I've given up on there being separation of church and state.

I just wish there wasn't such a separation of church and reason...

This story is yet another in a long line of examples of why religious organizations disgust me, especially the Catholic Church.
Has there been a family who has been more vocal, or public, in their devotion to the Catholic faith in the last 50 years than the Kennedys? I'll just go ahead and answer that for you - no, there hasn't.
And yet here is a church leader who is denying one of his members a part of his faith process because of the member's "political" views.
Someone correct me here - isn't that exactly the definition of the original need for "separation of church and state?"

If these people are the enlightened ones, I'll be happy to stay in the dark for the rest of my life!

http://www.boston.com/news/local/rhode_island/articles/2009/11/22/report_kennedy_barred_from_communion_by_bishop/

Stay Thirsty My Friends...

Can someone explain the Dos Equis beer commercial (with the "Most interesting man in the world") to me?

I could ignore the fact that it's a stupid concept, if it made sense from a marketing perspective. But it doesn't.
 
His first crazy line is, "I don't always drink beer, but when I do, its Dos Equis."
 
If the idea is to make a character like this look so cool that the public will do what he says or does, then they've just learned that to be cool you don't drink beer all the time. Hmmm...Well, that seems counterproductive to Dos Equis sales...
 
The worst line of the series though is the tag line - "Stay thirsty my friends."
Um...what is the best way to stay thirsty? Yup, by not drinking anything to quench that thirst.
Don't drink - stay thirsty! Let's get that thought stuck in the head of the drinking public. That should lead to cases of Dos Equis flying off the shelves, right?
 
I could go on, but I need to go call Burger King and try to sell them my idea of changing their motto to "Stay Hungry America!"
 
 

Prediction: "Up in the air" coming out next month will be a really good film and will be the darling of the Oscars next spring.

Sunday Scribblings - #189 - Oracle

His rumored knowledge and influence was immense. The numbers who’d sought out his council was infinite. The man, almost larger than life, stood there peering out the window. From his space at the top of the tower, a place above the rest of the world, he looked down at the people milling around below unwittingly, as if their lives weren’t already pre-defined.


He turned around to see that the young man, not more than a boy really, was still kneeling on the floor only a few feet away – a puzzled look on his face.

“Why won’t you give me the answers I seek?” The boy asked, his expression melting into one of anguish. “Do you not know what I’ve gone through to get here?”

The great man lowered his head and then shook it in frustration.

“I’ll tell you again, son. I am not THE Oracle!” The man said. He pointed to a large wooden desk that sat next to the window. “I am the head OF Oracle…It’s just a company for Christ sake!”

“But what of my future?” the boy pleaded.

“The only future I can guarantee is an escort out of the building by security.”

The boy was being lifted off the floor by four large arms, men with short hair cuts and a headphone in one ear.

“What of my destiny?” he shouted while being dragged backwards out of the office. “I came here for a prediction!”

“A prediction? Yeah right,” the man said to his assistant, who was now standing at the office doorway.

“You really think I can predict the future?” the man shouted after the boy. “Take a look at our stock price!”

Time flies while flying back from Russia...

I just caught a few minutes of Rocky IV while on the treadmill. It was a scene where Rocky is talking to his son just before he flies to Russia to fight Drago. And of course give that famous speech at the end that pretty much knocked down the Berlin wall... So, anyway, Rocky's kid is like maybe nine years old. Who cares, right?

Well, a few weeks ago I caught a few minutes of Rocky V and the movie starts with the Rocko and his wife landing after the flight from Russia. Then he retires because of the damage he's taken to the head. Then they find out that their accountant has been robbing them blind and they are now as poor as the movie's dialogue. So, the Balboa's pack up their things and move back to the hood in Philly.

The problem is that when their kid is shown lugging some boxes of albums, he's now like 13 or 14 years old! So, I write this note as warning of something I've just discovered; the flight back from Russia apparently takes somewhere between four and five years...Be aware.

You're welcome.

Sunday Scribblings #185 – Junk/Spam

This was the explanation for this week’s writing prompt on Sunday Scribblings: In honour of the 20 minutes I have just spent deleting spammy comments, the prompt for this week is: Junk. (Or if you would rather, you could use 'spam' as your prompt!)

I’ve been thinking about a certain little event that caught the attention of a nation (and maybe even parts of the greater world) over the last couple days, and this prompt really put it into context for me. I now know how to word the theme that was floating around my head;

I wish there was a spam filter for not just my email, but for all mass media!

On Thursday a young boy and a balloon…well, I can’t describe it better than the “CNN Breaking News” email I got that afternoon, which said, “A 6-year-old climbed into a balloon-like experimental aircraft built by his parents and floated into the Colorado sky.” That is such a great line! I almost expect it to be in a book with illustrations. And that the boy eventually ends up in a land with magical creatures, learns an important life lesson and then wakes up at home.

Sadly though, this headline was in my real life. First of all, I just want to say that young Falcon Heene’s parents are jackasses, for many reasons, starting with naming their child Falcon…

This was a crazy story and in the end the boy was safe and hiding in a cardboard box in his attic. But, what I took from the whole thing was that it was yet another reminder of how small the world has become. Within minutes of the missing boy being reported, in Colorado, it was on national TV and all over the internet. Not long after that, there were helicopters with cameras in the air that had tracked down the floating balloon, and people all over the world were able to watch the saga “LIVE” as it was playing out. It’s amazing. As recent as ten years ago, this is the sort of story that would have probably been in the Boston Globe’s “Nation” section a week later, describing the search and the boy being found safe, long after the fact.

In 2009 though, it appears that there’s nothing that can’t be followed live. And you know what…I’m pretty sick of it.

I don’t need, nor do I want, to know about everything that’s happening in the world, as its happening. And I know that the freedom of the press is a wonderful thing, but media needs to show more internal responsibility. Sometimes what they show is actually not appropriate. CNN showed video of a piece of that balloon falling from the sky, which at the time was thought to possibly contain that 6 year old boy. Just because they have the right to show what they want, doesn’t mean they should. It’s all about ratings, and I know that we’ve become a nation of people who can’t look away from car accidents, so this footage would sell, but it wasn’t appropriate. The news media used to be about educating and enlightening the public. Now they just play to their lowest common denominator.

Think about this. If a TV network wanted to air a show in “primetime” that had a scene (even fictional) that showed a six year old boy plummeting to his death, including all the footage from beginning to end, they wouldn’t be able to, because the censors would say it was inappropriate for some audiences. But, the cable news networks are irresponsible enough to show a real-life version of that all day, to all audiences without thinking twice about it. Why? Ratings.

I’ve said this before, but they should not be able to still call themselves “news” agencies. It’s entertainment – sick entertainment, but still entertainment – not news.

Plus, it’s always “bad” news, this live breaking news phenomenon. Interrupt me for something “good” or “inspiring” or at least intellectually informative for a change.

How about this Breaking News?

“Project completed. All skyscrapers over twenty stories in America converted to solar power.”
Or.
“This just in…World reaches one year milestone of not a single religious fanatic killing another person.”
Or.
“Thanks to all countries working together, researchers report today that the polar ice caps are no longer melting at a dangerous rate.”
Or.
“First admitted Atheist is elected to a position of importance in the United States. Separation of church and state finally exists in this country.”
Or.
“Scientists discover genetic abnormality tied to existence neo-conservatives, and also found a cure!”

Sorry. Had to throw that last one in there…

I guess this it isn’t all the fault of media – they just start the process. People allow this to now be the norm. And most love it. They eat it up. What is most of the talk around the water cooler (besides sports, which I condone)? It’s about Michael Jackson’s body not being buried or some politician cheating on his wife. No one talks about the healthcare debate or the climate crisis – things that will actually affect their lives.

I went to a coffee shop, a supermarket, and a liquor store last Thursday afternoon and all I heard the people around me talking about was the Colorado “Balloon Boy.” I wanted to turn their volume off!

In the world of Facebook, you can “hide” those annoying people who post nonsense ten times a day and take up all your home page space. I want to be able to do that in real life too! I don’t want to hide from the world - and all the mass noise that comes at me all day – I just want to be able to “hide” some of it from me!

Actually…the more I think about it, I wish there was a spam filter for life!

Fiction based on the prompt from Sunday Scribblings

Sunday Scribblings - #183 -- First Kiss
http://www.sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/


“It was amazing,” Nancy said, squeezing her husband’s hand as she spoke. “I swear I could still feel his breath on my cheek hours after I got home from the date.”

“Ooooh…” The other women at the table cooed in unison

The two extra leaves were slotted in the dining room table. Wine glasses were full in front of the four couples seated. In most of the games played in this room, those couples were also known as teams pitted against each other. But, as most of the nights ended and when most of the wine bottles were empty, the traditional board games had been put away, and they played some sort of improvised version of Cranium/Trivial Pursuit/Truth or Dare.

“He’d walked me to my car,” Nancy continued. “When I got to the driver’s door and turned around, he was right on top of me. Our hips bumped into each other. I was caught a bit off guard and started to fall back into the side of the car. Then Carl’s hand shot out behind me and gripped the back of my neck. The touch of his finger tips gave me instant goose bumps.”

“Smooth Carl!” his friend Tim sneered from across the table.

Everyone in the room looked over to Carl, but he just sat silently smiling, holding his wife’s hand.

“Finish the story Nanc,” Joan announced from the head of the table. The monthly ‘Game Night’ was her idea to begin with and her and her husband Joel hosted more than most. The ‘Joes’ as they were called took it seriously.

“Ignore the peanut gallery,” she said.

“You know, I’ve never understood that phrase,” Tim responded. “What the hell is a peanut gallery? Is that like the Peanuts comic strip? Cause if it is, who am I suppose to be? Am I Lucy to Carl’s Charlie Brown, pulling the football out from under him? And speaking of Lucy, can we all agree that Peppermint Patty was a lesbian?”

“Tim!” the table shouted.

“What? Not that’s there’s anything wrong with that,” he said.

“Tim, you know how Joan feels about game night,” It was Joel who spoke now. “If you don’t shut up, somehow it is going to be me who sleeps on the couch tonight!”

“Okay, okay,” Tim said, looking anywhere but to his left where his girlfriend was glaring at him.

“Sorry Joan. Nancy, I believe you were getting goose bumps.”

Nancy didn’t really look like she’d been interrupted at all. She was still squeezing Carl’s hand and staring off toward the window across from her, never having come back from the place that she’d been describing.

“He…he…um…he pulled me towards him. It was like instinctual, an animalistic motion. He slid his left arm around my waist and with his right hand he guided my head toward his. When his lips met and grabbed onto mine it was electricity, it was synchronicity. I just felt so right.”

“Wow,” again it was the women at the table.

Joan jotted down some number even there was no score keeping at this point of game night.

“Before we let another couple share their story,” Joan said. “Carl, is that how you remember your first kiss with Nancy as well?”

“Yup, pretty much,” he said.

“Anything to add?”

“Nope, Nanc pretty much summed it up,”

“What emotions did you feel when it happened?”

“Emotions?” he asked, looking at Nancy and then the other men at the table. “Yeah, pretty much what Nancy said.”

“So you got goose bumps too?” Tim asked.

“What?” Carl said. “No. I mean it was like August or something. I was sweating.”

“It was March!” Nancy said. She’d risen up from her chair and was turned facing her husband.

“Yeah, it was March, Carl,” Tim said laughing. He nudged pointed at a couple other of the men and then nudged his girlfriend, but none were taking the bait.

Carl had gotten up from the table. He’d gotten another bottle of wine from Joan and Joel’s bar and was uncorking it at their bar.

“Okay, fine, you know what?” he said. “I thought the first kiss was actually a week later at Nancy’s apartment.”

Carl walked back to his chair, stopping to fill other empty wine glasses along the way.

“You want to know some honest male truth?”

“Yes!” Joan said, just a little too enthusiastically.

“That first date kiss was horrifying?” Carl said, sitting down. “I’m not sure women get how stressful that first kiss is, especially when it actually happens on the first date. There’s no magic on a first date – just apprehension, and often terror. We spend half the night trying to figure out if the woman has any interest in us, and then if there is any semblance of a sign that she does, then we spend the other half worrying about whether to kiss the woman goodnight or not.”

“Hell yeah!” Now it was the men in unison.

“That first date….” Carl continued. “Nancy and I got along really well, but there was none of what we are told are the tell-tale signs that she was interested. She never touched my leg or my arm, or laughed at much of anything I said. I walked her to her car only because it was on the way to mine. I liked her, but I’d never had trouble getting women before and I didn’t think she liked me, so I was neither planning to kiss her good night or ever see her again.”

“Seriously?” Nancy asked?

“I guess I’m probably the one sleeping on a couch tonight, but everything you said about that kiss I felt the next time, just not the first time.”

“What about all that passion you showed?” asked another woman at the table?

Carl took a sip of wine and then directed the answer toward his wife as if she’d asked the question.

“I had no idea what I was doing. I was always confident, because I’d always been successful with women. You had me confused. I was awkward. I bumped into you. You were falling into the car and so I tried to catch you. When I pulled you forward, I saw this look in your eyes that differed from all that I’d thought throughout the night, so I said fuck it, and kissed you.”

Nancy grabbed Carl’s hand again. She smiled and said to the group, “Still was a great first kiss to me and that’s all that matters. Who’s next?”

Has it always been like this?

And I've only just started paying attention? Or have things gotten worse?

It is a joke - The members of today's Congress act like bickering teenagers.

I admit two things; I didn't respect President Bush and his administration. But I also don't enjoy watching the extreme left Democrats gloat now because they have a majority. They are childish and unprofessional. I am disappointed to admit it, being a Democrat, but it is true.

At the same time, I can't help but be disgusted by watching the right side of the aisle show such disdain for the house of Congress and the role they've been elected to.

President Obama was heckled tonight. No big deal, right? I know that I heckled Bush 746 times over his 8 pathetic years. But I was never seated in the Capital and I am not a member of it. Unless they've instituted a "two drink minimum" in there, I don't freakin want to hear any heckling! From either side...

That was just appalling. Some Republicans also brought props and waved them up at the President.

I'm sure that many Democrats refused to stand up or even applaud from their seats when Bush was giving a grammar-disturbing speech, but I don't recall them ever heckling him or doing things as childish as displaying props. This is not a rally or a convention for christ's sake. This is the house of Congress!

I thought Obama showed some good fight tonight and it was a good speech, but I just have so little faith in the people we've all sent to congress that I'll be surprised if the two sides will lean anywhere near each other on the healthcare issue.

As a matter of fact, even though I'm happy that my side has the majority, it saddens me that this is the state of our country today and this divide will be present on all issues going forward for a while...

All I can hope is that Congress decides to act like grown ups, even just a little.

In my day...

Don't get me wrong - I am an tech and info junkie. My iPhone never strays far from my hand. But, there are definitely some things that were better when the world was smaller, in other words when I was smaller, or younger I should say - I'm still rather small.
Going to the movies was much better! There are some things about the movie experience now that are better like the sound quality and visual effects. And for someone who is 5'4" there is no greater invention than stadium seating.
But, the thrill has gone for me, and I think the main reason is that I used to love the moment when the lights went down (ten minutes before the "scheduled" showtime) and the previews started. I loved the previews! Back then it seemed like only myself and the select few in the theater with me were being let in on a little secret.
"Shhhsssh...We haven't told anyone else this yet, but there's a movie coming out in a couple months that you are just going to have to see! It's stars this guy and it has something you've never seen before!"
There was always some movie that I'd heard nothing about and after seeing the trailer, I couldn't wait to see it!
Well, the pre-movie experience changed gradually but it feels like it happened overnight. I think the beginning of the end was when I saw the preview for Independence Day. At the time, the effects looked out of this world and it showed the White House being blown up. I remember thinking, "Holy shit! This movie isn't going to make me think or win an Oscar, but it looks pretty cool!" Then on the screen it said something like "Coming in July." Only one problem - I was in the theater in September!
When they started teasing us with previews a year before the movie came out, I got pissed, but that was nothing compared to when they started showing commercials, not movie previews, but freakin TV commercials. One of the best things about going to the movies was not only the big screens, but you got to avoid being force-fed TV commercials. These days to make it even worse, they start the commercials ten minutes before the scheduled showtime and then the previews, so it's twenty minutes late before the feature film even begins rolling.
If you go to a 10pm showing and god forbid it's an epic like Lord of the Rings or something, you better bring breakfast!
And I'll end my complaint by going back to the point of the world being smaller. The Internet has revolutionized most of our lives, but it has ruined part of the movie experience. It's been at least five years since I saw a movie preview in a theater that I hadn't already heard just about everything about through leaked trailers on Youtube, or rumors about someone being attached to the project before it even starts filming, or just the endless marketing buzz by the makers themselves.
The thrill of the surprise preview is gone and I miss it.

Sunday Scribblings - #173 - Where in the World?

Where in the world has my summer gone?

I was driving by a farm stand with a friend recently and I said to her, "I wish it was corn season already. I'm dying to chomp down on some good cob!"

She asked me when the local farms usually have it ready for sale and I told her it was somewhere around the 2nd or 3rd week of July. At that moment, I realized - holy crap!
It IS the third week of July already! Where has my summer gone?

The fact that a lot of the corn was still not fully grown leads back to what happened to the beginning of summer - weather - dreary weather to be exact. I spent May and June in a constant rain delay. If mother nature was an umpire, she would have "called the game" and rescheduled summer for the next time she happened to be in town.

For about six or seven weeks, it seemed to rain 4 out of ever 5 days, and of course, every weekend. And these weren't good ole summer storms, when it's 80-plus degrees and a quick thunderstorm is often a welcome, refreshing blow through town. This was drizzle, and constant cloud cover, and days of puddles, and cool, damp temperatures.

I ate a lot of soup in June. I don't want to eat soup in June! I want to sit at outdoor patios and drink vodka tonics and chew on a lobster roll! I tried to play golf three straight weekends and ended up playing a total of 18 holes combined, as play got interrupted each time by rain - One of the rounds was stopped because of hail the size of...well, golf balls.

As the snow melted in the spring and I shed both my long sleeves and the stress of a work crisis that had me shuttered and worried from December through May, I was looking forward to summer. I anticipated many day trips, enjoying the great gas mileage of my new clean-diesel, but by June one, I was thinking about building an ark instead!

By the time I saw three days in a row of sunlight, it was already the first weekend of July. By the time I froze my ass of in the New England ocean water, or had my first bite of lobster roll, it was the middle of that month.

And now, as I write this, August is only a few days away. Where in the world has my summer gone? Well, the first half of it, I'm sad to report, apparently drowned. But, the second half is still ahead and I'm also going to go out on a limb and predict that the fall will be full of "Indian Summer" type days.

So, I will play more golf and if that spiteful bitch Mother Nature decides to thrown down some more giant hail, I'll grab my 9 iron and play em where they land!

I'll head for the beach a few more times and to make up for loss time, I'll body surf no matter how cold the water - until I can no longer feel my toes or quite possibly lose my sense of smell, whichever comes first.

And lastly, if there are any medical professionals out there reading this, please let me know if I am about to do my body harm, because I plan to eat nothing but corn on the cob for roughly the next month and a half!

Happy summer!

I bought a pair of pants today.

They are a fine pair of pants. There is nothing super special about them though, nothing that would necessarily make me write about the purchase. I have no problem with the quality nor my selection of color. They were just a plain pair of LL Bean chinos, comfortable, but dressy enough to wear to work. I got them at a grand opening of a Boston-area store.

Here is the thing though...

Ever been to a store to buy chinos? Sure you have. It's the same in every store. They're not on hangers - they're folded and placed on shelves. In this particular store there were four levels of shelves. The first at my knee level and the next three rising up to the top shelf, which was probably six feet off the ground.

I am 5'4" and I wear pants that are 32 waist and 30 inches in length. It was funny. I found one or two pairs of 30 length on the middle two shelves, but alas none that were also 32 waist. You know where I found the one pair of 32/30s? Or at least I thought I saw one - I couldn't be totally sure from such a far distance away. Right there on the top shelf, a good foot or so out of my reach. Thankfully, what I did find on the very bottom shelf, where I had to bend down to view, was a number of 42 waist - 36 lengths. 36 length! That 6+ foot person is going to have back trouble just leaning over to get those!

This is not rocket science! If someone wears a 30 length, it pretty much guarantees that he can't reach a shelf six feet in the air. Unless of course, he's one of those rare people who have a four-foot-long torso!

I know the toughest thing in retail is actually being able to fold those pants, but come on...How should you decide which size to put on which shelf? Do the math!

Don't get me wrong - this is not a completely negative post - those pants are really freakin comfortable. Welcome to Boston LL Bean.

President Obama “acted stupidly” with his comments last night about the arrest of Harvard Prof Gates.

President Obama “acted stupidly” with his comments last night about the arrest of Harvard Prof Gates.

Now don’t get me wrong – I am a huge supporter of Obama. After being completely embarrassed to be an American over the previous eight years, the Election night from last November was one of the best I’ve had in a long while!

But…During the campaign, he managed to stay above the fray when it came to race issues, unless they were thrown directly at him, like with the comments of his former pastor. And he should have stuck to that plan last night when he was asked about the recent arrest of an African- American Harvard Professor.

As Obama said last night when asked about this case by a reporter during a prime-time national press conference (about Healthcare), “There’s a long history in this country of African-Americans and Latinos being stopped by law enforcement disproportionately.” And I agree he’s right about that. But, at the same time, he earlier said, “I don't know, not having been there and not seeing all the facts, what role race played"

For me that’s the key here. He has given his critics a huge amount of ammo by talking about a specific incident that he didn’t even know the facts about. Not smart.

I don’t know all the facts about this either, but from what I’ve heard and read, Prof Gates was arrested for disorderly conduct, for being really belligerent towards the police officer outside of his home, in front of neighbors and other officers.

President Obama said that, “the Cambridge police acted stupidly in arresting somebody when there was already proof that they were in their own home.” The problem here, and with his uninformed comment, is that according to the police report (and Gates’ on comments on his website) the Professor wasn’t arrested for being under suspicion of breaking into his own home. The cuffs didn’t come out until tirade he went on while (and after) the police were verifying who he was.

Gates admits that he couldn’t get his door to open, because it had been broken by a previous break in attempt, so he was trying to force his way in and that’s when a neighbor called the police.

I don’t doubt that the police may have used a bit of “profiling” when they found a black man in a house in Cambridge, after a neighbor called about that very house being broken into, which I think was the theme of Obama’s comments, about how that is still an issue in this country.
But, is it also possible that a famous black professor, who teaches about race relations at Harvard, could have acted a bit arrogantly and over-reacted to the police, and quickly went to the “race card” out of habit or instinct?

Like the President, I don’t completely know. I don’t have all the facts.

When you are the first African-American President though, and there are many out there just waiting to chop you down on the race issue, you better get all the facts about a specific incident before commenting on it, on prime time!

Sad that this won't get half the attention that Michael Jackson did

Michael Jackson was a truly talented individual, but he was also a sad, abused, disturbed human being, who lived a life that couldn't have been further from the reality of 99.9% of the rest of us in the world.

Last Friday a true American legend passed away, a man who not only reported history but played a part in shaping it. I wasn't even born when Walter Cronkite anchored some of his most famous newscasts, but I still know the impact he had on this country when he was literally known as the "Most trusted man in America."

Sorry, I don't agree with the nonsense that was said at Jackson's funeral, things like Michael made it possible for Obama to be elected President. Nope, I think when Rev. Sharpton said that he was forgetting about a guy named MLK.

And who reported on the rise of Martin Luther King's peaceful campaign, who went to the south to report on the story when a church was blown up by the KKK killing young children, who told America that MLK had been shot to death? Walter Cronkite.

Before there were 24/7 cable news programs and social networking sites and the ridiculousness that is Twitter, or blogs like this, or even before there were three different network evening news programs, there was Cronkite on the CBS news. He did it in an honest real way, putting more focus on getting the story right, rather than worrying about how it was presented. Today, where ratings rule and networks like CNN lean more towards Entertainment Tonight than 60 Minutes, an anchor and his producer will practice and choreograph everything before going on there air. When Cronkite had to tell the world that JFK had been assassinated, he didn't worry about the fact that everyone got to see him pause and choke down tears. He also never worried about the sheer childlike joy he showed while he broadcast the first moon landing, which was 40 years ago today.

The most indicative thing I saw of him trying to get the story right was when he announced that former president LBJ had died. I saw this on a Cronkite retrospective over the weekend. During a commercial break of a nightly newscast, he received a phone call from LBJ's chief of staff telling him of the death. The cameras came back on live before Cronkite had finished the call. He still didn't have all the pertinent facts, so instead of just hanging up and telling what he knew, Cronkite held up his finger to the worldwide audience and told them to wait a second, while he continued the phone call for another minute. Then he hung up and announced LBJ's death.

No offense to Katie Couric, but can you imagine her, or anyone in news doing that today? They'd be accused of being unprofessional or unprepared. And we all know that means more today than actually getting the story right.

The list of historic events that Cronkite either reported on or was part of is extensive and impressive, including a documentary on Vietnam with a commentary at the end that was credited with single-handedly changing the opinion on the war of Americans 30 or older.

That's why it's just sad that Michael Jackson, a man less than half as impressive, gets so much more attention following his death. But, that's what the world has turned into. It's the reality world generation where dirty laundry and controversy is all anyone is interested in. We're all just in one big vehicle and can't help but slow down and gawk when passing a car accident...

A little stream of conscious writing.

Which you can tell by the lack of a real ending... But it was good to just write something for a change!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


“I had a dream last night that I was saving elephants,” Josh said.

“You mean like saving the whales?” Adam asked. "Were you making bumper stickers?"

They only met now once every couple of weeks or so for what used to be the nightly “after work” pint at a local pub. The conversation still flowed though as easily as it did when they were roommates, having each just moved to Boston almost two decades earlier.

"No, I wasn't part of a campaign. I was really saving elephants, from like eminent danger. I was there with them, in the jungle. We were running and I was leading them. I was saving them."

“From what?”

“I’m not really sure. I think at first I thought I was trying to save a whole bunch of them from men, poachers I guess, but then I was pretty sure that I was actually helping one elephant get away from another elephant.”

“Like a bully elephant?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, that makes no sense,” Adam said.

“That makes no sense? The part about there being a bully?”

“Yeah.”

“I live in a city, in the United States, but somehow I’m in the jungle somewhere saving elephants and that’s perfectly okay, but the fact that I was saving one from a bully seems odd to you?”

“Well, yeah. You could have been at a zoo. We don’t live that far from Franklin Park Zoo. Maybe you were there.”

“Saving elephants?”

“Right. That’s not that far fetched.”

“Of course not.

“But, a bully elephant?” Adam said, not really asking a question. “Have you ever heard of such a thing? I mean, I’ve watched a lot of shit on the Animal Planet and I’ve never heard of one elephant being a bully. A bear maybe - they can get quite aggressive with each other.”

“But not elephants?”

“Nope. I mean, I could be wrong, but I really don’t think so.”

“Okay. Great. I’m glad we cleared that up,” Josh said, motioning to the bartender for another round. “If I dream about another animal bully tonight, I’ll try to make sure that it’s a bear.”

“Well don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re afraid of bears. Everyone knows that. And then you probably won’t try to save the bear that’s being bullied.”

“I’m not afraid of bears.”

“Everyone knows you’re afraid of bears, Josh.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone,” Adam answered. “Come one, you wrote a short story once about a fear of being attacked by a bear at a camp site.”

“Yeah, but I never said that the character in that was me.”

“We all knew, Josh. Everybody knows.”

“It’s not like I’m paralyzed with fear the whole time that I’m camping. I just thought it would make an interesting story. I actually really like most aspects of camping.”

“Just not the potential for running into a bear,” Adam added.

“Well, yeah. No. I mean, of course, that part is something you have to be wary of. Hey, at least I go camping and get out of the city once and a while. That’s more than you can say.”

“I don’t like any aspect of camping though. Never said I did.”

“Sitting and relaxing. Sipping on a drink. Shooting the shit next to a roaring fire. How can you not like that?”

“Look behind you,” Adam told him, pointing to the fireplace on the other side of the pub. “Last time I checked we’ve been sitting here for the better part of an hour relaxing and shooting the shit.”

“Fine. Let’s not talk about camping anymore.”

“Starting to worry about bears?”

“Funny. So, what do you usually dream about?” Josh asked his friend.

“My fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Monahan.”

“Nice. And knowing you, probably really creepy.”

“She was nice. I got my first erection because of her.”

“Okay, let’s talk about bears again.”

“Ha ha!” Adam said as he downed the rest of his first beer and reached for the second. “Hey, you’re the one who started talking about dreams.”

Sunday Scribblings - #153 "Listen up because this is important!"

Okay, listen up! This is important! Alright, maybe not in the grand scheme of things. Not on the level of curing cancer or finding out what happened to all the fucking money...in the world economy.
But, in my little ole life, it's important. I have had so many other things on my mind lately that there seems little room left for creativity. This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt brought me zero fiction ideas, none, after days now of trying to come up with something...
Help me! Listen up! This is important (to me)! Someone give me a premise. Offer me some suggestions, so I can try to write some fiction this weekend. I need some ideas to get me started.
Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Sunday Scribblings #152 – Lost

“Are you lost?”

I hadn’t even noticed her standing near me. My head was buried in the street map opened up in my hands. I should have noticed her too, because when I looked up I saw that the top edge of my map was only a few inches away from the same edge of a similar map shaking slightly in her hands.

“Me? No,” I said. “I’m just trying to figure out which way I should go, up Market Street or down along Embarcadero.”

She looked down at her map briefly. Then confused, she said, “Those go in opposite directions. Where are you headed?”

I smiled at her.

“I guess that’ll get decided when I pick which direction to go,” I told her. “I’m just out for a walk. Where are you going?”

“Me?” she grinned at me now, embarrassed. “Well, I AM lost.”

We both laughed. I folded up my map and stuck it in my back pocket.

“It’s a big city, huh?”

“I saw you were looking at a map,” she said. “And I thought, well, maybe he’s lost too.”

The sun was now finally breaking through the daily Bay Area fog. The ocean, visible just past the flags flying above the World Trade Center, all of sudden looked bluer as the sky cleared. The glare of the sun bounced off the large strange looking water fountain sculpture in Embarcadero Square. I remember reading once that people hated that sculpture when it was first built, saying it looked like a freeway had crumbled on top of a fountain. I’ve always liked it though. It seemed so appropriately urban-looking for its location, a square that separated San Fran’s waterfront and it’s modern Financial District. I put on my sunglass and then turned so that we were sharing the same map.

“Where is it that you’re trying to get to?” I asked her.

“MOMA.”

“Hablo Anglais?”

“Huh?” she said. “No, it is English. It stands for the Museum of Modern.”

“Yeah, I got it,” I said. “I was just trying to make a joke. And very successfully, I’d say.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Why don’t we have a seat over there and spread out the map,” I said, pointing to the many outdoor tables sprinkled throughout the plaza. “I’ll show you how to get there.”

“Okay, thanks,” she said. “I’m Claire by the way.”

“James,” I said, taking her hand. “What brought you to San Fran, Claire? I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you’re not from here.”

She was tall and strong looking, proportional and fit. She had the body of a swimmer or maybe someone who grew up on a farm, with chores to do each day before she went to school. Her hair was light brown and when we sat down, I noticed that it was more like blonde on her arms. She was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, over estimating the summer in San Fran as most do, and the faint hairs were being stood up straight by the light morning breeze. She wasn’t beautiful. Yet she was pleasant to look it. It was her smile that did it. Its brightness rivaled the sun’s glare off Vaillancourt’s sculpture. Even within a few minutes of meeting her, I could see that there was something about her appearance, the nature of her movements and interactions with me that just said this person is never anything but genuine. She was attractive, but as I sat next to her, I didn’t feel any sexual feelings. I actually felt like I wanted to just give her a hug.

“I’m here with my sister,” she said, spreading her map out on the table. “She had a conference and she invited me to come along. Neither of us had ever been here, so I jumped at the chance. Plus, we got a great rate at the Marriott because of the conference. We’re on the thirty-first floor. The view is amazing!”

“That’s a nice place. Great location too, not that far from here,” I said pointing to the street, having remembered seeing the hotel before on previous visits.

“Holy shit! Are you serious? I’ve taken two different buses trying to follow the concierge’s directions to the museum. I can’t believe that I’ve ended up back so close to where I started. I finally just broke down and got this map when I got off the bus here.”

I looked at the clock tower next to the Ferry Building and told her that it was still only 10am and that she still had all day.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“Visiting friends, but they had to work today, so I am out walking around the city. I always plan one day to walk around alone and take photos whenever I come here. I love this city.”

I took out my camera and told her to say “cheese.” With the fountain just behind her, it was a great shot. She smiled and it was like a flash bulb went off toward the camera instead of from it. Plenty of other men would have suggested that they go to the museum with her and show her around, assuming that this meeting was something special, a romantic story that they would one day tell their grand kids about. But, that just wasn’t me. Those stories didn’t happen to me. And I was on this trip to spend some time away from my romantic life, which had just suffered another in a long line of ended relationships.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“Boston.”

“Oh wow. I live in Manchester, New Hampshire!”

“I knew you looked familiar,” I said smiling.

“Really?”

“No,” I said shaking my head, still smiling. “I’m sorry. I’m going to stop trying to make jokes. I’m not sure my sarcasm is working with you.”

“No, I’m sorry,” she said. “I get frazzled when I get lost and when I’m frazzled, I am really pretty clueless.”

“Okay, we’ll let’s take care of that,” I said. “To get to MOMA, you need to take the trolley from here up Market Street until you get to 3rd Street. Where you probably goofed up last time is that when you get to 3rd street, to the right of Market is Kearny Street, only to the left is 3rd.”

Claire stabbed the map with her finger.

“Would have been nice if the concierge told me that! I was staring out the right side of the trolley the whole way and went like five streets past still looking for 3rd!”

I took out a pen and wrote on her map.

“I have no idea where I’ll be, but if you still get lost, here’s my cell number. Give me a call.”

“Thanks, James,” she said. She folded up her map and stuffed it back in her bag. “I’m glad I decided to bother you.”

“No, bother at all,” I told her. “It was nice meeting you, Claire. You’ll love the museum. There’s a great little café right inside it too. I hope you enjoy San Fran as much as I always do.”

“I hope you enjoy your walk,” she said, offering her hand. After we shook, she turned my hand over and held it up closer to her face. “Now how is it that someone nice enough to help a stranger on the street doesn’t have a ring on this hand?”

There was no way to answer that question in less than fifty sentences and I hoped that my expression didn’t even give away a shred of the story. There’s no doubt that I was second guessing my decision to not follow her onto the trolley and when I answered her it sounded like I might have been ignoring the actual meaning of the word I used, but I just wasn't ready to believe in a special meeting, not yet.

“Timing,” I said.

I got up from the table, said one more goodbye and then walked through the plaza. It was going to be a beautiful day. There was no longer a cloud in the sky. So, I headed for Embarcadero Drive. Might as well start the walk along the waterfront.

The damn economy has affected my writing!

I always find that the toughest thing to do is to come up with an idea for a story, even a small idea. Once I have something, the actual writing comes fairly easy. That's the fun part. Coming up with the initial seed sucks!

For the last few months, I have been pretty stressed about the stability, the future basically, of the company I work for, in other words, my job. And the fact that I've also done part-time freelance work on the side for many years, well, let's just say that I've never had the time to be a prolific writer in the first place. Lately though, when I sit down during any free time, I find it very difficult to come up with anything to write. Even the writing prompts, which are usually my fail-safe for at least spitting out something once per week, produce nothing that I can seem to latch onto. All I can think about is the ongoing negotiations between my company and a larger one who will more than likely take us over, and whether or not I'll still have a job as a result of it. My mind rushes toward Monday and the days that follow, and what new pieces of information I'll gleam about my future. Though it may be cathartic to run with those thoughts and maybe write a story about how this all feels, I have zero interest in doing that.

"Sunday Scribblings" http://www.sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/,
which is a site that has spawned a community of writers who post something every week based on a writing prompt, has the word "trust" as this week's prompt.

Do you know what has popped in my head after reading that yesterday? Nothing. Nada. Shit.
My first vision was of someone stepping in front of another and then falling backwards to see if the other would catch him before he hit the ground. Yeah, that went nowhere. Then I thought of a scene where one person in a relationship was being grilled by the other about who he/she was talking to on the phone. I thought, distrust, nice, that's depressing. Not in the mood to go there.

As I continue to write here, I've come to the conclusion that at this point in my life, I don't want to have a "real" job at all. Shocking, I know. I mean, who does...But, if I have to, if I can't wake up, throw on a pair of shorts, go sit on a deck with some coffee and write, then what I want to trust... is that I have a job. I want to have a job that I can trust in, and not have to worry about it being there next week or even next year. That way maybe my free time can become free again, and I can then trust in my ability to come up with some story ideas again.

Honestly, I really just need to win the lottery, so I can not have to worry about money at all and finally find out if I have what it takes to be a full time writer. Does anyone know if you can win without actually playing?

Or how about a sugar mama? Anyone want to be my sugar mama? Huh? Come on... I can cook.

Love this word!

A friend passed this on to me. There was a list of the winners of this year's Washington Post's Mensa Invitational which once again asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition :

This one is me...

This defines the difference between me and those that I don't end up connecting with.

Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.

Sunday Scribblings - #148 – Regrets

Sunday Scribblings - #148 – Regrets
http://www.sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/

Probably not the most original background story ever, but it's what popped into my head from the prompt, and so I really just tried to work on making the dialogue and the story-telling as original as I could.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


“So, you’re admitting that you killed him?” the detective asked from across the table. He was flipping through a statement that the man had given the sargent at the desk.

“Of course I admit it,” the man said. “I turned myself in, didn’t I?”

“And who are you exactly? You haven’t given us your name or told us what your connection is to the deceased.”

The man winced and the detective thought that the hard quick swallow that he’d seen follow it was an attempt to squelch oncoming emotion, maybe even tears, even though it didn’t seem to fit the man’s stance so far.

“I am the person who is here admitting that he committed the crime you’re investigating.”

“Yes, you said that,” the detective said. “But I have to tell you that such a thing is very rare in a homicide investigation? So, my first inclination is to find out why? Are you having some regrets about what you’ve done?”

“No,” the man said, looking directly at the detective. Then he closed his eyes and lowered his head. He flinched briefly and as if an image had caused him physical pain. He stared at his hands, which were now shaking violently, creating clinking sounds with the chains of his handcuffs.

“Yeah, well…Regrets? Sure. I regret that I didn’t kill him sooner.” he said. “Regret having done it? No. None.”

“What difference would that have made?” the detective asked.

The man sat back in his chair and clasped his hands together on his lap, squeezing them so hard in an attempt to keep them still that the finger tips were turning white.

“Did you interview his wife?” the man asked.

The detective looked up from his notes and almost imperceptibly glanced at the mirror on the wall behind the man. Double sided glass hid his partner, who he knew was watching from the room next door.

“We tried,” the detective answered. “But, she wasn’t in any condition to talk to us.”

“Too broken up, huh?”

The detective slid his chair in closer to the table and sat forward, taking a more aggressive position towards his counterpart. He was jarred by the words the man had chosen and they way he’d delivered his last question. This wasn’t a phony confession. He could feel it.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked the man.

“Do I mean that she was probably a mess, emotionally, and couldn’t pull herself together long enough to tell you anything?” the man said and continued without waiting for an answer. “Or do I mean that her body is literally broken up? Do I mean that you couldn’t speak to her because she is in a hospital bed right now, hooked up to tubes and wires that are keeping her alive, while her mind is shut down awaiting the rest of her to heal.?”

The detective’s chair squeaked as he inched even closer. He sat calmly though, both hands lying flat on the notepad. Through a pleasant smile, he said to the man, “Let’s stop fucking around shall we?”

“Did you have anything to do with the wife’s injuries?” he asked.

The man shook his head, his eyes down on his hands, which he could no longer stop from shaking.

“The accident report says that according to her husband she must have tripped and fallen down the stairs and that he found her at the bottom landing when he came home from work.”

“No,” the man said, still shaking his head. “No!”

“Are you saying that you know something about this?” the detective asked.

The man continued to shake his head, his whole body now quivering in the chair.

“Did she really fall down the stairs?” the detective shouted at him.

“No!” the man said, shaking his head.

The detective was standing now, leaning forward with both hands pressed firmly on the table.

“Did you have something to do with it?” he shouted.

Still shaking his head, the man shouted back, “NO!”

The detective stood up straight. He pulled out his chair and sat down again. His mind was racing. He was in the hospital again, standing next to the wife’s bed. While his partner talked to the medical staff, he stood looking out the window, at the people milling around the courtyard. He looked down at the bouquets of flowers lined up on the wife’s window sill. The largest of the bunch he noticed had no note attached, no sign of who they were from. It was the only one without a note.

“Did you see what happened to the wife?” he asked the man.

There was no answer. The man just kept shaking, his head and the rest of his body.

The detective thought of the crime scene, which was also near where the wife’s accident happened. When they’d tried to interview the neighbors there was one apartment where no answered the door. It was right across the hall from the victim’s apartment. No one had been able to reach this neighbor in the two days since either. He looked down and flipped through the notes. This same neighbor, a Michael Walker, was unavailable when other officers tried to investigate the wife’s accident a week earlier as well. The landlord, when interviewed, said that Walker was a good tenant, but didn’t think he was much of a social person.

“Did you and the wife have relations, Mr. Walker?”

The man’s head stopped shaking. He looked at the detective. Tears were welled up in one eye and had already begun to stream down his face from the other.

“No,” he whispered.

“Did you love her, Mr. Walker? Were you jealous of the husband? Is that why you killed him, Mr. Walker? Did she reject you? Is that why you pushed her down the stairs?”

The man was crying steadily now.

“No,” he said even more softly. “I’ve only seen her in person once. I didn’t love her. I’ve had the same partner for the last seventeen years. He lives on Longwood. I’m gay.”

“What happened, Mr. Walker?” the detective aked.

“I should have killed him sooner!” he screamed. His now reddened eyes had a fierceness to them as he glared at the detective. “It was going to happen. I knew it, but I ignored it. It was always going to happen to her! I should have killed him sooner!"

Sunday Scribblings - #147 -- Phantoms & Shadows

Sunday Scribblings - #147 -- Phantoms & Shadows
http://www.sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/


Pete opened his eyes and blinked a few times to clear away the dust that had gathered while he’d been passed out. He was on the ground, crumpled there on his back, staring up at tall trees and limbs that jutted out into the sky high above him. His hair, normally dirty- blonde was covered with real dirt, and his sun-tanned teenaged face was blotched with cuts, most of the blood beginning to dry. One of his arms was bent back under his waist at an ugly angle and pain shot through the area in a way that he’d never felt before – a thousand root canals being performed simultaneously on the same spot in his arm. But that’s all that he could feel. The rest of his body was numb and he couldn’t seem to raise an arm or a leg off the ground. They were somehow glued to the twigs and dried pine needles that made a temporary bed beneath him.

Where am I? He thought.

His eyes scanned for the answer as best they could with his head unable to turn in either direction. He didn’t recognize anything distinctive about the trees in his periphery, except that a couple of them had red markings about six feet up their trunks. And just why that seemed familiar to him, he just couldn’t grasp at that moment.

A quick burst of sound and motion in all directions made him jump, or at least he felt like his body had jumped. In fact, he’d remained there limp amongst the forest floor. There were hundreds of birds flying through the air, from branch to branch, all screeching something. Wings flapped violently and the screams echoed against each other throughout the woods. It looked oddly as if the birds weren’t looking towards or calling to each other. They were speaking to him. The louder their yells got, the more Pete realized that he could actually understand them. They all chirped one word over and over.

“Run! Run! Run! Run!”

Sunday Scribblings - #146 -- Pilgrimage

Sunday Scribblings - #146 -- Pilgrimage
http://www.sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/

No time for any fiction writing this weekend, unfortunately, but that's okay because I feel like there is plenty of real-life drama to focus on right now.

"Pilgrimage" is defined as a long journey or search of great moral significance.

I am not physically going along for the ride of this pilgrimage, but I feel like I am watching one of great importance, one that will hopefully include us all in the positive effects of the journey.

Yesterday, I turned on the TV and stumbled upon a show with a silly title, airing on CNN - what a shock huh? It was called something like the Obama Express. Evidently it is tradition, which I was embarrassed to have never heard of, for the President elect to take a train from Philadelphia down to DC as the arrival for the inauguration. The CNN coverage of this event, which included a stop in Wilmington Delaware to pick up the Vice President elect, was ridiculously over the top, as is the norm for CNN. (I was surprised that they didn't produce a hologram of the train right there in the booth with all the anchors!)

I did find it to be great symbolism though for the end of the journey to the White House for Obama. Yes, I guess it is tradition for all the presidents to do this, but being that this is the first non-white male ever making this trip, it seems like a journey that is obviously a lot longer in the making.

I am going to eat up as much of the inauguration stuff over the next few days as possible. I am excited to care again about the workings of our government, excited again about how my country will look to the rest of the world! I am not a person of color, or a woman, or a minority in any way (except maybe for being shorter than average height), but I am still going to be extremely proud to watch Obama being sworn in on Tuesday. I'll be proud of the accomplishment made by the voters of my country, proud that they finally voted for the smartest candidate no matter what he looked like, proud that they voted for common sense over close-mindedness. I'll be proud that we can actually say that America is the place of "equal opportunity for all" and have it start to really mean something for once.

I am not a religious person, so I won't say "pray," but I hope and wish that Obama's journey as the President of the United States is filled with many success, which will be felt by our country and the world as a whole.

We all start a new pilgrimage together on Tuesday January 20, 2009!

Sunday Scribblings #145 – Organic

Sunday Scribblings #145 – Organic
http://www.sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/



“I just feel like you’re pushing things to move too quickly,” Sean told her.

He looked down at his watch and realized that he would be late for work again, about the fourth or fifth time since he and Rachel had started dating.

“What are you talking about?” Rachel asked. She was sitting across from Sean at the kitchen table, spreading cream cheese on a bagel. She hadn’t showered yet and was still in a long t-shirt and PJ bottoms. As a graphic designer, she often worked from home and started her day at a pace much more leisurely than the norm for the 9 to 5 crowd.

“Rachel, you’re not letting this relationship grow at it’s own pace, organically,” he said.

“Organically, Sean? Really? Organically?”

She put down the knife and gave him what she thought was her “cute” smile. “I think you’ve been spending too much time down at the Fair Trade Coffee House.”

“I’m serious, Rachel.”

“Well, it’s not like I’m putting Miracle Gro in our coffee every morning!”

“That would at least explain why her brew always tasted so bad,” he thought, staring down at the mug in his hand.

“Okay, let’s just focus on the last two words you said then,” Sean said. “’Every morning’ - That’s part of the problem right there. We’ve barely been dating for a month and you already want there to be an every morning. You want one of us to stay at the other’s place constantly and then lounge around all morning.”

“Are you saying that you don’t enjoy our mornings?” she asked. “Cause you seemed to be quite enjoying yourself about thirty minutes ago.”

“Look, what I’m saying is that I really like you, I really do, but I want to be sure how much before I get into a serious situation, not get into one and then find out. It’s like you’re trying to quickly add me to your life, and your lifestyle.”

“Which makes me late for work,” he thought. Then after pouring the rest of his coffee into the sink and rinsing out the mug, Sean turned back to Rachel, who still hadn’t responded, and continued.

“You’re not allowing us the time to grow into our own lifestyle, together, naturally.”

“I hear what you’re saying, Sean,” Rachel said. “A relationship should be as much about compromise by both as it is self fulfillment for each.”

She stood up from the table and smiled at Sean, who was still leaning with his back against the sink.

“I guess I should shower now and you should go to work,” she said.

Then Rachel pulled her t-shirt up and off over her head. She pushed down on the elastic waist of her PJ bottoms and kicked her legs out of them. And she walked over to the kitchen counter, wearing nothing but an empty plate in her right hand and what she thought was her “cute” smile. Rachel reached around Sean and lowered the plate into the sink, and then pressed her body full against his.

“I just can’t resist you,” she whispered in his ear.

Rachel squeezed Sean’s butt with both hands and then walked away toward the bathroom.

“I’ll try to taking things slower,” she said over her shoulder. “I really will try.”

Rachel turned and smiled again before shutting the bathroom door.

“But, I can’t promise anything.”

Sunday Scribblings - #144 -- for richer or poorer

http://www.sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/
Sunday Scribblings - #144 -- for richer or poorer


Jack rubbed his temples with both index fingers. He knew they were running low on water the night before and he was cursing himself for not having taken care of the situation then. To run out now while she was making coffee, before she could have her morning cup of coffee, was just about the worst thing he could think of.

Jill before her cup of coffee? He thought. I’d rather be married to a dragon.

“Well? You just going to sit there?” Jill shouted. “Come on, let’s go up and get some!”

Jack was up now. He was near the door, putting on his coat. He grabbed the pails and turned back to his wife.

“You don’t have to come with me,” he said. “I know how to fetch water, Jill.”

“Oh sure. Sure you do, Jack. The fetching part you’ve nailed. It’s the bringing it back down the hill with out spilling it, or worse, without tripping and breaking your stupid neck that you can’t seem to master.”

“It’s a steep hill,” Jack argued.

“And you’re a dense man,” she replied.

“For richer or poorer,” she continued. “I had no problem saying yes to that. I didn’t marry you for your money. But, if he’d said ‘for dumber or dumber,’ boy you would have been in trouble. I would have said no right then and there. I would have never signed on if I thought you could have possibly gotten even dumber than you were when I married you. At least you were King then, so it sort of went unnoticed.”

Jack was already out the door, closing it behind him, hoping that he wouldn’t hear it open again, that she wouldn’t be following him up the hill, again. He’d been listening to the same rant for years now - ever since he and his family were kicked out of the castle following the coup lead by those three little pigs and Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater, right after the fall of the London Bridge.

He heard the door open behind him and Jill’s shoes sloshing in the mud. His shoulders slouched involuntarily.

“Give me one of those pails,” she snapped and snatched one from Jack’s hand when she caught up to him. “I’m surprised you made it this far without tripping and falling, you klutz. I swear you make Humpty Dumpty look like the most graceful ballerina in all the land.”

Jill laughed at herself for a moment. She slapped him on the back, causing him to lurch forward awkwardly.

“Remember that one, Jacky?” she asked, still laughing. “When you sent all your horses and men – back when you actually had men to send – to try and put that stupid egg back together again?”

“Yes, I remember, Jill,” he shot back. “It was a sad day for the whole kingdom.”

“Oh please. He got what he deserved. What was he doing on that ledge anyway? He’s a freakin egg – he was asking for it to happen.”

Jack stopped. They were halfway up the hill and he was a full pace in front of Jill, so when he turned he had to look down to speak to her.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Jill kept walking past him.

“I’m not saying he consciously killed himself, no, but maybe somewhere deep down inside he wanted it to happen. He wasn’t a happy man, Jack.”

“He was a relative of mine and I don’t appreciate you speaking that way of him.”

“Oh come on, Jack,” Jill shouted over her shoulder. “You come from a whole family of freaks. Remember your fat cousin Georgie Porgie, the one who used to make all the girls cry when we were kids, always trying to kiss them. He was a pervert!”

Jack put down his pail when they reached the top of the hill, tied Jill’s to the rope, and slowly lowered it into the well. And I’m the stupid one…It’s her family house that we live in now. Why did her father build a house at the foot of a hill and then put the water well at the top of it? How smart is that?

“Hey, your family ain’t no parade of socialites either, Jill!” Jack said, filling the second pail now. “You were the first person to ever marry into royalty. What about that aunt of yours who lives in a shoe? What’s that all about? You telling me that’s not odd?”

Jill turned away now, pretending to look off toward the sunrise.

“Or how about your cousin Muffett? Every day, Jill. Every day she sits on the same tuffet, eating the same shit, getting scared off by the same spider, and she never learns. You know I’ve heard that spider is about fifty pounds now from eating all of that left behind curd!”

Jill still pretended not to be listening.
Jack picked up both pails each now filled with water, and walked over to her. He handed her one and then started the descent toward their little shack of a house.

“Or what about your niece Mary and her lamb?” Jack continued as they walked. “That relationship is kind of creepy, if you ask me.”

Jill stopped for a second, pretending to be examining something in her pail. When Jack passed her, she stuck out her foot and tripped him. He tumbled over and over down the hill. The crown, that he still wore daily even though it no longer carried any authority, went flying during the first tumble. It broke instantly in all the places that it had broken previously, where Jack had been gluing it back together each time.

Jill didn’t go after him. She just stood at the top of the hill and watched. Smiling. She waited until he stopped rolling, until he’d finally come to rest against the apple tree near their house. Jill picked up the pail that Jack had dropped the instant he’d tripped. She went over to the well, refilled it, and then started back down the hill again.

“Jack you stupid klutz! Are you okay?” She shouted as she walked slowly down towards him. “Didn’t you see that rock? I stopped and was pointing to it to warn you, but I guess you didn’t see.”

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year to everyone! I hope everyone (who is deserving...Those who aren't - you know who you are!) has a wonderful 2009! I wish it to be filled with much laughter, plenty of warm-feel good moments, prosperity, and especially a whole lotta love. 2008 was not a dreadful year for me, but it certainly wasn't fantastic either. I'm ready for 09. I have a good feeling about this one. I really do. Hell... it'll be starting out pretty well, when in a couple of weeks we change Presidents here in the U.S. We will thankfully be moving from a close-minded bumbling idiot to an intelligent man with the potential to help bring the world a little closer. I rang in the new year with friends in a great cabin up in Vermont. Here are a couple photos from the fun and relaxing break I took from my normal life!

Dude! Try a hair dryer...

Mass. man melting snow with blowtorch ignites home
NEW BEDFORD, Mass. --Fire officials in New Bedford, Mass., say a man using a blowtorch to melt ice on his back porch ended up setting his house on fire, causing up to $30,000 in damage.
Fire Capt. Scott Kruger tells The Standard-Times of New Bedford that no one was injured during Monday's incident at the three-story home.
Kruger says the man was using a torch hooked up to a 20-pound propane cylinder. He got too close to the building's wood frame and ignited the vinyl siding. The fire quickly spread into the building's second- and third-floor apartments.
It took 25 firefighters to subdue the blaze that damaged bedrooms in the upstairs units, and caused damage to the structure and wiring.
The homeowner will not be charged.

I've said it many times, but I'll say it again. Darwinism is no longer working! There are just too many stupid people out there...