Honestly, Abe

This is day 12 of Nicky and Mike's "30 Minus 2 Days of Writing"...and I'm incredibly late again...but better late than never.  Don't forget to head on over there and enjoy today's ludicrous prompt: The Day I Met Abraham Lincoln.

Fade back in from yesterday...and cue music again...

Can it be?  Finally...we are here.  The bus has stopped.  Now we'll get to shower up and rest and -- are they serious??  They are taking us directly to Mount Vernon?  I heard of stretching your legs after a long trip, but this is ridiculous.

 

So, we have three whole days in Washington, DC.  Our itinerary is packed fuller than my suitcase and as easily followed as Ikea instructions in Japanese.

 

Let me get this straight - we spend like six hours at the Holocaust Museum, about five at Arlington Cemetery...and a whopping two at the Smithsonian's Museum of Natural History?

 

THE Smithsonian.  The crown jewel of the Smithsonians.  There's only about seventeen of these things and this is the one which houses all the stuff anyone in their right mind would want to see: dinos, the Hope diamond, one of those heads from Easter Island...c'mon...two hours?

 

Whoever wrote this game plan has undoubtedly never been to DC before.

 

So, they break us into two groups...male and female...like on the bus...and assign each a tour guide.  "Lucky" us - we get the tour guide who likes to ask 500 questions and asks them all next to a trash can...but then races us past everything else like we're in some Olympic marathon.  She yells at us for attempting to take photos...imagine that...we drove like 23 hours straight...just to get a snapshot of a pigeon eating a French fry next to a garbage can.  How preposterous of us to want to take one of our kid in front of some historical monument.

 

As fortune would have it, my daughter and I were in a sub-group all to ourselves as we trekked from place to place. Instead of being tasked to watch five other kids like all the other parents who tagged along were made to...I only had my daughter.  I guess that's the "perks" of having a heart condition - they think you're going to keel over at any moment and it's best to have it only witnessed by one child instead of five.  Anyway, because of this we got to see things like the Magna Carta and the Ruby Slippers...while everyone else had to see the back of some kid's head as they ran off in the total opposite direction of the other four.

 

As the end of each day approached - the tour guides dismissed themselves and then we got to see a bit of DC's monuments lit up...something I never managed to do when I lived there when I first got married as, well...because someone in my family liked sitting on their butt in the house instead of going to all the nifty free stuff DC has to offer.

But I digress.

 

Now, I'm no super special photographer and I only had a crappy 3-pixel digital camera...but when I want to take a photo of a special thing...I don't want someone's stupid head in the way.  I don't want half a blurry body blocking out my primo shot.  I don't want some life-sized cutout of Obama right in the way of my Washington Memorial looking like he just casually strolled out to get a few photo ops with the DC touristy peeps.

 

But...I didn't mind at all when I "accidentally" managed to get one guy I was following around - in about a dozen of my shots.  In fact, when I think about it...that was the day I met Abraham Lincoln.  This Italian guy kept walking directly in front of my camera...over and over and over again. 

 

And I know it was another dead president who said it...but this guy was proof positive that not all men are created equal...and as an American, I was Constitutionally bound to take photographic proof...you know, to exercise my rights as a citizen or something.

 

Anyway, when I look back at that eighth grade class trip in April of 2009, even with the suicide ride and boot-camp tour guide, I'll forever look back at it with fondness - because I'm so incredibly glad I got to share that time with Lincoln, "Roberto" and...uh...whatshername...oh yeah, my daughter, Giselle.

This Ain't Your Bob Hope Variety Road Trip, Folks...

This is day 11 of Nicky and Mike's "30 Minus 2 Days of Writing"...and we are fast (well slowly) approaching the half-way point of the challenge.  So far I've done pretty well, only using up two prior blogs (one because I just had to...it was a promise that I made -- and one because I had to...it was a migraine that I had).  I never write these things ahead of time - that would be cheating...and that's why some of mine are probably abysmally bad compared to the works of so many others.  So, with that said and out of the way, head on over there and enjoy today's prompt:  Road Trip

 

 

When you think of road trips...you might think of those Chevy Chase "Vacation" films...but I don't like them, so you will find no songs from Lindsay Buckingham here when I cue the intro music.

 

Cue intro music...
...The Who's - Going Mobile...

 

 

Aaaaaah...that's more like it.

 

I got my snacks packed and my pillow fluffed and I'm cosying on in for the long haul.  Let me just tilt my seat back like so and...okay...let me just try this again...ugggggggh...nope.  Let me ask someone else to do it. 

 

"Hey, could you tilt my seat back for me...I'm apparently too wimpy to push hard enough.  What do you mean my seat is already in the reclined position?"

 

Well, that's special.  If this seat's already in the reclined position, something tells me I don't want to see it upright.

 

It IS a nice plush bus, tho.  The school must have shelled out a lot o'cash to charter this puppy.  Let me just put my seat belt on...and...um...great...no seat belts.  I thought seat belts were mandatory?  Let me take a guess...seat belts are mandatory on every single vehicle except buses in Alabama, right?  

 

Great...my head is directly underneath one of the little "drop-down" movie screens -- happy, happy, joy, joy...I can see my head hitting it now when we go over a bump.  Lovely.  I take blood thinners.  I can see me having to be abulance'd over to the emergency room and everyone else going off to Washington, DC.

 

How long IS this trip anyway?  Twenty something hours?  Seriously twenty something hours stuck in the confines of this cramped seat with either the window to smash my head against or that thing looming up above my head?  Nice.  Oh, won't this be special.

 

Well, heat would be nice...what is it...like 50 degrees in here?  Everyone is complaining that it's freezin...everyone but the parents up front.  Seems the bus driver and his "entourage" get their little three feet's worth of heat...we get none.  Sheesh...you're kidding me...they actually want the air conditioner turned down lower.  That's great. 

 

I can't hear a damn word anyone's saying.  I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place...well, literally and figuratively.  All these girls...do they ever shut up?    All those parents...do they ever know I exist?  I guess not on both counts.  This will be fun.  I sense a never-ending headache coming on.

 

Could be worse I guess...I could be on the boy's bus...they are probably throwing each other and playing Frisbee in the aisle.  I would really be concerned about my head then.

 

Oh...someone is talking.  Something about a film.  Woohooo!  Someone's going to put on a VCR tape...that will quiet them down.  Well, that's great, not only can I not really see the screen (of which they have about six of them precariously placed about...one directly above my head by about three inches) - but I can't hear it anyway.  My hearing is shot...and I never played in "The Who".  I can understand Pete Townshend not hearing...but me?  I worked in an office...on the flight line with all the jet engines.  Nothing to lose hearing about there.

 

Okay, let's see what's about to start...all the girls are getting exceedingly  giggly.

 

Oh, for f***k's sake!  Are you kidding me??  "Twilight"???  Well, maybe my daughter wants to see it.  Nope.  Well, that's just great - but at least they seem engrossed texting among each other...maybe I can swap seats with that girl who has the whole row to herself.  She's younger than I am and I have a death box dangling above my head waiting to cleave it in half like I'm the only watermelon at the market and Gallagher just walked in.

 

Yes!  I shamed her into it!  Woohooo!  Old people guilt.  Gotta love it.  Three seats...all to myself; gotta love it!  Sure, I can't put my feet down because there's a ton of everyone's crap shoved on the floor and beneath the seats - but I don't have to touch the floor ever...because I can stretch the entire length of my legs out across all these seats.  Now, if I could just retract these arm rests.  There's gotta be a button around somewhere...or a lever. 

 

"Uh, could someone show me where the button is that..."

 

Oh, you're joking right?  You mean you can't move these things out of the way so I can get into a semi-prone position?

 

It's raining now?  Good. Maybe the bus driver will actually go slower than 80. No such luck.

 

There's construction barrels all over the road.  Good.  Maybe the bus driver will actually go slower than 80.  Ain't happening.

 

Does this bus driver think he's in the film, "Speed"?  Seriously, is there another speed he knows other than 80 mph??? 

 

Well, let me try to go to the bathroom while everyone is engrossed in "both" films.

 

Well, lookie there...isn't that cute?  Undoubtedly I have led a sheltered life. 

 

I have never been privy to the privy on a bus before.  Hmmmm...by the looks of it...many more things to bang my head into in here.  Let me work out the mechanics of it all -- I have to balance like the people in the Cirque du Soleil ...and I have to do it while peeing with my pants around my knees?  Oh...how rich.  I guess I missed that performance of theirs on PBS - as I have no clue how it's done.  Oh, wait...is THAT what I think it is...all the way in the corner of the toilet box?  Is that...oh, yes...oh, that's disturbing.  Great, now someone will think I did THAT.  I am NOT picking up someone's poop.  Wait...I couldn't pick it up if I wanted to...there's no toilet paper!  

 

This is going to be an interesting trip...a bus chock full o' girls...no toilet paper, a poop that at any time might decide to roll right at me...and I have to learn to levitate like David Blaine for the next two minutes in order for my posterior to stay well above touching range of anything in this germ-ridden cubicle.  Good luck unclenching my bladder during that 30 second window of opportunity when the ride finally smooths out.

 

How many hours left of this?  Twenty-one?

 

Time to cue some fade-out music from another "Who" album...

 

Life's Lesson in the Fast Lane

"Lucy" the Margate Elephant

(Remember...an elephant never forgets.)

This is a story about a very high strung girl, two cars, and a lesson not forgotten. 

 

Many years ago I had acquired a Citroen SM.  It was an odd car with the hydraulics making it go up and down, steering it, and helping with the breaking.   While it will probably be my most awesome car I ever had (people would stop what they were doing and stare; new recruits at Fort Dix Army Base...would stop exercising and stare - they probably got into trouble, but that didn't stop them), it was also a car no mechanic would touch. 

 

Chances are, if you are going to buy a car, make sure someone in the general vicinity of your house will fix it...otherwise you are screwed.

 

Enter the next car I bought because somehow the hydraulics got messed up in my Citroen SM and I couldn't drive it; it wouldn't even lift off the ground...and when it sat on the ground...it basically sat ON THE GROUND.  This next car was a Chevy Monza with a silly spider on the hood.  It was an okay car as far as cars go, but I've always been a foreign car lover...and foreign this was not.

 

This car had its share of problems as well...like when it would decide to "die" in the middle of the road, during a turn, in Philadelphia, when four lanes of traffic were barreling toward me.  And like each time I would park, I'd have to stay gone long enough for the "solenoids" to cool down so I could start it again.  To this day I don't know what a solenoid is...all I know is that I don't like them...especially when I can't start my car because they are too hot.

 

I hated this car.  You never knew when it was just going to stop.  Stop and just leave you there to die...cars coming at you...trucks coming at you...on the side of the road, in the middle of it, in malls at midnite, at work during lunch, at work after work.  It was totally unpredictable - one, if one were so inclined, would say the best thing about this car was the time I drove it Absecon, New Jersey, to talk to the specialized mechanic about my Citroen SM.

 

I never made it there.

 

My car died about six times en route.  One of the last times it decided to just conk out, it was at some produce stand in some town on the way. 

 

My mother was in the car with me, as I took my mother everywhere with me.  She was a good sport who undoubtedly didn't have much of a life as she tagged along to anywhere I wanted to go.  She was my best friend...and without her there I think I would have been a huge basket case.

 

As it was, I was a small hand-basket case.

 

And I'm sure I looked the picture of composure, too.  Stomping back and forth, yelling at the car, trying to start it over and over, lifting up the hood, staring at it, packing back and forth, looking at my watch, throwing my arms up in the air...and probably just looking like a mime on meth to anyone in their silent bubbles driving past.

 

It was about this time when someone from the produce stand approached us.  He was calm, he was logical, he was older...in fact, he was everything I wasn't.

 

I told him my predicament...and he introduced himself as the owner of the stand...and the Mayor of Margate, New Jersey.  He called up a mechanic friend of his and they got my car working again all for the price of a lesson.

 

A lesson I promised to follow.

 

He asked me if I had ever left something at the house and I had to go back and get it.  Naturally, I had. 

 

He asked if it had ever gotten me really upset because I would end up being late.  Again, of course.

 

Then he asked if I had ever driven past an accident where you tell yourself, "Wow...if I hadn't forgot my purse and had to go back home...that might have been me."

 

Again, yes...but what was he driving at?

 

He continued that perhaps, just perhaps, it was God's way of looking out for me.  Perhaps if I hadn't gone back - I would have been really late...perhaps if I had continued, the accident I saw would have been much worse for those involved...and maybe I would have been the one involved instead.  Perhaps there would have been an accident where there wasn't...and maybe I wouldn't have made it to my destination. Or maybe it would have been my final destination.

 

So, while I sometimes get a little bent out of shape when I have to turn around...I never once let it bother me like it used to all those years before.  I have never once forgotten those words...so thanks to an accidental chance meeting with the Mayor of Margate (circa 1980)...my entire life changed.

 

(I never did make it to Absecon...my beautiful Citroen SM...the one whose ride was unlike any car I'd been in since...was basically sold to some guy willing to get it off my parents' property.  Perhaps...that's the way it was meant to be.)

Tick-tock. Are you watching?

15 minutes.

The time it takes for me to wake up and get out the door if I really need to go somewhere...without putting a face on.

Is 1.042% of a day (according to the Internet as I'm not mathy and I wasn't going to try to calculate).

Songs I knew for a fact that were longer than 15 minutes: Genesis' "Supper's Ready" (23:06), Renaissance's "Song of Scheherazade" (24:39), and Iron Butterfly's "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" (17:05).

Songs that I thought were close to 15 minutes long, but aren't: Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" (8:02), Pink Floyd's "Shine on You Crazy Diamond" (side 1 - 13:38 and side 2 - 12:29)...and anything by REO Speedwagon (All songs by them were way too long as I hate them with a passion...and they seemed to drag on and on and on and on...)

The length of time it seems to take for the average "time out" in basketball to end.

The average time I spend on hold waiting for any company I call.

The time I think it will take me when I run in to buy anything.

The total time I take to run my daughter in to school on days we aren't late - when we manage to get all green lights.

The total time I wait for just the lights to change when I run my daughter in to school on days she is running late.

The amount of time elapsed whereby I refuse to watch any film (I've never seen before) which has already started.

The difference between life and death for a heart attack victim...aka the average point at which resuscitation is stopped.

The length of time Andy Warhol predicted we'd all become famous for -- needless to say you knew I was going to include it...and most celebrities have long exceeded their window of famousity.

The average run time of Charles Chaplin's [uncredited] short films.

Time's up.

In summation, 15 minutes was the time it took me to think of and/or research (Internet-wise) the above statements.

(That last one took a while...and, in retrospect, upon clicking each one maniacally, afterward, it might be closer to 18 minutes average time. For some reason many were 16 minutes long. I guess we might have been more ADHD back then than I initially thought. But, what the hell...I think it proved some dramatic point -- so I left it stay.

Hey, what else takes about 15 minutes? Clicking on the "We Work for Cheese" blog and reading some of those other entries. Well, perhaps you have to be Evelyn Wood-trained...but I can guarantee those minutes will be worth it. (If you haven't deduced by now - today's prompt was "15 Minutes".

Esmerelda and the Area Known as 51

It was just about dusk as Esmerelda sat behind the counter filing her nails at the only gas station in Goldfield, Nevada.

She had sat behind that counter every day, or near about every day, since her daddy got taken ill with a raging fever that ended up taking his breath away. Momma prayed hard that day and asked Esmerelda, "Sing with your angel voice, child, sing so the angels can hear and come straight to your daddy to 'take him home'."

Esmerelda obliged.

She was just a girl of about seven...but her voice could make grown men weep - and when the town, once a boom town for gold, started to get deserted, grown men wept for other reasons. Esmerelda didn't really understand where "home" was. She just knew when people got bit real bad by snakes or had the consumption, they always went "home" and then no one ever saw them again. They parceled you up real good, too. Put you in a big wooden box to send you there. She figured a special postman with a big wagon and two horses came to take you back "home" and your family would walk as far as they could and then came back again...crying.

But no one came back once they went home. And for a very long time Esmerelda was afraid to ever go home, but as she never lived anywhere else, she figured she was already there. Then, as all things go, time passed and she understood about "home" and then was worried her momma would go there one day. Sometimes she'd find herself doing chores 'round the house and her sweet voice would pour out like liquid sunshine and kiss the ears of everyone within earshot. Then she'd clam up and run outside as far and as fast as she could. She didn't want those angels to find her momma.

But now she was filing her nails and Curtis was in the garage of the gas station shouting obscenities each time he'd smash a finger. Curtis worked at the little grocery store and service station that was smack on the edge of town. Smack on the edge of town to nowhere really. Wasn't anything much before or after the town and certainly wasn't much there. The only thing within miles was Las Vegas and the only time people came through Goldfield anymore was because they heard it once had gold...but that was a considerable time ago, but that never stopped the passers-by who lost everything but gas money out of Vegas. Goldfield was a tank of gas away...and if they got lucky and found the stray nugget, it was a tank of gas back. And the only place to get that gas was at Esmerelda's daddy's store, "Old Bob Perkins' Place" it was called by the locals and that's what it will always be called if Esmerelda and her momma had anything to do with it.

It didn't cost much to run and Curtis got paid only when he fixed something, which wasn't very often, but then again, Curtis was never going to amount to much anyway...but that never stopped him from trying to hit on Esmerelda.

He had it all worked out in his simple head. He'd marry Esmerelda when the time was right and that time would be any day now seeing as she was starting to fill out her dresses too much and started wearing her momma's. Then he and Esmerelda would move in with his momma as she had the biggest house for miles around. Curtis never knew why she did, he only knew they didn't want for anything...but he never much wanted for anything anyway...anything but Esmerelda, that is. And that "wanting" wasn't exactly like wanting a new tire or wanting a new pair of shoes -- it was more like wanting some dinner...only sometimes this hunger seemed a lot deeper. Curtis, again, never really knew why.

But Esmerelda's hunger and desire didn't lie with Curtis...she wanted to go to Hollywood...or at least Vegas. She liked the distinct smell of ozone once when daddy took the family on a trip up there shortly before he died. Once in a while, on a warm still night, Esmerelda swore she could still catch a whiff of it if the breeze was blowing just right and if she turned her head just so.

Esmerelda knew she didn't have much time, either. The desert sun can blanch the bones of a dead thing white in a couple days...and the supple, taut skin of a young girl of 15 turns into something hard and leathery like the cowboys and Mexicans wore in those "shoot 'em up" movies she wanted to star in. Star in them right up there on the silver screen with Gary Cooper or John Wayne. Even though Esmerelda only went to a movie once, she knew that's what she wanted to do...she also knew, aside from "going home", that was her only ticket out of Goldfield.

And the best way to get there was on a tank of gas after someone found a big enough nugget.

So, each day she came to work dressed in her momma's best clothes, her hair styled as closely as she could get it to resemble the latest "starlet of the month" on the magazine cover and smelling of something called "L'amore de Parisienne". It cost a whole fifty cents...the finest her daddy's store carried. And there she would wait, filing her nails, anticipating that one day, and one day soon, a big Hollywood director would need a fill-up on his way scouting around for a new place to shoot a film...discover her in all her momma's Sunday finest...and sweep her away to the place where dreams can be made real...or at least as close to the reality she always dreamt about.

Each day, she'd walk home more disappointed than the last...and the days she spent waiting turned into weeks, then months, and finally years. Curtis had filled out enough to become interesting to her...and as he was the only boy close her age for miles, his dream was beginning to look like it would be her dream as well.

(End of Part 1)

(Originally posted 24 Mar 11)

(What does this have to do with the "We Work for Cheese" prompt "French" today?  The perfume, silly, the perfume...it's French.  Now go on over to the site and read all the other contributors for the "30 Minus 2 Days of Writing" competition/non-competition.)

Texting

I hate texting.

I hate everything about it.

I hate the abbreviations people use.

I hate the time it takes me to reply to a text.

I hate the noise my phone makes when I receive a text.

I hate the people walking around seemingly unaware of anything going on except the phone in their hands.

I hate sitting in doctors' offices and watching all the people texting back and forth in their little bubbles never looking up.

I hate the fact that I got called two times today from a "text to land line" comedy club in California like I'm going to actually go all the way there to catch an act...seeing that I live in ALABAMA!

I hate all those people driving around texting, putting me and everyone else in danger because they feel compelled to read - and text back as soon as humanly possible...because heaven knows keying in a reply is worth more than anyone's life.

Most of all, I hate the fact I am guilty of actually doing that last one.

Stop Texts - Stop Wrecks

(This is Day 7 of Nicky and Mike's "30 Minus 2 Days of Writing" non-contest contest over at "We Work For Cheese". Today's prompt was "Texting". Please check out the other blogs over there...but ignore all the ones on the list which were posted before mine...and after. Yes...do that. ;) That would be a good thing to do.)

I Put My Heart Into This One...I Really Did

Well, I was going to write some heartwarming story about Beach Haven in New Jersey and Hurricane Sandy and how I used to go there...and how much destruction they have suffered. It was going to be sad...and with me lamenting my youth and it was going to have some inspirational tie-in somehow...but I haven't felt well all day and just a little while ago (when I finally got up at 6:00 p.m.), I thought I was having some heart attack or something.

I have a wonky heart and it's scary...coupled with the fact it was beating about 5000 miles per hour and I was sweaty...plus I also had a wicked headache - I just sorta imploded. I darted in out of extremely messy rooms trying to find my blood pressure machine to calm me down a bit -- it always seems worse than it is, at least that's how I've had it so far. Absolutely no safe haven in the storm that is my mind when I'm going into panic mode.

Then I took a heart pill, which I think is a blood pressure kind of pill, and it slows my heart down...and I drank one of those "old people" Ensure shakes - and I feel a lot better. Perhaps it was a blood sugar issue - I keep telling them I have blood sugar issues, but they tell me I don't. Well, THEY don't ever take my blood sugar when I wake up after lying there for hours trying to sleep, but failing miserably.

I was also going to make a wickedly naughty post about something being "clean s-haven"...but, I didn't. But you can bet your ass it was going to be rollickingly hilarious and you would have spat milk out of your nose...even if you hadn't drank milk in ages. Seriously, it was going to be THAT friggen brilliantly done.

But I didn't.

I decided to calm down, breathe, sing old movie songs, and load the dishwasher instead.

"H aven, I'm in h aven...and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak..."

...damn, my wonky "e" on the keyboard must be sticking again.

At least my heart seems to be beating right and I can speak again...

...whew.

(This is Day 6 of Nicky and Mike's "30 Minus 2 Days of Writing" non-contest contest over at "We Work For Cheese".  Today's prompt was "Haven".  Please check out the other blogs over there...but ignore all the ones on the list which were posted before mine.  Yes...do that.  ;)  That would be a good thing to do.)

 

 

Caterwaulking the Halls

This is "Day 5" of the "We Work For Cheese" website's non-contest contest for February...today's prompt is "You better put out".  Please check out the other blogs while you are there as we are all slowly losing our minds trying to fulfill this mission we undertook.

Yes, this could have gotten a lot more sexual with that prompt that should have prompted me to go that way...but it's late and people only read the first eight posts anyway, so I'm going to talk about my cats. Everyone likes a cat story, right?

Right.  Here goes...

We have a couple chatty cats...we're talking cats that walk around meowing something the entire day. I don't know what they're saying, but they are pretty damned determined to get their point across. In fact, I think they're probably wondering, since we're the ones with the opposable thumbs, that we should be the ones who should know what they want, yet we walk around asking them, "What do you want?" -- like they're supposed to just break out in human-speak any second.

Yes, humans are a stupid race.

Well, don't believe everything you've read about cats sleeping 23 hours a day and only being nocturnal. Since we (my son and I) are up at nite and asleep during the day - we know they are up at all hours...and talking. And, cats, especially chatty ones, will wait until you are three minutes into a full sleep and then walk up and down the hallway meowing up a storm.

And they don't shut up...seriously...they don't.

You figure to yourself, "They're going to get bored eventually and jump up on the cat tower and fall asleep...they are going to get bored and stop it any minute...they are going to get the hint and just go away...any second...any second now..."

But they don't. Cats are not only curious, but tenacious as well.

So, the routine around here before we crawl off to bed in the wee hours of the morning (when everyone else is getting up), goes something like this:

Son (to me): "Seriously, if they start meowing up and down the hallway, I'm going to throw them out. They can stay out there."

Me (to my son): "I can't toss them out...it's cold out there. They can't stay outside - they'll freeze...I'm keeping them in."

Son (back to me): "You better put out Pablo...all he does is cry...and he comes into my room and pees."

Me (back to son): "Then close your door."

Son (back to me): "I can't close my door...Binky won't be able to go out to use the litter box. I'm going to bed. Make sure you throw Pablo out."

Me (to son): "Well, I'm not tossing him out...it's too cold. He's sleeping in the cat thingy now anyway. I'm going to bed as soon as the Ambien kicks in."

(Segue to my son sleeping in his room with the door cracked a tad...and me attempting to doze off with a tube sock shoved in the door jamb as the cats can open it up otherwise. I have a couple cats that insist on purring for about an hour when they jump on the bed...and while purring is indeed a nice sound...purring at the decibel level of a small jet aircraft on take-off -- while you are trying to sleep, is not. So, my door is held tight by ugly ingenuity [not unlike my cat-proof faucet baggie fix] while I peacefully slumber.)

Pablo: "Meow...(pause)...meow.  Meooooowwww. Mrrrrrrrow...(pause)... rrrrrrrrr... rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrow. Mrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrow...rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrooooooow...meeeeeeeeeeeeeowwwww... (pause) ...rrrrrrrrrrroooooooow...mrrrrrrrrrrrrrrowwwww. Mrrrrrrrroooow.  Mew....mrrrrrrrrrrrow...mwowwwwww. Rrrrrrrewwwww...meowwwwww..."

Me and my son (to each other - three minutes after my Ambien kicks in...and an hour after my son has been sleeping): "Can you throw that damned cat out already??"

(Pablo...wanting to go outside before the mewfest later on tonite. Yes, those are scratch marks on the door frame.  Lovely, aren't they?  They lend an air of rustic ambiance to the room, don't you think?)



The Melty Man

You think you know someone. I mean, you talk to people and you get to know them a little; they open up, they tell you some stuff they ordinarily wouldn't tell their friends and family in person, but since you are on the Internet, there's no harm done, they never have to meet you. You typically share some really personal stuff you just wouldn't -- with people you'll never ever have to face in life. Am I right?

Well, I thought so, too.

It all started a few years back. My friend Chris, whom I've never met, who used to play my online comedy website, www.HumorMeOnline.com (which I never update anymore as I spend all my time obsessing about my health and pitying myself) "introduced" me to Mike. Mike, you may know, goes by a few names: MikeWJ, Michael Whiteman-Jones..."Too Many Mornings" Mike -- you know, that Mike.

Well, I thought we had struck up a friendship...he'd comment on my blogs and say nice things and I'd say nice things to him sometimes and we were all getting along fine and dandy (him posting photos of himself in different hats and all) when, out of the blue, I find out he's been battling some sort of affliction.

The obvious one comes to mind: alcohol. Yeah, who among here us doesn't like to swill back a few in the mornings, right?

Well, it wasn't that...so, naturally, the next obvious one, considering he takes photographs a lot...is that he is into some kind of porn. Maybe something to do with fruits or vegetables...something really weird...maybe with some shoe heels involved. After all, he did say he could spot a pair of Louboutins from a few feet away (pun intended) in that one blog he wrote about Washington, DC, which I think I'm STILL reading, by the way, as it was THAT long of a blog.

But, nope. Still totally off the mark.

So, I find out today...his face fell off.

Yeah...I know. THAT kind of thing, you'd think someone who calls themselves a "friend"...would mention. I've gone on and on to him about my sleeping problems, my issues with my thyroid, my lung, my toe, my pathetic boobs, my butt, etc., and you'd be darned tooting right if you guessed that IF I would have had an issue with my face sliding right off, I probably would have mentioned it.

Now, I know he posted a few photos of himself recently - but they show no signs of slippage. I'm sure he has Photoshop, and anyone with any type of artistic background could easily manipulate their face and tweak it here and there right back to where it used to be. But, I'm figuring they weren't even recent pictures. Hell, that might not even BE what he looks like. Could just be that "Mike" has some bizarre obsession with some guy with a beard whom he pays twenty bucks a pop to - to pose for some artsy "black and white" jobbers.

I, for one, am gobsmacked. I'm literally speechless...and anyone who knows me, knows damned well that doesn't happen very often, if ever.

Sure, he's probably speechless, too...but that's just because he can't pronounce words anymore because he...HAS NO LIPS...because his face fell off -- and I had to go and find out like most everyone else did -- not like a friend would: I had to friggen find out by reading it on the Internet!

But, I guess that's only poetic justice...or irony...because, after all, we did "meet" on the Internet. Two faceless people brought together by a force invisible...only much more tragic and prophetic than I ever, ever envisioned.

(Who the hell is Mike? Well, my "friend" -- you'll find out here: Mike)

 

 

 

This blog was written and inspired by Mike...who is a damned good writer and I'm jealous, but in a good way (if there is such a thing)...and we were both initially inspired by the "We Work for Cheese" non-contest contest...whose prompt today was "Friendship".

 

 

 

Guilt-tripping the Masses...One at a Time

There I was, lamenting over the fact that my blog wasn't mentioned at all in the line-up over at "We Work For Cheese", and the next thing I knew...it showed up!

It did show up, right? I mean I didn't write this guilt-trip laden blog to come back to find out it's STILL MISSING off the list.

I can do guilt, I'm Catholic. I've had years of training by my family...and it's a tradition I carry out to this day. Hopefully, one day, my children will pass it down to their children...you know, if they ever get off their butts and get jobs to support themselves in order to start a family and maybe give me some grandchildren.

Oh, who am I fooling...I don't want grandchildren. I get annoyed enough as it is buying cat food and filling up the cat bowl...even if they are pretty much self-sustaining otherwise.

And, it's bad enough I had to child-proof my house twice, I'll be damned if I'm going to do it a third time. Plus, who would want to chase around a couple of squirmy kids all day? I'm old. Going out to get the mail is exercise enough for me...that and shooshing my newest cat from off the sink as she's insisting she must lick the faucet instead of drinking out of the water bowl like all the other cats do.

(It's a baggie pushed thru and hanging around the faucet so the cat can't lick it - yes, I have resorted to improvising ugly, yet practical, ideas.)

Do you know how repulsive that single act of hers is to a germophobic person? All day long I'm shooshing her, and her little pink butt-licking tongue, off of my sink. All day long I take a paper towel and pour some isopropyl alcohol on it to wipe off the faucet. All day long I sit here in the living room on the computer, looking up only to watch television and to see if the senso-light just came on in the kitchen so that I can bolt up, stomp my little feet (and they are little, btw) into the kitchen and shoosh her, and her little cat-litter-infused paws, off of my counters yet again.

So, don't you dare stare at me with that perplexed "Huh? I didn't do anything..." look on your faces like my cat does to me...each and every damn time I catch her in the act of perpetrating another germ-laden transfer...and go and do it already. Just add my name to your list and I'll stop my whining and you can get on with your month-long blog contest torture and make at least ONE person happy, okay?

Sheesh...she's up there again...and speaking of up there...um...is it? :)

 

(The topic today was "and the next thing I knew" - so don't forget to check out all the other paricipants in the "30 Days Minus Two" Blog Contest over at "We Work For Cheese".)

Hold on...it's going to be a bumpy ride!

While I anxiously await the new "bowel-inspired" lyrics to Journey's "Hold On" song (yes, I know the title is "Don't Stop Believing" but it's not as pertinent if I pointed that out) - penned by the fine folks over at "We Work For Cheese", don't forget to check out the other blog entries and then mock them shamelessly whilst I gloat endlessly about mine.

The mind works in mysterious ways...and, in my case, doesn't work in mysterious ways more times than I dare admit. Case in point, my friend and I were talking about the "Industrial Age" and how much money everyone who made all the money...made. We talked about Tesla and his lovely white pigeon, his fondness of threes, and his oscillating earthquake machine. We also delved into the behind the scenes goings-on with Edison and Westinghouse and their vying for total electrical control, and then that manifested into the 1893 World's Fair in Chicago...and, more specifically, the "Great Ferris Wheel" (also known as "the original Ferris Wheel") which was built for the event.

After talking about Frank Lloyd Wright and "Fallingwater'...and how I typically don't like much of what he's done...I brought up I.M. Pei...and before you knew it...we were at the World's Fair again comparing statistics from the "Great Ferris Wheel" to the one I was more familiar with: the Ferris Wheel at Great Adventure Park in Jackson, New Jersey.

The known statistics:

1893 Chicago World's Fair Ferris Wheel: Designed and constructed by George Washington Gale Ferris, Jr. Opened to the public June 21st, 1893. It was 80.4 meters (264 ft) in height with 36 cars capable of holding up to 60 people; 2160 people total.

1974 Great Adventure Park, NJ, Ferris Wheel: Opened July 1974. 45 meters (147 ft) tall. Purchased used from the Holland Tullip Festival in the Netherlands where it was featured as their fair's centerpiece only to be dismantled and reassembled to serve as Great Adventure's centerpiece. Locking doors and additional safety bars were added to the ride in 1988 (about ten years after I could have really appreciated it). Six people can sit inside one "cabin" at a time in each of its 36 cars.

The unknown statistics: Two 17-year-old girls with a yearly pass to Great Adventure meet a couple of good looking guys at the park, or as we used to call them "Babes in the Woods". As this was the late 1970s, these "babes" often times were in the woods because alcohol and "perfumed cigarettes" were frowned down upon in the open areas. These two 17-year-old girls were known to dabble in certain substances which would elicit feelings of giddiness, bravery, paranoia, and "the munchies"...so, naturally, letting nature take its course we all wound up rather high. No, no - we were on the Ferris Wheel, and as luck would have it, the cars all stopped and we were left dangling at about the 11 o'clock position with two boys we had met only minutes before. Boys who might have been ingesting all sorts of things in those woods and without a toxicology work-up kit, it was anyone's guess just what those things were.

Minutes whizzed by at a snail's space while the guys "bravery" portion of their ride kicked in...so they started standing up and rocking the gondola back and forth. This escalated into them opening the little door thinking this must indeed be the height of hilarity (and sexual machismo) needed to impress two 17-year-old girls who were clearly holding on for dear life. Then to kick it up a notch, they decided it was time to play "let's pretend to toss each other out at 140 feet". Legs and arms dangled out...screams came from surrounding gondolas -- screams came from inside ours -- screams came from the ground...then squeals of delight echoed in the nite sky high above Jackson, New Jersey, when they finally kick-started that thing back into gear...and ratcheted us, one by one, back to terra firma.

When it finally came to rest and I managed to peel my clenched white knuckles open...I bolted like horse for the open field...and never went off searching for babes in the woods again...my paranoia never allowed me.

I've revisited that memory many times since 1978...chances are I'll hold on to it the rest of my life.

(Off-the-wall trivial tie in:  The Great Adventure Ferris Wheel originally had 27,000 lights all around the spokes and inside the cars...many of these were swiped as keepsakes or vandalized throughout the years...in a strange way I'm sure Tesla, Edison, and Westinghouse all would have been amused and possibly perplexed by this practice.)

The Best at Being "The Worst"...and Proud of It!

Well, seems it's that time of year again...the dreaded deadline looming ahead like so many ravenous vultures...like so many you lose count - even if you have one of those fancy hand-held metal clicker things that can be punched to 999 before it resets back to zero...then I guess you have to mentally remember that it spun around one whole time already, kinda like when you're dealing out cards and the phone rings and interrupts you midway and you forget who gets the next card, so you just start all over again because someone probably looked at your cards while you were gone anyway. Yep, the 15th of April is fast approaching and soon everyone will be asking each other, "Did you get it in on time? Did you get your entry in?"

"What the heck is she saying??" you might have asked yourself...and what about vultures? Is she talking about the IRS? Accountants? Huh...cards??? "Nay", say I...I'm talking about 'The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest' also referred to as the 'It was a dark and stormy night' competition. You might have read about it when I won the Grand Prize in 2003. Oh, c'mon...it was on the front page of the Montgomery Advertiser...surely you couldn't have forgotten that? Well, okay...maybe you did. Sigh. Let me then enlighten and elucidate...

You see that long sentence I started my blog off with? The one that goes on and on and on and on. Well, that was intentional..and not just because I am a bad writer (oh, keep the remarks to yourselves) but because I was, at least in 2003, proclaimed as the BEST at being the worst. I won the dubious distinction of writing the worst opening line to a fictional novel...and that opening sentence, above, is a little bit like what you'll see in the competition. Need a better, er...um...worse...example? Here is my winning entry:

They had but one last remaining night together, so they embraced each other as tightly as that two-flavor entwined string cheese that is orange and yellowish-white, the orange probably being a bland Cheddar and the white . . . Mozzarella, although it could possibly be Provolone or just plain American, as it really doesn't taste distinctly dissimilar from the orange, yet they would have you believe it does by coloring it differently.

The rules can be found on their home page...but they are relatively simple. Write the opening line for a fictional novel...make it bad...but make it enjoyably bad. Longer is not necessarily better, but it seems they do tend to favour longer entries...but be careful on your punctuation...there's only so many words you can string together before it gets too monotonous. Monotonous doesn't cut it...badly well written does.

So, do you have what it takes to make the cut? Cut might not be the best choice of words...don't cut...but rather elaborate. Can you write famously bad...to get 14 minutes of fame? All forms of glory can be headed your way...I was interviewed on CNN Live (yes, in the daytime)...and a bunch of other radio/tv stations from California to Australia...I showed up on over 7000 hits on Google...more than Alex Trebek; less than Mel Gibson...my name and entry was in newpapers, literally from Albania to Zimbabwe...I even made the front page of USA Today. In a nutshell, I loved it...can you tell? Okay, so Letterman never called...and Conan O'Brien's people said I probably couldn't fill up six minutes of airtime. Uh huh...right. And Craig Ferguson wasn't around yet...what a pity. But I do try my best to get the word out to people who might not necessarily know about the contest because it really was both a fun experience and an honour to be chosen. Thank you again, Scott Rice.

(Professor Scott Rice, of San Jose University, is the originator of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest which has been running continually since 1982.)

Originally published 4 April 2006.

________________________
This post is part of Nicky and Mike’s "30 Minus 2 Days of Writing" challenge.  (Yes, I know - another 30 days of me begging for people to read my blog...but, dammit, I really want the nasty salty licorice prize...so if I come in 2nd, I think I win it; you can be instrumental in getting me to win and gag on it.  Hell, there'll probably be a blog involved...ooops...spoke too soon probably.) Anyway, today’s topic is "Cheesy". Please check out "We Work For Cheese" for a list of the other participants. 

You Can't Make Great Wine with Sour Grapes aka My Look Back at 2012

You can't make great wine with sour grapes.

Well, maybe you can, I don't know as I'm not an oenophile...but I know one thing's for certain: If you lie on your back long enough "woe-is-me-ing" the day away, not much gets accomplished.

I was going to write a catchy little end-of-year blog...a summation of what I experienced in the past year. I was going to do it really interestingly like my friend, Meleah, did with hers...but as I laid there, on my bed, woe-is-me-ing" away...I realized, "By God! I don't have anything really worthy to say!"

Oh, sure, I participated in Ziva's month-long "30 Days of Photographs" non-contest in April...and I enjoyed he heck outta that one, but, other than that...what could I say?

In September my daughter accomplished being named "National Merit Scholarship Semi-Finalist". Yep...it's all MY fault right there.

October brought Hurricane Sandy ashore to mess up parts of New York, New England, and my beloved New Jersey. Even with the devastation, I longed to be back there. Geez, I miss Jersey.

Then in July and December I cried a lot - I don't like mass shootings...so shoot me. Yeah, not so funny, anymore, is it?

I also had plans of talking about a wonderful person, a stranger really...who wanted to remain anonymous and be given absolutely no thanks whatsoever. This person showed up out of Internetland...and made my daughter and I cry again...but this time it was with tears of joy and love. I won't go into details as that is what they wished...but what transpired showed me that there truly are wonderful people out there. The only thing this person requested...was that one day...I should do a like kindness. Perhaps not the same kindness...but a kindness...a kindness which I can do in some way. I will, one day, honour that request.

I had all those plans...but there I was, still lying around like a dead carp -- and still thinking about how pathetic my little life was and how I was rather looking forward to the demise of the world, Mayan-style, on the 21st of December. It would have solved a lot of the world's problems, mine included, but then I got some much-needed sense knocked into me.

I started thinking about the ills of mankind throughout the ages...and what "age" I rather would have been born. I thought about this thoroughly. I went through all the countries, too. France, England, the US...and all the others I had some vague historical knowledge about...and thought where I would have been happy...and most importantly, when.

This progressed to visions of political imprisonment -- thrown in and left to rot...just for voicing that you were against...and then, later, were for...Napoleon (or any of a myriad of tyrannical leaders). I thought about the strife of coming over to a new land, kicking people off theirs, and claiming it as your own. I thought of poor little Dickensian orphans, working their fingers to the bone in the dead of Victorian winter like so many Hans Christian Andersen "Little Match Girl" characters.

I thought of so many wars throughout the world...throughout history...and throughout my lifetime. Where would I feel safe? Where could I go? When would I pick? When are things in MY life going to get better?

Then I thought how I probably would have died from Black Plague in the 1600s, succumbed to Tuberculosis in the 1800s, been a statistic in the 1918 pandemic, or just even one of the unremembered thousands upon thousands who died during childbirth. More realistically, I would have been dead at 41 because of my lung...had I had my lung problem prior to the mid-to-late 1900s. And -- I would surely have died living in the brutally cold and hostile environment of the Russian Ural Mountains since I can't even tolerate the temperature in my house getting down to a "frigid" 69.8.

Lastly, I will stop "woe-is-me-ing" (or at least greatly curtail) every single time I read about the fortuitous happenings regarding a viral blog writer, or a blog writer turned book writer, or a book writer turned blog writer, or anything with the word "writer" in it...because it's only my own damned fault I'm not famous because apparently I'm not sticking these things, called words, in the correct order.

Plus, first and foremost...I'm just not sticking to it.

But...I'm going to really try this year...basically because I'm just so tired of swallowing that bitter whine of mine...and there's no better vintage than now to get started.