Barracuda

Today my dear and long suffering wife needed to go through one of those unpleasant medical experiences that mark the onset of late middle-age. And since she was advised not to drive after the procedure I went along so she wouldn’t have to walk the two or three miles home.

I suppose I could embellish this little article by describing the preparations she endured for the procedure but that would only embarrass her and make you, dear readers, sick to your stomach. Let’s just say it involved copious amounts of laxatives dissolved in vast quantities of Gatorade. It wasn’t pretty. But while she was undergoing intense medical scrutiny this morning I was suffering my own damn self.

The waiting room for designated drivers at the medical facility has a large TV. And this large TV was tuned to one of those early morning quasi-news shows full of talking heads obviously hired for the quality of their dental work and All-American appearances. The ability to read was probably another job requirement although it was clearly at the fifth grade level, or lower.

These vapid smiling hosts and hostettes read some “news” stories with breathless wonderment and glittering smiles whether the story was tragic or comic. They also would occasionally step outside the studio to an area where a small crowd of men, women and children would cheer wildly and hold up cryptic signs. The “interviews” with members of this mindless throng of shivering citizens consisted of three questions: What’s your name? Where are you from? Is it cold enough here for you? Each one of the answers was cheered with wild abandon by the nitwits sharing the sidewalk.

But let’s get back to the “news” stories. There was a story about the medical condition of the recently shot congress-person. This was followed by an interview with one of the late Ronald Reagan’s sons. As I recall it was the son who hadn’t danced in tights and who claims that Mr. Reagan did not have Alzheimer’s during his first term. Apparently the other son, the dancer, claims otherwise and I believe there’s going to be a new reality show coming soon that follows this family feud. I think the title is “Dead Presidents’ Squabbling Middle-Aged Brats” or something similar.

After some local commercials the show resumed with more “new” features. The first item was about who wore what at the latest awards show, where actors with huge egos congratulate themselves on their latest piece of insipid filmmaking and pose on a red carpet showing off outfits that cost enough to feed ten thousand third world children for a month. The morning show hosts were joined by a couple of fashion experts who made catty remarks that thinly veiled their anger at not receiving invitations to the big shindig. One of these experts said that this was only the first show of the awards season, which apparently runs from January to September, and those stars that wore atrociously ugly clothes would have many opportunities for redemption if they could stay out of re-hab long enough.

There were other stories, of course, along with weather reports and really annoying advertisements. But the topper, the big story of the morning, and I’m not making this up, was about a woman who had been attacked by a flying barracuda while kayaking in Florida. Apparently this lady and her gentleman friend were paddling around some swampy areas near an island close to the coast, minding their own business, when a huge barracuda, that nasty shark-like fish with razor sharp teeth and a bad disposition, leapt out of the water and bit her on the side. The bite was terrible. It punctured her body, opening a big hole, breaking ribs and allowing her lung to push out where lungs should not be. Now this is a terrible thing. And the smiling TV personalities interviewing this woman, her boyfriend and the guy who came to their rescue were beside themselves with deeply felt concern, expressed as sincerely as any learning disabled animatron figure can express any emotion. “How did you feel when you realized you had a gaping hole in your side?” he asked the woman. “How did it affect you when you saw the lung poking out of your girlfriend’s side and you knew help was at least a half hour away?” he asked the boyfriend. And on and on the interview went for ten agonizing minutes. Admirably the people being interviewed controlled themselves and kept their answers civil. I would have said “You mindless moron! How did you think I felt? I was bleeding like a pig, my internal organs were on display and we were twenty miles from nowhere? I was scared shitless you idiot!”

When I was imagining that last part of my answer my dear wife appeared. Come to think of it she could have been described with one of those words in that last sentence. Well, we returned to our TV free home to eat and rest. By the way she got a clean bill of health from the colonoscopy.

Have a fine day.

ALL ABOUT BLOGS

Blog must be one of the ugliest words that has ever been birthed by the world of technology. I suppose essay would be too narrow a word for what folks do in a blog. Commentary is a little unwieldy and also not truly accurate. Blogs contain more than opinion and more than description. Miscellanea or miscellanies might work but no one would be able to spell those. So I guess a new word had to be invented. I would have suggested “crappile” or “brainleaks”. Something catchy and descriptive.

I read a few blogs. My daughter Monica writes one that addresses the concerns of parents of gifted children. My cousin’s daughter Marlee writes a very clever blog that is themed for each day of the week. Her dad, my cousin Peter, writes one that deals with big issues like spirituality, politics and the driving habits of Asian women. I also read a few blogs from folks who belong to my online writing group. Most of those are concerned, naturally, with writing and promoting their own work. Some are also more varied than that and are full of odd and arcane thoughts along with a few raving rants.

I have two blogs. One is a poetry blog that has been neglected for some time. Then there’s this thing that you’re reading now. This one hasn’t got much of a theme. Sometimes the postings are humorous. (Hopefully) At other times they are highly opinionated. Actually they’re always highly opinionated. I’ve written about important things and other things that are totally insignificant. I’ve even tried to sneak some poetry in here to raise the cultural level of one or two of my faithful readers. That hasn’t worked.

Some people make money at blogging. Professional bloggers sell subscriptions to their sites and do a lot of promotional stuff all over the internet. Most of those types are political or sports driven. Then there are non-professional sites that place advertising along side their rants and ravings. If they generate enough internet traffic for the advertiser then the company pays a small fee for the ad space. My inquiries to advertisers have been met with raucous chuckles. I guess a blog needs more than seven or eight regular readers to make a buck.

So why do this stuff? Well in some cases we just can’t help ourselves. There are those of us who are compulsive about writing and just vain enough to think that other people need to see what “brainleaks” we’ve had on any given day. Other bloggers are motivated by a cause, like my daughter and her parental concerns or my cousin and his driving need to convert the world to right-wing radicalism. Still others use a blog as a method of sharing useful information. Some are combinations of all those motivations.

My problem is subject matter. Sometimes I want to write a blog but I’m unable to come up with a suitable subject. Bragging about stuff is a big turn off. Racy and suggestive articles tend to lose straight-laced readers. Sports is a boring subject for most rational humans. Too much “Culture” is equally uninteresting. So you see my dilemma. However, today, I’ve solved the problem and filled up the page with this not so clever “crappile”. Have a fine day.

Social Networking and You

“Social networking” is a relatively new phrase and phenomenon. Interaction among people in groups and societies is nothing new of course, but new technologies have made that interaction evolve into something our ancestors wouldn’t recognize. Hell, I don’t even recognize most of it.

I think it was all invented by a couple of college students who were the results of cloning experiments using genetic material from the Adam of personal computing – Bill Gates. These kids, many years ago, discovered that they could make their computers talk to each other. Then they had the brilliant realization that they could use the computers to talk for them as if they were at a party or just goofing in study hall. Then one of them invented the cell phone, which originally was just a phone made out of cells, and then some Japanese guys married the cell phone to a computer, which was the beginning of phone sex. A short time later (all this stuff happened very quickly) Bill Gates called a meeting and told all the inventors and developers and experts that, damn it he was no longer Adam he was now God and he was in charge and he owned all of this crap. And it came to pass that Facebook appeared, supposedly invented by some other incredibly rich clones, but everybody knows it all belongs to Microsoft. Except for the stupid Mac stuff which belongs to Bill Gates’ brother-in-law, Steve Jobs. And isn’t Jobs a weird last name? Makes you think of the Bible and that guy who was swallowed by a whale. Or was that one of the Jonas brothers? I forget. Anyway…

Now that you know the short and complex history of social networking you have, I’m sure, a far greater appreciation of its importance in the course of human events. “In the course of human events” is also a historic phrase, I think, from the drivers’ education manual or some place like that. And since you have this greater appreciation and understanding I expect you to be a lot more serious about how you use the stuff. You shouldn’t waste all your social networking time doing silly apps like “FarmCity”, “Mafia Turf Wars”, “Mother-In-Law Ultimate Fighting” or “Global Terror Featuring Paula Abdul”. Also, unintelligible texting should be limited to situations that are safe and unlikely to disturb other less technologically adept folks. Movie theaters, church services and automobile driving are all places where unintelligible texting is socially acceptable. You shouldn’t text when you’re at a slot machine and you’ve just won a couple thousand pennies which, to your feeble mind, seems like a really big deal. It isn’t a big deal! It’s just twenty bucks or so you dummy. Okay. Sorry, I got a little sidetracked there.

Personally, I don’t text. And I only use social networking to maintain a close and loving relationship with my family, friends and a few bands. My “friend list” is a relatively modest 23,494. Of course some of those people are my wife’s friends because she refuses to do any social networking. Weird isn’t she?

So let me restate my point, in case you didn’t get it. “Social Networking” is a serious responsibility. Always use it wisely. Always use protection.

Thank you and have a fine day.

2011 - NOT JUST ANOTHER YEAR

I’ve made a resolution for this New Year. Usually I don’t make resolutions. My will power and moral fiber are much too weak for those kinds of self-improvement efforts, so I generally resist the peer (wife, doctor, well meaning friends and relatives) pressure that shows up at this time of year. But this year I’ve resolved to re-start blog writing. My writing efforts in the past went more and more into my poetry. I even had a few things published. You all did notice, didn’t you? It was announced on Facebook, for goodness sake, and we all know what a bastion of high cultural standards that is.

The poetry, while satisfying, pays like crap. And I’ve heard that it’s possible to get paid for advertising junk on a blog site if it gets enough readers. So now I’ll be writing stuff here and promoting it blatantly (which sharp readers will know refers to the original name of this page) so that I can sell space to advertisers. If you happen to see ads on the page for dating sites, male enhancement products or plastic surgeons that specialize in tattoo removal then I’d appreciate it if you patronize those businesses. And don’t forget to let them know you learned about them here.

A lot of bloggers are writing articles that review the events of last year or are making up lists of their top twenty songs or other easy stuff to fill up their first postings of 2011. I could do that. But 2010 was just too boring. The events list would look just like most other years:

1. War in the Middle East.
2. Terrorism everywhere
3. Britany Spears
4. Political crap
5. Brad Pitt

Blah, blah, blah.

Since my taste in music would only interest the ten other people in the world who like Bluegrass from northern New York State a list of my favorite songs wouldn’t be a big attention getter.

So my first posting this year will be more cutting edge. It will be devoid of cuteness. Even though it will be poetic in language and mood it will definitely be prose. As I wrote these words I just realized that this is the first posting of the year. So it will be the second posting that has all those other fine qualities. Watch for it. I’m pretty sure I have the will power to write something and stick it up on this site. After all, I got this one finished.

Have a fine day.

MODERN LANGUAGE

Long ago and far, far away when I was just a lad, things were different. That’s a silver tongued first sentence, isn’t it? Right out of a thousand stories and Star Wars too, I think. I digress. How different were things? Don’t answer. That’s a rhetorical question and I’ll answer it here in a little bit. Okay, where was I?

Oh yeah, different. Back in those days, the Fifties and early Sixties, girls didn’t talk about the parts of the male physique that lie below the waist line. And waist lines, surrounded by cheap leather belts, were a lot higher back then. If I happened to overhear a girlish conversation about boys or men I would hear giggling chatter about muscular arm muscles, highly shellacked pompadour or D.A. hairstyles, dreamy eyes and other non-racy stuff like that. Really hushed conversations might turn to a guy’s ability as a kisser. That was hot stuff back then.

Then the Sixties rolled on in. Those long haired wild eyed rock and roll musicians started multiplying. Then a bunch of them crossed over from England. Crazy, drugged up band boys leaping about and screaming sex driven lyrics were all over the radio and television. Bands like the Kinks, the Rolling Stones, the Beatles and probably the wildest band of all Freddie and the Dreamers. Next thing we knew girls’ skirts got shorter, bras were being burned and people were rolling in the mud in upstate New York. Books like the Joy of Sex were on every newlywed’s night stand. And I think that one even showed up on Father Knows Best. Maybe not.

There has been a downhill slide ever since those halcyon days of yore. (Another terribly overused cliché there) All of which brings me to the point you all knew I’d get around to eventually.

The other day I happened to be at the mall in the food court. I know, I know. I’ve told you before how I never go to the mall. Well, it was raining and I wanted to get a walk done so I was there doing that. Then I needed to go into Sears for a new chain for my chainsaw. All that made me hungry so I went to ChicFila for a healthy grilled chicken sandwich. Okay, are you satisfied?

Anyway, a bunch of young teenage girls was sitting nearby talking and laughing in that annoying way that only teenage girls can seem to master. They were talking about budget deficits, the upcoming election and ways to foster world peace. Ha! You know I’m lying with that last one. No, those girls were talking about boys and all the necessary equipment and stratagems they use to capture the smelly creatures. But the conversation reached, in terms of language and anatomical correctness, a whole new level that, frankly, surprised even me. As anyone who has ever heard my skills in the area of off-color language can attest, no trooper or sailor has a vocabulary more extensive than mine. I pale in comparison to that group of expensively dressed, well fed young females.

“Like last Friday, ya’know, I went out with Billy and he like was wearing these really like tight jeans and ya’know you could see his **** and his **** and when I shoved my like tongue down his throat his **** got all **** and like he grabbed my **** and like I was **** and….”

That was a highly censored excerpt of part of the conversation. I supplied those asterisk thingies for the unmentionable body parts. But I completely eliminated all the “F” words, “S” words, “MF” words and others. If I had kept those in that paragraph would have run well over a page.

But something even more disturbing than that conversation happened a little later. I mean, teenagers can be excused as being ignorant and interested in saying things for shock value alone. It was a day or two later when I was in the grocery store that I came across three middle aged ladies in the produce department. I was innocently squeezing tomatoes when I overheard a conversation emanating from those expensively dressed, well fed matrons. Here’s a sample.

“Yes, my George is getting so lazy when it comes to ****. Why he even went out and bought me a ****** so he wouldn’t have to, you know, **** me. So Javier the pool guy we have, who is very good by the way, has been taking care of **** and **** and **** and I’m a lot more relaxed now. And you should see his **** and his **** is magnificent also.”

It went on. These women didn’t use as many cuss words as adjectives and adverbs but they weren’t totally cuss free. But I had to move on when one of the women noticed a tomato turning into sauce in my hand and she figured out I was eavesdropping. When all three glared at me like I was some kind of lecherous psychopath I made my way to the dairy department.

Well I guess my shock at hearing such blunt and crude language from the fairer sex marks me in one more way as an old geezer. And I’m sure that those few representatives from the distaff side aren’t like all women. I know my dear wife doesn’t talk dirty, no matter how hard I try to convince her to do it. She can let loose with a string of colorful invective when she’s really irritated with me, however. Which is, when I think about it, fairly often.

Okay then, have a fine day.

JUST A COUPLE OF THINGS HERE...

Howdy friends and neighbors. It’s been quite a long time since I posted anything on the old Blog site. I’ve been focusing most of my writing energy on my little pieces of poetry. Some would call them little pieces of something else but I think those folks are just artistically deficient.

But today I feel the need to comment on a couple of things. One of them is a little bit political so if you’re sick and tired of all that crap you can skip over it. But if you skip it then you have let to me know and I’ll send along a couple of poems for you to read. You’re going to get your unpleasant reading whether you like it or not.

Okay here’s the political stuff. First of all, I’m not a party politics kind of guy. It’s true that I’m more than a little bit conservative in my views. In fact I’ve been described as a poor man’s William F. Buckley. Not quite sure who described me that way. Might even have been me. It doesn’t matter. This recent primary election business was an interesting bit of civics in action. What with the Tea Party folks and the more traditional Republicans going at it along with a few interesting little contests on the Democrat side there’s something different flowing down this particular river of history. I’m not registered with any party so I didn’t have the opportunity to vote in the primaries. Probably better that I didn’t because my variety of choices might have short circuited the voting machine. But the message from the voters of both parties seems to be that a whole lot of folks are tired of professional politicians.

For instance here in Delaware we had a Democrat Party primary to choose a candidate for the State Treasurer race. One of the contenders was Ms. Velda Potter-Jones who currently holds that esteemed office. She’s been involved in government for a long time and her husband is a city councilman up in Wilmington. But she projected just a little bit of arrogance, a little bit of the “I’m a member of the very smart ruling class” attitude. Her opponent was a hard working accountant type guy who came across as sincere and uninterested in making elected office-holding a lifetime career. Well he won quite handily. Other races in the state seemed to be decided the same way. Career politicians might be a new and welcomed endangered species. I’ve always harbored a suspicion of folks who come out of college with a law or political science degree and immediately go about building a career that leads to permanent residence in elected office. In fact I find them kind of scary and I take most every opportunity to vote against that particular breed. The upcoming general election will be interesting to me mostly to see how many incumbent careerists get to join the unemployment rolls that they helped fill up with regular working folks. So that’s my political ranting.

Now on to a subject that may cause my spleen to burst if I don’t get it out of my system. And if I have any readers who happen to be part of the group I’m about to malign (which is pretty unlikely since these morons must be completely illiterate) too bad. If I knew your names I’d mention them before I let go with this diatribe. Where did these complete idiots on motorcycles come from? I’m not talking about those club guys who tool around on their Harleys or the folks in late middle age who ride those big shiny Gold Wings with more options than the average Cadillac. No I’m talking about the fools on those “crotch rocket” imported bikes that ride without any regard for laws, life or limbs.

Just tonight we were driving east on RT 50 coming home from the DC area when a pack of those things ripped by us, weaving in and out of traffic at speeds well over eighty miles per hour. I know that for a fact because I hit the gas to try and keep up with them but I chickened out when I hit eighty. It’s hard to weave a 2005 Chevy Malibu in and out of traffic at speeds like that. Those guys were flying down the highway. I know they passed several cops because I saw the police cars and they were shooting the radar gun and picking up little old ladies doing sixty-seven in a sixty-five zone. They pick up those kinds of speeders because there’s no challenge to it. Cops know they can’t catch the “crotch rockets” so they don’t even bother.

And why do the over-dressed, tinted glass helmet wearing knuckleheads travel in packs? We always see three, four or more of them whining their annoying engines as they terrorize other drivers and cause pedestrians to leap from bridges. I honestly can’t think of a greater hazard on our roads today. As we traveled home tonight we saw big electric signs in several spots – MOTORCYCLE SAFETY WEEK SHARE THE ROAD. Those signs blinked and went out when the “crotch rocket” riders roared past causing a warp in the space-time continuum.

I do have a solution, harsh and cruel though it may be. I will sell you a device to mount on your car, SUV, pick-up truck or minivan that will stop those riders forever. When you see one or more of those bikes racing up to pass you, just flick a button. That button will release a spring loaded very long, very sharp blade at just the right height to slice the front tire of the motorcycle and retract immediately. At that point just slow down and watch as the motorcycle continues along at eighty or ninety until the unraveling tire causes the thing to start flying through the air like Evel Kneivel on crack. “Awesome, dude!” they might say as they become highly colorful road-kill.

Well, you get my drift. I feel better now.

Have a fine day.

Aimee's Story

This is a story written by Aimee Bourey, daughter of my cousin Mike and his lovely wife Kelly. The article won first place in a writing contest in Denton Texas. It is beatifully poetic and a fitting tribute to my Uncle Art. Thank you Aimee for allowing me to publish your story here on my little blog site. It is especially appropriate for this Memorial Day weekend.

My Grandpa

by Aimee Bourey

Arthur Bourey, my grandpa, was a brave man. He was born on September 9, 1926 in Standish, New York. He served in U.S Navy during World War II. Afterward, since my grandpa was smart and strong, he worked as a master welder for thirty-three years.

But that is not all I knew about him. Beside all the stories I heard from my dad and other relatives, I knew him as a quiet and loving man. When I first met my grandpa I thought that he was a soldier though I did not know he had served in the Navy then.

When I walked into his home, I saw a beautiful handcrafted clock hanging on the wall, the quiet clock sounding just like the way grandpa talks, sturdy and trustful. I saw several of his model airplanes in his basement, all bright and shining; they shined like grandpa’s loving eyes behind his glasses. I saw his big green backyard with the plaster donkey in the middle hauling a wagon full of beautiful flowers. I felt the warm welcome from grandpa about our visit. Now, that home is all lonely and sad. A For-Sale sign is probably in front of it. His model airplanes are probably all packed to be sold. The plaster donkey with wagon might have been boxed up too. His handmade clock might be still on the wall, saying good-bye. My grandpa died. My tears rained for lifetimes. My happy smile has been destroyed by the sudden news.

I wish I could have said THANK YOU or I LOVE YOU to him for all the times I didn’t. I wish I could have sent him the THANK YOU card for the present he gave to me last Christmas. I wish ………I love my grandpa! I will miss him forever. I know he is in a better place and his bright eyes will shine on me all rest of my life.