Exactly what is the etiquette when you see a woman openly sporting a purple flowered thong? Do you stare at it? Do you offer her a compliment and a quick wink? (Given the upscale nature of the establishment in which the young woman and her openly sported thong were currently residing, the “nudge, nudge” was totally out of the question.) Or so you cast furtive glances around the bar to catch a passing glimpse now and again? It’s a conundrum.
I once again find myself drinking beer in the center of midtown Manhattan, the self-appointed center of the universe, in a certain upscale establishment, that will remain unnamed, waiting for my brother Richie (or Richard as he is known in business circles) and also waiting for the inevitable beer buzz to kick in.
My most recent slew of furtive glances no longer revealed a purple flowered tong, but the bottom of a gray sweater modestly pulled down over the woman’s lower back depriving all those within the bar of a provocative view of her colorful choice of undergarment. I’m tempted to ask her if I can see her socks. You know what they say about a well-turned ankle. Anyway . . .
I’m ready to order my second beer that will, without fail, tip me past sobriety and into foolishness. My brother has not yet arrived and if he continues to tarry, he will no doubt find me in a wonderful state of inebriation. I am sitting at the rail facing the window and as I got up to get my Sierra Nevada Pale Ale #2, I once again spotted the purple flowered thong. As the beer slowly pushes my brain back to grammar school, I make a vow to walk over and snap her thong if my brother does not show up by the time I am ready for my third beer.
Things may also get complicated if my son by my first marriage shows up. We communicate via text messaging and I am not even sure it is my son with whom I am trading electrical impulses. It could be a terrorist cell I infiltrated by accident or a rogue Conservative Republican hell bent (is there any other way to bend a Conservative Republican) on besmirching the good name and historical record of President-for-Life Obama.
The thong is gone once again. This is troubling as I am halfway through Sierra Nevada Pale Ale #2 and will soon be returning to the bar for Sierra Nevada Pale Ale #3. What of my vow? If the thong is no longer openly sported and thereby easily snapped, what action can be reasonably taken? Do I ignore the lightly-made, drunken promise to myself to perform a juvenile prank that, at my age, will cause me to become a convicted sex offender, or do I “man-up” to my convictions, lift the bottom of her sweater and take those fateful steps to becoming a convicted sex offender? Life does present us with some difficult choices.
I kind of forgot where I was so I will just confine my comments to the patrons of the establishment where I am slowly becoming inebriated. To my right are three German tourists jabbering away in their horrible, hard to listen to, guttural language. Beyond Heidi, Hans, and Feet are Thong Woman and her friend, Hint-of-Cleavage. Continuing around the packed bar are Curly Red and Blond Betty, both females and both clad in black. They are having an intense conversation with Middle Aged Woman who is also clad in black. I missed the memo on black. I am wearing tan pants and a red shirt and feel like a complete wardrobe geek.
(Note: Heidi and Company left and have been replaced by Blondie #2 and Mr. Red-Hair obnoxiously yapping on the phone. They are both alone.)
Past Middle Aged Woman are the Boring Businessmen Buddies and an indescribable group of people thoroughly enjoying themselves at my expense, no doubt. (Most people don’t realize that paranoia can be comforting.) The good news for Charlie, the owner of this saloon, is that the bar is packed with people buying expensive drinks and that there is a bunch of people sitting down to dinner.
ALERT – ALERT: The thong is back in all of its Technicolor glory. It is obvious that Thong Woman has a bit of plumber in her genes.
Blondie #2 (green top) had been joined by a female friend, Blackie, sporting a gray sweater. The death grip that black had on the Manhattan wardrobe scene seems to have had its moment in the sun (or at least its dull fluorescent replica).
Life is amazing. I was finished with Sierra Nevada Pale Ale #2 and getting ready to get Sierra Nevada Pale Ale #3 with all the danger associated with the thong-snapping vow I promised to myself when wonder of wonders, a blonde waitress/hostess came to my rescue and took my order thereby relieving me from having to make a decision on the thong-snapping. I’m happy because being a convicted sex offender can’t be any fun.
There are too many people at the bar for me to comment on, so I will just make some stuff up. Fortunately, my brother showed up shortly after my reservoir of ideas ran low. I was almost giddy when he told me that he knew Thong Woman’s friend, Hint-of-Cleavage. He did not want to make eye contact with her because although they were employed by the same organization, they moved in different hierarchical circles, and, as my brother pointed out, you don’t socialize with the help. Plus, he owed her $135.
Before leaving the bar, we both stopped to use the men’s room. I used it to return some of the beer, but had no idea for what use my brother used it. This whole beer-returning cycle comes into play again shortly and involves an Asian (assumed Korean) nail salon.
We decided to walk the two miles through the people-clogged and snow-narrowed streets at rush our to meet up with two of my brother’s friends at a small, 100-year old neighborhood Italian restaurant that not only had excellent and moderately-priced food, but also contained an indoor bocce court. The one friend was a certain Ms. Fields (no relation to Abbott and Costello’s landlord). The other friend will be left undescribed and unnamed for reasons that are best left undiscussed.
Before meeting up with the Dining Duo, my brother and I wandered around the East Side of Manhattan in the near vicinity of the 59th Street Bridge (or the Queensborough Bridge as it is known to the residents of Queens) not knowing exactly where this wonderful little restaurant was located. Anyone reading this and who knows my brother will not be the least bit surprised that we were lost. It was, however, a pleasant evening and we passed the time chatting amiably. Under different circumstances this carefree amble would not have presented the least bit of a problem. Unfortunately, my recent beer rental came due and I was having a problem finding a beer-recycling center.
I tried two small eating establishments with no luck and then saw a large, well-lit nail salon stocked with several well-fed Asian manicurists and pedicurists. There under the glaring lights were two doors cleverly marked “Men” and “Woman”. (I was a bit more than curious as to why they would use the male plural and the female singular. The only obvious explanation is that they have many male customers and only one female customer. Continuing this logic, I deduced that this might not be a nail salon, but a cleverly disguised front for a different type of business whose customers enjoyed the companionship of well-fed Asian women posing as manicurists and pedicurists. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Say no more squire.)
I entered the salon with misguided optimism and asked the woman at the front desk in my most pathetic and vulnerable voice, tinged with just the right amount of urgency, if I could use the men’s room. A simple “No”, or, “It is for customers only”, would have been disappointing, but acceptable. Instead, Ms. DLB (Dragon Lady Bitch) told me that they didn’t have one. I usually don’t argue with Asian women, but circumstances dictated bolder action.
“Yes, you do. It’s right there.”
“No men’s room”
“Please, I’ll give you $10.”
“No.”
“I will give you $20.”
“No.”
Almost blind with anger and at the end of my bladder control, I made the astounding offer of $50 to urinate in their men’s room not more than twenty feet away instead of standing between two cars which in times past would have been socially acceptable and only resulted in a small fine if caught by the local constable, but today would result in a conviction as a sex offender. Having dodged that bullet earlier in the evening, I did not intend to once again put myself in harms way.
Amazingly, Ms. DLB just turned away dismissively leaving me angry, bitter, and growing more desperate by the second. Across the street from the nail salon and its corpulent, but compassionless hostesses was another small eatery. Inside were two drably dressed and partially clean individuals standing on either side of the counter. I asked the apron-clad counterman about using his rest room and he quickly obliged with a knowing look as if to say, “I’ve been there bro”. After completing the task at hand, I thanked my benefactor and left feeling fit and ready for further inebriation as my recent panic had destroyed my mellow buzz.
I felt somewhat guilty about not leaving him a tip for the use of his restroom seeing as I had just offered Ms. DLB $50, but my guilt was assuaged as I left the eatery. There were forty whole chickens roasting on the grill (yes, forty and that is no exaggeration) and nary a customer in sight. Given that it was already seven o’clock in the evening, I couldn’t imagine that he would sell all those roasted chickens and most, if not all would go to waste. (Can you really roast a chicken on a grill?) Any money I left in appreciation would most likely be wasted on more unsold roasted chickens.
I tired of wandering around so I called 411 and got the address of the restaurant. It was down the block from Ms. DLB and soon we were comfortably ensconced at the bar of the lovely 100-year old restaurant. Not wanting to disturb the other patrons with our potentially inappropriate behavior, we ate at the bar and had were thoroughly entertained by an old-time bartender who loved to talk and told some excellent stories, some of which may be true.
The food was great and after a while, Ms. Fields and her unnamed friend arrived. We chit-chatted for a while and in the course of the conversation I was informed that Ms. Fields knew Purple Thong’s friend, Hint-of-Cleavage. It’s a small world. Unfortunately, Ms. Fields was not a great fan of Hint-of-Cleavage and this sent her on a bit of a tirade especially when I mentioned that she looked like a nice person even though her friend appeared to be a bit of a tart. Whattaya gonna do?
My brother and I left our friends and then headed in our respective directions. I will see him again in a few weeks in Las Vegas when I fly out to see my nephew and also to look for more material. I mean Las Vegas; five minutes in the airport should keep me in stories for at least a week.
Well goodbye for now. Take care and hope that you enjoyed sharing my evening with me.
Connor Fleming III
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Global Warming and Al Gore
Unending snow storms and constant freezing weather. Is this really consistent with global warming? I come to a conclusion - Al Gore is a jerk.
1440
FOWARD
What you are about to read is neither fiction nor non-fiction. It is a new genre I have created called “delusional reality”. What follows is the real account of 1,440 minutes in the life of a non-fictional individual who shall remain nameless. The occurrences may or may not be recorded elsewhere, but that lack of verification in no way impinges on the reality described. The delusional parts are, of course, exempt from this certification. Read on. Take your time and enjoy the ride. Smell the roses and enjoy the scenery. Eat if you’re hungry and smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. (If you don’t smoke, do something else less injurious to your health.) See you soon.
Connor
0 THROUGH 60
I went to bed at exactly at the stroke of what the developed world refers to as “midnight”. I had just finished watching two hours of “The World’s Dumbest Criminals”. I don’t know what rating system the producers used, but these individuals are certainly more stupid (or is it stupider) than the average person. As I climb into bed I wonder if grammar was included as part of the rating system.
I’m not sure if it should be. Grammar is an arbitrary set of rules for communication enforced by a cabal of supposedly learned scholars who are long since deceased. Why should they control the way we speak and communicate? Who appointed them the rulers of the written and spoken word? Will I be safe if I pursue this to the upper levels of the intelligentsia? I fall asleep wrangling with this conundrum.
61 THROUGH 120
Sleep is fitful. I dream that a friend of mine, whom I shall call Patty, has murdered someone and my wife and I have, for some unknown reason, disposed of the body in a fairly careless fashion. Both sets of our fingerprints are on file with the State of New Jersey for various reasons and the responsibility for this crime will surely fall upon us. The dream ends without resolution.
121 THROUGH 180
I sleep peacefully. This is only an assumption because I am sleeping and am really not sure of my state of mind. I’d like to think I was sleeping peacefully, or is that what they want me to think?
181 THROUGH 240
I wake up and have to urinate. For yet another night I am in control of my bodily functions although who knows I how long I will be able to keep at bay the unrelenting degeneration of my faculties brought on by advancing age. I fall asleep once again, savoring my nocturnal victory.
241 THROUGH 300
I sleep. I have decided not to try and describe my state of mind. They may influence my sentence construction, but not my writing.
301 THROUGH 360
I wake up and have to urinate again. My wife lies quietly next to me and I check her breathing. I realize that I have not had the recurring dream of giant waves crashing on the beach while I am unable to escape. Have I, like Santiago, the old Cuban fisherman from “The Old Man and the Sea”, defeated the forces of nature that are only a metaphor for the struggles and trials and tribulations that life assigns us? Then I confuse myself by wondering why I am basing my personal philosophy on the ramblings of a poor, lonely, hermit barely eking out daily subsistence in a Third World country.
361 THROUGH 420
I sleep fitfully. I am briefly woken by the alarm clock. My wife dutifully rises to prepare for her employment so that we may have medical benefits and not have to rely on the kindness of strangers for our personal well being. I fall back asleep, but wake again, this time for good at exactly 420. The day’s adventures are about to begin.
421 THROUGH 480
At 425 I go downstairs and have a cup of coffee and a slice of Pumpernickel Rye with butter and two pieces of yellow American cheese. Ordinarily, I only have one slice of cheese, but my keen senses tell me that today is going to be full of adventure and whimsy so I decide to live on the edge heedless of the onset of constipation. My wife and I talk and watch a little bit of the televised news.
We watch a short bit about an insane woman with a “Mommy” complex who has had a ridiculous number of children. I walk away, my blood, boiling. I contemplate flying to California to rescue the world from her by filing a class-action lawsuit against her and the medical quack who impregnated her, and absconding with her children and driving through the heartland of this great country leaving these poor infants and their slightly older siblings on the doorsteps of farmhouses so that they could be raised by loving, hard-working, albeit dentally-challenged families. I quickly realize that this will take more than 1440 so I sit back down and seethe.
My wife leaves for work and I am alone.
481 THROUGH 540
I take a shower, brush my remaining teeth, dress, and go downstairs. I connect myself to the word-wide-web and see who has been trying to contact me in the past 540 minutes. Only a few new messages and none of any importance. I have not gotten any feedback from the White House regarding my plan for housing the urban poor in inner-city trailer parks nor of my recent critique of President-For-Life O’Bama. He’s got my phone number, but refuses to call me. Punk.
541 THROUGH 600
I spend 20 minutes writing what is written above and then I got bored. I’m taking a break right now surfing daytime television. I’m tempted to pop in the latest “Girls Gone Wild” DVD, but decide against it. At 552 I belly-crawl into the hallway and up the stairs. I sneak into the attic and tuck into my 360-degree outlook post in the center of the attic. From this position I have a clear shot of a small section of the trees behind my house and my neighbor’s mailbox across the street from the front of my house. The remaining 320-degrees is mostly sky.
601 THROUGH 660
I complete my surveillance and carefully sneak down into the basement to do some real work. I go through my notes on a residential building being constructed on the outskirts of Pittsburgh in a Camden-like town called Braddock.
661 THROUGH 720
I continue my work on the Braddock project. When my notes are incomplete, I rely on my memory, faulty as it is. When all else fails, I make stuff up.
721 THROUGH 780
I finish the report and break for lunch. I use the house phone in the basement to call my cell phone that lies on the kitchen counter in front of the rear sliding glass doors. It is in full view of anyone spying on me from the dense vegetation to the rear of my yard. I leave no message in case they are monitoring my cell phone. After making several similar calls and leaving (or not leaving) similar messages, I leave the basement and have lunch, satisfied that I have convinced anyone that may be watching that I am not at home since my cell phone was left unanswered for the past 25 minutes.
I then make lunch – tuna on rye with chocolate milk. My wife again has purchased Bosco instead of Hershey’s, my favorite. Some corrective measures will be required. Fortunately, my disappointment is eased by a re-run of “NYPD Blue” with Rick Schroeder as Sippowitz’s partner. (Is it one “p” or two?)
781 THROUGH 840
I cannot break the magnetic hold that “NYPD Blue” has on me. I am helpless to leave the couch until the second episode has been completed and Judge Joe Brown is about to begin. I race to the bathroom and discharge my bladder. Whew!
841 THROUGH 900
At 841 I start getting ready for my bike ride. I start to do the dishes and notice that the shade for the window over the sink is up. Are they watching me? I can’t be sure so I waste 10 climbing up onto the countertop and sliding my old tired body silently across toward the string of the shade. Like a Ninja, I silently lower the shade. I almost fall off the counter, but my cat-like reflexes save me. For an instant I am disoriented and think I am a Democrat. I quickly recite the “Pledge of Allegiance” and regain my senses.
At 871 I set out on my bicycle. If I’m lucky they’re still in the back trying to look through the shade. I am halfway up the block and realize that if they have heat-detecting equipment my ploy was for nothing. Damn technology! Damn Al Gore! I put the bike in low gear and pedal up the steep hill in front of my house with all the power my atrophied legs can muster. By the time I get to the top of the hill, my muscles are burning and cramps are setting in. At 873 I stop and stretch, hoping they haven’t noticed my get-away.
901 THROUGH 960
At first I am somewhat paranoid and try not to let “them” assassinate me with their VIN-less, stolen automobiles. Then I realize that I am not paranoid since there are really people after me. I just don’t know who they are – yet.
I arrive in a large farm area and I am alone. I have my CD player cranked up to the Beatles classic “Help” album, but I do not have the headphones plugged in. I need all my senses to avoid a possibly fatal attack. Birds fly from the tree tops and I sense danger. I get off my bike and slowly enter the woods, searching for the hidden would-be assassins. I search in vain, but this distraction is not without benefits as I take this opportunity to urinate. Satisfied that I am not being watched, I zip up and get back on my bike and head home.
961 THROUGH 1020
My wife is already home from work, the gym, and a visit to her elderly, but mentally alert mother. She is already cooking dinner and has started the laundry. I feel like a complete loser when I compare my meager days output with her. I often wonder if she is “sleeper” working on breaking my confidence down so as to make me more vulnerable to a surprise attack. I greet her warily and sit down to dinner.
We dine on grilled meat formed in a circular pattern that is placed on circular pads of baked flour. Various vegetable-based sauces are applied to the top surface. The completed meal is then eaten with the hands. My personal discipline is at an all time low and I make the mistake of consuming two barley and yeast based alcoholic beverages with the meal. The energy I exhausted on my bike ride coupled with the narcotic effect of the alcoholic beverages makes me sleepy. I elect to push past my drowsiness and remain alert. I feel my wife’s excellent cooking may have compromised my senses. Once again, I eye her warily.
1021 THROUGH 1080
I give up on trying to remain alert and resign myself to the fact that I will be assassinated in the near future by people and/or organizations unknown to me. I decide to take a nap and enjoy my last few moments in peace. Just as I am about to fall asleep, the “sleeper” they have so cleverly inserted into my life as my spouse nudges me into consciousness and demands that I vacate the couch and go upstairs to sleep on the bed. There is no doubt that she is hell bent on de-stabilizing my stability. In an effort to thwart their plans I do not go upstairs for a well-deserved late afternoon nap, but go back down to the basement to work.
1081 THROUGH 1140
I find that my body responds to the mental stimulation of my work. The incredible manual dexterity I have with my two-finger typing gets my heart pumping thereby providing an amazing cardio-vascular workout. I knock off a short report and prepare two invoices. The additional income will come in handy if I escape my impending assassination and need to live on the run. I have $456 stashed away in the basement in small unmarked bills. (Note: The bills themselves are not small, they are normal sized currency. The denomination of bills is small - $1’s, $5’s, and $15’s.) Preparation is the key to survival.
1141 THROUGH 1200
I start another short report, but feel the drain of the day catching up to me so I shut down my operations. I drag myself upstairs, stumble slightly near the top, but maintain my balance. My wife (aka the “sleeper”) feigns concern and rushes to the stairs. I throw myself past her to avoid possibly being pushed back down the stairs. We stare at each other and I picture her telling the police, “He was very tired from riding his bike to excess and getting drunk at dinner. He must have fell down the stairs and shot himself in the forehead on the way down.” I don’t know how much more tension my mind can take before I start hallucinating.
I start upstairs backwards, but am foiled by a low beam. My head aches, but I am still alive. I prepare my clothes for tomorrow. I will be ready at the crack of dawn to escape my humble abode and travel to New York City to perform so consulting work for a client. I am sure that this particular client is a double-agent, but I dn’t know which side she works for.
1201 THROUGH 1260
I take a few minutes to lie down on the bed before getting ready. I quickly fall asleep.
1261 THROUGH 1320
The few minutes drags on to more than a few minutes. (Actually, I am awake, but cannot think of anything to write for this segment. I think the falling asleep premise is plausible given the events of the day, so I am not concerned about the believability of the story.)
1321 THROUGH 1380
I wake up and start channel surfing. I watch the news and start to seethe once again seeing that the Octo-Mom is again on television. I try to remember to request California if I join the Witness Protection program. This way I can wreak havoc on her soon-to-be filmed reality show that will be titled, “Tons of Baby Shit”. I remind myself that I am not a witness and this wonderful government-sponsored program is closed to me. Undoubtedly, the forces arrayed against me know this. I make mental notes to stay alert tomorrow so that I might witness something that will entitle me to this enter this marvelous program.
Suddenly, Spanish subtitles appear at the bottom of my television screen and I do not know how to get rid of them. This chore had been performed by my son, but he no longer resides at home. I am tempted to call him and plead for help, but my phones are almost assuredly tapped. The foreign words on the screen disorient me and I sob quietly.
1381 THROUGH 1440
At 1381 I started preparing myself for the next day. It would be a very busy day and I needed to get an early start. I set the alarm for 430 and cringed at the lack of sleep I would be getting. Damn, me for wasting time! I’ll pay for that in the morning.
At 1395 I had finished laying out my clothes and toiletries and decided to watch the last 15 minutes of “Seinfeld”. Even though I had seen this episode many times including earlier this evening, it still brought a smile to my face. Due to the adult-oriented theme of the show, I cannot discuss it here.
At 1411 I shut the television and went to bed. My wife was already fast asleep. I put on my sleep mask, hooded sweatshirt, thermal-lined jogging pants, and curled up under the covers. If they tried to find me with heat-sensitive equipment, they’d have no chance. They’d only get the outline of my wife’s body and they would think that I had escaped past their well-defended perimeter. I tossed and turned and struggled with sleep. I regret that second piece of cheese with the morning breakfast and know I’ll be battling constipation tomorrow. I don’t remember exactly when it was that I fell . . .
What you are about to read is neither fiction nor non-fiction. It is a new genre I have created called “delusional reality”. What follows is the real account of 1,440 minutes in the life of a non-fictional individual who shall remain nameless. The occurrences may or may not be recorded elsewhere, but that lack of verification in no way impinges on the reality described. The delusional parts are, of course, exempt from this certification. Read on. Take your time and enjoy the ride. Smell the roses and enjoy the scenery. Eat if you’re hungry and smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. (If you don’t smoke, do something else less injurious to your health.) See you soon.
Connor
0 THROUGH 60
I went to bed at exactly at the stroke of what the developed world refers to as “midnight”. I had just finished watching two hours of “The World’s Dumbest Criminals”. I don’t know what rating system the producers used, but these individuals are certainly more stupid (or is it stupider) than the average person. As I climb into bed I wonder if grammar was included as part of the rating system.
I’m not sure if it should be. Grammar is an arbitrary set of rules for communication enforced by a cabal of supposedly learned scholars who are long since deceased. Why should they control the way we speak and communicate? Who appointed them the rulers of the written and spoken word? Will I be safe if I pursue this to the upper levels of the intelligentsia? I fall asleep wrangling with this conundrum.
61 THROUGH 120
Sleep is fitful. I dream that a friend of mine, whom I shall call Patty, has murdered someone and my wife and I have, for some unknown reason, disposed of the body in a fairly careless fashion. Both sets of our fingerprints are on file with the State of New Jersey for various reasons and the responsibility for this crime will surely fall upon us. The dream ends without resolution.
121 THROUGH 180
I sleep peacefully. This is only an assumption because I am sleeping and am really not sure of my state of mind. I’d like to think I was sleeping peacefully, or is that what they want me to think?
181 THROUGH 240
I wake up and have to urinate. For yet another night I am in control of my bodily functions although who knows I how long I will be able to keep at bay the unrelenting degeneration of my faculties brought on by advancing age. I fall asleep once again, savoring my nocturnal victory.
241 THROUGH 300
I sleep. I have decided not to try and describe my state of mind. They may influence my sentence construction, but not my writing.
301 THROUGH 360
I wake up and have to urinate again. My wife lies quietly next to me and I check her breathing. I realize that I have not had the recurring dream of giant waves crashing on the beach while I am unable to escape. Have I, like Santiago, the old Cuban fisherman from “The Old Man and the Sea”, defeated the forces of nature that are only a metaphor for the struggles and trials and tribulations that life assigns us? Then I confuse myself by wondering why I am basing my personal philosophy on the ramblings of a poor, lonely, hermit barely eking out daily subsistence in a Third World country.
361 THROUGH 420
I sleep fitfully. I am briefly woken by the alarm clock. My wife dutifully rises to prepare for her employment so that we may have medical benefits and not have to rely on the kindness of strangers for our personal well being. I fall back asleep, but wake again, this time for good at exactly 420. The day’s adventures are about to begin.
421 THROUGH 480
At 425 I go downstairs and have a cup of coffee and a slice of Pumpernickel Rye with butter and two pieces of yellow American cheese. Ordinarily, I only have one slice of cheese, but my keen senses tell me that today is going to be full of adventure and whimsy so I decide to live on the edge heedless of the onset of constipation. My wife and I talk and watch a little bit of the televised news.
We watch a short bit about an insane woman with a “Mommy” complex who has had a ridiculous number of children. I walk away, my blood, boiling. I contemplate flying to California to rescue the world from her by filing a class-action lawsuit against her and the medical quack who impregnated her, and absconding with her children and driving through the heartland of this great country leaving these poor infants and their slightly older siblings on the doorsteps of farmhouses so that they could be raised by loving, hard-working, albeit dentally-challenged families. I quickly realize that this will take more than 1440 so I sit back down and seethe.
My wife leaves for work and I am alone.
481 THROUGH 540
I take a shower, brush my remaining teeth, dress, and go downstairs. I connect myself to the word-wide-web and see who has been trying to contact me in the past 540 minutes. Only a few new messages and none of any importance. I have not gotten any feedback from the White House regarding my plan for housing the urban poor in inner-city trailer parks nor of my recent critique of President-For-Life O’Bama. He’s got my phone number, but refuses to call me. Punk.
541 THROUGH 600
I spend 20 minutes writing what is written above and then I got bored. I’m taking a break right now surfing daytime television. I’m tempted to pop in the latest “Girls Gone Wild” DVD, but decide against it. At 552 I belly-crawl into the hallway and up the stairs. I sneak into the attic and tuck into my 360-degree outlook post in the center of the attic. From this position I have a clear shot of a small section of the trees behind my house and my neighbor’s mailbox across the street from the front of my house. The remaining 320-degrees is mostly sky.
601 THROUGH 660
I complete my surveillance and carefully sneak down into the basement to do some real work. I go through my notes on a residential building being constructed on the outskirts of Pittsburgh in a Camden-like town called Braddock.
661 THROUGH 720
I continue my work on the Braddock project. When my notes are incomplete, I rely on my memory, faulty as it is. When all else fails, I make stuff up.
721 THROUGH 780
I finish the report and break for lunch. I use the house phone in the basement to call my cell phone that lies on the kitchen counter in front of the rear sliding glass doors. It is in full view of anyone spying on me from the dense vegetation to the rear of my yard. I leave no message in case they are monitoring my cell phone. After making several similar calls and leaving (or not leaving) similar messages, I leave the basement and have lunch, satisfied that I have convinced anyone that may be watching that I am not at home since my cell phone was left unanswered for the past 25 minutes.
I then make lunch – tuna on rye with chocolate milk. My wife again has purchased Bosco instead of Hershey’s, my favorite. Some corrective measures will be required. Fortunately, my disappointment is eased by a re-run of “NYPD Blue” with Rick Schroeder as Sippowitz’s partner. (Is it one “p” or two?)
781 THROUGH 840
I cannot break the magnetic hold that “NYPD Blue” has on me. I am helpless to leave the couch until the second episode has been completed and Judge Joe Brown is about to begin. I race to the bathroom and discharge my bladder. Whew!
841 THROUGH 900
At 841 I start getting ready for my bike ride. I start to do the dishes and notice that the shade for the window over the sink is up. Are they watching me? I can’t be sure so I waste 10 climbing up onto the countertop and sliding my old tired body silently across toward the string of the shade. Like a Ninja, I silently lower the shade. I almost fall off the counter, but my cat-like reflexes save me. For an instant I am disoriented and think I am a Democrat. I quickly recite the “Pledge of Allegiance” and regain my senses.
At 871 I set out on my bicycle. If I’m lucky they’re still in the back trying to look through the shade. I am halfway up the block and realize that if they have heat-detecting equipment my ploy was for nothing. Damn technology! Damn Al Gore! I put the bike in low gear and pedal up the steep hill in front of my house with all the power my atrophied legs can muster. By the time I get to the top of the hill, my muscles are burning and cramps are setting in. At 873 I stop and stretch, hoping they haven’t noticed my get-away.
901 THROUGH 960
At first I am somewhat paranoid and try not to let “them” assassinate me with their VIN-less, stolen automobiles. Then I realize that I am not paranoid since there are really people after me. I just don’t know who they are – yet.
I arrive in a large farm area and I am alone. I have my CD player cranked up to the Beatles classic “Help” album, but I do not have the headphones plugged in. I need all my senses to avoid a possibly fatal attack. Birds fly from the tree tops and I sense danger. I get off my bike and slowly enter the woods, searching for the hidden would-be assassins. I search in vain, but this distraction is not without benefits as I take this opportunity to urinate. Satisfied that I am not being watched, I zip up and get back on my bike and head home.
961 THROUGH 1020
My wife is already home from work, the gym, and a visit to her elderly, but mentally alert mother. She is already cooking dinner and has started the laundry. I feel like a complete loser when I compare my meager days output with her. I often wonder if she is “sleeper” working on breaking my confidence down so as to make me more vulnerable to a surprise attack. I greet her warily and sit down to dinner.
We dine on grilled meat formed in a circular pattern that is placed on circular pads of baked flour. Various vegetable-based sauces are applied to the top surface. The completed meal is then eaten with the hands. My personal discipline is at an all time low and I make the mistake of consuming two barley and yeast based alcoholic beverages with the meal. The energy I exhausted on my bike ride coupled with the narcotic effect of the alcoholic beverages makes me sleepy. I elect to push past my drowsiness and remain alert. I feel my wife’s excellent cooking may have compromised my senses. Once again, I eye her warily.
1021 THROUGH 1080
I give up on trying to remain alert and resign myself to the fact that I will be assassinated in the near future by people and/or organizations unknown to me. I decide to take a nap and enjoy my last few moments in peace. Just as I am about to fall asleep, the “sleeper” they have so cleverly inserted into my life as my spouse nudges me into consciousness and demands that I vacate the couch and go upstairs to sleep on the bed. There is no doubt that she is hell bent on de-stabilizing my stability. In an effort to thwart their plans I do not go upstairs for a well-deserved late afternoon nap, but go back down to the basement to work.
1081 THROUGH 1140
I find that my body responds to the mental stimulation of my work. The incredible manual dexterity I have with my two-finger typing gets my heart pumping thereby providing an amazing cardio-vascular workout. I knock off a short report and prepare two invoices. The additional income will come in handy if I escape my impending assassination and need to live on the run. I have $456 stashed away in the basement in small unmarked bills. (Note: The bills themselves are not small, they are normal sized currency. The denomination of bills is small - $1’s, $5’s, and $15’s.) Preparation is the key to survival.
1141 THROUGH 1200
I start another short report, but feel the drain of the day catching up to me so I shut down my operations. I drag myself upstairs, stumble slightly near the top, but maintain my balance. My wife (aka the “sleeper”) feigns concern and rushes to the stairs. I throw myself past her to avoid possibly being pushed back down the stairs. We stare at each other and I picture her telling the police, “He was very tired from riding his bike to excess and getting drunk at dinner. He must have fell down the stairs and shot himself in the forehead on the way down.” I don’t know how much more tension my mind can take before I start hallucinating.
I start upstairs backwards, but am foiled by a low beam. My head aches, but I am still alive. I prepare my clothes for tomorrow. I will be ready at the crack of dawn to escape my humble abode and travel to New York City to perform so consulting work for a client. I am sure that this particular client is a double-agent, but I dn’t know which side she works for.
1201 THROUGH 1260
I take a few minutes to lie down on the bed before getting ready. I quickly fall asleep.
1261 THROUGH 1320
The few minutes drags on to more than a few minutes. (Actually, I am awake, but cannot think of anything to write for this segment. I think the falling asleep premise is plausible given the events of the day, so I am not concerned about the believability of the story.)
1321 THROUGH 1380
I wake up and start channel surfing. I watch the news and start to seethe once again seeing that the Octo-Mom is again on television. I try to remember to request California if I join the Witness Protection program. This way I can wreak havoc on her soon-to-be filmed reality show that will be titled, “Tons of Baby Shit”. I remind myself that I am not a witness and this wonderful government-sponsored program is closed to me. Undoubtedly, the forces arrayed against me know this. I make mental notes to stay alert tomorrow so that I might witness something that will entitle me to this enter this marvelous program.
Suddenly, Spanish subtitles appear at the bottom of my television screen and I do not know how to get rid of them. This chore had been performed by my son, but he no longer resides at home. I am tempted to call him and plead for help, but my phones are almost assuredly tapped. The foreign words on the screen disorient me and I sob quietly.
1381 THROUGH 1440
At 1381 I started preparing myself for the next day. It would be a very busy day and I needed to get an early start. I set the alarm for 430 and cringed at the lack of sleep I would be getting. Damn, me for wasting time! I’ll pay for that in the morning.
At 1395 I had finished laying out my clothes and toiletries and decided to watch the last 15 minutes of “Seinfeld”. Even though I had seen this episode many times including earlier this evening, it still brought a smile to my face. Due to the adult-oriented theme of the show, I cannot discuss it here.
At 1411 I shut the television and went to bed. My wife was already fast asleep. I put on my sleep mask, hooded sweatshirt, thermal-lined jogging pants, and curled up under the covers. If they tried to find me with heat-sensitive equipment, they’d have no chance. They’d only get the outline of my wife’s body and they would think that I had escaped past their well-defended perimeter. I tossed and turned and struggled with sleep. I regret that second piece of cheese with the morning breakfast and know I’ll be battling constipation tomorrow. I don’t remember exactly when it was that I fell . . .
Monday, February 8, 2010
The Bachelor
I was ambushed this evening and for reasons that I chose not to discuss, I watched several snippets of the most horribly stupid, moronic, and asinine television show called, “The Bachelor”. I’m sure that you are all familiar with the premise. The current bachelor, a less-than-average, self-important, unemployed egoist named Jake, has to pick from four women who are all madly in love with him and want to spend the rest of their lives with him even though he may be, or actually is, currently in love with (or in lust with) three other women. I cannot begin to expound on my complete disgust with these four shameless celebrity whores because, believe it or not, words fail me. What I want to do is to inform you that if you were watching the show, you were shortchanged. There were not four sad, pride-less, princess wannabe’s, but five.
This two-hour, drama-filled episode involved Jake meeting the parents of these soul-less tarts. (I am on a hyphen tear tonight.) What you are about to read is the true (relatively speaking) account of why Jake’s encounter with the fifth woman’s family was cut from the show.
After having a phony meet-and-greet with “Bunny’s” family, sharing fake smiles with her father’s third wife (who Bunny affectionately refers to as “Mommy Three”, and faux bro’ hugs with her three brothers, two half-brothers, and step-brother, they sit down to dinner. Bunny’s father, Caleb, is stoic throughout his visit. After dinner, Jake asks Caleb if he could have a few words with him. Caleb claps his hands twice and the rest of the family scatters including the twin pit bulls – Vick and Vicki.
Before I get into the details of their conversation, I’d like to give you a little background on Caleb. Caleb was always a large, surly individual prone to violence. He spent two years in Juvie for assault and armed robbery. As a young adult he was convicted for menace (probation), and assault with intent (convicted, but overturned on appeal after the disappearance of the complainant). He was a suspect in the death of his first wife (eaten by crocodiles after falling out of their kayak in the Everglades after hours of drinking in a rundown Tiki Bar), but not indicted. His second marriage only lasted three weeks for reasons best left unsaid. Caleb only eats what he can kill or grow himself, and is adept at hunting with a rifle, crossbow, and Bowie knife. Caleb rarely smiles, has poor personal hygiene, and does not suffer fools gladly. Caleb does have a soft spot in his heart for his only daughter – Bunny. Caleb was also unaware that his daughter had gotten mixed up in something as foolish as “The Bachelor”.
Jake feels slightly uneasy in the company of Caleb, but is not alarmed since the three-man film crew is still present. Caleb sits in a hand-made rocking chair he carved from a single block of wood during his stay in prison. He stares hard at Bunny’s potential suitor and Jake fumbles with his words and stutters. Before he can formulate a complete sentence, Caleb says, “If you got something to say, just say it. I get mighty ornery when some smart ass tries to turn me all around with a bunch of fancy metaphors and oily syntax.”
Taking his cue from Caleb, Jake tells him that he has strong feelings for Bunny and wanted to know that if, just if, he selected Bunny as his bride from the remaining five women, would Caleb give his blessing to their union. (In retrospect, one of the camera crew told Jake that union was probably not the best term to use.) Caleb rocked back and forth a few times, and interrupted Jake as he started to say something else. Caleb the propped his right foot, clad in a well-worn, size 12 work boot, on the small serving table in front of him and gave Jake his response.
“Boy, one second is not a lot of time, but that is all the time you have to leave my house before I shove my right boot up your ass. Now please don’t think that this is just a colorful expression or that I intend to kick you in the seat of your designer pants. I fully intend to take off this boot, coat it with that homemade corn oil from the jar over yonder, take this here freshly sharpened hunting knife, cut off those expense pants of yours including your underdrawers if you’re wearing any, and give you a hillbilly colonoscopy. The reason I’m going to use my right boot, if you may be wondering, is that one of the nails in the heel has come loose and that will just make things that much more uncomfortable for you. And don’t slam the door on your way out.”
This two-hour, drama-filled episode involved Jake meeting the parents of these soul-less tarts. (I am on a hyphen tear tonight.) What you are about to read is the true (relatively speaking) account of why Jake’s encounter with the fifth woman’s family was cut from the show.
After having a phony meet-and-greet with “Bunny’s” family, sharing fake smiles with her father’s third wife (who Bunny affectionately refers to as “Mommy Three”, and faux bro’ hugs with her three brothers, two half-brothers, and step-brother, they sit down to dinner. Bunny’s father, Caleb, is stoic throughout his visit. After dinner, Jake asks Caleb if he could have a few words with him. Caleb claps his hands twice and the rest of the family scatters including the twin pit bulls – Vick and Vicki.
Before I get into the details of their conversation, I’d like to give you a little background on Caleb. Caleb was always a large, surly individual prone to violence. He spent two years in Juvie for assault and armed robbery. As a young adult he was convicted for menace (probation), and assault with intent (convicted, but overturned on appeal after the disappearance of the complainant). He was a suspect in the death of his first wife (eaten by crocodiles after falling out of their kayak in the Everglades after hours of drinking in a rundown Tiki Bar), but not indicted. His second marriage only lasted three weeks for reasons best left unsaid. Caleb only eats what he can kill or grow himself, and is adept at hunting with a rifle, crossbow, and Bowie knife. Caleb rarely smiles, has poor personal hygiene, and does not suffer fools gladly. Caleb does have a soft spot in his heart for his only daughter – Bunny. Caleb was also unaware that his daughter had gotten mixed up in something as foolish as “The Bachelor”.
Jake feels slightly uneasy in the company of Caleb, but is not alarmed since the three-man film crew is still present. Caleb sits in a hand-made rocking chair he carved from a single block of wood during his stay in prison. He stares hard at Bunny’s potential suitor and Jake fumbles with his words and stutters. Before he can formulate a complete sentence, Caleb says, “If you got something to say, just say it. I get mighty ornery when some smart ass tries to turn me all around with a bunch of fancy metaphors and oily syntax.”
Taking his cue from Caleb, Jake tells him that he has strong feelings for Bunny and wanted to know that if, just if, he selected Bunny as his bride from the remaining five women, would Caleb give his blessing to their union. (In retrospect, one of the camera crew told Jake that union was probably not the best term to use.) Caleb rocked back and forth a few times, and interrupted Jake as he started to say something else. Caleb the propped his right foot, clad in a well-worn, size 12 work boot, on the small serving table in front of him and gave Jake his response.
“Boy, one second is not a lot of time, but that is all the time you have to leave my house before I shove my right boot up your ass. Now please don’t think that this is just a colorful expression or that I intend to kick you in the seat of your designer pants. I fully intend to take off this boot, coat it with that homemade corn oil from the jar over yonder, take this here freshly sharpened hunting knife, cut off those expense pants of yours including your underdrawers if you’re wearing any, and give you a hillbilly colonoscopy. The reason I’m going to use my right boot, if you may be wondering, is that one of the nails in the heel has come loose and that will just make things that much more uncomfortable for you. And don’t slam the door on your way out.”
Monday, September 28, 2009
Keep Christ in the Holiday Season
This essay is about religion and it is also not about religion. Please be patient and read on before rolling your eyes and moving on to something else that will certainly be less important and have less of a positive impact on your life and on society in general.
December 25th is Christmas Day. This religious feast celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ and has, or should have, important significance to all Christians. Somewhere along the line, the celebration of Jesus’ birth turned into a gift-buying orgy on which a good portion of the country’s economy is now dependent. Additionally, and more recently, Christmas and the Christmas Season (or technically Advent Season) morphed into the “Holiday Season”. No problem with the latter, “A rose by any other name”, as they say.
There is a problem, however, with the former. I believe that my experience with the criminally excessive commercialization of Christmas and the Christmas/Holiday Season is probably typical – I don’t like it. Whenever I talk to another gift-laden and debt-ridden participant in this vulgarization of one of the most beautiful episodes in human history, they also express their unhappiness with this self-inflicted group insanity. So what do we do?
I suggest that we do very little. That’s right. We should do less than what we do now so that we can, collectively restore some semblance of “peace on Earth and good will toward all” to the Christmas/Holiday Season. This move away from crass commercialism and materialism toward civility and charity would be more in keeping with the reason for the season regardless of your religious or atheistic orientation. The suggestion that follows requires some self-sacrifice on your part, but provides a bit of relief to some of the people who would normally give you a Christmas/Holiday gift. I’ll try to make this simple, but pay attention just in case I don’t.
You select one person (or more than one if the mood strikes you) that normally buys you a Christmas/Holiday gift. Tell that person that in lieu of a Christmas/Holiday gift, they should make a donation to a specific charity of either your choosing or theirs. Then on the day that you would normally exchange gifts with this person, they hand you an envelope with your name on it. Inside the envelope is a check made out to the charity. You say “Thank you”, embrace (optional), and then promptly mail the check. Now let’s think about what we will accomplish with this.
First, you are responsible for having a donation made to help people who are less fortunate than yourself. That’s always a good thing. Second, you relieved your friend of having to shop for one less gift. Again, always a good thing. Third, you save your friend some money because the donation is tax deductible and your gift would not be. Another good thing. It looks like a win-win-win to me except you get one less Christmas/Holiday gift. Are you really going to miss it? I didn’t think so.
So before the Christmas/Holiday Season shopping frenzy begins (which unfortunately now appears to be right after Labor Day), think about getting off the train and having some of your future Christmas/Holiday gifts turned into charitable donations. All it takes is a quick phone call, an email, or text. My suggestion is to make the phone call. It’s much more personal and more in keeping with the spirit of the season.
Anyway, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, or whatever. You know what I mean.
Sincerely,
Connor Fleming IIISunday, September 20, 2009
WE’RE BRINGING “BRAINLESS” BACK
Good news – we’re bringing “brainless” back. “Brainless” is an old expression that somehow fell out of common use about two or three decades ago. That’s sad because “brainless” is a direct, succinct way to accurately describe any number of unintelligent, silly, or foolish people and/or their actions without having to elaborate or to rely on profanity. No other explanation is necessary. That one simple word – “brainless” – says it all.
This word could be used to describe your boss (unless you’re self-employed), your bosses boss, your co-workers, some of your relatives, most if not all of your in-laws, your friends, your spouse’s friends, the guy tailgating you, the coach of your child’s sports team, the coach or manager of your favorite professional sports team, referees and umpires, politicians, and anyone employed in a bureaucratic position. Think of the possibilities. “Hey brainless, what are you doing?” “Hey brainless, what were you thinking?” “Hey brainless, where do you think you’re going?” “Hey brainless, what game are you watching?”
As you can see, brainless is typically preceded with the ubiquitous “Hey” and proceeded with a comma and a rhetorical question. There are other variations of this such as, “Did you see Brainless walk into the ladies room?” “I went to lunch with Brainless today.” “We had to go to my wife’s cousin’s house because it was their brainless son’s birthday.” And so forth and so on.
I think if we all made a reasonable effort to include “brainless” in our everyday language, we can not only reduce the amount of profanity so commonly used today, but bring back an old standby and faithful friend.
Take care and I’ll talk to you soon.
Robert
P.S. – Other excellent terms that I hope will start making inroads into common usage
- “See you later, Sweet Potato”; compliments of my father.
- “See you in a while, Honey
- “Okey Dokey, Smokey”; compliments of Connor Fleming III.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Congratulations Eric and Mariel
I just wanted to take the time to congratulate the newlyweds on their recent nuptials and offer them my sincere best wishes for a long and happy life together. I hope that all of their hopes and dreams come true, and if not, at least that they come close. I was honored that Queen Anna and I were invited and, on a scale from one to ten, the wedding was a 10. See you later, Sweet Potato.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)