Prosthetic arm

 I was a bit nervous after the accident. I felt the pain of the separation, but seeing my arm separated from my body was more of a shock than a pain.
 It didn't look real. There wasn't much blood. I don't remember how it came off. I blocked it out.
 Later, the doctor said it was "completely severed." There was no chance of reattaching my arm. I thought of all the pain, the embarrassment, and the frustration my life would have without one of my arms.
 Sure, I could eventually manage typing with one hand, putting on my clothes, taking a shower, shaving, driving, etc. But one handed won't let me do the simple things, like zip my pants (very well).
 And I'm gonna stink at video games. Wait, I don't play them anyway. No loss there. But there goes my career as a guitarist, or a sharpshooter. Can I hold a rifle properly anymore? Not that I ever really owned a rifle or a guitar, but that's beside the point.

 Oh, and my piano playing will suffer. Wait, it has suffered for years due to neglect anyway.
 Hmmm. What else? What can I do?
 I know, I know, I'll get a prosthetic arm. They make them almost like real arms these days. I wonder if it will be like the $6 million dollar man, Lee Majors. Wait, he had a stronger bionic arm. Maybe I could get one of those. If an I-beam drops from above, like what happened to Lee Majors' character on TV, I could deflect it with little pain or discomfort with my trusty bionic arm. Not sure if I'll be in a position to deflect a falling I-beam anytime soon, but I suppose anything's possible. And I don't have six million bucks to get bionics...
 Just a regular prosthetic arm might look similar to the real thing; but I know it won't be. I can detach it and not feel a thing. It won't be necessary to sustain me. It can be replaced.
 My body will appreciate it for its functionality, but will have no emotional or physical connection to it. It will be like living separately, independently, without a care.
 I wonder if a family can have a separation and survive like this? I wonder if "prosthetic relationsips" are possible? Is a family member discardable? Can he be recycled? Can he be replaced?
 People do it all the time. But now that it's happening to me, I can't imagine this prosthetic relationship being an advantage to the real thing.

"Mr. Spielberg is on the line"

  The Nyquil wasn't kicking in yet. My head and the entire left side of my face was throbbing. Three pillows, and I still couldn't breathe. Every time I swallowed, my ears felt like I was at the bottom of the leaf pile like when I was a kid; a scratchy, muffled sound.

 Maybe that's why I didn't hear her correctly. My wife's voice interrupted my turmoil from the next room. "Honey... it's Mr. Spielberg. He's on the phone for you."
 My eyes focused on the ceiling fan. Was it spinning? No, that was my head.
 Did she just say, 'Spielberg?'
 She was standing in the doorway now, holding a cordless phone out like a trophy. "It's for you," she said, with a smile. "It's really him!"
 My watery eyes were open wide. I wanted to sneeze, but couldn't. I reached for the phone, hoping I could hear.
 "Hello?"
 "Uh, yes, Mr. Cockroft?"
 "Yes. Who is this, please?"
 "Steven Spielberg here. I just wanted to --- "
 "Steven Spielberg? As in, the movie director?"
 A quiet chuckle on the other end.
 "Yes. The very same. Anyway --- "
 "So, you're actually calling me?"
 Another chuckle. .
 "Well, you didn't call me, did you?"
 I swallowed, despite the fact that it hurt.
 "Um, no sir. I don't even have your number."
 "Well, Mr. Cockroft, I want to extend to you an opportunity to audition for my upcoming movie, Lincoln. Have you heard of it?"
 "Of course, Mr. Spielberg. He's my favorite president."
 "Mine, too."
 "I thought you were a Democrat."
 "What?"
 "Nothing. You were saying something about an audition?"
 "Oh, yes. I saw your clip from South of Black Drink Crier. Very convincing."

 "You saw that? It was a half hour short film produced by college students!"
 "Yes, but your role as a Civil War chaplain was quite impressive. I like your style, Mr. Cockroft."
 "Please, call me John. May I call you Steven?"

 "Let's just stick with 'Mr. Spielberg' until after the auditions."
 "Of course."
 My cheeks are hot with embarrassment. Or am I running a fever?
 "When and where, sir?"
 "A week from this Friday, at 3 p.m., Municipal Auditorium, Kansas City, Missouri. Can you make it?"
 "I'll be there, Mr. Spielberg."
 "Perfect."
 I hung up, wondering if I should have asked for an emergency contact number.
 My eyes flutter open. The ceiling fan is whirling now. My phone is hung up. The entire thing was a dream.
Aaagh.... if only I'd gotten his number in the dream, I could have called Mr.Spielberg and set up my own audition in real life!

 Guess that Nyquil kicked in after all...

Any excuse'll do...

 Me: Where are you?
Friend: In town.
Me: Me too. I'm at church. Come on over!
F: Oh, I can't. I don't have any church clothes.
Me: It's OK. It's a casual church. Even the pastor wears jeans.
F:  I can't. I think it's disrespectful.

Me: Disrespectful? Of whom? So you think the pastor is disrespectful?
F: Oh no, I was in the choir at that church for three years.
M: Then come on over!
F: No, it's just how my mom raised me.
Me: Mine too, but she and I learned to adapt to change.
(awkward pause)
Me: But, to each his own.
F: Thanks.
Me: But next time, just say you don't wanna come to church and it'll come across more sincere than some excuse about clothes.

The above conversation reminds me that people should just voice their reasons without trying to sound official; the fact that we make excuses is not the problem; the fact that we often prop up the excuse as the "real" reason is. The truth is, we don't want to do some things, and we aren't ready to adjust our schedules. Fair enough. Be real out there, people!

Google poops on my Christmas parade

 Ah, Christmas eve has arrived. The joy of remembering our Savior's birth. 'O Holy Night' comes tonight. But you'd never know it if you did a Google search today.
 Google prides itself on altering its logo to fit special occasions. However, the company not only seeks to be inclusive, it forces "inclusivity" down your throat so hard you gotta spit out your tonsils.
 When it comes to the sacred and most time recognized holiday of the year, Christmas, Google can't create a Nativity scene with its logo. It can't even manage a Santa Claus and reindeer mindset. (Sorry Rudolph, you're as Politically Incorrect as Jesus Christ now.)
 No, the Search Big Block Engine has to rev up to a hideous, clip art display of images portraying what "every miserable and conceivable religion and anti religious nut job in the universe" would see as a selfless act of inclusiveness.
In other words, Google threw in a collage of art portraying images of Kwanzaa, Hanuka, Santa's version of Christmas, the Middle East, Sahara Desert, Polish desserts, ANYTHING and EVERYTHING that DOESN'T represent Christmas or even this time of year.

 It's a sickening display of Political Correctness so correct it's incorrect. It's enough to make a Pharisee wanna go liberal.
 It's so over the top tolerance forced that one can only look in despair at the hideous collage and say, "Where's the Google logo?" At least make the ugly images configure the name, "Google." As it is, it looks like a shotgun confetti drive by assaulted the page.
 How insulting it is to have a global giant defecate on its page and call it tolerant!
 I feel like I got puked on, dumped on, and crapped on by Google and all I wanted was a Merry Stinkin' Christmas! Ebenezer Scrooge at his worst wouldn't go that far...

Magic wand

 I was recently cleaning out my closet when I came across a dented, dusty purple box on a high shelf. The box bore a picture of a black top hat, trick cards, a handkerchief, some rigged dice and a glass made for disappearing milk... and a magic wand.
 I smiled as I opened the box, remembering the fun I had "wowing" family and friends with my illusions.
 The old magic wand was in my hand. It looked smaller now, just a simple black plastic tube with white plastic ends. Nothing magic about it at all. And yet, as I waived it once again, I imagined what life would be like if it held real power...
 I imagined myself waiving the magic wand and making the past disappear. I imagined my life being put together properly; my choices altogether different in this new, magical world of realization.
With the benefit of hindsight, I imagined my magic wand swishing over my thoughts, transforming them into proper thinking followed by appropriate actions, attitudes and words.
 My entirely different choices now affected who I am. My shattered and fragmented relationships were healed. My dismal financial state transformed into an empire of financial stability.
 As I reveled in my new found world of healthy choices, I realized with sadness it was only an illusion brought on by a worthless piece of plastic.
 Then I thought about it again.
 There, in my closet, I set down my magic wand and picked up another, more powerful one. I picked up my Bible, shoved into a corner behind my shoes. There it was, it's pages slightly yellowed, its words underscored in places long ago visited.
 It beckoned like an old friend, and I found myself leaving through its pages, recalling the power and wisdom the words brought.
 I realized in my hands was a much more effective magic wand. Not one that would swish away problems in an instant, but one that would cause correct thinking and, if pursued, would immerse me in a world beyond my own understanding. If I truly devoured the words of life contained in the Book, I would certainly establish the necessary ingredients missing in my life that would cause the positive changes.
 Sure, I couldn't wave a magic wand across my past and transform it into something else. But I could use the magic of the Word of God in my hands as a tool for releasing my improper thinking and become "transformed by the renewing of my mind."
 I could allow time to heal me, rather than wallow in the what-ifs and regrets. I could take this magic wand of words and wisdom and apply it now and create a different me for the future.
 My fragmented relationships and broken financial picture could mend much more quickly and effectively under the divine power of the Word of God without me trying to second guess how to do the repairs.
 My magic wand of life hadn't worked any better than a plastic tube. It was time to use the real magic of the Bible to induce a new desire in me; one that would ultimately change my thoughts, behaviors, and responses.
 I am responsible for how I respond to life. I am burdened with the results of my poor choices from the past; but I don't have to continue to bear those burdens alone. And I don't have to create new burdens!
 Naturally, I'll face struggles and setbacks, but I won't have to tackle them on my own understanding.
 I can give my issues to God and learn from the truth in His Word, or I can continue to hide behind fear and doubt and cave in to despair.
 I choose to use the power of God's Word, the Bible, as my new magic wand, and I think I'll wave off the illusions of selfish thinking from now on.

Psst! Hey you!

 I was sitting at Panera Bread, minding my own business, conducting  business, when I heard it. I looked around to see who was talking. No one in the crowded dining area seemed to notice. Maybe it was just me.
 There it was again! Barely above a whisper, beckoning just to me and only me. "Psst!" the whisper said. "Hey you! Over here!"
 I looked at the page on my computer. Same familiar page, but something behind it wanted more. Something, or someone, was urging me to peek beyond where I needed to go. To look at something I shouldn't.
 My heart raced. My mind flashed ideas in my head. Maybe I could get away with a little preview of paradise...
 Wait a minute! Hold on... now, I am in full alert. I recognize that little voice. It's the voice of Deception. I've heard it before. Oh, I used to fall for it hook, line and sinker. I would salivate at that little voice of Deception, eagerly drooling over its naughty list of "forbiddens"...

And now, I blog about it. Because that is one of many ways to overcome the enemy. The voice of Deception holds no more power than I give it.
 And the same is true of you, oh reader. If the voice of Deception creeps into your subconscious, confront it. Make a public display. Shine the light in it's beady little eyes. Deception can't stand the light!
 I stand on the light of God's Word. I stand on the truth that Satan was ultimately defeated at the Cross of Christ and that I don't have to live in bondage to sin.
I am already free; therefore, I don't need to enslave myself to detrimental little voices of Deception.
 Go away, Deceiver dude. I'm no longer available.

Consistency

 Something reared its beautiful head... a thing called Consistency. Something I've lacked for so long. Not being consistent in anything. Good OR bad. I have been on random shuffle mode like a 10 CD changer.
Now I'm looking to hit the play button on my life, and let it run from the start to the finish, uninterrupted.
No more random shuffle mode. No more jumping from topic to topic, job to job, interest to interest.
The solid, consistent living that comes from maturity and focus is growing on me. My wife is taking notice. Who knows, I may become the man I was always meant to be.

Afraid or not, here I come!

  I'm thoroughly enjoying "The Message" Bible paraphrase in refreshing modern language.  It's kinda like reading the Bible again for the first time for a long term Bible scholar like me.
 I like to begin my day reading the "Proverb of the day", the chapter in the Book of Proverbs that coincides with the date. Today was the 15th;  so Proverbs 15 was the read. But that only whet my appetite. I needed a more in depth Bible experience this morning.
 You see, I've been facing a huge valley experience. A dark trial which could ruin life as I know it. I'm on the brink of disaster, and no one may be able to tell at first glance. But it's there, beneath the surface.
 And so, after reading the chapter in Proverbs, I began to pray. I mean, soul searching, anguished, calling out to God for wisdom and deliverance from my own twisted thinking that got me in this predicament in the first place.
 Don't ever pray for God to get you out of something; pray for the wisdom to handle the problem correctly. If we get delivered from problems, we are thumb sucking sissies for life, stunted spiritual midgets without a clue how to help others or grow and change for the better.
 No, I take on trials and tests of my will and faith as signs to help me grow and mature.
 So, this huge trial in my life was welcomed today, for that  reason. In my prayer, I gave God everything. I especially asked Him to take over my thoughts and completely change the way I think. My improper thinking has caused me to make choices that have dramatically damaged the relationships with those closest to me.
 And I can't unthink my incorrect thinking without Divine Intervention.
 As I prayed, God directed me to a selection of scripture in I Samuel 23 where David, who was supposed to be King of Israel, is being pursued by the hotheaded and irrational King Saul, who wants to take David's life. David and his band of men are hiding out in remote areas, fleeing from Saul.
 The Philistines are the arch enemies of Israel and are tormenting a certain Israeli town and stealing their grain.
 David hears of it and asks God if he should take his men and rout the enemy and rescue the town. Just one big problem. The town is buried behind enemy lines, thick with Philistines who want to see all Israelites die a slow, painful death.
 So, David asks God for wisdom. And God answers, "Go, and I will deliver them into your hands."
 But his men say, "David,  we're already in trouble for our lives our here in the middle of nowhere, and you are asking us to go into the den of swarming Philistines?"
 David scratches his head and tends to agree with the men. After all, these guys are fierce warriors. He picked them himself. If these Mighty Men are too afraid, he reasons, perhaps God didn't fully understand the seriousness of the situation. I mean, how would God defend his precious nation of Israel if all the Mighty Men died in battle?
 Well, David gets on his knees a second time and asks God, "Do you REALLY want me to go after the Philistines?"
 God says, "Go, and I will deliver them into your hand."
 Confirmation. Time to make a decision.
 Even though the men were afraid, they followed David into the heart of Philistine country and came out victorious. They completely annihilated the enemy and were fully successful.
 Why do I point this story out? First of all, David asks God for wisdom. That's what I did today.
 Secondly, David knows that he must obey God rather than his feelings.
 I did that today, and it's time for me to step out into my own Philistine jungle and face my fears of losing relationships and life as I knew it. I am stepping forward, and praying, like David and the mighty men of old, that God will eradicate the enemy before my eyes. All I've gotta do is pray and pick up my sword and go after the enemy that's stealing my grain and harassing me.

Runonsentence

 IfyouneverknewwhatarunonsentencelookedlikewellnowyouhavereallytrulyseeenonebutnoonedaresexplainwhyIdidthiscompletelyinsanelylongrunonsentencebecauseiftheyactually didattempttoexplainitthatwouldtakethemysteryandintriguefromitrobbingitofitseffectivenessandmakingsenseofthesenselesssodon'tevengotherepleaseIbegyou.

Dark and Cold

 The arctic blast frisks me rudely. I brace against the icy chill, numbed and shocked even though I knew the cold front was coming in.
 It reminds me of a personal cold front that moved in during warm weather and hasn't gone away. As the Christmas season unfolds around me, with the bells, songs, lights and laughter, a part of me cries in the dark, cold wind. My season is clouded with confusion and dismay. There is no warmth for me this Christmas.
 I had to leave the house again this afternoon.
 My oldest son saw me. "Where are you going, dad?"
 I didn't have an answer. "I'm not sure," I said.
 It's dark and it's cold and I'm still not sure where I'm going.
  I'm out in this misery, thinking of what I'd normally be doing on a Saturday night like this. I'd be sitting in front of a Christmas movie, my wife sitting next to me, her right leg drapped over my left one. One of our boys would be cuddling me on the other side. We'd spike our hot chocolate with homemade eggnog.
 TheChristmas tree lights would reflect in my wife's sparking blue eyes. But now those eyes have lost their sparkle for me.
 I'm still out in the cold and dark and I still don't know where I'm going.

Public Tantrum

I'm at the Bistro Market, a hip downtown Price Cutter owned everything place on a bustling corner. Free WiFi, a long and attractive buffet, a complete fish market and grocery store, a trendy bar and the most incredible olive assortment on planet Earth. I'm talkin' olives the size of your grandpa's thumb and tangy as a green tangerine.
 I'm sitting by the door at nearly nine on a Friday night. The place in hopping. In walks this beautiful blonde suburbanesque housewife and her matching beautiful blonde housewife friend, their two daughters in tow, something around five years old each. They sit at the bistro chairs and eat at the long table running the length of the plate glass forming the front of the building.
 Within moments, one girl is pitching a fit. I mean, a hissy style selfish mad-on. Her little boots and leggings match mommy's, and she's cute as heck, but rotten to the core.
 She leaves her perch and crosses her arms, showing utter contempt for soccer mom's wishes. The blonde mom pleads, then tries a firm approach. Finally, after an awkward standoff five feet from my table, mommy dearest picks up the youngster, who cranks up the rotten meter. Kicking, twisting, and whimpering as if her mom has just decided to lock her in a smelly closet for no reason.
Now the scene has become too distracting to ignore, so I watch openly. The little one is forced into a lap sitting session, which lasts all of 18.5 seconds. The squirming proves too much for mega mom, so she delivers the ultimatum in the naughty girls' ear, "All right, you'd better shape up in 5, 4, 3... she slows her counting as the squirming continues, hoping for victory, but fearing the worst, which of course, comes. She continues, half heartedly, 2, 1... Nothing happens. The kid stops for a micro second, as if on cue, and is gently placed on the floor, her desired destination. The little puss in boots assumes full rights to her crown now, enjoying the submissive status her tantrum has placed her mom. To secure her royal reign, little miss insists-she-be-right squares off for another standoff, her phony bellows not even close to a real distress signal. It's a well rehearsed show, achieving all the desired results the young girl has grown so accustomed to.
 Mom has a piece of food in her hand, holding it up like a prize. Puss in boots backs up with each attempt by mom to coax her into tasting it. The food item is held up like a Scooby snack, but the kiddo won't buy it. She backs up again, nearly knocking into a college age girl.
 Mom is clearly embarrassed. The other mom and daughter look on in dismay. I want to strangle the kid. But, more than that, I wanna strangle the mom who has created this manipulation mistress.She's the kind of girl who will grow to torment boys the age of my sons about ten years from now. The drama princess balks as helpless mom's pleas are again ignored. Threats and idle promises of rewards are equally ignored. Mom finally picks her up and the coddled cutie cuddles close, enjoying the power with a contented smile as she peers down at her more obedient friend. The foursome soon go to the frappaccino counter for some more sweet tooth rewards, of which the little lady is also privileged to partake.
 Return trip to the table. Perhaps dessert will calm the brat down. Nope. The new treat won't suit miss fancy boots. She refuses all offers of ice cream, and returns to mom's willing arms again. The kid is so big, she looks ridiculous throwing her tantrum, but mom is more than willing to oblige and hoist her not-so-small child into her arms once again.
 After a brief, unfulfilling conversation between the moms, the little miss muffets are bundled up and escorted out. The untouched ice cream beckons me from their vacated table.  If little brat won't enjoy it, at least I will.

Real Men

I talked to two real men today. From the "greatest generation." The real deal World War II veterans.
 The first was wearing a Order of the Purple Heart hat, signifying his being awarded for enduring injuries he didn't choose to talk about. An army veteran, he fought in the infamous "Battle of the Bulge."
 "Our unit was dubbed the 'bloody bucket' by the Germans," he told me. His wife of 65 years was beaming at his side as I repeatedly thanked him for his service to our country. I try to personally greet each World War II veteran I see. These "real men" won't be around much longer.

 A little later, I noticed another older gentleman with a World War II, Korean War, and Vietnam War cap.
 It takes a real man to earn the right to wear a hat like that. In moments, I had introduced myself and was learning about his experience on a Navy ship in the Atlantic during World War II as an 18-year-old from Massachusetts. He then went on to join the Air Force, where he flew B-26 bombers over Korea during that bloody conflict. Then on to action in Vietnam in 1965-66, retiring in 1967 with 25 years of service. During that 25 years, he'd lived multiple lifetimes in vastly different combat zones.
 He'd gone from the victories of World War II to the drastically different political culture of the U.N. dominated Korean and Vietnam conflicts, where the U.S. troops' hands were tied by rules that made no sense then, and make no sense now.
 "We're too busy kissing everyone's ass," he commented on the politics of today. "We have no sense of nationalism."
 I had to wholeheartedly agree. Our sense of loyalty to the grand old U.S. of A has whithered to a wimpy apology to our enemies. We are so busy not offending those who want to harm us that we bolster their resolve against us.
 Bring back Truman. Bring back Reagan. Let's quit kissing ass and start kicking some.

Battling the Google gods

 I'm officially at war. Bring out the tanks, call in the air strike. I'm on a one-man crusade to crush the Google god... yes, the mighty King of the Search Engines and I are at odds. Not that the Internet "go to" site cares. My raging against that machine is similar to shooting a rubber band at an Apache helicopter.
 But, doggone it, Google has vomited political  propaganda once too many times, in my opinion. The search engine king is an abject liberal cesspool.
 Let me explain.
 The Google guys are always throwing it special graphics on the Google logo for special occasions, like King Tut's birthday or Ghandi's first haircut... you know, the really "important" dates in history. (Can you see my eyes rolling back in disgust?)
Then comes today, December 7, a "date that shall live in infamy," according to President Franklin Delano Roosevelt in 1941.
 But, oh, heavens, no! There is no Google reference to the carnage inflicted on American troops by Japanese forces in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii 69 years ago. No, the standard Google flag flies today. Nothing about Pearl Harbor. They're too busy at Google getting ready for the annual "Celebrate pink wig wearing day" or some such rot.
 The folks at Bing, another up and coming search engine, actually know what day it is. They have a reverent photo of the Pearl Harbor memorial, repleat with the oil oozing up from the sunken USS Arizona.
I visited that site in Hawaii. It is a sobering experience. It brought tears. An overwhelming sense of  dismay at the dastardly deviant deeds of the Evil Empire of Japan are evoked there. You can almost hear the cries of the trapped men as they perished in their death locker under the water.
 By the way, there were a LOT of Japanese tourists there at Pearl Harbor, clicking away with their Nikons and chattering in Japanese. Eerie.
 So, Google gods and goddesses, look out. Consider this the first shot fired in the quest for freedom and patriotism aimed at you, the "ignore-er" of importance and relevance.
 I won't use you for another search... (at least until the next time I have to "google" something, but only because it sounds more kosher than "binging" something or "yahooing" something...) Oh, I'm so weak! Aaagh!

Seconds before the attack...

                                   

Unsuspecting Google executive getting a dose of my handgun weilding fury...

I'm Dreaming of a Dark Christmas

 So my friend was telling me about her neighbor's blinding bright Christmas lights. (Some people have a lil' too much Chevy Chase in 'em)...
 And she doesn't get along with this particular neighbor. Those ridiculously gawdy lights burn ever brightly from across the street. She has to close her curtains to ignore their brilliance.
 Me: "Why do people invest in all those lights anyway? They pay for them, put them up, and sit in the house, where the view of them is greatly diminished. They seem to go to alot of effort to impress outsiders."
 She: "I don't like the guy in that house."
 Me: "Hmm. So, where is this coming from?"
 She: "I'd like to unplug them."
 Me: "His lights?"
 She: "Yes. He's mean."
 Me: "What did he do?"
 She: "He made my daughter cry on Halloween. I told him to stay on his side of the street. (Pause) I'd like to go over and unplug his Christmas lights before they blind a pilot flying overhead."
 She went on to tell me the Mean Neighbor Guy's 8-old-daughter, on that fateful Halloween night, saw her walking toward their house, smoke coming out of her ears.
 "Look out, dad!" the little girl said, darting behind her confused father. The poor guy got an earful, as witnessed by my friends' daughter across the street. At least, it was a presumed earful. Her daughter reported only being able to see her mom's hand waiving and head weaving.
 Waiving, weaving, back and forth, up and down, until the poor ol' mean guy shrank into the safety of his house and hid behind his 8-year-old.
 "And stay on your side of the street!" my friend bellowed over her shoulder as she walked back to her house. Better not cross her again, Mr. Bright Lights.
 I can just see it now; a lineup of little blonde housewives down at the county jail. The mean neighbor guy rubs his eyes, staring closely, carefully eyeing each face on the other side of the two way mirror. His eyes light up as he points wildly. "That's her, officer. Second from the end on the left!"
 Cop: "You're absolutely certain?"
 Mean Neighbor Guy: "I'd know her face anywhere. It was illuminated by tens of thousands of Christmas lights just before the blackout."
 Cop: "What do you mean, the blackout?"
 MNG: "She deliberately walked across the street, entered my yard, and unplugged my lights."
 The cops shakes his head, sorry he has to fill out such trivial paperwork.
 Perhaps the mean neighbor guy should thank my friend for saving him a ton on his electric bill.

New Job

 I got a new job finally today. Handing out samples glazed nuts at the mall. I stood from 11 a.m. to 6 p.m. handing out samples until my feet were sore.
 But it's a job. Two high school girls also were hired to do the same, starting today. So I'm only going back 29 years in my job status. It was the first job for both of the girls, who are 16. They pay isn't much, but it's pay. Funny thing --- I got a gig doing a short video clip that took a half hour before my mall job started, and got paid more for that half hour than I did all day at the mall.
 Going back tomorrow for the same...

"Don't ask, don't tell"

 My car has faithfully served me since February, 2003. Back then, it had 35,000 miles and smelled OK.
Now, it has 246,000 plus miles and a crack that snakes across my line of sight on the windshield. It has had a mysterious hum for a few years. Other than keep me alert while driving, the hum is likely a wheel bearing gone bad. It also has a leak in the valve cover gasket. Because of the oil leak, I have to add oil from time to time. I haven't had the oil changed in about 25,000 miles because when it gets low, I fill it up with good, clean oil. I figure why spend money to change it if its running out and getting replenished on a regular basis anyway?
 The dashboard lights are out. It's hard to see how fast I'm going at night, even with the orange "Check Engine" light continually illuminated.
 If I checked the engine every time that "check engine" like came on, I wouldn't be driving much. I'd be checking the engine. Frankly, I'm on a "don't ask, don't tell" relationship with my car engine. I don't ask what's wrong, and it doesn't tell me.
 Both of us are content in our blissful ignorance. It's a topic I choose to avoid. Granted, I need to get around to fixing the brakes. They started squeaking the other day, and my friend tells me if I wait 'til they rub metal on metal, I'll pay a lot more.
 I like my car. I wouldn't survive well without it. But I just don't take time to maintain it as I should.
 I've noticed alot of people do that with their health. They like not being in the hospital, but they don't want to stop reaching for the fries, or the Coke, or whatever.
 If I sound preachy towards over eaters, I probably am. But I should be preaching about car maintenance because that's my area of weakness.
 I don't have a steady job right now (refer to earlier blogs) so therefore I don't justify spending money on fixing up my car when it runs as is.
 However, I know that delaying the issues isn't the best way to handle things. Like my bills. I delay them and hope they don't cut the phone or electric off.
 Don't ask me, Mr. Bill Collector, if I can pay you this month, and I won't tell...

Don't Blog and Drive

 I was so excited. I never knew I'd have a chance to actually buy an iPad...one of technologies newest gifts to the 21st century. I was cool. I was hip. I had an iPhone, naturally. Now an iPad.
 My enthusiasm couldn't be contained. I wanted to shout to everyone in the store, "Looky, Looky! I got me a new iPad! I'm cool!" But the cashier was older and the other shoppers looked like English wasn't exactly their native tongue, so I bit mine and kept a lid on my exuberance.
 That is, until I got to the parking lot. My mind was awhirl with all the new things I could do with my new gadget. I could view the Internet bigger than from my iPhone. I could... blog!
 Yeah. I blog. So, here goes nothing. If I can't share this landmark mountaintop experience with others in person, I'll tap out the blog about it to the world on my flashy new screen...
 I noticed the time. Late again. Better hurry. Just a few more witty sentences. I started the car. I didn't mean to pull out, but my foot was on the gas and I had shifted into drive with my knee while tapping my blog on the screen.
 I was creeping out of the parking lot, blogging and driving like a 21st century multitasking machine. I had the world of technology in my grasp. I was master of the cyberverse...
My blinker was on. I swear. I pulled out on green. I did. Why that old lady in the 1979 Ford Fairlane thought she had the right of way I'll never know.
 Mistubishi Galant damage: $1,099.87 for new bumper and front panel and left headlight.
Ford Fairlane damage: Scratch visible on chrome bumper if standing two feet away and staring hard, looking for it.
 Not a fair fight, Fairweather Fairlane!
 Good thing my iPad is insured... at least it isn't damaged, actually. It saved my life. In mid blog, at the point of impact, my iPad shielded my face from the steering wheel as my head slammed down. Unfortunately, my left eye collided with the corner of my iPad and nearly caused a blood vessel to burst.
The eye doctor was polite enough, until he heard what had happened. Then he acted like insurance wouldn't cover eye injuries while blogging and driving.
I think he's just jealous, since he doesn't have an iPad. Well, now I'm one up on everyone. I have an iPhone, and iPad, and now, an iPatch...

Friar Francis Part 4

 Hello again, always good to see you. A fact of the matter is, it is a surprise to see you on here. Watching me. I mean, not that I am not interesting or entertaining, it's just that... well, I'm not so interesting, or entertaining.
 Ahem, well, again, this is Friar Francis, as you may know, I am a 16th century Franciscan monk magically and tragically transported to 21st century America.
 So, here I am going on my first adventure outside the monastery.
 OPENS DOOR TO REVEAL A BEAUTIFUL FIELD.
Hmmm. So peaceful. I thought the outside world was full of strife and anxiety.
 SITS TO ENJOY THE SURROUNDINGS. SOMEONE DRIVES BY AND THROWS A McDONALD's WRAPPER AND EMPTY CUP AT HIM.

Friar Francis Part 3

 Hello again, Friar Francis, YouTube sensation here. For those of you just tuning in, please refer to parts 1 and 2 in earlier blogs.
 I am Friar Francis, a 16th century monk magically and tragically transported to 21st century America. Don't ask me how. I am not even sure why this has happened to me at this junction in my lifehood.
 Please forgive also my lack of good communication skill sets in the American English languague as I am a new beginner to such communication skill sets.
 Also, realize I am not familiarizated with the 21st century YouTube generation, so if I come across rather 16th centuryish, please understand it is not intended to offend so please accept my advanced apologizations.
 I am speaking to you in my very best authentic Mexican Spanish Monk accent this day. I hope you are available to understand.
 Today is the first day I am going out to see the modern world. I am leaving my monastery and the peace and tranquility it offers to see the lost and dying world around me. I have been instructed as a monk to help those in need, so if you need anything, please don't hesitate to call onto me. If I have a telephone number, I will find it out and immediately and will let you be informed of the telephone situation and how to contact me at a convenient time.
Thank you again for your dignified patience as I learn the English American language barrier and fight for helping those who are not in help at this time.
 PAUSE
Thank you.
PAUSE
I am finished now and can now stop the video.
PAUSE
I do not understand technology or how to finish the video at this time, so please bear with my shortcomings.
PAUSE
Stop the video.
GETS ANGRY
Stop the video NOW!
WALKS OFF ANGRILY.
(A few seconds of empty room, then video stops.)

JCPenney, Sears...

...My job hunt continues. I feel like my buddy Darren, who told me at church tonight that his kids each got a deer in youth season, but he failed to bag the big one this year himself.
 Sears. Just past women's underwear, buried in the corner around the side. The door says "Human Resources". It's open. I walk in and ask about work to the lady at the desk.
 She rises and shows me where the computer kiosk is to apply. It is back in the main part of the store just before women's underwear.
 I have to look down at the screen since there is no chair and I am taller than the average applicant.
 I click on job titles. Can only choose one, so choose wisely!
 First choice, sales. Then I go to the next screen, and the red letter pop up with a message. NO SALES POSITIONS OPEN AT THIS LOCATION.
 I go back a screen and select MANAGEMENT.
 Same red letter message. Nothing available.
Go back and hit the next category. And the next, getting the same red letter message that no positions are open.
Every category is a strike out. No need to burden Sears with my work history. Next!
JCPenney's, here I come. Got to Penney's where I searched each quadrant of the second floor in my quest for the kiosk to apply. None found, I asked an employee (I hate to bother them with such trivial matters).
 Third floor, I was told. Hmm. Forgot they had one.
 I take the elevator to the third floor and, sure enough, a kiosk awaits. I enter the code, and listen to a short video of an executive explaining the benefits of working for JCPenney.
 I take a simple survey, and answer the questions, whether Strongly Agree, Somewhat Agree, Neither Agree Nor Disagree, Somewhat Disagree, or Strongly Disagree.
 Wonder if I passed the quiz?
 I may never know. But for now, I entered my information and click "Finish." My fate is in your hands, JCPenney. At least until tomorrow.

"Job-ba the Hunt"

 My job hunt continues. I suited up in my only power suit ("borrowed" from a previous employer) since I am otherwise unsuited for suits because they cost money I don't have.
 In the mall. Christmas rush. Gotta find somebody hiring here, right? All the jewelry shops. I hit every one.
I look the part. They like me, but don't have any openings until "possibly January". I haven't had much money since "possibly May"... well, OK, since December 2008 when my big bucks employer didn't get a contract for '09, but who's counting?
 Next on the hunt are the big retailers. Dillard's is big.
 Me (to Dillard's employee): Where do I find out about employment?
DE: The main store on the other end of the mall. (Looks at me like I'm doing poorly in junior high or something.)
Me: Thank you. (Leaves quickly, with purposeful steps toward the exit.)
I arrive at other end of the mall. Other Dillard's entrance. I instinctively go up the escalator. All big companies bury their HR departments in a corner.

 During the escalator ascent, I check my flawless appearance in the mirrored wall. Looking sharp! Lookin' employable, yeah!
 Nice older lady employee upstairs: Hi! (Wants to sell me something really badly...?)
 Me: Hello. Where can I find out about employment?
NOLE: Down that way, take a left at Christmas and go through the  trees. Can't miss it.
 As a career journalist, I never thought I'd end up my age, being directed through Christmas trees to find the answer to "do you have a job?"

 I find Christmas (and it's only November!) and find the two trees (can't miss 'em, they're big, they're bright!) and I look around a dark little corner with a restroom and drinking fountain on one side, and a desk on the other. I go toward the fountain and decide I'm thirsty, contemplating. Will this be $9 an hour? That's only $6 an hour short of my "break even" expenses for a family of six...
 I go up to the desk.
Nice guy at the desk: May I help you?
Me: I'm checking to see if you have any job openings.
NGATD: No. We're not hiring until January.
 (Strange, most people go shopping BEFORE Christmas. Who hires in January? What a put off! At least learn to lie better...grrr...)
 I retreat through the trees, exit Christmas, take a right and smile "phonily" at the eager older lady employee as I find the descending escalators for JCPenney.

Blue Friday

We'd been working since midnight, stocking shelves and putting away boxes. There was hardly time to look up. The biggest shopping day of the year had arrived, and our isles brimmed with bargains in anticipation of the 5 a.m. opening.
 I was shocked to find a small crowd already huddled in the outside the locked main doors when I showed up for work.
 "It's gonna be a busy day," I said to Jimmy, a temporary worker.  I liked the young man, maybe because his nickname, "Jimmy" is the same as my actual name. He was big as a football tackle, but a teddy bear. Jimmy was always ready to help. He helped me put up some last minute displays. As we walked toward the front of the store about 3:30 a.m., we heard it. A sound like a distant waterfall. We peered through the front doors. People were standing with their faces pressed against the glass.
 "Wow," Jimmy commented in his Dominican accent. "Lot of people. Lot of money coming in today."
 I smiled. "That's one way to put it," I said, but I felt something strange. Should I call security?
 My manager had already done that. Her face looked grim. I overheard her talking about the crowd gathering outside.
 "No need to call police," another manager said. "We'll just have our people line up in front of the doors and slow the shoppers down. This is a good sign, let's not overreact."
 By 4:30, all the employees were talking about the mob at the doors. Though only illuminated by parking lot lights, they looked like hungry wolves pressing to get in. The din they emitted was an undulating cadence of chaos.
 I swallowed hard as I looked at Jimmy. He wasn't smiling now. He was big. He'd take it better than I. We were positioned ten feet back from the main doors like two fish in a tank surrounded by an ocean of humanity.
 But this wasn't humane humanity. It was wild-eyed, first in line, get outta my way humanity.
 Other employees flanked the front area, forming a human chain. Would our simple line deter that mob of thousands? As far as I could see, faces bobbed before the entire length of the store.
 The chanting began. My blood chilled. I couldn't make out the words at first.
"Take down the door!" "Break down the door!" 5:45 a.m. Fifteen minutes. Could we hold out?
 Managers' radios squawked. Now there was talk of calling police. I fingered my cell phone, considering a 9-1-1 call. But what would I say? Shoppers are going to overwhelm us? Who would believe that?
 I turned to comment to Jimmy when terrifying explosion ripped the doors off the hinges. Glass shattered and feet were pounding. Jimmy was down. An onslaught of rushing feet transformed into instruments of death!
I reached for him, getting sucked into the maelstrom.  My hand grasped his, but the feet wouldn't stop. "Get off him! Get off me! Get outta the way!" I screamed. My panicked mind raced. We were an ineffective human speed bump on a racetrack to discounts.
 It kept coming, I was on my feet, too shocked to realize how to help Jimmy. I heard him gasping for breath. "Slow down!" I heard other employees shouting. A pregnant woman was on the ground. Other shoppers lay moaning.
 My eyes saw the carnage, but couldn't comprehend it. We were in a war zone, not a Wal-Mart.
 I saw police and medical workers respond, but it was as if I were watching a movie. But it really happened. Jimmy was dead.  His real name was Jdimytai Damour. He was 34.http://nytimes.com/2008/11/30/nyregion/30walmart.html?

Saddest sound

 The sound of the zipper closing the suitcase is the saddest sound when you're the one closing it because you have to leave your family against your will.
 My suitcase zipper made that sound. Now I'm in another house, living out of that lonely zipper sounding suitcase. In this other house, not my own, I'm held captive by thoughts of regret. I sleep on a couch in my clothes and get up to leave as soon as possible. Sometimes I even sleep in my shoes. The change in my pockets rattles as I toss and turn. I collect it every morning off the couch and return it to my pockets.
 I am alone in the dark in the house not my own. I squeeze my eyes shut but I can't shut out the sound of the zipper closing me out of my familiar space. It is a prolonged lonely sound.
 I never wanted to close that suitcase and hear that pitiful zipper moan. If I could have done anything to avoid this living nightmare, I would have. But I didn't.
 I created my own nightmare and now I'm forced to live it wide awake. I eventually fall asleep. I dream I am home in my bed with my wife. Sometimes I am at my home, watching my kids, waiting for my wife to come home. I fall asleep on my own couch and when I wake, my wife is home, but I must go. It seems so backward. Seems so out of place. I walk away into the night.
 I look at my house from the outside. I imagine myself inside, warm and laughing and cuddling with my family.
 I look at my life from the outside and see the lights going out on the inside.
As I walk away from my home in the night, the sound of the zipper closing me out haunts me.

Superman, you're screwed...

Superman  wouldn't have a chance nowadays. There are no more phone booths. And even his alter ego, Clark Kent, is SOL. Newspapers are passe.

Cycle of Regret

Some choices are harder to live with than others. I've seen the results of poor choices --- up close, bloody and broken examples of the outcome of drinking and driving, speeding without a seatbelt, texting and driving, and on and on. Graphic images that visit me when I'm trying to sleep, or spend time with my son.  But the images from last week will haunt me for life.

 This is the first time I've been able to talk about it. Ever since my wife died in a car crash when Ethan was six,  I've been super concious of being careful. That's what propelled me to quit teaching school and become a paramedic. 

 Eric had been working about a year when I joined the ambulance crew. He gave me a hard time about being "by the book" and wondered why I never loosened up. I couldn't tell him my wife died as a  result of someone not paying attention.

 But now, well... after what happened last week, I think Eric will pay a lot of attention. He's a single dad too, now.

 His girlfriend, Rachel, was on the phone texting him the evening of the four car crash. She was in her third trimester and had begged Eric not to go in to work that day. She was determined to get him to talk about marrying her and settling down.

 Eric ignored her so long that her frustration grew. It got so bad she lost her presence of mind and drove head on into the other lane. Several other cars swerved, but were unable to avoid further collisions.

 Rachel died after two days of lingering in the hospital. I responded to the accident scene. I didn't know it was Eric's girlfriend. My partner, Joni, saw her first. We got her in a C-collar and put her on the board. Her water was broken and since we were about 25 miles from the nearest hospital, I called the medical helicopter.

 Rachel delivered Eric's baby girl within hours of the accident. He sat in shock and disbelief, holding his new child and wondering if the mother would live.

 I haven't had a chance to talk to Eric yet. Chief O'Reilly said he took a leave of absence. I kept trying to influence him to do the right thing and not take risks on the job.

 Below are some images from that awful day.

Jonie and other emergency workers help Rachel following a texting and driving accident.

I did all I could, but Rachel's life is still in the balance...

I don't know what to say to Eric. His poor choices had devastating results.



Audio drizzle

My heartbeat quickens. The car radio volume is instantly cranked. I am transported back to 1979 faster than I can blink back tears.
Tears? Yes. A lump rises in my throat, preventing me from singing along, though I desperately want to. The decades old anthem rises and swells, and with it, my heart and soul. Let me explain the phenomenon of classic rock and pop for those who weren't there originally.

Something about technology eroded the music making process. The sheer labor and time intensity involved in the pre-Internet music making business was an unabashed display of passion and zeal.
Musicians had no guarantee of success; they sure as heck weren't out to market a brand of clothing or willingly sell out as fodder for eye candy enthusiasts. It wasn't about advancing a career in a push button, low talent, high tech environment.
It was about music. You see, the sucessful music of the '70s and '80s rings so authentic, so vibrant and fresh, that their timless harmonies and original rhythms dominate airwaves and music loops in restaurants, businesses, doctor's offices, supermarkets and shopping malls to this day.
Sorry Britney. Too bad, Lady Gaga. (You ain't no lady, by the way.)
Your stuff sucks.

You'll never make me cry or turn up the volume 30 years from now. Rock on, ELO. Rock on, Journey. You earned your permanent position in pop culture the old fashioned way. And there you'll stay.
I can only wonder if this technology crazed culture will ever re-capture the essence of true music and the heart and soul behind it. I fear not. I fear we're doomed for a continual audio drizzle of pre-fabricated, emotionally stale, mindless melodies so mundane and so vastly uninspiring that we're bored with 'em before they leave the studio.
And that really makes me wanna cry.

Casting My Vote

Yesterday, I was on my way to vote (about a mile from my house) when I ran out of gas. So close, and yet so far.

It was still pre-dawn, and there was no shoulder to pull onto on the lonely rural blacktop.

I abandoned my car, hoping for no mishaps with my stranded vehicle, blinkers being the only defense against oncoming traffic rounding the corner.

I returned, breathless, with my trusty nearly empty gas can from my house 1/8 of a mile away.

The jog to and from my house included harrassment from the neighbor's bulldog and the joy of an intense hill climb. Every flabby jiggle reminded me how little strenuous exercise I do. Back on the scene, I emptied my nearly empty gas can into my totally empty gas tank.

To borrow a line from a "Wall Flowers" lyric, "I turned the engine but the engine didn't turn." The empty fuel light continued its mockery of me.

In addition to snagging my trusty gas can, I'd managed to find my 10-year-olds' wallet (he's the only one with cash... by the way, when is payday again? In my case, it will be re-payday... back to my son!)

So, I had a few dollars and no gas. A motorist came along, named Jim, I recognized his face. Jim took me to the nearest town four miles away. It took $6.75 cents to fill that gas can (I could almost fill my car back in the day for that amount!) I gave Jim a $2 tip and he returned me to my car.

While filling my car in the early morning light, a motorist stopped behind me to protect me from oncoming traffic. Another motorist, a woman, slowed from the other direction to ask if I needed help. A woman! Wow, what a wonderful community I live in. No fear, just friends. I am surrounded by kindness. I am hereby casting my vote for kindness and community. We've got it where I live, no matter what the changing color (red or blue) of our state!

Homely Women and Forrest Gump

I met Forrest Gump. For real. He was in a Wal-Mart where I used to work. His hair had grown long, like in the movie "Castaway". Anyway, I couldn't just let him pass, so I said, "Hey, Forrest, has anyone ever told you you look just like Tom Hanks?"
His eyes contained only emptiness and confusion. Without any acknowledgement of my reference to his popular theatrical performance, Mr. Gump asked, in a shaky voice, "Do you have any bathroom scales here in this Wal-Mart? I'm supposed to do a remodel and I have no idea how much my bathroom weighs."
I had no words for reply. Stunned, I motioned for Mr. Gump to follow as I took him to the household area and showed him our selection of Wal-Mart bathroom scales. He didn't even thank me, just grabbed the first one off the shelf and stood on the box, looking down at his feet. The picture on the box showed a pair of bare feet on the scale, with the number of the weight at an angle so it wasn't readable.
Gump stared hard at the box, scrutinizing carefully. I wanted to walk away, but suddenly, he said, "Do you carry eye glasses? Apparently I can't read the information on the bathroom scale."
Forrest Gump on Homely Women
Hello, my name is Forrest --- Forrest Gump. You know, there is actually nothing more tragic than a homely woman. I mean, she has to fend for herself. It's as if she's invisible.
I heard a nice lady (who was attractive, by the way) say in a public television interview what concerned her the most about growing older.
The interview went something like this:
Interviewer: What scares you most about getting older?
Lady: (without hesitation) Getting older.
Interviewer: That's profound.
Lady: Sure, you make fun all you want, but it really is sad. It's a fear most of us women have to face as we grow older.

Now, I didn't think much of the interview at the time, but the more I thought about it, the more I began to realize something.
As women get older, they don't get the looks of admiration and recognition they once had. People look past them. That's the invisible part.
Take my cousin Emma, for example. (PHOTO ON LEFT)
She has such a nice personality, but, well, just take a look.
Not the most attractive girl, if you get my drift.
Anyway, Emma's obvious charm and good humor are wasted on trivial people who look only at her physical plainness, opt out of a conversation and a chance to find the true joy of knowing her. And that's why most people argue that beauty is only skin deep, but that's all it needs to be. Most people don't want to look at all your veins and stuff under your skin anyway.
And that's about all I've got to say about that.

Baby Face

My beautiful baby was born April 1, 2006 in a hospital. My baby had such imploring blue eyes... the innocence of infancy intrigues my inner insides immeasurably intensely.

(I know, enough alliteration already!)

My precious bundle weighed 4 pounds, 32 ounces and was 45 cm long at birth. Such an adorable little cradle critter!

I never knew what all the fuss was about becoming a parent, until it became apparent that I wasn't a parent until I'd given birth to a little one. Now my life is truly blessed. I forward e-mails to all my friends with comments and photos. My facebook page has become a posting board for images of the reason for my being... oh, the joys of parenting never cease!

I can't imagine life without my baby... or why anyone would want to steal my precious one.

Please, if you have seen my baby anywhere, please, oh, please, dear God in heaven, please deliver my baby back to me! I will pay you a handsome reward provided I get my baby back in one piece and I am employed at the time of my baby's safe return.

Oh, and one more thing, to whoever stole my little one... don't forget to feed my baby two scoops of formula to four parts warm water first thing of a morning, and last thing before bed.

My baby is also allergic to D-con mouse and rat killer, so don't have my baby near that stuff... one more thing, sorry for such a cumbersome blog this entry, but please, if you have my baby, please try to sing "I'm Henry the Eighth I Am" to my baby after lunch each day... it's the only way my baby will take a good nap. My baby loves that song! I used to sing it to the young 'un on our long drives home from New Hampshire in the early summer. We were both sound asleep before we got home. We usually woke up in the ditch after my head hit the steering wheel...

Enough about me. Please be good to my darling, and return my treasure soon! OK?

Friar Francis YouTube Phenomenon Part 2

READER's NOTE: Please read the following in a Mexican accident.

Friar Francis, dressed in brown friar's robe, appears on screen.

FF: Oh, hello, it's you again. My faithful YouTube audience. I am, once again, Friar Francis, a 16th century Franciscan monk magically transported to the 21st century. Don't ask me how this happened. Well, I supposed I cannot stop you from asking, but I cannot provide a very satisfactory answer to you at this time as I have no real good idea of how this thing has happened.

I am so very interested in keeping your attention this time. I have no intention of making you bored or otherwise dissatisfied with my YouTube presentation.
As you may know, the Franciscan monks from Spain are again hosting a team of fundraisers to compete with the French Franciscan monks in raising support for our annual "Save the Extinct Species" fund drive.
A percentage of your generous financial support will go directly to the 16th century Spanish Franciscan Monks fundraising arm, a branch of the international fraternity of Fundraising 16th century Spanish Franciscan Monks, LLC, Inc., LTD, LSD, LOL, ASAP.

We thank you in advance for your generosity this year.

Thank you.

I said, thank you.

OK, why do you still have camera on me? I am finished with PSA.

Until next time, this is Friar Francis, your Franciscan Fundraising Fuhrer.
10 sec pause.
OK, what are you waiting for? Go on to something else now. I am finished.
15 sec pause.
Perhaps you do not understand. I am finished with my announcement, and you are free to be dismissed. Good bye.

10 sec pause

I give up. I am tired. I will go to bed now see you in the morning.

FF exits the picture. Camera stays on empty room shot. 20 seconds pass. Snoring can be heard Off Camera. After 15 more seconds of snoring, image fades to black.

Friar Francis Part 1

NOTE: The following series is based on YouTube phenomenon "Friar Francis," starring the lovable, though misguided, Friar Francis and his admirable sidekick, Monk Manuel. Both are 16th century Franciscan monks from Spain. Don't ask me how they got tangled up in the 21st century. I cannot explain it myself. Oh, one more thing... please read the "Friar Francis" series with an authentic Mexican or Spanish accent.
FRIAR FRANCIS: Hello. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Friar Francis, and this is my loyal amigo, Monk Manuel. Say hello to these nice people, Monk Manuel.
MONK MANUEL: Hello.
FF: Is that all you are going to say to these nice people, Monk Manuel?
MM: You told me to say, "hello" so I say "hello".
FF: Yes, but you can elaborate, no? You can tell these nice people who took all the trouble to tune in to YouTube just to watch you what you are really and truly all about. This is your moment! This is your time! How many 16th century Spanish Franciscan monks have an opportunity to reach millions of potential viewers with the click of a mouse?
MM: I have no idea what you just said.
FF: Me neither.
AWKWARD PAUSE
MM: Is is your turn to do the dishes?
FF: Times like these make me wish we had nuns.
MM: I saw how many clay pots and bowls are dirty now in the kitchen.
FF: Don't you see I am reaching a whole new audience on YouTube? Don't you understand that if we reach this vast audience we can expand the Good News of the Gospel and spread the love of the savior to a lost and hurting world?
MM: It is still your turn to wash the dishes, Friar Francis.
FF: Yes, brother, right you are. You are always right...
MM: Not always, my brother. But most of the time, yes.
FF: You don't have to brag, my brother.
MM: Oh, no, I am not bragging, my dear brother, I am merely agreeing with you.
FF: What do you mean?
MM: You said I am always right, and I am merely agreeing with you... most of the time.
FF: I meant to say you are always right about everything around the monastery. I mean, seriously, don't you have a life?
MM: I am a 16th century Spanish Franciscan monk. Why would you think I have a life?
FF: Good point, my brother. Good point.

Civil War film

I am currently playing a major role in a Civil War short film. We did the last scene today, which was, ironically, the first day of shooting. Never a sequential process, filmmaking.
We shot the scene at Wilson's Creek National Battlefield. I and the female lead are standing over her father's grave. I am a chaplain, dressed in a long black coat, vest, white shirt, and black broad brimmed hat.
Well, funny thing was, I went to the bathroom at the visitor center to get into my costume. When I came out of the stall, a little boy was in there with his father. The little boy was trying to go to the bathroom but kept staring at me because of the way I was dressed.
Now I know how the Amish must feel in public.

Who's Millard Fillmore?

I'm big on history. I suppose that rubs off on my kids. Routine mealtime conversations at our house center on a game called "Name the presidents." One of my three oldest boys will start (They are 12, 10, and 7) and we will continue around the table, the four of us, naming the U.S. presidents, by first, last, and often middle name, in order. My 7 year old is learning. The rest of us know them well (I'll admit, my 12-year-old knows them better than I do!)
This passion for the past paid off in spades a few days ago. My son was sitting in his rural public school classroom, which is new territory for him since he's been home schooled his entire life. Having a traditional classroom is taking some adjusting, and his grades aren't the best because his study habits don't follow the formula.
However, his knowledge of the 44 guys at the helm of the government is impeccable. So here comes the golden moment of truth. My son has an out of town engagement and will be gone the last two school days of the week. He asks what assignments he will need to keep up with.
The Civics teacher says, "We'll be having a quiz on the U.S. Presidents. You have to be able to name all of them in order. It's due on Friday."
Without missing a beat, my son asks, "Can I take the quiz right now?"
The teacher hesitates, wondering if there is a catch somewhere. "Go for it," he challenges. Then, under his breath, the teacher says, "But you'll never get it."
So, my boy begins with George Washington, then goes on to John Adams, Thomas Jefferson... he continues, and by now, the entire class is following along in their textbooks to catch him in an error. But my son marches on with his recitation, confidently reciting first, last, and sometimes middle names of the presidents in order.
When he gets to "Barack Obama" the class erupts in amazed exclaimations. The teacher shakes his head again and again in astonishment.
He gets an A on the quiz and scores another point for home school dad and the Union.

145 years too late

My son was "bushwhacked" by a band of Confederates last Monday morning. It was "wear a cap" day at school, so my son wore one of my old Yankee blue Civil War caps issued from my days as a server at "Dixie Stampede" dinner show in Branson, where the audience participates in a good-natured North/South rivalry.
But my son's North/South clash was more reminiscent of the "real deal" Civil War. At least, that's what his seventh grade mind imagined as his rural Southern classmates pummeled him for wearing the blue instead of the gray.
That's one of the intrigues of living in the "Show Me" state. We were one of the neutral states during the Civil War, but because we didn't declare loyalties, division and controversy still smolder 145 years after the conclusion of that bloody war.
Unfortunately for my 12-year-old, 145 years apparently wasn't long enough. But, as in the end to any conflict, there is resolution.
On Tuesday, the day after the skirmish, the Rebels had to holler "Uncle!" The principal had gotten wind of the ambush and sent the lead man to ISS (In School Suspension).
The other Confederate loyals swore to cease and desist.
But what makes the icing on the cake for this ol'd dad is what my son did, with a touch of humor. He drew an American flag next to a Confederate flag and drew a stick figure with his name above it. He drew stick figures under the Confederate flag with the other boys's names.
Above the picture was a call for a truce between North and South.
Each boy signed, some reluctantly, some willingly, under the truce below their respective flag. My son was the only name on the side of the North. But he'd won, at least, until the next battle life hands junior highers...

Mr. Gorilla

It's embarrassing. I mean, he follows me everywhere. I hope noboby notices him, but I suspect they do. It's in the little side glances I get. Or the whispered conversations that cease when I come within earshot.
I can't seem to shake him. He's with me 24/7, and I'm starting to panic. And I'm not a panicky type.
It wouldn't be so bad, but he's been... well, getting bigger lately. I mean, for the first few weeks, he wasn't such bad company. I actually enjoyed his antics. He could climb so high and so fast, I never knew he was around. Or he'd perch on my shoulder like Long John Silver's parrot. His fur would always tickle my ear, and make me laugh.
And his fur. It smelled so sweet. What happened?
I tried to bathe him. I did. I dragged him to the bathroom, but he spread his long arms and legs like a cat going into a barrel. He wouldn't get in the shower. Once, I sneeked up behind him and hoisted his furry, smelly body into the whirlpool tub. But the instant the water was on, he was out. I ran after him, tackling him near the living room. Oh, what a wrestling match ensued then! Books, papers, toys, DVDs flying about. I cursed him. I screamed at him to stop. But he kept laughing like a hyena. An ape gone ape, he was. I wanted to grab a stick and smack him on his self righteous head.
I began to cry. And I'm not a cryer. I sat on the floor and bawled like a baby. He stopped, two of my favorite DVDs in his grimy paws, looking at me. His face looked for a moment as if he had a twinge of regret. His eyes mirrored mine for a fleeting second. In that second, we were one. We were brothers, partners in this thing.
Then his eyes lost their reflection, and the madness ensued. He tore up the place, prancing about and not letting me touch him. He's strong, that gorilla. He's mean, too. So, he stunk up my house and I had to clean it up. Every bit of it before my wife came home. It took hours to undo what he did. I hoped she wouldn't notice the remnants of our scuffle.
When she got home, he was sleeping in her chair. Of all the places he could put his huge mass, he had to engulf her one and only favorite glider. The chair she rocked our sweet children to sleep in.
I saw the look she gave me. I wanted to talk to her about it, to explain how difficult is to live with a full grown gorilla with an attitude.
But she'd just tell me I shouldn't have gotten him in the first place. And, she'd be right.
She's always right. Just once, I'd like to be the one that's right. I'd like things to be right in my life. But now that I've got this... furry friend... well, things aren't ever gonna be the same.

Feline Stranger

My parents have had a lot of cats over the three plus decades they've lived in their country home. Currently, one of the herd of felines frolicking their property unfettered is a mysterious sidewinder, a gray and white thing with the mannerisms of "Bill the Cat" of cartoon popularity.
He looks and acts demented, but this crazy cat's name is less than ferocious. He goes by the name, "Baby." But don't underestimate Baby's bullying power. Our cat, Max, wanders over from next door and routinely gets a thrashing from Baby. Now, I could see the point if Max were a brute. But Max is the nicest, kindest, most lovey-dovey cat in the world. Cozies up to everybody. Purrs and brushes up against the sliding glass doors behind our house as if he's getting a buzz from the glass. Loves you when you aren't even paying attention. He won't leave his post on the doorstep. I kick him out of the way, but he comes back for more. Doesn't mind mistreatment. Never a complaint.
Anyway, this Baby character, he waylays poor Max every time Max wanders down the road to my parents' house. Max comes home with a quarter sized, then a silver dollar sized hole in the back of his neck; a gross, gaping, red, furless patch of pain. It scabs, gets ripped open again, scabs, a disgusting cycle.
Because of this, I sometimes imagine that if these cats were in a cat western, produced, directed by, and starring cats instead of humans, the script would go something like this:

EXTERIOR SALOON WITH PAW PRINTS ON SWINGING DOORS
Tumbleweed blows by. A dog dressed in fringe vest and cowboy hat barks, chasing a pretty kitty dressed to the hilt. They run off camera.

CUT TO INTERIOR OF SALOON

Fat cat bartender talking to row of cats sipping tall, cold milks along row of bar stools. Medium shot of bartender looking up from his conversation, his smile fading as he stares at the stranger coming in.

STRANGER

I'm looking for the one they call... Baby.

All eyes from the bar rest on the stranger as no one dares say a word.

The stranger, a lean Tiger cat, narrows his eyes and lights a cigarette, blowing smoke in the direction of the nearest cat at the bar.

STRANGER

Talk to me, big boy. Where is this 'Baby'?

Cat #1

N-never heard of him. (Nervously slurps foaming mug of milk.)

STRANGER

(Sneering at Cat #1). I'll bet.

BARTENDER

(Trying to lighten situation) So, ah, stranger, what name do you go by?

STRANGER glares at him, steely eyed.

Ah, look here, I don't want no trouble in my bar, understand? What can I get you to drink?

STRANGER

Gimme a pint of your homogenized.

* * * * *

And so on. You get the point. An ominous, mysterious stranger seeking the deadliest, most ferocious feline felon. That's what we need 'round these parts. Someone to put Baby in his place.

I thought about taking matters in my own hands. But it seems poetic to have another cat do the doing.

We need a strong, silent sleek male cat to come and wallop this Baby character. A good kitty tangle where Baby is the one walking away, licking his wounds with the telltale fur missing from the back of his twisted neck.

But in this misguided land of cats, no such hero is to be found. Consider this blog a casting call for the hero, an open appeal for a cat so tough no cat will ever enter into his domain. Not even Baby.

The Band

Once upon a time, in a land where technology hadn't hit the distortion pedal, there was a band. The band consisted of a vocalist, me, a bass player, guitar player, and drummer. All the elements of a progressive rock phenomenon. After humble beginnings in a Kansas City area basement with a drum machine, our power quad was assembled and began rehearsing. None of us had any real experience playing, except the drummer we drummed up. "Anchovy Joe" had 11 years percussion under his belt. He had two drumming speeds for our brand of rock: fast and faster.
We played our songs loud. And, as I suggested, fast.
I basically did a lot of guttural, raw experimental vocals borrowed from a Swedish band I admired.
Our bass player kicked in his vocals, and eventually, the boys got really good. They kept practicing until their practicers were blistered. But that posed a threat for my budding rock star career. They got better than me. Oh, I was energetic, jumping around like a chimpanzee on crack.
But they needed more vocal substance, and, not finding the range of motion in my vocals, continued on without me as the front man.
But, as a token of good friendship, I was allowed to be the "manager." I fulfilled managerial duties with zeal, but absolute ignorance. We were getting tight. Our sound was coming together. Our stage equipment was envied and borrowed by other bands.
We were blowing the doors off the pre-technology rip off doors in the coffee houses and small club scenes around Kansas City and beyond.
The clincher was when the guys opened for a "signed" band with a record label, and blew the "signed" guys away.
We began seriously shopping labels at that point. But, amid the growing hair and growing concerns, we lost touch with our roots. We grappled with the "secular" vs. Christian label idea. Do we reach our church youth audience, or expand to the die hard market hungry for meaty metal without too much Jesus interference for mainstream airplay?
Oh, the dilemmas of budding talent.
But, the screech got put on those brakes with the new front man/bassist's wife (he owned the road show equipment) put the kaposh on the idea of selling out and travelling under a label. His children were young, and he was needed more at home than on the road. So, the dreams of travelling the country in a rental van vanished.
The stage equipment was sold and put towards studio equipment, where our front man/bassist became a sound engineer in his basement.
Oh, well. Maybe in the next life I'll be the Steven Tyler of Christian Rock.