The Realm of Possibility - Redux

A flash fiction piece originally posted - Jan 2, 2012

I am posting again because recent events in Texas seems to be coinciding somewhat with this potential future scenario.

_____________________________

Elder Jacob Bean closed the banned copy of the Scripture. He understood why the second book had been outlawed during the Troubles. Harsh times called for harsh measures. The clearly defined rules found in the first book were perfect in their simplicity and dovetailed well with the brutal measures taken to fulfill the Great Elder’s prophecy of the Final Reformation. He could not understand though why owning such an innocuous collection of harmless fables was still on the list of capital offenses. Would not a good caning suffice?

Rules were rules. Shortly Elder Bean forgot about it. He was only as inquisitive as he needed to be to render a verdict. Without new rules, his only choice was to convict. It was a shame they had no females of breeding age. At least they would have been spared. Elder Bean shrugged. The family of three would have to die.

“Jarrad get in here.”

No response. Servo-tech Jarrad was not at his desk. Elder Bean got up and walked out to the anteroom outside his office just as Servo-tech Jarrad came careening down the hall. “Deep Apologies Elder Jacob, …….call of nature.”

Elder Jacob Bean’s cold eyes studied his assistant for a moment. “I understand simple Jarrad. Even eunuchs have to urinate.” His eyes softened and what might be construed a hint of a smile whisked across his face and was gone. He handed Jarrad a bulky envelope. “Please forward this to the Council of Elders ASAP. I have rendered my decision.”

“Yes, right away your Holiness.”

~*~

The Final Reformation was in full swing by 2075. The Troubles that had started in earnest around 2024, ripped and tore through Humanity for fifty years. The planet’s population had at first tried to discuss their differences. Unforeseen political and military alliances were formed. Regional confrontations escalated into planet wide scorched earth campaigns. War, starvation, disease, and mass suicides took their toll. By 2035 less than two billion souls still walked the Earth. Religious zealots took control over two thirds of the planet. The Pan Asians controlled the rest.

The Age of the Three Kingdoms had begun.

~*~

Scurrying servo-techs connected last minute wiring to the feed going out planet wide. They applied last minute make up to aging Elder faces and fussed over positioning of the altar in the Elder Well. The two prayer benches upon which the Witnesses would sit had been scrubbed and polished. Three stainless steel crosses with braided wire restraints formed a semicircle around the altar in front of a larger Cross upon which hung the current facsimile of what Christ looked like now. He sported a stern face now days and fierce eyes. His arms were spread open as if welcoming all who ventured into the Elder Well, but it was his razor sharp hands that told the truth of what went on here. The Elder Well was designed for one purpose – to instill fear. Fear kept the Elders in power. Only the pious walked out of the Well alive.

Christ had finally transitioned from being the son of God and was now God’s Avenger.

Elder William Graham ll sat and fidgeted in front of his mirror. Tonight would be his first chance at the Bloody Pulpit. He worried every detail with his hair, his robes. He practiced his severe look. He worried that his sweat would show through the heavy makeup. After all, the Witnesses, comprised of the founding Elders would be watching his every move. Sweat would be a sign of weakness in his faith. A servo-tech with a clip board touched his shoulder. “Five minutes Elder William.”

“Are all the sacred devices in place?”

“Yes Your Holiness.”

“Well then, let’s break a leg.”

The servo-tech counted the last few seconds before the night’s festivities began. “9….8….7….6…..”, and then with his right hand he silently finished at 3 and …………… an off camera tech with a calm mellow, made for prime time voice began.

“Welcome good Christians of the Realm. The night’s Sacrifice is brought to you for the first time from the newly constructed and righteously blessed Harold Camping Studios here in New Holywood. Elder William Graham ll will perform God’s Will as Heaven’s Apprentice and will be witnessed by twelve of our most revered founding Elders."

"Tonight’s unfortunates are a family of three from Oxnard. Caught with a copy of the New Testament, the mother refused to acknowledge her sin and plead for mercy. Their fate was sealed when her husband tried to run with her and their son of six. So tonight for your viewing pleasure, …….tonight we have a three-fer."

"Ladies and gentlemen let the festivities begin……………”

~*~

Mullah Saluman Kaleri sat 6000 miles away watching the feed from the Realm. Others in his mosque considered the monthly sacrifices broadcast over the Net nothing but more foolishness from the Realm of God. He knew better. There was more to their monthly bloodletting than just reinforcing the fear of God to maintain control over their heathen majority. They wanted a new crusade. What they did today, tomorrow, next year was all aimed at defeating Islam. The sacrifices were a promise of sorts should the Infidels successfully overrun the Kingdom Of Allah. He knew this because it would be what he would do to them.

The Mullah watched the various players take their places in the Elder Well. He watched each “lamb” being led or dragged in by two ornately masked assistants who shackled them each to their respective crosses. He watched the Acolyte solemnly lay out the cloth which held the devices of the Sacrament and then stand at attention to the right. “Ah”, he thought. ”Tonight the new guy has chosen blades to purge their sins.” Mullah smiled and settled back to watch.

The music swelled. The house lights dimmed. The audience grew quiet. Suddenly, spots lit up Jesus. Fire and sparks shot out of his eyes. Heaven’s Apprentice began his slow march to the pulpit. Adorned in a simple red and green striped robe tied crudely with a knotted piece of hemp rope, he gave the appearance of a God fearing man until he looked at the camera. At once he became a figure to fear. William Graham ll acting as Heaven’s Apprentice had nailed the look. There was an audible gasp heard as the audience moved forward on their seats. This was a man to fear.

What followed was a well rehearsed sermon of the evils of allowing unclean thought to sully the mind of the faithful. Mullah Salumen Kaleri lost interest and turned the sound down. With one eye on the feed, he poured himself some tea and was just raising it to his lips when the first cut was made. Mullah turned the sound back up and settled in. “This guy knows how to do it.” 

He took a sip of tea.

_______________________________

@ 1150 words

Image - Salvdor Dali - Christ of Saint John of the Cross 

Paper or Plastic?

I saved a paper bag today.  That is nothing unusual.  I save things all the time.  Especially things made of paper:  Card board boxes, big envelopes, small envelopes, peices of paper if they strike me at the time I might find some use for them in the future, and of course paper bags.  My radar is always out for paper bags.  They are rare and almost extinct I guess.  When I have the chance to save a good one, I jump on it.

While I folded that bag back into it's original state before it was used to hold my 24oz Papst and a bag of Chex mix, I thought about how great it was for me once again to be folding a paper bag.  Plastic bags give me no such pleasure.  Plastic bags are nothing but thin, wimpy wannabe paper bags. 

Greed

A post on Major Conflict got me fired up.  Rather it was a comment on the post that did -  

"What's wrong with being greedy?"

The comment needs no context to tie it into the post.  It is a stand alone question from a commenter I would expect no less from.  We have traded comments more than a few times on Major Conflict .

Immediately I ripped off a 500 word reply blasting greed and the nasty side effects that usually accompany it.  Feeling better, I sat back and re-read what I had written.  I immediately deleted it.  So I responded instead -

"Before I can answer that I need to know what is right about being greedy."

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"................................................

Captured On Film

This is called the Pink Lady's Slipper. Not sure why. After I downloaded the kodak moments I had earlier over to Mary's Woods across from my dooryard, I looked at this best ever effort of mine and decided they are not slippers, but complete women. Look at this image long enough and I swear I am looking at a female of some type. Arms are spread uncovering her small breasts which dangle under what would appear to be the latest and greatest of hat fashions. And those pink pants! Yeah this is no slipper.

These random moments of wild beauty are sprinkled liberally throughout the woods around here. On my walk, I counted 8 Lady's slippers. 10, if I count the 2 that had been eaten by some low rent local critter. Hope they got sick.

Apparently 4 types of Lady Slippers exist in Maine. This is the most common. I have never seen any of the other three.

Just wanted to share a picture I took this morning with Stub in the woods .....Later........Gotta get to work.

I Miss You Frank

The other day I mentioned I had thought about Frank Zappa off and on as I wrote my Flash Fiction post #8. Images of Dental Floss, Montana, and Zircon encrusted tweezers danced like sugar plum fairies, well maybe it was really bounced around aimlessly and they weren't sugar plum fairies but more like big badass bikin mamas with apples stuck in their mouths. Anyway, I thought about Frank and how much his music and personality had influenced my warped sense of what was important in this Life and what wasn't. I even punched up "Hot Rats" and played "Willie the Pimp" a few times at volume wow on my wannabe high end headphones that were now approaching not old age but ancient relic status. I was in the groove.

So tonight I spent some time visiting some bike shop blogs I have linked through my sister bloggin ship CRUM Cycles. I am sure it was no coincidence that I found it on a site that emanates from that bastion of Charm, Bawlemer, Murland. You see he was born and raised close by. He is a native son and I would be too if I had my druthers. I lived there for some years but it just isn't the same as being born there. It never is. Sorry about that.....I get ahead of myself. When that happens I tend to fall behind and then I get nowhere fast........

Baltimore Bicycle Works, a very hip and cool shop if you want to base said hipness and coolness on the town they exist in and on their blog. Well they had some great videos embedded. First up was a video of a blind trials rider. This guy did things on a bike I can only do in my wet dreams. And he's blind. Awesome stuff. I will be poaching their link for a post at some point on my strictly commercial to draw in paying customers blog about all things cycling and a few things in between.

Well one video led to another and I spotted in their recent posts section, "Frank Zappa plays the Bicycle". First I must say that Frank and I go way back. At least I thought so. It was in 1967 when I picked out "Freak Out" from the pile of albums the record guy had in his delivery van. I was sure I had pretty much discovered over the years about all there was to discover about Frank. And I knew he had odd and amusing ideas about what music was about. Many called him a genius. Some called him an asshole. But no matter what, Frank was never boring. When I punched up this video, it was a clean cut Frank dressed in one tight fitting cool hip suit of an early 60s rocker standing on the set of the Steve Allen Show. A very young Frank. In front of him were two bikes and Steve Allen. It is hard to describe what went down because I am still not sure, but it was classic Frank Zappa. Bizarre, clever, witty. The audience, Steve, and I loved it.

As it is with those You Tube videos, they always try to hook you with more videos that are in some way directly or even tentatively connected to that first video that sucked you in. I watched Frank's last interview before he died. I watched his last real interview of substance a year or so earlier. I watched him on the Johnny Carson Show. I watched him giving Congress a hard time back in the first efforts of Tipper "I'm still married to Mr Global Warming" Gore to save our children from the evils of Rock N Roll music. The man was awesome. He got in their face. He did not back down. When his testimony was over, in the background an unidentified Congressman could be heard, "Well we sure had a bear by the tail. I don't think I ever heard anything like that even during the Mafia hearings." Or to that effect - not a ver batum quote.

The video that made me realize why I respect Frank so much was his appearance on I think an early version of Crossfire during CNN's early days back in 1986. They definitely had a tiger by the tail. He was sure Ronald Reagan had set the table for a theocratic fascist state. The tight asses on the panel were absolutely caught off guard. Reagan walked on water back in 1986. Now we are just waiting for the Second Coming. When that happens Frank won't turn over in his grave. He'll shove his skinny arm through the casket and flip us all off.

So in conclusion I have sifted through more than a few videos and decided the following "Three-Fer" is a good representation of what Frank was musically. He was this and more, but these three give a good taste. Enjoy.

Note - Frank's lyrics can be unsettling to timid and sensitive minds. The middle video, "Frank Zappa on Acid" is well, let's see...... I liked it fine and Tipper Gore most assuredly would not. That should be warning enough.







I know Frank's laughing his ass off somewhere.......................

(842 / 6118)

Double Vision and Frustration

My parents had a very cool book when I was a kid. They had many cool books, but this one was way cool. It was a book my father had picked up while he was stationed in Post WWll Germany. It was a book of pictures with foreign writing. I don't read or speak foreign tongues, but I definitely liked the pictures. They were images of optical illusions. Some were photographs. Some were artistic renditions. It was this book that first introduced me to MC Escher. There were a few of his efforts in it. Ever since I have been fascinated with images that played games with my eyes.

That book has long been gone. Lost on one of our many moves, grabbed by one of my siblings, or loaned out and never returned. It's impact on what kind of images I like to look at was profound. Later on with the advent of pop art, my dad began to collect images that came from the minds of people who had to be on acid. Wavy checkerboard designsthat started out as stills. The longer you stared, they would begin to move without mechanical help. Perspective treatments that sucked you into the image. I can remember gazing at MC Escher's "Waterfall" while tripping and convincing myself it was not only a distinct possibility but an absolute fact. Reality came the next day when I looked at it again after coming down. I decided that Escher had not really figured out a way to defeat the Law of Physics. But his mind's eye had.

At this point after fooling around for who knows how damn long getting the top two pictures to load on the published screen the way I want them to, I cannot remember what first got me started on the subject of optical illusions and the exercise in futility they have so far rewarded me with. Per my usual loose dog ways, I have been completely sidetracked down another fork in the tangled morass of mindless trails to where I am now. The original point now just another tidbit in my brain pan full of crumbs. I made the mistake of getting lost in looking at all the works of Escher's on his official website. Many I recognized, but the majority I did not. I am actually now more impressed than ever. His fool the eyes thing and repetitive pattern thing were but a part of his overall work. Some of his etchings and woodcuts were just excellent renditions of whatever. For some reason, I found "Wild West" to be one of my favorites, which hopefully you will find sitting patiently and behaving itself on the right side.

But enough on Escher. If you want a great taste of his work visit the link at the top. I also found this site that spotlights the double illusion thing wonderfully. According to the site, depending on your age, the image you see will be different. Young children without the life experience of intimacy between adults will see black dolphins swimming and not a couple obviously enjoying themselves. Youthful innocence saving them from visions of horrors to come.


Another wonderful site I found was this one. It is a gallery of optical illusions, many of which are interactive. Really cool stuff man. I mean dude, spark one up and lose a day. Where was the Internet when I was poisoning myself with all those nasty substances back in the day? Settling for hours of staring at the Tattooed Tit of Christianity in Washington DC as it melted into liquid colored wax seems so much more like work than switching between trail inducing visual entertainments with the click of a button.

An excuse filled afterthought - Some posts come hard because I can't find the right words. Some posts are held up while I search for hours finding just that right image to go with them. And then some posts, like this one, are begun as a lark. The intent to come up with a quickie by poaching from sites better than mine. But when I am hoping to spend only a brief moment or two satisfying my blogging jones because reality is insisting on my attention, creating something quick can turn ugly in an instant. And it will have nothing to do with creating, but more a problem of mechanics. Like a Front Derailleur on a bike. Front Derailleurs are probably the simplest moving part on a bicycle. Yet a smooth repair and tune can quickly head south when a Front Derailleur decides to not cooperate. They can turn an experienced mechanic into a quivering mass of tears and lost hair. This post today was that kind Front Derailleur. So I will close poorly and without much zip. Just enjoy the images that did not want to lay down quietly and behave like they should have.

Keep it 'tween the ditches.........

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.

Exercising Useless Endeavor

It is June 11. The heat and humidity of the last 5 days has finally caught a westerly and is now punishing fish in the Atlantic. The thunderstorm last night spoiled any plans of mine to hit the yard with my monster 22 inch self propelled red Ariens. As good a weapon as it is, it doesn't plow through knee high grass that is wet.

(The picture to the left is a reminder to myself that but 4 months ago, this is what yards in Acton looked like. My neighbor's one holer was buried hard and the thought of using it was just that, a quickly passing thought. Can you hold it for another month? Kind of puts the last few days of heat and humidity into perspective.)

I have spent my early morning hours this AM in an uncharacteristic way. I actually got some work out of the way instead of playing on this thing while I contemplated all that yard work I was missing out on. I responded to some emails. Filled out some dealer apps for parts I cannot get other than factory direct. Odd feeling this. Being productive before that first cup of coffee has been thoroughly processed.



Today's post is going to be a quick post. Not about anything special or keen. More of a post to take up space and waste a few inches of bandwidth. A tip of my hat if you will to exercises in useless endeavor. I will make no effort to win anyone over to any cause, celebration, or political slant. I will not be informative, insightful, or attempt in any way to be delightful. If for any reason a reader comes away feeling better after reading this, it will be by accident and not in my gameplan when I started.

(This picture of Stubeetchka, my black girlfriend, is included only because I like the overall composition of the image and she deserves some new face time.)




To round out my offerings for the day, I have included one of my valve cap buddies to bid you folks a fond Adieu, er AH-Doo. I found Garfield buried in some ditch and saved his sorry butt only to impale it with gusto onto the valve stem of one of my bikes. He looks pleased and content now.

Today's post is about being silly. As close to blatant self indulgence as I can come. Any closer and I would not be writing about it.

The Blue B-Model Mack

I ran across this little beauty at a rest stop somewhere in New York or Connecticut on my way back from North Carolina. Talk about a blast from the past. I used to drive a Model B61 Mack. A 1958 B61 to be exact. Only it was blue and did not have a sleeper. I hauled overseas containers from one dock to another up and down the Mid-Atlantic in the early 1970s.

I hated that truck but loved it at the same time. It was slow. The 170 HP Thermodyne diesel engine hated hills. Up or down. The steering was shaky and I was always having to pour gallons of coolant and oil into it's inner workings so it wouldn't overheat at the drop of a hat. The windshield wipers often did not work. Usually as soon as the first drop of rain fell, they would quit. But fire them up when it was sunny out or the mechanic was nearby and they would flop back and forth like they were new. I spent many a mile doing the manual intermittent wipe with an outstretched hand on the driver side wiper. I rigged up a special coat hanger just for those rainy days I might run into. No heat. No AC. No power steering. And only the driver's door window could be counted on to go down and then back up without a hitch.

The one thing it was was dependable. I never broke down in it. It always got me and my load to where me and my load needed to be. I never got a ticket while driving it. There was no chance I would ever get a speeding ticket. But I never received a log violation, an over weight summons, or a safety fine.

The safety fine thing always puzzled me. That beat blue Mack just screamed for a DOT inspection. Yet, the ones I went through, it always managed to squeak by with, "Bub, the air compressor needs some punching up, your tires look close to being worn out and get those brake lights fixed." Warnings, but never a ticket.

I acquired the Blue B Model Mack as a reward for being the low man on the totem pole at the trucking concern I drove for. When I got behind the wheel, it had over 2 million miles on it. At least that was what the mechanic claimed. The drivers seat was busted and tipped to the left. There was no passenger seat, just an old metal school chair someone had stuck in there in it's stead. The paint was faded where there was paint and the frame had long lost it's black color in favor of a dirt colored rust effect.

I guess I logged about 75,000 miles in the Blue Mack. 75,000 miles of hard earned valuable experience that would serve me well the ensuing years I remained a truck driver. Important things like learning to actually sleep draped over the steering wheel without drooling on my shoes. ( take off the shoes, then only your socks get wet and you don't look foolish when you go in for a cup of coffee.) Changing out flats on the old 2 piece rims that could kill you if you got it wrong. Learning to steer straight with a steering wheel that had a dead spot in it 12 inches in both directions from center. And last but not least, backing up into tough holes with no power steering. That one made all my future back ins make me look like a pro.

I loved that truck. Driving it meant I was getting a great pay rate. Driving it meant I was getting experience over the road. Driving it meant a real over the road tractor was a definite possibility in the near future. It represented opportunity and I took full advantage of it.

Once I stepped out of it and into that 8 year old White with the sleeper, I would come back to the yard and spot my old friend retired and rusting in the back lot and I would be sad. But only for a moment. That almost not old White had stolen my heart.

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.


Post is now entered in Scribbit's May "Write Away Contest"

Witnessing Excellence

I was not going to sit down tonight and share my thoughts about the last Pat's regular season game. No matter how it turned out. I was going to just sit in the glow of victory or wallow in the depths of defeat. Do it privately and without an audience.

Well, I couldn't do it.

Just like I couldn't park my butt on the couch and watch the game like a sane and sober man in his own home might who is not in the company of his beer swillin buds after two 30 packs before kickoff. I performed straight and without the support of intoxicating substances. Maybe a beer or two would have taken the edge off. Oh well.

It was trouble right out of the gate. Forget saving something for the playoffs, the Giants wanted to stop the Patriots. Ruin their pursuit of that perfect season. They let it all hang out. Gave the Patriots all they could handle. And in the process I was sure they would give me a coronary. Eli Manning and his Giants brought their A game to the party. They came right out and tallied a touchdown on their first possesion. Damn, another team ready to rumble.

Nervously I paced around the living room groaning and screaming at the TV set like they could hear me. And the whole time my daughter is parked in the over stuffed wingback with her stuffed Pat bear she named Wes calmly taking the the game in. My wife had long ago become disgusted with my antics and left to watch the game in peace up in the bedroom. I became one of those crazed wild eyed fans who should have been painted up and barechested with some cartoon helmet made of paper mache on my head. I paced, muttered and pleaded for the Pats to get their shit together. It was a sad display of a fan gone mad.

That is my perception anyway. Now that the adrenalin has finally been purged and my guts have begun to unwind, I realize that with the exception of all the cat in a cage pacing back and forth, I was relatively docile on the outside. Definitely not on the inside.

It was another nail biter. 12 points down in the 3rd quarter, the boys put the hammer to the Giants. 22 unanswered points later they sat with an uncomfortable lead of only 10 points with just shy of 4 minutes still waiting to tick away. And of course the Giants finally pulled it together and scored a touchdown in the last 2 minutes. Thankfully Eli seemed to have trouble with his 2 minute offense. Clock management was an issue. The desperation onside kick failed when Vrabel fell on the ball. The Pats only had to drop a knee 3 times and the first unbeaten NFL season in 35 years was now history.
All the Sports guys in expensive suits fell all over themselves talking up Brady, Moss and the 16-0 season. And I am sure in the scheme of what really counts for the record books, what Moss and Brady did was cool. I am also duly impressed.

But once again, the guys I probably enjoy the most are the guys who get it done when it has to get done. The players who get the ugly yards, the connections that take the ball from one end of the field to the other. I'm talkin bout my favorite small guys, Wes Welker and Kevin Faulk. They do their thing in the shadow of GQ Brady and the grace of Moss. But they do their thing so very well. 122 plus passing yards in 11 catches for Welker. Two "have to have it" 3rd down conversions fought for and won by Faulk. When blocking was needed, they both stepped up and carried more than their weight.

I marvel at these ordinary looking puny Davids who excel in a sport dominated by Goliaths. They take hits that would cripple most people. Get right up and do it again. Absolutely awesome.

Way to go Pats. Keep on keepin on. 16 and a big 0. Ain't too shabby. 3 more games to go.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

I just uploaded my very first image to my blog. In the column to the Right. Naturally it is an accurate rendition of myself. I really look like this. When I am not wearing the clown paint and nose, that is.

And to see if I can also muster up enough intelligence to follow idiot proof prompts, hopefully I will find another image somewhere in this post. Where will it turn up? And what will it be?

Well lookee there! Up at the top. Who's the flounder making it look like a hard climb?

Uh, that would be yours truly actually finishing a brutal 3 mile ascent at Blue Job in New Hampshire. Even the gnarly dudes have a tough time with this one.

An astute observer might ask why I am the only one in the shot? And why was there enough time to set up a tripod, mount the camera, and get the dark room ready before my muscular manly legs pumped me over the crest?

Good questions, all. I can only state that this was not staged. It is however an indication of how far off the back I was on this particular group ride.

So I have successfully reached for and attained a new level of sophistication in the blogging world. No more will I need to hang my head in shame when browsing other blogs filled with images they think help to make their points. I can stand tall now. About time.

And then this came to mind

Ayup, I pulled the ole John Deere out of the barn yesterday and what do you think I noticed hangin there collectin dust up in the rafters? That John Deere bike they threw in with that new manuah spreadah I bought 20 years ago. I guess it was to soften the blow when I saw how much the spreadah was gonna cost. Dazzle me with some fancy useless gee gaw while they picked my pockets clean. But I needed the spreadah so I took the bike to keep em happy.

So's anyway, I decided to pull that bike down and give her a look. A little dusty and the tires was flat, but all in all looked like new. Dusted her off and threw some air in the tires and wheeled her out into the dooryard.

Now I had noticed these last few years while spreadin manuah with that new spreadah, funny lookin folks ridin bikes back and forth on the hard top road to town. This always puzzled me cuz there weren't nothing but the Jenkins place the one way and town the other. Why anyone would want to visit that contrary ole fart Jenkins was beyond me. And town was just a place to pick up essentials and then skedaddle. But they still rode by all the time. Waved at me too. Must be nice to have time to ride bikes and wave at folks.

Anyways, I hollered at Martha to come and see the bike. She looks at the bike and then looks at me. "Gonna sell it?"

"Why no deah, I thought I'd take it out for a spin and see what all the fuss is about. I told you about all those smilin bike folks I see when I's out on the Deere spreadin manuah with the new spreadah. Figured I'd try it myself. Smilin seems like it might be fun. But one thing, do you think I oughta get one of those helmets they all seem to wear first?"

Martha looks at the bike, then looks at me. "Well deah, I'd say just wear a hat, your head's hard enough". And she went back into the house.

One of My Last Transfers

I was wondering. Contemplating things in general. Reviewing the overall status quo. It dawned on me that yes, it is same shit different day. But somewhere for someone else it isn't. Somebody is catching shit, losing out, or winning the lottery. Life today is an about turn from yesterday. Their comfort zone invaded by events beyond their control or consideration.

Just who decides, hands out these detours anyway? We all take turns I guess. Go to the front of the line. And it doesn't really matter if it's God, your neighbor or by lucky chance. At some point something will drag us out of our SSDD day into nightmares or fantasies. The trick is to remain sane in between.

I have taken different approaches over the years to remaining sane. I cannot count my time as a child. As a child I spent all my time finding out what sane meant. As a teen and young adult I determined nothing was sane. No sense to any of it. Self medicating myself to an uneasy equilibrium, I spent too many years in disconnect. I snapped out of it in time to settle down and perform my survival of the species schtick. Marriage, mortgage, and a kid forcing sanity down my throat.

Now the home and hearth stand quiet. The rush to make it this far is over. I am noticing fewer loose ends. Challenges have been met or denied. I realize that what I might have wanted to become is not even close to what I became. Intentions have turned into consequences. I am facing a tighter range of choices now. My timeframe is shrinking. A deadline is on a horizon that creeps closer every day. I now realize my sunset is not just possible but certified for sure gonning to happen. The irrational overwhelming fear of it I felt as a child learning what that meant has been replaced with grudging acceptance.

But you know what? I have no regrets. Even though I could have done some things differently, smarter, kinder or not been so very serious. It is a waste of my time dwelling on the woulda coulda shoulda. Anquishing over spilt milk, not hearing opportunity knock. Especially now that I know for certain where there was once a beginning, there must also be an end. All that seems less important now. All that seems so over with, fruitess to cry about.

My nest is empty and my mate grows old next to me. I will embark on the time that is left with all the gumption I have. This bus trip is not over , but I have cashed in one of my last transfers.