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.

The Player loses his cool

Recently, I had the opportunity to chat with the Player about women and things, mostly women.  I was first impressed with the variety of subjects he was able to talk through.  The Player is not a one dimensional horn dog with an unquenched libido.  He has probably two dimensions.  I think the overall definition is "a shallow pool with a few sandbars".  His pursuit of women is not a quest or a goal, it is more like breathing.  Being with women for him is like air to most people.  The Player is extremely agitated when there are not women around and he cannot breath.

The Player:  "Stan, I don't smell any women around here!"
Stan the bar tender:  "Jill will be in about two.  Happy Hour starts at three"

The Player tips his beer and takes a deep breath preparing to be female-less for another twenty minutes.  This is my chance to get in some questions. 
Researcher:  When was the last time you kissed a woman and told her you loved her afterwards?
The Player:  (chuckling)  Well, that has been a while.  A few years probably.
Researcher:  Who was the last woman you wish you had stayed with?
The Player:  There was an older lady I met in Charleston.  She was fine, rich and independent. She was the only one I went out with  for a few weeks.
Researcher:  Older? Older than you or older than the usual?
The Player:  Older than me, she was probably 35.
(surprised) How old are you now?
The Player:  38.  How old did you think I was?
Researcher:  Except for when  you stare off in the distance, early thirties max.
The Player:  Stan, lets switch to something darker.
Stan brings us two local Mississippi Mud beers.  The afternoon sun cannot not pass through these grogs. 

Researcher:  Lets talk about some women, you can give me a number or some kind of rating. 
Michelle Pfeiffer    -------    Hot (with an eye brow raised)
Martha Raddatz  -------    Thin, brave, aggressive, you know, I would love to do her on a tank.
Mila Kunis  ----------    Whoa, To frail. I might break something.
Jennifer Lopez  -----    Thumb up in the air with an "up" motion
Madonna  ------------    Thumb Down
Researcher:   too old?
The Player:  No, I don't know, I just think the entire evening would be about her.  A lot of times I can be with self centered women and just enjoy the ride but If I am going to ride an old horse, it is going to be about me not the saddle.
The player was fidgeting again so I knew I had to move on.  One more lady then were done.
Kristen Bell-----!

Ben

The Player looked at me and tilted his head down and to one side, like Ben Gazzara talking through the top of his head and in a very deep tone, "I would literally kill for that ass."

After another sip on the Mud and period of silence that last well into ten seconds, the Player lets out a long frustrating hiss.  I say bluntly, Am I boring you?  His response surprised me,  So, a reporter huh, (I told him I was a researcher but to him, Ahh)  anything new and interesting in the world, I catch only bits and pieces of the news while in the bars.  Once I get to a room, there is plenty of action but not much TV watching.
Researcher:  Well, I reviewed an article recently about trans-sexuals in bars.  These psychologists say men who have had sex change operations are fairly common in bars, especially country type bars.  Have you ever been with a transsexual?
The Player:  Hell, no!
Researcher:  How many women have you been with over the last ten years or so?
The Player:  Well, probably two hundred. 
The talk of non-women was spinning him up to a lather and he downed his Mississippi Mud.  I thought I would push him to see which planet he would land on.  The article stated that 3-7 percent of women in bars are actually men either in female clothes or who have had sex change operations.  Not that math is everything but that means that six and possibly fourteen of the women you have slept with were actually men.

The player came up off his stool and spilled his fresh beer.  "That's bullshit".  He was somewhere around Saturn and still climbing.
Researcher:  Math may be odd and scary but it don't lie.  I learned that on Numb3rs.
The Player:  "That is f*up, I would know, I check.
Researcher:  You check?  How?
The Player:  Man, I am outa here, Stan, how much I owe you?
Researcher:  I will take care of it.
The Player:  Shit!
Jill was on her way through the door when the Player pushed her aside with an "excuse me" and did not even look at her pretty face and fine figure.  He was shook to the core and coming in for a landing somewhere near Alpha Centari. 
Jill:  Who was that?, he smells nice. 
Researcher:  Oh, that is just someone who needs some air.

wedding day

What are the odds that the satellite was over head on my daughter's wedding day.  This is so cool.  The artistry of Lisa and Ryon's work with the tables and chairs is breathtaking.  You can only see this version of the map on the ASK website.   Just click this ASK link and you go directly to it.  The chair and table design reminds me of the the land etchings of the southwest.  You do not need to be up in the air to design something cool on the ground.  I think you need mind altering drugs to accurately perceive it.  It all looks so orderly.  Illusion is art. 

The other major thing to notice on this photo (if you go to the MSN Bing maps, there is a good flyby bird's eye view ) is the ESTATE look of the whole mess.  It is kind of like hot dogs or Cameron Diaz, they look nice and tasty but do not ever watch them being put together.  Enjoy the photo and some day I will own the orange grove to the east.  I can dream.

Dishwasher Part 2

An unorganized dishwasher is as the Bible says "Better to live on the corner of a cold, wet roof than to live with a quarrelsome woman."  Yes, a shambled, random, poorly planned loading of a dishwasher is as a quarrelsome woman.  I cannot go to sleep serenely if I know the dishwasher,( which I rarely use because it is a constant source of aggravation) is improperly loaded.  I have stated before it is not an effective hiding place for dirty dishes for more than an evening.  Pizza in the back of a car smells great compared to three day old dishes in a dishwasher.

Time saving?  Lets do the math.  Rinse off the dishes (which is so so close to washing them why not just finish them) and place them in the dishwasher.  But wait, I have to unload the dishwasher first unless there are only a few clean ones left in there then they just get washed again.  I have a porcelain coffee cup that has been in the dishwasher since the year 2003.  It has very little paint left on it and the porcelain looks like something from the Parthenon.  Unload means putting the dishes and flatware, commonly called silverware but only by commoners, away properly.  Do not get me started about the forks making out with the spoons.   Now that the dishwasher is empty, load the three glasses, four forks and eighteen plates.   I did not know there were eighteen plates that matched in the entire galaxy and where did they come from.  Was there a party and I missed it?  I am in to this loading the dishwasher thing with about twenty minutes now.  I could have washed, dried, put away the dishes and cleaned the kitchen in that amount of time and not had to listen to the beast (or the dishwasher).  I would not have to screw with the soap and his satanic dispenser or the cycle settings.  HOT, COLD, Dry Heat, Wet Heat, Seasonable Heat, Short, Not so Short, and my favorite, Energy Saver.  This tree hugging lie from the pit of hell does not clean anything except the plastic blob stuck to the drain but this cycle only cost you half as much because the lights were off on the dial during the cycles.

I put dishwashers in the same category as a fancy coffee maker.  Coffee is boiled water and some burned, ground up plant.  You do not need a machine to get a good cup of coffee.  You do not need a dishwasher to have clean dishes.  I have seen some new versions lately.  Australian homemakers have some really spiffy options.  They have two small dishwashers in the same space as our American automobile version dishwasher.   These inventive Aussies do not empty the dishes to a cupboard each cycle.  They keep a clean dish side and a dirty dish side.  Cool mate.  I have seen a small top loading dishwasher in the space of a sink.  I washed golf balls in one once but it is just too bad the club did not fit inside.  Those golf balls really looked impressive taking that left turn into the swamp.  Dishwashers are for dishes if you choose to use them.  As Bartleby says "I would prefer not to."

Smoke

Yesterday, work was cancelled because of smoke.  In Florida we have these interesting phenomenon called "controlled burn" where the Forestry department decides based on plant growth, wind direction, wind speed and humidity, whether or not to torch a field and scare the bejesus out of the critters living in the burn area.  The theory is that development has screwed up the natural fire patterns for the still vast forests and wild areas of Florida.   It is another case of Man trying to fix what Man has already screwed up. 

The key word is "controlled" and should never be used concerning forest fires in Florida.  The fire breaks and barriers rarely stop a fire.  They do give the fireman and chance to drive the dirt hog thingy that cuts as path of dirt through the palmetto field.  Palmetto burns like oil with thick black smoke.  I am sure it could make a good crop for a power plant.   The smoke sticks to the inside of your nose.  The only people left working at the Kennedy Space Center were the contractors repairing roofs with tar.  They all have Black Lung from breathing sooty tar anyway so they  may as well keep them working. 

The reason we had to leave work  was because the Carbon Monoxide levels were above acceptable levels.  Moderate levels of Carbon Monoxide can cause drowsiness and headaches.  High levels will block the lungs ability to process oxygen.  Since half the people at work are fighting to stay awake during meetings anyway, it would be impossible to know if these people were overcome with oxygen deprivation or overcome with sleep.   "Either way,  lets cancel the entire mess and go to the beach."  I laughed at the security guards wearing those paper filter masks that look like codpieces.  I blasted "Smoke on the Water" on the way out the security gate.

Today,  Kennedy Space Center is on a Carbon Monoxide watch.  If the wind picks up and changes directions, this smoldering fire could start up again and we can go home again.  Safety is taken very seriously and quite ridiculously.  Lawyers I guess.   All those years of not smoking cigs down the drain.  It turns out this portion of the forest had not been burned in twelve years.  That is a lot of tinder and with the winds kicking up in the afternoon, there is only one real possible outcome.  Get out the hot dogs and the round, white sugary things. They will have a bunch of meetings, a lessons learned action and accomplish absolutely nothing.  People in charge will be content in assuring that the people in charge looked at the situation and are sure it will not happen again until the next time it happens.  That is for sure. 

Cutlery

Did the fork evolve from a stick?  Did a spoon evolve from a sea shell?  Is generic silverware the same as a utensil?   And what of the lonely knife?  It really has not evolved much.
  There are many types of knives.  And what of that spelling.  Knife was once derived from the Vikings word knif.  Boy, that explains a lot.  There is a french term, canif which makes me assume that in old English and Norse they sounded the "kn".  I mean, why would they write it if it was not so. 

Stuffed Goat Stomach-Haggis

Fork from old English comes from Latin furca, to divide in branches.  I think a forked stick could skewer haggis much surer and later some genius tried three, ten and then twenty five tines and came up with the rake but that was not used very often at the dinner table.   There is nothing like a fork to stick a sheep's stomach full of hearts and stuff.   It is called haggis and derived from the sound one makes after eating while running to the toilet, "Oh, haaaaggggus."

The spoons is from the word spon which means splinter or chip of wood.  Spoon fed is an old term for feeding helpless people or children with a thin  piece of wood to help them.  An indentation was morphed later.  Now we have sporks with serrations on the edge for cutting away gristle.  Reminds me of many a tongue I have seen and heard.

Much of the world still does not use utensils to eat.  Hands work great.  Chop sticks help with the spearing but not with soup.  Chop sticks with a hole in the middle like a straw would be most cool for soup.  Chopsticks sort of translates into "quick little bamboo fellas".  Although it is probably a reverse  translation from a derogatory "Chop Chop" used to mean "quickly" Drinking form a bowl is customary in many places.   Why not have chopsticks with a hole in it like a straw.  No more spoon soup mess. 
I have some silverware, stuff made of silver and some silver plated spoons and such.  I guess I have cutlery, go figure.

Colors

I have been thinking about color quite a bit lately.  I look at the sunsets and see pinks, reds, blue, gray and yellow.  I saw green clouds the other day.  The world order seemed content.  Then I remembered that if you mix all the colors on picture, the color you get is close to black.  If you mix red light, blue light and yellow light and shine them overlapping on the wall, you will see a white light. I cannot deal with that effectively.  It is like fiction and non fiction.  Observe the irony of this next interlude.

Officer Hernandez:  "That boy's story was a complete fiction!  I do not believe a word he says."
Sargent Wilson:  "I know, when will he ever start telling non-fiction?"
or
Officer Hernandez:  "That boy's story was a complete lie.  I do not believe a word he says."
Sargent Wilson:  "I know, when will he ever start telling non-lies?"  Non lies?  There is word for that, truth!  When will he start telling the truth.

Who talks like that!  It is negative logic.  color is like that.  Mix all the colors in a crayon box and you get black but if you mix then as light you get white.  If you mix yellow with red, you get orange.  Blue with yellow you get green, Blue with red you get purple.  If you mix blue with red and a little yellow, you get my favorite Crayola color, periwinkle first introduced in the twenty four pack of crayola crayons in the Nineteen sixties.   I learned a great deal about multiplication from crayola boxes.  The number of crayons and additional colors were increased in multiples of eight.  I found those metrics helpful in looking at numbers.  It was sort of a spacial application of sets of numbers and of course, colors.  Math has negative logic.  How about dividing fractions, "just invert and multiply".  I am not sure but standing on my head and multiplying is not going to help.
Many of the Barbizon and Hudson River painters did not use black paint in their pictures.  In nature, there are very few examples of black color.  Coal and charcoal are black.  Human hair can be black although to paint it would not require black paint.  There are no black plants.  The black skin of even the most black Nigerian is not black.  The skin shade is almost blue.  A crow or a grackle is not black, not even a black bird. 

I remember, out west, in the mountains about Cedar City, the sky was so blue it hurt my eyes.  The thin air and low humidity enabled the blue to be dark yet bright.   Similar to the blue waters of the Caribbean.  In Florida, the greens are so rich you can smell them.  There are five hundred shades of green in Florida.  The Grand Canyon has six thousand colors all changing with the angle of the sun.  There is so much color in the canyon you have to cry in order to breath again.  The yellows of a sunset in the Appalachians are sinfully vibrant and cannot be painted accurately.  Many have tried. 

The colors of my dreams outdo any in my life.  They are hauntingly pure.  Yes, colors.