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.
Monday, June 19, 2006
My treatise on sports
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.
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)
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.
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.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
The boy and the snake
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Walking in the rain
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.
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
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.
So here are a couple of things I wrote recently. I hope you enjoy.
Where have all the men gone
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.
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
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
My Addiction
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.
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
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.
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.
Friday, April 28, 2006
My dream
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.
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
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
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.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Two weeks of exile
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.
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
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?
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
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
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
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
out of order
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.
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.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Hope
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.
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
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)