tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25521706070100335272024-02-18T20:38:38.137-08:00Plumbed DownLife is Valuable: Finding the Meaning and Moral in a Confusing World. Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.comBlogger172125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-86985513142157524172020-08-19T15:24:00.000-07:002020-08-19T15:24:40.538-07:00All Dog Lives Matter<p> Rebecca was not always an animal person. <br /><br />In fact, for the first 35 years of her life, animals and herself had played a virtual chess game with no exchange of pieces. If dog moves this way, then I'll move that way, and each created a defensive posturing that allowed the other to live in peace. </p><p>But as her children aged, and as the pandemic of 2020 raged, she felt a bond with her family's dog that she'd never felt before. Maybe being holed up inside the house for long periods of time helped her understand her pet's existence. She had read the feminist novels of the late twentieth century like <i>The Awakening</i>, and laughed at the horrible symbology of the trapped "bird." Or clipped wings. Or whatever. Sure, women once had it much worse. Yes, many were trapped in bad marriages, and treated like housepets by their smug husbands. But ultimately, maybe even sadly, she liked love stories like <i>Pride and Prejudice</i> much more. Even with its antiquated views on marrying well for financial stability. Jane Austen wrote about dogs, but they were always owned by the Darcys and the Willoughbys of her novels. Hunting dogs. Which is maybe why the idea of a dog as "Man's Best Friend" came about. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbiKRsFD6rgj8-dsIazbJnzAjAwCS6DlI7qixZtHB0PmhPinRtDsV_WMqnMwHetRikhYM7g_euPWCs5mhb8PzLERNXWQdRzyVecLfSI1So-02pJVQLHm_lX1ScZxeVCcXArF7TztskG2w/s800/lab-hound-mutt-labrador-mixed-breed-outdoor-animal-shelter-adoption-photo-77567945.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="800" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbiKRsFD6rgj8-dsIazbJnzAjAwCS6DlI7qixZtHB0PmhPinRtDsV_WMqnMwHetRikhYM7g_euPWCs5mhb8PzLERNXWQdRzyVecLfSI1So-02pJVQLHm_lX1ScZxeVCcXArF7TztskG2w/w410-h296/lab-hound-mutt-labrador-mixed-breed-outdoor-animal-shelter-adoption-photo-77567945.jpg" width="410" /></a>But the longer her wings were clipped inside her house; her stupid dirty house, (why hadn't the boy's done the dishes last night like they said they would!), the more she felt a kinship with Muttley. Muttley prefered the dirty house. There were more objects to shake wildly, more plates to lick, more garbage to tear apart for the last calorie of ketchup residue; he made her housework more laborious. Yet he was dependent on the family. And as Rebecca was trapped in a household of men, she, of course, was the most responsible, and the one most often feeding, bathing, and now walking Muttley. Muttley was exactly as his name implied. Bigger than average. Probably some lab, maybe some retriever, maybe some Blue Heeler, whatever he was, he wasn't a looker, but he was sweet and harmless. </p><p>The first few walks, like every other obligation in Rebecca's life, felt like another chore. And with everyone now trapped in the house, working from home, schooling from home, everyone afraid of a microscopic virus, escaping to the outside started to feel like a reprieve. <br /><br />To Muttley, the idea of a walk was pure euphoria. Muttley believed in the green leash, the orgiastic future outside that day by day retreats before him. The perfect telephone pole might have eluded him yesterday, but it doesn't matter, today he can walk much farther, stretch his leg out wider, pee much longer, and one fine morning, he may smell the secrets of the universe. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5l0jc_gOEgmulbZljvYBunUn7BP3sAuw1OpdgmFDFKHMo0vwKQ7zVnsmGEfrcrd2o63JhqHtR0SgOhM8wh6wYwaj1avkrpz6tU2dXzyyGYHdBWQ5kZ3iVGoB9Zbs4_w1BkNarp3PPWU0/s500/MV5BZTY4MzcyODYtOGU4ZS00MDc5LTk1MGYtMzhiOGE3ZTFhMTNhXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMjIyNjE2NA%2540%2540._V1_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="Wishbone made the best Darcy." border="0" data-original-height="304" data-original-width="500" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5l0jc_gOEgmulbZljvYBunUn7BP3sAuw1OpdgmFDFKHMo0vwKQ7zVnsmGEfrcrd2o63JhqHtR0SgOhM8wh6wYwaj1avkrpz6tU2dXzyyGYHdBWQ5kZ3iVGoB9Zbs4_w1BkNarp3PPWU0/w400-h243/MV5BZTY4MzcyODYtOGU4ZS00MDc5LTk1MGYtMzhiOGE3ZTFhMTNhXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMjIyNjE2NA%2540%2540._V1_.jpg" title="Wishbone made the best Darcy." width="400" /></a>Muttley's excitement was contagious. And eventually Rebecca started to look forward to the walks. She noticed houses she hadn't seen before, neighbors she hadn't greeted before, watched the sun rise or set against the hilly backdrop of her neighborhood. She appreciated the air. The smells, and the simple companionship of Muttley. Sometimes one of the boys, or her husband would join her on these daily walks and she wondered how they had gone so many years without this simple pastime. <br /><br />Jane Austen's heroines would've known the joys of long walks. Of course, Jane Austen wrote about middle class women clinging to some kind of opulent hope. Good marriages allowed them to avoid the dangers of the industrial revolution. Most historical women would've lived more like Oliver Twist than any of the Bennett sisters. It was probably this romanticism of gender roles that Rebecca most enjoyed. How nice would it be to simply play the piano nicely, recite some random poetry, and direct the house servants to throw a lavish party. But what percentage of historical women, while denied a working career, were also free of the slavery of pre-modern housework? How long did washing the clothes take? Fetching the water, heating the water, washing the kids? Every single task she dreaded today, must've taken 10 to 45 minutes longer in 1800. </p><p>It was that class disparity she was thinking about, when she rounded the corner and heard a commotion. Muttley had heard it early and expressed that dog-centric emotion of whining and tugging on the leash. Fear, apprehension, and curiosity. <br /><br />She heard the barking before she saw the figures. Then she heard the shouting. <br /><br />"Get him off my lawn!"</p><p>"He's not even on your lawn, he's on the sidewalk!" <br /><br />"Well, he peed on my flowers, I watched you let him do it!" </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1y67WDgEEuL1r0yPlYWXJvSH43sBllDctbMPafhz1NfR4Oaf2n6GodPcyLRPs4BFDRB3BQTVA9qrQ9qdbYiiXS442TG_xQEQPAIERHsN_w_Cj8jVHuLAPC1Y-37GQMJ5OJTTmI6yNJYw/s275/images-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1y67WDgEEuL1r0yPlYWXJvSH43sBllDctbMPafhz1NfR4Oaf2n6GodPcyLRPs4BFDRB3BQTVA9qrQ9qdbYiiXS442TG_xQEQPAIERHsN_w_Cj8jVHuLAPC1Y-37GQMJ5OJTTmI6yNJYw/w430-h286/images-2.jpg" width="430" /></a>Rebecca now cold see a black man, a black person, an African American?, she wasn't sure what they preferred to be called. She saw him holding a leash, taut, the rest of the dog was obstructed by a neighboring shrub that had pushed past the curb. <i>Come on people, control your shrubbery!</i> she thought. <br /><br />It must be a massive dog. A pit-bull or Rottweiler. So much acidic urine could maybe kill her flowers, but still, dogs are dogs...</p><p>Ten steps more and she was past the obstructing bush, and she could see some form of terrier...a Jack Russell terrier, most likely, his curious face looked at her as she entered the scene. He did not bark, instead he ignored her entrance and repositioned himself defensively against the agitated homeowner. <br /><br />"I'm sorry he sprayed your flowers, ma'am...if you'd like, I'll spray them off with your hose. He meant no harm." <br /><br />"You will not touch my hose!" <br /></p><p>Other neighbors now watched from their front lawns.</p><p>"Well, I don't know what else to do, other than apologize, ma'am." <br /><br />"Don't you call me ma'am. I'm not that much older than you. I don't need your type belittling me." <br /><br />"Excuse me, "<i>my type?</i>," I hope you are referring to me being a pet-owner." <br /><br />"You know what I mean. Walking down this street everyday like its normal. Letting your dog urinate in my yard...it's a shame they let you..." <br /><br />Rebecca couldn't stand it anymore; "Hey, lady, cool it. Okay? We're all neighbors here. He apologized. It isn't a big deal. Don't make this personal." <br /><br />"Well, we aren't all n***** lovers in this neighborhood." </p><p>The black man scoffed, "Well, there we have it folks, a klansmember right here?!" He swirled his arms around, one clearly hampered by the leash, but he didn't seem too surprised, just disappointed. <br /><br />"I ain't no klan member. My step-daughter married a black man. But he doesn't let..." <br /><br />Rebecca interjected again. "Lady, why don't you just shut the f*** up right now. We don't need your antebellum attitude right now." <br /><br />"You shut up, you dumb bitch, n***** lover." </p><p>Rebecca was now incensed. Her husband would've ripped her mailbox out of the ground and thrown it through her car windshield. But men, men... She realized her grip on the leash was shaking. Muttley was growling, just audible to her, and showing just a small segment of teeth. Muttley was a dumb dog, in the nicest sense of the word. He let people walk inside their house and then jumped on their laps the minute they sat down. He ran away from cats in the backyard, and whimpered once at a squirrel who was not afraid of him. <br /><br />"Walking away," the black man said as he twirled his free arm again. Normally Rebecca had only seen this gesture from gay men, but this man did it with such precision and force, it was masculine to the core. It was a beautiful simple protest. <br /><br />"Don't walk away," Rebecca said, "this women owes you an apology." <br /><br />The man turned around and looked right at her. His Jack Russell did, too, as if in solidarity to his master. "Thanks, but, you don't know. You don't know." <br /><br />"I know this is my neighborhood, and this is 2020, and it isn't right." <br /><br />"I thank you for being an advocate, or ally, or whatever the hell it is that whitefolks are calling this "wokeness," but this is my everyday. It's not everyday, or month. But I'm used to it. I'll continue to walk this route, I'll consider letting my dog urinate on her flowers, but I will pull him back because I don't need this in my life. I don't want this in my life. It's better if I just pretend this unwelcomeness doesn't exist in my neighborhood." </p><p>"But you are welcome..." <br /><br />"No you aren't," the lady yelled, clearly eavesdropping on their conversation from 40' away.</p><p>Some of the neighbors started to murmur, one began recording on her cell phone, one started calling the police. Rebecca realized she might be apart of one of those racial-viral videos. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU70shqz6D_vKjWLVM8lupow0kEDu94eOM4cB5UXY-qoU_1J04jg0pue1Haweu5-cMoWY8OLcMYFIiDVsAnFTopxxh5IwEoEHVAAhPNpx7d4qIPJYye_HXUCcpDpTJ_Xl77u2FLneVd4M/s849/dogpoop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="461" data-original-width="849" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU70shqz6D_vKjWLVM8lupow0kEDu94eOM4cB5UXY-qoU_1J04jg0pue1Haweu5-cMoWY8OLcMYFIiDVsAnFTopxxh5IwEoEHVAAhPNpx7d4qIPJYye_HXUCcpDpTJ_Xl77u2FLneVd4M/w512-h278/dogpoop.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p><span style="font-size: small;">Take this, racism!</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Rebecca raised her voice, "You know what lady..." <br /><br />But before an explosion of expletives could leave her mouth, she looked down at Muttley, who had pulled himself as far from his leash as he could, and was squatting down right next to the lady's mailbox. He looked up at Rebecca, smiling-grimacing, as the largest shit he had ever taken, plopped down next to the lady's mailbox. <br /><br />"Oh, hell no," The lady yelled, as the neighborhood exploded in applause. </p><p>Muttley, now an agent provocateur, basked in his attention. He kicked some mulch backwards onto his victory pile. </p><p>Rebecca tried to hold back a smile, "Good boy," she said just loud enough for the neighbor to hear. </p><p>"You're cleaning that up, this is my property." <br /><br />Rebecca took two steps away </p><p>"You better! It's common courtesy. What's happened to civility around here?"</p><p>The black man answered, "Don't shit where you eat, ma'am." the neighbors, clearly sick of this woman, laughed and applauded again. Someone even hooted. It was a white person hoot, so it was awkward. </p><p>Rebecca and the man walked away, separated by just enough distance that the pandemic had made normal. Their dogs did not even sniff each other. </p><p>They got to the fork in the road. The man said, "This is where I turn." </p><p>Rebecca said, "Yeah, I live that way..." </p><p>"Well, maybe..."<br /><br />Rebecca interrupted, "I didn't get your name? Mine's Rebecca."<br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRoa6NMR1lCEbXLYPVvaepnaODncLOled-HaNezu9wx9lSJrSxRSQ94d8RoE1Pz4bpFWxOSHNCkCQ1pxKalKJGd7mQqBqvcXA6vWyQo9knBXcrxLBvr29FW3b6b93R38OQz8f-NkGWuUY/s620/eddie-from-frasier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="465" data-original-width="620" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRoa6NMR1lCEbXLYPVvaepnaODncLOled-HaNezu9wx9lSJrSxRSQ94d8RoE1Pz4bpFWxOSHNCkCQ1pxKalKJGd7mQqBqvcXA6vWyQo9knBXcrxLBvr29FW3b6b93R38OQz8f-NkGWuUY/w397-h298/eddie-from-frasier.jpg" width="397" /></a>"It's Ray, the dog is Fraiser." <br /><br /><i>Did black people watch Fraiser?,</i> she mentally slapped herself for thinking it...</p><p>"I have no idea how long you've lived here, but welcome to the neighborhood, Ray." <br /><br />"Thanks for welcoming me," Ray replied, almost as if the other thing hadn't even happened. </p><p>They exchanged goodbye pleasantries, almost like two strangers meeting on a path in a Jane Austen book, except of course, that black people didn't exist on those paths or pages. </p><p>"That's some N**** loving dog, you got, Rebecca," he joked. <br /><br />"Oh don't tell him that, he will think it gives him a free pass to say that word around the house. His name is Muttley." she tried to be funny.</p><p>"Well, all mutts matter," he joked with a sly smile. </p><p>"Yes they do." she replied. <br /><br />She walked towards her home. Unafraid of the unknown. Even in a pandemic, good people exist. And dogs will judge the rest. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p><br /><br /></p>Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-10162788822219494992020-03-14T11:25:00.000-07:002020-03-14T11:25:14.783-07:00Finding Balance in Armageddon James sat in his corner cubical, wiped the sweat from his brow, and picked up the next paper from the stack labeled, "Not Approved." The orange hue from the fires outside made it seem like sunset, but the clock clearly stated 2:30. <br />
<br />
He heard keys fumbling in the front lock, and then the door flung open. Tom Trudeau, his district manager, blew past him, nearly sprinting. James turned in his swivel chair and watched as Tom flung a Motivational poster off the wall in his glassed office. Tom spun some dials on a safe that the rest of the office personal assumed was there, but had never seen, and pulled the contents into a small backpack. <br />
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James looked around the office to see if anyone else was witnessing this crime, but he had forgot. They all ran out screaming when the bombs landed. <br />
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Tom hurriedly zipped the bag up and then noticed James. <br />
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"James, what the hell are you still doing here?" <br />
<br />
"It's only 2:30 in the afternoon? And I have hours of revised applications to go through." <br />
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"What? You dumbshit! The world is on fire, and you want to give some rejects a closer look?" "Newsflash, nothing matters anymore. We've been attacked. I bet 75% of the city is gone. You need to call your family, see if everyone is okay. This building is probably going up in flames in a matter of moments! There might be more bombs!" <br />
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"I don't have any family; at least not anywhere near here."<br />
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"Well, do whatever it is you robotic weirdos do...I would advise you to find some shelter or something...This is only gunna get worse!" <br />
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"I have so much work to do, though. God, I hate disasters, they always upset the balance..."<br />
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"The balance? What are you talking about? Nobody gives a crap about any account reviews. I randomly choose 1 of the 7 accounts you send back, and approve it. I don't even look at your revisions. Okay? This job? Your job? It's a joke." <br />
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"This job is not a joke. I get people approved for loans whom wouldn't normally qualify. All these memos and quotas we have to meet, you've established them..."<br />
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"Yeah, and now I'm outta here." Trudeau pressed a Post-it note with the words "Today's Memos" onto Johnson's forehead. <br />
<br />
"Why are you taking office equipment and that cash, " Johnson replied, looking at the now-full backpack. "That money was intended for Loancorp? I don't even need to consult the employee code of conduct to know that what you are doing is against corporate policy."<br />
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"Policy? You are some kind of weirdo homeschooled kid aren't you? Look, I don't have time to talk legalities...it's every person for himself!"<br />
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"Every person for himself? Is that our new policy?"<br />
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"What? Yeah, sure, if it'll help you survive!"<br />
<br />
Tom Trudeau, district manager looked in disbelief as James Johnson, senior account reviewer, and the office joke's fist made contact with his chin. <br />
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It knocked Tom clean out. <br />
<br />
James Johnson picked up the backpack. "Thanks Tom, I'll be taking the rest of the day off." The new corporate policy didn't make much sense, but it was the first benefit Johnson had received in his long career with Loancorp.<br />
<br />
Johnson walked outside into the balmy heat and removed another layer of clothing. The world really was changing quickly, James thought. "Watch, Learn, Adapt, Master; repeat," he thought to himself. Mom was right, he could make it in this world. <br />
<br />
He walked into the neighboring Best Buy looking for something interesting to purchase, but realized he was alone.<br />
<br />
Like a scurrying rat, one last Geek Squad employee in a blue shirt shot out from the stockroom. His hands full, like Tom, probably pilfering, only in this case, the best gaming computer the store sold.<br />
<br />
James tracked him down, "Hi, I was wondering who could help me with some large purchases?"<br />
<br />
"Are you kidding, dude? The employees left hours ago...the store's all yours!" and tossed him some keys.<br />
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<i>Wow</i>, James thought, <i>this calamity is really paying dividends. </i><br />
<br />
He had never thought of owning an electronics store...but it sure beat living in his 600 square foot apartment.<br />
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<br />
After a few hours of remodeling, James had furnished himself a large corner office. He even set up a brand new side-by-side fridge, a Keurig espresso coffee maker, and top of the line microwave, giving himself an office kitchen. The rearranging had really worked up a sweat. Someone must've set the thermostat to 80 degrees he thought.<br />
<br />
It's foolish mistakes like that, that get upstart companies rejected loans. One has to be savvy with the bottom line.<br />
<br />
Johnson started work on a business proposal: JJ's BB EE. James Johnson's Best Buy Electronics Experience. His own creative mind gave him a chill down the spine. The heebeegeebees.<br />
<br />
He walked to the front window, as the sound of sirens blared everywhere, and locked the doors for the night. The orange glow remained, but a more beautiful pink hue fought the darkening sky. It reminded him of a painting in a hotel room. A room with a view. More like a warehouse with a view.<br />
<br />
At the edge of his parking lot, he saw a car crash into a telephone pole. The pole fell to the ground, sparks flying everywhere. A truck pulled up behind the crashed car and forced the injured woman from the car into the truck. She appeared to be yelling protests.<br />
<br />
Johnson got the heebeegeebees again. "The world is going to hell...Thank God I got this great investment."<br />
<br />
He flicked the main lights off at the electrical panel and walked back to his corner office, now lit by just a small lamp. He looked at his business proposal, and with all pride of a mother on graduation day, stamped the file: APPROVED.<br />
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<i>Watch, Learn, Adapt, Master; Repeat.</i>..he wrote on a post-it note...then added, <i>and become your own boss. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
And before he could pull the string on the lamp, it went out on its own. "<i>Must be time for bed</i>, Johnson thought as he leaned back in his swivel leather chair. He disrobed down to his undershirt and boxers, but still felt the heat of the building.<br />
<br />
<i>Tomorrow I've got to find the thermostat and turn the heat down...and get some curtains to block out these sunsets, then I'll finally have balance.</i> He leaned back once again in his chair, smiled, and slept like the dead. <br />
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<br />Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-3506510099148778842020-01-20T21:13:00.000-08:002020-01-20T22:34:12.357-08:00Metallic Food, Killing Rats, and Bad Art Teachers: A Grief StoryI'm getting better at grieving...<br />
<br />
If that's a thing. A trait to be desired? I don't know. Is it better to be a bubbling, snotty, mess, or the person who compartmentalizes things and then hears Radiohead on the way home and nearly has to pull over and cry? I don't know.<br />
<br />
I just know what to expect. I know I'll laugh again, and cry again, and be hit with weird moments of everything in between, because this isn't new. I've done this before. Death has been conquered before, and I'll get past this, too. But grief is odd...<br />
<br />
Losing my grandma was the third death in less than a month. They say death comes in three's, and I didn't want it to be true. I lost my dog of 15 years on the last day of 2019, and then two days later my daughter's hamster died just moments before we left for a mini-trip to the coast. Hamsters don't count, I know. They're rodents. But looking at my daughter when she discovered that her hamster died, I knew right then that it counted. Pain in the eyes of your children, counts. I dug another, much shallower grave in the backyard. Then we said a prayer, and got in the car to go on vacation. Yippee!<br />
<br />
I told myself that we were done with death because there was a third death. Kind of. My other dog, Gatsby, did not like us burying his brother Indiana; he sniffed the box, he nudged the carcass of his brother, and then when we lowered the dog into the ground, Gatsby barked at us and jump-lunged at us inside the netting of our enclosed trampoline (yes, our dog jumps up and inside the trampoline enclosure and hangs out there; he's weird). The netting propelled him backward, almost violently. It was odd. He jumped at us in anger, and barked at us in anger. Something he'd never done. He then went to the tamped-down dirt and sniffed, whined, and looked up at us. Why? Grief is weird.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyk_NSDZalhMKbaIFFAVdHJeFFameuQmCS9wrVINqGqrW6vHLUISv-Xl2j8s_BmiiZChC1Q3V_xcoUrpVN_I6ltHKd2iXzmy9p5wh-4yySHtSC9T9Th_8IP3i-JwJhb2_EkX-gOgeF0Do/s1600/DSC02910.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="1140" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyk_NSDZalhMKbaIFFAVdHJeFFameuQmCS9wrVINqGqrW6vHLUISv-Xl2j8s_BmiiZChC1Q3V_xcoUrpVN_I6ltHKd2iXzmy9p5wh-4yySHtSC9T9Th_8IP3i-JwJhb2_EkX-gOgeF0Do/s320/DSC02910.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goodbye, Ole' Indiana, you were a good pup.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Gatsby, a day later, established himself as head-of-house dog. He caught a rat. We don't have a rat problem. I've never seen one, never heard one, never had any food ripped open, no droppings. We don't have rats. But when I heard Gatsby violently shaking something in the hallway, I had to go check it out. He violently rips apart every toy we give him. But he does it right in front of us, as if we should be proud. He pulls the fluff out and sets the precious polyester in our lap. He goes after the squeaker like that cult leader from Temple of Doom goes after beating hearts. "Good dog," he expects. We don't say that...our response is more like, "Gatsby...we just got you that! Bad!" So when I heard the commotion in the hall I was curious. When I got to the hallway, I was really mad. He got the other daughter's hamster! (technically, this was before the first hamster death). On the ground was my daughter's hamster, tail bloody, clearly damaged from the violent shaking that Gatsby had inflicted.<br />
<br />
"Nadia! quick, get in here...Gatsby got your hamster!" I yelled as I held back Gatsby from finishing off the poor hamster.<br />
<br />
Nadia runs into the hall. "Dad, that's not my hamster."<br />
<br />
My wife right behind her, voice trembling, "Yeah, Chris, that's not her hamster! Hamster's don't have tails. That's a rat!"<br />
<br />
Still disbelieving (I'm such a Thomas), I looked into my daughter's room and saw her dark-brown "rat-looking" hamster sleeping comfortably.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDL8S4gnwAhU6G7HpDAw-z0gtnQbr-E9As3ccJ_vWdT3iwWBqMBDJoPEWchqP8nJzV_CwzQUyPF7_Hx1tQvxCToqajYHmJMXFzpWUrubCVXtEZWnrce0xls6uUK3lA5OeCGoqkXFsm4BY/s1600/21d20GoisqL._SR600%252C315_PIWhiteStrip%252CBottomLeft%252C0%252C35_PIAmznPrime%252CBottomLeft%252C0%252C-5_PIStarRatingFOURANDHALF%252CBottomLeft%252C360%252C-6_SR600%252C315_ZA%2528319+Reviews%2529%252C445%252C291%252C400%252C400%252Carial%252C12%252C4%252C0%252C0%252C5_SCLZZZZZZZ_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="600" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDL8S4gnwAhU6G7HpDAw-z0gtnQbr-E9As3ccJ_vWdT3iwWBqMBDJoPEWchqP8nJzV_CwzQUyPF7_Hx1tQvxCToqajYHmJMXFzpWUrubCVXtEZWnrce0xls6uUK3lA5OeCGoqkXFsm4BY/s320/21d20GoisqL._SR600%252C315_PIWhiteStrip%252CBottomLeft%252C0%252C35_PIAmznPrime%252CBottomLeft%252C0%252C-5_PIStarRatingFOURANDHALF%252CBottomLeft%252C360%252C-6_SR600%252C315_ZA%2528319+Reviews%2529%252C445%252C291%252C400%252C400%252Carial%252C12%252C4%252C0%252C0%252C5_SCLZZZZZZZ_.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I agree on the star rating. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
What the hell. A rat? In my house? I ran to get the girl's pink BB gun. I shot the bastard. Nobody grieved for the tail-tattered, BB riddled carcass of the rat. I did what men do. We eliminate problems. I had to clean the blood off the floor and dispose of the rat. In the trashcan, because this was not a family pet. Rodents don't count.<br />
<br />
So the next day when Lily's hamster died, I later thought...oh yeah, my dog, the rat, and the hamster...that's three. Obviously one hurt badly, one hurt a little, and one not at all...and we survived.<br />
<br />
But rodents don't count.<br />
<br />
Instead, the third will be the toughest of them all. Grandma.<br />
<br />
This was not totally unexpected. She was 96. We lost Grandpa Bill less than two years ago. The family thought maybe they'd both make it to 100 as they were both spritely and healthy. Bill was a Pearl Harbor survivor. How cool would it be to have 100-year-old Pearl Harbor surviving couple. They'd probably make the national news. (As if anyone watches NBC nightly news anymore). I know that's selfish and stupid, but it also made me proud of who they were. Survivors.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQj657mPmd96WqScA9btZjBfcd_UuEQ4wLzRoOv-lfmBqfsj_sfWcZqos1Gz8vPEERXS3ZQIEzGJxhHcpB0awpCEt8M7HqGOcXy2hNj9ceIVz5VAdx-g74kkQBbNIFKRsizRCqv4tkMsw/s1600/IMG_0955.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="901" data-original-width="1207" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQj657mPmd96WqScA9btZjBfcd_UuEQ4wLzRoOv-lfmBqfsj_sfWcZqos1Gz8vPEERXS3ZQIEzGJxhHcpB0awpCEt8M7HqGOcXy2hNj9ceIVz5VAdx-g74kkQBbNIFKRsizRCqv4tkMsw/s320/IMG_0955.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My grandparents 70th anniversary</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
If I was a normal person, I'd probably use this paragraph to describe the unbelievable character of Pat Sharrar, my grandma. A devout Catholic, person of high moral character, and mother to seven kids. She was a special person. I didn't know her very well. I knew her, but, she was guarded in that WWII generation way. She didn't reveal a ton about herself. She made the best wheat bread I've ever tasted, could play a nasty round of Speed (cards) or Scrabble...but I didn't really know her. I loved her, yes, but there was something I never unravelled about her. My aunts and uncle obviously knew her deeper. As did many of my cousins. My sister said, "She was so much more dimensional that she comes across," and while I knew that about her, I never got to see it.<br />
<br />
In a way, I'm jealous of the deep bond many of my cousins and siblings shared with Pat. But, then again, everybody bonds differently with different people. I know she loved me, and she knew I loved her, and even if we didn't have some "otherworldly" connection that some grandkids and grandparents have, I'm not bitter or guilt-riddled. Death is no time for a pity party.<br />
<br />
Instead, as the long, boring ride home on the worst stretch of I-5, after seeing her the night before she passed (her spirit already gone) but now knowing she was gone, I tried to grieve. Or rather, grief tried to find me. Stupid Radiohead songs. Radiohead was one of those bands that saturated my one major depression. I love Radiohead, but their ethereal sounds can put me in a bad place if I allow them. People don't realize the power of music. Music, probably more than any other art, is a doorway to emotions...<br />
<br />
Anyway, while the beginning of grief boiled to the surface, something odd happened. I remembered my 7th grade teacher Mr. Wood.<br />
<br />
Mr. Wood was an Art teacher at a school in Northern Washington. He taught middle school for half the day and then drove to the high school to teach in the afternoon. My brother, a sophomore when I was a 7th grader, also had Mr. Wood.<br />
<br />
Mr. Wood lost his father and his dog in the same year.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure if these events led to Mr. Wood being an ineffective art teacher, but Mr. Woods could not control a classroom. And the cruelty of our generation gave no compassion to Mr. Wood. They thrived on his pain. They besieged Mr. Wood with insults and taunts, and when Mr. Wood would assign a new project, some kid would blurt out, "How's your dad, Mr. Wood?"<br />
<br />
Mr. Wood would then slink away, into his office, and cry. <br />
<br />
We (and I say "We" because I never stopped this torment...I sometimes laughed, and enjoyed the freedom of never having to turn in assignments or care about my projects in art class) were purposely cruel to Mr. Wood for our advantage. One day a kid swore while sharpening his pencil...Mr. Wood approached him and was going to write him a referral; but the kid apologized and said, "Sorry, my dog died yesterday and it's really affecting me."<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4RKB8HnoP2xWPzwxriHUoKgCyhC6ib0MVhdmpK7KOAOcltiDVYv79ENbgDLnwiOMu3lipHrhyphenhyphen8OYa8KXNKBR35RMdAcvdpy9lQLsJE-TU8yui6leI1jflXGxL_TP9QqOhcCiMPhJ5hVw/s1600/OmenTrilogy12-e1539242046312.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="205" data-original-width="470" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4RKB8HnoP2xWPzwxriHUoKgCyhC6ib0MVhdmpK7KOAOcltiDVYv79ENbgDLnwiOMu3lipHrhyphenhyphen8OYa8KXNKBR35RMdAcvdpy9lQLsJE-TU8yui6leI1jflXGxL_TP9QqOhcCiMPhJ5hVw/s320/OmenTrilogy12-e1539242046312.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Damien, you little devil, you...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mr. Wood tried to console the kid, with tears in his eye. The student shot us a glance and smiled like Damien in the last scene of <i>The Omen</i>. Mr. Woods disappeared for the rest of the period. We won again. My brother told me the same stories happened at the high school. Everyone tormented Mr. Wood. For years. And the poor man was trying to grieve.<br />
<br />
It is disgusting. It was then, at this memory, that I cried. Partially for grandma, but partially because I helped mock a man who lost his world.<br />
<br />
And how similar, I am, to that man now. I've lost my dog and my grandma in the same month. Maybe not the same scale, and yes, there are grievable scales to death. 16 is worse than 96...tragedies, unexpected, those who leave many behind...those hurt more. Regardless, this hurts. Grief of any kind, hurts. Maybe even for rodents. But right now I'm hurting for Mr. Woods. A man I haven't seen in over 25 years.<br />
<br />
The Bible says, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."<br />
<br />
I'll get past this. My mom, bless her loving soul, will get past this. My cousins and family will all survive this. My grandma was 96 and well loved, and her family is close and will console each other. Grief, of course, will catch us all by surprise weeks, months and even years from now, but we will find joy again.<br />
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
But what about the <strike>thousands</strike> millions of Mr. Woods' out there? Who mourns with them? Who comforts them?<br />
<br />
I'm sorry Mr. Woods. You deserved more. I know I was a shit 7th grader, but I knew better.<br />
<br />
Right now I'm mourning for you. I hope you found comfort.<br />
<br />
I'm sorry it took the death of my grandma to really mean it. Grief is weird. <br />
<br />
Btw, if you're wondering what stage of grief I'm experiencing, I'm in the stage where food tastes like it has metal in it. I know this stage will fade. Food will once again taste like it doesn't have metal in it. I'll be okay. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
More stories of terrible lessons learned in Mr. Wood's class: <a href="https://plumbeddown.blogspot.com/2012/08/if-you-could-change-events-of-one-day.html#.XiaI7FNKglI">https://plumbeddown.blogspot.com/2012/08/if-you-could-change-events-of-one-day.html#.XiaI7FNKglI</a><br />
<br />
<br />Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-17524869258399958662018-08-28T18:42:00.000-07:002018-08-28T18:42:11.664-07:00Stolen Vigilance <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_A1bOrKkPYwckTXzZsq2Ln0-3T4EGiJp8co-8vLY7dceAIT2JxLwfNL5It_1RSfPqgDQGEwdVrycBHSBw0dUfLtTZV7oZUSR5TW2Il5BdJIcQ_tAKMoRvd4DLzENDnEIIEByASsduVnw/s1600/studies_in_crap_watchtower_cover_thumb_450x568.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="715" data-original-width="565" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_A1bOrKkPYwckTXzZsq2Ln0-3T4EGiJp8co-8vLY7dceAIT2JxLwfNL5It_1RSfPqgDQGEwdVrycBHSBw0dUfLtTZV7oZUSR5TW2Il5BdJIcQ_tAKMoRvd4DLzENDnEIIEByASsduVnw/s320/studies_in_crap_watchtower_cover_thumb_450x568.jpg" width="251" /></a>The night’s watch, he called it. Better pop culture reference than The Watchtower, he thought. It was, in fact, neither a Game or Thrones moment, or a Jehovah’s Witness magazine, but insomnia.<br />
<br />
Relentlessness.<br />
<br />
No matter how hard he worked, or played, or talked, or screwed, or cried or screamed in the day, when night came it was always about what-ifs. Like all insomniacs, he wondered how he could’ve done it better or worse, or how the next day brought about new dilemmas, challenges, and anxieties, and it all left him paralyzed. Sleepless. And yet dreaming.<br />
<br />
He rose, and walked through the shadows, memorized steps that led him to the fridge. He opened it and drank straight from the orange juice container. His body wasn’t balanced, yet. He grabbed the fridge door and the pickle jar with the other. Each bite of pickle sounded like a sonic boom, but only to him. No need to worry, not even the old family dog now woke to check on these sounds. His girls, his wife, they wouldn’t wake now, for this, or even if he turned the TV to full blast and watched inappropriate infomercials all night long. He was alone. The acids seemed to balance him. He closed the fridge, walked to his comfy chair and slopped down.<br />
<br />
He wasn’t always alone. He wasn’t always a night’s watchman. He became one out of some biological need to protect the family. When something went bump in the night, he was there to make sure it was benign. The few carcinogens were just mice, or rowdy neighbors, or wind from a window left open knocking down a school project.<br />
<br />
To counteract this newfound anxiety, he changed his habits. Sam grew up in a small country town. Nobody locked their doors, and people hid the keys to the car under the floor mats. But these suburbs were different than that small town. Maybe it was the close proximity of houses and yet completely foreign concept of neighbors, or the less likelihood of firearms for protection, but he felt differently now. Now he locked the doors, and checked the windows. He sometimes looked in on his sleeping angels and wanted that peace, for them, for himself, forever. And this feeling of peace wanting caused him anxiety. <br />
<br />
He could count the number of times he had forgotten to close those windows or lock the deadbolt, or failed to secure something of value in its proper place. Tonight just happened to be one of those nights. <br />
<br />
The thief did not case the home. He was simply taking advantage of the cloud covered night. He knew that many suburbanites stayed up late, partying, parenting, drinking...but these behaviors were predictable. Almost nobody stirred at 3 am except the new mother. But new moms were usually zombies and easily avoidable. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivkFJPxjTWxLtrdTby37YgKO4Evu3G8Dt7LBnwb4DPgliVTMRjxx1sDra2Px3ds4xE4IbYtL7uBOyKoj-cuZSHOPjwxTRYFXcNhpzinut82qFQ7ll56HnI2Nu1ICIAB90_hZRjp23-Pzc/s1600/In_the_Park_at_night%252C_Salvaterra_de_Min%25CC%2583o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivkFJPxjTWxLtrdTby37YgKO4Evu3G8Dt7LBnwb4DPgliVTMRjxx1sDra2Px3ds4xE4IbYtL7uBOyKoj-cuZSHOPjwxTRYFXcNhpzinut82qFQ7ll56HnI2Nu1ICIAB90_hZRjp23-Pzc/s320/In_the_Park_at_night%252C_Salvaterra_de_Min%25CC%2583o.jpg" width="320" /></a>The thief parked his car near the local park. The car was neither new or old. It was indistinguishable in that mid-aughts sedan kind of way. His rule was never venture further than a half mile away from this base. It wasn't registered to him, but it would eventually lead back to him. So it was his only escape plan. On a few occasions he had to jump fences and hide in the bushes, but he always made it back to the car. <br /><br />Not that he was always a thief. Well, not continuously. He was always taking toys from friends as a child, and had a long unbroken streak of shoplifting household goods and clothes to supplement the inadequacy of the foster care system. To fit in, he had taken much. As much as the world had not given. <br /><br />
But he grew older, and got a job, and a G.E.D. and for a few years, seemed to break the statistical pitfalls everyone said he would fall into. Then, indistinguishably, like nearly every broken soul, he tried to help another broken soul. One he was attracted to. And as he lend her a hand, she reciprocated with the forbidden fruit of her happiness. It wasn't in needle form at first. He could've easily avoided that. Even broken souls know to avoid needles. But it wasn't long before the happiness was not obtainable. Not with her. Not with his job. Not with success. But only with the fruit. And it was most concentrated in a needle.<br /><br />
His job barely paid enough to subsist on. And forbidden fruit was an expensive luxury. But he kept it together for a while. He was happy, he thought. Even without her. And even when his job cut his hours and recommended he take a vacation. He "was not the same," his manager said. They fired him a few weeks later when the register came up short for the third time during his shift. They did not press charges, and the manager even offered, "to pay to get you help, if you need it." <br />
<br />
He never needed help. He worked alone.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBKVHlucT8FanpzP7U-dxYVlesfhV5jF0dRABfpLiS4oXmqZBz-hmkpufzLstCLKVeMCiEh2eBFX4HdlHkaydhMJA2ZzrBiblwUluWbwgozBzwJvA1IAnlhbdJsGNoMHcy9gAGRa7quvM/s1600/maxresdefault.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBKVHlucT8FanpzP7U-dxYVlesfhV5jF0dRABfpLiS4oXmqZBz-hmkpufzLstCLKVeMCiEh2eBFX4HdlHkaydhMJA2ZzrBiblwUluWbwgozBzwJvA1IAnlhbdJsGNoMHcy9gAGRa7quvM/s320/maxresdefault.jpg" width="320" /></a>As he approached Sam's house, he had already rejected twenty other homes. Lights, layouts, fences, and the appearance of animals. Two homes met the criteria, but the side doors were locked. He tried to avoid front doors. <br />
<br />
The red house looked gray at night. There was a slip-and-slide in the front yard, which was partially well-maintained. Even at night the newer SUV car could be seen to need a washing. These suburbanites were too exhausted to even conform to the neighborhood norms. Perfect targets.<br />
<br />
The thief had recently encountered one of these homes and scored some gold coins. Nearly four ounces of gold. Of course, he had to drive over to the next state to cash it in. But the thirty dollars in gas was easily written off. He wondered if he could write it off as a work expense on his taxes and nearly laughed out loud as he neared the sliding window back door.<br />
<br />
He could barely see through the hanging curtains. It was dark. The kitchen was near, and the living room beyond. No bedrooms nearby. Perfect entry point. The door slide at his touch. <br />
<br />
<i>Morons</i>, he thought. <br />
<br />
Sam was barely conscious when he heard the familiar sound. Even though this sound was a sliding door, he at first thought a daughter had woken and closed the bathroom door...by the time the sound registered, the figure was pushing through the hanging curtains. <br />
<br />
In the dark, when the curtain parted like a figured cloak, it looked like a ringwraith or a dementor, or some other vile demon of his imagination, and Sam was filled with fear like never before in his life. <br /><br />
Here was a situation he had prepared for, and now, he was only ten feet away, sitting along the back wall, unseen by this intruder, and yet helpless. His bat. His gun. Both in the bedroom. He looked around...nothing but his wife's worthless fantasy trade paperback books on the bookshelf. A Bible was on the shelf, but even its weight and power would be futile against a demon. <br />
<br />
The side table. He would smash the figure WWF style. But just as he lunged over to grab it, the intruder noticed him and leaped towards him. They landed awkwardly on the table, both trying to wrestle the other into an advantageous position. <br />Sam thought about yelling out, but heard the "shwink" of the blade sliding into the open position, and then heard the "fssffst" of it piercing his side. His leg was now compressed under the assailant, and he lunged his leg outward with all his force, throwing the thief back towards the sliding door. The dramatic movement of his body instantly threw him into unrelenting pain in his lower back. The same pain he felt when he passed a kidney stone years earlier, only larger in area, and he could already feel the moisture of blood pooling in his shirt. He began to groan. <br />
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<br />
The figure was already standing. The knife held outstretched in one hand, the other in front of his masked face, making the "Shhhhhh" sound. <br /><br />Sam held back the scream..."Whadda you want.." he moaned just loader than a whisper. <br />
<br />
"I want you to shut up, " he forcefully replied just lower in volume. <br />
<br />
"I'll give you anything..."<br /><br />"Shut up. This wasn't supposed to happen. Why are you even up...you moron. This complicates everything...Is anyone else in the house?"<br />
<br />
Sam thought about how to answer this question without endangering his family...<br />
<br />
"Is anyone else in the house, " he intoned again, this time taking a step towards Sam. <br /><br />"Yes, no...I mean Yes." Sam felt his lower back, and instantly regretted giving up his family. <i>Am I dying? Can I still defend my family? <br /><br />"</i>Then shut up." "Oh God, why'd you have to be awake?" <br /><br />
"Hey man, just, you know, I got some money in my wallet. I got a laptop, and I can get my wife's jewelry." He grimaced in pain, knowing that the jewels were in his bedroom, steps away from her...He had to be smarter. <i>They have to live.</i><br />
<br />
"How much cash?"<br />
<br />
"I don't know, I don't know...maybe $200? I might be have some more, somewhere.. {gasp}" <br />
<br />
"That's not enough...come on, man. You gotta have more. This is...this is attempted murder, armed robbery. Dammit, you fucktard, why'd you try to attack me?" <br />
<br />
"Look, I won't do anything, just go...take the cash. I'll give you twenty minutes and then I'll have my wife drive me to the hospital. I won't tell them anything. I don't know anything about you..."<br />
<br />
"Where are they? Back there?" the figure pointed towards the bedrooms...all the doors were slightly cracked open. It was a house rule. The tiny glint of light from the main bathroom night light shown the way. <br /><br />"No please, they don't...They're young...please man...I'm nothing, I'll do anything, just leave my family alone..." Sam tried to rock his body upward, but the pain was paralyzing. The blade must've hit something important. "PLEASE, man, they have their whole life in front of them...but I'm nothing...please man, I'm begging you, leave my family alone." "Oh God, please, God, keep them safe..." <br /><br />"I'm not going to do anything...just making sure nobody has called the cops." With that, he disappeared down the hall. Sam fought through the pain to force himself up. He was disoriented. Again, he thought about screaming out, but what would that do...would she wake up? How would the figure react to another challenger? His wife was tough, but one jab with this tiny pocketknife had incapacitated him, how could she offer any resistance? <br />
<br />
Sam looked again for a weapon. He was twenty steps away from the kitchen and the butcher block. He took two steps, and saw the figure swiftly reappear around the hallway.<br /><br />"Where doya think you're going, Sam? Yeah, I found your wallet," The figure tossed the wallet on the couch. "$45 dollars. $45 stinking dollars, Sam. And your family is still soundly asleep. Even that amazing guard dog. Some family you got here, Sam." "I just committed a few felonies, 25 plus years in prison for a cell phone bill's worth of money."<br />
<br />
Stupid dog. Stupid old dog.<br /><br />"Look, like I said, just go now...Just go, I won't say anything." <br /><br />"Sure, sure. I wouldn't make it twenty miles."<br /><br />"Look, buddy, this is a big town, there's plenty of crime, they'll just think you're somebody from the city. Cops don't investigate crap like this...{gasp}, plus you got gloves on...there's nothing to find..."<br />
<br />
"Don't call me buddy. My name's Jimmy. We aren't friends. I stabbed you." <br /><br />"Don't tell me your name...I mean, Jimmy, it's probably not your name...that's fine, whatever...I forgive you, just go. I need to go to the hospital." <br />
<br />
"Ha ha...you FORGIVE me? For stabbing you? That's funny. That's LOL funny. What are you, Jesus? You want me to stab you in the other side as well?" "No, you ain't Jesus, you're just a Sam." <br />
<br />
"Yeah, nobody...just go man."<br /><br />
"You keep saying that, that you're a nobody...why? And my name is Jimmy; if you're going to die, you probably know the name of the idiot who killed you." <br /><br />
"You aren't an idiot...Jimmy, I don't know your story. I know you didn't intend to stab me tonight...I was just awake, and like, I don't know, I'm bleeding here man, you gotta promise me not to harm my family..." <br />
<br />
"You'd die for them, huh?" <br /><br />"Yeah, if that's what it takes. If that's what it takes. There's no greater love...I'm ready, just promise me..." Sam fought through the pain to show his sincerity. <br /><br />"You ain't a nobody, then. You ain't a nobody. That's all I wanted growing up...just knowing somebody cared about me, wanted to keep me safe. Nobody stopped the harassment, the beatings, the loneliness, though. Nobody took no knife for me. I just wanted somebody, anybody to step in...say, this ain't right. This kid deserves better...but it never came; so don't tell me, you is a nobody." Jimmy tossed Sam a towel from the kitchen. "You a father. You a real man." <br />
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<br />
"Look, man...look Jimmy, I'm sorry," He folded the towel and wrapped it around the wound. He grimaced in pain. "I'm sorry life gave..."<br />
<br />
"Don't tell me no lemonade crap. I don't need a councilor, I need more than $45. I already know life dealt me shitty." <br />
<br />
"Look, take my debit card." "The code is 1776." "It's stupid, I'm not even that patriotic..." "But there's money there...at least a thousand dollars. Take it all. I won't even change my card, or mark it as stolen until Monday. It's all insured anyway...{ugh} I'll get it all back..." <br /><br />"You need to get that," he pointed to the wound, "taken care of...man. You've lost a lot of blood. I'm sorry. It wasn't my intention. I don't even know why I bring a knife, it's just, you know...I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I ain't a killer. I just. I don't know." <br /><br />"I know, Jimmy. You aren't a bad person, you're just going through a rough patch. I am too. It's been a rough year, and my marriage is, I don't know...now I'm bleeding...I might die. This has not been my year...but like you said, I'm not a nobody...and you're something too..."<br />
<br />
"You ever think you'd have to stab somebody to turn your life around? I mean, I can't do this. I don't want to live my life behind bars. I've barely lived."<br /><br />"Get clean, Jimmy. As a former addict, I know. Get clean. The years aren't always great, and you'll always want it...but life isn't bad. Even with a marriage that needs help. My kids are great. My job sucks, but whatever, man. Life isn't about happiness, it's about finding contentment in between the joy and sorrow. You can't do that, ever, man, if you're using. Get clean." <br />
<br />
"Maybe you are Jesus, Sam." <br />
<br />
"I'm just trying to survive this, Jimmy, " He laughed, finally knowing that his family was safe. "I don't think Jesus ever tried to manipulate the situation to save his own life." <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiImY_Sn4T3C00VzQO6xBSpmX0Sl3WZR36o_Ckx9CKRyWxK81DjoWvBsNCEUp9p8qM-4-kx8or_2DuYNbx9CaxKBOzsIfN3lv6yt60DGuATZ6H070X9-bQmJZ1zwbP2jweybNETbdqQb_4/s1600/blood+and+water.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiImY_Sn4T3C00VzQO6xBSpmX0Sl3WZR36o_Ckx9CKRyWxK81DjoWvBsNCEUp9p8qM-4-kx8or_2DuYNbx9CaxKBOzsIfN3lv6yt60DGuATZ6H070X9-bQmJZ1zwbP2jweybNETbdqQb_4/s320/blood+and+water.jpg" width="320" /></a>"Yeah, but some heathen Roman did stab him in the side." <br /><br />
"You aren't a heathen, or a Roman, Jimmy. But you are a junkie. You might have stabbed me, but now I'm trying to save your life. Get clean, brother. And if you aren't going to kill me, can you please call an ambulance, so I can live through the night as well." <br /><br />"Yeah, you should get that looked at," he said and briefly smiled, "bye, Sam, get better." Jimmy slipped back through the sliding glass door and loudly slammed it shut. It was just loud enough. <br />
<br />
A fluttering of slipping footsteps came from the hallway, followed by an old bark. The barking continued until the dog found his master lying head propped against the side table leaking precious fluid from his side. The dog tried to lick the wound, but Sam patted his head.<br />
<br />
"It's okay, old buddy. It's over now. He's gone." Sam closed his eyes. He felt like he could sleep for a very long time. He had done his job. <br />
<br />
"What's going on, are you watching TV...on my God, Sam! Sam!"<br />
<br />
Sam pulled his eyes out of their deep slumber, "Huh, oh, it's okay honey, I was just a little restless, and I made a new friend..." <br /><br />
"You're bleeding!!! OH GOD!"<br /><br />"Oh yeah, we might want to get this checked out."<br /><br />"Don't you dare go to sleep! Sam, listen, don't you go to sleep!"<br />
<br />
<i>Great, now even <b>she's</b> telling me I can't sleep. </i><br /><br />"Daddy, no, daddy, wake up! Wake UP!"<br />
<br />
<i>Okay, okay</i>..."Jeez, can't a guy get a little sleep after a hard day of doing his job?" <br />
<br />
"No, daddy, we love you, stay awake for us."<br /><br />
"Yeah, Sam, we love you. You're job's not done."<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
"Huh..<br />
...what...<br />...okay, yeah, whatever. But I want a nap. A long nap at the hospital."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://fostercare.com/10-reasons-you-want-to-be-a-foster-parent/">https://fostercare.com/10-reasons-you-want-to-be-a-foster-parent/ </a><br />
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<br />Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-26100309669859413902016-06-03T14:56:00.001-07:002016-06-03T14:56:43.054-07:00The Road to San Quentin is Paved in Broken Glass: A Short Story The life of crime did not look favorable from where Kevin was standing. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigLysr2GQoWIGQUlr8EOKAb6dWaAVOVvbCboIgHeqcrcaFupuF2_eSNjt8Hh6nv1Qu5hYYqbF_6EOVqOFRgteeO7KXgg6GGj6sVNjiCcAFo3nZHZ4OP8TSvW97_qC4NLOkk9wCyH-WNGA/s1600/cashier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigLysr2GQoWIGQUlr8EOKAb6dWaAVOVvbCboIgHeqcrcaFupuF2_eSNjt8Hh6nv1Qu5hYYqbF_6EOVqOFRgteeO7KXgg6GGj6sVNjiCcAFo3nZHZ4OP8TSvW97_qC4NLOkk9wCyH-WNGA/s320/cashier.jpg" width="320" /></a>He stood in the produce section and looked longingly towards the parking lot for some teleportation device or get-away car to escape his current dilemma. He could, he considered, make a run for it. He might be able to make it a safe ways away from the Safeway, before his conscience would catch up to him.<br />
<br />
He didn't even want the box of STD protection packed so close to its intended target in his pocket. He didn't even have any friends that were girls, let alone <i>girlfriends</i> in this town. He didn't have <i>any</i> friends in this stupid town, for that matter. Mom wanted a new start. So she screwed up his life by moving a state away from their old life. <br />
<br />
If he buggered it up any further, who cares. Maybe a night in juvie would get her attention.<br />
"Happy 15th Birthday, Kevin, you're a felon now!" he daydreamed. Maybe dad would drive up and show his bastard face. Probably not. Kevin pretended he didn't care. This was not about "them," he told himself. <br />
<br />
The group of kids huddled around the bus stop did not eagerly await Kevin's return. Most were hardened by stray fists, foster-care, nomadism, neglect, second hand smoke, and blood alcohol in their systems since birth. Because loyalty and protection were not practiced by their own creators, they made it a priority in their group. It was the one character defect or vice they would not inherit from their birthers. Kevin had not proved himself, yet, so he was not a part of the family. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6i1TOvjaj68aEdxjjcA5mM2O-8hHyOacismd8xAV26Za9w3yDUklT0ql9dLPERgSZ-3UCD9SbWkch-RS1phvDTSLeDbSvLB_vUlpw9-CcfOyseXWxVV1zYRAws03WpwE8Z40IF_3Z8Ho/s1600/16594812.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6i1TOvjaj68aEdxjjcA5mM2O-8hHyOacismd8xAV26Za9w3yDUklT0ql9dLPERgSZ-3UCD9SbWkch-RS1phvDTSLeDbSvLB_vUlpw9-CcfOyseXWxVV1zYRAws03WpwE8Z40IF_3Z8Ho/s320/16594812.jpeg" width="320" /></a>Kevin had seen the undercover store security agent long before he made it over to the produce section. The overzealous employee was no ninja, and yet he wasn't obvious either. The employee, probably only 4 years older than Kevin, was eager for a bust. And a condom bust is always a good story. (Most of the group outside were products of accidents, but that's a different story completely). <br />
<br />
Kevin decided to play it straight. He grabbed an apple...walked over to the checker with no line, and opened the small refrigerator and pulled out a Pepsi. The cashier rang both up quickly. <br />
<br />
"Will that be it?" she asked. She was probably in her early 30s. She probably had kids. This was going to be awkward. But not as awkward as being handcuffed or interrogated by a moralizing college kid. <br />
<br />
"Uh, no..." He put his finger up to his lips to shush her, and dug out the 3 pack box of Trojan Enz. <br />
<br />
The cashier tried not to shrug her shoulders. <i>The poor</i>, she thought, <i>were always buying contraband with government money. </i> <i>All they know is ignorance and sin</i>, <i>better that they don't reproduce, </i>she concluded.<br />
<br />
"That'll be $6.25, <i>son</i>." she said, with emphasis on his youth. <br />
<br />
Kevin pulled out his wallet and faked what he already knew. "What? I had a ten dollar bill in here earlier. I don't understand what happened...I'm sorry...I guess I don't have any money." <br />
<br />
"Sure you don't, kid. Why don't you see that you never step foot in this Safeway again!" said the over-adrenalized security guard who had just made it behind him in line. <br />
<br />
Kevin thought about some kind of retort about customer service...but didn't want to bring any more attention to his unpurchased prophylactics, and quickly exited the store. <br />
<br />
He half walked/ran with his hands in his hoodie pocket towards the bus stop, looking over his shoulder once to see if the security guard had followed him. <i>He hadn't, technically, broken any laws, right?</i> He thought. <br />
<br />
He saw the group nudge each other..."Hey there he is!" He heard one of them say...<br />
<br />
Returning empty handed wasn't going to do him any favors. These weren't his type of friends...or his old type friends. Those old friends with perfect houses, and good grades, and parents who showed up to their baseball games. These kids, while obviously rougher, were more...he searched his head...<i>real</i>? <br />
<br />
"You get the rubbers, McCallister?" said one of the older boys. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeeUhox9AFOv2GyTnZBB7-G7dANMnltmaN3wy6Fwnxc3MJh421wdW_99WTKVhbB2TBR1K2A72VWr5Qdghzo5MRhGEnfMERyEP2LRG3ZkRERjWbdBt41AR9IJ7ZGxKx8VMJ7MbyUCpbDFQ/s1600/bus-stop-shenzen-china-3021626873-800x533.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeeUhox9AFOv2GyTnZBB7-G7dANMnltmaN3wy6Fwnxc3MJh421wdW_99WTKVhbB2TBR1K2A72VWr5Qdghzo5MRhGEnfMERyEP2LRG3ZkRERjWbdBt41AR9IJ7ZGxKx8VMJ7MbyUCpbDFQ/s640/bus-stop-shenzen-china-3021626873-800x533.jpg" width="640" /></a>"Huh? My name's Kevin...Kevin Allen..."<br />
<br />
"We know, dipshit, he was referring to Home Alone...So...did you get 'em?"<br />
<br />
"I had them...I was nearly out the door, but then the security guy saw me, and I had to ditch..."<br />
<br />
"What? 'Cause of a mall cop? Shit. This kid ain't nuthin'."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, you're about ready to be ditched in a ditch, bitch," said one of the other boys with a wry grin, obviously proud of his poetic understanding of the language. <br />
<br />
"Nice rhyming Tupac...com'on, isn't there something else I can do?" <br />
<br />
"Yeah, you can get lost," said a kid two years his younger. <br />
<br />
"Nah...don't do that. We should make you do something stupid. We should go back to the school and have you throw a rock through Mr. Hershey's window."<br />
<br />
"Haha...yeah...we totally should!"<br />
<br />
"What? Who's Mr. Hershey?" Kevin asked nervously. <br />
<br />
"Only the vice-principal at our school. A total d-bag. He suspended me for wearing a marijuana leaf t-shirt. He's a total jerk," said the oldest boy, Ramon, who acted like the leader. <br />
<br />
"I don't even know him. It seems weird." <br />
<br />
"It seems perfect. You don't know him, <i>yet."</i><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
--------------------------</div>
<br />
Kevin sat in the back of the bus filled with his new outlaw friends and looked at the scattered outcasts filling the other rows. The rhyming kid continued his absurd rap, while another attempted to beat-box. It was like a bad John Singleton film with various light toned actors. Mall Junkyz. <br />
<br />
Kevin nervously laughed. He did not want these as his friends. He did not want the bus to be his life. He wanted to wake up from this bad dream. <br />
<br />
In a few minutes he was expected to throw a brick through his high school principal's window. How stupidly bad ass. How ironically rebellious. He wondered if his "friends" would lead up to this event with some finger snapping and a well-choreographed, but never practiced, angry dance on the front steps of school's entrance. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhM9Lvtfv17OB04bbtIzhvc3ubNTuPcbc0ShJWFdOQqd4vUQowVv7-n_DpJZGnK-fyX_YC_4QBXKJ_3w-P_3Q6yBs-fsD99dDheWIzU8CTdrRrPsC0amPsAd_K4g7GJUOyV9_pVvPEFo0/s1600/614349aad4bca8c2be8808f46056fd28.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhM9Lvtfv17OB04bbtIzhvc3ubNTuPcbc0ShJWFdOQqd4vUQowVv7-n_DpJZGnK-fyX_YC_4QBXKJ_3w-P_3Q6yBs-fsD99dDheWIzU8CTdrRrPsC0amPsAd_K4g7GJUOyV9_pVvPEFo0/s320/614349aad4bca8c2be8808f46056fd28.jpg" width="208" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finger snapping or spontaneous song<br />outbursts equal hardcore gang members. <br />Run. Fast. Away. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"Hey guys, maybe we should get some leather jackets and sew on T-Birds or Ponyboy or something?" Kevin ventured. Maybe he could be the funny one who didn't have to do stupid things. <br />
<br />
"Shut up McCallister! We aren't some stupid street thugs, or Greasers from your mom's dvd collection." "You like movies? Ask Rickie what happened to his Disney movies?" <br />
<br />
Kevin didn't have time to ask who Rickie was. The boy who was beat-boxing immediately stopped and deadpanned, "Mom kicked Dad out. Dad came by a few weeks later for his dvds and clothes, about the only stupid shit he owned, and Mom started shouting at him, tried to push him out of the house...he got real angry and beat her with my baseball bat. Not once. But like she was..."<br />
<br />
"Okay, okay...I'm sorry...I realize I don't know..."<br />
<br />
"No, SHUT IT KEVIN... after he was done with her, he looked me right in the eye and said, '"you want some too, bitch."' He started hitting shit all over the house. Then the cops rolled up, and he just went nuts. Ran out swinging. They shot him like 25 times." "Them's my family. That's my story. That's my DNA. So don't ever compare me to your John Travolta pop crap. Okay?" <br />
<br />
"Sure. Yeah, sorry."<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
--------------------------------</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The school was only a few hundred feet from where they exited the bus. Kevin tried not to look up as they departed. He didn't want to be on any cameras. He wasn't sure where felony vandalism stacked on the local police departments investigation budgets. <br />
<br />
"See that second window there...the one with the Tiger logo on it? That's Hershey's window. Do it man." <br />
<br />
Kevin picked up an acorn sized rock. He had a decent arm. Played middle school outfielder. They were across the street and he figured the school's cameras wouldn't detect them this far. <br />
<br />
He threw the rock. <br />
<br />
Instantly he regretted his actions. It was a great throw, it would've gunned down somebody at home plate. The rock slammed into its intended target with all the force of gum drop. It bounced off the window and fell harmlessly to the ground. The sound, however, was impressive. <br />
<br />
The boys looked around nervously, before breaking out in hilarious laughter. <br />
<br />
"What a dud." <br />
<br />
"Yeah, that failed worse than when my brother tried to make Long Island ice teas with Arizona tea and Coors." The group laughed again. <br />
<br />
"Come on guys," Kevin pleaded, "I threw that pretty hard." <br />
<br />
"Yeah, but the window was too strong. You need a bigger rock. Or a brick." <br />
<br />
"Nah. I did my part." <br />
<br />
"Look, Kevin, we came here to break a window, and we aren't leaving until you break that window," Rickie said. <br />
<br />
Kevin looked at them in disbelief. They couldn't be serious. "You guys are assholes...I hate this stupid town."<br />
<br />
He was hunched over before he realized that Ramon had knocked the wind out of him. <br />
<br />
"Nobody calls us assholes, except us. And you ain't one of us, yet." Now do I need to...<br />
<br />
"Punch me again?," Kevin said in-between gasps, "Nah, I get the point." <br />
<br />
"Good. Then how about you choose something..."<br />
<br />
"...More substantial? Yeah, it'll break this time."<br />
<br />
Without hesitating, Kevin sprinted across the street, a small hitch in his gait from his throbbing abdomen, slowing only slightly to pull a decorative pavestone from the flowered plaza near the entrance to the school. The large square of cement was garnished with ornate stones representing the graduating class of 2012. Kevin didn't notice. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif3i0eCbzK7y9LLbR6r2jZD08OGfQkxLR1IkPDYE92ax_3yMsEfZtVm513WzOyItsPIrkTr1sasvX3Kj5HNvqVSIKkpBZImaeoQKFZVz0n3k-Px9-59GB6U4Gaef342Tnk_xIpywLVRC0/s1600/bfrock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif3i0eCbzK7y9LLbR6r2jZD08OGfQkxLR1IkPDYE92ax_3yMsEfZtVm513WzOyItsPIrkTr1sasvX3Kj5HNvqVSIKkpBZImaeoQKFZVz0n3k-Px9-59GB6U4Gaef342Tnk_xIpywLVRC0/s400/bfrock.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vandalism brings out the Sasquatch in all of us. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
He hauled the stone over his head, continued in stride, and hurled the rock over the school fence like a soccer player inbounding a pass.<br />
<br />
The window immediately surrendered. <br />
<br />
The monument continued unimpeded into Mr. Hershey's desktop computer, and swiped it as well as the rest of the contents of the desk onto the floor like one of those stupid Hollywood passion scenes where two excited lovers throw their expensive contents onto the floor for 8 minutes of tabletop love making, Kevin imagined. <br />
<br />
Kevin hated his immature, sexually frustrated mind, as he stood in awe of his wreckage. The sounds of cascading glass and debris had not even subsided when the piercing howl of the school's alarm system sounded. He had heard an "AWESOME!" somewhere behind him. <br />
<br />
Like all stupid criminals, Kevin finally thought, "Now what?" He turned to take pride in his victory to see that his comrades-in-arms had all started scattering in every direction. Even Rickie seemingly had a quarter mile and almost two city blocks on him at this point. <br />
<br />
He wasn't even sure what direction his home was from the school. The school bus took such an illogical route, that he was only slightly sure he lived to the West. <br />
<br />
It was in that direction he darted when he heard the sirens. <br />
<br />
Thus begun a long hour of cloak-and-dagger. Thank God he always wore drab clothing. And even more important was the GPS app on his phone. <br />
<br />
He sat outside his home and corrected his breathing. He told mom a long story about taking the wrong city bus, and having to walk home from the wrong stop. He was sorry...next time he'd call her...he didn't think it was that big a deal. <br />
<br />
Mom relented the interrogation when she saw no signs of alcohol or drugs in his demeanor. He probably wasn't telling the truth...but he's a new kid in a new town. Misdemeanors are misdemeanors.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
--------------------------------</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Mom left a "Happy Birthday" note on the bathroom mirror, her days started around 6 am. She made him pancakes as well, his favorite when he was 10. He was more of a donut person, now; but of course, she wouldn't know this. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
No message from Dad on his cell phone, and only a few messages on FB from his old friends. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Happy Birthday Kevin," he said to himself. The night of bad sleep and anxiety left him with bags under his eyes. He envied how girls could just cover up stuff like that with makeup. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
He considered staying home, but that might seem suspicious. Plus mom couldn't afford cable, and his data plan was pathetic. His 14th birthday was a bore-fest, but at least more people acknowledged it. No matter what, this birthday was going to suck, again. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
He dressed as opposite as he could from the previous night. Combed his hair instead of the ball cap. He took one last look in the mirror and scoffed. It wasn't him. He had changed since the night before. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
--------------------------------</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZVf3GLp3YnWfK-ikhT5kmiavCmHXC-P5TX5sNJa4M8O0Se70pGwbLaOTNAUmEoODpgNwOHJNZdweD7XZ1XvVmeggZns2Er5UIR5WZyDK5VH2VwfeXOtEG60jzrRbKpJaBCZjUzcPa90/s1600/IMG_4094.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZVf3GLp3YnWfK-ikhT5kmiavCmHXC-P5TX5sNJa4M8O0Se70pGwbLaOTNAUmEoODpgNwOHJNZdweD7XZ1XvVmeggZns2Er5UIR5WZyDK5VH2VwfeXOtEG60jzrRbKpJaBCZjUzcPa90/s400/IMG_4094.jpg" width="400" /></a>He casually walked into his first period art class just as the bell rang. The window, obviously, was the source of great excitement at Garry Hoy High School. Some kids yelled out praises as genius as, "Oh HELL YA," and, "How do you like deez nutz now, GH!" The administration, had cordoned off the office area with yellow caution tape. The resource officer was communicating with other official looking guys that looked like cops. Even a news van was in the area. Kevin did his best to act like the rest of the kids, while also keeping a low profile.<br />
<br />
Twenty minutes into art class, Kevin was almost beginning to feel inspired to actually do his figure drawing assignment. The teacher, Mr. Monet (seriously), when asked by a student who he thought had done this, said, "probably some moron kid with daddy issues who's failing Geometry." Kevin was still taking Algebra, <i>so nice try, Monet. </i><br />
<br />
Then the classroom door opened and the dean of students passed a note to Mr. Monet. Kevin squirmed in his seat. Mr. Monet looked at the note oddly, looked around the room, but didn't make eye contact with Kevin, and shook his head. Kevin remembered to breathe. <br />
<br />
"Anybody seen Kevin Allen?" Monet finally announced. Great, even his teacher didn't know who he was. <br />
<br />
A few kids looked Kevin's way. "Kevin, they's looking for ya," said Robbie, a well intentioned but slow kid who had no business being in any art class. <br />
<br />
Kevin stood up, and did the walk of shame in front of a silent class. Someone whispered, "<i>no way he did the Hershey job.</i>" <br />
<br />
The Dean of Students was an imposing man of about 30. He must've worked out at some point. He wasn't genial or mean. He just was. They didn't talk the entire walk across campus, and then pointed to a seat in the office. <br />
<br />
Kevin sat. His new friends had ratted him out in twenty minutes. His hands were sweating. He wiped them on his un-Kevin-like clothing. He had no alibi. He was nervous as hell. Could he ask for a lawyer? He didn't know. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
"Hi Kevin," Mr. Hershey said, as he appeared uncomfortably close to Kevin's chair. "I'm Mr. Hershey, Dr. Hershey, actually, but you don't need to call me that." He held out his hand to shake Kevin's. Kevin wiped his once more. "I don't think we've formally met." <br />
<br />
"Yeah, no. I don't get into trouble. So no, we haven't met." Kevin replied in his first act of offense. <br />
<br />
"Haha. I do a lot on this campus, Mr. Allen, discipline is only a small aspect of what my job entails." "Anyway, why don't you follow us down the hall." <br />
<br />
Hershey opened the door to an office and Kevin almost walked in...it was Hershey's office. Nobody had touched a thing. It was as if a bomb had exploded under his desk. Valkyrie. The stone had settled near the entrance, all the decorative marbles were scattered around the room like pieces of shrapnel. <br />
<br />
"Oh, whoops, force of habit, we can't do this here," Hershey laughed, it was genuine, he got a sick pleasure out of this torture. <br />
<br />
They moved to a large conference hall. The Dean of Students was on the far side flipping through papers. Hershey sat near the door, forcing Kevin towards the back wall with two chairs. He sat. Almost immediately the school's resource officer, decked in official police uniform, sat next to him. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYJdvEJDb5IxhJYEeL6X-NQs9A9V86pYPx1GzZK7O6Xlq2wLFDvYyqteWZA27VrCyqTPdWWNNPHKNbtRTmH4tfONLr3kynn40iv9ORIPhqZ9eamkCRsqwlCelBEqK8nTdKJFjlVid7eU/s1600/maxresdefault.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYJdvEJDb5IxhJYEeL6X-NQs9A9V86pYPx1GzZK7O6Xlq2wLFDvYyqteWZA27VrCyqTPdWWNNPHKNbtRTmH4tfONLr3kynn40iv9ORIPhqZ9eamkCRsqwlCelBEqK8nTdKJFjlVid7eU/s400/maxresdefault.jpg" width="400" /></a>Kevin thought about making a joke, something about the school being really serious about freshman kids getting a D in algebra class. Instead he swallowed nervously. These guys didn't appear to appreciate humor. <br />
<br />
"So, Mr. Allen, or Kevin, we can call you Kevin, right?" Kevin nodded. "Why do you think you're here today?" <br />
<br />
"Well, I'm guessing it's not my math grade?" <br />
<br />
"No, no, but you probably want to pick that grade up, too." "You got a nice look at my office, didn't you?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah, somebody did a number on it...I'm guessing you think I know something about it." <br />
<br />
The room chuckled. Not a good sign. <br />
<br />
"Kevin, you know, I didn't know you before today. Transfer student. From a different state. But your transfer records are pretty clean. This window job doesn't look like something you'd normally do."<br />
<br />
"Obviously. 'Cause I didn't do it." <br />
<br />
"Hmmm. Well, we seem to have two students who've already pointed to you, and we've got this..." <br />
<br />
The resource officer hit a few buttons on a remote control and the projector turned on. After what seemed like forever for it to warm up, and the officer to hit the right input, a video appeared. It was clear as day (for a night shot). Kevin's textbook soccer inbounds throw was there from almost the exact reverse direction. His face was easily recognized. <br />
<br />
"Honestly, we didn't know who this boy was. We were looking through our photo database, but we noticed Ramon there in the back. And with Ramon, is the usual suspects. It wasn't too hard after that..." <br />
<br />
"I didn't. I know what this looks like..." <br />
<br />
"Look Kevin, save yourself some embarrassment. I called your father down in California, he seems to like the idea of juvenile hall..." <br />
<br />
"Of course he does;" Kevin couldn't hold it in, the floodgates of tears and emotion emptied out, "He doesn't give a shit about me. Why not just kill me, so his life would be better...he wouldn't even have to pay mom any child support." <br />
<br />
"Look Kevin, this isn't about your dad. This is about this felony act of vandalism committed on our school grounds," The officer interjected. <br />
<br />
"Oh, is it?" "I don't give a shit about this school, or this state, or Mr. Hershey's office, or Ramon, or my dad..." <br />
<br />
"Guys, Travis (who must've been the resource officer) and Glen (the Dean), could you give me a few moments with Kevin." <br />
<br />
Reluctantly Travis got up, he didn't get to escort many kids out of the school in handcuffs. "Just push the button and I'll be right back here," pointing to the school's walkie-talkies."<br />
<br />
Hershey nodded. <br />
<br />
After they had left the only sound was Kevin's loud sobbing. A teenage boy under duress and dealing with daddy issues was not a pretty sight. Kevin rubbed his face and nose on his shirt. <br />
<br />
Hershey shoved across the conference table a box of Kleenex. <br />
<br />
"I don't know if you saw the photo in my office. The frame is all broken now, because of your remodeling job...(Kevin almost chuckled), anyways. it was a picture of me, my ex-wife Cassandra, and my son James." <br />
<br />
"I'm sorry about that. I'm sure they'll make me pay for all the damage." Kevin was beyond fighting the obvious. He was caught. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAsIoBq66bjvb0jMyqDmdBLXEXdl15dAKDiWI83bCBA3vau-voz8u0mgsqzRu3yilSL6NTmLGGPKwoo4mE0VhsvfWp3s1LS8TTQ35pObvRm_qoGGlMkS2NQWjZlaMF1363FX5zKwFeWVA/s1600/demaio%252Bcampaign%252Boffice%252Bvandalism.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAsIoBq66bjvb0jMyqDmdBLXEXdl15dAKDiWI83bCBA3vau-voz8u0mgsqzRu3yilSL6NTmLGGPKwoo4mE0VhsvfWp3s1LS8TTQ35pObvRm_qoGGlMkS2NQWjZlaMF1363FX5zKwFeWVA/s320/demaio%252Bcampaign%252Boffice%252Bvandalism.jpg" width="320" /></a>"I'm not concerned with the money. I'm sure it will come in over $10,000 depending on what overpriced contractor the district hires. Plus there are files on the computer they will try to save...I'm sure that will cost time and money. But like I said, money isn't the issue." "You see, that boy in that photo, James, was my son. He was about your age, a little older, when he died. That was our last family photo." <br />
<br />
"I'm sorry, I didn't know. Did he get cancer or something? My aunt died of cancer a few years ago." <br />
<br />
"No, it wasn't cancer. James, was, was a lot like me." Mr. Hershey was no longer looking straight at Kevin, but somewhere in the past. "James didn't listen well to his mother. He was afraid of me, but I wasn't there a lot at that time. I was finishing my doctorate while continuing to teach classes. I let, I let work priorities get in the way. That was a decade ago, but it feels like yesterday to me." <br />
<br />
Kevin was trying to understand what manipulative tool the principal was using to get him to confess to everything. Hadn't he already confessed? Why was this guy opening up? <br />
<br />
"Kevin started hanging out with the wrong kids. Kids a lot like Ramon. Kids who..." Hershey wiped away a tear. "They said it was suicide. But James was never depressed. Angry, yes. Rebellious, yes. But he wouldn't take his own life. He died on the railroad tracks. I'm not sure to this day why he was down there, but I think it was a dare, or a stunt, or something along those lines. His friends...those kids, they never came to the funeral. Never sent a card. No memorial near the tracks. Those kids were losers...ARE losers. My son James, wasn't a loser. But he died because he choose a life of losers temporarily."<br />
<br />
"You know how long it took for Ramon and the others to rat you out?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Less than a minute." "And I saw the punch. I saw the coerced you to do it. Forced you to do it."<br />
<br />
"I couldn't still said no," Kevin said between sobs, not sure if guilt or empathy caused this second wave of emotion, "I could've ran away..." <br />
<br />
"Yeah...we all get choices. We don't get to do-overs in life. We can't change the past. I wish to God, I could go back and redo things with my James. I"m sure you wouldn't have gone out with these boys last night." <br />
<br />
"I hate those guys. I just want my old friends, my old family..." Kevin confessed to this strange adult. This man who opened up about things that nobody talks about. <br />
<br />
"I know Kevin. I don't know if your dad was always an asshole, but he sure was on the phone. I'm not sure if he'll realize in time, how precious you are...I hope he does." <br />
<br />
Kevin buried his head in his arms. "Did you call my mom yet?" <br />
<br />
"Yeah. She's in the other room. She's watching this whole thing on a monitor."<br />
<br />
"Really?" Kevin wanted to be mad...but guilt overrode his anger, "I'm such a failure, I'm sorry Mom," He looked around the room for the camera. <br />
<br />
"No, Kevin. You are not a failure. You are not a loser. You are a kid, a kid who's angry at life and his dad, and you did a stupid thing to impress some stupid kids. Kids, unlike adults, get reprieves sometimes. I'm offering you a reprieve. I'm offering you a chance to make this up. No juvie. No expulsion. No blackmark on your record." "I think you should transfer to the other school in town. Get away from Ramon and his crowd." "And you will work with me over Christmas Break to get my office back into working order. You'll help the school recoup some of the cost." <br />
<br />
"You can do that? I mean, doesn't the school need to make a big deal about this, and the money...and stuff..." <br />
<br />
"Look, Kevin. Am I principal, or am I principal? And the district wastes money on stupid stuff every year. It's about time we invested in saving a student's life instead of dumping more money into a new basketball scoreboard." <br />
<br />
"So what happens now?"<br />
<br />
"Well, I think your mother walks in here, you give her a big hug, do a month of chores without complaint, and later today, go enroll over to Rob Downey Sr. High School and start over as the real Kevin Allen. I'll call you in a week or so with a schedule of when and how we become business partners." <br />
<br />
"Business partners...haha," Kevin laughed. It felt good to laugh. It had been a long time. "Why me, Mr. Hershey, I mean, of all the kids who get straight A's and...?"<br />
<br />
"A good shepherd will leave a flock of a hundred to go after one wayward sheep." "Besides, it's your 15th birthday, and well, call it a strange kind of gift." <br />
<br />
Kevin stood up and walked over to Mr. Hershey who had his hand out to shake. Kevin hugged him instead. His tears soaked into his grey sports jacket. It was awkwardly too long, in the professional sense, but Mr. Hershey did not fight it off.<br />
<br />
"Thank you Mr. Hershey. I'll make this up to you." <br />
<br />
"Call me <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milton_S._Hershey">Milton</a>, we work together now, Kevin." <br />
<br />
At that moment Kevin's mother abruptly opened the door and ran to her son. She hugged him like a parent that had been away for years overseas. They shared an intimacy that Milton looked at with a little envy. <br />
<br />
She stood, mascara running down her face and thanked Mr. Hershey with a kiss to the cheek. He tried not to blush; she was not unattractive. <br />
<br />
"It's been so long since I've experience mercy, I don't know how to thank you..." <br />
<br />
Milton Hershey thought of a few ways, none of which were professional or appropriate, and kept them all to himself. He smiled, and said "Maybe in a few years, you could invite me to his graduation, and we can celebrate his turnaround." <br />
<br />
"Yeah, we can do that, " she looked at him the way he not seen in a long time.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAtiAgoHE_i6kzhmTPK3L53IVzpuxhbm8T5Um_hYX0uCsQo_XFseboTffllE8pHGxHSp7s3Czr9bPKBo2qs9hruKLPFTtInSu-R9mt1EMEGt6Jgkqrbxhh_5M6DGbLFLSyCJJj2e2qzbA/s1600/UJDj7Dz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAtiAgoHE_i6kzhmTPK3L53IVzpuxhbm8T5Um_hYX0uCsQo_XFseboTffllE8pHGxHSp7s3Czr9bPKBo2qs9hruKLPFTtInSu-R9mt1EMEGt6Jgkqrbxhh_5M6DGbLFLSyCJJj2e2qzbA/s400/UJDj7Dz.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
As the Allen family walked out the side door, and out of Hershey's jurisdiction, he went back to what was left of his office. As he began straightening up the disaster of his last ten years, he wondered if he could wait another three years to start over himself. He tossed his tear stained jacket to the side and thought, to hell with professionalism. <br />
<br />
He walked outside, just before the Allen's reached their car...<br />
<br />
"Hey, it might go a whole lot faster if I help you guys enroll over at RDS, we can take my car." "Kevin will have to sit in the middle of the back seat, though, I don't want him near my windows." </div>
</div>
Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-10627849384041247232016-03-08T14:07:00.000-08:002016-03-08T14:23:40.240-08:00Hooters or Bust<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"I'm
sorry that this is what I've become! I'm sorry that it's not good enough for
you now, or ever."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"That's
not true. Not true. But you did used to, you used to be different. You hadn't
given up yet. Now, now, you're just a..."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"What...a
bum? A piece of shit? What am I? I'm no different. This is the same man you
married ten years ago. I was nothing then...just younger, not as fat,
maybe...but just as talentless."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"You're
not talentless. You're depressed. And it's been for some time. That's the only
thing that's changed. You're not happy anymore."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghGGL9mT60Liizbteu-VJyRhygGR68jgmFpI-xZAJPDPY9gMh8LiL2xNplbifFtPRm60PkoKnx31qP7HKvVC23LZz4DrBiHY7Fp2D9dvgisYLASST9CGlOeryMKHe9bu-DYADXdMrXiJc/s1600/Unknown.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghGGL9mT60Liizbteu-VJyRhygGR68jgmFpI-xZAJPDPY9gMh8LiL2xNplbifFtPRm60PkoKnx31qP7HKvVC23LZz4DrBiHY7Fp2D9dvgisYLASST9CGlOeryMKHe9bu-DYADXdMrXiJc/s400/Unknown.png" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Yeah,
I'm not happy!" And with that pronouncement, Jim Zimmerman grabbed his car
keys and slammed the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">She
was right, of course. Women are almost always right, which is why men like Jim
have to slam doors and drive away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">He
didn't have a destination. He considered driving to the seedy part of town
filled with strip clubs and disillusionment. He wondered if one of those
establishments was dark enough that nobody would notice him. He wanted
someplace dark and delusional so that he could continue feeling sorry for
himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">It
wouldn't have mattered if somebody did notice him. He was no longer an Elder at
FaithSprings Evangelical Church; and he was no longer Head of Sales at Price
First Honda. Gas prices had dropped, and the market for hybrid vehicles,
the division that Jim headed, had fallen 24% in two years. Corporate didn't
care how similar this drop was to the national average, they needed fall-guys
instead of pragmatic answers, and cutting Jim's $55,000 salary made some fiscal
sense. Jim was offered to go back to the sales floor, a job he hadn't
done in seven years, and one with more daily stress and a variable income based
on sales numbers. In a fit of childishness, because the executive vice
president of sales of the company was always throwing thematic parties, he
chalked the windows of all his gas-freindly inventory with Harry Potter
insults: Mudblood, Half-blood Prince, and Muggle-Born, before tagging the VP’s
Land Rover with Voldemort. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">It
was very un-Potterish. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">He
resigned as an Elder (and the almost volunteer position of youth pastor)
because he refused to terminate the contract of their senior pastor. The
senior pastor's wife recently left him, and his sermons had taken a sour note.
The attendance dropped from a high of 650 in each Sunday service to just under
that number total for both services. The tithes obviously fell substantially,
and the church was worried if it could pay for renovations they had just
refinanced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Jim
felt it wasn't Christian, to kick a guy, especially when he's down. Pastor
Steve hadn't broke any codes of morality, or preached anything sacrilegious.
Still, the other Elders pointed to his contract. The minister was
responsible for keeping the attendance numbers up, and he had failed. Jim's
parting words were, "Maybe you should rename the church <i>FinancialSprings</i>!"
and in typical Jim fashion, he slammed the door. Nobody chuckled. Elders,
unlike wives, are not always right, and usually have a worse sense of humor.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Both
events happened in one week, and played hell on Jim's psyche. He was a good
man. Never really drank. Didn't care for the few times he tried drugs. Was a
decent father. An okay husband. Never cheated on her, or any girl, for that
matter. But being unemployed in his early thirties, felt like a judgement
straight from the heavens.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Instead
of cursing the heavens, he started damning people to hell; or more exactly,
virtual hell, as he devoted his time to first-person-shooter video games. He
enjoyed online killing, he wasn't sure why, maybe it was an evolutionary thing;
although Jim didn't necessarily believe in evolution. At least not ape to man
evolution; but maybe like those birds on that one island that don't fly anymore
because they don't have predators, evolution. That made a little sense, in his
mind. He also started drinking cheap beer by the half-racks, as an outward sign
of youthful rebellion that he had never participated in. All these
changes felt good, at first. Like a vacation from his life. Life, up
until this point was all about responsibilities and making good decisions. Like
anyone who had been a something, once, though, he realized he was devolving. He
just didn't know how to return from this vacation. Every so often, his escape
into other-worldliness and indulgence manifest itself with disastrous results
with the actual spinning world. His wife and kids had even taken a vacation
without him, as they needed to escape his outbursts of illogicalness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">The
worst came when he confronted the guy who came to repossess his 2013 Accura ILX
Hybrid and ended up getting punched in the face. His wife found him
sleeping it off in the front lawn two hours later. Another notch in the belt of
awesomeness. If only he had been packing an RPG, he wouldn't have an empty spot
in his driveway, and a splitting headache. <i>Okay, an RPG would be
really messy, maybe just a Heckler & Koch G36. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFPYEMQ77qIj8tVm7Nmk2p1mZy2Up8NRpzftWd2Kwdx6IPTzJQ9J_1uvN5-sVk_BYv7v5i86_J1sErQW2yKL8ye-qbutJtYLoXE5EouMAk16VZ9NfTosPbtHwZ1MwSAnhNnicP1IX9ScY/s1600/27insight1.600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFPYEMQ77qIj8tVm7Nmk2p1mZy2Up8NRpzftWd2Kwdx6IPTzJQ9J_1uvN5-sVk_BYv7v5i86_J1sErQW2yKL8ye-qbutJtYLoXE5EouMAk16VZ9NfTosPbtHwZ1MwSAnhNnicP1IX9ScY/s320/27insight1.600.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Jim
felt the same type headache setting in as he sat cramped in his wife's 2000
Honda Insight with a reconstructed title. Many salesmen and buyers on his
former lot wouldn't be caught dead driving one of these "gay" cars,
and yet, well, here he was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">The
normalcy of his own neighborhood faded the longer he drove. Some of these spots
he had visited while in college, a bar here, a supermarket he forgot existed,
and then, on the corner of a bunch of big-box restaurants, a new sign: Hooters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">He
laughed. His wife would never let him go to Hooters, at least he thought she
wouldn’t. He didn't even know a Hooters had opened in his town, not that they
would've gone there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"<i>What's
the harm,"</i> he thought. <i>"It's not a strip club. It's just a
restaurant with sexist outfits.</i>"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">He
wondered if they still served food at 10:45 at night. He was craving bar food.
French fries and fried stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Just
one, honey?" asked Shelly, the hostess who was probably too old to be
forced into her costume. "You wanna sit in the bar?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Yeah,
it's just me," Jim sighed. Even when he was working, he rarely ate out
alone. He wondered if divorced guys had to do this. He shivered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">She
threw down a cork coaster. "You want a menu shug?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Yeah..."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">She
was already gone. He looked around. It didn't look much different than an
Applebee's late at night, except for the random orange butt-tight shorts. A few
people drinking alone, a few couples. Even a few families that didn't get
the memo that 10:45 at night was too late for kids to be eating on a school
night (AND AT HOOTERS!). It felt good to judge someone else, Jim thought. He
had been too hard on himself. <i>Talentless</i>. He was funny, kinda. And he
could facilitate and organize people really well. Or at least, he used to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Hey
stranger, you know what you want?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Jim
looked straight into the young boobs of a girl he didn't know. He looked
up, and still, didn't remember her. "Oh, umm. No. I've never been
here. I haven't got a menu yet."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"No,
silly, you know what you want to drink?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Oh,
umm. Just bring me whatever is on tap, domestic."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">She
sighed..."We have, like, ten different beers that..."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Coors.
Coors is fine."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"You
still don't remember me, do you?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"No.
I'm sorry, I'm..."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"It's
Krystal. You were my youth pastor a bunch of years ago..."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Oh,
oh yeah, Krystal...wow..." He thought how bad he must've been at ministry
to lead a girl to Hooters in her early twenties.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Don't
worry, I'm just doing this to earn my way through college. It's not like I'm
pole dancing or anything..." She must've seen the look of failure on
his face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"No
judgement...I worked all kinds of odd jobs, I mean, they don't really have a
male-version of Hooters..."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"I'll
just bring you that Coors."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">He
threw his head down into his folded arms on the bar top. He wanted to nuzzle
away into the beer stained wood grain. "<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Great. Just great. Can't even disappear at a Hooters.</i>" He
wished he was at home, holding his Playstation controller, shooting evil
terrorists.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnBnOR7yJv7tK2Rufj56wa97EKV6-Jyl8NMBoKXTsPbopLatk8moiGGIIPbMHum2VpO4xULzalkSK-l6f-CuTtQ8Mjc8MxFtd8jmsdN2RhJ9lHhv0MTtNyIt2L0uuqWlnIMbdAVX2y0Zg/s1600/beer-head.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnBnOR7yJv7tK2Rufj56wa97EKV6-Jyl8NMBoKXTsPbopLatk8moiGGIIPbMHum2VpO4xULzalkSK-l6f-CuTtQ8Mjc8MxFtd8jmsdN2RhJ9lHhv0MTtNyIt2L0uuqWlnIMbdAVX2y0Zg/s400/beer-head.gif" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"This
one's on me, Jim." Krystal said as she sat down his frothy beer. It was
mostly foam.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">The
carelessness of the drink delivery guaranteed she wasn't hitting on him, even
though it was free.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Oh,
thanks Krystal, but you don't have to do that..."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"I
know. So Whadda you want? Buffalo wings?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"I'm
not sure...I never got a menu...I don't know what's good."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Well,
most people get wings, but I like the nachos and burgers."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Hmm.
Well, I've never eaten owl before...are the thighs any good?" Jim joked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Oh,
a “Hooters” joke…Haha...please, please don't ask for the largest breasts we
have to offer...it gets old."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Oh
shit...I mean, jeez, I'm sorry...I wasn't going there...I...just bring me some
nachos and fries please...I know they don't go together but..."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Okie-dokie"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">He
downed the 6 drinkable ounces of beer in one drink, the froth slowly settled
back down into the cup. He watched it slowly coalesce into something like
beer. What am I doing with my life? Why am I at hooters drinking cheap beer and
sticking my foot in my mouth? I should just go home and put my resume on
Monster.com. No more feeling sorry for myself. Time to get on with
it. Time to get on with it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">He
pulled his cell phone out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">One
text from his wife: </span><span style="font-family: Courier; mso-bidi-font-family: Courier;">Please come home. The kids heard us...they're scared and sad.
They...we want you to come home. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Courier; mso-bidi-font-family: Courier;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">His
eyes watered. She was a good woman. She let him slide into this
depression without guilt. She carried them financially and emotionally, while
he sat in self-pity. She shielded the kids from his fall. But a year of
nothingness will stretch anyone. He didn't know what to text back. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> Krystal
brought out the fries. "The nachos will be out in a minute. You want
another drink?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "Oh,
um. Better not, I need to get home." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "Okay,
but next one's free too... 'member Pastor Steve? The old pastor at our
church, he's at the other end of the bar. He offered to pay." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "What?"
The oddity of him, Jim, an aging man, getting two free drinks at Hooters. He felt like photographing his free beers on Instagram and tagging them with #sororitysisterprivilege. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Pastor
Steve is here?" Jim grabbed his fries and started towards the other
side of the bar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "Don't
call me pastor, please," said Steve, as he pulled his notebook, and Bible
reference book to the side to make room for Jim. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "Alright,
but it looks like you're still practicing, Father-Steve, " Jim joked.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "Well,
ready-to-be-used, is all. Ready to be used. Might has well use this time to
stockpile sermons." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "So...you
didn't give up?" Jim regretting saying it instantly. "I mean,
the church, it just gobbled you up..." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "Yeah,
it, the church, can do that," Steve said as he gulped down some blackish
brew. "Jim, you're blind. You live here, in the Pacific Northwest, in
the brewery capital of the world, and you're drinking Coors." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "Yeah,
well, hey, wait a minute, don't get all holier than thou with me, you're at a
Hooters..." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "I
am. I am. You forget I'm from Kansas City. This is as close to Southern food or
bbq I can get. The wings aren't bad, and I do live just down the
street." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "Oh,
maybe I should've order the wings, I let Krystal talk me into the nachos."
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "They're
good enough." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Jim
gulped down a long drink from his mocked beer, and found the courage to move
beyond pleasantries. "So, did you ever think about going back to the
Midwest, after...you know after?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Not
really. Sarah ran back there anyway. I don't have much there but old seminary
guys and cousins in jail. And the idea of seeing any of them, especially Sarah,
seems more depressing than sticking it out here." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Yeah,
sorry about that whole Sarah mess, I didn't really know her, but
nobody..."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Yeah,
nobody deserves that. True. But I wasn't a great husband. I think I loved the
church more, well, not the church but the idea of a successful church more,
more than I loved her. I did love her once. But I got complacent in my
marriage. It takes work, as you probably know, to keep things
afire." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Um,
yeah." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Not
real convincing, Jim. Please don't tell me that your marriage is in
trouble?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"It
isn't. Or maybe it is. I don't know. She would know. I just haven't been,
much...much of a man, much of anything, for some time, now. I guess if I could
pull it together, maybe..." "Gawd, look at us...consoling each
other like priests in a confessional. Is this your normal Hooter's small talk?
Haha..."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Haha,
well, you've heard of the priesthood of believers. What if this is what we're
supposed to be like? Isn't this what Jesus wanted, his Disciples in some
sketchy area of town, speaking truth into each other's lives?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Well,
don't go calling me Mary Magdaline. I'm just a hostess," Krystal perfectly
chimed in from behind the counter, obviously she had heard part of their
conversation. "Although, if you want to wash my feet, I'm always
game for a pedicure." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Both
Jim and Steve looked at her in bewilderment. Where did this Biblical knowledge
come from? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Don't
look at me so weird, guys, the story of Mary Magdaline isn't exactly obscure. I
can work here and read the Bible every once in a while, sheesh." She
slid Jim's nachos over to him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"You
must've had a good youth pastor, once," Steve said knowingly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"I
did," she smiled back, "You need anything else? Hot sauce? Sour
cream? I'm not offering another cold beer, because we know what the Lord says
about drunkenness…" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"…Oh
yeah, what's that?" Jim jokingly replied. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"He's
against it. I don't remember the exact verse, because my youth pastor
quit." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Well
he can make it up to you," Steve said, "he doesn't have any oils to
wash your feet with, but he does have some Coors light...the alcohol might have
a similar effect." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"I've
been here,” she twirled her arms around at the ambiance, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“for six months, pastor Steve, and that may be
the most disgusting comment I've ever heard," she said laughing, "but
I guess I walked into it, didn't I." She smiled and reluctantly
went on with her business on the other side of the bar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Wow.
Just wow, guys. Is this a set-up. Is there some camera hidden in the back, and
we are on Christian-Candid-Camera?" Jim asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9dUA6Dh8LpvkuvNw9HWcL-UHYVEUl47EwH1hW4xeepVTQBTFhNQMIfxoJzqMLeG_ZlkFrwCJHwj7DtR06p1mke0I48vHdyh21e3QdK_LLDfV3SwhI1x7OrsnT_i2P6H4Bp3HsxtCqarQ/s1600/635827570288192102-Mario-Condis.PNG.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9dUA6Dh8LpvkuvNw9HWcL-UHYVEUl47EwH1hW4xeepVTQBTFhNQMIfxoJzqMLeG_ZlkFrwCJHwj7DtR06p1mke0I48vHdyh21e3QdK_LLDfV3SwhI1x7OrsnT_i2P6H4Bp3HsxtCqarQ/s320/635827570288192102-Mario-Condis.PNG.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Haha.
No, although that'd be a fun show. Catch what the worship leader says under his
breath when his mic get turned off, or have some guy steal the money out of the
offering, and watch the usher's response..." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">They
laughed and watched Krystal joyously serve another soul some spirits. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"That
girl is too, uh, old, now to be a part of any youth ministry, and much too
young to ever be in a conversation with guys our age talking about rubbing oils
or alcoholic drinks on any part of her body." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Don't
I know," Steve replied with a hint of sorrow, "although if we were
priests..." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">They
laughed again, and enjoyed a brief moment of silence. They had laughed well,
and it was good. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Steve
continued, "You know, I never got to thank you." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"For
what?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"For
the moral stand you made on my behalf, for being the lone dissenter. I'm
sorry you lost a church in the process." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "Well,
it wasn't right. It's not right. You're a good pastor, a good man...numbers
shouldn't matter." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "No,
they shouldn't...but they have bills to pay, and I was running on fumes. I
should've taken a sabbatical. But I let pride keep me there. It wasn't
just the numbers, my intentions were wrong. I lost track of why I joined
the ministry. I allowed myself to be lonely. She left me, yet I had stopped
talking to her, and God for some time. I thought I was a superman. I thought I
could do it all on my own. I see all of this now. It's much clearer."
Steve's eyes strayed to a shapely waitress on the far side of the restaurant. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> Jim
looked over, it was a good view, a small smile started to form on his mouth.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "Don't
you judge me, Jim. I'm a free man, and she's marginally closer to my
generation. Plus, I come here for the food. You, however, don't seem to know
the food, and are still married, even if there are sexual
problems..." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> Pffft.
Jim slapped his hand over his lips to keep the rest of his beer in his mouth,
and swallowed quickly. "I never said we had problems with our sex
life," He said laughing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"I
know. But there always is. Or usually something related to sex is the problem.
At least from the man's perspective. You already told me that you felt like
less than a man." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"I
was referring to my lack of job stuff. And becoming lazy and drinking."
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "Oh, never
mind, those things do wonders to a guys libido." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "I
never realized how funny you were, Steve. Anyways, not working, not
making money, It just rips at me...I've always had a job." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> "That
it does. That it does." "A little sleep, a little slumber, a
little folding of the hands to rest, and poverty will come upon you like a
robber, and want like an armed man..." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"I
love how you guys do that...just throw out some Bible verse for every season of
life." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Yeah,
well, it's all I know. The word. I spent years in seminary, studying
Greek, Hebrew...The King James version. I didn't learn know how to keep a wife
happy. They didn't teach me about church politics. But I know the Word, and I
occasionally speak with God, and that keeps me going." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Again,
sorry Steve...she was...she didn't..."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"She
was human, Jim. Just like your wife. We men tend to get caught up in things.
stuff. Sales numbers...attendance...bull shit. Stuff that doesn't matter.
I know I did. You better stay diligent, Jim. Good women don't hang out in
Hooters, looking for broken down men like us. Let me guess...she doesn't know
you're here, does she?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"No,
not exactly." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Well,
good thing there's hardly any alcohol in that Coors, because I think you should
head home, kiss your woman, and apologize." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Yeah,
but I'd hardly know where to start."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"Well,
obviously I'm no expert, but I think "I'm sorry," said authentically,
means a lot." "That's what I'm looking for: authenticity. In my
walk with God, in my next church, in my friends. Perhaps, someday, in a woman.
And you have it." "It's early, way too early to be
talking about, really, but <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">I
want you to work with me. I'm starting a new church. The Evangelical church is
looking for another location on this side of town. FaithSprings recommended
me."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">"They
did? I mean...what? You want me?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDK75AwIFoWnF5NUVt1xulkbG9sCKfLZA6sL-G11KlK-ALKVhSwUmJkqIrhwkXY6XrjKqdUlDIRlz_EZEdcsqY0m4FIkBUw_OWK87dYg2GF72bLqxFIf9_n2gZso-PvcexTnLWuot7sxg/s1600/img_3739.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDK75AwIFoWnF5NUVt1xulkbG9sCKfLZA6sL-G11KlK-ALKVhSwUmJkqIrhwkXY6XrjKqdUlDIRlz_EZEdcsqY0m4FIkBUw_OWK87dYg2GF72bLqxFIf9_n2gZso-PvcexTnLWuot7sxg/s400/img_3739.jpg" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">“Because
they knew I just needed a break. I was good at what I did, once.
Just like you were, are. And being broken has made me stronger. I trust you
Jim. I like you being in my corner. You defended me, like a good
Samaritan,” he took another sip of his dark beer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“They should make a beer called the Good
Samaritan.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">“Yeah,”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well, maybe not. Beer doesn’t exactly do
good things for most people.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
“Good point. Moderation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, I can’t
offer you much money, now, obviously, as the church isn’t even off the ground
yet, but there is a little planting money, and I’d like you to preach…” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">“But
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">“The
people need the basics, Jim. They need a leader, one who won’t make mistakes,
and one who has a true heart, like you do, for authenticity. We won’t be
phonies, Jim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want this to be real,
and I don’t care about numbers, or programs, or what the building looks like.
The youth, our nation, is looking past these status symbols.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People want the real deal. I want the real
deal. I want it to be about Jesus!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Jim
felt a shiver go down his back. This was everything he wanted as well, and it frightened
him. Could he develop a sermon and preach? Could he do it authentically? Could
he be used, by God?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if he was good
at it…what does that mean, at best a salary of $32,000 dollars? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shut up mind, it’s not about money</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
“Look, I’ve given you a lot to think about. I want to you to go home and talk
to your wife. Well, do other <i>stuff</i> first, then talk to your wife…here’s my cell
number…”<br />
<br />
“Geez, I don’t know,” Jim said smiling, “I don’t think I could work for a
pervert.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">“Weren’t
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with anyone.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jim quietly drove home. He
missed the sound of a gas engine. He intended to buy a real car again,
soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although if he became a pastor, it
might be a long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
He opened the door to his house and saw his wife crying on the loveseat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Why didn’t you call or text me back?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
“I’m sorry. I ran into an old friend.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Really, where at?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve been worried sick. The kids are
probably listening at their doors, pretending to be asleep.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
“Well, this is going to sound weird, but I had a spiritual encounter at
Hooters.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“A what? At Hooters?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sure you did…” her whole expression
changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jim knew this look from the few
times he was genuinely in trouble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
“I’m serious. I got offered a job. It had to be God. It was too weird not to be
God. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I had a spiritual encounter at
Hooters.”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
She knew her husband too well. He wasn’t lying, she could see something
different about him as well. She saw the old Jim. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Well, this, I gotta hear.
But you better go hug your kids first.” <br />
<br />
As he galloped up the stairs by twos, the noise of little feet sprinting back
to their beds, with giggles giving away their former positions, before he
ambushed them with hugs, she smiled. She wiped the last tear away, before
another trickled down her cheek. This one started from a different place, a
better place, and she let it travel her whole face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-51191955561582837622015-05-19T12:22:00.000-07:002015-05-19T12:22:01.503-07:00Life in the Express Lane<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMaqEIEoe2W64dNccq4ILKM3Zwl3uNSftjt40_h69JWhL_rvCOqVeSD9de04wOycg6LD6qTiOR4ZpDJWqWLwnGFLVNaB6dqE2l8eGW0OiKM-Whk_By3hGXjhO4wFb1HorF9LBtmVEycc4/s1600/IMG_FA5AAB-E5F042-60DAFA-F3011E-1DAA42-580FF2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMaqEIEoe2W64dNccq4ILKM3Zwl3uNSftjt40_h69JWhL_rvCOqVeSD9de04wOycg6LD6qTiOR4ZpDJWqWLwnGFLVNaB6dqE2l8eGW0OiKM-Whk_By3hGXjhO4wFb1HorF9LBtmVEycc4/s200/IMG_FA5AAB-E5F042-60DAFA-F3011E-1DAA42-580FF2.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't care what other's say, I love<br />your bagel imperfections. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Sometimes in life, circumstances necessitate that you broaden your understanding of right vs. wrong.<br />
<br />
Another fruitless visit to the supermarket during a hunger pang, my cart overflowing with calories, I decided against the donuts in favor of a bagel, and was feeling especially proud of myself. <br />
<br />
That feeling faded as I neared the checkout aisles and realized only the express lane looked favorable. I quickly added up the items in my cart. At least 20 items. The limit was 12. <i>Oh well</i>, I thought...f<i>ive items are the same. I'm not <b>really</b> pushing the maximum. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Ox9m2CjdqtIgYPItl9d1PR2rm8f4_-LdzKbHoghQEjKaC7pY3Q-gy-PF9OiwW5XgDfg2cUwZyJxOlrvYckeb1NoH9azXjPQlgbqlww_sTFnwyZoIcUGRDhvCb-Rm4497_WLEE_kctAA/s1600/express-lane-12-items-or-less-fewer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Ox9m2CjdqtIgYPItl9d1PR2rm8f4_-LdzKbHoghQEjKaC7pY3Q-gy-PF9OiwW5XgDfg2cUwZyJxOlrvYckeb1NoH9azXjPQlgbqlww_sTFnwyZoIcUGRDhvCb-Rm4497_WLEE_kctAA/s200/express-lane-12-items-or-less-fewer.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So, we're both sort of in the wrong...<br />Me with exceeding the limit, and<br />your store with its grammar. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's no different than driving 8 miles over the speed limit on the freeway. Everybody does it. Some people bring their whole weeks worth of groceries through the express lane. <i>I wasn't doing that!</i> <br />
<br />
The lady in front was especially proud of her find. One pound packages of ground sirloin beef for $3.99. She had at least 8 packages of the meat. The fear of a gout attack held me back from exiting the line and exploring the butcher department for more good deals. <br />
<br />
I laid out my twenty-two items. Sure, I didn't need all five different flavors of Jarritos Soda, but at .69 a bottle on sale, it was almost a crime not to try them. I mean, I'm almost 40, and I've never tried ANY flavor of Jarritos. That's a cultural crime. There is no food product besides maybe the chili relleno and some people's interpretation of guacamole, that Mexico hasn't perfected. Sure, they seem stuck on like twenty different ingredients, but they've made lemonade out of what life gave them. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRzgM0AaYqpM0LB_1NUpFTHdCN0PKF0l0zTZagDsaX1L9yXuzjxD_xzO8fblkdlxkTQS4xgGjzVc0LYAc_hdfUrbMRChFSKUuoRwIWMM7YwfwXGqZvDVxkLztA_qM2FApwoHpGKJ3cARo/s1600/jarritos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRzgM0AaYqpM0LB_1NUpFTHdCN0PKF0l0zTZagDsaX1L9yXuzjxD_xzO8fblkdlxkTQS4xgGjzVc0LYAc_hdfUrbMRChFSKUuoRwIWMM7YwfwXGqZvDVxkLztA_qM2FApwoHpGKJ3cARo/s320/jarritos.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Well...better than Corona. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I looked at the Hispanic Lime Limón soda, and wondered if it would taste like Sprite, and noticed that a little old man had joined the line behind me. <br />
<br />
I loaded the last few items onto the conveyer belt and heard his grumbling. He almost, almost, uttered actual words of discontent. Perhaps he was senile, or had irritable bowel syndrome. <br />
<br />
He quickly grabbed the plastic divider bar that keeps our groceries from breeding with each other, and loaded his few items. A handful of beets, a bunch of celery, and a head of cauliflower. I think a genetic cross section of our combined items might have made mine healthier and his a little more edible. <br />
<br />
I considered letting him cut in front of me in line. Until I saw his face. Every wrinkle in his chiseled eighty year old face was tightening in disdain for me. He greying eyes passed right through me, as if I was a Korean soldier, and he an M2 flamethrowing GI. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjycyi7IC1fX165I0Z_JFp-aKK8DqZ5OLOWA39WIaPC_N6PU5-AdX47PwT6xGnpP1XqUjZm77TSS6-wFBQUtZJRHny1XqNerQjOMjGVPtaFmB2VS_2QQdZlVYyozh03LE3RJznZORuXwyU/s1600/29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjycyi7IC1fX165I0Z_JFp-aKK8DqZ5OLOWA39WIaPC_N6PU5-AdX47PwT6xGnpP1XqUjZm77TSS6-wFBQUtZJRHny1XqNerQjOMjGVPtaFmB2VS_2QQdZlVYyozh03LE3RJznZORuXwyU/s320/29.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I made this walker with tennis balls you brats hit over my<br />fence when playing wiffle-ball. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>Let it go, old man, the Korean War is over</i>...I thought. <i>Now you're going to wait behind me. I hope the checker lady has to do a price check. </i><br />
<br />
He made some more noises that could've been bile boiling in his gut, or some guttural sound that animals emit when you threaten their territory. I wondered if it was his odd mix of vegetables that made him so hostile. What could you possibly make with that concoction of veggies...a broth? A stew? A potion? I wondered if his wife was a witch. <br />
<br />
<i>Look, I'm sorry I exceeded the limit by 10 items. I'm sorry that my digestive system still allows me to eat a bagel and a Mexican soda, and you have to eat alienated veggies. NO. No, I'm not sorry. You're just a bitter old man. A man with a radishy personality. Now you know he WE feel when you drive 48 MPH on the freeway old man. Yeah, it works both ways. So stew in your own toxic fumes you judgmental old man. I'm not a bad person. </i><br />
<br />
I said next to nothing to the checkout lady. She didn't acknowledge that I had exceeded the limit. We passed pleasantries, I quickly paid by debit card, and grabbed my weighted down bag. Five glass soda bottles was probably pushing its structural integrity. <br />
<br />
"Hello Sandra," cooed the old man in voice like Tony Bennett. I turned to see a complete transformation. The old man had morphed from malignant to genteel. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8qYDG426CEDzt-YNqiOo53gRrtSVbCEEuOAjdAcBZ14cK5NPF1Qv4z7sPmDMy2g0HxmSOKHwoIK3-sHsZe0npDEjZhX_Kk7_2nmND-OEAfaXWBMc_xSBWYQDbPdSZLDtqKO0vG9HqpLQ/s1600/up-movie-14917-hd-wallpapers-300x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8qYDG426CEDzt-YNqiOo53gRrtSVbCEEuOAjdAcBZ14cK5NPF1Qv4z7sPmDMy2g0HxmSOKHwoIK3-sHsZe0npDEjZhX_Kk7_2nmND-OEAfaXWBMc_xSBWYQDbPdSZLDtqKO0vG9HqpLQ/s1600/up-movie-14917-hd-wallpapers-300x300.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You get a merit badge for finding a use for radishes. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"Oh, hello Charles, how are you today?" Sandra, the middle-aged checker, whom I had failed to really notice in our interaction, brightened up. <br />
<br />
I wanted to stay and eavesdrop on their conversation. Maybe Charles would divulge the purpose behind his odd vegetable choices. Maybe Sandra was an old friend or relative, or maybe Charles was just a regular who had made a connection with a tired employee. I glanced, perhaps a second too long, at the authenticity of their moment. They showed compassion for each other in the realness of their smiles. <br />
<br />
Overstaying my welcome, I exited their scene. Maybe I had misread his face, his gestures, his sounds as displeasure. I was, sort of, in the wrong. What if I was the bad guy? No, not bad...just, inhospitable. I was guilty of the same judgement I thought he was giving me.<i> </i>I looked into my sack of ten extra items and nothing looked <i>that</i> good or <i>that</i> real, and realized I wanted a little more of what they had. <br />
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<br />Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-40432336495521629622015-04-29T15:36:00.003-07:002015-04-29T22:07:52.620-07:00Just Another Crazy Old Substitute TeacherJim Pines walked the room with a pretend air of authority, and wondered how much longer he could fake it. <br />
<br />
Then he heard it. Swearing and vulgarity were nothing new to Jim Pines. But honest self-assessments from high school kids were. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP___FAJblaZngFUtI8RR0vGQCOyqM2DGH3eTT190Sz_BXK0qFVn95Sugl90IKwz6vkGK9Qt-wpsqTHm2D2xhKGI6YcKFNo0bAmxLgnVtupDenb_x59eVLGSPCGeSdcXeX_U19RV6uysk/s1600/wheelchavez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP___FAJblaZngFUtI8RR0vGQCOyqM2DGH3eTT190Sz_BXK0qFVn95Sugl90IKwz6vkGK9Qt-wpsqTHm2D2xhKGI6YcKFNo0bAmxLgnVtupDenb_x59eVLGSPCGeSdcXeX_U19RV6uysk/s1600/wheelchavez.jpg" height="320" width="316" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Please show understanding of the color wheel, hues and<br />
shades in a non-stupid way, please. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"I'm such a slut....No seriously. I seriously have a problem. I meet a guy and before I know it, we are having sex," said the dark haired girl in the back of the classroom. She could've been Latina, but she wasn't. <i>Amelia, or was it Jessica</i>, Mr. Pines thought, as he fumbled around in the back stock room where the more expensive art supplies were kept. <i>Why is she divulging this information so freely? Is this a new way for girls to brag? I'm seriously out of touch... </i>He grabbed some large pieces of card stock from a bin and loudly exited the small room. Amelia (or Jessica's) table quickly changed the subject and laughed--not realizing the teacher was in such close proximity. Mr. Pines barely glanced their way and gave the card stock to the boy patiently waiting. <br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The kids liked Mr. Pines enough, and he YouTubed the curriculum enough to be a passable substitute teacher, but he wasn't the real deal, and students played on that notion like they toy with mall cops. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If teachers wore their certification on their lapel, like a badge, the kid's would've said, "Oh that's nice, Mr. Pines, they let you wear one of those even though you aren't a real teacher." </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuHQ9zzXRpCV0uQLXWDIwdiSmPZED44olspZf0BEjvk_3ixJv1E1Y9qhMFFfo6OMbQf2PwKRqkaguF7SoIdGV-k7e1zcDgF-PV-3pdSAJ79BheGVANbXVfuTAEleB8B5Lar-Mb7pNtzVM/s1600/The-Simpsons-05x11-Homer-The-Vigilante.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuHQ9zzXRpCV0uQLXWDIwdiSmPZED44olspZf0BEjvk_3ixJv1E1Y9qhMFFfo6OMbQf2PwKRqkaguF7SoIdGV-k7e1zcDgF-PV-3pdSAJ79BheGVANbXVfuTAEleB8B5Lar-Mb7pNtzVM/s1600/The-Simpsons-05x11-Homer-The-Vigilante.jpg" height="246" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I hate chalkboards too, Bart. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But overall, they weren't that cruel, and he wasn't that naive. One false move, and the class would probably all be on their cell phones...not planning a bank heist. Disassociated, not undisciplined, was the correct put-down for this generation. <i>They just don't care about anything</i>...was the generalization that many other teachers would say. But, of course, like all great generalizations, that only referred to a minority of the classroom. Most want order, interesting lessons, and relevant activities...and making that happen, Mr. Pines knew, was easier said than done. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Mr. Pines was also out of his element. A science teacher by trade, long-term substituting in an art classroom for a teacher on sabbatical. Sometimes he would talk about colors, like green, and start explaining chloroplasts and how the light spectrum is absorbed into plants, leaving green as the observable light...and look up to see that the class was nodding their heads not in agreement, but in an attempt to stay awake. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi132BSuBQq_lXVb94vsr8oXLSI9s2vXWodfXKzTfKbWNMtuPi1X6HAOS-RbTu4xMz75nfeoTP8SMcZ73jJCcs6VmIWosvHE4TNdBHqJTzrhyAIg8PqWqDgQdZABepCvialQQSrr14yFko/s1600/tumblr_m5fd9z9UZX1r777xho1_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi132BSuBQq_lXVb94vsr8oXLSI9s2vXWodfXKzTfKbWNMtuPi1X6HAOS-RbTu4xMz75nfeoTP8SMcZ73jJCcs6VmIWosvHE4TNdBHqJTzrhyAIg8PqWqDgQdZABepCvialQQSrr14yFko/s1600/tumblr_m5fd9z9UZX1r777xho1_500.gif" height="190" width="400" /></a>Mr. Pines was hip enough to quickly edit his lesson, and go into an Adam Sandler voice, <i>"You got Chlorophyll Man up there talking about God knows what and all she can talk about is making out with me. I'm here to learn, everybody, not to make out with you. Go on with the chlorophyll." </i><br />
<br />
Some of the kids knew the reference, others were grossed out and more confused then ever. Mr. Pines, like many substitute teachers, would often amend a boring lesson plan with quips, or jokes. Sometimes the "real" teacher's lesson, if totally bad, could get tossed for an hour of story telling or discussions. Kids liked to distract Mr. Pines, and Mr. Pines liked to be distracted. <br />
<br />
Substituting was, however, on his terms...he could choose a job, or deny it, and he didn't have to teach to any test or set curriculum, or have administration or parents breathing down his back. Not like they did when he was a real teacher. It (being a real teacher) didn't work out, he'd like to say. But he did miss the influence he had on students, back when he paid dues. The students who said he was the reason they went to college, or helped them understand a difficult concept, or he helped them through a tough year, or made them laugh when things were crappy at home. That's why he got his teaching license. <br />
<br />
So he still had empathy for the students, despite the career misfortunes that had befallen him. <br />
<br />
And students, for whatever reason, talk openly to substitute teachers. Like a temporal counselor, a priest in another town, a teacher-confidant, a 1-800 anonymous support group...they share gossip, spill the beans on other teachers, talk crap about coaches, spew venom on clique groups throughout the building, talk about their messed up home life...<br />
<br />
"Remember guys, I am a mandatory reporter...anything you say that can be considered abuse, I have to report to the authorities..." He'd often say to protect himself from truths he didn't want to hear. <br />
<br />
"Oh yeah...I forget you are a teacher sometimes," they'd say back. <br />
<br />
<i>Great. Great.</i> He thought. <i>I'm a joke to them. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"</i>So do you think I should fight him;...You think he's cheating on me;...Do you think this teacher was in the wrong;...Is my mom mental;..." All in a day's work of impossible to answer questions from kids trying to avoid the worksheet or activity in front of them. <br />
<br />
But at least in art class, the kids were busy making art. Sure, most of it sucked. But they were being creative and taking chances that the core classes no longer had room to incorporate with all the testing rigor. And they chatted while they drew, or painted, or sculpted, and it was a nice change from forcing kids to read out of the textbook, Jim thought. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxvzWW__4aD_SFxxYjKHUQ4fgw4YIHcUl-cMHBinD3AuY4G_XZijukcRBZWWFpTcZ0sX04sw-dP7Q6UNAfGGClvoCLIVKjfg3g1dKKLnCfYL1ikXm_EC5W9drXHl1Cn6cNaVIAbw03ipA/s1600/sex_ed_mean_girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxvzWW__4aD_SFxxYjKHUQ4fgw4YIHcUl-cMHBinD3AuY4G_XZijukcRBZWWFpTcZ0sX04sw-dP7Q6UNAfGGClvoCLIVKjfg3g1dKKLnCfYL1ikXm_EC5W9drXHl1Cn6cNaVIAbw03ipA/s1600/sex_ed_mean_girls.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a>But it wasn't a health class. <br />
<br />
Jim, like any secondary teacher, wasn't naive to the fact that kids were sexually active. Every year there were a handful of girls getting pregnant, and other couples full on making out in hall ways. When Jim saw these couples he would make a throw-up sound. It was fun to tease the kids about their "relationships," but deep down, every teacher hopes those couples aren't attempting to procreate. <br />
<br />
Jim went back to his roll sheet. It was Amelia, and she was a freshman. A FRESHMAN!<br />
<br />
Jim thought of his grade school daughters, and the words that they would freely associate with themselves: dancer, artist, princess, softball player... they were just a few short years away from being 15 themselves. His chest hurt.<br />
<br />
<i>It's not your fault. She's not your daughter. She's barely even your student. Let it go. Do you care how many people a 25-year-old woman, or guy, has been with? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"Yes I do care!" Jim said out loud. A few curious eyes drifted off their color wheel assignment and towards him..."Sorry, just got a little miffed at this email from the district...go back to your work." <br />
<br />
<i>Why do you care?</i> he thought. <i>Because she's 15, and I can understand "not a virgin," but a "slut?" Because it should be meaningful. Because she deserves love. She probably doesn't know love from home. Because God loves her even she doesn't know it. Because sex is important! Because self-esteem! </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
But he knew he couldn't say any of that to her. He knew her counselor wouldn't say any of that to her. And her parents, whatever they consisted of, had never relayed any of that to her. <br />
<br />
The chaos in the room rose to a loud roar as papers were stuffed into backpacks or binders, the bell would soon follow. <br />
<br />
"Can we leave early so I can hit the snack shack?" said the constantly hungry teen boy stereotype.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," he barely heard himself reply. <br />
<br />
The class left as if their political candidate had just won an election, and Mr. Pines slumped in his chair, and almost immediately started crying. Their lives...their lives are so chaotic and filled with disillusionment and hate and meaninglessness and escapism. He hadn't even known her name with certainty before the class started. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDyuSVFXQSoCEBkM8GUnWcOs2yWlByRtdEAwLN5lFuMUlIxQgeiqinVU0UaX9wTarWph8SYG5RciHtlR6wXi82mP0su_4a3KxYXZ9iGX_i1fbOF31CWgNORr5Cz41Y53xDdfl0nKxOvCQ/s1600/teacher-on-the-edge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDyuSVFXQSoCEBkM8GUnWcOs2yWlByRtdEAwLN5lFuMUlIxQgeiqinVU0UaX9wTarWph8SYG5RciHtlR6wXi82mP0su_4a3KxYXZ9iGX_i1fbOF31CWgNORr5Cz41Y53xDdfl0nKxOvCQ/s1600/teacher-on-the-edge.jpg" height="200" width="320" /></a><i>God help her. I don't know how, but God help her.</i>..He uttered between tears. An 8th period student walked in early, saw the tears on his cheeks, his eyes clenched and quickly shut the door. He heard through the exterior wall as she said, "Mr. Pines is having a breakdown!" <br />
<br />
Haha...he chuckled. A breakdown. Another thing to add to the list. <br />
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A nice evening at home with his family, a movie and a bowl of popcorn couldn't shake the yucky feeling, though. So he wrote her a note to stay after class and talk about her grade. </div>
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"What's up Mr. Pines?" Amelia said after he dismissed the class early again. </div>
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"Well, I'm missing the principles of art assignment from you, just wondering when you're going to turn that in..." </div>
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"Oh yeah...it's almost done. Can I turn it in on Monday." </div>
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"Sure." </div>
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"Is that all?" she asked...itching to get out of the room. </div>
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"Um...well, no. How are things at home?" </div>
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"What? Fine, I guess. My mom's a drunk, but that's no newsflash." </div>
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"I'm sorry. I didn't know."</div>
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"Whatever...it's no big deal..." </div>
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"Yeah it is...I'm sorry...also...I heard what you were saying the other day at the table..." </div>
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"Hmmm...what was I talking about?" She sheepishly replied, realizing the moment.</div>
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"Well, I just wanted to say..."</div>
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"Oh gawd...you aren't going to say that Jesus loves me or something...haha...save it. I'm fine. I know what I'm doing. Gawd this is soooo embarrassing, can I go now?" </div>
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"Look...I'm sorry...it's just...I'm a parent, and I don't know what your mom may or may not have said, but there's so much to relationships, and..." </div>
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"I made it up...most of it. I made it up...okay...Can I go now?"</div>
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"Look Amelia, I'll be gone next week, and then you'll maybe never see me again as a teacher, but I think you should know..." </div>
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"What...oh Gawd...don't say you love me...that's..." </div>
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"No...don't...don't do that...Don't get defensive. I was just going to say that sex and love are two completely different things. And neither is bad, just that unconditional love is incredibly freeing..." </div>
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"Okay...well awesome talk Teach..." </div>
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"And get that Principles of Art assignment turned in...and...and...Jesus does love you." </div>
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"Okay...what? Oh, haha...you're funny Mr. Pines." But as she looked closer she realized that Mr. Pines was not, in fact, joking. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg64-cFvHXL0FS0dZNoDfr8vWjFc335C5LL3h3ZlnrU1Rye3yFcxxTUP_dgA4sx9Xh5JMsyjHtxY-h-qP7ouJtOsceYRctqV_J3LdNC-2VopKMBxPF3Ryh8WCsgqK5tl5hpRR8lOI4RWf0/s1600/20090426__cd26DUI~p1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg64-cFvHXL0FS0dZNoDfr8vWjFc335C5LL3h3ZlnrU1Rye3yFcxxTUP_dgA4sx9Xh5JMsyjHtxY-h-qP7ouJtOsceYRctqV_J3LdNC-2VopKMBxPF3Ryh8WCsgqK5tl5hpRR8lOI4RWf0/s1600/20090426__cd26DUI~p1.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a>"Oh...uh...bye..." She hesitated, as if knocked off-kilter by a left hook, and then exited the room. </div>
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He heard her through the walls say to her friends who had been waiting outside, "Well that was awkward!" </div>
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"Oh well, it's just a crazy substitute." </div>
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"Yeah, Yeah...but Mr. Pines is alright, even if he is crazy." she said. </div>
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Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-73677269984859623062014-12-17T17:43:00.000-08:002015-06-09T10:29:09.087-07:00Suicidal Christmas Sweater: Short Story Conclusion <div style="text-align: center;">
{<a href="http://www.plumbeddown.com/2014/12/suicidal-christmas-sweater-short-story.html#.VJIwd76Jm-R">Continued from Part II</a>} or go to the {<a href="http://www.plumbeddown.com/2014/12/suicidal-christmas-sweaters-short-story.html#.VJH2vb6Jm-Q">Beginning</a>} </div>
<br />
James was busy cutting down the blue spruce tree. <br />
<br />
"I did Mark. I gave Jake your number, and I'm not sorry."<br />
<br />
"I just ran into Jake at the grocery store. It was...odd to say the least...it's been so many years. I wish you wouldn't have given him my number."<br />
<br />
"I'm done making excuses for you Mark. Jake isn't a fake. In fact, I feel like I might know Jake better than you now." <br />
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"What do you mean?"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDmDEW6McI-ucQ5QZoSNsreQ0GaP51Mo0OlxW_dZXr72jUgVsxmVeaIISGEgUXj59_LvZtoPSyTsQKSyvudWA3Ja7FrtW0h2Jpb-mB8ioj2d4O-m1Et3MzXJMrWemJwH3rMAVF8zGhhqI/s1600/penpal+letters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDmDEW6McI-ucQ5QZoSNsreQ0GaP51Mo0OlxW_dZXr72jUgVsxmVeaIISGEgUXj59_LvZtoPSyTsQKSyvudWA3Ja7FrtW0h2Jpb-mB8ioj2d4O-m1Et3MzXJMrWemJwH3rMAVF8zGhhqI/s1600/penpal+letters.jpg" /></a>"I mean, Jake and some of your other friends have called, written, inquired repeatedly over the last ten years...sometimes I lied for you, other times I was honest. Most times I didn't know what you were doing. There were years where I wondered if you were dead."<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry."<br />
<br />
"Don't apologize now, I'm just so happy to see you here, now. But there's hurt there, for you and for me...and your brother and Jake, and Mel...others."<br />
<br />
"You've talked to Melissa too?" <br />
<br />
"It's a small town. And it's been a decade. I have piles of mail for you. Letters, college inquiries, things that look like warrants, bill collectors, but mostly, it's people wanting to talk to you. When your father passed, we all got to kind of say our goodbyes. We could see the end coming. But with you...it was like, you almost died...and then you ran off, and nobody got any answers, or closure, or even to sympathize with you. You closed us all off." <br />
<br />
"I know. I was young. And selfish. I can see that now. I didn't think anyone cared. There's really been letters? I didn't know my generation knew how to write letters?"<br />
<br />
"Just 'cause you don't write, doesn't mean others don't," his mother said with guilty implications. And seeing him ready to apologize again, "No, don't...I'm kidding...kind of." <br />
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Mark helped James compress the wide tree through the front door as the three girls non-obediently squeezed underneath to get to the ornament box first. </div>
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"Girls, that was rude. It's going to take us some time to get this mounted and trimmed. There's no hurry!" </div>
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"Sorry Dad!" "Yeah, sorry Uncle James!" </div>
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"Haha, don't get mad James, they're just excited for Christmas. We used to act like that." </div>
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"Did we? Those Christmases seem like so long ago. This house has so many memories. That's why I didn't want Mom to sell it. But those memories have been melancholy, mostly, lately." </div>
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"I'm sorry James. Of all the people, you didn't deserve any of this. Nobody ever feels sorry for the prodigal son's brother who stayed loyal." </div>
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They found the tree stand and fought with the screws and branches to get the tree standing up straight. </div>
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"You don't need to make Biblical parallels to our life, Mark. I've tried to make my own happiness. But there's always been a hole. A gap. You were...are...my little brother, and I needed you at times. I didn't have a best man at my wedding. Just a blank space that was where you were supposed to be. I don't want that blank space anymore. I'm afraid you're going to run off and leave us again...and I..." </div>
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Mark, with tears in his eyes, "Damn it James. I'm soo sorry. I needed you too. I needed Mom, and wanted Dad...I just wasn't strong enough. I can't change the past...I'm sorry I've caused so much drama. I hate drama. I'll be around. I'll probably end up apologizing a thousand times, and making Mom cry a bunch, and stuff, but...I hate Canada anyways..." </div>
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"I knew it. Nobody goes to Canada...especially after South America." </div>
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"Haha...yeah, and I can't go anywhere near Columbia or Peru...too many people want my head down there." </div>
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"It looks great, boys," Mom said, as she returned with a pizza. "Sorry for not cooking tonight, but I thought this would make up for it." She saw the tears on both Mark and James' faces. Healing is such a long process. "You still like pizza, right Mark?" </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSryPLwWOklKf-wM6DtPlKMqh7L_yJoV1OArV6yEufqx4GTRuxHted6Abm7vRi3eIQ3oAeZGrsTuXk2GRBtez45RhGdgjwBeq-kzjED8AWOc6C3dwSoXBeljuFARJjiesMoQ0I6WMFZbw/s1600/IMG_0058+(640x359)%2B(640x359).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSryPLwWOklKf-wM6DtPlKMqh7L_yJoV1OArV6yEufqx4GTRuxHted6Abm7vRi3eIQ3oAeZGrsTuXk2GRBtez45RhGdgjwBeq-kzjED8AWOc6C3dwSoXBeljuFARJjiesMoQ0I6WMFZbw/s1600/IMG_0058+(640x359)%2B(640x359).jpg" width="320" /></a>"Are you kidding me? I haven't had good pizza since, I don't know. I have learned to appreciate guinea pig, though." </div>
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"Gross. Stay away from my hamster, Uncle Mark," said Jenny. </div>
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"Haha. They hear everything don't they." </div>
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"They hear only what they want to hear..." laughed James. </div>
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"Yeah, I guess I've been living that way too," Mark replied. </div>
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"Are you sure, I'm sure there going to be some uncomfortable words in some of these..." </div>
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"I'm sure Mom. Thanks for saving them for me." </div>
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Mark closed the door and trembled as he flipped through the stacks of mail. Army recruiting services and college informational letters he put in a discard pile. There was stuff from the selective service, the IRS, and Social security that he figured he'd have to read at some point. </div>
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But mostly it was the letters that concerned him. </div>
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He stacked them into piles. Two from Jake....One from his cousin Rodney...One from his high school Math teacher (weird)...One from Brandon...and he nearly lost it...Melissa. This continued on. She wrote three total. Four from Jake. Sixteen total letters from friends. Some thicker than others. Most were postmarked at least five years ago. </div>
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<i>I guess they gave up. I don't blame them. </i></div>
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He put Melissa's in its own pile. Not tonight. Too many emotions tonight. </div>
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He tore open a few. The words were both kryptonite and revealing. So they had cared. His family cared. His friends cared. The letter from his teacher was signed by seven other teachers. More tears formed. People apologized. They prayed. They cried. They wanted to see him.</div>
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<i>What was I searching for---out there?</i> His middle school youth pastor had mailed a letter exactly four years after his attempt on his own life. It ended with a verse that sent chills down his spine: </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Jer. 29:13-14--<span class="highl" style="background-color: white; color: #001320; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart.</span><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">'I will be found by you,' declares the LORD, 'and I will restore your fortunes and will gather you from all the nations and from all the places where I have driven you,' declares the LORD, 'and I will bring you back to the place from where I sent you into exile.'…</span></span></blockquote>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOY3TJkQuwjRO-PIFP7H0SeQvpo6LycTIDGb9CcqdT06OKP4AAoTKBlwu-T_meh16BlU8EguH38iU8vuquws6vKIxtTzFP1_mbRdnT5U5dfRozjFTz2Fu5qMdWagktVsx3Y2eDCxMTDOQ/s1600/Tattoo1-003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOY3TJkQuwjRO-PIFP7H0SeQvpo6LycTIDGb9CcqdT06OKP4AAoTKBlwu-T_meh16BlU8EguH38iU8vuquws6vKIxtTzFP1_mbRdnT5U5dfRozjFTz2Fu5qMdWagktVsx3Y2eDCxMTDOQ/s1600/Tattoo1-003.jpg" width="320" /></a>He never thought about his being gone as being in exile. How nice it was to be home again, even with all the tears and emotions. The word redeemed flooded his thoughts. That was a Christian word, right? It was nicer than 'being sober' or ' in remission', phrases that seemed temporal and like dams holding back sickness.<br />
<br />
He slept untroubled and awoke to the smell of pancakes. Amy, apparently, made legendary pancakes. <br />
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The house was atwitter with the excitement of the holidays. The girls played with toys that would soon be abandoned for whatever St. Nick brought this year. Drew was making jokes reminiscent of his own father, and his bloodlines were smiling and laughing with cheer. It was like a Norman Rockwell painting. Everyone seemed to be absorbing Mark's newfound contentedness. </div>
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"So what's the plan for tonight, Mom?" </div>
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"I thought maybe we could sew you up a nice ugly sweater." </div>
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"Wow Mom. Aren't you making your legendary dinner?" </div>
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"I am. But I think you should go, honey. It's not like we haven't got used to having our Christmas Eve dinner without you." </div>
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"Mom's pulling no punches, today," James scoffed. Even he was surprised at Mom's bluntness. </div>
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"Well, I think he should go. He needs to have fun with good people. We'll get him on Christmas, anyway. It's not like he has in-laws to run off to." </div>
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Mark sat silently and in awe. It was like the opposite of déjá vu. His family was so different than he remembered them. </div>
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"Next thing you know, she'll tell you you're betrothed to some woman she thinks is appropriate, haha," James half-whispered. </div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
"I heard that," Mom said. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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"I don't know Mom. I don't know if I'm ready to go to a party with old faces. It's one thing to..." </div>
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"Tear the band-aid off!" She interrupted. </div>
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"Jeez...okay...If you don't want me..." he joked. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHimU9axVc6FuPFXfc5f2f0zWD72wJZC8ZRic4aPYyuZ6ftncqTIDfUazp_7dO-NJAd3SSugAwZsGTSsjCJiC0mDWil4c8vRd9Ksr7ISDnnPiYIoSHjP17eFY1XhO_-JdCPZvbKCAYZIo/s1600/f3697a-tacky-xmas-sweaters_grande.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHimU9axVc6FuPFXfc5f2f0zWD72wJZC8ZRic4aPYyuZ6ftncqTIDfUazp_7dO-NJAd3SSugAwZsGTSsjCJiC0mDWil4c8vRd9Ksr7ISDnnPiYIoSHjP17eFY1XhO_-JdCPZvbKCAYZIo/s1600/f3697a-tacky-xmas-sweaters_grande.jpeg" width="240" /></a>"There's no need to sew any ugly sweaters. I graduated in 1984. My generation invented the ugly sweater, and if I didn't wear it in high school, I did in college or shortly after. I kept them all," Drew offered. </div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
"Wait...you graduated the year I was born?" Matt realized. </div>
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"Yep. My first wife was six years younger than me, and she was a ...(looks around to see if his children were listening, they weren't)... head case, so I thought why not find a cougar, hence your mom." </div>
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"Ra-ar" Mary growled back at him. </div>
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"Gross," everyone else said in unison. </div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
"Holy Crap, and Merry Christmas...when you texted back I thought you were still going to bail!" Jake smiled. </div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
"Well, If it gets freaky...my Mother's Toyota Tercel is ready to get me out of Dodge..." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Don't worry, the orgies are on Tuesdays. Sweater parties are just sweater parties," Jake said with a wry smile. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Jake looked into the surprisingly spacious home. It wasn't filled with faces, but enough that his entrance was the newest attraction. Jake's humor was the only welcoming factor so far. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Amber, can you get this guy some 'Nog...it took us ten years to get him here, we better butter him up...(then aside to Mark), "You are okay with alcohol, right? I mean, you don't need to get drunk or anything, but the eggnog has rum in it...it's good..." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Yeah, I'm fine. Alcohol was never my drug of choice...so we're cool. Besides, my brother makes some <i>monster</i> eggnog with lighter fluid..." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Jake smiled. They loved that movie. But Brandon looked at him dumbfounded. "Did I hear you say that your brother mixes lighter fluid into his eggnog? Wouldn't that kill somebody?"<br />
<br />
Mark was about to explain, but Jake cut him off. "Brandon, before Seth Rogan movies, there was real comedy. It's called <i>Better Off Dead.</i> I don't expect to you like it, cause there's no F-words or pot humor."<br />
<br />
"Hey man, Fu.. Screw you, I watch normal stuff too." "Mark don't listen to him. I'm not a stoner. I like <i>Two and a half Men.</i>" </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ742fzRyua-EGk96KxJSwv5_-EG4NNDJdbRB0izn50Uf6TDoiQyd_4j-hmXKWSWj75ULvzui6eSVcVi2aJ-pz9dyHaqxVLqHDcJKtwMZAJ-eu5qB3sIaiuyokOH4od5voFOObM3JinHo/s1600/macgyver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ742fzRyua-EGk96KxJSwv5_-EG4NNDJdbRB0izn50Uf6TDoiQyd_4j-hmXKWSWj75ULvzui6eSVcVi2aJ-pz9dyHaqxVLqHDcJKtwMZAJ-eu5qB3sIaiuyokOH4od5voFOObM3JinHo/s1600/macgyver.jpg" width="320" /></a>"Good to see you Brandon, been a long time. Yeah, I've heard of that show, but don't know it well. Unfortunately in Canada we get mostly <i>MacGyver</i> reruns and <i>Orphan Black.</i> <i>Continuum</i> is another..."<br />
<br />
"We should totally do a <i>MacGyver</i> night Jake!" Brandon blurted. <br />
<br />
"Yeah, that would be pretty epic." <br />
<br />
"Speaking of epic, I love your sweater Mark, did you order that online?" Ashley interrupted. <br />
<br />
"No, believe it or not, this is my father-in-law's sweater," Mark said and took a drink of his rumnog. His eyes opened wide. "Wow, this stuff is stout..." "Uh yeah, my new dad was a regular Dr. Huxtable in the 1980s." <br />
<br />
"Ugh...Don't bring up Cosby..." <br />
<br />
"Yeah, lets change the subject." <br />
<br />
"I just meant the sweaters. He had or has tons of sweaters." <br />
<br />
"So your mom remarried?" <br />
<br />
"Yeah. He's alright. I have two sisters-in-law in grade school too...it's taking a little getting used to..." <br />
<br />
There was another knock on the door and then Matt made his way in. There were hugs and high fives and Mark had to find a spot for his bottle of rum in the kitchen. He didn't see Mark off to the side of the pellet stove. <br />
<br />
"Hey Jake, guess who I ran into at the liquor store. Melissa. (pause) Martinez. She's back in town. I told her what we were up to, and she's totally coming over. Just had to stop at home and find an ugly sweater. I had to stop off at home too. Forgot my cell phone. She should be here any second...I hope that's okay? Nobody would care, right?" <br />
<br />
The whole room fell silent. The casualness and niceties of a minute ago were slaughtered. The eeriness of death filled the room. <br />
<br />
"What?" Matt said in astonishment...as he gazed around the room and at the eyes that were half directed at him, and half to someone else by the stove..."What?" and then he recognized behind the stove and behind the hard years was his old friend Mark Black.<br />
<br />
"Oh, God...I'm sorry guys...Why didn't somebody tell me Mark Black, of all people, was going to be here. I mean...Great to see you buddy, but geez...isn't this something you tell people..." <br />
<br />
"I wasn't sure he would show up, so I didn't..." Jake started, but before he could finish, another knock on the front door, followed by it slowly being pushed in.<br />
<br />
"Hey all, I'm crashing your party...sorry my sweater isn't better," said Melissa. <br />
<br />
The room feel into an even quieter state.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Qk5O5eIqJ5mpzJgZefQN_n_aLAqLp9QhABOPdi-we887oFW_Kd3BisZyz6g0JUGEBDsmsuaP3kTfnLEjpRXnzv_5CaqSy84y5ouacCBuLz5VF_RZ-LCcV3RWZExtIqHWtwL0KwagtUY/s1600/shocked-crowd-737736.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Qk5O5eIqJ5mpzJgZefQN_n_aLAqLp9QhABOPdi-we887oFW_Kd3BisZyz6g0JUGEBDsmsuaP3kTfnLEjpRXnzv_5CaqSy84y5ouacCBuLz5VF_RZ-LCcV3RWZExtIqHWtwL0KwagtUY/s1600/shocked-crowd-737736.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
"Wow...quite the welcome. Who died? Haha..."<br />
<br />
"Uh...I did, almost. A decade ago." Mark heard himself say. <br />
<br />
Melissa walked past the entrance and looked to where the voice came from. She then looked at Matt and said, "What is this, some kind of intervention? Did you plan this?"<br />
<br />
"No, I promise, I didn't even know...it was..."<br />
<br />
"It was all coincidence..." Jake said. "I ran into Mark yesterday...."<br />
<br />
"Maybe it's fate..." Amber said from the barely exposed kitchen. She marched across the war field and handed Melissa a rumnog. "You might need this." <br />
<br />
"Fate...says the girl who married her high-school sweetheart. Nice." Melissa said as she downed the drink. <br />
<br />
Everywhere somebody looked to somebody else for something to break the tension. <i>If only Seth Rogan were here</i>, thought Brandon, <i>He'd do something funny or awkward. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Mark gripped the keys to the Tercel inside his hoodie pocket. He'd have to push past the crowd and right next to Melissa to exit. It would not be subtle. This was his worst nightmare. <br />
<br />
And yet. It was a band-aid. Rip it off. Rip it off. <br />
<br />
"Well, there appears to be an elephant in the room. I did not come here to wreck this little get-together, and I'm sure Melissa didn't as well. I've been a lot of things in my life. Mostly an ass. I was an ass to many of you guys the last ten years. I was an ass to Melissa as well. I guess that's some sort of apology. I'm sorry for how I <i>didn't</i> treat you the last ten years. You can call me ass when I leave. But I'll not be an ass and an elephant in the room. It's too much stress."<br />
<br />
"Here's to elephants and asses!" Jake said as he raised his cup<br />
<br />
"Here, here," shouted the rest and they drank up. <br />
<br />
"Here's to Democrats and Republicans, may they not continue to make a mockery of our country!" shouted another...and they drank to that toast. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0FW-ik9kuXeX67eYQ7UzcrwJIxaTWkfgyQ-u9pgqRy3SnVERrOpnTfZzvsrFFsbzxFo197ylAoboSsWjPeJr3LFjXgcRuq5bXFSGFRh1RfiuVfqMuqR3QUxFI4JP6K8iBpjeU76j5hE4/s1600/i-cant-explain-it-so-i-must-blame-obama-thumb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0FW-ik9kuXeX67eYQ7UzcrwJIxaTWkfgyQ-u9pgqRy3SnVERrOpnTfZzvsrFFsbzxFo197ylAoboSsWjPeJr3LFjXgcRuq5bXFSGFRh1RfiuVfqMuqR3QUxFI4JP6K8iBpjeU76j5hE4/s1600/i-cant-explain-it-so-i-must-blame-obama-thumb.jpg" /></a>"Obama," shouted another. They took a drink. <br />
<br />
"I blame Obama," shouted yet another. They took another drink. <br />
<br />
"Here's to Mark and Melissa in the same room," shouted Amber from behind Jake. Everyone looked at her in awe. It was an odd toast, but they drank up anyway. <br />
<br />
As the silo cup lowered from Mark's lips, he caught Melissa looking at him the same way. It was going to be an awkward night, but courage had been lubricated by the rum. <br />
<br />
Conversations started again. The room swelled away from Mark and Melissa, knowing that they had unfinished business. <br />
<br />
Slowly she walked toward. The room pretended not to notice. Mark fiddled with the keys even more so. He didn't know what he wanted out of this scene. <br />
<br />
"I meant it. I'm sorry for the last decade. I was a wreck."<br />
<br />
"I've been a wreck too, Mark, only I didn't cut my wrists." (The room cringed at the word wrists...)<br />
<br />
"I know." <br />
<br />
"They told you? All those rumors? Well, some of them are true. Most of them are true." <br />
<br />
"I don't care. I mean, about the rumors. Who am I to judge? I tried to kill myself." <br />
<br />
"Because of me." <br />
<br />
"No, not entirely. I was depressed about my dad. I was suffering from low self-esteem. I was young and stupid, and it wasn't serious. It just went way further than I intended." <br />
<br />
"This is awkward. They're all listening." She said as she gazed around the room at eyes that darted away quickly. <br />
<br />
The room got louder with small talk, trying harder to pretend they weren't listening. <br />
<br />
"I don't care anymore. I'm tired of running from my past." <br />
<br />
"I wish I didn't have a past." "I wish I could've had this conversation with you ten years ago..." "It appears, now, that we are both just damaged goods." <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGDjwHecUSOAWXk0k8OP4u-6dkUvSDK5aiil6aN8u6bwtD-Ng-0qiyxfG97IOreDJkkQ5JS2PMpr_CRubNqBbbxr_EWk0WnevK0zpa4PsMxLyDgfDTe9eX-u_U6DRWdPt8AL2s7jRGg0c/s1600/cranberry-cocktails-leadjpg-3fda46d6f52e4cdd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGDjwHecUSOAWXk0k8OP4u-6dkUvSDK5aiil6aN8u6bwtD-Ng-0qiyxfG97IOreDJkkQ5JS2PMpr_CRubNqBbbxr_EWk0WnevK0zpa4PsMxLyDgfDTe9eX-u_U6DRWdPt8AL2s7jRGg0c/s1600/cranberry-cocktails-leadjpg-3fda46d6f52e4cdd.jpg" width="320" /></a>"You guys wanna try my famous <a href="http://www.oregonlive.com/mix/index.ssf/cocktails/post_5.html">transatlantic cocktail</a>? It's made from cranberry sauce, oddly enough," Ashley interjected. <br />
<br />
"Yeah, I'd love one." Mark blurted. "I've had good encounters with cranberry spirits, lately." <br />
<br />
"I guess, I'll try one. What'd you think Mark, do you think we'll ever be <i>fixed</i>?" <br />
<br />
"Depend if root's strong." Mark chuckled. <br />
<br />
"Was that from Karate Kid?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah, the third one. Haha. Just something that's been going through my head lately. Look we have crummy pasts. Histories we'd like to ignore. But I know who I am, now. My roots are strong. And those years of mistakes...I don't know...lately, I've just felt like they've been redeemed." <br />
<br />
"That sounds nice. I wish it was that easy." "You know you sound like your mom right now. She's actually been quite nice to me over the years..." <br />
<br />
"Seriously? You and my mom talk to each other? Why am I not surprised. You know...she's cooking her famous Christmas Eve dinner right now..."<br />
<br />
"I'd love some real food. This transatlantic cocktail is terrible." <br />
<br />
And there, while avoiding awkward eavesdroppers and under the influence of odd intoxicants, Mark felt like for once, because of this week, he might have a future worth living for. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
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<br />Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-20854830281246932482014-12-10T17:09:00.001-08:002014-12-17T22:31:31.598-08:00Suicidal Christmas Sweater: Short Story Part II<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.plumbeddown.com/2014/12/suicidal-christmas-sweaters-short-story.html#.VIetvr6Jm-T">{Continued from Part I} </a></div>
<br />
"Hey honey, how was the grocery store? You know you forgot your wallet, it's sitting on the dining room table, I tried to tweet you to let you know..." Mary said before she saw the look on his face. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg078XJr9DE2E9jeZHyelFWdznY4bpkutpWH-V5ebwO2wUwQPBU-sfhrly4Nf520yWwSGkWPvr1zwKHS8NTFUq3o8DEMZF2byWKRCHsH0xwLS1dt-3gNIXjhImSmrrPQHx4HaB6ESCkzFM/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-12-10+at+4.02.30+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg078XJr9DE2E9jeZHyelFWdznY4bpkutpWH-V5ebwO2wUwQPBU-sfhrly4Nf520yWwSGkWPvr1zwKHS8NTFUq3o8DEMZF2byWKRCHsH0xwLS1dt-3gNIXjhImSmrrPQHx4HaB6ESCkzFM/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-12-10+at+4.02.30+PM.png" height="210" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wow. I'd even sew in this room. I could be the next Betsy Ross</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"It's texted, mom, and it's fine anyway. I shoplifted your precious cranberry sauce, it kept me company on the ride home, Melissa is a whore now, and everyone in this town still thinks I'm nuts. I don't know why I even came home, I should've never left Canada." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He slammed the door in which used to be his room. Now it was a sewing room with quilts and other various projects taking up large portions of the space. A futon was already made up for him, and he flopped down dejectedly. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In the living room, an emergency meeting took place. <br />
<br /></div>
<div>
"Nobody wants to stay in Canada. Not even Canadians," James said in an attempt at humor. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC9vYc1UfVD1uYbmv9raZZ4p7796KK1TdaEGDvxGSPgF4lMgy0dpxvfUsZbQu7RGOsX3sqZhUycC_V5gpnv7VHkaufFghwLWdZ0M7hIa8shSAz835IAPOIGMg7mFB_OYEFRRFJj0HinJU/s1600/Blame-canada-southpark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC9vYc1UfVD1uYbmv9raZZ4p7796KK1TdaEGDvxGSPgF4lMgy0dpxvfUsZbQu7RGOsX3sqZhUycC_V5gpnv7VHkaufFghwLWdZ0M7hIa8shSAz835IAPOIGMg7mFB_OYEFRRFJj0HinJU/s1600/Blame-canada-southpark.jpg" height="173" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When people are angry at Obama, what <br />
they really are angry at, is Canada. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mom didn't bite. "James, it's taken 10 years to get Mark comfortable enough to come home. I will not have you making jokes at the expense of your brother, or the work we have all done to get him to this place." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Sorry, mom, but that's what Dad would've said. He always broke through Mark's defenses with humor." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Don't you think I wish John were still here too." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Hey, I'm sitting right here," Andrew said. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I know you are, Drew, honey. You've been a great companion, a great husband to me for the last few years, but you aren't the father of my sons. You hardly know Mark. You hardly know how long I've cried and desperately sought to pull him out of his shell. Do you know what it's like to nearly lose a son at his own hands? I lost my husband and nearly my son in the same year. And I've been fighting like hell to get him back...healthy...included...loved." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I'm sorry Mary, I didn't mean it like that...I know there's stuff here from before my time. Me and the girls can take off for a while if you want..." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"No," James said, "You're family now. We need you and the girls." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ashley and Gracie giggled at being mentioned, the conversation was over their head. They went on playing Barbies with their step-neice Jenny. Together they looked like cousins. James had to remind himself that these grade school girls were also his step-sisters. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Thank you James. Yes, Drew, you are family now. You helped me convince Marky (she hadn't called him Marky since he was in the hospital) to come home. You paid for the plane ticket. You have a right in all matters of this family, even if this junk comes from before your time." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
-------------------------------------------</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div>
Mark laid in his old room and felt an awkward comfortableness. Memories mixed in with the now. It was like drinking from a Pepsi can that somebody had filled with Dr. Pepper. The brain is easy to trick. Perceptions, based on expectations, that are not met are sometimes called illusions. And illusions, based on interpretation from the brain, can either be pleasant or horrible. Mark didn't know what to expect from this trip home he was on. He used to take drugs to trick his mind. But the last two years he had committed himself to accepting reality. Even if that reality was a bad trip. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He cried a little, thinking how his selfishness (for that's what he attributed it to, now) had destroyed his life and <i>hers</i>. Of course, that was his intention. She hurt him. He wanted to hurt her. She embarrassed him, he wanted to haunt her. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That was his 18-year-old self thinking. He was a better person now. He had suffered. He survived two years of therapy. Two brief stints in prison. Two years of heavy addiction. Had traveled throughout most of South America. Just avoided a hostage situation in Columbia. Nearly married a beautiful but ornery Peruvian woman. Got involved with smuggling. Nearly got killed getting out of it. Moved to Canada to start over, yet again, in his mid-twenties. Was homeless for most of a year. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbq2H8UAKaiaktr-BQ4jYERV-icHzjpT1esAnvaGrKMTzfcP7D63G7eCNxZJq5kRhXNgFHW8RcEF6CB7IkWThAmqSSrOnEDnvBawzQuhzQMXd14L4EqaUwbi7IGkp2ckn-2zeEdSLyMNY/s1600/4922080300_7000d2b30b_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbq2H8UAKaiaktr-BQ4jYERV-icHzjpT1esAnvaGrKMTzfcP7D63G7eCNxZJq5kRhXNgFHW8RcEF6CB7IkWThAmqSSrOnEDnvBawzQuhzQMXd14L4EqaUwbi7IGkp2ckn-2zeEdSLyMNY/s1600/4922080300_7000d2b30b_z.jpg" height="155" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For when you totally relied on your<br />
roommates for everything good. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Heavy living leads to aging, and Mark showed every bit of his 28 years. He had nothing to show for those years, though. No house, car, wife, child, degree...just enough belongings to fit a trailer U-haul. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He was running from emotions and apologies and forgiveness. He was angry at God for taking his father, his future wife, his senior year of high school, and his dignity in one year. ONE YEAR! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And even though he thought he was better, he was still running. Even the Cranberry Sauce knew it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He heard voices in the other room. Oh yes, the ventilation. Dad (oh how he missed his dad) had installed the HVAC system in the house, and it wasn't to code. Mark had been able to hear everything in the living room which was separated by the hallway, because the ventilation split both ways. The morning conversations always woke him up. The evening conversations always kept him informed. He once interrupted his brother's make-out session after prom by yelling "Don't do it James, she's NOT THE ONE!" James never forgave him for that one. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN3qJC_fGRO9DhR2EFLYi9nSX1suMsHx0phaRttekTdiV0obV4SQrbUH3T4pBYjyX15k_l7NJW2RfXHNcVY9oA9k-156SzOMnBf28meih2gNCoRr6QsWvh1kUfq5NgWC9FtfwBarOgrlg/s1600/After-oak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN3qJC_fGRO9DhR2EFLYi9nSX1suMsHx0phaRttekTdiV0obV4SQrbUH3T4pBYjyX15k_l7NJW2RfXHNcVY9oA9k-156SzOMnBf28meih2gNCoRr6QsWvh1kUfq5NgWC9FtfwBarOgrlg/s1600/After-oak.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They call it a living room. I want to do my living there. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
He also heard his father's last year through coughs and wheezes and hacking up of lungs. Dad moved into the living room when his cancer progressed during Mark's senior year. A hospice nurse and mom carefully monitored him day and night...and while Mark seemed distant that year, he really had heard enough suffering for a lifetime. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When his dad went, he was almost happy. No more coughing, no more noises. No more suffering. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But he also felt guilty. James, two years into college, had returned all the time to help out. James eventually quit college (to both his parent's chagrin), and got a full time job to help the family with bills and medical costs not covered by medicare. James researched alternative medicines, and consoled mom after bad days. Most of the last few months were bad days. Mark knew the end was near, but didn't know what to do. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So he invested everything into Melissa. At first it was wonderful. The love was mutual. Everyone thought they were the cutest couple. He wanted to marry her. She wasn't sure. She wanted to travel, and explore, and go off to college. He wanted to stay near home for his father. His father could go at anytime. As his father declined, he became even more clingy to her. On some days it could be called needy. His codependency scared her. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She wanted space. They broke it off. They got back together. They fought. It was a tumultuous year of break ups and make ups. <br />
<br />
She had kissed other guys during their breaks, which always made Mark angry, but it was when she supposedly hooked up with the star point guard from the rival high school, that Mark lost it. <br />
<br />
He was a blubbering mess. He spied on her. Called her on the phone incessantly. She refused to answer. She threatened to have a restraining order put on him. Then Dad died. <br />
<br />
She showed up to the funeral. She treated him okay, but not like old times. It was pity. She pitied him. He didn't know how to mourn for his father, or his ex's patronizing behavior, so he acted out. Got suspended for fighting (a guy he thought Melissa had kissed once), and got an MIP at a crazy college party because he thought she'd be there. She wasn't. <br />
<br />
As June neared. She had drifted away for real. She smiled now, and her apparent happiness without him made him angry and depressed. <br />
<br />
He wasn't serious when he tried it. He wanted to make a statement. It was a cry for help. He just wanted her to feel like crap. He used an Exacto blade. The cuts were clean. He his mother would be home soon. It would be a night in the hospital and he would be visited by everyone. It would be a party, or so he thought. <br />
<br />
He hadn't planned on passing out from blood loss and falling on the blade. It pierced his intestines and he developed a sepsis infection. The hospital stay was long. The psychiatric stay was longer. <br />
<br />
Mom used all of dad's life insurance money to get him treated longer. She wasn't ready to nurse another human back to life. It was tough on everyone. <br />
<br />
He was an embarrassment to the family, he thought. Instead of dealing with the ramifications and the pain, he ran. It took him South. Trouble with the law forced him even further South, and then the story gets blurry. <br />
<br />
He spent half a decade on a bad trip in South America. No cell phones, no social media, off the radar, even from his family. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTf-uUV0yG7klc4EK9ZdWV4S6UB_udTgXvfG92xotgTbbfCuI3PPvxuQmMkTMmgEAtWN1Ix_PZ1as0MLHso4oslqrgjBiUfiDuDd4mb4cNtutYXHa7bJcr2CqQxgCs6Lr0QLad2boNqwo/s1600/GEDC0682.THM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTf-uUV0yG7klc4EK9ZdWV4S6UB_udTgXvfG92xotgTbbfCuI3PPvxuQmMkTMmgEAtWN1Ix_PZ1as0MLHso4oslqrgjBiUfiDuDd4mb4cNtutYXHa7bJcr2CqQxgCs6Lr0QLad2boNqwo/s1600/GEDC0682.THM.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a>Sobriety hit him in a old Catholic Church in Cabanaconde, in Southern Peru. He wasn't Catholic, still isn't, but the spirit of God hit him so hard in the midst of a service he barely understood, that he knew it was authentic. He cried like a baby. For his father, for his mother, for his brother, for his life gone astray. He felt like the prodigal son, and God had not said a word about his past indiscretions, he merely felt, love. Real love like he hadn't felt since before dad got sick. <br />
<br />
He broke off his engagement and tried to start over in Canada. But vices and old demons kept haunting him. He knew he had to go home and confront his past, yet embracing pain is easier said than done. <br />
<br />
He listened through the vent and heard the majority of the "family meeting." He was tired of feeling sorry for himself now. He needed "out." The meeting was put on hold as mom answered a phone call. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
-------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I'm sure there have been too many of these type meetings held in my honor. I'm sorry for that. I can't change the past. But please, while I'm here, however long that will be, let's not have any more interventions on my behalf. I'm 28 years old. I've taken care of myself in the past, and I'm only here because I'm tired of being alone in this world...I believe we have a Christmas tree to go get, am I right?" </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"YEAH, lets go get the tree!" yelled the kids almost in unison, who quickly abandoned their make-believe world of toys and exchanged them for gloves, jackets and beanies. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Are you sure, I mean, we can do it another time?" replied Amy (James' wife). </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Yeah honey, we don't need to do anything rash. Why don't I just make dinner and we can talk about it." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Please, stop treating me like a burn victim. I ran into an old friend, and was confronted with my stupid choices...I wasn't ready for it. Yet, in a weird kind of way, I wanted <i>that</i> too. I'm sorry when I got home I acted like a teenage girl. I'm fine now. -----Hey, we need a tree, let's go get a tree!"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I wanna go with Uncle Mark," yelled James' daughter. The other girls started a similar chant, "Uncle Mark!" </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
James looked down at Drew's girls, "technically, girls, Mark is your big brother...well big <i>step</i>-brother." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"It's fine, James, they can call me Uncle Mark. It's weird enough that mom's married again. Toddler sisters are just too..."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"We aren't toddlers. I'm 9 and Gracie is 6 and a half!" The older one said, who Mark thought was named Ashlyn. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Oh, is that so...Pardon me, young ladies." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Haha...they're going to torture us just like real sisters," James said. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
-------------------------------------------</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Does anyone in this town give you crap for owning a Toyota Tundra?" Mark asked his brother in the cramped confines of the extended cab truck. The girls giggled about nothing in particular in the back seat. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMaTc5jhZs2N1KH6grFBzklQdLhZ5Ci7bZJMkzAsNGjTr7czOjk5nOKyiImOaMMZ6n6ZdXEZor_pPZ_AAoC5qjY_KgBXVpoWgMPF2f2blyeVJerD-bOBVvMyLKLND3kTSouAhg8WRXp0o/s1600/20479746.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMaTc5jhZs2N1KH6grFBzklQdLhZ5Ci7bZJMkzAsNGjTr7czOjk5nOKyiImOaMMZ6n6ZdXEZor_pPZ_AAoC5qjY_KgBXVpoWgMPF2f2blyeVJerD-bOBVvMyLKLND3kTSouAhg8WRXp0o/s1600/20479746.jpg" height="298" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And after age 30, nobody cares. Well, mostly nobody. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"It's a truck, Mark, and a damned good truck too. This Christmas tree will fit in the payload, that's enough. I'm not towing a 30" travel trailer with it. Besides we aren't in high school...nobody cares about what brand shirt or truck or if your shoes match your socks. In the adult world..." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I live in the adult world, James. I'm sorry. I've just been out of the states so long. I mean, Obama?" </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Well, black or white, our government is still pretty much stupid." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"What we need is a woman, like Hillary, to shake things up," Amy said half-joking. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Sarah Palin would've shaken things up..." James joked back. He noticed Mark wasn't laughing. "Oh, uh Sarah Palin was the vice-presidential nominee for the Republican..." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I know who she is, James. They have the internet in all parts of the world now." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
James turned the truck down a side street and then down a long driveway filled with trees of every stage of development. It was the same tree farm they had visited from when they were kids. Although the price of the U-cut had risen from $10 to $25 since the last time Mark had visited. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Kinda expensive for twenty minutes of annoying labor." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Yeah, well, try and find a decent burger for under 10 bucks...things change." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
They exited the vehicle with Mom and Drew parking right next to them. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Gracie ran to her dad and yelled, "That was fun, but James said the D-word, dad." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Drew and Mary looked at James and faked an "unacceptable" face. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Sorry Mom. Sorry Drew," James said. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The kids then ran off looking for the perfect tree or squirrels. James and his wife were already looking a 8-footer that Mom would no doubt disqualify for limb disfigurement. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Mary creeped close to Mark and grabbed his arm with her mittened hands. "I'm so happy you're here with us, Marky. You don't know how many years I've wanted this..." before her motherly instincts gave way, and tears glistened down her cheeks. "So many years we've lost, Mark..." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I'm sorry Mom. I was broken and embarrassed. I thought I needed time. I didn't want to burden you guys with my problems." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Let's not talk about the past. You're here, now. Remember this place? We used to come here with Dad and you boys would always try and convince us to take home the ugliest tree." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Haha. Yeah. We always tried to get your perfectionist eye all frustrated." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Perfectionist? I don't..."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Oh come on Mom...it'll take you looking at 100 different trees to pick one you like. Haha. It's cool." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Well, when you're paying $25 dollars..." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Drew and the rest of the family waved them over to look at a filled-out blue spruce. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"You go ahead, Mom. I just need a few minutes to myself." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Okay, honey." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
When the arguing about the tree's merits started, Mark walked the opposite direction. Again, that weird sensation of knowing a place, but having everything in the wrong place, overwhelm him. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZNAhyiUGuknqmFFL7OxjYHLcMg7eaVrMQrjZb9TqNfPcKr6NJPzV1tOxwhaKGly-MpKuaLujKm20fZpcwZZLjEvj3AXfRxfDyVreZGTkcrhXQW03NXeSWn8jH8POYOta97YVz7pzkyUA/s1600/ugly-xmas-tree-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZNAhyiUGuknqmFFL7OxjYHLcMg7eaVrMQrjZb9TqNfPcKr6NJPzV1tOxwhaKGly-MpKuaLujKm20fZpcwZZLjEvj3AXfRxfDyVreZGTkcrhXQW03NXeSWn8jH8POYOta97YVz7pzkyUA/s1600/ugly-xmas-tree-11.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Put that in a fancy pot, and it's worth like $600.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
He saw an especially ugly tree, sparsely branched and looking like it would fall over if not rooted into the soil. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Oh, poor Charlie Brown tree, will anybody ever pick you?" </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Charlie Brown? I'm no midget tree! I'm just a full grown bonsai." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Oh...sorry Mr. Tree." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Call me Miyagi." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Haha...okay." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"If it was up to you, you'd pick me, right Mark?" </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Yeah, I probably would, Mr. Miyagi. As a joke." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"It wouldn't be a joke to you. You always show empathy to creatures that nobody else would dare like or love. It's part of who you are. It's why you are so sensitive. Because if the world was nicer to the obviously hurting people of the world, maybe we would be more conscientious of the people who aren't as obvious in their pain." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"God damn, if everything aint a guru. Haha." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"HEY! No reason to take the Lord's name in vain. And we aren't all gurus or philosophers, some of us are merely sherpas, helping people find their way." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Sorry Mr. Miyagi...I'm guessing you are the sherpa-type then..." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Uncle Mark? Why are you talking to that odd-looking tree?" said Ashlyn out of the blue. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Wha...oh, uh...well, I was just thinking how many people probably think it's ugly. I was just, uh, complementing it on its nonconformity." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Well, I think it's beautiful if you do." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I do, Ashlyn, I do." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"My <i>name</i> is Ashley. My middle name is Lynn. That's why my Daddy calls me Ashlynn. But you can call me that too." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Oh. I didn't know. Thank you. I'm having to learn a lot quickly. I've been away for a long time." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I know. I only ever saw a picture of you before this week. And Mary cries a lot while looking at your pictures in the photo album." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"She does, huh. Well, I am kinda like a unicorn." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"No you're not. But why didn't you come to my Daddy's and your mommy's wedding? We're you mad at them? I'm not. Not anymore. My real mom doesn't hardly want to see us. She got remarried too...I don't like him...not like I like Mary. Mary's like my mom used to be." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Wow Ashley...Ashlyn that's really deep. I'm sorry. I guess I'm like your mom a little. Sometimes things happen that make us hurt really bad. They kind of break us for a little while. I guess I liked being broken. I liked being a victim. It allowed me to hurt others and not feel guilty about it. Sometimes we don't even realize we are hurting others. I thought I was helping my mom by not being a burden to her...I didn't realize that I was hurting her by being...away.....I bet your mommy doesn't realize she's hurting you...she's just doing her thing...she'll figure it out (<i>hopefully</i>)." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Well, at least I have this family now." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Yeah...me too. Me too, Ashlyn." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I'm going to go see what Gracie and Jenny are up to. Bye Uncle Mark...bye Mr. Miyagi." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"You heard me say that?" Mark chuckled to himself. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJst10kR8NmHpIY5FTuA8lC7mjoREVPlysXq-jAhApiP6utsPx7B60hEDL4VEgENLj7fT39JSJGW7WVuubSVusvYyfpA3UA86V_kPwaW0pkkEYwSY9EC1dX7atdr6hxzhepWq6ev66SOo/s1600/sr-miyagi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJst10kR8NmHpIY5FTuA8lC7mjoREVPlysXq-jAhApiP6utsPx7B60hEDL4VEgENLj7fT39JSJGW7WVuubSVusvYyfpA3UA86V_kPwaW0pkkEYwSY9EC1dX7atdr6hxzhepWq6ev66SOo/s1600/sr-miyagi.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Yeah. Wax on; Wax off. I know the Karate Kid. I've seen it like four times on Netflix on my iPad. It is kinda weird that you called that tree Mr. Miyagi though." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"It because it's like a bonsai tree...nevermind. Go find your sister and cousin." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Niece. Jenny is my niece." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Oh yeah." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Mark felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He was surprised to get service this far out in the country. </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Pt. 1: Hey man, this is Jake. I got your number from your mom. Hope you don't mind. I felt like crap after that situation in the grocery store. I'm not really good at communicating, and I was so caught off guard running into you there. I have so much I want to talk to you about. And a lot of apologies. </span><span style="text-align: center;"> </span></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Pt. 2: We aren't 18 anymore, and I think we could at least try that conversation over again. I can do better, haha. Anyway, the offer still stands for tomorrow. Would love to see you. So would everyone else. Text me back if you want directions or whatever. </span></blockquote>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i> Are you kidding me?</i> "Mom, did you give my number to Jake Callow?" Mark yelled across the farm. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
{END OF PART II}<br />
{<a href="http://www.plumbeddown.com/2014/12/suicidal-christmas-sweater-short-story_17.html#.VJJYqL6Jm-T">CONTINUE TO CONCLUSION</a>}</div>
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Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-1370927165164717692014-12-09T15:19:00.000-08:002014-12-11T13:26:30.727-08:00Suicidal Christmas Sweaters: A Short Story <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbTGNncBTaFdl2-IhYyQimFYauQeVdeg9-0l9Dj0mjXuQ3CyWo6HWd2YrODzEQaNdQyR3pbDPG1VPx93yBCL6XlIMvJK2imQ6UfLqGT9XgK_dm7CVidNr7700RXOtYJNljBHmxqrvR2fA/s1600/canned-foods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbTGNncBTaFdl2-IhYyQimFYauQeVdeg9-0l9Dj0mjXuQ3CyWo6HWd2YrODzEQaNdQyR3pbDPG1VPx93yBCL6XlIMvJK2imQ6UfLqGT9XgK_dm7CVidNr7700RXOtYJNljBHmxqrvR2fA/s1600/canned-foods.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"We need a clean up of a man's soul on aisle 6, please." </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mark stood now, in the middle of the canned fruit aisle, attempting to find something he had never searched for before. Thankfully, the stocker girl who pointed him to this aisle was younger; there was a time when this store was filled with his own classmates.<br />
<br />
That was a decade ago, in a time and place he would rather not remember. This was only his second time back in his "hometown," and the first time he had made a public appearance. Why he had volunteered to get the cranberry sauce for his mother for the upcoming Christmas dinner, he wasn't quite sure. Perhaps he was testing fate. Maybe he wanted to see if his wounds had healed. <br />
<br />
He had to leave the town. 20,000 people is too small to not run into old acquaintances, old memories, old nightmares. He rubbed the raised ripple on his forearm. <br />
<br />
"Mark? Mark...<i>F-in</i>...Black? It is you. How the hell are you dude?" <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_Lb-urHvh484YHSmVIiCOMIcyEV0IvhqluFuvV6wanulW_VKWM4479h1CRApOiphGhUKU2BliwRcaoBCMF5Ez1RwpVCtVj92DTxA14aSVYpClzCPV_fc7dvH-oWgaUtQ_FEXTnz-GTA/s1600/ocean_spray_cranberry_sauce_copy.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_Lb-urHvh484YHSmVIiCOMIcyEV0IvhqluFuvV6wanulW_VKWM4479h1CRApOiphGhUKU2BliwRcaoBCMF5Ez1RwpVCtVj92DTxA14aSVYpClzCPV_fc7dvH-oWgaUtQ_FEXTnz-GTA/s1600/ocean_spray_cranberry_sauce_copy.png" height="320" width="193" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Does anyone actually want this<br />
during the holidays? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"I'm...I'm good. I'm just picking up some Cranberry Sauce..." Mark slowly replied as if caught doing something illegal.<br />
<br />
"It's Jake; Jake..."<br />
<br />
"Jake Callow, I remember. You look exactly the same except your beard is respectable now." Mark replied, hoping a joke would counter his anxiety. <br />
<br />
"Ha ha...yeah. I did the No-Shave-November and my wife liked it, so I haven't done much other than trimming it up..." "What the hell, dude. It's been so long. You're like a unicorn in these parts. There's legends of every kind about your disappearance. I haven't seen you since the acc..."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, I'm sure. Maybe we can catch up sometime and I'll fill you in. Not really a supermarket conversation, if you know what I mean." Mark said quietly, trying to bring Jake's boisterous volume down. <br />
<br />
"Oh, sure. You know, man, I'm sorry. I mean sorry about everything," Jake said a little quieter (perhaps only audible to the people on the cereal aisle next over). "I meant to call or visit or write or something, it was just June, and we were graduating, and it was crazy, and I..." <br />
<br />
"Don't worry about it. It was a decade ago. Nobody, especially teenagers, know what to do when a friend tries to commit suicide." Mark couldn't believe he just used those words out loud, now not caring if the cereal aisle heard or not. "Besides we weren't really <i>that</i> close, and it had nothing to do with you," Mark said as he pulled his sweatshirt sleeves even further down his arm. He saw that his phone was glowing, and ignored the text from his mother. <br />
<br />
Jake saw the nonverbal cue to shut up and nervously blurted, "God...I'm sorry for bringing it up...here it's been a decade and I'm opening up a can of worms...look, forget I said anything. It's just cool to see you, and I didn't mean anythi.."<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTTwtnuFUeQyHtwhxNZpMBBjFWvrbYtMwiMidQUe0l7nozmihgzefEmVECAx6JKGI4lFQ2Rm8pfyrbY0cPtdW6d4u-ISeAk63XXXL2xH6LWlYI52j6xPz7ZhBJBxziGaygVY_PmfKe8tY/s1600/PCU6177.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTTwtnuFUeQyHtwhxNZpMBBjFWvrbYtMwiMidQUe0l7nozmihgzefEmVECAx6JKGI4lFQ2Rm8pfyrbY0cPtdW6d4u-ISeAk63XXXL2xH6LWlYI52j6xPz7ZhBJBxziGaygVY_PmfKe8tY/s1600/PCU6177.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stock photos are so much happier than real life. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"We're good Jake. But look, I gotta get this cranberry sauce home. My mother wants us to go pick out the tree tonight."<br />
<br />
"On the 23rd? Wow. We've had our tree up for almost a month. Of course my wife is kinda crazy about the Holidays."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, it used to be a tradition on the first night of Winter. I guess they got a late jump this year with me taking the trip out here." <br />
<br />
"Hey speaking of traditions...we throw a fugly Christmas sweater party every year on Christmas Eve. I'd love it if you came over tomorrow. Everyone would love it. You know I married Amber, right? Well, there'll be some people there you wouldn't know, but Matt, Brandon, Kyle, Ashley, Melissa and a few others..."<br />
<br />
Mark's head jerked up when he heard Melissa's name. <br />
<br />
"I mean, Melissa Miller...uh, she was Melissa Braxton in high school...not the Melissa..."<br />
<br />
"It's cool dude, I wouldn't care either way," Mark lied, obviously. He hadn't heard anything about Melissa, <i>his</i> Melissa, or <i>his old</i> Melissa, and preferred not to...or thought he didn't want to...or wasn't quite sure what he wanted. <br />
<br />
"She's back in town now. She had to get out for awhile." <br />
<br />
"Who?" Mark knowingly asked. <br />
<br />
"Melissa Martinez...she might've gotten the worse end of the deal...I mean, she lost it."<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm8Uge22uncojk2llPoPrzhHCHcHcl4CF5j4yRIqzB6FCQTHjQh5ReZ7ukXH-stnuMLBvcgUZP8z-zFwnUA8dYeHrdkKWAewxO4pjBxtJ5IcfILLIo8XO2VyTOCzize8MwInyPO8eOzJQ/s1600/48da5_ORIG-5df78_ORIG_cringe.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm8Uge22uncojk2llPoPrzhHCHcHcl4CF5j4yRIqzB6FCQTHjQh5ReZ7ukXH-stnuMLBvcgUZP8z-zFwnUA8dYeHrdkKWAewxO4pjBxtJ5IcfILLIo8XO2VyTOCzize8MwInyPO8eOzJQ/s1600/48da5_ORIG-5df78_ORIG_cringe.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't work on your nonverbal skills Clint,<br />
you just keep on with your ripe self. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mark cringed. <i>THE WORSE END! I TRIED TO KILL MYSELF BECAUSE OF HER, YOU DAFT IDIOT! </i>Jake noticed Mark's agitation.<i> Note to self: work on nonverbal skills. </i><br />
<br />
<i>"</i>You know, actually I don't really know much about anything. You guys were both my friends. I know she pulled some idiotic stuff that pushed you over the edge. But when you wouldn't her see you, uh, <i>afterwards</i>, she she just kinda went AWOL. She was drunk all the time, and sleeping with everyone...it was terrible. I pulled her aside once and told her she was too good to be..." <br />
<br />
"Look, Jake, thanks for the walk down memory lane. It really puts me in the mood for some eggnog..." and with that, Mark stormed past him, and through an abandoned register lane, and exited the market out through the in door. The unprepared automatic sliding door barely avoided a collision. <br />
<br />
Mark started the car and slammed it into drive before it had even breathed one drop of fuel. He sped out of the driveway and onto the main street, slamming his fists on the steering wheel. <br />
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<br />
"I HATE THIS TOWN! WHY DID I COME BACK!" He looked down at the passenger seat and realized he had stolen the can of cranberry sauce. <br />
<br />
"Look what you made me do, Jake! Now I'm a suicidal thief!" He said, and then laughed. This whole thing was a farce or a dark comedy, and he just wanted it to end. He wanted to leave again. <br />
<br />
"What do you think, Cranberry Sauce?"<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEaaEGSKGevEM8KZfvnYGkQQJG8bXx0YR6ZDGi7O9OYxnGy9qyeRA_AJf6pLMz9lXRTLtudBk9pnskdIH15TbOHLF76HUbkywpg2DFgXF0df-t2rrdsM2KYFUV4u57-nOMF5WiqqJpsHs/s1600/guy-is-turned-up-in-his-car-sing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEaaEGSKGevEM8KZfvnYGkQQJG8bXx0YR6ZDGi7O9OYxnGy9qyeRA_AJf6pLMz9lXRTLtudBk9pnskdIH15TbOHLF76HUbkywpg2DFgXF0df-t2rrdsM2KYFUV4u57-nOMF5WiqqJpsHs/s1600/guy-is-turned-up-in-his-car-sing.jpg" height="221" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do you know how hard it is to find an image of a guy driving his car and<br />
talking to a can of cranberry sauce? I mean, it's fairly common, right?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
"I think you need to man up and live a little. Jake was trying to be friendly. He <i>was</i> once your friend. And he was just telling you rumors he thought you wanted to know," the cranberry sauce said (but didn't say).<br />
<br />
"Well...aren't you an introspective can of jelly." Mark was able to replicate the tone of his many therapists and well-wishers onto inanimate objects.<br />
<br />
"Introspective, motivational, and full of antioxidants. I'm good for the kidneys too. If you ate me more often, you wouldn't be such a narrow urethra." <br />
<br />
"What's that supposed to mean?"<br />
<br />
"It means you're backed up. Only 50% is getting through. It doesn't matter what I say, or what Jake says, or what your mother says...you're only going to hear or do what you want." <br />
<br />
"In fairness, you are a can of Christmas sauce."<br />
<br />
"Touché." <br />
<br />
"Besides, I think it's more like 80%. I'm working on it. I've been working on it. I know I'm stubborn. Anyway, we're home now, so I think you better shut up." <br />
<br />
"Enjoy me. Food tastes so much better when you're willing to steal for it." <br />
<br />
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End of Part I<br />
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<a href="http://www.plumbeddown.com/2014/12/suicidal-christmas-sweater-short-story.html#.VIkbmr6Jm-Q">{Continue to Part II} </a></div>
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<br />Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-56029252695822828572014-12-02T16:00:00.002-08:002014-12-11T13:24:25.923-08:00Let's Not Talk About Sex: Having "The Talk" We walked past the back wall of board games, looking for that unique gift idea that never seem to present itself in retail stores; no, Uno would not do. <br />
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"Wha! That is so inappropriate," my daughter Lily shrieked. </div>
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<i>Oh goodness, what could it be this time?</i> A Bratz doll with a heart tattoo on her cleavage? </div>
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No...I laughed to myself, as Lily pointed out the culprit. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibhVm1sRaJQMtFmGgiUJVS5DANglv-BJEmDV7gIPNx2T1cnoDvbmsOgZSrsJ1I8vfCjN9CJRFuwZgDKhkN3cFComJ3rZZNtiQO-KIwrAWwEatshsEdAV_M2NkGt0qbaLaKLijVTG7rW2A/s1600/battleofthesexes-1312862258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibhVm1sRaJQMtFmGgiUJVS5DANglv-BJEmDV7gIPNx2T1cnoDvbmsOgZSrsJ1I8vfCjN9CJRFuwZgDKhkN3cFComJ3rZZNtiQO-KIwrAWwEatshsEdAV_M2NkGt0qbaLaKLijVTG7rW2A/s1600/battleofthesexes-1312862258.jpg" height="216" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There is nothing sexy about this board game. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
It was a board game called: Battle of the Sexes. </div>
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"It says Sexes!" she half yelled to me in her whisper tone. </div>
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So, there, in the middle of the toy section, on an isle painted in every color of not-gender-nuetral pink, I had to explain the dictionary (1a) definition of sex. The two definitive categories of gender based on reproductive organs. I did not include transgender or omnisexuals or androgynes, as the world is confusing enough to a nine-year, that referencing these "others" was...well, I don't know what the hell I'm talking about anymore. I just know that the board game Battle of the Sexes does not have a game piece for gender neutral individuals. I know, right; discrimination. </div>
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Anyway, I know what <i>SEX </i>she was referring to, even though she doesn't know what that <i>SEX</i> really consists of. </div>
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Which means, sometime soon, I or her mother, will have to give her the talk (please, God, let it be her mother). </div>
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<br /></div>
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And she still believes in Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and that I'm the strongest man in the world. </div>
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It's not fair, because quite frankly, she isn't ready. She attends a little private school (that we parents can barely afford) and her friends are still heavily interested in dolls and singing Frozen songs. She only has a few years of carefree living before the fission of hormonal lunacy and emotional drama turn her into a temporal irrational Medusa. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGWvLNsPl7y49dkpi0kEYp4PGg2xg8VFSw4eNSK16kjVTTj0feZTtziOKTqAA1uH_yisM6DKXCNyl95DMn_5MKXiau483OBSbqxhAigMIaoiSLQcJ5zHncOk29U0C9o-WAYD656iFHTfY/s1600/Man-Sharpening-Axe-Grinding-Stone-1665625.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGWvLNsPl7y49dkpi0kEYp4PGg2xg8VFSw4eNSK16kjVTTj0feZTtziOKTqAA1uH_yisM6DKXCNyl95DMn_5MKXiau483OBSbqxhAigMIaoiSLQcJ5zHncOk29U0C9o-WAYD656iFHTfY/s1600/Man-Sharpening-Axe-Grinding-Stone-1665625.jpg" height="320" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm not making it sharper. I'm dulling it,<br />
so it will cut through flesh slower...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And I'm not ready to be turned to stone (or permanently stoned, now that Oregon legalized weed), although I somewhat understand why many parents want to "check-out" during the middle years of their children's existence. </div>
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I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm not ready for my little girl to grow up. I don't want her to be a woman. I'm not ready to deal with boys or men. I haven't even built my axe grinding stone near my front entrance to deal with potential suitors, yet. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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But she has so many questions, mostly because of the crap that gets plastered all over media. The other day she was singing Salt 'N Pepa's "Push It" song because somebody in the GIECO advertising department has no lyrical analysis skills, and used a song about SEX to sell insurance. (Well, sex does sell). </div>
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And then she's discovered music. We couldn't stop it. She hears songs. She thinks she likes Katy Perry (even though she "dresses gross"). And she and her sister (Nadia age seven) love Christina Perri. And because we (her parents) are too cheap to buy these CDs, they access them through the Pandora app, or worse, through YouTube on our computer. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqad_vjCZ9tq1DF8IM4bmvENXCbEjXgmHzC-i5UQd9BB6irUqUk0Ev443LOPasPcg2I0w1FfWptYCmIXVXcykruO_mYLY6aqnu6-yXjFbxMcPrpcDh8OpCrF_Fmp1NY12STFJlqM3Smls/s1600/geico-push-it-600-56622.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqad_vjCZ9tq1DF8IM4bmvENXCbEjXgmHzC-i5UQd9BB6irUqUk0Ev443LOPasPcg2I0w1FfWptYCmIXVXcykruO_mYLY6aqnu6-yXjFbxMcPrpcDh8OpCrF_Fmp1NY12STFJlqM3Smls/s1600/geico-push-it-600-56622.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't think Salt 'N Pepa were talking about "Pushing it"<br />
in regards to childbirth, either. But nice try GIECO. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
For a while, I was adamant about not watching the videos, just like my mother was about MTV. Most of the messages that popular music portrayed went way over my head in the 1990s (like Naughty By Nature's OPP)...although others, like Baby Got Back didn't need Sir Mix-A-Lot's risqué video to convey the theme (although now I understand the "anaconda" reference). </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Many of the songs, though, have neat little messages to go along with the video. My girls fell in love with Taylor Swift. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nfWlot6h_JM">Love Story</a> was a sweet little song, and a harmless little corresponding video. Swift is a smart girl. I like how she challenges the music industry, and her songs are often ironically criticizing her critics. She isn't trying to do the challenge the morales of the times, Madonna-thing, either. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But YouTube doesn't let you just listen to one song. It entices you with "other related" videos. Each video is a doorway drug that leads you to something a little harder, a little edgier, a little more sinful. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ME-2J4cAH4mEwB-4Us8J56EBjNBbEKNs9YFadq1-D1qpUU7rF-3D2dsYsj7zpiD_Sp-CtT29a8NdeasraENX5daGgoGAn_qniFeVupf8Th2FGaLofBRiBdL5S14jhkOW74JLyVhVWx8/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ME-2J4cAH4mEwB-4Us8J56EBjNBbEKNs9YFadq1-D1qpUU7rF-3D2dsYsj7zpiD_Sp-CtT29a8NdeasraENX5daGgoGAn_qniFeVupf8Th2FGaLofBRiBdL5S14jhkOW74JLyVhVWx8/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maybe the song is about "shaking off" the pounds?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
My girls traveled down this looking glass, and wound up listening to Swift's Shake It Off. Sadly, I like this song (and again, it's message of ignoring critics). But halfway through the video, a strange twerking montage ensues as Swift snakes under the legs of some bustier butted women nearly bouncing their backsides on her head. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now, I think this is Swift maybe showing solidarity to Miley Cyrus, and the whole twerking VMA fiasco of last year. Or Swift is owning the fact that she herself has very little backside (as she attempts to twerk and laughs it off). Again, I like her as an artist for this.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But my daughter watching said, "why do girls do that with their butts? Isn't it gross?" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She asked me, and not her mother. I'm not sure how I feel about twerking. I like the female body, of course. I like backsides. I think there are about a billion sexier or more erotic things a woman can do than shaking her rump like arm flab...but...on some basic chromosomal level, the dance is appealing (even as I don't want it to be). </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfbkVlw8EWMMu58kdhTAKm3iPRVdFuXXxDIjaXhQdLHm1FxCHEBMGtAFFcMRrv2nyK4Ll3wnt05IztrDvKB2xUu6p3lJMtBOxKYAuk7-xHKUfXg-1jIcKLbHzBYj4AKXOJOaRnxYZWNoA/s1600/marilyn-monroe-dress-upskirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfbkVlw8EWMMu58kdhTAKm3iPRVdFuXXxDIjaXhQdLHm1FxCHEBMGtAFFcMRrv2nyK4Ll3wnt05IztrDvKB2xUu6p3lJMtBOxKYAuk7-xHKUfXg-1jIcKLbHzBYj4AKXOJOaRnxYZWNoA/s1600/marilyn-monroe-dress-upskirt.jpg" height="211" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was once risqué. Now it's a huge statue. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
I wanted to say, "Well, you see, for the last forty years, sexuality, and more correctly, pornography, has devolved from exposure, to debasement. Playboy, a magazine that many men grew up salivating over even though it had a stigma of "sin" attached, has become almost mainstream. Even Playboy set up many men for disappointment, even though it <i>only</i> showcased nude women. Then the internet came along and said, "Playboy is for sissies, check out what we got some women to agree to______." Most men initially looked at some of these fetish-like images with disgust...but then this became the new normal "porno." And if no woman looks like the images in Playboy, no woman can (or will) do the stuff in most of these internet sites and porno movies. Yet some men still expect this kind of debasement to get turned on. When women twerk in videos, it is really some music executive saying, "We need more sex in this video, because we need more guys watching it." Sadly, the secondary message is "Girls, this is how you attract guys...just like how hookers attract Johns by shaking their ta-tas on the street corner." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Of course, I didn't say this. Because my daughter is 9. Instead I said, "Umm...it is gross. Music producers like gross, and encourage their female artists to show off more and more of their flesh, because people are unnaturally curious if famous people's bodies look better than their own. Unfortunately, having a great voice and catchy songs is not enough to sell CDs. A singer also has to sell the idea that she (or he) is physically superior to the average person as well. Swift isn't necessarily exposing herself in this video, instead she is having dancers do it for her...all in an attempt to sell her music." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thankfully, Lily accepted this answer and said, "That's dumb." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yes it is, Lily. But most of our over-sexualized society is dumb. The world is going to keep "pushing it, real good" when it comes to glamorizing sex. And as your parent, I'm going to eventually explain the deep connotations of sexuality, and I'm going to say that innocence <i>is</i> blissful, that purity <i>is</i> a virtue, and that someday, when you bring a boy over, I may or may not club him with an axe. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-782035580299619452014-11-26T17:14:00.000-08:002014-12-11T13:19:27.458-08:00Thanksgiving Happiness Flow ChartThanksgiving is stressful and difficult for many. I made a simple flow chart to determine if you should be thankful this year or not.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2yQzKNqGm-1dSOD3CrkXLb09_esqVXW_TmrLTxjLaZdUtgProqvPqqpYt3g1gsM4uPrfEkgSaptMBc_YZuw40Qh-OielTT6U2RocX5mDUv1zKyeTe8fgFw_lJohPrP4ckVKD_zgfhdYY/s1600/Thankgiving+thankfulness+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2yQzKNqGm-1dSOD3CrkXLb09_esqVXW_TmrLTxjLaZdUtgProqvPqqpYt3g1gsM4uPrfEkgSaptMBc_YZuw40Qh-OielTT6U2RocX5mDUv1zKyeTe8fgFw_lJohPrP4ckVKD_zgfhdYY/s1600/Thankgiving+thankfulness+.png" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-26636556688403735302014-11-11T15:18:00.000-08:002014-11-11T15:32:44.274-08:00Making Up History Is Fun: The Truth Behind the Egyptian PyramidsOnce every decade or so, there is an archaeological discovery so profound, that it rocks the foundations of what we know as history. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO_epZoTe0I-6XJF6nukM6GP5ip5qe0q2DBvFPU_HDkDSovjyGT4PEOY-A6bXUm4E8IrEo7UH4eW81vfMghIXeojyuwDVq8Q9PkBmevIxG06zI7bd4rAupJLUj5BM1VJ2uvHADbLYE8pY/s1600/IMG_1490.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO_epZoTe0I-6XJF6nukM6GP5ip5qe0q2DBvFPU_HDkDSovjyGT4PEOY-A6bXUm4E8IrEo7UH4eW81vfMghIXeojyuwDVq8Q9PkBmevIxG06zI7bd4rAupJLUj5BM1VJ2uvHADbLYE8pY/s640/IMG_1490.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unknown ancient book with odd illustrations and unknown historical references. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Yesterday, while clearing out some old paperbacks, I stumbled upon a book that didn't fit in with the others. No, it didn't have a rotting leather cover, or latin inscription; instead it had a pulp magazine-like cover, and a subscript that said "Choose your own adventure." <br />
<br />
The cover was torn, and some misguided soul in the 1980s had put adhesive tape to keep it together...but the yellowing, terrible illustrations, and odd, non-linear pagination system proved the book to be from an either other-worldy, or undiscovered culture! Neither I, nor my wife, knew where this book had originated from, but it was most likely from an estate sale purchase a few years earlier. How it escaped detection then, I don't know, but eureka, what an Indiana Jones-like find!<br />
<br />
Specifically, the finding of a book with an extra-terrestial UFO flying above the Great Pyramids of Egypt on the cover which exposes long hidden historical truths!<br />
<br />
After the initial excitement and vomiting subsided, I carefully flipped through the pages, hoping to find some kind of evidence of when or where this manuscript could've been published. Unfortunately, the first few pages did not survive the book's long journey through time. Regardless, had there been some Roman numeral or other ancient numbering system, it probably would not be decipherable even by today's best archeologists. <br />
<br />
"Most of the images, or glyphs we see in ancient times are simply ancient graffiti or nonsense. Ancient peoples were basically illiterate. They scribbled on rock walls and caves, like a two-year-old does on bedroom walls today. We, as historians, basically try and analyze the babblings of ancient morons with coloring crayons," said Chris Plumb, B.S. History (UO). <br />
<br />
As Plumb quoted, any numbering system would most likely be as silly as the Easter-Island faces. <br />
<br />
So we would have to rely on other contextual clues to date this book.<br />
<br />
Attempts at reading the book were futile. The lettering looked like a form of ancient English, but the grammar and pagination were all over the place. The story didn't make sense. It jumped all through the page numbers...sometimes skipping ahead 20 pages, sometimes jumping back 10 pages. It was, as far as stories go, as confusing as Terry Gilliam's <i>Brazil</i>. <br />
<br />
To add to the oddity, were the terrible illustrations. On one page, it shows clear evidence that a great actor of today, John Malkovich, was the inspiration for the Sphinx.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCfk29qovoNn3aHU00T9qUEPB0t3pYlpTpfvzaM_2eSxxCYilLOiE0Qp1zxXvgDq4rWh36Pg7BBpYL8RGM1JO-uck3oQKQxUx9hqLaijiv0l-xpWh9kvFTZHakD0Omt5LHQSTNwIAoz40/s1600/JohnMalkovich-Shpinx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCfk29qovoNn3aHU00T9qUEPB0t3pYlpTpfvzaM_2eSxxCYilLOiE0Qp1zxXvgDq4rWh36Pg7BBpYL8RGM1JO-uck3oQKQxUx9hqLaijiv0l-xpWh9kvFTZHakD0Omt5LHQSTNwIAoz40/s400/JohnMalkovich-Shpinx.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Malkovich (photo insert added), as the inspiration<br />
for the Sphinx. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"It would not surprise me that ancient people would worship somebody like John Malkovich. If somehow, they had access to today's multimedia devices and watched <i>Con Air</i>, or even <i>Red 2</i>, they would be overwhelmed by his eerie badassery. If ancient aliens somehow brought Malkovich back in time, as some sort of non-anal probing experiment, I could see it making way for much of today's progress," Plumb elaborated. <br />
<br />
"Furthermore, the evidence of the UFO on the cover of this ancient text proves what many have previously thought: that extra terrestrials were behind the advancements of most of Earth's mysteries. This is all the proof I need. This is, as the title implies; is the <i>Secret of the Pyramids.</i>" <br />
<br />
As revealing as the cover is, it is also mysterious. A green cobra or asp also graces the cover, which implies that ancient Egypt was once jungle-like in its fauna. Most <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Squamata">squamates</a> today in the desert region of the middle east have taken on a dusty brown coloration, as a form of camouflage. This snake proves, what some have thought, that ancient <a href="http://www.ancient-origins.net/opinion-guest-authors/eden-egypt-part-2-001831">Egypt was near the Garden of Eden</a>. Also present are camels, which as every biologist knows, didn't evolve from llamas until around 1350 A.D. <br />
<br />
Oddly, though are the presence of many modern day images. The obvious predecessor to <i>Where's Waldo</i> is climbing up what looks like a phone poll, maybe in an attempt to avoid the ancient venom of the deadly green asp-cobra. But shockingly, it's a SHE and not Waldo, and SHE doesn't have glasses. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martin_Handford">Martin Handford</a>, the English children's author and illustrator behind <i>Where's Wally</i> (Waldo in the U.S), has some interesting inspiration for his ideas (maybe he had another copy of <i>The Secret of the Pyramid</i>). The following is a direct quote from Wikipedia:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">In 1986, Handford was asked by his art director at Walker Books to draw a character with peculiar features so that his pictures of crowds had a focal point. After much thinking, he came up with the idea of "Wally", a </span><span style="background-color: yellow; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">world traveller and time travel aficionado</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"> who always dresses in red and white.</span><sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-EW_3-2" style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1; unicode-bidi: -webkit-isolate;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martin_Handford#cite_note-EW-3" style="background-image: none; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none; white-space: nowrap;">[3]</a></sup><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"> Wally is joined on most of his travels by his </span><span style="background-color: yellow; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">friend, Wenda, who wears clothes with the same colours</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"> as Wally's,</span></blockquote>
It doesn't take a genius to deduce that Wally (Waldo) was really Wenda who was derived from an ancient alien text about the origins of the Pyramids, and has an inclination towards <span style="background-color: yellow;">time travel</span>. Handford, clearly has some questions to answer...and not just about plagiarism, but where he got a copy of this ancient text, and why it isn't in some museum or being studied by a top university. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc0xchScn15-unwSXbMHjRSTwnSUS0R3ZUyqbXd9_Pd99vIcg_gTG6dRJIi6j8nyBsPRIRZsO3QiY9YKKokYBZHdOHnf0co-tGX8P2uSJfxMt5tCfpfcA30BLD21Fgm65p-FLzejyoPbk/s1600/RonJeremyUFO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc0xchScn15-unwSXbMHjRSTwnSUS0R3ZUyqbXd9_Pd99vIcg_gTG6dRJIi6j8nyBsPRIRZsO3QiY9YKKokYBZHdOHnf0co-tGX8P2uSJfxMt5tCfpfcA30BLD21Fgm65p-FLzejyoPbk/s400/RonJeremyUFO.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ron Jeremy (Photo insert added), being his creepy self<br />
in ancient Egypt. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Also curious, hiding in the corner is the notorious porn icon, Ron Jeremy. Not surprisingly, he is leering at the girl up on the poll, probably introducing some sick fetish thing to ancient Egyptians who up until that point, only had a weird thing for bald cats. <br />
<br />
So aliens also brought pornography to Earth. Great. Thanks for that. As if the internet isn't already cluttered with lies and smut as it is. It makes facts and truthful journalism so hard to deduce from the refuse of idiocy, that so many sites are trying to profligate people's brains with. <br />
<br />
In conclusion, this amazing discovery rewrites much of what we used to know. The pyramids were a collaborative project with an alien race that used time travel to its advantages. The aliens brought back John Malkovich to ancient times, causing ancient people to worship his cool, cocksure demeanor. Much of our culture today is probably a derivative of Malkovich's personality. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbnOpEhlefjSToK3MKt9X1o56xPlk3DeL7DEUoXc9Z3eb1aOmtbU1Lz2wU_th4nF3ZErtyVIpfDLEvjA713Yh9W70OobneBNmYoHeYwZwn_obQ_o_3Isz0QAEq45w94JRPzNmhlyWmgnw/s1600/IMG_1492.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbnOpEhlefjSToK3MKt9X1o56xPlk3DeL7DEUoXc9Z3eb1aOmtbU1Lz2wU_th4nF3ZErtyVIpfDLEvjA713Yh9W70OobneBNmYoHeYwZwn_obQ_o_3Isz0QAEq45w94JRPzNmhlyWmgnw/s320/IMG_1492.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The book ends with an image of this creepy <br />
man-woman, clearly a warning to future<br />
readers of alien's might and power. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Also, aliens introduced the idea of pornography to ancient peoples probably in an attempt to suppress them from revolting from alien rule, and instead focusing their attention on sexual fantasies that have .02% chance of happening in real life.<br />
<br />
Lastly, while this ancient, invaluable text has opened our eyes to much of our ancient ways, it also challenges us to many more questions as we piece together the broken language of the past, like; Why did the ancients have machine guns, and where is the archeological proof of this today. Have the Illuminati, Catholic Church, Freemasons and Ringwraiths carefully screened this version of history away from us on purpose? Only time (and maybe time travel) will tell. <br />
<br />Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-64029447676304227342014-10-27T18:22:00.000-07:002014-11-11T12:11:23.753-08:00Love in the Time of Neon Friendship Bracelets: A Short StoryCoby walked up the long driveway and saw the group of mixed age adolescents playing a noncompetitive variation of basketball and was instantly annoyed. Another home group church his parents dragged him to, where he would be forced to interact with socially awkward homeschooled kids and classmates he didn't like. Being a pastor's kid is great during a potluck, being the first to plunge into the unknown casserole dishes, but having to mingle with physically affectionate elders and visit needy parishioners in their boring homes...ugh..."Can't I stay home tonight, Mom?"<br />
<br />
"No, people expect our whole family to be there."<br />
<br />
Whatever. <br />
<br />
But then he saw her. Did that girl just dribble the ball between her legs, fake a move to her left, while crossing over to her right, and pull up for a three pointer and nail it in the face of a pimpled teenage boy? <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvyWilZ1CGG6iV3xatm-sQ7M7chgPcnE81Eb6aNmZUHXLAz7apX-95Fqo_vGd1_2fY7OzPMZb7M5H8fYRzoF8EGlaJYj53Nf6TNkMKG2d1F802b8tIWQl9arUH7zXiz3QsuKySemkN5dg/s1600/Hardaway_Crossover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvyWilZ1CGG6iV3xatm-sQ7M7chgPcnE81Eb6aNmZUHXLAz7apX-95Fqo_vGd1_2fY7OzPMZb7M5H8fYRzoF8EGlaJYj53Nf6TNkMKG2d1F802b8tIWQl9arUH7zXiz3QsuKySemkN5dg/s1600/Hardaway_Crossover.jpg" height="320" width="302" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That crossover got the Hawks shorts riding up...oh wait<br />
that was just early 90s Hawks short shorts. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Yes. Yes she did.<br />
<br />
"She's good isn't she?" said a voice from behind him. <br />
<br />
"Oh, hey Josh, I didn't know you would be here." Josh was in Coby's 5th grade classroom the previous year. He wasn't a friend, per say, but he was alright. Coby never relied on him showing up at church, youth group, or events, because his parents were barely members. "Yeah, she is. How old is she, and how come I've never seen her before?"<br />
<br />
"Her name is Misty Lowe. She's twelve and her family just got back from somewhere in Africa. They're missionaries or something." <br />
<br />
"She's our age, and can dribble like Tim Hardaway? No way," Coby said disbelievingly, as he scanned her over. She was probably four inches taller than he was. That wasn't uncommon. He was a short 6th grader. A short 6th grader who practiced all day long to impress middle school coaches who cared more about builds rather than skills. Nobody on his teams could dribble between their legs without looking like they were trying way too hard. <br />
<br />
"Dude, she <i>is</i> twelve. I've known her all my life. We've been in the same Sunday school classes. Well, when they aren't off playing Columbus. Come on, I'll get us in the game." <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiufmfecgQK8TgdLOmEP3EqsIh2cV68JzTQA0jJat5J3l1lmiEdUdGcP5edq-RbZfpPh6xRwbytGQ1wZUrSOicxbKbkju7RBv9Nom51kDRjpLyEzGGHgbJjJrtNWyd-hgwKHdE_C3qGIe4/s1600/163_0802_2008_readers_rides_03z+1991_ford_f350_crew_cab_dualie+thomas_gillmore_of_lincoln_nebraska.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiufmfecgQK8TgdLOmEP3EqsIh2cV68JzTQA0jJat5J3l1lmiEdUdGcP5edq-RbZfpPh6xRwbytGQ1wZUrSOicxbKbkju7RBv9Nom51kDRjpLyEzGGHgbJjJrtNWyd-hgwKHdE_C3qGIe4/s1600/163_0802_2008_readers_rides_03z+1991_ford_f350_crew_cab_dualie+thomas_gillmore_of_lincoln_nebraska.jpg" height="200" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I guess this is still cool...for the six miles per gallon it got. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Coby walked up the long driveway. It was, really, a beautiful house. A huge house, with a brand new 1991 Ford F-350 parked near a detached garage. There was some huge shop with tractors and machinery. This wasn't just a typical couple in the church. They were power players. Coby instantly felt sorry for his parents. Dad would have to keep this family happy, to keep them tithing regularly. <br />
<br />
Coby was going to take it out on their little, precious, overly-talented, tom-boy daughter. He would need his brother's help. <br />
<br />
He looked back at their aged Aerostar van. Ben was still inside. Still defiantly playing his Gameboy device, despite Mom and Dad's demands to "join the group tonight." <br />
<br />
If Coby felt displaced there, he imaged how his older brother must've felt. At least the kids were playing basketball outside, Coby thought, which might coax Ben out (Ben was pushing for a spot on the varsity team as a Freshman). The two brothers had practiced so many hours outside together that they complemented each other's games, or, maybe, Ben just enhanced Cody's skills. <br />
<br />
Hey Ben, they're gunna let us join the game," Coby said excitedly as he pointed up to the group of kids shooting hoops. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIjSJgULzgBCL2FBiTeTajbPuBJYo11BkuKB3JU1pD0A9D-nngdpN3qFLy5-Hav7WlbciwxVCj07MrRPorp6a_A0DWaE7lZJciV166c86F1_SrYw4e4EbEr1MjjMkJQxISdy41vRL7Mnw/s1600/Nintendo_Gameboy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIjSJgULzgBCL2FBiTeTajbPuBJYo11BkuKB3JU1pD0A9D-nngdpN3qFLy5-Hav7WlbciwxVCj07MrRPorp6a_A0DWaE7lZJciV166c86F1_SrYw4e4EbEr1MjjMkJQxISdy41vRL7Mnw/s1600/Nintendo_Gameboy.jpg" height="200" width="121" /></a>Ben reluctantly set down the gaming device and walked up the driveway with his little brother. He too, saw the oddity on the ball court. The young girl phenom made another difficult shot, but it was her confidence that was really out of place. She was younger than half the kids playing, but she knew she was the best one out there. It was going to be a three person game. Ben looked at his little brother who held an odd grin, and instantly knew why he was asked to play. Ben copied his brother's smile. His little brother had his first crush. <i>Coby wants to humiliate her on the court...haha...what a middle school way to show her you care, buddy--</i>Ben thought.<i> </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"Coby, remember, these are church kids...no technical fouls, okay kiddo?" <br />
<br />
"What? I never..."<br />
<br />
"I've seen you when you really want to win...something comes over you...just remember she's a girl?" <br />
<br />
"What are you talking about...oh, her? I didn't even notice..." Coby lied. <br />
<br />
"Sure you didn't. Haha." <br />
<br />
The group quit the game it was playing when they walked up (apparently Misty's team was blowing out the other team). Most wanted to quit playing altogether, but they were curious how good the pastor's kids were. The church was quite large, and many like Josh, weren't forced to attend church with their families. They all basically knew each other, but not their athletic abilities. <br />
<br />
They shot free-throws for teams. Ben swished the first ball. The group groaned. They now knew there was another talent better than themselves. <br />
<br />
Coby bricked his first attempt on purpose, but it hit the back iron and defied physics and bounced into the hoop anyway. Damn. He would have to play opposite his brother. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvVRSi7JKXi82795JXHdOKuN9DQ77GjmrsRXFq_twy8cN__wuJh9vFmMiW4jRuGa5VYikaKpIkZ6K_kOhWXswP0MzIEO_IiRrTtY5eBmNsTcPzP1LFKPXuHJJy-mvi1FYG-gn2dRE_olo/s1600/bad-news-bears1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvVRSi7JKXi82795JXHdOKuN9DQ77GjmrsRXFq_twy8cN__wuJh9vFmMiW4jRuGa5VYikaKpIkZ6K_kOhWXswP0MzIEO_IiRrTtY5eBmNsTcPzP1LFKPXuHJJy-mvi1FYG-gn2dRE_olo/s1600/bad-news-bears1.jpg" height="205" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Less hair (more bullcuts), and more neon colors on our team</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
To make matters worse, Misty and Josh made it onto his brothers team. He looked at his own team which resembled the Bad News Bears. He hoped the humiliation wouldn't last long. <br />
<br />
The game went almost exactly like he predicted. Ben made shots, or assists to Josh and the other wing players. And Misty was just as advertised. <br />
<br />
Coby tried all he could to keep it close, but they were taller, faster and more accurate. Routinely, his teammates dribbled off their shoes or let passes slide out of their hands, or threw up air balls. Coby was going to have to individually play like Dominique Wilkins to get his team back into it.<br />
<br />
Their defense had relaxed with their large lead, but Misty was still ball hawking. Coby took a pass, and looked into her eyes as she jumped in front of him. Her hands were all over the place. She was pretty. Not gorgeous, but pretty. She wore no makeup, and her hair was almost identical to Smurfette's feathered swoop...just avoiding falling in her eyes. <br />
<br />
She noticed the way Coby was looking at her, and it took her by surprise. She momentarily lowered her guard. It was right then that Coby dribbled past her on the left, darted to the right and attempted a reverse layup (a move he had far from mastered). Out of nowhere, Ben flew through the air and swatted his layup out of bounds. <br />
<br />
Ben instantly realized his betrayal. Coby was staring at him with the look of "was that necessary?" to which Ben tried to shrug his shoulders in apology. The both loved competing, and Ben never played down to his brother. Still...<br />
<br />
The game was over quickly afterwards. They quit with a final score of 40 - 12, and it wasn't even that close. 6 of the points on the loser side were scored by Coby, but it was hardly heroic like he imagined. Misty scored at least as much, if not more. She also nailed a deep 3 pointer with Coby right in her face. <br />
<br />
Disappointed, Coby walked with Josh over to Gatorade cooler filled with actual Gatorades. <i>Man,</i> Coby thought, <i>these people are rich...who supplies bottled drinks?</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKVrtebTpwnr1Dfjlk0M8JPaa_cawTTObL5A09SdWZUIUO2hfS7cc9kTOxvF6Cw8pI2xYV7BAaQGL8VAAM6nZUdtMYDEgtcXRWnSkRGGuSXiwaO0YW7h3XcAFyW9S32osVUchuGD4z2B4/s1600/yG1MAXt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKVrtebTpwnr1Dfjlk0M8JPaa_cawTTObL5A09SdWZUIUO2hfS7cc9kTOxvF6Cw8pI2xYV7BAaQGL8VAAM6nZUdtMYDEgtcXRWnSkRGGuSXiwaO0YW7h3XcAFyW9S32osVUchuGD4z2B4/s1600/yG1MAXt.jpg" /></a>"Those teams were hardly fair," Coby said, as all losers do, to Josh.<br />
<br />
"I know. It was awesome. It was like 5 on 1. You're teammates stunk. Haha." <br />
<br />
"Hey...are you Coby?" came a voice just as Coby uncapped his orange Gatorade. <br />
<br />
It was her. She was grabbing a grape Gatorade and looking right at him. <br />
<br />
"Yeah...I am. Hi." <br />
<br />
"Was that your brother? He's pretty good." <br />
<br />
"Oh, uh...yeah. Ben. He's in high school, so it's not really fair for him to play against us, but yeah, he's good," Coby jealously said. Coby felt, like all little brothers do, that he lived under the shadow of his older brother's achievements. <br />
<br />
"You both were good. You're the pastor's kids, right?" She asked.<br />
<br />
"Uh, yeah...but don't let that..." He was searching for words of definition beyond his dad's profession. PKs (pastor's kids) were either awkward losers who wore suits in 4th grade or rebellious hellions who tried to advertise their parent's hypocrisy through idiotic antics. He took a swig of the Gatorade..."ugh..." he almost spat. "This tastes like salt water?"<br />
<br />
"Ha ha...first time having Gatorade?" She laughed. She smiled at him too long and turned away in embarrassment. <br />
<br />
"Yeah, I guess. We're more of a pop family." He sheepishly replied. "Sorry, I should be grateful your family supplied them...thanks." <br />
<br />
"This isn't my Gatorade or my house, ha ha. My parents probably would probably be mad if they knew I was drinking it. Water is good enough for the Lowe family, ha ha." <br />
<br />
"Oh. Sorry, I guess I thought this was your home." He relaxed his guard. She wasn't a rich girl after all. <br />
<br />
Josh noticed what was going on, and like a true kinda-friend, helped his buddy out. "Wow, you guys are totally weird. Coby why don't you just ask her out, and get this awkward stage over with?" <br />
<br />
"What? Shut up Josh." Coby said as he shoved Josh with both hands. He was mortified. So was she. She excused herself and went back to hang out with her sisters. <br />
<br />
Coby knew of other kids his age who were "going out," and never understood it. What a waste of time. Girls are boring. They'd want to pick flowers or talk about clothes. Although, Misty was different. In the hour he'd known her she was athletic, cocky, funny, cool, and oh, yeah, cute. Just her presence made him evolve from a boy to an adolescent in the course of one lopsided basketball game.<br />
<br />
Two hours later, after dinner, a round of capture the flag, and numerous other games, Coby found himself sitting on a patio swing with her. He sat first, and when she casually sat next to him, he took it as a sign from God. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj21MVZcSv90eeWqOoA14VEcSPjuEGkFKHQ8E7_zL3cq-XfLH62zioFsnVsgE_v899bNLzIW637x-WMik9mhyv8vR3ZJuwurNaP5TClm2zeftHB9iKILF6a3NPpPRrM9a2OoQGA5klVmE0/s1600/29941ee0f42a55acc8c26e54bfa5421d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj21MVZcSv90eeWqOoA14VEcSPjuEGkFKHQ8E7_zL3cq-XfLH62zioFsnVsgE_v899bNLzIW637x-WMik9mhyv8vR3ZJuwurNaP5TClm2zeftHB9iKILF6a3NPpPRrM9a2OoQGA5klVmE0/s1600/29941ee0f42a55acc8c26e54bfa5421d.jpg" /></a>He forced himself to say the words he never thought he'd say. "So, like, um. I was wondering if you'd, I don't know, like, want to go out with me?" His voice almost cracked (like it would all the next year), it was harder than apologizing to his brother when he was the victim. <br />
<br />
"What does that mean...going out?" she replied. <br />
<br />
<i>Are you kidding me? EVERYONE knows what that means. HOMESCHOOLED KIDS! Now he had to explain it? This is why he did not want a girlfriend! </i>Except that, this time, he really did. <br />
<br />
"Well, uh geez...It means that we are a <i>thing</i>...like a couple." <br />
<br />
"Like boyfriend/girlfriend?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah, I guess." This was too much. Courage was leaving his body as fast as sweat. He needed another Gatorade. <br />
<br />
"I'm not allowed to have a boyfriend until I'm 16."<br />
<br />
"Oh...never mind, forget it then..." He felt the instant pangs of rejection. <br />
<br />
"But we can just call it going out? Right? Not boyfriend/girlfriend? Cause I'd love to, as long as my dad doesn't know about it." <br />
<br />
"Really? I mean, I don't want to get you in trouble or anything..." He tried to downplay his proposal. <br />
<br />
"Coby, I said YES." <br />
<br />
"Oh cool." And with that...he had nothing more to say. <br />
<br />
They sat there for another 30 minutes watching the sunset and knowing that their parent's meeting was nearing the end. Neither wanted it to end, and yet...they had nothing to talk about. <br />
<br />
He wanted to do something. Like hold her hand. That's what kids did, right? It would take more than an electrolyte filled drink to make that move though. So they sat there, inches apart, metamorphosing into different beings that suddenly cared about the other gender, watching the sun set on their childhood. <br />
<br />
He wanted to cry when he got in the backseat of the Aerostar that night. He wasn't sure why. <br />
<br />
Mom noticed it immediately. "What's wrong honey?" She asked. <br />
<br />
"Coby's got a girlfriend. Her name is Misty Lowe and she can beat him on the basketball court," Ben said with older sibling glee. <br />
<br />
Coby tried to punch Ben, but Ben dodged the wild swing.<br />
<br />
"Knock it off, guys" Dad said. <br />
<br />
Mom and Dad looked at each other. <i>Great. Now this</i>--they collectively thought. "We've met the Lowe family and they're good people; but we need to talk about this." Mom said. <br />
<br />
They never did talk about it, to which Coby was grateful. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
---------------------------------</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
6th grade relationships are hard to maintain, Coby realized, especially when the girl doesn't go to your school. They only saw each other on Sunday mornings and during occasional church gatherings. It was always awesome, short-lived and ever so bittersweet. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
After a month or so, he did reach for her hand. It was cold and soft and different than anything else he'd ever touched. It was the most amazing feeling in the world for 45 seconds or so, until his hand broke out into spontaneous fountains of perspiration. He pretended to hear an adult and dropped her hand. He promised to work on his hand holding game like he did his dribbling skills. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBw4rPu9Xo_mzNWN2r0JlOLNnxWb4Hl_pRC2NJq-7Jxg1vds3VvcmckUWluM1jv4slLoY40Ur0KCbNWfm1a91E39EC1vIw8GzqoSdgTk-w1GJ82WKECim-FXjwLHmmcnHina9cFHdB7BE/s1600/103491.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBw4rPu9Xo_mzNWN2r0JlOLNnxWb4Hl_pRC2NJq-7Jxg1vds3VvcmckUWluM1jv4slLoY40Ur0KCbNWfm1a91E39EC1vIw8GzqoSdgTk-w1GJ82WKECim-FXjwLHmmcnHina9cFHdB7BE/s1600/103491.jpg" height="200" width="142" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can we trade back now?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
They exchanged neon friendship bracelets and school photos (somehow she got the same smokey gray background even though she wasn't enrolled in a public school). They played basketball more than they talked. They were fairly even. She won sometimes, and he did about as often. They talked about moves, angles, defenses, professional players, and ways to get better. <br />
<br />
This shared love of the game was enough for them. Youth doesn't need complexity or variety. All you can eat pizza is better than a six course meal. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
He thought this was a mutual understanding. He gave her a rookie basketball card of Clyde Drexler for Christmas that year, and she gave him a Stüssy brand hooded sweatshirt. Clothes? Were his Quiksilver shirts no longer relevant? She gave it to him at church. She nervously waited outside the boys bathroom with her sisters as he tried it on. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBlYr-h8UMn48-gO4HJR_wn4-KjOQLn0j1nxDimbzogLyxcWYNy5fhzbaIZWyy4HCASgvJFfutoVU70jcLLng-ZoEsIUx04kKPXct_YByrQaBcxlz_mDmCvzwakJjjdX2agpqG3v_YRW8/s1600/20131220_4b33c6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBlYr-h8UMn48-gO4HJR_wn4-KjOQLn0j1nxDimbzogLyxcWYNy5fhzbaIZWyy4HCASgvJFfutoVU70jcLLng-ZoEsIUx04kKPXct_YByrQaBcxlz_mDmCvzwakJjjdX2agpqG3v_YRW8/s1600/20131220_4b33c6.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a>Comfortable? Hardly. She bought him a boys medium. He was NOT a medium. It was tight everywhere, but especially in the waist. He wasn't fat, but this sweatshirt sure made him feel it. He took it off and went back outside.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Misty and her sisters were obviously disappointed he wasn't wearing it? "What's wrong, did it not fit?" the eldest sister asked. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"It fits fine. I'm just too hot to wear it." He lied. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Oh." Misty said despondently. His white lie being the first fissure to their innocence. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
---------------------------------</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It was his classmates that cracked their honor. As with any "relationship" outside the school building, the doubters were plentiful. At first, Coby didn't care. She played on the girl's basketball team even though she didn't attend the school. A few other girls confirmed this (and were jealous of her skills). Still, she was a mythical creature, and even Josh, in a newfound role of schoolyard bully, wouldn't verify her existence. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjklDh0mF_xLj-QD489HGBVP6lbJzxODQYeSPsj8gVP5caUqik4WSF4_eUqcKjyB1n-fybDDPoVW7Ou2V6Z_V7ajb3XdesUSnM3vNY5JH8ET4TiUFgp0LXdF9VBiu66Kd9SAYvLTOLsUrI/s1600/Scan+1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjklDh0mF_xLj-QD489HGBVP6lbJzxODQYeSPsj8gVP5caUqik4WSF4_eUqcKjyB1n-fybDDPoVW7Ou2V6Z_V7ajb3XdesUSnM3vNY5JH8ET4TiUFgp0LXdF9VBiu66Kd9SAYvLTOLsUrI/s1600/Scan+1.jpeg" height="320" width="215" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My actual 6th grade school photo w/<br />
my girl-friendship bracelets. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As months turned to seasons, and basketball was abandoned for baseball, Coby was adamant to prove her existing beyond his one school photo. (The photo had garnered everything from genuine "she's cute" comments, to "woof, she's a dog" from jerks, to "anyone can get one of those photos...doesn't mean she's real.") </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Fed up with their lack of faith, Coby yelled to some especially annoying teammates on his baseball team, "Dude, she's playing third base on that softball field over there!" </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;">"Okay, let's go check her out after practice," said another boy. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;">"Yeah, let's do that!" Coby said</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;">He realized his mistake when they got close. She was wearing some old burnt orange sweat pants that clashed with her aqua team jersey. She had, like he should've known, also dove to make routine plays in practice, and so was covered in varying layers of dirt and grass stains. It would've been respected if she was a boy...but he wanted her to look cute...attractive...not like a tomboy. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;">"Is that her, Coby? She looks more like a Dusty than a Misty." </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;">"Yeah, she looks like Pigpen." </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;">Coby sunk into himself. She was still cute...they were just...jealous. They were just...</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;">"More like Misty Musty Underwear!" said one of the ruder boys to uproarious laughter. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;">"Yeah, Misty Musty Underwear!" they repeated as if some creative Shakespearian poet had penned it. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;">"Shut up! Shut up you @$$holes!" Coby yelled back at them, as a parent on a neighboring field grimaced at him. He shoved one of the boys against the fence, and the rest got the hint. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;">They backed away victoriously singing <i>Misty Musty Underwear, Ha Ha...</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQIB4RA2J3NtYrwhZzn1mBSBVuHnzdJJ8fHlKtf6yQoOmekcQ7bf7TIPj_p6cCoxmmiDFp8TNu9LHspdFiDKcaZeiM36Ks3FhuA7xjbJ2YqQ4IL6QETObZhGFver9hG4c70416JjIic3c/s1600/1ee5939891df8c197761b036ebc9871e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQIB4RA2J3NtYrwhZzn1mBSBVuHnzdJJ8fHlKtf6yQoOmekcQ7bf7TIPj_p6cCoxmmiDFp8TNu9LHspdFiDKcaZeiM36Ks3FhuA7xjbJ2YqQ4IL6QETObZhGFver9hG4c70416JjIic3c/s1600/1ee5939891df8c197761b036ebc9871e.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>Alone now, Coby flopped down on the lone bleacher and looked out at her. She came flying in on a bunt play and flipped the ball to first with all the acrobatics of a MLB ballplayer. Her momentum leading her to a summersault in the dirt. Her teammates cheered her on. She looked up and saw Coby. He smiled and waved. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Good job. Good job, Misty Musty Underwear. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
She smiled ear to ear. She never looked better, he thought. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
---------------------------------</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
His hopes were dashed when a 7th grader asked if he liked Musty Underwear on Monday minutes after he got off the bus. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
All day, different jokes were aimed at him. His girlfriend's appearance and the pathetic nickname had gone viral before anyone had any concept of dial-up internet. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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All week he held his head low. He could call her at home and end it, but he'd have to deal with her dad answering the phone....</div>
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So Sunday came, and he dreaded what he had to do. He tried to get her alone to say what he had to say. </div>
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Finally, in the garden behind the foyer, they were alone. She had all the anticipation of a girl expecting her first kiss. She hadn't changed one bit. Innocent, sweet, competitive, and cool with whatever happened, she grabbed his hand. It still felt just as electric as the first time. </div>
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"Misty, I don't think you want to hold my hand." </div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
"Why do you have a cold or something?" </div>
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"No...I umm. I umm. I-THINK-WE-SHOULD-BREAK-UP." He said in one syllable. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Probably would've been more sincere than how I did it. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"What? Really? Why...What did I do?" </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"You did nothing, Misty. You did nothing. I'm sorry. I just don't want a girlfriend anymore..." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Coby ran to the Aerostar that his parents never locked, and did not look back. He shut the sliding door and lay in the back seat sobbing uncontrollably. He loved her, he thought. But he did what he had to do. He couldn't go out with <i>Misty Musty Underwear.</i> After a few minutes of self pity, he did wonder how she was taking it. But he'd never know. She did not come back to church for months. And when she did, she never looked him in the eye. Neither would her sisters or her father. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
What he and Misty had, never existed, they lied. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
He lost more than a first love that day. He had betrayed his feelings because of his reputation. He wasn't true to what he believed, and ultimately defamed his name. He lacked something his father talked about often at home and from the pulpit: integrity. </div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
Mom figured it out after church, of course. She always knew when something was wrong. Even Ben seemed sympathetic. Dad took them to the corner store and told Coby to get whatever he wanted...even if it was over a dollar. Nobody asked any details.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Coby returned with an orange Gatorade. It left the familiar bitter taste in his mouth, but he hoped it would replenish something he had lost along the way. </div>
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<br />Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-4432086084753536232014-09-15T16:47:00.003-07:002014-09-22T19:07:42.629-07:00We All Scream for Ice Cream: A Short Story She licked the red plastic spoon in a childlike and almost provocative manner. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I bet somebody has to eat a Blizzard now. I should get<br />
paid for this product placement. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"This is the life," she said. "Eating a Blizzard, watching the sunset on a hill. This is the world God imaged us living."<br />
<br />
"If Dairy Queen was around 2000 years ago, Jesus would've multiplied a Reese's Blizzard on the Sermon at the Mount," he mischievously said.<br />
<br />
"Shut up, Michael! I'm being serious. This," she twirled around like Maria in the Sound of Music, "..this is what it's all about." <br />
<br />
"I know, I know. It is beautiful. I sometimes forget to look out there, out there and see just how large this city is. How large <i>our</i> country is. How massive the world is, and how small we are. It's awesome, really, it is. I'm not meaning to be sarcastic." <br />
<br />
"But we aren't small, Michael. We weren't made to be small, but huge---lights. We were made to be lights in the darkness, that glow like stars in the cosmos." <br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sunset at Skinner's Butte in Eugene, OR. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"YOU HEAR THAT UNIVERSE! YOU CANNOT CONTAIN ME! I AM A SUPERNOVA OF LIGHT AND YOU CAN'T SHUT ME OUT!" she yelled to the city below as she spread her arms, holding her Blizzard as an offering to the gods.<br />
<br />
He looked at her in genuine awe. She was beautiful in moments like this. She was beautiful all the time, but in her elements, elevated above the masses, eating ice cream, watching as day and night waged war in wondrous colors, she was a goddess. <br />
<br />
He looked down at the city below, all aglow in neon and incandescence, and knew it wouldn't last. <br />
<br />
These brief moments of clarity and excitement and joy and lucidity where as brief as the setting sun. Soon it would be dark, and she would dim, and the terrors of her darkness would torment them both. <br />
<br />
"You tell 'em, Annie," he encouraged. <br />
<br />
"You try it too, Michael, it's good for you. Speak something into existence. Tell anger to go to hell!" <br />
<br />
"Nah. I'm okay. I'm not like you. I don't need to do this kinda stuff." <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibpuAEN0FNqQ1tgqweeyZE99sNg70ag9Xb8aqH2jnj-8tyYXC2OVCr_PKcnI93heQay7iYWxmRuqCj_1xCXuG7SOoD_M2Z6eTzMFIJy9Bax1jXNklYC3ScrlzvPDcw1Jwe2lCBVQosr9E/s1600/image.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibpuAEN0FNqQ1tgqweeyZE99sNg70ag9Xb8aqH2jnj-8tyYXC2OVCr_PKcnI93heQay7iYWxmRuqCj_1xCXuG7SOoD_M2Z6eTzMFIJy9Bax1jXNklYC3ScrlzvPDcw1Jwe2lCBVQosr9E/s1600/image.png" height="234" width="320" /></a>"Sure you do, you just don't know it. Say, "I'M TIRED OF BEING ANGRY AND THIS RAGE CAN GO TO HELL!" <br />
<br />
A few neighboring stargazers cheered in mock support. A few laughed. Eyes were directed their way in annoyance. If he was going to do it before, he surely wasn't now. <br />
<br />
"Haha. Okay. We've had our fun. We're making a scene now. Lets just finish our ice cream and go home." <br />
<br />
"I'm not ready to go home yet. I want you to do this for me! Please!" <br />
<br />
"I told you. I'm okay. I'm fine. I don't need to do things like this to feel better. I'm not even an angry person." <br />
<br />
"Yes you are. And you're obviously self-conscious. Who cares about these people, they don't know you. Do it for me. Do if for yourself. You'll feel better." <br />
<br />
"But I already told you. I'm fine. I'm good eating Ramen noodles down there, in the squalor of my apartment. This is beautiful, up here, it has meaning to me, too, but it doesn't make me more whole, Annie. I'm not broken." <br />
<br />
He immediately knew his mistake. He implied that she was. <br />
<br />
He waited for a half second and tried to wipe the horrified look off his face, "I'm sorry. You're right. I'll try it." <br />
<br />
"I'M TIRED OF BEING AVERAGE!" he screeched about 20 decibels quieter than her. She was not impressed. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPStju6vA1xwqtmscsocKrw76SbqVIJWfJaQOPuP3-6fn-qxBMzk_YQdduAxlPoF-yHaYBjM-lEy6CMEigDtOb0CeTHtfmdqewQsIfctGpR5PAG5SuLl83BS5sFXSR5HZKQnDGINR54I/s1600/Batman+yelling+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPStju6vA1xwqtmscsocKrw76SbqVIJWfJaQOPuP3-6fn-qxBMzk_YQdduAxlPoF-yHaYBjM-lEy6CMEigDtOb0CeTHtfmdqewQsIfctGpR5PAG5SuLl83BS5sFXSR5HZKQnDGINR54I/s1600/Batman+yelling+.jpg" height="169" width="320" /></a>"I'M SICK OF BEING AN ANGRY PERSON!" he yelled louder, and instantly felt slightly better. She was right. It did feel good to get that off his chest.<br />
<br />
"SHUT UP AND GET HELP!" yelled back the hillside.<br />
<br />
Not exactly the voice of God. <br />
<br />
"We better get going," she said. <br />
<br />
"What? I did what you wanted, and you were right. I do feel a little bit better." <br />
<br />
"Whatever."<br />
<br />
"Come--on, Annie, I'm sorry." But it was too late. Their semi-weekly fight was imminent. The sun reluctantly gave up its claim to the day, and she was fully under the manufactured glow of the street lamp. The change was not good to her face. <br />
<br />
"I know you are. Let's get going before anything else gets broken," she replied. <br />
<br />
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked. But he knew the answer. She would threaten to leave him, again. He would beg her to stay; that he'd change; that it would get better; that they could be happy...<br />
<br />
But he no longer believed that. She wasn't happy. He couldn't make her happy. <br />
<br />
They got into the car without speaking a word. He turned on the headlights and backed out of the parking lot and headed down the steep windy road. <br />
<br />
She was waiting for him to say something. But he was too intent on the road. It was late, and misting now, and his headlights were dim. If something was around the corner, he wouldn't have to time to react to it. <br />
<br />
"Don't take me home yet, okay?" "Let's go do something else?" <br />
<br />
He didn't say anything. <br />
<br />
"We...we could get some dessert?" <br />
<br />
He removed his eyes from the road just long enough to give her the <i>really?</i> look, and then returned his entire focus to the road. <br />
<br />
"I don't know why you're giving me the silent treatment...you're the one who insulted me." <br />
<br />
"Look Annie, It's late, we've done this round before, and I don't have the energy to shout it out or smother it in sweets. We....we aren't ..." And he realized he wasn't ready or willing to commit to the end of that sentence. "I'm sorry, I'm tired, and I just wanna go home. okay? <br />
<br />
At the bottom of the hill, the road curved to a stop sign. Somebody had spray painted "in the name of love" onto the red hexagon. <br />
<br />
They both chuckled. An ironic end of the road. <br />
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<br />Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-74380136419266351172014-09-11T14:15:00.000-07:002014-09-22T19:11:16.907-07:00Image Crafting Vs Honesty in an Era of Inauthenticity <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeJwNnqAIrOtzdXtI4bkE6Ed4uI0-FLcJI0UqJu9KVzUKQCdjlyBI_vmflikvotKlCc5OxHSlkfXEOiHcbowZULLHP-3kQAtptGPx2FtZ0e5kh9H-UicOMZ39l3zs-2__dv-4BAA2Piyk/s1600/looselips1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeJwNnqAIrOtzdXtI4bkE6Ed4uI0-FLcJI0UqJu9KVzUKQCdjlyBI_vmflikvotKlCc5OxHSlkfXEOiHcbowZULLHP-3kQAtptGPx2FtZ0e5kh9H-UicOMZ39l3zs-2__dv-4BAA2Piyk/s1600/looselips1.jpg" height="200" width="156" /></a>"Oh hey, Chris. How's the school year going so far?"<br />
<br />
This is the question I get asked by acquaintances who don't know my story, yet.<br />
<br />
They aren't meaning to bring up a sore subject. They know <strike>I am a</strike> was a teacher, and it's casual small talk. <br />
<br />
In case you don't know, I recently lost my job. This is nothing new, as it's happened five times in eight years. I'm used to being "laid off," or whatever it is they consider it, when they don't extend the contracts of temporary employees.<br />
<br />
Before this last time, I was merely the victim of circumstance. Jobs had to be cut to make budget, and I was always low man on the totem pole. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He got pwned </td></tr>
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But this last time, I'd had enough. I re-interviewed for the job I already had, and was passed over, again, by a nobody. And I don't mean nobody in the derogatory sense; I'm sure this person is a somebody, but unknown to the district before the interview. Not like me. I was a known commodity. A commodity, that apparently wasn't paying dividends. <br />
<br />
And the passive aggressive anger of eight years of being bypassed and used by a district that moved me around like a pawn that it intended to sacrifice, led me to throw-up verbally on my Facebook page. <br />
<br />
It was unprofessional and childish and honest. And I paid the price for it. The district found out, and nearly blacklisted me for my "outburst." I now have to walk on egg-shells around the people who didn't hire me, if I want to substitute teach in the district. I need to substitute to make ends meet and this is my only district that knows who I am. I am dependent on the very hand that struck me down. <br />
<br />
And it is so f---ing degrading to my soul. These were my co-workers, my equals. We collaborated on projects, shared materials, learned from each other, and now, I'm on the outside. And I've never felt so humiliated in all my life. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOf3PcDzyifd8CxK9XT_4aXQA7L_D9e06xw1t3I50dUqbs-tFrZC3Jygm1rjPI2kvJ4y8Mao-n1WB5HyZkfLq5Uu3M3Gn9i4feDqU5RzQ-rgSPTckPT2L48SPOj5MXY6SCIII9VsVWhiI/s1600/tumblr_lg6utehg5k1qbggmro1_400.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOf3PcDzyifd8CxK9XT_4aXQA7L_D9e06xw1t3I50dUqbs-tFrZC3Jygm1rjPI2kvJ4y8Mao-n1WB5HyZkfLq5Uu3M3Gn9i4feDqU5RzQ-rgSPTckPT2L48SPOj5MXY6SCIII9VsVWhiI/s1600/tumblr_lg6utehg5k1qbggmro1_400.gif" height="320" width="252" /></a>Those words are hard to write. It's hard to admit that I have feelings. That I feel like a failure. That I'm angry. I'm 35- years-old. I shouldn't be unemployed, shouldn't be an outsider, shouldn't still be looking for what I haven't found yet. <br />
<br />
<br />
Five years ago, I would've never said a word. I would've acted like it was all okay. I think that's why I was put on blood pressure medicine, back then. I pretended that everything was okay. That I'm okay with being pissed on, and I became more and more acidic internally. <br />
<br />
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<br />
There's a term called image crafting. Where people use social media to create a carefully crafted version of themselves that is more appealing than what they really are. You know these people...<br />
<br />
*Their marriages are perfect, and their sex lives are documented by Eastern healing gurus. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjKJxvCDbr4_sXUCCghN9hhEbC72nedfWixffIZxi9ChuypKkIbGjCpxu-vdVqpYUMyZrXrMOqWjytzSXZ7kuHsO7Cf353hAFuNVlybrynbfJYvtCPuNPP2V4CSuTwurrBfbXDwFeKOKU/s1600/afganu-kurtas2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjKJxvCDbr4_sXUCCghN9hhEbC72nedfWixffIZxi9ChuypKkIbGjCpxu-vdVqpYUMyZrXrMOqWjytzSXZ7kuHsO7Cf353hAFuNVlybrynbfJYvtCPuNPP2V4CSuTwurrBfbXDwFeKOKU/s1600/afganu-kurtas2.jpg" height="200" width="171" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They look like Janice, the<br />
guitarist Muppet. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
*Their house is amazing and spotless even with their super creepy hairband-like Afghan Hound dog.<br />
*Somehow they look 45% better in every photo then you've ever seen them in real life. <br />
*Their children are better at everything, literally everything, than your own (or you, for that matter). <br />
*They just ran the Everest 10K with the help of a sherpa.<br />
*They are happier, in every post, than Ellen Degeneres in a celebrity dance off. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiudYmDQK6FmjSdb_Bi2mJDDcwQSauOJRBwSuOiKKaHrJ5Fw8aPztbMrX_Wqvvvy8ixivKnlnC9_5Le3P5m-YH5UExl4vbzx0N-XTY6OzhhuCWebhkJKesDu-lLBr36MxcF4VtFf6l3wUw/s1600/salad-wduck-confit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiudYmDQK6FmjSdb_Bi2mJDDcwQSauOJRBwSuOiKKaHrJ5Fw8aPztbMrX_Wqvvvy8ixivKnlnC9_5Le3P5m-YH5UExl4vbzx0N-XTY6OzhhuCWebhkJKesDu-lLBr36MxcF4VtFf6l3wUw/s1600/salad-wduck-confit.jpg" height="226" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A salad should be at least 90% green. That's my rule. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
*Their garden picked coriander, kale, blackcurrant, and onion compote "dinner" pics almost look edible. <br />
*They're always posting from unique spots like Guantanamo Bay, Fallujah, or Pyongyang...and it looks amazing. Clearly they are LIVING LIFE!<br />
*It was partially because of their job, that those American doctors survived ebola. <br />
<br />
I've been guilty of it. We all have. <br />
<br />
It's hard not to brag about feeding kale intravenously to Nepalese ebola patients right after finishing the K2-5K. Believe me, it's hard not posting a picture of me doing this in this blog.<br />
<br />
Except that I'm not doing anything remotely epic. I'm eating a lot of Doritos and playing hours of Clash-of-Clans on my iPad. Those pictures aren't good for my image. Neither are posts with the hashtags #fightingoffdepression or #prayforme. <br />
<br />
Somehow, we've turned honesty into a bad word. We've turned straightforwardness into a negative work-force quality. We don't like hearing bad news from people we know, but it's the first thing we look for in the news, so we can judge the rich and famous. #howdareyouRayRice.<br />
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<br />
<br />
And it's phony as hell. And I'm not playing that game anymore. <br />
<br />
I'm too damn old to be a fake. I'm too damn old to care about my image anymore. I'm going to write honestly about the crap and the kudos. I have a fantastic wife, and good friends, an average home with an annoying dog, and I love my kids, even if they don't appear to be the next Tiger Woods of anything yet. And my professional life sucks. I don't know if I'll ever get out of debt. <br />
<br />
So you take the good with the bad. So I'm done being a teacher, and it hurts to talk about. <br />
<br />
But God's got something else for me. It just currently isn't paying the bills or giving me much comfort. And if you aren't comfortable reading about it, or talking to me about it, then we probably weren't friends in the first place. <br />
<br />
And now that I got that off my chest. I'm ready to be funny again...just right after I do this last Clash of Clans raid. <br />
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<br />Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-23243876942458249872014-09-05T15:18:00.000-07:002014-09-22T19:13:29.874-07:00The Building Blocks of Disillusionment <div>
If you've read my blog before my current long hiatus, you'll know I'm kind of a Lego nerd. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2X0H28ctcHYwPtxq2EKRkLwaTGvXX-tXUZxyB0bqzL2GY12L2IQdPX-Mb-VjWEcH8r7QzJ020b44QX_rz5kU_NU-NzlTGdBdKX0HA82ytHCo48I88E9z0NmGbYs_nMa9wSnl90Wr3Uw/s1600/IMG_1259.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2X0H28ctcHYwPtxq2EKRkLwaTGvXX-tXUZxyB0bqzL2GY12L2IQdPX-Mb-VjWEcH8r7QzJ020b44QX_rz5kU_NU-NzlTGdBdKX0HA82ytHCo48I88E9z0NmGbYs_nMa9wSnl90Wr3Uw/s1600/IMG_1259.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The photo is too far away to see the suck</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Well a few months back, I was visiting family in Bellingham, WA. and walked into a hipster-freindly antique mall. Even my wife was enjoying herself, which is amazing because she absolutely hates the smell of musty old stuff. I, on the other hand, love playing pop-culture anthropologist with all the neat stuff from the turn of the 20th century and beyond. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In the midst of all the refurbished farm equipment and oil and gas signs was a corner filled with toys from my dad's era. I saw a familiar shaped cylinder that I would've swore was Tinker Toys...but no, it was a little known toy called American Plastic Bricks. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Not Lego, or even K'nex or Kre-O or Mega Bloks, but AMERICAN Plastic Bricks. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I removed the Mason jar-like lid and inspected the contents. They appeared all there. I gladly paid the eight dollars for this American treasure. Even my daughters were excited, because they under packed toys for the mini-vacation. Who doesn't like building blocks? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But it was fool's gold. There was nothing patriotic about <i>these</i> bricks. Unless you consider cheapness, bad engineering and frustration of 1980s Ford and GM vehicles--American ideals, then yes, this was American.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNVs7wDmYVDHaSW2XEb26_a2UK04b7Ekkb5ynMnr1movGhnoOs7yv-w0lKS-S8J06kbE7s5AkiiHUCk_vfs1lZqwUz2bsPSBdjZY-b8M6DtSDzLrv-BoZn2IQCLIk-c3SrZcL53Xd6n90/s1600/Chevette_81.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNVs7wDmYVDHaSW2XEb26_a2UK04b7Ekkb5ynMnr1movGhnoOs7yv-w0lKS-S8J06kbE7s5AkiiHUCk_vfs1lZqwUz2bsPSBdjZY-b8M6DtSDzLrv-BoZn2IQCLIk-c3SrZcL53Xd6n90/s1600/Chevette_81.jpg" height="271" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Being the most popular car in Venezuela is like winning "Best Smile" in<br />
a Methadone clinic. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
"These are horrible, Dad," my daughter Lily explained within 30 seconds of me dumping the contents on the table. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Horrible doesn't begin to describe it. It's as if all the Baby Boomer kids who were pushed into the burgeoning career of plastics but were D-students in plastics college all converged to the American Plastic Brick company. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Some of the bricks might have been shale; or insect exoskeletons. They disintegrated upon attaching the pieces together. Most wouldn't even snap together...and if they did, they refused to get along or stay together for more than a few seconds. I wonder how many engineering and/or architects learned how to build with this crap? It does, however, possibly, explain my father's remodeling improvisations. <br />
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Some businesses, like the American Plastic Brick Co. deserve to go belly-up. Some plastics people are in the wrong field. There are better products, better jobs, out there, so...<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5HWYtIqw9TQ7ebxetuz9CNkdFfGqQK25WBaP3G7qoYNoJuv4knZK3rePiPa3NLP7v7P_M_HZwWvsYjv_YOsEs4JXBG5gfSQ1YbO8-ilwxSsXA1FhYDQXSavAiJZE_woC_DVwLyad-q0Y/s1600/lat-lego-movies-wre0014701810-20140131.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5HWYtIqw9TQ7ebxetuz9CNkdFfGqQK25WBaP3G7qoYNoJuv4knZK3rePiPa3NLP7v7P_M_HZwWvsYjv_YOsEs4JXBG5gfSQ1YbO8-ilwxSsXA1FhYDQXSavAiJZE_woC_DVwLyad-q0Y/s1600/lat-lego-movies-wre0014701810-20140131.jpeg" height="186" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I will make this work, even if I have to Krazy Glue it!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'm done teaching. The bricks were stacked against me, and I couldn't force the pieces together even with Krazy Glue. Bad timing, bad engineering, bad schooling, I don't know...I just...I just can't do it anymore. I seemed to be in the wrong place at the right time, but now, for the first time...<br />
<br />
I wasn't wanted. <br />
<br />
I can understand budget cuts and being low man on the totem pole, and missing application deadlines, and having HR place "pet projects" in my place. But I was always promised something...always told I had a place. Everyone said it was the next retirement, the next opening...etc. I was like that specialty Lego piece that is really interesting to play with, but only fits one exclusive set.<br />
<br />
They did this to me for eight years. Five years as a temporary part-time teacher, two as a long term substitute, and multiple filling-in-the-gaps during all those stints. I taught everything they asked. Of course my Lego coloring never seemed to fit the set. Gov't, 7th grade block, Middle school computers class, Freshman English, 6th grade Title Reading...<br />
<br />
But last year I was in my corresponding set. Teaching high school English and being the technology coordinator for the building. Everyone said I was doing a fantastic job. For once, I felt like my time had finally come. They had finally looked at the instructions and put me in my proper place. <br />
<br />
But like a toddler sibling coming into the room and destroying your Lego models, my teaching world was destroyed overnight. I interviewed. Again. (District policy is that temporary positions are always reopened at the beginning of the next year). They knew my history. And...and...they gave it to someone else. <br />
<br />
Who, ironically, turned them down days later. I got a district form e-mail telling me I didn't get the job. Like I was some unknown applicant fresh from college. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigyVIzgpWX3CBZ6QF1mpfmxJjpq9eoJA8Fx1SSn6baZcnPKCqwmsr6Ldq9AQ5e1WZUrNnPkekB4IszzFe3e0JNm6sJKpQ0gFyL43KjfNNVpsOKtu5SDoTGMPGqmydNho74NSZZCCQiXcs/s1600/FB+post-venting+.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigyVIzgpWX3CBZ6QF1mpfmxJjpq9eoJA8Fx1SSn6baZcnPKCqwmsr6Ldq9AQ5e1WZUrNnPkekB4IszzFe3e0JNm6sJKpQ0gFyL43KjfNNVpsOKtu5SDoTGMPGqmydNho74NSZZCCQiXcs/s1600/FB+post-venting+.png" height="640" width="393" /></a>And the indignation and anger and frustration and pain...after eight years...caused me to break character and voice my opinion on Facebook. I was done. I was done teaching. And I vented some very calculated, but not personal, words on my OWN Facebook page.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
But the job was going to reopen, because the hired applicant turned the job down. <br />
<br />
But somehow my Facebook post had made it to the eyes of some higher ups (whom I'm not friends with). And this Facebook post proved that I was now "unreliable and untrustworthy," in their words. Two qualities I've spent my entire life trying to prove I am. <br />
<br />
I was not granted an interview. But I was called, that very same day, by HR offering me a long-term sub job at the district alternative school. Like I'm some booty-call teaching idiot. Like they could tell me with one hand that I'm not good enough, but then say, but you are good enough for <i>this...</i><br />
<br />
Teaching is a business, and I am a specialty Lego piece, and they are American Plastic Bricks, and we don't mesh well together. I get that. Now. <br />
<br />
So now I sit here typing as my wife is in the classroom teaching, and my children are at school, and it's not easy being home, alone. Education was what I WAS. I should be in a classroom. And the 5 stages of grief are all there at the same time. Anger, Denial/Isolation, Depression, Acceptance, and Bargaining.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRHhHpVc4I2pfxBO_km8hgxzRlXdHTjznlG8LQVQwDqlE2rPpTBnvAuxxY0BdlIB4i-ldYhB1UmB5qkhdzDbWpRV3VZvmzwipBCYWhjUfCO1WQgGasSPnLIzRE7nF9-TsRfQx-YjpVmqg/s1600/$_35.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRHhHpVc4I2pfxBO_km8hgxzRlXdHTjznlG8LQVQwDqlE2rPpTBnvAuxxY0BdlIB4i-ldYhB1UmB5qkhdzDbWpRV3VZvmzwipBCYWhjUfCO1WQgGasSPnLIzRE7nF9-TsRfQx-YjpVmqg/s1600/$_35.JPG" height="142" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hopefully the keys to the house of David<br />
will replace the stress in my shoulders. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Maybe I'm a cheap plastic brick? Or Maybe I'm a specialty Lego piece? I just haven't found my place yet. <br />
<br />
But I will someday. <a href="http://biblehub.com/isaiah/22-22.htm">God closes doors that no man can open. </a><br />
<br />
Now, if only He could help getting one of these book publishing doors open. </div>
Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-28691974022752807272014-07-18T00:30:00.001-07:002014-09-22T19:15:18.499-07:00Swinging Away with Warning Track Power: A Minor League Baseball Story Willie Young looked down at the aged leather of his infielder's glove. The glove had lasted three years and like his career, it was done. <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEkKlE7Un9HL3E56bLfjpv11ttGhX4WNBu4cAFXuaCNI5qu0toJA5oQ05gs1lZhyphenhyphenCV_TJK5EoRKCPmPPjjbkegeL6UN1hmtdjX6DPvSIO_FCMZFRXOVmEhQnoMnAtNiXCzspteImUIKq8/s1600/125325a_lg.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEkKlE7Un9HL3E56bLfjpv11ttGhX4WNBu4cAFXuaCNI5qu0toJA5oQ05gs1lZhyphenhyphenCV_TJK5EoRKCPmPPjjbkegeL6UN1hmtdjX6DPvSIO_FCMZFRXOVmEhQnoMnAtNiXCzspteImUIKq8/s1600/125325a_lg.jpeg" height="222" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Actually, this is Randy Johnson's glove </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
He had the teal glove professionally made, with his name stitched in black on the thumb side, the day he got his one and only call up to the "show." He played sixteen games for the Seattle Mariners and batted an unmemorable .245 with no extra base hits, and two errors in the field. None of the veterans bothered to learn his name, and none of the coaches cared if he performed or not. He was strictly a temporary player while the real "pros" rehabbed injuries. He was, by position, a utility fielder. Good enough to play any position, but not good enough to earn any position. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He was, as they say, easily coachable, and likable, and did all the things coaches love: hustling, backing up plays, being a "clubhouse" guy, bunting when needed, and showing all the younger, more talented prospects, the way things were done. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He was not, however, a blue chipper. In baseball, there are terms for players with skills (tools), and the best prospects had all the tools (a five-tool player), but scouts never labeled Willie with any of them: he didn't hit for power, run with explosive speed, have a great arm, hit for high average, or have an exceptional glove. He was merely good at all of these, and practiced harder than anyone at any level just to stay relevant.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9M0PKZ1RqOEW-3SNhQzI-t-EM-xDIwk-hMm2UqE2KEAJq8P-m-PomsASlwD-V-rFKTN-Qrtg_pToQrf09YhZqvU5s4cL_cjwg2MFw8qlkmTi2nmZFbCAYUHIDVyZPHyV4Rh3cQUCT2qc/s1600/diamondjaxx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9M0PKZ1RqOEW-3SNhQzI-t-EM-xDIwk-hMm2UqE2KEAJq8P-m-PomsASlwD-V-rFKTN-Qrtg_pToQrf09YhZqvU5s4cL_cjwg2MFw8qlkmTi2nmZFbCAYUHIDVyZPHyV4Rh3cQUCT2qc/s1600/diamondjaxx.jpg" height="228" width="320" /></a>And as he neared his 30th birthday, starting tonight at 2B after his recent demotion to the Mariner's double A affiliate, The Jackson Generals, Willie looked at the stitching on his aged glove like a lover from a happier time. "Well, glove...I think it's time to call it a career. What do you say we go out with a bang?"<br />
<br />
Willie knew he could bunt around the game for a few more years. He could get DFA'd and wind up in a different franchise, maybe get another chance at the big leagues for a few more seconds...but he also knew his best days were behind him. He only hit 9 home runs in the last two seasons combined. He hit 17 the year he got his call up. His arm speed was noticeably weaker than in his mid-20s equating very few starts at SS. The decline was quick and ruthless.<br />
<br />
In a business as uncertain and cutthroat as professional baseball, Willie wanted to go out on his terms. He had decided it was time for change, especially after reading a vicious character attack by a Washington area blogger, following his recent slump for the AAA Tacoma Rainers. On the long bus ride from Washington to Tennessee, Willie had time to contemplate how little he actually had accomplished in life outside baseball. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy8Lm16aWsJdEjoG3b5SppqQ2vfxLxcpXynzZRLu9JkGQFB9PYKgZLSYJJwNTBZu61Us_fCafSoCmyiymaX-bMx0icU5w7GTrIKK2zqPp8gVh-YXdagdw3t4E2lne5R8Ar0GaynSvs_Yk/s1600/arod-2-0805.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy8Lm16aWsJdEjoG3b5SppqQ2vfxLxcpXynzZRLu9JkGQFB9PYKgZLSYJJwNTBZu61Us_fCafSoCmyiymaX-bMx0icU5w7GTrIKK2zqPp8gVh-YXdagdw3t4E2lne5R8Ar0GaynSvs_Yk/s1600/arod-2-0805.jpg" height="221" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Was it worth it AROD? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The blogger even questioned if he had 'roided three years ago just to get a major league paycheck. That connotation hurt Willie more than anything. He played the game the right way. He knew others who cut corners, and made millions before their names were dragged in the mud. He knew guys who corked bats, pitched with illegal substances, cheated on their wives in every town, used fake urine to pass tests. In a game of inches, everyone, seemingly, was jumping the starting line.<br />
<br />
But Willie didn't play that way, and nobody cared, because he wasn't good enough to be relevant. Baseball is not a character game. Kids root for the biggest assholes in the game, and the few guys with grit who are lucky enough to have a career in the big leagues, hardly ever get mentioned by ESPN. <br />
<br />
"Feeling patriotic Willie? I saw you tear up during the national anthem...you know these Double A games aren't televised, right?" questioned Ricky Jackson, the 21-year-old, SS phenom who made more money with his rookie contract than Willie made in his entire career. It was an obvious shot at Willie's recent demotion. <br />
<br />
"What Rook? Maybe you should pay more attention to your fielding than to my face." Willie said as he wiped away any residual evidence of the truth from his face. A few of the clubhouse vets laughed at Willie's retort. Jackson's talent was still four years away from being refined, but his ego was already big league. <br />
<br />
Willie plopped himself on the end of the bench, brooding over what was left of his life. No family, no prospects, no schooling. Baseball was his life...<br />
<br />
(Overhead PA): "...and Jay Wilson with a leadoff single to right field!" <br />
<br />
"Hey Willie...hate to break your nirvana moment, but you're on deck...show that cocky bastard how to move a runner over..." said Edgar Vizquel, Manager of the Generals, as he glanced toward Jackson. <br />
<br />
"What? Oh...yeah. Sorry." <br />
<br />
"Don't be sorry, just be aggressive, Wil. We know what you're capable of." <br />
<br />
"Yeah, thanks," Willie uttered as he walked toward the on deck circle. His head was spinning. But Visquel was right. If today was his last game, he was going to lay it all out. He timed the pitches as the second batter, Harold Blomquist fouled them off. Blomquist fought off enough pitches to earn a walk. With two runners on, the pitcher would have to throw a strike. Willie was going to sit on a fastball. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyC4ZY-bacyrOjY9Bm8Bocm-DOoUEaLR3RtZROB0JBtp95tQ_3xSXExFCKzqrW39VivflJQhKZjOYXJMYfqc3TfeRJ4l8Cx4q35zWuYWza_6bqapMzhcOHcl-bRy6dtwQX_hhEtP4ScQ4/s1600/rs4_4779_rmpia18h_5z2dkwv2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyC4ZY-bacyrOjY9Bm8Bocm-DOoUEaLR3RtZROB0JBtp95tQ_3xSXExFCKzqrW39VivflJQhKZjOYXJMYfqc3TfeRJ4l8Cx4q35zWuYWza_6bqapMzhcOHcl-bRy6dtwQX_hhEtP4ScQ4/s1600/rs4_4779_rmpia18h_5z2dkwv2.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a>And sit on it, he did. Sending the first pitch over the left-center fence, pushing 420 feet. One of the longest home runs of his career. A smile jumped on his face as he rounded second and the other team congratulated him by name. A little fame, even in the minor leagues, wasn't so bad. <br />
<br />
"Hey Bud! Way to move those runners around! See that, Jackson, that's called being aggressive early in the count!" Vizquel praised as Willie entered the dugout. <br />
<br />
As if his first inning heroics weren't enough, Young added a triple his next at bat, a single his third time up, and finished the game with another home run, this time a two run shot. He was responsible for every run that scored. Plus, he took two bad feeds from Jackson at SS, and acrobatically turned them into double plays. <br />
<br />
<i>It's the little things that matter; and the occasional big thing...</i>, thought Young as he sat on cloud nine, and waited for the interview from the local ABC news affiliate. <br />
<br />
Rebecca Wilcox had interviewed Willie Young five years earlier during his accent to the big leagues. She was working an angle to praise his performance, while mentioning his meteoric fall from grace, and piece together footage from five years ago to go with whatever he had to say today. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG-Q3xHJxYsbHDRNZrr_IPYXP3w6x8ycuWiqai1MmhcuOUqoOoMOTlgHjY0809ab-yIj5DeU1901k4PprIAxAizzK-5eViNihRGDrq29vOl3bPTRDpI4UAtGMxuXRqm5sHhayskSyetdo/s1600/img_2661.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG-Q3xHJxYsbHDRNZrr_IPYXP3w6x8ycuWiqai1MmhcuOUqoOoMOTlgHjY0809ab-yIj5DeU1901k4PprIAxAizzK-5eViNihRGDrq29vOl3bPTRDpI4UAtGMxuXRqm5sHhayskSyetdo/s1600/img_2661.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a>"Willie Young, hero of the day, tell me; did you think about just stopping at second for a double, instead of trotting all the way home on your last at bat? I mean, the second home run was nice, but all you needed was a double for the cycle. You've never hit for the cycle in your career?"<br />
<br />
"You know, Rebecca, the only regret I have in my long career, which is now over, as I'm retiring...is that I never asked you out on a date. I know it's not professional of you to date your interviews, but now that I'm just a normal, everyday Willie, I'm sure the station wouldn't mind...what do you say..."<br />
<br />
"What? I mean...wow. Willie. I'm...I'm...You're retiring? You just had a career night? Did you just ask me out in the middle of an interview? That's so unprof..."<br />
<br />
"I know. It's unprofessional. I'm no longer a professional. I'm done. I've had it. This was a great way to go out, and I'd like to take you out...hopefully it's a great start to the rest of my life." <br />
<br />
Very little of that interview ever made it to WBBJTV, Channel 7 news. However a crew member did edit it and post it on youtube and made Willie a little bit of an internet star...<br />
<br />
It also didn't make it to the Front Office of the Seattle Mariners, who were just now piecing together their 40-man extended roster for their first September playoff run in some time. The GM had his idea about which relief pitcher, which third catcher, which young outfielder with speed, etc. should be added to the roster, because he was a cheapskate not concerned with winning, but with making the team profitable. <br />
<br />
Lou Johnson, though, the fiery Manager of this group of Mariners, wanted three players not on the GM's list. One was utility fielder, Willie Young. <br />
<br />
"Come on, Lou, he's thirty years old, doesn't have the skill to play at this level, and we'd have to up his salary by $200,000 for a few weeks of irregular play?" <br />
<br />
"Have you sat on that bench with these arrogant bearded hipsters and these prissy veterans? We are a decent team full of bastards! Bastards that will fall apart the first time they get slapped in the face. Willie Young is a professional! He will get dirty when I tell him to get dirty. I've watched him play, I know his game, and he will make us a better team in the dugout and the few innings he's in the field. If you say, NO, I'm going straight to the press and tell them what a cheap asshole you are." <br />
<br />
The GM just stood looking at his reflection in the large window that overlooked Safeco Field. He was smoking a cheap cigar. He was aware that he was a cheap asshole. <br />
<br />
"Doesn't look like any of that will happen," said an amateur scout in room, "Willie just announced his retirement from baseball. Vizquel from Jackson just confirmed it via text to me." <br />
<br />
The GM shot a winning smile at Lou, who wouldn't accept that answer. "Well, one of you muckworms must have his number...call him, text him, Skype him, sext him, whatever the hell it is you Millennial loafers do around here, and get him to change his mind and get on a dadgum plane!" <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhMxyIP5GntR52JbMbhOhZGtOFA9gGBeGtQ-5TipP_BH3NJ1fJYHbWje-4McEK3Vn3OTTiDg9VW-f314IYRdrb-7Wexwa8Dyn1SUiRPoCQRGsXzm3fS5Mn2ESyorSQhcH_uwz2PLMQa1M/s1600/1+Jackson+Greyhound+Half+Way+Station.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhMxyIP5GntR52JbMbhOhZGtOFA9gGBeGtQ-5TipP_BH3NJ1fJYHbWje-4McEK3Vn3OTTiDg9VW-f314IYRdrb-7Wexwa8Dyn1SUiRPoCQRGsXzm3fS5Mn2ESyorSQhcH_uwz2PLMQa1M/s1600/1+Jackson+Greyhound+Half+Way+Station.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The actual Jackson, Tenn. art deco Greyhound station. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Willie Young was riding the pine in the Jackson Tennessee Greyhound station. He really had nowhere to go, and was oblivious that a team of loafing Mariner affiliated social media experts were frantically trying to reach him. He bought a ticket to his hometown of Silverton, Oregon. His folks still had a place there, and while he was indifferent to the antiquated town, he knew he could find work based on his name. He had some money stored away. He wasn't a great baseball player, but he knew enough about life to save enough money for a home...maybe start a business...<i>what kind of business?</i>, he thought. <br />
<br />
He noticed a young boy mischievously tossing a baseball to himself, while carefully keeping himself as far from his mother's voice as he could. <br />
<br />
Willie walked up. "Hey kid, want a professional baseball glove?" <br />
<br />
"Huh? What? oh. How do you know it's professional?" the boy asked. <br />
<br />
"Because it's mine. I'm a Major League Baseball player. At least, I was. I retired today. Played some in the Majors for the Seattle Mariners." <br />
<br />
The boy looked at the stitching on the glove. "Willie Young," he read, "I've never heard of you. 'Course, I've never heard of anyone on the Mariners except for Robinson Cano. He used to be a Yankee." <br />
<br />
"Yeah. He's good. He's no Ken Griffey Jr., but he's a got a shot at the Hall of Fame." <br />
<br />
"This glove is kinda beat up and old. Is it even worth anything?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah, I used it for 3 years. It still has some value, some life in it, like me... You want me to sign it?" <br />
<br />
"Nah. My friends probably won't know who you are either." <br />
<br />
Willie looked at the kid, and wished he would've picked a less apathetic protégé. "Look, kid, put it on a shelf and remember that even no-talent hacks like me, can make a living in this world, by trying really hard." <br />
<br />
"Yeah, maybe. But I'm good. I don't need to try really hard." <br />
<br />
"That's what they all say, kid, and I lasted longer than 90% of them." <br />
<br />
"Whatever," the boy said, "I better go see my mom." <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJIJ6Qg-wYrLgcfoZt299cyGaU5FiuxzLwr7hUYtIIYBHAmRPj5gK92lfrBSfr8Cq9qTpqUSI95071ZB9RMI_vpd_kuXXks6DT9aNqOIKMAnp4HlM5Wb0OeXKNayTTvv2KFGcPsdSJohg/s1600/Restored-Benches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJIJ6Qg-wYrLgcfoZt299cyGaU5FiuxzLwr7hUYtIIYBHAmRPj5gK92lfrBSfr8Cq9qTpqUSI95071ZB9RMI_vpd_kuXXks6DT9aNqOIKMAnp4HlM5Wb0OeXKNayTTvv2KFGcPsdSJohg/s1600/Restored-Benches.jpg" height="196" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's always benches like these, that the most important<br />
life decisions are made on. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Willie plopped himself back on the pine bench and pulled out his phone. 8 messages. He hadn't had 8 messages since...well...never. <br />
<br />
He scrolled past his parents and old teammates...<br />
<br />
Two from Mariner representatives, jumped out at him. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Lou made his 40 man roster, and wants you on it. Get on a plane. You are signing a pro contract. Welcome back to the Show. </span><br />
<br />
and minutes later...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Dude...text me back. We have to make an announcement. I know you're "retired" but we can undo that...lol...I got a first class ticket back to Seattle with your name on it. Call me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Willie couldn't believe the change in fortune. And there would be a small fortune, even if this was his last call up. But all the comings and goings, the ups and downs, the ins and outs, the balls and strikes, the this city and now that city, and this position, no that position...baseball had dictated his life. It was his life. And Willie was done with that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Thanks. But too little, too late. I just gave away my baseball glove to a future Hall of Famer with the ego to go with it. Maybe he'll sign the contract. As for me, I'm retired. </span><br />
<br />
For a half minute after sending it, Willie worried that he'd just made the worst mistake (at least financially) of his life. <i>But,</i> he thought, <i>I need to get a life, and baseball, after all, is just a game. </i><br />
<br />
Just then, a new message popped up from Rebecca Wilcox: <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I'd like to do a longer interview. Are you still in town? </span><br />
<br />
His hometown could wait. There were ducks on the pond, and Willie was finally free to swing away. <br />
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Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-67758118417530228902014-05-14T22:52:00.000-07:002018-08-29T23:53:49.183-07:00Getting the Pink Slip Again: A Short Story. Nick Underside had a stinking suspicion that somebody in HR was trying to make an ass of him. HR, or human relations to the layperson, was not aware that a Nick Underside even existed. They had not renewed his contract, and hence, had deleted him from their "certified teacher" database. As a lame duck employee for the fourth time in six years, Nick believed a grand conspiracy against him was being orchestrated by vindictive HR employees, and he wasn't going to take it anymore. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJBLf1FRVcBlVnEZmTupgKCmvFlZ0EwLAQQJsjrMPSmih2TUtZBlzOUP774PkLuMW2YN1weJvYoeHzDsWBFPQBiZqsBmEUOyTASrIptUAPHP59g4UUIh4GFtMXfEvPf_PQhTEKdiddcXA/s1600/pink_slip_colosi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJBLf1FRVcBlVnEZmTupgKCmvFlZ0EwLAQQJsjrMPSmih2TUtZBlzOUP774PkLuMW2YN1weJvYoeHzDsWBFPQBiZqsBmEUOyTASrIptUAPHP59g4UUIh4GFtMXfEvPf_PQhTEKdiddcXA/s1600/pink_slip_colosi.jpg" width="320" /></a>"I'm not going to take this anymore!" Nick shouted when he received the form letter that coincidentally wasn't pink, but literally contained all the misfortune of a pink slip. Nick subconsciously wished the slip was pink. Nick hated pink.<br />
<br />
Because Nick could not maintain a job for more than a year, he never received any seniority, and because he had no seniority he was always the first to be cut when the school wanted a new football uniforms or an administrator wanted a new color copier. When <i>this</i> or <i>that</i> school realized they needed an emergency teacher, his name always popped up on the "available teacher" list. Nick skimmed the not pink, pink slip:<br />
<br />
<i>Your service at Emerald Streams Elementary School is no longer needed</i>, it said. <i>We thank you for your assistance in making Emerald City School Districts an outstanding public school system, and encourage you to apply to any and all positions that may open up in the future.</i> <br />
<br />
Following the words that he had nearly memorized from the last three times, were the auto-signatures of four important bureaucratic administrators from the school district. The auto-signatures signified how insignificant Nick was; their time was too important to waste on actual employees. Coincidentally two of the signatures were from Human Relations who hated dealing with humans. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGmx29jEDgy3qC0qUVLbV4Y0EVCZi1_sl4kDujOttRu65KlrnXDExJllQxxEeN-frJA9b6LA2ErMSGxAMNv6-qSk5vkqL4HOXAV7X4nDwRpNwckSqnxSLb8e43YRgx5HD4g5LuaWXr25A/s1600/dwight_HR_meme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGmx29jEDgy3qC0qUVLbV4Y0EVCZi1_sl4kDujOttRu65KlrnXDExJllQxxEeN-frJA9b6LA2ErMSGxAMNv6-qSk5vkqL4HOXAV7X4nDwRpNwckSqnxSLb8e43YRgx5HD4g5LuaWXr25A/s1600/dwight_HR_meme.jpg" width="320" /></a>Human Relations at Emerald City School district was a bit of a misnomer. After being hired, the department spent a total of four minutes talking about procedures and policies and then pushed the new employees into a room to be trained by computers. If there was ever a problem with a paycheck or ID badge, the department attempted to deal with the situation with a form-letter via email with a specific hyperlink pasted within. When the employee pursues the assistance of a human, she is met with a curt reply stating to file the complaint with "Insta-Aid", an online help documentation system. HR, in fact, dealt with humans less than any other department at Emerald City Schools. Mostly they played an intricate game of paper pushing. This game involved not reading the important personal information of certain employees about upcoming leaves or absences, and handing it to a different part of the department so that they would not read the information, and this would go on until the employee requesting leave would be denied, as the proper people never actually viewed the proper documentation by the allotted deadline.<br />
<br />
Nick picked up his cell phone. (He dreaded using the district telephone. There were no documented cases of district phones being screened, but he couldn't shake the feeling that every time he used it, data was being sent to the information hub in HR, potentially building a portfolio of all the "unnecessary" calls he had committed throughout his short tenure at Emerald. In fact, Nick had never abused his calling privilege as he hated the phone with an undying passion, but the thought that anything could be misconstrued by the HR department he already mistrusted, kept him wary). He did not want to call from his district telephone. Perhaps his number had already been screened. Nick suspected that the HR department worked hand in hand with the NSA.<br />
<br />
"Hello, Human Relations."<br />
<br />
"Hi, I'd like to speak to the director of Human Relations, Nancy Bennioff."<br />
<br />
"And who may I ask is calling?"<br />
<br />
"My name is Nick Underside, I'm an employee at Emerald Streams Elementary School." <br />
<br />
"Just a second...uh...sir...Could you give us your teacher ID #? We have no record of a Nick Underside being employed at that school...are you sure?"<br />
<br />
"66627"<br />
<br />
"Uhh...did you say 666...<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghDDHlBo0UtZDx7j4C-5WZXJGo052XC_NTG5S-LgJoUqByaqFOjq81R3H9-N0l3MAkDTr2Gpd35-MzEXNHZi1T7IGDRqM02JrqICOsCdrjwiwsVPZ3BVhr1UbhDPeh6TqqxYYmwMx-Cy0/s1600/badgecca2e4f02633449cb730a04f81c9b6bd55bded55.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghDDHlBo0UtZDx7j4C-5WZXJGo052XC_NTG5S-LgJoUqByaqFOjq81R3H9-N0l3MAkDTr2Gpd35-MzEXNHZi1T7IGDRqM02JrqICOsCdrjwiwsVPZ3BVhr1UbhDPeh6TqqxYYmwMx-Cy0/s1600/badgecca2e4f02633449cb730a04f81c9b6bd55bded55.jpg" width="320" /></a>"Yes...I know the connotation..."<br />
<br />
"Uh...nothing is popping up? Are you sure?"<br />
<br />
"What do you mean, am I sure? Am I sure I'm Nick Underside, or sure that I work at Emerald Streams Elementary school?" <br />
<br />
"Sir, I'm sure you know who you are, I'm saying at that school, we have no employee listed under 66627. I'm sorry, but I can only answer questions from employees with valid ID numbers?"<br />
<br />
"Are you serious? Have you ever related to a human before? Of course I am who I say I am, and I work where I say I work." <br />
<br />
"Well, we'll just have to agree to disagree." "What is the purpose behind this call, if I may ask?"<br />
<br />
"I want to know why my contract wasn't renewed?" <br />
<br />
"If your contract wasn't renewed that would explain why we have no record of your employment. You are not an employee." <br />
<br />
"I still have a month left on my existing contract! I still have students in my room! You guys are still paying my paycheck for another month! This is nonsense, may I speak to the director or not?"<br />
<br />
"Sir, being on payroll and being an active employee are two entirely separate things. I'm sorry to inform you that the director of HR only has time to speak to current employees." <br />
<br />
"That's what I'm trying to say...I am a current employee!" <br />
<br />
"Semantics, sir. You are not." <br />
<br />
"Well who can I talk to as a <i>former</i> employee?"<br />
<br />
"I believe you can talk to the labor board, sir."<br />
<br />
"Do you have their number?"<br />
<br />
"I've never had to contact the labor board, sir. I am a current employee." <br />
<br />
"GAAAAWWWWDDDD!" Nick frantically hit the END CALL button on his touch screen. He missed the dramatics of slamming a phone down and hearing the ringtone echo throughout the room, even though he'd only seen this on television. <br />
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At the HR office, the receptionist said, "Wow, he hung up on me. How anti-social of him! No wonder we terminated his contract."<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">
Nick stared up at his water stained acoustical ceiling tiles and scraped his hands down his face like a plow, hoping to dig out all the stress and frustration and anger and hurt and pain and pride and fear and self loathing. It was not successful. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0b89_rloJSmd5pCYtMi17lIogqW3VJ4cp5nnYVDd4KIwbTMefV2OEEpEH5-VCAM_-ezjJc3KWiYKAF05b6rVwrufgYMRL2wbw7I0fHQ6q4s6-w79zucuoVPUk-3zXOJFcWf53qzhzxbE/s1600/R1206E_EKBERG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0b89_rloJSmd5pCYtMi17lIogqW3VJ4cp5nnYVDd4KIwbTMefV2OEEpEH5-VCAM_-ezjJc3KWiYKAF05b6rVwrufgYMRL2wbw7I0fHQ6q4s6-w79zucuoVPUk-3zXOJFcWf53qzhzxbE/s1600/R1206E_EKBERG.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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His email was still open and a new message was at the top. It was from one of his more annoying students. </div>
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It read: "Mr. Underside. I'm sorry you got fired again. It's not fair. Your a good teacher. No a great teacher. Your the only teacher that ever related to what I was going thru. I just thought you should know. Thank you, Billy Anderson." </div>
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Nick smiled at the irony of the grammatically sad letter sent with true sincerity. </div>
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"Thanks Billy." He said aloud to nobody.<br />
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Humans. Dealing with humans is a messy business. Nick fantasized about getting a job that didn't have to deal with people. He wondered if there were any openings in HR. </div>
Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-83261533476775080982014-04-20T12:45:00.000-07:002014-09-22T19:17:46.337-07:00Finding the Right Words for Easter I'm not entirely sure why I don't go to church as often as I used to...or want to. <br />
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And I don't want to be one of those Americans who only goes on major holidays, like today: Easter. <br />
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But a church slacker is what I have been this year. Today I was back, and it was good. Like it almost always is. I wish I could capture in words how faith and spirituality are essential to my own well-being. <br />
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And I wish I could capture in words how important Easter is to those of faith. I can't...but this guy Dr. S. M. Lockridge did. So that's the extent of today's blog (after almost two weeks absent...I'll explain later). <br />
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<i>My yoke is easy and my burden is light</i>...might be the greatest words ever written. Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-54827007528992515732014-03-30T15:43:00.001-07:002014-09-22T19:18:54.854-07:0015 Best Non-Verbal Disney Moments Michael Bay (Transformers) is doing his best to make us ADHD. And since the 1980s the trend in action movies to have fourteen false-endings keeps us always on edge (or completely annoyed). On the other hand, there's the independent film movement, which trades plot for boring establishing shots or character neurosis. Is it so hard to make a quality movie that has all the elements we as an audience want?<br />
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Yes. Yes it is. <br />
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Which is why the success rate of Disney is so surprising. They almost never have stinkers (except for the cow-pie that was <i>Home of the Range</i>). <br />
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How is it that one studio (I realize that there are many studios in the Disney family, including Pixar), can continue to make such outstanding, and money making animations? <br />
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Well, obviously you could say that Disney understands its audience better than anyone else (Marvel being a close second). You could also say that they encourage top notch writers, directors, animators, CGI, and voice talent (except for Dane Cook who piloted <i>Planes </i>into a nosedive with his non-comedic touch). <br />
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But there's something else. <br />
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Almost a Disney magic. A non-identifiable quality that makes their movies, just better. Don't get me wrong, <i>Shrek, A Land Before Time, An American Tale, Anastasia, Ice Age</i>, and the like were all really good movies. They just don't have the magic that makes me want to go back and re-watch them all that often. <br />
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And I think some of the magic in Disney is the non-verbal moments. The blocking of scenes. How they can make us feel a plethora of emotions in a two second clip or a two minute montage. Almost like it's live theatre, and we can see everyone's reaction to the drama. <br />
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I remember when Wall-E came out, everyone thought it would be the first Pixar flop. Could audiences handle a mostly silent film in 2008? Could Disney recoup its 180 million dollar investment?<br />
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Well, it's currently <a href="http://www.imdb.com/chart/top?sort=ir,desc">ranked #59</a> on IMDB's list of greatest movies (Two spots above <i>North By Northwest</i>, by Hitchcock, a director who truly understood the importance of silent moments and suspense) and grossed over 500 million worldwide. I think Disney (and Pixar) knows what it is doing. <br />
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So to add to the ADHD of the masses, I've ranked the top 15 non-verbal Disney scenes of all-time by creating .gif files. (It's my first foray into the GIF insanity). <br />
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15. <i>Robin Hood</i>: From a boy's perspective, I don't really care for this movie much. Yeah, the escape scene is really good. Maybe I don't buy the evilness of a wimpy Prince John. However, this is one of the great animal romantic love scenes of all time (better than Lady and the Tramp)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisXQO92anoCx8fl48i_HafZmntp7qSVpjfVGvHe7KW-IIaL0Y0XFNz-6TUuqIqzOlfO9E2pz4x-eECvfLBpV2_exnEKCi7EVpvX5OtZe6E2Na1SJJmMb5JQcGPCmzcszx0KOsqRUg0PUs/s1600/Robin+Hood:Maid+Marion.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisXQO92anoCx8fl48i_HafZmntp7qSVpjfVGvHe7KW-IIaL0Y0XFNz-6TUuqIqzOlfO9E2pz4x-eECvfLBpV2_exnEKCi7EVpvX5OtZe6E2Na1SJJmMb5JQcGPCmzcszx0KOsqRUg0PUs/s1600/Robin+Hood:Maid+Marion.gif" /></a><br />
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14. <i>Monsters Inc</i>: Now here's a boy movie with substance. And Boo is maybe the cutest Disney child ever created. But when Sully lets loose his frustration on the scare simulator, and Boo watches her cute "kitty" become a ferocious monster...a perfect scene the captures the loss of idolization of loved ones. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJsq4egao85upd4zGBz9keVq41tnq405NLtQb0BuV6544dtSPauaI70wn1BU5Ll5Cmq7CGNoCcQcGkobNkp2tPAE9OW_n_WWCxAqNrzffp_tJZM3CHVX9nolN66wAnSxelQ4lf4LMtYgs/s1600/Sully+scares+Boo+.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJsq4egao85upd4zGBz9keVq41tnq405NLtQb0BuV6544dtSPauaI70wn1BU5Ll5Cmq7CGNoCcQcGkobNkp2tPAE9OW_n_WWCxAqNrzffp_tJZM3CHVX9nolN66wAnSxelQ4lf4LMtYgs/s1600/Sully+scares+Boo+.gif" height="450" width="640" /></a><br />
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13. <i>Frozen</i>: No other scene captures depression, anxiety, and isolation as when Elsa locks herself in her room and the ice explodes out of her, freezing the room in a personal Siberian gulag. This scene takes place right after Elsa's last connection to the outside world, her parents, are lost at sea. To anyone who has experienced grief or severe anxiety or depression, this moment of isolation hits close to home. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXK7GrJ3u04EceyLbjvAZLeJj2ZKBLcE-nDpjZQVMKps-8MCzsVoW4C-KvKwUWGzREO4JVPYl38VOVeV-2GkhVCHPIp6J-dAXlql0o5FjfRnO-pW-gQoLPqwoeUciAVCUXpo_g0A-J7v4/s1600/tumblr_myjdafqaEI1t7xe6go1_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXK7GrJ3u04EceyLbjvAZLeJj2ZKBLcE-nDpjZQVMKps-8MCzsVoW4C-KvKwUWGzREO4JVPYl38VOVeV-2GkhVCHPIp6J-dAXlql0o5FjfRnO-pW-gQoLPqwoeUciAVCUXpo_g0A-J7v4/s1600/tumblr_myjdafqaEI1t7xe6go1_500.gif" height="340" width="640" /></a><br />
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12. <i>Mulan</i>: The "decision" montage scene. I usually hate montages, as the 80s made them cheesy, but this moment of self-actualization by Mulan is the perfect counter to Elsa's depression. The moment when you know what you have to do, and fear will not overwhelm you. <br />
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11. <i>Toy Story 2</i>: How to choose from the Toy Story franchise which has many memorable silent moments? Moments like <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_O8QRx853Es">Buzz's failed flying (I Will Go Sailing No More) scene</a>, or the end of the third movie when Andy plays with the little girl, and leaves his toys behind forever...but my favorite sad moment is when Jessie is left for donation (as it leads to her abandonment issues). The <i>Toy Story</i> movies say so much about the complexities of growing up; yet also entertaining us so easily...ugh...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZGOLqrOL4aKkc69hwLuBV4hQnnxInMPeesq9nN4mnBo3SJg7tIfKMIXHtJ5kr0CQPDvCGiJdU5k-sBVJf2urvC634AnJO4VB6sAPW5fq7BxxRZFdfgbr6lSNfLH2NWH248dzbvflNtZs/s1600/Toy+Story+2+Jessie+in+a+Box+.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZGOLqrOL4aKkc69hwLuBV4hQnnxInMPeesq9nN4mnBo3SJg7tIfKMIXHtJ5kr0CQPDvCGiJdU5k-sBVJf2urvC634AnJO4VB6sAPW5fq7BxxRZFdfgbr6lSNfLH2NWH248dzbvflNtZs/s1600/Toy+Story+2+Jessie+in+a+Box+.gif" height="467" width="640" /></a><br />
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10. <i>Wall-E:</i> If you want to talk about character, Wall-E has character. A robot with a moral code. Everyone should have a friend like Wall-E. In a movie full of great social commentary and science fiction elements is a beautiful love story with unconditional commitment. May we all find a Wall-E in our lives. <br />
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9. <i>Fantasia:</i> Mickey, the Sorcerer's Apprentice scene. Who hasn't done a little spell to make house chores become more manageable and have it go slightly out of control (heck, they made 5 seasons of I Dream of Jeannie on this premise). The slow corruption of power is shown beautifully throughout the whole movie. I don't watch this movie often, but when I do, I make sure I have a good HDTV. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7pc8y9dUdY8v2OFE41F9BCKZVoHjHNosUPxxVvPe_81rN1fhjUVX0QHFVPIs1FWYzhdjgEbC_Jt_kzqfHvpZc9LGovWQzoS64Dr_gSFoGTGqnwYQ_UZ510VoB-LtRx2RFgXR1elveqiQ/s1600/Mickey+Sorcerer's+Apprentice+.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7pc8y9dUdY8v2OFE41F9BCKZVoHjHNosUPxxVvPe_81rN1fhjUVX0QHFVPIs1FWYzhdjgEbC_Jt_kzqfHvpZc9LGovWQzoS64Dr_gSFoGTGqnwYQ_UZ510VoB-LtRx2RFgXR1elveqiQ/s1600/Mickey+Sorcerer's+Apprentice+.gif" height="402" width="640" /></a></div>
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8. <i>Princess and the Frog</i>: A well made movie (and sadly the last of the truly animated Disney movies), this movie has many memorable moments, including the killing of one of the heroes, Raymond the firefly, by the villain Dr. Facilier. Disney has always understood the importance of death (except when Captain Hook murders his shipmate for singing and playing his accordion). The characters give Ray a beautiful send-off before Ray is ushered into the sky and becomes the "second star to the right." <br />
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7. <i>Lion King</i>: Speaking of death. No words are necessary. This is just beautiful. And sad. Long live Mufasa!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMudZBgLcA1e9IWBmAejCAKknOPetBwePPiq5AnO8Cs6ty42Ce2wtNbAmpmumjczU03MwgfAR7w5hAAsCqjbDrhV5JOudyz5HaNhEkLeeu7CJ-ut9eYGBfx0FWCqdcni7f6ruzpRAhDVo/s1600/Mufasa+death+with+Simba.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMudZBgLcA1e9IWBmAejCAKknOPetBwePPiq5AnO8Cs6ty42Ce2wtNbAmpmumjczU03MwgfAR7w5hAAsCqjbDrhV5JOudyz5HaNhEkLeeu7CJ-ut9eYGBfx0FWCqdcni7f6ruzpRAhDVo/s1600/Mufasa+death+with+Simba.gif" /></a><br />
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6. <i>Tarzan</i>: I wanted to put Kala's loss of her baby gorilla here, but that's just too much death (also why you won't see Bambi alone in the meadow after his mom is shot). <br />
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But this whole scene, when Kala discovers the human home ravaged by the jaguar Sabor (the same jaguar that killed her baby), and finds baby Tarzan in his crib. She realizes on touch, that humans and apes aren't much different. She decides to adopt him. Great moments. The whole movie will almost make you want to adopt a whole Phil Collins CD. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgluBPfdg5jLeyXjG5vkuEjLXoJKjbtOwnhyYpFbWerW7Qdv9DDq1OIYebadYb4qtdoE5LZ71RmSPrXYIsrhf29A-LviLP2ZaDcPR_c3VsSboUoCwDaYD2IGC96P-gFlnaop5WU82Q9tDs/s1600/Kala+adopts+Kala+.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgluBPfdg5jLeyXjG5vkuEjLXoJKjbtOwnhyYpFbWerW7Qdv9DDq1OIYebadYb4qtdoE5LZ71RmSPrXYIsrhf29A-LviLP2ZaDcPR_c3VsSboUoCwDaYD2IGC96P-gFlnaop5WU82Q9tDs/s1600/Kala+adopts+Kala+.gif" /></a><br />
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5. <i>Dumbo</i>: Disney loves to separate parents from their kids. Jumbo is punished for protecting her awkward little boy Jumbo Jr. (whom is named Dumbo by horrible audiences), and gets locked away in a cage for wild animals. Dumbo is allowed to see her just briefly, and it's heart wrenching scene (another is when Jumbo doesn't get a package from the stork at the beginning). <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYELKTBwuq3oUWLSeq0pXaZ80I08TX0fwN4nWgsyU1H5FZNOSb1Ke7dPQ4dyVuDM9Po47YzWupym_PEOZKgI9vnO8fMFmx0ex7fLd4YJShwhQEF0Hz9Pb7F_e5KXb1ulJATAFxNW-KYWE/s1600/Dumbo+Jumbo+Baby+of+Mine+.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYELKTBwuq3oUWLSeq0pXaZ80I08TX0fwN4nWgsyU1H5FZNOSb1Ke7dPQ4dyVuDM9Po47YzWupym_PEOZKgI9vnO8fMFmx0ex7fLd4YJShwhQEF0Hz9Pb7F_e5KXb1ulJATAFxNW-KYWE/s1600/Dumbo+Jumbo+Baby+of+Mine+.gif" height="425" width="640" /></a></div>
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4. <i>Little Mermaid</i>: And if being locked away from our children is emotionally disturbing enough, there's Ariel. She doesn't like her species. She wants legs to be a human, because she saw Eric, once. Dad, King Triton, in what must be the most lamentable, but selfless act, allows his daughter to <i>go her own way.</i> People love Ariel. But Triton is the real hero of this story. What an amazing dad. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpXuYLdc2U0o9SwcU8o-3Cu8CDlPxahtiBDQDl_3ra-npFVFddcXkMQfSf0IKo18Q3sMdz_oKFdUWmEzOPgSG93Scx9a32bio9593wiLYsjpiVkOdUBwCZJkxn9zgnNxmq7kP1dESEfw0/s1600/Triton+loses+Ariel+to+Eric+.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpXuYLdc2U0o9SwcU8o-3Cu8CDlPxahtiBDQDl_3ra-npFVFddcXkMQfSf0IKo18Q3sMdz_oKFdUWmEzOPgSG93Scx9a32bio9593wiLYsjpiVkOdUBwCZJkxn9zgnNxmq7kP1dESEfw0/s1600/Triton+loses+Ariel+to+Eric+.gif" /></a></div>
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3. <i>Up.</i> The whole beginning of this movie is just plain amazing silent story telling. Pixar has learned to do so much without wasting dialogue. Usually kids have a hard time relating to older protagonists, but by giving Carl's whole life at the beginning...we (including kids) totally understand where Carl's coming from when young, slightly awkward Russell, interrupts his "swan song." This scene, though...I dare you to not cry at the beginning...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOu1OKtJHjdLvlkFysySo1Bmro7vAURrEbfXullUjvak__82m6Rx8fiW8eonnJTpKoy5UTW8pKk3rTKOoNM5VYetLpuD8-l9XLvLxx8fb8iWAmI-aG8jSeR7_m_dEwv32dCQTe1ar9iME/s1600/Up+Miscarriage+.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOu1OKtJHjdLvlkFysySo1Bmro7vAURrEbfXullUjvak__82m6Rx8fiW8eonnJTpKoy5UTW8pKk3rTKOoNM5VYetLpuD8-l9XLvLxx8fb8iWAmI-aG8jSeR7_m_dEwv32dCQTe1ar9iME/s1600/Up+Miscarriage+.gif" height="357" width="640" /></a><br />
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2. <i>Tangled:</i> Speaking of crying. This scene happens 18 years after Rapunzel is kidnapped by Gothel, another dust-in-the-eye moment. Behind closed doors, we see the difficulty of being the face of the nation, the pain of losing a child and yet holding out hope, in the face of unbelievable realities.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsN6mc483kHKN47svguO36QfFtstpEkeOhe-AFNsVPaspfssJ7euBvYkwBb1O6fUasyA18Od2qrqX4o9Cthqxzki8qaptfuAzsJuyyHq67TdgPf0lg-824KcpdvklxqyCZaO0-5y3OyJ0/s1600/tumblr_lhmkz77mLA1qb6hzj.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsN6mc483kHKN47svguO36QfFtstpEkeOhe-AFNsVPaspfssJ7euBvYkwBb1O6fUasyA18Od2qrqX4o9Cthqxzki8qaptfuAzsJuyyHq67TdgPf0lg-824KcpdvklxqyCZaO0-5y3OyJ0/s1600/tumblr_lhmkz77mLA1qb6hzj.gif" height="448" width="640" /></a></div>
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1. <i> Bambi</i>: Twitter-pated. Maybe dated in it's artistic styling, or cheesy moments, but who cares. It was a landmark movie, and this scene personifies the movie (more than the death scene). Yes, there are sounds during this scene, but no true dialogue...and it captures my memories of first love completely. </div>
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Maybe not the true #1 scene. But didn't want to end on a bummer (and it was Walt Disney's favorite). </div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/N12dH1lIE74?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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Narrowly missing the cut: Prince Phillip fights Maleficent, Genie being freed (for actually shutting Robin Williams up for a second), The Queen becomes a hag in Snow White, The Beast gives Belle the library, and Cinderella's reaction to her torn dress. What did I miss? Let me know. </div>
Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-50760543626805809472014-03-23T16:36:00.002-07:002014-03-24T10:45:51.875-07:00Making Criticizing Slogans for Every Major American Retailer. Do you ever walk through you house and look around and say, "Why the <i>h</i> do I own all this <i>crap</i>?" <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilqsRhejKYWxMeQ_DbvcPE40r3g4na6WwyCgbRFLbRYl2XueGZrHjC3wnPQEAXsqcpLpHTWUftOmr02Y2AhMwZB7nCk_eutm3oJGkOVtZ-hm8tqZkf32NzRNTQ6QwWh0vRB4F54vaKrbg/s1600/esq-hoarders-0410-lg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilqsRhejKYWxMeQ_DbvcPE40r3g4na6WwyCgbRFLbRYl2XueGZrHjC3wnPQEAXsqcpLpHTWUftOmr02Y2AhMwZB7nCk_eutm3oJGkOVtZ-hm8tqZkf32NzRNTQ6QwWh0vRB4F54vaKrbg/s1600/esq-hoarders-0410-lg.jpg" height="184" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me at home. Oh, wait that's not me...is it? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
I have a Pepsi bottle from the 1980s sitting on my shelf, like it's a collectors item. It's worth approx. the .05¢ recycling deposit. Why? Why do I keep this stuff? </div>
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Because I like stuff. And then, sometime later, I hate that stuff; and I'm too lazy to sell the stuff when it still has value, so I give that stuff to charity. But sometimes I get depressed by the stuff that I have, that I go and buy other stuff to offset the non-newness of the stuff I have, which starts a whole new circle of stuff that the house begins to get stuffy, so I need to go outside, only I don't have stuff outside, so I buy outside stuff that eventually gets swallowed by nature. <br />
<br />
I recognize the "first world problem" of this issue. But that's not the point of this article. The point is: I'm an excellent shopper. <strike>Dad let's me go shopping down the driveway on Sundays. </strike> (<i>Stay focused Rainman</i>). </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipIuvGjq8eor28qNsPaF5jVRZBMUpv51kD17JmCchzGtnyVS-jhMkRQHyXkrMZjFfy6nY-eq-MF8kXaLD4w6ZY_GJAlDs7Lt_amPG59tB_MuU7vtVLbhj9vv8g-2khrzQMgnwAM6uk7I4/s1600/Screen+shot+2014-03-23+at+11.19.16+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipIuvGjq8eor28qNsPaF5jVRZBMUpv51kD17JmCchzGtnyVS-jhMkRQHyXkrMZjFfy6nY-eq-MF8kXaLD4w6ZY_GJAlDs7Lt_amPG59tB_MuU7vtVLbhj9vv8g-2khrzQMgnwAM6uk7I4/s1600/Screen+shot+2014-03-23+at+11.19.16+AM.png" height="320" width="254" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh snap. You just served Sears. That one box<br />
is totally out of place! Next step, bankruptcy!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
I can buy the crap outta stuff. Which makes me a retail guru.</div>
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Recently some Wall Street tycoons and business bloggers started posting Twitter images of declining brick and mortar stores (Like Sears and JCPenney), hoping to start a sell-off of these floundering stores. As if encouraging bankruptcy, thousands of laid-off employes, and huge empty buildings, is what this economy needs. Thanks greedy analysts. </div>
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Because I'm not an investor or analyst, and simply a super-consumer, let me give you the negative images I think when I walk through these stores in slogan form. In alphabetical order. </div>
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<b>Abercrombie & Fitch; Aéropostale; and American Eagle Outfitters:</b> "You know those Dove commercials about honoring 'real beauty'? Yeah, that's dumb. Beauty is skin deep and our super thin and horribly stitched clothes will easy rip off, exposing the real you. We do the unconscionable at unreasonable prices." </div>
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<b>Amazon.com:</b> "Shutting down your favorite retail stores since 1999." </div>
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<b>Apple Store: </b>"We are the Ethan Allen of technology. Where lasting design supersedes functionality, and cost is irrelevant. Also, we hate Samsung." </div>
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<b>Barnes and Noble:</b> "Can you believe we lasted longer than Borders? We also charge more in-store than online, because frustration is the key to good customer service. Need that hard-to-find book or dvd? We have it--and we can operate our store for three days off that one, extortionist sale." </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqlSaAYdMoIo72rOmryefvWQunZG1n1QqDaBeKHBRCIHalGKagwepY-51p_MKlTN2X6iYl1fefXDHqUCZ0fd9zbHSSIZAxtM8ZWnx2qMLNfkCD9SdUoDp6cqChHgLRKtnkm6qfhkFYnuc/s1600/MjAxMy1kOTE0NGI1OGU2Zjc1MWEw.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqlSaAYdMoIo72rOmryefvWQunZG1n1QqDaBeKHBRCIHalGKagwepY-51p_MKlTN2X6iYl1fefXDHqUCZ0fd9zbHSSIZAxtM8ZWnx2qMLNfkCD9SdUoDp6cqChHgLRKtnkm6qfhkFYnuc/s1600/MjAxMy1kOTE0NGI1OGU2Zjc1MWEw.png" height="224" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maybe they should just sell liquor in the company store? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b>Bed, Bath, and Beyond:</b> "Ahh...look at all the lonely people...who think that thread count matters." </div>
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<b>Best Buy:</b> "Taking the joy out of electronics shopping since 1999." </div>
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<b>Big Lots:</b> "Other stores couldn't sell our cruddy merchandise, so we put orange and an exclamation point in our logo to drive home the suck factor!" </div>
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<b>Costco:</b> "Where some of the best business practices, bulk sizes, and savings meet the biggest A-hole customers in the world." </div>
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<b>CVS; RiteAid; Walgreens:</b> "Making so much money on pharmaceuticals, that we could fill a whole department store with unnecessary knock-off junk." </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEAaUXW4EbijCKshVeLdoRJGOCs9LlaMuOJWQkZTEGT0skKaM7U96kDlkwKYmQFrWm_foBLYRG6dw-I-2x8gn1LnDGo8IHg0FQMLf7gyWiBuf-fOmbM0jWV8TOYjHNcd6boSNLuiTOx_Y/s1600/sears-vintage-workout-gear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEAaUXW4EbijCKshVeLdoRJGOCs9LlaMuOJWQkZTEGT0skKaM7U96kDlkwKYmQFrWm_foBLYRG6dw-I-2x8gn1LnDGo8IHg0FQMLf7gyWiBuf-fOmbM0jWV8TOYjHNcd6boSNLuiTOx_Y/s1600/sears-vintage-workout-gear.jpg" height="226" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I remember the good ole' days selling exercise equipment<br />
at Sears. Then we had four CEOs in 8 years; each was dumber<br />
and more inept than the previous. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b>Dick's Sporting Goods; Sports Authority:</b> "Your specific sporting equipment, gear, or clothing is never on sale; yet absolutely everything else in the store is." </div>
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<b>Dollar Store/Tree/Family: </b>"The beauty of foreign exploitation for a dollar." </div>
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<b>Gap; Old Navy; and Banana Republic: </b>"You'll like it on the rack, and hate it after one wash." </div>
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<b>IKEA:</b> "Don't be flärdfull (vain), buy our structurally unsound designer spånskivor (particle board) möbler (furniture)."</div>
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<b>J.C.Penney:</b> "When moronic corporate management tries to re-dress a good model. A model that proudly wears mom-jeans." </div>
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<b>Ko<i>h</i>l's:</b> "The <i>h</i> represents helpfulness, and it's silent." </div>
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<b>Kmart:</b> "Embrace the suck." </div>
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<b><strike>Kroger</strike>/Fred Meyer:</b> "Find something to complain about, we dare you." <i>(Can't speak for Kroger, as Fred Meyer is their one-stop-shopping variation in the West) </i></div>
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<b>Lowe's/The Home Depot:</b> "Wrecking perfectly lazy weekends for everybody since the mid-1980s." </div>
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<b>Macy's:</b> "Pretension comes at a cost, and a sneer from an abnormally cosmetically enhanced employee. Sometimes we are too good for your money." </div>
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<b>Michaels:</b> "Sending you 50% off coupons that aren't applicable to a single item in the store, every week." </div>
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<b>Nordstroms: </b>"Desperately trying to be snootier and more expensive than Macy's, and winning." </div>
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<b>Office Depot/Max/Staples: </b>"You'll never quite understand why one faux leather swivel chair costs more than another, or why some fancy pens cost hundreds of dollars...and our employees won't be able to tell you either." </div>
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<b>PetSmart:</b> "You have to really, really, love your pet to step foot in our establishment." </div>
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<b>RadioShack:</b> "Remember the 1970s? We do. They were glorious." </div>
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<b>Ross:</b> "We find the most effective way to display our products is to throw them on the ground in the aisles." </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwW79BjyTUwaMSHeCnl6uV1kt2uicON15BXVZe0RHwkN6uVkRmLCokb_ww43MeL9K-P47bAg9-WlNVa1i5Ww2vDIQlQAEa1dDAt30G7QwWQp1fWRHWerafOG5Lcr6YyXmdaFcgyN_ORNg/s1600/truth-behind-retail-stores_o_272276.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwW79BjyTUwaMSHeCnl6uV1kt2uicON15BXVZe0RHwkN6uVkRmLCokb_ww43MeL9K-P47bAg9-WlNVa1i5Ww2vDIQlQAEa1dDAt30G7QwWQp1fWRHWerafOG5Lcr6YyXmdaFcgyN_ORNg/s1600/truth-behind-retail-stores_o_272276.jpg" height="168" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Do you have this Craftsman lawn tractor in stock?" <br />
"Uh...no, but I have a ladder in stock!" </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<b>Sears:</b> "Selling really neat products that are never in stock, and mismanaging quality employees since the 1980s, all while being stupidly attached to malls. But boy, if you could've seen us in the 1960s, it was beautiful." <br />
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<b>Shopko:</b> "Did the rapture happen? No...oh, I could've sworn." (<i>credit Janet W.</i>) </div>
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<b>Target: </b>"Hoping you will continue to criticize Walmart for being the exact same thing we are. Low quality, low-wage paying, unhelpful, and lacking selection. But at least you get through our check out lines quick!" </div>
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<b>Toys "R" Us:</b> "Remember when you were a kid and you cried and screamed and wanted toys your parents couldn't afford? Now you have kids and this is payback karma. May the screams of a thousand unsatisfied kids fill your guilty conscious, and fill our coffers with money." </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq_jC0b0x_-4Pw4YzqPyZRKsej7LV02hpEc__7LnQBeQiScuo4zx9Nm8rt5fmAkA-p19zCSyvHc1Jb6gq7vG6mkjqPWmCN79pnN_-buuPWpKyf9e2Py3jbuyVVla6cS6ypKNz3bQwMyLc/s1600/7pdy4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq_jC0b0x_-4Pw4YzqPyZRKsej7LV02hpEc__7LnQBeQiScuo4zx9Nm8rt5fmAkA-p19zCSyvHc1Jb6gq7vG6mkjqPWmCN79pnN_-buuPWpKyf9e2Py3jbuyVVla6cS6ypKNz3bQwMyLc/s1600/7pdy4.jpg" height="298" width="400" /></a><b>Walmart:</b> "Criticize us? Ha ha. We taught Vladimir Putin everything he knows. You don't like the way we do business? We buy your business. Don't like our wages, we convince government welfare money to subsidize. You don't like our illegal practices, we rewrite laws. As long as we have something you want, we have all the leverage, and we care nothing about perception or image. Power doesn't only corrupt, it shuts everyone else up." </div>
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Even after all that criticism, I still dream of a day when online shopping and the brick-and-mortar retail store can co-exist, because I want my merchandise when I want it, the way I want it, for the price I want it. Because I'm getting depressed with all the stuff I currently have. </div>
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Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-43575165614854278332014-03-18T20:11:00.001-07:002014-03-18T20:11:16.897-07:00Blogging Corrupts How People Perceive You Writing a blog has innumerable benefits and byproducts, which I will attempt to numerate below: <div>
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1. Outstanding pay</div>
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2. The jealousy of all your friends (who have been meaning to write, but haven't got around to it yet).</div>
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3. Dealing with internet lice (website spam from developing & third world nations). </div>
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4. Offending people who will never have the moxie to verbalize it (but who secretly judge you now). </div>
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5. Being so honest (in a one-sided relationship), that people feel like they now know you intimately. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7SlShQihjgJ1xra2HHWIRLU-7zoAXdSlmI5Zn98ydpoi_8_M71qFdsm9FqZf4rZtpZt_gZYTCjltn4erJ_MShunRr-5EA2mwm9Qx9Xa6A1F8RexooUEPMZWJpeq7g6LYLrWFtFZ1Oc2U/s1600/dtopen5-771504.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7SlShQihjgJ1xra2HHWIRLU-7zoAXdSlmI5Zn98ydpoi_8_M71qFdsm9FqZf4rZtpZt_gZYTCjltn4erJ_MShunRr-5EA2mwm9Qx9Xa6A1F8RexooUEPMZWJpeq7g6LYLrWFtFZ1Oc2U/s1600/dtopen5-771504.jpg" height="236" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swan diving into my own gold coin collection has added<br />to my delusions of grandeur. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Some of these aforementioned points create strains on the blogger's real world relationships (when we take a break from swimming in our McDuck-ian money bins to commiserate with the plebeians). </div>
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Allow me to elaborate. </div>
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The other day I was talking to co-workers about a student who has plans on becoming a teacher. I pointed out that the student is going to have to give up her "God-complex" of superiority before she would truly be effective, when another co-worker blurt interjected, "Just like you do, Chris." </div>
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I held back the urge to smite, and played it off like a joke, when it clearly wasn't. I went home and self-reflected. Do I really have a God-complex? </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
From Wikipedia: <span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">A </span><b style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">god complex</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;"> is an unshakable belief characterized by consistently inflated feelings of personal </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ability" style="background-color: white; background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px; text-decoration: none;" title="Ability">ability</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Privilege" style="background-color: white; background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px; text-decoration: none;" title="Privilege">privilege</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">, or </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Infallibility" style="background-color: white; background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px; text-decoration: none;" title="Infallibility">infallibility</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">. A person with a god complex may refuse to admit the possibility of their error or failure, even in the face of complex or intractable problems or difficult or impossible tasks, or may regard their personal opinions as unquestionably correct.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">The individual may disregard the rules of society and require special consideration or privileges.</span></blockquote>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUvvdLM_6n0HQLVdZKGFQteT-zJy5WBm77u_DSmUMAgGBLvjoshJ5TVV6FAc10Sj3hvkWZHD5_KoEx72pQk0a8a1m4I3H5i37eLoC7dUvG3kNopx0ZHXijtJjNdk6H5EQBC6Ds9_NCWY/s1600/mr-know-it-all.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUvvdLM_6n0HQLVdZKGFQteT-zJy5WBm77u_DSmUMAgGBLvjoshJ5TVV6FAc10Sj3hvkWZHD5_KoEx72pQk0a8a1m4I3H5i37eLoC7dUvG3kNopx0ZHXijtJjNdk6H5EQBC6Ds9_NCWY/s1600/mr-know-it-all.jpg" height="195" width="200" /></a>Ouch. In other words, I'm a know-it-all asshole. <br />
<br />
Some people are okay with that label. I'm not. I don't want to be God, but I do want to do his business. Being an arrogant prick isn't going to help either of our images. <br />
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Part of reason I think this person verbally vomited on me (my go-to phrase when somebody lashes out in words), is because she has access to this blog. She has read, and maybe misinterpreted my humor; took my temporal opinions as my life philosophies; caught some grammatical errors and interpreted it as ineptitude; etc. <br />
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In other words, I, a guy who doesn't like over-thinking sentiment was jumping to conclusions. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVNSLYeidMVwiB2k7EYeG5eqLJR68tO5Tc-tkSS76C3X_Uh2Q9wM1RUy12uUTLEYIPK8xz4KhdimlhkC5Jws3lMt1MJKo83QFmE0ZEpTcK4nl8j6X9UMTCOkPx9TEljhcVz6dBHLcbo6A/s1600/tumblr_lon5josiZy1qzmr3jo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVNSLYeidMVwiB2k7EYeG5eqLJR68tO5Tc-tkSS76C3X_Uh2Q9wM1RUy12uUTLEYIPK8xz4KhdimlhkC5Jws3lMt1MJKo83QFmE0ZEpTcK4nl8j6X9UMTCOkPx9TEljhcVz6dBHLcbo6A/s1600/tumblr_lon5josiZy1qzmr3jo1_500.jpg" height="300" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've been blogging so long, I think I've used this image before. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Thankfully, my divine rationality returned, and I was able to let it go. <i>Let it go. Let it go. Can't hold it back anymore... </i>(Dang you <i>Frozen</i> for being released on DVD today!). <br />
<br />
Blogging is so one sided, that even though I only reveal 80% of who I am on here (the rest is reserved for interpersonal reality), it is still <b>so</b> much more than <b>most</b> people ever divulge. I have stories to tell and I'm not afraid of my stories or my sordid past. They are a part of me, but they don't define me. I'd like to think of myself as the Sun, always morphing, changing, growing, intensifying (God, I do have a God complex). <br />
<br />
Anyway, my perceived openness inspired a younger fan to start a blog and share. Over-share. There was nothing wrong with this person's writing, other than he/she disclosed EVERYTHING. Personal things. Valuable things. Save some. Save some for yourself. I know the internet tells you that the key to being discovered is to expose yourself, but it's wrong. That's exploitation. The internet wants to <i>use</i> you. Disrobe you. Remember to keep yourself clothed. It reminds me of a quote about essays: <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>"A good essay should be like a woman's skirt: long enough to cover the subject and short enough to create interest,"--Winston Churchill </b></blockquote>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmbWrpf6i2UXajf18bwNCKvkNF4F48KbCcLtxmZSjla4afdtcq73pAjhwPnIIx7VnOwomZq96QU-Y7Nd8FpjlYoUFHRBohKgilFip6xWvp-q0yjxVdYbEsMvKy5ZpGgrL3ACrAOmxnPOg/s1600/PeepingTom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmbWrpf6i2UXajf18bwNCKvkNF4F48KbCcLtxmZSjla4afdtcq73pAjhwPnIIx7VnOwomZq96QU-Y7Nd8FpjlYoUFHRBohKgilFip6xWvp-q0yjxVdYbEsMvKy5ZpGgrL3ACrAOmxnPOg/s1600/PeepingTom.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cats are sick, sick, people. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Blogging, in reality, is voyeurism by the reader into the writer's life. Just don't look too closely in my windows, you wouldn't want to see me in a mini-skirt (I save that for my wife). And if you read that last sentence as evidence that I am a cross-dresser, you really don't know my humor at all. <br />
<br />
So stop reading so much into what I write on here. This isn't reality, it's the internet. Besides, I'm only doing this blog for the money (and the God-like power). <br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Corbel, Verdana, sans-serif;">And because this blog is all over the place and random, I would like to think it's because God has made me beautifully complex (rather than me having a God complex).</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Corbel, Verdana, sans-serif;">Psalm 139: 14-16: <i>I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.</i></span></blockquote>
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<br />Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2552170607010033527.post-75539184585876739382014-03-10T22:52:00.002-07:002014-03-11T07:47:37.368-07:00Don't Judge My March Madness Obsession: 7 Validating Reasons to Watch NCAA Tournament Basketball Beware the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ides_of_march">Ides of March</a>, for with it comes madness. <br />
<br />
The kind of March Madness that keeps sports fans glued to the television; swearing, cheering, pleading, praying, and circling or etching out names on a printed tournament sheet like a bunch of drunk septuagenarian bingo ladies. <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxjRdTcwDBDAKhW7a3sHUcIzDDZdG4UtE8KZIvnBpXgXwoAIlYW0JwQZnJd6tLvuRI7T56_O7WIKNTIsITcico82BBenX_r66U6t_XqT758IrLfeEcky6_A2Ztfir0PiBAJiTK376hK-k/s1600/Laettner-and-Hill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxjRdTcwDBDAKhW7a3sHUcIzDDZdG4UtE8KZIvnBpXgXwoAIlYW0JwQZnJd6tLvuRI7T56_O7WIKNTIsITcico82BBenX_r66U6t_XqT758IrLfeEcky6_A2Ztfir0PiBAJiTK376hK-k/s1600/Laettner-and-Hill.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have to admit, looking back, that this Duke team appeared<br />
more likable than my UNLV Running Rebels. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's a strange phenomenon that makes even lay fans of college basketball suddenly think they are experts; almost like everybody in your office pool stayed at a Holiday Inn the night before. Yesterday you had no idea who the Dayton Flyers were, but now, based on ten minutes of research they are suddenly your favorite team from the Atlantic 10 conference. That guy who replaces the florescent bulbs every other year thinks that this is the year Gonzaga will finally advance to the Final Four. Jim, the guy who nobody likes, is picking Duke, again. (He even wears his Christian Laettner jersey to show how lost in time he is). <br />
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March, for most people, sucks to your assmar. It's a transitional month. Plants aren't quite blooming yet, but their annoying pollens are everywhere. March isn't cold enough to snow or warm enough to go swimming. And in my corner of the world it rains every time a guy thinks thinks about sex (every seven seconds or so).<br />
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The month is so depressing that schools typically give a break at the end of the month, almost like a reprieve for surviving three whole weeks of its existence. Spring Break gives us a little time to stop and smell the roses that in most areas haven't started blooming yet.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWDy1q6Bm96ptuyLSLTGqYnPg8FnryRTd2m-0Mvi-Ty-LLHc1C6V831IY2k_wBJILIfyF4Tfb6wcmO9267HUyINZ09bfYZWNudlQ1ET9oKarG1Ut8D2yvEkMIccyDYUqRFsqEa3CRNw-c/s1600/minotaur_costume_by_samuraismurfette-d4tfiim-300x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWDy1q6Bm96ptuyLSLTGqYnPg8FnryRTd2m-0Mvi-Ty-LLHc1C6V831IY2k_wBJILIfyF4Tfb6wcmO9267HUyINZ09bfYZWNudlQ1ET9oKarG1Ut8D2yvEkMIccyDYUqRFsqEa3CRNw-c/s1600/minotaur_costume_by_samuraismurfette-d4tfiim-300x400.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"What a shame when perfectly fit white boys<br />
have to put minotaur hats on to feel good." </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
To understand the Madness, you have to understand seasonal sports depression. To those who don't like sports, the Super Bowl (2/2/2014) seemed like yesterday. To a sports nut, the Super Bowl was decades ago, when you wore size 32 waisted jeans. The Super Bowl was back when you were carded for alcohol. The Super Bowl was those ole' glory days that you sit around a bar and tell Bruce Springsteen about. The Super Bowl was soooo far back, that humans lived in harmony with elves, hobbits and minotaurs. <br />
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But hasn't there been college basketball for months? Didn't the new golf season start? Didn't the NBA just have its All-Star game? Hasn't there been plenty of "sports" to keep you preoccupied? <br />
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Oh, please. That's like trying to appease a heroin addict with a Red Bull. We need our hit, like we need our top seed to hit their free throws. So instead of judging that March Madness fanatic; treat them with respect by honoring what March Madness <i>really</i> means, because it means so much more than basketball:<br />
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*It means validation. Your sports fan doesn't just casually watch sports, he/she is invested. The March Madness College Basketball Fan, or MMCBF, has stats, visual evidence, and trends that support his/her picks. Remember that <i>lifetime of learning</i> commitment on your university's mission statement? This is it in action. <br />
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</div>
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*It's not gambling, it's insider trading. You know how the rich get richer? They have knowledge about stocks that we don't have. March Madness isn't a slot machine, or a scratch ticket, or a luck of the draw...it's playing blackjack with <i>Rainman</i>. How do I know that Wisconsin will lose in the second round? Simple, they always do (except for in 2012, 2011, 2008, 2005, 2003, and 2000 which were all anomalies). With this vast knowledge of numbers, trends and match-ups, <u>not</u> investing money would be the crime. <br />
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<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
*It's unconditional loyalty, like picking your alma mater to advance one more game than you know in your heart they are likely to win. You're willing to destroy your bracket by picking an upset that less than 1% of the nation agrees with. And when it turns out? You're getting paid, son. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikujlZTEceBNLflqHj8wj98REHIp2EAKYpkxF13o-tPw1sgVP2jpVnHzXZ7QZ1DaszhqjtnqJR2AVK8HkeB4pXx3EPR-U1skATvwNPROQtrWcVkhmrRt16V6P05J3ZXhWVN0ATgIMVMuo/s1600/NCAA_Butler_Florida_Basketball_08eef-8018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikujlZTEceBNLflqHj8wj98REHIp2EAKYpkxF13o-tPw1sgVP2jpVnHzXZ7QZ1DaszhqjtnqJR2AVK8HkeB4pXx3EPR-U1skATvwNPROQtrWcVkhmrRt16V6P05J3ZXhWVN0ATgIMVMuo/s1600/NCAA_Butler_Florida_Basketball_08eef-8018.jpg" height="221" width="320" /></a>*It's feel good TV. Maybe you didn't see Butler get to the Final Four two years in a row. THE BUTLER BULLDOGS! Their entire enrollment is less than the value of my 13-year-old Honda Civic. And anyone who owns a 2001 Honda Civic knows how overvalued those little peasant go-carts are (even if they do run forever). Who doesn't like a Cinderella story? And in this fairy tale version, Cinderella gets to send the evil step-sisters home crying. <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-foANJPvo7fL6BtV-lRpFp234qWMQSGDnRdb8dQuXHVY4izbLAZEbAVtMQV0z-thmO9qolySdR9ZlSntvX2INvg78p_wvEzJ58CSGUQzVSm4cGZCHIT87gGrrZ-WjcJQPcY_8sEpMtHE/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-foANJPvo7fL6BtV-lRpFp234qWMQSGDnRdb8dQuXHVY4izbLAZEbAVtMQV0z-thmO9qolySdR9ZlSntvX2INvg78p_wvEzJ58CSGUQzVSm4cGZCHIT87gGrrZ-WjcJQPcY_8sEpMtHE/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even Bill Walton's pseudo-<br />
intellectual blathering doesn't demean<br />
his non-biased announcing. He<br />
hates UCLA...and he's a graduate! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
*We root like Communists. Those huge corporate step-sister schools that get trumped up by Dick Vitale and Jay Bilas...we want them all to lose. We don't care about their historic wins from the 1950s or how many players go on to the NBA. We're sick of the biased reffing, look-the-other-way announcing, and questionable recruiting practices. Yeah, I'm talking about the Tarheels, Blue Devils, Jayhawks, Bruins, and Wildcats. Nothing makes me happier than when a trumped-up #1 seed on name and talent alone loses to a team that plays like a TEAM, and not a group of guys angry that they had to go to college for one year to make the jump to the NBA. <br />
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*It's revenge towards annoying co-workers. The drudgery of work is only compounded by the fact that Lisa, the woman who knits during meetings, won the last NCAA tournament bracket. Lisa is by far the luckiest person alive. She picked her teams by judging the stitch complexities of each mascot logo. Even though Lisa is the nicest person alive, you physically hate her for winning based on thread counts, when so much actual skill goes into picking an NCAA victor. <br />
<br />
*We get to substantiate our cable television subscription. See, this is why I have the TruTV channel (not because I secretly like <i>Impractical Jokers</i>). Now I get to watch an ENTIRE DAY of high intensity sports games. It also reinforces the necessity of my blood pressure medication. <br />
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So go ahead, and complain that its just another sports diversion, and we March Madness fans are shallow entertainment slobs. But I think it shows the empathy-filled, investment savvy, justifiably angry over injustice, value conscious, loyal, and well-informed, well-rounded fanatics we really are. <br />
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Of course, <a href="http://www.nosweatshakespeare.com/quotes/friends-romans-countrymen/">Julius Caesar</a> was a well-rounded man who brought peace, prosperity, happiness, and unity to the people of Rome, and the Senate stabbed him in back for his ambition. <br />
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Don't be a Brutus. Enjoy March Madness. <br />
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<br />Plumbeddownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05922056608873107130noreply@blogger.com8