Solder, Mini-Lampshades, and a Payday Wrapper...

Wrapped in her favorite overalls, thick hair as fresh and untamed as she herself, I questioned her bulging pockets. A hoarder, her collections soothe emotional scars and provide comfort. Items of no practical use in her world, become invaluable, acting as a buffer to help keep life's jagged edges at bay. Front pockets, stuffed full like the corners on our old billiard table, we sat quietly in a booth overlooking the river. Blackened scallops, cheese grits and fried shrimp shared our table, but said nothing. Sweet tea dripped wet circles that touched the edge of my napkin and moved into it like a living thing. Slowly, she pulled out her flotsam, skimmed from the sea of waste that is our culture, treasures in her eyes, and offered a shared intimacy that's taken me more than thirty years to earn.

Out Of Uniform...

A young guy was crossing the street in front of my car while I was stopped at the light. He was 16, maybe 17, with long purple hair, droopy oversized shorts falling down below his ass; his shoes looked like Frankenstein boots...high and huge. He shot me a look of contempt as he crossed, I was straight society while he was some kind of a rebel. He was so young and so silly, I'm sure he wanted me to be shocked or disgusted. But of course he was just doing the same thing every generation of young people tries so hard to do: make a visual statement of his rejection of the values of “straight” society. He was an individual, unique in this world., no uniform for him, thanks. I remembered 50 years back when I wore long hair “like a girl” and ragged jeans held together by silver buttons and ZigZag patches. Now here I was again, reincarnate, unique, one of a kind. That's when his friend passed by, catching up. All long purple hair, droopy oversized shorts falling down below his ass, and shoes that looked like Frankenstein boots. Unique, one of a kind, no uniform for him, thanks.

Brother Love...

He would sit on top of me, pinning my arms to the ground with his knees, preparation for his saliva viscosity tests. Holding his face directly over mine, Kenny would drool a big gob of saliva oozing down at my nose just to see how long a string he could let it stretch into and still be able to suck it back up into his mouth. I so miss those days. The BB bullets in the ass, the Indian burns, the noogies that apparently I had ordered...But I still love my big brother. Or at least that's what my shrink says I need to keep telling myself. I love my big brother. I love my big brother. I love...

When it was time to think about college, my parents said: “Hugh, you're an adult now. Find a college you want to go to, apply, get accepted, and we'll send you there.” So I applied to seven schools that were girls schools and had just now opened up admissions for boys. I may be dumb but I'm not stupid. My folks found out about my plan though and said: “Hugh, we were wrong. You're not an adult and we're going to pick the college for you.” I wound up going to the University of Georgia because my older sister lived nearby and could “keep an eye on me”. I was one of 7 hippie kids from the North, drowning in a sea of Gant shirts, Weegin tassel loafers, and rolled umbrellas that you never open, even in a deluge. It wasn't a good year. I spent a lot of time in my room, drying banana peels on laundry lines of twine stretched from corner to corner, determined to see if you really could get high when you smoke them. You do, but only because if you replace oxygen with anything else, like the smoke from banana peels for instance, you get high...lightheaded really, just before you vomit or pass out. Surprisingly, UGA didn't invite me back. But my point here is that I did accomplish one thing that year. I grew. Four inches and 50 pounds. The two things that I did consistently were to skip classes, and go to the gym to lift weights. I was eager to get back home to see my darling big brother and turn our relationship around, preferably with my knees pinning his shoulders to the ground. When my moment of confrontation finally materialized, when I could finally throw off the yoke of servitude, no more my brother's whipping boy, he beat me again. Kenny simply said that wrestling and physical confrontation was for children, and walked away. And that, as they say, was that. Damn.
My shrink laughed at me when I told him that story. Now he's all mad because I wasn't able to suck the saliva back up into my mouth. He didn't have to get all pissy about it. Some people just can't take a joke...

Care to Super-Size That?

S

Although I think these re-post dares..."I want to see who is brave enough..." are stupid, the message here is still a good one...

And I'm all for it. Most of us go through our lives blissfully ignorant of the consequences of our actions and how things came to be. We live and consume in the moment. The vast majority of traffic accidents are alcohol related. Our votes matter. Be as sure as you can be about the candidate of your choice. How much do we really need cosmetics? Aren't people more beautiful when they are fit, strong, healthy and happy, and cosmetic free…at any age? And is the war paint worth the animal torture? All so that we can pick just the right shade? Obesity is the number one health problem in this country, it's the starting point for so many physical and psychological problems. Do we really want to keep eating that fast food? Every bit as much as cigarettes, it's an addictive, slow poison that will certainly kill you one day. Chicken is a minor ingredient in a chicken McNugget. It's mostly a fried chemical paste with just a bit of “mechanically separated” meat from chickens that are not only genetic mutants, but also pumped full of growth hormones. Oh, and lots of antibiotics that are necessary to combat the horrific, cramped, disease filled cages they are packed into. Pigs scream with terror as they hear the pigs in front of the line hung upside down while their throats are slit. They're smarter than dogs. Would you allow dogs to be treated like that? Commercial meat production is, like most things, driven by only one goal: profits at all costs. Cruelty to the animals and the health of the consumer are only considerations if profits are negatively affected. We support the bad behavior. Pay more for organic, humanely raised and slaughtered meat products. Most of the American public lives an unhealthy, oblivious lifestyle because we are pawns of the ad agencies. We wallow in cheap entertainment filled with ads that promote a McDonald lifestyle and corrupt politicians who want to placate us with more of the same rather than look at more meaningful issues that could expose the misdeeds of their corporate sponsors. Until each individual takes a personal stand and becomes their own boss, until we take charge of our own informed choices, everything will continue to get worse. Changing the social consciousness takes a long time. Look at the 1950's Life Magazine ads with John Wayne being manly and enjoying a good cigarette. Now smokers huddle outside in the cold like second class citizens to take a cigarette break. It takes a long time to turn the Queen Mary around, but we've done it before and we can do it again. It all starts with awareness. The change begins with a steady diet of images and information designed to enlighten us about “the consequences of our actions and how things came to be.

36 Down, 36 To Go

We're two polar opposites, married 36 years and starting our 37th today. I'm a planner, happiest if we know everything we expect to do before we do it. Carla just goes, up for anything, anytime. “Structured” is a kind word for my over the top anal retention. Carla lives a stream-of-consciousness life, blowing in any direction that feels right at the time. Although I feel bad that I care too much about what other people think, I still do. Carla could care less. I really like that. She's fiery, passionate about causes, concerned about the less fortunate. Sadly, I'm rather monotone, unruffled. And I just don't care about my fellow humans as much as I should. Mostly I'm convinced that the majority are morons and get what they deserve. Logic is my litmus test for everything but Carla goes with feelings, emotions, intuition, and visions sent by the gods or the ghosts of those who have gone before...

My logic tells me that we shouldn't be a successful couple, but we are. So maybe I should listen to what Carla says just a little bit more in our next 36 years...

Siri, What Are You Wearing?

For several years now, my girls have given me a hard time about my dinosaur of a cell phone. It only handles calls and text. “You need an iPhone so we can stay in touch better!” they tell me. Knowing that I like gadgets, I've been dragging my feet, concerned about my own addictive behavior. I've seen too many families sit together at dinner in some restaurant and never speak, all heads bowed to the iPhone god, thumbs tapping. I tell them that my laptop is turned on whenever I'm at home or at work, and typically I spend all my time...at home or work. “But we can be better connected, Dad, wherever you are...and you'll love all the apps!” they assure me. I don't know...and right now I certainly don't miss all those features, all those apps, that I'm unaware of. For ten years late in her life, my mother had a microwave oven she never used. It came with the condo. She didn't know how to use it and never saw the need to learn. “I've always been fine with my little toaster oven.” she said. Now I'm her. But unless I'm going to drop dead tomorrow, which is about 25 years earlier than I’d planned, I just have to get off this ledge and jump into the water. Ruth and Hannah recognized that and they know me well enough to know that I will love the damn phone once I start using it. So they are getting me one. But they tell me that if if I talk dirty to Siri, she will straighten me out. “I don't appreciate that kind of talk.” To learn that was a minor disappointment but most of the rest of the cool things sound pretty exciting. I am worried though that now I'll have my fingerprint and all my personal data and daily interactions beamed into some cloud and eventually accessed by big brother as part of the master plan to openly dominate all of us. I don't know how to avoid it but I'm planning on asking Siri what she thinks. If she tells me that she doesn't appreciate that kind of talk, obviously she's working for them and not to be trusted. Oh well, I don't have any money to steal and, sadly, no deep dark, secrets that could compromise my position in society as a little guy living an uneventful life in a modular home that looks just like the other modulars on either side of mine. Nothing to loose. (Damn. Just writing that was depressing!) Anyway, I told the girls that I was grateful for the push, and excited about the prospects. But in all fairness I had to say that when they do come for a visit and we go out to dinner, don't try to talk to me, I'll be busy.

Ricky and Me...

Several days ago I called the Governor of Florida, the (less than) Honorable Rick Scott. Of course he recognized my number and took the call. He keeps me on his speed dial for whenever he wants my advice to not follow. I think he must have been on one of his yachts, maybe enjoying the gentle roll of Caribbean Seas. I could hear Calypso music and the sound of ice cubes rattling in glasses in the background. Ricky and I don't see eye to eye on, well, anything. But when he wants to know what the little people think, I'm his guy.

He answered:

Ricky: “Maverick! Wazzzzzzzsup my home boy?”

Me: “Hey Ricky, I want my money back!”

Ricky: “What money? What you be talkin bout Willis?”

Me: “My Florida warranty money, I'm fucking freezing here and even though I give you a pass for unprecedented corruption and insider dealing and not letting anyone but rich white people vote, you've got to actually do something about this cold. Remember you told me that you were in control of everything in Florida, including the weather? Well, I believed you! Now my testicles are the size of Pistachios, and one of my dogs has her tongue frozen onto what what used to be fresh water in her outside dish. She's really cold and I'm out of wood for the fire I built on the coffee table.”

Ricky: “Where did you go, Alaska?”

Me: “No douchebag! I'm still right here in St Augustine and it's 29 degrees out there!”

Ricky: “I had no idea. Unless people tell me these things, how would I know? Let me see what I can do.”

In the background I heard him call: “Jeb, would you let that young lady sit in someone else's lap for a moment and come over here? Hey, do you know anybody that has an in with weather control?”

So that's the gist of it because now, three days later, it's 70 degrees at 9AM and going up into the 80's.

I doubted my friend Tony when he told me that Ricky doesn't actually control the weather, obviously he does. So even though he's a lying scumbag one percent-er who's only concern is for the selfish interests of his cronies and himself, I'm thinking as I slip on one of my many bad Hawaiian shirts: “I just love that guy...and his shiny smooth head!”