Skip's Blog

Visions of Reality

2012-02-10T13:29:00.001-08:00

First let me apologize for writing this while I am sick and loaded up on cold and flu medicine as I watch the pink elephants slowly dance to Berlioz’s Symphony Phantastique across the living room floor and into the dining room. I hope the alligators that are practicing their trapeze act on the chandelier in there don’t try to turn them into appetizers tonight. Of course, if the elephants make it through the dining room they will have to fend off the sharks who are playing poker in the kitchen, they asked me to join in but I don’t have the three live chickens buy in right now. I told them they will have to wait until I get paid in order for me to sit in on a hand.

But, I suppose I have just gotten sidetracked once again.

Now, for my dear readers who have kept up with my blog and the comings and goings of my life you will know that one of my first blogs two years ago was about the closing of the museum I work for and how we were going to not just renovate the building but completely transform everything under the roof and add over an additional twelve thousand square feet of space. So it was pretty much an expansion, renovation and rehabilitation of the existing structure. The rebuild took eighteen months and a lot happened in that time, not just in my life but the lives of my fellow co-workers and the multitude of contractors who worked incessantly day and night in order for us to open the new museum on time.

When we did open, everything in the building was shiny, new and unmolested by the hands of thousands of visitors. Including my area, the trains, and that is what I am going to write a bit about today.

When I first was hired as Train Technician for the museum I knew there was a plan in place for an expansion and rehabilitation. So I started to keep a folder of ideas, needs and wants for the new layout. I did not know how much space I was going to be given but I knew certain key elements that I wanted for the new train layout and my office. This foresight helped me out more than I ever expected.

You see, one day, about two years before we shut the old museum down, I received orders from the Director of all the Museums in my fair adopted city, to come up with a layout design and track plan for the new train room. My first response to her was “How much room do I have?” He answer was to show me the rough renderings of where the new train room was to be and where my office would be located. She then informed me I had a week to finish my task.

My brain went into overdrive, I did a quick calculation of how much square footage I would have for my office, the layout footprint and sketched it all out onto a piece of graph paper. I then placed two phone calls to some buddies I knew had layout design experience and asked them for some advice and suggestions on track design. They agreed to help. I also loaded up a C.A.D. software program for layout design and input all the dimensions of the layout and went to work on the design phase. I fueled my creativity with sugar, caffeine, deadlines and the smell of plastic injection molding used to make most of the rolling stock in this day and age.

By the end of the week I had finished my design for a 710 square foot train layout with eight working mainlines and four interactive push buttons for the visitors to use. It took another week for the powers above me to approve the design and then my creative offspring was put on a shelf for almost two years. It became a pipe dream. The plans sat on a shelf collecting dust with my binder full of ideas. Until one day I received an email to send them out to bid by contractors across the nation. The joy of that day was immeasurable. The wait for answers from the contractors was an eternity of nervousness and paranoia.

Only two contractors agreed to build the layout with our terms. One fabricator I did not know, the other, his company is one of the best in the business. I got to choose which of the two to go with. I chose the one whose work I know.

After several thousand phone conversations, emails, texts and FedEx packages of information was exchanged and some track changes the initial substructure was fabricated and the layout underway. All my major ideas and goals were kept in the layout; a few minor ones had to be set to the side for special and operational reasons.

I made one visit to the contractors’ warehouse to see the progress of the layout while it was being fabricated. I was so filled with pride at what my mind was trying to understand that I almost exploded.

A few months after my visit the layout was delivered to the museum in approximately twenty-four sections, and after three weeks of hard work by no less then sixteen men it was installed and operating.

Operating… funny thing about that term. You see, and I guess this is where this whole story has lead me to… you see, while the museum was shut down, the primary supplier for locomotives for the museum made some changes to their operation system. They have upgraded to a better electronic system. What does this mean? Simple, while I do the primary maintenance of the “motive power” for the trains… (Motive Power means engines) I am no longer able to order the computer boards for the engines. They have been outdated. So I need to upgrade.

Upgrading is an expensive prospect. I have a large fleet of motive power that is now pretty much useless. If a board goes bad, I can’t replace it. So I have to order new engines. Engines aren’t cheap. So I sat down, wrote up a plan that will take several years to implement by slowly replacing a small number of engines and or sets each year. I submitted my plan and it was approved. I was stunned. But I quickly called my supplier and placed my order.

Twenty-four hours later I was signing a FedEx computer pad saying I was the recipient of my order. I now have brand new trains to use on our new layout. I wish I could say that all the time I spent writing the proposals, brainstorming over the details of the layout and trying to figure out what I want the visitors to experience when they walk into the train room has been easy. But I can’t, I’ve fought, worried, lost my temper and struggled to hold onto the ideas I first put down in that binder over seven years ago.

I look back now, with a 20-20 hindsight, and see where I could have done things differently, or been more calm in frustrating situations. But when look back now at how much energy I put into seeing this vision become a reality I don’t think there is much that I would change. My overall concept, design and message have been made a reality. Sure, I had a lot of help from a lot of people and we all worked very hard to complete our tasks and we did it to the best of our abilities.

Now when visitors come see the trains and the train layout and ask me questions about the collections or the exhibit, I smile and start to explain what it is they are looking at and how it actually influences their daily lives. They walk away a richer person in knowledge from what I tell them and that is worth all the craziness of years that have passed.

Ok, I am going to wrap this up, the card sharks are teasing the acrobatic alligators with the chickens and I sense a fight is about to break out somewhere between the kitchen and the dining room

Have a good week.

Thank God January is OVER!

2012-02-03T06:39:00.000-08:00

I have just woken up from a hibernation of over fourteen hours. It seems my body has decided to take a much needed rest after being abused physically, mentally and emotionally for the past month. But, if I were truly honest I believe I would have to say that the abuse has gone on much longer than a month. Yes, I know I had a very nice family vacation in our Nations capitol over the winter break; a vacation that was filled with visiting some very important places and reflecting on some major events in our countries history.

At the end of those days we spent hours in a refreshing hot tub soaking our weary muscles only to be followed up with watching mindless television so our brains could rest as well. But did we truly get the rest we needed? Maybe… maybe not. If what has just happened to me is any indication of the type of rest which is needed for one human system then I say we did not get the type of break from life our bodies have cried out for. Of course, I could be wrong and it is just my system that needed to be rebooted.

I guess I should explain a few things first so that you might understand what has been going on a bit better.

January can suck it!

It was one hell of a month for me. I lost a family member, whose funeral I did not attend. Another family member of mine is in the hospital for an undetermined amount of time. And both family vehicles have been nothing but a constant source of heartburn and headaches. I’ve been injured, wounded and abused mentally, physically and emotionally. I seem to have spent more time than a doctor at various medical facilities in the greater Hampton Roads area and I just can’t seem to get motivated to write anything of substance.

On numerous occasions I have been overheard saying “I can’t wait for 2012 to be over with, bring on 2013.” And now that it is February, I still feel the same way.

Of course, I am positive that this year will be like most years. Filled with highs and lows with very few plateaus of stability, this is the way of life. It is today and it was yesterday. Our lives on this mudball seem to rarely be on an even keel. If they were, well, I believe we would end up killing each other just for excitement. Hmmm, just had a thought, maybe the reason for all the idiotic television shows that are broadcast into our homes are so we as a human race will feel better about either NOT having enough drama in our lives, OR having too much drama in our lives. (Yup, I’m going to have to think on that hypothesis for a while)

Well, I am going to sign off for now, this is supposed to be a quick update on what has been going on in my mixed up existence here in the heart of the South. I am supposed to go see a nice jazz concert tonight, which I have been looking forward to for several months.

Have a great week.

Family Untied

2012-01-17T08:46:00.001-08:00

Last week I received a phone call that everyone eventually receives. It is not a phone call we want but it is a phone call we have to take. I shall not go into the details of the conversation or who was on the other end of my wireless device informing me of the bad news, nor will I say what the bad news was/is. I will say that the phone call was familial in nature and it got me thinking about my family. Now, I think about my family a lot. But most of the time it is in the “oh, I wonder what so-and-so is doing?” or “ya know, I remember when…” But not this time.

Nope, not this time at all.

You see dear reader, I, like most genetic offspring of the late nineteen-sixties and nineteen-seventies am the product of a broke home. And if you are from a broken home then you will understand what I am about to talk about, if you are not, then you will hopefully have a little more knowledge on how peoples actions seem to have not just ripple effects on the lives of others but tsunamis of emotional trauma into the lives they were once responsible for.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, right… my family.

When my folks got divorced I was in the third grade and my mother was the parent who got custody of me and my three sisters. This had to have been tough for her and I can’t imagine the sleepless nights she had while trying to figure out how she was going to take care of four kids, work full time at a business she didn’t know too much about and manage to have time for herself, her friends or even have a date or two with a guy who might be interested in a woman with four insane kids. As for my father, well, he went on to make his own way in the only way he knew how and my sisters and I saw very little of him.

I’ve heard stories from my father and others about some of the visitations we had with him during the mid-nineteen-seventies but I remember very little of those brief weekends spent in rural Wisconsin. And to be honest, I really don’t recall seeing much of my mother during those years either.

What I do recall is a steady stream of babysitters, doctor visits, fights, bad musical taste by my sisters (Sorry ladies but Donnie and Marie is really not good musical taste, neither is ABBA for that matter. But, this is just my opinion.) I remember lonely days and nights trying to fit in with kids who had either already went through the same shit I was going through or who did not understand what I was going through because their parents were still together. In love, fighting the good fight, and trying to make a solid nuclear family in a post nuclear world.

Summers were mostly spent with my pals, we’d party, get into trouble and try to avoid our siblings. During the school year we tried all sorts of sports only to discover we preferred to make fun of most of the athletes and their hypocritical nature of being good in school and terrible in the world.

By the time I became a teenager the bright eyed innocent child I was had become a tarnished, acne faced teen who knew where he came from and was attempting to cope with the fact that his role models were as flawed if not more flawed then he was. It was tough. Back then people said I was experiencing “Growing Pains.” I say I was becoming a realist with each passing day. I never thought I knew everything, but I sure carried myself as if I did.

I saw flaws everywhere, in my sisters, my parents, my teachers, my friends and myself. So I rebelled. What would you have done?

As the years passed and High School days turned into Fugue filled nights I found myself back in touch with my father. We both tried to rebuild the relationship we had when I believed him to be the greatest person in the world. It didn’t work. We fought. A lot. Cops were called; chairs were thrown into the soft parts of the flesh as easily as words were spoken in anger. We were both broken individuals with broken lives.

At the same time, I had become even more estranged from my mother and her new life. She was in the process of resetting her life. New husband, new house, new career, same kids except one, that would be me. She was doing everything in her power to dust off her past and make a bright shiny future in the Promised Land known as the nineteen-eighties. She was broken and trying to live her life with open wounds covered with masking tape and tissue paper.

All three of us seemed to be comfortable without each other in our lives.

It was not until the nineteen-nineties that I made a decision to do everything I could do to make sure both my parents would always be in my life in a manner I was comfortable with. It was not easy. Now, I know my folks should never be together in the same room let alone the same state, that would be like taking a jar of liquid Trinitrotoluene aka TNT standing in the epicenter of an earthquake. Nothing good can come of it.

But, through a lot of patience and talking, I managed to build bridges of communication to the givers of my life. My mother and I seemed to have built a sturdy, comfortable overpass of respect, love and care for each other.

My fathers and my relationship… Well, I guess it can simply be called a relationship of truce. I love him but I don’t always agree with him. I want him as much a part of my life as I can but I don’t want to sacrifice the person I have become or the life I have made just to make him happy. After all, I am not here to make him happy. I am here to make sure my wife and daughter are happy and taken care of.

So where does that leave us? Oh, yes, the phone call, well, the sun seems to be setting on someone with whom I’ve had a lifelong stormy relationship with and it is bugging me. I try to never have regrets in my life and for the most part I don’t. I have attempted to live by the words of Rory Cochrane “I do not regret the things I’ve done, but those I did not do.” And this seems to be the case. I seem to be thinking of all the things I did not get the opportunity to share with this person. Of all the times both of us had other things to do or our egos would not allow us to understand what the other was trying to do or say. Yup, we seemed to have goofed this one up.

So, with all this said, I shall wrap this up with a tear in my eye and the lyrics to a Harry Chapin song in my mind.

I've long since retired, my son's moved away
I called him up just the other day
I said, "I'd like to see you if you don't mind"
He said, "I'd love to, Dad, if I can find the time
You see my new job's a hassle and kids have the flu
But it's sure nice talking to you, Dad
It's been sure nice talking to you"

And as I hung up the phone it occurred to me
He'd grown up just like me
My boy was just like me

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon
Little boy blue and the man on the moon
When you comin' home son?
I don't know when, but we'll get together then son
You know we'll have a good time then

Have a good week everyone. And call you parents, wherever they are.

Resolution Update

2012-01-10T08:14:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!!!

I know, I know, I’m a bit late, over a week late to tell you the truth but ya know, I’ve been a bit busy. Also, if you are like me, there is no way you want to wake up New Years Day, mouth filled with cotton and funk from the previous nights festivities that you can barely remember, just to read about someone else’s insane, or in some cases, inane party story. So, you can rest easier in knowing that I am not going to bore you with my party stories. Why? Because I have none to tell. See, simple.

I am however going to let you know how I’ve done on my resolutions from last year… which were what exactly?

1. Get published

2. Eat healthier

3. Be a better employee

4. Approach any and all situations with a sense of good humor

Well, let me break this list down in a more manageable manner.

1. One of my stories “Cindy’s Condition” was published in a book called “Death, Be Not Proud” and if you have been reading my blog this past year you know all about it. If you have not picked up a copy I highly recommend you do so. Not for me, for all the other great stories that are in there. I believe if you are a horror fan, you will really enjoy the tales. But that is not all; I have sold a second story which will be published sometime early this year as well. (Stay tuned for details. I would grade myself at an A for my publishing goals.

2. I have eaten healthier, but not by much. I am currently at a very manageable weight and my Doctor’s believe I will outlive them. (Ever want to prove a doc wrong?) Plus, I LOVE good food and most good food is filled with fat, cholesterol, sugar, salt and other things I don’t know the names of. Besides, I’m not a rabbit. I would grade myself at a B+ in my dietary goals.

3. I have really tried at this. I have not always been successful but I have given it my best effort. I would grade myself at a C+ if I were to be totally honest.

4. This particular resolution is always on my list and I seem to be getting better and better at it. In light of all the trials of this past year I have only lost my cool on three occasions. Which is actually pretty good not just for me but for anyone who is breathing and functioning on this planet. I would grade myself with a B for this one.

Where does that leave me? Well, for the year it looks as if I have a B average in my resolutions and I feel as if I was quite successful in my endeavors overall.

For this coming year I have not set down on paper what my resolutions will be but I am kicking around some ideas in my head. As I am sure you all are. I would love to hear from some of you as to how you feel you’ve done on your resolutions from last year, or if you didn’t have any resolutions last year, why not? And if you have any this year and wish to share them I would love to read about them. Think of it as a way to be held accountable for your own actions by someone you may or may not have ever met.

Have a great week!

A New Year brings New Hope.

2011-12-31T03:18:00.000-08:00

I have made a pilgrimage to the houses of democracy and dipped my toes in the ocean of ideas our fore-fathers shed their lives-blood for, only to drown in the sea of hope they inspired in the generations of Americans that followed in their footsteps. I went in search of an absentee spirit only to discover a wellspring of poetry carved in cold marble that warmed my heart and instilled within me a peace and tranquility that all but obliterated the chaos that reigns inside of me.

As I sat on the cold, unforgiving marble of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial reading the five quotes carved into the walls out loud to my daughter, I became misty eyed and hoarse. Mr. Jefferson’s words have never failed to move me but on this occasion, at a time when I have worked myself beyond exhaustion, my defenses were at an all time low.

So, where does this leave me at the dawning of a new year?

I am going to post here those quotes on my blog. The quotes that brought tears to my eyes and hope to my soul, I hope they move you as much as they have moved me.

We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, that to secure these rights governments are instituted among men. We...solemnly publish and declare, that these colonies are and of right ought to be free and independent states...And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine providence, we mutually pledge our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honour.

Almighty God hath created the mind free...All attempts to influence it by temporal punishments or burthens...are a departure from the plan of the Holy Author of our religion...No man shall be compelled to frequent or support any religious worship or ministry or shall otherwise suffer on account of his religious opinions or belief, but all men shall be free to profess and by argument to maintain, their opinions in matters of religion. I know but one code of morality for men whether acting singly or collectively.

God who gave us life gave us liberty. Can the liberties of a nation be secure when we have removed a conviction that these liberties are the gift of God? Indeed I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just, that his justice cannot sleep forever. Commerce between master and slave is despotism. Nothing is more certainly written in the book of fate than these people are to be free. Establish the law for educating the common people. This it is the business of the state to effect and on a general plan.

I am not an advocate for frequent changes in laws and constitutions. But laws and institutions must go hand in hand with the progress of the human mind. As that becomes more developed, more enlightened, as new discoveries are made, new truths discovered and manners and opinions change, with the change of circumstances, institutions must advance also to keep pace with the times. We might as well require a man to wear still the coat which fitted him when a boy as civilized society to remain ever under the regimen of their barbarous ancestors.

And lastly, one of my all time favorite T.J. quotes.

I have sworn on the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man.

Happy New Year my dear readers. I hope the coming days and months bring you happiness, joy and prosperity.

I Still haven't found what I'm looking for.

2011-12-26T03:24:00.000-08:00

Christmas Eve was a mad dash of work, mayhem, marathon eating, the traditional receiving and giving of gifts and running around the greater tidewater area. Once my family and I arrived safely home and commenced our own particular yearly tradition of prepping the house for our annual solstice traditions, it did not take us long to fall into our routines of secretive wrapping, skulking from room to room in an attempt to avoid contact with anyone who may be lurking around a corner in an attempt to get a glimpse at what sort of goodies may be hiding within the cavernous, self exiled cell filled with ribbons, bows and obnoxiously printed paper.

I made more than several trips to the trash can with over filled black plastic bags, specifically purchased for the sole purpose of hiding the manufacturers packaging of products that were put into said packaging by extremely frustrated, angry and underpaid employees from foreign countries. These employees sole purpose seems to be to throw fuel on the fires of frustration parents have been feeling since the beginning of the holiday season.

Paper cuts, abrasions caused by plastic and torn fingernails are wounds we go to great lengths to hide but are easily ignored by the wide eyed, adrenaline filled offspring that wakes us all up at the butt crack of dawn in an attempt to discover the treasures that lie under the lighted, adorned and tinseled faux wooden emblem of the season. Bleary eyed we stumble through our homes, our eyes feel as if the interior of our eyelids are made of eighty grit sandpaper, the harshness of our pre-brushed mouth seems to be only a minor irritant as we make our way to the well worn seat cushion on our favorite living room piece of furniture.

If you are lucky and you’ve thought ahead, your automatic coffee pot will either have already made or is in the process of making you a pot of ebony, bitter, acrid life giving plasma. If not, you have to settle for stale orange juice and three-day old almost too hard to eat bread to help kick start your morning celebration of peace and tranquility.

This is the century of the Simpsons and Griffins Christmas, not Ozzie and Harriet, the Cleavers or even the Brady’s. Our lives are so filled with demands of time, energy and pressure we seem to lose the peace and tranquility. I know I have. I stated in my last blog I was having difficulty in finding my Christmas spirit this year. And, now that Christmas has arrived like an unwanted credit card bill, I still have not completely found what I’ve been searching for. I feel a bit more in the spirit but I still have not sold out completely.

I don’t know if I will be able to.

I hope, I pray and I’ve even gone so far as to try and fleece myself into the experience what everyone else around me seems to be having. It’s tough to have a void where your good will once was. A vacuum that seems to do nothing drink in all of the happiness you used to feel. The simplest, most innocent actions leave me feeling numb or wanting more.

Am I closer than I was a week ago? Yes I am.

Will I eventually receive the one gift I’m looking for? Hopefully.

Am I going to celebrate if and when I do? Fo-Shizzle!

Here’s hoping you all had a great Christmas and I’ll talk to you all real soon.

Struggle

2011-12-18T11:54:00.000-08:00

The lights from the Christmas tree sparkle off the tinsel casting red, green and blue shadows on the walls. Scents of pine, cinnamon and apple fill the air with mouth watering deliciousness, and promises of gastronomical fulfillment. My daughter and her friends have to be peeled from the ceiling just to be told it is time for school to start. The overflow of excitement runs out of their pours like a viscous liquid that immediately attaches itself to anyone who comes near it like coagulated molasses on a cold winter’s morning. They have been ready for the coming morning carnage for weeks and conversations which are overheard by parents everywhere are filled with what sort of LOOT they are about to tear from vigilantly wrapped packages which were hidden by the gifters in secret locations around the home and offices in places the CIA, KGB and FBI could never find. (But a 10 year old knows of these places and can snoop out a gift in 5 seconds if left alone.)

In my car, under my tree, in my wardrobe and my office hide such packages. Carefully picked out, superficially covered in vibrant recycled, ecologically friendly paper. The tags with names carefully scrawled on them by my shaking hand dangle in the breeze of fresh, canned air that streams from the heating ducts. Their dance reminds me of the hope and joy I am supposed to be feeling this season. A hope and joy I have been looking for but unable to find.

Oh, I see these lost emotions on the faces of children and adults as I pass by them on the streets. Their laughter and light hearted moods are more contagious than the latest flu epidemic. But it seems this season I have been immunized against all the cheer this season normally brings me. Maybe it has to do with the fact I have been unable to truly enjoy the normal festivities of the general populace of my fair city. Maybe it has to do with all the time I’ve spent over that past few months immersed in creating the holiday experience for others that I’ve neglected my own requirements for a festive season. Maybe… I don’t know.

You see, over the past week I have listened to a metric ton of Christmas music, watched countless hours of holiday movies and have even made an attempt at spreading joy, hope, kindness and cheer to others all in an effort t to find the peace of the season within me. I have been unsuccessful. I don’t know why these feelings are so elusive for me this year. Sure, I’ve had tough times in the past garnering the good will towards my fellow men but I was in a very different place then. A place where my only warmth was afforded to me in the form of a prickly, raw woolen gray naval blanket with no family or loved ones to comfort me. Long lonely days seated on cold, dark gray decks reading books with missing pages and eating leftover cold food and drinking warm, stale milk. But even then I managed to find a lining of silver on a bleak and weary day.

Today, not so. I have many blessings in my life; a family who loves me, not one but two jobs where I know when I am not there my presence is missed. I have friends who call me out of the blue to tell me about their day and want to spend time with me and value my opinion in matters of decisions that will affect their lives for years to come. And even with all these blessings, which I’ve counted and stored in the vaults of my memory, I still am unable to engage in the joyous festivities that seem to have taken over not just my town, state and country but also the world at large.

My search, within my own corporeal body and my not so corporeal body has been an in depth raping of all that I hold near and dear to me as well as my belief system. (Which at times goes against the knowledge of the physical world and all the science I know to be true and untrue.) Yet still, I have been unable to call forth the emotions from the memories which have always served to cheer me up in the past. The memories of receiving THE gift on Christmas morning that reaffirms in a tainted teens childhood that there just really may be a Santa Claus or that Hope is not just a platitude spouted by a preacher on a pulpit or a crazy, hairy, smelly, toothless, homeless man on a cold and dingy street corner, have all failed to bubble to the surface of my being the sense of tranquility I normally feel at this time of year.

Yes, I know I am not supposed to talk about these things. But I just can’t seem to help myself. My mind won’t allow me to NOT talk about it. I have tried to bury my blemished mood and I have been triumphant for the most part in not letting on to others what I am experiencing or in this case, not experiencing. But now it is a week before Christmas and time is running short, the light of hope that casts out the shadows of pain this time of year has yet to shine upon my psyche and warm the coldness that has wormed its way inside my body, taken root and started to send its icy branches to every part of my ID. This coldness cannot be warmed by platitudes and empty actions. The frigidity can only be thawed by an intangible, unseen and overlooked gift. I’m looking for that gift. I believe it is the one gift that will reinvigorate my childlike awe most people feel this time of year.

This is my yoke, my quest and my struggle.

Relief

2011-12-12T21:34:00.000-08:00

I, like most people, am a creature of habit. I don’t like it when my life takes an unexpected turn or when some minor irritation becomes an everyday commonplace occurrence that seats itself inside your psyche like an unobtainable splinter. Hiding just under your skin and sliding away, deeper and more painful every time you get close to extracting the damnable irritant. This has been the case since a week before Thanksgiving, when I discovered I had lost my check book, mortgage payment book, car payment book and my 16 gigabyte back up flash drive. You wanna talk about a realization that makes your sphincter water tight, this is it. I was and have been a bit out of sorts, more than I thought I was.

To put it bluntly, I’ve been so concerned about the misplacement my fiscal accountability that I have been incapable of maintaining a respectable flow intelligent thought. Which means, I have not been writing my blogs or my fiction too much, sure, I’ve pounded out a few drafts for blogs and even outlined a new story and regurgitated about a thousand words on an existing story, but for me to be able to communicate to you properly, I truly need to not have any unnecessary worries piled on top of my daily concerns. And the worst part of it is that I didn’t even realize how much the loss of those items affected me.

I’ve been at best a bit moody and distracted in tasks that I normally could do with my eyes closed. Yes, I make mistakes; I’m not too proud or big headed to claim I’m perfect. Hell, if I go through a day and only make a dozen errors I consider it to be a good day.

So, today, as I was walking through my dining room and into my kitchen I noticed a plastic shopping bag sitting on my piano. (What? You don’t keep your piano in the dining room?) So as I passed the bag I snatched it up in my hand believing it was just another empty bag left lying around by one of my fellow housemates for the sole purpose of driving me more insane than I already am. But as I pulled it towards me in my left hand I felt the weight of something shifting inside and my curiosity told me to open the recyclable satchel and figure out what it was.

Once my eyes accepted what I was looking at I stopped dead in my tracks. The shackled grip of fear and anxiety started to un-tether itself from my soul. Relief and renewal of my spirit washed over me.

So, now I am sitting here at 0012 in the morning with the slew gates of my mind wide open. I’ve forgotten what it felt like. Also, more than a bit disturbed at how easily the roadblocks of life become the creative artery clogging cholesterol of ID stress. Man, it sucks. But, and I hope this is true; my arteries have become roto-rooted with the locating of my tethers to my financial responsibilities and creative outlets.

Have a great week everyone!

Thanksgiving 2011

2011-11-24T18:43:00.000-08:00

I’m sitting on my couch, slowly flipping channels and trying to not fall into another tryptophan stupor. It’s been a great day for me. No stress, good food, and several naps. A perfect day for me and during all this relaxation and overindulgence in culinary delights my mind wanders into the various nooks and crannies that hold memories that are near and dear to me. So, on this day of thanks I am going to make a list of the things I am thankful for.

1. My body for allowing me to abuse it so much.

2. My family for understanding my absence.

3. My friends old and new for putting up with my insanity.

4. My employers for helping me provide for my family for the past 17 years and 12 years respectively.

5. My Doctor for keeping me alive.

6. My buddy Brian for listening to my ramblings.

7. My co-workers for laughing at my jokes.

8. My friends with whom I’ve communicated with over the past year, whether it was by text, email, phone conversation or just old fashioned letters.

9. And lastly, I am thankful to all of you, my dear readers. You have shown me support by reading my blogs and I know some of you have even purchased the book my story is in. And I am truly thankful for your support.

I hope you all have had a great Thanksgiving.

Shared Pain

2011-11-07T20:41:00.001-08:00

I received a personal phone call today at work. Now under normal circumstances I don’t answer my cell phone at work unless it is a call from immediate family or someone who is a very close friend. In this case, it is a very close friend.

My friend, let’s call him Steve, yeah, I like that name and you really don’t hear it very often anymore. So, Steve calls me, we haven’t spoken for over two months, not for the lack of trying on my part, I’ve sent him text messages, left voicemails, posted on his Facebook page. I did everything I could to get a hold of him except drive up to his home on the New Jersey and Pennsylvania boarder, grab him by his short hairs and drag him out into the sunlight kicking, screaming and cursing my name and my ancestor’s names too.

So, when I saw his name and photo pop up on my overpriced smart phone I immediately answered and headed for a private place in the museum. Now, let me clarify some facts for you my dear readers; Steve and I have only known each other for eight months and we spent three weeks working together every day. At night we would hit the local bars for endless hours of bullshit and bonding. It turned out that Steve and I have a lot in common; ie. Horror movies, horror books, work ethic and a deep desire to talk about anything BUT WORK!

And for three weeks we did just that. Even at work we managed to not talk about work.

You see, while Steve works for one of the best companies in a very small field and he is one of the best at what he does, he is also Staff Sergeant for Uncle Sam and has done three tours in Iraq over the past ten years. His job for Uncle Sam is classified but I can tell you that he is damn good at his government job and because he is so good at it his skills are in high demand. So is his friendship.

Now, if you have never been a part of a close knit unit who have put their lives on the line for each other twenty-four hours a day for endless years on end there are no amount of words I can use to express how close you become to the men you are serving with. The things your share with your fellow soldiers and sailors over the years can only be understood by those that have served. It’s a rough life, especially since the war on terror started. Steve has suffered but he has managed to maintain a living wage outside of military service.

Now that I’ve explained all this I can now divulge some of our phone conversation and why I will always answer phone calls from close friends.

Since the last time I spoke with my pal he has suffered some terrible losses. One of the members of his reserve unit died in a terrible motorcycle accident, another committed suicide and his units commander is now retiring. Basically, three of his closest and most trusted friends have disappeared from his life. It pains me to even think of something like this happening to me and during my conversation with Steve I could feel the pain he was trying to hold inside. He told me he’s been in “ghost” mode since he got the news. I couldn’t blame him. How could I?

Here is a close friend, a soldier, a hero, a brother in arms and a man I would take a bullet for in pain. I listened to what he had to say, we made jokes when with each other when appropriate. We talked about people we both know, new internet sites, future vacation plans, horror books, women and cigars. We talked about everything but the crap that causes us stress. It was a great conversation. A much needed conversation.

I hope it is not our last.

Steve is more loyal to the people he cares about than he probably should be. He will bend over backwards to help a buddy out when they are in need. Hell, he’ll even bail your ass out of jail if he isn’t in jail with you. He drinks Yngling by the case and Jameson by the gallon. He smokes his cigarettes by the pack and will stay out until it’s time to go to work. He is a hooligan who celebrates his Irish heritage with pride and knows more Polish jokes than I know Irish jokes. My pal is hurting and I hurt for him. I don’t know where he is tonight and I know he is working through a lot of crap that would crush most people. I pray for his safety and a guiding light to help him through the dark times that seem to have fallen on him.

Thanks for reading, and if you run into a short, dark haired Irishman who has had too much to drink and is looking for a fight tonight with some crazy tattoos from foreign tattoo artists. Try to gently guide him into a safe harbor.

Right, Wrong or Inbetween

2011-11-06T08:10:00.000-08:00

Remember, remember, the 5th of November

The Gunpowder Treason and plot;
I know of no reason why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,
'Twas his intent.
To blow up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below.
Poor old England to overthrow.
By God's providence he was catch'd,
With a dark lantern and burning match

Holloa boys, Holloa boys, let the bells ring
Holloa boys, Holloa boys, God save the King!

Hip hip Hoorah !
Hip hip Hoorah !

A penny loaf to feed ol'Pope,
A farthing cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down,
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar,'
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head,
Then we'll say: ol'Pope is dead.

In 1605 Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the Parliament of England along with King James the VI of Scotland. Some say Guy Fawkes acted alone, some say he had some Catholic Conspirators. Regardless of which story is true, he was caught and burned at the stake. Now, every year on the 5^th of November the people of England celebrate Guy Fawkes Day. They light off fireworks, burn in effigy Guy Fawkes and have parties across the island.

This is amazing to me.

Here’s why…

One man’s attempt to change the world and do what he felt was right for himself, his family and his country ends up getting him labeled a terrorist for eternity. Guy Fawkes considered himself a Patriot and Freedom fighter, but he goofed it up and now his name is synonymous with America’s Benedict Arnold. Which is funny to me. Benedict Arnold never tried to blow up the House or Senate. (Our version of Parliament) Also, if Guy Fawkes had succeeded in killing off King James and Parliament, who knows how our country would have turned out. Remember, our Fore-Fathers didn’t sign the “Declaration of Independence” until July 4^th 1776. Those 56 founding fathers were also considered traitors of the crown after they penned their names to the Declaration. King George basically put out contracts on all of their heads and they were hunted and killed without prejudice by the crown.

History tells us Guy Fawkes was one of at least thirteen plotters who wanted to take out King James and company. Our founding fathers were at least 56. Guy Fawkes and his fellow conspirators were caught, tortured, tried and killed. Our founding fathers, while 5 of them were captured by Brittish troops, 17 served in the Revolutionary war, 11 of them had all of their property destroyed, 13 became governors’ after the revolution and 18 became part of their states legislative bodies.

Guy Fawkes was drawn and quartered.

Guy Fawkes and his group of Catholics were fighting to reinstate the Catholic faith in England. Our forefathers were fighting not just for religious freedom but also the future of our republic.

Guy Fawkes was labeled a traitor.

Our founding fathers were labeled as traitors.

Guy Fawkes failed.

Our founding fathers succeeded.

I am not trying to glorify Guy Fawkes or what he did, nor am I trying to build a case for him. It just seems to me there are a lot of similarities in what he was trying to do and what we eventually did.

Yes, Guy Fawkes was acting as a religious terrorist against the King. Did the reasons for actions matter to the people of England? If you were Catholic, I would say yes they did. If you were oppressed by the government, I would say no.

Similarly, today across our nation, thousands of people are waging protests against corporate greed. If you have a job and are striving to make ends meet these protests mean very little to you. But, if you are jobless, feel oppressed, and have been downsized by some corporate guru who worships at the altar of the almighty profit margin. Well, then yes, these shenanigans affect you very much and you should be very concerned.

Am I saying you should plot to blow something up? HELL NO! Am I suggesting you join in a fight to change policy in America? HELL YES!

Look, we all know times are tough. Gas prices are out of control, homelessness is on the rise. Corporations are playing three card monty with retirement packages. Elected officials have proven time and again they cannot be trusted to look out for the best interest of their constituents. And, the holidays are looming and kids are screaming for new toys.

The pressure is building and I smell gunpowder on the cool northerly winds. Someone somewhere is going to do something stupid like the cops in Oakland and people are going to get hurt. And then, the masses will rise up and we will see what lies beneath the cool exterior of the face of American Complacency.

Of course, I could be wrong.

Happy Guy Fawkes Day.

End of Summer

2011-11-02T09:54:00.000-07:00

I’m sitting on my couch, the television is screaming at me to buy things I don’t want and my attempts to brush the cobwebs, fog and shadows from my brain are failing. My lower back, knees, and neck are in constant, mind numbing pain. Empty and half empty bottles of aspirin, ibuprofen, and motrin are scattered around the house like the dust bunnies that seem to show up every week. These simple facts tell me one thing.

Summer is over, fall is here and the looming grayness of that overtakes our hemisphere for one hundred plus days of the year has arrived. It was trumpeted in with a hail of screams as I sat on my front porch on the evening of October, 31^stand handed out the yearly bribe to the ghosts, goblins, princesses, super heroes and serial killers that had invaded my neighborhood.

Yes, it is official, summer is over and the time of dying and rest is on the cusp of overtaking our lives. A time when the earth tells us all to slow down, pace ourselves and enjoy the rewards of our efforts from the rest of the year. But do we? Do we sit back and rest? Do we slow down? Do we listen to the quiet whispers of the primal forces that have been controlling mankind for over 250 thousand years?

Not anymore. Sure we used to, when our lives were lived at three miles an hour. But today, we live our lives at the speed of light. (186,282 miles per second, just in case you are wondering.) We can’t keep up or compete with metric shit ton of problems life throws at us. Especially with the over commercialization of the impending holiday and the stress we put on ourselves by trying to make everything perfect for the celebrations that have already begun to invade our calendars.

It sucks. I have always looked forward to this season of rest. But for the past seven years I have been unable to truly enjoy all the offers, tidings and joy that are afforded to others. It’s ok, I’m not really complaining, I just seem to be missing some of the good cheer I used to bathe myself emotionally in on a daily basis. It’s the whole speed of light living thing I suppose. I don’t know how much longer me and my fellow elves will be able to maintain the hectic pace set for us by others. We are all falling apart and chores that we once were able to perform without batting an eye, now take their toll on our bodies in the form of splinters, jammed fingers, twisted knees and ankles.

We self medicate with all the tried and true over the counter painkillers and occasionally with some not so over the counter medications. We stagger to and from our tasks in a shambling state of undead likeness. The moans of sorrow a low an guttural in nature and only drowned out by our recitation of the tasks we have yet to finish. As we gnaw our way through our home made lunch’s, our bodies creak, pop and stiffen in protest of the abuse that is waiting us in a few short minutes.

We joke and laugh to hide our pain but our wit is soured and tarnished by the disillusionment of the impending work schedule. We know we will rise to the occasion and make the dreams of others a reality. We understand our position and we know if anything ever happens to one or two of us these dreams would never see the light of day. But we go on. We have to. There is something inside of us that drives us to complete our work. To not disappoint.

I can’t speak for my fellow Polaks, I wish I could, but I can’t. For me, I know why I do it. I know why I put up with all the discomforts, the pain, the abuse and the sleepless nights. I remember the looks on the faces of the small visitors, the ones who don’t show the wear and tear of a life of disappointment and the tarnish of failure. Faces whose owners are drawn into the magical season and are so immersed in the wonderment of the coming solstice that their minds ignore the minor flaws in the scenes they are observing. The stray burnt out twinkle light, the animatronic figure that appears to have palsy, the chipped paint or exposed electrical cord. All these minor errors are overlooked.

This is why I do it. This is why I work to the point of exhaustion and then continue to push through the mind numbing monotony in an effort to finish the tasks at hand. We have only four short weeks to accomplish our magical machinations but we get our jobs done on time. We always do.

My only real regret, that is if you can call what I feel, regret, is that my life is so consumed with work at this time of year, I don’t really have the opportunity to enjoy Halloween or Thanksgiving. Sure, I get to have candy from the spectacle of spooks and I enjoy the harvest feast of the pilgrims. But I am not as in touch with those holidays as I would like. But these feelings of loss quickly fade with the setting of the sun and the passing of the shortening days.

Soon, we will be surrounded by a fantasy world of green, red, blue and silver. Music so saccharine and overplayed that we forget we ever really liked the archaic melodies. Smiles of false friendship and the monotone redundancy of “Thank you.” From exhausted shop owners and clerks dig their way into your brain like an ear worm on a bad 1980’s radio station. We will be tired, groggy, drunk from overspending and generally in a bad mood. All thoughts of the joy we are supposed to be feeling for the season will be lost in the never ending deluge of commercial sales and greed for our hard earned dollars.

For me, this year at least, I am going to make an attempt at abstaining as much as possible from the commercialism that has invaded this coming season and just try to enjoy my family and my friends. I am also going to try and focus most of my energy on why we celebrate this time of year and what it means to me. If I am successful, I will post my thoughts in a blog, if I am not successful, I will still post my thoughts in a blog. Either way, you will know what I have discovered.

Have a great week.

Happy Halloween!

Breaking Newton

2011-10-23T13:39:00.000-07:00

I’ve always been a watcher, an observer, a student who studies the comings, goings and behaviors of the people around them. Or, at least I have tried to be overthe course of my life. This behavior has helped me through the course of mylife. It has also hindered me in the fact that I have been a bit slow to respond to people when they ask me a question and I am weighing in my mind what they want to hear and what I believe in.

So, I should not have been too surprised when I discovered an almost ancient truth the other night. The truth? “The apple does not fall far from the tree.” I guess, I need to explain myself and the situation a bit further… so listen upand read carefully because I have no idea how many toes I am about to step on.

A personI have known for the past thirteen years, I shall call this person… Chris…that’s a nice androgynous name, I’ve known Chris since he/she was about fourteen years old. Now, Chris has gone on to college, graduated early, still lives at home with his/her folks and proclaims his/her independence. This person I have seen grow from adolescent awkwardness into a semi-responsible adult.

Over the years, I have tried to build a relationship with Chris, help Chris when he/she needed it. Assist when Chris wanted to do volunteer work to pad his/her graduation resume. Look the other way when Chris was doing things inappropriate in a public space with his/her boyfriend/girlfriend. Offer simple yet sage advice about such things as careers, goals, savings accounts, politics andvacation spots when he/she asked me. In other words, trying to be a good person who helps others.

But…but… but… I should have known, for you see my dear reader, I am an acquired taste. If you hang around me long enough you know I speak my mind. This habit comes from the fact that I see life as a short but fruitful experience. Most people, young people that is, can’t handle this sort of honesty and openness. To be blunt, I speak my fucking mind. I don’t hold back and I refuse to try and take your feelings into consideration when you are goofing up so badly that you don’t even know it.It’s a personality quirk that endears me to somet but alienates me to those among the human race who are lying to themselves and the people around them.

This seems to be the case with Chris, and I had such high hopes for him/her. Chris over the past year has proven himself/herself to be a cut from the same cloth as one of his/her parents. I will call this parent Pat, another nice androgynous name. Pat, who for a lack of a better term, has lost faith in everything andeveryone. He/she, Pat that is, has been overheard saying on numerous occasions“If you lie to me then you will steal from me and I HATE a liar.” Now, as much as I would like to go intoeverything that is WRONG with that statement right here and right now, I won’t.Why? Because we all know this is a falsehood and holds about as much water as a colander full of pasta for Sunday’s spaghetti dinner.

For you see, Chris has been influenced all his/her life by the negativity of Pat. A negativity that has gone unchecked and will fester like an open wound untilChris is sitting alone in an empty house devoid of any happiness that could have been found or built upon because he/she refuses to recognize that people in his/her life mean no harm or malice to Chris’s life and that any misunderstandings or mistakes that may occur are purely accidental in nature.This misconception of humanities intentional harm is going to be the downfallof not just him/her but of humanity itself.

I have stated or implied in a lot of posts that I truly believe we as humans, are good in nature. I want to; no I NEED to believe this. Not just for myself but for my daughter. I want to believe that one hundred years from now, some semblance ofme will exist in some form or another. I want to believe that down the line mydaughter will tell her grandchildren stories of her insane, out of control,train addicted father and that all the work I did for the betterment of my community will not have gone to waste.

I suppose I am speaking of posterity, and all the implications of leading a goodlife and trying to do right by our fellow earthy compatriots imply. Of tryingto overcome the obstacles that have been put in our path not just by ourparents and lineage but by our government and elected officials. THAT WE ASLIVING, BREATHING, THINKING BEINGS have an opportunity to be better than theexample which was set for us by the fallible and impressionable humans beforeus. We can rise above our situations andbe better than the people who came before us. All we have to do is strive to do better, and not make the same mistakes our predecessors have made.

I knowI have tried to be better and to overcome the trappings of my examples in mylife. Have I been successful? I would like to say yes, but I know there are many times when I have failed. When I have succumbed to the easy, angry and blazed path of my forefathers in how I deal with failure, insecurity and perceived insult. I’ve lashed out in anger, pride and a wrong sense of righteousness. And I’ve paid for it in aloss of pride and self dignity. I’ve had to crawl back to my station and ask for forgiveness when I knew I was wrong. Swallow the pride of my native Polish/American roots. It hurt and I am sure it will hurt again.

To see this person, Chris, follow in the steps of his/her negatively charged parent hurts me and I wish I could do something about it. But, I know I can’t. Only Chris can change the course of his/her life and I hope he/she does soon.Because I would hate to think that the dysfunction of his/her childhood getspassed on to another generation.

Lastly,I would like you to do some homework this week, go to your child or significant other and love on them. Tell them you need them in your life and that you wantthem to help you be the best that you can be.

Have agreat week.

Guest Appearance.

2011-10-18T20:27:00.000-07:00

Ok, I have a guest BLOG over at http://horrorwritingdaddy.blogspot.com/?zx=38a68a4e389b4864 If you are brave enough to scroll through the mess and read upwards to 3,000 words. Enjoy.

Friends and Relations

2011-10-14T14:50:00.000-07:00

One ofthe blogs I read this past week was about friendship, well not really aboutfriendship. It was more about someone trying to understand friendship and itgot me thinking about relationships. This particular blog hints at three typesof friends, and they are, reason, season and life. I don’t think I can addressall three in one blog, simply because I have a lot of thoughts about each oneof these classifications to go into here.

Yousee, I don’t really classify my friends in the manner I read about. Don’t getme wrong, I understand the point the writer was trying to make, it is just thatI don’t have the same view. You see, and for those of you using google pluswill understand this, I’ve always looked at my friends by how much I could tellthem about myself without them freaking out and running off to live inseclusion or to the nearest sanitarium to get someone to commit me for the restof my life. In other words… circles.

That ishow I keep track of how close a person is in their relationship with me. Andthe smaller the circle, the more you know about me or the more I will revealabout myself to you. It’s just the way I work. Now, are all my circles/friendsin the same category? Nope. My mental picture of how this whole thing works in mylife looks more like a VENN diagram done by some sort of schizophrenic paranoidsociopath. But it works for me.

Surepeople can move in and out of my life through the difficulties of time, spaceand death, but do any of these factors detract from the relationship we built?Nope. It does not. You, my dear reader, should know this of me by now, justthrough the way I’ve written about some of my childhood friends, Navy buddiesand even my current chums. None of those people mean any less to me now that Iam older, as a matter of fact, I would go so far to say, they actually meanmore to me today than when we were running headlong into our respectiveadventures. And just because we’ve lost touch with each other, moved away, haddisagreements about things we don’t even remember does not mean that they areany less close to me now than when we said our last fare thee wells.

I knowthis is not the case for everyone, it can’t be. We as humans are programmed tonot always be nice to each other. We hurt people who are close to us, we betraythem, we ignore them, and we treat them like three day old meatloaf and thenwonder why we sit alone at night in an empty apartment drinking wine straightfrom the bottle. We hurt each other out of fear and ignorance and occasionallymalicious intent. It is the way of theworld.

But astime passes and our pain fades to a dull emotional scar whose origins have beenlost in the ether of our memories we yearn for the companionship we once sharedwith those who have moved on in our lives. Our brains lie to our hearts and thesoldiers of our IDs whitewash the past into a sparkling glorious fun filledtime of frolicking and remembrance. I for one am glad of this.

Once wereconnect and stories of our conquests and misadventures are re-hashed we endup growing even fonder of our past friends. Sure, we easily lie to each other,we are older, wiser, less likely to make the mistakes of our past simplybecause we are too tired and our bones creak and ache. But we know, deep downinside we know that we truly can’t remember the trespasses that separated ourlove for one another at an earlier time in our own histories. We try as hard aswe can to be good people to each other and in some cases we succeed, in otherswe fail.

In theend, we all have friends of varying levels, degrees or closeness. These friendsare in the same situation as you and we are all trying to make meaningfulconnections while trying to move forward in a society that is moving forward ata pace no one can be expected to keep pace with. After a week, month, year oreven decade we forget the pain others have caused us and weep at the loss offriend we once had. Our existence here on this mud ball is linear in nature butnot all of us are on the same path so it is nearly an impossibility we willmaintain the same set of friends throughout our lives. Besides if that were thecase, our lives would most definitely be boring and unfulfilling. New people inour lives mean new experiences and new stories that flesh out the chapters ofour individual lives. And I for one want an extremely large novel at the end ofmy existence.

Have agreat week!

Special Guest

2011-10-07T15:38:00.001-07:00

Today I am going to do a guest blog. Unfortunately for me the guest isgoing to have to speak to us from the grave. And, while he has been dead forover three years, the points he made then are just as relevant and funny today.Also, they are scary and very true.

Enjoy.

Butthere’s a reason. There’s a reason. There’s a reason for this, there’s a reasoneducation SUCKS, and it’s the same reason it will never, ever, EVER befixed.

It’snever going to get any better, don’t look for it, be happy with what you’vegot.

Becausethe owners, the owners of this country don't want that. I'm talking about thereal owners now, the BIG owners! The Wealthy… the REAL owners! The big wealthybusiness interests that control things and make all the important decisions.

Forgetthe politicians. They are irrelevant. The politicians are put there to give youthe idea that you have freedom of choice. You don't. You have no choice! Youhave OWNERS! They OWN YOU. They own everything. They own all the importantland. They own and control the corporations. They’ve long since bought, andpaid for the Senate, the Congress, the state houses, the city halls, they gotthe judges in their back pockets and they own all the big media companies, sothey control just about all of the news and information you get to hear. Theygot you by the balls.

Theyspend billions of dollars every year lobbying, lobbying, to get what theywant. Well, we know what they want. They want more for themselves andless for everybody else, but I'll tell you what they don’t want:

Theydon’t want a population of citizens capable of critical thinking. They don’twant well informed, well educated people capable of critical thinking. They’renot interested in that. That doesn’t help them. That’s against their interests.

That’sright. They don’t want people who are smart enough to sit around a kitchentable and think about how badly they’re getting fucked by a system that threwthem overboard 30 fucking years ago. They don’t want that!

Youknow what they want? They want obedient workers. Obedient workers, people whoare just smart enough to run the machines and do the paperwork. And just dumbenough to passively accept all these increasingly shitty jobs with the lowerpay, the longer hours, the reduced benefits, the end of overtime and vanishingpension that disappears the minute you go to collect it, and now they’re comingfor your Social Security money. They want your retirement money. They want itback so they can give it to their criminal friends on Wall Street, and you knowsomething? They’ll get it. They’ll get it all from you sooner or later causethey own this fucking place! It’s a big club, and you ain’t in it! You, and I, are not in the big club.

Bythe way, it’s the same big club they use to beat you over the head with all daylong when they tell you what to believe. All day long beating you over the headwith their media telling you what to believe, what to think and what to buy.The table has tilted folks. The game is rigged and nobody seems to notice.Nobody seems to care! Good honest hard-working people; white collar, bluecollar it doesn’t matter what color shirt you have on. Good honest hard-workingpeople continue, these are people of modest means, continue to elect these richcock suckers who don’t give a fuck about you….they don’t give a fuck about you…they don’t give a FUCK about you.

Theydon’t care about you at all… at all… AT ALL. And nobody seems to notice.Nobody seems to care. That’s what the owners count on. The fact that Americanswill probably remain willfully ignorant of the big red, white and blue dickthat’s being jammed up their assholes every day, because the owners of thiscountry know the truth.

It’scalled the American Dream, because you have to be asleep to believe it.

George Carlin (May 12, 1937-June 22, 2008)

Networking

2011-09-30T16:18:00.000-07:00

First there was Friendster, thenMySpace, next up was Facebook and now there is Google+. It seems, since 2002,at least, people have been using the internet to “socialize” with each other,create groups, obscure cyber-friends and even “hook-up” in an attempt to feelbetter about themselves and their lives. Hell, I’ve even overheardconversations from people as to who has the most “Friends” on their socialnetworking pages. (This makes me really question the insecurities some peopleseem to carry with them throughout their lives.)

So, where is all thisleading? Simple, you see I missed out on the “Friendster” craze, and I wasthere to see Myspace fall to king Facebook and now I’m witnessing the exodus toGoogle+. All this makes me wonder what sort of social interactive website is inour future. I mean think about it, do you remember what a pain in the ass itwas to learn how to upload your photos and customize your Myspace page only tohave to relearn the process for Facebook and now Google+. I can only assume thingswill become easier and more instinctive for us humans as our interactions withcomputers and the “blue nowhere” merge to a more cohesive understanding in ourfuture.

It seems anyoneanywhere can upload photos, blogs, vlogs or status updates anytime they choosewith the smart-phone technology available to them. Or, if they have a “tablet”computer, the options are almost limitless. Where is all this informationsharing going? Who is monitoring and sorting this information? Can one group ofpeople manage the metric tons of drivel that are constantly thrown onto theinternet? Or, is there some master computer somewhere doing all the sorting forthem?

I don’t know. I don’tthink I want to know. I don’t think anyone can know. Knowing information likethat would not allow any of us to sleep at night. Of course if the generalpublic did believe there was someone, somewhere, sitting in a bunker with ascore of supercomputers spitting out sorted data on everyone in our country, Ibelieve there would be a revolution of epic proportions.

Or not. Maybe thepublic would just shrug their shoulders, pick up the remote and change channelsto the latest comedy, drama, reality based show for an hour of mindlessentertainment. And this entertainment has only one goal in mind, and that is toturn our brains to pabulum and make us as compliant as possible to the will ofthe master controllers. (This is me being paranoid)

But I have faith inour country, less in our countries leaders, but faith none the less.

(I’ve left twitter outof this diatribe simply because the format in which it is built reminds me ofthe early chat rooms the internet used to have. Only now, you can pick andchoose who you are talking to and sort them through different types ofplatforms. )

And all of thisranting leads me to three questions… Who here is leaving facebook for Google+?And when the time comes are you going to be jumping off the Google bus to thenext social networking program? Also, what ever happened to good old face to face talking?

PS, the book "Death, be not Proud" that has my story "Cindy's Condition" in it is on sale at Amazon.com as well as BN.com. It's only 9 bucks, go buy a copy or three! PLEASE, I'M BEGGING YOU!

Death, Be Not Proud (But I sure am!)

2011-09-20T18:32:00.000-07:00

Death Be Not Proud

By John Donne

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt not die.

Hello folks! It is with great pleasure that I am able to announce the release of “Death, Be Not Proud a Zombie Anthology” featuring 13 writers. Some of these writers are veterans of the publishing industry, some are journeymen, others are rising stars… then there is ME a complete and utter neophyte to the world of writing and publishing. (Yes, this is fiction we are talking about, not my Blog.)

Here is the list of writers in no particular order:

Gord Rollo

Joseph Mulak

Joe McKinney

Gregory Hall

Lucy Snyder

Rick Hautala

Steven Shrewsbury

Scott Christian Carr

David Dunwoody

Sheldon Higdon

Skip Novak

Dave Brockie

Jonathan Maberry

I highly recommend you go out and buy a copy of this tome of deliciousness. I had fun writing my story and I know some of the other writers had a blast with theirs. The book is available from as http://www.amazon.com as well as http://www.barnesandnoble.com. (Please remember, orders of 25 dollars or more get FREE shipping so buy two copies and save yourself shipping costs. As for what you will do with the extra book, simple, give it to a friend as a gift. Send it to me and I’ll sign my story for you and send it back. Use it as a door stop. Or, in the case of a real Zombie apocalypse, you can use it to keep your mind occupied while hiding in your zombie proof bunker!)

Have a great week! (Now go buy a couple of books)

I Am

2011-09-09T13:25:00.001-07:00

Once again I sit down and write a blog in response to a question posed to me by Kelli Owen. Now, if you don’t know who Kelli is then your life is just not as full as it should be. Here, let me do you a favor by posting a link to her blog right now, http://kelliowen.com/, now click the link and read. Then come back and read my blog. This response is written for her August 26^th posting.

I Am

By Skip Novak

I am a liar. I am a hard worker. I am fat. I am loyal. I am untrustworthy. I am a cook. I am ugly. I am a solver. I am a thief. I am a hard case. I am lost. I am sick. I am happy. I am an enemy. I am a friend. I am a consultant. I am an opportunist. I am over worked, over tired, over drawn, over extended and over it.

I’ve been up, I’ve been down and I’ve been around. I’ve traveled from Wisconsin to the other side of the world. I’ve had my heart broken and been drunk for weeks. I’ve been in love and sober for years. I’ve seen the beauty of life in the petal of a flower. I’ve seen the horror of the world in a child’s eyes. I’ve witnessed desperate men and women commit despicable, frightening and appalling acts upon each other in the name of love, in the name of jealousy and in the name of hate.

I’ve been to the edge of the abyss and became mesmerized by its beauty so much so that I almost jumped in and lost myself completely. I’ve stood on even fields of bounty with daggers of pain tearing through my soul and no hope on the horizon. Only to become grounded by the simple fact that with the end of the day comes the end of pain and the dawning of a new day gives birth to new hope and the fresh soothing pain of healing wounds. I bear the scars of life’s misery and life’s loves.

I have memories I wish I could forget and I have moments I can’t remember. Reflective moments in my life I know cause me unblemished embarrassment and shame haunt me when I least suspect it. There are days when the yoke of my humiliation seems almost too much for me to carry. There are days when my heart is filled to the bursting point with adoration and hope for the people in my life.

I’ve been embarrassed by my successes and awards and I’ve been happy in my failures and losses. I’ve been frustrated by my ignorance and foolhardy in my knowledge. I’ve been blinded by a woman’s beauty and fascinated by a person’s intellect. I’ve cursed God and Satan. I’ve prayed for death and life. I found salvation in a baby’s eyes and despondency in a friend’s suicide. As I’ve grown older I cherish what I once had and beg for more of an innocent age where I’ve yet to be filled with pain.

I’ve blindly traveled the world in a mindless state of confusion and self pity only to realize I was truly looking for a way to make peace with myself and the unmerited sense of self worthlessness I felt was instilled in me by others.

I’ve confessed my sins to strangers and kept personal revelations from friends. I’ve aided in the promotion of enemies just to watch them fail. I’ve plotted, schemed and been through the wringer to attain vengeance on those who have intentionally harmed me and I’ve forgiven people who don’t deserve my grace. I’ve made ghastly first impressions and virtuous last impressions. I’ve fought for what I believed was right only to find out I was wrong and no matter what penance I pay I can never fix those wrongs.

I’ve won minor battles only to lose the war and I’ve won wars by not fighting any battles. I’ve been mean just to be mean and I’ve been good for the sake of being good. I’ve alienated people because I don’t like them and I’ve tried to build relationships with others out of a sense of loyalty. I’ve taught eager minds only to watch them fail and have beat myself up for their failure. I’ve poured everything in my being just to learn a simple fact of life that seems to be common sense to others around me.

I am a lover of art that celebrates life and I’m fascinated by horror of tragedy that seems to end life. I am a lover of books and knowledge and I relish in certain ignorance of my failures.

I’ve been an atheist, deist and a Christian.

I know I will never know what comes tomorrow and I’ve been scarred at the prospect of the knowledge of the coming day.

I’ve faced my fears and won and I’ve faced my loves and suffered.

I’ve been selfish and selfless.

I’ve brought out the best in myself and the worst in myself.

I’ve been homeless and free.

I’ve been unbound in my orphanhood.

I’ve been chained by the weights of family and responsibility.

I’m a man who for the past 44 years has lived on this mudball and with a purpose of trying to survive. And, now with the grace of God and love of my family and friends I hope to live at least another 44 years.

I am Skip Novak.

(Edited for space)

Reaper Madness

2011-09-01T18:45:00.000-07:00

“Have you ever had surgery?” the question came at me out of nowhere and I answered as honestly as I could.

“Yes.” I replied with a sudden wave of memories crashing into my consciousness of lying on a hospital gurney at St. Vincent’s Hospital in Green Bay Wisconsin as my mother read me the latest Readers Digest to calm my nerves and let the sedation drugs slowly lull me into a false sense of security.

I suppose I should rewind the clock for all you good folks out there who are sitting in your living rooms reading this on the wonderful world wide web.

The year is 1978, the Bee Gees own the radio air waves with little brother Andy coming in a close second and Paul McCartney and Wings are closing in on the title slot like a laser beam. In the theatres Grease, Superman and Animal House are raking in the dough to the laughter and surprise of everyone in attendance. On tv “The Incredible Hulk”, “Dallas” and “Taxi” are getting ready to premier. Home computers, cell phones, and the internet have yet to be invented let alone truly be thought of. And while all this is going on I end up with a bullet lodged in my mental tuberoses of my mandible (that’s a fancy way of saying chin.) All because Al Minnow (Fish) thought it would be funny to shoot me at close range in his bedroom with his Crossman Pump BB/Pellet gun.

That is the back story. Good Times.

Now, fast forward to 2011 and I am sitting in an emergency room in Suffolk, Virginia and some nurse who is barely out of nursing school is asking me about my medical history.

“What sort of surgery have you had?” she asks calmly.

I gaze over my glasses at her freshly washed face and into her ever so eager to help eyes and calmly say “I’ve had a bullet removed from my chin, on my right arm I’ve had my flexor/extensor tendon sewn together and above my left knee I’ve had my vastus lateralus repaired.”

I watch as her face slowly drains of color and her eyes become blank orbs of fear. I wonder what she is thinking for a moment but then the moment passes and I just enjoy the moment.

“Uhm… Mr. Novak, all at the same time?”

I would love to say yes just to watch her reaction but then I answer truthfully and say “No. Different times for the bullet and the tendons and muscle.”

The young lady lets out a nervous sigh and then starts typing on her computer.

The interview continues with such mundane questions like: Why are you here today? If you could gauge your pain level on a ten scale what would it be? Are you allergic to anything? And the list goes on and on. But as you may have already guessed, I have put my brain on auto pilot and am simply answering the questions from some primordial recess deep within my mind.

I’ve answered these questions hundreds of times. I don’t want to answer them anymore, I just want to get back to the semi-private room, have the Doc come look at the worst part of my body, give me a shot or pills and send me on my way. Because unlike the young nurse sitting across from me, I know I will never truly be fixed. I know I will always be in pain, I know I will never be the healthy strapping young man I was twenty years ago. I know that as my life progresses my health will decline and I will always have some sort of ailment that will constantly plague my system. This is the way of life. This is the chronic condition of deterioration we all face. I am comfortable with it.

When she was satisfied she led me to my examination room, handed me a hospital robe that was made for King Kong, asked me to change and then abruptly but politely left the room. But her questions, questions I have answered in the past and will answer in the future, got me thinking. I obeyed her commands and started to disrobe, and as I stood there in that stark, clinical room I stared at the mirror on the back of the door at the scars and age of my body.

Looking at them brought to mind some of the early railroad maps that I’ve collected over the years. Lines of tender pink tissue that started and stopped unexpectedly on my arms, legs and shoulders looked out of place but also looked as if they belonged. I tried to imagine myself without them and the stories they represented and the pain that caused them. I couldn’t.

I realized then and there, standing half naked with the threat of strangers coming to poke and prod me that my scars were as much a part of me as my sarcasm, wit and Polish heritage. I also learned I appreciate my life and all its difficulties, pleasures and familiarities better than most of my friends and colleagues.

You see, I have held hands with the reaper four times so far in my life and the S.O.B. has been cordial enough to let my hand go so that I may continue living on this mud ball for as long as my will sustains my love of breathing fresh air, smoking cigars and riding my bike. These scars are my memories of those lonely walks with him and I will continue to make my trek for as long as I can.

As for the Doctor and the nurse? They pushed, pulled, poked and prodded me to the best of their abilities then gave me some pills and sent me on my way. I’m healthier now because of them but I still wonder where the Reaper is right now and when he will come take me for my final walk.

Through the Lens and Under the Scope

2011-08-30T18:46:00.000-07:00

Mixed media has infiltrated our lives for over one hundred years in various forms. Whether it is newspaper, movies, photographs, internet or the almost forgotten realm of radio, media is a constant source of our daily lives. Almost everyone I know has a cell phone that takes pictures and videos that can instantly upload the information to the blue nowhere. All the while, in the corners of their houses sit video cameras, 35 mm cameras and digital cameras collecting dust. Newspapers accumulate in fire pits still housed in their weather protective plastic bags, forgotten and rotting slowly away to nothing. Books sit on shelves while their owners sit on couches with modern e-readers skimming through the latest best seller. In coffee shops around the world baskets which used to house loaner books have now been replaced by trash cans while the patrons open their laptops and surf the news websites for the latest disaster pictures which have been uploaded to the site not by paid professionals but by armatures who refused to leave the disaster zone under mandatory evacuation orders.

Am I guilty of this? Yes, I am to a certain extent.

I’ve been a videographer, photographer and to a certain extent a biographer over the years. Just like you and your friends have. But recently, well, as of a few years ago, I’ve slowly stopped photographing a lot of what goes on in my life. Instead I try to live in the moment and absorb what I am experiencing without having the barrier of a lens in front of me. An intentional immersion into what I am experiencing and the people with whom I am sharing the moment with. My senses got into automatic overload at my command, flooding me with more information then my brain can handle. I love it.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I still take photos and I still upload them to my computer and sometimes to my facebook, twitter and google+ page but not like I used to. I try, and this is tricky, I really try to NOT record in any format what it is I am experiencing so that later, when I am alone on my porch, at my desk or even driving to work I can drag those memories kicking and screaming into my consciousness. Yes, sometimes these memories carry embarrassment, regret, the woulda's the shoulda's the coulda's but most of the time they carry smiles, laughter and a warmth that starts as a spark in my soul and passes through the rest of my body like a wildfire in a drought ridden forrest .

I can’t say as I’ve ever felt a true need to photograph my life in its entirety or even partially. I do remember when I purchased my first camera, it was a Cannon 35 mm and cost me $200.00 in the ships store onboard the USS Austin. I took a lot of pictures of foreign ports, sites and shipmates with that camera. I even trusted the development of the photos to the vendors in whatever port my ship happened to be in. It was an odd way of doing business, what a sailor or marine would do is go up to an authorized vendor, fill out a form with all pertinent information on it and give the film, form and money to the vendor. Then, when the ship hit the next port, your photos would be waiting for you there. I never really understood how this system worked but it did and everyone was cool with it. I am sure now, looking back, we broke all sorts of security protocols and I am also sure there is no system like this in place today.

When I gaze back in my history at the times when I was looking through the lens of my camera I have to admit, I was not fully living in the moment. I was concentrating more on the photograph and the subject of the photograph I was about to take. I was never fully “in the moment." My mind was unable to absorb the sounds, smells, chaos and order of daily life simply because I was concentrating on a particular feature through the microscopic lens of my camera. I missed stuff and I don’t know what it is that I missed. There are gaps in my memories because of these events. Words not remembered, laughter not heard, actions not observed, simply because I was living my moment in a plastic, metal and glass box.

Do I regret those lost moments? No, I mourn them but as a consolation I have photos to help remind me of what I thought was important then. Those help.

Where is this leading? Good question. I suppose in the name of complete exposure I should let you know that while over the past few years I have brought a camera with me to certain events, I never even thought about pulling it out and recording the moments of history in which I am an active observer and sometimes participant in. Instead I find myself sitting back and enjoying life as it comes to me. Just being a casual observer, and when I do find myself in the midst of the fracas and fray we call life, someone usually ends up recording me. This is a new experience, normally when I am involved in something I am the recorder not a contributor. All of which is a new experience for me, I’ve tried to not have photos taken of me and have attempted to maintain a low profile but now I am not so sure this was a course of action I should have pursued but it is one that has served me well in my past. It is also something I will endeavor to continue.

I’m not a fan of being in front of cameras, I’m more comfortable behind them, but when a friend wants their photo taken with me I gladly oblige. When a person wants to talk to me, I make a concerted effort to meet them on common verbal ground. Being under the scope of interest is fascinating and I’ve experienced it simply due to my fortunate career at the museum. And, while talking about trains, railroad history and toys is pleasurable it has taught me to actually live in the moment with the people I am with and I know will have me enjoying its memories for years to come.

Have a great week.

The End of an Era

2011-08-21T15:28:00.000-07:00

Last week it was announced that one of the online forums I am a member of is being shut down. And if you don’t know what an online forum is, I am truly sorry about this fact and you should probably stop reading right now and do a google search on online forums. This news would normally not affect me since there are so many other forums out in the great blue nowhere to access, but this particular one was not related to trains, toy trains, or how to repair toy trains. Nope this one was strictly for my amusement, and helped nurture a particular interest of mine that just could not be filled by some of the other online message boards. If you’re wondering what the message board was about I’ll gladly tell you… it was mainly about books.

But it was also about so much more…

This was the first forum I found where I met like minded folks who shared in the joy of horror literature, movies, music and underground press. People from all walks of life were on there and all of them were as accepting and open about their lives as a person could be. I made a lot of friends who introduced me to some amazing writers and musicians and for that I will forever be grateful. I met people who opened their homes and hearts to other folks in distress and help complete strangers through some of the toughest times in their lives. People who may look mean, dirty, ornery and nasty on the outside but with some of the biggest hearts I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.

I know in the future we will still keep in touch, it is the way things are amongst us, but it will not lessen the blow we all feel with the closing of the doors to the home where we met. It’s been a fun two years for me on the forum with all my fellow F.U.K.U’s and I look forward to seeing them in the future whether in person, on twitter, facebook or even google plus.

One last note, I’d like to thank my old shipmate and salty dog Brian for giving us a meeting place to have fun.

Have a great week everybody.

American Dream?

2011-08-18T14:29:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. I should have had a new blog ready days ago and in my own defense, I did have one written. I just never posted it. And I probably will never post it. Why? I don’t know, there is no real answer for that question. But then again, I have a bunch of blogs, finished and unfinished on my hard drive. Some good, some not. This seems to be the way of things.

You see my dear reader, lately I’ve taken stock of my writings, both fictional and non-fictional and I am at a loss of time to be able to both effectively. It sucks.

My work schedule seems to be demanding more and more of my time and when I get home in the late hours of the day I am so wrecked I can’t even see straight let alone think coherent thoughts long enough to write down the drivel I’ve had coursing through my brain all day. Oh, in case you don’t know; I work approximately 64 hours a week between two jobs. Both jobs require my brain to be pretty active which, if I were 10 years younger wouldn’t be such a problem. As for my days off? Well, lets just say I don’t get 48 hours off in a row a week. I survive at a maximum of 24 and in those hours I like to spend time with my family or just sitting on my porch watching the world float by on four wheeled exhaust spewing machines and listening to the sounds of my neighbors live the life of the American Dream.

American Dream… that’s funny…

What is the American Dream in this new century of ours? You see, if we look back 100 years and take a snapshot of life in America in 1911 we would see the birth of air travel, there was no interstate commerce. Nor was there internet, cell phones, electricity in most houses was unheard of. Toy trains had just started to become a fad. No World War I or World War II. No Nazi’s or Al Quieda. No bottled water or decent plumbing. Life was lived at 25 miles per hour and people could keep up with the daily activities that consumed them. Hell, we were still on speaking terms with Cuba. Germany was still one country and as far as nuclear war, no one even knew what plutonium was.

Most Americans, at least from my research, just wanted peace and quiet and the ability to live their lives in the land of freedom and hope. People traveled by trains to get from one state to the next and usually spent their vacations with family for over 2 weeks. (I don’t think I want very many members of my family staying that long at my house but it worked for 20^th century families.)

In the art world, there was no Piccaso or Warhol or Pollack. In the music world, the Blues and Jazz had yet to take its stranglehold on the likes of Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, Miles Davis, John Coletrain and Billy Boy Arnold. As a matter of fact record players were not even in most homes nor were radios or televisions.

People went to work, school or stayed home and took care of the little things that built this country into what it was to become. If you wanted the news, you read the newspaper.

Today? Hmm, everyone wants the latest and greatest gadget on the electronic market; news is fed to you through the screaming fools on television and the internet. If you want facts you either google it or check Wikipedia and everyone accepts it for what it is. Cars race by with people in them at 70 miles an hour and no one has time to form coherent thoughts or sentences.

And maybe that is what we are becoming… mindless electronic addicted zombies who don’t even know our neighbors names. Friendships that were once based on the place you were born are now based on who you talk to online and when you see the latest pop movie at the multiplex. Real connections to folks are done through 140 characters or less. The American Dream of 1911 died with the advancement of technology and its innate ability to shrink the earth to a community the size of a small town in rural America where everyone knows everyone’s name.

I’m having a tough time with this right now; I’m trying to find my American Dream and I can’t seem to figure out what those two words mean. If you have any suggestions please let me know.

A Book Review

2011-08-05T18:11:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I don’t normally do reviews for books or movies or even television shows. I have a simple reason as to why I don’t. It’s because everyone has their own preference and taste in what entertains them. And, I hate it when I read a review of a particular entertainment media that is negative or even positive and then I go and experience the shenanigans for myself and I walk away with a differing opinion. But I have to make an exception here. Simply because I really dig this story and the master of prose who wrote it, so if you don’t want to read a book review by yours truly, feel free to skip over this blog and continue on with your life. But… If you really want to hear about a crazy read filled with amazing characters… By all means…

Read on.

Sampson and Denial by Robert (Bob) Ford

This story takes place in Philadelphia and the characters that Bob has created in the less then genteel world of economic struggle are unapologetic in their raw grittiness of humanity. Or in some cases, their lack of humanity as the fight for survival in a world that is shrinking faster than the fall of Presidential G.W. Bush’s approval ratings in his last year in office. I’d like to be able to pinpoint this tale into one particular genre, but I can’t. It’s filled with suspense, love, horror, crime, supernatural and self discovery. The 128 page novella never seems to give the reader a chance to catch their breath as they become engrossed in the tapestry that resides inside the mind of the main character and his quest to save himself from certain doom. As the hero traverses in and out of crime ridden areas of a city where the only way to survive is to become top rat in a world of cutthroat villains, I found myself looking over my shoulder just to make sure I was in a safe environment.

The manner in which the tale unfolds, told through first person with a nice blend of flashbacks to fill in the reader of the hero’s motives is seamless. Only to bring you back to the modern day futile struggles of a man seeking to do good in a world that wants him to be bad. This gives the reader a chance to connect with the protagonist as he slips ever deeper into mindset of revenge and rage on his quest for a more redemptive life. There seems to be something for everyone in this story and I hope that you go out and get yourself a copy.

Oh, I almost forgot, the book will be available from ThunderstormBooks.com

P.S. I’ve read this book twice and I am going to do it again… real soon!

Front Porch Visitation

2011-07-31T15:22:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago a buddy of mine asked me if I would like some company on my porch. And before I knew what I was saying I said “Sure Irv sounds good. Just remember, you can’t smoke my last cigar and I may break out in song and dance at anytime during the evening’s festivities and if I do, you are obligated to join me.” To my surprise he agreed to my terms.

We picked a date, right in the middle of the heat wave that has gripped our nation for weeks and he backed out. Just as well, because on that particular night I did celebrate the pagan dance of heat stroke and sweat induced catatonia, which I believed worked. It was a good night for me. As for the rest of the nation, I have no clue. But then Irv called and rescheduled… for the following week and once again I agreed to give up my sanctum sanctorum in order to share time with a fellow traveler on this ball of compressed dirt.

My pal showed up promptly late but in his defense he was laden down with fried chicken and a cooler full of refreshing, frosty beverages which are designed to not just produce a stimulating and sated sense of comfort but also fill a person with a significant “reality is a falsehood” mentality. (God Bless that Pal-O-Mine)

We promptly loaded up his vehicle and went for a ride. A ride in which I knew the end result but he insisted was a surprise. (The curse of brain power) After our scouting mission we returned to the solitude and sanctity of my front porch. Thus commences the conversation… most of which I refuse to reveal to you all here. Simply for the fact that what is said on my porch stays on my front porch. So, if you have any deep, dark, repressed secrets and confessions that beg to be released from your soul, feel free to stop by, and know that your revelations will not go any further than what the crickets in my neighborhood can convey.

The conversation we shared never waned and served us both richly and deeply. Yes, Irv comes from a completely different background than I do. For example, he was raised in the Deep South by a set of parents. I was raised in the north by a broken family. It seems his financial struggles were minimal at best while there were times in my upbringing where I didn’t know if I would eat another meal for days to come. He is college educated and I went to the University of Uncle Sam.

Yes, there are many differences between Irv and I, but there are many similarities as well. Similarities that I just can’t write about right now; which is pretty tough for me since I would love to be able to get some of the codified knowledge of a person whom I respect and like down on paper. But, I feel if I do so it will lessen the bond we have come to share.

You see, and for most of you this will come as no surprise, I don’t like to write too much about the people in my life. Sure, I mention some folks in passing or throw in a minor descriptive blurb about someone I am in contact with but this time I feel it would do a severe injustice to the friendship we have cultivated over these years. And, since you kind folks will most likely never meet Irv for the simple fact that he is more protective over his down time than I am about mine, it just seems to be pointless for me to even try and describe the inner workings of a man who if you meet, you just may underestimate the depth of the person he is because he is wearing a pink shirt, shorts and flip flops while complaining about being eaten alive by mosquitoes. (Damn run on sentences!)

We stayed up late, that night, past my normal bedtime, and talked ceaselessly about the problems in our cities, state and country. As much as I’d like to say we solved the problems we discussed, I can’t. Simply because we both agree that it comes down to an individual’s choice to make their lives successful and right.

The time spent on my porch was truly a gem in my rough and tumble life and I hope and pray for more times like this. Since that night I have opened my porch up to all who wish to sit down and spend some quality time talking, sharing a cigar, good beverages and just enjoying the simple act of communicating in an uninterrupted manner that we seem to have lost in this day and age of high speed communication and 140 character snarks on twitter. I have become less protective of my time alone here and if any of you care to stop by, pull up a camp chair or even sit on the porch swing, please know the porch is open 24 hours for business. And who knows, you may even get lucky and be able to enjoy a beautiful cotton candy sunset over Scott’s Creek.

Have a great week.

Stormy Weather

2011-07-24T17:54:00.000-07:00

Its 2221 (10:21 pm for all you non-military personnel) Saturday, July 23^rd, 2011 and I’m sitting on my front porch once again, listening to the crickets chirp in joy at the glorious dampness that is currently falling from the sky and cooling our city off for the first time in days. Yes, we have gotten a reprieve, however short lived, from the oppressive heat and humidity that has held not just my adopted city and state but the entire country hostage for the past few weeks.

Life here has been, at best just two millimeters from insanity. The heat has driven folks past their short-fuse-I’m-irritated-cause-I-just-saw-the-devil-buying-beach-front-property-to-open-up-a-new-level-of-torture-for-the-masses. Folks just seem to lose their mind over every small thing, for example, while I was standing in line at the grocery store I saw a lady pick a fight with another lady just because they were wearing opposing High School Alumni shirts. Now, if these ladies had been in their early to late twenties I could almost understand the angst they felt towards each other, but they were both clearly in their forties. Or, they had lived such a rough lives through partaking of legal and illegal substances that their bodies had aged prematurely twenty years since they graduated in early June.

Sidetracked…

What I was saying, the point I was trying to make is, it is hot! Very hot. And the rain was a much needed and welcome visitor. I can’t tell you how pleasing to all my senses the rain is. My ears marvel at the sound, my skin crinkles into gooseflesh in joy at the feel of t, my eyes are drawn to the prismatic laser show that is created as the droplets come between me and the light from the street lamps, my mouth is filled with a fresh, sparkling cleanliness that makes me smile, and the smell, oh the glorious scent carried down from the heavens by miniscule droplets of atmospheric bliss that holds no pollution of carcinogens because they were born at an altitude where our human debris cannot reach. A pureness that negates the invading aromatic coarseness of my cigar as I sit here and enjoy the gift of an earth reborn and refreshed from the heavens above by a creator who knows what he is doing, although at times it seems to us he is an absentee landlord.

You see, I love the rain and the storms that occur here on earth. The forces that congeal to create the temporary madness, mayhem and anarchy in an ecological system we as its caretakers have so blatantly tried to corrupt, control and coax into a manner that makes sense to us is purely a pipe dream we’ve been selling to ourselves since the first Neanderthal drew pictures on a rock wall. If you don’t believe in the amazing powers of our earth all you have to do is look at the devastation the storms create. Hurricane Hugo and Katrina, the tornados in Joplin, Tsunamis in the Pacific… I could go on and on and on but I know you get my point.

But to me, and this is a Skipism, I truly believe that the devastation a storm brings to a community it also brings out the best in people everywhere. One only needs to look at the brave men and women ready to go in after the carnage and clean up in the aftermath. Or even in the eyes of the people who selflessly give of themselves during the wreckage. A man who normally would turn his back on his neighbors just so he could get a good parking lot at the mall will risk his life to save an elderly person stuck in car about to be washed away by rising flood waters. A drug addict with nothing to live for will free a city councilman from under the wreckage of a building not for glory or money but because it is the right thing to do. These to me are miracles and with each passing storm, no matter how brief, the memories of the people who have lost their lives either trying to survive or trying to help others survive are brought to the fore front of my cerebral cortex.

Is it a curse, A blessing, A freak of nature, That I experience these things… I don’t know. But I am grateful for them. Simply because it proves to me that mankind as a whole is truly Man Kind and that regardless of the heat index, the storm surge height, the monetary value of devastation, we as a codified existence on earth are all connected to each other.

And that thought alone gives me hope in the survival of mankind. Who knew that a simple raindrop on a steamy night could stir such emotions and introspective thought from a guy who gets paid to play with trains? Not me that’s for sure. But as someone once said to me… “You are not as shallow as you want to be.”

What memories do the storms of nature and life bring you?

Bonding in the Electronic Age

2011-07-17T12:27:00.000-07:00

Monday was a good day, right up until I had to go to work. Now, as many of you know I love to ride my bike. It’s a great bike, a Gary Fisher Tarpon that I bought three years ago and on its saddle I’ve had some of the best rides in my life. These rides, while some have been solo the best ones are with my daughter. And Monday was no exception.

It was a rare day off from one of my jobs, not both, just one. The rarity of me having a whole day off free from responsibility to the task masters of my daily life are few and far in between. And the opportunity to spend those brief hours with my daughter was an even more rare circumstance. A serendipitous chance for a great ride and time to reconnect with my daughter of eleven years, that just could not be passed up.

Now, for those of you who don’t know, I live in Southeastern Virginia, in an area surrounded by water and there are times where you will literally sit in traffic for thirty minutes just to move one city block. Traversing from one city to the next can take you anywhere from ten minutes to three hours. But, and here is a genius idea, from my city to the next city there is a ferry boat that you can take every half hour. It’s brilliant and I often use this as a mode of traversing the Elizabeth River. Not only does this ferry take passengers but they allow you to bring bicycles onboard. Mensa Level Genius I tell ya!

My daughter and I ventured off into the great unknown wilds of our city with an idea of making a trek to places we had not seen before on our two wheeled adventures. I can’t speak for my daughter as to what she expected to get out of what we did, but I can speak for me. I wanted; no I needed to spend time with her sharing my passion for riding and seeing the sites of my adopted community at the leisurely pace our legs afforded.

We rode about a mile, past the oldest Naval Hospital in America, past sail boats berthed in modern marinas and homes that had housed troops during the Revolutionary War and Civil War. We rode past a Starbucks and a 7/11 and other modern shops and antique stores only to stop at a genteel bank to pay a bill. When we came out of the bank we saw the Ferry sitting in her berth and decided to ride to its next stop. Six dollars and twenty minutes later we were the proud owners of two round trip ferry passes and in the city where everything is available to anyone who knows where to look for what they want.

What did we want? Simple, we wanted to ride! Enjoy the beautiful day, the sunshine, the breezes, the cool shade of tree lined streets and the freedom of being in a country where anything is possible. We rode past schools closed for the summer, colleges with students attending summer classes, and teachers escorting summer camp students around various parts of the city. Sandwich boards that littered the sidewalk created an obstacle course for pedestrians and bikers alike and as we navigated the mine field of the city streets we talked to each other, and more importantly we listened to what each other had to say.

I won’t go into the details of our discussion because they are gems for my soul and sharing them with anyone seems to be a violation of Father-Daughter priviledge.

It seems we both look forward to these rides. Me, for the opportunity to relive my childhood in Green Bay and the freedom that having a bike gave me as a kid and my daughter for the chance to spend time with her father in a nontraditional paternal manner where I am barking orders all the time. (Yes, I bark orders like a drill sergeant in boot camp. I blame my Navy training for that manner of communication.)

We made the occasional stop and took a photographic record of some of the cool and secret places we came across. Like a hidden garden with a pond that had the coolest and bluest water we had ever seen. We made plans to go back there one day for a picnic and to soak our feet in the water. We found an old bicycle that had been painted pink and made into a planter. The night club with a graffiti painted entrance and a school that was built in the 1950’s with 100 foot columns. By the time we reached our destination, a really sweet comic book shop, we were hot, tired, sweaty and in desperate need of some cool, canned air and a refreshing beverage.

We didn’t stay long, just enough time cool down and buy some comics, quench out thirst and then it was time to hit the road. We had four miles to cover and several more sites to see. We stopped at a pawn shop so my daughter could see the glamorous world of used goods bought and sold as portrayed on television. When we left the owner of the shop walked us out to our bikes and asked us to come back soon.

We road to our lunch rendezvous and enjoyed pleasant conversation, good food and a relaxing 45 minutes of self indulgence in a friendly atmosphere with good people. But the afternoon was fading and I needed to get home to get ready for another shift of part time indentured servitude. We raced to the ferry and got there just before the river boat departed. As for who won the race… let’s say it was a tie.

Once back in our home city we rode straight home talking about all the wondrous things we had experienced in our four hour journey of local and personal discovery. It seems to me we created a deeper bond between our rolls in each others life, me as a father, her as my daughter and our relationship as a family grew richer for this experience. If you, my dear reader have an opportunity to share or even pass on a personal passion to your child, I highly recommend you take the time to teach them your particular past time. You will be thankful for spending the time now and be rewarded later.

Have a great week.

Updates for July

2011-07-11T11:46:00.000-07:00

Ok, I was asked to do a guest blog on a buddy of mines website (He held me at gunpoint)... so I gave him (At gunpoint and with the threat of some incriminating photos which are PHOTOSHOPPED!) a story I wrote over a year ago. I think you all may enjoy my tale (Since I can't post it here for you cause he STOLE it from me at GUNPOINT.) So head on over to Chris's website... read my story, leave a comment (Cause he said he would steal my computer if you don't leave a comment.)

http://horrorwritingdaddy.blogspot.com/?zx=2880fb5b6b5f7e0e (that is the website, just click it and have some fun.)

Please do this for me... Chris can get very angry and has very little control over his emotions. (I think he was dropped on his head a lot as a kid or adolescent.)

Thanks one and all. And look for a new blog in a day or two from me.

4th of July, 2011

2011-07-03T19:43:00.000-07:00

The Unanimous Declaration
of the Thirteen United States of America

When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security. --Such has been the patient sufferance of these colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former systems of government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over these states. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world.

Powerful words…very powerful. So powerful in fact that they are still the basis for our county today. I remember the first time I read these words; I was in the 5^th grade at Allouez Elementary School in Green Bay, Wisconsin. These words set me on a course of life that I still can’t comprehend today. These words made me want to right the wrongs of not just our nation but the nations across the globe. They made me want to give hope to the hopeless, defend the defenseless, comfort the sick the wounded and the ailing people I came into contact with.

They are also the reason why I ignore people who refuse to help themselves out of situations in which they have control over. This is the reason why I don’t talk to some folks who won’t even bother to bend over and pick up a piece of trash that is lying at their feet. Look, I want to help, I want to be the good guy, I want to be a friend that is there for others when they need him. But, it’s hard to help someone who refuses to help themselves. (Shit, I just realized I re-wrote my opening sentence. Oh well, I’m leaving it in because I can and if you don’t like it. Stop reading.) And all this brings me to another point. That point? Simple, I don’t mind helping someone in need as long as they are willing to help themselves. If you want an ear to listen to you, a shoulder to cry on, and advice from someone who has been in a similar situation… then I’m your man. I’ve been through a lot of crap for this country and I’m a better person for it. Hell, this country of ours has killed me physically, spiritually and mentally and then resuscitated my carcass back to life just so it could abuse me some more. Am I thankful? Grateful? Appreciative? Yes, I am.

But…

I ask, and this is a “Skipism”, why do we insist on helping people who neither want our help or refuse to help themselves out of situations they solely have control over? Why do we continue to send aid to countries that have asked for our help when they themselves refuse to try and get their own country out of the quagmire of corruption, disease, poverty and destitution they are in? It’s simple, I think. You see, it’s easier to take a handout than it is to work hard and make a living. Why put forth an effort when someone else is willing to do your work for you? It’s the causality of doing the right thing when all that is needed is a kick in the ass. But we as Americans don’t see it that way. Our vision is skewed to right the wrongs and injustices that plague the world, even at the expense of our personal freedoms and liberties. We believe our elected leaders hold our best interests sacred and chant the dogmatic “Pledge of Allegiance” every time we come into conflict with reason and logic.

But wasn’t our country founded upon principles contrary to popular opinion and status quo? Isn’t the reason we fought the Revolutionary War was so that we wouldn’t be oppressed by the King of England? Didn’t we fight a Civil War in an attempt to hold together a country founded on principles by men named Jefferson, Washington, Addams, Franklin and Hancock? Didn’t our founding fathers believe that the men and women whom they represented held sacred the truths and beliefs that we should all be able to earn a living without having to by terrorized by a totalitarian ruler? Isn’t that why Washington refused to serve more than two terms in office and thus setting a precedent for future leaders of our country? (With the exception of F.D.R.)

I would like to say that being contrarian in nature is an American trait, but I can’t. Although it is more prevalent in Americans than elsewhere in this mud ball, just look at the music we’ve created over the past 100 years. Well, maybe with the exception of the English punk movement.

I used to rebel against everything and everyone save for one exception, our country. The country founded by businessmen and community leaders who only desired to be free of the shackles and chains of an oppressive government. Leaders who felt that being on the streets of their cities and talking to the people on those streets was more important than figuring out how to be reelected and how much money they needed for the next campaign. I would love to say they were all honorable men in their personal lives but I have no evidence to state what their personal lives were like. I just know they tried their best to create a world for future generations to live in freedom and prosperity. In some areas they failed and in some they excelled, but remember it was an experiment like none other at the time.

I’ve learned over the years, and this was a very difficult lesson, that sometimes our leaders don’t really know what they are doing. They are actually just flying by the seat of their pants and hope they are doing the right thing. I can’t fault them for this, simply because I do this and knowing some of you out there that are reading this, you do this as well. Where does this leave us? Well, I’d like to say that we are the greatest nation in the history of the world. I’d like to say that we have lived up to the expectations of our fore-fathers and their dreams for us. I’d like to say that we Americans have exceeded all boundaries and obstacles put before us.

But I can’t. We still have a lot of work to do and as long as there is breath in my lungs and energy in my body I will continue to work for the dream of freedom and liberty that the foundation builders of our nation set for us. And with that, I will leave you with this second quote from the number one Hero on my list. He is the same guy who helped draft the Declaration you read earlier.

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

Happy Birthday America

...and Underway

2011-06-19T21:44:00.000-07:00

I’ve always thought that the older I got the wiser I’d become. This is not true. It is a fallacy that I have recently come to accept and understand. Things aren’t simple as I’d once thought.

Hmm… Let me back up here a second and try and sort my thoughts out, maybe even explain what I am trying to convey here… It all started when I was a kid back in Green Bay, and before I hear the collected groans of the internet en-mass let me quash your thoughts, This is NOT another Fish Tale.

You see, when I was a kid in the 1970’s everything was simple to me, as I believe it is for most kids. There was right, and there was wrong. There was good and there was bad. When we played “Cops and Robbers” or “Cowboys and Indians” the cops and cowboys were good and the Indians and the robbers were bad.(I was rarely a cowboy or a cop) Boy, were we naïve. Nowadays, sometimes it’s hard to trust the cops and their motives and some robbers are only doing what they have to do in an attempt to take care of their families. As for the Cowboys and Indians, well, let me just say that the Native American Indians got a pretty raw deal from the Caucasian European invaders from the east.

So yeah, I grew up believing that right was right, wrong was wrong and everything was black and white. But the older I’ve become the less things seem so cut and dry to me. It seems that the lines between good and bad, right and wrong have blurred and faded into one giant sky of hazy grayness with no discernable line on the horizon that separates the heavens above or the earth below. And just what is in all the grayness that seems to fill my vision? Good question. I can identify some of the things in those clouds of disillusionment. Inside lurk the monsters of speculations, fear, remorse, manipulation, good intentions, hopes and dreams. It’s a crazy place to live, the void of nullity that has become a constant vision of my future. It’s hard at times to remember the rightness of life and the wrongness of man and the never ending battle between the two.

Is it right to steal? No. Is it right to steal food for starving children? Yes. See the conundrum? And that is just the easiest example. Life is filled with tougher examples of hard choices between doing what we’ve been taught are right and the consequences of our actions once the right thing is done. I know the comic books/graphic novels are filled with these examples, i.e. Peter Parker/Spiderman not stopping the man who robbed the fight promoter only to then have the robber kill his uncle. Did the promoter deserve to be robbed after not paying Peter Parker his money? Did Peter have a duty to stop the robber? Did Peter’s uncle deserve to be killed for what we are led to believe was just a car-jacking gone wrong? Would Peter have been the same Spiderman if his uncle had not been killed? See… LINES have been BLURRED! (I apologize now to anyone who is reading this part of the blog and has no clue about Peter Parker and his origins of becoming Spiderman.)

Sure, some truths remain constant, the loss of a baby is a tragedy no matter where you are… unless you read speculative fiction and that baby was named Adolf Hitler. But then what would have happened in Germany and Europe in the void of leadership of the early 19^th century? Would we have had another plague sweep the world? Another dictator takes Hitler’s place only this one a bit more successful in his military strategies? And what of all the children born that are now known as the Baby Boomer Generation and their impact on not just America but the world itself? Isn’t Bill Gates a boomer? Steve Jobs? And many other of the current world’s innovator’s and designers? The Grayness seems to be sending it’s tendrils of speculation into my mind and blurring my vision of this computer screen.

Here is a funny thought and truth, writers, not me for I believe I am still a hack, make their livings by speculating and saying to themselves “What if…” and I guess that is where I am right now. I’m saying “What if…” to a lot of things. I have several pieces of fiction out for submission; I have a piece getting ready to be published and am working on at least three other pieces just for fun. I guess you could say I’ve not only dipped my toes into the grayness of the horizon but I’ve immersed myself mind, body and soul into it and am treading water in a sea of possibilities. And the more I write, the more I read, and the more I learn, the more I realize the less I know with the exception to the fact that I will never be wise and I will never know as much as I want.

I know there are natural laws and absolute truths out there that dictate the motion of the stars and the flow of atoms through the cosmos, but when it comes to the affairs of man and the institute of relationships between one person and another I know there is no formula or solution that provides definitive answers. Just grayness.

Humanitarian Hope

2011-06-13T07:21:00.000-07:00

Hello and welcome back. I took an unannounced week long sabbatical of blogging last week simply because I was working on other projects and my work schedule (I do need to pay my bills) as always has been not just hectic but chaotic as well. Speaking of the insanity of my jobs, I am going to be extremely honest here and tell all of you right now, I almost quit my jobs last week. I know to some of you this is going to come as a shock simply because those closes to me know how much I enjoy my work and have no problem with putting in extra hours when needed to.

Whoops, got a bit sidetracked there.

Let’s just say it was a pretty rough week for me but I made it through the trials with little damage. (Physical damage, I’ll be emotionally scarred for years to come.) So, work was tough (what else is new), but I’m sure that is a song that has been played so much the record is broken. What else happened? Hmm… well, I came to a stunning and amazing realization that in my part time job as well as my full time job people are rude, crass, arrogant, impolite and generally speaking idiots (Not you guys, I’m talking about the people who are not reading this. I love each and every one of you and I think you are all amazing!)

Nope, I’m talking about the people who come into the Museum and let their kids run wild, beat on things, tear things up, stesl parts of exhibits, place their kids over an OBVIOUS barricade just so they can get a closer look at something and then act surprised when the kid breaks part of the exhibit. People who, when waiting in a queue line demand front of line privileges for no apparent reason other than the fact they are tired and have a self righteous sense of importance. People who never take responsibility for their actions or inactions, the same people who demand they are entitled to have everything given to them because they are breathing the same air as you.

Of course these are the same people I have to serve food to later in the day. The people who ask for a medium rare steak and send it back to the kitchen saying it’s not cooked enough and when the chef cooks it to a medium they send it back saying it’s too well done. These are People who order me to get them more food while they still have a plate full in front of them and a mouth full of food as they speak, spewing the contents all over the table and expect me to clean it up for them right then. The same folks who only order drinks with free refills and demand fresh glasses of drinks when they backwash the contents of their un-swallowed food into the previous glass. The kind and gentle customers who order extra rolls to take home with them and are quick to complain about you or the food if they don’t get everything they feel they deserve. You know the folks who order water and a BOWL of lemons and then use all the sugar on the table to make a glass of lemonade and get pissed at you when you charge them for it.

It is these self righteous, ignorant, barely literate Americans that have pushed me to my limits. Not the people I work with. Not the insanity of my work schedule. Not the rigorous physical and mental demands on my mind and body. Nope, it’s the public as a whole that has driven me to want to throw in the towel and Go Galt. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I won’t. And most importantly, right now at least, I can’t.

You see, I have still have hope. Hope in not just Americans but humanity across the globe. I believe, truly BELIEVE, that there is good in all of us and that one day, a day a long ways off. A day so far in the tunnel of the future that there isn’t even a glimmer of it yet, that people will actually become decent, caring, giving, helpful, responsible, respectful and understanding of each other. Wars will be stopped, Peace will reign and all will not be lost. Call me a dreamer, call me naïve, call me a romantic, call me what you will. But right now, I still believe. Even after the craptastic week I had.

I think out there, somewhere, someone(s) have answers and solutions to how to fix the disease of idiocracy that has been coursing through the veins of not just Americans but the entire world populace for so long. I don’t think that solution is going to be an over the counter pill either. I don’t know what it will be or how it will take root in a person who has been taught from a young age that they deserve everything they can get their hands on or that their eyes see and their brain tells them they need. Nope, it is going to have to start small, one person doing one thing for someone else with no expectations of receiving anything in return (Like I said, I’m a dreamer).

No, I’m not talking about random acts of kindness… I’m talking about practicing humanity. Implementing common courtesy and understanding that some folks have bad days. (Like not getting pissed off when someone cuts you off in traffic or comes to a complete stop on the interstate for no apparent reason.) I think what I’m talking about is self control. I know, I know, I’m not one to talk about this stuff too much. Heck, I need to work on my self control skills just as much as everyone else does. And, maybe, just maybe, by writing this down it will help me keep my wits about me when next I get angry, upset, pissed off or just plain fed up. Maybe I won’t blow my top. Maybe I’ll remember what I’ve written here and be able to hold on to the humanity that I’m striving to find not just inside of myself but inside everyone I come into contact with.

Ok, I am going to wrap this up with a simple pledge to myself: I pledge to try and find the humanness inside the folks I come into contact with this week. I will strive to make myself a little more understanding to what others are going through and not expect anything in return. (Pray for me cause I’m gonna need it on this one folks.)

Have a great week.

Conversation with and Elder.

2011-06-02T20:42:00.000-07:00

I initially wrote this blog/story last year, but in light of repeated conversations on this topic and the fact that recently the movie “Atlas Shrugged” was released I’ve decided to revisit this tale once again and actually relay it to you fine folks out in the blue nowhere. I hope you enjoy it and please know it is not my intention to offend anyone.

“A difference of opinion does not mean a difference of principle.” Thomas Jefferson said those words and he has been a hero of mine since as long as I can remember.

“Don’t you think everyone deserves health care?” the grandmotherly lady asked me as she peered over her reading glasses at menu the hostess had given her just moment before.

“Excuse me?”

“Skip, don’t you think everyone deserves to have proper health care and be taken care of when they can’t take care of themselves?”

“That depends.” I answered, only to see a frown form on her face and the glint of hunger that was in her eye fade to a minor peckish annoyance.

“Well, yeah.” I said as I glanced from her to her dining partner, an elderly man in a wheelchair with a plethora of medical issues. She was his caretaker; she’d been escorting him on daily walks/rolls through Olde Town Portsmouth for at least ten years. I’d seen them on just about every street and alley for almost as long as I’d been working and living in Portsmouth. Usually she would hold the control of his battery powered wheel chair as they walked down the cobblestone streets and brick laden sidewalks. In the winter she wore a full length coat and a Russian Sable hat, in the summer it was usually jeans and a loose fitting shirt. He wore slippers, jeans and a t-shirt, the only exception was that when the weather turned cold he donned a goose feather coat and hat.

Almost every Saturday they show up at the restaurant I work part time and order the same food. I could recite if verbatim here, if I wanted to divulge more identifying information about them but I am trying to protect as much of their privacy as I can. I don’t know why either, since I am sure they do not read my blogs, but it is the same respect and courtesy I try to afford to all people in my lives unless they give me permission and as of this writing they have not given me permission.

“You really don’t want to hear my opinion on this topic do you? I mean, I am sure I’m in the minority on this topic and you have clearly stated your opinion. What would you need my perspective for?”

“Skip, please, humor us. I insist. Besides, we both like you and your opinion, while it may be controversial, it needs to be heard.”

I looked around the restaurant, it was pretty empty, and the rush of early birders hadn’t quite made it in yet. I looked down at my watch, 1710 it read, yes, I’m still on military time twenty five years after I was honorably discharged from the United States Navy. I shrugged my shoulders, took my black American Express bi-fold receipt book and tucked it into the back of my dress slack, folded my hands in front of my crotch and recited something to this effect.

“Since you asked, and I tried to politely refuse, but you insisted, I shall give you my opinion on what I believe you are asking me. Which is the topic of Universal Health Care. A topic that is invariably tied to everything in America and a topic that is most likely, in my eyes at least, going to cripple my generation and the generation of my child and grandchildren.” I paused, looked at my customers, she was staring up at me as if I were suddenly speaking a different language, he was looking at me with tears in his eyes and the white whiskers on his beard slowly withering as if I had insulted him.

“Go on.” He rasped “She wants to know how you feel.” And nodded towards his table mate.

“Alright, first, let me state, I am not saying that I am against helping people who NEED help, making sure that proper medical care is given to people that can’t provide for themselves. People that are unable to work, people that have crippling diseases or medical malady’s that prevents them from at least making an attempt at performing a task that not just affords them an income but also makes them feel as if they are doing something for not just the good of society but a task that makes them feel as if they are part of something bigger. A job or career that makes them feel useful in a manner that they can live with themselves and be able to look back on their life and say, “At least I tried! I did something. I was not a burden on my family or society!”

“ I truly believe people, not just Americans’ need to feel useful and that they are contributing to a larger scheme in life. Helping themselves and their neighbors to become better in the overall outlook of mankind as a whole. I believe that in each and every human there is an inherent need to be a part of a community whose goal is to improve the lives of our offspring. Now, with what I have just stated and shared with you, I want you to understand this, I am a person who for the better part of twenty five years has worked a minimum of two jobs at least four days a week just to provide for his family. When I hear a person complain they cannot find a job or have been unable to secure a career position for their future and the future of their family I say to their face “You are not trying hard enough.” I then explain to the complainer that I’ve worked a myriad of jobs all my life. Jobs that include rock picker to machinist to security guard to air conditioner helper to driver to exhibit technician to waiter. I try to explain to this person or persons that as long as they are being paid to perform a duty or task they are on the road to improvement to not just themselves but to their family and how others perceive them.

If a person stands beside me and says they are unable to perform a task that I, a high school graduate, a Navy Vet, and a man who is willing to take on just about any task no matter how menial. I look at them and ask them to either explain why they are physically unable to perform the task at hand. If they cannot give a viable reason and walk away from me, which most do, I look at their back as they fade from my vision and wipe them from my memory. They are not worthy of my thoughts nor are they worthy of the fruits of my labor. Meaning, they most definitely do NOT deserve any of the money I earn through my sweat, nor do they deserve any of the tax money the government tries to give them. However; if said person IS truly unable to perform a task, is handicapped in such a fashion that prevents them from either assisting me in the job or me assisting them, then THEY do deserve to have as much assistance that not just I can give them but WE as a society can give them.

I am not callous nor am I absent of heart and feelings. I do believe that there are people in our society who need assistance from us. I also believe there are people that will readily take advantage of the generosity which is so freely given. The latter people, the moochers, the hanger ons, the lazy and loop hole driven leeches of society do not deserve anything.

Yes, I agree, there needs to be reform in the medical industry that has machinations in all areas of our lives. There needs to be radical change in not just how medicine is distributed but how a person receives their medical care. There is no easy answer or solution; this is not a mathematical formula which can be solved by the greatest minds on earth. This is problem that requires a well thought out plan which can be implemented at a pace that will not destroy our economical basis. A solution that can be formatted and adjusted to the individual citizen of the United States, on that note, I do not believe an illegal immigrant deserves to be treated to the same health care a person who is actually paying for and working for a living. A person who is an illegal alien is here illegally which to me means they are breaking the law. A law breaker, by my way of thinking, who is not attempting to resolve their illegal status or in a position of restitution for what they’ve done, does not deserve to have the same treatment as someone who is working for fifteen thousand dollars a year. Or for that matter someone who is working for thirty five thousand dollars a year and trying to make a mortgage payment, pay for food, gas, medical insurance, credit card bills and whatever else constitutes life in our country today.

Should we turn these people out? Close the door on them at the hospital? No. But on the other side of that coin, should we write off Billions of dollars in medical expenses each year to treat people who have not assisted in their own health care? No. See, no easy solution. We as a society want to do what we believe is right, even if what we do bankrupts our nation for future generations. If you don’t believe me let me ask you to look at the Social Security Administration. Right now, I know I will never be able to retire because the money I’ve been putting into the SSA will not be available in 30 years when I am ready to retire, nor will any time of economical health care.

So you see, for me at least, there is no easy solution. I do believe that some folks need help but at what cost to not just me but all workers in our society? What happens when there are more folks that either refuse to work or believe they are unable to work? What happens when a person who has the flu or common cold can’t get medicine because it is too expensive or the manufactures of the medicine are out of business because they can’t afford to pay the taxes of doing business? What happens to our society when it is only the politicians who are able to afford a living in this country because they’ve bankrupted the middle class and the wealthy class? What happens when there is no one left to work hard and others able to live off the sweat of that person’s labor?”

“Skip, you’re being a bit ridiculous and defeatists aren’t you?” She asked me.

“Not at all. Everything is connected. The laws of today will affect our children’s children. Just like the laws of Truman, Lincoln and Jefferson affect us today. We are only as strong and successful as our fore-fathers allowed us and as successful as the current administration deems necessary. If the government outlawed fish today then it would cripple the country tomorrow. Just like the Health Care conglomeration is crippling us today.”

“You really believe all that?” She asked. I looked at her table-mate, he was nodding his head with a gleam in his eye.

“Go ahead Skip, tell her.” He said to me.

“Yes, I believe every word I said, and I will believe it until I see proof to the contrary. Now, what would you like to eat?”

She looked at me with a blank stare, shook her head and said “The usual please.”

15 minutes Late.

2011-05-30T21:13:00.000-07:00

Happy Memorial Day everyone.

As of my post last week, I can’t say I’ve met too many new folks and had deep, meaningful and life altering conversations with them. But, I have met new people, and I’ve spoken with them about common interests and common dislikes. I’ve stepped out of my box and became a participant in a Memorial Day Parade. (Which, I normally would have not just NOT been in but I would have tried to avoid attending said parade in the first place.)

The new Museum opened and over 600 people showed up on opening day. The subsequent days brought another 1,500 people on Saturday and 500 on Friday. To say we are a hit is an understatement. The museum made all the local news stations, papers and radio announcements. Photographers, videographers, interviewers and all sorts of other “ers” were on hand to talk with anyone with anything to say “On the record.” (Me? Soon as I see a camera or a talking head, I head towards my office and turn out the light and pretend I’m not there. This tactic actually works.) Now, don’t read that I avoid people, ok, I do, but in this case, I actually avoid cameras and interviews and it is only because I’ve been interviewed before and when I watch the footage later, I always feel like I sound like an idiot.

I did manage to graciously accept a compliment about my work from Millie Lancaster and how my vision of the trains at the museum matched her late husband June’s vision. (Extremely high praise and I was struck speechless and even teared up a bit when Millie hugged me and whispered that fact in my ear.) I watched as some folks stood in awe and wonder at what we have accomplished over the past eighteen months. I listened to all the compliments and waited for the complaints to follow. Those complaints never came, but, that is to say they won’t come in the future.

On to more serious things:

Memorial Day, a day in which I spent remembering my fellow shipmates I served with and trying to remember and honor the men and women that came before me and that are serving now. As I sat in my buddies truck traveling down High street in 103 degree temperature at 5 miles an hour waving to people of all ages. Some waved back, some stared blankly into space wishing it were cooler, some smiled blankly at us and wondered who we were and what happened to the marching band kids who had passed out to heat exhaustion. Looking at the faces of the citizens of Portsmouth and being a part of our countries longest running Memorial Day Parade made me wonder how many of these people actually understood the sacrifices the men and women of our military have made for America throughout history. These rhetorical questions were answered when I realized most of the onlookers were missing one small but vital accessory on Memorial Day.

Not a flag, not a button, not a hat… but just the simple patriotic colors of the day. Red, white and blue. It was not until we were two blocks from the grandstand that I saw the first flag waving in the hands of a small child. We had traveled over a mile, the heat was oppressive and our moods were quickly waning from joy to annoyance. The driver and I had made more than our share of snide, rude and snarky comments about the lack of patriotism were seeing, most of those comments were made with AC/DC blaring on his speakers which only fueled our cynicism. But seeing that little kid waving the American flag as if her life and the lives of our nations finest depended on how franticly she waved it.

I smiled, I laughed and I waved to her. I made a comment to the driver and he almost wrecked the truck he was laughing so hard. I don’t believe for a second that kid knew what the day was for but to me she had a gleam in her eye told me she knew it wasn’t about store sales, getting drunk and making some pathetic attempt at a sport you haven’t even thought about for at least a year. She seemed to think it was about watching a parade and seeing all the really cool people in uniforms marching, playing music and driving small cars with large men in them. You know, America. A minor victory for my psyche and hope for our country.

And this concludes my Memorial Day tale. Hope you all had a good one.

Season of Searching

2011-05-23T10:30:00.000-07:00

Spring is here. From my front porch I see cardinals whistling their song of lust from the tree in my front yard. Bicyclists rush past my house shouting “Clear, Clear, Clear!” and “Right Turn, Right Turn, Right Turn” followed by “Hep! Hep! Hep!” There is a cat sitting on a log across the street trying not to move as he stalks a robin that is catching worms in the wet grass left over from my neighbor’s efforts at washing his car.

Yes, warm weather is officially here in the heart of the south. Temperatures are up, citronella candles are burning and there are rumors the Brood 9 Cicadas will be emerging from their 13 year slumber any day now. People are starting to move a bit slower, air conditioners seem to be working overtime and the beaches here in Virginia are starting to fill up with tourists complaining about the humidity and lack of waves with the ability to surf on. Not that some of these tourists would know how to handle large waves with an incalculable undertow.

Ahh… Spring turning to summer… A time when kids forget what they’ve learned in school, teachers pick up part time jobs as waiters and more and more folks flock to the cool, canned air of malls, movie theatres and museums. When the pollen from the flora and fauna are so thick that you can barely catch your breath and every car in the tri-state area is a pale shade of green. Yup, it’s time for the hazy, lazy days of summer.

Watermelons’ ripening on the vine and the sun stays in the sky longer; most folks take life a bit easier. Me? I start working harder. But ya know, the older I get the harder it is for me to keep pace with my old self. I’m chasing after the memories of my youth and that is not an easy thing to do. I hear from people all the time about how tough things are for them. They can’t find a job, they can’t get ahead, they can’t find friends, they can’t… Aww, you know the song. I don’t have to spell it out for you. But you know what I say to them? Do you? It’s simple… Just do what you can to survive. Do what you have to do. It’s that easy. Especially now, when most folks want to slow down and enjoy the longer days by sitting on the beach or in the shade, I try to speed up. And, so can you.

Ya know, Thomas Jefferson only believed in taking two days off a year, the first was New Years Day and the second was July 4^th. Since he was a Deist he did not celebrate any religious holidays nor did he celebrate birthdays. He just wanted to work and look where that took him. Not that I’m comparing myself to Jefferson or his work ethic. I’m just pointing out that even our founding fathers were hard workers and tried to do everything they could in their power to make a better life for not just themselves but also the future of the country they were forming.

But it’s summer time, almost… and I need to take a much needed break. Not from writing, not from my family but from work. So, in a few weeks I am going to take a few days off. Well, I’m going to try to at least. I’ve submitted my paperwork and I am currently waiting for the approval signatures. My work has taken on a life of its own and demands as much attention now as it did when I took on the job eight years ago. These past two years have been nothing but a blur of days and nights, storms both natural and manmade. I’ve traveled to see long lost friends and made some new enemies close to home. Seasonal celebrations have been mostly phoned in and the few conversations I remember with my close friends seem to take place either outside in the cold, heat, rain or wind. I enjoyed those times and I look forward to those brief interludes of friendship that seem to warm my soul more than lying on a sun drenched beach of the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

The earth has moved through eight of its season’s and I can’t seem to truly remember any of them. Sure, I see the glitter of winter’s snow in the photos I’ve taken, the sun burst leaves of autumnal foliage and the pantone palette of spring’s blossoms. I have enjoyed each of those photos. And the brief memories that well up inside my mind’s eye and all the emotions those memories bring with them. Those emotions and memories make me realize how starved for more memories and emotions that only experience with close friends and family can bring.

John Donne wrote: No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind… I suppose this is what I am getting to… I need to become more connected with people that increase the value of the seasons of my life.

With this thought I am going to sign off for the week and go in search of more experiences and fulfilling seasons.

Be good to each other this week.

A New Beginning

2011-05-14T11:40:00.000-07:00

Hi, welcome back…I hope you enjoyed the 16 part tale from my youth. I know, I know, it seemed a bit long and drawn out and I have to admit that it grew into a tale larger than I expected. But I feel each chapter grew into a standalone story and I just want you, my dear readers, to know that I enjoyed the telling of the tales as much as I hope you enjoyed reading them. I am going to say now that part 16 is not the final part of the story of my friendship with Fish and Fin but it is the final part of this tale. Maybe, possibly, hopefully, one day I will move on and finish the craziness and adventures the three of us had together and the events of our separation and why we have never sought each other out since we called each other by our private names… names one day I may reveal to you.

Today, however; I am pleased to announce that I’ve finally moved on. No, I’m not dead… the renovation project for the Children’s Museum of Virginia where I am an Exhibit Technician and where I work primarily as the Train Technician for the Lancaster Antique Train and Toy Collection is less than a week from completion and I’ve moved out of the Administrative offices and into my new office where I’ll be able to work on, repair and operate toy trains for a living. (DO NOT HATE ME BECAUSE I PLAY WITH TRAINS FOR A LIVING. Matter of fact; don’t hate anyone for what they do for a living. I don’t.)

Over the past two years I have packed up, moved, stored, moved again and unpacked almost 10,000 trains and toys. It has been an amazing and crazy experience. Also, I’ve seen my vision of the future of the Lancaster Antique Train and Toy Collection come to fruition. My design for the train layout, train cases and toy cases are complete. The trains run beautiful on the tracks and the toys and trains look spectacular in the train cases. The kids who visit the museum will now be able to not only see toy trains running but also, they will have the opportunity to operate a toy train, in a limited capacity, but they will still be able to experience the wonder and joy that millions of men and women experienced as youths during the 20^th century. And I was a part of that. On my death bed I will hopefully be able to look back at my life and see the ripples of my work in the blueprints of time. That thought, and others actually help me sleep better at night.

We, as a human collective, seem to always be striving to better ourselves, leave an imprint or legacy for others to see when we are gone and mostly forgotten. Some people create artistic masterpieces; some write tales of conflict and woe, others have children which bear their name. I have the distinct honor of being the third Technician to the Lancaster Antique Train and Toy Collection… but… but… this is not about me is it? Nope… I owe my job, my livelihood, my family, my present, past and future to a man I only met once. A man, who when I met him was stuck in a wheel chair, stunk of feces, and was unable to control his saliva glands. A man, who for all intense and purposes had lost his ability to feel a sense of pride and honor in the work he had dedicated his life to and the amazing collection he had taken up as a hobby that spanned more than 25 years of his life and the life of his high school sweetheart. A sweetheart that he married built a life and legacy with, which will affect generations to come and also instill in anyone who takes time out of their lives to experience the effort of their labors a joy and wonderment they themselves felt during their time of collecting and amassing a large collection of American toy history.

Yup, Mildred and Arthur “Junie” Lancaster have found a way to pass on to children of all ages for years to come through toy trains and a desire to pass on the joy they felt when they saw kids of all ages visit their old museum in Bennett’s Creek in Suffolk, Virginia.

Now, the dawn of a new beginning is upon us and I have a front row seat where I will be able to observe the joy and the birth of a passion to all visitors to the new museum. I am truly blessed to be in my position for the rest of my work life.

So, I shall now say something that everyone who visits the Children’s Museum of Virginia and the Lancaster Antique Train and Toy Collection should say:

“Thank you Junie and Milly Lancaster for all you’ve done for the city of Portsmouth and every visitor that graces the doorstep of my place of employment."

Flatheads, Crescent Wrench's and Pliers (Part 16)

2011-05-09T07:28:00.000-07:00

I met up with Fish and Fin near the bike racks. Fish had his lunch out and was splitting an orange with Fin when I arrived.

“You mean to tell me you missed the whole thing?” Fish was saying.

“Yeah, I got up to go to the bathroom and then everything went crazy. I got out of there as fast as I could. Hi Skip!” Fin said. “Tell Fish what happened in the classroom. I told him about how we didn’t get in trouble.”

“Yeah, Man, tell me all about it. Did Cornett get covered in puke? Who got stabbed? And who started the fire?” Fish peppered at me.

“Fish, you’ve been listening to too many rumors. There wasn’t a fire and no one got stabbed. And Karen did get hit with a ton of spitballs. Then everything just became a free for all. It was crazy. I hid behind the A/V cart because I didn’t have a straw or paper on me.” I told him. He seemed a bit disappointed in my relaying of the story.

“So you weren’t involved? Man, that sucks. But I suppose it’s a good thing too. You managed to stay out of trouble.” Fish laughed.

“It is a good thing. But, ya know, somehow I don’t think my Mom or her boyfriend are going to see it that way.” I complained as I handed Fin his lunch bag.

“Aw, Skip, forget them” Fin said as he tore open his bag and started to devour his sandwich. “We’ve got three more days till summer starts and we go camping. None of us can afford to get grounded. You can’t get in trouble for not getting in trouble.” And with that a big wad of grape jelly fell on his shirt.

Fish and I started laughing at Fin as he put his sandwich down on the torn paper of his bag and started to suck the jelly off his shirt.

“Man, you are one messed up cat!” Fish said.

Fin looked at us with a puzzled look on his face, part of his shirt still hanging out of his mouth and his pale stomach glinting sunlight. “Wha? Wha yu luughin at?” he choked out.

A few of the girls from our class walked by an pointed at Fin and started snickering under their breath and pointing at him. “What a pig.” “He should learn some manners” “How gross!” they said as they hurried away from us.

“Fin, you’re never gonna get a date!” I said and fell over on my side unable to contain the burst of laughter that had built up in me. I saw Fish lean over and grab some of Fin’s lunch and start to eat it while Fin just sat there looking befuddled about what we found so funny.

Fish shook his head and started to eat Fin’s apple. I sat up and pulled out my lunch, split up my sandwich and apple with my buddies and enjoyed our lunch. It passed to quickly and when the bell rang to go back to class we were still talking about the camping trip and what to bring.

As we headed in to school Fish told us to meet back up at the bike rack after school and we would go to his house. We agreed and went our separate ways.

Afternoon classes sucked. The teacher was in a foul mood and made us all write pages from the schools code of conduct for most of the afternoon. When the final bell rang everyone in the class had to stay back except Karen, Marky, Fin and myself. As the four of us marched out of class I looked back at all my classmates, unhappy looks and glares met my gaze and I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for them.

“Serves them right!” Karen said when the door to the room shut. “They should have listened to me. And you Jimmy Finnegan! You should be in there with them!”

“Sit on it Karen!” Fin said and pushed me between him and her as she tried to swing her books at his head.

“OUCH! Karen, watch it!” I said as her school books hit me in my arm. “Don’t take it out on Fin, he’s innocent. Just ask the Vice Principal.”

Fin grabbed me and we ran down the hall away from her and Marky. “You’ll get yours one day Jimmy!” She shouted

We responded by waving and laughing at her empty threats. At the stairs we got stuck in the line of students making their way outside. I saw a few kids from Fish’s class but no sign of Fish. Fin and I dodged questions about the riot in our classroom. Some kids thought the police had been called and that some of the kids had been arrested. One kid was saying he heard our teacher was going to be fired for not doing her job. A few kids expressed sympathy to us for the student who was killed. (FYI… NO ONE WAS KILLED!) Fin and I ignored everything and made our way outside.

Fish was waiting for us by his bike; he already had it unlocked and was pulling some smokes out of his backpack for us. “What took you so long?” He asked.

“Ah, Karen and her bullshit. She hates me.” Fin said as he grabbed a smoke from Fish. “I swear, God himself could come down and tell her I’m innocent and she wouldn’t believe him. That girl hates me!”

“Are you sure it’s hate she feels towards you?” I asked and took a cigarette from Fish’s hand.

“Yeah Fin? Maybe she really has a crush on you. Maybe you two are gonna get married and have kids and stuff.” Fish added.

“C’mon guys… leave it alone. I don’t need to be hassled about this crap right now.” He pouted.

Fish gave in “Ok, ok… besides we have better things to do anyway.”

Fin smiled and glance at me “Yeah, we do. Don’t we?

I looked at each of buddies standing before me. They were both grinning at me and had a gleam in their eyes that I’d seen before and that gleam meant trouble. “All I know is that we have to work on the bike.” I stated.

Fish stood up, dusted off his pants, lit his cigarette and turned to grab his bike, “Fin, you gonna get your bike?” he asked

“Yup!” Fin said.

I stood there confused as my pals pulled their bikes out and mounted them. I looked from Fish to Fin and back to Fish. I didn’t know what to do. Fin had told me his mom had given him a ride to school that morning and here he was with his bike. Our trio was getting ready to be cut down to a duo and I was going to be left alone to fend for myself… again.

Fish looked over at me, smiled, nodded to a bike that had been sitting next to Fin’s… “Hey, Space Cadet… You coming or are you gonna stand there looking like an idiot?”

Fin laughed.

My frustration disappeared and a smile as big as the Fox River spread across my face. I pulled my bike out of the bike rack, hopped on it and caught up to my buddies.

The Three Musketeers rode off into the afternoon and the only thing they left behind was their laughter.

Update May

2011-05-02T08:22:00.000-07:00

It’s been a crazy week here in the Heart of the South. Full of ups and downs, ins and outs and, well… if you’re a believer in Karma… equality and balance in life.

UP SIDE

The cover art for a book one of my stories is in was released. The artwork is amazing and the writers’ line-up is incredible. I am honored to have my name included with these writers.

Work at the museum is going great, we are looking to open up by the end of May, and we have been steadily moving offices, collections and exhibits into the expanded digs every day.

The new uniform shirts at my part time job seem to be a big success. No more tuxedo shirts, this is a good thing.

Finished a short story and sent it out to my Pre-readers (YES! I KNOW I NEED TO USE THE APPOSTROPHY MORE), and they all liked the tale and want more. I don’t know what to make of that aspect.

I caught up on some decent television, Thank you HBO, and I even saw a movie I’ve been waiting to see for years. Atlas Shrugged, (Go see this film NOW)

DOWN SIDE

Too much work and too little time with family.

I had to answer for someone else’s inactions.

A distance between me and an adversary grew and peace was not made.

My craving for solitude grew and I embraced it with open arms.

The longing for seeing my friends, however briefly, grew. ( I know, this is in direct opposition of my craving solitude but that is part of the glorious didactic that makes me who I am.)

FYI

Ok, those of you looking for more “Fish Tales” and the ongoing epic tale of our bike build, I shall return with another addition next week… or maybe sooner. I’ve already written most of the next episode and I have to say, I have really enjoyed writing this entire journey of my youth and I ask only for your patience and for you to enjoy the rest of the tale.

Thanks… Talk to you soon.

Flatheads, Crescent Wrench's and Pliers (Part 15)

2011-04-22T21:16:00.000-07:00

I can’t say for sure how long the spitball fight lasted. I can say that I did not participate. Not because I didn’t want to but simply because my straw and my paper were at my desk. I know Fin wasted no time getting out of the classroom because I heard him scream as a spit soaked wad of paper hit him in the back of the head.

I ducked quickly down behind the slide projector and peeked out to see the unfolding madness only semi-innocent eleven and twelve year olds knew. Madness defined by a purloined luncheon milk straw and some Mead wide ruled spiral notebook paper. A dangerous combination in the late 70’s and a guaranteed expulsion offense in this day and age of oversensitive political correctness that has taken over the Republic of the united States. (Yes, I just made a political statement.)

Saliva soaked balls of paper flew in arcs and incalculable tangents that only Euclid or Newton could figure out. I felt someone poking me in the back and I turned to see Marky Borrowitz hiding behind me. “What are you doin?” I whispered.

“Hiding. I don’t want to be the target like I usually am.” He said with a bit of panic in his voice.

“Uh, I don’t think you’re the target this time. Karen has cornered the market on that.” I replied.

“Didn’t you guys used to go steady? You know, a couple years back?”

“I wouldn’t call it going steady we... DUCK!” I said as a wad of freshly soaked paper hit the side of the A/V cart. “We kissed a few times and hung out in her basement and went to a movie.” I finished.

Marky looked at me and grinned “Thanks Skip.”

“No problem, now get outta here before people start targeting me.” I ordered. He scurried away on his hands and knees and hid behind the bookshelf that held the classes complete collection of Encyclopedia Britannica. As he disappeared behind the shelves he looked at me and gave me a quick thumbs up and a smile.

I turned my attention to the front of the room, Karen was screaming at everyone to settle down but no one was listening to her. Her attempts at dodging the spit balls only seemed to make her an even more irresistible moving target. Some of the kids had given up on making spitballs altogether and were just throwing wadded up pieces of paper, pencils, erasers and I think I saw a “Happy Days” pencil box go sailing across the room and hit the black board only to get smashed into hundreds of broken plastic pieces.

“WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE!” a voice boomed over the cacophony of screams and laughter.

Everyone in the room froze in place and looked at the source of the inquisitor. It belonged to the Vice Principal. We were DOOMED! Karen stood at the head of the class sobbing and trying to explain what happened. No one could understand a word she was saying.

“Suh Suh Suh… deys juss nddd ives den…” was all she was managing to get out. She really looked pathetic and I felt a bit sad for her but there was no way I was gonna put my neck or my reputation on the line for her. Even though I still had a crush on her.

“Nobody move.” He ordered as he came into the room and turned on the lights. Bits of paper still hung in the air and made their way to the floor in a lazy unpredictable descent. I could see him walking up and down the aisle of kids and he would occasionally make a “Tsk Tsk.” Sound with his voice. “Mr. Borrowitz… what are you doing behind the bookcase?” I heard him ask.

“Hiding Sir.” I heard Marky’s meek voice reply.

“Come out from behind there and take a seat at your desk.”

“Yes Sir.”

I felt a hand on my shoulder “And you Mr. Novak, what are you doing down here?”

“Uh, hiding.” I replied and then added “Sir.”

“Ok, is anyone else hiding that I should know of?” He called out to the class. Only silence greeted him.

“Well then, Mr. Borrowitz, Miss Cornett and Mr. Novak, the three of you will report to my office and wait for me there. As for the rest of you, you are now all on clean up duty.” He ordred.

We hastily left our classroom and made our way down to the Vice Principal’s office in silence. When we arrived at the office we saw Fin sitting on one of the chairs three chairs outside the office door. The look on his face told me he was in trouble. Karen sat down and so did Marky, I stood next to Fin and leaned against the wall with my hands behind my back.

“This is all your fault Jimmy Finnegan.” Karen whispered venomously.

I looked down at Fin and he shrugged his shoulders at me as if to ask “What did I do now?” I just shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. Nothing I could say or do could help our situations. I didn’t know what sort of trouble we were in and in my thoughts were filled with after school detention, eraser cleaning, blackboard washing and the most cruel punishment of all, scrapping chewing gum off the bottom of desks.

Our nervous tension filled the air with an almost palpable stench. We were all wondering what our fate would be and we didn’t have to wait long for our answer. We all heard the footsteps of the Vice Principal as he came down the steps and we all looked at each other and I believe we all felt the same ball of trouble stuck in out throats.

“Ok, you four, in my office.” He ordered as he walked past us. I followed behind him and my classmates marched in behind me.

There were only two chairs in front of the large desk he sat behind. Karen quickly took one of the open seats and Marky took the other. I stood behind Karen and let Fin stand behind Marky. The Vice Principal sat at his desk and shuffled papers back and forth for a bit, took a pen out and scribbled some notes. Then he sat back and looked at us and shook his head.

“You four are in quite an interesting situation.” He started. “It seems out of all the kids in the class you’re the only ones who didn’t participate in the mayhem earlier. I can understand why Miss Cornett didn’t and even Mr. Borrowitz, but you Mr. Novak? Not participating? Normally we find you in the middle of incidents like this and Mr. Finnegan, the only reason you weren’t involved is because you weren’t in the class room. I am truly at a loss of my senses in this situation. I can’t punish any one of you four simply because you did nothing wrong, while the rest of your class has been assigned extra work and detention.”

“So… what does that mean for us Sir?” I asked

“You four are free to go about your regular daily schedule. But know this Mr. Novak and Mr. Finnegan, I WILL be keeping an especially watchful eye on you two and your friend Mr. Minnow.”

“But Sir,” Karen interrupted “Skip was flipping the slides in the projector and Jimmy…”

“Miss Cornett, be quiet. No one likes a tattle tale and since they did not participate in the incident there is no need to punish them. Now, I want all of you to go back to your classroom.” He ordered and we all began to leave “Oh, and Miss Cornett, you may want to stop by the ladies restroom and clean yourself up a bit.”

We separated once we all got into the hall, Fin and I headed back to the classroom and Marky and Karen to the bathrooms. None of us were in a hurry to get back to class and lunchtime was only a few minutes away.

“We dodged that bullet.” Fin commented.

“Yeah, you got that right. Shoot Fin, I’m glad you ducked out when you did. Wish I’d been with ya.”

Fin shrugged “Can you believe the whole class is in detention? I think that just might be a school record.”

“Well, technically not the whole class.”

“Ok, everyone but us four.”

We were halfway down the hall when the lunch bell rang and kids started to pour out of their rooms. “Skip, go grab our lunches, I’ll go get Fish and we will meet over by the bike racks like we did the other day. Ok?”

“Sure man, no problem. See ya in a while.” I said as I fought my way through the crowded passageway. I felt like a fish swimming upstream. The whole school was talking about my classroom and all the trouble we’d caused earlier. As I walked, I heard the rumors already starting up, “So and So KILLED the Teacher!” or “…and then they threw the desks out the windows.” And “It was a fight and someone was stabbed, I don’t know who, a new kid from what I heard.” I shook my head and made my way into the classroom which was now empty and surprisingly clean.

I walked over to Fin’s desk, grabbed his lunch bag and quickly retrieved mine from my desk and headed out to lunch.

Flatheads, Crescent Wrench's and Pliers (Part 14)

2011-04-13T20:06:00.001-07:00

When I left the house Tuesday morning my pal Fin was not standing at the telephone pole waiting for me as I had come to expect. The familiar routine we had built up over three years of walking to school had suddenly become interrupted for reasons I did not know. I stood by the pole waiting for Fin with a growing sense of nervousness that something bad had happened between dusk and dawn. After five minutes of waiting for him I headed next door to his house and knocked on the front door only to be greeted by the echoing silence of an empty house. A few more knocks, more silence.

I waited around for another ten minutes to see if he was running late or had overslept but I received no satisfaction of an answer. It was getting late so I headed off to school walking by myself for the first time since kindergarten. I had forgotten how desolate the streets were early in the morning. Sure, I delivered papers before the sun came up and the streets were usually empty but in those first ninety minutes when the sun is up and the birds are just starting their morning songs, it can be pretty scary.

As I passed houses on Memory Avenue I could see shadows moving inside. Shadows of people I knew or thought I knew. Shadows that in my mind formed Rockwellesque movies of Mothers and Fathers making their kids breakfast, helping with last minute homework and giving out hugs with unbridled joy, and as I passed each of those homes, with those thoughts, the searing pain of jealousy and rage built up inside of me. I had no outlet, no pressure release valve, no Fin to talk to about the non-sensical bullshit that distracted both of us from the shitty way we felt about our particular family woes.

A few blocks from school I became aware the streets were starting to fill with more kids in my situation. Kids who had no friends, outcast kids with little or no social skills, kids who seemed to have been alienated from everyone since their conception. I felt like shit. I’d heard my name called out by some of the outcasts and I ignored them. The last thing I wanted to do was field questions about why I wasn’t with my normal group of punks and greasers. Some of the older kids who hung out by the drug store smoking saw me and started to chide me about not having Fish or Fin with me. I scowled at them and flipped them off and then quickly crossed the street to put distance between me and a guaranteed ass whipping.

I kept my head down, fists in pockets and just barged across into the street without looking. I ignored the honking horns of cars and the screams of kids I did not know the names of kids I never took the time to learn. One voice rose above the others “SKIP! DAMMIT! LOOKOUT!!!” I stopped and looked around. I was standing at the median with cars passing in front of me and behind me and as I looked towards the voice calling out to me I saw Fish yelling my name again. His hands were clasped around his mouth making a funnel to help amplify his voice. “SKIP!!! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!!!” Standing next to Fish was my neighbor and friend Fin. Fin was pale and shaking his head and he looked as if he were about to throw up.

I stood there in shock and wondered how the two of them got to school before me and why Fin had left me to walk to school alone. I half-heartedly lifted my arm in a wave. The cars that were approaching me started to slow and come to a stop and when they had I continued across the street. I was still upset at my friends and I was in no mood to talk with them. They had both ditched me and I felt betrayed. I wanted to punch them both in their noses and watch their blood spill from their bodies, then sit back and laugh at them. But I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, we were the Musketeers! I had to work out my anger, frustration and my sense of betrayal before I got to them. I started counting as I took a step forward.

One…Two…Three…Four… I could feel the tension in my shoulders receding…Five…Six…Seven… My fists started to unclench…Eight…Nine…Ten… Thoughts of us sitting in Fish’s basement listening to Blue Oyster Cult albums and sharing a stolen beer started to make me smile…Ten…Nine…Eight… I remembered a couple of fights all three of us were in and how we had watched each other’s backs…Seven…Six…Five… Fin and I were catching pigeons under the overpass and we both about killed ourselves crossing the interstate…Four…Three…Two…One…All the damn work we’d done over that last week on the bike filled my mind and all was forgiven.

“Hey Guys!” I said a little too loudly as I stepped onto school property.

“What the hell was that?” Fin said

“Yeah Man! You suicidal or something? You drop some acid and think your Superman?” Fish peppered at me.

“Nah, nothing like that. I was just thinking about the bike I guess. I’m pretty excited to get on her and ride tonight.”

“Yeah. Tonight.” Fish said and elbowed Fin in the arm.

“Ouch! What the hell man?”

“Nothin, let’s get going before the first bell.”

“Hey Fin, where were you this morning?” I asked him as all three of us fell into step next to each other.

“Oh, uh, my mom took me out to McDonalds for breakfast and then dropped me off here about ten minutes ago.”

“Cool, what’s the special occasion? She get a pay raise or something?”

“Uh… no, nothing like that.”

“C’mon, Skip, stop being Kojak for a few minutes. So what if Fin’s mom wanted to spend some time with him. Shit, he sees his mom less then you see yours.” Fish interrupted.

“I’m not pulling a Kojak. I was just worried when Fin wasn’t waiting for me at the telephone pole like usual.” I said a bit defensively.

We had just gotten to the front steps of the school when we heard the first bell of the day ring. We nudged our way through the throng of classmates and made our way to our respective homerooms. Fish was in a separate homeroom than Fin and I and we quickly said our goodbyes with a promise to meet for a picnic lunch in a few hours.

Once again our morning education was turned over to Public Service Movies and naps filled with dreams that took each kid out of the concrete block walled educational prisons. I dozed in and out of consciousness like the rest of the class, my thoughts and dreams were filled with the freedom of riding around Green Bay, exploring the parks, being a bike kid for the Green Bay Packers, camping, and just being able to get out of the neighborhood and away from some of the crap that had been brewing with the older kids. Besides, I had some paper route buddies on the West side that I’d only seen during our subscription drives and they’d been pestering me to come by their house since we met. It would be pretty cool if I could ride out to their house and see them over the summer.

You know, summer dreams filled with endless supplies of soda pop, candy bars and trips to Hansen’s Ice Cream to eat the twenty five cent drip cups until my stomach burst! Swimming all day at Joannes Park Pool or riding out to Bay Beach where everything cost a quarter from the rides to the popcorn. No parents leaving notes of endless chores and rules on where not to go and what not to do. Mornings where I wouldn’t have to wake up until the clock was in the double digits and the sun was approaching its apex. Dreams of lazy days and crazy nights, dreams I still have today. Hell, probably dreams you have right now, just like me.

The end of the Public Service Films blurred into slide shows that required some class participation. I was lucky to not have to participate because I had been chosen as the class A/V kid and all I needed to do was set up the slide show and hit play on the tape recorder and then press the “Advance” button on the projector. The teacher had left the classroom stating she needed to use the mimeograph machine and left Karen Cornett in charge of a 25 lethargic kids who wanted nothing to do with watching movies or slide shows.

So, for fun, and since opportunity had presented itself to me, I chose to just flip the slides as fast as I could both forward and back. When Marlin Perkins was talking about how him and Jim had brought down a wild African lion my slides were on the half naked people of a recently discovered tribe of what looked like cannibals. The boys that were awake cheered and the girls hissed at my antics. Karen “tut-tutted” me and I ignored everyone. My shenanigans were strictly for my own amusement and I had been keeping a running count of how far ahead or behind I was with the audio so if I heard the teach opening the door I could easily get back to where I needed to be.

“Skip! That is not the way you’re suppose to work the slide projector.” Karen scolded.

I ignored her. I had no choice. If I stopped what I was doing I would have been razed at lunch and probably for the rest of the week.

“Karen, give it a rest!” little Marky Borrowitz responded from the behind me. “Heck, this is the first time this week anything we’ve done seems interesting. Marky lived on my block about seven houses down from me. He had been the first kid to even speak to me when we moved in. When I slept over at his house we would read all his comic books over and over again. Hell, he had been the one to introduce me to The Amazing Spider Man. When Fin moved into the neighborhood all three of us built the first Memory Avenue Soap Box out of scrap lumber, with the help of Marky’s dad. But, like most friendships in life, Marky had fallen on the popularity food chain that occurs between elementary school, middle school and junior high school. I still liked him and I never picked on him but I knew if I were to reignite our friendship I would suffer the same fate as him. Being an omega kid in an alpha driven educational hierarchy. I slipped my left hand behind my back and gave him a quick thumbs up.

“You’re gonna be in a lot of trouble when Miss Schmidt gets back!” Karen warned.

I saw my buddy Fin stand up, “I have to use the bathroom if that is ok with MISS CORNETT!” he said and walked out of the room.

“Jimmy Finnegan! You are not supposed to leave the classroom while the teacher is not present!” Karen shouted.

And that is about the time the spitball fight started. The main target… Karen Cornett.

Flatheads, Crescent Wrench's and Pliers (Part 13)

2011-03-31T19:17:00.000-07:00

After lunch the day seemed to fly by. Our usual mundane learning continued to be replaced by slide shows and educational films on such topics as “The Food Chain” where we got to see lions on the Serengeti take down zebra’s and gazelles (EXCELLENT). Other films such as “Cross Walk Safety” and “Water Danger” were real snoozers and most of the kids in class as well as the teachers seemed to sleep through them. By the time the last bell rang everyone in school seemed filled with nervous, restless energy and no real direction or outlet for the repressed tension that crackled like electricity throughout the hallways. We took that energy with us as we spilled out of the school as quickly as possible so that we could enjoy the last few hours of sunshine.

Fin, Fish and I met up near the rear doors that lead out to the playground and the bike racks. Over the years we had come to know instinctively where to meet and we always managed to run into each other within minutes of the final bell. By the time I made my way to the doors my buddies were standing just outside the industrial grade doors enjoying the afternoon sunshine.

“What took you so long?” Fin asked.

“Mrs. Miller asked me to stay back for a minute about my math. Don’t worry, it wasn’t about homework.” I answered trying to kill any worry Fin may have had about copying my papers.

“Let’s beat the streets.” Fish said and headed toward the bike rack. Fin and I followed.

As we closed in on Fish, I nudged Fin with my elbow and nodded towards the bike we snagged the seat from. Jimmy Delveaux was standing near his bike screaming at anyone who would listen about his missing bike seat. Fish saw Jimmy raising a fuss and slowed his walk to a stroll and we caught up.

“Don’t say anything, don’t admit to anything and don’t do anything stupid.” Fish whispered.

As the three of us approached the bike rack along with most of the other kids in school, Jimmy was accusing everyone on the playground of stealing his seat. We joined in the throng of kids. Fin and I hung towards the back of the crowd while Fish made his way to his bike.

“You think he’ll figure it out?” I whispered to Fin.

“Nah, its Jimmy. He’s not the sharpest kid in school.” He answered.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here before a teacher shows up. We can wait for Fish at the drugstore across the street.”

Fin and I headed away from Jimmy’s rants, and our classmates screaming responses. Several students were already in line outside the drug store and we could hear them talking about the after school sweets they were in line to purchase. The current popular choice was Snickers, although Kit Kat’s seemed to be running a close second. I always chose Snickers and Fin always chose Kit Kats while Fish usually stole whatever he could get in his pocket and then he proceeded to share with us. Good friend to have.

As we waited in line, both of us kept our conversation on the bike and the camping trip in fear of anyone close to us finding out about the purloined seat in Fish’s back pack and squealing to Jimmy. Jimmy… He was and had been my enemy and nemesis through most of my elementary and middle school years. We had fought each other enough times to know almost intimately when the other was going to throw a punch, pull a knife and when we had been beaten. If it weren’t for the fact that he had saved my life once I wouldn’t have cared that it was his seat that we had stolen. But I did care and what sucked the most about it was that I could never tell Fish to give the seat back. But, in this game of friendship and life one has to pick sides and today was Jimmy’s day to lose. I didn’t like it but there was no turning back.

About five minutes of waiting and twenty kids in line later, Fish showed up pushing his bike, his shirt was torn and his Levi’s were scuffed and dirty at the knees but he was grinning from ear to ear.

“Man, you guys took off to early! Jimmy tried to pick a fight with some older kids. I got knocked down and punched a guy in the nuts and then all hell broke lose! Mrs. Miller showed up and busted up the crowd. Sent everyone packing and I think Jimmy got detention for the rest of the week for inciting a riot!” He bragged joyously.

“Man, sorry to have missed that.” I exclaimed.

“Yeah. Would have been great to see Jimmy get in trouble finally.” Fin added.

“You guys going in? Or do you want to get to work?” Fish asked.

“We were just waiting for you Fish.” I said “No real need to go in.”

“Ok, let’s blow this popsicle stand.” Fish said and led us away from the innocence of childhood.

The walk to Fish’s garage was filled with the usual chatter we had all become familiar with. Girls, bikes, fishing, the Green Bay Packers and what we wanted to do once we got old enough for people to not tell us what to do.

Once we arrived at Fish’s garage we pulled the bike out, checked the paint, touched up any spots we’d missed and started assembly. Fin got the front wheel on while Fish and I set the rear wheel and got the chain in place. Once that was done we put on the new peddles and flipped the bike over. Fish pulled the seat out of his back pack, set it in place and Fin tightened the retaining nut. Then came the handle bars and hand grips.

We were pulling out the air pump to fill the tires when Fish’s little sister came out to the garage to inform us that it was six o’clock and time for dinner.

“Guy’s I gotta go. You should probably head home too. We will finish this up tomorrow and test her out.” Fish told us.

“Fish, man, we are almost done!” I complained as if I were channeling my inner Fin. “Ten more minutes. C’mon. We can get this done tonight.”

“Look, I’d love to but when dinner is ready I gotta go. Family time. Ya know?” He answered.

“Yeah, Fish, we know.” Fin answered for me.

“Great! See youse guys tomorrow.” He said and disappeared inside his house.

Fin and I gathered up our bags and headed for home.

Family time we knew was something that we would not experience that night or for a lot of nights to come. Both of us being the product of broken homes we could neither remember nor muster up the energy to try and remember what family time meant.

“You think things will ever be like that for us?” Fin asked as we turned onto our street as the florescent street lights came on, breaking our self proclaimed silence with his now cracking voice.

“I hope so.” I said as I looked at his face. There appeared to be tear stains on his cheeks. I don’t know if they were or not, I couldn’t look at him for long. The guilt of the day, the pain of my life and the hope for a better future stabbed at me like a wound that would never heal.

“I really hope so Jim.”

An Update.

2011-03-26T21:01:00.001-07:00

Hi everyone. I hope all is well in your corner of the world and that life is not beating you down. I apologize for not posting a blog last week and I hope to rectify that in the near future. I want to give you all a quick explanation of what is going on...

As some of you may know, I work for a municipality here in the heart of the South. And, my job is one that affords me certain pleasures. (Get your mind out of the gutter.) I am paid to basically play with toy trains in a Children's Museum and we are currently at the tail end of an expansion project. The museum will open for full service in the next two months. What does all this mean? Simple, I have been extremely busy with train collection management, case display layouts and the installation of a model train layout that is over 600 square feet in size and contains several miles of wire, train track and several hundred trees, buildings, trains and various other operational accessories and material. To say I'm busy is an understatement.

I hope you all understand and are not upset about missing an episode of what I've come to think of as my "Fish Tales".

Have a great week.

Flatheads, Crescent Wrench's and Pliers (Part 12)

2011-03-15T11:33:00.000-07:00

Monday morning brought with it the ritualistic routine of getting ready for school. Jockeying for position at the bathroom, fighting to see who gets the last of the Cheerios and who gets stuck making Crème of Wheat and as always the last minute frenzy of finishing any and all homework that was put off until the last moment.

I left the house earlier than my sister and met up with Fin at the foot of my driveway. He was leaning against the telephone pole, his books on the ground at his feet and he was picking at his fingernails. “About time you got out here. I’ve been waiting for you for at least 15 minutes.” He called out to me as I approached.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Vera Lynn gave all the Cheerios to Suzy so I had to make some Cream of Wheat for breakfast.” I explained as I drew near my buddy and continued down our street.

“Hey, did you finish your math homework?” Fin asked as he fell into step alongside me.

“Yeah, I got it done this morning. Why? You need to copy it again?”

“You know I do Skip. I suck at numbers.”

“Ya know Fin, if you could memorize your math tables the way you memorized songs you’d be a straight A student.”

“If they put the equations to music then maybe I could memorize them but until they do I am just gonna have to struggle my way through it.”

“Didn’t you ever watch Schoolhouse Rock on Saturday mornings? They got all the multiplication tables on those cartoons. They also have some with History and English.”

“Nah, you know I’m not big on cartoons. Besides, if I turn the TV on while my mom’s asleep she gets pissed ‘cause it wakes her up.”

“Did you talk to Fish this morning?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“Nah, he sometimes calls but he didn’t today. Hope he’s ok. Say, did you bring the tools?”

“Yup, he said to carry them in case an opportunity presents itself so I’m making sure to keep them with me. You got yours?”

“Yeah, not that we’ve needed them yet but ya never know I suppose.”

With that our conversation lulled as we walked into a sunrise that was slowly fading from orange, red and gray into the rich blue of the oncoming Midwestern spring morning.

About two blocks from school we met up with Fish, he was on his bike, riding circles in the middle of an intersection. He was wearing a backpack and smoking while early morning commuters honked their horns as they drove past him. With every horn blast Fish would flip the driver off and laugh.

“Fish, you’re gonna get killed!” I hollered.

He just laughed, straightened out his bike and rode a wheelie all the way to where Fish and I stood at the edge of the intersection. “Nah, they aint gonna hit me. None of them has the guts to do something like that.” He said confidently and then added “You bring the tools?”

“Yeah we both did.” Fin answered for me.

“Good, cause we’re gonna pick up a seat for the bike today. Skip, when I lock my bike up at the bike rack find a bike with a seat you like, then at lunch we’ll take it off the bike and put it in my back pack. Plan?”

“Plan.”

And with our plans settled, like sheep or the lemmings of the Arctic we headed stepped foot onto the hallowed ground of our school. Only to be greeted by hundreds of other kids of Green Bay doing the same thing. Footballs and Frisbee’s whizzed over our heads, girls giggled at boys showing off by the tether ball poles or doing flips off the monkey bars and of course the shocked laughter of other boys when one of the stuntmen-showoffs inevitably landed on his face.

“Morons.” Fish said shaking his head and lead us all towards the bike rack. When we got to the bike rack to lock up his bike we had to fight to find a spot to place his ride.

As we walked up and down the one hundred foot bike rack trying to avoid the litter of school books, back packs and girls purses we all kept our eyes open for a seat that we could pilfer. Fin found it and let us know by punching both me and Fish in our arms.

The bike/seat in question was a beat up piece of crap, there was more bare metal then there was paint on it. But the seat was pristine, as if it had just been put on the bike the day before. Fish nodded, I nodded and Fin grinned.

“Make some room between the bikes, I’ll put my bike here.” Fish commanded.

Fin and I pulled some bikes apart with little effort and Fish shoved his ride in, pulled the lock and chain out of his back pack and commenced securing his bike to the metal pipes. While he was doing so he handed Fin his school books and ran the chain through the straps of his backpack.

“Ok, we meet here at lunch, and get the seat. Also, we need to put all our tools in the back pack. No need to have a teacher confiscate our things.”

We all agreed and emptied our pockets, handing over our tools to Fish and he swiftly stuffed the implements of theft into the now secured pack at his feet.

As we headed towards the back doors to the school Fin expressed a concern I had been thinking about “You think the pack will be safe by your bike?”

“Look around Fin, hell, the teachers are all hiding inside the school waiting for the end of the day. Aren’t there usually three or four teachers out here monitoring us? They don’t want to be here anymore than we do. You saw what was going on over at the monkey bars. Usually there’s one teacher there making sure no one gets hurt but not today or at all this week. They’ll be inside, talking about summer vacation and not having to work. It’s what they do.”

“Alright, alright… you don’t have to prove how right you are all the time.” Fin defended himself.

“Forget about it. Just make sure we meet at my bike at lunch time.” Fish reminded us and with that we crossed the threshold of the school.

Once in homeroom I handed Fin my copy of the math papers, he quickly copied the answers, changing one or two so they would not match perfectly and when he was done he handed me back my paper. No one in our class paid us much attention, everyone was more concerned with what they did over the weekend, what they were going to do next weekend or what sort of school work we were going to get during the last week of school.

We soon found out…

Our teacher came in the room pushing an audio-visual cart with four movie reels on it. Our answer had arrived. After attendance was taken, homework passed forward our teacher turned the lights off, turned on the projector and we watched films on nature and the cycle of life including the food chain.

At lunch time, Fish, Fin and I met up near the back doors. Fish had a bag lunch where as Fish and I each had a hot lunch served to us on a pale blue plastic tray. On our tray’s were rectangular slices of pizza, a carton of milk, an orange for me, Fin had taken an apple and we had both picked fries for our vegetable.

Fish led us near his bike and we all sat down to eat and enjoy the sunshine. Kids were scattered in different groups around us, across the kickball field and even onto the dirt playground where the swings and monkey bars sat.

“As soon as it’s safe, I’ll get the tools. Skip, I want you to get the seat.” Fish said between bites of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“Ok.” I responded and felt my stomach knot up with guilt.

“Fish, I want you to stand behind Skip so no one can see what he’s doin. Got that?”

“Yeah man, I got it.” He said and put down his pizza with a sickly look on his face. I imagine he was feeling pretty much the way I was.

“Relax guys.” Fish said and grabbed some of my fries, “It’s all gonna work out. Just be quick and try not to draw attention to yourselves.”

A few minutes later most of the kids on the playground had finished their lunches and were now running around, playing tag, freeze tag, Red-Rover, catch or fighting over turns on the swings. Our opportunity had come and Fish let us know.

“Ok, let’s do this.” Fish’s voice echoed in my ears as I felt the cold steel of a crescent wrench thrust into my hand. “Fin, walk over between the bikes, Skip, get on the side with the nut and act like you’re tying your shoes. It shouldn’t take much to loosen the seat.”

Fin and I followed our orders like robots. I knew there was no way to back out of this and keep Fish as my pal. With every step I took all I saw in my mind was being hauled off to Juvie in the back of a squad car with both my pals.

“Hurry up Skip.” Fin’s voice penetrated my reverie. I looked up at him, he was in position, I turned to look at Fish who was standing at near the rear tires acting as a lookout.

I knelt down between the bikes, acting as if I were tying my shoe. I felt something poking me in the back and turned to look, it was Fish’s peddle. “Get to work man!” came Fish’s voice from a few feet away.

“Ok,ok. Shit, give me a second. You bike peddle is stabbing me in the back.”

“Ignore it and get the damn seat.”

I brought the wrench up to the securing nut, my hands sweaty and shaking as I tried to adjust the thumb screw for the jaws of the wrench to fit and almost dropped it. “Shit.” I muttered.

“Hurry up man, there’s only a few minutes left of lunch.” Fin whispered and then added “Righty Tighty, Lefty Loosy.”

“I know, I know. Shut up Fin.” I said as I got the wrench snug on the nut and tried to loosen it. The nut was on tight, real tight, I was putting all I had into trying to get it loose. I felt sweat on my forehead, under my arms and seeping through my Dr. Pepper t-shirt. I was straining so hard my knuckles were turning white. And then the nut came loose. I almost dropped the wrench when it came free. I was shocked, and I felt a big grin spread across my face.

“It’s loose.” I said and set the wrench down near my foot and unscrewed the rest of the nut with my fingers. I saw Fish’s hands reach in and grab the seat and pull it out of the down pipe and make it disappear into his back pack. I grabbed the wrench, handed it to him and he stuffed it in pack as well.

The three of us headed back to the doors to the school as if nothing had ever happened. We all had big grins on our faces, we couldn’t help it. We’d just pilfered a great seat and the kick to the gut feeling I’d had earlier had disappeared along with the seat. As far as I know, that feeling was keeping the seat company inside Fish’s pack right next to our tools.

Flatheads, Crescent Wrench's and Pliers (Part 11)

2011-03-07T07:19:00.000-08:00

“Where’s Debbie?” I asked my sister Vera Lynn as she pulled the heavy, black cast iron skillet out of the oven and placed it on top of the stove.

“She’s spending the night at a friend’s house I think.” my oldest sister replied. She had moved over to the refrigerator and was now pulling out all sorts of ingredients for our supper.

“La la ra ra dah dah blug.” Was the response my youngest sister gave me and then she grabbed my ear, squealed in delight and scooted away from me as fast as her 4 year old legs could carry her.

“Skip, keep Suzy away from the stove.” Ordered my sis.

“I’m trying but she’s pretty fast.”

“Just keep her away from the stove. We don’t want her to burn herself. Why don’t you take her in the living room and play a game or something?”

“Ok.” I said as I bent down and grabbed my youngest sister’s legs as she was trying to crawl under the kitchen table. She squealed in delight and laughter. Her hands smacked the linoleum tiled floor making a “FWAPING” sound that resonated in the kitchen and then she grabbed onto the table leg with a death grip. Vera Lynn laughed as she watched us play a game of human tug-o-war. I was forced to release my grip on her tiny, kicking, legs in an attempt to unclamp her arms. Once I’d succeeded she would attach her petite frame to one of the chairs.

In the end, I won the battle. Sort of, two of our kitchen chairs ended up in the living room as a result of me dragging her across the floor and her not letting go of the chair. After arriving in the living room she giggled, squealed and ran back into the kitchen, threw herself across the floor and latched back onto another chair and waited for me to come drag her and the chair back into the living room.

Suzy and I played in the living room until it was time to eat. We built a fort out of couch cushions, and blankets. We slayed dragons, she rescued me from an evil witch; I rescued her from an evil warlock. We pretended to ride motorcycles. She played with her Barbie dolls and I got my G.I. Joe out and blew up her house and killed Ken. She didn’t like that. But we laughed when he miraculously came back to life and stole Joe’s Jeep. We were right in the middle of playing Lego’s when we heard the two most important words all day:

“FOOD’S READY!”

We jumped up and dashed our way through the obstacle course of toys in the living room and into the kitchen. We battled to be first by pulling, pushing and trying to trip one another in good fun. We ended up on our hands and knees crawling into the kitchen. Vera Lynn stood next to the table with a skillet of Goulash in her hands laughing down at us.

“You two need to go wash up first. Then bring the chairs back in here so you can eat.” She clucked at us.

We obeyed. What else could we do?

On our more civilized march from the bathroom we stopped and drug the kitchen chairs into the kitchen. As I looked into the living room from the doorway of the kitchen I saw our magical castle/fort had crumbled like so many castles and forts had over the eons due to lack of mortar, effort, time and neglect. But in this case it was our imagination that had been stripped away. Walls once sturdy enough to hold back dragons and hordes of goblins were now once again cushions for butts. Roofs that had once been made of copper and wood that held back the fire of dragons breathe was now once again an old, tattered, red plaid blanket and a handmade multi-colored afghan.

I shrugged my shoulders and walked away without realizing the impact of the image I’d just witnessed would have on me in future years.

The three of us sat down at the table, said Grace, and dug in to one of my most cherished meals of my childhood. Homemade goulash, bread with plain butter and ice cold milk, a veritable feast fit for a God, or as a last meal for a death row inmate.

During the course of the meal we chatted about our weekend, the upcoming school week and our summer plans. I informed my sisters of the camping trip me and my buddies were planning and she wished us good luck. She spoke of her jobs, her boyfriend(s) and all of her plans she had with her friends. After the meal, she did the dishes and Suzy and I cleaned up the living room. Then, Vera Lynn made sure Suzy had a bath, and that my homework was finished and we watched some television.

When it got late, I went to my room, read for a while and fell asleep. Dreams of slaying dragons on my motorcycle in the Grand Canyon haunted me.

Flatheads, Crescent Wrench's and Pliers (Part 10)

2011-02-26T11:38:00.000-08:00

“You ladies gonna sit there all afternoon staring into space?” came a booming voice from behind us. We turned and saw Fish’s dad standing in the doorway of the garage. He was still in his riding gear, faded and worn our blue jeans, a beat up old leather jacket that was unzipped and barely hiding his Harley Davidson t-shirt and biker boots. A cigarette was dangling out of his mouth and in his right hand he was holding Fish’s motorcycle helmet.

“We just finished painting the frame, Pop. What’s up?” Fish asked.

“Your mom called and wants me to go up to the store, you wanna ride?” Mr. Minnow responded.

“Uh, sure.” Fish said and then looked at us “You guys wanna put the frame away?”

“No problem, it’s getting late anyway and I need to get home.” I told him.

“Alright, see you guys at school tomorrow.” Fish said as he got up, dusting off his pants as he headed over to where his dad was standing. Then he turned around, reached in his pocket pulled out his smokes and tossed the pack to Fin. “Here, I’ll get another pack at the store.”

Fin watched as the red and white pack sailed toward him and land right next to where he sat. “Thanks Fish.” He said as he scooped them up in his hand and we both watched as Fish and his dad disappeared into the darkened garage.

When we heard the Harley start up we got up, untied the bike frame, stored it in the garage and went back to pick up the paint cans and trash. “What do you think it’s like?” Fin asked me.

“Think what is like?” I asked as we put the paint cans on the workbench in the garage. The acrid smell of the Harley’s exhaust still hung in the air, enveloping us with its promise of open roads and high adventure.

“Riding on a motorcycle.”

“It’s fun. I rode with my dad once when he had a bike and I’ve ridden on some mini-bikes a few times. One day I’m gonna have a motorcycle too.” I boasted.

“Cool. I’m gonna get one someday too.”

“That’d be cool, we could ride together, go up North, ride in the mountains or we could head south to the Dells.”

“Nah, let’s head west, to the Grand Canyon and then on to California. We could ride all the way to the ocean; hang out on the beaches there. That’d be cool.” Fin fantasized as we shut the doors to the garage and started to head home.

As we walked home, first down Allouez Ave and then down Libel, we spoke of all the adventures we’d have. We spoke of how we would camp in the Painted Dessert, visit Mount Rushmore, ride our bikes through the Rocky Mountains and take US-1 from Southern California all the way to Alaska and then getting a job on the pipeline. How all our problems would just disappear once we hit the open road, the way we figured it, we could get odd jobs here and there to pay for our food and gas and then move on. Drifters, that’s what we’d be. Living off the land and not having anyone to tell us what to do or when to do it. No one to rely on but ourselves; they were the pipe dreams of two kids who knew nothing about the world except what we’d read in the pages of Jack Kerouac and Jack London.

As we cut through the new home construction on Libel street near Brookridge Fin looked at me and asked “You think we can do all of that stuff? You know, just up and split? You wouldn’t worry about your family or nothing?”

“Well, yeah, I would.” I said “But by the time we are old enough to get our motorcycles and hit the road my sisters will be out on their own. It’ not like we’re gonna just up and leave tomorrow or next year. Hell, Fin, we don’t even have money to buy the tire of a motorcycle let alone two motorcycles. Yet.”

“I guess.” He said “But it would be nice to be able to take off now. No more crappy school, no more bullies, no more waiting to start our lives. You know?”

“Yeah, I get where you’re coming from.” I said and we walked the rest of the way home lost in our own thoughts. I can’t speak for my pal but I was trying to figure out a way to make enough money to make my dream come true. As we approached the back of the Jamrogs’ house I noticed Fin was frowning.

I didn’t say anything to him; I knew what he was thinking. Every time we cut through the Jamrogs’ backyard and Dennis, Glenn or Mike saw us, they would harass us. Especially Fin, he seemed to catch the brunt of the teenagers’ angst. I think it was because he was still thought of as the new kid even though he’d lived next door to me for almost two years.

Today though, we got through the yard and past the garage with no problem, a fact I can only attribute to a box of Playboys that were most likely being drooled on as we snuck past. Once we got to the end of the Jamrog’s driveway I noticed my mom’s car was not in our driveway and the garage door was open with no car inside. Good news for me, I wouldn’t have to deal with being yelled at for now.

Jim and I said our goodbyes to each other and as he headed next door I told him if he wanted to hang out in my room later to stop by. He just shrugged and waved at me as if to say “Yeah, man, maybe.” I headed to the back of the house and used the back door to get back in the house. Everything was pretty quiet and I couldn’t tell if anyone was home. My sisters room was empty, as was the entire main floor of the house.

As I wandered through the house I checked the kitchen table, the end tables in the living room and the door to my bedroom for a note from any of my family members but the only thing they had left behind was dust. The door to my bedroom was still closed and as I approached it I wondered if my family had even realized I had left earlier in the day. Had they knocked on my door? Checked on me? Thought about me? Are they even thinking of me at that very moment? Had anyone read the note I had left on my bed?

As I opened my bedroom door I thought I heard someone come in the back door of the house. I ignored the noise and continued into my bedroom. When I stepped into my room I noticed the note I’d left not eight hours earlier was still sitting on my pillow undisturbed. I glanced around the room and saw none of my toys, clothes or school books had been disturbed either. I realized at that moment that no one in my family even knew if I was home, out running the streets, alive or dead.

“It’s about time you came out of your room.” My oldest sisters’ voice called to me from down the hall, interrupting my epiphany and self centered reverie.

“Uh-huh.” I mumbled and turned to face her. She was coming down the hallway towards me, completely oblivious that I’d just gotten home myself. “Yeah, I, um, I’ve been doing homework and just hanging out.” I quickly said and sat on my bed and grabbing the mornings note, crumbling it into a ball then tossing it into my Green Bay Packers trash can by my bedroom door.

“Well, Mom and Bob went up to Crivitz and they won’t be home until tomorrow. Are you hungry? What do you want for dinner?”

“I’m not really hungry. Where is everyone?”

“Debbie’s out with friends, Suzy is in the kitchen and has been with me all day. Are you sure you’re not hungry? I was going to make some goulash.”

“Goulash? Ok. I think I could eat.” I said and smiled at my sister as I got up from my bed.

She stood there in my doorway with a pained expression on her face, “He really did a number on you last night didn’t he?” She said staring at the bruises on my face.

“Yeah, but it looks worse than it is.” I mentioned with false bravado and unconsciously rubbed my cheek and wincing slightly at the aching pain the slight touch caused me.

“You really shouldn’t mouth off to him. You know he doesn’t like it when you get smart with him.” She cautioned.

“I know, but I don’t like how he talks down to me either. So I guess we’re even.” I said with a grin and then shrugged my shoulders and added “Besides, he’s not family yet and I just don’t understand how he thinks he can just come in here and always boss us around.”

“Please can you at least TRY to get along with him?” She asked me as she turned to head back down the hallway “C’mon, you can look after Suzy while I make dinner.” She ordered in her mother hen like way.

I followed.

Skip's Blog

Visions of Reality

Thank God January is OVER!

Family Untied

Resolution Update

A New Year brings New Hope.

I Still haven't found what I'm looking for.

Struggle

Relief

Thanksgiving 2011

Shared Pain

Right, Wrong or Inbetween

End of Summer

Breaking Newton

Guest Appearance.

Friends and Relations

Special Guest

Networking

Death, Be Not Proud (But I sure am!)

I Am

Reaper Madness

Through the Lens and Under the Scope

The End of an Era

American Dream?

A Book Review

Front Porch Visitation

Stormy Weather

Bonding in the Electronic Age

Updates for July

4th of July, 2011

The Unanimous Declarationof the Thirteen United States of America

...and Underway

Humanitarian Hope

Conversation with and Elder.

15 minutes Late.

Season of Searching

A New Beginning

Flatheads, Crescent Wrench's and Pliers (Part 16)

Update May

Flatheads, Crescent Wrench's and Pliers (Part 15)

Flatheads, Crescent Wrench's and Pliers (Part 14)

Flatheads, Crescent Wrench's and Pliers (Part 13)

An Update.

Flatheads, Crescent Wrench's and Pliers (Part 12)

Flatheads, Crescent Wrench's and Pliers (Part 11)

Flatheads, Crescent Wrench's and Pliers (Part 10)

The Unanimous Declaration
of the Thirteen United States of America