Your Lips are Moving

Adios, my friends.

2009-11-12T11:27:00.000-05:00

This is the bad news. I'm no longer going to blog here. It's been too difficult to keep up as you can see the dates between posts so I've decided to shut this site down.

The good news is, I haven't stopped blogging. I designed another site by myself, for myself and my friends. It's almost been a year since I started and it's time to move on.

So update your links. Hopefully this will be "one stop shopping" for you guys.

The main site isn't even close to opening for business but the blog has been moved and is up and running so go check it out and let me know what you think.

I'll give all the explanations over the next few blog posts over there but for now, just mess around the site and let me know if all the links work for you. If you notice something is broken, let me know so I can fix it.

I SUCK at HTML language since I'm self taught so be gentle.

Here are the two sites you need. You've been loyal to me here so I hope you follow me to my new dorm on the Internets.

http://www.downtheinkwell.com

http://www.cottinghamphotography.com

See you there.

This site is now officially shut down.

"Which way did he go, George?"

2009-10-27T10:09:00.001-04:00

Again, not really a blog entry but a smidgen of info on where I've been and to tell my FB friends that I really didn't dump them. I got a lot of hate mail wondering why I wasn't their friend anymore.

It was very tempting to hop back on to avoid confusion and just leave my profile where it was but I was so afraid that my Farm would be a landfill, my Mafia family would all be snuffed out, and I would lose 437 balloon fights. So I decided to simply stay away. I knew I'd be back and I knew you all wouldn't leave so off into the wild blue yonder I went.

After I hit the 6 month mark of retirement my mind did that funky thing that new SCUBA divers experience. You find yourself in a completely unnatural state where your mind and body dig their collective heels in the ground making it near impossible to accomplish your mission.

As a new SCUBA diver, the first time you submerge your head and need to take that first "hit" from your regulator, your body say's "Fuck THAT"! Breathing underwater is very, very unnatural as your body pretty much knows you're going to drown. It's difficult to get used to but eventually your body figures it out and it becomes a great experience.

I got that same feeling about a month ago. I started waking up feeling like "it was time to go back". Go back where? I felt like I had forgotten to return to work from vacation. I forgot what I was supposed to do and where I was supposed to do it. My mind simply would not accept the fact that employment wasn't in the picture anymore. Every single day for weeks I woke up with the feeling like I needed to report somewhere.

Those friends of mine who are retired might know what I'm talking about. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I dislike retirement. I'm just saying that there comes a point early on where your mind and body want to return to the state they were in for over 20 years. When I was employed, my friends and I would see these people retire, only to come back 6 months later as contractors. We never understood why.

Now I do.

I guess if you can push through this 6 month state of confusion and pop out the other side then you'll really begin to enjoy life without the worry of clocking in somewhere.

Anyway, I had lost my creativity. My blog entries became sporadic, my inspiration was playing Hide and Seek, and I felt it was time to pause and let this feeling pass before I did something stupid like fill out a work application.

My Dad is a photographer (semi-professional but retired as well) and I decided that might be a good hobby for me. The scenery here is beautiful and I needed to get outdoors and find purpose to get through the doldrums that had set in.

And, to be quite honest, I've been through medical hell and back which took a tremendous amount of time. The medical community here is what I call "Hillbilly Medicine". The networks here are ridiculous so I've spent an enormous amount of time trying to buck the system.

Anyway, after taking hundreds of photos and putting some on my little "Mac" site, I felt it was time to build a full fledged website where the pictures were much larger, better quality and I could control how things worked. Plus I wanted to feature some of my Dad's work (which a lot of it is film so it might be awhile). I'm trying to bring him up from his digital point and shoot into the land of DSLRs.

Also, most of you know I've been trying to build a different website for blogging and writing but this photo one took a front seat since it was quicker for me to build and now that it's basically set up and I've honed my HTML skills, I can now return to building the other site which I hope will feature more people than just myself. It should just be a mish mash of blogging, opinions, editorials, cartoons, or whatever strikes our fancy.

So it's been a nice break but I really really miss my friends so I plan to return to FB by weeks end. It's going to be a very subtle entry since some freak once accused me of grand entrances and exits.

I guess that's what you get when you're bigger than life.

Looking forward to chatting soon.

R

The long and winding road

2009-10-26T23:08:00.000-04:00

Just and update, not a blog entry.

I'm returning to the land of the Internets. After some time off to pursue a few things, I've now gotten caught up and will once again walk amongst my FaceBook friends. I hope to be back up by Friday as I still have some work to do this week on one of my projects.

I'll finally have time for blog entries, FB chats and the things I enjoyed before this little sabbatical.

I've missed everyone and hope to reconnect by the weekend.

Dude, Where's My Car?

2009-10-13T07:39:00.010-04:00

It's no secret that I'll happily admit. I'm a mall rat.

When all is quiet on the home front and I feel like a short drive, I head to the local mall to hang out. Not necessarily for the shopping, although it's nice when you have a quarter in your pocket, but I like to people watch.

I go grab a six pack of Starbucks, find a nice, comfy chair to sit in and watch the southerners shuffle about from store to store. Best of all, I love to see them get caught in that Tractor Beam that sucks them into those fucking kiosks to buy stupid shit. Especially the booth with the lotion bitches.

For the customers it's hot, it's humid, their skin glistens with sweat and these girls make them feel they need more crap on their skin.

It's not deodorant people. It's for dry, lizard skin. If you lived in Arizona that might be one thing. But you basically live in a rain forest. Natural oils protect your skin that really doesn't need to be ground away by Dead Sea salt.

Whatever. It's fun to watch when you're wired on Americanos.

Well, on this particular day I actually had a NEED to go to the mall and I couldn't get there fast enough. I was on a mission. A mission that required speed, agility and total focus.

My iPod took a dump.

For whatever reason it doesn't sync anymore and it skips when I play my tunes. Ever listen to the same songs every day for a month? For me it's summed up in one word.

Insanity.

I would rather my right foot get ground up in an escalator accident than be without my iPod. I listen to that thing every single day, all day long. Most of you know that music is my lifeblood and to be without it would cause me to shrivel up into a pale white dead looking guy who eventually drops to the floor in the fetal position and through pursed lips would utter, "do not resuscitate".

So the next day, I scurry off to the Apple store. Well, the lone store in the southern half of North Carolina happens to be south of Charlotte on the South Carolina border. So what. I'd drive to freakin' London if I had to. Impossible as that is, I'd give it one hell of a try.

I'm driving like I have to go to the bathroom really, really bad. Why, I'm not sure because once I get it, there's not going to be any music on it until I get home. Still, I need to feel it. I need the warmth in my hand. I want that familiar "clicking"sound to fall upon my ears.

Now I've only been to this particular mall about 3 times. It's quite nice, very upscale, and buried amongst some of the largest plantation type homes you'll ever see. So the beautiful drive makes it all the more worth it.

Once I get there, I park my car, grab my shit, and head on in. When I get to the glass doors there's a lady with a double stroller with two cute little girls in each seat. As a gentleman, I open the door for them and then the second one. A very polite "Thank you" later, I walk through the department store out to the mall.

Again, I've been here before so I knew where the Apple store was. I must have looked like a horse with blinders on or the Terminator because my eyes didn't leave the front of my path until I saw the giant, white Apple logo perched atop the brushed chrome exterior of the store.

Usually I'm greeted by no less than 11 employees asking me if I need any help. Any other day I would simply say, "just looking, thanks" (all the while in my head saying, "get the hell out of my face and leave me alone"). But today was different.

I walked in the store and the first Apple employee walked up to greet me and before they finished their little greeting, it came blurting out of my mouth.

"I want the most manly looking 16G Nano you have".

With a skip in my step I exit the store with my Hot Pink iPod.

As I'm leaving, in front of me was a mall directory. I wondered if they had a camera store I could peruse before leaving. This amateur photography hobby has me fascinated by all the lenses and gadgets that can be used with your camera.

To my surprise, they had a Wolf Camera store in the mall. That's a rarity since most camera stores have closed up shop as they simply can't compete with the online stores and prices. I locate the store on the map and make my way over.

The store is small but packed with lots of goodies. I spend about 15 minutes window shopping, find a lens that I would like to have, stare at it for a bit then decide it's time to leave.

As I exit the store and start walking back toward the Apple store it happened. I didn't even see it coming.

Every single brain cell fell out of my head, landed on the shiny mall floor and rolled around like marbles. Each step I took, more and more fell out until the needle in my skull was pegged on "E".

"I probably needed some of those", I say to myself as I'm now completely lost and have no idea where I am or where I'm parked. In fact I'm so lost that I can't find the Apple store. I walk over to the nearest mall directory, get my bearings and begin to try and retrace my steps.

Futile, frustrated and fucked. That's all that was left in my head. I walk down one arm of the mall to an anchor store and I don't recognize the area. Again, I look at the mall map and it doesn't look any different that the other one except the dot that says "You Are Here" had moved.

I begin to turn my head sideways to the right. Then I turn it to the left. Then I turn it upside down. Where the hell was I? The stores were clearly marked on the map but for the life of me I couldn't find them.

I walk back down the long hallway, turn and begin to walk down the next arm to another anchor store.

SHIT. There they were. The lotion bitches. I had to walk past them to get to the end so with my laser sights pointed straight ahead, I walked by as they shoved plastic cups that looked like urine samples in my face but I kept walking.

Nope. Not where I came in. Now I have to reverse course. Now you would think these ladies would remember they had already offered me their snake oil. Nope. For some reason I must have looked like I changed my clothes because they assaulted me again.

Passing the rest of Carnival Row, I make another turn toward a third anchor store. I get to the end and nothing looks familiar. I turn around, look at the map, and it looks the same as the other two.

Shit.

Now I'm frustrated so I sit down and think. As I'm pondering how to get the fuck out to my car I was reminded of a similar story that happened many years ago. It was the only other time I had lost my way to my car.

My good friend David who I worked with and has more Beatle knowledge than I will probably ever obtain, decided to take a trip to Las Vegas to see Paul McCartney. This was back in the day when we could fly for free so we booked the trip and headed down to see a Beatle.

Well, David was in charge of getting the rental car. He decides we're going balls out and rents a brand new, white Town Car. Yes, it was very cool, quite comfy, and came with all the amenities. A day later we drive out to the concert that we had been waiting to see for some time.

We get into the parking lot and proceed to our seats which were quite good. After the concert we exit the stadium and begin to walk back to our car.

So we think.

Somehow we didn't agree where we parked. It was dark out, the lot was dimly lit and worst of all; we were in Las Vegas. EVERYONE is Las Vegas drives a white Town Car. Needless to say, as we gaze across the lot, we see nothing but 200 white Town Cars. Long story short, it took us over an hour to find the car. And it was only because everyone else had pretty much left.

As my day dreaming ends, I get back up and continue on my quest. Another mall arm later, I find myself in a place I was in 15 minutes ago. Now I'm really turned around. No matter which way I went I was simply walking in circles. I must have passed the lotion bitches 5 times and each time they thought I was a brand new person. Either they thought I had a crush on them or they were just really fucking stupid.

After 25 minutes I decide the only thing to do is exit the mall and walk around the entire outside until I find the parking structure with the most familiarity. Bad call. As I begin to walk the outside I realize the perimeter is about 3 miles long.

Great. I don't have the stamina nor the patience to do this so back in the mall I go. By the grace of God I finally find the Apple store. The problem was, which way did I go in? To the right or to the left? I turned around to see if I could remember but all I saw were my brain cells still rolling around on the ground.

I picked a direction and, of course, it was not the correct one. As I'm walking I decide to swear off all corn mazes for the rest of my life.

Finally I decide I'm just going to walk into one of the anchor store to see if anything looks familiar. Nope. They all have perfume counters, shoe departments, women's undies and ladies now trying to get me to sample the latest men's fragrance. I walk to the back where the glass door is and there's no parking.

I turn around and start to walk back out when I notice there are two side doors to the right and to the left. I look down at one of them and recognize the door handles. It's the only thing I remembered when I help the mother with her ducklings inside the store. They were curvy, ornate and one side had a handicapped door.

I walk down to one of them and surprisingly there was a parking structure. I walk outside and there it was. My car.

"FUCK", I said as I look at my watch that said 45 minutes had passed.

I couldn't believe that I never paid attention to the store I had entered when I first walked in. I was so pre-occupied with helping someone that it never dawned on me to take note of where I was.

Now panic set in as I thought I was going to be late picking Alex up from school as I pretty much wasted all my time memorizing the entire mall.

Driving like I had to pee again I make it in time to pick up my kid after which we headed home so I could load my new purchase. I was still steamed that I made such a veteran mistake not to mention that some stupid person was going to find my brain cells on the floor and use them. Luckily they'd be of no use to them as most of them were fried.

Later on that night after making a few new playlists and loading the pod I see an ad for the iPhone on TV. It's talking about the 1 million apps you can now load on your phone for just about anything. At the end of the ad came the punch line.

"You can even download an app that will show you where you parked your car".

I looked at my iPhone sitting next to me and had the urge to flush it down the toilet. I didn't, though, because it's now officially my new brain.

FIRE in the hole !!!

2009-09-27T19:53:00.012-04:00

I've been in North Carolina now since April of this year. Allison and the boys have been here for a few months, though it seems longer. I think it's safe to say we've all finally found our groove and routine to the point that we have grown comfortable venturing outside the city limits and exploring other parts of the state.

I've taken my little day trips here and there while everyone has been at school but normally I don't travel very far. My new found hobby of photography has gotten me out of the house and on to little back roads looking for interesting subjects other than freaky bugs and funny things that describe my life, all of which are sad but true.

Lately I've had a string a weekends that entailed trips to "hippie-ville", mall hopping, rug cleaning and overall just run of the mill errands, so yesterday and today were sort of marked as lazy days where Allison and I decided not to make any real plans.

Yesterday it rained all day so we set out locally to look for photographic subjects and ended up just enjoying the rain. I didn't take one picture but we found ourselves at some very interesting towns and little roadside stores.

Today was little nicer outside but we decided to do the same thing before the NASCAR race later in the afternoon. I was determined to take some pictures to practice and see if I couldn't refine my artistic eye which isn't easy when you start out like Marty Feldman.

So off we went. Armed with coffee and camera we set sail into the beautiful surrounding areas. As the day progressed I discovered something about taking pictures. It's an extremely dangerous hobby. If anyone can find cruel and unusual punishment in a serene sport such as photography it's yours truly.

Always.

First stop was at a farm that we passed on the side of the road. It was filled with pumpkins, flowers, beans and other dying crops. I got out of the car, threw darts at the camera setting and started snapping photos of the food farm.

After taking some pictures of pumpkins that looked like deformed celebrities, I made my way over to the other side of the farm. There I found what appeared to be freakishly large green beans. They looked as if they were irrigated with nuclear waste as most of them were discolored, lifeless, and as big as a Chiquita banana.

As I'm twisting myself into weird yoga poses to get just the right shot, a cop pulls up in the form of a bitch in a grey Buick. She has a few words with Allison who was waiting by the car then turns around and peels out of the gravel driveway.

When I finished with the python looking beans, I walked over and asked Allison what that was all about.

"This lady pulls up and says we shouldn't be on the driveway of this farm like we own the place. She said if we wanted to take pictures we should ask for permission first before engaging in our peaceful stop."

First of all, if a stranger walked up to me and asked if I was the owner of 10 acres of dead farm in front of me I would have started laughing. Second, there was no way in hell I was going to drive up the quarter mile gravel driveway to the dilapidated house at the end and blindly knock on the door.

What if some fat, scruffy dude in his underwear, bed head and Ding Dong crumbs sprinkled on his tank top undershirt answered the door with a Pabst Blue Ribbon in one hand and a football game in the background answered the door and just stared at me through a ripped screen door? There was no way I was going to ask him if I could take a picture of his pumpkin and large bean.

Photo op number one cut short. We got in the car, laughed and bitched a bit while searching for our next subject.

A few miles later, Allison slams on the brakes, makes a U-turn and heads back to a sign that said "Cemetary" with an arrow pointing down another driveway.

"Cool", I thought to myself. More dead people.

As we weaved our way back into the cemetery it looked like a well groomed resting place with evenly spaced headstones and fairly fresh flowers at each one. Not quite what I was expecting but at least this time I could pass off my trespassing by crying and telling a fake story about a made up relative buried in some random grave.

We parked under some large trees, got out of the car and started walking the grounds. At first it looked like it was going to be somewhat boring until we noticed something. The cemetery was surrounded by a dense looking rain forest. Well, inside the jungle were more headstones. Old ones with no pattern of placement and a creepiness as they appeared to be hiding among the trees.

That's more like it.

We left the lush lawn area and made our way into the jungle that was filled with vine twisted trees and soft ground that was covered in a ton of vegetation. Scarier than the headstones was the fact that you couldn't see below the foliage that covered every inch of the ground.

Our minds began to wander simultaneously. What if we were going to step on snakes, huge bugs, deadly reptiles or big, furry spiders? It was a chance we were willing to take as we made our way back into the trees.

Odd shaped headstones that were hidden behind rocks and covered in vines were scattered throughout the area. I found some cool ones that I stopped at to take pictures as Allison walked ahead.

Once again, I contorted my body like I was in some drunken game of Twister to get a shot I wanted of one particular headstone when it happened.

I apparently had eaten too many waffles as my feet began to sink below me in the soft ground. In the view finder I saw the gravestone start to tilt when I realized I was in the process of toppling over.

Sure enough, I fell on my ass, then my back, and proceeded to wallow around in the leaves, vines and wet dirt like a dog trying to get the smell of a skunk off my body. Allison turned around and asked if I fell? Kind of obvious as all she could see was my arm in the air holding the camera. The rest of me was trying to roll to a flat spot where I could stand up.

Nice.

First thought: there was no doubt in my mind that I probably buried myself in poison ivy. If so, then I was fucked. I'll know tomorrow if I wake up and look like a giant marshmallow.

I finally got my footing back and resumed walking the forest being careful not to step in some snake pit or pool of quicksand.

I got some cool shots, read some interesting stones and popped out the other side of the jungle with dirt on my ass and shit on my shoes. Good thing it was fun as hell. We saw some very old stones hidden off the beaten path and that's the kind of subjects I like taking pictures of.

We got back in the car and continued our quest. A few miles later we crossed some train tracks. As we were crossing over the top, I looked down the length of the track and saw that the rails disappeared into a cool grove a trees.

"Stop here", I said. "I want to take some pictures down the train tracks".

The street was busy and narrow with no real place to walk let alone park a car so I told Allison to drop me off on the tracks and go park across the street. After the U-turn she stopped shy of the rails and I got out of the car. She continued a couple hundred yards, turned around and parked the car.

I got off the skinny road and on to the train tracks. I turned and faced the direction that I saw the shot that I wanted. I bent down, fiddled with my camera settings and started surveying what I wanted. The problem was, I got extremely distracted.

Every time I would bend down for the picture, I'd stand back up and look behind me. I must have done this 3 or 4 times. Visions of my back turned on some train hauling up my ass and busting me and my camera into oblivion preoccupied my desire to take the picture.

Once I convinced myself that everything was cool, I got down and took a few pictures down the tracks that faded around a corner and disappeared into the trees. The lower I stooped, the cooler the shot looked.

After standing up, turning around and hoping I didn't see a big ass Amtrak logo about to smash me on it's windshield I began to approach the narrow street. As I got back out to the edge I thought it would be cool to take a picture of the red crossing lights that warned drivers not to get stuck under the descending sticks.

I stood on the side of the road in the grass as cars were passing me within a few feet, but I had nowhere to go so I was careful to stay as far away from the cement as I possible could.

As I aimed the camera at the lights, they didn't fit in the finder. I had my zoom lens attached to the camera and I was too close. Not taking the camera off my face I began to back up until the lights fit inside the glass box.

Once I was in place I began to try and get the lights in focus, all the while being distracted by passing cars, all of which probably thought I was a huge pain in the ass since I was basically standing in the street.

While focusing, I felt weeds brush up against the back of my legs. With the camera still stuck to my face I swatted at them while still facing the lights and took another step or two back. Again, those fucking weeds were tickling my calves and distracting me until I took the camera away from my face at which point must have looked like I saw a ghost because out of my mouth it came.

FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

My legs were on FIRE. I started dancing in place like I had to pee really, really bad. Then it really started to fucking hurt.

I glanced down at me feet to find I was standing right on top of an ant hill. Fire ants. And they were biting the living shit out of me.

After watching what was going on, I turned and started running down the side of the road all the while yelling, dancing, swearing and looking like I was about to jump into the middle of the street at any minute. Needless to say cars were freaking out but not as much as I was.

Once I saw the street was clear both ways, I jumped out into the middle of the road, took my shoes off so fast I didn't give a shit how hot the pavement was. I slapped them together about 59 times to ensure I got every little red fucker out. Meanwhile, down on my legs, a hundred more were feeding off John Lennon and continued to enjoy their lunch break.

I threw my shoes down, tossed the camera into the grass and began swatting at my legs like they had just burst into flames. But here came the cars again so back in the grass I had to go.

FUCK!

The more I slapped them off my legs the farther up my body they got. Once they entered the inner thighs it was time to grab my shoes, the camera and run across the street to where Allison was parked. There was no way I was going to stand on the side of the small street with my hands down my pants smacking myself in the crotch.

When I got to the car, I only had a few left to get off my stinging body. We both inspected my shoes and gave them the OK before tossing them in the back of the car. I removed my shirt and Allison made sure that none were headed for my nipples.

All clear.

I felt no movement in my shorts so I put my shirt back on, got in the car, threw the camera in the back seat, turned to Allison and said, "We can go to Lowe's now".

I was done. That was it. Busted by a bitch, taking a header in a grave filled forest and serving up my legs as lunch for 2000 fire ants was enough to suck the desire to continue my photographic quest.

My body was throbbing as we drove toward Lowe's. Even a stop at Starbucks didn't cure the pain on my legs and arms. Weeds, my ass. I would have been better off getting creamed by a train.

So much for my peaceful, photography practice day. It's definitely a lot more dangerous than it looks.

I won't really be able to assess the damage until tomorrow morning. Again, if I wake up the size of the Michelin Man and I'm covered in red welts I'm going to need some hard core ointment. And if the only place to get it is WalMart then I'll say this:

No FUCKING way.

I'll go outside and let the mosquitos suck me down to normal size.

Maybe I can get Riley to take a picture.

**********UPDATE********

The morning after.

Fucking Fire Ants......

Super Freak!...It's Super Freaky, Yow.

2009-09-16T14:41:00.044-04:00

Over the months I've written some rather weird things about my life. I've have had to shed my modesty in order for things to be real and paint a visual picture for you guys. Some like it. Some don't. Some don't like the content. Some do. But remember, I'm writing this for me. I just happened to let my friends in and you've had nothing but kind things to say. One thing I've never mentioned, and probably should because I'm not used to writing for other people is;

I should probably have forewarned people that I tend to use "colorful" language (sparingly, but not always) and may say things that might offend people.

So I apologize for not making that clear up front. A lot of people have a problem with foul language and for that, I'm sorry. I use it in my everyday life (sadly enough) and my blog is just an extension of my personality.

OK, with that out of the way.....

This entry will clearly not be your typical entry. And it's definitely not a typical day in the life of Randy "The Freak".

In the past few days I've been experimenting with photography as mentioned in the other blog. I'm learning the settings on the camera, what they mean and what they do (which I figured out is to simply put everything out of focus), and then I head out into the wooded areas of North Carolina in search of subjects I might find interesting.

Well, last week I showed you a church on B2. It's a gorgeous church that's just up the road from my house and it's the one that has the cemetery on the grounds. On B2, the church is the top photo and the cemetery is right below it.

The cemetery is fairly small compared to some in the area but it has some of the oldest gravestones I've ever seen.

Allison and I parked one day to check some out and they date way back to the early 1800s. The civil war took place between 1861 and 1865 so a lot of people buried here were more than likely part of the war.

A few days later, while Allison and the boys were at school, I decided I wanted to go back and take some close up shots of some of the stones just to show people how old this graveyard was. Some stones were completely unreadable and some weathered pretty well over over 2 centuries. Others were recently replaced with new stones.

Now, North Carolina did not secede from the Union until May 20, 1861 and was the second to last state to secede with Tennessee being the last.

With camera in hand, a couple of lenses and some filters, I set off to take some pictures of the gravestones that sprinkled about an acre or two of land on the left hand side of the church.

At first, I wandered aimlessly looking for dates, names of people I recognized in the Kannapolis area, and the poor infant stones that were quite large in number. Most of the infant stones indicated the child died the same day it was born. Whether a stillbirth or infection, no family would ever want to bury a child. Back then, though, that's exactly what they did. They were scattered throughout the older adult stones and I couldn't help but have a heavy heart for the small little granite carvings that stood no more than a foot tall.

After surveying the site I decided to start at the top of the field and work my way down looking at the dates on each stone to see if I could find the oldest one in the cemetery. I was fiddling with my camera at the same time so I was walking rather slow trying to futilely figure out the settings I needed to take some cool pictures.

Once I had the camera set to what I thought would work, I began my regular pace. Behind me, I heard the grounds keeper. Allison and I had seen him a few days prior and I figured he was going to ask me some questions. I turned around to say "Hi" and saw absolutely nothing. Hmmmmm.

After a short pause I turned back around and continued on my path. This time, not only did I sense the person behind me but I could here the shuffling in the dead grass. Once again, I turned around to find nothing. I began to retrace my steps back to the top to see if it was a snake or a squirrel but no animals were to be found. I had a wave a calm sort of wash over me as I turned around and kept walking.

You know that sense when you're out in public and you can literally "feel" someone following you? I had that exact same feeling.

I found a couple of really cool, old tombstones that I wanted pictures of. As I came to a stop and stooped down to take a picture, the air got cold. It was 90 degrees out but all of a sudden it felt like it was 60. The grass had just started dying off. Actually, most of the field was changing and the ground was crispy enough to make noise when you walked.

I know I'm being followed. I can feel it. I can sense it. But I can't see it.

As I continued my quest the through the field, the footsteps got closer and louder I turned around AGAIN. Still nothing. No snakes, no animals, no midgets fucking with me, nothing. Again, I retrace my steps and find no living creatures. Grass wash crunching behind me. Was it a man? Was it a woman? Was it a child? Was it even a presence?

I ruled out a child simply because the footsteps were too heavy. I figured it was a man, pehaps one who died in the war, looking to see if I stumbled across his grave. Like I said, I felt very calm. I didn't feel the need to drop my camera and haul ass to my car, fumbling with my keys all to have this thing manifest itself inside my car. At that point I'd have no choice. I'd run inside the church, rip a cross off the wall, look for anything resembling holy water or salt (because that always seems to work) and then I'd be safe.

What if all he wanted to do was listen to my iPod?

Fine, take it. Get the fuck out of my car so I can get the hell out of there.

But I didn't get that sensation whatsoever. It was calming to the point I felt a bit sad. Each grave I stopped at for a picture, the hot, humid air dropped in temperature even though the entire site was covered in sunlight. There wasn't one shadow to be found.

I walked to the end of the graveyard taking what pictures I could, all the while hearing the grass crunching about 15 feet behind me. An occasional glance over my shoulder, hoping to finally see something, yielded nothing.

After taking my last picture I returned to my car. I put the camera on the seat and sat for a bit, staring at the graves wondering who was interested in following me. I saw no shadows, no white wisps of anything odd, and not a person nor animal in sight. A few moments later, I left.

I came home later that night and downloaded the pictures from my camera. The stones came out nice but none of the pictures caught anything peculiar.

What happened? Who followed me? Why the temperature change? Why the sense of calm and sadness?

I have no explanation. But something does.

Today, I was on the road that passed the same church. I always glance over because it's such a beautiful place. But what I saw as I passed by gave me the chills. As I slowed down to look at the graveyard I saw a murder of crows. No less than 15, each sitting on a headstone. Stoic and unflinching they sat as if they were guarding something.

Wanting to stop and take a picture, I couldn't bring myself to do it. One odd experience was enough for awhile. I'll go there again someday but not until I read up on some history of the grave site.

But in case that little fucker got a hold of my iPod, the first thing he would have heard blaring out of my speakers would have been Highway to Hell by AC/DC.

Perhaps that's better than salt?

Here's an address to larger pictures if they're easier to see:

http://web.mac.com/randycottingham/iWeb/Site/

We don't need no education

2009-09-14T15:57:00.025-04:00

It was the anthem of the 80s. Those of us who graduated between 1980 and 1984, referred to as "Generation X" were probably the first group of rebellious students since the 60s. Pink Floyd hit the nail on the head as most of us believed we were smarter than the average bear and didn't need no eduction.

Young and stupid. That's what we were. But we didn't care. We had a song that said so.

Fast forward many years later when Gen X started having kids. Education became more and more important as anything less than a Bachelor's degree would find you asking if "you'd like fries with that"?

Now, even farther down the road, a Bachelor's degree today will barely get you an entry level job at some piss ant firm for a tad above minimum wage. The song still resonates in our heads and brings back those memories of rebellion. Having fun was more important than AP homework and the music scene was seeing a revival like never before. But now we're putting education at the forefront for our children since the school masters decided to take back the authority we flippantly blew off.

As I reconnect with more and more of my friends I find a lot of them returning to school to finish their education or going on to get their Master's degree. After that they're almost guaranteed to get their own cubicle.

The first thing I noticed when I arrived in North Carolina was how important education was. TONS of money is dumped into the school systems here where California wasn't even giving students pencils yet requiring them to take ridiculous exams that even the teachers didn't agree with. Well without a pencil, how the fuck were the kids supposed to take the test? All the school supplies were put on the backs of their parents. And the sad thing is, it wasn't limited to just pencils. You pretty much had to outfit your child with everything they needed in their arsenal to even have a shot at succeeding. I'm not sure where giant glue sticks and dry erase markers fit into the equation since the teacher is usually the one writing on the board. Makes you wonder if you're subsidizing the teacher as well or if they're simply having your children sniff the pens when things get a little rowdy.

Idiots.

Here in NC, at least in the High Schools, each child receives a laptop to use in the classroom. The transportation system is absolutely amazing. They have a fleet of no less than 100 buses carting students to and from school where in California they had one bus that had no brakes, no lights, a door that would stick shut and had only 3 bus stops for the entire city requiring your kid to walk 4 miles to the bus when the school wasn't more than 2 miles away. Plus, the only people they could interest in being employed as a bus driver were usually the ones that only had to be on some sort of registry list.

There were a lot of things, though, that really pissed me off when we began to register our two boys for school here. First off they had a dress code. A DRESS CODE! I remember going to work in jeans, shorts, t-shirts, athletic shoes and whatever you could dig out of the hamper at 3 in the morning even if it didn't match. You couldn't see in the dark anyway so what did it matter? But a few years back the FAA decided to impose a dress code that upset 15,000 people because we were supposed to look presentable for the public and instill confidence in the air traffic system.

What made them think that if I wore a collared shirt that I was less likely to slam your ass into a mountain than if I was wearing a Van Halen tour shirt? Of all the people on the planet you want to be comfortable it's people in the air traffic business. The more comfortable they were, the more relaxed they were. The more relaxed they were the more they paid attention to their job as opposed to obsessing over their feet because they were wearing the "cruel shoes".

The funny part was we worked in a cave, visitors weren't allowed in the building and out on our own time, no one knew what we did for a living anyway. It was ludicrous. Needless to say the word "Dress Code" leaves a very sour taste in my mouth. So when I found out my kids had a dress code for school I got pissed.

What the hell? I can understand private schools but the public schools? Even in the poverty stricken areas that could barely afford thrift store clothing were now forced to buy certain colors for their students. I completely disagreed with the whole concept but I also needed my kids in school so I had to succumb to them suffering through the same shit I did.

In California, though, the attitude was "anything goes". As long as the girls didn't wear tight shorts giving young boys those peaks at the camel toe and tube tops that squished their boobs down to their belly button everything else was fair game.

After all, back in the day we were decked out in parachute pants, neon colors, leg warmers, lace, Dolphin shorts and belly shirts. The closest anyone got to seeing skin was if a girl was wearing one of those belly shirts and had a top locker. When she reached up to the top of the locker, the bottoms of the "girls" would be exposed for a short period of time. A nice treat but that was about it.

As my kids entered school in Brentwood there wasn't any organized transportation system. Parents were left to pick up their kids when school let out. The area where the kids came out was a small street that at 2PM looked like a Grateful Dead concert. Soccer Mom's facing all kinds of directions, double parked like they were passing joints between cars and refused to move until little Johnny waddled 10 minutes to the car that inevitably gridlocked the entire street. But the Moms didn't give a shit. They were stoned, Floyd was cranked and they just sat there tripping out in their minivan that was parked in the most random of positions.

Bitches.

It took me awhile to figure out how and where to park so I could navigate that shit but it was still frustrating as hell. Everyday I thought some kid was going to get t-boned by some Durango who was in a race to get to Safeway before everyone else took off.

Here, however, in NC, it's very structured and organized. The first day of school, I escorted Alex to his class. We weren't in the hallway 90 seconds before he got busted for not having his shirt tucked in and he was lacking a belt. You've GOT to be kidding me. As I said before, I was going to give that freakin' hall monitor a big old slap but Alex complied and I remember feeling really bad for him.

When I picked Alex up after school I avoided that ridiculous roundabout and parked on the street. Moments later, Alex walks up to the car escorted by some lady who lectured me about parking on the street and how unsafe it was for Alex to come out to the car this way. I had to use the roundabout or pick him up in a helicopter.

Shitheads.

So the next day I got in the massive line of cars and waited my turn to get through the circle to pick up my kid. Surprisingly it went very quickly. The school actually had it down to a science. It was safe, convenient and didn't involve an altered state of mind to retrieve your child. All of a sudden I began to appreciate the organization the school offered and within weeks I was sold on the concept.

Then I had another revelation I never thought I'd have. I seemed to appreciate the dress code. Why? Because the 5th graders have two colors of shirts they can wear. The 6th graders also have two colors to choose from but the colors were different. What stood out was when you saw a student walk through the hall or out in the courtyard you could immediately tell what grade they were in by the color of their shirt and what hallway they should be walking through. Now that started to make sense to me.

So maybe North Carolina really does know what it's doing when it comes to eduction. After all, they're trying real hard to dilute the gene pool here so they've really stepped up their program. Is it going to make my kid smarter? Probably not. Will he eventually learn to appreciate looking nice? No. He lives in Tie Dye (good boy) outside of school and when they're on their own time they're allowed to express themselves and not have to follow the rules imposed upon them the 5 days a week when present in their institution.

On the weekends, though, they're welcome to cruise the mall in their tube tops, tight short shorts and sport their camel toes should they desire to do so. The boys still wear their pants down below their ass and I'm sure the day is coming where they're just going to give up on pants all together. What's the point? The only way to really show off your boxers is to just let it all hang out. I'm not sure how the girls would appreciate the guys "boys" swaying back and forth but since the hormones are running rampant I don't think either sex gives a shit. Free walking porn. It's a teenagers dream.

Needless to say the educations systems between the two states are in stark contrast. And as much as I support individualism and expression, I suppose there's something to be said for structure. I still firmly believe clothes don't make a person but I understand the school's concept.

To be honest, I'm the one who feels stupid and out of place when I walk to the office in my tank-top, brandishing my tattoos and try to hold a serious, parental discussion.

Then again, I'm not the one who needs no education.

Expanded Blogging

2009-09-10T19:54:00.012-04:00

Within weeks of my impending retirement I began thinking about the first thing I wanted to do when I was no longer tethered to a job. I wanted to do something with my free time which more than quadrupled when I became unemployed.

After deliberating for a bit, I decided I wanted to start a blog. The purpose of the blog was solely for me to learn how to write creatively. While I still feel I haven't achieved that goal, I feel it would be safe to say that I'm making progress.

The blog was never meant to be read by other people and it's purpose was simply a playground for me to write things down and try to make it interesting in case one day I decided I wanted a few friends to critique my entries.

I started my blog and made my first entry on December 26th, 2008. A little over 8 months later I've managed to write more entries than I ever imagined I would. Why? Because I did what I said I was going to do. Once I had a few entries under my belt I asked 2 friends to read what I had written and looked for constructive criticism. Not only did they offer their opinions but they thought the entries were of "pro" caliber.

I scoffed because I thought they were simply appeasing me. I continued to make entries but the blog morphed into personal stories rather than updates for my friends back in California. The feedback continued to be positive but being the perfectionist I am, I still felt I had a long way to go to make things interesting.

Awhile later I decided I would dip my toes into FaceBook. It turned out that I've reconnected with so many friends that I felt FB was a great decision and spend a great deal of my time there each day.

After I had more posts added to the blog, I went out on a limb and decided to put the link in my profile. It was at that point that word spread quickly the blog was definitely worth reading. I got more and more positive feedback that embarrassed me more than it encouraged me. But I continued to write due to the outpouring of support my friends gave me.

I remain very critical of my writing and still get embarrassed but I'm still encouraged after every post I add. Some are winners, some are losers but several more people said I should write professionally. I'm just not good enough for that. As entertaining as the posts are to my friends, I'm afraid that strangers may not find it so entertaining.

Lately I've had a lot to say but none of what's on my mind really fits this blog's format. I don't want to use this place as a pulpit for opinions on people, current events, new items or anything of the sort.

I want this blog to remain fun. It's where I cut my teeth and I want to continue to learn to write creatively. I've received nothing but wonderful feedback from my FaceBook friends and you guys have no idea how good that makes me feel. It encourages me to continue writing during a time where I thought I might hang it up for awhile. It's not that I want to stop but I seem to have dried up creatively.

Those of you who write realize it's an art. And artists require inspiration. I'll know when the time is right to continue but other things are consuming my mind right now. One example is the small Beatles CD review I posted this morning. It doesn't really fit the format of this blog and neither do the other things I think about from time to time.

So to preserve the overall feel of this blog I've decided to start another one. A new one. A place where I can throw my opinions on the wall in a somewhat reckless format. The new blog is in addition to this one. I will continue to keep this blog light and hopefully entertaining.

The new blog is going to be the antithesis of this one. I'm sure I will still put my writing style into my opinions as that's just my personality but the topics will cover every facet of life. In fact, one of the first posts is the short review I did on the new Beatle's CDs. But trust me. I have a LOT to say on a lot of issues.

Now comes the kicker. The blog is locked. It has come to my attention that things have been stolen off this blog, even though I'm protected by copyright laws. What's funny is my own content was used against me, unsuccessfully I might add, and it didn't get the response it wanted.

In fact, the person who contacted me and I had a good chuckle about it and they even complimented me on my entries. Funny how things didn't work out for it.

So to protect my content, my opinions and the right to remain uncensored I have chosen to lock the new blog and make it available to people who choose to respond and respect what I have to say in an intelligent manner. I don't mind debate or criticism but dragging a third party into a blog entry is just idiotic. We can have fun, debate as adults and like the television, if you don't like it: turn it off.

All you need to do is email me privately and I will send you an invitation. It's easy and it's simple. Yeah, it's an extra step but it allows me no-holds barred opportunities to express myself on issues that don't fit here.

Write me at spacenacho@gmail.com for the invitation. Be sure to give me the email address you want the invite sent to. Some people use different addresses for different things.

I hope it's as interesting as this one. But one never knows what or who will show up over there. Again, it's really just a place for me just to brain dump random thoughts. Some days it will be a one liner. Other days it will be a novel. One thing's for sure, nothing is off limits there. Here, I try and make the subject matter appeal to the masses as a lot of people have grown to love this blog, which is humbling and flattering. But the new blog isn't going to be all warm and fuzzy.

And because what I write is my own opinion in my own words, you'll be seeing a LOT of this:

© R. Cottingham, 2009.

It's sad to have to do crap like that but since one idiot tried to make me eat my own blog, I'm left with no choice but to protect that site from some of the things that will be said.

Anyway, sorry for a buzzkill post in the middle of a light hearted blog. I look forward to the fun I'll have on the other one and hopefully you will too.

The new stomping ground

2009-09-06T23:11:00.007-04:00

This won't be your typical entry so don't expect anything very interesting.

As most of you know, when I lived in CA my two regular stomping grounds were Berkeley and Haight Ashbury. I felt very much at home in both places. They were my people. They were my environment. They were my home away from home.

Since moving to North Carolina I had scoured most of the state looking for a similar place to get my hippie fix. I went to most of the local college campuses which usually have an eclectic area of shops and cafes but so far, no luck. It's a relatively conservative state and there didn't appear to be a lot of individuality.

Until today.

Allison had read about a fun store up in a town called Asheville which is in the very western portion of North Carolina at the base of the Smokey Mountains. We decided to take a day trip there and it turns out it was the best thing we could have ever done.

Jackpot!

We found it. The home away from home. The Embassy for all people like Al and myself.

My description on FaceBook was this: If Berkeley and Haight Ashbury got married, had a wedding cake packed with steroids and the union was sprinkled with the absolute beauty of Victoria, BC then welcome to Asheville, North Carolina.

It's a place to experience, not visit. It's eclectic shops, quaint cafes, odd ball people, and personality span about 13 city square blocks. It's my new "place". It's my new "fix". It's the final puzzle piece I needed to snap into place to truly feel at home.

In one of the shops, I was looking at some of the things in the front window when I heard Allison laughing in the back. I walked toward her to see what was so funny and she showed me this button. I began to laugh and said, "I HAVE to have this".

I have a feeling Asheville and The Hippie will get along just fine.

The Birds and the Valium

2009-08-28T12:38:00.015-04:00

There are two things in retirement a person should NEVER have. A job and another kid.

If you find yourself in another job and think to yourself, “Man, what was I THINKING?”, you can always quit and re-retire. If you find yourself with another kid, there’s really only one thing to say.

FUCK!

As most of you know I’m 43 and retired. I’ve toyed with the idea of re-entering the workforce, specifically in the NASCAR community, but I won’t entertain anything beyond that. Life is too short and if you can retire young, do it. Take it from someone who’s there. It gives you so much freedom and so many options. You can pursue your dream job where you’re 100 percent in control or you can sit on your ass with a bag of Salt and Vinegar Lays potato chips watching Hollywood Squares for 6 months before flipping through the yellow pages looking for a gym.

I can honestly say I have NOT toyed with the idea of having another child. That is simply NOT an option. Nor will it give me anything resembling freedom. If I ended up with one I think I’d throw myself down the stairs.

Several times.

So there’s really only one option. Well, two if count crossing your fingers. Get the “procedure”. At 43 I opted for the latter. If I find myself in another dead end job then I quit. Not so easy with a kid. So having this vasectomy done prevents that momentary lapse of reason that could easily come tomorrow or when I’m 70 and have no idea what the hell I’m thinking.

Needless to say, in this moment of clarity, while I have all my faculties, I’m essentially saving myself should I even THINK about another child. I guess you could say I’m slapping myself in the head right now for something I’m going to do in the future.

Pretzle logic. Powerful.

So first comes the easy part. The consultation with the Doctor. When Allison and I walked in with the Doctor I can honestly say he was the nicest person I’ve ever met in my life. He had this way through his southern drawl of making you feel extremely comfortable and at ease. We chatted a bit, not even talking about the procedure and then he said he’d schedule me for an appointment.

It must have been the look on our faces that said, “The hell with more kids”, because he didn’t even give us the “Are you sure”? speech.

The two easy parts were now complete. The decision to do it and the consultation where I thought I'd have to write a 10 page essay of why it's not smart for me to have more children.

Now the process got a little more difficult. First off, the prep work. Shaving. I experimented once waxing my chest and that didn't go so well. I don't know how girls do it in their bikini area just so a little hair doesn't sneak out from underneath their bottom half but there was no way in hell hot wax was going to touch the boys so I had to do it the old fashion way. Razor and shaving cream.

First off, when I put on the shaving cream I couldn't see what the hell I was doing. Everything was covered up in white lather so I had to guess. Luckily I was slow and methodical as I made my way down ensuring every little hair was gone. I really didn't want to go in with a wiener mohawk so I took my time and was very proud that I was successful. One little nick would have sent me through the roof or at least crashing into the bathroom mirror.

The second thing I was proud of was the fact that I learned my lesson from the chest session. Absolutely NO aftershave for the razor burn. So I got into my big old bathtub to wash off the area of the session with warm water.

I would have been better off with the aftershave. SHIT that burned. I didn't have any raised razor burn but my pores didn't appreciate the water either. Maybe aloe would have been better but I wasn't about to make another mess to clean up so I dealt with it.

Well, today was the big day. I showed up promptly, coffee in hand and valium in my pocket so I'd lay still and act cool.

It was almost time for me to go in so I popped a pill (ok, several) just as the nurse called me in. I've been poked and prodded so many times with my back that nothing really scared me. This was probably going to be an easier procedure so I had that going for me.

We entered the "panic room" where the nurse proceeded to take my blood pressure, weight and height. What any of that had to do with a vasectomy puzzled me but I guess it's easier to get the information ready for the coroner when you finally decide death is a better option.

She threw a gown on the table and said, "go ahead and change out of your clothes and put on the gown. The doctor will be in shortly". Nurse exits the room.

Now guys, I'm going to apologize for letting the women in on a little secret. It's basically kryptonite to men that will get us every single time so forgive me.

Hand a man something he has to tie behind his back and he's screwed. I spent the better part of 10 minutes trying to tie this fucking gown and my arms were behind my back and weren't coming out front until I got the damn chore done. It was kind of like putting a banana in a coconut and handing it to a monkey. Once their hand is in the coconut hole with banana in hand, they absolutely will not let go of the banana basically trapping them with a coconut hand.

Their was a knock on the door while I was futzing with the gown and he said, "Aw, don't worry about that. Just hop up on the table, lay on your back in a position where you're comfortable. Thank God. That gown thing just wasn't going to happen.

I was so happy to see him because, again, he was the nicest person on the planet. We chatted a bit while he got his little tray set up. I'm trying not to look at any of the instruments and the valium starts to kick in so my heart rate slows and now I'm very comfortable. This is going to be way easier than I thought.

He told me it's only going to take about 15 minutes and I'd be on my way. Cool. I've had worse 15 minute experiences in my life so I knew I could hack this.

In the middle of our chatting there's another knock at the door. I'm on my back, I turn my head, and in walks this extremely pretty nurse. So I thought.

"This is Doctor so-and-so and she wanted to see how the procedure is done since she's never seen one. You don't mind, right"?

Pregnant pause.

"No, I don't mind at all" as the word SHIT enters my mind about 32 times. As she walks down toward my legs my balls crawl all the way up to my stomach. Good luck finding the boys now, doc. I wasn't prepared for an audience and a pretty one at that. Had I known, perhaps I would have put some cologne down there.

"OK, I'm going to expose your modesty so just relax", the Doctor says as he pulls up my gown exposing my freshly shaved crotch. Thank GOD I didn't hear a giggle.

We get started. The Doctor explains every single step to me before doing it so I know what to expect. How courteous. First he tells me he's going to insert a needle and I'll feel a burning sensation. That's the numbing agent. All the while he's talking to me, he's explaining to miss cute Doctor what he's doing and what she's going to have to do. It's all medical speak and I'm closing my ears with my mind.

Didn't work.

In goes the needle. In my head goes FUCK! Needle my ass. What the hell are you doing putting a crow bar in my nuts? Yes it burned but I tried desperately not to wince. I didn't want miss cute Doctor to think I was a puss. He pulls the needle out and the area finally goes numb.

Cool. Now he can do whatever he wants because I can't feel a thing. He tells me I might feel a little tugging sensation while he's yanking everything through this little pinhole he just made.

What? You're getting all of that out of THAT little hole? Now I know how women feel when the have a 9lb baby about to crawl out of their Va-jay-jay. A new found respect washes over me.

He does his little "procedure" on one side, all the while giving the instructions to cute Doctor. After he cuts the portion out that he needs I feel a pinching sensation as he clamps both sides with a titanium clip. This apparently prevents mother nature from trying to rejoin the vas.

Side one finished. Whew. Not too bad. Still no giggling and the valium is letting the boys drop a little farther south. Time for the other side. Same deal, same feeling, same instructions and same 32 SHIT!'s go through my head.

As he's working on this side he comments to cute Doctor, "wow, this one is really slippery", like it's a fucking trout or something. He keeps trying to get ahold of it and I'm praying to GOD that she doesn't decide to "help".

He finally gets the vas out, snips out a larger chunk and impresses cute Doctor as he tells her that the more you can get, the better success you'll have. Two titanium clips later, gauze on the boys and the experience is over.

"We're finished", he said. "Do you have any questions? You did a great job. You didn't even move once. Most guys wiggle around and I can't get it done".

"Are those titanium clips going to set off the detector at the airport"?, I ask.

"No, I don't think so. I've never heard a story of that happening".

Nice. My luck BLOWS so I guarantee that when I go to the airport I'm going to set it off. I'll be pulled aside by some asshole TSA agent, they'll wand me and it will beep right in front of my balls. I won't know what to tell them but if they put their hands down my pants I'm going to pee on them.

"OK, you can hop off the table, get dressed and check out. Nice job"! Again, SUPER nice guy. Asshole for bringing in a chick but I quickly forgive him as she thanks me for allowing her to "observe". Personally I think she just wanted to see a weenie as I never heard a peep out of her but whatever. Not like she hasn't seen one.

I did see a camera flash go off, though.

That or it was my life passing before my eyes.

I hopped down, removed that freakin' evil gown and got dressed. Tender but not bad. Not swollen, not bruised, just some gauze stuffed in there so now I look pretty damn manly as I walk out. Too bad the waiting room was full of people over the age of 70.

I process out, waddle to my car, gingerly get in and off I go. I'm home within an hour. I feel pretty good until the numbness starts to wear off. Now I know why the ice comes in. He said just to put a bag of frozen peas on the boys to prevent the swelling.

Peas.

Oh, the irony.

...In Bed

2009-08-19T12:10:00.008-04:00

Out on the blue water of the Caribbean our friend, Jilly (that's what I call her) was reading her fortune cookies and ending the proverb with the saying "in bed". It's an old, made up game to make the fortunes either seem that much more ridiculous or that much more interesting.

Frankly the "in bed" part had a better shot at coming true than the original origami slip carefully folded into the cookie.

How we ended up with so many fortune cookies on a cruise ship eludes me but we had a lot of them, each one ending up "in bed". It was good for a belly laugh while downing an umbrella drink before it started to dribble out of my mouth on to my Tommy Bahama shirt. Then it wasn't so funny anymore.

Well, yeah, it was.

It was just the next funny thing to come along as pina colada number 3 was sliding down to the gullet.. Good times.

I'm relieving these little moments because oddly enough I'm on day 3 of being "in bed" on my back due to an injury and a fairly painful procedure this week.. As dreamy as that sounds to most people, trust me. It blows (no pun intended).

Today, my mind started wandering through the differences of staying home in bed as an adult vs. staying in bed when I was a kid. Needless to say the experiences and desires were vastly different. As an adult, if I'm sick in bed, I'm an asshole. Not that I'm not one anyway, but I don't like being mothered. Never have. Never will. I just want to be left alone to fight my illness, heal or whatever I'm sentenced to. I don't like being checked on, I don't like help, and the mere presence of someone just gets me irritable. Plus, I never seem to have an arsenal full of shit to throw at them when they walk in the door. I need to remember to stock up on shoes, cups and rolls of toilet paper.

I don't even care if one of the bikini clad Bud girls was serving me coffee every 20 minutes. I'd eventually get pissed off because her left boob was slightly bigger than her right. Trust me, I'd find something that aggravated me about a half naked girl yet in any other situation, the typical neanderthal guy in me would probably be asking her to bring me a drool cup instead of a grande Americano.

As an adult I line up all the things on my bed I think will entertain me for 3 days. Laptop, headphones, ipod, carafe of coffee (to prevent getting up for every damn cup), meds, iphone, DVDs (although I cant just fling a DVD over to the player since I can't reach it so that becomes my last resort entertainment), and THE most important adult accessory when one is sick and bedridden.

The Clapper.

Occasionally I might bring in a magazine or two. One with pictures, no words. Perhaps that explains my love of comic book art. The pictures were great. The story lines sucked like a bad porn, but somehow that artwork captivated me. That's when I started to drift back to when I was a kid and stayed home from school in bed all day. When I heard the sympathy from my Mom, "OK, get in bed an stay home", the two most famous words came screeching from my room in my little high pitched voice. WOOOHOOO!!!

TV and snacks. That would keep me entertained for 12 hours. I wouldn't budge. Not even to go to the bathroom unless it was a commercial break I sensed would be a long one. I'd hold it to the point I would almost burst. But I REALLY wanted to see the Penguin get his ass kicked so I had to wait.

When everyone left the house is when I made my way from the bedroom to the living room. The days before remotes and modern conveniences seem like a million years ago. But I had the shows, the channels and the start times all in my head so I knew exactly where I needed to be at any given moment. Plus, back then our version of a big screen TV was to sit 11 inches away from your TV set. That was close enough to change the channel as well.

I had 3 MUST SEE TV shows. Speed Racer. Batman. And the Banana Splits. Lucky for me they were on several channels and scattered throughout the day so I had loads of crap TV to wallow in while my friends were at school learning how to make a cursive "r".

I would try laughing like the Joker or the Riddler at those fools in school but if my Mom happened to walk in I would look like the biggest, most disturbed idiot on the planet. Back in those days we'd be hoping in the car and taking a trip the a local mental institution. How I avoided that from happening for so many years makes me feel like I had McGyver type skills. Always one step ahead of the "enemy".

We didn't have Super Glue back then, though.

Back to the "adult" me. When I would call in sick to work, no matter how bad I felt, the LAST thing I was going to do was hop into bed and stay there all day. I'd drag my sick ass to the mall to buy a freakin' pair of shoe laces if I had to. I just couldn't stay home. I'd get fidgety. I needed to be out. Bed was like the "rack". Once I got in, I started feeling tortured. Mainly because i didn't HAVE to be there. As a kid, you were constantly reminded by your mother, who was probably pissed off you were home anyway, that the rules were you couldn't go outside, you had to eat, drink, and be under a blanket.

The "adult" me finds that intriguing but not enough to fall for it. I can do THAT when I'm not sick.

First up, the Banana splits. I sang along to the theme song, thought the opening antics were hilarious but was too young to find the Sour Grapes "hot".

A half hour of that led right into Speed Racer. He drove one of the two of my most coveted cars to this day. I would trade my sorry looking life, and my critter filled forest, to own this car.

The Mach 5. Sheer magnificence. Buttons galore, awesome driving abilities, and a flying metal bird. It probably lacked air conditioning and an 8 track player but that's an easy aftermarket fix. I wanted that car SO bad and to this day I would kill for one. Perhaps my dream will someday come true. My wife probably wouldn't want to borrow it for a trip to WalMart but that's OK. She can't drive a stick anyway.

The cool thing about Speed Racer is back in those days, cartoon lips NEVER matched the actual dialog anyway so it wasn't obvious that it was probably as bad as a Godzilla movie or some other foreign film translated to English.

I topped off my pile of sugar coated television with the grand finale. Batman. If you didn't like Batman as a young boy you were a freak of nature. You'd be better off having a third arm for us to stare at rather than admitting you weren't a Batman fan. Inside was the second most coveted car I could ever want. The Bat Mobile. Engineering genius. Bad ass paint paint scheme and flames that shot out of the rear of the car. I watched that show with the most intensity a kid could muster up.

Little did I know, later in life, that it was the campiest, most ridiculously written show on television right behind "Get Smart". Both fabulous shows but jeez, were we really THAT stupid to think that was Must See TV? The special effects were horrible. Boom mikes nearly knocking the mask off Adam West, crotch fires from sliding down the Bat Pole in spandex, and the fakest of fights. Worse than old western bar fights. Sheer Crap.

I loved it.

Today, everything is polished, technology is readily available, and most of it is a lot more fun. But for some reason, as I was preparing for this week, I found myself wanting the old way of life. I went out on the hunt for Speed Racer DVDs, Batman DVDs and came up short. I actually did find the Speed Racer DVDs but declined at the last minute because I wanted a variety besides cartoons. So I'm relegated to live TV where I suffer through commercials that basically insinuate that I'm a complete deadbeat. I don't have a career but they can start one for me at Devry, Phoenix or the many accredited AA schools that are sure to get me a job pouring coffee for the REAL career oriented people. I lack car insurance and the dude with the combover speaking to me on TV is my savior. That's followed by the lawyer who said I've been in an accident and we can sue for full damages because the other guy didn't have insurance. All of that followed by products to cure my baldness, male enhancement to please my lover, and Oxyclean because I live in squalor.

So after 5 minutes of people telling me I'm nothing but a lazy piece of shit, we return to Jerry Springer where I see all my neighbors. Little did I know that overall guy at the end of the court was banging the hot little gardener across the street when her husband was working "overtime" at the Frosty King.

So here I sit. Blogging on my laptop, listening to my iPod at full volume, coffee right next to me, an iPhone that I can't use, and pain meds piled up on the nightstand.

I miss the old shows. But I must say, if every one of my favorite shows all of a sudden morphed into an adult version like the one below, I'd be glued to the TV as much as I was as a child. Everything else would suddenly become meaningless.

Even an uneven pair of breasts.

WARNING: NOT WORK SAFE. NOT KID SAFE. BUT VERY FUNNY.

Shop until you drop

2009-07-26T06:40:00.008-04:00

It's 6:30 in the morning. Usually a little later than I normally sleep but I must have stayed up late. What I think eventually woke me up was some bird outside my window, chirping. He was going to get a smack.

While I was brewing my coffee, I hear it again two or three more times. By about the fourth "chirp" I realized it was one of my smoke detecters upstairs waiving goodbye. First thought?

shit.

Second thought.

shit. Where am I going to find a 9 volt battery inside a garage stacked to the ceiling with boxes?

The smell of my coffee brewing and ending it's cycle only gave me a short window to decide what I was going to do. Do I run down to Walmart and buy a battery or do I sit and listen to this thing all day before I eventually swallow my tongue?

Man, where's Monty Hall when you need him? I would have given ANYTHING to only have 3 doors to choose from. I would cut right to the chase and say "Monty, I want the door with the battery behind it. Keep the trip to Tahiti, keep the Lotus Esprit, right now I need a fucking 9 volt battery.

Sadly, no such option. Logic won out because I grabbed all my stuff and headed to Walmart at 7AM on a Sunday morning.

Now, Sunday mornings in North Carolina look like old ghost towns. You wont see ONE soul walking the streets. These are church goin' folk and nothing opens on Sunday's until noon or 1PM. Except Walmart. And it isn't just any old Walmart, it's a SUPER Walmart. In fact about 95% of the Walmarts in NC are Super-sized.

Park the car and in I go. Grab a package of 2 9 volt batteries and check out. As I glanced around, people were looking at me like I was Satan and what was I doing in THEIR store? I guess not being in my church duds gave me a way and that I wasn't planning on hauling ass home to change them. I'm sure 2 9 volt batteries look a little weird at 7AM but we'll still take your money and let you go. Gee, thanks. You heathens are hanging out in Walmart on a Sunday morning, too, so why don't you go in the back after I leave, make a Cheetos and Spam sandwich and wash it down with some Goldschlager. No one will be here for hours so it's going to be a long day.

I hate Walmart. Mainly because it's always uncontrolled chaos and so much more.

When I get home I start sniffing the ceiling like a dog. When it comes to those damn smoke alarms you can never tell which one it is. The sound bounces off a wall and makes you think that's the right one but as you get closer you begin to think it's the one behind you. Maybe it's the one by the bathroom. All I know is that I want to find this little shit, jam the battery in and shut him the hell up but I feel like I'm in some sort of "funhouse".

After finding the right one and changing it out I finally sat down to drink my life blood and cruise online for awhile. Then it hits me (as it usually does as I'm losing brain cells at the rate of about 1200 a day). I had made a mental note to pick up coffee since I had just made the last of what I had. That made my heart sink as the thought of going back to Walmart is like walking slowly into the torture chamber.

I put it off until the early afternoon because I wanted to brew some more for the evening fire fly show so I made a small list of things I needed to pick up while I was there because I absolutely wasn't going back. If someone walked up to me a mugged me for my coffee, I'd just go home, lie on the floor and shrivel up before going back.

So off I go again. The plan? Slip in, grab, slip out, everything's cool. I could hear the "Mission Impossible theme" in my head as I grab my cart, yield to other passing carts before entering the first large isle.

Now let me stop here and bring up something that PISSES me off. This ranks up in the top 10 of my pet peeves (for whoever's counting).

If I were the Manager of a Walmart the very first thing I would do would be to set up a booth outside where you'd have to apply for a cart license. I've seen people get T-boned, kids tossed into the back of the cart, fights, and every other type of cart confrontation there is. So. You need to apply for a daily license showing us that your not some dumbass who can't control a 4 wheel cart. This isn't a Suburban, folks. It's a fucking cart. Drive it like one. If you can't pass the test then we'll hand you a basked and if you're buying a lot of shit then you'd better have 10 kids helping you or make 15 trips to the checkout because we're not allowing you to be a hazard to other customers.

After you receive your license you then go to booth number 2 and we'll give you two valium. Another mandatory requirement before entering my store. My mission is to restore order in a store that is typically a Barnum and Bailey's show.

OK. With that out of the way, in I go.

The first thing you'll notice when you walk into a Super Walmart is they hold the same capacity of people as Disneyland so put on your little patience hat and prepare to move slowly. Very slowly. Especially if you're stuck behind the person riding a cart who's battery is just about to die. Too big to get a cart around and if they can't go faster then it's kind of hard to say "excuse me" without looking like a butthead who's in a hurry and willing to throw a handicapped person into the bike racks.

So here's what I do. I treat Walmart like a giant labyrinth. I cart on down one of the big isles looking for an open isle to cut through so I can keep cruising without interruption. As long as I'm going in the general direction of where I need to be then I don't care if I'm a tad off course. After exiting the first free row, I look for the next. As I exit that row I now find myself in the worst possible place I could be. Worse than standing in a 22 person deep checkstand.

I'm in the panty section.

Great. That's just great. Here's this guy, spiked hair, 5 rings, and tattoos cruising for panties. I have no choice to look because I need to navigate my cart but it looks like I'm checking out everything from thongs to granny panties.

I'm moving slowly like a deer, hoping to go unnoticed but I'm starting to get looks so I speed up a tad. Well, now I'm drawing a LOT of attention because I happened to choose one of those carts with the one chattering wheel so the noise starts attracting attention.

Fuck.

Every woman I see is looking at me like I'm some pervert. I see women holding up panties and I start to blush. As I speed up to get the hell out of there I found myself leaving one door of hell and walking into another.

The bra section.

Man, all this torture to get coffee. Again, women begin to look at me like I'm in the women's restroom peeking under the stalls. This one lady is paralyzed. She's holding up a bra and just staring at me. I'm really hoping she puts the bra down but she's either stunned or she's looking at one of my tattoos. What do I do? My cart wheel isn't cooperating enough to go fast so I kind of stare back at her. In a moment of complete spontaneity and creepiness I give her a thumbs up.

Oh, NOW she snaps out of it. She gives me a "look" as she begins to blush and I turn and just want to find an exit. I need to be near food so I don't look like I want to try on bras and panty sniff. I can see the coffee isle which looks like a mile away but the destination is in sight so all I need to do is just be patient and get there.

Now, there's another thing I notice about Walmart. If there are only 302 people in the store, 19 of us are always on the same isle at any given time. As I turn down the coffee isle, sure enough. 18 people are wadded up in a traffic jam. As I weave a bit, bang a few carts, say "excuse me" 4 times, I get stuck. I'm barely within an arms reach of the coffee but I can't even touch it with my finger tips.

So I wait. As I scope around to see what the issue is. It's some old lady at the end who's holding everyone up. She must have been in her late 60s, early 70s and she's looking at jam. She also won't budge until she's made up her mind. The more people try and get around her the more she acts like a lion protecting her cubs.

What the hell? Why would someone do that? I felt like saying, "Listen, bitch. You're 70 years old and have been eating the same shit for probably 50 years so grab what you always grab and get the hell out of the isle and get us out of this traffic jam.

Of course I don't say that but I'm thinking of a way to get us out of this mess because 4 more carts are now piling up behind me. They had bags of coffee next to me but I wanted my usual Starbucks. So now I'm thinking of picking up a bag of beans and hucking them at her. Then I thought that beans would probably knock her out so I thought grounds would be better. That way she'd still be standing but a little stunned. Then we could all shove our way past her and thin out that freakin' isle before we use up all the oxygen.

Of course I don't do that either. The bitch picks up her jam of choice (which is no doubt the same flavor she's eaten forever) turns and unclogs the isle. I'm thinking she's probably now heading to the baby food isle and then a stop at the pudding fridge.

I grab my bag of life and head to the registers with the rest of my stuff where, surprisingly, I'm only second in line so it doesn't take long for me to cruise on through and head to my car. I start thinking again how much I hate that freakin place. Then it hits me again (after the fact as usual).

I should have bought some tampons.

When it Rains it Pours

2009-07-17T07:33:00.014-04:00

(WARNING: Longer than normal post)

A couple of days ago, after finishing some chores around the house, I needed to run an errand down to Walmart for some thumbtacks.

Don't worry, I don't know either.

So at approximately 2:10p in the afternoon, I grabbed the things I needed and headed out to the car which happens to be a new, black Saturn, Red Line series Vue. I was telling a friend on FaceBook the other day how much I loved black cars and probably wouldn't own another color. When they're clean and freshly detailed there's no better looking car.

As I unlocked the door with my key remote, I opened the driver's side door ready to throw my crap in the front seat and head to the store that I loathe more than any other on the face of the earth. All of a sudden I'm met with a 90 knot gust of the hottest air I've ever felt. Like the inside of my car was exhaling dragon breath mixed with propane.

The only thing hotter would be those times I have a pizza in the oven and open the door with my face in front of it ready to get a peek at my frozen creation. Somehow it never sinks in that every time I do that my face gets burnt, my glasses steam up and my bangs get cinged before I back away like there's a tarantula in there waiting to jump out at me. Then I stand there, yell "FUCK", and then proceed to close the oven door. This happens EVERY time. I'm an extremely slow learner.

What the hell, I'm thinking? Is the sun taking a nap in the backseat of my car? If so, get the hell out 'cuz you're melting everything inside. Go screw with the people at Walmart until I get there. And take your humidity friend with you while you're at it.

After the wind of air subsides, I jump in the black oven and put in the keys as fast as possible (which wasn't really fast at all). I felt like I was in one of those horror movies where the actor cant seem to find the freakin' hole while the zombie moves closer and closer.

Idiots. They deserve to be eaten if they can't start their car without fumbling around for 30 seconds.

With ONE key.

I finally get it started and crank up the air conditioning. It does nothing but blow hot air in my face. All of a sudden I can't WAIT to get to Walmart. I sit in the car, patiently awaiting the a/c to cool down while going over the store list in my head.

Thumbtacks. Thumbtacks.

$5 bucks says I walk in the store and have no idea what I went there for so I have to rehearse.

OK, the a/c isn't doing shit. I sit a bit longer as I assess the inside of my car. My iPod looks as if its' bout 2 inches longer than normal due to melting, my black dash is bubbling, and just a glance at the chrome door handle is scaring me. The situation looks dire. I have to drive 6 miles in a black car to a store I hate with warm air conditioning giving me a sunburn.

Screw it, I'm not waiting. I close the door buckle up, and put on my signature sunglasses.

SHHHHHIIIIIIT!!!!

The glasses were so freakin' hot they burnt my face. As if the a/c wasn't bad enough, now I have burn blisters around my eyes and back to my ears. I rip them off my head and look in the rear view mirror at the damage. I look like a hip raccoon. I had no idea plastic could get that hot without losing it's shape. I guess the good new is, Maui Jim can now market branding irons along side their sunglass collection. The bad news is I look like I'm wearing some bizzare Cirque du Soleil makeup around my eyes.

How in the world am I going to walk around Walmart with red, burn circles around my eyes? I could wear my sunglasses inside but then I'd look like one of those arrogant rock star assholes so I'm just going to have to suck it up.

I need to get going to I start to head out.

Another extremely loud expletive comes out of my mouth while my neighbor is standing there watching this whole circus act unfold. I really need to get going but I'm contemplating running back inside and getting some oven mitts. My steering wheel is by far the hottest thing in my car. I decide not to mess around anymore so I take off my tank top and drive with that draped over the steering wheel.

Now I officially feel like a redneck. No shirt, burnt eyes, and sweat pouring off me like I just spent 3 hours plowing a tobacco field.

I make it to Walmart, do my business and return home as fast as possible. I needed to get into my house quickly before I die of heat stroke. As I pull in the driveway my a/c starts to blow cold air.

...little fucker.

Man, I was pissed. Even more pissed because I needed to do one more errand later in the afternoon. So before exiting the car I roll down the windows and open the moonroof so I don't have to go through the grueling experience a second time.

After I get inside, I'm met with nice, cool air and decide to sit at my desk until I stop sweating. Then I decide to kill some time on FaceBook.

HUGE mistake. I'm that little girl in Poltergeist that just got sucked into the TV. Once I'm on, I can't get off. I needed a few good laughs and my FaceBook buddies never fail to deliver. 3 hours later I realized I had lost track of time. It was getting late and I decided to blow off the second errand. It was too hot out and I was still trapped inside FaceBook. So now, with nothing to do, I stay on FaceBook another good 8 hours until the wee hours of the morning.

After my eyes began to droop I finally hit the hay. Face up because my eyes hurt but it doesn't take long to fall asleep.

In what seemed like a few hours later I woke up to an extremely loud noise in my house. A few seconds pass and then it's quiet. I'm trying to figure out who it is and what I'm going to use hit the intruder with when he walks in my room. The only thing within arms distance is my TV remote. Nice. Even a stapler can do more damage if I can manage to staple his jugular vein in one shot.

As all of this is going through my head, a MASSIVE bright light lit my room like there was a SWAT team hiding in my forest shining a 50,000 watt bulb through my window like I was growing pot.

Thunder, lightening and rain drops that were the size of baby gerbils. It was raining so hard I could barely see the forest. Relieved that I wasn't getting robbed, I got out of bed, made some coffee and went to the back slider to enjoy the show. Being from California I don't get to see this kind of weather so it excites me and scares me at the same time because that shit is LOUD.

A few cups later, I decide to leave the show to take a shower. I have an errand at 9:00a to take my car into the shop for some body work from when I was rear-ended a few weeks ago.

With the personal hygiene out of the way I do what everybody should do when surrendering their car to another party. Empty it of all things of value. iPod, papers, money, garage door opener and whatever else you plan on needing while your car is gone or don't want stolen.

I have about 45 minutes before I need to leave so I decide to start emptying my car so I can shove it all into the rental car that will be waiting for me at the shop. I go into the garage which is full of about 200 boxes from my move and fumble for the opener. As the door opens and I make my way to the front of the garage, my car starts to come into view. At this point there's only one thing I could possibly say.

oh SHIT.

My car is a silhouette in the rain but clear enough for me to see that I left both windows open and my moonroof.

My heart dropped all the way down to my butt. I was paralyzed. After I snapped out of it I started to try and think rationally. I hauled ass into the house to get some towels to clean up the drops of rain in my car.

I open it up and now, as I stare at the inside of my car, I'm mortified. It's absolutely flooded. Every electronic is soaked, 25lbs of water was hiding in each seat and my cup holders were so full they looked like little waterfalls.

I quickly put the key in and this time is slips right into the hole the first time.

I roll up the windows and shut the moon roof. I'm absolutely astonished at what the inside of my car looks like. I have to be at the shop in 30 minutes and I have to make an attempt to clean up as much of the inside as possible.

After wiping down everything I could see and siphoning out my cup holders, I ran back inside and got two, really thick towels. I folded each one 4 times and stacked them on my seat so I wouldn't get wet.

The dealership is 5 miles away. By mile 4 my car smells like wet dog. It's pretty gross but in about 3 minutes it's not going to be my problem for awhile.

I get to the shop, get out of the car, and my ass is SOAKED. There was so much water in my seat that it seeped through two thick, folded towels. It's the only part of me that's wet. Nice. Not only am I a freakin' moron by this point but apparently I'm also incontinent.

As I walk into the shop I'm met by the nice lady who's been helping me on the phone. I stood square in front of her so she couldn't see my ass. Every time she walked around I kept turning and facing her. Finally she goes behind the counter to hook me up with my rental car.

"OK, hon", she says. "All I need is your driver's license and you're good to go".

FUCK!

It's back at my house. In my haste to leave I forgot to grab it. After apologizing a million times I told her I'd be right back as I walk backward out the door not letting her see my ass. Speaking of which I now get to sit on the nice soaked towels again. Putting on a wet bathing suit feels better.

I jam home, jam back with my wallet and get hooked up with the rental car.

So the score is North Carolina weather: 2, The California Bone Brain: 0

I'll admit defeat. The weather here changes faster than Superman in the telephone booth. Like the boyscouts say, "Always be prepared". I KNEW I should have done that instead of running track in high school.

After getting home, I realized I left my navigation unit in my car. If it isn't comical by now, it's becoming very close. I drive BACK to the shop and tell Patty the helper that I need my Nav unit out of my car. As she walks out into the work area I could only picture a full blown Hazmat team acid washing the inside of my car since it's obvious the driver's seat is packed with urine.

Dumb asses. A simple smell test would have told them it's just wet dog.

After leaving, I feel like I'm finally done with 2 days of weather prison. They gave me a brand new Camry which is really, really nice but the only thing it lacks is satellite radio which i've becomed accustomed to.

So FM it is. I need tunes BAD. I need a pick me up after feeling like the stupidest person in the entire state of North Carolina. I finally find a rock station that immediately pisses me off.

Through the speakers come the familiar sounds of Lynyrd Skynyrd.

"That Smell"

Off to Walgreens to buy a stapler.

The Devil in Disguise

2009-07-07T10:11:00.000-04:00

There are approximately 7 billion people on planet earth.

What makes that intriguing and unique is there aren't two people amongst them who are identical. Whether it's a combination of looks, likes, dislikes, pet peeves, drink preferences, one or two ply or level of education. If you think about it long enough it's pretty amazing. Kind of like trying to wrap your mind around "infinity".

However, out of 7 billion people there is actually one thing that ties us all together. Not religion, not love, not family nor agreement on global warming.

7 billion people HATE the fucking DMV.

From the Lamborghinis in L.A. to the Rickshaws in China, why do we have to go through these people to get permission to operate a vehicle? We can have 8 kids all at the same time with no manual on how to take care of them but somehow none of us know how to use a steering wheel.

Yeah, I get that driving is more than that but the DMV has it set up so you have this checklist of shit you have to do before turning the ignition on your heavy machinery. The pilot of a 747 has a smaller checklist flying to Japan than I do to drive to Walmart.

Check my tires before entering the vehicle, check my mirrors, ensure my seatbelt is buckled, yell at my passenger to put his or hers on in case I decide to test out my passenger side airbag, wear proper footwear, check for small children throwing frisbees and make sure you have the proper level of petrol to get to where you're going so some tow truck driver doesn't have to come and save your ass.

Most importantly, however? Pay your freakin' registration fee. Remember, driving is a privilege, not a right.

Suck my tail pipe. It's a necessity. No driving, no getting to work. No getting to work, no state tax going into the kitty. No state tax going into the kitty, no education funds for our kids. No education funds for our kids then you're going to pump out a bunch of morons who can't pass the driving test.

I lived in California for 42 years, 26 of which I'd been driving. I had nothing to compare motor vehicle requirements against until I got to North Carolina a few months ago.

The first thing I noticed were the similarities. If you plan on getting a job working for the DMV then let me give you some sage advice. First, fill out the 12 page application and wait 6 months while they do a background check in case you stole a pack of gum from a 7 Eleven when you were 12 because God forbid you're going to let someone out on the road who's stupid enough to hit every pedestrian they see in a crosswalk.

Now if you're lucky enough to get an interview, the next piece of advice is very, very critical.

Go into the interview and act like a complete asshole.

The meaner you are the more points you get. Back talk to the interviewer, scribble illegibly, and be sure you show off your ability to let a stack of paperwork pile up next to you so you can work on it while the potential driver stands waiting impatiently.

After the personality test comes the facial expression test. Stare. Just look at someone and stare. Make sure the potential driver knows that you're in control and they're the idiot. Throw in a little stink eye and you'll successfully fill your waiting room, which holds a capacity of 834 people, with quivering prisoners waiting for their number to get called 90 minutes later. That gives the driver enough time to pop a few valium, go out for a beer and return with another half hour to spare.

Remember those two things and you're hired. Asshole+Stink Eye=Employment.

Back to the impatient driver who's number was just called. After all, they had that beer and now have to pee so bad they're dancing in front of your station. Going to relieve themselves then heading to the back of the line is suicide so they're about to say something but remember, you're in control. Your advice to them would be to hold it.

The valium is the only thing keeping them from smacking the shit out of you and throwing pencils until one sticks in your neck.

Anyway, so now I'm the one who's new here and I begin to notice the differences between the DMV in California and the DMV in North Carolina. They're about as similar as a cheetah and a lady bug.

In California they just want your money. They'll smog your car every other year to make sure it's not toxic but that's it. Money+Smog=Good to go.

In North Carolina their motto is: "Not so fast, cowboy".

The rumor is that North Carolina has one of the most difficult written tests in the union. Hearing this, I began to study. STUDY! I can't believe I'm studying a 50 page booklet on how to drive. The more I read the more complicated things become.

First, you have to write a 10 page essay, double spaced, describing why you want to be a driver in the state of North Carolina. But you can't use the word "y'all". No wonder it's so freakin' difficult for the people here. I had the upper hand since I haven't picked up that habit yet. I used the word "dude" 18 times in 10 pages but since that's a foreign language here they tend to overlook it.

After your essay it's on to the next battery of tests. Shit like Simon Says, a simulated DUI enactment and your ability to do the Hokey Pokey.

If you pass those tests then it's on to the next process. Paperwork. An insane amount, at that.

You need your old driver's license, proof of insurance, a notarized letter stating a lien holder, pass a vehicle inspection where they make sure your windshield wipers work in case you encounter a swarm of mosquitos that block your vision. That, and the rain that falls so hard you can't even see your dashboard. You need to sign a liability letter, a social security card and one more form of identification. I guess they need all of that to identify your body when you're hit by the guy who can't seem to miss pedestrians.

Once you have that, you're allowed to take the written test to get your license. So after studying, submitting my essay and performing all the physical fitness bullshit that makes me feel like a circus animal, I go to the office to get my precious, most coveted gift the state of North Carolina can give me.

First encounter was the bitch who looked like that wrinkled old lady in Monster's Inc. I lay all my paperwork on the counter. She does a quick, cursory glance then shoves the paperwork back my direction.

Wait a second. I busted my butt for weeks collecting all this stuff and now you don't even want to look at it? I felt like pushing the paperwork back to her, grabbing her head and shoving it down into the pile until she memorized my social security number.

Instead, I take my number and sit down. I glance at my watch, I look up at the number screen and I decide I have enough time to pop some valium, go get a beer, and get back in time to take my test.

Just as I'm getting up they call my number. Damn.

I go to the window I was assigned and sat in front of this lady who looked like someone just threw a shoe at her and she's ready to beat someone's ass.

That would be me since I'm the closest. The other employees are sneaking behind her back hoping not to be noticed.

She asks me about 15 questions in a monotone voice then tells me to take my test over at station 7. It's all computerized now. No number 2 pencil with bubbles, no toilet paper thin answer sheet, just a nice computer with an easy to read test.

I hit the start button while my heart is pounding so loud it's annoying the 10 employees in the room. Sure wish I had that valium and beer but I'm riding solo right now.

15 minutes later I finish the test which was 20 questions long. You can miss 4.

I missed 3.

WOOOHOOOO! I felt like getting up and doing the happy dance but I was afraid that 10 pairs of stink eye would focus on me like lasers and fry me to a crisp in the testing room. So I quietly got up and sheepishly approached my "friend".

Well, everything is computerized so she knew my score before I got up. As I'm walking toward her she looks and me and says, "sit down, please" in her "I love my job" voice.

Next stop, picture taking. Ick. I had let me hair grow out and when we were finished I looked like a complete redneck. On the bright side when I get pulled over I'll at least look like I belong here.

With that lovely experience behind me, license in hand, I go to register my car. All of my paperwork is in order and ready to go. The problem is they have a totally separate building for registration. It's 5 miles across town.

shit

So I drive all the way over there and surprisingly there's no line. I walk up to the window, slap my paperwork on the counter and this lady decides she's going to go over it with a fine tooth comb after doing a body search.

"I can't accept this", she says.

"WHAT"?

"Your spouse is on the title".

"Yes", I said, "but it says Randall OR Allison".

"Sorry, but the state of North Carolina doesn't recognize the word "OR"".

You've got to be freakin' kidding me. They don't recognize the word "or". Is that because they don't know what it means or because they're just making shit up as they go along?

I ask what I have to do next and she said when my spouse shows up I need to re-start the paperwork process.

Pissed beyond belief, I grabbed my pile off the counter, put it in my bag and started to look for a pencil.

It needs to be really sharp.

There goes the neighborhood

2009-06-27T09:04:00.000-04:00

I have to admit that trepidation set in last year when I realized we were going to be moving to North Carolina this past Spring.

The south. I really knew nothing about it except the stories and folklore that made their way westward. Naturally, I expected overalls, porch swings with old guys whittling sticks, 7 teeth in any given head, humidity, bugs, gun racks and a small wheat stalk dangling from one's lips like a cigarette.

Of course, it's really not like that. At least around these parts it ain't.

But it's comical in a way that the people here have the same stereotypical impressions of people from the West coast. We're all surfers, tree huggers, blonde, tan, stoned, fruity, laid back, "Dude" is our state greeting and all 36 million of us are in the movie industry. They sum us all up in one word.

Weirdos.

Well, before I left my nest of 42 years, I got out of the shower one day and saw that "weird" person. I'm decked out in tattoos, rings, an earring and tie dyed shoes (no, I didn't wear those in the shower). I remember thinking I'm going to stand out like a vampire. I'm a liberal going to a red state and it's probably best if I just keep my mouth shut and observe southern living like I'm trying to learn how to speak Japanese.

I want to fit in. At the same time, though, I want to be myself. Judge me how you like but at least get to know me. Even dogs do a butt-sniff check before they begin to fight. I don't need things to go THAT far but give me a chance. You can sniff something above my waist if you'd like but don't write me off as weird just because I'm not from around these parts.

Shortly after moving in and getting everything I brought unpacked, I now had the time to explore the lay of the land and begin working on some of the landscaping at my house. I met both of my neighbors in a very brief encounter. One is retired, early 70's and the other is about 50 and is a professional landscaper.

Great. Sucks to be him because I'm sure he thinks he's living next to landscaping that belongs in front of the Munster's house.

The lawn was the sore thumb of my property. The people who lived here prior to us didn't believe in lawns or something because it was all dead, weeds were growing like weeds, and there were about 12 ant hills scattered across the area. So it was time to go to work.

First and foremost, I do NOT have a green thumb. I can sit on it pretty well but it's useless when it comes to gardening and lawn care. First thing I did was head to Lowe's to get some Roundup and killed the whole lawn/weed yard. I mowed all the weeds as low as I could, raked them up then tried to replant the whole area. I had fertilizer, grass seed, spreaders, gloves, hoses and a whole arsenal of items to begin growing a nice, lush lawn. After letting the Roundup dilute and lose it's potency I spread my seed.

A month later I have a lawn with some of the biggest weeds I've ever seen in my life. Not one blade of grass. I went to the garage to make sure I bought lawn seed and not weed seed. I couldn't figure out what I did wrong. So I just let it grow for awhile thinking grass will show up at some point.

Well, in the mean time, with all this time on my hands, I've been spending quite a bit of it on Facebook. I decided I needed to spend more time outside despite the heat and take some pictures to put up that I've been promising to take for awhile.

The bug picture was a freak encounter but the others were planned out. I lizard hunt everyday so I can take a picture of their rat-like physique. Then I promised a picture of the forest and finally a picture of some fire flies.

Two nights ago I decided to set up my tripod out on the back patio, mess with my camera settings and capture the fire flies so I could post them on FB. As soon as dusk arrives, the flies come out. I went out to the patio, aimed the camera in several locations and started snapping pictures. I had to continually futz with the settings but I kept on trying.

I hear a noise out of my left ear. I turn slowly that direction and notice it's my 70-ish year old neighbor watching me. Now I feel really stupid and can't imagine what he must be thinking. It's semi-dark outside and I'm taking pictures.

Crap.

I swiftly grab the tri-pod and camera and run into the house like I'm being chased by a cyclops. I don't want to be embarrassed any longer than I have to so I cancel the rest of the photo shoot. It wasn't turning out anyway but it might have if I kept trying and wasn't shamed back into my house.

Last night I tried again. But this time I decided to use my video camera since it's hard to snap a picture with a normal camera at the very moment that bugs ass lights on fire.

Once again, tripod is up, camera is pointed to the woods and I hit the record button. I enjoy my coffee while the camera is rolling. About 15 minutes into the shoot it happens again.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice my neighbor has his watering wand out, taking care of some plants on his back patio. Was he paying attention to the plants? Nope. He was staring at me again. I decide to focus back on him since the camera is rolling and I really don't have to do anything.

Well, he was doing that stare thing where he's actually looking through me. It was kind of like when I was in school. I'd be listening to the droning of my teacher, bored out of my skull and my mind and eyes would start to glaze over, wander and stare away. Usually it was some hot girl across the room and my eyes were locked on to her boobies. I would daydream about other things, all the while staring right at her supple sweater. Four to five minutes later I snap out of it and I notice the girl looking at me. She caught the booby stare and is now burning "Perv" on my forehead with her mind so when she passes me in the hall she knows to keep those things far away.

I check the camera then look back over at my neighbor. He still has this glazed look directed at me but his watering wand is suddenly missing it's target. It's now watering the side of his house as if he's not paying attention. Unless his house is adobe, he's just creating a big puddle of mud.

Naturally I wonder what's going through his mind. What does he think I'm taking pictures of? Do I see a mountain lion? Sasquatch? Nude people? This is the second night I'm out with a camera so he's at least thinking I'm definitely a weirdo.

Screw it. I hit pause on the camera and go back inside. Since it's finally under 95 degrees and my front lawn is shaded, I decided to go out front, out of view from my neighbor and spray it again.

As I'm starting to cover the area I hear a voice behind me on the sidewalk.

"What are you putting down"?

I turn to see an even older lady apparently out on a walk.

"Napalm", I say.

No sense of humor in the south, I see. She either didn't find it funny, didn't know what Napalm was, or was making a mental note to clear out her basement.

"Actually it's Roundup", I confess.

HUGE mistake and rule number one just broken. Never engage in chit chat with an elderly person when you're busy. The yammering started and it just didn't stop. I kept spraying the weeds while half listening to her ramble on about people on the street, their lawns, the people who lived here before us, grocery shopping and everything else her little hamster brain was pumping out. I just wanted to take that sprayer and use it as mace.

A few minutes later, I politely excuse myself and return inside. So the firefly experiment and the nuking of my lawn will have to wait.

After the two elderly people make their gossip rounds down the court I'll be known as the recluse California weirdo who only comes out at night.

That has vampire written all over it.

Add to grocery list: fake vampire teeth.

I'm sure it won't be long before a group of neighbors make their way toward my house with stakes and torches. Not only am I harmless but I'm helpless as well. I have one BB gun that might hurt like I snapped them with a rubber band.

When they arrive and call me out of my house, I guess there's really only one thing I can say.

Would you guys mind just burning my lawn?

A Bug's Life

2009-06-23T07:10:00.001-04:00

An ex-coworker and friend of mine were on Facebook yesterday catching up on our former place of employment and sort of wallowing in it's lack of friendliness to the employees. It's always nice to wallow with someone else because sometimes, just sometimes, you'll find someone who has it worse off than you.

Instant ego boost.

Unfortunately I didn't get that yesterday. This person left with grace, dignity and a TON of friends behind. When my exit came, I sort of fell down the stairs and out the door. My graceful exit looked like Dick VanDyke's graceful entrance into his home. At this point I suppose it doesn't matter how I got out the door. I am where I am and it's all due to a bizarre sequence of events.

Well, later in the day, either in the same thread or a new one, the topic of 'bugs' came up. Not surprisingly we both share the same loathing for annoying little critters and I think it's safe to say that 96% of the world's population have the same 'kill or be killed' mentality. The other 4% put them in a Wok and make (what they say) is a delicious, caramelized dessert.

(here's the part where you're supposed to picture Oliver, standing with his bowl saying, "please, Sir. May I have more")?

I've eaten some weird, nasty stuff in my life including a chipmunk (don't ask) but I can't say I've ever purposefully eaten a bug. Sure, I've had them fly down my throat while riding a motorcycle or sticking my head out the car window with my mouth open but never on purpose.

Another ex co-worker chimes in on another Facebook thread and finally I stopped and began to think about this....

Who is in who's personal space? Are we the bugs to the bugs? Are we the one's who aren't supposed to be here and that's why they decide to seek us out and land on us? Kind of like storming the shores of Normandy. The problem is, besides the ants, they don't know how to rally the troops. They try and take us down one by one.

It's sort of like one mosquito says, "C'mon guys. Let's go get 'em!!". He flies down, lands on me, turns around, and his other mosquito squad is still up in the tree thinking Private Stanley was an IDIOT for going in without a plan.

Now he's all alone. There's only one thing he can do since the squad abandoned him.

Get lunch.

Jam that needle nose in and steal my blood. My life force. My personal stash that I'll need for other things. Then, after filling his little gut, he flies off like he was playing capture the flag. He stumbles into his little mosquito group, drunk on blood and me, sitting in my chair, swears I can here this little, teeny tiny crowd yell "NORM"!

Just like my two chihuahuas. Little man's complex. They look at things like we look through a pair of binoculars from the other side of the lens. Big things all of a sudden look tiny. Fat looks thin. Mean looks nice. Kind of like a fun-house mirror. For some reason we don't phase them. The odd thing is, we're 1500 times their size and we run. Don't think so?

Ever see someone do the wasp dance? You know, the one where a giant wasp swoops in for a look, you jump out of your lawn chair swinging your new copy of Sunset magazine at it and then run away maybe squeaking out some expletives?

Don't lie.

I think part of our problem with bugs and flying things is that it's 10,000 to one. We're human beings. That's it. We have 2 arms, 2 legs, 2 eyes and 2. . . of some other stuff. The bug world is armed with a whole host of different traits. Some pretty, some docile, some mean as hell, some that crawl, some that fly, and some that just want to bully us into submission.

You have everything from fire flies who are pretty, fun and relatively harmless to Bees and Wasps who'll do anything to tattoo you with their ass. Problem is they only know one tattoo. A big red and white bump. Hurts the same but somehow we know the difference in our defenses. We'll swat at a wasp and shoo a bee but most of us won't beat the shit out of our tattoo artist because now you're just looking for them to tattoo "asshole" across your forehead.

My move from California to North Carolina was a complete swap of everything. Different trees, different plants, different bugs, and critters I haven't seen anywhere. I'm trying to soak it all in and if there's anything I've learned it's just 'be cool' and don't freak out. Tell yourself they're harmless and slowly back away.

Other times I look for a weapon and smash the crap out of them so I don't have to keep repeating those lines in my head.

Today, however, was different. WAY different.

I woke up early like I always do, brew a pot of coffee, pop some meds, load up Facebook and start catching up from the previous night until the coffee is done.

Finally my second life force is done brewing and I return to my desk to start working. I pour the first cup and something catches the corner of my eye, like my screensaver is kicking on.

Nope. A bug. And in my brain I yelled louder than I've ever yelled to myself in my 43 years on planet earth.

"HOLY SHIIIIIITTTT!!!!!!"

What happened to the calm, cool, collected Animal Planet loving guy? Well, after he pooped his pants he came up with an idea.

"OK", I say to myself. I'm going to catch him. But I'm not going to catch him in the conventional way. See, my friend Rick was here a few days ago and we went around the NASCAR sights so he could pick up some souvenirs and take some pictures. His camera crapped out on the first day so I grabbed our little point and shoot and took it with us.

Well, it just happens to be sitting right next to me. Seeing as I always tell you what must, at times, seem like tall tales, I decided I'm going to SHOW you this time.

I take a swig of coffee and reach for the camera. My hands are shaking because this thing is freakin' HUGE for a bug. He's on the wall over my desk and I'm literally praying he wasn't going to slip and fall, land on my desk, freak himself out and make a run for it across my keyboard. If that happened, I'd be standing in line at the Apple store waiting to have my computer fixed.

I really didn't want to tell the guy at the fixit counter that it was busted by a bug. That's a "dog ate my homework" line.

The bug moves, then stops. Moves, then stops. I'm trying to snap a picture of him but when that little red light comes on to judge the focus distance it pisses him off and he moves again. Now I'M getting pissed. I'm now officially on a mission. I'm going to chase this little f*kcer down and take his picture if it kills me.

We play a small game of cat and mouse along my wall. I'm clearly at a disadvantage because I have to wait for my flash to charge every time I take a picture. THAT, my friends, is a pain in the ass when you're in a hurry to take a picture and your camera says it isn't ready yet, like it's putting on make-up or asking if it's butt looks too big in these pants.

"C'MON"!, I say. I'm in a hurry to get this thing as he's scurrying across my wall.

Then I take a few steps back, look at the wall and think, "now he's done it". He's approaching my Beatles poster. Hallowed ground. Touch it and you die. I'm trying to be cool by taking your picture and then I'll catch you in a cup and let you go. But step on Ringo's face and your as good as dead. You'll get a flick so hard you'll land on the other side of the room. (can't smash him because Ringo wouldn't look good with bug blood on his face).

Well, the little shit did it. He made it to the Beatle poster. Just as I take one last picture, I put the camera down and whip out my flip finger.

I'm still about 3 feet away when it happens. He hit the slick surface of the poster and slipped. Now he's lying on the rug, getting his legs out from underneath him, gathering his bearings and decides where he's going to go.

Well, after I jumped up on the bed, which had to have been a sad, yet comical sight, I ran to the kitchen to get a cup and some paper. Since he technically didn't soil my poster I decided he could live. Running through your house at 6:30A isn't something you do very often.

I returned with the cup and paper within about 9 seconds. I walk in my office and my heart stopped beating as my eyes glazed over and stared at middle distance for at least 15 minutes.

He was gone.

....oh SHIT!

(pictures will be posted on FB later today so it doesn't just look like a random bug picture)

Uninspired.....again

2009-06-16T07:01:00.000-04:00

Sorry, kids.

I've been busy purging my brain out the past couple of weeks. Getting rid of things like door combos, PIN numbers, phone numbers, blah, blah, blah.

Anyway, with all the room I just made I discovered that my cranium is hollow at the moment. I have no interesting things happening right now and I'm incredibly uninspired.

So I'm waiting for that one topic to hit me upside the head and then I'll resume. I realize it's been 10 days but I can't write just for the sake of writing.

Like right now.

Anyway, I haven't stopped. Just waiting for the right entry.

I love my 3 readers so I just wanted to let you know that I'm not dead.

Flying the friendly skies

2009-06-07T09:19:00.000-04:00

Flying. It's my number one answer on the quiz "what do you hate most in life"?

Spending nearly 20 years in air traffic, ironically, I absolutely LOATHE flying. What used to be glamorous and fun has now become the number one, biggest pain in the ass I could possibly come up with. It's torturous to me and I start to get that "flying anxiety" the night before a trip.

Yesterday was no different except for one thing. The day was sprinkled with nothing but frustrating, unbelievable events that have me shaking my head in bewilderment.

The airport in Charlotte is perhaps a tad larger than Oakland. Translation: It's not that big. As I walk in, the entire place is packed. The lines are endless, the tension is high, and you'd have better odds winning at Keno than you would finding someone smiling. The way to gauge a crap airport is when the Starbucks line is longer than the security line.

If I could set up a Valium stand I'd be a billionaire. I'd probably be on America's Most Wanted list as well, but hey, I'm helping people. At least that defense worked for Dr. Kevorkian.

Anyway, after paying $15 for the 'privilege' of checking a bag I walked to the winding security line. Enter pet peeve #2. I'm in line and start removing my shoes, jewelry, and basically getting naked, while the other people are chatting it up, looking for their gate info, making plans for their arrival and other stuff they could really do once inside the terminal. We get to the front of the line and guess who's ready? Me. Guess who's not? The 50 friggin' people in front of me who act like they didn't know they were getting screened after being yelled at for the last 15 minutes by a pissed off TSA agent telling them what they need to do before entering the security area.

Idiots.

I finally get to the belt, put my stuff on and walk through, clean as a whistle. On the other side I gather my things but I'm missing my bag. SHIT. Bag check. Immediately I begin taking mental inventory of what I could possibly have in my man bag (as Joey Tribbiani calls it). I have magazines, keys, a laptop charger and not much else.

Well, the TSA guy walks over and says I have a pair of scissors. I stared at him like he was stupid. That was after wiping the mortified look off of MY face for possibly having a pair of scissors. Why in the world would I have scissors and what are they doing in my bag?

After 5 minutes of digging through my purse he pulls out a full size pair of scissors. Real nice one's too. I'm shocked. Of course I apologize but in his head he's heard it all. I shut up.

He puts the scissors in a little bin then says, "I'll need to rescan your bag". Off he goes. The bag goes through the scanner, he argues with the dude at the TV screen and then returns with my bag.

"He says you have another pair of scissors". Now it's getting comical. There's no way I would pack even one pair let alone two. Five minutes later he pulls a second, full sized pair of really nice scissors out with his surgical gloves like he's extracting a tumor and trying not to touch it. Now, aside from feeling like a pack rat, I'm embarrassed beyond belief. Visions of handcuffs enter my head along with a cavity search which, if he found a third pair of scissors, I deserved to die.

He puts the second pair of scissors in the little bin, slides me my bag and says, "Have a good day, sir".

"Don't you want to keep the scissors", I say as I'm zipping up my bag.

"No", he says, "They're legal".

Legal? LEGAL? If they're legal then why did you just spend the last 15 minutes messing with my shit looking for two pairs of scissors you were going to let me take inside in the first place? You've got to be kidding me.

Now I want to stab the guy with my two pair of scissors. Or at least cut off his mustache. I couldn't figure out who was the bigger moron. TSA for extracting 2 pairs of scissors all to send me on my way or me for even HAVING two pairs of scissors. What in the world were they doing in my bag and where and why would I need two?

Starbucks line. Stat.

After I grab my fix from the counter I start heading toward my gate. Never the first one. Always the farthest away. I get there right as they're boarding. Cool. Now I can just walk right on and not have to wait for an hour.

I'm in aisle 11 which is the one behind the exit row. I take my seat, put my molested bag under the seat in front of me and all of a sudden a small scuffle begins in front of me. Apparently a few children were sitting in the exit row, which isn't legal, so the flight attendant asked me if I could move, take their seat and exchange it with mine.

"Sure", I said.

She needed to fill one more of the seats and this cute southern bell volunteers to sit next to me. My heart starts pounding as I start to get very, very nervous. I'm horrible around girls and cute ones at that.

While everyone settles in I decide to get out my iPod and start jamming before we take off. As I'm getting my tray table set up I accidentally smack my full Starbucks cup. Huge spurts of coffee fly in the air and land.

In her lap.

'Holy shit', I'm thinking to myself as I put my hand on her jeans to try and wipe it up, all the while apologizing for being a dork. It quickly dawns on me that I probably shouldn't have my hand on her leg so I snatch it back. She says, "It's ok, don't worry about it". I'm scrambling for a napkin or SOMETHING but all I have is my sleeve. Again, I apologize but in a real nice voice she tells me it will dry and really not to worry about it.

Now I'm slump down in my seat, put my buds in and turn it WAY up. Maybe that will help me forget the incident.

Nope. I kept looking at her pants to see if it's drying or staining. In hindsight I can only imagine what that looked like. A guy with a Starbucks cup and an iPod staring at the crotch of the girl sitting next to him.

Lovely.

The rest of the flight was going pretty good. I had the tunes, I had the magazines, the girl fell asleep and my vital signs returned to normal.

Didn't take long for that to collapse.

I drank quite a bit of coffee, as I always do, and now I need to use the restroom. I'm in an aisle seat so I don't need to climb over anyone. It's always uncomfortable in the window seat when the middle person doesn't move so your only choice is to straddle them. And it's never a super model. It's a big, sweaty guy who's probably upset that he got stuck with a middle seat and now he's got some skinny dork about to give him a lap dance on the way to the restroom.

I walk to the back of the plane and both restrooms display the 'vacant' sign. Cool. Before I get there the plane begins to hit a little turbulence. Good thing I'm almost there because once the fasten seat belt sign comes on, the flight attendants force everyone back to their seats. I hear the 'ding' right as I duck in the room and lock the door.

Safe.

As I'm doing my business, the plane starts shaking bad. Real bad. Since it's pretty difficult to stop "mid-stream", mortifying thing number 3 occurs.

I pee on myself.

Great. I'm caught with scissors, I spill coffee on Miss North Carolina and now I have to return to my seat, sit in my own pee, and hope to God she doesn't start staring at MY pants.

Now, it's easy for one to do a "smell check" on their armpits. Usually good but sometimes bad.

Not so easy to do a "smell check" on your pants without looking like you're about to do something nasty. I prayed to God that it was a minor incident as I didn't even want to be caught looking at my own crotch.

She stayed asleep, the flight was coming to an end and by the time she woke up everything seemed cool. After landing, I apologized again and she just looked at me and smiled.

Needless to say I was really, really glad for the trip to end. Overall it was a horrible experience and one I hope to never repeat. But I would say the most unusual part of the flight?

The plane was on time.

Return of the Jedi

2009-06-03T06:58:00.000-04:00

The year was 1977. My life was about to take on a whole new direction with my new found desire. You could say it was a turning point in all of my 11 years on the planet at that time.

I had just finished watching Star Wars with my family at the drive in. Driving home I got this intense revelation that confirmed my earlier desire as an 11 year old kid who was always the underdog at school. No, I didn't want to be C3-PO. Too hard to walk to school in gold armor.

I wanted super powers.

Not the fake kind like stopping bullets and trains or flying to the moon in sub-zero degree temperatures and not have one icicle form on my forehead. I'm talking REAL powers.

I wanted the power of the Force. I wanted to take my light saber and whack the shit out of that floating, metal ball while I was blindfolded. The metal ball would shift around like some possessed pinata while I was blindfolded, levitating and avoiding every laser the ball would fire, protecting my crotch at all times.

THAT power was real and that's what I wanted. I'd show those kids at school. They'd begin to tease me or the girls would begin to giggle so it would be at that moment that I whip out my saber and start whacking the metal ball.

Well, in 1984 I managed to finish school without a super power. Yeah, I had a brain packed full of useless knowledge like y=mx+b. Formula for a slope. I've used that one at least 22 times in my life and it's really saved my ass.

Yes, I'm rolling my eyes.

After 30 years, it's only been in the past 6 months that I've discovered I actually DO have a super power. I never realized it until yesterday while I was getting my hair trimmed. Funny, the places we're at when these ideas pop into our heads.

I've discovered I have the power to turn butt-heads into very nice people. The asterisk, however, is that it only works for ME. I can't use this power for anyone else. Sorry guys. While I'd love to come to your rescue, you're on your own.

I've been to lots of establishments over the past week (Lowe's, Office Max, WalMart, etc.....) and whether it's the heat or the humidity it's turned everyone into an asshole. Me too, I'm sure. When I get up to the counter they're rude, they're tired, and they can barely hold a smile. It's weird because it's happening everywhere.

The ultimate test of my super power came the other day when I went to the capital of rudeness. The ultimate den of trolls and people with permanent scours on their faces.

The DMV.

I had to stop in and make an appointment to get my North Carolina driver's license. The room was PACKED and the line had about 4 people in it. It was hot, sweaty and somebody smelled like a dead dog. A quick glance around the room revealed gloomy faces like they were waiting for mug shots. None of them appeared happy. Still couldn't pick out the stinky one.

When I finally got up to the window, the crab looks over my shoulder and announces to the room that due to staffing they would no longer be administering written exams or driving tests the rest of the day.

Thanks, bitch. Lob a grenade right over my shoulder into a room of pissed off people who were waiting in the heat and the stench for at least 2 hours and were now about to storm the window. And guess who was in front without his light saber. ME. As I start day dreaming about being in the center of a mosh pit the crab asks me why I'm here.

"I'm new to the area and I need to apply for my license," I said.

"What brought you here?", she asks in a gruff voice.

"I'm retired", I said sheepishly like she was going to hit me with a stick.

BAM!! All of a sudden the crab morphed into a butterfly. "You're retired"????

"Yes", I say.

She's dumbfounded. I stunned her. I took her breath away. Whatever you want to call it but she instantly became intrigued and we had a good 3 minute, extremely pleasant conversation. After she gave me my study guide she smiled, said a warm goodbye, then put her game face back on for the next customer. Poor guy. Here he sees this real nice lady talking to me and when it's his turn she's going to smack him all the way to South Carolina.

Hmmm. Now that I look back, this has happened every time this subject comes up. It came to me at the hair place because the girl cutting my hair was quiet like she had something on her mind. She looked pregnant but only about 3-4 months along. I was going to break the tense ice with "are you pregnant"? That was quickly followed by me asking myself "are you stupid"?

She made the first move by asking about my tattoos and that opened up the whole 'where are you from' conversation. After I told her I'm retired her demeanor changed instantly. All of a sudden she becomes little miss chatter box, all the while taking chunks out of my hair, not really paying attention. I kept telling myself it will grow back.

Then there was the mopey person at the Dr.s office. I'm looking for a new Dr. and have been met with nothing but cruel people. Imagine that in the health care profession?

I ask the receptionist if the Dr. is taking new patients and she says "yes" without even looking up. She fumbles around for some literature to give me and asks why I'm looking for a new Dr. .

I told her I was from out of state after which she asked my what job brought me to NC?

"I'm retired".

BAM!!

"WOW, how did you manage THAT", she says as she becomes very interested and almost excited when she found out I was from northern California and she was from Vacaville. I told her she had nice outlets. (Yes, that's what I tell all the girls. And, I'm rolling my eyes again).

I look young and young and retired usually don't appear in the same sentence. But glancing back at some pretty sticky situations, I noticed that the retired line has saved my butt more often than not when it comes to confrontation.

Who knew that a simple, one-liner would be the ultimate super power? I don't break it out very often. In fact, I don't say a word unless I'm asked. I hate when it comes up because with all the kindness that comes with it also comes jealously. Leaving at just the right moment is critical. You need to bail before the jealousy takes over. At that point you're screwed.

That's when I wish I was packin' my saber.

The one downfall to my gift is that it won't last long. It will eventually evaporate. Once I'm 55-60 and I say I'm retired, no one will be impressed and they'll treat me like they treat every other senior.

Like crap.

The day that happens is the day when I open my closet door, look at my light sabers and have to answer the hardest question of the day.

The red one or the blue one?

Random musings

2009-05-27T09:32:00.000-04:00

Saw a huge, hairy caterpillar the size of a pickle yesterday. A gerken not a Vlasic. The Vlasic size would be the slug lurking in my forest.

It's rained solid for about week so the humidity has been rather high. If I ran through my house and jumped against the wall, I'd stick without the aid of duct tape.

I've seen lots of bugs and critters in museums that now reside in my backyard. All I'm missing are chimpanzees and pythons and my forest would be complete.

In California, raindrops are the size of BBs. Here, in NC, raindrops are the size of water balloons.

Umbrellas are considered contraband at a NASCAR track. You can bring in a case of moonshine but leave the water protection at home. Maybe they figure you'll be drunk enough not to notice it's pouring rain on your ass.

Bought a button yesterday: "I'll get you my pretty... and your butt-sniffin' little dog, too".

Watching the first season of True Blood again before season 2 in June. Decided I want to be a Vampire. Doesn't pay much but you can do some pretty cool tricks.

Reconnected with an old co-worker from over 20 years ago. How she knew me and the last names of everyone in our old department was impressive. I can't hold a phone number in my head for more than 8 seconds before I needed it repeated.

Twice, please.

After the last wax episode, I decided just to shave my chest. Nicked my nipple. Bled for around 3 hours. Hurt WAY more than those tittie twisters in grade school.

Just had to get those off my mind. They were standing in the way of everything else. Lame post, I know, but sometimes you need to make room for other things in your head.

200 web passwords, for example.

Needful Things

2009-05-20T07:31:00.000-04:00

I am an idiot.

...goo goo ga joob.

Let's just get that out of the way first before moving forward. Knowing myself I'll try and worm my way out of my stupidity here but the more I think about it, the more I'm just flat out in another world.

I've been living in this house, now, for over a month. All by myself in the backwoods of Kannapolis, North Carolina with no supervision, no rules, and no one protecting me from the forest. Kinda creepy when I think about it.

So far there hasn't been any sightings of hillbillies in their overalls with torches, shotguns, and 5 teeth marching toward my house all because I'm from California and haven't purged the word "dude" from my vernacular.

All in all it's been a fairly peaceful month. I've been decorating my house like the dorm room I've always wanted. Allison is going to take one look in the office and it's doubtful anything audible will cross her lips for a few minutes.

It's cool.

In a very odd sense I suppose you can say I'm nesting. Typically, that's not a male trait but I find myself having a good time and a sense of pride from setting up my house from scratch to extremely livable. Nothing matches but that's not my strong point. In fact, I told Allison I almost don't want anything else in the house. I like the minimalist approach and I don't see the point in stacking more milk crates.

Anyway, by the end of the day yesterday I felt as if I had accomplished a lot. I had a few errands to run and then, when I arrived home, I began rearranging some things and crap like that. I was putting the finishing touches on the pad because Allison will be here Friday for a NASCAR race. I don't need her walking into to the house knee deep in Cheetos bags, piles of Lucky Charms and Trix boxes in the corner or a jug of milk that's been sitting on the counter since I first got here. I'm not THAT bad but I occasionally get the "look" when I don't rinse out the sink.

Fair enough.

Unfortunately there isn't a lot of food in the place. See, I don't eat much. I'm lucky if I eat twice a week. Don't ask why because I don't know. I'm just not hungry. So I told Allison we'll have to shop after she gets here so there's normal food around. Sometimes I'll go through periods where I'll eat normally for a week or so and then slip right back into having zero appetite.

Well, last night, after a long day's work, my arrogance was bruised as the house taught me a lesson. Basically it told me I don't know a damn thing about being prepared. I was never a boy scout so it was quite possible, but highly unlikely that the house was right. I'm not stupid.

Once I finished my chores I decide I'm going to make a bowl of chili and watch the hockey game. I was going to sit down, relax and get my weekly calories in my body in case I need them to fight off those hillbillies.

I grab a bowl, I grab a spoon, I grab the chili, and I stand there with this look on my face like someone had pulled a very cruel joke on me.

Where the hell is the can opener? Hmmmmm. "Didn't think about THAT, did you?", the house mumbles. I actually hadn't.

Well the macho in me decides I won't be beat and I begin to figure out a way to open that can. Screwdriver and hammer? Letter opener? Back my car over the can? How could I do it?

Screw it, there's a can of clam chowder in the pantry that has one of those pop-top lids. "HA", I say to the house as I prepare my sports meal. I pop it in the microwave then proceed to enter my awesome office and send off a few emails while waiting for the "ding".

After I send the emails, I push back in my chair and assess my office decor. I'd love to get a Shaun Cassidy poster and maybe one of Leif Garrett. Carol Alt, Farrah and some real retro pictures. Either that or I'm going to add a little Miley and some Jonas brothers to top it off.

It's THAT cool.

As I'm daydreaming of how I can improve on my decorating skills, the ding from the microwave goes off. Time to turn on the Redwings game and actually eat something that isn't made from sugar.

I open the microwave and use the paper towel I put over the top of the bowl to prevent it splattering to help me get it out and on to the counter. My fingers were assessing how hot the bowl was as I took it out.

Can I make it to the living room without my fingers melting off? I grab the edged of the bowl again and re-asses. I'm pretty sure I can make it 15 feet as long as I keep it on my finger tips. So away we go, headed for the chair while the game is just coming on the TV.

I don't know what happened. I got distracted by something out of the corner of my eye or I panicked or the house decided to give me a little shove. No matter the reason, the bowl and clam chowder, in complete slow motion, hit the floor in the kitchen. Once again, the dumbfounded look returned to my face.

"What in the HELL just happened?", I asked myself. I didn't have an explanation. All I could do was stare down at my calories for the week splattered within a 10 foot diameter area.

It looked like someone puked. The chunks of potato and clams gave it that "look". I couldn't take my eyes off it. I was pissed, I was confused, I looked to see if I tripped over anything, and then looked at the puke pile for a good 5 minutes before deciding I have to clean it up. And it was everywhere. I simply couldn't believe that a tiny bowl of chowder that dropped less than 4 feet to the ground could fly far enough to hit my back sliding glass door.

Pretty impressive, actually, but made it that much more of a bitch to clean up.

So I went to get a bucket and a mop and all of a sudden I hear laughter surround me. The house all of a sudden became smug.

I realized in the blink of an eye that I don't have a mop nor a bucket nor Pine Sol or anything of the sort. I guess that's what amused the house. Now I'm wishing I was at least a cub scout.

I'm sitting on the kitchen floor now, head in my hands, wondering how I'm going to clean up. Where were my dogs when I need them. It gave me the idea, though, that maybe if I open the back slider, the lizards and other critters would come in a lick it all up while I watched the game. Then I remembered the whole "feed a stray cat, blah, blah, blah".

I did have paper towels so I went to work. I just couldn't get the puke out of my head. What made it worse was the first pass with a paper towel.

It was warm.

30 minutes later I wipe up the last drop of chowder. Guess I'll have to wait til tomorrow to eat something as I'm no longer in the mood to make something.

In my defense, though, you never know you need something until it comes time to need it and then discover you don't have it. So now I'm a little freaked out that I'm missing a ton of things I'm going to need over the course of the next few weeks. Maybe I should just go buy one of those Swiss Army knives that do everything except vacuum your floor. It could be my emergency back up.

So 1 for the house and 0 for me. Now it gets interesting as I plan to regain my dignity and show the house who's boss.

Off to buy some pink paint and Christmas lights.

Karma's a bitch.

My butt hurts

2009-05-15T07:32:00.000-04:00

4037

It's 7A and my body feels like it was whacked by a whiffle bat all through the night. The culprit must have slipped out right before I woke up because the only thing I saw this morning was my comforter sitting at the end of my bed tied up in the biggest knot I've ever seen. I couldn't tie it that way awake let alone while I'm sleeping.

I feel really, really hung over, super groggy, my nose is stuffed, I hurt like a mutha and to top it off, I am lucky enough to have awoken with a Neil Diamond song stuck in my head. What happened? I didn't drink, I didn't stay up real late, I got bored before midnight so I hit the hay. That was it.

So why do I feel like I'm about to participate in a Day of the Dead parade in a few hours? Me, obviously, playing the dead one. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Save it. I know it doesn't work that way but it does in my world so work with me. I'm groggy, remember?

To top off my bruised, Jack LaLane body, I noticed the humidity has snuck in the house somewhere because my arms are sticking to the surface as I write this. Like there's a thin layer of syrup between me and the desk.

Love that.

Well, after a few cups of coffee and a few songs cranked loud for the wake-up routine (and to get that damn Neil Diamond song out of my head), the only explanation I could come up with is the cliche one. I'm getting old.

Somewhere, after about age 35, we all go through this weird metamorphosis where our brains and bodies begin to migrate out of sync. So far, at age 42, they've not realigned and show no sign of doing so in the foreseeable future.

Some days, my brain feels great. I feel like Spiderman and could scale any wall I encounter. I run up to the side of WalMart as fast as I can, getting ready to climb to the top only to bash into the cement wall with my body, fall backwards, get up, and then tell the crowd of on-lookers that I meant to do that (as I'm soaking up the blood on my face with my sleeve). I don't use a superhero costume. That would look stupid.

Then there are days where it's the complete opposite. My brain slips into a coma but my body is ready for a triathlon. I could walk by a burning car, flip it over, save a family of four, carry each of them away from the Yukon that's about to explode, and a few hours later not remember one thing about the incident. Brain waves are flat-lined.

It's been quite awhile since I've heard this phrase but when people tell you to 'act your age', I think we get very perplexed. How old AM I?

"Do you mean physically or mentally", I would ask. They are two distinctly separate personalities.

I'm pretty sure the beat-up feeling came from working in the yard the past few days. When I came home from Michigan there was a message from someone on my machine bitching about my lawn. What the heck? I just moved in and someone is already complaining? It begs the question why the owner would let it go to the point it looked like a nuclear waste dump site before someone else moved in.

Yeah, getting the yard looking nice is on my list of things to do but there are more pressing things to do like buy food, coffee, and personal hygiene products. Not hang out in my front yard pulling weeds and getting eaten alive by fire ants. Then they'd have a crap looking lawn with a dead guy covered in ants in the middle. Now who are they going to bitch to?

Screw the person who narked on me. If I knew who it was, I'd go pee on their lawn.

Anyway, I fought my way to Lowe's through all the race traffic and got me some lawn stuff to get things moving along. Mowing, digging, raking, seeding, watering, all seem like peaceful activities compared to working a ton of airplanes in a sector with thunderstorms and every freakin' person asking for ride reports. At this point I'd choose the latter.

Well, all the frolicking in my front yard really took it's toll on my body because I don't feel so hot. It's only 8 in the morning, now, and I probably already smell and I haven't done anything.

Nice.

Even the passive activities, like driving, are starting to take an extreme toll on my body. Specifically my butt. The number at the top of this entry is the number of miles my ass has logged in 30 days. Each trip, the roots get a little deeper and the day is coming soon where I will have taken root to my seat to the point I can't get out.

This is where my yard skills would come in handy.

I'd be lying if I said driving was easy but just time consuming. Once you're butt starts to hurt you're pretty much screwed. It's not like you can change positions and drive on your head. Maybe my yoga friends can but I can barely pick a pencil off the ground let alone contort my body into a position that I could drive on any body part except my ass.

So for all my long distance trips there is only one thing I can do. Drive fast. Real fast. NASCAR fast. I'll tell the cop I REALLY have to pee. Badly.

Aging sucks. But we all do it. Some gracefully without incident and others, like me, who tend to not know my limits and take on anything that comes my way. 20 years of working at my job and 4 months into retirement, I'm working harder than I EVER did at my job.

Spiderman is now off to WalMart again. I need 783 tubes of ointment that I'm going to fill the moat with. After which I'm going to jump in and soak for a day.

That is until a lizard jumps in. Then I'm going to hop up and chase it like a greased pig.

I need things to sync up and sync up quickly before someone gets hurt. Either that or someone's going to look REAL stupid.

Tough choice...

Step right up...

2009-05-05T08:24:00.001-04:00

Troy, Michigan.

Shopping capital of the upper midwest.

Ok, maybe just the shopping capital of southern Michigan but still....

Known mostly for their car manufacturing, I had the pleasure of visiting one of the most beautiful malls here in the Mitten State. The hundred or so shops in this beast are all nice, upscale, wonderful smelling establishments without a hint of assembly or fabricating. However, it's beauty and array of shops weren't what attracted me when I was choosing a mall to wander.

I was more impressed by the architecture of this place. It's amazing. The mall spans both sides of a busy thoroughfare connected by a long, glass cat walk. When you're up in the glass there are 3-4 people movers on either side. Kind of like the one's inside an airport but without luggage. Saks Fifth Avenue bags, maybe, but no people running across this thing like they're late for a flight.

So, saying this place is enormous is an understatement. You either need to be a trained power walker to shop here or a sloth like me who sits in front of Starbucks in a big, fat chair, sipping an Americano watching people try to figure out where in the world they are since there isn't a 'you are here' dot on the mall directory..

Halfway through my Americano I decide its time to get up and window shop. Now I look like everyone else. I'm walking in circles, befuddled, wondering where in the world the 'dot' went on the mall map. So I just start walking and looking for the cool, glass cat walk with the people movers to help me get to mall part deux.

After 25 minutes of looking like I'm trying to find the other side of the island, I found it. Although it would have been a heck of a lot easier if I just went outside and crossed the street. Inside the mall I'm taking 4 escalator rides, making trips up two flights of stairs, and looking down each of the spokes to see if I saw daylight.

After about 90 minutes of wandering aimlessly without any sense of which way is north, I got tuckered out. Time to walk back to the car and head to another mall. A smaller one.

Where my car was and how I found it would be like trying to explain the time-space continuum. I have NO idea or recollection of how I got to it but by the grace of God and 4 miles later, I found it.

After 15 minutes, I catch my breath and plug "mall" into my navigation. Up pops 19 choices.

19? Seriously? Do we really need all that stuff? Judging by the experience of packing my own home in California, apparently we do.

I randomly pick a mall closer to where my friend's house is located and follow the lead of my navigation girl who graciously gives me a tour of the entire southern half of Michigan before dumping me at the doorstep of the mall that was only 5 blocks away.

...bitch

As I enter one of the anchor stores, which is safe to say isn't as upscale as the Uber Mall, I see it. It's my nightmare. My spouse will attest to the fact that I flip out at the sight of them.

The midway. Or at least that's what I call it. You have your stores on either side of the mall and then a strip of carnival like booths down the center who's teenage workers assault you as if you're going to be their gas money for the week.

As I'm staring down the center of the mall I could see a few of the carnies stop mid sale and sniff the air.

Fresh meat.

I knew it. They could sense me. I could see them begin to circle their forts, drool hanging from their fangs and pacing around, eyes fixed right on mine. I felt like a rat. Half the people on the planet won't help a rat and the other half will simply eat it alive. Either way I was hosed.

It's at this very moment that I'm disgusted with myself for not using one of my Birthday wishes to become the invisible man. So right about now I either need a wish or a plan.

What was I going to do? I'm a gullible guy and have a hard time ignoring people but somehow I dig deep when I pass these places and I don't answer their calling. I feel bad. Ignoring people is rude but so is trying to sell me a heating pad resembling a horse collar that you toss in the microwave while the rest of the mall is watching you.

All I can think of are the little bubbles above the other shoppers heads that say, "Poor guy. He fell in the pit".

"Think quick", I say to myself. How am I going to navigate the midway without the venom and drool I seem to get covered in each time I walk the green mile? Then, in a single moment of brilliance, which comes only when Saturn finishes it's rotation around the Sun, it hits me. One single word.

iPod.

After staring them down in the mall for a few moments, I run back out to my car (which is a heck of a lot easier to find without the aid of the emergency alarm on my remote) and get my iPod and earbuds.

NOW I can act oblivious to the carnies since I'll look like I'm lost in my own world. Even Satan has a soft spot for deaf people (I hope) so I re-enter the mall, stick the buds in my ears, crank it up and make my way toward the stores. Worked like a charm.

NOT.

These guys are unstoppable. They're like the Terminator. You can rip the skin off their bodies, drop dynamite in their booth and it wouldn't phase them a bit. They will sell you a Blackberry case for your iPhone if it kills them. They latch on to your leg as you drag them down the mall until you give in or stalk you half the length of the mall before returning to their fort.

Zombies. That's what's going through my head. They all stop what they're doing and begin following me with their hands full of goods that I NEED TO BUY!!! They just don't stop.

As I'm walking past the first fort, there's a girl who motions for me to remove my buds. Really? You're going to interrupt "Jamie's Cryin'" to sell me something? OK, I'll bite.

I pull Van Halen out of my ears and here stands a young girl who wants to talk to me about hair extensions.

What? Me? A guy? You're seriously going to see if myself or my friends need these extensions? Inside my head I'm laughing. On the outside I'm sure I had this look on my face like a mule staring at a new gate.

After politely telling her I'm really not interested in looking like Dog the Bounty Hunter, I put the buds back in my ears and keep moving as she hunts for her next prey. She didn't push much.

A few booths later I get some guy waving at me to get my attention. "Don't look him in the eye", I say to myself. Too late. My natural instinct to flash a quick glance disappointed me as I gaze in his direction. Once again, I remove ONE bud thinking I'll only look half interested as he tries to sell me some Dead Sea Salt. Apparently I look like a lizard who needs some serious exfoliating and this guy had the stuff to make my whole body smooth and slippery like a trout.

"No thanks", I said as I start to resume my cruising. This guy didn't want 'no' for an answer, though. I turn my back and begin to leave when I hear a growling sound coming from behind me. Was this guy going to jump me or was it just the other bud I took out of my ear?

Taking NO chances, I ran.

Now I'm getting pissed. My plan isn't working. But it isn't working because I'm not letting it do it's job.

So I shove the other bud in my ear and decide to adjust my body language. I begin to stare away from the midway at the real stores or look up at the ceiling in a Rain Man sort of way hoping people will leave me alone. I pick up the pace a little bit like I know where I'm going and will miss a sale that's about to end in 10 minutes. I get stopped again and they ask me through their thin lips and squinty eyes, "what sale"? As soon as I say the 'Guns 'N' Ammo' store, they back off.

With some rudeness on my part combined with my iPod, I make it to the other side of the mall. When I get there, though, I start to get mad. How can mall owners allow these vendors to assault legitimate customers? How am I going to make it to Victoria's Secret if I'm being shanghaied by a license plate making dude who's ex-con skills led him to working at the mall?

You would think store owners wouldn't be so quick to live in harmony with the midway. They distract customers and if you get a hold of someone like me, the other stores are missing out on my patronage.

So the iPod thing worked to a certain degree but I'm going to have to come up with alternative strategies to get through a mall without being offered Crocs, massages, cheap watches, cel phones, brain implants and the opportunity to learn 7 different languages.

I can't learn southern speak let alone Japanese.

I think the next time I pass the Piercing Pagoda and they summon me over, I'm going to walk up and ask for a genital piercing. That should stun them before letting me know they don't do that. "I'll take a nipple piercing then". Again, I'm hoping they'll just throw the white flag and warn the other carnies to avoid the guy in the red Adidas sweatshirt. He's a freak.

Then again, if they call me out on the piercing and do it, I'm screwed.

After that I'll have no choice but to go to the Body Jewelry fort and explain I need jewelry that doesn't get caught in my zipper.

Afterward I'll be forced to look for Starbucks and drown my embarrassment in another Americano or two. I have a feeling that big, fat, comfy chair would look pretty comfy about then. I'd have to sit there for an hour or two before hobbling out to my car after another humiliating mall experience.

I think I'd rather try throwing ping pong balls in goldfish bowls.

Welcome to the Jungle

2009-04-29T12:08:00.000-04:00

When I was 5 I remember going on the Jungle ride at Disneyland. We got on the boat and started off on our adventure where we met up with tigers, lions, hippos and all kinds of wild animals. Now that I think about it I'm pretty sure our "jungle guide" shot one of them. Nice touch for the kiddies.

I remember the trees, the sounds of birds, crickets, howls and that misty feeling that filled our waterway.

What I DON'T remember is that ride conjuring up images of North Carolina. That wasn't the first thing I thought of when I got off the ride. It wasn't until this past week when I've come to understand that I have, in fact, moved smack into the middle of the jungle. The clue was the wall of humidity enveloping my face as I walked out the back sliding door. Bugs were just waking up and the birds were already yelling about something. They had been for hours.

Good thing WalMart is down the street and Daisy Air Rifles are on sale for $15 bucks.

The first bug sighting came a few weeks ago when my wife was here. It was out in the front yard and appeared to be some huge, black, flying thing. I remember feeling like Bill Murray at that very moment as I'm staring at it saying "what the HELL is THAT"?

We never figured it out and I haven't encountered him since but I've decided that if I get more than 2 or 3 humongous bugs hanging around I'm going to name them. That way I won't be as likely to kill them.

Yeah.

Scare the shit out of me and you're getting squashed in the most brutal manner I can come up with. And that all depends what's lying on the ground at the time of the attack. Hard to fight a 12lb mosquito with a Maple twig.

But they're big, they're bad looking and they're smug. They KNOW you're going to run for it. The flex their little bug pecs at you and it makes your spine tingle with fear. Then, about the time you decide to run towards it, it moves closer to YOU and the game of chicken ends with you inside the house, back against the door yelling at everyone that there's bugs outside.

Bugs, however, aren't the only thing populating my backyard jungle. The other day when I was out spreading roundup on all my beautiful clover I noticed a big black thing on a rock. As I work my way toward the rock I discover it's a lizard. Not a salamander. Not a Komodo. But he was definitely somewhere in between. And instead of coming toward me and my canister of Roundup?

He left the rock and climbed up inside my house.

Great.

Now I have that peaceful, easy feeling when my head hits the pillow at night of some big freakin' lizard camping out on my face at 2AM. As long as he doesn't go farther south then I don't think I will go into cardiac arrest.

Though I haven't seen any large mammals in my yard, I've seen quite the variety strewn across the highways giving the indication that they must live somewhere. Since my backyard is a big grove of trees, it's ripe for a den, a trap door, a dungeon or the bat cave. All I know is I have no plans to venture back that way. If my flashlight can't see it, then I can't see it.

Of course with every jungle comes humidity. That lovely, thick, damp air that clings to your skin like saran wrap. I can see why this part of the country is more susceptible to being obese. When all you're doing is walking from your car to the inside of the Super Target and you're breaking a sweat, you feel like you've done your exercise for the day. When you sweat ALL day you get that feeling of accomplishment when you re-enter air-conditioning. You feel like you've worked hard because you're hot, you're sweaty, and what the heck is that smell?

So I've decided that I'm going to earn a little extra cash around the house.

First, I'm going to build a moat. Then I'm going to build a little ship. Then I'm going to put a sign out in front of my house offering jungle rides. I'll buy a jungle hat, don my Daisy rifle and swear to protect my riders from all that is large and evil.

That is until the Bat Mobile comes hauling ass out of the trees scaring the shit out of everyone.

I, however, don't go down with the ship.

I'll be the one running into my lizard infested house.

Identity Theft

2009-04-23T09:00:00.000-04:00

One of the final tasks I had back in California before hitting the road for our move was to map out the trail we would blaze on our way to North Carolina. Having never driven farther east than Phoenix, it was a toss up which way we should venture.

Highway 40 won. Mostly due to weather up around Colorado where some passes may have still been closed and the southern route, US10, was just a tad too far south to make it a quick trip. We were on a timeline that we HAD to meet. So 40 it was. It had replaced route 66 many years ago but the terrain and it's scenery remained in tact.

Route 66. It's infamous. It's been talked about by our Grandparents as if it were the Yellow Brick Road. A lot of my friends remarked that it was a VERY cool route to take and to be sure to soak up history and scenery along the way.

We stopped in Vegas the first night thinking we could hit the Grand Canyon before heading down to the highway. Without getting into the boring, frustrating details, we spent 4 hours looking for this big hole in the ground and came up empty. How can you miss the freakin' Grand Canyon? It's enormous. Unfortunately, there are only a few entrances in the area we were trying to get in and all of them were a bust.

So after 4 hours of driving down dirt roads looking for this entry to Hades, we bagged it. My black car now looked grey, the stuff in the back of my car was rattled so badly everything got jumbled like Yahtzee dice and I was pissed that we lost 4 hours looking for something so big that only an idiot can miss.

Down to the highway we go.

The first real stretch led us from Las Vegas to Amarillo, Texas. So back in Flagstaff, AZ we jumped on the famed route and began the journey down the long and winding road. I was about to experience history. I was about to see the famed and the fabulous. The road oozed history and I was about to become another patron of the road formerly known as Route 66.

It sucked.

Maybe it was my mood from missing the Grand Canyon or the fact that my ass already hurt but I was unimpressed. The landscape from Arizona to Texas largely remained the same. Joshua trees were replaced by big rocks and then a third of the way into New Mexico it started. We had entered the "Midway" of the road.

The carnival signs started and they just didn't let up. The billboards were slapping me in the face like the cards that were slapped by the spokes on our bikes as kids. If I needed rocks, "authentic" Indian jewelry or pink flamingos then I would have been in heaven.

What stood out, though, were these signs had little reminders on them that we were on Route 66. It's as if the shops and establishments refused to give up their heritage. Some of the US66 signs were still out on the road which confused the un-initiated driver as we weaved in and out of this identity crisis. It was the Kitsch vs. the Department of Transportation.

After resisting the intense urge to by moccasins and dream catchers we turn in for the night in Amarillo. It was a quick turn around as we got in late and left early so fatigue had already set in just as my ass thought it was getting a break.

Next stop, Memphis. Not exactly a short drive but we were going to make it, like it or not.

This next stretch of the trip was going to take me right through the heart of the Twilight Zone. Oklahoma City.

I had lived there twice, for a short period of time, and I have to say it was the most uncomfortable time of my existence on this planet. Dirty, unkempt, barren and flat as a board. I tried closing my eyes as we passed through but it didn't work. It was like looking at a train wreck. I didn't want to. I HAD to.

With OKC in the rear-view mirror we eventually crossed the Arkansas state line. It was at this point that things started getting interesting for ME.

Up until this point I was only looking for two signs: Starbucks and gasoline. Nothing else mattered. All the billboards were entertaining but at the same time I felt visually assaulted.

Now Arkansas had something a little more interesting to offer. As we drove deeper into the state, the signs got bigger.

Fireworks.

After living in a state where you needed a permit to light your BBQ I now find myself in a state that sells fireworks. REAL fireworks. Not sparklers. Not little snake guys and not spinning flowers. These things were the real deal. The kind that go over 100 feet in the air and blow up into a spectacular array of coolness. Dynamite, M80s and Roman Candles the size of a paper towel roll. The kind that you can use to have a kick ass 4th of July party or a great way to get kids off your lawn. Just aim one of the giant "Space Monkey" cannons at them and they should run. If not, they'd be blown two counties over with their hair and clothes covered in a cloud of smoke and reeking of gunpowder.

Awesome.

We stopped at two firework stores and I loaded up like I was on a free shopping spree and had 5 minutes to grab as much crap as possible. We left the stores with HUGE bags of fire power that we ended up having to cram in the back.

We hop in the car with our loot and all I could think about for the next 200 miles was Smokey and the Bandit. Here we are, hauling enough fire power to blow up a small house and possessing a "questionable" purchase back in New Mexico. Something I've never seen sold in the US.

If we were to be pulled over I have no idea what I would have done. I probably would have dropped a super smoke bomb and a grenade and made a run for it.

The rest of the trip was uneventful. As we moved toward the light at the end of the tunnel we saw some of the most beautiful scenery of the whole trip. Tennessee was absolutely gorgeous. There was nothing about that state that I didn't enjoy. The only thing that sucked was we were SO close to North Carolina but the clocked ticked over like you were sitting in an English Lit lecture.

After finally arriving, I decided I HATED the inside of my car.

So the numbers are:

2945 miles

10 tanks of gas

17 Starbucks

3 Giant bags of fireworks

and something that's NOT a toy.

Would I do it again? Uh........no.

But it was a necessary evil. It wasn't all bad but I guess I didn't see the reason for all the hoopla. Route 66 and Route 40 fought the whole way for identity. Eventually 40 wins in the end but it was odd watching history trying to desperately hang on.

The fireworks were a total bonus. Come the 4th of July I'll be armed with more fire power than I've ever had the pleasure of possessing. I'm planning on duct taping a couple of rockets together and see if I build one that's "two-stage". Hopefully I can reach Oklahoma City. I just need some "fallout" in the nose cone like cupcake sprinkles or okra.

And if you see a bright orange glow that day as you look over in the Charlotte direction, that would be my house blowing up due to lack of safety on my part or my inability to gauge the length of a fuse.

If it does, it will be the coolest looking house fire EVER.

Open for business

2009-04-22T08:30:00.000-04:00

"Previously, on Your Lips are Moving"......

(read all posts below).

I can't afford an announcer for the site so you'll have to do your own work and read previous posts to catch up. None of them relate to each other so don't waste your time if you think there's some linear story line to keep up with. My life is made up of a mish-mash of stuff and that's how it seems to translate to the page. I don't write well nor do I tend to stay on topic a lot of the time.

Good thing I'm not getting graded.

I'll attempt a Reader's Digest version of the past 6 weeks but I can't promise anything. And besides, the last time I read Reader's Digest those stories were about 15 pages long. OK, so the pages were small but the stories were NOT short. TV guide had the shortest stories, usually about a has-been actor and what they're doing with their life right now. Always a feel-good piece about rehab, dating, comeback stories or terminal illness. As a group, we can relate.

Plus they had that ridiculously hard cross word puzzle at the end. "(blank) on a Hot Tin Roof".

Impossible.

So, since closing the blog awhile back, I took a Caribbean cruise, packed a lot of my house in California, drove cross country to North Carolina and here I am, back on the site trying to figure out how to move this along without boring myself. Since I've deleted the rest of this entry 4 times tells me that maybe it's just better to pick up where I am now and leave the other stories for single entries.

My brain feels like it was removed, scrambled up, lightly browned and thrown into some haggis. That makes it difficult to keep any kind of attention span this post deserves and it's getting hard to see through the smoke coming out of my ears.

Have you ever had that log-jam of thoughts that's so big you can't get one word out of your mouth? Have you ever had a severe case of writer's block where you just need to walk around town like a homeless person until something comes to you?

Me neither.

So the creative juices are filled to the top of my skull but I suppose I need to compartmentalize the thoughts so I can fill you in without making you feel like you're reading some "Harry Potter and the Order of Randy's Blog" type post. Magical but SO unbelievable.

Let's start really slow and we'll go from there.

I left California.

discuss.......

Going Dark

2009-03-15T16:09:00.001-04:00

Well my web-buddies, all 2 of you who read this, it's time to sign off and go dark for a bit.

I've enjoyed blogging over the past months but it's time to hang up the keyboard for awhile. I'm inside the 30 day mark of moving and I have a cruise sandwiched in between there so I don't foresee time to continue writing right now.

Besides, I really need to bone up my writing skills. I go back and re-read some of the posts and think I have a long way to go to make things interesting for other people.

So I extend my gratitude for your "readership" but it's time to close the blog until May 1st-ish. Soon, I'm going to hang up my FaceBook account for about a month while I take care of business. I'll keep posting over there until it's time to shut it down for awhile.

Adios my friends. I promise to resume the blog from North Carolina. I will no doubt have a whole new set of stories and antics to share after my move.

Peace

Trapped!

2009-03-12T12:03:00.000-04:00

No, not the movie. My current living situation is what I'm referring to. The stacks of boxes in my house and garage make me feel like a rat in a maze. Problem is, there's no cheese at the end. Only a big pile of frustration.

Continuing to update you on my current moving situation, I'm at the point that I think I'm screwed. There's a fine line between packing too early for a move and packing too late.

I'm a planner. I like things in order. I don't like surprises nor do I like scrambling at the last minute. Somewhere in those feelings, however, is a fine line that needs to be walked. Well, lets just say I walked it for awhile but now I've clearly fallen off the fence and landed square on my ass.

As most of you know, I'm taking a cruise to the Caribbean in a week and I'm in the middle of switching hats between packing my house and now packing for my cruise. The irony is: Everything is packed in boxes ready for the move.

I am a freakin' idiot.

I knew I had this cruise looming about a month ago when I started packing my house but it never dawned on me to leave some things out that I might want to take with me on vacation. 501s and a London Fog overcoat aren't going to cut it on St. Thomas. Ever try and snorkel in pants? You sink like a stone. Don't ask me how I know that.

About 3-4 months ago I bought a really nice set of earbuds for my iPod. I hate the little white ones that come free with the purchase so I usually use softer buds with better sound. I spent a bit of money to get them and they do sound really good. Besides, those hard little white ones make my ears bleed within an hour they hurt so much. I have small holes (don't ask) so I need to use different buds.

Where the hell are they? Remember the last scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark? The guy that is pushing the crate through a warehouse full of crates? That's my house. Somewhere in the 100 or so boxes in my house is a small pair of expensive buds. Pissed as I am, I'm not going looking for that needle in this haystack. So it's off to buy a new pair that I don't need.

This is how I accumulate shit. I've discovered part of the source of how my house fills with "stuff".

Ear buds are not the only thing I have missing. Basically I have a wardrobe full of warm clothes since it's been rainy and chilly here. I didn't think I'd need any summer wear until I got to North Carolina so everything got packed. Really, what was I thinking?

I don't need much because I tend to over pack for cruises anyway but it's just the fact that I have to buy stuff I already have that pains me.

I've only had to move twice in my life so I'm really not considered a pro. How do I know?

I didn't label anything.

Ignorance is no excuse...

2009-03-09T11:04:00.000-04:00

In between packing up my house for the big move and mapping out my route to North Carolina with fancy Internet tools, I decided I'd better bone up on some of the laws that I will have to abide by in my new home state.

Coming from California, where anything and everything is legal except speeding through a Target parking lot, North Carolina isn't so inclined to turn a blind eye to blatant crime. But since I'm a native Californian (and always will be at heart) I can honestly say I'm not aware of too many laws.

Apparently the only speeding North Carolina allow is at the surrounding NASCAR tracks but that only scratches the surface. Here are some real laws that I need to really think about. I'm not so sure I can abide by some of them.

1. "It's against the law to sing off key". I'm OK there. But I would imagine that would wipe out 2/3rd of the church going population. Some of those song services are excruciating.

2. "It is illegal to have sex in a churchyard". As much fun as that sounds........doubt it.

3. "Elephants may not be used to plow cotton fields." This is a tricky one and it depends on if you consider my backyard "cotton". If they're really just sugar maples then I'm OK. Otherwise, anyone want a pet for free?

4. "While having sex, you must remain in the missionary position and have the shades pulled"

Besides "getting a little" that's not much fun.

5. "A marriage can be considered void if either of the two persons is impotent".

This is good news for men who's wives complete menopause. Get out of jail free card.

6. "Bingo games may not last more than 5 hours unless it is held at a fair".

If you came looking for me after ONE hour, you'd find me face down on the table, punch spilled all over my bingo card and barely breathing.

7. "Organizations may not hold their meetings while the members present are in costume".

I'm out.

8. "Persons in possession of illegal substances must pay taxes on them".

First of all it appears EVERYTHING is illegal there so I need to keep a minimum of a thousand dollars in my wallet. Second, it appears the cops not only rob you of your goods but they take your money too. Isn't that a robber's job?

I have a lot more to read so I can integrate myself as an upstanding citizen of North Carolina. But my rebel, California attitude says "screw the law". There are ways around them.

Have sex with my elephant who can't get in the missionary position nor fit in a room with shades, the wife plows the cotton, wear my costume at bingo games and take my bingo cards to organizational meetings, keep a countdown calendar of days until menopause, and have my Dr. issue me a card saying everything on my person has been approved by the medical board.

Yes, that includes those wonderful smelling Sharpies.

The second deadly sin

2009-03-04T12:58:00.000-05:00

Gluttony. Where does it come from? How do we become wired to collect and consume everything in sight? Wherever it comes from I definitely know where it ends up.

In my house.

As I begin packing up the homestead for my move to North Carolina I'm coming across things that I wonder "what the hell was I thinking when I got this"? Trinkets, books, papers, Chia Pets, toys and everything else produced on this planet. It's probably safe to say that my house is far from "green".

Right now, I feel buried in crap. How does one turn off the sentimental and turn on survival mode? Legend has it that Ghandi kept all of his worldly possessions in a shoe box. When I went off to college I felt I had nothing. However, all my worldly possessions would barely fit in a Ford Escort as I moved to L.A. at age 18. Where I got it from I have no idea.

After returning home, my first apartment was small. It wouldn't fit much which was fine because I didn't have much. As long as I had fridge space for beer I was content. But slowly, over time, my apartment felt smaller and smaller as I accumulated more and more.

More and More what, though?

Now that I'm all grown up and own a rather large home, I'm shocked at how much my house has swallowed over the years. Sometimes while I'm going through things I wonder to myself "is this even MINE"? Where did this giant paperclip come from and why did I need it? Why did I save every remote I've ever gotten with my electronic purchases? Why am I holding on to computer cables that are 15 years old, dog sweaters, sporting equipment that I didn't need, and the list goes on.

The major decision looms as I approach the shock and awe mode of packing. What do I keep and what do I chuck? Again, the sentimental is a hard hurdle to cross. "But I really love this electric dog polisher".

Somehow I can't part with stuff like that. But I have to. It's getting in the way of progress. I'm spending more time going through crap than I am necessities. Oh, how I wish I would have thinned and pruned this house out each year. I always had good intentions but it never became a priority. Now it's biting me in the ass.

If I had a garage sale and sold everything I didn't need for a penny, I'd have an entire years salary saved up. Sounds great but it's to the point it's more work than it's worth.

Clothing seems to be one of the biggest obstacles to get over. We all have our fat clothes, our skinny clothes, and the second set of fat clothes. We hang on to the skinny ones that people would have to pry from our cold, dead hands. Somehow we're convinced that someday we're going to shove our fat asses back into those clothes if it kills us. Shit we wore in High School.

It took me over a week just to pack up one closet. If that's any indication how the rest of my house is going to go, I'm doomed. I'm so overwhelmed it's paralyzing. I haven't even scratched the surface. Just eyeballing what I have, I'd venture to say if I stacked everything on top of each other it would be 2/3rds the height of Mount Everest. By the time I get to the top, I'll need to hire a Sherpa and some oxygen bottles.

Somehow I think those empty bottles will make their way to North Carolina.

I need a group...

Quick, short, random thoughts....

2009-02-26T10:17:00.000-05:00

Just went to the MSNBC site not three seconds ago (Thursday morning). The red alert banner at the top said, "Breaking News: Economy in turmoil".

If that just now explaines everything to you, we need to get you a faster computer.

Saw a kid picking his nose at Safeway the other day. Of course the movie line went through my head "$5 bucks says he eats it". Nope. This kid was a Pro. Extracts, rolls, flicks. That booger must have spanned 4 checkstands before hitting the ground. He was definitely olympic calibur.

(note to self, don't check out at aisle 5).

Drove my kids to school yesterday after leaving extremely late. Coming home I almost hit the crossing guard.

Irony.

Had another fire on the dog episode. In the same day I had a dog in the pool episode. Had to fish my Chihuahua, Wrigley, out of the hot tub. He drinks the water on the waterfall that separates the hot tub from the pool. He walks out onto the wall and drinks from the pool.

idiot dog.

Anyway, monkey see, monkey do because my Boston Terrier taught him that trick. Well Wrigley didn't find it funny when he slipped and fell in the hot tub. Looked like one of those bath toys that just goes in circles. I plucked him out and he acted like he meant to do that.

idiot dog.

Why is it when you run in to buy a pack of gum you get a 14 inch receipt? When did we vote on this? I have receipts that are as long as my 5th grader is tall. What a waste of my time and their resources.

Had a dream last night that I was blonde. It sucked (absolutely no offense to my beautiful blonde friends). I just didn't wear it well. But it freaked me out to the point it was almost a nightmare.

Went to a friends house yesterday. He's an old co-worker who is also retired and young. Figured I lay around his house for the day and I could watch him stare at his laundry pile, sink and everything I escaped for the day.

It was awesome.

It's pretty difficult killing off time like this. It seems fun and easy but until everything gets set in stone for my move in the next couple of weeks, I'm sort of paralyzed. My days are filled with some pretty funny shit and some not so funny moments. But I kill time like I'm breaking rocks. Blogging helps.

All 7 minutes of my 17 hour day.

Welcome to Paradise

2009-02-23T12:21:00.000-05:00

It's every employee's dream. Sitting at work, staring at middle distance, day dreaming of what you'll do with all that money when you hit the lottery.

After determining how big your house will be, what kind of cars you'll have in your collection, and what vacation you'll take after returning from an around the world cruise, you quickly snap out of it and find yourself in the same chair you've been sitting in for 20 years. It's a disheartening realization that you'll be lucky if you get a government tax rebate for $300 bucks at which point the lottery dream fades away like smoke.

Moments later you decide to dream about something much more tangible. Something that eventually WILL happen but maybe not just yet.

Retirement.

It's the brass ring we're all waiting to grab. We're stuck on this merry-go-round year after year after year trying to reach out and grab it only to find our arms are about 2 inches too short to actually get a hold of it. But for every year you work it seems your arm grows little by little until you actually have a shot a nabbing that elusive little thing.

In January of this year, 2009, I snagged it. It was unexpected that I would conquer the task so early but I had about a 12 month heads up that it would more than likely happen. My Vienna Sausage sized arms didn't have a shot in hell so I did what any foolish moron would do. I took a chance and jumped off the horse. It was all in slow motion as I was flung off my seat, arms extended, eyes closed, body extended like I was a goalie and then I felt it. My fingers went through the ring as I fell off the ride.

I got it. It was in my hand. The ultimate prize. A round, shiny ticket to a permanent vacation.

But then I realized something. It was like searching your whole life for the lost Ark. Painstakingly walking the earth, brushing away sand, dune by dune and actually finding it.

WOOO HOOO! The Lost Ark. I found it. I haul ass, stuffing it into a box, throwing it in the back of my Saturn, which now looks like a low rider due to the sheer weight of the solid gold box, and drive it back to my house.

I unload it, place it in the middle of my living room and spend a good half hour staring at it with a huge smile on my face. I have something that other people would kill for but won't find for quite some time. After lovingly gazing at it for awhile, I say the most famous words a conquerer can say.

"Now what"?

I have it. It looks pretty. But what the hell am I going to do with it? I can't open it because my face will melt and it really isn't set up to be a coffee table so at the moment it's useless to me. The task at hand is to find a way to work this prize in my favor.

Then I snap out of it. The only thing in my living room is ME. Sprawled out on the couch, legs extended to the short, glass table, laptop burning the hell out of the top of my legs, and dressed like a hobo. This is it? This is all there is? Laying around, surfing Perez Hilton, Face Book, and occasionally getting up to let the dogs out? If so.....

Retirement blows.

At first you think you have so much to gain by retiring. You dream of all the activities you don't have time for when you're working. You're going to spend more time with your kids, you're going to enjoy peaceful afternoons, you'll learn a new skill or get a new hobby and most importantly, you're now your own boss. Unfortunately you realize in a Confucius sort of way that for every thing you gain, something else is lost.

The daily shot of adult conversation with work friends is the first to go. You don't realize how important that is until you don't have it. Your days are now filled talking to your kids 5th grade teacher about what a clown he is in class, bantering with other adults on the weekends about kid's sports, and making small talk with cashiers at the mall.

Those retirement dreams now evaporate, again, like smoke. Retirement doesn't even remotely resemble what you had envisioned.

Perhaps in my case it's because I retired so early with very little heads up. I had planned on working many more years when I found myself sitting next to a ticking time bomb due to go off in 12 months. It was like someone told me I had a year to live and then you'll be a goner. That's not a lot of time to plan.

Next thing you know, I'm out the door. I'm set free back into the wild after being domesticated for 20 years. I find that I have no "life" skills. I no longer know how to hunt my prey for food, track footprints leading back to camp, or how to build a house with a stapler, a rubber band, and a pasta maker.

I'm lost. I pace my house like Rain Man wondering if I changed my underwear on any given day. Did I feed my kids last night? I don't remember. What the hell day is it? Ooops, I forgot to take Alex to the Orthodontist because I thought it was Wednesday.

Shit. I'm doomed. I wasn't ready for this. I was totally unprepared. I wanted this so bad but now I feel like I'm 5. I find myself at Walgreens only to forget what the hell I went there for.

Oh yeah. A coloring book and some crayons.

Hey, I have skills to catch up on, man.

Welcome to my Nightmare...

2009-02-19T11:06:00.000-05:00

Do you remember the dream about being naked in public with that horrific feeling of being trapped and exposed for all to see? You're never by yourself and there's always at least 5 people around you with that "look" on their faces like you're some crazy freak.

If you haven't experienced that dream you're either a dreamless sleeper or you're lying. EVERYONE has that dream at one point in their life or another. Why? Who knows. Some cosmic thread that seems to interlace all of us together in some way is not unlikely but I'd like to tell whoever's doing it to knock it off.

I believe in dreams coming true. I've had multiple dream experiences over the course of my years that defy explanation. I still have them and they still come true. It's kind of another dimension thing but I really can't explain it. I guess you could call it a "talent" of mine.

Today, apparently someone finally decided to mess with me. Maybe it was payback for being mean to a handicapped guy but whatever the reason I promise to never do it again.

The day starts like any other day. I wake up at 7AM and spend 45 minutes trying to wake up Alex. Riley is half way through his 30 minute shower before 15 more minutes of blow drying his hair. High School vanity. I remember it well.

I take Alex to school first so he can get breakfast and then return to sit around a half hour while Riley puts the finishing touches on his god-like body. When he emerges from his room, which no doubt smells worse than the Bat Cave, he grabs his bag, stuffs his face full of whatever is in the fridge and without saying a word, starts heading to my car.

That's my cue to take him to school.

Now, I don't take a shower in the morning until everyone is out of the house. Just Riley alone can drain all the hot water down to an inch in the heater so I need to wait out it's replenishment. Needless to say, I'm not looking fresh until I'm back home and put myself together which takes all of 9 minutes at the most. 10 if I decide to wear rings.

It's been all good over the years where I can get away with no shoes while dropping everyone off at school because I never have to get out of the car. I start the car early to get the heat going and then go back inside to fill up my coffee mug after which I proceed to play bus driver for an hour.

Today was different. My dream came true.

And it wasn't the freaky dimensional one.

My bus driver uniform this morning consisted of fuzzy green Xbox pajama pants, a blue University of Michigan sweatshirt and some brown Uggs. Top that off with bed head, morning stubble, and eyes that look like I'm stoned. I'm ready to go.

Coffee in hand, I take Riley to school. Time now: 7:55A. He has to be at school at 8:20 or something. I guess he likes hanging around the chicks, shootin' it with the guys and the typical events that need to happen before the first bell.

On our way, Riley turns to me and says "I need you to take me over to Longs Drugs so I can run in and pick up a poster board".

"Why are you waiting until right now to do this?", I ask.

"We're just starting a project in class today and I forgot to get it on my way home yesterday".

I confirm he's got cash and proceed to take him to Longs which is right across the street from school. When we arrive, he hops out of the car while I sit in the comfort of my heated seat, sipping coffee, and cranking the stereo to help the wake up process. He comes back out 2 minutes later without a poster board. He walks over to MY side of the window.

My heart rate rises slightly as I roll down the window. "Dad, I forgot my cash. I need you to go in and get the poster board".

Horror. Sheer terror.

Wanna get away?

That's the face I was wearing as I look down at my fuzzy green Xbox pants and non-matching blue sweatshirt. Not to mention the rest of my morning glow.

I was torn between being pissed and frightened at the same time. After giving him "the look", I sat there for a minute planning my strategy. How in the world am I going to pull this off without looking like a complete circus freak"? And a geeky one at that as there's Xbox on my pajama pants. I can't figure it out. I don't know how I'm going to get out of this one but it's one of those situations that call for the Nike slogan.

Just do it.

I grab my wallet, hop out of the car and proceed to walk in the store with what had to be a mortified look on my face. How can I turn this thing around? I'll never make it to the back of the store, which is full of teenagers, by the way, buying gum for the day, and making my way back to the front.

There's only ONE option. I need to look like I MEANT to dress this way. It's my only option to salvage any ounce of "cool" in my body. So I hold my head up, pick up my pace to a brisk walk like a guy on a very important mission who didn't have time to change, and grab the poster board.

Now I need to plan my strategy back to the front with minimal exposure. I'm sweating in my brown Uggs which may as well have been huge, red clown shoes at this point. Meanwhile, I can feel a cowlick on my head begin to rise for the day. I literally felt like Maxwell Smart trying to pull off a heist. It wasn't going down in the most glorious of fashion.

"Crap", I'm thinking to myself.

So it's time to muster up the confidence of Big Bad Leroy Brown and just get to the register. Another brisk walk to the front like I'm late for a plane and pay for the item that I'm about to rip in two when I get back in the car.

Luckily there was an elderly woman working the register who must just think this is the fashion for the season because she didn't say a word. I could, however, feel the giggly stares from a group of girls hanging out in the make-up area. I refuse to turn my head. As far as I'm concerned, right now I'm blind and deaf. Deaf because I refused to acknowledge their existence and blind because I obviously can't dress myself.

Out we go and like any horror movie, I couldn't get in the car fast enough. Fumbling keys, juggling coffee and a rapid heart rate like Mothra will arrive over Longs at any moment. I probably would have been better off just being eaten by a monster than live another second of my morning.

After getting in the car, not a word is exchanged. My adrenaline is too high and Riley has no idea that he just completely threw me in the lion's den.

We get to school, I drop him off not saying a word, and he exits with his backpack and poster board. I haul ass home to take a shower, shave, change, put on something that smells good and get myself together as fast as possible. I had nothing to do that day but if the UPS guy showed up I don't know what I'd do.

Like any nightmare, the good part is it always comes to an end at some point. I finally started to forget about it and feel better until after school when Riley got home. He dropped his backpack on the floor, looked at me and delivered the nightmares punch line.

"Amber liked your pants"

.....shit

Tattoo You

2009-02-11T17:42:00.000-05:00

Over the months, especially recently since being on Face Book, I've been asked a lot of questions about my tattoos. Some people like tattoos and others can't stand them. Tattoos can represent lots of different things from a personal experience, a remembrance, or the simple fact that you find they just look cool.

For the first time, I'm going to describe my personal experience with tats and maybe you'll walk away with a better understanding that things aren't always what they appear. When most people think of tattoos they think of large, colorful inked bikers with bad reputations. They have half or full sleeve tattoos on there arms and some even go to the extreme of getting their whole body tattooed I never understood the person who thought it would be cool to put a peacock on their ass but hey, to each his own. I have nothing remotely close to that.

So here's my story.

My work friends who are reading this are the only one's who know what a torturous 2008 I experienced. Literally from January of last year until December 22nd I felt like I was living in hell. Without making it a super long tale, I was run out of my job by a manger who had something to prove. An experiment, if you will, of taking a model employee with good work ethic and technical skills to see if they could run them out of the agency. Cutting to the chase, he was successful. I'm now retired and no longer work for the Federal Aviation Administration as I had for just shy of 20 years.

When the process began back in January I knew it was going to be an extremely uncomfortable year. I had given serious thought of writing a diary to chronicle what I was about to go through. Each day was worse than the previous and at the very end I had just a flicker of light left that was dim enough to snuff out. I had no fight left.

Well, since I don't consider myself a good writer I just knew that a journal would be nothing but random, unreadable thoughts that wouldn't make sense 20 years from now. I'm not good at assessing my personal feelings and putting them down on a piece of paper. Plus, there were days my hands were shaking so bad that I couldn't hold a pencil. So how was I going to embark on chronicling a year that was sure to kick my ass?

It was at the Daytona 500 last year when I decided what I was going to do. I had 10 days off or so to mess around Orlando and take in the fun as well as enjoy the NASCAR events. Well, I had driven by a tattoo shop that I frequented the previous year when it hit me. The diary. Instead of toiling over a notebook each night the diary was going to be on my body. For each event and each personality change I was going to get a tattoo describing that particular event. It was a unique idea that I hadn't told many people. All they knew is I was always coming back to work each month with new ink.

The process of designing tattoos for the purpose of a diary kept my mind busy enough that the year went by fairly quick as I built my "collection". I never once planned ahead. Once something happened to me, I would ask myself what could represent that particular incident? I would plan carefully after that what I wanted.

I have 15 tattoos. Not one tattoo touches another so they're scattered around different places on my body. If I'm wearing a short sleeved shirt and pants you can only see 3 (the underside of my forearms). If I wore a long sleeved shirt you would have no idea I had any at all. If, in the summer, I'm wearing a tank top and shorts you'd see maybe 70% of them.

I debated telling you what each one meant but without seeing them it would be kind of pointless. I had a few up on FaceBook in an album but I took it down. It brought more questions than answers.

I get more compliments than I get stink eye so I guess that's good. Unless the person is secretly barfing in their head, they seem genuinely interested. They never ask me what they mean, though. That's why I say a lot of people just assume you get them because they look cool. In my case it's just the opposite. There's a very specific meaning behind all 15 and 20 years from now I'll know exactly what each one means. It was a definitely odd way to keep a diary but all I had left at the time was about 2 oz of creativity left in my soul.

Some of my tats are large, some are small, some are in between. Some are colored, some are black and white. All of them are personal but no secret if asked. I'm glad other people compliment them and that makes me feel good. As I said, there are different levels of appreciation but no gang members or civilians have tried to kill me yet so I think I'm OK right now.

I get stopped on the street a lot, I definitely get into my fair share of conversations at checkout lines, but I've remained faithful in keeping up what I said I would. It's more of a commitment than I would ever give a diary. I think the reason mine don't scare people is because they're all individual tattoos. I'm not covered in them so they usually pick one they like and that's what we talk about.

More than anything, getting tattooed has been liberating. It showed me, in an odd way, that I was still in control of something. Myself. How I wanted to be. Get back to my roots of individuality that the FAA stole from me. It's the ultimate statement one can make.

Some of my tattoos have sad tales behind them, some optimistic and hopeful and some that just describe who I am or who I became.

Kind of a boring post, I know, but I want people (friends) who have been asking to have a better understanding of what my "obsession" is with tattoos. It's not an obsession. It's not really even expression. It's my diary. And when I die and people are looking for it, it will be right under their nose for them to decipher.

Tomorrow, Feb 12th, I get my 16th tattoo that will close the chapter on this whole mess I call my life. Things all worked out and this last tattoo will end the story of 2008.

Will I have more in the future? Maybe. It's not something I really plan on. The ideas come to me out of nowhere and now that I'm in a much better place in life, it will be interesting to see if anything comes along. I have ideas for real small ones but that's it.

For any newbie interested in tattooing and wants to know what I consider "crucial" information should contact me. The first thing I tell someone is the most important piece of the puzzle.

It's PERMANENT

Back to basics

2009-02-06T11:39:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was my run-around day. Come to think of it, every day is my run-around day. This one, however, just happened to be crazier and faster than most of the other days I'm out and about. For one reason or another I'm doing things at double speed.

The first stop was the Doctor. After the visit I make an appointment for a later date with one of the girls who I've known for years (a Dr. appt. not one with her). We talk tattoos and then she rattles off a few choices. I randomly choose one.

"Do you want a card?", she says.

"No, I'll just write it on my hand."

She giggles.

I split and head to the next place. The Mall (duh). I'm looking for a hoodie for Alex. After walking what felt like 4 miles in the mall, I find a place that has some pretty cool looking ones. The person at the counter asks, "what size is he".

I froze wishing I had one life line left. I would have used my "phone a friend" but sadly I just stood there. My eyes roll to the upper corner of my head and out comes, "I dunno".

idiot.

So I look at a few sizes but I'm just not able to picture him in my head for some reason. So I write down the number of two different sizes on my hand and split. On to the next place. The Bank.

I went because I needed their routing number and I couldn't find my checks. I get up to the teller, we chit chat a bit before asking for the routing number. After a few computer she entries she says, "ready?"

"uh, hold on". I grab a pen from over on the little desk where you fill out deposit slips and proceed to write the number on my hand.

A few more places, a few more notes and then I'm done for the day.

I get home, start making dinner, finish up some laundry and hunt down a smell that I never did find but was bugging the hell out of me.

After that I stayed up on the Internet chatting before calling it a night. I was wired. I had a lot of energy after feeling crazy all day. But I wanted to channel my energy for good, not evil. No luck. Neither one was up at 12:30A so I hit it.

This morning, I get Alex off to school, come home, take a shower, make a pot of coffee, wait for Riley to get his crap together and then it's back out again. The makings of another crazy day.

So I finally sit down to enjoy my coffee, check my email and relax before starting another round of errands. As I reach for my coffee, I noticed something. Faint markings on my hand.

OH NO! That was the first thing that went through my head followed by a few, colorful expletives.

I had half a handful of faint, barely readable numbers and letters that all ran down the palm of my hand making no sense whatsoever. I tried to piece some of it together under a magnifying glass as if I had the LAST puzzle piece to the Dead Sea Scrolls, but I lost it. I lost it all. All the hard work and million places I went yesterday just went up in flames (or down the drain, I 'spose).

All my techno gadgetry couldn't get me out of this one. For whatever reason my utility belt full of calendars, reminders, alarms, and notepads felt like it was in the way of progress yesterday so I didn't use it.

So I guess amongst my new errands today, I need to repeat some old ones. Write, wash, rinse, repeat.

First stop. Staples. I have a red string around my finger to remind me.

Generation X no longer the demographic

2009-02-03T22:14:00.001-05:00

In my so-called life I'm pretty young. After taking the FaceBook age test I got a score of 29. I would say that's an honest assessment of my brain since I feel like I'm younger than I am but there's one day out of the year that makes me feel old. Really old.

That day is this Sunday.

In 1984 I couldn't wait for this day. It was the most important day on my TV calendar and I looked forward to it each year. Each year they seemed to out do themselves and it got better and better until one year where I felt like I had Alzheimers. Where the hell am I and what is this crap I'm watching on TV?

The Grammys.

All I can say is "what the hell happened?"

Back in the day we had Sting, Van Halen, Bruce Springsteen, U2, and every 80s one hit wonder gather for an evening of performances and truly deserved awards. It was awesome. So many great albums came out of that decade that it was really hard to choose who was best.

Now, I'm lucky if I recognize ONE name on the celebrity list. As I read the list of "awards" I was perplexed if not dumbfounded by the number of categories there were. Just for the hell of it I Googled the 1984 Grammys and the number of categories and compared it to the 2008 list of categories.

Good Grief. This year as an artist you'd be an idiot if you didn't at least win one award. It seems what the Grammy people have come up with is a list of categories where everyone is going to win something. Kind of like college football where just about every team makes a bowl game.

So not only do I not understand the categories but some of the artists up for an award I only recognize from their mugshots on the Internet or the ones I get from my 15 year old who's iPod I can hear it from downstairs. And that's with buds in his ears.

Each year the Grammys return, I instinctively turn them on only to get frustrated in the first 10 minutes. I turn it off. Now what do I do for the 3 hours I set aside like I used to?

I guess I have to watch something else. Something geared toward my generation. A show where they advertise Life Alert, the Clapper, the Craftmatic Adjustable Bed, a few incontinent commercials and lots of other ads pushing pills for my "demographic".

Here is something I read in an article that sums up my frustration with the Grammys:

Said about Lil Wayne: He's nominated in seven hip-hop categories overall, including Best Rap Song, Best Rap Solo Performance and Best Rap/Sung Collaboration.

Best Rap Song

Best Rap Solo Performance

Best Rap/Sung Collaboration

Isn't that just one category split into 3? The only reason they throw the word "collaboration" in there is because they used a DJ to do their SOLO stuff.

Moron Grammy people. And who's Lil Wayne? Must be popular in the Hip Hop world cuz to me it's sounds like he's Mini-Me.

Year after year it gets worse and worse yet I religiously turn it on hoping there would be a "rocker" sighting. Sadly there isn't.

So I'm going to order my Craftmatic Bed by Sunday along with my Alert and my Clapper, pop a big bowl of popcorn and see if I can watch longer than 10 minutes. It would be kind of like a Clockwork Orange experiment.

More than likely, what will happen is I'll turn on the show, start messing around with the controls on my bed, get myself into a V shape, my arms will get stuck to the point I can't reach my Life Alert and I can't clap my hands to turn the lights on. And perhaps the most horrible part?

I can't reach the remote.

Not forgotten

2009-02-03T19:21:00.000-05:00

No real new blog these past couple of days. I have a lot I want to talk about but I haven't had the time to sit down and put one out. I haven't forgotten or given up. In fact I have a few things to get off my chest but all in good time...

Man Killed by iPod in Car

2009-01-29T11:45:00.000-05:00

The title would be the same as the lead-in to my obituary.

This is just one of your "day in the life" type posts but I know damn straight it isn't just me.

Yesterday I have some errands to run. It's a pretty nice day out so I dress light, grab the iPod, all the other stuff I need and I take off for a few hours. First stop, Staples. I need some rubber bands. By the time I got home I wondered "why?" but.....

Anyway, so I start heading across town and I turn on my iPod. Now, as most of my friends will confess, I'm a HUGE music fan so I have quite a collection of music on the little guy. My preference is Rock/Pop but my taste is very diverse. My strong point, though, is just good old Rock.

So as I'm driving, one of my favorite songs comes on. I turn it up and open the sunroof. It's a nice day and I'm feelin' pretty good.

The next song is an even BETTER song. Turn it up. Now I'm getting into the rock groove. I'm playing air guitar on my steering wheel, the wind from the sunroof is blowing in my hair and sweet music is coming out of the stereo.

"Hey, there's a Starbucks ahead", I say to myself. It's a mile or so but I good divert before Staples. It's an awesome divert. Meanwhile an even BETTER song comes out of the stereo. Turn it up.

I pull in to Starbucks, shut off the car and proceed to wait in the usual 25 minute line for my Americano. While I'm waiting they're playing some of that 'cool jazz' which sounds great in a coffee shop. I start to get in the mood when the Barista calls up my order. I grab the cup which is hotter than Hades and they don't have any of those little sleeves. So I have to play Hot Potato with my cup until I get to the car.

I juggle it around as I find my keys and get in the car. A few blistering sips, key in ignition, engage and....

BLAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

scared the SHIT out of me. It was a sonic boom going off in my car nearly shattering the glass and spilling my boiling coffee. I'm sure everyone in Starbucks was looking out the window at my car who's doors must have puffed out when the stereo came on. My heart stopped for 2 seconds before the coffee on my pants snapped me out of it.

Apparently I had forgotten to turn the stereo down when I shut off the car. I had no idea I had it that loud. It didn't sound loud at the time but I guess I was really into it.

Well, I get everything dialed down, sat for a minute, then started to head to Staples.

3 places to go. 3 times my heart went into arrest. You'd think I'd learn. I guess I need to find a way to remind myself to shut everything off before exiting the vehicle. If I don't, I'll be found dead either in front of a mall or a Starbucks.

Ironically, the last song I was listening to was "Turn Up the Radio" by Autograph.

I only do what I'm told.

Drivin' my life away

2009-01-26T11:13:00.000-05:00

So, today I'm going to spend some money. Not unusual for me lately but this time it's not for me.

For the third morning in a row I've been run ragged by two boys who's social lives are twice that of Paris Hilton. They don't wear pink or take one of our Chihuahuas but they are damn close to holding the same schedule she does.

Both boys start school somewhere after 8AM. Alex, my 10 year old, likes to go at 7:30A so he can get breakfast at school. Apparently they serve some triple decker, ultra fluffy cinnamon roll slathered in icing. Nice.

Riley, the 15 year old, likes to go to school at about 8AM. But that's only because he's at the vanity stage of his High School existence. Thirty Minute showers, blow dry, hair goop, hip clothes, book bag, soccer bag, and, of course, fashionably late. Nice.

Both schools are literally less than 1/4 of a mile from my house. I bet I could get to school in 200 steps or less. But it's been super cold in the mornings here lately so I've been driving them to school. Yeah, I gave them the same crap my Mom and Dad used to give me. They walked to school or rode their bikes even if it was snowing like crazy outside in blizzard conditions.

They lived in Oakland.

So today, Alex wakes up late. Even though I tried to get him up and dressed at 7AM he didn't budge. While waiting for him to get out of bed, Riley is in the shower at 7AM sharp. I get some breakfast.

It's now 7:30A. Alex is still in bed and the shower FINALLY shuts off. Yes, a 30 minute shower.

At 7:50 Alex finally comes into my office and says he's ready to go. I get up, brave the cold of the garage, and take him to school. There's only one 4-way stop between me and school and it's absolutely no different then sitting at the Bay Bridge toll plaza with the metering lights on. These people who drive their kids to school are effin' idiots.

I return home to find Riley standing in the doorway.

"What, you want a ride NOW?"

"yeah..."

Back in the car we get. I try and think of a way to go around this toll plaza fiasco but I can't. I'm trapped. 15 minutes later he's finally at school and now I have to swim back up stream like a spawning salmon.

I finally get home and lock the door behind me to make sure Allison didn't have a flat tire or something that would require me to take her to work.

This is the third day in a row these kids have done this to me. Picking different times to leave the house when they have to be at school at the exact same time. Flippin' ridiculous and shame on me for doing it.

Saturday night, Ferris Bueller's night off, Riley is going to a pizza party. I need to drop him off at 6PM. I do.

After I return home, I get a text at 6:50 from Riley saying to come pick him and his friend, Carlos up at 7PM. I do. They want me to take them to the movies.

WHAT???

The movies are RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET from the pizza place!. I can see it not 500 yards from where I'm sitting in my car. Not wanting to flip out all over Carlos, I drive them over and dump them off.

Same text at 10:30. Ferris want's me to come pick him up.

Saturday is both soccer and basketball. Both on different schedules at different places. Crap.

I remember at one point Saturday looking up and wondering why in the hell my Mom ever decided she would give me a ride somewhere. It's like feeding a ferrel cat. Once you do it, you're doomed.

So today is the last day. The last day of making double school trips, double sport trips, double date trips and double food runs.

It only took me 3 weeks of retirement to learn this and earn my first medal. So I'm off to spend my winnings.

A sign for the top of my car that says "Taxi".

You want fries with that dog?

2009-01-23T14:54:00.001-05:00

It's been raining here in Northern California for a couple of days which is nice since we had a little warm spell prior to this.

So, I'm sitting in my chair this morning, the kids and Allison are at school and I decide I'm going to relax before starting my hectic day. Reading magazines, listening to music, playing the piano, staring at dirty dishes and giving stink eye to the pile of laundry in the corner.

It poops me out.

Myself and my 3 dogs decide we're going to build a fire. Both for atmosphere and the fact that they love laying by the fireplace to get warm. I have 3 dogs. A Boston Terrier (Jasper) and two Chihuahuas (Cooper and Wrigley). After everyone leaves, we mess around for a bit until they get pooped out and then they're ready to take a morning nap.

Must be nice.

Anyway, I light the fire, the dogs snuggle right up to the fireplace on their little pillow and I return to my chair with a magazine and a cup of coffee. What a great way to spend the morning.

As I'm reading, or looking at pictures in my case since most articles go over my head, I smell something odd. Something like a waffle had gotten stuck in the toaster and was "toasting" for an hour. I get up, walk over and everything is cool. The smell gets a little more intense, though.

I sit back down thinking nothing of it. A few more sips of coffee and then I notice something quite peculiar. I look at my napping mutts and I notice Wrigley's got smoke coming out of his ass.

I cock my head like a dog cocks his when he looks like he's trying to understand you.

I then dawns on me that this is NOT normal. Just then I see a little fire starting on his tail.

HOLY CRAP!

The magazine flies out of my hand, the coffee hits the floor and I grab another doggie blanket nearby and smother his butt until the flame is out. An ember must have jumped on the little guy like a flea and he didn't even notice.

Now he thinks I want to play. Uh......no.

I checked everything out and everything looked somewhat normal. A few charred hairs mixed in with his split ends but nothing to write home about.

I decided at that point I was going to put them in their crates for the rest of their nap. I'm not going to have a smokin' dog running around my house lighting everything on fire.

It's probably the one time I wish he would fall in the pool.

The Magic Box

2009-01-22T19:52:00.000-05:00

As a young kid, like every other one, I was taught the basics of laundry. Put clothes in the washer, let it cycle, put them in the dryer, let it cycle, then fold and put away. I got pretty good at it.

As I got older I learned another little nuance. Separate the whites from the darks. That helped a lot. I always wondered why my Mom bought me pink socks but it was my lack of laundry knowledge that eventually took the blame.

Pretty soon my skills got a little better. Blues, reds, whites, blacks and grays all done separately. It took awhile but it was apparently worth it. It took a little longer but everything stayed the same color.

Fast forward 25 years. I need to go back to laundry 101. Now that I'm doing most of the laundry I'm overwhelmed at the volume 4 people can accumulate in a day. I feel like I'm doing laundry for the Rockettes who have 5 costume changes two shows a night. Where in the hell does it all come from?

I have the separation thing down but there's an apparent science to it that I never learned. It has to do with material, hot water, cold water and heat. I should have paid more attention in chemistry because I really need it right now.

I was doing laundry the other day and was washing a few of the sweatshirts I had picked up because I was freezing my ass off. Nothing feels better than putting on a warm shirt fresh out of the dryer. So after the wash cycle was complete, I threw everything in the dryer and popped it on HOT.

When the dryer stopped, I opened it with anticipation that I'll be nice and toasty for awhile. I pulled everything out and began folding the pile. I came across my sweatshirts. Cool.

Not really. I now have a couple of ski masks.

Heat shrinks? I should have known from all the years I did "Shrinky Dinks" but I guess it applies to laundry as well.

All of a sudden I'm staring at a pile of clothes that looks like it would fit a 6 year old.

Crap.

I felt like the ultimate nerd when I hopped on the Internet and Googled "laundry". Let's just say after an hour of studying the process, I was WAY off in my new found skill. Bleeding, shrinking, wrinkles, nylon, cotton, and worst of all: socks.

My washer pulls this kind of magic trick where I put in 4 socks and 3 come out. Where's number 4? If I put in 12 I get 7. It's like that magic trick where you put a beautiful woman in the black box and all of a sudden she's gone.

Well, maybe they're stuck against one of the vanes in the washer. We have a front loader that's fairly deep. It's dark in the back so I had no choice. I'm going in.

With two thirds of my body inside the washer looking for the elusive collection of socks, my kids thought I was trying to cram in and go for a ride. As fun as it probably would have been, I just don't think the outcome would have been worth it. First, I'd get really dizzy, then I'd puke, then I'd drown. I'd be real clean for my funeral, though.

So I crawl back out of the washer empty handed with an odd number of socks making their way to the dryer.

Apparently there's a demon in there as well. The 7 I put in yields 4. Hey, I got an even pair but where the hell are the other 8? It's beyond funny now. I'm getting pissed. All the folk tales about the laundry eating socks is true. It was like a Big Foot sighting. I saw it first hand.

So I went out and bought more socks but this time I took a clipboard into the laundry room and had to do this weird inventory check. I log the number of socks I put in and I beat the crap out of my washer if I don't get the same amount back. It's like a vending machine eating my quarter.

The overall problem is I really don't have time to do this. The laundry is coming at me too fast to worry about getting real technical. I have a very active 15 year old who plays every sport there is to play and when I get to his "pile" I have to put a clothes pin on my nose. The stench is enough to make me faint on top of the pile.

I'm 42. This should be one of the easiest chores I have. Put it in and forget about it for an hour. But I've never been so frustrated in my life.

I think I'd rather pick up dog poop.

Tis (still) the Season

2009-01-18T12:31:00.000-05:00

Rant on.

Last night I'm out getting the mail when I look down the street and see some red and blue lights. At first I assumed some cops busted a few thugs when I realized they weren't cops, they were Christmas Lights.

OK, people. Listen up.

Christmas ends December 26th at 12A. One week later is New Year's Day so for that one week you get a rest from dealing with any Christmas crap.

After that you get 1-10 days to box it all up and save it for the next year. That's it. That's the rule. The rule of the people.

Actually, it's not a "rule" per se but more of a tolerance level.

So, it's nearing the end of January and your lights are still up? If that's the case then the city should issue you a citation that states you now need to keep them up until April.

But back to the question. Why? Why are you leaving them out? Are you trying to break some electrical use record? Do you think they look "cool". Are you lazy to the point you can't be bothered until next year and then all of a sudden you look like an efficient genius because, hey, you don't have to put lights up?

In my opinion, there are only 3 acceptable sets of lights you can keep any time of the year.

Colored patio lights: Warm and inviting. Dresses up the yard at night.

Japanese Lanterns: Festive and adds "atmosphere"

Chili lights: Parties on, don't bother knockin'. Beer is in the keg.

So I send my plea to those who are still displaying Christmas lights. PLEASE don't embarrass your neighborhood. Don't advertise that you're wacko. Just get up one weekend morning, commit to taking them down and do it. It won't take long, I promise.

You might even turn around on your ladder to see a crowd as big as the "Verizon group" applauding loudly.

That should keep you in the Christmas Mood. Giving back to your neighborhood.

Now get out there and take those flippin things DOWN.

Rant off.

Looking for a Half-Way house

2009-01-16T14:03:00.001-05:00

Starbucks should be the second most litigated against company behind the tobacco industry. They've hooked more Americans than one could imagine.

I met my Mom for coffee at Starbucks this morning at 8am. When I walked in there was a line so long that it looked like we were all waiting to buy tickets to see the Beatles. Looking at the faces of the people in line in front of me said it all. They were all pasty white like all the blood was draining from their bodies.

It's the fix. They need it. I need it.

I'm like, 8th in line and I could feel the sweat and shakes kick in. I'm ready to push aside everyone in front of me like I'm in the middle of a mosh pit just to get my drink. But I wait patiently, silently withdrawing from my fix.

I decided I was going to design my own Starbucks card with a Pot leaf on the front because frankly they're just like a medical marijuana card. I need it and I need it NOW.

Somehow, every time I'm in line, the person in front of me is ordering a drink that you need a language arts degree to understand. Some triple shot, 4 pump, sugar free, no whip, 3 swirls, double wide, cream based utopian frappacino topped off with cinnamon and a long green straw. Thanks lady. You just tied up my Barista with a drink that's going to take 10 minutes to make.

The bitch orders TWO.

Damn!

Usually I just order a Grande Americano. I need the espresso but a lot of times I just get coffee straight up. My drink takes about 2 minutes to make. The problem is, I don't have 2 minutes. I'm ready to faint and lord help the rest of the line who would have to scoop me up and move me down to the receiving counter.

Finally I get to order. My hands are shaking and the order comes out of my mouth so fast that the cashier can't keep up with me while writing it on the cup. I hand her my card, which always has a huge balance for emergencies, and then she asks if I'd like my receipt.

The hell with the receipt. That's precious time I NEED. Now I wait. When they finally call my order I shove my way to the front like I'm fighting for an after Christmas sale and 3 scorching sips enter my body before I even start walking away.

My body starts to settle back down. My heart rate starts to rise and I begin to feel like Superman. The drink is so friggin hot that my lips and tongue get fried like I just french kissed a hot iron. So what. It's worth it.

Then it's off to do errands. The people I interact with for the next 2 hours are looking at me like I've just had 4 shots of botox because my lips are so swollen. Then they see the Starbucks cup and know exactly what's happening.

A few hours later I can feel the withdrawls set in again. I stop what I'm doing, put "Starbucks" in my navigation and within minutes I'm standing in another long line withering away and turning white. I turn down another receipt and decline room for cream. A: I don't use cream and B: I need every drop they can cram in that cup.

I drive off, again feeling like a million bucks.

Hooked. That's what I am. Nicotine and Heroine might give Starbucks a run for their money but I think they're all in the same class. I've never understood the "need" but somehow it's there. For those of you who don't partake, DON'T. You'll be throwing your life away to addiction.

Well, it's off to get my second fix of the day. I'm ashamed. I need a group.

But this time instead of asking if I would like a receipt, how about asking if I would like an I.V. with that.

The Human Sausage

2009-01-14T11:01:00.000-05:00

Ok, now drop your thought, put it on the ground......and walk away. It's just a blog title. No meaning behind it.

Yet.

This Mr. Mom thing has been nothing short of awkward for 2 weeks now. It's about as unnatural as mating a turtle with a lady bug. I manage by the skin of my teeth but I'm lost in a world that's very foreign to me and navigating through all of it is somewhat tiresome. It's like boot camp for Men. It takes a boy and makes him a man. In my case it's taking a man and making him into a stay home Mom.

I swear I saw little boobies developing after I got out of the shower. Probably still swollen from my experiment but there was still a hint of suppleness.

Anyway, most of my work friends have seen this recently and maybe it will be rather new (and somewhat shocking) for all of my other friends.

I've always been a big fan of jeans. 501's to be specific. That's, of course, when I wasn't wearing red, plastic parachute pants or leopard skin patterns. In High School I was a size 32 waist as most teenage boys were. Then, in your 20's you' move up to a 34, and then, if you remained somewhat fit and pulled a few weeds, you'd top out at a 36 inch waist.

Well, a couple of years ago the FAA, my former employer, banned the wearing of jeans. (Those evil, secular, denim things). So I had to buy all new pants. All size 36. Later, it seemed, 36's were a little snug. I had ballooned up to 214 lbs but it really wasn't noticeable. I'm a tall guy, slender frame and was told I wore the weight well.

You didn't see me naked.

My work friends can also attest that last year was the most torturous year of my life. Stress literally ate me away. I now weigh 160.

Now that I'm free from work, it's back to jeans. Shopping again. SHI*T. But it's for a comfortable cause. I get my new, stiff jeans that will take years to break in.

I have time.

So I hit Macy's to look for what used to be contraband. I feel like a deal is going down. I walk in and there's the most beautiful site I've seen in a long while. A rack packed with Levi's. And there on the end they sat. 501's. They called to me as I walked toward them, almost weeping with happiness.

So I grabbed a size 36 and hit the dressing room. I couldn't get them on fast enough. With the final button buttoned, I let them go to see my new legs in all their glory. Instead, my ankles looked AWESOME.

They literally fell off me.

What? (I'm thinking). It seemed like yesterday they seemed a little snug but I guess I lost more weight than I thought. So it's back out to the rack to grab a 34, smiling the whole time, and I bolt back to the dressing room. I need these, man. It's like getting into a hot tub. Warm, inviting, relaxing but without all the steam.

Last button buttoned, let go and this time my knees looked awesome. What? 34? That's the holy grail for 90% of men. I can't possibly have lost so much weight that I'm now a 32, have I?

Back out to the rack. TONS of 32's. Why? Because no freakin' man on the planet can fit in them and they're way too big for the youth rack. I'm going where no adult has gone before. I feel like I have obtained the crown jewel of jeans. 32's.

Back to the dressing room. All these clothes changes made me feel like a super hero. On, off, on, off, and so forth. My little man boobies. however, wouldn't have looked right under spandex.

I put on the pants. One leg. Two legs. YANK. Screeching halt. All of a sudden my ass feels HUGE. I'm so close but I can't quite get past button number 3. So I do what every man does: I suck it in. The top of me now looks like Hulk Hogan while the bottom half looks like Pee Wee Herman. I'm going to hit the top, though. I'm planting that flag on Everest if it kills me.

I did it. Due to my awesome sucking ability I released the last button. Not bad. They seem to fit......ok. Not perfect but not bad.

I then have a weird, almost prophetic experience. My logical brain kicked in and told me the next sequence of events in a voice that had a "be very careful" sound to it.

I saw it. It was a vision. As I exhaled, Hulk dropped down into Pee Wee. The dam was breaking. The next thing I saw were two buttons exploding off my jeans like bullets, shattering the dressing room mirror and hitting me like shrapnel.

I had to get them off. Fast.

I was all out of suck but I needed to do it one more time to get the damn things off. They were so hard to get off that I bounced off every wall in the dressing room until I realized I could just sit on the bench where I put my sweats down.

Humiliated and disappointed, I went back to the rack and grabbed the 34's. Not bad, but I felt defeated. I was so close to the top but just couldn't quite make it happen.

I left the rack feeling like I'd be back some day. But for now, 34's in hand, I had to go. It was time to lower my head and walk the "green mile". Down Death Row.

To the belt aisle.

Boredom can hurt you

2009-01-10T14:19:00.000-05:00

As adults, we always have sage advice for our kids. When they walk in and say "I'm BORED", we can always think of a million things for them to do. Play outside, ride your skateboard, shoot some hoops, catch some bugs.

But somehow, when WE get bored, suddenly we're out of ideas. Our minds go blank. What can we find to occupy ourselves when nothing sounds appealing.

How about something dangerous? Out of the ordinary. Something new.

Well, I'm sitting around Saturday morning bored out of my skull. Nothing sounds good. Allison is at Costco, Riley is at soccer, and Alex is holed up in my office playing XBox. I'm just sitting in my chair drinking coffee wondering what the heck I'm going to do. All of a sudden I get an idea. It was born out of an episode I had about six months ago.

Awhile back I went to get one of my tattoos. When I took off my shirt, I looked it the mirror and was mortified. It was my chest hair. I wasn't getting a tattoo on my chest but I just remember being embarrassed. Not so much that I had hair (very little) as much as it was that it has streaks of grey. I looked like I had a skunk on my chest. It had "old" written all over it.

When I got home that day I said, "That's it." I shaved it all off. It's bad enough that I have grey in my hair but on my chest? Well, once you start shaving you kind of need to keep it going.

Shaving sucks.

Well, a few weeks ago when I got the "eyes" tattoo on my back, my tattoo artist, Jean, complimented me on what a smooth, hairless back I had. How kind of her. We then discussed some of the "bears" that show up to get a tattoo and she literally can't do it until they get it shaved or waxed. Normally she shaves the area she's tattooing but the really hairy people are getting a two for one. A haircut AND a tattoo. Tons of hair on the floor after the shave and they have to clean up like they do at the barber.

Anyway, so I'm sitting around today and remember seeing a bikini wax box upstairs in the Master Bathroom. Hmmmmmm. I thought to myself how much I hate shaving, I haven't done it in awhile and my chest hair was long enough that I could probably do it and be successful. Then I wouldn't have to shave for a long time. VERY appealing.

Besides, how much pain could there possibly be? I'm a guy. We're all about pain. Yeah, a little sting now and then but nothing really brings us to our knees. This wax thing would be intriguing and painless. Plus I get a really nice benefit.

Famous last words. That's like saying "what could possibly happen?"

So I get all the stuff together, heat the wax, spread everything on the vanity and I'm ready to go. I decided I was going to go left to right so I prepped the first area I was going to wax. I slather it on, it's a little too hot but I get used to it, then I put the first strip in place. The box says to rip the strip as soon as you put it on and pat it over the hair. Don't just let it sit. OK.

Wax is on, strip is in place, deep breath, eyes closed, fingers ready and.......PULL.

In a millisecond I had a flash of those horror movies where people's skin are being pulled off their bodies. The next millisecond was verbal. "HOLY SHIT"

My eyes were still closed and I swear I thought when I opened them I would see my nipple dangling from the strip. I envisioned blood splattered all over the mirror and my muscle tissue exposed.

When I opened my eyes, however, everything was in place. The area on my chest was smooth but the strip was full of wax and a buttload of hair. "Wow, this really does work" I say as my nipple feels like it's been clothes pinned for about 4 hours.

I decided to abandon the left to right thing because that nipple area HAD to have been the worst so I decided I was going to just get the other side over with.

Same sequence, same response, more intense pain because now I have two sides of my chest throbbing. I suddenly wish I was still downstairs being bored. I contemplated stopping but I was pretty much commited at this point. With both outside areas done it looked like I had a skunk mohawk down the center of my chest. No way I'm leaving it that way.

So I press forward and finish the job. At the end I was left with a freakin' mess. Wax is 10 times more sticky than Mrs. Butterworth and it's everywhere. If Allison walked in on me I would have looked like one of those kids who has a Kool-aid mustache, peanut butter all over their hands and gum in their hair. The vanity looks like I spilled four plates of waffles.

Now It's time to admire my "work". It was hard to tell through all the red skin and it looked and felt like I was shot with 200 paintballs. It stung like a mother. So I do what you're supposed to do when you have razor burn. I slathered on some aftershave.

You may as well of lit my chest on fire.

Balm, perhaps, would have been a better choice but what did I know? Apparently nothing because the experience was less than comfortable and I completely underestimated my pain threshold.

So there I stood, bare-chested, strip shrapnel in the garbage, goop all over my bathroom and body and a stinging sensation worse than anything I've ever felt. And the part that REALLY pissed me off?

I missed a spot.

It's not as easy as it looks

2009-01-07T22:01:00.000-05:00

Every working person puts up with a lot of crap at their job. Why? Because they're hanging on for one thing: The brass ring. Retirement. Most people won't retire until they're in their 60's but for a select few, retirement can be early depending on the type of job or the state of your finances.

Every vacation I have ever taken I always said the same thing. I could do this forever. I wish I never had to go back to work. But when the fun was over it was time to go back to breaking rocks at the job.

Now I find myself with the brass ring on my finger. I've only had it for a week but it's been no vacation. In fact, it's hard to wrap my mind around the fact that I'm not returning to my former job EVER.

So I've had to fill a week occupying myself without a job but I will say this. It was no piece of cake. I had to relearn all the characters names on F-Troop, I had to fluff pillows, and I had to buy $100 dollars worth of magazines to read when all the hard stuff was complete.

I can't imagine doing this for the next 20 years yet it was very easy for me to envision these days while I was working. I would day dream about doing nothing. Sleeping in, staying up late, drinking coffee all day and generally being a vegetable. Now that I get to do these things I can honestly say it sucks.

Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful that I have options, I'm somewhat healthy and I'm young enough to get a job making widgets. Whether or not I do those things remains to be seen but I can vouch for the fact that being retired isn't easy. I always thought I'd have a million things to do and couldn't imagine those people who elect to keep working when they've been eligible to leave for 10 years.

I'll eventually pursue my music and television career which is what I began doing before working for the FAA so I have a lot of catching up to do. But it's hard to squeeze practicing in between Jerry Springer and Ellen.

Maybe a week isn't enough time to evaluate the value of retirement but so far it's been no piece of cake. So I'll give it some time and hopefully it will exceed my expectations.

After all, I'm stuck on Larry Storch so I have a long way to go.

Just a step behind

2009-01-05T17:13:00.000-05:00

California is just one of those states that's hard to keep up with when it comes to buying clothes. Yeah, Christmas music in Walmart in September is hard to deal with but buying clothes is a bitch.

Those of you in Northern California know it's been way cold these past few weeks so I decided today I was going to go out and buy a couple of warm hoodies and some sweats. When I got to the sporting goods store I found "Super Summer Sales".

What?

It's freakin' January and I can't find a long-sleeved shirt. If I want a thong or a Speedo, I'm in. I'd look like an idiot asking the clerk to watch me try them on and then modeling them to ask if the color suits me.

The buyers for these stores seem to be about 4-6 months ahead of when you really need stuff. You can buy a down parka in June with matching ski pants and some Uggs but good luck finding a bathing suit.

So I suppose I need to change my buying habits. I just have a hard time buying a turtle neck when it's 105 degrees outside. I guess as a buyer we're going to look like an idiot no matter what. Guys aren't clothes shoppers by nature so maybe I'm just finding this out but it seems a little absurd. It's 35 degrees outside and I'm staring at a rack of shorts, sleeveless shirts and flip flops.

I just wanted a sweat suit with some pockets. Most of what I found had NO pockets. No pockets? Where am I supposed to keep my crap? Keys, wallet, glasses, ipod, blah, blah, blah. If I can't find sweat pants that will hold those things, I sure as hell won't fit all of it in a Speedo. There's not much room left and frankly I'd end up having to buy a utility belt. The kind that Batman had. Nerdy, I know but what do you do?

So I'm on the hunt for winter wear. Anything else and my nipples could cut diamonds. It's just odd that we have to buy things months in advance. Again, women may know this but guys don't think about stuff like that. If it's hot, buy something cool. If it's cold, buy something warm. WITH POCKETS.

Off to Macy's to buy a purse.....

Instrumental Rant

2009-01-03T21:07:00.001-05:00

So I'm in Guitar Center last night picking up my gear and it's always the same, creepy experience.

When you walk into the store you're greeted by some old guy playing an expensive guitar in front of a stack of Marshall amps. He sucks. Out of the amps come some attempts at a few AC/DC riffs, some scales or some lame impression of Eric Clapton.

What are these guys thinking? That some record producer is just going to waltz into the Concord Guitar Center looking for new "talent"? Or are they just there to impress people who are walking in the door hoping they'll stop next to them in awe of their playing ability?

No matter the reason, they suck and they're annoying. My friend, Bill Pekarna, knows exactly what I'm talking about.

I play all four instruments; guitar, bass, keyboards and drums and never in a million years would I grab an instrument in a store and just start jamming. I'll check out the sound of a piece of equipment but it stops there. Either I'm too embarrassed to have people hear me play or I just don't want to be another one of those "old guy show-offs".

So if you're into playing and need an instrument, you'll simply have to wade through the amateur sounds of the guy trying to play "Enter Sandman" by Metallica right in front of the door. It's lame, annoying but a staple in every Guitar Center I've ever been to.

If I were the manager of one of the stores, the first thing I would issue my employees would be a set of earplugs. How many times a day do these guys have to suffer through "Highway to Hell"?

I'm sure they all feel like they're on that road every day of their working career.

Back to my roots

2009-01-03T01:43:00.000-05:00

Well, today I bought something I've waited for until I retired. Those who know me know that music is a passion of mine and I played piano for many years until life got in the way. Now that I have the time I'm going back to playing and getting as good as I once was.

I purchased a really nice keyboard to get me started. I have an out of tune piano that sounds like a dying animal so it was time to get something a little more updated. I'd be surprised if I could even play "chopsticks" at this point.

So I'm looking forward to getting back to playing. It's going to take awhile but now that I have the time I'm going to get thing going again. I'll release a CD soon and it will be full of songs that Yoko Ono would be proud of.

I'm not touching that

2009-01-01T15:30:00.000-05:00

New Year's Eve wasn't so much a celebration of entering 2009 as it was flippin' the bird to 2008.

I can honestly say I've never lived through a worse year in my so called life as I did in 2008. It sucked financially, emotionally, physically and professionally.

"But you have family, friends, love, inner peace..."

Screw that optimistic thinking. Yes, I do have those things but it's not going to cover up what a poop pile 2008 was. And it wasn't just me. I haven't found one person who ended 2008 saying it was their best year in a long time.

Even though I was saved in the 52nd week of the year and I definitely have something to be thankful for, I will always remember last year as being the turning point in my life and the lives of others who are close to me.

Will 2009 be better? It can't be worse.

That's what I said in 2007. So I really do hope things turn around for not only myself but for everyone.

As for New Year's resolutions, I don't have any. I guess retirement is starting to put things into perspective and I haven't even been officially gone for a week. Sitting on my butt hasn't happened in 42 years (except for about 4 somewhere around 1980). So I hope to do a little of that but I expect the bedsores will set in about week 3 and I don't want to end up like that lady who's ass was fused to a toilet.

So I will move forward. I know this was sort of a downer post and re-reading it makes me not even want to hit the "publish" button. But I'm going to do it anyway, so on December 31st, 2009, I can see how far we've come or how much more knee deep in crap I find myself.

First purchase in 2009: Shanola

In the rear view mirror

2008-12-29T17:28:00.000-05:00

Well, today was the day. After nearly 20 years, I've separated myself from the FAA. I am now officially retired. No more badge. No more headset. No more working for the administration.

The big question is: Now what? I'm thinking I'm going to take Hugh's advice and buy and expensive pair of pajamas and live in them everyday. The chicks can hang around the compound until Allison gets home and then they'll need to scurry off.

Oh, if it was only that easy....

Wandering around the Internet

2008-12-28T22:25:00.000-05:00

So, I've decided to venture into the world of "online networking". About a year ago I dipped my toe into that hot mess called "My Space" and I felt like that guy in Clockwork Orange being forced to walk down the Vegas strip. Annihilation of my senses and it made me feel 60 years old.

I never signed up for an account so I never gave it another thought. Then I heard someone talking about Facebook a few weeks ago so I decided to check it out.

Ahhhh. It was like getting into a hot tub. Comfortable, readable, and best of all, I've discovered some long lost friends which has just been priceless for me. As I'm about to retire, I'm invigorated by this new outlet. I'll get to keep in touch with people who have literally forged and changed my life.

All for free.

So I guess you could call this a public service announcement to those who haven't taken the plunge into online networking, give it a try. You just might be surprised what or who you find.

Title

2008-12-26T23:07:00.000-05:00

The title of this blog is a Beatle's reference.

In two days (Dec 29, 2008) I'll officially be retired. Since I'll have a lot of time on my hands and I want to keep in touch with a lot of people, I decided I would blog so everyone could see what I'm up to and I can sharpen my writing skills. The last time I did that was in the 7th grade so I have a lot of time to make up for.

So ending 2008 couldn't have come fast enough. 2009 has the potential to be the best year of my life on this planet.

I hope you'll find future posts more interesting than this one but I'm just counting this one as the introductory post to a blog I hope to keep up for awhile so check back to see what's going on.

"... eating chocolate cake in a bag. The newspapers said, she's gone to his head. They look just like two gurus in drag..."