Stupid Finds Me

So I'm out picking up dinner tonight ( because I missed Rachel Ray today and didnt know what to whip up),

and I'm having a hard time understanding the nice girl behind the counter at the Chinese take out joint.

All I could hear, was "walla mulla harbinga googamunga sauce?"

I said "excuse me?"

And she said (louder) "walla mulla harbinga googamunga SAUCE?"

To which I responded (louder) "what KIND of sauce?"

She, all exasperated, says ""walla mulla KIND OF SAUCE?!"

"Ooooooooh, SAUCE" I say.

"Yeah, give me some".

With a disgusted look, she takes about 400 assorted packets of some kind of sauce or other, and flings them in my bag like I had a gun pointed at her head.

"You get ALL sauces"

Oh sure, THAT she can pronounce perfectly.

And I am left there to assume its MY fault, that I dont speak whateverrthehell it was she was speaking.

Stupid finds me.

Like whan I'm driving.

I used to actually believe alien mother ships were hovering overhead, folowing me just so that around the next blind curve, they could beam a blue haired steering wheel death clutching left turn signal on for 10 miles alien driven 20 mph BELOW the speed limit fake automobile, JUST TO PISS ME OFF!

All for cosmic yuks, I believed.

It happened way too frequently to be just coincidence.

Twice in the past year, in a construction zone on I-81 up near Scran-un, one of those alien driven fake automobiles STOPPED on the interstate, just so another Alien driven fake automobile could merge with 60 Mph traffic on the (just seconds before) flowing interstate.

Now to those of you who drive hondas or suburus, that may not be much of an issue, providing you dont have your head and/or heart deeply involved in text messaging or something.

But when you are driving a less than late model large truck towing more weight than you actually should be, it gets pretty interesting.

Stupid finds me.

Like when I'm out walking with my kids on a beautiful fall day on our way to a mushroom hunt.

While walking on a curvy country road, a car comes dangerously close to me (on the edge of the road) and my kids, who were off the road.

He zips by, I raise my hands up over my head, and yell "what the hell, IDIOT!?"

So up backs the near miss vehicle, and the guys says "you got a problem?"

"Oh goodie, a tough guy", I reply.

"No, I dont have a problem, YOU almost hit us, is the problem".

Then I notice the cage bettween the front and back seat, the police looking radio in the dash, and the gun on his hip.

He said "I didnt come close to you"

To WHICH, (not getting the gravity of challenging barney fife yet) I respond "no, it was the OTHER idiot driven maroon car that almost hit me".

"I didnt almost hit you, and I'm a police officer".

"Oh, that changes everything", I said. "Troopers and Grand Sultans of Oz get to run people over, I forgot"............

But wait, it gets better.

He asks my name, and I said "for what, the insurance claim to have the frickin (cept I didnt say frickin. Yeah, I know, in front of the kids and all) denim threads removed from your goddam bumper!?"

To which, barney the nascar wannabe said "Oh thats fine language around your kids..."

But wait, it gets better.

I said

"Oh, I suppose I should have said gosh almighty that nice police man ran over my foot...!?!?"

He put it in drive, and drove on, realizing I assume that stupid has returned the favor.

Stupid finds me, sometimes wearing uniforms.

So I'm deer hunting in the Poconos, and my vehicle is parked along the highway, like 50 others.

At the end of the (yet another) fruitless day, I emerge from the woods, and stand where my car should be.

I turn around, look at the tracks in the snow that tell me I walked in here, looked at the tire tracks in the snow that tell me my vehicle USED to be here..................

and say "Frick".

Thats one of thos monents you cant quite prepare for, and it just begs for a response.

"frick" was the best I could come up with.

December, dark, in the poconos, and miles from anywhere.

So I start walking.

A few miles into it, some fool decided it was a GOOD idea to pick up a lone man walking along the highway, at night, with a rifle over his shoulder.

Yeah I know, You cant make that up, and Thank God for it.

I get a ride to the state police barracks at the next exit, and I saunter in to report a stolen vehicle.

I start to tell the nice man in uniform behind the (not bullet proof enough for the gun on my shoulder) bullet proof glass, my story, and in walks another man in uniform.

"whats his story?" he asks, and I said "someone stole my car".

The nice man behind the glass tells him what kind it was, and the other (idiot) in uniform laughs and said "oh THAT, I had it towed."

I said "You WHAT?!" What are you RETARDED!? For WHAT!?"

Remember my mood, where I was, what I had to do to get there, and what was slung over my shoulder.

He said "because you cant park along the highway."

"What about the other 50 cars and trucks parked out there!?!?"

"didnt see any".

You're a frickin (again, didnt say frickin) moron".

(this is all true, and its a wonder I'm STILL not in jail).

"oh for THAT, I wont give you a ride to where it was towed", he said.

"Lemme get this straight", I said. "You tow my vehicle because you didnt like.......I dunno, the COLOR, you laugh when I show up to report it stolen, you CHASTISE me for hitchhiking because its illegal, and then you tell me I can walk another 20 miles, because I'm NOT FRICKIN NICE!?!?".

Beyond stupid.

The nice man behind the desk actually made the other idiot go away.

This next part you have to have a wad of tobacco, a couple of beers and a good belly scratch goin on to appreciate.

I can call ducks.

Like they're on a string, I've been told.

That means that I can really sound like a duck when I get the duck call goin'.

Like I said.......You need to be of a certain "mentality"to appreciate that.

Anyways, I'm sitting in my well camoflauged spot, blowing away at the duckies flying over head, when I hear a twig snap behind me.

I stop, then continue blowing again, then I hear a distinctive metal "click".

I stand up and yell "HEY!!!!!!"

And not more than ten feet away, is stupid, with his shotgun pointed right at me and my decoys.

Holy frickin frick.

"Huhuhuhuhuhu. you sounded just like a duck", says Elmer Fudd who almost made me a statistic.

"yeah, a 6 foot two duck with glasses. I make that mistake all the time".

sometimes, stupid has a gun.

whats the moral of this story?

Be prepared, stupid is just around the corner. And he may or may not have a gun.

What does God do with the money, dad?

Nice pic, huh?

I told everyone all week, that I didnt want to go to THIS game.

I KNEW that Penn State would lose THIS game.

Then, on Friday, my daughter in college in Philly called to tell me that she REALLY wanted to come home, and oh, by the by, she had two tickets for she and I to go to THE game.

You know, the game I didnt want to go to.

So friday, I head on down to Philly, around 6 PM, when everyone else in Philly wants to leave.

Yeah, it was peachy.

Friday Schyukill traffic. 5 hours turns into 7 hours.

Kids, sheesh.

Saturday comes along, and I, we, had this confirmation thingy to go to, for my oldest son.

It was swell, as fine a confirmation ceremony as there ever was.

Afterwards we head back to the ranch where I, not one for chlorine conversations, turned on ESPN, which HAPPENED to be broadcasting from Happy Valley that day.

THAT, was all that my A.D.D. ass needed to blurt out to my daughter, "Lets GO!"

And go we did.

Another 2 1/2 hour (one way) trip this weekend, to see a game I didn't want to see. (see where this is going?)

We drove down to ever happy valley, the rain started about 2/3rds of the way there,

and it didnt stop for the rest of the weekend.

We luckily got a parking spot at the Hub (to all of you who dont know happy valley, its a covered parkade), and on a rainy football saturday, that is like winning the Pa Lottery.

And I mean we were in the right place, at the right time, to the SECOND. We parked, made our burnt offerings to the parking gods, and were on our way.

We walked around downtown, had coffees, watched people and bought ponchos and the usual stuff, and headed up to the stadium, with the rest of the faithful.

I KNEW Penn State would lose this game, but as they say "hope springs eternal".

That, and I told my dear daughter that "we are going to stay till halftime, and then head home.

At least we won't get home at 3 AM". It was my one injection of logic and sanity in the whole mix.

Then we trudged up to the stadium, waited in line (in the rain) for the increased security checks, bought our hot chocolate so we could have new mugs to remind her of this great place for the next year, and headed out to our seats.

Our seats, by the by, were as good as good gets. Better than good. Incredible.

Pouring rain, nighttime, knowing we were going to lose.

As half empty a glass as you could ever hope for, right?

Then we walked out of the ramp, and into the stadum, where a hundred thousand other delusional, enthusiastic fools waved their pom poms and cheered for their team.

At that time, at that place, in that rain, I KNEW, (knowing they were going to lose), that there was NO place on EARTH that I'd rather be.

Not in front of some warm dry tv, to be sure.

I HAD to be here, tonight.

And I was, with my daughter. She wanted to be there even more. Not something you could explain to a non believer.

THAT, was the important part of the evening. The actual game, was incidental.

Age realigns priorities like that.

It was more than fun.

It was magical.

If you haven't been there, in that setting, you wouldn't understand.

Like someone who has never loved. You can't explain to them what its like. If Shakespere can't, you or I surely can't.

Fast forward to 18 hours ago, when everyone was scurrying to get ready for church.

My 10 year old daughter was all upset because she couldn't find her purse.

I said "you don't need your purse for church" (very matter of factly)

To which she responded "but daddy, I want to put some money in the basket......"

To WHICH my 5 year old daughter immediately asked "What does God do with the money daddy?"

Explaining why its magical to drive 2 1/2 hours and sit in a pouring rainstorm to watch your team (which you know is going to lose), is easier to explain to a hypothetical wife who hypothetically wants to understand why you do the things you do......................................

than it is to explain "what does God do with the money, daddy?"

I said "He builds churches with it".

She, the 5 year old, looked at me like I was a fool who enjoyed driving 2 1/2 hours to sit in a rainstorm and watch my team lose, for FUN.

Sharp cookies, kids are.

But thats my answer and I'm stickin to it.

It was Magical, and

God needs it.

Silly as it sounds, its the truth.

Old Broken Toys

"Nobody wants a Charlie in the Box..............."

Funny thing, kids are.
There can be a broken unwanted not-even-said-hi-to-in-a-month toy sitting in the corner, but the minute that another kid picks up that unwanted toy, all hell breaks loose.
You'd think that the unwanted toy was just repainted, dunked in a vat of cholocate syrup and wrapped in 50 dollar bills, the way its now fought over.
2 minutes ago when it was ignored and unwanted, the toy's owner couldn't care less about it.
The minute the toy is wanted by someone else, the kid is all kinds of concerned.

Better still is that the second the owner is sure the other kid isnt interested, the toy goes back to the island of misfits. Back on the shelf to resume being ignored.

Why IS that?
Human nature?
Just general selfishness?

I don't care WHAT kind of junky, beat up, worthless feeling toy it is, if some other kid wants it, its MINE!!! (and nobody else can not play with it, either)
Yes, I phrased that correctly.

My two boys were instructed to clean up their room by their mother recently (like every day), and in case you're interested, the room looks like a SWAT team just did a room clearing exercise in it. Complete with flash bangs, lots of small arms rounds, and a couple of hand grenades thrown in just for good measure.
In short, its a disaster.
So mom finds a BROKEN IN HALF motorcycle toy, about 3 inches long, among the other hundred or so unwanted uncared for items in there.
The very definition of worthless.
Little casey acts like his favorite-est childhood memory inducing toy was just flung in the garbage when mom made it go "clunk" in the can.
End of the world, on a 7 year old scale.
Something lying under his bed, broken inhalf, for God knows how long, yet STILL he is traumatized by it being thrown out. Better yet, hes all kinds of surprised that its getting flung out.
Go figure.
They CLEARLY dont want these things, these toys.
Clearly.
They leave them uncared for, unattended to, just cast aside.
Why the trauma and the grief?

I can't figure this out, and it really has me perplexed.

Yeah I know the old saying, but someone should expand on it, and say "if you DON'T want something, throw it the hell out already".

Kids.


I used to think "if I have a couple more, I'll surely figure them out".
Now I know better.
Theres NO figuring them out.

Surviving them is the current goal.

Its All Black And White

While lying in bed awake last night, as is the case often times lately, my mind thought of things that seemed less than pleasing.

Everything seemed so dark, so................................DARK.

Then for some A.D.D. reason, I thought of another dark time, in a very dark, cold, black and white place.

It was January or late December or something, and it was cold. Cold and dark, but it was a good kind of cold and dark.

I waded out in the middle of a partially frozen river, to the only open water for miles around, WHICH, would attract ducks and geese, from miles around, was the theory.

I dodged ice floatsoms while navigating my way out to the small, nothing but a bump of gravel slightly above the waters surface, island.

I strategically (um, one here, two there.........) set my decoys, they positioned myself to look like a lump of snow on a gravel hump in the middle of a river, all to kill a duck or two.

Yeah, I know, its not something one spends much time thinking rationally about.

Anyways, while daylight approached (oh, I forgot to mention that I dodged ice flows while wading, in the DARK?),

I noticed something else.

"Man, this is pretty". Could've been the lack of blood flowing to my brain at that point.

No color whatsoever. Black water, with white ice flows spinning and bumping and crashing into each other as they flowed. White snow on the mountains around me, with black leaf less trees standing silently on them.

Black and White.

Laying on a gravel bar of an island gives one an interesting perspective. Kinda like placing ones ear on a railroad track.

The sound of the water flowing, and the ice flows flowing into each other, is one I'll never forget. Grinding, bumping, flowing.

The only color was in the dog's coats, but even they looked like a shade of grayish non-color, instead of the deep chocolate that they were.

No color, black and white.

It was surreal. The wind made a sond as it entered my hood, which added to the experience. So much so, that I failed to hear the 20 or so ducks that just plopped themselves all around my little island.

The dogs started twitching and whimpering as if to be saying,

"godammit dad, we DIDN'T come out here for you to lie there and get all frickin philisophical. SHOOT a goddam duck!!"

I sit up, the ducks say "what the frick!?!?"

They fly, I shoot, the dogs spring into action, and everybody (save for a few ducks) is happy.

Its all so black and white.

I wish everything could be black and white. And the good kind of cold and dark.

Don't you?

My Spot

Sorry, I dont have a picture available of my spot.

Yet.

Its my favorite spot in pennsylvania, to be sure. Maybe my favorite spot anywhere.

That one will take some thinking.

The number of people I've shown "my spot", you could count on one hand.

Its a public spot, open to all who wish to go there, but not too many people go there, and me and the trout like it that way.

Back when I used to harass the trout on a regular basis, any and all intruders (like 3 a year) would usually put me in a sour mood, at least temporarily.

It was MY spot, after all................

I don't go there much anymore, for a variety of reasons, but even if its once a year the place still feels exactly the same, like I never left.

I didnt go there this year, and tonight, while I was sitting in the spot that actually IS My spot, I thought about my other spot. My REAL spot.

The picture is of my son casey sitting on our patio, which is on a stream, and isnt too bad of a spot in its own right.

Its been a less than perfect month or three, and today it seemed to come to a boil.

I haven't even gotten to sit by my own stream lately, but tonight I did.

And what I did, was nothing in particular, just watch and think.

(heres where it gets boring)

I watched mayflies do what they do, which is go from an underwater creature, to a flying creature, to mating (the good part), and then dying (The yet-to-be-determined-part).

They were doing this way before I owned this place, and they'll be doing it long after I dont own this place.

Just like at My Spot.

Its hard not to feel connected to a spot where you've spent thousands of after dark hours, by one's self, standing in the middle of a large wild river, casting to invisible trout sipping invisible flies off the waters surface.

I feel and felt like just as much a part of that spot as some of the boulders that have been there for milleniums.

I belonged there.

It wasn't about the trout, although each one was a small victory to be sure. None were harmed, save for their dignity perhaps. All were released because they belonged there, just like I did.

My job was to fool them into believing that my fly was the real dinner, and each time I did, they got smarter, and more difficult to fool the next time.

A classic catch 22.

That was my job as part of the spot. To make the trout smarter, and to annoy the beavers who lived there. They would occasionally scare the bejeebus out of me by either bumping into my wading legs, or swimming silently up behind me and slapping their tails just a few feet from me.

THAT, usually got either an audible response from me, or something just this side of cardiac arrest.

Often times both.

I don't know why I thought of My Spot, while sitting on my spot, especially this evening.

Today seemed like a practice run for national crisis week, and tonight, I was just plum exhausted.

I just sat down near the creek to veg out, and then noticed the flies dancing above the water's surface.

I tried to close my eyes, then I realized that the sound of a rushing stream is only half of it, if that. So I took it all in.

No great revelations occured while sitting there, and I'm still tired as hell, but I realized that everything is fine in My Spot.

The trout may be a little dumber than they used to be there, but thats ok too.

And I can see it like I'm there right now.

I imagine sometime soon some other young man/woman will be driving their old jeep around creation, looking for their spot.

They too, will see that pull over along the road no where near the river, but pull over anyways, just because something tells them to.

They will get out of their vehicle, look at the steep path down to where they know the river should be, and maybe say something to themselves like,

"oh what the hell, I'm not made out of crystal..............."

Then when they get to the bottom, and emerge through the last of the underbrush and stand and look at what I first saw, they'll say..........................

"holy frick. I found my spot".

And they'll begin the journey of learning everything about it, one step at a time.

Its a great spot.

Just another day in paradise

With nothing to write about.

I say that a lot when people ask me "hows it going?"

"Just another day in paradise".

Just another day.

One more day.

On the road to what? THAT, is the question. No, I'm not going to get all philisophical and gushy on you.

Not tonight.

I'm just wondering what its all addin up to.

Where its all going.

Its been a rocky, bumpy, trudge-y road thus far, but I cant but hope that its going to level out, to open up, to get to where I want it to get to.

I'm not looking for the Land Of Oz, just somewhere nice.

Somewhere pleasant. Somewhere I WANT to be.

I've got a few ideas as to how to get there, (wherever that is), but they seem like pipe dreams at this point.

So here I sit tonight, after yet another uneventful day, wondering if life is just one uneventful day after another.

To be trugded through, to get to the end.

Nah. Thats idiotic.

thats how most people seem to view it.

I don't give a rats ass how most people do it. Nor, have I decided, do I care what they think of how I do it.

They can take pleasure in my decisions, and add some spark to their trudge filled day discussing me and my decisions.

Gee, that souonds narcisissistic, doesn't it?

Yep.

Dont care about that, either.

Life is indeed too damn short.

And there are no "Best Trudger" medals to be handed out at the end, either.

I've been trudging through paradise for the better part of the past 25 years, and I think, I've had a bellyfull.

Tonight, I saw the emergency vehicles pull up to an elderly neighbor's house.

Tonight, I wonder what happened at "Tony's" house. Whether it was him, or his wife who was gurneyed away in an ambulance.

Tony, as I have learned, was no trudger.

He was a "hell raiser" when he was a youngster, as told by another neighbor, on numerous occasions.

Lately however, he was a trudger's trudger. Old age will do that to you.

Tony is/was of old age. Hell raising youth notwithstanding, he was just an old guy who went through the motions of his latter days, with a smile.

I dont want to be remembered as anything but "a content guy".

I know, I know, take a number.

And very few people would categorize me as "happy and/or contented".

At this point, anyways.

Are you trudging?

Do you believe we are supposed to?

Generations have believed that, y'know.

This isnt some mid life crisis, in case you're wondering.

Its a mid life lane change.

Road change.

Route change.

I've got half a life left, and if you think I want to trudge through IT like the past seemingly endless years, youre as nuts as I am.

If you're lucky, I wont knock on your door and say "c'mon, lets get the hell outta here..."

ooooooooooooh, you looked at the door with that comment, didntcha?

Uh-huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh.

You GET what I'm talking about.

Well, gotta go now. Gotta get some sleep so I can trudge through another day in paradise, tomorrow.

Life and Death at the County Fair............

"At least I'm not THAT guy", I thought.................

He probably sat in his seat saying the exact same thing about everybody he saw. About everybody he taunted while he sat there.

And that laugh.

It must be the same guy thats been there for years, because the odds of two people having the same laugh, doing that job, I imagine are pretty big.

Well, THREE people.

5 or 6 or 8 years ago, I had a coworker who had the same exact laugh. So much so, that another coworker nicknamed him "dunktank", because of the similarity in the laughs. "Dunktank" is in reference to the clown who sits over a tank of water, and taunts fairgoers to (buy, and) throw balls at the target in an attempt to get him dunked.

I remembered that laugh, and I remembered that coworker.

Hes in prison now on two murder charges, in connection with a very famous case.

It was a loud laugh, an infectious laugh, almost a forced laugh, but it wasnt. He was the type of guy to laugh at everything.

Not so much anymore, I'd guess.

As far as I knew him, he was a nice guy. Friendly as hell, and I bet if the company were to cast a secret ballot then, as to which coworker would be where he is today, I'd have gotten more votes than he would've.

I'm not exactly a social butterfly at work, y'know. Not like I'm rude, but there are people who HAVE to store beer in the trunk so they can have one before they get home, and there are people who do not.

Even on the worst days (and their name is legion), I can wait.

Dunktank.

I dont remember anything bad about him, but then again, you can spend more time then 10 or 12 hours a day, for 6 days a week, and STILL not know someone, y'know?

Sometimes, it takes something more. You know, like a murder charge to light up the lightbulb over your head.

Or something.

So I'm walking around our county fair, and I hear this laugh.

My first thought is "holy cow that guy is STILL at it".

And then I thought of the nicknamed guy. He's still where he is too.

Always will be.

At least I'm not THAT guy.

Either of them.

I started to wonder about each, both of them and their lives.

Whats it like to travel around and do THAT, for years on end? Man thats gotta suck times a thousand.

At least people compliment my work or slip me a hundred bucks as a tip every once in a while.

THAT guy gets the finger for doing his job, and thats AFTER he gets dunked.

Sheesh, I bet HE keeps a cooler of beer in his trunk.

I wonder what its like for dunktank in prison?

I wonder how a happy go lucky type survives in there?

God he must feel lonely.

I wonder if I should visit him?

Yeah thats it. Start my workplace social networking in the state prison.

I dunno.

At least I'm not that guy.

Its gotta be one of the lonliest places on earth.

One of.

Like a county fair.