Dirty Little Secret

Boredom. Stark, bleak, mind-numbing boredom. We are out of reading material - unless I count the label on a can of water chestnuts. Since I've already read it, and doubt the story has changed, I'm not going to count it as viable reading material. I suppose Kat's mom would lend me a bible or her “Daily Bread.” I can't say that I'm in the mood for … leave that one layin' where it is, Buffalo.

On the tube, “Die Hard With A Vengeance” is playing for the trillionth time. There is a hockey game playing on the other tube; the tube nearest our desks. The desks on which rests our respective computers. That's why I donned a set of headphones. Because of the hockey game, not the desks. Well, because the desks were close to the hockey game. Close to the television that was televising the hockey game. I don't know where it was being played.

Yes, I know. Sacrilege. You do realize that I'm not Canadian, don't you? That means I don't have to pretend liking or understanding the game. It does mean I best keep my opinions to myself; at least, in some loonies. Yeah, loonie. I would have said in some “quarters” if it weren't for inflation.

There are only so many games of Spider and Free Cell that I can play without beginning to make music by strumming my lower lip with my index finger. Besides, I don't have a sense of rhythm and am tone deaf.

The Internet seemed to have rolled up the sidewalks somewhere around 2200 hours. I couldn't find anything of interest. Hell, I even forced myself to peruse some porn sites. You know I would never do anything like that voluntarily, not without extreme provocation.

There I sat. All dressed up and no where to go. If not dressed up, at least covered up. That included covering my ears with headphones. My forearms resting on the glass that protected the sanded, stained integrity of the desktop. The desktop that was littered with lighter fluid, eyeglass cleaner, speakers, read books, notebooks, toilet paper, American and Canadian flags, calendar, mouse, computer, mouse pad, nose spray, emery board, pencil holder, back scratcher, and an ankh on a simulated gold chain. I almost forgot. A basket with a sharpening stone, three Dianna Krall CDs, and a tiny calculator that I don't know if it works.

That's when it hit me like a big turd falling from a tall ox – only not as messy and smelly. Computer + headphones + bored out of my skull = YouTube. I typed in the address without looking a the keyboard. I can do that, you know. I learned to type during my freshman year of high school. Typing was one of two subjects that have actually served me well throughout my life. The other subject was Latin, but that is another story.

Back at the dawn of civilization, we used to go camping in Phantom Canyon every now and then. We'd get a roaring bonfire going. Mom would drag out her old flat top guitar and sing to us. Our favorite song from her fairly limited play list was Cowboy Jack. In the real world, she couldn't sing for Jack Squat. In that tiny world of innocence, my sis and I thought she sang like an angel.

Well, I found the song and clicked it to life. The old boy what was singing it was just shy of unbearable. I would have clicked him to silence were it not for the nostalgia value. Unfortunately, it took only a few moments for him to add some sort of imitation Bob Wills yee ahs. It sounded more like a jackass braying that it did Bob Wills. There is only so far nostalgia will go and we had done gone the distance. The road was closed and barricaded.

I'm particularly fond of the Blues and Rockabilly. I never got around to Rockabilly, but I surely found some kick ass Blues. Howling Wolf is damn nigh onto being my favorite Blues singer. That might change when I'm listening to Muddy Waters or Johnny Lee Hooker.



I haven't made mention of my dirty little secret, have I?

There is another singer I like. As a matter of fact, I like him a whole lot. He isn't a Blues or Rockabilly artist. He isn't a rock artist. He damn sure isn't a Hip Hop … I was going to say “artist,” but I can't go there.

Yep. I do like Slim Whitman.

Do me a favor and don't spread it around. A secret is a secret.



Life is sweet – because even boredom has to end.

Several Thousand Words

1000

2000

3000

4000

5000

And that, friends and neighbors, is all I have to say about that.

Well, that and Happy Birthday, Kat!

Not Breaking News

No, it isn't breaking news.

No, compared to all of the evil, corruption, greed, and stupidity in the world, it wasn't much of a story even when it was news.

Yet it had a certain rancidness that screams for fresh air and a strong breeze.

The parent advisory board of a middle school in Goldsboro, North Carolina decided that selling 20 test points for 20 bucks was a mighty fine fund raiser. The principal pondered on it for a while, couldn't see that there was anything much wrong with it, so she gave it her approval.

You're not going to believe it, but there were some folks that thought selling grades wasn't teaching the kids what they should be taught. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, their opinion won the day.

Rush Limbaugh had an interesting take on the matter. You might want to take a couple of minutes to read what he had to say.

Voyeur

Sitting under a pale blue sky watching as the world hovers in that magical, impossibly-possible, infinitely tiny, blink-in-the-eye-of-eternity moment where the past, present, and future all exist simultaneously in perfect harmony. A whispered breath of air stirs the lower branches of a spruce tree growing from a well-mulched bed of cedar. To the northeast, an old, single engine airplane flies lazy circles over what is often a jump zone for parachutists. A miles-long formation of Canadian geese are all but imperceptible black dots on the western sky. Snow white seagulls flutter about as they search for an afternoon snack.

Nostrils assailed by the acrid aroma of vehicle exhaust and burning leaves. It is too cool to be warm and too warm to be chilly. Sans jackets was for the hot-blooded young. A slightly pudgy, middle-aged brunette walks by, wearing a white ski jacket and polyester slacks that have escaped from the not-distant-enough past. A pair of flip-flops cling to her bare feet.

He sat with back against the beige bricks, legs crossed in what once was called “Indian style,” strumming his beat-up, black, flat top guitar as he sang folk ballads. A shock of jet-black hair struggled to escape from the confines of a gray watch cap. An open black guitar case, plastered with decals, sat at his feet. He seemed to have been rendered invisible and mute as a steady stream of cart-pushing shoppers rushed past him without seeing or hearing.

A cigarette lit and a cigarette smoked while a conservative talk show pushed to have a law passed that would require new immigrants to settle according to their job skills. He also thought it a good idea if immigrants were encouraged to leave Canada if they did not apply for citizenship as soon as they were legally able to do so.

A trio of females, too old to be called girls and too young to be called young women, strolled saucily down the sidewalk. Their hair was immaculately coiffed, their makeup as perfect as the skill levels of that age can manage, clothing carefully chosen, and attitudes in place. There was an intensity in their eyes that claimed they were hunting, not shopping.

There is a genuine smile on her face as she walks briskly down the tree and flower-lined, mulch-covered island. Her hair is gloriously gray; a testament to a person comfortable with their maturity, not the symbol of someone surrendering to the sometime-indignities of age. Her face is smooth, glowing, but not bereft of the lines that tell of a life lived. The ring finger of her left hand is barren of the shield of matrimony.

Dark, floral print dresses. Stout walking shoes and white socks. Purposeful stride. A black scarf carefully affixed to a tightly coiled bun. Brown winter coat zipped almost to the top. Face permanently set in a stern, serious expression. Life is for work and worship, not fun and frivolity. Some lives are celebrated and other lives are to be endured while awaiting a better day on the other side of the river.

A rail thin, old but not stooped, man stops by the singer, fumbles in his pocket and throws some coins in the case. The seat of his khaki slacks are droopy. The young man smiles at something said and offers the guitar to the older man. The fellow takes it, strums a few cords and hands it back to him before leaving. Suddenly, everyone passing by begins to feed the hungry, black case.

A door opens and shuts. A seat belt closes with a snap. The starter turns, the engine catches and the truck backs out of the parking place. The journey continues.

Random Thoughts

It was on toward 0830 when I was awakened by the silence of a flood of dismal gray through the partially opened blind slats. I grabbed hold of my ears and heaved myself out of bed. If a coroner had examined me about then, he (or she) would have determined I was in full rigor. My head hurt bad enough to make me wish I could lay it off to Captain Morgan putting the boots to me. Unfortunately, Captain Morgan jumped ship and was last seen having hot monkey sex with a couple of nubile, tropical island girls. There is probably an island or two in Manitoba, but I'm doubting they are tropical.

I showered most of the rigor out of my poor,old, well-used body. Damn near had a heart attack while I was brushing the snarls out of my too-long hair. I made the mistake of taking a peek into the mirror. It was glaringly obvious I hadn't gotten my beauty sleep.

Sitting on the red couch that Satan uses to torture the unrepentant (guess that would be me), I began the almost painless process of transfusing my system with liters of Kat's spoon-melting caffeine concoction. When the unsweetened, undiluted, acidic rich blend of foul water and Columbia's finest legal export hit my stomach, it was like the kiss of an atomic angel.

It was a tad, maybe a couple of tads, past 0910 when my brain started to function. Perhaps “function” isn't exactly the right word. It would be more accurate to say it jump started a couple of the synapses. Can't say with any truthfulness that that is a good thing so early in the day; especially with all that gray filling the room. It sort of allowed a barrage of random thoughts to assail the door to the room where my sanity is stored. That isn't a good thing. A person is only issued so much sanity and when it's gone, well, it's gone. Who knows what will happen once it's depleted. Hell, you might turn out to be a Republican; or even worse, a Republican politician.

Have you ever wondered how companies that claim they can't afford to pay their rank and file employees a livable wage while, at the same time, paying their executives millions of dollars in salary, benefits, and stock options is a good thing?

I heard from a reliable source that by the time my Dad died, he was begging for death. In one way, I'm glad that I was in Nam when it happened. I'd rather remember him the way he was, rather than the pain filled, 100 pound skeleton he became. A terminal person shouldn't be forced to endure untold agony that can't be relieved. They shouldn't be cursed with a death completely without dignity. Opponents often say that the suffering is part of man's lot and to end it ahead of god's time is a sin. If suffering is man's lot, I wonder if they reach for a pain reliever when they hurt.

Do you think it would be possible, even with a library full of proof, for President Obama to prove to his rabid detractors' satisfaction that he is indeed an American citizen and that he is not a Muslim or a socialist bent on destroying the country?

Isn't sending the same troops on multiple deployments to the same war zone a bizarre way for our leaders to show they support and care for the troops?

I've heard certain quarters criticizing President Obama for taking five days to appear at Ft. Hood while former President and Mrs. Bush made a more immediate visit. I'm thinking back to Hurricane Katrina as I try to remember when the former president put his feet on the ground of Big Easy. Hmmm.

Did you ever wonder why women, other than exes, are such gorgeous, delightful life forms? As far as that goes, how does a gorgeous, delightful woman morph into a harridan from hell when she becomes an ex.

Why, in a '96 Plymouth Grand Voyager, did they put the access panel to the turn signals in the freakin' wheel well?

I need an Aleve. Those darned synapses have my head hurting.

Life is sweet – maybe because there is an end to everything.

Chow Dogs and Hedges

It was on toward the end of summer. Summer would be summer last year, not the summer just ended. This year, instead of summer, the Season Gods rendered an inadequate apology and a governmental-type promise of a real one next year. Kat and I were sitting on the back porch absorbing the the visual and olfactory pleasures of a freshly and well-mowed yard. I suspect I was sipping on a cup of acid rich, black coffee whilst I sucked on a coffin nail. I don't rightly remember what either Kat or I were doing. I've been to the bathroom a few times since then.

“That damned hedge is aggravating the hell out of me, baby girl,” I might have said. It is entirely likely I didn't phrase it as politely and expletive-free as all of that. Remember all the trips to the bathroom since then?

It is entirely possible my love of Chow dogs is rooted in traits that I share with them. For example, once something pops in my head, it is damned hard to get it to pop out again. That's why a lot of folk think Chows are hard-headed. They aren't. They do have strong focus, though. I admit there are times when it is more than a little difficult to penetrate that intense focus to advise them of the potential folly of whatever in the hell they're pondering on.
In point of fact, the hedge was aggravating me. The branches were snarling around the power lines and the telephone line. When I mowed the lawn, the lower branches leaped out and beat me around the head and shoulders. Sometimes they would draw blood. I surely do hate the idea of leaving my DNA scattered hither and yon.

“It is too late in the season to do anything with them. If we cut them back now, they likely won't survive the winter,” she told me. Since she has been hanging out with me, she has lost a lot of her Canadian speech patterns. On a good day, she could pass as an American from the Southern part of the Mid West.

“Down home, we cut them when the spirit moves us and I feel my spirit moving,” I remarked.

“But baby,” (She calls me baby. What do you think of that crappola?) “You're not down home. Down home, it doesn't get down to 50 below without the windchill.

What can I say? She speaks the truth.

“Dad,” she continued, “always cut them back just before spring.

I wasn't ready to put the thought out of my mind. Since it was actually almost warm that day, since I hate to sweat, and since I believe that one shouldn't do anything today that can be put off until tomorrow, I went back to sipping to my coffee. I may well have lit another cigarette, just for good measure.

Put the remote on fast forward. That lets you skip the commercials and keeps me from having to fill the space with even more trivial balderdash. Stop when you get to late winter or early spring.
For those of you that have never had the, uh, privilege of spending a winter in Friendly, Frigid Manitoba, when I speak of any of the four seasons I am referring to the seasons delineated by the man-made calendar. It has nothing to do with the reality of weather. Remember the words from that old Johnny Horton song, “When it's springtime in Alaska, it is 40 below.” While you're remembering, do me a favor and don't ask “Who is Johnny Horton?”

The yard was buried deeply in a blanket of almost-white, very frozen snow. Every now and then, the mercury, or whatever they use instead of mercury now days, would soar all the way up to almost zero. The blue jays were so hoarse from the cold, they couldn't scream. A flock of robins flogged one of their brethren to death when he foolishly suggested it was time for them to head out for their Canadian summer home.

I believe it was Kat's mom that said, “This is the time of year that Dad trimmed the hedges.”

“There's snow on the ground. I'm not going to stand in the snow whilst I trim a hedge.” That was me talking.

“He shoveled it.”

“No disrespect intended, but I'm not about to do that. He was a hale and hearty Canuck. I'm a wussy American.”

So we waited. The snow finally melted. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, the melt turned the hard into a shin-deep morass. Then it rained. And then it rained some more. You know how it ends. At some point everything, good, bad, or neutral, has to end.

We have neither a chain saw nor an electric hedge trimmer. We do have a bow saw, a limb lopper, and a pair of very old manual hedge trimmers. It would have been simpler, and probably made a whole lot more sense, if I'd asked Dave, (Dave being the brother-in-law that I sometimes call a punk-assed bitch even though he isn't), to borrow his chain saw. I'm not in favor of borrowing tools. Whenever I lend out a tool, it immediately goes into foster care. I never see it again. Neither do I want to be responsible for someone else's tool. If it would break, I would feel responsible for fixing it or replacing it.

A few snips with the hedge trimmers told me the branches had grown too large for it to handle. That sort of things happens when it is seven years between trims. The limb lopper made relatively short work of the majority of branches in the first section of hedge. The majority doesn't mean all of them, though. Some of the branches were six to eight inches in circumference.

Poor, ol', Buffalo began sawing. Up and down the ladder went his fat ass - and the rest of him went with it. The spirit was willing as all get-out. The flesh was a tad on the weak side. Two years ago, I think it was, the doctor told me I needed to have surgery to repair a torn rotator cuff. Instead of putting my faith in a surgeon to repair the tear, I decided to trust in my body's mythical recuperative ability. I say “mythical” because those recuperative powers might not have been as great as I thought.

The sawing made my shoulder hurt like 15 hundred muthas. I'd saw for a spell and then rest long enough to let the the pain ebb a dab. By the end of two or three hours, I was ready to quit for the day. As much as Kat frets about me like an old mother hen, I'm thinkin' she was ready for me to quit long before I called it.

I might have failed to mention that we have one hell of a hedge. I'm guessing it runs over 100 yards. That makes for a fair amount of branches. All the time I was sawing, Kat was toting the brush to the garden plot. Five times, count them, we piled the garden high with branches. Five times, count them, Kat exercised her pyromaniac skills. The flames shot high in the air. The smoke set off a sneezing fit when it wafted into the nostrils of the gods.

Done is done. Eventually that is exactly what we were. All that was left was to set on the porch and fret about whether or not the damn thing would leaf out and start looking like a hedge instead of a forest of dead trees. The worry seemed legitimate to me. If there is a way to screw something up, you can be assured I will find that particular path. Kat kept telling me it would be fine. For once ,it didn't piss me off for her to be right.

During the summer that wasn't a summer, the hedge managed to grow a good four or five feet. Those long branches waving at me are a siren's song; a song that I positively refuse to hear.

Life is sweet – because done is done.

Veteran's Day 2009

I've been thinkin'. Thinking isn't necessarily the most calming and restful of projects; at least, not for me. Some of the thoughts I chase after seem to run along paths that are snarled up with vines, mire, and thorns, as well as other natural and unnatural impediments. Every now and then - more now than then - there will be other thoughts hanging from one of those vines. As easily as I am distracted, that is just as likely to send me down an entirely different path, likely to never get back to where I left off.

It's Veteran's Day, don'cha know. I'm partial to Veteran's Day. I'm a veteran. Three out of my four half brothers were vets; two Marines and one Army Medic. My Dad fought in World War I. That was the Great War, the War To End All Wars. I'm not sure why they called it the Great War. From what I've read, it was a lot of things, but “Great” wasn't amongst them. It probably would have been more fitting to have called it the Horrible War, but then that pretty much describes any and all wars. There is something about war that isn't overly pleasant, kind, mannerly, or good for living things; living things like people. Hell, the Civil War was anything other than civil. Bullets, artillery, mustard gas, grenades, and land mines have a tendency to render bodies to less than factory condition.

I'm not sure there is such a thing as a truly necessary war. The more I read about World War I, the more I believe that one could have been skipped entirely. Korea, the forgotten war, doesn't appear particularly necessary. Vietnam, the war that would like to be forgotten, was an adventure in the absurd. If you ask me, and even if you don't, Iraq was so unjustified as to fall under the heading of “Cluster Fuck.” If the President had pursued the justified mission in Afghanistan, our troops would be home instead of debarking on their third and fourth rotation to the Mid East.

You may have noticed I didn't mention WWII in the above paragraph. There is a reason for that omission. As near as I can tell, it was truly justified. The generation that fought that war, at home as well as abroad, exemplify the very best of what America is supposed to stand for.
The sad thing is, until someone figures out how to alter human nature, a standing military is necessary. No matter how much we work for peace, no matter how much we yearn for peace, no matter how many prayers are sent soaring to wherever they go, the probability of war looms just down the street and maybe around the corner.

Those that serve in the military, be they volunteer, conscript, man or woman, make a sacrifice. The sacrifice may be as relatively minor as having their lives put on hold for a couple of years while they are order-taking, uniform-wearing, sometimes-reluctant, guardians of their country. The sacrifice can be as great as the destruction of their body, their mind, their very life. That doesn't begin to account for the sacrifices of those that love and wait.

I never thought much about respect back when I was in the service. Most of the time, I was busy doing what I did, which was mostly taking orders from some college boy that thought he knew everything there was to know. When I had some thinking time, my thoughts were most likely directed down the path that was lined with cold rum and coke, hot and willing women, primo weed, and motorcycles. Hey! What can I say? I lived a life rife with fantasy.

There surely wasn't much respect for the Vietnam Veteran. We were an embarrassment. We were a lot of things, none of the particularly positive. You know how it was. We came home and got busy doing what we had to do, what we could do, and tried to live our lives. Letting anyone know that you were a Nam vet was a sure way to run into condescending attitudes or a lot of questions that should never have been asked and that you surely didn't have any intention of answering.

Twenty years down the road, it suddenly became popular to be a Nam Vet. Maybe folk had watched enough Chuck Norris movies to believe it had all been one grand adventure and “damn, I sure wish I had gone to Vietnam instead of burning the flag and running off to Canada.” Maybe it was all the collective guilt kicking in. Who knows? It was what it was.

Yeah, all of a sudden it was “Welcome home.” That felt good. That hurt. But you take what you can get and make do with it. I finally reached a point where I didn't want to hear it any longer. I'm grateful that my contemporaries finally allowed me to come home. I never wanted to be thanked for my service. I served, not for thanks, but because it was my obligation and now that obligation is paid. I just wanted to come home. Quite honestly, and no disrespect intended, being thanked has come to embarrass me.

Odd thing, that. Over the years I have thanked many a WWII vet for making it possible for me to speak American as a first language. I've acknowledged the service of Korean vets. I've not been remiss in telling our current warriors that I appreciate what they're doing for the country. But when it comes to me, I'm embarrassed.

We do owe our vets, current and past, a debt of gratitude and support. They stand, and have stood, between our country and whatever, whomever, posed a threat. That is a shinin' thing. I'm not sure buying a magnetic sign to slap on a vehicle actually demonstrates support, though.
The last letter I received from my Dad, as he lay dying in the Leavenworth VA Hospital, was written by a Gray Lady. Gray Ladies were volunteers that went into the VA hospitals to tend to the patients. They wrote letters, visited, played cards, provided hygienic products to the patients; basically they did whatever they could to help the patients. If it hadn't been for one lady that cared, I wouldn't have even known my Dad was ill until I received the Red Cross notification after his death.

I wonder how a letter or card would cheer one of our warriors on duty in Iraq or Afghanistan – or any foreign soil. Actually, I know how it makes them feel as I received responses to letters I have written.

The holidays are rapidly approaching. Budgets strained to the breaking, I'm betting there are military dependents who are going to find mighty slim pickings under the Christmas tree this year. Local reserve units can point toward need.

How about the spouses left to tend to hearth, home and children while the husband or wife is off standing watch between us and peril? Is it possible they need a sanity hour every now and then, or help with something around the house or yard? It doesn't take much to give an hour or two.
Then there are the aging vets that are lonely, unable to drive, perhaps physically challenged. What can each of us do to make their life a little easier?

The first time I went to Nam, a retired school teacher from down home wrote me a letter. Even though we had never met, she felt it important to write each and every one of the home town boys that were serving in harm's way. Yeah, the letters were boring, but damn if I didn't appreciate that touch of home.

Seems to me that finding needs within our community, and then giving a little of ourselves to help meet those needs, is a shinin' way to say, “Thank you for your service.”

Life is sweet – because there are a lot of folk that care and back up that caring with action.