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.

Turnip Blood

I was sitting in my t-shirt and jeans at the breakfast table about 7 :15 a.m. on a weekday. On the other side of the sliding glass door appears a county sheriff's deputy. Not someone I expected at my remote residence. Kinda freaked me out.
He hands me a summons for small claims court and asks if I have any questions.
I look at the name of the plaintiff and sigh knowingly. "No questions," I say, waiving the deputy on.
The crabby old woman filing against me wants her money back from a book I wrote about her life. I was the ghost writer; thankfully, I don't have my name on it. She makes herself look like a victim throughout her book. Her daughter, a main subject in her book, had some other things to say that were... well, less than complimentary about her side of the story.
Anyway, the crabby old woman claims I didn't write enough pages. Honestly, who says, "Oh, I would have read your book, but it wasn't long enough?" I mean, come on, seriously!
In all reality, I asked her repeatedly what she wanted to include that I hadn't already written to make the length of the book satisfactory, and all she came up with was, "I already gave you everything. You didn't read what notes I gave you."
I assured her I did. Her scrambled notes left little to work with. At any rate, she never would come out and say what she wanted me to add. I would have gladly added anything she'd requested. It's HER book.
Now she wants her money back. And, she wants to sue my associate who designed her book after she agreed to everything and paid him also.
Some people will do anything for a refund. My book designer friend investigated her online and found five pages of small claims lawsuits she's filed. Hmmm...
Anyway, she filed the suit in her county (nowhere near mine) and I and my lawyer drafted a letter to the court saying she should have filed in my county because that's what the paperwork on small claims procedure stated.
The paperwork also stated small claims cannot garnish wages unless there is an employer, even if the plaintiff is granted a "victory". I have no money and no job. You can't squeeze blood out of a turnip. Ironically, she came to my house in her Mercedes the first time and in her Lexus the second time for interviews. I have a fading Mitsubishi with cracked windshield with more than 261,000 miles.
Better sue a rich guy next time!

The Best Investment (the plot to kill Michael Jordan)

I read it on a Yahoo! news page recently. Former NBA superman Michael Jordan is selling his 2007 Mercedes after less than 1,000 miles for a mere $430,000. I never meant to take it so seriously, but I needed that car. I mean, not for me. I can get around in a beater just fine. It's just that I needed this car. For the resale value.

Yep. I know it sounds pretty steep to plunk down 430 G's and expect a profit. But there's a sure fire way to do that. When Michael Jordan dies, he's gonna be a lot more valuable than he is right now.
Think of all the dead artists who are more valuable since their demise. How about the musicians? Elvis Presley made more money dead than alive, and news just came out that Michael Jackson made $275 million this year, more than all the other dead musicians combined. (Good thing he's not around to pay taxes on that!)
So, the Michael Jordan value is going to soar once the beloved basketball baron bites the big one.
So, my plan is to scrounge the money and buy the car... then wait 'til M.J. kicks it and sell the car for millions, having kept it in the garage until then, accumulating no more miles than it already has. It's worth the pain of coming up with $430,000 I don't have. I mean, I'm surprised more people aren't taking advantage of this obvious strategy.
But because I'm broke, I can't afford to wait years, perhaps decades, until the greatest basketball guru ever finally breathes his last. So, after begging, borrowing, or stealing the initial money for the car, I must also come up with an evil, perhaps elaborate, plot to off M.J. If I could just get someone to drop a piano on him when he's leaving a posh hotel, or perhaps find out where he lives and dig a deep pit just outside his privacy gate for him to fall into. I could cover him up with a backhoe before anyone would have time to grab the camera crews' attention.

A guy like Michael Jordan can't have that much personal security. Sure, he's rich, but he's big enough to protect himself. So, no need to worry about private bodyguards and such. Just wait for him in the marketplace and pop him. It would be worth the millions I'd get from the sale of his car once he's dead. I could even hire a few people to investigate how to find him. I could have one of his kids kidnapped and lure him to a dark alley where hired thugs do him in. The method doesn't really matter, as long as he dies while I have possession of his low miles Mercedes.

Just think, turning $430,000 into $5 million, for example... isn't that one of the best investments you've ever heard? And to think, all I have to do is come up with a measly $430,000 right away and kill Michael Jordan without anyone suspecting me, and then sell his Mercedes.
Simple plan, huh?

At the counter

My blogging fingers are going numb from the air conditioned environment. But the girl at the counter doesn't seem to mind baring as much flesh as possible despite the chill. Her raven hair and hoop earrings compliment her perfect figure, accentuated by skin tight jeans stuffed into cute, trendy boots.
I have to force my eyes away. I'm learning to overcome bad habits of staring and focusing on the wrong woman.

Perhaps I could understand this scenario better if it weren't right in my own church.

Girls vs. Boys

I overheard a conversation between two grade school girls today:

Girl #1: "If everybody I invite comes, three girls will have to sleep on the floor."
Girl #2: "Who?"
Girl #1: "I dunno. Not me. I'll be sleeping in a bed. I'm the birthday girl." (chuckles)
Girl #2: "Are you gonna sleep in the big bed?"
Girl #1: "I'll probably sleep in my bed."
Girl #2: "Jenny and Molly better not sleep together; they'd kill each other!"
Girl #1: (agreeing) "Yeah."
Girl #2: "Maybe Jenny and Brianne."
Girl #1: "Yeah."

Contrast that with conflict resolution via two of my sons:

Son #1: "I'm the captain."
Son #2: "No, I'm the captain."
Son #1: "OK, I'm the admiral."
Son #2: "That's my sword." (indicates big stick)
Son #1: "No, that's your sword." (indicates small stick)
Son #2: (picks up big stick anyway and whacks the admiral with it)
Admiral: "Ouch!"
Captain: (giggles evilly)
Admiral: "I'm telling!"
Captain: (raises big stick again)
Admiral: (thinking quickly, picks up small stick and defends against the blow)
Both boys continue the battle, enjoying it tremendously and momentarily forgetting each others' grievances.

Mr. Filthy Carpet Swatch

One never knows what's on the other side when selling door-to-door. Spin the bottle and knock. A gray bearded spook answers.
"Hello, I'm with _____ vacuum company, and I'm in a contest to see how many floors I can sweep this week. You'll get a free carpet cleaning and a set of steak knives (I shove a box of them in his grimy hand) just for looking. I'll be right back."
I'm gone before he can answer. Anything to get in the door and make a potential sale. I return with a boxed vacuum on my shoulder, not even slowing as I slide through the still open door.
Despite my fluidity, I'm always a bit surprised to be let in. Especially this time. The eccentric hillbilly has no real carpet! His floor is literally covered with a hodge podge collage of various free floating carpet sample swatches, about the size of a welcome mat, an inch or two apart. It's as if he's turned his home into a carpet sample store. It looks hideous, but hey, it's carpet.
I've been in a lot or weird places, but I've never seen this. A vacuum salesman's dream...(or nightmare?)
"Don't know what kind of carpet I want," he explains, observing my observations.
By the looks of the unopened boxes and piles of dissaray everywhere, it appears the eccentric can't decide if he wants to move in at all.
"How long ago did you move in?" I querie, making small talk as I set up the vacuum.
He cackles, revealing more gaps than teeth. "Been here 10 years."
(Not the quickest decision maker here. Hope he can find his checkbook for me well before the twighlight of the next decade!)
My sample filter is visible through the clear plastic demonstration device attached to the vacuum. I first ask if Mr. Carpet Swatch has a vacuum of his own. He hollers at his wife, who has emerged from the clutter to stare at my intrusion in dismay. Nope, she makes an effort, but can't seem to find a vacuum either.
Normally, the customer gets his vacuum out and I run it over a small area dozens of times, until he is thoroughly convinced the old vacuum cannot possibly pick up any more dirt in that one spot. Then, presto! I unleash my gleaming beauty and fill the micron filter pad in seconds with hidden filth. It's a powerful visual, and I'm confident today's swatches will reveal the crud superbly.
I am not disappointed as I fill filter after filter with black filth, leaving a dirt sample on each carpet sample. It's simultaneously poetic and pathetic.
"No matter what type of carpet you decide to get," I say, the hum of my vacuum silenced, "you see it will need a deep cleaning vacuum."
He's impressed, but defaults to his backup resistance plan, insisting he won't need a vacuum until he gets permanent carpet.
"Oh, but you've already had carpet for 10 years," I say, trying to mask potential mockery. "You may not know what carpet you want, but you really know what you DON'T want... dirt like this!"
My demonstration proves lethal. He asks his wife what she thinks. I wait. Any jabbering during decision time can spoil the deal.
She lingers. A good sign. They collaborate. They turn back to me. "Uh, I don't have that much money," he confesses. (He's a terrible liar, and he knows I know it.)
"We have a payment plan," I say, smiling.
Mr. Filthy Carpet Swatch won't hear of it. "I pay for things all at once. I'll make you an offer, take it or leave it."
He makes an offer, well within my range of profitability. I act like it may be too low, so I ask for his phone. I call our office.
"Mr. Van Lieu, I'm not sure if I can help this nice couple out or not," I say, for their benefit. "They really love the vacuum, but they just don't want to get involved in financing. They've made an offer, and, frankly, I'm not sure if we can accept it."
I lower my voice and almost whisper the ridiculously low offer that Mr. Van Lieu and I both know will make me $200 commission.
I nod my head, acting as if Mr. Van Lieu is making an exception here. I act somewhat apprehensive, as I continue. "Well, you see, that's the problem. They don't have a trade in."
I look at them, shaking my head. Mr. and Mrs. Filthy Carpet Swatch squirm, hoping their ridiculously low offer will stick.
Guilt trip complete, my eyes light up. "I hadn't thought of that. Wow, thank you, Mr. Van Lieu, for being so flexible. I'll tell them the good news!"
I put my hand over the receiver and announce, "He said you can have this demo model for that price, rather than an unused one in our van." (They were gonna get it anyway! No way I'm packing it up if I don't have to!)
They sigh a sigh of reflief. Before they can find their senses or lose their checkbook, I pump each of their hands, welcoming them to the family of proud new vacuum owners. We fill out the paperwork and I prepare to leave.
But Mr. Filthy Carpet Swatch has another eccentricity to unveil. "I want you to put the box and the vacuum you just sold me out on the lawn, as if I've thrown it at you and tossed you out," he says, cackling at his cleverness. "When you're boss shows up, he'll think the deal went South."
(Surely you jest, carpet swatch collector man? I mean, of all the cheesy...)
The things I have to do for a sale! Humiliated, I follow through with his hairbrained scheme, placing the box and vacuum in the yard, and looking chigrined as Mr. French pulls up in the wonder van.
Mr. French feigns shock at the scenario, as he perfectly reads my desperate look to get out of here ASAP. He nervously chuckles off the joke as the bearded wacko "comes clean", telling Mr. French what a wonderful sales job I did.
Armed with his precious check and paperwork, Mr. French and I get back in the van and look for more dirty carpet.

Guard dog

Years ago, I got a job selling vacuum cleaners door-to-door. Having someone to generate leads was considered for wimps. My die hard band of dirt sucker sales hounds hopped in a van every morning after our motivational rah-rah session, ready to find our own targets. Armed with our gleaming destroyers of carpet crud, we cruised lonely stretches for unsuspecting customers. We drove hours into far corners of each rural county, hunting for folks who'd never seen a salesman. Towns had more doors, but people in populated areas had little patience for someone tying up a couple hours unannounced. The good rural souls proved better fodder.
Our lead man, Mr. French, a portly 30ish fellow with an Ichabod Crane nose and fluffly hair, looked more uncomfortable in his tie than the rest of us put together. But, he'd been in the game since age 17. Door-to-door vacuum sales was all he knew.
The back roads got too bumpy to read motivational books, so as Mr. French drove the winding gravel paths, we stared out the windows, cherry picking our daily bait. Rob, a highly talented salesman, had an eye for the "check slingin' blue hairs", as he referred to our elderly, more susceptible, clientele. He specilized in spotting handicap license plates, especially if they were attached to Cadillacs. "Cash deal," he'd announce. Other doors we passed he'd brag, "Sold it!" and tell of an earlier success. Though Rob could sell ice cubes to an Eskimo, he also wanted to knock off early for a brew every afternoon. Talent vs. work ethic.
Another member of our van crew, Kevin, was a reformed drug addict who'd driven a propane truck into a bar trying to kill a man once upon a time. Now a Christian, he only listened to Southern Gospel music in his car and quoted from the King James Bible. Kevin was relentless and could practically sell to anyone. One day we were in a grocery store and Kevin noticed some kids at the entrance trying to sell candy bars for a fundraiser. The kids got a Kevin style crash course in sales. "Don't ask people if they want to buy a candy bar," he said. "Let me show you what I mean."
He smiled at the next person coming in, an elderly woman. "Hello, ma'am, I'm sure you don't need a candy bar, but we're just asking you to make a donation for a good cause and help the kids. How many would you like to get today?" She handed him a $5 bill and told the kids to keep the money and sell the candy bars to someone else. The kids were wide eyed and their parents were thankful.
Another member of our team, Riki, was a skinny half Japanese kid with duel citizenship. He was sharp as a tack, bi lingual, duel citizen, and an entrepreneur with his own real estate business. He cursed like a sailor, but we all liked him because he could take a lot of crap from the guys without losing his cool.
I was the rookie, fast making a name for myself for "knockin' doors and sweepin' floors."
One particular day as our white Chevy Lumina van rumbled along the gravel, we noticed a BEWARE OF GUARD DOG sign. Mr. French, our supervisor and driver, quipped, "OK, who wants it?"
Nobody said a word.
"I'll take it," I said.
"I was just kidding," Mr. French conceded.
Arrogance had superseded caution for me that day, and I thought I'd show the boys a thing or two. I whipped open the sliding door and waltzed up to the house. To my terror, a huge Rottweiler type mongrel rounded the corner at full throttle, teeth bared and growl erupting like a tornado's wind. The beast took a lunge at my face, but I didn't flinch, completely ignoring him. He turned away in mid-lunge, trained not to attack someone who didn't instinctively throw up his hands in protective mode. The angry dog returned his charge a second time, with a little less conviction. Ignored again, he flipped his body in mid air and regrouped. He charged a third time, but the third ignore button was the final one. He retreated, ashamed and confused that he'd miscalculated a possible friend for an intruder.
I was on the porch now. The owner, a younger woman, ran to the door. "Are you all right?" her face was ashen.
"I'm fine; your dog's a little humiliated, but I'm fine," I lied, feeling light headed.
"What do you want?" she said, incredulous.
"I'm out selling vaccuums, but I'm sure you don't need one today, do you?" I said, having lost all interest in a potential sale. She shook her head. "You're the first person I've ever seen make it to the door."
I knew I didn't try the sale, but the looks of awe and admiration on the guys' faces was worth it all.

Water bottle thief

My unemployment marathon had ended. In sheer desperation, I had set my credentials and preferences aside and called security companies out of the phone book. You know, those companies who hire unarmed security guards to patrol properties all night so owners can get an insurance premium break? Those guys are always hiring, right?
My phone book search mission landed on a private security company that didn't force me to wade through a lengthy online application that tells me I've made an error if I don't fill in the exact month and date of my high school degree, despite the fact I have your college degree information intact. (Seriously, who considers a "high school course of study" relevant to a 40something with 20something years of work experience?)
The small time private security company guy personally answers the phone. He wants to meet me that same day. A man of action, to the point. My kinda guy.
I go in, and he sits at the back of his shop near a file cabinet bearing four different business names. He's got a pizza place, a tobacco shop, an insurance company, and, of course, a private security company. Not bad for a guy moving here only five years ago. (Red flag, anyone?)
But, he likes me, and I'm desperate. As I fill out the app in front of him, he dismisses the formalities, such as reference phone numbers, etc.
"I liked you on the phone," he says, firing up a cigarette.

"Do you want any coffee?"
I decline, admitting I'm caffeine free. "More for me," he says, chuckling. "Can you start tonight?"
Thank you, Lord!
Let me check my calendar... "Uh, tonight? Sure, um, that would be fine."
"Don't worry about a uniform. Just bring a photocopy of your drivers' license and social security card sometime in the next few days and I'll set that up. You'll be training with an older guy named Leroy. I pay every Monday, but I can only pay 8 bucks an hour."
He gives the time and location and I eagerly await my new tour of night duty. Fortunately, I can ease into overnight work at two hours a pop. I train with Leroy at a car lot tonight and tomorrow for two hours per night, then with Moses at a rundown apartment complex for the next two nights. The eight and 12 hour shifts start later.

I find Leroy, a dedicated retired contractor in a modest pickup truck. He's easy to spot in his blue uniform and badge.Plus, he's the only one in the parking lot at this hour. Leroy shows me the ins and outs of securing property and equipment on the site. We're working under the glaring lights of a large car dealership. He walks the premises, checking building and car doors. Any unlocked car door gets written down in Leroy's notepad. Each car has a special number in the windshield. If the car is locked, lock it. But first, check for keys. If any is found, turn the keys in to the night car lot supervisor. Got it.
"The boss wants me to learn the computer," white-haired Leroy admits. "But I just drop off my written report on the way home every morning."
Nothing like the older generation making the younger one do double the work.
The second night, I check the doors as Leroy watches. So far, so good. My new career seems to be budding nicely. I'll have a steady hour of work each shift, then seven more trying to stay awake watching a parking lot and trying not to freeze in the night air. Leroy has encouraged me to get a small flashlight to see the Vehicle Inspecition Numbers in case I need to. I proudly show him my new light attached to my key chain. I even have my own notebook.
It's time to get to work. I check the new cars and RVs, writing down unlocked vehicles in my notebook and finding a set or two of keys to turn in. I make my way to the service area. One of the new cars being serviced has an almost empty water bottle sitting in it. Instinctively, being a dad, I retrieve the bottle to toss in the trash and lock the door.
Louie doesn't see me do this, so I tell him I'm throwing away a bottle I found. He says, "That's considered stealing if we take anything from a vehicle."
"Oh, sorry, I didn't know. I'll remember that," I say, but the door is already locked and Leroy instructs me to toss the plastic bottle in the trash.
"How did I do?" I ask, rounds complete.
"You should be fine," Leroy says. "Here's my number if you need anything. I'm going on vacation in a week, but don't hesitate to call if you have questions."
He wishes me well, and before long, I'm off the clock.
The next day, I call my new boss, who was so impressed after my first shift he assigned me to Leroy's 12 hour shift at a craft festival coming up the same time the old man will be on vacation. I want to see when I should bring in copies of my drivers' license and social security card.
"Yeah, I wanna talk to you about that," the boss man says, gruffly.
"OK," I say, a nagging sense of impending calamity rising within.
"What's up with the water bottle?"

(Is this a trick question?) "I threw away an item of trash, sorry. Didn't know."
"If you'd steal a water bottle, you'd steal a laptop," he says curtly. "I'll cut you a check, but don't bother coming back in."
And so, after four long hours of training at an undisclosed security company, my unemployment marathon continues. But so does peace of mind, knowing I'm NOT working for a man who can't distinguish theft from tidiness.

Fired from the unfireable job

The souring of the economy had collared me as well. I was out of work, looking, looking, looking. I'm the guy who had seven or eight apps filled out by the time I got home at 8 p.m. on a Friday night five years ago after getting canned at 4 p.m.
But this ain't no five years ago market.
The classified section of the paper has turned from "help wanted" to "how can I help?" No longer are employers looking for employees; employee hopefuls are looking for employers.
I saw a shopper with gray empty boxes staring off the page stating YOUR AD HERE but nobody's got enough business, or not enough money, to advertise.
So... I'm swimming in the icky soup of unemployment longer than I've ever swam. Weeks drag by. Now it's months. I've networked, looked in person, door to door, online, asked, begged... I'm either overqualified with my college and writing career or not showing required experience in a certain field.
So, out of sheer desperation, and a need for gas in the tank to look more, I stop by the blood plasma donor place. It's a Friday, at 7:05 a.m. The place is packed. A lobby full of freaks, geeks and weirdos.
I look too clean cut; perhaps my college educated blood is too rich for them. But I decide 50 bucks is 50 bucks.
I bring a long book anticipating a long wait. I stand along the wall with others who don't have a seat, only to realize I'm in the line for the database. Plasma groupies know the drill. You go in, line up and download your information into the database so you can get called to one of eight checkpoints before they stick you. When I get the glare from the groupie behind me I sit down in the back row, wedged between a fatty and a woman with a few remaining teeth and in bad need of a bath.
I open my book, but feel like I'm insulting the illiterate next to me.
One by one, names are called out as we all sit facing the front of the room. An attendant barks each name, and each person belonging to that name stands as if struck, then enters a room to be briefed before giving plasma.
After an hour or so, I realize I'm not getting called. "Are there any other first time donors?" the barker woman barks.
A guy that came in after me steps forward. I try to cut him off, and they push me to the side. I stand and wait again. From the front of the room, the motley crew hasn't seemed to change. If anything, there are more people than ever. Eventually I get another seat, read, then go to the bathroom. I've been drinking nearly a gallon of water in the last 12 hours, since they recommend being hydrated. I can't keep out of the bathroom.

Back and forth from book to bathroom. Hours tick by. I overhear loud, vulgar conversations. I interject with a guy in my age bracket once in awhile. Then, as if by magic, my name is barked and I'm being briefed without the preliminary reading. Oh, well, I'll wing it. I fly through the briefing in a mere 30 more minutes. It's now 1 p.m. I'm starving. I get to the big donor room, and people are lying around with needles in their arms.
I get settled in my recliner, book in hand. The phlebotomist looks at me. She takes an arm, studies it, then drops it like a piece of trash. She looks at the other arm, as if to say, "Are these the only arms you have?"
"Your veins are too small," she says. "I'm really sorry."
A second look by a second phlebotomist. My veins are still too small.
They dismiss me with an apology and a card for $20.
Six hours. $20. Hmmm... back to the classifieds...

txt msg

im gonna post this blog entry in txt msg
cuz too many ppl are short cutting the english lang
w their stupid txt msgs and lack of punct and correct speling
btw, i mispelled speling on purpose to make a point
lol
but seriously its so dum how ppl txt an dont talk anymore
i no lots of ppl who will answer a txt but not a phone call
i mean how stupid r we gettin if we cant ans a phone
n we have to use it to txt not talk
omg i mean its crazy
if the world reduces itself to this level of comm
then we r all in real trble n i dont mean mabe
n then ppl r upset that ppl txt n drive well its
sad ppl txt so much n the 1st place
well g2g so ttyl k

Sleeping Ticket?

A spotlight stabs through my rear window, nearly blinding my weary eyes. The all too familiar light bar flashing blue and red tells me my car slumber is about to be interrupted by a street soldier in a navy blue uniform.
My seat comes up and my window comes down. Officer friendly shines his mag light in my face.
"Why didn't I see you when I first shined my light in your car?"
"I was sleeping," I answer, truthfully. "My seat was reclined."
"What are you doing out here at this hour?"
I wonder if he's deaf or stupid, or perhaps both.
"Um... sleeping?" (I hope I don't come across TOO sarcastic!)
"Why are you sleeping in your car?" (Nosey, ain't cha?)
"It's really late, and I'm tired."
He doesn't like the answer, but has no comeback, so he goes back into his usual script.
"I need to see your driver's license and registration, please."

I hand them over, fumbling more than normal through the glovebox for my insurance papers. It's after 1 a.m., and was just getting into a heavy sleep cycle.
"This expired," he says blandly looking at my insurance papers.
"Oh, hang on," I say, remembering my new insurance card is in my wallet. I fish through it, as his flashlight picks up on family photos, debit card, library card, business cards, conservation card, ah... here it is...
I hand it to him, triumphantly. He looks disappointed that it's valid.
"This your current address?"
Dang. I've moved since that driver's license was issued. "Nope," I say.
"Where do you live now?"
I tell him.
"Whatcha doin' out here sleepin' in the park?"
"I got community service at the recycle center just across the street in the morning," I confess. The truth is sounding worse than a lie. I've been pulled over plenty for speeding, hence the community service, but never for sleeping.
Surely he won't issue a "sleeping ticket"...
"I'll be right back," he says, retreating to his bright flashing lighted car with my license.
I rub my eyes and reach for my pocket recorder and press "record" while keeping the recorder out of sight as he returns.
"Do you mind if I search your car?" his flashlight is already searching front and back seats.
I freeze. Of course, I mind. It's a matter of principle. He's supposed to have reasonable suspicion, or just cause, to search my vehicle.
"I don't know how to answer that," I say.
"It's a simple 'yes' or 'no'," he says, irritated and suspicious.
"Okay," I reply. "I guess not, then."
He's flipping out now. "Why not?"
"I just don't want you to search my vehicle."
"Why not?"
"I don't have to say why not," I say, glad I'm recording this joker.
"What's in your car?"
"A bunch of junk, as usual," I say, truthfully.
"What's that on the floor," he says, aiming his beam on a piece of thin metal.
"Looks like a tent stake from my camping tent."
"What about those leaves?"
"Kids tracked 'em in. We live around a lot of trees."
(Is he searching my car without permission? What a jerk! What about my constitutional rights? I'm not under arrest.)
"You aren't allowed to park overnight here in the city park," he says, trying a different tack. "If I see you back here, I'll arrest you for trespassing."
(I'll bet you will, you face saving savage. Have your macho tough guy spiel and be gone!)
He stomps back to his car and waits for me to drive away first. I click off the recorder and decide to spend the rest of the night in the Wal-Mart parking lot with the RVers and truckers.

Hairdude

My heroic effort to dodge him in the between Sunday school and church rush is thwarted. Sister Sensible corners me to ask about the twins, whom I haven't seen in a month.
So, here he comes, catching me like a wounded turtle on a backwoods blacktop. His hair jets skyward, an idiotic holy grin marring his otherwise static face.
A gust of Grecian Formula emits from the hairdude's hairdo. "Heeey, brother," he begins, louder than anyone need be at his close proximity to my delicate ears.

"So... how's the fam?"
"Family" isn't a big word. It's OK to use all syllables on that one.
"Everybody's fine," I stammer eloquently, walking toward the sanctuary to shake the holy hemorrhoid. "Kids are growing up so fast."
He feigns interest before plunging into his message. "Pray for me, brother," he says, slinging an arm around my now tensed shoulders. Space invader alert!
"My dog's got the runs, and I had to lend my second car to the neighbor since their daughter Officia needed to borrow theirs, and Quinton is staying this weekend because his dad's campaign is heating up and Quinton needs a place to stay..."
The rest of the runon sentence prayer request marathon is lost as I greet the usher like an old friend, trying to pry the hairdude away at the main sanctuary entrance.
"I will definitely be praying," I reply in my holiest voice. "Indeed you've got many issues to consider."
I enter the sanctuary, safe from hairdude and his hairbrained prayer requests, wondering what he'd do if he actually heard about the divorce papers, foreclosure notice and job loss I've suffered this week?
My issues might sabotage his ability to bolster sympathy over his poor mutt's squirts, or Officia's car borrowing tactics or Quinton's 48 hour homelessness...
But I digress.