Trick or Treat, Trick Knees, Tricks of the Trade and Tricky Driving

Halloween! I love this holiday. I never do it right, plan ahead or anything, but I love seeing the kids and some of the grown-up kids pull off miracles of costumes. Halloween is sadly the last of the yearly holidays that I care about. We now go into the winter holidays with all the forced togetherness and nog based drinks that go with them. Bummer.

I did just watch the extended forecast for the winter here in West Michigan... 16 more inches snow this year than last. More than normal. More general precipitation other than snow, too. That means ice, freezing rain, sleet and other shit.

I. Hate. Winter. I don't mind the cold. I hate the snow. I don't like being constrained in any way and snow is extremely constraining. Everything is slowed down to a crawl or unnecessarily challenging and dangerous. It takes so much time to just dress properly and get the car warm enough so it doesn't shatter into a million pieces when you cross the first railroad tracks. On the road, where I really live, people that in summer are the subject of my hair trigger middle finger become more than mere inconveniences and minor annoyances, they become deadly. To me. If you want to be self-deadly, that's fine, keep it off the roads. If death is your bag, I suggest drunken skiing (ask a Kennedy), drunken hunting, (give Bambi a chance), and ice fishing with dynamite.

I knew before I saw the forecast show what it was going to be. I have a sixth sense about weather. My wife will tell you if I say it, it is likely at least in the ballpark. I just use my various biological barometers to tune in to mother nature (who in winter is a different kind of mother). A combination of a throbbing left knee and burning hips means pressure is dropping and snow is imminent. If I have a temporal headache and my right pinky throbs at the first knuckle, we are about to have extreme cold. And so on.

Were it up to me, if it could happen financially, I would flee. I don't know where I would go. I've spent winters in New Jersey and Georgia and while there is little to no snow, it rains and is do damp that you may as well be living in a bucket of water. Em resolutely refuses to go to the desert and I don't think it would matter too much. We visited my parents one February and it was colder in Las Vegas than it was in Michigan. The Caribbean life is not alluring to me, but the Mediterranean sure is. I don't even have enough money to pay the deposit on that dream.

At the very least I would like to have a job where I didn't have to leave the house. In Mid November, I would fill a gigantic deep freezer with all I need, load up the dry pantry with enough canned goods to support a community food bank, Go by a rick of firewood, hang the Christmas lights, and close the curtains and hunker down until April.

If people would pay me to write, I could convert a room in my house to a proper office and just laugh as I look out the window at the chumps who have real jobs. They would ask, "Are you going to shovel your driveway?" I would simply answer, "Nah. Why bother? Freezer's full of food, and it's cold. I'm sitting this out... until Memorial Day."

I guess I wouldn't mind if I had a cabin in the woods where I could get all bundled up and play in the snow. I can't and won't ski, but I love a good snow-mobile ride. But the cabin would only be one more thing that needed another piece of me and there just aren't any pieces left to pass around.

For those of you dear reader (left singular on purpose) who love the seasons, God bless you. I will be releasing my inner Grinch and humbugging my way through the next 5 months. I'll see you when the grass pokes back out through the ebbing snow.

More Miscellani

Your Symptoms May Vary

I am watching the national nightly news, that great lumbering dinosaur that continues on in spite of itself through all its antiquated delivery and overproduction. It is clear that the audience of the national news programs is skewing a little older these days as the advertisements are all about either affordable term life insurance by Colonial Penn or prescription drugs.

We have a pill for everything from asthma to vertigo stopping to visit erectile dysfunction several times on the way. It always scares me how many side effects there are. Keep in mind the drug companies aren't required to list all side effects, only those found to be statistically significant during testing.

Are you kidding me? There is one drug for "mild to moderate plaque psoriasis" that has a list of side effects longer than my arm. The last one on the list suggests you will certainly die from even being in the same room as this medicine. At least you will leave a corpse free of mild to moderate plaque psoriasis, so you can have an open casket. I occasionally have bouts with mild to moderate plaque psoriasis and I can tell you that aside from the rare visit to the dermatologist for some cortisone cream, it is a mild to moderate annoyance at the most. Certainly not worth dying over. If people hate their dermatologists that much, it seems to me the dermatologists themselves need to take a good long look at themselves.

And that's my biggest issue. A lot of this stuff can be so easily treated without resorting to the pills. Remember Restless Leg Syndrome? Me either. But if I recall there was a media blitz and two competing medications came out at the same time. We don't hear too much about this anymore because after all, we could switch to decaf and the problem goes away.

All the ads are exactly the same, too. Impressive voice over artist with a calming but authoritative voice over pictures of people smiling at each other for no reason. They will be wearing a lot of cotton clothes and there will be a breeze coming from somewhere off camera. They walk through the park that leads to a beach and then to some cheerful bumper cars where they laugh and look surprised each time they get bumped. Finish with the couple sitting on the settee of a deluxe resort hotel before a roaring fire.

You work hard. Shouldn't you be able to relax and pursue your interests
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need Fukitol from the makers of Ambivolize. New advances in medical science
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problems, high blood pressure and spastic colon will if they take Fukitol.
Fukitol is not recommended for people over the age of 47 or who have jobs.
Fukitol is not habit forming, but modifying the dosage has been found to cause
spontaneous cranial explosion in some or all patients.

Finally you can live your life free of day to day pressures. New Fukitol, ask
any Argentinian doctor if it is right for you!

I Like Ike

Election season brings us the ubiquitous and never ending campaign ads that we all know and hate. This year has been especially derisive in my neck of the woods. These ads are just as derivative as the drug ads. Menacing sounding music and a scornful voice-over artist over bad pictures of the candidate with dark colored backgrounds filled with red suggesting the candidate burn in hell, followed by the voice-over artist suddenly lightening up and the music becoming a powerful major key fight song that draws tears to your eyes for no reason at all and talks about how wonderful the other candidate is.

Harry Deucheman avoided the draft in Vietnam and threw rotten eggs at our
troops. Rotten eggs bought with your tax dollars. Harry Deucheman once read
a book about Hitler and taught Creation to his Sunday school class.
Harry Deucheman wants to eat your babies and tax you for crying about it.
Harry Deucheman and his liberal friends voted to kick you in the nuts. Call
Harry Deucheman and tell him his policies are dangerous.

Michael Angel fought for your freedom in Vietnam killing 35 gooks with his bare
hands before liberating an entire village in the Me Kong Delta. Michael Angel
does not know who Hitler is and believes in natural selection. Michael Angel voted
no on dead baby taxes and supports humane swirlies, not swift kicks in the nuts.
Michael Angel is one of us.

I am going to run for public office and instead of allowing my opposing candidate to run a negative campaign against me, I am going to go negative... on myself.

Bill Uebbing has a name that is hard to pronounce. Bill Uebbing doesn't like
fried Okra and once double dipped at a party. Bill Uebbing hasn't spoken
to his mother this week and never goes to see her. Bill Uebbing once
forwarded an e-mail that everyone had already seen. Bill Uebbing is not good
at arts and crafts and can't even color in the lines.
Call Bill Uebbing and tell him that tie doesn't go with that suit. Bill Uebbing
can't even dress himself. Do you really want to put him to be your Assemblyman?

I figure this will take the sting off the things that would really come out about me during a campaign. Add the unsavory things I have done and my propensity to extemporaneously drop the F bomb without even knowing it and you've got one notable candidate.

Vote early and vote often. Remember the charming quote from Ronald Reagan- Republicans act like each day is the 4th of July. Democrats act like each day is April 15th. This Tuesday you have the choice... the evil empire, the crazy loons or the professional taxation specialists.

Miscellany

Can You Hear Me, Major Tom?

What are McDonald's restaurants made of that makes me lose my radio reception when I am in the drive through lane? I can be in the middle of a station's listening area and as soon as I pull astride the building to wait for my plastic infused but remarkably food like meal I lose the station. Are the walls lead? I know the stuff isn't good for you, but is McDonald's compelled to line their walls with some sort of impermeable boundary for the good of the health of the immediately surrounding community? Perhaps they are only trying to prevent a leak of whatever proprietary substance they use to make "Happy Meals" so "happy". Or maybe there is something a good deal more sinister afoot.

We all know about the various bunkers spread throughout the country for government officials to bravely hide in while we the proletariat have our faces melted off by the bomb. The most famous of the exposed bunkers actually has a close tie with my family. My Grandfather was an employee of the Greenbrier resort hotel during the time of the addition of the wing that was the cover for the building of the bunker. If he knew anything, he took it to his grave with him. Anyhow, why spend billions of dollars for an elaborate bunker that nobody will be near when the big one drops? Why not pay the McDonald's corporation to equip their ubiquitous restaurants as bomb shelters for those people deemed important enough to live through Armageddon? There are so many of them that it will be easy to just duck inside and ride out the end of days supersizing it!

McDonald's restaurants, cockroaches and politicians are the only things that survive global-thermal nuclear war. This is the worst possible post apocalyptic scenario ever. I hope I am standing directly at ground zero if the bomb ever goes off.

Auntie Em, it's a Twister!

When the weather monster broke loose across the Midwest yesterday, I was stuck in a manufacturing facility in the "severe weather gathering place" with 700 of my closest friends. It was fantastic, especially when the lights went out. I called my boss and told him if I died at work, I was going to come back and haunt him... and I could do some really crazy shit, too because I've been thinking about what I would do as a specter for a long time!

I did not die. Nor hopefully did anyone else. The wind is quite amazing, though. Straight line gales of a pretty impressive magnitude. All I can think of is the only 20th Century sea shanty to make it on the charts which is of course Gordon Lightfoot's masterpiece "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald."

For those of us who grew up on the Great Lakes, the legend of the Mighty Fitz is as well known as the Titanic. Sure, the loss of life at 29 pales in comparison to the 1533 souls who perished on the Titanic, but it was a shocking disaster of magnificent proportions nonetheless.

"That good ship and crew was a bone to be chewed when the gales of November came thrashin'". Indeed. I felt this way as my 2 ton automobile was being tossed about on 131 at the whim of the wind. What a massive force must have been applied to fell a thousand foot freighter. This storm was no joke. Our news outlets never let us forget it, either... Even Brian Williams used his best fake concerned voice to remind us that this was the worst storm on record since the one that sunk the Edmund Fitzgerald. They even sent a newsman to get blasted smooth by supersonic sands in little Muskegon (MUSKaGONE is how they pronounce it), Michigan. This is an honor usually saved for Hatteras North Carolina and the Outer Banks.

One thing that was nice was the gorgeous sunset that was going on behind the poor soul's shoulder. It was odd to hear and see the wind whipping, the waves crashing high and hard into the lighthouse and to see the incredible colors of a fall sunset radiate softly through a crackling blue sky. I was proud for good old MUKSaGONE and for making the national news for something other than the constant murders.

Over the River and Back in Time to Grandmother's House We Go

How do I even start this one? Emily's Grandmother is nearly 90 years old. This means she was born in 1921. Things must have been much different in 1921, just as they were different in 1975 when I was born. And the beat goes on. After an afternoon visiting Grandma, not everything about the good ol' days was all that good.

Grandma has some opinions about, um, how to put this delicately, people of color. I have a friend whose Facebook status just a couple weeks ago was something to the effect of 'I am tired of people who say that someone who is racist is a good person', or words to that effect. It is hard to disagree with that sentiment. If we all operated under that premise, then perhaps we could finally stanch out this particularly insipid human trait.

But, I can't possibly know what it was like to grow up on a farm during the depression, in the boonies, fighting for everything you had and being completely segregated from anything that looked like diversity. Even the white people segregated themselves from one another. Jews, Poles, Germans, Irish, Italians... all these white Europeans were ghettoized at one time or another. Major cities became enclaves for specific ethnicities. There are to this day more Polacks in Chicago, Illinois than in Warsaw, Poland.

Imagine, with as much division as existed in the white community how one would look at black people. I actually can't imagine it and I think it isn't possible to predict our behavior if we were dropped into that era.

The thing that bothers me most about some of the conversation yesterday was my failure to express my distaste for the tone of her epithets. We didn't take part, we didn't egg on, in fact our lack of response and uncomfortable faces were enough to steer the conversation elsewhere. But why didn't I put my foot down? Why did I not take the opportunity to pontificate?

This is a woman whose family helped build the church, who helped her mentally disabled brother-in-law until his death, who still supports large contingents of her family financially and otherwise, who fears God and votes with the Democrats. This is not a bad person. At 90 years old, the damage is done anyway.

I find it so much more distasteful that Emily's Aunt, who is my parents' age isn't any better than her mother. She was a young person through the civil rights era. I believe being in that place and time would have changed my mind if my mind needed changing. In fact, am confident of that. I still look with horror on the footage of fire hoses being turned on peace marchers. I am still moved by the various speeches and writings of many of the leaders of the movement.

When I smoked cigarettes, my parents expressed their disappointment in my poor decision making. I wasted no time in point out their own smoking habits. Quickly, my Mother countered with the fact that they didn't know any better. When they were young doctors recommended Camels to aid digestion. Need to relax? Have a Pall Mall. Four out of five doctors agree, the rich smooth taste of Winston really satisfies, etcettera.

At the same time, I am not donating to NPR this time around because I am displeased with the firing of Juan Williams. If you don't know the whole story, it will be hard to find it in most of the media, because they do what they often do and shape your opinion for you. His quote indicated he was nervous when he was at the airplane gate and there were people in Muslim garb on the same plane.

On the face of it it was an insensitive and uninciteful comment to be sure. But if you watch the entire interview (which I did only in "virtual-retro-world" because it was on O'Reilly and I won't bide watching that blowhard ignoramus), it is very clear that Juan Williams was simply making a personal observation and was not intending to be insensitive or divisive.

Mr. Williams is a black man. Being a racial minority does not give anyone carte blanche to be a racist, but why can't he express his opinion? How can we get to the core of our differences and come to mutual and universal understanding of them if we are only able to whisper in homogeneous groups of like-thinking people? I think personally, NPR made a racial issue out of what really galled them... one of their commentators has been making the rounds lately on the "wrong kind" of shows. NPR took off its sweater vest and bore its bleeding heart in grand fashion and fired Mr. Williams, who is not a news presenter but a news commentator, for daring to express his opinion in a conservative outlet like "The O'Reilly Factor."

Clearly they forget that in the eight years of the Bush II administration, Williams was the only NPR representative to get a sit-down with the president. And they accused him of softballing then. What we have is a black guy who identified himself as conservative and reached out to a conservative audience and the mostly left-leaning NPR couldn't handle it.

I can't remember all the borderline offensive things the great Daniel Schorr said in the decade I listened to him before his death earlier this year. That's why I loved him! He made me think about why the things he said pulled at me and twanged me and shook my core! He made me question my convictions and examine their genesis. He was also a "News Analyst" as NPR calls their commentators. And they took great pains to point that out when listeners would voice their disdain for Schorr's often abrasive comments. After all, he wasn't reporting the news, he was offering commentary. Juan Williams was not given the same latitude because his pervading viewpoint and the audience to which it was directed was not in the pantheon of NPR's reach.

The point of this digression is that as a species I believe we are pre-programmed to seek out the things and people that make us comfortable and surround ourselves with them be they religious convictions, political opinions, sexual orientations, race and gender. If we aren't going to be racists, we'll be sexists, ageists, homophobes and political racists (look it up, it's a real term).

If we ever hope to be truly together as one and defeat the problems that plague us as a human society, we better discover our differences, wade through them, find the common ground and move forward as one entity.

Fall Friday Fatigue or Fat Friggin' Funk or Finally Friday

Today is clean and crisp like a freshly starched collar. The colors on the trees have reached their peak and are beginning to wane. Sounds sparkle and echo through the dry fall air with a staccato that sounds more forceful, more definite than the muddled humid air of summer allows. Birds call to one another with a heightened fervency. It is not mere chatter. It is blunt communication sent across the air regarding the location of food and nesting material. It is not the sound of a dinner party conversation, more like like the sound of a gang of sand baggers on a broken levy. Chaotic. Important.

And yet while the world around me fairly crackles with energy and exuberance, I am stuck in my robe, a mere observer to all that is around me. It was a long night and a short sleep. I am having a hard time recovering. Despite the clean, fresh autumn air and bright sun hanging in the sky unabated by cloud, I am swimming through syrup. I am the plodding wounded wildebeest while the rest of the world is a frolicking gazelle.

I have drunk so much coffee in the last 72 hours that the effects are minimal, other than to my stomach which is begging me to stop. I ponder the thought of snorting finely ground beans for just a moment before I take another sip. My septum calls down to my stomach and tells it to deal with the pain, the alternative is much, much worse.

I try to clear a space in my head, sifting through the mental paperwork stacked up derelict in my barely operating memory. What was I to do today? I don't even know. Was it important? It's always important (to everyone but me). I need to get moving. To where and for what? I'll just have to figure that out as I go.

I will to move my stationary body and hope the wood-scented fall air, the bright sun, the blue sky and the promise of the weekend will be enough to snap me out of this fatigue induced funk. After all, there is work out there somewhere that must be done, whether I remember what it is, or not.

Hat in Hand

Yesterday I held a job fair. In Michigan, an open job of any type is sort of like a feeding frenzy in a fish tank. Big fish, little fish all fighting for a scrap regardless of its size, shape, color or taste. It is quite sad. I never feel good about myself after looking people in the eye and saying non-committally, "Thanks, if I feel you are right for the position I'll call you," because mostly what I want to say is, "You can't be serious, right? I'm totally on T.V. right now!"

I thought I would make a helpful list of interview faux pas that you can avoid in case you are out and about looking for grab at that morsel floating down from the surface.

1. Don't show up smelling like alcohol. No, chewing gum is not a sufficient cure for your breath. Please don't waste my time. You could have a letter of recommendation from the Pope, but I will not hire you if you are drunk at two in the afternoon.

2. Don't chew gum. Alcohol breath or not, it is unprofessional. Besides, as a qualified janitor (the position for which you are applying), you would know that gum is evil and should be outlawed. Stick to mints.

3. Use the mints! For the sake of all humanity, please don't drink a double latte and come to the interview breathing your breath all over me. Gross.

4. Don't smoke 10 days before the interview and wear clothes that don't smell like smoke. To be honest, I will pick a non-smoker over a smoker all the days of the week. They are healthier, miss less work and when they do work are more productive. I have friends that I knew for six months before I knew they smoked. If you won't quit, hide it.

5. Really, that BSA tee-shirt and frayed cuff jeans are the best you can muster? There are a million places withing walking distance that will clothe you for free if you tell them you are interviewing for a job.

6. Bring your own pen. If you aren't prepared to fill our forms and take notes, I have a real good idea of how efficient and proactive you are(n't).

7. When I ask you if you have questions for me, make one up. Anything. Show me you are at least trying to give a crap.

8. When I ask you why you left your last job don't tell me it was because you and your boss had a falling-out, even if it is true and you were right and he was wrong. I will look at you as the potential problem. Sometimes as your boss, I am going to ask you to do something that you won't like or don't want to do and you will have to buck up and do it. It's called work.

9. You had better have a real good explanation for the three year gap in employment. If you don't, I assume you were in prison or in an opium den or something. Either way, it isn't good. If you don't have a good excuse, make one up... like taking care of a sick family member or something.

10. Please don't apply for a position that requires a clean background check and drug test if you have a felony, are in the process of being convicted for a felony or are thinking of committing a felony. The reason I said you have to have a clean background is that my clients require it. No amount of in-prison school and tax credits can change that. And by the way, assaulting a police officer is not a "minor felony."

11. Don't tell me you have reliable transportation if you don't:
A. Own your own car
B. Have a valid driver's license
C. Are insured
Your mamma's cousin Ray-J giving you a ride is NOT reliable transportation. I know, because I just fired Ray-J for not coming to work because his car broke down!

12. Don't ask me what the date is. If you don't know, leave it blank on the application... or be creative and say something like, "Time is really flying... I can't believe the year is almost over...", inevitably I'll come back with, "I know, I can't believe it's the 20th of October!"

13. For the sake of Quasimodo, sit up straight. I don't want to be here, either.

14. Avoid telling me about how your kids are handfulls and you were late because one of them just got suspended from school for murdering someone and you had to pick her up... I can't legally ask you if you have children. don't offer the information.

15. Silence is golden. If I don't ask you a question, don't answer it. I am looking over your resume, I am thinking of the next question to ask. It is not an invitation to chit-chat. there are 50 people behind you and one position. Be respectful of my time and theirs.

I'm sure there are a thousand more. Some of these might seem a little rough, but the truth hurts. It is what it is. Increase your chances to get noticed by following these simple rules and happy hunting!

Reefer Madness

The following are excerpts of an Op Ed piece I got off CNN.com this morning. You can pull the whole thing if you would like to see it here.

Editor's note: Jeffrey A. Miron is senior lecturer in economics and director of undergraduate studies at Harvard University and a senior fellow at the Cato Institute.

Boston, Massachusetts (CNN) -- On November 2, California will vote on Proposition 19, a measure to legalize marijuana. Advocates believe Prop 19 will generate a major budgetary windfall and unleash an economic boom in marijuana-related industries while reducing crime, corruption and Mexican drug violence. Prop 19 opponents fear it will increase marijuana and other drug use via the gateway effect and spur the alleged negatives of use, such as crime or diminished health. Most claims on both sides are exaggerated or misleading. Legalizing marijuana is the right policy for California and the nation. But in considering Prop 19, everyone should start with a balanced assessment of its likely impact.

California has long been at the forefront of the push-back against marijuana prohibition. The state decriminalized marijuana in 1975, meaning it eliminated criminal penalties for possession of small amounts. California then legalized medical marijuana in 1996. Plus, in 2009, U.S. Attorney General Eric Holder said the federal government would not interfere with medical marijuana in states where it is legal under state law.

Prop 19 goes a step further by legalizing all marijuana use for adults 21 or older as well as production and sales. Thus marijuana would be a legal product under California law. Full legalization sounds like a major policy change. But... Almost anyone can get a prescription for medical marijuana... So legalization would have minimal impact on use. This means that concerns over the negatives of use are... irrelevant.

What about Prop 19's effect on crime? Critics believe marijuana causes criminal behavior, as in "reefer madness," but these claims have no empirical support. Legalizers argue black markets are violent and corrupt, so legalization should reduce crime. This view is well-founded, but because the California's marijuana market is close to legal, the reduction in crime will be modest. Likewise, much Mexican drug violence relates to cocaine and methamphetamines, so marijuana legalization will have a small impact.

Perhaps the most important caveat about Prop 19 is that it only legalizes marijuana under state law. The federal government's prohibition will remain in place, so the federal government could still enforce that prohibition in California.

On many fronts, Prop 19 might have less impact than proponents or opponents suggest. But Prop 19 might generate benefits.If Prop 19 passes, this will encourage other states to legalize. And if enough states do so, the pressure on the federal government could pass a tipping point.

In a free society, the presumption must be that people can smoke, snort, eat or inject whatever they wish, so long as they do not harm others. The burden of proof should rest on those who would ban marijuana, not those who want it legal. That burden has never been met. By adopting Prop 19, California can restore a presumption of liberty. That is reason enough.

The opinions expressed in this commentary are solely those of Jeffrey A. Miron.

I am a Libertarian, in that I believe as a God-created human being I have the inalienable right to exercise my free will, irrespective of damage to myself. I emphasize myself, because it is tragic and unnecessary when someone's bad behavior impacts an innocent person's life.

For instance, we have come a long way with alcohol and tobacco. I don't care what you do, just don't subject me to your drunken driving or your second-hand smoke. If you decide to smoke, fine. Sequester yourself live in a haze of smoke whilst I live mine free of that burden. Similarly, I care not if you sit in your house, or a bar and drink yourself until your insides resemble maraschino cherries, but turn the key of that automobile and the consequences with respect to legal ramifications set in.

I don't agree with doing drugs. I don't want anyone I know to do drugs. I think drugs are dangerous and counter-productive. All we have to do is look at the ever expanding list of celebrities that are felled by drugs to come to the conclusion. What I am saying is, the behavior will exist regardless of the law.

Just as the freedoms of speech and expression protect everyone from flag burners (booo) to bra burners (go on, sister!), the concept of liberty allows us to be yutzes and ruin our lives if we so choose. You cannot legislate morality, you cannot legislate thought, you cannot control people who are going to express deviance with laws.

It is not the Government's job to affect a way of life on its citizenry, it is the government's job to assure each and all the right to live the life they choose to the extent they can do so without impeding another persons right to do the same. The Constitution explicitly and brilliantly demands the right to seek the pursuit of happiness, it very clearly does not define happiness! The conclusion? Let them eat cake. As long as they don't eat cake at my house or their cake eating doesn't effect me, I don't care.

Comments?

Halloween Season

I love Halloween. I love it as much as I hate the other holidays, which are really just around the corner. I love it because there are so few expectations.
"What are you doing for Halloween JoBeth?"
"Me and Johnny are dressing up as snake people and going to Billy Bob's Rib Hut for couples costume mud wrestling night, then we're gonna sneak off to the woods and smother each other in Crisco and roll in the grass until dawn!"
"Awesome!"

Let's visit a similar conversation about, oh, say, Thanksgiving.
"So, Bobby Sue, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?"
"Oh, I've been so busy lately, I'm just going to sit at home and read a book and enjoy the day off in front of the fire."
"Oh, no! You can't be alone on Thanksgiving, you simply must come to my cousin Stew's house. He'll have a great spread and later we'll all stand by the piano and sing Kingston Trio songs!"

We seem to allow Halloween to be open to interpretation. Whatever floats your boat, sicko... let your freak flag fly! My personal favorite thing about the whole season of Halloween is the the ubiquitous fright fests on the various basic cable channels. As I write, I am watching the very first Friday the 13th in all its horrifying B movie glory. The only thing scary about this movie are the performances by the actors. How many of you know that Kevin Bacon was in this movie? Well, now like, 5 of you do because I just told you.

But it does set the cannon and the tone for all the movies. Oddly, there are 12. One must assume a 13th is in the works, right? Believe it or not, there is a common narrative thread that was most fully sussed out the final (so far) movie. I won't get into it here, but you'll have to trust me. It's not all gore and sex. Although it is a lot gore and sex.

Then on Wednesday, the DVR is set to record part 1 of 2 of the inside story behind "A Nightmare on Elm Street." It's 2 hours and it's only part 1! That makes part 1 of the special 37 minutes longer than the actual movie upon which it is based. It's kind of like M*A*S*H* which was infinitely longer than the Korean war wherein it is set. I can't even imagine all the inside information I will learn in part 2.

Freddy Krueger, too has a pretty impressive back story. And the thing most people fail to realize is that the adults whose children are being terrorized by this guy aren't so sweet and innocent themselves. These aren't morality plays as such, but there is more to them than meets they eye.

But back to Halloween. Not the holiday, the movie! Jamie Lee Curtis at the peak of her adolescent boyhood, trying so hard to play the part of a girl stalked and terrorized by her older brother who is, according to his therapist and handler, played ably by a clearly and constantly drunk Donald Pleasance, pure evil.

Who can't identify with being bothered by your older brother or sister? These are archetypes, people! This isn't just mindless slashing. Well, o.k., it's also mindless slashing, but that has never been the draw for me.

Real life serial killers fascinate me as well. I read about them all the time. I am not allured by them, nor do I consider them idols, but I admit to being fascinated by the psychosis behind them and the differences between them. Who knows why we like what we do?

But, back to Halloween, the holiday, a celebration of the darker side of life where we allow even the children to fantasize themselves as princesses or ghouls, accountants or axe murderers. It is the typification of how I think we should live. Shine the light on the dark bits and they are not so scary. Hide them in the dark and they loom large in their invisibility like an elephant in the fridge.

This Halloween, take advantage. Let it all hang out and indulge in your darker sides, within reason of course. Purge your inner demons and laugh at them a little. It'll do you some good!

Good Fences... Or Shut up, Flanders!

The house next door is vacant. Another victim of foreclosure. I say the house is the victim, because it was rented to a perfectly conscientious person who according to her was paying her rent, but the owners, who were our neighbors briefly before they moved, let it go. Now it sits empty and empty it has been for over a year.

We have taken it to calling it "the old Patterson place" as the empty white Dutch Colonial looks like a cross between the houses in "A Nightmare on Elm Street" and "The Amityville Horror". Empty houses seem to take on a slightly sinister demeanor as soon as they are empty, as if they are sitting, brooding, waiting for to be adopted. An empty house, regardless of condition is not a happy house.

As much as we want neighbors, we are also nervous about who they will be. It is like when you are getting ready to go to college and wondering who your roommates will be. It could be good, it could be bad but it likely won't be anything in between.

We love our neighbors. Truth be told, we deal with the through-traffic going too fast, the drafty windows, the small yards and the lack of closet space because the neighborhood is cohesive and friendly. It is not a transitional neighborhood as such, more like an enclave. A small port in an otherwise stormy sea that surrounds it. To the immediate east and west are gangs and murder, to the north drugs and violence. It is never settling when your street is the setting for a high speed chase. And was the noise a backfiring car or a shotgun in the near distance?

This is why we are sweating it so much, who these new people may be. Each change having the potential to positively or negatively affect the community. Will these people love the house and care for it? Will they tend their yard and leave the porch light on at night to make up for the lack of lighting provided by the city? Will they come to the block party and sit outside and chat with the rest of us? Will they watch the house when we are gone and notice if anything looks wrong?

Conversely, will they play loud music, leave their cars in the yard, let the lawn grow wild and have barbecues without inviting me? Will they have kids who shout and run amok ripping up my finely tended flower beds and trampling my custom hybrid grass? And if they do notice we are gone, will they be watching the house for nefarious purposes?

We don't know. We can only hope. The signs as of now are good. There is an offer in on the house put in by a newly married couple, one of whom had the neighbor across the street as a third-grade teacher. Those neighbors wholeheartedly endorse these people, (assuming they get the house), but I reserve my right to draw my own conclusions. After all, it is not what I would call a "fresh" endorsement. I am pretty sure I was the vision of sweetness and light in third grade and I am sure Ms. Krug, my teacher, would say so, too. And look at me now.

The question then remains... will I be the Homer Simpson to my perfect new neighbors? Or will I be the suffering Ned Flanders to my, um, lively neighborinos? Paul Simon wrote... "I'd rather be a hammer than a nail." I couldn't agree more.

Stay tuned.

Random Musings

The Bells, The Bells!

At church on Sunday, the bell choir performed. I was in a bell choir briefly as a young boy. I am aware of why they wear gloves and handle the bells so carefully. They are for expensive and mishandling them can forever destroy their fine tuning. There is no way to "retune" a bell that has gone sharp or flat. Also, it's neat to see the players hands moving and the white gloves help you see that.

What I don't get though, is that for all the kit gloves and careful handling, why some pieces of music call for a sound that can only be made by slamming the bell on a table! How can you tell me that a little oil from my hand will ruin this precision instrument, yet banging it with authority on a folding table with nothing but a table cloth as a damper is harmless? I think this is a case for the Mythbusters.

The Lions

The problem with the Lions is that they don't stink bad enough. They are just good enough to give you hope that they could pull it out. And then they don't. They are not a grind it out football team anymore like they used to be. Instead the 3 or 4 brilliant big yardage plays keep them in the game. It's like they are in the process of being and becoming something good. They just aren't there yet.

As a team, they are the dream of every lackluster athlete in the world however, since their 3rd string (3rd string!) quarterback is now starting. The moral of the story is you can't assume someone else will do it... be ready. You could wind up being the starter.

The Weather

Stunning. Thank you to whomever is in charge. It has been perfect.

My Dreams

The other night, I had the most wicked-cool dreams. Remarkably, I actually remembered them. I was a King of my Kingdom, which was located somewhere near Flint. It was very woodsy, like a summer camp. I visited the Kingdom of Chicago and my caravan got a parking ticket, which I refused to pay. This of course led to a full-scale invasion of my kingdom by the King of Chicago.

I lured them into a trap, however and once the entire invading army was trapped in my basement (it was clearly a big basement) I set off the Halon fire suppression system thus denying them of oxygen and killing them all!

Then I was leading a scavenger hunt/road rally in my hot new Mustang. We were in a small town and we had to meet someone or do something. The details don't matter. So we walk into the old timey doctor's office and he is not there. Emily sits at the computer and was asking me how to do something. The last thought in my head was "I really don't want to have to teach her how to do something on the computer..." and the alarm went off. Saved by the bell.

Jimmy Johns

Not so freaky fast as their commercials would indicate. I could have made my own damn sandwich by now.

Complication Resulting From Being Complicated

I marvel at people who seem to live simply and let things come and go with great ease and class. I am not one of those. I recently have been down about my lack of free time... time to be by myself, pursuing my, um, pursuits. I finally got what I wanted almost all day Saturday and it put me in a funk and made me lonely. I didn't in the end pursue anything worthwhile aside from finishing a few chores and spent most the day staring at the football games on t.v. I did not achieve nirvana, solve the problems plaguing mankind or develop a new mathematical theorem or unified theory of anything. In short, I felt guilty for having wasted a day. A beautiful day at that.

Which is where the complicated part comes in. Why do I pine for things that in the end don't serve the intended purpose? It's just a simplified version of the basic existential question. Who am I, why am I here? Moreover, who knows and why do I care?

...And I Would Walk 500 Miles...

The time of reckoning is nigh. I estimate that by 1:00 p.m. Tuesday, October 19th, my car will hit 100,000 miles. I have had very few cars with this many miles on them. I am known as being a little restless with my cars. I normally don't keep them very long compared with most people.
So, the fact that Grandma Marjorie Rubenstein (Ruby/Large Marge the Barge) is becoming a chilioicentenarian is a big deal to me. Today, I washed and waxed her. She cleans up ok, but she definitely looks like she's been rode hard and put away wet a few times.

For instance, there's the beat up trim around the driver's door window where someone broke in the car because they felt as though the stuff in it was misappropriated in my custody. There are the small dimples where the back of the car and some of the roof was ravaged by a pernicious little hailstorm last summer. There are the scars on the rear bumper commemorating the time I backed right into a retaining wall, just as though I meant to. There is road rash all over which despite my best efforts cannot be buffed out and the wheels have a lot of scrapes and brake dust stains on them.

Overall, she still looks pretty good. Sure the driver seat squeaks like a taxi cab and she has a wicked shimmy at 80... and the driver's side power lock doesn't work, and the one touch power window switch for the driver's window is no longer one touch, and it needs a brake job, and some sway bar bushings. The carpets are dirty because the factory floor mats, inadequate from the beginning, are past their sell-by date. But most of these problems will be solved by the bi-annual interior detailing that I will perform tomorrow and the major service that will be performed after I get my next paycheck.

I have a wandering eye and have been searching for awhile now online to find Ruby's replacement. But, I can't make up my mind. Even if I could, the Controller says it wouldn't matter anyway as there are no funds for a new ride.

Basically, I have to love the one I'm with for at least another year, by which time the car will have far more miles on it than any car I have owned. How many cars have you owned, Bill? I am glad you asked because I have every intention of telling you.

My first car was a 1986 Mustang. Navy blue with smurf blue interior. It had a removable moon roof which was wonderful. I loved it. It was my first car and therefore I was able to look past many of its flaws. The main one being it was owned by a woman who I think didn't take too good care of the car. It was $3,500 and my father bought it for me. He had to, by that time he had already bought my sister a fleet of cars that she went through like matches on a windy day. And I was a boy. I named it Griffin. It was terribly unreliable as most cars of the era were. My dad would have to rescue me from being frozen within on the coldest winter days at it would freeze shut. Several times I had to crawl in through the hatch back and out through the aforementioned sunroof.
My second was a 1977 Toyota Corolla so rusted that when I went to buy it, a bird flew out of the hole in the front fender. There was a full-on nest in the fender. It was brown, but you couldn't tell, because there was only intermittent metal held together by impressively large swaths of rust. It cost me $175.00 and it was worth every penny and not a penny more. It was meant to be a winter beater. I bought it in July. It died before winter. It was so comically awful that I did not feel bad when we had a painting party and all my friends spray painted various things like a peace sign and some lewd phrases on it. I also had a million bumper stickers on it, most load bearing. One said "OTAY!" like Eddie Murphy's SNL Buckwheat. I got $75.00 for scrap value after the braked failed and I was quoted $700.00 by the man at Tuffy who was shitting his pants he was laughing so hard. It qualifies as the slowest, ugliest car I ever owned. It couldn't win a drag race with an 88 horsepower Ford Fairmont wagon fully laden with six football playing boys in it. It's name was not polite, so I won't mention it here.

Next was the 1989 Probe GT which was turbocharged to within an inch of its life. It could beat almost anything on the road due to a little "modifying." It had so much boost that it regularly blew the spark plugs straight out of the head. It was a huge step up from the 'Stang. I remember thinking I was invincible on account of all the technology it had. 4 wheel disks with ABS, independent rear suspension, variable rate dampers and I'm sure even more that I have forgotten. I showed my friend Jon how well they worked by cresting a hill at over 100 mph and slamming on the brakes on the down slope for the stop sign up ahead. I expected the car to perform a miracle. We went through that stop sign at nearly 80 mph. thankfully there was no cross-traffic, so I guess the car did perform a miracle. I learned a lesson that day. Her name was Lilly because the sale of some Eli Lilly stock made her possible. seems they had just gotten approval for a little drug called Prozac and the stock rocketed. She was $7,250 and if I could have her back, I would. She was wonderful all the way around.

I bought my sister a 1981 Honda Prelude that much like the Toyota had terminal cancer. It was vaguely blue and well ventilated. It was a 5 speed and had an electric sunroof. I was fond of it. I don't remember what I paid, but it wasn't more than $500.00. My sister needed a car and a Honda is nearly unbreakable. No sooner did she pay me back for the car did she blow it up. When I say blow it up, the Kentwood Fire Department was involved. I never saw that car again. I just took the title to the wrecking yard and paid $25.00 and I didn't own it anymore.

Abigail Blue was a 1998 Ford Contour and my first brand new car. It was navy blue with navy blue interior. It was a V6 with a 5 speed. It was a snappy little number and I liked it. But what a chunk of crap. I couldn't believe I paid $16,000 (a huge sum of money to me even now) for such a bad car.

I traded Abigail in on the first Grand Marquis, a 1998 silver Ultimate. It had been old lady driven said the salesman. I believed it, too since the seat belt smelled like old lady perfume. It was essentially a brand new car with virtually no miles. I paid almost nothing for it. Her name was Grandma Belle, the Broadway Bomber. I loved her, but she got ass-ended in Jersey and the love affair was over. I believe I paid $15,000 for her. That was a bargain and when I traded it in, I believe I got $10,000. The car was basically free.

In came Elwood Blues, the Chrysler 300C which is the most expensive and fastest car I owned. At $33,000 I expected a quality automobile. I loved it so much and still think it is in concept the perfect car. But it was a Chrysler and as such was constructed of 100% post consumer corrugated material held together with spit and the power of prayer. It was plagued with problems, beset with quality issues and the dealership was crap. But they were so popular, that even though I put 70,000 miles on it in two years, I got more than what I owed out of it. And they say American cars don't hold their value.

In came the Mazda CX7, which we leased. It became my wife's car. It was ok. It was pretty and had decent utility. Good stereo. All wheel drive made it sure footed. The car had no name. It never inspired one. That's all that needs to be said about that. I seem to recall the sticker on that being $34,000 but since we leased it, it doesn't count.

In 2006 I officially bought the family Corvette, Bruce. She had been in my life for 18 years at that time. She was my prom ride, my wedding ride and generally the coolest car I have had. She is still with us and probably will be forever. She is like an old movie star, best when viewed from afar in dim light. Too close and too bright and the veneer of beauty gives way to the flaws that permeate her visage. I paid a very fair $7,500 for the car. It is now not worth $5,000. Hey, Dad. Can I get a $2,500 rebate?

I drove what used to be my wife's car, a 2002 Mazda Protege during the CX7 period. It was silver, sharp and peppy, good looking and reliable. I will say it is simply the best car I ever owned. If it was a 5 speed, I'd still own it. The automatic was the only thing I didn't like about it. It has a great sunroof, solid power and never asked for anything but gas and oil. Her name was Lucy. I miss her. she was my second brand new car and was originally bought for Emily. Her sticker was in the $17,000 range, but we paid $15,000. We bought 2 cars in one month from the same dealer, so we got a little deal. We bought her to replace Emily's car, Bo which is the only mention of that shunck of chit I will grant. Lucy's final gift was an amazing resale value that made it possible to buy Ruby.

Emily took the CX7 for a service and saw the preview of the new Mazda6 and said she wanted it. So, we went in, signed the papers and essentially for no additional money (other than continuing our monthly payment) leased Haley. Her lease will be over in October 2011. We may keep her, because I am done buying my wife new cars since she doesn't hardly drive and I am tired of paying so much for something that simply sits in the driveway. Or, we won't replace it and live for 6 months with one car until Ruby is paid off. We can keep Ruby and I can have my new current dream car.

I am totally eying a new Mustang. I think the V6 will suffice, six speed, premium electronics package and sport package. Should run me $35,000 new, or maybe I can find one off lease or repo'd and pay a lot less. That would be ok, too.

Did you count? That's 13 cars mentioned here. The first bought in 1991. That is an average of just under 3/4 of a "new" cars each year. But it doesn't include several I bought and sold for the purposes of making a profit. Factor in those and you can add 7 more which brings us to an even 1 new car per year. A nice round number.

An Ode to My Felines, Or a CATastrophe in Rhyme.

My bedroom smells like poop. These cats, they run my life.
Despite the best intentions of me and of my wife.
They own the place and know it, they strut around with glee.
They are the boss and show it, no regard her or me.

There's a litter box in my room because one won't go downstairs.
She did it fine for many years but now she does not care.
If we don't place the box up there, her business just goes everywhere.
She'll do it as we gape and stare, our bed, God knows what's under there.

These cats, they run my life.

This one wants to be fed, he rubs my legs and jukes.
I feed him and he eats so fast he gags and then he pukes.
Why can't he pick the hard floor, where it's easier to wipe?
He simply does not give a whit, it's simply not his type.

There's a scratching post that's placed in the middle of the floor.
With all this carpet 'round the house, they don't scratch it anymore.
And the chair pads in the dining room have seen some better days.
The cat that camps in there destroys them with her ways.

These cats, they run my life.

I vacuumed just a day ago but the but house it filled with hair.
It is on the furniture and in the rugs, it's floating on the air.
It is illuminated through the window by the shining sun.
I cannot rid my house of it, I chase it but it runs.

This cat wants some love, the other wants to play.
This cat wants to scratch and that cat wants to spray.
They don't like each other much and I think they don't like me.
These must be the most spoiled cats in all of history.

These cats, they run my life.

Don Rickles Had a Son...

I have never been too good at holding my tongue. I don't know where I get it from because all my life my parents tried to keep me from expressing myself too much. By that I mean they really tried to teach me about the times when I would do well to keep my mouth shut.

I paid them back by once slapping (yes, slapping) my next door neighbor (rest her soul) for saying something about my friend Chris. My mother will correct me if I am wrong, but I couldn't have been more than 6 years old and Marion was 50 if she was a day. I don't remember the incident to be honest, but I remember the spanking and subsequent grounding. I'm not sure what was said was even slap-worthy. Probably not. But I took offense and went into action. I even had the nerve to admonish her "Don't talk about my friend that way!"

Irene Waterson from church. I was 12. Told her to shut up. She was (I'm guessing) 6,000 years old. She dropped her dentures in the punch bowl upon my display of intransigence. I was too old to spank by then, but I remember the conversation involving very terse words about how I was not making Mommy and Daddy look very good in front of their friends.

Same church, 2 years later. Now a hyper-precocious teen, I was helping my mother in the narthex of the church. It was a table upon which were books for sale. She was just sitting there and I was bored. Someone needed to shill and it wasn't Mom. "Buy a book or go to hell!" was my line. Wonder if that made Mommy and Daddy look any better.

This year alone I have been heard to say the following quotes. to my boss. In person. These are verbatim.

"I have such low expectations of you, professionally and as a human being, yet you continue to fail to meet them."
"I will hit you so hard your front teeth will straighten out!"
"Hang on... We were on mute so you couldn't hear the chorus of laughter on this end. Say that again," (This one was on the other end of a conference call just this Monday).

And many many more. I am like a K-tel records greatest hits of snide remarks. I can't be stopped. They are out in the air before I even know I am saying them. People accuse me of baiting them into saying certain things so I can pull out a line on them, as though I have nothing else to do with my time but sit and think of pejorative things to say to people should the situation arise. And then, presuming I had the time for all that, I would have the ability to create, manipulate and predict a the path of a conversation to the sole end of using said line.

Ridiculous. That only happens sometimes. Mostly my lines are extemporaneous and improvised. They are a sign of my barely contained Id. My Id has Tourrette's Syndrome.

I pour this out on the page because I am very proud of my quick wit and I would never change it. It is what makes me, well, me. But I do recognize that I will never get ahead in this world because I can't control it.

"Play the game, son." was the piece of advice my Father most often gave (and gives) me. And it is a great piece of advice, isn't it? How can you go wrong if you learn the rules, master the strategy and win the game? You cannot go wrong. I know the rules, but I cannot master the strategy because I have to be the one to fight for everything.

I have been called the Chez Guevara of my company. Wherever there is injustice, Chez is called. Wherever there is a person mistreated, used, spoken to rudely, Chez will fight for them. Chez is the man who will lead his people out of the desert. O.k., that last one was a classic mixed metaphor, but you get the gist.

And I can't stop. Because it is expected. And because I simply cannot stop.

I have even gone to new locations, new jobs in hopes of turning over a new leaf. This time I am going to be good. I will recognize the righteousness and wisdom and all encompassing power of the prevailing authority. I will pick up the rope, grab it with all my strength and pull, pull in the same direction as everyone else without question, without care and without stopping!

Bullshit. Like they say, you can go to the end of the Earth and when you get there, you are still there. I wonder is Don Rickles is my biological father. Seems right. Bald, not too attractive, mean spirited in a funny way. Hmmm. Food for thought.

Wonder Woman's Used Car Emporium and Lasso Repair

I have a secret. I am so excited to tell you, but I am afraid you won't believe me. I hardly believe it myself but there are too many things that have happened today that simply prove beyond a shadow of a doubt what I am about to reveal.

My. Car. Is. Invisible. For real. I, and I alone can see my car. I don't know when it happened, or how, but it is true. I got my first clue driving down my street this morning. I took caution coming up to the corner where the other street has to yield. I do this as a matter of course because I have no trust and am generally misanthropic.

Sure enough, since my car is invisible, the Saturn blew the yield sign completely, crossing the intersection at the time and place where the front of my car would have been had I not been so fastidious.

She never even looked. I even gave her the Universal WTF shrug of the shoulder and exaggerated facial strain which brings most other drivers I put that move on go limp and pee themselves.

Maybe, I thought to myself, being of mostly rational mind and the doctor says sound body, (both predicated on the continuing existence of the good people at Phizer), maybe she thought it was a 4 way yield! Then of course the concept of a 4 way yield slowly wafted over me. Getting a 4 way yield to work would be like getting Isreal and Palestine to have pig roast and reminisce about old times.

Therefore, there was only one logical conclusion. My car, and apparently me when I am in it, is invisible.

The next thing happened only a little down the road when at the gas station, while waiting patiently for a pump to open, a car came in from the other side and totally bogarted my pump. Well, if the man had been driving a BMW, I would have chalked it up to general deuchebaggery, but since he drove a Chevy Malibu, I can only assume he did not see me waiting there.

Because I was invisible.

Getting on the interstate a truck did not yield the lane to me, though he could have easily done so.

Because I was invisible.

Later, a woman turned left right in front of a car in front of me. She never even saw him. I stopped short, being able to see the potential for carnage, and only at the last second did she see the other car and the smoke trailing from his wheel wells. To her credit, she gave a little wave of contrition, but was so flumoxed by the fact she had just seen an invisible car appear out of nowhere that she cut off two other cars on the opposing side of the road.

It was then I realized, that every car in proximity to my car is also invisible. It wasn't until there was enough distance between us that the car in front of me became visible to the woman who cut off the other cars, and those cars never even slowed down because that woman too had become invisible!

Amazing! Now, I am at almost 100,000 miles and I never keep a car this long, so I don't know, but maybe it is a latent feature from the factory. You know, the car gets a little worse for wear. Don't take it to the body shop and spend all that dough, your car, and all its imperfections will simply fade from view! Perhaps it is a feature of my extended warranty?

Update:

I guess it was a temporary condition. The officer assures me that he, and his radar can see my car just fine, and that 94 is too fast in a 70. Oh well. It was fun while it lasted.

P.S.

The last part is hyperbole (by which I mean a bald-faced lie), I did not get pulled over. Because my car is invisible.

The Summer's Gone

Que Lastima! (Oh, the fate!) Summer is put away. The Corvette is washed and in its bed. The swings and chairs and toys of summer out of sight, but not out of mind. Today is one of those early fall days where you can't believe the weather. We in Michigan are often blessed with days like this in October, sunny, 75 degrees, soft breeze. The smells of autumn, the colors of autumn but with the feel of summer.

We won't remember these days come Thanksgiving, however. Usually Thanksgiving is raw cold, windy, ice and snow and muck and yuck. Sometimes we get lucky (2007 for instance) and it is like today. I hope we have a mild winter as I am just positive I can't physically or mentally bide a harsh one.

The retired man down the street enters his season of discontent, running his gas powered leaf blower for 3 hours a day or more, obsessively trying to remove leaves from his yard. He inexplicably starts in the front, which takes forever and then goes to the back. He then sullies his perfect front yard by blowing the leaves from the back, through the front and out into the street. All the way out into the street. Literally and completely standing out in the middle of the street. Apparently they are somebody elses problem at that point.

And back we go to the front yard to remove the leaves he just blew into the yard. Smart. Meanwhile the rest of the neighborhood is going mad at the never-ending cacophony of 2 stroke motor, (imagine being circled for three hours by a jet ski at full song and you get the idea).

Why it is such a production to remove the leaves in such a small yard is beyond any of us. Of course, it may have something to do with not wanting to be inside. Not to mention the droning of the motor helps reduce his hearing, which I am guessing helps him quite a bit when he is inside.If you'd met his wife, perhaps you would begin to understand.

Em and I were walking today and we met up with another neighbor who is similarly annoyed by this daily ritual of futility. I decided we should have little flags, like the ones that mark utilities, printed up that just says 'leaf' and going late at night and impaling the leaves that have fallen, just to torment him a little. Or a lot.

These are the things you live with in the urban neighborhood we chose. We love it. But, I wouldn't cry if I could have a small out of the way place in a wood or along some water to watch the seasons roll into one another in peace. From the stark whites of barren Winter to the slow awakening of Spring, which I am told by people whose eyes are not swollen shut as a result of allergies is a sight to behold, followed by the deep lush greens of Summer and finally the loud pops of color that marshal in the Autumn.

No leaf blowers need apply. In fact, the longer the grass and the deeper the leaves the better. Just me, a cup of coffee a view and my thoughts. That is perfection whatever the season.

Just One Look

You've got the look

I just got a look. From a woman! It is the first one in a long while, but it was definitely, unapologetically a look. Walking down a long hall, we've seen each other before. She's young and attractive, I'm old and married anyway, so no harm in smiling and saying good morning.

So I do. And she always does the same.

Today, she looked. Up and down, from a long way down the hall and tracked as we got closer. Continuing to look and smile. She was first to say good morning. She kept looking while she did. It was a big smile. If I had turned, I think I would have seen her looking back as she walked on But no, why ruin the moment?

I don't think it was a sultry look, or a flirtatious look. Just an acknowledgment that after a lot of effort as late, I look pretty good. She can see the improvement. The brand new tailored sport coat, perfectly fitted pants and cashmere mock turtle notwithstanding.

What a great feeling, to get a look. It has been a long time. With the exception of my wife, who God bless her still looks (I notice, dear and I appreciate it). I notice people notice her. I sometimes struggle between pride that my wife is look-worthy and abject rage that someone looked at my wife.

Today was my day to get a look. It made me walk taller, smile brighter and be bolder. Today, I got a look. And it feels wonderful.

Life is Good

Why is it that all the people I see with the little stickers on their car that say "Life is Good" are driving cars that are about a half a mile away from exploding in dramatic fashion? Do they need the sticker to convince themselves? Do they come out of their crappy houses all pissed off at the world and then see the sticker and go "Oh yeah! Life is good! Thank you, sticker!"

I notice similar phenomena surrounding other common stickers. The more stickers on a car, the more likely the car is more sticker than car. These cars and their drivers are to be avoided at all costs. I can't think of too many things I would want to advertise by putting it on my car. I admit, I have a concept of people who put a bunch of stickers on their car are sorta lower class.

I have a sticker identifying myself as an alumnus of Central Michigan University. It is discreetly on the lower left corner of my rear window. If I had popped the extra $10.00 I could have had a special license plate exclaiming the same. My wife's car has one of these plates, hence no sticker.

I was surprised to see a man driving a clapped out Camry this morning the back of which was, except for the actual tail light lenses, covered in stickers. I began to read as I got close enough. I expected to see "Visualize Whirled Peas" and "Meat is Murder" or "I love my Corgi" or some crap like that. Not so! This man was a walking (well driving) billboard for every ultra right-wing dogma that could be condensed down to bumper sticker size. Several Ron Paul's (not that he is wrong-headed or anything, but a Ron Paul bumper sticker says a lot about a man and his dedication to his beliefs), Three pro-lifes and a number of Charlton Hestons (including the ubiquitous "...cold dead hands" sticker) and anything else you can think of. He was smoking a cigarette going 60 in the left lane.

He did not yield. Since he was a proclaimed gun owner, I decided to let it be.

I would much rather have an electric sign in my rear window. It would have pre-programmed missives that could be called up at the push of a button. This would allow me to calmly inform my fellow drivers of how I feel about their performance behind the wheel. Occasionally, maybe my sign would even describe my feelings for the other driver him or herself.

There is a more whimsical side of the sign idea. You could compliment people, for instance."Way to yield!" "Thanks for letting me in, your mother should be proud. She did a good job" "Can you believe that guy? Jeez!" and the ever important, "Nice headlights!"

It would extend the whole social networking idea to the roads. Of course, I can see where Mr. Clapped out Camry and his cold dead hands might shoot me if I express my first amendment rights. In fact, I wonder if that would be covered under the free speech clause... Would it be considered inciting speech?