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.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
Goodbye
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.
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.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Fate
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.
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.
Friday, August 11, 2006
tiger by the tail
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.
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.
Friday, July 21, 2006
One for all my cop friends
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...........
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...........
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Proper perspective
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.
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.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Back in the saddle again
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.
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.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Fresh gossip
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.
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
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.
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