Ideas and Repurcussions

            Well, I had an idea, okay, not just one idea, most of the time, on a daily basis that is I have a plethora of ideas. Ideas which I rarely act upon or attempt to make corporeal. Mostly what I do with my ideas is I forget them. I toss them into a mental locker along with all my other ideas, slam the door shut and put a lock on it. I don’t think about them, I don’t act upon them nor do I ever try and vocalize them.

            However there are exceptions. On occasion, very rare occasions there is an idea that refuses to be locked and hidden away. This type of idea happened about five months ago. Now, to say it is an original idea would be extremely pompous of me. No, this idea has been around for a long time. Others have had it and have acted upon it. My only twist to this notion was to have this idea dragged kicking and screaming into the 21^st century. It was an idea that just wouldn’t go to sleep.

            So I acted upon it.

            Now, saying I acted upon it means I had to think outside the box to bring it into fruition. I had to reassess how my job is done and how one in my position goes about getting things done. Fortunately for me I know how to maneuver in government employ. It is something I have over twenty years of experience with. I did what I had to do. I made the appropriate insane requests and then submitted my idea for the idea I wanted.

            It took some finagling, some presentations of examples and some wise words from other people to convince my supervisor and my director what I wanted was for the betterment of the museum. It worked. Much to my chagrin.

            So the order was placed for an extreme amount of product. When the last item ordered, which was the first item to arrive, I was a bit disappointed, I started a learning process which I am mired in right now.

            I am trying to fulfill my vision. I am trying to learn new technology and forms of communication. This is a job for a much younger person. A person who has been raised in the ins and outs of multi-media. Instead, I’m stuck with trying to learn what hashtags are. What specific links to specific people mean and how the whole world wide web works.

            I’m a fish out of water.

            Yet, I’m learning. I’m trying to do what is right by our society and its insatiable appetite for content. A content made for consuming and finding out what is in their interest and makes them get up out of their chairs and go out and see what is going on in the world.

            People who will eventually come see me and what my vision is. A vision of trains and what they bring to our lives. A vision that most people don’t see or understand. After all, everything you own in your life has spent some time on a train.

            This is the only point I try to instill in everyone I meet. All goods and services have traveled by rail in their life. Also, at one point, those goods and services have held up traffic. Traffic in which you and I sit in. Traffic in which we curse the gods of nature and all the lives and breathes from holding us up from our lives. Yet on those box cars, the hopper cars, the gondola cars and the intermodal cars lies our life.

            Yes, my vision was and is to show the people who visit us what life is like on the rails. It is a vision that has come to fruition. A vision that means I need to learn new software, hardware and programing in order to make it work. In other words, I’ve more than doubled my workload. And why? Simply put, to make people, the general public understand.

            I have no idea if what I have envisioned will work. But I do know that those who see it, will be blown away by the simplicity and the ease of access to which they’ve experienced.

            Yes, I have a lot of work to do, but in the long run, I believe what I’ve done will only enhance what I’ve been doing and show others what and important mode of consumerism they have brought upon themselves and the luxury to which their life holds with just menial delays.

            Have a great week and enjoy the future videos of trains I will be posting on my Facebook site.

Sunday Riding

It started off as a regular Sunday. I woke up late. Tried to eat. Puttered around the house and then hopped on my motorcycle and rode to church. I didn’t go into the sanctuary, not because I didn’t want to. No, I didn’t go in because the last time I was there, sitting in those theatre seats, my back started to hurt. Hurt as if there were a hundred pairs of boots kicking me in the in my lower back. When you have that kind of pain, it is very hard to concentrate on anything. So this time I sat in the lobby, near the speakers which were broadcasting the sermon. Nobody bothered me and I could move and shift into any position I needed to.

            After church, an impromptu lunch with my family and then as we walked out to our vehicles, my wife asks if I’m going home. I said yup. She then asks if I was going to take the long way. Our daughter chimed in and said most sarcastically “Uh, yeah, he is.” I just smiled, put my helmet on and fired up my bike.

            Twenty-five minutes later I stopped at a local park to have a cigar and use the facilities. It wasn’t long before two other bikers showed up and parked next to me. After twenty minutes of conversation about our respective rides and a beverage (my poison was a Red Bull, theirs drinks were hidden in paper bags) they invited me to ride with them to the state line. I agreed. After all, it was a beautiful day and I had nowhere to be.

            We pulled out in formation, I was bringing up the rear. We rode as if hell hounds were on our trail. Speed limits were ignored, curves were navigated with total disregard to safety and only slowed down when traffic got in the way. It was a good ride. Cares and stress melted away with each passing second and the deep rumble of our engines muted out any negativity my inner voice usually is spouting at the top of his lungs.

            We reached our destination, took a nice break sitting on a picnic bench and just spoke about nothing and everything. Other riders were out enjoying the day, solo riders, clubs and guys like us who had met serendipitously on the road and decided to join up. We poked fun of the foreign bikes, questioned the sanity of their style of riding and in general lost ourselves in the camaraderie of our mutual ideas.

            When we left, once again, I was bringing up the rear, we passed by more bikers out enjoying the day. We always made sure to acknowledge them regardless of what they were riding. After all, they are riders too. We sped down back roads and eventually ended up on an interstate. The four wheel traffic was against us. Cars and trucks in the passing lane were going slower than those in the thru lane. Our leader took some risks, signaled each lane change with his hands and turn signal and navigated us through all obstacles.

            The second rider eventually turned off to head home, I took his place and followed the man who seemed to know where he was going. Miles later, we ended up taking another break at a little dive bar where the juke box hadn’t been turned on in days, the pool tables were rigged for free play and all the televisions were muted. There were only eleven people in the bar and that included us, the bartender and the cook. It was also a bar where one could smoke inside of. We sat at a large table, had some drinks and talked. Our conversation only interrupted by the bartender and patrons who would come over and introduce themselves to me.

            This experience stirred within me something I had thought had been lost. You see, back in Wisconsin, this was the type of bar I would go to. A place where nobody wanted to listen to music or the news, a place where just being around like minded people and getting to know them was more important that the latest pop song.

            A place where it didn’t matter your race, religion or creed. All that mattered was if you wanted to know people without prejudice and hate. This place seemed to be a carbon copy of those long forgotten rooms.

            I met a woman who is in the midst of battling cancer. Her shirt a blazing pink with the words “I’m gonna beat this shit” in stark contrasting black letters. Her bandana, covering up the loss of her hair was also pink and she looked like the type of person who’d sooner kick your ass than give you the time of day but once you talked to her, you realized she is a sweet, loving and tender person.

            At the bar, an old man wearing a Viet-Nam military ball cap, sat nursing a beer. He came over, sat down, introduced himself and bought us drinks. We talked about his service in South East Asia and all the shit he was now going through with the VA because of his failing health and the effects of Agent Orange on his body. He was an old biker. Said he started riding when he got home from the war, but now, his health issues prevented him from riding his bike or driving his car. He’s fought for America and now is fighting for himself and he can’t even enjoy the wind on his face.

            The bartender, a young girl with two kids and a world of problems I’m not comfortable with sharing here, seemed as if her life were built on nothing but bad luck and bad decisions. Yet she was happy to be working and knew every customer by name. She also made sure everyone had the drinks they wanted and knew who was drinking what. My water glass never got empty. The beers of my fellow table mates were always replaced before they were empty as well.

            As the daylight waned, I knew it was time for me to leave. The patrons didn’t seem as if they wanted to leave and when I said my good-byes several people came out to see my ride and wish me safe travels. I was hugged by men and women whom I’d only known for an hour and it felt like I was being hugged by long lost family members.

            Yes, this place is a dive, it’s a biker bar and a place where all sorts of hell raising goes on. But you know, they opened up their hearts and minds to me as if it were the most natural thing in the world. These men and women, most of whom you’d never even give a second glance to in life seem to be the salt of the earth and the backbone of America. They are good people with real problems and live life by accepting the gritty, raw and unattractive nature of it. They don’t make excuses, they don’t want what isn’t theirs and they respect people who respect them.

            You meet the coolest people on a Harley when you’re on the road and when you open yourself up to life. Then again, I suppose you could say that is true for most situations. If you keep yourself open to people, real people, honest people you find out you have more in common with them than you think.

            I can’t wait to go riding again. Matter of fact… I think I’ll go right now.

            Have a great week.

Spring Derailment

Spring is finally here. The trees are blooming, the grass is growing and everywhere you look the animals are chittering, tweeting and frolicking in the warmth after a cold and crazy winter. I’m glad for the changes. It makes me want to be outside more than ever. It makes me want to hop on my motorcycle and race the sun. It makes me want to be free from the restraints of my life.

            I can’t be the only one who feels this way. Can I? Of course not. However; there is one thing about this physical change in season I don’t like. Doing taxes. Sure, I’ve been doing them for three decades and you’d think by now, what with all the tax increases, salary changes, medical charges and the rest of the rigamarole a person of my age, or any age older than me would have paid enough into the system so that they don’t have to pay anymore.

            Sure, I understand the need for keeping our military paid, our roads fixed, our national treasures secure. I know that freedom isn’t free. But the cost seems to be growing radically in a northward direction. I know I shouldn’t complain. I have rarely ever had to pay more this time of the year. Truth be told, I usually get money back. This happens because I give too much. Which is okay with me. I don’t mind paying my share. It just seems my share is getting larger and larger as the years grow shorter and shorter.

            We, our nation that is, fought a vicious war against a tyrannical government over a two percent tax on a beverage. Yet, two hundred and some odd years later, we are more than happy to pay over fifteen percent of our income to the federal and a somewhat less percentage to our states. Lastly I can’t really see the effects of what we are paying for. I wish I could. But I can’t. Hopefully one day I will.

            I suppose what I’m saying is, I’m confused about the whole process. I mean, I see people who hardly put any money into the system get back more than they put in. I see others who are wealthy get back almost everything and then there are us. The middle class. Paying for so much stuff we barely see enough to pay the water bill. It just seems broken.

            Okay, I’m about done for now. I didn’t want this blog to go this way, so I’m pulling the plug and I’m going to go sit on my porch and enjoy the beautiful weather before the doom and gloom set in again.

            Have a great week.

I am an Asshole

A little over fifteen maybe twenty years ago I would get off work every morning and drive an hour to see my Mom. She was going through a rough patch as most of us do and I worried almost every moment I wasn’t with her. When I arrived at her home, I’d coax, finagle and literally drag her out of bed, make her take a shower and get dressed while I cooked some breakfast. Afterwards, she’d do the dishes, I’d take out the trash, mow and trim the lawn and then sit and talk to her until I was almost too exhausted to drive home. I normally did this alone.

            However; on some occasions my wife would join me. This was usually on a Saturday or Sunday. Which is when this story takes place. On a Saturday.

            We arrived at my Mom’s house around nine in the morning. By the time we got her up and ready for the world it was almost ten. After breakfast and polite conversation my mother asked if I’d burn her compost pile since she was selling the house and she didn’t think the new owners would like to look out the windows and see a four foot tall, eight food diameter pile of compost that was overgrown with weeds. I agreed.

            She then told me to get some gasoline out of the garage to start the fire. I went to the garage and located three separate cans of gasoline. One was a five gallon and two were of the three gallon size. I picked up the lightest of the three gallon cans and made my way out to the edge of the property line. I walked around the pile eying it for any good places to start the fire and realized I might need to loosen up the decomposing mess. So I went back to the garage, got a shovel and went back to the pile and dug a few holes, made a few trenches and began to pour gas into all the turned over decay.

            It wasn’t long before I ran out of gas. So I put the shovel and empty can back in the garage to give it time to soak into the mound. When I returned I noticed my mom and wife looking at me through the window of the breakfast nook. I then heard a plane flying above the house. I looked up. It was a single engine Cessna. I waved to the plane, pulled out my lighter and ignited the pile. Which is about the time I realized how much gas I had poured onto this particular pile of trash. Over two gallons.

            When the first flames started, the fire began to slowly burn, then as if by some satanic force of nature, I felt the air around me start to rush towards the pile. I turned my back to the pile and not two steps later I was engulfed in flames and no oxygen to fuel my lungs. I started laughing even as I felt the hair on my head and face begin to singe. I ran. I ran as fast as I could to get out of the inferno I had started. My laughter was lost in the unearthly sound of high powered accelerant fueled by the cool air of the day and the dried and rotting food, trash and biodegradables that had been used to build it.

            By the time I got clear, my faded jean jacket smoking almost as much as the pile itself I fell on the ground holding my sides in an attempt to stop myself from the fit of laughter that had overtaken me. In the sky above me, the Cessna was no doing circles around the bonfire of garbage, its engine silent in the wake of the roaring flames not thirty feet from me.

            Which is about the time I heard my mother screaming “You’re an ASSHOLE. My God, you are such and ASSHOLE.” And on the tail end of her repeated tirade, I heard my wife’s laughter followed by her saying “Well, he is your son.”

            I sat up, the heat from the fire was almost unbearable so I made my way back into the house with the unending screams of my mother filling my ears “You are such an asshole.”

            This revelation did nothing but bring an even larger smile to my face and make me feel as if I had accomplished something. I didn’t know what I had accomplished but I knew it was something important.

            As a matter of fact, it wasn’t until about four years ago that the events of that day and the results of my actions led me to an epiphany of sorts. You see, it’s true, my Mom was in a very bad place. She was clinically depressed, taking all sorts of medication and had no drive or desire to do anything. But on that day, the day of me being called and confirmed an asshole, there was a change in her.

            She sold her house, moved into an apartment and started her life over. We saw each other every day for over a year. It was a great year. We talked, went to movies, hung out and drank coffee together and bonded in a way that made us both realize neither one of us is perfect and we don’t expect anything from each other but a good relationship.

            When she left to move North, my heart broke and I knew we would never have the closeness we had shared for that brief period in our lives. Although I am grateful for those days and nights of talking or just watching a football game on television.

            She has come a long way in those years. She is happier than I have ever seen her in her life. She has a loving husband and friends who honestly care about her and share common hobbies and interests. In other words, she has done a complete 180 degree turn from the woman she was to become the woman she is intended to be. I’m proud of her. I’m proud call her mom and I’m even more proud that I’m able to tell her dirty jokes, make inappropriate comments and just be myself around her. Even if it is when we are talking on the phone with half a continent between us.

            I’m sure I still frustrate her with my brash comments and my sometimes crude behavior, just as much as I’m stunned by her sometimes over-appropriate and polite demeanor. However, we have a relationship not many mother and sons have. For that I’m grateful and honored. Also, I can’t help but think to myself “You are an asshole and you did some good, no matter how small it was, you did it.” Which I believe makes our bond much stronger. After all, I have to say at least I didn’t set fire to a river bank.

            I love you Mom.

            Have a great week.

Introspective End of Week.

            It has been one hell of a week here in the heart of the South. My mood seem to rise and fall with the ever present and bipolar Mother Nature. One moment sunny and warm, the next, icy with bitter winds and my mood plummeting as quickly as the mercury. For a few moments, and by few I mean maybe three or four, I was not as worried as I normally am.

            Sure, I’ve been putting on a good smile and downright cheerful disposition while at work, but those who know me, I mean really know me, know there has been something off about the way I am when there are no strangers or untrustworthy types lurking in the shadows. Yeah, to say my days are not just an emotional but also a stress roller coaster ride the likes which have not been built is but a shallow example of the truth.

            I’ve spoken of this before, how could I not? It seems all I do these days is feel the overwhelming pressure of middle-aged life and the duties of raising a kid and being a good husband. Not easy. If you think it is, I’ll trade ya. (especially if you’re a bajillionaire) And the trade will most likely be temporary. Just long enough for me to empty out your bank accounts, steal my family from you and run off to a secluded island where they’ve never heard of large box stores.

            I digress.

            Yeah, it’s been rough. I, no, we survived. The weather, the stress, the insanity of life. And we did it with very little grace and dignity. Yet we managed to pull together and survive for one more week. Just like you. And you. And yes, you, there in the back room with no lights on and eating your way through a box of Swiss Miss rolls. We all survived. A little more dented, a little more tarnished by lifes pummeling, but we fucking survived.

            Sure, I had some help. I texted a person I try to not text because I know how crazy his time management is and I know the demands on his life are at least as much as mine. Words of encouragement were exchanged and I actually laughed when I was feeling like quitting. I hope you have someone in your life like that because it wasn’t until recently I realized how important it is to have someone to help pick you up and dust you off when you’ve been sucker punched by the world.

            Just talking to my pal brought forth good conversations filled with memorable quotes. Life quotes really. Some would call the platitudes but to me, right at this time in my life, I need them. I really need them. I’m grateful for our friendship, hell any friendship for that matter. Our bond with others seems to help lessen the pain we get force fed every day. It acts like a morphine shot to the soul and psyche. A shot that seems to give us the strength to stand up, brush the dust and grime of life off our soiled clothes and move our still aching body forward. Forward with the help of a friend or two.

            I can’t say I won’t lose my mind in the near and dear future. I will. I know I will, because the unseen blackness of life is hiding just around the corner. Or on the other end of an incoming phone call. Or, maybe pressing send on an email that when you read it will make you wish you’d chosen a different path to your life. Thankfully, right now, I don’t feel that way right now.

            Nope, I’ve got a few secret weapons on my side. Soldiers in the fight for life so to speak. Soldiers I can lean on. After all, we are all brothers in arms just trying to get as far as we can before the energy that keeps us going is transferred to another plane of existence. Hopefully one filled with golden roads and mansions. I think I could actually rest there. Peace, tranquility and none of the insanity we have created on this spaceship we call earth.

            Have a great week. Be good to each other.

And on the first day of Spring... Raise the white flag.

            Mother nature has played a cruel joke on us here in the South. You see, like all of you, we here have suffered another bitterly cold winter. So cold that I know of men and women who work for the power companies who’ve been working almost non-stop since the first blast of arctic air made its way into our lives. The weather has been so awful that I have not really been able to enjoy my favorite writing spot. My front porch that is. Nope, I’ve been mostly relegated to writing while sitting up in bed or trying to write while sitting on my couch because the bitter cold, the snow, the incessant rain that pelts you from all sides that feel like ten thousand needles penetrating your skin makes sitting outside in nature a difficult task if not damn near impossible.

            Whatever the obstacles put before me have been, be they thrust upon my by nature or duties to my family and work, I’ve still managed to persevere in my communication. This is not news, but it feels good to say. Yet I can’t help but think, with all the chronic comments and complaints I hear from people in my daily life, that others are just as put out as I am in these thoughts that Mother Nature is playing some sort of cruel joke on us. Which brings me back to my original sentence.

            The cruel joke.

            You see, just a few short days ago, here in the south, the mercury rose above seventy for the first time in what seems like eons. Birds chirped with glee, squirrels chased each other frantically, dogs that normally bark like the world is ending as you passed by their house seemed to just be happy to feel the warmth of a yellow glow on their skins. Yes, all around us, even the trees seemed to have let out a collective sigh of relief that the long cold winter was over. Then the temperatures dropped to the upper thirties. That night. Almost no warning, with the exception of the weather Nazis on television. Yup, our brief respite in the death cycle of seasons merely a mirage. A mirage quickly replaced by rain, bone chilling wind and foggy breath for those brave enough to venture out into the atmosphere of arctic air that seemed to have found a new home here.

            Which is funny in a way to me.

            You see, as a person gets older, you hear about “Snow-Birds”. They are the people who live in the northern climates during the summer months, and when the witch of November begins her lengthy exhale, they head south. Places like Florida, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas become havens for pale faced elderly people with more disposable income than they have days left on this planet. Used to be, I felt sorry for these folks, thinking how unlucky they are to miss out on the gasping vestiges of a season as it slowly goes into a slumber, only to awaken months later in joyous harmony and bloom. A season filled with energy, life and the ability to ensure that the life they are enjoying will be passed on.  Right now, I think I may have been wrong.

            You see, I’m fast approaching my forty-eighth year and I’m beginning to think that chasing the sun and its infinite healing warmth may be a respectable goal. Yet, inside me, deep inside where all the super-secrets and regrets of life lie in a coffin that is encased in concrete while surrounded by metal that is coated with three inches of rust-proof while anchored to the core of the molten core of the earth with magma proof chains is the little kid in me who used to love winter. A kid so enamored with the cold and white flakes from the sky he never realized the beauty of the stark gray countryside until it was almost too late. A scenery of bare beauty that was only hinted at in the movie “Fargo”. Yet the desire for the sparseness and empty plains of white drifting off into a dark gray horizon haunt my dreams to this day. Yes, there is a part of me that yearns for those days. Endless rows of empty fields where not even an animal would dare tread for fear of being on the supper table of a starving farmer.

            Yes, I still think fondly of those Wisconsin winter days. Where the morning snow is a deep ruddy black and gray that slowly fades to white and the imprints of child sized snow boots scatter across otherwise pristine lawns. Footprints that if analyzed by a CSI would show a great battle had occurred there not twelve hours earlier. A battle that held the stakes of every citizen in the solar system, nee, every citizen in the universe in the clutches of its outcome. Empty snow forts with abysmally made mutant snowmen standing guard in cul-de-sacs and front yards that had once hosted squeals of glee and vehemence, all in good natured fun, slowly melting and soon to look like some sort of menagerie of a madman with a blowtorch fill my mind lost scenes from my own youth. Yah, I guess in one sense of the word I miss the neck high to a giraffe snow drifts. But another part of me, the part that is quickly approaching embittered middle age, I say my bones are weary. My bones ache. The earth is not only for the living but the young.

            Bring me tepid temperatures where I can enjoy the simple fruits of my labors without soaking my hands and body in water that reaches upwards to one-hundred and ten degrees just so the feeling of life will return to my aged and aching bones.

            I’m done Mother Nature, I surrender and hoist a white flag in your honor. I’m too tired, too, worn out and too cold to endure a spring where the average temperature is less than my double digit age.

            Have a great and warm week everyone.

Camera Shy

            It has been a comedy of frustration and errors today. You see, I accidentally or maybe purposefully got myself volunteered to do a task that a person with my limited patience should not be in charge of. Okay, maybe I should back up a bit.

            If any of you my dear readers are followers of me on facebook then you will have undoubtedly seen some of the videos I’ve posted from work. These videos, model train videos, were recorded on the train tracks of a train layout I designed. They are pretty cool too, if you ask me but then again, I’m a train geek and videos of trains are what I like. I find them fascinating.

            In order to make these videos, the city I work for purchased a small video camera. No, not the gopro camera. Instead they opted for a Kodak camera that can record in full 180 degree vision. Now, the camera was not intentionally purchased for filming on the train layout. Instead it was purchased for the planetarium we have here so the planetarium director can film weather and stellar phenomenon for our dome. Pretty cool stuff there. For example, he/we actually filmed our first train layout videos using the dome setting and then replayed the footage on the dome. Watching the trains go down the track at larger than life size scale was dizzying.

            After that initial experiment, I put in a requisition to get one of these cameras and other equipment to broadcast live onto a television in the train room. That requisition is still pending approval/disproval. In the interim, I thought I’d experiment with the camera a bit more, get some regular footage, not dome footage and test the entire system out before spending a lot of government funds on expanding my exhibit. Which I started to do on Tuesday.

            Towards noon, the camera’s battery died. In truth, I don’t think the battery had been fully charged but it makes no difference now. So I charged the battery. When it was finished charging, I reinserted it back into the camera. Which promptly refused to turn on.

            Odd, I thought, then I went and spoke with the planetarium director to see if he had any advice. He did not, but he was more than willing to try and get the camera on himself. He failed as much as I did. So we decided that the battery may not be fully charged. We stuck it in the charger overnight.

            Wednesday came and went with the same dead results. We pondered the problem, questioned our intelligence and even tossed the idea around of holding an exorcism for the possessed piece of plastic, metal and glass. By the end of the day he handed me several sheets of paper that contained the purchase order, extended warranty plan information and all other pertinent information and asked if I’d take care of the problem. I stupidly agreed. And this is where the story starts.

            Thursday, I call the toll free number, sit through more than several minutes of automated telephone directory assistance and then, as I was ponder what it would feel like to have a number two pencil shoved into my eye socket, a nice and pleasant baritone voice says “Hello, may I help you?”

            Success! I set the pencil back in the Norfolk and Southern coffee cup on my desk that seems to be overflowing with pencils, pens, screwdrivers and scissors. I quickly explain the situation to the gentleman and he is more than happy to assist me. However; it appears our extended warranty plan had not been activated. So that is what we did. I spent about ten minutes going over everything with him and he then informed me that it would take about twenty-four hours to process the paperwork and I should call back on Friday. I thanked him and hung up believing that success was just one day and one phone call away.

            I should have just stuck that pencil in my eye right then and there.

            Friday started with a bang. Not really, but it was an exceedingly hectic and fast paced morning. I believe every school in the seven cities sent their problematic kids to us to use as ad-hoc babysitters. It wasn’t until almost one o’clock when the one thousand and seven juvenile delinquents finally departed. Leaving behind broken markers, pens, fishing equipment, bubble makers, lightbulbs, anvils, case hardened steel and coated aircraft cable. Also, there was a film a stickiness and toxic goo upon every flat surface in our over 28,000 square foot building. I almost called FEMA.

            Instead, I called that wonderful toll free number in hopes to hear a nice gentleman with a subtle baritone voice again. Instead, I got a squeaky voiced woman with a heavy Midwestern accent. I went over my story with her as I did with the gentleman the day before. She opened the account and informed me that our product, the camera in question was still covered under the one year manufacturer’s warranty. She was even polite enough to give me another toll free number for the manufacture. I nodded in silence, picked up the bloodless and eyeballless pencil from my cup and wrote down the number. I thanked her and hung up.

            I called the number and promptly sat through ten minutes of advertisements and contest winning affirmations. All I had to do to claim my prize(s) was punch in a valid credit card number. I apparently was the winner of a ten day and night round trip to Las Vegas for only sixty-nine dollars a day, I had also won a European vacation of no less than four countries for ten days at one-hundred and ninety-nine dollars a day, a Segway, a new flat screen television and even a trip to the Grand Cayman islands. I sat through all of these promotions, the pencil in my hand drawing ever nearer to my right eye socket. Then, the phone started to click, my anticipation for communicating with a real live person grew, then I heard “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again.”

            I wanted to slice my wrists with a rusty and dull spoon. Instead, I dialed the number again. (I’m Polish, what’d you think I was going to do?) I then sat through all the wonderful announcements that I was a prize winner again and if I would only punch in my credit card information I would soon be traveling around the globe in a carefree and jaunty manner. I put the phone on speaker mode, picked up a pencil for each hand on contemplated the dire look of a co-working coming into my office and finding me with two pencils, one in each eye with blood slowly pouring out onto my face and pooling on the floor next to my desk. This thought made me smile and relax. After all, it would serve as a warning for anyone who ever wanted to try and claim a warranty over the phone for the history of man to not do so.

            At the end of the recordings, the same chipper voice said “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again.”

            I hung up, looked at my computer screen and did a quick search for the camera manufacture. I found their website, found the support section and called them. In a few minutes, after of course listening to the instructions in three different languages, I was finally speaking with a real, live human being. A woman, middle aged, from the Midwest and more than happy to tell me her company no longer makes cameras and has not done so for several years. Also, she told me, any manufactures warranties are invalid since they do not make any products whatsoever that deals with storing digital or analog photographs anymore. I informed her the when and where of our purchase. She had no answer. We hung up.

            I called the warranty place again. When the young lady who answered, I say young but I don’t know, her voice was a mix of Midwestern accent and Indonesian accent, answered I went through my entire tale again. She told me I needed to get some sort of paperwork from this company stating they don’t make cameras before they, the warranty company could do anything about my issue. I hung up and started to play with one of my many knives.

            Instead of honoring the great Samurai and their tradition of suicide when faced with shame. I called the manufacturing company once again. Wouldn’t you know it, I ended up speaking with the same young lady I had previously spoken with. She then informed me that while her company does not in fact manufacture cameras, other companies do and then put their name on them. She gave me the number of that company and wished me luck.

            I took break. I had to. My mind was swirling with questions and I knew if I talked with anyone, I’d be crass, angry and just downright unpleasant.

            Fifteen minutes later, I was back on the phone, instead of calling the number of the manufacture I had just received I called the warranty company. I don’t know if this action was intentional or not. I do know that I got a different customer service agent. Another woman, older, maybe in her fifties, and I tried to explain once again what it was I was trying to do. She had no answers for me, even after putting me on hold for several moments.

            When she returned to the line, she recited what the previous lady had told me. I frowned. Then she implied I/the city had purchased a used item and the warranty would be void anyway. I informed her that was not the case. That in fact, the product we had purchased through Amazon was brand new, in its original package, sealed and was being made by a “shell” company for the original manufacturer. She did not say I was lying but she did infer it. I then pointed out, since all of these transactions had taken place through the Amazon portal and their company was certified with Amazon along with the company we had purchased the camera from that they in fact should honor the warranty. She had no reply.

            Now, I know when I get upset and frustrated, much like you my dear reader, we have a tendency to say things we don’t mean and on occasion use language that is rather colorful. I abstained from this. Consciously. I made a point to NOT use colorful language and I made a point to show this woman that the company she worked for was more than eager to take our money but when it came time to file a claim, even with all of the paperwork they required, they would not do so. I then hung up. I felt better. No, it was not a venting, just a mere relaying of the conflict in the service her company offered and the service they delivered.

            I then called the number the nice young lady had provided for the proper manufacturer. I didn’t hear any ads, nor did I hear several languages while waiting for someone to pick up on the other line. Nope, as soon as the “Welcome to our company” message was over, a nice lady with an accent that dripped of southern California and Spanish identified herself and promptly listened to my tale of angst, frustration and woe. She then emailed me the proper form to fill out. Which I did, and she invited me to have a pleasant weekend. (Which I hope to do.)

            Now, the camera is sitting in a bright yellow, red and black box on a desk waiting for the cities internal mail man to come pick it up, have proper postage stuck on it and mailed to the left coast of our country. Hopefully, and this is from the last woman I spoke with, we, the city, will have our small digital, wifi, 180/360 domed camera back within twenty-one business days.

            So, presumably sometime around November.

            Have a great week.

PS. No pencils or eyeballs were hurt during the writing of this or the experiencing of this event.