TSA OK!

To take pride in the place you were born is a vanity that we all share. “I’m Scotch, I’m Irish, I’m Cherokee, I’m Nepalese. I’m special because of the accident of my birth.” It’s not a bad thing, really, because without that particular universally shared quirk, we would feel unconnected, if not utterly lost. My point is that national pride is a good thing. So with that in mind, I want to express my dismay at the state of the America I was born in. It’s gotten a lot different than it used to be and I’m worried. I really am.

I travel for work. I am on the road ALL the time. I don’t like the TSA. I don’t like their methods, I don’t like their agenda and I most certainly don’t like their screeners. I don’t like them one bit. They and all they stand for are a problem that doesn’t need to exist. Many may say I’m a tin foil hat wearing lunatic, but hear me out. The TSA, under the auspices of public safety, are raping your rights and literally molesting you and your children. They say they’re doing it for your own good and safety, but they’re doing nothing to keep you safe from the terrorists they say are rampant among us.

I’m barely started but I can see that this essay could go on for pages and pages, so let’s try to keep this simple. The TSA has not caught one terrorist. They have not stopped one bombing, not one hijacking; in fact they can point to a huge zero when it comes to averting any sort of air disaster. How do I know this? Because if they had, you can bet it would have been all over the news. In case you didn’t know, while the TSA is screening wheelchair-bound paraplegics for your safety, they also allow known terrorists to board planes. I wish I could make this up. I really do. But, since I did collect some links, here’s one from CBS’ 60 Minutes. There’s so much in this segment I could rant and rave about, but if you take only one thing away from it, be it this: The TSA will grope your grandma and legally molest your children while they simultaneously allow known terrorists to fly. Do you feel safe yet?

You can find any number of horror stories illustrating the sad fact that the majority of TSA agents couldn’t find their asses with both hands and a flashlight. If you think I’m making this up, do a Google search on “colostomy bag TSA”, or “muscular dystrophy boy TSA”, or (pick your ailment) TSA. Oh, and if you have a prosthesis, good luck. You and your stump can sit and wait while the security professionals try to figure out if that mechanism attached to your body is a detonator or an artificial ankle. I have a short anecdote to relate that isn’t nearly as intrusive and offensive as some others, but the important thing is that, like the extreme examples, it shows in a glaring light how ridiculous the screening process is, and how it does absolutely nothing to keep you safe. I know, because I could have pulled it off.

I was in Tampa, about a year ago, before the “Detroit Underwear Bomber” episode (and I’ll get to that). I had a carry-on duffel bag. Inside it, among other things, was a 15oz package of Metamucil. It’s about 2/3 the length of a paper towel tube, and about twice as wide. It’s a cylindrically shaped package. It was full of powdered…Metamucil. I put my bag on the belt and it showed up on the X-ray screen as a suspected “boogey” item; it had to be inspected more closely. I assumed it would, and I was asked if it was my bag and if I’d care to step over while a professionally trained TSA agent rooted through it. I wondered why they asked me, because I had no choice, but if that’s how they wanted to play…well, again, I had no choice. So, as Mr. Safety is tossing my belongings, he’s telling me, in a stern and directive tone, that cylinders with powder in them are considered suspicious and must be eyeballed to ensure they’re not an incendiary device. I told him I understood, and I also said that the result of his search was going to yield a powdered laxative in a big orange canister. He dug through the bag I had packed not two hours previously, and while he was elbow-deep in my stuff, he said, “Got it!”

I expected to see a bright orange cylinder, but to my surprise he was holding up a tube of toothpaste. He was beaming with a sort of righteous validation; he had found what he was looking for. I know you’re not supposed to joke with TSA agents, probably because they don’t understand humor, so I refrained from telling him that the tube of toothpaste he was holding wasn’t a cylinder and that I had known what a cylinder was since I was in the third grade. I smiled my best self-deprecating smile and said, “I don’t think that’s what you’re looking for”, and in an instant, I realized that was a mistake. He said, “Sir, you are not allowed to have any liquids more than 3 ounces on an aircraft. This tube is 7 ounces. I’m going to have to confiscate it.” He gave me his best authoritative stare, fairly daring me to speak up. It occurred to me to say, “So do you pack your lunch or take the bus to work?”

The point is, we were talking, but we weren’t communicating. He thought he was being vigilant for the sake of my safety, and I was trying to make his job easier, but anything I had to say was irrelevant. He handed me my bag after dumping my possibly explosive toothpaste in a huge rubber garbage can behind him, where it sat, presumably, until it was full enough to be emptied. It never seemed to occur to him or any of the other highly trained TSA agents that all those water bottles, face creams and God knows what liquids might be explosive materials waiting patiently for just the right jostle to blow the entire security area to bits. I thought that was kind of funny.

He told me to have a nice day, but I couldn’t, because I was worried that I had forgotten my Metamucil. After all, he was a professional, and he had failed to find it, so the first thing I did when I got my bag back was to check it, and there, under the first pair of neatly folded pants, was my HUGE ORANGE CYLINDER of Metamucil. For one brief (and admittedly wanton) discretionary moment, I wanted to shout to everyone within earshot that the TSA agent had failed to find my HUGE ORANGE CYLINDER of Metamucil, and wasn’t it great that it wasn’t a HUGE ORANGE BOMB! I did no such thing, of course, but I wanted to.

I tell this story because, as I said at the beginning of this rant, I am getting fed up with the government that works for me (yeah, I’m delusional) dictating how I am to behave while their “agents” trample on my basic American right to be innocent until proven guilty. “But we’re doing it for your safety!” Bullshit. Show me the terrorists you’ve stopped. I want somebody to explain to me EXACTLY how I’m safer on an airplane because your agents don’t know the difference between a tube of toothpaste and a plastic can of laxative. I’ve been screened by a person who is unqualified to get a job without saying, “You want fries with that?” Call me crazy, but I’ve been to enough airports to know that the vast majority of TSA screeners don’t carry in their craniums a brain that generates enough power to move their dumb asses around.

Am I an elitist? Am I looking down my nose at the professionals of the TSA? Did you know that the TSA’s recruiting efforts include posting job availability on delivery pizza boxes in Washington DC? DELIVERY PIZZA BOXES. Did you know that? The Washington Post does. Do you feel safer now?



The big problem with the TSA is that they’re retroactive. Some idiot boards a plane (not in the USA) with something flammable in his shoes. His cunning, well thought out plan doesn’t work, but we all have to take our shoes off in the airport forevermore. Some idiot boards a plane (not in the USA) with something flammable in his underwear. His cunning, well thought out plan doesn’t work; in fact, it really didn’t work out for him at all, but because no one got hurt and he was a moron, we all have to have our crotches felt up forevermore.

This is fear-mongering at its worst. In case you didn’t know, both of these incidents involved persons who had no chance of blowing up the airplane. None. I’m not going to bore you with the details of how an explosive device works, but in a nutshell, you need two things to cause an explosion: pressure and a detonator. Neither of these things can be achieved with a powerful enough force to blow a hole in an airplane without being encased in metal in a space small enough to be carried on your person with no one noticing that you’re a man but look like you’re at the end of your third trimester. I don’t care how James Bond does it, but in the real world, not you, and certainly not the shoe or underwear bomber can do it. We already know that.

Here’s all I have to say about backscatter scanners: The TSA says a lot of things about imaging devices. They say it can’t store pictures, but it can, and they do, and the machine’s manufacturers have already been proven to be lying when they say it can’t. Don’t believe me? Proof is a click away. Oh, and by the way, did you know that former Secretary of Homeland Security Michael Chertoff, who cried for the use of these machines after the Detroit “bomber” (who wasn’t a bomber), just happens to work for the companies that make the body scanning machines? Do you feel safer now? I swear I can’t make this stuff up.

They say you can forgo the scanning, but if so, you’ll be subjected to an “enhanced” pat down, which involves cupping your balls, patting your cooch, and sliding hands between, around and beneath your breasts. And it also includes a hands-down, in and around your-waistband job; sorry, no tongues or smoking, as well as the slide of a finger between every fat fold as well, and it’s topped off with an atmosphere of presumed guilt. If you want, you can have them switch rubber gloves before they touch you after the sweaty ogre they just groped, but you HAVE TO ASK for that. Oh, and let’s not forget that it doesn’t matter how old you are. Your six year old son or daughter is eligible, I’m sorry, REQUIRED to undergo the same procedure, because you never know…the terrorists could be anyone. ANYONE! Feel safer now?

Follow the money and you’ll see why we have these ridiculous policies. It’s not to keep you safe. It’s about money. It’s all about money. It has nothing to do with our collective safety. To believe otherwise is to bury your head in the sand or stick your fingers in your ears and shout “Lalalala I’m not listening to you!” The truth is you can’t protect yourself from crazy. If someone really wants to get you, they will, but make no mistake: They will have a much harder time doing it on a plane than anywhere else. It’s easy to say “Oh, remember 9-11”, but that’s a line that doesn’t sit well with me. There were no bombs on those flights, and the only reason they succeeded was because they could a) get to the cockpit and b) terrify the passengers. As much as I loathe the phrase, in our post 9-11 world, neither of those things will happen again. First, you ain’t getting in the cockpit on ANY commercial plane these days. Second (and I’ve seen it happen), if you act like a dick on a plane, you’re gonna get the big smack down from every passenger who even thinks that you’re going to try and fix it so it doesn’t land safely. Trust me. A plane bombing isn’t going to happen. You have a better chance of dying from being struck by lightning as you stretch out to catch a meteor while being eaten by a shark.

Here’s my humble solution: What we need is what we used to have. We need metal detectors. I know we still have them, but everyone acts like they’re antiquated. We need bomb sniffing dogs. More people like dogs than don’t. I would much rather walk past Rover the police (or TSA) pooch for a quick sniff than to have Shaniqua the Arrogant bawl at me for putting my shoes and laptop in the same bin while waiting for Donald “Cooter” McFeely to grope my privates as he leers at the 9 year old girl behind me in line. Your daughter, maybe?

Metal detectors, dogs, and people who are trained not only in security but civility would be good enough for me.

I love America’s freedoms, but I’m worried about their longevity. As I write this, I’m living and working in South Central Los Angeles, and I feel safer here than I would at any airport. When the TSA shows some common sense in their endeavors, I’ll be much less inclined to lean back and moan loud enough for the entire security area to hear when I have my crotch fondled in the name of safety.

Coast to Coast

I haven’t written anything in a while. I have a million excuses, but none of them make a strong case; it’s whining no matter how you slice it. I learned some hard lessons in my absence, and maybe one day I’ll pass them along, but for now, I think jotting down a few blurbs will do me some good, and I hope they work for you as well.


My traveling job takes me to a lot of different cities. I literally travel from coast to coast, never in one spot for more than two weeks. It pays well, but I still find myself wishing I had a dime for every time I heard someone say “Ooo, that must be so cool.” I will admit that it is nice to have the chance to see things I probably never would if I didn’t travel, but believe me when I say that living out of a suitcase is pretty much a drag. I’ve learned you cannot have a job like this and have a normal home life. On the other hand, I get to see some weird stuff…

Bums

Every one of my traveling work sites is in a major US city, and with just a couple exceptions, they are in the worst parts of those cities. Now, it’s my personal opinion that everybody should spend some time in the seedy parts of the city, especially those who tend to look down their noses at others. Mind you, I do plenty of that myself, but living among the down and outs can be very sobering. Some people have it very bad. I rarely give money to bums because, as I just mentioned, my first thought when asked for a handout is “ Get a job,” especially when it’s some tool with a $50 t-shirt and $800 worth of “unique” tattoos that look like EVER OTHER person’s tattoos. Oh, and I especially like the young “hipsters” who hang out in front of the 7-11 and ask if I have an extra cigarette. My line is always the same: “Nope. No extras. This pack only had 20. Sorry.” I don’t have a problem being less than polite with them.

Once in a while, though, I feel a little bad. I was in a subway station in DC waiting for a train not long ago. It was pouring down rain; not cold, but not pleasant either. I was on a landing that had escalators going down to the tracks and while it was covered, the wind blew everything wet five feet into the sheltered part. So I’m shaking off the rain and a bum walks past me on his way to root through the public garbage cans. I assumed he was looking for cans. As I watched, he pulled a paper McDonald’s cup from the can, straw still in place, and he put the straw in his mouth like it was his and took a hit to see if there was anything in it. Then he jettisoned the cup and went for the crumpled food bag and unwrapped all the balled up burger wrappers, presumably looking for crusts or pickles or something. In that moment, I was just a little bit moved. I gave the guy a five and told him to walk across the street and get his own McDonalds bag with his own drink. He didn’t smile, but he did mumble “Thanks,” and I went down to the tracks. I don’t know if he bought something to eat or not, but I do know that I hope that I never find myself rooting through dumpsters to eat, or worse, deciding that the money a stranger gave me could be spent on something other than food.

Misanthropic Behavior

One of the problems with traveling all the time is that I have to deal with other people. Strangers. I could say there are a ton of weirdoes in Los Angeles (and there are), but they’re everywhere, in every city. Now, I realize that I’m not the only person in the world, and anyone who knows me knows that I don’t sashay through life expecting others to be mindful of my every whim, but on the other hand, I DO expect common courtesy, and it pisses me off when I don’t get it. By way of example, for as long as I can remember, I’ve known that two people can’t stand in the same place at the same time, and now, almost 50 years later, I see adults trying to do it. Since I live in hotels, I spend (too much) time in an elevator, and I can’t count the times that I’ve ridden to the ground floor to go about my way, and as the door opens, there’s at least one person who wants to get on before I get off. The elevator car isn’t going to go anywhere until I get out, and there will be more room in the car when I get out, so YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF THE WAY. I have a special look for those people, and since I’m not very attractive, it usually works very well.

Kind Strangers

In spite of my complaining about others, I do run into some very helpful people. Since I’m often in a place I’ve never been, I make it a point to ask shuttle drivers or hotel desk clerks where the good places to eat are, and I always make sure to tell them that I want a recommendation that isn’t canned. I want to know where THEY would go to eat and drink. Sometimes this doesn’t work very well, because everyone has a different idea of what’s good, but for the most part, I’ve been pretty successful. As much as I hate New Jersey, I have to admit that I got totally spoiled there. I can’t eat Italian anywhere but Jersey or New York anymore, but I’m glad I found out what I was missing. Can’t eat crab cakes anywhere but Maryland and there ain’t nothin’ like Texas barbecue. I couldn’t have found any of those good places though, without a local raving about them. So I guess they’re not all bad, but it would be a much better place if there were more of the nice ones.

Arizona

Desert

Until the end of April this year, I had never been to Arizona. I spent some time in a couple deserts in the service (not combat), but it was cold. It was to be my first time in the hot desert, the type of climate every cracked-lip, sweaty thirsty cowboy I saw on TV or the movies suffered through. Two months ago I was very anxious to see if it was hype. Was it really that unforgiving? I’m going to use a bunch more words, but if I could only pick one, it would be “yes”. It is that hot and unforgiving here. But, it’s cool too.

I like to sit outside in the evening here at my hotel in Phoenix, and I’ve noticed something unique about this place. The birds chirp and sing all night. In fact, I hear them more at midnight than at noon. Yeah, I know, that’s because it’s probably too damn hot to chirp at noon, but it’s still something I’ve never heard before. The crickets sing here too, but they don’t look like Midwest crickets. They’re tan, almost invisible against the dirt, and they move much faster than crickets usually do. I have not gotten one mosquito bite since I got here. I saw some rattlesnakes in a pen at a desert museum near Tucson, and an amazing hummingbird display too, and was very impressed at how different the wildlife is here. But, before you think I’m going to sing the praises of the desert fauna, let me tell you about the flora.

Hell is a different thing for each person, and I don’t pretend to speak for everyone, but in my personal vision, even something as benign as a plant would be a horror. I thought I had a good imagination, but after seeing how many different kinds of cacti are out here, I realized that nature has a much better one, and her creations are far more sinister than anything I could dream up. Cacti of all kinds, with spines longer and thicker than your fingers wait in patiently in the heat, waiting for you to fall down. For whatever reason, falling down is the first thing I thought of, which was bad, but of course it had to progress to falling down on a hill, rolling ass-over-teakettle. It really was the stuff nightmares are made of. One cactus in particular struck me as unusually malevolent. It is the Ferocactus wislizeni, or “fishhook barrel cactus”. Here’s a picture of it. The spines on this plant feel like they’re made of the same stuff as fingernails…or claws. They are sharper than you think (yes, I touched them), and if you were unlucky enough to roll over one, I don’t believe it could be extracted without a bazillion stitches and pints of morphine. Never, never fall down a hill in the desert. But, if you get the chance, ride your hawg in the desert during a full moon. Words cannot describe it.

Scum of the Earth

I got out of my hotel in the (relative) cool of the evening this past weekend. It was about 8pm and the sun was going down; it was only 102 degrees, so riding my motorcycle wasn’t like flying through a blast furnace. I could breathe without my nostrils burning, and that’s a good thing. So I was tooling around a strange city, not knowing where I was going, but glad to be out in the saddle. I rode around until I found what I was looking for: a bar with a bunch of motorcycles parked outside. I pulled in, got off, and walked inside.

It never fails to amaze me that there are people who think that walking into a biker bar is akin to wearing a sign that says “stab me”. I remember working with a guy once in another traveling job, and we were looking for a place to eat. I saw a somewhat dilapidated place under a viaduct that had two neon signs, one of a burger and one of a Budweiser logo. I said, “Let’s try that place,” and he said, “Hell no! You’ll get stabbed in there.” I looked at him and said, “No. You’ll get stabbed in there. I won’t.” Because I wasn’t driving, we didn’t eat there, but the point is, if you walk into a blue-collar or biker bar, you won’t have any trouble if you don’t act like you’re better than everyone there.

So anyway, I walked into the bar. It was called the Maverick, on 19th Street in Phoenix. It was like the countless other biker bars I’ve been in. You had your drunks, your bar sluts, your grandma types who knew everyone there, and of course, bikers. Not yuppie dorks riding brand new bikes and wanting to talk ONLY about their chrome doo-dads, but guys (like me) who ride not because it’s the “in” thing, but because we love it. There were some club guys (“gang” members, for those of you who stuck in the 70’s), but no one was even near menacing. Again, if you’re not an asshole, you’ll be alright. Everyone was having a good time. Drinks were cheap, you could smoke, and there was a live band. I don’t know what else you could ask for.

I bellied up to the bar and eventually struck up a conversation with the guy next to me. I had noticed an older bike in the parking lot (the one I parked next to), and it turned out it was his. We talked bikes for a bit, exchanging stories and having a couple beers and laughs. He called himself “Dirty”. I don’t have a cool biker name, but I know a lot who do. So after bike stories, he said his band was playing at the Maverick the next night, and I should check it out. Having absolutely nothing else to do, I readily agreed.

I’ve heard some unbelievably crappy bar bands in my day, and I fully expected Dirty’s band to be at least capable, but not stellar. Everyone who knows me knows my brother has been playing in bar bands since the 70’s, so it’s not like I haven’t been around that scene. To my surprise, I was wrong about Dirty’s band. They were extraordinarily good. They called themselves “Cactus Chainsaw”, and if I had to describe them, I’d say their sound was a very heavy blues rock. Think Pantera and old Black Sabbath, “Satan fingers” and head banging, but not too fast. I believe Robert Johnson himself would be proud. Dirty was the singer, and I’ll be damned if that guy and his band didn’t impress me. After a little internet poking about, I saw that they’ve played the Whiskey-A-Go-Go in Los Angeles, a bastion of 70’s and 80’s hard rock bars. Every hard rock hair band has played there. Very impressive! I told them I would write a plug, so there it is. If you’re ever in Phoenix and see “Cactus Chainsaw” on a flyer or marquis, check them out. They rock. They really do. They got You Tube. Google them and see for yourself.

I wrote that little review because I said I would (and I think they deserve it), but my bigger point is that many people do themselves a huge disservice by dismissing those who exist on the fringes of society (bikers) as the scum of the earth, almost less than human. Yes, they’re crude, and they don’t make tons of money. They (I) ride around on loud motorcycles, they drink and smoke and don’t really care what anyone else thinks about them. I know so many people like Dirty who spend their days struggling through life, yet fully enjoying every single minute of it at the same time. They do what they like. They drink and make music the way they want to make it; they are beholden to no one, and that, my friends, is what makes bikers (and biker bars) so appealing. They smile and cry like every person on the planet, but their smiles don’t belie a hidden agenda. Like everyone, they hope for good fortune, but they don’t crawl over their friends to get it. They know that life is too short to spend it worrying about things they can’t control. If you are looking down your nose at people like that, I feel sorry for you. To paraphrase a Harley bumper sticker, “If I have to explain it, you won’t understand.”

Quickies

I saw a comedian on TV once, a long time ago when I was in high school. His name was Larry Mule Deer, and one of his many shticks was holding a manual typewriter next to his head and repeatedly tapping one of the keys as he related fake headlines/news teasers. Anyone who watched news in the 70’s knows that news was much more believable if there were clacking typewriters in the background. Imagine clacking typewriters as you read these. They are off the cuff, mostly unedited, and hopefully interesting.


Burger King has, if you believe their commercials, bone-in smoked ribs. No good can come of this. As a rib snob, I’m not sure anything else needs to be said.

Last Sunday, June 6, was the 66th anniversary of D-Day. Both the History Channel (HISTORY CHANNEL) and Discovery, two of the usually watchable channels, had marathons of either Ice Road Truckers or Pawn Stars. I guess it’s fitting, because with their heroic actions, both of those groups helped turn the tide against the axis powers which helped steer the world away from certain tyranny. History channel. For shame.

I can’t decide which satirical show I like better, South Park or Robot Chicken. Both are, to me, exceptionally funny.

I can’t imagine how this guy feels. He was on a walk with his woman with the express intent of proposing to her at the top of the hill. She was struck by lightning and died minutes before they reached the summit. Truth really is stranger than fiction, and far sadder.

Dreams I Hope You'll See

I think it would be more than a little strange if someone asked me to watch them exercise. I can think of a couple situations where such a thing could prove to be extraordinarily interesting. This isn’t one of those times. Still, I want to ask you to watch me.


As an exercise to write without smoking cigarettes, I wanted to try and concentrate enough to describe a dream. Anything can happen in a dream, and that’s why I love the picture for this one. We all know that there is SO much going on in dreams that it would take years to fully describe them with words, if such a thing were possible. And so I thought it would be a good thing to try to condense a dream into the snapshot that it was, because I have a lot of patience without that pesky nicotine. Harrumph.

For me, the hallmark of good writing is the ability for the words printed on a page to become more than what they are. That is, even though I look at a white page of letters, “little bugs”, as Tarzan saw them, I am transported, vividly, to the scene that the author describes. It’s not the same one the author saw, exactly, but I am able to see the one that really matters, and that’s just all kinds of awesome. When you forget you’re in a chair because you’ve been taken away to another world, well that’s good writing.

I had this dream the other day. It really stuck with me.

I’m standing outside. It’s crisp and cold. The sky is ice blue, a stark contrast to the light white and tan of the terrain. It’s so cold. Fence poles don’t move. Shadows do, but they’re slow. There are a few horses standing on the slope above a ditch in front of me. Some are brown and some spotted, and they’re slow too. There is both ice and water in the ditch. Light brown foam splotches a surface that isn’t liquid but isn’t solid, like a giant dirty root beer float. The horses’ breaths waft lazily, puffs of white smoke against a blue sky. I am squinting in the cold and bright, and there seems time to relax and gather thoughts.

Things started to happen, and I was caught, not frozen, but REALLY SLOW.

The person standing next to me (whom I did not know was there) shot one of the brown horses in the ass. I don’t mean in the cheek, like a cartoon, but right up the ass with a large caliber projectile. The report was deafening. The horse’s tail fluffed and for just a second, everything looked normal. It seemed like it took ten minutes for me to snap my head around to see the shooter, and then look back to the horse.

It shuddered, then stood still. The blues and tans of the scene gave way to bright red. Blood came pouring out from beneath the horse’s tail, soaking its legs. It shuddered again, spraying blood on each of its hindquarters. Its head moved left and right, not panicking, but definitely aware that something was very wrong. It shifted weight from one hind leg to the other, and as each gave out, its entire backside went down. It looked absurdly like it was doing a push up. The ground was hard and frozen and sloped toward the watery ditch. Its front legs tried to hold, but the hooves couldn’t find purchase and it slid down.

The horse took what seemed like forever to slide into the ditch. The farther it went, the wider its eyes became. It made no sound, save for the rushing of its breathing. The panic was palpable. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t look away. At the point where it should have gone completely under, it shifted onto its back, having nudged something beneath it. The carcass of another horse floated up next to the struggling one, bobbed a couple times in the dirty foam, then sank again. The water in the ditch was covering a lot of dead horses.

I turned to the person next to me to speak, but no one was there. I turned back to the horse and saw that only its nostrils and mouth were above water, flaring and chomping at the air. The other person, a man, the man who shot the horse in the first place was standing by the ditch. He was watching it drown, watching it edge closer. It bobbed among the other dead horses, and then he just stepped in to the freezing water and sank up to his waist. He pushed his arms in up to his elbows, causing the rigid legs of one of the bobbing dead horses to knock the dying one’s nose beneath the surface. Bubbles popped as the horse went under, disturbing the slushy foam. The sound froze in the cold. I was powerless to do anything. I watched the man grimace, then pull his arms out of the water, revealing hands that were very recently intact, but now had several fingers missing. I knew that having your fingers snapped off had to hurt, especially when it was that cold. I watched his expression. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened, and I couldn’t wait to hear what he had to say…and then I woke up.

And that’s the real bitch about dreams, huh? I don’t know what it means. I just want to know if you can see it. If you can, I’m doing my job. Thanks for watching.

Hero Worship

“After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music” – Aldous Huxley


Regular readers know that music (and all that it entails) is a favorite subject of mine. It touches us in so many ways. It doesn’t matter what type of music you enjoy; that you enjoy it is what’s important. It is one of only a very few things that has a truly universal appeal, and (cue ascending grandiose symphonic fanfare) I daresay it is, in the big picture, humankind’s crowning achievement. As I said, it doesn’t matter what kind you like. We probably won’t agree on artists, but hopefully we will on the art part and how it works for us. Besides, it’s my essay and it’s gonna go my way. So there.

When I was in the third grade, I got a birthday present that changed my life. It was wrapped in light blue paper, but I knew what it was before I opened it. I knew it was a record, an album, an LP. We weren’t even allowed to touch my parents’ LP records (I think they had less than 10), and here in my hands was ONE OF MY VERY OWN. I was, in a word, ecstatic. I didn’t even know who the artist was. It didn’t matter. It was mine.

The record turned out to be Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out”. I had never heard anything like it, ever. It was about as alien a thing as I could imagine, and I loved it. I played it continuously on a green plastic record player that had STEREO speakers on the sides when it wasn’t disguised as a suitcase (or something). It provided hours and hours of entertainment and, believe it or not, it expanded my vocabulary farther and faster than any book I’d read to date. I remember asking my mother what a “lifer” in a state penitentiary was. Good times.

My early discovery of Alice Cooper’s music might seem trivial and just plain dumb, but that’s OK, because I know it to be far more significant. Alice Cooper (the group, the image) touched my life in so many ways. As a young and impressionable pre-teen I found not just the music, but the entire spectacle really helped me to make sense of the world. How? For starters, in the third grade, where everything is either hilarious or devastatingly embarrassing, I was able to show my grandmothers pictures of Alice and the band, bathed in green light and serenading snakes. I’ll never forget watching them either squeal with revulsion or start away in disgust. I knew they’d hate it, and that’s what made doing it so (as Alice would say) delicious! I was closer to the people I loved, and Alice Cooper was the catalyst.

We eventually moved far enough away from grandparents that we didn’t see them nearly as often. My father worked for a grocery store chain as a buyer, and as you might guess, suppliers wanted to make my dad the buyer happy, so they offered a lot of different perks, not the least of which was the coolest thing EVER: free concert tickets. Yeah. If you were in high school in the 70’s, long before videos, concerts were the epitome of good times. With prices as high as seven dollars, free tickets were a godsend.

I was hanging around with a new friend (acquaintance, really) and some of HIS friends in the new city, and feeling rather out of place. I didn’t really know anyone, and I remember being stoned and part of a conversation that was as vapid as could be. I was just going to get up and leave when someone across the room mentioned Alice Cooper. Nobody there knew my dad could get free concert tickets, and it just so happened that I had tickets to go see Alice Cooper. I started talking to the guy, and in one of those awe-inspiring moments, I could see that like me, Alice Cooper had really touched his life. After just a few minutes, I told him about tickets, and he was just all cool with that, to put it mildly. It’s been thirty-plus years since that conversation started, and it has never ended.

I tell this story because I happen to be in Phoenix and I visited “Cooper’sTown” (I don’t think I have to say who owns it) sports bar and grill last weekend. I felt like a kid in a candy store, and I wished my buddy, the best friend I ever had was there so we could soak in the exquisite joy of being in the (sort of) presence of a shared idol. I could go on, but I’ll just say that I think I got what I went for. I got the chance to have a couple drinks, bought some trinkets, and I got to reflect for a bit on the idea of Alice Cooper having had a lifelong effect on me. I could probably write this essay for the rest of my life and still not scratch the surface of what I want to say.

Since I started this blog, my title and opening blurb have always acknowledged my admiration of the Alice Cooper thing. I have no greater tribute. Thanks to Vincent, Dennis, Glenn, Michael and Neal. You helped me scare my grandmothers and you helped me to know who my best friend would be. You guys rock.

We Rock

I had a couple different blurbs I was thinking about to go along with my Alice Cooper piece, but decided I would write a few words about Ronnie James Dio who died this week. My favorite description of him was “the little man with the big voice”. He was indeed small in stature, but he was immeasurably large in appeal. There are many who might not know who he was, but there are literally millions who do. Very few can claim such acclaim.

“…the less that you give, you’re a taker…”

Coupla Blurbs

Lose Your Lunch

Some asshole stole part of my lunch yesterday. The motive, I guess, is irrelevant, but I found myself hoping that I never feel the need to rummage through random lunch bags at work. To be fair, I have put (what I was told was) food in my mouth without knowing for sure that I was being told the truth. Many times, I have been surprised at how much I liked it. And a few times, I have had to excuse myself quickly. I tried a stuffed grape leaf once, courtesy of a co-worker from Bethlehem. I’ve never had a turd in my mouth before, so I don’t know what they taste like, but I’m pretty sure they couldn’t taste any worse. At least I tried it.

It’s one thing to try something new, and it’s quite another to surf strangers’ lunches in a factory refrigerator. Ever seen the internet picture of the guy and his girl sitting on a couch, smiling and carrying on their normal daily routine, unaware that there’s a huge jar of anal lube on the coffee table? (Here it is) Yeah, I figure it’s his spaghetti in the back. And that veggie tray? I think that belongs to the girl with the painted-on eyebrows who looks a lot like Morticia Addams would if she weighed three hundred pounds. I’ll eat tacos out of a truck any day. If I see a sign that says “Meat on a Stick”, I’ll probably try it. It would never occur to me to eat a stranger’s leftovers. Ugh.

Get What You Need?

I was standing in a checkout line at a grocery store the other day, and in front of me was a woman with a small child whose head must have been on a swivel. Her eyes led her neck, which darted from the cornucopia of candy (placed at child-eye level) to her mother, wordlessly pleading. I was pleasantly surprised that there was no wailing. I think that’s what made it so riveting. And as I stood there, I thought to myself that anyone with eyes could see through that kid and know that there was one, and only one thing on her mind: Butterfinger. A big one. I know that look. I know that feeling.

The mom utterly ignored the child’s mute plea. The child knew that a big Butterfinger was not in her immediate future, and to her, that meant she’ll never get one, ever!

Childish, yes, but I know that feeling too.

We always want what we can’t have, don’t we? Be it a candy bar or a car, an ice cream or a lottery hit, young or old, we all want what we know we have no chance of getting. We try, though, yes we do. It doesn’t matter if we’re using cow eyes to get a candy bar or flowers to get a girl; we reason that it would be perfectly rational to jump through flaming hoops over a bed of nails to get that thing we want, all the while knowing our efforts are futile. I don’t have any wise words to explain why we do it. I do know that the child I saw in the store will more than likely perform the same act at the next store, hoping for a different result. I hope she finds what she’s looking for. One of these days, maybe…

Don't Face the Music

Just recently, I’ve seen postings here and there (OK, on Facebook) for videos of so and so’s favorite song of the moment. I can’t begrudge them because they want to share a song that’s important to them at the time they posted it, but I still have a big problem with it. Not the intent, but the medium. I have a problem with videos and the glut of current popular musical artists in general. I don’t care what you look like, I don’t care who you’re married to, and wads of cash flashed in pictures of ridiculously opulent houses do nothing to convince me that I should spend my money on your “art”. Music is for my ears, not my eyes. Move me first with your talent, and if I’m interested enough, I’ll find a picture of you. Otherwise, I don’t care about you.


Am I a grumpy old coot? Maybe. Hear me out.

I must confess that I myself have sent out mass emails in a more than half drunken state, fully convinced that everyone who listens to the song will interpret it as I do at that moment. They will see the sheer wisdom and beauty that it evoked for me, and we will be blissfully united by the most imaginative of man’s feats. Of course, once I sober up, I realize that at least half of the recipients probably didn’t listen to it, and if they did, they didn’t have an epiphany. But I never sent a video, just the song. I wanted my contacts to listen.

The problem with video is that once you see it, you will always associate that song with the images that the video director wants you to see. By way of example, Tom Petty has a song called “Don’t Come Around Here No More”, and the video for it consists of the band members costumed as Carroll’s “Through the Looking Glass” characters, who end up slicing Alice (who has somehow become a giant cake) into pieces for dessert. If I had simply heard the song, I probably would never have thought of Alice, because it doesn’t say a thing about her. I don’t get it. What does Alice in Wonderland have to do with the singer admonishing a former lover to stay away? I guess with some imaginative license a parallel can be drawn, but I prefer to let my imagination reveal what the song has to say, not someone else’s. I always kind of liked the song, but once I saw the video, every single time I hear that song I see nothing but Alice the Cake getting cut up.

Somebody close to me said not long ago, that when you first fall in love, it seems like every love song was written with you in mind, and when you’re in the midst of a breakup, every sad song was written with you in mind as well. When I was younger, before videos, having a radio playing was a given no matter what the activity of the day was, be it work or home or school (yes, we used to be able to bring records in on Fridays and play them). If you were lucky enough to find some time alone, sitting around blowing your eardrums with Princess Leia-like headphones was the ultimate pastime. It was, IS, the greatest escape from real life. I still get giddy sometimes when I listen to my favorite songs, because whether they make me happy or sad, they help me to understand me, and that, my friends, will work for you too.

The true magic of music is that the same song can have completely different meanings when heard at different times. If you haven’t laughed and cried to the same song, you’re missing something, because it is your mood that sets the imagination stage, not what a director thinks it should be. There are enough people in your life that want to tell you what to think or do or say. Don’t believe them. My advice is, if you want to listen to music, LISTEN to it, don’t watch it, because you’ll never see yourself if you’re looking through someone else’s eyes.

For Loren

It wasn’t very long ago that someone close to me lost a child. The girl was 29, and there’s just no other way to say it: She died far too young. Like everyone involved, I was shocked to hear the news. I literally did not know what to say. She was a good person, and it seems that people like that are maddeningly few and far between. I will miss her. I write this not for her, but for her mother. I wish I didn’t have to write it. I really do.


What is there that anyone can say to a parent who’s lost a child? Somebody told me not long ago that, as a person who has no children, I don’t really know what love is. I could argue that point, but I mention it because I don’t think I’ve ever felt so empathetic for my friend, one of the nicest people I have ever met. I cannot imagine what that must be like, and I can’t put a value on how badly I wished I had some words that would help to ease the utter despair that she must have felt. The psychiatrists say that it is a uniquely human quality to want to help when we see another person in trouble, that it is innate in us to assist and comfort fellow persons, even strangers, but when it is someone close that’s hurting, it seems impossible to console them no matter how good our intentions. And those of us with some sense of decorum stand mute for fear of worsening an already awful situation, wanting to wail with and for them, knowing that there is nothing we can do to make things better. Yet, we’re powerless to console what must surely be inconsolable. And that’s really what death reminds us of, isn’t it? That we are not in control. That we are mortal.

When I heard the news about Rachael, I wanted to write something, but I couldn’t think of how to begin, let alone a theme that would tie all thoughts together in a way that would make sense. Her death was such a shock that nothing I could think of would be enough. Nothing was appropriate. And in the most serendipitous of ways, I saw something that completely captured everything I wanted to say. It was a bird. I saw it at the Honolulu Zoo, and I thought it was injured. It had a huge red splotch on its chest. I thought it had been shot. Then I noticed another, and another, and all bore the same mark. They strutted and preened and flew about (in their cage) looking fatally wounded, yet vibrant. It was as if they continued to live after having their hearts torn out. I’m not ashamed to say that I got a little mushy. Like a bolt, I thought of my friend’s loss, and experienced the tiniest fraction of her pain, and that was more than enough.

The bird in the picture carries on regardless of its horrifying appearance. As individuals, they had varying degrees of color and size for their marks, as if some were more immediately wounded than others. I don’t know if the marks change on the birds, but I hope that the stain on my friend’s chest fades with time. It won’t disappear, of course, but I hope that like the birds, she is able to go about the business of her life in spite of her having literally lost a piece of herself.

For my Friend: When my father’s father died, I watched him during the funeral, and he was stoicism incarnate. I knew he was hurting, but he was a rock. I’m sure he was stained though. I remember later in the evening, hours after the funeral, as we passed each other in his father’s house bursting into tears and hugging him, telling him that I didn’t think I could ever be as composed as he was when it came time for me to bury him. It was an awful feeling, but I can see how it could be worse. A person expects to bury their parents, not their children. Words are an utter failure for describing that experience. I think what I want to say is that grief is a very personal thing. For a parent, it must be a private hell built for one. I hope your time there is short. I know that you have seen the darkest of days, and I hope that it will help you to appreciate the bright ones that will surely come. No one deserves them more than you.

Bird info

Out of the Mouths of Fools

I have a friend who has a very specific mantra that he loves to repeat when trying to reconcile the absurdities we all face on a daily basis, such as when a driver cuts you off for no apparent reason or a fast food clerk who says something totally unrelated to the simple task of ordering a quickie meal. He says, “Jeff, you have to remember that ninety nine percent of the population is retarded.” Now, we all know in our heart of hearts that that can’t be true. However, there are times when I wonder if he’s right.
Now, before you think this is going to be an elitist diatribe about how much better I am than everyone else, or dismiss me as a sad little man heaping derision upon others to make myself feel better, hear me out. I want to present a few examples of people I’ve met recently in my travels that utterly defy my attempts to classify them as normal human beings. No one can say for certain what “normal” is, and I obviously can’t meet every person in the world, so there’s no way I can say that ninety nine percent are idiots, but I offer a few examples that really have me worried that my buddy is right.
Taco Hell
I don’t eat fast food much, not because I’m a health nut, but because most of it just tastes bad. Once in a while I’ll get a double cheeseburger and a drink (for about 2 dollars) when I have a long motorcycle drive, for instance, and I don’t want to be hungry. The meal itself isn’t satisfying in the way a good rib eye steak is, but it is adequate in that I’m not hungry while I’m riding and, hopefully, it was non toxic (at least in the short run). I really don’t keep up with fast food menu changes; I just hope that whatever it is that I order is the same as it was in years previous. So, it was with this blissful ignorance that I rolled into a Taco Bell not long ago (for the first time in a long time) to get a cheap, quickie lunch. I wanted a Mexican pizza. Now, I hate olives, so I told the girl behind the counter that I wanted one with no olives. She practically froze, and made a quick point of telling me that they were out of olives, and looked at me expectantly to see how I would deal with this information. I didn’t know what to say. I wouldn’t care if every olive on the planet was gone. I couldn’t understand why their lack of olives would impact my order in any way, so I said, “OK, I’ll have it without sour cream”, and that was what it took to get my order from her station to the back where it could be made. She took my money with a smile and busied herself with the next customer, satisfied that she had averted a fast food catastrophe. I wondered if I really wanted to eat there. Turns out the Mexican pizzas aren’t nearly as good as I remember them.
Snake Oil
I was working in Pontiac, Michigan, standing outside (in the cold), smoking. It was a factory of sorts, a union place where the talk among the employees is the same no matter where in the country I go, although in Michigan, it’s always worse. Generally, the conversations I overhear are comprised of a) How terribly inefficient the management is, b) Schemes to use the union to make the management look foolish, and c) What their plans are when they hit the lottery. Once in a while, though, you run across that person who carries himself as a genius among fools, a jailhouse lawyer-type whose sole source of self esteem comes from spouting big words to impress the gullible, words he hopes no one else in the vicinity will understand. It’s wrong to judge people by the way they look or dress, so I’ll leave his ridiculous attire out (ask me about it sometime), and stick to telling what he told me. He told me, in a matter-of-fact tone, with a straight face, that he knew how to cure cancer, all cancer. In fact, he said that he had built a machine out of ham radio parts that could do it, and sold it to a doctor who had no idea such technology existed. I wasn’t quite sure which tack I should take with my response, so I bought myself some time by asking how his ham radio machine worked against cancer. He told me that very specific radio waves will kill viruses, and that cancer is a virus, and that all cancers are caused by the same virus. I wanted to respond at this point, but he was on a roll, so I let him run with it. He went on to explain how the pharmaceutical companies have kept a lid on this stunning treatment since the fifties, silencing anyone who dares to retrieve and disperse this wondrous, vital news to the world, because like diamonds, if people knew the truth, they’d be out of business. Indeed, the medical and pharmaceutical companies are one and the same (controlled by the New Illuminati) who conspired years ago to keep people just a little bit sick all the time so they’d have to buy medicines. It’s the perfect scam, he said. People will always want to be healthy, and they’ll spend every last dime chasing that carrot, and the medicine men will be steering the horse. I was literally biting my tongue. The parting words from this character were that I should look up Royal Rife, the man who first invented the cancer killing machine. He said this as if it were a secret name to be spoken only among those who could be trusted. Well, after a very little bit of research, I found that Royal Rife was debunked and dismissed in the fifties. The “lost” knowledge that the smoking loony could, alone in his basement duplicate with Radio Shack components never really worked, and everybody knows that, except this guy. I wanted to ask him his opinion of the government’s role in the 9/11 disaster, but had to go back to work. I always love hearing that one.
Gay By Choice
I met a guy in California earlier this year who was a good guy to work with. Unless you’re independently rich, you have to work, and some jobs just plain suck. The trouble, though, with a crappy job, and perhaps what makes it even crappier, is the people you have to work with. A pedestrian job can quickly turn into a traffic jam of frustration and anger when dealing with morons, so it’s always nice to work with people I can at least get along with. This guy was extraordinary in that he expected the work to be done quickly and efficiently, but it was also important to him that his workers were as happy as could be considering the circumstances. We had to work, but we didn’t have to toil. Anyway, this guy thought it would be a good idea for us all to get together one Saturday night and call out for pizza and have a few drinks at his home, and generally socialize. We’re all transient workers, so it’s good now and then to have some camaraderie when we’re all a long way from home. When I arrived, most of the guys we were working with in LA were already there, eating and drinking and having as good a time as one can have when on the road. Our host was there, of course, and he was as affable as always. He was wearing a black t-shirt with a design and some words on it; I thought it was a concert shirt. When I spoke to him, though, and had a chance to read it, I noticed that it was a religious message and not a rock band shirt. I thought that was odd, because he never mentioned anything about religion; he swore and gossiped like the rest of us. He said he was a born-again Christian (as he sampled my wonderful vodka and fruit juice concoction), but that he didn’t proselytize to anyone who didn’t ask. Fair enough, I thought, and that was the end of that. He did, however, say the oddest thing a while later. He said that homosexuals, all homosexuals, chose the life they’re living. Since we were all friendly and we were all drinking, I told him that I didn’t believe it was a choice. In my opinion, you’re either gay or you’re not, Hollywood weirdoes notwithstanding. This subject, however, was one he was adamant about, and he wanted to explain why he thought the way he did. He reasoned that the only reason gays were gay was because they had a psychological problem, a deep-seated self loathing; their behavior is a manifestation of a cry for help. And then, of course, he said that all of those problems could be overcome if they would just give themselves over to Jesus. That was the end of the discussion for me. I’m not going to convince a vodka swilling, oddly discrete bible thumper of anything with logic. I am still friends with this guy, and I hope I get the chance to work with him again sometime soon. We won’t be discussing anything remotely religious, and he’s OK with that, so I am too. It’s just funny how sometimes even the people who seem relatively normal can come up with some real gems.
I have no doubt than an essay similar to this one describing my own foolish notions could be written. I’d do it myself, but that would make me a little…weird. The whole point here is that we all have our quirks and we have all said or done something that would make others question our ability to walk around without hurting ourselves. Sometimes, though, it’s good to run into people like I’ve described here. It makes me feel a little more normal, whatever that is.

Still Lurking About

Well how about that? This page is still up. I thought it would have been taken down due to inactivity. The last time I was here I promised road stories, but it turns out most of them are pretty boring. In fact, the things that stick in my mind from my travels are usually more like rants than commentary. Fortunately, I do enjoy ranting from time to time, and it will help me get back in the swing of writing. So, on a very light note, here are some observations on some of the people and places I’ve been seeing lately.

Motel Hell

I live in motels. Sometimes they’re fancy and sometimes they’re cheap, but it’s not the price of the motel that makes it better, it’s the feeling you get when you walk in and know right away that you can be comfortable there. It is intangible, elusive, and always welcome. I had a run of two motels in a row a couple months ago that were comfy, but the weird part was that both motels had furniture that looked (to me) exactly like cartoon characters, one from the past and one from the present. See the accompanying pictures and decide if I speak the truth or if dementia has begun.



I walked into a motel room in near Baltimore, a Marriot Courtyard I believe, and the sun streamed into a room that sprung from the pages of a storybook, with impossibly bright colors that covered the spectrum, yet did not seem out of tune. And right away, I saw it. The chair. The chair that struck me like a bolt. You just gotta love those moments when you suddently remember something long-lost, something from your childhood that evokes a rush of nostaligia that brings an instant smile and an inner warmth that has been missing since adulthood set in. Anyway, this cream (?) colored chair sat on a dark blue carpet that was wildy incongruous, yet very pleasing. As soon as I saw it, I remembered a book I hadn’t thought of in years (decades, actually). The book is titled “Put Me In The Zoo” written by Robert Lopshire in 1960, and it was a childhood favorite. (If you have never read it, I suggest you do.) The chair in that room looked exactly like the critter in the book; I never could figure out what kind of animal it was, but there it sat, in my room. Was it just me? Had months of motels worn me to the point where I was seeing imaginary creatures in the flesh, er, fabric? You decide. The picture of the chair is a little dark, but trust me, it was spot-on, so to speak.





I probably wouldn’t have thought the “zoo” chair so strange except that from Baltimore, I went to near DC and walked into a room with a chair that looked just like “Plankton” from Spongebob Squarepants. Two motel rooms with two cartoonish chairs in one day made me wonder if working on the road was starting to have unforeseen side effects. But, unlike the zoo chair, this one doesn’t take much imagination to see. In fact, if you can’t see it, maybe it’s you that has a problem.





Melting Pot

I’ve been a lot of places in the past few months, and every time I change areas, I always make it a point to try to munch on whatever the local culinary specialty is. For instance, I have to eat crab cakes when in Maryland, steak in Oklahoma, and tacos in Texas. Whenever I get to a new site, I find a local bar (duh) and ask the regulars which restaurant they think has the best food in town. I always specify that it’s not the price that makes it good, but the food. Because I’m a bit of a cretin, greasy spoon diners are often far more enjoyable than swanky, “dress up” places. Food presentation means little to me. Flavorful and unique are the qualities I seek, and if I can eat with a spoon, even better. I wish I could give a review of something I heard of in Texas, but my time there was short, and while I did have some AWESOME barbecue, I didn’t get to try the one thing that I had heard so much about: fried butter. Yes, I said fried butter. I think they’ll fry just about anything in Texas. I saw on various menus fried olives, pickles, jalapenos and cheesecake, but the only place to get fried butter was at the state fair, and I heard radio announcers describe the traffic around the fair as “nightmarish”, so I didn’t go. I did manage to get the lowdown on how one goes about frying and eating sticks of butter though. The process, according to the locals, is to take a frozen stick of butter, and roll it in a sort of biscuit dough, then plunge it into hot oil. When sufficiently cooked, the result is a nearly hot dog sized wad of crispy fried goodness that oozes buttery ecstasy. I had heard tales of fried Twinkies as well as fried candy bars (Milky Way, Snickers), but I wanted to eat what surely must be true ambrosia. Mark my words: I WILL eat fried butter before I die. I will.

Home and Away

For all of the different stuff I get to eat, the legion of restaurants can never duplicate the foods that one can only make at home. There is a great deal to be said for eating out, of course, not the least of which is being able to tell someone what you want to eat, wait for them to bring it to you, then leave the dishes when you’re done. I like that. But, there are some things (and we all have our favorites) that can only be made at home, or at least, in a motel room with a kitchen. I have yet to find a motel room with a real oven; twice I have been in a new place shopping, hungry, and bought frozen pizza because it looked good, only to return to my motel and remember that I have no oven. Motel maids must love it when I do that. But there is nothing like making what I want the way I want it made when I want it. It often reminds me that I’m a long way from home and the people I love when I sit and eat by myself, and that can be a drag, but a pile of macaroni and cheese can work wonders when you’re melancholy. I believe writing helps too, now that I think about it. I’m going to have to do it more often.

New Chapters

It’s safe to say that I haven’t written anything in a while. There are so many reasons for my lack of activity, and maybe one day, when I get them sorted out, I’ll write them down. So, since I’ve been gone for so long, let me bring you up to speed. I have a new job, one that involves seemingly endless travel. For now I’ll remain in the US, but I’m really hoping that something international comes my way. I’m both excited and apprehensive about traveling, but it is what must be done. For the record, I’m tripling my salary, so you can bet I’m going to find a way to make the best of it. (Some may call me a fool for doing it, and that’s why I chose my picture.)

I’m going to try and keep a loose journal filled with interesting tidbits about the different cities I visit. Just kidding. Mostly, it will contain rants about the things I didn’t foresee or the characters I’ll come across. As always, my entries will be light and fluffy in nature, unless something really poignant or amazing happens. If it does, I’ll get out my emotional words and try to convince you of a great truth that everyone already knows but may enjoy a reminder of. And on that note, I’ll start at the beginning.

I’ve seen several articles on blogs across the web discussing whether or not making friends becomes harder as one grows older. Some say it is and some say it isn’t, and I used to count myself among those who felt that good friends just get fewer and farther between the longer I live. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that I’ve been meeting good friends my entire life. I can’t complain about that. I can, however, complain about leaving them. So, for the first entry of my journal, let me start whining right off the bat and relate what is really the first step in my new gypsy life: leaving Florida.

Odd as it may sound, I really enjoyed my previous job. For the first time in my life, I didn’t dread going to work. Now, that’s not to say that what I did was heaven on earth, but for the most part, it wasn’t bad. I think, though, what made it not suck so much was the abundance of really nice people to work with. I’ve never had so much fun and gotten paid for doing it. Anyway, when I said I was leaving, it was arranged that on my last day, we would all go to a restaurant that most of us knew and really liked. That, I thought, was a nice gesture on their part, and lunch for us all one more time sounded like the perfect send-off. I was light-hearted and excited about the future, and I fully expected them to get me a card and some sort of trinket as a reminder of the time I spent there.

In a way it was a little awkward, since we had all become the best of co-workers, always sharing a laugh or a lunch, and sometimes even meeting at someone’s house for a barbecue (read: drinking party), so it’s not like we never socialized outside of work. We were friends, but not really close. I had convinced myself that yes, I was going to miss them and no, I probably won’t ever find such a fun place to work again, but we’re all adults and everything would go smoothly. And that’s what I was thinking when I opened the small gift basket on the table in front of me.

The sudden realization that I’ve been wrong, so totally, wonderfully wrong, is a feeling that I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of. I love the instant when it suddenly becomes crystal clear that the people I think I know prove themselves to be far more than I had ever imagined. I am at once elated and humbled in those moments; it is a euphoric beyond any drug, and the lowest low. All of life’s major turning points have their indelible memories, and my departure from Florida will always mean that in one final lunch with my friends I realized that I was kidding myself when I thought they were just friends. With one simple gift, they did what only good friends do: They let you know that they care about you more than you know.

But what, you may ask, was in the gift basket? Well, it was a pen, but not just any pen. It was a Cross pen, much like any graduate would (or used to) get. By twisting the body, you can have black ink, red ink, or a pencil. There’s even an eraser hidden on top. It’s not a cheapie plastic thing, but a very nice writing instrument, and up near the pocket clip, my name is neatly engraved in a gothic looking font that’s not too big or too small. It is sleek and elegant, not gaudy at all. It is the perfect gift, and they knew that, and suddenly I knew it as I looked across the table at my smiling friends watching me open it. That I’m at a loss for words is a condition that should happen more often, but I really went speechless over the pen. Well, the pen and the sensation that I was floating as I woke up to the fact that I was surrounded by people who cared about me and would miss me. If that’s not bittersweet I don’t know what is.

I won’t bore you with the fluff and stuff of me telling my friends how I felt; it was just as sappy as you might think. I also won’t bore you with a snoozy soliloquy about how much I miss them now that I’ve gone. So, the only thing left to do is to honor the gift and, more importantly, the warmth they’ve shown me by using (the idea behind) the pen to write down stuff that happens to me so they can read it, along with anyone else who cares to. With every entry to my blog from now on, I am proving myself worthy of having friends such as the ones I left behind in Florida. I know I’ll never be famous, but I hope they know that they helped me to get out of my slump and realize that while I may make new friends in the years to come, I will always remember the ones who thought so well of me. There are no words to express how I feel about them. I hugged the ones I could, and that’s the best I could do, but it’ll never be enough.

Who Loves Ya, Baby?

From the time we first become cognizant of our surroundings until the time we no longer know or care what goes on around us, there isn’t a person on the face of this earth who doesn’t, at one point or another, want to feel loved. From the first smack on the ass to the ringing cacophony that drowns out the sounds of the world for the last time, we have three basic needs: To eat, procreate, and if we’re lucky, to enjoy the warm feeling of being needed. There are countless people on this planet who go through their lives struggling just to eat, and to tell you the truth, it makes me want to moan out loud in empathy for their plight. For all of us who feel that way, the only thing that keeps us from completely breaking down is the sad but true knowledge that we cannot save everyone no matter how badly we want to. The fate of the hungry will have to wait for another essay, though, because I do not have the words for it right now. I may never have them. But I do have some for those of us who, by the simple accident of our birth, are blessed (as it were) with at least a chance to make our world a little brighter by giving more than we take.

You and I both know people who dart through life as if in a shadow, emotional vampires who suck all the fun out of every room they enter, leaving a wake of chaos and bewilderment everywhere they go. Indeed, we often idolize such people, and when they’re gone, we spend years, decades and even centuries trying to understand what made them do the things they do. How about that boyfriend or girlfriend, husband or wife that you thought was your soul mate whom you found screwing someone else? How much time have you spent trying to understand why they did the things they did? We tell ourselves that the people who hurt us have no clue what they’ve done, but we know that they know, and we know that they simply don’t care. Our feelings mean nothing to them, and yet we still wonder what we could have done to prevent the inevitable. In fact, given the chance, many of us would repeat the same behavior, hoping for a different result. Why do we do that? Because we are the same as them.

John Donne wrote “No man is an island, entire of itself...any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind...” The people who wear their hearts on their sleeves intuitively know this. They don’t need a degree in English or a thorough understanding of philosophy to understand that while there are those among us (too numerous to count and often infuriatingly frequent) who have no regard for anyone else’s feelings, they are still part of a collective consciousness that is the inherent and sole burden (or grace) that is the legacy of humankind. It is a yin and yang existence that we share. There are “good” people, and there are, in today’s vernacular, “haters”. How do we make sense of this? How do we not give up and take the easy road, joining the haters and ignoring all feelings but our own?

It’s not easy. I certainly can’t sit here and say that I have achieved nirvana and am as one with all living beings. In fact, I have no pedestal from which to proclaim the truth which will set all men free. But, I can offer a bit of humble advice: Before you go out and tell someone that you love them, make sure that you love yourself first. I don’t mean in a selfish, narcissistic way, but you have to be happy with you before you can be happy with someone else. Sounds easy, but it’s harder than you might think. If wishes were fishes we’d all have a fry, but wouldn’t it be nice if we thought before we said something that we knew would hurt someone else’s feelings? I don’t mean in the stupid overly PC world that we’ve become, but if we really tried to think before we acted, our world would be a better place. Pick your own cliché, but it all comes down to the golden rule.

I picked Telly Savalas as my title and theme because his iconic trademark line is one we should all think about. When you hear that line, your answer should be “me”. If it’s not, you’re in for a world of hurt. If you can’t give that answer, then rest assured that no one else will.

Zoot Suit

Good clichés stand the test of time because they offer kernels of truth in just a phrase or a sentence. There have been many phrases coined in the mint of experience that, while priceless, end up in the gutter, apparently too troublesome to bend over and pick up. In fact, there are a great many idioms that have been floating around for millennia, trying to impart an important lesson that we perpetually ignore. Not learning from the past does indeed condemn us to repeat it, but I suppose it’s the nature of the beast to keep getting burned before we stop sticking our fingers in the fire. I’ll be damned if I can explain why they haven’t disappeared from our vernacular due to obsolescence except for the simple fact that people have an uncanny ability to ignore things that are as plain as…well…the noses on our collective face. But, since I’m not on a serious rant this time, I’d like to share with you a cliché that I’ve always found relevant.

“Never judge a book by its cover” is a phrase that appears in varied forms in almost every language and culture on the earth. To judge something based solely on its appearance is just plain foolish, yet who among us isn’t guilty of it at one time or another. If you’ve never seen a picture of a naked mole rat, look here. Even the most ardent animal lover would be hard-pressed to fight the urge to kill it with fire if one wandered into their kitchen. Shakespeare said “The devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape,” so it’s probably best to remember that appearances are just that: appearances.

I really want to write about an extension of the book/cover saying that has been adapted to “clothes make the man.” I simply cannot fathom why so many people put so much importance on clothing. I have a personal stake in this, so hear me out. I like to wear overalls. They’re comfortable and practical. They cover everything that needs to be covered and if you get the right kind, they last for years. And yet, for all of their benefits, I suffer ridicule from all kinds of people for the fashion crime of being comfortable. I once dated a woman who said “You can never go out in public with me dressed like that.” I snickered, but she wasn’t laughing. She was serious. She was literally telling me what I could or could not wear. I knew how to dress myself by the time I was 7, so I didn’t need someone telling me how to do it. In case you’re wondering, that relationship didn’t last very long.

My current girlfriend isn’t a fan of my overalls either. She’s not as militant as the other, but I still get the “THAT’S what you’re wearing?” sarcasm, and I don’t get it. She bought me a shirt not long ago that was nice, but a little flashier than I would have bought, and I accepted it graciously. It was just a t-shirt, and it even had a skull on it, but it has a kind of “look at me” air to it that just doesn’t fit me. She raved about it, and said it looked good; it is evidently the height of t-shirt chic. She paid 50 bucks for it. For a t-shirt. I may not know much about fashion, but I do know that t-shirts don’t cost that much money. Hell, I can get a sack of them for ten. It’s probably a good thing that I never had children, because I would think nothing of having them wear potato sacks until they were old enough to dress themselves.

So I’m wondering, is it the look of the fancy clothes that fashionistas like, or is it because they cost so much? Does an outrageous price tag mean the clothes look better? Am I missing something here? Maybe I’ll just start telling the naysayers that I paid five hundred dollars for my overalls, call them cretins, and stick my nose in the air while I stomp off in a huff eating a tin of caviar that I had hidden in one of my many pockets.

Wordy Gurdy

“When ideas fail, words come in very handy.” Johann Wolfgang von Goethe said that, and I couldn’t agree more. I love words. I love the act of choosing words to write down. I love search for the perfect word to convey exactly what I have in my head. It doesn’t work as often as I’d like (bless you, Goethe), but I love it still. I know that sounds like the geekiest thing in the world, but if you’ve never agonized over word selection, I feel sorry for you. Now, before you think I’m going to try and choke some deep thought out of you with literary mothballs, relax. I just want to expound a bit on proper word choice, and what a nifty effect it has whether we realize it or not. Per Goethe, I want to show how more than one idea can be put across with the same words. And I’m even going to use a couple examples from our own time…Well, my time, anyway.

Anyone who knows me knows that I’m not a huge fan of the Eagles. They’re OK, and I don’t hate them, but they’re not one of my favorites. However, I have to bow (in private) at the clever use of ordinary words in the song “Hotel California” that has secretly fascinated me for years. If you don’t know that song, you’re either very young or you’ve been living under a rock since the mid seventies. Now before you dismiss me as an aging hippy trying to explain the allegorical undertones of a song that was released to a stoned yet appreciative audience, again I say, relax. I only want to deal with two lines to make my point, because that’s all I need. The lines are as follows:
They held the dance in the courtyard; sweet summer sweat
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.
Now that I think of it, the first line is only included for context. It is the second line that piques my geekiness. My consternation is only this: Does the word “some” in the line refer to the dance or the participants? Is it the dance that is impossible to forget, or are the dancers themselves the focal point? It works either way, doesn’t it? It is ambiguous as to what the subject of the narrator’s point of view is, and that’s what makes it so interesting, and so clever.

Let’s try another one, although this one is a bit different, in that I have no way to confirm the exact lyrics. The song is called “A Thousand Knives” by Ted Nugent, who has seen fit to not publish any official lyrics to what is, well, an obscure song. It was never a hit, so why the secrecy? In fact, why would anyone in the music business refuse to allow their lyrics to be printed? Call me crazy, but if you’re counting on your product being heard and understood by the consumer, it seems to me that your privacy issues are moot. In any case, the lines to the song in question are, as near as I can discern, as follows: “A couple lies/eyes are like a thousand knives; They cut in to you baby…” The reason for the “eyes/lies” slash is that I don’t know which word is the right one. As sung, it’s impossible to distinguish if he’s saying eyes or lies, and it matters which word is used because the meaning of the line depends on it. Is he singing about a look or a deed; either one can be as sharp as, well, a thousand knives, but we don’t know which it is.

The idea of picking out just the right word probably seems a bit esoteric to all except those who take delight in such a task, but it is all important. Readers have it easy, in a way, in that the words have already been chosen. But isn’t it just perfect when an author is able to throw them a curve by choosing words that can be taken in more than one way? The examples I’ve used are fluffy, I know, but they serve to make my point. Is it the dance or the participants? Betrayal or expression? Both work, but the meaning or the scene changes and that’s important. Goethe knew this, hence his observation. It’s hard sometimes to get an idea across on paper and those pesky words can serve a dual purpose by either communicating a thought clearly, or obscuring two or more ideas, causing endless speculation as to just exactly what the meaning is supposed to be. Fluffy examples? Yeah, but this has been going on for a long, long time.

Let’s get a bit meatier. Genesis 1:26 reads: “God said ‘Let us make man in our own image, after our likeness’…” (KJV) Can you see the pronoun problem here? “Us, our, ourselves.” Why not “me, my and myself”? Who, exactly, is “us”? I don’t want to get into biblical fallacies; I just want to know why the author(s) chose to use “us” instead of “me”. As a writer, I know that authors don’t choose words lightly. They know exactly what they want to say, don’t they? Forget for a moment that no one could have possibly been around to hear or know what God said before he created people. How could they have known his exact words? We’ll let that one go (although you should think about it), and try another biblical example where we get it straight from the source. There should be no problems with a direct quote. Right? Exodus 20:3 reads “Thou shalt have no other gods before me.” (KJV) Why, oh why, is this phrased like it is? As it reads, it sounds as if God knows there is competition, doesn’t it? If He is the ONE god, why would he mention others? It’s that “us” and “them” thing again. But, I’m not going too deep here. I just want to point out the importance of choosing the right word, because it matters.

I want to close with Goethe again by saying that the quote can be backed up with a myriad of examples, but not all ideas are obscured by words. There are plenty examples of prose that is as clear as crystal, and I believe we use those instances to help us to better try to explain the fuzzy ones. I found a perfect example of that in the oddest place: Behind a boiler at the 7up factory in Holland, Michigan, clinging to a rusty cabinet that hung over a lime-scaled sink was a little pink magnet, dusty and forgotten. It was small and cracked but legible, and it displayed letters floating in a bowl, like alphabet soup. The letters spelled “WORDS”, and beneath the bowl was this admonition: “Keep ‘em soft and sweet. You may have to eat them.” How about that? A great idea in just twelve words; no ambiguity here. I know, it’s not literature, but it conveys a message everyone can easily understand, and there is no greater goal for those who like to choose words.

Crime and Punishment

I saw a video clip yesterday, and as I watched it, I realized how much different parenting is now than it was when I was young. I can’t find a link to the story anymore; I guess it’s really not that newsworthy, but here’s what happened: An Ohio mother placed her 12 year old son on a street corner and for two hours had him hold a sign that said “I am a thief and a liar” for stealing a cell phone, lying about it, and refusing to apologize once he’d been caught. (Yes, she watched him the entire time and no, she didn’t get the apology). There are those now calling for child abuse charges.

As usual, I’m going to tell you what I thought of that. Because I have a hard time growing up, I find myself on the sympathetic side of children when they’re being disciplined, mostly because I remember being in that position with alarming frequency. For a 12 year old, there can be no fear like the fear of having to answer for something you thought you were going to get away with but didn’t. The cold feeling in the pit of your stomach when you get caught red-handed and you instantly know, KNOW that the hammer is going to fall is a pitiful (and sometimes funny) thing to behold, but I didn’t see a trace of fear on what I could see of this kid’s face. “Frustrated Mom makes son wear humiliating sign in public” is the tagline for this story. I really hoped to see a repentant and embarrassed child, but I didn’t. I saw a kid who might as well have been wearing a burka lolling on a street corner being ignored by almost everyone, and in the end, not apologizing for his actions. Where’s the lesson here?

I don’t have any kids, so no one wants to listen to my child rearing advice, and for once, I don’t have any (well, not much) to dispense. All I can do, as usual, is relate another story and hope the similarities as well as the differences don’t go unnoticed by you, the discerning reader.

From a very young age, I knew the difference between right and wrong. If I was right, everyone was happy. If I was wrong, I was the only one unhappy. Very unhappy. Painfully unhappy. As you might guess, even though I knew the difference between right and wrong, it still took me many years to solidify the concept that not doing what I wasn’t supposed to do was a good thing. I remember one hot fall Illinois day when I was unhappy about being grounded. My brother and sisters could leave the yard at will, but I, like a dog with a shock collar, could not, for leaving the yard would incur the wrath of my mother, and that was never a good thing. Just the thought of her gritting her teeth while she growled my name was the stuff of nightmares. My siblings, who were well aware of my predicament made no efforts at modesty; they pointed and taunted and gleefully screamed their plans for the afternoon, all of which entailed leaving sight and earshot of our house. Through my despair I hoped that one of them would pity me and stay, but none did. They all left, and I was alone in the empty back yard with the sun silently blaring down.

For a while I sat near the basement door, listening to my mother’s sewing machine droning on in the cool house while I baked in the heat. I wasn’t allowed to go inside (none of us were) except to eat lunch and have a glass of grape juice at 10 and 3. I hated my situation, hated my mother and hated the whole world. And in a moment of clarity, I suddenly realized that America is a free country and by God, I can do anything I want to do! So I left.

It doesn’t really matter where I went or what I did. Suffice to say that I behaved like a kid who wasn’t grounded and it felt really good. I had been gone for two or three hours and was playing contentedly with my buddy Curt in his back yard. His mother had just brought us some Kool-aid and I had utterly forgotten, or maybe just didn’t care that I was on the lam.

It has been said that a person is never more alive than when they’re about to die; their senses are heightened and they are keenly aware of the brink they’re teetering on…and most say they like it. I can understand that. But, as with all good things, they can end most abruptly. As I sat in Curt’s back yard, a marauding monster seized and crushed my idyllic bliss. Like a slavering demon loosed upon the neighborhood, my mother parted the shrubs and came marching across the yard, paddle in hand, teeth grinding and eyes blazing. I was frozen with fear. I sat and watched with mouth agape as she approached, saying nothing, but positively exuding anger. She snatched me up with one arm and commenced to paddling me with the other. I had already learned that there was no sense in trying to use my free hand to block the stinging blows. Not only did it hurt like hell being paddled on the fingers, it only served to infuriate her even more. It took about fifteen minutes to walk to Curt’s house, and I hopped while she paddled me every step of the way. I cried from pain and fear, of course, but I also cried because I knew that I could have avoided the whole awful scene if I had just done what I was supposed to do.

The spanking wasn’t the worst part of my penance. School was just starting, and for two solid weeks I had to come straight home, take a bath, put my pajamas with cartoon baseball players on and get in bed until it was dinner time. I got to eat, and then had to go right back to my bed. I could hear my brother and sisters outside playing in the twilight. The first weekend of my sentence was the annual block party, and I spent all day Saturday in bed, listening to the entire neighborhood partying and laughing and doing the things that people who aren’t grounded get to do. It was awful. The important thing is that I learned my lesson. Of course I got grounded again, but I NEVER walked away again. I never tried to get out of paying for what I’d done, and isn’t that the goal of punishment, to remind us that everything we do has consequences to accept if we choose to flaunt the rules?

It seems to me that the kid in the video got off real easy. If it had been me and my mother, I would have been standing in my underwear holding the sign and screaming to every passing car that I was a thief and a liar, and I probably would have been bleeding somewhere. No, I think this kid, unless he really gets himself together, is prison bound. He reminds me of a kid I knew once who (finally) had to spend some time at a juvenile facility. I went to pick him up, hoping that he had learned something. In a nonchalant way, he said that being locked up wasn’t that bad; he had made some friends and the food was good. Exasperated, I asked him if the fact that he couldn’t leave had any effect on him, and he said he hadn’t really thought about it while he was there. Hmmm. He went to real jail later.

My point here is that humiliation and fear are very powerful motivators and should not be shunned as a way of punishment. In fact, I’m all for it. The world is a tough place and children should learn from a very early age that it does not exist to make them happy. In fact, I daresay that not punishing swiftly and firmly is like setting out a welcome mat for later strife. Do I think children should be beaten, battered or broken? Of course not. I do think, however, that to mollycoddle them and feign anger and impose “a stern talking to” or time out for their misdeeds is just as bad, if not worse than real physical abuse. If you start early, and I mean from birth, and let them know that choices have to be made and consequences have to be dealt with, they are playing and learning on a level field. Feeling guilty and humiliated is the first step; the second is to turn them into the catalyst for creating empathy and modesty. If done correctly, with assurances that the world isn’t ending and the lesson is learned, punishment will be needed less frequently. You know why? Because they’ll learn right from wrong with your guidance. You don’t have to be a parent to know that. It’s common sense, isn’t it?

Holiday Blurbs

So much has been going on lately that I just haven’t had (or taken) the time to write, which is wrong. As you can tell from my title, I haven’t totally committed to one subject, so until I do, I’ll just jot down a few things that have been on my mind lately. I hope you enjoy them.

That Stupid Mating Game
It’s funny how sometimes, when we KNOW we shouldn’t do a thing, we do it anyway. Actually, it’s more sad than funny, but you know what I mean. We try to fool ourselves into thinking that this time it will be OK. And it just doesn’t matter how clear you think your head is because you can still fall into traps that you know you should avoid. I had a torrid one month affair with a woman recently who was absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. Normally, girls like her don’t want anything to do with guys like me, but much to my surprise, she literally threw herself at me. I should have known better, but I got suckered by appearance. You already know how this story turns out: She was a self-centered bitch, and I totally put up with it. Now, in my defense, I knew it wasn’t going to last, but I sure wanted to ride that ride as long as it was open. But I knew, KNEW that it wasn’t a good thing and I did it anyway. It was a cruelty I inflicted upon myself, and I wonder when I’ll learn my lesson. I won’t drone on about skin deep beauty and all that while I whine about my own weakness. In fact, I’m happy to report that I did manage to find someone I can put up with who can also put up with me. I’ll spare you the smarmy details, but suffice to say that I am much happier with the inner beauty than I ever was with the shell. Things are really looking up on the romance front. More on that as it develops.


Our New President
What do I think of Barack Obama? I hope he does a good job, although I don’t expect anything less than business as usual. As I’ve said before, anybody who really wants to be the president must have something wrong with them. But, egomania aside, I hope he is as sincere as he comes across. The guy is a gifted speaker, and we all (should) know that charisma is what gets people elected, not “plans”. Right after he won the election, I checked out a huge white supremacy site to see what they had to say, and they were “temporarily down due to server overload”. The only people who could read the threads were members. I had to laugh, though, because the reason they gave was the recent “obamanation” at the polls. There’s nothing like having the wind taken out of your sails, and in some cases, it’s just hilarious. On a serious note, I really hope that they can go back and sulk without assassinating him. Nothing would convince the rest of the world that Americans are idiots than something like that. It’s scary to think that some people relish the thought of a race war; I really hope they can get with the times. Google “stormfront” to see just how far out of alignment some of these people are, and think real hard about how good it might be to have a gun.

I’m sorry to say I only had two topics for this installment. On the plus side, though, I did come up with an idea I want to ramble about; I’m drafting it right now. I know the suspense is unbearable, but I will post a couple things in the next few days. It’s finally holiday time, and with it comes some time to do nothing but what I want to do. Finally. Happy Thanksgiving.