Shopping NYC
I had no reason to doubt the veracity of her statement, that the young woman had indeed stolen Lavinia's man, nor would I enter the ring of debate regarding the possibility that Lavinia's response to this (if she didn't like it, she could...) would be to kiss the other woman's ass. My feeling about this mostly, walking through the canyonlands of NYC and each and every time surprised like hell that perpendicular to the streets with no wind are often streets where the wind is blowing like a sonofabitch and the cold on those streets is biting and the swirling unknown needle-sharp particulate matter can and will inject itself into the whites of your eyes, is--I am afraid of that woman because she looks very angry and conquering, and, was I supposed to turn left or right at that last corner?
Hey, there he is, waving to me from across Delancey, I must be close. We find another place because the four tables at the first place are occupied and I only have a bagel and orange juice but he has a special that resembles in many ways the picture of it on a glossy menu. My bagel lacks the photogenic absurdity of his meal but it is delicious. I wish I had ordered ten of them although I probably would have regretted it after eating only three. I tell him, over breakfast, how many times I peed last night and that I hope this orange juice on a cold day traveling to Home Depot in NYC does not cause me grief. I am really quite the conversationalist. He explains in answer to my amazement regarding his history-term retention acumen that he learned it in high school, this term and that one. But after doing the math, what? He's talking about 20 or 30 years ago picking up a term and then throwing it out there over a runny almost too glossy breakfast plate on Delancey, perhaps near Ludlow.
Brinkmanship? How did such an unlikely term make its way to this breakfast table? What? I don't know, it seems like I peed eight or nine times that previous night.
The cab driver is milking the drop off point, even I know this. Inching up slowly in front of the Home Depot waiting for just one more incremental cash money click on the meter. Mr. Brinkmanship pays the bastard and then grouses briefly about it as we enter the store because the guy would not stop when he said, this is ok, right here is good, yeah you can stop now, your bills are not my bills, stop the damn cab so I can get the hell out, I'm on to your games mister!
While B looked for floor paint I roamed the store and made an impulse buy or two. Walking alone down an aisle stocked heavily with dangerous hand and power tools I came to a well hidden and locked case that contained the one item I really needed--a five pack of sheetrock knife blades. I interrupted a hidden cluster of employees and asked for help retrieving the blades. One of them led me on a search for the keymaster, laughing at me when I uttered a single word in what I guess she mistook for a foreign accent, and when we met, keymaster and I, he looked nervous, I think because he knew he had to ask me a ridiculous question before I could get me some blades. He had to see my ID. I showed it to him, begrudgingly, not because I really give a damn about the obvious ridiculousness of showing IDs for razor blades in NYC, but because my new license picture has me looking like I was baked in a hot oven for 35 minutes. He could barely stand to look at it and after the briefest glance he opened the cage and stood back from it so I could select the item I wanted. There were some pocket knives in the case and one of these I selected and opening up the biggest blade inserted it with a quick thrust into the keymaster's solar plexus. While he gasped his last breath I selected also the five pack of rock blades and moseyed on back to the paint section.
Outside the diner earlier while inside brinkmanship was being discussed a tired looking sad black woman cried upright on the sidewalk and when we came out she pleaded with me to feed her but I explained with a lie that I would not be able to do such a thing that day.
...more recent posts
Slowing, But Not To A Stop
It was a handful of days ago that I experienced the disappointment only fully understood by the losers of this world. In fact, if you are not a loser it would be best if you just went about your reading elsewhere. Go on now, all you winners, beat it. I'm serious now, get out of here and go win some damn thing. And don't think you can read on and still be a winner, loser.
I was, that handful of days ago, engaging by email with Bernadette about travel plans, and to my understanding there was a wholly acceptable rash decision made on the part of Bernadette in NY and I went about preparing for her arrival by train into the Culpeper station that evening.
Crazy with anticipation I paused periodically to consider the bounty of my good fortune. I had only suggested she come that night instead of four days in the future and here she was doing it. Was I that powerful? I even considered the lower-case blasphemy of was I godlike?
The answer came that evening as I stood next to the pay phone on the side of the train station, looking off down the track in the direction of the distant New York City. I was worried about being late and had sped much of the way, passing slow moving cars and at one point forgetting to slow down for a sharp curve I had nearly careened off the road.
I wasn't there leaning against the side of the station wall for long when I could see the lights of the arriving 19 train, on its way to New Orleans but stopping briefly in Culpeper to let Bernadette out so I could drive her back to Mt. Pleasant. I looked in through the windows of the slow moving train, trying to appear cool and not overly eager. A conductor was leaning out the side of the train and called out to me for no reason I can discern except that obviously he had seen straight through my trying to be cool act and knew I was waiting for Bernadette to get off the train. The conductor at this point knew more about me than I knew about me. He had become godlike. He was talking to me and becoming smaller. He said everything I needed to know without actually saying the obvious (you are a loser son, go home).
The 5O? I called out to the increasingly becoming miniature conductor. Is that coming from NY? The now microscopic conductor responded--frrffmrfllle eit ienchenste, leaving me dumbfounded with the mystery of his unintelligible message.
I went back to the Jeep and considered a few different possibilities. At some point I realized it would not hurt anything to rule out the chance that Bernadette was still in NYC. To consider that I had simply misunderstood and that all my previous meanderings about being godlike were what they could only truly be--utter bullshit. When she answered her phone, which is not cellular, and although cordless, has only a range still well within the confines of New York City, I said hello. She said hello. She had no way of knowing my mistake. To her this was just an uncharacteristic phone call (we don't talk on the phone). I went ahead and made the redundant clarification, by saying, are you in New York? Bernadette said what she could only say, that she was, and, at a loss to understand the meaning of my question responded with--where are you?
I told her I was where all losers end up, watching a train that slowed down, but never stopped, pull away from the station.
Bernadette cooed some in a fashion meant to underscore a collection of realities that in sum total amounted to this--yeah I'm a loser and not at all godlike but that's ok. She would see me in four days, same train station.
I drove back on a pitch black ribbon of asphalt through a night as black as itself and arrived at a Mt. Pleasant that was strangely and uncharacteristically lit, porch lights shining and yard lights, with bulbs replaced and just hours before set back on their proper timing, glowing mutely.
It was a handful of days ago that I experienced the disappointment only fully understood by the losers of this world. In fact, if you are not a loser it would be best if you just went about your reading elsewhere. Go on now, all you winners, beat it. I'm serious now, get out of here and go win some damn thing. And don't think you can read on and still be a winner, loser.
I was, that handful of days ago, engaging by email with Bernadette about travel plans, and to my understanding there was a wholly acceptable rash decision made on the part of Bernadette in NY and I went about preparing for her arrival by train into the Culpeper station that evening.
Crazy with anticipation I paused periodically to consider the bounty of my good fortune. I had only suggested she come that night instead of four days in the future and here she was doing it. Was I that powerful? I even considered the lower-case blasphemy of was I godlike?
The answer came that evening as I stood next to the pay phone on the side of the train station, looking off down the track in the direction of the distant New York City. I was worried about being late and had sped much of the way, passing slow moving cars and at one point forgetting to slow down for a sharp curve I had nearly careened off the road.
I wasn't there leaning against the side of the station wall for long when I could see the lights of the arriving 19 train, on its way to New Orleans but stopping briefly in Culpeper to let Bernadette out so I could drive her back to Mt. Pleasant. I looked in through the windows of the slow moving train, trying to appear cool and not overly eager. A conductor was leaning out the side of the train and called out to me for no reason I can discern except that obviously he had seen straight through my trying to be cool act and knew I was waiting for Bernadette to get off the train. The conductor at this point knew more about me than I knew about me. He had become godlike. He was talking to me and becoming smaller. He said everything I needed to know without actually saying the obvious (you are a loser son, go home).
The 5O? I called out to the increasingly becoming miniature conductor. Is that coming from NY? The now microscopic conductor responded--frrffmrfllle eit ienchenste, leaving me dumbfounded with the mystery of his unintelligible message.
I went back to the Jeep and considered a few different possibilities. At some point I realized it would not hurt anything to rule out the chance that Bernadette was still in NYC. To consider that I had simply misunderstood and that all my previous meanderings about being godlike were what they could only truly be--utter bullshit. When she answered her phone, which is not cellular, and although cordless, has only a range still well within the confines of New York City, I said hello. She said hello. She had no way of knowing my mistake. To her this was just an uncharacteristic phone call (we don't talk on the phone). I went ahead and made the redundant clarification, by saying, are you in New York? Bernadette said what she could only say, that she was, and, at a loss to understand the meaning of my question responded with--where are you?
I told her I was where all losers end up, watching a train that slowed down, but never stopped, pull away from the station.
Bernadette cooed some in a fashion meant to underscore a collection of realities that in sum total amounted to this--yeah I'm a loser and not at all godlike but that's ok. She would see me in four days, same train station.
I drove back on a pitch black ribbon of asphalt through a night as black as itself and arrived at a Mt. Pleasant that was strangely and uncharacteristically lit, porch lights shining and yard lights, with bulbs replaced and just hours before set back on their proper timing, glowing mutely.
The Small Laws
I was coming out of the post office to get back in my illegally parked vehicle on a cold and rainy day and to my right coming out of the cafe was a steely-eyed highway patrolman with a rain condom on his hat and there was no getting around any of it. I was committed to the movements set forth when I parked illegally in the first place so I got in the Jeep and made another illegal maneuver, backing into the only 4-way intersection in a town with a population similar to a half-occupied Motel 8 but which is a county seat and therefore exists happily or not with a preponderance of troopers. I just try to blend in. I don't enjoy being noticed. I am feeling many of the emotions associated with embarrassment and social awkwardness as I back slowly enough to appear a doddering fool. No threat to anyone. Not worth your effort on a rainy day, sir. I was hoping he would just mosey on but he's taking so much damn time to cross the street, and not at the proper crosswalk, either. Of course that could be because I am jamming the whole intersection with my slow moving Jeep. I'm facing forward now, ready to propel through the intersection and drive back at 25 miles per hour the 5 blocks to Mt. Pleasant, where I don't bother nobody and I ask please not to be bothered. But he's just standing there so I pause and he waves me forward but I'm not sure about that so I wave him forward but he won't move so I inch forward at the same time he does. This is really awkward. To show my appreciation for the awkwardness of the moment I let out an embarrassed smile that unfortunately to my way of thinking comes out as a shit-eating grin. A toothy unabashed in your face--hah/stupid idiot. I feel inhabited by another, even more awkward soul than myself. In the end I don't even remember which one of us went first. All I know is you can't be too careful. Small laws are good laws. Have a nice day.
I was coming out of the post office to get back in my illegally parked vehicle on a cold and rainy day and to my right coming out of the cafe was a steely-eyed highway patrolman with a rain condom on his hat and there was no getting around any of it. I was committed to the movements set forth when I parked illegally in the first place so I got in the Jeep and made another illegal maneuver, backing into the only 4-way intersection in a town with a population similar to a half-occupied Motel 8 but which is a county seat and therefore exists happily or not with a preponderance of troopers. I just try to blend in. I don't enjoy being noticed. I am feeling many of the emotions associated with embarrassment and social awkwardness as I back slowly enough to appear a doddering fool. No threat to anyone. Not worth your effort on a rainy day, sir. I was hoping he would just mosey on but he's taking so much damn time to cross the street, and not at the proper crosswalk, either. Of course that could be because I am jamming the whole intersection with my slow moving Jeep. I'm facing forward now, ready to propel through the intersection and drive back at 25 miles per hour the 5 blocks to Mt. Pleasant, where I don't bother nobody and I ask please not to be bothered. But he's just standing there so I pause and he waves me forward but I'm not sure about that so I wave him forward but he won't move so I inch forward at the same time he does. This is really awkward. To show my appreciation for the awkwardness of the moment I let out an embarrassed smile that unfortunately to my way of thinking comes out as a shit-eating grin. A toothy unabashed in your face--hah/stupid idiot. I feel inhabited by another, even more awkward soul than myself. In the end I don't even remember which one of us went first. All I know is you can't be too careful. Small laws are good laws. Have a nice day.
Happy Anniversary
Mr. BC's parents are celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary this weekend, in Texas. BC loaded up the Mrs. and the children and headed on down there. What? In a Winnebago? Oh, no, no, no. In the private jet. They probably right this minute rustling up the kids and getting ready for a trip down to that most pleasant South Dallas part of town, where is located the State Fair of Texas. Oh, Big Tex, how's your mandible hanging this year? By the way, do you ever get crows stuck in your craw?
You know, if my mother were still alive and the BCs were stopping by to seek out her wisdom before taking three wild boys out to the State Fair, she would have told them not to worry about those three boys, they'll take care of themselves. She would have also most adamantly suggested that BC get the whole family a Fletcher's corn dog from the State Fair of Texas. My mama did love a Fletcher's corn dog. And no disrespect intended but she would be wrong about not worrying about three boys running loose at the State Fair. Oh my God, based only on the fading memories of my own nearly angelic childhood, I beseech thee BC, keep an eye on those boys at the State Fair of Texas. You get 'em a corn dog, maybe a cup of fries slathered in ketchup, some cotton candy, and don't forget to buy more salt water taffy than you can eat in three lifetimes, but don't let those boys realize their fullest un-supervised potential in South Dallas at the State Fair of Texas.
By now BC you are probably thinking well this is a hell of a sorry acknowledgment of my parent's 60th wedding anniversary. A brief opening mention and then nothing but a bunch of reminiscent blathering, based as far as I can tell on your own rather suspect pre-adolescent misadventures. Oh yeah, well maybe I'm working on the patience theme here. Maybe when I try to sum up in my own mind what best describes your parents I keep running into the same theme over and over, that's right, patience.
BC's mom, Mrs. J, having given birth to seven children of her own, certainly did not in her quiet moments alone fantasize about adopting an eighth child, but she got me anyway, and I lived practically all my daylight hours down the street at Mr. and Mrs. J's house (I had twin brothers just above me in my own home life pecking order, how you gonna blame me the escape). And the J's were a cutting edge family, ahead of the curve, and had a room in their house set aside for (or just overrun by, kids). It was called the Texas Room. If you lined the room up on a north/south axis, the part of the room that would be Amarillo, had a bar, and I mention as an aside that one of the strangest but true parts of my childhood is that we never touched the liquor in there. There was a bumper-pool table and then later a full sized pool table in the Texas Room. On the walls were framed prints of dogs playing poker. And the first place I ever saw one of those red plastic ostrich-looking birds that pecks at a glass of water, was in the Texas Room.
And as to my own mother's frequent queries about why I spent so much time down at the J's, I offer lastly, that the Texas Room had its own private back entrance, and offered us a facsimile of autonomy. And really more than just a facsimile once we sent that oldest J off to Notre Dame, and achieved our respite from his name calling (cream puff he called me) and force feeding of Zappa and Jazz and Zen. Oh sure I'm a little better off for the diet but really what the hell was up with that oldest J's attachment to all things Z?
To enter the Texas Room from the outside you came up the J driveway, veered onto the J brick pavers and entered a half-wall enclosed patio through a wrought iron gate. And this is where I get back to the patience theme, regarding Mrs. J. For years, I mean years, she would admonish, plead, scold, but never raise her voice or hit me upside the head with a stick (which is how I would have handled the situation) when she would happen to catch me standing on the bottom rail of the gate and riding it back and forth on its hinges. I barely weighed equal to a sack of feathers most of my life (ok, still) and perhaps she was discounting my behaviour because of that, but finally, one year, as I must have been getting close to a teenager, I saw in her expression the utter frustration of dealing with me all these years, and I decided to stop doing what was pretty much the only thing she ever asked me not to do. I just want to say, now, for the record, I'm sorry it took me 6 or 7 years to do what you asked. And also, while I'm being all gushy here, let me just thank you Mrs. J for never busting in on BC and I while we unraveled hundreds and hundreds of firecrackers for the gunpowder inside, which could have blown up your whole Texas Room, but which we used mostly only to propel miniature man-hole covers perhaps as high as ten or twelve feet in the air, out there on the cul-de-sac, in front of your house. Mrs. J, as I know you are one to embrace the concept of continued education throughout life I humbly offer to you these two premises--it is never too late to discipline your children, and, spare the rod, spoil the child. BC needs you Mrs J. When you hit him over the knuckles with the edge of a yardstick and he cries out, hey, hey, what the hell? you just put it to him straight, you tell him--that's for making bombs in the Texas Room, buster.
So how am I going to tie in the patience theme with Mr. J? Well in the end it will come back to an incident I witnessed a couple of years ago with Mrs. J being really patient with HIM, so it's a loose tie-in, but still, I can show his patience too, in the only way I can show anything, and that is as it relates to me.
I believe over the years I have been somewhat of a loose-tongued potty-mouth and here I'm not trying to get BC in trouble again (although if Mrs. J still has that yardstick handy, I would just give BC another hard rap right now, before you even hear what I say). As a year BC's junior the only way he could convince his friends that I was cool enough to hang with was to introduce me as a kid who could spew every word in the book. And he wasn't referring to the Bhagavadgita. I would spew for his friends a list that possibly pre-dated but nevertheless was very similar to George Carlin's infamous list of naughty words. This childish behaviour of mine would sometimes overflow into everyday interactions with other kids on the playing fields that were represented by Mr. and Mrs. J's backyard and an adjoining yard across the alleyway. So for years of football and baseball gaming it is possible, perhaps even probable, that Mr. J may have overheard me being a foul-mouthed punk, and yet he never gave me a what-for or a hey-kid or a knuckle-sandwich. And all the way down the roads of my life, especially when I may have ventured a bit off the main road, Mr. J has always treated me with what appears to be genuine respect. There were times when it made a real difference to me. As for his patience I can think of numerous road trips where Mr. J chauffeured BC and I around--to minor league baseball games, to the lake, on a guided tour of the Dallas Morning News where we met in person the poster girl for the Classified section, Heather, and giggled incessantly in her prescence--and Mr. J was pretty good about it all, hell, he was great to take us anywhere.
But really all of this previous blathering is just background noise to the anniversary theme. I mean what the hell insight would I have into the 60th wedding anniversary of BC's parents? Absolutely none. I can however offer an insight gathered from a time somewhere close to their 58th wedding anniversary.
BC's got the jet running, says let's go to Texas, I find an opening in my busy schedule and we go off together, visiting my mom briefly and then on to East Texas to visit his parents. The first night we have a delightful visit, watch a movie, and then retire. The next day BC and I and Mr. and Mrs. J meet BC's brother, K (they can't all be J's can they?), at a family style restaurant in a nearby town. BC asks if he can order chicken fried steak as an appetizer. Safe to say that is the first time in the restaurant's long history that they have been asked that but they bring it out for us anyway. Some of us order from the menu and serve ourselves from the buffet and we finish by ordering a number of desserts and sharing them. While waiting on the check, sated, daydreaming on a full belly, conversation at a lull, Mr. J (married to Mrs. J at this point in time for 58 years) playfully picks up one of the plastic butter containers with the peel off lid and tosses it at Mrs. J. She doesn't respond so he tosses another and then another. She just looks at him, neither angry nor encouraging, and the moment passes.
But to me that moment encompasses all what must be great about being married to the same person for 58, or 60, years. I mean what a great commercial for marriage. The playfulness after so much time together. Of course, this is from the male, or, buttercup throwing, perspective. As for Mrs. J, having buttercups thrown at her, well, good thing she's got that patience thing going for her. Happy 60 Jack and Joan.
Mr. BC's parents are celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary this weekend, in Texas. BC loaded up the Mrs. and the children and headed on down there. What? In a Winnebago? Oh, no, no, no. In the private jet. They probably right this minute rustling up the kids and getting ready for a trip down to that most pleasant South Dallas part of town, where is located the State Fair of Texas. Oh, Big Tex, how's your mandible hanging this year? By the way, do you ever get crows stuck in your craw?
You know, if my mother were still alive and the BCs were stopping by to seek out her wisdom before taking three wild boys out to the State Fair, she would have told them not to worry about those three boys, they'll take care of themselves. She would have also most adamantly suggested that BC get the whole family a Fletcher's corn dog from the State Fair of Texas. My mama did love a Fletcher's corn dog. And no disrespect intended but she would be wrong about not worrying about three boys running loose at the State Fair. Oh my God, based only on the fading memories of my own nearly angelic childhood, I beseech thee BC, keep an eye on those boys at the State Fair of Texas. You get 'em a corn dog, maybe a cup of fries slathered in ketchup, some cotton candy, and don't forget to buy more salt water taffy than you can eat in three lifetimes, but don't let those boys realize their fullest un-supervised potential in South Dallas at the State Fair of Texas.
By now BC you are probably thinking well this is a hell of a sorry acknowledgment of my parent's 60th wedding anniversary. A brief opening mention and then nothing but a bunch of reminiscent blathering, based as far as I can tell on your own rather suspect pre-adolescent misadventures. Oh yeah, well maybe I'm working on the patience theme here. Maybe when I try to sum up in my own mind what best describes your parents I keep running into the same theme over and over, that's right, patience.
BC's mom, Mrs. J, having given birth to seven children of her own, certainly did not in her quiet moments alone fantasize about adopting an eighth child, but she got me anyway, and I lived practically all my daylight hours down the street at Mr. and Mrs. J's house (I had twin brothers just above me in my own home life pecking order, how you gonna blame me the escape). And the J's were a cutting edge family, ahead of the curve, and had a room in their house set aside for (or just overrun by, kids). It was called the Texas Room. If you lined the room up on a north/south axis, the part of the room that would be Amarillo, had a bar, and I mention as an aside that one of the strangest but true parts of my childhood is that we never touched the liquor in there. There was a bumper-pool table and then later a full sized pool table in the Texas Room. On the walls were framed prints of dogs playing poker. And the first place I ever saw one of those red plastic ostrich-looking birds that pecks at a glass of water, was in the Texas Room.
And as to my own mother's frequent queries about why I spent so much time down at the J's, I offer lastly, that the Texas Room had its own private back entrance, and offered us a facsimile of autonomy. And really more than just a facsimile once we sent that oldest J off to Notre Dame, and achieved our respite from his name calling (cream puff he called me) and force feeding of Zappa and Jazz and Zen. Oh sure I'm a little better off for the diet but really what the hell was up with that oldest J's attachment to all things Z?
To enter the Texas Room from the outside you came up the J driveway, veered onto the J brick pavers and entered a half-wall enclosed patio through a wrought iron gate. And this is where I get back to the patience theme, regarding Mrs. J. For years, I mean years, she would admonish, plead, scold, but never raise her voice or hit me upside the head with a stick (which is how I would have handled the situation) when she would happen to catch me standing on the bottom rail of the gate and riding it back and forth on its hinges. I barely weighed equal to a sack of feathers most of my life (ok, still) and perhaps she was discounting my behaviour because of that, but finally, one year, as I must have been getting close to a teenager, I saw in her expression the utter frustration of dealing with me all these years, and I decided to stop doing what was pretty much the only thing she ever asked me not to do. I just want to say, now, for the record, I'm sorry it took me 6 or 7 years to do what you asked. And also, while I'm being all gushy here, let me just thank you Mrs. J for never busting in on BC and I while we unraveled hundreds and hundreds of firecrackers for the gunpowder inside, which could have blown up your whole Texas Room, but which we used mostly only to propel miniature man-hole covers perhaps as high as ten or twelve feet in the air, out there on the cul-de-sac, in front of your house. Mrs. J, as I know you are one to embrace the concept of continued education throughout life I humbly offer to you these two premises--it is never too late to discipline your children, and, spare the rod, spoil the child. BC needs you Mrs J. When you hit him over the knuckles with the edge of a yardstick and he cries out, hey, hey, what the hell? you just put it to him straight, you tell him--that's for making bombs in the Texas Room, buster.
So how am I going to tie in the patience theme with Mr. J? Well in the end it will come back to an incident I witnessed a couple of years ago with Mrs. J being really patient with HIM, so it's a loose tie-in, but still, I can show his patience too, in the only way I can show anything, and that is as it relates to me.
I believe over the years I have been somewhat of a loose-tongued potty-mouth and here I'm not trying to get BC in trouble again (although if Mrs. J still has that yardstick handy, I would just give BC another hard rap right now, before you even hear what I say). As a year BC's junior the only way he could convince his friends that I was cool enough to hang with was to introduce me as a kid who could spew every word in the book. And he wasn't referring to the Bhagavadgita. I would spew for his friends a list that possibly pre-dated but nevertheless was very similar to George Carlin's infamous list of naughty words. This childish behaviour of mine would sometimes overflow into everyday interactions with other kids on the playing fields that were represented by Mr. and Mrs. J's backyard and an adjoining yard across the alleyway. So for years of football and baseball gaming it is possible, perhaps even probable, that Mr. J may have overheard me being a foul-mouthed punk, and yet he never gave me a what-for or a hey-kid or a knuckle-sandwich. And all the way down the roads of my life, especially when I may have ventured a bit off the main road, Mr. J has always treated me with what appears to be genuine respect. There were times when it made a real difference to me. As for his patience I can think of numerous road trips where Mr. J chauffeured BC and I around--to minor league baseball games, to the lake, on a guided tour of the Dallas Morning News where we met in person the poster girl for the Classified section, Heather, and giggled incessantly in her prescence--and Mr. J was pretty good about it all, hell, he was great to take us anywhere.
But really all of this previous blathering is just background noise to the anniversary theme. I mean what the hell insight would I have into the 60th wedding anniversary of BC's parents? Absolutely none. I can however offer an insight gathered from a time somewhere close to their 58th wedding anniversary.
BC's got the jet running, says let's go to Texas, I find an opening in my busy schedule and we go off together, visiting my mom briefly and then on to East Texas to visit his parents. The first night we have a delightful visit, watch a movie, and then retire. The next day BC and I and Mr. and Mrs. J meet BC's brother, K (they can't all be J's can they?), at a family style restaurant in a nearby town. BC asks if he can order chicken fried steak as an appetizer. Safe to say that is the first time in the restaurant's long history that they have been asked that but they bring it out for us anyway. Some of us order from the menu and serve ourselves from the buffet and we finish by ordering a number of desserts and sharing them. While waiting on the check, sated, daydreaming on a full belly, conversation at a lull, Mr. J (married to Mrs. J at this point in time for 58 years) playfully picks up one of the plastic butter containers with the peel off lid and tosses it at Mrs. J. She doesn't respond so he tosses another and then another. She just looks at him, neither angry nor encouraging, and the moment passes.
But to me that moment encompasses all what must be great about being married to the same person for 58, or 60, years. I mean what a great commercial for marriage. The playfulness after so much time together. Of course, this is from the male, or, buttercup throwing, perspective. As for Mrs. J, having buttercups thrown at her, well, good thing she's got that patience thing going for her. Happy 60 Jack and Joan.
Duties Of The Caretaker
You can never take your responsibilities too seriously. It therefore behooves you to explore just what are your responsibilities. As caretaker at the weekend resort community of Mt. Pleasant the delineation of my duties is a picture best sketched with care and a creative eye towards the details of future enjoyment for all.
Many caretakers in this area rich with weekend properties concentrate mostly on yard work or house work or other maintenance issues, either hands on or the management thereof. I mostly suck at management. My own visiting guests will attest to this as they make phone calls for me to plumbers or other trades people whom I occasionally require to pick up the slack regarding those things in which I may have some skill deficiency. Sure, in answer to your raised eyebrow, I do have a skill deficiency or two. But I try to improve my skill set and as example I offer that six weeks ago I could not operate a fly rod at all.
The Polaris Ranger is a four wheel drive vehicle with a low gear and transmission lock which is often used simply to drive people around the property. It is every so often also used to perform amazing feats of work. The other day I backed it up to the pond and tied one end of a 30 foot tow strap to the limbs of a willow tree which had crashed half into the pond and half into the bog and the other end to the Polaris and then climbing out onto the biggest limb over the water and chain-sawing the limb almost in two I dragged it onto land with the Polaris and cut it up into smaller pieces. Mr. BC had come out for a meeting with a town administrator and caught me working and before he left he said he hated to see me working so hard, and I took this to heart.
The next day I only did light work--altered a few cobwebs in the bighouse, ripped some boards into an approximation of the existing siding, hung those two lights out on the front porch' and hauled some garbage to the dump. I then paused to consider how to best serve the needs of my master BCs and I could come up with nothing better than hiking along the Hughes River with Mr. BCs new fly fishing rod. While Mr. and Mrs. BC miles away in the DC area prepared to attend a Democratic fundraiser with Mr. and Mrs. Clinton I was flicking my wrist back and forth from my perch on a boulder in the middle of the river downhill from the mountain called Old Rag.
I recently heard of a PETA campaign against fisherman. Fishing, they contend, is hurtful to fish. I am only a very occasional fisherman and yet have been stuck a time or two by a barbed hook so I know it is true that those hooks hurt.
But as a nascent fly fisherman, not only do I catch and release, I don't actually catch, anything. So you might say I am a PETA certified fisherman, or fisher-person.
That day I was out there on the Hughes, was yesterday, and while I did not catch any fish, I did have the whole river to myself, except for the reluctant fish, and the eight black bears I saw over a few hour period.
Anyway, back to my duties as I see them--someday perhaps will come a moment when all the BCs are out and while the Mrs may want to hike and the Mr may want to fish, the Jrs will probably see no activity shy of bear wrestling as worthy of their consideration. I will be ready for that moment. I am the caretaker, my training never complete.
You can never take your responsibilities too seriously. It therefore behooves you to explore just what are your responsibilities. As caretaker at the weekend resort community of Mt. Pleasant the delineation of my duties is a picture best sketched with care and a creative eye towards the details of future enjoyment for all.
Many caretakers in this area rich with weekend properties concentrate mostly on yard work or house work or other maintenance issues, either hands on or the management thereof. I mostly suck at management. My own visiting guests will attest to this as they make phone calls for me to plumbers or other trades people whom I occasionally require to pick up the slack regarding those things in which I may have some skill deficiency. Sure, in answer to your raised eyebrow, I do have a skill deficiency or two. But I try to improve my skill set and as example I offer that six weeks ago I could not operate a fly rod at all.
The Polaris Ranger is a four wheel drive vehicle with a low gear and transmission lock which is often used simply to drive people around the property. It is every so often also used to perform amazing feats of work. The other day I backed it up to the pond and tied one end of a 30 foot tow strap to the limbs of a willow tree which had crashed half into the pond and half into the bog and the other end to the Polaris and then climbing out onto the biggest limb over the water and chain-sawing the limb almost in two I dragged it onto land with the Polaris and cut it up into smaller pieces. Mr. BC had come out for a meeting with a town administrator and caught me working and before he left he said he hated to see me working so hard, and I took this to heart.
The next day I only did light work--altered a few cobwebs in the bighouse, ripped some boards into an approximation of the existing siding, hung those two lights out on the front porch' and hauled some garbage to the dump. I then paused to consider how to best serve the needs of my master BCs and I could come up with nothing better than hiking along the Hughes River with Mr. BCs new fly fishing rod. While Mr. and Mrs. BC miles away in the DC area prepared to attend a Democratic fundraiser with Mr. and Mrs. Clinton I was flicking my wrist back and forth from my perch on a boulder in the middle of the river downhill from the mountain called Old Rag.
I recently heard of a PETA campaign against fisherman. Fishing, they contend, is hurtful to fish. I am only a very occasional fisherman and yet have been stuck a time or two by a barbed hook so I know it is true that those hooks hurt.
But as a nascent fly fisherman, not only do I catch and release, I don't actually catch, anything. So you might say I am a PETA certified fisherman, or fisher-person.
That day I was out there on the Hughes, was yesterday, and while I did not catch any fish, I did have the whole river to myself, except for the reluctant fish, and the eight black bears I saw over a few hour period.
Anyway, back to my duties as I see them--someday perhaps will come a moment when all the BCs are out and while the Mrs may want to hike and the Mr may want to fish, the Jrs will probably see no activity shy of bear wrestling as worthy of their consideration. I will be ready for that moment. I am the caretaker, my training never complete.
It's Your Birthday
There it sits, in front of me, wing torn off, propellor snapped in two, nose cowl cracked. Mr BC had come in the day before and presented the plane to me, on his birthday, as a subterfuge meant to alter the fact of his buying his ownself a toy on his birthday.
Over forty years later and I'm still putting up with the same shit from that guy. Only this time he tried to kill me. I honestly don't know what this bastard who calls himself my friend has against me. The first time he smashed up one of my planes he was, as far as I can tell, after 40 years of rumination on the subject, only trying to break my spirit.
That's how I met him all those years ago, Mr. BC. Minding my own business, twirling on a string my favorite airplane. I was in my front yard happily contained inside my self-made universe. A universe where airplanes without battery or gas power could fly important missions and shoot down enemy combatants for as long a time as I could turn around in circles with my twig-like arm outstretched. He came over from across the street, where he had been bragging to other neighbors about how important his dad was, and proceeded to tell me how important his dad was, take my plane from me and then instantly smash it up against the tree that the men who worked for his dad, had just planted.
But yesterday, pleading lack of understanding about the controls of a remote control plane, that to my understanding would seem simpler than the controls of the real life airplanes he has recently been studying to fly, he acted out a flight plan no less insidious than Trade Center kamikaze pilots, and brought the mini-Cessna straight down from the heavens on a direct course for the soft spot on top of my hard head. It was at this point really just a coffee grinder with wings, and my head a French Roast bean awaiting its powdering. Bernadette was there as witness, laughing as she saw the proof of my previous allegations about being not really much of a dancer, as I contorted and side-stepped with the now larger version of my twig-like arms wrapped in their ludicrous pretension of protective head gear.
It was I am sure a humorous thing to watch, and the diving coffee grinder did after all not land on top of my head, but safely in a wing and propellor exploding crash, six inches from the cowering tower of me. Bernadette had only just met Mr. BC, was perhaps lulled or even sold on Mr. BC's seemingly innocent and child-like demeanor; she could not in such a brief time had any inkling of, or insight into, his inner insidiousness.
He really does seem like a good fella and in fact I not at all begrudgingly admit he is a good fella, but that is a thing which unfortunately does not change the harsh reality of his constant, life long torturing of me--his breaking of my favorite toy, followed by the day his pet mouse disemboweled my pet mouse, and the day he sicced the Jehovah's Witnesses on me, the day he made me drive his Mercedes, fly in a private jet, eat food a la grecque, drink Russian vodka, live on a private hill, and now the giving of and crashing nearly into me, a second plane. It's just too much sometimes.
He was very upset after the crash. He had even had premonitions of things going bad and had said before almost killing me that he felt things were going to go badly. At one point he tried to blame me for the crash which nearly killed me. He said I had thrown the plane too hard, that it was really an act of suicide if you considered it that way.
Bernadette and I tried to cheer him up, it was after all, his birthday. But after a moment his wife came out and called to him asking about missing toothpaste. He tried to direct her from afar but then all of a sudden jumped up and ran to her. Slowing down as he approached he announced with all the disconsolation felt by an eight year old boy on a bad day--I broke my plane. He said nothing about trying to kill his so called best friend.
There it sits, in front of me, wing torn off, propellor snapped in two, nose cowl cracked. Mr BC had come in the day before and presented the plane to me, on his birthday, as a subterfuge meant to alter the fact of his buying his ownself a toy on his birthday.
Over forty years later and I'm still putting up with the same shit from that guy. Only this time he tried to kill me. I honestly don't know what this bastard who calls himself my friend has against me. The first time he smashed up one of my planes he was, as far as I can tell, after 40 years of rumination on the subject, only trying to break my spirit.
That's how I met him all those years ago, Mr. BC. Minding my own business, twirling on a string my favorite airplane. I was in my front yard happily contained inside my self-made universe. A universe where airplanes without battery or gas power could fly important missions and shoot down enemy combatants for as long a time as I could turn around in circles with my twig-like arm outstretched. He came over from across the street, where he had been bragging to other neighbors about how important his dad was, and proceeded to tell me how important his dad was, take my plane from me and then instantly smash it up against the tree that the men who worked for his dad, had just planted.
But yesterday, pleading lack of understanding about the controls of a remote control plane, that to my understanding would seem simpler than the controls of the real life airplanes he has recently been studying to fly, he acted out a flight plan no less insidious than Trade Center kamikaze pilots, and brought the mini-Cessna straight down from the heavens on a direct course for the soft spot on top of my hard head. It was at this point really just a coffee grinder with wings, and my head a French Roast bean awaiting its powdering. Bernadette was there as witness, laughing as she saw the proof of my previous allegations about being not really much of a dancer, as I contorted and side-stepped with the now larger version of my twig-like arms wrapped in their ludicrous pretension of protective head gear.
It was I am sure a humorous thing to watch, and the diving coffee grinder did after all not land on top of my head, but safely in a wing and propellor exploding crash, six inches from the cowering tower of me. Bernadette had only just met Mr. BC, was perhaps lulled or even sold on Mr. BC's seemingly innocent and child-like demeanor; she could not in such a brief time had any inkling of, or insight into, his inner insidiousness.
He really does seem like a good fella and in fact I not at all begrudgingly admit he is a good fella, but that is a thing which unfortunately does not change the harsh reality of his constant, life long torturing of me--his breaking of my favorite toy, followed by the day his pet mouse disemboweled my pet mouse, and the day he sicced the Jehovah's Witnesses on me, the day he made me drive his Mercedes, fly in a private jet, eat food a la grecque, drink Russian vodka, live on a private hill, and now the giving of and crashing nearly into me, a second plane. It's just too much sometimes.
He was very upset after the crash. He had even had premonitions of things going bad and had said before almost killing me that he felt things were going to go badly. At one point he tried to blame me for the crash which nearly killed me. He said I had thrown the plane too hard, that it was really an act of suicide if you considered it that way.
Bernadette and I tried to cheer him up, it was after all, his birthday. But after a moment his wife came out and called to him asking about missing toothpaste. He tried to direct her from afar but then all of a sudden jumped up and ran to her. Slowing down as he approached he announced with all the disconsolation felt by an eight year old boy on a bad day--I broke my plane. He said nothing about trying to kill his so called best friend.
Hello Dave
Dave, your Ipod is back in NY. When you get a chance would you make the body font for this page like the old email from NOLA? I have copied the style sheet for you. Here it is
body {background: #ffffff;}
body, table, tr, td {font-family: arial, georgia, verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;}
A {color:#000000;}
A:visited {color:#000000;}
A:hover {color:red;}
ul {list-style:none;}
form, input, textarea {font-family: arial, georgia, verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;}
span.new {font-size: smaller; color: #ff0000;}
span.new A {color:#ff0000;}
span.new A:visited {color:#ff0000;}
span.preview {color:darkgreen;}
span.footer {font-size: smaller;}
div.controls {font-size: smaller;}
div.center_block {text-align: center;}
Dave, your Ipod is back in NY. When you get a chance would you make the body font for this page like the old email from NOLA? I have copied the style sheet for you. Here it is
body {background: #ffffff;}
body, table, tr, td {font-family: arial, georgia, verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;}
A {color:#000000;}
A:visited {color:#000000;}
A:hover {color:red;}
ul {list-style:none;}
form, input, textarea {font-family: arial, georgia, verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;}
span.new {font-size: smaller; color: #ff0000;}
span.new A {color:#ff0000;}
span.new A:visited {color:#ff0000;}
span.preview {color:darkgreen;}
span.footer {font-size: smaller;}
div.controls {font-size: smaller;}
div.center_block {text-align: center;}
If I Ever
I'm just curiouis Dave, not that I will ever have one, but if I had an Ipod how would I turn it off?
I'm just curiouis Dave, not that I will ever have one, but if I had an Ipod how would I turn it off?