The Blogger's Demise

When the blogoshpere had finally lost its appeal, the blogger knew it was time to leave.  He posted his intentions and signed off.  He washed the few dishes that sat in the sink.  He replaced the empty toilet paper roll in the bathroom with his last Scot tissue roll from the 4 pack he bought at the corner market.  He made his bed and put on his favorite Carhart jacket.  Not the one that was 3/4 length nor the one that was waist length, but the one that seemed to hang just right in between.  Then he left his apartment leaving the door unlocked and open.

He knew he would have to wait at least a half hour for the bus to Ft. Washington Park.  He had done this on purpose.  He wanted the extra time to possibly reconsider the future he had just laid out for himself.  Standing there in the cold next to a dark haired domestic he was sure had no green card or knowledge of his native language, he turned and smiled at her. 

"I am going to kill myself", he said.

She looked at him and smiled back.  "Si senor".

He continued smiling and reached in his pocket for what could turn out to be one of his last smokes.  He lit his cigarette and took a long drag.  He took another. 

"You see, I am going to the GW bridge and jump off of it." 

The domestic smiled again and said, "Si Senor".  So this was how his last conversation was going to go.  Like most conversations the blogger had had these past few months, he talked and all he got in return was some version of "Si Senor".   He stood there in the Plexiglas shelter and silently finished his cigarette.  The domestic clutched her shopping bag and umbrella and stared straight ahead.

The bus to Ft. Washington Park pulled up.  The blogger decided that he was right to end it all.  Everyone around him was a domestic with no green card and would never understand his language.  He stepped onto the bus and used his pass for the last time.  He had to wait for the aisle full of departing passengers to clear before he could move to the back of the bus.  The last passenger off looked at the blogger in surprise as he passed his monthly bus pass to them with more than two weeks left on it.  He found a seat near the rear of the bus and sat down.

The 30 block ride passed without incident.  People got on.  People got off.  A half block from the park, the blogger pulled the cable.  The bus stopped and he exited with determination.  As it pulled from the curb he turned to watch it billow diesel fumes and continue its route deeper into the Bronx.  He pulled another cigarette out of his top pocket and searched for the lighter he always kept in his front right pants pocket.  Lighting the cigarette, he began to walk towards the corner of West 177th and Cabrini.   The pedestrian and bike entrance of the GW bridge started there.

Entering the pedestrian gate of the bridge, the blogger noticed that the snow from the previous night had not been cleared and a thousand feet had pounded the walk into an ice filled path that would make him earn his last steps on this planet.  He paused before entering.  He smiled again and realized that his life was going to be a struggle right up to the end.  He began to pick his way around the worse humps in the ice.  The slow progress caused by the ice gave him more time to dwell on just where he would decide to jump.  He had planned to leap from the exact center of the bridge.  All the ice on the walk now caused him to reevaluate that decision.  Anywhere over water would do he thought.  Did it really matter if it was the center of the bridge or just 100 yards onto it?  He decided it did matter.  He would continue to the center.

As he approached the middle of the bridge he noticed someone hanging on the rail looking south down the Hudson.  They were loitering exactly where he had planned to make his big exit.  This irritated him.  This he had not planned on.  He slowed his progress and worried about how to deal with this obstruction placed in his way.  Some 40 yards short of his goal he decided he was close enough to the center to call it good.  He stopped and faced the river.

He must have stood there lost in thought for a few minutes.  A voice broke his trance from less than five feet away.  "You know this is not the middle don't you?"

The blogger jerked as if he had been goosed.  He turned and saw a medium sized fellow standing only a few feet away with a camera in his hand.

"Who are you and what business do you have with me?"  The blogger was very irritated now.

"Oh don't worry fella, I'm not here to stop you.  I'm here to record your last moments on the planet.  It's the least I can do."

The blogger had not counted on an audience.  "You read my blog?"

"Yes EMO-Man, I did.  And I understand.  You gotta do what you gotta do.  But don't you think you owe it to all those who have followed you these past five years at least the pleasure of seeing you jump?  We have been hoping you would for more than a year.  Christ, you talked about it so much, we were getting tired of it.  Shit or get off the pot ferchrisakes."

"But no one ever said anything.  I haven't had a comment in months."

"Had you picked up Twitter or even included the Follower App on your blog you would have known there were at least 1200 people interested in how your life was panning out.  One sick bastard from Maryland even placed odds on when you would finally pull the plug.  By the way, I thought you were ready last week.  I lost $50 bucks."

The blogger turned and faced the Hudson again.  He shook his head and straightened his back.  His mind raced.  His heart pounded.  His temper flared.  He had an audience and didn't know it.  There were people interested in his trials and tribulations.  Only they were more interested in watching him die than offering possible life saving advice.  "Well screw them", he thought, I'll show them, the fuckin assholes."   The blogger squared his shoulders and turned to face the fellow with the camera.  "Get out of my way."  He brushed past Camera man and continued toward the center of the bridge.

The blogger did not stop at the center, he kept going.  Behind him Camera man shouted, "Hey EMO-Man where ya going?  You missed the center of the bridge."

EMO-Man stopped but did not turn around.  He turned his head and over his shoulder, "To New Jersey.  Fuck you voyeuristic leeches."  And he lifted his right hand and flipped Camera man the bird.

The next day the followers of the blog "Saving EMO", saw the image of the back of a  man wearing a Carhart jacket flipping the bird.  The title over it read,  "Saved Another One - Who's Next?"
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I just do not know where this shit comes from.  I decided that today I would try to write some fiction.  And what you just read is the result.  I honestly had no plan or outline, just a few troubling notions floating around.  The story unfolded as I wrote it.  Whether it is good or not, again, just the effort made it worth it.

Keep it 'tween the ditches and stay away from the bridges......................................

The Post That Keeps on Giving - Wingers with Woodies Revisited

Just before the end of the last year I had momentarily considered doing a "Best of 2010" retrospective regarding what I considered my favorite posts of 2010.  I gave up on the idea.  Not sure why, but I did.

Then this AM I opened my blog and there in front of me was another new comment on a post I wrote back in January of 2010.  Of all the posts to my blog, this one post has by far had the most hits and resulted in the most consistent flow of comments.  Not many of them have been friendly comments either.

Since I have a moderation hold on any post older than two weeks, I see every comment that comes in before it posts.  I do that to try to limit the amount of spam that used to sneak in the back door so to speak.
 
Seems there are folks on the Right side of aisle who take exception to my "Wingers With Woodies" post.  It is not what I consider a post that deserves the attention it is getting, but it certainly has pissed off someone or a few someones.  At first I deleted any comment that was posted as "anonymous".  But so many great ones were being missed I decided to post them when the acrimony was not filled with profanity and racist stupidity aimed at Obama.  I bet I deleted 30 or so comments before they had a chance. 

The most recent comment received this morning, over a year after I wrote the post:

"Anonymous said...
By the looks of his pic Mr. Macrum is really Mr. Macscum. Why the hell don't you take a long shower and shave and clean up? And while you're at it wash your mouth out with Lysol. Your politics are twisted, and besides needing to clean up your brain is badly misguided. "

This one is fairly typical of the kind of comment you might find if I had posted all that came in.  Obviously most folks commenting on my post have little experience as trolls or as writers. Rather than make me mad, this comment made my day.  I just love it.  It is indeed a keeper.  I published it to the post and will respond once I have finished this post about it.

To all you Wingers out there swingin serious wood over what I write, please stop by.  Your comments bring a smile to my face and reinforce my contention that the only reason the Right is successful is because they appeal to the lowest common denominator of our great population.

Y'all have a great day.................................................
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Image from 2040 World View  - Had I noticed that Ms Perino wore a halo, I would have never called her a Right Wing Hack.  One more reminder that God loves Conservatives more than the rest of us.

The Wasps of October

So it goes.  Some days when I think I have no urge to write, I find myself in front of the computer pouring out nonsense so fast, I can't keep up.  I start typing and ten minutes later, I've got 500 words down on whatever thoughts that managed to escape.

And then there are days like today.  All day long as I worked on the roof, all I could think of was writing a story about my interactions with the wasps of October.  I was sure it would be a grand  tale of  tiny wasps protecting their nest of future generations from the evil human even as their lifespans were winding down.  They would battle valiantly but in the end it would be their last stand.   Evil would prevail.  Good would go down hard.

I would include some comic relief as I described my sorry self in retreat after being tagged a few times.  The battle would erupt spontaneously when the cool morning temps warmed cold blooded bodies up to fighting temperature.  Running down the roof wailing and flailing my arms in a panic, the horde circle me searching for vulernable tissue to jam some venom into.  As I step on the ladder one fearless soldier would heroically sacrifice her life with a well placed shot to the small of my back and I would tumble down, down to the ground.

After my fall of disgrace I would hatch half baked schemes to pay the little bastards back and become a gimpy wounded terrorist, invading their homeland and taking out their hive.  I would use chemical weapons, blunt instruments, and if that failed, I would poke sticks in their eyes.  But still the courageous wasps would send warriors on suicide missions, fighting to the bitter end even as toxic foam encrusted their hive making their  nervous systems lock up hard.  I would dance a little victory jig and cackle as the gallant wasps herked and jerked struggling to take flight again to fight with their last gasp.

Yeah, it was gonna be great. 

But something happened.  I overestimated my physical endurance.  I did not stagger off the roof until the moon came up around 7:15 PM.  I had tuckered out not only my body, but apparently my brain as well.  Which left me number and dumber than usual.

So what do I end up with?  A vague taste of what might have been.  A weak glimmer of what could have been.  Decidedly less than the best I had hoped to offer.

Sigh................................................
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The excellent image was poached from The Micropolitan Museum

Angry Serfs at the Palace Gate

In a 21st century remake of  angry serfs at the palace gate, throngs of polyester clad peasants wearing John Deere caps  brandish electronic rakes and pitchforks as they roll through the Internets gathering steam parroting the fear and hate spoon fed them by leaders who smile with greasy lips over the turmoil they have managed to stir up. 

Playing on the fears of the certified and assured bitter harvests in the future held dear and near the dark parts of what they call their minds, these self appointed protectors of the stupid fire up their Walmartian minions with unfounded claims and soon another undeserving soul is pilloried in the electronic equivalent of the town square.

As it was in the good ole days of Inquisitors and snake oil sellers, the truth becomes once again just another commodity to be traded in on mythical beasts coming for our daughters and imaginary government goons wanting to suck out our Life Essence so that the Devil, Beezlebub, Lucifer can enjoy three finger shots of our blood during Happy Hour at the Pinko Commie Islamic Bar n Grill.

Yes my friends, there is evil out there.  It wears a burka and waves a crescent graced flag.  It lurks with bated breath concealed in the shadows behind do-gooder facades that hide its insidious and dastardly purposes from the light of day.   There's a good reason the windows are painted over.

Carrying red, white n' blue standards, brave men and chaste women bunch up their panties as they gather in small groups on small minded stages to tell us what we want to hear, what we need to hear.  We know they are being straight with us by informing us it is not only okay to be pissing our pants over events that have not happened, but imperative that we focus on the worst case scenario even though a thousand other events must happen in just the right sequence first.  They most assuredly will because weasel faced Beckomann O'Hannity media monsters insist these doomsday dreams into existence.  For fear my quaking friends..... Fear will set us free.  It will release us from the responsibilities  of rational thought and productive solutions.  Being scared shitless is so much easier than thinking.  So much more convenient.

Meanwhile..................................

On the other side of the planet or somewhere in between, the other peons drinking the same kool aid only differing in hue are being rabble roused by similar dedicated demagogues sporting fancy turbans who have also assured their witlessly scared throngs that Evil is found out West in the Home of the Depraved, where the twin towers used to wave over streets dedicated to stealing their souls and ravaging their 72 Virgins.   Flinging Fatwas like Frisbees they send their loyal idiots on missions clad in exploding vests to fill  the Western cowpokes with dread..

And so it goes............The circle will not be broken. 

Lucifer sitting casually at Day Trader Vic's in his power tie and wing tipped loafers again sips and savors the fruits of his labor wherever he goes.  He cackles and rubs his hands together as if warming himself over the fires of Hell he has managed to visit upon all of us.  The red dude sure knows how to throw a party, even though the cover charge is more than we can afford.  He has convinced us all we need is plastic and a low interest mortgage on our souls. 

And while this world wide calamity unfolds around me,  while the firestorm builds to planet cracking temperatures, I sit here in a stupor among the pines and deer shit wondering why I didn't buy that 18 pack of Rolling Rock when I was in town earlier.
_________________________________

Okay.  Yeah.  I will admit that the previous whatever it might be or could be or almost was --- is the result of more beers than my current tolerance level is used to.  But hey there is a silver lining.  I get to rationalize  my earlier almost did it but didn't and now I have the excuse that being out of beer is a perfect excuse to take advantage of that $9.99 box of 18 bottles of Rolling Rock I saw stacked high as a giraffe's eye at the discount store in Sanford.  There is such a thing as cheap good beer.  And if there is indeed still the possibility of good cheap beer, all is not lost.  It is not as bad as I thought.  And even if it is, if the shit hits the fan this weekend, I will be able to quence my Hellfire planet destructiing induced thirst with cheap good beer.   And that is what really matters.

"33"................................................

The Rosary

What follows is a rushed dialog only piece to enter the flash challenge hosted by Daniel O'Shea over at Going Ballistic. Cormac mentioned it and I did not think I could come up with something based on "where folks hit their knees", what with me being the heathen that I am. Anyway, here is my effort, whether I make the deadline or not. And please, I did not mean to offend anyone. It is just a story after all.

The Rosary

"Father, what are you doing?"

"Well Sister Agnes, I am replacing the cords on some of the rosaries we just got in."

"I see. Why would you do that Father?"

"Some of our wonderful flock have been complaining of late about the quality. I have heard complaints about them just not holding up during strenuous prayer vigils."

"Prayer Vigils Father? I have heard nothing of any event or catastrophe that would warrant a prayer vigil inside the parish."

"Actually Sister, the problem seems to be in one of our affiliate organizations. Primarily the complaints have come from the local Odd Fellows chapter."

"Oh, I see. You know the Vatican does not ....."

"I know, I know Sister. The Odd fellows do not currently enjoy the favor of Rome. But they are some of our most faithful and generous parishioners. Should I not at least give their concerns over such mundane matters as the quality of the rosaries some consideration?"

"I guess so Father. But really, the Odd Fellows? The ones I know make me so nervous......Why just the other day, one of them wanted to massage my neck when I complained I had awakened with a cramp."

"That seems innocent enough. Just a good Samaritan offering of his time and energy."

"Father, the cramp was in my thigh."

"Sister Agnes, please. Enough about the Odd Fellows. I have fifteen more rosaries to re-string."

"Yes Monsignor, of course..............."

"Well Sister Agnes is that all? I do have to complete these rosaries by this Sunday."

"I was wondering if you had heard about the awful occurrences happening over at the Methodist Church?"

"Why No Sister, what has happened?"

"Apparently several of the more affluent members have been found strangled and hanging upside down from their barn rafters."

"Oh Dear. That is awful. How many unfortunate protestants have they found?"

"Seven so far. Constable Akins is checking other farms for more........Say Father?"

"Yes Sister."

"What kind of cord are you using to re-string the beads? It looks much more robust than it needs to be for simple rosaries."

"Sister Agnes, I really had hoped you had not instigated that nosy nature of yours. It really leaves me no choice I guess."

"Uh, why is that Father?"

"Let's just say I think it is time we retired to the barn. I want to show you why the rosaries........ You see if Elder Milton had not been overheard calling us Bead Mumblers, there would be no need to fortify the rosaries. Please Sister....this way."
___________________________________

Image from Chris2fer

New Managementship - Trains of Thought Converging on Different Tracks - Or Just Another Manic Sunday in Paradise

Setting sail in a new direction, the company founders commissioned the "USS Setting Goals Instead of Sails". The management ship left the harbor with a happy crew and Mid manager passengers full of enthusiasm and desires to land at their next safe harbor better managers and able to incite blind allegiance from the minions who slave day in day out under their scrutinous eyes.

Upper Management stayed home. Upper Management had no enthusiastic desires to attain better synchronicity among the the rank and file. As long as the bottom line kept climbing, they would hire circus elephants if it kept them in titanium golf clubs and fifty thousand dollar BMWs. If any of them had once been where the seasick passengers on the company ship were now, those memories had been washed away by thousands of martinis served dry at functions designed to solidify their position in the overall pecking order of Life in the Corporate Jungle. Fat and happy, they await the return of employees fired up and ready to help them put even more jingle in their pockets. They are absolutely sure that Capitalism Rocks.

In the meantime Main Street Everymen pull into Wally Mart parking lots across this great land in their oil burning ten year old used conveyances with baby puke encrusted on the back of the seats. Oblivious to the next great conspiracy to separate them from their hard earned money, they enter the belly of the beast. Old fogies wearing blue smocks smile and welcome them as they eagerly grab carts to fill with meaningless trinkets and doodads that will hopefully add some meaning to their lives. Like drones they wander up and down crowded aisles. With so much to pick from, they are sure they have found Nirvana. They wonder if they should have grabbed a second cart.

Passing plastic cards close to magic machines, they leave the 4 acre super store without even dropping one real dollar in the till. Plastic money is endless they think. It is almost like free. Life is wonderful when they shop. Not so much when they are not. Defining their existence by how many bags they throw in the trunk, they head home to hyper-processed TV dinners and Andy Griffith reruns on the TV Land channel.

Satiated and full, many will fornicate. Some will masturbate. Others will pass out after ingesting the best part of that 30 pack they got at a reduced price just hours earlier. And America falls into a fitful slumber. Only criminals and lost souls wander the landscape over the next few hours.

Day in day out, Americans live the life. Day in day out, Americans think they love this Life. But insidious machinations have been utilized from their conception. Strategies have been brought to bear that ensure America will continue to be born to shop. Once proud of our independent ways, now we puff up our chests when our neighbor notices that new super duper stainless steel grill we brought home last week end.

I would love to lay claim to higher ground. I would just as soon rise above the scrambling masses packed like sardines in aisles piled high with plastic electronic gadgets. Alas, I am but one of the masses. Another brainwashed drone prone to buying what is shoved in my direction. I try to resist. Years of Madison Avenue sticking in my craw, I hack and cough and look for the Visa Card.

It is not even a question of being weak. Years of indoctrination 30 seconds at a time have convinced my subconscious that consuming is what a soul needs. Scoring that Thigh Master will save me from the slug that I have become. With every intention of using it as intended, that Thigh Master ends up as a door stop for the basement door when I needed to bring in the 40 pounds of meat I bought for the new coffin freezer in the basement.

We are helpless my friend. Any resistance, even a token gesture is futile. We are what we buy. Ownership of anything reinforces our existence. Inextricably linked through electronic gadgets into the network of slick talkin worms and snake oil salesmen assures our participation in the grand plan.

We own shit, therefore we exist. Descarte would be so proud.

Later.............

(718 / 2506)

Why I Should Not Report the News

In my never ending quest to understand the human fascination with always being connected, I spotted this small story on the MSNBC news page. Another reminder that having the World at our fingertips every waking moment may not be such a good thing. As a matter of fact, many of America's less than noble habits are encapsulated into this news piece. Eating habits, dark secrets, an insane need to be connected at all times, and litigation all come together in one short story of a couple who now feel the need to find a new home.

Lessons are there to be learned. But not by the plaintiffs. Responsibility for one's mistakes lost as another couple decide that what happened to them was someone else's fault.

This mild mannered couple sit down to have a sumptuous meal of grease served up on foreign beef and bleached flour buns. They pick a favorite eatery for this handsome repast. They are sure their privacy will not be violated in this public space. Per usual, one of them sets their cell phone within easy reach. Missing a phone call, any phone call would certainly ruin the rest of their day. How they ever got by without being hooked up and tapped in every waking moment often runs through their minds.

Small conversations pass between this idyllic modern couple as the juice runs down their chins and they reach for those over sized sodas filled with ice by their own hands at the sparkling soda dispensing station just to their right. Here in the space of a ten foot stainless steel counter, the impressive variety of different flavored carbonated water to pick from lets them know the true meaning of being an American. Freedom of choice laid out in front of them and reinforcing their assertion they do indeed live in the grandest of all places.

Smiling sometimes at each other's humorous repartee, they enjoy their brief break from the frantic existence that is their life. Satiated and composed, the couple deposit their trays dutifully at the tray depository found above the numerous plastic bins that say, "We recycle" on them. Happy and content, they leave and proceed with their day. Like any other day. As they push towards the exit through crowds waiting in line for their own slice of burger heaven, they do not realize that their lives will soon be part of the public domain.

Some days later or sooner, a friend, a colleague, or casual acquaintance relays some horrifying news to this couple. In their haste or mindless satisfaction upon leaving the famous eatery the other day, they must have left their cell phone on the table. And because of their fascination with anything electronic, they had naturally utilized all the options on said cell phone. Of these options, the one that would later haunt them and force them to take their case to court, was the capacity of the phone to take and hold any image they so desired.

Now I am of the mind that what people view on their own time is their business. The fact that this couple's phone had been utilized to store images of the Missus in various states of undress is between them. Who am I to pass judgement on the need for the Mister to have these images at hand every waking hour? The why of it is again, between them. But now and forever, the naked pictures have made it to...........the Internet! For as long as electricity flows through the grid of Mankind, these images will be there for any or all to view at the click of a mouse.

Imagine their embarrassment. Consider their intimate secrets now part of the World Wide Web. Put yourself in their shoes. Oh the horror and shame. Not being able to face your co-workers. Always wondering if the Internet time they poach while in their cubicles is not the porn from some site in LA, but the pictures of your wife taken in the bedroom down the street. It would be awful. (Forgive me a moment............I just blew coffee through my nose. Uh, wait a second.....okay, I am better now)

Feeling violated, this couple has sought comfort in the loving hands of lawyers. Seeking to find some emotional and fiscal compensation for their self inflicted embarrassment. They have indicated their lives have been ruined and now must move to avoid the awkward moments at the grocery store, the hardware store , and of course that famous eatery they so enjoyed much of the time. It would be logical and their right in suing the burger joint. Looking for the deepest pockets to pick to smooth out the ruffled edges of their lives is the American thing to do. Finding fault somewhere else instead of looking inside.

I have tried for at least a moment to find some sympathy inside myself for this couple's unfortunate situation. I was not successful. I had to find it between shit and syphilis in the dictionary.

100 Yards Off Main Street

I finally snapped a recent, freshly baked photo of one of the rides in my quiver. One of the few and far between stop and smell the roses moments I have had during daylight hours in a month or so. This quiet moment was particularly appreciated. Taken at around 9:30 AM this morning after 3 1/2 hours of full tilt boogie as soon as my eyes opened.

My wife and I are headed to North Carolina on Thursday to watch my little girl walk for her Graduate Degree at UNC on Sunday. My wife does not like surprises. My wife likes to have things well planned and organized. Naturally we disagree. I prefer the last minute approach. Never do anything before it absolutely cannot wait another moment. After 27 years of marital bliss, I learned my way meant the highway. So here I was getting instructions and recriminations at 6:45 AM about me dropping my end of the ball for our upcoming trip. A complication with some bank/financial madness we have going on added even more stress.

"Call D at the Bank, don't forget the PM appointment for the truck. And for God's sake get it inspected, it's 2 months out. I will be late tonight. Feed the critters. Get your clothes for the trip together. And pick up dinner, I'm not cooking, I have way too much work to do."

Her words were blurs and settled all jumbled in my cranial void. I tried to focus. I really tried to keep it all straight. But I knew by 7:00 AM I would forget something. So I just tried to keep the schedule and be where I was supposed to be when I was supposed to. Maybe the kindness of strangers would kick in and someone would have my day figured out for me. And I had to jam a day at the shop into all this. I was screwed.

I hit the bike shop and threw my bike in the back. Dropped the truck at Miller Ford and biked back up Main St towards the shop. I was going to just go to work. Plenty of fires needed some attention.

Maybe it was my anticipation index or something just snapped. When I got to the shop, instead of picking up wrenches or the pending Quality order, I grabbed the camp saw and pruners. Re-mounted my bike and struck out on Main St again. I figured I could afford an hour of calming and soul cleansing trail work. "Besides", I rationalized, "I had promised a piece of myself to the Mousam Way Trail Committee too. A few minutes breaking new trail might just get my day back on track. And I wouldn't feel guilty for not getting that new trail started."

Finding the orange tape 3 of us had tied on whatever was close last Sunday, I began to prune branches and kick dead fall to the side. An hour later and 150 yards into it, I took a moment to look around. The pictures don't do it justice, but they almost bring back the moment for me.

100 yards from Main St, where trucks, cars, bikes scurried on their way to the rest of their day, I sat on mossy rocks sucking in a small slice of a glorious Maine Spring morning while black flies busily tried to figure out how to make me crazy.

100 yards off Main St. I escaped for a minute. 100 yards off Main St. one of the many reasons I love Maine was right in front of me. 100 yards off Main St. Nature is busy doing what it does without or in spite of our best effort to screw it up. 100 yards off Main St was all it took to find the center again.




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New Feature!

The Officially licensed and sanctioned Lost in the Bozone Compilation of mostly useful but never useless tricks and hints that might just make your day if you try them.

Hint #1 - Have to start with something. Might as well do it with....

Clean Hands and recycling all at the same time

Concsiously choosing a life of blue collar toil to earn my way through this life, I have had to deal with dirty hands most days. Often dirt and grease so deeply injected, store bought cleansers with sandy bits of volcanic rock don't make a dent. They just make me bleed. I resigned myself to a life of scarred, calloused and grease embedded digits.

A few weeks ago I was wincing and whining as I laid pumice laced hand cleaner onto my tortured palms. I thought there had to be a better way. On the back of the sink a sad almost worn out piece of a green nylon scubby sat. One that should have been tossed but had not been yet.

I grabbed it and squirted a generous dollop of Dawn detergent on it and gently began to wipe my hands. Wow! It did not hurt and my hands had not gotten so clean so quickly ever I think.

I figured if a worn out scrubby was this good, a new one would kick butt. I was wrong. A new one felt like Lava on steroids. Use a worn out one, like an old pair of jeans, they feel the best.

This knee jerk post pounded out to the sounds of the Chili Peppers, Paul Simon, Dire Straits, Joan Armatrading, Metallica, Dave Mathews, Sublime, Hendrix, Zepplin, and last but not least by a long shot, Bowie's "Under Pressure".

Leather Friends

They were not expensive work boots. At the time, they might as well have cost $1000 given how much money was not in my pocket. But because of the kindness of the shoe store owner, I walked out with them for the money I did have in my pocket. I appreciated his gesture not so much for the shoes, but for the fact he allowed me to keep my dignity as I poured out my recent tale of woe. Somehow he knew I had to pay something and he managed to make it happen. Charity without leaving that bad taste in my mouth.

When I found these old leather friends stuffed in a box in the garage, memories came flooding back. Memories of failure and rebirth. Some memories I could have done without. Some memories lifted my heart on this rainy day in April, 2008. It was 13 years ago these boots brought me back from the depression of really failing for the first time.

Failure should come to everyone at some point. I think to really feel alive, falling on hard times can give us a perspective that makes Life that much more precious. To not have any prospects or sure thing in the future certainly tested my intestinal fortitude to the max. It was a month or so after my first bike shop failed that I realized this.

Forty something, my business gone and a family I was still responsible for. My initial reaction was to withdraw. Climb inside myself and build barriers between myself and everyone who mattered. I felt like I was slipping away.

I hated how I felt. I hated how I treated those I loved. I was not mean. I just wasn't there. The longer it dragged on, the angrier I became. At myself. At the World. Life seemed such a waste of time. You pour your soul into something only to watch all that effort and passion disappear into the back of a discounter truck in the parking lot as someone else takes down your sign.

My anger finally peaked and I went to the shoe store. I went there not just because I needed new work boots. But rather the trip represented my first salvo against the crater deep depression I had fallen into. That first step out of the depths and into that bright light Life always emits but is sometimes hard to find.

So I had the boots now. Finding a job was the easy part. As it turned out I was right. I went back to pounding nails and for the next 3 years my boots faithfully carried out their part of the bargain and I carried out mine. Together we managed to avert total personal failure along with the business failure. And because of this bond between me and my worn out boots, I cannot bring myself to throw them away.

They are back in a box I hope my wife will not find. Packed away as another memento of my past that holds more meaning than almost anything else I have secreted away for future reminiscing.


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