Baseball

There are several large aggravations with watching baseball on TV. There are advantages like instant replay and all the various camera angles. From the disadvantage side we will have to exclude the announcers because they are add on annoyances to the game of baseball itself. The most aggravating parts of watching baseball with the exclusions of course is watching a pitcher who can not throw strikes and watching a batter not swing even if he did see a strike. In little league, if a pitcher walks everybody it is boring and after a few walks the coach gets out the hook because the batters are not swinging either. The fans are watching a bad game of "playing catch".
In professional baseball, when pitchers walk people then probably fitee percent of the time as a result of those base on balls, a run will score. So, listen up all you high priced pitchers, throw freakin strikes. That's all. "Rock and Throw" as my dad would say. Do not walk them. Ever. Hit them before you walk them. Do not get cute with the curve ball, just throw the damn ball. Playing a little chin music is better than a one hundred mile per hour fast ball missing the corner of the plate. As a catcher behind the plate I could tell the minute the pitch was release whether it was a ball or a strike. I would yell out "throw strikes" to the pitcher. I loved to say"This guy is a dill weed and he can not hit anyway so throw a freekin strike, will ya?". Sometimes the pitcher needed a tongue lashing so I would uncrouch and walk to the mound and say, "Hey, throw a freaking strike Dude". If the wildness continued I would get the coach's attention and tell him to find someone else to pitch, this guy bites the big one.

My favorite pitcher these days is probably Tim Lincecum of the Giants or James Shields of the Tampa Rays . They rock and throw. They wind up, look you directly in the eye and with malice and forethought propel the ball and throw strikes. Even the statistics guys will tell you if a pitcher throws strikes he will usually be more successful than the nibblers. The ball is coming, it will be a strike or close to it and so try to hit it. If the ball is hit, it may be fielded or caught, it may be ineligible yet there is a good chance that a hit will not result. If a pitcher walks a guy there is no chance to get him out unless he downs some PEDs (performance enhancing drugs) on his way to the base or slugs the first baseman upon arrival.


For the batters my advice is "swing the bat". Just like a broken watch is correct twice a day, if you swing, you may hit something. Recently in the playoffs, I saw a pinch hitter, (Pinch hitters are often used to replace a starting player when the pinch hitter is thought to have a better chance of reaching base or helping other runners to score)  go up to the plate,first dig in with the front foot and then when he was ready drag in the back foot and balance his stance, stand in the batter's box attentively and watch five pitches swoosh by without moving a muscle. The pitcher threw a strike, a curve for a ball, a strike, another ball and then the third strike. The guy walked back to the dugout, down the steps, into the club house and probably kept going until he was out of the stadium, off the team and back to his momma's house because he will never get another "at bat" in a baseball game. The bat never left his shoulder and he did not even attempt a swing. In a playoff situation, I would have thrown the bat at the ball, jumped in front of the curve ball and swung three time at each pitch for hell's sake. They would have had to use a stun gun to get me off the field.

My favorite batter to watch is Vladimir Guererro. He is floundering around in the minor leagues somewhere trying to get back to the Major Leagues. Not only does he have a great name  and a sweet swing, it has been said of Vlad, " If it is round and has threads on it, Vlad will swing at it." I saw a video clip of him hitting a ball that bounced in front of the plate on the way in. I saw him hit a home run off of a pitch that was higher than his head. He swung twice at the pitches during an intentional walk. He came to hit and he was going to do his utmost best to hit that damn ball. How could anyone do less and expect to get paid. When I played baseball, I decided before the pitcher even threw the ball that I was going to swing and I usually did. There are some batters that just swing as hard as they can and whenever they hit the ball, it went a mile. The Boob, Boog Powell was like that. Lord have mercy on that ball because that big old farm boy was going to smash the stuffing out of it.
Lets make the game of baseball more enjoyable for me at least and if you are a pitcher and not going to throw strikes, become a first baseman. If you are a batter and not going to swing, stay in the dugout with the commentators and save us all some aggravation.

JOBS

Jobs I have been paid for

Milk Delivery Guy                                         Cow Hide Loader

Junk Man helper                                             Computer Center boy

Gas Station Attendant                                     Dry Ice Blaster

House Painter                                                  Warehouse Boy

Fire Wood packager                                        Short Order Cook

Construction -- Dry wall hanger/finisher

Hay Boy                                                            Paper Boy

Roof Patcher                                                     Dairy Worker

Swamp Restoration Specialist

Dancer's driver's assistant                                 Buyer

Documents Expert                                             Logistician

Dissection Specialist-- Rodent                           Bicycle repair man

Surfboard maker                                               Truck Driver

Amusement Park specialist -- two different parks actually

T Shirt Designer and Salesperson

Jobs I wish I had and Why

Golfer - best Babes
Judge - always wanted to say "Hang Um"
Foot Surgeon - Podephile
Prospector - partial to donkeys and no bathing
Translator - I am listening
X ray technician - The things I can see

Best possible Job

Highway Grass Mowing Dude

Working Together

I have never really talked about cooperative efforts like working together.  "All must work together for the common good".  "Everyone needs to get along" is different.  Working together or cooperatively is an overrated,big giant pile of camel dung.  Everything does work together for an uncommon outcome.  Who are we to judge any pre actions from a resultant outcome.  Maybe the final event is not about you.  Maybe your part was ten minutes before the end of the world.  Is it possible that ten years from now there will be peace in the valley?

One single person's opinion can scuttle a cruise ship on to the reef so ten people working together can sink that tub in an hour.  Cooperation can and usual does lead to crowd mentality.  Working together usually means that one person is sweating, smashing fingers and twisting that wrench and at least three others are commenting, watching and judging the final connection. 
I am not talking about authoritarianism or bullies or fascists.  If everyone is doing the "correct" thing as dictated by the rules and the conventions of normality, each individual can do whatever the hell he/she wants.  If Charlie wants to have sex with a pit bull and he survives then he can still be part of the club as long and he can do his job.  His behavior would not be appropriate for sure if he was a veterinarian or a FedEx delivery guy.  He just would not get anything done.  I am not just talking about individualism as a tenant of a healthy society.  I am saying "Mostly, at work, I want to be told what to do and everywhere else please ask me what to do and then leave me the freak alone".  I know what to do and how to do it.  I have learned how to ask for help at the appropriate time and to report any delays.  Some would say this is working together or cooperating.  I laugh and say, "Shut your mouth and that sucking sound with stop." Does that sound like a cooperative effort?  I did not think so either.

I have worked alone or more accurately independently for most of my life.  My older brother was "sensitive" and a thinker while my little brother was just little.  My sisters did not like me much so most projects I did on my own.  Dad would say, "Ok, we have to clean the house.  Girls, get the mops, Boys, you wash the windows and Matt (he used my name to distinguish me from boys I guess), you go cut the grass with a pair of scissors and watch out for the neighbor's pit bull, it seems a little testy since the vet visit."  At work the boss would say, one of the vice president of keeping you employed wants a tour, Bruce, you and Marc show him the Exploration Station, Liz, you and Nancy show him the labs, Matt you stay in your office with the door close so he does not ask you any questions.  If you have nothing to do, go home early!"   I am very used to working independently.

In most countries, people of differences work independently and accomplish great communal goals without anyone telling them to do so.  I wish  I had a bagel for ever time I have attended a "diversity workshop" celebrating Native American Indian diversity.  I get to the conference and everyone but me has red skin and black hair. I attended an IRA/Chechnya/Arabian Cooperative mixer.  Not only was I the only blond haired guy in there, I was the only one that did not bring a serious explosive device.  In spite of that, the dancing and the finger food was terrific.  I used to work with a guy that I was not allowed to talk to.  I would just leave him messages on a 3 inch by 5 inch card and he would do it.  I actually slipped them under the door some times.  Funny thing about him, he ran the beer booth at the Catholic Fair every year.  I gave him a 3X5 card that said, "three beers please".  He gave me free beer for the next several years.   I think he is dead now  He was not very cooperative and worked in solitude.  He taught me a bunch of stuff.  He had a great saying about history and things that happened in the past.  "So What? You can still do what you want".  People would say, "Joe, you can not do it that way.  Safety will not approve it."  He would say, "So what, I am doing it."  He would do it and sometimes but not very often, those  "no people" would come and dismantle or turn off his contraptions.  He would change the locks on his office door and put up his "fumigation in progress" sign.  I would just slip my card requests under his door.  I tear up when I think of him.

If we want to be a great people, we must be as individual as we can non violently be individual. 

10 Thing I know about Fishing Part 5

5. The number of good hooks in your tackle box is "just a few" if the fish are biting. With the first catch, the fish will swallow the hook and then you will realize that you only have three hooks left. All of a sudden, you have 735 lead weights of various sizes, one plastic bobber, and one cork bobber with a hunk taken out of it and at least 57 copper looking swivels. While digging through the bait bucket you find an unopened box of rusted and most likely (do not rush to throw away anything) useless fish hooks. So, you cut the line and place the fish on the stringer. You tie on a new hook, install the fattest worn you can find and cast with complete optimism that you will catch another even bigger fish. "Three hooks should do for an entire day" you say out loud not realizing that you just jinxed the entire fishing trip with that proclamation. Suddenly you hook a huge something and you pull and scream. "I got a big one, get the net." Bobby always says, "What net?" You pull hard to drag the beast to the surface and the line comes out of the water. "He must have spit out the hook" except there is no hook on the line. The knot must have slipped and the fish got away. Two hooks left and one of them is so large it must be for shark fishing. This fishing trip has lasted eleven minutes so far and I am down to one hook. "I know!"

6. You will need tackle. No matter how much money you spend on tackle, the box is always empty when you want to go fishing. With the exception of an old piece of hot dog and a three pound lead weight, you need everything. The hot dog looks as good as the day it was bought and may come in handy some afternoon. The three pound triangular shaped weight must have been from that ill-fated surf fishing contest that can be summed up as "Fish -- 5, fisherman --0". That is the one where your dog decided to eat the

Portuguese Man of War and everyone thought he had rabies. You did not have a leash and restrained him with you backup pole with 100lb test line. Everyone kept thinking you hooked your dog. The beach patrol wanted to shoot your rabid pet with a spear gun and oh yeah, dogs are not allowed on the beach. "Hey, is your dog OK or is his head supposed to be that color?" The items you need for going fishing are something to drink, a pole with fishing line, a hook, some bait and a hat. The items you need for catching fish are pole, stringer, hooks, bobbers, different baits, drink, hat and something to sit on other than the ant infested ground. Some people like music, snacks and a friend, girl or otherwise. Even if you are fishing in a boat, keep it simple. I know a guy that takes fresh water tackle; fly tackle, heavy tackle with four kinds of bait to go fishing in a pond. You need a sharp knife with a point. You need to defend yourself against the elements. You are out challenging nature and defending a way of life. A butter knife will not do the trick. Size does not really matter, just as long as you can stick something with it, then you are good to go. Keep the gadgets to a minimum. Toys may be great for talking up a good fishing trip but you do not need them. I saw a lady on a cane pole and bread catch fifty three fish and I was sitting eleven feet away using the same setup and only got sunburn and some mosquito bites.

7. Ants love fishing. At least in Florida, within thirty seconds of you setting up your fishing spot, Satan's friend and constant companion the fire ant will be on your bait, pole or ankle. I not only know that fire ants can jump, I am quite sure they can fly. Once, I saw a fire ant jump from a blade of grass to my ankle when it sounded the attack and his minions simultaneously bit me in the crotch right near "Batman" and "Robin" and on my ear lobe. How did they get there so fast and how do they know where to bite? Even though fish do not have ears, I am quite sure my request for the "Angel of Death to come quickly" scared off every creature for an acre in any direction. Once, I took an old hot dog nub with two hundred or so ants on it and put it on a big ole hook. Those little red buggers do not know who they are fooling with, I thought. I mean, there is no end to my hatred for those red, fear inducing, painful flecks of fire. I gently swung the wienie into the water hoping some giant caviar laden Sturgeon would suck it down, ants and all. After about ten minutes including a short nap, the bobber disappeared and something was enjoying the hot dog with ant sauce and it was something big. The grand fish must have swallowed the hook because while I was napping, those friggin ants had climbed out of the water, up the fishing line back down the pole and were obviously very upset about the swim and were eating the flesh off my hands that were wrapped firmly around the pole. My convulsions yanked the pole, hook, hot dog and some sort of snakehead looking fishzilla out of the water and into the Eucalyptus tree. The snake head fish was more hideous than reported. It was snorting and dangling within inches of my face. I fell back off the five gallon bucket and into some high grass. The ants looked like paratroopers invading Baghdad as they leaped onto my body. I have scars from that fishing trip.

8. Moms do not like cleaning fish. If you want your mother to cook fish for your dinner, you better clean it and make sure you get that little bit of dangly thing in the back of the head. It matters that you rinse it off and put it in a plastic bag also. Disposing properly of the guts and scales is part of "going fishing". My parents had a rule, "if you kill it, you eat it". This went for birds, snakes, fish and any living creature with the exception of lizards. Mom hates lizards and frogs but do not kill them either way because she is not cooking them. Mom may clean and cook your "first" fish but her excitement will quickly turn to "I did not give birth to you so I could be your slave". Some fish you just slice up, or fillet. Others fish you have to drag the guts out and cut off the fins. Clean your own fish. A long time ago I was in a class, (Invertebrate Biology) where we had to dissect a baby shark. The two foot long spiny dog shark (Squalus acanthias) was going to be a chance to learn about animals that do not have bones. Brent, my lab partner was a big old boy and had fits of craziness. He looked in the mouth of the shark and said, Hey, there is a tongue in there. See if you can pull it out." Well, my hand was smaller than his so I put my hand in the sharks mouth. Brent smashed down hard on the shark's head effectively biting into my hand. I let out a yell and tried to pull my hand out. The dog shark came off the table and was waving around like he was alive. While the shark was still attached to my hand,

I grabbed a dissection needle which looks like a nail on the end of a stick and stabbed it through his forearm and into the wooden table. He yelled "he stuck me". I was bleeding, he was bleeding. What a great class. I made Brent dissect the shark while I attended my bite marks.

New Office

Having recently moved my office to a new and unfamiliar area on the second floor, I am still searching for a new, appropriate restroom to use. On this trip, I miscalculated the distance and the ability of my aging bladder control device and had to sprint walk the last five or nine step. The hallway was empty and knowing time was running out, I started the unzip, unbutton procedure with a few steps remaining to the first floor bathroom door. Feeling that I just may make it, I pushed down on the handle and returned my hands to get the zipper down fully, which I did. Unfortunately as I passed the door handle, it grabbed my open zipper and because I am more top heavy than before and because the Dacron blended slacks would not rip, I nearly went head over heels. I was in full pee accident red alert and literally crawled in the bathroom and as i pulled myself up the urinal, I set off the automatic flusher.   I will have to plan better next time.

 

Ten things I know about Fishing part 4

Catching catfish when you are trying to catch anything else.


Fishing in Florida's saltwater, replace "catfish" with "blowfish". This poor creature with dental protrusions will eat any bait and swallow the hook every time. This fish can grow quit large and is very tasty but poisonous.

I always felt sorry for the damn thing. It looked so helpless just flopping around all puffed up. When I was growing up, people would throw the puffer on the ground and leaving them to die. These bad people thought it would keep the population down if they did not throw them back in the water. That is a fairly ignorant view of God's creation. It was considered a garbage fish. Puffers are not fish that live in garbage; in fact, the puffer fish is a reflection of a healthier water system. A healthy river system means more of all kinds of fish including the ones you want to catch. You could also catch a bunch of something we called "Sailors Choice".

We always threw them back in the water. They were not ugly like the blowfish or the catfish. Every once in a while you would catch a large sailors choice and wonder if it was a keeper. Everyone says they are bony and not much meat. We did not eat the saltwater catfish. I do not really know why. On a typical fishing trip you would catch three or four sailor’s choice, small spiny creatures, a blowfish and an ugly cat. We were trying to catch trout.

Ten things I know about fishing part 3

  You cannot make a fish jump on a hook. Even though they have very puny brains, they will not jump on the hook themselves. They have to be hungry. Humans and the neighbor's Belgian Short Hair are the only animals that eat when they are not hungry. I have never seen a fat flounder. I have seen fish in the water looking at my succulent worm and just circle it, never even tasting the squirmy morsel. There was a type of fishing called "snagging" where you caught only really stupid fish, mostly mullet. There was no bait and only a three pronged hook pulled through the water very fast and when it bumped into a fish, it hooked him somewhere. I remember when I was about twelve, getting up early and going fishing with Bobby. Our dads always did it that way so I figured fish must be easier to catch early in the morning while they are having breakfast. I was a paper boy so getting up was not hard and riding the bike through the streets while it was dark was normal. Bobby was always sneaking out at night so he was quite happy to have a reason to be out before the sun came up. We had our bait, frozen shrimp, our poles and our knives. A boy has to have a good knife for fishing. I think we caught a sailor’s choice and that was it. I spent most of the time throwing my knife at a tree trying to stick it like Daniel Boone. I missed the tree and spend two hours looking for my pocket knife. That was the first time I ever remember praying for anything. I asked God to help me find my knife and as we were leaving on our bikes, tired of fishing and because I lost my knife, there it was, off in the distance. How it got there I have no idea but that was a great fishing trip.

  Catching catfish when you are trying to catch anything else Fishing in Florida's saltwater, replace "catfish" with "blowfish". This poor creature with dental protrusions will eat any bait and swallow the hook every time. This fish can grow quit large and is very tasty but poisonous.  I always felt sorry for the damn thing. It looked so helpless just flopping around all puffed up. When I was growing up, people would throw the puffer on the ground and leaving them to die. These bad people thought it would keep the population down if they did not throw them back in the water. That is a fairly ignorant view of God's creation. It was considered a garbage fish. Puffers are not fish that live in garbage; in fact, the puffer fish is a reflection of a healthier water system. A healthy river system means more of all kinds of fish including the ones you want to catch. You could also catch a bunch of something we called "Sailors Choice".  We always threw them back in the water. They were not ugly like the blowfish or the catfish. Every once in a while you would catch a large sailors choice and wonder if it was a keeper. Everyone says they are bony and not much meat. We did not eat the saltwater catfish. I do not really know why. On a typical fishing trip you would catch three or four sailor’s choice, small spiny creatures, a blowfish and an ugly cat. We were trying to catch trout.

Ten things I know about Fishing part 2



pocket fisherman

1. Do not confuse "going fishing" with "catching fish". If catching fish is the goal, then lots of fish equals good fishing. If the fun is in the "going" then there are tons of options. I love fishing as in "going fishing". I really do not care about catching anything. Some people are what my dad called "ambulance chasers". They are a restless lot and they cast a few times and if nothing is caught or no bites, they pick up everything and move to a new spot. To me, that is not fishing, that is being a pain in the butt. Why would anyone want to get all aggravated every ten minutes or so by moving to a new spot. I guess if you want to catch some fish, that may be required but that is not fishing. That is "chasing" fish. I do not chase dogs so I am sure as hell not going to chase a fish unless he has my car keys or something. I chased a baby bull one time and soon it tired of being chased and started chasing me. There is a lesson in there somewhere. Catching fish is exciting. The strong pull on the line, the excitement of catching the "big one". Fish, even the ugly ones are beautiful and amazing. I usually end up throwing every one of them back. I am losing the heart to kill and clean them. I do not consider myself any kind of expert fisherman if I catch a bunch of fish. I just figure the fish are having a bad day and I am just there to make it worse.  I have gone fishing and I have caught fish.  I have gone fishing and not caught fish.  I once caught a fish and was not fishing.  Usually I do not go fishing and do not catch fish but I know the difference. 

Ten things I know about fishing Part 1

This is part of a series of topics I am writing for my grandson's birthday present.  Ryon's boy Micah is a fishing nut.  He has skills.

anyway, this is just the first section.  Every few days I will publish the next section and I will send it to him as a book when I finish it.  (soon)

Ten Things I Know About Fishing

Micah

Fishing is an adventure for fathers and sons all over the world. Teachers, adventurer and old men have a favorite story, technique and fishing spot. Some people are crazy about fishing. Some are crazy with fishing. Many have expensive boats and equipment. They purchase the latest reels and lures. They enter fishing contests just to show off a nice boat. I know a guy that was in a bass fishing contest and he caught fifty eight pounds of carp and catfish but not one bass. He spent $100 on the entry fee, $200 on gas, beer and fishing stuff, had to drag the boat thirty miles, launch the boat at 3:30 AM. He arrived back home at 9:27 PM and had to clean the fish, clean the boat and take a shower. He was in bed by midnight and his fish cost him, after cleaning, eight dollars a pound. You can buy fish at the grocery store for a lot less than that and be home in time to cook it dinner. I do not think he ever ate those fish. His wife always brings up this fishing story whenever company comes around. She laughs loudly when she reminds him that he was disqualified from the contest for having too many gadgets.

Picket Line

I had to laugh yesterday on the way home from work. I guess the Firefighters are on strike for something or other and as I was driving through the picket line scattering sign holders like bees and I was not reading the signs or looking at anyone so as not to run over any of them. (It would have given them something to do if I just clipped one) I am not sure why they are picketing but one of the signs seem to say “NASA froze my…. “ I could not read the rest of the sign. My old eyes and slightly dyslexic vision made the word “Penis” out of some letters. I thought, "Well, I would do more than picket if someone froze my penis, and especially if it was a government agency." I do not need or use my penis much anymore but I am kind of familiar with it and the thing IS used for balance also. ( Kinda like a cheetah's tail.) “ NASA froze my PENSION”. Boy, that was a close one. 

Shoe Squeaking

This may be the final straw.  The shoe on my right foot, the one I kick my son with squeaks with every step I take.  I noticed a vibration about two weeks ago just days prior to my return to playing tennis.  I mention tennis because I would be suspecting tennis and stiffness to be causing the squeak if it would have started the day after my first 6:30am tennis travesty.  Now this nudge is a full blown squeak.  Step, squeak, step, squeak.  Sweet Savior on High what is that sound?


Since the noise started, I have tried Shoe Goo, a great product, super glue, not so great a product, Gorilla glue, and I even tried lubricating the bottom of my shoe with joy jelly.   The results are as expected.  I have pulled up carpet tiles because the super glue stuck my shoe to them, I have a lump of shoe goo on the instep of my still squeaking tenny causing me to drag my foot like a cripple and I slipped and fell up the stairs emanating a nice strawberry scent while busting my shin bone.  The Gorilla glue just made my finger tips black (which lasts for 3 days).   I reached for the big knife and sliced off a loose piece of shoe tread that I suspected was the problem.  The noise is different but remains just the same.


If I drag my foot like I had a stroke, the noise stops.  I tried that for about fifty steps and my hip, knee, calf and cow hurt so bad I decided I would rather have the squeak.  By the time I got back to my office, I hated the squeak again because now it was doing it on carpeted floor as well.  Tears cannot express the pain.  When Edgar Allan Poe wrote the The Tell-Tale Heart, he could not have thought a worse haunt.  I anticipate the sound before my foot even hits the floor and I cringe at each bark.  I am losing my mind over a squeaky shoe.  I do not even want to walk anymore. I am in a spiral of squeaky death.


I am going to have to get a new pair of shoes.  I love the way these shoes broke in.  All of my extraneous foot pain went away when I slipped into these shoes. There are a type of children's shoes that are made to squeak.  I guess these lazy parents can keep track of the little terrorists by listening instead of seeing them in the street or twisting with the pit bull by the neighbor's pool.  My shoes are less than two years old.  For me, these are still infant shoes.  I wear shoes for ten years or more.  I restitch them, bleach them, glue them and grind them.  The last pair of shoes I had were the Magic Johnson LA Gear shoes.  I did not care for them.  I gained a bunch of weigh while wearing those shoes.  Come to think of it so did he after starting that company.  I am sure the two are not related.  The current pair is, and I hate to say Nike.  At least I think so.  They do not say Nike but there is one of those obnoxious check marks on them.  The only thing more annoying than the check mark is the branding "Nike".  At least Puma has a cool name and insignia.


I cannot express the aggravation this is causing.  The stress is giving me gas.  I know a headache will come to roost because my club foot is hurting.  This is worse than a hang nail.  Far worse than sticker burs in the yard or fire ants in my pants.  I would almost rather wear toe shoes than squeak my way around the water cooler.  As gas bubbles gurgle through my lower bowels, I can only think of leaving work, buying shoes and wondering when this anguish will end.  I tightened all the shoe laces hoping to change the shape of the shoe.  The sound is back in full squeak.  I must go.

Tree Jumping

As I have spoken before, Bobby was not just a friend.  He was a good friend with a good heart and a complete lack of self control.  There was no finer gift than his friendship to me.  A close second attribute was his desire, no compulsion to try anything that looked or sounded fun.  I supplied the creativity and Bobby supplied the reckless abandon.  I would say, Hey Bobby, you know what is really cool and does not require any money?  Riding your bike off of the dock at Collier's house.  If you hit it just right, you can get great air and distance.  I'll bet with the way you pedal like a madman you could do a flip or something.  Doug went about fifteen feet on a tricycle.

Bobby:  Well, I can out pedal Doug.  Remember that day at the beach with the dead shark.  I was on it that day.

Creativity:  You were all over it, Bobby, you can't run for shit but you can pedal that banana bike.  You have a whole nother gear. 

The hook was set, Bobby would nearly bleed to death with that broken tricycle stuck in his leg.

Then there was tree jumping, I invented it.  It is a modification of the Tarzan vine swinging thing.  Basically you jump from one tree to another by climbing to the very top of a suitable Australian Pine tree and start it swaying.  This tree is very flexible.  Casuarina equisetifolia is native to Australia and is always green but it is everywhere in Florida.  This tree can grow to fifty feet or more and is very flexible and easy to climb.  

The tree in the background of this picture is perfect for tree jumping.  Near the top you can start the thing swaying back and forth and bend it over to get near a neighboring tree.  At the appropriate time, one "simply jumps" to the other tree.  Bobby, having the ability to learn from his mistakes and not being made sport of, said,  "I am not sure how to do this, you show me".  Bobby was at that adolescent age where his eyes, arms, feet and brain were growing way to fast and not at all talking to each other.  He was bigger than me even though I was older.  At any given time, every part of his body was doing something different and going in a different direction.  Today they would classify him as ADD or have him on drugs.  In those days we called it "entertainment".  I climbed the tree and started it swaying.  Since I was the greatest tree climber in these parts, I had a reputation to uphold so I really got the tree swaying.  When the tree bends  back up and slings me to the other side, I remember asking my grip to not fail me.  It took everything I had to hang on and swing my body out because in the next moment I was going to "jump" to the nearby tree.

Yes, I felt bad about Bobby landing on a shrubbery and getting the breath knocked out of him.  I told him that since this was not the first time he could not breath and he was going to be "OK", I really did not have to stop laughing.  I called him Bobby the flying squirrel and he started laughing but without any breath he just turned red and then blue.  The only other time I had seen him that blue was when he held is breath for four minutes at the Holiday Inn pool.  On the walk back home he got over being mad at me for laughing and he said, maybe we can do that again sometime!

Dandruff Shampoo

Dandruff shampoo or anti-dandruff shampoo?  There is a grammar war going on in the shampoo isle of the grocery store.  Technically, shampoo to fight dandruff would be anti-dandruff shampoo.  I see anti-itch but not itch shampoo.  I see anti itch dandruff shampoo.  I do not see anti itch anti dandruff stuff. 

I have always assumed "dandruff" shampoo is for those who have dandruff and that they prevent flaking and itching.  Well here is a news flash.  The medical community does not completely understand Seborrhea or flaking skin mostly associated with dandruff.  What are we paying them for, geez louiz.  I mean we have the human genome project and we do not understand dandruff. We spend a billion dollars a year on shampoo that the medical people do not make any money on.  I find that hard to believe.  According to my sources, most shampoos and treatments are directed toward reducing inflammation of the skin.  The skin must flame up and flake off like heat tiles on the Shuttle.  The itching is associated with the skin flaking.  The shampoos try to reduce the inflammation.  I know, that sounds quite simplistic. 

I do not think we should be anti dandruff.  Have we walked a mile in their shoes?  Have we tried to imagine being dry skin, a flake?  Well, I have and sloughing off to be left behind for a mite's dinner is no way to live.  Flakes have rights.  Give me adhesion or give me dandruff shampoo.  Don't chafe on me.  I will itch no more forever!

I would be happy if all shampoo would eliminate or reduce dandruff.  It is possible, only to dream.  I wonder if they had dandruff on Star Trek, they did not have headaches.  Mom said children cannot have headaches. 

To go forward

I wonder if I could get on with my minimal hermetical lifestyle.  I have eliminated so many constraints of a capitalistic lifestyle.  Henry David Thoreau may have been proud of me for shunning much of society. Would Jesus be proud of my socialist bent, my care for the poor and the widowed?  I do not think He would feel I have done close to enough.   Could anyone more sane than insane deal with this society, this world?  Was society always this frustrating, this hedonistic?

Thoreau would not even notice me, our types are invisible.  Not only do I live in seclusion, I shun the light of cameras, the light of day and the light of life.  Jesus will keep prodding me, giving me not only the opportunity to see the light but join the light.  Shadow dwellers will see a great light!

What I can see is a logical end to a position and none of the ends to any positions have light in the tunnel, not to mention at the end.  No, I am not depressed, I am resigned to long suffering.  I am sure the end years of my life will not be better than the beginning years or the middle decades.  My children will not have an easier time than I.  I have not prepared them properly, how can a wannabe hermit prepare his children.  My grandchildren will have such a completely different life, I assume much harder, certainly more complicated and less prosperous.  Danger, not fear will play a major role in shaping the next millennium. 

I am not afraid of something so uncontrollable as nuclear war or a Cuban hoard invading the US.  The danger will be from my neighbors, people with no hope, starving people with starving children.  I will be attacked by extremely well armed people that will take what they want.  Some of them will be the same ones that hate working, hate immigrants, hate people with less than white skin.  Some of them will just have hungry children, sick kids.  They will look across the fence and see a house, a yard and people with fake smiles.  They will see a car seemingly going to work every day.  They will see fat horses, cats and a swollen dog. 

Our society is collapsing and all we can do is dig in.  Well that is not all.  We will need to dig in as we reach out to help others dig in.  We will need to create a survival network. An atmosphere of love, not enablement.  It would be so nice if the end would be a meteor hitting the ocean or all the continents slamming into each other.  The end would be swift and very few would survive to blame, or to be jealous of anyone.  How can anyone really blame a government for a meteor although some would try.  I can hear these words already, "They should have hired a Sunni to run the government, or a white guy, or at least make sure it was a guy. "

A cave is a better hiding place than my farm, and better than a secret room in a boarding house. Instead, I am going to hide in plain sight.  I will keep the lights off, keep the dog quiet.  I will make sure the house does not look too fine or the yard too well kept.  I will have yard sales once in a while to make it look like I need money like the rest of us.  I will wear cloths with holes in them but we all know they are the most comfortable.  I will plant a useless garden, one that does not really produce anything.  I will wave to all the passerbys and force a frown from my face.  A crooked down spout and a leaning fence will go a long way to forcing others to assume I am needy and broke.  Hiding in  plain sight is harder than living in a cave.

We will all have to do with less, and there is less time to do what needs to be done.  Minimal pay, minimal work.  Minimal life.  Niiiiiiiice!

Parent Teacher Conference

At the first of many sixth grade parent teacher conferences which Wikipedia describes as "

 

A parent-teacher conference is a short meeting or conference between the parents and teachers of students to discuss children's progress at school and find solutions to academic or behavioral problems.

There was a time when we would take Nathan with us, we now choose not to do that any more!
Mr. Moore: (with Mrs. Moore dutifully by his side) Mrs. Cullison, I can understand your frustration with him, Nathan is not a "normal" child.  His mind does not operate the same as other children, or even yours or mine.  Is he being disrespectful or rude, anything like that.  He knows I  do not tolerate that kind of shit?  Mrs. Moore nods her head in agreement as she squeezes her husbands hand.

Mrs. Cullison:  No not that at all, for example  He wrote the answers on Mandy Crawford's history test, upside down and backwards.  It was the answer to some of the questions, She could not read it so technically they were not cheating.  Mrs. Cullison sneaks a quick glance at Mrs. Moore's scuffed shoes while she is talking.

I asked him, "Nathan, did you write on Mandy's test?" his reply was,
 "Yes Mrs. Cullison, but I only have eyes of you!"
Mr. Moore, look at this test, he answered every question on the first page 100 percent correctly but did not answer any of the questions on the second page.  I had no choice but to give him a 72 on this test.  He wrote his name and the date on the second page upside down and backwards, that is it.  I know he knows the answers but he will not finish his test.  He does that on all his homework also.  I think he is very bright and can do the work, he just needs to finish his work.

Mr. Moore:  Nat does not feel the need to prove himself.  Once he figured out that he knew all the answers and apparently he knows you think he knows the answers so why is there a need to finish it.  He absolutely does not care about grades.  You taught his older sister, Marta, she was straight A's and we never had to get on her about homework or her study habits.  She wanted the A.  Nat wants to think and screw around with things, people.  Mrs. Moore's expression changes to concerned.

Mrs. Cullison:  What is with the upside down and backwards writing?

Mr.  Moore:  He started that soon after he learned to write.  He would sign his name and then write it backwards going left instead of to the right.  We thought it was unique.  Eventually, he just started skipping the front ways part and writing the backward part only.  A few years ago he started the upside down thing.  We are still surprised he writes normal most of the time in school.  I do not think he wants the attention it may cause.  For hell sake, the whole family knows how to read upside down and backwards.

Mrs. Cullison:  Because he is shy?

Mr. Moore:  Sly more than shy, mostly just different, odd.  He cannot operate if everyone is watching him.  Just keep trying to challenge his mind.  He is very satirical and often approaches rude so keep an eye on that. 

Mrs. Cullison:  We can have him tested. it is free?

Mr. Moore:  Tested for what?  I would not do that  if I was you.  He will have a field day with that, and oh, "nothing is free".  His pediatrician will only see him as the last patient of the day.  Nathan exasperates the poor lady.  She is no match for him.  Since you have not had him transferred to another class or called me before now, he must really like you. 

Mrs. Cullison:   He calls this young lady Mandy, "cat woman"?  Could you ask him to stop doing that. The other kids are teasing her about it.

After the conference and back at home:

Mr. Moore:  Nathan, lets talk about your conference.  Mrs. Moore leaves the room.  She hates conflict.  Nathan come into the room as wide eyed as ever.

Nathan:  Dad, can you make this quick, I am in the middle of "The Art of War" by Sun Tzu.  He is at the part where he talks about how taking prisoners early in a battle is a bad thing.  It screws up the supply chain.  I love that part.  So what did you think of Mrs. Cullison, did you review her work?

Mr. Moore:  Nate! concentrate, she says you never finish your work and she asked that you not call that Mandy Crawford "cat woman". 

Nathan: So you talked mostly about me again.  Whats up with that?  She actually said "never"?  And dad, Mandy has the perfect cat body.

Mr. Moore:  cat body?

Nathan:  Look at any cat, large or small.  They are perfectly proportioned.  The legs, the arms, the stomach are all perfectly matched with the head size.  Mandy's butt is the same size as her head.  Her arms are the same length as her legs.  You could throw her off a three story building and she could survive with only a broken hip joint and a few missing teeth. 

Mr. Moore:  Are you sure, do you have a picture?  Whatever, what is this about not finishing the tests?

Nathan sticks his hand up high above his head and pokes his finger abruptly at the sky. 

Mr. Moore:  Nathan, no hand signals and the "point" is,(as Mr. Moore pokes his finger in the air) finish your work or they will want to test you for something, Autism, Mad cow, Schistosomiasis.  You have not been eating snails or cow brains lately have you?  Oh, and your mother is happy you have a girl friend.

Nathan:  Schistosomiasis, That is a good one dad.  OK I will finish my work. 

Dad yells, "finish it correctly" as Nathan returns to Son Tzu. Nathan yells from his room, Mandy is not my...oh never mind!

The Old Man and the Sprinkler

I observed an old man trying to set his sprinkler to water only the grass and not the driveway or the road.  It was a struggle for all the times.  The old man gleaned over the yard like Santiago looked on the Sea. 

“Christ, I did not know he was so big.”
“I’ll kill him though,” [Santiago] said. “In all his greatness and his glory.”

There were years of struggles and successes with this lawn.  None of the wars were as ferocious as the sprinkler war of 2009.   I had struggled with the Man over a water bill and won.  I stood my ground during the attack of the Water Management Jun Hord.  Now, I must continue the fight against the master of illusion, the shah of subtle inconvenience, and the lord of frustration. The sprinkler, a Dramm Colorstorm oscillating  sprinkler, yellow with eighteen water jets providing a uniform watering for maximum coverage. The adjustable plastic dial and tab allude you to direct the water stream, and a flow control knob at the base enables you to pretend to adjust the water flow. An included nozzle needle helps keep the brass nozzles clean. The sturdy metal construction will withstand years of use (abuse), and the bright yellow color will surely stand out in your lawn so your wife does not run over it with the lawn mower.


" As the sun rises, the marlin begins to circle. For hours the old man fights the circling fish for every inch of line, slowly pulling it in. He feels faint and dizzy and sees black spots before his eyes. The fish riots against the line, battering the boat with its spear"

Soon the sun will be overhead and the sprinkler begins to oscillate.  I circle the beast and reel the hose line hoping for a safe pattern between the new avocado bush and the line of pineapples.  The sprinkler fights back with a sputter and spins quickly on its tail spraying chilled water across my arched and aching torso.  


 The old man thinks that the fish is killing him, and admires him for it, saying, “I do not care who kills who.” Eventually, he pulls the fish onto its side by the boat and plunges his harpoon into it. The fish lurches out of the water, brilliantly and beautifully alive as it dies. When it falls back into the water, its blood stains the waves.

I vow one more attempt to reign champion over the aluminum behemoth.  I will come in low and fast, circle left and flip the beast on his back rendering him harmless.  With a small adjustment and a flick of the hose line, this messy work will be finished and dry all the same.  I underestimated the Leviathan, he spat hard as I circled, up righting himself and sending his wet, cold daggers into my chest.  The wound was complete, I was done in by a mechanical marvel from a box store.
With success slipping away, I would finish this fight.  The nearby shovel would form a fine scepter.  As the darts of water ravaged my body, I buried the scimitar into the metal beast.  He thrashed  in rebellion and moaned his mortal death.  It is finished I thought.  I changed my cloths, I would be late for the nine o'clock meeting. I had gone too far. 

 Again, Santiago wishes that he hadn’t killed the marlin. He apologizes to the dead marlin for having gone out so far, saying it did neither of them any good.

The sprinkler and its lifetime warranty are dead.  I tried to fix it.  It only oscillates about fifteen degrees to the left, and only twelve of the 18 jets seem to spray.  One of them sprays rebelliously to the left.  It now makes a lonesome sound like a lost failing whale, OOOuah, OOOuah, searching for the death he did not deserve.  Winter cannot arrive soon enough. 

the moth in the bathroom

Why is there a moth in the bathroom?
What is a moth doing in there?
How long has there been a moth in my bathroom?
Is it lost or is it looking for someone?
Are moths trying to make contact with Us?
Did they create the whole "Go to the light" thing?
Why can't moths be more like butterflies?
How long will I have a moth in my bathroom?
Maybe the moth will go out for lunch, maybe it came in for lunch?
You think the moth could tell the mosquitoes to knock it off with all that buzzing?
What is that dusty fuzzy stuff that gets on your phalanges when you touch a moth, cooties?
I know flies have thick heads for running into windows and stuff, do moths have some defense against the lights burning their little lips and toes?
Do you think they like the new compact fluorescent bulbs?
How do moths feel about the Grandaddy Long Leg on the next tile?
Does this particular moth want my help because tomorrow it will be dead for some reason?
Will it be dead tomorrow regardless of my efforts?
Is the bathroom the "last room", the Elephant's graveyard?

Dead moths always at first seem bigger than live moths.  I guess that is death in a nutshell, The loved one seems so big when death first happens.  All of the texts, emails and phone calls about the death create a large bubble of life.  As it should.   Soon though, the deceased looks so small at the viewing and the event gets smaller and smaller until there is only one left to pray for the family.  The hole in the ground seems big at first, then by the time the preacher has spoken of whom he most surely does not know, the hole is filled in and the focus seems very small.  

The moth has died.  It is under the sink and I was prepared for it to be somewhere under something in its last ditch attempt to be the center of attention.  I knew the moth would be dead in the morning.  That did not make  it any easier to see through the moisture in my eyes.

Talking Crazy

Do you ever talk without thinking?  Yes, I with the exception of our Vice Presidents, Joe Biden and Nelson Rockefeller, am the expert on this type of communication.  The process must begin with honesty and touch of madness.  I am not talking about a turret kind of blurting out although I think it is related.  I am talking about being in a conversation and words come into your mouth without passing through your brain and before you know it, your tongue and lips are moving.  Your see the reviews on peoples faces before your ears relay the words to your brain. 

The other day, I was asking someone to tighten up my ankle bracelet because with my fat ass I cannot reach it, breath and use my fingers at the same time.  So I asked for help and I said without thinking, just move it to the left. The statement came out before I thought about it.  Move what to the left?  Actually, it needed to be moved to the right which is what I wanted to say but for someone facing me, it would be to the left.  I said the correct direction but if I had time to think first, I would have said the wrong thing.  Sometimes I am talking and I do not know I am audiblizing.  Someone was asking me for an answer to some question and they pronounced the word in an awkward way so my mouth said,  "Maybe I could answer you if you could get the pronounsation correct!"  I felt rude and isolated. 

Over the years, I have learned to talk with my hand very close to my mouth so I can stop what my brain cannot.  The most sound that can get out is a mumble and I can explain that away.  Mostly now though, I just do not care what I say.  I do not want to be rude or hurt people's feeling so sometimes I nip it.  The older I get the less I care about how I am interpreted.  I genuinely feel no ill will for anyone, race, creed or color.  I have the baggage of growing up in a mostly white, English speaking America and the over/undertones that come with it.  I root out insensitive or derogatory words and vow not to use or think them.  My hand saves me from reactionary thoughts.

I think this is what it boils down to.  "In the end, hopefully, you will be judged on who your are and not what you say" They may not notice who you really are until your are dead because only then will you have stopped yapping your gums.

Plumbers

I learned a long time ago that plumbers are worth every penny they charge.  Not your construction grade plumber but the kind that come in your house and fix things under your sink.  There is a good change no human has been under that sink since it was installed.  Some animals, kids and insects can fit under there and get out safely.  I would get stuck, drop the pipe wrench which should not be required these days square on my face, smash my knuckles and only make the leak worse and now a critical gusher with lots of water and a small amount of blood running out from under the sink.  "Moses, stop the plague.  I will bow to the God of Israel's Plumbing service."

Never hire a fat plumber.  He man be quite experienced and know all the tricks except how to get his fat butt under that sink or behind the water heater without tearing up the drywall.  How will a man who cannot touch his toes reach around a toilet and finagle a gnuter valve without lots of blood and slaming things around.  When this big ole boy accidentally lights the cabinet on fire with the torch (to remove something that has degraded to the point of non-recognition) he will not be able to get up and put the fire out or even get out of the house.  The headlines will read "Plumber's death in sink repair called an accident".

My plumber is skinny musician and  probably nuts and he was in the gifted program in high school.  I think his teacher was a pedophile and now he is a plumber and a musician.  I called him the other day and he was either making a recording of a song or in the bathroom.  Sometimes I get sounds confused.  I asked him how much he would charge.  "Oh, $150-$175 dollars". "I would pay $50 so I did not have to think about the plumbing any longer than necessary" I thought.  I  also called Honda Paul, a guy who fixes my hondas and he is a little off himself.  The pattern here is that I must have a few bats in the belfry also because all of my business acquaintances are certifiably insane but do good work when the medication is on track.  Honda Paul does not do plumbing or answer the phone.  He reads messages and calls people back.

One problem with plumbers now is their age.  These young plumbers wear these big  pants and even if they are skinny there is the plumber's crack.  I am kind of a prude about things like that.  "Pull them pants up, I am not paying you to show me your crack".  Wen I was a young man, I would never have used that line.  Every time he put his hand in his pocket, his pants fell down.   I knew a girl plumber once.  Her name was Barbara Sneff.  The guys called her "Babs the Pipe Bender".  She called the male carpenters "hammer knockers".   They called me the Mud Doctor because I was a drywall maniac and I was going to college.  We were all young then but at least our pants fit well.

I will most likely give my plumber a tip for getting  on this project quickly.  I like that.  The other guy I called said he would fit me in and I have not heard from him in about a year.  I like people who have some concept of time.  I cannot stand to see people drive up in a car and sit in it for ten or twelve minutes just fiddle f****ing around.  Either get out of the car or get out of my driveway.  Get what you need out of the cabinet and/or get the hell out of the way.  I do not want the freaking receipt at Wally World so finish the transaction and fix the paper/ink ribbon later.   My plumber thinks this will be a "Simple In Out procedure" .  I think there will be some wailing and gnashing of teeth along with wall cutting, fire will be required and a lot of "What the f**** was someone doing this for?"  Regardless, the most wonderful wife unit will pay him well and I will be safe in the knowledge water will not damage my house until the hurricane season.  My plumber is also a carpenter.

Enough.

Planetary Protection

I just attended a seminar called Planetary Protection: Policies and Practices.  It was not quite as boring as it sounds.  They have the best bumper sticker ever.  "Protecting all the Planets all the time!"

This would have been a great seminar had it been in Colorado Springs or San Diego.  I am sure that all the people enjoyed coming to Cocoa Beach.  I enjoyed the Courtyard and the free food and drink.  I also enjoyed the speakers.  There were seven presenters and thirteen participants.  I think it was a nice trip for the presenters and they just happened to be giving a seminar while vacationing. 

Believe it or not, there is a group of people looking out for not just this planet but all of the asteroids, moons, satellite worlds or other planets.  It is a theoretical game and they take it seriously.  Carl Sagan  kicked of the mathematical probabilities some years ago.  There are probabilities of accidental  contact, of transference of viable spores and subsequent infection.  Someone calculated the probability difference between a slow decent to Mars and a quick descent and how much sterilization of the craft will occur on each approach.  They also calculated the probability that an organism(spores) would be transferred to Martian surfaces and the probability of those surviving  to produce life on Mars.  If the risk is greater than one chance in ten million, you have to clean your space craft better.  The entire Mars Rover, this last one they sent up was the size of golf cart.  There was 135 thousand square feet (three football fields) of surface area that could contain viable spores for contamination.  It all has to be cleaned to a density of less than 1 spore per cubic centimeter.  The entire craft could only have about 500,000 spores on it for launch go ahead.  500,000 spores can quite easily fit side by side on your little fingernail and a spoonful of dirt could contain a million spores.

So lets just say the other planets are safe.  An organism capable of reproducing would have to survive the cleaning, the trip in a radiation filled, oxygen less space for a year, then land on Mars without being burned up and land in some place with water, grow, replicate and then Propagate.  There is about as much chance of that happening as our government actually doing anything important.  I am sure Saturn is safe also. 

But lets be clear, they have a great bumper sticker, a good presentation and ethics on their side.  Unfortunately, they are a government agency and are covered by a treaty with the United Nations.  I am sure at one time that meant something also.  But now it is just non-absorbent wiping paper.

Dilusional

The more I think about it, the more I like the word delusional.  Whenever someone calls someone else "delusional" I find myself chuckling.  Actually, being delusional can be a very serious problem.  An altered version of reality is scary for the non-delusional.  All politicians are delusional.  They take a class in it.  I knew a guy that regardless of the argument you put forth to disprove his statement, he would just repeat his position louder.   Many people said he was delusional but he was actually a stupid bonehead that enjoyed arguing.  

I remember my dad explaining someone as delusional.  It had to do with a football or baseball coach friend of his.  Dad got all serious and said, "I think he is delusional!"    I Actually think being deluded is becoming the normal state.  It may have always been that way except now with all the tweets, wired news and blogs such as this one, peoples opinions or delusions are expressed.  I am sure Southerners thought Abraham Lincoln was delusional.  Martin Luther was considered a delusional madman to most of his day.  My dad was fairly grounded.  His only delusion was trying to play fair and expecting others to play fair.  He was a radical, I know.

The guy that has been walking the length of Cocoa Beach almost daily for forty years is most likely delusional.  I wonder what his parameters are.  Is he governed by time, distance or foil heads from Meepzorp?  There was another guy that wore shorts three sizes too small and would ride a broken down old bike from Cocoa over the bridge ten miles to somewhere east of Eden.  At least he did not wear a super hero costume because that would have made in NUTS and delusional.  The Mohawk guy on the three wheeled bike may have been deluded but that would be the least of his problems.  He talked to stop signs, yelled at red lights, would not look at a human being and sometimes wore a skirt with no pants.  Maybe he was from Scotland.

The best parts about delusions are that they are comfortable and usually not dangerous.  They could be considered major tenants of our personality.  My little bubble of security is very cozy. 

Sanity

The other morning I was getting out of the shower and I heard a strange noise outside the window.  I glanced out and I saw a huge tornado, like the one in "The Wizard of Oz" coming directly toward me.  Of course I was mistaken and it was just the trunk of a palm tree.  This is not the first time I have thought a tornado was coming in my bathroom window. 

If I am sane or not sane cannot be determined by one palm tree tornado but there are indicators.  I watched a movie yesterday called "Proof" with Gwyneth Paltrow and Anthony Hopkins.  Sanity was a main theme and I concluded that being sane or not sane is not the issue.  Being useful or not useful is the true measure of usefulness.  You can be sane and completely useless or the reverse.  enas dna sselesu.  When I was at football practice, the coach asked a kid why he ran all the way across the field to try to tackle someone when his job was to stay where he was to prevent a reversal play.  The kid said, I don't know, I just had to attack someone.  He also said the Northern Lights were the result of God peeing on a rainbow.   That kid never was very useful on the football field and he was most likely not insane. 

I have insane thoughts all the time.  I wonder how we would run if we had three legs.  There are millions of different types of creature but none of them have three legs.  Some have one leg (snail-foot) and some like the Kangaroo seem to use the tail to sit on but that would be a second butt and we thought we had problems.   I saw a frog with three legs.  One of them went to a restaurant I guess.  The frog would hop, roll, croak and then steady himself and hop again.  What if when you shook hands with someone you did not like, you could not let go until you apologized for the transgression.  I read somewhere that the only books you get to read in heaven are the ones you gave away on earth.  I have given away a few books since hearing that phrase.  What if the only food you could eat in heaven was the food you gave to the poor while on earth.  Remember that book about the five people you will meet in heaven.  I thought about the five I would like to see in heaven.  That girl and her sister in the convertible BMW, I will give up four people for those two.  I would like to spend some time with Benjamin Franklin or Mark Twain.  Annie Oakley or Amelia Earjart would also be cool.

That tornado taught me something about sanity.  Like my supposition of a real tornado, sanity is fleeting and relative.  An autistic savant can be screwier that a bat's mustache but they can love and be loved.  There are some people and we all know them that seem very sane but also extremely un-lovable.  I drew a picture of a horse with no neck.  It sort of looked like a rhinoceros but when I draw a picture of a rhinoceros it looks like Pennsylvania.  I did draw a picture of a man with a wooden leg named Smith.  So what was the name of his other leg? (Mary Poppins)  One of my most favorite ridiculous sayings is  "Don't throw the baby out with the bath water".  This was explained that when water was drawn from a well or in short supply, everyone in the family used the same water for a bath and by the time it got down to the baby (last) the water was so dirty you may not notice a baby in the water.  The child would have drowned if you did not notice a big lump in the bath.  " Dang it Earl, was that a baby I saw going out the window?  Aw shit Helen, that is the second baby we lost this spring.  Someone should invent something to prevent that." 

Momma used to say Crazy is as Crazy does!  For sure.  Enough said.

SAS

I recently developed an allergy or sensitivity to spicy food.  I now, without a more graphic description, develop diaper rash whenever I eat the wrong foods.  I am still learning which foods but I am sure it is spicy stuff.  I have frequently had adverse reactions to cinnamon.

Recently on a very muggy day, I took a walk and irritated my (SAS) swamp ass syndrome.  The discomfort was not noticeable to the outside world and I figured I would just stay quietly in the well-dehumidified office and stick it out for the rest of the day.  I would get home and treat the area accordingly.  Trouble came calling about two thirty PM.  There was a problem with a loaded truck and the cargo had to be moved to another truck for delivery.  I being the supervisor, was called to coordinate unloading and the reload of another truck.  We would have plenty of help so I just would supervise.  I could stay in the shade and not sweat. 

I grew up enjoying sweat.  I loved the way sweat would cool me off in a breeze.  Sweat pouring off of my back was a sign of a job well worked.  Sweat, with all its salt and bacteria is a main ingredient of swamp ass and sure to inflamed the area.  Walking was difficult as I arrive at the truck.  One-Hand Louis was there will Big Joe.  We called him One-Hand because he was always standing around with one hand in his pocket. He would do most things with one hand in his pocket.  Him and Big Joe worked well together because Louis would tell Joe what to do and Joe would do it.  Big Joe was about six foot eight inches tall, knock-kneed with long hair and a wonderful half smile on his face.  He was one of those people who were truly happy to be alive each day. 

This job was going to take hours and I was starting to sweat a bunch.  My dad was a sweating machine and so goes his son.  Temporarily, the moisture seemed to help as it ran down my back.  I knew the Devil was going to get his due on this one.  It took them three hours to unload and load one truck.  While they were working, I drove off to get them sodas for a job well done.  I could barely walk when I got to the Zippy Mart.  My swamp ass had moved down to my thighs.  I cried for mercy as I paid the cute, young, wire through the nose, tongue and ear checkout girl.  She also had braces.  I hope she stayed clear of lightning storms because she was an antenna if I ever saw one.  The obviousness of my pain caused her to watch me hobble out of the store.

I returned to Big Joe and One Hand Louis, handed them the sodas out the window, said, “Nice work, thanks, I gotta go” and spun the tires.  I was going to go back to my office, tell everyone the problem was solved and head straight for home.  I had enough strength for only one try at this.  At the office they told me the new driver (shift change) did not have the delivery papers and I would have to run it out to him.  By the time I got to my car, I was whimpering with every step.  Sitting was OK for a few minutes but the new driver had driven twenty miles before realizing he did not have any idea where he was supposed to go.  I found the driver after about an hour at a truck stop.  I gave him the paperwork and off he went.  I slithered inside the truck stop looking for some relief.  I could barely talk or stand when I purchased eleven packages of lip gloss for “red chapped lips”.  I figured I could smear the petroleum jelly based grease on my ass and sooth this terrible pain.  I could not even wait to get in the car.  I ducked around the corner of the building and jammed my lip gloss laden hands between my legs and rubbed the grease pencils everywhere.  It could have been a gift from heaven but it was not.  There was a distinct smell of cinnamon coming from my crotch.   I yelled “Save me Jesus or I am calling the Devil for help”.  I ran as best I could back into the truck stop and yelled to the smiling child at the counter.   “Where is the nearest drug store, pharmacy or sanitarium.  I do not have much longer to live” She said politely, “there is a Super X drug up the street. Oooh Cinnamon!”  I had touched my face with the cinnamon flavored lip balm and not only were my fingers, ass and thighs burning like the eternal flame at the 68 Olympics but I had red blotches all over my face.  Surprisingly I chuckled on the way to the car.  I noticed my penis was not damaged during this entire ordeal. 

I drug my inflamed body into the Super X and begged the check out girl to help me.  I was sobbing and my ass was on fire.  The teller alerted the pharmacist and he asked me what the problem was specifically.  I said, “I am allergic to cinnamon and I smeared cinnamon laced lip gloss all over my ass, SWEET JESUS MARY JOSEPH save me.”  I grabbed a can of Bactine and unbuttoning my now soaked with sweat pants.  As they dropped to the floor, I jammed the can between my legs and sprayed.  I screamed like a dying goat.  Bactine has alcohol in it and it takes 18 seconds to “reduce pain”.  At about 13 seconds while my eyes were rolling up in my head, the pharmacist came out with some expired prescription strength Preparation HD which contained twenty percent Lidocane.   I snatched that shit out of his hand like a ninja on meth and squirted the entire tube in my hand.  I shoved it down the back of my underwear.   The pain was gone in an instant.  I came to my senses and realized my entire private area was exposed to the Super X and covered with sweet smelling lip gloss and preparation HD.  I pulled up my underwear and sweat soaked pants and asked the teller “how much do I owe you”.  “No charge sweetie!”  I rubbed the remainder of the cream on my face.  A warm bath, some baby powder and three Aspirin would be a welcome end to a pain filled afternoon.