Twinklin' lights and The Throwing of Caution into the Wind

I often criticize and rarely recognize the overzealous appreciation for safety.  I believe in my heart that we live in a completely neurotic and dreadfully fearful society; you hear about it everyday in our politics, in the air and on the roads.  A general need for the building of self-esteem through braces, cameras, airbags and BPA-frees.  I can not help but wonder if we haven't all become a bunch wimps.
On a recent car trip into the the twinkling of Christmas lights, I was the driver of a vehicle that was overstuffed with small children and adults - one car seat.  We were shredding paint and burning rubber at the maximum speed of a whopping 2 miles per hour.  My daughter and her two friends merrily enjoying the seizure-driven twinklings of merriment for which I was willing to shill out of pocket 12 bucks.  Oh, it was beautiful.  My daughter wanting to throw her body on top of the middle console and her friends bouncing recklessly in the back of the Crusher, my foot cramping.  And then we came to the end - toll with Santa Claus and two police cars. 
My dad would not have thought twice about this back in the 70's.  No airbags.  Cold beer in a cooler.  Fishing poles.  And the open road screeching tires with his buddy George riding shotgun, and my brother Danny, and George's kids all in the back of the pick up truck on what must have been the most flea infested mattress.  Flying headlong to a remote location - we wrestled, as the truck teetered inches closer to a permanent nirvana at every passing mile.  They had beer, and we had our mouth's painted a vibrant electric purple on Welch's Grape Soda, and all of us, I believe were loaded, and either ready to fish and camp or just pass out from exhaustion.  We pulled off at some remote location.  Both my dad and George held cigarettes dangling out of their mouth like they were characters in an Andy Capp comic strip.  They's pour a little gasoline into a hole throw on a couple fat branches for kindlin' and WHOOSH - Now that's a fire!
They were there.  They knew (not considered, but knew) we were all gonna be fine.  A hospital was bound to be somewhere if we blew up or something.  These fathers back in the day, were Vietnam Vets - tough as nails and they wanted an experience for their kids - who as it turned out never went to prison, enjoyed the bumps and occasional pain often associated with being stupid (like setting up a plank and brick jump in the middle of the street - no skate parks with mandatory helmet ordinances)
I understand why these laws exist.
Lawsuits.  Not because some greasy politician cares about your kids - there's money involved.
So I drive out of the merriment of those bright colors with the kids quietly huddled in the back.  We all waved happily and nervously at Santa.  And got up to speed to get back to the other car.  The kids survived - but then again, there is always tomorrow.

White Lightning or: How I stopped being Politcal and Learned to Enjoy an American Automobile

There were no doubts or questions anymore - at nearly 180,000 tired miles and squeaks, groans, vomitous noises from who knows where, we decided to sell the "SilverBullet".  She was a very slick 1997 Infinity I30 with all of the leathery bells and whistles.  I purchased that treasured piece of mechanical decency and comfort while selling Lexus automobiles, at just below 92,000 miles, and my beloved and I enjoyed it for seven years. 
She was the second car I owned, and unlike the first car - Eurotrash Saab -it ran nearly perfect throughout its existence with me.  the previous owner banged it up pretty good, and repaired it to the best of his capabilities, but after years of PA weather, the SilverBullet became long in the tooth.
Japanese cars.  They manufacture the best cars and motorcycles on the market.  I know bikes.  I owned about 9 of them (currently riding a British Triumph) and they were all world-class racer types; all made in Japan.  I sold Japanese vehicles.  Bullet proof.  So my first thoughts for a new vehicle were just about anything Japanese, and there was no possibility for an American hunk of crap with their puddles of oil and their utter lack of sophistication.
Why the hate?
Politics perhaps.  Bad stories.  Unions. 
An auction friends and I went the distance on finding the appropriate vehicle for my family and on the list was Japan and Germany, but no American.
Ford maybe.  But there was simply no way that I was going to buy GM (Government Motors).
Why?
Bruce assured me time and time again, and perhaps because of his age and he kept forgetting things, that Chevy made a good car.
Maybe he did not understand - I wanted a great car for a "good" price.
Even my "I know a guy" buddy, Chad suggested a one. 
I thought there was dung between his ears, he has an even more conservative ideology than I do.  he knows cars though... hmmm
But the bailouts, the UAW, lumpy image of insignificance, obsolescence and arrogance of yesteryear...
But what about Bruce?  Chad?
Politics?
And then I thought about it.  I hate the bailout.  The unions and I will never get along in our ideology.  And the whole American car underdog thing, kind of weighed in on me. 
I have a big ol' Kolache Crusher - Chevy Tahoe that has been pretty good to us, minus the whole AC creature comforts and the ever deflating tire issue, but that danggone thing will run over a one of those moronic Smart Cars like a white-head pimple in a pair of dirty digits.  Probably survive the impending nuclear war that I am so paranoid about too.
And then there are the people who work for Chevy and Ford.  They are still working in spite of their unions.  They could have been and should have been dissed by the CEOs, but they were not. 
So at $6000 I bought a 2002 Chevy Impala.  Cloth.
Okay.
It's a good car.  Good.
"Hey I had one of those.  One of the best cars I ever owned - really fast!"
Thank you Curt.
Now I like it.  An endorsement through experience - I needed that.
Politics aside.  I bought "Made in America".  and to be frank, I probably should have thought that to begin with.

Things get Fuzzy

I have a rage issue, and to top it off, I am probably paranoid.  Kristi knows about the paranoia - noises, things that go bump, odd words and looks, the blinker on the old lady's car in front of us.  And while some people may consider a little vigilance, or caution to be good, I handle some of these things, in my opinion, a little irrationally.  A knife out of the drawer of the kitchen cabinet, a sword with a gruesome looking skull carved into the hilt.  Consider jumping out of bed in the middle of the night ready for a fight at a strange sound.
What was that?
Don't know...
The door?
The back door?
Go see.
The rage issue though is a nuance to this paranoia.  As a young boy I had it, used it pitifully, losing all inhibitions for my own or any others safety, generally a pretty loud, primal-entity fuzzing up my field of vision and carrying weapons like stones and sledghammers - far too heavy for a boy.  Now though, in my forties with a wife and daughter, a business that at times can be all consuming, a bit of boxing and kickboxing training, a blackbelt in Aikido - I am growing nervous as times to release frustrations are limited that it will come out.  And it has not here in this town and not with anyone that you my good readers would know, but it (the rage) is an ugly devil.
I was once in a fight after 9/11 - more emotionally charged, but it turned.  I had a knife at my chest - a sharp butchery-looking thing.  I grabbed it, throwing it to the floor.  Things got fuzzy, and though I never physically retaliated, I saw something that scared me perhaps more than my opponent. 
The Devil. 
I saw myself in those eyes - talking slowly, breathing hard.  Cruelty incarnated into what this other person saw as a reason, justified and ready, to suffer horribly.
I turned away.  Perhaps God had other plans.
It almost came out again recently.  I walked before any devil could come out, but my language became a little flowery - and I hate that.
The problem is this: It's going to come again.  And I need a valve.  I pray for it.  I have been looking for an old punching bag again - stuffed and heavy.  A gym - a real one that lets guys beat the snot out of each other like they were meant to - to prevent war, death.

I'm not a Number

What in the world is going on in my country?
Since the country's beginnings, we were joyously given an opportunity to follow happenstance, and our educations, guts and intuitive capabilities allowed us to go forward to pursue our own place in society or farther.  Individuals - with beliefs that could reason, and now especially in an age where most certainly those with differing views, skin-tones and sexes can make a difference - make a name.
And yet throughout the Americas, groups of people have deemed themselves numbers or percentages, and perhaps this to belong to a collective - to give themselves a "small-group" in which that number could have significance; a big fish in a small pond.
Our country has grown in population, but why does that have to diminish the individual to a numeric category. 

• I am the 99%.
• I am the 53%.

Cliches. 
Americans have lost their creativity, so much so that names do not matter unless one is at the top of his economic or political ladder.  Washington DC (which by the way has the richest population per capita in the United States) and the banks do not care about any single one of us, unless we are voting for them or buying into their loans. 
The difference of course between the two of these entities is that one group can either lie or backtrack on their promises, and the other one, in order to save its slimy scales, will word contracts that we willingly sign in the "lawyer-speak" - thereby making it difficult to understand, nudging gently into agreeing with what in hindsight is completely ludacris; the word "mortgage" means "til death".
One more word regarding banks, especially those who promise school loans, car loans and mortgages - read the words (the fine print too - and I know that it's hard to understand) and then remember this "Caveat Emptor".  Difficult?  Don't sign!
I am not a number.
I wake up 4 or 5 depending upon what days I am opening the business.  And work 50 to 60 hours a week.  My wife, who I love more than bread, works another job, which actually helps our business.  I do not have cable or satelite TV.  I pay my mortgage.  I pay my dang'on student loan to a company that I paid for that is now being handled by some jackass that lives in Pakistan.  We have health insurance, it's bloody expensive, but it beats the alternative.  My health care plan is exercise and restraint. We give personally and through the business to countless organizations throughout the community including to public school systems whose unions are among the strongest and hungriest in the country.  We pay a lot in taxes and with more than ten employees are constantly under scrutiny and unwarranted tax obligations and adjustments. 
I probably belong to a number or a percentage.  I just don't care to know what it is.
I am not a number.
- neither are you.  So stop acting like it!

Very Vexed by Vasoline

Abby is a doll and she's smart too.  Sometimes, I think, she is maybe a little too smart, and I think that perhaps a little more SpongeBob and a lot less reading and outside fun is a great idea.  You take that intellect and tag on a strong will to never ever nap - even when daddy is begging her to, then you have an issue which if left unattended can leave you with loads of trouble, or should I say a tub of...
Abby.  It's time for a nap.
"No no no!"  She replies with a musical lilt.
It's time.  Let's go.
"No!"  Less musical, more emphatic.
One.  Two.  Thr...
Up the stairs to her bedroom she advances like a midget on the sands of Normandy,  because she realizes that "three" means I carry her and close the door sans story and song. 
"You go second!"  She instructs me pointing to the bottom of the steps.  And honestly, at this point I don't really care - as long she gets up to her room for her nap.
Blinds drawn blissfully making the room dark but for the few patterns of light shining through the little slats.
"It's still daytime.  There's light."
Yep.
I threw her in a diaper, knowing all too well that I would be removing a stinky package exactly five minutes after I depart the room.  And I do.  And she's very clingy at this point and wants nothing to do with her bed.
I took the poopy parcel out of the room, and descended to the study for a little reading and writing.
I forgot something and knew I should have retraced my steps, but she was making a horrible racket of banging and singing.  I needed some alone time, and allowed the noise to crest and wain like a tranquil wave at a sunny shore.
The Vasoline.
About an hour later, I ascended the steps expecting a few things to be strewn haphazardly around the room.  What I did not expect was Vasoline on just about every nook and cranny, including her bed, the frame of the bed, her newly painted wall, the newly redone floor, her pajamas, her belly, her hair - and then on my fingers and feet which made that hardwood floor a little more challenging to navigate.
Roar!
"Hi daddy."  She coos.
Abby!  Why - you?  Roar!
"I make you happy!"  Greasy smile.
Yep.  Sometimes but not - right now!
I struggled.  My hands caressed her bed frame through the stick, thickly applied goo.
She looked up me with those multicolored eyes, while sitting in her dirty clothes basket, knowing (the lil' scamp) that if she played her cards right the worst I would do is wash her clothes and her hair, and then  write about it in one of my stupid articles.
Ab.  You are absolutely right about that.

Probably a Technophobe and getting Closer.

Third and final part of a series entitled "The Ligonier".

I was amazed watching two friends fistbump each other using "intellihands" (or intelligent handheld device) to exchange information. The information that they exchanged - I could not say as to its importance, but I could say it raised some of my more paranoid questions in regards to our future. A future which seems to be rapidly approaching.


The Ligonier brought up a whole lot of topics, and in the conversation regarding my friend's financial disturbance he told me of an article he recently read.

"In a few years, our IDs will be kept in these handheld devices."

And this reminded me of the fistbump I witnessed earlier that week, where the physical action of bumping fists, produced an exchange that the mind alone or the notepad and paper should have accepted and stored to both individuals, and not the madness in mine that soon followed; I reminded my friend that there are devices out there that can be surgically implanted into the skin. The devices are called RFID, or Radio Frequency Identification Device.

RFIDs are used to company inventories, and in some European hospitals, they are used to track patients and their conditions. Here while the first may be used more frequently in the means to protect companies from loss through theft, veterinarians provide peace of mind for the owners of dogs and cats by letting them recognize the unrecognizably scrambled mess on the side of the road, without having to undergo some form of recognition autopsy.

Fear.

I believe it is what drives this technoeconomy. After 9-11-2001 - a time when we were told that no one was safe, intellihands became immensely popular as did the increase of information. What also increased at the time was the rampant abuse of personal and financial identifications which brought forth a wave of ID protections, which continue to prove useless no matter how hi-tech, because on everything we apply for from credit to jobs requires information that would otherwise be ours alone to share with an increasing paranoid government.

And the online malls where we buy our necessaries and unnecessaries, have their own walls of protection built for us, which though well packaged are nothing more than office cubicles - providing just enough protection to think that we are alone.

Fear.

Fear of public speaking - Youtube.

Fear of germs - Bluetooth.

Fear of your poor esteem and close relationships - Facebook.

Fear of mispellings - Spellcheck.

Fear of meeting new people - Face recognition.

Fear of hard work - Wikipedia, Wii, GuitarHero

Fear of want - Amazon.com, Ebay, Craigslist.

Elbert Hubbard, that often thought eccentric artist, once said that fearing a possible mistake by cowering to it is one of the biggest mistakes a person could make. And here, nearly 100 years since his passing, we are creating software applications to avoid that fear at any cost, which in the end will make us, as a species.

If fear is met and conquered, as a climber may challenge Everest, we become more than what we were. However, in this day and age, we hire digital sherpas, who do it (the hard work) all without us moving even a single muscle, and we, if we are honest with ourselves, know that we deserve absolutely for it.

But our egos, sensitive to our fears and luxuries will develop more programs to meet and relieve us of even the most minute sensitivities, and rest assured it will not be long before our intellihands are greeting our virtual children with timidity as they awaken to Aldous Huxley's Brave New World.

Part 1
Part 2

Not Quite a Techonophobe, but Closer.

Part 2 of a 3 part article.  For part 1 take off the "r".

We found ourselves finally, after some ridiculous and unnecessary hours on the road basking in the Ligonier dusk. I was told that tomorrow an antique show to tell the neighbors about will be featured on the very stret we were staying, and much to my own relief I was not one of the relics to be sold by these artifact dealers.

I had collected my wife and daughter and a myriad of articles that they both found necessary with which to cram the car to overflowing for the weekend retreat, and then myself - coming down from my unpleasant moments of technological blundering through the all too common global positioning device which we mistakenly used to bring us to our lovely destination.

After the giggles of children and the tittering laughter of adults through complete exhaustion and copious amounts of red wine, my beloved and I carefully ascended the wonderfully restored staircase with ninja-like reflexes, passing by our slumbering daughter and into our pillow top bed, where we slept until 6:45 in the morning, receiving the usual better than 2 hours of sleep.

The sun rose and the antique dealers crawled out from their vehicles. They set shops up and down the main street, and quietly waited for interested buyers to creep up on them with coffees and - in our case children in hand or on shoulder.

Yes, two grown men and their respective children walking side by side - writer types. Both a little sleepy looking, and wives nowhere to be found - my, how fancy.

Bait - a really cool, old green-felt sofa.

Fish - "writer extraordinaire" in need of really cool, old green-felt sofa for really old house in a really old neighborhood.

Snag.

She takes cash.

My friend goes to an ATM. An ATM is a machine which reads a magnetized, plastic card which holds personal finances. Its primary use is to divvy out parts of your cash reserves. There are several other duties the computerized teller can perform, including that those reserves may be dangerously low.

My friend is astonished. Not so much alarmed, but bewildered. Apparently, someone, who he has never met has used his card to the tune of over $1000 USD. This stranger is in Great Britain.

We buy stuff on line every day. We pay with these magnetized cards, which have numbers to our personal and business financial accounts trusting that the seller is one of incredible integrity or that the financial institution he is using is credible. Complete strangers.

It is not like I have never bought anything online. Indeed, I have bought quite a few things online, but I have to reconsider it now. The whole "exposed anonymity" economics is seedy to say the least - the secure feeling that no one knows what is in that "plain manila envelope, but the trustworthy individual who gave it to you. Nothing to be embarrassed about, right?"

It used to be that we went to the corner newsstand, restaurant, clothier and supermarket for our goods. We paid cash and we walked away. The person on the other end of the counter was someone we trusted and were familiar with or at the very least a person whom we could “eye-up”, and then somewhere along our consumption, someone invented the credit card. With it we could take into our physical possession, the products that we believed that we wanted, and we went to places that seemed innocuous, and we began to place our trust in people with a nice appearance, never looking into their eyes. Still personal - they may say “Hello” and “Thank you”, thus ending the transaction. Now we go “online” to buy goods and services. We use our financial IDs, willingly giving it over to complete strangers.

It does not end there. These strangers can access our personal history, our families, our consumption history, and market accordingly; like exercise videos and whole foods? You can bet somewhere in your online visits, you will have something marketed to you accordingly – in spam and spyware.

Compare it to walking down a dark alley in the city, with cash pouring out of you pockets – bank number, your car keys, house keys, your favorite music, your favorite food, pictures of your family, and your place of business. And then hand them all over to the first stranger you meet. He.com (She.com) looks great – sexy and armed for protection, not to mention of course that because of this they appear trusting. You hand it over because they have the latest product and service. They tell you to wait by the dumpster for it.

Good idea.

Part 3

Not Quite a Technophobe, but Close

It was not just the trip that our family took to Ligonier that started my fear and disdain for technology or the dangerous commercial addictions and misguided actions of both consumer and maker alike, it started about the same time that I first read Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 way back in Center Junior High School.

We were to meet friends in Ligonier - a quaint town though being a sleepy lil' village (which we needed), seemed hipper than most western Pennsylvania towns. We had gone only a month prior to one of the local and very well-known fun parks, which too had showed a knack for being really cool without the modern hoopla and over-abundance of mechanical enhancements, indeed some spots were rickety enough to cause some consternation on an otherwise thrill seeking man, such as myself.

We borrowed a GPS from my parents, a wide-screened piece of equipment which if plugged and programmed properly could probably take you through the wildest parts of town through the bitterest traffic patterns very easily - and it did just that.

"The lady" - that is to say the digital voice from inside the system bid me hello with a happy little "ding", which must have resulted from some Pavlovian understanding, because as soon we heard that "ding" sound, my wife and I immediately shut our conjoined brains down. And the lady sent us careening down route 65 towards Pittsburgh in Friday construction traffic at an approximate speed of 5 miles per hour.

In my head, only five minutes into the trip, I am uttering phrases and epitaphs that could only be described as coming from a Tarentino movie, because I realize that I could have hopped onto a road that would have very easily taken us out of the hell that we (the lady and I) put ourselves into.

"What are we doing?"

Grumble. Grumble.

"Why is she taking us this way?"

Grumble. Snort. "Duh. I dunno-."

My wife - the woman I love that most, the flesh of my flesh, my best friend - found my short fuse, and I, in turn, found hers, because I was cheating on her with a GPS system that after enduring the biggest, snarling beast of a bottle neck in suburban Pittsburgh, in an automobile whose very structure may well bounce into oblivion was thought to be infallible in my dullard state of being.

"She knows all - duh."

A one and half hour trip to a weekend of rest in a Mayberrian Utopia with close friends. The children, prior to getting in the car, were bouncing pleasantly in the evening sun, filled with colors of the on coming evening. All gathered at a feast, reserved at the local 4-star restaurant. All this in my vivid imagination, but in truth the hours ticked by with unadulterated speed and my boiling point was reached.

"ETA 7 VIA GPS." My wife texted to her friend, already in Ligonier basking in the grapy glow of a sultry red wine.

Texting. More texting.

I remained hot and quiet.

"Change the reservations for dinner?"

Text.

What ever happened to actually talking to one another?

Then it hit me. After finally making it through the Monroeville tunnel with angry people listening to their radios, their GPS, their talking texts, my wife and I realized that we could have looked at the map or even better, could have talked to someone - our friends who have been there numerous times, and then we realized that they - two very intelligent individuals - did the same damn thing; they plugged in their GPS. They shut down their brains as though dogs salivating at the sound of a bell. They wished their children asleep with music and texting and "the lady" to guide them into the same stupid drive-home-traffic.

Keep in mind we've been there. They have been there numerous times. An hour and half - TOPS.

No one talks anymore. They fear their own intelligence or a potential challenge to it by someone else, by feigning interest in it claiming they are too busy. Texting is a way to commune how much we are afraid to go into deeper water with someone. I married my wife and kept the TV off because we both like the high-dive in the deep end. If we want to be careful in a subject of discussion, we stay out of it until we are ready, or we wade in, shallow side first into the deep end – always.

 part 2

The Bronze

She came home tired and huffing, having run a great distance, carrying all that she had.  Her belly hung heavy - low.  Her lips and teeth covered in the catch, feathers clinging to the crimson crusts around her mouth.

She placed the catch on the dirt floor of her little hovel and wondered about the single dwelling five feet from the surface, until her feet would no longer support her.  She bent her legs and lowered herself down onto the bird, placing her head gently on its neck. 

It was covered in blood - still warm.  Not for long.  She waited as had always been the case for it all to become cool. 
Inside, the little one moved.

Soon, the Bronze - Blacksock, would be the only provider.

Above her, the Domestic - with their snarling and their unnatural lust of obedience to a species that believed itself superior to all others.  The oddness of them wanting to kill her and her kits rather than savor in the natural desire for the bird or the rabbit, which in their own world was abundant enough for her and her entire clan - the fabled Bronze of the Netherwood.

Inside her belly, the young stirred.  The Bronze would grow.
"Thunder."

She smiled coolly.  The Domestic would go soon, losing interest in the Bronze.  Their yelling and screaming cum madness.  Fear of the explosions and the light-flashes and the rain. 

The rain frightened them.  Their coats drizzled wet.  Masters - cowards with black-magic sticks producing death, wait with weak eyes, frustrated by the hunt, by the water, by each other.

She licked her lips and then her paws and chest.  Smiling through her sharpened teeth, she set to tearing gently the bird apart.

Through the great hollow he came, father, hunter, protector. 

The great Bronze males, just short of a Domestic, but lighter, stronger, smarter and deadlier.  Unforgiving jaws. 

The Domestic, once dogs proudly held in the great line, forewent the underground and the hunt above, for companionship with the "TwoLeg", a criminal, selfish species that devoured all it carelessly possessed.  They listened and forgot the language for the sake of scraps that the two-leg provided - granted their bidding was done on command. 

The Domestic rather endured slavery in creature comforts than live in service to instincts.
 

The male, Blacksocks a lovely creature of celebrated fidelity with his mate.  His paws far greater in proportion compared to the slave Domestic, he makes a noise when tired as though the very ground was shaking with each pad.  His tongue hangs low and his mouth like hers covered in the catch. 

He does not possess it, having left it in the middle of the wooded glen above for the Domestic, should they come to their senses - one of their own, left shaking for dead.

"Thunder."

He sniffs the air, finding her over the bird and waiting for him to rest.

She would live and so would the kit in her belly.

The world above now weary and wet, with no sound but the servants, laughing to one another.  They speak beautiful tones as music while the wind and rain breath through the Netherwood and through them.  

He would go out again but not before the birth of his pride.  In rain, snow, wood rotted death, and forage and hunt for the blood.

The slaves, would eat their scraps in the dry cells to stare out of the magic nothing - secretly pining for a chance at his Bronze flesh - and the master's.

As he travels in and out of their pen, with fresh catch, the blood making the great Bronze darker, and more mythological, the Slaves cry.  Their masters - the TwoLeg sit on their honches around their great weapon, drinking the sleeping waters, and staring dead into the moving light bark orders for their silence, all the while stoking their apathy for the Way with poorly processed shreds of food. 

It's Not Ours

It not ours.

None of it.

As a man of Christian faith, I struggle with this – particularly when it comes to our own being. This body and soul that I possess is not my own.

Believing in this brings comfort to some and to others a sense of woe or anger.

You wake up one day only to find that your car has been vandalized, you got laid off, the house payment is overdue. September 11th 2001, the world as we know it changes at the hands of people that most of us have never met – and we find ourselves in the middle of a war that we did not start – as boxes with draped American flags arrive home filled with individuals who believed in their hearts that they were protecting us. Your child, bright eyed and filled with hopes and knowing that there is a loving God above watching over us… dies.

There is no reason for it. There is no explaining it. It happens.

“Why do bad things happen to good people? If God was just and loving He would not do this.”

At times, I wonder that while God sits at his throne with his only Son at his right side, who He sent off to Calvary to die on a twisted old stick – I wonder if He is apathetic, and then I remember all of the wonderful things and how I am the one who is not caring enough.

Am I?

We have taken possession of everything, or so we have been led to believe, perhaps this is the greatest lie we ever were told; that we own ourselves.

We are merely stewards over what we sense. Even the “we” is a vague description of ownership, as though it means something more than it is – a group of similars that is personally recognized.

Both believers and nonbelievers share this common thread that life is the great journey.

I will add one more thing as though it were my own: If life is a journey, then death is the destination.

Funny thing is - death to a believer can be celebrated.

But it is so hard. With tears in my eyes, it so damn hard.

The Realist and the Optimist

One day, the realist, driving his new car, fell into a patch of road that was unexpectedly wet and lost control of the vehicle.
At the very same time and travelling on the opposite side of the road, was the optimist, driving a respectably well-maintained, yet older vehicle, who fell into the same predicament.
With both cars careening dangerously out of control, they both collided into one another's automobile.
The sounds of stones and rubber lasted only a brief moment - giving way to the cacophony of metal to metal, breaking glass, and the explosive sounds of airbags being deployed and then...
...Nothing but the spinning of wheels, as both cars came to rest.
With the both vehicles in heaps, the realist and the optimist unlocked their seat belts and rolled out of their cars.
The realist immediately called for a tow truck and wept to the emergency dispatcher that he was injured, though not severely.
The optimist stood, brushed himself off noticing a few scrapes and then looked upwards. He smiled. He called for the same, letting the operator on the other end of the line know that he was fine save for a few minor scratches.
The realist and the optimist both sat on the soggy ground. They surveyed the damage to their automobiles, and they both looked to each other's injuries. Much to their surprise, the damage to their cars and their injuries appeared to be very similar.
"How 'bout that?"
They both, not faulting the other, commented on how ironic that little slippery patch of roadway sent them both to crash - into each other.
"It could have been so much worse."
"Ah well."
At that the optimist stood. He once more smiled and looked upward.
The realist, feeling relieved to be alive, commented, "Well, one day, we'll laugh about all this."
The optimist turned. Realizing that "one day" was today, and may not be tomorrow or any other day following, he put his hand on the fellow's shoulder replied, "Why wait?"

The Great American Cheese Debacle

One of our younger bakers had dropped a tub of grated American cheese onto the kitchen floor in the cafe. Though inconvenient, she went about the task of dutifully cleaning it up - albeit with a disgruntled face.
I responded by explaining, jokingly, "Hey. It's not New Orleans."
"The federal government really screwed that one up, huh?"
"No, they didn't. Look at Memphis. Different and overly loved president, and the looting, though not as publicized, has been even greater."
"Yeah, you're probably right."
"Heck, in the Trib, they interviewed a person living there who said that while people were screaming for help, within earshot were looters who were not only disinterested in them, but were probably stealing their crap in the meantime. And then you look at Northern Japan - who knows how many people killed and places destroyed, and you don't see them looting! It's not a federal government's fault... it's a people fault. I mean the hurricane happened nearly a decade ago, and people can't get their act together?"
People blame others when they can not get their lazy hind ends together. Not only that, but these same people who bitch and moan about their situations, and how that "George Bush" is responsible, not only cheer on the demise of others, but because misery loves company,are willing to aid in that destruction. If they don't get that handout on time or in continuation, again it is not their fault, but someone else's.
The common arguments:
1. I'm fat.
2. I'm addicted to _____.
3. I'm unemployed.
4. I'm unemployable.
5. I'm stupid.
6. I'm poor.
7. I've done everything that I could, but i just can't______.
8. My credit sucks.
9. I can't because I'm (pick a race, sex, persuasion, marital status, faith orientation...).
10. I suck.
The excuse:
1. Pick a politician (or party).
2. Pick a neighbor.
3. Pick a race, sex, persuasion, marital status, faith orientation...
4. Whatever you do - do not pick yourself.
When things are great, we typically find ourselves only to blame in our successes, and when they are bad, the unenlightened masses find others. There is no disputing that our situations are sometimes dictated to us by circumstances, and some circumstances are indeed very difficult to weather; however, we, in adverse conditions, must seek to define our compass and go forward - from a terrible situation to a better one.
And there are some who will argue that bad things happen to them all the time and that getting "out of the mud" is impossible (heck, I even felt that way); with that in mind one must remember again that misery loves company; this does not just include hangers-on - it includes the magnetic attraction that misery has on circumstances.
Remember the old adage: "Out of the frying pan, and into the fire."
Idea: Stay away from the stove!

Now, like a good ol' talking head, who knows nothing, I could blather on about this and complain about the ills of society, leaving my spotlessness to myself; however, I have gone through bouts of depression, misguidedness, misery, jobloss (which seems to have become a single word), heart issues, broken bones, trips to the hospital - all of this leading me to ask, "Why me?"
Which begs, "Why not me?"
The fact is that I am blessed. I am by no means rich and at times we struggle; however, we can pay our mortgage and feed ourselves. I am no Charles Atlas, yet I can walk, run, jump, and pick up my daughter. And in spite of a lot of bashing to my faith, I can worship the way I need to - for which I am immensely grateful.
I guess I am tired of people, including myself, complaining (period).
It rains. Get an umbrella. Don't wait for the rain to stop.
It shines. Wear sunglasses.
You hungry. Eat something, and remember that there are people in this world who may never ever read this crappy essay, and will never know how tasty that oily, orange-mustard colored government-issue American "cheese" really is.

So this is Spring?

And it rained.
From winter snow to spring showers.
And then to summer storms?
Warm enough to be comfortably moldy perhaps.
if it were not for the differing levels of perpetual gray, not a single inhabitant in this saturated Hell would ever believe that the sun and moon ever existed.
Drunken past-times formerly devoted to by fairweatherers, now bore the markings of deeply contrasting greens against brown and black muds of the north lands. And in increasing volumes apathetic to the duldrums of Pennsylvanian spring's unpalpable persistant dredging "play on." was meekly murmered by fat tulips and bluebells.

Curse Line

Boop-beep-beep-beep-boop-boop-beep-beep-boop-bop-boop.
Thank you for calling the Curse Line for English press "1". Para espanol presione el número "2".
Boop.
Thanks for calling the Curse Line. Your call is very important to us. Please hold for the next available operator.
(muzak - Girl from Ipanema)
Thanks for holding. How may I help you?
Yeah. I hit my thumb with a very large hammer. I'd like to order a curse, please.
Okay. One moment please. (fingering on a keyboard. Heavy breathing) Hit your thumb with a hammer, yes?
Yes.
You can say "Ah, S@#T!"
Mmm. No.
For an extra $1.95 plus tax, I can give you bigger one.
Okay.
Say "Son of B@#$%H!"
That might work.
Good luck. And thank you for calling the Curse Line. Is there anything else I can get for you.
No, that'll do.
Thank you. Good bye.

!MIERDA!

Daddy Used to Rock

Mostly, this is a letter to my two year old. One day you will be able to read this. One day you'll be able to understand.
Older. Everyday a little bit more. I am convinced though that it is all reversible - physically, mentally, and spiritually. For now though, I have become a cranky old man. Regrettably, mommy has seen it, and you have. You may not have noticed. Sure, you may have thought that daddy was a little off, but "why?" may never have crossed your mind.
You see...
Daddy used to rock.
Odd - one word to summarize the whole of a past self. I tried everything, and rarely considered the ramifications of my actions unless I knew that they were certainly perilous, and even then I weighed these with expediency.
A lot these were to impress girls, and I say girls because women seem to know better (that includes mommy, although she still likes to see me in a stage-element.)
I used to play in a variety of rock bands. Mostly, I dove into crowds as a progressive-metal rock singer, though I was a classic tenor. I was and still am very comfortable in front of people. Somehow, I get the feeling that you will be the same.
Daddy was on stage in New York and Japan. I co-produced and hosted radio and television programs. I even helped make a few good movies.
I used to ride my motorcycle everywhere fast. I reached the road with my knees.
I don't ride or do much with such veracity - growling anymore.
I never had much. Never needed much. Never talked politics. Never worried about having money. Never worried about you or mommy. Never questioned my being, because it never entered my mind. Never questioned the existence of God, because I never knew Him.
You must be thinking that I long for that past, wanting nothing more than rekindle that spirited youth, or perhaps that I would like to live it through you.
In short, my response is "No."
At length, I wish to regain that fearlessness that I held. I enjoy the light steps that everyday brought, and reminisce about infinite energy that was given to me. My shoulders broad – able to conquer, to invent, and to lead.
Know this - I would rather have a past fearless and free than a future of same without you and mommy. If daddy seems a little off, it’s probably because he is.
You will have a future and a past. The present is the only thing you can deal with. You will rejoice in your triumphs and regret your failures, and you will learn from them all. Give thanks. Don’t reminisce too much. Remember that God’s watching. Breathe. Pray. Go!
I don't know if daddy still rocks or that it even matters, but he used to.

At Some Point in Time

As I vacuumed over blueberry Greek yogurt on our wine red carpet, wondering how in the world, aside from using the same formula to rid one's self of dog messes, does one get the yogurt stains out of anything. When dry, a white-powdery looking dairy product that hardly comes off of skin let alone a thick carpet.
And then it hits me - she's two.
It seemed rather cliche to use the notorious words of "terrible twos" when describing the confused and angsty toddler, and up until recently I would never have even considered it for our daughter, who by design is a sublime angel. Not only cherubic in stature and demeanor, but far more intelligent than her slobbering counterparts, no matter how good they smell, or how cute they are in their lactose induced comas.
Our daughter, since she hit the age and before has been coloring Dora and Mickey, and has known her ABCDs and can count, at this stage way past eleventeen. Why physically she has been asking for and crawling threw tunnels that would inspire and rattle the tunnel rats of KuuChi. She has performed feats of levitation and flights of fancy from armoires and sofa cushions only to receive giggles of gross anticipation and fright by any passersby.
And yet, for week or longer she has been in a mode that I can only label as duplicitous, if not downright bipolar. From an angel to a screaming demon with poopy drawers, she has gone the route of driving my wife and I a little batty, and concerned.
It is like someone slipped a mickey in her pink and yellow sippy cup and it has distorted the fragile continued growth of that spongy brain of hers. Attacking "Yellow Puppy", kicking nanni, crying into a rage, not looking at daddy, not looking at mommy, not eating, not drinking, not understanding.
An acquaintance with toddler knowledge stated that their brains at this very age are going through a series of rewiring - all kids. I never hear about other children up-ending a table sending yogurt to the carpet. I also never hear about dads speed destroying a table, and removing any and all Barney sounds to their daughters' dismay.
I digress. It is a bit odd that I sit here in the kitchen, fluorescent bulbs buzzing above me that clarity should come in solitude and prayer. I could have been out on my motorcycle; a cold day, but sunny nevertheless. Probably should have continued painting the bedroom, but I am fairly messy.
As it is, I have been forewarned that three is worse than two for many, and the teenage years, especially for girls, is turbulent to say the least. What do I do? Hide in the corner, avoiding the gift that my daughter is like so many dads do? Never knowing how to talk to their children, especially the girls.
No. I have to enjoy this. And no I will not be putting on my priest outfit, practicing my Latin, in order to perform an exorcism on her, but just riding it out: watching her while she drinks her morning beverage, kissing her when she requests it, holding her hand on walks, calming her tantrums, kissing her booboos, checking out her boyfriends, helping her on her schoolwork, teaching her to drive, and finally tucking her in at night - all the while trying to remember to thank God for her and my wife.

La Mela - The Big Ragu

If you had not read the ramp up to this - the last scene behold the following button http://hughsmuse.blogspot.com/2011/01/la-mela.html (cut and paste).

...The boys were in big trouble. Only a few bucks left between them, after spending it on travelin' beers and road smokes, the boys feared that between them they didn't have enough to buy a single meatball, let alone the five course "last supper" before the long walk into the Hudson.
"We... um."
"White or red?"
"Red!"
"White!"
Two bottles of fine table dego red and white wines were fisted onto the table with the smashing grace of a punch by the Rocky Marciano. The two, dumbfounded just looked at each other with panic driven sweat, moving southbound upon their worried brows. The old one, revered by the others as "nonno", stood barrel chested next to their table. His hairy arms were folded like broken pythons. A single pinky finger was encrusted with gold and a single solitary diamond.
"Um... we... were just ahem..."
"Here you go! Buon Mangiare! Idiotas!"
"Um. Gracias!"
"Che di spagnolo, lei al!"
The big Ragu lumbered away from the table his eyes never leaving the boys. A maniacal smile on his lips baring a single gold tooth - a tad gaudy, but this was lil' Italy.
Mouths oozed with delight as the appetizer appeared.
"Some kind of salted meat, which is like really awesome and ridiculo 'r spinach... I don't know what this is, dude but it ain't spaghetti! And I'm cool with 'at."
The wines were poured. The table once more was cleared and replaced with who knows what. And our two intrepid rennaisance men feasted with chomping and tearing, and hardly paying any attention to the falderall that was happening on the opposite side of the room.
The table was cleared. And once more replaced with more food, quicker than either of them could say "Un momento".
Four beautiful women in the corner, one unfortunately at a loss for cash. No card.
I have travelers checks.
"We no take a the traveler check. How you gonna pay?"
Half a fork full of pasta stringing from his mouth the older of the two brothers cautiously whimpered to his brother, "We're gonna die."
He continued to slirp the remains into his mouth. And they listened, while cautiously twirling another fork-full.
"What can you do?" Nonno Asked. "He licked his lips and twisted his mustache."
"I can sing."
Oh really.
Yeah. Classical.
"Sing for us. You pay us like that. Sing."
Suddenly, the music that was softly - almost serenely playing in the background as a sublime dream steeped in garlic and blood red wine stopped playing. In hushed anticipation, the restaurant became the setting for a glorious opera. Those dining had become choir-extras as the victory unwound itself.
Mimi begins a capella. Her voice was young and rich, though the creature herself appeared pale in her fear. She rose.
Nonno closed his eyes. His arms unwound like two enormous pythons - one with a gold and solitary diamond eye at its sharpest tooth.
She closed her eyes as though accepting an invitation to perhaps fall in love with whomever might be willing to share the light with her.
The boys glistened now with sweat. The garlic and heavy olive oil churned the bellies.
The big Ragu stood in the corner eyeing any dissenters to her shedding payment.
Mimi finished.
There was a slight pause. The air in the restaurant was thick and still.
Shallow whispers.
He's gonna kill that woman.
"Sciocchezze!"
"Bravo! "
La Mela exploded. Nonno and Ragu and the other jumped up and down shouting and screaming at the top of their lungs. Ragu came to the table, and with his enormous mits grabbed our wine bottle and pummeled them without mercy or fear of them breaking into a thousand shards of glass. Cheering and ranting.
Nonno grabbed the dangling string of the enormous electric phallus. Flicking what appeared to be equivalent of a large pubic hair, so that the light would not only turn on and off, but throb,
The boys looked at one another. Terror.
The noise died down allowing the Ragu to return to their table. Coming off of his high, he smiled allowing that opulent piece of dental work to shine through his crooked lips.
"Coffee? Cappucino?"
"Cappucino."
"No! Haha."
"You?"
He knew he was dead anyways.
"Just a coffee, thanks."

Bucket - The Dog (You really need to read the first episode)

Shortly, after removing our daughter from the offense on the carpet to clean her, the dog in her natural curiousity approached the room. Before I could "shush" the dog away, she had already devoured the more chunky bits of regurgitant.
There is something in the Bible about this, I am fairly certain.
The next day, while my beloved was infirmed with forementioned illness, I felt compelled to come home for a brief moment to tend to our recovering daughter. As I was preparing her for the day at grandma's house, my wife yelled from the bed, "Hugh, the dog's throwing up!"

Bucket

The intestinal virus that hit the area, hit our daughter first. We thought that she would be immune to it. Alas, she was not.
After bringing her home from grandma’s, we had the opportunity to color, a favorite activities. She immediately was overcome with a need to remove her blue jeans. I did not think very much of it at the time, realizing that she is growing and they were tight. We continued to color her Elmo potty training book. Suddenly, she walked away from it, which again did not alarm me, because like the growth of a two year-old, she also has attention span of one. But the writhing in pain on the ground alarmed me, and I needed to get -
Blah!
Too late. "Little Girl", threw up on the carpet. I tried to grab her and run, but -
Blah!
"Are you okay?"
Yeah.
She is resilient. I went about cleaning up the goo that committed itself to the red carpet, and she went bounding about the house as she often does.
My beloved wife arrived home to find me cleaning the mess.
She was alarmed by this and the fact that it happened two more times before the night was over. I talked to a pediatrician who recommended Gatorade, and that is indeed what she got.
The next day, I went in to work, while my beloved stayed at home to tend to our clingy child. Of course she rebounded with some minor displays of her temporary affliction.
I cooked dinner that evening, and shortly following our dinner, my wife, exposed to our daughter's illness, became quite ill.
Bring on the commode, bring on the bucket.
The house, by this time did not smell very good.
"I will be very surprised if you don't get this."
I am immune.
Insert foot in mouth. Exhale. Repeat.
While at the controls of our business, my eyes became squirrelly and my attitude apathetic, I realized that I may not be staying for any length of time.
I slurred my speech like a drunkard while talking on the phone in the office. I fearfully explained the predicament to my wife that I had to drive home in this condition. I hung up, removed the garbage bag from the bucket and hung my head on the desk over the bucket and -
Blah!
Blah!
Out for a day and half. Sick.

La Mela

He had only been in New York for a few days. Cocky and arrogant. Fortunately, his brother, an artist struggling to pay for beer and cigarettes was familiar with the ins and outs of the Big Apple.
"Chinese?"
Yeah.
It had not taken entirely too long to hop the L from Brooklyn and into Union Square. The usual fare rode the train smelling of sewage, barf and Old Spice. Hanging on to the straps attempting to talk over the incessant screaming of the L bounding through the underground at breakneck speeds, they pondered whether to walk via the village or take the 6 train.
Well, it was the Big Apple and these two intrepid individuals had a pack of Marlboro Reds, matches, 4 pints of liquid giddiness and were bound for China Town on foot.
Of course, one cannot help getting to China Town via Little Italy, and these two being eager to smell everything from vomit to street crime did just that.
"Wonder what's on the menu?'
Spaghetti, du'h.
La Mela stood out to them - little shop with all the quaintness of a wayward, red speckled Mafioso movie.
"Dude, no prices."
He puffed on his cigarette, reading the tiny print on the menu.
"I wonder wh..."
"You twos look 'ungry."
Before they knew it two of la Mela's goons dragged them into the building. It was no use arguing. By the time fear had washed over them and subsided they were seated at a round table - the footmen lumbering in the sunlight casting long, lonely shadows.
Dire moments.
They stared at the walls of La Mela. They obviously did not know of interior decorating as the walls were plastered like poorly placed machine gun holes with a variety of autographed celebrity photographs. Each one thanking La Mela for the hospitality and a place to store the body. Dean Martin, John Wayne, Sinatra, DeNiro, da friggin' Pope…
Above them a ceiling filled with what may have been fingers and ears for all they had known. And the piece to cause them the greater deal of consternation – a monstrous phallic chandelier
The boys were in big, big trouble...

Ace

The nickname "Ace" has always been associated with awesome fortune or with calm coolness under adverse conditions by a man who knows no equal. "Ace" is synonymous with those who exclusively handle (and well) an impossibly difficult situation or maneuver, particularly and wrongly as it pertains to players of sports or more appropriately among men of great character, valor and ability - as in fighter pilots of yore from World Wars 1 and 2.
It is, of course, no surprise that it is often used to describe a very winning situation, as in the phrase: "He has an Ace up his sleeve.” in which the gentleman in question has been either handed a great deal of luck, or has a skill-set measured far above the task.
To be labeled "Ace", though at times, used as a sarcastic insult to describe a person of most odious character, is a reference given to a gentleman of the highest caliber. Ace conjures images of rakish good looks, high esteem, heroic deeds, the strength of Milo, and conduct a little bit off of gentlemanly. Far more of a character dare say than your author, who would hope to aspire becoming all that Ace represents.
However, to call someone Ace is mostly attributed to the design of a monarch of some standing. To refer to someone as such, one must either be of such noble breeding as to be able to decide another's fate, or to be a rogue of such malodorous being as to blind one's senses with his own fragrance.
The truth in this is that it is uncomfortable to the point of repeat to say these words. To repeat said offense is to one’s own lips entirely too intense for normal day to day conversation. One may wish to esteem another with sir or madam or boss, but attempt if you are thusly inclined to use the word.

Another New Year's Revelation

Over the years, the beginnings of each have always been permeated by the angst of (for) the future. We tremble at our past not really learning from it - just trembling in fear and regret - searching in vane often times for the tasty nuggets of true bliss as we sit drunkenly blinded by envy and disillusionment.
We wonder fervently in that same uneasiness or amusement as to what the possibilities in a newly arrived numeric value to the Earth's rotation around the sun will blossom into; wondering about the will of God, and whether or not any prophetic happening will fall upon each of us, and if any at all preferably onto someone other than ourselves.
We, that is to say some of us, embark upon the task of assigning ourselves to a mission, under the assumption of course that by completing said activity that lives will be bettered; that somehow the past 365 days prior were not sufficient enough for us to commence and continue let alone complete any improvements promised - that the ever enlarging backside that gravity allows us to press to the soft on softer sofa of life will suddenly find itself moved - overcoming inertia and friction as the Earth completes its cycle only to immediately begin anew.
We, that is to say some of us, believe that this natural occurrence has some magical power to alter weak resolve into one of greater resilience; that somehow simply by addressing the desires to conform to what society deems prudent or necessary, this celebrated few (weak in number, weaker in value), comparatively speaking, may more readily accept our renewed selves as they would not do before.
However, if I may respectfully offer a question and a suggestion:
Why resolve one's self for something so low?
Anything is possible - truly with the right backbone. But ask yourself, "Why?"
Why?
Why?
Why?
The American society, as a whole - Oh, we are a pessimistic bunch, not mentioning, of course that we are a group of lemmings so ready to jump the ledge when another of us who (by standards dictated by a powerful subculture solely bent on conformity) is prettier, thus far more enlightened than ourselves, decides to.
We do not ask "why?"
We do not ask ourselves about what our legacy can be, and instead we focus not on our health, but on "buns of steel" or "abs of iron". Our attention is abdicated by wealth management instead familial sustenance.
Family, health, happiness, empathy - the good shepherding or management of these entities is essential in building a lasting birthright.
Failure or success in any attempt at building such an outrageously wonderful creation is not only unique, but everlasting. And if one also takes to task the continued respect for a questioning mind, which is an ongoing opportunity rarely employed, the outcomes of both, no matter the cost, will be magnificent and remembered more endearingly than any wealth or six-pack will be.