Reunited and it Feels So Good
I took part in a blogcast (meant to drum up support and dollars for their upcoming cross-country bike trip) last night for friends Mike and Jim of Mike and Jim at Stan's Bar in Spring Lake. We chose this venue because according to Jim it's halfway between Grand Rapids where I am, and Grand Haven where they are. With that kind of grasp on geography, their bike tour of the country can't possibly go wrong. (For those of you who don't know, Spring Lake is minutes from Grand Haven and almost an hour from Grand Rapids.) They are trying to make it all the way to Oregon. I wonder if they think Grand Haven is half way. I would send them a map, but I am sure it will have little to no effect. They don't seem to know how to read one.
All told, the trip is so far in pretty rough shape, just like Mike and Jim themselves. They only have one bike for starters. Jim's was stolen. I asked if they believed in signs from God. They are undeterred. They have no sponsors, (not even their parents) and are soliciting donations, $12.00 at a time. At this rate, all the donations they have taken so far will go toward buying a replacement bike. I asked about spares and they looked at me dumbly. Spare what, their glances seemed to ask? And given the amount of beer and pizza that was consumed last night, I am guessing their training regimen is on hold for the moment. Or maybe they were focusing on carbo loading.
They asked me if I actually thought the trip was going to happen. I told them I think they will get started and maybe make it as far as Holland, which has to be at least half way to Portland by their understanding of cartography and for a fat guy like me, that would be quite a feat.
They generously invited me along, since as of now I am unattached (see below), but I demured. I also don't have a bike and even more importantly, I look really, really bad in spandex! I also have asthma and an incurable dose of lazy. These things always conspire to put the brakes on my adventures before they even begin. Also, I don't have $12.00, having spent my last $20 on gas to get to Stan's Bar.
To show my support, I am going to mention Mike and Jim's plight to my friend who works for a locally based sporting goods company. Maybe there is a discount to be had on a replacement bike for Jim, or maybe his medicare will pay for a new power chair.
I would love to see them do this thing. You are only young once though neither of them are particularly young anymore, being 93 years old between the two of them, they are in a particularly good place in their lives to be able to do this. This is the kind of crazy I wish I could be, but just can't be. I am too prudent and boring to do something like this myself. At least I can live vicariously through them.
It had been a long time since we all hung out (over 3 years) and it was good to be back in the presence of greatness, or so they told me. We had a great time just laughing, which is something we did often- often for no discernible reason. We have always just found each other funny even when (especially when) we don't mean to be. I watched Jim (whose real name is Clayton but was changed legally from Jim just to ensure confusion) seriously lose his religion one day at work and all I could do was laugh. I can't remember why he could have been so mad, but he was truly, seriously pissed. It must not have helped that his audience was doubled over and in pain from laughing. He is just funny.
As for Mike, we have the same odd and sense of humor. We aren't actually funny in that we tell jokes, we just go off on tangents bringing in references from days gone by that create long non sequiturs we find hilarious, but most people just don't get. On top of which, we have an absolute inability to complete one thought without jumping to something else and then something else and something else. Therefore, even with 2 hours of recorded material, I believe there are all of 8 seconds of actually funny captured.
At one point last night, we started talking about Regis Philbin's impending retirement and ended up with a volley of faux Robert Evans stories culminating with Mr. Evans, Larry King and Leslie Ann Warren in a hot tub filled with apple juice. It is a wonder we even know who any of these people are at all, since they are all "before our time."
I was out of breath, my face was red, my neck burned. I had 7 out of the 10 signs of a stroke. But it was all from laughter and none of it was likely very funny to anyone else who may listen. Including the patrons of the bar who just looked at us as though we bellied up to the bar after nonchalantly parking our flying saucer and manifesting right through the wall. It didn't help we were wearing headphones and had enough wires on the table to make it look like we were jacked in to the Borg Collective (there's a joke only 3 people will get).
Driving back home the "937" miles (according to Mike, who was showing his navigational prowess one more time) I was very happy to have taken part. I don't know how the final product will turn out, but I hope they invite me again.
Stick a Fork in Me
I am done. My phone and e-mail are shuttered and I am having a very quiet day. I am still working on securing other employment with one hot prospect, one somewhat more cool and still a third that would be my last resort. I appreciate good thoughts and moral support in my search for gainful employment.
Confessional
I don't want to, but I find myself singing the J.G. Wentworth operetta sometimes. If you are unfamiliar with this I linked it here. This is in no way a plug for this terrible company who preys on the margins of society by essentially stealing from them, I just love the music, which I find embarrassing, but I can't help it.
Officially Ready for Spring
Ok, uncle. I am done. It is cold, snowing (again), and cold. Did I mention it is cold? I am ready for the temperate seasons to hasten. Old Man Winter, I have been a good sport, now I am inviting you to leave. Thanks for dropping by.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Super Monday
The "Big Game"
Believe it or not, the Packers win was probably a positive thing for our local economy being that Green Bay is close enough that people over here identify with the team and will therefore purchase all sorts of expensive goods emblazoned with the big 'G'.
Going in with no specific allegiance (I was rooting for the Greenburgh Peelers or the Pitts Bay Sackers) I was just hoping for a good game. I was not disappointed. I think both teams put forth a great effort and it was a classic case of the Packers "wanting it more." There was a great deal more total offense in the game than I expected as both teams were known for their stingy defenses. In my humble opinion, it was among the best "Big Game"'s I had seen in a long time.
But What About That Halftime Show?
Who dreams this stuff up? The Black Eyed Peas (I won't go so far as to say they are without talent) are not known for being a great live act. Nobody in that genre is, at least not from any musical perspective. I generally decry lip synching, but in the context of the venue and the acoustics, and given the technical necessities of their 'music', the Peas should have, could have done better.
My bigger beef is with the forced crossover they always try to do in a misbegotten attempt at appealing to a wider audience. You can almost hear the planning meetings now.
"Well, the Black Eyed Peas are confirmed so all the young people and black people will be accommodated, but what about the middle aged white man? After all, he is the one spending the dough-rey-me?"
"I hear Slash is free, you know, from Guns and Roses?"
"Slash and the Black Eyed Peas? Together? Brilliant! Get me Slash's agent!"
I love my hard rockin' hair banders as much as the next white guy in his mid thirties. I won't even interject the argument about being irrelevant, etc. Slash is was and ever shall be a truly intelligent man with manifold talents as a song writer and ax-man. Slash defined bad-ass for me growing up. The fact that he could string sentences together and speak the English language was a plus. But, what about this particular synergy made any kind of sense?
What will it be next year? Kanye West and Paul Anka? Harry Bellafonte and L'il Wayne? Oh, I know! Art Garfunkel, Jim Messina, John Oates, everyone from the Doobie Brothers except for Michael McDonald and whatever permutation of Fleetwood Mac they can drag up from the grave can all get together and sing the hits they are known for, like.... um. Well there's... I thought that... Well, I'm still working on it. I think some Bread songs just came into the public domain. If nothing else, it will be the cheapest halftime show in awhile and I am certain you won't have any trouble getting these people booked. They're all under various overpasses carrying signs that say "I used to be somebody (who knew somebody who was somebody)".
I Can't Believe I Ate the Whole Thing (And Went Back for More)
I have spoken frequently about health in these blogs, namely me trying to be healthier as I slip into the golden years of my thirties. I often say if I knew I would live this long, I would have taken significantly better care of myself. I have enjoyed trying to maintain an exercise regimen and I am happy to report that the normal weight gain associated with winter inactivity has been mitigated to a great degree.
One of the downsides to eating better and trying to be healthier is when you go off the wagon, it really, really hurts. My gut has never been my friend, often rising up against me at the worst possible moments. IBS, or irritable bowel syndrome is what the medical community calls it. I call it irrational bowel syndrome because mine seems to foster a certain malevolence toward me. I don't know what I did to deserve the enmity of my gastrointestinal tract, but here we are.
I know that yesterday I did everything wrong and I am paying for it today. Lots of fatty spicy foods and beer. Oy. It is not good people. And I knew it wouldn't be, yet I grazed all night on delicious, delicious poison anyway. If they made cyanide that tastes like bacon I would be dead in a heartbeat (note for all you murderous chemists out there with an axe to grind). Seriously, can anything good come of eating a dozen of something called "Jason's Cheesy Balls?"
I can assure you, there cannot.
We walked anyway this morning, though I admit to only exerting half of my heart (or my shive a git) and it was therefore a somewhat leisurely stroll. At least we went. Ironically, the scale seemed not to notice my transgressions, so maybe, just maybe I'll get away with my behavior... this time.
From New Image to New Beginnings
This is my last week with New Image Building Services, at least in my current capacity. I have some prospects to stay with (or near) the company. I would like that as the people I have met are outstanding and I don't feel like starting over. For all its flaws, a job can seem like a well-worn shoe.
Besides, I have gotten used to the specific mental illnesses of my colleagues. Why start over with new people with an entirely different kind of crazy?
Anyhow, wish me luck.
Believe it or not, the Packers win was probably a positive thing for our local economy being that Green Bay is close enough that people over here identify with the team and will therefore purchase all sorts of expensive goods emblazoned with the big 'G'.
Going in with no specific allegiance (I was rooting for the Greenburgh Peelers or the Pitts Bay Sackers) I was just hoping for a good game. I was not disappointed. I think both teams put forth a great effort and it was a classic case of the Packers "wanting it more." There was a great deal more total offense in the game than I expected as both teams were known for their stingy defenses. In my humble opinion, it was among the best "Big Game"'s I had seen in a long time.
But What About That Halftime Show?
Who dreams this stuff up? The Black Eyed Peas (I won't go so far as to say they are without talent) are not known for being a great live act. Nobody in that genre is, at least not from any musical perspective. I generally decry lip synching, but in the context of the venue and the acoustics, and given the technical necessities of their 'music', the Peas should have, could have done better.
My bigger beef is with the forced crossover they always try to do in a misbegotten attempt at appealing to a wider audience. You can almost hear the planning meetings now.
"Well, the Black Eyed Peas are confirmed so all the young people and black people will be accommodated, but what about the middle aged white man? After all, he is the one spending the dough-rey-me?"
"I hear Slash is free, you know, from Guns and Roses?"
"Slash and the Black Eyed Peas? Together? Brilliant! Get me Slash's agent!"
I love my hard rockin' hair banders as much as the next white guy in his mid thirties. I won't even interject the argument about being irrelevant, etc. Slash is was and ever shall be a truly intelligent man with manifold talents as a song writer and ax-man. Slash defined bad-ass for me growing up. The fact that he could string sentences together and speak the English language was a plus. But, what about this particular synergy made any kind of sense?
What will it be next year? Kanye West and Paul Anka? Harry Bellafonte and L'il Wayne? Oh, I know! Art Garfunkel, Jim Messina, John Oates, everyone from the Doobie Brothers except for Michael McDonald and whatever permutation of Fleetwood Mac they can drag up from the grave can all get together and sing the hits they are known for, like.... um. Well there's... I thought that... Well, I'm still working on it. I think some Bread songs just came into the public domain. If nothing else, it will be the cheapest halftime show in awhile and I am certain you won't have any trouble getting these people booked. They're all under various overpasses carrying signs that say "I used to be somebody (who knew somebody who was somebody)".
I Can't Believe I Ate the Whole Thing (And Went Back for More)
I have spoken frequently about health in these blogs, namely me trying to be healthier as I slip into the golden years of my thirties. I often say if I knew I would live this long, I would have taken significantly better care of myself. I have enjoyed trying to maintain an exercise regimen and I am happy to report that the normal weight gain associated with winter inactivity has been mitigated to a great degree.
One of the downsides to eating better and trying to be healthier is when you go off the wagon, it really, really hurts. My gut has never been my friend, often rising up against me at the worst possible moments. IBS, or irritable bowel syndrome is what the medical community calls it. I call it irrational bowel syndrome because mine seems to foster a certain malevolence toward me. I don't know what I did to deserve the enmity of my gastrointestinal tract, but here we are.
I know that yesterday I did everything wrong and I am paying for it today. Lots of fatty spicy foods and beer. Oy. It is not good people. And I knew it wouldn't be, yet I grazed all night on delicious, delicious poison anyway. If they made cyanide that tastes like bacon I would be dead in a heartbeat (note for all you murderous chemists out there with an axe to grind). Seriously, can anything good come of eating a dozen of something called "Jason's Cheesy Balls?"
I can assure you, there cannot.
We walked anyway this morning, though I admit to only exerting half of my heart (or my shive a git) and it was therefore a somewhat leisurely stroll. At least we went. Ironically, the scale seemed not to notice my transgressions, so maybe, just maybe I'll get away with my behavior... this time.
From New Image to New Beginnings
This is my last week with New Image Building Services, at least in my current capacity. I have some prospects to stay with (or near) the company. I would like that as the people I have met are outstanding and I don't feel like starting over. For all its flaws, a job can seem like a well-worn shoe.
Besides, I have gotten used to the specific mental illnesses of my colleagues. Why start over with new people with an entirely different kind of crazy?
Anyhow, wish me luck.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Too Broke to Pay Attention
I mean no offense to my lovely wife in writing this. I tread lightly on this for I make no attempt at making her feel badly. But, I have an observation. My wife doesn't pay too much attention to what she watches on T.V.
Yesterday, there was a marathon on BBC America of a show we watch called Top Gear. They are all reruns, heck, they are reruns the first time they come here being they are broadcast for the first time in England. Some we hadn't seen. They were from 2006 when we were moving and had a lot going on. Not much T.V. watching happened in those days. But some we had watched. Together. And she simply doesn't remember them.
"Are you sure I watched them with you?" she asked.
"No, I guess not. I don't remember." conceding it is perhaps it is possible I had just inserted her into the memory of watching the episodes the first time. But I don't think so.
I asked her about another show she watches. I don't even really know why it came up, just dinner conversation. It was a question about back story. She could not really answer me.
"I don't pay attention to that part because it's politics," she said, "I just like the show."
Fair enough.
We had an argument once over an episode of House Hunters that I know we watched together. Leaving aside for a moment the abject inanity of having an argument about House Hunters (or any TV show for that matter) she was steadfast in her position she had not seen the episode. Until two minutes from the end when she saw something that triggered the far suppressed memory and conceded she had seen it.
Once she asked me what the song was that went "da dada da dada da togther" and was flummoxed when I had not the least bit of a clue of which she was speaking. It turns out after hearing the song on the radio some time later is was Island in the Sun by Weezer, a song with a repetitive line in the background of the song throughout the whole thing that goes "doot doot". Why she focused on the bridge of the song and not simply the "doot doot" I could never tell you. It is just the way she thinks.
So while my wife finds forgettable much of the minutiae that comes to her by way of media and crosses (barely?) into her consciousness, I am beset with the opposite problem. I remember everything! I remember jingles of long ago commercials that played for only a short time, I remember words to obscure television show themes (even second or 'lost' verses), names of producers and years shows were on or went off the air, actors, changes in actors, multi-season plot points, etc. Nearly 20 years on, I know that I should dial 772-9435 for the best pizza from Pizza King if I find myself in Mt. Pleasant, MI.
This is really a problem, because while neurologists and biological psychologists tell us the brain has an infinite storage capacity, I believe they just say that because they don't know what the capacity of our brains are. Maybe very important biblical or moral information I need to be a decent human being was overwritten by last night's episode of Red Green! Oh, God. What have I done?
I used to be able to recall with dead-on accuracy the lyrics of literally thousands of popular songs by all artists from all eras. I could do the same from music learned from my more formal musical training, (much of which was in foreign languages). I can remember much of Orff's Carmina Burana. It has been almost 20 years since I performed it and it is written in a hybrid language that is as dead as supermarket etiquette. Beethoven's 9th symphony, third movement? Carved into my memory like a Cuneiform tablet, never to be erased. Or will it? And I was mostly not sober during the period of time when I learned these the first time!
It is with not a small amount of horror that over the last several years I have come to realize that this very finely honed skill, once so natural to me, is all but gone. I find myself singing wrong words to songs I used to know in my sleep. I will place whole lines in the wrong order and, upon realizing I have done this will stare blankly at the radio wonder when they changed it and why?
If this skill is no longer one of the 'arrows in my quiver', what has replaced it? What am I now good at? What is my purpose in life if I can't be that guy?
I think we should have to authorize any information overwrite that may occur in our brain, like as with a PC. On second thought, I would prefer to only be asked once, instead of the dozen or so times Windows asks (Are you certain? Excellent... um are you sure you are certain? Splendid! Just click here to certify we asked you and you are certainly sure. We are sending some papers over and will complete your request upon receiving notarized copies - usually 4 - 6 weeks).
At least there should be a short mental conversation. "Dude, remember that memory of that night when (omitted) and then (omitted) and (omitted) with the whipped cream and the (omitted) and just when you thought it was over and you were congratulating yourself for a job well done, that's when the trapeze came into play? Do you really want to replace that memory with this episode of Full House?
Sorry, Uncle Jessie, you lose.
Yesterday, there was a marathon on BBC America of a show we watch called Top Gear. They are all reruns, heck, they are reruns the first time they come here being they are broadcast for the first time in England. Some we hadn't seen. They were from 2006 when we were moving and had a lot going on. Not much T.V. watching happened in those days. But some we had watched. Together. And she simply doesn't remember them.
"Are you sure I watched them with you?" she asked.
"No, I guess not. I don't remember." conceding it is perhaps it is possible I had just inserted her into the memory of watching the episodes the first time. But I don't think so.
I asked her about another show she watches. I don't even really know why it came up, just dinner conversation. It was a question about back story. She could not really answer me.
"I don't pay attention to that part because it's politics," she said, "I just like the show."
Fair enough.
We had an argument once over an episode of House Hunters that I know we watched together. Leaving aside for a moment the abject inanity of having an argument about House Hunters (or any TV show for that matter) she was steadfast in her position she had not seen the episode. Until two minutes from the end when she saw something that triggered the far suppressed memory and conceded she had seen it.
Once she asked me what the song was that went "da dada da dada da togther" and was flummoxed when I had not the least bit of a clue of which she was speaking. It turns out after hearing the song on the radio some time later is was Island in the Sun by Weezer, a song with a repetitive line in the background of the song throughout the whole thing that goes "doot doot". Why she focused on the bridge of the song and not simply the "doot doot" I could never tell you. It is just the way she thinks.
So while my wife finds forgettable much of the minutiae that comes to her by way of media and crosses (barely?) into her consciousness, I am beset with the opposite problem. I remember everything! I remember jingles of long ago commercials that played for only a short time, I remember words to obscure television show themes (even second or 'lost' verses), names of producers and years shows were on or went off the air, actors, changes in actors, multi-season plot points, etc. Nearly 20 years on, I know that I should dial 772-9435 for the best pizza from Pizza King if I find myself in Mt. Pleasant, MI.
This is really a problem, because while neurologists and biological psychologists tell us the brain has an infinite storage capacity, I believe they just say that because they don't know what the capacity of our brains are. Maybe very important biblical or moral information I need to be a decent human being was overwritten by last night's episode of Red Green! Oh, God. What have I done?
I used to be able to recall with dead-on accuracy the lyrics of literally thousands of popular songs by all artists from all eras. I could do the same from music learned from my more formal musical training, (much of which was in foreign languages). I can remember much of Orff's Carmina Burana. It has been almost 20 years since I performed it and it is written in a hybrid language that is as dead as supermarket etiquette. Beethoven's 9th symphony, third movement? Carved into my memory like a Cuneiform tablet, never to be erased. Or will it? And I was mostly not sober during the period of time when I learned these the first time!
It is with not a small amount of horror that over the last several years I have come to realize that this very finely honed skill, once so natural to me, is all but gone. I find myself singing wrong words to songs I used to know in my sleep. I will place whole lines in the wrong order and, upon realizing I have done this will stare blankly at the radio wonder when they changed it and why?
If this skill is no longer one of the 'arrows in my quiver', what has replaced it? What am I now good at? What is my purpose in life if I can't be that guy?
I think we should have to authorize any information overwrite that may occur in our brain, like as with a PC. On second thought, I would prefer to only be asked once, instead of the dozen or so times Windows asks (Are you certain? Excellent... um are you sure you are certain? Splendid! Just click here to certify we asked you and you are certainly sure. We are sending some papers over and will complete your request upon receiving notarized copies - usually 4 - 6 weeks).
At least there should be a short mental conversation. "Dude, remember that memory of that night when (omitted) and then (omitted) and (omitted) with the whipped cream and the (omitted) and just when you thought it was over and you were congratulating yourself for a job well done, that's when the trapeze came into play? Do you really want to replace that memory with this episode of Full House?
Sorry, Uncle Jessie, you lose.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Travelin' Man/Beautiful Loser
I have been making chili for the "big game", (which we'll call it since I don't have express written consent of the NFL to use the other more official term), since the year 1994. That year, I was home from school for the weekend and got together with friends and made chili and watched the game. I don't know why I decided to make chili, it just seemed right.
My friends and I liked what I made, but my Dad would have nothing to do with it since it was too hot. Apparently he is not a fan. S'okay, more for me. I refined the process time over time and found out I made a pretty serviceable chili. Chili the meal grew to become chili, the event. It was a holiday unto itself. As such, I used to make it only once per year. In recent years I have made it more often. I drink coffee every morning, why would I limit myself to chili only once per year?
I begin by talking about chili because I made some today so it is ready for the "big game". We are going to a party hosted by friends Jason and Chandra. We are also bringing corn dip, which came into our lives this summer courtesy of Shannon Milinovich when we visited her and husband Greg this past summer. Em also made a cheese ball which may end up going, too. I guess we are catering this thing. That's o.k., I'll make it up in numbers of beers consumed.
But more to the point, or away from it, I don't know. I told the story in a previous blentry about being home for winter break in winter of 1994 and getting pulled over for going egregiously fast through a twisty portion of a local expressway after having had a beer or two while underage and getting away with a warning. The following story happened only weeks after that.
I had been dating a girl and immediately after winter break, we broke. Up, that is. It sucked. I won't get into it, but I wasn't handling it especially well. It was sudden, too. So the girl and I talked on the phone the morning of the day after the "big game" and she seemed to intimate that she might have changed her mind. Perhaps the fact that I hurriedly got in the car and immediately began speeding toward campus an hour-and-a-half away will give you unique perspective into my mental status at the time.
I dodged the cops all the way. I was very good at it and I had a very good radar detector, or as we called it "fuzz buster." I was on the last road to campus, almost home, almost there. Just up the road, happiness waits. What's that sound?'
It was the fuzz buster. The sound it made said "You're screwed." And I was screwed. The low profile cruiser was coming head-on and blasted me with instant-on radar as he came over a rise. I didn't have a shot in hell of getting out of it.
I stopped without being chased. He made a 231 point turn that seemed to last forever... I should have run. By the time he got his Crown Vic pointed in the right direction I could have been in the next county. But instead, I waited.
The fat cop sauntered up to my car, hand on gun... because after all, I had waited the 35 minutes it took him to get all turned around only to shoot him.
"Afternoon!" he said in a fake happy sing-song voice.
"It certainly was" came my glib reply.
"You know how fast you were going?"
"Yeah, 72..."
"72. Yep. 72. And do you know the speed limit?"
"Uh, it's fifty f..."
"Just fifty, son. Don't stretch it. It's just fifty. Junior!", he called now to his partner, "College boy here got himself one of them fuuuzzzzz bussssterrrrs!"
"Aw, hell," came back Junior's response as if something bad and well beyond his control was about to happen. "That's too bad. I thought college kids were smart."
"Well," big fatty said to me now, "I guess we can't let you go now, can we? Gimme your papers." he said with a heavy sigh as if to underscore I had brought this whole thing on myself.
My registration and proof of insurance were in a drawer that was underneath my passenger seat as my car was among the first generation with airbags and the airbag had supplanted the glove box. I explained this to the cop so he didn't get trigger happy with me.
"I am going to get my papers from the drawer underneath the seat. I am going to move slowly. Please, don't shoot me for speeding."
So, I removed my belt and slowly reached down and to my right to get my papers from the drawer. As I came back up with my I was facing the previously unseen Junior now at my passenger window, service revolver trained on me. The line in the Lynard Skynard song rang through my mind "I'm tellin' you son, it ain't no fun, starin' straight down a .44."
True that.
"Put that away!" I said, probably quite a bit more weakly in reality than I remember it being. "I told you what I was doing!" I said now, a little too loudly to the fat cop at my driver's window.
"I guess he didn't hear you." he said smiling.
"You think you could have given him the message?" I asked a little put off by the fact I had a gun in my face for no good reason.
"Papers." was the single word reply.
I waited an additional eternity while fatty and Junior sat in the cop car, probably looking me up in the computer ( or, SCMODS if you're Elwood Blues), to assess my threat level. No doubt they were hoping I was wanted in seven states for all sorts of unspeakable acts and capital crimes. I was not.
Ironically for a person who had not to that point (nor to this point) been arrested, it was not the first time I had a policeman aim a gun at my head.
I used to work third shift in high school during the summer. When I had a day off, I stayed on third shift hours. My friend Brian was the only one who was either intrepid enough or stupid enough to stay up all night with me. Brian and I shared a love of cars. We used to ply the avenues driving lot to lot looking at cars, smoking and talking. One night, I spotted an MG I wanted to look at. I pulled in around the back of the sales building where there was some parking. I left the car running as Brian was not interested in looking at the car. I left him and went around the front of the building.
I was bending over the MG, looking at the interior when I heard the unmistakable whine of a Crown Victoria's fuel pump delivering full volume to feed a hard working cop car engine. Thus is the level of my car sickness, I can tell the type of car it is by certain defining noises.
The car had jumped the curb and stopped mere feet from a very stunned me. The cop got out, gun drawn, which even though we were in a sketchy part of town was a bit of a disproportionate response to finding a suburban kid looking at a British sports car. Of course anyone who knows anything about cars knows that had I been thinking about buying a British car, the cop would have been doing me a favor by shooting me.
He got behind me after astutely assessing I was no risk to his life and spread my feet wide by kicking them with his and held my hands behind my back while going through my pockets. I feebly explained I was just looking at cars and why I was looking at cars at three in the morning.
Of course I had driving gloves and a Swiss army knife in the pockets of my wind breaker which he tried in vain to classify as burglary tools. I assured him I wasn't burgling anything and I hadn't done anything wrong and he should just let me go.
He did.
Brian sat in my car on the back side of the building, radio on, car running, with no idea of the ordeal unfolding only a few feet from where he sat. Of course, he scarcely believed me when I tried to tell him. Needless to say we were done car shopping that night.
So, here I was, a couple years later, a mostly innocent college kid who was love lorn and speeding his way back to his beloved. It was the second time in my life I had a gun pointed at me by a cop. I was beginning to feel put-upon.
Fat cop came back and gave me a ticket for the whole magilla. 72 in a 50. I don't remember what it cost, but for a kid my age it was a lot. It was a lot of points, too. I didn't like fat cop. I don't think fat cop liked me, too.
After my Homeric trip back to campus, expensive ticket in hand, it didn't take but five minutes to realize what an idiot I had been. There was to be no reconciliation. I was just being toyed with.
At least that snapped me out of that funk and I would no longer allow myself to be a victim of love. At least not until the next girl a couple years later.
I am happy to say I haven't had a gun pointed at me since. Even though I hang out with a fair amount of people with access to them and I have a license to carry one. Of course, I'm not about to point one at myself-that being pretty much the number one thing they teach in gun class. If you pull the gun and aim it at something, you better be good and damn sure you want it to die.
But, I've gotten off point. All I really wanted to say is, I love chili. And, um, RSL? Your loss. I was a catch.
My friends and I liked what I made, but my Dad would have nothing to do with it since it was too hot. Apparently he is not a fan. S'okay, more for me. I refined the process time over time and found out I made a pretty serviceable chili. Chili the meal grew to become chili, the event. It was a holiday unto itself. As such, I used to make it only once per year. In recent years I have made it more often. I drink coffee every morning, why would I limit myself to chili only once per year?
I begin by talking about chili because I made some today so it is ready for the "big game". We are going to a party hosted by friends Jason and Chandra. We are also bringing corn dip, which came into our lives this summer courtesy of Shannon Milinovich when we visited her and husband Greg this past summer. Em also made a cheese ball which may end up going, too. I guess we are catering this thing. That's o.k., I'll make it up in numbers of beers consumed.
But more to the point, or away from it, I don't know. I told the story in a previous blentry about being home for winter break in winter of 1994 and getting pulled over for going egregiously fast through a twisty portion of a local expressway after having had a beer or two while underage and getting away with a warning. The following story happened only weeks after that.
I had been dating a girl and immediately after winter break, we broke. Up, that is. It sucked. I won't get into it, but I wasn't handling it especially well. It was sudden, too. So the girl and I talked on the phone the morning of the day after the "big game" and she seemed to intimate that she might have changed her mind. Perhaps the fact that I hurriedly got in the car and immediately began speeding toward campus an hour-and-a-half away will give you unique perspective into my mental status at the time.
I dodged the cops all the way. I was very good at it and I had a very good radar detector, or as we called it "fuzz buster." I was on the last road to campus, almost home, almost there. Just up the road, happiness waits. What's that sound?'
It was the fuzz buster. The sound it made said "You're screwed." And I was screwed. The low profile cruiser was coming head-on and blasted me with instant-on radar as he came over a rise. I didn't have a shot in hell of getting out of it.
I stopped without being chased. He made a 231 point turn that seemed to last forever... I should have run. By the time he got his Crown Vic pointed in the right direction I could have been in the next county. But instead, I waited.
The fat cop sauntered up to my car, hand on gun... because after all, I had waited the 35 minutes it took him to get all turned around only to shoot him.
"Afternoon!" he said in a fake happy sing-song voice.
"It certainly was" came my glib reply.
"You know how fast you were going?"
"Yeah, 72..."
"72. Yep. 72. And do you know the speed limit?"
"Uh, it's fifty f..."
"Just fifty, son. Don't stretch it. It's just fifty. Junior!", he called now to his partner, "College boy here got himself one of them fuuuzzzzz bussssterrrrs!"
"Aw, hell," came back Junior's response as if something bad and well beyond his control was about to happen. "That's too bad. I thought college kids were smart."
"Well," big fatty said to me now, "I guess we can't let you go now, can we? Gimme your papers." he said with a heavy sigh as if to underscore I had brought this whole thing on myself.
My registration and proof of insurance were in a drawer that was underneath my passenger seat as my car was among the first generation with airbags and the airbag had supplanted the glove box. I explained this to the cop so he didn't get trigger happy with me.
"I am going to get my papers from the drawer underneath the seat. I am going to move slowly. Please, don't shoot me for speeding."
So, I removed my belt and slowly reached down and to my right to get my papers from the drawer. As I came back up with my I was facing the previously unseen Junior now at my passenger window, service revolver trained on me. The line in the Lynard Skynard song rang through my mind "I'm tellin' you son, it ain't no fun, starin' straight down a .44."
True that.
"Put that away!" I said, probably quite a bit more weakly in reality than I remember it being. "I told you what I was doing!" I said now, a little too loudly to the fat cop at my driver's window.
"I guess he didn't hear you." he said smiling.
"You think you could have given him the message?" I asked a little put off by the fact I had a gun in my face for no good reason.
"Papers." was the single word reply.
I waited an additional eternity while fatty and Junior sat in the cop car, probably looking me up in the computer ( or, SCMODS if you're Elwood Blues), to assess my threat level. No doubt they were hoping I was wanted in seven states for all sorts of unspeakable acts and capital crimes. I was not.
Ironically for a person who had not to that point (nor to this point) been arrested, it was not the first time I had a policeman aim a gun at my head.
I used to work third shift in high school during the summer. When I had a day off, I stayed on third shift hours. My friend Brian was the only one who was either intrepid enough or stupid enough to stay up all night with me. Brian and I shared a love of cars. We used to ply the avenues driving lot to lot looking at cars, smoking and talking. One night, I spotted an MG I wanted to look at. I pulled in around the back of the sales building where there was some parking. I left the car running as Brian was not interested in looking at the car. I left him and went around the front of the building.
I was bending over the MG, looking at the interior when I heard the unmistakable whine of a Crown Victoria's fuel pump delivering full volume to feed a hard working cop car engine. Thus is the level of my car sickness, I can tell the type of car it is by certain defining noises.
The car had jumped the curb and stopped mere feet from a very stunned me. The cop got out, gun drawn, which even though we were in a sketchy part of town was a bit of a disproportionate response to finding a suburban kid looking at a British sports car. Of course anyone who knows anything about cars knows that had I been thinking about buying a British car, the cop would have been doing me a favor by shooting me.
He got behind me after astutely assessing I was no risk to his life and spread my feet wide by kicking them with his and held my hands behind my back while going through my pockets. I feebly explained I was just looking at cars and why I was looking at cars at three in the morning.
Of course I had driving gloves and a Swiss army knife in the pockets of my wind breaker which he tried in vain to classify as burglary tools. I assured him I wasn't burgling anything and I hadn't done anything wrong and he should just let me go.
He did.
Brian sat in my car on the back side of the building, radio on, car running, with no idea of the ordeal unfolding only a few feet from where he sat. Of course, he scarcely believed me when I tried to tell him. Needless to say we were done car shopping that night.
So, here I was, a couple years later, a mostly innocent college kid who was love lorn and speeding his way back to his beloved. It was the second time in my life I had a gun pointed at me by a cop. I was beginning to feel put-upon.
Fat cop came back and gave me a ticket for the whole magilla. 72 in a 50. I don't remember what it cost, but for a kid my age it was a lot. It was a lot of points, too. I didn't like fat cop. I don't think fat cop liked me, too.
After my Homeric trip back to campus, expensive ticket in hand, it didn't take but five minutes to realize what an idiot I had been. There was to be no reconciliation. I was just being toyed with.
At least that snapped me out of that funk and I would no longer allow myself to be a victim of love. At least not until the next girl a couple years later.
I am happy to say I haven't had a gun pointed at me since. Even though I hang out with a fair amount of people with access to them and I have a license to carry one. Of course, I'm not about to point one at myself-that being pretty much the number one thing they teach in gun class. If you pull the gun and aim it at something, you better be good and damn sure you want it to die.
But, I've gotten off point. All I really wanted to say is, I love chili. And, um, RSL? Your loss. I was a catch.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
An Open Letter to Mr. Plow
I wonder if they take sadistic pleasure in it as they roar down your street at a thousand miles an hour at three in the morning, orange strobe blinking to the beat, while the big plow launches all the snow from the street into a densely packed wall at the carefully cleared apron of each house's driveway.
The sound of the plow. Worse than the report of any alarm. To be awakened from sound sleep while warm in bed to the realization that someone is being paid overtime to undo the work you had to do for free. Your muscles still sting from that labor of clearing out the driveway of two feet of snow.
The damage didn't look so bad from inside. It was upon closer inspection that things became much more dreary indeed. From inside the depth and density of the snow wall at the end of my drive could only be measured against the already giant polygonal mounds of snow that served as reminders of the previous day's melee. It was all too easy to give into the optimism.
But things look different when you are standing next to them and can regard them up close. It was indeed much, much worse than it had looked the first time I saw it from the house, in my robe, drinking coffee.
My back began to ache anew. I hadn't even begun.
It was colder, all of a sudden, than it had been all winter. The wind blew stiffly. The sky was clear and while the sun shone, it radiated no heat. It served only to add harsh light to the situation at hand. This was going to suck.
I got to work. First chop the packed snow into manageable slices, then clear. Chop. Clear. Chop. Clear. Rest. Chop. Clear. Repeat. Nearly finished, the neighbor asked if I would like to use the snow thrower. I resisted the temptation to cry. The tears would have only frozen to my face along side the snot that was already frozen to my face. My asthma kicked in and I began to cough.
Time to warm up the cars. I sat in mine while it ran, and let the seat heater work on my back. My breath and the steam coming off me froze onto every surface in the car from the windows to the poorly wrought plastic wood trim. I just sat and watched my toil condense and coat the interior of my car creating a ghostly film.
I didn't realize until I moved the cars how much snow still remained on the paddock. My back again protested as I moved the powder that remained. I had now officially done more shoveling the day after the impressive blizzard of eleven than on the day itself. It hardly seemed fair. In fact, it was patently not fair.
But there are meetings to go to, committees to chair, work to do, lives to live. The slot now cleared at the end of my drive, barely wide enough for a car, is my portal to the world outside. I can't help but wish I still had the wall of snow there to act as a gate, an impediment, an excuse to stay in one more day. Put on another pot of coffee, mix in a little Irish and stare at the stark beauty of the bright sun reflecting off the freshly fallen powder. This type of beauty is best regarded from afar through the veil of comfort provided by knowing you can live among it, without having to live with it.
The sound of the plow. Worse than the report of any alarm. To be awakened from sound sleep while warm in bed to the realization that someone is being paid overtime to undo the work you had to do for free. Your muscles still sting from that labor of clearing out the driveway of two feet of snow.
The damage didn't look so bad from inside. It was upon closer inspection that things became much more dreary indeed. From inside the depth and density of the snow wall at the end of my drive could only be measured against the already giant polygonal mounds of snow that served as reminders of the previous day's melee. It was all too easy to give into the optimism.
But things look different when you are standing next to them and can regard them up close. It was indeed much, much worse than it had looked the first time I saw it from the house, in my robe, drinking coffee.
My back began to ache anew. I hadn't even begun.
It was colder, all of a sudden, than it had been all winter. The wind blew stiffly. The sky was clear and while the sun shone, it radiated no heat. It served only to add harsh light to the situation at hand. This was going to suck.
I got to work. First chop the packed snow into manageable slices, then clear. Chop. Clear. Chop. Clear. Rest. Chop. Clear. Repeat. Nearly finished, the neighbor asked if I would like to use the snow thrower. I resisted the temptation to cry. The tears would have only frozen to my face along side the snot that was already frozen to my face. My asthma kicked in and I began to cough.
Time to warm up the cars. I sat in mine while it ran, and let the seat heater work on my back. My breath and the steam coming off me froze onto every surface in the car from the windows to the poorly wrought plastic wood trim. I just sat and watched my toil condense and coat the interior of my car creating a ghostly film.
I didn't realize until I moved the cars how much snow still remained on the paddock. My back again protested as I moved the powder that remained. I had now officially done more shoveling the day after the impressive blizzard of eleven than on the day itself. It hardly seemed fair. In fact, it was patently not fair.
But there are meetings to go to, committees to chair, work to do, lives to live. The slot now cleared at the end of my drive, barely wide enough for a car, is my portal to the world outside. I can't help but wish I still had the wall of snow there to act as a gate, an impediment, an excuse to stay in one more day. Put on another pot of coffee, mix in a little Irish and stare at the stark beauty of the bright sun reflecting off the freshly fallen powder. This type of beauty is best regarded from afar through the veil of comfort provided by knowing you can live among it, without having to live with it.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Mark My Words and Happy Birthday, Heather
"Mark my words..." I was heard to exclaim twenty-four hours before this photo was snapped, "They have no idea what this storm is going to do between now and when it is supposed to get here. I bet it will miss us entirely!"Well, I am prepared to say I was wrong. I usually call it right. I was really pretty certain this was a largely false alarm. Does this look false to you? Me neither.
After a marathon mutual shoveling/plowing party, we all decided this would be a great day to get together and recreate a little. At three, we are getting together at the neighbor's across the street to eat and have a fire and play cards and talk. It is so amazing to me how thirty-three years ago, my family and I were doing the same thing with our neighbors after the blizzard of '78. In fact all I remember of that event is from stories I heard from my parents and the neighbors in the ensuing years of how all the neighbors in the cul de sac shoveled paths connecting the houses through the lawns. It was a progressive party, ending, like it usually did at our house for drinks.
There is one picture of a not yet three-year-old me in one of those shoveled paths, only visible due to the tousle cap I was wearing taken, I assume to add a sense of scale to the whole event. It has that 19070's orange-y patina that makes it look so much more vintage than it actually is. Or maybe it is exactly that vintage and I don't want to believe it is so.
The little neighbor girl across the street of about the same age as I was at that time is essentially experiencing the same thing now as I did then. And this time, I will be able to know what it is like from the adult side. I suspect I appreciate a snow day now as a grown up even more than I did as a young kid. After all, what is really tough about being a young kid, relative to being an adult?
A kid sees such great potential for fun on a day like this. Sledding, building snow men, snow forts and having snowball fights. Adults see their car in a ditch, a two-hour commute that should be twenty minutes and at the end of the day your rotten kid beaming you with a snow ball when you finally get home before you even get a chance to get out of your newly customized car.
So as an adult, getting a special unplanned for day off is among the rarest of pleasures. I am sorry to think of the number of people who would otherwise have some forced convalescence today are instead working from home. What a great capability that turned out to be! Em works from home every day. No snow day for her. I also maintain a home office, so while I am not out in the world dealing with the snow, I still have plenty of work to do. Yay!
But, at least there are very few expectations from us as a result of the snow. And that is the next best thing. I mean, I haven't been working too hard and I should be able to pack it in pretty early so in the end, it's as close to a snow day as I will ever see.
Groundhog Day
This is one of the dumbest things ever, but it persists. To me, February 2nd is much more significant due to the number of great people who have birthdays on this date. My late Grandmother would be 107 today if she were alive. I have three other friends who were born on this date as well. Heather is one of these.
I met Heather deep in the summer of 1995 at a party on the eve of the gay pride march on Lansing. We were in Mt. Pleasant, just an hour up the road from the capital and we were whooping it up. Big time.
Heather was then as now thin and tall. She was wearing some spandex thing that only she could pull off on account of the fact there is not an ounce of fat on her. It really was more like a rubber band than a piece of clothing. It was, um, striking. My friend at the time who I brought to the party was indeed stricken. He immediately set about maneuvers to get to know her better.
I on the other hand was holding court on the back deck, where a guy I knew was trying to be the center of attention as was his way. As you can imagine it was my way, too. We were playing the "who can hate on who more" game, trading barbs and witticisms back and forth. It was great, not only because it is one of my favorite things to do, but because I was winning soundly and impressing this large group of people who were mostly relative strangers.
The next day, we set off for Lansing in caravan. All was well until we got to the notoriously crooked police state of St. John whereupon we were immediately beset by multiple police units. My friend was behind me and a cop lit him up, the cop meant to pull us both over. I pulled over, he kept going. Seems he already had some trouble with the law and his right to drive a car legally at that moment was dubious at best.
After we got harassed and let go, (which I had gone through so many times in St. John it was like a right of passage), we all somehow managed to find each other and re-gathered in a parking lot. Somewhere, someone has a tape of my speech to the collected misfits of that gay caravan. It was up to then and maybe even up to now my finest moment. I wish I remember what I said, but whatever it was was hilarious, well aimed and hit the spot.
We continued undaunted. Later that night upon my return, or maybe it was the next day came the call from my parents who had seen me marching in the parade on the news. They wanted to know if there was something I would like to tell them.
Sure. I love gay people. Anything else?
I recall this story, because my life has been significantly more funny and way more colorful since the day I met Heather. She is a great friend, a great adversary ("so, do you want a hug, or....?"), and one of the finest people I know. Heather has been a co-writer, a creative co-conspirator and often videographer to some of the proudest and not so proudest moments of my life.
Happy Birthday, friend! I am so glad that after all these years and all the water under the bridge we are still friends. I am also so glad that you have traded the spandex for flannel... after a while that look just gets desperate.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Story Time With Bill
Once upon a time, in the village of Nibs, there was an ogre of below average intelligence but who looked just like you would expect an ogre to look. He had a mean brow and a skinny rat-like face and a big gap between his angry looking teeth. He was a mean man and everyone in the village knew it. But he was powerful and yielded strict control over all the villagers so that the mayor, who was really in charge of the never found out about all the bad things the ogre was doing.
The mayor hired a man to work for him and the ogre quickly discovered the man was very smart. he was well liked, and handsome with a winning smile, chiseled jaw and strong features. He was not perfect, this man, but he inspired people to do their best and encouraged them to admit their mistakes so they could get better. The man admitted his mistakes, too.
For a long time, the ogre would blame his mistakes on the man. Being a good guy, the man didn't say too much. He tried to explain to the ogre that the villagers would work harder for him if they liked him, but the ogre didn't listen. When the man would go to the ogre with his problems, because, after all, the ogre was his boss and that what he is supposed to do, the ogre didn't listen; even though he pretended to. The man tried so hard to make suggestions and make things work better between the villagers and the ogre, but it just wasn't working.
Nothing changed for the better. And not only did it not get better, it got much, much worse. Soon the man had been given so much work to do by the ogre that he was gone from his cute little home in his cute little village for a long stretch at a time in a far away city beyond the enchanted forest. It was a hard life, but the man knew he had to take care of his bride, a beautiful maiden with a pure heart.
He made the best of it. He worked hard and labored in the city beyond the enchanted forest, even though it was sometimes a scary place that smelled like stinkberries. He continued to be gone so much that his chiseled features began to sag, and he put on weight around his middle. Soon, he started drinking too much potion every night, just to get to normal.
He made a heartfelt appeal to the ogre and begged to be released from his clutches so he could go and be with his sweet princess in their cute little home in the serene little village. But the ogre went to the mayor and the mayor took the man and told the man all sorts of stories about how his work was so important and the city beyond the enchanted forest couldn't function without him.
The mayor made some promises to the man that if he kept trying real hard, he would give the man some help to make his life more comfortable. So the man relented, thinking the mayor to be a kind man. The mayor arranged for the man to have a nice place to stay in the city beyond the enchanted forest. Sometimes, the man's fair maiden would come, too. They didn't like being way from their cute home in their cute village, but it was better than being apart, for they were very much in love.
Soon, though, the ogre had the man going even farther away from his cute little home in his cute little village, all the way across a vast inland sea to a place so ugly, they called it Uglyville. The man was now forced to toil in Uglyville and the city beyond the enchanted forest and was home even less to his cute home in his cute village with his fair maiden wife.
This incensed the man who was now drinking potion even at lunch time! He was almost unrecognizable, his cheeks were puffy and his eyes had large dark circles around them. It was very bad. His patience was always tested and though he tried to find happiness, he just couldn't. Everywhere he looked, he only saw the ogre, laughing as he yanked the man to and fro, hither and yon between Uglyville and the city beyond the enchanted forest. It seemed the man would never get home to his cute village and his cute home with his fair maiden wife. And when he did, it was for so short a period of time it was almost like a dream.
The man had a little breakdown after a while of this, and the mayor decided he could spend more time in his cute home, in his cute village with his fair maiden and work more from there. But the ogre didn't like this and kept it so the man would have to spent time in the city beyond the enchanted forest. The man was sad. He was no longer kind and good looking, he was just sad and mean and fat and ugly and drunk on potions. his fair maid began to cry, for the man she married was gone.
The ogre promised the man every day that he would be able to work from his cute home in his cute village with his fair wife, soon. He made all sorts of promises like that. But the man knew they would never come true, for the ogre was a skilled liar.
Finally, the cute village began to grow and needed more attention from the man, so he started to go to the city beyond the enchanted forest less and less. He was starting to get happy again, although he still hated working for the ogre. He thought things were at least getting better when he was once again summoned to the city beyond the enchanted forest where he was told that it, not his village was to be the focus of his attention again!
The man began to wonder if it was worth living. He drank a lot more potion now than before and was chasing it with barley root to give it a new kick since the potion didn't work so well anymore.
Finally, the ogre sent a message one day that made the man finally lose it. He looked at the message and then in the mirror and saw he looked just like the ogre now, too. He began to despair and his fair maiden wife said it was time to tell the ogre he didn't want to work for him anymore. The man knew this was the only way if he were to survive, so he sent a letter to the mayor and the ogre telling them to stick it in their respective pie holes.
Immediately the man's world brightened and the sun came out over his cute house in his cute village and his fair maiden began to smile. He looked in the mirror and saw he was already starting to look like his old self again.
Many of the people who worked for the man, and with the man, expressed their sadness that he was going to leave. but they all understood. Just when the man thought things were hopeless and he would lose his cute house in his cute village, or heaven forbid his fair maiden, the black night rode up on his Arab charger and lent a hand to the man.
He said the man was too important to lose and that everyone knew the ogre had brought upon himself the problems that he was having. Even the mayor knew, though he was too loyal to the ogre to say so. The black knight benevolently asked the man to work for him, in the village of Nibs where he could be happy and not work for the ogre anymore.
So the story continues, since the man has so much to think about. But now his head is clear, his once illusive smile can be seen again on his face and you can almost see a chiseled jaw beneath his extra chin.
Did he live happily ever after? Stay tuned.
The mayor hired a man to work for him and the ogre quickly discovered the man was very smart. he was well liked, and handsome with a winning smile, chiseled jaw and strong features. He was not perfect, this man, but he inspired people to do their best and encouraged them to admit their mistakes so they could get better. The man admitted his mistakes, too.
For a long time, the ogre would blame his mistakes on the man. Being a good guy, the man didn't say too much. He tried to explain to the ogre that the villagers would work harder for him if they liked him, but the ogre didn't listen. When the man would go to the ogre with his problems, because, after all, the ogre was his boss and that what he is supposed to do, the ogre didn't listen; even though he pretended to. The man tried so hard to make suggestions and make things work better between the villagers and the ogre, but it just wasn't working.
Nothing changed for the better. And not only did it not get better, it got much, much worse. Soon the man had been given so much work to do by the ogre that he was gone from his cute little home in his cute little village for a long stretch at a time in a far away city beyond the enchanted forest. It was a hard life, but the man knew he had to take care of his bride, a beautiful maiden with a pure heart.
He made the best of it. He worked hard and labored in the city beyond the enchanted forest, even though it was sometimes a scary place that smelled like stinkberries. He continued to be gone so much that his chiseled features began to sag, and he put on weight around his middle. Soon, he started drinking too much potion every night, just to get to normal.
He made a heartfelt appeal to the ogre and begged to be released from his clutches so he could go and be with his sweet princess in their cute little home in the serene little village. But the ogre went to the mayor and the mayor took the man and told the man all sorts of stories about how his work was so important and the city beyond the enchanted forest couldn't function without him.
The mayor made some promises to the man that if he kept trying real hard, he would give the man some help to make his life more comfortable. So the man relented, thinking the mayor to be a kind man. The mayor arranged for the man to have a nice place to stay in the city beyond the enchanted forest. Sometimes, the man's fair maiden would come, too. They didn't like being way from their cute home in their cute village, but it was better than being apart, for they were very much in love.
Soon, though, the ogre had the man going even farther away from his cute little home in his cute little village, all the way across a vast inland sea to a place so ugly, they called it Uglyville. The man was now forced to toil in Uglyville and the city beyond the enchanted forest and was home even less to his cute home in his cute village with his fair maiden wife.
This incensed the man who was now drinking potion even at lunch time! He was almost unrecognizable, his cheeks were puffy and his eyes had large dark circles around them. It was very bad. His patience was always tested and though he tried to find happiness, he just couldn't. Everywhere he looked, he only saw the ogre, laughing as he yanked the man to and fro, hither and yon between Uglyville and the city beyond the enchanted forest. It seemed the man would never get home to his cute village and his cute home with his fair maiden wife. And when he did, it was for so short a period of time it was almost like a dream.
The man had a little breakdown after a while of this, and the mayor decided he could spend more time in his cute home, in his cute village with his fair maiden and work more from there. But the ogre didn't like this and kept it so the man would have to spent time in the city beyond the enchanted forest. The man was sad. He was no longer kind and good looking, he was just sad and mean and fat and ugly and drunk on potions. his fair maid began to cry, for the man she married was gone.
The ogre promised the man every day that he would be able to work from his cute home in his cute village with his fair wife, soon. He made all sorts of promises like that. But the man knew they would never come true, for the ogre was a skilled liar.
Finally, the cute village began to grow and needed more attention from the man, so he started to go to the city beyond the enchanted forest less and less. He was starting to get happy again, although he still hated working for the ogre. He thought things were at least getting better when he was once again summoned to the city beyond the enchanted forest where he was told that it, not his village was to be the focus of his attention again!
The man began to wonder if it was worth living. He drank a lot more potion now than before and was chasing it with barley root to give it a new kick since the potion didn't work so well anymore.
Finally, the ogre sent a message one day that made the man finally lose it. He looked at the message and then in the mirror and saw he looked just like the ogre now, too. He began to despair and his fair maiden wife said it was time to tell the ogre he didn't want to work for him anymore. The man knew this was the only way if he were to survive, so he sent a letter to the mayor and the ogre telling them to stick it in their respective pie holes.
Immediately the man's world brightened and the sun came out over his cute house in his cute village and his fair maiden began to smile. He looked in the mirror and saw he was already starting to look like his old self again.
Many of the people who worked for the man, and with the man, expressed their sadness that he was going to leave. but they all understood. Just when the man thought things were hopeless and he would lose his cute house in his cute village, or heaven forbid his fair maiden, the black night rode up on his Arab charger and lent a hand to the man.
He said the man was too important to lose and that everyone knew the ogre had brought upon himself the problems that he was having. Even the mayor knew, though he was too loyal to the ogre to say so. The black knight benevolently asked the man to work for him, in the village of Nibs where he could be happy and not work for the ogre anymore.
So the story continues, since the man has so much to think about. But now his head is clear, his once illusive smile can be seen again on his face and you can almost see a chiseled jaw beneath his extra chin.
Did he live happily ever after? Stay tuned.
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