nobody asked…

Throughout my adult life, Carlin was my guiding light, my conscience, my benchmark. He had that laid back I don’t give a damn what you think I’m saying it anyway and if you don’t like it you can just fuck off attitude that drew me in like flies to horseshit.  Looking around for someone alive to pray to ( I mean there’s not much point praying to somebody who is dead because what can they do for you? )  I consider Joe Pesci. George prayed to Joe Pesci and said it worked out OK about half the time, roughly the same results Christians get by praying to God. Not being a personal friend or a big fan of Joe, I continue my search. As of last night, I’ve settled on Jimmy Buffett. He  has that same laid back I don’t give a damn what you think I’m saying it anyway and if you don’t like it you can just fuck off attitude. Jimmy is also a spiffy dresser, is the personification of fun, always has a lot of babes hanging around, all of which are artfully shown in the following hymn from one of his parties services. And, WWJD? has a familiar ring to it. Yeah, for now, he da man…

R.I.P.  George Carlin

1937 - 2008

.

This

drove Roomie to this

and has me thinking seriously about this.

Spoked Stoked by her envy of a writer friend, Roomie went out and bought a 26″ Schwinn Comfort Bike of the female persuasion. She did the research herself and made her own decision. Atta girl! Then whined and pouted until I went to the store to haul it home in my trusty Subaru Outback wagon. She was so pleased with herself on being able to get what she wanted in the price range she had set. Of course, her careful budgeting had overlooked a few items like helmet, tire pump, tool kit, clip on bag for carrying assorted things that women have an innate penchant for hauling around wherever they go, rack for hauling the bike around on the arse-end of her car, luggage rack and/or basket for hauling home the goods from all those quick trips to Walgreens and Publix, and whatever else she decides to add. Her total investment will probably double from her original objective. Miles per gallon: infinite. But, she seems happy for the moment and it will keep her occupied and distracted while I consider my big purchase.

Visiting clients in downtown Nashville, I’ve noticed the street cops are using these sharp little Honda scooters that look more like small motorcycles than the image you probably have from the word scooter. They are nothing really fancy, just your basic, bare-bones suicide machine. I could not haul all my service bags and tool kits around town, nor haul a customer’s computer back to the shop. But, I want one! Miles per gallon should be in the range of 75 to 80 while cost to fill the tank at todays price is about $5. That’s a slight improvement in cash flow from the $54 fill-up I had on Friday. I want one!

It wafts across my consciousness like an ancient dream, but it was very real and just a few decades removed. It now seems a world away, but it’s only a couple of hours drive. Going there now is to travel back in time, to the formative years of my youth and my coming of age. So much of it remains untouched by the passing of years. Yet it is in enough ways different that it is no longer home.

We did not appreciate it then, but growing up in the ’50s in Huntingdon was about as close to ideal as anyone could hope for. It was small town USA with a tree-lined Main Street, where everybody knew everybody, where house and car doors were left unlocked with never a problem reported. People had values. The school, along with several Christian based churches, provided the social hubs for most of the population. People worked hard but enjoyed life and took a day off on Sunday. Most merchants also closed shop on Wednesday afternoons, a practice that now seems odd. I never knew or thought about why — that was just part of the natural order of things.

The population then was around 3,500 but we liked to call it 5,000 because that sounded so much larger. The Court House, situated on a knoll where Highway 70 intersects Highway 22, remains as it was then, a permanent sentinel keeping watch over the town, and an effective speed-bump in the center of town. Thru traffic and townsfolk alike had to literally drive around the Court House to get through town. U.S. Highway 70 was the main East-West route across the state, so there was a lot of Memphis to Nashville traffic, including 18-wheelers, that cursed and smoked and spit their way around Court Square. The Interstate Highway System was just getting underway, would be years in the making, and would miss Huntingdon by about 20 miles. The bypass, similar to the ones that would encircle every small town eventually, had not yet been thought of.

On a recent visit with my remaining family there, I discovered that a traffic light had been installed where the bypass intersects Highway 70 on the west side of town. This is not a flashing yellow caution light, or a flashing red stop then proceed with caution light, but a full-fledged light with green, yellow, and red lights that work on a timing mechanism. Prior to this, Huntingdon proudly claimed to be the largest town in the country without a stop light.

In the 1950s, all commerce in town was huddled around Court Square or within a couple of short blocks on the spokes coming into the Square. The only bank in town, a couple of general stores, or department stores as they preferred to be called, one jewelry store, a florist, two insurance agencies, a grocery store, the obligatory cab stand — pool hall combination, and three car dealers, one to represent each of the great American automobile manufacturers. And, of course, the churches — one each of Baptist, Church of Christ, Methodist, and Presbyterian, all within shouting distance of the Court Square.

In the ’70s and ’80s, as the town grew, new strip shopping centers opened on the east side of town, right along East Main, or Highway 70. When the mecca of Walmart was established, smaller merchants sprang up around it, as if to suckle the rich flow that would follow. Downtown began to wither. Stores changed hands. The jewelry store became a card shop, the Post Office became offices when the new one was built out on the edge of town. Even the doctors’ offices moved out to stand sentry around the new hospital. Some of the churches moved to the ourskirts of town and erected new buildings. Like so many other little towns across the country, especially the ones missed by the interstate highways, downtown Huntingdon was changing. It was beginning to die.

There were enough stubborn merchants that held on, determined to not let the town wither into obilivion, as had happened with others around it. Stores came and went, sometimes coming back again. The couple of cafes in town changed ownership, changed names, moved to a different building, changed menus, and somehow managed to survive. Some of the small mom and pop shops were able to retain enough of their loyal clientele to withstand the merciless marketing onslaught of Walmart. Bob’s Dairy Bar out on the edge of town had disappeared after Bob died at a too early age, and was eventually replaced by the usual assortment of McDonalds, Hardees, and Wendys. The local bank was swallowed up in the bank merger mania that started in the ’80s, but the main local office continued to anchor the same downtown corner on Court Square.

The aluminum foil plant that had arrived in the late ’60s continued to grow and provide stable employment and a strong economic base for the town. As the population grew and the bypass was completed, Walmart moved from their original location to a huge new Walmart SuperCenter across town. After the bumpy turn of the century, an old department store that anchored the Court Square across the street from the bank was taken over and rebuilt as The Dixie, a first class performing arts center for the region. The name derives from Huntingdon’s claim to fame, Dixie Carter, who grew up in Huntingdon as I did. As a senior, Dixie played first chair trumpet in the school band, while I sat as a shy freshman in the clarinet section, sucking on my reed, slobbering on the stage floor, and peeking over my sheet music at Dixie. She went on to entertainment fame as Julia Sugarbaker of Designing Women. I went on to post stuff that nobody cares about in this blog.

Daddy died in early ‘95 and Mom is in a nursing home only a few blocks from where her house, now someone else’s, sits. Most of their contemporaries are either gone or in nursing homes. My brother and family are still there — never left. He retired from the aluminum plant a year ago and his wife just hung up the teaching tools after a long career. Some of my old school mates are still around, all looking much older/fatter/balder/grayer than I do, of course. We’re having a class reunion this fall and it will be interesting to hook up with some that I have not seen or thought about in 30 or 40 years. Going back now is a bitter-sweet experience. Of course I visit with Mom at the nursing home, go by Daddy’s grave and say howdy, visit with my baby bro, and occasionally see someone who I recognize or who remembers me. Driving around town always impresses me with how little the town has changed, while reminding me how very much it has changed. I leave and head out Highway 22 toward the interstate, realizing once again that I can’t go back.

Not since the election of President John F. Kennedy have I been so encouraged as I am now about the possibilities that lie ahead. Over the past eight years, the United States of America that we love and call home has been ravaged and shredded from inside and out. From the horrific terrorists attacks of 9/11 to the spectacular failures of Bush’s policies and implementations, we are weaker at home and abroad than at any time in our nation’s history. My singular hope is that you and your administration will be able to at least get us back to even, back where we were before the misguided Bush administration wreaked their unholy brand of havoc. If that turn-around can be accomplished in your maximum two terms, we should ask no more of you, though we will be hoping for more.

My pleasure at your candidacy is multi-tiered. Among the Democratic candidates, it was clear early on that you offered the best balance of intelligence, integrity, and inspiration, attributes that have been sorely lacking in the Bush administration. On those measures, the presumptive Republican candidate pales. Most candidates talk of change. You have advanced not just the rhetoric, but the ideas to inspire the changes we so desperately need. I believe you when you say you will bring change, and I trust you to follow through.

The combination of those two broad brush strokes, balance and trust, make you my candidate of choice. On a third and more personal level, as a 65-year old white male who dedicated a part of his life to working for racial and gender equality, I am so highly gratified that in my lifetime we overcame enough relics of our past to select a serious Presidential candidate who is not a white male. That is a tribute not only to you but to all who worked and suffered and died to prepare the way for your candidacy to be possible.

I am not so presumptuous as to think I might have ideas that you haven’t already had. I have listened carefully to your positions on key issues facing the next President, and I am in accord with those. However, aside from the issues, I will offer a few of my thoughts in hopes that they parallel and enforce some of the directions you have already set. This is how at least one American thinks…

Do not let McCain drag you into battle on his tainted turf. You are better and larger than that. Stand firm and tall. Speak clearly and with conviction. Continue to walk the walk and talk the talk. Be yourself. Be Presidential.

McCain’s major topic of late seems to be based on his perception of how you, as President, would manage Iraq. Yes, Iraq is and will be an important issue. But, keep your head about you and remember that this election is not about Iraq. This election is about America.

Your running mate is your choice, with the guidance you will undoubtedly receive from your trusted advisors and the central powers of the DNC. As of now, there is much speculation about Hillary Clinton. While I personally disfavor her, I can see that a team of Obama - Clinton would be a formidable presence in this election and just might ensure a Democratic victory in November. I assume that you and Hillary could find common ground to form a cohesive administration. If she is your choice, please make sure you have firmly settled in your mind, and hers, the question of, What to do about Bill?

I heard about a McCain fundraiser here in Nashville a few days ago. The invitation-only affair was held in the home of a very wealthy Republican, and was attended by 100 people who each pledged $10,000 to the McCain campaign. A cool million for a couple of hours appearance is not bad. However, I believe your campaign will be far stronger, because that same million dollars will come in $100 donations from 10,000 people. The real strength is in the number of people, not the size of their portfolios. Power from the people…

You can win this. Many millions of us want to help.

Now we begin…

Respectfully,

Winston Rand
Franklin, TN
June 5, 2008

In spite of the cost of living, it’s still popular. — Laurence J. Peter

[Yes, that's the Peter Principle dude.]

This one has been dozing for a while in my drafts bin, but with the recent spiraling cost of gasoline, food, and almost everything else we buy, it seems an appropriate time to drag it out, dust it off, and throw it against the wall. Like most folks I know and associate with, we’re starting to really feel it. And it’s going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better.

Brace yourselves, friends. We’re in for some very tough times ahead. Some of us won’t survive it, and that is a very sobering thought.

Each of us blogs for our own reasons, which are as many and varied as we are. Some of us are relative newbies, having just gotten started in the past few months. Others are grizzled veterans, still remembering when blogs were etched in charcoal on dried papyrus and taken village to village by loin-clothed runners. And each of us has our own method and madness and style that, once settled upon, continues to grow and evolve as we do.

Much has been written by bloggers on why, how, when, and where we write. One benchmark piece that has withstood the test of time is Frank Paynter’s 2004 collection of opinions and ideas from three-dozen key-strokers on why they blog. In 2005, Frank followed up with a question answered by numerous folks on how they blog. Check out both of these resources — some good stuff there.

Also starting in 2005 and continuing into 2007, were Rebecca Blood’s interviews with more than a dozen notables in our corner of the happening universe. The series, titled Bloggers on Blogging, is a mother-lode of insightful commentary that is of interest to newbies and oldies alike. Incidentally, Rebecca Blood wrote the book — see The WEBLOG Handbook.

More recently, and the trigger for this post, is a piece by Maria Schneider on her Writers Digest blog, The Writer’s Perspective. While short of comprehensive, her list of 20 tips is an excellent starting place for a prospective blogger to learn, as well as an excellent refresher for the more experienced among us to reaffirm where and how we have chosen to deviate from logic and common sense.

On the subject of blogging, I could rattle on all day without saying anything of consequence. But rather than tire myself while boring you, I’ll just mention two quick items — one for the new or prospective blogger, one for the seasoned.

If you are new to blogging or just thinking about getting started, understand that there are some written and unwritten rules of conduct and etiquette. There is no enforcement group. The blog world is self-policing. You want readers and commenters? Then you play somewhat within the fuzzy boundaries of the rules. The best way to discover how to conduct yourself is to closely observe those you consider to be successful. There is no set way to blog. There is no right way or wrong way. Don’t be afraid of trying ideas. Don’t be afraid of making mistakes. You will…

If you are among the veterans, the seasoned, even the ones who are beyond newbie but still not totally comfortable without the training wheels — three words. Pay It Forward. As an embryonic blogger, I was helped by a few folks who I came to respect, including the illustrious fp mentioned above. Frank may or not recognize anything in my work that was spawned by the wisdom he passed on to me. He may not wish to claim or be identified with it or me. But my interpretation of his advice is here, an integral part of the framework on which nobodyasked is stretched. I have tried to repay Frank by helping others thinking of jumping into the pool or already wet but not yet able to get a toehold on bottom. Pay It Forward…

Could this be Yoda’s evil twin?

Photo taken at one of my veterinary clinic customers while they were cleansing the exterior of this very pissed pussy.

As for interior cleansing, don’t even think about it. Hell hath no fury like a pussy cat that has been bathed against its will…

Sometimes we get on a roll. You know, jump on a hot streak where nothing can go wrong for a few minutes. Then,

.

W H A M !

Someone or something hits you upside the head and sends you spinning uncontrollably through space and time back to someone else’s tortured and distorted vision of reality. The reality of just how common and ordinary and fallible you really are. How human. Oh, the piteous shame of it all… Gasp…

I could pull a Republican style cover-up and just sweep it under the carpet. Or claim that my etymological faux pas was really an embedded test to find out who in my vast audience is paying attention. Which reader has the smarts and intelligence and sharp eye to find camouflaged errors? And the audacity to bring their findings to my attention…. Gasp number 2…

No, I’ll come clean and fess up. Might be good for my soul, should I ever decide to acquire one. On May 26, just three short days ago, I wrote a tongue-firmly-planted-in-cheek post titled Shattered Dreams… , which contained these lines:

At the age of 7 or 8, I did not connect the dots relating education to occupation. My educational goal of Spelling was not complimentary to what I really wanted to do when I grew up. So what? That disconnect was years away…

Now, most days I know when to use complimentary vs. complementary. On May 26, I had an attack of the stupids while writing and proofing the post. Looking back at the usage in the context of the surrounding sentences, my complimentary should have been complementary.

To complement is to provide something felt to be lacking or needed; it is often applied to putting together two things, each of which supplies what is lacking in the other, to make a complete whole… [Ref. dictionary.com]

While double-checking myself over at dictionary.com, I also discovered that though they are two separate words with different spellings and meanings, these two homophonic words share some common roots and meanings. In fact one of the obsolete or archaic entries show compliment and complement to be synonymous. Ah ha! I knew I didn’t err in the spelling (How embarassing would that be in a post bragging about spelling ability?), but in the usage. If I admit to being obsolete and archaic (Guilty as charged…), then perhaps the usage is not wrong, just born of antiquity.

[With tongue firmly out of cheek, I offer sincere thanks and admiration for the bearer of the news that I might have made a mistake. Fear not, fair lady, I do not shoot messengers. However, I have fired my chief copy editor for allowing this controversial situation to develop. Job applicants may submit resumes along with salary requirements and chocolate offerings to my email address as shown on my Contact page. - WR]

Others, if they think about me at all, probably think, there is a successful, happy guy, who has the world by the tail. Some snippets of that view are close to the truth … on some days. But underlying the facade of perceivable success, I am immersed in abject failure and misery. On several levels, my life is in a bankruptcy of achievement. Let me explain…

My office wall is decorated with diplomas from my years of pain and suffering. The University of Tennessee granted me a degree, Bachelor of Science in Electrical Engineering (BSEE), perhaps in order to get rid of me, but once you’ve got it, the reasons and grades don’t matter much. A few years later, I received a Master of Business Administration (MBA) from the University of Pittsburgh. That one required four years of evening school and many laborious hours of team meetings at one of the pubs just off campus.

Now, you may be thinking, Why does a guy with a BSEE and MBA consider himself a failure? Consider this: as a wee lad, and probably up through 8th or 9th grade, my life dream included going to college and majoring in Spelling. You see, spelling was always my strongest subject in school where I never made less than an A. Imagine what a crushing blow it would be to learn that there is no such thing as a university degree in your favorite and strongest area of endeavor. That impoverishing news was accompanied by an explanation that there is no such thing as a professional speller — you know, an adult who gets paid to spell. Geeesh… I wasn’t so sure this growing up thing was all it was cracked up to be.

At the age of 7 or 8, I did not connect the dots relating education to occupation. My educational goal of Spelling was not complimentary to what I really wanted to do when I grew up. So what? That disconnect was years away from realization and impact. Turning my face upward at their awesome sight and sound, there was no doubt I was going to be a jet test pilot. I knew enough not to go into combat and get my ass shot off. But, test pilot… Getting to fly all the latest planes, zooming around at the speed of sound at low altitude scaring the shit out of little old ladies… yeah, I had a calling, for sure. This was so good because it allowed me to safely put aside those childish ambitions of cowboy, fireman, policeman. All the other boys were going to be one of those. I was going to be a jet test pilot…

By around age 12 or 13, I had learned that to be a jet test pilot, you had to first go into combat and get your ass shot off. Scratch that nonsense. Reality-based life decisions were still slightly beyond my grasp, but for a brief moment, I had a new career goal — Goat Counter.

We frequently visited one of our country relatives. After the huge country suppers, while the women cleared the table and cleaned the kitchen, the men went out back to smoke and tell lies. That’s what I called it, though they were all good men and wouldn’t think of telling a lie. They were just spinnin’ tall tales and shootin’ the bull. After a little while Uncle Fred, with pipe dangling from his mouth, would break from the group, and head off toward the barnyard. Sometimes one or two of the other men would go with him, sometimes he went alone. One time when he was going alone, I asked him where he was going. “Over at the barn,” came the reply. “Whacha gon’ do there?” I asked. “Count the goats,” Uncle Fred mumbled through the clenched teeth gripping his pipe stem. “Kin I go count goats, too?” I pleaded. By then, a couple of other country cousins had joined me, listening expectantly to the exchange. Uncle Fred paused, took his pipe out and examined it closely for manufacturers defects for what seemed a long time, then looked up at us and said we could go for a few minutes, but we better watch our step walking across the barnyard, and come on back when he told us to.

Dodging cow-piles across the barnyard, we didn’t utter a word as we followed Uncle Fred over to the goat pen. Once there, we leaned on the fence the way he did, and intently studied the herd. Uncle Fred pointed out one ram to be avoided because it was “mean as a snake.” A nanny was great with child and about ready to pop. Several baby goats were running around. There are few things cuter than a young kid that is still sweet and innocent. It is amazing how human a goat’s eyes are, right down to the eyelashes. After standing there a few minutes, Uncle Fred asked how many we counted, and of course we hadn’t. So, each of us started counting and, though not in unison, quite close together, sang out, “21,” “19,” “22″. Uncle Fred looked at us, looked back at the goats, played with his pipe, and said, “That’s priddy close. Y’all make good goat counters some day. Now, y’all young’uns get on back to the house. I got things to finish up out here at the barn.”

I always suspected that Uncle Fred had a bottle of hooch stashed out at the barn. And when he headed out to count goats after supper, he was also going to visit that bottle for a quick swig. Yessir, goat counting looks to me to be an honest and honorable occupation. Something to aspire to…

Regular or longtime readers know that I failed to achieve my dreams to be a professional speller, a jet test pilot, and a goat counter. I have had a good life, but the shards of shattered dreams occasionally prickle and ache like a long-healed broken bone in bad weather.

Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong. — Oscar Wilde

The way my week has gone, this seems a quite appropriate expression of my trod-upon feelings. Too busy to blog. Too tired to care much. Too young to be idle. Too old to expect better. Yeah, I’m having a pity party. Y’all come on over. And by the way, it’s BYOB…

Did you know that Oscar’s full name was Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde?

Aging and death are not popular topics. Neither is family dysfunction. Nursing home decision does not exactly ring of putting butts in theater seats. But these themes are woven together skillfully in the movie The Savages, written and directed by Tamara Jenkins. The result is a moving poignant film that has a touch of hilarity here and there, a face-to-face encounter with the harsh reality that most of us are or will be facing. The film delivers an irreverent, insightful and truthful view of aging, death and family dysfunction, featuring superb work by Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Laura Linney.

If you have aging parents or thoughts of someday getting older yourself, you should see this movie.

From time to time I have this debate with myself, and I usually lose. Is it preferable to lose your mind or your body? Mom has an amazingly clear mind for an 87 year-old who has been in a nursing home for about three years. I’m thankful we have them as alternatives, but those places dull the mind, kill the appetite, and smell like a concoction of piss and Lysol.

Her days are all the same, spent in her power-lift recliner watching TV. Her knees and hips are shot, making her a prisoner of the space she occupies. Not even the large print books we have taken to her are comfortably readable with her failing eyesight. And her poor gnarled hands, ravaged by arthritis, can no longer perform the miracles of earlier years. The photo here is not of Mom’s hands (she is far too proud to allow a revealing photo of her once busy hands), but could be as these are so similar to hers.

My earliest memories include those hands, always busy. If she was not cooking or cleaning or sewing (She made everything we wore in those days, even Daddy’s dress suits and ties.), she was working at one or more crafts. Her projects at any given time followed, more or less, the trend of national popularity. At various times she immersed herself in counted cross-stitch, candle making, crochet, decoupage (Daddy used to warn us to keep moving or she would decoupage us.), needlepoint, foiling, making knick-knacks and designs by gluing rocks and beads and shells together, basket weaving, and latch-hooking rugs.

I don’t know if people still latch-hook. Many have probably never heard of it. It is a tedious process starting with a design on a backing, which can be canvas, burlap, or a jute mesh. Today there are even molded plastic grid panels. What I remember of Mama’s work involved a design marked out on burlap. A latch-hook tool was use to hook and pull the right color of yarn (all wool back then) through the backing and latch or knot it into place. A small area rug such as the one shown here involved many hours of work, hooking and pulling and latching hundreds or thousands of pieces of yarn. Slowly the raw outline was filled in with the chosen colors in a paint-by-numbers fashion until the design evolved into full bloom. Mama loved roses, so much of her work involved those lovely flowers and/or rose colors.

Mama can no longer do those wonderfully creative activities that added her personal touch of love and warmth to our home. She can no longer latch-hook. But in her day, Mama was a helluva hooker…

An executive is a person who always decides; sometimes he decides correctly, but he always decides. – John H. Patterson