First Dance Drag-a-Thon

I can't explain my recent fascination with school dances.

In the last week, I've written twice about them. Once based on my real life experience at St. Thomas school as a sixth grader. The second time, an entirely fictional account of a date to the prom, with my silver anniversary watch in my pocket. Which is weird, because I didn't get that watch until I'd been married for years. And from my wife.

My kids are starting to go to their own dances now. Tentatively at first.

The first big dance for them as Sixth graders, was the Halloween dance. My daughter was all fired up to go, my son wasn't so sure of himself. We dropped both of them off, and had to go back about a half an hour later to pick up my son. He said it was too loud. At least he tried it out.

My own first dance recollections are fairly hazy. Filled with white pants, Izod sweaters, and penny loafers that put huge blisters on my feet. And I could never get pennies into mine! Which was super frustrating. I suspect that everyone else conned their dad into getting it in there for them. But I could be wrong.

Those early dances were filled with lots of standing around, in same sex groups. Only after a little while did any large number of people start dancing. I was always terrible at it too. They actually taught us the "box step waltz" in gym class. I learned that this was special just to get us ready for the dances. No body contact was permitted. By which I mean the boy and the girl held each other at arms length. Forget the six inch rule, or a hands-breadth, we're talking at least a foot here.

I always disliked anything other than slow dancing. It just felt like a maniacal workout to me. But then, while I did have good rhythm ( I was in band dammit!!), I definitely had no moves. Didn't want any either. See the reference to working out, above.

I think I went to most of the dances at St. Thomas, I only lived a block away from school, and my parents strongly encouraged it. I might have gotten out of a few of them, I don't remember.

I didn't go to any dances in High School. I didn't date either. I just didn't want to put forth the effort I guess. Anything that put a cramp in my preferred activities, of reading, sleeping, eating, playing video games, watching television, and movies; I didn't much want to do them. I wasn't that awesome in High School.

I wish I had done more though. I'll tell all my kids that too, if it can make any difference.

I regret not dating anyone. I regret not going to any dances (Prom!). I should have taken a more diverse group of classes.

I mean, I finally shucked off Band class for Senior year, as i was done with my fine arts graduation requirement, and I threw a hissy fit. I wanted a study hall period. Basically so I could fuck off. But my folks would have none of that. So just like with bad haircuts, sweaters, and birth control glasses, they got their way. I took "college study skills" just to shut them up.

The class was a joke. My desk mate and I, were totally disruptive. We both got kicked out of class several times. We'd take turns throwing things at the blackboard when the teacher's back was turned. Then have fun pretending we were just as baffled as anyone else.

One time, I got sent to the principal's office for screwing around. So I went down to the office, and sat in reception until the end of class. I even saw the principal several times while I was sitting there. I said hello to him, and we shot the shit for a minute, then he left. Hey, nobody told me I had to tell the office why I was there, amirite?

The tomfoolery kind of climaxed with my desk-mate showing up for class drunk as a skink one day. We both kind of blew off that class after that.

I didn't get accepted to Michigan State University that summer. I guess I showed them!

When you apply to colleges, they kind of remove your grades for gym class, and Band. And my resulting 1.8 GPA, just didn't impress them enough. Who knew??!!

Oh yeah, school dances. I should have gone. I wasn't into being very social though, as I might have mentioned. And when I did do stuff socially, I tended to overcompensate for my antisocialness, by showing zero social skills in some way. Mostly by being an over the top "look at me" mother fucker. I'm sure people could attest to that, if they gave a damn to do so.

I've lost interest in this topic. Next!

Cheers

Bubble Boy: Oppose Thyself

Twenty years ago, I was a different person.

I worked at a law firm in downtown Lansing; I associated with the people there, and it helped reinforce my largely Republican conservative views. Heck, one of the lawyers there was the chief Michigan Republican party counsel.

I still rebelled a little bit, how could I not? I wore a Ross Perot pin leading up to the 1992 presidential election. Mostly based on his super fun financial presentations. But, I was still a Republican at heart.

After I moved out of my parent's house in East Lansing, I moved to Northern Michigan, living by myself for a few years. My main influences were all the people I worked with. Mostly ex-military conservatives. My political views shifted even further that way as a result. Moving almost too far in a way. I became isolationist, and a touch homophobic and racist.

Then I got married, had kids, moved to upstate NY, right next to Vermont. My political views shifted once again in response to all these changes.

I find myself now sitting very liberally. I eschew all formal political parties. Though I still am a registered Republican. My wife is a registered Democrat. We do this, in order to exert at least a little influence on politics. As the only two parties that hold general primary elections, and the only two parties who seem to ever win office for the most part: This is simply another way to participate in choosing the winner. For, while I almost never vote Elephant, or Donkey in the main election, I can at least put down a vote for which Republican bastard will win. And my wife, vice versa.

I can honestly say that I voted McCain in the 2000 Republican Primaries. I still think he was the right Republican for that job, especially as viewed in the hindsight of 9/11. But that's just speculation of course.

Nowadays, I find myself in even more of a bubble. I've "cut the cord". I don't subscribe to cable or satellite television. I do have an internet service, and that is how our family gets all of our entertainment and news. In the car, I listen to either music or podcasts of my choosing.

If you look at that, you can see that as a consequence of choosing mostly what I see and hear; my world view is much the way that I want it to be.

I took a step outside myself this morning. This was in response to a friend putting some comments on a link I posted to the Facebook. It was about the Occupy movement, and what I viewed as the exclusively heavy handed response that the authorities have had to it.

All that I see, are reports and videos that are negative to the law enforcement response. I have no balanced viewpoint. I still recoil from major media viewpoints, as I am suspect of their agenda. Which might be paranoid, but at least I can admit it.

So I've made a project for myself. As I'm laid up with a bum knee, I have a lot of sitting down time on my hands. I'm going to spend a few days doing things I don't normally do.

I'm going to check out lots of opposing viewpoints. I'm going to seek out all the examples of "Protesters Behaving Badly" that I can find. Even before looking, I can safely bet there is going to be a lot. People being what they are, there will always be some acting badly on both sides. I suppose it's an example of my naïveté that I'm not just as suspect of my primarily liberal news sources as I am of, say, Fox News.

So for the next two days, don't expect me to be sympathetic to much of anything. I'm playing devil's advocate. Against myself.

Cheers, to opposing views.

Silly Worries Really

Well, here's where I'm at:

Stuck at home mostly, with a broken left kneecap.  Not released back to work yet, for at least another week or so, even potentially. 

There is still a nagging little spectre of a knee operation hanging in the air, although at the ten day mark after the breakage, the bones are still in enough alignment that I'm not in a full leg cast, and no surgery is warranted.  However, if something happens to move the bones too far apart, or the mending process doesn't take place for some reason; they'll have to cut me open there, and do some combination of pinning and wiring to make sure the bones knit properly.  And then in a few months after that, take all the metal back out.

I have a huge problem with that.  Not because of getting cut on.  No, that's not really an issue.  I laid out in the back room of the local doctor's office almost eight months ago, and had a large lump removed from my head.  I just had local anesthesia for that, and just kind of stared at the ceiling, while I could feel the doc tugging vaguely at my scalp, and making jokes to try and calm me.  I didn't need it, in my head, I treated it no different than getting a cavity filled.  A little stressed, but calm and contained during the procedure.  Gotta lay still for that kind of stuff!

The part about the knee surgery that bothers me the most, if it happens, is the anesthesia.  I do not want to go out under general anesthesia.  To me, that seems too much like death.

I know!  It doesn't make the greatest sense.  But I hold my singular life a little precious, so humor me. 

A certain number of people do die under general every year.  I've never had it before, so it is totally unknown how I'll handle it.  Maybe I'm even one of those poor bastards who are fully awake, but paralyzed within their own body while under.  Able to hear everything, and feel everything, but unable to tell anyone.

Oh god, that would be a certain circle of hell. 

I had a friend that had knee surgery when he was young, about twenty years ago or so.  He was awake during, and even watching somehow.  He was going into medicine, and has done so very successfully! and knew the surgeon.  So he was allowed to do this. 

If it comes down to it, I hope they let me stay awake as well.  I don't want to never wake back up.

I have things left undone, not to mention what it would do to my family.  I don't have much life insurance, no savings, no retirement fund.  I understand that survivor benefits aren't very much either from the government. 

I haven't finished my poetry project.  I'm fifteen shy of my 365 total.  Yes, I'm a little ahead thanks to this time off from work. 

There is still ideas for a book or two up in my head.  The Frying Pan Solution, and Wrenched; are still waiting to hit the paper in any formal way. 

With all that in my head, I'm going to work harder on writing more than one poem a day until I hit that magic number.  Heck, I can always write more and do substitutions based on quality.  But I want to be done. 

This is all pretty silly.  But, for once, it's a genuine worry.  Falling squarely under the original intent/idea of this blog. 

Cheers, to real Warthog Worries for a change.

Frosty = Bad Touch!

Back in the 1970's, I saw the animated Frosty the Snowman for the first time. After looking it up, I see that it is another fantastic Rankin Bass production, originally put together in 1969. Seeing that, I can't peg the year that I first would have seen it Let's call it the mid seventies.

This all started something, that was to stick with me for the rest of my life. Not in the way of something stuck in my head, but stuck in other people's heads.

Frosty the Snowman touched me inappropriately.

Seriously. When I watched the scene in which Frosty is starting to melt, and there is a thermometer, which goes higher and higher, and Frosty melts more and more, until he's just a puddle I think.

I am told that I was very upset by this scene. And as a result, I developed a huge fear of thermometers. When I saw a thermometer, and it was looking like it might be getting warmer, I was deathly afraid that it was going to kill me. That I was going to 'melt'.

I don't know how long I kept this deathly fear, I actually don't really remember having the fear at all. Sounds like me though.

It actually sounds sad to me. A four or five year old with a phobia like that, all brought on by a television show.

My family thinks it's hilarious though. Just yesterday I was reminded of it once again.

For years and years, I've been getting Frosty the Snowman themed gifts every christmas, often for my birthday, or just whenever someone wants a good laugh. Usually my mother. Who also delights in telling the story of her poor traumatized child of the seventies, crying, and shrinking away in fear at the sight of a thermometer.

You just have to love family, don't you?

Yesterday's gift, was a christmas/winter patterned pillowcase. My mom makes this kind of stuff. She also quilts. If it didn't take like a month to make a quilt, she'd probably make me a gag Frosty quilt as well.

I know I can probably expect a gag gift for christmas as well, likely a snowman something or another. Followed by some reminiscing about my old phobia.

I shouldn't be putting this here. I'm probably setting myself up to receive a snowman somewhere, from someone new.

Oh well, I am what I am. I'm sure the thermometer traumatization has played some part iin shaping who I am, like it or not.

Cheers, to bizarre fears and constant reminders.

Death

I recognize that I have death on the mind often.

I also have life on my mind. I have birth on my mind.

Death grabs a little bigger part of the pie though, it follows my personality down a darker road I suppose.

Today, I discovered someone else who shares my liking of the Speaker for the Dead concept. I've written of it before, feel free to Google and Wiki the term, you'll find what you need.

Regina Holliday is the person I found. While she doesn't pronounce herself as a Speaker, I read that she was inspired by the concept and stories.

I read some of her blog posts. Something she mentions nags at me.

I don't have a will. Nor any of the other things you are supposed to have set up for end of life, or close to end of life times for yourself.

I think I'll share my thoughts here on that. Obviously, I need to put it down on an official document to have full effect. Call it a rough draft if you will.

To start off, I'd like to tattoo 'DNR' on my chest. Stands for Do Not Resuscitate, but I need to put an asterisk next to it. The asterisk represents my qualifiers for that statement. I understand the human brain can survive a certain amount of time without oxygen, but it's not very long. Cold temperatures can extend this, and age. I would rely on scientific facts, common sense, and experienced opinion to assist in this asterisk item.

I do not wish to be resuscitated from a state where either I have had no oxygen, or heartbeat, if it has been past a certain amount of time. After that time, severe brain damage is guaranteed. I would never want to be severely mentally disabled, or in a vegetative state.

Let's call it two minutes. I can hold my breath for over a minute. I suspect I'd pass out before the two minute mark, and be forced to start breathing again by the good old brain.

Longer than two minutes, let me go. Shorter? Try everything.

If I do end up in a vegetative state, I want to be put down. Not right away, though. Have the family come say goodbye, hold my hands while they are still warm if they wish. But then I want all the useable organs to be harvested, then unplug me.

Once I am good and dead, I do not want a religious funeral. Or anything fancy at all.

I want one of those cheap cardboard caskets you can buy on the internet, I do not want to be embalmed. I don't want any viewing of the body. Cremate me as soon as that cardboard box has arrived. Put my ashes in whatever you want.

If there is enough interest, have a dinner at the VFW hall, or a bar. Show pictures, tell funny stories about me. Most of all, be honest. I wasn't perfect, perfect stories about me would be lies.

The final disposition of my ashes is of no concern to me. Keep them, throw them away, spread them as fertilizer on a farmer's field. As desired.

My one wish after my passing, that is truly selfish, is that I be spoken for. It can be spoken aloud, if any have the interest to do so. Or written down. I do request a Speaker for the Dead for myself.

That's about it.

I salute that monkey that is on all our backs. Death, riding us like we are one trick ponies, from the day we are born.

Cheers, to living every second until we turn to greet it.

Work Dreams

When I was laid off for the extended period. I dreamt of work alot. There is serious psychology there, but I don't care to know what it is.

I dreamt of most of the jobs that have had throughout the years in one way or another. Usually in strange alternate reality type ways.

A good example, is the all singing, all dancing, musical dream I had about my aircraft work in Oscoda. I dreamt that we were all working in the hangar, and after some sort of nonsensical segue, we all broke into a stirring, rousing rendition of the B52s Rock Lobster. And man, if it didn't go on forever too.

Once I went back to work, I stopped dreaming about work so much. For which I'm grateful.

A huge thing happened though, aside from the dreams, while I was laid off. I learned that I really like my work. I love being an inspector of the airplanes. I enjoy reading the tech data, I like looking at things with a critical eye, and either giving it the thumbs up or thumbs down. I love that I get a certain amount of leeway to exercise my judgement on things. I'm happy that most of the time I'm making the right choices. It feels rewarding.

It's probably why, except for the one day I was high on pain meds and passing a kidney stone, I haven't called in sick. For almost a year and a half. Which, if you know me, is something special. In the past, I've had bang in days, where me and a friend would take off and watch soap operas with a case of beer. I went through a period a few years ago, where I liked to call in sick every other Wednesday. I found it broke up the week.

But with the revelation that I actually love my job, in a deep down and satisfying way, came a feeling of commitment to it as well. It's fun to look back at your life and career, and see different stages you've gone through.

Now that it looks as if I will have a month off of work, give or take whatever the doctor will let me do, I am filled with a sense of loss. I don't want to be not at work, especially since I've found a good way of looking at it.

I dreamed of work again last night. First time in a year and a half. Dreamt of an average day, in the alternate universe of Oscoda aircraft maintenance. Things are skewed, as only the lens of dreams can do sometimes. Everything recognizable, yet very different too.

Just a work day. Went in, did work things, came home. A whole dream of it.

It's just a dream. But it expresses longing. For the normalcy of the workday. Not this waking alternate reality of a broken knee, and a sore ass from sitting too much every day.

Cheers, to the mending of bones and dreams.

Third Wheel Ramblings

I got myself a new laptop.

Well, sort of. I actually got a nifty bluetooth keyboard to connect to my iPhone So as to better use the actually decent word processor that I found in the form of the Apple Pages app.

I'm two poems ahead of the curve again. Smugly sitting here on the couch, with my bum leg up on a chair, knee chilling under a cold pack. All is right with the world. Jimmy Fallon's late show running on Hulu across the room from me, warm little pig puppy snuggled against my thigh. Plenty of distractions to amuse my ADHD.

The keyboard is billed as the HP Touchpad companion piece. But it works real good with my iPhone. It seems to be very similar in size and shape to the Apple keyboard they sell as a mate to the iPad. Costs half as much though. God I'm so cheap. It's a miracle I ever buy anything decent.

I kid, but there's a grain of truth to that. Can't be a cheap bastard about everything, the low dollar stuff will make you regret it half the time.

Take my latest obsession for example.

For many years now, I've wanted a sidecar motorcycle rig. When my wife and I were newly wed, and living simply in our little log cabin in Greenbush, I had a Harley Sportster. I dumped way too much money into it. A futile half hearted attempt to give it more performance I think. Coming off using nothing but Japanese made middle weight motorcycles, the 1974 Sportster was, to be blunt, a piece of shit.

I started with a 1975 Honda CB360, graduated to a 1986 Yamaha Radian 600, and briefly switched to my father's 1983 Honda Nighthawk 550 while my Yami was down for repairs one summer. Not great bikes, for sure not on the cutting edge of things, like the latest sport bike would have been. But good bikes, very very good bikes.

The old Sportster was like stepping back in time. The engine was weak for some reason, whole thing probably needed to be rebuilt most likely. It's performance feel somewhere between my CB360 and my dad's Nighthawk 550. This from a 1000cc power plant. It had a habit of hanging up one of the valves when it got hot, making it an instant barely running 500cc single until it cooled down again. Transmission hung up on shifts, brakes that were more of a suggestion to stop than anything else. A suspension that wallowed uncontrollably, while strangely giving about as much cushion as a hardtail.

God I loved that thing.

Anyways, my wife and I got that idea that a sidecar would be great fun. I looked seriously at two models. The venerable Velorex 562, about the most inexpensive entry level sidecar available. I still like them actually. The other was one made by Liberty Sidecars from out Seattle way. They made, for a little while, a sidecar aimed at the Harley Sportster specifically. I don't know that they sold many of them. They aren't offered on the website anymore. Although, from the vibe I get from them, they may be more than happy to pull the mold and jigs out of the back room and make one again if someone ponied up the money.

The point being: We wanted to try it, so as to enjoy riding together, and we should have just gotten one. Huge mistake. It definitely would have been fun.

Well, I've got the bug again. I've been looking off and on for the last three years. Now I have my trusty old 1983 Honda Magna 750 as a steed. I have used it for commuting to work, mostly in the late summer of 2010. But the 38 mile commute feels like too much. I am not sure why. I think it might be the ride home at midnight. Just really long and dark, with lots of animals running around. Even hitting something as small as a possum would probably wipe me out pretty good. I see lots of possums, raccoons, deer, fox, even some coyote. I did actually hit a raccoon with my Geo Metro.

Partly for those reasons, I don't really like to drive the motorcycle to work anymore, plus the Metro gets better mileage believe it or not.

I don't ride it around much for anything else. I don't get much enjoyment out of riding alone, especially when I have the wife and kids at home.

So I thought a sidecar might be fun for us. That way I could take at least one, maybe two kids with me for rides around town, or a little ways in the country for pleasure. The wife could finally get her sidecar ride as well.

Me being a cheap bastard, I look at used stuff now. Whatever ebay has to offer, or craigslist. I haven't found the right one yet. The perfect one would be free. An acceptable one would be $500 dollars or less. Any more than that, and I start considering making one myself, which seems like both a great and awful idea. Depending on the day.

Another option I like to look at, is the BMW clone group. There are wonderful motorcycles out there, called Ural, Dnepr, Chang Jaing. They are all WW2 era copies of the German BMW R71/72 models. Most are complete with vintage sidecar. Urals are pretty cool, and can be bought new nowadays, with modern electrics and internal updates. Not super cheap though, up over 10 grand for new stuff. A more economical option is either used ones, or refurbished military models from China.

They are quite lovely things, especially the older flathead models. In addition to the sidecar, they can be had with a saddle style buddy seat on the rear fender, with it's own "oh Shit" handle. The sidecars come in single seat with trunk, single seat with rumble seat, or even stretched two seat models. I really like those.

It would be an absolute scream to drive the whole family around on one of these 24 horsepower beasts. And be a rolling vintage motorcycle show to boot. They can be had for around 4 grand.

I don't have 4 grand, but It's still awesome to look.

If I remain obsessed, I'll probably end up finding a cheap used sidecar for sale, and mount it up on my Honda. That should be lots of fun. Maybe I can have one found and installed by springtime. It could be the high point of 2012 for us.

Wish me luck with my silly obsessions.

Cheers to sidehacks, both great and small.

Invincibility: "On!"

I am indestructible.

I never get sick.

I never get hurt.

I never grow old.

I'm twenty two forever.

Don't you forget it.

I used to think that way. I really did. As silly as it sounds. Now I didn't literally walk around chanting that mantra to myself or anything. But it pretty much sums up how I lived.

Then I got old, and not so much indestructible. The lingering mental state was still there however.

When I decided not to work out in the offseason, and proceed to put on 25 more pounds to boot before starting my senior year of high school football; should I really have been surprised when I got injured in the first game? I got thrown down trying to tackle the ball carrier, then piled on by a couple of Jackson HS guys. My right leg was folded up under me, and I oddly hurt the achilles tendon area, even though it was in the contraction direction at the time. Extreme contraction, but still. Perhaps some smart doctor type can explain it someday.

That was my first injury, the first chink in my impenetrable armor. But after I healed up, I ignored it.

I still hardly ever got sick, and when I did, it was so mild as to be laughable. This would stay true for a few more years.

I continued to be a casual sportsman, while not being even remotely in shape. Tempting fate, as it were.

Three days before I was to start my first real 'career' job; I smashed up my left ankle. I was playing volleyball in the Lansing Corporate Challenge. I went up for the ball at the net, and came down tangled up with the guy on the other side of the net who was doing the same thing. Rolled my left ankle over, to a chorus of snaps, crackles, and pops.

And so started my glorious career as a professional aircraft mechanic. With a heavy limp.

I'll go ahead and shorten this narrative: Came down with a mystery two week illness upon my return from Saudi Arabia in 1996. Gifting me with hospitalization grade fever, and delirium.

Working for Pratt & Whitney saw me branded with a four inch scar on the back of my skull courtesy of a 45 degree cut drain tube on the bottom of our Boeing 720 testbed, and seven staples.

With three kids added to the wife I was seeing more of being sick. Colds and flus seemed to visit me every year.

As I got older, and I approached 400 lbs, my body gave me random aches and pains. Almost as a reminder of mortality and bad living.

I slowly started to change my life for the better. I haven't drank alcohol since 2008, never had a smoking habit to kick, so that was god at least.

After my kidney stone in 2010, I switched to drinking only water, quite a bit of it, every day. Some milk, of course with my ritual bowl of cereal every morning.

Went on my diet, and did well. Have lost about 90 lbs since April of 2011 as I write this.

The last week or so has been hell on my diet though.

I fell down at work getting off a ladder, and I fractured my left patella. My kneecap, because until last week, I didn't know off the top of my head either.

Now I'm confined to mostly sitting on my butt until it aches it seems, either moronically surfing the internet, or watching Netflix until my eyes bleed.

I think I've finally decided I'm not invincible after all

Far from it. I think I might actually be just like everyone else. Mighty big of me to finally admit that I guess.

If it still sounds like I've had a decent go of things as far as being healthy, despite the chronic obesity, you'd be right. Until now, I've never broken a bone. I've never had surgery. Things are definitely still favorable.

I just need to remind myself that I'm mortal sometimes

Don't we all need that reminder on occasion?

Just lie to me and say yes, dammit.

Cheers to continued semi-invincibility

Without A Net

I got to watch the new movie In Time the other night.  I actually kind of liked it.  The big plot gag, is that money has been replaced with time.  Supposedly in this alternate future, medicine has solved all our medical problems, and we can theoretically live for hundreds of years with no problem, barring accidents.  Since there is simply not enough room on this earth for all the people that would stack up under such a system + birthrate; people's mortality is regulated via a hardwired 'clock'.  You have 25 years to live, then your clock gives you one more year of time, which you can spend like money, or add to as well. 

Just as with money in our current system, some people have lots of time, others do not, and don't live much past 25.  Most die, so that a few can live forever.

I don't think it was executed perfectly, but the concept is brilliant, and obviously works as a parallel for our own real world problems with class and money.  Plus, I really get a kick out of Justin Timberlake, all his SNL appearances have really endeared him to me.  I guess check it out if you get a chance.

One of the recurring themes of the storyline, is that Justin's character often only has enough time left on his 'clock' to let him live through the day.  What comes tomorrow, he worries about then.  Living day to day.  Without a net.

It's kind of how many of us live today.  I know I do.  Paycheck to paycheck, thankfully, and not day to day.  Although, I can certainly envision it easily. 

I'm 40 years old, I have no savings in the bank.  None. 

I have stuff, which I could turn into cash I suppose, or trade for things if push came to shove.  But I have no cushion whatsoever.

Shit, writing that down, and looking at it, scares the hell out of me actually. 

No savings.  No retirement account.  Well, except for a $450 a month pension I have from United Technologies.  Can't collect any of that until I hit 65 I think.  Who knows how little that will buy in 25 years though. 

My paycheck is pretty much spent out every two weeks.  Recharged automatically by my direct deposit around 1 am on payday. 

My reaction to seeing all that in print.  That definitely tells me that I haven't changed much.  Despite declaring bankruptcy four years ago, and losing our NY house to foreclosure two years ago; I am still a financial disaster.

I just don't think about it.  It's what gets me by.  What will be, will be.  I'll find a way to pay for whatever is needed.

I operate on a mostly cash basis these days.  I do have two small credit accounts, one with Dell Finance (I bought a computer!), and another with PayPal and their Bill Me Later system.  I keep small balances on each of them.  I'm trying to build my credit back up.

Credit for what, exactly?

I'll have to get a mortgage on the house we own currently in two years.  We had a lot of help getting this house, and were very lucky to have found it for the price it was and sellers who were willing to take a Land Contract.  I figure I'll be able to get a decent loan by then, hopefully.

Might want another vehicle sometime in the near future too.  Our minivan we bought new (!) in 2000 is getting a bit long in the tooth, as you can imagine.  But I keep it running, and functioning.  I am a half decent mechanic, after all.  Rust will be it's downfall in the end I'm afraid.  We have our eye on Mazda5's at the moment.  They seem like they would work for our family of 5 pretty well.  They are reasonably priced, and get almost 30 mpg.  And they have a smile on their front end.  You might have to Google image them to see what I mean, but it's true!

Who knows though.  I have dreams of finding a better job somewhere.  But my current plans are to stay put for the next nine years or so.  I would like the kids to be able to finish high school with people they know.  Doesn't seem fair to make them move around and switch friends, just because I'm chasing a dollar.  Some things don't have a price tag.

I want to save some money, I really do.  It's the darndest thing.  Whenever I seem to start to get ahead, someone will need to go to the Emergency Room, or a car will break down, or the house will need something. 

I should find a way to make my writing pay.  I mean, gosh, I do it almost every day as it is. 

One of my coworkers writes a little on the side, and he gets paid for it.  He writes little articles of interest for various magazines, and has done interviews, such as you would find in Rolling Stone Magazine.  He shared one of his articles with me just the other day.  It was short, no more than three pages long on standard paper, and pretty well done. 

In the back of my head, I was telling myself, "I could do that!".  But my front brain recognized something too.  It was simple, straightforward, and clean.  Either you know what I mean, or you don't.  The point being, that I don't know if I really could write that way.  It was good, I mentioned that, but it also smacked of a school assignment.  And a part of me didn't like it for that reason.

I write for my pleasure these days, and I give this shit away for free.  I'm the tramp that puts the prostitutes out of business!  So to speak, anyways. 

I have to recognize, that what I write, I do in a particular style.  I'm sure it's not unique, or perhaps even good, but it's how I like to write.  And I don't know if it's marketable.

Maybe I'll give it a try, what's the harm?  After all, I do it anyways.  Getting paid for it would be pretty fun, might be able to save up for that new chrome walker I'll be needing someday. 

That's in the future though, and I'm just worrying about today.

So for now, the savings account will just be marking time with the same $10 in it to keep it open.  The checking account will grow and shrink, like the waxing and waning of the moon.  Except a whole lot faster cycle. 

Tomorrow is another day, after all, who knows what it will bring?

Cheers:  To living without a net!

Bad Days: Strange Dreams

I had a terrible day yesterday. 

I had to go in early to work, we had some company training all afternoon.  After which we went to work.  Since we went in early, we got to leave earlier than usual.  So I called home and told the family to wait for me, as I would try to get there in time to go to swimming practice to watch the kids. 

I got there in time, and we went to swimming.  I played some of the kid's and my favorite music on the way there.  We all sang out loud to Jonathan Coulton's "Still Alive" and "Want You Gone".  Both are end credit songs for the video games Portal, and Portal 2; respectively.  It was pretty fun.

Once we arrived, we went upstairs into the gallery, and the kids went and did their thing.  Watching my youngest swim was pretty fun.  I hadn't seen him swim in the program yet, due to scheduling conflicts with work.  I enjoyed it.  He has never had real swim lessons, and is improving very quickly. 

I guess I'll make a long story short, and tell that after my son swam, and went to the locker room to change; some hijinks occurred where another boy's clothes got thrown on the floor of the locker room, and lots of water was sprayed all over.  I gave my son a talking to, he got intensely angry with me, and informed us that he didn't like me.  He didn't want to grow up to be a geek like me.  He wished I could be a "regular" dad, like some of the others, and not good with computers, and always writing things.  He wants me to just throw the football around with him more often. 

We don't even own a football.

He broke my heart with what he said, and how he said it.

I didn't help matters when I descended all too willingly to his 9 year old level.

He looks at me very cool and angry, informing me, "I don't like you, and I don't want to hug you."

I look back sadly, and tell him, "Well, I don't want to hug you right now either."

Yeah, I'm a 40 year old child.  But then, we knew this, right?  ~Sigh~

I was put into a funk for the rest of the evening.  Nothing good came of it.

When I decided it was time to go to bed, I wished intensely for a night without dreams.

Of course, that wish wasn't granted.

The first dream I remember, was in a fancy hotel room.  I was sharing it with CNET's Brian Tong for some reason.  No hanky panky going on that I could tell, but that is certainly weird. 

For some reason, the large bathtub is in a separate room, right next to the regular bathroom that has a shower.  Brian went into the bathtub, and made lots of bubblebath.  He starts talking to me about Apple computers and my choice in iPhones.  I think he was trying to convince me to get a new iPhone 4s.  All the while, he is covered with bubblebath, on top of his head even, like a little kid. 

I decide to get into the shower in the next room.  We both keep our doors open a smidge, so he just keeps talking about the tech stuff to me.  It's like a CNET podcast, from the evil Star Trek world.  He didn't have a goatee though, so that doesn't hold up.  But still!

I'm putzing around in the big shower, shaving, washing, enjoying the huge luxury shower.  Suddenly I have to pee, and I try real hard not to, as it seems like that would be rude to pee in a luxury shower or something.  But, I have to go super bad, so I start to let it go. 

That's when I wake up, and have to pee real bad. 

If you know me, and maybe you have these too, they are what I call "Pee Dreams".  If you don't heed the call of the Pee Dream, and get up and go, you could have a real mess on your hands!

It just so happens, the kids and my wife were up getting ready for school.  I went to the bathroom, and checked in on them.  Nobody needed anything, so I told my daughter to hustle up, as it was almost time for the schoolbus.  Then I went back to bed.

Pulled the covers up over my head, and fell back to sleep for an hour or two. 

This time, I dreamed of an old friend.  I dreamt I was at the family cottage, back before it was torn down to make way for the modern home my parents retired in.  It was back when I was living there in the 1990's.  My parents were there too, visiting for the weekend I think.  When Miss Moon pulled into the driveway.  Moon is a friend I made during a pretty trying time in my life, which I'll discuss someday.  She wasn't the source of any of the issues back then, just a nice friend from that era.

Apparently, Moon had given me a bunch of her stuff when she moved out of some apartment or something.  We started pulling boxes of stuff out of the darndest of places, as you can only do in dreams.  Looking under the couches, produced an impossible array of boxes, all with her name on them.  A few of the boxes showed up things that I had thought never to see again.  She gave these back to me, saying that she got them from her Ex, and the Ex had been going to burn that stuff to get back at me (part of a bigger story!!), because it all meant something to me. 

In the box was my old Swiss Army knife, with my initials on it; my old arrowhead necklace; keys to my old Chrysler; and some poems that I had handwritten as gifts. 

This was meaningful for some reason. 

I went to one of the closets looking for more of her stuff.  when I opened the old tan vinyl accordion door, I found my old High School letterman jacket.  It was moldy looking, still sporting the stupid button pins I had worn on it in high school:  The light blue "I smell Snarlmeat!"; and the Monty Python's Flying Circus pins.  Still pinned to the large letter E on the left breast.

Below the letterman's E on the left, though, was something newer.  A mission patch from my time at Pratt & Whitney Flight Test.  Had our dark blue Boeing airplane, with the orange wingtips, nose, and tail.  With some engine test designator that I didn't recognize at all.  I took the jacket down, and a pile of other patches fell out of the pocket.

These patches were all the ones that I thought I had lost after we moved out of the condo in NY.  I had been going to get them sewn onto a leather flight jacket, so as to make a sort of "I love me" jacket.  Like the military people make with all of their mission stuff.  Some of them have "I love me walls", in their houses or offices with similar things. 

Actually, lots of people do this.  It's the space on your wall where you put all the things you are proud of, that you wouldn't mind if people saw.  Pictures of cool places, you shaking hands with recognizable people, awards, models, etc.  You get the idea.

Your I Love Me Wall. 

I had thought I would never see these stupid patches again.  I was pretty happy to have them in my hands again.

That's when I woke up for the second time.

I'm baffled as to what my dreams mean.  The first one, lets be honest, seems a little bit gay.  Brian Tong is a 30-ish year old Asian American.  Very good looking, and fit.  With great hair.  Maybe I have a secret crush on him.  Who knows?

As for the second, what the heck?  I haven't seen Moon since 1992.  I certainly don't have any of her stuff, and the stuff I got back in the dream, really is gone.  I am pretty sure she doesn't have it.  I'm Facebook friends with her now though, so I suppose that's how she got dragged into the dream. 

As for the letterman jacket and the patches.  Now I'm going to have to open up a few boxes to find it.  And check to make sure my patches aren't anywhere in it, on it, or near it.  There is always the chance that my subconscious was revealing where the heck those things were hiding.  I can't think of what else it could mean. 

But then, I am a bear of very little brain.

I am going to buy a football.  If my son wishes I could be more of a jock for him; then I'll throw the ball around with him. 

I keep telling myself that there is too much to do around here for me to take time away from it when I'm home to play around like that. 

But I take time to write things like this, and my poetry.  Does that mean I think this stuff is more important than what my son wants, and maybe needs from me?

Honestly, the answer is yes.  But I'm a self admitted self centered child; so I know that the initial 'yes' answer is wrong.  The 40 year old dad in me will take charge, and buy the football, and teach his kids to throw it.  Then I'll throw it on the ground and show him what I used to have to do when my coach did that to me. 

Which is try to be the first one to pile on top of that ball, of course!! 

Unless your name is Chris Melton, then you pick up the ball and run it for a touchdown.  Shameful, Chris!  Glory hound, what if you'd dropped it? 

God, I get all green with jealousy for him doing that even to this day!  Frickin' twenty two years ago, High School football glory envy.  Makes me want to drive to Texas and buy him a beer or something.

I've got pinewood derby car kits coming in the mail, we'll be building those over the next few weeks.  Hopefull that will butch up my image with my kid. 

I am what I am.  I'm just coming to terms with it after 40 years.  Now I'm dealing with angry peer pressure from my own kids.  Life just never ceases to stop throwing curve balls at you I reckon. 

Maybe someday I'll learn how to hit them, instead of striking out.

Cheers, to the strange sad dreams of a middle aged pre pubescent.

Talk Amongst Yourself

I talk to myself; a lot.

Sometimes I fear being accused of being a stereotypical crazy homeless man.  The one that the movies love to portray, wandering around, arguing with himself.

I don’t argue with myself.  Well, at least I never argue with myself and lose.  Not yet anyways. 

I’m not sure why I do it.  Often when I’m working on something, or with something: I anthropomorphize it.  I can’t help it.  Things become ‘he’ or ‘she’, and I swear at them, or praise them according to how things are going.  Lots of people do that, actually, I’ve seen it. 

When I find something hideously wrong while I’m inspecting an airplane at work, I’ll chide the airplane to “not be like that, now”.  If I whack my head on something, I’ll turn to the offending bit of metal and express some anger, “Is that really how it’s going to be??? I mean, really?”

I talk through problems with myself, just kind of voicing thoughts out loud.  Almost to hear if they sound rational or not.  Sometimes something doesn’t sound bad in your head, but when you say it out loud, it just sounds terrible.  Ideas to steer clear of. 

Other times, I’ll be rehearsing for a conversation I’m going to have with someone.  I kind of say what I want to say, and like to hear how it sounds.  So I can say it differently if I need to.  Voice tone, pitch, timing, etc.  Actor shit, I guess.  Not that I’m an actor, but I do it anyways.

Occasionally, I’ll have both sides of a conversation, and that’s when I know for a fact that I sound crazy.  I’ve even been busted at work doing it sometimes. 

I just acknowledge the other person’s presence, and stop talking to myself, as if nothing happened.  I wonder what they think?

I have discussions with myself, of past events.  Arguments, or debates that didn’t go the way I wanted.  So I’ll rerun them for myself, out loud, with more carefully chosen words.  Perhaps I misguidedly think I’ll learn something from doing that?  It’s just a habit.

Once in awhile, I'll speak of the dead.  Not TO them, mind you, just OF them.  No ghosts for me, thank you very much.

I do it in my head, I do it quietly out loud.  I often get tears in my eyes when I do it.  I guess it's how a person like myself, who eschews funerals, and overt public signs of grief, deals with death and loss.  I do my own memorial services, for myself. 

I'm enamored with the idea of a Speaker For The Dead.  Not my idea, it's Orson Scott Card's.  It plays a big part in his Ender series of novels.  If you like science fiction, even a little, they are a must read.  Do it.

Basically, a Speaker For The Dead, is summoned when someone dies.  Anyone can ask that a Speaker comes and speaks for the dead person.  This 'order' of Speakers is recognized like a religion. 

The Speaker will come and research the person's life.  They will find out everything they can, the joy, the pain, the good, the bad, the bland.  They will encapsulate all a person's life into one presentation.  The Speaker has the job of telling the truth of a person.  Whether it causes pain or happiness to the survivors who listen.  A person is who they are, and that is what the Speaker does.  Tells it like it is, or rather, was.

It seems to me that this sort of an approach would be highly cathartic.  I could see hearing such a thing, being painful, and hard to listen to.  But in the end, a greater understanding of who the person really was, would be the payoff for all involved. 

As a matter of fact, if I ever get around to making a will, I'm putting that in it.  I wish to have a Speaker summoned.  I will leave some notes for them.  Perhaps some things I have never told anyone to get them started.  Post the request on Reddit, or something.  Hopefully someone who knows of the concept could do me that last favor.

Or maybe that would be my last communication with the world.  The request for a Speaker For The Dead, to speak for one Frederick Damien Robel II.

Arriving at the point though, that's what I do sometimes.  I talk to myself about the people that I've known who die.  I sort of go through all the things I knew of them.  I sort out my feelings about them being gone now. 

I took a small stab at doing it in front of people once.  When my dad died.  (Good god, talking about THAT again?)

My mother requested that both of us kids write something for his funeral, for us to read out loud, or for the priest to read for us. 

I sat down and started writing something.  I don't even know if I saved it.  I told how my father was.  I think I mentioned his temper, his smoking habit, his stubbornness, his righteousness, his kindness, his honesty, his high moral standards.  I was sort of thinking of telling it how it was, showing his strength, along with some flaws.  I sort of liked it. 

My mother walked up behind me, and read the unfinished piece over my shoulder.  She was horrified, and cried asking me how I could write such an awful thing about my father.  I didn't see it that way, and didn't know how to respond. 

In the end, I did the dutiful son thing, and wrote something that only said good things about him.  Praised my adoption, and such.  It was all true.

But it wasn't the whole truth. 

I had wanted to tell a bigger picture. 

I was only allowed to tell a postage stamp.

I did redeem myself in my own eyes, by standing up at his memorial wake, and telling the story of how he didn't strangle me with his bare hands when I totalled his sports car when I was 16.  It showed he had a temper, but that he could rise above that.  And it was sort of funny too.  It made most everyone laugh.  Which is a good thing to have at a wake I think. 

I keep telling myself, that the next time I have something to say.  Whether it's in an argument, a discussion, a job interview, or a funeral.  That I'll say all the things that I only say to myself.  That I tell everyone what I think.  But I don't know if I ever will.

I have a crazy thought sometimes of actually trying to sell the service that is portrayed by a Speaker For The Dead.  I feel most times that such a thing might go over pretty well.

Other times, it feels pretty ridiculous. 

I did have someone tell me once, that they wanted me to write their obituary.  Of course, that person is not even 30 yet.  So I hope I never get the chance. 

Until I figure such things out;  I'll keep saying them to myself.  I'll drive my hour to work, listening to my music, sometimes spinning tales of those now lost, giving commencement speeches, performing eulogies, giving lectures. 

All to the most critical of possible audiences. 

Myself

Cheers to voices outside my head. 

Mowing the Neighbor's Lawn

I mow my neighbor's lawn.  I really can't say why.  I've never met him, nor do I know much about him. 

I've never been asked to do it, let alone paid for it.  I just do.

I know he's an old man, who lives somewhere else.  He's been trying to sell his house for years, but with things the way that they are, nobody has been interested.  It's kind of sad.  It's actually a very nice house.  Sort of an Up North looking chalet style kind of thing, might have been sold as a package home from a lumber yard.  You can probably picture the sort of place.  Not too big, not too small.

It's just that it's here.  Up here, the real estate market isn't so good, just like in many other places.  The number of people who actually live here year round is probably smaller than the number who do not.  So that larger group of homes, and the percentage gets larger the closer to the lake you go, go figure, are not full time residences. 

This community of Au Gres is sort of a vacation summer type community, or at least it seems that way.  There is a lot of farming around here.  Back in the early part of the 20th century Au Gres billed itself as the Onion Capital of the World.  I have a first day postage cover from the opening of the Au Gres airport, I think it was in the 1930's sometime.  The commemorative postage mark is that of a large onion, with that Onion Capital thing above it.  Pretty neat small town stuff.

Nowadays, the airport is still kind of there, but it's closed, and there is a few industrial complexes taking up about a third of the old airport property.  Makes me sad, but then again, I am an aviation guy, so of course it does.

Mowing my neighbor's lawn though.  It started out innocently. 

There is a 'vacant' wood lot between his property and mine.  I don't know who owns it, hence the demiquotes.  Nobody was mowing the frontage on that lot, so I started doing it.  It's just a 30 yard extension of what I already do for my own property, and only about 12 feet deep.  So no big deal.  And it makes the neighborhood look nicer I think.  Besides, I didn't want anyone to think that I owned that vacant lot, and wasn't mowing it.  The upper crust would be horrified. 

Then, as a sort of natural progression, I started looking at the frontage in front of my neighbor's house.  No one had been taking care of his lawn for about a year.  And my frontage, and the vacant lot's frontage, sort of runs into that frontage.  So I started mowing that part too.  Another 30 yards or so.  At that point, I'm now mowing almost 100 yards of frontage.  Still not such a big deal, I mean, I do have a lawn tractor after all.

Then, as I was mowing the frontage in front of the neighbor's house, I started looking at the house every time I did a row of grass.  Seeing how vacant and sad it looked.  The for sale by owner sign now removed from the front yard, and propped up against the garage door.  Almost like they've given up for now. 

I decided to mow the whole front yard up to the front porch.  No harm in that, right?  I might help sell the house even.  It would be wonderful to have a nice family or something move in next door.  I liked the idea of it more and more as I did it.  I was the champion of the neighbor hood I was! 

I rationalize doing it sometimes.  I tell myself that I dump my leaves over the fence, into the vacant lot often, and if the neighbor actually owns that lot, then me mowing his front yard is a kind of repayment for dumping the leaves into the wood lot.  The sort of agreement, that hasn't actually been made, ever.  Probably the same type of deal arrangement some people make when they steal things actually I bet. 

Kind of like, I'll take this twenty dollars, they'll never miss it, because they have so many twenty dollar bills.  I'll put it back as soon as I get paid.  Maybe even leave an extra one someday.  But they never do. 

I'm not sure why I really do it.  It does take a little extra time.  I might even get in trouble for doing it, which I admit does make me chuckle a little to think of.  There is a little of the anarchist within me yet.  Random acts of kindness are sort of anarchist too maybe.  There are no rules telling you to do things like that.  And actually some telling you to stay off your neighbor's property when not invited.  But I don't pay much attention to casual rules like that. 

If he didn't want me to mow his lawn, he'd put up a fence. 

So if you come over, and I told you I'd be mowing my lawn, but you don't see me.  Look next door, I might be there.  Don't forget to look behind the neighbor's house too, there's no telling when this sickness I have will tell me I should mow back there too, and pick up the leaves too. 

Cheers, to random kind acts.

Walmartism and the Death of the Local Grocer

I admit I have mixed feelings about going to Wal-Mart. 

When I first moved out of my parent’s house, I lived up in Northern Michigan for my job.  I was about 1 mile from the Country Store. 

It was a place I’d been going almost all my life.  We’d stop there to get groceries when I was a toddler, I rode my minibike there when I was 9 for gas and candy.  And the same old couple still owned it back then.  I felt I wanted to support it. 

Back then, in the early ‘90’s, there was no Wal-Mart around to tempt me.  But being single, and really not money conscious at all, I wonder if I’d have done my grocery shopping there at all.

I’d stop at the Country Store for all my necessary items.  Any kind of food, drink, or home basics, they had, and I bought.  I’m certain it cost a little more than the grocer in town, but I didn’t care.  I used to say that if you liked having the Country Store there when you needed them, you better support them when you have a choice.  I was aware of that reality, even back then. 

Time passed, the store changed hands after the wife died, and I moved away.  The store is a house now, the owner does welding stuff in the garage out back.  But it looks much the same.  Just no giant Country Store sign up on the roof. 

Now, when I want groceries, living in that same town, the choice is the local chain grocery store, or Wal-Mart.  The local store is about 5 miles south of where I live, the Wal-Mart is 20 miles North. 

I like Wal-Mart for their prices.  I can fill up a cart really full, for under $200 dollars, and with a family of five in my present life, I have to do that up to four times a month.  Three dogs too, I forgot, they contribute to the bill.  Iams dog food is not super cheap. 

I also drive right by the Wal-Mart on my way home from work every day.  Since I work the night shift, and get off work at midnight, the store is usually pretty empty.  It takes a lot less time to get in and out, than during the daytime.

I don’t like the selection at Wal-Mart usually.  Sometimes, it’s because I have no preference for something, and they have just too many dang choices for me to know what would be the best thing.  Other times, it’s because the selection is too limited. 

The local grocer in town, while being 15 miles closer, has it’s limitations.  They don’t turn over their stock very often, and even when things are going well, I have gotten food that was a little old from them.  If the power in town has gone out for more than an hour or so any time in the last week, I know to avoid the frozen and refrigerated stuff.  They run things on a tight budget, and don’t get rid of things afterwards, like they probably should. 

The frozen peas will be solid blocks, the milk will smell a little, um, stale. 

And their prices, are quite a bit higher there.  When I spend $100 dollars there, I just don’t get as much for my money for sure. 

So what to do?  I feel guilty for not buying my things at the local grocer.  I know that they don’t do well, and I’m frankly surprised that they are still in business. 

But my pocketbook is just not that full, and I need to squeeze mileage out of my coin. 

Once again, I’m definitely a part of the problem.  I’m contributing to the monster that is eating the small stores up across America, thereby making it bigger, selling more stuff, able to buy it cheaper and in larger lots, and sadly making it impossible for the local grocer in my town to compete with their selection and prices.

I see only one ray of hope, at least for all the local grocers across America, that live within driving distance of a Wal-Mart, or similar large box store.  That is to go for the niche market.

I’ve seen it work, and I think it could around here too.  There are some people who want higher quality foods, and are willing to pay a little more for certain things.  I, for instance, am partial to my good meats, breads, fruits.  I can’t say I’d shop at a place like that every single day, but I would go to get my special things.  I can afford to do that. 

Conroy’s Organics was such a store.  It was just down the road from us when we lived out in upstate NY.  Just north of Plattsburgh, they were located on their family farm actually.  Often surrounded by a herd of the family highland cattle, the store was really neat.  It offered lots of local foods, organics, and natural (whatever that means).  My favorite, was the beef, from those very same cows you could see all around the store.

It’s not easy I’m sure, but if you happen to be in the right market, you can compete with the Wal-Marts of the world. 

So my guilt about not supporting the local grocer is a little less, when I think on such things.  Because they are trying to compete head to head with the large store up the road, and losing.  But in their fight to stay open, they are having to bend rules, limit selection, and raise prices.  Thereby ensuring more and more people opt for that 20 mile drive to the north.

Cheers, to changing your way of thinking to slay a giant.