Dan McGinley

DAY 119: Thursday, February 4, 2010:  You don’t shop for cars; you shop for land movers.

Severance Pay: continued from Day 118 . . .

And how did Manager Rick react to this?

By using it all against them come review time, which was usually three months late anyway.  The last one was just like the one before:

“I could really use a raise,” Fiddles stammered, seated in Rick’s office.  “My car is on the fritz again, and those classes cut into my overtime.”

“You failed those classes,” Rick said, tap-tap-tapping a pencil.  “And I’d would really like to address those so-called twelve hours of overtime claimed in June, when you and Randy worked up in Greenfield?”

Fiddles shrugged.  “That was Randy’s job.  He was the crew chief.”

“And that would be the bus rolling right over him, huh?

“Well . . .”

“You get to take the van home at night, Fids, because your car is always on the fritz, remember?  That van is like a huge bonus, so we’ll leave it at that.  A review is mandatory; a raise is not.  Your job is secure for another year.”

“But Fergus . . .”

“Ferg is vulnerable because he starts pushing buttons when review time rolls past.  Last time he called Boston, and they came down on us pretty hard.  Now he’s overpaid for the work he does, and has officially jumped to environmental, run by a flaky idealist who doesn’t have any real solid backlog.  He’s very vulnerable, and you’re not.”

Fiddles smiled, unconsciously feeling his hooked nose.

Rick leaned closer.  “Are you shaving your eyebrows now?”

Fiddles shrugged.  “I shave my head, so . . .”

“And certain white guys should never, ever do that.”

Tap-tap-tap . . .

“You included, Fids.”

Tap-tap-tap . . .

“Your job’s secure.  Get the hell out.”

Tap-tap-tap  . . .

The biscuit was officially his, and Fiddles looked down in despair.  “So . . . are we getting rid of Fergus?”

“It’s not ethical for me to say,” Rick explained, nodding “yes” like a desperate bidder at the auction, throwing in winks for good measure.

Fiddles smiled.  “That’s what you get for jumping to the fucking tree huggers.”

“Maybe you should think about that career move,” Rick said, taunting.  “I heard you’re quite a mover out in the woods.”

Fiddles flushed.  “I better get back to those plans and make sure some angles add up.”

“Yuh.”

And so it went as rumors spread into eventual reality, Fiddles talking during lunch, Rick meeting with Rourke over Boston’s request for someone’s release, and Frenchy preparing special wine, trying to get payback for lectures about beating his boy, and passing out during lunch.

So Ferg was gone for real now, and Uncle Fiddles parked in back of that wonderful little packy store, watching the ballet class stretch and bounce eagerly on flexing toes, the hawkish pervert slamming nips and drinking beer, listening to a CD of Stern calling Gary the Retard; Gary nearly bawling in misery as Arty Lang jabbed his arm with another needle to bring his witty mind up . . . or down.

You can’t even buy this kind of multi tasking thrill Fiddles thought, swatting angrily at his lap.  You only dream of such things in fairy tales.

“So Gary,” Howard was saying.  “Is your thumb really up your ass right about now . . ?”

Ahhhhhhh, Fiddles thought, just now aware of a homeless drunk guy climbing out of that rusted blue dumpster to find himself a place to piss, exciting the hawkish pedophile into even higher levels of self-satisfying ecstasy.

To be continued . . .

DAY 88: Monday, January 4, 2010:  Your inflatable sneakers are water beds.

THIS IS ACTUALLY BEFORE THE STORM

As the “few inches” of predicted snow became about TWELVE this weekend, crack-addled weather people rolled out some very innovative excuses:

“The storm keeps ‘backing up ‘ into New England.”  [I didn't hear a loud warning beeper.]

“There are several swirling bands, and if one keeps hitting your area, snow accumulations may surpass our predictions.” [Bands?  Like Aerosmith?]

“You may experience anywhere from a half-inch to nearly thirty.”  [No.  I was not hearing things.]

“Canada is dumping on us again.”  [When you gotta go, you gotta go, and many of our cities do resemble sprawling toilets.]

“This is way too stressful, and my wife is leaving forever.”  [Kidding, but it's just a matter of time.]

“What the hell . . . do I look like some kind of friggin’ fortune teller?”  [Way kidding now.  Jumping the shark.]

On the good side, our driveway and walks are clear now, and if we get just a few more inches overnight, a school delay will mean rolling over for an extra half-hour of sleep tomorrow!  [Murphy's Law: When you actually want it, forget it.]

DAY 70: Thursday, December 17, 2009: The stalls in a public bathroom are too narrow for you.

I shut-up a lot these days, for good reason.

My lovely wife led me around major box stores today, knocking off the Christmas list like whack-a-moles at the county fair, and there were some personal observations I had to save for . . . now.

The first stop was a massive Kohl’s department store, and every time we walked past interior support columns cloaked in mirrored glass, I remembered shooting the exact center of those bastards with a TopCon Total Station, directing the crew chief with a two-way radio, so he could set a tack on that unborn column’s center spot with accuracy down to 1/100 of an inch, or damn close to it. 

First a forged steel frost pin was used to loosen frozen ground, then a wooden hub was pounded into the broken earth, and then the precious tack was directed and set into the hub, marking dead center.

It was freezing cold and windy, but we had to be very careful, using an elaborate method of checking each point that included setting-up on other control points to shoot from opposite angles.  There were massive amounts of time and money riding on our accuracy, and one mistake would lose that Kohl’s account in a heartbeat.

We got through it just fine, but it’s one of those things I can’t mention when breezing through the crowded store at Christmas; how I helped set every inch of the concrete foundation, or the columns, or the door supports, or a million other little things, because my lovely wife would roll her eyes and say, “Give it a rest, will you?”

And of course she would be right.  There was a period when I was nodding at this building or that building, and it must have gotten old pretty quick.  Although . . . later today she thought we were lost, until I nodded at a granite slope and said, “There’s a control point up there.  We’ll hit Route 6 in a minute.”

Now I know when to bring it up – and to be honest – I was looking at the sparkling floor tiles in Kohl’s, too, because I was cleaning and buffing in a K mart all night when I met her, and I’m simply amazed at modern tile construction, and the cleaning chemicals to keep them so brilliant.  They truly are dazzling.  

If I was single again, I would place something in the ads that read, “SWM. Blonde hair, brown eyes.  Dazzled by modern floor tiles, I often love to point out buildings, roads, support columns, and properties, for reasons only I understand.  I often quote obscure facts about people like Pinky Gomez, the performance artist circus clown who was plaguarized by Pee Wee Herman and John Wayne (in private).  Sometimes, I just experience random memories and mumble too loudly.  I can play a mean guitar, but get distracted easily, and rarely finish songs anymore.  When I was substitute teaching, the kids called me “Ozzy”, for Ozzy Osbourne (sad but true).  I don’t sub anymore.”  

I’m afraid honesty doesn’t often sell.

Unfortunately, it’s not only survey stuff that haunts me these days, or floor maintenance, or other sites, sounds, sights, or smells sending me back to another time and place.

It’s also weather related, food sensitive, and texture inspired, with an expiration date.

I have no idea what that means, but don’t worry.  Mum’s the word.

My actual mum lives down in Florida, which is still very warm this time of year . . .

And so it goes.

DAY 68: Tuesday, December 15, 2009: Whenever you sweat, the water table gets higher.

WINTER POEMS AND IMAGES - A POETIC HOMAGE TO PAIN, LOSS, AND FUN PAPER CRAFTS:

Oh frosty pale and stark infringement

The grey, dead hair of circus elders

Skeletal memories of sunswept days

Dies like . . .

Hold it, someone’s texting me . . . 

Along came a bear who wanted a treat
And the gingerbread man, he looked good to eat 
Run, run, as fast as you can
You can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man 
I’m the gingerbread man and I’m out of the pan!

And the poor bear never saw the barbed-wire

Hidden in an old stone wall

Like a zipper that only closes

“God I’m lonely,” said the tiny pine tree.

“Maybe if I lean waaay over,” said the maple.

“I’m kinda limited by this telephone wire,” said the pine.

“Sister wind will work me closer over time,” said the maple.

“I’m sure she will,” said pine.  “The kinky bitch loves to watch.”

[All photos were actually taken around this lonely town, and a nice shot of the front gate after a snowstorm]

DAY 67: Monday, December 14, 2009:  You’re in the dictionary under “circle”.

I could never sit like this . . .

My daughter was involved in an alien cult today, and it was very educational.  She was a “Meece” in the Connecticut Ballet’s production of The Nutcracker.

After months of rehersal, she got to spend a few minutes scampering around the stage with other seven-year-olds in full Meece costume, before vaulting onto the back of an older, larger “Mouse” to exit stage left.  Or was it right?

I held my breath for the entire time, but she didn’t stumble, take a wrong turn, or — like her Aunt Christine expected – puke all over the place.  She did her Meece gig and exited stage right.  Or was it left?

I’m proud of my little angel.  Ballet is not a world I’m familiar with, but it reminded me of intense sports preparation when I was a thousand years younger, and those “artistic athletes” were nothing short of phenomenal, with pinpoint balance, timing, strength, and that scary ability to pop out of a full split much, much faster than I can wrestle my expansive bulk out of a saggy recliner, without spilling beer and pretzels. . . and they look a lot better in tights.

The whole Alice in Wonderland meets The Wizard of Oz backdrop sent me into a flashback or two, causing my sister-in-law to giggle hysterically as I ranted about bad window pane in the eighties, right on cue for teeny candy-striped kids to emerge from Mother Ginger’s elaborate hoop skirt.  Oh Nutcracker, we hardly knew thee . . .

I remember playing Merlin in our elementary school production of Camelot, because even at the tender age of nine or ten, the drama-slash-music teacher detected a certain spacey quality, and a far-distant look in my eyes, when they weren’t locked on her marvelous breasts.

And they were truly magnificent, leaning over me during choir practice, her low-cut sweater revealing mysteries I had yet to fathom but somehow understood as a certain feeling coming over me . . .

Where the hell was I . . ?  Merlin!

They fit me with a long, cotton beard that matched my blonde hair, and plopped a pointed magician’s cap on my head, and I hobbled around with a cane and magic wand, mumbling strange things, much like I do anyway.

I remember having a high fever the evening of that play, almost passing out between scenes as I gulped cold air outside, during a freezing Minnesota winter.  The flushed face and delirious expression added to my character, and that wondrous teacher was so grateful, which made everything worth it.

Wow; I’ve officially creeped myself out, putting my daughter and a hot teacher from the sixties in the same article. 

To counter Hunter S. Thompson’s famous statement, it’s finally getting weird enough for me, and then some . . . I’m going to go talk to myself.

DAY 66: Sunday, December 13, 2009:  You were going to be Santa, but kids get lost in your lap.

"No Cell Tower for You!"

RENAISSANCE CELL PHONE

“The noblest pleasure is the joy of understanding.” 

- Leonardo da Vinci

Life is embraced by hypocrisy:

“Leonardo da Vinci had a cell phone to the future,” a man once told me.  “It’s how he invented the hang glider.” 

I was investigating a proposed cell tower site in Wallingford, Connecticut, when the tiny little fellow materialized out of dense brush like some kind of vaporous apparition. 

“He defended the walls of Florence against Roman soldiers, you know.  Defeated them with a specialized firearm of futuristic design, killing at such great distances they thought the Gods were at work.  He had called a secretive government sniper, and received specific instructions.  The Feds aren’t talking.”

“Really.”

“Oh yes.” he said, nodding rapidly.  “Speaking of Gods, take a closer look at The Last Supper, and you’ll notice James speaking into his hand, clutching a cell phone.”

“I really need to find my reading glasses.”

“Trust me; Da Vinci was calling the future.  There are text messages copied and stored in a secret government vault.  They found tower panels on several classical structures from the Renaissance.”

“Nice day,” I said, backing away to get some distance.  “How about those Red Sox?”

“There’s mounting holes on the Leaning Tower!” he shouted.  “PIECES OF BROKEN ALLOY RECEPTORS!”

I forced a smile.  “Lots of turbo coffee can be tough, you know.  Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

His wild eye locked into place, freezing me like a hydrogen laser beam.  “Yooou,” he rasped, pointing a soiled nub.  “You’re here for the cell tower.”

“They say it could rain later,” I mumbled.  “Cancel the game at Fenway.”

“My neighbor is being bribed buko bucks to have a cell tower plopped on his land, and now there’s a big blond stranger snooping around.”

“Where?” I asked, afraid there might be others.

“YOU!  You’re the blonde stranger, you incompetent TURD!”

“I’m here for the garden club,” I said, cheery and hopeful.  “We’re going to inventory pink lady slippers!”

The man attacked as I ran like hell, gaining ground before stumbling and pitching forward into a rusted tangle of old barbed wire, lacerating my right forearm.

I rolled to my knees and crawled foreword, the tiny gnome beating my ears and climbing onto my back, screaming like a banshee about keeping cell tower people from the area forever, like Da Vinci shooting Romans.

There was no way this could ever end well.  My parents preached hard against fighting little people, warning how you come out looking like a sick bully if you win, and just pathetic if you lose.

“You can never live it down,” my father said.  “Win or lose.  Avoid fighting little people at all cost.”

The tiny man tried to hang-on as I struggled to stand upright, his clinging arms pulling me off-balance to stumble and crash backward, our combined weight driving him hard into the ground.

I rolled and stood, looking down at the still figure with a big crazy eye swirling like some kind of iguana tracking flies, his other eye seething pure hatred, fueled by several wire barbs imbedded deep within his flattened backside.

A musical tone sounded from his front pocket.  I believe it was the refrain to Disco Inferno.

“I told her not to call when I’m out here,” he gasped.  “There’s no damn coverage.”

I smiled and offered my hand.  “Maybe it’s Da Vinci.”

DAY 65: Saturday, December 12, 2009:  You crossed a river once, and altered its course.

SHUNNED BY THE TIGER CROWD:   Last week a local sports reporter looked very serious facing the camera, as he announced deep and heartfelt feelings toward Tiger Woods, and all of the big-name products he represents.

“I simply will not be buying them anymore,” he declared, pupils fully dilated for fight or flight.  “If Tiger lies about his personal life, then he could also be lying about those great products he represents, and I don’t trust Tiger any more.”

It was hard to hear the entire speech, as there appeared to be maniacal laughter somewhere off-camera; and an urgent “Shhhhhhhh . . . they can hear you!” from a frantic crew member.

I truly believe that if Tiger called right then for an exclusive interview, that “serious” sports guy would be falling all over himself to be the next Oprah, despite lilly white skin, permed hair, and a penis. 

Did you ever buy a product based on the person selling it, other than a close personal friend, family member, or Girl Scout?  Okay, so maybe your recreational drugs came from a questionable source, but let’s face it; they all do . . . DID!

I really can’t name one single product Tiger sells, but I would wager vast amounts that he pushes sports stuff, clothing, and possibly a cologne geared toward the sales and business crowd.  They really seem to like him a lot, and they do a lot of business out on the golf course.  That’s why some are scrambling to cover his behavior with generic jokes, and misinformation.  People in sales and business often connect with great tales of Tiger, and he makes good conversation, winning or coming close out on the fairways and bright putting greens of commerce.  That deal was a hole-in-one!  Your performance has been sub-par!  That man is a play-a!   

Upon further consideration, I do think he was stepping out of an Escalade in an old commercial, and I remember thinking, “Damn . . . GM pays buko bucks for celebrity advertising.”  When serious sounding news teams reported how the window of his Escalade was broken, I thought, ” . . . and they threw in a perk besides!”

I’m not sure what Tiger did, or how he did it, and I really don’t care.  I’m not going to judge products by a celebrity mercenary smiling and waving for the big pay day.  No sirino bob; not me!

I’m going to buy products based on smoking hot babes in skimpy bikinis.  I’m going for the lowest common denominator these days, and if some beaming super model is thrusting enhanced extremeties while swilling potent alcoholic drinks, by God and teetering country, I’ll think about THAT next time her perky cardboard hand waves from a packy store window. 

“And by the way, kind cashier, when you’re done with that life-sized cutout, we’re redecorating the basement to represent a lounge full of beautiful pretend people.”

Those perky babes may be pretend-for-real, but in Danny’s Basement Cardboard Land, my perfect friends never lie or ask for big money contracts.  With dusting and a decent dehumidifier, they will love me forever!

Cue The Twilight Zone . . .

PERFECT IMAGES TARNISHED DAILY

DAY 54: Tuesday, December 1, 2009: You called pest control, and they told you to just belch once.

Spring, 2009: The past can send me sideways, and flashbacks are much more vivid these days.

The only thing I’m not confused about anymore is that I live in a constant state of confusion, which is very confusing, but gimme a sec and let me explain about someone bruised, battered and naturally blonde beyond belief yet still able to make decent toast if conditions are right, which they never are, because they had to go put a little pressure button on the damn thing, instead of just making us hold the springy handle down and peer into the slot, to see what color our bread has become.  They’re probably going to install a tiny video camera soon, to watch and even record the browning process, but you could simply go and use one of my favorite cooking tools of all time, the propane torch.  It’s like painting bread with an airbrush, only much hotter. 

Lately my wife Janelle says the kitchen is completely off limits, because I get “creative and overzealous,” or my favorite description of all time; “lethal.”  I mean, what a wicked witch, you know?  A hot, sultry, spike-heeled, strutting, take the tall hat off now and God Almighty she’s throwing the hair around and I’m taking a break and WHOA MAMMA!   HIT ME WITH THE BROOM!  HIT ME WITH THE BROOM!  [Long cigarette break].

Somehow the marriage works and where was I — Rhode Island! 

I need to take a mental road trip back to a more innocent time during the pursuit of intelligentsia, attending a quaint little college, down there in quaint little Rhode Island, once voted “Most Quaint” by The New England Literary Journal of Historical Introverts.

I need to go back, so close your eyes for a moment and try to envision the inner workings of a toaster, then a crazy poet with funny hair, then pretend you’re driving with my wife, then get your damn hand off her knee unless you’re a lesbian, which has me all distracted and confused now, but then kind of steer toward two artists conversing in a university office, then open your eyes to read, then close them to envision yourself in a small convenient store, and get me tons of money from the ATM.

Okay!  Here we go! 

I knew a great writer named Saul Borden[1] who lived in a garage, and often called himself Saul Paradise, but only when he was writing prose or poetry.  The Great Swamp Gazette published him down there at the University of Rhode Island, and he was also a great jazz drummer who got a full ride to Berkeley in Boston, before some kind of short circuit (controlled substance) melted crucial brain cells till it was over just like THAT, and yet . . . a great fire burned deep within his soul, you know, and he wrote truly spectacular stuff.

“He did not!” my lovely Janelle said, driving into Manchester last night.  “Maybe at first, but wasn’t he that really weird guy with the crazy eyes, bushy sideburns, and long hair?”

I looked in the rearview mirror, mumbling, “Turn to your left hon, and describe what you see to the folks listening at home.”

She confirmed my likeness to Saul, mumbling “Oh . . . there’s that.” 

Anyway, the Great Swamp Gazette would light up like Cape Canaveral during launch when his work came in, and they published an illustrated book of his poetry, which became a very big runaway smash hit in a local way, like maybe some stoned kids at the library.  Their tuition money paid for it, so what the hell; we thought it was pretty good prose, and we were not a bunch of drug-sucking freaks sitting around naked, reading Saul’s stuff to each other with incense and chopstick food and Stevie Nicks singing softly in the background, and those cool lava lamps glowing and black light showing and hold all calls we’ve got a vibration going.  Dig?   Nothing even CLOSE to that my very skeptical friend, because we were VERY serious literary types of writer kinds of types, and I think the music was more like Tom Waits or Bob Dylan.  For some reason the famous crooner Tom Jones comes to mind, after tons of potato chips.

Where was I?  Oh yeah . . . confuuuuuuusion.

So one day Saul Borden slash Paradise is in the office chilling-out, and I’m telling him some very serious literary ideas for a great story or some other useless shit, and he suddenly says, “Hey man, you’ve got a very funny head.”

I’m thinking whoa there Saul, I may have a head the size of Saturn and eyebrows the color of glowing plutonium kryptonite, but calling my goofy skull funny is not going to get you any more press in this low life bohemian rag.  When all is said and done, I’m the big cheese who ran frightened students out of here and blackmailed administration.  I’m the guy who sweeps up every night and discovered your sorry ass when I passed out in your landlord’s driveway, thinking it was my house . . . several . . . miles away . . . but then discovered you living in that garage.  And yes!  It was me feeding the editors your feeble efforts to fill empty space at deadline.  So I’m no different than a lot of high-paid agents, except I’m not paid and I’m not an agent.  That leaves only HIGH, or like, whatever.

This had to be addressed in no uncertain terms, so I sat up straight and burned my lap without feeling anything, saying, “Yeah, Saul, my head’s an omnipresent anomaly.  So like, what’s your point?”

Whereas he said, “No, no,” backtracking to clarify.  “I mean you think in really strange ways, like you get all these crazy thoughts and it’s really funny.  You have this strange way of looking at things, so I think you’ve got a really funny head, like on the inside, and you’re going to write for television.” 

He suddenly got very, very serious; leaning forward to share a great secret, saying, “I think you’re going to end up as a truly great television writer.”

I was confused as always, but curious and deeply flattered, asking, “Really?”

He was nodding, saying, “Yes . . . yes . . . some kind of sitcom or something.  It’s going to be funny as hell!”

I was pretty happy about that, since I was actually watching some television back then, like Seinfeld, and a lot of commercials between Seinfeld, so it was a very touching compliment, and later that night, I passed out in another strange driveway, realizing my true destiny:

I didn’t have a chance in hell of ever becoming a television writer.

I could impregnate Tina Fey right now (dressed as Sandra Palin, don’t ask), black mail the living hell out of Charlie Sheen (dressed as Sandra Palin, don’t ask), and hold Jason Lee hostage (dressed as Charlie Sheen, don’t ask); I still couldn’t get a gig writing comedy for television, for one simple reason:

I can’t make toast.

So now I’m sitting here in my early fifties and an office chair, with a highly advanced six-year-old daughter sleeping peacefully, guarded by a very bossy little Jack Russell cuddled under the covers (they’re a burrowing breed), and two spidery greyhounds slinking around like shadows, my wife curled up with a laptop and a cooking show, thinking how grand life can be with a very funny head.  Me, not my wife.

I lost my job like a lot of good folks out there, cut down and keelhauled by a large corporation without any warning whatsoever, given my walking papers by one of the most apologetic managers ever created by long-term demonic possession and lots of tobacco, but one thing is still certain:

I really can’t make toast.

Also, I fell into a very serious trap writing this saga, and had to immediately scrap almost fifty pages right off the bat, but it was all great therapy, slamming the Survey Department for using me up like some kind of cheap little whore, dressed as a dirty smutty Sandra Palin in that little dress she wore on SNL with Tina Fey, and hey ho . . . sorry about that, breathe deep breathe deep break the capsule grab the filter mask and hey now mama, we’re right back into it.

So anyway, where was I?  Confuuuuuuuuuusion.  Excuse me while I go torch myself a grilled cheese sandwich. 

 -   -   -

Flashbacks are much more vivid these days . . . wait.  This all sounds familiar, so let me try again, and change the channel:

I do live in a constant state of confusion, where thoughts seem to fly around without much control, yet I often do things that many simply cannot, because they’re smarter and know better. 

For example, I’m writing all this down as I’m driving home, with a notebook nestled in my lap, and the right upper corner brushing the steering wheel, dealing with lights and turns and the whole bloody gig, and yet other skills elude me, like simple mathematics.  Geometry is brutal for me, and working with numbers in general is like a half-opened can of sardines; they can’t be counted or ignored, and they all stink to high heaven. 

This is very bad news for a land surveyor, or anyone who likes tiny fish, and it’s really not a good career move when the “math side” of your brain is like the Badlands east of Rapid City, where you wake-up in a prairie dog town with an empty gas tank and no idea how you got there, and your license plate says Massachusetts and you’re so lost and confused, even that squashed sidewinder looks like a long lost friend.  You see, that would be the “math side” of my brain, or just another flashback, it’s hard to tell these days.

Anyway, back to toast and Tina Fey, or land survey.

For the last decade (rounding up a few months, just to use the word “decade”), I was a land surveyor, environmental scientist, and balloon trainer, which pretty much makes me crazy as hell, finishing off any sanity left after getting shot, stabbed, pummeled, threatened, nearly drowned (four times; once in a toxic river), and worst of all, scolded by a six-year old girl when I chew with my mouth open, during supper.  We’ll leave the gassy greyhound for another day, because she really sports an active colon.  These things are all entirely true, and good for a lot of laughs.  That’s where the “crazy as hell” part comes in.“You have a very funny head,” Borden slash Paradise told me, back at the Gazette.  More recently, a very attractive project manager in the Environmental Department said, “You’ve got a million funny stories.”  My favorite comment comes from Cedar Rapids, Iowa . . . oh, that was a television news flash flashback.  Say it quick three times!  Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Where was I?  Iowa!  No, my favorite comment comes from a close friend in HR, at my last lost career, who said, “You’re a high-powered magnet for really weird shit.”

That is the most beautifully truthful thing anyone has ever said about me; direct and to the point, with just a touch of gutter profanity.  I mean, if I leave the house even for a few minutes — and sometimes if I don’t — it’s going to come after me.  IT’S GOING TO FIND ME.

Tomorrow night: Part II

[1] Not his real name or choice of panty hose.

MY OLD CALLING CARD

DAY 53: Monday, November 30, 2009: Hungry animals follow your crumb trail.

When I think of “animals” and “crumbs”, I think of the mice that move into this old house every winter, and weeks of trapping.

My 7-yr. old daughter loves cute little mice, which means a live trapping system, using a plastic container with a seesaw tipping bait platform that drops the vermin safely into a ventilated apartment, and tips back up again, blocking the exit.

On the way to her school, we pull over by a small waterfall and watch the little mouse smash on jagged rocks below, laughing our asses off before a good, long hit of Thunderbird wine.  It’s so much better than fishing.

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!  Kidding, of course.  We drop them into the forest beside the falls and Gwenny says good-bye — “Watch those owls and whatnots” — and it’s on to school.

Some day I’ll finally realize that the same damn mouse keeps coming back . . . the hunters around here would mock me if they knew, but that’s cool.  Some day I’ll explain climate-controlled supermarkets with brightly-dyed and drugged meats wrapped in clear packages, available at very reasonable prices.  No hunting required!  No weapons!  Check out hot babes to the sounds of generic Muzak!

Ahhhhh, the country life.  Now a squirrel has moved into a space above the porch ceiling, and I’m so tempted to pull out the Moisin Nagant sniper rifle and blow it’s furry little head . . . sorry.  Gotta repair the entry point and maybe put a squirrel house up in the tree.

CALL OF DUTY - SQUIRREL PATROL

 Tree; I hardly hugged thee.

DAY 51: Saturday, November 28, 2009: You don’t bring coolers to the beach, you pack food in caravans.

True Confession:  I love greasy greasy diners, and the greasier the better; I wanna see a river of grease coming from the dumpster, with floating slabs of white fat.  You go in there and everyone is named after a food item; Cookie or Grits or Tootsie, and Cookie is cleaning the glasses and snapping flies.  Cleaning and snapping . . . squeak squeak squeak, snap!!!  And it’s just like Amsterdam, where laws like “no smoking” don’t exist.   They’re still in the fifties, and it’s open 24-7, making those magical hours from Friday night into Saturday morning, or Saturday into Sunday, almost like a surreal freaky circus hour, with drunks and truckers and hookers and more drunks and college kids and strippers and strange old guys and casanovas who struck out and dealers and buyers and rarely any couples ever . . . and . . . and . . . waitresses named Tootsie who are more hardened than Spartans, with shredded obliques.  Good times, good grease, good traffic jam in the arteries. 

Whew!  Glad I got that out of my system.