Finally the snooze – I mean news came on and I started the tape. (And yes I rewound it first). Well I was sitting there watching 3 ½ Men and my stomach reminded me that it wanted some attention. (My memory is poor and it knows I need reminders) So when a commercial came on I jumped up and raced into the kitchen to make a gourmet peanut butter and jelly sandwich (I used a clean spoon that is as gourmet as it gets around here). Then I raced back to the living room and was irritated that I had missed a few minutes of the show. (I also stubbed my toe on the bookshelf; stupid thing jumped right out in front of me does it all the time, why one of these days I’m gonna get a hammer and a box of matches and…umm - Ahem I digress.) While I was sitting there irritated over my slowness (and my sore toe) I just started to laugh. If I had been another person I would have slapped myself (think about that sentence for a while). The whole time I was rushing (and bruising digits) I could have simply hit the pause button and made a jumbo ultra gourmet peanut butter and jelly sandwich (meaning I could have looked and seen the moldy crust before I bit into the sandwich).

A Special Report

2006-03-21T08:15:00.000-08:00

We interrupt this pleasant blog for a startling development. A grown man who could not sleep last night is throwing a fit. Now we take you live to the site of William’s temper tantrum.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH
(spinning around in his desk chair)
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGG GGGGGGGGGGGGGGHhhhhhhhhh
(running wildly about the room waving his hands in the air)
AAAAAAAAAAA thud ow AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH thud AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR THUD
THUD THUD ow ow ow ow
(whacking his knee on the desk while he spins )
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHLKJHOUY
JGHIUYdasdfRTSFH HHHHHHHHHHHHH NMKNKM
JNBJHBH AAAAAAFLKUSGUOGELWYFGTA AAAA KHN
JBHasGGFTRFdsGGHHJ
(beating his head on the keyboard)
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAOOO
OOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOO
(running around the wall like a headless chicken) AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
WWWWWWWWW WWWWWWWWWWWWIIIIII
IIIIIIIIIIIIIEEE EEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPTTTTTTT
TTTTTTT TTTBBBBBBBBBBBBB
(spitting in the air)
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH HRRRRRRRRRGG
GGGGGGGGGGG
(dodging the guys with the butterfly nets) AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
HHHHHHHH HHHHHH
(Jumping up and down on one of the guys with the butterfly nets) EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOIIIIIIIIIIIIUUUUUU UUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
(swinging his arms madly like a Baboon) EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAEIOUandsometimesy
AAAAAAAOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAARRRRRHH
HHHHHHHH
(laying in the floor kicking and screaming like a two year old in need of a spanking and a nap)
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH HHHHHHGGG GGGGHHHH
HHHHHHHH slurp AAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEe slurp AAAAAAAAAAAEEEEE slurp AAAAAaaaaaa slurp aaaaaa slurp
slurp aaa slurp slurp slurp zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
(sucking his thumb and finally falling asleep curled up in a fetal position in the floor)

This has been a special report. Please stay tuned for further developments. Now back to your regularly scheduled insanity.

Umm.... What was I saying

2006-03-17T07:10:00.000-08:00

The gremlins have invaded my brain. They have over powered my synapses and rewired my hard drive to work backwards. The little monsters have taken my memory and rerouted it to make me forget everything. Or at least that is the excuse I am going to be using. I may need to get a PHD so I can be the absent-minded professor. What brings on this observation? How about the fact that I can’t remember anything? Yesterday I went to the gas station, I went inside, got a Mt. Dew and a candy bar, talked to the pretty cashier, and then left. As I pulled onto the road the truck began to sputter and choke I forgot to get gas. Now you would think that since I was standing in a gas station I would have thought of it. And trust me the cashier gave me a hard time. I could try to say that the beauty of the cashier overwhelmed my brain, but that wouldn’t explain too many other things. I am not sure that she would buy it either.
Later last night I went to the grocery store to get cat food for a stray cat that had adopted me. I went in the store, got a buggy, picked up a case of bottled water, a loaf of bread, and some mustard (all of which I needed), but I didn’t get cat food. Not that the cat minded because I gave him a can of tuna. And while I was at the store I bumped into a gal who I recognized. I couldn’t remember who she was, but we talked for a few minutes. I racked my brain for hours and finally realized where I know her from. She works at the CVS by my house. The CVS is the closest store to me and I am in there a couple of times a week.
A while back I ran into a librarian at a store. For the life of me I couldn’t think of who she was. I am in the library almost every day checking my email. Been going there for about five years. But I couldn’t remember who she was. Oh I recognized the face but I had no context to put it in.
I am worried that one day I will wake up and head to the bathroom and not know who the guy I am shaving is. Maybe I should grow my beard back, and then I won’t have to shave. Sometimes I am surprised I can remember where I live. Or at least I think I live here. The key fit the door.
I won’t even begin to tell about all the times I go into the kitchen and have no idea what I went in there for. Maybe I should write myself a note before I get out of my chair so I can remember. Maybe that is why my dad never gets up, he asks my mom to get him stuff. He is afraid he won’t remember what he was after. Today I went in the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. I poured in the water, dropped in a filter, scooped in the coffee grounds, and went in the living room to wait. Thirty minutes later I realized that I hadn’t turned the coffee maker on.
It is the gremlins I am telling you. They have escaped from my computer, crawled up my fingers and invaded my brain. That has to be it. I wonder if I can have my head reformatted. Maybe add some virus protection. Of course maybe they could upgrade my memory while they are in there.

Night walk

2006-03-16T10:07:00.000-08:00

I have always enjoyed going for walks. It started when I was in high school. When most kids my age were spending their time driving around I was riding my faithful mountain bike down to the end of the road we lived on and then walking through the woods just enjoying the solitude. I never really did fit in and I would walk around and enjoy the beauty of the country. I would walk around and find deer and turkey, my friends who were hunters would get mad at me when I wouldn’t tell them where they were. Not that I am opposed to hunting, I just liked having some beautiful things to myself. Tonight I went for a walk. I don’t live in the country anymore, but I do live in a small town. I like to walk at night. There is a solitude to the darkness that wraps around you and give you an anonymity that is enjoyable. Tonight was cool so I donned a well-worn pair of jeans, my leather jacket, and battered hat and headed out into the darkness. At night I don’t have to worry about being accosted by the homeless people that are always asking for money or cigarettes. The cold kept everyone else off the street.
When I go for a late walk I always carry two things with me. Both are an old habit and I rarely leave the house without them, but especially not at night. The first is a good bright flashlight. I carry a small one. It is good for letting drivers know where I am since I prefer dark clothes, and it makes a handy weapon if I ever need it. The second is a lighter. The reasons for that are varied. It is a light source if the flashlight is dead and if I need to get warm it is handy to have a source of heat. Better to have both and not need them than need them and not have them. Once while I was out walking a cop stopped me and asked me if I had a light. A few days later the same cop pulled me over for a busted taillight. He remembered the light and let me off.
I always walk past this beautiful old house close to town. It is a huge thing that looks like it belongs in a horror movie. I always expect to see lightning striking it. If it weren’t yellow I would look for the wolfman to crawl out of the window. I read somewhere that it is called the Bankers House. I don’t know why but I always like to stop in front if it and wonder what kind of people lived there. I suppose that they were bankers.
I walked past a parts house where I found the slug of a bullet next to a set of tire tracks from a car that peeled out in a hurry. I never heard of anything happening there, but I don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that it wasn’t good. I still have the bullet somewhere. It was in a change jar for a long time, but the last few times I emptied it the bullet wasn’t there.
On the way back I turned down a street that isn’t so lovely. I don’t mind walking down it I am capable of taking care of myself, even with a busted ankle. I wasn’t looking for trouble I just don’t see any reason to walk back down the same street I just came up. There are some old houses back there too. I like to look at them even though most of them are run down. When I turn down that street I can feel the sixth sense that I have developed over time wake up and kick in. I don’t get paranoid I just notice things more than I do at other times. For instance I noticed the white Pontiac Bonneville that passed me three times. After the second pass I found a shadow to crawl into the next time it came by. I don’t think anyone has cause to follow me but I didn’t want to find out. I didn’t see it again.
Down the main street on town I heard a patrol car come by with the siren blaring. As he got close he shut the siren off and I could hear the engine as it sped through the darkness. I never did see the car but the sound was unmistakable.
I came to a dark place and stopped and looked up at the stars. There aren’t near as many here as there are out of town - the streetlights block them. The clear sky was dotted with silvery stars that looked down to where I stood. There was no moon, just the stars. I stood there for a minute looking out from under the brim of my hat. I shivered in the cold and then walked back to my apartment. The great thing about taking a walk is that it will all be there next time waiting for me.

The WarWagon

2006-03-15T10:38:00.000-08:00

Someone sang a song a while back that said something like if my truck was a horse I would shoot it. If my truck were a horse the ASPCA would come and shoot it and haul me off in chains and lock me away forever. You see my truck is a WORK truck. Not one of those work trucks that people in clean clothes ride around in worrying about spilling their non fat café late on the interior. My truck is a work truck that comes home with 4,000 pounds of junk piled on it that came from deep in the woods where I had to knock over small trees and smash through heavy undergrowth. I only worry about spilling things that might eat through the floor and cause me to fall out in the interstate. Those sissy work trucks whose owners will not allow food to be eaten inside amuse me. I worry about something eating me whilei drive. If I get a few more layers of dirt in the passenger’s floorboard I am going to plant tomatoes down there to feed whatever lives under the seat. Worried about scratches? Not me, the WarWagon is covered in a protective layer of grease and mud. Dents and dings –HA – there may be a straight body panel somewhere in it. Maybe the left front fender well is unscathed, but it would take too long to clean out the two tons of Carolina red clay to see if I am right. Upset over things sliding around in the bed – not in my truck. It is currently covered in a layer of burnt transmission fluid from being used as a workbench recently; keeping the fluid from leaking out on the ground is a dam of dirt, rock, and vines. Somewhere in all that mess is a jack I found for a friends car and about 40 feet of chain. The duct tape covered window looks right at home on the back of the cab – I wasn’t upset that it broke; I was amazed that it went that long without getting smashed. I am constantly having people coming up to me and asking where I got the crane that is in the back of the truck – it has been a long time since anyone came up and told me it was beautiful – the truck or the crane. Last time I had tires put on it the guy had to dig through a ton of mud to get to the lug nuts. I can park anywhere without worrying about it getting damaged, although there hasn’t been a Mercedes parked next to it in a while. As a matter of fact when I come out of a store now there is a circle of empty spots around it. It looks like a quarantine area. I imagine that when I leave, a team of Haz-Mat workers come out and clean up. It doesn’t leak – much. I feel that I am doing my part to seal parking lots all across America. My parking spot at the apartment is so slick that the American Olympic curling team sublets it to train on in the summer months. Three tourists came by thinking it was the La Brea tar–pits, I didn’t have the heart to tell them that they were on the wrong coast. I just took their $20 admission fee and let them wander around. Some trucks are not allowed to get dirty. My truck thrives on mud and dirt. It is not uncommon to see it come down the road with a small tree sticking out of something. I tell everyone I am decorating for Christmas. My landlord got mad last weekend because someone had washed a car and left the hose running - I wasn’t even questioned. It gets washed when it rains. And it even has a security system – when the door is opened a stream of empty water bottles and stray tools fall to the ground altering me to unauthorized entry. Not that anyone in their right mind would enter it. A few weeks ago I came out and found a hand sticking out of a pile of Deer Park bottles, poor kid didn’t stand a chance, he wrote out his will in ketchup packets on the pack of a pizza box – very touching. Only one person broke into it and survived. He had to have tetanus and distemper shots, I still haven’t found his fingers – or whatever ate them.

Wedding Bell Blues

2006-03-14T13:57:00.000-08:00

This weekend I went to a friends wedding. I didn’t really want to but I have known her since she was nine years old and didn’t think I would survive much longer if I didn’t go. It is funny but I recall her telling me about two years ago that she would never get married. It was a beautiful ceremony I guess. I am not much of an expert on beauty anymore. I couldn’t help but remember when I had stood in front a preacher what seemed like a lifetime ago and said the same words to a woman I thought would be beside me forever. Things didn’t quite work out that way. “Till death do us part” became “till I find someone better.” She did. I didn’t. Life is funny like that. She spent the whole marriage suspecting me of cheating. I didn’t. She did. While I am happy for my friend who strapped on the old ball and chain, I couldn’t help but feel that I had lost something. Somehow I had lost the ability to enjoy her happiness. I hope she never had to taste the bitter things I did. No one should ever have to. I wish her great happiness in her new life. I left the wedding as quickly as I could. Remembering the bright-eyed nine-year-old I had met when I was 18. I hope that her future keeps her eyes bright and she knows only happiness. I think she will. It is too late for myself.

Loneliness

2006-03-13T13:55:00.000-08:00

Loneliness is a pool. A stagnate slime-covered pool that taints everything that enters it. Its bottom is thick with muck and mud that hold tightly to everything that enters it. No one wants to go into it and no one wants to associate with those who are trapped in its muddy bottom. The stench of the fetid water clings to those who manage to venture away from its slippery banks. Inside there dwells a monster with long tendrils that reaches out to drag those escapees back into its rancid home.

Boogie Nights

2006-03-11T09:40:00.000-08:00

Webster’s New World Dictionary defines dance as moving the body and feet on rhythm, ordinarily to music. I have never been a dancer. I am overly white, as I have been told before. I am the only man ever born who was genetically cursed with three left feet. Not only do I have no rhythm I have no coordination either. I can walk in a straight line just fine, but when you add music my feet try to tango while my legs waltz and my body rhumbas, and all in different directions and to different beats. It is not a pretty sight. Imagine if you will someone electrocuting a chicken standing on hot pavement. The chicken has grace and style; I on the other hand look like I am trying to capture a greased squid with my toes on a sheet of ice. I don’t even do that well at a cake walk. I like music – I can play guitar, the radio, and can even sing on key, but moving and music don’t mix, not for me anyhow. I am in awe of ballroom dancers they move with such grace and beauty – I however move with the grace of a beached whale being attacked by three-year-olds with plastic shovels. If I were to toss and twirl a woman she would need emergency medical care. The orchestra would have to be removed from various bodily orifices. I wonder what operation is necessary to remove a tuba or a bassoon or both. Watching the Olympic ice dancers was incredible; if I were to strap knives to my feet and go out on the ice there would be dismembered audience members everywhere – Freddie Kruger on Ice. In the 80’s there was break dancing. I can break dance although when I do it things and other people get broken. If I ever tried to spin on my head my chiropractor could buy a new house, not to mention a few personal injury lawyers and their new Mercedes. I can drive down any street on a hot summers day and hear the beat of music pealing through the air and see bodies flailing and flying through the air in perfect time – expressing what the music is saying to them. What the music says to me is that I need physical therapy and a few x-rays. I remember seeing a T-shirt several years ago that was an advertisement for some brand of alcohol, it said “Helping white people dance since ...” I don’t think there is enough alcohol in a truckload to help me, maybe after a truckload I could pass out and no one would notice that I didn’t even fall down in time with the music. I can’t even slow dance. I do fine as long as I don’t have to move. I can stand still to music just fine. I remember many years ago that a gal told me girls her height liked to dance with tall guys like me because they could hear their partner’s heartbeat. What she would hear if she danced with me would be breaking bones and ambulance sirens. The fact that she was short probably would have added an extra element of risk of bodily harm. I would probably gouge her in the eye with a rib – maybe one of hers.

Dirt Devil

2006-03-09T11:54:00.000-08:00

I sit in a filthy scrap yard and wait my turn to pull on the scales. Nothing of beauty exists here. It is a place of dust, dirt, and damaged things. Nothing here has any worth other than to be melted down. Dirty men plod through the piles of debris that are brought in one truckload at a time – sweaty, dirty, hard, tired men. Men who stare without seeing their surroundings. Very few women ever appear, those that do are regarded as intruders, nothing of beauty is allowed here. Jagged teeth of metal reach out from every direction hungry to rip and tear into flesh, clothing, and tires. Steel toed boots, long pants, and leather gloves are in fashion here. Those who enter without them soon realize the folly of their choice. The only shade comes from one tall pine tree that towers over the scale house surveying its domain; I wonder how it exists. And endless parade of battered trucks of all makes, colors, and sizes makes its way past the scales and down to the bottom of the yard. Coming here often enough causes young men to age; backs ache, hands grow weary, and legs tremble at the strain. I wait to unload my truck and collect my few dollars that will put gas in the truck so I can drive for another load. Everywhere there are men taking ratchet-straps, ropes and bungee cords off their loads so they can be unloaded. Cigarette butts and tobacco juice covers the ground. Men laugh at jokes that should not be repeated as they light more cigarettes and stuff more tobacco under their lips. The cranes groan and strain to move useless objects to their final destination – the shredder. Elsewhere men grunt and groan to toss old engine blocks into a pile. Cars are carried to be crushed – someone’s dreams, their pride and joy, now a shattered mass of twisted steel and broken glass. The air is foul with diesel fumes. Every movement brings a cloud of dust that chokes everything. At times when it rains the whole yard becomes a swamp that tries to trap every one and everything that enters, but not today – today there is just dust. But as I sit here and wait a breeze sweeps through the piles of junk. Suddenly I see a movement on the road leading to the crusher. It is tall and fast. It swirls and dances past the men. A dirt devil. Suddenly my eyes forget their surroundings. I am no longer in the dismal piles of rubbish. I am a child again. I am running after the swirling mass. I hold my arms over my head and skip along as the air whirls around me. I dance with it turning and twisting to stay in the middle. Then my turn comes. The scales are open. As pull my battered old truck up the wind dies down. The dancing phantasm leaves as quickly as it arrived. All that is left is the junk, the men, and the dirt.

I see her

2006-03-03T16:51:00.000-08:00

I see her in the park. She is perfect - beautiful, and voluptuous. She smiles when she sees me and runs to me. She reaches and embraces me as I kiss her ruby lips and hold her close to my body. I can feel the warmth of her pressing against me. Everyone else ceases to exist as we relish in the contact of one another. Our lips part and her hand finds mine. We walk along talking of small things, just enjoying the company of one another. Talk of dreams and plans, ideas and desires. Eventually she releases my hand and slips her arm through mine as we walk along. The warm spring sun shines down on us. We laugh at the antics of a squirrel as he leaps from branch to branch. Children run past as they play and call to one another. Across the park people are flying kites high up in the blue sky seeming to kiss the sun. As we reach the gazebo on the walking path we sit and enjoy the cooling breeze and shade. Our conversation continues as we bask in the closeness of each other. The flowers dance before us in the moving air. Nothing could be more perfect. She sits close to me and I put my arm around her shoulders. The heat of her body near mine is comforting. We watch the joggers and walkers as they pass by saying hello as they glide past. Another couple comes by and asks if we mind if they join us. Even though we are strangers we talk for an hour. She holds my hand and smiles, her beautiful eyes sparkling in the sunlight. We say our good byes and move to our cars. Standing beside them we embrace. Holding each other tightly not wanting to part. Our eyes meet and we stand in silence. She raised up to her toes and brings her face closer to mine. The breeze blows her hair in her eyes. I sweep it back gently with my hand and lean down to meet her rising lips. Then the alarm blares. Ringing bells shatter the air. I reach for the clock and silence the ringing. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and stumble to the coffeepot. Another night, another dream, another day of being alone.

Broken Things

2006-03-03T15:54:00.000-08:00

We live in a world of broken things. Things the constantly need attention and repair. These things that break at the worst of all possible times. Cars that wont run, computers that wont compute, machines that deteriorate as soon as they are built, houses that are worn by time, and books that mold and rot. Today I drove past a chemical plant that exploded. Why? Because of metals that corrode and rust and wiring that shorts out. I am sure that the plant did not suddenly erupt into flames and kill twelve people and make many more ill with symptoms that cannot be diagnosed easily. If the investigation is thorough enough the investigators will most likely find something that time and use caused to fail that caused something else to fail that lead to death and destruction. But yet we accept these risks every day. We drive cars for thousands of miles on them and then some small overlooked thing causes them to quit. We use appliances every day that have worked for hundreds of hours and then some small thing – a loose screw, a bad wire, or faulty switch cause them to catch fire and burn down our homes. Rarely is the cause of these things some catastrophic failure that could never have been prevented. But the worst of the things that fail are people.
People with broken heart and lives. We pass them every day and never know what small things in their lives will lead them to destroy the things they love. Few people wake up in the morning and decide to murder, rape, take illegal drugs, and wound others. There are small things at first. A lost love, a lost job, a shortage of money, or the death of a dream starts a chain of events that leads to a headline on the front page or a column in the obituaries. Could maintenance have prevented this? Could just one little act of kindness done at the appropriate time have staved off the pain that leads to sorrow.
I realize that sorrow and loss are a part of living in our world. No one gets through life in a rosy bed of fragrant pedals. Each person will come to a point of loss and need. And for each person it will be different. Grief is like snowflakes – no two are the same. And like snowflakes it can be a light coating or an avalanche. Some are unable to work through the light covering and some cannot bear the avalanche. However, some people have the unique talent for taking the snow and making beautiful sculptures from it. I am always amazed at a person who can brave a blizzard of troubles and then slip and fall in a flurry.
There are those who are uniquely qualified to run into the storm and rescue the ones who have fallen or been buried. These brave individuals are those who are willing to risk injury to help us when we cannot help ourselves. It may be the person who stops and changes your tire in a downpour. It may be someone who brings you soup when you are sick. It may be the brave men in uniform who run into the gunfire to end a conflict and save lives. It might be the men who enter a burning building to extinguish the blaze. It may be the one who binds a wound and takes you to a place to be cared for. Or possibly the volunteers who come to rebuild after the wrath of a storm ravage a community. Without these people our world would be unlivable.
But every one of us is capable of doing something for someone. It may be a smile at the homeless man who staggers past your house each day. It may be a kind word to a stranger who is in agony. Often it is that friend who puts their arms around you and tells you every thing will be all right. We may know that it will not be all right but having someone care enough to try to bear the burden is a comfort. Sometimes just being present during turmoil and sitting silently with a parent, wife, or child in the emergency room.
We are not all equipped to be mechanics, carpenters, firemen, police officers, EMTs and doctors, but we can all offer love and support. We can send a flower, make a phone call, or visit a lonely soul and by so doing comfort those grieving. Anyone can offer a pat on the back, a hug, or a kiss to someone who is hurting. Most of us can write letters, not necessarily long epistles, but just a short “I am thinking of you” or “Just wanted you to know I care” and lift the spirits of some lonely soul longing for contact from another human. Every one can offer someone a shoulder to cry on.
We are all capable of listening. Not judging and giving advice, but simply lending an ear to someone who needs to talk. Some of my most cherished friends are those who listened to my tales of conflict and woe. Someone said that God gave us two ears and one mouth so we can listen twice as much as we talk. Often I am afflicted with a tongue that fans the winds too long and too often, but sometimes I can just sit and hear what another needs to verbalize. Many times when I am listening I have to hold my tongue in check to refrain from giving advice. I am a fixer. I fix cars, houses, machines and I sometimes have to force my instinct to repair to stay when it wants to run loose.
We live in a world of broken things and broken people. We cannot repair everything. But just maybe we can fix a few things and make our world a happier more comfortable place to live.

People in the wind

2006-03-03T15:52:00.000-08:00

I am amazed at the way people come into and out of our lives like leaves blown by the wind. Some people are like that stray dog that comes by the house and allows you to pet it and then wanders away never to be seen again. Others are like the little burrs that stick to you when you walk in the woods; they are painful until you get rid of them – which is better than those like the stuff you step in and wind up scraping off your shoe with a stick. Some are like those beautiful spring mornings where the dew lays on the grass like sparkling diamonds and the fragrance of new blossoms lingers on the air then all too soon is gone - lost in the heat of summer. Then there are those that are like your old battered jeans, worn out sneakers, and threadbare T-shirt that you cant wait to change into when you get home – you can be yourself around them and feel right at home. They rustle and blow in the winds of change, a swirling rainbow of shapes and colors that makes out world a brighter place to live.

Mr. Fixit

2006-03-03T15:35:00.000-08:00

I have noticed over the years that people who do different jobs have predictable reactions to the problems others. If you have a doctor for a friend and you are telling them about the problem they will ask what caused the problem and when did it start. A psychologist or other person in mental health will ask how you feel about the problem. An accountant will want to know if the problem is worth the trouble. A scientist will try to dissect the problem and discover the internal workings. A state road worker will lean on the nearest shovel and stare at you blankly then leave to get coffee. I am a mechanic, or I was till I got hurt, and my first reaction to hearing that a friend has a problem is to try to fix it. I understand things in parts and pieces and their relationship to each other. I have to hold myself in check in order to not take out my emotional hammer and whack the problem a few times to see if it will fit after all. I want to disassemble the offending trouble and find the malfunctioning element, repair or replace it, then put every thing back in the same order. I have found that this approach works great with cars, televisions, computers, air conditioners, and remote controls, but is somewhat less effective on humans. For some reason people are loathe to allow me to take them apart and see what in wrong in their innards. To me a broken heart should be fixable with duct tape and a few staples, and jumbled thoughts should be jerked out, aligned and replaced. Confusion should be easy enough to clear up after prying the cranium open and blowing out all the cobwebs and debris that clutter the cog work of the brain. Crying can be fixed by rerouting the dear ducts into the esophagus. But unfortunately there is no simple way to repair the damage done by broken hearts, jumbled thoughts and confusion. You see mechanical things have no feeling. A car doesn’t fail to start because it is no comfortable with the starter’s attitude. A refrigerator never ceases to cool because it is depressed and doesn’t freeze the entire house because it is manic.

The notebook

2006-02-27T12:26:00.000-08:00

I carry a small notebook in my pocket for those moments when great inspiration hits me and I need to jot down my wisdom for future generations to learn from. I was looking through it for an idea for an idea for writing material and I was amused at the different topics and some just flat out weird stuff I had written down.
There is an idea I had on writing about mixed marriages. No not those kind of mixed marriages I mean the kind between people with different loves. For example I have a friend who is a rabid Carolina Tarheels fan and his wife is a howling mad Wolfpack fan. You can imagine the stress created when the two teams play one another. There is also a statement that I heard somewhere, “some people stand out in a crowd and some people try not to get swallowed by it.” For some reason I wrote down the words “case quarter”. It is an old term for a 25-cent piece. There is a first chapter for a mystery I am writing and a list of oddball characters for the book. Jumbled in amongst everything else is a sprinkling if phone numbers that of course have no names with them. There are several book titles that I want to read if I can ever find them. A handful of web sites and email addresses litter the pages. For some reason the words “blind in one ear” make an appearance.
There are a couple of pages of information on two old Singer sewing machines that I am trying to sell. A few pages of essays scribbled in miniature letters that I will have to borrow a microscope to be able to transcribe. On one page there is a list of new James Bond or maybe Dick Tracy characters that would be terrific – ratchet face, socket head, laser lips, antenna brain – I am not sure what prompted those.
My favorite thing in it is a quote from Road and Track magazine by my favorite magazine author Peter Egan. He is writing about movies that his parents would not let him see. “What is adulthood except a delayed end run around your parents better judgment?”
Too many of the things I have written I have no idea what they are or what them mean. More than a few were penned in the dark at some ungodly morning hour when I woke from an interesting dream. Some of those things that I have managed to decipher are the lines that states, “If all politicians were abducted by aliens would any one care – would any one notice?”, “being pecked to death by wild ducks”, “why doesn’t Mexico have an Olympic team? Is it because there is no Tequila drinking contest?” , and the ever popular, “feet planted firmly in mid air”
Most of the other stuff is so random that I have no idea how hard I had been hit on the head when I wrote it.
I wonder what someone would think of my mental condition if I were found unconscious with only this notebook in my possession. I am sure I would wake up nicely wrapped up in butterfly nets in a comfortable quiet padded room all my own where I could scribble strange things on as much paper as I could find.

Perspective

2006-02-25T14:29:00.000-08:00

I have always heard that no two people will ever see the same event the same way. In my experience this has always been true. Each person watches things through the window of his or her beliefs and preconceived notions about what actually happened. Each individual’s experiences give them a view that no one else can duplicate. An engineer can see a problem and tries to find a better design. The mechanic sees the same problem and tries to fix it. The poet sees it and writes a ballad in tribute to those in the problem. A doctor looks and tries to find a cure. A scientist tries to analyze and quantify the problem. Yet each person sees the same occurrence. Three different people can watch the same movie and come away with different things. One person will comment on the special effects and filming techniques, one will marvel at the dialogue and interaction of the characters, and one will be in awe of the casting. Three people seeing the same thing in different ways.

These differences in perspective make our world a delightful and interesting place to live. Imagine all the different things that perspective brings to us. How many different ways are there to cook chicken? What if everyone drove the same type and color of car? How bland would a city be if all the buildings were identical? How boring would life be if we all wore the same uniform. This when we look at it, the differences in our world, even the ones we don’t like (provided that they aren’t immoral or unlawful), are what make each day a spectacular rainbow of variance and diversity. And in some ways our having a different perspective on things brings us closer together. It gives us a need for one another that would not exist otherwise.

I am not

2006-02-25T09:07:00.000-08:00

I am not arguing - I am simply expounding the proper point of view in a logical manner, even though it is in direct opposition to your belief.
I am not yelling - I am simply presenting my case in at a volume which cannot be ignored.
I am not being arrogant - You are just not open to having me point out the inane reasoning of your thoughts.
I am not stubborn - I am simply unwilling to be moved from my belief.
I am not conceited - I am just right.
I am not childish - I am simply stopping my ears from being accosted by the sound of your voice.
I am not condescending - You are just wrong and you would realize that if you were as smart as I am.

You see if I have enough time I can make anything sound good. I did learn something from my ex.

Clarification

2006-02-25T08:45:00.000-08:00

I am me and he is him and he is not me and I am not him, but he and me are different from one another. Now that you know that I know that you know that I know there should be no more confusion. Thank you

The Question

2006-02-25T07:37:00.000-08:00

To every man who has ever had a sister, girlfriend, or wife (Just not all three at once, please) there is nothing more terrifying than the question. The question is the worst thing a woman has ever inflicted on man. When asked men begin to tremble and try to blend in to the wallpaper. However, we soon learn that there is no escape. There is no correct answer. We can answer such questions such as how does the car work, how do airplanes stay in the air, what makes the sky blue, and what is the molecular makeup of dish detergent. We can fix the stove with a paper-clip, build a house out of toothpicks, and open a car one handed with a coat hanger while standing on our nose, but we cannot answer the question. We have answers for, “do you think she is pretty;” it is dangerous but we can pull it off. We can play poker while attached to a polygraph machine and still bluff a player with a full house into folding while we hold only recipe cards and bubble gum wrappers. If we answer “the question” we have signed out own death warrants. If we don’t answer we are condemned to being tortured to death and poisoned when we eat breakfast. Death by a million glares is a terrible way to go. When asked “the question” some men have been known to run in front of freight trains to make the end quick. If there is no train available they will build a railroad, buy a train and run over themselves. The real reason why man wanted to go to the moon was that one of their wives asked him the question, and he thought that the moon may be a good place to hide. He was wrong. Hunters and soldiers did not design camouflage clothing. No, a man created it after his wife had asked him the question. He managed to live another 30 minutes while she was searching for him. She finally destroyed the entire forest he was hiding in.
What is this question that strikes fear into hearts of generations of men all across the world. Brace yourself men – “Does this make me look fat?” or the more hideous variation, “Does this make my butt look big?” You see if a woman has to ask this question the answer is yes. Either that or “ you need therapy.” There is no correct answer. What should be said is “no the pants don’t but that entire chocolate cake and gallon of Godiva’s ice cream does.” Men have no escape once the question is asked. Since men have no warning for when they are going to be asked they have no way to prepare. They cannot take mind-altering drugs so they have an excuse for their answer, or at least lessen the pain that is going to be inflicted. Not answering is considered to be an affirmative answer, lying can result in permanent physical deformity, and the truth is deadly.
So men I offer this advice. If you ever have an inkling that the female in your life is thinking of asking the question - run. Run fast and far. Run faster than an Olympic gold medalist on a caffeine high. Run like the coyote with Acme rockets strapped to his feet. You cannot escape but you may prolong your life. You may have time to scribble you will on toilet paper in your own blood after you lock yourself a public bathroom. It may be a good idea to have a hole dug in the yard so you can bury yourself alive. As for me, I plan to carry a live grenade in my pocket. Who knows, maybe I can pull the pin before she realizes that I haven’t answered yet.

Circle the Wagons

2006-02-25T07:35:00.000-08:00

I am amazed at how a group of people can argue fuss and fight constantly. They can run each other down and say terrible things about one another – until someone outside the group tries the same. Then every one circles the wagons and attacks as a cohesive group united against a common foe. Then after the conflict has ended they go right back to the difficult task of stabbing one another in the back.
I work a at a car auction on Wednesday nights. All of the employees are constantly back-stabbing and saying heinous things to and about each other. Then tonight a woman came in and attacked us. She called one of us a cheating liar. Well, let me tell you, I am surprised that she made it out without being skinned alive and hung from the flagpole. We don’t have a flagpole but we would have erected one just for her. In one united front we fought the evil foe. We banded together in a fashion that would have put the Navy Seals to shame. Then when she dragged her battered and bruised spittle soaked body off the property we went right back to fighting with each other. Nothing unites us like fighting.

Love is a flower

2006-02-23T12:08:00.000-08:00

Love is a flower that grows in the most unique of circumstances. The more difficult the surroundings the stronger the plant. When it is grown under conditions of ease and comfort it becomes a weak bloom that can wither and die at the first heated blast of adversity. However, when grown in the rocky soil of conflict and hardship it grows tall and strong weathering all seasons. No love can be said to be truly strong until it is tried in the kiln of sorrow and pain. Only the love that survives can be said to be true love. Fondness and affection can only tolerate isolated moments of struggle before the blossom fades forever leaving behind only the dried remains of it former self. No matter the winds that blow or the conditions that oppress true love it still remains. Its blossom may be battered and wilted, but it will revive and be stronger for its battering. “Now abideth faith, hope, and charity (true love), these three; but the greatest of these is charity.” (I Corinthians 13:13) True love conquers all and is defeated by none. It sinks its roots into the rockiest of soils and brings beauty to all around it. Lucky are those who find its fragrant blossom.

Marauding monsters

2006-02-23T12:06:00.000-08:00

I hates my computer
Me thinks that I will sells it
For never does it what I wants
But only what I tells it.

Those wonderful lines were taped to a computer monitor in an office that my dad was working in. My dad owns a computer repair business in Tennessee so he daily deals with machines that refuse to cooperate with the orders given to them. Here in North Carolina I am responsible to the health and maintenance of four computers. Not a great amount, but if you take what I know about computers and stuff it in a thimble you would still have room left over for your toes. I can fix a car. I can fix a stove. I can even fix a stereo or a microwave depending on what is wrong with them. I have even delved into the mysterious inner workings of a VCR. But those things have no ability to think. Computers on the other hand are devious scheming little devices. Deep in side them are nasty little creatures that lurk in such things as hard drives and memory cards and modems and other strange sounding electronic mechanisms. The remain hidden and allow you to feel safe as long as you aren’t doing anything important, but as soon as you start an important project the nasty monsters attack. They assault your motherboard and dance on your CPU, and have wild drunken brawls that corrupt your work and cause you to need surgery for ulcers. They ravage and pillage in a way that the Vikings would be in awe of. Nothing is spared their savagery. They rape and ravage all the information stored in your memory. They juggle the words to your letters and manuscripts and throw them back haphazardly in no particular order. The more important the file the more vicious the attack. Fortunately for us these demonic beings have not discovered fire yet. If they had the keyboard would burst into flames as you neared the end of your work. Not even backup files are safe. There is a stack of floppy discs on my desk that have tiny little pillagers swinging from gossamer threads with their swords and axes hanging from their bodies attacking the information stored on them. There is no stopping these marauders even very mention of them will bring swift action on my writings and will seek to destroy my work before I have time to fini…

Our Children, Our Future

2006-02-20T17:29:00.000-08:00

“No child is capable, emotionally or legally, of consenting to being photographed for sexual purposes. This, every image of a sexually displayed child – be it a photograph, a tape or a DVD - records both the rape of the child and an act against humanity. We must stop the hurt.” Andrew Vachss – Parade magazine Sunday, February 19, 2006 in an article entitled Lets Fight This Terrible Crime against Our Children

The most terrible of all crimes committed are committed against those who cannot defend themselves. The perpetrators of these inhuman acts destroy the innocence of a child and ruin the potential of that child. The damage done lasts a lifetime. It creates an ominous shadow that follows the child and never goes away. Even in adulthood these scars hinder the lives they have been inflicted upon. There is no excuse for this deviant behavior, nor should there be any leniency or mercy shown to the lower life forms that engage in such immoral and inhumane treatment of our most precious resource – our children. In this hyper-connected digital age of the Internet these images can never be destroyed. Their presence lingers forever in the electronic memories of computer all around the world. Pedophiles freely download and save images for their own perverted usage at their leisure. The children so exploited have no such freedom.
Our landscape is littered with milk cartons, posters, and billboards presenting images of missing children. Most of whom will never be found. Secretly their pictures are spread across the Internet after their abductors have forced them into photographic prostitution. Then when they are used up they are discarded. A beautiful life destroyed so a pervert can pleasure himself in the privacy of his own home. Our children will never be safe until this despicable act is stopped, and just punishments are meted out for the crime. Only then will our children be able to play in safety. Only then can we allow them to enjoy being children.
What is a just punishment for ruining a life? The death penalty is not too harsh for such a criminal. Even hardened murders in penitentiaries loathe these creatures that prey on innocence. For some the very act of being jailed is a death penalty in its self, with the criminals delivering the punishment that our justice system is too weak and flaccid to administer.
Somewhere we must take a stand and put an end to this blight on our society. Somehow we mush find a way to fight the ruination of a generation of children that have been born into the awful predatory society we live in. If we must take arms against the rapist of our children then so be it. If any action can save our children and provide a brighter future then let us, those responsible for providing that future, do what is necessary to insure the survival of their innocence. The world has enough dangers and pitfalls without us allowing our children to be thrown to the jackals, and destroyed, before they have a chance to Live.

Junk mail

2006-02-20T17:27:00.000-08:00

I love junk mail as much as any one can. All the things I get constantly amuse me. Take this huge pile on my desk – please take this huge pile. I can refinance my home with four different companies – even though I rent an apartment and the only thing I own is a truck. I can take classes to learn everything from lock smithing (could be handy for when I launch my criminal career) to gun smithing (hummmm may even be handier for that criminal career) to computer repair and home inspection. I can improve my love life by taking little pills (wonder if they have one that will give me a love life) and I cam improve my golf swing by watching a video (will it help my putt-putt scores). From one company I can buy eighty zillion dollars in life insurance for only five cents or I can get coverage for unborn children by simply sending them a sample of my breath. But since I have another envelope her that says I have just won a shopping spree through Fort Knox I don’t need insurance. And I can drive to Kentucky for my windfall in one of the eight vehicles I can win if my key fits. Which I can save 14% in insuring with these seven insurance companies envelopes (If I keep calling each of them do they eventually have to pay me to insure my car?) But why do I need a car when this flier shows me how to build a fully functional helicopter out of paper clips and toilet paper. All the tools I need for construction I can select from one of the five tool catalogues that offer free delivery if I call them with a credit card number within fourteen seconds of touching the paper (I wonder how they know when I touch it). Credit card numbers will be easy to come by since I have offers from 47 different companies giving me unlimited credit on platinum cards. Which will come in handy when I start my own home business where people will throw money at me for just getting out of bed at three in the afternoon. And that bed will be comfortable since this pamphlet tells me all about the bed they will send me for a thirty day test. Extremely lazy rocket scientist that kept getting bedsores before a shuttle launch developed the mattress. It shows a picture of a mattress being smashed by Sumo wrestlers driving steamrollers and sustaining no damage. No word on what happened to the guy lying on the mattress during the experiment. I am not sure if I need it though because my bedroom is a low steamroller traffic area. I shouldn’t be able to damage the thing with my weight even if I use the multitude recipes and coupons I received for food that I have never tried (who cooks with Campbell’s cream of Yak anyhow). Although I won't gain any weight because I can shed pounds just by taking these pills while strapped to this machine that will electrocute me into a Schwarzeneggeresque physique with no more effort expended that plugging it in to the wall socket.
Yes, life is good. I have every thing well in hand here. It says so right here in this mailer from the health store that is stuck to the pizza coupons. Now I am going to check my email. Last time there was a offer on Russian mail order brides. I wonder how they ship them. I hope a flat rate is used instead of a per pound. Maybe I should select a really little one.

Gremlins

2006-02-20T17:23:00.000-08:00

I have a gremlin that lives in my apartment. I have sat up at night with the shotgun waiting for him to appear so I can eradicate him. I am not so sure that my neighbors will appreciate the noise, but I cannot continue to let him live here. You see he is disrupting my ability to get anything done. He is constantly moving things around and hiding stuff. He has a particular love for my desk. You see I all but live at my desk. I eat here. I write here. I watch TV here. I would sleep here but I keep hitting my head on the computer when I do. This little nasty creature loves to pile junk on my desk. He hides the floppy disks that I need and he dumps all my ink pens in the floor. I guess the thing I hate about him the most is that he is always leaving empty water bottles in the desk and every thing not covered with empty bottles is covered with bottle caps. Then there is his hiding my salt shaker. I can’t stand that. I get all ready to eat. I have the newly nuked frozen dinner in my hand and all I need is the salt shaker, but when I look for it I cant find it anywhere. It is supposed to stay in the cabinet over the desk but it is never there. And don’t even get me started on the remote control. I know, I know I can reach the TV easily but I can’t watch it without the remote. Now you would think that since I stay at the desk all the time the remote would be right at hand, but the little gremlin is always taking it into the kitchen or bathroom or once he even hid it in my truck. For some reason he leaves my cell phone alone at least he has since the last time I had my next door neighbor call it so I could find it. That must not have been any fun to watch. He gets more enjoyment out of watching me get frustrated trying to find something to write with when just five minutes before I had a whole pickle jar full of them. (Yes. I said pickle jar. I am cheap and they make perfect pencil holders Somewhere around here I have a salsa jar full of crayons and markers. And, yes, I wash the jars out before I use them as office equipment.) He leaves the jar but takes all the pencils and pens. Then he hides them all in the couch cushions – where I never sit by the way. His favorite thing to hide is my dictionary. Even though the cover is bright red I constantly have to dig through all the junk mail and newspapers to find it.
So if you drive past my apartment one night and you hear a shot fired, don’t be too concerned – it just means I finally got the little bugger.

Routine occurrences

2006-02-18T14:28:00.000-08:00

It is amazing and sometimes amusing the routines we can fall into. Some of these routines are conducive to making things run more efficiently. Others are not. Take for instance my and a friend of mine’s routines for entering the house.
When I get home I walk down the sidewalk with my house key in my left hand. My right hand is reaching for the mailbox while my eyes scan the door for any notes left by visitors or the UPS man. I enter the house and turn immediately to the table next to the door with a small wooden box on it. Into this box goes my keys, change, pocket knife, wallet, notepad, ink pen, and whatever else may be in my pockets. I also put my cell phone holder in there. Now when I leave the apartment again I only have to stop at the box and load my pockets and head out. Nice and efficient.
Now my friend, on the other hand, has a slightly different routine. He walks to the door and stands there for several minutes rummaging through a huge key ring trying to find his key. When he finally gets inside he puts his keys on the first thing he comes to. Then he walks through the house distributing at random the contents of his pockets. There is no limit as to where these items my be placed. Now when he is ready to leave, he, his wife, his two children, myself (If I am over at his house at the time), half of the NC National Guard, three neighbors, four blood hounds, nine cats, and six CIA spy satellites are tasked to scour the house in search of various items. The search can last for a few seconds or may last a good part of the day. I am sure that over half of his cell phone minutes are used up when his wife calls it from the home phone trying to find out where it is hidden.
Two different routines. Two different results. So the next time you pick on someone for being a creature of habit be careful. Their habits may just be more efficient than your non habits.

the 2000s

2006-02-18T09:50:00.000-08:00

The new millennium brought with it many expectations. I have to admit that I to fell into the frenzy of excitement that accompanied a new set of numbers on our calendar. For me it has brought no end of trouble both physically and emotionally. In this new era I have suffered injury from a car accident. I have seen my marriage end. I have had a friend murdered by a man who is still alive in prison. I have made more trips to the emergency room and doctors office than I have ever made in my life. However, This new millennium has brought good as well. I have seen the birth of my two daughters. I have made a few wonderful new friends. I have been able to accomplish some things that I have dreamed of all my life. I have learned some of my greatest strengths. And I have overcome a few of my strongest weaknesses. I have learned many new lessons and relearned a few old ones that I had forgotten. The twenty first century may not have been entirely kind to me, but it hasn’t been all together unforgiving either. And I suppose that is a good sign of things to come.

Ready to try again?

2006-02-18T09:49:00.000-08:00

In the past few months I have had two beautiful and completely different female companions to share my small apartment with me. The first of them was a raven-haired beauty. She had big beautiful green eyes. She would lounge about the apartment showing her sensuous curves. At night she would curl up beside me letting me know how much she loved me. She would sit in my lap and all was right with the world. After a few months she developed a severe stomach problem and would throw up all over my apartment. Eventually I had to have her put to sleep. You see Onyx was a cat. She was such a sweet animal that I hated to let her go, but I could not bear to see her suffer.
The second was a beautiful tiny tiger striped gray kitten that crawled up in my shirt one day to get warm when I was working on a friend’s van. She was a wonderful companion until she began to urinate in my bed. Doing this once I could understand. Twice I could forgive. But every night was too much. I tried everything I could think of to make her stop this aberrant behavior but she refused. The way my apartment is laid out there was no way to keep her out of the bedroom unless I started sleeping in the closet. One night I opened the front door to go outside and she ran out. Understandably, I did not go after her.
A few weeks ago I came in to my apartment and a black streak shot past my feet and stopped on the couch. It was a beautiful solid black cat. I wanted so badly to keep her, but since I had given all of my cat food and other kitty accessories away, and I didn’t have the cash on hand to go buy new stuff I had to put her back out. Maybe someday she will return. The house is empty without a woman.

Reality check

2006-02-18T09:48:00.000-08:00

Occasionally the icy cold iron hand of reality reaches out and slaps me. Making me painfully aware of those things of which I was blissfully ignorant or blithely ignoring. The realization of the destruction caused to a loved one is greater than the embarrassment I feel at my own self-will. How do I adequately apologize for the imposition of my stubbornness? What penance is enough to pay for my error? No amount of tears can wash away the stain of having taken joy from one I held so dear. Time will fade the stain. It will bind the wounds. But it can never undo the injustice I have brought. But it can never assuage the shame of my actions. Only loves forgiveness can repair the breach. Only caring can erase the marks of disgrace. Time, however, may bring these things.

Synchronous Dichotomy

2006-02-17T07:27:00.000-08:00

Why does one feel so deeply those things that others seem to not feel at all, and, conversely, why do those things which cut others to the marrow easily glance from one’s skin? What makes this dichotomous relationship in the depth of emotion in similar beings? One who cries while the other laughs and one who stands fearlessly against the hordes of hell while another frees from angelic apparitions? What possible reasoning could be inferred from this diversity of personality? Should not that which instills response of one nature not always illicit that same response? Why should the same stimuli cause a person to scream in terror and a different person to laugh with glee?
Perhaps this dichotomy stems from the experiences that each individual brings into any encounter. One who has been bitten by a snake can not be expected to react the same to the creature as one who had never seen the slithering creature. But experience alone can not bridge that chasm between the two polar opposite responses. Nor can religion, education, training, or predetermination fully explore the predilection of ones psyche towards response.
I submit the following pontification of the dilemma. Perhaps these variances are no more than mere differences in perspective. That the differences between response to a catalyst is the viewpoint that the sum total of a persons life causes them to imbue to each stimulus of circumstance. That emotional response is more logical than given credit. Perchance then all of emotion can be borne on the shoulders of reason and insight. Or more likely emotional response is just that – emotion – and not subject to the vagaries of explanation.

Hiding from yourself

2006-02-17T07:26:00.000-08:00

Most have no problem facing external problems and difficulties. They can face these foes head on and never falter. However, it is the foes within themselves that they cannot bear to stand against. Thus they find themself lost in an attempt to hide from themselves. The vain attempts to run from the inner beasts that plague every person are a tiresome affair. For in the attempt to flee they bring the problem with them. In this they strengthen the quandary they sought to escape. But when the absurd situation is realized and the individual determines that there is no safe haven in which they cannot seek shelter without destroying themselves, they can begin to overcome the obstacles to normality and find that in facing their inner demons they are stronger than when they hide from themselves.

Dangerous proposition

2006-02-17T07:24:00.000-08:00

An acquaintance of mine recently informed me that he had a free membership offer to a popular women’s weight loss gym. He asked me if I knew anyone who would be interested in it. After searching through my mind for possible candidates it became obvious to me that I could be in no small danger if I went to any woman I know and offered her the gift. Even giving the membership to a thin woman could result in dire consequences. After some reflection I told him of my unwillingness to risk bodily harm in offering it to any woman I knew. Soon we had a great time laughing about the injuries that might be inflicted upon ourselves. So for now he carries in his wallet a certificate for the gym. Maybe he can anonymously send it to a woman who can use it. Although, if he does I hope that the woman is either single or her husband is out of town.

Spill cheque?

2006-02-17T07:19:00.000-08:00

The glorious age of the modern computer has brought many wonderful things to our lives, not the least of which is word processing. This tool can take a functionally illiterate person and make them sound erudite. It cam also make some hilarious changes in the meaning and intent of the sentences that they correct. For example, “her parents are deceased” ,can easily become, “Her parents are diseased”. Thus a few letters can change her parents from being dead to being hemophiliac lepers. Imagine that error on a first date probably would end any chance of second date. Or perhaps,” he is easily distracted,” can become, “he is easily destructed”. Talk about your feet of clay. Or a rich man can go from being the “owner of a paper” to being the “owner of a pauper”. He would probably fall from good social standing at that. Then a traffic cop could go from” having a whistle in his mouth” to “having a thistle in his mouth”. In the case of the latter I would not want to run any red lights in his vicinity. It would be a gruesome thing indeed to not be “plagued by the raspy coughing of a coworker” to “plague by the raspy coffin of a coworker.” And who would not be worried that his girlfriend “stood on the edge of the precipice and viewed the expansive waste below” if he read that she “stood on the edge of the precipice and viewed the expansive waist below” definitely would be time to look into a weight loss program fro someone.
For all the wonderful things computer bring to our lives they also take something away. That something often is just exactly what we meant to say.

Little things

2006-02-15T13:23:00.000-08:00

It is always interesting that after an emotional high comes an emotional low. Sometimes the one is as extreme as the other. After a great accomplishment is achieved there is a sense of loss of the motivation to complete the task. It is during that emotional lull that the smallest thing can come along and jerk the rug out from under you. It is never some huge obstacle that thwarts your happiness, but some small stone in you shoe that ruins the joy of achievement. Then begins the long climb back to ground level again so that you can begin the ascent to joy again.

I survived VD

2006-02-15T08:05:00.000-08:00

At 12:15 this morning I had a revelation. I had survived Valentines Day or as I call it VD. It isn’t that I am opposed to romance or naked babies randomly shooting archery at unsuspecting strangers. But I am opposed to spending the week prior to VD being constantly bombarded by every TV, newspaper and radio telling me that I am obligated to have a date and buy gifts and flowers. I am not against dating and I don’t mind buying gifts and flowers – as a matter of fact I gave a friend of mine some flowers, (OK it was actually a plant but it had flowers on it.) but I did it because I wanted to and not because I had to. So now I have survived VD Who knows maybe next year I will be able to share VD with someone special. We should all be so lucky.

Can't win for loosing.

2006-02-13T10:02:00.000-08:00

I have had a terrible time keeping a transmission in the WarWagon lately. In the past year I have replaced it four times. Just when I thought my problems were over I pulled out of a friends driveway in the pouring rain saturday night and lost a transmission cooling line. I made it three miles away before the tranny startred to slip and then managed to coast it into a parking lot. I got to lay out in the cold rain and repair it and managed to fill my hair with the wonderful red transmission fluid. So I went back to my friends house and washed my hair and warmed up and dried off a bit. Hopefully nothing internal was damaged by the loss of fluid.

Bed time

2006-02-13T09:55:00.000-08:00

I told a good friend of mine that I was going to get in bed at a reasonable hour last night. I lied. I managed to crawl in bed after 3a.m. It is getting to be a habit. I think that I worked third shift for so long that it only takes one late night to get my schedule so wracked around that I cant go to bed till the sun is almost up. At least I am getting a lot of writing done although my little laptop probably wished I would go to bed earlier too.