338. Bloggerazis

The kid asked to be in my blog, like it’s Broadway for the weird. Actually, I have to ponder this analogy further. I do have a lot of weirdos, village idiots, wildmen, and perverts in my cyber pages. No one consciously auditions for my blog space, however. In fact, they often threaten me with civil suits, bow ties, and tweed jackets if I do not cease and desist my slanderous blathering. Okay, just Joel. Others simply do not know they have been featured. And how would they unless through the Ethernet of internet connectivity and global shrink?  [I don’t know what that last sentence means, but I like how it sounds informed and cutting edge intriguing.]

Unbeknownst to me, a friend from my old neighborhood days found my blog and faithfully read every post from the start right up to this point. For legal purposes we’ll just call him by his nickname, The Weasel. Weasel has been sporadically contacting me and bathing in the nostalgic bubble baths I have transcribed onto blank screens across the world and into the dimly lit living rooms of my three devoted followers on Haldol. I find some strange comforting validation in his faithful following. And an odd accountability since he knows many of the characters and landscapes I’ve written about. Oh the Humanity! Blogging is not as easy and simple minded as I make it appear, my people. Will you drink from my cup? I didn’t think so.

So here we are. Dorothy is the newbie barrista at the coffee shop and the daughter of fellow Sunday School members, Karlina and Eduardo. Mom is Austrian and Dad is Bolivian, if  you a’ bolievian me.  Dorothy was the lead in The Wizard of Oz  just recently in our local community theater. Besides being very talented and pretty and 18, she can realistically pass for 13 with braided pigtails and a plaid blouse. (Judy Garland pulled it off in the movie, but she was 16.) Now I had voiced my intention to see her perform. However, I failed to fulfill my intention due to other lame obligations. As I apologized for my absence yesterday, she said, “That’s okay. You can write about it in the blog.”  Redemption? Or redaction? Dunno yet, but I’ve written with less direction and less likelihood of success. I will boldly go where three blind mice fear to tread.  “Onward men, toward the Farmer’s Wife and her butcher knife.”

Wow!! I don’t know if she knows what she has asked. Like a toddler who wants a sip of Uncle Billy’s beer, the unacquired taste is immediately revolting so the toddler spits out the very thing she had just longed for. It looked pretty and seemed to be valued by valuable adults, so the child’s reasoning goes. Opening the hallucinogenic world of Burritospecial to someone who was a minor just last year… that’s dicey. I wrestled with the slippery, wormlike ethics for just a moment and then hung it on the hook for blog fishing. Ethics shmethics!! I’m not selling crack here, am I?

Well, Dorothy, in this adult world we struggle to make sense out of nonsense. We don’t always get our needs met in a timely manner. Folks fail and let us down, and sometimes we are the folks.  Let me  quote the philosopher Mick Jagger…


“You Can’t Always Get What You Want”

I saw her today at the reception
A glass of wine in her hand
I knew she would meet her connection
At her feet was a footloose man
No, you can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometime you find
You get what you needAnd I went down to the demonstration
To get my fair share of abuse
Singing, “We’re gonna vent our frustration
If we don’t we’re gonna blow a 50-amp fuse”
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes well you just might find
You get what you need
I went down to the Chelsea drugstore
To get your prescription filled
I was standing in line with Mr. Jimmy
And man, did he look pretty ill
We decided that we would have a soda
My favorite flavor, cherry red
I sung my song to Mr. Jimmy
Yeah, and he said one word to me, and that was “dead”
I said to him
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You get what you need
You get what you need–yeah, oh baby
I saw her today at the reception
In her glass was a bleeding man
She was practiced at the art of deception
Well I could tell by her blood-stained hands
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You just might find
You get what you need
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You just might find
You get what you need
I don’t have much to add. Life is short and often full of peril. Suck the juice out of every minute just like you reportedly did on stage, Dearie. Be prepared and yet never get so rigid that you can’t flexibly come on back to Kansas.  “Oh no, Toto come back.” Truly, as weird as it may be, there is no place like home.

323. Remitch

[I’ve been all serious for the last three posts. Whew! Enough already. I need some big fat whimsy steak with a sweet mustard sauce of glibness. A side of steaming tomfoolery. And for my appetizer I’d like a half dozen giggles on the half shell. A raw guffaw salad and some buttery belly rolls of laughter. Yeah, and let’s see, I’ll wash it down with a quart of bubbling uproar. I cannot live on a daily diet of grim gruel, bloggourmets. Spasms of humor spew out of my mind/throat connection from time to time. I must chuckle up.]

I ran into  Mitch at the coffee shop today. He’s getting big, buff and beardy. We chatted briefly about his new girl friend, number 9 someone suggested. I had met him and her off the leash at a local  winery about five weeks ago. It was a lovely summer night and the C- band played Jimmy Buffet style Island Music Mahn as the sun set in their glazed eyes. The band’s eyes, that is. We danced the conga line and did the limbo, among other island standards.

That night I validated Mitch’s choice of girlfriend, which surprised him. He told me I’d always been cautious about his previous selections. I told him I had to approve of this one. “Why is that?” he asked innocently enough.  “Because my shoulders are covered in your tears, mucus, snot and drool, Bro. I can’t carry you through another relationship. This one has to work.”

“Wow, that’s a pretty powerful endorsement, Dude.”

“You bet your skinny jeans it is.”

Well, I inquired about the aforementioned g.f., and he told me things were moving along nicely.  One glitch arose, however. When he went to show her one of my old Mitch blog posts, he got stuck in the archives. I suggested that he simply Google, Mitchlessly. Burritospecial.Wordpress.Com. Or he could sample South Central Brovania at the same address. He felt that was too much to remember and suggested that I simply copy it forward, (something I abhor) or else write a new post about him. Okay, I can do that.

I pondered my material and decided to do a Re mix called Remitch. I’d just let my mind wander and associate all my Mitch points of contact. The funny thing is that I actually met his grandfather Ed Latch decades back, maybe even before Mitch was born. I coached basketball one year and Ed was the Godfather of Catholic Youth League basketball in our area back then. I don’t recall much about that season except we once  played a game with only four players and nearly won. The rule stated that you needed five players at the tipoff of a game. Well, our fifth player was very sick but agreed to stand there at the tip off. Then he sat for the remainder of the game.

Naturally one of my players fouled out, but the opposing coach decided to let the kid stay in the game despite the foul maximum. Eventually one of  his starters fouled out, and I had to return the favor. We lost, sort of, by the score. It would have been a better story if we’d won.

I first saw Mitch when he was in high school, rocking the electric guitar at a music program. He played some licks from the back corner of the high school auditorium. I have no idea what the selection was, maybe Deep Purple. We were there to listen to our exchange student Kaisa’s boyfriend Tyler “the Wedgie Boy” play drums. I named him “the Wedgie Boy” because he had perfected the skinny jeans look back in 2006, so much so that he appeared to be suffering from a permanent case of the walking, talking  wedgie. I didn’t trust him either. When a boy spends more time on his hair, clothes and make up than your daughter, albeit a foreign exchange daughter, beware.

I realize these are very thin tangents that almost connect to Mitch. Eventually he came out front as a very good guitarist in our church’s praise band while at the same time whipping up coffees and lattes at the bean shop on the square. That’s where we connected as he moaned and groaned through his first relationship with the music pastor’s daughter. Like every first love there is blindness, myopia, nearsightedness, ocular distortion, retarded perception, and various other ailments. It was a wide but shallow emotional swamp Mitch had to cross back then. Sad songs were written as a consequence. Very sad,

“I got the preacher daughter blues, it’s a game that you just can’t lose

Preacher daughter blues, from my head down to my shoes

If it weren’t for that preacher’s daughter, I think I could let myself get loose.

Instead I got to choose: be who I am or one of her fools.”

Day after gray day we huddled and shared the wisdom gleaned from failed relationships, the fallen kernels of truth winnowed after struggling harvests from burned fields. Think of “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down”.

“Now I don’t mind choppin’ wood

And I don’t care if the money’s no good

Just take what you need and leave the rest,

But they should never have taken the very best.”

That lyric refers to Robert E. Lee, hero of a lost cause. Somehow Mitch fits in by association. He has a wonderful heart and a deep spirit. He just needed to grow his mind to match them. Pain has a way of growing those pathways by pruning away the ones we would naively prefer to follow. Yeah, I like that.

So here is to Mitch and his g.f. # 9. On SportsCenter they always say, “She’s a beauty that number 9”. Well, in this case it’s true.


256. Shameless Blog Comments like slugs on pecan pie

Permit me to ask for your forgiveness at the beginning of this post so neither of us feels conflicted at the end.

If you write a blog, you already know that non English speaking scammers from around the globe send illogical and ungrammatical comments, hoping that you will respond to their “insights” at obviously commercial addresses. They are chomping at the blog trough to separate cyber fools from their money. The most common ruse is the standard fake design engineer who, completely unsolicited, tells you how to improve your blog technically by adjusting terms that you don’t know to begin with. I delete those without even reading them. They are a cut and paste universal app, apparently. I suspect that these mystery elves don’t even know the text of what they post; they are simply trolling for gullibelly fish in the internet ocean.

Arkvek: What have you caught, my darling cyber-butter slug?

Schmucktiel: Oggggggggle Eyes, two American bloggers and someone from the NSA.

Arkvek: MMMM, tasty. How much you think? They buy our bamboo toothpicks and tongue depressers? Maybe we get VISA number and buy new bucket of honey lard sludge.

Schmucktiel: Ullllugggllll, of course they vill vonce I slime their computers virally. I vill make them madly anxious to click on my button vonce they take my sweet bait.

Arkvek: You push my buttons, my big mug of slug.

Schmucktiel: Arky Baby, vait von minute vill you?

“Dear Web Administrator, I notice in website you have dormant widget where active fidget should be. To promote great use of you web site and increase traffic immediate, I reroute your tetrameter and inculate the obfuscator. With such new technologic advance, you can be great even. Just click icon above and I do the rest.”   Bob Vealson. Ve vent to high school together, remember me broski?

Schmucktiel: Ven dey cleek, I peek. Oh ho ho, huh, huh.

Arkvek: Oh Schmucky! You make me happy proud slug wife.

Schmucktiel: Stop or I blush. You know old slug sayink, “You blush; I flush. I don’t van to flush, Arky.”

Of course I ignore these idiots. Delete permanently. A pound of salt should do it. They are like bed bugs that live in the mattress of the internet. When some warm blooded mammal is sensed, they scuttle toward the steamy streams of electronic life and feast opportunistically with impunity.

I want these parasites to starve and die. It is high time for some international punity. A salt pox on you Schmucky, wherever you are!! And your ugly slug wife.

Other creepers attempt to compliment the post which they have not read and get you to click back to their site out of gratitude I suppose.

“You have said something so true. Your content speaks clearly what everyone thinks and agrees to. Please to keep writing, if you would thank you.”  Zsa zsa @ knock it off coach purses cheap.

These shameless hacks deserve something more than a simple delete. But I can’t think of what fits the crime. Maybe posting their insipid comments internationally with their yearbook pictures next to them on-line would give them the shame they seem to lack. A Hall of Shame for Parasites. Ugh!  They can certainly turn you off to that world wide spider web.

So I’m halfway to my 1,000 word goal line and I ‘ve just referenced two nasty critters. For proper balance I need two more that somehow tie into blog terms.  Hmmm, bar flies, gnats, mosquitoes? No.  Spiders, scorpions, cicadas, preying mantis?  Oh, maybe black widow spiders.

More than one of these disreputable uninvited guests has attempted to get a hit back to an obvious sex site. That sort of thing creeps me out. Naturally I delete those without any hesitation. How gross to troll internationally with lurid sex talk in the vain hope of getting a desperate American blogger to respond to sizzlekitten@ hotsex.net. I feel like I need a shower and then saniwipes for my keyboard after one of their visits. Yuk!! I like freedom folks. I also like good taste and not tawdry raw venery. That’s a double meaning word– hunting in medieval times plus sexual indulgence. In this case it’s more like trapping than hunting, but never mind. You are the prey.

Blatant disregard for others. Like the internet equivalent of a neighbor who burns his trash after you have hung out your fresh laundry. And the wind causes them to collide. Now your laundry is not bothering his trash, but  his incinerator is bothering your laundry. This stuff is not hard to figure out.  I don’t want your toxic crap. Okay? I just wish I could exact some justice in the matter.  I don’t want to hurt these guys too much, just enough to make them stop.

Finally, let me thank the awful programs that slink into one’s computer somehow disguised as Windows Updates or add ons of some sort. I’ve spent most of this day turning my computer on and off trying to get around some Pro Optimizer. They seek to help you fix problems you don’t have. Which ought to be a tip off. If someone offers to cure you of cancer but  you don’t have cancer, run. Call Schmucky. Put out a hit on him. Punity for all and all for punity.

What creature would represent this last type of vermin?  Ah, yes, the unkillable cockroach.

 You don’t think you could possibly have roaches, when one day in the dark as you press the power button on the keyboard, you hear a distinctive crunchy squish. Yep, you gottem. Pass the saniwipes again. I’m sorry you had to hear that, but I apologized at the beginning.

“First off I want to say superb blog! I had a quick question which I’d like to ask if you don’t mind. I was interested to find out how you center yourself and clear your mind before writing. I’ve had difficulty clearing my mind in getting my thoughts out. I truly do enjoy writing but it just seems like the first 10 to 15 minutes tend to be lost simply just trying to figure out how to begin. Any recommendations or hints? Thanks!|掲示板}” at Boutique Nike tn 2013.

They are crawling all over me.




2. begin

So Jake at the coffee shop said I should blog, “Start one, Man, I’ll read it.” I don’t know if he will, but he is a sincere guy as far as I can tell. At my age you either do things quickly or you forget them, so I decided to jump right on this matter. My computer, so I am told, is a dinosaur at 8 years of age. Okay, but I fired it up and promptly asked my computer savvy daughter to tell me how to do this. Her technical suggestions were simpler than Jake’s and voila! I have a blog unrolling beneath my fifty six year old fingers.

What to say?  Well, today is Thursday, and I have started Thursdays with the Coffee Summit for the past three years. It started with an umemployed friend who needed a sounding board and a friendly face to talk at. (I’m a professional counselor) We met at 8:30 and ran through his struggles with the firing and the ugly market conditions for a guy in his fifties who had been such a workaholic that he never took time for training. He had worked himself into obsolesence and ticked off some folks along the way. He told me, “Ya know, I’d come home after work and just stare at the Weather Channel for hours and I could not tell you what the weather was.” Frozen fish have a better life than that.

Anyway, one day my buddy Chuckles rolled in for caffeination. I introduced him to Tim the workaholic and he joined us for a while. And this pattern repeated for a while until another guy I knew came in for caffeination and asked, “What’s this?” I suggested modestly that it was the Coffee Summit, and so it was. Week after week now for three years we have had various guys who are partially and fully unemployed drop in for an hour and chat, laugh, play chess, commiserate, bond, etc.

One of the guys was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer, Walt. We watched him slow and decline but still attend. He’s a health nut and does not even drink caffeine. We knew that he needed help but was not going to ask for it, so one Summit we all agreed to paint his old, funky trailer and do repairs as we could. Walt allowed us to proceed and picked out colors. One Saturday in September we showed up and threw down hard on that shabby trailer, cutting away rotten siding, replacing it with pressure treated trim boards, caulking, and painting. At the end of the day any fool could see that significant change had happened. We wanted to renovate Walt’s lymph system, but we had to settle with trailer renovation. It was a great deal of fun and another way to bond with the Coffee Nation men.

What was so amazing about this experience was that guys ponied up money and/or time so generously. One of the guys handed me $300. Another fellow, my daughter’s boyfriend, gave me $50 and said he’d give more when he could. A guy at church handed me $1000. I felt like I worked for the mafia with all this money being handed to me. Because of the generosity, we could also replace Walt’s shower/tub arrangement. His old tub was held together with duct tape, I kid you not. The HVAC guy did the install for free. It was amazing, and humbling, and satisfying. I’m getting a warmth just recalling it.

So, I’ll have to add to the Summit later as time allows. It’s time to fling this blog puppy out of the plane and see if it flies.