Bypass

My Dad had bypass surgery today. He came through with flying colors. The surgeon was pleased with the relative ease of the procedure, which finished without too many surprises and without major complications. My Dad will fight another day.

Scary, stressful day. I'd been told over and over just what to expect when we finally did see him after surgery. Nothing prepares you for having to see your Dad intubated, with all manner of drip drains and wires coming out of him.

Nothing prepares you to see him in that discomfort.

I won't get up too much on the soapbox, except to say: lay off all the shit you eat, exercise a bit more, and if you smoke, please stop. And I say that as Offender #1.

Nothing prepares you.

Time to get my own house in order there, too.

Still. He is alive. And I am thankful beyond my capacity for words to express it.

Stressful, but not a bad day. I remember why I like do my family. I remember that I do work with good people who do care a lot. And I remember that, by little more than dumb luck, I have surrounded myself with a tremendous group of friends.

And I get to keep my Dad around for a while longer.

Stories that hit close to home

This. I have friends in Chattanooga and friends in Knoxville that are in my thoughts today.

Tough day. Good people, all.

Twenty Twelve: the Resolution Edition.

Hello, and welcome to 2012.

I think this is the year that I finally feel comfortable calling it "Twenty-____." I've tried hard for the past couple of years, but I think I've finally gotten this century broken in, where I can just slip January first, Twenty-Twelve in without feeling like it's a pair of pants that's a bit binding around the family jewels.

And I hate pants like that.

Resolutions? Giving it some thought.

Dunno how many people are popping by here that don't already follow on The Twitter or The Facebook, but my Dad's had some tests run this week, and the results have led to his being scheduled for bypass surgery this Wednesday.

His condition being a result of heredity combined with life choices, it's kinda made me open my fat little eyes a little bit. That's the genesis of the first resolution:

1.) Cut back on the fatty foods and eat better. I can't say I'll stop eating shit, being that I work all the goddamn time, and being trapped at a grocery store sometimes 11 hours at a time, you have to go with what's quick and ready (I know that's a conundrum...but I work at a store that doesn't go with a great deal of prepared food, as opposed to your Publix of the world...). But, I can eat more vegetables, and stop less at Hardee's for a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit. I can make smarter choices than I have been. It's a resolution most of us make, at some point or another. I know I've made it before. But truth be told, this week scared me a little.

2.) Get out and walk/bike/exercise some more. Another casualty of the work week, in 2011. Just gotta make the time, even if I'm pulling a 65-70 hour work week. Once upon a time, about 5 years ago, I'd managed to lose a lot of weight. I don't know a number exactly, but it was a degree of nearly 2 shirt sizes. Just eating right, and walking daily. So, back to that.

3.) Write more. Work bullshit again. Setting a personal quota. Even if it's nonsense that I'm posting on the blog.

4.) Work less. I joked with somebody last night about it. Truth is, January through May, and then again from October to December, it was a lot of 65-70 hour work weeks, and a lot of 6- and 7-day work weeks. And truth be told, I'm not sure how much credit it's bought me. I'm ready to promote. And there were changes in-company. Final tally is I made less in 2011 than I've made any of the previous 6 years. Which is discouraging. So, I'm not intending this as a declaration that at the end of 45 hours (which is the mandated work week), I drop it. I take more pride in my work than that. So, what I'm talking about here is working more efficiently, and having less tunnel vision. Realizing that my life outside of the store is more important than the one in it. I work to live, not live to work.

If the above words come back to haunt me, so be it. Call me naive, if you will. Any time I start up, some jackass starts up with the "be happy you have a job" speech. What ever. I am grateful for a job. But it's a two-way street. I'm tired of working this hard and having so little to show for it, and having to rob Peter of his time to pay the Paul of my job.

5. Stop using shaky metaphors like the one mentioned one sentence prior.

6. Read more. I read more in 2011 than in the previous few years, which was gratifying. Again, October through December was just 4 books. Again. Time.

7. Show everybody, once again, why I am the True Human Suplex Machine

8. Start putting the Whoopass in the can again, using my own special secret ingredients (hint: Cardamom, and Jujitsu).

9. No More Oboes.

Chapter MMMDIV: In which Fractions Am Hard!

I don't talk much about work. Because you don't care, and I'm not supposed to.

Still. Here is an installment of Boring Tales from Retail:

We missed the sign on a display, this week. A price changed on Little Debbie snack cakes. Christmas Cake Little Debbies went down in price some 17 cents, going from 3/$5 down to 2/$3. The display still had the old price. A customer pointed this out. It was our mistake. I apologized for our negligence.

"I still want the sale price."

"You're getting it," I said. "You're actually getting a better price."

The look I received in reply might have been the same if I'd said roofing shingles taste like butterscotch.

We did the math. It was a pleasant conversation. By its end, I thought that I had been successful in helping her navigate the Tempestuous Sea of Ciphering Fractions.

I later learned that after doing the math for them, it was considered Tricksie, I suppose. The customer still wanted the 3/$5 price, when they got to the register.

The cashier gave it to them.

The customer is always right.

"I know a good deal when I see one."

Any media types out there? I'd kinda like to do the Contact thing. Beam messages out into space, only in the hopes that some badass Independence Day style spaceships come destroy a few cities, as opposed to the philosophic conundrum posed by the aliens in Contact.

BLOOEY!!!!!

I, for one, welcome our new alien overlords.

Moment zen....

Eh. Shit happens. Then you scream at Wheel of Fortune contestants like they stole something from you. And you move on.

The Listens, this day, 11 December 2011

Woke up this morning, and I wrote! May keep writing while football is on mute. And, football will most definitely be on mute, as Joe Buck is calling the Titans game.....

"The Bitch Song" Henry Phillips

"Lord, Search my Heart" The Blind Boys of Alabama

"Upstarts and Broken Hearts" Dropkick Murphys

"Heading for the Light" Traveling Wilburys

(A fun song....actually need to take this one out of the writing mix, because I stopped to listen instead of writing)

"Starlight" Muse

"Radio Song" R.E.M. (With KRS-One)

"What a Crying Shame" The Mavericks

"CC Rider" Old Crow Medicine Show

"Somebody More Like You" Nickel Creek

"TNT" AC/DC

"Trucks, Tractors and Trains" The Dirt Daubers

"Rainbow Connection" Willie Nelson

"A Matter of Time" Shooter Jennings

"Hey Tonight" Creedence Clearwater Revival

"Set Down, Rest Awhile" The Blind Boys of Alabama

"Just Couldn't Tie Me Down" The Black Keys

"Levelland" Robert Earl Keen

"I Walk the Line (Revisited)" Rodney Crowell

"Dance Tonight" Paul McCartney (Don't you fucking judge me!)

"A Face Like Billy Joel" Da Vinci's Notebook

"The Foggy Dew" The Young Dubliners

Chapter MMMDI: How to Lose Your Small Business Its Customers

A couple weeks ago, my friend Shyam and I wandered north to Knoxville to eat some Indian food and catch a movie. I recommend the Malai Kofta from Sitar, though I think it's likely a Hindi phrase meaning Musical Tour of the Digestive Tract.

I also recommend the flick 50/50, despite my longstanding grudge against Seth Rogen. Why a grudge against Seth Rogen? I dunno. Maybe it's because of his stupid laugh. Or maybe it's his lucking into fantastic roles with little to no discernible acting ability. Or maybe it's the self deprecating humor and curly hair, which touch a little too closely to home.

Still, 50/50 is a fine flick, and I recommend it. It's one that I'll watch again down the road.

Anyway, on our trip back, we detoured through Madisonville. We took the route I used to take home from work when I was working up near Tellico Village. As we were passing a store front, I think I was telling a story, and stopped. I though I'd passed a Wine and Spirits Store. In Madisonville.

Huh. Couldna been.

Sure enough, though, we passed another, and another.

Found out via the interweb that Monroe County passed liquor by the package. Not only did Madisonville have it, but so did Sweetwater, a small town some 10 miles north of here.

I had a rare, rare day off today. Not to make too much of a disgression, but the workload's been difficult even for a holiday, and poor communication between myself and another store led to me having to make a trip I didn't need to take yesterday. So, over a 60 hour period from Friday to Sunday, I worked something like 38 hours. So, my today was spent in part cleaning my shithole of a house, and then wandering out into the world before Cabin Fever overtook me completely.

My travels (which included a stop at the Oasis Men Call Buddy's Barbecue for some Pig Nachos), took me up toward Sweetwater.

I decided to stop into one of the new liquor stores in Sweetwater, mostly to look around, but perhaps to pick up something medicinal.

I'm a beer guy, mostly. Beer Snob is a better way to put it. But, I'm not above a bottle of whiskey or vodka, from time to time. I thought maybe I could find something for a snort, while there. But, the main thing I was loking for was something from the higher gravity side of the beer family. The selection at the first store was slight. There's a sad obsession with Mike's Harder Lemonade at these type spots in this neck of the woods, and this place had them in spades, but beyond that, there wasn't much to choose from.

Thinking I was just going to grab something else, I decided to ask the guy walking around the store if they were planning on expanding that line.

"No," he said, disinterested, not even looking me in the eye.

"Oh," I said. "You've got a couple."

"Yep," he said.

"You're not going to get more?"

"Nope."

Clearly, we'd developed a good working relationship, what with his never having once stopped what he was doing to look me in the eye. So, I decided that I was going to describe what I'm looking for. Specifically, they'd have a customer in me if they'd put Dogfish Head 90-minute in as a regular item.

"We're not going to carry a lot of that stuff."

"OK." I told him I hoped they changed their minds, because I drive to Knoxville or Chattanooga to pick the stuff up, and would grab it from their store if they carried it.

It was only then that he looked at me. And said "I don't think we're going to carry it."

I wish I could say there was a long discussion. There wasn't. This man wasn't wanting my business. For whatever reason.

Wandered up the road a way, and found another of the establishments that had opened. This one (Wine & Spirits 660 New Highway 68) was a more enjoyable outlet. Had a nice conversation about beer, in general, with both gentlemen working inside. Smart guys who knew their beer. Hoping their knowledge of product extended to the wares on a certain side of their store, I then asked for a recommendation for a bottle of wine to give as a Christmas gift, for I am Vino Ignoramus.

So.

I'm up on my soap box. I guess the point is? Don't be a dick.

I work customer service. And I'll grant you, it's tough, sometimes.

I also grant you this: The Customer is Not Always Right. There's an agreement there, between customer and client. The customer occasionally asks the impractical, and downright impossible. Sometimes, that truth has to be distributed.

However, if you're in a small businss, opening your doors relatively recently? Treat your customers better. I don't need my ass kissed. I would like to be shown respect, and not be treated like a dumb asshole.

Even if that is what I am.

And if that's the case, your competitor got this dumb asshole's money.

Anyway, two addenda to this post.

1.) The two businesses in question are strikingly similar in name. It's why I didn't mention the problem business until now. I'm just not that strong a communicator. I had an issue with my service experience at Highway 68 Wine and Spirit. I won't go so far as to say they're a bad store, but based on my experience, I probably won't shop there again soon. I had a very good experience at Wine and Spirits 68, and while it won't be an every week thing, they'll get a little more of my business if I head back that way. I was pleased.

2.) A Twitter conversation with the helpful folks at Dogfish Head has brought me the information that Dogfish isn't distributing in Tennessee for the time being. They pulled out simply because their core service areas weren't receiving adequate service, and they were at maximum brewing capacity. Which is a fair answer. (Plus, if I really, really, really need some 90 minute IPA, I can still head down to Beverage World in Ft. Oglethorpe, Georgia...still a favorite haunt....)

So. That's been the day. Woot.

Number Nine....Number Nine....Number Nine....

Nine years ago, on a post dated incorrectly 2001, I started this blogamathing with a brag about fixing the toilet.  I dated it incorrectly because I was just testing out Blogger and wasn't expecting anybody to read it.  I was new to blogging, which my friend Bill had explained to me was a way of sending blatherings out onto the World Wide Web using a series of 1's and 0's arranged in a particular pattern.  I was intrigued, since I had previously only thought those 1's and 0's were designed  to convey nude pictures from one set of nerds to another set of nerds.

And in this post (coincidentally, post Number 3500), I would like to say:

Nine years later, I think I need to cut to the chase.:  My toilet fixing skills are the highest they can be without my being a paid professional.  Honestly.  You need your shitter fixed, and you ain't got the cash?  Call me. My amateur plumbing skills are matched in this world only by Vladimir Putin and Liza Minelli.  And good luck getting either to come to your house for promise of little more than that weakass chili you always serve.

Seriously.  Just because you put mushrooms in your chili doesn't mean it's good.

Mushrooms do not necessarily equal good food.

I know that I just blew your mind.  Rocked your world, with your preconceptions regarding the goodness of food when you include mushrooms in it.  

And while I'm on the subject.  I respect my vegetarian friends.  But hot dogs made out of mushrooms?  Stop.  Just eat a real hot dog.  There's not much real meat in there.  It's mostly hooves.

Hooves are like fingernails.

When you're eating a hot dog, it's like eating fingernails.

Delicious fingernails wrapped in sausage casing.  Which, at one time, was animal intestine.

Also, there are lips, ears and buttholes in your hot dogs.

The ratio of those things are what makes each hot dog unique.  No two hot dogs are alike.  They're like snowflakes, fingerprints and Cubs Third Basemen.

What?

I dunno.

I fix you shitter.

I'm gonna put that on a business card.

Tommy Acuff

I fix you shitter.

And I'm gonna put a phone number.  But not mine.  I'm gonna put this phone number:

(423) 745-1121

Call it.  It's the local time and temperature for my home town.  Whenever you're wondering if my ass is hot (it is not) or cold (it also is not), you can call that number.

Any time I need to fill out one of those surveys to get a free water bottle or car flag, that's the number I put down.  If I get to write my own name?  I write:  Manuel Dingdong.

Because I'm NINE.

Eh?

Eh.

Anyway. If you've been reading this shit for nine years...you really need to get a teacher or somebody to help you.  I mean, how long is this post?  16 short paragraphs?  You need a tutor, you remedial sumbitch.  Are you from Meigs County?  And if it did take you nine years to read this, what's life looking like in 2020?  Have they cured the Heartbreak of Psoriasis yet?

Well.  This is the most I've posted in 2 weeks.

If there is one theme to this blog, lo after these NINE years, it is that I work too much.

That last line wasn't meant necessarily to be funny.  Because it's not.  It is the Abe Vigoda Face of Mortality staring back at me, wondering what kind of music I'm listening to on my MP3 player.  (Hint:  The Monkees).

Seriously, though.  Thanks for reading.  I've met a tremendously good bunch of folks via this blogamathing, and I hope to meet more, one day or another.

Have a good day, and remember:  

I fix you shitter.

Tommy's Warthog Problem

It's the same old story. I've been fighting warthogs like a son of a bitch lately.

Every time I turn around, there's a warthog rooting through the kitchen cabinets, looking for potato chips, or drinking out of the commode. I sat down on the couch the other day, and sat on something. I pulled the cushions out of the couch, and I will be damned if there wasn't a warthog underneath the cushions. I looked it it. It looked at me. "Get out of the couch!" I yelled, and I will admit to finding humor in seeing its legs grab for purchase as it attempted to run.

I don't know what to do with all these warthogs.

Things I've tried to get rid of these boogers:

1.) Mandatory betting on Dancing with the Stars. I was thinking their general dislike of game shows would cause them to leave. They hate that hour block of Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy almost as they hate the twice-weekly de-lousings. I figured the financial stake would simply be the icing on the cake. These warthogs don't have a damn cent. They NEVER throw in for the pizza. However, they've invested quite a bit of themselves on the show. I think they're rooting for Nancy Grace. They poke and stab me with their tusks, now, when I try to change the channel.

2.) Hitting them with a baseball bat. They do not like this. And before you feel sorry for them, I had to get 83 stitches the other day after enacting this strategy. I brought the bat. They went for the balls. That's all I'm saying.

3.) Taking a cheese grater to their warts. They do not like this. Stabbing. Biting. One of them shit on my pillow.

4.) Using a glass with a bit of molasses, and a funnel. It works like a charm for fruit gnats. Not so well with warthogs.

5.) Revoking Graham Cracker Privileges: Recently, I rediscovered the small joys that are Graham Crackers and Peanut Butter. I eat it, and I say "I'm gonna eat this Every Day Of MY LIFE!" And then, I usually forget to buy more graham crackers. Well, recently, my store ran them Buy One Get One free, and in a rare display of obsessive compulsive behavior on my part, I bought roughly 80 boxes. I enjoy them. The warthogs enjoy them. But, not as much as I thought. When I announced that Graham Cracker Privileges were Hereby Revoked, they reacted with indifference. I am actually waiting this one out, but we are on Day 11, and I don't see their resolve cracking.

6.) Shooting at them with a gun. They don't like it, and get stabby. Also, the neighbors and the Athens Police Department seem to have some manner of problem. This is why I consider myself a Libertarian. Don't push my beliefs on you, don't push them on me. Unless you have any better ideas on how to deal with a house filled with warthogs. None of the Police even acted like they could see the warthogs.

7.) Turning one against the other, using fake Facebook and Twitter accounts. Doesn't seem like many of them can read. However, I am friends with Christie Brinkley, now on Facebook. I figured her time with Billy Joel should eventually lead to some insight in dealing with my problem.

8.) Trying to scare them with zombies. May work with my friends Shyam and Eric, but they actually seemed to enjoy watching the Walking Dead. In fact, the first episode with that scene in the RV? Scared the shit out of me, but they all found that kind of funny.

9.) Farting Candy. Actually, we all thought this was pretty funny, and had a good laugh for a couple of hours.

10.) Spraying them with a spray bottle filled with bleach. Not a good idea. Stabby. Plus, I've ruined the couch, chair and carpet.

11.) Warthog traps. Like mousetraps. I need help setting this. I broke my left arm when it went off, when I was rooting around behind the refrigerator, you know, like you do.

12.) Dismantling the moonshine still. This was a mistake. They're simply buying from another source, and I'm now out of a stream of income. (They don't pay in money, but rather in these beautiful afghans. I don't know if they make them, or trade for them some other way. I've sold a couple on Ebay for 40 bucks. I've got a couple others I'm willing to trade. Perhaps in trade for knowledge of how to get rid of these bastards).

Poutine

I'm not saying I would. I'm just saying that it's not out of the question. I'm mentioning that I can name the WWE Champions as easily as I can the U.S. Presidents, or my Home Address. My priorities have never really been where everybody else tends to think they should be.

Again, I'm not saying that I would.

I am also not saying that I would not.

I would very much like there to be a Poutine Truck, which cooks and serves Poutine, here in my home town of Athens, Tennessee.

For such, I might be willing to trade a testicle.

I'm not saying I would. I'm not saying I wouldn't.

I'm saying that it's in the realm of conversation.

Because A.) I like Poutine, and haven't had real Poutine for nigh on more than a decade now. And B.) I have two working testicles, and would be willing to trade one of them to have a truck that cooks and serves Poutine. As I see it, I've not begat progeny at this point, and would be willing to trade some of the potential for said progeny for a truck that vends fried potatoes covered in gravy and cheese curd.

There is a lot of thinking that has gone into this, and I'll spare you the goriest of details. Suffice it to say, I'd never have to ground a Poutine truck for stealing another kid's lunch money, and I'll never have to bail it out of jail for selling pot on school grounds. That's because you can't send a Poutine Truck to school in this state.

I've checked.

So.

There is a point of negotiation, mostly involving the removal of said testicle. The hows, and more importantly, the how painfuls. Don't dig the pain when it comes to the family jewel(s). Would like to negotiate anesthetic (general...local just ain't gonna cut it), as well as the relative sterility of instruments used to extract.

I will not accept any contract that involves the use of a Freddy Krueger glove, or any device featured in the Hellraiser or Saw movies.

Also: No Bear Traps. All points are negotiable, except this one.

You may use my testicle for any purpose. It is yours to do with as you please. Although, please note, that if progeny is created using the extracted bits, I would like you to consider the name "Otis." Because there aren't enough people named Otis.

Now, I can hear a few of you saying: "Why not make you're own?"

1.) I work hard, and like being served food. 2.) Mind your own business.

3.) Shut up.

So. Let's make a deal. Holler at me, Canada! We have much to discuss.

The Listens, this day, 13 September 2011

The listens this morning, as I wrote:

"Big Escape"/Pearly Gate Music

"Everybody Wants You"/Puddle of Mudd (Dunno why I like their cover album Re:(Disc)overed so much, but it's a fun listen)

"Viva La Vida"/Coldplay

"Get Outta My Way"/The Dirt Daubers

"Speed of Darkness"/Flogging Molly

"The River of Dreams"/Billy Joel

"Psychomania"/The Damned

"I Sit Down When I Pee"/Tim and Eric (Yeah...you shouldn't download and add to the writing mix after beers).

"Haircut"/The Waifs

"The Present State of Grace"/Flogging Molly

"Black Water"/Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes

"Who'll Stop the Rain"/Creedence Clearwater Revival

"Red Tide"/Neko Case (Fun song....I listened to it three times...)

"(Don't Go Back to) Rockville"/R.E.M.

"The First Time I Saw Waylon"/Roger Alan Wade

"I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For"/U2

A couple of notes:

I highly recommend The Dirt Daubers, both in their eponymous effort, and even more for "Wake Up, Sinners," which officially hits streets today. Fun stuff from JD Wilkes and company. They played at Muddy Roots back over Labor Day weekend. The Joys of Working Retail made it impossible to head up that way....would definitely like to catch them live, some time when time and budget allow....

I'm also having a surprising amount of fun with the Puddle of Mudd cover record. Dunno exactly why. It's just a good listen....

A Lie, in which I Alienate the Nation of New Zealand

I don't know if I've ever told you people this, but I once served as America's Ambassador to New Zealand.  This was in 1992.  The exact circumstances of my appointment are still something of a mystery, but I can tell you that it had something to do with the Twins and Braves playing each other in the World Series in 1991, having each gone from worst to first in the same year, and the fact that the grudge my father holds against Lonnie Smith is as powerful as a Locomotive.

A Locomotive That Can Travel Through Time!

But that's neither now nor then.

This happened during my fourth week in New Zealand, on the same day that I finally conceded defeat in my lengthy debate, and admitted that Christchurch wasn't the capital city of that beautiful green pay-toilet of a country.  (That Maori Gentleman and I still hold the Southern Hemisphere Record for the longest continual "Yes  it is/No it isn't" debate, by the way.)

I stood on the corner, out of breath, still crying from all the rage, and wondered what, exactly, my next move would be.

I asked aloud:  "Where in the hell does one get a Gatorade in this country?  Have they invented Fierce Melon Gatorade yet?  It's 1992!"  The wind blew in reply, deafening me with all its windiness.   I raised my baseball mitt to shield my eyes from the coarse, gritty volcanic ash that blows in the wind of New Zealand like God's Cancer Causing Dandruff.

I gave thought to stepping into the brothel behind me to take refuge from what I was afraid was the second pyroclastic flow to inundate the town of Christchurch since my arrival.  Little known fact about New Zealand:  There is no building built before 2003 standing, due to the numerous volcanic eruptions.

Littler known fact:  "Dancing on their Graves" is the National Dance of New Zealand.  It is impossible to take three steps in any direction in any urban area of New Zealand without stepping on the grave of another New Zealander, because each new shanty-town of a city is built on top of the ruins of the last.  Indeed, as soon as the ground is cool enough to support a shack made of old TV boxes and aluminum foil, suddenly it's a thriving metropolis again!

Why aluminum foil?  To block the sun's rays.  There is a giant hole in the Ozone layer directly over New Zealand.  The Devil put it there, because he wants people out of New Zealand, so he can have it for himself.  That is perhaps The Littlest Known Fact in All the World.  One person knows it:  Me.  And now you.  And given the number of people who'll read this, that means probably still just me.

Oh yeah!  I was standing there, shielding my eyes, thinking of stepping into the brothel for the shelter (Yeah! The Shelter!  That's the ticket!), when I felt something roll against my leg.

I looked down, and it looked like a dried plant had rolled up against me.

"Oh Good!" I said. "I get out of my rowboat in this Godforsaken country, lose an argument to a scary tattooed man and have 3 pounds of volcanic ash turning to pumice in my lungs, and now I get hit with a Tumbleweed? That. Is. It."

And I pulled my shotgun out of the holster I had for it on my back, and went to blow that damned weed away!  I cocked the gun.  I placed my finger across the twin triggers.  And then I noticed that the Tumbleweed was looking at me.

"Are you going to shoot me?"

"I don't know.  I've never run across a Talking Tumbleweed before."

"I'm not a Tumbleweed."

"A Talking Tumbleweed?"

"No," he said. "I'm not a Tumbleweed of any sort."

"Are you sure?" I said, raising my gun to the ready again.

"Jesus!" he swore.  "I'm a Kiwi Bird!  I'm not a fucking Tumbleweed."

We stood, regarding each other for some time.  Many minutes.

"Kiwi Bird?  Like the shoe polish?"

"Yes," he said.  He added:  "Would you put the gun down?"

My arm was getting tired, but I wasn't about to give him that sort of advantage. Such are the perils of International Diplomacy.

"Tell me why I shouldn't shoot you."

"Well, for starters, I'm not a Tumbleweed."

"Go on."

"And for second, I can take you to Wellington."

I was thrown for a loop.

"Who's Wellington?"  I asked, looking over the sight of my gun.

"Wellington is the capital of New Zealand.  Not Christchurch.  Remember?"

It dawned on me what he was trying to tell me.

"The argument!"

"The argument," he agreed.  "Would you put the gun down?"

"You can take me to Wellington?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Now, if you'd like.  As soon as you lower the gun."

After another minute's consideration, I lowered the gun.  "My arm kinda hurts," I told him.  "What's your name?"

"Willie Keeler."

"Really?"

"Aye."

"Alright, then.  Take me to Wellington."

And off we went.  Hand in hand, Willie Keeler and I left the town of Christchurch.  There was a brief skirmish where Willie and I had to fight our way through the Hammerheads, that I would tell you about, except that I don't write fight scenes much to my satisfaction.  Suffice it to say, we would have met our makers, were it not for the quick intervention of Willie Keeler's Friends, also Kiwi Birds, I would later learn.

"I'm glad you guys are here," I said.  "Willie Keeler and I were goners for sure!"

"Goners?" Willie Keeler said.  "I've never heard that word used outside of a book."

"Oh."

Willie Keeler explained to his friends that I was America's new Ambassador to New Zealand, and that I was on my way to Wellington.

"Let's take him then!"

And the Kiwi Birds did something, that 19 years later, I still don't know how to explain.  I'll try though:  With a squawk, they flew together, and became a Tractor!

A Really Boss Tractor.

And off we went. Slowly.  I can't talk too badly about my Kiwi friends. It was a slow trip, but I cant think of any of my friends, before, or since, that could merge to form a tractor!  Come the fuck on!

So, anyway, we trekked across New Zealand, me riding my Kiwi Tractor, them telling me stories of their fight for independence, their cause of justice and their recipes for Strawberry filled confections and drinks.  I mostly talked to them about the show Perfect Strangers.

"Did you know Louie Anderson was originally set to play Balki's American cousin?  And that he was replaced with Mark Linn-Baker after screening the first pilot for network executives?  I wonder if it was because Louie Anderson was too fat?"

"There's a certain irony," came the voice of one of the more sardonic members of the gestalt tractor made of kiwi birds, "in you wondering if anybody was too fat."

"Hey! This is my story!  You don't make fat jokes at my expense if I'm telling the story!"

"Sorry."

So, anyway. after several days, came to the northern coast of the South Island and looked across the water to Wellington.

I stood there for several minutes.

"How do I get over there?"

"We thought you would fly there."

"I can't fly," I said.

And the Kiwi Birds looked at each other, in dismay.  And I've never seen a more disheartening event in all my life.  Watching three Kiwi, distraught and dismayed.

"Can't you fly?" I asked Willie Keeler.

"No," he said, a tear rolling down his Kiwi Bird Cheek.

And I pulled out my shotgun, and shot Willie Keeler's friends.  I then grabbed the gun by its barrel and bonked Willie Keeler on the head with the butt of the gun.

BONK!

"See?" I said. "You ain't no kind of bird.  You're a Talking Tumbleweed."

And then, there was a great Earthquake!

I dropped my gun into the New Zealand Sea, and fell!  I was sure I was falling into the sea!  But I grabbed hold of something flapping in the wind!  A sheet, of some sort!

It took a minute for the realization to set in.  The Earthquake had loosened the soil, and revealed a laundry that had been covered by a previous volcanic eruption.  And I had grabbed a sheet that had somehow survived the tumult.  I hung by it, over the Great Blue and Scary New Zealand Sea!

Willie Keeler stood over me.  He held a green bottle in his hand.

"Your loss," he said, as he turned the label so I could see it, "Is My Gain!!!!!"

And he hit me with that Bottle of Gain Detergent (also, one would imagine, unearthed by the Earthquake).  And he hit me again.  Again, and again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.

He raised up his detergent, for one final shot.  "From Hell's Heart," he sneered.

"I stab at thee!" I said, surprising him with both my katana, and my razor sharp wit!

Willie Keeler fell, impaled upon my katana blade, into the Roiling, Turbulent Great Dangerous and Smelly New Zealand Sea.  Dead.

I never did make it to Wellington.  I was expelled from New Zealand.  Seems the Kiwi Bird is somehow special to them.  At first, I was flummoxed by that.  But then, they do turn into a really cool tractor.  I think that's awesome, and if there's one thing I regret about ending Kiwi Willie Keeler's 44 Gain Hitting Streak, it is that I don't have a souvenir from my trip of me riding my Really Boss Tractor made out of Kiwi Birds.

But I'm not allowed back.  And even if I were, I'm pretty sure that the Kiwi wouldn't let me ride their Gestalt Tractor.  If there's one thing I know about flightless birds in general, it's that they're assholes.

All the pity.  Because Tractors Rock!

Book Meme!

Hey lookit. Book meme. Seen here.

To follow the NPR (US National Public Radio) meme, copy this list, putting in Bold those you have read.

1. The Lord Of The Rings Trilogy, by J.R.R. Tolkien (In the interest of full disclosure, I didn't read them until Peter Jackson's movies were coming out)
2. The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy, by Douglas Adams (It's probably about time to re-read).
3. Ender’s Game, by Orson Scott Card
4. The Dune Chronicles, by Frank Herbert
5. A Song Of Ice And Fire Series, by George R. R. Martin
6. 1984, by George Orwell
7. Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury (Should be required reading...everywhere...)
8. The Foundation Trilogy, by Isaac Asimov
9. Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley
10. American Gods, by Neil Gaiman
11. The Princess Bride, by William Goldman
12. The Wheel Of Time Series, by Robert Jordan (Up to the third book. Within a day of my finishing it, Robert Jordan passed away. Already disillusioned that while I liked how he wrote, nothing much was happening, I hopped off that 1000 page a book train)
13. Animal Farm, by George Orwell
14. Neuromancer, by William Gibson (I hated Neuromancer, but I think it may have been because Gibson's book actually scared me...)
15. Watchmen, by Alan Moore
16. I, Robot, by Isaac Asimov
17. Stranger In A Strange Land, by Robert Heinlein
18. The Kingkiller Chronicles, by Patrick Rothfuss
19. Slaughterhouse-Five, by Kurt Vonnegut
20. Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley
21. Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?, by Philip K. Dick
22. The Handmaid’s Tale, by Margaret Atwood
23. The Dark Tower Series, by Stephen King (Personal favorite, yo. Sacred cow.)
24. 2001: A Space Odyssey, by Arthur C. Clarke
25. The Stand, by Stephen King
26. Snow Crash, by Neal Stephenson
27. The Martian Chronicles, by Ray Bradbury
28. Cat’s Cradle, by Kurt Vonnegut
29. The Sandman Series, by Neil Gaiman
30. A Clockwork Orange, by Anthony Burgess (I own the book, but have never sat to read it.)
31. Starship Troopers, by Robert Heinlein (Probably my favorite Heinlein book).
32. Watership Down, by Richard Adams (If you haven't read this book, quit your job, and go read it, you shithead).
33. Dragonflight, by Anne McCaffrey
34. The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress, by Robert Heinlein
35. A Canticle For Leibowitz, by Walter M. Miller (I've started this one, but never finished--more because of the tiny, tiny type in the paperback copy I had than the content of the book, which I was enjoying)
36. The Time Machine, by H.G. Wells
37. 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea, by Jules Verne
38. Flowers For Algernon, by Daniel Keys (An oddly beautiful book).
39. The War Of The Worlds, by H.G. Wells
40. The Chronicles Of Amber, by Roger Zelazny
41. The Belgariad, by David Eddings
42. The Mists Of Avalon, by Marion Zimmer Bradley
43. The Mistborn Series, by Brandon Sanderson
44. Ringworld, by Larry Niven
45. The Left Hand Of Darkness, by Ursula K. LeGuin
46. The Silmarillion, by J.R.R. Tolkien (I didn't finish this one, but read all that I wanted to. Honestly, reading the phone book is slightly more interesting).
47. The Once And Future King, by T.H. White
48. Neverwhere, by Neil Gaiman
49. Childhood’s End, by Arthur C. Clarke
50. Contact, by Carl Sagan
51. The Hyperion Cantos, by Dan Simmons (I started, but read all that I care to. A pity, maybe, because everybody raves about the first couple of Hyperion books. Given my lack of success with Dan Simmons in general, I think it's a writer thing...)
52. Stardust, by Neil Gaiman
53. Cryptonomicon, by Neal Stephenson
54. World War Z, by Max Brooks
55. The Last Unicorn, by Peter S. Beagle
56. The Forever War, by Joe Haldeman
57. Small Gods, by Terry Pratchett
58. The Chronicles Of Thomas Covenant, The Unbeliever, by Stephen R. Donaldson
59. The Vorkosigan Saga, by Lois McMaster Bujold
60. Going Postal, by Terry Pratchett
61. The Mote In God’s Eye, by Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle
62. The Sword Of Truth, by Terry Goodkind
63. The Road, by Cormac McCarthy Simply the scariest book I've ever read.
64. Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, by Susanna Clarke
65. I Am Legend, by Richard Matheson
66. The Riftwar Saga, by Raymond E. Feist
67. The Shannara Trilogy, by Terry Brooks
68. The Conan The Barbarian Series, by R.E. Howard
69. The Farseer Trilogy, by Robin Hobb
70. The Time Traveler’s Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger
71. The Way Of Kings, by Brandon Sanderson
72. A Journey To The Center Of The Earth, by Jules Verne
73. The Legend Of Drizzt Series, by R.A. Salvatore
74. Old Man’s War, by John Scalzi
75. The Diamond Age, by Neil Stephenson
76. Rendezvous With Rama, by Arthur C. Clarke
77. The Kushiel’s Legacy Series, by Jacqueline Carey
78. The Dispossessed, by Ursula K. LeGuin
79. Something Wicked This Way Comes, by Ray Bradbury
80. Wicked, by Gregory Maguire (Wicked, as far as I'm concerned, is the exception to the rule of Gregory Maguire. The Rule being: Gregory Maguire is a bad writer. Wicked is a decent book. Anything else he's published, is not.)
81. The Malazan Book Of The Fallen Series, by Steven Erikson
82. The Eyre Affair, by Jasper Fforde
83. The Culture Series, by Iain M. Banks
84. The Crystal Cave, by Mary Stewart
85. Anathem, by Neal Stephenson
86. The Codex Alera Series, by Jim Butcher
87. The Book Of The New Sun, by Gene Wolfe
88. The Thrawn Trilogy, by Timothy Zahn (Fun books, actually, and of all those Star Wars books I have read and owned, these were the only ones I deemed necessary to hold on to, incase I decided to read again).
89. The Outlander Series, by Diana Gabaldan
90. The Elric Saga, by Michael Moorcock
91. The Illustrated Man, by Ray Bradbury
92. Sunshine, by Robin McKinley
93. A Fire Upon The Deep, by Vernor Vinge
94. The Caves Of Steel, by Isaac Asimov
95. The Mars Trilogy, by Kim Stanley Robinson
96. Lucifer’s Hammer, by Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle
97. Doomsday Book, by Connie Willis (Connie Willis does not get enough applause for her work, this book least of all).
98. Perdido Street Station, by China Mieville
99. The Xanth Series, by Piers Anthony
100. The Space Trilogy, by C.S. Lewis

Dad

My Dad's birthday is today. He is still in deepest absolute denial that his favorite restaurant (Reedy's, in Englewood) is closed. Despite that it has been gone for 2 decades now, he is resolute in the belief that we will spend his 59th birthday there tonight. Or, he'll bring a "Whoopin' the Size of Three Dom Deluise."

So. There's that.

I wrote this a few years back:

Do you have one defining image of a person? That when you think of them, the first thing that pops to mind is that defining event? It's an event that can be astounding or mundane...regardless, it strikes a tone so deep in your psyche, it transcends all logical thought, so that all your opinions, beliefs and values regarding that person use that as the starting point?

I was nine. It was 1986, and I'd just lost my very last baby tooth. The little bugger had started loosening a few days earlier, and had popped out during a viewing of Head of the Class. I was in a state I could only describe as ebullient...a level of joy I had never reached prior nor have I reached since.

I was still reeling from the satisfaction of essentially having a small bone pop out of my head, when I changed the channel to Night Court.

My dad taught nights. At least, that's what I believed, and still believe to a point to this day. At the time, he was teaching computer courses at the town just below ours, at the small college one could find there. I know he taught these classes, because I still have people in around my small town coming to me and saying "Your Dad taught me how to use Fortran."

To which I reply: "Fortran? Quit making up words, Aunt Charlotte, and make me a sandwich..."

Anyway, back to the point.

I settled in for a half-hour of sheer hilarity with the comic stylings of Judge Harold T. Stone. It was a fun episode, though I feel like it's important to note that this was while Selma Diamond was still part of the cast, and before John Astin started making his appearances as Buddy. I'll grant you that it was indeed a creative valley in the show's storied run, but I'll submit to you that no better use of a nine-year-old's time could I come up with, even to this day, than to learn about the ins and outs of the legal system in nightfall New York City, and to do so with a laugh.

As an aside, I still have a thing for Markie Post.

But anyway, the episode was nearing the end of the second act, when a commotion arose in the courtroom.

I was watching intently. "This is all quite odd," I said to no one in particular, though my mother was hosting her weekly McMinn County Lady's Mixed Martial Arts Cotillion right behind the sofa.

In the courtroom, just after Harry had rendered a verdict (Court costs and time served), a ruckus arose. The camera pans back, a little uncertain, I believe. And a rather large, hairy man starts throwing hookers, extras and bums aside. And by throwing, I mean picking up and heaving like logs of firewood through a pickup truck window.

The camera panned back for a second to Dan Fielding, who in a rare display of valour grabbed Christine Sullivan and pulled her off screen to safety.

The large man, whose voice became dreadfully clear to me, continued his rampage to the front of the courtroom. The bailiffs came running in, guns drawn. It was the first time I'd ever seen weapons displayed in the courtroom.

Shots were fired, and it was at that moment that the beast stopped his rampage long enough for the cameras to get a focus on his face.

For reasons known only to himself, my Dad was rampaging through the courtroom on that Sitcom.

The bullets didn't stop him. They slowed him down, though. Long enough, I think, to consider just how angry he was going to be.

With a sweep of one mighty arm, he smashed Selma Diamond against the defense table. She was on the next week, so he didn't kill her, thankfully.

In the next motion, he picked up a nameless bailiff (the one with red hair) and threw him against Judge Stone's bench.

He took one step, and found himself face to face with all 6 feet, five inches of Richard Moll's Bull Shannon.

The air was electric. These two behemoths, nose to nose. Each bringing hell with them in their hip pockets, each holding the power of Valhalla in their hands.

The fight was epic. It lasted seven minutes, and each blow was like an frog punch from God. Lights flickered, streets ruptured, and the Hoover Dam burst (though that was later revealed to be the result of a drunken Buddy Hackett playing with the controls...still, it was coincidental and dramatic).

At the end of seven minutes, with dust and smoke filling the courtroom, the broken remains of the prosecution table underneath his dying body, Bull Shannon said to my father "I yield!....I yield sir!...."

My father, holding a filing cabinet in one hand, let it drop with a muffled bang.

"It is finished. We now know."

And he looked at the camera.

"We all know."

And with nothing more said, he left the courtroom, and Night Court went to commercial.

My mother sent me to bed after that. She was too busy applying a triangle choke to have seen what just happened, and she didn't believe me. The next morning, while eating a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, I asked my father "Were you on TV last night, beating up Bull Shannon?"

My Dad looked at me as if I had tentacles growing out of my nostrils.

"No, I was teaching."

"Oh."

I wandered to school that day, and indeed many days after that, confused and questioning. I knew what I'd seen. Was it merely a creation of my own mind?

Several weeks later, during my Dad's summer break, we were sitting down, watching Night Court. Nothing much was said, until the third act. Harry Stone had just issued some edict or another, too which Bull Shannon replied "ooo...kay." I heard my dad utter a small, gravelly laugh.

And I heard him say "pussy."

He got up to leave, and he reached into his pocket, and pulled something shiny out of it. He tossed it to me, and went into the kitchen.

I still have it to this day.

It is a New York Court Officer's badge, with the name Shannon emblazoned across the nameplate....

A thought from Harlan Ellison

Picking through an old notebook, I found this quote from Harlan Ellison. It's apropos of nothing but I like it, and it bears repeating (I've posted it before I think. I just can't remember when...).

You can sympathize, accordingly, with my upset at the major networks' fear & trembling as regards what they show the little no-neck monsters every Saturday ay-em. Last season, there was such a hue and cry raised by paranoid parents (who can't cop to being responsible for their kids' traumas, so have to blame it on everything from Hong Kong Flu to masturbation, with comic books and TV getting a big blast) that kiddie-shows--notably the animateds--were warping their urchins' minds, that radical changes were proposed in Saturday morning programming....

Refuting...the running-scared set is no problem. Arrayed in the Wertham philosophy that TV (and comic book) violence cause children to use meat cleavers on their mummies are hundreds of psychologists and psychiatrists who contend that filmed horror and terror are good for kids, that they offer a purgative, a release for adolescent tensions and hostilities.

On a personal level, I can vouch for the accuracy of that theory. Every guy who I know who grooved behind horror movies and comic books when he was a tot is today a productive, beautiful person, with imagination and a sense of wonder. The few I know who were only allowed to read Albert Payson Terhune and see movies were the virtues of God and Dogs were extolled are square, hidebound, bigoted, short-sighted schlepps who sport SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL COSSACK bumper stickers.
--Harlan Ellison, in the December 28, 1968, edition of The Glass Teat.