I MacArthured it

Thanks for your patience while I took a little personal time to recharge the old batteries. I needed a few days off from the monstrosities of this bone grinding insurance work. So like Douglas MacArthur, I have returned. Of course he wanted to reclaim the Philippines. I just need to continue to receive a paycheck, it’s a little different. I didn’t meet any old lady billionaires willing to sponsor me as an artist or win the drunken lottery so I had no choice but to return to work.  

While I was off I did have some time to think of or hear some interesting new ideas for future articles. My favorite so far has to be, “Robots don’t eat cookies”. I’m not sure who said it or why, but I did write it down on a cocktail napkin fully anticipating it will eventually find its way into an article or title of an article. Of course I heard that phrase at a bar and I’m sure the context is lost to the rivers of liquor I managed to consume while allegedly relaxing.

I also caught up on a little light magazine reading all about the history of The Holy Land and the inherent similarities between Judaism, Islam and Christianity. LIFE magazine can still manage to put out some pretty interesting stuff every once in a while. So I did spend a little time this long weekend expanding my mind while simultaneously destroying my brain with booze. At least I managed to stay dry Sunday and Monday.

So now that I’m back at work, back in the regular nonsense I call a job, trying not to get overly frustrated with the insane and constant demands of the greedy or unsubstantiated needs of the generally annoying public. I’d love this job if I didn’t have to deal with any people.

So, that being said, I must get to it. I received 60 e-mails in two days that I will have to respond to along with voicemail messages and the usual crap I have to go through. So if there are any old lady billionaires that I missed out on that happen to enjoy reading this and are looking to establish themselves as a benefactor or patron of the arts (I’m looking at you Guggenheim’s) I’m totally down for it. Although I might have to become an artist first. 

Always something.  

Coffee Sabotage

This morning as I was walking toward work I thought to myself that I should stop and grab a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. I considered it as a treat since the coffee provided at work is less than desirable. I talked myself out of it of course as I just wanted to get to work and not have to wait in the long line of other coffee vampires.

I got to work and settled into my cubicle. I made a few jokes with my co-workers and then headed toward the, “coffee room”, for that all important kick start. Then tragedy struck with its usual ironic evil twist. There was no coffee. There were other co-works laying on the floor in great heaps, coffee mugs in withered hands, moaning and groaning toward the defunct coffee makers.

It seemed the water line that leads from the sink to the industrial style coffee maker had burst and no water for coffee was available. The agony! The pain! What sort of God would allow this type of evil to exist in the world? Why would a decree be sent forth to deny all my fellow cubicle jockeys their small morning happiness? Could anything be worse?

Well, of course. There’s always something worse. Don’t be silly. It’s just coffee. I’ll go buy a coke at the vending machine and suck it down like it was mother’s milk. No big deal. I can handle it. I said I can handle it!

It did make me wonder though why I was suddenly possessed with the extra-sensory feeling to stop and get a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee as I walked to work. I should have heeded that divine intervention and fueled up. So now, this day, this very long day might not seem so vast and endless.

Okay Coca-Cola, do your thing. Let’s make magic. 

Where have they gone?

I’m starting to wonder if the novelty of my writing has worn off on people. I’ve watched my readership numbers steadily decline over the last few weeks. The story I wrote yesterday, which I thought was a pretty darn good simple story, had seven readers. 

Seven? Really?

Seven? I mean, c’mon.

Seven?

This comes as quite a shock to me considering I thought I had a pretty decent following. It’s weird. It’s not an ego thing. I’m just happy people read anything I write. But it is a little strange to see readership drop by nearly 24 people on average a day. I guess people are just too busy; or too selfish to spend a little time with their literary buddy.

I shouldn’t complain though. I’m lucky to live in such a modern age where the ramblings of an idiot like me can be sent through the internet tubes and wires all over the world with just a few clicks of a mouse and the tapping of some keys. It makes me wonder if there were telegraph bloggers way back when. I wonder if there were people that climbed the telegraph poles and tapped out long series of dots and dashes to tell the story of a little girl and her pony on a grand adventure to grandmother’s house only to find the house has been burnt to the ground by venomous zombie ninjas on which she swears a blood oath revenge.

I can imagine the folks at the telegraph office biting their fingernails in anticipation of the next chapter. I’m sure it would have been marvelously received at first but then, after a year, maybe two, the telegraph office might be empty except for a clerk, ignoring the dots and dashes beeping out from the receiver. They lost interest and are all excited about this new telephone thing that’s supposed to be coming from back East.

So fads change, people’s interests change, there’s nothing I can do about that except adapt to the next format and soldier on. Or go on a mad spree of some kind. You know the kind of spree I’m talking about; the kind where you get to use the words, “slather”, and, “body”, and, “Jodie Foster” without worrying about the consequences. Yeah, that’s the kind of spree I’m talking about.

I’m sure no one wants to see that though. Michael on a mad tear through town wearing boxer shorts, a raccoon-skin cap, slathered in Jell-O and heroine, screaming about the juice man and his evil plot to take over Canada with Brazilian car wash employees.  You know, last Saturday.

Ultimately this was about my loyal readers and I appreciate the fact they’ve stuck around and eagerly anticipate the next stirring adventure. So thanks loyal readers, you rule.  To the casual, can’t find the time to read it types, thanks as well, but I’m watching you with deep seated suspicion. That car in front of the house that hasn’t moved in a few days, yeah, you know it. We’re watching.

Seven?

Dry Gulch

Bloody Fingernail Jim rode his pale palomino toward the hitching post in front of Green’s General Store. He brought the ragged and worn out horse to a stop and dismounted. Bloody Fingernail Jim’s boots hit the ground with a thud and it caught the attention of the finely dressed townsfolk passing on the wooden sidewalks. A woman gasped and quickly shuttled her children away from the dirt covered Bloody Fingernail Jim.

The palomino wavered for a second as Bloody Fingernail tied the reins to the hitching post. She brayed a bit before collapsing to the street. Bloody Fingernail stood holding the reins in his hand, staring at the horse that had carried him some 300 miles through the desert and toward Mary. Bloody Fingernail dropped the reins and turned away from the deceased horse and headed toward the saloon. He felt a toast was in order for old Scotty. She was a good horse and deserving of some whiskey.

As his boots clomped loudly on the wooden sidewalk a bespectacled shop keep rushed toward Bloody Fingernail.

“You can’t leave that animal in the street like that”, said the little shopkeeper.

Bloody Fingernail Jim stopped and looked back over his shoulder at old Scotty and then to the little, balding, typical shopkeeper. The sun poked through the clouds and bathed the little town of Dry Gulch with thick shafts of sunlight. The light glinted off the hate in Bloody Fingernail Jim’s eyes as he stared at the shopkeeper.

“I’ll… I’ll see about getting that, ah, helping to see that your horse is taken care of Mister”, stammered the shopkeeper.

A church bell starting clanging in the distance and some of the townsfolk started moving back down the street toward the white clapboard house of God. The shopkeeper excused himself around Bloody Fingernail Jim’s frame and hurried toward the sheriff’s office. Bloody Fingernail Jim spit politely into the nearby spittoon and continued his walk toward the saloon.  

The saloon was like every other saloon in every other town Bloody Fingernail Jim had passed through on his way to Dry Gulch. In fact, it was the fourth town called Dry Gulch he’d been to. All those leads were dead ends, emphasis on the dead.

Mary wouldn’t get away this time. He’d get her and his most valuable possession back or set the world on fire. There was nothing else for him.

An Irish looking and sounding bartender asked Bloody Fingernail Jim what he’d have to drink. The saloon was nearly empty for so early in the day. A cowboy sat in the back, shuffling some playing cards, smoking a cigar. A lady of the night was primping in the $1000 mirror over the player piano. Bloody Fingernail Jim stepped toward the bar and took his leather gloves off and looped them through his gun belt.  He put his hands on the bar and looked at the bartender in the face. The bartender looked down and saw the red and raw fingernails on Bloody Fingernail Jim’s hands. They were blood red and seemed to be swirling as if a stiff breeze was blowing across their surface. There were smoky streaks of blackness billowing through the redness of his fingernails.

“You be Bloody Fingernail Jim ain’t ya”, asked the cowboy in the back.

“Two whiskeys”, said Bloody Fingernail Jim to the bartender. He didn’t take his eye off him.

“I asked you a question mister…”, said the cowboy as he stood from his chair, “I’m not akin to being ignored”.

The bartender poured the two whiskeys and placed them in front of Bloody Fingernail Jim. He started backing away toward the opposite end of the bar without asking for payment. The cowboy in the back had started walking toward the bar. The prostitute had moved toward the stairs slightly cowering behind the railing post.  Blood Fingernail Jim felt the floor boards under his feet shift and heard them creak as the cowboy drew closer.

Bloody Fingernail Jim turned from the bar to face the approaching cowboy. He hooked his thumbs on the buckle of his gun belt. The red fingernails seemed to sparkle like rubies and flickered across the cowboys face. The cowboy stopped about three feet from Bloody Fingernail Jim, his own hand hovering over the pistol grip of his revolver.

“Don’t”, said Bloody Fingernail Jim.

The cowboy licked his lips and let the flies in the air settle.

“Don’t do it”, said Bloody Fingernail Jim again.

The cowboy twitched toward his revolver and then felt a searing pain in his hand. Bloody Fingernail Jim had drawn and had shot the cowboy in the hand and had re-holstered before the cowboy could even register it. He looked down at his hand and screamed. His thumb was gone, blown off so fast the pain hadn’t even reached his brain yet.

Bloody Fingernail Jim turned back to the bar and took hold of the first whiskey. The cowboy rushed passed him toward the saloon doors and spilled out in to the street. Bloody Fingernail Jim sipped the whiskey. Mary would have to wait a little longer. Mary and Bloody Fingernail Jim’s daughter would have to wait. 

Don’t push

I agree with Megan, so today I will use her Saturday adventure to make my point. We’ll call this A Minute with Megan as she so colorfully suggested.

Megan is a responsible woman.  A mother, a wife, a teacher and has a good head on her shoulders. She’s made some mistakes, like we all have, but learned from them to become a reasonable person able to operate successfully in the world. She understands that she has responsibilities and isn’t one to shirk them. Unless the situation calls for some serious shirking, but as a rational individual she’s able to know when that situations arises.

Saturday night she was pulled over by the police for driving while talking on her cell phone. Saturday night after Megan dropped off some friends at a downtown hotel.  She’d pulled her minivan away and turned the corner onto Michigan Avenue. She called her husband to check in on their young daughter who has a touch of a stomach ailment. Apparently Megan’s daughter had decided to projectile vomit all over the dining room right before Megan was to leave home for her night with her friends. So like a responsible parent she was calling to make sure her daughter was okay.

The two officers approached her vehicle with what Megan described in some unflattering terms so I’ll re-describe as, “unwarranted suspicion”. They made some strange requests of a sober woman in a minivan and despite her protests or attempts to explain that she was calling to check on her sick daughter she was still issued a ticket. Megan took serious offense to this citation from the CPD while other, more serious crime, was likely occurring. She felt she had been bullied and treated unfairly.

I diverge from Megan’s story for a moment (see what I did there) and note that I am in favor of the law that makes it illegal to talk on your cell phone while driving. It is a distraction for drivers and should not be allowed. I have seen too many instances where use of a cell phone while driving has caused some serious accidents. So I get it. But I am against the weak enforcement of this law. It’s piecemeal at best and it’s extremely rare the police pull people over for it.  It’s just unenforceable for the most part. So to be singled out, while in a minivan that has no other violations, seems strange and unjust.

It made Megan very, “hot”, as she put it and she came to meet my sister at our local watering hole. The more we talked of it the more annoyed she got about it. I understand completely, I’ve had my run-ins with some of the finer finers in Chicago and it can be very upsetting.

It got me thinking about our rules for governing people. The rules we have civically and professionally. The rules so I can keep a job I hate. Monday morning met me with several notices from micro-managing types who value quantity over quality; numbers over the real connections and efforts that should be taken to provide a quality product. A product to take pride in.

I felt a lot like Megan this morning. I’m doing the best I can with the tools at my disposal and my intelligence and self-image are taunted by the rules and desires or manipulations of others. The cops that pulled Megan over are a lot like the bosses I have to work with. Where any protest or excuse is met with a, “Well, that’s too bad for you. Do what you’re told if you still want a paycheck”.

While I know the situations are different in a lot of ways, the similarities still exist. There’s oppression of our inherit free will, of our individuality. It’s always upsetting to be stifled when we’re doing what we think is best, for ourselves or our children.

I’ll agree there are times you have to give up your individuality for the greater good or a larger purpose. Sacrifice is one of the things that make us human. I’ve no problem with a rational and reasonable surrender of individual rights here and there. But I do not like being bullied or treated like a moron. Or that my abandonment of who I am is an expectation of how I am to perform. Don’t push me. I will resist. I will not be bullied by the rule of law or the corporate machine. 

Couch

I woke up on it.
Thinking it was
Saturday for a
brief moment.

I started thinking
about my Saturday
chores before
it sank in that
it was still
Friday.

I wish I was
still on my couch.
I wish it was
supporting
my lazy ass
now.

It's beat up.
It's seen
the best
and the worst
of me.

It's seen crying
of all kinds,
embraces and
laughter.

Sleeping and napping,
dozing and snoring,
lounging and laying,
sitting and sexing.

I wish I was on
it, my best girl too,
sitting in the splendid
comfort of
confident tuberosity.

In the imaginary
Saturday my
Friday morning mind
created.

You wouldn’t believe me

March 1^st doesn’t seem like all that important of a day. I looked at my desk calendar and there was nothing highlighted as an important event so I had to use the inter-web to see if anything ever really cool happened on March 1^st throughout history. Was there anything that should be remembered? I was surprised by what I found.  

The first event that our friend and overlord Wikipedia noted for March 1^st was in 752 BC when Romulus, the founder and first king of Rome celebrated the first Roman triumph after his victory over the Caeninenses following The Rape of the Sabine Woman. This is not the sexually graphic term we use today, back then it really referred to the abduction of women. Which Romulus did as only a true Roman pimp could do. He faked a celebration, inviting all his neighbors and when the party was going, the Romans sprung into action and grabbed the Sabine women. Romulus actually gave the women a pretty fair deal in exchange. He said you take a Roman man as your husband and I’ll give titles and rights. The Sabine men were not too pleased so they attacked Roman territories. Romulus, again, being the pretty bad ass guy that he was, wiped the Caeninenses and Sabine’s out. Really, he routed their army and killed their king. To celebrate his awesomeness, he had a party, today in 752 BC.

Now that Carnival is over in Rio we can reveal that Rio de Janeiro was founded on this day in 1565. So they’ve been partying like it’s 1999 for a very long time. 1781 the Continental Congress adopted the Articles of Confederation. It was America’s first, “constitution”. It was sort of a dry run at self-government. The current U.S. Constitution replaced it in 1789.

An American hero and icon, Charles Lindbergh’s son, Charles Augustus Lindbergh III, was kidnapped in 1932. March 1^st, 1936 The Hoover Dam was completed. In 1941 the first FM radio station started. In 1961 President Kennedy started the Peace Corps.

Of course the most monumental of all the events to occur on March 1^st was the birth of Ke$ha in 1987. I’m actually shocked that made the list of important birthdays and events for March 1^st. I’ve never looked so forward to the Ides of March before.

For my Welsh friends, today is also Saint David of Wales Day. He’s the patron saint of Wales. He is known for levitating in the village of Llanddewi Brefi (take that Spell-check) when the crowd he was preaching to complained they couldn’t see him or hear him very well. So he rose off the ground so all could see and hear him. Just like St. David Blane.

So a lot appears to have happened on March 1^st. It seems every day is bleeding with history and I think that’s pretty kickass.  So no matter how bad of a day you might be having remember that you’re not a Sabine or Ke$ha. (Sorry Ke$ha, someone always has to lose).